 CHAPTER XVIII. LINK by LINK. Holbrook Farm, with its low grey homestead on the Blackford Road, belonged to the Black Modern Estate, which would have been a fine property had it not been encumbered with the mortgages of a spend-thrift race. The farmhouse on this bright wintry day had that air of unearthly quiet which such places are apt to wear in the early afternoon. Morton led his charge in at the wide gateway, and round the graveled sweep to the moss-grown old porch. There was an old-fashioned garden in front of the house, more useful than ornamental, and in the rear there were barns and rickyards which dwarfed the low irregular homestead. On one side spread level pastures, on the other there was an orchard bounded by a plowed field. Everything had the look of Sunday afternoon repose. The sound of the horse's hooves plish-plashing on the soft road seemed almost a startling interruption of the all-pervading peace. The place looks as if there was not a living creature within call, said Morton, but I suppose we shall unearth somebody, if we try very hard. He pulled an iron ring which hung from a rusty chain in the porch, and far away, at the back of the premises, there sounded the cling-clang of a horse and feeble bell. After waiting two or three minutes he repeated this operation, but without any effect whatever, so he bethought himself that his own lungs might be stronger than the decrepit old bell, and he gave a stentorian shout of—House! This set a base-dog and a tenner-dog barking in an excited duet, which momentarily increased environments, whereupon came the sound of patterns clicking along a stone passage, and the door was opened by a ruddy-cheeked, plump, wholesome female smelling of the dairy. Did you please to ring, sir? she inquired, and then seeing Lady Francis on the horse, she exclaimed, Oh Lord, bless us and keep us, if it isn't my Lord's daughter, looking as white as a curd! Oh yes, it is I, Mrs. Dawley, answered Francis, slipping off her masculine saddle and a lighting on the gravel path, where Morton supported her with one arm, while he held the somewhat fidgety horse with the other. I've had something in the way of a fall, as you may see from the state of my habit. I've come to ask for your hospitality until the carriage from Blatch-Martin fetches me. Oh Lord, my lady, you're free and welcome to anythin' this household. You must have some dry clothes first thing, if you'll be so kind as to step upstairs with me. My gowns won't fit you, my lady, but dry things are better than wet things any day. Lady Francis hesitated and looked down at her habit. Oh, do you think it matters, she asked. I've had a ducking before to-day, and I dare say the carriage will be here in half an hour. My dear Fanny, don't be foolish, expostulated Morton, unless you have an ardent desire for an attack of pleurisy or rheumatic fever, you'd better accept this good woman's offer. Oh, my clothes are homely, my lady, but they're clean," said Mrs. Dorley. My good soul, do you suppose I don't know that? Well, if you don't mind the trouble of lending me a gown, I suppose I'd better get off this wet habit. I begin to feel rather shivery. Phoebe, called the matron, wore out a red-haired damsel with bare arms and canvas apron issued from the back premises, just set alight the fire in the best parlour and put the kettle on in the kitchen. Perhaps you'll be so good as to step into the parlour, sir, when my lady changes her clothes. With pleasure, answered Morton, if you'll kindly allow somebody to take care of my horse. Phoebe, just you run and call Bill to take a gentleman's horse round to the stable. Mrs. Dorley opened the door of a large, low sitting-room, and ushered in Morton, having already made up her mind that he was Lady Frances Grange's young man. Had he not called her his dear Fanny, and assumed a tone of authority, which no ordinary acquaintance would venture to use towards an earl's daughter. Upstairs in the lavender-centred, dimity-curtain bedroom, Frances made her hasty toilet, laughing a good deal the while at the absurdity of the situation, though she was still so weak and giddy that it was as much as she could do to stand without Mrs. Dorley's help. With the aid of that hospitable matron, she contrived to array herself in a starched white petticoat and a gaudy-printed flannel mourning-gown, which Mrs. Dorley informed her had been her sitting-up dress after the birth of her last baby. Dorley saw the stuff at the draper's in eye-clear one market-day, and took a fancy to it because it was a cheerful pattern, she explained. Lady Frances smiled at her image in the glass, her pallid face made whiter by the orange and blue and red in the cheerful pattern dressing-gown. There was a tasseled girdle with which she was able to tighten that ample garment round her slim waist. I'll have your habit dried and brushed by the time you want to go home, my lady, so you needn't be afraid of having to go back to your par, look in an object," said the farmer's wife. And now your ladyship must have some refreshment, some warm and comforting. I would say the best thing you could take would be half a tumbler of brandy and water, hot, sweet, and strong. Oh, my dear soul, not for the world! Oh, a glass of sherry wine-neegas, then! Please, if I am to have anything, let it be a cup of tea. Oh, of course, my lady, if your ladyship likes! Would you come down to the sitting-room and rest a bit on the sofa? Or would you like to lay down on the spare bed and take a little nap? Oh, no, thank you, Mrs. Dolly. I feel too excited to sleep. I'm so vexed at having lost the run. I think I'd better go downstairs and tell Mr. Blake that he needn't stay. It's not the least need for him to stop now that I'm in such comfortable quarters. Oh, my lady, he'll stop, you may be sure. You won't want to go away," said Mrs. Dolly, with a grin that was like a burst of sunshine. Frances went slowly downstairs, holding the banister rail as she went, and feeling very faint and tottery. Morton was standing at the window, looking out at the wintry landscape. There was a cheerful fire of turf and wood in the capacious grate. The farmhouse parlor, with its drab wainscot and gay chintz curtains, had a pleasant old world aspect. Mrs. Dolly came bustling in with the tea-tray, and began to lay the table with a home-spun cloth, on which she set forth her best teapot, her old staffer-chir cups and saucers, a homemade loaf, a dish of golden-tinted butter, and a substantial cut-and-come-again plum-cake. "'Now, Morton, I want you to go about your business immediately,' said Frances, settling herself in the roomy, chintz-covered arm-chair by the fire. "'Mrs. Dolly will take care of me till the carriage comes from Blatch-Martin. If you write cleverly, you may manage to fall in with the hounds.' "'Thank you, Fanny. I know when I'm well off,' replied Morton, smiling at her. "'I'm not going to pound over half the county in a futile endeavour to come up with the hounds. I had much rather sit by this comfortable fire, and enjoy a dish of Mrs. Dolly's tea.' The farmer's wife, busy with the arrangement of her tea-table, heard this conversation, and made of her mind that Lady Frances's young man was all that a lover should be. "'Oh, but it seems too absurd that you should waste your day in dancing attendance upon me,' said Frances, sipping her tea, when Mrs. Dolly had replenished the bright wood fire, and left her visitors to themselves. I see nothing absurd in the matter, and it is rather advantageous to me. I have been out of gear for my ordinary pursuits of late, haven't been able to frame to anything, as the Lancashire folks say, and it's a relief to me to waste a few hours in cheerful society.' Frances remembered the time when he had spent the greater part of his leisure in her company, and wondered if it seemed strange to him to renew the old easygoing companionship as if it were a drop-thread in the fabric of his life which he was trying to take up again. "'Why do you never bring Delcy to see me?' she asked. "'I'm not able to invite her in a formal way, for you know that my father sets his face against all ceremonious entertainments, for the simple reason that he can't afford them. We had to make our choice between stables and general society, and as we are all much fonder of horses than of the ruck of our fellow-creatures, we chose stables. But so far as five o'clock tea goes I am allowed to be as hospitable as I like, and I believe Bevel can always give his friends a Polinaris or Sangamier. You might bring Delcy to Blatch-Martin now and then to waste an afternoon with me. I know that it is a dull, shabby old place. "'Oh, it is a dear old place,' protested Morton. Some of the happiest hours of my life was spent there. "'Oh, you mustn't say that. Yes, I must. Do you suppose a man doesn't know what happiness means until he falls in love? I may have found out another and more intense happiness since those days. But why should I not admit that those days were very happy?' Francis did not argue the point. She felt a curious gladness at the idea that he had once taken pleasure in her company, that those idle hours at Blatch-Martin had been sweet to him, though perhaps not so sweet to him as they had been to her, nor yet so dear to look back upon. She was silent for a little while, watching the burning wood as it blazed and reddened, and crumbled away into white ashes. It seemed almost an emblem of life and love, a passionate flame, the deep red glow of feeling, and then coldness and pallid ashes. Do you remember how you used to leach me in those juvenile days of mine? Yes, Francis presently. I am sure I deserved it, for I know I must have been an unmitigated hoidon. Ha! If I did presume to lecture, the process must have been beneficial, for I am sure nobody could find fault with you now, said Morton, smiling at her as she lay back in her deep armchair, with a pretty boyish head reclining against the chint's cushion. Now, Morton, if you talk like that I shall know that our friendship is at an end, she remonstrated. If I am to believe that you retain the least vestige of your brotherly regard for your friend's sister, you must go on lecturing. Tiny tells me that you strongly disapprove of a woman hunting. Well, Tiny takes my particular objection for a general one. I certainly did object to the idea of Tiny riding but a fly to Houns, partly out of regard for the mare, and, perhaps, be truthful now, Morton, or you will sink fathoms deep in my respect. Perhaps a little, because I think that a girl who has not been, as it were, born in the hunting field, may as well keep out of it altogether. But for a girl who rides as you do, and has been brought up as you have— Oh, one-third in the nursery, and two-thirds in the stable and saddle-room. Yes, I understand, Morton. For me it is different. I am outside the pale. How can you say such things, Fanny? How can I help thinking them? What does it matter whether I say them or leave them unsaid? They are true. I must pay the penalty for having been brought up with a brother for my only companion, loving the sports he loves, caring for none of the things that other girls care for, having few feminine vanities and fewer feminine virtues. My dear Fanny, you must know in your heart of hearts that you are charming, and that there are plenty of men in the world who would rave about you. Oh, yes, but they are just the kind of men I should detest. I hope you don't suppose, because I adore horses that I like horsey men. The quadruped is all that is admirable, but I draw the line at the biped. And no doubt you will have your reward. Some man who is the very reverse of horsey, who never jumped so much as a gully. Some grave young senator or enthusiastic scientist will fall over head and ears in love with my pretty Fanny, and wean her heart from stables and saddle-room. When that bright particular star appears on my horizon, I'll let you know, answered Fanny. If my poor primus had broken his back to-day, I don't think I should ever have hunted again. She went on musingly. I never could have got over his death. Mrs. Dallie came in with more logs and more turf to replenish the fire. She had changed her gown in honour of her visitor, and had put on a smart cap. I hope you're feeling better by this time, my lady, she said. I'm feeling as well as I ever felt in my life, except that I'm dreadfully savage with myself, for being out of what I know will be described to me as the very best run of the season. It always is when one isn't in it. Oh, lo, my lady, but you had so many of them, one more or less can't count. You got quite a pretty collection of foxes' tails hanging up in your boudoir or be bound. I never saw a fox's tail in my life, Mrs. Dallie, answered Francis gravely. But when I was a child the huntsman gave me a brush or two. He left off doing so ages ago when the business began to get monotonous. Now, please sit down and make yourself at home in your own parlour and let us have a chat. I'm sure I shall be too pleased, my lady, if I don't intrude. My dear soul, how can you intrude in your own parlour? All circumstances alter cases, my lady, and I hope I know what's due to my Lord's daughter. Oh, if you're so ceremonious, I shall think you have forgotten the days when Bevel and I used to camp out on Ailsa Common, and used to come here for cream, eggs, and butter for our gypsy tea. I remember it all as well as if it was yesterday, my lady. Too rare a young pickle you was, begging your ladyship's pardon, regular young turks. Oh, I see you have not forgotten, said Francis. Now do sit in that nice chair by the fire, and tell me all the news of the neighbourhood. What is there going on just now—courtships, marriages, deaths and burials? Well, my lady, there ain't much, replied Mrs. Dolly, smoothing her black silk apron, and seating herself with ceremonious stiffness in the chair opposite Lady Francis, Morton having wheeled his own chair round to make room for her. I did think we should have had a funeral this side of Christmas, for Farmer Briarwood's asthma seemed as if it was coming to her head. But he do linger and linger, poor soul, and I shouldn't be surprised if he was to last till the March Brewings. It's a dead and alive place this, my lady, neighbours few and far between, you see, and there ain't much doing any time-sector at Harvest Homes and such like. The only thing folks have been talking about lately has been this trial for murder at High Claire. Francis was going to stop her, but Morton gave her a look and put his fingers to his lips as much as to say, let her go on. Oh, your neighbours talk of the trial, do they, he said, in an encouraging tone. Oh, yes, sir, they do. You see, it's such a queers story altogether. A man giving himself up after twenty years, his only natural folk should talk about it. My master was at the trial, he said you might have heard a pin drop, in particular when the lawyer was questioning Sir Everett Courtenay, asking him the most cutting questions about his poor, dead wife, just as if he was the lowest day labourer in the land, instead of one of the leading gentry. Them lawyers didn't ought to be allowed such licence, I say. It was a shame to bring Lady Courtenay's name into it after she's been lying in her grave these twenty years. You speak as if you felt a particular interest in Lady Courtenay, said Morton, intent upon the woman's every word. Did you know her? Oh, no, sir, I can't say that I did, but I've seen her driving through iClear on a market day when I used to go there to do my shopping. She was the prettiest woman I ever saw in my life, but there was something delicate, what you might call vanishing like about her, as made one think she wasn't long for this world. I used to hear a great deal about her years ago when I was a young woman, and when she was Miss Alice Rothney, for my father kept the shop in the village next to Templewood, Lord George Rothney's seat, and my first cousin, Lucy Stevens, was in service there. She was own-made to the three Miss Rothneys, and she had a pretty odd place, for Lord George wasn't rich, and didn't keep any more cats than could catch mice, I can tell you, my lady. Miss Alice was so fond of our Lucy, that when she married Sir Everett Cortney, nothing would do, but Lucy must go abroad with her as her maid, and she was with her till the poor young lady's death, which happened as you must have heard my lady within a year of her marriage, and on the very night after Mr Blake's murder. Oh, that was a black night for Arsthorpe, and well might the church bell be set tolling at midnight. I've heard Arsthorpe people speak of it many a time. It was a clear frosty night, and the bell was heard for miles round, scaring the children and the old folk in their beds. There were some that woke up startled, thinking it was the end of the world, and the bell calling them to judgment. Mrs Dolly dwelt on these gloomy memories with a ghoulish gusto, as she sat blinking at the cheerful fire, and enjoying the unusual luxury of repose in the middle of the afternoon. Is your cousin still living? inquired Morton. Well, sir, she is, and when you've said that, you've said all, returned Mrs Dolly, for a weaker, sicklier, more fretful creature to be alive you could hardly find between here and London, and yet she was a bright, pretty-looking girl enough when she was at Templewood. But after Lady Courtney's death, she took to wandering like, and went from place to place, a regular rolling stone, and then when she was thirty-three years of age and ought to have known better, she took and married a young man in the musical line, and there they are, starving gentilly in a back street at Avonmore. He keeps a music shop and tunes pianos when he can get any to tune, and plays the cornet at concerts and balls, and even circuses when he can get employed, and she does her little millinery, and between them they might do pretty well, I dare say, if he wasn't wild and rackety in his ways, but as it is, they just managed to keep the wolf from the door. My husband's very good, and lets me send poor Lucy a well-filled hamper once a quarter or so, and I don't suppose they ever have a real good satisfying dinner except when they get one of my legs of pork and a pair of my barn door fowls. And what is the musical gentleman's name? asked Morton, as if with a polite desire to keep up the conversation. Francis had lapsed into a dreamy state, and sat looking idly at the fire. His name is Green, sir, Charles Churchill Green, though it's my private opinion that he has no better right to call himself Churchill than I have to call myself Nebuchadnezzar, answered Mrs. Dawley, bridling a little as she smoothed her apron. And a precious deal he thinks of himself. As my husband says in his witty way, you might turn a pretty penny if you could buy him at your price and sell him at his own. When he married our Lucy, he pretended that his father was a gentleman of property in London, but Lucy found out afterwards that his property was a livery yard in Lambeth, and that he'd been bankrupt three times. The heirs this Churchill gives himself all on the strength of a slim figure, a small foot, and rather a pretty talent for music. And he's such a flighty and flirty young fellow that poor Lucy's life has been a misery to her ever since she married him. But as my husband says in his deep far-seeing way, as you make your bed, so you must lie upon it. Does your cousin ever pay you a visit here? Oh, well no, she's never been since her marriage. First and foremost, if she was to leave green to his own devices for a week or two, she'd be measurable all the time, taking it into her head that he was going to elope with a countess or something of that kind, for she thinks there was never such a man as that blessed husband of hers, and that the highest ladies in Avonmore are ready to fall in love with him. Oh, secondly, because dolly don't like doful people, and poor Lucy has been all in the miserable's ever since she married. So you see, as it's my first duty to please my husband, I don't ask her, though I dare say our fine country heir and good living would freshen her up a bit. Once in a way, when I've got a leisure-day and the gig-horse isn't wanted for the plough, I drive over to Avonmore and take a cup of tea with her, and hear her talk of her troubles, and I know that does her good. Don't you think the carriage-walks we've been here by this time, asked Francis, to whom the conversation had become somewhat uninteresting? Brooks must have got to Blatch-Martin an hour and a half ago, unless he absolutely crawled. I think I'd better put on my habit, Mrs. Dolly, if it's nearly dry. Oh, I'm afraid it won't be anything like dry yet a while, my lady, said the farmer's wife, though it's hanging as near the kitchen fire as I could venture to put it. Oh, perhaps your people will have the sense to send you over some clothes, said Morton. Brooks knew you had been in the water. Oh, and Brooks is a nice fatherly man. Yes, I dare say they'll send me some dry garments, and I can take my habit home in a bundle. An ignominious close to an ignominious day, isn't it, Morton? Oh, you can afford to end ignominiously for once in your life. You have had a long career of triumphs. Ah, barren honors and worthless laurels, exclaimed Francis, with a laugh that was half sad and half cynical. There came the sound of carriage-wheels as she spoke, and she sprang out of her deep chair to run to the window. Oh, yes, here's the broam, and my good old mouldy, I declare. And now, Morton, you may consider your duty at an end, so you can mount your horse and ride away. I hope you don't hate me for having caused you to waste a day. I never spent a day less wastefully, answered Morton gravely. How as solemn you look as you say that. Well, it is a very pretty compliment to Mrs. Dawley and me, especially Mrs. Dawley, for I'm sure she has done the best part of the talking. Here comes Miss Molten with a carpet bag, and now if I may go up to your room once more, Mrs. Dawley, I'll get ready to go home. She ran out of the room and almost tumbled into the arms of a stout, comfortable-looking middle-aged woman, who had come to Blatchmarden eleven years ago as Lady Francis Granges' governess, and who stayed there now as the girl's guide, philosopher, and friend. She had striven conscientiously to teach so long as Francis would consent to be taught. She had tried to stock her pupil's mind with the most solid goods in the way of information. She had laboured assiduously to impart languages and histories and ologies, but all her efforts in the teaching-line had been futile, and Fanny had hardly learnt anything from her governess, except a sincere respect and love for that worthy person. Oh, you dear! How good of you to come! cried Francis. Come upstairs, and I'll tell you my adventures while I change my gown. My darling, they told me you'd been half-drowned. Oh, only ducked, Curly dear! Drowned is far too dignified a word. She had surnamed her governess Curly on the strength of two bunches of old-fashioned ringlets which shaded Miss Molten's plump cheeks. Isn't the word a little vulgar? Oh, of course, dear! Haven't I a natural leaning that way? asked Francis gaily. Molten went out to look for his horse while Francis was dressing, and having ordered that animal to be in readiness for him, he walked up and down the gravel path in front of the house, waiting to hand Lady Francis into her carriage before he rode off. He was impatient to be gone, and it seemed to him that the Lady was unduly long at her toilet. Here is a leaf in the book of the past, he said to himself, reflecting upon what he had heard from Mrs. Dawley. The Visitor who came to Blatchmarden for the first time was apt to be reminded of the castle of the sleeping beauty in the wood. There was an air of neglect about everything except the stable, which was suggestive of a centuries slumber. There was the stillness of a house in which every one was steeped in an after-dinner nap. There were more cobwebs than are generally permitted in the waking world. More dust lay in the disused reception rooms than was consistent with the dignity of a waking earl's household. The wide-spreading park that screened the castle from the outside world had grown and thickened since the present Lord Blatchmarden had come into his own. He loved the old beaches that he had climbed and bird-nested in as a boy. He loved the young oaks that he had seen planted, and solely as he had sometimes needed the money those trees might have brought him, Lord Blatchmarden had been strictly conservative of the timber on his estate. He was indeed in all things a moderate man, living moderately, taking his pleasure in few and simple things, fond of his horse and dog and gun, loving to potter about the sixty or seventy acres which he reserved for his own cultivation, and fancying himself a shining light in modern agriculture. He was a harmless, well-meaning man, and had never been known to deal hardly with his children, seldom even to speak harshly to them. He had let them grow up very much as they liked, exacting little from them and giving the least he could. He had just contrived to find the money for Bevel's education at Rugby and Christchurch, but that young nobleman had not been able to indulge in any of those expensive follies, which are, as it were, the rose-buds that university youth gathers while it may, no matter how many thorns it may find sticking in its fingers after the rose-buds are faded. Bevel and his sister were fond of their father in their own characteristic way, talking of him lightly as the pater, the shake, the ancient mariner, or by any other title which a frivolous fancy suggested to them. But of that deep and serious love which goes hand-in-hand with reverence they had no idea. Such love as Delcy felt for her father was not within the compass of these lighter natures. They were faithful to the old Earl after their fashion, and would have resented any disrespect offered to him by an outsider, and this familiar, easygoing affection being Lord Blatch-Martin's highest ideal of filial piety, he was thoroughly satisfied with the tribute offered to him. He loved and praised his children, and had no eye for their faults and shortcomings. Bevel was the dearest boy in the world, and the best shot in the shire. Fan sat her horse to perfection, and had the lightest hands that ever steered a fretful hunter across country. That either boy or girl needed higher accomplishments, or a wider culture, had never entered into Lord Blatch-Martin's head. The sleepy old castle was a curious mixture of ancient splendour, neglect, for lawnness, and modern comfort. There were spacious suites of rooms that had not been used for fifty years, and which the housemaids, reluctant and yawning at their profitless work, visited at long intervals, with their brooms and brushes, scaring spiders that had grown bloated in undisturbed plenty, and setting vagabond mice scrambling and scuffling in their warren behind the panelling. Grand old rooms, in which stately banquets and receptions had been held in days gone by, and where a few years ago Bevel and his sister had played hide and seek in the dusky winter afternoons. Seldom did anyone, say the housekeeper and housemaids, all now and then an inquisitive tourist who forced his way into the house, enter those rooms now. Lord Blatch-Martin and his son and daughter lived in a nest of quaint low-sealed parlours opening into an old Dutch garden, and had their bed chambers and private dens in the corresponding rooms on the floor above, leaving all the stately part of the house to the rats and mice and cobwebs and housemaids, except the big central hall, which was used as a billiard room and general lounge by Lady Francis and the two gentlemen, and served also as a smoking room for Bevel and the few friends whom he occasionally entertained at Blatch-Martin. Shabby and faded though the house was, it was not without interest and picturesqueness. The fine stone hall, with its huge fireplace, the wide staircase leading to the echoing gallery above, the vaulted roof, whence hung ragged silk and banners that told of days when Grange was a name known in the lists of chivalry, the grim old portraits, the antique furniture, all had a charm that belongs to things that have a history. The contrast between the spacious splendour of the disused rooms and the cosy comfort and snugness of the garden parlours had a pecan effect, and people who came to Blatch-Martin for the first time, after being chilled and awed by deserted banquet halls and mouldy withdrawing rooms, were delighted with the sunny sitting rooms facing south, papered with birds and butterflies, bright with chintz hangings and odds and ends of old china, and deliciously rococo cabinets and tea tables. Lady Francis and her governess had arranged the rooms between them nine years ago, and it had been Miss Moulton's favourite task ever since, to keep them in exquisite order, and this office of hers was by no means a sinicure, as Francis was the most harem-scarrem and untidy of girls, and left litter and confusion behind her wherever she went. I wonder what would become of you all if I were not here? asked Miss Moulton, as she bustled about the little drawing-room, shutting up work-boxes, tidying book-stands, and arranging writing-tables. I really think you and Lord Bevel are the most literary young people in the world. Oh, literary instead of literary! cried Francis, it's only a difference of a letter or two. What would become of us curly if you were to go away? Why, in the first place, we should expire of grief in less than a week, and in the second, Blatch-Martin would be a pigsty before the end of a fortnight. I'm like Hamlet, don't you know, dear? I wasn't born to set things right. You are not quoting correctly, Francis. Oh, of course not! I never do. I always adapt my quotations to suit my text. Is not that what they do in the newspapers? Sarah Moulton shrugged her plump shoulders and gave a little laugh. She was much too fond of Francis to be severe. As long as the lessons had lasted, she had done her uttermost to be strict with her pupil. She had insisted on having the correct dates of Julius Caesar's assassination, the right number of petals for each order of plants, the exact constituents of conglomerate, the precise place of old red sandstone in the geological scale. But now it was all over. On her 18th birthday, Lady Francis had shut up her books and vowed that she would learn no more. She was finished. She was to make her curtsy at St James's under the wing of Lady Luffington, her maternal aunt, at the first drawing-room. I am an emancipated young woman, she exclaimed, and I shall never learn any more. I should be puzzled to know how much you have learned, said Miss Moulton. Oh, take it the other way, Curly Sweet, and be content with knowing how little. I never did take kindly to the Peary in Spring, did I dear. Perhaps I didn't drink deep enough to enjoy it. And now, I suppose, I had better look out for a new situation, said Miss Moulton. Sarah Moulton, alias Curly, alias Sally, alias the dearest woman in the world, how can you ask such a heartless question, said Francis, with her arms around the good soul's neck. Oh, yes, I know I am rumpling your collar, but I can't help it. How can you talk of leaving us? Don't you know you're a kind of adopted aunt, one of those indulgent maiden aunts one reads of in storybooks. The bevel adores you, as he ought, considering you've spoiled him abominably, and that the earl looks up to you as the prop of his house. Now, Sally, it is quite too bad of you. Oh, my darling, exclaimed Miss Moulton, betwixt laughing and crying, you ought to know that I have no higher wish than to end my days with you. Well, I hope I do know it, Moulty dear, but when you talked of a new situation, you staggered me. Oh, my love, I thought that if you were to leave off trying to improve your mind, I should be useless here. Useless? Why, you are useful in a thousand ways. You are the keystone of our domestic arch. We should tumble to pieces without you. And thus it was that Miss Moulton remained at the castle after her pupil's education was nominally finished. In her conscientiousness she strove even now to cultivate Lady Francis' mind, ungrateful though the soil might be, and was perpetually scattering intellectual seed in the shape of stray scraps of information, which might or might not germinate in due season. Miss Moulton had felt deeply disappointed when Morton Blake announced his engagement to Dulcy. She had long cherished the hope of seeing her beloved pupil happily married to a man of high principles and respectable position in the county. Morton Blake, with his plebeian ancestry and moderate estate, would not have been a brilliant match for the daughter of a wealthy earl, but he would have been an eligible husband for a girl whose father had as much as he could do to maintain his sorely shrunken establishment and to keep out of debt. Carefully as Francis had hidden the secrets of her wounded heart even from the loving eye of her governess Miss Moulton knew that the heart had been wounded, that underneath the lightness and even recklessness of Fanny's character there existed the capacity for deepest feeling. The good woman was angry with Morton for his coldness, his dullness, angry with him that he could have lived in close friendship with so lovable a being, and yet have withheld his love. Little spurts of angry feeling flashed out of her now and then in her talk about Morton, whereupon Francis always took up the cudgels in his behalf. I can't think why you're so hard upon him, Moulty, she would say. I'm sure he's always respectful and altogether nice in his manner to you. Oh, my dear, the man is a gentleman. I am not going to deny that. But I shall always think that he made a convenience at Black Martin Castle, coming here two or three afternoons a week and wasting your time idling about the gardens. Well, I should have wasted it for myself, curly dear, if he hadn't done it for me. And now that he has engaged to Miss Courtney, we're to consider ourselves honoured if he calls once a month. I don't think he has any idea of honouring us, Curly Love. Of course, all his leisure now is devoted to Dulcy. A man should be loyal to friendship, even if he choose to fall in love. What Morton can have seen in Miss Courtney I have never been able to fathom. Oh, haven't you really, my Moulty? Why, first and foremost, he must have seen out and away the loveliest girl in this part of the world, and then Dulcy is altogether sweet and lovable. She is accomplished too, plays exquisitely, paints admirably, has read more books than I have ever seen the outside of. Why, Moulty, she is a pearl of girls, and you know it. I think Morton is very lucky to have won her. Well, my love, if you are satisfied, I suppose I ought to be content, said Miss Moulton with a sigh. Frances laughed, and ran off to the stable with her apron full of bread for the horses, and presently she stood leaning her cheek against the shoulder of her favourite brown in the dusk of a large loose-box, while some slow tears crept down her cheek. Satisfied, she repeated to herself. Yes, I am satisfied that the only man I ever cared for had never a thought for me, that after knowing every secret of my soul except one, after being for five years my chief friend and counsellor, he could coolly turn his back upon me and give his love to another girl. It is hard to bear, and you make it a little harder for me sometimes, Moulty, without knowing it. Chapter 20 A Fountain of Bitter Waters The first thing Moulton heard when he went home from Dawley's farm that December afternoon was that a favourable reply had been received from the home secretary. Humphrey Vargas's sentence had been commuted to penal servitude for life. I suppose a philanthropist and humanitarians will be satisfied now, said Moulton savagely, Sir Everard court near, especially. He was to dine at Fairview that evening. He found Delcy and her father in the morning-room, Sir Everard in his favourite chair by the fire, his book table and reading-lamp by his side, Delcy at the piano, playing one of Chopin's wailing waltzes, a strain as plaintive as the moaning of the wind through an aeolian harp. She left off playing and rose to greet her lover, whilst Sir Everard looked up from his book to give Moulton a friendly nod. Was it a grand day's sport, Delcy asked, as they sat side by side on the sofa in front of the fire. You went off in dashing style. Had you a good run? I had no run at all, answered Moulton, and then he gave a brief sketch of Lady Frances Grange's adventure. Poor thing! cried Delcy. How dreadful! She might have been killed, might she not? Yes, if her horse had rolled over her when he fell back into the water, it might have been fatal. She was in great danger, no doubt. Was she frightened? Not in the least. She doesn't know what fear means, but she was stunned by the blow against the tree, and was quite insensible when I dragged her off her horse. Oh, how good of you to take care of her! Good of me? Why, you would not have had me leave her to a groom and go after the hounds. I suppose that is what an enthusiastic sportsman would have done, said Delcy laughingly. You forget that Morton and Lady Frances are friends of long standing, said Sir Everett. He would hardly desert an old friend under such circumstances. I daresay he found attendance upon the Lady more agreeable than a run with the hounds. There was a sneer faintly perceptible in the baronet's tone. Delcy looked from her father to her lover wonderingly, but said not a word. I congratulate you on the success of your memorial, Sir Everett, said Morton. Oh, you must not call it my memorial. It was as much Sir Nathaniel's as mine, and I understand that even your aunt signed it. Oh, but Sir Nathaniel told me it was you who originated the petition. It was you who took that man's position to heart. Well, perhaps I knew better than anyone what a beaten down whelp the creature was, and how poor a revenge it would be to hang him. I don't believe his death could have been any satisfaction to you, Morton. It would be no satisfaction to me to hang the wrong man, said Morton, if that's what you mean. But it would be an ineffable satisfaction to me to see the right man swing for his crime. I take it that if you hadn't felt serious doubts as to this man's guilt, you would not have been so eager to beg him off. That was a question for the jury, and they decided it against him. My only feeling in the matter was that he is a miserable wretch who scarcely knows the difference between right and wrong, and that his remnant of life might just as well be spared. Well, if you extend your mercy to that class of criminals, you will have occasion to memorialise the Home Secretary every week, for the hangman's chief duty is with that kind of sinner. This man's case came within my ken, and appealed to me in a peculiar manner. I hope, Morton, you will have the good sense to let this subject drop, and that you will not call upon me to justify myself any farther. This was the nearest approach to a coolness of feeling that there had ever been between Sir Everett and his future son-in-law, since Morton had first been received at Fairview as Dulcy's accepted suitor. A look of distress clouded the fair girlish face, as Dulcy turned appealingly to her father. Oh, don't be offended with Morton, dear Papa, she said gently. You know that this is a subject upon which he feels deeply. No doubt, but I think we have had something too much of it. There are some subjects that will not bear to be talked about. Here Scroop announced dinner, and closed the conversation. Sir Everett gave his arm to his daughter, and Morton followed to the snug little dining-room, where the round table was bright with flowers and ferns, and quaint Venetian glass, and artistic old silver. At table the conversation became frivolous, in deference to Scroop and his underling. Sir Everett was for the most part silent, leaving the young people to talk of the things they cared about, the church, the choir, the last penny-reading at the schoolhouse, the New Year ball at Highclair, the at-home early in January, for which Mrs Aspinall had issued cards, with the agreeable announcement dancing in the left-hand corner. I suppose Lady Francis will go to the ball at Highclair, speculated Dulcey. I haven't asked her if she is going, but I should think it likely. She is passionately fond of dancing. Why don't you go, Dulcey? I would get tickets for Tiny and Horatia, and my aunt could chaperone you all. Papa does not approve of public balls, said Dulcey, with a deprecating glance at her father. I approve of them immensely in the abstract, as a pleasant impetus to the trade of a quiet little county town. But I don't want to see my daughter spinning round a public assembly room in the arms of any counter-jumper whom the master of ceremonies may introduce to her. O Papa, there is a formidable list of patronesses, tickets only by voucher. There is no possibility of a counter-jumper at the Highclair ball. Then there may be something worse than counter-jumpers. Raifish hunting men, perhaps, who come from heaven knows where, and get their living heaven knows how. Any man who comes to Avonmore with three horses and a servant takes brevet a rank as gentleman. Very well, said Morton, we will none of us go to the ball. I suppose you have accepted for Mrs. Aspinals at home. Oh yes, Papa has no objection to that. Dinner was over. Delcy trifled with a cluster of grapes for five minutes, and then rose to leave the two gentlemen to their claret and conversation. Morton opened the door for her and gently pressed the little hand that was nearest him as she passed into the hall. Then he went back to the hearth and seated himself opposite Sir Everett, who had wheeled his chair round to the fire. It was a blustrous night, the wind raving and whistling in the tops of the tall poplars, and making the long branches of the cedars creak and groan. A new moon rose high among black ragged clouds, showing her pale face fitfully through a rent in the darkness. For some minutes the two men sat by the fire in silence, listening to the wind howling in the wide old chimney, where it seemed to rage more furiously than out of doors. Sir Everett was thoughtful after his won't. He gazed dreamily at the burning logs, as if in the caverns and gulfs and rugged peaks and promontries of that picturesque fire he could read the story of the past. That settled sadness which had been a part of his character ever since his wife's untimely death hung over him to-night like a cloud. He looked up suddenly and saw Morton watching him with grave, intent eyes. Why don't you fill your glass, Morton? That la rose in the jug beside you is too good a wine to be treated so contemptuously. May I give you some first? Do I feel shivery and out of sorts tonight? The moaning of a wind like that is the most melancholy sound in nature. Morton filled the thin, bell-shaped glass before the baronet, but he took no wine himself. You said just now, Sir Everett, he began gravely, that there had been something too much said by me about the trial of that man yonder. Yet I think, if you consider the matter, you will see that an only son losing a beloved father by a most foul crime, when he was just old enough to know and love him, and carry his image in his mind to the end of his life, could hardly be expected to be temperate in his feelings towards that father's murderer. The lapse of years which to the outside world may seem to lessen the wickedness of the crime could have no influence upon the son, who in all those years had waited and hoped for the day of retribution. Thus you will perceive on reflection, that it is hardly strange I should feel somewhat disappointed at this man's escape, always supposing his story to be true. I am quite able to understand your feeling, said Sir Everett, but I think I should be doing you no kindness, were I to encourage a morbid disposition to dwell upon the past. My own life has been so darkened by grief, that I would do much to save a young man in whose welfare I am interested, from the weak indulgence of a vain regret. If you are to be Dulce's husband, you must make her life bright and happy, and to do that you must look forward and not backward. I hope to be able to do that. I hope to get this cloud out of my brain, said Morton. Sir Everett, may I be frank with you? The franker the better. For the last week, perhaps I better say ever since the trial, my mind has been distracted by torturing doubts. I have fought in vain against the diabolical suggestions that have forced themselves upon me, and now, now I sit opposite you here, your friend and guest, your future son-in-law, bound by every tie to honour and revere you. The truth must out. My misery of the last fortnight has been caused by the idea that you, once my father's bosom friend, know more of the circumstances of his death than you care to reveal, that you are hiding something from me, that you had some private reason for saving that man's life, that you— a passionate burst of sobs stopped his utterance. He turned his back upon Sir Everett and buried his face in the cushion of his chair. There was silence for some moments, while Morton sat with his face hidden, his whole frame shaken by the violence of his emotion. Sir Everett waited for the storm to pass. Morton, I am inexpressibly grieved and distressed at this, he began calmly, in tones of friendly admonition. You have brooded upon this dreadful theme until your mind has lost its balance, and you see all things in a false light. What could I know of your father's murder, which all the world that ever heard of that murder does not know? What motive could I have for hiding any knowledge of that kind? I, his friend. What secret alliance can you conceive between me and Yonder Vagabond? The whole fancy is Midsummer Madness. I am too sorry for you to be angry, but I warn you that I will marry my daughter to no man who is the victim of a monomania. If you cannot shut this folly out of your mind at once and for ever, you are no husband for Delcey. Oh, Delcey, my darling, murmured Morton, with his face still hidden in his clasped hands. What would I not sacrifice for your sake? She asks no sacrifice from you, nor I for her, retorted Sir Everett proudly, but the man to whom I give her must be sound in heart and mind. Oh, Sir Everett, you have been forebearing with me so far, said Morton, lifting his head and turning his pale agitated face towards the baronet. Perhaps you will bear with me a little further, and then this painful question may be at rest between us for ever. I have asked questions of others, my aunt and Sinathania Ritherdon, which I feel it would have been more manly to have asked in the first instance of you. I have heard from many people that you and my father were bosom friends, at school, at college, in after-life. Was that so? Yes, we were close friends. Yes, he was very dear to me. My aunt told me that at Cambridge you once saved his life at the risk of your own, when he was seized with cramp in a dangerous part of the river. I would have done the same for any man in the same danger. I was a good swimmer. It was nothing. Do not speak of these things. They are painful to remember. But I must speak of them. I want to understand. And after you left the university, you were still friends? Fast friends. So everyone tells me, said Morton, rising and standing face to face with the baronet, who had risen from his chair and was lounging with his back against the chimney-piece. And now, Sir Everud, as you are a gentleman and a man of stainless honour, answer me this question, were you and my father friends to the hour of his death? Everud Courtney faced him without flinching. The eyelids never quivered over the grey eyes. The firm, thin lips kept their inflexible line under the iron grey mustache. The dark brows contracted ever so slightly with indignant pride. But that was all. We never quarreled, he answered coldly. But your feelings towards him, your affection for him, your confidence in him. Were those unchanged to the last? The grey eyes flashed sudden fire. The face changed with a look of anger that was terrible, titanic almost. The rage of Jove himself, mighty to avenge and destroy. Young man, your questions insult my honour and outrage your father's memory. His good name is the best answer to them. I will not have the past ripped up to satisfy your unreasonable curiosity. I will submit to no cross-examination. You insulted me just now by the expression of doubts so absurd that I could not bring myself to resent them. But now, when you bring your dead father's honour into question, you go a step too far. Oh, forgive me, Sir Everard. I am grieved beyond measure to offend you. But think how little it is that I ask, only to be sure that your love for my father knew no change, that he was your friend to the hour of his death. And if I were to say yes, you would be satisfied. But I deny your right to question me upon a matter of feeling. I have told you that there was never any quarrel between your father and me. Yet I am told that on that last fatal day there was a coolness. Your manner to each other was not what it had been. Your informers would have been better sportsmen if they had given their attention to the business in hand instead of watching their neighbours, answered Sir Everard. A fox hunted hardly a time for the development of friendship. Oh, do people suppose that Mr Blake and I ought to have ridden shoulder to shoulder all day because we were friends? If I remember rightly, I was riding a fidgety little black mare, which had a rooted objection to poor Blake's big chestnut. That alone would have been a reason for my giving him a wide berth. Morton felt a touch of shame at this argument. It reduced the Nathaniel suspicions to nothing, and was a dissent from the sublime to the ridiculous. Perhaps all the rest of Morton's suspicions were as baseless, could be answered as easily as this. Will you forgive me, Sir Everard, he said, with a penitent look? Will you try to forget all I have said to-night, for Dulcy's sake? I will try, for Dulcy's sake. I think I'll go to the morning-room to join her. Do, I would rather be alone. You have awakened sad memories. You have let loose a fountain of bitter waters. Oh, forgive me, said Morton again. He went to rejoin Dulcy, who was sitting on a low chair, with a funny little work table before her, and a huge work-basket at her side, making children's frocks for her annual distribution of warm clothing, which was to take place, together with all manner of pleasant little ceremonies, snap-dragon and a Christmas tree for the children, and a copper full of elder wine for the grown-ups, on Christmas Eve. What happiness for Morton to sit beside the industrious little semstress, to thread her needles with slow, clumsy fingers, and hold her reels of cotton, fondly imagining that he was helping and not hindering her. Sir Everett left the dining-room directly after his guest, and went out through a lobby, where he stopped to put on his slouch-hat and fur-lined coat, to the broad terrace in front of the house, where he paced up and down for an hour, under the wild sky, watching the driving clouds and the sickly moon, and the black shadows of the cedar boughs drifting along the grass. The wild night seemed to suit his humour. When he was tired of the terrace, he wandered about the grounds, across the lawn, round the shrubberied walks, down by the lake, where a swan came out of the darkness and the rushes to hiss at him, angry at the unaccustomed footfall. Once, from the other side of the lake, in the wildest part of the grounds, he stopped to look back at the house, where the Tudor windows of Dulce's room, with stained glass in the upper mullions, shone like the famous windows in Aladdin's palace, as if they had been set with many coloured gems. My star, my delight, murmured Sir Everett, so long as I have you, I am happy. And now my mind is made up. My dearest, I may grieve you, but it shall not be for long. A father's love shall make amends for all you lose. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 of Just As I Am This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Just As I Am by Mary Elizabeth Braddon Chapter 21 Christmas at Tangley Manor Dulce's work was all finished early on Christmas Eve, and everything was ready for the entertainment of her various pensioners, which was to be held in the big official room where Humphrey Vargas had made his confession. The room looked bright and cheery enough to-night, hung with holly and laurel, and furnished with two long tables spread with a sumptuous tea, while on a cross-table at the end of the room were laid out the gifts of clothing and other comfortable things, which Dulce had collected or provided for distribution. Cozy cloaks and hoods for the small children, hats and jackets for the big girls, knitted wool waistcoats and comforters for the old men, gowns or petticoats for the old women, packets of tea, tobacco in smart pouches deftly made from odds and ends of Dulce's silk gowns. Here and there a bright cap-ribbon to give colour to the mass of warm Lindsay and Duffel, or a scarlet cloak to relieve the greys and browns of the petticoats, taste and thoughtfulness perceptible in everything. And here was Dulce in her black velvet gown, flitting to and fro with cups of tea and baskets of plum-cake, talking to everybody, knowing everybody's name and everybody's domestic affairs, the ages of all the children, the ailments of all who had been ill, the prospects of all who were just going out to service, or beginning life in any way, the griefs of all whose rusty black told of bereavement. Morton and his two sisters and Lizzie Hardman were working with her. Miss Blake presided over the urn and teapots, and poured out tea and coffee till her arm ached. It was altogether the happiest, brightest party at which Morton had ever assisted. He forgot all his troubles in the rapture of seeing how Dulce was beloved, how like a ministering angel she moved hither and thither among the old and young, giving comfort and pleasure to all. People had come from far and near to Dulce's tea-party. There was no distinction as to parish. All Dora Blake's protégés were invited, as well as Dulce's own particular people. There was only one cloud in Dulce's sky, but that was so dark a shadow, she hardly dared think about it, lest she should flag in her efforts to make others happy. Sir Everett had gone to London with his valet on particular business, and for the first time since Dulce had been his housekeeper, he was to spend Christmas away from home. This was a big trouble for the loving daughter, who had associated every happiness in life with her father's presence, and to whom life seemed almost a blank when he was absent. She had spoken only the unexaggerated truth, when she said that her father would always be first in her mind. No new tie could lessen that which years had woven round her heart, the sacred bond which had grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength. Christmas day without Papa will be too sad, she told Miss Blake, when she was explaining how some unavoidable piece of business had obliged Sir Everett to go to London. My pet, you must spend your Christmas with us, said Aunt Dora, and it will be very odd if we can't make you happy. Tell your maid to pack your portmanteau, and come home with us this evening, after you dismiss these good people. Oh, I don't know if Papa would like me to leave home in his absence. My dearest child, you know he allows you to come to Tanglia as often as you like. I'll assume all the responsibility of this visit. You shall have the room opening out of mine, and you shall be my special guest and the apple of my eye. If Sir Everett wants to scold anybody when he comes home, he shall scold me. Oh, I don't think he'll do that, answered Dulcy, smiling. He honours and loves you, and thinks that everything you do is right. So if you really don't mind having me, dear Auntie, I should dearly like to come. Next to being with Papa it will be happiness to be with you. Then that's settled, said Miss Blake. The Christmas tree was in the servants' hall, a glorious sight for old and young eyes, shining with the light of innumerable coloured tapers, and hung with everything that the heart of man, woman or child could desire. Tobacco boxes, dolls, nutmeg graters, baby's socks, toys, cap ribbons, sweet stuff, tea, coffee in coloured paper packets, warm gloves, comforters, oranges, needle books and rosy apples, silver thimbles and muffa teas, a tree out of fairyland. Everybody got something, and by some ledger domain of Dulcy's, everybody seemed to get just the exact article, which he or she most ardently desired. Then they all hurry back to the justice room, whence the cups and saucers and long tables have vanished as if by magic, leaving a clear floor for the climax of the evening's enjoyment, Sir Roger Decoverly, danced by old and young, down to the little three-year-olds that can just toddle. A brace of fiddlers, and a young man who thinks he can play the Cornetta Pistone, are established in a corner by the fireplace. Negus and hot elder wine, with freshly filled baskets of plum cake, are handed round to restore the vital forces, which have been exhausted by the feverish excitement of the Christmas tree. There is a pause of ten minutes or so for refreshments. And then the two fiddlers strike an opening cord, the young man with the Cornetta gives a feeble blast in a wrong key, and with a great stamping of feet and a good deal of hard breathing, the dance begins, Dulcy and Morton leading, and Lizzie Hardman bringing up the rear with a waddling three-year-old in a rob-roy frock and socks to correspond. Tiny and Horatia prefer to stand and look on, but Aunt Dora is dancing arduously, her partner a gigantic wagonner, in a gorgeously braided smock frock and brown leather leggings. Sir Roger lasts about three-quarters of an hour, and after more Negus and elder wine the happy guests depart, but not till they have deafened everybody with three loud cheers in honour of Dulcy. Give it, mouth-boys, cried the huge wagonner, waving his mighty arm, another and another-boys, and a little one in for Miss Blake and the other ladies. Then, with much scraping of feet and ducking of heads in the doorway, Dulcy's Christmas visitors take their leave, and there is more noise of merry voices and glad laughter in the village of Osthorp as they go their homeward way, than will be heard again on this side of Harvest Home. Christmas Day at Tangley was not altogether sad for Dulcy, even though, as she told Aunt Dora with her eyes full of tears, it was the first Christmas day she had spent away from her father since she was eight years old. Everybody conspired to make her forget this woeful fact. She drove with Morton and the girls to the old Paris Church at Highclair for the morning service, and the solemn cathedral chants the fine old organ thrilled and delighted her. The service seemed as splendid to Dulcy as all the glories of Westminster Abbey would appear to a more experienced churchgoer, so striking was the contrast to the village choir and feeble harmonium at Osthorp. After morning church they drove through the wintry woods, slightly powdered with rhyme, to Platch-Martin Castle, to see if Lady Frances Grange were any the worse for her ducking in Twomley Brook, and the Earl insisted that they should stay to luncheon. Provided you can all eat cold mutton, he said cheerily, I know there was a haunch for dinner last night and I dare say it will appear at luncheon. It was off one of my finest use, and I think a slice of cold roast and mutton with a little hot pickle is not half a bad thing. There were curry and a chicken pie as well as the cold haunch, and the luncheon party was altogether as pleasant and cheerful as it could be, with all the charm of an unpremeditated entertainment. Everybody talked of his or her favourite subject. Lord Platch-Martin had a great deal to tell Morton about his latest experiments in feeding sheep, the wonderful success of which was to be perceived in the flavour of the cold haunch. Frances told Tiny her mortifying experiences of the other day, and expaciated on Morton's goodness in sacrificing his own sport for her comfort. Lord Bevel sat next dulcy, and had a great deal to say to her, as he always had when they met, seemingly intensely interested in everything which interested her, even to the most feminine trivialities. Why don't you drive over to see my sister sometimes, he asked. You say you would like to play billiards as well as she does. There's our table at your service, and fan or I would only be too delighted to give you a lesson. She's one of the best players in Daleshire, don't you know? Oh, so Morton has told me, said Dulcy, smiling at his fervid good nature. It's very kind of you to make such an offer, but I really don't know that I have any ambition about billiards. I have felt rather humiliated sometimes when people have asked me to join in a game, and I have been obliged to confess that I hardly know how to handle a cue. But I don't think I should ever be able to devote much time to billiards. We have no table at home, and I can't bear to be often away from my father. And yet you will leave him altogether before long, said Bevel, looking more serious than the nature of the conversation might seem to warrant. Is not that rather inconsistent? Why, I suppose it is, faulted Dulcy, but even when I'm married, I hope to spend at least half my life with my father. Tangly is not far from fair view. I shall still be able to take care of Papa, and he will be with us at the Manor House a great deal, I hope. Sir Everard and Morton get on very well together, I suppose, speculated Bevel. Morton is devoted to my father. And your father likes him? Oh yes, as much as I think Papa would ever like any young man. You see, my dearest father has lived a lonely life since he lost my mother. He's lived with his books, not caring much for society, not interesting himself in politics or in the outside world. Now Morton is all energy and activity of mind deeply interested in the questions of the day. I understand. A man of action, while your father is a man of thought. No, there cannot be much sympathy between them, said Lord Bevel decidedly, as if he were glad to have the questions settled. Morton is going into Parliament, I hear. Oh, I hope so. Then you will have to spend nearly half of every year in London, and that will separate you and Sir Everard. I hope Papa may go to London with us. Why do you try to make me unhappy, Lord Bevel? Oh, could I be so diabolical as to do that? I think not. But you remember the story of the fox who had lost his tail. Yes, he wanted all the other foxes to cut off their tails. Precisely. That is human nature as well as vulpine nature. Suppose now that I were very unhappy myself. Oh, I should be sorry to suppose that, answered Dulcy, smiling at him as if the suggestion were a joke. But even if you were, I don't think you would be so unkind as to wish to make me unhappy too. Don't be too sure of that. You don't know what evil moods I'm subject to sometimes. Morton had got himself released from Lord Blackmarden and the agricultural question by this time, and lunch and being ended, he was able to come around to Dulcy's side of the table, having wondered very much what Bevel and his betrothed had been talking about so seriously. But before he could say a word to Dulcy, Lady Francis carried her off to the stables to feed the horses with the fragments of the feast in the shape of bread and apples. That's the way all my ribstones and russets go, remonstrated the earl, who was almost as proud of his apples as of his sheep. Clementine asked Lady Francis and her brother to drive over to Tangley in the evening with Miss Molten, to join in some Christmas games, provided the earl would not mind being left alone on the festive occasion. To which Lord Blackmarden replied cheerily that he was never less alone than when alone, adding rather inconsistently, that he would have his steward in to talk over the latest farming operations. That fellow MacTaggart is always up to his eyes in work, he said. He quite snubs me if I stop him in the fields of a morning to ask him how things are going on. But I dare say over a glass of toddy he will be more communicative. So the young people being free to accept Clementine's invitation, it was settled they were to drive over early in the evening. The Tangley dinner was to be at five o'clock to give the servants a long evening for Snapdragon and Mizzletoe, whereby Aunt Dora and the young people were ready for their guests at seven, and all the jardinaires and coffee tables were wheeled away from the centre of the floor, leaving room and verge enough for such juvenile sports as Tiny and Lizzie Hardman delighted in, and the grave Horatioe blandly tolerated. Bevel and Francis were tremendously strong at these festival games, suggesting many new ideas, starting dumb charades and speaking charades, comic tableau vivants, a goose game and a dancing bear game, and a huntsman's game and a sneezing game, and all manner of ridiculous diversions, in which Miss Moulton and Aunt Dora assisted with exemplary good humour. Then on the edge of midnight, Tiny asked Lizzie Hardman to play a waltz, a request with which that young person immediately complied, playing the blue Danube with such swing and perfect accent, that before they had time to think about it, Dulcy and Bevel were floating along a stream of melody in dreamlike revolutions, smooth as leaves gliding down a swift running river. Moulton stood looking on for a minute or so, admiring the pose of Dulcy's slender figure, the grace of the bright girlish head. He might have stood and gazed thus till the dance had ended, perhaps, had it not been for Lady Francis. Well, she said, looking at him with a smile of bewitching impertinence, has that melody no inspiration for you? Oh! it inspires me to solicit the privilege of a waltz with you! answered Moulton promptly, and in the next minute they were revolving with the other pair. Francis Grange was an exquisite waltzer. It was one of her rare accomplishments. It was a natural gift. She had won the enthusiastic praise of the famous Madame Adelaide, whose pupil she had been for one brief course of lessons, when she was in London for her first season, under Lady Luffington's wing. That girl is a born dancer, cried Madame Adelaide. You others crawl about like beetles and spiders, all that there is of the most ignoble. This one can dance. It is a poetry of motion. Go then, little cat, you want none of my lessons. You dance like daffodils or running waters. It is the good God who has taught thee. To waltz with Francis was to forget for the moment that there was any other girl in existence, or that life held any higher delight than circling dreamily to a drawing German melody. Are you tired? asked Moulton, when they had outwaltz the other two for about five minutes. I don't know what it means to be tired of waltzing, but perhaps Miss Hardman is tired of playing. They were near enough to the piano for Lizzie to hear the suggestion. Oh, not in the least, she said, changing to the manola with its languid sweetness and ground swell of passion. Lord Bevel started again, this time with Clementine, while Dulcy seated herself by the piano where she could talk to Lizzie Hardman. Lizzie's honest grey eyes were following those two dancers in whom she was most interested, Morton and Lady Francis. She and Morton had danced many a waltz together on summer evenings, when all the windows were open to the cool, sweet night, and the vesper carol of thrush or blackbird mingled with the music of the waltz. But these had been evenings when there was no one else for Morton to dance with except his sisters, and he had a theory that neither tiny nor heracious step corresponded with his. Tonight Lizzie was out of it all, and it seemed to her, as she sat at the piano, that her mission in life was to pipe to other people's dancing. Lord Bevel and Clementine began to flag presently, and they both dropped into seats near Dulcy in the snug corner behind the piano. How well Morton and Fan stepped together, said Bevel, speaking of the dancers as if they were horses. But that's only natural. Fan broke him in. Dulcy looked puzzled. She taught him to waltz. It was about the only accomplishment she could teach him. They used to practice in the great saloon at Blackmarden, to the terror of all the raps and mice behind the panelling. Your sister waltzed exquisitely, said Dulcy, looking on with a faint thrill of jealousy, as Morton and Francis floated down the room, circling perpetually, like phantom dancers in a German legend. Good mover! Picks up her feet nicely, doesn't she? said Bevel, with his horsey air. Lizzie struck a sudden crashing chord, and the waltzes stopped in a startled way, like mechanical figures whose machinery had gone wrong. I thought you were going on forever, Morton, she said. Oh, I beg your pardon, Lizzie. Upon my word it was too bad, said Morton, but I could not allow Lady Francis to crow over me, though she was my instructor in the art of waltzing. You never told me that before, said Dulcy presently, when she and Morton had strayed into a conservatory, all a bloom with snow-drops and palmer violets, Christmas roses, and lilies of the valley. Never told you what, dearest, that Lady Francis taught you to waltz. Oh, what a terrible omission, he exclaimed, smiling down at her, as she stood trifling with the long leaves of a cluster of lilies of the valley. Why, dear child, funny Grange and I have been like brother and sister for the last ten years. She taught me to waltz, and I'm afraid she taught me to ride, for I know I was a tremendous muff in the hunting field till she took me under her wing. Well, I wonder, faltered Dulcy. What do you wonder, my loveliest? Why, you did not fall in love with Lady Francis instead of with me. Well, that's a curious question, and I can only give you the answer Tom Jones gave his mistress. Oh, what was that? Look in the glass, Dulcy, and you will see why I love you better than anyone else in the world, why I can never be inconstant to you. Only for that, Morton. Only for some fancied prettiness you can see in me more than in other people. That is such a poor reason. Disease or reflection might change me to-morrow. But the change would not alter my love, Dulcy. It was born of your beauty, but it has grown up in my heart now, and is a part of my nature. Nothing can lessen it. I like to believe you, answered Dulcy softly, looking up at him with innocent blue eyes, beaming purest love. CHAPTER XXII Dulcy went back to Fairview directly after an early breakfast next day. Her father had promised to return to-day, and no argument could prevail upon her to linger for another hour at Tangley, albeit Morton and his sisters represented to her that Sir Everett could not possibly be at home till the afternoon. I'm not sure of that, said Dulcy. He may have travelled by a night-train. Oh, he would hardly do that unless there was some urgency in the case, argued Aunt Dora. Isn't it urgent for him to come back to me? cried Dulcy indignantly. Does he not know that I'm miserable without him? Oh, dear Auntie, I beg ten thousand pardons, she exclaimed, conscious of having been rude to her hostess. You know how happy you've made me here, but I could not exist much longer without my father. Nothing could fill that blank. Morton looked grave. If this girl were called upon to choose between her father and me, I know which of us would go by the board, he said to himself. Dulcy's pony carriage was at the door at nine o'clock. She had given particular orders about it when she left home on Christmas Eve. She was ready dressed in her fur jacket and hat. Her portmanteau had been brought down. There was a great deal of kissing to be gone through with Aunt Dora and the three girls, Lizzy Hardman coming in for an honest share of the kisses, though she was only a penniless dependent, and then Dulcy pulled on her fur driving gloves and ran off to the carriage. I suppose I may be permitted to drive home with you, said Morton, taking the seat by her side, and away went the ponies at a sharp trot along the frostbound road. Morton was dismissed at the door of Fairview after a delightful twenty minutes drive through the crisp wintry air. May and I come in and play a game of chess with you, he asked, lingering on the threshold. Chess at half past nine in the morning, exclaimed Dulcy. Ridiculous! I'm going to be desperately busy. Don't you know that this is boxing-day and a general holiday? Oh, yes, for poor people who work hard all the year round, and who want an appointed day now and then to get tipsy upon. I have a hundred things to do. Besides, Papa may come home at any moment, and he may be tired, or he may want to be alone. I see, said Morton rather moodily. I count for nothing when your father is in question. Well, I suppose I may come in the evening. Yes, dear, Papa will have rested by that time, and will be charmed to see you. I don't know much about that, but if you are charmed, that is enough for me. So they kissed and parted, and Dulcy ran off to her household duties, which were light but numerous. She ransacked all the greenhouses, and adorned the rooms in which her father lived, with freshest ferns and flowers, gay-smiling blossoms which should seem to welcome him home. She was very exact in her orders about the dinner, and had a consultation with Scroop, as to which particular hawk and claret should be brought up from the cellar for this evening's consumption. Your master will be tired after his journey, she said. He must have something especially good. When all these duties had been performed, there was still a great deal of the day to be got rid of, and the hours seemed all the longer because of that eager expectation of her father's momentary return, which kept Dulcy on the alert for every sound of wheels on the road outside Fairview. Sometimes she seated herself at the piano, with the intention of practising for a couple of hours at a stretch, but in the middle of a dreamy nocturne her thoughts wandered off, her hands dropped listlessly from the keys, and she went to the window to look across the rise and fall of lawn and shrubberies, to one distant point, at which through a break in the trees she could see any vehicle passing along the road. I wonder why Papa went to town so suddenly, she thought, over and over again, and why he did not tell me what his business was about. So the day wore heavily on, and then came twilight, and the quaint little tea-table was set out in front of the fire, and then, just as Dulcy was growing tearful at the thought that this pleasantest hour of all the winter day was going to slip past without bringing her father, the welcome sound of wheels was heard in the avenue, and she ran out bare-headed to greet the traveller. The coachman pulled up his horse at the sight of the fair head with wind-tossed hair, and so ever I had got out of the broam within fifty yards of the house. Dulcy slipped her arm through his, and walked by his side to the hall. Even in that dim light she could see that he looked haggard and worn. Oh, dear father, how tired you must be, she murmured in soothing tones. Yes, I am a little tired, and I have been a good deal worried. Oh, come to your nest by the fire, dearest, and let me give you some tea. A woman's panacea. If it would only cure all our ills, said Sir Everett, if it were like the waters of Lethe, now, Dulcy, and could give us everlasting forgetfulness. They were in the morning-room by this time, in the cheerful glow of the fire, Dulcy helping her father to take off his fur-lined coat. Oh, dear father, she exclaimed, you would not like to forget everything. Everything, Dulcy, just for the sake of forgetting one thing, answered Sir Everett wearily. But no, he went on in a lighter tone. I should not like to forget my sweet young daughter and all her goodness to me. Goodness! questioned Dulcy. You mean gratitude, papa, and now tell me all about this London business. Was it very tiresome? It was worse than tiresome, Dulcy, he answered gravely. For I fear that it will grieve you. But we'll talk about it presently. Give me my cup of tea, and tell me how you amused yourself while I was away. Dulcy hereupon busied herself about her teapot, while she gave her father a brief sketch of what had happened during his absence. I had no idea Morton and Lady Francis Grange were such friends, she said, when she had told him about the impromptu dance. Nor I, till the other day, answered Sir Everett. Don't you think her very pretty, asked Dulcy thoughtfully? I should call her distinguished looking rather than pretty. There is an originality about her, a fascinating audacity. I can quite understand any young man falling in love with her. Indeed, I wonder she has not made a good match before now. It is strange, is it not, papa? said Dulcy, with an unconscious sigh. Perhaps there is someone whom she likes very much, but who does not care for her? Perhaps a question of that kind offers an illimitable field for speculation. And now, dear father, about this London business, why should it grieve me? I don't think it can, so long as it has nothing to do with you. My dearest, unfortunately this has to do with me. Dulcy looked at him earnestly, her delicate bloom paling a little. It is a loss of money, then, she said. You have had some misfortune, and we're going to be poor. Oh, dearest father, that won't grieve me, so long as I can make you happy, so long as I can comfort you. No, Dulcy, it is no money loss which troubles me. I think both you and I could bear that. The fates do not touch us there. What is it, then, papa? She was on her knees beside his chair, her loving hands clasping his, the firelight shining on her pale, eager face, her tender blue eyes and parted lips. Darling, I think you know that for a longish time, though I have made light of it always, I have not been very strong or altogether in good health. The pale cheeks grew deathly white, the light died out of the widening gaze. Father, father, she cried with a choking sob. For a long time, and certainly for the last three years, I have felt that my prime of life was over. I have lost all pleasure in active exercise, and anything in the shape of exertion has become a fatigue to me. For a long time, for more than three years, it has been in my mind that there was something organically wrong, and that I ought to consult some authority in the particular kind of disorder with which I believed myself affected. Yes, said delci breathlessly, her eyes fixed on her father's face. The other day I had an attack of my old chronic pain in the side. It was a little sharper than usual, and it told me the time had come when I must face the inevitable. If this thing was to be fatal, it was best I should know it. Father, it was a cry of despair which came from her in spite of herself. A wild appeal to him without stretched hands and shrinking figure, warding off the horror he was going to tell, as if it had been some dreadful engine that was slowly bearing down upon her to crush her to death, and she saw the doom and could not escape it. My dearest, this thing must come to us all in our time, in some form or other. The same dark night awaits all. We must all tread the same path. At his worst it means death, and oh, my darling, don't look at me with those agonised eyes. For me the doom may approach slowly, gently. We may have years to spend together yet. Father, will you tell me the truth quite plainly? You saw a doctor in London? Yes, one of the greatest men in that big city. And he told you that you have a fatal disease? Well, he only confirmed my own suspicion. Heart and lungs are both affected and have been for a long time. My life cannot be a long one, but the thread may be spun a little longer yet, in spite of the fates, if I am careful. Oh, we will be careful, cried Dulcy. We will be so careful that a few months hence when you go to the physician he will tell you there is nothing the matter. Your daughter's care has cured you. What are we to do, dear father? Tell me everything. I fear you will hardly care to assist in my cure, Dulcy, when you know the conditions attaching to it. What are they? First and foremost, I am never again to spend a winter in England, unless I am resigned to spend the latter half of it in my grave. Dr. Randall recommends me to start at once for the south of France, possibly to cross to Algiers. Yes, papa. And when are we to go? Tomorrow? Oh, think, Dulcy! It is a long way from Morton. Will you go with me? To the end of the world, she answered, hiding her tears upon his breast. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 of Just As I Am This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Just As I Am by Mary Elizabeth Braddon Chapter 23 In Mr. Tomplin's Chambers Boxing Day was over, and the industry as classes was straggling back to the workaday world, with its dull round of labour, feeling slightly the worse in health and spirits, and considerably the worse in pocket, for the Christmas holidays. London, with its surrounding belt of dingy suburbs, wore its dullest aspect, as Jane Barnard seated in a corner of a third-class carriage, surveyed this almost unknown world with curious eyes, which let nothing escape them. I don't see much to boast of in the old country, she said to herself, as she looked across at a shabby wilderness of roofs and chimneys, broken here and there by some tall shaft, which vomited clouds of black smoke that made a darkness in the air. The narrow streets, the straggling neighbourhoods, badly begun and never to be finished, the dirty window-curtains in smoky windows, the littered pens at the back of the houses, which had been intended for gardens, all these seemed to the eye of Jane Barnard unspeakably hideous. The rural beauty of Daleshire had appeared small and mean in contrast with the broad rivers and mighty hills of her adopted country, but these London outskirts were uglier than anything she had ever seen, and she pitted the people who had to live in these squalid homes under this dull smoke-curtain sky. Mrs. Barnard had left Highclair by the earliest train and hoped to return there at night. She had brought a handbag containing her night gear in case of being obliged to stay in London, being altogether a provident and practical little woman. She had a quiet courage and resolution which enabled her to face difficulties that would have daunted a weaker spirit. A stranger in London, ignorant of the ways of the town, without a friend to help her, she set about her work as calmly and as briskly as if the business that lay before her were the easiest thing in the world. She found herself landed in Euston Square, and she had to make her way to the temple. She was cherry of spending money, and she was an excellent walker, so, finding on enquiry from a policeman that her destination was within two miles, she walked off through the streets and squares strandwards, looking about her as she went, with those bright, penetrating eyes of hers, but never pausing on her way, save to make an enquiry where the route appeared doubtful. This part of London struck her as more agreeable. The streets and squares had a respectable, old established air. Everything was dingy and smoke-dried, but here there were shining windows and newly whitened stoops, as Mrs. Barnard called the doorsteps. Here there were at least prosperity and cleanliness, though the brightness and blue sky of America were missing. But by and by, when Jane Barnard found herself in the temple, just as St. Dunstan's clock was chiming noon, she looked about her almost all stricken by the ancient air of the place. The old church, the old hall, the grave-old queen and houses, the fountain, the distant glimpse of garden and river. This was a kind of thing neither New York nor Boston could show. This was the growth of centuries, a page out of history printed in brick and stone, and Mrs. Barnard began to feel proud of the mother country. She found her way to Elm Court, and painted on the charm of one of the doors, discovered the name she wanted. Fourth floor, Mr. Tomplin, Mr. Green and Mr. Collander. I only hope I shall find him at home, she said to herself. The fourth floor seemed a long way towards the skies, for the stairs were bad and the ascent laborious. But the little woman tripped up the four double flights lightly and briskly, and gave a sigh of relief as she drew breath before Mr. Tomplin's door. A black door with Mr. Tomplin's name painted upon it in white letters. Come in! said a voice in answer to her knock, and on opening the door she found herself face to face with a gentleman who was eating his breakfast at a table loaded and littered with papers and books of all kinds. There was only the smallest pretense of a lobby or passage between the outer door and this sanctum of law and domesticity. But Mr. Tomplin did not seem abashed at being discovered breakfasting, though the hour was late and the whole thing had a dissipated air. He seemed a little surprised at the sex of his visitor, and that was all. Come in, if you please! he said, rising to receive her, and take a chair by the fire. Cold morning, isn't it? I'm afraid you'll find the room smell of bacon, he said apologetically, with a glance at the Dutch oven in the fender. I've just been toasting some. Shall I open the window? Oh, not on my account, if you please, sir. I'm very sorry to have disturbed you at your breakfast. Oh, don't mention it. I ought not to be breakfasting so late, but the fact is, I was at a dance last night. They called it small and early, but that's a matter of opinion. There were nearly a hundred people, and the dancing went on till four o'clock this morning. Oh, I'm afraid, sir, that I have taken a great liberty in calling upon you, began Mrs. Barnard in a low, serious voice. I feel that I have no right to come here, except the right which one human being in distress has to ask for help from another. I am the daughter of that wretched man whom you defended at high clericises, and in whose innocence you believed when everybody else was against him. Mr. Tomplin smiled as he dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee. My dear soul, he said in a pleasant friendly way. I am heartily glad your father's sentence has been commuted, if it were only for your sake. But why do you suppose I am a believer in his innocence? You defended him, sir, answered Jane naively. My dear madam, I should have defended the most double-died villain that ever figured in the Newgate calendar. That is my profession. However, in this case I was certainly inclined to believe your father's story, incredible as it seemed that a man who had only committed a robbery should plead guilty to a murder. The man's manner impressed me. It was just conceivable to me that there might be a state of mind in which a man would thrust his neck into the public halter, rather than string himself up with a rope of his own purchasing. A state of mind akin to lunacy, but just short of it. A queer case altogether, it seemed, and I tried to do my best with it, particularly as it was the first murder case in which I was ever concerned, and I naturally felt interested in it, added Mr. Tomplin cheerfully, as he stirred his coffee. You spoke nobly, sir, and like a man who had knowledge of the truth. I think you must know who the real murderer was, said Jane Barnard, though perhaps you did not know enough to accuse him openly. In your examination of Sir Everett Courtney it was evident you had some secret knowledge. I was told by a man who was in the court that day that Sir Everett turned deadly pale when you questioned him. He did not relish my allusion to his wife. That was a random shot which seemed to hit the bull's eye, replied Mr. Tomplin lightly, as he ate his bacon and dry toast. But you must have had some knowledge, sir, which prompted that question, urged Jane Barnard. Very little. My brief was almost a blank. I saw your father, and he could tell me nothing except that he found Mr. Blake's body in a ditch, saw the glimmer of his watch chain, took watch and chain, and emptied the dead man's pockets. This occurred after dusk, between six and seven o'clock, as your father believes. I had hardly an idea as to what line of defence to take the afternoon before the trial. But in the coffee-room at the peacock that evening I fell in with a talkative local doctor. Mr. Jeb, I think he was called, who had a great deal to say about the Blake murder, chiefly by insinuation and innuendo. It was he who suggested that Blake might have had an enemy, that there might have been jealousy. I had the greatest difficulty in getting at what he meant, for although the man wanted to talk, he was desperately afraid of committing himself. But at last I got at the fact that Blake had been in love with Lady Courtney when she was Miss Rotherney, and that it was just possible Sir Everard might have been jealous of him. Did you ever hear that he was jealous, I asked? Did it ever come to your knowledge that there were any unpleasant scenes or any quarrel between Sir Everard and Blake? Never, says this Jeb, I attended Lady Courtney in her last illness, and I can vouch for it that Sir Everard was a devoted husband. And you never knew of any quarrel between him and Blake, I asked? Never, says he. Then my dear fellow, says I, all your insinuations end in smoke. Well, Mr. Jeb just shrugs his shoulders and smiles blandly. A man must talk about something, he says, he can't be dumb. That's the distinction between him and the brute creation. I felt inclined to tell the man he was a humbug, but I made use of his suggestion, vague as it was, and fired my random shots, which, as you say, seem to have hit rather hard. And you know nothing of the real murderer? Nothing. And my dear madam, why worry yourself about the matter any further? Your father's sentence has been commuted. The penalty he now suffers is no more than would have been the natural punishment of the robbery of which he freely admits his guilt. He has no grounds for complaint. No, she answered, he is satisfied, poor soul. I don't think he will have to bear his punishment very long. But I have four children in America, Mr. Tomplin, whose father is one of the best and truest men that ever lived. Are my sons and daughters to be told by and by that their grandfather was a murderer? Is my good husband to bear such a stigma as that upon his wife's name? All our friends in Boston know my maiden name. They will all have read about the trial at High Clear. I have come from America to clear my father's name, if I can. Well, I fear you have come upon a useless errand, answered the barrister kindly. The question of Mr. Blake's murder has been set at rest forever by your father's trial and condemnation. A jury has found him guilty. The commutation of the sentence is merely an act of mercy upon the part of the crown. But if it could be proved that another man committed the murder, if another man could be brought to confess his guilt, there is a great deal in such an if as that, replied Mr. Tomplin, smiling at her earnestness. And you cannot help me in any way, sir. You can give me no hint, no clue. Unfortunately none. I am sorry you have had your journey for nothing. Oh, hardly that, sir. It is something to learn how little you knew when you cross-examined Sir Everett Courtney, because you see, sir, I had been building my hopes on a rotten foundation. But there must have been something in his mind, or he would not have flinched at your questions. Oh, I don't know that. A man might be sensitive about his dead wife's name. I felt myself a ruffian and a cad while I asked those questions, but it was necessary to do something. I hope you believe that I did my best for your father. Oh, I am sure of that, sir. I thank you for having received me so kindly. Good day. Oh, good day to you, and I wish your project were a more hopeful one, answered Mr. Tomplin. Mrs. Barnard left him as quietly as she had entered. She walked back to the station, finding her way easily enough this time, had a little over an hour to wait for a train, and was back at Highclair soon after dusk. End of Chapter 23