CHAPTER XXVII.

THE QUARREL.

It is grievous, when ill-feeling arises between brothers, that that

ill-feeling should be cherished instead of being subdued. But such was

the case with Anthony and Herbert Dare. By the time the sunny month of

May came in, matters had grown to such a height between them, that Mr.

Dare found himself compelled to interfere. It was beginning to make

things in the house uncomfortable. They would meet at meals, and not

only abstain from speaking to each other, but take every possible

opportunity of showing mutual and marked discourtesy. No positive

outbreak between them had as yet taken place in the presence of the

family: but it was only smouldering, and might be daily looked for.

Mr. Dare, so far as the original cause went, blamed his eldest son.

Undoubtedly Anthony had been solely in fault. It was a dishonourable,

ungenerous, unmanly act, to draw his brother into trouble, and to do it

plausibly and deceitfully. At the _present_ stage of the affair, Mr.

Dare saw occasion to blame Herbert more than Anthony. "It is you who

keep up the ball, Herbert," he said to him. "If you would suffer the

matter to die away, Anthony would do so." "Of course he would," Herbert

replied. "He has served his turn, and would be glad that it should end

there."

It was in vain that Mr. Dare talked to them. A dozen times did he

recommend them to "shake hands and make it up." Neither appeared

inclined to take the advice. Anthony was sullen. He would have been

content to let the affair drop quietly into oblivion: perhaps, as

Herbert said, had been glad that it should so drop; but, make the

slightest move towards it, he would not. Herbert openly said that _he'd_

not shake hands. If Anthony wanted ever to shake hands with him again,

let him pay up.

_There_ lay the grievance; "paying up." The bills, not paid, were a

terrible thorn in the side of Herbert Dare. He was responsible, and he

knew not one hour from another but he might be arrested on them. To

soothe matters between his sons, Mr. Dare would willingly have taken the

charge of payment upon himself, but he had positively not the money to

do it with. In point of fact, Mr. Dare was growing seriously embarrassed

on his own score. He had had a great deal of trouble with his sons, with

Anthony in particular, and he had grown sick and tired of helping them

out of pecuniary difficulties. Still, he would have relieved Herbert of

this one nightmare, had it been in his power. Herbert had been deluded

into it, without any advantage to himself; therefore Mr. Dare had the

will, could he have managed it, to help him out. He told Herbert that he

would see what he could do after a while. The promise did not relieve

Herbert of present fears; neither did it restore peace between the

malcontents. Had Herbert been relieved of that particular embarrassment,

others would have remained to him; but that fact did not in the least

lessen his soreness, as to the point in question.

It was an intensely hot day; far hotter than is usual at the season; and

the afternoon sun streamed full on the windows of Pomeranian Knoll,

suggesting thoughts of July, instead of May. A gay party--at any rate, a

party dressed in gay attire--were crossing the hall to enter a carriage

that waited at the door. Mr. Dare, Mrs. Dare, and Adelaide. Mrs. Dare

had always been given to gay attire, and her daughters had inherited her

taste. They were going to dine at a friend's house, a few miles'

distance from Helstonleigh. The invitation was for seven o'clock. It was

now striking six, the dinner-hour at Mr. Dare's.

Minny, looking half melted, had perched herself upon the end of the

balustrades to watch the departure.

"You'll fall, child," said Mr. Dare.

Minny laughed, and said there was no danger of her falling. She wondered

what her father would think if he saw her sometimes at her gymnastics on

the balustrades, taking a sweeping slide from the top to the bottom. She

generally contrived that he should not see her; or mademoiselle either.

Mademoiselle had caught sight of the performance once, and had given her

a whole French fable to learn by way of punishment.

"Are we to have strawberries for dinner, mamma?" asked Minny.

"You will have what I have thought proper to order," replied Mrs. Dare

rather sharply. She was feeling hot and cross. Something had put her out

while dressing.

"I think you might wait for strawberries until they are ripe in our own

garden; not buy them regardless of cost," interposed Mr. Dare, speaking

for the general benefit, but not to any one in particular.

Minny dropped the subject. "Your dress is turned up, Adelaide," said

she.

Adelaide looked languidly behind her, and a maid, who had followed them

down, advanced and put right the refractory dress: a handsome dress of

pink silk, glistening with its own richness. At that moment Anthony

entered the hall. He had just come home to dinner, and looked in a very

bad humour.

"How late you'll be!" he cried.

"Not at all. We shall drive there in an hour."

They swept out at the door, Mrs. Dare and Adelaide. Mr. Dare was about

to follow them when a sudden thought appeared to strike him, and he

turned back and addressed Anthony.

"You young men take care that you don't get quarrelling with each other.

Do you hear, Anthony?"

"I hear," ungraciously replied Anthony, not turning to speak, but

continuing his way up to his dressing-room. He probably regarded the

injunction with contempt, for it was too much in Anthony Dare's nature

so to regard all advice, of whatever kind. Nevertheless it had been well

that he had given heed to it. It had been well that that last word to

his father had been one of affection!

Dinner was served. Anthony, in the absence of Mr. and Mrs. Dare, took

the head. Rosa, with a show of great parade and ceremony, assumed the

seat opposite to him and said she should be mistress. Minny responded

that Rosa was not going to be mistress over her, and the governess

desired Miss Rosa not to talk so loudly. Rather derogatory checks,

these, to the dignity of a "mistress."

Herbert was not at table. Irregular as the young Dares were in many of

their habits, they were generally home to dinner. Minny wondered aloud

where Herbert was. Anthony replied that he was "skulking."

"Skulking!" echoed Minny.

"Yes, skulking," angrily repeated Anthony. "He left the office at three

o'clock, and has never been near it since. And the governor left at

four!" he added, in a tone that seemed to say he considered that also a

grievance.

"Where did Herbert go to?" asked Rosa.

"I don't know," responded Anthony. "I only know that I had a double

share of work to do."

Anthony Dare was no friend to work. And having had to do a little more

than he would have done had Herbert remained at his post, had

considerably aggravated his temper.

"Why should Monsieur Herbert go away and leave you his work to do?"

inquired the governess, lifting her eyes from her plate to Anthony.

"I shall take care to ask him why," returned Anthony.

"It is not fair that he should," continued mademoiselle. "I would not

have done it for him, Monsieur Anthony."

"Neither should I, had I not been obliged," said Anthony, not in the

least relaxing from his ill-humour, either in looks or tone. "It was

work that had to be done before post-time, and one of our clerks is away

on business to-day."

Dinner proceeded to its close. Joseph hesitated, unwilling to remove the

cloth. "Is it to be left for Mr. Herbert?" he asked.

"No!" imperiously answered Anthony. "If he cannot come in for dinner,

dinner shall not be kept for him."

"Cook is keeping the things by the fire, sir."

"Then tell her to save herself the trouble."

So the cloth was removed, and dessert put on. To Minny's inexpressible

disappointment it turned out that there were no strawberries. This put

_her_ into an ill-humour, and she left the table and the room, declaring

she would not touch anything else. Mademoiselle Varsini called her back,

and ordered her to her seat; she would not permit so great a breach of

discipline. Cyril and George, who were not under mademoiselle's control,

gulped down a glass of wine, and hastened out to keep an engagement. It

was a very innocent one; a cricket match had been organized for the

evening, by some of the old college boys; and Cyril and George were

amongst the players. It has never been mentioned that Mr. Ashley, in his

strict sense of justice, had allowed Cyril the privilege of spending his

evenings at home five nights in the week, as he did to William

Halliburton.

The rest remained at table. Minny, per force; Rosa, to take an unlimited

quantity of oranges; Mademoiselle Varsini, because it was the custom to

remain. But mademoiselle soon rose and withdrew with her pupils; Anthony

was not showing himself a particularly sociable companion. He had not

touched any dessert; but seemed to be drinking a good deal of wine.

As they were going out of the room, Herbert bustled in. "Now then, take

care!" cried he, for Minny, paying little attention to her movements,

had gone full tilt at him.

"Oh! Herbert, can't you see?" cried she, dolefully rubbing her head.

"What made you so late? Dinner's gone away."

"It can be brought in again," replied Herbert carelessly. "Comme il est

chaud! n'est-ce pas, mademoiselle?"

This last was addressed to the governess. Rosa screamed with laughter at

his bad French, and mademoiselle smiled. "You get on in French as you do

in Italian, Monsieur Herbert," cried she. "And that is what you

call--backward."

Herbert laughed good-humouredly. He did not know what particular mistake

he had made; truth to say, he did not care. They withdrew, and he rang

the bell for his dinner.

"Mind, Herbert," cried Minny, putting in her head again at the door,

"papa said you were not to quarrel."

Better, perhaps, that she had not said it! Who can tell?

The brothers remained alone. Anthony sullen, and, as yet, silent. He

appeared to have emptied the port wine decanter, and to be beginning

upon the sherry! Herbert strolled past him; supreme indifference in his

manner--some might have said contempt--and stood just outside the

window, whistling.

You have not forgotten that this dining-room window opened to the

ground. The apartment was long and somewhat narrow, the window large and

high, and opening in the centre, after the manner of a French one. The

door was at one end of the room; the window at the other.

Anthony was in too quarrelsome a mood to remain silent long. He began

the skirmish by demanding what Herbert meant by absenting himself from

the office for the afternoon, and where he had been to. His resentful

tones, his authoritative words, were not calculated to win a very civil

answer.

They did not win one from Herbert. _His_ tones were resentful, too; his

words were coolly aggravating. Anthony was not his master; when he was,

he might, perhaps, answer him. Such was their purport.

A hot interchange of words ensued. Nothing more. Anthony remained at the

table; Herbert, half in, half out of the window, leaned against its

frame. When Joseph returned to put things in readiness for Herbert's

dinner, they had subsided into quietness. It was only a lull in the

storm.

Joseph placed the dessert nearer Anthony's end of the table, and laid

the cloth across the other end. Herbert came into the room. "What a time

you are with dinner, Joseph!" cried he. "One would think it was being

cooked over again."

"Cook's warming it, sir."

"Warming it!" echoed Herbert. "Why couldn't she keep it warm? She might

be sure I should be home to dinner."

"She was keeping it warm, sir; but Mr. Anthony ordered it to be put

away."

Now, the man had really no intention of making mischief when he said

this: that it might cause ill-feeling between the brothers never crossed

his mind. He was only anxious that he and the cook should stand free

from blame; for the young Dares, when displeased with the servants, were

not in the habit of sparing them. Herbert turned to Anthony.

"What business have you to interfere with my dinner? Or with anything

else that concerns me?"

"I choose to make it my business," insolently retorted Anthony.

At this juncture Joseph left the room. He had laid the cloth, and had

nothing more to stay for. Better perhaps that he had remained! Surely

they would not have proceeded to extremities, the brothers, before their

servant! In a short time, sounds, as if both were in a terrible state of

fury, resounded through the house from the dining-room. The sounds did

not reach the kitchen, which was partially detached from the house; but

the young ladies heard them, and came running out of the drawing-room.

The governess was in the school-room. The noise penetrated even there.

She also came forth, and saw her two pupils extended over the

balustrades, listening. At any other time mademoiselle would have

reproved them: now she crept down and leaned over in company.

"What can be the matter?" whispered she.

"Papa told them not to quarrel!" was all the answer, uttered by Minny.

It was a terrible quarrel--there was little doubt of that; no child's

play. Passionate bursts of fury rose incessantly, now from one, now from

the other, now from both. Hot recrimination; words that were not suited

to unaccustomed ears--or to any ears, for the matter of that--rose high

and loud. The governess turned pale, and Minny burst into tears.

"Some one ought to go into the room," said Rosa. "Minny, you go! Tell

them to be quiet."

"I am afraid," replied Minny.

"So am I."

A fearful sound: an explosion louder than all the rest. A noise as if

some heavy weight had been thrown down. Had it come to blows? Minny

shrieked, and at the same moment Joseph was seen coming along with a

tray, Herbert's dinner upon it.

His presence seemed to bring with it a sense of courage, and Rosa and

Minny flew down followed by the governess. Herbert had been knocked down

by Anthony. He was gathering himself up when Joseph opened the door.

Gathering himself up in a tempest of passion, his white face a livid

fury, as he caught hold of a knife from the table and rushed upon

Anthony.

But Joseph was too quick for him. The man dashed his tray on the table,

seized Herbert, and turned the uplifted knife downwards. "For Heaven's

sake, sir, recollect yourself!" said he.

Recollect himself then? No. Persons, who put themselves into that mad

state of passion, cannot "recollect" themselves. Joseph kept his hold,

and the dining-room resounded with shrieks and sobs. They proceeded from

Rosa and Minny. They pulled their brothers by the coats, they implored,

they entreated. The women servants came flying from the kitchen, and the

Italian governess asked the two gentlemen in French whether they were

not ashamed of themselves.

Perhaps they were. At any rate the quarrel was, for the time, ended.

Herbert flung the knife upon the table and turned his white face upon

his brother.

"Take care of yourself, though!" cried he, in marked tones: "I swear you

shall have it yet."

They pulled Anthony out of the room, Rosa and Minny; or it is difficult

to say what rejoinder he might have made, or how violently the quarrel

might have been renewed. It was certain that he had taken more wine than

was good for him; and that, generally speaking, did not improve the

temper of Anthony Dare. Mademoiselle Varsini walked by his side, talking

volubly in French. Whether she was sympathizing or scolding, Anthony did

not know. Not particularly bright at understanding French at the best of

times, even when spoken slowly, he could not, in his present excitement,

catch the meaning of a single word. Entering the drawing-room, he threw

himself upon the sofa, intending to smooth down his ruffled plumage by

taking a nap.

Herbert meanwhile had remained in the dining-room, smoothing down _his_

ruffled plumage. Joseph and the cook were bending over the _debris_ on

the carpet. When Joseph dashed down his tray on the table, a dish of

potatoes had bounded off; both dish and potatoes thereby coming to

grief. Herbert sat down and made an excellent dinner. He was not of a

sullen temper; and, unlike Anthony, the affair once over he was soon

himself again. Should they come into contact again directly, there was

no saying how it would end or what might ensue. His dinner over, he went

by-and-by to the drawing-room. Joseph had just entered, and was arousing

Anthony from the sleep he had dropped into. "One of the waiters from the

Star-and-Garter has come, sir. He says Lord Hawkesley has sent him to

say that the gentlemen are waiting for you."

"I can't go, tell him," responded Anthony, speaking as he looked,

thoroughly out of sorts. "I am not going out to-night. Here! Joseph!"

for the man was turning away with the message.

"Sir?"

"Take these, and bring me my slippers."

"These" were his boots, which he, not very politely, kicked off in the

ladies' presence, and sent flying after Joseph. The man stooped to pick

them up and was carrying them away.

"Here!--what a hurry you are in!" began Anthony again. "Take lights up

to my chamber, and the brandy, and some cold water. I shall make myself

comfortable there for the night. This room's unbearable, with its

present company."

The last was a shaft levelled at Herbert. He did not retort, for a

wonder. In fact, Anthony afforded little time for it. Before the words

had well left his lips, he had left the room. Herbert began to whistle;

its very tone insolent.

It appeared almost certain that the unpleasantness was not yet over; and

Rosa audibly wished her papa was at home. Joseph carried to Anthony's

room what he required, and then brought the tea to the drawing-room.

Herbert said he should take tea with them. It was rather unusual for him

to do so; it was very unusual for Anthony not to go out. Their sisters

felt sure that they were only staying in to renew hostilities; and again

Rosa almost passionately wished for the presence of her father.

It was dusk by the time tea was over. Herbert rose to leave the room.

"Where are you going?" cried mademoiselle sharply after him.

"That's my business," he replied, not in too conciliatory a tone.

Perhaps he thought the question proceeded from one of his sisters, for

he was outside the door when it reached him.

"He is going into Anthony's room!" cried Rosa, turning pale, as they

heard him run upstairs. "Oh, mademoiselle! what can be done? I think

I'll call Joseph."

"Hush!" cried mademoiselle. "Wait you here. I will go and see."

She stole out of the room and up the stairs, intending to reconnoitre.

But she had no time to do so. Herbert was coming down again, and she

could only slip inside the school-room door, and peep out. He had

evidently been upstairs for his cloak, for he was putting it on as he

descended.

"The cloak on a hot night like this!" said mademoiselle mentally. "He

must want to disguise himself!"

She stopped to listen. Joseph had come up the stairs, bringing something

to Anthony, and Herbert arrested him, speaking in low tones.

"Don't make any mistake to-night about the dining-room window, Joseph. I

can't think how you could have been so stupid last night!"

"Sir, I assure you I left it undone, as usual," replied Joseph. "It must

have been master who fastened it."

"Well, take care that it does not occur again," said Herbert. "I expect

to be in between ten and eleven; but I may be later, and I don't want to

ring you up again."

Herbert went swiftly downstairs and out, choosing to depart by the way,

as it appeared, that he intended to enter--the dining-room window.

Joseph proceeded to Anthony's chamber: and the governess returned to her

frightened pupils in the drawing-room.

"A la bonne heure!" she said to them. "Monsieur Herbert has gone out,

and I heard him say to Joseph that he had gone for the evening."

"Then it's all safe!" cried Minny. And she began dancing round the room.

"Mademoiselle, how pale you look!"

Mademoiselle had sat down in her place before the tea-tray, and was

leaning her cheek upon her hand. She was certainly looking unusually

pale. "Enough to make me!" she said, in answer to Minny. "If there were

to be this disturbance often in the house, I would not stop in it for

double my _appointements_. It has given me one of those _vilaine_

headaches, and I think I shall go to bed. You will not be afraid to stay

up alone, mesdemoiselles?"

"There is nothing to be afraid of now," promptly answered Rosa, who had

far rather be without her governess's company than with it. "Don't sit

up for us, mademoiselle."

"Then I will go at once," said mademoiselle. And she wished them good

night, and retired to her chamber.

PART THE THIRD.

CHAPTER I.

ANNA LYNN'S DILEMMA.

It was a lovely evening. One of those warm, still evenings that May

sometimes brings us, when gnats hum in the air, and the trees are at

rest. The day had been intensely hot: the evening was little less so,

and Anna Lynn leaned over the gate of their garden, striving to catch

what of freshness there might be in the coming night. The garish day was

fading into moonlight; the distant Malvern hills grew fainter and

fainter on the view; the little lambs in the field--growing into great

lambs now, some of them--had long lain down to rest; and the Thursday

evening bells came chiming pleasantly on the ear from Helstonleigh.

"How late he is to-night!" murmured Anna. "If he does not come soon, I

shall not be able to stay out."

Even as the words passed her lips, a faint movement might be

distinguished in the obscurity of the night, telling of the advent of

Herbert Dare. Anna looked round to see that the windows were clear from

prying eyes, and went forth to meet him.

He had halted at the usual place, under cover of the hedge. The hedge of

sweetbriar, skirting that side garden into which Signora Varsini had

made good her _entree_, in the gratification of her curiosity. A shaded

walk and a quiet one: very little fear there, of overlookers.

"Herbert, thee art late!" cried Anna.

"A good thing I was able to come at all," responded Herbert, taking

Anna's arm within his own. "I thought at one time I must have remained

at home, to chastise my brother Anthony."

"Chastise thy brother Anthony!" repeated Anna in astonishment.

Herbert, for the first time, told her of the unpleasantness that existed

between his brother and himself. He did not mention the precise cause;

but simply said Anthony had behaved ill to him, and drawn down upon him

trouble and vexation. Anna was all sympathy. Had Herbert told her the

offence had lain on his side, not on Anthony's, her entire sympathy had

still been his. She deemed Herbert everything that was good and great

and worthy. Anthony--what little she knew of him--she did not like.

"Herbert, maybe he will be striking thee in secret, when thee art

unprepared."

"Let him!" carelessly replied Herbert. "I can strike again. I am

stronger than he is. I know one thing: either he or I must leave my

father's house and take lodgings; we can't remain in it together."

"It would be he to leave, would it not, Herbert? Thy father would not be

so unjust as to turn thee out for thy brother's fault."

"I don't know about that," said Herbert. "I expect it is I who would

have to go. Anthony is the eldest, and my mother's favourite."

Anna lifted her hand, in her innocent surprise. Anthony the favourite by

the side of Herbert? She could not understand how so great an anomaly

could exist.

Interested in the topic, the time slipped on. During a moment of

silence, when they had halted in their walk, they heard what was called

the ten o'clock bell strike out from Helstonleigh: a bell that boomed

out over the city every night for ten minutes before ten o'clock. The

sound startled Anna. She had indeed overstayed her time.

"One moment, Anna!" cried Herbert, as she was preparing to fly off.

"There can't be any such hurry. Hester will not be going to bed yet, on

a hot night like this. I wanted you to return me that book, if you have

done with it. It is not mine, and I have been asked for it."

Truth to say, Anna would be glad to return it. The book was Moore's

"Lalla Rookh," and Anna had been upon thorns all the time she had been

reading it, lest by some unlucky mishap it might reach the eyes of

Patience. _She_ thought it everything that was beautiful; she had read

pages of it over and over again; they wore for her a strange

enchantment; but she had a shrewd suspicion that neither book nor

reading would be approved by Patience.

"I'll bring it out to thee at once, Herbert, if I can," she hastily

said. "If not, I will give it thee to-morrow evening."

"Not so fast, young lady," said Herbert, laughing, and detaining her.

"You may not come back again. I'll wish you good night now."

"Nay, please thee let me go! What will Hester say to me?"

Scarcely giving a moment to the adieu, Anna sped with swift feet to the

garden gate. But the moment she was within the barrier, and had turned

the key, she began--little dissembler that she was!--to step on slowly,

in a careless, _nonchalant_ manner, looking up at the sky, turning her

head to the trees, in no more hurry apparently than if bedtime were

three hours off. She had seen Hester Dell standing at the house door.

"Child," said Hester gravely, "thee shouldst not stay out so late as

this."

"It is so warm a night, Hester!"

"But thee shouldst not be beyond the premises. Patience would not like

it. It is past thy bedtime, too. Patience's sleeping-draught has not

come," she added, turning to another subject.

"Her sleeping-draught not come!" repeated Anna in surprise.

"It has not. I have been expecting the boy to knock every minute, or I

should have come to see after thee. Friend Parry may have forgotten it."

"Why, of course he must have forgotten it," said Anna, inwardly

promising the boy a sixpence for his forgetfulness. "The medicine always

comes in the morning. Will Patience sleep without it?"

"I fear me not. What dost thee think? Suppose I were to run for it?"

"Yes, do, Hester."

They went in, Hester closing the back door and locking it. She put on

her shawl and bonnet, and was going out at the front door when the clock

struck ten.

"It is ten o'clock, child," she said to Anna. "Thee go to bed. Thee

needst not sit up. I'll take the latch-key with me and let myself in."

"Oh, Hester! I don't want to go to bed yet," returned Anna fretfully.

"It is like a summer's evening."

"But thee hadst better, child," urged Hester. "Patience has been angry

with me once or twice, saying I suffer thee to sit up late. A pretty

budget she will be telling thy father on his return! Thee go to bed. Thy

candle is ready here on the slab. Good night."

Hester departed, shutting fast the door, and carrying with her the

latch-key. Anna, fully convinced that friend Parry's forgetfulness, or

the boy's, must have been designed as a special favour to herself, went

softly into the best parlour to take the book out of her pretty

work-table.

But the room was dark, and Anna could not find her keys. She believed

she had left her keys on the top of this very work-table; but feel as

she would she could not place her hands upon them. With a word of

impatience, lest, with all her hurry, Herbert Dare should be gone before

she could return to him with the book, she went to the kitchen, lighted

the chamber candle spoken of by Hester as placed ready for her use, and

carried it into the parlour.

Her keys were found on the mantel-piece. She unlocked the drawer, took

from it the book, blew out the candle, and ran through the garden to the

field.

Another minute, and Herbert would have left. He was turning away. In

truth, he had not in the least expected to see Anna back again. "Then

you have been able to come!" he exclaimed, in his surprise.

"Hester is gone out," explained Anna. "Friend Parry has forgotten to

send Patience's medicine, and Hester has gone for it. Herbert, thee only

think! But for Hester's expecting Parry's boy to knock at the door, she

would have come out here searching for me! She said she would. I must

never forget the time again. There's the book, and thank thee. I am

sorry and yet glad to give it thee back."

"Is that not a paradox?" asked Herbert, with a smile. "I do not know why

you should be either sorry or glad: to be both seems inexplicable."

"I am sorry to lose it: it is the most charming book I have read, and

but for Patience I should like to have kept it for ever," returned Anna

with enthusiasm. "But I always felt afraid of Hester's finding it and

carrying it up to Patience. Patience would be angry; and she might tell

my father. That is why I am glad to give it back to thee."

"Why did you not lock it up?" asked Herbert.

"I did lock it up. I locked it in my work-table drawer. But I forget to

put my keys in my pocket; I leave them about anywhere. I should have

been out with it sooner, but that I could not find the keys."

Anna was in no momentary hurry to run in now. Hester was safe for full

twenty minutes to come, therefore her haste need not be so great. She

knew that it was past her bedtime, and that Patience would be wondering

(unless by great good-fortune Patience should have dropped asleep) why

she did not go in to wish her good night. But these reflections Anna

conveniently ignored, in the charm of remaining longer to talk about the

book. She told Herbert that she had been copying the engravings, but she

must put the drawings in some safe place before Patience was about

again. "Tell me the time, please," she suddenly said, bringing her

chatter to a standstill.

Herbert took out his watch, and held its face towards the moon. "It is

twelve minutes past ten."

"Then I must be going in," said Anna. "She could be back in twenty

minutes, and she must not find me out again."

Herbert turned with her, and walked to the gate; pacing slowly, both of

them, and talking still. He turned in at the gate with her, and Anna

made no demur. No fear of his being seen. Patience was as safe in bed as

if she had been chained there, and Hester could not be back quite yet.

Arrived at the door, closed as Anna had left it, Herbert put out his

hand. "I suppose I must bid you a final good night now, Anna," he said

in low tones.

"That thee must. I have to come down the garden again to lock the gate

after thee. And Hester may not be more than three or four minutes

longer. Good night to thee, Herbert."

"Let me see that it is all safe for you, against you do go in," said

Herbert, laying his hand on the handle of the door to open it.

To open it? Nay: he could not open it. The handle resisted his efforts.

"Did you lock it, Anna?"

Anna smiled at what she thought his awkwardness. "Thee art turning it

the wrong way, Herbert. See!"

He withdrew his hand to give place to hers, and she turned the handle

softly and gently the contrary way; that is, she essayed to turn it. But

it would not turn for her, any more than it had turned for Herbert Dare.

A sick feeling of terror rushed over Anna, as a conviction of the truth

grew upon her. Hester Dell had returned, and she was locked out!

In good truth, it was no less a calamity. Hester Dell had not gone far

from the door on her errand, when she met the doctor's boy with his

basket, hastening up with the medicine. "I was just coming after it,"

said Hester to him. "Whatever brings thee so late?"

"Mr. Parry was called out this morning before he had time to make it up,

and he has only just come home," was the boy's reply.

"Better late than never," he somewhat saucily added.

"Well, so it is," acquiesced Hester, who rarely gave anything but a meek

retort. And she turned back home, letting herself in with the latch-key.

The house appeared precisely as she had left it, except that Anna's

candle had disappeared from the mahogany slab in the passage. "That's

right! the child's gone to bed," soliloquised she.

She proceeded to go to bed herself. The Quaker's was an early household.

All Hester had to do now, was to give Patience her sleeping-draught.

"Let me see," continued Hester, still in soliloquy, "I think I did lock

the back door."

To make sure, she tried the key and found it was not locked. Rather

wondering, for she certainly thought she _had_ locked it, but dismissing

the subject the next minute from her thoughts, she locked it now and

took the key out. Then she continued her way up to Patience. Patience,

lying there lonely and dull with her night-light, turned her eyes on

Hester.

"Did thee think we had forgotten thee, Patience? Parry has been out all

day, the boy says, and the physic is but this minute come."

"Where's Anna?" inquired Patience.

"She is gone to bed."

"Why did she not come to me as usual?"

"Did she not come?" asked Hester.

"I have seen nothing of her all the evening."

"Maybe she thought thee'd be dozing," observed Hester, bringing forward

the sleeping-draught which she had been pouring into a wine-glass. She

said no more. Her private opinion was that Anna had purposely abstained

from the visit lest she should receive a scolding for going to bed late,

her usual hour being half-past nine. Neither did Patience say any more.

She was feeling that Anna might be a little less ungrateful. She took

the draught, and Hester went to bed.

And poor Anna? To describe her dismay, her consternation, would be a

useless attempt. The doors were fast--the windows were fast also.

Herbert Dare essayed to soothe her, but she would not be soothed. She

sat down on the step of the back door and cried bitterly: all her

apprehension being for the terrible scolding she should have from

Patience, were it found out; the worse than scolding if Patience told

her father.

To give Herbert Dare his due, he felt truly vexed at the dilemma for

Anna's sake. Could he have let her in by getting down a chimney himself,

or in any other impromptu way, and so opened the door for her, he would

have done it. "Don't cry, Anna," he entreated, "don't cry! I'll take

care of you. Nothing shall harm you. I'll not go away."

The more he talked, the more she cried. Very like a little child. Had

Herbert Dare known how to break the glass without noise he would have

taken out a pane in the kitchen window, and so reached the fastening and

opened it. Anna, in worse terror than ever, begged him not to attempt

it. It would be sure to arouse Hester.

"But you'll be so cold, child, staying here all night!" he urged. "You

are shivering now."

Anna was shivering: shivering with vexation and fear. Herbert thought it

would be better that he should boldly knock up Hester; and he suggested

it: nay, he pressed it. But the proposal sounded more alarming to Anna

than any that had gone before it. It seemed that there was nothing to be

done.

How long she sat there, crying and shivering and refusing to be

comforted or to hear reason, she could not tell. Half the night, it

seemed. But Anna, you must remember, was counting time by her own state

of mind, not by the clock. Suddenly a bright thought, as a ray of light,

flashed into her brain.

"There's the pantry window," she cried, arresting her tears. "How could

I ever have forgotten it? There is no glass, and thee art strong enough

to push in the wire."

This pantry window Herbert Dare had known nothing about. It was at the

side of the house, thickly surrounded by shrubs; a square window frame,

protected by wire. He fought his way to it amidst the shrubs; but to get

in proved a work of time and difficulty. The window was at some height

from the ground, the wire was strong. Anna sat on the door-step, never

stirring, leaving him to get in if he could, her tears falling, and

terrific visions of Patience's anger chasing each other through her

mind. And the night went on.

"Anna!"

She could have shouted forth a cry of delight as she leaped up. He had

entered, had found his way to the kitchen window, had gently raised it,

and was softly calling to her. Some little difficulty still, but with

Herbert's assistance she was safely landed, a great tear in her dress

the only damage. He had managed to obtain a light by means of some

fusees in his pocket, and had lighted a candle. Anna sat down on a

chair, her face radiant through her tears. "How shall I ever thank

thee?"

He was looking at his fingers with a half-serious, half-mocking

expression of dismay. The wire had torn them in many places, and they

were bleeding. "I could have got in quicker had I forced the wire out in

the middle," he observed, "but that would have told tales. I pushed it

away from the side, and have pushed it back again into its place as well

as I could. Perhaps it may escape notice."

"How shall I ever thank thee?" was all Anna could repeat in her

gratitude.

"Now you know what you must do, Anna," said he. "I am going to jump out

through the window, and be off home. You must shut it and fasten it

after me: I'd shut it myself, after I'm out, but that these stains on my

fingers would be transferred to the frame. And when you leave the

kitchen, remember to turn the key of the door outside. I found it

turned. Do you understand? And now farewell, my little locked-out

princess. Don't say I have not worked wonders for you, as the good

spirits do in the fairy tales."

She caught his hand in her glad delight. She looked at him with a face

full of gratitude. Herbert Dare bent down and took a kiss from the

up-turned face. Perhaps he thought he had fairly earned the reward. Then

he proceeded to swing himself through the window, feeling delighted that

he had been able to free Anna from her dilemma.

Before Helstonleigh arose next morning, a startling report was

circulating through the city, the very air teeming with it. A report

that Anthony Dare had been killed in the night by his brother Herbert.

CHAPTER II.

COMMOTION.

The streets of Helstonleigh, lying so still and quiet in the moonlight,

were broken in upon by the noisy sound of a carriage, bowling through

them. A carriage that was abroad late. It wanted very little of the time

when the church clocks would boom out the two hours after midnight.

Time, surely, for all sober people to be in bed!

The carriage contained Mr. Dare, his wife and daughter. They went, as

you may remember, to a dinner party in the country. The dinner was

succeeded by an evening gathering, and it was nearly one o'clock when

they left the house to return. It wanted only five minutes to two when

the carriage stopped at their own home, and sleepy Joseph opened the

door to them.

"All in bed?" asked Mr. Dare, as he bustled into the hall.

"I believe so, sir," answered Joseph, as carelessly as he could speak.

Mr. Dare, he was aware, alluded to his sons; and not being by any means

sure upon the point, Joseph was willing to escape further questioning.

Two of the maids came forward--the lady's maid, as she was called in the

family, and Betsy. Betsy was no other than our old friend Betsy Carter:

once the little maid-of-all-work at Mrs. Halliburton's; risen now to be

a very fine housemaid at Mrs. Dare's. They had sat up to attend upon

Mrs. Dare and Adelaide.

Mr. Dare had been for a long while in the habit of smoking a pipe before

he went to bed. He would have told you that he could not do without it.

If business or pleasure took him out, he must have his pipe when he

returned, however late it might be.

"How hot it is!" he exclaimed, throwing back his coat. "Leave the hall

door open, Joseph: I'll sit outside. Bring me my pipe."

Joseph looked for the pipe in its appointed resting-place, and could not

see it. It was a small, handsome pipe, silver-mounted, with an amber

mouth-piece. The tobacco-jar was there, but Joseph could see nothing of

the pipe.

"Law! I remember!" exclaimed Betsy. "Master left it in the dining-room

last night, and I put it under the sideboard when I was doing the room

this morning, intending to bring it away. I'll go and get it."

Taking the candle from Joseph's hand, she turned hastily into the

dining-room. Not, however, as hastily as she came out of it. She rushed

out, uttering a succession of piercing shrieks, and seized upon Joseph.

The shrieks echoed through the house, upstairs and down, and Mr. Dare

came in.

"Why, what on earth's the matter, girl?" cried he. "Have you seen a

ghost?"

"Oh, sir! Oh, Joseph, don't let go of me; Mr. Anthony's lying in there,

dead!"

"Don't be a simpleton," responded Mr. Dare, staring at Betsy.

Joseph gave a rather less complimentary reprimand, and shook the girl

off. But suddenly, even as the words left his lips, there rose up before

his mind's eye the vision of the past evening: the quarrel, the threats,

the violence between Anthony and Herbert. A strange apprehension seated

itself in the man's mind.

"Be still, you donkey!" he whispered to Betsy, his voice scarcely

audible, his manner subdued. "I'll go in and see."

Taking the candle, he went into the dining-room. Mr. Dare followed. The

worst thought that occurred to Mr. Dare was, that Anthony might have

taken more wine than was good for him, and had fallen down, helpless, in

the dining-room. Unhappily, Anthony had been known so to transgress.

Only a week or two before----but let that pass: it has nothing to do

with us now.

Mr. Dare followed Joseph in. At the upper end of the room, near the

window, lay some one on the ground. It was surely Anthony. He was lying

on his side, his head thrown back, his face up-turned. A ghastly face,

which sent poor Joseph's pulses bounding on with a terrible fear as he

looked down at it. The same face which had scared Betsy when _she_

looked down.

"He is stark dead!" whispered Joseph, with a shiver, to Mr. Dare.

Mr. Dare, his own life-blood seeming to have stopped, bent over his son

by the light of the candle. Anthony appeared to be not only dead, but

cold. In his terrible shock, his agitation, he still remembered that it

was well, if possible, to spare the sight to his wife and daughter. Mrs.

Dare and Adelaide, alarmed by Betsy's screams, had run downstairs, and

were now hastening into the room.

"Go back! go back!" cried Mr. Dare, fencing them away with his hands.

"Adelaide, you must not come in! Julia," he added to his wife, in tones

of imploring entreaty, "go upstairs, and keep back Adelaide."

He half led, half pushed them across the hall. Mrs. Dare had never in

all her life seen his face as she saw it now--a face of terror. She

caught the fear; vaguely enough, it must be confessed, for she had not

heard Anthony's name, as yet, mentioned in connection with it.

"What is it?" she asked, holding on by the balustrades. "What is there

in the dining-room?"

"I don't know what it is," replied Mr. Dare, from between his white

lips. "Go upstairs! Adelaide, go up with your mother."

Mr. Dare was stopped by more screams. Whilst he was preventing immediate

terror to his wife and daughter, the lady's maid, her curiosity excited

beyond repression, had slipped into the dining-room, and peeped over

Joseph's shoulder. What she had expected to see she perhaps could not

have stated; what she did see was so far worse than her wildest fears,

that she lost sense of everything, except the moment's fear; and shriek

after shriek echoed from her.

A scene of confusion ensued. Mrs. Dare tried to force her way to the

room; Adelaide followed her; Betsy began bewailing Mr. Anthony, by name,

in wild words. And the sleepers, above, came flocking out of their

chambers, with trembling limbs and white faces.

Mr. Dare put his back against the dining-room door. "Girls, go back!

Julia, go back, for the love of Heaven! Mademoiselle, is that you? Be so

good as to stay where you are, and keep Rosa and Minny with you."

"Mais, qu'est-ce que c'est, donc?" exclaimed mademoiselle, speaking, in

her wonder, in her most familiar tongue, and, truth to say, paying

little heed to Mr. Dare's injunction. "Y a-t-il du malheur arrive?"

Betsy went up to her. Betsy recognised her as one not of the family, to

whom she could ease her overflowing mind. The same thought had occurred

to Betsy as to Joseph. "Poor Mr. Anthony's lying in there dead, mamzel,"

she whispered. "Mr. Herbert must have killed him."

Unheeding the request of Mr. Dare, unmindful of the deficiences or want

of elegance in her costume, which consisted of what she called a

_peignoir_, and a borderless calico nightcap, mademoiselle flew down to

the hall and slipped into the dining-room. Some of the others slipped in

also, and a sad scene ensued. What with wife, governess, servants, and

children, Mr. Dare was powerless to end it. Mademoiselle went straight

up, gave one look, and staggered back against the wall.

"C'est vrai!" she muttered. "C'est Monsieur Anthony."

"It is Anthony," shivered Mr. Dare, "I fear--I fear violence has been

done him."

The governess was breathing heavily. She looked quite as ghastly as did

that up-turned face. "But why should it be?" she asked, in English. "Who

has done it?"

Ah, who had done it! Joseph's frightened face seemed to say that he

could tell if he dared, Cyril bounded into the room, and clasped one of

the arms. But he let it fall again. "It is rigid!" he gasped. "Is he

dead? Father! he can't be dead!"

Mr. Dare hurried Joseph from the room--hurried him across the hall to

the door. He, Mr. Dare, seemed so agitated as scarcely to know what he

was about. "Make all haste," he said; "the nearest surgeon."

"Sir," whispered Joseph, turning when he was outside the door, his

agitation as great as his master's: "I'm afraid it's Mr. Herbert who has

done this."

"Why?" sharply asked Mr. Dare.

"They had a dreadful quarrel this evening, sir, after you left. Mr.

Herbert drew a knife upon his brother. I got in just in time to stop

bloodshed, or it might have happened then."

Mr. Dare suppressed a groan. "Go off, Joseph, and bring a doctor here.

He may not be past reviving, Milbank is the nearest. If he is at home,

bring him; if not, get anybody."

Joseph, without his hat, sped across the lawn, and gained the entrance

gate at the very moment that a gig was passing. By the light of a lamp,

Joseph saw that it contained Mr. Glenn, the surgeon, driven by his

servant. He had been on a late professional visit into the country.

Joseph shouted running before the horse in his excitement, and the man

pulled up.

"What's the matter, Joseph?" asked Mr. Glenn. "Any one ill?"

Somewhat curious to say, Mr. Glenn was the usual medical attendant of

the Dares. Joseph explained as well as he could. Mr. Anthony had been

found lying on the dining-room carpet, to all appearance dead. Mr. Glenn

descended.

"Anything up at your place?" asked a policeman, who had just come by, on

his beat.

"I should think there is," returned Joseph. "One of the gentlemen's

been found dead."

"Dead!" echoed the policeman. "Which of them is it?" he asked, after a

pause.

"Mr. Anthony."

"Why, I saw him turn in here about half-past eleven!" observed the

officer, "He is in a fit, perhaps."

"Why do you say that?" asked Joseph.

"Because he had been taking a drop too much. He could hardly walk.

Somebody brought him as far as the gate."

Mr. Glenn had hastened on. The policeman followed with Joseph. Followed,

possibly, to gratify his curiosity; possibly, because he thought his

services might be in some way required. When the two entered the

dining-room, Mr. Glenn was kneeling down to examine Anthony, and sounds

of distress came on their ears from a distance. They were caused by the

hysterics of Mrs. Dare.

"Is he dead, sir?" asked the policeman, in a low tone.

"He has been dead these two or three hours," was Mr. Glenn's reply.

But it was not a fit. It was not anything so innocent. Mr. Glenn found

that the cause of death was a stab in the side. Death, he believed, must

have been instantaneous: and the hemorrhage was chiefly internal. There

were very few stains on the clothes.

"What's this!" cried Mr. Glenn.

He was pulling at some large substance on which Anthony had fallen. It

proved to be a cloak. Cyril--and some others present--recognised it as

Herbert's cloak. Where was Herbert? In bed? Was it possible that he

could sleep through the noise and confusion that the house was in?

"Can nothing be done?" asked Mr. Dare of the surgeon.

Mr. Glenn shook his head. "He is stone dead, you see; dead, and nearly

cold. He must have been dead more than two hours. I should say nearer

three."

From two to three hours! Then that would bring the time of his death to

about half-past eleven o'clock; close upon the time that the policeman

saw him returning home. Some one turned to ask the policeman a question,

but he had disappeared. Mr. Glenn went to see what he could do for Mrs.

Dare, whose cries had been painful to hear, and Mr. Dare drew Joseph

aside. Somehow he felt that he _dared_ not question him in the presence

of witnesses, lest any condemnatory fact should transpire to bring the

guilt home to his second son. In spite of the sight of Anthony lying

dead before him, in spite of what he had heard of the quarrel, he could

not bring his mind to believe that Herbert had been guilty of this most

dastardly deed.

"What time did you let him in?" asked Mr. Dare, pointing to his

ill-fated son.

Joseph answered evasively. "The policeman said it was about half after

eleven, sir."

"And what time did Mr. Herbert come home?"

In point of fact, but for seeing the cloak where he did see it, Joseph

would not have known whether Mr. Herbert was at home yet. He felt there

was nothing for it but to tell the simple truth to Mr. Dare--that the

gentlemen had been in the habit of letting themselves in at any hour

they pleased, the dining-room window being left unfastened for them.

Joseph made the admission, and Mr. Dare received it with anger.

"I did it by their orders, sir," the man said, with deprecation. "If you

think it was wrong, perhaps you'll put things on a better footing for

the future. But, to wait up every night till its pretty near time to

rise again, is what I can't do, or anybody else. Flesh and blood is but

mortal, sir, and couldn't stand it."

"But you were not kept up like that?" cried Mr. Dare.

"Yes, sir, I was. If one of the gentlemen wasn't out, the other would

be. I told them it was impossible I could be up nearly all night and

every night, and rise in the morning just the same, and do my work in

the day. So they took to have the dining-room window left open, and came

in that way, and I went to rest at my proper hour. Mr. Cyril and Mr.

George, too, they are taking to stay out."

"The house might have been robbed over and over again!" exclaimed Mr.

Dare.

"I told them so, sir. But they laughed at me. They said who'd be likely

to come through the grounds and up to the windows and try them? At any

rate, sir," added Joseph, as a last excuse, "they _ordered_ it done. And

that's how it is, sir, that I don't know what time either Mr. Anthony or

Mr. Herbert came in last night."

Mr. Dare said no more. The fruits of the way in which his sons had been

reared were coming heavily home to him. He turned to go upstairs to

Herbert's chamber. On the bottom stairs, swaying herself to and fro in

her _peignoir_, a staring print, all the colours of the rainbow, sat the

governess. She lifted her white face as Mr. Dare approached.

"Is he dead?"

Mr. Dare shook his head. "The surgeon says he has been dead ever since

the beginning of the night."

"And Monsieur Herbert? Is _he_ dead?"

"_He_ dead!" repeated Mr. Dare in an accent of alarm, fearing possibly

she might have a motive for the question. "What should bring him also

dead? Mademoiselle, why do you ask it?"

"Eh, me, I don't know," she answered. "I am bewildered with it all. Why

should he be dead, and not the other? Why should either be dead?"

Mr. Dare saw that she did look bewildered; scarcely in her senses. She

had a white handkerchief in her hand, and was wiping the moisture from

her scarcely less white face. "Did you witness the quarrel between

them?" he inquired, supposing that she had done so by her words.

"If I did, I not tell," she vehemently answered, her English less clear

than usual. "If Joseph say--I hear him say it to you just now--that

Monsieur Herbert took a knife to his brother, I not give testimony to

it. What affair is it of mine, that I should tell against one or the

other? Who did it?--who killed him?"--she rapidly continued. "It was not

Monsieur Herbert. No, I will say always that it was not Monsieur

Herbert. He would not kill his brother."

"I do not think he would," earnestly spoke Mr. Dare.

"No, no, no!" said mademoiselle, her voice rising with her emphasis. "He

never kill his brother; he not enough _mechant_ for that."

"Perhaps he has not come in?" cried Mr. Dare, catching at the thought.

Betsy Garter answered the words. She had stolen up in the general

restlessness, and halted there. "He must be come in, sir," she said;

"else how could his cloak be in the dining-room? They are saying that

it's Mr. Herbert's cloak which was under Mr. Anthony."

"What has Mr. Herbert's cloak to do with his coming in or not coming

in?" sharply asked Mr. Dare. "He would not be wearing his cloak this

weather."

"But he does wear it, sir," returned Betsy. "He went out in it

to-night."

"Did you see him?" sternly asked Mr. Dare.

"If I hadn't seen him, I couldn't have told that he went out in it,"

independently replied Betsy, who, like her mother, was fond of

maintaining her own opinion. "I was looking out of the window in Miss

Adelaide's room, and I saw Mr. Herbert go out by way of the dining-room

window towards the entrance-gate."

"Wearing his cloak?"

"Wearing his cloak," assented Betsy, "I hoped he was hot enough in it."

The words seemed to carry terrible conviction to Mr. Dare's mind.

Unwilling to believe the girl, he sought Joseph and asked him.

"Yes, for certain," Joseph answered. "Mr. Herbert, as he was coming

downstairs to go out, stopped to speak to me, sir, and he was fastening

his cloak on then."

Minny ran up, bursting with grief and terror as she seized upon Mr.

Dare. "Papa! papa! is it true?" she sobbed.

"Is what true, child?"

"That it was Herbert? They are saying so."

"Hush!" said Mr. Dare. Carrying a candle, he went up to Herbert's room,

his heart aching. That Herbert could sleep through the noise was

surprising; and yet, not much so. His room was more remote from the

house than were the other rooms, and looked towards the back. But, had

he slept through it? When Mr. Dare went in, he was sitting up in bed,

awaking, or pretending to awake, from sleep. The window, thrown wide

open, may have contributed to deaden any sound in the house. "Can you

sleep through this, Herbert?" cried Mr. Dare.

Herbert stared, and rubbed his eyes, and stared again, as one

bewildered. "Is that you, father?" he presently cried. "What is it?"

"Herbert," said his father, in low tones of pain, of dread; "what have

you been doing to your brother?"

Herbert, as if not understanding the drift of the question, stared more

than ever. "I have done nothing to him," he presently said. "Do you mean

Anthony?"

"Anthony is lying on the dining-room floor killed--murdered. Herbert,

_who did it_?"

Herbert Dare sat motionless in bed, looking utterly lost. That he could

not understand, or was affecting not to understand, was evident.

"Anthony is--what do you say, sir?"

"He is dead; he is _murdered_," replied Mr. Dare. "Oh, my son, my son,

say you did not do it! for the love of heaven, say you did not do it!"

And the unhappy father burst into tears and sank down on the bed,

utterly unmanned.

CHAPTER III.

ACCUSED.

The grey dawn of the early May morning was breaking over the world--over

the group gathered in Mr. Dare's dining-room. That gentleman, his

surviving sons, a stranger, a constable or two; and Sergeant Delves, who

had been summoned to the scene. Sundry of the household were going in

and out, of their own restless, curious accord, or by summons. The

sergeant was making inquiries into the facts and details of the evening.

Anthony Dare--as may be remembered--had sullenly retired to his room,

refusing to go out when the message came to him from Lord Hawkesley. It

appeared, by what was afterwards learnt, that he, Anthony Dare, had made

an appointment to meet Hawkesley and some other men at the

Star-and-Garter hotel, where Lord Hawkesley was staying; the proposed

amusement of the evening being cards. Anthony Dare remained in his

chamber, solacing his chafed temper with brandy-and-water, until the

waiter from the Star-and-Garter appeared a second time, bearing a note.

This note Sergeant Delves had found in one of the pockets, and had it

now open before him. It ran as follows:--

"DEAR DARE,--We are all here waiting, and can't make up the

tables without you. What do you mean by shirking us? Come

along, and don't be a month over it.--Yours,

"HAWKESLEY."

This note had prevailed. Anthony, possibly repenting of the solitary

evening to which he had condemned himself, put on his boots again and

went forth: not--it is not pleasant to have to record it, but it cannot

be concealed--not sober. He had taken ale with his dinner, wine after

it, and brandy-and-water in his room. The three combined had told upon

him.

On his arrival at the Star-and-Garter, he found six or seven gentlemen

assembled. But, instead of sitting down there in Lord Hawkesley's room,

it was suddenly decided to adjourn to the lodgings of a Mr. Brittle,

hard by; a young Oxonian, who had been plucked in his Little Go, and was

supposed to be reading hard to avoid a second similar catastrophe. They

went to Mr. Brittle's and sat down to cards, over which brandy-and-water

and other drinks were introduced. Anthony Dare, by way of quenching his

thirst, did not spare them, and was not particular as to the sorts. The

consequence was that he soon became most disagreeable company, snarling

with all around; in short, unfit for play. This _contretemps_ put the

rest of the party out of sorts, and they broke up. But for that, they

might probably have sat on, until morning, and that poor unhappy life

have been spared. There was no knowing what might have been. Anthony

Dare was in no fit state to walk alone, and one of them, Mr. Brittle,

undertook to see him home. Mr. Brittle left him at the gate, and Anthony

Dare stumbled over the lawn and gained the house. After that, nothing

further was known. So much as this would not have been known, but that,

in hastening for Delves, the policeman had come across Mr. Brittle. It

was only natural that the latter, shocked and startled, should bend his

steps to the scene; and from him they gathered the account of Anthony's

movements abroad.

But now came the difficulty. Who had let Anthony in? No one. There was

little doubt that he had made his way through the dining-room window.

Joseph had turned the key of the front door at eleven o'clock, and he

had not been called upon to open it until the return of Mr. and Mrs.

Dare. The policeman who happened to be passing when Anthony came

home--or it may be more correct to say, was brought home--testified to

the probable fact that he had entered by means of the dining-room

window. The man had watched him: had seen that, instead of making for

the front door, which faced the road and was in view, he had stumbled

across the grass, and disappeared down by the side of the house. On this

side the dining-room window was situated; therefore it was only

reasonable to suppose that Anthony had so entered.

"Had you any motive in watching him?" asked Sergeant Delves of this man.

"None, except to see that he did not fall," was the reply. "When the

gentleman who brought him home loosed his arm, he told him, in a joking

way, not to get kissing the ground as he went in; and I thought I'd

watch him that I might go to his assistance if he did fall. He could

hardly walk: he pitched about with every step."

"Did he fall?"

"No; he managed to keep up. But I should think he was a good five

minutes getting over the grass plat."

"Did the gentleman remain to watch him?"

"No, not for above a minute. He just waited to see that he got safe over

the gravel path on to the grass, and then he went back."

"Did you see anyone else come in? About that time?--or before it?--or

after it?"

The man shook his head. "I didn't see anyone else at all. I shut the

gate after Mr. Anthony, and I didn't see it opened again. Not but what

plenty might have opened and shut it, and gone in, too, when I was

higher up my beat."

Sergeant Delves called Joseph. "It appears uncommonly odd that you

should have heard no noise whatever," he observed. "A man's movements

are not generally very quiet when in the state described as being that

of young Mr. Dare's. The probability is that he would enter the

dining-room noisily. He'd be nearly sure to fall against the furniture,

being in the dark."

"It's certain that I never did hear him," replied Joseph. "We was shut

up in the kitchen, and I was mostly nodding from the time I locked up at

eleven till master came home at two. The two girls was chattering loud

enough; they was at the table, making-up caps, or something of that. The

cook went to bed at ten; she was tired."

"Then, with the exception of you three, all the household were in bed?"

"All of 'em--as was at home," answered Joseph. "The governess had gone

early, the two young ladies went about ten, Mr. Cyril and Mr. George

went soon after ten. They came home from cricket 'dead beat' they said,

had supper, and went to bed soon after it."

"It's not usual for them--the young men, I mean--to go to bed so early,

is it?" asked Sergeant Delves.

"No, except on cricket nights," answered Joseph. "After cricket they

generally come home and have supper, and don't go out again. Other

nights they are mostly sure to be out late."

"And you did not hear Mr. Herbert come in?"

"Sergeant Delves, I say that I never heard nothing nor nobody from the

time I locked the front door till master and missis came home,"

reiterated Joseph, growing angry. "Let me repeat it ten times over, I

couldn't say it plainer. If I had heard either of the gentlemen come in,

I should have gone to 'em to see if anything was wanted. Specially to

Mr. Anthony, knowing that he was not sober when he went out."

Two points appeared more particularly to strike Sergeant Delves. The one

was, that no noise should have been heard; that a deed like this could

have been committed in, as it appeared, absolute silence. The other was,

that the dining-room window should have been found fastened inside. The

latter fact confirmed the strong suspicion that the offender was an

inmate of the house. A person, not an inmate of the house, would

naturally have escaped by the open dining-room window; but to do this,

_and_ to fasten it inside after him was an impossibility. Every other

window in the house, every door, had been securely fastened; some in the

earlier part of the evening, some at eleven o'clock by Joseph. Herbert

Dare voluntarily acknowledged that it was he who had fastened the

dining-room window. His own account was--and the sergeant looked at him

narrowly while he gave it--that he had returned home late, getting on

for two o'clock; that he had come in through the dining-room, and had

put down the window fastening. He declared that he had not seen Anthony.

If Anthony had been lying there, as he was afterwards found, he,

Herbert, had not observed him. But, he said, so far as he remembered, he

never glanced to that part of the room at all, but had gone straight

through on the other side, between the table and the fireplace. And if

he had glanced to it he could have seen nothing, for the room was dark.

He had no light, and had to feel his way.

"Was it usual for the young gentlemen to fasten the window?" Sergeant

Delves asked of Joseph. And Joseph replied that they sometimes did,

sometimes did not. If by any chance Mr. Anthony and Mr. Herbert came in

together, then they would fasten it; or if, when the one came in, he

knew that the other was not out, he would equally fasten it. Mr. Cyril

and Mr. George did not often come in that way; in fact, they were not

out so late, generally speaking, as were their brothers.

"Precisely so," Herbert assented, with reference to the fastening. He

had fastened it, believing his brother Anthony to be at home and in bed.

When he went out the previous evening, Anthony had already gone to his

room, expressing his intention not to leave it again that night.

Sergeant Delves inquired--no doubt for reasons of his own--whether this

expressed intention on the part of Anthony could be testified to by any

one besides Herbert. Yes. By Joseph, by the governess, by Rosa and Minny

Dare; all four had heard him say it. The sergeant would not trouble the

young ladies, but requested to speak to the governess.

The governess was indignant at the request being made. She was in and

out amongst them with her white face, in her many-coloured _peignior_.

She had been upstairs and partially dressed herself; had discarded the

calico nightcap and done her hair, put on the _peignior_ again, and come

down to see and to listen. But she did not like being questioned.

"I know nothing about it," she said to the sergeant, speaking

vehemently. "What should I know about it? I will tell you nothing. I

went to bed before it was well nine o'clock; I had a headache; and I

never heard anything more till the commotion began. Why you ask me?"

"But you can surely tell, ma'am, whether or not you heard Mr. Anthony

say he was going to his chamber for the night?" remonstrated the

sergeant.

"Yes, he did say it," she answered vehemently. "He said it in the salon.

He kicked off his boots, and told Joseph to bring his slippers, and to

take brandy-and-water to his room, for he should not leave it again that

night. I never thought or knew that he had left it until I saw him lying

in the dining-room, and they said he was dead."

"Was Mr. Herbert present when he said he should go to his room for the

night?"

"He was present, I think: I think he had come in then to the salon. That

is all I know. I made the tea, and then my head got bad, and I went to

bed. I can tell you nothing further."

"Did you hear any noise in the house, ma'am?"

"No. If there was any noise I did not notice it. I soon went to sleep.

Where is the use of your asking me these things? You should ask those

who sat up. I shall be sick if you make me talk about it. Nothing of

this ever arrived in any family where I have been before."

The sergeant allowed her to retire. She went to the stairs and sat down

on the lower step, and leaned her cheek upon her hand, all as she had

done previously. Mr. Dare asked her why she did not go upstairs, away

from the confusion and bustle of the sad scene; but she shook her head.

She did not care to be in her chamber alone, she answered, and her

pupils were shut in with Madame Dare and Mademoiselle Adelaide.

It is possible that one thing puzzled the sergeant: though what puzzled

him and what did not puzzle him had to be left to conjecture, for he

said nothing about it. No weapon had been found. The policemen had been

searching the room thoroughly, had partly searched the house; but had

come upon no instrument likely to have inflicted the wound. A

carving-knife or common table-knife had been suggested, remembering the

previous occurrences of the evening; but Mr. Glenn's decided opinion

was, that it must have been a very different instrument; some slender,

sharp-pointed, two-edged blade, he thought, about six inches in length.

The most suspicious evidence, referring to Herbert, was the cloak. The

sergeant had examined it curiously, with compressed lips. Herbert

disposed of this, so far as he was concerned--that is, if he was to be

believed. He said that he had put his cloak on, had gone out in it as

far as the entrance gate; but finding it warmer than was agreeable, he

had turned back, and flung it on to the dining-room table, going in, as

he had come out, through the window. He added, as a little bit of

confirmatory evidence, that he remembered seeing the cloak begin to

slide off the table again, that he saw it must fall to the ground; but,

being in a hurry, he would not stop to prevent its doing so, or to pick

it up.

The sergeant never seemed to take his sidelong glance from Herbert Dare.

He had gone to work in his own way; hearing the different accounts and

conjectures, sifting this bit of evidence, turning about that, holding a

whispered colloquy with the man who had been sent to examine Herbert's

room: holding a longer whispered colloquy with Herbert himself. On the

departure of the surgeon and Mr. Brittle, who had gone away together, he

had marched to the front and side doors of the house, locked them, and

put the keys into his pocket. "Nobody goes out of this without my

permission," quoth he.

Then he took Mr. Dare aside. "There's no mistake about this, I fear,"

said he gravely.

Mr. Dare knew what he meant. He himself was growing grievously

faint-hearted. But he would not say so; he would not allow it to be seen

that he cast, or could cast, a suspicion on Herbert. "It appears to me

that--that--if poor Anthony was in the state they describe, that he may

have sat down or laid down after entering the dining-room, and dropped

asleep," observed Mr. Dare. "Easy, then--the window being left open--for

some midnight housebreaker from the street to have come in and attacked

him."

"Pooh!" said Sergeant Delves. "It is no housebreaker that has done this.

We have a difficult line of duty to perform at times, us police; and all

we can do to soften matters, is to go to work as genteelly as is

consistent with the law. I'm sorry to have to say it, Mr. Dare, but I

have felt obliged to order my men to keep a look-out on Mr. Herbert."

A chill ran through Mr. Dare. "It could not have been Herbert!" he

rejoined, his tone one of pain, almost of entreaty. "Mr. Glenn says it

could not have been done later than half-past eleven, or so. Herbert

never came home until nearly two."

"Who is to prove that he was not at home till near two?"

"He says he was not. I have no doubt it can be proved. And poor Anthony

was dead more than two hours before."

"Now, look you here," cried Sergeant Delves, falling back on a favourite

phrase of his. "Mr. Glenn is correct enough as to the time of the

occurrence: I have had some experience in death myself, and I'm sure he

is not far out. But let that pass. Here are witnesses who saw him alive

at half-past eleven o'clock, and you come home at two and find him dead.

Now, let your son Herbert thus state where he was from half-past eleven

till two. He says he was out: not near home at all. Very good. Only let

him mention the place, so that we can verify it, and find, beyond

dispute, that he _was_ out, and the suspicion against him will be at an

end. But he won't do this."

"Not do it?" echoed Mr. Dare.

"He tells me point-blank that he can't and he won't. I asked him."

Mr. Dare turned impetuously to the room where he had left his second

son--his eldest son now. "Here, Herbert"--he was beginning. But the

officer cut short the words by drawing him back.

"Don't go and make matters worse," whispered he: "perhaps they'll be bad

enough without it. Now, Lawyer Dare, you'll do well not to turn

obstinate, for I am giving you a bit of friendly advice. You and I have

had many a transaction together, and I don't mind going a bit out of my

way for you, as I wouldn't do for other people. The worst thing your son

could do, would be to say before those chattering servants that he can't

or won't tell where he has been all night, or half the night. It would

be self-condemnation at once. Ask him in private, if you must ask him."

Mr. Dare called his son to him, and Herbert answered to it. A policeman

was sauntering after him, but the sergeant gave him a nod, and the man

went back.

"Herbert, you say you did not come in until near two this morning."

"Neither did I. It wanted about twenty minutes to it. The churches

struck half-past one as I came through the town."

"Where did you stay?"

"Well--I can't say," replied Herbert.

Mr. Dare grew agitated. "You must say, Herbert," he hoarsely whispered,

"or take the consequences."

"I can't help the consequences," was Herbert's answer. "Where I was last

night is no matter to any one, and I shall not say."

"Your not saying--if you can say--is just folly," interposed the

sergeant. "It's the first question the magistrates will ask when you are

placed before them."

Herbert looked up angrily. "Place me before the magistrates!" he echoed.

"What do you mean? You will not dare to take me into custody!"

"You have been in custody this half-hour," coolly returned the sergeant.

Herbert looked terribly fierce.

"I will not submit to this indignity," he exclaimed. "_I will not._

Sergeant Delves, you are overstepping----"

"Look here," interrupted the sergeant, drawing something from some

unseen receptacle; and Mr. Herbert, to his dismay, caught sight of a

pair of handcuffs. "Don't you force me to use them," said the officer.

"You are in custody, and must go before the magistrates; but now, you be

a gentleman, and I'll use you as one."

"I protest upon my honour that I have had neither act nor part in this

crime!" cried Herbert, in agitation. "Do you think I would stain my hand

with the sin of Cain?"

"What is that on your hand?" asked the sergeant, bending forward to look

more closely at Herbert's fingers.

Herbert held them out openly enough. "I was doing something last night

which tore my fingers," he said. "I was trying to undo the fastenings of

some wire. Sergeant Delves, I declare to you solemnly, that from the

moment when my brother went to his chamber, as witnesses have stated to

you, I never saw him until my father brought me down from my bed to see

him lying dead."

"You drew a knife on him not many hours before, you know, Mr. Herbert!"

"It was done in the heat of passion. He provoked me very much; but I

should not have used it. No, poor fellow! I should never have injured

him."

"Well, you only make your tale good to the magistrates," was all the

sergeant's answer. "It will be their affair as soon as you are before

them--not mine."

Herbert Dare was handed back to the constable; and, as soon as the

justice-room opened, was conveyed before the magistrates--all, as the

sergeant termed it, in a genteel, gentlemanly sort of way. He was

charged with the murder of his brother Anthony.

To describe the commotion that spread over Helstonleigh would be beyond

any pen. The college boys were in a strange state of excitement: both

Anthony and Herbert Dare had been college boys themselves not so very

long ago. Gar Halliburton--who was no longer a college boy, but a

supernumerary--went home full of it. Having imparted it there, he

thought he could not do better than go in and regale Patience with the

news, by way of _divertissement_ to her sick bed. "May I come up,

Patience?" he called out from the foot of the stairs. "I have something

to tell you."

Receiving permission, up he flew. Patience, partially raised, was sewing

with her hands, which she could just contrive to do. Anna sat by the

window, putting the buttons on some new shirts.

"I have finished two," cried she, turning round to Gar in great glee.

"And my father's coming home next week, he writes us word. Perhaps thy

mother has had a letter from William. Look at the shirts!" she

continued, exhibiting them.

"Never mind bothering about shirts, now, Anna," returned Gar, losing

sight of his gallantry in his excitement. "Patience, the most dreadful

thing has happened. Anthony Dare's murdered!"

Patience, calm Patience, only looked at Gar. Perhaps she did not believe

it. Anna's hands, holding out the shirts, were arrested midway: her

mouth and blue eyes alike opening.

"He was murdered in their dining-room in the night," went on Gar, intent

only on his tale. "The town is all up in arms; you never saw such an

uproar. When we came out of school just now, we thought the French must

have come to invade us, by the crowds there were in the street. You

couldn't get near the Guildhall, where the examination was going on. Not

more than half a dozen of us were able to fight our way in. Herbert Dare

looked so pale; he was standing there, guarded by three policemen----"

"Thee hast a fast tongue, Gar," interrupted Patience. "Dost thee mean to

say Herbert Dare was in custody?"

"Of course, he was," replied Gar, faster than before. "It is he who has

done it. At least, he is accused of it. He and Anthony had a quarrel

yesterday, and it came to knives. They were parted then; but he is

supposed to have laid wait for Anthony in the night and killed him."

"Is Anthony dead? Is he----Anna! what hast thee----?"

Anna had dropped the shirts and the buttons. Her blue eyes had closed,

her lips and cheeks had grown white, her hands fell powerless. "She is

fainting!" shouted Gar, as he ran to support her.

"Gar, dear," said Patience, "thee shouldst not tell ill news quite so

abruptly. Thee hast made me feel queer. Canst thee stretch thy hands out

to the bell? It will bring up Hester."

CHAPTER IV.

COMMITTED FOR TRIAL.

Helstonleigh could not recover its equanimity. Never had it been so

rudely shaken. Incidents there had been as startling; crimes of as deep

a dye; but, taking it with all its attendant circumstances, no

occurrence, in the memory of the oldest inhabitant, had excited the

interest that was attaching to the death and assumed murder of Anthony

Dare.

The social standing of the parties, above that in which such unhappy

incidents are more generally found; the conspicuous position they

occupied in the town, and the very uncertainty--the mystery, it may be

said--in which the affair was wrapped, wrought local curiosity to the

highest point.

Scarcely a shadow of doubt rested on the public mind that the deed had

been done by Herbert Dare. The Police force, actively engaged in

searching out all the details, held the same opinion. In one sense, this

was, perhaps, unfortunate; for, when strong suspicion, whether of the

police or of the public, is especially directed to one isolated point,

it inevitably tends to keep down doubts that might arise in regard to

other quarters.

It seemed scarcely possible to hope that Herbert was not guilty. All the

facts tended to the assumption that he was so. There was the ill-feeling

known to have existed between himself and his brother: the quarrel and

violence in the dining-room not many hours before, in which quarrel

Herbert _had_ raised a knife upon him. "But for the entrance of the

servant Joseph," said the people, one to another, "the murder might have

been done then." Joseph had stopped evil consequences at the time, but

he had not stopped Herbert's mouth--the threat he had uttered in his

passion--still to be revenged. Terribly those words told now against

Herbert Dare.

Another thing that told against him, and in a most forcible manner, was

the cloak. That he had put it on to go out; nay, had been seen to go out

in it by the housemaid, was indisputable; and his brother was found

lying on this very cloak. In vain Herbert protested, when before the

magistrates and at the coroner's inquest, that he returned before

leaving the gates, and had flung this cloak into the dining-room,

finding it too hot that evening to wear. He obtained no credit. He had

not been seen to do this; and the word of an accused man goes for

little. All ominous, these things--all telling against him, but nothing,

taking them collectively, as compared with his refusal to state where he

was that night. He left the house between eight and nine, close upon

nine, he thought; he was not sure of the exact time to a quarter of an

hour; and he never returned to it until nearly two. Such was his

account. But, where he had been in the interim, he positively refused to

state.

It was only his assertion, you see, against the broad basis of

suspicion. Anthony Dare's death must have taken place, as testified by

Mr. Glenn, somewhere about half-past eleven; who was to prove that

Herbert at that time was not at home? "I was not," Herbert reiterated,

when before the coroner. "I did not return home till between half-past

one and two. The churches struck the half-hour as I was coming through

the town, and it would take me afterwards some ten minutes to reach

home. It must have been about twenty minutes to two when I entered."

"But where were you? Where had you been? Where did you come from?" he

was asked.

"That I cannot state," he replied. "I was out upon a little business of

my own; business that concerns no one but myself; and I decline to make

it public."

On that score nothing more could be obtained from him. The coroner drew

his own conclusions; the jury drew _theirs_; the police had already

drawn theirs, and very positive ones.

These were the two facts that excited the ire of Sergeant Delves and his

official colleagues: with all their searching, they could find no weapon

likely to have been the one used; and they could not discover where

Herbert Dare had gone to that evening. It happened that no one

remembered to have seen him passing in the town, early or late; or, if

they had seen him, it had made no impression on their memory. The

appearance of Mr. Dare's sons was so common an occurrence that no

especial note was likely to have been taken of it. Herbert declared that

in passing through West Street, Turtle, the auctioneer, was leaning out

at his open bedroom window, and that he, Herbert, had called out to him,

and asked whether he was star-gazing. Mr. Turtle, when applied to, could

not corroborate this. He believed that he _had_ been looking out at his

window that night; he believed that it might have been about the hour

named, getting on for two, for he was late going to bed, having been to

a supper party; but he had no recollection whatever of seeing Mr.

Herbert pass, or of having been spoken to by him, or by any one else.

When pressed upon the point, Mr. Turtle acknowledged that his intellects

might not have been in the clearest state of perception, the supper

party having been a jovial one.

One of the jury remarked that it was very singular the prisoner could go

through the dining-room, and not observe his brother lying in it. The

prisoner replied that it was not singular at all. The room was in

darkness, and he had felt his way through it on the opposite side of the

table to that where his brother was afterwards found. He had gone

straight through, and up to his chamber, as quietly as possible, not to

disturb the house; and he dropped asleep as soon as he was in bed.

The verdict returned was "Wilful murder against Herbert Dare," and he

was committed to the county gaol to take his trial at the assizes. Mr.

Dare's house was beyond the precincts of the city. Sergeant Delves and

his men renewed their inquiries; but they could discover no trace,

either of the weapon, or of where Herbert Dare had passed the suspicious

hours. The sergeant was vexed; but he would not allow that he was

beaten. "Only give us time," said he, with a characteristic nod. "The

Pyramids of Egypt were only built up stone by stone."

Tuesday morning--the morning fixed for the funeral of Anthony Dare. The

curious portion of Helstonleigh wended its way up to the churchyard; as

it is the delight of the curious portion of a town to do. What a sad

sight it was! That dark object, covered by its pall, carried by its

attendants, followed by the mourners; Mr. Dare, and his sons Cyril and

George. He, the father, bent his face in his handkerchief, as he walked

behind the coffin to the grave. Many a man in Helstonleigh enjoyed a

higher share of esteem and respect than did Lawyer Dare; but not one

present in that crowded churchyard that did not feel for him in his

bitter grief. Not one, let us hope, that did not feel to his heart's

core the fate of the unhappy Anthony, now, for weal or for woe, to

answer before his Maker for his life on earth.

That same day, Tuesday, witnessed the return of Samuel Lynn and William

Halliburton. They arrived in the evening, and of course the first news

they were greeted with was the prevailing topic. Few things caused the

ever-composed Quaker to betray surprise; but William was half-stunned

with the news. Anthony Dare dead--murdered--buried that very day; and

Herbert in prison, awaiting his trial for the offence! To William the

whole affair seemed more incredible than real.

"Sir," he said to his master, when, the following morning, they were

alone together in the counting-house at the manufactory, "do you believe

Herbert Dare can be guilty?"

Mr. Ashley had been gazing at William, lost in thought. The change we

often see, or fancy we see, in a near friend, after a few weeks'

absence, was apparent in William. He had improved in looks; and yet

those looks, with their true nobility, both of form and intellect, had

been scarcely capable of improvement. Nevertheless, it was there, and

Mr. Ashley had been struck with it.

"I cannot say," he replied, aroused by the question. "Facts appear

conclusively against him; but it seems incredible that he should so have

lost himself. To be suspected and committed on such a charge is grief

enough, without the reality of guilt."

"So it is," acquiesced William.

"We feel the disgrace very keenly--as all must who are connected with

the Dares in ever so remote a degree. _I_ feel it, William; feel it as a

blow; Mrs. Ashley is the cousin of Anthony Dare."

"They are relatives of ours also," said William in a low tone. "My

father was first cousin to Mrs. Dare."

Mr. Ashley looked at him with surprise. "Your father first cousin to

Mrs. Dare!" he repeated. "What are you saying?"

"Her first cousin, sir. You have heard of old Mr. Cooper, of

Birmingham?"

"From whom the Dares inherited their money. Well?"

"Mr. Cooper had a brother and a sister. Mrs. Dare was the daughter of

the brother; the sister married the Reverend William Halliburton, and my

father was their son. Mrs. Dare, as Julia Cooper, and my father, Edgar

Halliburton, both lived together for some time under their uncle's roof

at Birmingham."

A moment's pause, and then Mr. Ashley laid his hand on William's

shoulder. "Then that brings a sort of relationship between us, William.

I shall have a right to feel pride in you now."

William laughed. But his cheek flushed with the pleasure of a more

earnest feeling. His greatest earthly wish was to be appreciated by Mr.

Ashley.

"How is it I never heard of this relationship before?" cried Mr. Ashley.

"Was it purposely concealed?"

"It is only within a year or two that I have known of it," replied

William. "Frank and Gar are not aware of it yet. When we first came to

Helstonleigh, the Dares were much annoyed at it; and they made it known

to my mother in so unmistakable a manner, that she resolved to drop all

mention of the relationship; she would have dropped the relationship

itself if she could have done so. It was natural, perhaps, that they

should feel annoyed," continued William, seeking to apologize for them.

"They were rich and great in the eyes of the town; we were poor and

obscure."

Mr. Ashley was casting his recollections backwards. A certain event,

which had always somewhat puzzled him, was becoming clear now. "William,

when Anthony Dare--acting, as he said, for me--put that seizure into

your house for rent, it must have been done with the view of driving you

from the town?"

"My mother says she has always thought so, sir."

"I see; I see. Why, William, half the inheritance, enjoyed by the Dares,

ought justly to have been your father's!"

"We shall do as well without it, in the long-run, sir," replied William,

a bright smile illumining his face. "Hard though the struggle was at the

beginning!"

"Ay, that you will!" warmly returned Mr. Ashley. "The ways of Providence

are wonderful! Yes, William--and I know you have been taught to think

so--what men call the chances of the world, are all God's dealings.

Reflect on the circumstances favouring the Dares; reflect on your own

drawbacks and disadvantages! They had wealth, position, a lucrative

profession; everything, in fact, to help them on, that can be desired by

a family in middle-class life; whilst you had poverty, obscurity, and

toil to contend with. But now, look at what they are! Mr. Dare's money

is dissipated; he is overwhelmed with embarrassment--I know it to be a

fact, William; but this is for your ear alone. Folly, recklessness,

irreligion, reign in his house; his daughters lost in pretentious

vanity; his sons in something worse. In a few years they will have gone

down--down. Yes," added Mr. Ashley, pointing with his finger to the

floor of his counting-house, "down to the dogs. I can see it coming, as

surely as that the sun is in the heavens. You and they will have

exchanged positions, William; nay, you and yours, unless I am greatly

mistaken, will be in a far higher position than they have ever occupied;

for you will have secured the favour of God, and the approbation of all

good men."

"That Frank and Gar will attain to a position in time, I should be worse

than a heathen to doubt, looking back on the wonderful manner in which

we have been helped on," thoughtfully observed William. "For myself I am

not sanguine."

"Do you never cherish dreams on your own account?" inquired Mr. Ashley.

"If I do, sir, they are vague dreams. My position affords no scope for

ambition."

"I don't know that," said Mr. Ashley. "Would you not be satisfied to

become one of the great manufacturers of this great city?" he continued,

laughing.

"Not unless I could be one of the greatest. Such as----" William

stopped.

"Myself, for instance?" quietly put in Mr. Ashley.

"Yes, indeed," answered William, lifting his earnest eyes to his master.

"Were it possible that I could ever attain to be as you are, sir, in all

things--in character, in position, in the estimation of my

fellow-citizens--it would be sufficient ambition for me, and I should

sit down content."

"Not you," cried Mr. Ashley. "You would then be casting your thoughts to

serving your said fellow-citizens in Parliament, or some such exalted

vision. Man's nature is to soar, you know; it cannot rest. As soon as

one object of ambition is attained, others are sought after."

"So far as I go, we need not discuss it," was William's answer. "There's

no chance of my ever becoming even a second-rate manufacturer; let alone

what you are, sir."

"The next best thing to being myself, would perhaps be that of being my

partner, William."

The voice in which his master spoke was so significant, that William's

face flushed to crimson. Mr. Ashley noticed it.

"Did that ambition ever occur to you?"

"No, sir, never. That honour is looked upon as being destined for Cyril

Dare."

"Indeed!" calmly repeated Mr. Ashley. "If you could transform your

nature into Cyril, I do not say but that it might be so in time."

"He expects it himself, sir."

"Would he be a worthy associate for me, think you?" inquired Mr.

Ashley, bending his gaze full on William.

William made no reply. Perhaps none was expected, for his master

resumed:

"I do not recommend you to indulge that particular dream of ambition; I

cannot see sufficiently into the future. It is my intention to push you

somewhat on in the world. I have no son to advance," he added, an

expression of sadness crossing his face. "All I can do for my boy is to

leave him at ease after me. Therefore I may, if I live, advance you in

his stead. Provided, William, you continue to deserve it."

A smile parted William's lips. That, he would ever strive for, heaven

helping him.

Mr. Ashley again laid his hand on William, and gazed into his face. "I

have had a wonderful account of you from Samuel Lynn. And it is not

often the Friend launches into decided praise."

"Oh, have you, sir?" returned William with animation. "I am glad he was

pleased with me."

"He was more than pleased. But I must not forget that I was charged with

a message from Henry. He is outrageous at your not having gone to him

last night. I shall be sending him to France one of these days, under

your escort, William. It may do him good, in more ways than one."

"I will come to Henry this evening, sir. I must leave him, though, for

half an hour, to go round to East's."

"Your conscience is engaged, I see. You know what Henry accused you of,

the last time you left him to go to East's?"

"Of being enamoured of Charlotte," said William, laughing in answer to

Mr. Ashley's smile. "I will come, at any rate, sir, and battle the other

matter out with Henry."

CHAPTER V.

A BRUISED HEART.

If it were a hopeless task to attempt to describe the consternation of

Helstonleigh at the death of Anthony Dare, far more difficult would it

be to picture that of Anna Lynn. Believe Herbert guilty, Anna did not;

she could scarcely have believed that, had an angel come down from

heaven to affirm it. Her state of mind was not to be envied; suspense,

sorrow, anxiety filled it, causing her to be in a grievous state of

restlessness. She had to conceal this from the eyes of Patience; from

the eyes of the world. For one thing, she could not get at the correct

particulars; newspapers did not come in her way, and she shrank, in her

self-consciousness, from asking. Her whole being--if we may dare to say

it here--was wrapt in Herbert Dare; father, friends, home, country; she

could have sacrificed them all to save him. She would have laid down her

life for his. Her good sense was distorted, her judgment warped; she saw

passing events, not with the eye of dispassionate fact, or with any fact

at all, but through the unhealthy tinge of fond, blind prejudice. The

blow had almost crushed her; the dread suspense was wearing out her

heart. She seemed no longer the same careless child as before; in a few

hours she had overstepped the barrier of girlish timidity, and had

gained the experience which is bought with sorrow.

On the evening mentioned in the last chapter, just before William went

out to keep his appointment with Henry Ashley, he saw from the window

Anna in his mother's garden, bending over the flowers, and glancing up

at him. Glancing, as it struck William, with a strangely wistful

expression. He went out to her.

"Tending the flowers, Anna?"

She turned to him, her fair young face utterly colourless. "I have been

so wanting to see thee, William! I came here, hoping thee wouldst come

out. At dinner time I was here, and thee only nodded to me from the

window. I did not like to beckon to thee."

"I am sorry to have been so stupid, Anna. What is it?"

"Thee hast heard what has happened--that dreadful thing! Hast thee heard

it all?"

"I believe so. All that is known."

"I want thee to tell it me. Patience won't talk of it; Hester only

shakes her head; and I am afraid to ask Gar. _Thee_ tell it to me."

"It would not do you good to know, Anna," he gravely said. "Better try

and not think----"

"William, hush thee!" she feverishly exclaimed. "Thee knew there was

a--a friendship between me and _him_. If I cannot learn all there is to

be learnt, I shall die."

William looked down at the changing cheek, the eyes full of pain, the

trembling hands, clasped in their eagerness. It might be better to tell

her than to leave her in this state of suspense.

"William, there is no one in the wide world that knows he cared for me,

but thee," she imploringly resumed. "Thee must tell me; thee _must_ tell

me!"

"You mean that you want to hear the particulars of--of what took place

on Thursday night?"

"Yes. All. Then, and since. I have but heard snatches of the wicked

tale."

He obeyed her: telling her all the broad facts, but suppressing a few of

the details. She leaned against the garden-gate, listening in silence;

her face turned from him, looking through the bars into the field.

"Why do they not believe him?" was her first comment, spoken sharply and

abruptly. "He says he was not near the house at the time the act must

have been done: why do they not believe him?"

"It is easy to assert a thing, Anna. But the law requires proof."

"Proof? That he must declare to them where he has been?"

"Undoubtedly. And corroborative proof must also be given."

"But what sort of proof? I do not understand their laws."

"Suppose Herbert Dare asserted that he had spent those hours with me,

for instance; then I must go forward at the trial and confirm his

assertion. Also any other witnesses who may have seen him with me, if

there were any. It would be establishing what is called an _alibi_."

"And would they acquit him then? Suppose there were only one witness to

speak for him? Would one be sufficient?"

"Certainly. Provided the witness were trustworthy."

"If a witness went forward and declared it now, would they release him?"

"Impossible. He is committed to take his trial at the assizes, and he

cannot be released beforehand. It is exceedingly unwise of him not to

declare where he was that evening--if he can do so."

"Where do the public think he was? What do they say?"

"I am afraid the public, Anna, think that he was not out anywhere. At

any rate, after eleven or half-past."

"Then they are very cruel!" she passionately exclaimed. "Do they _all_

think that?"

"There may be a few who judge that it was as he says; that he was really

away, and is, consequently, innocent."

"And where do _they_ think he was?" eagerly responded Anna again. "Do

they suspect any place where he might have been?"

William made no reply. It was not at all expedient to impart to her all

the gossip or surmises of the town. But his silence seemed to agitate

her more than any reply could have done. She turned to him, trembling

with emotion, the tears streaming down her face.

"Oh, William! tell me what is thought! Tell me, I implore thee! Thee

cannot leave me in this trouble. Where is it thought he was?"

He took her hands; he bent over her as tenderly as any brother could

have done; he read all too surely how opposite to the truth had been her

former assertion to him--that she did not care for Herbert Dare.

"Anna, child, you must not agitate yourself in this way: there is no

just cause for doing so. I assure you I do not know where it is thought

Herbert Dare may have been that night; neither, so far as can be learnt,

does any one else know. It is the chief point--where he was--that is

puzzling the town."

She laid her head down on the gate again, closing her eyes, as in very

weariness. William's heart ached for her.

"He may not be guilty, Anna," was all the consolation he could find to

offer.

"_May_ not be guilty!" she echoed in a tone of pain. "He _is_ not

guilty. William, I tell thee he is not. Dost thee think I would defend

him if he could do so wicked a thing?"

He did not dispute the point with her; he did not tell her that her

assumption of his innocence was inconsistent with the facts of the case.

Presently Anna resumed.

"Why must he remain in gaol till the trial? There was that man who stole

the skins from Thomas Ashley--they let him out, when he was taken, until

the sessions came on, and then he went up for trial."

"That man was out on bail. But they do not take bail in cases so grave

as this."

"I may not stay longer. There's Hester coming to call me in. I rely upon

thee to tell me anything fresh that may arise," she said, lifting her

beseeching eyes to his.

"One word, Anna, before you go. And yet, I see how worse than useless it

is to say it to you now. You must forget Herbert Dare."

"I shall forget him, William, when I cease to have memory," she

whispered. "Never before. Thee wilt keep my counsel?"

"Truly and faithfully."

"Fare thee well, William; I have no friend but thee."

She ran swiftly into their own premises. William turned to pursue his

way to Mr. Ashley's, the thought of Henry Ashley's misplaced attachment

lying on his mind as an incubus.

CHAPTER VI.

ONE DYING IN HONEY FAIR.

Mrs. Buffle stood in what she called her "back'us," practically

superintending a periodical wash. The day was hot, and the steam was

hot, and, as Mrs. Buffle rubbed away, she began to think she should

never be cool again.

"Missis," shrieked out a young voice from the precincts of the shop,

"Ben Tyrrett's wife says will you let her have a gill o' vinegar? Be I

to serve it?"

The words came from the small damsel who was had in to help on cleaning

and washing days. Mrs. Buffle kept her hands still in the soapsuds, and

projected her hot face over the tub to answer.

"Matty, tell Mary Ann Tyrrett as she promised faithful to bring me

something off her score this week, but I've not seen the colour of it

yet."

"She says as it's to put to his head," called back Matty, alluding to

the present demand. "He's bad a-bed, and have fainted right off."

"Serve him right," responded Mrs. Buffle. "You may give her the vinegar,

Matty. Tell her as it's a penny farthing. I heered he had been drinking

again," she added to herself and the washing tub, "and laid hisself down

in the wet road the night afore last, and was found there in the

morning."

Later in the day, it happened that William Halliburton was passing

through Honey Fair, and met Charlotte East. She stopped him. "Have you

heard, sir, that Tyrrett is dying?" she asked.

"Tyrrett dying!" repeated William in amazement. "Who says he is?"

"The doctor says it, I believe, sir. I must say he looks like it. Mary

Ann sent for me, and I have been down to see him."

"Why, what can be the matter with him?" asked William. "He was at work

the day before yesterday!"

"He was at work, sir, but he could not speak, they tell me, for that

illness that has been hanging about him so long, and had settled on his

chest. That night, after leaving work, instead of going home and getting

a basin of gruel, or something of that sort, he went to the Horned Ram,

and drank there till he couldn't keep upright."

"With his chest in that state!"

"And that was not the worst," resumed Charlotte. "It had been a wet day,

if you remember, sir, and he somehow strayed into Oxlip Lane, and fell

down, and lay there till morning. What with drink, and what with

exposure to the wet, his chest grew dangerously inflamed, and now the

doctor says he has not many hours to live."

"I am sorry to hear it," cried William. "Is he sensible?"

"Too sensible, sir, in one sense," replied Charlotte. "His remorse is

dreadful. He is saying that if he had not misspent his life, he might

have died a good man, instead of a bad one."

William passed on, much concerned at the news. His way led him past Ben

Tyrrett's lodgings, and he turned in. Mary Ann was sobbing and wailing,

in the midst of as many curious and condoling neighbours as the kitchen

would contain. All were in full gossip--as might be expected. Mrs. Cross

had taken home the three little children, by way of keeping the place

quiet; and the sick man was lying in the room above, surrounded by

several of his fellow-workmen, who had heard of his critical state.

Some of the women sidled off when William entered, rather ashamed of

being caught chattering vehemently. It was remarkable the deference that

was paid him, and from no assumption of his own--indeed, the absence of

assumption may have partially accounted for it. But, though ever

courteous and pleasant with them all, he was a thorough gentleman: and

the working classes are keen to distinguish this.

"Why, Mrs. Tyrrett, this is sad news!" he said. "Is your husband so

ill?"

"Oh, he must die, he must die, sir!" she answered in a frantic tone.

Uncomfortably as they had lived together, the man was still her

husband, and there is no doubt she was feeling the present crisis; was

shrinking with dread from the future. A widow with three young children,

and the workhouse for an asylum! It was the only prospect before her.

"He must die, anyways; but he might have lasted a few hours longer, if I

could have got what the doctor ordered."

William did not understand.

"It was a blister and some physic, sir," explained one of the women.

"The doctor wrote it on a paper, and said it was to be took to the

nearest druggist's. But when they got it there, Darwin said he couldn't

trust the Tyrretts, and they must send the money if they wanted the

things."

"It was not Mr. Parry, then, who was called in?"

"It were a strange doctor, sir, as was fetched. There was Tyrrett's last

bout of illness owing for to Parry, and so they didn't like to send for

him. As to them druggists, they be some of 'em a cross-grained set,

unless you goes with the money in your hand."

William asked to see the prescription. It was produced, and he read its

contents--he was as capable of doing so and of understanding it as the

best doctor in Helstonleigh. He tore a leaf from his pocket-book, wrote

a few words in pencil, folded it with the prescription, and desired one

of the women to take it to the chemist's again. He then went up to the

sick room.

Tyrrett was lying on a flock mattress, on an ugly brown bedstead, the

four posts upright and undraped. A blanket and a checked blue cotton

quilt covered him. His breathing was terribly laboured, his face

painfully anxious. William approached him, bending his head, to avoid

contact with the ceiling.

"I'm a-going, sir," cried the man, in tones as anxious as his face. "I'm

a-going at last."

"I hope not," said William. "I hope you will get better. You are to have

a blister on your chest, and----"

"No he ain't, sir," interrupted one of the men. "Darwin won't send it."

"Oh yes, he will, if he is properly asked. They have gone again to him.

Are you in much pain, Tyrrett?"

"I'm in an agony of pain here, sir," pointing to his chest. "But that

ain't nothing to my pain of mind. Oh, Mr. Halliburton, you're good, sir;

you haven't nothing to reproach yourself with; can't you do nothing for

me? I'm going into the sight of my Maker, and He's angry with me!"

In truth, William knew not what to answer. Tyrrett's voice was as a wail

of anguish; his hands were stretched out beseechingly.

"Charlotte East were here just now, and she told me to go to

Christ--that He was merciful and forgiving. But how am I to go to Him?

If I try, sir, I can't, for there's my past life rising up before me. I

have been a bad man: I have never once in all my life tried to please

God."

The words echoed through the stillness of the room; echoed with a sound

that was terribly awful. _Never once to have tried to please God!_

Throughout a whole life, and throughout all its blessings!

"I have never thought of God," he continued to reiterate. "I have never

cared for Him, or tried to please Him, or done the least thing for Him.

And now I'm going to face His wrath, and I can't help myself!"

"You may be spared yet," said William; "you may indeed. And your future

life must atone for the past."

"I shan't be spared, sir; I feel that the world's all up with me," was

the rejoinder. "I'm going fast, and there's nobody to give me a word of

comfort! Can't _you_, sir? I'm going away, and God's angry with me!"

William leaned over him. "I can only say as Charlotte East did," he

whispered. "Try and find your Saviour. There is mercy with Him at the

eleventh hour."

"I have not the time to find Him," breathed forth Tyrrett, in agony. "I

might find Him if I had time given me; but I have not got it."

William, shrinking in his youth and inexperience from arguing upon

topics so momentous, was not equal to the emergency. Who was? He did

what he could; and that was to despatch a message for a clergyman, who

answered the summons with speed.

The blister also came, and the medicine that had been prescribed.

William went home, hoping all might prove as a healing balm to the sick

man.

A fallacious hope. Tyrrett died the following morning. When William went

round early on his mission of inquiry, he found him dead. Some of the

men, whom he had seen with Tyrrett the previous night, were assembled in

the kitchen.

"He is but just gone, sir," they said, "The women be up with him now.

They have took his wife round screeching to her mother's. He died with

that there blister on his chest."

"Did he die peacefully?" was William's question.

"Awful hard, sir, toward the last; moaning, and calling, and clenching

his hands in mortal pain. His sister, she come round--she's a hard one,

is that Liza Tyrrett--and she set on at the wife, saying it was her

fault that he'd took to go out drinking. That there parson couldn't do

nothing with him," concluded the speaker, lowering his voice.

William's breath stood still. "No!"

The man shook his head. "Tyrrett weren't in a frame o' mind for it, sir.

He kep' crying out as he had led a bad life, and never thought of

God--and them was his last words. It ain't happy, sir, to die like

that. It have quite cowed down us as was with him: one gets thinking,

sir, what sort of a place it may be, t'other side, where he's gone to."

William lifted his head, a sort of eager hope on his countenance,

speaking cheerily. "Could you not let poor Tyrrett's death act as a

warning to you?"

There was a dead silence. Five men were present; every one of them

leading careless lives. Somehow they did not much like to hear of

"warning," although the present moment was one of unusual seriousness.

"Religion is so dreadful dull and gloomy, sir."

"Religion dull and gloomy!" echoed William. "Well, perhaps some people

do make a gloomy affair of it; but then I don't think theirs can be the

right religion. I do not believe people were sent into the world to be

gloomy: time enough for that when troubles come."

"What _is_ religion?" asked one of the men.

"It is a sort of thing that's a great deal better to be felt than talked

about," answered William. "I am no parson, and cannot pretend to

enlighten you. We might never come to an understanding over it, were we

to discuss it all day long. I would rather talk to you of life, and its

practical duties."

"Tyrrett said as he had never paid heed to any of his duties. It were

his cry over and over again, sir, in the night. He said he had drunk,

and swore, and beat his wife, and done just what he oughtn't to ha'

done."

"Ay, I fear it was so," replied William. "Poor Tyrrett's existence was

divided into three phrases--working, drinking, quarrelling:

dissatisfaction attending all. I fear a great many more in Honey Fair

could say the same."

The men's consciences were pricking them; some of them began to stand

uncomfortably on one leg. _They_ tippled; _they_ quarrelled; they _had_

been known to administer personal correction to their wives on

provocation.

"Times upon times I asked Tyrrett to come round of an evening to Robert

East's," continued William. "He never did come. But I can tell you this,

my men; had he taken to pass his evenings there twelve months ago, when

the society--as they call it--was first formed, he might have been a

hale man now, instead of lying there, dead."

"Do you mean that he'd have growed religious, sir?"

"I tell you we will put religion out of the discussion: as you don't

seem to like the word. Had Tyrrett taken to like rational evenings,

instead of public-houses, it would have made a wonderful difference in

his mode of thought, and difference in conduct would have followed. Look

at his father-in-law, Cross. He was living without hope or aim, at

loggerheads with his wife and with the world, and rather given to

wishing himself dead. All that's over. Do you think I should like to go

about with a dirty face and holes in my coat?"

The men laughed. They thought not.

"Cross used to do so. But you see nothing of that now. Many others used

to do so. Many do so still."

Rather conscience-stricken again, the men tried to hide their elbows.

"It's true enough," said one. "Cross, and some more of 'em, are getting

smart."

"Smart inside as well as out," said William. "They are acquiring

self-respect; one of the best qualities a man can find. They wouldn't be

seen in the street now in rags, or the worse for drink, or in any other

degrading position; no, not if you bribed them with gold. Coming round

to East's has done that for them. They are beginning to see that it's

just as well to lead pleasant lives here, as unpleasant ones. In a short

time, Cross will be getting furniture about him again, towards setting

up the home he lost. He--and many more--will also, as I truly believe,

be beginning to set up furniture of another sort."

"What sort's that, sir?"

"The furniture that will stand him in need for the next life; the life

that Tyrrett has now entered upon," replied William in deeper tones. "It

is a life that _must_ come, you know; our little span of time here, in

comparison with eternity, is but as a drop of water to the great river

that runs through the town; and it is as well to be prepared for it.

Now, the next five I am going to get round to East's are you."

"Us, sir?"