I do not know how you may have heard anything of Marion Fay. Had I engaged myself to her, or to any other young lady, I should have told you at once. I do not know whether a young man is supposed to declare his own failures in such matters, when he has failed,—even to his father. But, as I am ashamed of nothing in the matter, I will avow that I have asked the young lady to be my wife, but she has as yet declined. I shall ask her again, and still hope to succeed.

She is the daughter of a Mr. Fay who, as Lady Kingsbury says, is a Quaker, and is a clerk in a house in the City. As he is in all respects a good man, standing high for probity and honour among those who know him, I cannot think that there is any drawback. She, I think, has all the qualities which I would wish to find in the woman whom I might hope to make my wife. They live at No. 17, Paradise Row, Holloway. Lady Kingsbury, indeed, is right in all her details.

Pray let me have a line, if not from yourself, at any rate dictated by you, to say how you are.

Your affectionate son,

HAMPSTEAD.

It was impossible to keep the letter from Lady Kingsbury. It thus became a recognized fact by the Marquis, by the Marchioness, and by Mr. Greenwood, that Hampstead was going to marry the Quaker's daughter. As to that pretence of a refusal, it went for nothing, even with the father. Was it probable that a Quaker's daughter, the daughter of a merchant's clerk out of the City, should refuse to become a Marchioness? The sick man was obliged to express anger, having been already made to treat the report as incredible because of the disgrace which would accompany it, if true. Had he been left to himself he would have endeavoured to think as little about it as possible. Not to quarrel with his two eldest children was the wish that was now strongest at his heart. But his wife recalled the matter to him at each of the two daily visits which she made. "What can I do?" he was driven to ask on the third morning.

"Mr. Greenwood suggests—," began his wife, not intending to irritate him, having really forgotten at the moment that no suggestion coming from Mr. Greenwood could be welcome to him.

"D—— Mr. Greenwood," he shouted, lifting himself up erect from the pillows on his sofa. The Marchioness was in truth so startled by the violence of his movement, and by the rage expressed on his haggard face, that she jumped from her chair with unexpected surprise. "I desire," said the Marquis, "that that man shall leave the house by the end of this month."



CHAPTER X.

KING'S COURT, OLD BROAD STREET.

Hampstead received the letter from Lady Kingsbury, and answered it on Saturday, the 3rd of January, having at that time taken no active steps in regard to Marion Fay after the rejection of his suit on the day following Christmas. Eight days had thus elapsed, and he had done nothing. He had done nothing, though there was not an hour in the day in which he was not confirming his own resolve to do something by which he might make Marion Fay his own. He felt that he could hardly go to the girl again immediately after the expression of her resolution. At first he thought that he would write to her, and did sit down to the table for that purpose; but as he strove to produce words which might move her, he told himself that the words which he might speak would be better. Then he rode half way to Holloway, with the object of asking aid from Mrs. Roden; but he returned without completing his purpose, telling himself that any such aid, even if it could be obtained, would avail him nothing. In such a contest, if a man cannot succeed by his own doing, surely he will not do so by the assistance of any one else; and thus he was in doubt.

After having written to Lady Kingsbury and his father he reflected that, in his father's state of health, he ought to go again to Trafford Park. If it were only for a day or for an hour he ought to see his father. He knew that he was not wanted by his stepmother. He knew also that no desire to see him had reached him from the Marquis. He was afraid that the Marquis himself did not wish to see him. It was almost impossible for him to take his sister to the house unless an especial demand for her attendance was made; and he could not very well leave her alone for any lengthened period. Nevertheless he determined to make a rapid run into Shropshire, with the intention of returning the following day, unless he found the state of his father's health so bad as to make it expedient that he should remain. He intended to hunt on the Monday and the Tuesday, travelling from London to Leighton and back. But he would leave London by the night mail train from Paddington on Wednesday evening so as to reach Trafford Park House on the following morning between four and five. It was a journey which he had often made before in the same manner, and to which the servants at Trafford were well accustomed. Even at that time in the morning he would walk to the Park from the station, which was four miles distant, leaving his luggage, if he had any, to be sent for on the following morning; but he would usually travel without luggage, having all things necessary for his use in his own room at Trafford.

It had hitherto been his custom to acquaint his sister with his manoeuvres on these occasions, having never been free in his correspondence with his stepmother. He had written or telegraphed to Lady Frances, and she had quite understood that his instructions, whatever they might be, were to be obeyed. But Lady Frances was no longer a resident at Trafford Park, and he therefore telegraphed to the old butler, who had been a servant in the family from a period previous to his own birth. This telegram he sent on the Monday, as follows;—"Shall be at Trafford Thursday morning, 4.30 A.M. Will walk over. Let Dick be up. Have room ready. Tell my father." He fixed Wednesday night for his journey, having made up his mind to devote a portion of the Wednesday morning to the business which he had on hand in reference to Marion Fay.

It was not the proper thing, he thought, to go to a girl's father for permission to ask the girl to be his wife, before the girl had herself assented; but the circumstances in this case were peculiar. It had seemed to him that Marion's only reason for rejecting him was based on disparity in their social condition,—which to his thinking was the worst reason that could be given. It might be that the reason had sprung from some absurd idea originating with the Quaker father; or it might be that the Quaker father would altogether disapprove of any such reason. At any rate he would be glad to know whether the old man was for him or against him. And with the object of ascertaining this, he determined that he would pay a visit to the office in King's Court on the Wednesday morning. He could not endure the thought of leaving London,—it might be for much more than the one day intended,—without making some effort in regard to the object which was nearest his heart.

Early in the day he walked into Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's office, and saw Mr. Tribbledale seated on a high stool behind a huge desk, which nearly filled up the whole place. He was rather struck by the smallness and meanness of Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird's premises, which, from a certain nobility belonging to the Quaker's appearance, he would have thought to be spacious and important. It is impossible not to connect ideas after this fashion. Pogson and Littlebird themselves carried in their own names no flavour of commercial grandeur. Had they been only known to Hampstead by their name, any small mercantile retreat at the top of the meanest alley in the City might have sufficed for them. But there was something in the demeanour of Zachary Fay which seemed to give promise of one of those palaces of trade which are now being erected in every street and lane devoted in the City to business. Nothing could be less palatial than Pogson and Littlebird's counting-house. Hampstead had entered it from a little court, which it seemed to share with one other equally unimportant tenement opposite to it, by a narrow low passage. Here he saw two doors only, through one of which he passed, as it was open, having noticed that the word "Private" was written on the other. Here he found himself face to face with Tribbledale and with a little boy who sat at Tribbledale's right hand on a stool equally high. Of these two, as far as he could see, consisted the establishment of Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird. "Could I see Mr. Fay?" asked Hampstead.

"Business?" suggested Tribbledale.

"Not exactly. That is to say, my business is private."

Then there appeared a face looking at him over a screen about five feet and a-half high, which divided off from the small apartment a much smaller apartment, having, as Hampstead now regarded it, the appearance of a cage. In this cage, small as it was, there was a desk, and there were two chairs; and here Zachary Fay carried on the business of his life, and transacted most of those affairs appertaining to Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird which could be performed in an office. Messrs. Pogson and Littlebird themselves, though they had a room of their own, to which that door marked "Private" belonged, were generally supposed to be walking on 'Change as British merchants should do, or making purchases of whole ships' cargos in the Docks, or discounting bills, the least of which would probably represent L10,000. The face which looked over the barrier of the cage at Lord Hampstead was of course that of Zachary Fay. "Lord Hampstead!" he said, with surprise.

"Oh, Mr. Fay, how do you do? I have something I want to say to you. Could you spare me five minutes?"

The Quaker opened the door of the cage and asked Lord Hampstead to walk in. Tribbledale, who had heard and recognized the name, stared hard at the young nobleman,—at his friend Crocker's noble friend, at the lord of whom it had been asserted positively that he was engaged to marry Mr. Fay's daughter. The boy, too, having heard that the visitor was a lord, stared also. Hampstead did as he was bid, but remembering that the inhabitant of the cage had at once heard what had been said in the office, felt that it would be impossible for him to carry on his conversation about Marion without other protection from the ears of the world. "It is a little private what I have to say," remarked Hampstead.

The Quaker looked towards the private room. "Old Mr. Pogson is there," whispered Tribbledale. "I heard him come in a quarter of an hour ago."

"Perhaps thou wouldst not mind walking up and down the yard," said the Quaker. Hampstead of course walked out, but on looking about him found that the court was very small for the communication which he had to make. Space would be required, so that he might not be troubled by turning when he was in the midst of his eloquence. Half-a-dozen steps would carry him the whole length of King's Court; and who could tell his love-story in a walk limited to six steps?

"Perhaps we might go out into the street?" he suggested.

"Certainly, my lord," said the Quaker. "Tribbledale, should any one call before I return, and be unable to wait for five minutes, I shall be found outside the court, not above fifty yards either to the right or to the left." Hampstead, thus limited to a course not exceeding a hundred yards in one of the most crowded thoroughfares of the City, began the execution of his difficult task.

"Mr. Fay," he said, "are you aware of what has passed between me and your daughter Marion?"

"Hardly, my lord."

"Has she told you nothing of it?"

"Yea, my lord; she has in truth told me much. She has told me no doubt all that it behoves a father to hear from a daughter in such circumstances. I live on such terms with my Marion that there are not many secrets kept by either of us from the other."

"Then you do know?"

"I know that your lordship tendered to her your hand,—honestly, nobly, and truly, as I take it."

"With perfect honesty and perfect truth most certainly."

"And I know also that she declined the honour thus offered her."

"She did."

"Is this you, Zachary? How are you this morning?" This came from a stout, short, red-faced man, who stopped them, standing in the middle of the pavement.

"Well, I thank thee, Mr. Gruby. At this moment I am particularly engaged. That is Jonathan Gruby," said the Quaker to his companion as soon as the stout man had walked on; "one of the busiest men in the City. You have heard probably of Gruby and Inderwald."

Hampstead had never heard of Gruby and Inderwald, and wished that the stout man had been minding his business at that moment. "But as to Miss Fay," he said, endeavouring to continue to tell his love-story.

"Yes, as to Marion. I hardly do know what passed between you two, not having heard the reasons she gave thee."

"No reasons at all;—nothing worth speaking of between persons who know anything of the world."

"Did she tell thee that she did not love thee, my lord?—because that to my thinking would be reason enough."

"Nothing of the kind. I don't mean to boast, but I don't see why she should not like me well enough."

"Nor in sooth do I either."

"What, Zachary; you walking about at this busy time of the day?"

"I am walking about, Sir Thomas. It is not customary with me, but I am walking about." Then he turned on his heel, moved almost to dudgeon by the interruption, and walked the other way. "Sir Thomas Bolster, my lord; a very busy sort of gentleman, but one who has done well in the world.—Nor in sooth do I either; but this is a matter in which a young maiden must decide for herself. I shall not bid her not to love thee, but I cannot bid her to do so."

"It isn't that, Mr. Fay. Of course I have no right to pretend to any regard from her. But as to that there has been no question."

"What did she say to thee?"

"Some trash about rank."

"Nay, my lord, it is not trash. I cannot hear thee speak so of thine own order without contradiction."

"Am I to be like a king in the old days, who was forced to marry any ugly old princess that might be found for him, even though she were odious to him? I will have nothing to do with rank on such terms. I claim the right to please myself, as do other men, and I come to you as father to the young lady to ask from you your assistance in winning her to be my wife." At this moment up came Tribbledale running from the office.

"There is Cooke there," said Tribbledale, with much emphasis in his voice, as though Cooke's was a very serious affair; "from Pollock and Austen's."

"Is not Mr. Pogson within?"

"He went out just after you. Cooke says that it's most important that he should see some one immediately."

"Tell him that he must wait yet five minutes longer," said Zachary Fay, frowning. Tribbledale, awestruck as he bethought himself how great were the affairs of Pollock and Austen, retreated back hurriedly to the court.

"You know what I mean, Mr. Fay," continued Lord Hampstead.

"I know well what thou meanest, my lord. I think I know what thou meanest. Thou meanest to offer to my girl not only high rank and great wealth, but, which should be of infinitely more value to her, the heart and the hand of an honest man. I believe thee to be an honest man, my lord."

"In this matter, Mr. Fay, at any rate, I am."

"In all matters as I believe; and how should I, being such a one as I am, not be willing to give my girl to such a suitor as thee? And what is it now?" he shrieked in his anger, as the little boy off the high stool came rushing to him.

"Mr. Pogson has just come back, Mr. Fay, and he says that he can't find those letters from Pollock and Austen anywhere about the place. He wants them immediately, because he can't tell the prices named without seeing them."

"Lord Hampstead," said the Quaker, almost white with rage, "I must pray thee to excuse me for five minutes." Hampstead promised that he would confine himself to the same uninteresting plot of ground till the Quaker should return to him, and then reflected that there were certain reasons upon which he had not calculated against falling in love with the daughter of a City clerk.

"We will go a little further afield," said the Quaker, when he returned, "so that we may not be troubled again by those imbeciles in the court. It is little, however, that I have to say to thee further. Thou hast my leave."

"I am glad of that."

"And all my sympathies. But, my lord, I suppose I had better tell the truth."

"Oh, certainly."

"My girl fears that her health may fail her."

"Her health!"

"It is that as I think. She has not said so to me openly; but I think it is that. Her mother died early,—and her brothers and her sisters. It is a sad tale, my lord."

"But need that hinder her?"

"I think not, my lord. But it must be for thee to judge. As far as I know she is as fit to become a man's wife as are other girls. Her health has not failed her. She is not robust, but she does her work in looking after my household, such as it is, well and punctually. I think that her mind is pervaded with vain terrors. Now I have told thee all, placing full confidence in thee as in an honest man. There is my house. Thou art welcome to go there if it seemeth thee good, and to deal with Marion in this matter as thy love and thy judgment may direct thee." Having said this he returned hurriedly to King's Court as though he feared that Tribbledale or the boy might again find him out.

So far Hampstead had succeeded; but he was much troubled in his mind by what he had heard as to Marion's health. Not that it occurred to him for a moment that such a marriage as he contemplated would be undesirable because his Marion might become ill. He was too thoroughly in love to entertain such an idea. Nor is it one which can find ready entrance into the mind of a young man who sees a girl blooming with the freshness and beauty of youth. It would have seemed to him, had he thought about it at all, that Marion's health was perfect. But he was afraid of her obstinacy, and he felt that this objection might be more binding on her than that which she put forward in reference to his rank. He went back, therefore, to Hendon Hall only half-satisfied,—sometimes elated, but sometimes depressed. He would, however, go and discuss the matter with her at full length as soon as he should have returned from Shropshire. He would remain there only for one day,—though it might be necessary for him to repeat the journey almost immediately,—so that no time might be lost in using his eloquence upon Marion. After what had passed between him and the Quaker, he thought that he was almost justified in assuring himself that the girl did in truth love him.

"Give my father my kindest love," said Lady Frances, as her brother was about to start for the train.

"Of course I will."

"And tell him that I will start at a moment's notice whenever he may wish to see me."

"In such case of course I should take you."

"And be courteous to her if you can."

"I doubt whether she will allow me. If she abuses you or insults me I must answer her."

"I wouldn't."

"You would be more ready than I am. One cannot but answer her because she expects to hear something said in return. I shall keep out of her way as much as possible. I shall have my breakfast brought to me in my own room to-morrow, and shall then remain with my father as much as possible. If I leave him at all I shall get a walk. There will only be the dinner. As to one thing I have quite made up my mind. Nothing shall drive me into having any words with Mr. Greenwood;—unless, indeed, my father were to ask me to speak to him."



CHAPTER XI.

MR. GREENWOOD BECOMES AMBITIOUS.

Mr. Greenwood was still anxious as to the health of the Rector of Appleslocombe. There might be even yet a hope for him; but his chance, he thought, would be better with the present Marquis—ill-disposed towards him as the Marquis was—than with the heir. The Marquis was weary of him, and anxious to get rid of him,—was acting very meanly to him, as Mr. Greenwood thought, having offered him L1000 as a final payment for a whole life's attention. The Marquis, who had ever been a liberal man, had now, perhaps on his death-bed, become unjust, harsh, and cruel. But he was weak and forgetful, and might possibly be willing to save his money and get rid of the nuisance of the whole affair by surrendering the living. This was Mr. Greenwood's reading of the circumstances as they at present existed. But the Marquis could not dispose of the living while the Rector was still alive; nor could he even promise it, to any good effect, without his son's assent. That Lord Hampstead would neither himself so bestow his patronage or allow it to be so bestowed, Mr. Greenwood was very sure. There had been that between him and Lord Hampstead which convinced him that the young man was more hostile to him even than the father. The Marquis, as Mr. Greenwood thought, had insulted him of late;—but Lord Hampstead, young as he was, had also been insolent; and what was worse, he had insulted Lord Hampstead. There had been something in the young lord's eye which had assured him of the young lord's contempt as well as dislike. If anything could be done about the living it must be done by the Marquis. The Marquis was very ill; but it was still probable that the old rector should die first. He had been given to understand that the old rector could hardly live many weeks.

Mr. Greenwood understood but little of the young lord's character. The Marquis, no doubt, he knew well, having lived with him for many years. When he supposed his patron to be fretful and irascible because of his infirmities, but to be by nature forgiving, unreasonable, and weak, he drew an easy portrait, which was like the person portrayed. But in attributing revenge, or harshness, or pride of power to Lord Hampstead he was altogether wrong. As regarded Appleslocombe and other parishes, the patronage of which would some day belong to him, Lord Hampstead had long since made up his mind that he would have nothing to do with them, feeling himself unfit to appoint clergymen to ministrations in a Church to which he did not consider himself to belong. All that he would leave to the Bishop, thinking that the Bishop must know more about it than himself. Was his father, however, to make any request to him with reference to Appleslocombe especially, he would no doubt regard the living as bestowed before his father's death. But of all this Mr. Greenwood could understand nothing. He felt, however, that as the Marquis had given him cause for anger, so had the young lord given him cause for hatred as well as anger.

Daily, almost hourly, these matters were discussed between Lady Kingsbury and the chaplain. There had come to be strong sympathy between them as far as sympathy can exist where the feelings are much stronger on the one side than on the other. The mother of the "darlings" had allowed herself to inveigh very bitterly against her husband's children by his former marriage, and at first had been received only half way by her confidential friend. But of late her confidential friend had become more animated and more bitter than herself, and had almost startled her by the boldness of his denunciations. She in her passion had allowed herself more than once to express a wish that her stepson—were dead. She had hardly in truth meant as much as she implied,—or meaning it had hardly thought of what she meant. But the chaplain taking the words from her lips, had repeated them till she was almost terrified by their iniquity and horror. He had no darlings to justify him! No great injury had been done to him by an unkind fortune! Great as were the sin of Lord Hampstead and his sister, they could bring no disgrace upon him! And yet there was a settled purpose of hatred in his words which frightened her, though she could not bring herself to oppose them. She in her rage had declared that it would be well that Lord Hampstead should break his neck out hunting or go down in his yacht at sea; and she had been gratified to find that her friend had sanctioned her ill-wishes. But when Mr. Greenwood spoke as though something might possibly be done to further those wishes, then she almost repented herself.

She had been induced to say that if any power should come to her of bestowing the living of Appleslocombe she would bestow it on Mr. Greenwood. Were Lord Hampstead to die before the Marquis, and were the Marquis to die before the old rector, such power would belong to her during the minority of her eldest son. There had, therefore, been some meaning in the promise; and the clergyman had referred to it more than once or twice. "It is most improbable, you know, Mr. Greenwood," she had said very seriously. He had replied as seriously that such improbabilities were of frequent occurrence. "If it should happen I will do so," she had answered. But after that she had never of her own accord referred to the probability of Lord Hampstead's death.

From day to day there grew upon her a feeling that she had subjected herself to domination, almost to tyranny from Mr. Greenwood. The man whom she had known intimately during her entire married life now appeared to assume different proportions and almost a different character. He would still stand before her with his flabby hands hanging listlessly by his side, and with eyes apparently full of hesitation, and would seem to tremble as though he feared the effect of his own words; but still the words that fell from him were felt to be bonds from which she could not escape. When he looked at her from his lack-lustre eyes, fixing them upon her for minutes together, till the minutes seemed to be hours, she became afraid. She did not confess to herself that she had fallen into his power; nor did she realize the fact that it was so; but without realizing it she was dominated, so that she also began to think that it would be well that the chaplain should be made to leave Trafford Park. He, however, continued to discuss with her all family matters as though his services were indispensable to her; and she was unable to answer him in such a way as to reject his confidences.

The telegram reached the butler as to Hampstead's coming on the Monday, and was, of course, communicated at once to Lord Kingsbury. The Marquis, who was now confined to his bed, expressed himself as greatly gratified, and himself told the news to his wife. She, however, had already heard it, as had also the chaplain. It quickly went through the whole household, in which among the servants there existed an opinion that Lord Hampstead ought to have been again sent for some days since. The Doctor had hinted as much to the Marchioness, and had said so plainly to the butler. Mr. Greenwood had expressed to her ladyship his belief that the Marquis had no desire to see his son, and that the son certainly had no wish to pay another visit to Trafford. "He cares more about the Quaker's daughter than anything else," he had said,—"about her and his hunting. He and his sister consider themselves as separated from the whole of the family. I should leave them alone if I were you." Then she had said a faint word to her husband, and had extracted from him something that was supposed to be the expression of a wish that Lord Hampstead should not be disturbed. Now Lord Hampstead was coming without any invitation.

"Going to walk over, is he, in the middle of the night?" said Mr. Greenwood, preparing to discuss the matter with the Marchioness. There was something of scorn in his voice, as though he were taking upon himself to laugh at Lord Hampstead for having chosen this way of reaching his father's house.

"He often does that," said the Marchioness.

"It's an odd way of coming into a sick house,—to disturb it in the middle of the night." Mr. Greenwood, as he spoke, stood looking at her ladyship severely.

"How am I to help it? I don't suppose anybody will be disturbed at all. He'll come round to the side door, and one of the servants will be up to let him in. He always does things differently from anybody else."

"One would have thought that when his father was dying—"

"Don't say that, Mr. Greenwood. There's nothing to make you say that. The Marquis is very ill, but nobody has said that he's so bad as that." Mr. Greenwood shook his head, but did not move from the position in which he was standing. "I suppose that on this occasion Hampstead is doing what is right."

"I doubt whether he ever does what is right. I am only thinking that if anything should happen to the Marquis, how very bad it would be for you and the young lords."

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Greenwood?" said the Marchioness, to whom the presence of the standing chaplain had become almost intolerable.

The man sat down,—not comfortably in his chair, but hardly more than on the edge of it, so as still to have that air of restraint which had annoyed his companion. "As I was saying, if anything should happen to my lord it would be very sad for your ladyship and for Lord Frederick, and Lord Augustus, and Lord Gregory."

"We are all in the hands of God," said her ladyship, piously.

"Yes;—we are all in the hands of God. But it is the Lord's intention that we should all look out for ourselves, and do the best we can to avoid injustice, and cruelty, and,—and—robbery."

"I do not think there will be any robbery, Mr. Greenwood."

"Would it not be robbery if you and their little lordships should be turned at once out of this house?"

"It would be his own;—Lord Hampstead's,—of course. I should have Slocombe Abbey in Somersetshire. As far as a house goes, I should like it better than this. Of course it is much smaller;—but what comfort do I ever have out of a house like this?"

"That's true enough. But why?"

"There is no good in talking about it, Mr. Greenwood."

"I cannot help talking about it. It is because Lady Frances has broken up the family by allowing herself to be engaged to a young man beneath her own station in life." Here he shook his head, as he always did when he spoke of Lady Frances. "As for Lord Hampstead, I look upon it as a national misfortune that he should outlive his father."

"What can we do?"

"Well, my lady; it is hard to say. What will my feelings be, should anything happen to the Marquis, and should I be left to the tender mercies of his eldest son? I should have no claim upon Lord Hampstead for a shilling. As he is an infidel, of course he would not want a chaplain. Indeed I could not reconcile it to my conscience to remain with him. I should be cast out penniless, having devoted all my life, as I may say, to his lordship's service."

"He has offered you a thousand pounds."

"A thousand pounds, for the labours of a whole life! And what assurance shall I have of that? I don't suppose he has ever dreamed of putting it into his will. And if he has, what will a thousand pounds do for me? You can go to Slocombe Abbey. But the rectory, which was as good as promised, will be closed against me." The Marchioness knew that this was a falsehood, but did not dare to tell him so. The living had been talked about between them till it was assumed that he had a right to it. "If the young man were out of the way," he continued, "there would be some chance for me."

"I cannot put him out of the way," said the Marchioness.

"And some chance for Lord Frederic and his brothers."

"You need not tell me of that, Mr. Greenwood."

"But one has to look the truth in the face. It is for your sake that I have been anxious,—rather than my own. You must own that." She would not own anything of the kind. "I suppose there was no doubt about the first marriage?"

"None at all," said the Marchioness, terrified.

"Though it was thought very odd at the time. It ought to be looked to, I think. No stone ought to be left unturned."

"There is nothing to be hoped for in that direction, Mr. Greenwood."

"It ought to be looked to;—that's all. Only think what it will be if he marries, and has a son before anything is—is settled."

To this Lady Kingsbury made no answer; and after a pause Mr. Greenwood turned to his own grievances. "I shall make bold," he said, "to see the Marquis once again before Lord Hampstead comes down. He cannot but acknowledge that I have a great right to be anxious. I do not suppose that any promise would be sacred in his son's eyes, but I must do the best I can." To this her ladyship would make no answer, and they parted, not in the best humour with each other.

That was on the Monday. On the Tuesday Mr. Greenwood, having asked to be allowed an interview, crept slowly into the sick man's room. "I hope your lordship find yourself better this morning?" The sick man turned in his bed, and only made some feeble grunt in reply. "I hear that Lord Hampstead is coming down to-morrow, my lord."

"Why should he not come?" There must have been something in the tone of Mr. Greenwood's voice which had grated against the sick man's ears, or he would not have answered so sulkily.

"Oh, no, my lord. I did not mean to say that there was any reason why his lordship should not come. Perhaps it might have been better had he come earlier."

"It wouldn't have been at all better."

"I only just meant to make the remark, my lord; there was nothing in it."

"Nothing at all," said the sick man. "Was there anything else you wished to say, Mr. Greenwood?"

The nurse all this time was sitting in the room, which the chaplain felt to be uncomfortable. "Could we be alone for a few minutes, my lord?" he asked.

"I don't think we could," said the sick man.

"There are a few points which are of so much importance to me, Lord Kingsbury."

"I ain't well enough to talk business, and I won't do it. Mr. Roberts will be here to-morrow, and you can see him."

Mr. Roberts was a man of business, or agent to the property, who lived at Shrewsbury, and whom Mr. Greenwood especially disliked. Mr. Greenwood being a clergyman was, of course, supposed to be a gentleman, and regarded Mr. Roberts as being much beneath himself. It was not customary for Mr. Roberts to dine at the house, and he was therefore regarded by the chaplain as being hardly more than an upper servant. It was therefore very grievous to him to be told that he must discuss his own private affairs and make his renewed request as to the living through Mr. Roberts. It was evidently intended that he should have no opportunity of discussing his private affairs. Whatever the Marquis might offer him he must take; and that, as far as he could see, without any power of redress on his side. If Mr. Roberts were to offer him a thousand pounds, he could only accept the cheque and depart with it from Trafford Park, shaking off from his feet the dust which such ingratitude would forbid him to carry with him.

He was in the habit of walking daily for an hour before sunset, moving very slowly up and down the driest of the roads near the house, generally with his hands clasped behind his back, believing that in doing so he was consulting his health, and maintaining that bodily vigour which might be necessary to him for the performance of the parochial duties at Appleslocombe. Now when he had left the bed-room of the Marquis he went out of the front door, and proceeded on his walk at a somewhat quicker pace than usual. He was full of wrath, and his passion gave some alacrity to his movements. He was of course incensed against the Marquis; but his anger burnt hottest against Lord Hampstead. In this he was altogether unreasonable, for Lord Hampstead had said nothing and done nothing that could injure his position. Lord Hampstead disliked him and, perhaps, despised him, but had been anxious that the Marquis should be liberal in the mode of severing a connection which had lasted so long. But to Mr. Greenwood himself it was manifest that all his troubles came from the iniquities of his patron's two elder children; and he remembered at every moment that Lord Hampstead had insulted him when they were both together. He was certainly not a man to forgive an enemy, or to lose any opportunity for revenge which might come in his way.

Certainly it would be good if the young man could be got to break his neck out hunting;—or good if the yacht could be made to founder, or go to pieces on a rock, or come to any other fatal maritime misfortune. But these were accidents which he personally could have no power to produce. Such wishing was infantine, and fit only for a weak woman, such as the Marchioness. If anything were to be done it must be done by some great endeavour; and the endeavour must come from himself. Then he reflected how far the Marchioness would certainly be in his power, if both the Marquis and his eldest son were dead. He did believe that he had obtained great influence over her. That she should rebel against him was of course on the cards. But he was aware that within the last month, since the date, indeed, at which the Marquis had threatened to turn him out of the house, he had made considerable progress in imposing himself upon her as a master. He gave himself in this respect much more credit than was in truth due to him. Lady Kingsbury, though she had learnt to fear him, had not so subjected herself to his influence as not to be able to throw him off should a time come at which it might be essential to her comfort to do so. But he had misread the symptoms, and had misread also the fretfulness of her impatience. He now assured himself that if anything could be done he might rely entirely on her support. After all that she had said to him, it would be impossible that she should throw him over. Thinking of all this, and thinking also how expedient it was that something should be done, he returned to the house when he had taken the exact amount of exercise which he supposed necessary for his health.



CHAPTER XII.

LIKE THE POOR CAT I' THE ADAGE.

Wishing will do nothing. If a man has sufficient cause for action he should act. "Letting I dare not wait upon I would, Like the poor cat i' the adage," never can produce results. Cherries will not fall into your mouth without picking. "If it were done, when 'tis done then 'twere well it were done quickly." If grapes hang too high what is the use of thinking of them? Nevertheless,—"Where there's a will there's a way." But certainly no way will be found amidst difficulties, unless a man set himself to work seriously to look for it. With such self-given admonitions, counsels, and tags of old quotations as these, Mr. Greenwood went to work with himself on Monday night, and came to a conclusion that if anything were to be done it must be done at once.

Then came the question—what was the thing to be done, and what at once meant? When a thing has to be done which requires a special summoning of resolution, it is too often something which ought not to be done. To virtuous deeds, if they recommend themselves to us at all, we can generally make up our minds more easily. It was pleasanter to Mr. Greenwood to think of the thing as something in the future, as something which might possibly get itself done for him by accident, than as an act the doing of which must fall into his own hands. Then came the "cat i' the adage," and the "when 'tis done then 'twere well," and the rest of it. Thursday morning, between four and five o' clock, when it would be pitch dark, with neither star nor moon in the heavens, when Lord Hampstead would certainly be alone in a certain spot, unattended and easily assailable;—would Thursday morning be the fittest time for any such deed as that which he had now in truth began to contemplate?

When the thing presented itself to him in this new form, he recoiled from it. It cannot be said that Mr. Greenwood was a man of any strong religious feelings. He had been ordained early in life to a curacy, having probably followed, in choosing his profession, the bent given to him by his family connections, and had thus from circumstances fallen into the household of his present patron's uncle. From that to this he had never performed a service in a church, and his domestic services as chaplain had very soon become nothing.

The old Lord Kingsbury had died very soon afterwards, and Mr. Greenwood's services had been continued rather as private secretary and librarian than as domestic chaplain. He had been crafty, willing, and, though anxious, he had been able to conceal his anxiety in that respect, and ready to obey when he found it necessary. In this manner he had come to his present condition of life, and had but few of the manners or feelings of a clergyman about him. He was quite willing to take a living if it should come in his way,—but to take it with a purpose that the duties should be chiefly performed by a curate. He was not a religious man; but when he came to look the matter in the face, not on that account could he regard himself as a possible murderer without terrible doubts.

As he thought of it his first and prevailing fear did not come from the ignominious punishment which is attached to, and which generally attends, the crime. He has been described as a man flabby in appearance, as one who seemed to tremble in his shoes when called upon for any special words, as one who might be supposed to be devoid of strong physical daring. But the true character of the man was opposed to his outward bearing. Courage is a virtue of too high a nature to be included among his gifts; but he had that command of his own nerves, that free action of blood round his heart, that personal audacity coming from self-confidence, which is often taken to represent courage. Given the fact that he wanted an enemy out of the way, he could go to work to prepare to put him out of the way without exaggerated dread of the consequences as far as this world is concerned. He trusted much in himself, and thought it possible that he could so look through all the concomitant incidents of such an act as that he contemplated without allowing one to escape him which might lead to detection. He could so look at the matter, he thought, as to be sure whether this or the other plot might or might not be safe. It might be that no safe plot were possible, and that the attempt must therefore be abandoned. These, at any rate, were not the dangers which made him creep about in dismay at his own intentions.

There were other dangers of which he could not shake off the dread. Whether he had any clear hope as to eternal bliss in another life, it may be doubted. He probably drove from his mind thoughts on the subject, not caring to investigate his own belief. It is the practice of many to have their minds utterly callous in that respect. To suppose that such men think this or think the other as to future rewards and punishments is to give them credit for a condition of mind to which they have never risen. Such a one was probably Mr. Greenwood; but nevertheless he feared something when this idea respecting Lord Hampstead presented itself to him. It was as is some boggy-bo to a child, some half-belief in a spectre to a nervous woman, some dread of undefined evil to an imaginative but melancholy man. He did not think that by meditating such a deed, by hardening his heart to the necessary resolution, by steeling himself up to its perpetration, he would bring himself into a condition unfitted for a life of bliss. His thoughts did not take any such direction. But though there might be no punishment in this world,—even though there were to be no other world in which punishment could come,—still something of evil would surely fall upon him. The convictions of the world since the days of Cain have all gone in that direction. It was thus that he allowed himself to be cowed, and to be made to declare to himself again and again that the project must be abandoned.

But "the cat i' the adage" succeeded so far on the Tuesday in getting the better of his scruples, that he absolutely did form a plot. He did not as yet quite see his way to that security which would be indispensable;—but he did form a plot. Then came the bitter reflection that what he would do would be done for the benefit of others rather than his own. What would Lord Frederic know of his benefactor when he should come to the throne—as in such case he would do—as Marquis of Kingsbury? Lord Frederic would give him no thanks, even were he to know it,—which of course could never be the case. And why had not that woman assisted him,—she who had instigated him to the doing of the deed? "For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind," he said to himself over and over again, not, however, in truth thinking of the deed with any of the true remorse to which Macbeth was a prey. The "filing of his mind" only occurred to him because the words were otherwise apt. Would she even be grateful when she should tell herself,—as she surely would do,—that the deed had been done by the partner of her confidences?

When he thought of the reward which was to come to him in payment of the intended deed something like a feeling of true conscience did arise within him. Might it not be the case that even he, callous as he was to most things, should find himself unable to go down to Appleslocombe and read himself in, as the phrase goes, as rector and pastor of the parish? He thought of this as he lay in his bed, and acknowledged to himself that his own audacity would probably be insufficient to carry him through such a struggle. But still on the morning when he rose he had not altogether rejected the idea. The young man had scorned him and had insulted him, and was hateful to him. But still why should he be the Macbeth, seeing that the Lady Macbeth of the occasion was untrue to him? In all this he was unaware how very little his Lady Macbeth had really meant when she had allowed herself in his presence to express wishes as to her stepson's death.

He thought he saw his plan. The weapon was there ready to his hand;—a weapon which he had not bought, which could not be traced to him, which would certainly be fatal if used with the assurance of which he was confident. And there would be ample time for retreat. But still as he arranged it all in his mind he regarded it all not as a thing fixed, but as a thing which was barely possible. It was thus that it might be done, had the Lady Macbeth of the occasion really shown herself competent to such a task. Why should he trouble himself on such a matter? Why should he file his mind for Banquo's issue? Yet he looked at the pistol and at the window as he prepared to go up to her ladyship's room before lunch on the Wednesday morning. It certainly could be done, he said to himself, telling himself at the same time that all that had been passing in his own mind was no more than a vague speculation. A man is apt to speculate on things which have no reality to him, till they become real.

He had assumed the practice of going to her ladyship's sitting-room up-stairs without a special summons, latterly to her ladyship's great disgust. When her quarrel had first become strong with Lady Frances she had no doubt received comfort from his support. But now she had become weary of him, and had sometimes been almost dismayed by the words he spoke to her. At half-past twelve punctually she went down to her husband's room, and it was now customary with the chaplain to visit her before she did so. She had more than once almost resolved to tell him that she preferred to be left alone during the morning. But she had not as yet assumed the courage to do this. She was aware that words had fallen from her in her anger which it was possible he might use against her, were she to subject herself to his displeasure. "Lord Hampstead will be here at half-past four—what you may call the middle of the night—to-morrow morning, Lady Kingsbury," said he, repeating an assertion which he had already made to her two or three times. As he did so he stood in the middle of the room, looking down upon her with a gaze under which she had often suffered, but which she did not in the least understand.

"Of course I know he's coming."

"Don't you think it a very improper time, with a sick man in the house?"

"He won't disturb his father."

"I don't know. There will be the opening and the shutting of the door, and the servant will be going about the passages, and there will be the bringing in of the luggage."

"He won't have any luggage." Mr. Greenwood had been aware of this; but it might be well that he should affect ignorance.

"It is like everything else that he does," he said, being anxious to induce the stepmother to speak ill of her stepson. But the bent of her mind had been turned. She was not conscious of the cause which had produced the change, but she was determined to speak no further evil of her stepchildren before Mr. Greenwood. "I suppose there is nothing to be done?" said Mr. Greenwood.

"What should there be to be done? If you do remain here I wish you would sit down, Mr. Greenwood. You oppress me by standing up in that way in the middle of the room."

"I do not wonder that you should be oppressed," he said, seating himself, as was his wont, on the edge of a chair. "I am oppressed, I know. No one ever says a word to comfort me. What am I to do if anything should happen?"

"Mr. Greenwood, what is the use of all this?"

"What would you think, Lady Kingsbury, if you had to live all the rest of your life on an income arising from a thousand pounds?"

"It isn't my fault. What's the good of your coming to me with all that? I have had nothing to do with the arrangement which Lord Kingsbury has made with you. You know very well that I do not dare even to mention your name to him, lest he should order that you should be turned out of the house."

"Turned out of the house!" he said, jumping off his chair on to his legs with an alacrity which was quite unusual to him. "Turned out of the house?—as if I were a dog! No man alive would stand such language."

"You know very well that I've always stood your friend," said the Marchioness, alarmed by the man's impetuosity.

"And you tell me that I'm to be turned out of the house."

"I only say that it would be better not to mention your name to him. I must go now, because he will be waiting for me."

"He doesn't care a straw for you; not a straw."

"Mr. Greenwood!"

"He cares only for his son and daughter;—for the son and daughter of his first wife; for those two ignoble young persons who, as you have said so often, are altogether unworthy of their name."

"Mr. Greenwood, I cannot admit this."

"Have you not said it over and over again? Have you not declared how good a thing it would be that Lord Hampstead should die? You cannot go back from all that, Lady Kingsbury."

"I must go now, Mr. Greenwood," she said, shuffling out of the room. He had altogether frightened her, and, as she went down-stairs, she determined that at whatever cost she must save herself from further private conversation with the chaplain.

Mr. Greenwood, when he was thus left alone, did not at once leave the room. He had reseated himself, and there he remained still gazing as though there had been some one for him to gaze at, and still seated on the edge of his chair as though there were some one to see the affected humility of his position. But in truth the gazing and the manner of sitting had become so customary to him that they were assumed without thought. His mind was now full of the injury done to him by the Marchioness. She had made him her confidant; she had poured her secret thoughts into his ears; she had done her best to inspire him with her hatred and her desires;—and now, when she had almost taught him to be the minister of her wishes, she turned upon him, and upbraided him and deserted him! Of course when he had sympathized with her as to her ill-used darlings he had expected her to sympathize with him as to the hardships inflicted upon him. But she cared nothing for his hardships, and was anxious to repudiate the memory of all the hard words which she had spoken as to her husband's children. It should not be so! She should not escape from him in this manner! When confidences have been made, the persons making them must abide the consequences. When a partnership has been formed, neither partner has a right to retreat at once, leaving the burden of all debts upon the other. Had not all these thoughts, and plottings, which had been so heavy on his mind since that telegram had come, which had been so heavy on his soul, been her doing? Had not the idea come from her? Had there not been an unspoken understanding between them that in consequence of certain mutual troubles and mutual aspirations there should be a plan of action arranged between them? Now she was deserting him! Well;—he thought that he could so contrive things that she should not do so with impunity. Having considered all this he got up from his chair and slowly walked down to his own room.

He lunched by himself, and then sat himself down with a novel, as was his wont at that hour of the day. There could be no man more punctual in all his daily avocations than Mr. Greenwood. After lunch there always came the novel; but there was seldom much of it read. He would generally go to sleep, and would remain so, enjoying perfect tranquillity for the best part of an hour. Then he would go out for his constitutional walk, after which he would again take up the novel till the time came for her ladyship's tea. On this occasion he did not read at all, but neither did he at once sleep. There had been that on his mind which, even though it had not been perfected, banished sleep from him for some minutes. There was no need of any further conversation as to safety or danger. The deed, whether it would or could not have been done in the manner he had premeditated, certainly would not be done now. Certainly not now would he file his mind for Banquo's issue. But after half-an-hour of silent meditation he did sleep.

When he arose and went out for a walk he felt that his heart was light within him. He had done nothing by which he had compromised himself. He had bound himself to no deed. As he walked up and down the road he assured himself that he had never really thought of doing it. He had only speculated as to the probability,—which is so common for men to do as to performances which they had no thought of attempting. There was a great burden gone from him. Had he desired to get rid of Lord Hampstead, it was in that way that he would have done it;—and he would so have done it that he would never have been suspected of the deed. He had never intended more than that. As he returned to the house he assured himself that he had never intended anything more. And yet there was a great burden gone from him.

At five o'clock a message was brought to him that her ladyship, finding herself to be rather unwell, begged to be excused from asking him up to tea. The message was brought by the butler himself, with a suggestion that he should have tea in his own room. "I think I will, Harris," he said, "just take a cup. By-the-bye, Harris, have you seen my lord to-day?" Harris declared that he had seen his lordship, in a tone of voice which implied that he at any rate had not been banished from my lord's presence. "And how do you find him?" Harris thought that the Marquis was a little more like himself to-day than he had been for the last three days. "That's right. I am very glad to hear that. Lord Hampstead's coming to-morrow will be a great comfort to him."

"Yes, indeed," said Harris, who was quite on Lord Hampstead's side in the family quarrels. He had not been pleased with the idea of the Roden marriage, which certainly was unfortunate for the daughter of a Marquis; but he was by no means inclined to take part against the heir to the family honours.

"I wish he were coming at a little more reasonable hour in the day," said Mr. Greenwood with a smile. But Harris thought that the time of the day would do very well. It was the kind of thing which his lordship very often did, and Harris did not see any harm in it. This Harris said with his hand on the lock of the door, showing that he was not anxious for a prolonged conversation with the chaplain.



CHAPTER XIII.

LADY FRANCES SEES HER LOVER.

On the Monday in that week,—Monday, the 5th of January, on which day Hampstead had been hunting and meditating the attack which he subsequently made on Zachary Fay, in King's Court,—Mrs. Vincent had paid a somewhat unusually long visit in Paradise Row. As the visit was always made on Monday, neither had Clara Demijohn or Mrs. Duffer been very much surprised; but still it had been observed that the brougham had been left at the "Duchess of Edinburgh" for an hour beyond the usual time, and a few remarks were made. "She is so punctual about her time generally," Clara had said. But Mrs. Duffer remarked that as she had exceeded the hour usually devoted to her friend's company she had probably found it quite as well to stay another. "They don't make half-hours in any of those yards, you know," said Mrs. Duffer. And so the matter had been allowed to pass as having been sufficiently explained.

But there had in truth been more than that in Mrs. Vincent's prolonged visit to her cousin. There had been much to be discussed, and the discussion led to a proposition made that evening by Mrs. Roden to her son by which the latter was much surprised. She was desirous of starting almost immediately for Italy, and was anxious that he should accompany her. If it were to be so he was quite alive to the expediency of going with her. "But what is it, mother?" he asked, when she had requested his attendance without giving the cause which rendered the journey necessary. Then she paused as though considering whether she would comply with his request, and tell him that whole secret of his life which she had hitherto concealed from him. "Of course, I will not press you," he said, "if you think that you cannot trust me."

"Oh, George, that is unkind."

"What else am I to say? Is it possible that I should start suddenly upon such a journey, or that I should see you doing so, without asking the reason why? Or can I suppose if you do not tell me, but that there is some reason why you should not trust me?"

"You know I trust you. No mother ever trusted a son more implicitly. You ought to know that. It is not a matter of trusting. There may be secrets to which a person shall be so pledged that she cannot tell them to her dearest friend. If I had made a promise would you not have me keep it?"

"Promises such as that should not be exacted, and should not be made."

"But if they have been exacted and have been made? Do as I ask you now, and it is probable that everything will be clear to you before we return, or at any rate as clear to you as it is to me." After this, with a certain spirit of reticence which was peculiar with him, he made up his mind to do as his mother would have him without asking further questions. He set himself to work immediately to make the necessary arrangements for his journey with as much apparent satisfaction as though it were to be done on his own behalf. It was decided that they would start on the next Friday, travel through France and by the tunnel of the Mont Cenis to Turin, and thence on to Milan. Of what further there was to befall them he knew nothing at this period.

It was necessary in the first place that he should get leave of absence from Sir Boreas, as to which he professed himself to be in much doubt, because he had already enjoyed the usual leave of absence allowed by the rules of the office. But on this matter he found Aeolus to be very complaisant. "What, Italy?" said Sir Boreas. "Very nice when you get there, I should say, but a bad time of year for travelling. Sudden business, eh?—To go with your mother! It is bad for a lady to go alone. How long? You don't know? Well! come back as soon as you can; that's all. You couldn't take Crocker with you, could you?" For at this time Crocker had already got into further trouble in regard to imperfections of handwriting. He had been promised absolution as to some complaint made against him on condition that he could read a page of his own manuscript. But he had altogether failed in the attempt. Roden didn't think that he could carry Crocker to Italy, but arranged his own affair without that impediment.

But there was another matter which must be arranged also. It was now six weeks since he had walked with Lord Hampstead half-way back from Holloway to Hendon, and had been desired by his friend not to visit Lady Frances while she was staying at Hendon Hall. The reader may remember that he had absolutely refused to make any promise, and that there had consequently been some sharp words spoken between the two friends. There might, he had then said, arise an occasion on which he should find it impossible not to endeavour to see the girl he loved. But hitherto, though he had refused to submit himself to the demand made upon him, he had complied with its spirit. At this moment, as it seemed to him, a period had come in which it was essential to him that he should visit her. There had been no correspondence between them since those Koenigsgraaf days in consequence of the resolutions which she herself had made. Now, as he often told himself, they were as completely separated as though each had determined never again to communicate with the other. Months had gone by since a word had passed between them. He was a man, patient, retentive, and by nature capable of enduring such a trouble without loud complaint; but he did remember from day to day how near they were to each other, and he did not fail to remind himself that he could hardly expect to find constancy in her unless he took some means of proving to her that he was constant himself. Thinking of all this, he determined that he would do his best to see her before he started for Italy. Should he fail to be received at Hendon Hall then he would write. But he would go to the house and make his attempt.

On Thursday morning, the day on which Hampstead arrived at Trafford Park, he went down from London, and knocking at the door asked at once for Lady Frances. Lady Frances was at home and alone;—alone altogether, having no companion with her in the house during her brother's absence. The servant who opened the door, the same who had admitted poor Crocker and had understood how much his young mistress had been dismayed when the Post Office clerk had been announced, was unwilling at once to show this other Post Office clerk into the house, although he probably understood well the difference between the two comers. "I'll go and see," he said, leaving George Roden to sit or stand in the hall as he liked best. Then the man, with a sagacity which certainly did him credit, made a roundabout journey through the house, so that the lover stationed in the hall might not know that his mistress was to be reached merely by the opening of a single door. "A gentleman in the hall?" said Lady Frances.

"Mr. Roden, my lady," said the man.

"Show him in," said Lady Frances, allowing herself just a moment for consideration,—a moment so short that she trusted that no hesitation had been visible. And yet she had doubted much. She had been very clear in explaining to her brother that she had made no promise. She had never pledged herself to any one that she would deny herself to her lover should he come to see her. She would not admit to herself that even her brother, even her father, had a right to demand from her such a pledge. But she knew what were her brother's wishes on this matter, and what were the reasons for them. She knew also how much she owed to him. But she too had suffered from that long silence. She had considered that a lover whom she never saw, and from whom she never heard, was almost as bad as no lover at all. She had beaten her feathers against her cage, as she thought of this cruel separation. She had told herself of the short distance which separated Hendon from Holloway. She perhaps had reflected that had the man been as true to her as was she to him, he would not have allowed himself to be deterred by the injunctions either of father or brother. Now, at any rate, when her lover was at the door, she could not turn him away. It had all to be thought of, but it was thought of so quickly that the order for her lover's admittance was given almost without a pause which could have been felt. Then, in half a minute, her lover was in the room with her.

Need the chronicler of such scenes declare that they were in each other's arms before a word was spoken between them? The first word that was spoken came from her. "Oh, George, how long it has been!"

"It has been long to me."

"But at last you have come?"

"Did you expect me sooner? Had you not agreed with Hampstead and your father that I was not to come?"

"Never mind. You are here now. Poor papa, you know, is very ill. Perhaps I may have to go down there. John is there now."

"Is he so ill as that?"

"John went last night. We do not quite know how ill he is. He does not write, and we doubt whether we get at the truth. I was very nearly going with him; and then, sir, you would not have seen me—at all."

"Another month, another six months, another year, would have made no difference in my assurance of your truth to me."

"That is a very pretty speech for you to make."

"Nor I think in yours for me."

"I am bound, of course, to be just as pretty as you are. But why have you come now? You shouldn't have come when John had left me all alone."

"I did not know that you were here alone."

"Or you would not have come, perhaps? But you should not have come. Why did you not ask before you came?"

"Because I should have been refused. It would have been refused; would it not?"

"Certainly it would."

"But as I wish to see you specially—"

"Why specially? I have wanted to see you always. Every day has been a special want. It should have been so with you also had you been as true as I am. There should have been no special times."

"But I am going—"

"Going! Where are you going? Not for always! You are leaving Holloway, you mean, or the Post Office." Then he explained to her that as far as he knew the journey would not be for long. He was not leaving his office, but had permission to absent himself for a time, so that he might travel with his mother as far as Milan. "Nay," said he, laughing, "why I am to do so I do not in the least know. My mother has some great Italian mystery of which she has never yet revealed to me any of the circumstances. All I know is that I was born in Italy."

"You an Italian?"

"I did not say that. There is an old saying that you need not be a horse because you were born in a stable. Nor do I quite know that I was born in Italy, though I feel sure of it. Of my father I have never known anything,—except that he was certainly a bad husband to my mother. There are circumstances which do make me almost sure that I was born in Italy; but as my mother has been unwilling to talk to me of my earliest days, I have never chosen to ask her. Now I shall perhaps know it all."

Of what else passed between them the reader need learn no details. To her the day was one of exceeding joy. A lover in China, or waging wars in Zululand or elsewhere among the distant regions, is a misfortune. A lover ought to be at hand, ready at the moment, to be kissed or scolded, to wait upon you, or, so much sweeter still, to be waited upon, just as the occasion may serve. But the lover in China is better than one in the next street or the next parish,—or only a few miles off by railway,—whom you may not see. The heart recognizes the necessity occasioned by distance with a sweet softness of tender regrets, but is hardened by mutiny, or crushed by despair in reference to stern parents or unsuitable pecuniary circumstances. Lady Frances had been enduring the sternness of parents, and had been unhappy. Now there had come a break. She had seen what he was like, and had heard his voice, and been reassured by his vows, and had enjoyed the longed-for opportunity of repeating her own. "Nothing, nothing, nothing can change me!" How was he to be sure of that while she had no opportunity of telling him that it was so? "No time;—nothing that papa can say, nothing that John can do, will have any effect. As to Lady Kingsbury, of course you know that she has thrown me off altogether." It was nothing to him, he said, who might have thrown her off. Having her promise, he could bide his time. Not but that he was impatient; but that he knew that when so much was to be given to him at last, it behoved him to endure all things rather than to be faint of heart. And so they parted.

She, however, in spite of her joy, had a troubled spirit when he was gone. She had declared to her brother that she was bound by no promise as to seeing or not seeing her lover, but yet she was aware how much she owed to him, and that, though she had not promised, he had made a promise on her behalf, to her father. But for that promise she would never have been allowed to be at Hendon Hall. His brother had made all his arrangements so as to provide for her a home in which she might be free from the annoyances inflicted upon her by her stepmother; but had done so almost with a provision that she should not see George Roden. She certainly had done nothing herself to infringe that stipulation; but George Roden had come, and she had seen him. She might have refused him admittance, no doubt; but then again she thought that it would have been impossible to do so. How could she have told the man to deny her, thus professing her indifference for him in regard to whom she had so often declared that she was anxious that all the world should know that they were engaged to marry each other? It would have been impossible for her not to see him; and yet she felt that she had been treacherous to her brother, to whom she owed so much!

One thing seemed to her to be absolutely necessary. She must write at once and tell him what had occurred. Thinking of this she sat down and wrote so that she might despatch her letter by that post;—and what she wrote is here given.

MY DEAR JOHN—

I shall be so anxious to get news from Trafford, and to hear how you found papa. I cannot but think that were he very ill somebody would have let us know the truth. Though Mr. Greenwood is cross-grained and impertinent, he would hardly have kept us in the dark.

Now I have a piece of news to tell you which I hope will not make you very angry. It was not my doing, and I do not know how I could have helped it. Your friend, George Roden, called to-day and asked to see me. Of course I could have refused. He was in the hall when Richard announced him, and I suppose I could have sent out word to say that I was not at home. But I think you will feel that that was in truth impossible. How is one to tell a lie to a man when one feels towards him as I do about George? Or how could I even let the servants think that I would treat him so badly? Of course every one knows about it. I want every one to know about it, so that it may be understood that I am not in the least ashamed of what I mean to do.

And when you hear why he came I do not think that you can be angry even with him. He has been called upon, for some reason, to go at once with his mother to Italy. They start for Milan to-morrow, and he does not at all know when he may return. He had to get leave at the Post Office, but that Sir Boreas whom he talks about seems to have been very good-natured about giving it. He asked him whether he would not take Mr. Crocker with him to Italy; but that of course was a joke. I suppose they do not like Mr. Crocker at the Post Office any better than you do. Why Mrs. Roden should have to go he does not understand. All he knows is that there is some Italian secret which he will hear all about before he comes home.

Now I really do think that you cannot be surprised that he should have come to see me when he is going to take such a journey as that. What should I have thought if I had heard that he had gone without saying a word to me about it? Don't you think that that would have been most unnatural? I should have almost broken my heart when I heard that he had started.

I do hope, therefore, that you will not be angry with either of us. But yet I feel that I may have brought you into trouble with papa. I do not care in the least for Lady Kingsbury, who has no right to interfere in the matter at all. After her conduct everything I think is over between us. But I shall be indeed sorry if papa is vexed; and shall feel it very much if he says anything to you after all your great kindness to me.

Your affectionate sister,

FANNY.

"I have done one other thing to-day," said George Roden, when he was explaining to his mother on Thursday evening all the preparations he had made for their journey.

"What other thing?" she asked, guessing accurately, however, the nature of the thing of which he was about to speak.

"I have seen Lady Frances Trafford."

"I thought it probable that you might endeavour to do so."

"I have done more than endeavour on this occasion. I went down to Hendon Hall, and was shown into the drawing-room. I am sorry for Hampstead's sake, but it was impossible for me not to do so."

"Why sorry for his sake?" she asked.

"Because he had pledged himself to his father that I should not do so. He clearly had no right to make such a pledge. I could not bind myself to an assurance by keeping which I might seem to show myself to be indifferent. A girl may bind herself by such a promise, but hardly a man. Had I made the promise I almost think I must have broken it. I did not make it, and therefore I have no sin to confess. But I fear I shall have done him a mischief with his father."

"And what did she say, George?"

"Oh; just the old story, mother, I suppose. What she said was what I knew just as well before I went there. But yet it was necessary that I should hear what she had to say;—and as necessary I think that she should hear me."

"Quite as necessary, I am sure," said his mother kissing his forehead.



CHAPTER XIV.

MR. GREENWOOD'S FEELINGS.

On that Wednesday night Mr. Greenwood did not sleep much. It may be doubted whether he once closed his eyes in slumber. He had indeed been saved from the performance of an act which now seemed to him to be so terrible that he could hardly believe that he had in truth contemplated it; but yet he knew,—he knew that it for some hours had been the purpose of his mind to do it! He struggled to make himself believe that it had in truth been no more than a speculation, that there had been no formed purpose, that he had only amused himself by considering how he could do such a deed without detection, if the deed were to be done. He had simply been thinking over the blunders of others, the blindness of men who had so bungled in their business as to have left easy traces for the eyes and intelligence of the world outside, and had been assuring himself how much better he could manage if the necessity of such an operation were to come upon him. That was all. No doubt he hated Lord Hampstead,—and had cause to do so. It was thus that he argued with himself. But his hatred had surely not carried him to the intention of murder!

There could have been no question of real murder; for why should he have troubled himself either with the danger or with the load which it would certainly have imposed on his conscience? Much as he hated Lord Hampstead, it was no business of his. It was that Lady Macbeth up-stairs, the mother of the darlings, who had really thought of murder. It was she who had spoken openly of her great desire that Lord Hampstead should cease to live. Had there been any real question of murder it would have been for her to meditate, for her to think, for her to plot;—surely not for him! Certainly, certainly he had contemplated no such deed as that, with the object of obtaining for the comfort of his old age the enjoyment of the living of Appleslocombe! He told himself now that had he in truth committed such a crime, had he carried out the plot which had formed itself in his brain only as a matter of speculation, though he might not have been detected, yet he would have been suspected; and suspicion would have been as destructive to his hopes as detection. Of course all that had been clear enough to him throughout his machinations; and therefore how could he really have intended it? He had not intended it. It had only been one of those castles in the air which the old build as well as the young,—which are no more than the "airy fabrics" of the brain!

It was thus he struggled to drive from his mind and from his eyes the phantom of the terrible deed. But that he did not succeed was made evident to himself by the hot clammy drops of sweat which came out upon his brow, by his wakefulness throughout the livelong night, by the carefulness with which his ears watched for the sound of the young man's coming, as though it were necessary that he should be made assured that the murder had in truth not been done. Before that hour had come he found himself to be shaking even in his bed; to be drawing the clothes around him to dispel the icy cold, though the sweat still stood upon his brow; to be hiding his eyes under the bed-clothes in order that he might not see something which seemed to be visible to him through the utmost darkness of the chamber. At any rate he had done nothing! Let his thoughts have been what they might, he had soiled neither his hands nor his conscience. Though everything that he had ever done or ever thought were known, he was free from all actual crime. She had talked of death and thought of murder. He had only echoed her words and her thoughts, meaning nothing,—as a man is bound to do to a woman. Why then could he not sleep? Why should he be hot and shiver with cold by turns? Why should horrid phantoms perplex him in the dark? He was sure he had never meant it. What must be the agony of those who do mean, of those who do execute, if such punishment as this were awarded to one who had done no more than build a horrid castle in the air? Did she sleep;—he wondered,—she who had certainly done more than build a castle in the air; she who had wished and longed, and had a reason for her wishing and her longing?

At last he heard a footfall on the road, which passed but some few yards distant from his window, a quick, cheery, almost running footfall, a step full of youth and life, sounding crisp on the hard frozen ground; and he knew that the young man whom he hated had come. Though he had never thought of murdering him,—as he told himself,—yet he hated him. And then his thoughts, although in opposition to his own wishes,—which were intent upon sleep, if sleep would only come to him,—ran away to the building of other castles. How would it have been now, now at this moment, if that plan, which he had never really intended to carry out, which had only been a speculation, had been a true plan and been truly executed? How would it have been with them all now at Trafford Park? The Marchioness would have been at any rate altogether satisfied;—but what comfort would there have been in that to him? Lord Frederic would have been the heir to a grand title and to vast estates;—but how would he have been the better for that? The old lord who was lying there so sick in the next room might probably have sunk into his grave with a broken heart. The Marquis had of late been harsh to him; but there did come to him an idea at the present moment that he had for thirty years eaten the sick man's bread. And the young man would have been sent without a moment's notice to meet his final doom! Of what nature that might have been, the wretched man lying there did not dare even to make a picture in his imagination. It was a matter which he had sedulously and successfully dismissed from all his thoughts. It was of the body lying out there in the cold, not of the journey which the winged soul might make, that he unwillingly drew a picture to himself. He conceived how he himself, in the prosecution of the plan which he had formed, would have been forced to have awakened the house, and to tell of the deed, and to assist in carrying the body to what resting-place might have been found for it. There he would have had to enact a part of which he had, a few hours since, told himself that he would be capable, but in attempting which he was now sure that he would have succumbed to the difficulties of the struggle. Who would have broken the news to the father? Who would have attempted to speak the first word of vain consolation? Who would have flown to the lady's door up-stairs and have informed her that death was in the house—and have given her to understand that the eldest of her darlings was the heir? It would have been for him to do it all; for him with a spirit weighed down to the ground by that terrible burden with which the doing of such a deed would have loaded it. He would certainly have revealed himself in the struggle!

But why should he allow his mind to be perplexed with such thoughts? No such deed had been done. There had been no murder. The young man was there now in the house, light-hearted after his walk; full of life and youthful energy. Why should he be troubled with such waking dreams as these? Must it be so with him always, for the rest of his life, only because he had considered how a thing might best be done? He heard a footstep in a distant passage, and a door closed, and then again all was silent. Was there not cause to him for joy in the young man's presence? If his speculations had been wicked, was there not time to turn for repentance,—for repentance, though there was so little for which repentance were needed? Nevertheless the night was to him so long, and the misery connected with the Trafford name so great, that he told himself that he would quit the place as soon as possible. He would take whatever money were offered to him and go. How would it have been with him had he really done the deed, when he found himself unable to sleep in the house in which he would not quite admit to himself that he had even contemplated it?

On the next morning his breakfast was brought to him in his own room, and he inquired from the servant after Lord Hampstead and his purposes. The servant thought that his lordship meant to remain on that day and the next. So he had heard Harris, the butler, say. His lordship was to see his father at eleven o'clock that morning. The household bulletin respecting the Marquis had that morning been rather more favourable than usual. The Marchioness had not yet been seen. The doctor would probably be there by twelve. This was the news which Mr. Greenwood got from the servant who waited upon him. Could he not escape from the house during the period that the young lord would be there, without seeing the young lord? The young lord was hateful to him—more hateful than ever. He would, if possible, get himself carried into Shrewsbury, and remain there on some excuse of visiting a friend till the young lord should have returned to London. He could not tell himself why, but he felt that the sight of the young lord would be oppressive to him.

But in this he was prevented by an intimation that was given to him early in the day, before he had made preparations for his going, that Lord Hampstead wished to see him, and would wait upon him in his own room. The Marquis had expressed himself grateful to his son for coming, but did not wish to detain him at Trafford. "Of course it is very dull for you, and I think I am better."

"I am so glad of that;—but if you think that I am of any comfort to you I shall be delighted to stay. I suppose Fanny would come down if I remain here."

Then the Marquis shook his head. Fanny, he thought, had better be away. "The Marchioness and Fanny would not be happy in the house together,—unless, indeed, she has given up that young man." Hampstead could not say that she had given up the young man. "I do hope she never sees him," said the Marquis. Then his son assured him that the two had never met since Fanny had gone to Hendon Hall. And he was rash enough to assure his father that there would be no such meeting while his sister was his guest. At that moment George Roden was standing in the drawing-room at Hendon Hall with Lady Frances in his arms.

After that there arose a conversation between the father and son as to Mr. Greenwood. The Marquis was very desirous that the man who had become so objectionable to him should quit the house. "The truth is," said the Marquis, "that it is he who makes all the mischief between me and your stepmother. It is he that makes me ill. I have no comfort while he is here, making plots against me." If they two had only known the plot which had been made! Hampstead thought it reasonable that the man should be sent away, if only because his presence was disagreeable. Why should a man be kept in the house simply to produce annoyance? But there must be the question of compensation. He did not think that L1000 was sufficient. Then the Marquis was unusually difficult of persuasion in regard to money. Hampstead thought that an annuity of L300 a year should be settled on the poor clergyman. The Marquis would not hear of it. The man had not performed even the slight duties which had been required of him. The books had not even been catalogued. To bribe a man, such as that, by L300 a year for making himself disagreeable would be intolerable. The Marquis had never promised him anything. He ought to have saved his money. At last the father and son came to terms, and Hampstead sent to prepare a meeting with the chaplain.

Mr. Greenwood was standing in the middle of the room when Lord Hampstead entered it, rubbing his fat hands together. Hampstead saw no difference in the man since their last meeting, but there was a difference. Mr. Greenwood's manner was at first more submissive, as though he were afraid of his visitor; but before the interview was over he had recovered his audacity. "My father has wished me to see you," said Hampstead. Mr. Greenwood went on rubbing his hands, still standing in the middle of the room. "He seems to think it better that you should leave him."

"I don't know why he should think it better;—but, of course, I will go if he bids me." Mr. Greenwood had quite made up his mind that it would be better for him also that he should go.

"There will be no good in going into that. I think we might as well sit down, Mr. Greenwood." They did sit down, the chaplain as usual perching himself on the edge of a chair. "You have been here a great many years."

"A great many, Lord Hampstead;—nearly all my life;—before you were born, Lord Hampstead." Then, as he sat gazing, there came before his eyes the phantom of Lord Hampstead being carried into the house as a corpse while he himself was struggling beneath a portion of the weight.

"Just so; and though the Marquis cannot admit that there is any claim upon him—"

"No claim, Lord Hampstead!"

"Certainly no claim. Yet he is quite willing to do something in acknowledgment of the long connection. His lordship thinks that an annuity of L200 a year—." Mr. Greenwood shook his head, as though he would say that that certainly would not satisfy him. Hampstead had been eager to secure the full L300 for the wretched, useless man, but the Marquis had declared that he would not burden the estate with a charge so unnecessarily large. "I say," continued Hampstead, frowning, "that his lordship has desired me to say that you shall receive during your life an annuity of L200." It certainly was the fact that Lord Hampstead could frown when he was displeased, and that at such moments he would assume a look of aristocratic impatience which was at variance with his professed political theories. Mr. Greenwood again shook his head. "I do not think that I need say anything farther," continued the young lord. "That is my father's decision. He presumes that you would prefer the annuity to the immediate payment of a thousand pounds." Here the shaking of the head became more violent. "I have only in addition to ask you when it will suit you to leave Trafford Park." Lord Hampstead, when he had left his father, had determined to use his blandest manner in communicating these tidings to the chaplain. But Mr. Greenwood was odious to him. The way in which the man stood on the floor and rubbed his hands together, and sat on the edge of his chair, and shook his head without speaking a word, were disgusting to him. If the man had declared boldly his own view of what was due to him, Hampstead would have endeavoured to be gracious to him. As it was he was anything but gracious, as he asked the chaplain to name the day on which he would be prepared to leave the house.

"You mean to say that I am to be—turned out."

"It is some months since you were told that my father no longer required your services."

"I am to be turned out,—like a dog,—after thirty years!"

"I cannot contradict you when you say so, but I must ask you to name a day. It is not as though the suggestion were now made to you for the first time." Mr. Greenwood got up from the edge of the chair, and again stood in the middle of the room. Lord Hampstead felt himself constrained also to stand. "Have you any answer to make to me?"

"No; I have not," said the chaplain.

"You mean that you have not fixed upon a day?"

"I shan't go with L200 a year," said the chaplain. "It's unreasonable; it's brutal!"

"Brutal!" shouted Lord Hampstead.

"I shan't stir till I've seen the Marquis himself. It's out of the question that he should turn me out in this way. How am I to live upon L200 a year? I always understood that I was to have Appleslocombe."

"No such promise was ever made to you," said Lord Hampstead, very angrily. "No hint of such a thing has ever been made except by yourself."

"I always understood it," said Mr. Greenwood. "And I shall not leave this till I've had an opportunity of discussing the matter with the Marquis himself. I don't think the Marquis would ever have treated me in this way,—only for you, Lord Hampstead."

This was intolerable. What was he to do with the abominable man? It would be very disagreeable, the task of turning him out while the Marquis was still so ill, and yet it was not to be endured that such a man should be allowed to hold his position in the house in opposition to the will of the owner. It was, he felt, beneath him to defend himself against the charge made—or even to defend his father. "If you will not name a day, I must," said the young lord. The man remained immovable on his seat except that he continued to rub his hands. "As I can get no answer I shall have to instruct Mr. Roberts that you cannot be allowed to remain here after the last day of the month. If you have any feeling left to you you will not impose upon us so unpleasant a duty while my father is ill." With this he left the room, while Mr. Greenwood was still standing and rubbing his hands.

Two hundred pounds a year! He had better go and take it. He was quite aware of that. But how was he to live upon L200,—he who had been bedded and boarded all his life at the expense of another man, and had also spent L300? But at the moment this was not the thought uppermost in his mind. Would it not have been better that he should have carried out that project of his? Only that he had been merciful, this young lord would not have been able to scorn him and ill-treat him as he had done. There were no phantoms now. Now he thought that he could have carried his share of the corpse into the house without flinching.



CHAPTER XV.

"THAT WOULD BE DISAGREEABLE."

Things at Trafford on that day and on the next were very uncomfortable. No house could possibly be more so. There were four persons who, in the natural course of things, would have lived together, not one of whom would sit down to table with any other. The condition of the Marquis, of course, made it impossible that he should do so. He was confined to his room, in which he would not admit Mr. Greenwood to come near him, and where his wife's short visits did not seem to give him much satisfaction. Even with his son he was hardly at his ease, seeming to prefer the society of the nurse, with occasional visits from the doctor and Mr. Roberts. The Marchioness confined herself to her own room, in which it was her intention to prevent the inroads of Mr. Greenwood as far as it might be possible. That she should be able to exclude him altogether was more than she could hope, but much, she thought, could be done by the dint of headaches, and by a resolution never to take her food down-stairs. Lord Hampstead had declared his purpose to Harris, as well as to his father, never again to sit down to table with Mr. Greenwood. "Where does he dine?" he asked the butler. "Generally in the family dining-room, my lord," said Harris. "Then give me my dinner in the breakfast parlour." "Yes, my lord," said the butler, who at once resolved to regard Mr. Greenwood as an enemy of the family. In this manner Mr. Greenwood gave no trouble, as he had his meat sent to him in his own sitting-room. But all this made the house very uncomfortable.