A daughter of strife | A Project Gutenberg eBook (2024)

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A daughter of strife | A Project Gutenberg eBook (1)

A daughter of strife | A Project Gutenberg eBook (2)

Copyright, 1897

by

Dodd, Mead & Company

BURR PRINTING HOUSE, NEW YORK.

PART I

      ‘... Old unhappy far-off things,

And battles long ago.

A Daughter of Strife

CHAPTER I

As long ago as the year 1710 there lived inLondon town a girl of the name of Anne Champion—astraw-plaiter by trade, and by hardfortune a beauty. Anne lived alone in a garret,and earned her bread by the sweat of herbrow, plaiting straws for hats from early morningto late at night. Then she would go outand buy her food for the next day, if she hadearned enough to buy food with, and if she hadnot, she would do without food and work on.

A hard life enough; but it was not to lastfor ever. For Anne had a fine lover at thewars—Surgeon Sebastian Shepley,—and erevery long he was to return, and Anne was tosay farewell to work. Partings were partingsin those days, and Anne never thought of gettinga letter from Flanders more than once inseven or eight weeks. When she got one, poorgirl, she could not read it—no, nor answer it;for she had no ‘book-learning,’ and had neverbeen taught to write; but she used to take herletters to a former adorer of her own who servedin a print-shop, and he kindly read his rival’slove-letters aloud, and, when Anne could affordto send one in return, would even be forgivingenough to write it for her. Anne’s fine loverhad caused considerable jealousy among herneighbours, and old Mrs. Nare, the mother ofMatthew, the young man in the news-shop, wasnever tired of hinting to Anne that no goodever came of such unequal alliances. When shesaw that Anne was quite undisturbed by theseprognostications, Mrs. Nare tried to persuadeher that there was little chance Shepley wouldever return from the wars.

‘The surgeons do come by their deaths inwar-time so well as the soldiers,’ she wouldsay; ‘best not set your heart overly on him,Anne.’ And Anne would whiten, and turnaway at her words.

Yard’s Entry, where Anne Champion andMrs. Nare lived, is a place that smells of agenow—it was counted old even in these far-awaydays I write of,—and the stone stairs leadingup to Anne’s garret were worn away into crescentshape by the tread of many generations.At the foot of these stairs, on warm evenings,Mrs. Nare used to stand and watch all herneighbours’ affairs; so it was natural enoughthat a stranger coming in to the Entry oneevening should address himself to her when hemade inquiry for Anne Champion. He was ayoung man with very bright eyes, and his voice,as clear as the note of a flute, echoed up thestair as he spoke.

‘Doth Anne Champion live here, my goodwoman?’ he asked.

‘No, sir. Anne she lives at the top of thestair,’ said Mrs. Nare, squinting up at thestranger out of her narrow old eyes, then, actuatedby unknown motives, she added—

‘Anne she’ve got a lover at the wars,’ in asort of interrogative tone. She had seen Shepleymore than once, and knew this was not he;perhaps she wished to find out the stranger’serrand.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ was all he said, however,as he disappeared up the winding oldstair. Up and up he went, feeling his way, forthere was little or no light to guide him, thenhe stumbled against a door, and knocked athaphazard, hoping it was the door he sought.

‘Come in,’ said some one, and at that theman, groping with the latch for a moment, atlast got the door open, and stood on the thresholdlooking in.

The sunshine fell across the floor in a flood ofsmoky brightness, and full in the sun’s beamssat Anne Champion, surrounded by the strawshe was plaiting. It was piled up round her,within reach of her fingers, that moved likelightning at her mechanical toil.

Anne wore a gown of pink calico, and,whether for greater comfort or from mere untidiness,all her yellow hair hung over her shouldersin splendid confusion. She let her workfall at sight of a stranger, started up, and standingalmost knee-deep among the straw, caughtat her hair, and began to wind it up into a knot.

The young man stood still on the thresholdfor a full minute, as I have said. Then heseemed to recollect himself, and stepping acrossthe floor he held out his hand to the girl, smilingvery pleasantly.

‘I scarce need to ask if you are Anne Champion,’he said.

Anne seemed too much taken aback by thisunexpected visitor to make any reply. Shestood looking at him and twisting her long yellowhair between her fingers. At last she said—

‘Yes, sir, I be Anne Champion,’ and waitedfor him to make known his errand.

The young man did not seem to be in anyhurry, however. He looked round the barelittle room, and then looked again at Annebefore he spoke.

‘I am come to make excuses,’ he said then;‘and if you will allow me to sit down, for I amweak still from a fever, I shall make them tothe best of my ability.’

Anne produced a stool from a corner andproffered it to her visitor.

‘I am come from Flanders,’ he began again;but he did not speak like one intent on his business:his bright eyes were fixed on Anne; heseemed to be speaking of one thing and thinkingof another. His words, however, had aquick effect on Anne—her look of perplexedshyness had vanished.

‘From Flanders? Ah, sir, ’tis welcomethrice over you are!’ she cried; ‘an’ are youbringing me news of my dear man?’ Her facewas radiant; she smiled, and the beautifuldimples in her cheek were revealed, and herwhite even teeth. Her very eyes seemed tosmile.

The young man began to speak again—withunaccountable stumblings and hesitations, stillreading Anne’s face with his quick bright eyesas he spoke.

‘I am come—Sebastian Shepley,’ he said,and paused.

At the sight of his perturbation Anne camequickly towards him and laid her hand on hisshoulder.

‘Sir, sir,’ she cried. ‘Don’t tell me as thereis aught amiss with my Sebastian.’

‘Anne, I am come from your old lover Shepley,as you surmise,’ began the young managain; ‘he—he is well in health.’

The colour which had left Anne’s face rushedback to it in a beautiful scarlet tide.

‘Lord! sir, Sebastian’s not old, beggingyour pardon, sir,’ she said, letting her handfall from his shoulder, rather ashamed of hersudden familiarity.

‘I—’twas not that way I meant it, Anne;I scarce know,’ stammered the young man.‘Come, sit down by me and I shall tell youall.’

Anne, however, would not have felt easy sittingdown in the presence of this fine strangerin lace ruffles. She stood opposite him and stilllooked anxious in spite of his assurances.

‘There hath ill come to him, sir; he’swounded; or—or—’ she said.

The young man seemed suddenly to havecollected himself; his embarrassment, if embarrassmentit had been, vanished as suddenlyas it had come. He rose and came over towhere Anne stood.

‘He hath no wound nor hurt of any sort,Anne, but he hath sent me with a message toyou, and this is it:—The war is like to keephim so long in the Low Country he dare notask you to wait.’

‘I’d wait a lifetime for him,’ laughed Anne.‘If that be all his message he hath troubled youfor naught, sir.’

‘ ’Tis not all. The fact is Sebastian has married—marrieda pretty Dutch wife. He fearedto exhaust your patience. He asked me totell you. “For,” said he, “Anne hath somany lovers ’twill be neither here nor there toher.” As like as not he may be years abroad still.’

There was a moment’s silence. Anne lookedher visitor straight in the eyes; she had whiteneddown to her very lips.

‘You are but fooling with me, sir,’ she said,half whispering the words.

‘I am in sober earnest; ’tis no matter forjest this,’ said the young man, looking atAnne’s blanching cheeks.

‘O good Lord!’ then cried Anne in a piteouscrying voice—the note of a bird over its harriednest. She seemed to forget the presence of astranger, and, sinking down against a settlethat stood by the wall, she hid her face in herhands and sobbed, rocking herself back andforwards in her bitter grief.

‘Sebastian, Sebastian dear, you are not weddedtrue and certain?’ she cried. ‘O Godhelp me, an’ what am I to do now? O Lord!O Lord!’

The young man who had brought this illnews did not go away and leave Anne alonewith her sorrow, as most men would have done.He sat down on the settle she leant against andlaid his hand kindly on her shoulder though hesaid nothing. Anne sobbed on, with hiddenface, and all the time her visitor’s bright eyeswere roving round the room, taking in everydetail of its poor arrangements, yet ever andagain he would pat the girl’s shoulder in tokenof sympathy.

Suddenly Anne rose to her feet.

‘He’s not worth a tear,’ she said. ‘He’slike the rest of you. I had no opinion of menbefore that I took up with Sebastian, an’ a foolI was to be deceived with him. You’re alllike that,’ she cried, pointing to the pile ofstraw at her feet. ‘A spark’ll send you up ina blaze, and you’re as much to be leaned onas that.’ She plucked a straw from the heap,and snapped the brittle yellow stalk across as shespoke, with an unconsciously dramatic gesture.

‘Come, not all,’ said the young man, surprisedby her words.

‘Yes, all. Well, this I do say for Sebastian,he’s as fine a liar as he was a lover—would takein Judas hisself with them straight eyes o’ his.’

‘I am grieved to have borne such bitter newsto any one,’ said the young man. ‘But youtake it the right way, Anne, and when Shepleyreturns ’twill be to find a better man in hisplace.’

‘Better man! There’s not one good among’em—no, not one,’ said Anne, bitterly. Shewalked away to the little window, throughwhich the sunshine was pouring in with garishbrightness, and leant her forehead against thepanes.

‘Come, Anne,’ urged her visitor, followingher to the window. ‘You must do your endeavourto forget him. ’Tis a scurvy trick hehas played you, but there’s a proverb suited toyour case I would have you remember, aboutthe good fish in the sea! Come, here is a coinas yellow as your hair to help you to the forgetting.Buy yourself a new gown with ribbandsand have a night at the play.’

Anne looked askance at the stranger’s goldfor a moment; then she flung back her headand laughed a harsh-sounding mirthless laugh.

‘I had best make sure ’tis gold I’ve got thistime!’ she said, catching up the coin and ringingit on the table.

‘I shall bid you good-night then, my goodgirl,’ said the stranger, and held out his handonce again.

A minute later he plunged down the dark oldstair. ‘What is it like? going down thus intodarkness?’ he said to himself; but he did notreply to the question.

CHAPTER II

The young man Richard Meadowes found acoach waiting for him round the corner ofYard’s Entry; he jumped in and bade thecoachman drive home to St. James’ Square: along drive, but Meadowes did not find it so, histhoughts were amply occupied. When hereached home he went in and sat down in achair beside the fire, apparently in a brownstudy. What was he thinking about so intentlyall the time? About a lie: for thewhole story of Sebastian Shepley’s marriagehad been invented by Richard Meadowes onthe spur of the moment, as he stood stammeringand hesitating before Anne Champion.

Meadowes had known Sebastian Shepley fromhis childhood. They had been born andbrought up in the same little country village ofWynford, where Meadowes’ father had ownedthe Manor House and the wide lands appertainingto it, while Shepley’s father was the villageapothecary. Then they both went to thewars; Meadowes to fight, Shepley to heal;now, tired of campaigning, which had neverbeen to his mind, Meadowes had left the serviceand returned to England, where, since hisparents’ death, he had inherited, together withthe Manor House of Fairmeadowes, this housein St. James’ Square and enough of money toruin most men.

But Richard Meadowes was neither idle norwithout interests. The whole of life appealedvividly to him, every day was crowded withincident and amusement, his difficulty was toselect between his pleasures: now of a suddenhe had brought himself into a curious place. Ithad been from the easy pleasantness of his naturethat Meadowes had offered, when leavingFlanders, to carry any letters home to Wynfordfor Dr. Sebastian Shepley. The young surgeonhad hesitated for a moment before asking if,instead of bearing a letter to Wynford, Meadoweswould deliver one in London.

‘With all my heart—a dozen an’ you please,’said Meadowes kindly; for he liked the youngman with his steady blue eyes, who came moreoverfrom Wynford like himself.

So Sebastian Shepley had intrusted a bulkyletter to his care, and along with it a packagecontaining, said he, some amber beads for‘Annie,’ ‘as yellow as her hair.’ These wereto be given to his sweetheart by Meadowes’own hand.

Now, like most men who are good at makingpleasant promises, Meadowes was not quite sogood at keeping them. He forgot all aboutSebastian Shepley’s love-letter for severalweeks, and lost the amber beads, so that whenat last he set out to deliver the letter, he haddetermined to make such apologies as he mightfor the loss of the beads.

But when first his eyes rested on Anne Championhe thought only of her beauty. He stoodand stammered before her, and then therecame a whisper: Shepley was in Flanders ...might never return ... might have forgottenAnne when he did ... why could he not supplanthim in the meantime?

No wonder he had hesitated for a little beforeinventing the story; but now that it wasdone a host of difficulties presented themselvesto Meadowes’ fancy. First of all, Shepleymight write again to Anne any day—in allprobability he would not do so for some weeks,but still he might—therefore Anne must be inducedto leave her present home as quickly asmight be. Secondly, Anne had impressed himas a self-respecting woman, quite able to takecare of herself; she was no silly child to beeasily deceived, and, so far as he could judge,not to be bought either. It is true Anne hadtaken the coin he offered her, but Meadowesacknowledged that she had scarcely seemed toknow what she was about at the time. Howthen was he to gain favour in her eyes? Howmanage to ingratiate himself with her quicklywithout rousing her suspicions? He had nopossible pretext for going to visit her again,yet go he must, and that speedily, or he ranthe risk of Anne’s having received another letterfrom her lover, which might make her disbelieveall the statements she had accepted to-day.

As Meadowes weighed the matter in hismind, he remembered Shepley’s amber beads.Find them he must, and they might be offeredto Anne as a farewell gift from her faithlessadorer. So he prosecuted an active search forthe missing package, and when at last it hadbeen discovered, sat down and opened it. ThenMeadowes slipped the warm yellow beadsthrough his fingers like a monk at his devotions,but all the while darting fears and shiversof shame overcame him, for he was a man ofquick sensitiveness, fully conscious of the basepart he was playing.

There was no time to be lost; the next dayat latest he must go to see Anne again.

Thus it came about that Meadowes stoodonce more at Anne Champion’s door the nextafternoon and knocked.

Anne opened it herself; she stood on thethreshold, and did not invite her visitor tocome in.

‘Oh, ’tis you again,’ was all she said forgreeting.

‘I am come with the remainder of my message,Anne,’ said Meadowes. ‘I forgot yesterdayto make over this part of it to you.’

‘Come in then,’ said Anne, curtly enough,and she moved across to the little window,which stood open for the heat. The room hada deserted air, Anne seemed to have been sittingidle, for there were no signs of her usualoccupation.

‘Sit down, sir,’ she said, and waited forMeadowes to make known this further errandof his.

‘Shepley asked me to deliver this amber chaininto your hand as a keepsake, and to bear himno ill will,’ he said, handing the necklace toAnne.

‘A likely thing it is I’ll have his gifts!’cried the girl. She flushed angrily, and witha quick movement of her arm flung the chainout at the window; it fell on the opposite roof,and the smooth beads slid down the slates andlodged in some unseen crevice.

‘There they may rot for me!’ she cried.

‘Ah, come,’ began Meadowes; ‘he meantkindly by the gift.’

‘I’ll have none o’ his kindness then,’ saidAnne. She did not seem disposed for furtherconversation. But Meadowes persisted:—

‘You seem scarce so busy to-day.’

‘No more I am, sir; I be tired of work.’

‘Have you ever lived in the country?’queried Meadowes, who had since the day beforeevolved his plans a little. ‘Work is noneso hard there, and living pleasant; quiet isgood for a sad heart.’

‘You’ll have tried it, sir?’ said Anne sarcastically.‘For sad hearts be mighty common.’

‘Ah! I have had my sad days too.’

‘I’d scarce have thought it, sir,’ said Anne,taking a survey of her visitor. ‘But there,’she added, as if on second thoughts, ‘you havemayhap felt things like the rest of us.’

‘I have—I have. God knows I feel things,’said Meadowes, with sudden curious earnestness.He crossed over to where Anne stood,and laid his fine, white, ringed hand on herarm for a moment.

‘I am grieved for you, Anne; indeed I am; Ihad not thought ’twould be such a stroke to you,this. I would it were in my power to help you.’

Anne shook her head.

‘ ’Tis kind of you, sir, and thank you; there’sbut the cure of time for me, I do fear,’ she said,drawing back slightly from the touch of Meadowes’hand as she spoke.

‘I have a cottage in the country,’ he began,‘where an old nurse of mine keeps bees andflowers and the like: mayhap a change tocountry air would help you to the forgetting ofyour trouble.’

Anne shook her head and smiled.

‘I’d get no sale for my straw-plaits thereaway,’she said.

‘Oh, I would pay you——’ began Meadowes,but Anne cut him short.

‘For what, sir?’ she asked sharply.

Meadowes became certain of what he hadonly suspected before,—that Anne Championwas quite able to take care of herself.

‘For your work, my good girl,’ he said,drawing himself up rather stiffly for a moment.‘Martha hath over much on her hands betweenthe bees and the flowers. If you care to livewith her it would be to give her your assistancein these matters.’

‘I’ve no knowledge o’ flowers nor any skillwith bees, sir,’ said Anne, still speaking in asuspicious tone. Then she added: ‘And wherewill this place be, sir? for I have been no morethan ten miles from London all my days.’

‘Not farther than that; ’tis out Richmondway,’ said Meadowes. ‘But pray do nothasten yourself to decide. I can get anotherwoman any day. ’Twas but that I fancied thecountry might change your thoughts for youthat I made you the offer.’ He rose as hespoke and held out his hand.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Anne, curtseying toher fine visitor, and rather impressed by hissudden assumption of dignity.

Meadowes was quick to observe the advantagehe had gained.

‘If you care to take a week wherein to thinkover the offer,’ he said, ‘I shall keep the placevacant for you till then.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ again said Anne.

‘Shall I come and see you at the week’send?’ asked Meadowes.

‘I thank you; yes, sir,’ said Anne.

When her visitor had gone Anne sat downby the window to consider the matter. ‘Himan’ his bees!’ was her first contemptuous conclusion,for, as she would have expressed itherself, ‘handsome women they do know theirown know about the men.’ Then she thoughtover the past, with its hard work and scantypay, over the present, that was swept emptyof hope and pleasure, into a future, that hadnothing to offer but work, work, work. Itwas a fixed belief with Anne that men wereseldom wholly disinterested in their motives.She could not bring herself to imagine thatMeadowes offered her this situation because hewished his work done—no, no, it was becauseshe was ‘so rarely fine-looking,’ that was all.But then what if it proved to be a good situation—goodpay, little work?—she would be afool to refuse it. And further, she was wellable to take care of herself.

There are moods of mind when only somechange in the outward conditions of life canpromise hope or comfort. It seemed to Anneimpossible that she could stay on here in herold surroundings when everything in the futurehad changed for her. She was even weak andfeminine enough to imagine the delight of Mrs.Nare when she discovered that her prophecieshad come true and Anne’s fine lover had provedfaithless. This thought recurred to her againand again, for women are curious creatures,and bad as they find it to be jilted, they perhapsfind it worse still that other women shouldbe able to marvel and gossip over their desertedstate! Said Anne, when this thought had becomeintolerable, ‘I shall go away to the country;Mrs. Nare shall be none the wiser,’ andwith that she decided to accept the offered situation,whatever it might prove to be.

So when on the following Sunday afternoonMeadowes appeared once more at Yard’s Entry,he found Anne quite ready to undertakethe unknown duties she had hesitated over theweek before.

‘I’m happy to go, sir,’ she said; ‘and if sobe as I do fail at the work, ’tis your own fault,sir, offering the place to one as knows noughtof country ways.’

‘You will learn—you will learn,’ said Meadoweshastily.

‘And your name, sir? if I may make boldto ask.’

‘Mr. Richard Sundon; I fancied I had givenyou my name ere this.’

‘No, sir, and mayhap you live in the countrythereaway?’

It scarcely suited Meadowes to answer thiswith absolute veracity.

‘No, in town—in rooms just now; some dayI shall settle down,’ he replied.

‘O yes, sir, a home’s a fine thing they dosay,’ said Anne, in a dreary voice that had theecho of tears in it.

CHAPTER III

Meadowes did not pay much heed to where hewas going as he left Yard’s Entry that Sundayafternoon. He was so absorbed in his thoughtsthat he walked forward without aim or direction.And these thoughts were curiously involved:a horror of what he was about; a determinationto persist in it.

‘What’s this I am doing? what’s this I’vedone? Broken a woman’s heart, and played agood man false ... and I am gaining (perhaps)my desires, and losing (certainly) mysoul.... Soul? Have we got souls? Ithat am doing this, have I a soul? I doubtit ... we are but as the beasts that perish—andyet——’

He stumbled along through the narrow,crowded streets. ‘I’ll go and pray,’ he said,stopping suddenly before the door of one of theold city churches (it stands there yet, grey andcool).

‘Here,’ he said to the verger, ‘is the churchempty?’

‘Empty as a new-made grave, sir,’ said theman cheerfully.

Meadowes passed into the musty coolness ofthe church. He walked up the aisle and choseout the darkest corner he could find, where tooffer up his strange petitions. There was abrass let into the wall here commemorating thebrave fall of men who had died gallant deaths;a banner, bullet-singed and tattered, hung fromthe roof. Meadowes knelt under the fadedfringes and covered his eyes with his hands, toshut out the world.

Then the former doubt invaded him, and theterror that the unseen was a delusion and manbut a soulless higher brute with a hand-breadthof Time to sport in, overcame him with theblackness of despair.

‘Better far have a lost soul than none at all,’he cried out in horror. He looked up at thebanner above him; for things, after all, as intangibleas the soul he doubted of, some happymortals had bled and died—for Honour, Patriotism,Courage. Had they forfeited the merryyears for shadows, been fools for their pains?Remembrances crowded on him of War andDeath: he seemed to see whole spectral armiesof the slain arise. He named them happy asthey rose; for had they not died undoubtingly,bartering life for these intangible realities soworthy the life-blood of men! Ah for the unquestioningheart—to be able to walk straightforward in a plain path! But for him questionwould rise upon question: and this, the darkestdoubt, the poisoning of Effort at its verysources, was worst of all—no Unseen, nothingbut the solid merry world really to be countedupon! If this was so, then good-bye to aspiration,grasp at the Seen, hold it fast, for seventymiserable years only were to be depended on—dependedon! not seventy seconds were assuredto him. ‘Lord! I must have my pleasures!’he cried, remembering the few andevil years. Then in spite of the doubts thattormented him, Meadowes suddenly began topray. He came before the God whose existencehe could not be sure of, with a confessionhe would not have made to his fellow-men.

‘O God,’ he prayed, speaking low into hisclasped hands, ‘I have planned this thing andam going on with it—’tis pure devilry, but Iam going on. Lord, I do it open-eyed. Someday punish me as I deserve—now I must takemy pleasure——’

A curious prayer; but perhaps better thanno prayer at all. For herein lies the world’shope, that every man—the blackest sinneramongst us—is on his own extraordinary termswith the Unseen. Were we as grossly materialas appears, we were lost indeed.

Meadowes’ faith truly was reduced to theminimum, and yet, and yet—to Something hemade confession, assured only of this, that ifany Presence listened it must be with pity.He rose from his knees and went out again intothe crowded streets, filled not with any suddenresolutions of repentance, but with the determinationto persist in the course he had originallyplanned out. He even felt a certain reliefof conscience. ‘I have explained it withGod,’ he found himself saying, adding a momentlater, ‘If there be such an One.’ Thenhis thoughts seemed to fall into question andanswer:

‘And doth that make all straight?’

Straighter: for I have said that such punishmentas I deserve for this, I shall take.

‘Did you mean what you prayed?’

If there are punishments in truth.

‘Do you think there are?’

No: I doubt it.

‘Then you will have your pleasure withoutrisk?’

I hope for it.

But conscience had after all the last word,for it spoke suddenly and loudly then:—

No, no; “a sword shall pierce thine ownheart also.”

CHAPTER IV

Till a few years ago the cottage was still standingwhere Anne Champion went to live at thebounty of Richard Meadowes. It stood on oneof the crossways leading off the great westLondon road; but few people passed down thegreen lane, few even looked that way. Thecottage was one of those deep thatched olddwellings that look like an owl with its feathersdrawn up over its head; it had a garden filledwith flowers and bee-hives, and the straightwalk leading up to the door was bordered withflowering shrubs. Anne worked in the garden,clumsily enough at first, and she looked afterthe bees and got stung frequently, and timewent on. Each week the old woman, MarthaHare, who occupied the house along with her,received a certain sum of money to be dividedbetween herself and Anne; but Meadowes onlycame occasionally to the cottage at first: hewas very cautious, having weighed Anne’scharacter pretty accurately. Then his visitsbecame more frequent, and were somewhatprolonged, then he brought Anne a presentfrom town. Anne began to draw her usualconclusions from these things: ‘He’s a-makingup to me,’ she said to Martha Hare.

But she was scarcely prepared for it whenMeadowes suddenly asked her one day if shewould marry him.

‘I have been thinking of it for long, Anne,’he said.

‘Sir, sir!’ said vulgar Anne. ‘I’m notyour kind.’

‘But that is just my difficulty, and if youwill listen to me I shall explain it. You cannotbut see, Anne, that you are scarce in my class,as you say, and for that reason ’twill be betterto keep the matter private, else my father willcut me off with a shilling. But if you willmarry me privately, Anne, I swear to you I’llbe a good husband to you.’

Anne had been listening intently; but hereshe suddenly held up her hand.

‘There,’ she cried, ‘I’ll have you with nopromises if I have you at all. I’ll take you asI know you, sir, and trust you but so far as Isees you.’

‘But you will trust me, Anne?’ he said.

‘No. I’ll never trust no man again thisside time. But I’ll come an’ live along of you,sir, if so be I’m done with work and care forever.’

‘Anne, Anne, do not be so bitter,’ saidMeadowes. Anne stood looking at him silentlyfor a moment, then she laughed.

‘ ’Tis like I’m marrying you for love, sir?’she said.

‘Well, I have done what I could for you,’said Meadowes (but he blushed hotly as hespoke. ‘I am a devil,’ he said to himself).

‘You have, sir, one way, but now you’veshowed your hand, so to say. I knew as itwould be this way some day—I’ve had loversan’ lovers by the score. Not but that you’vebeen civil and taken your time, sir. Well, asI do say, sir, you be kind and I’ll take you forthat. But ’tis not for love, sir. I have noheart left in me now, but a stone where it oncewas. A woman she do have two throws o’ thedice in her life—one’s love an’ t’other’s money.Lose the first; you’d best, if you’re a wisewoman, have a try for the second, for withnever the one nor t’other you be in a sadcase.’

Meadowes listened gravely to this, Anne’sgospel of prudence.

‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘that’s your wayof thinking, Anne, and mayhap mine is not sodifferent—to take what I can get.’

‘What are you gettin’, sir?’ asked Anne,turning suddenly to him. ‘Lor’ sakes, sir!what hath gone agin you in life that you takesecond best so soon?’

‘Second best?’ queried Meadowes.

‘Ay, second best. You’ll not make me believeas how you are wedding for love, sir.’

‘I—I am very fond of you,’ Meadowes began,but Anne stopped him impatiently.

‘Not you, sir. I’m rarely fine-looking, an’men be terrible fools. You’ve a mind tomarry—that’s short and long for it,—but forlove——’

The silence that Anne ended her sentencewith was more expressive than words. Thenshe turned and laid her hand in his.

‘Here, sir,’ she said, ‘I’ll ask no questions.Mayhap you’ve had your story like myself.Leastways you’ve been kind to me, and I’llbe a good wife to you if you’re wishful tomarry with me. Like enough some day wemay both forget——’

She turned hastily away with a sob thatwould not be kept back.

‘Shall we say Friday of next week, then,Anne?’ said Meadowes, passing his arm roundher and patting her shoulder very kindly.

‘When you please, sir.’

‘And we shall be married here, not in church,for the reason I have mentioned?’

‘Any place you please, sir.’

‘My friend Mr. Prior will marry us.’

‘Any parson you have a mind for, sir.’

Meadowes drew Anne closer to him, andkissed her lovely tear-stained face. Then hebade her good-bye, and she went into the cottageand sat there face to face with life, as everywoman is when she makes up her mind on whatnow-a-days we term the Marriage Problem.

Anne was very clear-sighted; she saw, asevery woman with her wits about her must see,that it is not good for woman—especially prettywoman—to be alone. She saw in ‘Dick Sundon,’as she called him, a protector whom shehad every reason to like. In the bitterness ofher heart she had vowed never to trust anyman again, but she must have had some vaguefeeling of confidence in this kindly bright-eyedsuitor, else Anne would have hesitated morethan she did before coming to her decision.She had hitherto been rather suspicious of theattentions of ‘fine gentlemen,’ as she termedthem, but this offer of marriage seemed honourableto a degree. ‘I’ll never forget Sebastian—notfor all he hath done by me—but mayhapI’d be happier wedded to Dick Sundonthan living alone all my days. Oh, he’s kindenough for certain, an’ free with his money,and now he do wish to marry me what bettercan I do?’ she asked herself.

Unanswerable arguments.

Meadowes, on his part, went home profoundlymiserable. For the sinner who would sin enjoyablymust be of another stuff from that ofwhich this man was made. Just as he hadachieved success, his heart turned with a perfectlygenuine emotion of pity towards thewoman he had deceived so cruelly.

Yet on he went.

That evening he called upon his friend Mr.Simon Prior, at his rooms in Piccadilly.

‘A somewhat late visitor, I fear, Prior,’ he said.

‘Never too late to be welcome,’ said Prior.

‘Well, I am come on business, which must bemy excuse,’ said Meadowes. He sat down, andPrior waited to hear what the business might be.

‘The fact is, I wish you to do me a favour,—Iwish your assistance to the carrying out of—ofan affair of some delicacy.’

‘I shall be delighted; but I find it difficultto imagine ... my money affairs,’ ... beganPrior, whose one idea of a difficulty wasmoney.

‘I had best make a long story short,’ saidMeadowes, ‘I want you to act cleric for me;I’ve seen your powers of mimicry ere this, andI swear you’d play the parson to a nicety.’

‘Phew!’ whistled Prior. ‘So ’tis a womanis the difficulty; but why, Meadowes, if I mayintrude upon your secrets, why do you demanda parson?’

‘Ah! there is my difficulty. There arewomen, you see, who value their good name,and this woman is of the number. ’Tis unfortunate,but a fact I cannot get over. She hathpromised to be my wife, however, and I haveexplained to her that family reasons make aprivate marriage necessary at present. I trustedto you for the rest of it.’

Simon Prior leant back in his chair and eyedhis visitor narrowly.

‘And what are you going to give to me inreturn for these valuable services?’ he said.

Meadowes leant forward—his bright eyesblazed in the lamplight.

‘I’ll pay every debt you have, if that willdo,’ he said.

Prior went through a quick mental sum.

‘Yes, that will do,’ he said, when it hadbeen added up. ‘I have played many a part,and have no doubt I could acquit myself withcredit in this. I’ll go to church and hear theparson’s drawl (I’ve not heard it this many ayear), and I’ll reproduce it for you wheneveryou please with becoming gravity.’

‘Thanks! I’ve no manner of doubt youwill. Then you will tell me what I owe you?And, by the way, this matter must never crossyour lips, Prior; I may trust you for that?’

‘You may.’

‘Then on Saturday of next week, all beingwell?’

‘On Saturday of next week, all being well,’repeated Prior, in such a startling reproductionof Meadowes’ voice that both men laughedaloud.

But laughter was not in Meadowes’ heartthough it was on his lips. He rose to saygood-night soon after, and Simon Prior layback in his arm-chair and smiled.

CHAPTER V

Perhaps it was because he felt the knot soobligingly tied by Simon Prior not quite impossibleto untie, that Richard Meadowes tookhis marital obligations very lightly. He waswell pleased with his new acquisition, and usedto ride out from town constantly to see Anne.They would walk out together in the longspring twilights, and gradually Anne began tolose her dread of such a fine lover and spoke tohim freely and naturally.

Anne could be a very amusing companion;for she had quick wits; and that for companionshipis far better than being well educated.She would tell Meadowes all about her life;excepting one episode only, no mention ofwhich ever crossed her lips—of the men whohad courted her, and the women who had hatedher, of the straits of poverty, and all she hadseen and suffered and enjoyed in her five-and-twentyyears’ pilgrimage. In return, shewould ask Meadowes about the unknown worldto which he belonged. Had they alwaysenough to eat without thinking about it orworking for it? (‘Lord sakes, how grand!’)Had they never to walk when they were weary,or toil when they were faint? Was it possiblehe had never known what it was to be cold forwant of clothing, or run out of fuel in the winter?(‘You scarce know you’re alive!’) Or,sorest strait of all, was it possible he had neverknown sickness and want together? (‘You’venot felt the Lord’s hand on you yet then,Dick.’) And she would listen with delight toMeadowes’ tales of his world. Outwardly, indeed,Anne was cheerful enough now; Meadowesbegan to think she was forgetting thepast. Only her entire silence about SebastianShepley seemed to mark any feeling on thesubject. Yet every now and then he fanciedshe was thinking of her former lover. Once asthey walked together down the lane on a lovelysummer night—the birds were singing as iftheir little throats would burst, the year’sjubilee was at its height—Meadowes turned toher in his sudden, impulsive way.

‘ ’Tis fine to be alive and young,’ he said;‘and the birds sing like the angels of Paradise!’

‘I think to have heard the sparrows in theGreen Park——’ Anne began to say, almost asif she were speaking to herself—then she brokeoff in the middle of her sentence and turnedaway. A moment later she added—

‘You do speak rarely clear, Dick—for all theworld like a flute’s note. I like to hearken toyour voice better than them birds by far.’

Meadowes was charmed with this prettyspeech; he flung his arm round Anne’s waistand kissed her. She looked up at him withher brown eyes full of tears; but they mayhave been tears of mirth, for all she said was,‘Good sakes! but men be mortal vain,’ andwith that she drew herself away from his embrace.

‘Why should she cry over the sparrows inthe Green Park?’ Meadowes wondered; howshould he know how often Anne had walkedthere with Sebastian Shepley?

Time wore on, summer merged into autumn,and still Anne had never spoken once to Meadowesabout Sebastian Shepley; they were thebest of friends, Anne welcomed his coming andmourned at his going, but without a trace ofsentiment, as Meadowes found himself forcedto admit. Men do not like a want of sentimentin women: they may condone it in their ownsex, it is considered an essential in ours; soMeadowes, who had never blamed himself forlacking this quality, found it in his heart to besurprised and a little indignant with Anne fordoing so. ‘She should be beginning to caremore for me by now,’ he thought; he hadbeen a very devoted husband.

It was devotion indeed, which urged him toride out from London one cruel night of windand rain. The miles seemed as though theywould never be got over; yet Meadowes rodeon and on, out into the deep country, his headbowed before the lashing of the rain and theonslaught of the wind. At the Cross RoadsInn he dismounted, and leaving his horse there,strode on through the darkness to Anne’s cottage.

‘Good sakes, Dick, is it you!’ cried Anneat sound of his knock. She flung open thedoor and he passed in, into the warmth andstillness of the cottage kitchen, where he stoodlaughing and breathless, the water drippingfrom his drenched clothes on to the sandedfloor. Anne, exclamatory and sympathetic,stood beside him.

‘ ’Tis wetted through and through you are,Dick,’ she said, wringing the flap of his riding-coat.‘For the love of heaven go and castthese wet clothes from off you, while I do heat upsome ale for you on the fire. There be naughtlike hot ale for chills. Good lack! to think ofmortal man riding from London this night!’

Meadowes laughed. ‘I shall be none theworse, Anne. But not hot ale—mulled claretfor me, my girl.’

‘I have no knowledge of your fine sour-winedrinks, Dick. For certain the hot ale be farwholesomer,’ urged Anne, who clung to traditionas surely as Meadowes.

So to please her hot ale he drank, sitting bythe wide cottage fireplace listening to the drivingstorm. The candle, which had been low inits socket, burned lower; then Anne put it out,and still they sat silently in the pleasant fire-litroom and heard the storm rave on outside.They were sitting side by side on the settle bythe fire, Meadowes had his arm round Anne’sshoulder in his kindly caressing fashion, butthough Anne permitted the endearment shedid not respond to it in any way.

‘You are very quiet to-night?’ said Meadowesat last. Anne shivered, and bent forwardto stir up the fire for answer.

‘What ails you, Anne? Has aught distressedyou through the day?’ he asked.

Anne turned round and looked at him; hereyes had a curiously wild, frightened expression.

‘ ’Tis like great guns,’ she said. ‘There,there. O Lord, I can’t a-bear to hear it—gunsand guns a-thundering on, and when it comethround the corner o’ the house ’tis for all theworld like the shrieks of dying men.’

Meadowes was mystified by her words. Hehad never seen Anne fanciful before.

‘Well, what of it?—’tis not unlike heavyfiring, as you say,’ he admitted. ‘But youare safe enough here, my girl, in all truth.’

‘Eh, Dick! don’t you understand?’ criedAnne. ‘Battles, and guns, and all.... Ido seem to hear from over seas, from Flanders,bringing to my mind all I’ve a mind to forget.I’ve sat all this day a-hearing of them guns,and times I’d stop my ears.—O Lord! therebe the screams again.’ And Anne, turning tothe only helper she had, held out her hands tohim with a trembling, childish gesture.

‘Dick, Dick,’ she said, ‘you be quick to feelall things, and kind too, more nor I deserve, Ithat have married you, and my heart turningback to another.’

Quick to feel, Meadowes was feeling a hundredconflicting sensations at that moment.But first of all he must quiet Anne.

‘Come, Anne,’ he said, ‘you are tired andfanciful. ’Tis time you were gone to bed, andby the morning you will have forgot the stormthat scares you now. Ah, I understand altogether,Anne; aye, and feel for you too. Butthese things are better left alone, it but makesthem harder to speak of them.’

‘Maybe, maybe,’ said Anne, rising to put afresh candle in the candlestick. She had appealedto ‘Dick’ in vain, she thought, andwould not attempt to make him understand.

‘I have some letters to write,’ said Meadowes,dismissing the subject; ‘I shall sit upand finish them.’

When Anne had gone, however, there, wasnot much letter-writing done. Meadowes satand looked into the fire, coming to several conclusions.Well, here was the end of his amour;up to this time he had been quite content withAnne, delighted with her; but now—he simplycould not stand this. If she was going to bealways thinking about Sebastian Shepley, andeven mentioning him, it was high time that theconnection between himself and her was at anend. Meadowes, who was a very fastidiousman, shuddered at the whole situation. ‘Horrible;truly ’twas in Providence I did notmarry her,’ he said. Yet he had quite enoughof conscience to make it a difficult matter forhim to break with Anne. He dreaded beyondmeasure her anger when she found herself tohave been so duped. It was indeed almost impossibleto contemplate telling her. Howwould it best be done? Offer her money?Anne would never consider that a recompense.Just leave her? ‘Even I am not bad enoughfor that!’ Trust to time? Time would possiblymake matters worse. Yet after hours ofthought on the subject this last and very lameconclusion was the one which Meadowes finallyadopted. He resolved not to see so much ofher now and—to wait.

‘A plague upon Sebastian Shepley, and aplague upon Constancy and Love and all theVirtues!’ he said as he rose from his chair atlast; ‘and equally a plague upon RichardMeadowes, and Treachery and Passion and allthe Vices,’ he added, as he stood looking downat the last embers of the wood-fire that glowedon the hearth. He gave an angry kick to thered ashes with the toe of his riding-boot thatsent a shower of scarlet sparks up into the air;they fell down a moment later in soft grey ash,and the fire was out.

‘The end of all hot fires,’ said Meadowes, ashe groped his way across to the door.

CHAPTER VI

‘Business,’ Meadowes explained to Anne a fewdays after this, ‘was taking him out of London.’His absence, too, might be somewhatprolonged. He left ample means with hisfriend Mr. Prior (‘the parson who wedded us,Anne’), and these moneys were to be forwardedby him to Anne at regular intervals; shewould want for nothing. Anne took the newsquietly, as was her way, and hoped his businessmight delay ‘Dick’ a shorter time than heanticipated.

Meadowes, however, knew his own mindnow, and was quite decided as to the length oftime he would be absent from Anne. In thespring a child would be born to them, and afterthat he would come and tell her everything;till then it might be brutal to disturb her presentpeace of mind. But after the event it mustbe done, and the sooner the better. This hadbeen his ultimate decision.

Still, decisions being more easily taken thanput into execution, Anne had been a very proudand happy mother for some eight weeks beforeMeadowes found it possible to speak to her ofthe matter of their supposed marriage. Andeven then his hand was, so to speak, forced.He had ridden out from town in haste one summermorning, and now sat in the porch withAnne, wondering why after all he had come,for tell her he could not, though he had startedwith the determination to do so.

‘For certain, Dick, you be mighty silent,’said Anne at last, looking up from her sewing.

‘I am annoyed over business,’ said Meadoweslamely, looking down at the ground.

‘And a fine packet of letters unopened inyour pocket too,’ laughed Anne, pointing withher needle at the bundle as she spoke.

‘I rode off in such haste,’ began Meadowesabsently, then he took the letters from hispocket and turned them over one by one.

‘From my lawyer—from Simon Prior—from——’He stopped short and looked hardat the third letter, shook his head, and brokethe seal to glance at its contents.

‘Lor’, Dick! what hath come to you?’cried Anne, throwing aside her work a momentlater, for she had caught sight of his face; itwas grown suddenly grey and rigid. Shestepped behind him, laying her hand on hisshoulder, and glanced down at the sheet ofpaper he held.

‘Nothing, Anne—a mere joke,’ said Meadowesquickly, crumpling up the paper as ifAnne could have read what was written on it.

‘Dick, that’s a word from Sebastian Shepley,so sure as I do stand here,’ said Anne, hervoice shaking; ‘I do know the looks of hisname upon the sheet, for ’twas all ever I couldread for myself of his letters, an’ many’s theone I had.’

‘Shepley? what would Shepley write to meof?’ asked Meadowes hotly, rising and walkingaway down the garden-walk towards thegate. But Anne would not be put off. Shefollowed him down the walk and laid her handon his arm.

‘Tell me, Dick,’ she said; ‘I had a dealrather hear straight all he hath to say.’

‘I swear to you——’ Meadowes began; butAnne interrupted him.

‘Then you swear false, Dick: ’tis writ bySebastian’s own hand, or my name be not AnneSundon. Best tell me what he saith.’

‘The letter is from a man Steven Shackleton,Anne. You mistook the lettering, being noscholar,’ persisted Meadowes, lying desperatelynow, his courage had so withered when broughtto the point.

Anne faced round upon him; her big cleverbrown eyes seemed to be reading into his verysoul.

‘You’re makin’ up tales, Dick,’ she said.‘You won’t look me in the eyes and tell methat’s not Sebastian’s hand of write.’

‘There,’ cried Meadowes, facing round tomeet her eyes directly. ‘The letter wasfrom——’ His glance fell to the ground, ashe added, ‘Steven Shackleton’ again.

‘If so be you speak straight——’ Anne began.But Meadowes with an impatient exclamationcut her short.

‘What do you take me for? Well, I mustbe off. A fool I was to leave town withoutreading my letters, for back to it I must go ina couple of hurries. Come, bid me good-bye,Anne,’ he added, bending down towards her.

‘Good-bye,’ said Anne absently, turningaway into the cottage.

She sat beside the baby’s cradle, rocking itslowly, and gazed down at the floor. Whatdid all this confusion and contradiction onDick’s part mean? Why did he look likethat, as scared as though he had seen a ghost?And why was he so angry, and why again soflushed?

Dick meantime was riding back to Londonat a great pace—riding as if the devil himselfrode behind him. But when he reached townit was to ask himself why he had come there;for deep down in his heart he knew that thetime had come, and that tell Anne he must—yes,the whole black truth from first to last.He had ridden away from her searching truth-compellingeyes, but they followed him still,and back he must go and have done with it all.Why would the earth not open and swallowhim up?—Ah, happy Dathan and Abiram!

CHAPTER VII

The day passed slowly for Anne after Dick hadleft. Her mind was troubled by vague half-formulateddoubts. Had Dick spoken truly,or had he lied to save her pain? Surely, surelyshe could never mistake Sebastian’s signature,the same she had gazed at so often, and kissed,aye, and wept over also. She revolved thesequestions in her mind all day and found no satisfactoryanswers to them; when she lay downat night, one insistent suggestion whispered onin her ear, ‘Why did Dick look like that?Was he lying? Did ever man look so mazedand scared when he spoke the truth?’ ThenAnne’s tired eyes closed and she entered thebeautiful dream-world. Now the dream-worldholds sensations of indescribable vividness notattainable on the earth-world; here experiencescome within the scope of words, there we experiencethe inexpressible.

In a dream, then, in a vision of the night,when deep sleep had fallen upon her, Annedreamed and thought she awoke in Paradise.For Sebastian came to her (out of nowhere,after the fashion of dreams), and their soulsseemed fused together in a warm silence. Nota word was spoken between them; yet themiserable past was blotted out for ever; a greatlight shone everywhere—a glow, a heat of forgiveness,a passion of fulfilment at last; andthe beautiful thrilling silence of it all! Theyseemed alone in hollow space, out of reach ofthis world’s hubbub. What need of explanationswhen all was understood? Her thoughtsrested on that splendid wordless vacancy.‘Sure I be in heaven at last!’ said poor Anne.‘A fine heaven too, that quiet as it is! Theold one as I used to hear on was all noise o’trumpets an’ hosannas—here’s heaven indeed,with this grand quiet as is to go on forever.’

Anne woke suddenly then—the appallingconviction of a dream was upon her: she mighthave spoken face to face with her dear lover,so vividly present he had seemed, such a suddenassurance of his faithfulness had come toher. She sat up in bed and called out aloud inthe quiet room—

‘Lord! be it a dream? Sebastian dear,what’s this I’m feelin’? Have Dick Sundonfooled me out an’ out a-tellin’ lies of you allthis long time? Help me, am I losing myjudgment?’

She rose up, groped her way across the darkroom, and drew back the window-curtain.The first streaks of day were showing in thesky, the peaceful wooded land was half shroudedstill in the mists of morning. With longwhistling notes the birds gave welcome to thecoming day; they called to each other, near athand, and far off among the blossoming thickets,like happy spirits that sing together in thefields of joy. Anne leaned from the windowand listened to these songs that went up sostraight into the dim blue morning skies. Agreat fear held her fast,—the fear that Dick,her husband, her helper, had deceived her.In her dismay and bewilderment she could onlyrepeat again and again, ‘Lord help me, Lordhelp me,’ scarcely knowing what she said.Then, afraid to lie down again, she dressed andwent down-stairs and into the garden. Far offon the London road she heard the distant trottingof a horse and the roll of wheels; someone must be driving along in the quiet morningdimness. Anne stepped down the little walkand stood leaning against the gate.

The wheels came nearer, and then camedown the lane. Anne turned away, for evenin that dim light the passers-by must see hertears.

Then she heard the chaise stop at the gate;Dick’s voice—how clear it sounded in the earlystillness!—was speaking to the post-boy.

‘There, my man; that’s for your trouble alla dark night.’

‘Thank you, sir—thanks to you,’ said theboy as the chaise rattled off.

Anne turned and came down the little walkto meet Dick; her gown brushed the dew fromthe overgrown rose-bushes in showers as shepassed. She came towards him silently, herface tear-stained, tragic. Dick held out bothhands to her, but before he could speak Annechecked him with an upraised hand.

‘God’s spoke to me, Dick,’ she said, stoppingbefore him like an avenging angel.

‘I have come to tell you everything,’ saidpoor Dick; and at that moment he drank thedregs of a bitter cup, ‘for I knew you guessedsomething when I left you.’

‘God spoke to me in a dream,’ repeatedAnne. ‘When I waked up I knew for sureyou had lied to me.’

‘Yes, Anne, I lied,’ he said, almost in awhisper.

‘About Sebastian?’

‘Yes.’

‘An’ he never played me false, nor marrieda Dutch wife?’

‘Never.’

‘Come,’ said Anne. ‘Come then an’ try ifyou can speak truth this once.’ She pointed tothe seat by the bee-hives, and in silence theycrossed over to it and sat down.

‘Tell me now,’ said Anne.

Dick leant forward and began his story, anda pitiful story it was. Now that he was faceto face with the worst he made no attempt atextenuation of his falsity; he might have beenreading off the words from a printed page, theycame so straight from his lips, his flute-clearvoice never hesitated once till the wholewas told. Anne on her part listened quietlyenough; without the usual exclamatory interruptionswhich her sex commonly indulge in.When the story was done there was a moment’ssilence, before she said, speaking verylow—

‘Eh! but I’ve been a bitter fool.’ She rosethen and stood looking down at Dick.

‘I’m goin’ now,’ she said. ‘If I’m noman’s wife, at least I’ll be no man’s mistress.An’ for the child, you’d best care for himyourself. You’ll maybe make him as good aman as his father some day.’

Dick sprang up and caught her hand.‘Anne, Anne,’ he cried, ‘you must see how itis—you must understand—I scarce knew allyour feeling for Shepley at first—I thoughtyou had forgot—I thought women forgot always—Ihad not realised—not until that nightyou spoke of him—and then, then I could notbear it, and I resolved to tell you truly. I——’

‘Oh, you’ve acted mighty true for certain,’said Anne quietly.

‘I have indeed told you all the truth——’

‘Yes, now.’

‘But, Anne, men are mortal—will fall beforetemptation. ’Tis hard to blame us too cruelly.’

‘O yes; for certain men be mortal.’

‘I shall in truth provide for you all yourdays, Anne; I thought of no other thing.’

‘Will you, sir?’ said Anne, with a curioussmile, and Meadowes, not catching its meaning,pursued eagerly—

‘All your days truly, Anne; you shall haveall that woman can wish, if you will but pardonme.’

Anne stood looking at him in a curious dispassionateway for a moment.

‘I’d sooner starve,’ she said then, shortly.

‘But, Anne, you can never suppose that Iwould let you want, after all there has comeand gone between us, after——’

Anne smiled again her curious smile, andshook her head.

‘A strange man you be for certain, Dick,’she said; ‘kind an’ tender when you’ve amind to be, and one as feels quick. She pausedbefore adding slowly, ‘And just as false as hell.’

Meadowes winced under the words, but hewent on, ‘False or no, Anne, I must providefor you—for you and the child.’

‘For the child mayhap, never for me,’ saidAnne. ‘You’d best see after him, for he’llbe set down to your account when all things issquared. See you train him up to be so good aman as you are, Dick.’

‘Then do you not wish to care for your sonyourself, Anne?’ asked Meadowes incredulously,for, up to this time, Anne had doted onthe boy.

‘No more I do. He be your son, Dick, and’tis for you to fend for him.’

‘Then——’ Meadowes hesitated, waitingfor Anne to make her intentions known.

‘I’ve worked before, and now I’ll workagain; and if so be I get no work, then I’llstarve, as I’ve starved before,’ said Annequietly. ‘Martha’s kind and up in years, bestleave the boy with her.’

‘Are you going to leave him?’

‘Yes, an’ never see him nor you again,’ saidAnne. She turned away into the house withoutanother word, and Meadowes heard her goup-stairs and move about in her room gatheringa few possessions together. She came outagain before long, carrying a little bundle.

‘Good-bye, Dick,’ she said, holding out herhand to him; ‘good-bye to the part on you aswas kind to me—the rest be rotten bad.’

‘It cannot be you are really going, Anne.’

‘Good-bye,’ said Anne for answer, and shewalked away down the lane and turned off atthe opening that led into the London road.

CHAPTER VIII

On a warm summer evening, some three weekslater, Richard Meadowes sat in the library ofhis town house thinking, perhaps not unnaturally,of Anne Champion and wondering whereshe was.

‘Dr. Sebastian Shepley, to wait upon you,sir,’ said the man-servant, showing some onein, and Meadowes rose to greet his visitor, feelingthe room strangely warm.

‘Ah, Shepley,’ was all he said for welcometo the tall steady-eyed man who came forwardinto the room.

Shepley sat down opposite to Richard Meadowesand facing the sunlight. His pleasantblue eyes rested on Meadowes inquiringly for amoment.

‘I fear I have intruded on you, sir,’ he said,noticing the other man’s embarrassment.

‘I—I am pleased to see you,’ said Meadowes,not with absolute veracity. The situationseemed at that moment intolerable to him—better,he thought, make a quick end of it.

‘You have heard about Anne Champion?’he said, forcing himself to look straight atSebastian Shepley.

‘I am come for no other reason than to askyour aid in the matter,’ said Shepley, ‘for thelast I have heard of Anne was the message ofthanks you gave me from her anent the ambernecklace. Often as I’ve writ to her I haveheard never a word in answer. Tell me, sir,do you know aught of where she went?’

‘I know naught of Anne now,’ said Meadowes,looking down as he spoke.

Now?’ asked Shepley, for something inthe other’s voice attracted his attention.

‘A year and more she lived with me, andshe bore me a son,’ said Meadowes.

There was a moment of silence that seemedto tingle.

‘There—swallow your lies!’ cried Shepley;and he struck with all his great strength acrossMeadowes’ lips. Without another word heleft the room, passed out through the hall, andstrode away down the Square.

‘Lies, lies—hellish black lies every word hespoke,’ he cried in his heart. ‘And ah! mypoor Annie, what is come to you these wearyyears?’ Then remembering that Anne’sneighbours in Yard’s Entry might have someknowledge of her whereabouts he turned hissteps in that direction.

It was drawing to sundown when at last hereached Yard’s Entry. He stood still for amoment and looked up at the little window hehad known as Anne’s, and which used to reflectthe sunlight. It was blazing scarlet just now.Then he went up to the doorway and knocked;Mrs. Nare appeared in answer to his summons.

‘A good even to you, mistress,’ said Shepley.‘And can you tell me aught of AnneChampion, who lived here some two yearssince?’

Mrs. Nare squinted up at him out of her narrowold eyes.

‘Anne, she came back here some three weeksagone,’ she said. ‘Came and went her waysagain. And now she hath come here mortalstricken—taken with a fever she’ve caughtworking amidst the rags for a Jew man inFlower and Dean Street.’

Sebastian waited to hear no more; he ranup the dark stair and unceremoniously openedthe door of Anne’s room.

Such a blaze of light smote across his eyes ashe came in that he was half-blinded, for theskies were scarlet that night from a great sunset,and all the room was lit up with the redglow. He stood for a moment in the doorwayshading his eyes from the dazzle, then steppedacross the crazy old floor, that creaked andgave under his heavy tread.

‘Annie, Annie!’ he cried, kneeling downbeside her.

For Anne, she thought she dreamed again;the weary tossings of the desolate day weredone—she tasted a supreme felicity. What ifwith the breaking day the vision fled, and shewoke again to want and loneliness? enoughthat now it tarried with her. She would notmove, she scarcely dared to breathe for dreadlest the dream should depart; but lay verystill and felt the kindly strength of Sebastian’sarm support her, and his cool hard cheekpressed against hers that burned with fever.‘Annie,’ he said again, and this time Anneopened her eyes and smiled.

‘Eh, Sebastian, Sebastian, my dear man,stay—stay one minute, for dreams be terribleshort,’ she cried. Nor would all Shepley’swords reassure her of his actual presence.

‘So many days as I’ve lain here, an’ suchdreams and dreams! Lor’! them was dreams!You and Dick Sundon, Dick Sundon an’ you,back and fore you came and went the two ofyou. Sometimes Phil ’ud be there too (Philmy boy as is)—(Lord Christ, have a care onPhil, being that he’s so young and with nonebut Dick Sundon a-carin’ of him!) ... thenI’d dream of Dick for hours and hours, an’ now,Sebastian, ’tis you; Lord send this dream stays!’

Shepley knelt beside her, listening to all herstrange babble of ‘Dick’ and ‘Phil;’ butfeeling how the fever ran hot in her blood hepushed back the fears that came to him withher words. He looked round the room, withthe stamp of relentless poverty set everywhereon it, and thanked Heaven he was there now.For poor Anne lay on the bare boards of thisplace that was now her shelter, and for coveringshe had thrown over her the dress she hadtaken off. No trace of meat or drink was tobe seen anywhere.

As he sat thus taking in the bareness of poorAnne’s sick-room, with a perfunctory littleknock the door was shoved open and MistressNare came in. She walked across the floor ontiptoe and stood looking at Anne.

‘The fever hath gotten that hold on herblood ’twill burn her up before the week isout,’ she said sagely, winking across at Sebastian.‘And by your leave, sir, I’d make boldto say you’d best sit farther off from her—’tisa catching sickness I dare swear.’

‘I am come here to cure her,’ said Sebastian;‘I am a surgeon to my trade.’

‘For certain then, sir, you’ve come too late,’croaked the old woman.

Sebastian rose angrily.

‘Have a care what you say,’ he exclaimed.‘And now, if you’ll do me a service, you shallgo and buy all that Anne Champion needs—abed to lie on——’

‘And die on,’ interpolated Mrs. Nare viciously,but Sebastian gave no heed to herremark, only went on with his enumeration:—

‘And blankets to cover her, and food to eatand wine to drink—all these things she musthave before the day is done; so hasten you—ifso be you wish for this.’ He drew from hispocket a coin and laid it in the old woman’shand.

‘A bed and blankets. Food and wine andfire,’ repeated Mistress Nare. ‘Good lack,sir, dyin’ Anne she’ve not got so much as willbuy a shroud to wrap her in!’

‘Here,’ said Sebastian hastily, shaking outfrom his purse a handful of coins. ‘Howmuch will you require?’ Mrs. Nare was convinced.

‘Happen three guineas, sir, to begin with,’she said, and her crooked old fingers closedgreedily over the yellow coins.

‘Well, hasten—hasten,’ said Sebastian, andMrs. Nare shuffled off down the stair chucklingand curious.

‘Dyin’ Annie’s gotten a lover up to the last,Matthew,’ she said as she passed her son on thestair. So much for maternal jealousy.

CHAPTER IX

The vision tarried. Anne never woke to anotherlonely day; always there was Sebastiansitting by her, Sebastian holding her hand,Sebastian bending over her, wise and tender.

Whenever the fever left her, Anne was tryingto tell him something—something he wouldnot listen to then. But at last one day, lyingstill and white, Anne suddenly spoke.

‘Listen to me, Sebastian,’ she said, ‘for I’mnot long for this world; you can’t refuse tohear me now.’ And with that she told himall her story. Sebastian sat beside her, hishead bowed upon his hands, listening withoutword or comment.

‘Now that I be come to death’s dear, I’vebut the one thought. Dick, he’s a man tolook out for hisself—and you was ever straight,my man; but w’at’s to come of Phil? Lord,I’d turn in my grave to think on him! forsure he’s gotten part o’ my soul, Sebastian—hehath truly.’ Sebastian did not speak, andAnne went on—

‘Dick’ll fend for him an’ no fear—make afine gentleman of him most like—as fine as hisself,and then teach him lyin’ ways an’ falsedealin’s, an’ my boy as hath half my soul he’llgo down into hell with all the liars as find theirplace there, and who’s to help?’

Still Sebastian did not speak.

‘Eh!’ cried Anne, half rising on her pillows.‘This once I seen you hard, Sebastian!’Tis no fault o’ the child’s—no, nor mine neither,as he’s there.’

‘You can scarce expect me to love him,Anne,’ said Sebastian at last. ‘And whathelp can I give the child?’

‘Eh! none, none, my man; maybe Heaven’llhelp him,’ sobbed Anne, then she turnedand laid her hands in Sebastian’s.

‘But as you love me,’ she said, ‘you’llmake me this vow—you’ll swear to me ifever you can help my poor Phil you’ll do it;not for his own sake, Sebastian (an’ forgettin’Dick Sundon an’ all his lies), but formine, as was Phil’s mother, and gave him halfher soul?’

‘Annie, Annie, I’d do more than that foryou!’ said Sebastian. He prayed her then tolie still—she had spoken beyond her strength.Anne obeyed, and till late in the day she didnot speak again, then she spoke suddenly—half-wanderinglythis time.

‘You’ll live long and happy, Sebastian,’ shesaid; ‘you’ll marry, my pretty man, and anotherwoman but me, she’ll be the joyfulmother o’ your sons.’ Then with no change inher voice, but as if she suddenly addressed athird person in the room, she continued: ‘And,God, you’ll avenge me on Dick Sundon?You understand how it’s been with me, an’how ’tis impossible I should forgive him?And, Lord, have a care of Phil, and give hima white heart—my caring of him be past an’done with now.’ There fell a long silencethen, poor Anne having disposed of all herearthly cares.

‘Come, Sebastian,’ she cried, then quickly—withthat awful chanting voice of the dying—andshe held out her arms to him. But evenas he bent down, Sebastian felt a long strainingshiver pass through her, the sorrows ofdeath compassed her, the pains of hell tookhold upon her. He caught her to his heart fora moment, but a Stronger than he was drawingAnne away from his embrace. As their lipsmet she smiled a far-away dreamy smile.

‘Ha’ done, my man—ha’ done,’ she said;‘no more of earth.’

‘I’ll bury Annie,’ said Sebastian, ‘and thenI’ll kill Richard Meadowes.’

It was in compliance with this resolution thatSebastian Shepley, a few days later, waitedagain upon Richard Meadowes.

Meadowes sat writing at the table with hisback to the door, but at the sound of its openinghe turned round, and at sight of his visitorsprang up; the two men faced each othersilently for a moment. Sebastian’s eyes fromunder their overhanging brows flashed likeblue flames.

‘I called you a liar,’ he said, advancing upthe room, ‘and for that mistake I crave yourpardon; you spoke truth, and now I am cometo fight you for the truth you spoke.’

‘Fight with you, you damned surgeon! youson of a village leech! I fight with gentlemen!’said Meadowes scornfully.

‘And I with men, so if you are one you hadbest show it,’ retorted Shepley; and he drewthe sword that hung at his side with a drawingrattle from its sheath.

There was not much question then betweenthem of rank. They fought with savage hatredon either side; but from the first the fortunesof the fight followed Sebastian.

The whole had been ended, and ended withit there would also have been the larger half ofthis story, if an unaccountable impulse had notmoved Sebastian Shepley to mercy. Something,perhaps, of the futility of revenge, nowthat Anne was dead and could never know ofit, came to him of a sudden, and stayed hishand.

‘There,’ he said. ‘You have your life atmy hand, for all it may be worth.’ And heturned away as if to leave the house.

Meadowes leant against the wall, breathinghard after the struggle.

‘Stop—one moment, Shepley,’ he said, ‘I—Iwould speak with you; Anne Champion, if Ican find her, shall want for naught.’

‘She wants for naught now,’ said Shepleyshortly.

‘But,’ interposed Meadowes, ‘I should bethe man to provide for her, I looked to do thatalways, I had indeed no intention——’

‘Anne Champion is dead,’ said Shepleyslowly, pausing for a moment on the threshold.‘Anne is dead, and her blood be upon you andupon your children.’

PART II

He that hath a wife and children hath given

hostages to Fortune.

CHAPTER X

The war was ended, the Peace of Utrechtsigned, and what remained of our armies afterthe twelve years’ conflict was free to comehome once more. With the soldiers came backthe surgeons, to practise in peace the suggestiveproficiency they had gained in war-time; andcleverest among them all was Dr. SebastianShepley.

Like all successful doctors, Shepley owedsomething to his personality. There was thatin him which inspired others with a sense of hiscapacity. Not very much of a gentleman, butvery much of a man; of gigantic size and easyrough address, he suggested all that was mostcheerful and prosperous in life. Shepley hadbeen through half the campaigns of the war,and now that peace was proclaimed he had thegood luck to obtain an appointment under thethen celebrated Dr. Joseph Barrington of HarleyStreet, Surgeon in Ordinary to his newlyascended Majesty King George the First. Theappointment was a fortunate one for Shepley;but perhaps it was not quite so fortunate forBarrington, who found ere long that SebastianShepley was likely to prove an Absalom whowould steal away the hearts of fashionable Londonfrom himself. But Barrington was verymagnanimous—strangely magnanimous,—andseemed rather to like than to dislike the praisesthat were heaped upon the young man. Thereason of his magnanimity was not very far toseek, nor had he any false delicacy in tellingShepley of it; for, as they sat together oneday, the older man gave it as his opinion thatmarriage was a prudent step for a young manto take before taking up a practice.

‘You should in truth be looking out for awife, Shepley,’ he concluded, and he gave asuggestive cough.

‘Some day, mayhap, sir, some day,’ saidShepley. His face fell suddenly into a halfhard, half tragical expression, very foreign tothat it generally wore, and he passed his handquickly across his lips. Barrington, a keen observerof faces, gave a sharp glance at him fora moment.

‘Such wounds, Shepley, are best treated nottoo tenderly,’ he said. ‘It but keeps themopen.’

‘There may be truth in that you say, sir, butit goes against nature,’ said Shepley.

‘Like many a good drastic cure,’ said Barrington.‘Come (if you will have my advice),bury this old trouble, whatever it may be, andbegin life from where you are. Many a happymatch hath begun coolishly, many an ill onehotly: and this is the wisdom of a man oldenough to be your father.’

‘I thank you, sir; I shall give some thoughtto the matter,’ said Shepley, and would havechanged the subject, but Barrington pursued—

‘You scarce need a proof of my goodwill;Shepley; yet I’ll give you one. There’s notanother man in London to whom I would soonergive my daughter Emma than yourself.’

‘My dear sir——’

‘There, there, I have but given you a pieceof my mind and something of a hint. Let thematter rest. I pray you to be in no haste: noprudent marriage was ever yet hasty, nor anyhasty one prudent; time, time and thought——’

‘Yes, sir, as you say, time and thought—’tisa great step in life,’ said Shepley. But he tookthe older man’s hand in his as he spoke, andshook it warmly.

‘I thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘And this storyyou guess at—well, I give you my hand on’tthat if ever I marry Emma she hears it all.’

‘Tush! keep your heart’s history to yourself,’said Barrington, smiling. ‘The womanwho supposes herself any man’s first love is afool.’

Emma, whose name had been thus bandiedbetween Sebastian Shepley and her father, wasthe younger of Dr. Barrington’s two daughters.The elder daughter, Charlotte by name,had married early, and ‘well,’ as the phrasegoes, having allied her fortunes with those of acertain Sir James Mallow, who, though only aknight, was the possessor of a handsome income,and had converted Charlotte from plainMiss Barrington without a fortune to ‘MyLady’ with one. The marriage had been asource of vast gratification to Emma as well asto the fortunate Charlotte, for it seemed to bein the very blood and bones of the Barringtonsto aspire in matters social. Their father’s promotionto Court practice had given these youngwomen another help on the painful uphill path,and had made it not only possible but quitenatural for them to mention persons of titlefrequently in conversation. Now Emma droveout daily in Lady Mallow’s coach, and dreamtof even greater splendours to come. She wasan extremely pretty girl, slim and tall, withfine auburn hair and delicate colouring. ‘Withher looks,’ said Lady Mallow, ‘Emma musthave a baronet.’ And indeed she repeated thisso often that Emma came to think of the baronetas a reality, and never contemplated thepossibility of any suitor of lower degree.

It gave her, therefore, quite a painful shockto discover suddenly one fine day that she wasbeginning to care a great deal about a man whowas not even distantly connected with a baronetcy.Emma made this discovery some timeafter Sebastian Shepley had been presented toher; but she put the thought aside at first asquite unworthy. To confirm herself in dismissingsuch an idea, she spoke with some sharpnessto Charlotte about the spectral bridegroom.

‘I wish you would in truth present me to abaronet, Charlotte, instead of speaking so frequentlyof doing so,’ she said.

Charlotte was a little nettled by the remark,probably because she knew no baronet whomshe could present to her sister, yet was unwillingto acknowledge the fact.

‘I take good care to present no man to youwhom I do not consider suitable to be yourhusband,’ she said coldly.

‘I may get tired of waiting,’ said prettyEmma. This was all she said then, but somemonths later, in a burst of girlish despair, sheconfided to Lady Mallow what she feared washer hopeless passion for Dr. Sebastian Shepley.‘I should not care for fifty baronets now,’ sheconcluded, burying her face on Charlotte’s notvery sympathetic breast.

‘Tush! Emma,’ said her Ladyship; ‘youshould look higher——’ She could think of nomore weighty argument. But Emma could notlisten even to this. She sobbed and sobbed,and prayed Charlotte, if she loved her, to tryto help her. For a long time Charlotte resistedthese entreaties, then she determined to tell herfather the state of the case.

‘So this is what ails Emma?’ he said.‘Gad! but I’ll make short work with it.Shepley is a fine man—no finer surgeon have Icome across this many a year. If he will takeEmma he shall have her, and welcome.’

So not very many days later, Dr. Barrington,as you have heard, approached Shepley on thesubject of marriage.

At first it seemed as if nothing were to comeof the conversation; then quite suddenly Shepleycame one day to announce to Dr. Barringtonthat Emma had agreed to marry him.

‘My blessings on you for a sensible man,’said Barrington. ‘You were so long about itI half feared you would not take my counsel atall.’

‘I took it so well that I did not hurry in thematter,’ laughed Sebastian.

He laughed himself down-stairs, laughed hisadieus to Emma, and swaggered off down thestreet with his fine swinging gait, as gay andhearty a man as you might see in all England.

But oh, inscrutable heart of man! whatwere these curious old words that so rang inhis ears? He seemed to be walking to thetune of them.

If I forget thee,’ said the voice of the heartthat speaks ever whitest truth,—‘If I forgetthee, let my right hand forget its cunning.

And he shook his head and smiled, and lookeddown at his clever right hand.

CHAPTER XI

Sebastian and Emma Shepley began their marriedlife in a little house in Jermyn Street—‘small,’as Emma would have described it, ‘butgenteel.’ It would be impossible to exaggeratethe pride and pleasure which Emma had in thearrangements of her house, and in the fact thatshe was married to the (to her) finest and dearestof men; but to Sebastian marriage appearedin a very different light. For him itshowed as the end of Youth, the voluntary rejectionof romance, the light of common day.He had reasoned himself into it; acknowledging(and the man who does this need nevercall himself young again) that he had bettertake what he could get and be thankful for it.He had laid Passion in the grave; and, turningaway, he met Life with her resolute face waitingfor him inexorable as of old. Marriage wasprobably the first and most prudent step hecould take, and Emma was fond of him, andEmma, after all, was pretty. A home, a wife,children—these solid anchors of the soul, presentedthemselves almost invitingly to his fancyafter a time—and farewell to Love and Youth!

In these curiously differing moods of mindEmma and Sebastian entered into the estate ofmatrimony—Sebastian with his eyes open,Emma with hers firmly shut.

‘Can two walk together except they beagreed?’ asks that eternally unanswerablebook the Bible. Not comfortably, certainly,but they can halt along somehow, far out ofstep it may be, yet on the same road. I amafraid that when all was said and done thewalk of Emma and Sebastian was somewhatafter this halting kind. For Emma had notbeen married for many weeks before she beganto see how curiously she disagreed from Sebastianon almost every point. Strange is theglamour of love that she had not found this outsooner! It said something for both of themthat after having made the discovery Emmacontinued to love her husband as much as ever—only,the glamour was gone now. He hadbeen to her a faultless romantic hero, she foundhim to be a man with several pronounced faults,who frequently offended her taste, who constantlyopposed her, who plainly told her thathe had once loved another woman, and lovedher memory still.

Sebastian on his part owned that Emma wasoccasionally quite exasperating to him; but healso acknowledged her entire goodness of heartand the excellence of her housekeeping. Theirmarriage in fact was just one of the ordinaryruck of marriages; not unhappy, not ideal—merelya little disappointing to Emma, a littlehardening and coarsening to Sebastian. Thegreat bone of contention was of a social nature.For gentility was dear as life itself to Emma,while to Sebastian all the little affectations andconventions which his wife valued so highlywere the merest moonshine. He submittedgraciously enough to correction in matters ofetiquette, and laughed with imperturbable goodhumour when Emma called him to task for eatingwith his knife and wiping his lips with theback of his hand. But when it came to thequestion of friends and acquaintances matterswere more complicated.

Emma had, so to speak, passed her acquaintancesthrough a fine sieve, and the sifted fewwho came through, they, and they alone, wereher intimates. Sebastian, on the other hand,had only one reason for making friends withany one—whether he liked them or not. As amatter of fact he liked the greater part of theworld, and was liked by them in return, butanything like an ulterior end in making acquaintanceswas unknown to him. Emma’srules for the making of so-called friends, therefore,filled him with amazement; while Emma,on her part, looked with little short of dismayupon the men whom Sebastian welcomed to histable. Certainly there was scarcely one amongall his acquaintance that could have been calleda gentleman. ‘As why should they, Emma?I am no gentleman myself,’ Sebastian had retortedwhen taxed with his preference for lowcompany. Emma objected most of all to thesoldiers whom her husband had known abroad,and who were continually coming to the house;she might be entertaining her most select lady-friendsto a dish of tea, and talking the latestCourt gossip with them, when, into this refinedcircle, and quite undismayed by its frigidlygenteel atmosphere, would enter Sebastian,bringing with him, as likely as not, his friendSergeant Cartwright, or young Tillet thebugler, who played at Ramillies. The Sergeanthad lost an arm at Blenheim, and Emma shrankaway instinctively from the empty sleeve hewore pinned across his breast; no historic associationcould reconcile her to the presence ofthese men in her parlour, and when they werebidden to supper Mrs. Shepley sat at the headof the table with an air of studied aloofnessthat was fine to see. Now and then she wouldraise her pretty eyebrows expressively, as whenCartwright spat on the floor, or Tillet made useof expressions not usually heard in parlours;but she came at last to see that remonstrancewith Sebastian on this score was useless, andresigned herself as best she might to see thehero of her first love make merry with suchfriends.

But perhaps Emma’s sorest moments werewhen those whom she naively termed ‘personsof importance’ came to visit Sebastian. ToEmma, every one with a title was a person ofimportance, be they never so unimportant inreality, and it seemed to her that Sebastian intentionallysaid and did the wrong things tosuch personages. There was one terrible nightwhen ‘a Marquis’ (enough that the mysticdignity was his) honoured the little house inJermyn Street with a visit, and Sebastian, allunheeding of coughs and frowns from his wife,must press this exalted visitor to sup with them.Now on this ill-fated night Emma had chosento feed her lord and master on pig’s feet andfried liver—viands whose price, or rather wantof price, is almost proverbial. It was, indeed,from no sordid motives of economy that Emmahad so furnished forth her board, but from thedesire to please Sebastian, whose taste in foodwas incurably vulgar. How could she haveanticipated that burning moment when herfaltering tongue must frame the words—

‘My Lord, may I offer you some of thesepig’s feet, or mayhap your Lordship would relishsome of this fried liver more?’

And as if this was not bitter enough, did notSebastian break into a laugh that shook theglasses on the table, crying out—

‘Faith, Emma, had you known we were toentertain the quality to-night, I had not had myliver and pig’s feet!’

Emma smiled faintly, for tears were not faroff; and the Marquis, seeing her perturbation,told the story of the liver they got at Blenheim,that the officers swore was shoe-leather,—‘Adifferent dish from your fine cookery,madam,’ he said, begging for another helpingof the dish. But it was a life-long lesson topoor Emma: she never ordered liver for supperagain without a pang of foreboding.

Then the matter of Church observances hadarisen between these young people. Emmawas a devout Church-woman; Sebastian didnot hold much to one persuasion or another,and certainly was not fond of Church services.Emma all her life had gone every Sunday tothe curious little old church of St. Mary Minories,and after her marriage expected Sebastianto go there with her. The first Sunday morningafter her marriage Emma came down-stairsin her church-going attire, and in rather ashocked voice expressed her astonishment tofind Sebastian smoking by the fire, instead ofmaking any preparation for coming with her.

‘Charlotte will be here in the coach immediately,’she said. ‘Hasten, Sebastian, we shallbe late at St. Mary’s.’

‘St. Mary’s?’ queried Sebastian.

‘St. Mary Minories, where it hath alwaysbeen our custom to attend divine service—come,Sebastian, pray lay aside your pipe!’

Sebastian leant forward, pressing down thetobacco into the bowl of his pipe. He madeno reply.

‘Are you not coming to church? Perhapssome patients require your care——’ beganEmma. She came and laid her hand on hisshoulder in gentle remonstrance.

‘No, I cannot come.’

‘Mayhap you might come to meet us—youthink little of such a walk,’ suggested Emma.

‘No!’ said Sebastian curtly. Emma hadnever seen him so cross before. Her eyes filledwith tears, and she withdrew her hand fromhis shoulder, and turned away.

‘I fear I have displeased you, sir!’ she said,feeling a sudden inclination to desert this youngman, who could behave so strangely to her oneshort week after their marriage. But the nextmoment she forgave him; for Sebastian, at thetearful sound of her voice, jumped up and cameover to where she stood, holding out his handsto her.

‘Pardon me, Emma; ’tis no fault of yours,but a fancy of my own. I never pass that wayan I can help it, Emma—that’s all.’

‘Why——!’ began stupid Emma; but shedried her tears.

‘Because Anne Champion lived there, andthere I saw her die, and I’m like to weep tearsof blood when I pass by that way,’ said Sebastian,who, whatever he was, would have nosecrets from his wife, in spite of Dr. Barrington’swisdom.

If Emma had been a crafty woman she wouldhave discontinued her attendance at St. MaryMinories after this; but she was not, and instead,she went there weekly, and very frequentlyshe would say, ‘Sebastian, if so be thatyou cannot worship along with me, why doyou not go to some other church?’ AndSebastian scarcely knew whether to laugh moreat her singular lack of tact or to be provokedby it.

After this sort of fashion time went on; andthen, whatever little differences there may havebeen between the Shepleys, were forgotten fora time in the wonderfully uniting interest whichcame to them with the birth of their daughter.All Emma’s first admiration for Sebastian returnedto her, when she saw how delightfullyhe played the part of a father. And indeed, tosee him with this enchanting milky-skinnedbaby in his arms was a sight to please anyheart; they looked so wholly incongruous.

‘Lord! to think of your fathering such adainty piece of goods, doctor!’ exclaimedEmma’s pet aversion, the Sergeant, at sight ofSebastian and his tiny daughter. Emma wastoo proud and pleased at the moment to findfault with the speech, so, lifting little MissShepley from her husband’s arms, she broughther to be kissed by the Sergeant.

‘She is very beautiful,’ said the proud motherin a conclusive manner, after the salute hadbeen very unwillingly given. ‘And we intendto name her Caroline, after my mother.’

So let this be my reader’s first introductionto Caroline Shepley.

CHAPTER XII

All observant (or is it only unobservant?) personsmust surely have remarked that childrenseem to grow up suddenly in a night like Jack’sbean-stalk. The child that only yesterday wedandled in our arms, to-day runs about andtalks with the best of us, and to-morrow hewill be married, and the day after to-morrowhis children in their turn will be beginning thewhole curious magic mushroom-growth overagain for another generation! So those whoonly in the last page saw Caroline Shepley inlong clothes will perhaps not be altogether surprisedto recognise her on this page as a child ofsix years, trotting along the pavements under thecharge of a very good-looking young nurse-maid.

Seven years had not changed the ambitionsof Mrs. Shepley; but they had been transferredduring that period, and now she was no longerambitious for herself, but for her beautiful littledaughter Caroline.

‘Carrie must have a maid of her own, likeother gentlefolk’s children,’ she had said, andthough her husband laughed at the idea as pretentiousnonsense, he made no further objections,and Mrs. Shepley engaged the servicesof a young woman, Patty Blount, whose dutyit became to walk out daily with little Caroline,as is the custom in all well-regulated families.

Patty, though not eminently conscientious inother matters, performed this duty with themost praiseworthy regularity. No sooner hadthe hall-clock chimed eleven than this punctualyoung person issued from the door of the littlehouse in Jermyn Street leading Caroline by thehand. Their walks had a curious sameness,tending as they almost invariably did in thedirection of St. James’ Square; and Carrie, aconversational little person, noticed that aboutthe hour of their walk Patty was curiously absent-minded.She was always looking roundher, and sometimes would even fairly standstill, with an air of expectation as if she werewaiting for some one.

At last one morning as they sauntered throughthe Square, the door of one of the housesopened, and a young gentleman, Carrie’s seniorby some four years, came down the steps attendedby a tall man-servant wearing pruneliveries. Carrie, who was feeling very dull atthat moment, poor child, plucked her carelesscompanion by the skirt.

‘See, Patty,’ she whispered; ‘there is a boywho must be nearly my own age.’

Patty was not absent-minded now. Sheseemed to have suddenly wakened up; andgiving Carrie that curious dragging shakewhich seems an hereditary action in the nurse-maidclass, she turned her head pointedly inthe opposite direction from the approachingfigures, and hurried Carrie along the Square ata great pace.

‘You should think shame, Miss Carrie, tobe a-noticin’ of strangers in the streets,’ shesaid.

They passed the boy and the tall footman asshe spoke, and turned the corner of the Square.A moment later Carrie heard a voice behindthem address Patty, and turning round shebeheld the tall footman walking alongside.

‘Lor’, Mr. Peter,’ exclaimed Patty, all affabilityand surprise. Then she shoved Carriebefore her, and the footman shoved his chargebefore him, and they turned back into theSquare again, apparently by mutual consent.

The children looked at each other dumbly fora moment.

‘What’s your name?’ then says Carrie,taking the initiative.

‘Philip-William-Richard-Frederick-Sundon-Meadowes.’

‘Oh, that’s far too long; I can never saythat.’

‘Well, Phil they call me.’

‘Yes, that will do; I am called Caroline—Iwas named after my grandmother.’

‘I was named after my grandfather. Inever saw him; he was dead long before Ibegan.’

‘Was he? my grandfather is still alive,’ saidCarrie. ‘But he is not like my father at all;I love my father more than any one.’

‘Well, do you know, Caroline, I do not lovemy father at all,’ said Phil with curious candour.As he spoke he turned and looked atCarrie with a pair of wonderfully glitteringgrey eyes.

‘O, what strange eyes you have, Phil!Why do they cut into me?’ cried Carrie.

Phil was rather offended. ‘My eyes arequite as good as yours, Caroline,’ he said. ‘Ithink I shall return to Peter.’ And with anair of great dignity he fell back a step or two.But Peter and Patty were deep in conversation,nor would they allow themselves to be interruptedfor all Phil’s dignity. So after a minuteor two of sullenness, Phil was forced to rejoinCarrie, and make overtures of peace by silentlyplacing a hand on the hoop she trundled, andgiving an interrogative grunt. Carrie hadnothing to forgive: the pavement was clearbefore them for many tempting yards, and offthey ran with shouts of pleasure.

‘This is where I live,’ said Phil, as theyreached the house he had appeared from.‘Look, Carrie, when Peter is in good temper,or if I can catch my father as he goes out, Ican get them to put me on their shoulders, andthen I am so high up that I can get my handinto the torch-snuffer; it comes out black, Ican tell you!’

Carrie looked longingly at the torch-snuffer;she too would have liked to blacken her plumpwhite fingers.

‘Shall I ask Peter? he looks pleased,’ said Phil.

‘Do,’ urged Carrie in great excitement, peeringup into the snuffer. ‘ ’Tis like an ironnightcap,’ she added.

‘ ’Tis not often Peter will do it, for you seehe has to wash my hands,’ said Phil. ‘Fatheris better. O good luck, Carrie, here hecomes!’ for as the children stood together onthe steps, the great door with its iron knockerswung open, and a man came out, closing thedoor behind him.

‘Hillo, Phil! alone? Where hath Peterdisappeared to? And who is the lady you haveforgathered with?’ he said, as he looked downin amusement at the children. Peter cameswinging along the Square, red to his powderedlocks, and Patty, overcome with confusion,stood still at some distance and beckoned toCarrie to run to her.

‘O no, sir, I am not alone; Peter is talkingto a woman there, and——’ said Phil.

‘And you are following his example,’ laughedPhil’s father. ‘And what is your name, mylittle lady?’

Carrie was smitten with sudden shyness, andthought of beginning to cry. She thrust herdimpled hand into her eye and rubbed it hard,and did not speak. Peter came up breathlessand apologetic.

‘I was but speaking with a friend, sir,’ heexclaimed; ‘an’ Master Phil he did run awayalong the Square, sir, and——’

‘Tush, Peter, there is little harm done,’ saidhis master, and would have passed on, but Philbarred his path.

‘If you please, sir, Caroline would like toput her hand into the torch-snuffer: will youlift her?’

‘And what will Caroline’s maid say?’laughed Phil’s father.

‘Nothing, sir, if you do it,’ Phil urged, andat that his father stooped down and swungCarrie up on to his shoulder, and bade herpoke her fingers into the envied grime of thesnuffer.

‘And now give me a kiss for it,’ he said;and Carrie, her shyness quite cured by the delightfullyblack aspect of her fingers, gave thesalute with great freedom.

‘Wasn’t that most agreeable?’ asked Phil;he alluded not to the kiss, but to the soot.Patty at this moment, seeing some interferencenecessary, came forward with a curtsey to claimher charge.

‘I fear I have led your little lady into mischief,’said Phil’s father to her, smiling verypleasantly. Patty murmured incoherent excuses,curtseyed again, and bade Carrie saygood-day to the gentleman. As they walkedaway Carrie heard Phil’s voice—it was singularlyclear—echoing along the quiet Square.

‘Caroline, sir.’ And then, in reply to anotherquestion—

‘Caroline, sir; I do not know what else.’It was well for Carrie that she could not overhearwhat followed—

‘A child of singular beauty.... Peter,who is she?’

‘I—I cannot say, sir. I am slightly acquaintedwith the young woman as looks afterher, sir,’ said Peter, and he looked so ashamedof himself, and so uncomfortable, that his masterdid not question him further, but passeddown the steps, laughing as he went.

Patty on the homeward way was very silent.When they reached Jermyn Street she tookCarrie straight up-stairs and closed the nurserydoor. Then she stood in front of the childmenacingly.

‘Mind, Miss Caroline, if ever you do say tomaster or to mistress one word of meeting withthis little gentleman, I’ll—I’ll lock you up ina black hole.’

‘Why, Patty?’ began Carrie.

‘Well, you had best ask no questions, or mayhapI’ll put you in the hole for that,’ saidPatty; and then, because in the main she wasa good-hearted girl, and hated to frighten Carrie,she kissed the child and assured her overand over again that if no word of this meetingever crossed her lips, she would have chestnutsto roast on the ribs of the nursery grate, andnuts to eat by the handful.

So Carrie agreed to be silent.

CHAPTER XIII

Now so pleasant and easy is it to tread theprimrose path, that after the first difficulty ofbeing silent about her new playmate was gotover, Carrie never thought about the matter,and it became quite a daily thing that the childrenmet and walked together while Patty andPeter sauntered in the rear, very much occupiedwith each other.

Phil was a curious boy, of great strength ofcharacter: a hot-tempered, domineering child,horribly clever for his age, very imaginative,and withal sadly spoilt. Peter, it is true, heldhis young master in very scant reverence, andwould speak to him at times with great sharpness,but his was the only control that was everexercised over the child. Carrie, who had notemper at all, was frightened almost out of herlittle judgment the first time she saw Phil inone of his worst fits of anger. They werewalking in St. James’ Park, and Phil began tothrow stones into the water at the water-fowl,spluttering his fine new velvet suit at eachsplash.

‘Mustn’t be after that game, Master Phil,’said Peter, and Phil continued his stone-throwingwith aristocratic indifference.

‘Did you hear, Master Phil? You’re spoilin’them new clothes,’ said Peter, and approachingto where Phil stood he forcibly removedthe stones from his hands. Phil’s facewas convulsed in a moment with horrid passion.He fell on his knees on the walk and scrapedup the mud and gravel in handfuls, pelting thestately Mr. Peter’s calves in futile anger.

‘I shall do as I please, Peter; you are a servant,and you shall not stop me throwing stones—there—andthere—and there.’ He emphasisedeach word with another handful of gravel.

Carrie drew away to Patty’s side, shockedinto silence. Patty said ‘Lor’,’ and Petersmiled.

‘ ’E’s a little imp,’ he said; ‘there’s but theone way to manage him,’ And with that helifted Phil suddenly to his feet, shook himsharply, and boxed his ears till the child beganto cry.

‘There, that’ll settle you,’ he said. Hepushed poor Phil before him along the path,and stooped down to brush from his immaculatestockinged legs the marks of this ignoble conflict.

Carrie, being admonished by Patty to rejoinher companion, advanced rather timidly towardshim. Phil was quite white now, and shook allover.

‘I think I shall go home now, Peter,’ he saidin a very humble little voice; ‘I feel most terriblytired—will you take me home?’

‘Yes, Master Phil,’ said Peter, quite pleasantly,and with adieux to Carrie and Patty,they walked off together up the Mall.

‘Lor’! what a life Mr. Peter do lead withthe boy!’ said Patty occultly. Carrie wassilent, and watched the retreating forms of thelittle Phil and the mighty Peter till they becamemerged in the throng.

As they came to see more and more of eachother the children’s intercourse assumed adefinite character, which one often notices inchildish friendships. Phil, as the elder andmore original-minded of the two, assumed as itwere command, led the conversation, and Carrie,deeply admiring his powers of mind, andquite content to be commanded, took all herideas from him. Phil indeed was vastly entertainingto her after the pre-occupied silence ofPatty, but sometimes his views rather startledher childish fancy.

They had gone far afield one fine day in lateautumn—even to the Park—a world of delightto the children, and Peter and Patty, havingseated themselves under one of the trees, Philand Carrie followed the example of their eldersand sat down also.

‘I wish God would come,’ said Phil suddenly,gazing up through the branches above him.‘Do you not, Carrie?’

‘No—o,’ admitted the feeble-minded Carrie.

‘I do, and I shall tell you why. Peter tookme to his meeting-house, where they pray withouta book, and they prayed, “Rend the heavensand come down.” Well, since that I’ve laindown whenever I’ve got a chance and lookedup into the sky. ’Tis too bright to look intonicely most days, but if God were to make arent in that blue bit we see’ (he pointed up ashe spoke, and Carrie glanced upwards, half expectingto see some Beatific Vision), ‘if Hewere to make a hole to come down through, youknow, we should see something brighter thanthat behind, I believe. And then He’d comedown—oh, like that!’ Phil brought his handstogether with a crack that made Carrie jump.

‘I’d be frightened,’ she said, taking a reassuringpeep at the placid blue that smiledabove them. It showed no signs of crackingopen, she thought.

‘Pooh,’ said Phil contemptuously. ‘I believeyou had rather that the other God came—theJesus God. He is quite different, andwill not come the same way at all. I fancyHe’d walk into the town: coming the Richmondway perhaps, about the blossomy time ofthe year. We would just be walking alongPiccadilly perhaps, and we’d see every oneturning to look, and ...’

Phil’s imagination gave out here; he had notgiven enough of thought to the subject tovisualise it perfectly, so he returned to his formerand more favourite imagining—

‘Now what pleases me about t’other Godcoming would be the noise—drums, and bugles.Don’t you love ’em, Carrie? I went with myfather to the Horse Guards t’other day. Oh,you should have heard it! Well, God willhave gold bugles of course—the ones I heardwere just tin, I think—and the gold bugles andGod’s drums together, they’d make a noise noone could get away from. Now what do yousuppose every one we know would do? I wonderwhat my father would do? Peter wouldcome running up the back stair to look after me—I’msure of that—in case I was afraid. Notthat I would be,’ he added hastily.

‘When do you think it will happen?’ askedCarrie, very much awed, though Phil had finishedoff with a shrill little twirl of laughter.

‘Oh, perhaps next week, or perhaps to-night,Peter says. I believe God will come down onthe gilt top of St. Paul’s myself. Such a fineplace to land on from the sky,’ continued thelittle prophet, inspired as all prophets are by acredulous audience. ‘He’d—He’d—oh, Idon’t know what I was going to say. Carrie,look round the tree and see if Peter is kissingPatty, for I want to climb the tree, and ’tissafe to begin if he’s doing that.’

Carrie obediently reconnoitred; ‘I thinkhe’s going to,’ she reported. ‘He has his armround her waist, and he always begins that way.’

‘Come on then,’ said the prophet, leavingthe Second Advent unceremoniously behindhim, as he addressed himself to the ascent of avery smutty tree-trunk, much to the detrimentof his own and Carrie’s finery.

CHAPTER XIV

One day not very long after this Patty cameinto the nursery breathless and agitated.

‘Lord save us! Miss Carrie, what do youthink? Master Phil hath near killed himself!I’m but just in from a message, and who shouldI meet but Mr. Peter, running like mad, andwith never a hat to his head! ’Taint often asMr. Peter passeth by me in the street, but hewaved and passed on without one word, andup to the door of Dr. James and kicks till thedoor do near split across. When he’d givenhis message he found time to return to where Iwas a-standin’—for in troth I had such a terrorat the sight of Mr. Peter flyin’ down the streetthat I stood as if I had the palsy, and must sostand there till he returned. “Well, Mr.Peter,” I said, “you seem pressed for timethis day.” “Miss Patty,” saith he (and believeme he could scarce get out the words foragitation),—“Miss Patty, my young master’snear burned to death.” ’

Patty was breathless with agitation herselfat this point, and to recover her breath and relieveher surcharged feelings she seized a brushand began to arrange Carrie’s locks with moreenergy than gentleness. Carrie, deeply stirredby this tale, listened in great anxiety for furtherdetails. Patty then proceeded—

‘Being dinner-time, all the house was still,and Master Phil slips from the nursery and intothe master’s own room he do go, and commencesplaying with the log fire. He hath agreat fancy for pilin’ on the logs, same as heseeth Mr. Peter a-doing, and he’d lifted onetoo heavy an’ overbalanced hisself into thefire. He’d on a silk suit with ruffles, and itfired direct, and the whole body of him wasblazing in a moment. The master’s gentleman,as was in the dressing-room a-putting away ofthe master’s clothes, he came running in andpulled Master Phil out from the heart o’ thefire! They’d a business tearing off his clothes!and now there he do lie in the master’s ownbed a-screamin’ in agony.’

Carrie was deeply impressed; it was not hernature to weep easily over anything, but sheapproached the nursery fire and stood gazing atthe cruel element that had worked such sadhavoc on her poor little playmate.

Patty, with hysteric exclamations, pulled herback and declared she would never have aneasy moment again—never. But a few momentslater she found it necessary to flounce offto the kitchen, to repeat her tale there withmany sappy additions.

Carrie, thus deserted, quietly drew her littlechair close to the fire, and looked at the flameswith a very serious face. She even extendedone of her fat little fingers towards the bars experimentally,withdrawing it, however, withless caution, and a moment later she said ‘PoorPhil!’ with heart-felt compassion.

Patty ran in then, and shook her roughly.‘What did I say, Miss Carrie?—never beyondthe rug, and there you do sit close in to thevery blaze! How, Miss Carrie, mind you obeyme better, and partickerly in this, never to sayone word of Master Phil to the master or themistress. And if so be you do, well, of thisI’m sure as I stand in my shoes: you’ll neverplay again with Master Phil so long as youlive.’

Carrie did not in the least understand thereason of all this mystery about Phil; but shereiterated once more her promise of secrecy.

That night as she curtseyed to her parents atbedtime, she said suddenly—

‘Doth burning hurt, dada?’

Sebastian laughed. ‘Are you going to thestake, Carrie?’ he said.

‘No, not me,’ said Carrie, with some congratulationin her tones.

One day, some three weeks after this, Pattysaid mysteriously to Carrie that they weregoing out that afternoon to pay a visit. ‘Weare to see Master Phil,’ she said, when theywere in the street; and Carrie jumped for joy.

‘O Patty, I am so glad! Is he better?Where are we to see him?’ she cried.

‘In his bed, miss, but mind if ever you dosay a word——’

Carrie was quite impatient.

‘You are most strange about Phil, Patty,’she said; ‘I am sure he is nicer far to speakabout than any one else I know.’

‘Oh, well, Miss Carrie, we’ll be going homethen; we’ll say no more about the visit,’ saidPatty, making a feint of turning back.

‘No, no, ’tis all right, I shall say nothing,’said Carrie. On the steps of the great house,which Carrie knew quite well now, she saw thefamiliar figure of Mr. Peter, evidently waitingfor them.

‘I’ll trouble you to enter by the back way,’he said, as he greeted them, and with that heconducted his visitors to the kitchen regions.Everything here was bustle and hurry, for up-stairsdinner was being served. They met aFrench cook in a white paper cap dashing outof the kitchen with a saucepan in his hand, andran against another man-servant, as tall as Mr.Peter, who carried a silver dish. Then, leavingthese regions, they began to climb long,long stairs, and came out at last on to a polishedoak corridor hung with pictures.

‘Lor’, Mr. Peter, this be terrible fine!’ saidPatty, quite overawed. Mr. Peter sniffed, andaffected great unconsciousness.

‘Walk quiet, if you please,’ he said, ‘and onthe carpet, missie; these floors do mark veryeasy with boot-marks.’

He opened a door very cautiously, and lookedinto a large fire-lit room. It was very still.

‘ ’Ere’s a visitor for you, Master Phil,’ saidMr. Peter, stepping on tiptoe towards a hugecanopied bed which occupied the side of theroom and faced the fire. With a sign to Carrieto follow him, Mr. Peter drew back one of thesatin curtains, and then, followed by Patty,tiptoed away again into the adjoining room.Carrie crept up to the side of the bed and peeredinto its tent-like depths. There lay Phil,propped up with pillows, white and thin, hisshining restless eyes moving ceaselessly roundhim.

‘Well,’ said Carrie, after the unemotionalmanner of children.

‘Hullo!’ said Phil. He started up in bed,and then fell back against the pillows with acry.

Carrie was tremendously impressed by allshe saw around her:—the size and grandeur ofthe room, the satin hangings of the bed, embroideredall over with crests and coats ofarms, the silk coverlet under which Phil reposed,the solemn quiet of the room, and theweird whiteness of her little companion’s face.

It was all indelibly stamped upon her memoryin a moment, a scene never to be forgotten.

She laid her little hand on the stiff silk coverand found nothing to say.

‘Oh, I’m glad to see you, Carrie,’ said Philthen, who was never at a loss for words. Hetossed his head restlessly about as he spoke.‘They do not let me play, or anything, since Ihave been ill.’

‘Do you hurt much?’ asked Carrie, towhom pain was an unknown mystery anddignity.

‘Yes, my hands hurt most terribly; see,each finger is tied up by itself in a littlebag—that is why I cannot play with anything.’

‘Shall I whistle to you?’ asked Carrie,struck by a sudden inspiration. ‘A friend ofmy father’s has taught me to whistle, and hesays I do it to admiration.’ She jumped on tothe edge of the bed, flung back her head, andwhistled off a gay little roulade.

Phil laughed delightedly. ‘O do that again;you look like the poodles I saw in Paris. Theythrew back their heads and howled in a chorus,’he cried.

‘Well, you pretend you are the other poodle,’said Carrie; ‘I find it difficult whistling alone.Mr. Tillet, who teaches me, always whistleswith me.’

‘Who’s Tillet?’ asked Phil.

‘He’s a soldier—a man my father knows.’

‘A soldier! oh, I suppose he will be a general—theyare all generals,’ said Phil.

‘I think he is a bugler—is that the same?—something,I suppose; they all fight.’

‘Well, never mind; do it again, Carrie, ’tissuch fun to see you.’

‘My mother does not like me to whistle,’said Carrie, ‘but my father is ever teaching menew tunes, and Mr. Tillet, so I have to learn,but, if you please, I had rather look round theroom, Phil; I want to look into that long mirror.’So Carrie slipped down off the bed andwalked (by irresistible feminine instinct drawn)towards the long French mirror, the like ofwhich she had never seen before, and then sheplayed for a few minutes with the Dresdenchina dishes on the dressing-table.

‘You take care with my father’s razors,’warned Phil; ‘but they are not there—I forgothe wasn’t sleeping here. I have this roomall to myself, and oh! it’s gloomy at night.You see that big wardrobe over there—well, Ithink all manner of things come out of itthrough the night. You see sometimes Petersits with me, and sometimes nurse, but theyboth often go asleep, and then——’

Moved by this recital of nightly terrors, Carriecame back to the side of Phil’s bed and tookanother compassionate look at him.

‘I am so tired of lying here,’ he said crossly.‘And you know, though my father makes a lotof me when I am well sometimes, he nevercomes near me now that I am ill—just when Iwould like him. My father is rather amusingsometimes, you know.’

‘What would he amuse you with?’ askedCarrie.

‘Oh, he teaches me a number of things. Hecan swear beautifully. I have learnt some ofthat, but when I used one of his expressionsthe other day they all laughed at me; ’twasrather hard, I thought. My father said:“Bravely tried, Phil, but you scarce apply itrightly yet,” and they all laughed again. Ishall not learn for him again in a hurry.’

Carrie was very sympathetic, and Phil continued—

‘Then I play sometimes with him—we haveshilling points; ’tis good fun that, Carrie, butmy father says just now I am too cross to playwith.’

‘Oh, let me play with you,’ Carrie cried,‘I have learnt that too.’

Phil rolled over uneasily on his pillows.‘Peter,’ he called, in a very lordly fashion,—‘Peter,bring a pack of cards.’

Peter obeyed with some reluctance. ‘Seeyou ain’t a-hurtin’ of your hands, Master Phil,’he said. ‘You let missie shuffle an’ deal, likea good young gen’l’man.’

‘Oh, you be damned, Peter!’ said Philhastily, and Peter disappeared into the otherroom, drawing up his shoulders to his ears in avery expressive fashion.

‘Now, you sit on the end of the bed, Carrie,and we’ll have a jolly time,’ said Phil, his ill-temperas quickly gone as it had come.

Carrie scrambled up on to the stiff yellowsatin coverlet, and dealt out the cards across it,while Phil obligingly flattened out his poorlittle burnt knees to form an even table.

They were deep in their game, when Pattycame to take Carrie home. Phil’s cheeks werepink with excitement, and he called out toPeter to go away and let them play on. ButPeter, with great unconcern, swept togetherthe cards that lay on the quilt and lifted Carrieto the ground.

‘Peter, you are a beast; leave these cards,I tell you!’ cried Phil.

‘Sorry, Master Phil, ’tis too late,’ said Peter,extending his hand towards the cards that Philstill held; ‘missie must be goin’ now.’

Carrie stood on tiptoe to wave a better adieuto her playmate, but Phil did not notice her;he was gathering together all his sick littlestrength to avenge himself on the inexorablePeter.

‘There, you devilled flunkey!’ he screamed,pitching the cards into Peter’s face and fallingback against the pillows with a sharp cry ofpain.

Peter covered the child gently with the bed-clothes,gathered up the cards in silence, andsigned to Patty and Carrie to follow him out ofthe room.

‘That’s some of the master’s speech he’spickin’ up,’ he said, with a shake of the head;‘he don’t swear very skilful, as you may see,Miss Patty—no fear but he’ll get at that yet,’he added, with a half smile, half sigh.

Carrie, rather awed at this scene, took tighthold of Patty’s hand and did not speak till theywere well out in the street again.

‘I do not think Phil is very happy,’ she saidthen.

‘Not he, Miss Carrie—not for all his grandhouse an’ altogether, for he’s a bad boy he is,’responded the moral Patty.

CHAPTER XV

It was a long time until Carrie saw Phil again.

‘Master Phil hath gone off to the country toestablish his ’ealth,’ Patty said, and it seemedas though he would never return again, Carriethought; for often as she sighed for her littlecompanion, he did not come, and finally Patty,who seemed to have occult communication withthe household in St. James’ Square, informedher that Phil had gone to school. Patty weptas she gave this bit of information, and Carrie,partly, it must be confessed, out of the imitativefaculty, wept also at the news. Time,they say, dries every tear—perhaps it does—certainlyCarrie’s were soon dried; but she rememberedPhil long and tenderly for all that,and used to ask Patty at intervals if she wasnever going to see him again. Patty alwaysanswered these questions with a burst of tears,which response had such a sobering effect uponCarrie that she at last feared to make the inquiry.But one day, fully a year from the dateof Phil’s accident, as Patty and Carrie walkedround the Square together they met a tall lad,having the shining eyes of Phil, but changed,it seemed, in every other way beyond recognition.He was walking along with anotherboy, and passed by Carrie with an unregardingstare. Carrie stood still, stamped her littlefoot in anger, and turned to Patty for sympathy.

‘ ’Twas Phil, Patty!’ she cried, ‘and hepassed me without knowing me!’

Patty gave her head an upward toss.

‘Pay no heed to him, Miss Carrie; the menare all alike—not one to mend another,’ shesaid scornfully. They were passing at thatmoment the door whence the magnificent Peterhad been wont to appear.

Carrie, however, was not so easily answered.She followed Phil’s retreating figure as it disappearedround the Square, before she spokeagain, then she said, with great decision—

‘There goes my husband that is to be,Patty.’

‘Lor’! have a care what you say in thestreets, Miss Carrie!’ cried Patty, with a delightedgiggle.

Thus Phil passed out of Carrie’s life for thetime being.

It was not an age of learned women, sothough Carrie began her education about thistime, she was not the disquieting receptacle ofknowledge that modern childhood sometimes isin our progressive age. Carrie learned to readand write, she could do a little arithmetic, andbegan to sew a sampler of intricate stitchery;but she could not analyse her native tongue, orspeak in any other, and I fear even her knowledgeof geography was very hazy. Indeed, ifthe truth must be told about Carrie, she wasentirely unintellectual in every way. Lessonswere nothing but a pain to her, and as in thesedays a woman was not thought to add to hercharms by wisdom, Carrie was not compelledto pursue her studies after she had attained toa certain very easy standard.

She was compelled, however, to learn all thehousekeeping arts, and Mrs. Shepley expectednothing short of perfection in this branch of education.By the time Carrie was thirteen therewas a good deal of friction between the motherand daughter. For Carrie, to her want ofintellectuality, added a supreme carelessness,which was agonising to her conventional parent.If she had been an incapable girl it would havebeen different; but Carrie was far from incapable.When she chose, no girl of her age couldaccomplish any household task better. Yet,where it was a question of pleasure, Carriewould fling aside every duty and amuse herselfwithout a thought. She had indeed a whole-heartednessof joy in living, that would havereconciled almost any one except Mrs. Shepleyto her heedless ways. But to her they wereunpardonable, and the worst of it all was, thatCarrie’s father encouraged her in her carelesshabits—making it almost useless for her toremonstrate.

How it would have fared between the motherand daughter later in life is hard to say. Theywere both spared this test. For soon afterCarrie’s fourteenth birthday was past, Mrs.Shepley fell ill of a lingering disorder, and layfor many a long month between life and death.Carrie grew less careless in these months ofanxiety, grew quieter also, poor child—nevershut the doors noisily, and almost forgot howto whistle, while Sebastian went about with avery grave face. Now that Emma was so ill,he recognised what a good wife she had beento him in spite of all her failings, and realisedtoo what it would mean to him should he beleft with Carrie motherless on his hands.Whatever Emma’s faults had been, she hadbeen a careful mother, and had given a zealouswatchfulness to everything concerning Carriethat he never could have time to give.

It must have been weighing on Emma’s mindalso, this matter of how Carrie was to geton without her, but she looked at it in acharacteristic light. Almost with her latestbreath she called Sebastian to her bedside topray him to be particular about Carrie’s associates.

‘Let Charlotte Mallow see that Carrie makesno friends out of her own situation in life—beneathher, in fact.’

‘Lord, Emma, the girl’s all right. I amhere to protect her,’ said Sebastian.

‘ ’Tis the old trouble, Sebastian—you do notsee what I mean.—Ah! let her grow up a gentlewoman.’

‘I’ll do my best, Emma,’ he said.

‘I pray you to send her to church each Lord’sDay,’ pursued Mrs. Shepley. ‘Send her withCharlotte; you have ever been careless of theChurch and its mysteries.’

‘To church she shall go,’ said Sebastian—‘ifthat will make her a gentlewoman,’ headded to himself.

So Mrs. Shepley, with her little gentilitiesand punctilios, her tactless ways and her zealfor ordinances, went the way of all flesh.

Sebastian was not broken-hearted, thoughthe house felt empty enough, he thought, withoutpoor Emma; and Carrie, after the first solemnmonths of mourning were over, missed hermother sadly little.

She lived a perfectly happy unconstrainedexistence, which accorded well with her simplenature. Sebastian, who was nothing if nottruthful, sent her to church weekly with LadyMallow, and these were the dreariest hours ofCarrie’s otherwise unclouded childhood. EachSunday morning Lady Mallow appeared withhorrible regularity, driving in a singularlygloomy-looking coach, which seemed to Carrieto swallow her up as she entered it. In silencethey drove through the crowded streets (whichon Sunday had a way of looking very gloomytoo), and the coach drew up before the door ofthat sad little building, the church of St. MaryMinories. Lady Mallow occupied one of thosecarved oak pews which to this day you maysee mouldering away in the church, and therein its genteel obscurity Carrie sat, with a sinkingheart, counting the slow-passing minutestill she could breathe the fresher air of theeveryday world again. Patty had once toldher that ‘persons of quality was buried in ’eapsunder the floor in St. Mary Minories,’ andCarrie’s imagination hovered over this gruesomethought. She somehow connected thatdamp old smell which clings about the churchwith the ‘heaps an’ heaps of persons of quality’lying in their shrouds under the chancel, andeach day as she asserted her belief in the resurrectionof the body, found herself wonderinghow the poor dead people would ever worktheir way up through those slabs of stone. SoCarrie required all the fortitude and cheerfulnesswhich she inherited from her father to sustainthe ordeal of Sunday’s gloom.

Service once over, however, she stepped intothe auntly coach with a much lighter heart.The drive home seemed an altogether differentmatter from the drive to church, and each stepof the way Carrie’s spirits mounted higher andhigher, till, when the coach drew up before thedoor, she could have danced for joy. Biddinga decorous adieu to her aunt, Carrie was handedout by the man-servant, and mounted the stepsto the door with the greatest propriety. Butit was well that the departing rumble of thewheels hid from Lady Mallow’s ear that whoopof joy which Carrie uttered as she raced intothe parlour and flung her arms round herfather’s neck, crying out,

‘ ’Tis done—done for another week, sir!’

Mrs. Shepley had never permitted such demonstrativegreetings—they were indeed considereda great breach of decorum in those days;but I fear many polite rules were broken inupon by Carrie and her father, who neither ofthem cared as much as they should have donefor the generally received ideas of the societyof their day.

Such good friends were Carrie and her fatherthat the girl sought for no friends of her ownage; she went about everywhere with Sebastianwhen he had leisure to escort her, andwhen he was busy she amused herself at home,very well content with life and all things. Inher father’s company she visited many a strangescene; she would go with him to the hospitalssometimes, and—shade of Mrs. Shepley!—howmany a sight she saw in these unsavoury tentsof disease! Then Carrie entertained all herfather’s friends (those motley friends her poormother had objected to so much), and in manyways grew up with more of the manners of aboy than of a girl. She was singularly freefrom the sillinesses and affectations of early girlhood,having heard no talk at all of lovers oradmiration, nor having ever entered into rivalrywith other women in the matter of looks andcharm. Carrie was serenely unconscious thatthe world held a rival for her; she was the firstwith all the men of her own little world, andas yet she had not gone beyond it. If she comparedher own looks with those of other girls,it was merely from curiosity quite untouchedby jealous feeling. The fact was only distantlydawning upon her that she was fair beyond thecommon; just now she took it as her due fromFortune’s kindly hand.

CHAPTER XVI

Miss Caroline Shepley, up to the age of seventeenyears, had perhaps, in her own way, livedas happy a life as it is granted to many youngpersons to live. She looked like it too; wearingthat air of pleased good humour that is apassport to every heart, and blooming like arose, in spite of the fact that she had neverbeen out of London all her days. Carrie wasvery tall, with just the same fearless brilliantblue eyes that her father had, but from hermother she had inherited a skin as white asmilk, with a clear pink colour in the cheeks,two bewitching dimples, and ringlets of deepred hair. To see her pass along the streets!—— Dothey grow now-a-days, these shining beautiesthat brightened the world of long ago, oris it that they are so common we scarcely regardthem? But as time went on, Carrie’sgood looks became such as to be quite embarrassingboth to herself and to her father, forshe could never go out alone, and even inhis company attracted a vast deal of attention.

‘Now,’ said Sebastian, ‘I shall send Carrieto the country with her aunt, as she has sooften been pressed to go, else her head will beturned altogether.’

Lady Mallow’s establishment certainly promisedto be dull enough for safety. Her Ladyship,who was rich enough to indulge in fanciesabout climate, had taken an idea that Londondid not suit her health. On her brother-in-law’ssuggestion, she had taken a house in theneighbourhood of Wynford, and there waspassing the summer months in genteel andplethoric seclusion—for alas! Lady Mallow wasbecoming stout in middle life. From all he rememberedof Wynford twenty years ago,Sebastian smiled to think of the conventual existencepoor Carrie might lead there.

‘You must go to the village of Wynford andsee where your grandfather sold drugs; butthere’s not one of our name left there now,’ hesaid.

‘Sir! my dear sir! what would my auntCharlotte say should I propose to visit whereany one related to me had traded in anything,at any time?’ said Carrie—and indeed she wasright.

So one splendid May morning Lady Mallow’scoach drew up before the door of the Shepleys’house, and the beautiful Carrie came out uponthe steps, drawing on her long gloves, whileher baggage was stowed away in the rumble ofthe coach.

‘Well, Carrie, adieu to you, and Heavenbless you!’ said her father; and Carrie, unconventionalas usual, turned suddenly, in thefull view of her aunt’s decorous footman, flungher arms round Sebastian, and kissed him tenderly.

‘I do not wish to leave you, sir; I had ratherfar stay with you,’ she cried; but Sebastianlaughed at her, and bade her not keep thosespirited animals which her aunt drove ‘waitingupon her sentimentalities.’

The spirited animals waddled off down thestreet very deliberately, and Carrie sat back inthe coach and waved her hand till she was outof sight. Though she had not been altogetherpleased to leave home, it would certainly be anew and delightful thing to leave Londonsmoke behind her, and drive far out into thewonderful green country. No train had yetsnorted through these fair English meadows,and the depth of their tranquillity was like adreamless sleep. To the heart that has knownsorrow—and perhaps more to the heart thathas missed joy—the jubilant burgeoning ofspring will sometimes bring an intolerable sadness.But in the first blossom and fairness ofher youth, with her sunny childhood barelyleft behind, with hope ahead, these stainlessblue skies, and the rich promise of the burstingleafage, filled Carrie’s heart with a sort ofecstasy. She fairly clapped her hands at thehackneyed old sight of a meadow where lambswere gambolling, and called out to the coachman,praying him to stop and let her buy adrink of milk at a cottage door where a cowwas being milked. Towards the end of theday these pleasures began to pall a little, andwhen at last the coach drew up at Lady Mallow’sdoor Carrie was not sorry to alight. Theforty miles that lay between her and Londonseemed very long in the retrospect, and a suddenchill of home-sickness fell over her spirit asshe entered the decorous portals of her aunt’sabode. ‘I wonder why I ever came,’ shethought. ‘Aunt Charlotte will fidget me todeath—and I shall be so dull, and I think Londonis ever so much nicer than the country.’We must all be familiar with such misgivings,and familiar too with the extraordinary differencewhich a night’s rest makes in such a case.Carrie rose up next morning with much morerose-coloured views of life. ‘Aunt Charlotteis vastly dull, but how agreeable to be here!—andO how beautiful, how beautiful!’ she saidas she gazed out at the new surroundings, smeltthe country sweetness, and longed for breakfast.Lady Mallow, indeed, was quite shockedby Carrie’s appetite. ‘You will become stout,my dear,’ she said. ‘ ’Tis most ungenteel fora young gentlewoman like you to eat so freely!’Carrie was a little ashamed of herself.

‘You see, madam,’ she explained, ‘I livealways with men, and perhaps their examplehas made me eat as they do. I do not think Ishall become very fat, because all my life Ihave been hungry, and I have not become fatyet, you see.’

The restrictions of her aunt’s society beganto press upon Carrie pretty heavily by the afternoon.All morning she had had to sit indoorssewing at her embroidery, then, about twoo’clock, she must drive out for a slow airinguntil dinner, then came two hours more of talkand embroidery, and after supper a game ofwhist with double-dummy. And outside, whileall these golden hours dragged so slowly past,was the grand, twittering, budding springworld waiting to be explored! Carrie beat animpatient tattoo upon the floor with her littlefoot, and answered Lady Mallow’s questionsrather incoherently.

CHAPTER XVII

The next day was the same, and the next andthe next. On the fourth day, urged by despair,Carrie sat down to write to Sebastian thewhole tale of her woe.

‘Sir, I shall die,’ she wrote. ‘ ’Tis terrible;I do not like living with women, I find menvastly more agreeable. Pray, pray, dear sir—mydearest dada—write and summon me home,for I am weary of my life here at Wynford.’

Sebastian laughed a good deal over thismournful missive, and wrote Carrie to try tocultivate patience and the womanly graces.

But before his letter had reached her, helphad come to Carrie from an unexpected quarter.Lady Mallow, by the kindness of Heaven, fellsick of an influenza, which painful disorderconfined the poor lady to her bed, and set Carrieat liberty.

And ennui fled: and with happy hurryingfeet Carrie raced down the avenue and alongthe sweet hedge-bordered roads, going she knewnot whither—but away, away from bondageand embroidery and double-dummy whist!

She turned off into a side lane, and thenstood looking across the country to see whichdirection seemed the most promising.

The river plainly beckoned her: so, thrustingher way through the hedge, Carrie set off acrossthe meadows towards the silvery loops of waterthat slipped along so invitingly in the distance.The fields were white with anemone blossoms.She stood among them in perfect rapture, andthen got down upon her knees and began topull the flowers in handfuls; then further off,along the river bank, she saw a great thicketof blossoming thorn, white as snow, and off sheran towards it.

Carrie flung down all her freshly gatheredflowers in a heap upon the grass when shereached the thorn bushes. For these blossomswere lovelier by far than anything she had seenyet; the little starry flowers set on to theirjagged black stems had a beauty all their own.Undismayed by the assailing thorns, Carriepressed into the thicket to gather some of thecoveted branches. Her hair caught on thebushes, her dress gave a distracting tear, andfinally she scratched her plump white arm up tothe elbow. This at last sobered her adventurousspirit. She tried to escape from theclinging branches, but being town-bred, shewas ignorant of the fact that to turn round ina thorn thicket is to imprison yourself hopelesslythere. So Carrie twisted quickly round,thinking to find herself free, and instead felt ofa sudden twenty more thorns catch on her unfortunateperson. She shook her head, and abranch a-dance in the breeze clutched her hairlike a human hand.

‘O you beautiful cross bushes!’ cried Carriein despair, ‘I will not gather more of you, ifyou will but let me go!’

‘Can I help you, madam?’ said a voice behindher at this moment, and some one laughed.Carrie could not turn round to see who hadcome to her assistance, but she laughed also.

‘O yes, I thank you,’ she cried; ‘I do notknow what to do, I am all caught round andround.’

‘Come out backwards; do not try to turn,I shall hold the branches here for you. Takeheed for your eyes, madam,’ said her helper.Carrie began to beat a slow retreat, disengagingherself from the clinging branches one by one.At last, torn and dishevelled, she shook off thelast assailant and turned round to see who hadcome to her aid.

A young man with very shining eyes stoodbeside her, still holding back the thorn busheswith one hand. They looked at each other insilence for a moment, and then the young manexclaimed in a tone of surprised amusement,

‘Now, by all the powers! ’Tis little CarrieShepley!’ And Carrie, in spite of her ruffledplumage, responded to this salutation withgreat urban ease of manner.

‘And this is “Phil” that used to be?’ shesaid, holding out her hand to him.

‘Carrie, you are scarce changed at all, savingthat you are grown to be near as tall as I am,’said Phil, and he eyed Carrie with great admirationas he took her hand.

‘Nor you either, Mr.—Mr.—I forget yoursurname,’ said Carrie, drawing herself up withsome dignity at this rather free address from astranger. But as she spoke she met Phil’sshining eyes so ridiculously unchanged that shelaughed outright and came down from her highhorse without further delay.

‘You are not Mr. Anything, I think—onlyPhil,’ she said. ‘I could think, to look at usboth just now, that we were playing in thePark, and that Patty and Peter would comeround the corner in a moment to scold us!Pray, sir—Phil—where are you come from, andhow do we meet here?’

‘Come and sit by the river, and I shall tellyou everything you care to hear,’ said Phil.And Carrie, nothing loath, sat down on thebank, gathered her torn flounces around her,and gave a surreptitious smooth to her strayinglocks.

‘Well, I must tell you, you are a trespasser,Carrie, on my father’s land. But ’twould bean ungracious way to renew an old friendshipto arrest you—so I let that pass. My father,if you must know, is Mr. Richard Meadowes ofFairmeadowes—the house you see far awaythere among the trees; that is how I come tobe here.’

‘Do you live always here then?’ askedCarrie.

‘I? no—I am but come from Oxford forEaster. I am alone here though just now.My father is in town.—But you have not yettold me how you are here, Carrie?’

‘I am visiting my aunt, Lady Mallow. Shehath taken Forde, the house which stands onthe sloping ground about half a mile from herealong the high road. And indeed, indeed,Phil, I have come near running away to London,so dull have I been these four days sinceI came to Wynford.’

‘Dull—ah, ’tis a terrible thing to be dull,’said Phil sympathetically; ‘once I was dull—justonce in life, and I made the resolve neverto suffer it again. I can bear to be unhappy,or even to be in pain; but dulness—never. I’dsooner get drunk than be dull!’ And at thatthe young man went off into a curiously ringinglaugh that sounded across the fields like abell.

‘Then are you never dull here?’ asked Carriein amazement.

‘O no—never. I come here once or twicein the year, and I bring with me books to lastme all the time and more; sometimes I workhard, hard, till I feel as though my brain wouldcrack—’tis rather nice that, and then I comedown here by the river and amuse myself; orI ride, or shoot the crows, or anything elsethere is to shoot. But the first morning Iwaken at an end of my resources, that day Ileave Wynford. Oh, but I love Fairmeadowes.I never tire here.’

‘You are just the same,’ said Carrie, moreemphatically than before; ‘to hear you talk—’tisjust as you used to.’ She looked down atPhil as she spoke. He had flung himself downon the bank at her feet, and was gazing up ather in the frankest manner possible. ‘Why,how old are you?’ she asked suddenly, as unceremoniousas he was, and Phil answered withouta moment’s hesitation, ‘One-and-twenty,and horribly young it is—but there is all theworld to conquer, to be sure, and only one lifeto do it in.’

Carrie opened her eyes at this statement.‘How?’ she inquired.

‘How? ah, that is just the question! Myfather wished me to enter the Service—not I!“ ’Tis a profession for gentlemen,” he said.“Yes, and for fools,” said I, and he (who wasin it himself, though he’s no fool!) was rarelyangry with me. My father, you know, is acurious man—oh, I shall tell you all that anothertime,’ said Phil, rolling over on the bankin the most childish manner; then he rose andseated himself beside Carrie. Leaning his chinon his hand he looked down at the river as itflowed below them, and went on in a more serioustone—

‘I had no mind to enter the Service, you see,because I must have something to do that Icare about. To speak now before crowds andcrowds of people—that would be my ambition.’

‘But what would you speak about?’ askedCarrie laughingly—she was a splendid listener!

‘Speak! I’d speak about anything, Carrie.I’d speak eloquently for half an hour upon yourshoe-strings and my entire unworthiness to unloosethem!’

‘I believe you would,’ laughed Carrie; ‘youshould enter the Church, Phil, then each Lord’sDay you must speak for a certain time.’

‘Not the Church for me, my imagination isby far too strong for that; ’twould have mebefore my Bishop in a jiffy. Oh, do you rememberhow scared you were once when I describedto you how God would come down onthe gilt top of St. Paul’s?’

‘Yes indeed; I should pity your hearers didyou scare them after that fashion,’ said Carrie,with a smile of reminiscence.

‘I think I shall study for the Bar,’ beganPhil, and then, because in spite of his volubilityhe was not a bore, he started up in genuinedismay.

‘Lord save us!’ he exclaimed; ‘here haveI been talking of my own affairs so long youwill never speak to me again, Carrie. Come,let me show you the path through the park, andas you love me, talk of some other matter!’

Carrie laughingly obeyed, talking in her turnof herself, and then they talked of childhood(that was not so very far behind either ofthem), and of Patty and of Peter. (‘He’sabout the only man I respect in this world; ifI could do my duty like him I should be proud,’said Phil. ‘Why, he has never been late withmy shaving-water for years.’ At this statementCarrie glanced up with a little grimace ofamusement at Phil’s rather peach-like cheek,and he laughed ringingly. ‘Well, that is mayhapsomething of an exaggeration,’ he admitted.)

And so they sauntered on, abundantly amusedwith each other, till Carrie remembered withdismay the lateness of the hour, and biddingPhil a hurried farewell, ran off down the roadin the direction of Forde.

Phil called after her as she ran: ‘Comeagain to-morrow, Carrie.’ And so they parted.

CHAPTER XVIII

It was not the nature of Mr. Philip Meadowes(as may have been gathered from his talk) tobe reticent upon any subject. He had theacumen, however, which most talkative personslack, to choose his listeners carefully; but withthose whom he trusted Phil had absolutely noreserves. Chief among his confidants wasPeter, the grave-faced elderly man-servant whohad cuffed his ears in childhood, and now haddiscreetly forgotten the fact.

This evening, as Peter brought in his youngmaster’s wine, Phil, lying back in a chair, thebook he had been reading thrown carelessly onthe floor, addressed him quite impatiently.

‘Why, where have you been all afternoon,Peter?’ he said.—‘Now whom do you think Imet to-day, by all that is curious?’

Peter laid down the tray he carried, pickedup the book from the floor, smoothed its ruffledpages, and made a feint of guessing.

‘Mayhap the parson, sir?’ he said.

‘No, no, stupid; more interesting by far!’

‘Mayhap the parson’s daughter, sir?’

‘Wrong again; some one a deuced deal prettierthan the parson’s daughter. But there,you can never guess—who but Carrie Shepleythat I used to play with long ago in town, in thedays when you were courting her maid Patty?’

Phil expected Peter to laugh at this resurrectionof his former flirtations; but instead oflaughing he stepped forward and laid his handsuddenly on his young master’s arm.

‘For the love of Heaven, sir, do you havenaught to do with Miss Carrie Shepley!’ hesaid.

Phil was surprised beyond measure to see thedecorous Peter so startled out of his usual behaviour.

‘Why, Peter, what the dickens is the matterwith you?’ he said.

‘This, sir, that there will be trouble betwixtyou and the master if so be you takes up withMiss Carrie Shepley. I know not the rightsnor the wrongs of the story, but this I knows,that there was a mighty quarrel once betwixtthe master and Miss Carrie’s father, Dr. Shepleyof Jermyn Street as is.’

‘Oh—ho!’ whistled Phil. ‘And what didthe gentlemen fall out upon, Peter?’

‘On a woman, sir,’ said Peter, fidgeting alittle uneasily.

‘And who was the woman?’

‘By the name of Anne Champion, as I gathered,sir. I overheard their quarrel, sir,through the folding-doors betwixt the rooms inSt. James’ Square, sir.’

‘So that was why you and Patty were soparticular that we met outside, and altogether—eh,Peter?’

‘The same, sir.’

‘Ah, Peter, I have hope for you yet! SometimesI think you scarce human, you are sodutiful and faithful, but you stooped to somedeceit, I’m glad to hear, once, all along ofPatty!’

Peter smiled his demure smile.

‘ ’Twas as you say, sir,—all along of Patty,’he assented.

Phil reverted then to the quarrel. ‘AnneChampion, Anne Champion,’ he repeated.‘And who was Anne Champion, think you,Peter?’

Peter came up to the fireplace, re-arrangedthe ornaments on the mantel-shelf, blew awaya speck of imaginary dust from the gilt top ofthe clock, and then, speaking low, he said atlast—

‘Your mother, sir, if I made no mistake,sir.’

‘Eh?’ queried Phil, sitting forward in hischair, becoming suddenly sober.

‘The same, sir,’ repeated Peter.

‘And Shepley and my father fell out overmy mother, by your way of it, then?’

‘ ’Twas that way for certain, sir.’

‘And what became of my mother, since youknow so much, Peter?’

‘How she came by her death, sir, I have noknowledge, but this I can tell you as the masterknew naught of her death till Shepley told himthe same. I heard them speak it out. Saiththe master, “I shall provide for her,” and saithShepley, “She wants for naught,” and saiththe master, “ ’Tis I should support her now,”and then saith Shepley, “Anne Champion isdead, and her blood be on you, and on yourchildren,” and with that he walked out of theroom and through the hall to the street door,and the whole was over. I made bold to enterthe room, and there sat the master white andshakin’ like any leaf. “Sir,” says I, “therehath harm come to you,” but he made little ofit, and bade me fetch him some wine. Thesame I did, and set to straighten the room, thatwas in a disorder such as never was. Themaster watched me a minute, and then saithhe, “Can you be silent on this, Peter—no wordof it to any in the house?” and with that whatthink you he did, sir? The most of gentlemenwould have offered me money; the master heheld out his hand to me like any other man.I’ve been silent on it all these years, sir, forthat handshake.’

Phil had been listening breathlessly, his quickwits piecing together from Peter’s rather incoherentaccount some skeleton of the truth.But at this point he fairly laughed.

‘The devil he did!’ he said. ‘Now, wasnot that like him, Peter? Ah, you are a cleverman, my good father!’

Peter smiled indulgently. ‘Now, sir, youdo never give the master his due, if I may makebold to say so,’ he began. ‘But to finish withthe story, sir. ’Twas not more than six weeksfrom then that you was brought to the house,sir, and that’s all I do know—but, sir, from ityou’ll see how ’twould be if you took up withMiss Carrie Shepley.’

‘Well, Peter, if the case be so serious as yousay, you and Patty should have hesitated ereyou introduced us,’ said Phil mischievously.

‘Sir, sir, this is no laughing matter,’ saidPeter in a sad tone, for Phil, with the incurableflippancy that characterised him, had burst intoa peal of laughter at the man’s grave face.

‘Peter, you are a Methodist; pour me outmy wine and go; there is no calculating whatwill come to me “all along of Carrie,” ’ hesaid. But when Peter had gone Phil rose andstood looking into the glass that hung on thewall, while he examined his features with anew interest. ‘Anne Champion,’ he repeated.And as, for the first time, he uttered his mother’sname a curious thrill passed through him.‘Poor mother of mine,’ he said, ‘I hope I havemore of you in me than of Richard Meadowes.’

CHAPTER XIX

‘Satan,’ says Dr. Watts, ‘finds mischief foridle hands to do.’ And Caroline Shepley, beingvery idle at Wynford, fell into mischief in away which would have confirmed good Dr.Watts in his convictions. Lady Mallow’s influenza,by dint of coddling, had become verysevere indeed, and Carrie was left quite to herown devices. What these were the readerswho have followed this story so far will havelittle difficulty in guessing. Day after dayPhilip and Carrie met each other, and their acquaintancedeepened and ripened with extraordinaryrapidity. They seemed to have none ofthe preliminaries of friendship to go through,but to have arrived suddenly at intimacy. Carriewas no great letter-writer at any time, nowall thoughts of writing had long ago left her;she had not put pen to paper for three weeks—soabsorbing an interest is flirtation. Theweather hitherto had been very fine, but at lastone morning broke wet and grey. Carriewas sick at heart; how could she meet Philipout of doors on such a day? she asked herself.

Now dwellers in town may dread a wet day,yet they can scarcely dread it with that entiredismay of heart that falls upon the countrydweller at sight of the blank grey heavens, thespongy roads, the dripping trees. The pleasuresof the country are, in fact, entirely visionaryin wet weather, its discomforts really practical.Carrie stood and looked out over the fields, yesterdayso green, to-day so grey; up at theskies, yesterday so blue, to-day so leaden, andher heart died within her. What on earthshould she do with herself all day? She wentup-stairs and tried to be sympathetic over heraunt’s symptoms for an hour or more, then shecame down-stairs again and worked at her embroidery,then she tried to read (Carrie was notintellectual, you remember), then she fell asleepand wakened to hear the dinner-bell ring, alwaysa welcome summons to this hearty youngheroine.

Dinner over, Carrie went again to inquire forthe health of Lady Mallow, and as she stoodbeside the bed, listening with ill-concealedyawns to an enumeration of all the symptoms,Carrie became aware of a sudden lightening ofthe leaden skies, and a watery sunbeam shot inat the window. She could have clapped herhands for joy.

‘Now, Caroline,’ said Lady Mallow, ‘hereis the Gentlewoman’s Journal, which containsmuch useful information, such as may be usefulto you in after life. I commend to your attentionthe article which relates to the making ofwax-flowers, a most pretty accomplishment,and one which, along with other feminine partsof education, I fear your good father hath omittedfrom your course of study,’ etc.

Carrie listened with very scant attention, butshe took the Journal and made her escape fromthe room quickly enough.

There could be no doubt about it—the sunwas trying to shine. It is true everything wasdripping with moisture, but what of that?Carrie donned a long blue cloak, slipped a looseblue hood over her curls, and set off down theavenue without a thought. It must be confessedthat a hope came to her that Phil toomight be tempted out by this change in theweather. Nor was Carrie mistaken, for shehad not gone very far along the roads—verymiry they were—before she heard some onewhistling gaily in the distance, and then Philcame across one of the fields, leaped the fence,and stood beside her.

‘Now, how delightful, Carrie!’ he began;‘I was just wondering how best I could meetyou. ’Twas bold of you to venture out in suchweather, but you have your reward, you see,’added this saucy young man.

‘If you but knew the day I have passed!’cried Carrie. ‘Come, Phil, take me to walksomewhere; I am near stifled with sitting inmy aunt’s chamber listening to her symptomsand reading the Gentlewoman’s Journal.’

‘We had best keep on the road, then; thefields are heavy walking to-day,’ said Phil, andthey stepped out along the road very wellpleased with each other. It struck Carrie,however, that her companion scarcely lookedso cheerful as he had done the day before;perhaps this dull weather affected his spirits,she thought.

‘Tell me, what is your father like?’ askedPhil suddenly. Carrie was rather surprised,but she answered with eager pride:—

‘Tall above the common, and with eyes asblue as mine; and every one depends on him:half London come to him to be cured.’ Philwalked along in silence for a little.

‘What is the matter?’ asked Carrie; ‘youseem quiet to-day.’

‘I was thinking—thinking of my father,’said Phil, then turning towards her with hissudden impulsive manner he burst out, ‘ ’Twouldbe strange to feel after that fashion for one’sfather! I’ll tell you what my father is; I amso like him I can see—yes, see—straight intohis mind, and I know every thought that passesthrough it. All my life I’ve lived with him,and had everything from his hand, and for thelife of me, Carrie, I cannot trust him!’

‘Oh, Phil, have a care what you say!’ exclaimedCarrie, but Phil, fairly driven on bythe current of his words, continued withoutheeding her—

‘Ninety-nine times he’d bless you, the hundredthtime he’d curse you; his kindness,when he chooses, can’t be known, and when itcomes to an end he’s as hard as these flints.Oh, but he is not bad through and througheither, only like a rotten fruit—one bite so goodand the next all gone to corruption. I sometimeslook and look at him and wonder how’twill end—the good or the bad. I’d like tohave a bet on him, I’d back the devil in himthough, and I’d win. And for all this, Carrie,when he talks to me, as he will sometimes forhours, ’tis all I can do not to worship him. Heunderstands me full as well as I understandhim, that’s the strange thing, and he knows Iknow his heart. When I look at him andthink about myself, I think sometimes that Iam doomed to perdition. I’ll go his way, onlyquicker, and that’s the way that leads——’

All of a sudden Phil stopped, pointing downto the ground ominously.

‘No,’ said Carrie; ‘for your eyes are open.’

‘That’s the way my father has gone; youdon’t suppose he sins with his eyes shut,’ saidPhil. ‘He told me once (he’s nothing if notfrank) that——’

Round the corner of the road came a suddensound of wheels, a jingle of harness, a plash ofmany horses’ feet through the mire. Carrieglanced up to see a coach with outriders approaching;the men wore prune liveries, andat sight of them Phil stood still.

My father, Carrie,’ he said, and Carriemarvelled at his tense voice.

Splish-splash through the sparking mud camethe horses, each with his jogging postiliona-back, whipping and spurring and cursing byturns, for the roads were heavy and the horsesweary.

Phil and Carrie stood to the side, and Carrietook a curious glance into the coach, where aman sat, its only occupant. The next momentthe coach had drawn up beside them, and theman, opening the door, stepped out on to theroad, and bowed low before Carrie.

‘I scarce expected to find my son in suchfair company, madam,’ he said, but with alittle interrogative lift of his eyebrows.

Phil’s face flushed, but he answered in aclear, steady voice.

‘Sir, may I have the honour to present toyou Miss Caroline Shepley? It has been mygood fortune to make Miss Shepley’s acquaintancesince coming to Wynford.’

‘Good fortune indeed,’ said Richard Meadowes,though the name went through him likea stab. Nemesis, Nemesis!—what was this?A woman in a blue hood stood before him, whowore the very features of Sebastian Shepley,and did he dream that Philip called her by thatname?

A good thing it is we do not see into men’shearts as we look into their faces! Carrie, asshe stood all unconscious by the roadside in herblue hood, saw in Richard Meadowes only anelderly man, alert-looking, and of courteousaddress, who smiled on her with such a singularlypleasant and interesting smile that at onceshe wished to see him smile again. To thisend she smiled herself, and with a gesture towardsPhil, she said very sweetly—

‘The fortune hath not been altogether on hisside, sir, for indeed I should have fared ill atWynford without your son’s society.’

‘Phil should know better than to ask a ladyto walk out over such roads as these,’ saidMeadowes, with a glance at Carrie’s shoes;for that careless young woman, who was veryvain of her pretty feet, had come out in a pairof smart high-heeled satin shoes—now, alas!smart no longer.

‘Oh, we are not come so very far fromhome,’ said Carrie; ‘but, sir, Phil will wishto ride home with you. I shall not go farthernow.’

‘You must allow me to have the honour offetching you home in the coach,’ said Meadowes.He offered his hand to Carrie, and heldopen the door of the coach as he spoke.

Carrie considered it very good fun to ridehome in a coach and four. She thought whatfun she would make of it in her next letter toher father. But she noticed how silent Philhad become of a sudden. He sat on the backseat and allowed his father to carry on all theconversation.

At the gate of Lady Mallow’s house Carriedescended, and, with a farewell wave of herhand, tripped off up the avenue in her damplittle shoes.

After Carrie had left the coach all efforts atconversation ceased entirely between father andson. But when they drew up at the door,Meadowes, as he got out, signified to Phil thathe would speak with him at once in the library.

Phil followed his father with a shrug whichwas not noticed by the older man, as he seatedhimself in a large chair, and indicated to Philthat he should stand facing him.

‘Where did you meet Miss Caroline Shepley?’was the first suavely put question whichPhil had to answer.

‘In the fields by the river, sir.’

‘And what introduction had you to this fairlady?’

‘I had met her before, sir.’

‘Where?’

‘In London.’

‘At whose house in London?’

‘In the Park.’

‘And who presented you to her there?’

‘A friend, sir.’

‘What friend?’

‘I cannot tell you, sir.’

‘You must tell me.’

‘I will not.’

There was a short silence. Phil leant againstthe mantel-shelf looking straight at his father,and waited for him to speak.

Meadowes folded his arms, unfolded them,leant back in his chair, finally spoke—

‘Well, that is straight speech, my son, andmine shall be as straight: After this time youshall not with my permission have word orlook again for Miss Caroline Shepley.’

‘Have you aught against Carrie Shepley,sir?’ asked Phil. He burned to tell his fatherall he knew, but the dread of bringing Peterinto disgrace tied his tongue—he must try toextract the story for himself.

‘I have: let that suffice you. Philip,’ criedhis father, starting forward in his seat, ‘Philip,you are too young to question my commandsafter this fashion. Enough that I tell you tohave no further speech with this young woman.’Tis not for you to gainsay me.’

Phil drew himself up quickly from the easylounging attitude he had stood in.

‘Sir,’ he said, ‘speak with Carrie? I willspeak with her, yes, and court her, yes, andmarry her—that I’ll do if Heaven so send thatshe’ll have me.’

‘On how long acquaintance have you takenthis resolve?’ asked his father dryly.

‘Three weeks, sir.’

‘Ah, long enough assuredly for so unimportanta step to be considered!’

Phil was too acute not to see that his adversaryhad scored here. He had, moreover, atrait of age seldom to be noticed in the young:he could laugh at his own foibles. He laughednow, well amused at his ardour, and, droppinglightly on his knees beside his father’s chair,took Meadowes’ long white hand in his withhis sudden irresistible impetuosity.

‘Sir, will you not tell me the story of yourheart?’ he said. ‘Sure every man alive hathfelt as I feel now!’

‘My heart! ’twould be a history indeed,’said Meadowes. He spoke uneasily, for he hadreached that stage of moral decay which refusesto answer any serious questioning. With aquick shuffle of the conversational cards hepassed on:—

‘A history indeed.—But to return to the subjectin hand from which you try to escape: youhave known Caroline Shepley for three weeks;you wish to marry her; I do not intend thatyou should; therefore there the case stands.’

Phil had risen and stood before his fatheragain. There is nothing more irritating to thefiner feelings than to have questions, which weput in all seriousness, answered lightly. Philhad for a moment thought he might gain hisfather’s confidence, but he had been mistaken.He felt jarred and baffled.

‘I am sorry, sir. I shall take my own way,’he said.

‘Then I shall have no more to do with you,Philip.’

‘Then I shall have to provide for myself.You have at least given me brains enough forthat,’ said Phil hotly.

‘Do you think so? Well, brains are a goodgift, better perhaps than gold.’

Phil stared at his father for a moment inblank amazement, then he turned on his heeland left the room without a word.

CHAPTER XX

After Philip had gone, Richard Meadowesleaned back in his chair with closed eyes for along time. The past was stirred in him by thisquarrel. In the twenty years that had elapsedsince Anne Champion’s death he had changedvery little outwardly; but the soul had travelleda long road these twenty years. Nowlooking back over the ‘Past’s enormous disarray’he scarcely recognised himself for thesame man he had been. He that had startedso eagerly in the race, how he lagged now!he had not an enthusiasm left, and smiled toremember all he used to have. At one timetoo he remembered having thought about thingsspiritual; these did not visit him now. Onceeven he had feared death and judgment; deathnow-a-days had ceased to appall him, and forjudgment he thought of it as an old-worldfable. He could even think of Anne Champion’ssad story and her cruel end with no morethan a momentary pang of discomfort.

But for all this the soul was still partiallyalive in this man. He could still suffer, andthat is a sign of vitality, and if he had a genuinesentiment left it was for his son.

His suffering indeed was of a purely egotisticalsort. The vast failure he had made of lifestruck a sort of cold despair through him; Philmust make restitution for his failures; andnow the coldest thought of all assailed him: hehad not Phil’s heart. He had lavished kindnesson the boy all his life, yet sometimes Philwould look at him in his curiously expressivefashion and turn away quickly as if to hide thethought that leapt out from his speaking eyes:‘I know you, I understand you.’

But whether Phil loved him or not, thoughthe, he could not afford to quarrel with himafter this fashion. Everything else in life hadfailed; Phil at least he must keep!

Meadowes rose hurriedly and went in searchof Phil, who had gone out, it appeared, acrossthe Park.

The sun had come out now, after the rain,and its warmth drew up the smell of the mouldfrom the streaming moisture-laden earth.

‘Earth, where I shall soon lie,’ thoughtMeadowes; ‘earth, that will absorb me intoits elements again. Then the great failure willbe at an end, the puzzle solved—no, not solved,only concluded: solved would mean anotherlife, and that would mean—— Ah! the openedBooks, and the Face from which earth andheaven flee away, and the Voice crying:“Give an account of thy stewardship, for thoumayest be no longer steward.” Tush, why doesthat old nonsense so ring in the brain?’

‘Phil, Phil,’ he shouted; he could stand hisown thoughts no longer.

It is always a difficult matter to retract one’swords. But it was a characteristic of RichardMeadowes that he could generally extricatehimself from any difficult situation with graceand composure.

It was, he admitted, quite unsuitable that,after having fairly warned Phil of the resultsof his disobedience, he should now retract allhe had just said; but it must be done. Philmust stay with him at any cost.

So, putting the best face he could to it, hecalled and called again for Philip, who at lastappeared: he had quite expected the summons.

‘I suppose he desires to forget all that hasjust passed,’ thought Phil, well aware of thesway he held over his father’s affections.

‘I think you called me, sir?’ he said. Hewore a very demure aspect.

‘Yes; I wished to explain this matter further,Phil: ’twas perhaps scarcely fair in menot to give you a reason for my displeasure.Let us walk on and I shall tell you all.’

But it would, alas, have been as impossiblefor the Richard Meadowes of now-a-days to tellall the truth about any subject as it would befor a crab to discontinue the sidelong gaitwhich is its inheritance; so he cut out one halfof the story and padded up the other half, andsummed up the whole in one easy sentence:‘ ’Twas, in fact, jealousy on Shepley’s partcaused our quarrel,’ he said—a half-truth whichaltered the facts of the case a little.

‘Who was the woman?’ asked Philip bluntly.‘I suppose she was my mother?’

‘Yes, Anne Champion by name,’ Meadowessaid, but hurried on before Phil had time toquestion him further. ‘So you can see, Philip,that I have reason on my side when I bid youhave no more to do with Miss Caroline Shepley.’

‘I scarce see why an old quarrel between ourparents should come between us,’ said Phil.

‘My dear Phil,’ said the candid father, ‘Iwill be frank with you—’tis an old story, and I,for my part, would willingly bury it; but Iknow Shepley for a man of vindictive passions,and I tell you this, that no power on earthwould persuade him to give you his daughter’shand in marriage. ’Twill spare you perhapsmuch pain and unpleasantness with him if youbut take my advice and see no more of the girl.’

Phil shook his head. But light had meantimecome to Meadowes. He would makepeace with Phil yet—all would be well.

‘Well, Phil,’ he said, ‘I have told you thetruth of how the matter stands, and how prudenceshould guide you; but moreover I haveconsidered what I said to you in haste, andeven should you persist in this folly I will notturn you from your home.’

Then with a sudden genuine impulse of feelinghe laid his hand on Phil’s arm.

‘Phil, Phil, you are all that I have—youmust stay with me were a hundred Carrie Shepleysin the case.’ Phil did not speak, but hetook his father’s hand, bowing over it with theelaborate courtesy of the age.

‘I can only ask you, give this matter yourvery careful consideration,’ said his father, andwith that he turned the conversation into anotherchannel.

But a few hours later—when the dusk hadfallen, a man on horseback left Fairmeadowesbearing a special and important missive to Dr.Sebastian Shepley of London. The horsemanhad orders to spend as little time on the roadas might be, and the letter ran thus:—

Sebastian Shepley,—Richard Meadowesmust acquaint you with the fact that, unlessyou take prompt measures for the removal ofyour daughter from the house of her aunt LadyMallow, she will undoubtedly contract a marriagewith the son of that man who has thehonour to sign himself

Your Enemy.’

CHAPTER XXI

Carrie—unconscious, sleepy Carrie—laid herselfdown to rest that night in her four-postbed, and slept the dreamless sleep of youth andhealth, till the morning light stealing throughthe curtains disturbed her a little, when shedreamt she was riding down Piccadilly in acoach and four with Philip Meadowes, andwakened with a laugh.

And all this night, that had passed so quicklyfor Carrie, a man was spurring along the miryroads towards London, bearing a letter thatwas big with fate for her; while at FairmeadowesPhil tossed about, revolving something inhis mind that did not seem to take shape veryeasily; and Richard Meadowes too lay sleeplesstill the dawn.

Three sleepless men, ‘all along of Carrie,’ asPhil had so vulgarly put it!

The cause of Phil’s sleeplessness was notfar to seek, for, late that night, Peter hadbrought him a curious and disquieting piece ofnews.

‘The master hath sent George a-ridin’ expressto town this night, sir,’ he had said, andthen, in a whisper, ‘bearing a letter, sir, withthe address “To Dr. Sebastian Shepley.” ForGeorge is no scholar, and came to me to readthe direction, sir, and there it was, so sure as Ido stand in my shoes.’

Phil, who was not without youthful affectations,pretended to receive this intelligence withgreat unconcern; but when Peter had gone hestrode up and down the room in great agitation.Then he threw up the window, and leantout into the velvety spring darkness. Thoughtsthrobbed through his brain that the cool nightair could do very little to calm.

‘By Heaven!’ he said, speaking out into thedarkness, ‘he’ll not outwit me.’

So this was what his father’s sudden changeof front had meant!—he wished to throw theblame upon Dr. Shepley if Carrie was takenaway. Oh ho, that was very wily no doubt,‘but not all the fathers in Britain shall outwitme,’ said the arrogant Philip, and began torevolve schemes in his busy, clever younghead.

Towards morning he turned over on his pillow,and fell to sleep at last.

‘I can but try my luck,’ he murmured as hiseyes closed.

The spring world was all a-dazzle with sunshineagain after yesterday’s rain, when Carriecame down-stairs. I regret to say that shecame down-stairs late, bidding the maid ‘nottell Lady Mallow’ with such a charming smilethat the austere elderly woman fibbed profuselyto her mistress a few minutes later. Afterbreakfast, Carrie went out on to the lawn, andstood, in apparent irresolution, looking roundher. She smiled to herself out of mere pleasureof heart, and strolled away down the steps tothe terrace, following her errant fancies. Fromthe terrace there was a wide view far over thecountry. Carrie stood still here, shaded hereyes from the brilliant sunshine, and gazed intentlyin the direction of Fairmeadowes.

Far away among the fields she saw some onewalking by the river bank. Carrie was irresoluteno longer. She did not stay to put on herhat and her gloves, nor stop to consider thatshe had not yet visited her aunt’s sick-room—no,she did none of these things, but ran offdown the avenue, and, pushing through thehedge, walked with more sedateness across thefields. In the distance, now, she could hear along clear whistle like a bird’s note. It camenearer and nearer, then Phil came up throughthe long, reedy, flowering grasses by the riverside,with both hands held out to her; hisshining eyes seemed to speak for him.

‘I thought you were never coming, Carrie,’he said, and took her hands in his.

Hitherto their relations had been strictly unsentimental,now they had suddenly becomelovers; without a word of explanation theyboth acknowledged it.

‘Come and sit down, Carrie, I have all theworld to say to you,’ said Phil, and he flunghis arm round her as he spoke. To Carrie itseemed the most natural thing that Phil shouldbe in love with her—she had known it indeedfor ten days past—she was not the least surprisedat it, but what did surprise her now wasto find that she too was in love, and that itwas so natural—she seemed to have loved Philalways. It was no astonishing thing to herthat she should sit here with Phil’s arm roundher, and hear him say all manner of things thatonly yesterday he would never have dreamedof saying. What did astonish her was that hehad not said all this long ago! Why not yesterday?why not when they first met? Hadthey ever been strangers? Had they not understoodeach other always? It was ridiculousthis sudden assumption of loverishness on Phil’spart; they had been lovers from long longago!

And from these happy thoughts Carrie wasrudely wakened by what Phil was saying. Hisvoice was urgent, his looks were anxious; hewas actually telling her a story, in rather incoherentwords, about both their parents, anda woman and a fight, and she did not take itall in.

‘But what has all this to do with you andwith me, Phil?’ she asked, raising her face tohis.

Phil turned and shook her ever so lightly.

‘Oh, you dear dull darling that you are,’ hecried; ‘do you not see they will separate us?—takeyou away from me, Carrie—never allowyou to see me again?’

‘But I could not live without you,’ said simpleCarrie, unaware that the formula had beenused before; it seemed quite an original argumentto her.

‘Nor I without you, of course,’ cried Phil—quiteas unoriginal, in spite of his quick wits(the poor and the rich in wits as in wealth meettogether in some things), ‘and for that reasonyou won’t refuse me what I ask, Carrie—’tisthe only plan—I’ve thought all the matter out,and unless you will do it, your father will behere to-night, and will carry you off to London,and you will never see my face again, as likeas not.’

‘Well?’ asked Carrie dubiously.

‘You’ll run away with me, and marry me.’Tis as easy as the alphabet if once we get toLondon.’

‘Oh, but my father,’ protested Carrie.

‘Well, it has come to this: you must choosebetwixt him and me; he will never allow youto marry me if he knows.’

‘But ’tis so sudden, Phil!—if I had even aday to consider the matter.’

‘You have scarce an hour,’ said Phil; ‘bynow your father has that letter, by anotherhour, if I mistake not, he will be on his wayhere; by the evening he will have arrived.You must come with me now, now, now—or——’

The unspoken alternative of separation struckcoldly on Carrie’s ear. Yet another love,older, steadier, plucked at her heart—she wastorn between the two.

‘Ah, Phil,’ she cried, ‘I cannot leave you,and I cannot grieve my father. What am I todo? O what a sad thing trouble is—I havenever known it before!’

(I doubt if she ever had.)

Phil was not, perhaps, as diligent a Biblicalstudent as he might have been, but his researchesin that direction came to his aid at thismoment.

‘Oh, you know, Carrie, there is Scripturefor that,’ he said, ‘about “leaving father andmother and cleaving to your wife”—that’s therule for men, and I dare swear it holds goodfor women too.’

‘Do you think so? But I would not grievemy father for the world,’ hesitated Carrie.

Phil grew impatient, for time was racing on,the sun was high in the heavens now.

‘You must—you must; can you bear tothink of never seeing me again? I’d soonermiss the sun out of the sky than you, Carrie.’

Carrie seemed to herself to be whirled roundand round in the eddies of Phil’s passion; shecould not gainsay him, and yet she trembledand held back.

‘Yes—ah, yes—I would go to the world’send with you, Phil,’ she said, ‘if it were notfor fear to grieve my father.’ She rose andpaced up and down the bank in an agony of indecision,clasping her hands together and thenflinging them out with a gesture of helpless bewilderment.Never in life before had Carriebeen called upon to make a decision of any importance,and now the two strongest affectionsof her heart warred together for the victory.

Phil came and paced beside her, arguing, beseeching,coaxing her by turns—till she turnedat last in despair and laid her hands in his.

‘I will come with you,’ she said.

Phil did not allow the grass to grow underhis feet.

‘Come then, so quickly as you can, Carrie,’he cried, ‘for each moment is precious. I shallreturn to Fairmeadowes and tell them I amgone out for the day. You must go home andput on your habit, and get one of your goodaunt’s horses.’

‘I am not permitted to ride alone,’ said Carrie,who saw lions in the way at every turn.

Phil laughed, and put his hand in his pocket.‘Here, Carrie,’ he said, ‘give me your hand.’Carrie all unsuspicious laid her hand in his.

‘That is what you must do to your aunt’sgroom, my child; there never was groom yetbut understood that argument,’ said Phil.

‘All this, Phil?’ said Carrie, as she eyedthe yellow coin.

‘All that, and say, as you give it, that hemust come to Wyntown for the horse at five o’the clock.’

‘But he will wonder, Phil.’

‘Doubtless.—Oh, Carrie, but women wastetime on trifles!’

Carrie was nettled by this remark, so shehastened off as fast as she could through thelong meadow hay, determined that Phil shouldnot find her so dilatory after all.

‘Meet me at the cross roads,’ Phil shouted,as he ran off in the direction of Fairmeadowes.

CHAPTER XXII

Philip, who knew every step of the road betweenWynford and London, had some verydisquieting thoughts as he rode down to thecross roads to meet Carrie.

Everything depended upon whether theycould reach the half-way house at Wyntownbefore Dr. Shepley. For after Wyntown therewere several roads which each led to town;but between Wynford and Wyntown there wasonly one road. Therefore if they met, theywould in all probability meet upon that road.Phil determined to keep his fears to himself.It was a pleasant morning, and a pleasant ride.He found Carrie already waiting for him underthe flickering shade of the beech-trees.

‘You see I can make haste when I please,sir,’ she said, trying to smile. The smile, however,was rather forced, and after a few ineffectualattempts at conversation they rode alongin silence.

‘The deuce take that horse of your aunt’s!’at last quoth Phil in despair; ‘can you notmake him go a better pace, Carrie?’

Carrie smiled, and shook her head. ‘Myaunt will never permit her steeds to go beyonda slow trot,’ she explained.

‘Oh, your aunt be ——,’ began Phil, andCarrie actually laughed outright at his irritation.

‘Now you resemble a little boy I once knewwho used bad words,’ she said, looking up athim under her eyelashes.

‘I ask your pardon, Carrie; ’tis that oldcow you are riding irritates me,’ he said, withan impatient flick of his riding-whip.

Phil affected more assurance than he felt,however, as they dismounted before the doorof the inn at Wyntown. ‘Heaven send Shepleyis not here before us!’ he thought as helifted Carrie down and gave the horses to theostler.

‘We shall come up-stairs and dine, Carrie,’he said. ‘Do you not feel as though you weremy wife already?’ He drew Carrie’s ratherlimp little hand through his arm as he spoke,and they went up-stairs to the inn parlour,which overlooked the courtyard.

‘You are wearied, I fear, Carrie,’ he said.

‘Hot wearied, Phil, in the least, but notvery happy,’ said Carrie, with a stifled sob.

Phil affected deafness, and requested thelandlady to bring up dinner as quickly as mightbe. ‘For I am near famished with the morningair, Mistress Heathe,’ said he, with a smileto the good woman, an old acquaintance, ‘andso is this lady also; but she is somewhat weary,so see no stranger comes in while we arehere.’

‘Just as you please, sir; just as you please,’said Mistress Heathe, as she bustled round thetable, and made bold to ask for his father’shealth.

‘The same I did serve with a bottle of wineyesterday at this very hour. “Bad roads theyare to-day, Mistress Heathe,” said he, for yourfather, sir, is ever so affable in the passing by,’tis a pleasure serving such gentry as he, to besure.’ And she gave a curious squint at Carriemeanwhile.

That young woman made a show of eating alittle, but in truth it was Phil who cleared offthe viands, and Lady Mallow would have beenquite pleased by the genteel appetite of herniece, if she could have seen how she toyedwith a scrap of chicken, and shook her head atsight of an apple tart.

‘I am sorry, Phil, I cannot eat,’ she said,‘and somehow I cannot talk either, so perhapswe had best not try to talk.’

‘Never fear, Carrie; ’twill be all rightsoon,’ said Phil, and he crossed over to thewindow and sat there looking out into the yard.

Wyntown was nearly equidistant betweenLondon and Wynford, so, calculating that Dr.Shepley had left town at the same hour as theyhad left Wynford, he must arrive at Wyntownnot much later than themselves—so calculatedPhilip. He had no real reason to suppose thatDr. Shepley would come at all; everythingdepended on the contents of that letter, but ifhe did——

There was a rumble of wheels over the cobble-pavedcourtyard, and Phil saw a very tallgrave-faced man jump down from the seat of apost-chaise and come up to the door. Carrie,at the sound of the wheels, came to the window.She laid her hand on Phil’s shoulder, andglanced out.

‘Phil! Phil!’ she cried, ‘ ’tis my dearfather.’

In the one glance she had got of his face Carriemarked there a new stamp of anxiety shehad never seen before—and it was she who hadstamped it there! She turned away and buriedher face on the cushions of the settle. Phil,trying to be hard-hearted, affected no sympathywith her grief, but when at last there came asuccession of quick gasping sobs, he crossed theroom and bent over her.

‘Come, Carrie, you must not grieve so,’ hesaid rather lamely. Carrie sat up and driedher pretty eyes, that were all reddened withtears.

‘O Phil,’ she said, with a little choke in hervoice, ‘I have never seen him look thus. Ah,I must see him—speak with him—I shall explain!’

She rose and hurried to the door, but Philbarred her exit.

‘ ’Tis madness, Carrie—sheer madness this,’he expostulated; ‘you’ll never see my faceagain if Dr. Shepley discovers you here withme.’

‘I cannot help it. Ah, Phil, do not becruel! See him I must—then I shall go withyou—then we will be married.’

‘You are a fool, Carrie!’ cried Phil, carriedaway by one of his sudden, hot fits of temper.‘ “Then we will be married!”—do you supposefor one moment your father would permit ourmarriage?’

‘Yes,’ said Carrie, ‘I think he would.’

‘Then you think nonsense.’

‘I know him better than you do, Phil.’

‘Well, explain me this then—if so be he willnot oppose our marriage, why doth he hastenfrom London at first hint of your meeting me?’

‘He could not forbid it did he understand allI shall tell him; ’twould not be like my fatherto do so. Phil, you do not know him. You donot guess even at his generous heart—you——’

‘Generous!’ laughed Phil; ‘no, no, not sogenerous as that.’

‘Phil, I shall see him—whatever you say,I shall see him!’ cried Carrie, and she triedonce more to escape towards the door.

And Phil, fairly mastered now by his temper,flung the door wide open, crying out: ‘Go tohim then, if you love him the best.’

A moment later he saw Carrie swirl downthe narrow panelled passage of the inn into thevery arms of Sebastian, who had appeared atthe far end of it.

‘Lord, Carrie!’ he heard Sebastian exclaim,as he laughed his jolly whole-hearted laugh andkissed his daughter on either cheek with morefervour than gentility. Then there was an incoherentmurmur of exclamation and sobs fromCarrie, then Sebastian’s voice again:—

‘And how are you here, my girl? Haveyou run away from her Ladyship and the influenza?’

‘Yes, sir—with Philip Meadowes, sir,’ saidCarrie, whose downright nature equalled herfather’s.

Phil held his breath to hear what Sebastianwould reply.

‘And where is Philip Meadowes?’ he heardSebastian say. A minute later Carrie cameinto the parlour, leading her father by thehand. There fell a moment of ominous silence.Neither of the men spoke, but Carrie, as shetook a hand of each, and looked from one tothe other in puzzled, pretty confusion, was thefirst to speak.

‘This is Philip, sir,’ she said; ‘and indeedI am sure you cannot choose but love him.’

‘There may be two opinions on that pointmayhap,’ said Sebastian grimly.

For all the antagonism of their mutual relationsat the moment, Phil, with his extraordinarilysensitive nature, felt a sudden impulseof liking to this man, Carrie’s father. ‘Whyhave I not a father like that?’ he thought—‘someone to rely on without a shadow of distrust.’Poor Philip, for all his charm, wassadly alone in the difficult places of life, andyouth, in spite of all its self-assertion, is consciousenough of its own need. Beside thisresolute masterful man, Phil felt himself, of asudden, boyish and foolish, as he had neverfelt before. But, assuming a great deal moreself-confidence than he felt, he bowed to Dr.Shepley and ‘feared the circumstances of theirmeeting would scarce conduce to an agreeableacquaintance between them.’

The older man did not reply to this remark;but drew back the window-curtain so that thelight might fall full across Phil’s face, andgazed intently at him for a few moments.Annie’s son! Flesh of her flesh, bone of herbone—and Annie cold in her grave these twentyyears! How say some among us that there isno resurrection? This is, instead, a world ofresurrections, in which that man or woman isfortunate who can succeed in burying the pastso deep that it cannot rise. Phil and Carrie,hot with their own impatient young desires,were only irritated by Sebastian’s silence. Howcould they guess at that blinding back-flash ofmemory that held him silent at sight of Phil?How could they hear the voice Sebastian heard—anurgent tearful voice, ‘Phil, that hath gottenhalf my soul’; and again, ‘If ever you canhelp Phil you’ll do it, because I gave him halfmy soul,’ ... and ... ‘God give Phil awhite heart,’ ... and ... ‘Come, Sebastian?

‘Sir, sir, speak!’ cried Carrie, catching holdagain of her father’s hand.

At the touch of her hand, at the sound ofher voice, Sebastian came back to the present—theimportant present.

‘By Heaven!’ he cried. ‘Once in life isenough to be robbed by Richard Meadowes!’

‘But, sir, I am not Richard Meadowes,’ saidPhil.

‘His son; and twice accursed by that token.Never shall daughter of mine have my consentto marry with son of his—black-hearted lyingdevil that he is.’

Carrie shrank back, scared at her father’sviolence; she had never heard him speak likethis before.

‘Perhaps, sir, ’twould be better for you andme to discuss this matter by ourselves,’ suggestedPhil. There had, in fact, been no explanationgiven on either side as yet, a factwhich Phil was the first to realise. Sebastian,beside himself with anger, at the sight of Carriein company with the son of his enemy, hadnever stopped to ask any questions one way orother.

‘There is little to discuss, I know, Mr. Meadowes,’he said. ‘I have information this veryday of your intentions, sent me by your father,and these intentions I cannot even discuss withyou; I cannot give you my daughter. Evenhad you asked her hand of me in a fair andhonourable manner, I would have denied it.Now doubly I do so since you thought to obtainit by stealth—a coward’s trick, that savoursof the man you have the honour to name yourfather.’

Carrie, who knew the hot temper of herlover, held her breath for fear. But Phil didnot fly into a sudden passion. He lookedSebastian full in the face, but though he flushedwith anger, his words were quiet enough.

‘Did I not know the bitter provocationwhich makes you speak so, I would not standhere and listen to you in silence,’ he said. ‘Myfather may be all that you say, sir, but’—herePhil hesitated for a breath—‘he is all thefather I have, and moreover has been a kindparent enough to me, as the world counts kindness.’

‘There—the boy speaks rightly,’ said Sebastian.‘My words were perhaps over hasty;but the larger fact of our quarrel remains—thatyou have induced my daughter to leave herhome with you, instead of honestly asking herhand from me.’

‘I knew, as you have indeed just told me,that that would be wasted breath; ’twas theonly thing left me to do; now Carrie hathspoilt it all, and I suppose she means to returnwith you,’ said Phil, his anger redoubled.

‘I presume that to be her intention,’ saidSebastian, turning to Carrie as he spoke.

‘Sir, dearest sir, I must do as you commandme now,’ said Carrie. ‘But’—and here shelaid her hand in Phil’s—‘some day I must gowith Phil, for he hath all my heart.’

‘When you are old enough to take your ownwill against mine?’ asked Sebastian.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘When that day comes, you choose betwixthim and me.’

‘If so be I must make the choice,’ said Carrie,‘I must choose Phil; I cannot, cannotforsake him.’

There fell a short silence, then Philip spoke.

‘You must admit, sir,’ he said, ‘ ’tis hardthat Carrie and I should be parted by reason ofyour and my father’s old quarrels. But I, inmy turn, must admit I did wrong to make herleave home with me as I did—for that I mustask your forgiveness, but, as I live, sir, I swearyou’d have done the same at my age!’

It was scarcely possible for Phil to harp verylong on the serious string; inevitably his buoyantnature resented the restraint it was under,and broke through it. Frustrated, disappointed,angry, on the eve of being parted fromCarrie, he must still find something to laughat. And Sebastian, in spite of himself, verymuch in spite of himself, found it impossiblenot to laugh also.

‘ ’Pon my soul! the boy does not lack assurance!Yes, that I would!’ he said, but addeda moment later, ‘I laugh, but that doth notretract my displeasure one whit, nor alter aword of what I have said: Carrie shall nevermarry you an I can prevent it.’

‘How long must I wait ere you consider Carrieof an age to choose for herself?’ asked Phil.

‘Two years, at the earliest. You will thenbe of an age to judge for yourself, thoughyoung enough to marry, in all conscience.’

‘And during these two years how much mayI see of Carrie?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I may write to her at times?’

‘No, never; you forget, Mr. Meadowes,that my object is that you should forget oneanother so speedily as may be.’

Philip bowed, accepting the inevitable.

‘If that be all, there remains nothing butthat I should say my farewells,’ said he.

‘Nothing; the sooner and the shorter theyare the better,’ said Sebastian. He looked atthe two young people before him. Carrie stoodscared and silent by the window.

Phil crossed over to where she stood andgathered her up in his arms, kissing her longand fondly.

‘If it must be.—Good-bye, sweetheart, Ishall never forget,’ he said. And Carrie, asshe raised her lips to his, smiled an almosthappy smile.

They vowed at that moment an unspokenvow, and parted undoubtingly.

‘Come, dearest sir!’ said Carrie a momentlater, when Phil was gone; ‘shall we returnto London to-night—you and I?’

‘There! if you wish to see the last of him,’said Sebastian. He pointed out to the courtyard,where the ostler had led out Phil’s horse.

‘Lord! what a temper the boy hath!’ saidSebastian, for Phil, without one backward lookto the window where Carrie stood, gave a savagelash at the horse, which bounded outthrough the archway, and swung round theturn that led into the Wynford road with scantdirection from its rider.

‘The Lord send him safe at Fairmeadowes,’said Carrie softly, under her breath.

CHAPTER XXIII

Carrie and her father found it a little difficultto explain her sudden flight to Lady Mallow;but they patched up some sort of story thatheld together after a fashion, and before verylong her Ladyship had forgotten all about Carrie’sescapade, as she considered it.

Carrie meantime had returned to Londonwith her father, and the time passed slowlyenough at first. But Carrie had not the naturethat broods over the inevitable, and she quietedher heart better than most girls of her agewould have done in the same trying circumstances.There were all the cheerful businessesof home to attend to—Carrie was a notablehousekeeper,—and these, after the forced idlenessand gentility of her stay at Lady Mallow’s,seemed doubly delightful. It was much moreagreeable to eat the pasties and cakes of one’sown making, she thought, than those preparedby the most practised cook, and, moreover,there was a new and inspiring thought at workin Carrie’s brain. Some day she would becooking all these good things for Philip! Shedid not stop to consider that Phil, like LadyMallow, had servants to cook for him, so everyday she would be trying new dishes, till Sebastiancomplained that the cuisine was too richfor his simple tastes, and Carrie blushed, andmurmured something about her book of recipes.The afternoons, when her father was busy andher housekeeping labours were over for the day,were the longest time to get through. Carriewould take her needlework then and sit bythe window, but she found plenty time forthought while she sewed, and her thoughtsseemed always to travel in the direction ofWynford. Had Phil gone back to Oxford yet?she wondered; or was it possible he was cometo town? When could she see him again?What was he doing? All the ingeniouslyridiculous questions and suppositions of loverspassed through her head in these long afternoonsof sewing. In the evenings Sebastianwould take her out to walk or to the play, andCarrie could not be insensible of the admirationshe excited in public places. Then summerwore away and winter was come. Carrie indulgedin some new and very becoming wintergarments, and was more fidgety than was herwont over the fit and the style of them. Whenthese were ready she persuaded her father onefine Saturday afternoon to take her for an airingin the Mall. Sebastian hesitated a little,and professed himself too busy, but at last consented,and Carrie—exquisitely bewitching inher furry hood—walked at a slow pace downthe Mall by his side, the admired of all admirers.Now there exists between some peoplea mysterious sympathy—telepathy, we call itin the nineteenth century, in the eighteenth itwas not named—which premonishes them ofmeeting, just as the quicksilver in an aneroidwill foretell the weather of the coming day.When Carrie dressed herself in all her bravery,and prayed her father for his escort, she wasconvinced deep down in her heart that shewould meet Phil that day. She had no reasonwhatever to suppose that he was in town; shehad walked out every day since they partedand never met him, but to-day she felt certainshe would do so. It came to her therefore asno surprise to hear her father say—

‘Carrie, there comes Philip Meadowes.’ Shedid not need to be admonished of the fact.

‘May I speak with him, sir?’

‘No.’

They had passed almost before the questionand answer were spoken. Carrie did not evenbow to him in the passing, but she smiled abrilliant flashing smile and blushed like a rose.

‘Phil looks older, does he not, sir?’ sheasked, as they walked along—only her quick-drawnbreath and the excited little pinch shegave to her father’s arm betrayed her excitement.

Sebastian did not reply.

It was the next Sunday that Carrie made adelightful discovery: Phil had begun to cometo church at St. Mary Minories! Carrie wasjust stifling a yawn behind her hand, when,across the little church, she caught sight ofPhil. He sat just opposite her—why, whywas the service so very short? Carrie, whowas as regular a slumberer as she was an attendantupon Church services, now sat forward inthe great square pew, wide awake, and any observantperson must have noted how her eyeswandered across the church, and met those ofthe young man who occupied the opposite pew.Then she would flicker her eyelids and lookdown and blush an enchanting blush under theshade of the great feathered hat she wore, andthen the same thing would be gone throughover again. Phil, on his part, leant forward,staring unabashedly at Carrie. He was delightedto observe that her sole guardian duringchurch hours was Lady Mallow, and Lady Mallow,like her niece, slept whenever it was possibleto do so. After they had mutually madethese pleasant discoveries I suppose it wouldhave been difficult to find two happier youngpeople than they were that morning. Everycircumstance seemed to be fortunate for them,for Phil saw to his delight that Lady Mallow,whose pew was near the door, seemed to be inthe habit of letting all the congregation dispersebefore she left it. This quite suited Phil.He walked slowly down the aisle and passed sonear Carrie that his sleeve brushed hers for amoment—for Carrie had risen, and now fumbledat the door of the pew in the most opportunemanner.

Carrie said nothing about this to her father;she thought the meeting had been accidental;but when another, and yet another, and yetanother Sunday passed, and on each day shesaw Phil, Carrie, out of the depth of her honestheart, found it necessary to tell Sebastianabout it. She came and stood behind his chair,let her pretty white hands fall one over eachshoulder, and laid her cheek against his.

‘Dear sir,’ she said, ‘I think I should tellyou something—I think ’tis scarce honest inme to be silent about it.’

‘Eh?’ queried Sebastian, as he turned tokiss one of Carrie’s hands.

‘I must tell you, sir, that I see Philip Meadoweseach Lord’s day at church in St. MaryMinories. I have never spoken with him, butI fear we look at each other most part of themorning.’

‘Well,’ said Sebastian, ‘what of it?’

‘May I continue to go to church, sir? Ifeared you might forbid me,’ said Carrie, herheart bounding with hope.

‘The deuce take your honesty, Carrie. Doyou think I can forbid you now?’

Carrie laughed with delight—words after allwere not everything. If once each week shecould sit and gaze at Philip, a year and a halfwould surely pass quickly enough!

CHAPTER XXIV

There is no reckoning with the infinite possibilitiesfor variation in human character, whichis one of the reasons why all ‘theories’ of educationare doomed to failure. Yet you willsometimes hear the cleverest men and womenlay down general axioms, forgetful of thisqualifying phrase, that may upset the entirecalculation.

Richard Meadowes—in other matters a manof considerable acuteness, fell into this commonsnare. The axiom which misled him was onewhich has been accepted—well-nigh proven byhalf the world: that youth is fickle and forgetful.Given fresh interests, new playthings,the young man does not live (said he) who willnot soon forget what so lately charmed himmost. Well, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundredthis may be true; but that elusive hundredthcase must also be reckoned with if onewould make certain.

‘Phil must go into society and see otherwomen; ere six months are passed he willnever give another thought to this CarolineShepley,’ said the prudent parent, who had indeed,on his way through the world, seen manya man forget. Phil showed scant desire forsociety; he declared his inclinations lay ratherin the way of study, and expressed a specialyearning for legal research. But his father opposedthis with wise moderation.

‘There was of course no reason against it—Philmight please himself—he was, by now,old enough to choose his own path in life—but,if he might suggest it, a Parliamentary careeroffered greater scope for his peculiar talents.Nothing would be easier. A few years hence... time passed quickly—there was much tosee and learn meantime ... there was theworld to see, not to speak of the men in it....Should they go the Grand Tour of Europe together?... No?—ah, well, there was timeenough for that ... He preferred London?Well, there was of course no society like London,and the proper study of mankind (“clevermankind, Phil, my son”) was certainly man—learnmen and manners. He did not wish togo into society? Ah, well, he might stay athome and do some reading—no time was lostin reading—he had worked too hard at Oxfordand deserved a rest this winter,’ etc. etc.

Phil listened to it all and smiled and took hisown way; he knew perfectly well what hisfather’s thoughts were.

At first, after his parting with Carrie, Philwas inclined to be rather sulky and moody, butwhen he returned to town with his father, andafter he began to attend church with so muchregularity, he came to a more Christian frameof mind, and exhibited indeed such a markedlybetter temper that his father smiled to himselfand said all was going well.

Phil now showed no disinclination for society,and indeed entered upon its pleasures withpeculiar zest. He even plunged deep into aflirtation—a hopeful sign—with a certain LadyHester Ware, a pretty, witty young Irishwoman,without a penny to her fortune. Meadoweswas delighted; he would have welcomeda daughter of the beggar Lazarus as Phil’schosen bride at that moment.

With commendable caution he paid not theslightest attention to the affair; for he knewthe contradictious human spirit, and Phil flirtedon. But at last, when the matter seemed quitean established fact, he expressed to Phil hisgreat admiration for Lady Hester.

‘There’s a clever woman!’ he exclaimed inconclusion. But his breath was taken away byPhil’s response—

‘Clever? yes, deucedly clever. I hate cleverwomen, and if you like ’em, sir, you’re the firstman that ever did!’

‘ ’Pon my soul!’ exclaimed Meadowes, witha long whistle of astonishment; then he addedseverely, ‘If you do not like Lady Hester, Phil,you do very wrong to trifle with her affections,as you have been doing this many a day.’

‘ ’Tis, as you say, sir, an unpardonable sin toplay a woman false—may Heaven forbid Ishould fall into it!’ said Phil in pious tones,and Meadowes, as he met the boy’s bright eyes,turned uneasily away.

Richard Meadowes had, you see, not addedthis cynical axiom to his collection:—that mostmen, when desperate about one woman, willplunge into a flirtation with another: so hewas at a loss to account for Phil’s conduct, if itwas not actuated by admiration.

Phil was not really doing anything extraordinary—hewas only trying to find an answerto the question ‘how best to pass two years?’—twoyears that seemed to him to expand intoa lifetime as he looked ahead, for he was of animpatient temperament. Six months hadpassed before the happy expedient of seeingCarrie at church suggested itself to his mind;and by dint of this device six months morewere got over. But with the spring’s returncame a crowd of tender remembrances, andPhil grew very sulky and despondent again.His father had gone to Fairmeadowes, but Phil,grown now very emancipated, refused to leaveLondon; ‘The country was dull,’ said he, whoaforetime loved it so well. He had come to anend of his flirtation—and the lees of a flirtationare the sourest beverage; he could gain no distractionfrom it any longer: he was at his wit’send.

As he walked moodily down the Square onemorning about this time, Phil heard his namespoken, and, turning round, found Mr. SimonPrior by his side.

Now, if there was a man that Philip dislikedmore than another it was this Simon Prior.A tall man, with shoulders so high that heseemed to be always shrugging them, and withprominent eyes that had a look of bullyingchallenge in them, he certainly did not carryinnocence upon his face. He always assumedgreat familiarity with Phil—another pointagainst him with the young man. But he,this morning, was so at a loss for a new shiveras almost to welcome this man; could he possiblyyield him any amusement?

‘Yes, my father is at Fairmeadowes, sir,’ hesaid in response to the elder man’s greeting,and they fell into step.

‘And you, Philip? Once upon a time youtoo loved Fairmeadowes—why are times sochanged?’

‘Age, sir, age,’ laughed Philip. ‘And indeedI am become very old, for I can hit onnothing will amuse me these days.’

‘A sad case. What have you tried?’

Phil was prudent; he might almost havebeen a Scotsman from his reply—

‘What, sir, would you recommend?’

‘Oh, there are many ways for passing thetime, Philip.’

‘That’s not all I wish. ’Tis—’tis—oh,there’s no new thing under the sun!’

‘Women!—there’s considerable varietythere,’ began Prior, and he treated Phil to oneof his bullying stares.

Phil shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

‘Well, if you do not fancy that—let me see—gaming,if you can gain or lose sufficientlylarge sums, is not amiss, for a distraction.’

‘Which means that you wish me to playwith you?’ said Phil. ‘I shall do so gladly,sir, if so be you’ll play for large enough stakes.’

So Phil played his pockets empty that finemorning, and felt the amusing sensation of impecuniosityfor a few weeks.

He came too into considerable familiaritywith Simon Prior these days, a familiarity hehad no wish to encourage, yet found it difficultto shake off. Wherever he went Prior wassure to appear—quite by accident, it wouldseem—till Philip began to suspect that hisfather had something to do in the matter.Once this thought had occurred to him, Phil, insudden and hot resentment, behaved to Mr.Simon Prior with very scant courtesy. His resentmentburned hotly also against his father.What was he that he should be spied upon inthis way? If his father distrusted him, whycould he not say so to his face instead of settingthis odious man to spy upon him and report hisevery action? And he had been frank enoughwith his father when they first spoke aboutCarrie; he knew and, apparently, acquiescedin his resolution to win her. Why then all thiscuriosity?—‘Bah, it was disgusting,’ said Philin his indignation. A day or two later he leftfor Fairmeadowes.

‘You had best have me under your own eye,sir,’ he said in reply to his father’s surprisedgreeting.

CHAPTER XXV

Carrie, as may be surmised, never spoke aboutPhilip to her father. She was therefore rathersurprised when one morning he passed her theGentleman’s Magazine, and pointed to a shortparagraph in it:—

‘Mr. Richard Meadowes and Mr. PhilipMeadowes left London yesterday for Paris.They purpose making the Grand Tour of Europe,a circumstance which will deprive societyof two of its greatest ornaments,’ etc. etc.

Carrie blushed, and felt very miserable, thinkinghow long an absence that meant on Phil’spart—he would not be in church next Sunday,nor any Sunday for months to come!—‘Ah,Philip, why did you go?’ she asked herself.Sebastian on his part was well content, and thisperhaps made him acquiesce more than it wasnatural for him to do in a plan which LadyMallow divulged to him that very afternoon.This was no less a scheme than Carrie’s entranceinto Society (with a large S).

‘For a young gentlewoman of Carrie’s partsand appearance she leads by far too quiet a life,sir,’ said her Ladyship. ‘And now that I amreturned to town, I am resolved that Carrieshall make the figure she ought in Society.’Twas her good mother’s desire, I feel certain,and, moreover, Carrie herself will delight in it.’

‘Perhaps you speak truly, Charlotte,’ saidSebastian, ‘and for certain my Carrie hathcharms enough and to spare. I fear you’llhave some difficulty with her adorers ere longif you take her into Society, as you call it; butif the girl is of the same mind with yourself, Ihave naught to say against it.’

Lady Mallow thought Carrie rather lack-lustreover this generous proposal. She did not seemto wish much to go to balls and routs, thoughshe was far too good-natured to show her disinclinationvery openly—still there was a wantof that exuberant whole-heartedness in the pursuitof pleasure which used to characterise herat one time. Carrie only smiled her charmingsmile and said—

‘You are most kind, madam; ’twill be mostagreeable, I am certain.’

She did not even kindle to great interest overher new dresses. What was the use? Philipwould not see them.

Lady Mallow’s ‘circle,’ as she would havecalled it, received the beautiful Caroline Shepleywith open arms. She might have dancedher pretty little feet off had she had a mind to,and might have had her head turned round onher shoulders if the compliments she receivedhad only seemed to her worth the getting.But, alas, Carrie listened coldly to all the complimentsthat were showered upon her. Shejudged every man she met by one standard—Philip,—andnone of them ever came up to it.There was indeed about Philip a certain carelesselegance quite unattainable, or at leastquite unattained, by the other young men ofCarrie’s acquaintance. He was not particularabout anything he said or did, yet it seemed toCarrie he could say or do with impunity what,if done by any other man, would have offendedher in every way. Lady Mallow made mattersworse by continually urging Carrie to thinkseriously about this or that man who paid herattentions.

‘Indeed, my dear niece, you should not beso saucy; for all your looks and the littlemoney your good father may leave you, youwill be left a maiden lady—that pitiable being,—ifyou despise good offers such as those ofMr. Sedgebrooke and Captain Cole, as pretty-manneredgentlemen both as you are like tomeet, of good family (though untitled), andpersonable men to look at. Sedgebrooke hatha thousand a year to his fortune, and the Captain,though not so well to do, is an officer anda gentleman—two very good things.’ ThusLady Mallow.

But Carrie was obdurate.

‘I cannot abide Sedgebrooke, madam, andfor Cole, the sight of his hands is enough forme—bah, I hate fat hands: the hands of agentleman should be thin and brown by myway of thinking.’

So both of these eligible gentlemen were refused.But as time wore on Lady Mallow waspleased to observe how much brighter Carriehad become. Her eyes had an exquisitesparkle, she seemed always smiling. ‘Societyhath begun to brighten Carrie,’ she said toSebastian, who growled, and remarked that hehad never thought her dull. It was not Society,however, that was brightening Carrie, butthe fact that Phil had returned to town.

She had met him one afternoon as she walkedwith her aunt in the gardens at Vauxhall.

‘My dear Carrie, see there,’ Lady Mallowhad said. ‘There is Mr. Philip Meadowes, the—Iregret to say it—the natural son of Mr.Richard Meadowes of Fairmeadowes, the propertywhich adjoins to mine at Wynford. Forcertain I thought it curious that he paid noattention to Sir James, but his infrequent visitsto Fairmeadowes no doubt explained the circumstance,for on every hand I have accountsof the affability both of the father and the son.They are beloved in the neighbourhood.’

The good lady rattled on long after the subjectof her discourse had passed by. She didnot guess how much Phil was beloved in aneighbourhood very close to her at that moment.Carrie listened to her aunt’s talk withheightened colour and sparkling eyes. Howdifferent Philip had looked! how much older!He looked boyish no longer—and yet he wasthe same, her dearest Phil, who would comevery soon to claim her now.... What wouldher father say that day? Carrie’s joy waschecked at the thought.

For the last month or two of these two yearsof waiting Carrie could not be tender enoughto her father. She was with him every momentof his spare time, and sat by him in theevening, and held his hand till he laughed andasked her the reason of all this sentiment.Carrie laughed also, but her eyes filled withtears; she knew the blow that impended overhim.

At last one night she determined to speak.She sat down beside her father and laid herface against his shoulder.

‘Sir, I feel certain that ere long Philip Meadoweswill come to claim your promise,’ shesaid.

She felt her father draw in his breath hardbefore he spoke.

‘I thought you had forgot Philip Meadowes,’he said at length.

‘I—forgotten—oh, sir, so soon? What doyou take me for?’ cried Carrie. She raisedher face for a moment as she spoke.

‘Then you mean to have him?’

‘Yes, sir; I can do no other thing.’

Sebastian rose, and pushed Carrie from himalmost with roughness.

‘If you marry this man, Carrie, you partfrom me; you cannot know all ’twould meanto me. You are too young, you have beenever too happy, even to guess at it. I repeat:Marry Philip Meadowes and part from me, orstay with me and part from him.’

Carrie in her agitation rose and stood besideher father. Then suddenly she flung herselfinto his arms in her impetuous childish fashion.

‘Oh, sir, I must—I must. I cannot partfrom Philip; he is grown to be like part ofmyself,’ she cried in a passion of tears.

Sebastian raised Carrie’s face to his and kissedher.

‘I do not blame you, Carrie—I cannot blameyou, for you act too entirely as I would haveacted myself. I only bid you good-bye.’

‘Could you never know him and love him,sir?’ asked Carrie timidly.

‘May the Lord forgive me!—no, Carrie;not even for your sake.’

‘ ’Twill half break my heart to leave you,sir,’ said Carrie; ‘but ’twould break quite intwo if I left Phil. Oh, what am I to do?’

‘Leave me,’ said Sebastian, and without anotherword he turned on his heel and went out.

CHAPTER XXVI

It would seem that this marriage was to causesad feelings to more households than one; fornot many days after Carrie and Sebastian hadsettled matters after this sad fashion, Phil andhis father also came to an understanding on thesame point.

‘Philip,’ said his father, ‘I wish you wouldget married one of these days; ’tis a good thingfor a young man to marry early: it settles himfor life.’

Far from wishing Philip to marry, there wasnothing his father was less anxious for; but hethought this a skilful way in which to discoverwhether his son still hankered after CarolineShepley—a direct question was the last methodever employed by Richard Meadowes. He wastherefore not a little taken aback at Phil’sreply:

‘Well, sir, that is exactly what I intend todo, if so be you will make me a sufficient settlementto marry upon.’

‘And—the lady?’ asked Meadowes. Helooked down as he spoke, and twirled the ringhe wore round and round upon his finger.

‘Is Caroline Shepley, as you cannot doubt, sir.’

‘Caroline Shepley! I thought, Phil, youhad forgot all that nonsense long ago. Let mesee: two years ago, is it not, since you firstsaw her? And since then you have not seenmuch of her, unless I mistake strangely.’

‘Nothing. I promised her father to seenothing of her for two years.’

‘You saw—Sebastian Shepley?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And have you had no communication withhis daughter since?’

‘I as good as promised him, sir; and I amin the habit of keeping my promises.’

‘Of course—of course,’ said Meadowes hurriedly;‘but in two years’ time that handsomeyoung woman must have found plenty othermen to adore her charms. You make too sureof yourself, Phil, if you suppose she hath waitedthese two years.’

‘I do not fear that I shall find myself supplanted,’said Phil.

‘And should she think of you, are you inearnest in your intention of marrying her?’

‘More in earnest than ever before in life.’

‘You cannot expect me to provide you withthe means for a marriage of which I disapprove?’

Philip leaned forward, fixing his bright eyeson his father’s face. He held him captive whilehe spoke.

‘Yes, sir; I do not see how you can do otherwise;for you are my father, which makes youresponsible for me. You have brought me upin luxury, but you have not educated me forany profession. You could not suppose that Iwould always do exactly as you desired justbecause I happened to be dependent upon youinstead of having a profession such as most menhave? I may be dependent on you for money,sir, but I am so only on condition that I amentirely independent of you in the conduct ofmy life. ’Tis your duty to give me the fortuneyou have always led me to expect; but if yourefuse it because I intend to marry CarolineShepley, I must then ask you to support me fora few years more till I can learn to supportmyself and her. If you refuse me this moneyit will not keep me from marrying her—nothingwill; but I must repeat again that if youeducate a man to expect a fortune at yourhands, you cannot blame him for calculatingupon it.’

Meadowes rose and paced up and down theroom.

‘What you say is true, Phil,’ he said at last;‘the money is yours.’

‘Thank you, sir! I trust you will not regretthe decision.’

‘Philip,’ cried his father suddenly, crossingover to where the young man stood, and layinghis hand on his arm,—‘Philip, as you love medo not marry this girl!’

There fell a short silence before Phil spoke:—

‘But the plain fact is, sir, I do not love you!’he said.

The whirlwind! the whirlwind! How itswept now over the man, who, for half a lifetime,had been sowing the wind! It came upand smote the four corners of the house of lifewhere he feasted at his ease, and before the inrushof the blast he trembled and was afraid.

‘Have I not done everything for you, Philip?’he said, in a hard, cold voice.

‘Everything, sir. Do not misunderstandme; I am quite aware of all I owe you.’

‘What more can I do, Phil, that I have notdone?’

‘Nothing, sir!’

‘Then why do you not love me?’

‘Because I cannot trust you—never have andnever can,—though ’tis brutal of me to say so.’

‘I think you may go, Philip,’ said his father.He did not speak angrily, nor indeed did hefeel any anger at Phil. But the end had come.His last chance for love in this world hadfailed. He had dreaded this for long. Yearby year, as Phil grew older, the separation betweenthem had been gradually widening, anestrangement which the very similarity of theirnatures, in some respects, seemed to emphasise.Now the breach was open. And Phil had,without doubt, the right of the matter. ‘Iscarce know how I looked that he should trustme,’ thought the unhappy man, ‘but I haverenounced so much for the boy’s sake,—I haverenounced marriage even, lest another sonshould supplant him; and I doubt if Phil hathever realised all this, else surely he had notspoken with such cruelty to-night. For therest of it, youth is sharp to notice, and, whenI consider, do I ever speak or act straightlynow? Once I did surely? I cannot now.My whole nature leans sidewise, like the towerof Pisa, toppling but still standing.... I’mrotten through and through, and Phil knowsit,—and—— Oh, forsaken, forsaken!’

He sat forward with his head bent on hisclasped hands.

A sword shall pierce thine own heart,’ hesaid.

CHAPTER XXVII

After the plain speaking which had passed betweenRichard Meadowes and his son, a readjustmentof their relationships seemed necessary.It was not possible for them to keep upthe former pretence of amity, yet Meadoweswas anxious that no hint of their differencesshould reach the outside world. He calledPhilip to him one day and explained the caseto him.

‘I would not have all the world know how itfares betwixt us, Phil,’ he said. ‘I had ratherkeep that bitter knowledge to myself; butthings being as they are, ’twill be better for usnow to live apart,—the one at Fairmeadowes,the other in town. I purpose after this dategiving over the house in St. James’ Square toyou, while I reside myself at Fairmeadowes.I care no longer for the amusements of thetown.’

Phil objected at first to this arrangement astoo generous. ‘You will tire of a rural existence,sir,’ he said, ‘ere six months are gone,and then—supposing me to have married inthe meantime—I and my wife will have to rearrangeour establishment once more. ’Twouldbe better for you to keep the house in town,and let me have another and smaller one.’

But Meadowes would not hear of this.

‘I cannot tell you, Phil, how it is with me,’he said, leaning his head on his hand as hespoke. ‘And—may you never understand—agreat weariness hath fallen over me, that is ofthe mind, not of the body. I care for nothing;the game is played out. So make no furtherparley over this; take what I offer and welcome:as you pointed out to me ’tis but yourdue, in a sense.’

‘Then you fully understand, sir, that I bringCarrie Shepley to live in your house?’

‘Bring her and welcome—ah, you think thatwill bring you happiness, Phil, but you are mistaken.Happiness is a creature of the fancy,she is never caught and held; always flitsahead. You’ll not find her in Carrie Shepley—no,nor in aught in this world.’

‘My dear sir, I fear you will be turningmonk, when I hear you despise the good thingsof this world, as you do just now,’ said Phil.He laid his hand on his father’s shoulder withthe caressing way he had to every one. Meadowessmiled.

‘I know better than to think happiness liesthere either,’ he said.—‘But to return to business:you mean to marry this girl as soon asmay be?’

‘So soon as she will have me, sir.’

‘I shall make you an allowance then, Phil,and the house in St. James’ Square; and youunderstand that the outer world still considersus as a devoted father and son.’

‘They will be right to name you a generousfather at least, sir,’ said Phil, and he held outhis hand suddenly to his father as he spoke.‘Don’t name me ungrateful, sir,’ he added;‘I see all you have done for me.’

It was a very painful moment to them both,for each understood how one spontaneous expressionof affection on Phil’s part would havetaken away all difficulty from the situation;and yet the possibility of giving it was notthere. Gratitude, however sincere it may be,if unwarmed by love, is cold as icicles.

Now that his affairs were arranged in thisunsatisfactory fashion, Phil lost no time in presentinghimself at Jermyn Street, to ask for thehand of Miss Caroline Shepley in marriage.

Carrie stood at the window that eveninglooking out into the dusty little street, whenall at once she saw Phil come up the steps andheard his knock at the door. Her father satby the fire reading, unsuspicious of the blowthat was about to fall. Carrie turned awayfrom the window and came towards him.

‘Father,’ she said, in a very tense voice, thenwaited for a moment, not knowing what tosay; and Phil, who was very impatient thatnight, knocked again more loudly than before.‘I am sure my heart makes as much noise asthe knocker!’ thought Carrie, as she listened.Sebastian looked up—

‘Well? what is it, my daughter?’

Philip,’ said Carrie.

Then as in a dream she heard Patty’s familiarvoice announce her lover’s name, and a momentlater saw her dear Phil stand beside her.

‘How are you, Carrie?’ he said, as if theyhad never been parted, and then he held outhis hand to Sebastian.

‘I fear I come as an unwelcome guest, sir,’he said.

‘I cannot welcome you,’ said Sebastianshortly; but he motioned to Phil to take aseat.

‘I need not tell you why I am come, sir,’pursued Phil, who wasted no time upon preliminaries.

‘I have given Carrie her choice betwixt youand me; ’tis for her to speak,’ said Sebastianfor answer.

Carrie had been standing behind her fatherduring this conversation; she came now andsat on the arm of his chair, bent down, andwhispered a few words in his ear. He rose,and taking her hand in his held it for a momentand then laid it in Phil’s.

‘She belongs to you now, Philip Meadowes,’he said.

‘Oh, dada dear, love him too!’ pleadedCarrie, and the tears gathered in her blue eyesat the cold sound of her father’s voice.

‘You ask the impossible, Carrie,’ said he.

‘Perhaps, sir, time may soften the prejudiceyou entertain for me,’ said Phil. ‘Indeed Ishall do my utmost to make Carrie a good husband.’

‘Do not misunderstand me, Meadowes,’ saidSebastian. ‘The feeling I have against you isquite impersonal, else I had not given you Carrie’shand in marriage. I think you will makeher happy; but for all that I cannot be yourfriend, I cannot bear to look upon your face!’He rose at the last words and left the room,and Carrie and Phil looked at each in perplexity.

‘Ah, Phil, ’tis terrible,’ said Carrie, ‘and Iso happy! my dearest father——’

Phil refused to look upon the tragic side ofthe case, however. He was far too pleased tothink anything very far wrong.

‘Dear heart, you must not grieve; Dr. Shepleywill forget after a time; the best you cando is to marry me at once. When that is donehe will forgive you. He thinks now to preventthe wedding by his displeasure, but when hesees that impossible his resentment will die out.Come, Carrie, the sooner you arrange for ourmarriage the better ’twill be for all concerned.’

Perhaps Carrie did not need very much persuasion.Two years of waiting had been quitelong enough.

‘I shall see my aunt, Lady Mallow, and shewill decide the date for us,’ she said, and then,as Phil prepared to go, she whispered, ‘I shallmake her arrange it soon.’

CHAPTER XXVIII

In spite of her happiness Carrie made a verytearful bride. The parting from her father wasexquisitely painful to her, and not all Phil’s endearmentscould at first bring a smile to herlips. For Sebastian had told her that he couldhave nothing to do with her now, that theirparting was final. The only way in whichCarrie could hear of how he fared was by sendingPeter to inquire of Patty, and Patty (amature spinster), while she inwardly exclaimedover the turn of Fortune’s wheel which thusbrought her former admirer again to her door,was fain to invent messages which would reassureCarrie’s anxious heart.

‘Lor’! Mr. Peter,’ she would say, ‘ ’tis distressfulto see the Doctor now-a-days.—Andhow doth dear Miss Carrie (as was) do?’

‘Mrs. Meadowes has her health perfect,’Peter would respond, ‘but is ever fretting overthe Doctor, so I had best make up some messagefrom you, and mayhap some evening youmight step down to the Square yourself andmake her more easy in the mind about him?’

Patty, in spite of her years and her wisdom,would shake her head coquettishly at this suggestion,and invent some message for Peterwhich had no foundation in fact. ‘The Doctoris well, madam, and eats hearty; was outthe most part of the day at the hospital, anddined with his friend Dr. Munro,’ Peter wouldannounce. And on such fragments Carrie hadto appease her hungry heart.

Sebastian, poor man, had never been less inclinedfor social intercourse; had never eatenhis meals with so little ‘heartiness’; had nevervisited the hospitals so seldom; but those twowell-meaning retainers thought it kinder tosuppress the true facts of the case—and perhapsthey were right.

‘Never fear, Carrie; he will come round—parentsalways do; they can’t do without us,’Phil used to say. ‘I wish you knew all thedisputes I’ve had with my father!’ But Carriesaid the cases were not quite similar, shefancied, and refused to be comforted.

‘ ’Tis well I am so beautifully happy withyou, Phil,’ she said one day, ‘for this troubleweighs so on my heart that had I any other’twould break in two.’

‘Oh, no fear!’ laughed Phil. They led avery gay life, these two exceedingly irresponsibleyoung people, and indeed, older heads werenodded in wisdom, and prophecies were madethat Carrie would have trouble enough withher wild young husband. Philip seemed, forthe present at least, to have given up work ofany kind. He meant to be in Parliament someday, he told Carrie, meantime he would enjoyhimself and see the world. He was also lettingCarrie see it, a process she much enjoyed, and,in Phil’s company, entered into with all herheart, unlike the lack-lustre young woman whohad gone about with Lady Mallow the precedingwinter. Carrie was now introduced intofar finer circles than those of her worthy aunt.Her name figured in all the reports of what weshould in this vulgar age call ‘smart’ society—afact which afforded her a good deal of naturalmundane satisfaction. ‘The beautiful Mrs.Meadowes,’ ‘Handsome Mrs. Philip Meadowes,’‘That most charming lady, Mrs. Meadowes’—theseand similar descriptions of herselfmade Carrie dimple with pleasure. But awoman in such a position, so young, so beautiful,so unsophisticated, would, to defend herselfaright, require a beak and claws, whereas ourgentle Carrie had not even a sharp tonguewherewith to chastise her enemies. She enteredsociety with no protection but simplicity—amuch vaunted armour which, alas for theworld, is in reality sadly vulnerable. Broughtup as she had been almost exclusively amongmen—and honest men into the bargain—Carriewas quite ignorant of the wiles of her own sex,and scolded Philip heartily when he venturedto warn her against them; while, for thesterner sex, she entertained almost patheticfeelings of confidence and liking. The men didnot exist (in consequence) who could resist her,and this more than any other cause at lastopened Carrie’s eyes a little to the involutionsof the feminine character. Alas! too late;half the women in London were jealous of herbefore Carrie was even distantly aware of it.She had smilingly accepted flowers and attentionfrom many a man before it occurred to herthat other women might be wanting them instead.

‘Just singe your wings, my dear butterfly,’said Phil, ‘then you will understand what thecandle is.’

‘Philip, it must be from your father you takesuch base views of human nature,’ said Carrie.‘For certainly you have not lived long enoughyourself to learn such views. ’Tis not myfault that I am good-looking, and I do not believefor a moment that other women dislikeme for it.’

‘Wait—ah, just wait, Carrie. I agree withyou that they do not dislike you for it—hate isthe word.’

‘Phil, I am ashamed to hear my husband saysuch things,’ said Carrie, though she laughedin spite of herself.

I have said that Carrie liked and trusted allmen; but with one exception—she could notabide the sight of Simon Prior.

‘I cannot say what it is, Phil,’ she said oneday, ‘but to speak with Mr. Prior doth turnme sick. Pray, my dearest, is he a greatfriend? Could you not intimate to him thathe visits my drawing-room too frequently?’

Prior had certainly got into a strange habitof haunting the house in St. James’ Square,considering how very lukewarm a reception healways received there. Carrie was one of thosefortunate women who find it quite impossibleto be anything except pleasant to every one.She would sit, smiling and charming, besideSimon Prior, while all the time she loathed thesound of his voice.

‘Do not be so pleasant to the man, Carrie,’Phil suggested; and Carrie in genuine amazementopened her blue eyes widely:—

‘Philip, I was most discourteous to him butyesterday! Twice he hinted at his wish toaccompany me on my airing, and each time Itook no notice of his remark.’

‘But you smiled all the time, and seemedmerely not to have noticed the hint, Carrie—insteadof appearing purposely to ignore it.’

‘I tried my best; in honesty, Phil, I triedmy best to be disagreeable,’ sighed Carrie, ‘soyou must do it for me if I cannot manage it.’

Phil had no scruples. He waited for Priorto call again, and then set about finding somematter to differ upon; but Prior himself broughtabout the dispute finally.

‘I should like a word with you, Philip,’ hesaid, as he rose to say good-bye, and Phil, witha quite perceptible shrug, led the way into thelibrary.

‘I wondered—not to beat about the bush,for frankness between friends is a good thing—Iwondered, in fact, Philip, if you could accommodateme with a small loan—some £20, orperhaps less; I happen to be very much pressedjust now; I—in fact, ’twould be a great boon.’

‘No,’ said Phil curtly; ‘I fear I cannotoblige you.’

‘Oh, I am sure you can. Your father wouldadvance me the money to-morrow were he intown, and I look upon you as his representative,’began Prior.

‘Were I in the way of lending money, sir,’said Phil with great deliberation, ‘ ’twould beto another sort of man than you.’

‘Ha, ha—very good—the poor ever with us,’said Prior uneasily; ‘but indeed you make amistake when you take me for a rich man. Iam constantly pressed for funds, as you see meto-day; you could scarcely find a needier objectfor accommodation, you——’

‘I could easily find a better,’ said Phil.

‘Philip, you call my honour in question!’cried Prior.

‘I would never trouble to do so,’ said Phil;‘because I do not consider that you have gotany.’

For far less provocation men in those fightingdays had risked their precious lives, as Philwas well aware. He had calculated thechances of having to fight with Prior, and hiscalculations were verified: Prior had no intentionof fighting; he had swallowed many aninsult.

‘For your father’s sake, Philip, I will not gofurther into the dispute,’ he said with the sorryattempt at dignity of a man who knows himselfin the wrong.

Philip walked to the door and flung it open.

‘Adieu, Mr. Simon Prior,’ he said withgreat mock ceremony. And Carrie was nottroubled with any more visits.

CHAPTER XXIX

Simon Prior had come out to Fairmeadowes tobeg. It was not the first time he had beggedfrom Richard Meadowes, and he had littleshame about doing it. He even assumed aslightly bullying air as he made his modest demandfor £100—he had not gone so high withPhilip.

Meadowes sat by the fire in his usual easylounging attitude. He did not look like a maninclined to dispute anything, and he listenedquietly to Prior’s demand. But after he hadconsidered it for a moment he spoke with thegreatest decision of tone.

‘No, Prior; I have decided to give you nomore. You’ve been bleeding me these twentyyears, now you’ll bleed me no longer.’

Prior stood aghast, and Meadowes continued,‘Angry, I suppose? Well, take what revengeyou will. Mine is an old story now. Yourown character, such as it is, will suffer full asmuch as mine should you make it public.’ Hepaused and drew his hand slowly across hiseyes. ‘The fact is, I care no longer: I havenothing to lose: life is done—I would it hadnever begun for me. Mistake upon mistake;and now a dead heart. D’you remember theold torment? They used to build living meninto a wall slowly with bricks and mortar;every day the tomb closed more and more roundthem. Well, I am alive still, but the wall isclosing round me; it hath reached the heartnow and presses sore upon it—well-nigh hathpressed the life out of it. I have built myselfinto this living tomb with my own hands too—there’sthe special torture.’ He paused, wonderingif Prior understood one half of his meaning.He did not; the higher feelings had beenleft out of his nature; he did not even guess athis friend’s mood.

‘What ails you to-day, Meadowes?’ hesaid; ‘truly this country life is too quiet foryou by half. Come, we shall return to town,play high, and forget care.’

‘I have no care,’ said Meadowes.

‘What then?’

‘A dead—rather a dying—heart, I tell you,only you do not understand.’ Then, as impulsivemen will often do, Meadowes told out allhis sorrow to this man, just because he did notunderstand—it was the same relief as it wouldhave been to talk aloud to himself. ‘Phil lovesme no more; there’s the fact on’t—I doubt ifever he hath loved me. I’ve borne a measureof disgrace for him, I’ve renounced marriagefor his sake, I’ve nurtured him delicately, andwilled half my fortune to him. I’ve lovedthat boy foolishly all his days, and now heturns and tells me he doth not love me. Wheredoth the advantage lie of loving aught but oneself?There’s no return for love, and a foolI’ve been to sacrifice myself for any man.’Tis the last lesson I needed. All these finetheories we dealt in in our youth, theories of“love” and “sacrifice” and so on, are purestmoonshine. But with the last shreds of beliefI had in them, goes my last shred of caring forlife.’

‘Tush, Meadowes! I must reason withyou,’ said Prior. ‘A man at your time of lifeto speak thus! Come, Philip hath treated youshamefully, like the young scoundrel that heis. Let me advise you on this point. Bringhim to his senses by some judicious coldness,and indeed this is not the first time I haveurged you to marry. Now is the time; let nosentiments for a thankless knave like Philipkeep you from it now; turn him off with ashilling—he deserves no more.’

Prior spoke earnestly, delighted to find someway of repaying the insult he had received atPhil’s hand. He flattered himself that he wasmaking an impression, for his listener sat andlistened to it all in silence. ‘Now, on the scoreof our old friendship—’ he went on, but Meadowessuddenly interrupted him.

‘There, I hate the very sight of you,’ hecried. ‘No friendship hath been betwixt us,only the bonds of iniquity, and heavy they’vebeen. I’ll have it no more; I’ll go to hellalone—not in your company.’

Prior stood dumb with surprise; so long theyhad held together for evil, he could scarcelycredit that the rupture had come at last.

‘But——’ he began.

‘No more, no more,’ said Meadowes, and herose from his seat, and stretched out his handsin a sudden agonised way. ‘Don’t you knowme yet, Prior? I can’t be true. Sooner orlater I turn upon every man that leans on me.Man, I know myself—cruelly well; this is butthe old story. You’ve served my turn, I needyou no more, so I leave you. Yes, sink orswim for me.... You should have knownbetter than to trust me.’

‘I’ve done your dirty work these twentyyears,’ said Prior, with unblushing veracity,‘and now you forget it all.’

‘Yes, I mean to forget.’

‘But I am indeed hard pressed for money.’

‘Well, find it elsewhere.’

‘Is this final?’

‘Quite.’

Prior moved towards the door, but he pausedfor a moment on the threshold and looked back.‘They call you Judas in the Clubs,’ said he,‘and they are right—no man ever yet trustedyou but he was betrayed.’ He walked out,slamming the door behind him, and Meadoweslistened to hear his footsteps die away alongthe passage.

‘A bad man,’ he meditated, ‘but not as badas myself, though the world takes him to beworse. He’ll end on the gallows—the worldwill blame him; but the blame will lie withme—I who made him what he is—and I shallsleep with my fathers in the chapel like aChristian.’

Prior meantime walked away through thequiet winter woods—a figure which accordedill with rural scenes, he so carried with him thesavour of towns, the atmosphere of dissipation.A miserable man—to be moral,—pressed formoney and at an end of his resources, at anend of pleasure and beginning to realise it;angry, baffled, rejected. He stood to take alast look at Fairmeadowes, lying so peacefullyamong its wooded fields, with the placid riverflowing past it, and then, overpowered by anger,he shook his fist in the air and cursed aloudin that silent place.

‘By ——!’ he cried, ‘you’ll pay me yetfor all I’ve done these twenty years! I’ll haveyour money, or’—his raised right hand fell—‘wantingthat, I’ll have your blood.’

CHAPTER XXX

As time went on Society began to surmise thatPhilip Meadowes and his father were not uponthe best of terms. The elder man seldom cameto town, and when he did, never stayed at hisown house, then tenanted by Philip; and thisof itself was eloquent of differences. But asagainst this was the very fact of Philip’s tenancyof the house—an arrangement whichseemed to point to amiable relationship. Theworld wondered, but could do no more.

The feud between Meadowes and Simon Priorhad, owing to peculiar caution on Prior’s part,never got abroad either; he preferred to bestill considered everywhere as Meadowes’ friend.

One night (it was the night of the 9th ofJanuary, as Philip had afterwards reasonenough to remember) fortune drew together inher net at a certain gaming-house, not a thousandmiles from Pall Mall, Richard Meadowes,Philip, and Simon Prior. Phil and his fathermet quite easily; their quarrel had not been soserious as to make this the least difficult forthem; but the rest of the men there watchedthe meeting with great curiosity. If they hadonly known, they had better have turned theirscrutiny upon Meadowes’ meeting with Prior;the cordiality with which these gentlemen metmight perhaps, to the observant and cynically-minded,have given a key to their relations.But there probably was no cynic in the company;so Phil was the object of interest.

‘My dear sir,’ said Phil, as he stood besidehis father, laying his hand on his shoulder,‘you have surely come to town unexpectedly?And but just in time to see me lose somemoney, or I am mistaken. Yesterday I wonit—to-night (to make odds even) I am come tolose to the same man. Come, you shall watchour play, ’twill be fairish sport, I don’t doubt.’

They set them down—Phil and his opponent—anda circle gathered round them to watchtheir play. Philip played out of the sheerestlove of excitement, like a schoolboy, laughingand jesting as he threw down his money, theother man more gravely, pondering his cards.The play ran high; Philip had staked and lostall the money he had with him, and yet heplayed on. It grew late.

‘Come, sir,’ he said, and he leant across thetable towards his father, with his sunny smile,‘I must play schoolboy again and have myfather pay my debts.’ Meadowes, bewitchedlike every one else, handed him over all thegold pieces he carried, and thought himselfwell paid by Phil’s smile.

‘Now I’ve cleared out my father,’ he said,‘and myself, I’ll play you for my lace ruffles,good ones they are; come on, sir,’ and he toreoff the ruffles carelessly enough, and flungthem on the table.

‘Now you’ll have my coat, ’tis a new silkone—there it goes,’ he cried, flinging off thefine garment in question, as he leant forwardwith sparkling eyes to cut the cards.

‘Lost again! My diamond shoe-bucklesnow—there—you have them also? Gad! I’llbe stripped before I’m done—well, the shoesthemselves. Lost them too!’ and with a shoutof laughter Phil flung down his cards and rosefrom the table.

‘I must get home without my shoes andwithout my coat!—I thank you; no, sir, I’dlike the sensation. We’ll taste the sweets ofpoverty on a chill winter’s night for once—towalk home with empty pockets, without a coator shoes. By George, that’s something new!’

‘Phil, put on your coat; for all the worldyou act like a child,’ laughed his father. AndPhil certainly looked babyish enough as hestood there shoeless, in his ruffled cambricshirt, laughing and careless.

But Phil would not be persuaded. The coatwas his no longer, said he, nor the shoes.

‘Come, sir, if you are going my way,’ hesaid, bowing to his father, and they steppedout into the passage together.

‘We may go so far in company,’ said Meadowes,as they passed out.

The other men who had been in the roomwaited to exchange comments on the fatherand son, only Simon Prior, after a few minutes,found that it was growing late, and he mustmake his way homewards.

He went through the passage and looked outinto the inky darkness of the moonless Januarynight; the sky was of a bluish blackness, onlya shade less dense than the earth it canopied,and unpierced by any star. Prior listened intentlyfor a moment, but no footsteps echoeddown the street. Great London was asleep inthese early morning hours, for it was nearingthree o’clock. Once and again as he walkedalong Prior stopped to listen, then he bentdown and slipped off his shoes, crammed oneinto each of the huge pockets of his long-skirtedcoat, and with noiseless flying footsteps speddown the street: the darkness received him.

Meantime Phil and his father were walkingtogether in the direction of St. James’ Square;Phil, gay as was his wont when excited, waspressing Meadowes to come home with him.

‘You have scarce seen me for months, sir,and Carrie is a stranger to you,’ he said.

‘I cannot come to-night, Phil, mayhap to-morrow,’said Meadowes, as they paused at thecorner where their ways parted.

‘Carrie will think me lost; ’tis three of theclock at the least,’ said Phil, and his fatherlaughed.

‘You have not yet acquired that fine indifferencewhich comes with practice, Phil,’ he said.‘You mention your wife with too palpable interest.’

‘Maybe, maybe,’ laughed Phil, whose heartindeed beat quicker at the sound of Carrie’sname. He held out his hand then and badeMeadowes good-night.

‘Ah, Philip, Philip, if only you loved me!’thought Meadowes, as he turned and walkedaway down the dark street. Phil was goinghome to the wife he adored, while he—howbleak a loveless life like his was, to be sure!There was not a human being that would mournhis death—even Phil would not think twice ofit—more than that, ‘I believe he would welcomeit,’ he thought bitterly; ‘for all hisfrankness and his charm he cares nothing for me:I sometimes think he doth veritably hate me.’

Sad thoughts these on a winter’s night.‘Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, thou dost notbite so nigh,’ he said, feeling the chill at hisheart. A moment later he heard a step behindhim, a light, unshod step, surely Phil returned.Could it be? Think if Phil were to come besidehim in the darkness, touch his arm, speakone kind word, say that now all would be rightbetween them! Surely even now the wildernesswould rejoice—would blossom as the rose—atthe coming of love. Surely he wouldleave his old crooked ways, live even yet awhite, clean, straight year or two before allwas ended, return, if he might do no more, tothe attitude of heart that has at least a desirefor good!

These, and half a hundred more, thoughtscrowded through his fancy in that silly momentof expectancy. But it was a moment so dear—likethe sudden thawing of a long frost—thathe dared scarcely break it. His voice was thickwith feeling when he spoke.

‘Why are you returned, Phil?’ he asked.It was too dark to make out more than the outlineof the man’s head against the sky, but thesound of his shoeless feet, as he walked alongside,convinced Meadowes that Phil was there.

‘Why are you returned?’ he questionedagain. There was no reply, then the man,with a sudden, quick movement, drew his swordand turned upon Meadowes, pinning him againstthe wall. He fell almost without a groan.The man knelt with one knee pressed down onMeadowes’ chest, as if to squeeze his shorteningbreaths out of him, and spoke loudly in hisear.

I am Philip,’ he said.

Meadowes heard even through his cloudingsenses the high bell-clear voice. ‘Is it—— MercifulLord! doth my Phil torment me formy sins? ... his voice.... Ah, surelynot Phil,’ he thought.

I am Philip,’ repeated the man, risinghastily; he dared not tarry even for the sweetnessof revenge.

‘Philip, Philip!—Ah, undone, undone!’murmured the dying man. He writhed overon the pavement as the weight of his adversary’sknee was lifted off him; pressed hishand against his side as the last agony seizedhim, and the spirit, driven so roughly from itsdwelling, lingered for a second on the thresholdand looked back. In that second fifty yearswere reviewed like one day: childhood atsweet Fairmeadowes among the fields, youthand manhood, war and love and treachery, andall the busyness of life, passed before him in aflash. One remembrance stood out with extraordinaryclearness:—the memory of a prayeroffered long ago in one of the old City churches—astrange, seemingly unanswered prayer.Here, late in time, was its bitter answer. Andthen this memory passed also, and one onlythought remained—Philip.

All this in a second’s time. In that second,as the murderer rose to his feet, the glimmer ofa lantern fell into the pressing darkness, and ahand appeared out of the gloom, clutched, andheld him.

Meadowes did not see the light. His eyeswere closed, but the one thought of Philip heldpossession of his brain.

Run, Phil, run, lest this bring you totrouble,’ he cried with his latest breath; thetwo struggling men could not choose but hear.The watchman let fall his lantern and theywrestled in the darkness, then with one greatwrench the other freed himself, and flung asidehis adversary, who fell heavily. It took him amoment to rise, and then he stood stupidly fora brief space to listen in what direction themurderer ran. But even the silent streetscarcely echoed back the light footsteps of theman wearing no shoes, as he scudded awayinto the darkness.

CHAPTER XXXI

Carrie had sat up late that night waiting forPhilip to come in, then she grew sleepy, wentto bed, and fell asleep. But her sleep cannothave been very sound, for the heavy foot of thewatch who passed in the street below, and theecho of his voice as he chanted out the hour,wakened her widely.

‘Three o’clock of a January night: a colddark night with no moon.’ He went under thewindow and his footsteps died away.

Carrie rubbed her eyes, and saw that the firestill burned brightly, lighting up the big roomwith its heavy hangings and huge pieces offurniture.

‘Where can Phil be? why has he nevercome in?’ asked Carrie, a little anxiously.She sat up to listen if she could not hear anysound in the house, tossing back her long redcurls over her shoulder. Yes, some one wascoming softly up-stairs; she knew the footstepwell. A minute later the door opened andPhilip came in. He wore no coat nor anyshoes.

‘Hullo, Carrie! are you too keeping a vigil?’he said lightly, as he paused at the door.

‘Phil! where is your coat? and why areyou without shoes?’ cried Carrie.

‘I played them away. I played the coat offmy back and the shoes off my feet. I scarceever before had such sport. And let me liedown, Carrie, my dear, for I am dog tired.’

And with that Phil cast himself down on thebed just as he was, rolled over on his side,dragged the satin quilt over his shoulder, andwas asleep before the words were well said.

Carrie tried ineffectually to waken him.‘You will catch a chill for certain, Phil,’ shesaid; but Phil would not listen, so she fetcheda cloak and covered him with it as tenderly asa mother might wrap up a sleeping child, thenlay down herself and tried to sleep. But shewas wakeful for long, and thought of manythings; of long ago, and the visit she had paidPhil in that very room where he lay, in thatvery bed, a sick and a very bad-temperedchild. How strange the turns of Fortune’swheel were, to be sure! Then she thought ofher father, and longed and longed to see him.‘I believe he will find me somewhat altered.I am become such a fine lady now-a-days,’thought she, smiling in the darkness. At lastshe fell asleep, and dreamed pleasant dreams ofmeeting her father, and finding their quarrelhad all been a mistake; and then suddenly shewoke with a great noise going on down-stairs.There came a terrific thunder at the outer door,a confusion of voices, and then footsteps cameup the staircase. Then Peter’s voice threatening,expostulating:—

‘I’ll tell my master. Stand back! I tellyou you are mistook.’

‘Phil,’ cried Carrie, shaking him lightly.‘Phil, there is something wrong!’

Phil grumbled in his sleep. But the nextmoment the door was opened, and Peter, whiteand agitated, entered the room.

‘Sir, sir, there is some mistake! For thelove of Heaven waken and come out here.’

As he spoke two men followed him into theroom, and one of them advanced to where Phil,yawning and rubbing his eyes, sat up on theedge of the bed, exclaiming impatiently toPeter,

‘What the deuce is all this, Peter?’

‘I arrest you in the King’s name,’ said oneof the men, and he laid his hand on Phil’sshoulder.

Phil was wide awake at last.

‘My good fellow,’ he said, ‘you are indeedunder some mistake, and you surely choose astrange place where to arrest me, and showlittle consideration for this lady’s feelings.’

‘I’m sorry indeed, my lady,’ said the officer,as he bowed to Carrie; ‘but my business is tosecure my prisoner.’

Phil stood up.

‘Of what crime am I accused, then, my goodfellow?’

The man hesitated—glancing at Carrie, butPhil laughed.

‘My wife can hear aught I’m accused of,’he said.

Of the murder of Richard Meadowes,’ saidthe man low into Philip’s ear. He did notmean Carrie to hear; but she, leaning forward,caught the words. There was a moment’s dismayedsilence. Then Carrie shrieked aloud—threesharp little screams, and fell back againstthe pillows.

‘Come,’ said Philip, ‘I am ready to go withyou.’ At the door he turned and came backto where Carrie lay, white and scared, staringafter him.

‘ ’Tis some mistake, Carrie; have no fear,’he said. ‘And, Peter, fetch me a coat and apair of shoes.’

The day wore on somehow for Carrie afterPhil’s arrest; she sat idle, hour by hour, lookingfor news of him and getting none. Late inthe day she sent Peter out to make inquiries,but when he returned it was to bring her veryscant comfort.

‘There was great excitement in town overthe murder; nothing was known, no news wasto be had,’ said Peter, but he concealed thehalf that he had really heard on all sides.Meantime Phil was detained for examination.

‘In prison—Phil in prison!’ cried poor Carrieincredulously. ‘Why, I thought to seehim back ere half an hour had gone. O Peter,what can I do? ’Tis unbelievable.’

Peter was dumb with distress; he did notknow what to think—the whole matter seemedto him like an ugly dream.

‘Mayhap Mr. Philip will return home onbail, madam,’ he said lamely, the only comforthe could suggest.

‘But that any one should even suppose himto have done it!’ sobbed Carrie. Ah, thatwas the sting.

Poor Carrie was to weep many tears beforeshe saw the end of this sad matter.

CHAPTER XXXII

The Courts were crowded on the day thatPhilip Meadowes stood his trial at the OldBailey. The case attracted a vast deal of attentionin its day, and if all the cross-questioningof Phil’s case were reported here, they wouldmake a ponderous volume, that no one wouldever finish. So the outlines of the trial mustsuffice for the story.

How say you, Philip Richard WilliamMeadowes, Are you Guilty of the felony andmurder whereof you stand indicted, or Notguilty?

Not guilty.

How will you be tried?

By God and my country.

God send you a good deliverance.

So ran the time-honoured prelude; and thelistening crowds echoed the prayer, for Philmade a very interesting prisoner.

He stood in the dock and looked round him,nodding to right and left as he recognisedfriends among the crowd, as easy and self-possessedas any man in the house.

There was no trace of anxiety on his face,and he listened with interest and apparent unconcernto the damning evidence broughtagainst him.

The watchman came up for examination first.

‘May it please you, my Lord,’ said he, ‘thisis all I know of this matter; that on the nightof the 9th January, being a black dark nightfrom want o’ the moon, I came of a suddenround the corner of —— Street, and was halfon top of something lying on the pavement beforethat I well knew what I was about. Aman rose up from under my very feet, and,guessing there was something amiss, I caughtat him, and we struggled a minute, but I’d tolet go my lantern and it went out in the falling.That moment came a voice from theground, “Run, Phil, run, lest this bring youinto trouble,” and with a great blow the manknocked me down and ran. I was a momentrising, and I stood to listen which way he’dgone, but I heard naught but the steps of aman without shoes a-scudding down the street,for all the world as you may have heard thetail of a codfish flapping the flags o’ Billingsgate.I followed after, but I lost him in thedarkness before I well knew. I came back tosee if aught could be done for the woundedman, but he was going fast by then, and didbut breathe once or twice again, with never aword—and, my Lord, I know no more.’

‘Have you any notion of the hour?’

‘The hour was some ten minutes before threeo’ the clock.’

‘In what direction did the man run?’

‘He ran in the direction of St. James’Square.’

There was a little ripple of excitementthrough the Court. Then Peter, looking olderby ten years, was brought into the witness-box.

‘At what hour did you open the door toyour master?’

‘At three o’ the clock, my Lord; the watchhad passed a moment before.’

‘Did your master say anything to you oncoming in?’

‘He said, “I’m half asleep, like yourself,Peter,” and passed on up the stairs.’

There was then brought forward a mass ofsecondary evidence, as to the relations whichhad existed between Philip and his father, andso on. But even with this the trial did notthreaten to be a long one. No complicationsseemed to spring up, the whole case was virtuallysettled long before all these matters hadbeen gone into. The summing up came atlast:—

‘Gentlemen of the Jury, you have heard along evidence; I shall now take notice of afew points, which I think are the most material.

‘The indictment against the prisoner at thebar is for a very great crime: it is for murder,and, moreover, for the murder of a parent.You must now consider the evidence.

‘You have heard that for some time past therelations between the late Richard Meadowesand his son have been somewhat strained; butyou have also heard evidence to-day, that onthe night of the 9th January they met withapparent good feeling on both sides, that Meadowesborrowed money of his father, and thatthey went out together, apparently on goodterms. You have heard, gentlemen of theJury, that Meadowes, when he went out, woreno shoes. The chain of evidence which wehave heard after this is curiously complete.The watchman has told us that the murdererwho ran down the street wore no shoes, andthat the dying man called him “Philip” twiceby name, begging him to run for his life. Youhave evidence that the murderer was discoveredat his horrid task, at ten minutes before threeof the clock, and that he ran in the directionof St. James’ Square. The time which itwould take to go quickly between —— Streetand St. James’ Square is about ten minutes.You have evidence that Meadowes came homeat three of the clock. Gentlemen, I am verymuch puzzled in my thoughts, and am at a lossto find out what inducement there could be todraw Mr. Meadowes to commit such a horrid,barbarous murder. For though he hath notbeen on the best of terms with the late gentleman,his father, yet the supposed cause of theircoolness—an imprudent marriage—is not acause likely to lead to such tragic happeningsas these. Nor can I see what Mr. Meadoweswould gain by the crime, were it not his ownundoing. But, against these considerations,you must weigh the extraordinary evidencewhich you have heard, and must judge whetherit be a likely case that another man, known toRichard Meadowes as “Philip,” and wearingno shoes, should have committed this crime. Ido not say more, gentlemen; there is littlemore to say; go and consider your evidence,and I pray God direct you in giving your verdict.’

The Jury were absent for a very short time.

‘Gentlemen, are you all agreed in your verdict?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who shall say for you?’

‘Foreman.’

‘Philip Richard William Meadowes, hold upthy hand.’ Which he did.

‘Look upon the prisoner. How say you?Is he Guilty of the murder whereof he standsindicted, or Not guilty?’

‘Guilty.’

Philip listened, incredulous. Then, as thetruth forced itself in upon his mind, the injusticeand cruelty of fate overcame him. In hiswrath and bitterness he stood silent, then, witha sudden hard bitter little laugh, and a dramaticmovement of his hand, he leant forward tospeak.

‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘I am innocent of theblood of this just man.’

CHAPTER XXXIII

The trial then was over. And it seemed indeedthat before very long Philip Meadowes’life too would be over. He who had laughedat imprisonment and laughed at trial couldlaugh no longer; he was forced to believe atlast that the world held him to be a murderer,and that as such he must die. But even sittingin his cell, a man under sentence of death,Philip could not realise it. This the end ofhim? this, this, this? It was frankly impossiblethat this could be the end of Philip Meadowesand all his ambitions! of the beautifullife he and Carrie had meant to live together,of that passion clean and hot as flame thatburned between them! Impossible! impossible!

And then, even above this cry of the heart,rose that keener note of anguish, that supremeutterance of the soul, the terror of unfulfilment.It lurks in every man, this protest ofvitality against encompassing and ever encroachingmortality, and has its roots in life itself.With most men the feeling is quite unformulatedand vague. ‘They would not like to bealtogether forgotten’ is about all that itamounts to, and the fear, such as it is, findsready cure in the laws of their being; havinggiven hostages to Fortune they have no furtherdread that their memory will perish—the nextgeneration will carry it on. But with anothertype of man the case is very different; forthough the child of his body may be dearer tohim than his own flesh, the child of the soulwill be dearer yet.

It is this law of aspiration, effort, what youwill, that moves on our world at all; forthough it is not written that one man in athousand shall influence the race, or one in amillion leave an undying memory, yet it iswritten that every man, though half of themunknowingly, shall strive after some star, andsome even shall succeed. And these myriadsof agonising atoms form a great aggregate ofachievement out of all proportion to their punyindividual efforts, and slowly push the world onin its destined course.

Something of all this came over Philip now;above all his memories of this dear, warm,wooing world, that had so loved and courtedhim, came the agonising thought, ‘I am virtuallydead; I must depart, leaving nothing behind.’With extraordinary vividness of sensationhe had lived; life had appeared to him asa long feast of rich and varied good things towhich he had sat him down gaily. Some dayhe had thought to rise from it, gird on hisarmour, and go forth to some stirring and valorousenterprise; he had never decided what theenterprise would be, but trusted that the kindand bountiful Giver of life’s banquet would providehis children with work when they hadfeasted long enough. Now all these vaguedreams of the future came down like a house ofcards: he stood face to face with death, hiswork undone.

This was the thought which eclipsed everyother as these strange days rolled on, each ofthem it seemed an eternity for length, each ofthem bringing Phil nearer and nearer to thegallows. The very gaolers pitied Philip forhis youth and beauty; but they pitied Carriemore that day she obtained entrance to Newgateand a half-hour’s interview with her husband.

Phil sat, as he always sat then, his eyes fixedon the floor, his chin resting on his hands. Hedid not even look up as the door was unlocked,but said merely, ‘Lay it down, gaoler; I havelittle appetite these days,’ thinking his foodhad been brought in. Then with a cry, inarticulate,between joy and agony, Carrie rantowards him. Phil did not stir nor speak, andCarrie knelt down beside him, and buried herface against his shoulder, sobbing. He passedhis arm round her, but still he did not speak.

‘O Phil! my darling, my joy, why can younot speak to me?’ cried Carrie. She took hishand in hers, and held it to her heart, kissingit and crying over it; but Phil was silent.

When he raised his eyes from the ground atlast and looked at her, Carrie started, such agrave new look there was in them, and all theshine seemed to have gone from them.

‘What will you do, Carrie?’ he said suddenly.They were the first words he uttered.‘Do you think your father will forgive youwhen you are left alone? will take you back tohis home and care for you?’

‘Don’t! don’t!’ cried Carrie; but Philwent on—

‘I shall be hanged on the 12th of next month,Carrie; there’s no chance of a reprieve, they’vetried for it in vain, the facts are too strongagainst me. I wish ’twere sooner, even foryour sake, my poor darling. You’ll dream ofme being hanged each night twice over ere then.’

Carrie put her fingers in her ears. ‘Stop,Phil! for Heaven’s sake do not say thesethings,’ she cried; ‘they cannot kill you.Have you stopped speaking now? May I takemy fingers from my ears?’

‘Yes,’ laughed Philip. ‘Come, Carrie, tellme, have you no doubt of your husband thesedays when all the world calls him a murderer?’

‘Phil!’

‘Well, what do you make of it all—all thisevidence?’

‘How did it happen?’ asked innocent Carrie.

‘I fear you know as much as I do. Priordid it, I fancy; took off his shoes and followedmy father and killed him—that’s all I canthink, but there’s not a ghost of fact to go toprove this. They had not even quarrelled, tomy knowledge at least.’

‘O Phil! don’t look like that! Oh, youare not a boy any longer,’ said Carrie, for shehad caught the strange new expression of hiseyes again as he spoke.

‘I have been a boy too long,’ said Philip;he shook his head and smiled at Carrie as if shewere a child; ‘and now I have grown old in anight—like Jack’s bean-stalk. Come and letme speak all my discontent to my love, andyears after this she will remember, and willcredit me with all I wished to do rather thanall I left undone.’

Carrie looked up wonderingly, and Philipspoke on—

‘Oh, that’s the bitterness, Carrie; it’s nota shameful death, or leaving the happy worldeven—and hasn’t it been happy! No; I’dstand that if I left anything behind. But justto go out like a candle—phew!’—he blew intothe air as if at a flame,—‘bright one minute,snuffed out the next. ’Tis ghastly. I cannotrealise, it, Carrie; I won’t—I won’t, ’tis miserableinjustice.’

Phil rose and paced about the cell for a moment,then he came and sat down beside Carrieagain, and took her hand in his.

‘You don’t understand, you know, my heart,’he said with something of his old lightness fora moment; ‘for I scarce think you ever feltthus. You now, if you were to die along withme, would not feel a pang, I believe.’

‘No, indeed, Phil; I should die gladly withyou,’ said Carrie, mystified.

‘Ah, there’s the rub. I cannot die, Carrie;my personality cries out so loud against extinctionere it hath fulfilled itself. Foolish, vaintalk; but I’ve thought of no other thing nightand day since they passed sentence on me, exceptof you.’

Carrie, you know, was of another clay; shesat and looked at Phil with such a puzzled airthat he fairly laughed aloud, and his ringinglaugh struck strangely on the walls of Newgate.The poor old walls had heard many agroan, but so few laughs that the sound wasscarcely recognised!

‘Did I puzzle her dear brains with nonsense?’he said, taking Carrie’s face between his handsand kissing her. ‘Carrie, our jesting days areover, and sweet, sweet they’ve been for alltheir shortness.’

‘O Phil, they cannot be over,’ said Carrie;she was only twenty, poor child, an age thathas little realisation.

‘Carrie, you must believe this,’ said her husband—helooked into her eyes as he spoke, andlet his words fall slowly,—‘I shall be bothdead and buried this day next month—deadand buried, Carrie, and you will be a widow.You must face this, must talk with me of whatyou are to do afterwards.’ But Carrie wouldonly shudder and hide her face in her hands.Phil spoke on—a curious task to set his eloquencethis—telling her unflinchingly all thatwould be, explaining, describing, till Carriewhitened and clutched his hand more tightlythan ever.

‘Stop, Phil,’ she said, in a little chokedwhisper, ‘I believe it now.’

Then with a rattle of the bolts the door fellopen, and the gaoler silently signed to Carriethat she must say her farewells.

‘I shall be allowed to see you once again,Phil,’ she whispered, before she turned away.

Carrie’s coach had been waiting for her atthe prison gate all this time. And when shecame out, Peter stepped forward to assist her.Carrie got in, and then sat staring before herin a bewildered fashion.

‘Shall we drive home, madam?’ asks Peter,his voice very husky.

‘To——. Yes—to my father’s,’ said Carrie.

CHAPTER XXXIV

In this moment of dismay Carrie’s heart hadturned to her father, as the needle turns to thenorth, with a tenacity of trustfulness that athousand quarrels would never shake. Here,if anywhere, lay her help, her comfort. Shealighted at the door of her old home and passedin without waiting to inquire of Patty whetherher father was at home or no. Her troublewould be her passport; she made sure of welcomenow, if it had been refused to her in herprosperity.

The dusk had fallen, but firelight lit up theroom as Carrie entered; it shone brightly onthe polished panelling of the walls with rosyreflection.

Sebastian had just come in; he stood besidethe fire; his great figure in the half lightseemed to fill the little room. Carrie ran towardshim with her arms outstretched and a cryof joy; the sight of him came to her in her distresslike the very peace of heaven.

‘Save him! save him, dada!’ she cried,turning back in her extremity to her childishspeech.

‘Eh, my poor Carrie!—so trouble hath cometo you,’ said Sebastian, ‘and so you are cometo me.’ He paused, and looked curiously athis daughter as he spoke. Carrie had changedso much since they parted; in her splendidraiment, her jewels and her laces, she lookedsuch a great lady that Sebastian scarcely recognisedher. But Carrie was oblivious of everything,save the one thing at her heart. Shecaught both Sebastian’s hands in hers, andcried again and again, ‘Save him, dada! Oh,sir, they’re going to hang him—to hang myPhilip; he’ll hang ere the month is out if youdo not save him.’

Sebastian sat down and Carrie knelt besidehim; there was no word of dispute betweenthem now; she gazed up into his face inan agony of entreaty, an ecstasy of confidence.

‘I feared ’twould go badly from the first,’said Sebastian. ‘Have you seen your husband,Carrie, since the sentence?’

‘Yes, this afternoon. Oh, sir, ’tis impossiblethat Phil can die.’

‘And what doth he say—how explain thismurder to you—to his wife?’ asked Sebastiancuriously.

‘He says Simon Prior—(a man, sir, that Ialways hated, a man I made Phil quarrel withnot long ago)—he says Simon Prior must havedone it, else he can offer no explanation.’

‘And you—do you not think your husbanddid it, Carrie?’

Carrie drew back from her father for a momentin horror.

‘Sir!’ she began—but added a momentlater—‘but that is because you do not knowPhil.’

‘Carrie,’ said Sebastian, leaning forward totake her hand in his, ‘tell me, my child, myjoy, the better part of life for me—tell me, areyou as happy with Philip as you thought to be?do you love him as first you did? for youthfulpassions are hot, and many a time burn themselvesout.’

‘I love him more a thousand times than whenfirst I loved.’

‘And you believe no ill of him?’

‘As soon I would believe it of you, sir.’

Sebastian rose and began to pace up anddown the room.

‘Have they tried for a reprieve, Carrie?’

‘Vainly, sir.’

Carrie sank down, burying her face in thecushions of her father’s chair, and Sebastianpaced through the room in silence.

A scheme was already in his mind whichwould easily enough gain Philip’s release; butwhether to do it? Even the sight of Carriekneeling there in such an abandonment of griefcould not move him. Willingly he would seePhilip Meadowes die: an offence to him in thevery circumstances of his birth; the son of hisbitter enemy; himself the man who had stolenCarrie from him—how was it possible that heshould work for Philip’s release? Moreover,Philip was a murderer; Carrie might dotinglybelieve in his innocence—to the world he stoodaccused; it would be plainly wrong and unprincipledto assist at the reprieve of such aman. No, he would not do it, would neversuggest the possibility to Carrie, to any one.Philip should die, and Carrie would return toher father’s house, and they would bury thepast in the grave that closed over RichardMeadowes and his son.

So argued Sebastian, as he paced up anddown the quiet fire-lit room; then the silencebecame full of voices—the past sung and whisperedto his heart; he was young again, andAnnie was with him. Annie seemed now tospeak so clearly that she might have been pacingbeside him—she spoke always the samewords, pleading with him for something withall her soul:—‘If ever you can help my Phil... for my sake ... and forgettin’ Dick Sundonand all his lies.’ She urged again and yetagain. The time had come in truth; if everPhil wanted a helper, he wanted one now, andyet Sebastian held back.

‘Don’t ask it of me, Annie!’ he cried outaloud, forgetful of Carrie’s presence in the fiercenessof the mental struggle he was goingthrough. Carrie sat up in surprise at the soundof his voice, and hearing a name she did notknow.

‘Did you speak, sir?’ she asked. Her voicewoke him to the present, to the realities ofthings, and his decision was taken in a moment.How had he ever questioned?—he had promisedAnnie once and for ever to help her son if itever lay in his power to do so; worthy or unworthy,as Phil might be, that promise mustbe kept for the sake of the woman who hadtrusted him. Sebastian flung out his arms witha gesture of relief—like a man who has beenlong cramped. In the sudden rebound fromthe tense feeling of the last few minutes, hefairly laughed aloud, then bending over Carriehe raised her face to his, and kissed her wetblue eyes.

‘Come, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Take courage,mayhap we shall save him yet.’

Carrie held her breath, and Sebastian continued:—

‘My Lady Y—— suffers from an obscuredisease of the finger-joints.’ ... He pausedand looked at Carrie for a moment.

‘I scarce see how my Lady Y——’s finger-jointsaffect my husband’s release, sir,’ poutedCarrie, who thought that her father had takena sudden and rather unfeeling divergence intohis own affairs at this point; but her tears weredried none the less; she listened breathlesslyfor what Sebastian was going to say next.

‘I have an idea the cure would be simpleenough,’ said Sebastian. ‘I’ve seen more ofwhat can be done with cutting than most men,and I’m not afraid of the knife.—Come, Carrie,mayhap we can cut this knot yet.’

‘How? what?’ queried Carrie, mystified.

‘Plainly, I’ll operate on your husband if hehath a mind to give a hand for his life, and anhour of agony.’

Carrie had heard—as what surgeon’s daughterof that day had not heard?—of many acriminal who owed his life to her father’s lancet.It was not an uncommon means of escapefrom the gallows, though the horror of it madeit in every case a last resort. The difficulty ofobtaining subjects for operation in those dayswas such that the surgeons considered themselveslucky when they could get some haplessprisoner to buy his life at their hands. As Isay, many a tale of the kind Carrie had heard,yet she whitened now as she realised all thatthe plan involved.

‘Tush, Carrie,’ laughed her father, pattingher white cheek. ‘Many’s the man hath gonethrough worse at my hands. Ask your oldfriend Cartwright how I took off his arm, andhe’s here still to tell the tale.’

‘Ugh,’ shuddered Carrie.

‘Come, I had not thought to see my daughtera coward,’ urged Sebastian.

‘Will—will you arrange about it, sir?’ saidCarrie faintly.

‘I shall see the authorities—then Philip; Ihave no fear of his refusing: all that a manhath will he give for his life, Carrie.’

‘Will it be very bad, sir?’ asked Carrie.

‘Well, I’ll scarce guarantee him a pleasanthour,’ laughed Sebastian. ‘The last I hadunder my hands from Newgate made noiseenough to deafen one; the one before that hadmade himself as drunk as a lord, which waswiser in him for certain.’ Poor Carrie, treatedto these details—for it was a robust age,—shiveredand felt sick with horror.

‘Sir, sir, be quiet!’ she cried, with herfingers in her ears, and Sebastian laughed.

‘Send your coach home, Carrie, and staywith me,’ he said; ‘where else would youstay, now you are in trouble?’

‘Will you have me, sir?’

‘Till brighter days return, my daughter.’

CHAPTER XXXV

I never enter an old house without wishing ithad a voice and could tell me all its stories andsecrets; but the secrets of Newgate would besuch as none of us would listen to willingly—Ithink we would stop our ears and hasten onwere these stones to cry out! Neverthelessone of the Newgate cells could tell of a sunnymorning long ago when Caroline Meadowes,Sebastian Shepley, and their friend, Dr. Munro,came together to aid at the release of Carrie’shusband. Philip needed all his light-heartednessthat day, for though liberty was drawingnear, he was to gain it by a dark enough entrance.As he stood beside the window andlooked out into the sunshiny world where menwalked free and happy, his thoughts were bitterenough; one man, at least, thought he, walkedfree that day who should not! Then the doorwas thrown open, and Carrie and her fathercame in, followed by Dr. Munro. Carrie waswhite as a lily, her blue eyes shone like stars;she ran towards her husband and clasped hishands—she could not speak, poor child. Sebastianwore his usual air of decision and cheerfulness;Munro looked with some curiosity at thethree people brought together for such a strangepurpose. Philip was the first to speak, comingforward with his graceful address to greetSebastian, as though no disagreement had everbeen between them.

‘My dear sir,’ he said, ‘I have no words inwhich to express my indebtedness to you.’

He spoke with so much of his father’s air andvoice that Sebastian had almost recoiled fromhis outstretched hand, but, recollecting himself,he took it as cordially as might be.

‘This is my friend Dr. Munro,’ he said,‘who hath come to see us through with thisticklish business.’

‘And hath Carrie come for the same end?’asked Phil, as he turned to his wife and laughed;‘I think ’twill be better for her to wait elsewheretill we are done with the matter.’

‘So thought I,’ said Sebastian, ‘but so didnot think Carrie. Two hours of fatherly eloquencehave I wasted on her this day already,and she hath turned a deaf ear to it all. Comeshe would, and stay she will, so there’s an endof it. But this I say, the first sound shemakes, or tear she sheds, she goes from theroom.’

‘Carrie, my sweet, better far go elsewhereand wait; ’twill not be long. I fear you’llfind it painful to watch this,’ said Phil, butCarrie shook her head.

‘Let me stay, Phil; ’twould be harder farnot to be near you. I shall not cry nor scream,believe me; I shall be quiet all the time.’

‘Carrie is no coward in truth,’ said her fatherproudly. ‘Best give her her own way, Meadowes,as she seems determined in it.’

‘As you please, sir,’ he said; and there wasa moment of ominous pause.

‘Come,’ said Sebastian; ‘off with your coat,Meadowes; the quicker we get to work thebetter.’ He turned up his own sleeves as hespoke, and Munro opened out the instrumentshe carried.

Philip flung off his coat.

‘Which arm, sir? left, I hope?’ he asked,beginning to roll up the shirt-sleeve off his leftarm.

‘Left,’ said Sebastian shortly; ‘now liedown and we’ll be as quick as may be. Gad!a fine arm it is, and a fine hand—well, say farewellto it, my man, for ’twill not be fair again,I fear.’

He ran his fingers down Phil’s strong youngarm as he spoke. Carrie, who stood besidehim, heard him mutter something under hisbreath. ‘Flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone,’he said, and Carrie with the self-importance ofyouth, concluded that her father spoke of heroneness with Philip; she thought of the weddingservice: ‘He should have said, “theytwain shall be one flesh,” ’ she thought.

‘Go on,’ said Phil; and Sebastian cut sharplyinto the white flesh. Carrie whitened andshuddered as she saw the first drop of blood—theprice of a life—redden her father’s lancet.Then she went over to Phil’s side, and took hisright hand in hers and held it fast. Everymoment she felt it thrill and twitch, but Philgave no other sign of what he suffered. Sebastianand Munro, intent on their work, bent overhim with a word now and then to each other—itwas something in these days to have livetissue to operate on: and poor Philip, betweenthem, suffering the torments of Hades, laythere wondering how long he could hold out,for every second seemed an eternity of pain.At first mere strength supported him, thenstrength of will, then strength of love, then,when all these resources had failed him, Philipgroaned aloud, and fell into blissful forgetfulness.

‘Poor fellow!’ muttered Sebastian. Heglanced across at Carrie; she did not stir amuscle.

‘We will not be long now, madam,’ saidMunro, with pity for her white face.

‘There—he hath paid dearly for—for life,’said Sebastian a few minutes later; ‘and Idoubt, Munro, my Lady Y——’s courage willnot bear her through the same!’ And boththe men laughed.

Phil came to himself slowly; and lay whiteand trembling, his face drawn with pain.

‘When you feel able, Philip,’ said Sebastian,in a voice as kind as a mother’s, bending downto speak to him, ‘I shall take you back to myhouse—you and Carrie; ’twill be home for younow.’

Philip just smiled and closed his eyes, andwondered vaguely how Dr. Shepley ever gothis voice to sound so soft; but Carrie, crossingover to where her father stood, buried her faceon his breast and wept her long restrained tears.

CHAPTER XXXVI

Carrie, Philip, and Sebastian formed a curiouslittle household for the next few weeks. Sebastian,who was first a doctor and then a man,deferred his judgment upon Philip’s case in themeantime, and directed his energies to Philip’srecovery. This, with a vigorous young constitution,was not very prolonged, and he wassoon going about as usual, only with the maimedhand in a sling. Then, and not till then, Sebastianbegan to study Philip’s character very carefully.He would sit in silence and look at theyoung man, puzzling what the truth of thisstrange business was. For the life of himSebastian could not resist the charm of Phil’smanner, and found himself unconsciously joiningin his jests and his talk; but every one didthat—what surprised him much more was tofind that he esteemed Philip in his more seriousmoments. When Philip chose to be serious hewas terribly in earnest, compelling attention tohis subject, and Sebastian could scarcely believethe evidence of his senses when first he heardhim speak in this way.

It was one evening as the two men sat alonetogether, Carrie having gone out of the room,that Philip began to speak of the future.

‘You know, sir,’ he said, ‘I must begin toearn my living—I cannot let you support mywife, far less myself, and I do not suppose thatthe fortune which my father meant to leave mecan be mine now. Even if it were, I scarcethink I could touch it while all the world supposesme to be his murderer.’

Sebastian was silent for a moment, and Philturned quickly and looked at him.

‘Do you think I did that, sir?’ he asked.

‘If you did, you have the most extraordinaryeasy conscience of any man I have ever met,’said Sebastian.

Phil gave a light little sigh. ‘Well, sir, ’tismore than generous of you to house a murderer,even for the sake of your dear daughter.—Butto return to what I spoke of first. Murdereror no, I cannot let another man work for meand be idle myself, yet I fear, with the stigmathat’s on me now, I can scarce hope for successin any profession here. Sir, do you thinkI should leave England and make a home formy wife elsewhere?’

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian slowly; ‘I fear ’tisyour only chance. But leave Carrie with memeantime—a living, far less a competency, isnone so easy to make, as you’ll find when youbegin to try to make one.’

‘Oh, I’ve been deucedly rich!’ cried Phil.‘I should have been working years ago; butI’ll work now like twelve men, sir, to make upfor lost time. Tell me, sir, isn’t work a splendidthing? Now, when I see you each daywith more than you can overtake, I wish frommy heart I’d belonged always to those thattoil. Some fraction of it all must live, youknow, even of work like yours, sir, that appearsto be only from day to day, ’tis really movingthe world on. Our horrible idle days are deadbefore they are half lived!’

‘I never saw you in earnest before, Philip,’said Sebastian, with a smile for the heat ofyouth.

‘You see—pardon me—you have not seenvery much of me,’ said Phil; ‘but I must bein earnest now: Heaven knows I’ve playedmyself long enough. ’Tis true I enter into lifehalt now,’ he added, in a sadder tone.

This was not the last conversation they hadon this much-vexed subject of what Phil wasto do; but things took on a different complexionsuddenly, one night not long after.

There came a thunder upon the knocker anda note from Dr. Munro. It was dated from ahouse in —— Street, and contained only thesewords: ‘Do your endeavour to come as speedilyas may be, bringing with you Philip Meadowes.’

Sebastian could not explain the strange summons.He passed the note to Philip.

‘Simon Prior lives there,’ said Phil, as helooked at the address.

‘Will you come, then?’

‘Yes, sir; I fancy he hath business withme,’ said Phil. When they reached the house,Munro met them on the stairway.

‘Come this way,’ he said, leading them intoa sitting-room. He closed the door and signedto them to sit down.

‘This is the house of Simon Prior, the samewho witnessed at your trial,’ he said, with abow towards Philip. ‘And Simon Prior istaken with seizures that threaten to end hisdays ere long. Years ago he came under myhands in hospital (do you remember, Shepley?no, why should you?) from a street accident.He seemingly thought me skilful, for now hesends for me again, and this time the case isscarce so easy. Now, since I have been calledin, the man has seemed in great trouble of mind—amore arrant coward I never knew—and hetakes no rest day nor night, tossing and cryingout. Since this afternoon he calls continuallyto see you, “Philip Meadowes,” and moreoverhath made me send by special messenger summoningJudge Matthews to his bedside. HisLordship is not yet arrived, mayhap he will nottrouble himself to come, but I have told himthat the summons may have special bearings ona certain interesting case he lately tried, so Ilook to see him shortly.’

Philip said nothing; but he turned his sparklingeyes on Sebastian for a moment.

‘Doth Prior wander in his mind then?’ saidSebastian, a little anxiously.

‘No, he fears death and judgment apparently,but when the terrors pass off him, he is in fullpossession of his senses.’

‘And he seems anxious to see Philip?’

‘After a fashion. At first he seemed tostruggle long about the matter, then asked meif death was near, inevitably, for him, andwhen I replied that it was, he said, after apause for thought, “Then send for PhilipMeadowes.” ’Twas after that he summonedJudge Matthews, seemingly an afterthought.’

They heard at this moment the sound ofMatthews’ arrival in the hall. Munro wentout to meet him and usher him in. Philipfound himself again in the presence of hisJudge.

‘A good evening to you, gentlemen,’ saidMatthews. Phil drew himself up proudlyand met his surprised look with a steadyglance.

‘I fancy we are about to hear a curious statementfrom Mr. Simon Prior, my Lord,’ saidMunro, ‘but before we go into his chamber Ihad best tell you of his condition. ’Tis criticalto a degree, but his mind is clear still. Thethoughts that distract him come, I fancy, froman evil conscience, so I have troubled you tocome at his bidding and hear whatever he hathto say, in hopes that his mind being put at rest,his bodily state may be bettered. Gentlemen,shall we go into the sick-room?’

They followed Munro into a large dim-lightedroom, a silent, curious trio.

Simon Prior at sound of their footstepsstarted up on his elbow, and peered into thedimness of the shadowy room.

‘Are they come? are all come? Is PhilipMeadowes come, and Shepley, and Judge Matthews?’he said, in an anxious, loud voice.

‘All are come, sir; calm yourself and lieback. My Lord here is willing to hear aughtyou may have to say,’ said Munro, laying Priorback against the pillows. Matthews steppedforward and stood beside the bed, but at sightof him Prior started up again.

‘The Judge! the Judge!’ he cried, ‘andbefore day shines I’ll stand before the Judgeof All!’

‘Sir, sir, compose yourself,’ said Matthews,as he took a seat by the side of the bed and laidhis hand kindly enough across the coverlet.‘I am come to hear your story; take yourtime, I shall listen, however long it may be.’

‘Easily told, easily,’ said Prior. He seemedto have strung himself up to tell all his story,for he rattled it off now like a schoolboy whorepeats his letters. ‘Easily told—just that Idid it—killed Richard Meadowes. I took offmy shoes and followed him, trusting to thedark night. Oh, it was all as easy as couldbe. Then I told him I was Philip—just forvengeance—just because Phil was the onlything he loved on earth, and I wished to makehis heart bleed at the last. “I am Philip,” Isaid in this high voice’—(he broke out into itas he spoke)—‘just as Philip there speaks—andMeadowes believed me. He died believing it.Oh, I paid him out for his treachery, for athousand treacheries, and he thought his ownboy had turned traitor at the last! And I’mglad I did it, for he had thrown me over likean old shoe when I had served his turn. Oh,sin’s easy, easy; nothing so easy as sinning atthe first, but now, how am I to die? how amI to die?’

He tossed himself back against the pillows,his arms flung above his head. Philip came forwardand stood looking pityingly down at him.

‘Now you have cleared me of this crime,Prior,’ he said, ‘let your mind be easy of that.I am here alive and well, as you see. You havemy forgiveness, if that is any comfort to you.Is this all you have to tell us?’

‘All? all?—that’s but the end of a hideousstory; the beginning was so long ago I scarceremember it. Always money, money. Therewas the matter of Anne Champion; but hewas to pay every debt I had, you know, and Iwas hard pressed at the time. Lord lay notthat sin to my charge! ’Twas Meadowes’ sin,not mine; and there was that other affair inthe year ’24 that——’

‘There,’ said Phil, turning away, ‘I for onehave heard all I wish to hear.’

But Prior talked on:—

‘There was the matter of Anne Champion,as I said; listen, Philip, for she was yourmother, you know, and you, Shepley, you wereher lover once, you remember; come, and Ishall tell you all of that I——’

‘Sir, sir,’ said Phil in a low quick whisperto Sebastian, and he pointed to the door. Theypassed out together, with the sound of Prior’svoice still talking on and on as they closed thedoor. In silence they passed down the staircaseand out into the silent street. They stoodtogether there for a moment without speaking.Then Sebastian laid his hand on Phil’s shoulder.

‘Come, my son,’ he said.

Phil and Carrie were perhaps the happiestman and woman in London that night. AndSebastian Shepley, watching their joy, enteredinto it and saw in them the bright end of adark story.

Ah, untraceable jugglery of Time, andChange, and Fate! In all the arts of the conjureris no trickery like this; from pain and dishonourand treachery, and broken hearts andblighted hopes, from such a soil life sends upher fresh and vigorous shoots, the immortalblossomings of the tree that cannot wither,whose leaves shall surely, at some far-off day,heal the nations!

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 74636 ***

A daughter of strife | A Project Gutenberg eBook (2024)
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