 7th Scene, Chapter 1 of No Name. No Name by Wilkie Collins. The 7th Scene. Saint Crocs in the Marsh. Chapter 1 This is where you are to sleep. Put yourself tidy, and then come down again to my room. The admiral has returned, and you will have to begin by waiting on him at dinner today. With those words, Mrs. Drake, the housekeeper, closed the door, and the new parlor maid was left alone in her bed-chamber at Saint Crocs. That day was the eventful 25th of February. In barely four months from the time when Mrs. La Count had placed her master's private instructions in his executor's hands, the one combination of circumstances against which it had been her first and foremost object to provide was exactly the combination which had now taken place. Mr. Noel Vanstone's widow and admiral Bartram's secret trust were together in the same house. Thus far, events had declared themselves without an exception in Magdalene's favor. Thus far, the path which had led her to Saint Crocs had been a path without an obstacle. Louisa, whose name she had now taken, had sailed three days since for Australia with her husband and her child. She was the only living creature whom Magdalene had trusted with her secret, and she was by this time out of sight of the English land. The girl had been careful, reliable, and faithfully devoted to her mistress's interests to the last. She had passed the ordeal of her interview with the housekeeper, and had forgotten none of the instructions by which she had been prepared to meet it. She had herself proposed to turn the six weeks delay, caused by the death in the admiral's family to good account, by continuing the all-important practice of those domestic lessons, on the perfect acquirement of which her mistress's daring stratagem depended for its success. Thanks to the time thus gained, when Louisa's marriage was over, and the day of parting had come, Magdalene had learned and mastered, in the nicest detail, everything that her former servant could teach her. On the day when she passed the doors of Saint Crocs, she entered on her desperate venture, strong in the ready presence of mind under emergencies which her later life had taught her, stronger still in the trained capacity that she possessed for the assumption of a character not her own, strongest of all in her two months' daily familiarity with the practical duties of the position which she had undertaken to fill. As soon as Mrs. Drake's departure had left her alone, she unpacked her box and dressed herself for the evening. She put on a lavender-colored stuffed gown, half-morning for Mrs. Gertelstone. Ordered for all the servants under the admiral's instructions, a white muslin apron and a neat white cap and collar with ribbons to match the gown. In this servant's costume, in the plain gown fastening high round her neck, in the neat little white cap at the back of her head, in this simple dress, to the eyes of all men, not linen drapers, at once the most modest and the most alluring that a woman can wear, the sad changes which mental suffering had wrought in her beauty almost disappeared from view. In the evening costume of a lady, with her bosom uncovered, with her figure armed, rather than dressed in unplayable silk, the admiral might have passed her by without notice in his own drawing-room. In the evening costume of a servant, no admirer of beauty could have looked at her once and not have turned again to look at her for the second time. Descending the stairs, on her way to the housekeeper's room, she passed by the entrances to two long stone corridors, with rows of doors opening on them, one corridor situated on the second and one on the first floor of the house. Many rooms, she thought, as she looked at the doors, weary work searching here for what I have come to find. On reaching the ground floor, she was met by a weather-beaten old man, who stopped and stared at her with an appearance of great interest. He was the same old man whom Captain Reich had seen in the backyard at St. Croix, at work on the model of a ship. All round the neighborhood, he was known far and wide as the admiral's coxswain. His name was Maisie. Sixty years had written their story of hard work at sea, and hard drinking on shore, on the veteran's grim and wrinkled face. Sixty years had proved his fidelity, and had brought his battered old carcass at the end of the voyage, into port in his master's house. Seeing no one else of whom she could inquire, Magdalene requested the old man to show her the way that led to the housekeeper's room. I'll show you, my dear, said old Maisie, speaking in the high and hollow voice peculiar to the deaf. You're the new maid, eh? And a fine grown girl, too. His honor, the admiral, likes a parlor maid with a clean run for and aft. You'll do, my dear. You'll do. You must not mind what Mr. Maisie says to you, remarked the housekeeper, opening her door as the old sailor expressed his approval of Magdalene in these terms. He is privileged to talk as he pleases, and he is very tiresome and slovenly in his habits, but he means no harm. With that apology for the veteran, Mrs. Drake led Magdalene first to the pantry and next to the linen room, installing her with all due formality in her own domestic dominions. This ceremony completed. The new parlor maid was taken upstairs and was shown the dining room, which opened out of the corridor on the first floor. Here she was directed to lay the cloth, and to prepare the table for one person only, Mr. George Bartram not having returned with his uncle to St. Croix. Mrs. Drake's sharp eyes watched Magdalene attentively as she performed this introductory duty, and Mrs. Drake's private convictions, when the table was spread, forced her to acknowledge so far that the new servant thoroughly understood her work. An hour later the soup tureen was placed on the table, and Magdalene stood alone behind the admiral's empty chair, waiting her master's first inspection of her when he entered the dining room. A large bell rang in the lower regions. Quick, shambling footsteps padded on the stone corridor outside. The door opened suddenly, and a tall, lean, yellow old man, sharp as to his eyes, shrewd as to his lips, fussily restless as to all his movements, entered the room with two huge, labored or dogs at his heels, and took his seat in a violent hurry. The dogs followed him, and placed themselves, with the utmost gravity and composure, one on each side of his chair. This was Admiral Bartram, and these were the companions of his solitary meal. I, I, I, here's the new parlor maid, to be sure. He began, looking sharply, but not at all unkindly at Magdalene. What's your name, my good girl? Louisa is it. I shall call you Lucy, if you don't mind. Take off the cover, my dear. I'm a minute or two late today. Don't be unpunctual tomorrow on that account. I am as regular as clockwork generally. How are you after your journey? Did my spring cart bump you about much in bringing you from the station? Capital soup this. Hot as fire. Reminds me of the soup we used to have in the West Indies in the year three. Have you got your half-morning on? Stand there, and let me see. Ah, yes, very neat, and nice, and tidy. Poor Mrs. Griddlestone. Oh, dear, dear poor Mrs. Griddlestone. You're not afraid of dogs, are you, Lucy? Eh? What? You like dogs? That's right. Always be kind to dumb animals. These two dogs dine with me every day, except when there's company. The dog with the black nose is Brutus, and the dog with the white nose is Cassius. Did you ever hear who Brutus and Cassius were? Ancient Romans? That's right. Good girl. Mind your book and your needle, and we'll get you a good husband one of these days. Take away the soup, my dear. Take away the soup. This was the man whose secret it was now the one interest of Magdalene's life to surprise. This was the man whose name had supplanted hers in Noel Vanstone's will. The fish and the roast meat followed, and the admirals' talk rambled on, now in soliloquy, now addressed to the parlor mate, and now directed to the dogs, as familiarly and as discontentedly as ever. Magdalene observed, with some surprise, that the companions of the admirals' dinner had thus far received no scraps from their master's plate. The two magnificent Brutes sat squaded on their hunches with their great heads over the table, watching the progress of the meal with the profoundest attention, but apparently expecting no share in it. The roast meat was removed, the admirals' plate was changed, and Magdalene took the silver covers off the two mate dishes on either side of the table. As she handed the first of the savory dishes to her master, the dogs suddenly exhibited a breathless personal interest in the proceedings. Brutes gluttonously watered at the mouth, and the tongue of Cassius, protruding in unutterable expectation, smoked again between his enormous jaws. The admiral helped himself liberally from the dish, sent Magdalene to the side table to get him some bread, and when he thought her eye was off him, furtively tumbled the whole contents of his plate into Brutes' mouth. Cassius whined faintly as his fortunate comrades swallowed the savory mess at a gulp. Hush, you fool! whispered the admiral, your turn next. Magdalene presented the second dish. Once more, the old gentleman helped himself largely. Once more, he sent her away to the side table. Once more, he tumbled the entire contents of the plate down the dog's throat, selecting Cassius this time, as became a considerate master and an impartial man. When the next course followed, consisting of a plain pudding and an unwholesome cream, Magdalene's suspicion of the function of the dogs at the dinner table was confirmed. While the master took the simple pudding, the dogs swallowed the elaborate cream. The admiral was plainly afraid of offending his cook on the one hand, and of offending his digestion on the other, and Brutes and Cassius were the two trained accomplices who regularly helped him every day off the horns of his dilemma. Very good, very good, said the old gentleman with the most transparent duplicity. Tell the cook, my dear, a capital cream. Having placed the wine and dessert on the table, Magdalene was about to withdraw. Before she could leave the room, her master called her back. Stop, stop, said the admiral. You don't know the ways of the house yet, Lucy. Put another wine-glass here at my right hand, the largest you can find, my dear. I've got a third dog who comes in at dessert, a drunken old sea-dog who has followed my fortunes afloat and ashore for fifty years and more. Yes, yes, that's the sort of glass we want. You're a good girl, you're a neat, handy girl. Steady, my dear, there's nothing to be frightened at. A sudden thump on the outside of the door, followed by one mighty bark from each of the dogs, had made Magdalene start. Come in, shouted the admiral. The door opened, the tails of Brutus and Cassius cheerfully thumped the floor, and old Maisie marched straight up to the right-hand side of his master's chair. The veteran stood there, with his legs wide apart, and his balance carefully adjusted, as if the dining-room had been a cabin and the house a ship pitching in a sea-way. The admiral filled the large glass with port, filled his own glass with claret, and raised it to his lips. God bless the queen, Maisie, said the admiral. God bless the queen, your honor, said old Maisie, swallowing his port, as the dogs swallowed the made dishes at a gulp. How's the wind, Maisie? Westen by north, your honor. Any report tonight, Maisie? No report, your honor. Good evening, Maisie. Good evening, your honor. The after-dinner ceremony thus completed, old Maisie made his bow, and walked out of the room again. Brutus and Cassius stretched themselves on the rug to digest mushrooms and made gravies in the lubricating heat of the fire. For what we have received, the lord make us truly thankful, said the admiral. Go downstairs, my good girl, and get your supper. A light meal, Lucy, if you take my advice. A light meal, or you will have the nightmare. Early to bed, my dear, and early to rise, makes a parlor maid healthy and wealthy and wise. That's the wisdom of your ancestors. You mustn't laugh at it. Good night. In those words, Magdalene was dismissed, and so her first day's experience of admiral Bartram came to an end. After breakfast the next morning, the admiral's directions to the new parlor maid included among them one particular order which, in Magdalene's situation, it was especially her interest to receive. In the old gentleman's absence from home that day, on local business which took him to Osry, she was directed to make herself acquainted with the whole inhabited quarter of the house, and to learn the positions of the various rooms, so as to know where the bells called her when the bells rang. Mrs. Drake was charged with the duty of superintending the voyage of domestic discovery, unless she happened to be otherwise engaged, in which case any one of the inferior servants would be equally competent to act as Magdalene's guide. At noon the admiral left for Osry, and Magdalene presented herself in Mrs. Drake's room to be shown over the house. Mrs. Drake happened to be otherwise engaged, and referred her to the head housemaid. The head housemaid happened on that particular morning to be in the same condition as Mrs. Drake, and referred her to the underhousemaids. The underhousemaids declared they were all behind hand, and had not a minute to spare. They suggested, not too civilly, that old Maisie had nothing on earth to do, and that he knew the house as well or better than he knew his ABC. Magdalene took the hint, with a secret indignation and contempt which it cost her a hard struggle to conceal. She had suspected, on the previous night, and she was certain now, that the woman's servants all incomprehensibly resented her presence among them with the same sullen unanimity of distrust. Mrs. Drake, as she had seen for herself, was really engaged that morning over her accounts. But if all the servants under her, who had made their excuses, not one had even affected to be more occupied than usual, their looks said plainly, We don't like you, and we won't show you over the house. She found her way to old Maisie, not by the scanty directions given her, but by the sound of the veteran's cracked and quavering voice, singing in some distant seclusion a verse of the immortal seesong, Tom Bowling. Just as she stopped among the rambling stone passages on the basement's story of the house, uncertain which way to turn next, she heard the tuneless old voice in the distance singing these lines. Magdalen followed in the direction of the quavering voice, and found herself in a little room looking out on the backyard. There sat old Maisie, with his spectacles low on his nose, and his naughty old hands blundering over the rigging of his model ship. There were brutis and caches digesting before the fire again, and snoring as if they thoroughly enjoyed it. There was Lord Nelson on one wall, in flaming watercolors, and there on the other was a portrait of Admiral Bartram's last flagship, in full sail on a sea of slate, with a salmon-colored sky to complete the illusion. What? They won't show you over the house, won't they? said old Maisie. I will, then. That head-house made a sour one, my dear. If ever there was a sour one yet. You're too young and good-looking to please him. That's what you are. He rose, took off his spectacles, and feebly mended the fire. She's as straight as a poplar, said old Maisie, considering Magdalene's figure in drowsy soliloquy. I say she's as straight as a poplar, and his honor the Admiral says so, too. Come along, my dear. He proceeded, addressing himself to Magdalene again. I'll teach you your pints of the compass first. When you know your pints blow high, blow low, you'll find it plain sailing all over the house. He led the way to the door, stopped, and suddenly, be thinking himself of his miniature ship, went back to put his model away in an empty cupboard, led the way to the door again, stopped once more, remembered that some of the rooms were chilly, and potted about, swearing and grumbling and looking for his hat. Magdalene sat down patiently to wait for him. She gratefully contrasted his treatment of her with the treatment she had received from the women, resisted as firmly, despised it as proudly as we may, all studied unkindness, no matter how contemptible it may be, has a stinging power in it which reaches to the quick. Magdalene only knew how she had felt the small malice of the female servants by the effect which the rough kindness of the old sailor produced on her afterward. The dumb welcome of the dogs, when the movements in the room had roused them from their sleep, touched her more acutely still. Brutus pushed his mighty muzzle companionably into her hand, and Cassius laid his friendly forepaw on her lap. Her heart yearned over the two creatures as she patted and caressed them. It seemed only yesterday, since she and the dogs at Coombe Raven had roamed the garden together, and had idled away the summer mornings luxuriously on the shady lawn. Old Maisie found his hat at last, and they started on their exploring expedition with the dogs after them. Leaving the basement story of the house, which was entirely devoted to the servants' offices, they ascended to the first floor, and entered the long corridor with which Magdalene's last night's experience had already made her acquainted. Put your back again this wall, said Old Maisie, pointing to the long wall, pierced at irregular intervals with windows looking out over a courtyard and fish pond, which formed the right-hand side of the corridor as Magdalene now stood. Put your back here, said the veteran, and look straighter for you. What do you see? The opposite wall of the passage, said Magdalene. Aye, aye. What else? The doors leading into the rooms. What else? I see nothing else. Old Maisie chuckled, winked, and shook his naughty forefinger at Magdalene impressively. You see one of the pints of the compass, my dear. When you've got your back again this wall, and when you look straighter for you, you look noth. If you ever get lost here away, put your back again the wall, look out straighter for you, and say to yourself, I look noth. You do that like a good girl, and you won't lose your bearings. After administering this preliminary dose of instruction, Old Maisie opened the first of the doors on the left-hand side of the passage. It led into the dining room, with which Magdalene was already familiar. The second room was fitted up as a library, and the third as a morning room. The fourth and fifth doors, both belonging to dismantled and uninhabited rooms, and both locked, placed them to the end of the north wing of the house, and to the opening of a second and shorter passage, placed at a right angle to the first. Here Old Maisie, who had divided his time pretty equally during the investigation of the rooms, in talking of his honor the admiral and whistling to the dogs, returned with all possible expedition to the points of the compass, and gravely directed Magdalene to repeat the ceremony of putting her back against the wall. She attempted to shorten the proceedings by declaring quite correctly that in her present position she knew she was looking east. Don't you talk about the east, my dear, said Old Maisie, proceeding unmoved with his own system of instruction, till you know the east first. Put your back against this wall, and look straighter for you, what do you see? The remainder of the catechism proceeded as before. When the end was reached Magdalene's instructor was satisfied. He chuckled and winked at her once more. Now you may talk about the east, my dear, said the veteran, for now you know it. The east passage, after leading them on for a few yards only, terminated in a vestibule with a high door in it which faced them as they advanced. The door admitted them to a large and lofty drawing-room, decorated like all the other apartments with valuable old-fashioned furniture. Leading the way across this room, Magdalene's conductor pushed back a heavy sliding door opposite the door of entrance. Put your apron over your head, said Old Maisie. We are coming to the Banqueting Hall now. The floor's mortal cold, and the dam sticks to the place like cockroaches to a collier. His honor the admiral calls it the Arctic Passage. I've got my name for it too. I call it Freezer-Bones. Magdalene passed through the doorway and found herself in the ancient Banqueting Hall of St. Crocs. On her left hand she saw a row of lofty windows set deep in embrasures and extending over a frontage of more than a hundred feet in length. On her right hand, ranged in one long row from end to end of the opposite wall, hung a dismal collection of black, begrined old pictures rotting from their frames and representing battle scenes by sea and land. Below the pictures, midway down the length of the wall, yonder huge cavern of a fireplace surmounted by a towering mantelpiece of black marble. The one object of furniture, if furniture might be called, visible far or near in the vast emptiness of the place, was a gaunt ancient tripod of curiously chased metal, standing lonely in the middle of the hall and supporting a wide circular pan filled deep with ashes from an extinct charcoal fire. The high ceiling, once finely carved in guilt, was foul with dirt and cobwebs. The naked walls at either end of the room were stained with damp, and the cold of the marble floor struck through the narrow strip of matting laid down, parallel with the windows, as a footpath for passengers across the wilderness of the room. No better name for it could have been devised than the name which Old Maisie had found. Freeze your bones, accurately described, in three words, the banqueting hall at St. Croix. Do you never light a fire in this dismal place? asked Magdalen. It all depends on which side of freeze your bones his honor the admiral lives, said Old Maisie. His honor likes to shift his quarters, sometimes to one side of the house, sometimes to the other. If he lives north of freeze your bones, which is where you've just come from, we don't waste our coals here. If he lives south of freeze your bones, which is where we are going to next, we light the fire in the grate and the charcoal in the pan. Every night, when we do that, the damp gets the better of us. Every morning we turn to again and get the better of the damp. With this remarkable explanation, Old Maisie led the way to the lower end of the hall, opened more doors, and showed Magdalen through another suite of rooms, four in number, all of moderate size, and all furnished in much the same manner as the rooms in the northern wing. She looked out of the windows and saw the neglected gardens of St. Croix, overgrown with brambles and weeds. Here and there, at no great distance in the grounds, the smoothly curving line of one of the tidal streams peculiar to the locality, wound its way, gleaming in the sunlight, through gaps in the brambles and trees. The more distant view ranged over the flat eastward country beyond, speckled with its scattered little villages, crossed and recrossed by its network of backwaters, and terminated abruptly by the long straight line of sea-wall, which protects the defenseless coast of Essex from invasion by the sea. Have we more rooms still to see? asked Magdalen, turning from the view of the garden and looking about her for another door. No more, my dear. We've run aground here, and we may as well wear round and put back again, said Old Maisie. There's another side of the house, due south of you as you stand now, which is all tumbling about our ears. You must go out into the garden if you want to see it. It's built off from us by a brick-bulk head. To the other side of this wall here. The monks lived due south of us, my dear, hundreds of years before his honor the admiral was born, or thought of, and a fine time of it they had as I've heard. They sang in the church all the morning, and drank grog and the orchard all the afternoon. They slipped off their grog on the best of feather-beds, and they fattened on the neighborhood all the year round. Lucky beggars! Lucky beggars! Apostrophizing the monks in these terms, and evidently regretting that he had not lived himself in those good old times, the veteran led the way back through the rooms. On the return passage across freeze your bones, Magdalen preceded him. She's as straight as a poplar, mumbled old Maisie to himself, hobbling along after his youthful companion, and wagging his venerable head in cordial approval. I never was particular what nation they belonged to, but I always did like them straight and fine-grown, and I always shall like them straight and fine-grown, to my dying day. Are there more rooms to see upstairs on the second floor? asked Magdalen when they had returned to the point from which they had started. The naturally clear, distinct tones of her voice had hitherto reached the old sailor's imperfect sense of hearing easily enough. Rather to her surprise, he became stone deaf on a sudden to her last question. Are you sure of your pints of the compass? he inquired. If you're not sure, put your back again the wall, and we'll go all over him again, my dear, beginning with the noath. Magdalen assured him that she felt quite familiar by this time with all the points, the noath included, and then repeated her question in louder tones. The veteran obstinately matched her by becoming deffer than ever. Yes, my dear, he said, you're right, it is chilly in these passages, and unless I go back to my fire, my fire will go out, won't it? If you don't feel sure of your pints of the compass, come into me, and I'll put you right again. He winked benevolently, whistled to the dogs, and hobbled off. Magdalen heard him chuckle over his own success in balking her curiosity on the subject of the second floor. I know how to deal with him, said Old Maisie to himself in high triumph. Tall and short, native and foreign, sweethearts and wives, I know how to deal with him. Left by herself, Magdalen exemplified the excellence of the old sailor's method of treatment in her particular case, by ascending the stairs immediately to make her own observations on the second floor. The stone passage here was exactly similar, except that more doors opened out of it to the passage on the first floor. She opened the two nearest doors, one after another, at a venture, and discovered that both rooms were bed chambers. The fear of being discovered by one of the woman servants in a part of the house with which she had no concern, warned her not to push her investigations on the bedroom floor too far at starting. She hurriedly walked down the passage to see where it ended, discovered that it came to its termination in a lumber room, answering to the position of the vegetable downstairs, and retraced her steps immediately. On her way back she noticed an object which had previously escaped her attention. It was a low-truckle bed, placed parallel with the wall, and close to one of the doors on the bedroom side. In spite of its strange and comfortless situation, the bed was apparently occupied at night by a sleeper. The sheets were on it, and the end of a thick red fisherman's cap peeped out from under the pillow. She ventured on opening the door near which the bed was placed, and found herself, as she conjectured from certain signs and tokens, in the admiral's sleeping chamber. While moments' observation of the room was all she dared risk, and softly closing the door again, she returned to the kitchen regions. The truckle-bed and the strange position in which it was placed, dwelt on her mind all through the afternoon, who could possibly sleep in it. The remembrance of the red fisherman's cap and the knowledge she had already gained of Maisie's dog-like fidelity to his master to guess that the old sailor might be the occupant of the truckle-bed. But why, with bedrooms enough and to spare, should he occupy that cold and comfortless situation at night? Why should he sleep on guard outside his master's door? Was there some nocturnal danger in the house of which the admiral was afraid? The question seemed absurd, and yet the position of the bed forced it irresistibly on her mind. Stimulated by her own ungovernable curiosity on this subject, Magdalen ventured to question the housekeeper. She acknowledged having walked from end to end of the passage on the second floor to see if it was as long as the passage on the first, and she mentioned having noticed with astonishment the position of the truckle-bed. Mrs. Drake answered her implied inquiry shortly and sharply. I don't blame a young girl like you, said the old lady, for being a little curious when she first comes into such a strange house as this. But remember, for the future, that your business does not lie on the bedroom's story. Mr. Maisie sleeps on that bed you noticed. It is his habit at night to sleep outside his master's door. With that meager explanation, Mrs. Drake's lips closed and opened no more. Later in the day Magdalen found an opportunity of applying to old Maisie himself. She discovered the veteran in high good humor, smoking his pipe, and warming a tin mug of ale at his own snug fire. Mr. Maisie, she asked boldly, why do you put your bed in that cold passage? What? You've been upstairs, you young jade-have-you, said old Maisie, looking up from his mug with a leer. Magdalen smiled and nodded. Come, come, tell me, she said coaxingly, why do you sleep outside the admiral's door? Why do you part your hair in the middle, my dear? asked old Maisie with another leer. I suppose, because I am accustomed to do it, answered Magdalen. Aye, aye, said the veteran. That's why, is it? Well, my dear, the reason why you part your hair in the middle is the reason why I sleep outside the admiral's door. I know how to deal with him, chuckled old Maisie, lapsing into soliloquy, and stirring up his ale in high triumph. All in short, native and foreign, sweethearts and wives, I know how to deal with him. Magdalen's third and last attempt at solving the mystery of the chuckle-bed was made while she was waiting on the admiral at dinner. The old gentleman's questions gave her an opportunity of referring to the subject without any appearance of presumption or disrespect, but he proved to be quite as impenetrable in his way as old Maisie and Mrs. Drake had been in theirs. It doesn't concern you, my dear, said the admiral bluntly. Don't be curious. Look in your old testament when you go downstairs, and see what happened in the Garden of Eden through curiosity. Be a good girl, and don't imitate your mother, Eve. Late at night, as Magdalen passed the end of the second floor passage, proceeding alone on her way up to her own room, she stopped and listened. A screen was placed at the entrance of the corridor, so as to hide it from the view of persons passing on the stairs. The snoring she heard on the other side of the screen encouraged her to slip round it and to advance a few steps. Shading the light of her candle with her hand, she ventured close to the admiral's door and saw, to her surprise, that the bed had been moved since she had seen it in the daytime, so as to stand exactly across the door and to bar the way entirely to anyone who might attempt to enter the admiral's room. After this discovery, Old Maisie himself, snoring lustily with the red fisherman's cap pulled down to his eyebrows and the blankets drawn up to his nose, became an object of secondary importance only by comparison with his bed. That the veteran did actually sleep on guard before his master's door, and that he and the admiral and the housekeeper were in the secret of this unaccountable proceeding was now beyond all doubt. A strange end thought Magdalen pondering over her discovery as she stole upstairs to her own sleeping-room. A strange end to a strange day. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. But the fortnight, uneventful as it was, had not been a fortnight lost. Experience had already satisfied her on one important point. Experience had shown that she could set the rooted distrust of the other servants safely at defiance. Time had accustomed the women to her presence in the house. Without shaking the vague conviction which possessed them all alike, that the newcomer was not one of themselves. All that Magdalen could do in her own defense was to keep the instinct of female suspicion of her confined within those purely negative limits which it had occupied from the first, and this she accomplished. Day after day the women watched her with the untiring vigilance of malice and distrust, and day after day not the vestige of a discovery rewarded them for their pains. Silently, intelligently, and industriously, with an ever-present remembrance of herself and her place, the new parlor maid did her work. Her only intervals of rest and relaxation were the intervals passed occasionally in the day with old Maisie and the dogs, and the precious interval of the night during which she was secure from observation in the solitude of her room. Thanks to the superfluity of bed chambers at St. Croix, each one of the servants had the choice, if she pleased, of sleeping in a room of her own. Alone in the night, Magdalen might dare to be herself again, might dream of the past, and wake from the dream, encountering no curious eyes to notice that she was in tears, might ponder over the future, and be roused by no whisperings in corners, which tainted her with the suspicion of having something on her mind. Satisfied thus far of the perfect security of her position in the house, she profited it next by a second chance in her favour, which, before the fortnight was at an end, relieved her mind of all doubt on the formidable subject of Mrs. LeCount. Partly from the accidental gossip of the women at the table in the servants' hall, partly from a marked paragraph in a Swiss newspaper, which she had found one morning lying open on the admiral's easy chair, she gained the welcome assurance that no danger was to be dreaded this time from the housekeeper's presence on the scene. Mrs. LeCount had, as it appeared, passed a week or more at St. Croix after the date of her master's death, and had then left England to live on the interest of her legacy in honourable and prosperous retirement in her native place. The paragraph in the Swiss newspaper described the fulfilment of this laudable project. Mrs. LeCount had not only established herself at Zurich, but wisely mindful of the uncertainty of life, had also settled the charitable uses to which her fortune was to be applied after her death. One half of it was to go to the founding of a LeCount scholarship for poor students in the University of Geneva. The other half was to be employed by the municipal authorities of Zurich in the maintenance and education of a certain number of orphan girls, natives of the city, who were to be trained for domestic service in later life. The Swiss journalists adverted to these philanthropic bequests in terms of extravagant eulogy. Zurich was congratulated on the possession of a Paragon of Public Virtue, and William Tell, in the character of benefactor to Switzerland, was compared disadvantageously with Mrs. LeCount. The third week began, and Magdalene was now at liberty to take her first step forward on the way to the discovery of the secret trust. She ascertained from Old Maisie that it was his master's custom, during the winter and spring months, to occupy the rooms in the north wing, and during the summer and autumn to cross the arctic passage of freesier bones and live in the eastward apartments which looked out on the garden. While the banqueting hall remained, owing to the admiral's inadequate pecuniary resources, in its damp and dismantled state, and while the interior of St. Croix was thus comfortlessly divided into two separate residences, no more convenient arrangements than this could well have been devised. Now and then, as Magdalene understood from her informant, there were days, both in winter and summer, when the admiral became anxious about the condition of the rooms which he was not occupying at the time, and when he insisted on investigating the state of the furniture, the pictures, and the books with his own eyes. On these occasions, in summer, as in winter, a blazing fire was kindled for some days previously in the large grate, and the charcoal was lighted in the tripod pan to keep the banqueting hall as warm as circumstances would admit. As soon as the old gentlemen's anxieties were set at rest, the rooms were shut up again, and freesier bones was once more abandoned for weeks and weeks together to damp, desolation, and decay. The last of these temporary migrations had taken place only a few days since. The admiral had satisfied himself that the rooms in the east wing were none the worse for the absence of their master, and he might now be safely reckoned on as settled in the north wing for weeks, and perhaps, if the season was cold, for months to come. Trifling as they might be in themselves, these particulars were of serious importance to Magdalene, for they helped her to fix the limits of the field of search. Assuming that the admiral was likely to keep all his important documents within easy reach of his own hand, she might now feel certain that the secret trust was secured in one or other of the rooms in the north wing. In which room? That question was not easy to answer. Of the four inhabitable rooms which were all at the admiral's disposal during the day, that is to say, of the dining room, the library, the morning room, and the drawing room opening out of the vestibule, the library appeared to be the apartment in which, if he had a preference, he passed the greater part of his time. There was a table in this room with drawers that locked. There was a magnificent Italian cabinet with doors that locked. There were five cupboards under the bookcases, every one of which locked. There were receptacles similarly secured in the other rooms, and in all, or any of these papers, might be kept. She had answered the bell, and had seen him locking and unlocking, now in one room, now in another, but oftenest in the library. She had noticed occasionally that his expression was fretful and impatient when he looked round at her from an open cabinet or cupboard and gave his orders, and she inferred that something in connection with his papers and possessions, it might or might not be the secret trust, irritated and annoyed him from time to time. She had heard him more than once lock something up in one of the rooms, come out and go into another room, wait there a few minutes, then return to the first room with his keys in his hand, and sharply turn the locks and turn them again. This fidgety anxiety about his keys and his cupboards might be the result of the inbred restlessness of his disposition, aggravated in a naturally active man by the aimless indolence of a life in retirement, a life drifting backward and forward among trifles with no regular employment to study it at any given hour of the day. On the other hand, it was just as probable that these comings and goings, these lockings and unlockings, might be attributable to the existence of some private responsibility which had unexpectedly intruded itself into the old man's easy existence, and which tormented him with a sense of oppression new to the experience of his later years. Either one of these interpretations might explain his conduct as reasonably and as probably as the other. Which was the right interpretation of the two? It was in Magdalene's position, impossible to say. The one certain discovery at which she arrived was made in her first day's observation of him. The admiral was a rigidly careful man with his keys. All the smaller keys he kept on a ring in the breast pocket of his coat. The larger he locked up together, generally, but not always, in one of the drawers of the library table. Sometimes he left them secured in this way at night. Sometimes he took them up to the bedroom with him in a little basket. He had no regular times for leaving them or for taking them away with him. He had no discoverable reason for now securing them in the library table drawer, and now again locking them up in some other place. The inveterate willfulness and caprice of his proceedings in these particulars defied every effort to reduce them to a system, and baffled all attempts at calculating on them beforehand. The hope of gaining positive information to act on by laying artful snares for him which he might fall into in his talk proved, from the outset, to be utterly futile. In Magdalene's situation all experiments of this sort would have been in the last degree difficult and dangerous with any man. With the admiral they were simply impossible. His tendency to veer about from one subject to another, his habit of keeping his tongue perpetually going, so long as there was anybody, no matter whom, within reach of the sound of his voice. His comical want of all dignity and reserve with his servants, promised in appearance much, and performed in reality, nothing. No matter how diffidently or how respectfully Magdalene might presume on her master's example, and on her master's evident liking for her, the old man instantly discovered the advance she was making from her proper position, and instantly put her back in it again, with a quaint good humor which inflicted no pain, but with a blunt straightforwardness of purpose which permitted no escape. Contradictory as it may sound, admiral Bartram was too familiar to be approached. He kept the distance between himself and his servant more effectively than if he had been the proudest man in England. The systematic reserve of a superior toward an inferior may be occasionally overcome. The systematic familiarity. Never. Slowly the time dragged on. The fourth week came, and Magdalene had made no new discoveries. The prospect was depressing in the last degree. Even in the apparently hopeless event of her devising a means of getting at the admiral's keys, she could not count on retaining possession of them unsuspected, more than a few hours. Hours which might be utterly wasted through her not knowing in what direction to begin the search. The trust might be locked up in any one of some twenty receptacles for papers, situated in four different rooms, and which room was the likeliest to look in, which receptacle was the most promising to begin with, which position among other heaps of papers, the one paper needful, might be expected to occupy, was more than she could say. She was hemmed in by immeasurable uncertainties on every side. Condemned, as it were, to wander blindfold on the very brink of success, she waited for the chance that never came, for the event that never happened, with the patience which was sinking already into the patience of despair. Night after night she looked back over the vanished days, and not an event rose on her memory to distinguish them one from the other. The only interruptions to the weary uniformity of the life at St. Crocs were caused by the characteristic delinquencies of old Maisie and the dogs. At certain intervals the original wildness broke out in the natures of Brutus and Cassius. The modest comforts of home, the savoury charms of made dishes, the decorous joy of digestions accomplished on hearth rugs, lost all their attractions, and the dogs ungratefully left the house to seek dissipation and adventure in the outer world. On these occasions the established after-dinner formula of question and answer between old Maisie and his master varied a little in one particular. God bless the queen Maisie. And how's the wind Maisie? Were followed by a new inquiry. Where are the dogs Maisie? Out on the loose your honour, and be damned to him, was the veteran's unvarying answer. The admiral always sighed and shook his head gravely at the news, as if Brutus and Cassius had been sons of his own, who treated him with a want of proper filial respect. In two or three days' time the dogs always returned, lean, dirty, and heartily ashamed of themselves. For the whole of the next day they were invariably tied up in disgrace. On the day after they were scrubbed clean and were formerly readmitted to the dining-room. There, civilisation, acting through the subtle medium of the saucepan, recovered its hold on them, and the admiral's two prodigal sons, when they saw the covers removed, watered at the mouth as copiously as ever. Old Maisie, in his way, proved to be just as disreputably inclined on certain occasions as the dogs. At intervals the original wildness in his nature broke out. He too lost all relish for the comforts of home, and ungratefully left the house. He usually disappeared in the afternoon, and returned at night as drunk as liquor could make him. He was, by many degrees, too seasoned a vessel to meet with any disasters on these occasions. His wicked old legs might take roundabout methods of progression, but they never failed him. His wicked old eyes might see double, but they always showed him the way home. Try as hard as they might. The servants could never succeed in persuading him that he was drunk. He always scorned the imputation. He even declined to admit the idea privately into his mind, until he had first tested his condition by an infallible criterion of his own. It was his habit, in these cases of Bacchanalian emergency, to stagger obstinately into his room on the ground floor, to take the model ship out of the cupboard, and to try if he could, proceed with the never-to-be-completed employment of setting up the rigging. When he had smashed the tiny spars, and snapped asunder the delicate ropes, then, and not till then, the veteran admitted facts as they were, on the authority of practical evidence. Aye, aye, he used to say confidentially to himself. The women are right. Drunk again, Maisie. Drunk again. Having reached this discovery, it was his habit to wait cunningly in the lower regions until the admiral was safe in his room, and then to ascend in discreet list slippers to his post. Too wary to attempt getting into the trucker bed, which would have only been inviting the catastrophe of a fall against his master's door. He always walked himself sober, up and down the passage. More than once, Magdalen had peeped round the screen, and had seen the old sailor unsteadily keeping his watch, and fancying himself once more at his duty on board ship. This is an uncommonly lively vessel in a sea-way. He used to mutter under his breath when his legs took him down the passage in zig-zag directions, or left him for the moment studying the pints of the compass on his own system with his back against the wall. A nasty night, mind you, he would monder on, taking another turn, as dark as your pocket, and the wind heading us again from the old quarter. On the next day, old Maisie, like the dogs, was kept downstairs in disgrace. On the day after, like the dogs again, he was reinstated in his privileges, and another change was introduced in the after-dinner formula. On entering the room, the old sailor stopped short, and made his excuses in this brief yet comprehensive form of words, with his back against the door. Please, Your Honor, I'm ashamed of myself. So the apology began and ended. This mustn't happen again, Maisie, the admiral used to answer. It shan't happen again, Your Honor. Very good. Come here and drink your glass of wine. God bless the Queen, Maisie. The veteran tossed off his port, and the dialogue ended as usual. So the days passed, with no incidents more important than these to relieve their monotony, until the end of the fourth week was at hand. On the last day, an event happened. On the last day, the long deferred promise of the future unexpectedly began to dawn. While Magdalen was spreading the cloth in the dining-room as usual, Mrs. Drake looked in and instructed her on this occasion for the first time to lay the table for two persons. The admiral had received a letter from his nephew. Early that evening, Mr. George Bartram was expected to return to St. Croix. SEVENTH SEEN CHAPTER III After placing the second cover, Magdalen awaited the ringing of the dinner bell, with an interest and impatience which she found it no easy task to conceal. The return of Mr. Bartram would, in all probability, produce a change in the life of the house, and from change of any kind, no matter how trifling, something might be hoped. The nephew might be accessible to influences which had failed to reach the uncle. In any case, the two would talk of their affairs over their dinner, and through that talk, proceeding day after day in her presence, the weighed discovery, now absolutely invisible, might sooner or later show itself. At last the bell rang, the door opened, and the two gentlemen entered the room together. Magdalen was struck, as her sister had been struck, by George Bartram's resemblance to her father, judging by the portrait at Coombe Raven, which presented the likeness of Andrew Vanstone in his younger days. The light hair and florid complexion, the bright blue eyes and hearty upright figure, familiar to her in the picture, were all recalled to her memory, as the nephew followed the uncle across the room and took his place at table. She was not prepared for this sudden revival of the lost associations of home. Her attention wandered as she tried to conceal its effect on her, and she made a blunder in waiting at table, for the first time since she had entered the house. A quaint reprimand from the admiral, half in jest, half in earnest, gave her time to recover herself. She ventured another look at George Bartram. The impression which he produced on her this time roused her curiosity immediately. His face and manner plainly expressed anxiety and preoccupation of mind. He looked oftener at his plate than at his uncle, and at Magdalen herself, except one passing inspection of the new parlor maid when the admiral spoke to her. He never looked at all. Some uncertainty was evidently troubling his thoughts. Some oppression was weighing on his natural freedom of manner. What uncertainty? What oppression? Would any personal revelations come out, little by little, in the course of conversation at the dinner table? No. One set of dishes followed another set of dishes, and nothing in the shape of a personal revelation took place. The conversation halted on irregularly, between public affairs on one side, and trifling private topics on the other. Politics, home and foreign, took their turn with the small household history of St. Croix. The leaders of the revolution, which expelled Louis Philippe from the throne of France, marched side by side in the dinner table review, with old Maisie and the dogs. The dessert was put on the table. The old sailor came in, drank his loyal toast, paid his respects to Master George, and went out again. Magdalen followed him on her way back to the servants' offices, having heard nothing in the conversation of the slightest importance to the furtherance of her own design, from the first word of it to the last. She struggled hard not to lose heart and hope on the first day. They could hardly talk again tomorrow. They could hardly talk again the next day of the French Revolution and the dogs. Time might do wonders yet, and time was all her own. Left together over their wine, the uncle and nephew drew their easy chairs on either side of the fire, and in Magdalen's absence began the very conversation which it was Magdalen's interest to hear. Claret, George, said the admiral, pushing the bottle across the table. You look out of spirits. I am a little anxious, sir, replied George, leaving his glass empty and looking straight into the fire. I am glad to hear it, rejoined the admiral. I am more than a little anxious myself, I can tell you. Here we are at the last days of March, and nothing done. Your time comes to an end on the third of May, and there you sit, as if you had years still before you to turn round in. George smiled and resignedly helped himself to some wine. Am I really to understand, sir, he asked, that you are serious in what you said to me last November. Are you actually resolved to bind me to that incomprehensible condition? I don't call it incomprehensible, said the admiral irritably. Don't you, sir. I am to inherit your estate unconditionally, as you have generously settled it from the first, but I am not to touch a farthing of the fortune poor Noel left you unless I am married within a certain time. The house and lands are to be mine, thanks to your kindness, under any circumstances, but the money with which I might improve them both is to be arbitrarily taken away from me if I am not a married man on the third of May. I am sadly wanting an intelligence, I dare say, but a more incomprehensible proceeding I never heard of. No snapping and snarling, George. Say your say out, we don't understand sneering in Her Majesty's navy. I mean no offence, sir, but I think it's a little hard to astonish me by a change of proceeding on your part entirely foreign to my experience of your character, and then when I naturally ask for an explanation to turn round Cooley and leave me in the dark. If you and Noel came to some private arrangement together before he made his will, why not tell me? Why set up a mystery between us where no mystery need be? I won't have it, George, cried the admiral, angrily drumming on the table with the nutcrackers. You are trying to draw me like a badger, but I won't be drawn. I'll make any conditions I please, and I'll be accountable to nobody for them unless I like. It's quite bad enough to have worries and responsibilities laid on my unlucky shoulders that I never bargained for. Never mind what worries. They're not yours, they're mine, without being questioned and crossed questioned as if I was a witness in a box. Here's a pretty fellow," continued the admiral, apostrophizing his nephew in red-hot irritation and addressing himself to the dogs on the hearth rug for want of a better audience. Here's a pretty fellow. He is asked to help himself to two uncommonly comfortable things in their way, a fortune and a wife. He is allowed six months to get the wife in. We should have got her in the Navy bag and baggage in six days. He has a round dozen of nice girls, to my certain knowledge, in one part of the country and another, all at his disposal to choose from, and what does he do? He sits month after month with his lazy licks crossed before him. He leaves the girls to pine on the stem, and he bothers his uncle to know the reason why. I pity the poor unfortunate women. Men were made of flesh and blood, and plenty of it too, in my time. They're made of machinery now. I can only repeat, sir. I am sorry to have offended you," said George. Poo-poo, you needn't look at me in that languishing way if you are, retorted the admiral. Stick to your wine, and I'll forgive you. You're good health, George. I'm glad to see you again at St. Crookes. Look at that plateful of sponge cakes. The cook has sent them up in honor of your return. We can't hurt her feelings, and we can't spoil our wine. Here! The admiral tossed four sponge cakes in quick succession down the accommodating throats of the dogs. I am sorry, George. The old gentleman gravely proceeded. I am really sorry you haven't got your eye on one of those nice girls. You don't know what a loss you're inflicting on yourself. You don't know what trouble and mortification you're causing me by this chilly, shallow conduct of yours. If you would only allow me to explain myself, sir, you would view my conduct in a totally different light. I am ready to marry tomorrow if the lady will have me. The devil you are! So you have got a lady in your eye after all. Why in heaven's name couldn't you tell me so before? Never mind. I'll forgive you everything. Now I know you have laid your hand on a wife. Fill your glass again. Here's her health in a bumper. By the by, who is she? I'll tell you directly, Admiral. When we began this conversation, I mentioned that I was a little anxious. She's not one of my round dozen of nice girls. Aha, Master George, I see that in your face already. Why are you anxious? I am afraid you will disapprove of my choice, sir. Don't beat about the bush. How the deuce can I say whether I disapprove or not, if you won't tell me who she is? She is the eldest daughter of Andrew Vanstone, of Coombe Raven. Who? Miss Vanstone, sir. The Admiral put down his glass of wine untasted. You're right, George, he said. I do disapprove of your choice. Strongly disapprove of it. Is it the misfortune of her birth, sir, that you object to? God forbid the misfortune of her birth is not her fault, poor thing. You know as well as I do, George, what I object to. You object to her sister? Certainly. The most liberal man alive might object to her sister, I think. It's hard, sir, to make Miss Vanstone suffer for her sister's faults. Faults, do you call them? You have a mighty convenient memory, George, when your own interests are concerned. Call them crimes, if you like, sir. I say again, it's hard on Miss Vanstone. Miss Vanstone's life is pure of all reproach. From first to last she has borne her hard lot with such patience and sweetness, and courage is not one woman in a thousand would have shown in her place. Ask Miss Garth, who has known her from childhood. Ask Mrs Tyrell, who blesses the day when she came into the house. Ask of Fiddlestick's end. I beg your pardon, George, but you are enough to try the patience of a saint. My good fellow, I don't deny Miss Vanstone's virtues. I'll admit, if you like, she's the best woman that ever put on a petticoat. That is not the question. Excuse me, Admiral. It is the question if she is to be my wife. Hear me out, George. Look at it from my point of view, as well as your own. What did your cousin Norl do? Your cousin Norl fell a victim, poor fellow, to one of the vilest conspiracies I ever heard of, and the prime mover of that conspiracy was Miss Vanstone's damnable sister. She deceived him in the most infamous manner, and as soon as she was down for a handsome legacy in his will, she had the poison ready to take his life. This is the truth. We know it from Mrs LeCount, who found the bottle locked up in her own room. If you marry Miss Vanstone, you make this wretch your sister-in-law. She becomes a member of our family. All the disgrace of what she has done, all the disgrace of what she may do, and the devil, who possesses her, only knows what lengths she may go to next, becomes our disgrace. Good heavens, George, consider what a position that is. Consider what pitch you touch if you make this woman your sister-in-law. You have put your side of the question, Admiral, said George resolutely. Now let me put mine. A certain impression is produced on me by a young lady whom I meet with under very interesting circumstances. I don't act headlong on that impression, as I might have done if I had been some years younger. I wait, and put it to trial. Every time I see this young lady, the impression strengthens. Her beauty grows on me. Her character grows on me. When I am away from her, I am restless and dissatisfied. When I am with her, I am the happiest man alive. All I hear of her conduct from those who know her best more than confirms the high opinion I have formed of her. One drawback I can discover is caused by a misfortune for which she is not responsible, the misfortune of having a sister who is utterly unworthy of her. Thus this discovery, an unpleasant discovery, I grant you, destroy all those good qualities in Miss Van Stone for which I love and admire her. Nothing of the sort. It only makes her good qualities all the more precious to me by contrast, if I am to have a drawback to contend with, and who expects anything else in this world. I would infinitely rather have the drawback attached to my wife's sister than to my wife. My wife's sister is not essential to my happiness, but my wife is. In my opinion, sir, Mrs. Nor Van Stone has done mischief enough already. I don't see the necessity of letting her do more mischief by depriving me of a good wife. Right or wrong, that is my point of view. I don't wish to trouble you with any questions of sentiment. All I wish to say is that I am old enough by this time to know my own mind and that my mind is made up. If my marriage is essential to the execution of your intentions on my behalf, there is only one woman in the world whom I can marry, and that woman is Miss Van Stone. There was no resisting this plain declaration. Admiral Bartram rose from his chair without making any reply, and walked perturbedly up and down the room. The situation was emphatically a serious one. Mrs. Griddlestone's death had already produced the failure of one of the two objects contemplated by the secret trust. If the third of May arrived and found George a single man, the second and last of the objects would then have failed in its turn. In little more than a fortnight, at the very latest, the bans must be published in Osary Church, or the time would fail for compliance with one of the stipulations insisted on in the trust. Obstinent as the Admiral was by nature, strongly as he felt the objections which attached to his nephew's contemplated alliance, he recoiled in spite of himself as he paced the room and saw the facts on either side immovably staring him in the face. Are you engaged to Miss Van Stone? he asked suddenly. No, sir, replied George. I thought it due to your uniform kindness to me to speak to you on the subject first. Much obliged, I'm sure, and you have put off speaking to me to the last moment, just as you put off everything else. Do you think Miss Van Stone will say yes when you ask her? George hesitated. The devil take your modesty, shouted the Admiral. This is not a time for modesty. This is a time for speaking out. Will she or won't she? I think she will, sir. The Admiral laughed sardonically and took another turn in the room. He suddenly stopped, put his hands in his pockets, and stood still in a corner, deep in thought. After an interval of a few minutes, his face cleared a little. It brightens with the dawning of a new idea. He walked round briskly to George's side of the fire and laid his hand kindly on his nephew's shoulder. You're wrong, George, he said. But it is too late now to set you right. On the sixteenth of next month, the bands must be put up in Osary Church, or you will lose the money. Have you told Miss Van Stone the position you stand in? Or have you put that off to the eleventh hour, like everything else? The position is so extraordinary, sir, and it might lead to so much misapprehension of my motives that I have felt unwilling to allude to it. I hardly know how I can tell her of it at all. Try the experiment of telling her friends. Let them know it's a question of money, and they will overcome her scruples if you can't. But that is not what I had to say to you. How long do you propose stopping here this time? I thought of staying a few days, and then... and then of going back to London and making your offer, I suppose. Will a week give you time enough to pick your opportunity with Miss Van Stone? A week out of the fortnight or so that you have to spare? I will stay here a week, Admiral, with pleasure, if you wish it. I don't wish it. I want you to pack up your traps and be off tomorrow. George looked at his uncle in silent astonishment. You found some letters waiting for you when you got here, proceeded to the Admiral. Was one of those letters from my old friend, Sir Franklin Brock? Yes, sir. Was it an invitation to you to go and stay at the Grange? Yes, sir. To go at once. At once, if I could manage it. Very good. I want you to manage it. I want you to start for the Grange tomorrow. George looked back at the fire and sighed impatiently. I understand you now, Admiral, he said. You are entirely mistaken in me. My attachment to Miss Van Stone is not to be shaken in that manner. Admiral Bartram took his quarter-deck walk again, up and down the room. One good turn deserves another, George, said the old gentleman. If I am willing to make concessions on my side, the least you can do is to meet me halfway and make concessions on yours. I don't deny it, sir. Very well. Now listen to my proposal. Give me a fair hearing, George. A fair hearing is every man's privilege. I will be perfectly just to begin with. I won't attempt to deny that you honestly believe Miss Van Stone is the only woman in the world who can make you happy. I don't question that. What I do question is whether you really know your own mind in this matter quite so well as you think you know it yourself. You can't deny, George, that you have been in love with a good many women in your time. Among the rest of them, you have been in love with Miss Brock. No longer ago than this time last year, there was a sneaking kindness between you and that young lady, to say the least of it, and quite right, too. Miss Brock is one of that round dozen of darlings I mentioned over our first glass of wine. You are confusing an idle flirtation, sir, with a serious attachment, said George. You are altogether mistaken. You are indeed. Likely enough, I don't pretend to be infallible. I leave that to my juniors. But I happen to have known you, George, since you were the height of my old telescope, and I want to have this serious attachment of yours put to the test. If you can satisfy me that your whole heart and soul are as strongly set on Miss Van Stone as you supposed them to be, I must knock under to necessity and keep my objections to myself. But I must be satisfied first. Go to the Grange tomorrow, and stay there a week in Miss Brock's society. Give that charming girl a fair chance of lighting up the old flame again if she can, and then come back to St. Crocs, and let me hear the result. If you tell me, as an honest man, that your attachment to Miss Van Stone still remains unshaken, you will have heard the last of my objections from that moment. Whatever misgivings I may feel in my own mind, I will say nothing, and do nothing adverse to your wishes. There is my proposal. I dare say it looks like an old man's folly in your eyes, but the old man won't trouble you much longer, George, and it may be a pleasant reflection when you have got sons of your own to remember that you humored him in his last days. He came back to the fireplace as he said those words, and laid his hand once more on his nephew's shoulder. George took the hand and pressed it affectionately. In the tenderest and best sense of the word, his uncle had been a father to him. I will do what you ask me, sir," he replied, if you seriously wish it. But it is only right to tell you that the experiment will be perfectly useless. However, if you prefer my passing a week at the Grange to my passing a year, to the Grange I will go. Thank you, George," said the admiral bluntly. I expected as much from you, and you have not disappointed me. If Miss Brock doesn't get us out of this mess, thought the wily old gentleman, as he resumed his place at the table. My nephew's weather-cock of a head has turned steady with a vengeance. We'll consider the question settled for tonight, George. He continued aloud, and called another subject. These family anxieties don't improve the flavour of my old claret. The bottle stands with you. What are they doing at the theatres in London? We always patronise the theatres in my time, in the navy. We used to like a good tragedy to begin with, and a hornpipe to cheer us up at the end of the entertainment. For the rest of the evening the talk flowed in the ordinary channels. Admiral Bartram only returned to the forbidden subject when he and his nephew parted for the night. You won't forget tomorrow, George. Certainly not, sir. I'll take the doll-cart and drive myself over after breakfast. Before noon the next day, Mr. George Bartram had left the house, and the last chance in Magdalene's favour had left it with him.