I.

You have been at Timberdale Rectory two or three times before; an

old-fashioned, red-brick, irregularly-built house, the ivy clustering

on its front walls. It had not much beauty to boast of, but was as

comfortable a dwelling-place as any in Worcestershire. The well-stocked

kitchen-garden, filled with plain fruit-trees and beds of vegetables,

stretched out beyond the little lawn behind it; the small garden in

front, with its sweet and homely flowers, opened to the pasture-field

that lay between the house and the church.

Timberdale Rectory basked to-day in the morning sun. It shone upon

Grace, the Rector's wife, as she sat in the bow-window of their usual

sitting-room, making a child's frock. Having no little ones of her own

to work for--and sometimes Timberdale thought it was that fact that made

the Rector show himself so crusty to the world in general--she had time,

and to spare, to sew for the poor young starvelings in her husband's

parish.

"Here he comes at last!" exclaimed Grace.

Herbert Tanerton looked round from the fire over which he was shivering,

though it was a warm and lovely April day. A glass of lemonade, or some

such cooling drink, stood on the table at his elbow. He was always

catching a sore throat--or fancied it.

"If I find the delay has arisen through any neglect of Lee's, I shall

report him for it," spoke the Rector severely. For, though he had

condoned that one great mishap of Lee's, the burning of the letter, he

considered it his duty to look sharply after him.

"Oh but, Herbert, it cannot be; he is always punctual," cried Grace.

"I'll go and ask."

Mrs. Tanerton left the room, and ran down the short path to the little

white gate; poor old Lee, the letterman, was approaching it from the

field. Grace glanced at the church clock--three-quarters past ten.

"A break-down on the line, we hear, ma'am," said he, without waiting to

be questioned, as he put one letter into her hand. "Salmon has been in

a fine way all the morning, wondering what was up."

"Thank you," said Grace, glancing at the letter; "we wondered too. What

a beautiful day it is! Your wife will lose her rheumatism now. Tell her

I say so."

Back ran Grace. Herbert Tanerton was standing up, impatient for the

letter he had been specially expecting, his hand stretched out for it.

"Your letter has not come, Herbert. Only one for me. It is from Alice."

"Oh!" returned Herbert, crustily, as he sat down again to his fire and

his lemonade.

Grace ran her eyes quickly over the letter--rather a long one, but very

legibly written. Her husband's brother, Jack Tanerton--if you have not

forgotten him--had just brought home in safety from another voyage the

good ship _Rose of Delhi_, of which he was commander. Alice, his wife,

who generally voyaged with him, had gone immediately on landing to her

mother at New Brighton, near Liverpool; Jack remaining with his ship.

This time the ship had been chartered for London, and Jack was there

with it.

Grace folded the letter slowly, an expression of pain seated in her

eyes. "Would you like to read it, Herbert?" she asked.

"Not now," groaned Herbert, shifting the band of flannel on his throat.

"What does she say?"

"She says"--Grace hesitated a moment before proceeding--"she says she

wishes Jack could leave the sea."

"I dare say!" exclaimed Herbert. "Now, Grace, I'll not have that absurd

notion encouraged. It was Alice's cry last time they were at home; and

I told you then I would not."

"I have not encouraged it, Herbert. Of course what Alice says has reason

in it: one cannot help seeing that."

"Jack chose the sea as his profession, and Jack must abide by it. A

turncoat is never worth a rush. Jack _likes_ the sea; and Jack has been

successful at it."

"Oh yes: he's a first-rate sailor," conceded Grace. "It is Alice's

wish, no doubt, rather than his. She says here"--opening the

letter--"Oh, if Jack could but leave the sea! All my little ones coming

on!--I shall not be able to go with him this next voyage. And I come

home to find my little Mary and my mother both ill! If we could but

leave the sea!"

"I may just as well say 'If I could but leave the Church!'--I'm sure I'm

never well in it," retorted Herbert. "Jack had better not talk to me of

this: I should put him down at once."

Grace sighed as she took up the little frock again. _She_ remembered,

though it might suit her husband to forget it, that Jack had not, in one

sense of the word, chosen the sea; he had been deluded into it by Aunt

Dean, his wife's mother. She had plotted and planned, that woman, for

her daughter's advancement, and found out too late that she had plotted

wrongly; for Alice chose Jack, and Jack, through her machinations, had

been deprived of the greater portion of his birthright. He made a smart

sailor; he was steady, and stuck to his duty manfully; never a better

merchant commander sailed out of port than John Tanerton. But, as his

wife said, her little ones were beginning to grow about her; she had two

already; and she could not be with them at New Brighton, and be skimming

over the seas to Calcutta, or where not, in the _Rose of Delhi_.

Interests clashed; and with her whole heart Alice wished Jack could quit

the sea. Grace sighed as she thought of this; she saw how natural was

the wish, though Herbert did not see it: neither could she forget that

the chief portion of the fortune which ought to have been Jack's was

enjoyed by herself and her husband. She had always thought it unjust; it

did not seem to bring them luck; it lay upon her heart like a weight of

care. Their income from the living and the fortune, comprised together,

was over a thousand pounds a-year. They lived very quietly, not

spending, she was sure, anything like half of it; Herbert put by the

rest. What good did all the money bring them? But little. Herbert was

always ailing, fretful, and grumbling: the propensity to set the world

to rights grew upon him: he had ever taken pleasure in _that_, from the

time when a little lad he would muffle himself in his step-father's

surplice, and preach to Jack and Alice. Poor Jack had to work hard for

what he earned at sea; he had only a hundred and fifty pounds a-year,

besides, of the money that had been his mother's; Herbert had the other

six hundred and fifty of it. But Jack, sunny-natured, ever-ready Jack,

was just as happy as the day was long.

Lost in these thoughts, her eyes bent on her work, Alice did not see a

gentleman who was coming across the field towards the house. The click

of the little gate, as it swung to after him, caused her to look up, but

hardly in time. Herbert turned at the sound.

"Who's come bothering now, I wonder?"

"I think it is Colonel Letsom," answered Grace.

"Then he must come in here," rejoined Herbert. "I am not going into that

cold drawing-room."

Colonel Letsom it was; a pleasant little man with a bald head, who had

walked over from his house at Crabb. Grace opened the parlour-door, and

the colonel came in and shook hands.

"I want you both to come and dine with me to-night in a friendly way,"

spoke he; "no ceremony. My brother, the major, is with us for a day or

two, and we'd like to get a few friends together to meet him at dinner."

Herbert Tanerton hesitated. He did not say No, for he liked dinners; he

liked the importance of sitting at the right or left hand of his hostess

and saying grace. He did not say Yes, for he thought of his throat.

"I hardly know, colonel. I got up with a sore throat this morning. Very

relaxed indeed it is. Who is to be there?"

"Yourselves and the Fontaines and the Todhetleys: nobody else," answered

the colonel. "As to your throat--I dare say it will be better by-and-by.

A cheerful dinner will do you good. Six o'clock sharp, mind."

Herbert Tanerton accepted the offer, conditionally. If his throat got

worse, of course he should have to send word, and decline. The colonel

nodded. He felt sure in his own mind the throat would get better: he

knew how fanciful the parson was, and how easily he could be roused out

of his ailments.

"How do you like the Fontaines?" questioned he of the colonel. "Have you

seen much of them yet?"

"Oh, we like them very well," answered the colonel, who, in his easy

nature, generally avowed a liking for everybody. "They are connections

of my wife's."

"Connections of your wife's!" repeated Herbert quickly. "I did not know

that."

"I'm not sure that I knew it myself, until we came to compare notes,"

avowed the colonel. "Any way, I did not remember it. Sir Dace Fontaine's

sister married----. Stop; let me consider--how was it?"

Grace laughed. The colonel laughed also.

"I know it now. My wife's sister married a Captain Pym: it is many

years ago. Captain Pym was a widower, and his first wife was a sister

of Dace Fontaine's. Yes, that's it. Poor Pym and his wife died soon;

both of them in India: and so, you see, we lost sight of the connection

altogether; it slipped out of memory."

"Were there any children?"

"The first wife had one son, who was, I believe, taken to by his

father's relatives. That was all. Well, you'll come this evening," added

the colonel, turning to depart. "I must make haste back home, for they

don't know yet who's coming and who's not."

A few days previously to this, we had taken up our abode at Crabb Cot,

and found that some people named Fontaine had come to the neighbourhood,

and were living at Maythorn Bank. Naturally the Squire wanted to know

who they were and what they were. And as they were fated to play a

conspicuous part in the drama I am about to relate, I must give to them

a word of introduction. Important people need it, you know.

Dace Fontaine belonged to the West Indies and was attached to the civil

service there. He became judge, or sheriff, or something of the kind;

had been instrumental in quelling a riot of the blacks, and was knighted

for it. He married rather late in life, in his forty-first year, a young

American lady. This young lady's mother--it is curious how things come

about!--was first cousin to John Paul, the Islip lawyer. Lady Fontaine

soon persuaded her husband to quit the West Indies for America. Being

well off, for he had amassed money, he could do as he pleased; and to

America they went with their two daughters. From that time they lived

sometimes in America, sometimes in the West Indies: Sir Dace would not

quite abandon his old home there. Changes came as the years went on:

Lady Fontaine died; Sir Dace lost a good portion of his fortune through

some adverse speculation. A disappointed man, he resolved to come to

England and settle down on some property that had fallen to him in right

of his wife; a small estate called Oxlip Grange, which lay between Islip

and Crabb. Any way, old Paul got a letter, saying they were on the

road. However, when they arrived, they found that the tenants at Oxlip

Grange could not be got to go out of it without proper notice--which

anybody but Sir Dace Fontaine would have known to be reasonable. After

some cavilling, the tenants agreed to leave at the end of six months;

and the Fontaines went into that pretty little place, Maythorn Bank,

then to be let furnished, until the time should expire. So there they

were, located close to us at Crabb Cot, Sir Dace Fontaine and his two

daughters.

Colonel Letsom had included me in the dinner invitation, for which I

felt obliged to him: I was curious to see what the Fontaines were like.

Tom Coney said one of the girls was beautiful, lovely--like an angel:

the other was a little quick, dark young woman, who seemed to have a

will of her own.

We reached Colonel Letsom's betimes--neighbourly fashion. In the country

you don't rush in when the dinner's being put on the table; you like to

get a chat beforehand. The sunbeams were slanting into the drawing-room

as we entered it. Four of the Letsoms were present, besides the major,

and Herbert Tanerton and his wife, for the throat was better. All of us

were talking together when the strangers were announced: Sir Dace

Fontaine, Miss Fontaine, and Miss Verena Fontaine.

Sir Dace was a tall, heavy man, with a dark, sallow, and arbitrary face;

Miss Fontaine was little and pale; she had smooth black hair, and dark

eyes that looked straight out at you. Her small teeth were brilliantly

white, her chin was pointed. A particularly _calm_ face altogether, and

one that could boast of little beauty--but I rather took to it.

Did you ever see a fairy? Verena Fontaine looked like nothing else. A

small, fair, graceful girl, with charming manners and pretty words. She

had the true golden hair, that is so beautiful but so rare, delicate

features, and laughing eyes blue as the summer sky. I think her beauty

and her attractions altogether took some of us by surprise; me for one.

Bob Letsom looked fit to eat her. The sisters were dressed alike, in

white muslin and pink ribbons.

How we went in to dinner I don't remember, except that Bob and I brought

up the rear together. Sir Dace took Mrs. Letsom, I think, and the

colonel Mrs. Todhetley; and that beautiful girl, Verena, fell to Tod.

Tod! The two girls were about the most self-possessed girls I ever saw;

their manners quite American. Not their accent: that was good. Major

Letsom and Sir Dace fraternized wonderfully: they discovered that they

had once met in the West Indies.

After dinner we had music. The sisters sang a duet, and Mary Ann Letsom

a song; and Herbert Tanerton sang, forgetting his throat, Grace playing

for him; and they made me sing.

The evening soon passed, and we all left together. It was a warmish

night, with a kind of damp smell exhaling from the shrubs and hedges.

The young ladies muffled some soft white woollen shawls round their

faces, and called our climate a treacherous one. The parson and Grace

said good-night, and struck off on the near way to Timberdale; the rest

of us kept straight on.

"Why don't your people always live here?" asked Verena of me, as we

walked side by side behind the rest. "By something that was said at

dinner I gather that you are not here much."

"Mr. Todhetley's principal residence lies at a distance. We only come

here occasionally."

"Well, I wish you stayed here always. It would be something to have

neighbours close to us. Of course you know the dreadful little cottage

we are in--Maythorn Bank?"

"Quite well. It is very pretty, though it is small."

"Small! Accustomed to our large rooms in the western world, it seems to

us that we can hardly turn in these. I wish papa had managed better!

This country is altogether frightfully dull. My sister tells us that

unless things improve she shall take flight back to the States. She

_could_ do it," added Verena; "she is twenty-one now, and her own

mistress."

I laughed. "Is she obliged to be her own mistress because she is

twenty-one?"

"She is her own," said Verena. "She has come into her share of the money

mamma left us and can do as she pleases."

"Oh, you were speaking in that sense."

"Partly. Having money, she is not tied. She could go back to-morrow if

she liked. We are not bound by your English notions."

"It would not suit our notions at all. English girls cannot travel about

alone."

"That comes of their imperfect education. What harm do you suppose

could anywhere befall well brought-up girls? We have been self-dependent

from childhood; taught to be so. Coral could take care of herself the

whole world over, and meet with consideration, wheresoever she might

be."

"What do you call her--Coral? It is a very pretty name."

"And coral is her favourite ornament: it suits her pale skin. Her name

is really Coralie, but I call her Coral--just as she calls me Vera. Do

you like my name--Verena?"

"Very much indeed. Have you read 'Sintram'?"

"'Sintram'!--no," she answered. "Is it a book?"

"A very nice book, indeed, translated from the German. I will lend it

you, if you like, Miss Verena."

"Oh, thank you. I am fond of nice books. Coralie does not care for books

as I do. But--I want you to tell me," she broke off, turning her fair

face to me, the white cloud drawn round it, and her sweet blue eyes

laughing and dancing--"I can't quite make out who you are. They are not

your father and mother, are they?"--nodding to the Squire and Mrs.

Todhetley, who were on ever so far in front with Sir Dace.

"Oh no. I only live with them. I am Johnny Ludlow."

* * * * *

Maythorn Bank had not an extensive correspondence as a rule, but three

letters were delivered there the following morning. One of the letters

was for Verena: which she crushed into her hand in the passage and ran

away with to her room. The others, addressed to Sir Dace, were laid by

his own man, Ozias, on the breakfast-table to await him.

"The West Indian mail is in, papa," observed Coralie, beginning to pour

out the coffee as her father entered. "It has brought you two letters. I

think one of them is from George Bazalgette."

Sir Dace wore a rich red silk dressing-gown, well wadded. A large fire

burnt in the grate of the small room. He felt the cold here much.

Putting his gold eye-glasses across his nose, as he slowly sat down--all

his movements were deliberate--he opened the letter his daughter had

specially alluded to, and read the few lines it contained.

"What a short epistle!" exclaimed Coralie.

"George Bazalgette is coming over; he merely writes to tell me so,"

replied Sir Dace. "Verena," he added, for just then Verena entered and

wished him good-morning, with a beaming face, "I have a letter here

from George Bazalgette. He is coming to Europe; coming for you."

A defiant look rose to Verena's bright blue eyes. She opened her mouth

to answer; paused; and closed it again without speaking. Perhaps she

recalled the saying, "Discretion is the better part of valour." It

certainly is, when applied to speech.

Breakfast was barely over when Ozias came in again. He had a

copper-coloured face, as queer as his name, but he was a faithful,

honest servant, and had lived in the family twenty years. The gardener

was waiting for instructions about the new flower-beds, he told his

master; and Sir Dace went out. It left his daughters at liberty to talk

secrets. How pretty the two graceful little figures looked in their

simple morning dresses of delicate print, tied with bows of pale green

ribbon.

"I told you I knew George Bazalgette would be coming over, Vera," began

Coralie. "His letter by the last mail quite plainly intimated that."

Verena tossed her pretty head. "Let him come! He will get his voyage out

and home for nothing. I hope he'll be fearfully sea-sick!"

Not to make a mystery of the matter, which we heard all about later, and

which, perhaps, led to that most dreadful crime--but I must not talk

of that yet. George Bazalgette was a wealthy West Indian planter, and

wanted to marry Miss Verena Fontaine. She did not want to marry him, and

for the very good reason that she intended to marry somebody else. There

had been a little trouble about it with Sir Dace; and alas! there was

destined to be a great deal more.

"Shall I tell you what _I_ hope, Vera?" answered Coralie, in her

matter-of-fact, unemotional way. "I hope that Edward Pym will never come

here, or to Europe at all, to worry you. Better that the sea should

swallow him up en voyage."

Verena's beaming face broke into smiles. Her sister's pleasant

suggestion went for nothing, for a great joy lay within her.

"Edward Pym _has_ come, Coral. The ship has arrived in port, and he has

written to me. See!"

She took the morning's letter from the bosom of her dress, and held it

open for Coralie to see the date, "London," and the signature "Edward."

Had the writer signed his name in full, it would have been Edward Dace

Pym.

"How did he know we were here?" questioned Coralie, in surprise.

"I wrote to tell him."

"Did _you_ know where to write to him?"

"I knew he had sailed from Calcutta in the _Rose of Delhi_; we all

knew that; and I wrote to him to the address of the ship's brokers

at Liverpool. The ship has come on to London, it seems, instead of

Liverpool, and they must have sent my letter up there."

"If you don't take care, Vera, some trouble will come of this. Papa will

never hear of Edward Pym. That's my opinion."

She was as cool as were the cucumbers growing outside in the garden,

under the glass shade. Verena was the opposite--all excitement; though

she did her best to hide it. Her fingers were restless; her blushes came

and went; the sweet words of the short love-letter were dancing in her

heart.

"MY DARLING VERA,

"The ship is in; I am in London with her, and I have your dear

letter. How I wish I could run down into Worcestershire! That cannot

be just yet: our skipper will take care to be absent himself, I

expect, and I must stay: he is a regular Martinet as to duty. You

will see me the very hour I can get my liberty. How strange it is

you should be at that place--Crabb! I believe a sort of aunt of mine

lives there; but I have never seen her.

"Ever your true lover,

"EDWARD."

"Who is it--the sort of aunt?" cried Coralie, when Verena had read out

the letter; "and what does he mean?"

"Mrs. Letsom, of course. Did you not hear her talking to papa, last

night, about her dead sister, who had married Captain Pym?"

"And Edward was the son of Captain Pym's first wife, papa's sister.

Then, in point of fact, he is not related to Mrs. Letsom at all. Well,

it all happened ages ago," added Coralie, with supreme indifference,

"long before our time."

Just so. Edward Pym, grown to manhood now, and chief-mate of the _Rose

of Delhi_, was the son of that Captain Pym and his first wife. When

Captain Pym died, a relative of his, who had no children of his own,

took to the child, then only five years old, and brought him up. The boy

turned out anything but good, and when he was fourteen he ran away to

sea. He found he had to stick to the sea, for his offended relative

would do no more for him: except that, some years later, when he died,

Edward found that he was down for five hundred pounds in his will.

Edward stayed on shore to spend it, and then went to sea again, this

time as first officer in an American brig. Chance, or something else,

took the vessel to the West India Islands, and at one of them he fell in

with Sir Dace Fontaine, who was, in fact, his uncle, but who had never

taken the smallest thought for him--hardly remembered he had such a

nephew--and made acquaintance with his two cousins. He and Verena fell

in love with one another; and, on her side, at any rate, it was not

the passing fancy sometimes called by the name, but one likely to last

for all time. They often met, the young officer having the run of his

uncle's house whenever he could get ashore; and Edward, who could be as

full of tricks and turns as a fox when it suited his convenience to be

so, contrived to put himself into hospital when the brig was about to

sail, saying he was sick; so he was left behind. The brig fairly off,

Mr. Edward Pym grew well again, and looked to have a good time of

idleness and love-making. But he reckoned without his host. A chance

word, dropped inadvertently, opened the eyes of Sir Dace to the treason

around. The first thing he did was to forbid Mr. Edward Pym his house;

the second thing was to take passage with his family for America. Never

would he allow his youngest and prettiest and best-loved daughter to

become the wife of an ill-conducted, penniless ship's mate; and that man

a cousin! The very thought was preposterous! So Edward Pym, thrown upon

his beam-ends, joined a vessel bound for Calcutta. Arrived there, he

took the post of chief mate on the good ship _Rose of Delhi_, Captain

Tanerton, bound for England.

* * * * *

"What is this nonsense I hear, about your wanting to leave the sea,

John?"

The question, put in the Rector of Timberdale's repellent, chilly tone,

more intensified when anything displeased him, brought only a smile to

the pleasant face of his brother. Ever hopeful, sunny-tempered Jack, had

reached the Rectory the previous night to make a short visit. They sat

in the cheerful, bow-windowed room, the sun shining on Jack, as some

days before it had shone on Grace; the Rector in his easy-chair at the

fire.

"Well, I suppose it is only what you say, Herbert--nonsense," answered

Jack, who was playing with the little dog, Dash. "I should like to leave

the sea well enough, but I don't see my way clear to do it at present."

"_Why_ should you like to leave it?"

"Alice is anxious that I should. She cannot always sail with me now; and

there are the little ones to be seen to, you know, Herbert. Her mother

is of course--well, very kind, and all that," went on Jack, after an

imperceptible pause, "but Alice would prefer to train her children

herself; and, to do that, she must remain permanently on shore. It would

not be a pleasant life for us, Herbert, she on shore and I at sea."

"Do you ever think of _duty_, John?"

"Of duty? In what way?"

"When a man has deliberately chosen his calling in life, and spent his

first years in it, it is his duty to continue in that calling, and to

make the best of it."

"I suppose it is, in a general way," said Jack, all smiles and

good-humour. "But--if I could get a living on shore, Herbert, I don't

see but what my duty would lie in doing it as much as it now lies at

sea."

"_You_ may not see it, John. Chopping and changing often brings a man

to poverty."

"Oh, I'd take care, I hope, not to come to poverty. Down, Dash! Had I

a farm of two or three hundred acres, I could make it answer well, if

any man could. You know what a good farmer I was as a boy, Herbert--in

practical knowledge, I mean--and how I loved it. I like the sea very

well, but I _love_ farming. It was my born vocation."

"I wish you'd not talk at random!" cried Herbert, fretfully. "Born

vocation! You might just as well say you were born to be a mountebank!

And where would you get the money to stock a farm of two or three

hundred acres? You have put none by, I expect. You never could keep your

pence in your pocket when a lad: they were thrown away right and left."

"That's true," laughed Jack. "Other lads used to borrow them. True also

that I have not put money by, Herbert. I have not been able to."

"Of course you have not! It wouldn't be you if you had."

"No, Dash, there's not a bit more; you've had it all," cried Jack to the

dog. But he, ever generous-natured, did not tell his brother _why_ he

had not been able to put by: that the calls made upon him by his wife's

mother--Aunt Dean, as they still styled her--were so heavy and so

perpetual. She wanted a great deal for herself, and she presented vast

claims for the expenses of Jack's two little children, and for the

maintenance of her daughter when Alice stayed on shore. Alice whispered

to Jack she believed her mother was making a private purse for herself.

Good-natured Jack thought it very likely, but he did not stop the

supplies. Just as Aunt Dean had been a perpetual drain upon her brother,

Jacob Lewis, during his lifetime, so she now drained Jack.

"Then, with no means at command, what utter folly it is for you to think

of leaving the sea?" resumed the parson.

"So it is, Herbert," acquiesced Jack. "I assure you I don't think of

it."

"Alice does."

"Ay, poor girl, because she wishes it."

"Do you see any _chance_ of leaving it?"

"Not a bit," readily acknowledged Jack.

"Then where's the use of talking about it--of harping upon it?"

"None in the world," said Jack.

"Then we'll drop the subject, if you please," pursued Herbert,

forgetting, perhaps, that it was he who introduced it.

"Jump then, Dash! Jump, good little Dash!"

"What a worry you make with that dog, John! Attend to me. I want to know

why you came to London instead of to Liverpool."

"She was laid on for London this time," answered Jack.

"_Laid on!_" ejaculated Herbert, who knew as much about sailor's phrases

as he did of Hebrew.

Jack laughed. "The agents in Calcutta chartered the ship for London,

freights for that port being higher than for Liverpool. The _Rose of

Delhi_ is a free ship."

"Oh," responded Herbert. "I thought perhaps she had changed owners."

"No. But our broker in London is brother to the owners in Liverpool.

There are three of them in all. James Freeman is the broker; Charles

and Richard are the owners. Rich men they must be!"

"When do you think you shall sail again?"

"It depends upon when they can begin to reload and get the fresh cargo

in."

"That does not take long, I suppose," remarked Herbert, slightingly.

"She may be loaded in three days if the cargo is ready and waiting. It

may be three weeks if the cargo's not--or more than that."

"And Alice does not go with you?"

Jack shook his head: something like a cloud passed over his fresh, frank

face. "No, not this time."

We were all glad to see Jack Tanerton again. He had paid Timberdale but

one visit, and that a flying one, since he took command of the _Rose of

Delhi_. It was the old Jack Tanerton, frank of face, hearty of manner,

flying to all the nooks and corners of the parish with outstretched

hands to rich and poor, with kind words and generous help for the sick

and sorrowful: just the same, only with a few more years gone over his

head. I don't say but Herbert was also glad to see him; only Herbert

never displayed much gladness at anything.

One morning Jack and I chanced to be out together; when, in passing

through the green and shady lane, that would be fragrant in summer with

wild roses and woodbine, and that skirted Maythorn Bank, we saw some one

stooping to peer through the sweetbriar hedge, as if he wanted to see

what the house was like, and did not care to look at it openly. He

sprang up at sound of our footsteps. It was a slight, handsome young man

of five or six-and-twenty, rather under the middle height, with a warm

colour, bright dark eyes, and dark whiskers. The gold band on his cap

showed that he was a sailor, and he seemed to recognize Jack with a

start.

"Good-morning, sir," he cried, hurriedly.

"Is it you, Mr. Pym?--good-morning," returned Jack, in a cool tone.

"What are you doing down here?"

"The ship's finished unloading, and is gone into dry dock to be

re-coppered, so I've got a holiday," replied the young man: and he

walked away with a brisk step, as if not caring to be questioned

further.

"Who is he?" I asked, as we went on in the opposite direction.

"My late chief mate: a man named Pym."

"You spoke as if you did not like him, Jack."

"Don't like him at all," said Jack. "My own chief mate left me in

Calcutta, to better himself, as the saying runs; he got command of one

of our ships whose master had died out there; Pym presented himself to

me, and I engaged him. He gave me some trouble on the homeward voyage;

drank, was insolent, and would shirk his duty when he could. Once I had

to threaten to put him in irons. I shall never allow him to sail with me

again--and he knows it."

"What is he here for?"

"Don't know at all," returned Jack. "He can't have come after me, I

suppose."

"Has he left the ship?"

"I can't tell. I told the brokers in London I should wish to have

another first officer appointed in Pym's place. When they asked why, I

only said he and I did not hit it off together very well. I don't care

to report ill of the young man; it might damage his prospects; and he

may do better with another master than he did with me."

At that moment Pym overtook us, and accosted Jack: saying something

about some bales of "jute," which, as I gathered, had constituted part

of the cargo.

"Have you got your discharge from the ship, Mr. Pym?" asked Jack, after

answering his question about the bales of jute.

"No, sir."

"No!"

"Not yet. I have not applied for it. There's some talk, I fancy, of

making Ferrar chief," added Pym. "Until then I keep my post."

The words were not insolent, but the tone had a ring in it that

betokened no civility. I thought Pym would have liked to defy Jack had

he dared. Jack's voice, as he answered, was a little haughty--and I had

never heard that from Jack in all my life.

"I shall not take Ferrar as chief. What are you talking of, Mr. Pym?

Ferrar is not qualified."

"Ferrar is qualifying himself now; he is about to pass," retorted Pym.

"Good-afternoon, sir."

Had Pym looked back as he turned off, he would have seen Sir Dace

Fontaine, who came, in his slow, lumbering manner, round the corner.

Jack, who had been introduced to him, stopped to speak. But not a word

could Sir Dace answer, for staring at the retreating figure of Pym.

"Does my sight deceive me?" he exclaimed. "Who _is_ that man?"

"His name is Pym," said Jack. "He has been my first mate on board the

_Rose of Delhi_."

Sir Dace Fontaine looked blacker than thunder. "What is he doing down

here?"

"I was wondering what," said Jack. "At first I thought he might have

come down after me on some errand or other."

Sir Dace said no more. Remarking that we should meet again in the

evening, he went his way, and we went ours.

For that evening the Squire gave a dinner, to which the Fontaines were

coming, and old Paul the lawyer, and the Letsoms, and the Ashtons from

Timberdale Court. Charles Ashton, the parson, was staying with them: he

would come in handy for the grace in place of Herbert Tanerton, who had

a real sore throat this time, and must stay at home.

But now it should be explained that, up to this time, none of us had the

smallest notion that there was anything between Pym and Verena Fontaine,

or that Pym was related to Sir Dace. Had Jack known either the one

fact or the other, he might not have said what he did at the Squire's

dinner-table. Not that he said much.

It occurred during a lull. Sir Dace craned his long and ponderous neck

over the table towards Jack.

"Captain Tanerton, were you satisfied with that chief mate of yours,

Edward Pym? Did he do his duty as a chief mate ought?"

"Not always, Sir Dace," was Jack's ready answer. "I was not particularly

well satisfied with him."

"Will he sail with you again when you go out?"

"No. Not if the decision lies with me."

Sir Dace frowned and drew his neck in again. I fancied he would have

been glad to hear that Pym was going out again with Jack--perhaps to be

rid of him.