The thought had scarcely crossed her mind, when, somewhat to her

surprise, the stranger turned out of the path, walked directly towards

her, and took off his hat while he spoke.

"Have you lodgings to let?" he asked. "I see a card in your window."

"Yes, sir; I have two rooms," said she, respectfully, for the courtesy

of the lifted hat had favourably impressed her, and the tones of his

voice were courteous also, not at all like those of an individual in

humble station. "What a fine beard!" she thought to herself. "How

smooth and silky it is!"

"I want to stay in this place a few days," continued he, "and am

looking for lodgings. Perhaps yours would suit me."

Esther Jetty hastened to show the rooms. They were small, but clean,

comfortable, and prettily furnished: and the rent was ten shillings

per week.

"It is not too much, sir, at this season of the year, when summer's

coming on," she hastened to say, lest the amount should be objected

to. "I always try to make my lodgers comfortable, and cook for them

and wait on them well. The last I had--a sick young woman and her

little girl--stayed here all the winter and spring: they only left

three weeks ago."

The stranger's answer was to put down a sovereign. "That's the first

week's rent in advance," said he. "With the change you can get me some

mutton chops for my dinner. I shall not give you much trouble." And he

took possession of the rooms at once.

As the days had gone on, only a few as yet, Esther Jetty found that

his promise of not giving much trouble was kept. She had never had a

lodger who gave less. He lived very simply. His dinner generally

consisted of two mutton chops; his other food chiefly of eggs and

bread-and-butter. It was glorious weather; and he passed nearly all

his time out-of-doors.

Not a nook or corner of the immediate neighbourhood escaped his keen

eye, his, as it seemed, insatiable curiosity. He penetrated into the

small dwelling-houses, good and bad, asking questions of the inmates,

making friends with them all. He would stand by the half-hour side by

side with the out-door labourers, saying the land wanted this and that

done to it, and demanding why it was not done. But, there could be no

doubt that he was even more curious in regard to the Raynor family,

and especially to its eldest son, than he was as to the land and its

labourers: and the latter soon noticed that if by chance Charles

Raynor came into sight, the stranger would stroll off, apparently

without aim, towards him; and when Charles turned away, as he

invariably did, the man followed in his wake at a distance. In short,

it would seem that his chief business was to look surreptitiously

after some of the inmates of Eagles' Nest; and that his visits to the

land and the cottages, and his disparaging remarks thereupon, were

probably only taken up to pass the time away. These opinions, however,

grew upon people as time went on, rather than at the beginning of his

stay.

Easter week passed. On the following Sunday the stranger went to

church; and, after the service began, took up a place whence he had

full view of the large square pew belonging to Eagles' Nest. On Easter

Sunday he had sat at the back of the church, out of sight. Charles,

Alice, and Frank were in the pew to-day, with the governess and little

Kate: Mrs. Raynor was at home with Frank's wife, then lying

dangerously ill; the major had not come. This was two days before they

received news of Dr. Raynor's death. Charles was rendered miserably

uncomfortable during the service by the presence of the Tiger opposite

to him--as might be read by any one in the secret of his fears, and

was read by Frank. Never did Charles raise his eyes but he saw those

of the Tiger fixed on him. In fact, the Tiger studied the faces in

Major Raynor's pew more attentively than he studied his book.

"He is taking toll of me that he may know me again: I don't suppose he

knew me before, or his work would have been done and over," thought

Charles. "What a precious idiot I was to come to church! Thank Heaven,

he can't touch me on a Sunday." And when the service was ended, the

Tiger coolly stood in the churchyard and watched the family pass him,

looking keenly at Charles.

He had in like manner watched them into church. From a shady nook in

the same churchyard, he had stood, himself unseen, looking at the

congregation as they filed in. When the bell had ceased, and the last

person seemed to have entered, then the Tiger followed, and put

himself in the best place for seeing the Raynors. It was, however, the

first and last time Charles was annoyed in a similar manner. On

subsequent Sundays, the Tiger, if he went to church at all, was lost

amidst the general congregation.

On this same Sunday evening, John Jetty found himself invited to take

a pipe with his lodger. They sat in the arbour in the back-garden,

amidst the herbs, the spring cabbages, and the early flowers. Jetty

never wanted any inducement to talk. He was not of a wary nature by

any means, and did not observe how skilfully and easily the thread of

his discourse was this evening turned on the Raynors and their

affairs. No man in the place could have supplied more correct

information to a stranger than he. He was often at work in the house,

was particularly intimate with Lamb the butler, who had lived with

Mrs. Atkinson; as had two or three of the other head servants; and

they had the family politics at their fingers' ends. Mrs. Raynor had

brought one servant from Spring Lawn; the nurse; the woman knew all

about her branch of the family, Frank included, and had no objection

to relate news for the new people's benefit, who in their turn

repeated it to Jetty. Consequently Jetty was as much at home in the

family archives as the Raynors were themselves.

"Is the estate entailed on the major's son?" questioned the Tiger, in

a pause of the conversation.

"I don't think it's strictly entailed on him, sir, but of course he'll

have it," was Jetty's answer. "Indeed, it is no secret that the major

has made a will and left it to him. Mrs. Atkinson bequeathed it

entirely to the major: she didn't entail it."

"Who was Mrs. Atkinson?" asked the Tiger.

"Why, the possessor of the estate before him," cried Jetty, in accents

full of surprise. To him, familiar for many years with Eagles' Nest

and its people, it sounded strange to hear any one asking who Mrs.

Atkinson was. "She was an old lady, sir, sister to the major, and it

all belonged to her. He only came into it last year when she died."

"Had she no sons?"

"No, sir; not any. I never heard that she did have any. Her husband

was a banker in London; he bought this place a good many years ago.

After his death Mrs. Atkinson entirely lived in it."

"Then--it is sure to come to the major's eldest son?"

"As sure as sure can be," affirmed Jetty, replenishing his pipe at his

lodger's invitation. "The major would not be likely to will it away to

anybody else."

"I saw two young men in the pew to-day: one quite young, scarcely out

of his teens, I should say; the other some years older. Which of them

was the son?"

"Oh, the youngest. The other is a nephew; Mr. Frank Raynor. He is very

good-looking, he is: such a pleasant face, with nice blue eyes and

bright hair. Not but what Mr. Charles is good-looking, too, in a

different way."

"Mr. Charles looks to me like an insolent young puppy," freely

commented the Tiger. "And has a haughty air with it: as though he were

king of the country and all the rest of us were his subjects." The

probability was that Charles had honoured the staring Tiger with all

the haughty and insolent looks he could call up throughout the

service.

"Well, he is a bit haughty sometimes," acknowledged the carpenter.

"Folks have found him so. He is just home from Oxford, sir, and I

fancy has been spending pretty freely there: Lamb just gave me a hint.

But if you want pleasant words and cordial manners, you must go to the

nephew, Mr. Frank.

"What is _he_ doing here?" dryly asked the stranger, after a pause.

"He is a doctor, sir."

"A doctor? Is he in practice here?"

"Oh no. He is waiting to set up in London, and staying down here till

he does it."

"What is he waiting for?"

"Well, sir, for money, I guess. The Raynors are open-natured people

and don't scruple to talk of things before their servants, so that

there's not much but what's known. When the late Mrs. Atkinson died, a

good deal of stir arose about some money of hers that could not be

found: thousands and thousands of pounds, it was said. It could

neither be found, nor the papers relating to it."

"Is it not found yet?" asked the Tiger, stroking his silky beard.

"Not yet. The major is anxiously waiting for it: not a day passes,

Lamb says, but he is sure to remark that it may turn up the next. Mr.

Frank Raynor is to have some of this money to set him up in

practice."

"Did Mrs. Atkinson not leave any money to him? He must have been a

relation of hers?"

"Oh yes, she left him money. I forget what it was now--a good sum,

though."

"Why does he not set up with that?" questioned the Tiger, wonderingly.

"He has spent it, sir. He and his young wife went abroad, and lived

away, I suppose. Any way, the money's gone, Lamb says. But Mr. Frank's

as nice a fellow as ever lived."

"Did he----" began the stranger, and then broke off, as if in doubt

whether or not to put the question: but in a moment went on firmly.

"Did he ever live at Trennach, in Cornwall?"

"Trennach?" repeated Jetty, considering. "Yes, sir, I think that's

where he did live. Yes, I'm sure that is the name. He was in practice

there with another uncle, one Dr. Raynor, and might have stopped there

and come into the practice after him. A rare good opening for him,

it's said: but he preferred to go elsewhere."

"Preferred to travel and see the world," spoke the stranger,

cynically. "Are Major Raynor's revenues good ones?"

"Well, sir, I know in Mrs. Atkinson's time this estate was said to

bring in a clear two thousand a-year. And Major Raynor had of course

an income before he came into it: but that, I hear, is only an

annuity, and goes from him at his death."

"Then, if his revenues amount to that--from two to three thousand

a-year--how is it that he does not do the repairs necessary on the

estate, and keep up the land, and help to ameliorate the condition of

the wretched serfs about him?" demanded the stranger.

Jetty shook his head. "I don't think it is the will that's wanting,"

replied he. "The major seems to be thoroughly good-hearted and Lamb

says he is one of the easiest masters he could ever wish to serve. No,

it is not the will, sir, that is wanting."

"What is it, then? The money?"

Jetty nodded in the affirmative. "They live at such a rate, you see,

sir; and it is said the major had a lot of back-debts to pay when he

came here. Altogether, he has nothing to spare."

"Then he ought to have," asserted the Tiger, tapping thoughtfully at

his pipe, that lay on the table. "Does he never visit his tenements

and see into things for himself?"

"No, sir, not he. 'Twould be too much exertion for him. He can't walk

about much; never comes beyond his own garden gates; never."

The Tiger paused. "This young Frank Raynor's wife, who is lying ill:

had she no money?"

"No, sir. Her family have plenty, I expect, for they live at some

grand place down in Cornwall. But she has none. It was a runaway match

that she and Mr. Frank made, so she couldn't expect any."

The Tiger nodded two or three times, as if in self-commune. "I see,"

said he: "these Raynors are an improvident set altogether.

Thoughtless, cruel, selfish, upstart and purse-proud. From what little

I have noticed during the few days I have been here, that is the

impression they make upon me: and what you say confirms it."

He took his pipe up from the table as he spoke, knocked the ashes out

of it, and put it into its case. An intimation, John Jetty thought,

that their social hour was at an end: and he went away, respectfully

wishing his lodger good-evening.

Easter was over; and the time for going back to Oxford for the coming

term was past. Charles Raynor had not gone up to keep it. He had to

confess to the major that he did not care to go back without a good

sum of money, apart from his allowance; he might have said, dared not

go. It was not convenient to find the sum: so the major decided that

Charles must miss that one term, and keep the next.

The weeks went on. Charles had in a degree got over his dread of the

Tiger--who still remained on in his lodgings--for it was now very

evident that if that mysterious man's mission at Grassmere were to

take him into custody for debt, it might have been accomplished ere

this. Nevertheless, so strongly do first impressions retain their hold

upon us, his dislike of the man continued in all its force.

But, as Charles's alarm subsided, Frank's increased. The more evident

it became that Charles was not the Tiger's object, the more surely did

it seem to Frank that he himself was. It was a fear he could not speak

of, but his secret uneasiness was great. Neither he nor Charles could

fail to see that the man's daily business appeared to be that of

watching the movements of the Raynor family, especially those of the

two young men. Not watching offensively, but in a quiet, easy,

unobtrusive manner. Frank fully believed that the man was a secret

emissary of Blase Pellet's sent there to see that he did not escape

his toils.

Major Raynor had never seen this man: and Frank and Charles, each for

his own private and individual reasons, had refrained from speaking

about him. Of late the major had chiefly confined himself to the

gardens immediately attached to his house. There were two reasons for

this: the one, that he had now grown so very stout as to render

walking a trouble to him, and when he did go out it was in a carriage;

the other, that he never went beyond his inner fence but he was sure

to meet one or other of those wretched malcontents; who thought

nothing of accosting him and asking him to do this, and to do that. So

matters remained pretty stationary: the major indolently nursing

himself in his easy-chair on the lawn; the young men enjoying their

private discomforts; and the Tiger peering into every conceivable spot

open to him, and making himself better acquainted with the general

shortcomings of the Raynors, in regard to the estate and the people on

it, than they were themselves.

It was Saturday evening. Alice sat at the piano in the drawing-room,

singing songs in the twilight to the intense gratification of William

Stane, who stood over her. The young barrister frequently ran down

home the last day of the week, to remain over the Sunday with his

family. As a matter of course, he spent a great part of the time at

Eagles' Nest. The major sat back in the room, dozing; Charles was

listlessly turning over a pile of music. Eagles' Nest had given an

afternoon party that day; a fashionable kettledrum; but the guests had

departed.

"I can scarcely see," said Alice, as her lover placed a new song

before her. She was in the dress she had worn in the afternoon: a

black gauze trimmed with white ribbons, with silver bracelets and

other silver ornaments, and looked charmingly lovely. They were in

mourning for Dr. Raynor.

"I'll ring for lights," said Charles. "I can't see, either."

The talking had aroused the major. "We don't want lights yet," said

he. "It is pleasanter as it is."

"Sing the songs you know by heart," whispered William Stane. "After

all, they are the best and sweetest."

Presently Lamb came in of his own accord, with the wax-lights. The

major, waking up again, made no objection now, but forbade the

shutters to be closed.

"It's a pity to shut out that moonlight," said he. Not that the

moonlight could have interested him much, for in another minute he was

asleep again. He had grown strangely drowsy of late. So the room was

lighted up, and the moonlight streamed in at the window.

Frank entered. He had been sitting upstairs with his wife, who was

still very ill. In fact, this had been an unusually prolonged and

critical sickness. Taking up his position at the window, Frank

listened silently to the song then in progress. Charles came up to

him.

"How is she to-night, Frank?"

"No better. If---- Look there!" he suddenly exclaimed, his voice sunk

to a whisper.

Some one had walked deliberately by, outside the window, gazing at

what there might be to see within the room. Was it the Tiger? Frank's

heart beat nineteen to the dozen.

"Did you see him, Charley?"

"Who was it?" whispered Charley.

"I'm not quite sure; he passed so quickly. The Tiger, I conclude. Yes,

I feel sure of it. I know the cut of his hat."

"What consummate impudence, to be trespassing here!"

They both left the room, made their way to a side-door, and looked

out. No one was in sight; and yet, whosoever it was that had passed

must have come that way.

"He has turned back," said Charley: and as he spoke he advanced

cautiously amidst the shrubs that skirted that end of the house, and

looked round at the front.

No. Not a soul was to be seen or heard. Had he scampered straight

across the lawn and made off? It seemed like it.

"I wonder what it's coming to!" cried Charley. "Could we have him

warned off the estate, I wonder?"

"Hardly," spoke Frank, in a dreamy tone.

"I _cannot_ think what he does here," exclaimed Charles. "If he had

any evil intentions, he--he would have acted upon them before now."

"You mean as to yourself, Charley. Rely upon it, you are out of the

matter altogether."

"Who's in it, then?"

"Myself, perhaps."

The answer was given quietly and easily: but there was something in

its tone that kept Charles from regarding it as a jest.

"_You_ are not in debt, are you, Frank?" he cried hastily.

"Not that I know of."

"I declare for the moment I thought you must be in earnest," said

Charles, relieved. "It is uncommonly strange what the fellow can want

here!"

Frank said no more. They paced about for some time, without their

hats, in the bright moonlight, talking of other matters. In crossing

the path to the house; they met Jetty the carpenter coming away from

it, a frail in his hand, out of which a saw was standing upright. The

man had been doing some repairs indoors.

"Jetty," said Charles, accosting him, and speaking upon impulse, "who

is the man that lodges with you? The fellow with the great brown

beard, who goes about in a suit of grey."

"I don't know who he is in particular, sir," replied Jetty. "He is a

very quiet lodger, and pays regular."

"What is he down here for?"

"Well, I think for his health," said Jetty. "He told us he had not

been well for some time before he came to Grassmere."

"What is his name?"

"That I don't know, sir----"

"Not know his name?" interrupted Charles, impatiently.

"Well, sir, I was going to say that I don't know it from himself. He

is uncommonly close as to his own affairs: though he likes well enough

to hear about other people's. As to his name, he did not mention it

when he first came in, and my sister said she did not like to ask him.

But----"

"I never knew such a thing as not knowing a lodger's name," went on

Charles, getting excited over it, whilst Frank stood by in perfect

silence. "Does the man not get any letters?"

"Yes, sir. But they don't come to the house; they are left at the

post-office in Grassmere, and he fetches them himself. The other

morning, when Esther went into his parlour, he was reading one of

these letters, and the cover lay on the table, address upwards. She

was not quick enough to read the name on it, for he took it up, but

she saw it was a short name and began with a G."

"Grim, no doubt," said Charles.

"'Mr. G----, Post Office, Grassmere.' That was it, sir."

"I must say I should like to know who he is and what he is doing

here," continued Charles. "Good-night, Jetty."

Jetty touched his cap and went away with rapid strides. Drawing near

to his home, he overtook the Tiger, sauntering along with slow steps.

"You are late to-night, Jetty."

"Yes, sir," replied the carpenter, suiting his pace to that of the

speaker. "I had to put some new shelves into one of the kitchen

cupboards at Eagles' Nest, and it has taken me longer than I thought

for."

"All going on well there?" continued the Tiger.

"First rate," said Jetty. "They had a great party this afternoon; one

of those new-fashioned kettledrums. Such an entertainment it was! such

fine dresses!"

"I thought the son, Charles Raynor, was keeping his terms at Oxford,"

resumed the Tiger, after giving himself time to digest the information

touching the kettledrum. "Why is he not keeping this term?"

"Well, sir," said Jetty, beginning to answer in his usual favourite

mode, and lowering his voice, though they were quite alone on the

common: "I believe Mr. Charles can't show his face at Oxford until he

is better up in funds; so he is omitting this term."

"Debts--eh?" cried the Tiger, but without any appearance of surprise.

"And the major has not the funds to spare for them?"

"Well, sir, that's to be inferred."

"Meanwhile the lad fills up his days and hours at home with dancing,

and smoking, and kettledrums, and other good-for-nothing amusements. A

nice way of spending one's life!"

"Young men will be young men, sir--though they are but lads," spoke

Jetty, deprecatingly.

"Yes; young men will be young men: some of them, at any rate," came

the mocking retort. "But in all my days I never saw a young man who

appeared more likely to go straight down to ruin than Charles Raynor."

CHAPTER V.

SIR PHILIP'S MISSION.

Major Raynor sat in his favourite seat on the lawn at Eagles' Nest, at

drowsy peace with himself and with the world. Of late the major had

always been drowsy: morning, noon, and night, no matter what company

he was in, he might be seen nodding. Frank, as a medical man, did not

like the signs. He spoke to his uncle of the necessity of rousing

himself, of taking more exercise, of indulging somewhat less in good

luncheons and dinners. The major made an effort to obey: for two days

he actually walked about the lawn for twenty minutes, refused two rich

entrées, took at each meal one glass less of wine. But the efforts

ended there, and on the third day the major gave up reformation as a

bad job.

"It's of no use, Frank, my boy. You young folk can be upon the run all

day if you choose, and live upon bread-and-cheese and beer; but we old

ones require ease; we can't be put about."

So the major sat at ease this day as usual, lazily thinking, and

dropping into a doze. A letter had been received that morning from

Edina, in answer to an invitation from Major and Mrs. Raynor to come

and make her home with them now that she was alone in the world. Edina

declined it for the present. She was staying at Trennach parsonage

with Mr. and Mrs. Pine: her plans were not decided upon; but the

clergyman and his wife would not yet spare her. She had many affairs

to settle at Trennach. Mr. Hatman had taken to the practice, as had

been arranged, and to the house; but Edina could not leave the place

at present. She hoped to pay Eagles' Nest a visit in the course of the

summer.

Thinking of this, and subsiding into dozing, sat the major. The hum of

the insects sounded in his ears, the scent of the rich flowering

hawthorn was heavy in the air. Though not yet summer by the calendar,

for May was still reigning, the season was unusually premature, and

the weather was, to all intents and purposes, that of summer. Bees

were sipping at the honey-blossoms, butterflies fluttered from flower

to flower. All nature seemed conducive to repose, and--the major was

soon fast asleep, and choking as though he were being strangled.

"You are wanted, if you please, sir."

The words aroused him. Opening his eyes, and sitting upright in his

chair, he saw his butler by his side.

"What do you say, Lamb? Wanted? Who is it?"

"Sir Philip Stane, sir. He is in the drawing-room."

The major took a draught of his champagne-cup, standing on the table

by his side. Which cup, it must be confessed, was much more innocent

than its name would imply. A quart or two of it would not have hurt

any one: and the major was always thirsty. Crossing the lawn, he went

into the drawing-room. Sir Philip Stane, a little man with a white

shirt-frill, a cold face, and a remarkably composed manner, rose at

his entrance. Major Raynor shook hands with him in his hearty way, and

they sat down together.

For some few minutes the conversation turned on general topics; but

soon the knight gave the major to understand that he had come to speak

upon a particular subject: the attachment of his son to Miss Raynor.

"It has for some time been observable that they are thinking of one

another," remarked he.

"Well, yes, I suppose it has," said the major. "We have noticed it

here."

"William is getting on fairly well; he calculates that he will make at

least seven-hundred pounds this year. Quite enough, he thinks, to

begin housekeeping upon, with help. With help, major."

"I should have thought it unbounded riches in my marrying days,"

observed the major.

"William considers that he would be justified in setting up a home,

provided he can be met," continued Sir Philip in his deliberate,

sententious way, presenting a direct contrast to the major's

heartiness. "Young people do not of course expect to begin as they may

hope to end: riches must come by degrees."

"Quite right," said the major.

"And therefore, with a view to the consideration of the matter--to

finally deciding whether my son may be justified, or not, in settling

this year--I have come to ask you, Major Raynor, what portion you

intend to bestow upon your daughter."

"Not any," replied the plain-speaking major. "I have none to bestow."

Sir Philip looked at him blankly. He did not appear to understand.

"My will is good, Sir Philip. I would give a portion to Alice heartily

if I possessed it. Thousands, I'm sure, the young people should be

welcome to, if they needed it."

"Do you mean to say that you--that you will not bestow any portion

whatever upon your daughter when she marries?" asked Sir Philip, in a

tone of cold astonishment.

"I'm sorry that I can't do it," said the major. "I wish I could. If

that lost money of mine would only turn up----"

"Then, I am afraid, I--cannot say what I had come to say," returned

Sir Philip, with the air of a man who deliberates aloud, and quite

ignoring the major's interrupted sentence. "I could not advise my son

to settle upon the few hundreds a-year that make up his present

income."

"Why, it's abundance," cried the candid major. "You have just said

yourself that young people cannot expect to begin as they will end.

Your son's is a rising income: if he makes seven-hundred this year, he

may expect to make ten next, and double the seven the year after. It

is ample to begin upon, Sir Philip."

"No," dissented Sir Philip. "Neither he nor I would consider it so.

Something should be put by for a rainy day. This communication has

completely taken me by surprise, Major Raynor. We took it for granted

that your daughter would at least add her quota to the income: had it

been only three or four hundred a-year. Without money of her own,

there could be no settlement on her, you see, my son's not being real

property."

The major was growing a little heated. He did not at all like the turn

the conversation was taking, or Sir Philip's dictatorial tone.

"Well, you hear, Sir Philip, that Alice has nothing. Those who wish to

take her, must take her as she is--portionless--or not at all."

Sir Philip Stane rose. "I am sorry, then, major, that I cannot ask

what I was about to ask for--herself. Your daughter----"

"You are not wanted to ask it, sir," hotly interrupted the major.

"The fact of your daughter's being portionless debars it," quietly

went on the knight. "I am very sorry indeed to have troubled you, and

subjected myself to pain. William must consider his pretensions at an

end."

"They are at an end," fired the major. "If it is money he has been

thinking of all this time, he ought to be ashamed of himself for a

calculating, mercenary young rascal. Were he to come to me on his

knees, after this, begging for my daughter, he should not have her.

That's my answer, Sir Philip Stane, and you can take it away with

you."

The major's tug at the bell-rope sent a peal echoing through the

house. But Sir Philip Stane's hand was already on the door-handle,

letting himself out with a short "good-morning."

Away went the major, hunting for Alice. He found her with her mother.

Hotly and explosively he gave an account of the interview; of what he

called the mercenary conduct of Sir Philip and William Stane. Poor

Alice turned hot and cold: red and white by turns. She took the

indignity--as she was pleased to think it--quite as resentfully as the

major.

"I forbid you to have anything to do with him after this, Alice. I

forbid you to see him again."

"You need not forbid me, papa," was the answer. "I should not think of

it."

Major Raynor was one who could not keep in anything, good or bad,

especially any grievance. He went about the house, looking for Charles

and Frank, that he might impart the news, and so let off a little of

his superfluous anger. But he could not find either of them.

Matters were going on much as usual. Daisy was progressing so far

towards recovery that she could sit at the open window of her chamber

and revel in the balmy air, while feasting her eyes upon the charming

landscape. Charles was in a little extra trouble; for he had been

written to twice upon the subject of the fifty-pound bill that was

overdue. And Frank, outwardly gay as the flowers of May, was inwardly

on thorns and nettles.

That that mysterious personage, the Tiger, was wasting his days and

hours at Grassmere on Frank Raynor's account, Frank felt persuaded of.

To him it seemed an indisputable fact. The man did not molest him: did

not appear to take particular notice of him; he had not yet accosted

him: but Frank knew that all the while he was craftily watching his

movements, to see that he did not escape. It needed not a conjuror to

tell him that the Tiger was the spy of Blase Pellet.

The espionage was growing intolerable to Frank. And on this very day,

just about the time that Sir Philip Stane was at Eagles' Nest, he

flung prudence to the winds, and questioned the enemy. The Tiger had

wandered as near to the house as he could, without being guilty of a

positive trespass: and Frank, chancing to turn out of what was called

Beech Walk, came face to face with him. It was the first time they had

thus closely met. For half-a-minute they gazed at each other. The

Tiger stood his ground, and quietly took from his pocket a small

note-case of brown morocco leather, with the initials "C.R." stamped

upon it in gilt.

"Does this belong to you?" questioned the Tiger.

"Not to me," replied Frank. "But I believe it belongs to my cousin,

Mr. Raynor.

"I picked it up a few minutes ago as I was strolling along. Perhaps

you will be so good us to give it to its owner."

Frank took the case from the Tiger, and thanked him. Even to this man,

suspecting him as he did for a despicable spy, he could only be

courteous. And, indeed, but for this suspicion, Frank would rather

have liked the man's face, now he saw it closely; the thought passed

through his mind that, for a Tiger, he was a civilized one. There was

a tone of pleasant freedom in the voice; the dark grey eyes, gazing

steadily into Frank's, were earnest and good.

"You come from Trennach," said Frank suddenly, speaking upon impulse.

"From Trennach?" repeated the stranger, vaguely, and evincing no

surprise.

"Or from some one there," continued Frank. "Employed by him to--to

look after his villainous interests here."

"I am my own employer, young man."

"What is your name, pray?"

"If I thought it concerned you to know it, I might, perhaps, inform

you," was the answer, civilly delivered.

"But suppose it does concern me?"

"It is my opinion that it does not."

"At any rate your business here does."

"Does it?"

"Will you deny that you have business here? Business of a private

nature?"

"I cannot deny that, for it is true."

"And that your business consists in peeping, and watching, and

spying?"

"You are partly right."

"And," continued Frank, growing warm, "don't you think that to peep

and to spy is a despicable proceeding?"

"In some cases it may undoubtedly be so regarded," was the calm, cool

answer. "In other cases it is perfectly justifiable. When some good

end, for instance, has to be obtained: or, let us say, a problem

worked out."

"The devil can quote Scripture, we are told, to serve his own

purposes," muttered Frank to himself as he turned away, afraid of

pursuing the subject, half afraid of what revelation the man might

make, and of his fearless grey eyes and their steadfast gaze.

They strode apart one from another at right angles. The stranger with

careless, easy steps, with profound composure: Frank less easy than

usual.

"I wonder," soliloquized he, "whether Pellet has let him into that

unhappy night's secret, or whether he has only given him general

instructions to look after me, and has kept him in the dark? Any way,

I wish Blase Pellet was----"

The wish, whatever it might have been, was left unspoken. For the

Tiger had changed his course. Had turned to follow Frank at a fleet

pace, and now came up with him.

"Will you tell me, sir, what induced you to assume that I had come

here from Trennach? And for what purpose I am 'spying'?--and upon

whom?"

"There's no need to tell you," rejoined Frank. "You know too well

already."

"And if I tell you that I do not know?"

"I hope you don't. It's all the same," returned Frank, indifferently,

believing he was being played with.

"Perhaps you have run up debts at Trennach, and are mistaking me for a

sheriff's officer?" proceeded the Tiger, once more gazing steadfastly

at Frank as he spoke. "Your cousin, the major's son, has been taking

me for one."

"How on earth did he get to know that?" thought Frank. And it seemed

to be so confirmatory of the Tiger's accomplishments in the prying

line, that Frank felt as much exasperated as his sweet-tempered nature

was capable of feeling.

"Your road lies that way, and mine this," spoke Frank, with a wave of

the hand. "Good-morning."

The Tiger stood still, looking after his receding footsteps. A very

peculiar expression sat on his face, not altogether complimentary to

Frank.

"A curious lot, these Raynors," concluded he to himself, as he turned

to pursue his own way.

It was perhaps rather remarkable that Charles Raynor should also, on

this same day, be brought into contact with the Tiger for the first

time. Charley's troubles were culminating to a point: at least, in so

far that he was about to be pressed for one of his debts, though he

knew it not. It would come upon Charley something like a shock. Since

fear, on the score of the Tiger, had subsided, he had enjoyed a

complete immunity from _personal_ annoyance; and this had lulled his

apprehensions to rest; so that he went about here, there, and

everywhere, feeling free as air.

He had been out in the dog-cart all the morning. Upon going indoors on

his return, by the entrance that was nearest to the stables, in

passing the butler's pantry he saw Lamb standing in it. The man made a

sudden movement as though he would speak to him, and it arrested

Charley.

"Do you want me, Lamb?" he asked, halting on his way.

Lamb dropped his voice to a mysterious whisper, and Charley

instinctively moved inside, and shut the door. Lamb knew nearly as

much about his young master's embarrassments as he himself knew.

"A party has been here this morning who wanted to see you, Mr.

Charles. When I said you were out--gone up to London, I thought--he

seemed as if he hardly believed me. I began to think I shouldn't get

rid of him."

"Who was it?" asked Charles.

"It was a respectable-looking man, sir. Highly respectable, one might

be tempted to call him, if his errand had not been to bother people

for money. Being near the neighbourhood, he had turned aside to

Grassmere to see you, he said, and his business with you was

particular. Of course I knew what it all meant, Mr. Charles, and I

declared you were gone out for the day and couldn't be seen though he

waited till night."

"I wonder which of them it was?" mused Charley. "Did he give his

name?"

"Yes, sir; Huddles. He----"

"Oh, Huddles, is it?" interrupted Charley, his mouth falling. "I'm

glad I didn't see him. Is he gone for good, do you think, Lamb?"

"I should say so, sir. I fully impressed upon him that his waiting

would be no earthly use. I even said, Mr. Charles, that there was no

answering for your return when you went to London, and that you might

be there a week, for all I could say. I told him he had better write

to you, sir. 'Very well,' he said in answer, and went off with a quick

step: no doubt to catch the next train."

"That's all right then," said Charley, completely reassured. "Any

visitors been here, Lamb?"

"Sir Philip Stane called, sir. And some ladies are in the drawing-room

now. Would you like some refreshment, Mr. Charles?"

"No, I'll wait till dinnertime."

But it still wanted some two or three hours to dinnertime. Presently

Charles went strolling out on foot, digesting the unpleasant item of

news that his father had just hastened to impart to him--the sneaking

behaviour, as he called it, of William Stane. Charles felt greatly

vexed and annoyed at it for Alice's sake. He was sure there was a

mutual attachment, and had believed that they understood each other.

Lost in reflections on this subject, and never giving a thought to the

matter imparted to him by Lamb, his eyes never raised, his footsteps

wandering on almost as they would, Charley found himself passing along

the common, on the side of the better houses. Words of salutation

greeted him.

"Good-afternoon, sir. A hot day again, is it not?"

They came from Miss Jetty, the carpenter's sister. She was sitting at

work at her open window. Charles lifted his eyes to nod to her; and

that enabled him to see some one who was approaching at a short

distance. _Huddles_. Charley recognized him; and on the spur of the

moment darted into the carpenter's to hide.

"I hope and trust he did not see me!"

But Mr. Huddles had seen him. Mr. Huddles came up with a long stride,

and was inside the house almost as soon as Charley was. Charley could

not pretend to be blind then. He stood just within Esther Jetty's

sitting-room; and the applicant stood in the passage facing him.

"I called at Eagles' Nest to-day, Mr. Charles Raynor, and could not

see you. You know of course what it was I wanted?"

Charles was taken aback. What with the unpleasantness of the surprise,

the consciousness of the helpless state of his finances, and the

proximity of Miss Esther Jetty's eyes and ears, raised in curiosity,

he was turning frightfully cross. A few sharp, haughty words greeted

Huddles, apparently causing him astonishment. This application

concerned one of the two "bills" given by Charley; the one on which no

proceedings had as yet been taken.

"Can you meet that bill, Mr. Charles Raynor?"

"No, I can't," replied Charles. "I wrote you word that I would meet it

as soon as I could; that bill and the other also; and so I will. You

must wait."

"For how long, Mr. Raynor? It is inconvenient to wait."

Charles flew into a passion. But for Esther Jetty's presence, he would

have managed much better; that of course behoved him to carry matters

with a high hand, and he showered abuse on Mr. Huddles in haughty

language, forgetful of diplomacy. Mr. Huddles, not at all the sort of

man to be dealt with in this manner, repaid him in his own coin. Had

Charles met him civilly, he would have been civil also; ay, and

forbearing. The bills--he held them both--had only come into his hands

in the course of business. He was really respectable, both as a man

and a tradesman, not accustomed to be spoken to in such a fashion, and

most certainly in this instance did not deserve it. His temper rose. A

short, sharp storm ensued, and Mr. Huddles went out of the house in

anger, leaving a promise behind him.

"I have been holding the two bills over for you, Mr. Charles Raynor,

and staying proceedings out of consideration to you and at your

request. And this is the gratitude I get in return! The affair is none

of mine, as you know; and what I have done has been simply out of

good-nature, for I was sorry to see so young a man in danger of

exposure, perhaps of a debtor's prison. I will not delay proceedings

another day. The bills shall pass out of my hands, and you must do the

best you can for yourself."

Whilst Charles stood knitting his brow and looking very foolish,

staring at the front-door, which still vibrated with the bang Mr.

Huddles gave it, and not half liking to turn and face Esther Jetty,

the parlour-door on the other side of the passage, which had been ajar

all the time, opened, and the Tiger appeared at it. He must have been

an ear-witness to the whole. It did not tend to decrease Charley's

annoyance: and, in truth, the sudden appearance of this man upon the

scene, in conjunction with the visit of Huddles, revived Charley's

suspicions of him. The Tiger's face wore quite a benevolent aspect.

"Can I be of any use to you?" he asked. "I will be if I can. Step in

here, Charles Raynor, and let us talk it over."

Charley lost his head. The words only added fuel to fire. Coming from

this sneak of a sheriff's officer, or whatever other disreputable

thing he might be, they sounded in his ears in the light of an

insult--a bit of casuistry designed to entrap him. And he treated them

accordingly.

"_You_ be of use to me!" he contemptuously retorted, with all the

scorn he could call up. "Mind your own business, man, if you can.

Don't presume to interfere with mine."

And out of the house strode Charley, banging the door in his turn, and

sending a good-afternoon to Esther Jetty through the open window. The

Tiger shrugged his shoulders with a disdainful gesture: as much as to

say that the young man was not worth a thought and that he washed his

hands of him and his concerns. Taking up his slouching hat, he put it

well over his forehead, stood for a few minutes at the outer door, and

then passed through the little gate.

"Wouldn't you like your tea, sir?" called Esther Jetty from the

window. "I was just about to get it."

"Presently," replied the Tiger.

Meanwhile Charles Raynor was striding towards home, full of bitter

repentance. All the folly of his recent conduct was presenting itself

before him.

"I wish I had met the fellow differently!" he soliloquized, alluding

to Huddles. "There can be no more putting-off now. A day or two and

they will be down upon me. I think I was a fool! What a to-do there'll

be at home! How on earth will the money be found?--and what will be

the upshot of it all?"

Indeed, it seemed that, with one thing and another, Eagles' Nest was

not altogether comfortable. Most of its inmates had some secret

trouble upon them. And yet not twelve months ago they had entered upon

it, all glee and joy, believing their days would henceforth be

delightful as a second Paradise!

The next afternoon but one, Saturday, brought William Stane. Alice

chanced to be in the shrubbery, and met him. His countenance proved

that he felt vexed, doubtful, ill at ease. Instead of the tender

glance and smile that had been wont to greet Alice, he had a grave eye

and knitted brow. The look angered her, even more than had the

reported words of Sir Philip on the Thursday before.

What precisely passed between them perhaps neither could afterwards

clearly recall. He said something about how sorry he was that their

happy intercourse should have been marred; Alice interrupted him with

a sharp and haughty retort. William Stane retorted in his turn; and

things were spoken between them, in the moment's ill-feeling, that

could neither be unsaid nor qualified. Prejudiced by his father's

account of the unsatisfactory interview with the major, he had come,

naturally inclined to espouse his father's side; Alice on her part

upheld their own cause. Very short indeed was the scene, but it was

decisive.

"I am sorry to have been so mistaken in you, Miss Raynor," he said,

turning to depart. "No great harm has, however, been done."

"None," returned Alice. "Fare you well."

He raised his hat without speaking, and the echoes of his retreating

footsteps died away in the shrubbery.

Thus they parted. The fault being at least as much Alice's as his.

Whether he had come to straighten matters, to repudiate the fiat Sir

Philip had pronounced, Alice knew not, but she did not allow him the

opportunity. If the possession of Eagles' Nest had taught nothing else

to Major Raynor's children, it had certainly taught them to be

arrogant. The world seemed made for them, and for them alone.

Alice went upstairs humming a gay song, and passed into Daisy's room.

She halted at the glass, glancing at her pretty face, at the

brightness of the blue eyes, at the unusual flush on her cheeks.

Frank's wife turned round.

"You are gay this afternoon, Alice."

"Gay as a fairy," replied Alice. "It is lovely out-of-doors. The sun's

shining and the birds are singing."

A few days went on. Charley was in a state of mental collapse. For,

not one single minute of those days came and went but he was on the

look-out for some dreadful shock, emanating from the enemy, Huddles.

Each night, as darkness fell, he felt not at all thankful that the

blow had kept off, concluding that the morrow would bring it. It

seemed to him at times that its falling would bring relief, by ending

his almost unbearable suspense.

Alice continued gay; gay as a lark. Was it assumed, this gaiety, or

was it real? Perhaps she herself did not know.

"You could not have cared very much for William Stane, Alice, or he

for you," one day remarked her mother, to whom the affair had given

pain, interrupting Alice in the carolling of a song, sung to an

impromptu dance.

"Cared for him, mamma!" she returned, in her spirit of bravado. "I am

well rid of him."

Mrs. Raynor sighed. Alice had so changed: not, she feared, for the

better. So had Charles. Good fortune had ruined them all.

CHAPTER VI.

STARTLING NEWS.

The first of June. A day destined to be an eventful one at Eagles'

Nest. At five o'clock in the morning the house was aroused from its

peaceful slumbers by a commotion. Mrs. Raynor's bell was ringing

violently; Mrs. Raynor's voice was calling for help in loud and

anxious tones. Major Raynor had been taken ill.

Frank was first at the bedside. His uncle lay unconscious, or partly

so, exhibiting alarming symptoms. An attack of some kind seemed

imminent; Frank thought it would prove apoplexy. Other advice was sent

for.

Long before the usual hour for breakfast, breakfast had been taken,

and the family hardly knew what to do with themselves. Dr. Selfe, a

clever man, residing near, had seen Major Raynor--who now seemed to be

somewhat better. The doctor quite agreed with Frank that the symptoms

were indicative of apoplexy; but he thought that it might be warded

off, at least for the present, by the aid of powerful remedies. These

remedies had been applied, and the patient was decidedly improving. He

spoke little, but was quite conscious. On these occasions, when one

out of the home circle is lying upstairs in sudden and dangerous

illness, the house becomes utterly unsettled. Ordinary habits are

changed; no one knows what to be at.

"I shall ring for some more coffee," said Charles, rising as he spoke.

"There's nothing else to do."

Lamb came in and received the order. The breakfast-things were still

on the table. This was one of the pleasantest rooms in the house:

small and cosy, with glass-doors opening to the garden. It faced the

west, so was free from the morning sun: but, beyond the shade cast by

the house, that sun shone brightly on the smooth green grass and

clustering flowers.

Whilst waiting for the coffee, which had to be made, Charles leaned

against the window, half in, half out-of-doors, whistling softly and

keeping a good look-out around, lest any Philistine should be

approaching unawares. This illness of his father's terribly

complicated matters. In the midst of Charley's worst apprehensions

there had lain, down deep in his heart, the vista of a possible

refuge. He had whispered to himself, "When things come to a crisis, my

father will no doubt find a way to help me;" and the hope had been as

a healing balm to his spirit. But his father, lying in this state,

could not be applied to: his repose of mind must not be disturbed: and

if Charley fell into some tiger's clutches now, what on earth was he

to do?

Whistling softly and unconsciously, Charley indulged in these highly

agreeable reflections. His mother had not come downstairs at all.

Alice had gone up to Daisy: Kate and Mademoiselle were reading French

under the distant walnut-tree. Only Frank was there.

"I do think I can smell haymaking!" cried Charley, suddenly.

"Yes," assented Frank. "Some of the fields are down."

"Is it not early for it?"

"We have had an early season."

No more was said. There flashed into Charley's mind a remembrance of

the day he had first seen Eagles' Nest: when he had stood at one of

the windows, though not this one, gazing out at the charming scenery,

the lovely flowers; inhaling their perfume and that of the new-mown

hay. Association of ideas is powerful, and probably that scent of the

hay had brought the day to his memory now. Barely a twelvemonth had

passed since then: and yet--how hopes and anticipations had changed!

He had believed then that peace, ease, prosperity must inevitably

attend them as the possessors of Eagles' Nest: he remembered picturing

to himself the calamity it would have been had the beautiful place

passed into others' hands. But he had lived to learn that care and

worry could penetrate even there.

"There's the postman!" cried Charley. And glad, probably, of the

interruption, he went out, and crossed the lawn to meet the man.

"Only one letter this morning," he exclaimed, coming back, his eyes

fixed on it. "I say, Frank, what is to be done? It is from old Street,

and he has put 'immediate' on it."

"You had better open the letter yourself, I should say, Charles: my

uncle cannot," said Frank, decisively.

"I wonder what he has to write about: it is not often we hear from

him. Nothing particular, I dare say: the good old father has not, I am

sure, a secret in the world. Or--do you think," added Charley, his

face lighting with eager hope, "that the money can have turned up?

What a glorious thought! Yes, I will open it."

He broke the seal of the letter. At that moment Lamb came in with

fresh coffee. Frank, standing near the mantelpiece, watched the man

put it down, and set two or three things in order on the table before

going out again. As the door closed, Frank's glance chanced to stray

to Charley's face.

What was the matter with it? The eager flush of hope had been

succeeded by a look of dismay: nay, almost of horror. The letter

seemed very short. Charley was reading it twice over, growing paler

the while.

"Can it be a hoax?" he cried, in a voice scarcely raised above a

whisper, as he held the letter out. "It cannot be true."

Frank took the letter reluctantly. There was no help for it. But a

spasm seized his own face, and a very terrible spasm seized his heart.

When we are nourishing some great dread, any new and unexplained event

seems to bear upon it. His fears had flown back to that dreadful night

at Trennach. Had this letter come to betray him?

But the letter proved in no way connected with that. The news it

brought was of a nature perfectly open and tangible. Frank's own fears

gave place to consternation and dismay as he read the lawyer's words:

dismay for his uncle's sake.

"My Dear Sir,

"I have just heard a very painful rumour, and I think it my duty to

communicate it to you. It is said that the will, under which you

succeeded to Mrs. Atkinson's estate, proves to have been worthless; a

fresh will having been discovered. By this later will, it is Mr.

George Atkinson who inherits Eagles' Nest. My information is, I fear,

authentic; but I do not yet know full particulars.

"This is but a brief note to convey such tidings, but the evening post

is on the point of closing, and I do not wish to lose it. I would have

run down, instead of writing, but am not equal to it, having for the

past week or two been confined to the house.

"Believe me, dear sir,

"Sincerely yours,

"JOHN STREET.

"Major Raynor."

They stood looking at one another, Charles and Frank, with questioning

eyes and dismayed faces. Could it be true? No, surely not. Street the

lawyer, in spite of the boasted authenticity of his information, must

have been misinformed.

So thought, so spoke Charles. "You see," cried he, "he speaks of it at

first as only a rumour."

But Frank, in spite of his sanguine nature, regarded the information

differently. He began looking at portions of the letter again, and did

not answer.

"Can't you say something, Frank?"

"Charley, I fear it is true. Street would never have written this

dismal news to your father whilst there was any doubt about it."

"But it has no right to be true; it ought not to be true," disputed

Charley, in his terrible perplexity. "Who is George Atkinson that he

should inherit Eagles' Nest? The fellow lives at the other end of the

world. In Australia, or somewhere. Frank, it's not _likely_ to be

true. It would be frightful injustice; a cruel shame. It has been ours

for twelve months: who will wrest it from us now?"

And truly, having enjoyed Eagles' Nest for all that time, regarding it

as theirs, living at it in perfect security, it did appear most

improbable that it should now pass away from them; almost an

impossibility.

"Charley, we must keep this letter to ourselves until we know more. I

am almost glad my uncle is ill; it would have shocked him so----"

"And how long will it be before we know more?" broke in Charles, who

was in a humour for finding fault with every one, especially the

lawyer. "Street ought to have come down, no matter at what

inconvenience. A pretty state of suspense, this, to be placed in!"

"Drink your coffee, Charley."

"Coffee? Oh, I don't want it now."

The unfortunate news left Charles no inclination for coffee. Of all

the calamities, actual or threatened, that had been making his life

uneasy, this was the worst. The worst? The rest now seemed as passing

shadows in comparison. Frank, with all his sunny nature, could impart

no comfort to him. The only possible ray to be discerned, lay in the

hope that the tidings would turn out to be untrue. A hope which grew

fainter with every moment's thought.

To remain in this suspense was nothing less than torture. It was

hastily decided between them that Frank should go up to town, see Mr.

Street, and learn more. He had no scruple in doing this: Major Raynor

was decidedly better; in no immediate danger, as Frank believed; and

Dr. Selfe was at hand in case of need.

Frank lost no time; hastening to the station, and looking in on Dr.

Selfe on his way, to explain that important business was calling him

for a few hours to London. Mr. Street's residence was near Euston

Square, and his offices were in the same house. The morning was well

advanced when Frank arrived there and was shown into the lawyer's

presence. He seemed less genial than of yore, as he sat half turned

from a table covered with papers, his right foot on a rest: his hair

was certainly more scanty; his light eyes, seen so clearly through his

spectacles, were colder. Frank, who, as it chanced, had never seen

him, thought what a hard little man he looked.

"Ah, yes; a sad affair," he remarked, as Frank in a few words

introduced himself and his business. "Very embarrassing for the

major."

"But I hope that it cannot be true, Mr. Street?"

"That what cannot be true?--that a later will is in existence? Oh,

that is true enough. And the major has had an attack, you say?

Misfortunes never come singly."

"May I ask how the fact--that there is a later will--has come to your

knowledge?"

Mr. Street turned over a few of the papers on the table, and took up a

letter lying amongst them. "I received this note from my brother, the

banker, yesterday afternoon," he said, running his eyes over it. "It

tells me that a will, of later date than the one by which Major Raynor

holds Eagles' Nest, has been produced, leaving the estate to Mr.

George Atkinson. George Atkinson is now on his homeward voyage from

Australia, to take possession of the property."

"What a mercy if the ship should go down with him!" thought Frank, in

his dismay, as the faint remnant of hope died out. "Then--I presume

you consider that this unpleasant report may be relied on, Mr.

Street?"

"Certainly it may. My brother is one of the most cautious men living;

he would not have written so decisively"--touching the note with his

finger--"had any doubt existed. Most likely he has heard from George

Atkinson himself: he would of course write before sailing. Atkinson is

virtually his chief partner, you know, head of the bank. I had thought

my brother would perhaps call here last night, but he did not.

Something or other has come to my ankle, and I can't get out."

"Then--this note from Mr. Edwin Street is all the information you as

yet possess?"

"Yes, all. But I know it is to be relied on. I thought it better to

write at once and acquaint the major: he will have little time, as it

is, to prepare for the change, and see what can be done."

Frank rose. "I will go down and question Mr. Edwin Street," he said.

"I suppose I am at liberty to do so?"

"Oh, quite at liberty," was the reply. "He no doubt wrote to me with a

view to preparing your family, Mr. Raynor. You will find him at the

bank."

The banker received Frank coldly; he seemed just the same hard,

ungenial, self-contained sort of man that his brother was. Harder, in

fact. This was indeed his general manner: but somehow, Frank caught up

an idea that he had a dislike to the name of Raynor.

"I beg to refer you to Callard and Priestleigh, Mr. Atkinson's

solicitors," spoke the banker to Frank, as soon as the latter entered

on his business. "They will be able to afford you every necessary

information."

"But won't you tell me how it has all come about?" cried Frank, his

genial manner presenting a contrast to that of the banker. "If Mrs.

Atkinson made a later will, where has the will been all this while?

Why should it turn up at a twelvemonth's end, and not at the time of

her death?"

"The will, as I am informed, has been lying in the hands of Callard

and Priestleigh."

"Then why did Callard and Priestleigh not produce it at the proper

time?" reiterated Frank.

"Callard and Priestleigh may themselves be able to inform you," was

the short, stiff answer.

Apparently no satisfaction could be extracted from Mr. Edwin Street.

Frank wished him good-morning, and betook himself to Callard and

Priestleigh, who lived near the Temple. "From pillar to post, from

post to pillar," thought he. "I ought to arrive at something

presently."

Mr. Callard was a white-haired old gentleman; a little reserved in

manner also; but nevertheless sufficiently cordial with Frank, and not

objecting to give him information. He took him for the son of Major

Raynor; and though Frank twice set him right upon the point, the old

man went back to his own impression, and persisted in thinking Frank

to be the--late--heir to Eagles' Nest. It was a mistake of no

consequence.

The reader may remember that when Mrs. Atkinson expressed her

intention of making a fresh will in Mr. George Atkinson's favour and

leaving Major Raynor's name out of it, she had summoned Street the

lawyer to Eagles' Nest to draw it up. Street, as he subsequently

informed the major, had represented the injustice of this to Mrs.

Atkinson, and prevailed upon her--as he supposed--to renounce her

intention, and to let the old will stand. The lawyer went back to

London in this belief; and nothing whatever transpired, then or

subsequently, to shake it. However, after his departure from Eagles'

Nest, it appeared that Mrs. Atkinson had sent for a local solicitor,

and caused him to draw up a fresh will, in which she made George

Atkinson her heir, and cut off the major. This will she had kept by

her until just before her death, when she sent it, sealed up, to

Callard and Priestleigh, requesting them to put it amongst Mr. George

Atkinson's papers, and hold it at his disposal. There could be no

doubt, Mr. Callard thought, that she also, either at the time the new

will was made, or close upon her death, wrote to George Atkinson and

informed him of what she had done: namely, made her will in his

favour, and placed it with his solicitors.

"But, sir," exclaimed Frank to Mr. Callard when he had listened to

this explanation, "how was it that you did not bring the will forward

at Mrs. Atkinson's death? Why did you suffer the other will to be

proved and acted upon, when you knew you held this one?"

"But we did not know it," replied the old man: "you have misunderstood

me, my young friend. When Mrs. Atkinson sent the document to us she

did not inform us of its nature. I assure you we never suspected that

it was a will. It was sealed up in a parchment envelope, and bore no

outward indication of its contents."

"Then--how do you know it now?"

"Because we have received written instructions from Mr. George

Atkinson to open the parchment, and prove the will. It is by these

instructions we gather the fact that Mrs. Atkinson must have written

to inform him such a will existed."

"He has taken his time in coming to verify it!"

"It appears--as we hear from Edwin Street--that he was travelling for

months in some remote parts of Australia, and did not receive his

letters. However, he is on his way home now."

"Is the will opened? Have you seen it?" asked Frank.

"Both seen it and read it," replied the old man, smoothing back his

white hair, and looking at Frank with concern. "It will be proved in a

day or two. I sympathize with you and your father."

"Who are the executors?"

"George Atkinson and Street the banker. The latter is acting."

"And Mr. Atkinson is really on his way from Australia."

"Yes: by ship. We expect him to land in the course of two or three

weeks. His written instructions were received by this last mail, and

were conveyed to us through Edwin Street, to whom they were sent. Mr.

Atkinson desires that all necessary preliminaries may be executed

without delay, as he intends to take possession of Eagles' Nest on his

arrival."

"He cannot know that my uncle is in it!"

"I dare say he does. He knew that Major Raynor succeeded to it, for we

wrote him to that effect at the time. And he is in regular

correspondence with his partner, Edwin Street."

"Then the worst is true!" cried Frank, as he fully realized what this

meant for the poor major and his family. "I _wonder_ that George

Atkinson should accept the estate!--should wrest it from them! from

the little I have heard of him, I drew the conclusion that he was a

kind and a just man."

Mr. Solicitor Callard opened his eyes very widely. The words surprised

him "Kind! Just!" cried he. "Well, he is so: we know him well: but, my

good sir, a will is a will. You can't ignore a will as you might a

verbal message."

"It will be a terrible shock to my uncle and his family. Utter ruin."

The old gentleman shook his head in pity.

"Ay, it's sad, no doubt; very sad. We lawyers often have to inflict

grievous blows; and we cannot help ourselves."

"One last question," said Frank, as he prepared to leave. "In the old

will, Major Raynor was left residuary legatee,--and therefore came in

for all the accumulated money--though in point of fact the bulk of it

has not yet been found. Who comes in for it now?"

"George Atkinson. My good young friend, George Atkinson comes in for

_everything_. The one will may be called a counterpart of the other;

in regard to the small legacies, and all else; excepting that George

Atkinson's name is substituted for Major Raynor's.

"Is nothing left to the major in this later one?"

"Nothing."

Frank Raynor went back to Eagles' Nest, carrying his deplorable news

with him. Careless and sanguine-natured though he was, he could not

close his eyes to the dark future. It was not only the loss of the

estate. That would have been bad enough, in all conscience; but there

was also the money the major had spent. The ready-money that had been

lying at Eagles' Nest and at her banker's at the time of Mrs.

Atkinson's death; and also this past year's revenues from the estate.

The major had spent it all: and for this he was now accountable to

George Atkinson; he could be legally called upon to refund it. A fear

crossed Frank that he would be so called upon: a hard man, as he was

now judging George Atkinson to be--perhaps without just cause--would

most likely exact his full rights, no matter what misery and ruin they

might involve to others. In Frank Raynor's chivalrous good-nature, he

was thinking that George Atkinson, already a wealthy man, might have

refused Eagles' Nest, and left the major in peaceable possession of

it. Perhaps very few men would agree with him: as the old lawyer said,

a will was a will. This was certain: that, no matter how large a sum

the law might claim from Major Raynor, he had not a shilling to meet

it with. Would they confiscate his annuity until it was paid--that

five hundred a-year; which was all he and his children would now have

to fall back upon? "I wish with all my heart I had a home to offer

them, and a good practice to keep it up!" concluded Frank.

Poor Major Raynor! He was never to be subjected to this trouble; or to

any other trouble in this world. It was past six when Frank got back

to Eagles' Nest, and he found his uncle dying. The attack that was

dreaded had seized him about an hour before: just twelve hours after

the first threatening in the morning; and there was now little, if

any, hope.

"Oh, my dear," gasped Mrs. Raynor, in her pitiable distress, letting

her head fall on Frank's shoulder, as her tears rained down, "it is so

sudden! If he could only recover consciousness, and speak to us!"

"Aunt," he said, his own eyes misty, "don't you think we had better

send for Edina? She would be a comfort to you."

"Edina!" was the sobbing answer. "My dear, she was telegraphed for

this morning. Lamb went to the station just after you left. I knew she

would come off at once: she is on her way now. I could never bear up

under this trouble without Edina."

"But she does not know of the other trouble," thought Frank, looking

on Mrs. Raynor, with pitying eyes. "It must be broken to her by

Edina."

CHAPTER VII.

FRANK RAYNOR FOLLOWED.

The whole house was steeped in grief--for Major Raynor had died at

dawn. As most houses are, when a near and beloved relative is removed:

and the anguish is more keenly felt if the blow, as in this case,

falls suddenly. Edina was a treasure now; she had travelled by night

and was early at Eagles' Nest. Mourning with them sincerely, she at

the time strove to cheer them. She whispered of a happier meeting

hereafter, where shall be no more parting; she would not let them

sorrow without hope. Even Mrs. Raynor felt comforted: and the little

children dried their tears, saying that papa was with the angels in

heaven, and they should go to him when God saw that they were good

enough.

But, of that other misfortune none of the household as yet were

cognizant. Frank took an opportunity of revealing it to Edina. It

almost overwhelmed even her.

"Not theirs!" she cried, in a dread whisper. "Eagles' Nest George

Atkinson's!"

"And the worst of it is," returned Frank, running through a summary of

the details he had heard, "that he means to exact his rights at once,

and take immediate possession of the place as soon as he lands. Did

you not know this George Atkinson once, Edina?"

"Yes--a little," she answered, a faint blush rising to her cheek at

the remembrance.

"Was he hard and selfish then?"

"I--cannot quite tell, Frank. He did not appear to me to be so."

"Perhaps not. He was young then: and men grow harder as they grow

older. But now, Edina, what is to be done? They will have to turn out

of this house, and where will they find another?"

The problem seemed a hard one. Edina sat it an attitude almost of

despair as she tried to solve it: her hands folded quietly on her

black dress; her usually calm, good face perplexed; her steady eyes

anxious. The unexpected blow had fallen on her sharply; and in these

first moments it was a hard task to battle with it. So far as she or

any one else could see, the Raynors would not have a penny to fall

back upon: no income of any sort whatever. The major's annuity has

died with him.

"They are all so helpless!" she murmured.

"Of course they are," assented Frank. "Not that that makes it any

worse or better."

"It makes it all the worse," said Edina. "Were they experienced and

capable, they might do something or other to earn a living."

A whole world of surprise shone in Frank Raynor's candid blue eyes.

"Earn a living!" he exclaimed. "Who would earn it?"

"All who are old enough," said Edina. "Mrs. Raynor and Alice to begin

with."

"Surely you cannot think of such a thing for them, Edina!"

"But how else will they exist, Frank? Who will keep them? Charley will

never be able to do it."

A blank pause. Frank, brought thus practically face to face with the

position, was unable to reply.

"I wish to goodness I could keep them!" he exclaimed, at length. "I

wish I had a practice and a house over my head! They should all come

to it."

"It has surprised me very much indeed, Frank--to leave the other

subject for a moment--that you have not sought to establish yourself

all this time."

"I was waiting for some money to do it with, Edina. Poor Uncle Francis

was constantly expecting those missing funds to turn up. It seems they

would have belonged to George Atkinson if they had come to light: but

we could not have known that."

"Your uncle Hugh blamed you for it, Frank. 'Better to take a situation

as an assistant, than to fritter away his days at Eagles' Nest,' he

used often to say."

Frank made no reply. The mention of his uncle Hugh brought vividly to

his mind that last ominous letter he had received from him. With his

usual incaution, he spoke on the moment's impulse.

"Is Blase Pellet at Trennach still?"

Not quite immediately did Edina answer. Raising his eyes, he met hers

fixed on him. And he saw something in their depths that he did not

like: an anxious, questioning, half-terrified expression.

"Edina knows about it," thought he. And he turned as cold as the

winter frost.

"Yes, Blase Pellet is there as usual," she replied, averting her eyes.

"And Mrs. Bell has left Trennach for good and has gone to live at

Falmouth."

Why, the very answer; that last gratuitous sentence; would itself have

been enough to betray her cognizance of the matter. Else why should

she have connected the Bells with Blase Pellet? Frank quitted the

topic abruptly.

Not until after the funeral--which took place, as was deemed

expedient, on the fourth day from the death--were the tidings of their

penniless state conveyed to Mrs. Raynor and the others. How Charles

had contrived to keep counsel he never knew. He was looked upon as the

successor to Eagles' Nest. Servants and others continually came to him

for directions: Is this to be done, sir; is the other to be done:

treating him as the master.

Mrs. Raynor received the news with amazement, astonishment contending

with incredulity. Alice burst into tears; Alfred went into a passion.

They talked foolishly at first, saying they would go to law: the

newly-found will should be disputed; the property flung into Chancery.

The only two capable of bringing reason to bear upon the matter were

Frank and Edina: and they might have been nearly as bad as the rest,

had the tidings only just come upon them. They pointed out how worse

than futile any opposition would be. Not a shadow of doubt could exist

that the second will was perfectly correct and legal, and that the

whole property belonged to George Atkinson.

On the second day after Frank's return from London, while the poor

major lay dead in the house, Charles received an official letter from

Street the lawyer. It gave in detail the particulars already known,

and stated that Mr. George Atkinson was then on his voyage to Europe,

with sundry other hints and statements. This letter Frank read aloud

now.

"You see," he said, "even our own lawyer gives in. He says not a word

about opposition. No, there's no help for it; Eagles' Nest must go

from you. But I think old Aunt Atkinson ought to have been ashamed of

herself."

"She must have been dreadfully wicked," sobbed Alice.

One thing they did not tell Mrs. Raynor--that she could be made

responsible for the money received and spent during the past

twelvemonth. The claim was not yet made; would not be made until Mr.

George Atkinson's arrival; time enough to tell her then.

What their plans were to be, or where they could go, or how live, was

the subject of many an anxious thought, as the days passed on. Edina

suggested this and that; but poor Mrs. Raynor and Alice shrunk from

all. As yet they could not realize what the turning-out of Eagles'

Nest would be, and instinctively shunned the anticipation.

But upon none did the blow fall so bitterly as upon Charles. He was

suddenly flung from his position on the height of a pinnacle to its

base. A few days ago he was an independent gentleman, an undergraduate

of Oxford, the heir to Eagles' Nest; now all these desirable

accessories had melted like icicles in the sunbeams. He must work for

a living, if he were to live; he must take his name off the college

books, failing the means to return to college; he must, for his mind's

best peace, forget that there was such a place as Eagles' Nest.

Work for a living! How was he to do anything of the kind, he asked

himself. And even if he were willing, and the work presented itself

(some charming, rose-coloured vision of a sinecure post would now and

again arise indistinctly before his imagination) how would he be free

to fulfil it, with those wretched debts at his heels?

One little matter did surprise Charles--he heard nothing of Huddles.

He had fully expected that within a day or two of that worthy man's

departure certain sharks of the law, or--as he seemed to prefer to

call them--tigers, would attack him. But nothing of the sort occurred.

The days went on, and Charles was still not interfered with.

About a fortnight after the death of Major Raynor, a letter arrived

from Mr. Street. And, by the way, speaking of the major's death, what

a grievous farce his will sounded when it was read. Eagles' Nest was

bequeathed to Charles, with liberty to Mrs. Raynor to reside in it for

the next ten years; after that, if Charles should deem it expedient

that she should leave with the younger children, he was charged to

provide her with a home. The major recommended that a portion of the

missing money, when found, should be put out at interest, and allowed

to accumulate for her benefit. Quite a large sum was willed away in

small bequests. This to one child, that to another; some to Edina,

some to Frank, and so on. The horses and carriages, the linen, plate,

ornaments and trinkets, with sundry other personalities that had come

to him with Eagles' Nest, were left to Mrs. Raynor. All this, when

read, sounded like a painful farce, a practical joke. These things

were all George Atkinson's; and, of the legacies, the poor major

possessed not a shilling to bequeath.

Mr. George Atkinson safely arrived in England and in London. Lawyer

Street wrote to Eagles' Nest to state the fact, and that he had held a

business interview with him in the presence of Mr. Callard. Mr.

Atkinson, he hinted, was not inclined to deal harshly with the Raynor

family, but leniently. He gave them one month in which to vacate

Eagles' Nest, when he should himself enter into possession of it; and

with regard to the money spent in the past twelvemonth, which did in

reality belong to him, and to the mesne profits, he made no claim. Let

them leave his house quietly, and he should say nothing about arrears.

It had been spent by Major Raynor under the misapprehension that it

was his own, and he would not exact it of the major's children.

The conditions were, perhaps, as favourable as could be expected from

a man of the world. Mr. Solicitor Callard pronounced them to be

wonderfully so, cruelly hard though they sounded to the Raynors.

_They_ thought, taking all circumstances into consideration--his own

wealth, which must be accumulating yearly, his want of relationship to

the former mistress of Eagles' Nest, and consequent absence of just

claim to inherit it--that Mr. Atkinson should have quietly resigned it

to them, and left them in undisturbed possession of it. Frank, once

hearing Charley say this, shook his head. _He_ should have done this

himself, he said, were he George Atkinson; but he feared the world, as

a whole, would not: we did not live in Utopia.

And now came in Edina's practical good sense. After allowing them a

day to grieve, she begged them to listen to her ideas for the future.

She had been thinking a great deal, but could only hit upon one plan

that seemed at all feasible. It was, that Mrs. Raynor and Alice should

establish a school. Alice, a well-educated girl, a good musician and

otherwise accomplished, would be of valuable aid in teaching.

Three weeks ago, they would--Alice, at any rate--have turned from the

proposition with indignation. But those three weeks had been working

their natural effect; and neither Mrs. Raynor nor Alice spoke a

dissenting syllable. They had begun to realize the bitter fact that

they must work to live. The world lay before and around them: a cold,

cruel, and indifferent world, as it now seemed to them; and they had

no shelter in it. To keep a ladies' school would be less objectionable

than some things, and was certainly preferable to starving. Better

than setting up a shop, for instance, or taking to a boarding-house.

It was Edina who alluded to these unpleasant alternatives, and Alice

did not thank her for it. Poor Alice had still many lessons to learn.

It is true that Alice might go out as a governess, but that would not

keep Mrs. Raynor and the younger ones.

"I see only one objection to this school idea of yours, Edina," spoke

poor Mrs. Raynor, who was the first to break the silence which had

ensued; while Alice sat with downcast eyes and an aching heart. "And

that is, that I do not know how it is to be accomplished. We have no

money and no furniture. It would be easy enough to take a house in

some good situation, as you suggest; but how is it to be furnished?"

Edina did not immediately answer. Perhaps the problem was rather too

much for herself. She sat in thought; her steadfast eyes gazing with a

far-away look over the beautiful landscape they were so soon to lose.

"Mr. Atkinson intimates that we are at liberty to remove any

furniture, or other articles, we may have bought for Eagles' Nest;

that he only wishes it left as it was left by Mrs. Atkinson,"

continued Mrs. Raynor: who, in these last few days of trouble, seemed

to have quite returned to the meek-spirited, humble-minded woman she

used to be, with not a wish of her own, and thoroughly incapable.

"But, Edina, the furniture would be too large, too grand for the sort

of house we must have now, and therefore I am afraid useless. Besides,

we shall have to sell these things with the carriages, and all that,

to pay outstanding debts here that must be settled: the servants'

wages, our new mourning, and other things."

"True," replied Edina, somewhat absently.

"Perhaps we could hire some articles: chairs and tables, and forms for

the girls to sit on, and beds?" suggested Mrs. Raynor. "Sometimes

furniture is let with a house. Edina, are you listening?"

"Yes, I am listening; partly at least; but I was deep in thought just

then over ways and means," replied Edina, rousing herself to her usual

mental activity. "A furnished house would never do; it would be too

costly; and so, I fear, would be the hiring of furniture. Now and

then, I believe, when a house is to be let, the furniture in it can be

bought very cheaply."

"But if we have no money to buy it with, Edina?"

"Of course: there's the drawback. I think the neighbourhood of London

would be the best locality for a new school: the most likely one to

bring scholars. Should not you, Mary?"

"Yes," assented Mrs. Raynor, with a sigh. "But you know all about

these things so much better than I do, Edina."

The plans, and the means of carrying them out, seemed, as yet, very

indistinct; but at length Edina proposed to go to London and look

about her, and see if she could find any suitable place. Mrs. Raynor,

always thankful that others should act for her, eagerly acquiesced.

Though, indeed, to find a house--or, rather, to find one full of

furniture--appeared as a very castle-in-the-air. Chairs and tables do

not drop from the skies: and Edina was setting her face resolutely

against running into debt.

"Now you understand," Edina said, the morning of her departure,

calling Charles and Mrs. Raynor to her, "that I shall depend upon you

to arrange matters here. If I am to find a house for you in London, I

may have too much to do to return, and you must manage without me. Set

about what has to be done at once, Charles: get the superfluous

furniture out of the house, for sale; and have your boxes packed,

ready to come up. You must be out of Eagles' Nest as soon as possible;

on account of the heavy expenses still going on while you are in it.

Mr. George Atkinson allowed you a month: I should leave it in less

than half that time. Besides, Mary: you should be on the spot to begin

school before the Midsummer holidays are over; it will give you a

better chance of pupils."

They agreed to all: Charles rather gloomily, Mrs. Raynor in simple

confidence: anything suggested by Edina was sure to be for the best.

It was impossible for Charles to rise up yet from the blow. With him,

the aspect of things, instead of growing brighter, grew darker. Each

morning, as it dawned, was only more gloomy than the last. A terrible

wrong had been dealt to him--whether by Fate, or by that unjust

defunct woman, his aunt Ann, or by George Atkinson, he could not quite

decide, perhaps by all three combined--and he felt at variance with

the whole world. Edina had talked to him of plans for himself, but

Charles did not hear her with any patience. To contrast the present

with the past drove him half-mad. That he must do something, he knew

quite well, and he intended to do it: but he did not know what that

something was to be; he could not see an opening anywhere. Moreover,

he also knew that he must make some arrangement with the people at

Oxford to whom he owed money.

Another thing had yet to be done--taking his name off the college

books. Charles went down to do this; and to confer with his creditors.

Very young men are often most sensitive on the score of debt: Charles

Raynor was so: and it seemed to him a formidable and distressing task

to meet these men, avow his poverty, and beg of them to be lenient and

wait.

"I declare I'd rather meet his Satanic majesty, and hold a battle with

_him!_" cried Charley, as he started forth to the encounter.

But he found the creditors considerate. They had heard of his reverse

of fortune. The news of the fresh will put forward, and the consequent

transfer of Eagles' Nest from the Raynors to George Atkinson the

banker, had been made much of in the newspapers. One and all met

Charles pleasantly; some actuated by genuine pity for the young man,

others by the remembrance that you cannot get blood out of a stone.

Half the sting was taken from Charley's task. He told them truly that

he had no present means whatever, therefore could not offer to pay:

but he assured them--and his voice was earnest, and they saw he meant

it--that he would pay them whenever it should be in his power to do

so, though that might not be for years to come. So he and they parted

cordially. After all, no individual debt was very much, though in the

aggregate the sum looked formidable.

Mr. Huddles was left until last. Charles dreaded him most. That debt

was the largest. The two bills were for fifty pounds each, making a

hundred; and mischief alone knew what the added expenses would be. Not

only did Charles dread him because he would have to eat humble-pie,

which he hated and detested, and beg the man to hold the bills on, but

he believed that Mr. Huddles could arrest him without ceremony.

Nevertheless he had no choice but to enter on the interview for he

must know his own position before he could plan out or venture on any

career of life. He went forth to it at dusk; some dim idea pervading

him that tigers and kidnappers might not exercise their functions

after sunset.

Mr. Huddles sat alone in his parlour when Charles was shown in: a

well-lighted and well-furnished room. Instead of the scowl and the

frown Charles had anticipated, he rose with a smile and a pleasant

look, and offered Charles a chair.

"We were both a little out of temper the other day, Mr. Raynor," said

he; "and both, I dare say, felt sorry for it afterwards. What can I do

for you?"

To hear this, completely took Charles aback. Down he sat, with some

indistinct words of reply. And then, summoning up what courage he

could, he entered upon the subject of the bills.

"No one can regret more than I that I cannot pay them," he said. "I

have come here to-night to beg of you to be so kind as hold them over.

The expenses, I suppose----"

"I don't understand you, sir," interrupted Mr. Huddles. "What bills

are you talking of?"

"The two bills for fifty pounds each--I have no others. Although I

know how unjust it must seem to ask you to do this, Mr. Huddles, as

you are only a third party and had nothing whatever to do with the

transaction, I have no resource but to throw myself upon your good

feeling. I am quite unable to take the bills up; you have probably

heard of our reverse of fortune; but I will give you my word of honour

to do so as soon as----

"The bills are paid," cried Mr. Huddles, not allowing him to go on.

"Paid?" echoed Charley.

"Paid; both of them. Why--did you not know it?"

"No, that I did not. Who has paid them?"

"Some legal firm in London."

"What firm?"

"The name was--let me see--Symmonds, I think. Yes, that was it:

Symmonds and Son, solicitors."

Charley could only stare. He began to think Mr. Huddles was playing

off a joke upon him; perhaps to turn round on him afterwards.

"I don't know any people of the name of Symmonds, or they me," said

he. "How _came_ they to pay?"

"I think Major Raynor--I was sorry to see his death in the _Times_ so

soon afterwards--gave them the necessary orders."

Charles shook his head; it was not at all likely, as he knew. He lost

himself in a maze of thought.

"The evening I saw you, I was running into the station to catch a

train, having lingered rather too long at the inn over some late

refreshment," explained Mr. Huddles, perceiving that Charles was

altogether puzzled, "when a gentleman accosted me, asking if my errand

in the place had not been connected with Major Raynor's son. I replied

that it had. This gentleman then said that if I would furnish the

particulars of the debt to Messrs. Symmonds and Son, solicitors, of

London, they would no doubt see that I was paid; and he handed me

their address. I sent the particulars up the next day, and in the

course of a post or two received the money."

"It must have been Frank," thought Charles, the idea flashing into his

mind. "What was this gentleman like, Mr. Huddles?"

"Upon my word, sir, I can hardly tell you," was the reply. "The train

dashed in just as he began to speak to me; several passengers were

waiting for it, and there was a good bit of confusion. It was dusk

also. Nearly dark, in fact."

"A good-looking, pleasant-speaking fellow?"

"Yes, I think so. He had a pleasant voice."

"No one but Frank," decided Charles. "It's just like him to do these

good-natured things. I wonder how he found the money? And why in the

world did he not tell me he had done it?"

So this trouble was at an end; and Charles might for the present be

pronounced free from worry on the score of debt. If the Fates had been

hard to him latterly, it seemed that they yet hold some little

kindness in store for him.

But this visit to the University city was productive of the most

intense chagrin in other ways to Charles Raynor; of the keenest

humiliation. "Only a short while ago, I was one of _them_, with the

world all before me to hold my head up in!" he kept telling himself,

as he watched the undergraduates passing in the street, holding aloof

from them, for he had not the courage to show his face. If by

unavoidable chance he encountered one or two, he drew away as quickly

as he could, after exchanging a few uncomfortable sentences. Whilst

they, knowing his changed circumstances, his blighted prospects, made

no effort to detain him; and if their manner displayed a certain

restraint, springing from innate pity, or delicacy of feeling, Charles

put it down to a very different cause, and felt all the deeper

mortification.

As he left Oxford by an early morning train on his way home, his

thoughts were busy with what had passed. For one thing, he found that

his days of torment at Eagles' Nest, when he went about in fear of

writs and arrest, had been without foundation. With the exception of

Mr. Huddles--and that was much later--not a single creditor, as all

assured him, had followed him there: neither had any of them written

to him, excepting the one whose letter had by misadventure fallen into

the hands of Major Raynor. Who then was the Tiger, Charles asked

himself. Could it be that, after all, the man had positively held no

mission that concerned him? It might be so: and that Charles had

dreaded and hated him for nothing. The Tiger had left Grassmere now,

as Charles happened to know. Jetty had said so the other day when he

was at Eagles' Nest. To return sometime Jetty believed, for the

gentleman had said as much to his sister Esther when leaving: he liked

the lodgings and liked the place, and should no doubt visit them

again.

And so, Charles Raynor returned home, relieved on the whole, in spite

of his ever-present trouble, and with a lively feeling of gratitude to

Frank Raynor in his heart.

He could not yet personally thank Frank; for Frank and his wife had

quitted Eagles' Nest soon after the funeral of Major Raynor. With the

fortunes of its hitherto supposed owners come to an end, Frank could

not any longer remain, a weight on their hospitable hands. It was at

length necessary that he should bestir himself in earnest, and see in

what manner he could make a living for himself and Daisy. One great

impediment to his doing this comfortably was, that he had no money.

Excepting a few spare pounds in his pocket for present exigencies, he

had positively none. The sum he had privately furnished Charles with

at Christmas-time would have been useful to him now; but Frank never

gave a regret to it. Daisy was not very strong yet, and could not be

put about. She was going to stay with her sister, Captain Townley's

wife, for two or three weeks, who had just come over from India with

her children, and had taken a furnished house in London. Daisy wrote

to her from Eagles' Nest proffering the visit: she saw what a

convenience it would be to Frank to be "rid" of her, as she laughingly

said, whilst he looked about for some place that they could settle in.

Mrs. Townley's answer had been speedy and cordial. "Yes, you can come

here, Daisy; I shall be delighted to see you. But what a silly child

you must have been to make the undesirable runaway marriage they tell

me of! I thought all the St. Clares had better sense than that."

But the Tiger is not done with yet. On the day that Frank and his wife

said farewell to Eagles' Nest, and took train for London, Frank jumped

out of the carriage at an intermediate station to get a newspaper. On

his way into it again, he had his eyes on the newspaper, and chanced

to go up to the wrong compartment, the one behind his own. Opening the

door, Frank saw to his surprise that there was no room for him, and at

the same moment found his face in pretty close contact with another

face; one adorned with a silky brown beard and the steadfast grey eyes

Frank had learned to know.

"This compartment is full, sir."

How far Frank recoiled at the words, at the sight, he never knew. _It

was the Tiger_. With a sinking of the heart, a rush of dismay, he made

his way to his own carriage; and let the newspaper, that he had been

eager for, drop between his knees.

"He is following me to town," cried Frank, mentally, in his firm

conviction. "He means to track me. How shall I escape him? How am I to

escape Blase Pellet?"

CHAPTER VIII.

THE NEW HOME.

A cold, drizzling rain was falling. We have wintry weather sometimes

in July, as was the case now. The lovely summer seemed to have come to

an abrupt end, and to have flown for good. At least, it appeared so to

those who were turning out of their late happy and prosperous home, to

enter on another of which they knew little. Knew nothing, in fact,

except that it would have to be one of poverty and labour. For this

was the day that Mrs. Raynor and her children were quitting Eagles'

Nest.

All superfluous effects had been disposed off, even to their personal

trinkets. Charles's watch, that he set store by because it had been

his father's, and had only just come into his possession, had to go.

Without the sale of these things they could not have paid all their

debts and kept sufficient for pressing requirements. A fly took Mrs.

Raynor, Alice, and the two younger children to the station, Charles

and Alfred having walked on; and a cart conveyed the luggage. The rain

beat against the windows of the fly, the wind swept by in gusts,

shaking the branches of the trees. Everything looked dreary and

wretched, even Eagles' Nest itself. Oh, what a change it was, inwardly

and outwardly, from that day, bright with hope and sunshine, when they

had entered it only twelve short months before!

Charles was at the fly door when it drew up. "What tickets am I to

take?" he asked of his mother: and a blank pause ensued. They were

accustomed to first-class; but that would not do now.

"Either second, or--_third_, Charley," spoke poor Mrs. Raynor.

"There is no third-class to this train," replied Charley, glad perhaps

to have to say it, as he turned away to the ticket-office.

And so they travelled up to London, Mrs. Raynor leaning back in the

carriage with closed eyes, grateful for the rest. It had been a long

scuffle to get away: and every one of them had mentally reproached

Edina for not coming to their help.

"It is just as though she had deserted us," said Mrs. Raynor. "I

suppose she will be at the new house to receive us, as she says; but I

think she might have come all the same: she knows how incapable I am."

The "new house" was situated in the southern district of London, some

three miles, or so, from the heart of the bustle. It was about five

o'clock when they approached it in two cabs, through the dirt and

drizzle. The spirits of all were depressed. With the very utmost

difficulty Mrs. Raynor kept down her tears.

"I expect to find an empty barn," she said, looking out on the dreary

road. "Perhaps there will not be as much as a mattress to sleep on."

The cabs stopped before the door of a convenient, roomy, but

old-fashioned-looking house, standing a little back from the road,

with a garden behind it. A rosy servant-girl opened the door. She was

not as fashionable-looking as the maids they had left, but she was

neat and active, and very willing--a remarkably desirable quality in a

maid-of-all-work. Edina came forward; a bright smile of welcome on her

face as she took all the hands into hers that she could hold, and

led the way to the sitting-room. It was quite furnished, and the

tea-things stood on the table.

Instead of the empty barn Mrs. Raynor had expected, she found a house

plainly but well furnished throughout. The schoolroom, the airy

bedrooms, the sitting-rooms, the kitchen, all had their appropriate

appointments. Useful furniture, and quite new. Mrs. Raynor halted in

the kitchen, which was not underground, and gazed about her. The fire

threw its warmth on the red bricks, a kettle was singing away, plates

and dishes stood on the dresser shelves, every necessary article

seemed at hand.

"I cannot understand it, Edina. You must have obtained the things on

credit, after all. Oh, that the school may succeed!--so that we may

soon be enabled to pay for them."

"No credit has been asked or given, Mary," was Edina's answer. "The

furniture has been bought and paid for, and it is yours."

"Bought by whom?"

"By me. You will not be too proud to accept it from your poor friend,

Edina!"

Mrs. Raynor sat down on the nearest wooden chair, and burst into

tears.

"You thought, I am sure, that I might have come back to help you away

from Eagles' Nest, Mary, but I could not: I had too much to do here,"

explained Edina. "I find there is an opening in this neighbourhood for

a school, and I also found this house, that is so suitable for one, to

be let. I took it, and with Frank's help, furnished it, plainly as you

see: and then I went about amongst the neighbours, and put an

advertisement or two in the papers, asking for pupils. Two boarders,

sisters, will enter to-morrow; two more on Monday, and five

day-pupils. This is not so bad a beginning, and I dare say others will

drop in. I feel sure you will succeed; that you and Alice may get a

very good school together in time: and I hope Heaven will bless and

prosper you."

Mrs. Raynor was looking up in her rather helpless manner. "I--I don't

understand, Edina. Did you buy the furniture, or did Frank?"

"Not Frank, poor fellow: he has need of help himself. Be at rest,

Mary: I bought it, and I have made it over to you by a deed of gift.

The house is taken in your name, and I am responsible for the first

half-year's rent."

"Oh, Edina! But I thought you had no money--except the small income

Dr. Raynor secured to you."

"Please don't disparage my income," said Edina, gaily. "It is fifty

pounds a-year: quite enough for me. As to the money, I had a hundred

pounds or two by me that my dear father left me over and above the

income. In laying it out for you and yours in your hour of need, Mary,

I think it well spent."

"And we used to call Edina mean and stingy!" thought Mrs. Raynor in

her repentant heart. "At least, Charles and Alice did."

With the next week, all the expected pupils had entered; four boarders

and five day-pupils. Another day-pupil, not expected, made six. It was

a very good opening, affording hope of ultimate success.