"It is very strange," Wibberley murmured. He felt bound to say

something. He could not free himself from an idea that the others, and

particularly the Indian Civilian, were casting odd looks at him. He

appeared calm enough, but he could not be sure of this. He felt as if

he were each instant changing colour, and betraying himself. His very

voice sounded forced to his ear as he repeated fussily, "It is very

odd--very odd! Where can it be?"

"It cost," Lady Linacre quavered--irrelevantly, but by no means

impertinently--"it cost fourteen thousand out there. Indeed it did.

And that was before it was set."

A hush as of awe fell upon the room. "Fourteen thousand pounds!"

Burton Smith said softly, his hair rising on end.

"No, no," said the old lady, who had not intended to mystify them.

"Not pounds; rupees."

"I understand," he replied, rubbing, his head. "But that is a good

sum."

"It is over a thousand pounds," the Indian Civilian put in stonily,

"at the present rate of exchange."

"But, good gracious, James!" Mrs. Burton Smith said impatiently, "why

are you valuing Lady Linacre's jewellery--instead of finding it for

her? The question is, 'Where is it?' It must be here. It was on this

table fifteen minutes ago. It cannot have been spirited away."

"If any one," her husband began seriously, "is doing this for a joke,

I do hope----"

"For a joke!" the hostess cried sharply. "Impossible! No one would be

so foolish!"

"I say, my dear," he persisted, "if any one is doing this for a

joke, I hope he will own up. It seems to me that it has been

carried far enough." There was a chorus of assent, half-indignant,

half-exculpatory. But no one owned to the joke. No one produced the

bracelet.

"Well!" Mrs. Burton Smith exclaimed. And as the company looked at one

another, it seemed as if they also had never known anything quite so

extraordinary as this.

"Really, Lady Linacre, I think that it must be somewhere about you,"

the host said at last. "Would you mind giving yourself a good shake?"

She rose, and was solemnly preparing to agitate her skirts, when a

guest interfered. It was the Hon. Vereker May. "You need not trouble

yourself, Lady Linacre," he said, with a curious dryness. He was still

standing by the fireplace. "It is not about you."

"Then where in the world is it?" retorted Mrs. Galantine. "Do you

know?"

"If you do, for goodness' sake speak out," Mrs. Burton Smith added

indignantly. Every one turned and stared at the Civilian.

"You had better," he said, "ask Mr. Wibberley!"

That was all. But something in his tone produced an electrical effect.

Joanna, in her corner--remote, like the Indian, from the centre of the

disturbance--turned red and pale, and flashed angry glances round her.

For the rest, they wished themselves away. It was impossible to

overlook the insinuation. The words, simple as they were, in a moment

put a graver complexion on the matter. Even Mrs. Burton Smith was

silent, looking to her husband. He looked furtively at Wibberley.

And Wibberley? So far he had merely thought himself in an unpleasant

fix, from which he must escape as best he could, at the expense of a

little embarrassment and a slight loss of self-respect. Even the

latter he might regain to-morrow, if he saw fit, by telling the truth

to Mrs. Burton Smith; and in time the whole thing would become a

subject for laughter, a stock dinner-party anecdote. But now, at the

first sound of the Indian's voice, he recognised his danger; and saw

in the hundredth part of a second that ruin, social damnation, perhaps

worse, threatened him. His presence of mind seemed to fail him at

sight of the pit opening at his feet. He felt himself reeling,

choking, his head surcharged with blood. The room, the expectant faces

all turned to him, all with that strange expression on them, swam

round before him. He had to lay his hand on a chair to steady himself.

But he did steady himself; to such an extent that those who marked his

agitation did not know whether it proceeded from anger or fear. He

drew himself up and looked at his accuser, holding the chair suspended

in his hands. "What do you mean?" he said hoarsely.

"I should not have spoken," the Civilian answered, returning his gaze,

and speaking in measured accents, "if Mr. Burton Smith had not twice

appealed to us to confess the joke, if a joke it was."

"Well?"

"Well, only this," the other replied. "I saw you take Lady Linacre's

bracelet from that table a few moments before it was missed, Mr.

Wibberley."

"You saw me?" Wibberley cried. This time there was the ring of honest

defiance, of indignant innocence, in his tone. For if he felt certain

of one thing it was that no one had been looking at him when the

unlucky deed was done.

"I did," the Civilian replied dispassionately. "My back was towards

you. But my eyes were on this mirror"--he touched an oval glass in a

Venetian frame which stood on the mantelpiece--"and I saw quite

clearly. I am bound to say that, judging from the expression of your

face, I was assured that it was a trick you were playing."

Ernest Wibberley tried to frame the words, "And now?"--tried to force

a smile. But he could not. The perspiration stood in great beads on

his face. He shook all over. He felt himself--and this time it was no

fancy--growing livid.

"To the best of my belief," the Civilian added quietly, "the bracelet

is on your left arm now."

Wibberley tried to master, but could not, the impulse--the traitor

impulse?--which urged him to glance at his wrist. The idea that the

bracelet might be visible--that the damning evidence might be plain to

every eye--overcame him. He looked down. Of course there was nothing

to be seen; he might have known it, for he felt the hot grip of the

horrible thing burning his arm inches higher. But when he looked up

again--fleeting as had been his glance--he found that something had

happened. He faltered, and the chair dropped from his hands. He read

in every face save one suspicion or condemnation. Thief and liar! He

read the words in their eyes. Yet he would, he must, brazen it out.

And though he could not utter a word he looked from them to--Joanna.

The girl's face was pale. But her eyes answered his eagerly, and they

were ablaze with indignation. They held doubt, no suspicion. The

moment his look fell on her, she spoke. "Show them your arm!" she

cried impulsively. "Show them that you have not got it, Ernest!" she

repeated with such scorn, such generous passion that it did not need

the tell-tale name which fell from her lips to betray the secret to

every woman in the room.

"Show them your arm!" Ah, but that was just what he could not do! And

as he comprehended this he gnashed his teeth. He saw himself

entrapped, and his misery was so plainly written in his face that the

best and most merciful of those about him turned from him in pity.

Even the girl who loved him shrank back, clutching the mantelpiece in

the first spasm of doubt, and fear, and anguish. Her words, her

suggestion, had taken from him his last chance. He saw that it was so.

He felt the Nemesis the more bitterly on that account; and with a wild

gesture, and some reckless word of defiance, he turned blindly and

hurried from the room, seized his hat, and went down to the street.

His feelings when he found himself outside were such as it is

impossible to describe in passionless sentences. He had wrecked his

honour and happiness in an hour. He had lost his place among men

through a thoughtless word. We talk and read of a thunderbolt from the

blue; still the thing is to us unnatural. Some law-abiding citizen

whom a moment's passion has made a murderer, some strong man whom a

stunning blow has left writhing on the ground, a twisted cripple--only

these could fitly describe his misery and despair as he passed through

the streets. It was misery he had brought on himself; and yet how far

the punishment exceeded the offence! How immensely the shame exceeded

the guilt! He had lied in careless will, with no evil intent; and the

lie had made him a thief!

He went up to his rooms like one in a dream, and, scarcely knowing

what he did, he tore the bauble from his arm and flung it on the

mantel-shelf. By his last act--by bringing it away--he had made his

position a hundred times more serious. But he did not at once remember

this. After he had sat a while, however, with his head between his

hands, wondering if this really were himself--if this really had

happened to himself, this irrevocable thing!--he began to see things

more clearly. But he could not at once make up his mind what to do.

Beyond a hazy idea of returning the bracelet by the first post, and

going on the Continent--of course, he must resign his employment--he

had settled nothing, when a step mounting the staircase made him start

to his feet. Some one knocked at the door of his chambers. He stood

pallid and listened, struck by a sudden fear.

"The police!" he said to himself.

A moment's thought satisfied him that it was improbable, if not

impossible, that they could be on his track so soon; and he went to

the door listlessly and threw it open. On the mat stood Burton Smith,

in a soft slouched hat, his hands thrust into the pockets of his

overcoat. Wibberley glanced at him, and saw that he was alone; then

leaving him to shut the door, he returned to his chair, and sat down

in his old attitude, with his head between his hands. He looked

already a broken man.

Burton Smith followed him in, and stood a moment looking at him

uncomfortably enough. It is bad to have had such a scene as has been

described in your house; it is worse, if a man be a man, to face a

fellow-creature in his hour of shame. At any rate, Burton Smith felt

it so. "Look here, Wibberley," he said at length, as much embarrassed

as if he had been the thief. "Look here, it will be better to hush

this up. Give me the d----d bracelet to hand back to Lady Linacre, and

the thing shall go no farther."

His tone was suggestive both of old friendship and of present pity.

But when he had to repeat his question, when Wibberley gave him no

answer, his voice grew more harsh. Even then the man with the hidden

face did not speak, but pointed with an impatient gesture to the

mantel-shelf.

Burton Smith stepped to the fire-place and looked. He was anxious to

spare the culprit as far as possible. Yes, there was the bracelet. He

took possession of it, anxious to escape from the place with all

speed. But he laid it down the next instant as quickly as he had taken

it up; and his brows came together as he turned upon his companion.

"This is not the bracelet!" he said. There was no smack of affection

in his tone now; it was wholly hostile. His patience was exhausted.

"Lady Linacre's was a diamond bracelet of great value, as you know,"

he said. "This is a plain gold thing worth two or three pounds. For

Heaven's sake, man!" he added with sudden vehemence, "for your own

sake, don't play the fool now! Where is the bracelet?"

Doubtless despair had benumbed Wibberley's mind, for he did not reply,

and Burton Smith had to put his question more than once before he got

an answer. When Wibberley at last looked up it was with a dazed face.

"What is it?" he muttered, avoiding the other's eyes.

"This is not Lady Linacre's bracelet."

"That's not?"

"No; certainly not."

Still confused, still shunning the other's look, Wibberley rose, took

the bracelet in his hand, and frowned at it. Burton Smith saw him

start.

"It is of the same shape," the barrister repeated, ice in his

voice--he thought the exchange a foolish, transparent artifice--worse

than the theft. "But Lady Linacre's has a large brilliant where that

has a plain boss. That is not the bracelet."

Wibberley turned away, the thing in his hand, and went to the window,

and stood there a long moment looking out into the darkness. The

curtains were not drawn. As he stood, otherwise motionless, his

shoulders trembled so violently that a dreadful suspicion seized his

late host, who desisted from watching him and looked about, but in

vain, for a phial or a glass.

At the end of the minute Wibberley turned. For the first time he

confronted his visitor. His eyes were bright, his face very pale; but

his mouth was set and firm. "I never said it was!" he answered.

"Was what?" the other cried impatiently.

"I never said it was Lady Linacre's. It was you who said that," he

continued, his head high, a change in his demeanour, an incisiveness

almost harsh in his tone. "It was you--you who suspected me! I could

not show you my arm because I had that bracelet on it."

"And whose bracelet is it?" Burton Smith murmured, shaken as much by

the sudden change in the man's demeanour as by his denial.

"It is your cousin's--Miss Burton's. We are engaged," Wibberley

continued sternly--so entirely had the two changed places. "She

intended to tell you to-morrow. I saw it on the table, and secreted it

when I thought that no one was looking. I needed a pattern--for a

bracelet I am giving her."

"And it was Joanna's bracelet that Vereker May saw you take?"

"Precisely."

Burton Smith said a word about the Civilian which we need not repeat.

Then, "But why on earth, old fellow, did you not explain?" he asked.

"First," Wibberley replied with force, "because I should have had to

proclaim my engagement to all those fools; and I had not Joanna's

permission to do that. Secondly--well, I did not wish to confess to

being such an idiot as I was."

"Ah!" said Burton Smith, slowly, an odd light in his eyes. "I think

you were a fool, but--I suppose you will shake hands?"

"Certainly, old man." And they did so, warmly.

"Now," continued the barrister, his face becoming serious again, "the

question is, where is Lady Linacre's bracelet?"

"I don't care a d----n," Wibberley answered. "I am sure you will

excuse me saying so. I have had trouble enough with it--I know

that--and, if you do not mind, I am going to bed."

But though his friend left him, Wibberley did not go to bed at once.

Burton Smith hurrying homeward--to find when he reached Onslow

Mansions that Lady Linacre's bracelet had been discovered in a flounce

of her dress--would have been surprised, very much surprised indeed,

could he have looked into Wibberley's chambers a minute after his

departure. He would have seen his friend down on his knees before a

great chair, his face hidden, his form shaken by hysterical sobbing.

For Wibberley was moved to the inmost depths of his nature. It is not

given to many men to awake and find their doom a dream. Only in

dreams, indeed, does the cripple get his strength again, and the

murderer his old place among his fellow-men. Wibberley was fortunate.

And the lesson? Did he take it to heart? Well, lessons and morals are

out of fashion in these days. Or stay--ask Joanna. She should know.

THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT

THE BODY-BIRDS OF COURT

"Eighty-eight when he died! That is a great age," I said.

"Yes, indeed. But he was a very clever man, was Robert Evans Court,

and brewed good beer," my companion answered. "His home-brewed was

known, I am certain, for more than ten miles. You will have heard of

his body-birds, sir?"

"His body-birds?" I exclaimed.

"Yes, to be sure. Robert Evans Court's body-birds!" With which he

looked at me, quick to suspect that his English was deficient. He had

learned it in part from books; hence the curious mixture I presently

noted of Welsh idioms and formal English phrases. It was his light

trap in which I was being helped on my journey, and his genial chat

that was lightening that journey; which lay through a part of

Carnarvonshire usually traversed only by wool-merchants and

cattle-dealers--a country of upland farms swept by the sea-breezes,

where English is not spoken at this day by one person in a hundred,

and even at inns and post-offices you get only "_Dim Sassenach_" for

your answer. "Do you not say," he went on, "body-birds in English? Oh,

but to be sure, it is in the Bible!" with a sudden recovery of his

self-esteem.

"To be sure!" I replied hurriedly. "Of course it is! But as to Mr.

Robert Evans, cannot you tell me the story?"

"I'll be bound there is no man in North or South Wales, or

Carnarvonshire, that could tell it better, for Gwen Madoc, of whom you

shall hear presently, was aunt to me. You see Robert Evans"--and my

friend settled himself in his seat and prepared to go slowly up the

long steep hill of Rhiw which rose before us--"Robert Evans lived in

an old house called Court, near the sea, very windy and lonesome. He

was a warm man. He had Court from his father, and he had mortgages,

and as many as four lawsuits. But he was unlucky in his family. He had

years back three sons who helped on the farm, or at times fished; for

there is a cove at Court and good boats. Of these sons only one was

married--to a Scotchwoman from Bristol, I have heard, who had had a

husband before, a merchant captain; and she brought with her to Court

a daughter, Peggy, ready-made as we say. Well, of those three fine men

there was not one left in a year. They were out fishing in a boat

together, and Evan--that was the married one--was steering as they

came into the cove on a spring tide running very high with a south

wind. He steered a little to one side--not more than six inches, upon

my honour--and pah! in an hour their bodies were thrown up on Robert

Evans' land just bits of seaweed. But that was not all. Evan's wife

was on the beach at the time, so near she could have thrown a stone

into the boat. They do say that before that she was pining at

Court--it was bleak, and lonesome, and cold in the winters, and she

had been used to live in the towns. But, however, she never held up

her head after Evan was drowned. She took to her bed, and died in the

short month. And then, of all at Court, there were left only Robert

Evans and the child, Peggy."

"How old was the child then?" I asked. He had paused, and was looking

to the front, thoughtfully, striving, it would seem, to make the

situation clear to himself.

"She was twelve, and the old man eighty and more. She was in no way

related to him, you will remember, but he had her stop, and let her

want for nothing that did not cost money. He was very careful of

money, as was right; it was that made him the man he was. But there

were some who would have given money to be rid of her. Year in and

year out they never let the old man rest but that he should send her

to service at least--though her father had been the captain of a big

ship; and if Robert Evans had not been a stiff man of his years, they

would have had their will."

"But who----"

By a gesture he stopped the words on my lips; and then there rose

mysteriously out of the silence about us the sound of wings, a chorus

of shrill cries. A hundred white forms swept overhead, and fell a

white cluster about something in a distant field. They were seagulls.

"Just those same!" he said proudly, jerking his whip in their

direction--"body-birds. When the news that Robert Evans' sons were

drowned got about, there was a pretty uprising in Carnarvonshire.

There seemed to be Evanses where there had never been Evanses before.

As many as twenty walked in the funeral, and you may be sure that

afterwards they did not leave the old man to himself. The Llewellyn

Evanses were foremost. They had had a lawsuit with Court, but made it

up now, to be sure. Besides, there were Mr. and Mrs. Evan Bevan, and

the three Evanses of Nant, and Owen Evans, and the Evanses of Sarn,

and many more who were all forward to visit Court, and be friendly

with old Gwen Madoc, Robert's housekeeper. I am told they could look

black at one another, but in this they were all in one tale, that the

foreign child should be sent away; and at times one and another would

give her the rough word."

"She must have had a bad time," I observed.

"You may say that. But she stayed, and it was wonderful how strong and

handsome she grew up, where her mother had just pined away. The

sailors said it was her love of the sea; and I have heard that people

who live inland about here come to think of nothing but the land--it

is certain that they are good at a bargain--while the fishermen who

live with a great space before them are finer men, I have heard, in

their minds as well as their bodies; and Peggy _bach_ grew up like

them, free and open and up-standing, though she lived on land. When

she was in trouble she would run down to the sea, where the salt spray

washed away her tears and the wind blew her hair, that was of the

colour of seaweed, into a tangle. She was never so happy as when she

was climbing the rocks among the seagulls, or else sitting with her

books in the cove where the farm-people would not go for fear of

hearing the church bells that bring bad luck. Books? Oh yes, indeed

next to the sea she was fond of books. There were many volumes, I have

been told, that were her mother's; and Robert Evans, though he was a

Wesleyan, went to church because there was no Wesleyan chapel, the

Calvinistic Methodists being in strength here; and the minister lent

her many English books and befriended her. And I have heard that once,

when the Llewellyn Evanses had been about the girl, he spoke to them

so that they were afraid to drive down Rhiw hill that night, but led

the horse; and I think it may be true, for they were Calvinists.

Still, he was a good man, and I know that many Calvinists walked in

his funeral."

"_Requiescat in pace_," said I.

"Eh! Well, I don't know how that may be," he replied, "but you must

understand that all this time the Llewellyn Evanses, and the Evanses

of Nant, and the others would be at Court once or twice a week, so

that all the neighbourhood called them Robert Evans' body-birds; and

when they were there Peggy McNeill would be having an ill time, since

even the old man would be hard to her; and more so as he grew older.

But, however, there was a better time coming, or so it seemed at

first, the beginning of which was through Peter Rees's lobster-pots.

He was a great friend of hers. She would go out with him to take up

his pots--oh, it might be two or three times a week. So it happened

one day, when they had pushed off from the beach, and Peggy was

steering, that old Rees stopped rowing on a sudden.

"'Why don't you go on, Peter?' said Peggy.

"'Bide a bit,' said old Rees.

"'What have you forgotten?' said she, looking about in the bottom of

the boat. For she knew what he used very well.

"'Nought,' said he. But all the same he began to put the boat about in

a stupid fashion, afraid of offending her, and yet loth to lose a

shilling. And so, when Peggy looked up, what should she see but a

gentleman--whom Rees had perceived, you will understand--stepping into

the boat, and Peter Rees not daring to look her in the face because he

knew well that she would never go out with strangers.

"Of course the young gentleman thought no harm, but said gaily, 'Thank

you! I am just in time.' And what should he do, but go aft and sit

down on the seat by her, and begin to talk to Rees about the weather

and the pots. And presently he said to her, 'I suppose you are used to

steering, my girl?'

"'Yes,' Peggy answered, but very grave and quiet-like, so that if he

had not determined that she was old Rees's daughter he would have

taken notice of it. But she was wearing a short frock that she used

for the fishing, and was wet with getting into the boat moreover.

"'Will you please to hold my hat a minute,' he said; and with that

he put it in her lap while he looked for a piece of string with which

to fasten it to his button. Well, she said nothing, but her cheeks

were scarlet, and by-and-by, when he had called her 'my girl' two or

three times more--not roughly, but just offhand, taking her for a

fisher-girl--Peter Rees could stand it no longer, shilling or no

shilling.

"'You mustn't be speaking that fashion to her,' he said gruffly.

"'What?' said the gentleman looking up. He was surprised, and no

wonder, at the tone of the man.

"'You mustn't speak like that to Miss McNeill Court,' repeated old

Rees more roughly than before. 'You are to understand she is not a

common girl, but like yourself.'

"The young gentleman turned and looked at her just once, short and

sharp, and I am told that his face was as red as hers when their eyes

met. 'I beg Miss McNeill's pardon,' he said, taking off his hat

grandly, yet as if he meant it too; 'I was under a great

misapprehension.'

"After that you may believe they did not enjoy the row much. There was

scarcely a word said by any one until they came ashore again. The

visitor, to the great joy of Peter, who was looking for a sixpence,

gave him half a crown; and then walked away with the young lady, side

by side with her, but very stiff and silent. However, just as they

were parting, Peter could see that he said something, having his hat

in his hand the while, and that Miss Peggy, after standing and

listening, bowed as grand as might be. Upon which they separated for

that time.

"But two things came of this; first, that every one began to call her

Miss McNeill Court which was not at all to the pleasure of the

Llewellyn Evanses. And then, that whenever the gentleman, who was a

painter lodging at Mrs. Campbell's of the shop, would meet her, he

would stop and say a few words, and more as the time went on.

Presently there came some wet weather; and Mrs. Campbell borrowed for

his use books from her, which had her name within; and later he sent

for a box of books from London, and then the lending was on the other

side. So it was not long before people began to see how things were,

and to smile when the gentleman treated old Robert Evans at the Newydd

Inn. The fishermen, when he was out with them, would tack so that he

might see the smoke of Court over the cliffs; and there was no more

Peggy _bach_ to be met, either rowing with Peter Rees or running wild

among the rocks, but a very sedate young lady who, to be sure, did not

seem to be unhappy.

"The old man was ailing in his limbs at this time, but his mind was as

clear as ever, and his grip of the land as tight. He could not bear,

now that his sons were dead, that any one should come after him. I am

thinking that he would be taking every one for a body-bird. Still the

family were forward with presents and such-like, and helped him

perhaps about the farm; so that, though there was talk in the village,

no one could say what will he would make.

"However, one day towards winter Miss Peggy came in late from a walk,

and found the old man very cross. 'Where have you been?' he cried

angrily. Then, without any warning, 'You have been courting,' he said,

'with that fine gentleman from the shop?'

"'Well,' my lady replied, putting a brave face upon it, as was her

way, 'and what then, grandfather? I am not ashamed of it.'

"'You ought to be!' he cried, banging his stick upon the floor. 'Do

you think that he will marry you?'

"'Yes, I do,' she replied stoutly. 'He has told you so to-day, I

know.'

"Robert Evans laughed, but his laugh was not a pleasant one. 'You are

right,' he said. 'He has told me. He was very forward to tell me. He

thought I was going to leave you my money. But I am not! Mind you

that, my girl.'

"'Very well,' she answered, white and red by turns.

"'You will remember that you are no relation of mine!' he went on

viciously, for he had grown very crabbed of late. 'No relation! And I

am not going to leave you money. He is after my money. He is nothing

but a fortune-catcher!'

"'He is not!' she exclaimed, as hot as fire, and began to put on her

hat again.

"'Very well! We shall see!' answered Robert Evans. 'Do you tell

him what I say, and see if he will marry you. Go! Go now, girl, and

you need not come back! You will get nothing by staying here!' he

cried, for what with his jealousy and the mention of money, he was

furious--'not a penny! You had better be off at once!'

"She did not answer for a minute or so, but she seemed to change

her mind about going, for she laid down her hat, and went about the

house-place getting tea ready--and no doubt her fingers trembled a

little--until the old man cried, 'Well, why don't you go? You will get

nothing by staying.'

"'I shall stay to take care of you all the same,' she answered

quietly. 'You need not leave me anything, and then--and then I shall

know whether you are right.'

"'Do you mean it?' he asked sharply, after looking at her in silence

for a time.

"'Yes,' said she.

"'Then it's a bargain!' cried Robert Evans--'it's a bargain!' And he

said not a word more about it, but took his tea from her and talked of

the Llewellyn Evanses who had been to pay him a visit that day. It

seemed, however, as if the matter had upset him, for he had to be

helped to bed, and complained a good deal, neither of which things

were usual with him.

"Well, it is not unlikely that the young lady promised herself to tell

her lover all about it next day, and looked to hear many times over

from his lips that it was not her money he wanted. But this was not to

be, for early the next morning Gwen Madoc was at her door.

"'You are to get up, miss,' she said. 'The master wants you to go to

London by the first train.'

"'To London!' cried Peggy, very much astonished. 'Is he ill? Is

anything the matter, Gwen?'

"'No,' the old woman answered very short. 'It is just that.'

"And when the girl, having dressed hastily, came down to Robert Evans'

room, she found that this was pretty nearly all they would tell her.

'You will go to Mrs. Richard Evans, who lives at Islington,' he said,

as if he had been thinking about it. 'She is my second cousin, and

will find house-room for you, and make no charge whatever. To-morrow

you will take this packet to the address upon it, and the next day a

packet will be returned to you, which you will bring back to me. I am

not well to-day, and I want to have the matter settled, yes, indeed.'

"'But could not some one else go, if you are not well?' she objected,

'and I will stop and take care of you.'

"He grew very angry at that. 'Do as you are bidden, girl,' he said. 'I

shall see the doctor to-day, and for the rest, Gwen can do for me. I

am well enough. Do you look to the papers. Richard Evans owes me

money, and will make no charge for your living.'

"So Miss Peggy had her breakfast, and in a wonderfully short time, as

it seemed to her, she was on the way to London, with plenty of leisure

for thinking--very likely for doubting and fearing as well. She had

not seen her sweetheart, that was one thing. She had been despatched

in a hurry, that was another. And then, to be sure, the big town was

strange to her.

"However, nothing happened there, I may tell you. But on the third

morning she received a short note from Gwen Madoc, and suddenly rose

from breakfast with Mrs. Richard, her face very white. There was news

in the letter--news of which all the neighborhood for miles round

Court was full. Robert Evans, if you will believe it, was dead. After

ailing for a few hours he had died, with only Gwen Madoc to smooth his

pillow.

"It was late when she reached the nearest station to Court on her way

back, and found a pony trap waiting. She was stepping into it when Mr.

Griffith Hughes, the lawyer, saw her, and came up to speak.

"'I am sorry to have bad news for you, Miss McNeill,' he said, and he

spoke nicely, for he was a kind man, and, what with the shock and the

long journey, she was looking very pale.

"Oh, yes,' she answered, with a sort of weary surprise; 'I know it

already. That is why I am come home--to Court, I mean.'

"He saw that she was thinking only of Robert Evans' death, which was

not what was in his mind. 'It is about the will,' he said in a

whisper, though he need not have been so careful, for every one in the

neighbourhood had learned about it from Gwen Madoc. 'It is a cruel

will. I would not have made it for him, my dear. He has left Court to

the Llewellyn Evanses, and the money between the Evanses of Nant and

the Evan Bevans.'

"'It is quite right,' she answered, so calmly that he stared. 'My

grandfather explained it to me. I understood that I was not to be in

the will.'

"Mr. Hughes looked more and more puzzled. 'Oh, but,' he replied, 'it

is not so bad as that. Your name is in the will. He has laid it upon

those who get the land and money to provide for you--to settle a

proper income upon you. And you may depend upon me for doing my best

to have his wishes carried out.'

"The young lady turned very red, and her voice was hard.

"'Who are to provide for me?' she asked. "'The three families who

divide the estate,' he said.

"'And are they obliged to do so?'

"'Well--no,' he allowed. 'I am not sure that they are exactly obliged.

But no doubt----"

'"I doubt very much,' she answered, taking him up with a smile. And

then she shook hands with him and drove away, leaving him wondering at

her courage.

"Well, you may suppose it was a dreary house to which she came home.

Mr. Griffith Hughes, who was executor, had been before the Llewellyn

Evanses in taking possession, and besides a lad or two in the kitchen

there were only Gwen Madoc and the servant there, and it was little

they seemed to have to tell her about the death. When she had heard

what they had to say, and they were all on their way to bed, 'Gwen,'

she said softly, 'I think I should like to see him.'

"'So you shall, to-morrow, honey,' answered the old woman. 'But do you

know, _bach_, that he has left you nothing?' and she held up her

candle suddenly, so as to throw the light on the girl's tired face.

"'Oh!' she answered with a shudder, 'how can you talk about that now?'

But presently she had another question ready. 'Have you seen Mr.

Venmore since--since my grandfather's death, Gwen?' she asked timidly.

"'Yes, indeed, _bach_,' answered the housekeeper. 'I met him at the

door of the shop this morning. I told him where you were, and that you

would be back to-night. And about the will moreover.'

"The girl stopped at her own door and snuffed her candle. Gwen Madoc

went slowly up the next flight, groaning over the steepness of the

stairs. When she turned to say good night, the girl was at her side,

her eyes shining in the light of the two candles.

"'Oh, Gwen,' she whispered, 'didn't he say anything?'

"'Not a word, _bach_,' answered the old woman, stroking her hair

tenderly. 'He just went into the house in a hurry.'

"Miss Peggy, I am believing, went into her room much in the same way.

No doubt she would be telling herself a great many times over before

she slept that he would come and see her in the morning: and in the

morning she would be saying, 'He will come in the afternoon'; and in

the afternoon, 'He will come in the evening.' But evening came, and

darkness, and still he did not appear. Then she could endure it no

longer. She let herself out of the front door, which there was no one

now to use but herself, and with a shawl over her head she ran all the

way to the shop. There was no light in the window upstairs; but at the

back door stood Mrs. Campbell, looking after some one who had just

left her.

"The girl came, shrinking at the last moment, into the ring of light

about the door. 'Why, Miss McNeill!' cried the other, starting at

sight of her. 'Is it you, honey? And are you alone?'

"'Yes; and I cannot stop. But oh, Mrs. Campbell, where is Mr.

Venmore?'

"'I know no more than yourself, my dear,' the good woman said

reluctantly. 'He went from here yesterday on a sudden--to take the

train, I am supposing.'

"'Yesterday? At what time, please?' the young lady asked. There was a

fear, which she had been putting from her all day. It was getting a

footing now.

"'Well, it would be about midday. I know it was just after Gwen Madoc

called in about the----'

"'But the girl was gone. It was not to Mrs. Campbell she could make a

moan. It was only the night-wind that caught the 'Oh, cruel!' which

broke from her as she went up the hill. Whether she slept that night

at all I am not able to say. Only when it was dawn she was out upon

the cliffs, her face very white and sad-looking. The fishermen who

were up early going out with the ebb saw her at times walking fast,

and then again standing still and looking seaward. But I do not know

what she was thinking, only I should fancy that the gulls had a

different cry for her now, and it is certain that when she returned

and came down into the parlour at Court for the funeral, there were

none of the Evanses could look her in the face with comfort.

"They were all there, of course. Mr. Llewellyn Evans--he was an

elderly man, with a grey beard like a bird's nest, and thick lips--was

sitting with his wife on the horse-hair sofa. The Evanses of Nant, who

were young men with lank faces and black hair combed upwards, were by

the door. The Evan Bevans were at the table; and there were others,

besides Mr. Griffith Hughes, who was undoing some papers when she

entered.

"He rose and shook hands with her, marking the dark hollows under her

eyes, and fixing it in his mind to get her a settlement. Then he

hesitated, looking doubtfully at the others. 'We are going to read the

will before the funeral instead of afterwards,' he said.

"'Oh!' she answered, taken aback--for she had forgotten all about the

will. 'I did not know. I will go, and come later.'

"'No, indeed!' cried Mrs. Llewellyn Evans, 'you will be doing well,

whatever, to hear the will--though no relation, to be sure.'

"But at that Gwen Madoc came in, and peered round with an air of

importance. 'Maybe some one,' she said in a low voice, 'would like to

take a last look at the master?'

"But no one moved. They sighed and shook their heads at one another as

if they would like to do so--but no one moved. They were anxious, you

see, to hear the will. Only Peggy, who had turned to go out, said,

'Yes, Gwen, I should,' and slipped out with the old woman.

"'There is nothing to keep us now?' said Mr. Hughes, briskly, when the

door was closed again. And every one nodding assent the lawyer went on

to read the will, which was not a long one. It was received with a

murmur of satisfaction, and much use of pocket-handkerchiefs.

"'Very fair,' said Mr. Llewellyn Evans. 'He was a very clever man, our

old friend.' All the legatees murmured after him 'Very fair!' and a

word went round about the home-brewed, and Robert Evans' recipe for

it. Then Llewellyn, who thought he ought to be taking the lead at

Court now, said it was time to be going to church.

"'There is one matter,' put in Mr. Griffith Hughes, 'which I think

ought to be settled while we are all together. You see that there is

a--what I may call a charge on the three portions of the property in

favour of Miss McNeill.'

"'Indeed, but what is that you are saying?' Llewellyn cried sharply.

'Do you mean that there is a rent charge?'

"'Not exactly a rent charge,' said the lawyer.

"'No!' cried Llewellyn with a twinkle in his eyes. 'Nor any obligation

in law whatever?'

"'Well, no,' Mr. Hughes assented grudgingly.

"'Then,' said Llewellyn Evans, getting up and putting his hands in his

pockets, while he winked at the others, 'we will talk of that another

time.'

"But Mr. Hughes said, 'No!' He was a kind man, and anxious to do the

best for the girl, but he somewhat lost his temper. 'No!' he said,

growing red. 'You will observe, if you please, Mr. Evans, that the

testator says, "Forthwith--forthwith," so that, as sole executor, it

is my duty to ask you to state your intentions now.'

"'Well, indeed, then,' said Llewellyn, changing his face to a kind of

blank, 'I have no intentions. I think that the family has done more

than enough for the girl already.'

"And he would say no other. Nor was it to any purpose that the lawyer

looked at Mrs. Llewellyn. She was examining the furniture, and feeling

the stuffing of the sofa, and did not seem to hear. He could make

nothing of the three Evanses, Nant. They all cried, 'Yes, indeed!' to

what Llewellyn said. Only the Evan Bevans remained, and he turned to

them.

"'I am sure,' he said, addressing himself to them, 'that you will do

something to carry out the testator's wishes? Your share under the

will, Mr. Bevan, will amount to three hundred a year. This young lady

has nothing--no relations, no home. May I take it that you will

settle--say fifty pounds a year upon her? It need only be for her

life.'

"Mr. Bevan fidgeted, but his wife answered the lawyer as bold as

brass. 'Certainly not, Mr. Hughes,' she said. 'If it were twenty

pounds now, once for all, or even twenty-five--and Llewellyn and my

nephews would say the same--I think we might manage that?'

"But Llewellyn shook his head obstinately. 'I have said I have no

intentions, and I am a man of my word, whatever!' he answered. 'Let

the girl go to service. It is what we have wanted her to do. Here are

my nephews. They will be liking a young housekeeper.'

"Well, they all laughed at this except Mr. Hughes, who gathered up his

papers, looking very black, and not thinking of future clients.

Llewellyn, however, did not care a penny for that, but walked to the

bell, masterful-like, and rang it. 'Tell the undertaker,' he said to

the servant, 'that we are ready.'

"It was as if the words had been a signal, for they were followed by

an outcry overhead and quick running upon the stairs. The legatees

looked uncomfortably at the carpet; the lawyer was blacker than

before. He said to himself, 'It is that poor child that has fainted!'

The confusion seemed to last some minutes. Then the door was opened,

not by the undertaker, but by Gwen Madoc. The mourners rose, they were

thankful to see her; to their surprise she passed by Llewellyn, and

with a frightened face walked across to the lawyer. She whispered

something in his ear.

"'What!' he cried starting back a pace, and speaking so that the

wine-glasses on the table rattled again. 'Do you know what you are

saying, woman?'

"'It is true,' she answered, half-crying, 'and no fault of mine

neither.' Gwen added more in short sentences, which the family, strain

their ears as they might, could not overhear.

"'I will come!' cried the lawyer. He waved his hand to them to make

room for her to pass out. Then he turned to them, a queer look upon

his face; it was not triumph altogether, for there was some doubt and

some alarm in it as well. 'You will believe me,' he said, 'that I am

as much taken aback as yourselves--that till this moment I have been

as much in the dark as any one. It seems--so I am told--that our old

friend is not dead.'

"'What are you meaning!' cried Llewellyn in his turn. 'It is not

possible!' and he raised his black-gloved hands.

"'What I say,' Mr. Hughes replied patiently. 'I hear--wonderful as it

sounds--that he is not dead. Something about a trance, I believe--a

mistake discovered in time. I tell you all I know; and however it

comes about, it is clear we ought to be glad that Mr. Robert Evans is

spared to us.'

"With that he was glad to escape from the room. When he was gone, I am

told that their faces were very strange to see. There was a long

silence. Llewellyn was the first to speak. He swore a big oath and

banged his great hand upon the table. 'I do not believe it!' he cried.

'I do not believe it! It is a trick!'

"But as he spoke the door opened behind him, and they all turned to

see what they had never thought to see, I am sure. They had come to

walk in Robert Evans' funeral; and here was the gaunt form of Robert

Evans himself coming in, with an arm of Gwen Madoc on one side and of

Miss Peggy on the other--Robert Evans beyond doubt alive. Behind him

were the lawyer and Dr. Jones, a smile on their lips, and three or

four women, half frightened, half wondering.

"The old man was pale, and seemed to totter a little, but when the

doctor would have placed a chair for him, he declined it, and stood

gazing about him, wonderfully composed for a man just risen from his

coffin. He had all his old aspect as he looked upon the family.

Llewellyn's declaration was still in their ears, and they could find

not a word to say either of joy or grief.

"'Well, indeed,' said Robert, with a dry chuckle, 'have none of you a

word to throw at me? I am a ghost, I suppose? Ho, ho!' he exclaimed,

as his eye fell on the papers which Mr. Hughes had left upon the

table. 'That is why you are not overjoyed at seeing me. You have been

reading my will. Well, Llewellyn! Have not you a word to say to me now

you know for what I had got you down?'

"At that Llewellyn found his tongue, and the others chimed in finely.

Only there was something in the old man's manner that they did not

like; and presently, when they had all told him how glad they were to

see him again--just for all the world as if he had been ill for a few

days--Robert Evans turned again to Llewellyn.

"'You had fixed what you would do for my girl here, I'm thinking?' he

said, patting her shoulder gently, at which the family winced. 'It was

a hundred a year you promised to settle, you know. You will have

arranged, whatever.'

"Llewellyn looked stealthily at Mr. Hughes, who was standing at Robert

Evans' elbow, and muttered that they had not reached that stage.

"'What!' the old man cried sharply. 'How was that?'

"'I was intending,' Llewellyn began lamely, 'to settle----'

"'You were intending!' Robert Evans burst forth in a voice so changed

that they all started back. 'You are a liar! You were intending to

settle nothing! I know it well! I knew it long ago! Nothing, I say! As

for you,' he went on, wheeling furiously round upon the Evanses of

Nant, 'you knew my wishes. What were you going to do for her? What, I

say? Speak, you hobbledehoys!'

"But they were backing from him in absolute fear of his passion,

looking at one another or at the sullen face of Llewellyn Evans, or

anywhere save at him. At length the eldest blurted out, 'Whatever

Llewellyn meant to do, we were going to do, sir.'

"'You speak the truth there,' cried old Robert, bitterly; 'for that

was nothing. Very well! I promise you that what Llewellyn Evans gets

of my property you shall get too--and it will be nothing! You, Bevan,'

and he turned himself towards the Evan Bevans who were shaking in

their shoes, 'I am told, did offer to do something for my girl.'

"'Yes, dear Robert,' cried Mrs. Bevan, eagerly, 'we did indeed.'

"'So I hear. Well, when I make my next will, I will set you down for

just so much as you proposed to give her! Peggy, _bach_,' he

continued, turning from the lady, who was looking very queer, and

putting into the girl's hands the will which the lawyer had given him,

'tear up this rubbish! Tear it up! Now let us have something to eat in

the other room. What, Llewellyn Evans, no appetite!'

"But the family did not stay even to partake of the home-brewed. They

were out of the house, I am told, before the coffin and the

undertaker's men. There was big talking amongst them, as they went, of

a conspiracy and a lunatic asylum. But though, to be sure, it was a

wonderful recovery, and the doctor and Mr. Hughes as they drove away

after dinner were very merry together--which may have been only the

home-brewed--at any rate all that came of Llewellyn's talking and

inquiries was that every one laughed very much, and Robert Evans' name

for a clever man was known beyond Carnarvon.

"Of course it would be open house at Court that day, with plenty of

eating and drinking and coming and going. But towards five o'clock the

place grew quiet. The visitors had gone home, and Gwen Madoc was

upstairs. The old man was sleeping in his chair opposite the settle,

and Miss Peggy was sitting on the window-seat watching him, her hands

in her lap, and her thoughts far away. Maybe she was trying to be

really glad that the home, about which the cows lowed and the gulls

screamed in the afternoon stillness that made it seem home each

minute, was hers still; that she was not quite alone, nor friendless,

nor poor. Maybe she was striving not to think of the thing which had

been taken from her and could not be given back. Whatever her

thoughts, she was roused by some sound to find her eyes full of hot

tears, through which she could see that the old man was awake and

looking at her with a strange expression which disappeared as she

became aware of it.

"He began to speak. 'Providence has been very good to us, Peggy,' he

said with grim meaning. 'It is well for you, my girl, that your eyes

are open to see our kind friends as they are. There is one besides

those who were here this morning that will wish he had not been so

hasty.'

"She rose quickly and looked out of the window. 'Please don't speak of

him,' she pleaded in a low tone. 'Let us forget him.'

"But Robert Evans seemed to take a delight in the--well, the goodness

of Providence. 'If he had come to see you only once, when you were in

trouble,' he said, as if he were summing up the case in his own mind,

and she were but a stick or a stone, 'we could have forgiven him, and

I would have said you were right. Or even if he had written.'

"'Oh, yes, yes!' the girl sobbed, her tears raining down her averted

face. 'Don't torture me! You were right and I was wrong--all wrong!'

"'Yes, indeed! Just so. But come here, my girl,' said the old man.

'Come!' he repeated, as, surprised in the midst of her grief, she

wavered and hesitated, 'sit here;' and he pointed to the settle

opposite to him. 'Now, suppose I were to tell you he had written, and

that the letter had been--mislaid, shall we say? and come somehow to

my hands? Now don't get excited, girl!'

"'Oh!' Peggy cried, her lips parted, her eyes wide and frightened, her

whole form stiff with a question.

"'Just suppose that, my dear,' continued Robert, 'and that the letter

were now before us--would you stand by it? Remember, he must have much

to explain. Would you be guided by me, my girl?'

"She was trembling with expectation, hope. But she tried to think of

the matter, to remember her lover's flight, the lack of word or

message for her, and her misery. She nodded, and held out her hand,

for she could not speak.

"He drew a letter from his pocket. 'You will let me see it?' he said

suspiciously.

"'Oh yes!' she cried, and fled with it to the window. He watched her

while she tore it open and read first one page and then another--there

were but two, it was very short. He watched her while she thrust it

from her and looked at it as a whole, then drew it to her and kissed

it again and again.

"'Wait a bit! wait a bit!' cried he, testily. 'Now let me see it.'

"She turned upon him, holding it away behind her, as if it were some

living thing he might hurt. 'He thought he would meet me at the

junction,' she stammered between laughing and crying. 'He was going to

London to see his sister--that she might take me in. And he will be

here to fetch me this evening. There! Take it!' and suddenly

remembering herself she stretched out her hand and gave him the

letter.

"'You said you would be led by me, you know,' said the old man

gravely.

"'I will not!' she cried impetuously. 'Never!'

"'You promised,' he said.

"'I don't care! I don't care!' she replied, clasping her hands. 'No

one shall come between us.'

"'Very well,' said Robert Evans, 'then I will not be speaking for

nothing! But you had better tell Owen to take the trap to the station

to meet your man.'"

THE VICAR'S SECRET

THE VICAR'S SECRET

The windows at the rear of Acton Chase, an old house in

Worcestershire, look on a quaint bowling-green flanked by yew hedges,

and backed by a stream of good size, on the farther side of which a

sparsely timbered slope leads up to the home farm. It leads also to

half a dozen smaller farms, which once formed the Chase. Zigzag up

this slope runs a track--probably it has so run for centuries, for at

the foot of it is a ford--which in spring is almost invisible, but in

autumn is brown and rutty. The Chase has long been a Roman Catholic

house, and up this track dead-and-gone squires, debarred from converse

with their neighbours, have ridden a-hunting, mornings innumerable; so

that to-day people sitting in the garden towards evening are apt to

see them come trailing home, their horses jaded, and themselves

calling for the black-jack.

Our story is not of these, but of two men who strolled down this

path on an evening no farther back than last August. They seemed,

outwardly at least, ill-matched. The one, a young fellow under thirty,

fair-haired, pink-cheeked, prim-looking, was of middle size. He was

dressed as a clergyman, but more neatly and trimly than the average

country clergyman dresses. The other was one of the tallest and

thinnest men ever seen outside a show--a man whose very clothes, his

worn jacket and shrunken knickerbockers, had the air of sharing his

attenuation. He looked like a gamekeeper, and was, in fact, the

squire's son-in-law, Jim Foley.

"I really cannot make you out," he said, as the two sighted the house;

and, shifting his gun to the other shoulder, he took occasion to

glance at his companion. "What do you do, old boy? You never kill

anything, unless it is a trout now and then. Now I could not live

without killing. Must kill something every day!"

"And do you?"

"Seldom miss," the long man rejoined cheerfully, "except on a hunting

day when we draw blank. Rats, rabbits, otters, pike, sometimes a hawk,

sometimes, as to-day, a brace of wood-pigeons. And game and foxes in

their season. Must kill something, my boy."

His companion glanced at him, looked away again, and sighed.

"Well, what is that for?" Foley asked, in the tone of an aggrieved

man.

"I was only thinking," the other replied drily, "what a lucky fellow

you were to have nothing to do but kill."

The tall man whistled. "I say," he said, "for a man who is to be

married in a week or so, you are in roaring spirits, ain't you? I tell

you what it is, my boy; you do not take very kindly to your bliss. I

can see Patty flitting about in the garden like a big white moth,

waiting, I have no doubt, for a word with her lord; and your step

lags, and your face is grave, and you try to be cynical! What is up?"

The younger man laughed, but not merrily; and there was a tinge of

sullenness in his tone as he answered, "Nothing! A man cannot always

be grinning."

"No; but _pati de foie gras_ is not a man's ordinary meat," Jim

retorted imperturbably. "Jones!"

"Well?" the other said snappishly.

"You are in a mess, my boy--that is my opinion! Now, don't take it

amiss," Jim continued drily. "I am within my rights. I am one of the

family, and if the squire is blind and Patty is young, I am neither.

And I am not going to let this go on until I know more, my boy. You

have something on your mind of which they are ignorant."

The young clergyman turned his face to his companion, and Jim Foley,

albeit of the coolest, was taken aback by the change which anger or

some other emotion had wrought in it. Even the clergyman's voice was

altered. "And what if I have?" he said, stopping so suddenly that the

two confronted one another. "What if I have, Mr. Foley?"

Jim deliberately shut his eyes and opened them, to make sure that the

tragic spirit, so suddenly infused into the pleasant landscape, with

its long shadows and its distant forge-note, was no delusion.

Satisfied, he rose to the occasion. "This," he said, outwardly

unmoved. "You must get rid of it. That is all, Jones."

"And if I cannot?"

"Will not, you mean."

"No, cannot!" the clergyman replied with vehemence.

"Then," Jim drawled--"I am not a moral man, don't mistake me, but I

belong to the family--your majesty must go elsewhere for a wife! And a

little late to do so!" he continued, harshness in his tone. "What! you

are not coming to the house?"

"No!" the other cried violently. And, without a word of farewell, he

turned his back on his companion, and strode away through the lush

grass to a point a little higher up the stream, where a plank-bridge

gave access to the Chase outbuildings, and through them to the

village.

Foley stood awhile, looking after him. "Well," he said, speaking

gently, as if rallying himself on some weakness, "I am afraid--I

really am afraid that I am a little astonished. I should know men

by now, yet I did think that if any one could show a clean bill of

health it was the vicar. He is smug, he is next door to a prig. The

old women swear by him, the young ones dote on him. They say he is on

foot from morning till night, and not one blank day in a fortnight!

And now--pheugh! I wonder whether I ought to have knocked him down.

Poor little Patty! There is not a better girl in the country--except

the Partridge!"

He looked pathetically at the gardens below him; then, seeing that the

chimneys of the house were smoking briskly, he bethought him of

dinner, and strode down to the gate with his usual air of

_insouciance_.

Meanwhile the young clergyman gained the side avenue, and walked

rapidly towards the village, his eyes dazzled by the low beams of the

sun which shone in his face, and his mind confounded by the tumult of

his thoughts. A crisis which he had long foreseen, often dreaded, and

as often postponed, was now imminent, the power to control it gone

from his hands. He looked on the past with regret, and forward with

shame. That which had once been feasible--nay, as it seemed to him

now, easy--time and his cowardice had rendered impossible. He stood

aghast at his own feebleness; not considering that the routine of

parish work and the satisfaction derived from small duties done, had

weakened his moral fibre; even as the peace of the life about him, and

the transparent truthfulness of those, with whom his lot was cast, had

made the task of disclosure more formidable. He had fallen--no, he had

not fallen; but he had put off the act which honour demanded so long

that, though the day of grace was still his, there could be no grace

in the doing.

The rooks, streaming homeward in some order of their own, were cawing

overhead as he opened the gate and entered the vicarage garden, where

the great hollyhocks stood in rows, and the peaches, catching the last

rays of the sun aslant, were glowing against the southern gable. To

the stranger--to the American, in particular--who looked in as he

passed, it seemed a paradise, that garden. But--for peaches are not

peace, nor hollyhocks either--its owner passed through it with

compressed lips and tingling cheeks. He entered the porch, where one

or two packing-cases told of coming changes; then he stood irresolute

in the cool hall, remembering that he had intended to dine at the

Chase, and that there was nothing prepared for him here. Not that he

had an appetite, but dinner was a decent observance, and it seemed to

him that not to dine would be to lose his hold on life and fall into

abysses before his time.

It is well, when we are unfortunate, to consider how much worse a

minute, a few seconds, may see us. A faint sound at his elbow caused

him to turn. The door of the dining-room was ajar, and through the

opening a face peered at him. The young vicar did not start, but he

drew a deep breath, and stiffened as he gazed. A minute, and his

lips--while the other face, with a shifty smile, half mockery, half

shame, returned his look--formed the word "Father!"

It was not audible two paces away. But as it fell the clergyman

glanced round with a gesture of alarm, and at a single stride he

was in the dining-room, and had shut the door behind him. The other

man--a shambling creature, grey-haired and blear-eyed and unwashed,

with a beard of a week's growth--fell back to the table and leaned

against it. His rusty black clothes and his broken boots seemed to

share, rather than to impart, the look of decay which marked his

person. The vicar, with his back against the door, looked at him and

shuddered, and then looked again, his face hard and his eyes gloomy.

"Well," he said, in a low stern voice, "what is the meaning of this?

You know our agreement. Why have you broken it, sir?"

The old man pursed up his lips, and, with his head on one side,

contemplated his questioner in silence. Then he said suddenly, "Blow

the agreement!"

The vicar winced as if he had been struck. But he found words again.

"If you can do without the money," he said, "so much the better.

But----"

"Blow the money!" cried the old man, with the same violence.

Notwithstanding his words, he stood in awe of his son, and was trying

to gain courage by working himself into a passion. "What is money?" he

continued. "I want no money! I am coming to live with you. You are

going to be married. I heard of it, though you kept it close, my boy!

I heard of it, and I said to myself, 'Good! I will go and live with my

boy. And his wife shall take care of my little comforts.'"

The younger man shivered. He thought of Patty, and he looked at the

old man before him, sly, vicious, gin-sodden--and his father! "You do

not want to live with me," he answered coldly. "You could not bear to

live with me for one week, and you know it. Will you tell me what you

do want, and why you have left Glasgow?"

"To congratulate you!" his father answered, with a drunken chuckle.

"Walter Jones and Patty Stanton--third time of asking! Oh, I heard of

it! But not through you. Why," he continued, with a quick change to

ferocity, "would you not ask your own father to your wedding, you

ungrateful boy?"

"No," the vicar replied sternly, "he being such as he is, I would

not."

"Oh, you are ashamed of him, are you? You have kept him dark, I

fancy?" the old man replied, grinning with wicked enjoyment as he saw

how his son winced at each sentence, how his colour went and came.

"Well, now you will have the pleasure of introducing me to the squire,

and to daughter Patty, and to all your friends. It will be a pleasant

surprise for them. I'll be bound you said I was dead."

"I have not said you were dead."

"Don't you wish I was?"

"God keep me from it!" the vicar groaned.

On that, the two men stood looking at each other, the one neat,

clean-shaven, conventional, the other vile with the degradation of

drink. Though the windows stood open, the room was full of the smell

of spirits, and seemed itself soiled and degraded. Suddenly the

younger man sat down at the table, and, burying his face between his

hands, fell into a storm of weeping.

His father shifted his feet, and licking his lips nervously, looked at

him in maudlin shame; then from him to the sideboard, in search of his

supporter under all trials. But the sideboard was bare, the doors

closed, the key invisible. Mr. Jones grew indignant. "There, stop that

foolery!" he said brutally. "You make me sick."

The rough adjuration restored the young man's nerve, and he looked up,

his cheeks wet with tears. Tears in a man are shameful; but this

tragedy was one not to be evaded by manliness, or, indeed, by any help

of men. "Tell me what it is you want," he said wearily.

"More money," his father snarled. The liquor with which he had primed

himself was losing its effect. "I cannot live on what you give me.

Glasgow is a dear place. The money ought to be mine; all of it!"

"You have had two hundred a year--one-half of my mother's money."

"I know. I want three."

"Well, you cannot have it," the son answered languidly. "If you must

know, I have agreed to settle one-half of my income on my wife now,

and the other half at your death. Therefore it will not be in my power

to allow you more. You have spent your own fortune, and you have no

claim on my mother's money."

"Very well," Mr. Jones answered, his head trembling with rage and

weakness. "Then I stay with you. I stay here. Your father-in-law that

is to be will be glad to meet his old friend again--I have no doubt.

We were at college together. I dare say he will acknowledge me, if my

own son is too proud to do so. I shall stay here until I am tired of

the country."

The young man looked at him in despair. Supplication he knew would

avail him nothing, and the only threat he could use--that he would

stop his father's allowance--would have no terrors, for he could not

execute it. To let his father go to the workhouse would increase the

scandal a hundred times. He rose at last and went out. His housekeeper

had come in, and he told her, keeping his burning face averted, to

prepare a bed and get supper for two. He shrank--he whose life in

Acton had been so full of propriety--from saying who his guest was.

Let his father proclaim himself if he would; that would be less

painful. The truth must out. Once before, at his first curacy, the

young man, younger then and more hopeful, had tried the work of

reformation. He had made a home for his father, and done what he

could. And the end had been hot, flaming shame, and an exposure which

had driven him to the other end of England.

When he left the house next morning, though his mind was made up to go

to the squire and tell him all, he lingered on the white dusty road.

The sunlight fell about him in dazzling chequers, and, save for the

humming of the bees overhead and the whirr of a reaping-machine in a

neighbouring field, the stillness of the August noon hung with the

haze over the landscape. His heart, despite his resolution, grew hot

within him, as he looked around, and contrasted the peacefulness of

nature with the tumult of shame and agitation in his own breast. There

was the school which he opened with prayers four times a week. Between

the trees he caught a grey glimpse of the church--his church. As he

looked his secret grew more sordid, more formidable.

He turned at last with an effort to enter the gates, and saw Patty and

her sister, Mrs. Foley, coming down the avenue. They were still a long

way off, their light frocks and parasols flitting from sunlight to

shadow, and shadow to sunlight, as they advanced. The young man

halted. Had Patty been alone, he would have gone to her and told her

all; and surely, surely, though he doubted it at this moment, he would

have won comfort--for love laughs at vicarious shame. But the

Partridge's presence frightened him. Mrs. Foley, round and small and

plump, in all things the antithesis of her husband, had yet imbibed

something of Jim's dryness. The vicar feared her under the present

circumstances, and he turned and fled down the road. He would let them

pass--probably they were going to the vicarage--and he would then step

up and see the squire.

He was right in supposing that the ladies were going to the vicarage.

As they went in that direction, they came upon a strange dissolute old

man whom they eyed with wondering dislike, and to whom they gave a

wide berth as they passed. They had not gone by long before a third

person came through the lodge gates and sauntered after them. This was

Jim Foley, come out, with his hands in his pockets and a one-eyed

terrier at his heels, to smoke his morning pipe. He, too, espied the

old toper, and at sight of him took his pipe from his mouth and stood

in the middle of the road, an expression of surprise on his features;

while Mr. Jones, becoming aware of him too late--for his faculties

were not of the sharpest in the morning--also stood by some instinct

and looked, with a growing sense of unpleasant recognition, at his

lanky figure.

"Hallo!" said Jim. Mr. Jones did not answer, but stood blinking in the

sunshine. He looked more blear-eyed and shabby, more hopelessly gone

to seed, than he had looked in the vicarage dining-room.

"Hallo!" said Foley again. "My old friend Wilkins, I think!"

"My name is Jones," the man muttered.

"Ah, Jones is it? Jones _vice_ Wilkins resigned," Jim replied, with

ironical politeness. "Come down to Acton upon a little matter of

business, I suppose. Now look here, Jones _vice_ Wilkins," he

continued, pointing each sentence with a wave of his pipe, "I see your

game. You have come down here to screw out a ten-pound note, by

threatening to tell the squire some old story of my turf days. That is

it, isn't it?"

Mr. Jones opened his mouth to deny the charge but thought better of

it; either because of the settled scepticism which Foley's face

expressed, or because he saw a ten-pound note in the immediate future.

He remained silent.

"Just so," Foley went on with a nod, replacing his pipe in his mouth

and his hand in his pocket. "Well, it won't do. It won't do, do you

understand? Because, do you see, you have not accounted for the last

pony I sent you to put on Paradox for the Two Thousand. And I will

just trouble you for it and three to the back of it. Three to one was

the starting price, I think, Mr. Jones."

Mr. Jones's face fell abruptly, and he glared at Foley. "It never

reached me," he muttered huskily.

"You mean that you are not going to refund it," Jim retorted. "Well,

you don't look as if you had it. But I'll tell you what you'll do. You

will go back whence you came within three hours--there is a train at

two-forty, and you will go by it. You have caught a Tartar, do you

see?" Jim continued sternly, "and though you may, if you stay, give me

an unpleasant hour with the squire, I shall give you a much more

unpleasant hour with the policeman."

"But the squire----" the old man began; "the squire----"

"No, the policeman!" Foley retorted sharply. "Never mind the squire.

Keep your mind steadily on the policeman, and you will be the more

certain to catch the train. Now mind," Jim added, pausing to say

another word after he had turned away, "I am serious, my man. If I

find you here after the two-forty train has left, I give you in

charge, and we will both take the consequences."

Jim strolled on towards the vicarage, congratulating himself on his

presence of mind and chuckling over the skill with which he had foiled

this attempt on his pocket; while Mr. Jones, though his appetite for a

country walk was spoiled by the meeting, tottered onwards too, in the

opposite direction, rather than seem, by turning, to be dogging Foley,

who had inspired him with a very genuine terror. The consequence was

that the next turn in the road brought the old man face to face with

his son.

"Walter, I am going back," he said, quavering piteously. The interview

had shaken him. He seemed less offensive, less of a blot on the

landscape; on the other hand, more broken and older. It is not without

a sharp pang that the man who has once been a gentleman finds himself

threatened with the handcuffs, and forced to avoid the policeman.

The vicar had been for passing him in silence, but the statement

brought him to a standstill. What if his father should indeed go? To

explain him in his absence seemed an easy, almost a normal, task. Yet

he feared a trap, and he only answered, "I am glad to hear it."

"I am going by the two-forty train," the old man whined. "But I must

have a sovereign to pay my fare, Walter."

"You shall have it," the vicar said, his heart bounding.

"Give it me now! Give it me now!" his father repeated eagerly. "I tell

you I am going by the two-forty. Do you think I am a liar?"

Reluctantly--not because he grudged the money, but because he feared

that, the coins once obtained, his father would prove a liar, the

clergyman took out two pounds and handed them to him. The old man

gripped them with avidity, and, thrusting them and his hands into his

pocket, turned his back on the donor, and hobbled away, mumbling to

himself.

The vicar remained where he was, standing irresolute at the turn of

the road, which brought the lodge gates into view. He found it was a

quarter past twelve. He wondered what Patty was thinking of him, and

his strange avoidance of her. And what his housekeeper was thinking of

his guest, and whether many people had observed him. He began to feel

himself at a loose end in the familiar scene. He should have been

moving to and fro about his business; instead, he was here, hovering

stealthily upon the outskirts of the village, dreading men's eyes, and

prepared to fly from the first comer. By going straight to the squire

he might put an end to this intolerable position. But the temptation

to postpone his explanation until his father had left overcame him,

and he turned and walked from the village.

He long remembered that tramp in the heat and dust. Throughout it he

was weighed down by the feeling that he was an outcast, that people

who met him looked strangely at him, that while he roamed aimlessly

his duty called him home. Presently a new fear rose to vex his

soul--that his father would not keep his word; the consequence of

which was that half an hour before the train started he was lurking

about the fir-plantation at the back of the station-house, peeping at

the platform, which lay grilling in the sunshine, and tormenting

himself with the suspicion that his watch was wrong.

Presently the station woke up. One or two people arrived, and took

seats on a barrow in a shady place. The station-master labelled a

hamper and gave out a ticket. Then some one who was by no means

welcome to the vicar appeared--Jim Foley. He did not enter the

station, but the vicar caught sight of him standing on the bridge

which carried the road over the railway. What was more, Jim Foley at

the same moment discovered the vicar.

Jim looked elsewhere, but he had his suspicions. "Hallo!" he muttered.

"Friend Jones grows more of a riddle than ever. I suppose he has had

dealings with Master Wilkins, and has an equal interest with me in

seeing him off. I hope he has got rid of him as cheaply! But it is

odd! I shall tell the Partridge, and hear what she says. She likes

him."

He forgot his wife a few minutes later, when the train had steamed

slowly in, and stood, and steamed out again, and the two people who

had come by it had passed him, and even the vicar, slowly and

perforce, had crawled up to him on the bridge. Foley by that time had

found something else to consider. "I say," he exclaimed on the impulse

of the moment, meeting the clergyman open-mouthed, "this won't do, you

know."

Jones was dazed, struck down and prostrated by his disappointment.

"What," he said feebly--"what won't do?"

"He has not gone!"

"No!"

"The old buffer! I guessed what was up when I saw you hanging about.

Did he get anything out of you?"

The question sounded brutal, but the clergyman answered it. "Yes," he

said, his cheek dark--and he looked down at the end of his stick and

wondered how the other had found it out. "Two sovereigns."

"By Jove! Well, what is to be done now--that is the question?"

"I shall go to the squire," Jones said.

"What? And tell him this?"

"Yes."

Jim shrugged his shoulders. "Well," he said, after a pause in which he

tried to see if this would hurt him, "I dare say it is the best thing

you can do. While you are telling other things, perhaps you may as

well throw this in."

Jim strolled towards the Acton Arms, after making this handsome

concession, much puzzled in his mind by the new light which events

were shedding on the character of Jones. The discovery that his future

brother-in-law had done a little betting did not surprise him. But, in

conjunction with the entanglement to which the vicar had owned the day

before, it seemed to indicate a character so different from the model

of propriety he had hitherto known, that he was staggered. "And he

never kills a thing," Jim thought, turning it over. "You would not

think that he knew what sport meant!"

The village policeman was loitering outside the inn, and Foley, who

had a word for every one, invited him to come in and have a glass of

ale. The road in front of the Acton Arms is separated from the Chase

only by a sunk fence; and Jim, casting a glance behind him as he

entered, could see the windows of the great house flashing in the

sunlight, and the vicar pounding along the avenue towards them. He

went in, the constable at his heels, and turned into the cool fireless

taproom, which he took to be empty. His stick had scarcely rung on the

oak table, however, before a man who had been sitting on the settle,

his head on his hands and his senses lost in a drunken stupor, leapt

up and, supporting himself by the table, glared at the two intruders.

"Ah!" the squire's son-in-law said drily, "so you are here, Master

Jones _vice_ Wilkins, are you? I might have known where to find you!"

It is probable that the wretched man, recognising him, and seeing the

policeman with him, thought that they had come to arrest him. Roused

thus abruptly from his slumbers, bemused and drink-sodden, he saw in a

flash the hand of the law stretched out to grasp him, and an old and

ungovernable terror seized upon his shattered nerves. "Keep off! keep

off!" he gasped, clawing at the two with his trembling hands. "You

shall not take me! I will not be taken! Don't you see I am a

gentleman?"--this last in a feeble scream.

"Easy, easy, old fellow," Jim said, surprised by his violence, "or you

will be doing yourself a mischief."

But the words only confirmed the poor man in his mistake. "I won't be

taken!" he cried, waving them off. "My son will pay you, I tell you,"

he cried, his voice rising in a shriek which rang in the road outside,

and startled the house-dog sleeping in the sunshine--"I tell you my

son will pay you!" One of his hands as he spoke overturned the empty

glass, and it rolled off the table--on such trifles life rests. For

the policeman instinctively started forward to catch it, and the old

man misunderstood the movement. He fell in a fit on the floor.

Of course there was a great commotion. The inn was roused from its

afternoon slumber, and the policeman was sent for the doctor; with one

thing and another half an hour elapsed before Foley left the house and

slowly made his way to the Chase. He was thinking a great deal more

seriously than was his wont. As hard as nails, some of his friends

called him; but there is a soft spot in these men who are as hard as

nails, if one can find it. Approaching the house, he caught sight of

his sister-in-law, and shrugged his shoulders and shook himself to get

rid of unpleasant thoughts. Patty was a favourite with him, and,

seeing her loitering round the sweep before the house, he guessed that

she was waiting to intercept her betrothed and learn the cause of his

conduct. Jim said a naughty word under his breath and went to her, as

if he had something to say. But, reaching her, he listened instead--as

a man must when a woman has a mind to speak.

"What is it, Jim?" she broke out. Her eyes were full of trouble and

her pale complexion was a shade paler than usual. "What is the matter

with Walter? He did not dine here last night, though he meant to do

so. And when we went to learn the reason this morning he was out. He

was away at luncheon-time, and the school had never been visited. And

now, when he appeared at last, he told Robert not to call me, and said

he would wait in papa's study until he came in."

She stopped. "He is here now?" Jim asked.

"Yes; papa has come in, and they are in the bowling-green."

"I will go to them," he said.

"But, Jim, what is it?" she repeated, speaking with a little quaver in

her voice; and laying her hand on his arm, she detained him. "Tell me,

is there anything the matter?"

Jim looked down at her. She was one of those soft plump feminine women

who seem made to be protected--whom to hurt seems as wicked as to harm

a child. "The matter?" he said. "Nothing that I know of. What should

be the matter? I will go and see them."

He escaped from her and, entering the hall, of which both the front

and back doors were open, he found that she was right. The young

vicar, the dust on his shoes and an unwonted shade of depression

darkening his face, was walking up and down the sward with the

squire--a little man as choleric as he was kind-hearted, who passed

two-thirds of his waking hours in breeches and gaiters. Jim Foley

strode towards them, a purpose in his mind. The vicar, just embarked

on his confession, found it interrupted and made a thousand times more

difficult. "Jones has come to explain matters, I hope, sir," Jim said.

The clergyman winced. "He has come to turn my brain, I think," the

squire cried, angry and suspicious. "I cannot make out what he would

be at."

"I was telling you, sir," the vicar answered with some

impatience--"that my father----"

"You had better leave your father alone, I think!" Foley struck in

with a manner like the snapping of a trap. "And explain to Mr. Stanton

the matter you mentioned to me yesterday."

"I was explaining it!" the clergyman rejoined. "I was saying that my

father--he was at school with you, sir, you remember?"

"To be sure," the squire said, his grey whiskers curling with

impatience as he looked from one to the other. "And at college."

"He lost money after my mother's death," the young man continued, "and

went to live in Glasgow." In his shrinking from the disclosure he had

to make his voice took a rambling tone as he added, "I think I told

you that, sir."

"To be sure! Twice!

"But I did not tell you," the clergyman replied, driving his

stick into the ground and working it about while his face grew

scarlet--"and I take great shame to myself that I did not, Mr.

Stanton--that my father was much----"

"Good heavens, Jones!" Jim broke out, his patience exhausted. "What on

earth has your father to do with it? Yesterday you gave me to

understand that you had some entanglement which weighed on your mind.

And I thought that you had come here to make a clean breast of it.

Instead of which--for Heaven's sake man, don't make me think that you

are not running straight!"

The vicar glared at him, while the squire gazed at both. "But that old

man," Jones said at last, almost at choking point by this time, "whom

you saw this afternoon was----"

Jim struck in again savagely. "We do not want to know anything about

him either. As for him, he is----"

"My father!"

"He is dead," Jim persisted, raising his hand for silence, and

determined to keep his man to the point and to have things

straightened out. "We do not want to hear anything about him. He is

dead. We want----"

"Who is dead?"

The question was the vicar's. He wheeled round as he put it, his face

white, his voice changed. The squire, who, like most listeners, had

learned more than the talkers, saw his tremendous agitation, and,

grasping some idea of the truth, tried to intercept Foley's answer.

But he was too late. "The old fellow we went to see off," Jim said,

almost lightly. "He is dead. Died in a fit half an hour ago, I tell

you."

"Dead?"

"Yes, dead. At least the doctor says so."

The vicar put his hands to his face, and turned away, his back

shaking. The others looked at him. "He was--he was my father!" he

murmured--almost under his breath. And even Jim, his eyes as wide as

saucers, understood.

"Fetch some wine, you fool" the squire muttered, giving him a nudge.

And he put his arm round the clergyman, and led him to a seat in the

shade. There, I think, Walter Jones prayed that he might not be

thankful. Man is weak. And conventional man very weak.

Once a gentleman always a gentleman, was the squire's motto. There was

no attempt at concealment. The poor man, whose life had been so

unlovely, lay at peace at last in the best room at the vicarage, and

was presently, with some tears of pity shed by gentle eyes, laid in a

quiet corner of the churchyard. There was talk, of course, but the

talk was confined to the village, where the possession of a drunken

father was not uncommon, or uncharitably considered. The worst of the

dead man was known only to Jim Foley, and he kept it even from his

wife; while any Spartan thoughts which the squire might otherwise have

entertained, any objections he might have raised to his daughter's

match, were rendered futile and quixotic by the strange mode in which

the denouement had been reached in his presence. He consented, and

all--after an interval--went well. But the vicar will sometimes, I

think, in the days to come, when prosperity laps him round, wander to

the churchyard and recall the hot noon when he walked the roads

haunted by that strange sense of forlornness and ruin.

THE OTHER ENGLISHMAN

THE OTHER ENGLISHMAN

"You are English, I take it, sir?"

It was clear to me that the speaker was. I was travelling alone, and

had not fallen in with three Englishmen in as many weeks. I turned to

inspect the new-comer with a cordiality his smudged and smutty face

could not wholly suppress. "I am," I answered, "and I am glad to meet

a fellow-countryman."

"You are a stranger here?" He did not take his eyes from me, but he

indicated by a gesture of his thumb the busy wharf below piled high

with hundreds and thousands of crates full of oranges. From the upper

deck of the _San Miguel_ we looked down upon it, and could see all

that came or went in the trim basin about us. The _San Miguel_, a

steamer of the Segovia Quadra and Company's line, bound for several

places on the coast southward, was waiting to clear out of El Grao,

the harbour of Valencia, and I was waiting impatiently to clear out

with her. "You are a stranger here?" he repeated.

"Yes; I have been in the town four or five days, but otherwise I am a

stranger," I answered.

"You are not in the trade?" he continued. He meant the orange trade.

"No, I am not. I am travelling for pleasure," I answered readily. "You

will understand that, though it is more than a Frenchman or Spaniard

can." I smiled as I spoke, but he was not very responsive.

"It is a queer place to visit for pleasure," he said, looking from me

to the busy throng about the orange crates.

"Not at all," I retorted. "It is a lively town and quaint, and it is

warm and sunny. I cannot say as much for Madrid, from which I came two

or three weeks back."

"Come straight here?" he asked.

I was growing tired of his curiosity, but I answered, "No. I stayed a

short time at Toledo and Aranjuez, and at several other places."

"You speak Spanish?"

"Not much. _Muy poco de Castellano_," I laughed, calling to mind the

maddening grimace by which the Spanish peasant indicates that he does

not understand, and is not going to understand you. He is a good

fellow, is Sancho Panza, but having made up his mind that you do not

speak Spanish, the purest Castilian is not Spanish for him.

"You are going some way with us--perhaps to Carthagena?" the

inquisitor persisted.

He laid some stress on the last word, and with it shot a sly glance at

me--a glance so unpleasantly suggestive that I did not answer him at

once. Instead, I looked at him more closely. He was a wiry young

fellow, rather below than above the middle height, to all appearance

the chief engineer. Everything about him, not excluding the

atmosphere, was greasy and oily, as if he had come straight from the

engine-room. The whites of his eyes showed with unlovely prominence.

Seeing him thus, I took a dislike for him. "To Carthagena!" I answered

brusquely. "I am not going to stay at Carthagena. Why should you

suppose so? Unless, indeed," I added, as another construction of his

words occurred to me, "you think I want to see some fighting? No, I

fancy the fun might grow too furious."

I should say that three days before there had been a mutiny among the

troops at Carthagena. An outlying fort had been captured, and the

governor of the city killed before the attempt was suppressed. The

news was in every one's mouth, and I fancied that his question

referred to it.

My manner or my words disconcerted him. Without saying more he turned

away, not going below at once, but standing on the main deck near the

office in the afterpart. There was a good deal of bustle in that

quarter. The captain, the second officer, and clerk were there, giving

and taking receipts and what not. He did not speak to them, but leaned

against the rail close at hand. I had an uncomfortable feeling that he

was watching me; and this gave rise to a shrinking from the man, which

did not affect me always, but returned from time to time.

Presently the dinner-bell rang, and simultaneously the _San Miguel_

moved out to sea. We were to spend the next day at Alicante, and the

following one at Carthagena.

Dinner was not a cheerful meal. The officers of the ship did not speak

English or French, and were not communicative in any language. Besides

myself there were only three first-class passengers. They were ladies,

relatives of the newly appointed Governor of Carthagena, and about to

join him there. I have no doubt that they were charming and

fashionable people, but their partiality for the knife in eating

prejudiced them unfairly in English eyes. Consequently, when I came on

deck again, and the engineer--he told me his name was Sleigh--sidled

up to me, I received him graciously. He proffered the omnipresent

cigarette, and I provided him with something to drink. He urged me to

go down with him and see the engine-room, and after some hesitation I

did so. It was after dinner.

"I have pretty much my own way," he boasted. "They cannot do without

English engineers. They tried once, and lost three boats in six

months. In harbour, my time is my own. I have seven stokers under me,

all Spaniards. They tried it on with me when I first came aboard! But

the first that out with his knife to me I knocked on the head with a

shovel. I have had none of their sauce since!"

"Was he much hurt?" I asked, scanning my companion. He was not big,

and he slouched. But there was an air of swaggering dare-devilry about

him that gave colour to his story.

"I don't know," he answered. "They took him to the hospital, and he

never came aboard again. That is all I know."

"I suppose your pay is good?" I suggested. To confess the truth, I

felt myself at a disadvantage with him down there. The flaring lights

and deep shadows, the cranks and pistons whirling at our elbows, the

clank and din, and the valves that hissed at unexpected moments, were

matters of every hour to him; they imbued me with a desire to

propitiate. As my after-dinner easiness abated, I regretted that it

had induced me to come down.

He laughed harshly. "Pretty fair," he said, "with my opportunities. Do

you see that jacket?"

"Yes."

"That is my shore-going jacket," with a wink. "Here, look at it!"

I complied. It appeared at first sight to be an ordinary sailor's

pea-coat; but, looking more closely, I found that inside were dozens

of tiny pockets. At the mouth of each pocket a small hook was fixed to

the lining.

"They are for watches," he explained, when he saw that I did not

comprehend. "I get five francs over the price for every one I carry

ashore to a friend of mine--duty free, you understand."

I nodded to show that I did understand. "And which is your port for

that?" I asked, desiring to say something as I turned to ascend.

He touched me on the shoulder, and I found his face close to mine. His

eyes glittered in the light of the lamp that hung by the steam-gauge;

they had the same expression that had perplexed me before dinner. "At

Carthagena!" he whispered, bringing his face still closer to mine. "At

Carthagena! Wait a minute, mate, I have told you something," he went

on. "I am not too particular, and, what is more, I am not afraid!

Ain't you going to tell me something?"

"I have nothing to tell you!" I answered, staring at him.

"Ain't you going to tell me something, mate?" he repeated. His voice

was low, but it seemed to me that there was a menace in it.

"I have not an idea what you mean, my good fellow," I said, and,

turning abruptly, my eye discovered a shovel lying ready to his

hand--I ran as nimbly as I could up the steep ladder, and gained the

deck. Once there, I looked down. He was still standing by the lamp,

staring up at me, chagrin plainly written on his face. Even as I

watched him he rounded his lips to an oath; and then seemed to hold it

over until he should be better assured of its necessity.

I thought no worse of him for his revelations. In a country where the

head of the custom-house lives like a prince on the salary of a

beggar, smuggling is no sin. But I was angry with him, and vexed

with myself for the haste with which I had met his advances. I

disliked and distrusted him. Whether he was mad, or took me for

another smuggler--which seemed the most probable hypothesis--or had

conceived some false idea of me, whatever the key to the enigma of his

manner might be, I felt that I should do well to avoid him.

Like should mate with like, and I am not a violent man. I should not

feel at home in a duel, though the part were played with the most

domestic of fire shovels, much less with a horrible thing out of a

stoke-hole.

About half-past ten the _San Miguel_ began to roll, and I took the

hint and went below. The small saloon was empty, the lamp turned down.

As I passed the steward's pantry I looked in and begged a couple of

biscuits. I am a tolerable sailor, but when things are bad my policy

is comprised in "berth and biscuits." With this provision against

misfortune, I retired to my cabin, happy in the knowledge that it was

a four-berth one, and that I was its sole occupant.

In truth I came near to chuckling as I looked round it. I did not need

the experience I had had of a cabin three feet six inches by six feet

three, shared with a drunken Spaniard, to lead me to view with

contentment my present quarters. A lamp in a glass case lighted at

once the cabin and the passage outside, and gave assurance that it

would burn all night. On my right hand were an upper and lower berth,

and on my left the same, with standing room between. A couch occupied

the side facing me. The sliding door was supplemented by a curtain.

What joy--to one who had known other things--to arrange this and stow

that, and fearlessly to place in the rack sponge and tooth-brush! What

wonder if I blessed the firm of Segovia Quadra and Company as I sank

back upon my well-hung mattress.

I sleep well at sea. The motion suits me. A slight qualm of

sea-sickness does but induce a pleasant drowsiness. I love a snug

berth under the porthole, and to hear the swish and wash of the water

racing by, and the crisp plash as the vessel dips her forefoot under,

and the complaint of the stout timbers as they creak and groan in the

bowels of the ship.

Cosy and warm, I fell asleep, and dreamed that I was again in the

engine-room, seated opposite to the other Englishman. "Haven't you

something to tell me? Haven't you something to tell me?" he droned

monotonously, wagging his head from side to side, with the perplexing

smile on his face which had distressed me waking. "Haven't you

something to tell me?"

I strove to say that I had not, because I knew that if I did not

satisfy him, he would do some dreadful thing, though I did not know

what. But I could not utter the words, and while I struggled with this

horrible impotency, the thing was done. I was bound hand and foot to

the crank of the engine, and was going up and down with it, up and

down! I wept and prayed to be released, but the villain took no heed

of my prayers. He sat on, regarding my struggles with the same

impassive smile. In despair I strove to think what it was he

wanted--what it was--what----