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(Oxford University)
THE
MYSTERIES OF HERON DYKE.
A Novel of Incident.
By the Author of
"In the Dead of Night," "Brought to Light," etc.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1880.
[_All Rights Reserved_.]
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
CHAPTER
I. WINTER AT HERON DYKE.
II. DR. DOWNES' SNUFF-BOX.
III. "PATCHWORK."
IV. THE TWENTY-FOURTH OF APRIL.
V. MR. CHARLES PLACKETT CALLS UPON THE SQUIRE.
VI. SUDDEN TIDINGS.
VII. THE MISTRESS OF HERON DYKE.
VIII. WHAT DOROTHY SAW IN THE SHRUBBERY.
IX. ON BOARD THE "SEAMEW."
X. RESCUER AND RESCUED.
XI. NOTHING VENTURE, NOTHING WIN.
XII. HUBERT STONE'S RETURN.
THE
MYSTERIES OF HERON DYKE.
CHAPTER I.
WINTER AT HERON DYKE.
The mellow autumn months darkened and died slowly into winter. The
wild winds that are born in the bitter north blew in stronger and
fiercer gusts, and the majestic monotone of the sea grew louder and
more triumphant as the huge tides broke in white-lipped wrath against
the shuddering sands. There came tidings of fishing boats that never
found their way back home, of great ships in the offing that made
signals of distress, of dead bodies washed up here and there along the
shore. The Easterby lifeboat was ever ready to brave the fiercest
seas; while miles away across the seething waters, at once a signal of
warning and of hope, the ruddy beacon of Easterby lighthouse shone
clear and steady through the darkest night: it was like the eye of
Faith shining across the troubled waters of Life.
At Heron Dyke, to all outward seeming, the winter months brought
little or no change in the monotony of life within its four grey
walls. And yet there were some changes; all of which, unimportant as
they might seem if taken singly, had a distinct bearing on events to
come. The two housemaids, Martha and Ann, to whom Aaron Stone had
given warning in his anger at what he called their folly, were not
forgiven. They left the Hall at the expiration of the month's notice,
giving place to two strong young women who came all the way from
London; and who, never having been in the country before, were
supposed to be superior to the ordinary run of superstitious fancies,
which so powerfully affect the rural mind. Aaron took care that Martha
and Ann should be clear of the house before Phemie and Eliza arrived
at it: there should be no collusion with the new-comers if he could
prevent it.
All went well at first. Phemie and Eliza felt dull, but were
sufficiently comfortable. They had plenty to eat, and little to do.
Not having been told that the Hall was supposed to be haunted, to them
the north wing was the same as any other part of the house, and they
neither saw nor heard anything to frighten them. The deaf and stolid
cook kept herself, as usual, to herself, and said nothing. Indeed, it
may be concluded that she had nothing to say. Had a whole army of
apparitions placed themselves in a row before her at the "witching
hour o' night," it would not have affected her; she utterly despised
them, and the belief that could put faith in them.
Old Aaron chuckled at the success of his new arrangements.
"We shall be bothered with no more cock-and-bull stories about grisly
ghosts now," thought he.
But, though the new maids were safe enough from hearing gossip inside
the house, they were not out of it. Aaron, however good his will might
be, could not keep them within for ever: they must go to church, they
must go into the town; they claimed, although strangers in the place,
a half-holiday now and then. And the first half-holiday that Phemie
had, something came of it.
The girl made the best of her way to Nullington. Small though the town
was, it had its shops; and shops have a wonderful fascination for the
female heart. Into one and into another went Phemie, making
acquaintance with this vendor of wares and with that. Mysterious
things were talked of; and when she got back to the Hall at night, she
had a rare budget of strange news to tell Eliza.
The Hall was haunted. At least, the north wing of it was. A young
woman. Miss Winter's maid, had mysteriously disappeared in it one
night last winter, and had never been heard of since. The two previous
housemaids had been nearly terrified out of their wits afterwards.
They had heard doors clash after dark that were never shut by mortal
hands; they had heard a voice that sobbed and sighed along the
passages at midnight; and they had been once awakened by a strange
tapping at their bedroom door, as if some one were seeking to come in.
More dreadful than all, they had seen the deathlike face of the
missing girl staring down at them over the balusters of the gallery in
the great entrance-hall: and it was for being frightened at this, for
speaking of it, they were turned away!--which was shamefully unjust.
All this disquieting news, with the observations made on it, had
Mistress Phemie contrived to pick up in the course of one afternoon's
shopping, and to bring home to Eliza.
The two servants had now plenty to talk about in the privacy of their
own room, and talk they did; but they were wise enough at present to
keep their own counsel, and to wait with a sort of dread expectancy
for what time might bring forth. Would they hear strange sobbings and
sighings in the night? would a ghostly face stare suddenly out upon
them from behind some dark corner when they least expected it? The
dull depths of these girls' minds were stirred as they had never been
stirred before. They half hoped and wholly dreaded the happening of
something--they knew not what.
Meanwhile they began to go timorously about the house, to shun the
north wing most carefully after dark, and to keep together after
candles were lighted. Old Aaron, silently watching, was not slow to
mark these signs and tokens, though he took no outward notice. While
his wife Dorothy, watching also in her superstitious fear, drew in her
mind the conclusion that the girls were being disturbed as the other
two girls had been.
It fell out one afternoon, about three weeks after Phemie had brought
her strange tidings from Nullington, that Eliza was sent to the town
on an errand by her mistress, Mrs. Stone: for, to all intents and
purposes, Dorothy Stone acted as the women-servants' mistress, whether
Miss Winter might be in the house, or whether she was out of it. Eliza
was later in starting than she ought to have been, and she was longer
doing her errands--for she took the opportunity to make purchases on
her own account--and it was dusk before she turned back to Heron Dyke.
It was a pleasant evening, cold but dry, with the stars coming out one
after another, as she went quickly along the quiet country road,
thinking of her mother and sisters far away. She turned into the park
by the lodge on the Easterby road, stopping for a couple of minutes'
gossip with Mrs. Tilney, the gardener's wife. How pleasant and
homelike the little lodge looked, Eliza thought, full of ruddy
firelight, for Hannah Tilney would not light the lamp till her husband
should arrive. The elder girl was making toast for her father's tea,
the younger one was hushing her doll to sleep, while Mrs. Tilney
herself was setting out the tea-cups, and the kettle was singing on
the hob--all awaiting the return of the good husband and father.
Bidding the lodge goodnight, Eliza went on her way. It was quite dark
by this time, and although the hour was early she did not much like
her lonely walk through the park. She was not used to the country, and
the solitude frightened her a little; fancy whispering that a tramp
might be lurking behind every tree. She pictured to herself the light
and bustle of London streets, and was sorry she had left them. Leaving
the carriage-drive to the right when she got within two or three
hundred yards of the Hall, she turned into a shrubbery that led to the
servants' entrance. It did seem very lonely here, and she hurried on,
glancing timidly from right to left, her heart beating a little faster
than ordinary.
Suddenly a low scream burst from her lips. A dark figure, emerging
from behind a clump of evergreens, stood full in her path, and placed
its hand on her arm. Eliza stood still; she had no other choice; and
trembled as she had never trembled before. It was a woman: she could
see that much now.
"Won't you please let me speak with you?" cried a gentle voice, which
somehow served to reassure Eliza.
"My patience!" cried she, anger bubbling up in the reaction of
feeling, "how came you to frighten me like that? I was thinking
of--of--all kinds of startling things. What do you want?"
"You are one of the new maids at the Hall," rejoined the figure, in
low, beseeching accents, "and I have been trying for weeks to get to
speak to you."
"Who are you?--and what do you want with me?" demanded Eliza.
"I am Susan Keen."
"Susan Keen," repeated the servant, not remembering at the moment why
the name should seem familiar to her. "Well, I don't know you, if you
are."
"My sister lived at the Hall, Miss Winter's maid, and she disappeared
in her bedroom one night last winter," went on poor Susan, with a kind
of sob. "It was full of mystery. Even Mr. Kettle says that."
"Oh yes, to be sure," cordially replied Eliza, her sympathies aroused
now. "Poor Katherine Keen! Yes. What _did_ become of her?"
Susan shook her head. It was a question no one could answer.
"I want you to help me to find out," she whispered.
The avowal struck Eliza with a sort of alarm.
"Good gracious!" she cried.
"I want you to help me to find some traces of her--my poor lost
sister," continued Susan--"some clue to the mystery of her fate----"
"But what could _I_ do, even if I were willing?" interrupted the
housemaid.
"You are inside the house, I am outside," replied Susan, with a sob.
"Your chances are greater than mine. Oh, won't you help me? At any
moment, when least expected, some link might show itself; the merest
accident, as mother says, might put us on the right track. Have you no
pity for her?"
"I've a great deal of pity for her; I never heard so strange and
pitiful a tale in all my life," was the reply. "Phemie was told all
about it when she went into Nullington. But, you know, she may not be
dead."
"She is dead," shivered Susan. "Oh, believe that. I am as sure of it
as that we two are standing here. At first I didn't believe she was
dead; I couldn't: but now that the months have gone on, and on, I feel
that there's no hope. If she were alive she would not fail to let us
know it to ease our sorrow--all this while! Katherine was more loving
and thoughtful than you can tell."
"It's said she had no sweetheart: or else----" Eliza was beginning.
But the other went on, never hearing.
"If she were not dead, she would not come to me so often in my
dreams--and she's always dead in them. And, look here," added the
girl, in awed tones, drawing a step nearer, and gently pressing
against Eliza's arm: "I wish some one could tell me why her hair is
always wet when she appears. I can see water dripping from the ends of
it."
Eliza shuddered, and glanced involuntarily around.
"Sometimes she calls me as if from a distance, and then I awake,"
resumed Susan. "She wants me to find her--I know that; but I never
can, though I am looking for her continually."
"This poor thing must be crazed," thought the bewildered
woman-servant.
"And I've fancied that you might help me. I've come about here at
night, wanting to see you, and ask you, for ever so long. You can
watch, and look, and listen when you are going about your work in the
house, and perhaps you will come upon her, or some trace of her."
"Good mercy! You surely can't think she is _in_ the house!" exclaimed
Eliza.
"I am sure she's in it."
"What--dead?"
"She must be dead. She can't be alive--all these weary weeks and
months."
"I never heard of such a belief," cried Eliza. "What it is that's
thought--leastways, as it has been told to me and my fellow-servant,
Phemie--is, that it is her spirit that is in the house, and haunts
it."
"Her spirit does haunt it," affirmed poor Susan. "But she is there
too."
Eliza felt as if a rush of cold air were passing over her.
"Something wrong was done to her; she was killed in some way; and I'd
sooner think it was by a woman than a man," went on Susan, dreamily.
"It all happened in the north wing. And then they carried her away for
concealment to one of the dark unused rooms in it, and left her there,
shut up--perhaps for ever. That's how it must have been."
"Dear me!" gasped Eliza, hardly knowing, in her dismay, whether this
was theory or fact.
"And so if you could watch, and come upon any clue, and would kindly
bring it to us, me and mother, we'd be ever grateful. Perhaps you know
our inn--the 'Leaning Gate'--as you go from here to Nullington."
"Stay a moment," said Eliza, a thought striking her: "does your mother
think all this that you've been telling me?--does she want me to
watch?"
"Mother does not know I've come to you, or that I've ever had thought
of coming, else she might have stopped me," answered the girl
candidly, for poor Susan Keen was truth itself. "But she knows
Katherine must be in the house, dead or alive; she says that.
Good-evening, and thank you, and I'm sorry I startled you."
She walked away at a swift pace. Eliza looked after her for a moment,
and then ran home shivering, not daring to glance to the right or to
the left.
When the last fine days of autumn were over and the cold weather was
fairly set in, Squire Denison had ceased to drive out in his brougham,
and was seen no more beyond the suite of rooms that were set apart for
his personal use. Early in November, his lawyer, Mr. Daventry, was
sent for, and received certain final instructions respecting his will.
About the same time a fresh inmate came to Heron Dyke, and took up her
abode there for the time being. The person in question was a certain
Mrs. Dexter, a professional nurse, who had been sent for from London
by Dr. Jago's express desire. She was a plain-looking middle-aged
woman, whose manners and address were superior to her station in life.
A woman of few words, she seldom spoke except when some one put a
question to her. She went quietly and deftly about her duties, and
employed all her spare time in reading. A sitting-room was allotted
her next Mr. Denison's, and she never mixed with the servants. No one
at the Hall, unless it was Hubert Stone, knew that Mrs. Dexter was an
elder sister of Dr. Jago's wife. It might be that the treatment
pursued by that undoubtedly clever practitioner, and which at present
seemed to succeed, was of too hazardous a nature to be entrusted to,
or witnessed by, an ordinary nurse.
Then came another movement. Within a few days of Mrs. Dexter's arrival
at the Hall, the carpenter, Shalders, was sent for from Nullington.
Receiving his orders, he proceeded to put up two doors covered with
green baize, one in each of the corridors leading to Mr. Denison's
rooms. The household wondered much; the neighbourhood talked; for
Shalders had a tongue, and did not keep the measure a secret. It was
to ensure himself more quiet that the Squire had had it done, said
Shalders. Day and night these doors were kept locked. Four people
only, each of whom had a pass-key, were allowed to penetrate beyond
them: Dr. Jago, Mrs. Dexter, Aaron Stone, and Hubert. Anything that
took place on the other side of those mysterious doors was as little
known to the rest of the inmates of the Hall as if they had been a
hundred miles away. In Nullington, people could not cease wondering
about these baize-covered doors, and were generally of opinion that
Squire Denison was growing more crazy every day.
Ella never failed to write to her uncle once a week, and once a week
the Squire dictated to Hubert a few lines of reply. In these notes he
always told her his health was improving; that he grew better and
stronger. For weeks after he had ceased to leave his own rooms, he
wrote to Ella--in his unselfishness, let us suppose--about his drives
out, and how the fresh crisp winter air seemed to give him strength.
Ella expressed a strong desire to be back at home by New Year's Day;
but the Squire's answer to her request, while kind, was yet so
peremptory in tone that she was afraid to mention the subject again.
He told her she was not to make herself uneasy about him, and that,
now she was abroad, she had better enjoy herself, and see everything
that was worth seeing: when he wanted her back at the Hall he would
not fail to send for her, but till that time she had better continue
on her travels. If the body of the letter seemed hard to Ella, there
was no lack of loving messages at its end.
"You are always in my thoughts," he wrote. "I see your face in the
firelight; I hear the rustle of your dress behind my chair; half a
dozen times a day I could swear that I heard you singing in the next
room. When you come back to me in spring, my darling, I will never let
you go away again."
To Ella his letters would read almost like a contradiction. He could
write thus, evidently pining for her, and yet would not allow her to
return. She comforted herself with the reassurance that he must be
better. Not the faintest hint was given to her in any one of the
letters that Mrs. Dexter, a sick-nurse, had taken up her abode at
Heron Dyke.
Hubert Stone received several private notes from Ella, asking for full
and special information respecting the state of her uncle's health.
The writer of them little thought how they were treasured up and
covered with kisses. To each of them Hubert wrote a few guarded lines
of reply, confirming the general tenour of Mr. Denison's own letters.
Miss Winter, he said, had no cause for uneasiness: Mr. Denison was
certainly stronger than he had been for two years past. A few old
friends of the Squire called at the Hall occasionally and inquired
respecting his health. Now and again he would see one or other of them
for a few minutes, and talk away as if nothing were the matter with
him.
But after the middle of December no visitors of any kind were
admitted. They were told that the Squire was much as usual, but that
his medical man, Dr. Jago, enjoined perfect quiet as indispensable to
him. When Dr. Spreckley heard this, he differed completely.
"I always told Mr. Denison that he ought to see more company than he
did," said Spreckley. "He wanted rousing more out of himself. The
sight of a fresh face and a little lively conversation never failed to
do him good."
It was a marvel to Dr. Spreckley that the Squire still lived. He
wondered much what treatment was being pursued, not believing that any
treatment known to him could keep him in life; he marvelled at other
things.
"Hang it all!" cried the Doctor one day to himself. "I can't see
daylight in it. Shut up in his rooms from people's sight; green-baize
doors put up to keep out the household! what does it mean? Are they
treating him to a course of slow poisons? Upon my word, if it were not
that the object is to keep the Squire in life, I should think there
was a conspiracy to send him out of it, and that they don't want to be
watched at their work. But it is a strange thing that he yet lives."
That was, to Dr. Spreckley, the strangest thing of all. Morning after
morning, as he arose, did he expect to hear the news of the Squire's
death; but winter wore on, and the old year died out, and still the
tidings came not. Dr. Spreckley marvelled more and more; but he said
nothing to anybody.
CHAPTER III.
DR. DOWNE'S SNUFF-BOX.
That winter in Norfolk was an exceptionally severe one. Lady Cleeve,
whose health had been waning for some time past, felt the cold more
severely than she had ever done before, and was rarely out of her own
home. Trusting her son so thoroughly, the twelve hundred pounds had
now been transferred to him, as promised, and stood in his name in the
books of Nullington Bank. And to Philip life seemed to have become
well worth living. The fact that he could draw cheques now on his own
account--ay, and find them duly honoured--was a new and delightful
item in his experience. His sunny, debonair face might be seen
everywhere with a smile upon it: he had a kind look for this
neighbour, meeting him in the street: a pleasant word for that one. He
carried fascination with him; and, whatever might be his faults, it
was impossible to help liking Philip Cleeve.
"A thousand pounds will be quite enough for Tiplady," he decided,
after some mental debate, carried on at intervals. "If the old fellow
lets me join him at all, he'll take me for that: money's nothing to
him."
This, you perceive, would leave Mr. Philip two hundred pounds to play
with: a very desirable acquisition. But the partnership question
remained as yet in abeyance. Mr. Tiplady was very much engaged with
some troublesome private affairs of his own at this period, was often
from home; and for the time being seemed to have forgotten his talk
with Lady Cleeve about the partnership.
Philip was particularly careful not to refresh his memory. His mother
felt anxious now and then that no progress was being made: she spoke
to Philip about it, only to have her fears pooh-poohed, and be put off
in that young gentleman's laughing, easy-going style.
"A month or two more or less cannot make any possible difference,
mother," he said one day. "Besides, I don't think it would be wise to
bother Tiplady just now. It will be time enough to speak when he has
got through his law-suit with Jarvis."
It did not take Philip Cleeve very long to make a considerable hole in
the two hundred pounds: set aside in his own mind as a margin to be
used for whatever contingencies might arise. In the first place, his
IOU to Freddy Bootle for his losses at cards in October had to be
redeemed, Freddy having lent him the money to square up: although it
might have stood over for an indefinite period as far as Freddy was
concerned. This of itself ran away with a considerable sum. Then
Philip discovered that he had been in the habit of dressing less well
than was desirable, and so replenished his wardrobe throughout. After
that, chancing to be one day at the jeweller's, he took a fancy to a
gold hunting-watch and a couple of expensive rings. The latter
articles he would draw off and slip into his pocket when going into
his mother's presence; while of the existence of the watch she knew
nothing. Not for a great deal would he have had Lady Cleeve suspect
that he had touched a penny of the twelve hundred pounds. Yes, he was
not without faults, this Master Philip.
For some little time past, he had taken to be more from home than
usual, in the evening, and to return to it later. Lady Cleeve did not
grumble; she but thought he was at the Vicarage, or at the house of
some other friend. He was more often at The Lilacs than she was at all
aware of. Not that she would have objected: she rather liked Captain
Lennox; and she knew nothing of the high play carried on there, or of
the unearthly hours that it sometimes pleased Mr. Philip to come in.
It was not play, though, that made Philip's chief attraction at The
Lilacs. It was Mrs. Ducie. His pleasant evenings were those when cards
were not brought out, when the time was filled with conversation and
music. On such occasions Philip left at the sober hour of eleven
o'clock, and had nothing to reproach himself with next morning; unless
it were, perhaps, that when in the fascinating company of Mrs. Ducie,
he almost forgot the existence of Maria Kettle.
Yet it was impossible to say that Margaret Ducie gave him any special
encouragement, or led him on in any way. She was probably aware of his
admiration for her, but there was nothing that savoured of the
coquette in her mode of treating him. She was gracious and easy and
pleasant, and that was all that could be said: and she drew an
impalpable line between them which Philip felt that it would not be
wise on his part to attempt to overpass. Meanwhile life was rendered
none the less pleasant, in that he could now and then pass a few sunny
hours in her society.
Early in December, Mrs. Ducie went up to London to stay with some
friends, purposing to be away a month or two; and after her departure
Philip did not find himself at The Lilacs quite so often. One day,
however, he chanced to meet Captain Lennox in the street, who gave him
a cordial invitation for the evening, to meet some other men who would
be there.
"I expect Camberley and Lawlor and Furness," said Captain Lennox. "You
don't know Furness, I think? Married a wife with four thousand a year,
lucky dog! Come up in time for dinner."
Of course Philip accepted. Indeed, it was a rare thing for him to
decline an invitation of any kind. Company pleased him, gaiety made
his heart glad.
Play, that evening, began early and finished late. The stakes were
higher than usual; the champagne was plentiful. The clock struck five
as Philip stood at his own door, fumbling for his latch-key. He had
one of his splitting headaches, and his pockets were lighter by
seventy pounds than they had been eight hours previously. Seventy
pounds!
All that day he lay in bed ill, and was waited upon by his mother, who
had no suspicion as to the real state of affairs, or that he had been
abroad late. Her own poor health obliging her to retire early, rarely
later than ten, she supposed Philip came in at eleven, or thereabouts.
His headache went off towards dusk, but the feeling of utter
wretchedness that possessed him was still left. He was a prey to
self-remorse, not perhaps for the first time in his life, but it had
never stung him so bitterly as now. In the evening, when he had
dressed himself, he unlocked his desk and took out his bank-book. He
had not looked at it lately. After deducting, from the balance shown
there, the amount lost by him at cards the previous evening, together
with two or three other cheques which he had lately paid away, he
found that there now remained to his credit at the bank the sum of
nine hundred and thirty-five pounds. In something less than three
months he had contrived to get through two hundred and sixty-five
pounds of his mother's gift--of the gift which had cost her long years
of patient pinching and hoarding to scrape together. At the same rate
how long would it take him to squander the whole of it? As he asked
himself this question he shut up his bank-book with a groan, and felt
the hot tears of shame and mortification rush into his eyes.
He was still sitting thus when a letter was brought him. It proved to
be a note of invitation from Maria Kettle, written in the Vicar's
name, asking Philip to dinner on the 12th of January, her father's
birthday. A similar note had come for Lady Cleeve. The Vicar always
kept his birthday as a little festival, at which a dozen or more of
his oldest friends were welcome. The sight of Maria's writing touched
and affected Philip as it might not have done at another time. His
heart to-night was full of vague longings and vain regrets, and
perhaps equally vain resolves. He would give up going to The Lilacs,
he would never touch a card again, he would cease to seek the society
of Margaret Ducie--and, he would ask Maria to promise to be his wife.
At this very Vicarage dinner, opportunity being afforded, he would ask
her.
He was very quiet and subdued in manner during the next few days,
spending all his leisure time at home. Some two years previously he
had taken a fancy to teach himself German, but had grown tired of it
in a couple of months, as he had grown tired of so many other hobbies
in his time. He now hunted out his books again, and began to brush up
his half-forgotten knowledge. His mother was delighted at the new
industry: it gave her so much more of him at home.
The evening of the twelfth arrived, and Lady Cleeve and Philip drove
over to the Vicarage in a fly. The brougham of fat, good natured Dr.
Downes was just turning from the door after setting down its master.
Lady Cleeve went into a room to take off her warm coverings, and
Philip waited for her in the little hall.
"What, you here!" he exclaimed, as Captain Lennox entered. "Ay. Why
not?"
"I should have fancied this house would be too quiet for you,"
returned Philip. "There will be no Camberley--no high play here."
Captain Lennox stroked his fair moustache, and looked at Philip with
an amused smile.
"My good sir, do you suppose I must live ever in a racket? Mr. Kettle
was good enough to invite me, and I had pleasure in accepting. As to
Camberley--his play goes a little further at times than I care for."
A pretty flush mounted to Maria's cheek as she met Philip; his
laughing hazel eyes seemed to have a meaning in them, the pressure of
his hand was more emphatic than usual. They had not seen much of each
other lately. No direct words of love had yet passed between them, but
there was a sort of tacit understanding on both sides that one day
they would in all probability become man and wife; needing no
assurance in set phrases that they would be true to each other and
wait till circumstances should be propitious. Of late, however,
Philip's visits to the Vicarage had been few and far between. Rumours
had reached Maria of evenings spent in the billiard-room of the Rose
and Crown, and of his frequent presence at The Lilacs. When Maria
thought of Margaret Ducie's attractions, her heart grew sad.
The dinner guests numbered a dozen--all pleasant people. One or two
handsome girls were there, but Philip had eyes for Maria only.
"How nice she looks!" he thought; "how pure, how candid! What is it
that constitutes her nameless charm? It cannot be her beauty."
No, for Maria had not very much of that. It was the goodness that
shone from every line of her countenance.
Dinner over, the Vicar and a few of his guests retired to his study
for a sober hand at whist, leaving the drawing-room free for music and
conversation: and so the evening passed on.
Ten o'clock struck, and Philip's momentous words to Maria were still
unspoken. At last the watched-for opportunity came. In her search for
some particular piece of music, Maria went downstairs to what she
still called her schoolroom, and Philip followed. A single jet of gas
was lighted, and she was stooping over an old canterbury when he put
his arm round her waist. She had not heard his footsteps, and rose up
startled.
"Oh, Philip!" she cried, and sought to push his hand away.
"Do not repulse me, Maria," he whispered, a strange earnestness in his
generally laughing eyes. "I am here to tell you how truly and tenderly
I love you. I am here to ask you to be my wife."
"Oh, Philip!" was all that poor Maria could reiterate in that first
moment of surprise.
"You must have known all along that I loved you, and I ought perhaps
to have spoken before," he continued. "But I cannot be silent longer.
Tell me, my dearest, that you will be mine--my own sweet wife for
ever!"
Maria's face was covered with blushes. Her eyes met Philip's in one
brief loving glance, but no word did she speak. He drew her to him and
kissed her tenderly twice. His arms were round her, her head rested on
his shoulder, when there came a sound of footsteps outside the door.
An instant later, Philip was alone. How brief a time had sufficed to
seal the fate of two persons for weal or woe!
Philip felt intensely happy now that the ordeal was over--although he
had never anticipated a refusal from Maria. No more gambling, no more
dangerous visits to The Lilacs, or evenings in the billiard-room; life
would be full of other and sweeter interests now. His mother would
rejoice in his good fortune, and all would be _couleur de rose_ in
time to come.
'Twas a pity that an unwelcome thought should intrude to mar the
brightness. Somehow Philip began to think of the money he had drawn
from the bank.
"What a fool I was to break into the thousand pounds!" he exclaimed,
his mood changing to bitterness. "I might have confined myself to the
extra two hundred. That would not have so much mattered, while the
thousand was enough for Tiplady. But to have lessened _that_ by--how
much is it--sixty or seventy pounds! If I could but replace it! If we
had but gold-fields over here as they have yonder," nodding his head
in some vague direction, "where a man may dig up to-day what will last
him to-morrow. No such luck for me. _I_ can't pick any up."
A bustle in the hall--and Philip left the room. Lady Cleeve was
passing out to her fly, which waited for her, escorted to it by good
Dr. Downes. She had already stayed beyond her time: Philip would walk
home later. He helped to place his mother in it, wished her goodnight,
and returned to the rooms with the old Doctor.
At eleven o'clock the party broke up: late hours were not in fashion
at the Vicarage. As Philip wished Maria goodnight, he whispered that
he should be with her on the morrow: and the warm pressure of his hand
and the love-light that sat in his eyes were more eloquent than any
words.
Dr. Downes was fumbling with the sleeves and buttons of his overcoat
in the hall: his own man generally did these things for him.
"Let me help you, Doctor," said Philip: and buttoned the coat deftly.
"Thank you, lad," returned the Doctor. "Would you like a lift as far
as I go?"
Philip thought he would, and got into the roomy old brougham, and
chatted soberly with the old physician on the way. He got out of it
when they came to the side-turning that led to the Doctor's house,
said goodnight, and strode onwards.
Dr. Downes took snuff. A bad habit, perhaps, and one less general now
than in the years gone by. He took it out of a gold box, one of great
value, presented to him by a grateful patient, Lord Lytham: and this
box, being rather proud of it, the old Doctor was fond of exhibiting
in company. The first thing he did, arrived at his own fireside, his
coat and comforter off, was to put his hand in his pocket for his
snuffbox.
It was not there!
Had the Doctor found himself not to be there, he could hardly have
felt more surprise. That he had not dropped it in the carriage, he
knew, for he had never at all unbuttoned his overcoat: still he sent
out and had it searched; and made assurance doubly sure.
"Well, this is a strange thing!" ejaculated the Doctor.
"When did you have it last, sir?" asked Granby, his faithful servant
of many years.
"A few minutes before I left the Vicarage," said Dr. Downes, after
pausing to think. "The Vicar took a pinch with me; we were standing
before the fire; and I distinctly recollect putting the box back into
my pocket. After that, I shook hands with one or two people, and came
away."
"Suppose I send Mark to the Vicarage, sir?" suggested Granby. "He'd
run there in no time: they'll not be gone to bed."
"It is sure not to be there," said the Doctor testily, as Granby came
back from despatching the boy. "How could it leave my pocket after I
had put it there?"
"Perhaps it did, sir--when you were getting on your coat to come away.
Who knows? You are not clever at putting on that coat, sir--if you'll
forgive my saying so--and turn and twist about like anything over it."
"Young Cleeve helped me. And the coat's tight and awkward. I
suppose--I suppose," added Dr. Downes, slowly and thoughtfully, "that
Cleeve did not take the snuffbox to play me a trick?"
"Well, sir, I should not think he would play such a trick as that,
though he is a gay and careless young spark."
"Oh, you think him so, do you, Granby?"
"I'm sure he is, sir," amended Granby. "He's more than that, too--a
regular young spendthrift: and it's a pity to have to say it of Lady
Cleeve's son. Half his time he is at the Rose and Crown playing
billiards, and the t'other half he is playing cards for high stakes at
Captain Lennox's, with my Lord Camberley and other rich folk."
"Why, Granby, how the deuce do you know all this?"
"Why, sir, all the town knows it. Leastways about the time he spends
in the billiard-room. And Captain Lennox's man happens to be an old
acquaintance of mine, so we often have a chat together. It's James
Knight, sir, who once lived with Sir Gunton Cleeve, and perhaps you
may remember him."
"But--billiards, and cards, and high stakes--how does young Cleeve
find the money for it all?" debated the Doctor.
"Ay, sir, that's the puzzle of it. Lady Cleeve can't give it him.
Anyway, he has it, and sits at the Captain's card-table with a heap of
gold and silver piled up before him."
Dr. Downes fell into a rather unpleasant reverie. He knew nothing of
the money that Lady Cleeve had placed to her son's account in the
bank, and he wondered where Philip's means could come from.
"Camberley and Lennox, and those rich fellows, may stake ten-pound
notes if they choose to be so idiotic," cogitated the Doctor. "But
such recklessness in Philip means ruin. What possesses the lad? Takes
after his father, I'm afraid: _he_ rushed into folly in his young
days. But he pulled himself up in time."
Mark came back from the Vicarage, bringing no news of the gold
snuffbox. The Vicar, much concerned, searched in the hall himself; he
spoke of the pinch he had taken from the box, and he saw Dr. Downes
return the box to his pocket. Dr. Downes sat looking uneasily into the
dying embers of his fire as he revolved the news.
"Is it possible," he presently asked himself, "is it possible that
Philip can have _stolen_ the box? Stolen it to make money of for his
cards and billiards?"
CHAPTER III.
"PATCHWORK."
The Reverend Francis Kettle and his daughter Maria sat down to their
breakfast-table somewhat later than usual: the dinner-party of the
previous evening had made the servants busy. The thoughts of each were
preoccupied: the Vicar's with the strange loss of Dr. Downes' gold
snuffbox, of which he spoke from time to time; Maria's with the
proposal of marriage made to her by Philip Cleeve: the most momentous
proposal a young girl can receive. Presently Mr. Kettle found leisure
to take up a letter, which had been lying by his plate unopened.
"Oh," said he, "it is from Mrs. Page."
Maria glanced up with a smile. "In trouble as usual, papa, with her
servants?"
"Of course. And with herself, too," added the Vicar, as he read the
short letter. "She wants you to go to her, Maria."
Mrs. Page was the one rich relation of the Kettle family: first cousin
to the late Mrs. Kettle. She lived in Leamington, in a handsome house
of her own, and with a good establishment; and she might have been as
happy there as any wealthy and popular widow lady ever was yet. But,
though good at heart, Mrs. Page was intensely capricious and exacting;
she lived in almost perpetual hot water with her servants, and changed
them every two or three months. This week, for instance, she would be
rich in domestics, not lacking one in any capacity; the next week the
whole lot would depart in a body, turned away, or turning themselves
away, and Mrs. Page be reduced to a couple of charwomen. But her
goodness of heart was undeniable; and many a Christmas Day had Mr.
Kettle received from her a fifty-pound note, to be distributed by
himself and Maria amongst their poor.
Every now and then she would send a peremptory summons for Maria; and
the Vicar never allowed it to be disobeyed.
"She is getting old now, Maria, she is nearly the only relative left
of your poor mother's, and I cannot permit you to neglect her," he
would say. But he did not choose to append to this another reason,
which, perhaps, weighed greatly with himself, and add, "She is rich,
and will probably remember you in her will if you do not offend her."
"The servants all went off the day before yesterday, Maria; and she
says that she is feeling very ill, and she wants you to go to her as
soon as convenient," said Mr. Kettle, passing the letter to his
daughter.
"But I cannot go, papa."
"Not go!"
"I do not see that I can. There is so much work at home just now."
"What work?"
"With the parish----"
"Oh, hang the parish!" put in the Vicar impulsively, and then coughed
down his words. "The parish cannot expect to have you always, child."
"It is a hard winter, papa, as to work; many of the men are out of it
entirely, as you know; and that entails poverty and sickness on the
wives and children. I have not told you how very many are sick."
"Some of the ladies will see to them. You cannot be neglecting your
own duties always for their sakes."
"Once I get to Leamington, papa, there is no knowing when I may be
allowed to return. Mrs. Page kept me six months once; I well remember
that."
"And if she wishes now to keep you for twelve months, twelve you must
stay."
"Oh, papa!"
"You are taking a lesson from Ella Winter's book," said the Vicar.
"She did not want to leave home in the autumn; but it was all the
better for her that she should. Her case, however, was different from
yours, and I do not say she was wrong in wishing to remain with her
uncle, so old and sick. I am not old, and I am not sick."
But Maria thought her father was sick, though not of course with the
mortal sickness of the Squire; ay, and that, if not old, he was yet
ageing. His health certainly seemed breaking a little, his eyesight
was failing him; now and then his memory misled him. He displayed less
interest than ever he had done in parish work, leaving nearly
everything to the curate, Mr. Plympton, and Maria. His liking for old
port was growing upon him and he would sit all the evening with the
bottle at his elbow, and was roused with difficulty when bedtime
came. Altogether Maria would a vast deal rather not leave home; but
she saw she should have to do it. Perhaps, in her heart, she shrank
also from being away from Philip.
"I'm sure, papa, I can't think how things in the parish will get on
without me," she said, as she laid down the letter. "Think what a
state they were in when we returned in the summer."
The Vicar felt half offended.
"Get on?" said he. "Why, bless me, shan't I and Plympton be here? As
to the state they fell into during our stay abroad, was not I away
myself? One would think, Maria, you were parson and clerk and
everything."
Maria smiled her sweet smile. She knew her father set little store by
her work in the parish, not in fact seeing the half she did, and she
was glad it should be so.
"And I should not, child, let you neglect Mrs. Page in her need--your
mother's own cousin--for all the parishes in the diocese. So you can
write to her this morning, or I will write if you are busy, and fix a
day to go to her."
Barely had they finished breakfast when Dr. Downes came in. The loss
of his snuffbox grieved and annoyed him. Not so much for its value,
not so much that it was the gift of a long-esteemed friend and patron,
but for the uncertainty and suspicion attending the loss. That the box
must have been cleverly filched out of his pocket he felt entirely
convinced of; it could not have got out of itself. All night long,
between his snatches of sleep, had he been pondering the matter in his
mind; and he had come to the uneasy conclusion that Philip Cleeve had
taken it--either to play him a foolish trick, or to convert the box
into money for his own use. But this latter doubt the Doctor would
keep to himself and guard carefully. Mr. Kettle met the Doctor with
open hand. It was not the Vicar's way to put himself out over things;
but he was very considerably put out by this loss.
"I met that young blade, Philip Cleeve, in walking over here,"
observed the Doctor, as they were all three once more examining
minutely every corner of the little hall--for, in a loss of this kind,
we are apt to search a suspected spot over and over again. "I took the
liberty of asking him whether he had purloined the box in joke when he
was helping me on with my great-coat last night. It must have been
then, as I take it, that it left my pocket."
Maria was rather struck with the Doctor's tone; unpleasantly so: it
bore a resentful ring. "Philip would not play such a joke as that, Dr.
Downes," she rejoined. "What did he say?"
"He said nothing at first; only stared at me, and asked me what I
meant. So I told him what I meant: that my gold snuffbox had left my
pocket last night in a mysterious and unaccountable manner, and I had
been hoping that he had, perhaps, taken it, to play me a trick. He
blushed red with that silly blush of his, assured me that he would not
play so unjustifiable a trick on me, or on anyone else, and walked
off, saying he had to catch a train. So there I was, as wise as
before.--And the box is not here; and it seems not to be anywhere."
"Shall you have it cried?" asked Mr. Kettle, as they returned to the
breakfast-room.
"Why, yes, I shall. Not that I expect any good will come of it. Rely
upon it, that box has not been dropped in the road; it could not have
been. It has been stolen; and the thief will send it up to London with
speedy despatch, and make money of it. My only hope was, and that a
slight one, that Philip Cleeve had got it for a lark."
"But why Philip Cleeve?" said the Vicar, hardly understanding. "Why
not any other young fellow?"
"Because Philip Cleeve put my coat on for me, here, in your hall; that
is, helped me to put it on. I am sure the box was in my pocket then;
it must have been; and when I unbuttoned the coat at home, the box was
gone."
"You did not leave it in the carriage?"
"I did not touch the box in the carriage: I never unbuttoned my
overcoat, I tell you. Philip Cleeve knows that too: he went with me as
far as Market Row."
"It really does look as though Philip Cleeve had taken it--for a
jest," spoke the Vicar.
"No, no, papa," said Maria. "Philip is honourable."
"Not quite so honourable, perhaps, as folks think him," quickly
rejoined Dr. Downes. "Not that I say he did or would do this. Philip
Cleeve has his faults, I fear; he must take care they don't get ahead
of him, or they may land him in shoals and quicksands. And a certain
young lady of my acquaintance had better not listen to his whispering
until he has proved himself worthy to be listened to," added he, as
the Vicar passed temporarily into the next room, "and--and has got
some better prospect of a home in view than he has at present. Take an
old man's advice for once, my dear."
The stout old Doctor had turned to Maria, and was stroking her hair
fondly. In his apparently jesting tone there ran an earnest warning;
and Maria blushed deeply as she listened to it.
If the past night had been an uneasy one to Dr. Downes, it had also
been one to Maria Kettle. Not from the same cause. Divest herself of a
doubtful feeling with regard to Philip she could not. That he had not
stability, that he was led away by any folly that crossed his path,
and that--as Dr. Downes had but now put it--he had at present little
prospect of making himself a home--a home to which he could take a
wife--Maria was only too conscious of. _She_ had a vast amount of
common, sober sense; and in that respect was a very contrast to
Philip.
Maria herself would have waited for Philip for ever and a day, and
never lost hope; but she, after this sleepless night was passed, had
very nearly concluded that there ought to be no engagement between
them; that it might be better for Philip's own sake he should not be
hampered. It was rather singular that these words should have been
spoken by Dr. Downes so soon afterwards as if to confirm her in her
resolution.
In the afternoon, between three and four o'clock, when the Vicar had
gone up to Heron Dyke, Philip made his appearance at the Vicarage. He
had been sent away on business for the office early in the day, and
had but now got back. Maria met him with a pretty blush, and held out
her hand, as the servant closed the door; but Philip drew her to him
and kissed her, sat down by her side on the sofa, and stole his arm
round her waist. Maria gently put it away.
"Philip," she said, "we were both, I fear, thoughtlessly rash last
night."
"In what way?" asked Philip, possessing himself of her hand, as it
seemed he was not to have her waist.
"Oh--you know. In what you said and I--I listened to. I think we must
wait a little, Philip: another year or so. It will be best."
"Wait for what? What is running in your head, Maria?"
"Until our prospects shall be a little more assured. Forgive me,
Philip, but I mean it; I am quite serious. In a year's time from this,
if you so will it, we can speak of it again."
"Do you mean to say there must be no engagement between us?" fired
Philip.
"There had better not be. Neither of us at present has any chance of
carrying it out."
"Oh," commented Philip, who was getting angry. "Perhaps you will point
out what you do mean, Maria. I can see no meaning in it."
The tears rose to Maria's eyes. "Philip dear, don't be vexed with me:
I speak for your sake more than for my own. At present you have no
home to take a wife to, no expectation of making one----"
"But I have," interrupted Philip. "Old Tiplady intends to take me into
partnership."
"Well--I hope he will: but still that lies in the future. Your mother,
I feel sure, would not like to see you hamper yourself with a wife
until you are quite justified in doing it. And then, on my side--how
can I marry? It is scarcely possible for me to leave papa. And
all the parish duties that I have made mine; the visiting and the
schools----" Maria broke down with a sob.
"That young fop, Plympton, ought to take these duties," returned
Philip, with a touch of petulance. "What's he good for?
Garden-parties, and croquet, and flirting with the ladies. That's what
he thinks of, rather than of looking after the poor wretches who live
and die in the back lanes and alleys of the town."
"He is young," said Maria, gently. "Wisdom will come with years."
"One would think that you were _old_, to hear you talk, Maria."
"I think I am; old in experience. And so, Philip," sighed Maria,
returning to the point, "let it be understood that there shall be no
actual engagement between us. I shall be the same to you that I have
been; the same always; and when things look brighter for you and for
me----"
His ill-humour had passed away like mist in the sunshine, and he
sealed the bargain with a kiss.
"Be assured of one thing, my darling," he whispered: "we shall not
have to wait long if it depends on me. I will spare no pains, no
exertion to get on, to offer you a home that all the world might
approve, and to be in every respect what you would have me be."
Maria told him then of the probability that she should have to go to
Leamington for an indefinite period, should have to depart in the
course of a very few days. Philip did not receive the news graciously,
and relieved his mind by calling Mrs. Page selfish.
"I can't stay longer," he said, getting up. "That precious office
claims me; old Best does not know I am back yet.----Here's a visitor
for you in my stead, Maria," he broke off, as they heard some one
being admitted.
It was Captain Lennox: who was calling to inquire about the health of
the Vicar and Maria after the previous evening's dissipation. Philip
was going, and they all three stood together in the drawing-room for a
minute or two.
"By the way, talking of last night, what is this tale about old Dr.
Downes losing his gold snuffbox?" asked Captain Lennox. "The people
at the library told me they had heard it cried, as I came by just
now."
"So he has lost it," said Philip. "That is, he thinks he has. I dare
say he has put it in some place or other himself, and will find it
before the day's over."
"Did he miss it here?"
"No; not till he got home. And he had the impudence to ask me this
morning whether I had _taken_ it, because I helped to button his
coat," added Philip.
Captain Lennox looked at Philip, then at Maria, then at Philip again.
"He asked you whether you had taken it!" exclaimed the Captain.
"Taken it for a lark. As if I would do such a thing! It's true I
buttoned his coat for him, but I never saw or felt the box."
"I do not quite understand yet," said Captain Lennox.
"It seems that old Downes, just before he left, had his box out,
handing it about for people to take pinches out of it. The Vicar took
a pinch."
"I saw that," interrupted Captain Lennox. "They were standing by the
fire. Two or three of us were round them. Old Miss Parraway was, for
one, I remember; I was talking with her."
"Well," rather ungraciously went on Philip, impatient at the
interruption, "the Doctor took his leave close upon that. I took mine,
and I found him in the hall here, awkwardly fumbling with his
overcoat. I helped him to get it on, and he gave me a lift in his
brougham as far as my way went."
"And when he got home he missed the box," added Maria, concluding the
story, as Philip stopped. "It is a sad loss--and so very strange where
the box can be, and how it can have gone."
"Yes, it is strange--but I did not thank him for asking me whether I
had taken it; there was a tone in his voice which seemed to imply a
suspicion that I had--and not as a joke."
"And did you?" said Captain Lennox.
Philip, who had been turning to the door after his last speech,
wheeled round to face the Captain.
"Did I _what?_
"Take it for a joke?"
"No, of course I did not. Good-bye, Maria."
"Here, you need not be so hasty, old fellow," laughed Captain Lennox,
following Philip out. "You are as cranky as can be to-day. Of course
you did not steal the box, Cleeve; and of course I am not likely to
think it. If I did, I should say so to your face," added the Captain,
his light laugh deepening. "But--I say--do you know what this put me
in mind of?"
"No. What?"
"Of Mrs. Carlyon's jewels. They disappeared in the same mysterious
way."
Philip had the outer door open, when at this moment the Vicar turned
in at the entrance-gate. He shook hands cordially with them both.
"I have been up to Heron Dyke," spoke he; "and have met with the usual
luck--non-admittance to the Squire. I must say I think they might let
him see me."
"It seems to me, sir, that they let him see nobody; for my part, I
have grown tired of calling," said the Captain. "Still, in your
favour, his spiritual adviser, an exception might well be made."
"I ventured to say as much to surly old Aaron this afternoon,"
returned Mr. Kettle "He refused at first point-blank, saying it was
one of his master's bad days, and he was sure he would not see me. I
persevered; bidding him take a message for me to the Squire; so he
showed me into one of the dull old rooms--all the blinds down--while
he took it in."
"And were you admitted, sir?" interposed impatient Philip, interested
in the story, yet anxious to be gone.
"No, I was not, Philip. Aaron came back in a few minutes, bringing me
the Squire's message of refusal. He would have liked to see me very
much; very much; but he was in truth too poorly for it to-day; it was
one of his weak days, and Jago had absolutely forbidden him to speak
even to the attendants--and he sent his affectionate regards to me. So
I came away: having made a fruitless errand, as usual."
"If Jago's grand curative treatment consists in shutting up the Squire
from the sight of all his friends, the less he boasts of it the
better," cried Philip, as he marched away. "Tiplady remarked to me the
other day that he thought there must be something very queer going on
up there," concluded he, turning round at the gate to say it.
Maria Kettle departed for Leamington, and the time passed on. Philip
Cleeve attended well to his duties, seeming anxious to make up for
past escapades. So far as The Lilacs went, no temptations assailed
him, for the place was empty, Captain Lennox having joined his sister
in London. No tidings could be heard of the gold snuffbox. Dr. Downes
had had it cried and advertised: but without result. It might be that
he had his own opinion about the loss; or it might be that he had not.
During a little private conversation with Lady Cleeve, touching her
state of health, she chanced to mention that she hoped Philip's future
was pretty well assured. Mr. Tiplady meant to take him into
partnership, and she had herself placed twelve hundred pounds to
Philip's account at the bank.
"That's where the young scapegrace has drawn his money from, then, for
his cards and his dice, and what not," quoth the Doctor to himself. "I
hope with all my heart I was mistaken--but where the dickens can the
box have gone to?"
The Doctor was fain to give the box up as a bad job. He told all his
friends that he should never find it again, and the less said about it
the better.
In February Philip had a pleasant change. Mr. Tiplady despatched him
to Norwich, to superintend certain improvements in one of its public
buildings. Philip, before starting, spoke a word to the architect of
the anticipated partnership; but Mr. Tiplady cut him short with a
single sentence. "Time enough to talk of that, young sir."
When Philip returned from Norwich, after his few weeks' stay there,
during which he had done his best and had given unlimited
satisfaction, he heard that Captain Lennox and Mrs. Ducie were at The
Lilacs--and to Philip the town seemed to look all the brighter for
their presence.
In spite of his former good resolution, he went over to call on Mrs.
Ducie, went twice, neither of the times finding her at home. About
this time Philip was surprised and gratified by receiving a note of
invitation from Lord Camberley to attend a concert and ball at
Camberley Park. Philip took the note to his mother. "My dear boy, you
must go by all means," said Lady Cleeve. "This is an invitation which
may lead to--to pleasant things. I am glad to find that they have not
forgotten you are the son of Sir Gunton Cleeve. You have as good blood
in your veins as anyone who will be there. What a pity, for your sake,
dear, that we cannot live in the style we ought--to which you were
born."
So Philip went to the concert and ball. Lord Camberley vouchsafed him
a couple of fingers and "how d'ye do," and introduced him to his aunt,
the Hon. Mrs. Featherstone. Philip sat through the concert without
speaking to anybody. He was glad when it came to an end, and then he
made his way to the ball-room. There he met several people with whom
he was, more or less, acquainted. Presently his eye caught that of
Mrs. Ducie, who was sitting somewhat apart from the general crush. She
beckoned him to her side, and held out her hand with a frank smile.
"What a truant you are. What have you been doing with yourself all
this long time?" as she made room for him to sit beside her.
Philip told her, his laughing eyes bending in admiration on her face,
that he had been staying for some weeks at Norwich, and that he had
twice called at The Lilacs since his return, but had not found her at
home. She listened in her pretty, engaging, attentive manner.
"Do you dance?" she asked him, as another set was forming.
"I do not care to--unless you will stand up with me," he replied.
"I shall not dance to-night. Lord Camberley came up to ask me, but I
said no: I told him I had sprained my foot. I do not much like Lord
Camberley," she added, confidentially--and Philip felt wonderfully
flattered at the confidence. "He often talks at random--and he is so
fond of playing for high stakes at cards. I told Ferdinand the other
day that I should object, were I in his place; but, as he said, it
does not often happen. Ferdinand, with his income, can afford a loss
occasionally; but everybody is not so fortunate."
It seemed to Philip that she looked at him with a kindly meaning as
she spoke. Could it be that she felt an especial interest in him? A
blush, bright and ingenuous as a schoolgirl's, rose to his face.
He sat by Mrs. Ducie a great part of the evening, and took her down to
supper. Captain Lennox came up several times, and they both invited
him for the following Friday evening.
When Friday evening came, and Philip found himself again at The
Lilacs, and knocked at the well-remembered door, it seemed to him as
if the intervening weeks and all that had happened to him since his
last visit were nothing more substantial than a dream.
Two or three gentlemen were at the cottage this evening whom he had
not met before, but to whom he was now introduced. After a light and
elegantly served supper came cards and champagne. To-night, however,
Philip did not play. He read poetry to Mrs. Ducie in a little boudoir
that opened out of the drawing-room. So were woven again the bonds
which at one time he believed were broken for ever. There was a
strange, subtle fascination about this woman which held him almost as
it were against his will. She was gracious and frank towards him, but
that was all. She was gracious and frank to every gentleman who
visited at the cottage. There was nothing in her manner towards Philip
which would allow of his flattering himself that he was a greater
favourite than anyone else whom he met there: though at moments it did
seem as if she had a special interest in him. He certainly did not
love her--his heart was given to Maria--but Margaret Ducie held him by
an invisible chain which he was too weak to break.
That Friday evening was but the precursor of many other evenings at
The Lilacs: for all the old glamour had come back over Philip. Maria
was away, and the cottage was a very pleasant place. Sometimes he
played cards, sometimes he did not; sometimes he won a little money,
not unfrequently he lost what for him was a considerable sum. Now and
then it almost seemed as if Mrs. Ducie, compassionating his youth and
inexperience, drew him away of set purpose from the card-table. Be
that as it may, when April came in, and Philip looked into the state
of his banking account, he found to his dismay that in the course of
the past few weeks he had lost upwards of a hundred pounds. How could
he redeem it?
"Now's your time if you want to make a cool hundred or two," said
Lennox to him a day or two later.
Philip pricked up his ears.
"Who does not want to make a cool hundred or two? Only show me how."
"The thing lies in a nutshell. Back Patchwork."
"Eh?" queried Philip, who knew little more about racing and sporting
matters than he did of the mysteries of Eleusis.
"Back Patchwork," reiterated the Captain, with emphasis. "I am quite
aware that he is not a general favourite: the odds were ten to one
against him last night: there's Trumpeter and Clansman, and one or two
other horses that stand before him in public estimation. But take no
notice of that. Camberley and I have got the tip, no matter how, and
you may rely upon it that we know pretty well what we are about. Both
of us are going to lay heavily on the horse, and if you have a few
spare sovereigns you can't do better than follow our example."
The Captain spoke of an early Spring Meeting at Newmarket; and this
particular race in it was exciting some interest at Nullington, for
reasons which need not be detailed here. Philip, desperately anxious
to replenish his diminished coffers, took the bait, though in a
cautious manner, and betted twenty pounds on Patchwork. If the horse
won, and Philip gained the odds, he would pocket two hundred pounds.
He grew anxious. Everybody said that either Trumpeter or Clansman
would win; Patchwork was scoffed at as an outsider. Philip began to
think of his twenty pounds as so much good money thrown away.
At length the day of the race arrived, and Philip awaited the result
with a feverish anxiety to which his young life had hitherto been a
stranger. It is true, if he lost, twenty pounds would not ruin him;
but, if he won, two hundred would set him up.
At length the looked-for news reached Nullington by telegram, and a
slip of paper was pasted to the window of the Rose and Crown, on which
was written in large characters:--Patchwork 1.--Clansman 2.--Trumpeter
3.
Philip Cleeve fell back out of the crowd gathered there, with a great
gasp of relief.
Three days later Captain Lennox placed in his hands two hundred pounds
in crisp Bank of England notes.
"If you had only taken my advice," he said, "and ventured fifty pounds
instead of twenty, what a much richer man you would have been to-day!"