CHAPTER I.

[Illustration]

The Witch’s Head

by H. Rider Haggard

AUTHOR OF

“DAWN,” “MR. MEESON’S WILL,” “ALLAN’S

WIFE,” “KING SOLOMON’S MINES,” “SHE,”

“JESS,” ETC. ETC.

WITH SIXTEEN FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHARLES KERR,

REPRODUCED BY BOUSSOD, VALADON ET CIE, OF PARIS

TWENTY-SIXTH THOUSAND

LONDON

SPENCER BLACKETT

MILTON HOUSE, 35 ST. BRIDE STREET, LUDGATE CIRCUS

[_All rights reserved_]

Contents

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I. ERNEST’S APPEARANCE

CHAPTER II. REGINALD CARDUS, ESQ., MISANTHROPE

CHAPTER III. OLD DUM’S NESS

CHAPTER IV. BOYS TOGETHER

CHAPTER V. EVA’S PROMISE

CHAPTER VI. JEREMY FALLS IN LOVE

CHAPTER VII. ERNEST IS INDISCREET

CHAPTER VIII. A GARDEN IDYL

CHAPTER IX. EVA FINDS SOMETHING

CHAPTER X. WHAT EVA FOUND

CHAPTER XI. DEEP WATERS

CHAPTER XII. DEEPER YET

CHAPTER XIII. MR. CARDUS UNFOLDS HIS PLANS

CHAPTER XIV. GOOD-BYE

CHAPTER XV. ERNEST GETS INTO TROUBLE

CHAPTER XVI. MADAME’S WORK

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I. MY POOR EVA

CHAPTER II. THE LOCUM TENENS

CHAPTER III. EVA TAKES A DISTRICT

CHAPTER IV. JEREMY’S IDEA OF A SHAKING

CHAPTER V. FLORENCE ON MARRIAGE

CHAPTER VI. MR. PLOWDEN GOES A-WOOING

CHAPTER VII. OVER THE WATER

CHAPTER VIII. A HOMERIC COMBAT

CHAPTER IX. ERNEST’S LOVE-LETTER

CHAPTER X. A WAY OF ESCAPE

CHAPTER XI. FOUND WANTING

CHAPTER XII. ERNEST RUNS AWAY

CHAPTER XIII. MR. PLOWDEN ASSERTS HIS RIGHTS

CHAPTER XIV. THE VIRGIN MARTYR

CHAPTER XV. HANS’S CITY OF REST

CHAPTER XVI. ERNEST ACCEPTS A COMMISSION

CHAPTER XVII. HANS PROPHESIES EVIL

CHAPTER XVIII. MR. ALSTON’S VIEWS

CHAPTER XIX. ISANDHLWANA

CHAPTER XX. THE END OF ALSTON’S HORSE

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I. THE CLIFFS OF OLD ENGLAND

CHAPTER II. ERNEST’S EVIL DESTINY

CHAPTER III. INTROSPECTIVE

CHAPTER IV. AFTER MANY DAYS

CHAPTER V. HOME AGAIN

CHAPTER VI. HOW IT ALL CAME ABOUT

CHAPTER VII. MAZOOKU’S FAREWELL

CHAPTER VIII. R. CARDUS ACCOMPLISHES HIS REVENGE

CHAPTER IX. MAD ATTERLEIGH’S LAST RIDE

CHAPTER X. DOROTHY’S TRIUMPH

“Swell out, sad harmonies,

From the slow cadence of the gathering years;

For Life is bitter-sweet, yet bounds the flood

Of human fears.

A death-crowned queen, from her hid throne she scatters

Smiles and tears

Until Time turn aside,

And we slip past him towards the wide increase

Of all things beautiful, then finding there

Our rest and peace;

The mournful strain is ended. Sorrow and song

Together cease.”

A. M. BARBER.

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE WITCH’S HEAD

HE CLENCHED HIS FISTS AND SHOOK THEM TOWARDS THE DOOR

“_BY GEORGE!_”

“O, RADIANT-WINGED HOUR!”

HUGH KERSHAW FLUNG UP HIS ARMS, WILDLY

A SHAPELY KAFIR GIRL

THE RESULT WAS STARTLING

THIS WAS INDEED A DAVID

HE SLOWLY LIFTED THE PISTOL TOWARDS HIS HEAD

MR. PLOWDEN LEFT THE HOUSE, WHITE WITH FURY

ERNEST DID A BRAVE THING

THE LAST CHARGE OF ALSTON’S HORSE

HE FOUND HIM LYING ON THE GROUND, WHITE AND STILL

AFTER MANY DAYS

MAZOOKU’S FAREWELL

MAD ATTERLEIGH’S LAST RIDE

[Illustration: The Witch’s Head]

THE WITCH’S HEAD

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I.

ERNEST’S APPEARANCE

“Come here, boy, let me look at you.”

Ernest advanced a step or two and looked his uncle in the face. He was

a noble-looking lad of about thirteen, with large dark eyes, black hair

that curled over his head, and the unmistakable air of breeding that

marks Englishmen of good race.

His uncle let his wandering glance stray round him, but, wandering as

it was, it seemed to take him in from top to toe. Presently he spoke

again:

“I like you, boy.”

Ernest said nothing.

“Let me see—your second name is Beyton. I am glad they called you

Beyton; it was your grandmother’s maiden name, and a good old name too.

Ernest Beyton Kershaw. By the way, have you ever seen anything of your

other uncle, Sir Hugh Kershaw?”

The boy’s cheek flushed.

“No, I have not; and I never wish to,” he answered.

“Why not?”

“Because when my mother wrote to him before she died”—and here the

lad’s voice choked—“just after the bank broke and she lost all her

money, he wrote back and said that because his brother—I mean my

father—had made a low marriage, that was no reason why he should

support his child and widow; but he sent her five pounds to go on with.

She sent it back.”

“That was like your mother, she always had a high spirit. He must be a

cur, and he does not speak the truth. Your mother comes of a better

stock than the Kershaws. The Carduses are one of the oldest families in

the Eastern counties. Why, boy, our family lived down in the Fens by

Lynn there for centuries, until your grandfather, poor weak man, got

involved in his great lawsuit and ruined us all. There, there, it has

gone into the law, but it is coming back, it is coming back fast. This

Sir Hugh has only one son, by the way. Do you know that if anything

happened to him you would be next in the entail?—at any rate you would

get the baronetcy.”

“I don’t want his baronetcy,” said Ernest, sulkily; “I will have

nothing of his.”

“A title, boy, is an incorporeal hereditament, for which the holder is

indebted to nobody. It does not descend to him, it vests in him. But

tell me, how long was this before your mother died—that he sent the

five pounds, I mean?”

“About three months.”

Mr. Cardus hesitated a little before he spoke again, tapping his white

fingers nervously on the table.

“I hope my sister was not in want, Ernest?” he said, jerkily.

“For a fortnight before she died we had scarcely enough to eat,” was

the blunt reply.

Mr. Cardus turned himself to the window, and for a minute the light of

the dull December day shone and glistened upon his brow and head, which

was perfectly bald. Then before he spoke he drew himself back into the

shadow, perhaps to hide something like a tear that shone in his soft

black eyes.

“And why did she not appeal to me? I could have helped her.”

“She said that when you quarrelled with her about her marrying my

father, you told her never to write or speak to you again, and that she

never would.”

“Then why did you not do it, boy? You knew how things were.”

“Because we had begged once, and I would not beg again.”

“Ah,” muttered Mr. Cardus, “the old spirit cropping up. Poor Rose,

nearly starving, and dying too, and I with so much which I do not want!

O, boy, boy, when you are a man never set up an idol, for it frightens

good spirits away. Nothing else can live in its temple; it is a place

where all other things are forgotten—duty, and the claims of blood, and

sometimes those of honour too. Look now, I have my idol, and it has

made me forget my sister and your mother. Had she not written at last

when she was dying, I should have forgotten you too.”

The boy looked up puzzled.

“An idol!”

“Yes,” went on his uncle in his dreamy way—“an idol. Many people have

them; they keep them in the cupboard with their family skeleton;

sometimes the two are identical. And they call them by many names, too;

frequently it is a woman’s name; sometimes that of a passion; sometimes

that of a vice, but a virtue’s—not often.”

“And what is the name of yours, uncle?” asked the wondering boy.

“Mine? O, never mind!”

At this moment a swing-door in the side of the room was opened, and a

tall bony woman with beady eyes came through.

“Mr. de Talor to see you, sir, in the office.”

Mr. Cardus whistled softly.

“Ah,” he said, “tell him I am coming. By the way, Grice, this young

gentleman has come to live here; his room is ready, is it not?”

“Yes, sir; Miss Dorothy has been seeing to it.”

“Good; where is Miss Dorothy?”

“She has walked into Kesterwick, sir.”

“O, and Master Jeremy?”

“He is about, sir; I saw him pass with a ferret a while back.”

“Tell Sampson or the groom to find him and send him to Master Ernest

here. That will do, thank you. Now, Ernest, I must go. I hope that you

will be pretty happy here, my boy, when your trouble has worn off a

bit. You will have Jeremy for a companion; he is a lout, and an

unpleasant lout, it is true, but I suppose that he is better than

nobody. And then there is Dorothy”—and his voice softened as he

muttered her name—“but she is a girl.”

“Who are Dorothy and Jeremy?” broke in his nephew; “are they your

children?”

Mr. Cardus started perceptibly, and his thick white eyebrows contracted

over his dark eyes till they almost met.

“Children!” he said, sharply; “I have no children. They are my wards.

Their name is Jones;” and he left the room.

“Well, he _is_ a rum sort,” reflected Ernest to himself, “and I don’t

think I ever saw such a shiny head before. I wonder if he oils it? But,

at any rate, he is kind to me. Perhaps it would have been better if

mother had written to him before. She might have gone on living, then.”

Rubbing his hand across his face to clear away the water gathering in

his eyes at the thought of his dead mother, Ernest made his way to the

wide fireplace at the top end of the room, peeped into the ancient

inglenooks on each side, and at the old Dutch tiles with which it was

lined, and then, lifting his coat after a grown-up fashion, proceeded

to warm himself and inspect his surroundings. It was a curious room in

which he stood, and its leading feature was old oak panelling. All down

its considerable length the walls were oak-clad to the low ceiling,

which was supported by enormous beams of the same material; the

shutters of the narrow windows which looked out on the sea were oak,

and so were the doors and table, and even the mantelshelf. The general

idea given by the display of so much timber was certainly one of

solidity, but it could scarcely be called cheerful—not even the

numerous suits of armour and shining weapons which were placed about

upon the walls could make it cheerful. It was a remarkable room, but

its effect upon the observer was undoubtedly depressing.

Just as Ernest was beginning to realise this fact, things were made

more lively by the sudden appearance through the swing-door of a large

savage-looking bull-terrier, which began to steer for the fireplace,

where it was evidently accustomed to lie. On seeing Ernest it stopped

and sniffed.

“Hullo, good dog!” said Ernest.

The dog growled and showed its teeth.

Ernest put out his leg towards it as a caution to it to keep off. It

acknowledged the compliment by sending its teeth through his trousers.

Then the lad, growing wroth, and being not free from fear, seized the

poker and hit the dog over the head so shrewdly that the blood streamed

from the blow, and the brute, losing his grip, turned and fled howling.

While Ernest was yet warm with the glow of victory, the door once more

swung open, violently this time, and through it there came a boy of

about his own age, a dirty deep-chested boy, with uncut hair, and a

slow heavy face in which were set great gray eyes, just now ablaze with

indignation. On seeing Ernest he pulled up much as the dog had done,

and regarded him angrily.

“Did you hit my dog?” he asked.

“I hit a dog,” replied Ernest politely, “but—”

“I don’t want your ‘buts.’ Can you fight?”

Ernest inquired whether this question was put with a view of gaining

general information or for any particular purpose.

“Can you fight?” was the only rejoinder.

Slightly nettled, Ernest replied that under certain circumstances he

could fight like a tom-cat.

“Then look out; I’m going to make your head as you have made my dog’s.”

Ernest, in the polite language of youth, opined that there would be

hair and toe-nails flying first.

To this sally, Jeremy Jones, for it was he, replied only by springing

at him, his hair streaming behind like a Red Indian’s, and, smiting him

severely in the left eye, caused him to measure his length upon the

floor. Arising quickly, Ernest returned the compliment with interest;

but this time they both went down together, pummelling each other

heartily. With whom the victory would ultimately have remained could

scarcely be doubtful, for Jeremy, who even at that age gave promise of

the enormous physical strength which afterwards made him such a noted

character, must have crushed his antagonist in the end. But while his

strength still endured Ernest was fighting with such ungovernable fury,

and such a complete disregard of personal consequences, that he was for

a while, at any rate, getting the best of it. And luckily for him,

while matters were yet in the balanced scales of Fate, an interruption

occurred. For at that moment there rose before the blurred sight of the

struggling boys a vision of a small woman—at least she looked like a

woman—with an indignant little face and an uplifted forefinger.

“O, you wicked boys! what will Reginald say, I should like to know? O,

you bad Jeremy! I am ashamed to have such a brother. Get up!”

“My eye!” said Jeremy thickly, for his lip was cut; “it’s Dolly!”

CHAPTER II.

REGINALD CARDUS, ESQ., MISANTHROPE

When Mr. Cardus left the sitting-room where he had been talking to

Ernest, he passed down a passage in the rambling old house which led

him into a courtyard. On the farther side of the yard, which was walled

in, stood a neat red-brick building one story high, consisting of two

rooms and a passage. On to this building were attached a series of low

green-houses, and against the wall at the farther end of these houses

was a lean-to in which stood the boiler that supplied the pipes with

hot water. The little red-brick building was Mr. Cardus’s office, for

he was a lawyer by profession; the long tail of glass behind it were

his orchid-houses, for orchid-growing was his sole amusement. The _tout

ensemble_, office and orchid-houses, seemed curiously out of place in

the gray and ancient courtyard where they stood, looking as they did on

to the old one-storied house, scarred by the passage of centuries of

tempestuous weather. Some such idea seemed to strike Mr. Cardus as he

closed the door behind him, preparatory to crossing the courtyard.

“Queer contrast,” he muttered to himself; “very queer. Something like

that between Reginald Cardus, Esquire, Misanthrope, of Dum’s Ness, and

Mr. Reginald Cardus, Solicitor, Chairman of the Stokesly Board of

Guardians, Bailiff of Kesterwick, etc. And yet in both cases they are

part of the same establishment. Case of old and new style!”

Mr. Cardus did not make his way straight to the office. He struck off

to the right, and entered the long line of glass-houses, walking up

from house to house, till he reached the partition where the temperate

sort were placed to bloom, and which was connected with his office by a

glass door. Through this last he walked softly, with a cat-like step,

till he reached the door, where he paused to observe a large coarse

man, who was standing at the far end of the room, looking out intently

on the courtyard.

“Ah, my friend,” he said to himself, “so the shoe is beginning to

pinch. Well, it is time.” Then he pushed the door softly open, passed

into the room with the same cat-like step, closed it, and, seating

himself at his writing-table, took up a pen. Apparently the

coarse-looking man at the window was too much absorbed in his own

thoughts to hear him, for he still stood staring into space.

“Well, Mr. de Talor,” said the lawyer presently, in his soft, jerky

voice, “I am at your service.”

The person addressed started violently, and turned sharply round. “Good

’eavens, Cardus, how did you get in?”

“Through the door, of course; do you suppose I came down the chimney?”

“It’s very strange, Cardus, but I never ’eard you come. You’ve given me

quite a start.”

Mr. Cardus laughed, a hard, little laugh. “You were too much occupied

with your own thoughts, Mr. de Talor. I fear that they are not pleasant

ones. Can I help you?”

“How do you know that my thoughts are not pleasant, Cardus? I never

said so.”

“If we lawyers waited for our clients to tell us all their thoughts,

Mr. de Talor, it would often take us a long time to reach the truth. We

have to read their faces, or even their backs sometimes. You have no

idea of how much expression a back is capable, if you make such things

your study; yours, for instance, looks very uncomfortable to-day:

nothing gone wrong, I hope?”

“No, Cardus, no,” answered Mr. de Talor, dropping the subject of backs,

which was, he felt, beyond him; “that is, nothing much, merely a

question of business, on which I have come to ask your advice as a

shrewd man.”

“My best advice is at your service, Mr. de Talor: what is it?”

“Well, Cardus, it’s this.” And Mr. de Talor seated his portly frame in

an easy-chair, and turned his broad, vulgar face towards the lawyer.

“It’s about the railway-grease business—”

“Which you own up in Manchester?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Well, then, it ought to be a satisfactory subject to talk of. It pays

hand over fist, does it not?”

“No, Cardus, that is just the point: it did pay, it don’t now.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, you see, when my father took out the patent, and started the

business, his ’ouse was the only ’ouse in the market, and he made a

pot, and, I don’t mind telling you, I’ve made a pot too; but now, what

do you think?—there’s a beggarly firm called Rastrick & Codley that

took out a new patent last year, and is underselling us with a better

stuff at a cheaper price than we can turn it out at.”

“Well!”

“Well, we’ve lowered our price to theirs, but we are doing business at

a loss. We hoped to burst them, but they don’t burst: there’s somebody

backing them, confound them, for Rastrick & Codley ain’t worth a

sixpence; but who it is the Lord only knows. I don’t believe they know

themselves.”

“That is unfortunate, but what about it?”

“Just this, Cardus. I want to ask your advice about selling out. Our

credit is still good, and we could sell up for a large pile—not so

large as we could have done, but still large—and I don’t know whether

to sell or hold.”

Mr. Cardus looked thoughtful. “It is a difficult point, Mr. de Talor,

but for myself I am always against caving in. The other firm may smash

after all, and then you would be sorry. If you were to sell now you

would probably make their fortunes, which I suppose you don’t want to

do.”

“No, indeed.”

“Then you are a very wealthy man; you are not dependent on this grease

business. Even if things were to go wrong, you have all your landed

property here at Ceswick’s Ness to fall back on. I should hold, if I

were you, even if it was at a loss for a time, and trust to the fortune

of war.”

Mr. de Talor gave a sigh of relief. “That’s my view, too, Cardus. You

are a shrewd man, and I am glad you jump with me. Damn Rastrick &

Codley, say I!”

“O yes, damn them by all means,” answered the lawyer, with a smile, as

he rose to show his client to the door.

On the farther side of the passage was another door, with a glass top

to it, which gave on to a room furnished after the ordinary fashion of

a clerk’s office. Opposite this door Mr. de Talor stopped to look at a

man who was within, sitting at a table writing. The man was old, of

large size, very powerfully built, and dressed with extreme neatness in

hunting costume—boots, breeches, spurs, and all. Over his large head

grew tufts of coarse gray hair, which hung down in dishevelled locks

about his face, giving him a wild appearance, that was added to by a

curious distortion of the mouth. His left arm, too, hung almost

helpless by his side.

Mr. Cardus laughed as he followed his visitor’s gaze. “A curious sort

of clerk, eh?” he said. “Mad, dumb, and half-paralysed—not many lawyers

could show such another.”

Mr. de Talor glanced at the object of their observation uneasily.

“If he’s so mad, how can he do clerk’s work?” he asked.

“O, he’s only mad in a way; he copies beautifully.”

“He has quite lost his memory, I suppose?” said De Talor, with another

uneasy glance.

“Yes,” answered Mr. Cardus, with a smile, “he has. Perhaps it is as

well. He remembers nothing now but his delusions.”

Mr. de Talor looked relieved. “He has been with you many years now,

hasn’t he, Cardus?”

“Yes, a great many.”

“Why did you bring him ’ere at all?”

“Did I never tell you the story? Then if you care to step back into my

office I will. It is not a long one. You remember when our friend”—he

nodded towards the office—“kept the hounds, and they used to call him

‘hard-riding Atterleigh’?”

“Yes, I remember, and ruined himself over them, like a fool.”

“And of course you remember Mary Atterleigh, his daughter, whom we were

all in love with when we were young?”

Mr. de Talor’s broad cheek took a deeper shade of crimson as he nodded

assent.

“Then,” went on Mr. Cardus, in a voice meant to be indifferent, but

which now and again gave traces of emotion, “you will also remember

that I was the fortunate man, and, with her father’s consent, was

engaged to be married to Mary Atterleigh so soon as I could show him

that my income reached a certain sum.” Here Mr. Cardus paused a moment,

and then continued, “But I had to go to America about the great Norwich

bank case, and it was a long job, and travelling was slow then. When I

got back, Mary was—married to a man called Jones, a friend of yours,

Mr. de Talor. He was staying at your house, Ceswick’s Ness, when he met

her. But perhaps you are better acquainted with that part of the story

than I am.”

Mr. de Talor was looking very uneasy again now.

“No, I know nothing about it. Jones fell in love with her like the

rest, and the next I heard of it was that they were to be married. It

was rather rough on you, eh, Cardus? but, Lord, you shouldn’t have been

fool enough to trust her.”

Mr. Cardus smiled, a bitter smile. “Yes, it was a little ‘rough,’ but

that has nothing to do with my story. The marriage did not turn out

well; a curious fatality pursued all who had had any hand in it. Mary

had two children; and then did the best thing she could do—died of

shame and sorrow. Jones, who was rich, went fraudulently bankrupt, and

ended by committing suicide. Hard-riding Atterleigh flourished for a

while, and then lost his money in horses and a ship-building

speculation, and got a paralytic stroke that took away all his speech

and most of his reason. Then I brought him here to save him from the

madhouse.”

“That was kind of you, Cardus.”

“O no, he is worth his keep, and besides, he is poor Mary’s father. He

is under the fixed impression that I am the devil; but that does not

matter.”

“You’ve got her children too, eh?”

“Yes, I have adopted them. The girl reminds me of her mother, though

she will never have her mother’s looks. The boy is like old Atterleigh.

I do not care about the boy. But, thank God, they are neither of them

like their father.”

“So you knew Jones?” said De Talor, sharply.

“Yes, I met him after his marriage. Oddly enough, I was with him a few

minutes before he destroyed himself. There, Mr. de Talor, I will not

detain you any longer. I thought that you could perhaps tell me

something of the details of Mary’s marriage. The story has a

fascination for me, its results upon my own life have been so

far-reaching. I am sure that I am not at the bottom of it yet. Mary

wrote to me when she was dying, and hinted at something that I cannot

understand. There was somebody behind who arranged the matter, who

assisted Jones’s suit. Well, well, I shall find it all out in time, and

whoever it is will no doubt pay the price of his wickedness, like the

others. Providence has strange ways, Mr. de Talor, but in the end it is

a terrible avenger. What! are you going? Queer talk for a lawyer’s

office, isn’t it?”

Here Mr. de Talor rose, looking pale, and, merely nodding to Mr.

Cardus, left the room.

The lawyer watched him till the door had closed, and then suddenly his

whole face changed. The white eyebrows drew close together, the

delicate features worked, and in the soft eyes there shone a look of

hate. He clenched his fists, and shook them towards the door.

[Illustration: “He clenched his fists and shook them towards the

door.”]

“You liar, you hound!” he said aloud. “God grant that I may live long

enough to do to you as I have done to them! One a suicide, and one a

paralytic madman; you—you shall be a beggar, if it takes me twenty

years to make you so. Yes, that will hit you hardest. O Mary! Mary!

dead and dishonoured through you, you scoundrel! O my darling, shall I

ever find you again?”

And this strange man dropped his head upon the desk before him, and

groaned.

CHAPTER III.

OLD DUM’S NESS

When Mr. Cardus came half an hour or so later to take his place at the

dinner-table—for in those days they dined in the middle of the day at

Dum’s Ness—he was not in a good mood. The pool into which the records

of our individual existence are ever gathering, and which we call our

past, will not often bear much stirring, even when its waters are not

bitter. Certainly Mr. Cardus’s would not. And yet that morning he had

stirred it violently enough.

In the long, oak-panelled room, used indifferently as a sitting and

dining room, Mr. Cardus found “hard-riding Atterleigh” and his

grand-daughter, little Dorothy Jones. The old man was already seated at

table, and Dorothy was busying herself cutting bread, looking as

composed and grown-up as though she had been four-and-twenty instead of

fourteen. She was a strange child, with her assured air and woman’s

ways and dress, her curious thoughtful face, and her large blue eyes

that shone steadily as the light of a lamp. But just now the little

face was more anxious than usual.

“Reginald,” she began, as soon as he was in the room (for by Mr.

Cardus’s wish she always called him by his Christian name), “I am sorry

to tell you that there has been a sad disturbance.”

“What is it?” he asked, with a frown; “Jeremy again?” Mr. Cardus could

be very stern where Jeremy was concerned.

“Yes, I am afraid it is. The two boys—” but it was unnecessary for her

to carry her explanations further, for at that moment the swing-door

opened, and through it appeared the young gentlemen in question, driven

in like sheep by the beady-eyed Grice. Ernest was leading, attempting

the impossible feat of looking jaunty with a lump of raw beefsteak tied

over one eye, and presenting a general appearance that suggested the

idea of the colours of the rainbow in a state of decomposition.

Behind him shuffled Jeremy, his matted locks still wet from being

pumped on. But his wounds were either unsuited to the dreadful remedy

of raw beefsteak, or he had adopted in preference an heroic one of his

own, of which grease plentifully sprinkled with flour formed the basis.

For a moment there was silence, then Mr. Cardus, with awful politeness,

asked Jeremy what was the meaning of this.

“We’ve been fighting,” answered the boy, sulkily.” He hit—”

“Thank you, Jeremy, I don’t want the particulars, but I will take this

opportunity to tell you before your sister and my nephew what I think

of you. You are a boor and a lout, and, what is more, you are a

coward.”

At this unjust taunt the lad coloured to his eyes.

“Yes, you may colour, but let me tell you that it is cowardly to pick a

quarrel with a boy the moment he sets foot inside my doors—”

“I say, uncle,” broke in Ernest, who was unable to see anything

cowardly about fighting, an amusement to which he was rather partial

himself, and who thought that his late antagonist was getting more than

his due, “I began it, you know.”

It was not true, except in the sense that he had begun it by striking

the dog; nor did this statement produce any great effect on Mr. Cardus,

who was evidently seriously angry with Jeremy on more points than this.

But at least it was one of those well-meant fibs at which the recording

angel should not be offended.

“I do not care who began it,” went on Mr. Cardus, angrily, “nor is it

about this only that I am angry. You are a discredit to me, Jeremy, and

a discredit to your sister. You are dirty, you are idle; your ways are

not those of a gentleman. I sent you to school—you ran away. I give you

good clothes—you will not wear them. I tell you, boy, that I will not

stand it any longer. Now listen. I am going to make arrangements with

Mr. Halford, the clergyman at Kesterwick, to undertake Ernest’s

education. You shall go with him; and if I see no improvement in your

ways in the course of the next few months, I shall wash my hands of

you. Do you understand me now?”

The boy Jeremy had, during this oration, been standing in the middle of

the room, first on one leg, then on the other. At its conclusion he

brought the leg that was at the moment in the air down to the ground,

and stood firm.

“Well,” went on Mr. Cardus, “what have you to say?”

“I have to say,” blurted out Jeremy, “that I don’t want your education.

You care nothing about me,” he went on, his gray eyes flashing and his

heavy face lighting up; “nobody cares about me except my dog Nails.

Yes, you make a dog of me myself; you throw things to me as I throw

Nails a bone. I don’t want your education, and I won’t have it. I don’t

want the fine clothes you buy for me, and I won’t wear them. I don’t

want to be a burden on you either. Let me go away and be a fisher-lad

and earn my bread. If it hadn’t been for her,” pointing to his sister,

who was sitting aghast at his outburst, “and for Nails, I’d have gone

long ago, I can tell you. At any rate, I should not be a dog then. I

should be earning my living, and have no one to thank for it. Let me

go, I say, where I sha’n’t be mocked at if I do my fair day’s work. I’m

strong enough; let me go. There! I’ve spoken my mind now;” and the lad

broke out into a storm of tears, and, turning, tramped out of the room.

As he went, all Mr. Cardus’s wrath seemed to leave him.

“I did not think he had so much spirit in him,” he said aloud. “Well,

let us have our dinner.”

At dinner the conversation flagged, the scene that preceded it having

presumably left a painful impression; and Ernest, who was an observant

youth, fell to watching little Dorothy doing the honours of the table:

cutting up her crazed old grandfather’s food for him, seeing that

everybody had what they wanted, and generally making herself

unobtrusively useful. In due course the meal came to an end, and Mr.

Cardus and old Atterleigh went back to the office, leaving Dorothy

alone with Ernest. Presently the former began to talk.

“I hope that your eye is not painful,” she said. “Jeremy hits very

hard.”

“O no, it’s all right. I’m used to it. When I was at school in London I

often used to fight. I’m sorry for him, though—your brother, I mean.”

“Jeremy! O yes, he is always in trouble, and now I suppose that it will

be worse than ever. I do all I can to keep things smooth, but it is no

good. If he won’t go to Mr. Halford’s, I am sure I don’t know what will

happen;” and the little lady sighed deeply.

“O, I daresay that he will go. Let’s go and look for him, and try and

persuade him.”

“We might try,” she said, doubtfully. “Stop a minute, and I will put on

my hat, and then if you will take that nasty thing off your eye, we

might walk on to Kesterwick. I want to take a book, out of which I have

been teaching myself French, back to the cottage where old Miss Ceswick

lives, you know.”

“All right,” said Ernest.

Presently Dorothy returned, and they went out by the back way to a

little room near the coach-house, where Jeremy stuffed birds and kept

his collection of eggs and butterflies; but he was not there. On

inquiring of Sampson, the old Scotch gardener who looked after Mr.

Cardus’s orchid-houses, she discovered that Jeremy had gone out to

shoot snipe, having borrowed Sampson’s gun for that purpose.

“That is just like Jeremy,” she sighed. “He is always going out

shooting instead of attending to things.”

“Can he hit birds flying, then?” asked Ernest.

“Hit them!” she answered, with a touch of pride; “I don’t think he ever

misses them. I wish he could do other things as well.”

Jeremy at once went up at least fifty per cent. in Ernest’s estimation.

On their way back to the house they peeped in through the office

window, and Ernest saw “hard-riding Atterleigh” at his work, copying

deeds.

“He’s your grandfather, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know you?”

“In a sort of a way; but he is quite mad. He thinks that Reginald is

the devil, whom he must serve for a certain number of years. He has got

a stick with numbers of notches on it, and he cuts out a notch every

month. It is all very sad. I think it is a very sad world;” and she

sighed again.

“Why does he wear hunting-clothes?” asked Ernest.

“Because he always used to ride a good deal. He loves a horse now.

Sometimes you will see him get up from his writing-table, and the tears

come into his eyes if anybody comes into the yard on horseback. Once he

came out and tried to get on to a horse and ride off, but they stopped

him.”

“Why don’t they let him ride?”

“O, he would soon kill himself. Old Jack Tares, who lives at

Kesterwick, and gets his living by rats and ferrets, used to be whip to

grandfather’s hounds when he had them, and says that he always was a

little mad about riding. One moonlight night he and grandfather went

out to hunt a stag that had strayed here out of some park. They put the

stag out of a little grove at a place called Claffton, five miles away,

and he took them round by Starton and Ashleigh, and then came down the

flats to the sea, about a mile and a half below here, just this side of

the quicksand. The moon was so bright that it was almost like day, and

for the last mile the stag was in view not more than a hundred yards in

front of the hounds, and the pace was racing. When he came to the beach

he went right through the waves out to the sea, and the hounds after

him, and grandfather after them. They caught him a hundred yards out

and killed him, and then grandfather turned his horse’s head and swam

back with the hounds.”

“My eye!” was Ernest’s comment on this story. “And what did Jack Tares

do?”

“O, he stopped on the beach and said his prayers; he thought that they

would all be drowned.”

Then they passed through the old house, which was built on a little

ness or headland that jutted beyond the level of the shore-line, and

across which the wind swept and raved all the winter long, driving the

great waves in cease-less thunder against the sandy cliffs. It was a

desolate spot that the gray and massive house, of which the roof was

secured by huge blocks of rock, looked out upon, nude of vegetation,

save for rank, rush-like grass and plants of sea-holly. In front was

the great ocean, rushing in continually upon the sandy bulwarks, and

with but few ships to break its loneliness. To the left, as far as the

eye could reach ran a line of cliff, out of which the waves had taken

huge mouthfuls, till it was as full of gaps as an old crone’s jaw.

Behind this stretched mile upon mile of desolate-looking land, covered

for the most part with ling and heath, and cut up with dikes, whence

the water was pumped by means of windmills, that gave a Dutch

appearance to the landscape.

“Look,” said Dorothy, pointing to a small white house about a mile and

a half away up the shore-line, “that is the lock-house where the great

sluice-gates are, and beyond that is the dreadful quicksand in which a

whole army was once swallowed up, like the Egyptians in the Red Sea.”

“My word!” said Ernest, much interested; “and, I say, did my uncle

build this house?”

“You silly boy! why, it has been built for hundreds of years. Somebody

of the name of Dum built it, and that is why it is called Dum’s Ness;

at least I suppose so. There is an old chart that Reginald has, which

was made in the time of Henry VII., and it is marked as Dum’s Ness

there, so Dum must have lived before then. Look,” she went on, as,

turning to the right, they rounded the old house and reached the road

which ran along the top of the cliff, “there are the ruins of

Titheburgh Abbey;” and she pointed to the remains of an enormous church

with a still perfect tower, that stood within a few hundred yards of

them, almost upon the edge of the cliff.

“Why don’t they build it up again?” asked Ernest.

Dorothy shook her head. “Because in a few years the sea will swallow

it. Nearly all the graveyard has gone already. It is the same with

Kesterwick, where we are going. Kesterwick was a great town once. The

kings of East Anglia made it their capital, and a bishop lived there.

And after that it was a great port, with thousands upon thousands of

inhabitants. But the sea came on and on and choked up the harbour, and

washed away the cliffs, and they could not keep it out, and now

Kesterwick is nothing but a little village with one fine old church

left. The real Kesterwick lies there, under the sea. If you walk along

the beach after a great gale, you will find hundreds of bricks and

tiles washed from the houses that are going to pieces down in the deep

water. Just fancy, on one Sunday afternoon, in the reign of Queen

Elizabeth, three of the parish churches were washed over the cliff into

the sea!”

And so she went on, telling the listening Ernest tale after tale of the

old town, than which Babylon had not fallen more completely, till they

came to a pretty little modern house bowered up in trees—that is, in

summer, for there were no leaves upon them now—with which Ernest was

destined to become very well acquainted in after years.

Dorothy left her companion at the gate while she went in to leave her

book, remarking that she would be ashamed to introduce a boy with so

black an eye. Presently she came back again, saying that Miss Ceswick

was out.

“Who is Miss Ceswick?” asked Ernest, who at this period of his

existence had a burning thirst for information of every sort.

“She is a very beautiful old lady,” was Dorothy’s answer. “Her family

lived for many years at a place called Ceswick’s Ness; but her brother

lost all his money gambling, and the place was sold, and Mr. de Talor,

that horrid fat man whom you saw drive away this morning, bought it.”

“Does she live alone?”

“Yes; but she has some nieces, the daughters of her brother who is

dead, and whose mother is very ill; and if she dies one of them is

coming to live with her. She is just my age, so I hope she will come.”

After this there was silence for a while.

“Ernest,” said the little woman presently, “you look kind, so I will

ask you. I want you to help me about Jeremy.”

Ernest, feeling much puffed up at the compliment implied, expressed his

willingness to do anything he could.

“You see, Ernest,” she went on, fixing her sweet blue eyes on his face,

“Jeremy is a great trouble to me. He will go his own way. And he does

not like Reginald, and Reginald does not like him. If Reginald comes in

at one door, Jeremy goes out at the other. And besides he always flies

in Reginald’s face. And, you see, it is not right of Jeremy, because

after all Reginald is very kind to us, and there is no reason he should

be, except that I believe he was fond of our mother; and if it was not

for Reginald, whom I love very much, though he is curious sometimes, I

don’t know what would become of grandfather or us. And so, you see, I

think that Jeremy ought to behave better to him, and I want to ask you

to bear with his rough ways, and try and be friends with him and get

him to behave better. It is not much for him to do in return for all

your uncle’s kindness. You see, I can do a little something, because I

look after the housekeeping; but he does nothing. And first I want you

to get him to make no more trouble about going to Mr. Halford’s.”

“All right, I’ll try; but, I say, how do you learn? you seem to know an

awful lot.”

“O, I teach myself in the evenings. Reginald wanted to get me a

governess, but I would not. How should I ever get Grice and the

servants to obey me if they saw that I had to do what a strange woman

told me? It would not do at all.”

Just then they were passing the ruins of Titheburgh Abbey. It was

almost dark, for the winter’s evening was closing in rapidly, when

suddenly Dorothy gave a little shriek, for from behind a ruined wall

there rose up an armed mysterious figure with something white behind

it. Next second she saw that it was Jeremy, who had returned from

shooting, and was apparently waiting for them.

“O Jeremy, how you frightened me! What is it?”

“I want to speak to _him,_” was the laconic reply.

Ernest stood still, wondering what was coming.

“Look here! You told a lie to try to save me from catching it this

morning. You said that you began it. You didn’t. I began it. I’d have

told him too,” and he jerked his thumb in the direction of Dum’s Ness,

“only my mouth was so full of words I could not get it out. But I want

to say I thank you, and here, take the dog. He’s a nasty tempered

devil, but he’ll grow very fond of you if you are kind to him;” and

seizing the astonished Nails by the collar, he thrust him towards

Ernest.

For a moment there was a struggle in Ernest’s mind, for he greatly

longed to possess a bull-terrier dog; but his gentleman-like feeling

prevailed. “I don’t want the dog, and I didn’t do anything in

particular.”

“Yes, you did, though,” replied Jeremy, greatly relieved that Ernest

did not accept his dog, which he loved, “or at least you did more than

anybody ever did before; but I tell you what, I’ll do as much for you

one day. I’ll do anything you like.”

“Will you, though?” answered Ernest, who was a sharp youth, and

opportunely remembered Dorothy’s request.

“Yes, I will.”

“Well, then, come to this fellow Halford with me; I don’t want to go

alone.”

Jeremy slowly rubbed his face with the back of an exceedingly dirty

hand. This was more than he had bargained for, but his word was his

word.

“All right,” he answered, “I’ll come.” And then whistling to his dog,

he vanished into the shadows. And thus began a friendship between these

two that endured all their lives.

CHAPTER IV.

BOYS TOGETHER

Jeremy kept his word. On the appointed day he appeared ready, as he

expressed it, to “tackle that bloke Halford.” What is more, he appeared

with his hair cut, a decent suit of clothes on, and, wonder of wonders,

his hands properly washed, for all of which he was rewarded by finding

that the “tackling” was not such a fearful business as he had

anticipated. It was, moreover, of an intermittent nature, for the lads

found plenty of time to indulge in every sort of manly exercise

together. In winter they would roam all over the wide marsh-lands in

search of snipe and wild ducks, which Ernest missed and Jeremy brought

down with unerring aim, and in summer they would swim, or fish, and

bird-nest to their hearts’ content. In this way they contrived to

combine the absorption of a little learning with that of a really

extended knowledge of animal life and a large quantity of health and

spirits.

They were happy years, those, for both the lads, and to Jeremy, when he

compared them to his life as it had been before Ernest came, they

seemed perfectly heavenly. For whether it was that he had improved in

his manners since then, or that Ernest stood as a buffer between him

and Mr. Cardus, it certainly happened that he came into collision with

him far less often. Indeed, it seemed to Jeremy that the old gentleman

(it was the fashion to call Mr. Cardus old, though he was in reality

only middle-aged) was more tolerant of him than formerly, though he

knew that he would never be a favourite. As for Ernest, everybody loved

the boy, and then, as afterwards, he was a great favourite with women,

who would one and all do anything he asked. It was a wonder that he did

not get spoiled by it all; but he did not. It was not possible to know

Ernest Kershaw at any period of his life without taking a fancy to him,

he was so eminently and unaffectedly a gentleman, and so completely

free from any sort of swagger. Always ready to do a kindness, and never

forgetting one done, generous with his possessions to such an extent

that he seemed to have a vague idea that they were the common property

of his friends and himself, possessing that greatest of gifts, a

sympathetic mind, and true as steel, no wonder that he was always

popular both with men and women.

Ernest grew into a handsome lad, too, as soon as he began to get his

height, with a shapely form, a beautiful pair of eyes, and an

indescribable appearance of manliness and spirit. But the greatest

charm of his face was always its quick intelligence and unvarying

kindliness.

As for Jeremy, he did not change much; he simply expanded, and, to tell

the truth, expanded very largely. Year by year his form assumed more

and more enormous proportions, and his strength grew more and more

abnormal. As for his mind, it did not grow with the same rapidity, and

was loth to admit a new idea; but once it was admitted, it never came

out again.

And he had a ruling passion, too, this dull giant, and that was his

intense affection and admiration for Ernest. It was an affection that

grew with his growth till it became a part of himself, increasing with

the increasing years, till at last it was nearly pathetic in its

entirety. It was but rarely that he parted from Ernest, except, indeed,

on those occasions when Ernest chose to go abroad to pursue his study

of foreign languages, of which he was rather fond. Then, and then only,

Jeremy would strike. He disliked parting with Ernest much, but he

objected—being intensely insular—to cohabit with foreigners yet more,

so on these occasions, and these only, for a while they separated.

So the years wore on till, when they were eighteen, Mr. Cardus, after

his sudden fashion, announced his intention of sending them both to

Cambridge. Ernest always remembered it, for it was on that very day

that he first made the acquaintance of Florence Ceswick. He had just

issued from his uncle’s presence, and was seeking Dolly, to communicate

the intelligence to her, when he suddenly blundered in upon old Miss

Ceswick, and with her a young lady. This young lady, to whom Miss

Ceswick introduced him as her niece, at once attracted his attention.

On being introduced the girl, who was about his own age, touched his

outstretched palm with her slender fingers, throwing on him at the same

moment so sharp a look from her brown eyes that he afterwards declared

to Jeremy that it seemed to go right through him. She was a

remarkable-looking girl. The hair, which curled profusely over a

shapely head, was, like the eyes, brown; the complexion olive, the

features were small, and the lips full, curving over a beautiful set of

teeth. In person she was rather short, but squarely built, and at her

early age her figure was perfectly formed. Indeed, she might to all

appearance have been much older than she was. There was little of the

typical girl about her. While he was still observing her, his uncle

came into the room, and was duly introduced by the old lady to her

niece, who had, she said, come to share her loneliness.

“And how do you like Kesterwick, Miss Florence?” asked Mr. Cardus, with

his usual courtly smile.

“It is much what I expected—a little duller, perhaps,” she answered

composedly.

“Ah, perhaps you have been accustomed to a gayer spot.”

“Yes, till my mother died we lived at Brighton; there is plenty of life

there. Not that we could mix in it, we were too poor; but at any rate

we could watch it.”

“Do you like life, Miss Florence?”

“Yes, we only live such a short time. I should like,” she went on,

throwing her head back, and half-closing her eyes, “to see as much as I

can, and to exhaust every emotion.”

“Perhaps, Miss Florence, you would find some of them rather

unpleasant,” answered Mr. Cardus, with a smile.

“Possibly, but it is better to travel through a bad country than to

grow in a good one.”

Mr. Cardus smiled again: the girl interested him rather.

“Do you know, Miss Ceswick,” he said, changing the subject, and

addressing the stately old lady, who was sitting smoothing her laces,

and looking rather aghast at her niece’s utterances, “that this young

gentleman is going to college, and Jeremy, too?”

“Indeed,” said Miss Ceswick; “I hope that you will do great things

there, Ernest.”

While Ernest was disclaiming any intentions of the sort, Miss Florence

cut in again, raising her eyes from a deep contemplation of that young

gentleman’s long shanks, which were writhing under her keen glance, and

twisting themselves serpent-wise round the legs of the chair.

“I did not know,” she said, “that they took _boys_ at college.”

Then they took their leave, and Ernest stigmatised her to Dorothy as a

“beast.”

But she was at least attractive in her own peculiar fashion, and during

the next year or two he got pretty intimate with her.

And so Ernest and Jeremy went up to Cambridge, but did not set the

place on fire, nor were the voices of tutors loud in their praise.

Jeremy, it is true, rowed one year in the ’Varsity Race, and performed

prodigies of strength, and so covered himself with a sort of glory,

which, personally, being of a modest mind, he did not particularly

appreciate. Ernest did not even do that. But somehow, by hook or by

crook, at the termination of their collegiate career, they took some

sort of degree, and then departed from the shores of the Cam, on which

they had spent many a jovial day—Jeremy to return to Kesterwick, and

Ernest to pay several visits to college friends in town and elsewhere.

And so ended the first little round of their days.

CHAPTER V

EVA’S PROMISE.

When, on leaving Cambridge, Jeremy got back to Dum’s Ness, Mr. Cardus

received him with his usual semi-contemptuous coldness, a mental

attitude that often nearly drove the young fellow wild with

mortification. Not that Mr. Cardus really felt any contempt for him

now—he had lost all that years ago, when the boy had been so anxious to

go and “earn his bread;” but he could never forgive him for being the

son of his father, or conquer his inherent dislike to him. On the other

hand, he certainly did not allow this to interfere with his treatment

of the lad; if anything, indeed, it made him more careful. What he

spent upon Ernest, the same sum he spent on Jeremy, pound for pound;

but there was this difference about it—the money he spent on Ernest he

gave from love, and that on Jeremy from a sense of duty.

Now, Jeremy knew all this well enough, and it made him very anxious to

earn his own living, and become independent of Mr. Cardus. But it was

one thing to be anxious to earn your own living, and quite another to

do it, as many a poor wretch knows to his cost, and when Jeremy set his

slow brain to consider how he should go about the task it quite failed

to supply him with any feasible idea. And yet he did not want much;

Jeremy was not of an ambitious temperament. If he could earn enough to

keep a cottage over his head, and find himself in food and clothes, and

powder and shot, he would be perfectly content. Indeed, there were to

be only two _sine qua nons_ in his ideal occupation: it must admit of a

considerable amount of outdoor exercise, and be of such a nature as

would permit him to see plenty of Ernest. Without more or less of

Ernest’s company, life would not, he considered, be worth living.

For a week or more after his arrival home these perplexing reflections

simmered incessantly inside Jeremy’s head, till at length, feeling that

they were getting too much for him, he determined to consult his

sister, which, as she had three times his brains, he would have done

well to think of before.

Dolly fixed her steady blue eyes upon him and listened to his tale in

silence.

“And so you see, Doll”—he always called her Doll—he ended up, “I’m in a

regular fix. I don’t know what I’m fit for, unless it’s to row a boat,

or let myself out to bad shots to kill their game for them. You see I

must stick on to Ernest; I don’t feel somehow as though I could get

along without him; if it wasn’t for that I’d emigrate. I should be just

the chap to cut down big trees in Vancouver’s Island or brand

bullocks,”’ he added meditatively.

“You are a great goose, Jeremy,” was his sister’s comment.

He looked up, not as in any way disputing her statement, but merely for

further information.

“You are a great goose, I say. What do you suppose that I have been

doing all these three years and more that you have been rowing boats

and wasting time up at college? _I_ have been thinking, Jeremy.”

“Yes, and so have I, but there is no good in thinking.”

“No, not if you stop there; but I’ve been acting too. I’ve spoken to

Reginald, and made a plan, and he has accepted my plan.”

“You always were clever, Doll; you’ve got all the brains and I’ve got

all the size;” and he surveyed as much as he could see of himself

ruefully.

“You don’t ask what I have arranged,” she said, sharply, for in

alluding to her want of stature Jeremy had touched a sore point.

“I am waiting for you to tell me.”

“Well, you are to be articled to Reginald.”

“O Lord!” groaned Jeremy, “I don’t like that at all.”

“Be quiet till I have told you. You are to be articled to Reginald, and

he is to pay you an allowance of a hundred a year while you are

articled, so that if you don’t like it you needn’t live here.”

“But I don’t like the business, Doll; I hate it; it is a beastly

business; it’s a devil’s business.”

“I should like to know what right you have to talk like that, Mr.

Knowall! Let me tell you that many better men than you are content to

earn their living by lawyer’s work. I suppose that a man can be honest

as a lawyer as well as in any other trade.”

Jeremy shook his head doubtfully. “It’s blood-sucking,” he said

energetically.

“Then you must suck blood,” she answered, with decision. “Look here,

Jeremy, don’t be pig-headed and upset all my plans. If you fall out

with Reginald over this, he won’t do anything else for you. He doesn’t

like you, you know, and would be only too glad to pick a quarrel with

you if he could do it with a clear conscience, and then where would you

be, I should like to know?”

Jeremy was unable to form an opinion as to where he would be, so she

went on:

“You must take to it for the present, at any rate. And then there is

another thing to think of. Ernest is to go to the bar, and unless you

become a lawyer, if anything happened to Reginald, there will be nobody

to give him a start, and I’m told that is everything at the bar.”

This last Jeremy admitted to be a weighty argument.

“It is a precious rum sort of lawyer I shall make,” he said, sadly,

“about as good as grandfather yonder, I’m thinking. By the way, how has

he been getting on?”

“O, just as usual—write, write, write all day. He thinks that he is

working out his time. He has got a new stick now, on which he has

nicked all the months and years that have to run before he has

done—little nicks for the months and big ones for the years. There are

eight or ten big ones left now. Every month he cuts out a nick. It is

very dreadful. You know he thinks that Reginald is the devil, and he

hates him, too. The other day, when he had no writing to do in the

office, I found him drawing pictures of him with horns and a tail, such

awful pictures, and I think Reginald always looks like that to him. And

then sometimes he wants to go out riding, especially at night. Only

last week they found him putting a bridle on to the gray mare—the one

that Reginald sometimes rides, you know. When did you say that Ernest

was coming back?” she said, after a pause.

“Why, Doll, I told you—next Monday week.”

Her face fell a little. “O, I thought you said Saturday.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“O, only about getting his room ready.”

“Why, it is ready; I looked in yesterday.”

“Nonsense! you know nothing about it,” she answered, colouring. “Come,

I wish you would go out; I want to count the linen, and you are in the

way.”

Thus adjured, Jeremy removed his large form from the table on which he

had been sitting, and whistling to Nails, now a very ancient and

preternaturally wise dog, set off for a walk. He had mooned along some

little way, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground,

reflecting on the unpleasant fate in store for him as an articled

clerk, continually under the glance of Mr. Cardus’s roving eye, when

suddenly he became aware that two ladies were standing on the edge of

the cliff within a dozen yards of him. He would have turned and fled,

for Jeremy had a marked dislike to ladies’ society, and a strong

opinion, which, however, he never expressed, that women were the root

of all evil; but, thinking that he had been seen, he feared that

retreat would appear rude. In one of the young ladies, for they were

young, he recognised Miss Florence Ceswick, who to all appearance had

not changed in the least since, some years ago, she came with her aunt

to call on Dorothy. There was the same brown hair, curling as profusely

as ever, the same keen brown eyes and ripe lips, the same small

features and resolute expression of face. Her square figure had indeed

developed a little. In her tight-fitting dress it looked almost

handsome, and somehow its very squareness, that most women would have

considered a defect, contributed to the air of power and unchanging

purpose that would have made Florence Ceswick remarkable among a

hundred handsomer women.

“How do you do?” said Florence, in her sharp manner. “You looked as

though you were walking in your sleep.”

Before Jeremy could find a reply to this remark, the other young lady,

who had been looking intently over the edge of the cliff, turned round

and struck him dumb. In his limited experience he had never seen such a

beautiful woman before.

She was a head and shoulders taller than her sister, so tall indeed

that only her own natural grace could save her from looking awkward.

Like her sister she was a brunette, only of a much more pronounced

type. Her waving hair was black, and so were her beautiful eyes and the

long lashes that curled over them. The complexion was a clear olive,

the lips were like coral, and the teeth small and regular. Every

advantage that Nature can lavish on a woman she had endowed her with in

abundance, including radiant health and spirits. To these charms must

be added that sweet and kindly look which sometimes finds a home on the

faces of good women, a soft voice, a quick intelligence, and an utter

absence of conceit or self-consciousness, and the reader will get some

idea of what Eva Ceswick was like in the first flush of her beauty.

“Let me introduce my sister Eva, Mr. Jones.”

But Mr. Jones was for the moment paralysed; he could not even take off

his hat.

“Well,” said Florence, presently, “she is not Medusa; there is no need

for you to turn into stone.”

This woke him up—indeed, Florence had an ugly trick of waking people up

occasionally—and he took off his hat, which was as usual a dirty one,

and muttered something inaudible. As for Eva, she blushed, and with

ready wit said that Mr. Jones was no doubt astonished at the filthy

state of her dress (as a matter of fact, Jeremy could not have sworn

that she had one on at all, much less to its condition). “The fact is,”

she went on, “I have been lying flat on the grass and looking over the

edge of the cliff.”

“What at?”

“Why, the bones.”

The spot on which they were standing was part of the ancient graveyard

of Titheburgh Abbey, and as the sea encroached year by year, multitudes

of the bones of the long dead inhabitants of Kesterwick were washed out

of their quiet graves and strewed upon the beach and unequal surfaces

of the cliff.

“Look,” she said, kneeling down, an example that he followed. About six

feet below them, which was the depth at which the corpses had

originally been laid, could be seen fragments of lead and rotting wood

projecting from the surface of the cliff, and, what was a more ghastly

sight, eight inches or more of the leg-bones of a man, off which the

feet had been washed away. On a ledge in the sandy cliff, about

twenty-five feet from the top and sixty or so from the bottom, there

lay quite a collection of human remains of all sorts and sizes,

conspicuous among them being the bones which had composed the feet that

belonged to the projecting shanks.

“Isn’t it dreadful?” said Eva, gazing down with a species of

fascination; “just fancy coming to that! Look at that little baby’s

skull just by the big one. Perhaps that is the mother’s. And oh, what

is that buried in the sand?”

As much of the object to which she pointed at was visible looked like

an old cannon-ball, but Jeremy soon came to a different conclusion.

“It is a bit of a lead coffin,” he said.

“Oh, I should like to get down there and find out what is in it. Can’t

you get down?”

Jeremy shook his head. “I’ve done it as a boy,” he said, “when I was

very light; but it is no good my trying now: the sand would give with

me, and I should go to the bottom.”

He was willing to do most things to oblige this lovely creature, but

Jeremy was above all things practical, and did not see the use of

breaking his neck for nothing.

“Well,” she said, “you certainly are rather heavy.”

“Fifteen stone,” he said, mournfully.

“But I am not ten; I think I could get down.”

“You’d better not try without a rope.”

Just then their conversation was interrupted by Florence’s clear voice:

“When you two people have quite finished staring at those disgusting

bones, perhaps, Eva, you will come home to lunch. If you only knew how

silly you look, sprawling there like two Turks going to be bastinadoed,

perhaps you would get up.”

This was too much for Eva; she got up at once, and Jeremy followed

suit.

“Why could you not let us examine our bones in peace, Florence?” said

her sister, jokingly.

“Because you are really too idiotic. You see, Mr. Jones, anything that

is old and fusty, and has to do with old fogies who are dead and gone

centuries ago, has the greatest charms for my sister. She would like to

go home and make stories about those bones: whose they were, and what

they did, and all the rest of it. She calls it imagination; I call it

fudge.”

Eva flushed up, but said nothing; evidently she was not accustomed to

answer her elder sister, and presently they parted to go their separate

ways.

“What a great oaf that Jeremy is!” said Florence to her sister on their

homeward way.

“I did not think him an oaf at all,” she replied, warmly; “I thought

him very nice.”

Florence shrugged her square shoulders. “Well, of course, if you like a

giant with as much brain as an owl, there is nothing more to be said.

You should see Ernest; he is nice, if you like.”

“You seem very fond of Ernest.”

“Yes, I am,” was the reply; “and I hope that when he comes you won’t

poach on my manor.”

“You need not be afraid,” answered Eva, smiling; “I promise to leave

your Ernest alone.”

“Then that is a bargain,” said Florence, sharply. “Mind that you keep

to your word.”

CHAPTER VI.

JEREMY FALLS IN LOVE

Jeremy, for the first time for some years, had no appetite for his

dinner that day, a phenomenon that filled Dorothy with alarm.

“My dear Jeremy,” she said afterwards, “what can be the matter with

you? you had only one helping of beef and no pudding!”

“Nothing at all,” he replied sulkily; and the subject dropped.

“Doll,” said Jeremy presently, “do you know Miss Eva Ceswick?”

“Yes, I have seen her twice.”

“What do you think of her, Doll?”

“What do you think of her?” replied that cautious young person.

“I think she is beautiful as—as an angel.”

“Quite poetical, I declare! What next? Have you seen her?”

“Of course, else how should I know she was beautiful?”

“Ah, no wonder you had only once of beef!”

Jeremy coloured.

“I am going to call there this afternoon; would you like to come?” went

on his sister.

“Yes, I’ll come.”

“Better and better; it will be the first call I ever remember your

having paid.”

“You don’t think she will mind, Doll?”

“Why should she mind? Most people don’t mind being called on, even if

they have a pretty face.”

“Pretty face! She is pretty all over.”

“Well, then, a pretty all over. I start at three; don’t be late.”

Thereupon Jeremy went off to beautify himself for the occasion, and his

sister gazed at his departing form with the puzzled expression that had

distinguished her as a child.

“He’s going to fall in love with her,” she said to herself, “and no

wonder; any man would: she is ‘pretty all over,’ as he said, and what

more does a man look at? I wish that _she_ would fall in love with him

_before Ernest comes home;_” and she sighed.

At a quarter to three Jeremy reappeared, looking particularly huge in a

black coat and his Sunday trousers. When they reached the cottage where

Miss Ceswick lived with her nieces, they were destined to meet with a

disappointment, for neither of the young ladies was at home. Miss

Ceswick, however, was there, and received them very cordially.

“I suppose that you have come to see my newly imported niece,” she

said; “in fact, I am sure that you have, Mr. Jeremy, because you never

came to call upon me in your life. Ah, it is wonderful how young men

will change their habits to please a pair of bright eyes!”

Jeremy blushed painfully at this sally, but Dorothy came to his rescue.

“Has Miss Eva come to live with you for good?” she asked.

“Yes, I think so. You see, my dear, between you and me, her aunt in

London, with whom she was living, has got a family of daughters, who

have recently come out. Eva has been kept back as long as possible, but

now that she is twenty it was impossible to keep her back any more. But

then, on the other hand, it was felt—at least I think that it was

felt—that to continue to bring Eva out with her cousins would be to

quite ruin their chance of settling in life, because when _she_ was in

the room, no man could be got to look at _them_. And so, you see, Eva

has been sent down here as a penalty for being so handsome.”

“Most of us would be glad to undergo heavier penalties than that if we

could only be guilty of the crime,” said Dorothy, a little sadly.

“Ah, my dear, I daresay you think so,” answered the old lady. “Every

young woman longs to be beautiful and get the admiration of men, but

are they any the happier for it? I doubt it. Very often that admiration

brings endless troubles in its train, and perhaps in the end wrecks the

happiness of the woman herself and of others who are mixed up with her.

I was once a beautiful woman, my dear—I am old enough to say it now—and

I can tell you that I believe that Providence cannot do a more unkind

thing to a woman than to give her striking beauty, unless it gives with

it great strength of mind. A weak-minded beauty is the most unfortunate

of her sex. Her very attractions, which are sure to draw the secret

enmity of other women on to her, are a source of difficulty to herself,

because they bring her lovers with whom she cannot deal. Sometimes the

end of such a woman is sad enough. I have seen it happen several times,

my dear.”

Often in after-life, and in circumstances that had not then arisen, did

Dorothy think of old Miss Ceswick’s words, and acknowledge their truth;

but at this time they did not convince her.

“I would give anything to be like your niece,” she said bluntly, “and

so would any other girl. Ask Florence, for instance.”

“Ah, my dear, you think so now. Wait till another twenty years have

passed over your heads, and then if you are both alive see which of you

is the happiest. As for Florence, of course she would wish to be like

Eva; of course it is painful for her to have to go about with a girl

beside whom she looks like a little dowdy. I daresay that she would

have been as glad if Eva had stopped in London as her cousins were that

she left it. Dear, dear! I hope they won’t quarrel. Florence’s temper

is dreadful when she quarrels.”

This was a remark that Dorothy could not gainsay. She knew very well

what Florence’s temper was like.

“But, Mr. Jeremy,” went on the old lady, “all this must be stupid talk

for you to listen to; tell me, have you been rowing any more races

lately?”

“No,” said Jeremy, “I strained a muscle in my arm in the ’Varsity Race,

and it is not quite well yet.”

“And where is my dear Ernest?” Like most women, of whatever age they

might be, Miss Ceswick adored Ernest.

“He is coming back on Monday week.”

“O, then he will be in time for the Smythes’ lawn tennis party. I hear

that they are going to give a dance after it. Do you dance, Mr.

Jeremy?”

Jeremy had to confess that he did not; indeed, as a matter of fact, no

earthly power had ever been able to drag him inside a ballroom in his

life.

“That is a pity; there are so few young men in these parts. Florence

counted them up the other day, and the proportion is one unmarried man,

between the ages of twenty and forty-five, to every nine women between

eighteen and thirty.”

“Then only one girl in every nine can get married,” put in Dorothy,

whose mind had a trick of following things to their conclusions.

“And what becomes of the other eight?” asked Jeremy.

“I suppose that they all grow into old maids like myself,” answered

Miss Ceswick.

Dorothy, again following the matter to its conclusion, reflected that

in fifteen years or so there would, at the present rate of progression,

be at least twenty-five old maids within a radius of three miles round

Kesterwick. And, much oppressed by this thought, she rose to take her

leave.

“I know who won’t be left without a husband, unless men are greater

stupids than I take them for—eh, Jeremy?” said the kindly old lady,

giving Dorothy a kiss.

“If you mean me,” answered Dorothy bluntly, with a slightly heightened

colour, “I am not so vain as to think that anybody would care for an

undersized creature whose only accomplishment is housekeeping; and I am

sure it is not for anybody that I should care either.”

“Ah, my dear, there are still a few men of sense in the world, who

would rather get a _good_ woman as companion than a pretty face.

Good-bye, my dear.”

Though Jeremy was on this occasion disappointed of seeing Eva, on the

following morning he was so fortunate as to meet her and her sister

walking on the beach. But when he got into her gracious presence he

found somehow that he had very little to say; and the walk would, to

tell the truth, have been rather dull, if it had not occasionally been

enlivened by flashes of Florence’s caustic wit.

On the next day, however, he returned to the charge with several

hundredweight of the roots of a certain flower which Eva had expressed

a desire to possess. And so it went on till at last his shyness wore

off a little, and they grew very good friends.

Of course all this did not escape Florence’s sharp eyes, and one day,

just after Jeremy had paid her sister a lumbering compliment and

departed, she summarised her observations thus:

“That moon-calf is falling in love with you, Eva.”

“Nonsense, Florence! and why should you call him a moon-calf? It is not

nice to talk of people so.”

“Well, if you can find a better definition, I am willing to adopt it.”

“I think that he is an honest gentleman-like boy; and even if he were

falling in love with me, I do not think there would be anything to be

ashamed of—there!”

“Dear me, what a fuss we are in! Do you know, I shall soon begin to

think that you are falling in love with the ‘honest gentleman-like

boy’—yes, that is a better title than moon-calf, though not so

nervous.”

Here Eva marched off in a huff.

“Well, Jeremy, and how are you getting on with the beautiful Eva?”

asked Dorothy that same day.

“I say, Doll,” replied Jeremy, whose general appearance was that of a

man plunged into the depths of misery, “don’t laugh at a fellow; if you

only knew what I feel—inside, you know—you wouldn’t——”

“What! are you not well? have some brandy?” suggested his sister, in

genuine alarm.

“Don’t be an idiot, Doll; it isn’t my stomach, it’s here;” and he

knocked his right lung, under the impression that he was indicating the

position of his heart.

“And what do you feel, Jeremy?”

“Feel!” he answered with a groan; “what don’t I feel? When I am away

from her I feel a sort of sinking, just like one does when one has to

go without one’s dinner, only it’s always there. When she looks at me I

go hot and cold all over, and when she smiles it’s just as though one

had killed a couple of woodcocks right and left.”

“Good gracious, Jeremy!” interposed his sister, who was beginning to

think he had gone off his head; “and what happens if she doesn’t

smile?”

“Ah, then,” he replied, sadly, “it’s as though one had missed them

both.”

Though his similes were peculiar, it was clear to his sister that the

feeling he meant to convey was genuine enough.

“Are you really fond of this girl, Jeremy dear?” she said gently.

“Well, Doll, you know, I suppose I am.”

“Then why don’t you ask her to marry you?”

“To marry _me!_ Why, I am not fit to clean her shoes.”

“An honest gentleman is fit for any woman, Jeremy.”

“And I haven’t got anything to support her on even if she said yes,

which she wouldn’t.”

“You may get that in time. Remember, Jeremy, she is a very lovely

woman, and soon she is sure to find other lovers.”

Jeremy groaned.

“But if once you had secured her affection, and she is a good woman, as

I think she is, that would not matter, though you might not be able to

marry for some years.”

“Then what am I to do?”

“I should tell her that you loved her, and ask her, if she could care

for you—to wait for you awhile.”

Jeremy whistled meditatively.

“I’ll ask Ernest about it when he comes back on Monday.”

“If I were you I should act for myself in that matter,” she said

quickly.

“No good being in a hurry; I haven’t known her a fortnight—I’ll ask

Ernest.”

“Then you will regret it,” Dorothy answered, almost passionately, and

rising, left the room.

“Now, what did she mean by that?” reflected her brother aloud; “she

always is so deuced queer when Ernest is concerned.” But his inner

consciousness returned no satisfactory answer, so with a sigh the

lovelorn Jeremy took up his hat and walked.

On Sunday, that was the day following his talk with Dorothy, he saw Eva

again in church, where she looked, he thought, more like an angel than

ever, and was quite as inaccessible. In the churchyard he did, it is

true, manage to get a word or two with her, but nothing more, for the

sermon had been long, and Florence was hungry, and hurried her sister

home to lunch.

And then, at last, came Monday, the long-expected day of Ernest’s

arrival.

CHAPTER VII.

ERNEST IS INDISCREET

Kesterwick is a primitive place, and has no railway station nearer than

Raffham, four miles off. Ernest was expected by the midday train, and

Dorothy and her brother went to meet him.

When they reached the station the train was just in sight, and Dorothy

got down to await its arrival. Presently it snorted up

composedly—trains do not hurry themselves on the single lines in the

Eastern counties—and in due course deposited Ernest and his

portmanteau.

“Hullo, Doll! so you have come to meet me. How are you, old girl?” and

he embraced her on the platform.

“You shouldn’t, Ernest: I am too big to be kissed like a little girl,

and in public too.”

“Big—h’m! Miss five feet nothing, and as for the public, I don’t see

any.” The train had gone on, and the solitary porter had vanished with

the portmanteau.

“Well, there is no need for you to laugh at me for being small; it is

not everybody who can be a May-pole, like you, or as broad as he is

long, like Jeremy.”

An unearthly view halloo from this last-named personage, who had caught

sight of Ernest through the door of the booking-office, put a stop to

further controversy, and presently all three were driving back, each

talking at the top of his or her voice.

At the door of Dum’s Ness they found Mr. Cardus apparently gazing

abstractedly at the ocean, but in reality waiting to greet Ernest, to

whom of late years he had grown greatly attached, though his reserve

seldom allowed him to show it.

“Hullo, uncle, how are you? You look pretty fresh,” sang out that young

gentleman before the cart had fairly come to a standstill.

“Very well, thank you, Ernest. I need not ask how you are. I am glad to

see you back. You have come at a lucky moment, too, for the ‘Batemania

Wallisii’ is in flower, and the ‘Grammatophyllum speciosum’ too. The

last is splendid.”

“Ah,” said Ernest, deeply interested, for he had much of his uncle’s

love for orchids, “let’s go and see them.”

“Better have some dinner first; you must be hungry. The orchids will

keep, but the dinner won’t.”

It was curious to see what a ray of light this lad brought with him

into that rather gloomy household. Everybody began to laugh as soon as

he was inside the doors. Even Grice of the beady eyes laughed when he

feigned to be thunder-struck at the newly developed beauty of her

person, and mad old Atterleigh’s contorted features lit up with

something like a smile of recognition when Ernest seized his hand and

worked it like a pump-handle, roaring out his congratulations on the

jollity of his looks. He was a bonny lad, the sight of whom was good

for sore eyes.

After dinner he went with his uncle, and spent half an hour in going

round the orchid-houses with him and Sampson the gardener. The latter

was not behind the rest of the household in his appreciation of

“Meester” Ernest. “’Twasn’t many lads,” he would say, “that knew an

‘Odontoglossum’ from a ‘Sobralia,’” but Ernest did, and, what was more,

knew whether it was well grown or not. Sampson appreciated a man who

could discriminate orchids, and set his preference for Ernest down to

that cause. The dour-visaged old Scotchman did not like to own that

what really charmed him was the lad’s open-handed, openhearted manner,

to say nothing of his ready sympathy and honest eyes.

While they were still engaged in admiring the lovely bloom of the

Grammatophyllum, Mr. Cardus saw Mr. de Talor come into his office,

which, it may be remembered, was connected with the orchid

blooming-house by a glass door. Ernest was much interested in observing

the curious change that this man’s appearance produced in his uncle. As

a peaceful cat, dozing on a warm stone in summer, becomes suddenly

changed into a thing of bristling wickedness and fury by the vision of

the most inoffensive dog, so did the placid, bald-headed old gentleman,

glowing with innocent pleasure at his horticultural masterpiece,

commence to glow with very different emotions at the sight of the

pompous De Talor. The ruling passion of his life asserted its sway in a

moment, and his whole face changed; the upper lip began to quiver, the

roving eyes glittered with a dangerous light; and then a mask seemed to

gather over the features, which grew hard and almost inscrutable. It

was an interesting transformation.

Although they could see De Talor, he could not see them; so for a

minute they enjoyed an undisturbed period of observation.

The visitor walked round the room, and, casting a look of contempt at

the flowers in the blooming-house, stopped at Mr. Cardus’s desk, and

glanced at the papers lying on it. Finding apparently nothing to

interest him he retired to the window, and, putting his thumbs in the

arm-holes of his waistcoat, amused himself by staring out of it. There

was something so intensely vulgar and insolent in his appearance as he

stood thus, that Ernest could not help laughing.

“Ah!” said Mr. Cardus, with a look of suppressed malignity, half to

himself and half to Ernest, “I have really got a hold of you at last,

and you may look out, my friend.” Then he went in, and as he left the

blooming-house Ernest heard him greet his visitor in that suave manner,

with just a touch of deference in it, that he knew so well how to

assume, and De Talor’s reply of “’Ow do, Cardus? ’ow’s the business

getting on?”

Outside the glass-houses Ernest found Jeremy waiting for him. It had

for years been an understood thing that the latter was not to enter

them. There was no particular reason why he should not; it was merely

one of those signs of Mr. Cardus’s disfavour that caused Jeremy’s pride

such bitter injury.

“What are you going to do, old fellow?” he asked of Ernest.

“Well, I want to go down and see Florence Ceswick, but I suppose you

won’t care to come.”

“O yes, I’ll come.”

“The deuce you will! well, I never! I say, Doll,” he sang out to that

young lady as she appeared upon the scene, “what has happened to

Jeremy—he’s coming out calling?”

“I fancy he’s got an attraction,” said Miss Dorothy.

“I say, old fellow, you haven’t been cutting me out with Florence, have

you?”

“I am sure it would be no great loss if he had,” put in Dorothy, with

an impatient little stamp of the foot.

“You be quiet, Doll. I’m very fond of Florence, she’s so clever, and

nice-looking, too.”

“If being clever means being able to say spiteful things, and having a

temper like—like a fiend, she is certainly clever enough; and as for

her looks, they are a matter of taste—not that it is for _me_ to talk

about good looks.”

“O, how humble we are, Doll! dust on our head and sackcloth on our

back, and how our blue eyes flash!”

“Be quiet, Ernest, or I shall get angry.”

“O no, don’t do that; leave that to people with a temper ‘like—like a

fiend,’ you know. There, there, don’t get cross, Dolly; let’s kiss and

be friends.”

“I won’t kiss you, and I won’t be friends, and you may walk by

yourselves;” and before anybody could stop her she was gone.

Ernest whistled softly, reflecting that Dorothy was not good at

standing chaff. Then, after waiting awhile, he and Jeremy started to

pay their call.

But they were destined to be unfortunate. Eva, whom Ernest had never

seen, and of whom he had heard nothing beyond that she was

“good-looking”—for Jeremy, notwithstanding his expressed intention of

consulting him, could not make up his mind to broach the subject—was in

bed with a bad headache, and Florence had gone out to spend the

afternoon with a friend. The old lady was at home, however, and

received them both warmly, more especially her favourite Ernest, whom

she kissed affectionately.

“I am lucky,” she said, “in having two nieces, or I should never see

anything of young gentlemen like you.”

“I think,” said Ernest, audaciously, “that old ladies are much

pleasanter to talk to than young ones.”

“Indeed, Master Ernest! then why did you look so blank when I told you

that my young ladies were not visible?”

“Because I regretted,” replied that young gentleman, who was not often

at a loss, “having lost an opportunity of confirming my views.”

“I will put the question again when they are present to take their own

part,” was the answer.

When their call was over, Ernest and Jeremy separated, Jeremy to return

home, and Ernest to go and see his old master, Mr. Halford, with whom

he stopped to tea. It was past seven on one of the most beautiful

evenings in July when he set out on his homeward path. There were two

ways of reaching Dum’s Ness, either by the road that ran along the

cliff, or by walking on the shingle of the beach. He chose the latter,

and had reached the spot where Titheburgh Abbey frowned at its enemy,

the advancing sea, when he suddenly became aware of a young lady

wearing a shady hat and swinging a walking-stick, in whom he recognised

Florence Ceswick.

“How do you do, Ernest?” she said, coolly, but with a slight flush upon

her olive skin, which betrayed that she was not quite so cool as she

looked; “what are you dreaming about? I have seen you coming for the

last two hundred yards, but you never saw me.”

“I was dreaming of you, of course, Florence.”

“O, indeed!” she answered dryly; “I thought perhaps that Eva had got

over her headache—her headaches do go in the most wonderful way—and

that you had seen her, and were dreaming of _her._”

“And why should I dream of her, even if I had seen her?”

“For the reason that men do dream of women—because she is handsome.”

“Is she better-looking than you, then, Florence?”

“Better-looking, indeed! I am not good-looking.”

“Nonsense, Florence! you are very good-looking.”

She stopped, for he had turned and was walking with her, and laid her

hand lightly on his arm.

“Do you really think so?” she said, gazing full into his dark eyes. “I

am glad you think so.”

They were quite alone in the summer twilight; there was not a single

soul to be seen on the beach, or on the cliffs above it. Her touch and

the earnestness of her manner thrilled him; the beauty and the quiet of

the evening, the sweet freshness of the air, the murmur of the falling

waves, the fading purples in the sky, all these things thrilled him

too. Her face looked very handsome in its own stern way, as she gazed

at him so earnestly; and, remember, he was only twenty-one. He bent his

dark head towards her very slowly, to give her an opportunity of

escaping if she wished; but she made no sign, and in another moment he

had kissed her trembling lips.

It was a foolish act, for he was not in love with Florence, and he had

scarcely done it before his better sense told him that it was foolish.

But it was done, and who can recall a kiss?

He saw the olive face grow pale, and for a moment she raised her arm as

though to fling it about his neck, but next second she started back

from him.

“Did you mean that,” she said wildly, “or are you playing with me?”

Ernest looked alarmed, as well he might; the young lady’s aspect at the

moment was not reassuring.

“Mean it?” he said, “O yes, I meant it.”

“I mean, Ernest,” and again she laid her hand upon his arm and looked

into his eyes, “did you mean that you loved me, as—for now I am not

ashamed to tell you—I love you?”

Ernest felt that this was getting awful. To kiss a young woman was one

thing—he had done that before—but such an outburst as this was more

than he had bargained for. Gratifying as it was to him to learn that he

possessed Florence’s affection, he would at that moment have given

something to be without it. He hesitated a little.

“How serious you are!” he said at last.

“Yes,” she answered, “I am. I have been serious for some time. Probably

you know enough of me to be aware that I am not a woman to be played

with. I hope that you are serious too; if you are not, it may be the

worse for us both;” and she flung his arm from her as though it had

stung her.

Ernest turned cold all over, and realised that the position was

positively gruesome. What to say or do he did not know; so he stood

silent, and, as it happened, silence served his turn better than

speech.

“There, Ernest, I have startled you. It is—it is because I love you.

When you kissed me just now, everything that is beautiful in the world

seemed to pass before my eyes, and for a moment I heard such music as

they play in heaven. You don’t understand me yet, Ernest—I am fierce, I

know—but sometimes I think that my heart is deep as the sea, and I can

love with ten times the strength of the shallow women round me; and as

I can love, so I can hate.”

This was not reassuring intelligence to Ernest.

“You are a strange girl,” he said feebly.

“Yes,” she answered, with a smile. “I know I am strange; but while I am

with you I feel so good, and when you are away all my life is a void,

in which bitter thoughts flit about like bats. But there, good-night. I

shall see you at the Smythes’ dance to-morrow, shall I not? You will

dance with me, will you not? And you must not dance with Eva,

remember—at least not too much—or I shall get jealous, and that will be

bad for us both. And now goodnight, my dear, good-night;” and again she

put up her face to be kissed.

He kissed it—he had no alternative—and she left him swiftly. He watched

her retreating form till it vanished in the shadows, and then he sat

down upon a stone, wiped his forehead, and _whistled._ Well might he

whistle!

CHAPTER VIII.

A GARDEN IDYL

Ernest did not sleep well that night: the scene of the evening haunted

his dreams, and he awoke with a sense of oppression that impartially

follows on the heels of misfortune, folly, and lobster-salad. Nor did

the broad light of the summer day disperse his sorrows; indeed, it only

served to define them more clearly. Ernest was a very inexperienced

youth, but, inexperienced as he was, he could not but recognise that he

had let himself in for an awkward business. He was not in the smallest

degree in love with Florence Ceswick; indeed, his predominant feeling

towards her was one of fear. She was, as he had said, so terribly in

earnest. In short, though she was barely a year older than himself, she

was a woman possessed of a strength of purpose and a rigidity of will

that few of her sex ever attain to at any period of their lives. This

he had guessed long ago; but what he had not guessed was that all the

tide of her life set so strongly towards himself. That unlucky kiss, as

it were, had shot the bolt of the sluice-gates, and now he was in a

fair way to be overwhelmed by the rush of the waters. What course of

action he had best take with her now it was beyond his powers to

decide. He thought of taking Dorothy into his confidence and asking her

advice, but instinctively he shrank from doing so. Then he thought of

Jeremy, only, however, to reject the idea. What would Jeremy know of

such things? He little guessed that Jeremy was swelling with a secret

of his own, of which he was too shy to deliver himself. It seemed to

Ernest, the more he considered the matter, that there was only one safe

course for him to follow, and that was to run away. It would be

ignominious, it is true, but at any rate Florence could not run after

him. He had made arrangements to meet a friend, and go for a tour with

him in France towards the end of the month of August, or about five

weeks from the present date. These arrangements he now determined to

modify: he would go for his tour at once.

Partially comforted by these reflections, he dressed himself that

evening for the dance at the Smythes’, where he was to meet Florence,

who, however, he gratefully reflected, could not expect him to kiss her

there. The dance was to follow a lawn-tennis party, to which Dorothy,

accompanied by Jeremy, had already gone, Ernest having, for reasons

best known to himself, declined to go to the lawn-tennis, preferring to

follow them to the dance.

When he entered the ballroom at the Smythes’, the first quadrille was

in progress. Making his way up the room, Ernest soon came upon Florence

Ceswick, who was sitting with Dorothy, while in the background loomed

Jeremy’s gigantic form. Both the girls appeared to be waiting for him,

for on his approach Florence, by a movement of her dress, and an almost

imperceptible motion of her hand, at once made room for him on the

bench beside her, and invited him to sit down. He did so.

“You are late,” she said; “why did you not come to the lawn-tennis?”

“I thought that our party was sufficiently represented,” he answered,

lamely, nodding towards Jeremy and his sister. “Why are you not

dancing?”

“Because nobody asked me,” she said, sharply; “and besides, I was

waiting for you.”

“Jeremy,” said Ernest, “here is Florence says that you didn’t ask her

to dance.”

“Don’t talk humbug, Ernest; you know I don’t dance.”

“No, indeed,” put in Dorothy, “it is easy to see that; I never saw

anybody look so miserable as you do.”

“Or so big,” said Florence, consolingly.

Jeremy shrank back into his corner and tried to look smaller. His

sister was right, a dance was untold misery to him. The quadrille had

ceased by now, and presently the band struck up a waltz, which Ernest

danced with Florence. They both waltzed well, and Ernest kept going as

much as possible, perhaps in order to give no opportunity for

conversation. At any rate no allusion was made to the events of the

previous evening.

“Where are your aunt and sister, Florence?” he asked, as he led her

back to her seat.

“They are coming presently,” she answered, shortly.

The next dance was a galop, and this he danced with Dorothy, whose slim

figure looked, in the white muslin dress she wore, more like that of a

child than a grown woman. But child or woman, her general appearance

was singularly pleasing and attractive. Ernest thought that he had

never seen the quaint, puckered little face, with the two steady blue

eyes in it, look so attractive. Not that it was pretty—it was not, but

it was a face with a great deal of thought in it, and moreover it was a

face through which the goodness of its owner seemed to shine like the

light through a lamp.

“You look so nice to-night, Doll,” said Ernest.

She flushed with pleasure, and answered simply, “I am glad you think

so.”

“Yes, I do think so; you are really pretty.”

“Nonsense, Ernest! Can’t you find some other butt to practise your

compliments on? What is the good of wasting them on me? I am going to

sit down.”

“Really, Doll, I don’t know what has come to you lately, you have grown

so cross.”

She sighed as she answered, gently:

“No more do I, Ernest. I did not mean to speak crossly, but you should

not make fun of me. Ah, here come Miss Ceswick and Eva.”

They had rejoined Florence and Jeremy. The two ladies were seated,

while Ernest and Jeremy were standing, the former in front of them, the

latter against the wall behind, for they were gathered at the topmost

end of the long room. At Dorothy’s announcement both the lads bent

forward to look down the room, and both the women fixed their eyes on

Ernest’s face anxiously, expectantly, something as a criminal fixes his

eyes on the foreman of a jury who is about to pronounce words that will

one way or another affect all his life.

“I don’t see them,” said Ernest carelessly. “O, here they come. _By

George!_”

[Illustration: “_By George!_”]

Whatever these two women were looking for in his face, they had found

it, and, to all appearance, it pleased them very little. Dorothy turned

pale, and leaned back with a faint smile of resignation; she had

expected it, that smile seemed to say; but the blood flamed like a

danger-flag into Florence’s haughty features—there was no resignation

there. And meanwhile Ernest was staring down the room, quite unaware of

the little comedy that was going on around him; so was Jeremy, and so

was every other man who was there to stare.

And this was what they were staring at. Up the centre of the long room

walked, or rather swept, Miss Ceswick, for even at her advanced age she

moved like a queen, and at any other time her appearance would in

itself have been sufficient to excite remark. But people were not

looking at Miss Ceswick, but rather at the radiant creature who

accompanied her, and whose stature dwarfed her, tall as she was. Eva

Ceswick—for it was she—was dressed in white _soie de Chine,_ in the

bosom of which was fixed a single rose. The dress was cut low, and her

splendid neck and arms were entirely without ornament. In the masses of

dark hair, which was coiled like a coronet round her head, there

glistened a diamond star. Simple as was her costume, there was a

grandeur about it that struck the whole room; but in truth it sprang

from the almost perfect beauty of the woman who wore it. Any dress

would have looked beautiful upon that noble form, that towered so high,

and yet seemed to float up the room with the grace of a swan and sway

like a willow in the wind. But her loveliness did not end there. From

those dark eyes there shone a light that few men could look upon and

forget, and yet there was nothing bold about it. It was like the light

of a star.

On she came, her lips half-parted, seemingly unconscious of the

admiration she was attracting, eclipsing all other women as she passed,

and making their beauty, that before had seemed bright enough, look

poor and mean beside her own. It took but a few seconds, ten perhaps,

for her to walk up the room, and yet to Ernest it seemed long before

her eyes met his own, and something passed from them into his heart

that remained there all his life.

His gaze made her blush a little, it was so unmistakable. She guessed

who he was, and passed him with a little inclination of her head.

“Well, here we are at last,” she said, addressing her sister in her

pure musical voice. “What do you think? something went wrong with the

wheel of the fly, and we had to stop to get it mended!”

“Indeed!” answered Florence; “I thought that perhaps you came late in

order to make a more effective entry.”

“Florence,” said her aunt, reprovingly, “you should not say such

things.”

Florence did not answer, but put her lace handkerchief to her lip. She

had bitten it till the blood ran.

By this time Ernest had recovered himself. He saw several young fellows

bearing down upon them, and knew what they were after.

“Miss Ceswick,” he said, “will you introduce me?”

No sooner said than done, and at that moment the band began to play a

waltz. In five seconds more Eva was floating down the room upon his

arm, and the advancing young gentlemen were left lamenting, and, if the

truth must be told, anathematising “that puppy Kershaw” beneath their

breath.

There was a spirit in her feet; she danced divinely. Lightly leaning on

his arm, they swept round the room, the incarnation of youthful

strength and beauty, and, as they passed, even sour old Lady Asteigh

lowered her ancient nose an inch or more, and deigned to ask who that

handsome young man dancing with the “tall girl” was. Presently they

halted, and Ernest observed a more than usually intrepid man coming

towards them, with the design, no doubt, of obtaining an introduction

and the promise of dances. But again he was equal to the occasion.

“Have you a card?” he asked.

“O, yes.”

“Will you allow me to put my name down for another dance? I think that

our steps suit.”

“Yes, we get on nicely. Here it is.”

Ernest took it. The young man had arrived now, and was hovering round

and glowering. Ernest nodded to him cheerfully, and “put his name” very

much down—indeed, for no less than three dances and an extra.

Eva opened her eyes a little, but she said nothing; their steps suited

so very well.

“May I ask you, Kershaw—” began his would-be rival.

“O, certainly,” answered Ernest benignly, “I will be with you

presently;” and they floated off again on the rising wave of the music.

When the dance ended, they stopped just by the spot where Miss Ceswick

was sitting. Florence and Dorothy were both dancing, but Jeremy, who

did not dance, was standing by her, looking as sulky as a bear with a

sore head. Eva stretched out her hand to him with a smile.

“I hope that you are going to dance with me, Mr. Jones,” she said.

“I don’t dance,” he answered, curtly, and walked away.

She gazed after him wonderingly; his manner was decidedly rude.

“I do not think that Mr. Jones is in a good temper,” she said to

Ernest, with a smile.

“O, he is a queer fellow; going out always makes him cross,” he

answered carelessly.

Then the gathering phalanx of would-be partners marched in and took

possession, and Ernest had to retire.

The ball was drawing to its close. The dancing-room, notwithstanding

its open windows, was intensely hot, and many of the dancers were

strolling in the gardens, among them Ernest and Eva. They had just

danced their third waltz, in which they had discovered that their steps

suited better than ever.

Florence, Dorothy, and her brother were also walking all three

together. It is curious how people in misfortune cling to one another.

They walked in silence; they had nothing to say. Presently they caught

sight of two tall figures standing by a bush, on which was fixed a

dying Chinese lantern. It is sometimes unfortunate to be tall, it

betrays one’s identity; there was no mistaking the two figures, though

it was so dark. Instinctively the three halted. And just then the

expiring Chinese lantern did an unkind thing: it caught fire, and threw

a lurid light upon a very pretty little scene. Ernest was bending

forward towards Eva with all his soul in his expressive eyes, and

begging for something. She was blushing sweetly, and looking down at

the rose in her bosom; one hand, too, was raised, as though to unfasten

it. The light for a moment was so strong that Dorothy afterwards

remembered noticing how long Eva’s curling black eyelashes looked

against her cheek. In another second it had flared out, and the

darkness hid the sequel; but it may here be stated that when Eva

reappeared in the ballroom she had lost her rose.

Charming and idyllic as this _tableau très vivant_ of youth and beauty,

obeying the primary law of nature, and making love to one another in a

Garden of Eden illumined with Chinese lanterns, undoubtedly was, it did

not seem to please any of the three spectators.

Jeremy actually forgot the presence of ladies, and went so far as to

swear aloud. Nor did they reprove him; probably it gave their feelings

some vicarious relief.

“I think that we had better be going home; it is late,” said Dorothy,

after a pause. “Jeremy, will you go and order the carriage?”

Jeremy went.

Florence said nothing, but she took her fan in both her hands and bent

it slowly, so that the ivory sticks snapped one by one with a

succession of sharp reports. Then she threw it down, and set her heel

upon it, and ground it into the path. There was something inexpressibly

cruel about the way in which she crushed the pretty toy; the action

seemed to be the appropriate and unconscious outcome of some mental

process, and it is an odd proof of the excitement under which they were

both labouring, that at the time the gentle-minded Dorothy saw nothing

strange about it. At that moment the two girls were nearer each other

than they had ever been before, or would ever be again; the common

stroke of a misfortune for a moment welded their opposite natures into

one. At that moment, too, they knew that they both loved the same man;

before, they had guessed it, and had not liked each other the better

for it, but now that was forgotten.

“I think, Florence,” said Dorothy, with a little tremor in her voice,

“that we are ‘out of the running,’ as Jeremy says. Your sister is too

beautiful for any woman to stand against her. He has fallen in love

with her.”

“Yes,” said Florence, with a bitter laugh and a flash of her brown

eyes; “his highness has thrown a handkerchief to a new favourite, and

she has lost no time in picking it up. We always used to call her ‘the

sultana;’” and she laughed again.

“Perhaps,” suggested Dorothy, “she only means to flirt with him a

little; I hoped that Jeremy——”

“Jeremy! what chance has Jeremy against him? Ernest would make more way

with a woman in two hours than Jeremy would in two years. We all love

to be taken by storm, my dear. Do not deceive yourself. Flirt with him!

she will love him wildly in a week. Who could help loving him?” she

added, with a thrill of her rich voice.

Dorothy said nothing: she knew that it was true, and they walked a few

steps in silence.

“Dorothy, do you know what generally happens to favourites and

sultanas?”

“No.”

“They come to a bad end; the other ladies of the harem murder them, you

know.”

“What _do_ you mean?”

“Don’t be frightened; I don’t mean that we should murder my dear

sister. What I do mean is, that I think we might manage to depose her.

Will you help me if I find a plan?”

Dorothy’s better self had had time to assert itself by now; the

influence of the blow was over, and their natures were wide apart

again.

“No, certainly not,” she answered. “Ernest has a right to choose for

himself, and if your sister gets the better of us, it is the fortune of

war, that is all—though certainly the fight is not quite fair,” she

added, as she thought of Eva’s radiant loveliness.

Florence glanced at her contemptuously.

“You have no spirit,” she said.

“What do you mean to do?”

“Mean to do!” she answered, swinging round and facing her; “I mean to

have my revenge.”

“O Florence, it is wicked to talk so! whom are you going to be revenged

on—Ernest? It is not his fault if —if you are fond of him.”

“Yes, it is his fault; but whether it is his fault or not, he shall

suffer. Remember what I say, for it will come true; he shall suffer.

Why should I bear it all alone? But he shall not suffer so much as she.

I told her that I was fond of him, and she promised to leave him

alone—do you hear that?—and yet she is taking him away from me to

gratify her vanity—she, who can have anybody she likes.”

“Hush, Florence! Don’t give way to your temper so, or you will be

overheard. Besides, I daresay that we are making a great deal out of

nothing; after all, she only gave him a rose.”

“I don’t care if we are overheard, and it is not nothing. I guessed

that it would be so, I knew that it would be so, and I know what is

coming now. Mark my words, within a month Ernest and my sweet sister

will be sitting about on the cliff with their arms around each other’s

necks. I have only to shut my eyes, and I can see it. O, here is

Jeremy! Is the carriage there, Jeremy? That’s right. Come on, Dorothy,

let us go and say good-night and be off. You will drop me at the

cottage, won’t you?”

Half an hour later the fly that had brought Miss Ceswick and Eva came

round, and with it Ernest’s dog-cart. But as Miss Ceswick was rather

anxious about the injured wheel, Ernest, as in duty bound, offered to

see them safe home, and, ordering the cart to follow, got into the fly

without waiting for an answer.

Of course Miss Ceswick went to sleep, but it is not probable that

either Ernest or Eva followed her example. Perhaps they were too tired

to talk; perhaps they were beginning to find out what a delightful

companionship is to be found in silence; perhaps his gentle pressure of

the little white-gloved hand, that lay unresisting in his own, was more

eloquent than any speech.

Don’t be shocked, my reader; you or I would have done the same, and

thought ourselves very lucky fellows!

At any rate, that drive was over all too soon.

Florence opened the door for them; she had told the servant to go to

bed.

When Eva reached the door of her room she turned round to say

good-night to her sister; but the latter, instead of contenting herself

with a nod, as was her custom, came and kissed her on the face.

“I congratulate you on your dress and on your conquest,” and again she

kissed her and was gone.

“It is not like Florence to be so kind,” reflected her younger sister.

“I can’t remember when she kissed me last.”

Eva did not know that as there are some kisses that declare peace, and

set the seal on love, there are others that announce war, and proclaim

the hour of vengeance or treachery. Judas kissed his Master when he

betrayed Him.

CHAPTER IX.

EVA FINDS SOMETHING

When Ernest woke on the morning after the ball it was ten o’clock, and

he had a severe headache. This—the headache—was his first impression,

but presently his eye fell upon a withering red rose that lay upon the

dressing-table, and he smiled. Then followed reflections, those

confounded reflections that always dog the heels of everything pleasant

in life, and he ceased to smile.

In the end he yawned and got up. When he reached the sitting-room,

which looked cool and pleasant in contrast to the hot July sunshine

that beat upon the little patch of bare turf in front of the house, and

the glittering sea beyond, he found that the others had done their

breakfast. Jeremy had gone out, but his sister was there, looking a

little pale, no doubt from the late hours of the previous night.

“Good-morning, Doll!”

“Good-morning, Ernest,” she answered, rather coldly. “I have been

keeping your tea as warm as I can, but I’m afraid it is getting cold.”

“You are a good Samaritan, Doll. I’ve got such a head! perhaps the tea

will make it better.”

She smiled as she gave it to him; had she spoken what was in her mind,

she would have answered that she had “such a heart.”

He drank the tea, and apparently felt better for it, for presently he

asked her, in comparatively cheerful tones, how she liked the dance.

“O, very well, thank you, Ernest: how did you like it?”

“O, awfully! I say, Doll!”

“Yes, Ernest.”

“Isn’t she lovely?”

“Who, Ernest?”

“Who! why, Eva Ceswick, of course.”

“Yes, Ernest, she is very lovely.”

There was something about her tone that was not encouraging; at any

rate he did not pursue the subject.

“Where is Jeremy?” he asked next.

“He has gone out.”

Presently, Ernest, having finished his second cup of tea, went out too,

and came across Jeremy mooning about the yard.

“Hullo, my hearty! and how are you after your dissipations?”

“All right, thank you,” answered Jeremy, sulkily.

Ernest glanced up quickly. The voice was the voice of Jeremy, but the

tones were not his tones.

“What is up, old chap?” he said, slipping his arm through his friend’s.

“Nothing.”

“O yes, there is, though. What is it? Out with it? I am a splendid

father confessor.”

Jeremy freed his arm, and remained sulkier than ever. Ernest looked

hurt, and the look softened the other.

“Well, of course, if you won’t tell me, there is nothing more to be

said;” and he prepared to move off.

“As though you didn’t know!”

“Upon my honour I don’t.”

“Then if you’ll come in here, I will tell you;” and Jeremy opened the

door of the little outhouse, where he stuffed his birds and kept his

gun and collection of eggs and butterflies, and motioned Ernest

majestically in.

He entered and seated himself upon the stuffing-table, gazing

abstractedly at a bittern that Jeremy had shot about the time that this

story opened, and which was now very moth-eaten, and waved one

melancholy leg in the air in a way meant to be imposing, but only

succeeded in being grotesque.

“Well, what is it?” he interrogated of the glassy eye of the decaying

bittern.

Jeremy turned his broad back upon Ernest—he felt that he could speak

better on such a subject with his back turned—and, addressing empty

space before him, said:

“I think it was precious unkind of you.”

“What was precious unkind?”

“To go and cut me out of the only girl——”

“I ever loved?” suggested Ernest, for he was hesitating.

“I ever loved!” chimed in Jeremy; the phrase expressed his sentiments

exactly.

“Well, old chap, if you would come to the point a little more, and tell

me who the deuce you are talking about——”

“Why, who should I be talking about? there is only one girl——”

“You ever loved?”

“I ever loved!”

“Well, in the name of the Holy Roman Empire, _who_ is she?”

“Why, Eva Ceswick.”

Ernest whistled.

“I say, old chap,” he said, after a pause, “why didn’t you tell me? I

didn’t even know that you knew her. Are you engaged to her, then?”

“Engaged! no.”

“Well, then, have you an understanding with her?”

“No, of course not.”

“Look here, old fellow, if you would just slew round a bit and tell me

how the matter stands, we might get on a little.”

“It doesn’t stand at all, but—I worship the ground she treads on;

there!”

“Ah!” said Ernest, “that’s awkward, for so do I—at least I think I do.”

Jeremy groaned, and Ernest groaned too, by way of company.

“Look here, old chap,” said the latter, “what is to be done? You should

have told me, but you didn’t, you see. If you had, I would have kept

clear. Fact is, she bowled me over altogether, bowled me clean.”

“So she did me.”

“I’ll tell you what, Jeremy, I’ll go away and leave you to make the

running. Not that I see that there is much good in either of us making

the running, for we have nothing to marry on, and no more has she.”

“And we are only twenty-one. We can’t marry at twenty-one,” put in

Jeremy, “or we should have a large family by the time we’re thirty.

Fellows who marry at twenty-one always do.”

“She’s twenty-one; she told me so.”

“She told me too,” said Jeremy, determined to show that Ernest was not

the only person favoured with this exciting fact.

“Well, shall I clear? we can’t jaw about it for ever.”

“No,” said Jeremy, slowly, and in a way that showed that it cost him an

effort to say it, “that would not be fair; besides, I expect that the

mischief is done; everybody gets fond of you, old fellow, men or women.

No, you sha’n’t go, and we won’t get to loggerheads over it either.

I’ll tell you what we will do—we will toss up.”

This struck Ernest as a brilliant suggestion.

“Right you are,” he said, at once producing a shilling; “singles or

threes?”

“Singles, of course; it’s sooner over.”

Ernest poised the coin on his thumb.

“You call. But, I say, what are we tossing for? We can’t draw lots for

the girl like the fellows in Homer. We haven’t captured her yet.”

This was obviously a point that required consideration. Jeremy

scratched his head.

“How will this do?” he said. “The winner to have a month to make the

running in, the loser not to interfere. If she won’t have anything to

say to him after a month, then the loser to have his fling. If she

will, loser to keep clear.”

“That will do. Stand clear; up you go.”

The shilling spun in the air.

“Tails!” howled Jeremy.

It lit on the beak of the astonished bittern and bounded off on to the

floor, finally rolling under a box full of choice specimens of the

petrified bones of antediluvian animals that had been washed out of the

cliffs. The box was lugged out of the way with difficulty, and the

shilling disclosed.

“Heads it is!” said Ernest exultingly.

“I expected as much; just my luck. Well, shake hands, Ernest. We won’t

quarrel about the girl, please God.”

They shook hands heartily enough and parted; but from that time for

many a long day there was an invisible something between them that had

not been there before. Strong indeed must be the friendship of which

the bonds do not slacken when the shadow of a woman’s love falls upon

it.

That afternoon Dorothy said that she wanted to go into Kesterwick to

make some purchases, and Ernest offered to accompany her. They walked

in silence as far as Titheburgh Abbey; indeed, they both suffered from

a curious constraint that seemed effectually to check their usual

brother-and-sister-like relations. Ernest was just beginning to feel

the silence awkward when Dorothy stopped.

“What was that?” she said. “I thought I heard somebody cry out.”

They listened, and presently both heard a woman’s voice calling for

help. The sound seemed to come from the cliff on their left. They

stepped to the edge and looked over. As may be remembered, some twenty

feet from the top of the cliff, and fifty or more from the bottom,

there was at this spot a sandy ledge, on which were deposited many of

the remains washed out of the churchyard by the sea. Now, this

particular spot was almost inaccessible without ladders, because,

although it was easy enough to get down to its level, the cliff bulged

out on either side of it, and gave for the space of some yards little

or no hold for the hands or feet of the climber.

The first thing that caught Ernest’s eyes when he looked over was a

lady’s foot and ankle, which appeared to be resting on a tiny piece of

rock that projected from the surface of the cliff; the next was the

imploring face of Eva Ceswick, who was sprawling in a most undignified

position on the bulge of sandstone, with nothing more between her and

eternity than that very unsatisfactory and insufficient knob of rock.

It was evident that she could move neither one way or the other without

being precipitated to the bottom of the cliff, to which she was

apparently clinging by suction like a fly.

“Great God!” exclaimed Ernest. “Hold on, I will come to you.”

“I _can’t_ hold much longer.”

It was one thing to say that he would come, and another to do it. The

sand gave scarcely any foothold; how was he to get enough purchase to

pull Eva round the bulge? He looked at Dorothy in despair. Her quick

mind had taken in the situation at a glance.

“You must get down there above her, Ernest, and lie flat, and stretch

out your hand to her.”

“But there is nothing to hold to. When she puts her weight on to my

hand we shall both go together.”

“No, I will hold your legs. Be quick, she is getting exhausted.”

It took Ernest but two seconds to reach the spot that Dorothy had

pointed to, and to lay himself flat, or rather slanting, for his heels

were a great deal higher than his head. Fortunately, he discovered a

hard knob of sandstone, against which he could rest his left hand.

Meanwhile, Dorothy, seating herself as securely as she could above,

seized him by the ankles. Then Ernest stretched his hand downwards,

and, gripping Eva by the wrist, began to put out his strength. Had the

three found any time to indulge their sense of humour, they might have

found the appearance they presented intensely ludicrous; but they did

not, for the very good reason that for thirty seconds or so their lives

were not worth a farthing’s purchase. Ernest strained and strained, but

Eva was a large woman, although she danced so lightly, and the bulge

over which he had to pull her was almost perpendicular. Presently he

felt that Dorothy was beginning to slip above him.

“She must make an effort, or we shall all go,” she said in a quiet

voice.

“Drive your knees into the sand and throw yourself forward, it is your

only chance!” gasped Ernest to the exhausted woman beneath him.

She realised the meaning of his words, and gave a desperate struggle.

“Pull, Doll; for God’s sake, pull! she’s coming.”

Then followed a second of despairing effort, and she was beside him on

the spot where he lay; another struggle, and the three sank exhausted

on the top of the cliff, rescued from a most imminent death.

“By Jove!” ejaculated Ernest, “that was a near thing!”

Dorothy nodded; she was too exhausted to speak. Eva smiled and fainted.

He turned to her with a little cry and began to chafe her cold hands.

“O, she’s dead, Doll!” he said.

“No, she has fainted, give me your hat.”

Before he could do so she had seized it, and was running as quickly as

her exhaustion would allow towards a spring that bubbled up a hundred

yards away, and which once had been the water supply of the old abbey.

Ernest went on rubbing for a minute or more, but without producing the

slightest effect. He was in despair. The beautiful face beneath him

looked so wan and death-like; all the red had left her lips. In his

distress, and scarcely knowing what he did, he bent over them and

kissed them, once, twice, thrice. That mode of restoration is not

recommended in the medicine-chest “guide,” but in this instance it was

not without its effect. Presently a faint and tremulous glow diffused

itself over the pale cheek; in another moment it deepened to a most

unmistakable blush. (Was it a half-consciousness of Ernest’s new method

of treatment, or merely the returning blood, that produced the blush?

Let us not inquire.) Next Eva sighed, opened her eyes, and sat up.

“O, you are not dead!”

“No, I don’t think so, but I can’t quite remember. What was it? Ah, I

know;” and she shut her eyes, as though to keep out some horrid sight.

Presently she opened them again. “You have saved my life,” she said.

“If it had not been for you, I should have now been lying crushed at

the foot of that dreadful cliff. I am so grateful.”’

At that moment Dorothy came back with a little water in Ernest’s black

hat, for in her hurry she had spilled most of it.

“Here, drink some of this,” she said.

Eva tried to do so; but a billycock hat is not a very convenient

drinking-vessel till you get used to it, and she upset more than she

swallowed. But what she drank did her good. She put down the hat, and

they all three laughed a little; it was so funny drinking out of an old

hat.

“Were you long down there before we came?” asked Dorothy.

“No, not long; only about half a minute on that dreadful bulge.”

“What on earth did you go there for?” said Ernest, putting his dripping

hat on to his head, for the sun was hot.

“I wanted to see the bones. I am very active, and thought that I could

get up quite safely; but sand is so slippery. O, I forgot; look here;”

and she pointed to a thin cord that was tied to her wrist.

“What is that?”

“Why, it is tied to such an odd lead box that I found in the sand. Mr.

Jones said the other day that he thought it was a bit of an old coffin;

but it is not, it is a lead box with a rusty iron handle. I could not

move it much; but I had this bit of cord with me—I thought I might want

it getting down, you know—so I tied one end of it to the handle.”

“Let us pull it up,” said Ernest, unfastening the cord from Eva’s

wrist, and beginning to tug.

But the case was too heavy for him to lift alone; indeed, it proved as

much as they could all three manage to drag it to the top. However, up

it came at last. Ernest examined it carefully, and came to the

conclusion that it was very ancient. The massive iron handle at the top

of the oblong case was almost eaten through with rust, and the lead

itself was much corroded, although, from fragments that still clung to

it, it was evident that it had once been protected by an outer case of

oak. Evidently the case had been washed out of the churchyard where it

had lain for centuries.

“This is quite exciting,” said Eva, who was now sufficiently interested

to forget all about her escape. “What can be in it?—treasure or papers,

I should think.”

“I don’t know,” answered Ernest; “I should hardly think that they would

bury such things in a churchyard. Perhaps it is a small baby.”

“Ernest,” broke in Dorothy, in an agitated way, “I don’t like that

thing. I can’t tell you why, but I am sure it is unlucky. I wish that

you would throw it back to where it came from, or into the sea. It is a

horrid thing, and we have nearly lost our lives over it already.”

“Nonsense, Doll! whoever thought that you were so superstitious? Why,

perhaps it is full of money or jewels. Let’s take it home and open it.”

“I am not superstitious, and you can take it home if you like. I will

not touch it; I tell you it is a horrid thing.”

“All right, Doll, then you sha’n’t have a share of the spoil. Miss

Ceswick and I will divide it. Will you help me to carry it to the

house, Miss Ceswick?—that is, unless you are afraid of it, like Doll.”

“O no,” she answered, “I am not afraid; I am dying of curiosity to see

what is inside.”

CHAPTER X.

WHAT EVA FOUND

“You are sure you are not too tired?” said Ernest, after a moment’s

consideration.

“No, indeed, I have quite recovered,” she answered, with a blush.

Ernest blushed too, from sympathy probably, and went to pick up a bough

that lay beneath a stunted oak-tree which grew in the ruins of the

abbey, on the spot where once the altar had stood. This he ran through

the iron handle, and, directing Eva to catch hold of one end, he took

the other himself, and they started for the house, Dorothy marching

solemnly in front.

As it happened, Jeremy and Mr. Cardus were strolling along together

smoking, when suddenly they caught sight of the cavalcade advancing,

and hurried to meet it.

“What is all this?” asked Mr. Cardus of Dorothy, who was now nearly

fifty yards ahead of the other two.

“Well, Reginald, it is a long story. First we found Eva Ceswick

slipping down the cliff, and dragged her up just in time.”

“My luck again!” thought Jeremy, groaning in spirit.” I might have sat

on the edge of that cliff for ten years, and never got a chance of

dragging her up.”

“Then we pulled up that horrid box, which she found down in the sand,

and tied a cord to.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Ernest, who was now arriving, “and, would you believe

it, Dorothy wanted us to throw it back again!”

“I know I did; I said that it was unlucky, and it is unlucky.”

“Nonsense, Dorothy! it is very interesting. I expect that it will be

found to contain deeds buried in the churchyard for safety and never

dug up again,” broke in Mr. Cardus, much interested. “Let me catch hold

of that stick, Miss Ceswick, and I daresay that Jeremy will go on and

get a hammer and a cold chisel, and we will soon solve the mystery.”

“Oh, very well, Reginald; you will see,” said Dorothy.

Mr. Cardus glanced at her. It was curious her taking such an idea. Then

they walked to the house. On reaching the sitting-room they found

Jeremy already there with his hammer and chisel. He was an admirable

amateur blacksmith; indeed, there were few manual trades of which he

did not know a little, and, placing the case on the table, he set about

the task of opening it in a most workmanlike manner.

The lead, though it was in places eaten quite away, was still thick and

sound near the edges, and it took him a good quarter of an hour’s hard

chopping to remove what appeared to be the front of the case.

Excitement was at its height as it fell forward with a bang on the

table; but it was then found that what had been removed was merely a

portion of an outer case, there being beneath it an inner chest, also

of lead.

“Well,” said Jeremy, “they fastened it up pretty well;” and then he set

to work again.

This inner skin of lead was thinner and easier to cut than the first

had been, and he got through the job more quickly, though not nearly

quickly enough for the impatience of the bystanders. At last the front

fell out, and disclosed a small cabinet made of solid pieces of black

oak and having a hinged door, which was fastened by a tiny latch and

hasp of the common pattern, that is, probably, as old as doors are.

From this cabinet there came a strong odour of spices.

The excitement was now intense, and seemed to be shared by everybody in

the house. Grice had come in through the swing-door and stationed

herself in the background, Sampson and the groom were peeping through

the window, and even old Atterleigh, attracted by the sound of the

hammering, had strolled aimlessly in.

“What can it be?” said Eva, with a gasp.

Slowly Jeremy extracted the cabinet from its leaden coverings and set

it on the table.

“Shall I open it?” he said; and, suiting the action to the word, he

lifted the latch, and placing the chisel between the edge of the little

door and its frame, prised the cabinet open.

The smell of spices became more pronounced than ever, and for a moment

the cloud of dust that came from them, as their fragments rolled out of

the cabinet on to the table, prevented the spectators, who, all but

Dorothy, were crowding up to the case, from seeing what it contained.

Presently, however, a large whitish bundle became visible. Jeremy put

in his hand, pulled it out, and laid it on the top of the box. It was

heavy. But when he had done this he did not seem inclined to go any

further in the matter. The bundle had, he considered, an uncanny look.

At that moment an interruption took place, for Florence Ceswick entered

through the open door. She had come up to see Dorothy, and was

astonished to find such a gathering.

“Why, what is it all about?” she asked.

Somebody told her in as few words as possible, for everybody’s

attention was concentrated on the bundle, which nobody seemed inclined

to touch.

“Well, why don’t you open it?” asked Florence.

“I think that they are all afraid,” said Mr. Cardus, with a laugh.

He was watching the various expressions on the faces with an amused

air.

“Well, I am not afraid, at any rate,” said Florence. “Now, ladies and

gentlemen, the Gorgon’s head is about to be unveiled: look the other

way, or you will all be turned to stone.”

“This is getting delightfully ghastly,” said Eva to Ernest.

“I know that it will be something horrid,” added Dorothy.

Meanwhile Florence had drawn out a heavy pin of ancient make, with

which the wrapping of the bundle was fastened, and begun to unwind a

long piece of discoloured linen. At the very first turn another shower

of spices fell out. As soon as these had been swept aside, Florence

proceeded slowly with her task, and as she removed fold after fold of

the linen, the bundle began to take shape and form, and the shape it

took was that of a human head!

Eva saw it, and drew closer to Ernest; Jeremy saw it, and felt inclined

to bolt; Dorothy saw it, and knew that her presentiments as to the

disagreeable nature of the contents of that unlucky case were coming

true; Mr. Cardus saw it, and was more interested than ever. Only

Florence and Hard-riding Atterleigh saw nothing. Another turn or two of

the long winding-sheet, and it slipped suddenly away from whatever it

enclosed.

There was a moment’s dead silence as the company regarded the object

thus left open to their gaze. Then one of the women gave a low cry of

fear, and, actuated by some common impulse, they all turned and broke

from the room in terror, and calling, “It is alive!” No, not all.

Florence turned pale, but she stood there by the object, the

winding-sheet in her hands; and old Atterleigh also remained staring at

it, either paralysed or fascinated.

It, too, seemed to stare at him from its point of vantage on the oak

chest, in which it had rested for so many centuries.

And this was what he saw there upon the box. Let the reader imagine the

face and head of a lovely woman of some thirty years of age, the latter

covered with rippling brown locks of great length, above which was set

a roughly fashioned coronet studded with uncut gems. Let him imagine

this face, all but the lips, which were coloured red, pale with the

bloodless pallor of death, and the flesh so firm and fresh-looking that

it might have been that of a corpse not a day old; so firm, indeed,

that the head and all its pendant weight of beautiful hair could stand

on the unshrunken base of the neck which, in some far-past age, cold

steel had made so smooth. Then let him imagine the crowning horror of

this weird sight. The eyes of a corpse are shut, but the eyes in this

head were wide open, and the long black lashes, as perfect now as on

the day of death, hung over what, when the light struck them, appeared

to be two balls of trembling fire, that glittered and rolled and fixed

themselves upon the face of the observer like living human eyes. It was

these awful eyes that carried such terror to the hearts of the

on-lookers when they cast their first glance around, and made them not

unnaturally cry out that the head was alive.

It was not until he had made a very careful examination of these fiery

orbs that Mr. Cardus was afterwards able to discover what they were;

and as the reader may as well understand at once that this head had

nothing about it different from any other skilfully preserved head, he

shall be taken into confidence without delay. They were balls of

crystal fitted, probably by the aid of slender strings, into the eye

sockets with such infernal art that they shook and trembled to the

slightest sound, and even on occasion rolled about. The head itself, he

also discovered, had not been embalmed in the ordinary fashion, by

extracting the brain, and filling the cavity with spices or bitumen,

but had been preserved by means of the injection of silica, or some

kindred substance, into the brain, veins, and arteries, which, after

permeating all the flesh, had solidified and made it like marble. Some

brilliant pigment had been used to give the lips their natural colour,

and the hair had been preserved by means of the spices. But perhaps the

most dreadful thing about this relic of forgotten ages was the mocking

smile that the artist who “set it up” had managed to preserve upon the

face—a smile that just drew the lips up enough to show the white teeth

beneath, and gave the idea that its wearer had died in the full

enjoyment of some malicious jest or triumph. It was a terrible thing to

look on, that long-dead, beautiful face, with its abundant hair, its

crowning coronet, its moving crystal eyes, and its smile; and yet there

was something awfully fascinating about it: those who had seen it once

would always long to see it again.

Mr. Cardus had fled with the rest, but as soon as he got outside the

swing-door his common sense reasserted itself, and he stopped.

“Come, come,” he called to the others, “don’t be so silly; you are not

going to run away from a dead woman’s head, are you?”

“You ran too,” said Dorothy, pulling up and gasping.

“Yes, I know I did; those eyes startled me; but, of course, they are

glass. I am going back; it is a great curiosity.”

“It is an accursed thing,” muttered Dorothy.

Mr. Cardus turned and re-entered the room, and the others, comforting

themselves with the reflection that it was broad daylight, and drawn by

their devouring curiosity, followed him. That is, they all followed him

except Grice, who was ill for two days afterwards. As for Sampson and

the groom, who had seen the sight through the window, they ran for a

mile or more along the cliff before they stopped.

When they got back into the room, they found old Atterleigh still

standing and staring at the crystal eyes, that seemed to be returning

his gaze with compound interest, while Florence was there with the long

linen wrapper in her hand, gazing down at the beautiful hair that

flowed from the head on to the oak box, from the box to the table, and

from the table nearly to the ground. It was, oddly enough, of the same

colour and texture as her own. She had taken off her hat when she began

to undo the wrappings, and they all noticed the fact. Nor did the

resemblance stop there. The sharp fine features of the mummied head

were very like Florence’s; so were the beautiful teeth and the fixed

hard smile. The dead face was more lovely, indeed, but otherwise the

woman of the Saxon era—for, to judge from the rude tiara on her brow,

it is probable that she was Saxon—and the living girl of the nineteenth

century might have been sisters, or mother and daughter. The

resemblance startled them all as they entered the room, but they said

nothing.

They drew near, and gazed again without a word. Dorothy was the first

to break the silence.

“I think she must have been a witch,” she said. “I hope that you will

have it thrown away, Reginald, for she will bring us bad luck. The

place where she was buried has been unlucky; it was a great abbey once,

now it is a deserted ruin. When we tried to get the case up, we were

all very nearly killed. She will bring us bad luck. I am sure of it.

Throw it away, Reginald, throw her into the sea. Look, she is just like

Florence there.”

Florence had smiled at Dorothy’s words, and the resemblance became more

striking than ever. Eva shuddered as she noticed it.

“Nonsense, Dorothy!” said Mr. Cardus, who was a bit of an antiquarian,

and had now forgotten his start in his collector’s zeal, “it is a

splendid find. But I forgot,” he added, in a tone of disappointment,

“it does not belong to me, it belongs to Miss Ceswick.”

“O, I am sure you are welcome to it, so far as I am concerned,” said

Eva, hastily. “I would not have it near me on any account.”

“O, very well. I am much obliged to you. I shall value the relic very

much.”

Florence had meanwhile moved round the table, and was gazing earnestly

into the crystal eyes.

“What are you doing, Florence?” asked Ernest, sharply, for the scene

was uncanny, and jarred upon him.

“I?” she answered, with a little laugh; “I am seeking an inspiration.

That face looks wise, it may teach me something. Besides, it is so like

my own, I think she must be some far-distant ancestress.”

“So she has noticed it too,” thought Ernest.

“Put her back in the box, Jeremy,” said Mr. Cardus. “I must have an

air-tight case made.”

“I can do that,” said Jeremy, “by lining the old one with lead, and

putting a glass front to it.”

Jeremy set about putting the head away, touching it very gingerly. When

he got it back into the oak case, he dusted it, and placed it upon a

bracket that jutted from the oak panelling at the end of the room.

“Well,” said Florence, “now that you have put your guardian angel on

her pedestal, I think that we must be going home. Will any of you walk

a little way with us?”

Dorothy said that they would all come—that is, all except Mr. Cardus,

who had gone back to his office. Accordingly they started, and as they

did so, Florence intimated to Ernest that she wished to speak to him.

He was alarmed and disappointed, for he was afraid of Florence, and

wished to walk with Eva, and presumably his face betrayed what was in

his mind to her.

“Do not be frightened,” she said, with a slight smile; “I am not going

to say anything disagreeable.”

Of course he replied that he knew that she never could say anything

disagreeable at any time; at which she smiled again the same faint

smile, and they dropped behind.

“Ernest,” she said presently, “I want to speak to you. You remember

what happened between us two evenings ago on this very beach;” for they

were walking home by the beach.

“Yes, Florence, I remember,” answered Ernest.

“Well, Ernest, the words I have to say are hard for a woman’s lips, but

I must say them. I made a mistake, Ernest, in telling you that I loved

you as I did, and in talking all the wild nonsense that I talked. I

don’t know what made me do it—some foolish impulse, no doubt. Women are

very curious, you know, Ernest, and I think that I am more curious than

most. I suppose I thought I loved you, Ernest—I know I thought it when

you kissed me; but last night, when I saw you at the Smythes’ dance, I

knew that it was all a mistake, and that I cared for you—no more than

you cared for me, Ernest. Do you understand me?”

He did not understand her in the least, but he nodded his head, feeling

vaguely that things were turning out very well for him.

“That is all right; and so here, in the same place where I said them, I

renounce them. We will forget all that foolish scene, Ernest. I made a

little mistake when I told you that my heart was as deep as the sea; I

find that it is shallow as a brook. But will you answer me one

question, Ernest, before we close this conversation?”

“Yes, Florence, if I can.”

“Well, when you—you kissed me the other night, you did not really mean

it, did you? I mean you only did so for a freak, or from the impulse of

the moment, not because you loved me? Don’t be afraid to tell me,

because if it was so, I shall not be angry; you see you have so much to

forgive me for. I am breaking faith, am I not?” And she looked him

straight in the face with her piercing eyes.

Ernest’s glance fell under that searching gaze, and the lie that men

are apt to think it no shame to use where women are concerned rose to

his lips. But he could not get it out—he could not bring himself to say

that he did love her—so he compromised matters.

“I think you were more in earnest than I was, Florence.”

She laughed, a cold little laugh, that somehow made his flesh creep.

“Thank you for being candid: it makes matters so much easier, does it

not? But, do you know, I suspected as much, when I was standing there

by that head to-day, just at the time that you took Eva’s hand.”

Ernest started visibly. “Why, your back was turned!” he said.

“Yes, but I saw what you did reflected in the crystal eyes. Well, do

you know, as I stood there, it seemed to me as though I could consider

the whole matter as dispassionately and with as clear a brain as though

I had been that dead woman. All of a sudden I grew wise. But there are

the others waiting for us.”

“We shall part friends, I hope, Florence?” said Ernest anxiously.

“O yes, Ernest, a woman always follows the career of her old admirer

with the deepest interest, and for about five seconds you were my

admirer—when you kissed me, you know. I shall watch all your life, and

my thoughts shall follow your footsteps like a shadow. Good-night,

Ernest, good-night;” and again she smiled that mocking smile which was

so like that on the features of the dead woman, and fixed her piercing

eyes upon his face. He bade her good-night, and made his way homewards

with the others, feeling an undefinable dread heavy on his heart.

CHAPTER XI.

DEEP WATERS

In due course Jeremy duly fitted up “the witch,” as the mysterious head

came to be called at Dum’s Ness in her air-tight cabinet, which he

lengthened till it looked like a clock-case, in order to allow the

beautiful hair to hang down at full length, retaining, however, the

original door and ancient latch and hasp. His next step was to fit the

plate-glass front, and exhaust the air as well as was feasible from the

interior of the case. Then he screwed on the outside door, and stood it

back on its bracket in the oak-paneled sitting-room, where, as has been

said, it looked for all the world like an eight-day clock-case.

Just as he had finished the job, a visitor—it was Mr. de Talor—came in,

and remarked that he had made a precious ugly clock. Jeremy, who

disliked _the_ De Talor, as he called him, excessively, said that he

would not say so when he had seen the works, and at the same time

unhasped the oak door of the cabinet, and turned the full glare of the

dreadful crystal eyes on to his face. The results were startling. For a

moment De Talor stared and gasped; then all the rich hues faded from

his features, and he sank back in a sort of fit. Jeremy shut up the

door in a hurry, and his visitor soon recovered; but for years nothing

would induce him to enter that room again.

As for Jeremy himself, at first he was dreadfully afraid of “the

witch,” but as time went on—for his job took him several days—he seemed

to lose his awe of her, and even to find a fearful joy in her society.

He spent whole hours, as he sat in his workshop in the yard, tinkering

at the airtight case, in weaving histories in which this beautiful

creature, whose head had been thus marvellously recovered, played the

leading part. It was so strange to look at her lovely scornful face,

and think that, long ages since, men had loved it, and kissed it, and

played with the waving hair.

There it was, this relic of the dead, preserved by the consummate skill

of some old monk or chemist, so that it retained all its ancient beauty

long after the echoes of the tragedy, with which it must have been

connected, had died out of the world. For, as he wrought at his case,

Jeremy grew certain that it was the ghastly memento of some enormous

crime; indeed, by degrees, as he tacked and hammered at the lead

lining, he made up a history that was quite satisfactory to his mind,

appealing on doubtful points to the witch herself, who was on the table

near him, and ascertaining whether she meant “yes” or “no” by the

simple process of observing whether or not her eyes trembled when he

spoke. It was slow work getting the story together in this fashion, but

then the manufacture of the case was slow also, and it was not without

its charm, for he felt it an honour to be taken into the confidence of

so lovely a lady.

But if the head had a fascination for Jeremy, it had a still greater

charm for his grandfather. The old man would continually slip out of

the office and cross the yard to the little room where Jeremy worked,

in order to stare at this wonderful relic. One night, indeed, when the

case was nearly finished, Jeremy remembered that he had not locked the

door of his workshop. He was already half undressed, but slipping on

his coat again, he went out by the back door and crossed the yard,

carrying the key with him. It was bright moonlight, and Jeremy, having

slippers on, walked without noise. When he reached the workshop, and

was about to lock the door, he thought he heard a sound in the room.

This startled him, and for a moment he meditated retreat, leaving the

head to look after itself. Those eyes were interesting in the daytime,

but he scarcely cared to face them alone at night. It was foolish, but

they did look so very much alive! After a moment’s hesitation, during

which the sound, whatever it was, again made itself audible, he

determined to compromise matters by going round to the other side of

the room and looking in at the little window. With a beating heart he

stole round, and quietly peeped in. The moonlight was shining bright

into the room, and struck full upon the long case he had manufactured.

He had left it _shut_, and the head inside it. Now it was open; he

could clearly see the white outlines of the trembling eyes. The sound,

too—a muttering sound—was still going on. Jeremy drew back, and wiped

the perspiration from his forehead, and for the second time thought of

flight. But his curiosity overcame him, and he looked again. This time

he discovered the cause of the muttering. Seated upon his

carpentering-bench was his grandfather, old Atterleigh, who appeared to

be staring with all his might at the head, and talking incoherently to

himself. This was the noise he had heard through the door. It was an

uncanny sight, and made Jeremy feel cold down the back. While he was

still contemplating it, and wondering what to do, old Atterleigh rose,

closed the case, and left the room. Jeremy slipped round, locked up the

door, and made his way back to bed much astonished. He did not,

however, say anything of what he had seen, only in future he was

careful never to leave the door of his workshop open.

At last the case was finished, and, for an amateur, a very good job he

made of it. When it was done he placed it, as already narrated, back on

the bracket, and showed it to Mr. de Talor.

But from the day when Eva Ceswick nearly fell to the bottom of the

cliff in the course of her antiquarian researches, things began to go

wrong at Dum’s Ness. Everybody felt it except Ernest, and he was

thinking too much of other things. Dorothy was very unhappy in those

days, and began to look thin and miserable, though she sturdily

alleged, when asked, that she never had been better in her life. Jeremy

himself was also unhappy, and for a good reason. He had caught the

fever that women like Eva Ceswick have it in their power to give to the

sons of men. His was a deep self-contained nature, very gentle and

tender, not admitting many things into its affections, but loving such

as were admitted with all the heart and soul and strength. And it was

in the deepest depths of this loyal nature that Eva Ceswick had printed

her image; before he knew it, before he had time to think, it was

photographed there upon his heart, and he felt that there it must stay

for good or evil; that plate could never be used again.

She had been so kind to him; her eyes had grown so bright and friendly

when she saw him coming! He was sure that she liked him (which indeed

she did), and once he had ventured to press her little hand, and he had

thought that she returned the pressure, and had not slept all night in

consequence.

But perhaps this was a mistake. And then, just as he was getting on so

nicely, came Ernest, and scattered his hopes like mists before the

morning sun. From the moment that those two met, he knew that it was

all up with his chance. And next, to make assurance doubly sure,

Providence itself, in the shape of a shilling, had declared against

him, and he was left lamenting. Well, it was all fair; but still it was

very hard, and for the first time in his life he felt inclined to be

angry with Ernest. Indeed, he was angry, and the fact made him more

unhappy than ever, because he knew that his anger was unjust, and

because his brotherly love condemned it.

But for all that, the shadow between them grew darker.

Mr. Cardus, too, had his troubles, connected, needless to say—for

nothing else ever really troubled him—with his monomania of revenge.

Mr. de Talor, of whose discomfiture he had at last made sure, had

unexpectedly slipped out of his power, nor could he at present see any

way in which to draw him back again. Consequently he was distressed. As

for Hard-riding Atterleigh, ever since he had found himself fixed by

“the witch’s” crystal eye, he had been madder than ever, and more

perfectly convinced that Mr. Cardus was the devil in person. Indeed,

Dorothy, who watched over the old man, the grandfather who never knew

her, thought that she observed a marked change in him. He worked away

at his writing as usual, but, it appeared to her, with more vigour, as

though it were a thing to encounter and get rid of. He would cut the

notches out of his stick calendar, too, more eagerly than heretofore,

and altogether it seemed as though his life had become dominated by

some new purpose. She called Mr. Cardus’s attention to this change; but

he laughed, and said that it was nothing, and would probably pass with

the moon.

But if nobody else was happy, Ernest was—that is, except when he was

sunk in the depths of woe, which was, on an average, about three days a

week. On the occasion of these seizures, Dorothy, noting his miserable

aspect and entire want of appetite, felt much alarmed, and took an

occasion after supper to ask him what was the matter. Before many

minutes were over she had cause to regret it; for Ernest burst forth

with a history of his love and his wrongs that lasted for an hour. It

appeared that another young gentleman, one of those who danced with the

lovely Eva at the Smythes’ ball, had been making the most unmistakable

advances; he had called—three times; he had sent flowers—twice (Ernest

sent them every morning, beguiling Sampson into cutting the best

orchid-blooms for that purpose); he had been out walking—once. Dorothy

listened quietly, till he ceased of his own accord. Then she spoke.

“So you really love her, Ernest?”

“Love her! I”—but we will not enter into a description of this young

man’s raptures. When he had done, Dorothy did a curious thing. She rose

from her chair, and coming to where Ernest was sitting, bent over him,

and kissed him on the forehead, and as she did so he noticed vaguely

that she had great black rings round her eyes.

“I hope that you will be happy, my dear brother. You will have a lovely

wife, and I think that she is as good as she is beautiful.” She spoke

quite quietly, but somehow her voice sounded like a sob. He kissed her

in acknowledgment, and she glided away.

Ernest did not think much of the incident, however. Indeed, in five

minutes his thoughts were back with Eva, with whom he really was

seriously and earnestly in love. In sober truth, the antics that he

played were enough to make the angels weep to see a human being

possessing the normal weight of brain making such a donkey of himself.

For instance, he would promenade for hours at night in the

neighbourhood of the Cottage. Once he ventured into the garden to enjoy

the perfect bliss of staring at six panes of glass, got severely bitten

by the house-dog for his pains, and was finally chased for a mile or

more by both the dog and the policeman, who, having heard of the

mysterious figure that was to be seen mooning (in every sense of the

word) round the Cottage, had laid up to watch for him. Next day he had

the satisfaction of hearing from his adored’s own lips the story of the

attempted burglary, but as she told it there was a smile playing about

the corners of her mouth which almost seemed to indicate that she had

her suspicions as to who the burglar was. And then Ernest walked so

very lame, which, considering that the teeth of a brute called Towzer

had made a big hole in his calf, was not to be wondered at.

After this he was obliged to give up his midnight sighing, but he took

it out in other ways. Once indeed, without warning, he flopped down on

to the floor and kissed Eva’s hand, and then, aghast at his own

boldness, fled from the room.

At first all this amused Eva greatly. She was pleased at her conquest,

and took a malicious pleasure in leading Ernest on. When she knew that

he was coming she would make herself look as lovely as possible, and

put on all her charming little ways and graces in order to more

thoroughly enslave him. Somehow, whenever Ernest thought of her in

after years as she was at that period of her life, his memory would

call up a vision of her in a pretty little drawing-room at the Cottage,

leaning back in a low chair in such a way as to contrive to show off

her splendid figure to the best advantage, and also the tiny foot and

slender ankle that peeped from beneath her soft white dress. There she

sat, a little Skye-terrier called “Tails” on her lap, with which his

rival had presented her but a fortnight before, and—yes—actually

kissing the brute at intervals, her eyes shining all the time with

innocent coquetry. What would not Ernest have given to occupy for a

single minute the position of that unappreciative Skye-terrier! It was

agony to see so many kisses wasted on a dog, and Eva, seeing that he

thought so, kissed the animal more vigorously than ever.

At last he could stand it no longer. “Put that dog down!” he said,

peremptorily.

She obeyed him, and then, remembering that he had no right to dictate

to her what she should do, made an effort to pick it up again; but

“Tails,” who, be it added, was not used to being kissed in private

life, and thought the whole operation rather a bore, promptly bolted.

“Why should I put the dog down?” she asked, with a quick look of

defiance.

“Because I hate to see you kissing it; it is so effeminate.”

He spoke in a masterful way; it was a touch of the curb, and there are

few things a proud woman hates so much as the first touch of the curb.

“What right have you to dictate what I shall or shall not do?” she

asked, tapping her foot upon the floor.

Ernest was very humble in those days, and he collapsed.

“None at all. Don’t be angry, Eva” (it was the first time that he had

called her so; till now she had always been Miss Ceswick), “but the

fact was I could not bear to see you kissing that dog; I was jealous of

the brute.”

Whereupon she blushed furiously and changed the subject. But after a

while Eva’s coquettishness began to be less and less marked. When they

met she no longer greeted him with a smile of mischief, but with

serious eyes that once or twice, he thought, bore traces of tears. At

the same time she threw him into despair by her coldness. Did he

venture a tender remark, she would pretend not to hear it—alas, that

the mounting blood should so obstinately proclaim that she did! Did he

touch her hand, it was cold and unresponsive. She was quieter too, and

her reserve frightened him. Once he tried to break it, and began some

passionate appeal, but she rose without answering and turned her face

to the window. He followed her, and saw that her dark eyes were full of

tears. This he felt was even more awful than her coldness, and, fearing

that he had offended her, he obeyed her whispered entreaty and went.

Poor boy! he was very young. Had he had a little more experience, he

might have found means to brush away her tears and his own doubts. It

is a melancholy thing that such opportunities should, as a rule,

present themselves before people are old enough to take advantage of

them.

The secret of all this change of conduct was not far to seek. Eva had

played with edged tools till she cut her fingers to the bone. The

dark-eyed boy, who danced so well and had such a handsome, happy face,

had become very dear to her. She had begun by playing with him, and

now, alas! she loved him better than anybody in the world. That was the

sting of the thing; she had fallen in love with a _boy_ as young as

herself—a boy, too, who, so far as she was aware, had no particular

prospects in life. It was humiliating to her pride to think that she,

who in the few months that she had been “out” in London, before her

cousins rose up and cast her forth, had already found the satisfaction

of seeing one or two men of middle age and established position at her

feet, and the further satisfaction of requesting them to kneel there no

more, should in the upshot have to strike her colours to a boy of

twenty-one, even though he did stand six feet high, and had more wits

in his young head and more love in his young heart than all her

middle-aged admirers put together.

Perhaps, though she was a woman grown, she was not herself quite old

enough to appreciate the great advantage it is to any girl to stamp her

image upon the heart of the man she loves while the wax is yet soft and

undefaced by the half worn-out marks of many shallow dies; perhaps she

did not know what a blessing it is to be able to really _love_ a man at

all, young, middle-aged, or old. Many women wait till they cannot love

without shame to make that discovery. Perhaps she forgot that Ernest’s

youth was a fault which would mend day by day, and he had abilities,

which, if she would consent to inspire them, might lead him to great

things. At any rate, two facts remained in her mind after much

thinking: she loved him with all her heart, and she was ashamed of it.

But as yet she could not make up her mind to any fixed course. It would

have been easy to crush poor Ernest, to tell him that his pretensions

were ridiculous, to send him away, or to go away herself, and so to

make an end of a position that she felt was getting absurd, and which

we may be sure her elder sister Florence did nothing to make more

pleasant. But she could not do it; that was the long and short of the

matter. The idea of living without Ernest made her feel cold all over;

it seemed to her that the only hours that she really did live were the

hours which they spent together, and that when he went away he took her

heart with him. No, she could not make up her mind to that; the thought

was too cruel. Then there was the other alternative—to encourage him a

little and become engaged to him, to brave everything for his sake. But

as yet she could not make up her mind to that either.

Eva Ceswick was very loving, very sweet, and very good, but she did not

possess a determined mind.

CHAPTER XII.

DEEPER YET

While Ernest was wooing and Eva doubting, Time, whose interest in

earthly affairs is that of the sickle in the growing crop, went on his

way as usual.

The end of August came, as it has come so many thousand times since

this globe gave its first turn in space, as it will come for many

thousand times more, till at last, its appointed course run out, the

world darkens, quivers, and grows still; and, behold! Ernest was still

wooing, Eva still doubting.

One evening—it was a very beautiful evening—this pair were walking

together on the sea-shore. Whether they met by appointment or by

accident does not matter; they did meet, and there they were, strolling

along together, as fully charged with intense feeling as a

thunder-cloud with electricity, and almost as quiet. The storm had not

yet burst.

To listen to the talk of these two, they might have met for the first

time yesterday. It was chiefly about the weather.

Presently, in the course of their wanderings, they came to a little

sailing-boat drawn up upon the beach—not far up, however, just out of

the reach of the waves. By this boat, in an attitude of intense

contemplation, there stood an ancient mariner. His hands were in his

pockets, his pipe was in his mouth, his eyes were fixed upon the deep.

Apparently he did not notice their approach till they were within two

yards of him. Then he turned, “dashed” himself, and asked the lady,

with a pull of his grizzled fore-lock, if she would not take a sail.

Ernest looked surprised.

“How’s the wind?” he asked.

“Straight off shore, sir; will turn with the turn of the tide, sir, and

bring you back.”

“Will you come for a bit of a sail, Eva?”

“O no, thank you. I must be getting home; it is seven o’clock.”

“There is no hurry for you to get home. Your aunt and Florence have

gone to tea with the Smythes.”

“Indeed, I cannot come; I could not think of such a thing.”

Her words were unequivocal, but the ancient mariner put a strange

interpretation upon them. First he hauled up the little sail, and then,

placing his brown hands against the stern of the boat, he rested his

weight upon them, and caused her to travel far enough into the waves to

float her bow.

“Now, miss.”

“I am not coming, indeed.”

“_Now,_ miss.”

“I will _not_ come, Ernest.”

“Come,” said Ernest, quietly holding out his hand to help her in.

She took it and got in. Ernest and the mariner gave a strong shove, and

as the light boat took the water the former leaped in, and at the same

second a puff of wind caught the sail, and took them ten yards out or

more.

“Why, the sailor is left behind!” said Eva.

Ernest gave a twist to the tiller to get the boat’s head straight off

shore, and then leisurely looked round. The mariner was standing as

they had found him, his hands in his pockets, his pipe in his mouth,

his eye fixed upon the deep.

“He doesn’t seem to mind it,” he said, meditatively.

“Yes, but I do; you must go back and fetch him.”

Thus appealed to, Ernest went through some violent manoeuvres with the

tiller, without producing any marked effect on the course of the boat,

which by this time had got out of the shelter of the cliff, and was

bowling along merrily.

“Wait till we get clear of the draught from the cliff, and I will bring

her round.”

But when at last they were clear from the draught of the cliff, and he

slowly got her head round, lo and behold, the mariner had vanished!

“How unfortunate!” said Ernest, getting her head towards the open sea

again; “he has probably gone to his tea.”

Eva tried hard to get angry, but somehow she could not: she only

succeeded in laughing.

“If I thought that you had done this on purpose, I would never come out

with you again.”

Ernest looked horrified. “On purpose!” he said; and the subject

dropped.

They were sitting side by side in the stern-sheets of the boat, and the

sun was just dipping all red-hot into the ocean. Under the lee of the

cliff there were cool shadows; before them was a path of glory that led

to a golden gate. The air was very sweet, and for those two all the

world was lovely; there was no sorrow on the earth, there were no

storms upon the sea.

Eva took off her hat, and let the sweet breeze play upon her brow. Then

she leaned over the side, and, dipping her hand into the cool water,

watched the little track it made.

“Eva.”

“Yes, Ernest.”

“Do you know I am going away?”

The hand was withdrawn with a start.

“Going away! when?”

“The day after to-morrow; to Guernsey first, then to France.”

“And when are you coming back again?”

“I think that depends upon you, Eva.”

The hand went back into the water. They were a mile or more from the

shore now. Ernest manipulated the sail and tiller so as to sail slowly

parallel with the coast-line. Then he spoke again.

“Eva.”

No answer.

“Eva, for God’s sake look at me!”

There was something in his voice that forced her to obey. She took her

hand out of the water and turned her eyes on to his face. It was pale,

and the lips were quivering.

“I love you,” he said, in a low, choked voice.

She grew angry. “Why did you bring me here? I will go home. This is

nonsense; you are nothing but a boy!”

There are moments in life when the human face is capable of conveying a

more intense and vivid impression than any words, when it seems to

speak to the very soul in a language of its own. And so it was with

Ernest now: he made no answer to her reproaches, but, if that were

possible, his features grew paler yet, and his eyes, shining like

stars, fixed themselves upon her, and drew her to him. And what they

said she and he knew alone, nor could any words convey it, for the

tongue in which they talked is not spoken in this world.

A moment still she wavered, fighting against the sweet mastery of his

will with all her woman’s strength, and then—O Heaven! it was done, and

his arms were round about her, her head upon his breast, and her voice

was lost in sobs and broken words of love.

O, radiant-winged hour of more than mortal joy; the hearts which you

have touched will know when their time comes that they have not beat

quite in vain!

[Illustration: “O, radiant-winged hour!”]

And so they sat, those two, quite silent, for there seemed to be no

need for speech; words could not convey half they had to say, and,

indeed, to tell the honest truth, their lips were, for the most part,

otherwise employed.

Meanwhile the sun went down, and the sweet moon arose over the quiet

sea, and turned their little ship to silver. Eva gently disengaged

herself from his arms, and half-rose to look at it; she had never

thought it half so beautiful before. Ernest looked at it too. It is a

way that lovers have.

“Do you know the lines?” he said; “I think I can say them:

‘With a swifter motion,

Out upon the ocean,

Heaven above and round us, and you along with me:

Heaven around and o’er us,

The Infinite before us,

Floating on for ever, upon the flowing sea.’”

“Go on,” she said, softly.

“‘What time is it, dear, now?

We are in the year now

Of the New Creation, one million, two, or three;

But where are we now, love?

We are, as I trow, love,

In the Heaven of Heavens, upon the Crystal Sea.’”

“That is how I hope it may be with us, dear,” she said, taking his

hand, as the last words passed his lips.

“Are you happy now?” he asked her.

“Yes, Ernest, I am happy indeed. I do not think that I shall ever be so

happy again; certainly I never was so happy before. Do you know, dear,

I wish to tell you so, that you may see how mean I have been; I have

fought so hard against my love for you.”

He looked pained. “Why?” he asked.

“I will tell you quite truly, Ernest—because you are so young. I was

ashamed to fall in love with a boy, and yet you see, dear, you have

been too strong for me.”

“Why, there is no difference in our ages!”

“Ah, Ernest, but I am a woman, and ever so much older than you. We age

so much quicker, you know. I feel about old enough to be your mother,”

she said, with a pretty assumption of dignity.

“And I feel quite old enough to be your lover,” he replied,

impertinently.

“So it seems. But, Ernest, if three months ago anybody had told me that

I should be in love to-day with a boy of twenty-one, I would not have

believed them. Dear, I have given you all my heart; you will not betray

me, will you? You know very young men are apt to change their minds.”

He flushed a little as he answered, feeling that it was tiresome to

have the unlucky fact that he was only twenty-one so persistently

thrust before him.

“Then they are young men who have not had the honour of winning your

affections. A man who has once loved you could never forget you.

Indeed, it is more likely that you will forget me; you will have plenty

of temptation to do so.”

She saw that she had vexed him. “Don’t be angry, dear; but you see the

position is a very difficult one, and, if I could not be quite sure of

you, it would be intolerable.”

“My darling, you may be as sure of me as woman can be of man; but don’t

begin your doubts over again. They are settled now. Let us be quite

happy just this one evening. No doubt there are plenty coming when we

shall not be able to.”

And so they kissed each other and sailed on—homeward, alas! for it was

getting late—and were perfectly happy.

Presently they drew near the shore, and there, at the identical spot

where they had left him, stood the ancient mariner. His hands were in

his pockets, his pipe was in his mouth, his eyes were fixed upon the

deep.

Ernest grounded the little boat skilfully enough, and, jumping over the

bow, he and the mariner pulled it up. Then Eva got out, and as she did

so she thought, in the moonlight, that she noticed something resembling

a twinkle in the latter’s ancient eye. She felt confused—there is

nothing so confusing as a guilty conscience—and, to cover her

confusion, plunged into conversation, while Ernest was finding some

money to pay for the boat.

“Do you often let boats?” she asked.

“No, miss, only to Mr. Ernest in a general way” (so that wicked Ernest

had set a trap to catch her).

“O, then, I suppose you go out fishing?”

“No, miss, only for rikkration, like.”

“Then what do you do?”—she was getting curious on the point.

“Times I does nothing; times I stands on the beach and sees things;

times I runs cheeses, miss.”

“Run cheeses!”

“Yes, miss, Dutch ones.”

“He means that he brings cargoes of Dutch cheeses to Harwich.”

“Oh!” said Eva.

Ernest paid the man, and they turned to go. She had not gone many yards

when she felt a heavy hand laid upon her shoulder. Turning round in

astonishment, she perceived the mariner.

“I say, miss,” he said, in a hoarse whisper.

“Well, what?”

“_Niver you eat the rind of a Dutch cheese!_ I says it as knows.”

Eva did not forget his advice.

CHAPTER XIII.

MR. CARDUS UNFOLDS HIS PLANS

“Ernest,” said Mr. Cardus, on the morning following the events

described in the previous chapter, “I want to speak to you in my

office—and you too, Jeremy.”

They both followed him into his room, wondering what was the matter. He

sat down and so did they, and then, as was his habit, letting his eyes

stray over every part of their persons except their faces, he began:

“It is time that you two fellows took to doing something for

yourselves. You must not learn to be idle men—not that most young men

require much teaching in that way. What do you propose to do?”

Jeremy and Ernest stared at one another rather blankly, but apparently

Mr. Cardus did not expect an answer. At any rate, he went on before

either of them could frame one.

“You don’t seem to know, never gave the matter any consideration

probably; quite content to obey the Bible literally, and take no

thought for the morrow. Well, it is lucky that you have somebody to

think for you. Now I will tell you what I propose for you both. I want

you, Ernest, to go to the bar. It is a foolish profession for most

young men to take to, but it will not be so in your case, because, as

it happens, if you show yourself capable, I shall by degrees be able to

put a good deal of business in your hands—Chancery business, for I have

little to do with any other. I daresay that you will wonder where the

business is to come from. I don’t seem to do very much here, do I? with

a mad old hunting-man as a clerk, and Dorothy to copy my private

letters; but I do, for all that. I may as well tell you both, in

confidence, that this place is only the head-centre of my business. I

have another office in London, another at Ipswich, and another at

Norwich, though they all carry on business under different names;

besides which I have other agencies of a different nature. But all this

is neither here nor there. I have communicated with Aster, the rising

Chancery man, and he will have a vacancy in his chambers next term. Let

me see—term begins on November 2nd; I propose, Ernest, to write to-day

to enter you at Lincoln’s Inn. I shall make you an allowance of three

hundred a year, which you must clearly understand you must not exceed.

I think that is all I have to say about the matter.”

“I am sure I am very much obliged to you, uncle—” began Ernest,

fervently, for since the previous evening he had clearly realised that

it was necessary for him to make a beginning of doing something.

But his uncle cut him short.

“All right, Ernest, we will understand all that. Now, Jeremy, for you.

I propose that you shall be articled to me, and if you work well and

prove useful, it is my intention in time to admit you to a share of the

business. In order that you may not feel entirely dependent, it is my

further intention to make you an allowance also, on the amount of which

I have not yet settled.”

Jeremy groaned in spirit at the thought of becoming a lawyer, even with

a “share of the business,” but he remembered his conversation with

Dorothy, and thanked Mr. Cardus with the best grace that he could

muster.

“All right, then; I will have the articles prepared at once, and you

can take to your stool in the office next week. I think that is all I

have to say.”

Acting on this hint, the pair were departing, Jeremy in the deepest

state of depression, induced by the near prospect of that stool, when

Mr. Cardus called Ernest back.

“I want to speak to you about something else,” he said thoughtfully.

“Shut the door.”

Ernest turned cold down his back, and wondered if his uncle could have

heard anything about Eva. He had the full intention of speaking to him

about the matter, but it would be awkward to be boarded himself before

he had made up his mind what to say. He shut the door, and then walking

to the glass entrance to the orchid blooming-house, stood looking at

the flowers, and waiting for Mr. Cardus to begin. But he did not begin;

he seemed to be lost in thought.

“Well, uncle,” he said at last.

“It is a delicate business, Ernest, but I may as well get it over. I am

going to make a request of you, a request to which I beg you will give

me no immediate answer, for from its nature it will require the most

anxious and careful consideration. I want you to listen, and say

nothing. You can give me your answer when you come back from abroad. At

the same time, I must tell you that it is a matter which I trust you

will not disappoint me in; indeed, I do not think that you could be so

cruel as to do so. I must also tell you that if you do, you must

prepare to be a great loser, financially speaking.”

“I have not the faintest idea what you are driving at, uncle,” said

Ernest, turning from the glass door to speak.

“I know you have not. I will tell you. Listen; I will tell you a little

story. Many years ago a great misfortune overtook me, a misfortune so

great that it struck me as lightning sometimes does a tree—it left the

bark sound, but turned the heart to ashes. Never mind what the details

were, they were nothing out of the common; such things sometimes happen

to men and women. The blow was so severe that it almost turned my

brain, so from that day I gave myself to revenge. It sounds

melodramatic, but there was nothing of the sort about it. I had been

cruelly wronged, and I determined that those who had wronged me should

taste of their own medicine. With the exception of one man they have

done so. He has escaped me for a time, but he is doomed. To pass on.

The woman who caused the trouble—for wherever there is trouble there is

generally a woman who causes it—had children. Those children are

Dorothy and her brother. I adopted them. As time went on, I grew to

love the girl for her likeness to her mother. The boy I never loved; to

this hour I cannot like him, though he is a gentleman, which his father

never was. I can, however, honestly say that I have done my duty by

him. I have told you all this in order that you may understand the

request which I am going to make. I trust to you never to speak of it,

and if you can to forget it. And now for my request itself.”

Ernest looked up wonderingly.

“It is my most earnest desire that you should marry Dorothy.”

His listener started violently, turned quite pale, and opened his lips

to speak. Mr. Cardus lifted his hand and went on:

“Remember what I asked you. Pray say nothing; only listen. Of course I

cannot force you into this or any other marriage. I can only beg you to

give heed to my wishes, knowing that they will in every way prove to

your advantage. That girl has a heart of gold; and if you marry her you

shall inherit nearly all my fortune, which is now very large. I have

observed that you have lately been about a great deal with Eva Ceswick.

She is a handsome woman, and very likely has taken some hold upon your

fancy. I warn you that any entanglement in that direction would be most

disagreeable to me, and would to a great extent destroy your prospects,

so far as I am concerned.”

Again Ernest was about to speak, and again his uncle stopped him.

“I want no confidences, Ernest, and had much rather that no words

passed between us that we might afterwards regret. And now I understand

that you are going abroad with your friend Batty for a couple of

months. When you return you shall give me your answer about Dorothy. In

the meanwhile here is a cheque for your expenses: what is over you can

spend as you like. Perhaps you have some bills to pay.”

He gave him a folded cheque, and then went on:

“Now leave me, as I am busy.”

Ernest walked out of the room in a perfect maze. In the yard he

mechanically unfolded the cheque. It was for a large sum—two hundred

and fifty pounds. He put it in his pocket, and began to reflect upon

his position, which was about as painful as a position can well be.

Truly he was on the horns of a dilemma; probably before he was much

older, one of them would have pierced him. For a moment he was about to

return to his uncle and tell him all the truth, but on reflection he

could not see what was to be gained by such a course. At any rate, it

seemed to him that he must first consult Eva, whom he had arranged to

meet on the beach at three o’clock; there was nobody else whom he could

consult, for he was shy of talking about Eva to Jeremy or Dolly.

The rest of that morning went very ill for Ernest, but three o’clock

came at last, and found him at the trysting-place.

About a mile on the farther side of Kesterwick, that is, two miles or

so from Titheburgh Abbey, the cliff jutted out into the sea in a way

that corresponded very curiously with the little promontory known as

Dum’s Ness, the reason of its resistance to the action of the waves

being that it was at this spot composed of an upcrop of rock of a more

durable nature than the sandstone and pebbles of the remainder of the

line of cliff. Just at the point of this promontory the waves had worn

a hollow in the rock that was locally dignified by the name of the

Cave. For two hours or more at high tide this hollow was under water,

and it was, therefore, impossible to pass the headland except by boat;

but during the rest of the day it formed a convenient grotto or

trysting-place, the more so as anybody sitting in it was quite

invisible either from the beach, the cliff above, or indeed, unless the

boat was quite close in shore, the sea in front.

Here it was that Ernest had arranged to meet Eva, and on turning the

rocky corner of the cave he found her sitting on a mass of fallen rock

waiting for him. At the sight of her beautiful form he forgot all his

troubles, and when rising to greet him, blushing like the dawn, she

lifted her pure face for him to kiss, there was not a happier lad in

England. Then she made room for him beside her—the rock was just wide

enough for two—and he placed his arm round her waist, and for a minute

or two she laid her head upon his shoulder, and they were very happy.

“You are early,” he said at last.

“Yes; I wanted to get away from Florence and have a good think. You

have no idea how unpleasant she is; she seems to know everything. For

instance, she knew that we went out sailing together last evening, for

this morning at breakfast she said in the most cheerful way that she

hoped that I enjoyed my moonlight sail last night.”

“The deuce she did! and what did you say?”

“I said that I enjoyed it very much, and luckily my aunt did not take

any notice.”

“Why did you not say at once that we were engaged? We _are_ engaged,

you know.”

“Yes—that is, I suppose so.”

“Suppose so! There is no supposition about it. At least, if we are not

engaged, what are we?”

“Well, you see, Ernest, it sounds so absurd to say that one is engaged

to a boy! I love you, Ernest, love you dearly, but how can I say that I

am engaged to you?”

Ernest rose in great wrath. “I tell you what it is, Eva, if I am not

good enough to acknowledge, I am not good enough to have anything to do

with. A boy, indeed! I am one-and-twenty; that is full age. Confound it

all! you are always talking about my being so young, just as though I

should not get old fast enough. Can’t you wait for me a year or two?”

he asked, with tears of mortification in his eyes.

“O Ernest, Ernest, do be reasonable, there’s a dear; what is the good

of getting angry and making me wretched? Come and sit down here, dear,

and tell me, am _I_ not worth a little patience? There is not the

slightest possibility, so far as I can see, of our getting married at

present; so the question is, if it is of any use to trumpet out an

engagement that will only make us the object of a great deal of gossip,

and which, perhaps, your uncle would not like?”

“O, by Jove!” he said, “that reminds me;” and sitting down beside her

again, he told her the story of the interview with his uncle. She

listened in silence.

“This is all very bad,” she said, when he had finished.

“Yes, it is bad enough; but what is to be done?”

“There is nothing to be done at present.”

“Shall I make a clean breast of it to him?”

“No, no, not now; it will only make matters worse. We must wait, dear.

You must go abroad for a couple of months, as you had arranged, and

then when you come back we must see what can be arranged.”

“But, my dearest, I cannot bear to leave you; it makes my heart ache to

think of it.”

“Dear, I know that it is hard; but it must be done. You could not stop

here now very well without speaking about our—our engagement, and to do

that would only be to bring your uncle’s anger on you. No, you had

better go away, Ernest, and meanwhile I will try to get into Mr.

Cardus’s good graces, and, if I fail, then when you come back we must

agree upon some plan. Perhaps by that time you will take your uncle’s

view of the matter and want to marry Dorothy. She would make you a

better wife than I shall, Ernest, my dear.”

“Eva, how can you say such things! it is not kind of you!”

“O, why not? It is true. O yes, I know that I am better-looking, and

that is what you men always think of; but she has more brains, more

fixity of mind, and, perhaps, for all I know, more heart than I have,

though, for the matter of that, I feel as if I was all heart just now.

Really, Ernest, you had better transfer your allegiance. Give me up,

and forget me, dear; it will save you much trouble. I know that there

is trouble coming; it is in the air. Better marry Dorothy, and leave me

to fight my sorrow out alone. I will release you, Ernest;” and she

began to cry at the bare idea.

“I shall wait to give you up until you have given me up,” said Ernest,

when he had found means to stop her tears; “and as for forgetting you,

I can never do that. Please, dear, don’t talk so any more; it pains

me.”

“Very well, Ernest; then let us vow eternal fidelity instead; but, my

dear, I _know_ that I shall bring you trouble.”

“It is the price that men have always paid for the smiles of women like

you,” he answered. “Trouble may come—so be it, let it come; at any

rate, I have the consciousness of your love. When I have lost that,

then, and then only, shall I think that I have bought you too dear.”

In the course of his after life these words often came back to Ernest’s

mind.

CHAPTER XIV.

GOOD-BYE

There are some scenes, trivial enough perhaps in themselves, that yet

retain a peculiar power of standing out in sharp relief, as we cast our

mind’s eye down the long vista of our past. The group of events with

which these particular scenes were connected may have long ago vanished

from our mental sight, or faded into a dim and misty uniformity, and be

as difficult to distinguish one from the other as the trees of a forest

viewed from a height. But here and there an event, a sensation, or a

face will stand out as perfectly clear as if it had been that moment

experienced, felt, or seen. Perhaps it is only some scene of our

childhood, such as a fish darting beneath a rustic bridge, and the

ripple which its motion left upon the water. We have seen many larger

fish dart in many fine rivers since then, and have forgotten them; but

somehow that one little fish has kept awake in the storehouse of our

brain, where most things sleep, though none are really obliterated.

It was in this clear and brilliant fashion that every little detail of

the scene was indelibly photographed on Ernest’s mind when, on the

morning following their meeting in the cave, he said good-bye to Eva

before he went abroad. It was a public good-bye, for, as it happened,

there was no opportunity for the lovers to meet alone. They were all

gathered in the little drawing-room at the Cottage: Miss Ceswick seated

on a straight-backed chair in the bow-window; Ernest on one side of the

round table, looking intensely uncomfortable; Eva on the other, a

scrapbook in her hand, which she studiously kept before her face; and

in the background, leaning carelessly over the back of a chair in such

a way that her own face could not be seen, though she could survey

everybody else’s, was Florence. Ernest, from where he sat, could just

make out the outline of her olive face, and the quick glance of her

brown eyes.

And so they sat for a long time, but what was said he could not

remember; it was only the scene that imprinted itself upon his memory.

And then at last the fatal moment came—he knew that it was time to go,

and said good-bye to Miss Ceswick, who made some remark about his good

fortune in going to France and Italy, and warned him to be careful not

to lose his heart to a foreign girl. Then he crossed the room and shook

hands with Florence, who smiled coolly in his face, and read him

through with her piercing eyes; and last of all came to Eva, who

dropped her album and a pocket-handkerchief in her confusion as she

rose to give him her hand. He stooped and picked them up—the album he

placed on the table, the little lace-edged handkerchief he crumpled up

in the palm of his left hand and kept; it was almost the only souvenir

he had of her. Then he took her hand, and for a moment looked into her

face. It wore a smile, but beneath it the features were wan and

troubled. It was so hard to go.

“Well, Ernest,” said Miss Ceswick, “you two are taking leave of each

other as solemnly as though you were never going to meet again.”

“Perhaps they never will,” said Florence, in her clear voice; and at

that moment Ernest felt as though he hated her.

“You should not croak, Florence; it is unlucky,” said Miss Ceswick.

Florence smiled.

Then Ernest dropped the cold hand, and turning, left the room. Florence

followed him, and, snatching a hat from the pegs, passed into the

garden before him. When he was half-way down the garden-walk, he found

her ostensibly picking some carnations.

“I want to speak to you for a minute, Ernest,” she said; “turn this way

with me;” and she led him past the bow-window, down a small

shrubbery-walk about twenty paces long. “I must offer you my

congratulations,” she went on. “I hope that you two will be happy. Such

a handsome pair ought to be happy, you know.”

“Why, Florence, who told you?”

“Told me! nobody told me. I have seen it all along. Let me see, you

first took a fancy to one another on the night of the Smythes’ dance,

when she gave you a rose, and the next day you saved her life quite in

the romantic and orthodox way. Well, and then events took their natural

course, till one evening you went out sailing together in a boat. Shall

I go on?”

“I don’t think it is necessary, Florence, I am sure I don’t know how

you know all these things.”

She had stopped, and was standing slowly picking a carnation to pieces

leaf by leaf.

“Don’t you?” she answered, with a laugh. “Lovers are blind; but it does

not follow that other people are. I have been thinking, Ernest, that it

is very fortunate that I found out my little mistake before you

discovered yours. Supposing I really had cared for you, the position

would have been awkward now, would it not?”

Ernest was forced to admit that it would.

“But luckily, you see, I do not. I am only your true friend now,

Ernest; and it is as a friend that I wish to say a word to you about

Eva—a word of warning.”

“Go on.”

“You love Eva, and Eva loves you, Ernest; but remember this, she is

weak as water. She always was so from a child; those beautiful women

often are; Nature does not give them everything, you see.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I say, nothing more. She is very weak; and you must not be

surprised if she throws you over.”

“Good heavens, Florence! Why, she loves me with all her heart!”

“Yes; but women often think of other things besides their hearts. But

there, I don’t want to frighten you, only I would not pin all my faith

to Eva’s constancy, however dearly you may think she loves you. Don’t

look so distressed, Ernest; I did not wish to pain you. And remember

that if any difficulty should arise between Eva and you, you will

always have me on your side. You will always think of me as your true

friend, won’t you, Ernest?” and she held out her hand.

He took it.

“Indeed I will,” he said.

They had turned now, and again reached the bow-window, one of the

divisions of which stood open. Florence touched his arm, and pointed

into the room. He looked in through the open window. Miss Ceswick had

gone, but Eva was still at her old place by the table. Her head was

down upon the table, resting on the album he had picked up, and he

could see from the motion of her shoulders that she was sobbing

bitterly. Presently she lifted her face—it was all stained with

tears—only, however, to drop it again. Ernest made a motion as though

he would enter the house, but Florence stopped him.

“Best leave her alone,” she whispered; and then, when they were well

past the window, added aloud, “I am sorry that you saw her like that;

if you should never meet again, or be separated for a very long time,

it will leave a painful recollection in your mind. Well, good-bye. I

hope that you will enjoy yourself.”

Ernest shook hands in silence—there was a lump in his throat that

prevented him from speaking—and then went on his way, feeling utterly

miserable. As for Florence, she put up her hand to shade her keen eyes

from the sun, and watched him till he turned the corner with a look of

intense love and longing, which slowly changed into one of bitter hate.

When he was out of sight she turned, and, making her way to her

bedroom, flung herself upon the bed, and, burying her face in the

pillow to stifle the sound of her sobbing, gave way to an outburst of

jealous rage that was almost awful in its intensity.

Ernest had only just time to get back to Dum’s Ness, and go through the

form of eating some luncheon, before he was obliged to start to catch

his train. Dorothy had packed his things, and made all those little

preparations for his journey that women think of; so, after going to

the office to bid good-bye to his uncle, who shook him heartily by the

hand, and bade him not forget the subject of their conversation, he had

nothing to do but jump into the cart and start. In the sitting-room he

found Dorothy waiting for him, with his coat and gloves, also Jeremy,

who was going to drive to the station with him. He put on his coat in

silence; they were all quite silent; indeed, he might have been going

for a long sojourn in a deadly climate, instead of a two months’

pleasure-tour, so depressed was everybody.

“Good-bye, Doll dear,” he said, stooping to kiss her; but she shrank

away from him. In another minute he was gone.

At the station a word or two about Eva passed between Jeremy and

himself.

“Well, Ernest,” asked the former nervously, “have you pulled it off?”

“With her?”

“Of course; who else?”

“Yes, I have. But, Jeremy—”

“Well!”

“I don’t want you to say anything about it to anybody at present.”

“Very good.”

“I say, old fellow,” Ernest went on, after a pause, “I hope you don’t

mind very much.”

“If I said I did not mind, Ernest,” he answered, slowly turning his

honest eyes full on to his friend’s face, “I should be telling a lie.

But I do say this: as I could not win her myself, I am glad that you

have, because next to her I think I love you better than anybody in the

world. You always had the luck, and I wish you joy. There’s the train.”

Ernest wrung his hand.

“Thank you, old chap,” he said; “you are a downright good fellow, and a

good friend too. I know I have had the luck, but perhaps it is going to

turn. Good-bye.”

Ernest’s plans were to sleep in London, and to leave on the following

morning, a Wednesday, for Guernsey. There he was to meet his friend on

Thursday, when they were to start upon their tour, first to Normandy,

and thence wherever their fancy led them.

This programme he carried out to the letter—at least the first part of

it. On his way from Liverpool Street Station to the rooms where he had

always slept on the few occasions that he had been in London, his

hansom passed down Fleet Street, and got blocked opposite No. 19. His

eye caught the number, and he wondered what there was about it familiar

to him. Then he remembered that 19 Fleet Street was the address of

Messrs. Goslings & Sharpe, the bankers on whom his uncle had given him

the cheque for £250. Bethinking himself that he might as well cash it,

he stopped the cab and entered the bank. As he did so, the cashier was

just leaving his desk, for it was past closing hour; but he courteously

took Ernest’s cheque, and, though it was for a large sum, cashed it

without hesitation. Mr. Cardus’s name was evidently well known in the

establishment. Ernest proceeded on his journey with a crisp little

bundle of Bank of England notes in his breast-pocket, a circumstance

that, in certain events of which at that moment he little dreamed,

proved of the utmost service to him.

It will not be necessary for us to follow him in his journey to St.

Peter’s Port, which very much resembled other people’s journeys. He

arrived there safely enough on Wednesday afternoon, and proceeded to

the best hotel, took a room, and inquired the hour of the _table

d’hôte_.

In the course of the voyage from Southampton, Ernest had fallen into

conversation with a quiet, foreign-looking man, who spoke English with

a curious little accent. This gentleman—for there was no doubt about

his being a gentleman—was accompanied by a boy about nine years of age,

remarkable for his singularly prepossessing face and manners, whom

Ernest rightly judged to be his son. Mr. Alston—for such he discovered

his companion’s name to be—was a middle-aged man, not possessed of any

remarkable looks or advantages of person, nor in any way

brilliant-minded. But nobody could know Mr. Alston for long without

discovering that, his neutral tints notwithstanding, he was the

possessor of an almost striking individuality. From his open way of

talking, Ernest guessed that he was a colonial; for he had often

noticed at college that colonials are much less reserved than

Englishmen proper are bred up to be. He soon learned that Mr. Alston

was a Natal colonist, now, for the first time, paying a visit to the

old country. He had, until lately, held a high position in the Natal

Government service; but having unexpectedly come into a moderate

fortune through the death of an aged lady, a sister of his father in

England, he had resigned his position in the service; and after his

short visit “home,” as colonists always call the mother country, even

when they have never seen it, intended to start on a big game-shooting

expedition in the country between Secocoeni’s country and Delagoa Bay.

All this Ernest learned before the boat reached the harbour at St.

Peter’s Port, and they separated. He was, however, pleased when, having

seen his luggage put into his room, he went into the little courtyard

of the hotel and found Mr. Alston standing there with his son, and

looking rather puzzled.

“Hullo!” said Ernest, “I am glad that you have come to this hotel. Do

you want anything?”

“Well, yes, I do. The fact of the matter is, I don’t understand a word

of French, and I want to find my way to a place that my boy and I have

come over here to see. If they talked Zulu or Sisutu, you see, I should

be equal to the occasion; but to me French is a barbarous tongue, and

the people about here all seem to talk nothing else. Here is the

address.”

“I can talk French,” said Ernest, “and, if you like, I will go with

you. The _table d’hôte_ is not till seven, and it is not six yet.”

“It is very kind of you.”

“Not at all. I have no doubt that you would show me the way about

Zululand, if ever I wandered there.”

“Ay, that I would, with pleasure;” and they started.

It was with considerable difficulty that Ernest discovered the place

Mr. Alston was in search of. Finally, however, he found it. It was a

quaint out-of-the-way little street, very narrow and crooked, an odd

mixture of old private houses and shops, most of which seemed to deal

in soap and candles. At last they came to No. 36, a gray old house

standing in its own grounds. Mr. Alston scanned it eagerly.

“That is the place,” he said; “she often told me of the coat-of-arms

over the doorway—a mullet impaled with three squirrels; there they are.

I wonder if it is still a school?”

It turned out that it was still a school, and in due course they were

admitted, and allowed to wander round the ancient walled garden, with

every nook of which Mr. Alston seemed to be perfectly acquainted.

“There is the tree under which she used to sit,” he said sadly to his

boy, pointing out an old yew-tree, under which there stood a rotting

bench.

“Who?” asked Ernest, much interested.

“My dead wife, that boy’s mother; she was educated here,” he said, with

a sigh. “There, I have seen it. Let us go.”

CHAPTER XV.

ERNEST GETS INTO TROUBLE

When Mr. Alston and Ernest reached the hotel, there was still a quarter

of an hour to elapse before the _table d’hôte_, so, after washing his

hands and putting on a black coat, Ernest went down into the

coffee-room. There was only one other person in it, a tall fair

Frenchwoman, apparently about thirty years of age. She was standing by

the empty fireplace, her arm upon the mantelpiece, and a lace

pocket-handkerchief in her hand; and Ernest’s first impression of her

was that she was handsome and much over-dressed. There was a newspaper

upon the mantelpiece, which he desired to get possession of. As he

advanced for this purpose, the lady dropped her handkerchief. Stooping

down, he picked it out of the grate and handed it to her.

“_Mille remerciments, monsieur,_” she said, with a little curtsey.

“_Du tout, madame._”

“_Ah, monsieur parle français?_”

“_Mais oui, madame._”

And then they drifted into a conversation, in the course of which

Ernest learned that madame thought St. Peter’s Port very dull; that she

had been there three days with her friends, and was nearly dead _de

tristesse;_ that she was going, however, to the public dance at the

“Hall” that night. “Of course monsieur would be there;” and many other

things, for madame had a considerable command of language.

In the middle of all this the door opened, and another lady of much the

same cut as madame entered, followed by two young men. The first of

these had a face of the commonplace English type, rather a

good-humoured face; but when he saw the second, Ernest started, it was

so like his own, as his would become if he were to spend half a dozen

years in drinking, dicing, late hours, and their concomitants. The man

to whom this face belonged was evidently a gentleman, but he looked an

ill-tempered one, and very puny and out of health; at least so thought

Ernest.

“It is time for dinner, Camille,” said the gentleman to madame, at the

same time favouring Ernest with a most comprehensive scowl.

Madame appeared not to understand, and made some remark to Ernest.

“It is time for dinner, Camille,” said the gentleman again, in a savage

voice. This time she lifted her head and looked at him.

“_Din-nare, dinnare!_ qu’est-que c’est que _din-nare?_”

“_Table d’hôte,_” said the gentleman.

“O, pardon;” and with a little bow and most fascinating smile to

Ernest, she took the gentleman’s extended arm and sailed away.

“Why did you pretend not to understand me?” Ernest heard him ask, and

saw her shrug her shoulders in reply. The other gentleman followed with

his companion, and after him came Ernest. When he reached the

_salle-à-manger_ he found that the only chair vacant at the table was

one next to his friend of the _salon._ Indeed, had he thought of it, it

might have struck him that madame had contrived to keep that chair

vacant, for on his approach she gathered together the folds of her silk

dress, which had almost hidden it, and welcomed him with a little nod.

Ernest took the chair, and forthwith madame entered into a most lively

conversation with him, a course of proceeding that appeared to be

extremely distasteful to the gentleman on her right, who pished and

pshawed and pushed away his plate in a manner that soon became quite

noticeable. But madame talked serenely on, quite careless of his

antics, till at last he whispered something to her that caused the

blood to mount to her fair cheek.

“Mais tais-toi, donc,” Ernest heard her answer, and next moment—the

subsequent history of our hero demands that the truth should be told—it

was his turn to colour, for, alas! there was no doubt about it, he

distinctly felt madame’s little foot pressed upon his own. He took up

his wine and drank a little to hide his confusion; but whether he had

or had not the moral courage to withdraw from the situation, by placing

his toes under the more chilly but safe guardianship of the chair-legs,

history saith not; let us hope and presume that he had. But if this was

so or not he did not get on very well with his dinner, for the

situation was novel and not conducive to appetite. Presently Mr.

Alston, who was sitting opposite, addressed him across the table.

“Are you going to the dance here to-night, Mr. Kershaw?”

To Ernest’s surprise, the gentleman on the other side of madame

answered, with an astonished look:

“Yes, I am going.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Alston, “I was speaking to the gentleman

on your left.”

“Oh, indeed! I thought you said Kershaw.”

“Yes, I did; the gentleman’s name is Kershaw, I think.”

“Yes,” put in Ernest, “my name is Kershaw.”

“That is odd,” said the other gentleman, “so is mine. I did not know

that there were any other Kershaws.”

“Nor did I,” answered Ernest, “except Sir Hugh Kershaw;” and his face

darkened as he pronounced the name.

“I am Sir Hugh Kershaw’s son; my name is Hugh Kershaw,” was the reply.

“Indeed! Then we are cousins, I suppose; for I am his nephew, the son

of his brother Ernest.”

Hugh Kershaw the elder did not receive this intelligence with even the

moderate amount of enthusiasm that might have been expected; he simply

lifted his scanty eyebrows, and said, “Oh, I remember, my uncle left a

son;” then he turned and made some remark to the gentleman who sat next

him that made the latter laugh.

Ernest felt the blood rise to his cheeks; there was something very

insolent about his cousin’s tone.

Shortly afterwards the dinner came to an end, and madame, with another

fascinating smile, retired. As for Ernest, he smoked a pipe with Mr.

Alston, and about nine o’clock strolled over with him to the Hall, or

Assembly Rooms, a building largely composed of glass, where thrice a

week, during the season, the visitors at St. Peter’s Port adjourned to

dance, flirt, and make merry.

One of the first sights that caught his eye was a fair creature in

evening-dress, and with conspicuously white shoulders, in whom he

recognised madame. She was sitting near the door, and appeared to be

watching it. Ernest bowed to her, and was about to pass on; but,

pursuing her former tactics, she dropped the bouquet she was carrying.

He stooped, picked it up, returned it, and again made as though he

would pass on, when she addressed him, just as the band struck up.

“Ah, que c’est belle, la musique! Monsieur valse, n’est-ce pas?”

In another minute they were floating down the room together. As they

passed along, Ernest saw his cousin standing in the corner, looking at

him with no amiable air. Madame saw his glance.

“Ah,” she said, “Monsieur Hugh ne valse pas, il se grise; il a l’air

jaloux, n’est-ce pas?”

Ernest danced three times with this fair enslaver, and with their last

waltz the ball came to an end. Just then his cousin came up, and they

all, including Mr. Alston, walked together along the steep streets,

which were now quite deserted, to the door of the hotel. Here Ernest

said good-night to madame, who extended her hand. He took it, and as he

did so he felt a note slipped into it, which, not being accustomed to

such transactions, he clumsily dropped. It was the ball programme, and

there was something written across it in pencil. Unfortunately, he was

not the only one who saw this; his cousin Hugh, who had evidently been

drinking, saw it too, and tried to pick up the programme, but Ernest

was too quick for him.

“Give me that,” said his cousin, hoarsely.

Ernest answered by putting it into his pocket.

“What is written on that programme?”

“I don’t know.”

“What have you written on that programme, Camille?”

“Mon Dieu, mais vous m’ennuyez!” was the answer.

“I insist upon your giving me that!” with an oath.

“Monsieur est _gentleman!_ Monsieur ne la rendra pas,” said madame,

with a meaning glance; and then turning, she entered the hotel.

“I am not going to give it to you,” said Ernest.

“You shall give it to me.”

“Is this lady your wife?” asked Ernest.

“That is my affair; give me that note.”

“I shall not give it to you,” said Ernest, whose temper was rapidly

rising. “I don’t know what is on it, and I don’t wish to know; but

whatever it is, the lady gave it to me, and not to you. She is not your

wife, and you have no right to ask for it.”

His cousin Hugh turned livid with fury. At the best of times he was an

evil-tempered man; and now, inflamed as he was by drink and jealousy,

he looked a perfect fiend.

“Damn you!” he hissed, “you half-bred cur; I suppose that you get your

—— manners from your —— of a mother!”

He did not get any further; for at this point Ernest knocked him into

the gutter, and then stood over him, very quiet and pale, and told him

that if ever he dared to let a disrespectful word about his mother pass

his lips again, he (Ernest) would half-kill him (Hugh). Then he let him

get up.

Hugh Kershaw rose, and turning, whispered something to his friend, who

had sat next him at dinner, a man about thirty years of age, and with a

military air about him. His friend listened, and pulled his large

moustache thoughtfully. Then he addressed Ernest with the utmost

politeness:

“I am Captain Justice, of the —— Hussars. Of course, Mr. Kershaw, you

are aware that you cannot indulge yourself in the luxury of knocking

people down without hearing more about it. Have you any friend with

you?”

Ernest shook his head as he answered: “This,” indicating Mr. Alston,

who had been an attentive observer of everything that had passed, “is

the only gentleman I know in the town, and I cannot ask him to mix

himself up in my quarrels.” Ernest was beginning to understand that

this quarrel was a very serious business.

“All right, my lad,” said Mr. Alston quietly, “I will stand by you.”

“Really, I have no right——” began Ernest.

“Nonsense! It is one of our colonial customs to stick by one another.”

“Mr. Justice—”

“Captain Justice,” put in that gentleman, with a bow.

“Captain Justice, my name is Alston. I am very much at your service.”

Captain Justice turned to Hugh Kershaw, whose clothes were dripping

from the water in the gutter, and after whispering with him for a

moment, said aloud, “If I were you, Kershaw, I should go and change

those clothes; you will catch cold.” And then, addressing Mr. Alston,

“I think the smoking-room is empty. Shall we go and have a chat?”

Mr. Alston assented, and they went in together. Ernest followed; but

having lit his pipe, sat down in a far corner of the room. Presently

Mr. Alston called him.

“Look here, Kershaw, this is a serious business, and as you are

principally concerned, I think that you had better give your own

answer. To be brief, your cousin, Mr. Hugh Kershaw, demands that you

should apologise in writing for having struck him.”

“I am willing to do that if he will apologise for the terms he used in

connection with my mother.”

“Ah!” said the gallant Captain, “the young gentleman is coming to

reason.”

“He also demands that you should hand over the note you received from

the lady.”

“That I certainly shall not do,” he answered; and drawing the card from

his pocket, he tore it into fragments, unread.

Captain Justice bowed and left the room. In a few minutes he returned,

and, addressing Mr. Alston and Ernest, said:

“Mr. Kershaw is not satisfied with what you offer to do. He declines to

apologise for any expression that he may have used with reference to

your mother, and he now wishes you to choose between signing an

apology, which I shall dictate, or meeting him to-morrow morning. You

must remember that we are in Guernsey, where you cannot insult a man on

the payment of forty shillings.”

Of course, this view was an entirely incorrect one. Although Guernsey

has a political constitution of its own, many of its laws being based

upon the old Norman-French customs, and judicial proceedings being

carried on in French, &c., it is quite as criminal an act to fight a

duel there as in England, as Captain Justice himself afterwards found

out to his cost. But they none of them knew that.

Ernest felt the blood run to his heart. He understood now what Captain

Justice meant. He answered simply:

“I shall be very happy to meet my cousin in whatever place and way you

and Mr. Alston may agree upon;” and then he returned to his chair, and

gave himself up to the enjoyment of his pipe and an entirely new set of

sensations.

Captain Justice gazed after him pityingly. “I am sorry for him,” he

said to Mr. Alston. “Kershaw is, I believe, a good shot with pistols. I

suppose you will choose pistols. It would be difficult to get swords in

such a hurry. He is a fine young fellow. Took it coolly, by George!

Well, I don’t think that he will trouble the world much longer.”

“This is a silly business, and likely to land us all in a nasty mess.

Is there no way out of it?”

“None that I know of, unless your young friend will eat dirt. He is a

nasty-tempered fellow, Kershaw, and wild about that woman, over whom he

has spent thousands. Nor is he likely to forgive being rolled in the

gutter. You had better get your man to give in, for if you don’t,

Kershaw will kill him.”

“It is no good talking of it. I have lived a rough life, and know what

men are made of. He is not of that sort. Besides, your man is in the

wrong, not that boy. If anybody spoke of my mother like that, I would

shoot him.”

“Very good, Mr. Alston. And now about the pistols; I have none.”

“I have a pair of Smith & Wesson revolvers that I bought yesterday to

take out to Africa with me. They throw a very heavy bullet, Captain

Justice.”

“Too heavy. If one of them is hit anywhere in the body——” He did not

finish the sentence.

Mr. Alston nodded. “We must put them twenty paces apart, to give them a

chance of missing. And now about the place and the time?”

“I know a place on the beach, about a mile and a half from here, that

will do very well. You go down that street till you strike the beach,

then turn to your right, and follow the line of the sea till you come

to a deserted hut or cottage. There we will meet you.”

“At what time?”

“Let me see; shall we say a quarter to five? It will be light enough

for us then.”

“Very good. The Weymouth boat leaves at half-past six. I am going to

see about getting my things ready to go to meet it. I should advise you

to do the same, Captain Justice. We had better not return here after it

is over.”

“No.”

And then they parted.

Luckily the manager of the hotel had not gone to bed; so the various

parties concerned were able to pay their bills, and make arrangements

about their luggage being sent to meet the early boat, without exciting

the slightest suspicion. Ernest wrote a note, and left it to be given

to his friend when he should arrive on the morrow, in which he stated

mysteriously that business had called him away. He could not help

smiling to himself sadly when he thought that his business might be of

a sort that it would take all eternity to settle.

Then he went to his room and wrote two letters, one to Eva and one to

Dorothy. Mr. Alston was to post them if anything happened to him. The

first was of a passionate nature, and breathed hopes of reunion in

another place—ah, how fondly the poor human heart clings to that

idea!—the second collected and sensible enough. The letters finished,

following Mr. Alston’s advice, he undressed and took a bath; then he

said his prayers—the prayers his mother had taught him—put on a quiet

dark suit of clothes, and went and sat by the open window.

The night was very still and fragrant with the sweet strong breath of

the sea. Not a sound came from the quaint old town beneath—all was at

peace. Ernest, sitting there, wondered whether he would live to see

another night, and, if not, what the nights were like in the land

whither he was journeying. And as he thought of it the gray damps that

hide that unrisen world from our gaze struck into his soul and made him

feel afraid. Not afraid of death, but afraid of the empty loneliness

beyond it—of the cold air of an infinite space in which nothing human

can live. Would his mother meet him there, he wondered, or would she

put him from her, coming with blood upon his hands. And then he thought

of Eva, and in his solitude a tear gathered in his dark eyes. It seemed

so hard to go to that other place without her.

CHAPTER XVI.

MADAME’S WORK

Presently the eastern sky began to be barred with rays of light, and

Ernest knew that the dawn was near.

Rising with a sigh, he made his last preparations, inwardly determining

that, if he was to die, he would die in a way befitting an English

gentleman. There should be no sign of his fears on his face when he

looked at his adversary’s pistol.

Presently there came a soft knock at the door, and Mr. Alston entered

with his shoes off. In his hand he held a case containing the two Smith

& Wessons.

“We must be off presently,” he said. “I just heard Captain Justice go

down. Look here, Kershaw, do you understand anything about these?” and

he tapped the Smith & Wessons.

“Yes; I have often practised with a pair of old duelling-pistols at

home. I used to be a very fair shot with them.”

“That is lucky. Now take one of these revolvers; I want to give you a

lesson, and accustom you to handle it.”

“No, I will not. It would not be fair on the other man. If I did, and

killed him, I should feel like a murderer.”

“As you like; but I am going to tell you something, and give you a bit

of advice. These revolvers are hair-triggered; I had the scears filed.

When the word is given, bring the barrel of your pistol _down_ till you

get the sight well on to your antagonist somewhere about his chest,

then _press_ the trigger, do not pull it, remember that. If you do as I

tell you, he will never hear the report. Above all, do not lose your

nerve; and don’t be sentimental and fire in the air, or any such

nonsense, for that is a most futile proceeding, morally, and in every

other way. Mark my words, if you do not kill him, he will kill you. He

intends to kill you, and you are in the right. Now we must be going.

Your luggage is in the hall, is it not?”

“All except this bag.”

“Very good; bring it down with you. My boy will bring it to the boat

with my own. If you are not hit, you will do well to get out of this as

soon as possible. I mean to make for Southampton as straight as I can.

There is a vessel sailing for South Africa on Friday morning; I shall

embark in her. We will settle what you are to do afterwards.”

“Yes,” said Ernest, with a smile, “there is no need to talk of that at

present.”

Five minutes afterwards they met in the hall, and slipped quietly out

through the door that always stood open all night for the accommodation

of visitors addicted to late hours. Following the street that Captain

Justice had pointed out, they descended to the beach, and, turning to

the right, walked along it leisurely. The early morning air was very

sweet, and all nature smiled dimly upon them as they went, for the sun

was not yet up; but at that moment Ernest did not think much of the

beauty of the morning. It all seemed like a frightful dream. At last

they came to the deserted hut, looming large in the gray mist. By it

stood two figures.

“They are there already,” said Mr. Alston.

As they approached the two figures lifted their hats, a compliment

which they returned. Then Mr. Alston went to Captain Justice, and fell

into conversation with him, and together they paced off a certain

distance on the sand, marking its limits with their walking-sticks.

Ernest noticed that it was about the length of a short cricket-pitch.

“Shall we place them?” he heard Captain Justice say.

“Not just yet,” was the reply; “there is barely light enough.”

“Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Alston presently, “I have prepared in

duplicate a paper setting forth as fairly as I can the circumstances

under which this unhappy affair has come about. I propose to read it to

you, and to ask you all to sign it, as a protection to—to us all. I

have brought a pen and a pocket ink-pot with me for that purpose.”

Nobody objected, so he read the paper. It was short, concise, and just,

and they all signed it as it stood. Ernest’s hand shook a good deal as

he did so.

“Come, that won’t do,” said Mr. Alston, encouragingly, as he pocketed

one copy of the document after handing the other to Captain Justice.

“Shake yourself together, man!”

But for all his brave words he looked the more nervous of the two.

“I wish to say,” began Ernest, addressing himself to all the other

three, “that this quarrel is none of my seeking. I could not in honour

give up the note the lady wrote to me. But I feel that this is a

dreadful business; and if you,” addressing his cousin, “are ready to

apologise for what you said about my mother, I am ready to do the same

for attacking you.”

Mr. Hugh Kershaw smiled bitterly, and, turning, said something to his

second. Ernest caught the words “white feather.”

“Mr. Hugh Kershaw refuses to offer any apology; he expects one,” was

Captain Justice’s ready answer.

“Then if any blood is shed, on his head be it!” said Mr. Alston

solemnly. “Come, let us get it over.”

Each took his man and placed him by one of the sticks, and then handed

him a revolver.

“Stand sideways, and remember what I told you,” whispered Mr. Alston.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?” asked Captain Justice presently.

There was no answer; but Ernest felt his heart stand still, and a mist

gathered before his eyes. At that moment he heard a lark rise into the

air near him and begin to sing. Unless he could get his sight back he

felt that he was lost.

“_One!_” The mist cleared away from his eyes; he saw his adversary’s

pistol-barrel pointing steadily at him.

“_Two!_” A ray broke from the rising sun, and caught a crystal pin Hugh

Kershaw incautiously wore. Instinctively Ernest remembered Mr. Alston’s

advice, and lowered the sight of his long barrel till it was dead on

the crystal pin. Curiously enough, it reminded him at the moment of the

eyes in the witch’s head at Dum’s Ness. His vital forces rose to the

emergency, and his arm grew as steady as a rock. Then came a pause that

seemed hours long.

“_Three!_” There was a double report, and Ernest became aware of a

commotion in his hair. Hugh Kershaw flung up his arms wildly, sprang a

few inches off the ground, and fell backwards. Great God, it was over!

[Illustration: “Hugh Kershaw flung up his arms, wildly.”]

Ernest staggered a moment from the reaction, and then ran with the

others towards his cousin—nay, towards what had been his cousin. He was

lying on his back upon the sand, his wide-opened eyes staring up at the

blue sky, as though to trace the flight of the spirit, his arms

extended. The heavy revolver-ball had struck near the crystal pin, and

then passed upwards through the throat and out at the base of the head,

shattering the spinal column.

“He is dead,” said Captain Justice, solemnly.

Ernest wrung his hands.

“I have killed him,” he said—“I have killed my own cousin!”

“Young man,” said Mr. Alston, “do not stand there wringing your hands,

but thank Providence for your own escape. He was very near killing you,

let me tell you. Is your head cut?”

Instinctively Ernest took off his hat, and as he did so some fragments

of his curly hair fell to the ground. There was a neat hole through the

felt, and a neat groove along his thick hair. His cousin had meant to

kill him; and he was a good shot—so good that he thought that he could

put a ball through Ernest’s head. But he forgot that a heavy American

revolver, with forty grains of powder behind the ball, is apt to throw

a trifle high.

And then they all stood silent and looked at the body; and the lark,

that had been frightened by the noise, began to sing again.

“This will not do,” said Mr. Alston presently. “We had better move the

body in there,” and he pointed to the deserted hut. “Captain Justice,

what do you intend to do?”

“Give myself up to the authorities, I suppose,” was the gallant

Captain’s scared answer.

“Very well. I don’t advise you to do that, but if you are determined

to, there is no need for you to be in a hurry about it. You must give

us time to get clear first.”

They lifted the corpse, reverently bore it into the deserted hut, and

laid it on the floor. Ernest remained standing looking at the red stain

where it had been. Presently they came out again, and Mr. Alston kicked

some sand over the stain and hid it.

“Now,” he said, “we had better make an addition to those documents, to

say how this came about.”

They all went back to the hut, and the addition was made, standing

there by the body. When it came to Ernest’s turn to sign, he almost

wished that his signature was the one missing from the foot of that

ghastly post-scriptum. Mr. Alston guessed his thoughts.

“The fortune of war,” he said, coolly. “Now, Captain Justice, we are

going to catch the early boat, and we hope that you will not give

yourself up before midday, if you can help it. The inquiry into the

affair will not then be held before to-morrow; and by eleven to-morrow

morning I hope to have seen the last of England for some years to

come.”

The Captain was a good fellow at bottom, and had no wish to see others

dragged into trouble.

“I shall certainly give myself up,” he said; “but I don’t see any

reason to hurry about it. I don’t think that they can do much to me

here. Poor Hugh! he can well afford to wait,” he added, with a sigh,

glancing down at the figure that lay so still, with a coat thrown over

the face. “I suppose that they will lock me up for six months—pleasant

prospect! But I say, Mr. Kershaw, you had better keep clear; it will be

more awkward for you. You see, he was your cousin, and by his death you

become, unless I am mistaken, next heir to the title.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Ernest, vaguely.

Here it may be stated that Captain Justice found himself sadly

mistaken. Instead of the six months he expected, he was arraigned for

murder, and finally sentenced to a term of penal servitude. He received

a pardon, however, after serving about a year of his time.

“Come, we must be off,” said Mr. Alston, “or we shall be late for the

boat;” and, bowing to Captain Justice, he left the hut.

Ernest followed his example, and, when he had gone a few yards, glanced

round at the hateful spot. There stood Captain Justice in the doorway

of the hut, looking much depressed, and there, a few yards to the left,

was the impress in the sand that marked where his cousin had fallen. He

never saw either the man or the place again.

“Kershaw,” said Mr. Alston, “what do you propose doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you must think; remember you are in an awkward fix. You know by

English law duelling is murder; and now I come to think of it, I expect

that this place is subject to the English law in criminal matters, or

at least that the law is identical.”

“I think I had better give myself up, like Captain Justice.”

“Nonsense. You must hide away somewhere for a year or two till the row

blows over.”

“Where am I to hide?”

“Have you any money, or can you get any?”

“Yes, I have nearly two hundred and fifty pounds on me now.”

“My word, that is fortunate! Well, now, what I have to suggest is, that

you should assume a false name, and sail for South Africa with me. I am

going up-country on a shooting expedition, outside British territory,

so there will be little fear of your being caught and extradited. Then,

in a year or so, when the affair is forgotten, you can come back to

England. What do you say to that?”

“I suppose I may as well go there as anywhere else. I shall be a marked

man all my life, anyhow. What does it matter where I go?”

“Ah, you are down on your luck now; by-and-by you will cheer up again.”

Just then they met a fisherman, who gazed at them, wondering what the

two gentlemen were doing out walking at that hour; but concluding that,

after the mad fashion of Englishmen, they had been to bathe, he passed

them with a civil “Bonjour.” Ernest coloured to the eyes under the

scrutiny; he was beginning to feel the dreadful burden of his secret.

Presently they reached the steamer, and found Mr. Alston’s little boy

Roger, who, though he was only nine years old, was as quick and

self-reliant as many English lads of fourteen, waiting for them by the

bridge.

“O, here you are, father; you have been walking so long that I thought

you would miss the boat. I have brought the luggage down all right, and

this gentleman’s too.”

“That’s right, my lad. Kershaw, do you go and take the tickets; I want

to get rid of this;” and he tapped the revolver-case, that was

concealed beneath his coat.

Ernest did so, and presently met Mr. Alston on the boat. A few minutes

more and, to his intense relief, she cast off and stood out to sea.

There were not very many passengers on board, and those there were,

were too much taken up in making preparations to be sea-sick to take

any notice of Ernest. And yet he could not shake himself free from the

idea that everybody knew that he had just killed a man. His own

self-consciousness was so intense that he saw his guilt reflected on

the faces of all he met. He gazed around him in awe, expecting every

moment to be greeted as a murderer. Most people who have ever done

anything they should not are acquainted with this sensation. Overcome

with this idea, he took refuge in his berth, nor did he emerge

therefrom till the boat reached Weymouth. There both he and Mr. Alston

bought some rough clothes, and, to a great extent, succeeded in

disguising themselves; then made their way across country to

Southampton in the same trains, but in separate compartments. Reaching

Southampton without let or hindrance, they agreed to take passages in

the Union Company’s R.M.S. _Moor,_ sailing on the following morning.

Mr. Alston obtained a list of the passengers; fortunately, there was

nobody among them whom he knew. For greater security, however, they

took steerage passages, and booked themselves under assumed names.

Ernest took his second Christian name, and figured on the passenger

list as E. Beyton, while Mr. Alston and his boy assumed the name of

James. They took their passages at different times, and feigned to be

unknown to each other. These precautions they found to be doubly

necessary, inasmuch as at Southampton Mr. Alston managed to get hold of

a book on English criminal law, from which it appeared that the fact of

the duel having been fought at Guernsey did not in the least clear them

from the legal consequences of the act, as they had vaguely supposed

would be the case, on the insufficient authority of Captain Justice’s

statement.

At last the vessel sailed, and it was with a sigh of relief that Ernest

saw his native shores fade from view. As they disappeared, a

fellow-passenger, valet to a gentleman going to the Cape for his

health, politely offered him a paper to read. It was the _Standard_ of

that day’s date. He took it and glanced at the foreign intelligence.

The first thing that caught his eye was the following paragraph, headed

“A Fatal Duel”:

“The town of St. Peter’s in Guernsey has been thrown into a state of

consternation by the discovery of the body of an English gentleman, who

was this morning shot dead in a duel. Captain Justice, of the ——

Hussars, who was the unfortunate gentleman’s second, has surrendered

himself to the authorities. The other parties, who are at present

unknown, have absconded. It is said that they have been traced to

Weymouth; but there all trace of them has been lost. The cause of the

duel is unknown, and in the present state of excitement it is difficult

to obtain authentic information.”

By the pilot who left the vessel Ernest despatched two letters, one to

Eva Ceswick, and the other—which contained a copy of the memoranda

drawn up before and after the duel, and attested by Mr. Alston—to his

uncle. To both he told the story of his misfortune, fully and fairly,

imploring the former not to forget him and to wait for happier times,

and asking the forgiveness of the latter for the trouble that he had

brought upon himself and all belonging to him. Should they wish to

write to him, he gave his address as Ernest Beyton, Post-office,

Maritzburg.

The pilot-boat hoisted her brown sail with a huge white P. upon it and

vanished into the night; and Ernest, feeling that he was a ruined man,

and with the stain of blood upon his hands, crept to his bunk and wept

like a child.

Yesterday he had been loved, prosperous, happy, with a bright career

before him. To-day he was a nameless outcast, departing into exile, and

his young life shadowed by a cloud in which he could see no break.

Well might he weep; it was a hard lesson.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

MY POOR EVA

Two days after the pilot-boat, flitting away from the vessel’s side

like some silent-flighted bird, had vanished into the night, Florence

Ceswick happened to be walking past the village post-office on her way

to pay a visit to Dorothy, when it struck her that the afternoon post

must be in, and that she might as well ask if there were any letters

for Dum’s Ness. There was no second delivery at Kesterwick, and she

knew that it was not always convenient to Mr. Cardus to send in. The

civil old postmaster gave her a little bundle of letters, remarking at

the same time that he thought that there was one for the Cottage.

“Is it for me, Mr. Brown?” asked Florence.

“No, miss; it is for Miss Eva.”

“O, then I will leave it; I am going up to Dum’s Ness. No doubt Miss

Eva will call.”

She knew that Eva watched the arrival of the posts very carefully. When

she got outside the office she glanced at the bundle of letters in her

hand, and noticed with a start that one of them, addressed to Mr.

Cardus, was in Ernest’s handwriting. It bore a Southampton post-mark.

What, she wondered, could he be doing at Southampton? He should have

been in Guernsey.

She walked on briskly to Dum’s Ness, and on her arrival found Dorothy

sitting working in the sitting-room. After she had greeted her she

handed over the letters.

“There is one from Ernest,” she said.

“O, I am so glad!” answered Dorothy. “Who is it for?”

“For Mr. Cardus. O, here he comes.”

Mr. Cardus shook hands with her, and thanked her for bringing the

letters, which he turned over casually, after the fashion of a man

accustomed to receive large quantities of correspondence of an

uninteresting nature. Presently his manner quickened, and he opened

Ernest’s letter. Florence fixed her keen eyes upon him. He read the

letter; she read his face.

Mr. Cardus was accustomed to conceal his emotions, but on this occasion

it was clear that they were too strong for him. Astonishment and grief

pursued each other across his features as he proceeded. Finally he put

the letter down and glanced at an enclosure.

“What is it, Reginald, what is it?” asked Dorothy.

“It is,” answered Mr. Cardus solemnly, “that Ernest is a murderer and a

fugitive.”

Dorothy sank into a chair with a groan, and covered her face with her

hands. Florence turned ashy pale.

“What do you mean?” she said.

“Read the letter for yourself, and see. Stop, read it aloud, and the

enclosure too. I may have misunderstood.”

Florence did so in a quiet voice. It was wonderful how her power came

out in contrast to the intense disturbance of the other two. The old

man of the world shook like a leaf, the young girl stood firm as a

rock. Yet, in all probability, her interest in Ernest was more intense

than his.

When she had finished, Mr. Cardus spoke again.

“You see,” he said, “I was right. He is a murderer and an outcast. And

I loved the boy, I loved him. Well, let him go.”

“O Ernest, Ernest!” sobbed Dorothy.

Florence glanced from one to the other with contempt.

“What are you talking about?” she said at last. “What is there to make

all this fuss about? ‘Murderer,’ indeed! Then our grandfathers were

often murderers. What would you have had him do? Would you have had him

give up the woman’s letter to save himself? Would you have had him put

up with this other man’s insults about his mother? If he had, I would

never have spoken to him again. Stop that groaning, Dorothy. You should

be proud of him; he behaved as a gentleman should. If I had the right I

should be proud of him;” and her breast heaved and the proud lips

curled as she said it.

Mr. Cardus listened attentively, and it was evident that her enthusiasm

moved him.

“There is something in what Florence says,” he broke in. “I should not

have liked the boy to show the white feather. But it is an awful

business to kill one’s own first cousin, especially when one is next in

the entail. Old Kershaw will be furious at losing his only son, and

Ernest will never be able to come back to this country while he lives,

or he will set the law on him.”

“It is dreadful!” said Dorothy; “just as he was beginning life, and

going into a profession, and now to have to go and wander in that

far-off country under a false name!”

“O yes, it is sad enough,” said Mr. Cardus; “but what is done cannot be

undone. He is young, and will live it down, and if the worst comes to

the worst, must make himself a home out there. But it is hard upon me,

hard upon me;” and he went off to his office, muttering, “hard upon

me.”

When Florence started upon her homeward way, the afternoon had set in

wet and chilly, and the sea was hidden in wreaths of gray mist.

Altogether the scene was depressing. On arrival at the Cottage she

found Eva standing, the picture of melancholy, by the window, and

staring out at the misty sea.

“O Florence, I am glad that you have come home; I really began to feel

inclined to commit suicide.”

“Indeed! and may I ask why?”

“I don’t know; the rain is so depressing, I suppose.”

“It does not depress me.”

“No, nothing ever does; you live in the land of perpetual calm.”

“I take exercise, and keep my liver in good order. Have you been out

this afternoon?”

“No.”

“Ah, I thought not. No wonder you feel depressed, staying indoors all

day. Why don’t you go for a walk?”

“There is nowhere to go.”

“Really, Eva, I don’t know what has come to you lately, why don’t you

go along the cliff, or stop—have you been to the post-office? I called

for the Dum’s Ness letters, and Mr. Brown said that there was one for

you.”

Eva jumped up with remarkable animation, and passed out of the room

with her peculiar light tread. The mention of that word “letter” had

sufficed to change the aspect of things considerably.

Florence watched her go with a dark little smile.

“Ah,” she said aloud, as the door closed, “your feet will soon fall

heavily enough.”

Presently Eva went out, and Florence, having thrown off her cloak, took

her sister’s place at the window and waited. It was seven minutes’ walk

to the post-office. She would be back in about a quarter of an hour.

Watch in hand, Florence waited patiently. Seventeen minutes had elapsed

when the garden-gate was opened, and Eva re-entered, her face quite

gray with pain, and furtively applying a handkerchief to her eyes.

Florence smiled again.

“I thought so,” she said.

From all of which it will be seen that Florence was a very remarkable

woman. She had scarcely exaggerated when she said that her heart was as

deep as the sea. The love that she bore Ernest was the strongest thing

in all her strong and vigorous life; when every other characteristic

and influence crumbled away and was forgotten, it would still remain

overmastering as ever. And when she discovered that her high love, the

greatest and best part of her, had been made a plaything of by a

thoughtless boy, who kissed girls on the same principle that a duck

takes to water, because it came natural to him, the love in its mortal

agonies gave birth to a hate destined to grow great as itself. But,

with all a woman’s injustice, it was not directed towards the same

object. On Ernest, indeed, she would wreak vengeance if she could, but

she still loved him as dearly as at first; the revenge would be a mere

episode in the history of her passion. But to her sister, the innocent

woman who, she chose to consider, had robbed her, she gave all that

bountiful hate. Herself the more powerful character of the two, she

determined upon the utter destruction of the weaker. Strong as Fate,

and unrelenting as Time, she dedicated her life to that end.

Everything, she said, comes to those who can wait. She forgot that the

Providence above us can wait the longest of us all. In the end it is

Providence that wins.

Eva came in, and Florence heard her make her way up the stairs to her

room. Again she spoke to herself:

“The poor fool will weep over him and renounce him. If she had the

courage she would follow him and comfort him in his trouble, and so tie

him to her for ever. Oh, that I had her chance! But the chances always

come to fools.”

Then she went upstairs and listened outside Eva’s door. She was sobbing

audibly. Turning the handle, she walked casually in.

“Well, Eva, did you—Why, my dear girl, _what_ is the matter with you?”

Eva, who was lying sobbing on her bed, turned her head to the wall and

went on sobbing.

“What _is_ the matter, Eva? If you only knew how absurd you look!”

“No-no-thing!”

“Nonsense! People do not make such scenes as this for nothing.”

No answer.

“Come, my dear, as your affectionate sister, I really must ask what has

happened to you.”

The tone was commanding, and half unconsciously Eva obeyed it.

“Ernest!” she ejaculated.

“Well, what about Ernest? He is nothing to you, is he?”

“No—that is, yes. O, it is so dreadful! It was the letter;” and she

touched a sheet of closely written paper that lay on the bed beside

her.

“Well, as you do not seem to be in a condition to explain yourself,

perhaps you had better let me read the letter.” “O no.”

“Nonsense! Give it me; perhaps I may be able to help you;” and she took

the paper from her unresisting grasp, and, turning her face from the

light, read it deliberately through.

It was very passionate in its terms, and rather incoherent; such a

letter, in short, as a lad almost wild with love and grief would write

under the circumstances.

“So,” said Florence, as she coolly folded it up, “it appears that you

are engaged to him.”

No answer, unless sobs can be said to constitute one. “And it seems

that you are engaged to a man who has just committed a frightful

murder, and run away from the consequences.”

Eva sat up on the bed.

“It was not a murder; it was a duel.”

“Precisely, a duel about another woman; but the law calls it murder. If

he is caught he will be hanged.”

“O Florence! how can you say such dreadful things?”

“I only say what is true. Poor Eva, I do not wonder that you are

distressed.”

“It is all so dreadful!”

“You love him, I suppose?”

“O yes, dearly.”

“Then you must get over it; you must never think of him any more.”

“Never think of him! I shall think of him all my life.”

“That is as it may be. You must never have anything more to do with

him. He has blood upon his hands, blood shed for some bad woman.”

“I cannot desert him, Florence, because he has got into trouble.”

“Over another woman.”

A peculiar expression of pain passed over Eva’s face.

“How cruel you are, Florence! He is only a boy, and boys will go wrong

sometimes. Anybody can make a fool of a boy.”

“And it seems that boys can make fools of some people who should know

better.”

“O Florence, what is to be done? You have such a clear head; tell me

what I must do. I cannot give him up; I cannot indeed.”

Florence seated herself on the bed beside her sister, and put an arm

round her neck and kissed her. Eva was much touched at her kindness.

“My poor Eva,” she said, “I am so sorry for you! But tell me, when did

you get engaged to him—that evening you went out sailing together?”

“Yes.”

“He kissed you, I suppose, and all that?”

“Yes. Oh, I was so happy!”

“My poor Eva!”

“I tell you I cannot give him up.”

“Well, perhaps there will be no need for you to do so. But you must not

answer that letter.”

“Why not?”

“Because it will not do. Look at it which way you will, Ernest has just

killed his own cousin in a quarrel about another woman. It is necessary

that you should mark your disapproval of that in some way or other. Do

not answer his letter. If in time he can wash himself clear of the

reproach, and remains faithful to you, then it will be soon enough to

show that you still care for him.”

“But if I leave him like that, he will fall into the hands of other

women, though he loves me all the time. I know him well; his is not a

nature that can stand alone.”

“Well, let him.”

“But, Florence, you forget I love him, too. I cannot bear to think of

it. O, I love him, I love him!” and she dropped her head upon her

sister’s shoulder and began to sob again.

“My dear, it is just because you do love him so that you should prove

him; and besides, my dear, you have your own self-respect to think of.

Be guided by me, Eva; do not answer that letter; I am sure that you

will regret it if you do. Let matters stand for a few months, then we

can arrange a plan of action. Above all, do not let your engagement

transpire to anybody. There will be a dreadful scandal about this

business, and it will be most unpleasant for you, and, indeed, for us

all, to have our name mixed up in the matter. Hark! there is aunt

coming in. I will go and talk to her; you can stop here and recover

yourself a little. You will follow my advice, will you not, dearest?”

“I suppose so,” answered Eva, with a heavy sigh, as she buried her face

in the pillow.

Then Florence left her.