"What do you think of it, Charley?" asked Mrs. Raynor, on the third

evening, as they sat together after the little boarders and Kate and

Robert were in bed, Edina being out.

"Oh, I think it's first-rate," answered Charley, half seriously, half

mockingly. "You and Alice will be making a fortune by-and-by."

The remark did not please Alice. _She_, at least, was not reconciled

to the new home and its duties.

"_You_ may think it first-rate," she retorted. "It is widely different

from Eagles' Nest. We were gentlepeople there; we are poor governesses

here."

Charley made no response. The very name of Eagles' Nest would give him

an unpleasant turn.

"And it is nothing but work all day," went on Alice. "Lessons this

hour, music that, writing the next. Oh, it is wearisome!"

"Don't grumble, my dears," interposed Mrs. Raynor. "It might have been

so much worse. After the strange turn our affairs took, we might now

be without a roof over our heads or a morsel of bread to eat. So far

as I can see, we should have been, but for Edina."

The tears were raining down Mrs. Raynor's cheeks. Alice started up and

threw her arms round her in repentance. "Forgive me, dear mamma,

forgive me! I was wrong to speak so repiningly."

"You were wrong, dear Alice. In dwelling so much upon the advantages

we have lost, you overlook the mercies remaining to us. And they are

mercies. We are together under one roof; we have the prospect of

making a fair living."

"Yes," acquiesced Charley, throwing regrets behind him. "It is a very

nice home indeed, compared with what might have been."

"And I think we may yet be very happy in it," said Mrs. Raynor.

Alice strove to think so too, and put on a cheerful face. But the old

days were ever present with her; and she never recalled the past hopes

connected with William Stane, but her heart turned sick and faint in

its despair.

"It will be your turn next, Charles," observed Edina, taking the

opportunity of speaking to him the following morning, when they were

alone.

"My turn?" repeated Charles, vaguely: conscious that he knew what she

meant, but not choosing to acknowledge it.

"To do something for yourself," added Edina. "You cannot intend to

live upon your mother."

"Of course I do not, Edina. How stupid you are."

"And the question is, what is that something to be?" she continued,

passing over his compliment to herself.

"I should like to go into the army, Edina."

Edina shook her head. Her longer experience of life, her habits of

forethought, enabled her to see obstacles that younger people did not

see.

"Even if you had the money to purchase a commission, Charley----"

"But I did not think of purchasing. I should like to get one given to

me."

"Is there a chance of it?"

Charles did not reply. He was standing before the window, gazing

abstractedly at a young butcher boy, dashing about in a light cart for

his morning orders. There was not very much chance of it, he feared,

but there might be a little.

"Let us suppose that you had the commission, Charley, that it arrived

here for you this very day direct from the Horse Guards--or whatever

place may issue them," pursued Edina. "Would it benefit you?"

"Benefit me!"

"I mean, could you take it up? How would you find your necessary

outfit? Regimentals cost a great deal: and there must be many other

preliminary expenses. This is not all----"

"I could get things on credit," interrupted Charles, "and pay as I

went on."

"But this would not be the only impediment, Charley. I have heard that

it takes every officer more than his pay to live. I have often thought

that were I an officer it should not take me more; but it may be that

I am mistaken there. You would not have anything besides your pay,

Charley."

"Oh, I expect I should get along."

"Taken at the best, you would have nothing to spare. I had thought you

might choose some calling which would enable you to help them here at

home."

"Of course. It is what I should wish to do."

"Alfred must be educated; and little Robert as he comes on. Your

mother may not be able to do this. And I do not see that you will have

it in your power to aid her if you enter the army."

Charles began scoring the window-pane with a pencil that he held, not

knowing what to answer. In truth, his own intentions and views as to

the future were so vague and purposeless, that to dwell on it gave him

nightmare.

"What should you propose, Edina?"

"A situation," replied Edina, promptly, "in some good city house."

But for the obligations they were just now under to Edina, Mr. Charles

Raynor would have abused her well for the suggestion. It suited

neither himself nor his pride. A situation in some city house! That

meant a clerk, he supposed. To write at desks and go on errands!

"I wish you wouldn't talk so, Edina," he peevishly said, wishing he

might box her ears. "Did you ever hear of a Raynor becoming a

tradesman?"

"Did you ever hear of a Raynor with no means of living?" retorted

Edina. "No profession, and no money? Circumstances alter cases,

Charley."

"Circumstances can't make a common man a gentleman; and they can't

make a gentleman take up the rôle of a common man."

"Can't they! I think they often do. However, Charley, I will say no

more just now, for I perceive you are not in the humour for it.

Consider the matter with yourself. _Don't_ depend upon the commission,

for indeed I do not see that you have a chance of one. Put it out of

your thoughts, if you can, and look to other ways and means. I shall

be leaving you in a day or two, you know; by that time you will

perhaps have decided on something."

Edina went into the schoolroom, and Charles stood where he was. Alfred

came in with his Latin books. Mrs. Raynor was going to send Alfred to

a day-school close by; but it did not open for another week or two,

and meanwhile Charles made a show of keeping him to his Latin.

"What am I to do this morning, Charley?"

"Copy that last exercise over again, lad. It was so badly written

yesterday that I could not read it."

Alfred's pen went scratching over the copy-book. Charles remained at

the window, deep in thought. He had no more wish to be living on his

mother than any other good son has; but he did not see where he could

go, or what he could do. The doubt had lain on his mind during these

recent days more than was agreeable to its peace. His whole heart was

set upon a commission; but in truth he did not feel much more sanguine

of obtaining one than Edina seemed to feel.

He wished he was something--wished it there as he stood. _Anything_,

rather than remain in this helpless position. Wished he was a doctor,

like Frank; or a banker, like that wretch, George Atkinson; or a

barrister, like that other wretch, Stane. Had he been brought up to

one of these callings he should at least have a profession before him.

As it was, he felt incapable: he was fit for nothing, knew nothing. If

he could get a commission given to him, he should be on his legs at

once; and _that_ required no special training.

But for Charles Raynor's inexperience, he might have found that a

candidate for a commission in the army does require a special training

now. In his father's young days the case was otherwise. The major had

been very fond of talking of those days; Charles had thence gathered

his impressions, and they remained with him.

Yes, he said to himself, making a final score on the window-pane, he

must get the commission; and the sooner the better. Not to lose time,

he thought it might be well to see about it at once. An old

acquaintance of his father's, one Colonel Cockburn, had (as Charles

was wont to put it to himself) some interest in high quarters: his

brother, Sir James Cockburn, being one of the Lords of the Admiralty.

Of course, reasoned Charles, Sir James must be quite able to give away

posts indiscriminately in both army and navy; and it was not likely he

would refuse one to his brother, if the latter asked for it. So if he,

Charles, could only get Colonel Cockburn to interest himself, the

affair was done.

"Are you going out?" questioned Alfred, as Charles began to brush his

coat and hat.

"Yes, I am going to see Colonel Cockburn," was the reply. "No good

putting it off any longer. When you have finished copying that

exercise, youngster, you can do another. And mind you stick at it:

don't go worrying the mother."

Away went Charles, on the top of a passing omnibus. Colonel Cockburn's

club was the Army and Navy. Charles possessed no other address of his;

and to that building he found his way, and boldly entered.

"Colonel Cockburn, sir?" was the answer to his inquiry. "I don't think

he is in town."

"Not in town!" cried Charles, his ardour suddenly damped. "Why do you

think that?"

"He has not been here for a day or two, sir: so we conclude he is

either absent or ill. The colonel is sometimes laid up with gout for a

week together."

"Can you tell me where he lives? I'll go and see him."

"In St. James's Street," replied the man, giving at the same time the

number of the house.

To St. James's Street proceeded Charles, found the house in which the

colonel occupied rooms, and saw the landlady. Colonel Cockburn was at

Bath: had gone to stay with a brother who was lying there ill.

"What a dreadful bother!" thought Charles. "Cockburn must have a whole

regiment of brothers!" And he stood in indecision.

"Will the colonel be back soon?" inquired he.

"I don't know at all," was the landlady's answer. "Should he be

detained in Bath, he may not come back before October. The colonel

always leaves London the end of July. Sometimes he leaves earlier than

that."

"What on earth am I to do?" cried Charles, half aloud, his vivid hopes

evaporating considerably. "My business with him was urgent."

"Could you write to him?" suggested the landlady.

"I suppose I must--if you have his address. But I ought to see him."

She took an envelope from the mantelpiece, on which was written an

address in the Crescent, Bath. Charles copied it down, and went out.

He stood a moment, considering what he should do. The day was so fine

and the town so full of life, that to go off to that pokey old

southern suburb seemed a sin and a shame. So he decided to make a day

of it, and began with the Royal Academy.

Time slips away in the most wonderful manner when sight-seeing, and

the day was over before Charles thought it half through. When he

reached home, it was past nine. The children were in bed; his mother

also had gone to bed with headache; Edina and Alice were sewing by

lamplight. Alice was at some fancy work; Edina was mending a torn

pinafore: one of a batch that required repairing.

While taking his supper, Charles told them of his ill-luck in regard

to Colonel Cockburn. And when the tray went away, he got paper and ink

and began to write to him.

"He is sure to have heard of our misfortunes--don't you think so,

Edina? I suppose I need only just allude to them."

"Of course he has heard of them," broke in Alice, resentfully. "All

the world must have heard of them."

Charley went on writing. The first letter did not please him; and when

it was nearly completed he tore it up and began another.

"It is always difficult to know what to say in this kind of

application: and I don't think I am much of a letter-writer," observed

he, candidly.

Alice grew tired, nodded over her embroidery, and at length said

good-night and went upstairs. Edina sent the servant to bed, and

stitched on at another pinafore.

"I think that will do," said Charley: and he read the letter aloud.

"It will do very well," acquiesced Edina. "But, Charley, I foresee all

sorts of difficulties. To begin with, I am not at all sure that you

are eligible for a commission: I fancy you ought to go first of all to

Sandhurst or Woolwich."

"Not a bit of it," replied Charley, full of confidence. "What other

difficulties do you foresee, Edina?"

"I wish you would give up the idea."

"I dare say! What would you have me do, if I did give it up?"

"Pocket your pride, and find a situation."

Charles tossed his head. Pride was almost as much in the ascendant

with him as it ever had been. He thought how old and silly Edina was

growing. But he remembered what she had done for them, and would not

quarrel with her.

"Time enough to talk of that, Edina, when I have had Colonel

Cockburn's answer."

Edina said no more for a few moments. She rose; shook out Robert's

completed pinafore, and folded it. "I had a scheme in my head,

Charley; but you don't seem inclined to hear anything I may say upon

the subject."

"Yes, I will," replied Charley, opening his ears at the rather

attractive word "scheme." "I will hear that."

"I cannot help thinking that if George Atkinson were applied to, he

would give you a post in his bank. He ought to do it. After turning

you out of Eagles' Nest----"

"I wouldn't apply to him; I wouldn't take it," interrupted Charles,

fiercely, his anger aroused by the name. "If he offered me the best

post in it to-morrow, I would fling it back in his face. Good-night,

Edina: I'm off. I don't care to stay to hear of suggested obligations

from _him_."

On the day of Edina's departure for Trennach, the morning post brought

Colonel Cockburn's answer to Charles. It was very short. Edina, her

bonnet on, stood to read it over his shoulder. The colonel intimated

that he did not quite comprehend Charles's application; but would see

him on his return to London.

"So there's nothing for it but to wait--and I hope he won't be long,"

remarked Charles, as he folded the briefly-worded letter. "You must

see there's nothing else, Edina."

CHAPTER IX.

MR. MAX BROWN.

In a populous and somewhat obscure part of Lambeth, not a hundred

miles away from the great hospital, Bedlam, there ran a narrow street.

Amongst the shops, on the left of this street in going from London,

stood a house that could not strictly be called a shop now; though it

had been one recently, and the two counters within it still remained.

It had formerly been a small chemist's shop. About a year ago, a young

medical man named Brown had taken it, done away with the drugs and

chemicals, so far as retailing them to the public went, and there set

himself up as a doctor. He dispensed his own medicines, so the

counters were useful still, and his jars of powders and liquids

occupied the pigeon-holes above, where the chemist's jars had once

stood. The lower half of the windows had been stained white; on one of

them was written in black letters, "Mr. Max Brown, surgeon;" on the

other, "Mr. Max Brown, general medical practitioner."

It was now about a year since Mr. Max Brown had thus established

himself; and he had done very fairly. If his practice did not afford a

promise that he would speedily become a millionaire, it at least was

sufficient to keep him. And to keep him well. Mr. Brown had himself

been born and reared in as crowded a part of London as this, somewhere

towards Clerkenwell, therefore the locality did not offend his tastes.

He anticipated remaining in it for good, and had not the slightest

doubt that his practice would steadily increase, and afford him a

carriage and a better house in time. The tradespeople around, though

far below those of Bond Street in the social scale, were tradespeople

of sufficient substance, and could afford to pay Mr. Brown. He was a

little dark man, of affable nature and manners, clever in his

profession, liked by his patients, and winning his way more surely

amongst them day by day.

In the midst of this humble prosperity a check occurred. Not to the

prosperity, but to Mr. Brown's plans and projects. Several years

before, his elder brother had gone to the West Indies, and his widowed

mother and his sister had subsequently followed him out. The sister

had married there. The brother, Kenneth Brown, was for some years

successful manager of a planter's estate; he now managed one of his

own. Altogether they were extremely prosperous; and the only one of

the family left in England, Max, received pleasant letters from them

by each fortnightly mail, and was quite at ease with regard to them.

It therefore took him completely by surprise in the midst of this

ease, to find himself suddenly summoned to Jamaica.

One day in this same hot summer, early in the month of June--for we

must go back two or three weeks in our story--Mr. Brown, having

completed his morning round of calls on patients, stood behind his

counter making up the physic required by them, and waiting for his

queer old maid-servant, Eve, to come and tell him his one-o'clock

dinner was ready. The door stood open to the hot street, and to the

foot-passengers traversing the pavement; and Sam, the young boy, was

waiting at the opposite counter with his covered basket until the

physic should be ready.

"That's all to-day, Sam," said his master, pleasantly, as he folded

the white paper round the last bottle, and motioned to the lad to

bring the basket forward. "And, look here"--showing one of the

packets--"this is for a fresh place, Number 26, you see, in The Walk.

It's a grocer's shop."

"All right, sir. I shall find it."

"Maximilian Brown, Esq.," interrupted a voice at this juncture. It was

that of the postman. He came in at the open door, and read out the

address of the letter--his usual custom--as he put it down.

"Oh, the mail's in, I see," observed the doctor to him.

"Yes, sir."

Postman and boy went out together. Mr. Brown, leisurely turning down

his coat-cuffs, which were never allowed to come in contact with the

physic, took up the West Indian letter, and broke the seal. By that

seal, as well as by the writing, he knew it was from his mother. Mrs.

Brown always sealed her letters.

The letter contained only a few shaky lines. It told her son Max that

she was ill; ill, as she feared, unto death. And it enjoined him to

come out to Jamaica, that she might see him before she died. A note

from his brother was enclosed, which contained these words--

"Do come out, dear Max, if you can in any way manage it. Mother's

heart is set upon it. There is no immediate danger, but she is

breaking fast. Come by next mail if you can, the middle of June; but

at any rate don't delay it longer than the beginning of July. I

enclose you an order on our London bankers, that the want of funds may

be no impediment to you.

"Your affectionate brother,

"KENNETH."

It took a great deal to disturb the equable temperament of Max Brown.

This did disturb him. He stood staring at the different missives: now

at his mother's, now at his brother's, now at the good round sum named

in the order. A thunderbolt could not more effectually have taken him

back. Eve, a clean old body in a flowery chintz gown, with a mob-cap

and bow of green ribbon surmounting her grey hair, came in twice to

say the loin of lamb waited: but she received no reply in return.

"I _can't_ go," Max was repeating to himself. "I don't see how I _can_

go. What would become of my practice?"

But his mother was his mother: and Max Brown, a dutiful son, began to

feel that he should not like her to die before he had seen her once

again. She was not sixty yet. The whole of the rest of the day and

part of the night he was revolving matters in his mind; and in the

morning he sent an advertisement to the _Times_ and to a medical

journal.

For more than a week the advertisement brought no result. Answers

there were to it, and subsequent interviews with those who wrote them;

but none that availed Max Brown. Either the applicants did not suit

him, or his offer did not suit them. He then inserted the

advertisement a second time.

And it chanced to fall under the notice of Frank Raynor. Or, strictly

speaking, under the notice of Frank's friend Crisp. This was close

upon the return of Frank from Eagles' Nest. Daisy was with her sister

in Westbourne Terrace, and Frank had been taken in by Mr. Crisp, a

young surgeon who held an appointment in one of the London hospitals.

He occupied private rooms, and could accommodate Frank with a

sofa-bedstead. Mr. Crisp saw the advertisement on the morning of its

second appearance in the _Times_, and pointed it out to Frank.

"A qualified medical practitioner wanted, to take entire charge for a

few months of a general practice in London during the absence of the

principal."

"It may be worth looking after, old fellow," said Crisp.

Frank seized upon the suggestion eagerly. Most anxious was he to be

relieved from his present state of inactivity. An interview took place

between him and Max Brown; and before it terminated Frank had accepted

the post.

To him it looked all couleur-de-rose. During the very few days he had

now been in London, that enemy, the Tiger, had troubled his mind more

than was pleasant. That the man had come up in the same train, and

absolutely in the compartment immediately behind his own, for the

purpose of keeping him in view, and of tracking out his place of abode

in town, appeared only too evident to him. When Frank had deposited

his wife at her sister's door, the turnings and twistings he caused

the cab to take in carrying him to Crisp's, would have been sufficient

to baffle a detective. Frank hoped it had baffled the Tiger: but he

had scarcely liked to show himself abroad since. Therefore the

obscurity of the locality in which Mr. Brown's practice lay, whilst it

had frightened away one or two dandies who had inquired about it, was

a strong recommendation in the eyes of Frank.

The terms proposed by Mr. Brown were these: That Frank Raynor should

enter the house as he went out of it, take his place in all respects,

carry on the practice for him until he himself returned, and live upon

the proceeds. If the returns amounted to more than a certain sum, the

surplus was to be reserved for Mr. Brown.

Frank agreed to all: the terms were first-rate; just what he should

have chosen, he said. And surely to him they looked so. He was

suddenly lifted out of his state of penniless dependence, had a house

over his head, and occupation. The very fact of possessing a home to

bring Daisy to, would have lent enchantment to the view in his

sanguine nature.

"And by good luck I shall dodge the Tiger," he assured himself. "He

will never think of looking for me _here_. Were he to find me out, Mr.

Blase Pellet would be down upon me for hush-money--for that I expect

will be his move the moment he thinks I have any money in my pocket.

Yes, better to be in this obscure place at present, than flourishing

before the West-end world as a royal physician."

So when preliminaries were arranged he wrote to Mrs. Raynor, saying

what a jolly thing he had dropped into.

But Mr. Max Brown reconsidered one item in the arrangement. Instead of

Frank's coming in when he left, he had him there a week beforehand

that he might introduce him to the patients. Frank was to take to the

old servant, Eve, and to the boy, Sam: in short, nothing was to be

altered, nothing changed excepting the master. Frank was to walk in

and Mr. Brown to walk out; all else was to go on as before. Mr. Brown

made no sort of objection to Frank's wife sharing the home: on the

contrary, he made one or two extra arrangements for her comfort. When

he sailed, the beginning of July, Frank was fully installed, and Daisy

might come as soon as she pleased. But her sister wished to keep her a

little longer.

On one of the hot mornings in that same month of July, a well-dressed

young fellow in deep mourning might be seen picking his way through

the narrow streets of Lambeth, rendered ankle-deep in mud by the

prodigal benevolence of the water-cart. It was Charles Raynor. Having

nothing to do with his time, he had come forth to find out Frank.

"It _can't_ be here!" cried Charley to himself, sniffing about

fastidiously. "Frank would never take a practice in a low place like

this! I say--here, youngster," he cried, arresting the steps of a

tattered girl, who was running out of a shop, "do you chance to know

where Mark Street is?"

"First turning you comes to," promptly responded the damsel, with

assured confidence.

Charles found the turning and the street, and went down it, looking on

all sides for the house he wanted. As he did not remember, or else did

not know, the name of Frank's predecessor, the words "Mr. Max Brown"

on some window-panes on the opposite side of the way afforded him no

guide; and he might have gone on into endless wilds but for catching

sight within the house of a shapely head and some bright hair, which

he knew belonged to Frank. He crossed the street at a bound, and

entered.

"Frank!"

Standing in the identical spot in which Max Brown was standing when we

first saw him, was Frank, his head bent forward over an account-book,

in which he was writing. He looked up hastily.

"Charley!"

Their hands met, and some mutual inquiries ensued. They had not seen

each other since quitting Eagles' Nest.

"We thought you must be dead and buried, Frank. You might have come to

see us."

"Just what I have been thinking--that you might have come to see me,"

returned Frank. "_I_ can't get away. Since Brown left, and for a week

before it, I have not had a moment to myself: morning, noon and night,

I am tied to my post here. Your time is your own, Charley."

"I have been about at the West-end, finding out Colonel Cockburn, and

doing one thing or another," said Charley, by way of excusing his

laziness. "Edina left us only yesterday."

"For Trennach?"

"Yes, for Trennach. We fancy she means to take up her abode for good

in the old place. She does not feel at home anywhere else, she says,

as she does there. It was good of her, though, was it not, Frank, to

set us up in the new home?"

"Very good--even for Edina. And I believe few people in this world are

so practically good as she is. I did a little towards helping her

choose the furniture; not much, because I arranged with Brown. How is

the school progressing?"

"All right. It is a dreadful come-down: but it has to be put up with.

Alice cries every night."

"And about yourself? Have you formed any plans?"

"I am waiting till Cockburn returns to town. I expect he will get me a

commission."

"A commission!" exclaimed Frank, dubiously; certain doubts and

difficulties crossing his mind, as they had crossed Edina's.

"It will be the best thing for me if I can only obtain it. There is no

other opening."

Frank remained silent. His doubts were very strong indeed; but he

never liked to inflict thorns where he could not scatter flowers, and

he would not damp Charley's evident ardour. Time might do that quickly

enough.

Charley was looking about him. He had been looking about him ever

since he entered, somewhat after the fastidious manner that he had

looked at the streets, but more furtively. Appearances were surprising

him. The small shop (it seemed no better) with the door standing open

to the narrow street; the counters on either side; the glass jars

above; the scales lying to hand, and sundry packets of pills and

powders beside them: to him, it all savoured of a small retail

chemist's business. Charley thought he must be in a sort of dream. He

could not understand how or why Frank had condescended to so inferior

a position as this.

"Do you _like_ this place, Frank?"

"Uncommonly," answered Frank: and his honest blue eyes, glancing

brightly into Charley's, confirmed the words. "It is a relief to be in

harness again; and to have a home to bring Daisy to."

"Will Daisy like it?" questioned Charles. And the hesitation in his

tone, which he could not suppress, plainly betrayed his opinion--that

she would not like it.

Frank's countenance fell. It was the one bitter drop in the otherwise

sufficiently palatable cup.

"I _wish_ I could have done better for her. It is only for a time, you

know, Charley."

"I see," said Charley, feeling relieved. "You are only here whilst

looking out for something better."

"That's it, in one sense. I stay here until Brown comes back. By that

time I hope to--to pick myself up again."

The slight pause was caused by a consciousness that he did not feel

assured upon the point. That Mr. Blase Pellet and his emissary, the

Tiger, and all their unfriendly machinations combined, would by that

time be in some way satisfactorily disposed of, leaving himself a free

agent again, Frank devoutly hoped and most sanguinely expected. It was

only when his mind dipped into details, and he began to consider how

and by what means these enemies were likely to be subdued, that he

felt anxious and doubtful.

"Something good may turn up for you, Frank, before the fellow--Brown,

if that's his name--comes home. I suppose you'll take it if it does."

"Not I. My bargain with Brown is to remain here until he returns. And

here I shall remain."

"Oh, well--of course a bargain's a bargain. How long does he expect to

be away?"

"He did not know. He might stay four or six months with his people, he

thought, if things went on well here."

"I say, why do you keep that street-door open?"

"I don't know," answered Frank. "From habit, I suppose. Brown used to

keep it open, and I have done the same. I like it so. It gives a

little liveliness to the place."

"People may take the place for a shop, and come in."

"Some have done so," laughed Frank. "It was a chemist's shop before

Brown took to it. I tell them it is only a surgery now."

"When do you expect Daisy?" asked Charles, after a pause.

"This evening."

"This evening!"

"I shall snatch a moment at dusk to fetch her," added Frank. "Mrs.

Townley is going into Cornwall on a visit to The Mount, and Daisy

comes home."

"Have the people at The Mount forgiven Daisy yet?"

"No. They will not do that, I expect, until I am established as a

first-rate practitioner, with servants and carriages about me. Mrs.

St. Clare likes show."

"She wouldn't like this, I'm afraid," spoke Charles, candidly, looking

up at the low ceiling and across at the walls.

Frank was saved a reply. Sam, the boy, who had been out on an errand,

entered, and began delivering a message to his master.

"Would you like some dinner, Charley?" asked Frank. "Come along, I

don't know what there is to-day."

Passing through a side-door behind him, Frank stepped into an

adjoining sitting-room. It was narrow, but comfortable. The window

looked to the street. The fireplace was at the opposite end, side by

side with the door that led to the house beyond. A mahogany sofa

covered with horsehair stood against the wall on one side; a low

bookcase and a work-table on the other. The chairs matched the sofa;

on the centre table the dinner-cloth was laid.

"Not a bad room, this," said Charley, thinking it an improvement on

the shop.

"There's a better sitting-room upstairs," observed Frank.

"Well furnished, too. Brown liked to have decent things about him; and

his people, he said, helped him liberally when he set up here. That

work-table he bought the other day for Daisy's benefit."

"He must be rather a good sort of a fellow."

"He's a very good one. What have you for dinner, Eve? Put a knife and

fork for this gentleman."

"Roast beef, sir," replied the old woman, who was carrying in the

dishes, and nodded graciously to Charles, as much as to say he was

welcome. "I thought the new mistress might like to find a cut of cold

meat in the house."

"Quite right," said Frank. "Sit down, Charley."

Charley sat down, and did ample justice to the dinner, especially the

Yorkshire pudding, a dish of which he was particularly fond, and had

not lost his relish for amidst the dainties of the table at Eagles'

Nest. He began to think Frank's quarters were not so bad on the whole,

compared with no quarters at all, and no dinner to eat.

"Have you chanced to see that man, Charley, since you came to London?"

inquired Frank, putting the question with a certain reluctance, for he

hated to allude to the subject.

"What man?" returned Charley.

"The Tiger."

"No, I have not seen him. I learnt at Oxford that I had been mistaken

in thinking he was looking after me----"

"He was not looking after you," interrupted Frank.

"My creditors there all assured me---- Oh, Frank, how could I forget?"

broke off Charley. "What an ungrateful fellow I am! Though, indeed,

not really ungrateful, but it had temporarily slipped my memory. How

good it was of you to settle those two bills for me! I would not write

to thank you: I preferred to wait until we met. How did you raise the

money?"

Frank, who had finished his dinner, had nothing to do but to stare at

Charles. And he did stare, "I don't know what you are talking about,

Charley. What bills have I settled for you?"

"The two wretched bills I had accepted and went about in fear of. You

know. Was it not you who paid them?"

"Are they paid?"

"Yes. All paid and done with. It must have been you, Frank. There's no

one else that it could have been."

"My good lad, I assure you I know nothing whatever about it. Where

should I get a hundred pounds from? What could induce you to think it

was I?"

Charles told the tale--all he knew of it. They wasted some minutes in

conjectures, and then came to the conclusion that it must have been

Major Raynor himself who had paid. He had become acquainted in some

way with Charles's trouble and had quietly relieved it. A lame

conclusion, as both felt: for setting aside the fact that the poor

major was short of money himself, to pay bills for his son secretly

was eminently uncharacteristic of him: he would have been far more

likely to proclaim it to the whole house, and reproach Charley in its

hearing. But they were fain to rest in the belief, from sheer want of

any other benefactor to fix upon. Not a soul was there in the wide

world, as far as Charley knew, to come forth in this manner, excepting

his father.

"I think it must have been so," concluded Charles. "Perhaps the dear

old man got to know, through Lamb, of Huddles's visit that day."

"And what of Eagles' Nest?" asked Frank, as he passed back into the

surgery with Charles, and sent the boy into the kitchen to his dinner.

"Has George Atkinson taken possession yet?"

"We have heard nothing of Eagles' Nest, Frank; we don't care to hear

anything. Possession? Of course he has. You may depend upon it he

would make an indecent rush into it the very day after we came out of

it, the wretch! If he did not the same night."

Frank could not help a smile at the outburst of indignation. "Atkinson

ought to do something for you, Charley," he said. "After turning you

out of one home, the least he could do would be to find you another. I

dare say he might put you into some post or other."

"And do you suppose I'd take it!" fired Charles, his eyes blazing.

"What queer ideas you must have, Frank! You are as bad as Edina. As

if----"

"Oh, please, Dr. Brown, would you come to mother," interrupted a small

child, darting in at the open door. "She have fell through the back

parlour window a-cleaning of it, and her arm be broke, she says."

"Who is your mother, little one?"

"At the corner shop, please, sir. Number eleven."

"Tell her I will come directly."

Charles was taking up his hat, to leave. "Why does she call you Dr.

Brown?" he questioned, as the child ran off, and Frank was making

ready to follow her and summoning Sam to the surgery.

"Half the people here call me so. It comes more readily to them than

the new name. Good-bye, Charley. My love to all at home. Come again

soon."

He sped away in the wake of the child. Charley turned the other way on

his road homewards, carrying with him a very disparaging opinion of

Lambeth.

In the small back sitting-room, underneath its two lighted

gas-burners, stood Mrs. Frank Raynor, her heart beating faster than

usual, her breath laboured. She felt partly frightened, partly

confused by what she saw--by the aspect of the place she was brought

to, as her new home. Frank had in a degree prepared her for it as they

came along in the cab which brought them, Daisy's boxes piled upon it:

but either he had done it insufficiently, or she had failed to realize

his description of what he called the "humble den," for it came upon

her with a shock. Both as Margaret St. Clare and as Margaret Raynor

her personal experiences of dwelling-places had been pleasant and

sunny.

The clock was striking ten when the cab had drawn up in Mark Street.

She looked out to see why it stopped. She saw a narrow street, an

inferior locality, small shops on either side. The one before which

they had halted appeared to be a shop too: the door stood open, a

gas-burner was alight within.

"Why are we stopping here, Frank?"

Frank, hastening to jump out, did not hear the question. He turned to

help her.

"This is not the place?" she cried in doubt.

"Yes, this is it, Daisy."

He took her in, piloted her between the counters into the lighted

side-room, and turned back to see to the luggage; leaving her utterly

aghast, bewildered, and standing as still as a statue.

The door at the end of the room opened, and a curious old figure,

attired in a chintz gown of antique shape, with a huge bow of green

ribbon on her muslin cap, appeared at it. Eve curtsied to her new

mistress: the new mistress stared at the servant.

"You are welcome, ma'am. We are glad to see you. And, please, would

you like the supper-tray brought in?"

"Is--is this Mr. Raynor's?" questioned Daisy, in tones that seemed to

say she dreaded the answer.

"Sure enough it is, ma'am, for the present. He is here during the

master's absence."

Daisy said no more. She only stood still in her grievous astonishment,

striving to comprehend it all, and to hush her dismayed heart. The

luggage was being brought in, and Eve went to help with it. Frank

found his wife seated on the horsehair sofa, when he came in; and

caught the blank look on her pale face.

"You are tired, Daisy. You would like to take your things off. Come

upstairs, and I will show you your bedroom."

Lighting a candle, he led the way, Daisy following mechanically up the

steep, confined staircase, to which she herself seemed to present a

contrast, with her fashionable attire of costly black gauze, relieved

by frillings of soft white net.

"The room's not very large, Daisy," he said, entering one on the first

floor, the window looking out on some back leads. "There's a larger

one in front on the upper landing, but I thought you would prefer

this, and it is better furnished. It was Brown's room. He said I had

better take to it, for if I went up higher I might not hear the

night-bell.

"Yes," replied Daisy, faintly, undoing the strings of her bonnet. "Was

it a--a shop we came through?"

"That was the surgery. It used to be a shop, and Brown never took the

trouble to alter its arrangement."

"Have you always to come through it on entering the house?"

"Yes. There is no other entrance. The houses in these crowded places

are confined in space, you see, Daisy. I will help Sam to bring up the

boxes," added Frank, disappearing.

When finally left to herself, Margaret sat down and burst into a

passionate flood of tears. It seemed to her that, in coming to dwell

here, she must lose caste for ever. Frank called to her presently, to

know whether she was not coming down.

Drying her eyes as she best could, she took up the candle to descend.

On the opposite side of the small landing, a door stood open to a

sitting-room, and she looked in. A fair-sized room this, for it was

over both the surgery and the parlour, and a very nice room too, its

carpet of a rich dark hue, with chairs and window-hangings to match,

and furniture that was good and handsome. She put the candle on a

console, crossed to one of the windows, and gazed down at the street.

Late though it was, people were surging to and fro; not at all the

sort of people Daisy had been accustomed to. Over the way was a small

fish-shop: a ragged man and boy, standing before it, were eating

mussels. To pass one's days in such a street as this must be

frightfully depressing, and Mrs. Raynor burst into tears again.

"Why, my darling, what is the matter?"

Frank, coming up in search of her, found her sobbing wildly, her head

buried on the arm of one of the chairs. She lifted it, and let it rest

upon his shoulder.

"You are disappointed, Daisy. I see it."

"It--it is such a wretched street, Frank; and--and such a house!"

Frank flushed painfully. He felt the complaint to his heart's core.

"It is only for a time, Daisy. Until I can get into something better.

If that may ever be!" he added to himself, as Blase Pellet's image

rose before his mind.

Daisy sobbed more quietly. He was holding her to him.

"I know, my poor girl, how inferior it is; altogether different from

anything you have been accustomed to; but this home is better than

none at all. We can at least be together and be happy here."

"Yes, we can," replied Daisy, rallying her spirits and her sweet

nature, as she lifted her face to look into his. "I married you for

worse, as well as for better, Frank, my best love. We _will_ be happy

in it."

"As happy as a king and queen in a fairy-tale," rejoined Frank, a

whole world of hope in his tones.

And that was Daisy's instalment in her London home.

CHAPTER X.

A NIGHT ALARM.

Misfortunes seldom come singly. Many of us, unhappily, have had good

cause only too often to learn the truth of the saying; but few, it is

to be hoped, have experienced it in an equal degree with the Raynors.

For another calamity was in store for them: one that, taking the

difference between their present and past circumstances into

consideration, was at least as distressing as the ejection from

Eagles' Nest.

But it did not happen quite immediately. The weeks were calmly

passing, and Mrs. Raynor felt in spirits; for two more day-scholars

had entered at the half-quarter, and another boarder was promised at

Michaelmas. So that matters might be said to be progressing

satisfactorily though monotonously. Monotony, however, does not suit

young people, especially if they have been suddenly plunged into it.

It did not suit Charles and Alice Raynor. Ever contrasting, as they

were, the present enforced quiet and obscurity with the past life at

Eagles' Nest, its show, society, and luxuries, no wonder that they

felt well-nigh weary unto death. At first it was almost unbearable.

But they could not help themselves: it had to be endured. Charles was

worse off than Alice; she had her school duties to occupy her during

the day; he had nothing. Colonel Cockburn had not yet returned to

London, and Charles told himself and his mother that he must wait for

him. As the weeks went on, some relief suggested itself from this

dreariness--perhaps was the result of it.

The alleviation was found in private theatricals. They had made the

acquaintance of some neighbours named Earle; had become intimate with

them. The circumstances of the two families were much alike, and

perhaps this at first drew them together. Captain Earle--a

post-captain in the Royal Navy--had left only a slender income to his

wife at his death: just enough to enable her to live quietly, and

bring up her children inexpensively. They were gentlepeople; and that

went a long way with the Raynors. The young Earles--four of them--were

all in their teens: the eldest son had a post in Somerset House, the

younger one went to a day-school in the neighbourhood, the two

daughters had finished their education, and were at home. It chanced

that these young people had a passion just now for private

theatricals, and the Raynors caught the infection. After witnessing a

performance at Mrs. Earle's of a popular comedy, Charles and Alice

Raynor got up from it wild to perform one at their own home.

And probably the very eagerness with which they pursued the fancy,

arose out of the recent monotony of their lives. Mrs. Raynor looked

grave: she did not know whether the parents of her pupils would

approve of private theatricals. But her children overruled her

objection, and she could only yield to them. She always did so.

They fixed upon Goldsmith's comedy, "She Stoops to Conquer." A

thoroughly good play in itself. Charles procured some sixpenny copies

of it, and drew his pen through any part that he considered unsuited

to present taste, which shortened the play very much. He chose the

part of Charles Marlowe; Alice that of Miss Hardcastle; Mrs. Earle,

who liked the amusement as much as her children did, would be Mrs.

Hardcastle; her eldest daughter Constance Neville: and the young

Somerset-House clerk Tony Lumpkin. The other characters were taken by

some acquaintances of the Earles.

And now, fairly launched upon this new project, the monotony of the

house disappeared: for the time they even forgot to lament after

Eagles' Nest. Dresses, gauzes, tinsel, green-baize curtains, and all

the rest of it, were to be lent by the Earles; so that no cost was

involved in the entertainment. The schoolroom was to be the theatre,

and the pupils were to have seats amongst the audience.

Charles entered into it with wonderful energy. He never now had a

minute for lying on three chairs, or for stretching his hands above

his head to help a mournful yawn. A letter that arrived from Edina,

requiring him to transact a little matter of business, was wholly

neglected; it would have involved his going to the City, and he said

he had no time for it.

Edina had intended to insure the new furniture in the same Cornish

office that her father had insured his in for so many years. Perhaps

she had more faith in it than in the London offices. However, after

some negotiations with the Cornish company upon her return to

Trennach, they declined the offer, as the furniture it related to was

so far away, and recommended a safe and good insurance company in the

City of London. She wrote to Mrs. Raynor, desiring that Charles should

at once go to the City to do what was necessary and secure the policy.

Charles put it off upon the plea that he was too busy; it could wait.

"Charley, I think you ought to do it, if only to comply with Edina's

wish," urged Mrs. Raynor.

"And so I will, mother, as soon as I get a little time."

"It would only take you half-a-day, my dear."

"But I can't spare the half-day. Do you think the house is going to be

burnt down?"

"Nonsense, Charley!"

"Then where's the need of hurry?" he persisted. "I have looked after

every one else's part so much and the arrangements altogether, that I

scarcely know a word yet of my own. I stuck yesterday at the very

first sentence Charles Marlowe has to say."

Mrs. Raynor, never able to contend against a stronger will than her

own, gave in as usual, saying no more. And Charles was left

unmolested.

But in the midst of this arduous labour, for other people as well as

for himself, Charles received news from Colonel Cockburn. The colonel

wrote to say he was in London for a couple of days, and Charles might

call in St. James's Street the following morning.

This mandate Charles would not put off, in spite of the exigencies of

the theatricals; and of the first rehearsal, two evenings hence. The

grand performance was to take place during the few days' holiday Mrs.

Raynor gave at Michaelmas; and Michaelmas would be upon them in a

little more than a week.

Charles went to St. James's Street. And there his hopes, in regard to

the future, received a very decided check. Colonel Cockburn--who

turned out to be a feeble and deaf old gentleman--informed Charles

that he could not help him to obtain a commission, and moreover,

explained many things to him, and assured him that he had no chance of

obtaining one. No one, the colonel said, could get one now, unless he

had been specially prepared for it. He would advise Charles, he added,

to embrace a civil profession; say the law. It was very easy to go to

the Bar, he believed; involving only, so far as he knew, the eating of

a certain number of dinners. All this sounded very cruel to Charles

Raynor. Otherwise the colonel was kind. He kept him for the day, and

took him to dine at his club.

It was late when Charles reached home; thoroughly tired.

Disappointment alone inflicts weariness. Mrs. Raynor felt terribly

disheartened at the news.

"There have been so many weeks lost, you see, Charley!"

"Yes," returned Charles, gloomily. "I'm sure I don't know what to be

at now. Cockburn suggested the Bar. He says one may qualify for almost

nothing."

"We will talk about it to-morrow Charley," said Mrs. Raynor. "It is

past bedtime, and I am tired. You were not thinking of sitting up

later, were you, my dear?" she added, as Charles took up "She Stoops

to Conquer" from a side table.

"Oh, well--I suppose not, if you say it is so late," he replied.

"The dresses have come, ready for the rehearsal, Charley," whispered

Alice, as they were going upstairs. "I have put them in your room.

Charlotte Earle and I have been trying on ours. I mean to wear one of

Edina's brown holland aprons while I am supposed to be a barmaid."

"I'll be shot if I know half my part," grumbled Charley. "It _was_ a

bother, having to go out to-day!"

"You can learn it before Michaelmas."

"Of course I can. But one likes to be perfect at rehearsal.

Good-night."

Charles turned into his room, and shut the door. It was a good-sized

apartment, one that Mrs. Raynor destined for boarders, when the school

should have increased. The first thing he saw, piled up between the

bed and the wall, partly on a low chest of drawers, partly on the

floor, was a confused heap of gay clothes and other articles: the

theatrical paraphernalia that had been brought round from Mrs.

Earle's. Upon the top of all, lay a yellow gauze dress edged with

tinsel. Charles, all his interest in the coming rehearsal reviving at

the sight, touched it gingerly here and there, and wondered whether it

might be the state robe for one of the younger ladies, or for Tony

Lumpkin's mother.

"I wish to goodness I was more perfect in my part!" cried he, pulling

corners out of the other things to see what they consisted of.

"Suppose I give half-an-hour to it, before I get into bed?"

The little book was still in his hand. He lodged the candle on the

edge of the drawers amidst the finery, and sat down near, pausing in

the act of taking off his coat. Alfred lay on the far side of the bed

fast asleep. A night or two ago, for this was by no means the first

time he had sat down in his chamber to con the sayings of young

Marlowe, Charles took his coat off, dropped asleep, and woke up cold

when the night was half over. So he concluded that he would keep his

coat on now.

Precisely the same event took place: Charles fell asleep. Tired with

his day's journey, he had not studied the book five minutes when it

fell from his hands. He was soon in a sound slumber. How long he

remained in it he never knew, but he was awakened by a shout and a

cry. Fire!

A shout and a cry, and a great glare of light. Fire? Yes, it was fire.

Whether Charles had thrown out his arm in his sleep and turned the

candle over, or whether a spark had shot out from it, he knew not,

never would know; but the pile of inflammable gauzes and other stuffs

lying there had caught light. The flames had penetrated to the bed,

and finally awakened Alfred. It was Alfred who shouted the alarm.

Perhaps Charles owed his life to the fact that he had kept his coat

on: its sleeve was scorched.

These scenes have been often described before: it is of no use to

detail another here. A household aroused in the depth of the night;

terrified women and children crying and running: flames mounting,

smoke suffocating. They all escaped with life, taking refuge at the

dwelling of a neighbour; but the house and its contents were burnt to

the ground.

"MY DEAR EDINA,

"I never began a letter like this in all my life: it will have nothing

in it but ill news and misery. Whether I am doing wrong in writing to

you, I hardly know. My mother would not write. She feels a delicacy in

disclosing our calamities to you, after your generous kindness in

providing us with a home; and she must be ashamed to tell you about

me. The home is lost, Edina, and I am the cause of it.

"I am too wretched to go into details: and, if I did, you might not

have patience to read them; so I will tell the story in as few words

as I can. We--I, Alice, and the Earles: you may remember them as

living in the low, square house, near the church--were going to act a

play, 'She Stoops to Conquer.' I sat up last Wednesday night to study

my part, dropped asleep, and somehow the candle set light to some

stage dresses that were lying ready in my chamber. When I woke up, the

room was in flames. None of us are hurt; but the house is burnt down;

and everything that was in it.

"This is not all. I hate to make the next confession to you more than

I hated this one. The insurance on the furniture had not been

effected. I had put it off and off; though my mother urged me more

than once to go and do it.

"You have spoken sometimes, Edina, of the necessity of acting rightly,

so that we may enjoy a peaceful conscience. If you only knew what mine

is now, and the torment of remorse I endure, even you might feel a

passing shade of pity for me. There are moments when the weight seems

more than I can bear.

"We have taken a small, cheap lodging near; number five, in the next

street; and what the future is to be I cannot tell. It of course falls

to my lot now to keep them, as it is through me they have lost their

home, and _I shall try and do it_. Life will be no play-day with me

now.

"I thought it my duty to tell you this, Edina. Whilst holding back

from the task, I have yet said to myself that you would reproach me if

I did not. And you will not mistake the motive, since you are aware

that I know you parted with every shilling you had, to provide us with

the last home.

"Write a few words of consolation to my mother; no one can do it as

you can; and _don't spare me to her_.

"Your unhappy cousin,

"CHARLES."

Frank Raynor once made the remark in our hearing that somehow every

one turned to Edina in trouble. Charley had instinctively turned to

her. Not because it might lie in his duty to let her know what had

come to pass, to confess his own share in it, his imprudent folly; but

for the sake of his mother. Though Edina had no more money to give

away, and could not help them to another home, he knew that if any one

could breathe a word of comfort to her, it was Edina.

One thing lay more heavily upon his conscience than all the rest; and

if he had not mentioned this to Edina, it was not that he wished to

spare himself, for he was in the mood to confess everything that could

tell against him, almost with exaggeration, but that in the hurry of

writing he had unintentionally omitted it. On one of the previous

nights that he had been studying his part, Mrs. Raynor caught sight of

the light under his door. Opening it, she found him sitting on the bed

in his shirt-sleeves, reading. There and then she spoke of the danger,

and begged him never to sit up at night again. The fact was this:

Charles Raynor had nothing on earth to do with his time; an idle young

fellow, as he was, needed not the night for work; but his habits had

grown so desultory that he could settle to no occupation in the

daytime.

The answer from Edina did not come. Charles said nothing about having

written to her; but he did fully hope and expect Edina would write to

his mother. Morning after morning he posted himself outside the door

to watch for the postman; and morning after morning the man passed and

gave him nothing.

"Edina is too angry to write," concluded Charles, at last. "This has

been too much even for her." And he betook himself to his walk to

London.

No repentance could be more thoroughly sincere than was Charles

Raynor's. The last dire calamity had taken all his pride and elevated

notions out of him. The family were helpless, hopeless; and he had

rendered them so. No clothes, no food, no prospects, no home, no

money. A few articles of wearing apparel had been thrown out of the

burning house, chiefly belonging to Alice, but not many. All the money

Mrs. Raynor had in the world--four banknotes of five pounds each--had

been consumed. There had chanced to be a little gold in Charles's

pockets, given him to pay the insurance, some taxes, and other

necessary matters; and that was all they had to go on with. Night

after night Charles lay awake, lamenting his folly, and making huge

resolves to remedy the evil results of it.

They must have food to eat; though it were but bread-and-cheese; they

must have a roof over them, let it be ever so confined. And there was

only himself to provide this. Any thought of setting up a school again

could not present itself to their minds after the late ignominious

failure: they had no means of doing it, and the little pupils had gone

from them for ever. No; all lay on Charles. He studied the columns of

the _Times_, and walked up and down London until he was footsore;

footsore and heart-sick; trying to get one of the desirable places

advertised as vacant. In vain.

He had been doing this now for four or five days. On this, the sixth

day, when he reached home after his weary walk, the landlady of the

house stood at the open door, bargaining for one of the pots of musk

that a man was carrying about for sale. Charles wished her

good-evening as he passed on to the parlour; and there he met with a

surprise, for in it sat Edina. She had evidently just arrived. Her

travelling-cloak was thrown on the back of a chair, her black mantle

was only unfastened, her bonnet was still on. Katie and Robert sat at

her feet; the tea-things were on the table, Alice was cutting

bread-and-butter, and Mrs. Raynor was sobbing. Charles held out his

hand with hesitation, feeling that it was not worthy for Edina to

touch, and a red flush dyed his face.

After tea the conversation turned on their present position, on plans

and projects. Ah what poor ones they were! Mrs. Raynor acknowledged

freely that she had only a few shillings left.

"Have you been paid for the pupils?" asked Edina.

"No," said Mrs. Raynor. "I have not yet sent in the accounts. The

children were not with me quite a quarter, you know, and perhaps some

of the parents may make that an excuse, combined with the termination,

for not paying me at all. Even if I get the money, there are debts to

be paid out of it: the tradespeople, the stationer, the maidservant's

wages. Not much will be left of it."

"Then, Mary, let us settle to-night what is to be done."

"What can be settled?" returned Mrs. Raynor, hopelessly. "I see

nothing at all before us. Except starvation."

"Don't talk of starvation while Heaven spares us the use of our minds

to plan, and our hands to work," said Edina, pleasantly; and the

bright tone cheered Mrs. Raynor. "For one thing, I have come up to

live with you."

"Edina!"

"I cannot provide you with another home: you know why," continued

Edina: "but I can share with you all I have left--my income. It is so

small a one that perhaps you will hardly thank me for it, saddled with

myself; but at least it is something to fall back upon, and we can all

share together."

Mrs. Raynor burst into tears again. Never strong in resources, the

repeated calamities she had been subjected to of late had tended to

render her next-door to helpless both in body and spirit. Charles

turned to Edina, brushing his eyelashes.

"I cannot presume to thank you, Edina: you would not care to receive

thanks from me. _I_ am hoping to support them."

"In what manner, Charles?" asked Edina; and her tone was as kind as

usual. "I hear you have lost hopes of the commission."

"By getting into some situation and earning a weekly salary at it,"

spoke Charles, bravely. "The worst is, situations seem to be so

unattainable."

"How do you know they are unattainable?"

"I have done nothing the last few days but look for one. Besides the

places advertised, I can't tell you how many banks and other

establishments I have made bold to go into, asking if they want a

clerk. A hundred a-year would be something."

"It would be a great deal," replied Edina, significantly. "Salaries to

that amount are certainly hard to find. I question if you would get

half of it at first."

A blank look overspread Charley's face. Edina's judgment had always

been sound.

"But why do you question it, Edina?"

"Because you are inexperienced: totally unused to business; to work of

any kind."

"Yes, that's what some of the people say when they question me."

"There is one person who might help you to such a situation, if he

would," observed Edina, slowly. "But I shall offend you if I speak of

him, Charles: as I did once before."

"You mean George Atkinson!"

"I do. If he chose to put you into his bank, he might give you any

salary he pleased; and he might be willing to do it, whether you

earned it or not. I think he would, if I asked him."

There was a pause. Edina's thoughts were carrying her back to the old

days when George Atkinson had been all the world to her. It would cost

her something to apply to him; but for the sake of this helpless

family, she must bring her mind to doing it.

"What do you say, Charles?"

"I say yes, Edina. I have nothing but humble-pie to eat just now: it

will be only another slice of it. Banking work seems to consist of

everlastingly adding up columns of figures: I should grow expert at it

no doubt in time."

"Then I will go to-morrow and see whether he is in town," decided

Edina. "If not, I must travel down to Eagles' Nest."

"You might write instead," suggested Mrs. Raynor.

"No, Mary, I will not write. A personal interview gives so much more

chance of success in an application of this nature."

"_I_ could not apply to him personally," sighed Mrs. Raynor.

But Edina never shrank from a duty; and the next morning saw her at

the banking-house of Atkinson and Street, the very house where she had

spent those few happy days of her early life when she had learned to

love. Mr. Street and his wife lived in it now. She went to the private

door and asked for him. He had known her in those days; and a smile

actually crossed his calm cold face as he shook hands with her: and to

her he proved more communicative than he generally showed himself to

the world.

"Is Mr. Atkinson in town?" she inquired, when a few courtesies had

passed.

"No. He----"

"I feared not," quickly spoke Edina, for she had quite anticipated the

answer. "I thought he would be at Eagles' Nest."

"But he is not at Eagles' Nest," interposed the banker. "He is on the

high seas, on his way to New Zealand."

"On his way to New Zealand!" echoed Edina, hardly thinking, in her

surprise, that she heard correctly.

"He went away again immediately. I do not suppose he was in London a

fortnight altogether."

"Then he could not have made much stay at Eagles' Nest?"

"He did not make any stay at it," replied Edwin Street. "I don't think

he went down to Eagles' Nest at all. If he did go, he came back the

same day, for he never slept one night away from this house throughout

his sojourn."

"But what could be his reason?" reiterated Edina, wonderingly. "Why

has he gone away so soon again?"

"He put it upon the score of his health, Miss Raynor. England does not

agree with him. At least, he fancies it does not."

"And who is living at Eagles' Nest?"

"A Mr. Fairfax. He is a land-agent and steward, a thoroughly efficient

man, and he has been appointed steward to the estate. His orders are

to take care of it, and to renovate it by all possible means that

money and labour can do. Mr. Atkinson was informed on good authority

that it had been neglected by Major Raynor."

"That's true," thought Edina.

"The first thing Mr. Atkinson did on his arrival, was to inquire

whether the estate had been well cared for and kept up since Mrs.

Atkinson's death. I was not able to say that it had been: I was

obliged to tell him that the contrary was the fact. He then questioned

my brother, and other people who were acquainted with the truth. It

vexed him: and, as I tell you, he is now doing all he can to remedy

the late neglect."

"I am very much surprised that Mr. Atkinson did not himself go down to

see into it!" said Edina.

"Long residence in foreign lands often conduces to indolent habits,"

remarked the banker.

Edina sighed. Was her mission to be a fruitless one? Taking a moment's

counsel with herself, she resolved to disclose its purport to Edwin

Street. And she did so: asking him to give Charles Raynor a stool in

his counting-house, and a salary with it.

But Mr. Street declined. His very manner seemed to freeze at the

request. A young man, brought up as Mr. Charles Raynor had been, could

not possibly be of any use in a bank, he observed.

"Suppose Mr. Atkinson were here, and had complied with my request to

put him in?--what then?" said Edina.

"In that case he would have come in," was the candid answer. "But Mr.

Atkinson is not here; in his absence I exercise my own discretion; and

I am bound to tell you that I cannot make room for the young man.

Don't seek to put Charles Raynor into a bank: he is not fitted for the

post in any way, and might do harm in it instead of good. Take an

experienced man's advice for once, Miss Raynor."

"It has spared me the pain of an interview with _him_," thought Edina,

as she said good-morning to Mr. Street. "But what a strange thing that

he should go away again without seeing Eagles' Nest!"

PART THE THIRD.

CHAPTER I.

LAUREL COTTAGE.

It was a roomy cottage in a small by-road of the environs of

Kennington, bordering on South Lambeth. Frost and snow lay on the

ground outside, and bitter blasts in the air: within, sitting round

the scanty fire in a bare-looking but not very small parlour, were

Mrs. Raynor, Edina, and the younger children, the two former busily

employed making brown chenile nets for the hair.

When Edina was out one day searching for some abode for them, this

dwelling fell under her eye. It was called Laurel Cottage, as the

white letters on a slate-coloured wooden gate testified: probably

because a dwarf laurel tree flourished between the palings and the

window. In the window was a card, setting forth that "lodgings" were

to be let: and Edina entered. Could the Raynors have gone into the

country, she would have taken a whole cottage to themselves; but then

there would have been a difficulty about furniture. It was necessary

they should remain in London, as Charles still expected to find

employment there, and they must not be too far from the business parts

of it, for he would have to walk to and fro night and morning. Laurel

Cottage possessed a landlady, one Mrs. Fox, and a young boy, her son.

The rooms to let were four in number; parlour, kitchen, and two

bedrooms. She asked ten shillings a-week: but that the house was

shabby and badly furnished, she might have asked more. Edina freely

said she could afford to give only eight shillings a-week; and at

length the bargain was struck. Edina's income was just a pound a-week,

fifty-two pounds a-year; eight shillings out of it for rent was a

formidable sum. It left only twelve shillings for all necessities: and

poor, anxious Edina, who had all the care and responsibility on her

own shoulders, and felt that she had it, did not see the future very

clearly before her; but at present there was nothing to be done but to

bow to circumstances. So here they were in Laurel Cottage, with a

dreary look-out of waste-ground for a view, and a few stunted trees

overshadowing the gate.

Alice had gone into a school as teacher. It was situated near

Richmond, in Surrey, and was chiefly for the reception of children

whose parents were in India. She would have to stay there during the

holidays: but that was so much the better, as there was no place for

her at home. Alfred ran on errands, and made a show of saying his

lessons to his mother between whiles. Mrs. Raynor taught Kate and

little Robert; Edina did the work, for they were not waited upon;

Charles spent his time tramping about after a situation. To eke out

their narrow income, Edina had tried to get some sewing, or other

work, to do; she had found out a City house that dealt largely in

ladies' hairnets, and the house agreed to supply her with some to

make. All their spare time she and Mrs. Raynor devoted to these nets,

Charles carrying the parcels backwards and forwards. But for those

nets, they must certainly to a great extent have starved. With the

nets, they were not much better off.

In some mysterious way, Edina had managed to provide them all with a

change of clothing, to replace some of that which had been lost in the

fire. They never knew how she did it. Only Edina herself knew that. A

few articles of plate that had been her father's; a few ornaments of

her own: these were turned into money.

The light of the wintry afternoon was fading; the icicles outside were

growing less visible to the eye. Little Robert, sitting on the floor,

said at last that he could not see his picture-book. Mrs. Raynor,

looking young still in her widow's cap, let fall the net on her lap

for a minute's rest, and looked at the fire through her tears. Over

and over again did these tears rise unbidden now. Edina, neat and

nice-looking as ever, in her soft black dress, her brown hair smoothly

braided on either side her attractive face--attractive in its

intelligence and goodness--caught sight of the tears from the low

chair where she sat opposite.

"Take courage, Mary," she gently said. "Things will take a turn some

time."

Mrs. Raynor caught up her work and suppressed a rising sob. Katie, in

a grumbling tone, said she was sure it must be tea-time. Edina rose,

brought in a tray from the small kitchen, which was on the same floor

as the room they sat in, and began to put out the cups and saucers.

"What a long time Alfred is!" cried the little girl.

Alfred came in almost as he spoke, a can of milk in his hand. By

sending to a dairy half-a-mile off, Edina had discovered that she

could get pure milk cheaper than any left by the milkman: so Alfred

went for it morning and night.

"It is so jolly hard!" exclaimed he, with a glowing face, alluding to

the ice in the roads. "The slides are beautiful."

"Don't get sliding when you are carrying the milk," advised Edina.

"Take off your cap and comforter, Alfred."

She was cutting slices of bread for him to toast. Unused to hard fare,

the children could not eat dry bread with any relish: so, when there

was neither butter nor dripping, neither treacle nor honey in the

house, Edina had the bread toasted. Alfred knelt down before the

fire--the only fire they had--and began to toast. The kettle was

singing on the hob. Edina turned the milk into a jug.

They were sitting down to the tea-table when Charles came in. A glance

at his weary and dispirited face told Edina that he had met with no

more luck to-day than usual. Putting down a brown-paper parcel that he

carried, containing a fresh supply of material to be made into nets,

he took his place at the table. How hungry he was, no one but himself

knew. And how scanty the food was that he could be supplied with!

But for his later experience, Charles could not have believed that it

was so difficult for a young man to obtain a situation in London.

Edina, less hopeful than he, would not have believed it. Charles

Raynor had not been brought up to work of any sort, had never done

any; and this seemed to be one of the stumbling-blocks in his way.

Perhaps he looked too much of a gentleman; perhaps his refined manners

and tones told against him in the eyes of men of business, betraying

that he might prove unfit for work: at any rate, he had not found any

one to take him. Another impediment was that no sooner did a situation

fall vacant, than a large number of applicants made a rush to fill it.

Only one of them could be engaged: and it never happened to be

Charles. Charles looked through the _Times_ advertisements every

morning, through the friendliness of a neighbouring newsvendor. He

would read of a clerk being wanted in some place or other in the great

mart of London, and away he would go, to present himself. But he

invariably found other applicants before him, and as invariably he

never seemed to have the slightest chance.

The disappointment was beginning to tell upon him. There were times

when he felt almost maddened. His conscience had been awake these last

many bitter weeks, and the prolonged strain often seemed more than he

could bear. Had it been only himself! All, then, as it seemed to

Charles Raynor, all would have been easy. He could enlist for a

soldier; he could join the labourers' emigration society and go out

for a term of years to Australia or Canada; he could turn porter at a

railway-station. These wild thoughts (though perhaps they could not be

called so very wild in his present circumstances) continually passed

through his mind: but he had to put them aside as visionary.

Visionary, because his object was, not to support himself alone, but

the family. At least to help to support them. Charles Raynor was

sensitive to a degree; and every mouthful he was obliged to eat seemed

as though it would choke him, because it lessened the portion of those

at home. A man cannot quite starve: but it often seemed to Charles

that he really and truly would prefer to starve, and to bear the

martyrdom of the process, rather than be a burden upon his mother

and Edina. Sometimes he came home by way of Frank's and took tea

there--and Frank, suspecting the truth of matters, took care to add

some substantial dish to the table. But Charles, in delicacy of

feeling, would not do this often: the house, in point of fact, was Mr.

Max Brown's, not Frank's.

How utterly subdued in spirit his mother had become, Charles did not

like to see and note. She kept about, but there could be no mistaking

that she was both ill and suffering. Oh, if he could only lift her out

of this poverty to a home of ease and plenty! he would say to himself,

a whole world of self-reproach at work within him. If this last year

or two could be blotted out of time and memory, and they had their

modest home again near Bath!

No; it might not be. The events that time brings forth must endure in

the memory for ever; our actions in it must remain in the Book of the

Recording Angel as facts of the past. The home at Bath had gone;

Eagles' Nest had gone; the transient weeks of the school-life had

gone: and here they were, hopeless and without prospect, eating hard

fare at Laurel Cottage.

They had left off asking him now in an evening how he succeeded during

the day, and what his luck had been. His answer was ever the same; he

had had no luck; had done nothing: and it was given with pain so

evident, that they refrained in very compassion. On this evening

Charles himself spoke of it; spoke to Edina. The children were in bed.

Mrs. Raynor had gone, as usual, to hear them say their prayers, and

had not yet returned.

"I wonder how much longer this is to go on, Edina?"

Edina looked up from her work. "Do you mean your want of success,

Charley?"

"Could I mean anything else!" he rejoined, his tone utterly subdued.

"I think of nothing but that, morning, noon, and night."

"It is a long lane that has no turning, Charles. And I don't think

patience and perseverance often go unrewarded in the long-run. How did

you fare to-day?"

"Just as usual. Never had a single chance at all. Look, Edina--my

boots are beginning to wear out."

A rather ominous pause. Charley was stretching out his right foot.

"You have another pair, you know, Charley. These must be mended."

"But I am thinking of the time when neither pair will mend any longer.

Edina, I wonder whether life is worth living?"

"Charley, we cannot see into the future," spoke Edina, pausing for a

moment in her work to look at him, a newly begun net in her hand. "If

we could, we might foresee, even now, how good and necessary this

discipline is for us. It may be, Charley, that you needed it; that we

all needed it, more or less. Take it as a cross that has come direct

from God; bear it as well as you are able; do your best in it and

trust to Him. Rely upon it that, in His own good time, He will lighten

it for you. And He will take care of you until it passes away."

Charles took up the poker; recollected himself, and put it down again.

Fires might not be lavishly stirred now, as they had been at Eagles'

Nest. Mrs. Raynor had been obliged to make a rule that no one should

touch the fire excepting herself and Edina.

"It is not for myself I am thus impatient to get employment," resumed

Charles. "But for the rest of them, I would go off to-morrow and

enlist. If I could only earn twenty pounds a-year to begin with, it

would be a help; better than nothing."

Only two or three months ago he had said, If I can only get a hundred

a-year. Such lessons of humility adversity teaches!

"Twenty pounds a-year would pay the rent," observed Edina. "I never

thought it could be so hard to get into something. I supposed that

when young men wanted employment they had only to seek it. It does

seem wrong does it not, Charley, that an able and willing young fellow

should not be able to work when he wishes to do so?"

"Enlisting would relieve you of myself: and the thought is often in my

mind," observed Charles. "On the other hand----"

"On the other hand, you had better not think of it," she interposed

firmly. "We should not like to see you in the ranks, Charley. A common

soldier is----"

"Hush, Edina! here comes the mother."

But luck was dawning for Charley. Only a small slice of luck, it is

true; and what, not so very long ago, he would have scorned.

Estimating things by his present hopeless condition, it looked fair

enough.

One bleak morning, a day or two after the above conversation, Charley

was slowly pacing Fleet Street, wondering where he could go next, what

do. A situation, advertised in that morning's paper, had brought him

up, post haste. As usual, it turned out a failure: to be successful,

the applicant must put down fifty pounds in cash. So that chance was

gone: and there was Charles, uncertain, and miserable.

"Halloa, Raynor! Is it you?"

A young stripling about his own age had run against him. At the first

moment Charles did not know him: but recollection flashed on his mind.

It was Peter Hartley: a lad who had been a schoolfellow of his in

Somersetshire.

"I am going to get my dinner," said Hartley, after a few sentences had

passed. "Will you come and take some with me?"

Too thankful for the offer, Charles followed him into the Rainbow. And

over the viands they grew confidential. Hartley was in a large

printing and publishing establishment close by: his brother Fred was

at a solicitor's, almost out of his articles.

"Fred's ill," observed Peter. "He thinks it must be the fogs of this

precious London that affect him: and I think so too. Any way, he

coughs frightfully, and has had to give up for a day or two. I went to

his office this morning to say he was in bed with a plaster on his

chest; and a fine way they were in at hearing it: wanting him to go,

whether or not. One of their copying-clerks has left; and they can't

hear of another all in a hurry."

"I wonder whether I should suit them?" spoke Charles on the spur of

the moment, a flush rising to his face and a light to his eyes.

"_You!_" cried Peter Hartley.

And then Charles, encouraged perhaps by the good cheer, told a little

of his history to Hartley, and why he must find a situation of some

sort that would bring in its returns. Hartley, an open-hearted,

country-bred lad, became eager to help him, and offered to introduce

him to the solicitor's firm there and then.

"It is near the Temple: almost close by," said he: "Prestleigh and

Preen. A good firm: one of the best in London. Let us go at once."

Charles accompanied him to the place. Had he been aware that this same

legal firm counted Mr. George Atkinson amongst its clients, he might

have declined to try to enter it. It had once been Callard and

Prestleigh. But old Mr. Callard had died very soon after Frank held

the interview with him that has been recorded: and Charles, under the

new designation of Prestleigh and Preen, did not recognize the old

firm.

Peter Hartley introduced Charles to the managing-clerk, Mr. Stroud.

Mr. Stroud, a tall man, wearing silver-rimmed spectacles, with

iron-grey hair and a crabbed manner, put some questions to Charles,

and then told him to sit down and wait. Mr. Prestleigh was in his

private room; but it would not do to trouble him with these matters:

Mr. Preen was out. Peter Hartley, in his good-nature, said all he

could in favour of Charles, particularly "that he would be sure to

do," and then went away.

Charles sat down, and passed an hour gazing at the fire and listening

to the pens scratching away at the desks. People were constantly

passing in and out: the green-baize door seemed to be ever on the

swing. Some brought messages; some were marshalled into Mr.

Prestleigh's room. By-and-by, a youngish man--he might be thirty-five,

perhaps--came in, in a warm white overcoat; and, from the attention

and seriousness suddenly shown by the clerks generally, Charles

rightly guessed him to be Mr. Preen. He passed through the room

without speaking, and was followed by the head-clerk.

A few minutes more, and Charles was sent for to Mr. Preen's room. That

gentleman--who had a great profusion of light curling hair and a

pleasant face and manner--was alone, standing with his back to the

fire near his table. He asked Charles very much the same questions

that Mr. Stroud had asked, and particularly what his recent occupation

had been. Charles told the truth: he had not been brought up to any

occupation, but an unfortunate reverse of family circumstances was

obliging him to seek one.

"You have not been in a solicitor's office, then! Not been accustomed

to copying deeds?" cried Mr. Preen.

Charles confessed he had not. But he took courage to say he had no

doubt he could do any copying required of him, and to beg that he

might be tried.

"Is your handwriting a neat one?"

"Yes, it is," said Charles, eagerly, for he was speaking the truth.

"Neat and good, and very plain."

"You think you could copy quickly and correctly?"

"I am sure I could, sir. I _hope_ you will try me," he added, a

curious entreaty in his tone, that perhaps he was himself unconscious

of; but which was nevertheless apparent to Mr. Preen. "I have been

seeking something so long, day after day, week after week, that I have

almost lost heart."

Perhaps that last avowal was not the best aid to Charles's success; or

would not have been with most men of business. With Mr. Preen, who was

very good-natured, it told rather for than against him. The lawyer

mused. They wanted a copying-clerk very badly indeed; being two hands

short, including Fred Hartley, and extremely busy: but the question

was, could this young man accomplish the work? A thought struck him.

"Suppose you were to stay now and copy a few pages this afternoon?"

suggested Mr. Preen. "You see, if you cannot do the work, it would be

useless your attempting it: but if you can, we will engage you."

"I shall only be too happy to stay, sir."

"Very well," said Mr. Preen, ringing his bell for the managing-clerk.

"And you shall then have an answer."

Charles was put to work by Mr. Stroud: who came and looked at him

three or four times whilst he was doing the copying. He wrote slowly:

the result of his extra care, his intensely earnest wish to succeed:

but his writing was good and clear.

"I shall write quickly enough in a day or two, when I am used to it,"

he said, looking up: and there was hope in his face as well as his

tone.

Mr. Preen chanced to be standing by. The writing would do, he decided;

and Mr. Stroud was told to engage him. To begin with, his salary was

to be fifteen shillings a-week: in a short time--as soon, indeed, as

his suiting them was assured--it would be raised to eighteen. He was

to enter on the morrow.

"Where do you live?" curtly questioned Mr. Stroud.

"Just beyond Kennington."

"Take care that you are punctual. Nine o'clock is the hour for the

copying-clerks. You are expected to be at work by that time, therefore

you must get here before the clock strikes."

A very easy condition, as it seemed to Charles Raynor, in his elation.

A copying-clerk in a lawyer's office at fifteen or eighteen shillings

a-week! Had any one told him a year ago that he would be capable of

accepting so degrading a post--as he would then have deemed it--he had

surely said the world must first turn itself upside down. _Now_ he

went home with a joyous step and a light heart, hardly knowing whether

he trod on his head or his heels.

And at Laurel Cottage they held quite a jubilee. Fifteen shillings

a-week added to the narrow income of twenty, seemed at the moment to

look very like riches. Charles had formed all sorts of mental

resolutions as he walked home: to manage his clothes carefully lest

they should grow shabby; scarcely to tread on his boots that they

might not wear out: and to make his daily dinner of bread-and-cheese,

carried in his pocket from home. Ah, these resolves are good, and more

than good; and generous, wholesome-hearted young fellows are proud to

make them in the time of need. But in their inexperience they cannot

foresee the long, wearing, depressing struggle that the years must

entail, during which the efforts and the privation must be persevered

in. And it is well they cannot.

It wanted a quarter to nine in the morning, when Charles entered the

office, warm with the speed at which he had walked. He did all that he

was put to do, and did it correctly. If Mr. Stroud did not praise, he

did not grumble.

When told at one o'clock that he might go to dinner, Charles made his

way to the more sheltered parts in the precincts of the Temple, and

surreptitiously ate the bread-and-cheese that he had brought from home

in his pocket. That was eaten long and long before the time had

expired when he would be expected to go in again: but he did not like

to appear earlier, lest some discerning clerk should decide he had not

been to dinner at all. It was frightfully dull and dreary here, the

bitterly cold wind whistling down the passages and round the corners;

so he turned into the open streets: they, at least, were lively with

busy traversers: and walked about the Strand.

"I must go and see Peter Hartley, to tell him of my success and thank

him; for it is to him I owe it," thought Charles, as he left the

office in the evening. "Let me see! The address was somewhere near

Mecklenburgh Square."

Taking out a small note-case, in which the address was entered, he

halted at a street corner whilst he turned its leaves: some one came

round the corner hastily, and Charles found himself in contact with

William Stane. The gas in the streets and shops made it as light as

day: no chance had they to pretend not to see each other. A bow,

coldly exchanged, and each passed on his way.

"I won't notice him at all, if we meet again," said Charles to

himself. And it might have been that Mr. Stane was saying the same

thing. "Now for Doughty Street. I wonder which is the way to it?"

deliberated he.

"Does Mr. Hartley live here?" inquired Charles of the young

maid-servant, when he had found the house.

"In the parlour," replied the girl, pointing to a room on her left.

Without further ceremony, she went away, leaving him to introduce

himself. A voice, that he supposed was Peter's, bade him "come in," in

answer to his knock.

But he could not see Peter. A young fellow was stretched on the sofa

in front of the fire. Charles rightly judged him to be the brother,

Frederick Hartley. Young men are not, as a rule, very observant of one

another, but Charles was struck with the appearance of the one before

him. He was extremely good-looking; with fair hair, all in disorder,

that shone like threads of gold in the firelight, glistening blue

eyes, and a hectic flush on his thin cheeks.

"I beg your pardon," said Charley, as the invalid--for such he

evidently was--half rose and gazed at him. "I came to see Peter."

"Oh yes; sit down," was the answer, given in cordial but very weak

tones. "I expect him in every minute."

"You are Fred," observed Charles. "I dare say he told you about

meeting me on Tuesday: Charles Raynor."

"Yes, he did. Do sit down. You don't mind my lying here?"

"Is it a cold you have taken?" asked Charles, bringing a chair to the

corner of the hearth.

"I suppose so. A fresh cold. You might have heard me breathing

yesterday over the way. The doctor kept me in bed. He wanted to keep

me there to-day also; but to have to lie in that back-room is so

wretchedly dull. Poke up the fire, will you, please, and make a

blaze."

With every word he spoke, his breath seemed laboured. His voice was

hollow. Now he had a fit of coughing; and the cough sounded as hollow

as the voice had done.

Peter came in, welcomed Charles boisterously, and rang for tea. That,

you may be sure, was acceptable to poor Charles. Fred, saying he was

glad Charles had obtained the place at Prestleigh's, plunged into a

few revelations touching the office politics, as well as his frequent

cough and his imperfect breathing allowed, with a view of putting him

au courant of affairs in general in his new position.

"I shall make things pleasant for you, after I get back," said he. "We

articled fellows hold ourselves somewhat aloof from the working

clerks; but I shall let them know who you are, and that it is only a

temporary move on your part."

Fred Hartley, warm-hearted as his brother, said this when Charles was

bidding him good-evening. That last look, taken when the invalid's

face was raised, and the lamp shone full upon it, impressed Charles

more than all. Peter went with him to the door.

"What does the doctor say about your brother?" asked Charles, as they

stood on the pavement, in the cold.

"Says he must take care of himself."

"Don't you think he looks very ill?"

"I don't know," replied Peter, who had been in the habit of seeing his

brother daily; and therefore had not been particularly impressed by

his looks. "Does he?"

"Well, it strikes me so. I should say he is ill. Why don't you send

for his mother to come up?"

"So I would, if we had a mother to send for," returned Peter. "Our

mother died two years ago; and--and my father has married again. We

have no longer any place in the old Somersetshire homestead, Raynor.

Fred and I stand alone in the world."

"And without means?" cried Charles, quickly; who had lately begun to

refer every evil the world contained to the want of money.

"Oh, he allows us something. Just enough to keep us going until we

have started on our own account. I get a hundred a-year from the place

I'm at. Fred gains nothing yet. He is not out of his articles."

"Well, I'll come and see him again soon," cried Charley, vaulting off.

"Good-night, Peter."

Was Fred indeed seriously ill? Was it going to be one of those cases,

of which there are too many in London: of a poor young fellow, just

entering on the hopeful threshold of life, dying away from friends,

and home, and care? Whether caused by Charles's tone or Charles's

words, the shadowy thought, that it might be so, entered for the first

time into the mind of Peter.

And Charles never had "things made pleasant for him," at the office,

in pursuance of the friendly wish just expressed: the opportunity was

never afforded. Exactly twenty days from that evening, he was invited

to attend the funeral of Frederick Hartley. And could not do so, for

want of suitable clothes to wear.

CHAPTER II.

JEALOUSY.

The room was smartened up for the occasion. At least, as much as a

room furnished with cane-seated chairs, a threadbare carpet not half

covering the boards, and a stained green-baize table-cover, can be

smartened. It was Mrs. Raynor's birthday. Frank Raynor and his wife

had come down to wish her many happy returns of it and to take tea

with her; Alice had been invited; Charles had said he would be home

early. But tea was over, and neither Charles nor Alice had put in an

appearance; and the little fête, without them, had seemed a failure to

their mother.

Mrs. Raynor was altered: worn, spiritless, always ailing, in the past

year she had aged much. Disappointment and straitened circumstances

told on her health as well as on her mind. It was not for herself she

grieved and suffered, but for her children. For Charles especially.

His prospects had been blighted; his standing in the world utterly

changed. Edina's hands were full, for Mrs. Raynor could help very

little now. What Mrs. Raynor chiefly did was to gather the young ones

around her, and talk to them, in her gentle voice, of resignation to

God's will, of patience, of that better world that they were

travelling on to; where there will be neither sickness nor sorrow,

neither mortification nor suffering. The children needed such lessons.

It seemed very hard to them that they should sometimes have nothing

but dry bread for dinner, or baked potatoes without meat. Even with

all Edina's economy and with Charles's earnings, meat could not always

be afforded. The joint must be carved sparingly, and made to last the

best part of the week. They generally had a joint on a Sunday, and

that was as much as could be said. Clothes cost so much: and Charles,

at least, had to be tolerably well-dressed. But there are many items

in a household's expenses besides eating and drinking; and this

especially applies to fallen gentlepeople, whose habits have been

formed, and who must still in a degree keep up appearances.

If the Raynors had needed discipline, as some who knew them at Eagles'

Nest had declared, they were certainly experiencing it in a very

marked degree. Twelve months had slipped by since they took up their

abode at Laurel Cottage, and there had been no change. The days and

the weeks had drifted on, one day, one week after another, in the same

routine of thrift, struggle and privation. Charles was at Prestleigh

and Preen's, working to that firm's satisfaction, and bringing home a

sovereign a-week: Alice was teaching still in the school at Richmond.

Alfred went to a day-school now. Edina had sought an interview with

its principal, and by dint of some magic of her own, when she told him

confidentially of their misfortunes, had persuaded him to admit the

lad at an almost nominal charge. It was altogether a weary life for

them, no doubt; one requiring constant patience and resignation; but,

as Edina would cheerfully tell them, it might have been worse, and

they had many things to be thankful for even yet.

October was passing, and the falling leaves strewed the ground. The

afternoon was not sunny, but warm and dull; so sultry, in fact, as to

suggest the idea of tempest in the air. They had gathered in the

square patch of ground at the back of the house, called by courtesy a

garden: Frank, his wife, Edina, Mrs. Raynor, and the children. Some of

them stood about, looking at the bed of herbs Edina's care had

planted; Mrs. Raynor was sitting on the narrow bench under the high

window. For this garden had to be descended into by several steps; and

as you stood in it the back-parlour window (Mrs. Raynor's bedroom)

looked perched quite a long way up.

"Herbs are so useful," remarked Edina, as they praised the bed. "When

a stew is nothing in itself, thyme or mint will give it quite a fine

flavour. Do you remember, Frank, how poor papa liked thyme in the

Irish stews?"

"And very good they used to be," said Frank. "Eve calls them ragoûts.

I often tell her they are not half as good as those I had at Trennach.

Remember, Daisy, it is thyme Eve's ragoûts want."

Daisy, playing with little Robert, turned round with dancing eyes. She

was as pretty as ever, in spite of the distasteful existence in

Lambeth. And she had put on for this occasion one of her old grand

silks.

"I'll try and remember, Frank," she laughed. "I hope I shall not say

rue instead of thyme. What did you plant this great bush of rue for,

Edina?"

"That bush is not mine but the landlady's; it was here when we came,"

replied Edina. "Mrs. Fox hangs some of it at the foot of her bed, and

declares that it mysteriously keeps away gnats and moths."

When Mr. Max Brown departed for the West Indies, he had thought the

very utmost extent of his term of absence would be less than six

months. But considerably more than twice six months had elapsed, and

he had not returned. Apparently he liked the life there; apparently

was quite satisfied with Frank's management of his practice at home.

In writing to Frank, he put the delay down to his mother. She was

dying, but very slowly: that is, her complaint was one for which there

is no remedy: and she wanted to keep him with her to the end. Thus Max

wrote, and it was the only excuse he gave for his prolonged stay.

Frank could not help thinking there was some mystery about it; but he

was quite content to remain at his post. It was very seldom indeed

that he could take an hour or two's recreation, such as this. The

practice was exacting, and he had no assistant.

"That's the postman's knock!" cried Kate.

The postman was not a frequent visitor at Laurel Cottage. When he did

bring a letter it was always for the Raynors: Mrs. Fox never had one

at all, and never seemed to expect one. Kate ran to the door and

brought back the letter. It proved to be from Alice: stating why she

was not able to come.

"Daisy, my darling, you must put your bonnet on," whispered Frank. "I

want to get home before dark: I have been away now longer than I care

to be."

"I should send the practice to York for one evening," cried Alfred,

who chanced to overhear the words.

"No doubt you would," laughed Frank.

"Well, Frank, I'm sure you seem to put that precious practice before

everything else. One would think it was an idol, with a golden body

and diamond wings."

"And so I ought to put it before everything else, Master Alfred. A

steward must do his duty."