CHAPTER XXI.

COUNSEL TAKEN WITH MR. MADGIN.

After her interview with Sergeant Nicholas, Lady Chillington dismissed

Janet for the day, and retired to her own rooms, nor was she seen out of

them till the following morning. No one was admitted to see her save

Dance. Janet, after sitting with Sister Agnes all the afternoon, went

down at dusk to the housekeeper's room.

"Whatever did you do to her ladyship this morning?" asked Dance as soon

as she entered. "She has tasted neither bit nor sup since breakfast, but

ever since that old shabby-looking fellow went away she has lain on the

sofa, staring at the wall as if there was some writing on it she was

trying to read but didn't know how. I thought she was ill, and asked her

if I should send for the doctor. She laughed at me without taking her

eyes off the wall, and bade me begone for an old fool. If there's not a

change by morning, I shall just send for the doctor without asking her

leave. Surely you and that old fellow have bewitched her ladyship

between you."

Janet in reply told Dance all that had passed at the morning's

interview, feeling quite sure that in doing so she was violating no

confidence, and that Lady Chillington herself would be the first to tell

everything to her faithful old servant as soon as she should be

sufficiently composed to do so. As a matter of course Dance was full of

wonder.

"Did you know Captain Chillington?" asked Janet, as soon as the old

dame's surprise had in some measure toned itself down.

"Did I know curly-pated, black-eyed Master Charley?" asked the old

woman. "Ay--who better? These arms, withered and yellow now, then plump

and strong, held him before he had been an hour in the world. The day he

left England I went with her ladyship to see him aboard ship. As he

shook me by the hand for the last time he said, 'You will never leave my

mother, will you, Dance?' And I said, 'Never, while I live, dear Master

Charles,' and I've kept my word."

"Her ladyship has never been like the same woman since she heard the

news of his death," resumed Dance after a pause. "It seemed to sour her

and harden her, and make her altogether different. There had been a

great deal of unhappiness at home for some years before he went away. He

and his father, Sir John--he that now lies so quiet upstairs--had a

terrible quarrel just after Master Charles went into the army, and it

was a quarrel that was never made up in this world. He was an awful

man--Sir John--a wicked man: pray that such a one may never cross your

path. The only happiness he seemed to have on earth was in making those

over whom he had any power miserable. It was impossible for my lady to

love him, but she tried to do her duty by him till he and Master Charles

fell out. What the quarrel was about I never rightly understood, but my

lady would have it that Master Charles was in the right and her husband

in the wrong. One result was that Sir John stopped the income that he

had always allowed his son, and took a frightful oath that if Master

Charles were dying of starvation before his eyes he would not give him

as much as a penny to buy bread with. But her ladyship, who had money in

her own right, said that Master Charles's income should go on as usual.

Then she and Sir John quarrelled; and she left him and came to live at

Deepley Walls, leaving him at Dene Folly; and here she stayed till Sir

John was taken with his last illness and sent for her. He sent for her,

not to make up the quarrel, but to jibe and sneer at her, and to make

her wait on him day and night, as if she were a paid nurse from a

hospital. While this was going on, and after Sir John had been quite

given up by the doctors, news came from India of Master Charles's death.

Well, her ladyship went nigh distracted; but as for the baronet, it was

said, though I won't vouch for the truth of it, that he only laughed

when the news was told him, and said that if he was plagued as much with

corns in the next world as he had been in this, he should find Master

Charles's arm very useful to lean upon. Two days later he died, and the

title, and Dene Folly with it, went to a far-away cousin, whom neither

Sir John nor his wife had ever seen. Then it was found how the baronet

had contrived that his spite should outlive him--for only out of spite

and mean cruelty could he have made such a will as he did make: that

Deepley Walls should not become her ladyship's absolute property till

the end of twenty years, during the whole of which time his body was to

remain unburied, and to be kept under the same roof with his widow,

wherever she might live. The mean, paltry scoundrel! Perhaps her

ladyship might have had the will set aside, but she would not go to law

about it. Thank Heaven! the twenty years are nearly at an end. Deepley

Walls has been a haunted house ever since that midnight when Sir John

was borne in on the shoulders of six strong men. And now tell me whether

her ladyship is not a woman to be pitied."

* * * * *

At a quarter before eleven next morning, Mr. Solomon Madgin, Lady

Chillington's agent and general man-of-business, arrived by appointment

at Deepley Walls. Mr. Madgin was indispensable to her ladyship, who had

a considerable quantity of house property in and around Eastbury,

consisting chiefly of small tenements, the rents of which had to be

collected weekly. Then Mr. Madgin was bailiff for the Deepley Walls

estate, in connection with which were several small farms or "holdings"

which required to be well looked after in many ways. Besides all this,

her ladyship, having a few spare thousands, had taken of late years to

dabbling in scrip and shares in a small way, and under the skilful

pilotage of Mr. Madgin had hitherto contrived to steer clear of those

rocks and shoals of speculation on which so many gallant argosies are

wrecked. In short, everything except the law-business of the estate

filtered through Mr. Madgin's hands, and as he did his work cheaply and

well, and put up with her ladyship's ill-temper without a murmur, the

mistress of Deepley Walls could hardly have found anyone who would have

suited her better.

Mr. Solomon Madgin was a little dried-up man, about sixty years old. His

tail-coat and vest of rusty black were of the fashion of twenty years

ago. He wore drab trousers, and shoes tied with bows of black ribbon.

His head, bald on the crown, had an ample fringe of white hair at the

back and sides, and was covered, when he went abroad, with a beaver hat,

very fluffy and much too tall for him, and which, once upon a time, had

probably been nearly as white as his hair, but was now time-worn and

weather-stained to one uniform and consistent drab. Round his neck he

always wore a voluminous cravat of unstarched muslin fastened in front

with an old-fashioned pearl brooch, above which protruded the two spiked

points of a very stiff and pugnacious-looking collar. A strong alpaca

umbrella, unfashionably corpulent, was his constant companion. Mr.

Madgin's whiskers were shaved off in an exact line with the end of his

nose. His eyebrows were very white and bushy, and could serve on

occasion as a screen to the greenish, crafty-looking eyes below them,

which never liked to be peered into too closely. The ordinary expression

of his thin, dried-up face was one of hard, worldly shrewdness; but

there was a lurking bonhommie in his smile which seemed to imply that,

away from business, he might possibly mellow into a boon companion.

Mr. Madgin had to wait a few minutes this morning before Lady

Chillington could receive him. When he was ushered into her sitting-room

he was surprised to find that she and Miss Hope were not alone; that a

plainly-dressed man, who looked almost as old as Mr. Madgin himself, was

seated at the table. After one suspicious glance at the stranger, Mr.

Madgin made his bow to the ladies and walked up to the table with his

bag of papers.

"You can put all those things away for the day, Mr. Madgin," said her

ladyship. "A far more important matter claims our attention just now. In

the first place I must introduce to you Sergeant Nicholas, many years

ago servant to my son, Captain Chillington, who died in India.

(Sergeant, this is Mr. Madgin, my man of business.) The Sergeant, who

has only just returned to England, told me yesterday a very curious

story which I am desirous that he should repeat in your presence to-day.

The story relates to a diamond of great value, said to have been stolen

from the body of my son immediately after death, and I shall require you

to give me your opinion as to the feasibility of its recovery. You will

take such notes of the narrative as you may think necessary, and the

Sergeant will afterwards answer, to the best of his ability, any

questions you may choose to put to him." Then turning to the old

soldier, she added: "You will be good enough, Sergeant, to repeat to Mr.

Madgin such parts of your narrative of yesterday as have any reference

to the diamond. Begin with my son's dying message. Repeat, word for

word, as closely as you can remember, all that was told you by the sycee

Rung. Describe as minutely as possible the personal appearance of M.

Platzoff; and detail any other points that bear on the loss of the

diamond."

So the Sergeant began, but the repetition of a long narrative not learnt

by heart is by no means an easy matter, especially when they to whom it

was first told hear it for the second time, but rather as critics than

as ordinary listeners. Besides, the taking of notes was a process that

smacked of a court-martial and tended to flurry the narrator, making him

feel as if he were upon his oath and liable to be browbeat by the

counsel for the other side. He was heartily glad when he got to the end

of what he had to tell. The postscript to Captain Chillington's letter

was then read by Miss Hope.

Mr. Madgin took copious notes as the Sergeant went on, and afterwards

put a few questions to him on different points which he thought not

sufficiently clear. Then he laid down his pen, rubbed his hands, and ran

his fingers through his scanty hair. Lady Chillington rang for her

butler, and gave the Sergeant into his keeping, knowing that he could

not be in better hands. Then she said: "I will leave you, Mr. Madgin,

for half-an-hour. Go carefully through your notes, and let me have your

opinion when I come back as to whether, after so long a time, you think

it worth while to institute any proceedings for the recovery of the

diamond."

So Mr. Madgin was left alone with what he called his "considering cap."

As soon as the door was closed behind her ladyship, he tilted back his

chair, stuck his feet on the table, buried his hands deep in his pockets

and shut his eyes, and so remained for full five-and-twenty minutes. He

was busy consulting his notes when Lady Chillington re-entered the room.

Mr. Madgin began at once.

"I must confess," he said, "that the case which your ladyship has

submitted to me seems, from what I can see of it at present, to be

surrounded with difficulties. Still, I am far from counselling your

ladyship to despair entirely. The few points which, at the first glance,

present themselves as requiring solution are these:--Who was the M.

Platzoff who is said to have stolen the diamond? and what position in

life did he really occupy? Is he alive or dead? If alive, where is he

now living? If he did really steal the diamond, are not the chances as a

hundred to one that he disposed of it long ago? But even granting that

we were in a position to answer all these questions; suppose, even, that

this M. Platzoff were living in Eastbury at the present moment, and that

fact were known to us, how much nearer should we be to the recovery of

the diamond than we are now? Your ladyship must please to bear in mind

that as the case is now we have not an inch of legal ground to stand

upon. We have no evidence that would be worth a rush in a court of law

that M. Platzoff really purloined the diamond. We have no trustworthy

evidence that the diamond itself ever had an existence."

"Surely, Mr. Madgin, my son's letter is sufficient to prove that fact."

"Sufficient, perhaps, in conjunction with the other evidence, to prove

it in a moral sense, but certainly not in a legal one," said Mr. Madgin,

quietly but decisively. "Your ladyship must please to bear in mind that

Captain Chillington in his letter makes no absolute mention of the

diamond by name; he merely writes of it vaguely under certain initials,

and, if called upon, how could you prove that he intended those initials

to stand for the words _Great Hara Diamond_, and not for something

altogether different? If M. Platzoff were your ladyship's next-door

neighbour, and you knew for certain that he had the diamond still in his

possession, you could only get it from him as he himself got it from

your son--by subterfuge and artifice. Your ladyship will please to

observe that I have put forward no opinion on the case. I have merely

offered a statement of plain facts as they show themselves on the

surface. With those facts before you it rests with your ladyship to

decide what further steps you wish taken in the matter."

"My good Madgin, do you know what it is to hate?" demanded Lady

Chillington. "To hate with a hatred that dwarfs all other passions of

the soul, and makes them pigmies by comparison? If you know this, you

know the feeling with which I regard M. Platzoff. If you want the key to

the feeling, you have it in the fact that his accursed hands robbed my

dead son: even then you must have a mother's heart to feel all that I

feel." She paused for a moment as if to recover breath; then she

resumed. "See you, Mr. Solomon Madgin; I have a conviction, an

intuition, call it what you will, that this Russian scoundrel is still

alive. That is the first fact you have to find out. The next is, where

he is now residing. Then you will have to ascertain whether he has the

diamond still in his possession, and if so, by what means it can be

recovered. Only recover it for me--I ask not how or by what means--only

put into my hands the diamond that was stolen off my son's breast as he

lay dead; and the day you do that, my good Madgin, I will present you

with a cheque for five thousand pounds!"

Mr. Madgin sat as one astounded; the power of reply seemed taken from

him.

"Go, now," said Lady Chillington, after a few moments. "Ordinary

business is out of the question to-day. Go home and carefully digest

what I have just said to you. That you are a man of resources, I know

well; had you not been so, I would not have employed you in this

matter. Come to me to-morrow, next day, next week--when you like; only

don't come barren of ideas; don't come without a plan, likely or

unlikely, of some sort of a campaign."

Mr. Madgin rose and swept his papers mechanically into his bag. "Your

ladyship said five thousand pounds, if I mistake not?" he stammered out.

"A cheque for five thousand pounds shall be yours on the day you bring

me the diamond. Is not my word sufficient, or do you wish to have it

under bond and seal?" she asked with some hauteur.

"Your ladyship's word is an all-sufficient bond," answered Mr. Madgin,

with sweet humility. He paused, with the handle of the door in his hand.

"Supposing I were to see my way to carrying out your ladyship's wishes

in this respect," he said deferentially, "or even to carrying out a

portion of them only, still it could not be done without expense--not

without considerable expense, maybe."

"I give you carte-blanche as regards expenses," said her ladyship with

decision.

Then Mr. Madgin gave a farewell duck of the head and went. He took his

way homeward through the park like a man walking in his sleep. With

wide-open eyes and hat well set on the back of his head, with his blue

bag in one hand and his umbrella under his arm, he trudged onward, even

after he had reached the busy streets of the little town, without seeing

anything or anyone. What he saw, he saw introspectively. On the one hand

glittered the tempting bait held out by Lady Chillington; on the other

loomed the dark problem that had to be solved before he could call the

golden apple his.

"The most arrant wild-goose chase that ever I heard of in all my life,"

he muttered to himself, as he halted at his own door. "Not a single ray

of light anywhere--not one."

"Popsey," he called out to his daughter, when he was inside, "bring me

the decanter of whisky, some cold water, my tobacco-jar and a new

churchwarden into the office; and don't let me be disturbed by anyone

for four hours."

(_To be continued._)

ON LETTER-WRITING.

It is a matter of common remark that the epistolary art has been killed

by the penny post, not to speak of post-cards.

This is a result which was hardly anticipated by Sir Rowland Hill, when,

in the face of many obstacles, he carried his great scheme; and

certainly it did not dwell very vividly before the mind of Mr. Elihu

Burritt, the learned blacksmith, when he travelled over England,

speaking there, as he had already done in America, in favour of an ocean

penny postage.

It is urged that in the old days when postage was dear, and "franks"

were difficult to procure, and when the poor did not correspond at all,

writers were very careful to write well and to say the very best they

could in the best possible way--to make their letters, in a word, worthy

of the expense incurred. But those who argue on this ground leave out of

consideration one little fact.

The classes to whom English literature is indebted for the epistolary

samples on which reliance is placed for proof of this proposition, very

seldom indeed paid for the conveyance of the letters in question. The

system of "franking"--by which the privileged classes got not only their

letters carried, but a great deal too often their dressing-cases and

bandboxes as well--grew into a most serious grievance; so serious indeed

that the opposition for a long period carried on against cheap postage

arose solely from over nice regard to the vested interests of those who

could command a little favour from a Peer, a Member of Parliament, or an

official of high rank, not to speak of those patriotic worthies

themselves.

The fact may thus be made to cut two ways.

From our point of view, it may be cited in direct denial of the

conclusion that people wrote well in past days simply because the

conveyance of their letters was costly. We believe that the mass wrote

just as badly and loosely then as the mass do now, in fact that they

were rather loose on rules of spelling; and that the specimens preserved

and presented to us in type are exceptional, and escaped destruction

with the mass precisely because they were exceptional.

Other circumstances may be taken to account for the loose epistolary

style or rather no-style now so common; and this refers us to the

general question of education--more especially the education of women.

In those days the few were educated; and to be educated was regarded as

the distinctive mark of a leisured and cultivated class: now, education

is general, but, like many other things, it has suffered in the process

of diffusion, whether or not it may in the long run suffer by the

diffusion itself.

The truth is, time alone can tell whether among the select nowadays the

epistolary art is not simply as perfect as it was in days past; at all

events we believe so, and proceed to set down a few reflections on

letter-writing.

To write a really good letter, two things in especial are demanded. The

first is, that you write only of that which is either familiar to you or

in which you have some interest; and in the next, that you can write

with ease, and on a footing of freedom as regards your correspondent.

"The pen," says Cervantes, "is the tongue of the mind," and in no form

of composition is this more strictly true than of letters. In a certain

degree a letter should share the characteristics of good conversation:

the writer must realise the presence and the mood of the person for whom

the letter is destined. Just as good-breeding suggests that you must

have the tastes and sentiments of your interlocutor before you for ends

of enjoyable conversation, and that, within the limits of propriety and

self-respect, you should at once humour them and use them; so in good

letter-writing you must write for your correspondent's pleasure as well

as please, by merely communicating, yourself.

Here comes in the delightful element of vicarious sympathy, or dramatic

transference, which, brought into play successfully, with some degree of

wit and sprightliness of expression, may raise letter-writing to the

level of a fine art.

And this allowed, it is clear that letters may just be as good now as at

any former period, and accidental circumstances have really little to do

with it. Humboldt has well said that "A letter is a conversation between

the present and the absent. Its fate is that it cannot last, but must

pass away like the sound of the voice."

And just as in conversation all attempt at eloquence and personal

celebration in this kind is rigidly proscribed, so in letter-writing are

all kinds of fine-writing and rhetoric. "Brilliant speakers and

writers," it has been well said, "should remember that coach wheels are

better than Catherine wheels to travel on." One's first business, in

letter-writing is to say what one has to say, and the second to say it

well and with taste and ease.

A.H. JAPP, LL.D.

THE SILENT CHIMES.

SILENT FOR EVER.

Breakfast was on the table in Mr. Hamlyn's house in Bryanstone Square,

and Mrs. Hamlyn waited, all impatience, for her lord and master. Not in

any particular impatience for the meal itself, but that she might "have

it out with him"--the phrase was hers, not mine, as you will see

presently--in regard to the perplexity existing in her mind connected

with the strange appearance of the damsel watching the house, in her

beauty and her pale golden hair.

Why had Philip Hamlyn turned sick and faint--to judge by his changing

countenance--when she had charged him at dinner, the previous evening,

with knowing something of this mysterious woman? Mysterious in her

actions, at all events; probably in herself. Mrs. Hamlyn wanted to know

that. No further opportunity had then been given for pursuing the

subject. Japhet had returned to the room, and before the dinner was at

an end, some acquaintance of Mr. Hamlyn had fetched him out for the

evening. And he came home with so fearful a headache that he had lain

groaning and turning all through the night. Mrs. Hamlyn was not a model

of patience, but in all her life she had never felt so impatient as now.

He came into the room looking pale and shivery; a sure sign that he was

suffering; that it was not an invented excuse. Yes, the pain was better,

he said, in answer to his wife's question; and might be much better

after a strong cup of tea; he could not imagine what had brought it on.

_She_ could have told him though, had she been gifted with the magical

power of reading minds, and have seen the nervous apprehension that was

making havoc with his.

Mrs. Hamlyn gave him his tea in silence, and buttered a dainty bit of

toast to tempt him to eat. But he shook his head.

"I cannot, Eliza. Nothing but tea this morning."

"I am sorry you are ill," she said, by-and-by. "I fear it hurts you to

talk; but I want to have it out with you."

"Have it out with me!" cried he, in real or feigned surprise. "Have what

out with me?"

"Oh, you know, Philip. About that woman who has been watching the house

these two days; evidently watching for you."

"But I told you I knew nothing about her: who she is, or what she is, or

what she wants. I really do not know."

Well, so far that was true. But all the while a sick fear lay on his

heart that he did know; or, rather, that he was destined to know very

shortly.

"When I told you her hair was like threads of fine, pale gold, you

seemed to start, Philip, as if you knew some girl or woman with such

hair, or had known her."

"I daresay I have known a score of women with such hair. My dear little

sister who died, for instance."

"Do not attempt to evade the subject," was the haughty reprimand. "If--"

Mrs. Hamlyn's sharp speech was interrupted by the entrance of Japhet,

bringing in the morning letters. Only one letter, however, for they were

not as numerous in those days as they are in these.

"It seems to be important, ma'am," Japhet remarked, with the privilege

of an old servant, as he handed it to his mistress. She saw it was from

Leet Hall, in Mrs. Carradyne's handwriting, and bore the words: "In

haste," above the address.

Tearing it open, Eliza Hamlyn read the short, sad news it contained.

Captain Monk had been taken suddenly ill with inward inflammation. Mr.

Speck feared the worst, and the Captain had asked for Eliza. Would she

come down at once?

"Oh, Philip, I must not lose a minute," she exclaimed, passing the

letter to him, and forgetting the pale gold hair and its owner. "Do you

know anything about the Worcestershire trains?"

"No," he answered. "The better plan will be to get to the station as

soon as possible, and then you will be ready for the first train that

starts."

"Will you go down with me, Philip?"

"I cannot. I will take you to the station."

"Why can't you?"

"Because I cannot just now leave London. My dear, you may believe me,

for it is the truth. I _cannot do so_. I wish I could."

And she saw it was true: for his tone was so earnest as to tell of pain.

Making what haste she could, kissing her boy a hundred times, and

recommending him to the special care of his nurse and of his father

during her absence, she drove with her husband to the station, and was

just in time for a train. Mr. Hamlyn watched it steam out of the

station, and then looked up at the clock.

"I suppose it's not too early to see him," he muttered. "I'll chance it,

at any rate. Hope he will be less suffering than he was yesterday, and

less crusty, too."

Dismissing his carriage, for he felt more inclined to walk than to

drive, he went through the park to Pimlico, and gained the house of

Major Pratt.

This was Friday. On the previous Wednesday evening a note had been

brought to Mr. Hamlyn by Major Pratt's servant, a sentence in which, as

the reader may remember, ran as follows:

"_I suppose there was no mistake in the report that that ship did

go down--and that none of the passengers were saved from it?_"

This puzzled Philip Hamlyn: perhaps somewhat troubled him in a hazy kind

of way. For he could only suppose that the ship alluded to must be the

sailing vessel in which his first wife, false and faithless, and his

little son of a twelvemonth old had been lost some five or six years

ago--the _Clipper of the Seas_. And the next day, (Thursday) he had gone

to Major Pratt's, as requested, to carry the prescription for gout he

had asked for, and also to inquire of the Major what he meant.

But the visit was a fruitless one. Major Pratt was in bed with an attack

of gout, so ill and so "crusty" that nothing could be got out of him

excepting a few bad words and as many groans. Mr. Hamlyn then questioned

Saul--of whom he used to see a good deal in India, for he had been the

Major's servant for years and years.

"Do you happen to know, Saul, whether the Major wanted me for anything

in particular? He asked me to call here this morning."

Saul began to consider. He was a tall, thin, cautious, slow-speaking

man, honest as the day, and very much attached to his master.

"Well, sir, he got a letter yesterday morning that seemed to put him

out, for I found him swearing over it. And he said he'd like you to see

it."

"Who was the letter from? What was it about?"

"It looked like Miss Caroline's writing, sir, and the postmark was

Essex. As to what it was about--well, the Major didn't directly tell me,

but I gathered that it might be about--"

"About what?" questioned Mr Hamlyn, for the man had come to a dead

standstill. "Speak out, Saul."

"Then, sir," said Saul, slowly rubbing the top of his head, and the few

grey hairs left on it, "I thought--as you tell me to speak--it must be

something concerning that ship you know of; she that went down on her

voyage home, Mr. Philip."

"The _Clipper of the Seas_?"

"Just so, sir; the _Clipper of the Seas_. I thought it by this," added

Saul: "that pretty nigh all day afterwards he talked of nothing but that

ship, asking me if I should suppose it possible that the ship had not

gone down and every soul on board, leastways of her passengers, with

her. 'Master,' said I, in answer, 'had that ship not gone down and all

her passengers with her, rely upon it, they'd have turned up long before

this.' 'Ay, ay,' stormed he, 'and Caroline's a fool'--Which of course

meant his sister, you know, sir."

Philip Hamlyn could not make much of this. So many years had elapsed now

since news came out to the world that the unfortunate ship, _Clipper of

the Seas_, went down off the coast of Spain on her homeward voyage, and

all her passengers with her, as to be a fact of the past. Never a doubt

had been cast upon any part of the tidings, so far as he knew.

With an uneasy feeling at his heart, he went off to the city, to call

upon the brokers, or agents, of the ship: remembering quite well who

they were, and that they lived in Fenchurch Street. An elderly man,

clerk in the house for many years, and now a partner, received him.

"The _Clipper of the Seas_?" repeated the old gentleman, after listening

to what Mr. Hamlyn had to say. "No, sir, we don't know that any of her

passengers were saved; always supposed they were not. But lately we have

had some little cause to doubt whether one or two might not have been."

Philip Hamlyn's heart beat faster.

"Will you tell me why you think this?"

"It isn't that we think it; at best 'tis but a doubt," was the reply.

"One of our own ships, getting in last month from Madras, had a sailor

on board who chanced to remark to me, when he was up here getting his

pay, that it was not the first time he had served in our employ: he had

been in that ship that was lost, the _Clipper of the Seas_. And he went

on to say, in answer to a remark of mine about all the passengers having

been lost, that that was not quite correct, for that one of them had

certainly been saved--a lady or a nurse, he didn't know which, and also

a little child that she was in charge of. He was positive about it, he

added, upon my expressing my doubts, for they got to shore in the same

small boat that he did."

"Is it true, think you?" gasped Mr. Hamlyn.

"Sir, we are inclined to think it is not true," emphatically spoke the

old gentleman. "Upon inquiring about this man's character, we found that

he is given to drinking, so that what he says cannot always be relied

upon. Again, it seems next to an impossibility that if any passenger

were saved we should not have heard of it. Altogether we feel inclined

to judge that the man, though evidently believing he spoke truth, was

but labouring under an hallucination."

"Can you tell me where I can find the man?" asked Mr. Hamlyn, after a

pause.

"Not anywhere at present, sir. He has sailed again."

So that ended it for the day. Philip Hamlyn went home and sat down to

dinner with his wife, as already spoken of. And when she told him that

the mysterious lady waiting outside must be waiting for him--probably

some acquaintance of his of the years gone by--it set his brain working

and his pulses throbbing, for he suddenly connected her with what he had

that day heard. No wonder his head ached!

To-day, after seeing his wife off by train, he went to find Major Pratt.

The Major was better, and could talk, swearing a great deal over the

gout, and the letter.

"It was from Caroline," he said, alluding to his sister, Miss Pratt, who

had been with him in India. "She lives in Essex, you know, Philip."

"Oh, yes, I know," answered Philip Hamlyn. "But what is it that Caroline

says in her letter?"

"You shall hear," said the Major, producing his sister's letter and

opening it. "Listen. Here it is. 'The strangest thing has happened,

brother! Susan went to London yesterday to get my fronts recurled at the

hairdresser's, and she was waiting in the shop, when a lady came out of

the back room, having been in there to get a little boy's hair cut.

Susan was quite struck dumb when she saw her: _She thinks it was poor

erring Dolly_; never saw such a likeness before, she says; could almost

swear to her by the lovely pale gold hair. The lady pulled her veil over

her face when she saw Susan staring at her, and went away with great

speed. Susan asked the hairdresser's people if they knew the lady's

name, or who she was, but they told her she was a stranger to them; had

never been in the shop before. Dear Richard, this is troubling me; I

could not sleep all last night for thinking of it. Do you suppose it is

possible that Dolly and the boy were not drowned? Your affectionate

sister, Caroline.' Now, did you ever read such a letter?" stormed the

Major. "If that Susan went home and said she'd seen St. Paul's blown up,

Caroline would believe it. Who's Susan, d'ye say? Why, you've lost your

memory, Philip. Susan was the English maid we had with us in Calcutta."

"It cannot possibly be true," cried Mr. Hamlyn with quivering lips.

"True, no! of course it can't be, hang it! Or else what would you do?"

That might be logical though not satisfactory reasoning. And Mr. Hamlyn

thought of the woman said to be watching for him, and her pale gold

hair.

"She was a cunning jade, if ever there was one, mark you, Philip Hamlyn;

that false wife of yours and kin of mine; came of a cunning family on

the mother's side. Put it that she _was_ saved: if it suited her to let

us suppose she was drowned, why, she'd do it. _I_ know Dolly."

And poor Philip Hamlyn, assenting to the truth of this with all his

heart, went out to face the battle that might be coming upon him,

lacking the courage for it.

II.

The cold, clear afternoon air touching their healthy faces, and Jack

Frost nipping their noses, raced Miss West and Kate Dancox up and down

the hawthorn walk. It had pleased that arbitrary young damsel, who was

still very childish, to enter a protest against going beyond the grounds

that fine winter's day; she would be in the hawthorn walk, or nowhere;

and she would run races there. As Miss West gave in to her whims for

peace' sake in things not important, and as she was young enough herself

not to dislike running, to the hawthorn walk they went.

Captain Monk was recovering rapidly. His sudden illness had been caused

by drinking some cold cider when some out-door exercise had made him

dangerously hot. The alarm and apprehension had now subsided; and Mrs.

Hamlyn, arriving three days ago in answer to the hasty summons, was

thinking of returning to London.

"You are cheating!" called out Kate, flying off at a tangent to cross

her governess's path. "You've no right to get before me!"

"Gently," corrected Miss West. "My dear, we have run enough for to-day."

"We haven't, you ugly, cross old thing! Aunt Eliza says you _are_ ugly.

And--"

The young lady's amenities were cut short by finding herself suddenly

lifted off her feet by Mr. Harry Carradyne, who had come behind them.

"Let me alone, Harry! You are always coming where you are not wanted.

Aunt Eliza says so."

A sudden light, as of mirth, illumined Harry Carradyne's fresh, frank

countenance. "Aunt Eliza says all those things, does she? Well, Miss

Kate, she also says something else--that you are now to go indoors."

"What for? I shan't go in."

"Oh, very well. Then that dandified silk frock for the new year that the

dressmaker is waiting to try on can be put aside until midsummer."

Kate dearly loved new silk frocks, and she raced away. The governess

followed more slowly, Mr. Carradyne talking by her side.

For some months now their love dream had been going on; aye, and the

love-making too. Not altogether surreptitiously; neither of them would

have liked that. Though not expedient to proclaim it yet to Captain Monk

and the world, Mrs. Carradyne knew of it and tacitly sanctioned it.

Alice West turned her face, blushing uncomfortably, to him as they

walked. "I am glad to have this opportunity of saying something to you,"

she spoke with hesitation. "Are you not upon rather bad terms with Mrs.

Hamlyn?"

"She is with me," replied Harry.

"And--am _I_ the cause?" continued Alice, feeling as if her fears were

confirmed.

"Not at all. She has not fathomed the truth yet, with all her

penetration, though she may have some suspicion of it. Eliza wants to

bend me to her will in the matter of the house, and I won't be bent. Old

Peveril wishes to resign the lease of Peacock Range to me; I wish to

take it from him, and Eliza objects. She says Peveril promised her the

house until the seven years' lease was out, and that she means to keep

him to his bargain."

"Do you quarrel?"

"Quarrel! no," laughed Harry Carradyne. "I joke with her, rather than

quarrel. But I don't give in. She pays me some left-handed compliments,

telling me that I am no gentleman, that I'm a bear, and so on; to which

I make my bow."

Alice West was gazing straight before her, a troubled look in her eyes.

"Then you see that I _am_ the remote cause of the quarrel, Harry. But

for thinking of me, you would not care to take the house on your own

hands."

"I don't know that. Be very sure of one thing, Alice: that I shall not

stay an hour longer under the roof here if my uncle disinherits me. That

he, a man of indomitable will, should be so long making up his mind is a

proof that he shrinks from committing the injustice. The suspense it

keeps me in is the worst of all. I told him so the other evening when we

were sitting together and he was in an amiable mood. I said that any

decision he might come to would be more tolerable than this prolonged

suspense."

Alice drew a long breath at his temerity.

Harry laughed. "Indeed, I quite expected to be ordered out of the room

in a storm. Instead of that, he took it quietly, civilly telling me to

have a little more patience; and then began to speak of the annual new

year's dinner, which is not far off now."

"Mrs. Carradyne is thinking that he may not hold the dinner this year,

as he has been so ill," remarked the young lady.

"He will never give that up, Alice, as long as he can hold anything; and

he is almost well again, you know. Oh, yes; we shall have the dinner and

the chimes also."

"I have never heard the chimes," she said. "They have not played since I

came to Church Leet."

"They are to play this year," said Harry Carradyne. "But I don't think

my mother knows it."

"Is it true that Mrs. Carradyne does not like to hear the chimes? I seem

to have gathered the idea, somehow," added Alice. But she received no

answer.

Kate Dancox was changeable as the ever-shifting sea. Delighted with the

frock that was in process, she extended her approbation to its maker;

and when Mrs. Ram, a homely workwoman, departed with her small bundle in

her arms, it pleased the young lady to say she would attend her to her

home. This involved the attendance of Miss West, who now found herself

summoned to the charge.

Having escorted Mrs. Ram to her lowly door, and had innumerable

intricate questions answered touching trimmings and fringes, Miss Kate

Dancox, disregarding her governess altogether, flew back along the road

with all the speed of her active limbs, and disappeared within the

churchyard. At first Alice, who was growing tired and followed slowly,

could not see her; presently, a desperate shriek guided her to an

unfrequented corner where the graves were crowded. Miss Kate had come to

grief in jumping over a tombstone, and bruised both her knees.

"There!" exclaimed Alice, sitting down on the stump of an old tree,

close to the low wall. "You've hurt yourself now."

"Oh, it's nothing," returned Kate, who did not make much of smarts. And

she went limping away to Mr. Grame, then doing some light work in his

garden.

Alice sat on where she was, reading the inscription on the tombstones;

some of them so faint with time as to be hardly discernible. While

standing up to make out one that seemed of a rather better class than

the rest, she observed Nancy Cale, the clerk's wife, sitting in the

church-porch and watching her attentively. The poor old woman had been

ill for a long time, and Alice was surprised to see her out. Leaving the

inscriptions, she went across the churchyard.

"Ay, my dear young lady, I be up again, and thankful enough to say it;

and I thought as the day's so fine, I'd step out a bit," she said, in

answer to the salutation. An intelligent woman, and quite sufficiently

cultivated for her work--cleaning the church and washing the parson's

surplices. "I thought John was in the church here, and came to speak to

him; but he's not, I find; the door's locked."

"I saw John down by Mrs. Ram's just now; he was talking to Nott, the

carpenter," observed Alice. "Nancy, I was trying to make out some of

those old names; but it is difficult to do so," she added, pointing to

the crowded corner.

"Ay, I see, my dear," nodded Nancy. "_His_ be worn a'most right off. I

think I'd have it done again, an' I was you."

"Have what done again?"

"The name upon your poor papa's gravestone."

"The _what_?" exclaimed Alice. And Nancy repeated her words.

Alice stared at her. Had Mrs. Cale's wits vanished in her illness? "Do

you know what you are saying, Nancy?" she cried; "I don't. What had papa

to do with this place? I think you must be wandering."

Nancy stared in her turn. "Sure, it's not possible," she said slowly,

beginning to put two and two together, "that you don't know who you are,

Miss West? That your papa died here? and lies buried here?"

Alice West turned white, and sat down on the opposite bench to Nancy.

She did know that her father had died at some small country living he

held; but she never suspected that it was at Church Leet. Her mother had

gone to London after his death, and set up a school--which succeeded

well. But soon she died, and the ladies who took to the school before

her death took to Alice with it. The child was still too young to be

told by her mother of the serious past--or Mrs. West deemed her to be

so. And she had grown up in ignorance of her father's fate and of where

he died.

"When we heard, me and John, that it was a Miss West who had come to the

Hall to be governess to Parson Dancox's child, the name struck us both,"

went on Nancy. "Next we looked at your face, my dear, to trace any

likeness there might be, and we thought we saw it--for you've got your

papa's eyes for certain. Then, one day when I was dusting in here, I let

fall a hymn-book from the Hall pew; in picking it up it came open, and

the name writ in it stared me in the face, '_Alice_ West.' After that,

we had no manner of doubt, him and me, and I've often wished to talk

with you and tell you so. My dear, I've had you on my knee many a time

when you were a little one."

Alice burst into tears of agitation. "I never knew it! I never knew it.

Dear Nancy, what did papa die of?"

"Ah, that was a sad piece of business--he was killed," said Nancy. And

forthwith, rightly or wrongly, she, garrulous with old age, told all the

history.

It was an exciting interview, lasting until the shades of evening

surprised them. Miss Kate Dancox might have gone roving to the other end

of the globe, for all the attention given her just then. Poor Alice

cried and sighed, and trembled inwardly and outwardly. "To think that it

should just be to this place that I should come as governess, and to the

house of Captain Monk!" she wailed. "Surely he did not _kill_

papa!--intentionally!"

"No, no; nobody has ever thought that," disclaimed Nancy. "The Captain

is a passionate man, as is well known, and they quarrelled, and a hot

blow, not intentional, must have been struck between 'em. And all

through them blessed chimes, Miss Alice! Not but that they be sweet to

listen to--and they be going to ring again this New Year's Eve."

Drawing her warm cloak about her, Nancy Cale set off towards her

cottage. Alice West sat on in the sheltered porch, utterly bewildered.

Never in her life had she felt so agitated, so incapable of sound and

sober thought. _Now_ it was explained why the bow-windowed sitting-room

at the Vicarage would always strike her as being familiar to her memory;

as though she had at some time known one that resembled it, or perhaps

seen one like it in a dream.

"Well, I'm sure!"

The jesting salutation came from Harry Carradyne. Despatched in search

of the truants, he had found Kate at the Vicarage, making much of the

last new baby there, and devouring a sumptuous tea of cakes and jam.

Miss West? Oh, Miss West was sitting in the church porch, talking to old

Nancy Cale, she said to Harry.

"Why! What is it?" he exclaimed in dismay, finding that the burst of

emotion which he had taken to be laughter, meant tears. "What has

happened, Alice?"

She could no more have kept the tears in than she could

help--presently--telling him the news. He sat down by her and held her

close to him, and pressed for it. She was the daughter of George West,

who had died in the dispute with Captain Monk in the dining-room at the

Hall so many years before, and who was lying here in the corner of the

churchyard; and she had never, never known it!

Mr. Carradyne was somewhat taken to; there was no denying it; chiefly by

surprise.

"I thought your father was a soldier, Alice--Colonel West; and died when

serving in India. I'm sure it was said so when you came."

"Oh, no, that could not have been said," she cried; "unless Mrs. Moffit,

the agent, made the mistake. It was my uncle who died in India. No one

here ever questioned me about my parents, knowing they were dead. Oh,

dear," she went on in agitation, after a silent pause, "what am I to do

now? I cannot stay at the Hall. Captain Monk would not allow it either."

"No need to tell him," quoth Mr. Harry.

"And--of course--we must part. You and I."

"Indeed! Who says so?"

"I am not sure that it would be right to--to--you know."

"To what? Go on, my dear."

Alice sighed; her eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the fast falling

twilight. "Mrs. Carradyne will not care for me when she knows who I am,"

she said in low tones.

"My dear, shall I tell you how it strikes me?" returned Harry: "that my

mother will be only the more anxious to have you connected with us by

closer and dearer ties, so as to atone to you, in even a small degree,

for the cruel wrong which fell upon your father. As to me--it shall be

made my life's best and dearest privilege."

But when a climax such as this takes place, the right or the wrong thing

to be done cannot be settled in a moment. Alice West did not see her way

quite clearly, and for the present she neither said nor did anything.

This little matter occurred on the Friday in Christmas week; on the

following day, Saturday, Mrs. Hamlyn was returning to London. Christmas

Day this year had fallen on a Monday. Some old wives hold a superstition

that when that happens, it inaugurates but small luck for the following

year, either for communities or for individuals. Not that that fancy has

anything to do with the present history. Captain Monk's banquet would

not be held until the Monday night: as was customary when New Year's Eve

fell on a Sunday. He had urged his daughter to remain over New Year's

Day; but she declined, on the plea that as she had been away from her

husband on Christmas Day, she would like to pass New Year's Day with

him. The truth being that she wanted to get to London to see after that

yellow-haired lady who was supposed to be peeping after Philip Hamlyn.

On the Saturday morning, Mrs. Hamlyn was driven to Evesham in the close

carriage, and took the train to London. Her husband, ever kind and

attentive, met her at the Paddington terminus. He was looking haggard,

and seemed to be thinner than when she left him nine days ago.

"Are you well, Philip?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh, quite well," quickly answered poor Philip Hamlyn, smiling a warm

smile, that he meant to look like a gay one. "Nothing ever ails me."

No, nothing might ail him bodily; but mentally--ah, how much! That awful

terror lay upon him thick and threefold; it had not yet come to any

solution, one way or the other. Major Pratt had taken up the very worst

view of it; and spent his days pitching hard names at misbehaving

syrens, gifted with "the deuce's own cunning" and with mermaids' shining

hair.

"And how have things been going, Penelope?" asked Mrs. Hamlyn of the

nurse, as she sat in the nursery with her boy upon her knee. "All

right?"

"Quite so, ma'am. Master Walter has been just as good as gold."

"Mamma's darling!" murmured the doting mother, burying her face in his.

"I have been thinking, Penelope, that your master does not look well,"

she added after a minute.

"No, ma'am? I've not noticed it. We have not seen much of him up here;

he has been at his club a good deal--and dined three or four times with

old Major Pratt."

"As if she would notice it!--servants never notice anything!" thought

Eliza Hamlyn in her imperious way of judging the world. "By the way,

Penelope," she said aloud in light and careless tones, "has that woman

with the yellow hair been seen about much?--has she presumed again to

accost my little son?"

"The woman with the yellow hair?" repeated Penelope, looking at her

mistress, for the girl had quite forgotten the episode. "Oh, I

remember--she that stood outside there and came to us in the

square-garden. No, ma'am, I've seen nothing at all of her since that

day."

"For there are wicked people who prowl about to kidnap children,"

continued Mrs. Hamlyn, as if she would condescend to explain her

inquiry, "and that woman looked like one. Never suffer her to approach

my darling again. Mind that, Penelope."

The jealous heart is not easily reassured. And Mrs. Hamlyn, restless and

suspicious, put the same question to her husband. It was whilst they

were waiting in the drawing-room for dinner to be announced, and she had

come down from changing her apparel after her journey. How handsome she

looked! a right regal woman! as she stood there arrayed in dark blue

velvet, the fire-light playing upon her proud face, and upon the diamond

earrings and brooch she wore.

"Philip, has that woman been prowling about here again?"

Just for an imperceptible second, for thought is quick, it occurred to

Philip Hamlyn to temporise, to affect ignorance, and say, What woman?

just as if his mind were not full of the woman, and of nothing else. But

he abandoned it as useless.

"I have not seen her since; not at all," he answered: and though his

words were purposely indifferent, his wife, knowing all his tones and

ways by heart, was not deceived. "He is afraid of that woman," she

whispered to herself; "or else afraid of _me_." But she said no more.

"Have you come to any definite understanding with Mr. Carradyne in

regard to Peacock's Range, Eliza?"

"He will not come to any; he is civilly obstinate over it. Laughs in my

face with the most perfect impudence, and tells me: 'A man must be

allowed to put in his own claim to his own house, when he wants to do

so.'"

"Well, Eliza, that seems to be only right and fair. Percival made no

positive agreement with us, remember."

"_Is_ it right and fair! That may be your opinion, Philip, but it is not

mine. We shall see, Mr. Harry Carradyne!"

"Dinner is served, ma'am," announced the old butler.

That evening passed. Sunday passed, the last day of the dying year; and

Monday morning, New Year's day, dawned.

* * * * *

New Year's Day. Mr. and Mrs. Hamlyn were seated at the breakfast-table.

It was a bright, cold, sunny morning, showing plenty of blue sky. Young

Master Walter, in consideration of the day, was breakfasting at their

table, seated in his high chair.

"Me to have dinner wid mamma to-day! Me have pudding!"

"That you shall, my sweetest; and everything that's good," assented his

mother.

In came Japhet at this juncture. "There's a little boy in the hall, sir,

asking to see you," said he to his master. "He--"

"Oh, we shall have plenty of boys here to-day, asking for a new year's

gift," interposed Mrs. Hamlyn, rather impatiently. "Send him a shilling,

Philip."

"It's not a poor boy, ma'am," answered Japhet, "but a little gentleman:

six or seven years old, he looks. He says he particularly wants to see

master."

Philip Hamlyn smiled. "Particularly wants a shilling, I expect. Send him

in, Japhet."

The lad came in. A well-dressed beautiful boy, refined in looks and

demeanour, bearing in his face a strange likeness to Mr. Hamlyn. He

looked about timidly.

Eliza, struck with the resemblance, gazed at him. Her husband spoke.

"What do you want with me, my lad?"

"If you please, sir, are you Mr. Hamlyn?" asked the child, going forward

with hesitating steps. "Are you my papa?"

Every drop of blood seemed to leave Philip Hamlyn's face and fly to his

heart. He could not speak, and looked white as a ghost.

"Who are you? What is your name?" imperiously demanded Philip's wife.

"It is Walter Hamlyn," replied the lad, in clear, pretty tones.

And now it was Mrs. Hamlyn's turn to look white. Walter Hamlyn?--the

name of her own dear son! when she had expected him to say Sam Smith, or

John Jones! What insolence some people had!

"Where do you come from, boy? Who sent you here?" she reiterated.

"I come from mamma. She would have sent me before, but I caught cold,

and was in bed all last week."

Mr. Hamlyn rose. It was a momentous predicament, but he must do the best

he could in it. He was a man of nice honour, and he wished with all his

heart that the earth would open and engulf him. "Eliza, my love, allow

me to deal with this matter," he said, his voice taking a low, tender,

considerate tone. "I will question the boy in another room. Some

mistake, I reckon."

"No, Philip, you must put your questions before me," she said, resolute

in her anger. "What is it you are fearing? Better tell me all, however

disreputable it may be."

"I dare not tell you," he gasped; "it is not--I fear--the disreputable

thing you may be fancying."

"Not dare! By what right do you call this gentleman 'papa'?" she

passionately demanded of the child.

"Mamma told me to. She would never let me come home to him before

because of not wishing to part from me."

Mrs. Hamlyn gazed at him. "Where were you born?"

"At Calcutta; that's in India. Mamma brought me home in the _Clipper of

the Seas_, and the ship went down, but quite everybody was not lost in

it, though papa thought so."

The boy had evidently been well instructed. Eliza Hamlyn, grasping the

whole truth now, staggered back in terror.

"Philip! Philip! is it true? Was it _this_ you feared?"

He made a motion of assent and covered his face. "Heaven knows I would

rather have died."

He stood back against the window-curtains, that they might shade his

pain. She fell into a chair and wished he _had_ died, years before.

But what was to be the end of it all? Though Eliza Hamlyn went straight

out and despatched that syren of the golden hair with a poison-tipped

bodkin (and possibly her will might be good to do it), it could not make

things any the better for herself.

III.

New Year's Night at Leet Hall, and the banquet in full swing--but not,

as usual, New Year's Eve.

Captain Monk headed his table, the parson, Robert Grame, at his right

hand, Harry Carradyne on his left. Whether it might be that the world,

even that out-of-the-way part of it, Church Leet, was improving in

manners and morals; or whether the Captain himself was changing: certain

it was that the board was not the free board it used to be. Mrs.

Carradyne herself might have sat at it now, and never once blushed by as

much as the pink of a sea-shell.

It was known that the chimes were to play this year; and, when midnight

was close at hand, Captain Monk volunteered a statement which astonished

his hearers. Rimmer, the butler, had come into the room to open the

windows.

"I am getting tired of the chimes, and all people have not liked them,"

spoke the Captain in slow, distinct tones. "I have made up my mind to do

away with them, and you will hear them to-night, gentlemen, for the last

time."

"_Really_, Uncle Godfrey!" cried Harry Carradyne, in most intense

surprise.

"I hope they'll bring us no ill-luck to-night!" continued Captain Monk

as a grim joke, disregarding Harry's remark. "Perhaps they will, though,

out of sheer spite, knowing they'll never have another chance of it.

Well, well, they're welcome. Fill your glasses, gentlemen."

Rimmer was throwing up the windows. In another minute the church clock

boomed out the first stroke of twelve, and the room fell into a dead

silence. With the last stroke the Captain rose, glass in hand.

"A happy New Year to you, gentlemen! A happy New Year to us all. May it

bring to us health and prosperity!"

"And God's blessing," reverently added Robert Grame aloud, as if to

remedy an omission.

Ring, ring, ring! Ah, there it came, the soft harmony of the chimes,

stealing up through the midnight air. Not quite as loudly heard,

perhaps, as usual, for there was no wind to waft it, but in tones

wondrously clear and sweet. Never had the strains of the "Bay of Biscay"

brought to the ear more charming melody. How soothing it was to those

enrapt listeners; seeming to tell of peace.

But soon another sound arose to mingle with it. A harsh, grating sound,

like the noise of wheels passing over gravel. Heads were lifted; glances

expressed surprise. With the last strains of the chimes dying away in

the distance, a carriage of some kind galloped up to the hall door.

Eliza Hamlyn alighted from it--with her child and its nurse. As quickly

as she could make opportunity after that scene enacted in her

breakfast-room in London in the morning, that is, as soon as her

husband's back was turned, she had quitted the house with the maid and

child, to take the train for home, bringing with her--it was what she

phrased it--her shameful tale.

A tale that distressed Mrs. Carradyne to sickness. A tale that so

abjectly terrified Captain Monk, when it was imparted to him on Tuesday

morning, as to take every atom of fierceness out of his composition.

"Not Hamlyn's wife!" he gasped. "Eliza!"

"No, not his wife," she retorted, a great deal too angry herself to be

anything but fierce and fiery. "That other woman, that false first wife

of his, was not drowned, as was set forth, and she has come to claim

him, with their son."

"His wife; their son," muttered the Captain as if he were bewildered.

"Then what are you?--what is your son? Oh, my poor Eliza."

"Yes, what are we? Papa, I will bring him to answer for it before his

country's tribunal--if there be law in the land."

No one spoke to this. It may have occurred to them to remember that Mr.

Hamlyn could not legally be punished for what he did in innocence.

Captain Monk opened the glass doors and walked on to the terrace, as if

the air of the room were oppressive. Eliza went out after him.

"Papa," she said, "there now exists all the more reason for your making

my darling _your_ heir. Let it be settled without delay. He must succeed

to Leet Hall."

Captain Monk looked at his daughter as if not understanding her. "No,

no, no," he said. "My child, you forget; trouble must be obscuring your

faculties. None but a _legal_ descendant of the Monks could be allowed

to have Leet Hall. Besides, apart from this, it is already settled. I

have seen for some little time now how unjust it would be to supplant

Henry Carradyne."

"Is _he_ to be your heir? Is it so ordered?"

"Irrevocably. I have told him so this morning."

"What am I to do?" she wailed in bitter despair. "Papa, what is to

become of me--and of my unoffending child?"

"I don't know: I wish I did know. It will be a cruel blight upon us all.

You will have to live it down, Eliza. Ah, child, if you and Katherine

had only listened to me, and not made those rebellious marriages!"

He turned away as he spoke in the direction of the church, to see that

his orders were being executed there. Harry Carradyne ran after him. The

clock was striking midday as they entered the churchyard.

Yes, the workmen were at their work--taking down the bells.

"If the time were to come over again, Harry," began Captain Monk as they

were walking homeward, he leaning upon his nephew's arm, "I wouldn't

have them put up. They don't seem to have brought luck somehow, as the

parish has been free to say. Not but that must be utter nonsense."

"Well, no they don't, uncle," assented Harry.

"As one grows in years, one gets to look at things differently, lad.

Actions that seemed laudable enough when one's blood was young and hot,

crop up again then, wearing another aspect. But for those chimes, poor

West would not have have died as he did. I have had him upon my mind a

good bit lately."

Surely Captain Monk was wonderfully changing! And he was leaning heavily

upon Harry's arm.

"Are you tired, uncle? Would you like to sit down on this bench and

rest?"

"No, I'm not tired. It's West I'm thinking about. He lies on my mind

sadly. And I never did anything for the wife or child to atone to them!

It's too late now--and has been this many a year."

Harry Carradyne's heart began to beat a little. Should he say what he

had been hoping to say sometime? He might never have a better

opportunity than this.

"Uncle Godfrey," he spoke in low tones, "would you--would you like to

see Mr. West's daughter? His wife has been dead a long while; but--would

you like to see her--Alice?"

"Ay," fervently spoke the old man. "If she be in the land of the living,

bring her to me. I'll tell her how sorry I am, and how I would undo the

past if I could. And I'll ask her if she'll be to me as a daughter."

So then Harry Carradyne told him all. It was Alice West who was already

under his roof, and who, fate and fortune permitting, _Heaven_

permitting, would sometime be Alice Carradyne.

Down sat Captain Monk on a bench of his own accord. Tears rose to his

eyes. The sudden revulsion of feeling was great: and truly he was a

changed man.

"You spoke of Heaven, Harry. I shall begin to think it has forgiven me.

Let us be thankful."

But Captain Monk found he had more to thank Heaven for ere many minutes

had elapsed. As Harry Carradyne sat by him in silence, marvelling at the

change, yet knowing that the grievous blow which was making havoc of

Eliza had effected the completeness of the subduing, he caught sight of

an approaching fly. Another fly from the railway station at Evesham.

"How dare you come here, you villain!" shouted Captain Monk, rising in

threatening anger, as the fly's inmate called to the driver to stop and

began to get out of it. "Are you not ashamed to show your face to me,

after the evil you have inflicted upon my daughter?"

Philip Hamlyn, smiling kindly and calmly, caught Captain Monk's lifted

hands. "No evil, sir," he said, soothingly. "It was all a mistake. Eliza

is my true and lawful wife."

"Eh? What's that?" said the Captain quite in a whisper, his lips

trembling.

Quietly Philip Hamlyn explained. He had taken the previous day to

investigate the matter, and had followed his wife down by a night train.

His first wife _was_ dead. She had been drowned in the _Clipper of the

Seas_, as was supposed. The child was saved, with his nurse: the only

two passengers who were saved. The nurse made her way to a place in the

south of France, where, as she knew, her late mistress's sister lived,

Mrs. O'Connett, formerly Miss Sophia Pratt. Mrs. O'Connett, a young

widow, had just lost her only child, a boy about the age of the little

one rescued from the cruel seas. She seized on him with feverish

avidity, adopted him as her own, quitted the place for another

Anglo-French town where she was not previously known, taught the child

to call her "Mamma," and had never let it transpire that the boy was not

hers. But now, after the lapse of a few years, Mrs. O'Connett was on the

eve of marriage with an Irish Major. To him she told the truth; and, as

he did not want to marry the child as well as herself, he persuaded her

to return him to his father. Mrs. O'Connett brought the child to London,

ascertained Mr. Hamlyn's address, and all about him, and watched about

to speak to him, alone if possible, unknown to his wife. Remembering

what had been the behaviour of the child's mother, she was by no means

sure of a good reception from Philip himself, or what adverse influence

might be brought to bear by the new ties he had formed. Mrs. O'Connett

had the same remarkable and lovely hair that her sister had had, whom

she very much resembled; she had also a talent for underhand ways.

That was the truth--and I have had to tell it in a nutshell, space

growing limited. Philip Hamlyn had ascertained it all beyond possibility

of dispute, had seen Mrs. O'Connett, and had brought down the good

tidings.

Of all the curious sights this record has afforded, perhaps the most

surprising was to see Captain Monk pass his arm lovingly within that of

Philip Hamlyn and march off with him to Leet Hall as if he were a prize

to be coveted. "Here he is, Eliza," said he; "he has come to cheer both

you and me."

For once in her life Eliza Hamlyn was subdued to meekness. She kissed

her husband and shed happy tears. She was his lawful wife, and the

little one was his lawful child. True, there was an elder son; but,

compared with what had been feared, that was a slight evil.

"We must make them true brothers, Eliza," whispered Philip Hamlyn. "They

shall share alike all I have and all I leave behind me. And our own

little one must be called James in future."

"And you and I will be good friends from henceforth," cried Captain Monk

warmly, clasping Philip Hamlyn's ready hand. "I have been to blame in

more ways than one, giving the reins unduly to my arbitrary temper. It

seems to me, however, that life holds enough of real angles for us

without creating any for ourselves."

And surely it did seem, as Mrs. Carradyne would have liked to point out

aloud, that those chimes had been fraught with messages of evil. For had

not all these blessings set in with their removal?--even in the very

hour that saw the bells taken down!

Harry Carradyne had drawn his uncle from the room; he now came in again,

bringing Alice West. Her face was a picture of agitation, for she had

been made known to Captain Monk. Harry led her up to Mrs. Hamlyn, with a

beaming smile and a whisper.

"Eliza, as we seem to be going in generally for amenities, won't you

give just a little corner of your heart to _her_? We owe her some

reparation for the past. It is her father who lies in that grave at the

north end of the churchyard."

Eliza started. "Her father! Poor George West her father?"

"Even so."

Just a moment's struggle with her rebellious spirit and Mrs. Hamlyn

stooped to kiss the trembling girl. "Yes, Alice, we do owe you

reparation amongst us, and we must try to make it," she said heartily.

"I see how it is: you will reign here with Harry; and I think he will be

able, after all, to let us keep Peacock's Range."

There came a grand wedding, Captain Monk himself giving Alice away. But

Mr. and Mrs. Hamlyn did not retain Peacock's Range; they and their boys,

the two Walters, had to look out for another local residence; for Mrs.

Carradyne retired to Peacock's Range herself. Now that Leet Hall had a

young mistress, she deemed it policy to quit it; though it should have

as much of her as it pleased as a visitor. And Captain Godfrey Monk made

himself happier in these peaceful days than he had ever been in his

stormy ones.

And that's the history. If I had to begin it again, I don't think I

should write it; for I have had to take its details from other

people--chiefly from the Squire and old Mr. Sterling, of the Court.

There's nothing of mine in it, so to say, and it has been only a bother.

And those unfortunate chimes have nearly passed out of memory with the

lapse of years. The "Silent Chimes" they are always called when, by

chance, allusion is made to them, and will be so called for ever.

JOHNNY LUDLOW.

THE BRETONS AT HOME.

BY CHARLES W. WOOS, F.R.G.S., AUTHOR OF "THROUGH HOLLAND," "LETTERS FROM

MAJORCA," ETC. ETC.

Still we had not visited le Folgoët, and it had to be done.

"No one ever leaves our neighbourhood without having seen le Folgoët,"

said M. Hellard. "Or if he does so he loses the best thing we can offer

him in the way of excursions. Also, he must expect no luck in his future

travels through Brittany."

[Illustration: MORLAIX.]

"And he must be looked upon in the light of a _barbare_," chimed in

Madame. "Not to do le Folgoët would be almost as bad as not going to

confession in Lent."

"My dear, did _you_ go to confession in Lent?" asked Monsieur, slily.

"Monsieur Hellard," laughed Madame, blushing furiously, "I am a good

Catholic. Ask no questions. We were speaking of Folgoët. Everyone should

go there."

"Is the excursion, then, to be looked upon as a pilgrimage, or a

penance?" we asked. "Will it absolve us from our sins, or grant us

indulgences? Is there some charm in its stones, or can we drink of its

waters and return to our first youth?"

"The magic spring!" laughed Mme. Hellard. "You will find it at the back

of the church. I have drunk of its waters, certainly; on a very hot day

last summer. They refreshed me, but I still feel myself mortal."

"Ah, yes," cried Monsieur, "the waters of Lethe and the elixir vitæ have

equally to be discovered. I imagine that they belong to Paradise--and we

have lost Paradise, you know: though I have found my Eve," added

Monsieur, with a gallant bow to his cara sposa; "and have been in

Paradise ever since."

"_You_, apparently, have found and drunk of the waters of Lethe,"

laughed Madame. "You forget all our numerous quarrels and

disagreements."

"Thunderstorms are said to clear the air," returned Monsieur; "but ours

have been mere summer lightning. That, you know, is not dangerous, and

beautifies the horizon."

It was the day of our visit to St. Jean du Doigt, and we had seriously

fallen out with our coachman by the way. St. Jean had so charmed us that

we felt reluctant to leave it. The little inn, quiet and solitary, with

its windows open to the sunshine, its snow-white cloth, its wealth of

creeper and blossom trailing up the walls and sunning over the roof,

invited us to enter and be happy; to revel in the outer scene, sylvan,

rustic, ecclesiastical, an overflow of the beauties of earth, sky,

sunshine and ancient architecture. Here was an earthly paradise; it

might still be ours for some golden moments. Yet we threw away our

opportunity; as we so often do in life in far weightier matters than

taking luncheon at a village inn.

We hesitated very much, but we had to see Plougasnou, and our driver,

for reasons of his own, declared that Plougasnou was far more beautiful

than St. Jean du Doigt, whilst its inn was renowned in Brittany. So,

having watched the funeral wind picturesquely down the hill-side, pause

at the beautiful gateway, and disappear into the church, we departed.

It was very charming to drive about the hills and valleys, the narrow

country lanes that were full of the beauty of summer. Finally, a steep

ascent brought us to our destination with a rude awakening. We had left

Paradise for very earthly quarters. There was no beauty about the spot,

which, placed on a hill, was bleak, bare, and exposed. The inn was the

incarnation of ugliness, and everything about it was rough and rude. In

the kitchen two women were at work. The one was brewing coffee, which

sent forth a delicious aroma, the other, with weeping eyes, was peeling

onions for the pot-au-feu.

We were served with a modest luncheon in a room behind the kitchen.

Madame prepared our food, and we had the privilege of assisting at the

ceremony. We were initiated into the mystery of frying an

omelette-au-naturel, the safest thing to order, no matter where you may

be in France, for the humblest cottage knows how to send up its omelette

to perfection. The handmaiden waited upon us, but she was heavy and not

intelligent, and she walked about in wooden shoes that clattered and

echoed and shocked one's nerves. But this did not affect the omelette,

or the modest ragout that concluded the banquet.

We lunched almost al fresco. The window was wide open and looked on to a

large yard, surrounded by outbuildings. Hens raced about, and without

ceremony flew up to the window and demanded their share of the feast.

Several cats came in; so that, as far as animals were concerned, we

might still consider ourselves in Paradise.

Then we passed out by way of the window, and immense dogs bade us

defiance and woke the echoes of the neighbourhood. Luckily they were

chained, and H.C.'s "Cave canem!" was superfluous. The church struck out

the hour. Placed in a sort of three-cornered square above the inn, the

tower stood out boldly against the background of sky, but it possessed

no beauty or merit. Away out of sight and hearing, we imagined the

glorious sea breaking and frothing over the rocks, and the points of

land that stretched out ruggedly towards the horizon; but we did not go

down to it. We felt out of tune with our surroundings, and only cared

for the moment when we should commence the long drive homeward. Had we

possessed some special anathema, some charm that would have placed our

driver under a mild punishment for twenty-four hours, I believe that we

should not have spared him.

So, on the whole, we were glad that our excursion to le Folgoët would

have to be done in part by train. We arranged it for the morrow, making

the most of our blue skies.

"You will have a charming day," said Madame Hellard, as we prepared to

set out the next morning. "I do not even recommend umbrellas. It is the

sort of wind that in Brittany never brings rain."

Our only objection was that there was rather too much of it.

Declining the omnibus, which rattled over the stones and was more or

less of a sarcophagus, without its repose, we mounted the interminable

Jacob's Ladder, and glanced in at our Antiquarian's. He was absent this

morning; had gone a little way into the country, where he had heard of

some Louis XIV. furniture that was to be sold by the Prior of an old

Abbey: though how so much that was luxurious and worldly had ever

entered an abbey seemed a mystery.

We were soon en route for Landerneau, our destination as far as the

train was concerned. The line, picturesque and diversified, passed

through a narrow wooded valley where ran the river Elorn. On the left

was the extensive forest of Brézal; and in the small wood of

_Pont-Christ_, an interesting sixteenth century chapel faced an ancient

and romantic windmill. Close to this was a large pond, surrounded by

rugged rocks and firs; altogether a wild and beautiful scene. Soon

after, through the trees, we discerned the graceful open spire of the

Church of La Roche, and then, upon rugged height above the railway, the

ruins of the ancient Castle of la Roche-Maurice, called by the Breton

peasants round about, in their broad dialect, "la Ro'ch Morvan." It was

founded by Maurice, King of the Bretons, about the year 800, and was

demolished about 1490, during the war Charles VIII. waged against Anne

of Brittany. Very little of the ruin remains, excepting a square donjon

and a portion of the exterior walls and the four towers.

Finally came Landerneau, and the train continued its way towards Brest

without us.

We found the old town well worth exploring. It is situated on the Elorn,

or the river of Landerneau, as it is more often called. The stream is

fairly broad here, and divides the town into two parts. It is spanned by

an old bridge, bordered by a double row of ancient and gabled houses;

and rising out of the stream, like a small island or a moated grange, is

an old Gothic water mill, remarkably beautiful and picturesque. This

little scene alone is worth a journey to Landerneau. A Gothic

inscription, which has been placed in a house not far off, declares that

the old mill was built by the Rohans in 1510; and was no doubt devoted

to higher uses than the grinding of corn.

There are many old houses, many quaint and curious bits of architecture

in Landerneau. On one of these, bearing the date of 1694, we found two

curious sculptures: a lion rampant and a man armed with a drawn sword;

and, between them, the inscription: TIRE, TVE. We might, indeed, have

gone up and down the street armed with sword, gun, or any other

murderous weapon, with impunity--there was nothing to fight but the air.

We had it all to ourselves, on this side the river. Yet Landerneau is a

flourishing place of some ten thousand inhabitants, with extensive

manufactories, saw mills, and large timber yards. Vessels come up the

river and load and unload; and, on bright days when the sunshine pours

upon the flashing water, and warms the wood lying about in huge stacks,

and a delicious pine-scent goes forth upon the air, it is a very

pleasant scene, and a very fitting spot for a short sojourn.

It also deals extensively in strawberries, exporting to England many

thousand boxes of the delicious fruit that grows so largely in the

neighbourhood. The hotel this morning seemed full of them, and we had

but to ask, and to receive in abundance. The place was full of their

fragrance: a fragrance that seemed so allied to the smell of the pine

wood in the timber yards.

The town is of great antiquity, and appears to have succeeded a Roman

Settlement. It is said to owe its name to St. Ernec, a Breton prince,

the son, says tradition, of Judicaël, King of the Domnomée. This prince,

about the year 669, turned monk, and built himself a cell on the banks

of the Elorn, a river which divided in those days the sees of Léon and

Cornouaille. Where the cell was is now the village of St. Ernec, and a

chapel which preceded the church of the Récollets.

In time Landerneau became the chief town of the Vicomté of Léon; and was

raised to a Principality in 1572 in favour of Henri, Vicomte de Rohan

and his brother Réné, Lord of Soubise, who founded the dukedom of

Rohan-Chabot. It remained in possession of Lords of Landerneau until

the Revolution. Fontenelle pillaged the town in 1592, and in the

seventeenth century its famous castle was destroyed.

[Illustration: CALVARY, GUIMILIAU.]

"There will be noise in Landerneau," has become a Breton proverb,

employed whenever any social event is stirring up the populace. It owes

its origin to a bygone custom of the town, of serenading widows on the

evening of their second marriage, with drums, trumpets, kettles, and

every kind of unmusical instrument that could be pressed into the

service of the uproarious ceremony.

Of this we had no evidence. The town was quiet to the verge of deadly

dulness; if there were widows rash enough to contemplate a second

marriage, we knew nothing about it; they were discreet, and kept their

secret to themselves.

There are many monasteries and nunneries in the neighbourhood. Some are

in ruins; some have become destined to other purposes; and if their

walls could speak, probably would cry aloud: "To such base uses do we

come!" Sitting on the banks of the river, you watch its calm flowing

waters, and a vessel moored to the side, where a Breton woman is hanging

out clothes to dry, and a man on deck is lazily smoking his pipe. Behind

you is a timber yard, sending forth its strawberry-pine perfume. There

is always some attractions in a timber yard. Whether you will or not it

fascinates you; you enter for a moment, and stroll about through the

little alleys between the stacks, as numerous and complicated as the

twistings and turnings of a maze. You imagine yourself once more a boy

playing at hide-and-seek, and revel in the hot sunshine that is pouring

down upon you and bringing out the perfume of the wood.

Returning to the river, your eye wanders far down the stream, until a

large building upon its banks arrests your attention. It looks the

emblem and abode of peace; perhaps is so. It is the ancient Couvent des

Cordeliers, founded by Jean de Rohan, in 1488. But monks no longer tread

its corridors and offer up the midnight mass in its small chapel. It is

now occupied by ladies--les Dames du Calvaire, as they are called. If

the monks were to arise from their little graveyard, would they rush

back horrified and affrighted at such desecration? and if the walls had

voices, would _they_, too, be ungallant enough to cry "To such base uses

do we come?" The ancient convent of the Ursulines has been turned into a

Penitentiary, thus in a measure fulfilling its original destiny.

Not far from Landerneau, also, on the banks of the Elorn, is the Avenue

of the Château de la Joyeuse Garde, celebrated as being the rendezvous

of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Nothing now remains

but the ruins of a subterranean vault and a romantic Gothic Gateway of

the twelfth century, covered with ivy and creeping shrubs. The whole

surroundings are beautiful and romantic; undulations, here wooded and

rocky, there richly cultivated; laughing and fertile slopes running down

into warm and sheltered valleys, through which the river winds its

graceful course.

Having made a slight acquaintance with the old streets and ancient

houses, we went back to the inn, where we found the carriage ready to

take us to le Folgoët.

A strong wind had suddenly arisen and clouds of dust accompanied us.

Under ordinary circumstances the drive would have been pleasant, though

uneventful. The road is somewhat monotonous, and very little attracts

the attention beyond small, well-wooded estates, breaking in upon the

long stretches of richly cultivated country, where life ought to run in

a very even tenor.

After awhile we turned into a by-road, and presently descending between

high hedges, the object of our excursion suddenly and unexpectedly

opened up before our astonished vision.

It would be difficult to forget the effect of that first view of le

Folgoët. The high hedges on either side had concealed everything. These

fell away, and within a few yards of us, in a barren and dreary plain

uprose the wonderful church.

A few poor houses and cottages comprise the village, and here nearly a

thousand inhabitants manage to stow themselves away. But nothing strikes

you more in these Breton villages than their silent and apparently

deserted condition, even at midday. Nine times out of ten, there is

scarcely a creature to be seen in the streets, the house doors are for

the most part closed, no face peers curiously from the windows, and no

sound breaks upon the stillness of the air.

So was it to-day. The tramp of our horses, the rumbling of wheels alone

startled the silence as we approached the church. The small houses

forming the village in no way took from its grandeur or interfered with

its solitude and solemnity.

There in the desolate plain it rose, "a thing of beauty and a joy for

ever." Its charm fell upon us in the first moment, its wonderful tone

and colouring held us spellbound. Our first wonder was to find a

building so perfect in the midst of this desolate plain, so far away

from the world and civilization. It was our first wonder; and when

presently we turned away from it I think it was our last. But this

solitude and desolation add infinitely to its charm; just as the mystery

and romance that enshroud the far-off monasteries in their desolate

mountain retreats would fall away as "the baseless fabric of a vision"

if they were brought into the crowded and commonplace atmosphere of town

life.

The legend of le Folgoët is a curious one:

Towards the middle of the fourteenth century, there lived in a

neighbouring forest a poor idiot named Soloman, or Salaun, as it is

written in the Breton tongue. This idiot was known as the Fool of the

wood--le Folgoët.

There, in the quiet solitude, his voice might constantly be heard

singing, in his own strange way, hymns to the Virgin; and often during

the night, chanting an Ave Maria. Daily he begged his bread in the

neighbouring town of Lesneven, always using the same form of words: Ave

Maria: adding in Breton, "Salaun a zébré bara." "Soloman would eat some

bread."

Thus for forty years he lived, never having injured anyone, or made an

enemy. Then he fell ill, and one morning was found dead in the wood,

near the little spring from which he had drunk daily and the hollow tree

that had been his nightly shelter.

Soloman the fool was already fading from men's minds, when a miracle

happened. Above the little grave in the wood where he had been buried

there suddenly sprang a white lily, remarkable for its beauty and the

exquisite perfume it shed abroad. But what made it more wonderful was

that upon every leaf, in gold letters, appeared the words "Ave Maria!"

This apparent miracle was soon noised abroad, and people flocked from

far and near to see the flower, which remained perfect for six weeks and

then began to fade. All the priests and ecclesiastics of the

neighbourhood, the nobles and the officers of the Duc de Rohan, decided

that they should dig about the root of the lily and discover its source.

This was done, and it was found to spring from the mouth of Salaun the

idiot.

Of course such a miracle could not remain uncommemorated. Jean de

Langouëznon, Abbot of Landévennec, one of the witnesses of the miracle,

wrote an elaborate account of it in Latin. Pilgrimages were constantly

made to the grave, and at last a church was built over the spring of the

poor idiot, whose faith and blameless life had been so strangely

rewarded. Such is the origin of one of Brittany's finest and most

remarkable churches.

It is in the second Pointed Gothic style, and is built of a mixture of

granite and dark Kersanton stone. The tone is singularly beautiful, and

harmonises well with the dreary plain. It is at once sombre, dignified

and impressive, relieved by great richness of sculpture. Kersanton stone

lends itself to carving, as we have seen, and here many parts will be

found in perfect preservation. Some of the rich mouldings in the

doorways have worn away, and some of the small statues have been

mutilated by time or have altogether disappeared, but the tone chiefly

marks the age of the church. This is not always the case, and even not

generally, with the buildings for which Kersanton stone has been used;

but le Folgoët is exposed to the elements which sweep across the dreary

plain without resistance; these have done their kindly work, and given

to the old walls a beauty that no mortal hand could fashion.

We stood before it in mute admiration, having expected much, but finding

far more. The tall trees near it bent and murmured to the fierce blast

that blew, as if they, too, would add their homage to the charm of the

sacred edifice.

Its solitary spire rose to a height of one hundred and sixty feet, full

of grace and elegance. Every portion of the exterior bore minute

inspection, it was so elaborately sculptured, so well preserved. Time

has spared it more than the hand of man.

The towers are unequal. The higher possesses the exquisite open spire, a

landmark for all the country round. The other is crowned by a small

Renaissance lantern and roof, the work of the Duchess Anne. The

beautiful west portal is no longer perfect. Its porch or canopy fell in

1824, and has never been replaced; and better so. The porch of the south

doorway is large, and so magnificent that it alone would be worth a

pilgrimage. It is called the Apostles' porch, and is also supposed to

have been the work of the good Duchess. Not far from it are the remains

of what must have been a very lovely cross. The carving of the porch is

of great delicacy and refinement; and, less exposed to the elements than

the west doorway, is in far better preservation. Here are graceful

scrolls and mouldings of vine leaves and other devices curiously

interwoven; the leaves so minutely carved that you may trace their veins

and fringes. The arms of Brittany and France are also cunningly

intertwined. Round the west doorway are wreaths of vines and thistles,

with birds and serpents introduced amongst fruit and flowers. Above the

doorway is an elaborate sculpture of the Nativity and the Adoration of

the Magi. Joseph is represented--it is often the case in Breton

carvings--as a Breton peasant, wearing the clumsy wooden shoes of the

country. He would have found himself somewhat embarrassed in them when

crossing the desert. But the Bretons, behind the rest of the world, had

no ideas beyond those that came to them from practical experience, and

the picturesque dignity of an Eastern dress was far beyond their

imagination. The centre pier of the doorway is formed into a niche

enclosing the basin for holy water, protected by a carved canopy of

great beauty; but time and exposure have worn away much of the sharpness

of the work.

[Illustration: LANDERNEAU.]