II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

thinking of returning to London.

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

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

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

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

And--"

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

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

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

Aunt Eliza says so."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

with Mrs. Hamlyn?"

"She is with me," replied Harry.

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

confirmed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

keep him to his bargain."

"Do you quarrel?"

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

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

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

I make my bow."

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

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

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

hands."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

suspense."

Alice drew a long breath at his temerity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the chimes also."

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

came to Church Leet."

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

my mother knows it."

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

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

answer.

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

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

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

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

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

summoned to the charge.

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

intricate questions answered touching trimmings and fringes, Miss Kate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

garden.

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

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

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

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

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

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

inscriptions, she went across the churchyard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the crowded corner.

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

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

"Have what done again?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he died.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

when you were a little one."

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

Dear Nancy, what did papa die of?"

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

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

history.

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

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

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

Alice cried and sighed, and trembled inwardly and outwardly. "To think

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

and to the house of Captain Monk!" she wailed. "Surely he did not

_kill_ papa!--intentionally!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

seen one like it in a dream.

"Well, I'm sure!"

The jesting salutation came from Harry Carradyne. Despatched in search

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

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

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

old Nancy Cale, she said to Harry.

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

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

happened, Alice?"

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

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

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

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

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

the churchyard; and she had never, never known it!

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

surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Indeed! Who says so?"

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

"To what? Go on, my dear."

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

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

she said in low tones.

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

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

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

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

made my life's best and dearest privilege."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

hair.

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

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

right?"

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

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

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

she added after a minute.

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

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

old Major Pratt."

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

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

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

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

accost my little son?"

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

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

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

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

day."

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

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

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

my darling again. Mind that, Penelope."

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

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

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

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

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

velvet, the firelight playing upon her proud face, and upon the diamond

earrings and brooch she wore.

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

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

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

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

he abandoned it as useless.

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

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

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

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

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

regard to Peacock's Range, Eliza?"

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

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

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

so.'"

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

positive agreement with us, remember."

"_Is_ it right and fair? That may be your opinion, Philip, but it is

not mine. We shall see, Mr. Harry Carradyne!"

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

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

Monday morning, New Year's Day, dawned.

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

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

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

table, seated in his high chair.

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

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

his mother.

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

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

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

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

Philip."

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

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

master."

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

him in, Japhet."

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

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

looked about timidly.

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

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

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

with hesitating steps. "Are you my papa?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

or John Jones! What insolence some people had!

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

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

and was in bed all last week."

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

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

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

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

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

mistake, I reckon."

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

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

disreputable it may be."

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

thing you may be fancying."

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

passionately demanded of the child.

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

because of not wishing to part from me."