CHAPTER XVIII.

A SUBTLE ENEMY.

"He never went near the pit of his own free will! He was lured to it

and thrown into it. Or he was first killed, and then cruelly put there

out of the way."

The speaker was Mrs. Bell: who had at last assumed the widow's dress

and cap. Her audience consisted of her daughter Rosaline, the Aunt

Pellet from Falmouth, Blase Pellet, and two or three neighbours. The

aunt and Rosaline had arrived from Falmouth to attend the funeral.

Rosaline, at first, had absolutely refused to come; she "felt afraid,"

she said, with much trembling and many bitter tears; she did not like

to look upon the dead, even though it was her poor father: and she

also felt too ill to travel. But John Pellet and his wife overruled

these objections. They told her it was an "unnatural state of

feeling;" one that might not be indulged: and the aunt, who was coming

to Trennach herself, brought Rosaline with her, partly by persuasion,

partly by force.

Her plea of illness might indeed have been allowed. Thin, white, worn,

with a manner that seemed to be for ever starting at shadows, Rosaline

looked little like the gay and blooming girl once known to Trennach.

Trennach gazed at her with amazed eyes, wondering what Falmouth could

have done to her in that short period, or whether the Seven Whistlers,

which had so startled her at home, could have followed her to that

populous town. Sitting in her mother's kitchen, her back to the light,

her cheek resting on her hand, Rosaline listened in silence to the

conversation, two of the company especially regarding her--Blase

Pellet and Nancy Tomson. Nancy openly avowed that she had never seen

any young woman so changed in her life; while Blase Pellet, though

mentally acknowledging the change, was taking in draughts of her

wondrous beauty.

"No living body of men have queerer fancies than miners, especially

these Cornish miners: and poor Josiah, though he was not Cornish at

all, as we know, had his," pursued Dame Bell, chiefly addressing her

sister, a tall, thin woman, who had arrived fashionably attired in

crape and bombazine, with a veil to her bonnet. Not that she wore her

bonnet now, for this was the next morning, and the day of the funeral.

"Hardly a man about here would venture close up to that shaft at

night: and if you go out and ask them one by one, Sarah, you'll find I

am telling you nothing but truth," pursued the widow. "Since Dan

Sandon threw himself headlong in, and was killed, the men won't go

near it for fear of seeing him. Neither would Bell; and----"

"Perhaps he fell into it accidentally, Ann," interrupted Mrs. Pellet.

"I don't say but he might have done so. If he was at the edge of the

pit, looking down, or anything of that sort, he might have

overbalanced himself. But I do say that he was not there alone. I ask

what took him there at all; and I ask who was with him?"

Pertinent questions. Rosaline, chancing to look up, met the gaze of

Blase Pellet. Each started slightly, and dropped their eyes, as though

to look at one another were a crime.

"Let us put it down as an accident; for argument's sake," urged the

widow. "That he was too close to the pit's mouth, and fell in. It

might have been so. But in that ease, I repeat, he was not alone. At

least one man must have been with him--perhaps more than one. Why did

he, or they, not give the alarm? Why did he not come straight away,

and say, 'Poor Bell has fallen into the shaft, and what's to be done?'

Can any of you answer me that question?"

"It stands to reason that that's what anybody would do," observed Mrs.

Pellet. "But who could have been with him?"

"Not waun o' tha men owns to it," put in Nancy Tomson. "What should

heve taaken 'em up to that there ghashly shaaft at night, they aal

ask; or Bell either?"

"No, not one owns to it; and, as far as I can see, there was nothing

to take them there," assented Mrs. Bell. "Therefore I say it was no

accident. Bell was just carried there, living or dead, and put away

out o' sight."

"What shall you do about it?" asked Mrs. Pellet, in a scared tone.

"What can I do but wait? Wait until some disclosure turns up."

"If it never does turn up."

"But it will turn up," confidently asserted Dame Bell.

"So say I," spoke Nancy Tomson. "When once a thing o' this kind es led

up to by dreams, it won't stop at the beginning. They dreams es

strange indexes sometimes, and Mr. Blase Pellet there didna heve his

for nothing. Without that dream the poor man might just heve laid on

in thaat shaaft as he faalled, and never been found i' this world."

Mr. Blase Pellet, listening to this, shot a glance of intense

aggravation at the speaker. Rosaline looked up at him. It was a steady

gaze this time, and one that betrayed unqualified contempt.

"Was it a very bad dream?" asked his relative from Falmouth, this

being the first opportunity she had had of questioning Blase upon the

subject.

"Bad enough," shortly replied Pellet; and, with the words, he made a

sudden détour to the front-door, and took up his standing outside in

the sunshine.

The movement led to a general dispersion. Nancy Tomson and the other

neighbours departed; Mrs. Pellet went upstairs; Dame Bell passed into

the back-kitchen to see about their own and her lodgers' dinner: for

the ordinary day's work must go on even on the saddest occasions; and

Rosaline remained in the room alone.

"I am very sorry I had that dream."

Lifting her eyes, Rosaline saw the speaker beside her--Blase Pellet.

"So am I," she shortly answered, in a significant way, that certainly

gave him no encouragement to proceed.

"And still more sorry that I spoke of it abroad, Rosaline: for I see

that it is giving you pain."

"Pain!" she ejaculated, a whole world of anguish in her tone: ay, and

of resentment also.

"But it shall be the endeavour of my life to atone to you for it,

Rosaline. My best care, my truest love, shall be devoted to you. Daily

and hourly----"

"Be quiet, Blase," she interrupted, the flash in her eye, the hot

flush upon her cheek, rendering her for the moment almost more than

beautiful. "We will understand one another at once, and finally. To

talk of such a thing as 'love,' or 'care,' to me is worse than

useless. My path lies one way, your path lies another: it will not be

my fault if they ever cross each other again."

"You do not mean this," he said, after a pause.

"I do mean it. I used to mean it: as you know. I shall mean it

always."

"Have you heard that Raynor is married?" asked Blase.

"Yes," she answered in constrained tones, her flushed cheek fading to

whiteness.

"Then, perhaps, as he is out of our way, you will think of me,

Rosaline. If not now----"

"Neither now nor ever, Blase. Do not deceive yourself."

With a quick movement, she evaded his outstretched hand that would

have sought to detain her, and ran up the stairs. Leaving Mr. Blase

Pellet excessively discomfited: but not as much so as a less hopeful

swain would have been.

"It was a little too soon to speak," reasoned he with himself: "I must

wait a while."

Of all the scenes connected with Bell's disappearance and his

recovery, none caused more excitement than that of the funeral. It was

fixed for a late hour--six o'clock in the afternoon. This was to

enable the pitmen to be present. The Reverend Titus Backup made no

sort of objection to it. Had they settled it for midnight, he had been

equally agreeable. The hour for the interment came, and people flocked

to it from far and near. Not only did the local miners attend, but

also gangs of men from more distant mines. Mr. Backup had never seen

such a crowd in his life. Near the grave a small space was left for

Mrs. Bell and the other mourners; but in the churchyard and adjacent

parts; including a portion of the Bare Plain, the spectators thronged.

Rosaline was not there. Blase was. In right of his relationship to the

Pellets of Falmouth, Blase had been invited to the funeral; and made

one of the mourners, with a flow of crape to his hat. Whether Rosaline

had meant to make one also did not clearly appear, though no one

thought of doubting it; but just before the time of starting, she was

seized with a fainting-fit: not quite losing consciousness, but lying

back powerless in her chair, and looking white as death. Nancy Tomson,

who was to be of the procession, was the first to recognize the

dilemma it placed them in.

"Whaat es to be done?" she cried. "It willna never do to keep _him_,

and the paarson, and they folks waiting; but she caan't walk like

thic!"

"Him" applied to poor Bell. At least, to what remained of him. For the

convenience of the inquest and other matters, he had been placed in a

shelter bordering the Bare Plain, partly room, partly shed, when first

brought up from the pit, and had not been removed from it. It was

there that the mourners would meet the coffin and attend it to the

church.

"True," put in Mrs. Trim; who had deemed it neighbourly to look in

upon the widow Bell at this sorrowful hour and see what was to be

seen. "They funerals don't waait for nobody: specially when they heve

been put off aalmost to sunset."

"No; it will not do to keep it waiting," breathed Rosaline, with weak

and trembling lips. "Do you go on; all of you. I will follow if I am

able, and catch you up."

Nancy Tomson feebly offered to remain with her, seeing that good

feeling demanded as much consideration, but she did not at all mean

the offer to be accepted, for she would not have missed the ceremony

for the world. It was not every day she had the chance of filling a

conspicuous position at a funeral; and such a funeral as this.

Rosaline promptly declined her company, saying she felt much better

now, and preferred to come after them alone.

So the mourners departed, followed at a respectful distance by many

neighbours and others, who had collected to watch and wait for their

exit. The chief crowd had gathered about that other building, for

which these were making their way. Men, women and children, all went

tramping towards it across the Plain: and in a few minutes Bleak Row

was as absolutely deserted as though it were a city of the dead.

Rosaline slowly rose from her seat, dragged her chair outside, and sat

down in the evening sunshine. Thankful was she to be alone. No eye was

on her. The houses were empty; the Bare Plain, stretching out around

and beyond, lay silent and still, save for that moving mass of human

beings, pressing farther and farther away in the distance. The open

air seemed necessary to her if she would continue to breathe. When

somewhat more composed, she put up her hands in the attitude of

prayer, bent forward till her forehead touched them, and sat with her

eyes closed.

A Prayer-book lay on her knee. She had brought it out, intending to

follow the service, soon about to begin. But she could not do so.

There she sat, never once moving her attitude, scattered passages of

the service recurring now and again to her memory, and ascending to

heaven from the depths of her anguished heart. Poor Rosaline Bell!

There were moist eyes and wrung feelings amidst those mourners

standing round the grave, but none of them could know anything of the

desperate distress that was _her_ portion. None, none.

But now, it was perhaps a somewhat singular coincidence that just as

Frank Raynor had come unexpectedly upon that excited throng, collected

round the Bottomless Shaft on the Bare Plain, a few nights before his

departure for London, so he should in like manner come quite as

unexpectedly upon this throng, gathered at Bell's funeral. The one had

not surprised him more than the other did. He had been just a

fortnight absent in London; this was the day of his return, and he was

now walking home from the station. All the excitement consequent upon

the finding of Bell had taken place during these two weeks of Frank's

absence. There had been commotion (the result of Blase Pellet's

"dream") before his departure, with much talking and surmising; but

all movement in the matter had taken place since then.

In a letter written to him by Edina, Frank had learnt that Bell was

found. But he learnt nothing more. And he certainly had not

anticipated coming upon the funeral, and this concourse of people

collected at it, as he passed the churchyard on his way from the

station to his uncle's, on this, the evening of his return.

Before he knew what it all meant, or could quite make out whether his

eyes were not playing him false, he found himself accosted by the

clerk's wife. Mrs. Trim, seeing his surprise, told all she knew,

intensely gratified by the favourable opportunity, and a good deal

that she did not know. Frank listened in silence.

"Yes, sir, he was found there, down deep in the pit shaaft, and they

jurymen never brought et in waun way nor t'other, whether he was

throwed down wilful, or faaled in accidental, but just left folks to

fight out the question for their own selves. It were a dreadful thing

for him, anyway, poor man; to heve been lying there aal thic while.

"I never saw so many people at a funeral in my life," observed Frank,

making no special comment on her words.

He mechanically moved a step and looked over the hedge that skirted

the graveyard. Mrs. Trim continued her information and remarks:

detailing the mourners by name, and stating that Rosaline was seized

with a faintness when they were starting, and so remained at home

alone.

"Alone!" cried Frank.

"Aal alone, entirely," repeated Mrs. Trim. "Every soul from aal parts

es here, Mr. Frank; as you may see. She said perhaps she'd follow ef

she felt equal to't; but she's not come. She and her aunt talks o'

going back to Falmouth to-morrow; but the widow, poor thing, es

against it. Thaat's the aunt, sir: that tall thin woman."

Frank Raynor rapidly debated a question with himself. He very much

wished to say a few words to Rosaline in private: what if he seized

this occasion for doing so? If she were indeed going away on the

morrow, he might find no other opportunity. Yes: at any rate he would

make the attempt.

Turning somewhat abruptly from the clerk's wife, in the very middle of

a sentence, Frank made a détour on the outskirts of the crowd, and

strode rapidly away over the Bare Plain. Rosaline was sitting just in

the same position, her head bowed, her hands raised. His footsteps

aroused her.

Respecting her grief as he had never respected any grief yet, feeling

for her (and for many other things connected with the trouble) from

the bottom of his heart, uncertain and fearful of what the ultimate

end would be, Frank took her hand in silence. She gazed up at him

yearningly, almost as though she did not at once recognize him, a

pitiful expression on her face. For a short time he did not speak a

word. But that which he had come to say must be said, and without

delay: for already the ceremony had terminated, and the procession of

mourners, with the attendant crowd, might be seen slowly advancing

towards them across the Bare Plain.

"It has almost killed me," moaned Rosaline. "I should be thankful that

he is found, but for the fear of what may follow: thankful that he has

had Christian burial. But there can be no more safety now. There was

not very much before."

"Nay," spoke Frank. "I think it is just the contrary. Whilst the

affair lay in uncertainty, it might be stirred up at any moment: now

it will be at rest."

"Never," she answered. "Never so long as Blase Pellet lives. He has

brought this much about; and he may bring more. Oh, if we could only

escape from him!"

Frank, still holding her hand, in his deep compassion, spoke to her

quietly and kindly for a few moments. She seemed to listen as one who

hears not, as one whom words cannot reach or soothe; her eyes were

fixed on the ground, her other hand hung listless by her side. But

now the first faint hum of the approaching crowd struck upon her

half-dulled ear; she raised her eyes and saw for the first time what

caused it. First in the line walked her mother and aunt, their black

robes and hoods lighted up by the setting sun. And as if the sight of

those mourning garments put the finishing touch to her already

distracted mind and conveyed to it some sudden terror, Rosaline gave a

faint scream and fell into a fit of hysterics, almost of convulsions.

Frank could not leave her, even to dash indoors for water. He put his

arm round her to support her.

"Whaat on airth es it, sir?" demanded Nancy Tomson, who was the first

to speak when the group of hooded women came up.

"It is only an attack of hysterics, brought on by the sight of your

approach," said Frank. "It is a sad day for her, you know; and she

does not seem very strong. Will you be so good as to get some water."

"I thought it must be your ghost, Mr. Frank," spoke poor Mrs. Bell, in

her subdued tones, as she put back her hood. "Believing you were in

London----"

"I am back again," he shortly interrupted. "Seeing your daughter

sitting here, I turned aside to speak a word of sympathy to her."

The hysterics subsided as quickly as they had come on; and Rosaline,

declining the water, rose and passed into the house. The women pressed

in after her, leaving Blase Pellet outside. As to the crowd of

voluntary attendants, they had already slackened their steps in the

distance, and seemed uncertain what next to do: whether to disperse

their various roads, or to remain talking with one another, and

watching the house.

This virtually left Frank and Blase Pellet alone. Blase took off his

tall Sunday hat, and rubbed his brow with his white handkerchief, as

though the heavy hat and the burning sun had left an unpleasant

sensation of heat there. It was, however, neither the hat nor the sun

that had put him into that access of warmth; it was the sight of Frank

Raynor. Of Frank Raynor holding Rosaline's hand in his, holding

herself, in fact, and bending over her with what looked like an

impulse of affection.

A most disagreeable idea had flashed into Mr. Pellet's head. A dim,

indistinct idea, it is true, but none the less entertained. Married

man though Frank Raynor was, as the world of Trennach knew, he might

not have given up his love for Rosaline! He might be intending to keep

that sentiment on; keep her to himself, in short, to laugh and chatter

with whenever they should meet, to the destruction of other people's

hopes, including those of Blase Pellet. And Blase, in the plenitude of

his wrath, could have struck him to the earth as he stood.

How mistaken people can be! How wildly absurd does jealousy make them!

Nothing could be further from the thoughts of Frank Raynor: he was at

honest peace with all the world, most certainly intending no harm to

Rosaline, or to any one else. At peace even with that unit in it,

Blase Pellet: and in the plenitude of his good-nature he addressed him

cordially.

"You have made one of the followers of poor Bell, I see. The affair is

altogether a sad one."

"Yes, it is," replied Blase Pellet. "We have been putting him into his

grave; and matters, so far, are hushed up. But I don't say they are

hushed for good. I could hang some people to-morrow, if I liked."

The intense bitterness of his tone, the steady gaze of his meaning

eyes, proved that this man might yet become a subtle enemy. Frank's

courage fell.

"What do you mean?" he asked. But for the very life of him he could

not make his voice quite so free and independent as usual.

"It does not matter saying now what I mean, Mr. Raynor. Perhaps I

never shall say it. I would rather not: and it won't be my fault if I

do. _You keep out of my way_, and out of somebody else's way, and I

dare say I shall be still, and forget it. Out of sight, out of mind,

you know, sir."

Frank, deigning no reply, turned into the house to see if there was

anything he could do for Rosaline. And then he walked away rapidly

towards Trennach.

Mrs. St. Clare had not yet returned to the Mount, but she was expected

daily. Frank had received three or four letters from Daisy, re-posted

to him in London by Edina, but not one of the letters had he been able

to answer in return. They were going about from place to place in

obedience to Lydia's whims, Daisy said, and it was simply impossible

to give any certain address where a letter would find her. Every day

for a week past had her mother announced her intention of turning her

steps homeward on the morrow: and every morrow, as it dawned, had her

steps been turned to some fresh place instead.

But Frank was now in a fever of impatience for their return. The

legacy of five hundred pounds was ready to be paid him, and he meant

to take Daisy away on the strength of it. He had no settled plans as

yet: these had been delayed by the uncertainty attending the larger

sum promised him; the three thousand pounds. It is true that Frank had

made inquiries in London; had seen two old-established medical men who

were thinking of taking a partner. But each of them wanted a good sum

paid down as equivalent; and neither of them seemed to be so sanguine

on the score of Frank's coming into the three thousand pounds as he

himself was. With his usual candour, he had disclosed the full

particulars of the doubts, as well as of the expectations. So, with

the future still undecided, here he was, at Trennach again: but only

to make preparations for finally leaving it.

With regard to the assistant for Dr. Raynor, he had been more

fortunate, and had secured the services of one whom he judged to be in

every way eligible. It was a Mr. Hatman. This gentleman was coming

down on the morrow. He and Frank were to have travelled together, but

Mr. Hatman could not complete his arrangements quite as soon as he had

expected: and Frank dared not delay even another day, lest Mrs. St.

Clare should return to the Mount. He could not leave Daisy to bear

alone the brunt of the discovery of their marriage. Mr. Hatman was to

have a three-months' trial. At the end of that period, if he were

found to suit the doctor, and the doctor and the place suited him, he

would remain for good.

It was not often that Dr. Raynor found fault or gave blame. But on the

night after Frank's return, when they were shut up alone together, he

took Frank severely to task. Common report had carried the news of the

marriage to him; and he expressed his opinion upon it very freely.

"It was perhaps a hasty thing to do, sir, and was entered upon without

much thought," admitted Frank, after he had listened. "But we did not

care to lose one another."

"Well, I will say no more," returned Dr. Raynor. "The thing cannot be

undone now. There's an old saying, Frank, which is perhaps more often

exemplified than people think for: 'Marry in haste and repent at

leisure.' I wish this case of yours may prove an exception, but I can

scarcely hope it."

"We shall get along all right, Uncle Hugh."

"I trust you may."

"I told Hatman about it--he is a very nice fellow, and you will be

sure to like him, uncle--and he wished me and Daisy good luck. He says

his mother's was a runaway match, and it turned out famously."

On the day but one following; that is, the day after Mr. Hatman's

arrival at Trennach; Mrs. St. Clare and her daughters returned to the

Mount: not reaching it, however, until late at night, for they had

missed the earlier train they had meant to travel by.

Frank went up betimes the next morning. His interview with Mrs. St.

Clare took place alone. She was surprised and indignant at what he had

to disclose--namely, that the marriage ceremony had passed between

himself and her daughter Margaret. But, on the whole, she was more

reasonable than might have been expected.

"I wash my hands of it altogether, Mr. Frank Raynor, of her and of

you, as I said I would--though you may be sure that when I spoke I

never contemplated so extreme a step as this. But that I cannot

disbelieve what, as you say, is so easily proved, I should have

thought it impossible to be true. Daisy has always been docile and

dutiful."

"I will make her the best of husbands; she shall never know an hour's

care with me," spoke Frank earnestly, his truthful blue eyes and the

sincerity of his face expressing more than words could do.

"But what of your means of keeping her?" asked Mrs. St. Clare, coldly.

"By the aid of the three thousand pounds I have mentioned, I shall

obtain a first-class practice in London," returned he in his most

sanguine manner. "I trust you will not despise that position for her.

If I am very successful, I might even some day be made a baronet, and

Daisy would be Lady Raynor.

"A charming prospect!" returned Mrs. St. Clare, in mocking tones, that

rather took Frank and his earnestness aback. "Well, I wash my hands of

you both, Mr. Francis Raynor. As Daisy has made her bed so must she

lie on it."

Daisy was summoned to the conference. She came in with timid steps;

and stood, tearful and trembling, in her pretty morning dress of pale

muslin. It chanced to be the one she was married in. Frank Raynor drew

her arm within his, and stood with her.

"You may well shrink from me, unhappy girl!" cried Mrs. St. Clare.

"What have you done with your wedding-ring?"

With trembling hands, Daisy produced it, attached to its blue ribbon.

Frank took it from her, broke the ribbon, and placed the ring on its

proper finger.

"Never again to be taken off, my dear," he said. "Our troubles are

over."

She was to be allowed to remain at the Mount until the

afternoon--which Mrs. St. Clare called a great concession--and then

she and Frank would start on the first stage of their journey. Daisy

might take a box of apparel with her; the rest should be forwarded to

any address she might choose to give.

Back went Frank again to Dr. Raynor's to prepare for his own

departure. Very busy was he that day. Now talking with his uncle, now

with Edina, now with Mr. Hatman; and now running about Trennach to

shake hands with all the world in his sunny-natured way. A hundred

good wishes were breathed by him. Even to Blase Pellet Frank gave a

kindly word and nod at parting.

It was late in the afternoon when he, in a close carriage provided for

the occasion, went up to the Mount for Daisy. She was ready, and came

out, attended to the door by Tabitha: Mrs. St. Clare and Lydia did not

appear. Thence she and Frank drove to the station: and found they had

five minutes to spare.

Frank had been seeing to the luggage, when Daisy came out of the

waiting-room to meet him. It was one of those small stations that

contain only one waiting-room for all classes.

"There's the most beautiful girl that I ever saw sitting inside,

Frank," she said in an undertone.

"Is there?" he carelessly remarked.

"I could not keep my eyes from her, she is so lovely. But she looks

very ill."

They turned into the waiting-room together. And, to Daisy's extreme

surprise, she, the next moment, saw Frank go up and speak to this

girl; who was sitting there with an elderly companion, both in deep

mourning. Daisy, her gaze fixed on the beautiful face, wondered who

they could be.

But there was no further time for waiting. The train came puffing in,

and all was bustle. Daisy saw Frank again shake hands cordially with

this delicate-looking girl, and whisper a few farewell words to her.

She was evidently not departing by this train: probably by one going

in the opposite direction.

"Who was it, Frank?" questioned Daisy, when they were at length seated

in the carriage.

"It is Rosaline Bell. She and her aunt are going back to Falmouth."

"_That_ Rosaline Bell!" exclaimed Daisy, her face flushing deeply.

"I--I--did not know she was so beautiful."

PART THE SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

AT EAGLES' NEST.

In a luxurious chamber at Eagles' Nest, where the carpet was soft as

moss to the tread, and the hangings were of silk, and the toilette

ornaments were rich and fragile, sat Edina Raynor. Her elbow rested on

the arm of the chair, her thoughtful face was bent on her hand, her

eyes were taking in the general aspect of the room and its costly

appurtenances.

It was autumn weather now, and Edina had come on a short visit to

Eagles' Nest. She had wished to put off the visit until the following

spring, but had yielded to persuasion. One or other of them at Eagles'

Nest was perpetually writing to her; and at last Dr. Raynor added his

word to theirs. "There is no reason why you should not go, Edina," he

said. "Hatman and I get on famously together, you know; and I am

better than I was." And so Edina had made the long journey; and--here

she was.

Not yet had she been two days at Eagles' Nest; but in that short time

she had found much to grieve her. Grieved she was, and full of

anxiety. Every one of the family, from her uncle Francis and Mrs.

Raynor downwards, had greatly changed. From the simple, unaffected

people they had once been, they had transformed themselves into great

personages with airs and assumptions. That was not the worst. That

might have been left to find its own level in time: they would no

doubt have returned to common sense. What pained Edina was the rate at

which they lived. Carriages, horses, servants; dinners, dressing,

gaiety. Where could it all end? Had the revenues of Eagles' Nest been

twice what they were, the major would still have been spending more

than his income. It was this that troubled Edina.

And something else troubled her. The _tone_ of their mind seemed to be

changing: not so much that of Major and Mrs. Raynor, as of the

children. Speaking, of course, chiefly of the elder ones. Formerly

they were warm-hearted, unassuming, full of sympathy for others. Now

all thought seemed to be swallowed up in self; those who wanted help,

whether in word or kind, might go where they would for it: selfishness

reigned supreme. A latent dread was making itself heard in Edina's

heart, that they were being spoiled by sudden prosperity. As many

others have been.

The first day she arrived, dinner was served at seven o'clock; a very

elaborate one. Soup, fish, entrées, meats, sweets: all quite à la

mode. Edina was vexed: she thought this had been done for her: but she

was much more vexed when she found it was their daily style of living.

To her, with the frugal notions implanted in her by her father's early

straits, with her naturally simple tastes, and her conscientious

judging of what was right and wrong, this profusion seemed sinful

waste. And--they were all so grand! The faded cottons and washed-out

muslins, had of course been discarded, but they had given place to

costly gossamer fabrics and to silks that rustled in their richness.

They were now just as much over-dressed as formerly they were the

opposite. Alice had already put off black for her aunt Atkinson, and

was in very slight mourning indeed: in lilac or white hues, with black

or grey ribbons. With it all, they were acquiring a hard, indifferent

tone, as though the world's changes and sorrows could never again

concern them.

"All this looks new," mused Edina, referring to the appurtenances of

the room. "I don't fancy Aunt Ann had anything so modern: she liked

old-fashioned furniture. With all these expenses, Uncle Francis will

soon be in greater embarrassment than he ever was at Spring Lawn. And

it is bad for Charley. Very bad. It will give him all sorts of

extravagant ideas and habits."

As if to escape her thoughts, she rose and stood at the window,

looking forth on the landscape. It was very beautiful. There were

hills near and far off, a wide extent of wood and snatches of gleaming

water, green meadows, and a field or two of yellow corn that had

ripened late. The leaves on the trees were already beginning to put on

their autumn tints. On the lawn were many beds of bright flowers.

Under a tree sat the major, sipping a champagne-cup, of which he was

fond. Beyond, three young people were playing at croquet: Charles,

Alice, and William Stane; the latter a son of Sir Philip Stane, who

lived near them. Through one of the bare fields, where the corn had

been already reaped and gathered, walked Mademoiselle Delrue, the

French governess, and little Kate. Alfred was at school. Robert was

generally with his nurse. Mademoiselle, a finished pianist,

superintended Alice's music and read French with her; also took Robert

for French: otherwise her duties all lay with Kate. It was, of course,

well to have a resident French governess and to pay her sixty guineas

a-year if they could afford it: but, altogether, one might have

supposed Major Raynor had dropped into an income of five or six

thousand a-year, instead of only two thousand.

A shout and a laugh from the croquet lawn caused Edina to look towards

the players. The game was at an end. At the same moment Alice saw

Edina. She threw down her mallet, and ran upstairs.

"Why don't you come out, Edina? It is a lovely afternoon."

"I came up for my work, dear, and stayed thinking," replied Edina,

drawing Alice to her side and keeping her arm round her.

"What were you thinking about?"

"Of many things. Chiefly about you and Charley. You both seem so

changed."

"Do we?"

"And not for the better."

Alice laughed. She was nearly eighteen now, and very pretty. Her head

was lifted with a conscious air: she played with one of the lilac bows

on her white dress.

"I know what you mean, Edina: you heard mamma telling me this morning

that I was growing vain."

"No, I did not hear her." But Edina said no more just then.

"Is Mr. Stane often here?" she asked, presently.

"Oh--yes--pretty often," replied Alice with a vivid blush. "He and

Charles are good friends. And--and he lives near us, you know."

The blush and the hesitation seemed to hint at a story Edina had not

yet glanced at. She had but been wondering whether this young Stane

was a desirable companion for Charles: one likely to encourage him in

idleness and extravagance, or to turn his ideas towards better things.

"Mr. Stane is older than Charley, Alice."

"Several years older. He is a barrister, and lives at his chambers in

the Temple. Just now he is down here a great deal on account of his

father's illness."

"Are they rich people?"

"No, I think not. Not very rich. Of course Sir Philip has plenty of

money, and he has retired from practice. He used to be a lawyer in the

City of London, and was knighted for something or other."

"Is William Stane the only son?"

"He is the second son. The eldest has the law business in the City;

and there are two others. One is in the army."

"I like his look," mused Edina, gazing down at the young man, who was

now talking to Major Raynor. "And--I think I like his manners. His

countenance has pride in it, though."

Pride it certainly had: but it was a pleasant countenance for all

that. William Stane was about middle height, with a somewhat rugged,

honest, intelligent face, and an earnest manner. His eyes and hair

were dark.

"Won't you come down, Edina?"

Edina turned at the appeal, and took up some work that lay on the

table. "I was getting short of pocket-handkerchiefs," she said, in

reference to it, "so I bought half-a-dozen new ones before I left

home, and am now hemming them."

Alice shrugged her pretty shoulders. "Let one of the maids hem them

for you, Edina. The idea of your troubling yourself with plain work!"

"The idea of my _not_ troubling myself!" returned Edina. "Was life

made only for play, Alice, think you? At Spring Lawn hemming

handkerchiefs was looked upon as a pastime, compared with the heavier

work there was to do."

"Oh, but those days have all passed," said Alice, somewhat

resentfully, not at all pleased at having them recalled.

"Yes; and you have all changed with them. By the way, Alice, I was

thinking what a beautiful room this is. Is not the furniture new?"

"All of it," replied Alice. "It was quite dingy when we came here; and

papa and mamma thought that, as it was to be the state-room for

visitors, they would have it done up properly."

Edina sighed. "It is very nice; very; too good for me. I am not used

to such a room."

She sat down near Major Raynor under the weeping elm, and went on with

her work. Charles, Alice, and young Stane began another game of the

everlasting croquet. The major looked on and sipped his champagne-cup,

the very image of intense satisfaction. Though he must have known that

he was living at a most unjustifiable rate, and that it must again

bring upon him the old enemy, debt, he looked as free from thought and

care as any one can look in this world. Ay, and felt so, too. Not long

yet had he been at this delightful place, Eagles' Nest; the time might

be counted by weeks; but he had already flourished upon it. He had

been stout enough before, but he was stouter now. The lost bonds or

vouchers for the supposed accumulated savings left by Mrs. Atkinson,

were depended upon by the major as a certain resource for any little

extra expenses not justified by his present means. The bonds had not

turned up yet, but he never doubted their coming to light some fine

day. Hope, that most precious of our gifts, deceitful though it

sometimes proves, was always buoyantly active in Major Raynor.

It was on this very subject of the lost bonds that Edina began to

speak. The conversation was led up to. She had scarcely sat down, when

a servant came from the house and approached his master, saying that

"Tubbs" had come again, and particularly wished his little account

settled, if quite convenient to the major, as he had a payment to make

up.

"But it's not convenient," was the major's reply. "Tell Tubbs to come

again next week."

"Is it any matter of a few shillings or so?" asked Edina, looking up,

really thinking it might be so, and that the major did not care to

trouble himself to go indoors for the money. "I have my purse in my

pocket, Uncle Francis, and----"

"Bless you, my dear, it's a matter of fifteen or twenty pounds,"

interrupted the major, complacently watching his servant, who was

carrying away the message. "For new harness and saddles and things.

Tubbs is a saddler in the village, and we thought we would give him a

turn. Your aunt Ann employed the tradespeople of the neighbourhood,

and we think it right to do the same."

"Perhaps he wants his money, Uncle Francis?"

"No doubt of it, my dear. I'll pay him when I can. But as to

ready-money, I seem to be shorter of it than ever. All the spare cash

that came to me at your aunt Ann's death has run away in a wonderful

manner. Sometimes I set myself to consider what it can have gone in;

but I might as well try to count the leaves on that walnut-tree."

"I am very sorry," said Edina. "And you are living at so much

expense!"

"Oh, it will be all right when the bonds turn up," cried the major,

cheerfully. "Street says, you know, there must be at least fifteen or

twenty thousand pounds somewhere."

"But he is not sure that there are any bonds to turn up, Uncle

Francis. He does not _know_ that the money exists still. Aunt Ann may

have speculated and lost it."

"Now, my dear, is that likely?" cried the major. "Ann was never a

speculating woman. And, if she had lost the money in any way, she

would have been sure to say so. Street tells me she gave him all sorts

of injunctions during the last year for the proper keeping-up of this

estate, involving no end of cost; she wouldn't have done that if there

hadn't been a substantial accumulation to draw upon."

"And do you keep it up well, uncle?"

"Why, how can I, Edina? I've no means to do it with."

"But are the revenues of the estate not sufficient to keep it up?"

"Well, they would be; but then you see I have so many expenses upon

me."

Edina did quite two inches of her hemming before speaking again. The

course they had embarked upon at Eagles' Nest seemed to be a wrong one

altogether: but she felt that it was not her place to take her uncle

to task.

"I'm sure I hope the money will be found, Uncle Francis."

"So do I, my dear, and soon too. It shall be better for you when it

is. Why Ann should have left my brother Hugh and you unmentioned in

her will, I cannot tell; but it was very unjust of her, and I will

make it up to you, Edina, in a small way. Frank is to have three

thousand pounds when the money turns up, and you shall have the same."

Edina smiled. She thought the promise very safe and very hopeless:

though she knew the good-hearted speaker meant what he said.

"Thank you all the same, Uncle Francis, but I do not want any of the

money; and I am sure you will have ways and means for every shilling

of it, however much it may prove to be. How long does Frank mean to

remain abroad?"

"Well, I conclude he is waiting for the money to turn up," said the

major.

"Is it wise of him to stay so long, do you think?"

"I'm sure I don't know. When he receives the money he will return to

London and settle down."

And so they chatted on. Mrs. Raynor, who had been lying down with a

headache, came out and joined them. The afternoon wore on, and croquet

came to an end. Mr. Stane approached to say good-bye.

"Won't you stay dinner?" asked the major.

"I should like to very much indeed, but I must go home," replied the

young man: and once more, as Edina watched the sincere face and heard

the earnest tone, she decided that she liked him. "My father

particularly desired me to be at home to dinner: he was feeling less

well again."

"Then you must stay with us next time," spoke the hospitable major.

And Mr. Stane shook hands all round, leaving Alice to the last, and

being somewhat longer over it with her than he need have been.

His departure was the signal for a general break-up. Major and Mrs.

Raynor went indoors, Charles strolled across the lawn with William

Stane. Edina retained her place and went on with her work. Charles

soon came back again, and sat down by her.

"What a pity you don't play croquet, Edina! The last game was a good

one."

"If I had all my time on my hands as you have, Charley, and nothing to

do with it, I might perhaps take up croquet. I can't tell."

"I know what that tone means, Edina. You want to find fault with me

for idleness."

"I could find fault with you for a good many things, Charles. The

idleness is not the worst of it."

"What is the worst?" asked Charles, amused.

"You have so changed in these few weeks that I ask myself whether you

can be the same single-minded, simple-hearted young people who lived

at Spring Lawn. I speak of you and Alice, Charley."

"Circumstances have changed," returned Charles. "Alice"--for the girl

at that moment came up to them--"Edina's saying we have so changed

since leaving Bath that she wonders whether we are ourselves or not.

How have we changed, pray, Edina?"

"Your minds and manners are changing," coolly spoke Edina, beginning

to turn down the hem on the other side of the handkerchief. "Do you

know what sort of people you put me in mind of now?"

"No. What?"

"Of nouveaux riches."

"For shame, Edina!"

"You do. And I think the world must judge you as I judge. You are

haughty, purse-proud, indifferent."

"Go on," said Charley. "I like to hear the worst."

Edina did go on. "_You_ are the worst, Charles. You seem to think the

world was made for you alone. When that poor man came yesterday, a

cottager, asking for some favour or assistance, or complaining of some

hardship--I did not quite catch the words--you just flung him off as

though he were not of the same species of created being as yourself.

Have you a bad heart, Charles?"

Charles laughed. "I think I have a very good heart--as hearts go. The

man is troublesome. His name's Beck. He has been here three times, and

wants I don't know what done to his wretched cottage; says Mrs.

Atkinson promised it. My father can't afford to listen to these

complaints, Edina: and if he did it for one, he must do it for all.

The fact is, Aunt Ann did so much for the wretches that she spoilt

them."

"But you might have spoken kindly to the man. Civilly, at any rate."

"Oh, bother!" cried Charley: who was much of a boy still in manner.

"Only think of all those years of poverty, Edina: we ought to enjoy

ourselves now. Why, we had to look at a shilling before we spent it.

And did not often get one to spend."

"But, Charley, you think _only_ of enjoyment. Nothing is thought of at

Eagles' Nest but the pleasure and gratification of the present hour,

day by day, as the days come round."

"Well, I shall have enough work to do by-and-by, Edina. I go to Oxford

after the long vacation."

"And you go without any preparation for it," said Edina.

"Preparation! Why, I am well up in classics," cried Charley, staring

at Edina.

"I was not thinking of classics. You have had no experience, Charles;

you are like a child in the ways of the world."

"I tell you, Edina, I am a very fair scholar. What else do you want at

Oxford? You don't want experience there."

"Well for you, Charley, if it shall prove so," was Edina's answer, as

she folded her work to go indoors; for the evening was drawing on, and

the air felt chilly. Changed they all were, more than she could

express. They saw with one set of eyes, she with another.

"What a tiresome thing Edina is getting!" exclaimed Alice to her

brother, as Edina disappeared.

"A regular croaker."

"A confirmed old maid."

The only one who could not be said to have much changed, was Mrs.

Raynor. She was gentle, meek, simple-mannered as ever: but even she

was drawn into the vortex of visiting and gaiety, of show and expense,

of parade and ceremony that had set in. She seemed to have no leisure

to give to anything else. This day was the only quiet day Eagles' Nest

had during Edina's visit. Mrs. Raynor, with her yielding will, could

not help herself altogether. But Edina was grieved to see that she

neglected the religious training of her young children. Even the

hearing of their evening prayers was given over to the governess.

"Mademoiselle Delrue is a Protestant," said Mrs. Raynor; when, on this

same evening, Edina ventured to speak a word upon the subject, as Kate

and Robert said good-night and left the drawing-room.

"I know she is," said Edina. "But none but a mother should, in these

vital matters, train her children. You always used to do it, Mary."

"If you only knew how fully my time and thoughts are occupied!"

returned Mrs. Raynor, in a tone of great deprecation. "We live in a

whirl here: and it is rather too much for me. And, to tell you the

truth, Edina, I sometimes wonder whether the old life, with all its

straitened means, was not the happier; whether we have in all respects

improved matters, in coming to Eagles' Nest."

CHAPTER II.

APPREHENSIONS.

The fine old house, Eagles' Nest, lay buried in snow. It was

Christmas-tide, and Christmas weather. All the Raynor family had

assembled within its walls: with the exception of Dr. Raynor and his

daughter Edina. Charles had come home from keeping his first term at

Oxford; Alfred from school; Frank Raynor and his wife had returned

from their sojourn abroad.

All these past months, during which we have lost sight of them, Frank

and Daisy had been on the Continent. Almost immediately after their

departure from Trennach, Frank, through his medical friend, Crisp, was

introduced to a lady who was going to Switzerland with her only son; a

sickly lad of fifteen, in whom the doctors at home had hardly been

able to keep life. This lady, Mrs. Berkeley, proposed to Frank to

travel with them as medical attendant on her son, and she had not the

least objection to Frank's wife being of the party. So preliminaries

were settled, and they started. Frank considered it a most opportune

chance to have fallen to him while waiting for the missing money to

turn up.

But the engagement did not last long. Hardly had they settled in

Switzerland when the lad died, and Mrs. Berkeley returned to England.

Frank stayed on where he was. The place and the sojourn were alike

pleasant; and, as he remarked to his wife, who knew but he might pick

up a practice there, amongst the many English residents of the town,

or those who flocked to it as birds of passage? Daisy was just as

delighted to remain as he: they had funds in hand, and could afford to

throw care to the winds. Even had care declared itself: which it did

not. The young are sanguine, rarely gifted with much forethought.

Frank and his wife especially lacked it. A few odds and ends of

practice did drop into Frank, just a small case or so, at long

intervals: and they remained stationary for some time in perfect

complacency. But when Christmas approached, and Frank found that his

five hundred pounds would not hold out for ever, and that the idea of

a practice in the Swiss town was a mere castle in the air, he took his

wife home again. By invitation, they went at once to Eagles' Nest.

Christmas-Day passed merrily, and some of the days immediately

succeeding to it. On New-Year's Day they were invited to an

entertainment at Sir Philip Stane's; Major and Mrs. Raynor, Charles

and Alice; a later invitation having come in for Frank and his wife.

William Stane was a frequent visitor at Eagles' Nest whenever he was

sojourning at his father's; and, though he had not yet spoken, few

could doubt that the chief object to draw him there was Alice Raynor.

Yes. Sunshine and merry-making, profusion and reckless expenditure

reigned within the doors of Eagles' Nest; but little except poverty,

distress and dissatisfaction existed beyond its gates. Mrs. Atkinson

had ever been liberal in her care of the estate; the land had been

enriched and thoroughly well kept; the small tenants and labourers

were cared for. One thing she had not done so thoroughly as she might:

and that was, improving the dwellings of the labourers. Repairs she

had made from time to time; but the places were really beyond repair.

Each tenement wanted one of two things: to be thoroughly renewed and

to have an additional sleeping-room added; or else to be entirely

rebuilt. During the last year of Mrs. Atkinson's life, she seemed to

awaken suddenly to the necessity of doing something. Perhaps with the

approach of death--which will often open our eyes to many things they

remained closed to before--she saw the supineness she had been guilty

of. Street the lawyer was hastily summoned to Eagles' Nest: he was

ordered to procure plans and estimates for new dwellings. A long row

of cottages, some thirty in number, was hastily begun. Whilst the

builders were commencing their work, Mrs. Atkinson died. With nearly

her last breath she charged Mr. Street to see that the new houses were

completed, and that the old ones were also repaired and made healthy.

Mr. Street could only hand over the charge to the inheritor of the

estate, Major Raynor. The reader may remember that the major spoke of

it to Edina. The lawyer could not do more than that, or carry out Mrs.

Atkinson's wishes in any other way. And the major did nothing. His

will might have been good enough to carry out the changes, but he had

not the means. So much money was required for his own wants and those

of his family, that he had none to spare for other people. The

ready-money he came into had chiefly gone in paying back-debts: until

these debts stared him in the face in black and white, he had not

thought that he owed a tithe of them. It is a very common experience.

So the new dwellings were summarily stopped, and remained as they

were--so many skeletons: and the tumbledown cottages, wanting space,

drainage, whitewash, and everything else that could render them decent

and healthy, grew worse day by day, and became an eyesore to

spectators and the talk of the neighbourhood.

Not only did _they_ suffer from the major's want of money and

foresight; many other necessities were crying out in like manner:

these are only given as a specimen. Above all, he was doing no good to

the land, spending nothing to enrich it, and sparing necessary and

ordinary labour. Perhaps had Major Raynor understood the cultivation

and requirements of land, he might have made an effort to improve his

own: as it was, it deteriorated day by day.

This state of things had caused a certain antagonism to set in between

Eagles' Nest and its dependents. The labourers and their families

grumbled; the major, conscious of the state of affairs, and feeling

some slight shame in consequence, but knowing at the same time that he

was powerless to remedy it, shunned them. When complainers came to the

house he would very rarely see them. A warm-hearted man, he could not

bear to hear them. Mrs. Raynor and the elder children, understanding

matters very imperfectly, naturally espoused the major's cause, and

looked upon the small tenants as a barbarous, insubordinate set of

wretches, next door to insurgents. When the poor wives or children

fell ill, no succour was sent to them from Eagles' Nest. With this

estrangement reigning, Mrs. Raynor did not attempt to help: not from

coldness of heart, but that she considered they did not deserve help,

and, moreover, thought it would be flung back on her if she offered

it.

_There_ was where the shoe pinched the poor. The insufficient

dwellings they were used to; though indeed with every winter and every

summer they grew worse than ever; but they were not accustomed to

utter, contemptuous neglect, as they looked upon it, in times of need.

Mrs. Atkinson had always been a generous mistress: when sickness or

sorrow or distress in times of little work set in, her hand and purse

were ever open. Coals in severe weather, Christmas cheer, warm

garments for the scantily clad, broth for the sick; she had furnished

all: and it was the entire withdrawal of this aid that was so much

felt now. The winter was unusually severe: it frequently is so after a

very hot summer; labour was scarce, food was dear: and a great deal of

illness prevailed. So that you perceive all things were not so

flourishing in and about Eagle's Nest as they might have been, and

Major Raynor's bed was not entirely one of rose-leaves.

But, unpleasant things that are out of sight, are, it is said, for the

most part out of mind--Mr. Blase Pellet told us so much a chapter or

two ago--and the discomfort out-of-doors did not disturb the geniality

within. At Eagles' Nest, the days floated on in a round of enjoyment;

they seemed to be one continuous course of pleasure that would never

end. Daisy Raynor had never been so happy in all her life: Eagles'

Nest, she said, was perfection.

The music and wax-lights, the flowers and evergreens rendered the

rooms at Sir Philip Stane's a scene of enchantment. At least it seemed

so to Alice Raynor as she entered upon it. William Stane stood near

the door, and caught her hand as she and Charles were following their

father and mother.

"The first dance is mine, remember, Alice," he whispered. And her

pretty cheeks flushed and a half-conscious smile parted her lips, as

she passed on to Lady Stane.

Lady Stane, a stout and kindly woman in emerald green, received her

kindly. She suspected that this young lady might some day become her

daughter-in-law, and she looked at her more critically than she had

ever looked before. Alice could bear the inspection to-night. Her new

white dress was beautiful; her face was charming, her manner modest

and graceful. "The most lady-like girl in the room," mentally decided

Lady Stane, "and no doubt will have a fair fortune. William might do

worse."

William Stane thought he might do very much worse. Without doubt he

was truly attached to Alice. Not perhaps in the wild and ardent manner

that some lovers own to: all natures are not capable of that: but he

did love her, her only, and he hoped that when he married it was she

who would be his wife. He was not ready to marry at present. He was

progressing in his profession, but with the proverbial slowness that

is said to attend the advancement of barristers: and he did not wish

to speak just yet. Meanwhile he was quite content to make love

tacitly; and he felt sure that his intentions were understood.

His elder brother was not present this evening, and it fell to William

to take his place, and dispense his favours pretty equally amongst the

guests. But every moment that he could snatch for Alice, was given to

her; in every dance that he could possibly spare her, she was his

partner.

"Have you enjoyed the evening, Alice?" he asked in a whisper, as he

was taking her to the carriage at three o'clock in the morning.

"I never enjoyed an evening half so much," was the shyly-breathed

answer. And Mr. William Stane took possession of her hand as she

spoke, and kept it to the last.

If this light-hearted carelessness never came to an end! If freedom

from trouble could only last for ever! Pleasure first, says some wise

old saw, pain afterwards. With the dawn came the pain to Eagles' Nest.

Amongst the letters delivered to Major Raynor--who, for a wonder, had

risen betimes that morning, and was turning places over in his study

in search of the lost bonds--was one from Oxford. It enclosed a very

heavy bill for wine supplied to his son Charles: heavy, considering

Mr. Charles's years and the duration of his one sojourn at the

University. The major stared at it, with his spectacles, and without

his spectacles; he looked at the heading, he gazed at the foot; and

finally when he had mastered it he went into a passion, and ordered

Charles before him. So peremptory was the summons, that Charles

appeared in haste, half dressed. His outburst, when he found out what

the matter was, quite equalled his father's.

"I'm sure I thought you must be on fire down here, sir," said he.

"What confounded sneaks they are, to apply to you! I can't understand

their doing it."

"Sneaks be shot!" cried the wrathful major. "Do you owe all this, or

don't you? That's the question."

"Why, the letter was addressed to _me!_" exclaimed Charles, who had

been examining the envelope. "I must say, sir, you might allow me to

open my own letters."

But the major was guiltless of any want of faith. The mistake was the

butler's. He had inadvertently placed the letter amongst his master's

letters, and the major opened it without glancing at the address.

"What does it signify, do you suppose, whether I opened it or you?"

demanded the major. "Not that I did it intentionally. I should have to

know of it: _you_ can't pay this."

"They can wait," said Charles.

"Wait! Do you mean to confess that you have had all this wine?"

retorted the major, irascible for once. "Why, you must be growing

into--into what I don't care to name!"

"You can't suppose that I drank it, sir. The other undergrads give

wine parties, and I have to do the same. They drink the wine; I

don't."

"That is, you drink it amongst you," roared the major; "and a nice

disreputable lot you must all be. I understood that young men went to

college to study; not to drink, and run up bills. What else do you

owe? Is this all?"

Charles hesitated in answering. An untruth he would not tell. The

major saw what the hesitation meant, and it alarmed him. When we

become frightened our wrath cools down. The major dropped into a

chair, and lost his fierceness and his voice together.

"Charley," said he in very subdued tones, "I have not the money to pay

with. You know I haven't. If it's much, it will ruin me."

"But it is not much, father," returned Charles, his own anger disarmed

and contrition taking its place. "There may be one or two more

trifling bills; nothing to speak of."

"What on earth made you run them up?"

"I'm sure I don't know; and I am very sorry for it," said Charles.

"These things accumulate in the most extraordinary manner. When you

fancy that you owe only a few shillings at some place or another, it

turns out to be pounds. You have no idea what it is, father!"

"Have I not!" returned the major, significantly. "It is because I have

rather too much idea of the insidious way in which debt creeps upon

one, that I should like to see you keep out of its toils. Charley, my

boy, I have been staving off liabilities all my life, and haven't

worried myself in doing it; but it is beginning to tell upon me now.

My constitution's changing. I suppose I must be growing fidgety."

"Well, don't let this worry you, father. It's not so very much."

"Much or little, it must be paid. I don't want my son to get into bad

odour at college; or have 'debtor' attached to his name. You are young

for that, Mr. Charles."

Charles remained silent. The major was evidently in blissful ignorance

of the latitude of opinion current amongst Oxonians.

"Go back and dress yourself, Charles; and get your breakfast over; and

then, just sit down and make out a list of what it is you owe, and

I'll see what can be done."

Now in the course of this same morning it chanced that Frank Raynor

took occasion to speak to his uncle about money matters, as connected

with his own prospects, which he had not previously entered upon

during his present stay. The major was pacing his study in a gloomy

mood when Frank entered.

"You look tired, Uncle Francis. Just as though you had been dancing

all night."

"I leave that to you younger men," returned the major, drawing his

easy-chair to the fire. "As to being tired, Frank, I am so; though I

have not danced."

"Tired of what, uncle?"

"Of everything, I think. Sit down, lad."

"I want to speak to you, Uncle Francis, concerning myself and my

plans," said Frank, taking a seat near the fire. "It is time I settled

down to something."

"Is it?" was the answer. The major's thoughts were elsewhere.

"Why, yes; don't you think it is, sir? The question is, what is it to

be? With regard to the bonds for that missing money, uncle? They have

not turned up, I conclude?"

"They have not turned up, my boy, or the money either. If they had,

you'd have been the first to hear of it. I have been searching for

them this very morning."

"What is your true opinion about the money, Uncle Francis?" resumed

Frank, after a pause. "Will it ever be found?"

"Yes, Frank, I think it will. I feel assured that the money is lying

somewhere--and that it will come to the surface sooner or later. I

should be sorry to think otherwise; for, goodness knows, I need it

badly enough."

A piece of blazing wood fell off the grate. Frank caught the tongs,

and put it up again.

"And I wish it could be found for your sake, also, Frank. You want

your share of it, you know."

"Why, you see, Uncle Francis, without money I don't know what to be

at. If I were single, I'd engage myself out as assistant to-morrow;

but for my wife's sake I wish to take a better position than that."

"Naturally you do, Frank, And so you ought."

"It would be easy enough if I had the money in hand; or if I could

with any certainty say when I should have it."

"It's sure to come," said the major. "Quite sure."

"Well, I hope so. The difficulty is--when?"

"You must wait a bit longer, my boy. It may turn up any day. To-night,

even: to-morrow morning. Never a day passes but I go ferreting into

some corner or other of the old house, thinking I may put my hand upon

the papers. They are lying in it somewhere, I know, overlooked."

"But I don't see my way clear to wait. Not to wait long. We must have

a roof over our heads, and means to keep it up----"

"Why, you have a roof over your heads," interrupted the major. "Can't

you stay here?"

"I should not like to stay too long," avowed Frank in his candour. "It

would be abusing your hospitality."

"Abusing a fiddlestick!" cried the major, staring at Frank. "What's

come to you? Is the house not large enough?--and plenty to eat in it?

I'm sure you may stay here for ever; and the longer you stay the more

welcome you'll be. We like to have you."

"Thank you greatly, Uncle Francis."

"Daisy does not want to go away; she's as happy as the day's long,"

continued the major. "Just make yourselves comfortable here, Frank, my

boy, until the money turns up and I can hand you over some of it."

"Thank you again, uncle," said Frank, accepting the hospitality in the

free-hearted spirit that it was offered. "For a little while at any

rate we will stay with you; but I hope before long to be doing

something and to get into a home of my own. I can run up to town once

or twice a week and be looking out."

"Of course you can."

"Had you been a rich man, Uncle Francis, I would have asked you to

lend me a thousand pounds, or so, to set me up until the nest-egg is

found; but I know you have not got it to lend."

"Got it to lend!" echoed the major in dismayed astonishment. "Why,

Frank, my boy, I want to borrow such a sum myself. I wish to my heart

I knew where to pick it up. Here's Charles must have money now: has

come home from Oxford with a pack of debts at his back!"

"Charles has!" exclaimed Frank in surprise.

"And would like to make me believe that all the rest of the young

fellows there run up the same bills! every man Jack of 'em! No, no,

Master Charley: you don't get me to take _that_ in. Young men can be

steady at college as well as at home if they choose to be. Charley's

just one that's led any way. He is young, you see, Frank: and he is

thrown there, I expect, amongst a few rich blades to whom money is no

object, and must needs do as they do. The result is, he has made I

don't know what liabilities, and I must pay them. Oh, it's all worry

and bother together!"

Not intentionally, but by chance, Frank, on quitting his uncle, came

upon Charles. Looking into a room in search of his wife, there sat

Charley at a table, pen, ink and paper before him, setting down his

debts, as far as he could judge of and recollect them. Frank went in

and closed the door.

Charles let off a little of his superfluous discomfort in abuse of the

people who had presumed to trouble him with the wine bill. Frank sat

down, and drew the paper towards him.

"I had no idea it could be as much as that, Frank," was the rueful

avowal. "And I wish with all my heart their wine parties and their

fast living had been at the bottom of the sea!"

"_Is_ it as much, Charley?"

"To tell the truth, I am afraid it's more," said Charles, with

candour. "I've only made a guess at the other amounts, and I know I

have not put down too much. That tailor is an awful man for sticking

it on: as all the rest of the crew are, for the matter of that. I was

trying to recollect how many times I've had horses and traps and

things; and I can't."

"Does Uncle Francis know it comes to all this?"

"No. And I don't care to let him know. Things seem to worry him so

much now. I do wish that lost money could be found!"

"Just what your father and I have been wishing," cried Frank. "Look

here, Charley. I have a little left out of my five hundred pounds. You

shall have half of it: just between ourselves, you know: and then the

sum my uncle must find will not look so formidable to him. Nay, no

thanks, lad: would you not all do as much for me--and more? And we are

going to stay on here for a time--and that will save expenses."

It was simply impossible for Frank Raynor to see a difficulty of this

kind, or indeed of any kind, and not help to relieve it if he had help

in his power. That he would himself very speedily require the money he

was now giving away, was only too probable: but he was content to

forget that in Charley's need.

The one individual person in all the house that Charles would have

kept from the knowledge of his folly--and in his repentance he looked

upon it as folly most extreme--was his mother. He loved her dearly;

and he had the grace to be ashamed, for her sake, of what he had done,

and to hope that she would never know it. A most fallacious hope, as

he was soon to find, for Major Raynor had taken the news up to her

with open mouth.

She was sitting on the low sofa in her dressing-room that evening at

dusk, when Charles went in. The firelight played on her face, showing

its look of utter weariness, and the traces of tears.

"What's the matter, mother?" he asked, sitting down beside her and

taking her hand. "Are you ill?"

"Not ill, Charley," she answered. "Only tired and--and out of sorts."

"What has tired you? Last night, I suppose. But you have been resting

all day."

"Not last night particularly. So much fast living does not suit me."

"Fast living!" exclaimed Charles in wondering accents. "Is it the

gravies?--or the plum-puddings?"

Mrs. Raynor could not forbear a smile. "I was not thinking of the

table, Charles; the gravies and the puddings; but of our fast,

artificial existence. We seem to have no rest at all. It is always

excitement; nothing but excitement. We went out last night; we go out

to dinner to-morrow night; people come here the next night. Every day

that we are at home there is something; if it's not luncheon and

afternoon-tea, it's dinner; and if it's not dinner, it's supper. I

have to think of it all; the entertainments and the dress, and

everything; and to go out when you go; and--and I feel it is getting

rather too much for me."

"Then lie up, mother, for a few days," advised Charles,

affectionately. "Keep by your own fire, and turn things over to Alice

and the servants. You will soon be all right again."

Mrs. Raynor did not answer. She held Charles's hand in her own, and

was looking steadfastly at the flickering blaze. A silence ensued.

Charles lost himself in a train of thought.

"What about this trouble of yours, Charley?"

It was a very unpleasant awakening for him. Of all things, this is

what he had wanted to keep from her. His ingenuous face--and it was an

ingenuous face in spite of the wine bills--flushed deeply with

annoyance.

"It's what you need not have heard about, mother. I came away from

Oxford without paying a few pounds I owe there; that's all. There need

be no fuss about it."

"I hear of wine bills, and horses, and things of that kind. Oh, my

dear, _need_ you have entered into that fast sort of life?"

"Others enter into it," said Charley.

"It is not so much the cost that troubles me," added Mrs. Raynor, in

loving tones; "that can be met somehow. It is----" She stopped as if

wanting words.

"It is what, mother?"

"Charley, my dear, what I think of is this--that you may be falling

into the world's evil ways. It is so easy to do it; you young lads are

so inexperienced and confiding; you think all is fair that looks fair;

that no poison lurks in what has a specious surface. And oh, my boy,

you know that there is a world after this world; and if you were to

fall too deeply into the ways of _this_, to get to love it, to be

unable to do without it, you might never gain the other. Some young

lads that have fallen away from God have not cared to find Him again;

never have found Him.

"There has been no harm," said Charley. "And I assure you I don't

often miss chapel."

"Charley, dear, there's a verse in Ecclesiastes that I often think

of," she resumed in low sweet tones. "All mothers think of it, I

fancy, when their sons begin to go out in the world."

"In Ecclesiastes?" repeated Charley.

"The verse that Edina illuminated for us once, when she was staying at

Spring Lawn. It was her doing it, I think, that helped to impress it

so much on my memory."

"I remember it, mother mine." And the words ran through Charley's

thoughts as he spoke.

"Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth and let thy heart cheer thee in

the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart, and in the

sight of thine eyes: but know thou, that for all these things God will

bring thee into judgment."

CHAPTER III.

A TIGER.

The late spring flowers were blooming; the air was soft and balmy.

Easter was rather late; in fact, April was passing; and when Easter

comes at that period, it generally brings sunshine with it.

Eagles' Nest, amidst other favoured spots, seemed to be as bright as

the day was long. Once more Major Raynor had all his children about

him; also Frank and Daisy. For anything that could be seen on the

surface, merry hearts reigned; none of them seemed to have a care in

the world.

Frank decidedly had not. Sanguine and light-hearted, he was content as

ever to let the future take care of itself. Yielding to persuasion, he

still stayed on at Eagles' Nest. His wife looked forward to being laid

up in the course of a month or two: and where, asked the major, could

she be better attended to than at Eagles' Nest? Daisy, of course,

wished to remain; she should feel safe, she said, in the care of Mrs.

Raynor: and who would wish to run away from so pleasant a home? Twenty

times at least had Frank gone up to town to see if he could pick up

any news, or hear of anything to suit him. Delusive dreams often

presented themselves to his mental vision, of some doctor, rich in

years and philanthropy, who might be willing to take him in for

nothing, to share his first-rate practice. As yet the benevolent old

gentleman had not been discovered, but Frank quite believed he existed

somewhere.

Another thing had not been discovered: the missing money. But Major

Raynor, sanguine as ever was his nephew, did not lose faith in its

existence. It would come to light some time he felt certain; and of

this he never ceased to assure Frank. Embarrassments decidedly

increased upon the major, chiefly arising from the want of ready cash;

for the greater portion of _that_ was sure to be forestalled before it

came in. Still, a man who enjoys from two to three thousand a-year

cannot be so very badly off: money comes to the fore somehow: and on

the whole Major Raynor led an easy, indolent, and self-satisfied life.

Had they decreased their home expenses, it would have been all the

better: and they might have done that very materially, and yet not

touched on home comforts. But neither Major nor Mrs. Raynor knew how

to set about retrenchment: and so the senseless profusion went on.

"What is there to see, Charley?"

The questioner was Frank. In crossing the grounds, some little

distance from home, he came upon Charles Raynor. Charles was craning

his neck over a stile, by which the high hedge was divided that

bordered the large, enclosed, three-cornered tract of land known as

the common. On one side of the common were those miserable dwellings,

the neglected cottages: in a line with them ran the row of skeletons,

summarily stopped in process of erection. On the other side stood some

pretty detached cottages, inhabited by a somewhat better class of

people; whilst this high hedge--now budding into summer bloom,

and flanked with a sloping bank, rich in moss and weeds and wild

flowers--bordered the third side. In one corner, between the hedge and

the better houses, flourished a small grove of trees. It all belonged

to Major Raynor.

"Nothing particular," said Charley, in answer to the question. "I was

only looking at a fellow."

Frank sent his eyes over the green space before him. Three or four

paths traversed it in different directions. A portion of it was railed

off by wooden fencing, and on this some cattle grazed; but on most of

it grass was growing, intended for the mower in a month or two's time.

Frank could not see a soul; and said so. Some children, indeed, were

playing before the huts; but Charles had evidently not alluded to

them: his gaze had been directed to the opposite side, near the grove.

"He has disappeared amongst those trees," said Charles.

"Who was it?" pursued Frank: for there was something in his young

cousin's tone and manner suggestive of uneasiness; and it awoke his

own curiosity.

Charles turned and put his back against the stile. He had plucked a

small twig from the hedge, and was twirling it about between his lips.

"Frank, I am in a mess. Keep a look-out yonder, and if you see a

stranger, tell me."

"Over-run the constable at Oxford this term, as before?" questioned

Frank, leaping to the truth by instinct.

Charles nodded. "And I assure you, Frank," he added, attempting to

excuse himself, "that I no more intended to get into debt this last

term than I intended to hang myself. When I went down after Christmas,

I had formed the best resolutions in the world. I told the mother she

might trust me. No one could have wished to keep straighter than I

wished: and somehow----"

"You didn't," put in Frank at the pause.

"I have managed to fall into a fast set, and that's the truth,"

confessed Charles. "And I think the very deuce is in the money. It

runs away without your knowing it."

"Well, the tradespeople must wait," said Frank, cheerfully; for he was

just as genial over this trouble as he would have been over pleasure.

"They have to wait pretty stiffly for others.

"The worst of it is, I have accepted a bill or two," cried Charley,

ruefully. "And--I had a writ served upon me the last day of term."

"Whew!" whistled Frank. "A writ?"

"One. And I expect another. Those horrid bills--there are two of

them--were drawn at only a month's date. Of course the time's out; and

the fellow wouldn't renew; and I expect there'll be the dickens to

pay. The amount is not much; each fifty pounds; but I have not the

ghost of a shilling to meet it with."

"What do you owe besides?"

"As if I knew! There's the tailor, and the bootmaker, and the livery

stables, and the wine---- Oh, I can't recollect."

Had Frank possessed the money, in pocket or prospective, he would have

handed out help to Charles there and then. But he did not possess it.

He was at a nonplus.

"When once a writ's served, they can take you, can't they?" asked

Charles, stooping to pluck a pink blossom from the bank, the twig

being bitten away to nothing.

"I think so," replied Frank, who had himself contrived to steer clear

of these unpleasant shoals, and knew no more of their power than

Charles did. "By the way, though, I don't know. Have they got

judgment?"

"Judgment? What's that? Sure to have got it if it's anything bad. And

I think I am going to be arrested," continued Charles, dropping his

voice, and turning to face the common again. "It's rather a blue

look-out. I should not so _much_ mind it for myself, I think: better

men than I have had to go through the same: but it's the fuss there'll

be at home."

"The idea of calling yourself a man, Charley! You are only a boy yet."

"By the way, talking of that, Jones of Corpus told me a writ could not

be legally served upon me as I was not of age. Jones said he was sure

of it. What do you think, Frank?"

"I don't know. To tell you the truth, Charley, I am not at home in

these things. But I should suppose that the very fact of the writ

having been served upon you is a proof that it can be done, and that

Jones of Corpus is wrong. William Stane could tell you: he must have

all points of law at his fingers' ends."

"But I don't care to ask William Stane. It may be they take it for

granted that I am of age. Any way, I was served with the writ at

Oxford: and, unless I am mistaken," added Charles, gloomily, "a fellow

has followed me here, and is dodging my heels to arrest me."

"What are your grounds for thinking so, Charley? Have you seen any

suspicious person about?"

"Yes, I have. Before you came up just now, I----"

The words were broken off suddenly. Charles leaped from the corner of

the stile to hide behind the hedge. Some individual was emerging from

the grove of trees; and he, it was evident, had caused the movement.

"If he turns his steps this way, tell me, Frank, and I'll make a dash

homewards through the oak-coppice," came the hurried whisper.

"All right. No. He is making off across the common."

"That may be only a ruse to throw me off my guard," cried Charley,

from the hedge. "Watch. He will come over here full pelt in a minute.

He looks just like a tiger, with that great mass of brown beard. He is

a tiger."

Frank, leaning his arms on the stile, scanned the movements of the

"Tiger." The Tiger was at some distance, and he could not see him

clearly. A thin tiger of middle height, and apparently approaching

middle age, dressed in a suit of grey, with a slouching hat on his

brows and a fine brown beard. But the Tiger, whosoever he might be,

appeared to entertain no hostile intentions for the present moment,

and was strolling leisurely in the direction of the huts. Presently

Frank spoke.

"He is well away now, Charley: too far to distinguish you, even should

he turn round. There's no danger."

Charley came out from the hedge, and took up his former position at

the extreme corner of the stile, where he was partly hidden. Every

vestige of colour had forsaken his face. He was very young still: not

much more than a boy, as Frank had said: and unfamiliar with these

things.

"I saw him yesterday for the first time," said he to Frank. "I chanced

to be standing here, as we are now, and he was walking towards me

across the common. Whilst wondering, in a lazy kind of way, who he was

and what he wanted here, a rush of fear came over me. It occurred to

me that he might be a sheriff's officer. Why the idea should flash on

me in that sudden manner--and the fear--I cannot tell; but it did so.

I made the best of my way indoors, and did not stir out again. This

morning I said to myself what a simpleton I had been--that I had no

grounds for fearing the man, except that he was a stranger, and that

my own mind was full of bother; and I came out, all bravery. The first

person I saw, upon crossing this stile, was he; just in the same spot,

near the trees, in which I saw him yesterday; and the rush of fear

came over me again. It's of no good your laughing, Frank: I can't help

it: I never was a coward before."

"I was not laughing. Did he see you?"

"Not to-day, I think. Yesterday he did, looked at me keenly; and here

he is again in the same spot! I am sure he is looking for me. If I

were up in funds, I'd be off somewhere and stay away."

"What about home--and Oxford?"

"There's the worst of it."

"And you could not stay away for ever."

"For ever, no. But, you see, that money may turn up any day, and put

all things straight."

"Well, you may be mistaken in the man, Charley: and I hope you are."

William Stane was at home for these Easter holidays, and still the

shadow of Alice Raynor. It chanced that this same afternoon he and

Alice encountered the Tiger--as, from that day, Charles and Frank both

called him in private. Strolling side by side under the brilliant

afternoon sun, in that silence which is most eloquent of love, with

the birds singing above them, and the very murmur of the trees

speaking a sweet language to their hearts, they came upon this

stranger in grey, sitting on the stump of a tree. The trees, mostly

beeches, were thick about there; the path branched off sharply at a

right angle, and they did not see him until they were close up: in

fact, William Stene had to make a hasty stop or two to pass without

touching him. Perhaps it was his unexpected appearance in that spot,

or that it was not usual to see strangers there, or else his peculiar

look, with the slouching hat and the bushy beard; but certain it was

that he especially attracted their attention; somewhat of their

curiosity.

"What a strange-looking man!" exclaimed Alice, when they had gone on

some distance. "Did you not think so, William?"

"Queerish. Does he live here? I wonder if he is aware that he is

trespassing?"

"Papa lets any one come on the grounds who likes to," replied Alice.

"He is a stranger. I never saw him before."

"Oh, it must be one of the Easter excursionists. Escaped from smoky

London to enjoy a day or two of pure air in the Kentish Wolds."

"As you have done," said she.

"As I have done. I only wish, Alice, I could enjoy it oftener."

Words and the tone alike bore a precious meaning to her ear. His eyes

met hers, and lingered there.

"I am getting on excellently," he continued. "By the end of this year,

I have no doubt I shall be justified in--in quitting my chambers and

taking a house. Perhaps before that."

"Look at that hawthorn!" exclaimed Alice, darting to a hedge they were

now passing, for she knew too well what the words implied. "Has it not

come out early! It is in full bloom."

"Shall I gather some for you?"

"No. It would be a pity. It looks so well there, and every one who

passes can enjoy it. Do you know, I never see the flowering hawthorn

but I think of that good old Scotch song, 'Ye banks and braes.' I

don't know why."

"Let us sit down here," said he, as they came to a rustic seat under

the trees. "And now, Alice, if you would sing that good old song, the

charm would be perfect."

She laughed. "What charm?"

"The charm of--everything. The day and hour, the white and pink may

budding in the hedges, the wild flowers we crush with our feet, the

blue sky and the green trees, the sunshine and the shade, the singing

birds and the whispering leaves, and--yourself."

Not another word from either of them just yet. William Stane had

allowed his hand to fall on hers. Her head was slightly turned from

him, her cheeks were glowing, her heart was beating: it was again

another interval of that most sweet and eloquent silence.

"Won't you begin, Alice? The birds 'warbling through the flowering

thorn' are waiting to hear you. So am I."

And as if she had no power to resist his will, she began at once,

without a dissenting murmur, and sang the song to the end. Excepting

the birds above them, there were no listeners: no rover was likely to

be near that solitary spot. Her voice was sweet, but not loud; every

syllable was spoken distinctly. To sit there for ever, side by side,

and not be disturbed, would be a very Eden.

"And my fake lover stole my rose,

But ah! he left the thorn wi' me."

Scarcely had the echoing melody died away, when the unexpected sound

of footsteps was heard approaching, and there advanced into view a

woman well known to Alice; one Sarah Croft, the wife of a man employed

on the estate. They lived in one of the most miserable dwellings on

the common, but were civil and quiet; somewhat independent in manner,

but never joining in the semi-rebellion that reigned. She looked

miserably poor. Her blue cotton gown, though clean, was in rags, her

old shawl would hardly hang together, the black bonnet on her head

might have been used for frightening the crows. She dropped a curtsy

and was passing onwards, when Alice inquired after her sick children.

"They be no better, Miss Raynor, thank you," she answered, halting in

front of the bench. "The little one, she be took sick now, as well as

the two boys. I've a fine time o't.

"Why don't you have a doctor to them?" said Alice.

"More nor a week agone I went up to the parish and telled them I must

have a doctor to my children: but he never come till yesterday."

"What did he say?"

"I'll tell ye what he said, Miss Raynor, if ye like. He said doctors

and doctors' stuff was o' no good, so long as the houses remained what

they was--pes-ti-fe-rus. I should not have remembered the word,

though, but for Jetty's lodger repeating of the very self-same word to

me a minute or two agone. I've just passed him, a-sitting down under

yonder beeches."

Alice, as well as William Stane, instantly recalled the man in grey

they had seen there. "Jetty's lodger!" repeated Alice. "Who is he?"

"Some stranger staying in the place, Miss Raynor. He come into it one

morning, a week agone, and took Jetty's rooms which was to let."

"What is he staying here for?"

"To pry into people's business, I think," replied the woman. "He's

always about, here, there, and everywhere; one can't stir out many

yards but one meets him. Saturday last, he walks right into our place

without as much as knocking; and there he turns hisself round and

about, looking at the rotten floor and the dripping walls, and

sniffing at the bad smell that's always there, just as if he had as

much right inside as a king. 'Who is your landlord?' says he, 'and does

he know what a den this is?' So I told him that our landlord was Major

Raynor at Eagles' Nest, and that he did know, but that nothing was

done for us. He have gone, I hear, into some o' the other houses as

well."

The woman's tone was quite civil, but there could be no doubt that, in

her independence, she was talking at Alice as the daughter of Major

Raynor.

"As I passed him now he asked me whether my sick children was

better--just as you have, Miss Raynor. I told him they was worse. 'And

worse they will be, and never better, and all the rest of you too,'

says he, 'as long as you inhabit them pes-ti-fe-rus dens!'"

Alice drew up her head in cold disdain, vouchsafing no further word,

and feeling very angry at the implied reproach. The woman dropped a

slight curtsy again, and went on her way.

"How insolent they all are!" exclaimed Alice to Mr. Stane. "That Sarah

Croft would have been abusive in another moment."

"Their cottages are bad," returned the young man, after a pause.

"Could nothing be done, I wonder, to make them a little better?"

"It is papa's business, not mine," remarked Alice, in slight

resentment. "And the idea of that stranger presuming to interfere!

wonder what he means by it?"

"I do not suppose he intends it as interference: he is looking about

him by way of filling up his time: it must hang rather monotonously on

his hands down here, I presume, away from his books and ledgers,"

remarked Mr. Stane. "It is the way of the world, Alice; people must be

busy-bodies and look into what does not concern them, for curiosity's

sake. Nay, just a few moments longer," he said, for she had risen to

depart. "To-morrow I shall have no such pleasant and peaceful seat to

linger in; I shall not have you. How delightful it all is!"

And so, the disturbing element forgotten, they sat on in the balmy

air, under the blue of the sky, the green foliage about them springing

into life and beauty, type of another Life that must succeed our own

winter, and listening to the little birds overhead warbling their

joyous songs. Can none of us, grey now with care and work and years,

remember just such an hour spent in our own sweet spring-time?--when

all things around spoke to our hearts in one unmixed love-strain of

harmony, and the future looked like a charmed scroll that could only

bring intense happiness in the unrolling thereof?

"Take my arm, Alice," he half whispered, when they at length rose to

return.

She did take it, her face and heart glowing. Took it timidly and with

much self-consciousness, never having been in the habit of taking it,

or he of offering it. Her hand trembled as it lay gently upon his arm;

each might have heard the other's heart beating. And so in the bliss

of this, their first love-dream, they sauntered home through the

grounds, choosing pleasant glades and mossy by-ways; and arrived to

find Eagles' Nest in a commotion.

Mrs. Frank Raynor had been taken seriously and unexpectedly ill.

Doctors were sent for; servants ran about. And William Stane said

farewell, and went home from an afternoon that would ever remain as a

green spot on his memory. It was his last day of holiday.

With the morning, Daisy lay in great danger. The illness, not

anticipated for a month or two, had come on suddenly. In one sense of

the word the event was over, but not the danger; and the baby, not

destined to see the light, was gone.

It was perhaps unfortunate that on this same morning Frank should

receive an urgent summons to Trennach. Edina wrote. Her father was

very ill; ill, it was feared, unto death; and he most earnestly begged

Frank to travel to him with all speed, for he had urgent need of

seeing him. Edina said that, unless her father should rally, three or

four days were the utmost limits of life accorded to him by the

doctors: she therefore begged of Frank to lose no time in obeying the

summons; and she added that her father desired her to say the journey

should be no cost to him.

"What a distressing thing!" cried Frank, in blank dismay, showing the

letter to the major. "I cannot go. It is impossible that I can go

whilst Daisy lies in this state."

"Good gracious!" said the major, rubbing his head, as he always did in

any emergency. "Well, I suppose you can't, my boy. Poor Hugh!"

"How can I! Suppose I were to go, and--and she died?"

"Yes, to be sure. You must wait until she is in less danger. I hope

with all my heart Hugh will rally. And Daisy too."

Frank sat down and wrote a few words to his uncle, telling him why he

could not start that day, but that he would do so the moment his

wife's state allowed it. He wrote more fully, but to the same effect,

to Edina. Perhaps on the morrow, he added. The morrow might bring

better things.

But on the morrow Daisy was even worse. A high fever had set in. Frank

wrote again to Trennach, but he could not leave Eagles' Nest. Some

days went on; days of peril: Daisy was hovering between life and

death. And on the first day that a very faint indication of

improvement was perceptible and the medical men said she might now

live, that there was a bare chance of it, but no certainty; that same

day the final news came from Trennach, and it was too late for Frank

to take the journey. Dr. Raynor was dead.

The tidings came by letter from Edina: written to Frank. It was only a

short note, giving a few particulars. Within this note, however, was a

thicker letter, sealed and marked "Private." Frank chanced to be

alone at the moment, and opened it with some curiosity. On a single

sheet of enveloping paper, enclosing a letter from Dr. Raynor, were

the following lines from Edina.

"My poor father was so anxious to see you, dear Frank, at the last,

that it disturbed his peace. Of course you could not come, under the

circumstances; he saw that; but he said over and over again that your

not coming was most unfortunate, and to you might be disastrous. At

the hours of the day and night when a train was due, nothing could

exceed the eagerness with which he looked for you, his restlessness

when it grew too late to admit of hope that you had come. The day

before he died, when he knew the end was approaching and he should not

live to see you, he caused himself to be propped up in bed, and had

pen-and-ink brought that he might write to you. He watched me seal up

the letter when it was finished, and charged me to send it to you when

all was over, but to be sure to enclose it privately, and to tell you

to open and read it when you were alone.--E. R."

Sending Edina's short note announcing the death of her father to Major

Raynor by a servant, Frank carried these lines and the doctor's letter

to his chamber: thereby obeying injunctions, but nevertheless

wondering at them very much. What could his uncle have to say to him

necessitating secrecy? Breaking the seal, he ran his eyes over the

almost illegible lines that the dying hand had traced.

"MY DEAR NEPHEW FRANK,

"I wanted to see you; I ought not to have put it off so long. But this

closing scene has come upon me somewhat suddenly: and now I cannot

write all I ought to, and should wish: and I must, of necessity, write

abruptly.

"_Are you conscious of being in any danger?_ Have you committed any

act that could bring you under the arm of the law? If so, take care of

yourself. A terrible rumour was whispered in my ears by Andrew Float,

connecting you with the hitherto unexplained fate of Bell the miner. I

charged Float to be silent--and I think he will be, for he is a kind

and good man, and only spoke to me that I might put you on your

guard--and I questioned Blase Pellet, from whom Float had heard it.

Pellet was sullen, obstinate, would not say much; but he did say that

he could hang you, and _would_ do it if you offended him or put

yourself in his way. I could not get anything more from him, and it

was not a subject that I cared to inquire into minutely, or could

pursue openly.

"My boy, you best know what grounds there may be for this

half-breathed accusation; whether any or none. I have scarcely had a

minute's peace since it reached me, now three weeks ago: in fact, it

has, I believe, brought on the crisis with me somewhat before it would

otherwise have come. At one moment I say to myself, It is a malicious

invention, an infamous lie; I know my boy Frank too well to believe

this, or anything else against him: the next moment I shudder at the

tale and at the possibility of what may have been enacted. Perhaps

through passion--or accident--or--I grow confused: I know not what I

would say.

"Oh, my boy, my nephew, my dear brother Henry's only child! my heart

is aching with dismay and doubt. I do believe you are innocent of all

intention to do harm; but--My sight is growing dim. _Take care of

yourself_. Hide yourself if need be (and you best know whether there

be need, or not) from Blase Pellet. It is he who would be your enemy.

I see it; and Andrew Float sees it; though we know not why or

wherefore. In any obscure nook of this wide world, shelter yourself

from him. Don't let him know where you are. If he does indeed hold

power in his hand, it may be your only chance of safety: _he said it

was so_. I can write no more. God bless and help you! Farewell.

"Your loving and anxious

"UNCLE HUGH."

Frank Raynor may have drawn many a deep breath in his life, but never

so deep a one as he drew now. Mechanically he folded the letter and

placed it in an inner pocket.

"Are you there, sir?"

The question came from outside the door, in the voice of one of the

servants. Frank unbolted it.

"Lunch is on the table, sir."

"Is it?" returned Frank, half bewildered. "I don't want any to-day,

James. Just say so. I am going out for a stroll."

The letters from Cornwall were never delivered at Eagles' Nest until

the midday post. Frank took his hat, and went out; bending his steps

whithersoever they chose to take him, so that he might be alone.

Strolling on mechanically, in deep thought, he plunged into a dark

coppice, and asked himself what he was to do. The letter had disturbed

him in no ordinary degree. It had taken all his spirit, all his

elasticity out of him: and that was saying a great deal for Frank

Raynor.

"I wish I could hang Blase Pellet!" he broke forth in his torment and

perplexity. "He deserves it richly. To disturb my poor uncle with his

malicious tongue! Villain!"

But Frank was unconsciously unjust. It was not Blase Pellet who had

disturbed Dr. Raynor. At least, he had not done it intentionally. To

do Blase justice, he was vexed that the doctor should have heard it,

for he held him in great respect and would not willingly have grieved

him. In an evil moment, when Blase had taken rather more than was

quite necessary--an almost unprecedented occurrence with him--he had

dropped the dangerous words to Andrew Float.

"Yes, I must hide from him, as my uncle says," resumed Frank,

referring to the advice in the letter. "There's no help for it. He

could be a dangerous enemy. For my own sake; for--every one's sake, I

must keep myself in some shelter where he cannot find me."

Emerging on to the open ground, Frank lifted his eyes, and saw,

standing near him, the man in grey, whom they had christened the

Tiger. He was leaning against the tree with bent head and folded arms,

apparently in deep thought. All in a moment, just as a personal fear

of him had rushed over Charles, so did it now rush over Frank. His

brain grew dizzy.

For the idea somehow struck him that the man was not wanting Charles

at all. But that he might be an emissary of Blase Pellet's, come

hither to look after himself and his movements.

CHAPTER IV.

AT JETTY'S.

John Jetty was the local carpenter. A master in a small way. His

workshop was in the village, Grassmere, near to Eagles' Nest; his

dwelling-house was on the common already described. In this house he

lived with his sister, Esther Jetty; a staid woman, more than ten

years older than himself: he being a smart, talkative, active, and

very intelligent man of two or three-and-thirty. The house, which they

rented of Major Raynor, was larger than they required, and Esther

Jetty was in the habit of letting a sitting and bedroom in it when she

could find a desirable lodger to occupy them.

On the Thursday in Passion Week, when she was in the midst of her

house-cleaning for Easter, and in the act of polishing the outside of

the spare sitting-room window, in which hung a card with "Lodgings"

inscribed on it, she noticed a man in grey clothes sauntering up from

the direction of the railway-station, an overcoat on his arm, and a

good-sized black bag in his hand.

"Some traveller from London," decided Esther Jetty, turning to gaze at

him; for a stranger in the quiet place was quite an event. "Come down

to spend Easter."