CHAPTER XXII.

THIRTY-FIVE YEARS AFTER.

Mrs. Mansfield still lived at Wyechester, and in the same house as she

had spent the early days of her widowhood. With the disappearance and

disgrace of her daughter, she had closed her heart against the world.

She had provided, in a mechanical way, for her grandson, and she kept

herself informed of his whereabouts and his doings. Otherwise she

lived a blind narrow life of rigid devotion and unscrupulous severity.

From the day the baby-boy and the packet arrived from Brussels, she

had never broken the seal of that packet. For thirty-five years it had

lain where she had that day placed it in her desk. The brown paper in

which it had been wrapped was now rotten, and might be shaken asunder.

Why should she open it? Her daughter had run away with a man, and had

not, in her first letter, said she was married. What was the good of

looking through those papers? If it contained any statements in favour

of that wretched girl, these statements were, beyond all doubt, lies.

Nothing in the world would clear her daughter's name or mitigate the

disgrace of her conduct.

Mrs. Mansfield took in _The Wyechester Independent_. She did not read

the general news as a rule. But the _Independent_ as became the only

daily paper in a town whose sole claim upon distinction was that it

had a cathedral and a bishop, devoted much of its space to local and

general religious topics. The religious news and comments she always

read.

That morning after the storm, _The Wyechester Independent_ had a long

account of the storm and of the wreck of the _Seabird_, the death of

the Duke of Shropshire, and of the heroic conduct of "Mr. Charles

Augustus Cheyne, a gentleman who had recently won his spurs in the

field of literature, and whose latest achievement fills all England

this day with wonder and admiration, and of whom the people of

Wyechester are naturally proud, as he owes his parentage on one side

to this city."

What, Wyechester proud of her grandson, of the child of her unhappy

daughter! Wyechester, the pious cathedral-town of Wyechester, proud of

him she had looked upon as a disgrace! It was unkind, ungenerous,

unmanly of the author of that article to hint thus even distantly at

the disgraceful past. It was not necessary or decent for the writer of

that article to unearth a long-buried scandal. It was an outrage on

the living and the dead. The man who wrote it was a low creature, and

ought to be scouted from all decent society; that is, indeed, if ever

he had been in decent society. How had this man found out? It must

have been the attorney who gave the information.

While the old woman was giving full scope to her anger, there was a

knock at the door. A gentleman desired to see Mrs. Mansfield; he gave

the name of Fritson. The servant might show him in.

A stout little man entered the room, and bowed to Mrs. Mansfield, and

said briskly:

"Mrs. Mansfield, I believe?"

"Yes, sir, I am Mrs. Mansfield," she said, with great coldness and

repelling precision.

He took no notice of her manner.

"My name is Fritson, madam."

"And to what, Mr.--er--eh--Fritson, do I owe the honour of this visit?

I have no recollection of having seen you before, sir," she said

frigidly.

"You are right, my dear madam."

The old woman drew herself back at the unwarrantable freedom of this

man calling her "my dear madam."

The visitor took no notice--in fact, did not observe her manner. He

went on:

"We have never met before; and you owe my visit to the flattering fact

that you have a grandson, whose name is now a household word in all

England."

"Sir!" she said, rising angrily.

He did not see her anger.

"I have come, my dear madam, to know if you will be good enough to

furnish me with additional particulars about your grandson, about his

youth, and so on--in short a brief biography. I represent The

Wyechester Independent and one of the most influential metropolitan

dailies. Any facts you will be good enough to give me will not, you

may be certain, suffer in my hands. I will do the best I can to make

them light and readable. Any anecdote of your grandson's prowess as,

say, a boxer or a cricketer, while a boy, would be peculiarly

acceptable, particularly if there was a touch of magnanimity about it.

One of the fruits of my long experience is that nothing appeals so

universally to the British public as magnanimous muscle."

The old woman stood pale and without the power of speech while he made

this long harangue. When he paused she raised her arm, and, pointing

with a long thin yellow finger at the door, said huskily:

"Go, sir; go at once!" She could say no more.

He bounded to his feet in amazement. He had no intention to hurt or

offend. Nothing was farther from his thoughts. He had been simply

heedless, full of his own mind, unobservant.

"I am sure I beg your pardon," he said, in a tone of sincere apology.

"I had no intention of causing you any annoyance. I thought you might

like to make the _Independent_ and the _Metropolitan Vindicator_ the

medium----"

"Go, sir, go! You are committing an outrage. Go!"

"Believe me, madam," he began, backing towards the door.

"I do not want to hear any more. Go, sir!"

"But, my dear madam, you must allow me to explain----"

"If you do not leave at once I shall send my servant for the police!"

The reporter had reached the door by this time, and as Mrs. Mansfield

ceased speaking, he bowed and retired, comforting himself with the

assurance that she was mad.

When she was alone she sank down and covered her face with her hands,

too much exhausted to think.

For upwards of an hour she did not move; then she took away her hands

from before her face, arose, and, with resolute step, crossed the room

to where her desk stood on a small table in the pier. With resolute

hands she opened the desk, and took out that old bundle which had been

sent to her by her dying child by the same messenger that had brought

the boy four-and-thirty years ago.

Yes, she would destroy this hateful relic of disgrace and dishonour.

She would burn it down to the last atom. Nothing of it, nothing of

that perfidious daughter, should survive.

She sat down and broke the seals, and cut the moulding cord, and

released what was inside. This proved to be a large leather

pocket-book.

The first thing that met her eye was the copy of a certificate of

marriage between Charles Augustus Cheyne and Harriet Mansfield at

Anerly Church. She searched in the pocket-book and found a small

sealed packet, bearing, in a man's writing, these words: "Not to be

opened for three years." The date was the same as that on the copy of

the marriage-certificate.

With trembling hands the old woman cut the silk and broke the

seal. She found nothing but a letter on an old-fashioned sheet of

letter-paper, which, on its right-hand corner, bore a coronet

surrounded by strawberry leaves.

_END OF PART I_.

PART II.

THE DUKE OF SHROPSHIRE.

CHAPTER I.

THE TWO CHEYNES.

Dr. Rowland, chief physician of Barnardstown, the nearest place of any

importance to Silverview, reached the Castle almost as soon as the new

Duke of Shropshire and Cheyne. The groom had brought him to the place

in a dog-cart.

Dr. Rowland had the reputation of being one of the most intelligent

and skilful doctors in the provinces. He had early made his reputation

and position, in spite of mean personal appearance, untidiness in

dress, and indifference to some nice points in the profession. He had

unquestionably genius, and cared nothing for routine or for canons

that were not salutary. His first remarkable case had been that of a

man whom two of the great formal doctors of Barnardstown had left at

night, saying he could not last till morning. This man happened to be

a wealthy eccentric bachelor, who lived in a lonely house a little way

out of the town. The sick man's servant, Johnson, had been at one time

a patient of Rowland's, and entertained the highest respect for

Rowland's skill; and it so happened that on the night the sick man was

despaired of Dr. Rowland met Johnson. The latter told the former that

the great medical men had come and gone, and said his master could by

no possibility get through the night. Johnson implored Rowland to see

his master. The latter agreed; and next morning the patient was

better. In three weeks the man was up and about, and one of his first

acts was to give Johnson and Rowland a hundred pounds each, observing

that if Johnson had not called in Rowland, Rowland would not have

been able to do him any good. After this the two old formal doctors

refused to meet Rowland in consultation, which determination in no way

discomposed the young man, who replied, caustically, that if he might

only come in by himself when they had failed, and be paid by results,

he should have a very large and lucrative practice. When asked by what

means he had cured the dying man, he had answered: "Gumption, a jug of

hot water, and a tin of mustard."

His next cure was that of an old woman whom two other grave and

reverend members of the profession had declared beyond help. When he

was asked what drugs he had employed in this case, he answered:

"Brandy and beef-tea. I wonder the venerables did not do some good

there, for you didn't want any gumption in that case."

After this the elder and more regular members of the profession gave

up declaring their despair; and although they adhered to their

resolution of not meeting Dr. Rowland in consultation, the younger

practitioners of the town had no objection to avail themselves of his

aid in extreme cases. He was, however, peculiar in more ways than

this. He would not take any regular practice. He would not tie himself

down to routine work. He had no patience with hypochondriacs, and

positively refused to attend trifling cases. "I like to let these old

dunderheads ripen a case for me. When they have goaded a patient into

a really bad state, then I don't mind tucking up my sleeves and giving

them a lesson."

These and many more things he did and said were not professional, but

they got him a name in the neighbourhood for being the best man in an

emergency. Accordingly, when the Duke's groom asked the steward whom

he should fetch, the steward answered, "Rowland."

Dr. Rowland was not only low in stature and untidy in dress, but many

other physical details were against him. He had round shoulders and

thin legs. He had a yellow shining skin. His nose was too long and too

prominent for his face, and his eyes had an uncandid and suspicious

look in them. But he diagnosed almost instinctively, knew medicine

well, and acted with the promptness of a good general.

The doctor examined first the Duke. He knew the constitution of his

grace, and although he had never before attended him, he felt at once

that the case was one of extreme gravity. He acted with decision, but

he refused to bear the whole responsibility.

"The case is serious, very serious. I don't think anyone can be of

use; no one certainly but Granby. Of that I am quite sure. Telegraph

for Granby. I'll stop here until he comes."

Accordingly a telegram was sent to the celebrated West-End doctor, Sir

Francis Granby, asking the great baronet to come and see the great

duke who lay ill.

"And now," said Dr. Rowland, "for the other man. What's the matter

with him?"

He was shown into the room where Cheyne lay. He had learned that

Cheyne was unknown at the Castle, and not a guest in the ordinary

meaning of the word. When Rowland had examined the second patient, he

said:

"Nothing wrong with you beyond a few cuts and bruises. You will be all

right in a few days. In the meantime you must keep quiet; that's all

you want, and some tepid water, a sponge and lint."

Although Sir Francis Granby was one of the most gifted and

distinguished of the West-End doctors, it was not every day he was

called to go special to a duke with four hundred thousand a-year.

It was not every day he enjoyed the advantage of pocketing a

thousand-pound fee. It was not every day he had the opportunity of

meeting that erratic genius Oliver Rowland; for though the baronet was

many years older than the country doctor, he had a great respect for

his junior.

"It is all up with him, Granby," said Rowland, when the two were alone

after examining the new Duke.

"A very bad case. You found out what was the matter at once?"

"God bless my soul, yes! It is as plain as the nose on your face. I

knew you'd find it out, too. That's the reason I sent for you."

"And yet it is obscure, very obscure. I have met only three cases of

the kind before. Have you met one?"

"No, not one. Nothing can be done."

"Nothing. He cannot last long."

The burly London baronet shook his head.

"Not a week?"

"Not half that, I think. Is there not another man hurt here? Do you

wish me to see him?"

"Oh, he's all right. Only knocked about a bit by wind and water. Cuts

and bruises, and nothing more, except exhaustion. He's a kind of hero,

you know. Swam out with a rope. Wonderfully fine physique. He must be

an uncommonly powerful man. He was the means of saving all the lives

that were saved. What a funny thing that only the Duke and the Marquis

should have been lost!"

"Funny, Rowland! What a ghastly notion of fun you must have to call

the loss of the two most valuable lives in the yacht funny!"

"Valuable! In what way were these lives valuable? They were not

valuable even to the men themselves. One was a hopeless invalid and

the other was as morose as Boreas. One of them did, it is true,

occasionally vote in the House of Lords, but only to oppose all useful

measures of reform. The other had not become even one of that most

useless body of men in England, members of the House of Commons."

"Rowland! Rowland! this will never do!"

"Who wants it to do? Not I, any way. I don't want myself to do.

Wanting to do is one of the common and mean aspirations. It is the

father of hypocrisy, and servility, and lies, and all the degrading

vices of the time-server; it is the foul pollution upon which the

parasites of success fatten and fester."

"Well, well, Rowland. Long ago, before you had grown quite so violent,

I used to recommend you to come up to London; but now I would not

think of doing so."

"Of course not; nor would I think of going, nor did I ever think of

going. London is the grave of independence and self-respect. You

cannot be yourself there. You must be the creature of somebody else or

the tool of a clique. Give me the hillside and freedom----"

"And five hundred a-year if you are lucky, instead of London and

fifteen thousand a-year----"

"And bowing and scraping, and heeling and toeing, and my-lording and

my-ladying----"

"Well, well, well," said the great city physician; "I shall never be

able to convert you. You are the only man I know in the country who I

am sure ought to be in town."

"And you are the only man in town who I know ought to be in the

country."

"In very few places in the country will you get such madeira as this,"

said Sir Francis, in order to change the conversation.

"And nowhere in the town," said Rowland warmly. "No one thinks of

keeping good wines in town to be guttled down by foreigners,

adventurers, fraudulent speculators, and beggared noblemen. No, no. If

your country gentleman has a brand of which he is particularly proud

or fond, he keeps it down in the country, where he and his real

friends, who come to him on cordial invitations, can discuss it

gravely, un-distracted by the bore of comparative strangers, and the

noise and smoke of the city. Good wine, Granby, should never be drunk

when there is another house within a mile, or with men you have not

known twenty years."

"Well, well, well;" which was the great man's formula for dismissing a

subject. "Let it be--let it be. Suppose you drop the Duke and his

wines. What do you think of your other patient? Don't you think he'd

make a very good soldier?"

"Good heavens, Granby, the town has turned your brain! Make a soldier

of him! A soldier of a man with such a torso, and limbs, and muscles!

Won't the puny and the deformed do you for soldiers? Isn't anything

good enough to pull a rifle-trigger or be shot at? Your parade

soldiers, all puffed and padded, are good enough to please the vanity

of the eye; but their puffs and pads are all in their own way. They

don't help them to chase a man or kill a man. They are stuck on them

for no more reason than women wore crinolines. Why should we try to

get the finest men of all the nation into an institution or force

which boasts of being ready to expose these men to sudden death at any

moment--a duty which, by-the-way, they are very seldom called upon to

fulfil?"

"Rowland, I now go farther than ever I went with you about London: I

must strongly recommend you _not_ to go there."

"Of course not; I told you I should never suit it or it me. But I'll

tell you what our friend the burly patient would make, Granby--he'd

make a magnificent coal-porter, or corn-porter, or backwoodsman."

"Well, well, well, you are hard on the young man. But we cannot agree

on several points that have arisen; but on two we are agreed: that the

Duke cannot live more than a few days, and that nothing can be done?"

"Yes."

"And that the other man will be all right with care in a very short

time?"

"Yes, Granby, that's how I read it."

As the great London physician was leaving later, he said to the

country doctor: "When shall I see you again, Rowland? We ought to meet

now and then."

"Ay, we ought," said Rowland, with the shadow of sadness on his

inexpressive face. This was followed by a gleam of pleasure. "Granby,

come down here for a week's fishing. I mean come to my place at

Barnardstown. There is capital fishing there. I'll give you new-laid

eggs and porridge for your breakfast; beef or fowl and ham, with sound

claret for your dinner; and a good supper, with excellent beer, and

afterwards a rare good glass of Scotch whisky and a cigar."

The great man shook his head ruefully. "I wish I could, Rowland, my

friend. It would remind me of younger and more light-hearted days. But

it can't be done now. Is there any chance of inducing you to come up

to London to stay with us awhile? Do, Rowland!"

"Pooh, pooh, man."

"And when shall we meet again?"

"When some accident befalls the next duke."

"But," said the London baronet, pausing, as he was about to step into

the carriage, "I understood that there was no heir to the title?"

"True, true. I forgot that, Granby. Well, good-bye."

"Good-bye, Rowland."

And the two shook hands.

"I wonder what they would think of him?" By _they_ he meant the

faculty in London.

"Every day I hate London more and more. Granby and I were made for

pals. D---- London!" thought Rowland, as he turned back into the house

of mourning and pain.

CHAPTER II.

THE DREAD OF STRAWBERRY LEAVES.

"What's the matter with you, Marion? You are not going to faint again

today?"

"I hope not, aunt."

"Then what is the matter with you, my dear? You are shaking as if you

had the ague. You are not able to hold those papers in your hand. Who

was that large letter from this morning?"

"Charlie, aunt."

"I thought Charlie was too ill to write?"

"A Doctor Rowland wrote it for him."

"And has Doctor Rowland written for Charles such a dreadful letter,

so dreadfully unkind a letter, that it takes your breath and your

senses away? Come over here to me, my little girl, and tell me all

about it."

"It is not unkind, aunt; it's worse. It is dreadful."

"Now, now, Marion, you must not allow yourself to be carried away by

every little thing connected with Charlie. Is he worse?"

"No. He's going on well, the doctor says."

"Well, then, child, come over to me and bring all those papers with

you; and first of all read out what the doctor says."

With the look of one overwhelmed with sorrow, May crossed the room,

carrying the papers in one hand down by her side, and in the other,

holding against her brown-red cheek, a tress of her dark hair, which

had escaped the fastening behind her head.

She sat down in her low easy-chair behind her aunt, and, having placed

the more voluminous documents on the ground beside her, rested one

elbow on an elbow of the chair, and began reading out in a doleful

voice:

"Dear Madam,

"I am still in medical attendance on both the Duke of Shropshire and

Mr. Cheyne, and I have to report with sorrow that the condition of his

grace causes the gravest anxiety. Additional medical assistance has

been summoned since the hasty note I wrote you a few days ago; but the

universal opinion of the medical men is that his grace is not likely

to last many days. An old acquaintance and I take the watching in

turns.

"With regard to Mr. Cheyne, I am happy to be able to report that he is

going on better than we had anticipated. All signs of fever have left

him, and he has now only to pull up strength to be no worse than when

he first came to this neighbourhood. You may rest quite assured he

shall want nothing that can be got or done for him here. He has

communicated to me the understanding which exists between you and him,

and has desired me to write as much as I please of my own will, and

then asked me to take the rest from his dictation. So far I have

written from myself. Before I begin taking down his words I may tell

you that I am one of the crustiest of old bachelor doctors; but the

story which Mr. Cheyne has to tell you is of so romantic a character

that I cannot avoid feeling an interest in it, and that if there is

anything I can do in the matter for you I shall be most happy to act.

"Your faithful Servant,

"Oliver Rowland."

Then came Cheyne's letter to May, written out for him by Dr. Rowland.

"My dearest May,

"Doctor Rowland will tell you that I am rapidly getting better, and

that in a few days I may hope to be able to get up and about. For the

first time, this morning they allowed me to look through the letters

lying here for me, among which were two from your own good hand, dear,

and two more from other sources. These four are all that I need

mention now; and of your own you will, for an obvious reason, see why

I must confine myself to thanks and good wishes, and telling you how

glad I was to hear that you and your kind aunt are so well. I pray you

may both continue so.

"And now for the other two.

"One of them is from an old friend of mine of whom you have often

heard me speak, and whom you met more than once--Edward Graham, the

artist, who, as I told you, has been painting a picture under Anerly

Bridge, in Devonshire. This letter is accompanied by a story which

goes back to the year before I was born, and tells of a certain

marriage in that village between George Temple Cheyne and Harriet

Mansfield.

"The second letter is from Mrs. Mansfield of Wyechester, in which she

tells me that she is the mother of the Harriet Mansfield married at

Anerly, and that I am the only child of that Anerly marriage.

"And now, May dearest, prepare yourself for a most astounding

discovery.

"The letter from my grandmother contained several other papers, among

them one in my father's and one in my mother's writing. I will not

plague you with details, but the facts are simply these:

"My mother met my father by accident, and ran away with him. She

thought him a plain gentleman, and for two reasons he wished to keep

their marriage private for a while. The first of these was that a rich

relative had promised to hand him over a large fortune if he did not

marry up to a certain age--an age he had not then reached, though he

should reach it in a short time. The second was that a number of men

to whom he owed money knew of this, and would have been down on him at

once if they suspected him of having married.

"Accordingly the secret was kept, and the married pair went away on

the Continent. Here my father caught sound of a rumour that his

creditors were on the look-out for him; and, leaving instructions with

his wife to remain in Brussels, he went away. She never saw her

husband again; and when dying she told the nurse to bring me to my

grandmother Mansfield, at Wyechester, at the same time giving in

charge to the good woman, for my grandmother, some papers my father

had left behind him, with instructions that they were not to be opened

until a certain future time. My grandmother provided for me secretly,

and had me ultimately put into the publishing house in London.

"It appears my father, on reaching England, being a man always

variable and fickle in love, went straight to the village of Anerly,

and tried to bribe the clerk to tear out of the register the leaf

containing the entry of my father and mother's marriage; but he

failed. This part I learn from Graham's story.

"May, I have been a long time preparing you for what is to come. Let

it come all at once.

"Now this George Temple Cheyne, my father, was the only brother of the

late Duke of Shropshire, and I am first cousin of the present Duke,

and heir-presumptive to the titles and estates."

For a moment the woman looked into the girl's eyes. Then Miss Traynor

said:

"Marion, dear, read the last bit over again."

The girl did so in a dull, monotonous voice.

"Marion, could it be that his head has been hurt, and he is wandering

in his mind?" asked the old lady hopefully.

"But, aunt, the doctor might humour him by writing it down, yet he

would hardly send it off to humour him."

"That is very true, Marion; very true," admitted the aunt, ruefully.

Then, after a pause, she brightened up wonderfully, and cried in a

triumphant voice: "I have it, Marion--I have it! It is a chapter of

one of his novels he has sent you by mistake."

"But," said May despairingly, pointing to the documents at her feet,

"what are these? I did not read out all the letter, aunt. He tells me,

after where I stopped, to go with these things to Macklin and Dowell,

his solicitors, ask them to read the papers over, and await further

instructions until he comes up to town."

The aunt was not going to be baffled. She pondered a long time, and at

last cried out cheerfully:

"But, Marion, my dear, his solicitors and the other solicitors may

find out some flaw--some flaw that may spoil all."

The girl shot a bright glance up.

"Oh, aunt, thank you for that hope. It was good of you to think of it.

I hope with all my heart it may be so."

Marion stooped down and gathered up all the papers at her feet.

For a long time neither spoke. May sat with her lap full of papers,

and her eyes fixed dully upon them. Miss Traynor had fallen into a

deep reverie, her elbow on the white cloth of the breakfast-table, her

white round chin dropped into her white round hand. The elder was the

first to speak, and when she did it was in a very timid and apologetic

way, as though she was more than half ashamed of referring to such a

subject.

"Isn't a duke the greatest after the Queen and the Princes and the

Princesses, May?"

"I believe so."

"And he has a right to be presented to the Court, and know the Queen;

and maybe now and then she asks a duke or two to dine with her, and

advise her what to do about Parliament and Radicals and foreign

possessions, and so on?"

"I believe so, aunt dear."

"It is wonderful to think of it! Wonderful to think of it! To think

that the young man we knew in this humble little house as Charlie will

be sitting down to gold services with the Queen, and that we shall see

his name in _The Court Circular_--'The Duke of Shropshire visited the

Queen yesterday, and afterwards enjoyed the honour of dining with Her

Majesty.' Wonderful!"

From the lids of the girl's eyes the tears now began to fall. The old

Duke had been drowned, the present Duke was dying, and her Charlie,

her own, her only darling Charlie, was to be the new Duke. And they

should read all those dreadful things in _The Court Circular_ and

elsewhere; and she should scarcely be able to take up any kind of a

paper in which she should not find his name; but it was plain to her

she had lost himself. She, the sweetheart, the wife of a great

duke!--she blushed crimson with shame at the bare thought, and she

wept for sorrow that a dukedom should rob her of her dear lover.

The elder woman's thoughts went on in quite a different way.

She had, of course, often seen lords and ladies in the Park and the

theatres and other places of public assembly, but she had never spoken

to one. Her father had, of course, spoken to many, and had been

presented at Court; but then her father was to her a god apart, quite

as much apart as the members of the peerage. She had, as far as she

could now recollect, never seen a duke, except the Duke of Wellington.

But then he wasn't a great duke to her mind. He was a great captain, a

great soldier, but the ducal quality in him was too new to be

interesting. It was overborne by the splendour of his achievements and

the glory of his renown. The dukedom was no more in him than the scarf

he had put on that morning. But a duke proper, from her point of view,

she had never seen; one of whose house there had been dukes three

hundred years ago had never come within her ken, and of such dukes she

stood in awe, not knowing what manner of men they might be. She had

heard of the Dukeries as of some mysterious region, upon which nothing

earthly could compel her to enter. She had, of course, seen royal

dukes; but these she looked upon as only princes of the blood

masquerading.

She had never in all her life spoken to a lord or a lady; and beyond

what she read of them in books, which she believed to be mostly lies,

she had no means of forming any notion of how they spoke. She knew

that judges on the bench were not as other men, and did not speak as

other men; but judges were only common men, had been only common

barristers at one time. Had a lord spoken to her she should not have

known what to say. She should in all likelihood have said Yes or No

without any discrimination, and retired. She would not say Yes or No,

my lord, for all the world; for to say so would have been to admit she

knew the honour which had been thrust upon her; and the burden of such

an admission she could not bear. She had a notion that members of the

peerage were as much removed from sympathy with common mortals as

birds or fishes; and when, once a year or so, in looking idly down the

columns of _The Times_, she could not help seeing that a noble lord

had said something about turnips or calves, she hastened on, shocked

and affrighted as much as though a clergyman, in whom she had always

trusted, had one Sunday, in the pulpit, advised his congregation to

come no more to church, but to spend the day in playing whist and

billiards, and dancing and singing, and eating and drinking.

But now what had arisen? A man whom she had known for years, who had

crossed her threshold hundreds of times, who had sat on every chair in

that little drawing-dining-room, who had eaten her beef and broken her

eggs at his tea, who had rolled her chair from one room into the

other, who had made the salad for tea and praised the condition of her

beer, who had kissed her niece in her presence over and over again,

and had promised to be a good husband to that young girl, whom she now

loved more than all else on earth--this man was now about to be lifted

into the front rank of the peerage! He was to be a duke--the ducal son

of she knew not how many fathers! It was prodigious! unbelievable!

And what would come of it all? Would he remember them? Plainly: for

had he not sent the important papers to Marion? And there was the

girl, wretched and dispirited. Why? Ah well, she might guess. Charles

Augustus Cheyne with a few hundreds a year from his pen, and Charles

Augustus Cheyne, Duke of Shropshire and master of how much wealth she

knew not, were widely different persons. But, after all, who could

tell? She had met Mr. Cheyne, and liked him. She had never met a

duke--how could she tell what would be her feelings towards a duke if

she met one? And then the fact of Cheyne and a duke being one! She

should let matters take their course, and see how they would turn out.

"Marion dear," she said at the end of these cogitations, "what is it

you are to do with those papers Charles sent you?"

"Take them to Macklin and Dowell."

"And had you not better do so at once? They are of the highest

consequence."

"Yes, aunt."

She rose and went to her room, and dressed herself listlessly: and

when she was dressed, a cab was called and she drove away. She was not

more than an hour at Macklin and Dowell's. When she was leaving, the

two members of the firm conducted her to the cab. The last words they

said to her, as they handed her into the vehicle, were:

"If the documents and the history are good, the case is clear; and we

have every reason to believe both are good."

When she found herself alone in the cab rolling to Knightsbridge, she

covered her eyes with her hands and sobbed hysterically:

"I wish the history and the documents had left Charlie alone, and left

him to me."

CHAPTER III.

THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL.

About a fortnight after the arrival of the letter and the documents

which caused such a profound sensation at Miss Traynor's, and while

the elder and younger women were idling over the end of a very late

breakfast, a hansom cab drew up sharply at the hall-door, and a man

ran quickly up the steps and knocked briskly.

Marion knew who it was in a moment, and hastened out of the room. Her

aunt thought she had, as in the careless old times, gone to open the

door for him; but she had fled up to her own room and locked the door,

and thrown herself on her knees beside her bed and burst into tears.

In the meantime Anne had opened the door, and when she saw who it was,

quiet Anne, who rarely spoke beyond her business, exclaimed:

"Oh Mr. Cheyne, they will be glad to see you!"

"Have the goodness," said he soberly, "to tell Miss Traynor that the

Duke of Shropshire would be glad of the honour of a few words with

her."

"Yes, my lord," said Anne, curtsying profoundly, blushing deeply, and

then running off with a great want of dignity into the sitting room.

She left his grace standing in the sunken porch with as little

ceremony as if he had been the man for the gas account.

"If you please, my lord, will you walk into the room?" said Anne from

the back of the hall, not daring to go near a man who had been so

awfully changed in a few days from a plain Mr. to one of the greatest

lords, as her mistress had informed her.

As the visitor came up to where she stood, he said:

"Anne, your grace."

"I beg your pardon," faltered timid Anne, "I do not know what you

mean."

"That in future you are to call me 'your grace,' and not 'Mr.

Charlie,' or 'Mr. Cheyne,' or 'my lord.'"

"But--but, my lord, I--couldn't think of calling you anything so

familiar."

"Very well, Anne, I will excuse you. And how are you, Anne?"

"Quite well, thank you, my lord."

"And not married yet, Anne,--my little Anne?"

"No, my lord."

"Ah well, the man is making an awful fool of himself, that it is all I

have to say."

Anne ran upstairs and knocked at Marion's door. She was too full of

her own surprise and awe to take into consideration the position of

her young mistress. Marion rose from her knees and opened the door.

Anne exclaimed:

"Oh, Miss May, Mr. Cheyne is below, and he's so changed I hardly knew

him."

"Changed, Anne!" cried May eagerly; "is he looking ill?"

"Oh no, miss, he's looking better than ever; but he's so changed and

dark and distant-like."

"Is that all?" said May, relapsing into her old sad forlorn manner.

"No wonder; you know, Anne, he has had a wonderful change of fortune

since we saw him last."

"Yes, miss, I know he has; but, miss, when I called him my lord, as in

duty bound, he now being a great lord, he told me I must not call him

'lord,' but 'grace.' The last place I was in I had a fellow-servant

called Grace, and I used to call her Grace; and wouldn't it seem very

presuming on my part to call him Grace, as it might be after her? So I

begged to be excused, and he excused me."

"But, Anne, he is a duke now, and a duke has a right to be called

'your grace.'"

In the meanwhile the Duke had entered the tiny sitting-room, and,

having bowed profoundly to Miss Traynor, went over to her, and took

her hand and pressed it respectfully, and then drew a chair opposite

to the one in which she sat.

She noticed he was dressed in the same clothes as he wore when he was

last in that house. "What could a duke mean by wearing old clothes?"

He began speaking immediately.

"My dear Miss Traynor, since I had the pleasure of seeing you last,

most extraordinary events have occurred in my career, as, to some

extent, you are aware. I left London less than three weeks ago with a

most unmanly and barbarous intent. A combination of circumstances, old

and new, had almost goaded me into madness, and I went on an

expedition of revenge. I am glad to say that I was saved the penalty

of my anger; for I was able to give help instead of doing injury when

the opportunity for striking the blow came. As you know, the seventh

Duke of Shropshire was drowned in that awful storm, and his only son,

the Marquis of Southwold, was saved. The Marquis of Southwold, as a

matter of course, became, while in a dying condition, eighth Duke of

Shropshire. On the death of the eighth duke, a few days ago, I became

a claimant to the peerage and all the estates, and so on; and the best

lawyers say there is no chance of my claim being even disputed. So

that virtually I am now a very rich man, an enormously rich man. Well,

when I was poor I offered all I had then to Marion--my heart and hand.

I am now rich, and immediately upon my arrival in London this morning

I have come to offer what has been added to my store since--riches. As

to the title, I daresay if the Queen said I was to be called Tim it

would not make much difference in my nature or my feelings towards

May; though, as a matter of fact, I'd rather not be called Tim. This

little speech of mine. Miss Traynor, may sound like a passage from a

book; but talking like a book saves time often."

Poor Miss Traynor broke down and wept like a child.

"I always told her she ought to be proud of you--always; but I never

felt it so much as now."

"There now. Miss Traynor, don't distress yourself. We shall all be

good friends."

It was some time before he could quiet her. When he had done so he

begged that he might be allowed a few moments alone with Marion.

The aunt rang the bell, and, when Anne appeared, told the servant to

ask Miss Durrant to come down to the front room, if she pleased.

Aunt and niece met in the doorway, but neither spoke. The aunt looked

at the girl, but the eyes of the latter were on the ground.

When the door was closed the girl stood inside it motionless, with her

head slightly drooped on one side and her eyes still lowered.

He went over and took her silently into his arms, and held her lightly

there awhile and then kissed her lightly. Then he drew her a little

closer to him and kissed her again, and put his lips near her ear,

whispered into it words which, though old and familiar, are always new

as the odours of old springs and old flowers in the new spring and new

flowers.

At last she looked up into his face, and, reaching high, put her small

hands on his shoulders, and sobbing out, "Oh Charlie!" hid her head

upon him.

He carried her across the room and placed her in a chair, and soothed

her until he had won her back to her old bright self. When he had

accomplished this, he stood up, and bending seriously over her, said:

"And now. May, I have made a long speech to your aunt, and said a lot

to you, and I want you to do me a great favour. Will you?"

"Anything, anything, Charlie."

"Well, I want you to bring me up a jug of that delicious cool beer and

a couple of biscuits; and if you love me, don't be long. I am ready to

fall down from exhaustion. When I have drunk and eaten, I will tell

you everything."

She went from the room, and as she walked about the kitchen and the

cellar, half forgetting what she came for, she could see nothing

clearly for her happy tears.

CHAPTER IV.

THE IMPENDING CORONET.

The visitor drank a glass of the beer at a draught, broke and eat a

biscuit with great deliberateness, and then bending forward solemnly

over May, who sat on a low chair at his side, said:

"I have just been paying a visit to my grandmother at Wyechester, and

a very stately and formal reception it was. How do you feel, Duchess?"

"Oh no, no, no! Don't say that, Charlie! For mercy's sake don't say

that!" she cried piteously, covering her face with her hands, and

dropping her head forward.

"What on earth is the matter, May?" he asked tenderly. He placed his

hand on the rich brown hair of the bent head.

"I am terrified! Oh, I am terrified at that--at the thought that you

are now--that you have become so rich; and still more, that other

awful, awful thing!" she cried.

"What! The title? Why many women would give their right hands for it,"

he said, in a tone half soothing, half jocose.

"I hate it! I hate it!" she sobbed passionately. "I'd rather I was

dead! I would indeed. Oh, oh, oh!" She sobbed and swayed herself to

and fro.

"In the name of wonder, what am I to do? I can't get rid of it," he

said, in a whimsical tone of voice, as he stroked her hair. "You know,

May, the thing was not of my seeking. It was thrust upon me. I had no

more notion it was coming than you had. I had no more notion I was

related to those great Cheynes than you had. What am I to do? I don't

know how to get rid of it. There is only one way, and that is, to

commit high treason and get attainted; but in that case they take away

one's head when they take away one's title. Of course, I shall no

longer need what is inside my head, now that I am rich; still I am not

sure that the treason would be a success. Can you suggest nothing that

I could do, May?"

"No; nothing. But it is dreadful! Oh, so dreadful!"

He now saw that she was much more seriously distressed than he had at

first imagined, and that her uneasiness could not be dispelled by

badinage. He drew his chair as near as he could to hers, and taking

one of her hands down from her face, held it in both his, and said, in

a deep grave voice:

"May darling, I will not have you fret about this thing. It cannot be

helped now, and we must only try and accommodate ourselves to

circumstances in the best way we can. I'll tell you what I propose;

that first all this legal business shall be disposed of, and that when

I am getting near the end of that business you go over to Paris with

your aunt, and that when I have taken the oath in the House I slip

over quietly to Paris, and we get married at the Embassy there. We can

then knock about the Continent for a year or two, until the town and

country are done talking about us, and then come home, stay quietly

for awhile at one of our country places before coming up to our house

in Piccadilly, What do you think of that, darling?" He pressed her

hand and raised it to his lips.

What did she think of that? It was worse and worse. Every word he

said made it seem more dismal and hopeless. He was to go into the

House of Lords, and she was to be married at the ambassador's in

Paris. She was to stay at one of their country houses--stay there for

awhile before coming up to their house in Piccadilly. Oh, it would

never, never, do! She could not bear it! She was not suited to any

such position. How cruel--how piteously cruel Fate was with her!

All she said was: "I cannot think of it now. I cannot think of it now.

Do not ask me."

He saw that for the present it was useless to urge her further, and

therefore changed the subject.

"You must know. May, that while I was in the doctor's books in the

country--by-the-way, I had a most extraordinary doctor; I'll tell you

more of him another time--I made up my mind to celebrate my return to

town by spending part of my first day in London with you, and giving a

supper to a lot of old pals in my old diggings in Long Acre."

She took down her hand from her face, and sat back in her chair.

"May, you are very pale? Are you unwell?"

"No; I am quite well. Shall you have many at the supper?"

"No; not very many. A dozen or so. Just the old fellows who knew me,

and whom I liked when--I mean whom I have always liked." He had been

near alluding to the great change, but had stopped in time. Then he

gave her the names of those he expected. She knew of them all, and

brightened up a little as he went on with his descriptive catalogue of

his guests. At length he came to little Porson, the novelist and

journalist.

"Little Porson, too, will be there. You know little Porson? Well, no,

but I have told you of him. He's a dapper, mild, conceited fellow,

with the best heart and the most infernally restless tongue in the

world. He has just got out a new novel. It's called 'A Maid of

Chelsea,' and is doing very well, I believe. By-the-way, I have had a

most polite letter from Blantyre and Ferguson, the firm that published

my book. They say that of late the demand for the novel has been so

great as to warrant them in getting out, in three volumes, a new

edition four times as large as the first. Think of that!"

She looked up brightly, and cried: "Oh, Charlie, that is good news!"

"I should have thought it great news a month ago, but it does not make

much difference now."

"Ah, I forgot," she said sadly. All the light left her face suddenly,

and during the rest of the time they were together that day she never

called him Charlie again.

When he left she went, up to her own room, feeling wretched, and cold,

and broken-hearted. She locked herself in once more, and drew down the

blind.

Ah, what a change! What an awful change! Not in him; there was no

change in his kind nature. And yet there was a change. Of old he

thought and spoke of two only things; he seemed to have had only two

things to think of--his work and herself.

Now he had to think of the House of Lords, for he was a great lord;

and of foreign cities, for he was rich and must travel; and of

business of vast importance, for he owned wide tracts of land, with

castles, and villages, and towns. By the side of all these things how

wretchedly insignificant she seemed! In their presence she was dwarfed

into nothing. She could not recognise herself, and surely he could not

recognise her. She would be invisible to him, unless, indeed, she

happened to be in his way.

Yes, in so far as she might be anything to him, she should be in his

way. He was a strong man, who knew the world and was very clever. He

would take his place among all these great things naturally. He would

be invited to assist in the government of the country, and in course

of time add the dignities and honours his intellect would bring him to

those he had just inherited. By the side of a man in such a career was

not the place for such as she.

Her aunt had always said one should keep in the sphere of life into

which one was born, and now the justice of this saying was plain;

nothing could be plainer. If he had not come into this thing, if his

book had been a success while he was still simple Mr. Cheyne, and if

he had got on as a writer, and became famous and rich, she would

willingly share his triumph and prosperity with him. In that case all

would come gently, softly. Even if he had leaped into fame and fortune

it would be no more than they had been dreaming about, hoping for. But

in the present case an intolerable burden had been thrust upon her

shoulders. She could not, she would not, bear it.

No. She would never marry. Never. She could never marry anyone but

him, and now he had been taken from her as much as though the grave

had opened and swallowed him. She should only be in his way. He had

always been heir to the honours which had now come upon him, and no

doubt her aunt had always been right in saying that people were born

to high state, although at their birth, and for some time after, it

might seem they had been intended for humbler places. Was not the

present a case in point? Here was he perfectly at his ease about the

new position into which he had come, to which he had been born, but of

which he knew nothing until a few days ago. Here was she overwhelmed,

appalled by the mere thought of the honours and responsibilities. Why?

Why was she so frightened by the phantoms of things which he took as

easily as the ordinary events of everyday life? Because he had been

born to them, and she had not. Nothing could be plainer. Ah, nothing!

No, she would never marry anyone now. He should marry; marry a lady

born; marry one whose whole life had been spent among such things as

were to surround him all the days of his life. He should marry someone

who was not only accustomed to such things, but who expected their

presence always, and would feel uncomfortable if they were withdrawn

from her. He should marry such a wife and be happy, and she herself

would be happy, knowing she had done her duty by him in refusing to

marry him.

Her duty, ay; but what of her love?

Then she threw herself on her bed and sobbed passionately.

Her love! Was all her love for him to count as nothing in this bitter

case? Were all her hopes and dreams to vanish? She had been faithful

to him with her whole nature; she would be faithful to him until her

death. But had the end of all come so soon? So soon, that the end had

come while she was only picturing to herself the beginning? Had the

love-chambers of her heart to be locked for ever upon merely an image?

Were all the sweet thoughts of the future which used to haunt her to

fade away for ever? Should she never minister to him, or cheer him, or

help him? Of old he had said she should read his proofs to him, for

the ear is quicker to catch an error or an unhappy phrase than the

writer's eyes. Should she not share his troubles and hear his plans?

She had a little money, and he was able to make a little. In the old

days their united incomes seemed enough for a quiet pair to start on.

Now he would hardly miss their joint incomes multiplied a hundred

times. All was over with her. Come, night and darkness! Come, oh

grave, for life was over!

Then for a long time she lay and sobbed as though her heart would

break. No thoughts were clearly defined to her. She simply felt the

great woe around her like a choking mist. There was hope nowhere. Her

life was over. There was nothing for her to do.

Nothing!

Ah, yes, there was one thing. One last thing.

The consciousness that something remained for her to do roused her,

and she got up and bathed her flushed, miserable face, and took down

her little writing-case from its place on the shelf, and opened it on

the dressing-table.

With deliberate hands she selected a sheet of paper, took up a pen,

dipped it slowly into the ink, and wrote the address and date. Then

she paused, bowed her head on her arm, and remained motionless. She

was about to address her last letter to him. How should she begin it?

Last month when she wrote she called him "My darling Charlie." That

would not do now. And yet he was her darling more than ever. She never

loved him so much as now. But she must not tell him so. She must let

him think she had changed her mind, changed her heart towards him.

How should she begin?

She would set out without any formal beginning, and finish with no

formal ending. She would say what she had to say without addressing

him by name, and then just put her own name.

She waited a little while to think what she should say, and then wrote

a few lines, and was surprised to find it so easy to dismiss finally

all she held dear. She did not sigh or weep as she wrote, and nothing

could be simpler or more direct than her words. They were:

"Ever since I heard of the great changes which have taken place with

you of late, I have felt that all between us must be at an end. Even

if I could bear the weight of your new position, I would not, and in

any case I should be unworthy of the place. It is not you who have

changed, but I. You must not write to me or come to me again. I will

not see you if you call. I will not answer you if you write. I shall

always have a most friendly feeling towards you, but we must not meet.

If you do not want the ring you gave me, I should like to keep it in

memory of you.

"Marion Durrant."

She finished the letter in a firm hand, and without any unusual

effort. She wrote more as if she was putting down the words of someone

else. When she spoke of keeping the ring, she never thought of looking

at it. Indeed, she had forgotten it was on one of the fingers that

held steady the sheet of paper on which she wrote. It seemed to her

she was writing about another person's ring, and that in making the

unusual request she was thinking of the person on whose behalf she

wrote, and not of the foolish proprieties of the case.

When the letter was signed, she put it in an envelope. How should she

address it? She had not directed an envelope to him since the wreck.

All her notes and letters to him had gone under cover to Dr. Rowland.

Still, she felt as if she was acting for another, and not for herself.

And yet she could not write down his new title. No. For the last time,

and out of regard to--to old times, she would address him as--as she

had done before that day he went away on that journey which had

changed her inward life and the outward look of all the world.

She always posted letters to him with her own hand. As soon as she had

finished writing, she put on her hat and went downstairs. Her aunt was

in the little breakfast-room as usual.

"I'm going to the post, aunt," said May, looking in from the doorway.

"And I think I'll go for a short walk then."

"Is--is----" The woman paused. She did not like to say Charlie or Mr.

Cheyne, and she could not yet bring herself to call him by his new

name. "Is--is he going with you, or waiting for you? I hope all is

pleasant between you. You are not looking very bright, Marion."

"I feel a little tired, that is all. The stir will do me good. Have

you any letter for post, aunt?"

"You have not quarrelled? There is something wrong with you. I hope no

difference has come between you?"

Miss Traynor's old views with regard to caste had not been changed in

the least, but they had been placed in abeyance. It was not now a

question of preordination. She knew Marion loved him better than all

else on earth, and she loved Marion, and only Marion. It was therefore

no longer an abstract question. The matter now concerned her darling

girl, her only care, her only hope, her only joy, the one lamp that

illumined the downward way of her life.

She need not think of him as a duke; she need think of him as Charles

Cheyne only. He should be nothing more than that to her, if he might

be everything else he had been to her darling Marion. She could not

originate or adopt a new theory on the subject of caste, but she could

hold her old one at arm's length when it threatened the happiness of

the young girl round whose welfare all her hopes centered.

When Marion spoke, her voice was low, clear, and free from

tremulousness.

"No, aunt, we have not quarrelled. A difference, without a quarrel,

has come between us, but I have written a letter to him," holding it

up; "and this will make it all right"--she added mentally--"for him."

"I am glad, my darling, there is no quarrel. Of course we must all

have our differences, but need not have any quarrels. I wonder, if I

asked him, would he come and dine with us to-morrow?"

"I am afraid he would not. I think you had better not write."

As she said these words, she went out of the room.

"I fear there is something more than a difference between them,"

thought Miss Traynor, as the door closed upon the girl.

Holding the letter in her hand, Marion went out into the bright warm

weather. The post-pillar, in which she had posted every line she had

ever written to him, was at the end of the street. She walked down

listlessly to the end of the street, mechanically raised her hand to

the hole, and dropped the letter in.

It had no sooner escaped her fingers, and fallen with a hollow rattle

down the pillar, than she shuddered; made a convulsive clutch at the

mouth of the pillar, as though to snatch it back, then drew her figure

together and hurried away.

She walked on until she found herself in Hyde Park. She went west,

thinking of nothing, feeling nothing but a dead numbed sensation at

her heart. She passed into Kensington Gardens, and there, selecting a

quiet retired seat under the trees, sat down.

It was better here in the bright clear air, than in the small house,

where she could not get away from her aunt's questioning face. Yet

that questioning face would have to be answered some time. And what

would the answer be?

All at once, as she put this question to herself, the full effect of

that letter rushed in upon her mind.

What! was it all over? Had the simple act of dropping that letter into

the pillar put an end for ever to all that had been between her and

Charlie?

Was it all over now? All over, as though it never had been, except

that there was the tormenting memory of the pleasant hours and dreams

that had been, all the delicious sense of protection and companionship

now withdrawn. Oh, blank indeed had life become! That small act of

dropping those few lines into the pillar had cut her off for ever from

him. She could not get her letter back--she could not now withdraw her

words. If she had only waited until now! If she had only kept that

letter by her until now, for an hour! There had been no need to post

it so soon. If she had kept it till night, and then posted it, he

would have received it next morning. That would have been time enough.

She had loved him so long she might have waited a few hours longer.

Oh, it was hard, hard, hard to give up all she had set her heart upon!

The tears ran down her face, and she sobbed quietly for awhile before

she turned homeward.

That day she avoided her aunt as much as possible, and would not speak

any more about the position of affairs between her and him. She had a

headache, and went to her room and lay down for awhile.

She could not sleep. She wept, and lay thinking of all that had been,

and of that letter. It was broad daylight still when she got up. She

thought the whole thing over again, and having come to the conclusion

once more that she had done right, that she would not recall that

letter if she could, and that her only chance of keeping her

resolution was not to see him any more, she made up her mind to go

away from home, and leave no trace of whither she had gone behind her.

Then she opened her writing-case once more, wrote a few lines to her

aunt, and went out.

CHAPTER V.

THE GLORIOUS PRIVILEGE.

When the Duke of Shropshire left Miss Traynor's house in Tenby

Terrace, Knightsbridge, he had the remainder of the afternoon at his

disposal. None of the men he had invited would be at his place until

nine o'clock. He had no plan for getting rid of the intervening time.

When he set out for Tenby Terrace, he had intended staying longer with

Marion, but in the mood he then found her, he considered it better not

to remain long. He thought the great suddenness of the change had

overcome her, and that a few hours to herself would be the best thing

for her.

With regard to himself, he could not fully realise the difference

recent events had made in his fate. He was now almost as well as he

had been when he set out from London to Silverview. He had been

detained in the country a few days beyond those necessary for the

safety of his health; and his fine constitution, aided by the good air

and the marvellous alteration in his fortune, had done wonders towards

restoring him to his old fine physical condition.

Macklin and Dowell had promised that he should have little or no

trouble in establishing his claim, and they backed their promise by

placing their banking account, specially increased for the purpose, at

his service. Each member of the firm had been down with him at

Silverview, and the only trouble from which each seemed to suffer was

the mere fear that he might in some way be inconvenienced.

The lawyers and all the servants at the Castle had been calling him

"your grace" for many days; and although the title bestowed upon him

by his old companions had protected him from shock in finding himself

so addressed, he felt very uncomfortable and ill at ease. He had,

while at Silverview, left strict word that he could see no one except

those with whom he had made an appointment by letter. But although no

unauthorised person was allowed past the lodges, the greatness of his

position was continually thrust upon him as soon as he was able to

move about, by the bowing servants in the house and the uncovered

workmen out of doors.

Although the gates of the demesne were carefully guarded, the

castle-fortress was not impregnable. Through the post the new Duke was

assailed day and night. After the newspapers had announced his

succession to the property and title, he was inundated with letters

from people and societies he had hitherto not heard of. The first

intimation he received that the outer world knew anything of his

altered circumstances, was from a circular about a voice lozenge,

without which, it would appear, no public speakers could, with any

chance of success, address an audience. Every member of the Houses of

Lords and Commons was ready to bear enthusiastic testimony to the

efficacy of these lozenges. The word "Lords" was underlined, and the

circular was accompanied by two of the wonderful lozenges, and a

manuscript request that his grace would give them an early trial.

"If I were a prima donna, getting a hundred a night for singing, they

could not show a greater anxiety about my voice," said the Duke to

Rowland.

"But you get ten times more for your silence than any prima donna ever

got for her singing," said Rowland.

This set the Duke thinking.

Then came a hundred formal well and ill spelled letters from all kinds

of people who had been in the employment of the old Duke, and wished

to serve under the new one, and from those who had not served before,

but were anxious to be of assistance to the family now. All the

servants wanted instructions, and the new peer did not know how to

give any instructions. Part of this business he handed over to the

Silverview steward, and part to his lawyers, Macklin and Dowell.

He was obliged to give long interviews to the agents of the various

estates; for although his claim to the title and property had not yet

been legally confirmed, everyone connected with the property treated

him as though he were in full possession.

From all kinds of charitable and pious bodies and institutions, and

from all kinds of private people, begging letters came in showers upon

him. On one day no fewer than four hundred letters were delivered at

the Castle; upwards of three hundred of which were from unknown

people, asking assistance of one kind or another.

Some of these people who asked aid for what seemed to them meritorious

purposes, had sought to force their way through the lodge-gates, and

one lady of more perseverance than good taste had bribed a child of

one of the lodge-keepers to open a wicket and let her into the

grounds. This occurred when the new owner of Silverview was able to

take exercise in the grounds. He saw her before any of the servants

about the place. She came up to him, and, not knowing who he was,

asked him how she was to obtain an interview with the Duke.

"May I ask," said he, with a smile, "what you want to see him about?

You know, I suppose, that he sees nobody?"

"Oh yes, I know that," answered the lady, looking up into his face.

She was small and had dark hair and eyes. He thought she was about the

same size as Marion. "But I got in by fraud, and I hope you will help

me if you can, to see his grace. You have some authority here?" she

asked.

She was not nearly so bright or so pretty as Marion, but she reminded

him strongly of her. He was now thinking of the little house in Tenby

Terrace, and wishing to be there. He answered gravely:

"Yes, I have some influence here."

"Then, like a good Christian, get me just a few minutes with the Duke.

You will be doing an act of charity, you will indeed. I have come here

to beg in the interest of a most worthy charity. It is for the purpose

of keeping up the Barnardstown Home for Decayed Spinsters."

He smiled again, thinking how far Marion would be removed from the

condition of a decayed spinster.

"If you go to the Castle now you will most certainly not see the Duke

there. The orders are very strict that no one is to be admitted, and I

am sure you would have no chance of seeing him there. But if you give

me any message, I promise it shall reach him as though you had seen

him yourself."

"Perhaps," she said vivaciously, "you are the Duke yourself."

"I am," he said simply; "I am the Duke." He felt glad that the first

person of the outside world who knew him as the Duke, should have

reminded him of Marion. "If you give me your name and address, you may

count on a subscription from me, on one condition."

"And what is the condition, your grace?"

"That you say nothing about this meeting; for if you did, the place

would so swarm with good people like yourself, that we should have to

fly. Stay, I'll enlist you in my defence. I will give you a

subscription every year. I have promised you the subscription with a

condition, and I will impose no fresh condition now. But if between

this and the time I leave the Castle for town, no one else gets into

the grounds, I'll give you a donation as well as a subscription."

He had spoken playfully, and she laughed.

"If that is so, I will paint your grace in the most atrocious

colours."

"But that will be telling of our meeting."

"Oh no! I will paint as though from hearsay."

It pleased him greatly that the first promise he made of help to a

benevolent object was made through one who reminded him of Marion.

All these little things had gradually accustomed him to the dignities

which had lately fallen upon him, so that by the time he got to

London, he neither blushed nor laughed on being called by his title or

spoken to as his title demanded. Still there was much that was new and

disturbing; and, before setting out for London, he resolved not to

carry up his title with him, except among those from whom he could not

hide it. One of the titles that went with the dukedom was Baron

Ashington; and when he got to his hotel in London, he gave his name as

Ashington, and was entered on the books as "---- Ashington, Esq."

This day he had arrived in London was the first one of freedom he had

enjoyed since the wreck. He was now staying at an hotel where they

could have no suspicion of who he was. He had not given this address

to anyone, and all letters were to be forwarded to him at his

lawyers'. He was free to go where he liked--do what he chose.

In the old days he should have thought himself fortunate if he could

afford five shillings a day for pocket-money; now he had in his pocket

two hundred pounds, and at his hotel three hundred more. He had not

yet opened a bank account, but he drew on Macklin and Dowell for any

money he wanted.

He had known what the want of money was. He had often been obliged to

walk to offices with his MSS., for want of pence to buy postage-stamps

for them. He had been without tobacco, without a dinner, without the

means of getting his shoes mended. Now here he was in this rich fine

weather, with the sense of strength in his limbs, and the feeling of

youth in his heart, and the consciousness of money in his pocket. In

his poor days, one of the things he most yearned for was travel. Now

the four ends of the world lay open to him, with every comfort and

luxury of each.

He found himself in Regent Street. He lit a cigar. The day was very

warm. The cigar was excellent. He was in the finest humour. He looked

at the carriages whirling by. He counted a score of coronets, but not

one had the eight strawberry leaves. He saw one with four leaves and

four pearls round the band, and six with four leaves round the band

and four pearls supported on pyramids. These were the carriages of a

marquis and six earls; the other coronets belonged to barons. And he

who had lately wanted a smoke, a dinner, a pair of shoes, had now, in

all likelihood, an income as great as the whole twenty peers put

together. It was incredible! incredible!

He looked away from the carriages to the shop-windows. Any of these

things exposed for sale were his if he willed it so. There was not one

single article from end to end of the street which he could not have

for raising his finger.

Not a soul in Regent Street knew him. None of his friends ever came

that way. Journalists seldom get west of Charing Cross, unless they

happen to live at the aristocratic side of St. Martin's Lane. He was

to see all his old friends that night at Long Acre, and he had seen

May, and now he was enjoying for the first time the pleasure of an

_incognito_. He had not ever been well enough off to keep an account

in Regent Street, and consequently there was no chance of the

shop-people recognising him.

As he passed the various windows dear to ladies, he thought how he and

May would stroll up this street some day soon--to-morrow or the day

after--and she should select any things she liked, and he would have

them sent home. Even now, as he walked, he fancied she was on his arm,

and that he was drawing her attention to all the pretty and rich

things.

For one moment he never felt his altered circumstances made any

difference between her and him. He was no better now than ever he had

been, and she was no worse. He had never loved anyone but her, and he

had no intention of giving up any of his love for her, because he was

now a rich man with a fine title. Of old he had, in his talk, been

familiar with dukes, and thought them very wonderful beings. Since

then he had seen and spoken to two dukes, and had become one himself.

The latter fact ruined dukes for ever in his mind. If they could make

a duke out of a newspaper and publisher's hack, the standard for dukes

must not be very high.

He did not know what to do with himself. It was now four o'clock, and

he had eaten nothing since breakfast, except the biscuits at Tenby

Terrace. He did not care to do anything particular. It was

sufficiently delightful to stroll about old familiar London, and look

at the old things through the glass of his new fortune. He felt "the

glorious privilege of being independent." He might hail a cab and be

driven to Shropshire House, one of the most splendid dwelling-places

in London. He might drive to any of the stations of the great

railways, and be carried at the rate of forty miles an hour towards

one of his country-seats. He might drive to London Bridge or the

Docks, and there take passage for almost any land under the sun. Ay,

that would not be a bad notion. Why not get into a cab, drive to

London Bridge, take a steamboat to Greenwich, and come back by land?

He had often done this before, and the excursion would be well within

his present means!

He called a passing hansom and got in. In the old days he always

thought a good many times before he took a cab. In fact he thought so

often that he rarely took one. He got out at London Bridge and took

the boat to Greenwich.

He took a seat and looked at the motley crowd around him. He sat

between a private soldier and a young girl who looked like a poor

milliner. Opposite him was a working-man, with a short clay pipe in

his mouth, fast asleep. Forward of the sleeping man was a comely

matron, with a rosy child at her side; and aft of the sleeping man was

a nondescript long-shore man, half clerk, half tout, whole rogue.

What should he do when he reached Greenwich? Get something to eat at

The Ship? Ay, that would be very good. The fresh air of the river

cooled him, and he felt the gratifying assurance that when he got to

The Ship he should be in a condition to dispose of a nice little

dinner in a thoroughly workmanlike manner.

Was this the first time a duke had gone from London Bridge to

Greenwich on the fore-deck of a steamboat? (He was smoking still; and

no smoking is "allowed abaft the funnel.") He thought it most likely.

Would this poor young milliner rather sit beside him or beside that

fine young soldier? And what would that poor young milliner think if

she knew she was sitting by the side of a real duke, who had a great

desire to put his arm round the owner of that pallid face and limp

figure, and support her in a fatherly way until they came to their

journey's end?

"Will you allow me to offer you a cigar?" said the Duke to the

soldier.

"Very much obliged to you, I'm sure, sir," said the soldier, taking

one.

"Are you stationed down the river? A light? Here, strike it on the

box."

"Thank you. No, sir. I am not stationed down the river. I am going

down to see some friends at Greenwich."

"Lady friends, I have no doubt?" said the Duke, with a good-natured

smile. The soldier was a fine honest-looking young fellow, and it

pleased the Duke to think he had a sweetheart down at Greenwich, who

would be glad to see him when he got there, as May was glad to see

another person when that person got to Tenby Terrace.

"It's my mother and sister, sir. My mother is sixty-five years of

age."

"Ah!" said the Duke, thinking of the poor, young, helpless, deserted

mother who bore himself, and who died in an alien land years and years

ago.

"Yes, sir. She's an old woman, and I'm going down to see her, and I

don't count on seeing her. My sister writes to say the doctor says she

can't hold out another few days."

"I am sorry to hear that, I am indeed. And do you think there is no

hope?"

"There is no hope, sir. She has been bad a long time, and the doctor

said all along she'd never be up and about again."

"Poor old soul!" said the Duke sympathetically. "Now," thought he,

"the thing is, would this young soldier resent my offering him a

present of a fiver? I am afraid he would. He looks as if he were a lad

of the right sort, and I must not even run the chance of offending

him. No, no; I mustn't offer him money." He paused awhile in thought,

and then spoke:

"By-the-way, did you ever hear of a society called the Soldiers' Kith

and Kin Society?"

"No, sir."

"Well, it is a very good society. I would strongly recommend you to

join it. You're a young man, and you ought to be a member of it. I am

connected with it, and if you will be so kind as to give me your name

and the name of where you are quartered, I'll send you some

information about the society, and then you can make up your mind

about joining it or not."

The young soldier pulled his sister's letter out of the bosom of his

jacket, and handed the envelope to the Duke.

"That's where I am quartered; and if you please to send the thing

there, I'll get it."

The Duke thrust the envelope into his waistcoat-pocket, and soon

afterwards he shook hands with the young soldier on Greenwich pier. He

walked into The Ship and ordered dinner. While he was waiting he asked

for the means of writing a letter. Having copied the name and address

on the envelope the young soldier had given him, he wrote on a sheet

of paper: "From the Soldiers' Kith and Kin Society," folded two

five-pound notes into the sheet of paper, closed up and stamped the

envelope, and on his way back stopped his cab at a post-office and

dropped the letter in.

CHAPTER VI.

A SUPPER WITHOUT A HOST.

The Duke had been quite right about his appetite. He could have

contented himself with a steak, but now he might as well have a nice

little dinner, and play with it for an hour or so. He had fricasseed

sole, roast lamb, duck and green peas, and cheese _fondu_. He had a

pint bottle of sound claret, and maraschino to finish with; and all

the time there was the freshness from the river streaming through the

window, and the soft beat of paddle-wheels and the swirl of cool

waters at the prows of steamers and of barges.

Yes, this was much better than working seven, eight, or ten hours a

day in the top of that dull house in Long Acre, where the smell of

varnish, turpentine, and shavings of the factory blended not

pleasantly with the dull damp odour native to the street outside. And

of those ten hours a day what had come? On an average not more than a

dozen shillings a day. A dozen shillings a day! Fancy a dozen

shillings a day for all that work--all that plotting and planning, and

weighing and considering; and then the hateful slavery of having to

bend over a desk until he grew sick of pens, ink, and paper, as a

prisoner grows sick of his cell! And then, after the weary writing,

the reading over, and scoring out and writing in. After this came the

proofs, and after the proofs came the printed and published sheet, and

the two blunders or infelicities on each page, or the five in each

column, which had after all escaped him! Oh, it was a cruel life now

to look back upon; but he had not felt it to be so at the time.

Now here he was, at the pleasant open window. He had had an excellent

simple little dinner, and he was smoking a cigar which cost as much as

all the bird's-eye he had used in a week of the old time! Every day he

could do what he liked, go where he liked, buy what he liked. In a few

days, as soon as the novelty had worn off May, he should make her go

with him everywhere in the neighbourhood of London. He should map out

the little trips they should take. She should travel in the softest of

carriages, and taste the daintiest fare, and see the fairest sights.

It would be so good to lean back and watch the delight in her bright

face, as she came upon some beauty of wood or glen or river! It would

be such a happiness to him to see her resting on the most luxurious

cushions art could devise! It would be so good to see the servants at

every place they stopped eager to anticipate her lightest wish! It

would be delightful!

And now he should not abandon writing altogether. Of course he should

never run a story in any of the papers again. But he would write a

novel in time. He need be in no hurry about it. He would have

excellent opportunities of going about and picking up local colour and

character. As far as he knew, no English duke had ever written a

novel. It would be a novelty to find three volumes at Mudie's and

Smith's by the Duke of Shropshire. There would be an enormous demand

for it.

Fortunately he had not sold the copyright of anything he had written,

so that no one could now advertise a book of his without his consent.

He had sold the three-volume right of "The Duke of Fenwick" to

Blantyre and Ferguson; but they had no power to put "by the Duke of

Shropshire" on the title-page; and even though all the world and his

wife knew "Charles Augustus Cheyne," author of "The Duke of Fenwick,"

was now Duke of Shropshire, the effect was not nearly so striking as

if the page showed the title he now bore.

Ah, it was pleasant to be rich at last! He had often dreamed and

written of great riches, but never of such a colossal fortune as he

now owned. He was not crushed by it, and yet he felt he should have

great difficulty in disposing of his revenue. There were, of course,

four or five houses to keep in order and readiness; and there were

subscriptions and donations to be paid, as a matter of routine. But

after this had all been done scarcely any impression had been created

on the enormous income. He had no taste for horses or gambling, but he

supposed it would be necessary for him to rely on some such means for

spending his money.

The seventh Duke had managed to get through his income, but it was by

means which the ninth would not follow. He did not believe in keeping

up five or six huge establishments, as though a great noble lived in

each, and for no other reason than that they might be lent to friends.

He was safe from the temptation of lending his houses to any of his

old friends, for not one of all the people he knew could afford the

mere tips to the servants.

Anyway, it was a very pleasant thing to sit there at ease, smoking the

very best cigar, looking at the broad river, and knowing that one's

pockets were full of money, and that the moment these pockets were

empty they might be filled again and again and again as often as one

liked.

A cab was called for him, and he drove the whole way to Long Acre. It

was dusk as he came, and that was a mercy, for he passed through

repulsive ways and repulsive people. But still the surroundings had no

power to depress him; and although he did feel a sense of relief when

he found himself crossing Waterloo Bridge, he was not sorry for his

drive. When a man of good constitution and equable mind is happy and

on excellent terms with himself and the world, there is something

cheering and invigorating in the contemplation of large masses' of

people, no matter of what social standing those people may be.

When he got to Long Acre it was dark. He ran up the long-familiar

stairs, and found himself in the old rooms. They had, by his order,

been altered greatly since he had last seen them. All the old

furniture had been removed, and what had been his sitting room had

been converted into a dining-room, and what had been his bedroom

into a smoking-room. Two more rooms at the opposite side of the

landing had been taken by him. The smaller of these was lined with hat

and coat pegs, and the larger discharged the joint offices of larder,

wine-cellar, and butler's pantry. In the last room sat two waiters. A

third servant took charge of the hat-pegs, and a fourth attended to

the door downstairs. None of the men wore livery.

No one had come yet, and the host went into the smoking-room and sat

down. He did not expect any man to be punctually there at nine

o'clock, and some he did not expect until after the theatres. He had

asked about twenty artists--actors, authors, musicians; and although

he had got replies from only five, he fully expected all would come.

He knew Bohemia seldom troubles itself to answer letters of that kind;

it usually hates writing letters, but it comes. All those whom he had

invited were old friends; and as he felt quite sure they were men

enough to visit him in sickness or in strait, he was equally sure they

were not cads enough to stay away in his prosperity.

He now sat thinking of all the dear old faces he should see, and all

the kindly hands he should touch, before daylight. He was thinking of

the words he should use in the little speech he intended making at

some time of that evening.

He should tell them that, when he lived in these very rooms, a few

weeks ago, the brougham of the seventh duke had been injured in

Piccadilly while he (the speaker) was walking in Piccadilly; that the

brougham was brought for repairs to Mr. Whiteshaw, the coach builder,

who occupied the lower portion of that house in which they now found

themselves; and that Mr. Whiteshaw had remarked to him the identity

between the family name of the duke and his own. How he had thought

nothing at all of that matter then; and how, if any carriage of the

seventh or eighth duke now lay below, it was his (the speaker's), as

the seventh duke left all his personal property, except a few money

legacies to servants, to his son, the eighth duke, who died intestate,

and whose heir-at-law he (the speaker) was.

He would tell them that he never should be able to forget that strange

coincidence about the brougham; and that, in order to mark it so that

it might always be suggested to their memories, if their memory of

this night grew dim, he would arrange that the Cheyne brougham, that

day injured, should for ever be kept downstairs; and that the old

friends of Charles Augustus Cheyne should always be able to meet one

another, and often meet himself, up there where they now sat; and that

his object in asking them to come and drink a glass of wine with him

and smoke a pipe with him this evening was that they, might found the

Anerly Club, in honour of the discovery made by Graham at that

village. He would propose their first president should be Edward

Graham. He would give them the rooms and pay four servants. All other

details they might arrange among themselves, except two: first, that

all the men who were now there, or had been asked, to come and could

not, should be members of that club, without power to add to their

number.

When he came to consider the second condition, he arranged not only

the substance of what he had to say, but the words as well.

"And, second, I intend making the bond between this club and me the

closest of any but one. I desire that the one bond, which shall be

closer than that with this club, may be associated with it, and that

you will once give me the privilege of breaking my first condition,

that is, when I am married, and propose that my wife may be made an

honorary member."

At that moment someone entered the room. He looked up with a smile,

thinking it was the first guest. It was the hall-porter, who held out

a salver, saying:

"A letter for your grace,"

He took the letter, saw it was Marion's handwriting, and told the man

to go.

He broke the envelope and read over the letter slowly twice. When he

had considered awhile he went to a table where there were writing

materials, and addressed a cover:

"To the First Man who comes to-night."

Then on a sheet of paper he wrote:

"I was the first in, and had been here some time, when I got a note by

the last post. Must run away at once, but hope to be back in an hour.

Don't wait for me. I am awfully sorry. Show all the fellows this, and

tell them, as they will guess, that nothing but matter of the gravest

moment could take me away under the circumstances.

"C. A. C."

He drove straight to Tenby Terrace. He ran up the steps, and, when

Anne opened the door, asked impetuously:

"Is May in?" He forgot to say "Miss Durrant."

"Oh, a letter has just come saying she will not be back, and we don't

know where she is gone to, sir."

Anne had forgotten to call him even "my lord."

That night the members of the new Anerly Club saw nothing of its

founder.

CHAPTER VII.

ADRIFT.

When Marion found herself out of the house for the second time on that

day, with the letter in her hand addressed to her aunt, she had no

idea of what direction she took. It was only a little after five

o'clock, and the air was fall of pleasant sunshine. All around her

were happy-looking people moving blithely along, each to some known

point or other. She was going nowhere; she was simply going away. All

places were alike to her, so long as there was no chance of meeting

him there. She, whose whole nature yearned to be at his side, was

flying from him who, she knew, wished her to remain for him, with him.

What was all the world to one without love? How could it be that

anything in the world could come between hearts that loved?

She turned east and walked on. She was conscious she knew well the

streets through which she passed, but the names of them did not occur

to her. After a while she found herself on the Thames Embankment. It

was full tide, and the river looked its best. It was the fresh young

summer of the year, when all London looks brightest; and no part of

London, not even the parks, feels the summer so much as the

Embankment; for there is not only the fresh green of the time on the

trees of the Embankment and the gardens, but the bright silver of the

river of all time sparkling back to the wide expanse of sky. Every

wholesome man and woman and child, and beast and bird and insect, that

could, came out to pay homage to the sun; all noisome things, human or

beneath man in the scheme of Nature, now sought concealment. It made

old people young and young people gay, to be abroad.

She had not often been on the Embankment, and the river was a variety

to her. Without intruding on her thoughts, it attracted her eye. A

full tide between prosperous banks always gives a sense of quietude

and peace; but to May's mind the sense of peace did not seem of this

world, but of the world beyond. There was a bounteous calm in that

river which seemed to invite the weary. When the tide is out, and the

sordid lower abutments of bridges and the bedraggled foreshore are

visible, the river looks fit to be the friend of only outcasts and

felons. But when it is full it seems to have risen up to one as a kind

friend capable of assuaging present woes, and of wafting one securely

to Elysian Fields.

As May walked along by the parapet, she thought she should like to lay

herself down gently on the bosom of the water, and be carried calmly

beyond the noises of the world. She had no thought of suicide; what

she felt was merely a craving of her physical nature. It was parallel

to the desire one experiences, when looking down from a high mountain,

to launch oneself into air, and float above the valley below. She did

not murmur against Heaven or revile Fate. She would have liked to be

at rest; she longed to change utterly the ordinary experiences of

life, even if death was the only alternative; but she had no intention

or wish to compass her own death.

Big Ben struck seven. The sound startled her.

"That is the Parliament clock," she thought; "and he will often hear

that sound when he has ceased to hear my voice for ever."

And then she forgot him for awhile and fell to pitying herself, until

the tears rolled down her face under her veil, and she found herself

at Blackfriars Bridge. This part of the town she knew nothing of.

Whither should she go? All ways were alike to her. She kept on to the

right, and crossed the bridge.

She had never been across any London bridge on foot before; she could

not remember ever having been across the river at all, except in a

train. She had never heard either her aunt or him speak about the

Surrey side. It was best for her to go across the water, and to stay

there.

To stay there! She had not thought of staying anywhere before; she had

come away from home because she had made up her mind not to see

Charlie again; but up to that moment she had not thought of staying

away from home, or staying anywhere else. Before, leaving Tenby

Terrace she had mechanically taken all the money out of her

writing-case and put it in her purse. She always had much more money

by her than young girls living in houses such as those in the Terrace;

for she had an income which was absolutely her own, and her aunt had

always insisted on her keeping a small bundle of bank-notes by her.

Miss Traynor said: "You should always keep a little money by you; I

do. You never know what is going to happen. A bank may break, or your

lawyer may die, and you may not be able to get your money for a month,

or maybe three months; and then, you see, what a fix you would be in!

I do not think it safe to keep large sums of money in the house; but

twenty or thirty or forty pounds can do no harm, and make you feel

secure, for a time at least, against accident." Miss Traynor little

thought, when she gave her niece this advice, that the money would in

the end be used for putting space between her and the girl for whose

welfare and happiness she would have laid down her life.

Now, for the first time. May realised the fact that it would be

necessary for her to find some place in which she might live. She had

been in her time very little from home, and felt miserably

uncomfortable at the notion of having to take lodgings for herself in

London. She had no plan, no scheme. She did not think of the future;

she did not try to see a week in advance--she wished only to hide

herself. She made no calculation as to how long she should be from

home, how long her money would last. She had, like a pursued hare, the

simple instinct of flight, with the desire for concealment; all else

was absolutely indifferent to her. If she had her choice between life

and death, she would have chosen the latter.

The idea of leaving London never crossed her mind. She had often heard

that, for the purpose of concealment, there was no place so good as

London. She had now been walking two hours, and all that time she had

been putting space between her and Knightsbridge; and yet all around

her were thousands of people, hundreds of vehicles hurrying up and

down. There was no fear of anyone being able to track her through all

those winding ways, all this streaming multitude.

It was necessary for her to get somewhere to sleep that night. She

was now in the Kennington Road. The noise of the tramcars and

omnibuses and cabs, and carts and vans and drays, almost overwhelmed

her. She was beginning to feel tired. She turned into a quiet-looking

side-street; up and down this street she walked more than once before

she could make up her mind to knock at any door of a house in which

she saw that lodgings were to be let. At last she selected a

neat-looking house, with flower-pots on the window-sill and immaculate

steps. She knocked. Yes, there were lodgings to be let in that house;

would the lady walk in? She was shown into a clean, cheaply-furnished

back parlour, which looked into a dark yard twenty feet square. It was

the landlady herself who let in May. She was a stout, undersized,

pleasant-looking woman of middle age. She had two bedrooms and a

sitting-room to let. This was the sitting-room; the bedrooms were

up-stairs. Would the lady like to see the bedrooms?--they were

comfortable and well furnished. Would not the lady walk up? This was

the better bedroom of the two, in the front; this was the smaller one

in the back. What accommodation did the lady require? The gentleman

could have breakfast and tea or supper in, and dinner of a Sunday. Oh,

it wasn't for gentlemen, wasn't it? It was the lady herself? So sorry;

but she never took lady lodgers--only gentlemen. Her servant would not

stay if lady lodgers were admitted. It was very wrong in a servant to

have such notions; but her servant was a very good one, and it was

next to impossible to get a good servant, and she could not afford to

lose this one. Good-afternoon.

May went down the whitened steps with a heavy heart. She had never

tried to find lodgings before; she had not known there was any

difficulty in the way of getting them. It was necessary, however, that

she should try again. She looked at her watch, half in fear. Half-past

seven. Not any time to be lost; it was getting late.

She selected another house in the same street. A tall thin woman, who

suggested a remote connection with better days, and a present

connection with a temper, opened the door. May's first question was:

Did they accommodate lady lodgers in that house? They did. Would the

lady like to see the room?

With a sigh of relief May went in. She explained that she wanted only

one room--a bedroom. Very well. This way; this was the bedroom. The

lady would dine out? Oh yes. May would have undertaken to do anything

now, that she might be at liberty to lock the door, sit down by

herself and cry. The rent was ten shillings a week, inclusive. May did

not know that the room would have been dear at seven-and-six; and of

what "inclusive" meant she had no idea. Was ten shillings a week

satisfactory? Yes, perfectly. And the lady would pay a week's rent in

advance to secure the room? May took out her purse and proffered

a sovereign. And when did the lady wish to occupy the room?

To-night--now. To-night! How could that be? Of course references

should be exchanged. Did the lady know anyone in the immediate

vicinity to whom a reference might be made? No, May knew no one in the

vicinity. Was it--was it necessary there should be a reference? Oh,

absolutely; all respectable houses require references. Ah, in that

case May must try elsewhere.

"Well, I'm sure; just to think you fancied they'd take anyone into a

respectable house without a reference!" cried the tall slim woman, in

a tone of exasperation, as she allowed May to find the front door and

let herself out.

She hurried out of that street; she had not the courage to try at any

other house there. She thought she should not have the courage to try

anywhere else. She had already thought of going to an hotel, but had

dismissed the idea. She had a great fear of being discovered; and an

hotel was too open. Besides, she could not bring herself to face an

hotel alone; there was something repugnant to her feelings in being

without a friend or protector in a house the front door of which was

always kept open. Besides, who could tell but, by one of those

coincidences there is no foreseeing, some acquaintance of hers might

light on that very hotel, and meet her in one of the passages? But if

people objected to ladies as lodgers, and if those who did not object

to ladies would take no one in who could not give a reference, how

could she hope to find a resting-place for her weary limbs, a covering

for her aching head that night? She could give no reference; for to do

so would be, of course, instantly to betray herself.

What was she to do now? Whither should she turn? In a little while it

would be dark. It was dreadful to be alone in London, cut off from all

friends, having no home, no roof to cover her, and find the shades of

night coming on. How peaceful and secure now seemed that small house

over there in Knightsbridge, where but a few hours ago she had seen

him, had heard his great kind voice, had felt his strong protecting

arm round her! She had but to hold up her hand, get into the nearest

cab, and in an hour she would be safe under that protecting roof.

Should she go back? Those houses in which she had sought shelter were

hideous in her eyes, and the women repulsively vulgar. Should she go

back and throw herself at her aunt's feet, and cry herself into her

aunt's forgiveness? No, no, that would never do. She had resolved to

sacrifice herself for him she loved, and she would do so, no matter

how great the pain, no matter how great the humiliation she should

endure. In the sum of her great sacrifice, what did these mean houses,

these vulgar women, count for? Nothing. Why should she make great

difficulties out of small? She had had the courage to write that

letter to him, to renounce her love, to give up the one dream of her

young life: was she now going to blench when confronted by trivial

details such as would not daunt one out of ten of the women moving

round her, passing up and down this road? No. She had been brave in

the great thing, she would be indifferent in the small. She would be

brave. She would hold on. She would lie down in the road and die

rather than go back, rather than imperil his future happiness by once

more placing herself under the influence of his presence, which she

felt certain would be too strong for any resolution she might make.

She once more found herself walking down a side street, looking up at

the windows for a card. This was a much better street than the last

one. The roadway was wider, and the houses more respectable and better

kept. She was now glad she had not succeeded in getting a place in the

former street.

This one looked much better, and as though the people who lived in the

houses could not be so vulgar.

She went down all one side, and saw no card in any window. She thought

she had discovered one at the opposite side, but she could not be

quite sure. She crossed. Yes, there was a card in one window, in only

one. She knocked. A servant opened the door. Did they take lady

lodgers? Oh yes; would the lady be kind enough to step into the front

room and see the mistress?

In the front room May found a little old widow sitting at work. She

greeted the entrance of the young girl with a benevolent smile, and

bade her be seated. May was delighted she had come so far. This woman

was much superior to either of the others. She had not the look of

common prosperity of the first, nor of broken-down respectability of

the second. Fate may make a lady poor, but it never can make her

shabby-genteel. Though she may sink to pauperism, she can never fall

so low as gentility. A lady once is a lady for ever; and the little

old widow before May was evidently not only a lady, but a kindly and

considerate old soul as well. May resolved, if possible, to cast her

lot here.

After a few preliminary words, the landlady said:

"Yes, my dear, I not only take in ladies, but I do not take in

gentlemen. I know how hard ladies, who wish to be quiet, find it to

get lodgings in London, and so I have made up my mind to take in no

gentlemen."

"Oh, then," said May piteously, "I may stay with you, may I not?"

"Well, my dear," said the old woman smiling encouragingly, "that will

be as you please, I daresay. I have no doubt we should get on

together. Of course you would like to see the room; we have only one

to be let."

She half rose from her chair.

"No, no," cried May. "Pray sit down. Do not disturb yourself. I am

sure I shall like it."

"Then, my dear," said the old lady, smiling again, but looking

curiously at the worn face and bright eyes and weary figure of this

young girl, who was willing to take a room without seeing it, "there

are, you know, a few business arrangements to be considered. We shall

have to charge you seven shillings and sixpence a week for your room.

You will dine in or out, as you please."

"I am sure I am very much obliged to you. I had no idea----" here she

paused. She thought it just as well not to say any more.

The old lady looked at May again. She smiled, but there seemed to be

something over-eager in this young girl.

"May I ask, do you belong to London?"

"Yes."

"Ah, I am glad of that. Then you will perhaps know the name of this

gentleman. He is not the rector of our parish, but one of the Canons

of St. Paul's."

She handed the girl a card.

"I do not know him," answered May, wondering what a Canon of St.

Paul's could have to do with the matter. "I know his name very well.

Is he a relative of yours?"

"No, my dear, no relative, but a good kind friend of my late husband.

The Canon has done a great deal for me, and among other things he

allows me to refer anyone to him who may want to know anything about

me."

"It is very kind of him," said May, not knowing what to say, what was

meant.

"So, my dear," said the old lady, "you may call upon him or write to

him, as you please."

The widow was plainly perplexed by May's rejoinder.

"I!" cried May; "I call on him!"

"Yes, my dear. I suppose there will be plenty of time before you give

me the pleasure of your company permanently. When do you wish the room

to be ready for you?"

The girl did not yet understand what the old lady meant by reference

to the Canon of St. Paul's; but she had a sickening sense that

something was going wrong.

"If--if," she faltered, "you would let me, I should like to stay this

evening. I--I am anxious to get some place this evening, now."

She felt her throat quite dry, and her voice husky,

"This evening, my dear; this evening! That is rather sudden. I am not

sure we could manage that. And where are your things?"

"What things?" asked May, in a whisper.

"Your luggage, my dear."

"I have none."

"Well, then, give me the name and address of some of your friends in

London."

"I cannot."

"Oh dear, dear, dear! I am very sorry, truly sorry for you, my child.

But you have friends in London?" said the old lady, in a kindly tone.

May placed her hand on the back of the chair, and rose with unsteady

limbs.

"I beg your pardon," she said, in a low broken voice, "I now

understand what you mean. I have no luggage, and can give no

reference. Thank you for your kindness. Good-evening!" and before the

old lady had time to rise or speak, May had reached the outer door and

gained the street.

"There must be something wrong," said the old lady to herself, "or she

would not have been in such a hurry to run away. If she had only

waited and told me all, I might have done something for her. She is

young and very pretty. It's a thousand pities, whatever it is. I'm

sorry she did not wait another minute. She took my breath away when

she stood up. I thought she was going to make a scene. I did not

intend her to go. I only wanted the address to write to her friends.

There's something wrong, and it's a thousand pities, a thousand

pities."

CHAPTER VIII.

ON THE TRACK.

The Duke passed quickly by Anne in the little hall, and went into the

room where Miss Traynor sat in the dim light of a single lamp. As he

entered, she had been sitting with her head bowed upon her chest. She

had not uttered an exclamation on reading Marion's brief note. She had

not wept a tear since. It was now ten o'clock. Half an hour ago that

note had come. It lay on the table beside her. She had put on her

spectacles to read it, and had forgotten to take them off. As the

young man entered the room, she looked up.

"Miss Traynor! Miss Traynor, what is this Anne tells me? Is it true

Marion has left the house?"

"What?" said she.

"Anne tells me that Marion has left the house, and that you do not

know where she is, and that she said she is not coming back."

"Anne told me she was not in the house, and I got that note a while

ago."

She pointed to the table.

He took up the note and read it. Then he sat down without a word, and

for a long time there was unbroken silence.

When Miss Traynor saw her niece's writing, addressed to herself on a

stamped envelope which had come by the post, all her faculties had

been suddenly stimulated into extraordinary activity. She had had,

ever since his visit earlier in the day, a dull misgiving that

something had gone wrong, or was going wrong. The sight of her niece's

handwriting instantly confirmed her suspicions. She tore the letter

open, and in a minute had mastered its contents. The letter was very

brief, and ran as follows:

"My own dearest Aunt,

"I have all along been terrified by the changes which have taken place

in his fortunes. I am, as you know, only a poor plain girl, with no

pretensions to blood or family. It is therefore impossible for

anything more to be between him and me. I have made my mind up never

to see him again. I am sure he would not stay away for my telling him.

I have no choice but to go and hide myself until he has grown wise

enough to forget.

"Your always most loving niece,

"Marion."

When Miss Traynor had finished reading, the extraordinary mental

activity which had sprung up in her died out, and she sank into a dull

stupid state, in which there was nothing clear before her mind. For

years she had been an invalid incapable of active bodily exercise. She

now found herself alone in a house with her servant, and the knowledge

that, as far as she might be able to do anything, she might as well be

dead. Marion had fled. She could not move, and even if she were

suddenly restored to health and strength, she had so long been

unaccustomed to cross the threshold of her own door, that she would

have been quite helpless. All this rushed into her mind in a moment,

while the mind continued still active. Then the activity was

exhausted, her chin dropped upon her chest and until Cheyne entered

the room she had had no clear image of anything in her mind.

He broke the silence at last.

"Miss Traynor, this is dreadful. This is awful. I too got a letter

from her this evening. It contains something of the substance of

yours, but it did not hint at her leaving home. When did she go out?"

He was looking vacantly as he spoke at the feeble old woman before

him.

"I do not know. Anne can tell you I daresay."

Anne was called. She thought Miss Durrant had gone out a little after

five. She could not say exactly.

"There is not a moment to be lost. She must be found to-night," said

he, as the servant withdrew.

"It would be well she was found to-night," said Miss Traynor

mechanically. She did not seem to know what his words meant--of whom

he was speaking. After a moment's pause, she added: "I think she will

come back to-night, for she did not even take a shawl with her; and

you know, Charlie, it will be very cold soon, won't it?"

He was greatly shocked at this speech. She had never called him

Charlie before, and what she said about the shawl plainly showed her

mind was unhinged. It was obvious to him that he could do no good by

staying. Without saying another word, beyond a formal "Good-bye for

the present; I may see you later on," he rose, and went to the door.

"Any time you come I will see you," said the poor invalid quietly,

"for I intend waiting up until my child comes home. I think we ought

to have a fire for her when she comes in; you know, Charlie, she did

not take even a shawl with her, and a place always looks twice more

like home when there's a fire in the room we love best."

As he was going out he called Anne, and told her to remain in the room

with her mistress until he returned.

"If Miss Traynor refuses to go to bed, as I fear she will, you must

sleep in a chair. I'll be back as soon as ever I can. I have a cab at

the door. I'll leave it there; and if you want a doctor, or anything

else, you can send the cab."

Then he hurried out, told the cabman to wait at the disposal of the

servant, and walked off in search of another. He sprang into a hansom,

and gave the order--"Scotland Yard."

He did not remain long in the Yard. Once more jumping into the hansom,

he drove to Charing Cross, and entered a court, where he remained a

short time. Then he went to Finsbury Square. He drove to a few other

places that night, and at twelve o'clock he dismissed the hansom in

Piccadilly.

"I do not know what more I can do to-night. The police and every

inquiry-office in London are on the alert now. It is too late for the

morning papers. What else can I do? Nothing, as far as I can see, but

go back and see how the poor old lady is. There will be no news for a

few hours, at the earliest."

He set off to walk to Tenby Terrace. He had nothing to do but to kill'

time, and walking killed more time than driving. To the police and at

the private inquiry-offices he had given the name of Ashington, and

his address at the hotel. They had all promised to send the first

intelligence there at the earliest moment. His orders had been, that

if any news came, and the messenger at the hotel found him out, the

messenger was to wait.

It was one o'clock when he got back to the Knightsbridge house. The

cab was still standing at the door. He knocked, and was let in by

Anne. There was no news. No one had come near the house since. Miss

Traynor had not stirred. She had refused to go to bed up to this. She

had, Anne believed, dozed in her chair. Anne had slept a few minutes.

He said he would go in and see Miss Traynor.

"Miss Traynor," said he, as he entered the room, "I have run back to

say that I have been round to all the offices"--he did not mention

what kind of offices--"and have given full description and

instructions; and you may rely on it that, if Marion does not return

here to-night, we shall know where she is, and fetch her home in the

morning."

Miss Traynor had not been asleep; she was just in the same state as he

had left her--half-stunned. She said:

"It is very good of you, Charlie. I am sure she will come home some

time to-night. I'll sit up for her--I'll sit up; I am not sleepy. You

know I often lie awake half the night. I shouldn't mind it if she had

only taken a shawl--ever so light a shawl."

He told Anne, if Miss Durrant came back during the night, to send the

cab instantly to his hotel.

Although he had walked a good deal that day, and had not yet fully

recovered from the effects of that swim, he resolved to walk back to

his hotel. All that could be done had been done, and until morning, at

all events, there was nothing for him to do but wait, and the best

place for waiting was at his hotel, whither the first news would be

carried.

His mind was highly strung, and he went at a quick rate. He had not

yet given himself time to think; he did not mean to give himself time

to think. He had only one thing to do now, and that was to find May.

Until she was found, all his thoughts should be centred in one idea;

there would be plenty of time for thought afterwards.

He had no sensation of tenderness or love toward May in his thoughts

while thinking of her flight or recovery; he felt as though he had no

personal interest in the pursuit. That girl must be brought back to

her home at any expense, at any risk; and he meant to bring her back,

though he carried her by main force, and broke the law in so doing. To

her aunt's house he would bring her, as sure as he had carried that

line to that yacht. He had risked his life to save life at Silver Bay;

he would risk his life, and all he was worth, to place this girl once

more under her aunt's roof. When she was safe there, then he might

think of other things, such as his love for her, himself, and so on.

No messenger awaited him at the hotel; of course he could hardly hope

for news yet. He left word with the hall-porter that if anyone called

for Mr. Ashington, Mr. Ashington might be found in his own room.

He had engaged a suite of rooms on the first floor, and to the

sitting-room of this he went. He never felt less inclined to sleep in

all his life; all his mind and body tingled for something to do, and

yet he could do nothing but wait.

Miss Traynor never lay down that night, but sat in her chair with her

chin sunken on her breast, and her dull lifeless eyes fixed on the

dimly-illumined carpet of the little sitting-room which had for so

many years been brightened by the young girl's presence and cheered by

her voice.

By six o'clock in the morning no fewer than four clues had been

reported to the Duke; but as each one came from a different office,

and each pointed to a different point of the compass as the line of

flight, and as none was declared to be thoroughly satisfactory, there

was nothing to be done but to wait still further.

At seven o'clock breakfast was brought to Cheyne in his private room.

He ate with appetite, and when he had finished, lit a cigar. He was

engaged in business of importance, which required all his faculties.

At half-past eight Mr. Bracken was announced. Cheyne told the waiter

to show the gentleman up instantly.

Bracken was the detective into whose hands he had confided the

Scotland Yard branch of the inquiry. Bracken was a tall, lank,

solemn-looking man, dressed in black. Only that there was no

appearance of relaxation or festivity about him, he would have looked

like a clergyman on his holiday tour.

"Well, Mr. Bracken," said Cheyne, after he had motioned the detective

to a chair, "any news?"

"Yes, sir. We have news of the first importance."

"No _clue_, I hope, Mr. Bracken."

"No, sir; not a clue this time. Clues are very good things when you

have nothing to go on. We're bound to have a clue in a few hours, it's

the privilege of our profession."

"I know," said Cheyne, "a kind of perquisite."

"In a way, sir, a kind of perquisite; or, if you like it better, the

flash note by which _we_ work our confidence-trick."

"Well, Mr. Bracken, you are very candid, and from your candour I

assume you have a genuine note for me in this case."

The detective took out a large pocket-book, and having drawn a letter

from it, handed the letter to Cheyne, saying:

"That's a genuine note, sir."

Cheyne took the letter out of the envelope and read:

"8, Garthorne Street,

"Kennington Road.

"Sir,

"I am uneasy, and cannot rest without writing you a line. I let

lodgings in this house to ladies only. This evening a young lady, a

little under the middle height, and of very good figure, dark eyes,

brown hair, and pretty expression, called and wanted me to accommodate

her. She had no luggage, and when I asked her for the address of some

friend in London, she seemed much disturbed, told me she could not

give it to me, and before I could say or do anything, she hastened out

of the room and house. She was in deep distress; and ever since she

went I feel as though she must have left her friends, and that in all

likelihood they will make inquiries after her. In case you should wish

for anything I can tell you of her, I shall be only too glad to give

you all information I have.

"Yours faithfully,

"Harriet Dumaresq.

"The Chief Inspector of Police,

"Scotland Yard."

"You have a cab at the door?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the photograph I gave you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, then; come along at once. We will drive direct there

without loss of a moment."

When they arrived, Mrs. Dumaresq was up, and would see them

immediately. In a few minutes she came into the room. Bracken

explained the object of their visit, and showed a photograph of May,

which the old lady at once recognised as that of the young lady who

wished to engage lodgings there the evening before. Then Bracken and

Cheyne took their leave, having found that the thoughtful and

kindhearted old widow could give them no more information beyond the

fact that the young lady, when she left that house, took the way

leading into Kennington Road.

When the two men got outside, Cheyne said:

"Well, Bracken, what do you think of this?"

"I think, sir, we have done a good morning's work. The lady was here

surely last evening, and late too, so that it is almost certain she

slept in London last night. Now that's a most useful thing to know';

for we had all the trains watched this morning, and if she tried to

get away by any of them, we shall have news of her. As it was late

when she was here, we may take it she slept somewhere in this

neighbourhood; so that we have limited the district we shall have to

examine. These are two great things; in fact, they are nearly as good

as if we had got sight of her."

"And what do you think we should do next?"

"The best thing for you to do is to go back to the hotel. They may

have more knowledge of her there now. I'll go round here to the

stations, and see if they know anything. I suppose, sir, you would not

mind spending a little money locally on this district, now that we

have a--I won't say clue, but trace?"

"No, no; spend any money you like. You will come back as soon as you

have made arrangements here?"

"I will."