"Mrs. Wilders," said Mr. Burt, gravely and with great

deliberation--"Mrs. Wilders, if that indeed be your correct

appellation--"

And the doubt thus implied, reviving her worst fears, sent a cold

shock to her heart.

But she was outwardly brave.

"How dare you!" she cried with indignant defiance in her tone. "Have

you only brought me here to insult me? I appeal to your lordship. Is

this the treatment I am to expect? I, your cousin's widow--"

"One moment, madam," interposed the lawyer. "To be a widow it is first

necessary to have been a wife."

"Do you presume to say I was not General Wilders's wife?" she asked

hotly.

"Not his lawful wife. Stay, madam," he said, seeing Mrs. Wilders half

rise from her chair. "You must hear me out. We have evidence, the

clearest seemingly; disprove it if you can."

"What evidence?"

"The certificate of your other marriage. It is here."

"How came you by it?" she inquired eagerly.

"No matter, it is all in proper form; you could not contest it,

understand."

"Well? I never pretended when I gave my hand to Colonel Wilders that I

had not been married before. He was well aware of it."

"But not that your first husband was alive at the time."

"It is false! He was dead--drowned; he drowned himself in the Seine."

"Your first husband is alive still, and you know it. You have seen him

yourself within these last few days. He is ready to come forward at

any time. It is he in fact who has furnished us with these proofs."

"I shall protest, dispute, contest this to the uttermost. It is a

base, discreditable plot against a weak, helpless, defenceless woman,"

said Mrs. Wilders with effrontery; but despair was in her heart.

How Ledantec has deceived her!

"Is that all you have to say to me?" she went on at length after

another pause. "You, Lord Essendine--my husband's relative and friend,

one of the richest and proudest men in this purse-proud land--how

chivalrous, how brave of you, to bring me here to load me with vile

aspersions, to rob me of my character; my child, my little friendless

orphan boy, of the inheritance which is his by right of birth!"

"Do not let us get into recriminations, madam," said Lord Essendine,

speaking for the first time. "It is to speak of your boy, mainly, that

I wished for this interview."

"Poor child!"

"Whatever blot may stain his birth, I cannot forget that he has

Wilders's blood in his veins. He is Cousin Bill's son still."

"You admit so much? Many thanks," she sneered. "And since these heavy

blows have struck us, blow after blow, he is the sole survivor of the

house. I am willing--nay, anxious--to recognise him."

"Indeed! How truly generous of you!" There was no telling whether the

speech was genuine, or another sneer.

"He cannot bear the title, but I can make him my heir. He may succeed

to the position in due course--I hardly care how soon."

"Are you mocking me, Lord Essendine?"

"I am in sober earnest. I will do what I say, but only on one

condition."

"And that is?"

"That you give up the child, absolutely, and forever."

"What! part with the only thing left me to love and cherish--"

"One moment, madam," interposed the lawyers "before your emotion

overpowers you. We happen to be able to judge of the extent of your

affection for your only son."

"How so?"

"We know you care so little for him that for month, you never see the

child. It was left in England when you went to the Crimea--"

"With my husband. Besides, I could not have made a nursery of Lord

Lydstone's yacht."

"And since you settled in London you have sent it to a nurse in the

country."

"It was better for the child."

"No doubt you know best. However, this discussion is unnecessary. Will

you comply with his lordship's conditions, and part with the child?"

"Never!"

"Remember, the offer will not be renewed."

"And what, pray, would become of me? You deprive me of

everything--present joy in my offspring, his affection in coming

years. I shall be alone, friendless--a beggar, perhaps."

"As to that, you must trust to his lordship's generosity."

"Little as you deserve it," added Lord Essendine, meaningfully.

She turned on him at once.

"Of what do you accuse me?"

"Of much that I forbear to repeat now. But I will spare you--I will

leave you to your own conscience and--"

"What else, pray?"

"The law. It may seize you yet, madam, and it has a tight grip."

"I shall not remain here to be so grossly insulted. If you have

anything more to say to me, my lord, you must write."

"And you refuse to give up the child?"

"You had better put your proposals on paper, Lord Essendine. I may

consider them in my child's interests, although the separation would

be almost too bitter to bear. I may add, however, that I will consent

to nothing that does not include some settlement on myself--"

"As to that," said the lawyer, "his lordship declines to bind

himself--is it not so, my lord?"

"Quite; I will make no promises. But she will not find me ungenerous

if she will accept my terms."

And so the interview ended. There was no further reference made to the

unpleasant facts now brought to light by the letter and documents sent

over by Hyde. Mrs. Wilders, as we shall still call her, knew that she

could not dispute them; that any protest in the shape of law

proceedings would only make more public her own shame and

discomfiture. But if she was beaten she would not confess it yet; and

at least she was resolved that the enemy who had so ruthlessly

betrayed her should not enjoy his triumph.

CHAPTER XIII.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

Mrs. Wilders's first and only idea after she left Lincoln's Inn was to

get to Paris as soon as she could. She no longer counted on much

assistance from Ledantec, nor, indeed, had she much belief in him now;

but she yet hoped he might help her to obtain revenge. Whatever it

cost her, Rupert Gascoigne must pay the penalty of thwarting her when

she seemed on the very threshold of success.

Having desired her maid to pack a few things, she hastily realised all

the money she had at command and started by the night-mail for Paris.

Paris! Like the husband she had wronged and deserted, she had not

visited the gay city for years. Not since she had thrown in her lot

with an unspeakable villain, joining and abetting him in a vile plot

against the man to whom she was bound by the strongest ties in

life--by loyalty, affection, honour, truth.

"I hate going back there," she told herself, as the Calais express

whirled her through Abbeville, Amiens, Creil. "Hate it, dread it, more

than I can say."

And this repugnance might be interpreted into some glimmering remnant

of good feeling were it not due to vague fears of impending evil

rather than to shame and remorse.

She was landed at an early hour at the hotel she resolved to

patronise: a quiet, old-fashioned house in the best part of the Rue de

Rivoli, overlooking the gardens of the Tuileries.

She was shown to a room, and proceeded at once to correct the ravages

of the night journey. A handsome woman still, but vain, like all her

sex, and anxious to look her best on every occasion.

Hastily swallowing a cup of coffee, as soon as her toilette was

completed she issued forth and took the first cab she could find.

"To the Porte St. Martin," she said; "lose no time."

Arrived there, she alighted, dismissed the cab, and proceeded on foot

to the Faubourg St. Martin, to the house we have visited already, and

in which our friend Hyde was still a prisoner.

Simply mentioning her name, she passed by the porter with the air of

one who knew her road, although it was probably the first time she had

come there. On the sixth floor she knocked as Hyde had done, and was

admitted much as he had been.

There was no disguise about her, however, and she sent in her name as

"Mrs. Wilders, just arrived from England, and most anxious to see Mr.

Hobson."

"You, Cyprienne!" said the man we know, who answered to the names of

both Hobson and Ledantec. "In Paris! This was quite unnecessary. I am

arranging everything. You had my letter?"

"Pshaw! Hippolyte, you can't befool me."

"Why this tone? I tell you I have done everything."

"You may think so, but in the meantime Rupert has stolen a march on

me. He has got the papers--"

"Impossible!"

"It is so. Got them, and placed them, with a full statement, in Lord

Essendine's hands."

"How do you know this?"

"From Lord Essendine's own lips?"

"How can he have done this? He--a prisoner."

"Are you sure of that?"

"He is fast by the leg. Come and see him. He is in the next room."

"Here? In our power?"

"Yes: let us go and see him at once."

There was a fierce gleam in her eyes, as though she wished to stab

him, wherever she found him, to the heart.

Hyde was where we had left him, still bound hand and foot to the

bedstead. He had spent a miserable night, he was stiff and sore from

his strange position, and they had given him little or no food. But

his manner was defiant, and his air exulting, as he saw Ledantec and

Cyprienne approach.

"Have you come to release me? It's about time. You will gain nothing

by keeping me here."

"Dog! I hate you!" cried Mrs. Wilders, as she struck him a cruel,

cowardly blow on the face.

"A pleasant greeting from the woman I made my wife."

"Would that fate had never thrown us together; that I had never heard

your name!"

"No one can wish it more sincerely than myself," replied Gascoigne.

"It was you who wrecked and ruined my life."

"And what have you done to me, Rupert Gascoigne? Could you not leave

me in peace? Why follow me to persecute me, to rob me and my son--"

"Of the proceeds of your infamy?" interrupted Gascoigne, or Hyde, as I

prefer to call him; "I will tell you. Because you dared to plot

against a man I esteem. Whatever has happened to Stanislas McKay, he

owes it, I feel confident, to you. I may never see him again--"

"You never will, and for a double reason. Do not hope, Rupert

Gascoigne, to leave this place again."

And she looked capable of taking his life then and there.

"Come, come! Cyprienne; you are going too far. Mr. Gascoigne has not

behaved very well, perhaps, but it is not for us to call him to

account. We will leave him to the myrmidons of the law. He is wanted,

we know, by the police."

"Am I?" said Hyde, mockingly; "so are others, as you will find. At

this moment the house is surrounded. The authorities have long had

their eye on Hippolyte Ledantec, _alias_ Hobson, the Russian spy."

The confederates looked at each other uneasily, and Ledantec said--

"It can hardly be so. But it will be well to ascertain and take

precautions. Come! there is a way out of this house known only to me."

And, so saying, he went towards the door, followed by Mrs. Wilders.

Suddenly he paused, surprised by a loud knocking outside.

They heard the old woman's voice angrily asking who was there; they

heard the reply, spoken loudly and authoritatively.

"The police! Open, in the name of the law. Open! or we shall break the

door down."

Next minute the apartment was invaded by a _posse_ of police, all of

whom were drawn to where Hyde was by his loud cries of "Here! Here!"

"Let no one move," said the chief of the police, briefly. "What is the

meaning of this? Who are you?" This was to Ledantec.

"My name is Mr. Hobson, a British subject, and member of the press. I

shall require you to explain this intrusion."

"His real name is Ledantec!" cried Hyde, interposing. "Ex-gambler, and

now spy in the pay of the Russians. This woman is his accomplice."

"And who may you be?" said the police-officer, turning to Hyde.

"I know this gentleman," put in the _attaché_ whom Hyde had seen at

the Embassy. "He is a British officer--Mr. Hyde."

"I know better!" cried Ledantec, with a scornful laugh. "I denounce

him as Rupert Gascoigne, the perpetrator of the murder in Tinplate

Street, fifteen years ago. The case cannot yet be forgotten at the

Prefecture."

"Is it possible?" said the chief of the police, looking curiously at

Hyde. "Surely I should recognise you. I was one of those from whom you

escaped by jumping into the Seine."

"I do not deny that I am the man," replied Hyde, calmly. "But I am

innocent, and only ask a fair trial."

"We must arrest you, anyway. Keep what you have to say for the judge.

Come! bring them along; it's altogether a fine morning's work."

And within an hour Hyde found himself in his old quarters--a separate

cell of the depôt of the Prefecture. The other prisoners were lodged

there also, but apart from him and each other.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE SCALES REMOVED.

The capture made by the police in the Faubourg St. Martin was kept

secret. Under the Second Empire nothing was published except with the

permission of the authorities, and they had their reasons for not

talking too openly of Hyde's arrest. He was a British subject, a

military officer moreover, and these were claims to the consideration

of French justice that would not have been so readily recognised

fifteen years before.

It was, of course, inevitable that the affair of Tinplate Street

should be re-opened. But a new complexion was given to it by the

recent arrests. Hyde had been interrogated at once by the magistrate

who had examined him before; the same man, but so different; no

longer insolently positive and threatening unjustly, but bland,

considerate, obliging. The fact was he had had a hint from his

superiors to treat the Englishman gently.

"The truth must come out now," Hyde had said, when asked if he

remembered the circumstances of his former arrest. "You have the real

culprit in custody."

"This Ledantec, I suppose?" asked the judge.

"It was he who struck the blow; I saw him with my own eyes, as I told

you years ago. Then he escaped by the window into a back-street; I

followed him, but he was too quick for me. A cab waited for him,

picked him up, and he was driven away."

While Hyde was speaking the judge had turned over the pages of a

voluminous document in front of him,--a detailed report of the

previous interrogation.

"Your story does not vary. You have either an excellent memory,

or--" and the stern magistrate smiled quite archly--"or you are

really telling me the truth."

"The truth! I can swear to it."

"What is more, your story is in the main corroborated. Shortly after

your escape we laid hands on the very cabman who had helped Ledantec

away. He described the scene as you have, and through him we got upon

the trace of his fare--Ledantec, as you call him."

"But you never arrested him?"

"Until now he carefully kept away from Paris."

"But you have him now on a double charge."

"Him and his accomplice. Justice will be satisfied, never fear."

"How long will you keep me here?"

"I regret that for the present it will be impossible to release you.

We are compelled first to verify the facts before us. But in a few

days at the latest I hope your trouble will be at an end. You have

powerful friends, Monsieur."

"The British Embassy, I suppose?" said Hyde, complacently.

"Yes; and his Imperial Majesty has deigned to go personally into your

case."

"Then I can wait events calmly and without fear."

Presently, when Hyde had been removed, Ledantec was introduced, and

was received with the brutal harshness which was the judge's habitual

manner towards prisoners.

"Your name, profession, address?" he asked abruptly.

"Silas Hobson, an English journalist, residing in Duke Street, St.

James's, London."

"It is false! You have no right to the name of Hobson. You are not an

Englishman. You may reside in London, but it is only temporarily."

"Who am I then?" asked Ledantec with a sneer.

"In Paris, at your last visit, you passed as Hippolyte Ledantec, but

your real name is Serge Michaelovitch Vasilenikoff. You are a Russian

by birth, by profession a gambler, a blackleg, a cheat."

Ledantec, as I shall still call him, merely shrugged his shoulders in

sarcastic helplessness at this abuse.

"You are worse. You are a spy in the service of the enemies of the

State; an unconvicted murderer--"

He bent his eyes upon the prisoner with a piercing gaze, to watch the

effect of this accusation.

Ledantec never blenched, and the judge presently continued--

"You are the real author of the crime in Tinplate Street."

"M. Rupert Gascoigne is your informant, I presume," said Ledantec

sneering; "it is easy to rebut a charge by throwing it on another. But

you are too clever, M. le Juge, to be imposed upon."

"You at least cannot hoodwink me. We have the fullest evidence, let me

tell you, of the crime--all the crimes--laid to your charge. Your

accomplice has confessed."

This was said to try the prisoner, and it succeeded, for he started

slightly at the word "crimes."

"Accomplice! Of whom do you speak?"

"There is a woman in custody who has been associated with you for

years. It was she who instigated you to the robbery and murder of the

Baron d'Enot. She joined you when you fled from the gambling-den in

Tinplate Street, and shared your flight from Paris. She was with you

in St. Petersburg till you separated after a violent quarrel--"

"The blame was hers," interrupted Ledantec.

"Possibly, but you were equally to blame. In any case she left you to

shift for herself. She entered a great English family by a false

marriage, and, when next you met her, conspired with her to bring the

wealth of that family within her grasp. You again became her guilty

partner, and plotted to take the life of the heir to a noble English

title and great estates."

He was referring now to McKay, but Ledantec, misled by a guilty

conscience, was thinking of Lord Lydstone, and his mysteriously sudden

death.

"That was her doing!" he cried remorsefully. "In removing Lord

Lydstone--"

The judge caught quickly at the new name.

"You removed, or, more plainly, you murdered Lord Lydstone at the

instigation of your accomplice--is that so?"

Ledantec would not confess to this, but the judge felt certain that he

had come upon the track of another dreadful crime.

"There is enough against you," he went on slowly, "to convict you a

dozen times over, enough to send you to the guillotine. Your only hope

will be to make a clean breast of everything. By helping us to convict

your accomplice you may save your forfeited life."

"But I shall be sent to the galleys; to Toulon or Brest. Life as a

French galley-slave is worse than death."

"You will not think so when the alternative is put before you," said

the judge, dryly; "and my advice to you is to make a full

confession."

Ledantec shook his head, but it was with far less assurance than he

had shown at the beginning of his examination. It was clear that he

saw himself fast in the toils; that the law held him tight in its

clutch; that unqualified submission was the only course to pursue.

He had spoken fully and unreservedly, confessing freely to every

guilty deed in his long career of wickedness, possessing the judge

with every detail of his own and his accomplice's crimes, when that

accomplice was brought up for interrogation in her turn.

She was ghastly pale: the rough ordeal of imprisonment had robbed her

dress and demeanour of all its coquetry; but she faced the magistrate

with self-possessed, insolent effrontery, and met his stern look with

cold, unflinching eyes.

"Why am I brought here?" she began, fiercely. "How dare you detain me?

You and your masters shall answer for this ill-usage. I am an English

lady, belonging to one of the proudest families in the country. The

British Embassy, the British nation, will call you to the strictest

account."

"Ta! ta! ta!" said the judge, with a gesture of the hand essentially

French; "I think you are slightly mistaken; you are no more English than I

am. I know you, and all about you, Cyprienne Vergette--otherwise Gascoigne,

otherwise Wilders.

"Shall I tell you a little of your early history? How you eloped from

Gibraltar, where your father was Vice-Consul; how you came to Paris

with your lover; your marriage, your life, your desertion of your

husband, your association with Ledantec, your second marriage, your

plots against Milord Essendine and his family, your murder--"

"It is a lie!" she interrupted him, hastily. "I never committed

murder."

"You compassed Lord Lydstone's death, although you did not strike the

blow. You would have caused the death of another English officer, but,

happily, he has escaped your murderous intrigues."

Only that morning the French journals had copied from the English an

account of McKay's almost providential escape on the 18th of June.

"But your last attempt has failed utterly. Mr.--" he referred to

his papers for the name--"McKay is safe within the British lines. The

agent you employed to inveigle him into danger is dead, but with his

last breath he confessed that he had had his orders from you. Now,

Cyprienne Vergette, what have you to say?"

"I deny everything. I protest against your jurisdiction."

"The Assize Court will hear, but scarcely admit, your plea. That

tribunal and its president will deal you as you deserve."

CHAPTER XV.

L'ENVOI.

The _Burlington Castle_ made a short halt at Constantinople, and

another, somewhat longer, at Malta; a third was to be made at

Gibraltar, where two of our most important characters proposed to

leave the ship.

The delay at Malta was to allow Miss Hidalgo to make her appearance in

the Supreme Court as principal witness against the baker, Giuseppe

Pisani, commonly called Valetta Joe.

The British military authorities in the Crimea had hesitated to deal

summarily with the spy's offence. He might have been hanged out of

hand under the Mutiny Act; but such swift retribution, however richly

merited, was obnoxious to our general's sense of justice.

He preferred to leave the criminal to the ordinary tribunals of his

native island. It could adjudge and carry out any punishment short of

death, if so inclined. In the Crimea the capital sentence only would

have been possible.

The trial was short and summary. Mariquita, dressed still in the

sober, quaker-like garb of a hospital-nurse, said what she had to say

in a few simple words. Her sweet face and artless manner were the

admiration of the whole court, and there was a little round of

applause as it came out that she had ventured so far and braved so

much out of love for the gallant soldier who was leaning on his

crutches close by her side.

Valetta Joe was found guilty and sentenced to imprisonment for four

years, and with his conviction the reader's interest in him will

probably cease. It disposed of the last of McKay's active enemies;

Benito, as we have seen, had died in Balaclava hospital, and Cyprienne

Vergette and her accomplice were in the grip of the French law.

The enemies had disappeared; friends only remained. When he landed at

Gibraltar numbers came to greet him, from the Governor himself to the

Tio Pedro and the old crone his wife. Letters had already assured them

of Mariquita's safety, and they wept crocodile tears of joy as they

clasped her once more in their arms.

They were her only relatives, and as such McKay was compelled to

surrender his love to them for a time. But only for the very briefest

time. He measured their affections at its true value, and had no

compunction in asserting his claim over theirs to protect and cherish

her.

He easily persuaded them and Mariquita, but with some tender

insistence, to hurry on the marriage, and it took place within a few

short weeks of their return to the Rock. Why should he wait? He was

his own master; the only relative whose consent and approval he

coveted--his mother--had already promised gladly to accept the girl of

his choice.

His great relatives, the Essendines, might question the propriety of

the match, anxious that he should look higher, and find his future

bride amongst the aristocracy to which he now rightly belonged.

That was a point on which he meant to please himself, and did.

When, after a short honeymoon at Granada, the young married couple

returned to Gibraltar and travelled leisurely homewards, Lord

Essendine was one of the first to welcome him on arrival, and to

congratulate him on the beauty of his bride.

By-and-by, when the days of mourning were ended, Lady Essendine came

out of her strict retirement to present Mrs. McKay at Court; and the

handsome Spanish girl with the strange romantic history was one of the

greatest successes of the next London season. Ere long the future

succession of the Essendine title was assured beyond doubt. McKay was

blessed with a numerous family--many sons came to satisfy the head of

the house that the title of Essendine and the family name were in no

danger of extinction. But Lord Essendine lived for many years after

the termination of the Crimean war, and McKay was a general officer

and a Knight of the Bath before he became the fifteenth Earl of

Essendine.

Having thus disposed of the hero whose early career was so chequered

and eventful, I must add a word as to the fate of the other actors in

this veracious narrative.

First as to Hyde, who continued to be known by that name to his death,

preferring it greatly to the other, with its painful memories. He

remained a prisoner in the depôt of the Prefecture only a few days.

The confession made by Ledantec and the evidence of other witnesses so

amply attested the innocence of the M. Gascoigne accused of the

Tinplate Street murder that his release followed as a matter of

course. Hyde waited in Paris to hear the issue of the trial of the

real offenders, and, painful as it was to be present at the sentence

of the woman who had once borne his name, he yet listened without

flinching to the whole story. After all, there was a certain relief in

knowing that he was well rid of her. It was little likely that the

Central prison to which she was consigned in perpetual "reclusion"

would ever surrender its prey.

He heard, too, with lively satisfaction, the sentence of his old foe,

Ledantec, to hard labour at the galleys for twenty years.

With these trials, and the penalties that followed them, he turned

down for ever the dark page of his life, and presently returned to

England, where he spent the remainder of his leave with his old friend

and comrade, McKay.

After that had expired he returned to the Crimea, and was present at

the closing scenes of the war. He continued to serve with the Royal

Picts for many years more--the regiment had become his home--and, as

he was in due course promoted to the post of paymaster, his position

and income were materially changed.

He lived to a green old age, retiring from the service full of rank

and honour. Colonel Hyde was long a notable figure at his club in Pall

Mall, which gained a new and very popular _chef_ when Anatole Belhomme

wrote him that he had been summarily dismissed from the French police.

Hyde spent a great portion of every year at Essendine Castle, after

his friend had succeeded to the estates, and there was no more

honoured guest than he at the coming of age of Rupert, Viscount

Lydstone, his godson.

The boy whom Mrs. Wilders had hesitated to surrender to old Lord

Essendine, from greed rather than maternal instinct, was not neglected

by the old peer. After the mother had passed out of sight, the son was

brought up decently, given a good education, and eventually started

in life. He adopted the military profession, and was not denied the

support and encouragement of Stanislas McKay.

Our hero was able to help his uncle, too, the much-aggrieved

functionary of the Military Munition Department, and secured for him

the decoration he had so long coveted in vain.

Uncle Barto, the worthy captain of the _Burlington Castle_, made a

snug fortune by his commercial ventures during the war, and paid

regular visits to his nephew, Stanny. Mrs. McKay, or Countess of

Essendine as she became, could never forget what she owed for his

generous hospitality on board the _Burlington_.

THE END.

* * * * *

BLUE BLOOD.

CHAPTER I.

"The idea is simply preposterous. I decline to entertain it. I cannot

listen to it--not for one moment. Never!"

The speaker was Mrs. Purling, "heiress of the Purlings"; imperious,

emphatic, self-opinionated, as women become who have had their own way

all their lives through.

"But, mother," went on Harold, her only son--like herself, large and

broadly built; but, unlike her, quiet and rather submissive in manner,

as one who had been habitually kept under--"I am really in earnest. I

am absolutely sick of doing nothing."

"Because you won't do what you might. There is plenty for you to do.

Has not the Duchess asked you to Scotland? You refuse--and such a

splendid invitation! I have offered you a yacht. I say you may share a

river in Norway with dear Lord Faro. I implore you to drive a coach,

to keep racehorses, to take your place in the best society, as the

representative of the Purling--"

"Pills?" put in Harold, with a queer smile.

His mother's face grew black instantly.

"Harold, do not dare to speak in that way. My father's memory should

be respected by my only son."

Old Purling had made all his money by a certain chemical compound

which had been adopted by the world at large as a panacea for every

ill. But the heiress of the Purlings hated any reference to the

Primeval Pills, although she owed to them her wealth.

"I want a profession," Harold said, returning to his point. "I want

regular employment."

"Well, I say go into the Guards."

"I am too old. Besides, peace-soldiering, and in London, would never

suit me, I know."

"Read law; it is a gentlemanly occupation."

"But most uninteresting. Now medicine--"

"Do not let me hear the word; the mere idea is intolerable. My son,

the heir of the Purlings must not condescend so low."

"Considering my own father was a doctor," cried Harold, rather hotly.

"Not a mere doctor. A man of science, of world-wide repute, is not like

a general practitioner, with a red lamp and an apothecary's shop,

where he makes up--"

"Pills?" said Harold, again. He was throwing down the gauntlet indeed.

Mrs. Purling had never known him like this before.

"Leave the room, Harold. I decline to speak to you further, or again,

unless you appear in a more obedient and decorous frame of mind."

That Mrs. Purling was what she was, the chances of her life and her

father were principally to blame. He had begun life as an errand-boy,

and ended it as a millionnaire; but long before he ended he had

forgotten the beginning. He had a sort of notion that he belonged to

one of the old families in the county wherein he had bought wide

estates, and he himself styled his only daughter "the heiress of the

Purlings," as if there had been Purlings back for generations, and he

was the last, not the first, of his race. It was he who had

indoctrinated her with ideas of her own importance; and these same

views had taken so strong a hold of him that he found it quite

impossible to mate his daughter according to his mind. He was

ambitious, as was natural to a _nouveau riche_; wide awake, or he

would not have made so much money. Not one of the crowds of suitors

who came forward was exactly to his taste. He would have preferred a

man of title, but the peers who were not penniless were too proud; and

the best baronet was an aged bankrupt, who had been twice through the

courts, and enjoyed an indifferent name. It was strange that Isabel

did not cut the Gordian knot, and choose for herself; but she was a

dutiful daughter, and little less cautious than her father. In the

midst of it all he was called away on some particular business of his

own--to another world--and Isabel was left alone, past thirty, and

unmarried still.

The _rôle_ of single blessedness may be charming to a man of means,

but it is often extremely irksome to an heiress in her own right. Miss

Purling was like a pigeon that escapes from the inclosure at a

match--an aim for every gun around. Great ladies took her up, as a

kindness to their younger sons; briefless barristers, with visions of

the Woolsack, besought her to help them to the first step--a seat in

the House; clergymen with great views prayed her to join them in some

stupendous charitable work, that must win for them the lawn-sleeves;

more than one impecunious soldier pleaded with her for their tailors,

whose bills without her help they were quite unable to pay. She seemed

a common prey, fair game for every hand. This developed in her an

undue amount of suspicion and a certain hardness of heart. She began

to doubt whether there was one disinterested man in the whole world.

But before many years had passed she realised that unless she married

there could be no prospect of peace. Already she had quarrelled with a

dozen companions of her own sex; she wished now to try one of the

other. But men seemed tired of proposing to her. She had the character

of being as hard and cold as iron; and no one cared to run his head

against a wall. If she wanted a husband now the proposal must come

from her. Miss Purling in her heart rather liked the notion; it gave

her a chance of posing like a queen in search of a consort, and years

of independence had made her very queenlike and despotic indeed. So

much so, that the only man to suit her must be a mere cipher without a

will of his own; and he was difficult to find. Men of the kind are not

plentiful unless they plainly perceive substantial advantage from

assuming the part. But few guessed what kind of man would exactly

suit Isabel Purling, so there were few pretenders.

Among those who flocked to her _soirées_--she was fond of entertaining

in spite of her disabilities as a single woman--was a meek little

professor, who lodged in Camden Town, and who came afoot in roomy

goloshes, which now and again, in a fit of abstraction, he carried

upstairs and laid upon the tea-table or at his hostess's feet, as

though the carpet was damp and he feared she might run the risk of

catarrh. He was reputed to be extremely erudite, a ripe scholar, and

of some fame in scientific research. But of all his discoveries--and

he had made many under the microscope and in space--the most

surprising was the discovery that a lady who owned a deer-park and

many thousands a-year desired him to make her his wife. But he was an

obliging little man, always ready to do a kind thing for anybody; and

he obliged Miss Purling in the way she wished--after all, at some cost

to himself. The marriage meant little less than self-effacement for

him; he was to take his wife's name instead of giving her his; he was

to forego his favourite pursuits, and from an independent man of

science pass into a mere appendage to the Purling property--part and

parcel of his wife's goods and chattels as much as the park-palings,

or her last-purchased dinner-service of rare old "blue."

It was odd that Miss Purling's choice should have fallen where it did;

for her tendencies were decidedly upward, and she would have dearly

loved to be styled "my lady," and to have moved freely in the society

of the "blue-blooded of the land." It was her distrustfulness which

had stood in the way. She feared that in an aristocratic alliance she

could not have made her own terms. And with the results of this

marriage with Dr. Purling--as he was henceforth styled--she had every

reason to be pleased. He proved a most exemplary husband--the chief of

her subjects, nothing more; a loyal, unpretending vassal, who did not

ask to share the purple, but was content to sit upon the steps of the

throne. He continued a shy, reserved, unobtrusive little man to the

end of the chapter; and the chapter was closed without unnecessary

delay as soon as the birth of a son secured the succession of the

Purling estates. Dr. Purling felt there was nothing more required of

him, so he quietly died.

His widow raised a tremendous tablet to his memory, eulogising his

scientific attainments and domestic worth; but, although she appeared

inconsolable, she was secretly pleased to have the uncontrolled

education of her infant son. An elderly lady with a baby-boy is like a

girl with a doll--just as the little mother dresses and undresses its

counterfeit presentment of a child in wax and rags, crooning over its

tiny cradle, talking to it in baby-language, pretending to watch with

anxious solicitude its every mood, so Mrs. Purling found in Harold a

plaything of which she never tired. She coddled and cosseted him to

her heart's content. If he had cried for the moon some effort would

have been made to obtain for him the loan of that pale planet, or the

best substitute for it that could be got for cash. If his finger

ached, or he had a pain in his big toe, he was physicked with half the

Pharmacopoeia; he underwent divers systems of regimen, was kept out

of draughts, cautioned against chills, cased in red flannel; he might,

to crown all, have been laid by in cotton-wool. His mother's over-much

care ought to have killed him; but he had inherited from her a fine

physique, and the lad was large-limbed, healthy, and well grown.

And this vigilant supervision was prolonged far beyond the time when

youths are emancipated usually from their mother's control. Long after

he had left college, and was launched out upon the world, she kept

her hands upon the reins, ruling him with a sharp bit, and driving him

the road she decided it was best for him to go. Mrs. Purling had grown

more and more imperious with advancing years, impatient of

contradiction, self-satisfied, very positive that everything she did

was right. She could not brook opposition to her wishes. Those who

dared to thwart her must do it at their peril; no nature but one

entirely subservient would be likely to continue permanently in accord

with hers; and it was easy to predict troubles in the future between

mother and son unless he yielded always a complete and docile

submission to her will.

For a long time Harold wore his chains without a murmur. Obedient

deference had been a habit with him from childhood, and, however

irksome and galling the slavery, it was not until he had made

practical acquaintance with the actual value of the life she wished

him to lead that there arose in him a disposition to rebel. Mrs.

Purling had all along been chafed with the notion that she did not

enjoy that social distinction to which as a wealthy woman she

considered herself entitled. In her own estimation she ranked very

high; but the best families of the neighbourhood did not accept her

valuation. Some went so far as to call her a vulgar old snob; and

"snobbish," as we understand the word, she certainly was. She

worshipped rank; and it was a very sore point with her that she was

not freely admitted into the best society of the county in which she

lived. She looked to Harold to redress her wrongs. Where she failed, a

handsome young fellow, of engaging presence and heir to a fine estate,

must assuredly succeed. He might, if he chose, be acceptable anywhere.

There was no limit to her dreams. He might mate with a duke's

daughter; and after such an alliance--who would presume to question

the social rights of the Purlings?

It was therefore her chief and greatest desire to make a man of

fashion of her son. Her purse was long--he might dip into it as deep

as he pleased. Let him but take his proper position, on an equality

with the noblest and best, and all charges would be gladly defrayed by

her. She wanted him to be a dandy, _répandu_ in society, a member of

the Coaching Club, well known at Prince's, at Hurlingham, at Lord's;

sought after by dowagers; intimate with royalties; she would not have

seriously resented a reputation for a little wickedness, provided he

erred in the right direction--with people of the blue blood, that is

to say--and the scandal did not go too far.

Unhappily, Harold's tastes and inclinations lay all in the opposite

direction. In external appearance he favoured his mother, in

disposition he was his father's son. Like him reserved--he would have

been shy but for his training at school and college, which had rubbed

the sensitive skin off his self-consciousness; like him studious too,

thoughtful, quiet, with scientific tastes and proclivities. His

friends in familiar talk called him "Old Steady"; he had never got

into debt or serious trouble. Even in the midst of the whirling maze

of London life he continued steadfastly sober and sedate.

Here at once was to be found the germ of discord between mother and

son, the first gap or chink in their friendly relations, which might

widen some day into a yawning breach. But yet Mrs. Purling could find

no fault with her son. She might resent the staid sober-mindedness of

his conduct; but she was perforce compelled to confess that he was a

dear good son, affectionate, devoted, considerate; and there was much

solid comfort in the thought that the good name of the Purlings, as

well as their substantial wealth, could be safely intrusted to his

hands. This she readily allowed; and, had he continued obedient and

tractable until he was grey-haired, Mrs. Purling might have gone down

into her grave without a shadow of excuse for quarreling with her

son.

It was when he was past five-and-twenty that there arose between them

misunderstanding, at first only a small cloud no bigger than a man's

hand. Harold suddenly declared that he was sick of gallivanting about

the fashionable world; sick of idleness--sick of the silly purposeless

existence he led; and thereupon announced his intention of studying

medicine seriously and as a profession. Mrs. Purling was at first

aghast, then argumentative, finally indignant. But Harold remained

inflexible, and she grew more and more wrathful. It led at length to

something like a rupture between them. She received the news of his

success in the schools with grim contempt, condescending only to ask

once whether he wished her to buy him a practice, or whether he meant

to put up a red lamp at the family-mansion in Berkeley Square.

Her persistent implacability gave Harold much pain, but he did not

despair of bringing her round in the end; only, to avoid further

dissensions, he wisely resolved to keep out of her way: and as soon as

he had gained his diploma he started for Germany, intending to

prosecute his studies abroad.

CHAPTER II.

It was not until he had been absent more than a year that Mrs. Purling

appeared to relent. She began to yearn after her son; she missed him

and was disposed to be reconciled, provided he would but meet her

half-way. At first she sent olive-branches in the shape of munificent

letters of credit over and above his liberal allowance; then came more

distinct overtures in lengthy epistles, which grew daily warmer in

tone and plainly showed that her resentment was passing rapidly away.

These letters of hers were her chief pleasure in life; she prided

herself on her ability to wield the pen. When, instead of a few curt

sentences in brief acknowledgment of his letters, his mother resumed

her old custom of filling several sheets of post with advice, gossip,

odds and ends of news, mixed with stray scraps of wisdom culled from

Martin Tupper, Harold began to hope that the worst was over and that

he would soon be forgiven in set form.

And he was right. Pardon was soon extended to him, not quite

unconditional, but weighted merely with terms which--Mrs. Purling

thought--no sensible man could hesitate to accept.

She only asked him to settle in life. He must marry some day--why not

soon? Not to anybody, of course,--he must be on his guard against

foreign intriguing sirens, who would entangle him if they could,--but

to some lady of rank and fashion, fitted by birth and breeding to be

the mother of generations of Purlings yet to be. This was the

condition she annexed to forgiveness of the past; this the text upon

which she preached in her letters week after week. The doctrine of

judicious marriage appeared in all she wrote with the unfailing

regularity of the red thread that runs through all the strands of

Admiralty rope.

Harold smiled at the reiteration of these sentiments; smiled, but he

had misgivings. Herein might be another source of disagreement between

his mother and himself. Would their respective opinions agree as to

the style of girl most likely to suit him? Then he began to consider

what style of girl his mother would choose; and while he was thus

musing there came a missive which plainly showed Mrs. Purling's hand.

"I have been at Compton Revel for a week--"

"I wonder," thought Harold, when he had read thus far, "why they asked

her there? My dear old mother must have been in the seventh heaven of

delight. She always longed to be on more intimate terms with Lady

Calverly."

"I have been at Compton Revel for a week," his mother said, "and met

there a Miss Fanshawe, one of Lord Fanshawe's daughters, who seemed to

me quite the nicest girl I have ever known. I took to her directly;

and without conceit I may be permitted to say that I think she took

quite as readily to me. We became immense friends. She was at such

pains to be agreeable to an uninteresting old woman like myself that I

feel convinced she has a good heart. I confess I was charmed with her.

It is not only that she is strikingly handsome, but her whole bearing

and her style are so distinguished that she might be descended from a

long line of kings--as I make no doubt she is.

"Of course she has moved only in the best circles; her mother being

dead, she has been introduced by the Countess of Gayfeather, and goes

with her ladyship everywhere. Just imagine, she has been to

State-balls at the Palace; the Prince has danced with her, and she has

been spoken to by the Princess! You know how I enjoy hearing all the

news of the great world, and Miss Fanshawe has been so obliging as to

amuse me for hours with descriptions of all she has seen and

heard--not a little, I assure you; she is not one of those flighty

girls who have no ears but for flattery, no eyes but for young men;

she is observant, critical perhaps, but strikingly just in her

strictures on what goes on around. I find she has thought out several

of the complex problems of our modern high-pressure life; and really

she gave me very valuable ideas upon my favourite theory of

'lady-helps,' to which I am devoting now so much of my spare time.

"Miss Fanshawe has promised to pay me a long visit at Purlington some

day soon--a real act of kindness which I fully appreciate. It will

indeed be a treat to a lonely old woman to find so entertaining a

guest and companion.

"When do you think of returning? Gollop tells me there are plenty of

pheasants this year. Surely, you have had enough of those dry German

_savants_ and that dull university-town?"

The hook was rather coarsely baited; it would hardly have deceived

the most guileless and unsuspecting. Harold Purling at a glance could

read between the lines; he could trace effect to cause, and readily

understood why his mother was so anxious for his return.

"One of Lady Gayfeather's girls, is she? I never thought much of that

lot. However--but why on earth should Lady Calverly take my dear

mother up in this way, at the eleventh hour?"

He would have wondered yet more if he had seen how cordially Mrs.

Purling had been welcomed to Compton Revel.

"It is so good of you to come to us," Lady Calverly said, with

effusion. "We are so glad to have you here, and have looked forward to

it for so long."

For about seventeen years, in fact, during which time Lord and Lady

Calverly had completely ignored the existence of their near neighbour,

Mrs. Purling. Compton Revel might have been a paradise, and the

heiress an exiled peri waiting at the gates.

The party assembled was after Mrs. Purling's own heart. They were all

great people, at least in name; and the heiress of the Purlings was

heard to murmur that she did like to be in such good society--she felt

so perfectly at home. And they all made much of her. One night she

was handed in to dinner by a Duke, another by an ex-Cabinet Minister.

The latter made her feel proud, for the first time in her life, of her

son, and the line he had adopted so sorely against her will.

"Mr. Purling's paper on toxicology," he said, "is quite the cleverest

thing that has appeared on the subject. My friend, Sir William--,"

he mentioned a physician of world-wide repute, "considers that Mr.

Purling will go far."

Lady Calverly followed suit by declaring that Mr. Purling was a

pattern young man, everyone gave him so good a character. They _did_

hope to see him at Compton Revel directly he got back to England.

Then Miss Fanshawe metaphorically prostrated herself before Mrs.

Purling, and by judicious phrases and ready sympathy completely won

her good-will.

"You certainly made an impression upon her, Phillipa," said Lady

Calverly afterwards.

"She is a vain and rather silly old woman," Miss Fanshawe replied.

Language that might have opened Mrs. Purling's eyes.

"But I am very glad you became such good friends. Purlington is a very

desirable place."

Here, then, was a faint clue to the mystery of Mrs. Purling's tardy

reception at Compton Revel. Intrigue--not necessarily base, but

covered by the harmless phrase, "It would be so very nice"--was at

work to bring about a match between Miss Fanshawe and Harold Purling.

She was one of a large family of girls and her father was an

impoverished peer. Besides, her career so far had not been an unmixed

success. Lady Gayfeather's young ladies had the reputation of being

the "quickest" in the town.

"I have met the son," went on Lady Calverly.

"Yes?" Phillipa's tone was one of absolute indifference.

"He is a gentleman."

"I have always heard of him as a solemn prig--'Old Steady' he was

named at college. I confess I have no special leaning to these very

proper and decorous youths."

"Do not say that you are harping still on that old affair. I assure

you Gilly Jillingham is unworthy of you. You are not thinking still of

each other, I sincerely hope?"

"I may be of him," said Phillipa bitterly. "He is not likely to think

of any one--but himself."

"I shall never forgive myself for surrendering you to Lady Gayfeather.

Nothing but misery seems to hang about her and her house. This last

affair--"

There had been a terrible scandal, not many months old, and hardly

forgotten yet, which had roused Lady Calverly to remove her cousin,

Phillipa Fanshawe, from the evil influences of Lady Gayfeather's set.

Whether or not the rescue had come in time it would be difficult to

say. Miss Fanshawe could hardly escape scot-free from her

associations, nor was it to her advantage that rumour had bracketed

her name with that of a successful but not popular man of fashion.

There had been a talk of marriage, but he had next to nothing; no more

had she.

"We must have an end to all that," said Lady Calverly decisively. "You

must promise me to forget Mr. Jillingham for good and all."

"Of course," replied Phillipa; but the pale face and that sad look in

her weary eyes belied her words.

It seemed as if she had shot her bolt at the target of life's

happiness, and that the arrow had fallen very wide of the gold.

CHAPTER III.

When old Purling bought the ----shire estates there was an ancient

manor-house on the property, a picturesque but inconvenient residence,

which did not at all come up to his ideas of a country gentleman's

place. It was therefore incontinently pulled down, and one of the most

fashionable architects of the day, having _carte blanche_ to build,

erected a Palladian pile of wide frontage and imposing dimensions on

the most prominent site he could find. It ought to have haunted its

author like a crime; but he was spared, and the punishment fell upon

the innocent who dwelt around. There was no escape from Purlington, so

long as you were within a dozen miles of it. Wherever you went and

wherever you looked, down from points of vantage or up from quiet

dells, this great white caravanserai, with its glittering plate-glass

panes and staring stucco, forced itself upon you with the unblushing

effrontery of a brazen beauty, with painted face and bedizened in

flaunting attire. But the heiress thought it was a very splendid

place, with its pineries, conservatories, its acres of glass, and its

army of retainers in liveries of rainbow hues. Mrs. Purling was a

little afraid of her servants, albeit strong-minded in other respects;

but it was natural she should submit to a coachman who had once worn

the royal livery, or quail before a butler who had lived with a duke.

The butler met Harold on his return, extending to him a gracious

patronising welcome, as if he were doing the honours of his own house.

"Misterarold," he cried, making one word of the name and title, "this

is a pleasant surprise. You wus not expected, sir; not in the least."

"My mother is at home?"

"No, sir; out. In the kerridge. She drove Homersham way."

"See after my things. Here are my keys." And Harold passed on to the

little morning-room which Mrs. Purling called her own. Having the

choice of half-a-dozen chambers, each as big as Exeter Hall, she

preferred to occupy habitually the smallest den in the house. To his

surprise he found the room not untenanted. A young lady was at the

book-case, and she turned seemingly in trepidation on hearing the door

open.

"Miss Fanshawe," thought Harold, as he advanced with eyes that were

unmistakably critical.

"I must introduce myself," he said. "I am Harold."

"The last of the Saxon kings?"

"No; the first of the Purling princes. I know you quite well. Has my

mother never mentioned me?"

"I only arrived yesterday," the young lady replied, rather evading the

question.

"My mother must be delighted. She told me she was looking forward

eagerly to your promised visit."

"She really spoke of me?"

"In her letters; again and again."

"I hardly thought--"

"That you had taken her by storm? You have; and I was surprised, for

she is not easily won."

Not a civil speech, which this girl only resented by placing a pair of

old-fashioned double glasses across her small nose, and looking at him

with a gravity that was quite comical.

"But now that I have met you I can readily understand."

The same look through the glasses; sphinx-like, she seemed impervious

both to depreciation and compliment.

"And she has left you alone all the morning? I am afraid you must have

been bored."

"Thank you. I had my work."

It was an exquisite piece of art needlework. Water-lilies and yellow

irises on a purple ground. She confessed it was her own design.

"And books?"

He took up Schlegel's _Philosophy of History_ in the original.

"You read German?"

"O yes."

"And Italian? and French? and Sanscrit--without doubt?"

"Not quite; but I have looked into Max Müller, and know something of

Monier Williams."

And this was one of Lady Gayfeather's girls! Was this a new process,

the last dodge in the perpetual warfare between maidens and mankind?

Harold looked at the prodigy.

In appearance she was quite unlike the conventional type of a London

young lady of fashion. Her fresh dimpled cheeks wore roses and a

pearly bloom that spoke of healthy hours and a tranquil life; her

dress was quiet almost to plainness; there was nothing modern in the

style of her coiffure; Lobb would not have been proud of her boots.

Her fair white hands were innocent of rings; she wore no jewelry;

there was no gold or silver about her, except for the gold-rimmed

glasses that made so curious a contrast to her young face, with its

merry eyes and frame of mutinous curls.

"You will not be angry," said Harold earnestly, "if I tell you that

you are not in the least what I expected to find you, Miss

Fanshawe--"

"Miss Fanshawe!" Her gay laugh was infectious. "I'm afraid--"

But just now the butler came in to say that the carriage was coming up

the drive. Harold went out to meet his mother, without noticing that

the young lady also got up and hurriedly left the room.

"It's just like you, you stupid boy!" said the heiress. "Why did you

give me no notice?"

"I meant to have written from Paris. But it's all for the best. You

were quite right. She is perfectly charming."

"Who?"

"Miss Fanshawe. I have made her acquaintance."

"In town?"

"No, here; in your own morning-room."

"What!" The ejaculation contained volumes. "Was there ever anything so

annoying! But it is all your fault for coming so unexpectedly."

"What harm? We introduced ourselves, Miss Fanshawe--"

"Miss Fiddlesticks! That's Dolly Driver, your father's cousin!"

"Indeed! Then I wish I had made the acquaintance of my father's

cousins a little earlier in life. Why have I been kept in ignorance of

my relatives? Where do they live?"

Mrs. Purling, instead of answering him, took him by the arm abruptly,

as if to ask him some searching question; then suddenly checking

herself, she said--

"Have you had lunch? It must be ready. Come into the dining-room."

"Will not Miss Driver join us?"

"She will go to the housekeeper's room, where she ought to have been

sitting, and not in my boudoir."

"Mother!"

"It's as well to be plain-spoken. Dolly Driver is not of our rank in

life. Her parents are miserably poor. Nevertheless,"--as if the crime

hardly deserved such liberal pardon,--"I am not indisposed to help

them. She is going to a situation."

"Poor girl! Companion or governess? or both?"

"Neither; she will be either housemaid or undernurse."

Harold almost jumped off his chair.

"A girl like that! as a domestic servant! Mother, it's a disgraceful

shame!"

"The disgrace is in the language you permit yourself to use to me.

Your travels have made you rather boisterous and _gauche_. What

disgrace can there be in honest work? Household work is honourable,

and was once occupation for the daughters of kings. Happily the world

grows more sensible. I look to the day as not far distant when the

wide-spread employment of lady-helps will solve that terrible

problem--the redundancy of girls."

"My cousin will not continue redundant, I feel sure."

"She is not your cousin."

"Whether or no, she should be spared the degradation you propose. She

is a girl of culture, highly educated. You cannot condemn her to the

kitchen."

"The lady-helps have their own apartment; but I decline to justify

myself."

And Mrs. Purling lapsed into silence. There was friction between them

already.

"Where are you going?" she asked, when lunch was over.

"To the housekeeper's room."

"Harold, I forbid you. It's highly improper--it's absolutely

indelicate."

"She is my cousin; besides there is a _chaperone_, Mrs. Haigh, or I'll

call in the cook."

"Do you mean to set me at defiance?"

"I mean to do what I consider right, even although my views may not

coincide with yours, mother."

For the rest of the day, indeed, Harold never left his newly-found

cousin's side. The heiress fumed and fretted, and scolded, but all in

vain. There was a new kind of masterfulness about her son which for

the moment she was powerless to resist.

"Of course she will dine with us," Harold said. And of course she did,

although Mrs. Purling looked as if she wished every mouthful would

choke her. Of course Harold called her Dolly to her face; was she not

his cousin? Quite as naturally he would have given her a cousinly kiss

when he said good-night, but something in her pure eyes and modest

face restrained him.

Certainly she was the nicest girl he had ever met in his life.

"Where's Doll?" he asked next morning at breakfast. "Not down?"

"Miss Driver is half-way to London, I hope," replied Mrs. Purling,

curtly. She was not a bad general, and had taken prompt measures

already to recover from her temporary reverse.

"I shall go after her."

"If you do, you need not trouble to return."

Nothing more was said, but anger filled the hearts of both mother and

son.

CHAPTER IV.

"I expect my dear friend, Miss Fanshawe, in a few days, Harold. I

trust you will treat her becomingly."

"One would think I was a bear just escaped from the Zoo. Why should

you fear discourtesy from me to any lady?"

"Because she is a friend of mine. Of late you seemed disposed to run

counter to me in every respect."

"I have no such desire, I assure you," said Harold, gravely; and there

the matter ended.

The preparation for Miss Fanshawe's reception could not have been more

ambitious if she had been a royal princess. With much reluctance Mrs.

Purling eschewed triumphal arches and a brass band, but she

redecorated the best bedroom, and sent two carriages to the station,

although her guest could hardly be expected to travel in both.

"_This_ is Miss Fanshawe," said the heiress, with much emphasis--"the

Honourable Miss Fanshawe."

"The Honourable Miss Fanshawe is only a very humble personage, not at

all deserving high-sounding titles," said the young lady for herself.

"My name is Phillipa--to my friends, and as such I count you, dear

Mrs. Purling; perhaps some day I may be allowed to say the same of

your son."

She spoke rapidly, with the fluent ease natural to a well-bred woman.

In the subdued light of the cosy room Harold made out a tall, slight

figure, well set off by the tight-fitting ulster; she carried her head

proudly, and seemed aristocratic to her finger-tips.

"I should have known you anywhere, Mr. Purling," she went on, without

a pause. "You are so like your dear mother. You have the same eyes."

It was a wonder she did not use the adjective "sweet"; for her tone

clearly implied that she admired them.

"I hear you are desperately and astoundingly clever," she continued,

like the brook flowing on for ever. "They tell me your pamphlet on

vivisection was quite masterly. How proud you must be, Mrs. Purling,

to hear such civil things said of his books!"

"Do you take sugar?" Harold asked, as he put a cup of tea into a hand

exquisitely gloved.

She looked up at him sharply, but failed to detect any satire behind

his words.

Harold thought that there was too much sugar and butter about her

altogether. Even thus early he felt antipathetic; yet, when they were

seated at dinner, and had an opportunity of observing her at leisure,

he could not deny that she was handsome, in a striking, queenly sort

of way; but he thought her complexion was too pale, and, at times,

when off her guard, a worn-out, harassed look came over her face, and

a tinge of melancholy clouded her dark eyes. But it was not easy to

find her off her guard. The unceasing strife of several seasons had

taught her to keep all the world at sword-point; she was armed

_cap-à-pie_, and ready always to fight with a clever woman's keenest

weapons--her eyes and tongue. Upon Harold she used both with

consummate skill; it was clear that she wished to please him,

addressing herself principally to him, asking his opinion on

scientific questions, coached up on purpose, and listening attentively

when he replied.

"How wise you have been to keep away from town these years! One gets

so sick of the perpetual round."

"I should have thought it truly delightful," said Mrs. Purling, who,

of course, took the unknown for the magnificent.

"Any honest labour would be preferable."

"Turn lady-help; that's my mother's common advice."

"Harold, how dare you suggest such a thing to Miss Fanshawe? Do you

know she is a peer's daughter?"

"I thought you said housework would do for the daughters of kings; and

you have proposed it to our cousin, Dolly Dri--"

"Were you at Ryde this year, Phillipa?" asked Mrs. Purling, promptly.

"No--at Cowes. We were yachting. Dreary business, don't you think, Mr.

Purling?"

"I rather like it."

"Yes, if you have a pleasant party and an object. But mere

cruising"--Miss Fanshawe was quick at shifting her ground.

"And you are going to Scotland?"

"Probably; and then for a round of visits. Dear, dear, how I loathe

it all! I had far rather stay with you."

The heiress smiled gratefully. It was, indeed, the dearest wish of her

heart that Phillipa should stay with her for good and all, and she was

at no pains to conceal the fact. To Phillipa she spoke with

diffidence, doubting whether this great personage could condescend to

favour her son. But there was no lack of frankness in the old lady's

speech.

"If you and he would only make a match of it!"

Miss Fanshawe squeezed Mrs. Purling's hand affectionately.

"I like him, I confess. More's the pity. I'm sure he detests me."

"As if it were possible!"

"Trust a girl to find out whether she's appreciated. Mr. Purling, for

my sins, positively dislikes me; or else he has seen some one already

to whom he has given his heart."

Mrs. Purling shook her head sadly, remembering artful Dolly Driver.

"You do not know all your son's secrets; no mother does."

"I do know this one, I fear."

And then Mrs. Purling described the absurd mistake in identity.

"You are not angry?" she went on. "For my part, I was furious. But

nothing shall come of it, I solemnly declare. Harold will hardly risk

my serious displeasure; but he shall know that, sooner than accept

this creature as my daughter, I would banish him for ever from my

sight."

"It will not come to that, I trust," said Phillipa, earnestly, and

with every appearance of good faith.

"Not if you will help me, as I know you will."

Mrs. Purling was resolved now to issue positive orders for Harold to

marry Miss Fanshawe--out of hand. But next day Phillipa suddenly

announced her intention of returning to town.

"You promised to stay at least a month." The heiress was in tears.

"I am heartily sorry; but Cæcilia--Lady Gayfeather--is ill and alone.

I must go to her at once."

"You have a feeling heart, Phillipa. This is a sacred duty; I cannot

object. But I shall see you again?"

"As soon as I can return, dear Mrs. Purling--if you will have me, that

is to say."

The story of Lady Gayfeather's illness was a mere fabrication. What

summoned Phillipa to London was this note:

"I _must_ see you. Can you be at Cæcilia's on Saturday?--G."

Phillipa sat alone in Lady Gayfeather's drawing-room, when Mr.

Jillingham was announced.

"What does this mean?" she asked.

"I'm broke, simply."

"You don't look much like it."

To say the truth, he did not; he never did. He had had his ups and

downs; but if he was down he hid away in outer darkness; if you saw

him at all, he was floating like a jaunty cork on the very top of the

wave. He was a marvel to everyone; it was a mystery how he lasted so

long. Money went away from him as rain runs off the oiled surface of a

shiny mackintosh coat. And yet he had always plenty of it; eclipses he

might know, but they were partial; collapse might threaten, but it was

always delayed. He had still the best dinners, the best cigars, the

best brougham; was _bien vu_ in the best society: had the best

boot-varnish in London, and wore the most curly-brimmed hats, the envy

of every hatter but his own. To all outward seeming there was no more

fortunate prosperous man about town; the hard shifts to which he had

been put at times were known only to himself--and to one other man,

who had caught him tripping once, and found his account in the fact.

The pressure this man excited drove Gilly Jillingham nearly to

despair. He was really on the brink of ruin at this moment, although

he stood before Phillipa as reckless and defiant as when he had first

won her girlish affections, and thrown them carelessly on one side.

"How can I help you?" asked Phillipa, when he had repeated his news.

"I never imagined you could; but you take such an interest in me, I

thought you might like to know."

"And you have dragged me up to London simply to tell me this?"

"Certainly. You always took a delight in coming when I called."

It was evident that he had a strong hold over her. She trembled

violently.

"Are these lies I hear?" he went on, speaking with mocking emphasis.

"Can it be possible you mean to marry that cub?"

"Who has been telling you this?"

"Answer my question."

"What right have you to ask?"

"The best. You know it. Have you not been promised to me

since--since--"

"Well, do you wish me to redeem my promise? I am ready to marry you

now--to-day, if you please. Ruined as you are, reckless, unprincipled,

gambler--I know not what--"

"That's as well. But I am obliged to you; I will not trespass on your

good-nature. I shall have enough to do to keep myself."

"We might go to a colony."

"I can fancy you in the bush!"

"Anything would be preferable to the false, hollow life I lead. I want

rest. I could pray for it. I long to lay my head peacefully where--"

"Wherever you please. Try Mr. Purling's shoulder. You have my full

permission."

Phillipa's eyes flashed fire at this heartless _persiflage_.

"There is no such luck."

"Can he dare to be indifferent? How you must hate him!"

"As I did you."

"And do still? Thank you. But I wish you joy. When is it to be?"

"I tell you there is absolutely nothing between us. Mr. Purling is, to

the best of my belief, engaged already."

"Not with his mother's consent, surely? Why, then, has she made so

much of you?"

"No; not with her consent; indeed, it is quite against her wish. Mrs.

Purling as much as told me that if her son married this cousin he

would be disinherited. They do not agree very well together now."

"It's all hers--the old woman's--in her own right?"

"So far as I know."

Gilly Jillingham lay back in his chair and mused for a while.

"It's not a bad game if the cards play true."

His evil genius, had he been present, might have hinted that sometimes

the cards played for Mr. Jillingham a little too true.

"Not a bad game. Phillipa, how do you stand with this old beldame?"

"She pretends the most ardent affection for me."

"There are no other relatives, no one she would take up if this son

gave unpardonable offence?"

"Not that I know of. Besides, she calls me her dear daughter already."

"And would adopt you, doubtless, if the cub were got out of the way.

Yes, it can be done, I believe, and you can do it, Phillipa, if you

please. Only persuade the old lady to make you the heiress of the

Purlings, and there will be an end to your troubles--and mine."

Soon after this conversation Miss Fanshawe returned to Purlington. The

heiress smothered her with caresses.

"I shall not let you go away again. We have missed you more than I can

say."

"And you also, Mr. Harold? Are you glad to see me again?"

Harold bowed courteously.

"Of course; I have been counting the hours to Miss Fanshawe's return."

"Fibs! I can't believe it."

By-and-by she came to him.

"Why cannot we be friends, Mr. Purling? It pains me to be hated as you

hate me."

"You are really quite mistaken," Harold began.

"I am ready to prove my friendship. I know all about Miss

Driver--there!"

"Do you know where she is at this present moment?" Harold asked,

eagerly.

"You really wish to know? Your mother will tell me, I daresay. How

hard hit you must be! But there is my hand on it. You shall have all

the help that I can give."

Next day she told him.

"Miss Driver is at Harbridge."

"In service?"

"No; at home. They live there. Her father is a Custom-house officer."

That evening Harold informed his mother that important business called

him away. She remonstrated. How could he leave the house while Miss

Fanshawe was still there? What was the business? At least he might

tell his mother; or it might wait. She could not allow him to leave.

Mere waste of words; Harold was off next morning to Harbridge, and

Phillipa reported progress to her co-conspirator.

"It promises well," said Gilly. "I may be able to muzzle that

scoundrel after all."

CHAPTER V.

A quaint old red-sandstone town; the river-harbour crowded with small

craft, but now and again, like a Triton among the minnows, a

timber-brig or a trading-barque driven in by stress of weather. When

the tide went out--as it did seemingly with no intention of coming

back, it went so far--the long level sands were spotted with groups of

fisherfolk, who dug with pitchforks for sand-eels; while in among the

rocks an army of children gleaned great harvests of a kind of seaweed,

which served for food when times were hard.

These rocks were the seaward barrier and break-water of the little

port, and did their duty well when, as now, they were tried by the

full force of a westerly gale. It is blowing great guns; the hardy

sheep that usually browse upon the upland slopes must starve perforce

to-day--they cannot stand upon the steep incline; the cocks and hens

of the cottagers take refuge to leeward of their homes; every gust is

laden with atoms of sand or stone, which strike like hail or small

shot upon the face. See how the waves dash in at the outlying rocks,

hurrying onward like blood-hounds in full cry, scuffling, struggling,

madly jostling one another in eagerness to be first in the fray;

joining issue with tremendous crash, only to be spent, broken,

dissipated into thin air. Overhead the sky changes almost with the

speed of the blast; sometimes the sun winks from a corner of the

leaden clouds and tinges with glorious light the foam-bladders as they

burst and scatter around their clouds of spray; in between the

headlands the sea is churned into creaming froth, as though the

housewives of the sea-gods with unwearying arms were whipping "trifle"

for some tremendous bridal-feast.

The houses at Harbridge mostly faced the shore, but all had stone

porches, and the doors stood not in front, but at one side. The modest

cottage which Mr. Driver called his own was like the rest; but as he

enters, for all his care, a keen knife-edged gust of the pushing wind

precedes him and announces his return. Next instant the little lobby

is filled: a bevy of daughters, the good house-mother, one or two

youngsters dragging at his legs, everyone eager to welcome the

breadwinner home. They divest him of his wraps, soothing him the while

with that tender loving solicitude a man finds only at his own happy

hearth.

He unfolds his budget of news: a lugger driven by stress of weather

upon the Castle Rock; suspicions of smuggling among the rough beyond

Langness Cove; Dr. Holden's new partner arrived last night.

"I have asked him to come up this evening. A decent sort of chap."

Forthwith they fired a volley of questions. Was he old or young,

married or single? had he blue eyes or brown? and how was he called?

To all papa makes shift to reply. The name he had forgotten, also the

colour of his hair; but the fellow had eyes and two arms and two legs;

he did not squint; had a pleasant address and all the appearance of an

unmarried man.

"How could you see that, wise father?" asked Doll.

"He looked so sheepish when I mentioned my daughters. Doubtless he had

heard of you, Miss Doll, and of your dangerous wiles."

She pinched his ear. They were excellent friends, were father and

eldest daughter. Mr. Driver, a scholar and a man of letters, who had

been thankful to exchange an uncertain footing upon the lower rungs of

the ladder of literature for a small post under Government, had for

years devoted his talents to the education of the children. In Dolly,

as his most apt pupil, he took a peculiar pride.

"Come in, doctor!" cried Mr. Driver that night. "We are all dying, but

only to make your acquaintance."

The new visitor was checked at the very threshold by Dolly's cry--

"Mr. Purling!"

And Harold stood confessed to his cousins without a chance of further

disguise.

"Cousin Harold, you mean," he said, as he offered Dolly his hand.

She tried hard to hide her blushes; and then and there Mrs. Driver,

after the manner of mothers, built up a great castle in the air, which

her husband shook instantly to its foundations by asking

unceremoniously and not without a shade of angry suspicion in his

tone--

"Why did you not claim relationship this morning?"

He disliked the notion of a man stealing into his house under false

colours.

"I waited for you to speak. You heard my name."

"I did not catch it clearly. Besides, I had never heard of you. None

of us have. Your mother did not choose to recognise the relationship."

"She called you a tide-waiter," said his wife indignantly.

"At least I'm not a white-tied waiter," cried Mr. Driver, with a

laugh, in which all joined. Then in low voice Dolly said--

"I met Mr. Purling at Purlington."

At which her father turned upon her with newly-raised suspicion. Why

had she not mentioned the fact before? But something in Mrs. Driver's

face deterred him. A woman in these matters sees how the land lies,

while the cleverest man is still unable to distinguish it from the

clouds upon the horizon-line.

"We are pleased to know you, Harold," said Mrs. Driver, a gentle,

soft-voiced motherly person.

"You have really come to practise here?" went on the father, still

rather on his guard.

"I wanted sea-air. The change will do me good," replied Harold, rather

evasively. "I like the place, too."

Not a doubt of it. Harbridge was after his own heart, and so were some

people who lived in it. He found it so much to his taste that he

declared within a week or two that he thought of remaining there

altogether. He would go into partnership with the local doctor;

perhaps he had another partnership also in his eye.

"Can't you see what's going on under your nose, father?" asked Mrs.

Driver.

"What do I care? I shall not interfere."

"Mrs. Purling will never give her consent. Poor Doll!"

"_That_ for Mrs. Purling and her consent!" said Mr. Driver, snapping

his fingers. "Doll is ever so much too good for them--well, not for

him; he is an honest, straightforward fellow: but as for that selfish,

silly, purse-proud old woman, she may thank Heaven if she gains a

daughter like Doll."

That this was not Mrs. Purling's view of the question was plainly

evident from a letter which awoke Harold rather rudely from his rosy

dreams.

"So at length I have found you out, Harold. I never dreamt you could

be so deceitful and double-faced. To talk of clinical lectures in

town, and all the time at Harbridge, philandering with that forward,

intriguing girl! Only with the greatest difficulty have I succeeded in

learning the truth. Phillipa--who, it seems, has known your secret all

along, and to whom, I find, you have constantly written--could not

continue indifferent to my distress of mind. Although she has shielded

you so far with a magnanimity that is truly heroic, she has interposed

at length only to save my life.

"I desire you will come to me at once. Do not disobey me, Harold. I am

very seriously displeased, and will only consent to forgive the past

when I find you ready to bend your stubborn heart to obey my will."

Harold started at once for home. He hoped rather against hope that he

might talk his mother over; but her aspect was not encouraging when he

met her face to face.

No tragedy-queen could have assumed more scorn. Mrs. Purling, having

thrown herself into several attitudes, fell at length into a chair.

"I never thought it," she said; "not from my own and only child. The

serpent's tooth hath not such fangs, such power to sting, as the base

ingratitude of one undutiful boy. But this fills the cup. I have done

with you--for ever, unless you give me your sacred word of honour now,

at this minute, never to speak to Dolly Driver again."

"Such a promise would be quite impossible under any circumstances, but

I distinctly refuse to give it--upon compulsion."

"Then you have fair warning. Not one penny of my money shall you ever

possess. I will never see you again."

"I sincerely trust the last is only an empty threat, my dearest

mother."

She made a gesture as though she were not to be beguiled by soft

words.

"As for the money, it matters little. Thank God, I have my

profession."

"At which you will starve."

"By which I shall earn my bread as my father did. Besides, I can fall

back upon the reputation of the Family Pills."

"I see you wish to goad me beyond endurance, Harold. Go!"

"For good and all?"

"Yes; except on the one alternative. Will you give up this idiotic

passion? You refuse. It is on your own head, then. Go--go till I send

for you, which will be never!"

Harold went without another word--to Harbridge, overcame Dolly's

scruples, secured the practice, and within a month was married and

settled.

Mrs. Purling, in Phillipa's presence, made a great parade of burning

her will.

"He has brought it all on himself, unnatural boy! But you, darling

Phillipa, will never treat me thus. _Noblesse oblige._ The bright blue

blood that fills your veins would curdle at a _mésalliance_, I know."

Mrs. Purling was quite calm and self-possessed, while Miss Fanshawe,

strange to say, seemed agitated enough for both. Her hands trembled,

she looked away; only with positive repugnance she submitted to her

new mother's affectionate embrace. A woman who is capable of the most

cold-blooded calculating intrigue may yet have an access of remorse.

Phillipa's heart was heavy now at the moment of her triumph. It cost

her more than a passing pang to remember that she had robbed Harold

Purling of his birthright, and had turned to her own base purpose the

foolish cravings of the silly mother's heart.

But she had put aside self-upbraiding when she met her lover in town.

"Faith, you are a trump, Phillipa; but it's not much too soon. When

will you take your reward?"

"Meaning Mr. Jillingham? Is the reward worth taking, I wonder?" For a

moment she held him at bay. "Suppose I were to refuse you now at the

eleventh hour? It is for you to sue. I am not what I was. Mrs. Purling

calls me the heiress of the Purlings, and we may not consider Mr.

Gilbert Jillingham a very eligible _parti_."

"You dare not refuse me, Phillipa," said Gilly very seriously. "I

should expose your schemes, and we should go to the wall together. No,

there is no escape for you now; our interests are identical."

"How am I to introduce you upon the scene?"

"Quite naturally; I shall go and stay at Compton Revel. They will have

me, for your sake, if not for my own. I shall begin _de novo_--at the

very beginning: be smitten, pay you court, win over the heiress, and

propose."

So it fell out, and they also were married before the end of the

year.

CHAPTER VI.

Mean as had been their conduct towards Mrs. Purling and her son,

Phillipa and her husband were not to be classed with common

adventurers of the ordinary type. Born in a lower station, Gilly

Jillingham might have taken honours as a "prig"; in his own with less

luck he might have been an Ishmaelite generally shunned. Phillipa also

might have degenerated into a mere soured cackling hanger-on; but they

were not pariahs by caste, but Brahmins, and entitled to all due

honour so long as they floated on top of the wave. Perhaps if near

drowning no finger would have been outstretched to save; but there

were plenty to pat them on the back as they disported themselves on

the sound dry land. Fair-weather friends and needy relatives rallied

round their prosperity, of course; but they were also accepted as

successful social facts by the whole of that great world which judges

for the most part by appearances, being too idle or too much engrossed

by folly to apply more accurate or searching tests. In good society

those who cared to talk twice of the matter blamed Harold; he was

absent; besides, he had gone to the wall, therefore he must be in the

wrong. On the other hand, the Jillinghams deserved the triumph that is

never denied success. To Gilly prosperous were forgiven the sins of

Gilly in social and moral rags. If scandal like an evil gas had been

let loose to crystallise upon Phillipa's good name, the black stains

could not adhere long to so charming a person, who made the Purling

mansion in Berkeley Square one of the best-frequented and most

fashionable in town.

There were many reasons why the Jillinghams should find their account

in perpetual junketings. Social excitement was as the breath in

Gilly's nostrils; notorious for profuse expenditure even when he was

penniless, he was now absolutely reckless with money that was

plentiful and moreover not his own. Nor was the constant whirl of

gaieties without its charm for Phillipa; it deadened conscience, and

consoled in some measure for the neglect and indifference she soon

encountered at her husband's hands. But the most potent reason was

that it fooled Mrs. Purling to the top of her bent. Self-satisfaction

beamed upon her ample face as she found herself at length in constant

intercourse and on a social equality--as she thought--with the

potentates and powers and great ones of the earth. Gilly Jillingham in

the days of his apogee had been the spoiled favourite of more than one

titled dame; his success must have been great, to measure it by the

envy and hatred he evoked among his fellowmen--even when in the cold

shade there were duchesses who fought for him still; and now, when

once more in full blossom, all his fair friends were ready to pet him

as of old. The form in which their kindness pleased him best--because

it was most to his advantage--was in making much of Mrs. Purling.

Great people have the knack of putting those whom they patronise on

the very best terms with themselves; and Mrs. Purling was so convinced

of her success as a leader of fashion that she would have asked for a

peerage in her own right, taking for arms three pills proper upon a

silver field, if she could have been certain that these honours would

not descend to her recreant son.

Whether or not, as time passed, she was absolutely happy, she did not

pause to inquire. The devotion of her newly-adopted children was so

unstinting, and they kept her so continually busy, that she had not

time for self-reproach. It was a disappointment to her that the

Jillinghams had no prospect of a family, and her chagrin would have

been increased had she known that already a boy and girl had been born

to the rightful heirs at Harbridge. But such news was carefully kept

from her; she was rigorously cut off from all communication with her

son. There was no safety otherwise against mischance; the strange

processes of the old creature's mind were inscrutable; she might in

one spasm of an awakened conscience undo all. For the Jillinghams were

still absolutely dependent upon her; she could turn them out of house

and home whenever she pleased. A small settlement was all the real

property Phillipa had secured. Although with right royal generosity

Mrs. Purling gave her favourites a liberal allowance, and promised

them everything when she was gone, yet was she like a crustacean in

the tenacity of her grip upon her own. This close-fistedness was

exceedingly distasteful to Mr. Jillingham. He had an appetite for gold

not easily appeased, and four or five thousand a year was to him but a

mouthful to be swallowed at one gulp.

Openly of course he continued on his best behaviour, but behind the

scenes he permitted himself to grumble loudly at the old lady's

meanness and miserly ways.

"I cannot understand you, Gilbert. I cannot see what you do with all

the money you get," said Phillipa reproachfully one day when they were

alone, and Gilly was enlarging upon his favourite theme. "You live at

free quarters, you have no expenses and ought to have no debts."

"Have you no debts, pray?"

"None that you are ignorant of."

"Look here, Phillipa; listen to me. I spend what I please, how I

please. I shall give no account of it to you, nor to any one else in

the world."

"It is not necessary. I had rather not be told. I do not care to

know," said Phillipa, womanlike, forgetting that she had begun by

wishing to be informed. She had her own suspicions, but forbore to

question further, lest she might be brought face to face with the

outrages she feared he put upon her.

"She will take to counting the potatoes next. It's most contemptible.

A mean old brute--"

"I shall not listen to you, Gilbert. You owe her everything."

"Do I? I wonder what my tailor would say to that or Reuben Isaac

Melchisedec? I've more than one creditor; they are a prolific and, I

am sorry to say, a long-lived race."

"I hope Mrs. Purling may live to be a hundred years at least--"

"I don't. I'd rather she was choked by one of those pills you tell me

she takes every morning and night."

There was something in his tone which made Phillipa look at him hard.

Was it possible that he contemplated any terrible wickedness? The mere

apprehension made her blood run cold.

"O Gilly, swear to me that you will not harbour evil thoughts, that

you will put aside the devil who is prompting and luring you to some

awful crime!"

"Psha, Phillipa, you ought to have gone into the Church. Moderate your

transports--here comes one of the footmen."

"A person to see you, sir," said the servant. "He 'aven't got any

card, but his business is very particular."

"I can't see him; send him away. If he won't go call the police."

"Says his name, sir, is Shubenacady."

"Take him to the library; I'll come."

Jillingham's face was rather pale, and his lips were set firm when he

met his visitor.

"What the mischief do you want?"

"Five thou--ten--what you please. I know of a splendid investment."

"In soap?"

He was the dirtiest creature that ever was seen. He wore a full suit

of black, but the coat and trousers were white with age and

dust-stains; an open waistcoat, exposing an embroidered shirt which

could not have been washed for months; his hat was napless, and had a

limp brim; no gloves, and the grimiest of hands. But he was decorated,

and wore a ribbon, probably of St. Lucifer.

"In soap, or shavings, or shoddy; what does it matter to you? When can

I have the money?"

"Never; not another sixpence."

"Then I shall publish all I know."

"No one will believe you."

"I have proofs."

"Which are forged. I tell you I'm too strong for you: you will find

yourself in the wrong box. I am sick of this; and I mean to put an end

to your extortion."

"You dare me. You know the consequences."

"The first consequence will be that I shall give you in charge. Be

off!"

"You shall have a week to think better of it."

Gilly rang the bell.

"Shall I send for a policeman, or will you go?"

He went, muttering imprecations intermixed with threats; but Gilly

Jillingham, quite proud of his courage, seemed for the moment callous

to both. He little dreamt how soon the latter would be put into

effect.

Within a few days of this interview the greatest event of Mrs.

Purling's whole social career was due; she was to entertain royalty

beneath her own roof. This crowning of the edifice of her ambition

filled her with solemn awe; the preparations for the coming ball were

stupendous, her own magnificent costume seemed made up of diamonds and

bullion and five-pound notes.

Long before the hour of reception she might have been seen pacing to

and fro with stately splendour, contemplating the daïs erected for

royalty at one end of the room, and thinking with a glow of

satisfaction that the representative of the Purlings had at last come

to her own. At this supreme moment she was grateful to dear Phillipa

and to Gilbert little less dear.

Then guests began to pour in. Where was Phillipa? Very late; she might

have dressed earlier. A servant was sent to call her, and Phillipa,

hurrying down, met Gilly on the upper floor coming out of Mrs.

Purling's bedroom.

"What have you been doing there?" she asked.

"Mrs. Purling wanted a fan," said Gilly readily.

She might want one fan, but hardly two; and had Phillipa been less

flurried she might have noticed that Mrs. Purling had one already in

her hand. But then their Royal Highnesses arrived; the heiress made

her curtsey for the first time in her life, was graciously received,

and the hour of her apotheosis had actually come. Presently the crowd

became so dense that every inch of space was covered; people

overflowed on to the landings, and sat four or five deep upon the

stairs. Dancing was simply impossible; however, hundreds of couples

went through the form. Phillipa, as in duty bound, remained in the

thick of the _mêlée_, but Gilly had very early disappeared. He

preferred the card-room; his waltzing days were over, he said. He was

playing; it was not very good taste, but there were some men who

preferred a quiet rubber to looking at princes or the antics of boys

and girls, and he wished to oblige his friends.

"Can you give me a moment, Le Grice?" said Lord Camberwell, coming

into the card-room. "I have had a most extraordinary letter. It

accuses Gilly Jillingham--"

"God bless my soul," cried old Colonel Le Grice, "a letter of the same

sort has been sent to me!"

"Have you had any suspicion that he played unfairly?"

"Not the slightest; I know he always holds the most surprising hands,

that he plays for very high stakes, that he nearly always wins--"

"Is he winning now?"

Of course. Mr. Jillingham's luck never deserted him. He was trying now

perhaps to make at one coup sufficient to silence for a further space

his enemy's tongue; the bets upon the odd trick alone amounted to a

thousand or more. But he was too late. His hour had come.

Suddenly Lord Camberwell spoke in a loud peremptory voice:

"Stop! Mr. Jillingham is cheating. He does it in the deal. I have

watched him now for three rounds."

"And so have I," added Colonel Le Grice.

Gilly sprang to his feet. For a moment he seemed disposed to brazen it

out; then he read his sentence in the face of those who had detected

and now judged him. There was no appeal: he was doomed. From

henceforth he was socially and morally dead, and, without a word, he

slunk away from the house.

The buzz of the ball-room soon caught up the ugly scandal, and tossed

it wildly from lip to lip. "Mr. Jillingham caught cheating at cards!"

Everyone said, of course, they had suspected it all along; now every

one knew it as a fact, except those most nearly concerned. To them it

came last. To Phillipa, whose heart it stabbed as with a knife, cut

through and through; then to Mrs. Purling, who, a little taken aback

by the sudden exodus of her guests, asked innocently what it meant,

upon which some one, without knowing who she was, told her the exact

truth.

Quite stunned by the terrible shock, dazed, terrified, was the

heiress, scarcely capable of comprehending what had occurred. Then

with a sad, scared face, motioning Phillipa on one side, who, equally

white and grief-stricken, would have helped her, she crept slowly

upstairs, feeling that at one blow the whole fabric of her social

repute was tumbled in the dust.

The lights were out, the play was over, the house still and silent,

when, with loud shrieks, Mrs. Purling's maid rushed to Phillipa's

room.

"Mrs. Purling, ma'am!--my mistress, she is dying! Come to her! She is

nearly gone!"

In truth, the poor old woman was in the extremest agony; it was quite

terrible to see her. She gasped as if for air; her whole frame jerked

and twitched with the violence of her convulsions; gradually her body

was drawn in a curve, like that of a tensely-strung bow.

The spasms abated, then recommenced; abated, then raged with increased

fury. But through it all she was conscious; she had even the power of

speech, and cried aloud again and again, with a bitter heart-wrung

cry, for "Harold! Harold!" the absent much-wronged son.

"The symptoms are those of tetanus," said the nearest medical

practitioner, who had been called in. He seemed fairly puzzled.

"Tetanus or--" He did not finish the sentence, because the single

word that was on his lips formed a serious charge against a person or

persons unknown. "But there is nothing to explain lock-jaw; while the

abatement of the symptoms points to--" Again he paused.

The muscles of the mouth, which had been the last attacked, gradually

resumed their normal condition. The patient appeared altogether more

easy, the writhings subsided; presently, as if utterly exhausted, she

sank off to sleep.

Harold Purling had come up post-haste from Harbridge; and when the

mother opened her eyes they rested upon her son.

A hurried consultation passed in whispers between the two doctors.

Phillipa was present; she and the maid had not left Mrs. Purling all

night.

"Mother," said Harold, "you are out of all danger. Tell me--do you

recollect taking anything likely to make you ill?"

"Only the pills." She pointed to the family medicine--a box of which

stood always by her bedside. She had some curious notion that it was

her duty to show belief in the Primeval Pills, and she made a practice

of swallowing two morning and night.

Harold opened the box; examined the pills; finally put one into his

mouth and bit it through. Bitter as gall.

"They have been tampered with," he said. "These contain strychnia. You

have had a narrow escape of being poisoned, dearest mother--poisoned

by your own Pills!"

He half smiled at the conceit.

"There has been foul play, I swear. It shall be sifted to the bottom,

and the guilty called to serious account."

But the mystery was never solved. If Phillipa had in her heart

misgivings, she kept her suspicions to herself; no one accused her;

there seemed explanation for her cowed and trembling manner in Gilly's

downfall and disgrace. The man himself never reappeared openly; only

now and again he swooped down and robbed Phillipa of all she,

possessed--the thrift of her allowance from Mrs. Purling.

As for the heiress, surrounded by the real love and warm hearts of her

lineal descendants, she was satisfied to eschew all further

acquaintance with people of the Blue Blood.