CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE CLERK OF THE LEASES.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE ANSWER WAS A BLINDING FLASH OF LIGHT AND A SHOT.

'TOMMY, WHO IS--THIS--FELLOW?' HE CRIED.

'YOUR LADYSHIP'S MOST HUMBLE SERVANT,' HE SAID.

HE WOULD FALL SILENT IN JULIA'S COMPANY.

'AND DRINK HER, YOU ENVIOUS BEGGARS! DRINK HER!'

ON THE THRESHOLD, ... STOOD MR. DUNBOROUGH.

THE CASTLE INN

CHAPTER I

A KNIGHT-ERRANT

About a hundred and thirty years ago, when the third George, whom our

grandfathers knew in his blind dotage, was a young and sturdy

bridegroom; when old Q., whom 1810 found peering from his balcony in

Piccadilly, deaf, toothless, and a skeleton, was that gay and lively

spark, the Earl of March; when _bore_ and _boreish_ were words of _haut

ton_, unknown to the vulgar, and the price of a borough was 5,000_l_.;

when gibbets still served for sign-posts, and railways were not and

highwaymen were--to be more exact, in the early spring of the year 1767,

a travelling chariot-and-four drew up about five in the evening before

the inn at Wheatley Bridge, a short stage from Oxford on the Oxford

road. A gig and a couple of post-chaises, attended by the customary

group of stablemen, topers, and gossips already stood before the house,

but these were quickly deserted in favour of the more important

equipage. The drawers in their aprons trooped out, but the landlord,

foreseeing a rich harvest, was first at the door of the carriage, and

opened it with a bow such as is rarely seen in these days.

'Will your lordship please to alight?' he said.

'No, rascal!' cried one of those within. 'Shut the door!'

'You wish fresh horses, my lord?' the obsequious host replied. 'Of

course. They shall be--'

'We wish nothing,' was the brisk answer. 'D'ye hear? Shut the door, and

go to the devil!'

Puzzled, but obedient, the landlord fell back on the servants, who had

descended from their seat in front and were beating their hands one on

another, for the March evening was chill. 'What is up, gentlemen?'

he said.

'Nothing. But we will put something down, by your leave,' they answered.

'Won't they do the same?' He cocked his thumb in the direction of the

carriage.

'No. You have such an infernal bad road, the dice roll,' was the answer.

'They will finish their game in quiet. That is all. Lord, how your folks

stare! Have they never seen a lord before?'

'Who is it?' the landlord asked eagerly. 'I thought I knew his Grace's

face.'

Before the servant could answer or satisfy his inquisitiveness, the door

of the carriage was opened in haste, and the landlord sprang to offer

his shoulder. A tall young man whose shaped riding-coat failed to hide

that which his jewelled hands and small French hat would alone have

betrayed--that he was dressed in the height of fashion--stepped down. A

room and a bottle of your best claret,' he said. 'And bring me ink and

a pen.'

'Immediately, my lord. This way, my lord. Your lordship will perhaps

honour me by dining here?'

'Lord, no! Do you think I want to be poisoned?' was the frank answer.

And looking about him with languid curiosity, the young peer, followed

by a companion, lounged into the house.

The third traveller--for three there were--by a gesture directed the

servant to close the carriage door, and, keeping his seat, gazed

sleepily through the window. The loitering crowd, standing at a

respectful distance, returned his glances with interest, until an empty

post-chaise, approaching from the direction of Oxford, rattled up

noisily and split the group asunder. As the steaming horses stopped

within a few paces of the chariot, the gentleman seated in the latter

saw one of the ostlers go up to the post-chaise and heard him say, 'Soon

back, Jimmie?'

'Ay, and I ha' been stopped too,' the postboy answered as he dropped his

reins.

'No!' in a tone of surprise. 'Was it Black Jack?'

'Not he. 'Twas a woman!'

A murmur of astonishment greeted the answer. The postboy grinned, and

sitting easily in his pad prepared to enjoy the situation. 'Ay, a

woman!' he said. 'And a rare pair of eyes to that. What do you think she

wanted, lads?'

'The stuff, of course.'

'Not she. Wanted one of them I took'--and he jerked his elbow

contemptuously in the direction whence he had come--'to fight a duel for

her. One of they! Said, was he Mr. Berkeley, and would he risk his life

for a woman.'

The head ostler stared. 'Lord! and who was it he was to fight?' he asked

at last.

'She did not say. Her spark maybe, that has jilted her.'

'And would they, Jimmie?'

'They? Shoo! They were Methodists,' the postboy answered contemptuously,

'Scratch wigs and snuff-colour. If she had not been next door to a Bess

of Bedlam and in a main tantrum, she would have seen that. But "Are you

Mr. Berkeley?" she says, all on fire like. And "Will you fight for a

woman?" And when they shrieked out, banged the door on them. But I tell

you she was a pretty piece as you'd wish to see. If she had asked me, I

would not have said no to her.' And he grinned.

The gentleman in the chariot opened a window. 'Where did she stop you,

my man?' he asked idly.

'Half a mile this side of Oxford, your worship,' the postboy answered,

knuckling his forehead. 'Seemed to me, sir, she was a play actress. She

had that sort of way with her.'

The gentleman nodded and closed the window. The night had so far set in

that they had brought out lights; as he sat back, one of these, hung in

the carriage, shone on his features and betrayed that he was smiling. In

this mood his face lost the air of affected refinement--which was then

the mode, and went perfectly with a wig and ruffles--and appeared in its

true cast, plain and strong, yet not uncomely. His features lacked the

insipid regularity which, where all shaved, passed for masculine beauty;

the nose ended largely, the cheek-bones were high, and the chin

projected. But from the risk and even the edge of ugliness it was saved

by a pair of grey eyes, keen, humorous, and kindly, and a smile that

showed the eyes at their best. Of late those eyes had been known to

express weariness and satiety; the man was tiring of the round of costly

follies and aimless amusements in which he passed his life. But at

twenty-six pepper is still hot in the mouth, and Sir George Soane

continued to drink, game, and fribble, though the first pungent flavour

of those delights had vanished, and the things themselves began to

pall upon him.

When he had sat thus ten minutes, smiling at intervals, a stir about the

door announced that his companions were returning. The landlord preceded

them, and was rewarded for his pains with half a guinea; the crowd with

a shower of small silver. The postillions cracked their whips, the

horses started forward, and amid a shrill hurrah my lord's carriage

rolled away from the door.

'Now, who casts?' the peer cried briskly, arranging himself in his

seat. 'George, I'll set you. The old stakes?'

'No, I am done for to-night,' Sir George answered yawning without

disguise.

'What! crabbed, dear lad?'

'Ay, set Berkeley, my lord. He's a better match for you.'

'And be robbed by the first highwayman we meet? No, no! I told you, if I

was to go down to this damp hole of mine--fancy living a hundred miles

from White's! I should die if I could not game every day--you were to

play with me, and Berkeley was to ensure my purse.'

'He would as soon take it,' Sir George answered languidly, gazing

through the glass.

'Sooner, by--!' cried the third traveller, a saturnine, dark-faced man

of thirty-four or more, who sat with his back to the horses, and toyed

with a pistol that lay on the seat beside him. 'I'm content if your

lordship is.'

'Then have at you! Call the main, Colonel. You may be the devil among

the highwaymen--that was Selwyn's joke, was it not?--but I'll see the

colour of your money.'

'Beware of him. He _doved_ March,' Sir George said indifferently.

'He won't strip me,' cried the young lord. 'Five is the main. Five to

four he throws crabs! Will you take, George?'

Soane did not answer, and the two, absorbed in the rattle of the dice

and the turns of their beloved hazard, presently forgot him; his

lordship being the deepest player in London and as fit a successor to

the luckless Lord Mountford as one drop of water to another. Thus left

to himself, and as effectually screened from remark as if he sat alone,

Sir George devoted himself to an eager scrutiny of the night, looking

first through one window and then through the other; in which he

persevered though darkness had fallen so completely that only the hedges

showed in the lamplight, gliding giddily by in endless walls of white.

On a sudden he dropped the glass with an exclamation, and thrust out

his head.

'Pull up!' he cried. 'I want to descend.'

The young lord uttered a peevish exclamation. 'What is to do?' he

continued, glancing round; then, instantly returning to the dice, 'if it

is my purse they want, say Berkeley is here. That will scare them. What

are you doing, George?'

'Wait a minute,' was the answer; and in a twinkling Soane was out, and

was ordering the servant, who had climbed down, to close the door. This

effected, he strode back along the road to a spot where a figure,

cloaked, and hooded, was just visible, lurking on the fringe of the

lamplight. As he approached it, he raised his hat with an exaggeration

of politeness.

'Madam,' he said, 'you asked for me, I believe?'

The woman--for a woman it was, though he could see no more of her than a

pale face, staring set and Gorgon-like from under the hood--did not

answer at once. Then, 'Who are you?' she said.

'Colonel Berkeley,' he answered with assurance, and again saluted her.

'Who killed the highwayman at Hounslow last Christmas?' she cried.

'The same, madam.'

'And shot Farnham Joe at Roehampton?'

'Yes, madam. And much at your service.'

'We shall see,' she answered, her voice savagely dubious. 'At least you

are a gentleman and can use a pistol? But are you willing to risk

something for justice' sake?'

'And the sake of your _beaux yeux_, madam?' he answered, a laugh in his

voice. 'Yes.'

'You mean it?'

'Prove me,' he answered.

His tone was light; but the woman, who seemed to labour under strong

emotion, either failed to notice this or was content to put up with it.

'Then send on your carriage,' she said.

His jaw fell at that, and had there been light by which to see him he

would have looked foolish. At last, 'Are we to walk?' he said.

'Those are the lights of Oxford,' she answered. 'We shall be there in

ten minutes.'

'Oh, very well,' he said, 'A moment, if you please.'

She waited while he went to the carriage and told the astonished

servants to leave his baggage at the Mitre; this understood, he put in

his head and announced to his host that he would come on next day. 'Your

lordship must excuse me to-night,' he said.

'What is up?' my lord asked, without raising his eyes or turning his

head. He had taken the box and thrown nicks three times running, at five

guineas the cast; and was in the seventh heaven. 'Ha! five is the main.

Now you are in it, Colonel. What did you say, George? Not coming!

What is it?'

'An adventure.'

'What! a petticoat?'

'Yes,' Sir George answered, smirking.

'Well, you find 'em in odd places. Take care of yourself. But shut the

door, that is a good fellow. There is a d----d draught.'

Sir George complied, and, nodding to the servants, walked back to the

woman. As he reached her the carriage with its lights whirled away, and

left them in darkness.

Soane wondered if he were not a fool for his pains, and advanced a step

nearer to conviction when the woman with an impatient 'Come!' started

along the road; moving at a smart pace in the direction which the

chariot had taken, and betraying so little shyness or timidity as to

seem unconscious of his company. The neighbourhood of Oxford is low and

flat, and except where a few lights marked the outskirts of the city a

wall of darkness shut them in, permitting nothing to be seen that lay

more than a few paces away. A grey drift of clouds, luminous in

comparison with the gloom about them, moved slowly overhead, and out of

the night the raving of a farm-dog or the creaking of a dry bough came

to the ear with melancholy effect.

The fine gentleman of that day had no taste for the wild, the rugged, or

the lonely. He lived too near the times when those words spelled danger.

He found at Almack's his most romantic scene, at Ranelagh his _terra

incognita_, in the gardens of Versailles his ideal of the charming and

picturesque. Sir George, no exception to the rule, shivered as he looked

round. He began to experience a revulsion of spirits; and to consider

that, for a gentleman who owned Lord Chatham for a patron, and was even

now on his roundabout way to join that minister--for a gentleman whose

fortune, though crippled and impaired, was still tolerable, and who,

where it had suffered, might look with confidence to see it made good at

the public expense--or to what end patrons or ministers?--he began to

reflect, I say, that for such an one to exchange a peer's coach and good

company for a night trudge at a woman's heels was a folly, better

befitting a boy at school than a man of his years. Not that he had ever

been so wild as to contemplate anything serious; or from the first had

entertained the most remote intention of brawling in an unknown cause.

That was an extravagance beyond him; and he doubted if the girl really

had it in her mind. The only adventure he had proposed, when he left

the carriage, was one of gallantry; it was the only adventure then in

vogue. And for that, now the time was come, and the _incognita_ and he

were as much alone as the most ardent lover could wish, he felt

singularly disinclined.

True, the outline of her cloak, and the indications of a slender,

well-formed shape which it permitted to escape, satisfied him that the

postboy had not deceived him; but that his companion was both young and

handsome. And with this and his bargain it was to be supposed he would

be content. But the pure matter-of-factness of the girl's manner, her

silence, and her uncompromising attitude, as she walked by his side,

cooled whatever ardour her beauty and the reflection that he had

jockeyed Berkeley were calculated to arouse; and it was with an effort

that he presently lessened the distance between them.

'Et vera incessu patuit dea!' he said, speaking in the tone between jest

and earnest which he had used before. '"And all the goddess in her step

appears." Which means that you have the prettiest walk in the world, my

dear--but whither are you taking me?'

She went steadily on, not deigning an answer.

'But--my charmer, let us parley,' he remonstrated, striving to maintain

a light tone. 'In a minute we shall be in the town and--'

'I thought that we understood one another,' she answered curtly, still

continuing to walk, and to look straight before her; in which position

her hood, hid her face. 'I am taking you where I want you.'

'Oh, very well,' he said, shrugging his shoulders. But under his breath

he muttered, 'By heaven, I believe that the pretty fool really

thinks--that I am going to fight for her!'

To a man who had supped at White's the night before, and knew his age to

be the _âge des philosophes_, it seemed the wildest fancy in the world.

And his distaste grew. But to break off and leave her--at any rate until

he had put it beyond question that she had no underthought--to break off

and leave her after placing himself in a situation so humiliating, was

too much for the pride of a Macaroni. The lines of her head and figure

too, half guessed and half revealed, and wholly light and graceful, had

caught his fancy and created a desire to subjugate her. Reluctantly,

therefore, he continued to walk beside her, over Magdalen Bridge, and

thence by a path which, skirting the city, ran across the low wooded

meadows at the back of Merton.

A little to the right the squat tower of the college loomed against the

lighter rack of clouds, and rising amid the dark lines of trees that

beautify that part of the outskirts, formed a _coup d'oeil_ sufficiently

impressive. Here and there, in such of the chamber windows as looked

over the meadows, lights twinkled cheerfully; emboldened by which, yet

avoiding their scope, pairs of lovers of the commoner class sneaked to

and fro under the trees. Whether the presence of these recalled early

memories which Sir George's fastidiousness found unpalatable, or he felt

his fashion, smirched by the vulgarity of this Venus-walk, his

impatience grew; and was not far from bursting forth when his guide

turned sharply into an alley behind the cathedral, and, after threading

a lane of mean houses, entered a small court.

The place, though poor and narrow, was not squalid. Sir George could see

so much by the light which shone from a window and fell on a group of

five or six persons, who stood about the nearest door and talked in low,

excited voices. He had a good view of one man's face, and read in it

gloom and anger. Then the group made way for the girl, eyeing her, as he

thought, with pity and a sort of deference; and cursing the folly that

had brought him into such a place and situation, wondering what on

earth it all meant or in what it would end, he followed her into

the house.

She opened a door on the right-hand side of the narrow passage, and led

the way into a long, low room. For a moment he saw no more than two

lights on a distant table, and kneeling at a chair beside them a woman

with grey dishevelled hair, who seemed to be praying, her face hidden.

Then his gaze, sinking instinctively, fell on a low bed between him and

the woman; and there rested on a white sheet, and on the solemn

outlines--so certain in their rigidity, so unmistakable by human

eyes--of a body laid out for burial.

CHAPTER II

A MISADVENTURE

To be brought up short in an amorous quest by such a sight as that was a

shock alike to Soane's better nature and his worse dignity. The former

moved him to stand silent and abashed, the latter to ask with an

indignant curse why he had been brought to that place. And the latter

lower instinct prevailed. But when he raised his head to put the

question with the necessary spirt of temper, he found that the girl had

left his side and passed to the other hand of the dead; where, the hood

thrown back from her face, she stood looking at him with such a gloomy

fire in her eyes as it needed but a word, a touch, a glance to kindle

into a blaze.

At the moment, however, he thought less of this than of the beauty of

the face which he saw for the first time. It was a southern face, finely

moulded, dark and passionate, full-lipped, yet wide of brow, with a

generous breadth between the eyes. Seldom had he seen a woman more

beautiful; and he stood silent, the words he had been about to speak

dying stillborn on his lips.

Yet she seemed to understand them; she answered them. 'Why have I

brought you here?' she cried, her voice trembling; and she pointed to

the bed. 'Because he is--he was my father. And he lies there. And

because the man who killed him goes free. And I would--I would kill

_him_! Do you hear me? I would kill him!'

Sir George tried to free his mind from the influence of her passion and

her eyes, from the nightmare of the room and the body, and to see things

in a sane light. 'But--my good girl,' he said, slowly and not unkindly,

'I know nothing about it. Nothing. I am a stranger here.'

'For that reason I brought you here,' she retorted.

'But--I cannot interfere,' he answered, shaking his head. 'There is the

law. You must apply to it. The law will punish the man if he has

done wrong.'

'But the law will _not_ punish him!' she cried with scorn. 'The law? The

law is your law, the law of the rich. And he'--she pointed to the

bed--'was poor and a servant. And the man who killed him was his master.

So he goes free--of the law!'

'But if he killed him?' Sir George muttered lamely.

'He did!' she cried between her teeth. 'And I would have you kill him!'

He shook his head. 'My good girl,' he said kindly, 'you are distraught.

You are not yourself. Or you would know a gentleman does not do

these things.'

'A gentleman!' she retorted, her smouldering rage flaming up at last.

'No; but I will tell you what he does. He kills a man to save his purse!

Or his honour! Or for a mis-word at cards! Or the lie given in drink! He

will run a man through in a dark room, with no one to see fair play! But

for drawing his sword to help a woman, or avenge a wrong, a gentleman--a

gentleman does not do these things. It is true! And may--'

'Oh, have done, have done, my dear!' cried a wailing, tearful voice; and

Sir George, almost cowed by the girl's fierce words and the fiercer

execration that was on her lips, hailed the intervention with relief.

The woman whom he had seen on her knees had risen and now approached the

girl, showing a face wrinkled, worn, and plain, but not ignoble; and for

the time lifted above the commonplace by the tears that rained down it.

'Oh, my lovey, have done,' she cried. 'And let the gentleman go. To kill

another will not help him that is dead. Nor us that are left alone!'

'It will not help him!' the girl answered, shrilly and wildly; and her

eyes, leaving Soane, strayed round the room as if she were that moment

awakened and missed some one. 'No! But is he to be murdered, and no one

suffer? Is he to die and no one pay? He who had a smile for us, go in or

out, and never a harsh word or thought; who never did any man wrong or

wished any man ill? Yet he lies there! Oh, mother, mother,' she

continued, her voice broken on a sudden by a tremor of pain, 'we are

alone! We are alone! We shall never see him come in at that door again!'

The old woman sobbed helplessly and made no answer; on which the girl,

with a gesture as simple as it was beautiful, drew the grey head to her

shoulder. Then she looked at Sir George. 'Go,' she said; but he saw that

the tears were welling up in her eyes, and that her frame was beginning

to tremble. 'Go! I was not myself--a while ago--when I fetched you. Go,

sir, and leave us.'

Moved by the abrupt change, as well as by her beauty, Sir George

lingered; muttering that perhaps he could help her in another way. But

she shook her head, once and again; and, instinctively respecting the

grief which had found at length its proper vent, he turned and, softly

lifting the latch, went out into the court.

The night air cooled his brow, and recalled him to sober earnest and the

eighteenth century. In the room which he had left, he had marked nothing

out of the common except the girl. The mother, the furniture, the very

bed on which the dead man lay, all were appropriate, and such as he

would expect to find in the house of his under-steward. But the girl?

The girl was gloriously handsome; and as eccentric as she was

beautiful. Sir George's head turned and his eyes glowed as he thought of

her. He considered what a story he could make of it at White's; and he

put up his spying-glass, and looked through it to see if the towers of

the cathedral still overhung the court. 'Gad, sir!' he said aloud,

rehearsing the story, as much to get rid of an unfashionable sensation

he had in his throat as in pure whimsy, 'I was surprised to find that it

was Oxford. It should have been Granada, or Bagdad, or Florence! I give

you my word, the houris that the Montagu saw in the Hammam at Stamboul

were nothing to her!'

The persons through whom he had passed on his way to the door were still

standing before the house. Glancing back when he had reached the mouth

of the court, he saw that they were watching him; and, obeying a sudden

impulse of curiosity, he turned on his heel and signed to the nearest to

come to him. 'Here, my man,' he said, 'a word with you.'

The fellow moved towards him reluctantly, and with suspicion. 'Who is it

lies dead there?' Sir George asked.

'Your honour knows,' the man answered cautiously.

'No, I don't.'

'Then you will be the only one in Oxford that does not,' the fellow

replied, eyeing him oddly.

'Maybe,' Soane answered with impatience. 'Take it so, and answer the

question,'

'It is Masterson, that was the porter at Pembroke.'

'Ah! And how did he die?'

'That is asking,' the man answered, looking shiftily about. 'And it is

an ill business, and I want no trouble. Oh, well'--he continued, as Sir

George put something in his hand--'thank your honour, I'll drink your

health. Yes, it is Masterson, poor man, sure enough; and two days ago

he was as well as you or I--saving your presence. He was on the gate

that evening, and there was a supper on one of the staircases: all the

bloods of the College, your honour will understand. About an hour before

midnight the Master sent him to tell the gentlemen he could not sleep

for the noise. After that it is not known just what happened, but the

party had him in and gave him wine; and whether he went then and

returned again when the company were gone is a question. Any way, he was

found in the morning, cold and dead at the foot of the stairs, and his

neck broken. It is said by some a trap was laid for him on the

staircase. And if it was,' the man continued, after a pause, his true

feeling finding sudden vent, 'it is a black shame that the law does not

punish it! But the coroner brought it in an accident.'

Sir George shrugged his shoulders. Then, moved by curiosity and a desire

to learn something about the girl, 'His daughter takes it hardly,'

he said.

The man grunted. 'Ah,' he said, 'maybe she has need to. Your honour does

not come from him?'

'From Whom? I come from no one.'

'To be sure, sir, I was forgetting. But, seeing you with her--but there,

you are a stranger.'

Soane would have liked to ask him his meaning, but felt that he had

condescended enough. He bade the man a curt good-night, therefore, and

turning away passed quickly into St. Aldate's Street. Thence it was but

a step to the Mitre, where he found his baggage and servant

awaiting him.

In those days distinctions of dress were still clear and unmistakable.

Between the peruke--often forty guineas' worth--the tie-wig, the

scratch, and the man who went content with a little powder, the

intervals were measurable. Ruffles cost five pounds a pair; and velvets

and silks, cut probably in Paris, were morning wear. Moreover, the

dress of the man who lost or won his thousand in a night at Almack's,

and was equally well known at Madame du Deffand's in Paris and at

Holland House, differed as much from the dress of the ordinary

well-to-do gentleman as that again differed from the lawyer's or the

doctor's. The Mitre, therefore, saw in Sir George a very fine gentleman

indeed, set him down to an excellent supper in its best room, and

promised a post-chaise-and-four for the following morning--all with much

bowing and scraping, and much mention of my lord to whose house he would

post. For in those days, if a fine gentleman was a very fine gentleman,

a peer was also a peer. Quite recently they had ventured to hang one;

but with apologies, a landau-and-six, and a silken halter.

Sir George would not have had the least pretension to be the glass of

fashion and the mould of form, which St. James's Street considered him,

if he had failed to give a large share of his thoughts while he supped

to the beautiful woman he had quitted. He knew very well what steps Lord

March or Tom Hervey would take, were either in his place; and though he

had no greater taste for an irregular life than became a man in his

station who was neither a Methodist nor Lord Dartmouth, he allowed his

thoughts to dwell, perhaps longer than was prudent, on the girl's

perfections, and on what might have been were his heart a little harder,

or the not over-rigid rule which he observed a trifle less stringent.

The father was dead. The girl was poor: probably her ideal of a gallant

was a College beau, in second-hand lace and stained linen, drunk on ale

in the forenoon. Was it likely that the fortress would hold out long, or

that the maiden's heart would prove to be more obdurate than Danäe's?

Soane, considering these things and his self-denial, grew irritable over

his Chambertin. He pictured Lord March's friend, the Rena, and found

this girl immeasurably before her. He painted the sensation she would

make and the fashion he could give her, and vowed that she was a Gunning

with sense and wit added; to sum up all, he blamed himself for a saint

and a Scipio. Then, late as it was, he sent for the landlord, and to get

rid of his thoughts, or in pursuance of them, inquired of that worthy if

Mr. Thomasson was in residence at Pembroke.

'Yes, Sir George, he is,' the landlord answered; and asked if he should

send for his reverence.

'No,' Soane commanded. 'If there is a chair to be had, I will go to

him.'

'There is one below, at your honour's service. And the men are waiting.'

So Sir George, with the landlord, lighting him and his man attending

with his cloak, descended the stairs in state, entered the sedan, and

was carried off to Pembroke.

CHAPTER III

TUTOR AND PUPILS--OLD STYLE

Doctor Samuel Johnson, of Johnson's Court, Fleet Street, had at this

time some name in the world; but not to the pitch that persons entering

Pembroke College hastened to pay reverence to the second floor over the

gateway, which he had vacated thirty years earlier--as persons do now.

Their gaze, as a rule, rose no higher than the first-floor oriel, where

the shapely white shoulder of a Parian statue, enhanced by a background

of dark-blue silken hanging, caught the wandering eye. What this lacked

of luxury and mystery was made up--almost to the Medmenham point in the

eyes of the city--by the gleam of girandoles, and the glow, rather felt

than seen, of Titian-copies in Florence frames. Sir George, borne along

in his chair, peered up at this well-known window--well-known, since in

the Oxford of 1767 a man's rooms were furnished if he had tables and

chairs, store of beef and October, an apple-pie and Common Room

port--and seeing the casement brilliantly lighted, smiled a trifle

contemptuously.

'The Reverend Frederick is not much changed,' he muttered. 'Lord, what a

beast it was! And how we hazed him! Ah! At home, is he?'--this to the

servant, as the man lifted the head of the chair. 'Yes, I will go up.'

To tell the truth, the Reverend Frederick Thomasson had so keen a scent

for Gold Tufts or aught akin to them, that it would have been strange

if the instinct had not kept him at home; as a magnet, though unseen,

attracts the needle. The same prepossession brought him, as soon as he

heard of his visitor's approach, hurrying to the head of the stairs;

where, if he had had his way, he would have clasped the baronet in his

arms, slobbered over him, after the mode of Paris--for that was a trick

of his--and perhaps even wept on his shoulder. But Soane, who knew his

ways, coolly defeated the manoeuvre by fending him off with his cane;

and the Reverend Frederick was reduced to raising his eyes and hands to

heaven in token of the joy which filled him at the sight of his

old pupil.

'Lord! Sir George, I am inexpressibly happy!' he cried. 'My dear sir, my

very dear sir, welcome to my poor rooms! This is joy indeed! Gaudeamus!

Gaudeamus! To see you once more, fresh from the groves of Arthur's and

the scenes of your triumphs! Pardon me, my dear sir, I must and will

shake you by the hand again!' And succeeding at last in seizing Sir

George's hand, he fondled and patted it in both of his--which were fat

and white--the while with every mark of emotion he led him into

the room.

'Gad!' said Sir George, standing and looking round. 'And where is she,

Tommy?'

'That old name! What a pleasure it is to hear it!' cried the tutor,

affecting to touch his eyes with the corner of a dainty handkerchief; as

if the gratification he mentioned were too much for his feelings.

'But, seriously, Tommy, where is she?' Soane persisted, still looking

round with a grin.

'My dear Sir George! My honoured friend! But you would always have your

joke.'

'And, plainly, Tommy, is all this frippery yours?'

'Tut, tut!' Mr. Thomasson remonstrated. 'And no man with a finer taste.

I have heard Mr. Walpole say that with a little training no man would

excel Sir George Soane as a connoisseur. An exquisite eye! A nice

discrimination! A--'

'Now, Tommy, to how many people have you said that?' Sir George

retorted, dropping into a chair, and coolly staring about him. 'But,

there, have done, and tell me about yourself. Who is the last sprig of

nobility you have been training in the way it should grow?'

'The last pupil who honoured me,' the Reverend Frederick answered, 'as

you are so kind as to ask after my poor concerns, Sir George, was my

Lord E----'s son. We went to Paris, Marseilles, Genoa, Florence; visited

the mighty monuments of Rome, and came home by way of Venice, Milan, and

Turin. I treasure the copy of Tintoretto which you see there, and these

bronzes, as memorials of my lord's munificence. I brought them back

with me.'

'And what did my lord's son bring back?' Sir George asked, cruelly. 'A

Midianitish woman?'

'My honoured friend!' Mr. Thomasson remonstrated. 'But your wit was

always mordant--mordant! Too keen for us poor folk!'

'D'ye remember the inn at Cologne, Tommy?' Sir George continued,

mischievously reminiscent. 'And Lord Tony arriving with his charmer? And

you giving up your room to her? And the trick we played you at Calais,

where we passed the little French dancer on you for Madame la Marquise

de Personne?'

Mr. Thomasson winced, and a tinge of colour rose in his fat pale face.

'Boys, boys!' he said, with an airy gesture. 'You had an uncommon fancy

even then, Sir George, though you were but a year from school! Ah, those

were charming days! Great days!'

'And nights!' said Sir George, lying back in his chair and looking at

the other with eyes half shut, and insolence half veiled. 'Do you

remember the faro bank at Florence, Tommy, and the three hundred livres

you lost to that old harridan, Lady Harrington? Pearls cast before swine

you styled them, I remember.'

'Lord, Sir George!' Mr. Thomasson cried, vastly horrified. 'How can you

say such a thing? Your excellent memory plays you false.'

'It does,' Soane answered, smiling sardonically. 'I remember. It was

seed sown for the harvest, you called it--in your liquor. And that

touches me. Do you mind the night Fitzhugh made you so prodigiously

drunk at Bonn, Tommy? And we put you in the kneading-trough, and the

servants found you and shifted you to the horse-trough? Gad! you would

have died of laughter if you could have seen yourself when we rescued

you, lank and dripping, with your wig like a sponge!'

'It must have been--uncommonly diverting!' the Reverend Frederick

stammered; and he smiled widely, but with a lack of heart. This time

there could be no doubt of the pinkness that overspread his face.

'Diverting? I tell you it would have made old Dartmouth laugh!' Sir

George said, bluntly.

'Ha, ha! Perhaps it would. Perhaps it would. Not that I have the honour

of his lordship's acquaintance.'

'No? Well, he would not suit you, Tommy. I would not seek it.'

The Reverend Frederick looked doubtful, as weighing the possibility of

anything that bore the name of lord being alien from him. From this

reflection, however, he was roused by a new sally on Soane's part. 'But,

crib me! you are very fine to-night, Mr. Thomasson,' he said, staring

about him afresh. 'Ten o'clock, and you are lighted as for a drum! What

is afoot?'

The tutor smirked and rubbed his hands. 'Well, I--I was expecting a

visitor, Sir George.'

'Ah, you dog! She is not here, but you are expecting her.'

Mr. Thomasson grinned; the jest flattered him. Nevertheless he hastened

to exonerate himself. 'It is not Venus I am expecting, but Mars,' he

said with a simper. 'The Honourable Mr. Dunborough, son to my Lord

Dunborough, and the same whose meritorious services at the Havanna you,

my dear friend, doubtless remember. He is now cultivating in peace the

gifts which in war--'

'Sufficed to keep him out of danger!' Sir George said bluntly. 'So he is

your last sprig, is he? He should be well seasoned.'

'He is four-and-twenty,' Mr. Thomasson answered, pluming himself and

speaking in his softest tones. 'And the most charming, I assure you, the

most debonair of men. But do I hear a noise?'

'Yes,' said Sir George, listening. 'I hear something.'

Mr. Thomasson rose. 'What--what is it, I wonder?' he said, a trifle

nervously. A dull sound, as of a hive of bees stirred to anger, was

becoming audible.

'Devil if I know!' Sir George answered. 'Open the window.'

But the Reverend Frederick, after approaching the window with the

intention of doing so, seemed disinclined to go nearer, and hovered

about it. 'Really,' he said, no longer hiding his discomposure. 'I fear

that it is something--something in the nature of a riot. I fear that

that which I anticipated has happened. If my honourable friend had only

taken my advice and remained here!' And he wrung his hands

without disguise.

'Why, what has he to do with it?' Soane asked, curiously.

'He--he had an accident the other night,' Mr. Thomasson answered. 'A

monstrous nuisance for him. He and his noble friend, Lord Almeric

Doyley, played a little trick on a--on one of the College servants. The

clumsy fellow--it is marvellous how awkward that class of persons

is--fell down the stairs and hurt himself.'

'Seriously?'

'Somewhat. Indeed--in fact he is dead. And now there is a kind of

feeling about it in the town. I persuaded Mr. Dunborough to take up his

quarters here for the night, but he is so spirited he would dine abroad.

Now I fear, I really fear, he may be in trouble!'

'If it is he they are hooting in St. Aldate's,' Sir George answered

drily, 'I should say he was in trouble! But in my time the gownsmen

would have sallied out and brought him off before this. And given those

yelpers a cracked crown or two!'

The roar of voices in the narrow streets was growing clearer and more

threatening. 'Ye-es?' said the Reverend Frederick, moving about the

room, distracted between his anxiety and his respect for his companion.

'Perhaps so. But there is a monstrous low, vulgar set in College

nowadays; a man of spirit has no chance with them. Yesterday they had

the insolence to break into my noble friend's rooms and throw his

furniture out of window! And, I vow, would have gone on to--but Lord!

this is frightful! What a shocking howling! My dear sir, my very dear

Sir George,' Mr. Thomasson continued, his voice tremulous and his fat

cheeks grown on a sudden loose and flabby, 'do you think that there is

any danger?'

'Danger?' Sir George answered, with cruel relish--he had gone to the

window, and was looking out. 'Well, I should say that Madam Venus there

would certainly have to stand shot. If you are wise you will put out

some of those candles. They are entering the lane now. Gad, Tommy, if

they think your lad of spirit is here, I would not give much for your

window-glass!'

Mr. Thomasson, who had hastened to take the advice, and had extinguished

all the candles but one, thus reducing the room to partial darkness,

wrung his hands and moaned for answer. 'Where are the proctors?' he

said. 'Where are the constables? Where are the--Oh, dear, dear, this is

dreadful!'

And certainly, even in a man of firmer courage a little trepidation

might have been pardoned. As the unseen crowd, struggling and jostling,

poured from the roadway of St. Aldate's into the narrow confines of

Pembroke Lane, the sound of its hooting gathered sudden volume, and from

an intermittent murmur, as of a remote sea, swelled in a moment into a

roar of menace. And as a mob is capable of deeds from which the members

who compose it would severally shrink, as nothing is so pitiless,

nothing so unreasoning, so in the sound of its voice is a note that

appals all but the hardiest. Soane was no coward. A year before he had

been present at the siege of Bedford House by the Spitalfields weavers,

where swords were drawn and much blood was spilled, while the gentlemen

of the clubs and coffee-houses looked on as at a play; but even he felt

a slackening of the pulse as he listened. And with the Reverend

Frederick it was different. He was not framed for danger. When the

smoking glare of the links which the ringleaders carried began to dance

and flicker on the opposite houses, he looked about him with a wild eye,

and had already taken two steps towards the door, when it opened.

It admitted two men about Sir George's age, or a little younger. One,

after glancing round, passed hurriedly to the window and looked out; the

other sank into the nearest chair, and, fanning himself with his hat,

muttered a querulous oath.

'My dear lord!' cried the Reverend Frederick, hastening to his

side--and it is noteworthy that he forgot even his panic in the old

habit of reverence--'What an escape! To think that a life so valuable as

your lordship's should lie at the mercy of those wretches! I shudder at

the thought of what might have happened.'

'Fan me, Tommy' was the answer. And Lord Almeric, an excessively pale,

excessively thin young man, handed his hat with a gesture of exhaustion

to the obsequious tutor. 'Fan me; that is a good soul. Positively I am

suffocated with the smell of those creatures! Worse than horses, I

assure you. There, again! What a pother about a common fellow! 'Pon

honour, I don't know what the world is coming to!'

'Nor I,' Mr. Thomasson answered, hanging over him with assiduity and

concern on his countenance. 'It is not to be comprehended.'

'No, 'pon honour it is not!' my lord agreed. And then, feeling a little

recovered, 'Dunborough,' he asked, 'what are they doing?'

'Hanging you, my dear fellow!' the other answered from the window, where

he had taken his place within a pace of Soane, but without discovering

him. He spoke in the full boisterous tone of one in perfect health and

spirits, perfectly satisfied with himself, and perfectly heedless

of others.

'Oh, I say, you are joking?' my lord answered. 'Hanging me? Oh, ah! I

see. In effigy!'

'And your humble servant,' said Mr. Dunborough. 'I tell you, Tommy, we

had a near run for it. Curse their impudence, they made us sweat. For a

very little I would give the rascals something to howl for.'

Perhaps he meant no more than to put a bold face on it before his

creatures. But unluckily the rabble, which had come provided with a cart

and gallows, a hangman, and a paunchy, red-faced fellow in canonicals,

and which hitherto had busied itself with the mock execution, found

leisure at this moment to look up at the window. Catching sight of the

object of their anger, they vented their rage in a roar of execration,

so much louder than all that had gone before that it brought the

sentence which Mr. Thomasson was uttering to a quavering end. But the

demonstration, far from intimidating Mr. Dunborough, provoked him to

fury. Turning from the sea of brandished hands and upturned faces, he

strode to a table, and in a moment returned. The window was open, he

flung it wider, and stood erect, in full view of the mob.

The sight produced a momentary silence, of which he took advantage.

'Now, you tailors, begone!' he cried harshly. 'To your hovels, and leave

gentlemen to their wine, or it will be the worse for you. Come, march!

We have had enough of your fooling, and are tired of it.'

The answer was a shout of 'Cain!' and 'Murderer!' One voice cried

'Ferrers!' and this caught the fancy of the crowd. In a moment a hundred

were crying, 'Ay, Ferrers! Come down, and we'll Ferrers you!'

He stood a moment irresolute, glaring at them; then something struck and

shattered a pane of the window beside him, and the fetid smell of a bad

egg filled the room. At the sound Mr. Thomasson uttered a cry and shrank

farther into the darkness, while Lord Almeric rose hastily and looked

about for a refuge. But Mr. Dunborough did not flinch.

'D----n you, you rascals, you will have it, will you?' he cried; and in

the darkness a sharp click was heard. He raised his hand. A shriek in

the street below answered the movement; some who stood nearest saw that

he held a pistol and gave the information to others, and there was a

wild rush to escape. But before the hammer dropped, a hand closed on

his, and Soane, crying, 'Are you mad, sir?' dragged him back.

Dunborough had not entertained the least idea that any one stood near

him, and the surprise was as complete as the check. After an instinctive

attempt to wrench away his hand, he stood glaring at the person who held

him. 'Curse you!' he said. 'Who are you? And what do you mean?'

'Not to sit by and see murder done,' Sir George answered firmly.

'To-morrow you will thank me.'

'For the present I'll thank you to release my hand,' the other retorted

in a freezing tone. Nevertheless, Sir George thought that the delay had

sobered him, and complied. 'Much obliged to you,' Dunborough continued.

'Now perhaps you will walk into the next room, where there is a light,

and we can be free from that scum.'

Mr. Thomasson had already set the example of a prudent retreat thither;

and Lord Almeric, with a feeble, 'Lord, this is very surprising! But I

think that the gentleman is right, Dunny,' was hovering in the doorway.

Sir George signed to Mr. Dunborough to go first, but he would not, and

Soane, shrugging his shoulders, preceded him.

The room into which they all crowded was no more than a closet,

containing a dusty bureau propped on three legs, a few books, and Mr.

Thomasson's robes, boots, and wig-stand. It was so small that when they

were all in it, they stood perforce close together, and had the air of

persons sheltering from a storm. This nearness, the glare of the lamp on

their faces, and the mean surroundings gave a kind of added force to Mr.

Dunborough's rage. For a moment after entering he could not speak; he

had dined largely, and sat long after dinner; and his face was suffused

with blood. But then, 'Tommy, who is--this--fellow?' he cried, blurting

out the words as if each must be the last.

'Good heavens!' cried the tutor, shocked at the low appellation.' Mr.

Dunborough! Mr. Dunborough! You mistake. My dear sir, my dear friend,

you do not understand. This is Sir George Soane, whose name must be

known to you. Permit me to introduce him.'

'Then take that for a meddler and a coxcomb, Sir George Soane!' cried

the angry man; and quick as thought he struck Sir George, who was at

elbows with him, lightly in the face.

Sir George stepped back, his face crimson. 'You are not sober, sir!' he

said.

'Is not that enough?' cried the other, drowning both Mr. Thomasson's

exclamation of horror and Lord Almeric's protest of, 'Oh, but I say, you

know--' under the volume of his voice. 'You have a sword, sir, and I

presume you know how to use it. If there is not space here, there is a

room below, and I am at your service. You will not wipe that off by

rubbing it,' he added coarsely.

Sir George dropped his hand from his face as if it stung him. 'Mr.

Dunborough,' he said trembling--but it was with passion, 'if I thought

you were sober and would not repent to-morrow what you have done

to-night--'

'You would do fine things,' Dunborough retorted. 'Come, sir, a truce to

your impertinence! You have meddled with me, and you must maintain it.

Must I strike you again?'

'I will not meet you to-night,' Sir George answered firmly. 'I will be

neither Lord Byron nor his victim. These gentlemen will bear me out so

far. For the rest, if you are of the same mind to-morrow, it will be for

me and not for you to ask a meeting.'

'At your service, sir,' Mr. Dunborough said, with a sarcastic bow. 'But

suppose, to save trouble in the morning, we fix time and place now.'

'Eight--in Magdalen Fields,' Soane answered curtly. 'If I do not hear

from you, I am staying at the Mitre Inn. Mr. Thomasson, I bid you

good-night. My lord, your servant.'

And with that, and though Mr. Thomasson, wringing his hands over what

had occurred and the injury to himself that might come of it, attempted

some feeble remonstrances, Sir George bowed sternly, took his hat and

went down. He found his chair at the foot of the stairs, but in

consideration of the crowd he would not use it. The college porters,

indeed, pressed him to wait, and demurred to opening even the wicket.

But he had carried forbearance to the verge, and dreaded the least

appearance of timidity; and, insisting, got his way. The rabble admired

so fine a gentleman, and so resolute a bearing, gave place to him with a

jest, and let him pass unmolested down the lane.

It was well that they did, for he had come to the end of his patience.

One man steps out of a carriage, picks up a handkerchief, and lives to

wear a Crown. Another takes the same step; it lands him in a low

squabble from which he may extricate himself with safety, but scarcely

with an accession of credit. Sir George belonged to the inner circle of

fashion, to which neither rank nor wealth, nor parts, nor power, of

necessity admitted. In the sphere in which he moved, men seldom

quarrelled and as seldom fought. Of easiest habit among themselves, they

left bad manners and the duello to political adventurers and cubbish

peers, or to the gentlemen of the quarter sessions and the local

ordinary. It was with a mighty disgust, therefore, that Sir George

considered alike the predicament into which a caprice had hurried him,

and the insufferable young Hector whom fate had made his antagonist.

They would laugh at White's. They would make a jest of it over the cakes

and fruit at Betty's. Selwyn would turn a quip. And yet the thing was

beyond a joke. He must be a target first and a butt afterwards--if any

afterwards there were.

As he entered the Mitre, sick with chagrin, and telling himself he might

have known that something of this kind would come of stooping to vulgar

company, he bethought him--for the first time in an hour--of the girl.

'Lord!' he said, thinking of her request, her passion, and her splendid

eyes; and he stood. For the _âge des philosophes_, destiny seemed to be

taking too large a part in the play. This must be the very man with whom

she had striven to embroil him!

His servant's voice broke in on his thoughts. 'At what hour will your

honour please to be called?' he asked, as he carried off the laced

coat and wig.

Soane stifled a groan. 'Called?' he said. 'At half-past six. Don't

stare, booby! Half-past six, I said. And do you go now, I'll shift for

myself. But first put out my despatch-case, and see there is pen and

ink. It's done? Then be off, and when you come in the morning bring the

landlord and another with you.'

The man lingered. 'Will your honour want horses?' he said.

'I don't know. Yes! No! Well, not until noon. And where is my sword?'

'I was taking it down to clean it, sir.'

'Then don't take it; I will look to it myself. And mind you, call me at

the time I said.'

CHAPTER IV

PEEPING TOM OF WALLINGFORD

To be an attorney-at-law, avid of practice and getting none; to be

called Peeping Tom of Wallingford, in the place where you would fain

trot about busy and respected; to be the sole support of an old mother,

and to be come almost to the toe of the stocking--these circumstances

might seem to indicate an existence and prospects bare, not to say arid.

Eventually they presented themselves in that light to the person most

nearly concerned--by name Mr. Peter Fishwick; and moving him to grasp at

the forlorn hope presented by a vacant stewardship at one of the

colleges, brought him by coach to Oxford. There he spent three days and

his penultimate guineas in canvassing, begging, bowing, and smirking;

and on the fourth, which happened to be the very day of Sir George's

arrival in the city, was duly and handsomely defeated without the honour

of a vote.

Mr. Fishwick had expected no other result; and so far all was well. But

he had a mother, and that mother entertained a fond belief that local

jealousy and nothing else kept down her son in the place of his birth.

She had built high hopes on this expedition; she had thought that the

Oxford gentlemen would be prompt to recognise his merit; and for her

sake the sharp-featured lawyer went back to the Mitre a rueful man. He

had taken a lodging there with intent to dazzle the town, and not

because his means were equal to it; and already the bill weighed upon

him. By nature as cheerful a gossip as ever wore a scratch wig and lived

to be inquisitive, he sat mum through the evening, and barely listened

while the landlord talked big of his guest upstairs, his curricle and

fashion, the sums he lost at White's, and the plate in his

dressing-case.

Nevertheless the lawyer would not have been Peter Fishwick if he had not

presently felt the stirrings of curiosity, or, thus incited, failed to

be on the move between the stairs and the landing when Sir George came

in and passed up. The attorney's ears were as sharp as a ferret's nose,

and he was notably long in lighting his humble dip at a candle which by

chance stood outside Sir George's door. Hence it happened that

Soane--who after dismissing his servant had gone for a moment into the

adjacent chamber--heard a slight noise in the room he had left; and,

returning quickly to learn what it was, found no one, but observed the

outer door shake as if some one tried it. His suspicions aroused, he was

still staring at the door when it moved again, opened a very little way,

and before his astonished eyes admitted a small man in a faded black

suit, who, as soon as he had squeezed himself in, stood bowing with a

kind of desperate audacity.

'Hallo!' said Sir George, staring anew. 'What do you want, my man?'

The intruder advanced a pace or two, and nervously crumpled his hat in

his hands. 'If your honour pleases,' he said, a smile feebly

propitiative appearing in his face, 'I shall be glad to be of service

to you.'

'Of service?' said Sir George, staring in perplexity. 'To me?'

'In the way of my profession,' the little man answered, fixing Sir

George with two eyes as bright as birds'; which eyes somewhat redeemed

his small keen features. 'Your honour was about to make your will.' 'My

will?' Sir George cried, amazed; 'I was about to--' and then in an

outburst of rage, 'and if I was--what the devil business is it of

yours?' he cried. 'And who are you, sir?'

The little man spread out his hands in deprecation. 'I?' he said. 'I am

an attorney, sir, and everybody's business is my business.'

Sir George gasped. 'You are an attorney!' he cried. 'And--and

everybody's business is your business! By God, this is too much!' And

seizing the bell-rope he was about to overwhelm the man of law with a

torrent of abuse, before he had him put out, when the absurdity of the

appeal and perhaps a happy touch in Peter's last answer struck him; he

held his hand, and hesitated. Then, 'What is your name, sir?' he

said sternly.

'Peter Fishwick,' the attorney answered humbly.

'And how the devil did you know--that I wanted to make a will?'

'I was going upstairs,' the lawyer explained. 'And the door was ajar.'

'And you listened?'

'I wanted to hear,' said Peter with simplicity.

'But what did you hear, sir?' Soane retorted, scarcely able to repress a

smile.

'I heard your honour tell your servant to lay out pen and paper, and to

bring the landlord and another upstairs when he called you in the

morning. And I heard you bid him leave your sword. And putting two and

two together, respected sir, 'Peter continued manfully,' and knowing

that it is only of a will you need three witnesses, I said to myself,

being an attorney--'

'And everybody's business being your business,' Sir George muttered

irritably.

'To be sure, sir--it is a will, I said, he is for making. And with your

honour's leave,' Peter concluded with spirit, I'll make it.'

'Confound your impudence,' Sir George answered, and stared at him,

marvelling at the little man's shrewdness.

Peter smiled in a sickly fashion. 'If your honour would but allow me?'

he said. He saw a great chance slipping from him, and his voice was

plaintive.

It moved Sir George to compassion. 'Where is your practice?' he asked

ungraciously.

The attorney felt a surprising inclination to candour. 'At Wallingford,'

he said, 'it should be. But--' and there he stopped, shrugging his

shoulders, and leaving the rest unsaid.

'_Can_ you make a will?' Sir George retorted.

'No man better,' said Peter with confidence; and on the instant he drew

a chair to the table, seized the pen, and bent the nib on his thumbnail;

then he said briskly, 'I wait your commands, sir.'

Sir George stared in some embarrassment--he had not expected to be taken

so literally; but, after a moment's hesitation, reflecting that to write

down his wishes with his own hand would give him more trouble, and that

he might as well trust this stranger as that, he accepted the situation.

'Take down what I wish, then,' he said. 'Put it into form afterwards,

and bring it to me when I rise. Can you be secret?'

'Try me,' Peter answered with enthusiasm. 'For a good client I would

bite off my tongue.'

'Very well, then, listen!' Sir George said. And presently, after some

humming and thinking, 'I wish to leave all my real property to the

eldest son of my uncle, Anthony Soane,' he continued.

'Right, sir. Child already in existence, I presume? Not that it is

absolutely necessary,' the attorney continued glibly. 'But--'

'I do not know,' said Sir George.

'Ah!' said the lawyer, raising his pen and knitting his brows while he

looked very learnedly into vacancy. 'The child is expected, but you have

not yet heard, sir, that--'

'I know nothing about the child, nor whether there is a child,' Sir

George answered testily. 'My uncle may be dead, unmarried, or alive and

married--what difference does it make?'

'Certainty is very necessary in these things,' Peter replied severely.

The pen in his hand, he became a different man. 'Your uncle, Mr. Anthony

Soane, as I understand, is alive?'

'He disappeared in the Scotch troubles in '45,' Sir George reluctantly

explained, 'was disinherited in favour of my father, sir, and has not

since been heard from.'

The attorney grew rigid with alertness; he was like nothing so much as a

dog, expectant at a rat-hole. 'Attainted?' he said.

'No!' said Sir George.

'Outlawed?'

'No.'

The attorney collapsed: no rat in the hole. 'Dear me, dear me, what a

sad story!' he said; and then remembering that his client had profited,

'but out of evil--ahem! As I understand, sir, you wish all your real

property, including the capital mansion house and demesne, to go to the

eldest son of your uncle Mr. Anthony Soane in tail, remainder to the

second son in tail, and, failing sons, to daughters--the usual

settlement, in a word, sir.'

'Yes.'

'No exceptions, sir.'

'None.'

'Very good,' the attorney answered with the air of a man satisfied so

far. 'And failing issue of your uncle? To whom then, Sir George?'

'To the Earl of Chatham.'

Mr. Fishwick jumped in his seat; then bowed profoundly.

'Indeed! Indeed! How very interesting!' he murmured under his breath.

'Very remarkable! Very remarkable, and flattering.'

Sir George stooped to explain. 'I have no near relations,' he said

shortly. 'Lord Chatham--he was then Mr. Pitt--was the executor of my

grandfather's will, is connected with me by marriage, and at one time

acted as my guardian.'

Mr. Fishwick licked his lips as if he tasted something very good. This

was business indeed! These were names with a vengeance! His face shone

with satisfaction; he acquired a sudden stiffness of the spine. 'Very

good, sir,' he said. 'Ve--ry good,' he said. 'In fee simple, I

understand?'

'Yes.'

'Precisely. Precisely; no uses or trusts? No. Unnecessary of course.

Then as to personalty, Sir George?'

'A legacy of five hundred guineas to George Augustus Selwyn, Esquire, of

Matson, Gloucestershire. One of the same amount to Sir Charles Bunbury,

Baronet. Five hundred guineas to each of my executors; and to each of

these four a mourning ring.'

'Certainly, sir. All very noble gifts!' And Mr. Fishwick smacked his

lips.

For a moment Sir George looked his offence; then seeing that the

attorney's ecstasy was real and unaffected, he smiled. 'To my

land-steward two hundred guineas,' he said; 'to my house-steward one

hundred guineas, to the housekeeper at Estcombe an annuity of twenty

guineas. Ten guineas and a suit of mourning to each of my upper

servants not already mentioned, and the rest of my personalty--'

'After payment of debts and funeral and testamentary expenses,' the

lawyer murmured, writing busily.

Sir George started at the words, and stared thoughtfully before him: he

was silent so long that the lawyer recalled his attention by gently

repeating, 'And the residue, honoured sir?'

'To the Thatched House Society for the relief of small debtors,' Sir

George answered, between a sigh and a smile. And added, 'They will not

gain much by it, poor devils!'

Mr. Fishwick with a rather downcast air noted the bequest. 'And that is

all, sir, I think?' he said with his head on one side. 'Except the

appointment of executors.'

'No,' Sir George answered curtly. 'It is not all. Take this down and be

careful. As to the trust fund of fifty thousand pounds'--the attorney

gasped, and his eyes shone as he seized the pen anew. 'Take this down

carefully, man, I say,' Sir George continued. 'As to the trust fund left

by my grandfather's will to my uncle Anthony Soane or his heirs

conditionally on his or their returning to their allegiance and claiming

it within the space of twenty-one years from the date of his will, the

interest in the meantime to be paid to me for my benefit, and the

principal sum, failing such return, to become mine as fully as if it had

vested in me from the beginning--'

'Ah!' said the attorney, scribbling fast, and with distended cheeks.

'I leave the said fund to go with the land.'

'To go with the land,' the lawyer repeated as he wrote the words. 'Fifty

thousand pounds! Prodigious! Prodigious! Might I ask, sir, the date of

your respected grandfather's will?'

'December, 1746,' Sir George answered.

'The term has then nine months to run?'

'Yes.'

'With submission, then it comes to this,' the lawyer answered

thoughtfully, marking off the points with his pen in the air. 'In the

event of--of this will operating--all, or nearly all of your property,

Sir George, goes to your uncle's heirs in tail--if to be found--and

failing issue of his body to my Lord Chatham?'

'Those are my intentions.'

'Precisely, sir,' the lawyer answered, glancing at the clock. 'And they

shall be carried out. But--ahem! Do I understand, sir, that in the event

of a claimant making good his claim before the expiration of the nine

months, you stand to lose this stupendous, this magnificent sum--even in

your lifetime?'

'I do,' Sir George answered grimly. 'But there will be enough left to

pay your bill.'

Peter stretched out his hands in protest, then, feeling that this was

unprofessional, he seized the pen. 'Will you please to honour me with

the names of the executors, sir?' he said.

'Dr. Addington, of Harley Street.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And Mr. Dagge, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, attorney-at-law.'

'It is an honour to be in any way associated with him,' the lawyer

muttered, as he wrote the name with a flourish. 'His lordship's man of

business, I believe. And now you may have your mind at ease, sir,' he

continued. 'I will put this into form before I sleep, and will wait on

you for your signature--shall I say at--'

'At a quarter before eight,' said Soane. 'You will be private?'

'Of course, sir. It is my business to be private. I wish you a very good

night.'

The attorney longed to refer to the coming meeting, and to his sincere

hope that his new patron would leave the ground unscathed. But a duel

was so alien from the lawyer's walk in life, that he knew nothing of the

punctilios, and he felt a delicacy. Tamely to wish a man a safe issue

seemed to be a common compliment incommensurate with the occasion; and a

bathos. So, after a moment of hesitation, he gathered up his papers, and

tip-toed out of the room with an absurd exaggeration of respect, and a

heart bounding jubilant under his flapped waistcoat.

Left to himself, Sir George heaved a sigh, and, resting his head on his

hand, stared long and gloomily at the candles. 'Well, better be run

through by this clown,' he muttered after a while, 'than live to put a

pistol to my own head like Mountford and Bland. Or Scarborough, or poor

Bolton. It is not likely, and I wish that little pettifogger had not put

it into my head; but if a cousin were to appear now, or before the time

is up, I should be in Queer Street. Estcombe is dipped: and of the money

I raised, there is no more at the agent's than I have lost in a night at

Quinze! D----n White's and that is all about it. And d----n it, I shall,

and finely, if old Anthony's lad turn up and sweep off the three

thousand a year that is left. Umph, if I am to have a steady hand

to-morrow I must get to bed. What unholy chance brought me into

this scrape?'

CHAPTER V

THE MEETING

Sir George awoke next morning, and, after a few lazy moments of

semi-consciousness, remembered what was before him, it is not to be

denied that he felt a chill. He lay awhile, thinking of the past and the

future--or the no future--in a way he seldom thought, and with a

seriousness for which the life he had hitherto led had left him little

time and less inclination.

But he was young; he had a digestion as yet unimpaired, and nerves still

strong; and when he emerged an hour later and, more soberly dressed than

was his wont, proceeded down the High Street towards the Cherwell

Bridge, his spirits were at their normal level. The spring sunshine

which gilded the pinnacles of Magdalen tower, and shone cool and

pleasant on a score of hoary fronts, wrought gaily on him also. The

milksellers and such early folk were abroad, and filled the street with

their cries; he sniffed the fresh air, and smiled at the good humour and

morning faces that everywhere greeted him; and d----d White's anew, and

vowed to live cleanly henceforth, and forswear Pam. In a word, the man

was of such a courage that in his good resolutions he forgot his errand,

and whence they arose; and it was with a start that, as he approached

the gate leading to the college meadows, he marked a chair in waiting,

and beside it Mr. Peter Fishwick, from whom he had parted at the Mitre

ten minutes before.

Soane did not know whether the attorney had preceded him or followed

him: the intrusion was the same, and flushed with annoyance, he strode

to him to mark his sense of it. But Peter, being addressed, wore his

sharpest business air, and was entirely unconscious of offence. 'I have

merely purveyed a surgeon,' he said, indicating a young man who stood

beside him. 'I could not learn that you had provided one, sir.'

'Oh!' Sir George answered, somewhat taken aback, 'this is the

gentleman.'

'Yes, sir.'

Soane was in the act of saluting the stranger, when a party of two or

three persons came up behind, and had much ado not to jostle them in the

gateway. It consisted of Mr. Dunborough, Lord Almeric, and two other

gentlemen; one of these, an elderly man, who wore black and hair-powder,

and carried a gold-topped cane, had a smug and well-pleased expression,

that indicated his stake in the meeting to be purely altruistic. The two

companies exchanged salutes.

On this followed a little struggle to give precedence at the gate, but

eventually all went through. 'If we turn to the right,' some one

observed, 'there is a convenient place. No, this way, my lord.'

'Oh Lord, I have such a head this morning!' his lordship answered; and

he looked by no means happy. 'I am all of a twitter! It is so confounded

early, too. See here: cannot this be--?'

The gentleman who had spoken before drowned his voice. 'Will this do,

sir?' he said, raising his hat, and addressing Sir George. The party had

reached a smooth glade or lawn encompassed by thick shrubs, and to all

appearance a hundred miles from a street. A fairy-ring of verdure,

glittering with sunlight and dewdrops, and tuneful with the songs of

birds, it seemed a morsel of paradise dropped from the cool blue of

heaven. Sir George felt a momentary tightening of the throat as he

surveyed its pure brilliance, and then a sudden growing anger against

the fool who had brought him thither.

'You have no second?' said the stranger.

'No,' he answered curtly; 'I think we have witnesses enough.'

'Still--if the matter can be accommodated?'

'It can,' Soane answered, standing stiffly before them. 'But only by an

unreserved apology on Mr. Dunborough's part. He struck me. I have no

more to say.'

'I do not offer the apology,' Mr. Dunborough rejoined, with a

horse-laugh. 'So we may as well go on, Jerry. I did not come here

to talk.'

'I have brought pistols,' his second said, disregarding the sneer. 'But

my principal, though the challenged party, is willing to waive the

choice of weapons.'

'Pistols will do for me,' Sir George answered.

'One shot, at a word. If ineffective, you will take to your swords,' the

second continued; and he pushed back his wig and wiped his forehead, as

if his employment were not altogether to his taste. A duel was a fine

thing--at a distance. He wished, however, that he had some one with whom

to share the responsibility, now it was come to the point; and he cast a

peevish look at Lord Almeric. But his lordship was, as he had candidly

said, 'all of a twitter,' and offered no help.

'I suppose that I am to load,' the unlucky second continued. 'That being

so, you, Sir George, must have the choice of pistols.'

Sir George bowed assent, and, going a little aside, removed his hat,

wig, and cravat; and was about to button his coat to his throat, when he

observed that Mr. Dunborough was stripping to his shirt. Too proud not

to follow the example, though prudence suggested that the white linen

made him a fair mark, he stripped also, and in a trice the two, kicking

off their shoes, moved to the positions assigned to them; and in their

breeches and laced lawn shirts, their throats bare, confronted

one another.

'Sir George, have you no one to represent you?' cried the second again,

grown querulous under the burden. His name, it seemed, was Morris. He

was a major in the Oxfordshire Militia.

Soane answered with impatience. 'I have no second,' he said, 'but my

surgeon will be a competent witness.'

'Ah! to be sure!' Major Morris answered, with a sigh of relief. 'That is

so. Then, gentlemen, I shall give the signal by saying One, two, three!

Be good enough to fire together at the word Three! Do you understand?'

'Yes,' said Mr. Dunborough. And 'Yes,' Sir George said more slowly.

'Then, now, be ready! Prepare to fire! One! two! th--'

'Stay!' flashed Mr. Dunborough, while the word still hung in the air.

'You have not given us our pistols,' he continued, with an oath.

'What?' cried the second, staring.

'Man, you have not given us our pistols.'

The major was covered with confusion. 'God bless my soul! I have not!'

he cried; while Lord Almeric giggled hysterically. 'Dear me! dear me! it

is very trying to be alone!' He threw his hat and wig on the grass, and

again wiped his brow, and took up the pistols. 'Sir George? Thank you.

Mr. Dunborough, here is yours.' Then: 'Now, are you ready? Thank you.'

He retreated to his place again. 'Are you ready, gentlemen? Are you

quite ready?' he repeated anxiously, amid a breathless silence. 'One!

two! _three_!'

Sir George's pistol exploded at the word; the hammer of the other

clicked futile in the pan. The spectators, staring, and expecting to see

one fall, saw Mr. Dunborough start and make a half turn. Before they had

time to draw any conclusion he flung his pistol a dozen paces away, and

cursed his second. 'D----n you, Morris!' he cried shrilly; 'you put no

powder in the pan, you hound! But come on, sir,' he continued,

addressing Sir George, 'I have this left.' And rapidly changing his

sword from his left hand, in which he had hitherto held it, to his

right, he rushed upon his opponent with the utmost fury, as if he would

bear him down by main force.

'Stay!' Sir George cried; and, instead of meeting him, avoided his first

rush by stepping aside two paces. 'Stay, sir,' he repeated; 'I owe you a

shot! Prime afresh. Reload, sir, and--'

But Dunborough, blind and deaf with passion, broke in on him unheeding,

and as if he carried no weapon; and crying furiously, 'Guard yourself!'

plunged his half-shortened sword at the lower part of Sir George's body.

The spectators held their breath and winced; the assault was so sudden,

so determined, that it seemed that nothing could save Sir George from a

thrust thus delivered. He did escape, however, by a bound, quick as a

cat's; but the point of Dunborough's weapon ripped up his breeches on

the hip, the hilt rapped against the bone, and the two men came together

bodily. For a moment they wrestled, and seemed to be going to fight

like beasts.

Then Sir George, his left forearm under the other's chin, flung him

three paces away; and shifting his sword into his right hand--hitherto

he had been unable to change it--he stopped Dunborough's savage rush

with the point, and beat him off and kept him off--parrying his lunges,

and doing his utmost the while to avoid dealing him a fatal wound. Soane

was so much the better swordsman--as was immediately apparent to all

the onlookers--that he no longer feared for himself; all his fears were

for his opponent, the fire and fury of whose attacks he could not

explain to himself, until he found them flagging; and flagging so fast

that he sought a reason. Then Dunborough's point beginning to waver, and

his feet to slip, Sir George's eyes were opened; he discerned a crimson

patch spread and spread on the other's side--where unnoticed Dunborough

had kept his hand--and with a cry for help he sprang forward in time to

catch the falling man in his arms.

As the others ran in, the surgeons quickly and silently, Lord Almeric

more slowly, and with exclamations, Sir George lowered his burden gently

to the ground. The instant it was done, Morris touched his arm and

signed to him to stand back. 'You can do no good, Sir George,' he urged.

'He is in skilful hands. He would have it; it was his own fault. I can

bear witness that you did your best not to touch him.'

'I did not touch him,' Soane muttered.

The second looked his astonishment. 'How?' he said. 'You don't mean to

say that he is not wounded? See there!' And he pointed to the blood

which dyed the shirt. They were cutting the linen away.

'It was the pistol,' Sir George answered.

Major Morris's face fell, and he groaned. 'Good G--d!' he said, staring

before him. 'What a position I am in! I suppose--I suppose, sir, his

pistol was not primed?'

'I am afraid not,' Soane answered.

He was still in his shirt, and bareheaded; but as he spoke one of

several onlookers, whom the clatter of steel had drawn to the spot,

brought his coat and waistcoat, and held them while he put them on.

Another handed his hat and wig, a third brought his shoes and knelt and

buckled them; a fourth his kerchief. All these services he accepted

freely, and was unconscious of them--as unconscious as he was of the

eager deference, the morbid interest, with which they waited on him,

eyed him, and stared at him. His own thoughts, eyes, attention, were

fixed on the group about the fallen man; and when the elder surgeon

glanced over his shoulder, as wanting help, he strode to them.

'If we had a chair here, and could move him at once,' the smug gentleman

whispered, 'I think we might do.'

'I have a chair. It is at the gate,' his colleague answered.

'Have you? A good thought of yours!'

'The credit should lie--with my employer,' the younger man answered in a

low voice. 'It was his thought; here it comes. Sir George, will you be

good enough--' But then, seeing the baronet's look of mute anxiety, he

broke off. 'It is dangerous, but there is hope--fair hope,' he answered.

'Do you, my dear sir, go to your inn, and I will send thither when he is

safely housed. You can do no good here, and your presence may excite him

when he recovers from the swoon.'

Sir George, seeing the wisdom of the advice, nodded assent; and

remarking for the first time the sensation of which he was the centre,

was glad to make the best of his way towards the gates. He had barely

reached them--without shaking off a knot of the more curious, who still

hung on his footsteps--when Lord Almeric, breathless and agitated, came

up with him.

'You are for France, I suppose?' his lordship panted. And then, without

waiting for an answer: 'What would you advise me to do?' he babbled.

'Eh? What do you think? It will be the devil and all for me, you know.'

Sir George looked askance at him, contempt in his eye. 'I cannot advise

you,' he said. 'For my part, my lord, I remain here.'

His lordship was quite taken aback. 'No, you don't?' he said. 'Remain

here!--You don't mean it,'

'I usually mean--what I say,' Soane answered in a tone that he thought

must close the conversation.

But Lord Almeric kept up with him. 'Ay, but will you?' he babbled in

vacuous admiration. 'Will you really stay here? Now that is uncommon

bold of you! I should not have thought of that--of staying here, I mean.

I should go to France till the thing blew over. I don't know that I

shall not do so now. Don't you think I should be wise, Sir George? My

position, you know. It is uncommon low, is a trial, and--'

Sir George halted so abruptly that will-he, nill-he, the other went on a

few paces. 'My lord, you should know your own affairs best,' he said in

a freezing tone. 'And, as I desire to be alone, I wish your lordship a

very good day.'

My lord had never been so much astonished in his life. 'Oh, good

morning,' he said, staring vacantly, 'good morning!' but by the time he

had framed the words, Sir George was a dozen paces away.

It was an age when great ladies wept out of wounded vanity or for a loss

at cards--yet made a show of their children lying in state; when men

entertained the wits and made their wills in company, before they bowed

a graceful exit from the room and life. Doubtless people felt, feared,

hoped, and perspired as they do now, and had their ambitions apart from

Pam and the loo table. Nay, Rousseau was printing. But the 'Nouvelle

Héloïse,' though it was beginning to be read, had not yet set the mode

of sensibility, or sent those to rave of nature who all their lives had

known nothing but art. The suppression of feeling, or rather the

cultivation of no feeling, was still the mark of a gentleman; his

maxim; honoured alike at Medmenham and Marly, to enjoy--to enjoy, be the

cost to others what it might.

Bred in such a school, Sir George should have viewed what had happened

with polite indifference, and put himself out no further than was

courteous, or might serve to set him right with a jury, if the worst

came to the worst. But, whether because he was of a kindlier stuff than

the common sort of fashionables, or was too young to be quite spoiled,

he took the thing that had occurred with unexpected heaviness; and,

reaching his inn, hastened to his room to escape alike the curiosity

that dogged him and the sympathy that, for a fine gentleman, is never

far to seek. To do him justice, his anxiety was not for himself, or the

consequences to himself, which at the worst were not likely to exceed a

nominal verdict of manslaughter, and at the best would be an acquittal;

the former had been Lord Byron's lot, the latter Mr. Brown's, and each

had killed his man. Sir George had more _savoir faire_ than to trouble

himself about this; but about his opponent and his fate he felt a

haunting--and, as Lord Almeric would have said, a low--concern that

would let him neither rest nor sit. In particular, when he remembered

the trifle from which all had arisen, he felt remorse and sorrow; which

grew to the point of horror when he recalled the last look which

Dunborough, swooning and helpless, had cast in his face.

In one of these paroxysms he was walking the room when the elder

surgeon, who had attended his opponent to the field, was announced.

Soane still retained so much of his life habit as to show an unmoved

front; the man of the scalpel thought him hard and felt himself

repelled; and though he had come from the sick-room hot-foot and laden

with good news, descended to a profound apology for the intrusion.

'But I thought that you might like to hear, sir,' he continued, nursing

his hat, and speaking as if the matter were of little moment, 'that Mr.

Dunborough is as--as well as can be expected. A serious case--I might

call it a most serious case,' he continued, puffing out his cheeks. 'But

with care--with care I think we may restore him. I cannot say more

than that.'

'Has the ball been extracted?'

'It has, and so far well. And the chair being on the spot, Sir George,

so that he was moved without a moment's delay--for which I believe we

have to thank Mr.--Mr.--'

'Fishwick,' Soane suggested.

'To be sure--_that_ is so much gained. Which reminds me,' the smug

gentleman continued, 'that Mr. Attorney begged me to convey his duty and

inform you that he had made the needful arrangements and provided bail,

so that you are at liberty to leave, Sir George, at any hour.'

'Ah!' Soane said, marvelling somewhat. 'I shall stay here, nevertheless,

until I hear that Mr. Dunborough is out of danger.'

'An impulse that does you credit, sir,' the surgeon said impressively.

'These affairs, alas! are very greatly to be de--'

'They are d--d inconvenient,' Sir George drawled. 'He is not out of

danger yet, I suppose?'

The surgeon stared and puffed anew. 'Certainly not, sir,' he said.

'Ah! And where have you placed him?'

'The Honourable Mr.--, the sufferer?'

'To be sure! Who else, man?' Soane asked impatiently.

'In some rooms at Magdalen,' the doctor answered, breathing hard. And

then, 'Is it your wish that I should report to you to-morrow, sir?'

'You will oblige me. Thank you. Good-day.'

CHAPTER VI

A FISH OUT OF WATER

Sir George spent a long day in his own company, and heedless that on the

surgeon's authority he passed abroad for a hard man and a dashed

unfeeling fellow, dined on Lord Lyttelton's 'Life of King Henry the

Second,' which was a new book in those days, and the fashion; and supped

on gloom and good resolutions. He proposed to call and inquire after his

antagonist at a decent hour in the morning, and if the report proved

favourable, to go on to Lord----'s in the afternoon.

But his suspense was curtailed, and his inquiries were converted into a

matter of courtesy, by a visit which he received after breakfast from

Mr. Thomasson. A glance at the tutor's smiling, unctuous face was

enough. Mr. Thomasson also had had his dark hour--since to be mixed up

with, a fashionable fracas was one thing, and to lose a valuable and

influential pupil, the apple of his mother's eye, was another; but it

was past, and he gushed over with gratulations.

'My dear Sir George,' he cried, running forward and extending his hands,

'how can I express my thankfulness for your escape? I am told that the

poor dear fellow fought with a fury perfectly superhuman, and had you

given ground must have ran you through a dozen times. Let us be thankful

that the result was otherwise.' And he cast up his eyes.

'I am,' Sir George said, regarding him rather grimly. 'I do not know

that Mr. Dunborough shares the feeling.'

'The dear man!' the tutor answered, not a whit abashed. 'But he is

better. The surgeon has extracted the ball and pronounces him out

of danger.'

'I am glad to hear it,' Soane answered heartily. 'Then, now I can get

away.'

'_À volonté_!' cried Mr. Thomasson in his happiest vein. And then with a

roguish air, which some very young men found captivating, but which his

present companion stomached with difficulty, 'I will not say that you

have come off the better, after all, Sir George,' he continued.

'Ah!'

'No,' said the tutor roguishly. 'Tut-tut. These young men! They will at

a woman by hook or crook.'

'So?' Sir George said coldly. 'And the latest instance?'

'His Chloe--and a very obdurate, disdainful Chloe at that--has come to

nurse him,' the tutor answered, grinning. 'The prettiest high-stepping

piece you ever saw, Sir George--that I will swear!--and would do you no

discredit in London. It would make your mouth water to see her. But he

could never move her; never was such a prude. Two days ago he thought he

had lost her for good and all--there was that accident, you understand.

And now a little blood lost--and she is at his pillow!'

Sir George reddened at a sudden thought he had. 'And her father

unburied!' he cried, rising to his feet. This Macaroni was human,

after all.

Mr. Thomasson stared in astonishment. 'You know?' he said. 'Oh fie, Sir

George, have you been hunting already? Fie! Fie! And all London to

choose from!'

But Sir George simply repeated, 'And her father not buried, man?'

'Yes,' Mr. Thomasson answered with simplicity. 'He was buried this

morning. Oh, that is all right.'

'This morning? And the girl went from that--to Dunborough's bedside?'

Sir George exclaimed in indignation.

'It was a piece of the oddest luck,' Mr. Thomasson answered, smirking,

and not in the least comprehending the other's feeling. 'He was lodged

in Magdalen yesterday; this morning a messenger was despatched to

Pembroke for clothes and such-like for him. The girl's mother has always

nursed in Pembroke, and they sent for her to help. But she was that

minute home from the burial, and would not go. Then up steps the girl

and "I'll go," says she--heaven knows why or what took her, except the

contrariness of woman. However, there she is! D'ye see?' And Mr.

Thomasson winked.

'Tommy,' said Sir George, staring at him, 'I see that you're a d--d

rascal!'

The tutor, easy and smiling, protested. 'Fie, Sir George,' he said.

'What harm is in it? To tend the sick, my dear sir, is a holy office.

And if in this case harm come of it--' and he spread out his hands

and paused.

'As you know it will,' Sir George cried impulsively.

But Mr. Thomasson shrugged his shoulders. 'On the contrary, I know

nothing,' he answered. 'But--if it does, Mr. Dunborough's position is

such that--hem! Well, we are men of the world, Sir George, and the girl

might do worse.'

Sir George had heard the sentiment before, and without debate or

protest. Now it disgusted him. 'Faugh, man!' he said, rising. 'Have

done! You sicken me. Go and bore Lord Almeric--if he has not gone to

Paris to save his ridiculous skin!'

But Mr. Thomasson, who had borne abuse of himself with Christian

meekness, could not hear that unmoved. 'My dear Sir George, my dear

friend,' he urged very seriously, and with a shocked face, 'you should

not say things like that of his lordship. You really should not! My lord

is a most excellent and--'

'Pure ass!' said Soane with irritation. 'And I wish you would go and

divert him instead of boring me.'

'Dear, dear, Sir George!' Mr. Thomasson wailed. 'But you do not mean it?

And I brought you such good news, as I thought. One might--one really

might suppose that you wished our poor friend the worst.'

'I wish him no worse a friend!' Sir George responded sharply; and then,

heedless of his visitor's protestations and excuses and offers of

assistance, would see him to the door.

It was more easy, however, to be rid of him--the fine gentleman of the

time standing on scant ceremony with his inferiors--than of the

annoyance, the smart, the vexation, his news left behind him. Sir George

was not in love. He would have laughed at the notion. The girl was

absolutely and immeasurably below him; a girl of the people. He had seen

her once only. In reason, therefore--and polite good breeding enforced

the demand--he should have viewed Mr. Dunborough's conquest with easy

indifference, and complimented him with a jest founded on the prowess of

Mars and the smiles of Venus.

But the girl's rare beauty had caught Sir George's fancy; the scene in

which he had taken part with her had captivated an imagination not

easily inveigled. On the top of these impressions had come a period of

good resolutions prescribed by imminent danger; and on the top of that

twenty-four hours of solitude--a thing rare in the life he led. Result,

that Sir George, picturing the girl's fate, her proud, passionate face,

and her future, felt a sting at once selfish and unselfish, a pang at

once generous and vicious. Perhaps at the bottom of his irritation lay

the feeling that if she was to be any man's prey she might be his. But

on the whole his feelings were surprisingly honest; they had their root

in a better nature, that, deep sunk under the surface of breeding and

habit, had been wholesomely stirred by the events of the last few days.

Still, the good and the evil in the man were so far in conflict that,

had he been asked as he walked to Magdalen what he proposed to do should

he get speech with the girl, it is probable he would not have known what

to answer. Courtesy, nay, decency required that he should, inquire after

his antagonist. If he saw the girl--and he had a sneaking desire to see

her--well. If he did not see her--still well; there was an end of a

foolish imbroglio, which had occupied him too long already. In an hour

he could be in his post-chaise, and a mile out of town.

As it chanced, the surgeons in attendance on Dunborough had enjoined

quiet, and forbidden visitors. The staircase on which the rooms lay--a

bare, dusty, unfurnished place--was deserted; and the girl herself

opened the door to him, her finger on her lips. He looked for a blush

and a glance of meaning, a little play of conscious eyes and hands, a

something of remembrance and coquetry; and had his hat ready in his hand

and a smile on his lips. But she had neither smile nor blush for him; on

the contrary, when the dim light that entered the dingy staircase

disclosed who awaited her, she drew back a pace with a look of dislike

and embarrassment.

'My good girl,' he said, speaking on the spur of the moment--for the

reception took him aback--'what is it? What is the matter?'

She did not answer, but looked at him with solemn eyes, condemning him.

Even so Sir George was not blind to the whiteness of her throat, to the

heavy coils of her dark hair, and the smooth beauty of her brow. And

suddenly he thought he understood; and a chill ran through him. 'My

G--d!' he said, startled; 'he is not dead?'

She closed the door behind her, and stood, her hand on the latch. 'No,

he is not dead,' she said stiffly, voice and look alike repellent. 'But

he has not you to thank for that.'

'Eh?'

'How can you come here with that face,' she continued with sudden

passion--and he began to find her eyes intolerable--'and ask for him?

You who--fie, sir! Go home! Go home and thank God that you have not his

blood upon your hands--you--who might to-day be Cain!'

He gasped. 'Good Lord!' he said unaffectedly. And then, 'Why, you are

the girl who yesterday would have me kill him!' he cried with

indignation; 'who came out of town to meet me, brought me in, and would

have matched me with him as coolly as ever sportsman set cock in pit!

Ay, you! And now you blame me! My girl, blame yourself! Call yourself

Cain, if you please!'

'I do,' she said unblenching. 'But I have my excuse. God forgive me none

the less!' Her eyes filled as she said it. 'I had and have my excuse.

But you--a gentleman! What part had you in this? Who were you to kill

your fellow-creature--at the word of a distraught girl?'

Sir George saw his opening and jumped for it viciously. 'I fear you

honour me too much,' he said, in the tone of elaborate politeness, which

was most likely to embarrass a woman in her position. 'Most certainly

you do, if you are really under the impression that I fought Mr.

Dunborough on your account, my girl!'

'Did you not?' she stammered; and the new-born doubt in her eyes

betrayed her trouble.

'Mr. Dunborough struck me, because I would not let him fire on the

crowd,' Sir George explained, blandly raising his quizzing glass, but

not using it. 'That was why I fought him. And that is my excuse. You

see, my dear,' he continued familiarly, 'we have each an excuse. But I

am not a hypocrite.'

'Why do you call me that?' she exclaimed; distress and shame at the

mistake she had made contending with her anger.

'Because, my pretty Methodist,' he answered coolly, 'your hate and your

love are too near neighbours. Cursing and nursing, killing and billing,

come not so nigh one another in my vocabulary. But with women--some

women--it is different.'

Her cheeks burned with shame, but her eyes flashed passion. 'If I were a

lady,' she cried, her voice low but intense, 'you would not dare to

insult me.'

'If you were a lady,' he retorted with easy insolence, 'I would kiss you

and make you my wife, my dear. In the meantime, and as you are not--give

up nursing young sparks and go home to your mother. Don't roam the roads

at night, and avoid travelling-chariots as you would the devil. Or the

next knight-errant you light upon may prove something ruder

than--Captain Berkeley!'

'You are not Captain Berkeley?'

'No.'

She stared at him, breathing hard. Then, 'I was a fool, and I pay for it

in insult,' she said.

'Be a fool no longer then,' he retorted, his good-humour restored by the

success of his badinage; 'and no man will have the right to insult you,

_ma belle_.'

'I will never give _you_ the right!' she cried with intention.

'It is rather a question of Mr. Dunborough,' he answered, smiling

superior, and flirting his spy-glass to and fro with his fingers. 'Say

the same to him, and--but are you going, my queen? What, without

ceremony?'

'I am not a lady, and _noblesse oblige_ does not apply to me,' she

cried. And she closed the door in his face--sharply, yet without noise.

He went down the stairs a step at a time--thinking. 'Now, I wonder where

she got that!' he muttered. '_Noblesse oblige_! And well applied too!'

Again, 'Lord, what beasts we men are!' he thought. 'Insult? I suppose I

did insult her; but I had to do that or kiss her. And she earned it, the

little firebrand!' Then standing and looking along the High--he had

reached the College gates--'D--n Dunborough! She is too good for him!

For a very little--it would be mean, it would be low, it would be cursed

low--but for two pence I would speak to her mother and cheat him. She is

too good to be ruined by that coarse-tongued boaster! Though I suppose

she fancies him. I suppose he is an Adonis to her! Faugh! Tommy, my

lord, and Dunborough! What a crew!'

The good and evil, spleen and patience, which he had displayed in his

interview with the girl rode him still; for at the door of the Mitre he

paused, went in, came out, and paused again. He seemed to be unable to

decide what he would do; but in the end he pursued his way along the

street with a clouded brow, and in five minutes found himself at the

door of the mean house in the court, whence the porter of Pembroke had

gone out night and morning. Here he knocked, and stood. In a moment the

door was opened, but to his astonishment by Mr. Fishwick.

Either the attorney shared his surprise, or had another and more serious

cause for emotion; for his perky face turned red, and his manner as he

stood holding the door half-open, and gaping at the visitor, was that of

a man taken in the act, and thoroughly ashamed of himself. Sir George

might have wondered what was afoot, if he had not espied over the

lawyer's shoulder a round wooden table littered with papers, and

guessed that Mr. Fishwick was doing the widow's business--a theory which

Mr. Fishwick's first words, on recovering himself, bore out.

'I am here--on business,' he said, cringing and rubbing his hands. 'I

don't--I don't think that you can object, Sir George.'

'I?' said Soane, staring at him in astonishment and some contempt. 'My

good man, what has it to do with me? You got my letter?'

'And the draft, Sir George!' Mr. Fishwick bowed low. 'Certainly,

certainly, sir. Too much honoured. Which, as I understood, put an end to

any--I mean it not offensively, honoured sir--to any connection

between us?'

Sir George nodded. 'I have my own lawyers in London,' he said stiffly.

'I thought I made it clear that I did not need your services further.'

Mr. Fishwick rubbed his hands. 'I have that from your own lips, Sir

George,' he said. 'Mrs. Masterson, my good woman, you heard that?'

Sir George glowered at him. 'Lord, man?' he said. 'Why so much about

nothing? What on earth has this woman to do with it?'

Mr. Fishwick trembled with excitement. 'Mrs. Masterson, you will not

answer,' he stammered.

Sir George first stared, then cursed his impudence; then, remembering

that after all this was not his business, or that on which he had come,

and being one of those obstinates whom opposition but precipitates to

their ends, 'Hark ye, man, stand aside,' he said. 'I did not come here

to talk to you. And do you, my good woman, attend to me a moment. I have

a word to say about your daughter.'

'Not a word! Mrs. Masterson,' the attorney cried his eyes almost

bursting from his head with excitement.

Sir George was thunderstruck. "Is the man an idiot?" he exclaimed,

staring at him. And then, "I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Fishwick, or

whatever your name is--a little more of this, and I shall lay my cane

across your back."

"I am in my duty," the attorney answered, dancing on his feet.

"Then you will suffer in it!" Sir George retorted. "With better men. So

do not try me too far. I am here to say a word to this woman which I

would rather say alone."

"Never," said the attorney, bubbling, "with my good will!"

Soane lost patience at that. "D--n you!" he cried. "Will you be quiet?"

And made a cut at him with his cane. Fortunately the lawyer evaded it

with nimbleness; and having escaped to a safe distance hastened to cry,

"No malice! I bear you no malice, sir!" with so little breath and so

much good-nature that Sir George recovered his balance. "Confound you,

man!" he continued. "Why am I not to speak? I came here to tell this

good woman that if she has a care for this girl the sooner she takes her

from where she is the better! And you cannot let me put a word in."

"You came for that, sir?"

"For what else, fool?"

"I was wrong," said the attorney humbly. "I did not understand. Allow me

to say, sir, that I am entirely of your opinion. The young lady--I mean

she shall be removed to-morrow. It--the whole arrangement is

improper--highly improper."

"Why, you go as fast now as you went slowly before," Sir George said,

observing him curiously.

Mr. Fishwick smiled after a sickly fashion. "I did not understand, sir,"

he said. "But it is most unsuitable, most unsuitable. She shall return

to-morrow at the latest."

Sir George, who had said what he had to say, nodded, grunted, and went

away; feeling that he had performed an unpleasant--and somewhat

doubtful--duty under most adverse circumstances. He could not in the

least comprehend the attorney's strange behaviour; but after some

contemptuous reflection, of which nothing came, he dismissed it as one

of the low things to which he had exposed himself by venturing out of

the charmed circle in which he lived. He hoped that the painful series

was now at an end, stepped into his post-chaise, amid the reverent

salaams of the Mitre, the landlord holding the door; and in a few

minutes had rattled over Folly Bridge, and left Oxford behind him.

CHAPTER VII

ACHILLES AND BRISEIS

The honourable Mr. Dunborough's collapse arising rather from loss of

blood than from an injury to a vital part, he was sufficiently recovered

even on the day after the meeting to appreciate his nurse's presence.

Twice he was heard to chuckle without apparent cause; once he strove,

but failed, to detain her hand; while the feeble winks which from time

to time he bestowed on Mr. Thomasson when her back was towards him were

attributed by that gentleman, who should have known the patient, to

reflections closely connected with her charms.

His rage was great, therefore, when three days after the duel, he awoke,

missed her, and found in her place the senior bedmaker of Magdalen--a

worthy woman, learned in simples and with hands of horn, but far from

beautiful. This good person he saluted with a vigour which proved him

already far on the road to recovery; and when he was tired of swearing,

he wept and threw his nightcap at her. Finally, between one and the

other, and neither availing to bring back his Briseis, he fell into a

fever; which, as he was kept happed up in a box-bed, in a close room,

with every window shut and every draught kept off by stuffy

curtains--such was the fate of sick men then--bade fair to postpone his

recovery to a very distant date.

In this plight he sent one day for Mr. Thomasson, who had the nominal

care of the young gentleman; and the tutor being brought from the club

tavern in the Corn Market which he occasionally condescended to

frequent, the invalid broke to him his resolution.

'See here, Tommy,' he said in a voice weak but vicious. 'You have got to

get her back. I will not be poisoned by this musty old witch

any longer.'

'But if she will not come?' said Mr. Thomasson sadly.

'The little fool threw up the sponge when she came before,' the patient

answered, tossing restlessly. 'And she will come again, with a little

pressure. Lord, I know the women! So should you.'

'She came before because--well, I do not quite know why she came,' Mr.

Thomasson confessed.

'Any way, you have got to get her back.'

The tutor remonstrated, 'My dear good man,' he said unctuously, 'you

don't think of my position. I am a man of the world, I know--'

'All of it, my Macaroni!'

'But I cannot be--be mixed up in such a matter as this, my dear sir.'

'All the same, you have got to get her,' was the stubborn answer. 'Or I

write to my lady and tell her you kept mum about my wound. And you will

not like that, my tulip.'

On that point he was right; for if there was a person in the world of

whom Mr. Thomasson stood in especial awe, it was of Lady Dunborough. My

lord, the author of 'Pomaria Britannica' and 'The Elegant Art of

Pomiculture as applied to Landscape Gardening,' was a quantity he could

safely neglect. Beyond his yew-walks and his orchards his lordship was a

cipher. He had proved too respectable even for the peerage; and of late

had cheerfully resigned all his affairs into the hands of his wife,

formerly the Lady Michal M'Intosh, a penniless beauty, with the pride of

a Scotchwoman and the temper of a Hervey. Her enemies said that my lady

had tripped in the merry days of George the Second, and now made up for

past easiness by present hardness. Her friends--but it must be confessed

her ladyship had no friends.

Be that as it might, Mr. Thomasson had refrained from summoning her to

her son's bedside; partly because the surgeons had quickly pronounced

the wound a trifle, much more because the little he had seen of her

ladyship had left him no taste to see more. He knew, however, that the

omission would weigh heavily against him were it known; and as he had

hopes from my lady's aristocratic connections, and need in certain

difficulties of all the aid he could muster, he found the threat not one

to be sneezed at. His laugh betrayed this.

However, he tried to put the best face on the matter. 'You won't do

that,' he said. 'She would spoil sport, my friend. Her ladyship is no

fool, and would not suffer your little amusements.'

'She is no fool,' Mr. Dunborough replied with emphasis. 'As you will

find, Tommy, if she comes to Oxford, and learns certain things. It will

be farewell to your chance of having that milksop of a Marquis for

a pupil!'

Now, it was one of Mr. Thomasson's highest ambitions at this time to

have the young Marquis of Carmarthen entrusted to him; and Lady

Dunborough was connected with the family, and, it was said, had interest

there. He was silent.

'You see,' Mr. Dunborough continued, marking with a chuckle the effect

his words had produced, 'you have got to get her.'

Mr. Thomasson did not admit that that was so, but he writhed in his

chair; and presently he took his leave and went away, his plump pale

face gloomy and the crow's feet showing plain at the corners of his

eyes. He had given no promise; but that evening a messenger from the

college requested Mrs. Masterson to attend at his rooms on the

following morning.

She did not go. At the appointed hour, however, there came a knock on

the tutor's door, and that gentleman, who had sent his servant out of

the way, found Mr. Fishwick on the landing. 'Tut-tut!' said the don with

some brusqueness, his hand still on the door; 'do you want me?' He had

seen the attorney after the duel, and in the confusion attendant on the

injured man's removal; and knew him by sight, but no farther.

'I--hem--I think you wished to see Mrs. Masterson?' was Mr. Fishwick's

answer, and the lawyer, but with all humility, made as if he

would enter.

The tutor, however, barred the way. 'I wished to see Mrs. Masterson,' he

said drily, and with his coldest air of authority. 'But who are you?'

'I am here on her behalf,' Mr. Fishwick answered, meekly pressing his

hat in his hands.

'On her behalf?' said Mr. Thomasson stiffly. 'Is she ill?'

'No, sir, I do not know that she is ill.'

'Then I do not understand,' Mr. Thomasson answered in his most dignified

tone. 'Are you aware that the woman is in the position of a college

servant, inhabiting a cottage the property of the college? And liable to

be turned out at the college will?'

'It may be so,' said the attorney.

'Then, if you please, what is the meaning of her absence when requested

by one of the Fellows of the college to attend?'

'I am here to represent her,' said Mr. Fishwick.

'Represent her! Represent a college laundress! Pooh! I never heard of

such a thing.'

'But, sir, I am her legal adviser, and--'

'Legal adviser!' Mr. Thomasson retorted, turning purple--he was really

puzzled. 'A bedmaker with a legal adviser! It's the height of impudence!

Begone, sir, and take it from me, that the best advice you can give her

is to attend me within the hour.'

Mr. Fishwick looked rather blue. 'If it has nothing to do with her

property,' he said reluctantly, and as if he had gone too far.

'Property!' said Mr. Thomasson, gasping.

'Or her affairs.'

'Affairs!' the tutor cried. 'I never heard of a bedmaker having

affairs.'

'Well,' said the lawyer doggedly, and with the air of a man goaded into

telling what he wished to conceal, 'she is leaving Oxford. That is

the fact.'

'Oh!' said Mr. Thomasson, falling on a sudden into the minor key. 'And

her daughter?'

'And her daughter.'

'That is unfortunate,' the tutor answered, thoughtfully rubbing his

hands. 'The truth is--the girl proved so good a nurse in the case of my

noble friend who was injured the other day--my lord Viscount

Dunborough's son, a most valuable life--that since she absented herself,

he has not made the same progress. And as I am responsible for him--'

'She should never have attended him!' the attorney answered with

unexpected sharpness.

'Indeed! And why not, may I ask?' the tutor inquired.

Mr. Fishwick did not answer the question. Instead, 'She would not have

gone to him in the first instance,' he said, 'but that she was under a

misapprehension.'

'A misapprehension?'

'She thought that the duel lay at her door,' the attorney answered; 'and

in that belief was impelled to do what she could to undo the

consequences. Romantic, but a most improper step!'

'Improper!' said the tutor, much ruffled. 'And why, sir?'

'Most improper,' the attorney repeated in a dry, business-like tone. 'I

am instructed that the gentleman had for weeks past paid her attentions

which, his station considered, could scarcely be honourable, and of

which she had more than once expressed her dislike. Under those

circumstances, to expose her to his suit--but no more need be said,' the

attorney added, breaking off and taking a pinch of snuff with great

enjoyment, 'as she is leaving the city.'

Mr. Thomasson had much ado to mask his chagrin under a show of

contemptuous incredulity. 'The wench has too fine a conceit of herself!'

he blurted out. 'Hark you, sir--this is a fable! I wonder you dare to

put it about. A gentleman of the station of my lord Dunborough's son

does not condescend to the gutter!'

'I will convey the remark to my client,' said the attorney, bristling

all over.

'Client!' Mr. Thomasson retorted, trembling with rage--for he saw the

advantage he had given the enemy. 'Since when had laundry maids lawyers?

Client! Pho! Begone, sir! You are abusive. I'll have you looked up on

the rolls. I'll have your name taken!'

'I would not talk of names if I were you,' cried Mr. Fishwick, reddening

in his turn with rage. 'Men give a name to what you are doing this

morning, and it is not a pleasant one. It is to be hoped, sir, that Mr.

Dunborough pays you well for your services!'

'You--insolent rascal!' the tutor stammered, losing in a moment all his

dignity and becoming a pale flabby man, with the spite and the terror of

crime in his face. 'You--begone! Begone, sir.'

'Willingly,' said the attorney, swelling with defiance. 'You may tell

your principal that when he means marriage, he may come to us. Not

before. I take my leave, sir. Good morning.' And with that he strutted

out and marched slowly and majestically down the stairs.

He bore off the honours of war. Mr. Thomasson, left among his Titian

copies, his gleaming Venuses, and velvet curtains, was a sorry thing.

The man who preserves a cloak of outward decency has always this

vulnerable spot; strip him, and he sees himself as others see or may see

him, and views his ugliness with griping qualms. Mr. Thomasson bore the

exposure awhile, sitting white and shaking in a chair, seeing himself

and seeing the end, and, like the devils, believing and trembling. Then

he rose and staggered to a little cupboard, the door of which was

adorned with a pretty Greek motto, and a hovering Cupid painted in a

blue sky; whence he filled himself a glass of cordial. A second glass

followed; this restored the colour to his cheeks and the brightness to

his eyes. He shivered; then smacked his lips and began to reflect what

face he should put upon it when he went to report to his pupil.

In deciding that point he made a mistake. Unluckily for himself and

others, in the version which he chose he was careful to include all

matters likely to arouse Dunborough's resentment; in particular he laid

malicious stress upon the attorney's scornful words about a marriage.

This, however--and perhaps the care he took to repeat it--had an

unlooked-for result. Mr. Dunborough began by cursing the rogue's

impudence, and did it with all the heat his best friend could desire.

But, being confined to his room, haunted by the vision of his flame, yet

debarred from any attempt to see her, his mood presently changed; his

heart became as water, and he fell into a maudlin state about her.

Dwelling constantly on memories of his Briseis--whose name, by the way,

was Julia--having her shape and complexion, her gentle touch and her

smile, always in his mind, while he was unable in the body to see so

much as the hem of her gown, Achilles grew weaker in will as he grew

stronger in body. Headstrong and reckless by nature, unaccustomed to

thwart a desire or deny himself a gratification, Mr. Dunborough began to

contemplate paying even the last price for her; and one day, about three

weeks after the duel, dropped a word which frightened Mr. Thomasson.

He was well enough by this time to be up, and was looking through one

window while the tutor lounged in the seat of another. On a sudden

'Lord!' said he, with a laugh that broke off short in the middle. 'What

was the queer catch that fellow sang last night? About a bailiff's

daughter. Well, why not a porter's daughter?'

'Because you are neither young enough, nor old enough, nor mad enough!'

said Mr. Thomasson cynically, supposing the other meant nothing.

'It is she that would be mad,' the young gentleman answered, with a grim

chuckle. 'I should take it out of her sooner or later. And, after all,

she is as good as Lady Macclesfield or Lady Falmouth! As good? She is

better, the saucy baggage! By the Lord, I have a good mind to do it!'

Mr. Thomasson sat dumbfounded. At length, 'You are jesting! You cannot

mean it,' he said.

'If it is marriage or nothing--and, hang her, she is as cold as a church

pillar--I do mean it,' the gentleman answered viciously; 'and so would

you if you were not an old insensible sinner! Think of her ankle, man!

Think of her waist! I never saw a waist to compare with it! Even in the

Havanna! She is a pearl! She is a jewel! She is incomparable!'

'And a porter's daughter!'

'Faugh, I don't believe it.' And he took his oath on the point.

'You make me sick!' Mr. Thomasson said; and meant it. Then, 'My dear

friend, I see how it is,' he continued. 'You have the fever on you

still, or you would not dream of such things.'

'But I do dream of her--every night, confound her!' Mr. Dunborough said;

and he groaned like a love-sick boy. 'Oh, hang it, Tommy,' he continued

plaintively, 'she has a kind of look in her eyes when she is

pleased--that makes you think of dewy mornings when you were a boy and

went fishing.'

'It _is_ the fever!' Mr. Thomasson said, with conviction. 'It is heavy

on him still.' Then, more seriously, 'My very dear sir,' he continued,

'do you know that if you had your will you would be miserable within the

week. Remember--

''Tis tumult, disorder, 'tis loathing and hate;

Caprice gives it birth, and contempt is its fate!'

'Gad, Tommy!' said Mr. Dunborough, aghast with admiration at the aptness

of the lines. 'That is uncommon clever of you! But I shall do it all the

same,' he continued, in a tone of melancholy foresight. 'I know I shall.

I am a fool, a particular fool. But I shall do it. Marry in haste and

repent at leisure!'

'A porter's daughter become Lady Dunborough!' cried Mr. Thomasson with

scathing sarcasm.

'Oh yes, my tulip,' Mr. Dunborough answered with gloomy meaning. 'But

there have been worse. I know what I know. See Collins's Peerage, volume

4, page 242: "Married firstly Sarah, widow of Colonel John Clark, of

Exeter, in the county of Devon"--all a hum, Tommy! If they had said

spinster, of Bridewell, in the county of Middlesex, 'twould have been

as true! I know what I know.'

After that Mr. Thomasson went out of Magdalen, feeling that the world

was turning round with him. If Dunborough were capable of such a step as

this--Dunborough, who had seen life and service, and of whose past he

knew a good deal--where was he to place dependence? How was he to trust

even the worst of his acquaintances? The matter shook the pillars of the

tutor's house, and filled him with honest disgust.

Moreover, it frightened him. In certain circumstances he might have

found his advantage in fostering such a _mésalliance_. But here, not

only had he reason to think himself distasteful to the young lady whose

elevation was in prospect, but he retained too vivid a recollection of

Lady Dunborough to hope that that lady would forget or forgive him!

Moreover, at the present moment he was much straitened for money;

difficulties of long standing were coming to a climax. Venuses and

Titian copies have to be paid for. The tutor, scared by the prospect, to

which he had lately opened his eyes, saw in early preferment or a

wealthy pupil his only way of escape. And in Lady Dunborough lay his

main hope, which a catastrophe of this nature would inevitably shatter.

That evening he sent his servant to learn what he could of the

Mastersons' movements.

The man brought word that they had left the town that morning; that the

cottage was closed, and the key had been deposited at the college gates.

'Did you learn their destination?' the tutor asked, trimming his

fingernails with an appearance of indifference.

The servant said he had not; and after adding the common gossip of the

court, that Masterson had left money, and the widow had gone to her own

people, concluded, 'But they were very close after Masterson's death,

and the neighbours saw little of them. There was a lawyer in and out, a

stranger; and it is thought he was to marry the girl, and that that had

set them a bit above their position, sir.'

'That will do,' said the tutor. 'I want to hear no gossip,' And, hiding

his joy, he went off hot-foot to communicate the news to his pupil.

But Mr. Dunborough laughed in his face. 'Pooh!' he said. 'I know where

they are.'

'You know? Then where are they?' Thomasson asked.

'Ah, my good Tommy, that is telling.'

'Well,' Mr. Thomasson answered, with an assumption of dignity. 'At any

rate they are gone. And you must allow me to say that I am glad of

it--for your sake!'

'That is as may be,' Mr. Dunborough answered. And he took his first

airing in a sedan next day. After that he grew so reticent about his

affairs, and so truculent when the tutor tried to sound him, that Mr.

Thomasson was at his wits' end to discern what was afoot. For some time,

however, he got no clue. Then, going to Dunborough's rooms one day, he

found them empty, and, bribing the servant, learned that his master had

gone to Wallingford. And the man told him his suspicions. Mr. Thomasson

was aghast; and by that day's post--after much searching of heart and

long pondering into which scale he should throw his weight--he

despatched the following letter to Lady Dunborough: