 CHAPTER XI Three chapters to one group of people is almost more than it is fair to allow, and yet the fact of there being three in the group, as well as a strong predilection on my own part for chronological progression, must excuse my remaining attached to Henry Haley and his fair companions, at least till that day, had reached its close. Now the period of a day's close may be differently estimated according as a man is astronomical, Judaical, ecclesiastical or chronological. Some will have it that sunset closes the day, some say midnight is the day's end, which of course is a contradiction in terms, some one hour, some another, but as men have never been agreed upon the subject since the beginning of the world, and I am decidedly fond of paradoxes, I prefer midnight, and therefore declare that when I say the close of the day, I mean neither more nor less than twelve o'clock at night. With a light and joyful step, Henry Haley took his way through the park where he had so often played in infancy and boyhood, towards one of the two lodges, selecting that one, the gates of which opened upon the road, near a little village, at which he had left the post-chase that brought him from London. The moon, just risen and not far from the full, showed him many an old familiar sight, and the happiness of his own heart harmonized so well with the pleasant memories of the past that he almost fancied himself a boy again, and all the terrible realities of the last ten years, nothing but a painful dream. There was one thing indeed which might have proved to him that it was not so, but there was a wide interval between the past and the present, and that was a sensation of passion. Yes, there was now passion in his bosom, passion which had not been there before, passion which even at the dawn of morning he had not felt. Let not the reader marvel. There are certainly such things occasionally as love at first sight, but with him it was very different. If the eye which runs over these lines saw the sun rise as often as mine does, I see him open the curtains of the night, I believe, more frequently than any man in England, more frequently even than the matutinal labourer of the fields. If any reader, I say, saw the sun rise as often as I do, he would understand the whole process of Henry's love in a moment. Not that it had anything to do with sunrise or with sunset, or with the rising, serving and setting of the moon, but there is a certain comfortable arrangement which every early riser practises, or should practise in the winter, and which perfectly explains Henry Haley's case. You direct the housemaid to take a bundle of dry sticks, called in some place a faggot, in other parts of the country a bavin. In London men use square bits of deal, and laying them artistically with sufficient spaces between them to allow the air to pass, to place over them a mass or quantity of paper. Such a manuscript as this would do very well, but a newspaper is better, for a thousand to one it contains more inflammable materials. Overall you super induce a thin and pervious stratum of bituminous coal, and then in the morning when you rise you put a candle lighted to the paper, and the whole mass is ablaze in a moment. Now in Henry Haley's case fate had been the housemaid, the friendships and affections of youth piled one upon the other had been wood nicely laid. The paper might perhaps be represented by all the longing, eager memories and fancies of, and regarding, the fair companion of his youth during the last long ten years. A warm, earnest, ardent heart was the inflammable coal at the top, and the sudden sight, the tender interest and kindly affection of Maria, were the light which kindled the flame in a moment. He had in short met her that night, loving her very much, and he loved her, loving her as much as it is possible for man to love. He went through the park then with the spirit of the past and the present on either hand, leading him through paths of fairy flowers to scenes of imaginary happiness. That quarter of an hour was well worth the ten years of suffering. He could hardly make up his mind to pass the gates, but there was no use in lingering, and he sped on. Such a frugal dinner as he wanted was easily obtained at the little public house, for it did not deserve the name of an inn, and when it was over he still sat for a time and thought of Maria, not of Lady Anne, till his watch, which he had laid on the table, showed him that it was time to depart for his next visit. Then indeed he turned his mind to her whom he was so soon to see. But still Henry Haley was a gentleman, not in man as alone, but in heart and mind, and a gentleman never misunderstands a woman. There was not one thought in his bosom, which could have pained or offended Lady Anne, if she had seen them all. She is a dear, kind, good girl, he said to himself as he walked on, and still so like what she was as a child. Happy state, happy character, which changes not with the hard world's experience, which has no need to change. Mistress of herself, her actions and her fortune, armed in honesty of purpose and purity of heart, why should she bend the finest feelings and the noblest principles to the cold rules of the world? The lodge gate was soon reached, the grounds were soon passed through, and when he stood under the portico and stretched out his hand to the bell, the village clock, clear and musical, struck nine. I am to the moment, he thought, and I am glad of it, I would not repay such regard with the slightest appearance of neglect. The servant who opened the door showed no wonder at the sight of a young and very handsome stranger asking to see Lady Anne at that hour of the night. All her servants had given up wondering at Lady Anne long ago. Giving his name as Colonel Middleton, Henry was at once led to the drawing-room where she was sitting, and as soon as he had entered the door was closed. She at once rose from the book she had been reading, and advanced to meet him, with both her hands stretched out. He took them affectionately, and to his surprise she raised her face to his and kissed his cheek. There, Henry, she said, now that I have astonished you enough I will try and be reasonable, and first, that you may not think me anything but very mad, I will tell you something. But first, sit down by me here. Well, I was going to say I have made up my mind that you are to marry Maria Moncton, I am quite sure of it. There were tears upon her cheek when I came in, and love enough in your eyes to show me the whole. Then again, as I have told Charles Marston, if he asks me some day when I am in a good humour I may marry him. It is all arranged, and now you may think me odder, stranger, wilder than ever, and I believe it is so for the very great joy of seeing you again, when every one but myself believed you dead has carried me quite away. And you did not, then, believe me dead, Lady Anne, asked Henry, Do not call me by that odious name, she answered, and then I did only half. I doubted, and so did my poor father till his last hour. Little reason had we to doubt it is true, but still you know, Henry, doubt is a very clingy plant. Look here, she continued, raising a light from the table and leading the way through chairs and sofas, and various sorts of furniture, to the other side of the large room. Look here, do you know whose picture this is? Mine, answered Henry with a smile, what could tempt you to buy it? I did not buy it, she said. It was given to me, and I have always hoped, faintly, fearfully, but still hoped to see that face again, the face of the brother of my girlhood. I one time thought of giving it to Maria, for I knew it would be a comfort and a consolation to her, but I had not the heart, and now, of course, you will have another painted for her, which will please her better as it will be more like the present. That will do well for me. It is the Henry of my remembrance. It must be owned that Henry Haley was puzzled. He had seen and observed many women acting in many circumstances, but he had never yet seen sisterly affection so warmly, so plainly, displayed towards any one, not actually akin to her, who felt it. Yet led there be no mistake, he did not misunderstand Lady Anne Mellon for an instant. He did not suppose that she was moved towards him by any feelings but those which she acknowledged. But he thought, and thought with a sigh, that those feelings might be misunderstood by others, for the world rarely, if ever, as he well knew, understands perfect sincerity of character. He saw, however, that his love for Maria was not to be concealed from her, and therefore that there was no use in attempting to hide it, and he answered, You must not suppose, dear Lady, that all my hopes and wishes are so near attainment as to justify me in even dreaming of painted pictures. There is much to be thought of, much to be considered first. You must be aware that I am even now in a dangerous situation, and although I need not tell you I am innocent of all that was ever late to my charge, though I think I can prove my innocence, and am resolved to attempt it, yet there is peril even in the attempt. Lady Anne smiled gaily. I do indeed know you are innocent, she said, and my dear father knew you were innocent. He told me so himself, upon the bed of death, she added, a grave shade spreading over her fair face. He saw Mr. Haley for some hours, as soon as he recovered from a terrible accident he met with, and from his lips he heard and knew the whole. But now, Henry, sit down and tell me all your history, for satisfied that you are here, living and well, I have hitherto asked you no questions, but still there must be a strange tale to be told, for even Mr. Haley himself was fully convinced of your death till his own last hour. After you have done, I have something to give you which my father left you, if ever you should appear again. You gave me other directions also, which I ought to have acted upon before, but which, whether fortunately or not, I cannot say, I have not acted upon in my thoughtless celebrity as yet. They were to make public what I knew of your innocence, and of the circumstances which cast suspicion upon you, as soon as Mr. Haley was dead, but I have been absent from England, roaming about, and since my return I forgot it all. I am glad you have not, as yet, said anything upon the subject, replied Henry thoughtfully. Your unsupported testimony of what your kind and excellent father believed would do little legally to establish my innocence, and I should wish to make every preparation before I discover myself. At present I am so far safe, although I now see that those who knew me well may recognise me more easily than I had imagined. No one can prove my identity with Henry Haley, while I can establish by proofs which cannot be controversial, that I am Frank Middleton, the son of an English gentleman and a Spanish lady. Step by step, from infancy to manhood, I can show my identity with that person, without, by one word from my own mouth, violating truth in the slightest degree. The Spanish Consul-General, now in London, would at any time swear that I am the son of Mrs. Middleton, having seen me many times at the house of her uncle, recognised as her son by all the family. This character I shall certainly keep up for some time, till I have carefully sought for and arranged all the evidence that is yet to be found, regarding that transaction which condemned me to ten years of exile and disgrace. Nay, listen, for depend upon it such things are not so easily proved to the satisfaction of a court of law, as kind and inexperienced hearts like yours and dear Maria's are willing to believe. Nevertheless I do think my innocence can be established, for in corroboration of a paper which my father gave me, acknowledging the act as his, and exculpating me, some of the innkeepers at whose houses I stayed, while seeking your father in Northumberland and in Wales, must still be living, and can show that I was not, as has been asserted, flying from justice with the money obtained by forgery, but eagerly following a nobleman of unimpeached honour, upon business of importance. I think it will not be difficult, in short, to prove every step of my course, so as to bear out fact after fact of the plain and simple tale I have to tell. I must also seek and find my poor aunt as soon as possible, not only for affection's sake, but because I feel almost certain that sooner or later my father must have told her the truth. I will therefore beseech you, dear Lady Anne, to keep my secret with the utmost care for some weeks to come, and not to betray any recognition of me as Henry Haley by a word, a look, or a sign. That I will promise and faithfully perform, Henry, replied Lady Anne, with a smile, but still we have much to talk of, and first tell me all your history, and then I will tell mine in return. The same tale was told by Henry to his present auditor, as have been told to Maria Moncton, though not exactly in the same words, though somewhat drier in the detail, and though more a relation of mere facts than of facts and feelings mingled as it had been to Maria, yet it took long in telling, and before it was concluded the sound of a carriage driving up hurried him to the end. That is Mrs. Brice, my old governess, who lives with me still, said Lady Anne, Henry, there is much more to be said. You must come to me to-morrow evening in London. I will contrive to get rid of her there. Here perhaps I could not manage it without painting the good creature, and awakening her attention too closely to yourself. Come and dine with me, tet-a-tet, at seven, and tell Maria not to be jealous. Henry promised, and the next moment Mrs. Brice entered the room. After an introduction to that lady by Lady Anne, delivered in an easy common-place tone, the visitor took his leave, and in half an hour after was on his way back to London. End of CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII OF THE FORGERING by George Paine Rainsford James. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER XII It was about eleven o'clock in the day. The London thunder had not begun. There might be a few carts creeping about the streets, but they crept lazily, and almost silently. The rattle of a hackney-coach might be heard here and there, but still it was but a temporary rattle, and the comparative stillness of the whole town gave a dreamy sort of quietude to the air, which was pleasant and full of repose. It harmonized well with the character of the day, too, for it was quite a summer morning. The sun was streaming into Lady Fleetwood's drawing-room, sending a bleak rays over the corner of the houses of a neighbouring street, and the motes were dancing drowsily in the long pencils of light. A droning fly which had somehow or other got into a long-naked, deep-blue carnation-glass, and could not get out again, was buzzing as if it had nearly tied itself to sleep, and the waving of the plants at the open windows stirred by light air had a slumbrous sound with it. Really, this is very pleasant, thought Lady Fleetwood as she sat, after breakfast, enjoying the delicious sensation of life which a fine summer day gives. It is all so calm and tranquil that one could almost go to sleep. Strange, strange life, that one of my best blessings should be to lose the consciousness of thine existence. She soon found, however, that to go to sleep was not for her. Hardly had the thought pass through her brain when a sharp double-knock at the door dispel the stillness, and the next moment Charles Marston, the incarnation of mobility, entered. Well, my dear aunt, he said, I have determined upon my course for the day, laid out everything in the most methodical and scientific manner, and, having just half an hour to spare, came to bestow it upon you. You should really go and see your uncle, my dear Charles, replied Lady Fleetwood. It would have been much better to have given it to him instead of to me, for he may well be offended if he hears you have been here twice without going near him. You are wrong, dearest of aunts, you are wrong, answered Charles. You always are sweetly wrong, you know, most excellent of women. I sent half an hour ago to ask if he was at home, for although one may have to swallow a bitter pill now and then, there is no reason why one should needlessly walk a mile and a half to take it. But he was out, and so, when I go hence, I shall diligently pursue him to his dingy hole in the city, where, pray heaven, there may be plenty of business stirring to cut our conference short. I am now only waiting for Winkworth, who is going to the city too. I cannot think, Charles, why you should feel such a distaste to your uncle's conversation, said Lady Fleetwood, meditating upon the problem. Everybody admits he is a clever man. Undoubtedly, my dear aunt, replied Charles, but I will tell you why I am not very fond of his conversation. It is because that same conversation of his transforms everything into arithmetic. Now I never had an arithmetical head in my life. I know that two and two make four, but it has not been the study of my life to discover how many blue beans make five. I cannot calculate friendships by the rules of profit and loss, nor look on love upon the principles of tear and tread, nor subject to every feeling of the heart to the computations of the interest table, nor measure poetry by the square foot, nor extract the cube root of an acquaintance's purse in order to estimate how intimate I should become with him, nor regulate my own thoughts and wishes by quadratic equations, nor always keep my own conduct and purposes within an exact parallelogram. The sages of Laputa must have been great boars, my dear aunt, but they were nothing, depend upon it, to the men of the present day who subject not only their understandings, but their very emotions to the stiffest rules of calculation. Besides, the sight of poor Miss Haley has not altogether taught me to like my uncle better, nor has what you said about him, it a proposal to her. Lady Fleetwood looked scared, and in a moment her mind ran back to all that had passed during the preceding evening to ascertain if she could possibly by any blunder have said ought to produce mystery between uncle and nephew. Why, my dear Charles, she exclaimed, I am very sure that I never uttered one word to make you believe that your uncle is at all aware of the poor thing's condition. He would be the first, I am sure. I never said you did, my dear aunt, he replied, interrupting her, but you told me he had been angry because you went to see them in their distress at Highgate. I have a strong notion he did not behave well to poor Haley. I remember something of an unsettled account. Oh, but poor uncle always said that as soon as Mr Haley produced certain papers he would go into that, exclaimed Lady Fleetwood, I remember quite well that Haley always declared there was a large sum due to him, fifteen or twenty thousand pounds, and he declared once that he would put it into Chancery or some law court, but he lost heart, poor man, after the sad business of Henry's death, and though he talked a great deal he never did anything. But now I recollect that was what made your uncle so angry, Charles. He said Haley had defamed him, and you know your uncle is always reckoned a highly honourable man. Though a little too fond of money, perhaps. Rich men are always honourable men, replied Charles, in a graver tone than was customary with him. And poor and unfortunate men are great rascals in the world's opinion, my dear aunt. In this good country of ours wealth does find ways, if not to corrupt justice, at least to fix the balance and the sword immovable. Law is too expensive a luxury for poor men to treat themselves to much of it, and many an honest cause is lost for fear of the inseparable punishment. In this land of seeking right by law, I mean expense, if not ruin. I remember hearing a clerk give a message to Haley, exactly to the pervert you mention, that Mr. Scriven had no time to write, but that he would go into the account whenever Mr. Haley was prepared to produce the papers. Do you know what Haley replied, my dear aunt? He was then in a shabby black coat, and his face looked as if he had been drinking, I must confess. But he spoke distinctly and bitterly. Be so kind as to ask Mr. Scriven, he said, how I am to do that when all those papers were left here, and I have never been able to get them out of this house. And with a fierce implication upon my uncle's head, he walked away without waiting for an answer. I was witness to the whole, and a sad scene it was. Oh dear, that is very terrible, said Lady Fleetwood. But do you think it could be true, Charles? I really do not know, my dear aunt, answered her nephew. But I have a sort of feeling that the Haley's have suffered by our family, and consequently, as I am quite sure this poor thing whom I saw upon Frimley Common is one of them, I have resolved to go down again this very day, and see what can be done for her. Winkworth will go with me, and as he is one upon whose advice I can fully rely, I shall consult him in regard to all I do for her. But dimly, then, you will not see Maria today, said Lady Fleetwood. She will be here by two o'clock. Oh yes, I shall, answered Charles. We do not set out till three, and I shall be back from the city by two. Lady Fleetwood's arrangements were all deranged. She had planned a pleasant little dinner party for Charles, Mr. Winkworth and Maria, at which she proposed to engage Mr. Winkworth in conversation with herself, while Charles and Maria will be thrown upon each other's hands entirely. And she did not in the least doubt, being a fine politician in her way, that what between Maria's natural charms, a sudden meeting after a long absence, and a great many other advantages of the same kind, love and matrimony would as naturally rise up as the flame of a spirit lamp when a match is applied to it. We must remark that Lady Fleetwood never doubted for a moment that any of her plans would succeed, nor did the experience of more than twenty years during which period every one that she had ever formed had broken to pieces. Convince her that there was always, somehow or another, some element wanting in her calculations which ensured their failure. She laid defeat upon the back of accident, one of the three or four broad-shouldered accessories to human infirmities which bear all the sins and misadventures of the world, the scapegoats of conscience and self-reproach. Accident, ill-luck, the devil, and adverse circumstances are the favourite deputies to whom we transfer the burden of our faults in the present day, since use and his Olympian household are no longer chargeable, as in the days of Homer. Perverse mankind whose wills created free, charge all their woes on absolute decree, or to the dooming gods their guilt translate, and follies are miscalled the crimes of fate. Accident was Lady Fleetwood's pack-course, and she thought it a most unfortunate accident, indeed, that Charles had arranged to go with Mr. Winkworth into the country that evening, rather than stay and fall in love with his cousin upon her plan. While she was thinking, however, of how she could induce him to give up his journey for the day, and balancing with nice casuistry, whether she ought or ought not to try, kindly feeling from poor Miss Haley pulling her one way, and a natural hankering for her own schemes tugging her the other, the knocker was again heard, doing its function, and the servant, a moment after, announced that Mr. Winkworth was below, waiting for Mr. Marston. Oh, ask him up by all means, said Lady Fleetwood, I shall be delighted to see him. I asked him, my lady, replied the man, but he said he had no time at the present moment. Lady Fleetwood would have pressed the point, but Charles represented that if they did not set out for the city at once he should not be back in time to see his cousin, and ran downstairs without delay. Under any ordinary circumstances the solitary meditations of a lady, on the seerside of fifty, can be of no great interest to the general reader. There is something in youth, in its freshness, its vigor, its excitability, its world of emotions, which renders the young mind, as well as the young frame, in its bloom and perfection, a pleasant object of contemplation, but with age alas it is seldom so. I will therefore only say that good Lady Fleetwood sat and thought for full five minutes of how unfortunate it was that Charles should have spoiled her evening plan for his benefit, and having no other scheme for making people happy in her own way, ready made at the moment, she might have gone on for five or even ten minutes more had she not been interrupted by a visit from her brother. Well, that is the most unfortunate thing in the world, exclaimed the poor lady, as soon as she saw Mr. Scriven's face. Charles has just this moment gone into the city to call upon you. Said Mr. Scriven, I wonder he did not call upon me last night. I dare say he was tired, poor fellow, replied Lady Fleetwood, who had almost always an excuse ready for everybody, but he sent the first thing this morning to see if you were at home. It would have been better to have come himself, rejoined Mr. Scriven dryly, then he might have discovered that I was not ten doors off, and would return directly. Now I suppose he will call at the counting-house and finding I have not arrived, walk away again. I must see him to-day, Margaret. I have some important matters to tell him. If he comes back, then keep him to dinner, and I will come in and join you. I cannot do that, answered Lady Fleetwood, but he has just told me that he is going down to Frimley Common at three o'clock. What for? asked Mr. Scriven with a look of surprise. Lady Fleetwood hesitated, and her brother's face assumed a stern look. Is he going to fight a duel? asked Mr. Scriven. And his poor sister, in a fright lest she should produce a wrong impression, poured forth the whole story of Miss Haley, and Charles Marston's intentions, and Mr. Winkworth's kindness in going with him. Moreover, one part of the tale requiring, in her estimation, explanation by another, she went on to give sundry portions of her conversation with her nephew, to account for his determination to take care of poor Miss Haley, which she knew well, in its bold state, Mr. Scriven would think very absurd, romantic, and extravagant, and she added various hints with regard to what she and Charles judged he, Mr. Scriven, ought to do for the poor lady, adding that some people thought the Haley's had not been altogether well-treated. There was a sort of consciousness in her heart all the time that she was blundering, which only made her flounder more and more amongst the shadows into which she had plunged, and the deep, imperturbable silence with which her brother sat and listened to a long story, a thing he was rarely inclined to do, only added to her embarrassment. When she had done he asked no questions, but only raised his eyes to the time-piece, and with a last convulsion to get right again, or at least to cast the weight from her own shoulders, she added. Well, Henry, I do not understand all these matters as you well know. Perfectly well, rejoined Mr. Scriven. And so, she continued, you have better talk with Charles about them yourself. I will, said Mr. Scriven. He will be back from the city before two, added Lady Fleetwood, and he sets out for Frimley at three. Ha! said Mr. Scriven. And now, Margaret, I will go, for I do not see anything further that can be gained by staying here. Now Lady Fleetwood would have given a great deal to have unloosed his taciturn tongue, and discovered what he was going to do next, but Mr. Scriven was not inclined that it should be so, and took his departure. He had a brown cabriolet at the door, that was an age of cabriolets, and when he had got into the vehicle, he first turned his horse's head, as if he would have driven, as usual, to his house of business in the city. But by the time he had got to the other side of the square, he had altered his mind, and sweeping round with a swell, he directed his course back to his private residence. It was very strange that he should do so, for Mr. Scriven was the most methodical of men. He arranged in the morning all that he intended to do during the day, and on all ordinary occasions he did it. But there was something stranger still, for notwithstanding his having told Lady Fleetwood that he must and would see his nephew Charles that day, he took a very good way of preventing himself from doing so. He first looked into a posting hook, then ordered one of his servants to go to the counting-house and say that he should not be there till the next morning, and then directed another servant to order a pair of post-horses. As soon as they arrived, he went out of town. With his arm linked in that of Charles' master, Mr. Winkworth, such as I have described him, walked on towards the city, and much did he seem to marvel at all he saw, by the way. It was not indeed that he was unacquainted with London, but cities as well as people changed their dress, only with this difference that they very often grow smarter as they grow older. The new garb of his old friend, however, was apparently not at all to Mr. Winkworth's taste. He commented on all he saw with splenetic causticity, declaring that the good old Brick houses of Swallow Street with their plain brown faces were infinitely preferable to the layman plaster edifices of Regent Street and Waterloo Place, which he pronounced an insult to architecture, and a hodgepodge of every sort of enormity. Then again the macadamized streets excited his indignation. They had not yet been paved with wood, or heaven knows what he would have said of them. But as they were, he declared that their sole object must be to wet the feet and splash the apparel of the leeches of the land. My dear sir, he said, this is true modern reform and improvement, it is a good specimen of the customs and legislation of the age, everything that the wisdom of ten or twelve centuries, and the experience of whole races of men, have devised and pronounced good, is swept away, knocked down, topped up, simply for the sake of change, and to show that we are wiser than our ancestors. In my young days these good streets of London were paved with large firm solid lumps of granite. You could step across from stone to stone quietly, easily, and dryly. They wanted little or no repair, except when some villainous water company chose to pick up the stones in order either to carry a pipe to, or cut it off from, some of the adjacent houses. If you ever come to drive a cab or a caracal through the streets, Winkworth, said Charles Vaston, you will find it much more pleasant to roll over Mr. Macadam than over those same jolting blocks of granite you talk of. Heaven forbid that I ever should commit such a mad action, replied the old gentleman, still striding on with his long legs and his somewhat rounded body and shoulders, not at all unlike a hen turkey in the morting season. But that which strikes me as the most curious part of the whole process is that you people of the present day think you are advancing all the time, and call your operations progress, when in fact like the crap you are going backwards. Here you have very nearly reduced the streets of London to the same state in which they were left by King Ludd, whose name very appropriately rhymes to mud. I suppose all things do go in a circle, answered Charles Vaston, like that wheel which you see turning round. Yet the wheel in turning round rolls the carriage forward, and so I suppose the gyrations of society help on the great machine. As bad an illustration as ever was given, exclaimed Mr. Winkworth, one which would break down at the first turn, good heaven what a quantity of plate glass! You must admit that that is at all events a great improvement, rejoined the younger gentleman, compared with the small dingy pains which even I can recollect. You can have nothing to say against the plate glass, I think. A whole volume, said Mr. Winkworth, in the first place the shops and houses must be as hot as cucumber beds. This window lets the whole sun in. You forget you are not in India, in Arabia, or on the shores of the Red Sea, replied his companion. But what more? In the next place, continued Mr. Winkworth, every stone-throwing urchin, discontented snob or butcher's boy with a tray on his shoulder, has two or three hundred pounds at his mercy, a chimney pot falling, a flower pot overturning, or almost any other accident you please, can pick your pocket of much more than it may be convenient to lose in the shape of glass. Then look at that jeweller's shop, think what a temptation it must be to a poor rogue, to pop his hand through and seize all those diamonds and pearls, upon my life it is worth the risk of transportation. Then again, as a matter of calculation, my dear lad, I don't know what is the price of plate glass now, but I am very sure that three or four thousand pounds would not buy the shopfront of that Mercer. Who pays for it, sir? Who pays for it? Why, you and I, and everybody who wants a silk handkerchief, a dozen of gloves, or a pair of silk stockings. Now, what I want is a silk handkerchief, not plate glass, and I do not see why I should be obliged to contribute my quota to enable Harry Thompson or John Jenkins or anyone else to cover his wares with a plate of stuff only fit for a looking-glass, as dear as gold and as frail as a dancing-girl. Charles Marston laughed outright. That last part of your speech, my dear Winkworth, he said, is worthy of my uncle's scriven. Then he must be a wiser man, and you seem to think him, rejoined Mr. Winkworth with a smile. I never said he was not wise, replied Charles Marston. Oh, no, he is a very wise man in his generation. Neither do I think he will carry the matter as far as you do, nor object to any one but himself buying as much plate glass as he pleases, perfectly certain that if he, Mr. Scriven, is obliged to pay something additional in his bill on account of that commodity, he will find means to make the possessor pay him back with interest if they have any further dealings together. Loving nephew, says Mr. Winkworth dryly, pray, are you as affectionately fond of all your other relations? Nay, that is hardly fair, replied Charles Marston. You know quite well, Winkworth, how dearly I love my good aunt Fleetwood, and my noble, generous-hearted father, but I will tell you one thing, that is the contrast between his conduct, feelings and thoughts, and those of my good, calculating uncle, which makes a society of the latter so very unpleasant to me. If he is all prejudiced, I dare say, answered Mr. Winkworth in a morose tone, you love your father doubtless, because it is customary. Piety, piety you know, Marston, it would never do not to love one's father, and then you hate your uncle because he has got the whip-hand of you. You are very much mistaken, replied Charles Marston sharply. My uncle has not the whip-hand of me in any way, thanks to my father's generosity and confidence, I am as independent of him as that chimney sweeper. Said the old man, but what has your uncle done? Why, nothing, perhaps, that the world would blame, answered Charles, but nothing that I ever heard of, that any man of heart and mind would praise. In that very business of the poor Haley's, which I was telling you about last night, he persecuted Henry in the most relentless manner. The bankers who lost the money, and where the real parties interested, did not show half the eagerness after the poor fellow's blood. That might proceed in your uncle from a natural love of justice, said Mr. Winkworth. Poof! exclaimed Charles Marston with an impatient look. Did he pay the bankers the money? demanded his companion. Not one penny rejoined Charles. But let us get into some sort of vehicle, or we shall never arrive at the city, and calling one of the street conveyances they proceeded on their way. As the reader is already aware, Charles Marston did not find his uncle at his counting-house, and having nothing further to detain him in a place which he appalled, he drove back again at once to his aunt's house, leaving Mr. Winkworth to finish his business in the great centre of the world's commerce, and rejoin him as soon as it was possible. Charles Marston found Lady Fleetwood's drawing-room already well-tenanted. His cousin Maria had arrived earlier than she had been expected. Not ten minutes after her appearance, Lady Anne Mellon had presented herself, and she was followed closely by Colonel Middleton. A crowd of congratulations and welcomes poured warmly upon Charles. It is at such first meetings, after long absence, that, to the eyes of the observant and experienced in human character, the deeply concealed feelings of the heart peep out in little traits. Had the eyes of Lady Fleetwood been of any great use to her, she would have seen the ruin and destruction of one of her favourite schemes upon the cheek of Maria, Moncton, and in the eyes of Lady Mellon. The former was nearest to the door by which Charles entered. She received him with every appearance of affection, returned his embrace warmly, and expressed, with no lack of tenderness, the pleasure she felt at seeing him again, but not the slightest change of colour in the cheek betrayed any deeper emotion, no quivering of the lip, no trembling of the frame showed the agitation inseparable from love. Not so, Lady Anne Mellon, she sat still as stone, while Charles was welcomed by his cousin. But a ray of joyful light, bright and pure and radiant, poured forth from her eyes, while her cheek became very pale, and her lips parted with a sigh that would not be suppressed. She was evidently a great deal agitated, but with a degree of command over herself, which circumstances rendered more habitual with her than people generally believed, she overcame the emotion in a moment, and by the time the greeting of Maria was over, she was quite prepared to resume the gay and sparkling levity with which she often covered deeper feelings. Do not come near me, Charles Marston, she said, as the young traveller approached. I am determined not to speak to you. I cast you off, I abandon you. If I were a rich grandfather, I would cut you off with a shilling. But at the same time she held out her hand to him, and it trembled as he took it. Did you not promise to write to me continually, she asked, and to tell me of all your adventures, for I was quite sure you would get into all sorts of scrapes and be delightfully near losing your life a hundred times. And now tell me, sir, have you written to me a single word for six months? I wrote you two long letters, the last not three months ago, replied Charles Marston, and you never condescended to answer either. Because I never received them, replied Lady Anne, but you were laid all upon postmasters, of course. You shall see the record and the dates in my journal, little infidel, said Charles Marston in a low tone. And then he added aloud, but I did even more than all this. I was impudent enough to write to your merry old guardian, Sir Thomas Wickham, to ask him for your address. And what did he say? What did he say? exclaimed Lady Anne, laughing, something very funny, I am sure. He told me that he was not an astronomer, replied Charles Marston, and could not at all calculate the transit of Venus, adding, in less figurative language, that he could not tell me where you might happen to be, as he had never known for two hours consecutively in his life, but that, if he might venture a supposition, your ladyship was probably looking for me somewhere in Palestine or Krim Tartary. My ladyship was doing nothing of the kind, answered Lady Anne, but there is Colonel Middleton, exceedingly anxious to say civil things to you, while I should say nothing but what is uncivil, at least till you have done penance, so go and speak to him. The greeting between the two friends was very warm, and while it took place, Lady Anne's eyes were fixed upon Charles Marston's countenance, with a keen and scrutinising glance. As the secrets of all hearts are, of course, in the bosom of him who writes their history, I may very well aware that Lady Anne was anxious to discover whether Charles Marston was really as unconscious of the identity of Colonel Middleton and Henry Haley, as he appeared to be, but there was nothing in any part of his demeanour which could induce her to suppose that he entertained even a suspicion of the truth. These men are strange beings, she said to herself as she gazed. Here are two girls who discover a fact at once, and an old woman who becomes very much puzzled and very doubtful, evidently. For beloved Aunt Fleetwood is clearly on thorns at this very moment with doubt and curiosity, and yet quick, two rapid Charles Marston jumps over the truth and lights a hundred yards beyond. Upon my life I think women are creatures of instinct more than anything else, although I do not know that it is a complement to their understanding to suppose they share a gift peculiarly characteristic of beasts. The welcome was succeeded by general conversation, and general conversation being the most tedious thing upon the face of the earth to all but the persons engaged in it, and very often, to them likewise, there can be no necessity for repeating it here. Though the sweetest temper woman in the world, Lady Fleetwood was in a mood for fretting herself, and, to say the truth, circumstances wonderfully assisted her. In the first place she was evidently one too many. The party divided itself naturally into a quadril without her, but it divided itself not according to her taste. Had Charles Marston attached himself to the side of his cousin, and his friend Colonel Middleton devoted all his attention to Lady Anne, she would have borne the awkward fact of her own superfluity with the utmost weakness and patience. But, very perversely, they chose to do quite the reverse of all this. Charles, in the window, carried on with Lady Anne Mellent what seemed to his good aunt a regular flirtation, while Maria was left entirely to the attentions of Colonel Middleton. Still, as the reader may suppose no four persons could have been more perfectly contented with their position than these four, could Lady Fleetwood have been contented to let them alone, and not try to arrange matters better? But she first joined in the conversation of one party, and then interrupted that of another, taking care to choose the exact moment when something in the importance was to be said, or some word of affection to be spoken, which was most willing to hide itself from listening ears. At length, however, Mr. Winkworth was announced, and the arrival of a stranger put out all the former combinations. Advancing into the room, with one hand behind his back and his hat in the other, he made a formal sliding bow all round, till his eye rested upon Charles Marston at the end of the line, and the latter advanced to introduce him to the rest. Though gay, frank and bluff as we have seen, where he was intimate, Mr. Winkworth was clearly very formal and ceremonial amongst strangers, but yet there was a certain degree of old-fashioned courteousness in his manner, which perfectly suited the notions of Lady Fleetwood. The very scrape of his left foot upon the carpet, as he made his exceedingly decided bow, and the little expletives with which he seasoned his replies, savoured of that dignified stakedness which, even within her own memory, was the distinctive quality of the old court. You have been a long time in India, I think, Mr. Winkworth, she said, looking rather too curiously at his shallow complexion. Madam, I fear it is written on my countenance, he replied, with another low bow, but I have, as you say, been a good deal in India, and I learn from your nephew that my old friend Marston is your brother-in-law. Lady Fleetwood was delighted to hear that Mr. Winkworth was an old friend of her sister Maria's husband, and she soon engaged her visitor in giving her a full statement of all he knew concerning Mr. Marston in India, which was certainly well calculated to be gratifying to her ears. It proved also a seasonable diversion in favour of the lovers in the other part of the room, for it occupied all the excellent ladies' attention, and prevented her from attempting to make them comfortable. The announcement that Charles Marston's carriage was at the door, about ten minutes after his companion's first appearance, put an end to the explanations he was giving to Lady Anne, and the two gentlemen departed upon their charitable expedition, leaving Henry still by Maria's side. One gentleman amongst three ladies is but small provision, but Colonel Middleton seemed in no degree inclined to depart, and for a minute or two Lady Anne was kind enough to make a diversion in his favour, by going over and occupying the attention of Lady Fleetwood. How Maria and he took advantage of this movement, it is not for me to say. Certain it is they talk in a very low voice for some minutes, till Lady Anne suddenly rose as if to depart, and then Maria took a liberty with her aunt's house, which she would have done without the slightest hesitation, when no deep feelings were concerned, but which now, from some cause or another, called the colour somewhat warmly into her cheek, saying aloud, Will you not dine with us today, Colonel Middleton? My aunt, I am sure, will be very happy to see you. Before Henry could answer, or the little sort of agitated consideration of prose and cons which seized upon Lady Fleetwood could resolve itself into anything like form and shape, Lady Anne held up her finger exclaiming, Remember you are engaged to me, sir, for tonight at least. Tomorrow I will give you up to Lady Fleetwood with all my heart. Maria certainly did think her young friend very strange, and perhaps felt a little mortified. It was but a transitory emotion, however, but it was sufficiently strong to cause Henry's answer to escape her, and the next moment, while he had turned to Lady Fleetwood to answer with thanks the invitation, which she cordially seconded, the moment it was declined, Lady Anne crossing the room, laid her hand upon Maria's arm, saying in a whisper, Trust me, dear girl, trust me, I am neither a flirt nor a coquette, whatever you may think. Indeed, I think you neither, Anne, though perhaps a little strange, Maria Moncton replied, and with a gay laugh and a nod of her head, Lady Anne Mellon ran out of the room, leaving Henry with Maria and Lady Fleetwood. There we also must leave him, dear reader, for the time to follow Charles down to Frimley, and though the journey was not a very long one, and the stages were short and easy, even in those days, merely from London to Hamslow, from Hamslow to Egham, from Egham to Bagshot and from Bagshot to Frimley, passing by the golden farmer and stopping at the White Heart, I should undoubtedly abridged the way by stepping over the whole country after the fashion of the pair of compasses with which one measures distances on a map, were it not for one peculiarity which must be pointed out. The old road to Southampton and a great many other places for some distance beyond Frimley runs only through two counties, and those metropolitan counties too. First Middlesex and then Surrey, and yet perhaps were you to look for any 30 miles throughout all England which comprise more wasteland than any other 30 miles, you would have to pitch upon these in the immediate vicinity of the capital. Only take the names I have given above and add the word Heath or Common to them, and you have at least 50 miles of waste out of the 30. Hamslow Heath, Egham Heath, Bagshot Heath, Frimley Common, over all these they rolled as fast as two good horses and a gay pastillion could manage to make them, and about half past six o'clock they reached the spot where they had seen poor Rebecca Haley two nights before. The carriage was stopped and out they got, as near the hovel as possible, and then, wandering down the little path by the side of the swampy stream smothered with moss, they made their way to the door. It was closed, but not locked, and Charles Marston, without the ceremony of knocking, lifted the latch and went in. There was but one tenant in the place, and that was the boy, Jim. But the poor fellow's face and manner no more displayed that calm, good-humoured, patient, steadfast opposition to adversity and sorrow which they had so lately shown. He sat by the fireplace half and wept. Why, what's the matter, my lad? asked Charles, and where is your old friend Bessie? They have taken her away, replied the boy, and I am left here alone. Taken her away? Taken her away? said Mr. Winkworth, following his young friend. Who took her away? If your story, Charles, be quite correct, I do not see who can have any right to take her away. Who was it took her away, Jim? Oh, he had right enough, I dare say, answered the boy. At least he seemed to have, for he ordered about him quite free, and the people did just what he liked, and when I asked him what was to become of me, he said whatever might happen, he had nothing to do with that. He would have been more civil, I think, if he had no right. I can't tell that, replied Mr. Winkworth, who was occasionally given to moralise as the reader may have perceived. Wrong is often a very uncivil thing, but what was he like? Was he an old man or a young one? Younger than you are, a good bit, replied the boy, but older than he is, a good bit, and he pointed to Charles Marston. Further questions elicited that the person who had carried away poor Miss Haley was a gentleman between forty and fifty years of age, tall and thin, with grey hair, but no whiskers. He had come down in a carriage, the boy said, having a servant with him, and together they had put poor Bessie into the vehicle, whether she would or not. She seemed to know him, however, he added, and called him by his name, and was very much afraid of him. She cried and sobbed very much too. In answer to another question, the lad stated that he had forgotten the name which his poor old friend had given to the gentleman. The description is uncommonly like my uncle's scriven, said Charles Marston. That's it! That's it! cried the boy eagerly. That is what she called him, I remember now. I'll swear that my dearly beloved aunt Fleetwood has been at the bottom of this, said Charles, with her excellent intentions. I'll answer for it if she has told my uncle all about our having found the poor old lady here, and tried to persuade him to do something for her. Thus he has learnt all about it, and for some reason of his own has come and carried her away. But I will have this affair investigated to the bottom. Quite right, my dear boy, if you do not run your head against sundry stone walls in so doing, replied Mr. Inkworth. But you should always remember, Charles Marston, that you have got brains and that stone walls have none, so that it is not a fair fight between you and them. However, now let us think of the boy. Oh, I will take him into my service, replied the younger man, and put him under my fellow to teach him. All manner of wickedness, said Mr. Inkworth, and therefore you shall do no such thing. I will take him into mine, where there's no blaggard with long whiskers to corrupt him. I'll drill him in all the precise notions of an old bachelor's service, and when he's fit for that, he's fit for anything. Would you like to come and live with me, my good boy, and be my servant? And the old gentleman's yellow countenance lighted up with a benevolent smile, which made it look quite handsome. I should like it very much, said the boy, eagerly, and then perhaps I can sometimes see Bessie. I dare say you can, though I know not why you call her Bessie, answered Mr. Inkworth. At all events, I will not prevent you. Good heaven, my dear Charles, how much happier and brighter and better a world it would be if we all continued to love our Bessies through life, as this poor boy seems to love his. There, do not stare so. I mean by Bessies, the best friends of our youth, not perhaps the mere corporeal flesh and blood friends, but the pure, ingenuous, open-hearted candour of early years, which would be a better friend to man if he did but cling to it with affection through life, than all the worldly friends we gain in passing through existence, shrewdness, caution, prudence, selfishness, wit, or even wisdom. But it is no use trying to indoctrinate you, I see. You only laugh at my most beautiful illustrations and think me the most foolish old man in the world. Not I, indeed, my dear sir, replied Charles Marston, I should only like someday to put your sarcasms when your spleen is moved, and your fine sentiments when your enthusiasm is excited, side by side, in double columns as they print books, and see how they would look when compared. They would mutually balance each other, and so come to nothing, said the old gentleman. But now, my good boy, Jim, what is your name besides Jim? Brown, said the boy. I thought so, exclaimed Mr. Winkwer. I could have sworn it. Jim always precedes Brown, and Brown always follows Jim. It is a natural co-location, strange it is, Charles Marston. The particular names have such strange affinities for each other, so that they appear to unite by the mere attraction of cohesion. How extraordinary that his boys, godfathers and godmothers, without any pre-concerted consideration of the subject, were driven by a sort of inevitable necessity to call him Jim. They had indeed but one alternative, and that was Tom. However, Tom is less dignified, being frequently attached to a cat. But now, Jim Brown, to proceed to business, you shall either have your choice of getting into the dicky of that carriage, and coming up with me to town to be fed, lodged, receive twenty pounds a year, and wait upon an old gentleman with a yellow face, or you shall stay here for a day or two longer, to put your little affairs in order, and follow me up to town for the same purpose. The boy had listened with profound attention to Mr. Winkwer's comments on his name, though with a slight expression of wonder on his face, but not of stupid wonder. To his proposal he gave not less attention and then thought for a moment before he answered, poor boy, he had been early taught to think, for circumstance is a hard master, and often teaches severe lessons to youths only fitted for age. I think I would rather stay for a day, he replied at length, for there are some things of my poor mothers which I should like to pack up and not have wasted. Well then, there is a guinea for you to pay your journey up on the top of the coach, said Mr. Winkwerth, and now have you got such a thing as a pen that I may write down my address in London? Here's poor Bessie's pen, said the boy, which she used to teach me to write with. While with the well-worn stump, a drop of ink in a little file and a scrap of somewhat dirty paper, Mr. Winkwerth wrote down his address in London, Charles Marston gazed out of the cottage drawer upon the heath, over which the purple shades of evening were falling fast. Who are those people passing across the common? asked Charles Marston, turning to the boy. Is there any great work going on here? Oh no, sir, replied Jim. Those are people, I dare say, from the great meeting to petition for a reform in Parliament, which was to be held farther up on the common to-day. The men were coming down all the morning, and a bad set they were, too, for they walked straight through William Small's garden, trampled down all his beds, and gathered all the flowers. He said they were nothing but a set of thieves and pickpockets from London, and they have done him damage for twenty pounds or more. Ha! Charles, that's bad! said Mr. Winkwerth, rising, and folding up the paper on which he had written the address. We had better get away before the shades of night are upon us. I hope your whiskerandos has got the pistols with him. I dare say he has, replied Charles Marston, and after a few words more exchanged with the boy, they left the cottage and got into their carriage again. Mr. Winkwerth, however, seemed to have thought better of his plan of operations, especially when they got into the midst of a noisy and somewhat turbulent crowd. One worthy member of which amused himself by throwing a stone at the head of the servant. After all, said the old gentleman, I think it will be better to stop and dine and let these admirable reformers disperse. Charles Marston was very willing to do anything that he liked, for, to say the truth, his mind was very busy and wanted to be busy, and as the reader is well aware, when such is the case, the spiritual part cares very little what the corporeal is about. Provided there be no interruption to its own operations. They consequently drove to the inn where they had already stopped on their way to town, ordered dinner, and, according to the usual process, waited for it and ate it, not exactly in silence, for notwithstanding all that philosophers can say, either mind or body will often carry on two operations at once. And Charles talked of indifferent subjects, while his mind was occupied with one particular theme, that is to say, he talked mechanically, for conversation is much more the effect of mere machinery than we think. Now internally he was occupied in considering what could be the motives of his uncle in the act he had just performed, and he mingled therewith sundry doubts, hesitations, and inquiries, with which it is needless to trouble the reader. In a word, thought, mounted upon imagination, went galloping away hither and thither, while the mechanical part of mind remained at home, taking care of the house. In the meantime there was a good deal of noise and bustle in the inn, which, on their first visit, had seemed as quiet a little place as any at which hungry travellers ever ate new-killed chickens or tough beef-states. And the landlord thought fit to inform his respected guests, in an apologetic tow, that there were several of the erraters of the great meeting just dispersed, the spirit-shakers of that day, then dining in the house, and several of their admirers waiting in the yard to cheer them as they went home. Now it is very natural for erraters to be noisy, first because the unruly member is their spoiled child, and next because, at least I never yet saw, met with, or heard of one of them, with whom such was not the case, they never consider any others than themselves. Mr. Winkworth and Charles Marston, then, were not the least surprised at the inn being noisy under such circumstances, and the only effect was that they hurried their dinner in order to get out of it as soon as possible. Whenever the meal was concluded the horses were put to, the lamps lighted, for it was now quite dark, crack went the whip, round went their wheels, and off went the carriage, through the little town they drove quietly and easily enough, and for some distance beyond it, but at length awful backshot heath spread around them. True it might have been any other place on the earth for ought they knew. The night was cloudy, the stars were all in bed, and fast asleep, the moon would have nothing to do with backshot heath that night, and neither Charles nor his companion had the least idea that they were in the midst of a place notorious for robbery some ten years before, when a loud voice cried, Stop! and the carriage was brought to a sudden halt. It is probable that some of the gentlemen who, anxious for an extension of the franchise, had attended the meeting in the morning, seeing a carriage indicative of wealth in the courtyard of the inn, had thought that they might make their day's expedition serve two purposes, and tend first to the expansion of their rights and liberties, and secondly to a more equal distribution of property. At all events some persons, animated by the latter object, appealed to the traveller's pistol in hand, to convey a portion of their superfluity to their more needy fellow countryman. The servant at the back of the carriage, however, produced a pair of tubes very similar to those in the hands of the applicants, and, without much ceremony, fired. The shot was instantly returned, but with what effect Charles Marston did not wait to see, for seated on the right-hand side of the carriage, which was opposite to that where the attack was made, he put forth his hand, the window on that side being down, opened the door, jumped out, and applied a thick stick, which he had with him, to the head of a gentleman who was holding the horses. The head was a hard one, and probably not unaccustomed to such calls to forbearance. But the blow was sufficiently well directed, and forcibly applied, to stretch him for one moment flat upon his back. The next instant he was upon his feet again, but not willing to take a second dose of the same rude medicine, and totally forgetful of his hat, which, to say truth, was not worthy of great solicitude. He ran off across the heath as fast as he could go. Now running is the most infectious of all diseases, and the two other gentlemen who were with him were seized almost simultaneously with the same malady. Charles Marston did not think to pursue the fugitives, but merely inquired of the servant who had by this time descended from his leather box, whether the shot the fellows had fired had hit him. No, sir, replied the man in his peculiar affected tone, the gentleman's line of fire was not well directed. It merely damaged the crystal of the carriage, I think. And Charles Marston, calling him a puppy in his own mind, went round to the other side, got in, and ordered the post-boy to drive on. For a moment or two Mr. Winkworth was completely silent, but at length he remarked in a low, quiet tone. Well, I do think, Mr. Charles Marston, the time a very unfortunate man, and that my left shoulder is a very unfortunate shoulder, both being subject to suffer-by-encounters with highwaymen, whether Syrian or English, Mohammedan or Christian. Why, my dear sir, you don't mean to say you are wounded, exclaimed Charles Marston. I do indeed, replied Mr. Winkworth, and within one inch of the spot where I was wounded before. Luckily, it is lower down and on the outside, so it is only in the flesh I fancy. But I am not obliged to them, nevertheless. I was just stooping a little forward, to see what was going on when the ball came crashing through the glass and into my shoulder. Charles Marston was now, as may well be supposed, under a good deal of anxiety for his friend. But Mr. Winkworth would not consent to stop at the next inn longer than was necessary to ascertain that the bleeding was not great. Charles insisted upon putting on another pair of horses to the carriage to accelerate their progress, and in about two hours and a half they reached the door of their hotel. There a surgeon was immediately sent for, and after what seemed to Charles a very long delay, the man of healing entered the room. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 of The Forgery by George Payne Rainsford James This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Chapter 14 Human life is a strange thing. Consider it in what way we will. Strip it of all factitious adjuncts, and leave it bare and bold, as a mere lease for sixty or seventy years of sensations, feelings, thoughts, hopes, expectations. Still it is strange. Very strange. But man has made it stranger. Society has put so many clauses into the lease that the covenants are not always easily fulfilled, and the tenancy occasionally becomes troublesome. I do not mean to say that this was altogether the case with worthy Mr. Winkworth. That he was rich was evident. That, notwithstanding his meager body, stooping shoulders, and yellow face, he was strong and in good health, his capability of enduring long fatigue, and the rapidity with which he had recovered from his former wounds in Syria, proved sufficiently. But still he seemed very indifferent to life, and when the surgeon, as surgeons often will upon very slight occasions, thought fit to look grave and solemn while examining his wound, the old gentleman turned laughing to Charles Marston and said, with a nod of his head, I'll remember you in my will. My dear sir, he continued addressing the surgeon, do not look so serious. You cannot frighten me, I assure you. Life in its very best and pamiest state, with all its joys and pleasures unimpaired, is not so valuable a commodity in my eyes as to cost me two thoughts about losing it. There is no great chance of that, however, this time, and even if there were, this old, crazy, worn-out body of which, as of a house long in Chancery, there is little more than the framework left, may just as well go down to Mother Earth today, or to-morrow, as after a few score more morrows, which will very soon be passed. The ball, however, was soon extracted, and the old gentleman retired to bed, treating the whole matter somewhat lightly. The next morning, when Charles Marston went to visit him, some degree of inflammation had naturally come on, rendering him rather irritable, of which he was conscious. Go away, Charles, go away, he said. Go and see your uncle. As you ought to have done before now, I am cross, and if you stay, you will find me as bitter as a black dose. Well, I shall tell my servant at all events to be in readiness to attend upon you in case you ring, replied Charles Marston. Tell him to go to the devil, exclaimed Mr. Winkworth. The whiskered coxcomb, with his heirs and graces, would drive me mad in a minute. No, no, go away and see your uncle, and leave me to myself. You may come in about one or two o'clock, but mind how you open that door, for it makes such a villainous squeaking that one would suppose it had not moved on its hinges for half a century. There was a house which Charles Marston would undoubtedly have much preferred to visit, if he had followed his own inclination. But nevertheless, with a strong resolution, he turned his step towards his uncle's dwelling, feeling conscious that he had certainly made no great exertions to see him since his return. He was immediately admitted, for Mr. Scriven seldom betook himself to his counting-house before eleven or twelve o'clock, and being a man of very regular habits, the ordinary process was to read three or four articles in the morning papers before he set out, partly during breakfast, and partly during the first steps of digestion afterwards. I have said three or four articles, because in reading newspapers, as in everything else, Mr. Scriven went upon a system. He was one of those men who always have a motive, and his motive was usually one and indivisible. There was no such thing as an impulse in his nature. He did not recollect ever having had an impulse. He was Babbage's calculating machine in flesh and blood. His sister, Lady Fleetwood, had told her nephew, as we have seen, that Mr. Scriven had been very angry upon one occasion, but Lady Fleetwood made a mistake. Mr. Scriven was never very angry. It did not come within his calculations to be so. He could be exceedingly severe, bitter, caustic, and coolly regardless of other people's feelings, but he was not the least angry all the while. He either wanted to prevent them from doing a thing he did not desire to be done, or to stop them from ever doing it again. It was still upon a motive. Thus in reading the newspaper he read those articles alone which were likely to affect himself personally, either immediately or remotely. He cared nothing about politics, except as the price of the funds, the value of merchandise, the risks of speculation, or the amounts of taxation were concerned. Highway robberies, murders, suits in chancery, police reports, trials at bar, or in the arches court. Interested him not in the least, except as accepted. They were all about other people, and he would have considered it a want of due economy to give them the least attention. Births, deaths, and marriages in the abstract he cared nothing about, and the whole world might have been born, wedded, or buried without producing one sensation in his bosom, provided he could have carried on his transactions without them. The Gazette, the shipping list, the money article, the commercial statement, a few trials for swindling, forgery, and breach of contract, together with reports of the budget, the estimates, and the debates in Parliament referring to commercial matters were all that he ever thought of reading. And the lucrebrations of editors in what are called leading articles, he passed over with utter contempt, saying that he trusted he could form as good an opinion himself on matters of fact as any they could give him. The reader must pardon me for dwelling so long on Mr Scriven's character, and I do so, not because it is at all a singular one, for it is as common as the air, under different modifications, but because there are very few men who, possessing the dual of perfect selfishness, are bold enough to display it openly and without disguise to the eyes of all men. But Mr Scriven was at the acme of his class. He was, as a naturalist would say, the most perfect specimen ever found, and it requires to be so, before selfishness can be considered a virtue and a matter of pride. When Charles Marston was ushered up to his uncle, he found him busily reading an account of the bark Louisa, having been spoken with by the Arcadia mail packet, in latitude so-and-so, longitude so-and-so. Neither the latitude nor longitude signifies a pin to you or me, reader, though it did to him. Mr Scriven looked up over the top of the paper as his nephew was announced, dropped it a little lower when he saw him, and said, How do you do, Charles? How do you do, Charles? I will speak to you in a moment. And he read through the ship-news without moving a muscle. Charles Marston had a great inclination to put on his hat and walk away, for it must be recollected that eighteen months had passed since Mr Scriven had last seen his nephew, and Charles, without being angry at the coolness of his reception, argued in this manner. He does not care to see me. I certainly do not care to see him. Why should I be bored by stopping while he reads the paper? There were two or three other little pros and cons in Charles Marston's mind, but they were brought to an end by Mr Scriven finishing the subject which he was reading, and turning to his nephew with his usual dry air. Well, Charles, he said, here is the third day since you arrived in London, and I have the honour of seeing you at last. Charles Marston did not think fit to make the slightest excuse or apology, contenting himself with the simple facts of having sent to his uncle's house to inquire if he were at home, and having afterwards called upon him in the city. If you had come yourself, Charles, said his uncle, the servant would have told you that I was near at hand and would be home directly, and if you had thought fit to remain in London till you saw me yesterday, you might have met me at your aunt's house last night, I having gone there in the hope of seeing you. This seems to me something like an accusation, answered Charles, a little nettle, and in regard to the first count of the indictment I must plead that I could not divine that your servants would tell lies. They assured mine, that they did not know where you were, or when you would return. In regard to the second count I have business, which I judged of importance, to take me out of town, and as you knew I was gone from dear aunt Fleetwood and was aware also of the business that took me, I could not suppose that the expectation of meeting me among the number of her ladyship's guests would take you to her house, had I known it I might have hurried my return to London. Then Lady Fleetwood told you that she had informed me of your expedition, said Mr. Scriven in an inquiring tone, but with such perfect composure that it provoked his nephew. Not so, replied Charles, I divined it from her usual conduct and felt sure of it when I found that you had forestalled me in my object. Mr. Scriven remained silent for a moment, but then he replied, quite unmoved, your combinations are good, Charles, but sometimes may be mistaken and are always rather too hasty. The simple question is this, my dear uncle, said Charles, did Lady Fleetwood inform you or not that I had discovered poor Miss Haley in very great misery, not far from Frimley, and that I intended to go down yesterday, have her brought to town, to see that she was properly taken care of, and did you not set off immediately and carry her away to a madhouse? Who puts the question, asked Mr. Scriven, with his usual equitable manner? I do, answered Charles, rather respectful from a nephew to an uncle, replied Mr. Scriven, dryly, and now, my dear Charles, some more serious matters, I wrote to you to come over immediately as I wanted to see you. Charles was angry at the somewhat contemptuous brevity with which his uncle dismissed the subject. You will excuse me, sir, he said, but I wish for an answer to my question before we enter upon any other matter. You shall have an answer before you leave the room, replied Mr. Scriven, but I think it necessary to proceed in order, for you know, my good nephew, that I am very methodical, and as my letter to you is the first incident, chronologically speaking, I wish to deal with that first. Very well, sir, replied Charles, what might be the occasion of your wishing to my immediate return? One of some importance, answered Mr. Scriven, you and your cousin Maria have been brought up in habits of great affection for each other. She is exceedingly beautiful, and her fortune, very large at her father and mother's death, has not, as you may well suppose, diminished under my management. Although she does not go so much into the world as most young women at her time of life, yet there is every day a probability of some proposal being made to her, which she may think fit to accept. Now, my dear Charles, I would not have you go on wasting your time in wondering about the Continent, and throw away an opportunity which may never occur again. Charles Marston smiled. My dear Aunt Fleetwood has bit you, sir, I think. Maria and I have a great deal of affection for each other, but it is quite brotherly and sisterly I can assure you, and will remain so till the end of our days, whether I am at Babylon or her next door neighbour in London. I advise you for what I think the best, Charles, replied his uncle. You are too wise, and have too much knowledge of the world, I am sure, to sacrifice all the important objects of life for romance. Decidedly answered Charles Marston, you must be very well aware that I have not a particle of romance in my disposition. Plenty of fun, my dear uncle, and a great deal of nonsense of different kinds, but none of the kind called romance. Nevertheless, setting aside all objections to marrying at all, which I suppose you are the last man on earth to undervalue, I have an immense number of sufficient objections to the important act and deed of proposing to my cousin Maria. Pray what may they be? asked Mr. Scriven dryly. In the first place, answered his nephew, it would take her quite by surprise, and I do not wish to surprise her. In the second place, she would to a certainty refuse me, and I do not want to be refused. And in the third place, if she did by some miracle accept me, which nothing but a miracle could produce, we should find out in three weeks that we were not suited to each other. And in the— But why not suited to each other? demanded Mr. Scriven, interrupting him, after listening to his objections with marvellous patience. You have no vices that I know of, though a great many follies, and Maria is the sweetest tempered girl in the world. You have touched the exact points of difficulty, my excellent uncle, replied Charles Marston. Maria is not fond of follies, and I am not fond of sweets. I never was, even from childhood I always preferred a little sour in my sweet meats. And in short, Maria and I would never do together. She would always let me have my own way and say, do just as you like, my dear Charles. Now what I want is a wife who would say, you shan't do anything of the kind, you mad-headed fellow. You are going to state a fourth objection, I think, when I interrupted you, said Mr. Scriven, with the utmost composure. The first three I do not judge very sound. I do, answered Charles, and the fourth is still sounder. Fourthly, and lastly, then, I intend to marry somebody else. Whom? asked Mr. Scriven. There, my dear uncle, you will excuse me, replied Charles. I will beg to keep my own secret till I am formally accepted, and I only mention the fact to you to show that the idea of a marriage between Maria and myself is a horse without legs. It won't go, my dear uncle. Very well, said Mr. Scriven, gravely, and now there is another subject upon which I want to speak to you. You have been a very long time doing nothing but amusing yourself. You have arrived at an age where many men are making fortunes or laying the foundations of honorable distinction and a great name. Worldly prosperity is too insecure a thing for any man to rest contented, with that which fate or fortune has chosen to bestow, without further exertions of his own. A man must labour to gain, if he would wish to maintain. And I think it high time that you should adopt some steady pursuit and give up this reckless roaming about the world. You have passed the time at which those professions usually selected by young men of gay dispositions, idle habits and small brains, are open to aspiring youths like yourself, I mean the army and navy. For law, physique or divinity, you are not fitted either by intellect, study or character. Mercantile habits, however, may be embraced at a later period of life and with less preparation. To them I should advise you strongly and urge you warmly to apply yourself, and that at once. Charles Marston was a good deal annoyed by his uncle's lecture, not so much at the matter, for he could not help acknowledging that there was a great deal of good sense in what Mr. Scriven said. As at the manner which was dictatorial, cold and a little contemptuous, he replied therefore, and quite aware, my dear uncle, that for the mercantile profession neither a large portion of intellect, a refined education, nor an amiable character, is required. An instinct of gain supplies all deficiencies, and although higher qualities may and often do embellish the character of a merchant, many men do get on quite as well without. However, there is a good deal of justice in your observations, and although, as you know, I am not famous for thinking, Mr. Scriven nodded his head, I have thought of two or three of the topics which you have discussed, and, moreover, some time ago I wrote to my dear father, informing him of all my views, hopes and wishes without the slightest reserve. According to his directions and advice I shall act, as soon as I receive his answers, for I can perfectly trust to his kindness, to his liberality, and to his judgment. Very good, said Mr. Scriven. I trust, and am even sure, that his views will be the same as my own, for although your father is an exceedingly eccentric man, and never acts as any other man would act, yet he is in the main a man of good sense, and there are circumstances. Charles Marston did not at all like the tone in which Mr. Scriven was speaking of his father. He felt himself growing angry, and he knew that if he suffered the sensation to go on, receiving little additions every moment from his uncle's observations, his anger would explode. He therefore thought it better to cut the matter short, and interrupt Mr. Scriven's picture of his father's character. You pride yourself upon being as plain speaker, my dear sir, he said, but observations upon my father's eccentricity, as you term it, are not pleasant to me. Having, therefore, listened attentively to your exhortations on marriage and commerce, I will revert, if you please, to the question I put regarding Miss Haley. Will you propound it? said Mr. Scriven. I do not take a note of it. It was simply, answered Charles, whether my aunt did not tell you, that I intended to go down yesterday at three, to bring Miss Haley to town for the purpose of having her properly taken care of, poor thing, and whether you did not immediately set out to forestall me, and carry her off to a madhouse. One answer to the three clauses of your question will suffice, replied Mr. Scriven, perfectly unmoved. Yes. Then I must beg to know, said Charles, where you have carried her, for I am determined, after the state in which I lately found her, to see with my own eyes that she is properly protected for the rest of her life, and to provide for it out of my own income. I promised to answer your question as first put, answered Mr. Scriven coolly, and I have done so, but I promised no more, and now I beg leap to say that I shall not tell you where I have placed Miss Haley. And pray, why not? demanded Charles, in a sharp tone. Because I have more consideration for your income than you have yourself, young man, replied his uncle. You will soon have need of it, every penny of it, sir, and more important duties to perform with it. I do not understand your meaning, sir," rejoined Charles, a little surprised by a very meaning look upon Mr. Scriven's face, which was rarely suffered to convey anything more than his exact words implied. It is very simple, said Mr. Scriven, rising and pushing over to his nephew two papers, which he had held in his hand for the last five minutes. By these two letters you will see what I mean. The one received more than a month ago when I wrote to you, the other, yesterday morning. Your father is a bankrupt Charles Marston, that is all. And now I must go to the counting-house, for it is past the hour. End of Chapter 14 Lady Anne Malent was seated alone in her drawing-room, in the large and handsome town-house, which had been inhabited for many years by her father and grandfather. She looked less gay, more thoughtful than usual. Perhaps the weather might have some share in depressing. For most people born in England are more or less barometers, and subject to be raised or depressed by the state of the atmosphere. Foreigners, I believe, generally imagine that the cause of two Englishmen, as soon as they meet, beginning to talk of the weather, is that they have nothing else to talk of, or that the variation of our changeable climate is the most prominent fact in the natural history of the land. Or because the weather is the only open question, free from all tinge of the party spirit, which affects all other things in our native country. But the real cause lies deeper. It is that in almost all instances the fibres of an Englishman's body are affected by the changes of the weather, like the strings of a fine instrument, more or less, of course, according to the constitution of the individual. But still, as I have said, in most men it is so, and the mind, being in tune or out of tune in consequence, emits sounds accordingly. Now one of the strange vicissitudes of climate had taken place which are so common under our skies. A day or two of fine, clear summer weather had been succeeded by a morning covered with thick grey clouds, while the east wind hurried a sort of dim and filmy mist through the air, cutting to the marrow all who exposed themselves to its influence. It was the true picture of a reverse of fortune. The summer summer prosperity clouded, dim uncertainty pervading the atmosphere, and the cold and cutting blast of ingratitude and neglect, and contemptuous pity chilling the very soul. Nevertheless, although I do not mean to say that Lady Anne Mellon was not at all affected by the weather, yet her grave and meditative mood had other, stronger causes. She had a great deal to think of just then, and she leaned her fair brow upon her hand, the thick, glossy ringlets falling over her taper fingers, and her eyes fixed upon a sheet of writing paper, whereon her other hand was fancifully sketching all sorts of strange figures. Her mind had nothing to do with what her hand was about or what her eye was fixed upon. I do not know what part or portion of the strange mixed whole expressed by the little monosyllable man. It is that occupies itself with trifles, while the high spirits, the sensitive soul and the intellectual mind are engaged in reasonings, deep or other, mightier things. But so it often is that when the brain and heart are most busy with strong thoughts, something, I know not what, gives employment to the corporeal faculties, just as a nurse amuses a sick child with playthings while two learned doctors are consulting of its state. Thus it was now with Lady Anne, her mind saw not the things she was drawing, the dancing men and women, the flowers, the fruits, the trees, the wild and graceful arabesques, the ruined towns and castles, the volutes, the capitals, the columns, she had not an idea of what she was about. But deep in some little chamber of the brain, with the doors and windows closed, while imagination held a taper and memory spread out a map before her, the mind sat and studied the chart of the past, trying to lay out plans for carrying on into the unexplored future, the roads along which her destiny had hitherto run. She was startled from her reverie by a servant opening the drawing room door and announcing Mr. Charles Marston. And raising her head with a slight glow upon her cheek, she held out her hand to him with frank and kindly greeting. Where you have come to see me at length, she said, and I suppose I must take your yesterday's apologies in Good Park, especially as I find that one of the two letters did arrive, and I have been reading this morning all the nonsense it contains, with a great deal of interest and satisfaction. There is nothing in the world like nonsense, either for pleasure or amusement. Sense is so hard, so square, and so sharp in the points, but it is always scratching one somewhere. I am sure Adam and Eve must have been talking nonsense to each other all day long in Paradise, otherwise it would not have been half so pleasant a place as it is represented. Charles Marston took a seat by her side with a very faint smile, saying, I am afraid, dear Lady Anne, that I must give up nonsense for the future and just devote myself to dull, hard, dry sense. Stir the fire, Charles Marston, replied his fair companion. The coldest wind has made you melancholy. Now, for the last three quarters of an hour, I have myself been much more sober and reflective than is at all proper and right, and I do not choose to be encouraged in such bad habits by the seriousness of anybody else. What can have made you serious, asked Charles Marston, in a tone of doubt, his eyes fixed upon the paper on which Lady Anne had been sketching. Your gravity must have been somewhat frolicsome. Good Heaven, did I draw all that? She exclaimed, looking down at the paper to which he pointed, and I was not in the least aware of it. Nay, then you must have been serious indeed, replied Charles Marston, with a tone both of surprise and sympathy. What can have happened to oppress your light heart? What can have happened to oppress yours, Charles? rejoined Lady Anne. Something must have occurred, I am sure, for though I have known you from childhood, I never saw you in such a mood till now. What is it? A change of fortune, dear Lady Anne, he said, implying the relinquishment of the dearest and fondest hopes my heart ever entertained. Hopes and wishes which, though treated gaily, lightly perhaps, were not the less deeply rooted, the less profoundly felt. He paused for a moment, as if summoning strength to go on with a task that nearly overpowered him, and she sat gazing on his face with a look of anxious alarm. At length he proceeded, I have loved you, Lady Anne, deeply, sincerely, well, I can assure you. I know all that, she exclaimed, resuming for a moment her gay and sparkling manner. You told me so twelve months ago in Rome, you told me so years ago when I was a foolish girl of thirteen, and I believed you both times. What have I done that you should cease to love me now? Seize to love you, exclaimed Charles Marston, I love you better, more dearly than ever. Just as one prizes a jewel, the last possession that one has, which he knows must be parted with soon. No, you do not love me, she said, or you would not keep me in suspense. What has happened, Charles? Tell me at once what has happened. It can be done in very few words, he replied. When I told you in Rome how I loved you, I myself possessed a considerable fortune, settled upon me by my father, at the time of my mother's death, what she inherited from her father. At that time I believed that sooner or later very considerable wealth in addition must be mine. And although that fact could not change the difference between your rank and mine, yet it in some degree justified me in seeking your hand, and might have justified you in giving it to one who had known and loved you, as you say, from childhood. Well, well, he continued, seeing her make an impatient gesture as if to hurry his tail. The rest is soon told. This morning my uncle, in the most unkind and indifferent manner, informed me that my father was a bankrupt. I need not tell you, Lady Anne, who I think know me well, that my first act must be to restore to my father the income he settled upon me. I will not indeed throw my mother's fortune into the hands of his creditors, for that I do not feel myself called upon to do. But the income, of course, is his for his life. Well, said Lady Anne, as if she did not see the deduction which he would draw. I must, of course, continued Charles, embrace some pursuit in order to raise the fallen fortunes of my family. That is painful enough for one of my habits and character, but there remains a still more painful task of abandoning those hopes, which you once permitted me to entertain, of giving you back every engagement and every promise you made me, at nerving my mind to all that must follow. Nonsense, explained Lady Anne, how long is it since you heard this news? Not an hour ago, he answered, I determined to come hither at once and do what was right by you, though I passed nearly an hour in the park struggling with thoughts which well nigh drove me mad. You should have come here directly, she answered in a quiet tone, and I would have taught you to overcome such thoughts by showing you what weak and foolish thoughts they were. I was praising nonsense just now, but what I meant was, Mary, not sad nonsense. Now this is very sad nonsense indeed. Do you pretend to know me? Do you pretend to love me? Do you pretend to esteem me? And yet suppose that any accidental change of circumstances, any pitiful reverse of fortune, would justify me in my own eyes for wishing to withdraw from engagements formed with as little consideration of wealth upon my part as upon yours? I do you full justice, Charles, and believe that you cared no more for my fortune when you asked my hand than I could do for the Crown of England. I believed, and do believe, that you would have sought me for your wife, that you would still seek me for your wife, if I had little or nothing. And you have done very wrong, even for one moment to look upon this event, except as a misfortune which affects us both. I cannot treat this subject so lightly as I might do most others, because I know what has occurred must be very painful to you on your good father's account. But thank God what I do possess, although not so large as is generally supposed, is still affluence, nay, wealth. Make over your income to your father as you propose, that will be abundant for him, and you will share mine. Charles Marston laid his hand upon hers and gazed at her with deep affection, but he still hesitated. Everyone will say, he replied, and your guardians above all, that you have thrown yourself away upon a fortune-hunter. I am my own guardian, she answered with a gay laugh, thank God. On the twenty-third of last month I arrived at the discrete age of one and twenty, so you have no excuse, sir. I see clearly that you do not wish to marry me, that you are fickle, faithless and false in all your vows, that you have fallen in love with some Greek or some Circassian or some Lady Turk, but I will have a distinct answer, Charles Marston, before you quit this room. You shall say yes or no. If you say yes, well and good, there is peace between us, but if you say no, I will prosecute you for a breach of promise of marriage and produce all your letters in open court, I can establish a clear case against you, so think of the consequences before you decide. She spoke gaily and cheerfully, but when Charles's arm glided round her waist and he pressed his answer on her lips, Lady Anne's eyes overflowed with tears. You have treated me very ill, Charles, she said, and I shall not forgive you for the next half hour. How could you think so meanly and so basely of me? Did I ever talk to you about settlements or stipulate for pin-money, or require that you should bring an equal share to the housekeeping with myself, or did I set others on to do that which I was ashamed to do? Fie, fie, do not attempt to justify it, for it was unjustifiable. I am glad of it, for one thing, she added, dashing the tears from her eyes, and looking up with one of her sparkling laughs. If ever I wanted to tease you, it will give me something to reproach you with. You shan't hear the last of it for some time, I can assure you, and I'll tell, dear Lady Fleetwood, how mercenary you are, and that you think marriage is merely a matter of property, that people should be perfectly equal in that respect at least, then how she will scold you. But now, tell me all about it, let me hear how your delightful uncle communicated this pleasant intelligence. He always puts me more in mind of the statue in Don Giovanni than anything of flesh and blood I ever saw. I will answer for it, he told the whole as if it were an iceberg, and every word was snow. Something like it indeed, answered Charles, but yet there was a keen, frosty wind coming from the iceberg, which was very cutting, and he proceeded to give his fair companion a more detailed account of his conversation with his uncle, taking care to avoid that part of the discussion which had referred to Maria Moncton. Women's eyes are very keen, however, and there is something approaching to instinct in the clearness of their perceptions with regard to everything where other women are concerned. It is only jealousy that ever blinds them, and there they are as blind as the rest of the world. But Lady Anne was not jealous of Maria, and therefore she seemed to divine in a moment what had been Mr. Scriven's principal scheme. Charles had merely said, he proposed to me several plans of action, none of which suited me. One of them, I am sure, said Lady Anne, was to marry your cousin Maria. Dear Maria, how often people have settled that for her, but I could tell good Mr. Scriven, even if you have been willing. His scheme would not have succeeded. Maria is in love, Charles. Maria is in love. Charles Maston started and looked surprised. With whom, he exclaimed, nay, it is hardly fair to tell you, replied Lady Anne, and I will keep you in suspense as you kept me just now. Moreover, I will tease you about it, ungrateful man. Watch me well, Charles, for the next two or three weeks, and if you see me flirt unconscionably with any man, while Maria stands calm and self-satisfied by, be you sure that man is her lover, and think that I am trying to win him from her, if you dare. Charles laid his hand upon hers, and gazed confidently into her eyes. You cannot make me jealous, if you would, he said, I know you too well. And yet you would not condescend to give Colonel Middleton a letter to me, replied Lady Anne, with a meaning smile. Simply because I did not feel myself entitled to take such a liberty, replied Charles Maston, without at least telling him our relative situation towards each other, which you forbade me to mention to anyone till you were of age. So, so, Frank Middleton is the man of Maria's heart, is he? It must have been very rapid, or I must have misunderstood her, for I think she told me he had only delivered my letter the day before yesterday. Oh, he conquers exceedingly quickly, exclaimed his fair companion. It is quite true he only delivered the letter the day before yesterday, and yet Maria is head over ears in love with him, and will marry him as you will see. I was introduced to him the same day, and though not quite in love with him, do you know, my dear Charles, I was so smitten that I asked him to dine with me yesterday, which he accordingly did. We had the pleasantest evening possible, quite tet-a-tet, for although good old Mrs. Bryce sat out for dinner very patiently, yet she went to her own room as usual, immediately after, and left him to make me a proposal, if he thought fit. He did not do it, which, after all the encouragement I gave him, was very singular. But you men are the most ungrateful creatures in the world, of that I am convinced. There now, make the most of it, for you shall not have one word of explanation from me till I think fit, and you shall see me go on every day with this Colonel Middleton, as wildly and as madly as I please, without being in the least jealous, unless I permit you. Charles caught her in his arms, exclaiming in his old, gay, reckless tone, I defy you, little tormentor, I have a great mind to punish you for your sourciness by kissing you, till you carry the marks upon your lips and cheeks all over London. But then, gently relaxing his embrace, he added in a softer and sadder tone. After the proofs of love you have given me, dear Anne, I could not doubt you, do what you would, and in spite of all you say, I know you would not pain me for a moment, even by a word or a look. Be not pained then, dear Charles, she answered, and be sure that for whatever you see I have a motive and a strong one. I shall see very little, I fear, replied Charles Marston, for, except during a short morning visit here, and an occasional party at dear Aunt Fleetwoods, I shall seldom meet with you, till I have forced my way into the gay world again, after an eighteen-month absence, which is quite sufficient to make all the affection of people in London forget one. Come here and dine every day, if you will, replied Lady Anne, laughing. I care not who knows it now, and only cared before Charles, because I hate lectures, and dislike opposition, when I am determined to have my own way. If you meet Frank Middleton here, you will, of course, be very civil to him, and if I want to speak to him alone, I can take him into another room, you know. Of course, of course, answered Charles, in the same tone of light badinage, but I have another task upon my hands, which I must now run away to fulfil, out of nursing my poor friend, Winkworth. This announcement called forth questions, which again required replies, and after hearing the whole story, Lady Anne exclaimed, Get him well as soon as possible, for I intend to make you all come down and spend a happy week with me in the country, either at Harley, or Belford, or Camarthen, or somewhere, Lady Fleetwood, and Maria, and you, and Middleton, and Mr. Winkworth, and all. I took a great liking to that old man, Charles, so you must engage him for me. Charles masked and promised to obey, and after a few more words, with which perhaps the reader may have little to do, he was taking his departure, and had already reached the door of the drawing-room when Lady Anne called him back. Charles! Charles! she said, I want to speak to you. And now, remember, I am talking seriously for once in my life. I am going to make a declaration, so remember it. It is somewhat unusual, and rather the reverse of what ordinarily takes place, but no matter. I love you truly and sincerely, and none but you. And she laid her hand affectionately upon his arm, adding, I never shall love any other, and I say this because your confidence, without any wish on my part, to put it to the proof, may be tried somewhat severely. It will stand the test, answered Charles, Master. I were unworthy of your love, dear Anne, if I could doubt you for a moment. End of Chapter 15