"Yes; now I know it." The tears came very near the poor man's eyes as he answered.

"And what will you do for me?"

"What shall I do?"

"Yes; what will you do? I have told you all my story, believing you to be a fine-tempered gentleman. You have entertained a fancy which has been encouraged by Sir Magnus. Will you promise me not to speak to me of it again? Will you relieve me of so much of my trouble? Will you;—will you?" Then, when he turned away, she followed him, and put both her hands upon his arm. "Will you do that little thing for me?"

"A little thing!"

"Is it not a little thing,—when I am so bound to that other man that nothing can move me? Whether it be little or whether it be much, will you not do it?" She still held him by the arm, but his face was turned from her so that she could not see it. The tears, absolute tears, were running down his cheeks. What did it behoove him as a man to do? Was he to believe her vows now and grant her request, and was she then to give herself to some third person and forget Harry Annesley altogether? How would it be with him then? A faint heart never won a fair lady. All is fair in love and war. You cannot catch cherries by holding your mouth open. A great amount of wisdom such as this came to him at the spur of the moment. But there was her hand upon his arm, and he could not elude her request. "Will you not do it for me?" she asked again.

"I will," he said, still keeping his face turned away.

"I knew it;—I knew you would. You are high-minded and honest, and cannot be cruel to a poor girl. And if in time to come, when I am Harry Annesley's wife, we shall chance to meet each other,—as we will,—he shall thank you."

"I shall not want that. What will his thanks do for me? You do not think that I shall be silent to oblige him?" Then he walked forth from out of the garden, and she had never seen his tears. But she knew well that he was weeping, and she sympathized with him.



CHAPTER XXXII.

MR. ANDERSON IS ILL.

When they went down to dinner that day it became known that Mr. Anderson did not intend to dine with them. "He's got a headache," said Sir Magnus. "He says he's got a headache. I never knew such a thing in my life before." It was quite clear that Sir Magnus did not think that his lieutenant ought to have such a headache as would prevent his coming to dinner, and that he did not quite believe in the headache. There was a dinner ready, a very good dinner, which it was his business to provide. He always did provide it, and took a great deal of trouble to see that it was good. "There isn't a table so well kept in all Brussels," he used to boast. But when he had done his share he expected that Anderson and Arbuthnot should do theirs, especially Anderson. There had been sometimes a few words,—not quite a quarrel but nearly so,—on the subject of dining out. Sir Magnus only dined out with royalty, cabinet ministers, and other diplomats. Even then he rarely got a good dinner—what he called a good dinner. He often took Anderson with him. He was the doyen among the diplomats in Brussels, and a little indulgence was shown to him. Therefore he thought that Anderson should be as true to him as was he to Anderson. It was not for Anderson's sake, indeed, who felt the bondage to be irksome;—and Sir Magnus knew that his subordinate sometimes groaned in spirit. But a good dinner is a good dinner,—especially the best dinner in Brussels,—and Sir Magnus felt that something ought to be given in return. He had not that perfect faith in mankind which is the surest evidence of a simple mind. Ideas crowded upon him. Had Anderson a snug little dinner-party, just two or three friends, in his own room? Sir Magnus would not have been very angry,—he was rarely very angry,—but he should like to show his cleverness by finding it out. Anderson had been quite well when he was out riding, and he did not remember him ever before to have had a headache. "Is he very bad, Arbuthnot?"

"I haven't seen him, sir, since he was riding."

"Who has seen him?"

"He was in the garden with me," said Florence, boldly.

"I suppose that did not give him a headache."

"Not that I perceived."

"It is very singular that he should have a headache just when dinner is ready," continued Sir Magnus.

"You had better leave the young man alone," said Lady Mountjoy.

And one who knew the ways of living at the British Embassy would be sure that after this Sir Magnus would not leave the young man alone. His nature was not simple. It seemed to him again that there might be a little dinner-party, and that Lady Mountjoy knew all about it. "Richard," he said to the butler, "go into Mr. Anderson's room and see if he is very bad." Richard came back, and whispered to the great man that Anderson was not in his room. "This is very remarkable. A bad headache, and not in his room! Where is he? I insist on knowing where Mr. Anderson is!"

"You had better leave him alone," said Lady Mountjoy.

"Leave a man alone because he's ill! He might die."

"Shall I go and see?" said Arbuthnot.

"I wish you would, and bring him in here, if he's well enough to show. I don't approve of a young man going without his dinner. There's nothing so bad."

"He'll be sure to get something, Sir Magnus," said Lady Mountjoy. But Sir Magnus insisted that Mr. Arbuthnot should go and look after his friend.

It was now November, and at eight o'clock was quite dark, but the weather was fine, and something of the mildness of autumn remained. Arbuthnot was not long in discovering that Mr. Anderson was again walking in the garden. He had left Florence there and had gone to the house, but had found himself to be utterly desolate and miserable. She had exacted from him a promise which was not compatible with any kind of happiness to which he could now look forward. In the first place, all Brussels knew that he had been in love with Florence Mountjoy. He thought that all Brussels knew it. And they knew that he had been in earnest in this love. He did believe that all Brussels had given him credit for so much. And now they would know that he had suddenly ceased to make love. It might be that this should be attributed to gallantry on his part,—that it should be considered that the lady had been deserted. But he was conscious that he was not so good a hypocrite as not to show that he was broken-hearted. He was quite sure that it would be seen that he had got the worst of it. But when he asked himself questions as to his own condition he told himself that there was suffering in store for him more heavy to bear than these. There could be no ponies, with Florence driving them, and a boy in his own livery behind, seen upon the boulevards. That vision was gone, and forever. And then came upon him an idea that the absence of the girl from other portions of his life might touch him more nearly. He did feel something like actual love. And the more she had told him of her devotion to Harry Annesley, the more strongly he had felt the value of that devotion. Why should this man have it and not he? He had not been disinherited. He had not been knocked about in a street quarrel. He had not been driven to tell a lie as to his having not seen a man when he had, in truth, knocked him down. He had quite agreed with Florence that Harry was justified in the lie; but there was nothing in it to make the girl love him the better for it.

And then, looking forward, he could perceive the possibility of an event which, if it should occur, would cover him with confusion and disgrace. If, after all, Florence were to take, not Harry Annesley, but somebody else? How foolish, how credulous, how vain would he have been then to have made the promise! Girls did such things every day. He had promised, and he thought that he must keep his promise; but she would be bound by no promise! As he thought of it, he reflected that he might even yet exact such a promise from her.

But when the dinner-time came he really was sick with love,—or sick with disappointment. He felt that he could not eat his dinner under the battery of raillery which was always coming from Sir Magnus, and therefore he had told the servants that as the evening progressed he would have something to eat in his own room. And then he went out to wander in the dusk beneath the trees in the garden. Here he was encountered by Mr. Arbuthnot, with his dress boots and white cravat. "What the mischief are you doing here, old fellow?"

"I'm not very well. I have an awfully bilious headache."

"Sir Magnus is kicking up a deuce of a row because you're not there."

"Sir Magnus be blowed! How am I to be there if I've got a bilious headache? I'm not dressed. I could not have dressed myself for a five-pound note."

"Couldn't you, now? Shall I go back and tell him that? But you must have something to eat. I don't know what's up, but Sir Magnus is in a taking."

"He's always in a taking. I sometimes think he's the biggest fool out."

"And there's the place kept vacant next to Miss Mountjoy. Grascour wanted to sit there, but her ladyship wouldn't let him. And I sat next Miss Abbott because I didn't want to be in your way."

"Tell Grascour to go and sit there, or you may do so. It's all nothing to me." This he said in the bitterness of his heart, by no means intending to tell his secret, but unable to keep it within his own bosom.

"What's the matter, Anderson?" asked the other piteously.

"I am clean broken-hearted. I don't mind telling you. I know you're a good fellow, and I'll tell you everything. It's all over."

"All over—with Miss Mountjoy?" Then Anderson began to tell the whole story; but before he had got half through, or a quarter through, another message came from Sir Magnus. "Sir Magnus is becoming very angry indeed," whispered the butler. "He says that Mr. Arbuthnot is to go back."

"I'd better go, or I shall catch it."

"What's up with him, Richard?" asked Anderson.

"Well, if you ask me, Mr. Anderson, I think he's—a-suspecting of something."

"What does he suspect?"

"I think he's a-thinking that perhaps you are having a jolly time of it." Richard had known his master many years, and could almost read his inmost thoughts. "I don't say as it so, but that's what I am thinking."

"You tell him I ain't. You tell him I've a bad bilious headache, and that the air in the garden does it good. You tell him that I mean to have something to eat up-stairs when my head is better; and do you mind and let me have it, and a bottle of claret."

With this the butler went back, and so did Arbuthnot, after asking one other question: "I'm so sorry it isn't all serene with Miss Mountjoy?"

"It isn't then. Don't mind now, but it isn't serene. Don't say a word about her; but she has done me. I think I shall get leave of absence and go away for two months. You'll have to do all the riding, old fellow. I shall go,—but I don't know where I shall go. You return to them now, and tell them I've such a bilious headache I don't know which way to turn myself."

Arbuthnot went back, and found Sir Magnus quarrelling grievously with the butler. "I don't think he's doing anything as he shouldn't," the butler whispered, having seen into his master's mind.

"What do you mean by that?"

"Do let the matter drop," said Lady Mountjoy, who had also seen into her husband's mind, and saw, moreover, that the butler had done so. "A young man's dinner isn't worth all this bother."

"I won't let the matter drop. What does he mean when he says that he isn't doing anything that he shouldn't? I've never said anything about what he was doing."

"He isn't dressed, Sir Magnus. He finds himself a little better now, and means to have something up-stairs." Then there came an awful silence, during which the dinner was eaten. Sir Magnus knew nothing of the truth, simply suspecting the headache to be a myth. Lady Mountjoy, with a woman's quickness, thought that there had been some words between Florence and her late lover, and, as she disliked Florence, was inclined to throw all the blame upon her. A word had been said to Mrs. Mountjoy,—"I don't think he'll trouble me any more, mamma,"—which Mrs. Mountjoy did not quite understand, but which she connected with the young man's absence. But Florence understood it all, and liked Mr. Anderson the better. Could it really be that for love of her he would lose his dinner? Could it be that he was so grievously afflicted at the loss of a girl's heart? There he was, walking out in the dark and the cold, half-famished, all because she loved Harry Annesley so well that there could be no chance for him! Girls believe so little in the truth of the love of men that any sign of its reality touches them to the core. Poor Hugh Anderson! A tear came into her eye as she thought that he was wandering there in the dark, and all for the love of her. The rest of the dinner passed away in silence, and Sir Magnus hardly became cordial and communicative with M. Grascour, even under the influence of his wine.

On the next morning just before lunch Florence was waylaid by Mr. Anderson as she was passing along one of the passages in the back part of the house. "Miss Mountjoy," he said, "I want to ask from your great goodness the indulgence of a few words."

"Certainly."

"Could you come into the garden?"

"If you will give me time to go and change my boots and get a shawl. We ladies are not ready to go out always, as are you gentlemen."

"Anywhere will do. Come in here," and he led the way into a small parlor which was not often used.

"I was so sorry to hear last night that you were unwell, Mr. Anderson."

"I was not very well, certainly, after what I had heard before dinner." He did not tell her that he so far recovered as to be able to drink a bottle of claret and to smoke a couple of cigars in his bedroom. "Of course you remember what took place yesterday."

"Remember! Oh yes. I shall not readily forget it."

"I made you a promise—"

"You did—very kindly."

"And I mean to keep it."

"I'm sure you do, because you're a gentleman."

"I don't think I ought to have made it."

"Oh, Mr. Anderson!"

"I don't think I ought. See what I am giving up."

"Nothing, except the privilege of troubling me."

"But if it should be something else? Do not be angry with me, but, loving you as I do, of course my mind is full of it. I have promised, and must be dumb."

"And I shall be spared great vexation."

"But suppose I were to hear that in six months' time you had married some one else?"

"Mr. Annesley, you mean. Not in six months."

"Somebody else. Not Mr. Annesley."

"There is nobody else."

"But there might be."

"It is impossible. After all that I told you, do not you understand?"

"But if there were?" The poor man, as he made the suggestion, looked very piteous. "If there were, I think you should promise me I shall be that somebody else. That would be no more than fair."

She paused a moment to think, frowning the while. "Certainly not."

"Certainly not?"

"I can make no such promise, nor should you ask it. I am to promise that under certain circumstances I would become your wife, when I know that under no circumstances I would do so."

"Under no circumstances?"

"Under none. What would you have me say, Mr. Anderson? Supposing yourself engaged to marry a girl—"

"I wish I were—to you."

"To a girl who loved you, and whom you loved?"

"There's no doubt about my loving her."

"You can follow my meaning, and I wish that you would do so. What would you think if you were to hear that she had promised to marry some one else in the event of your deserting her? It is out of the question. I mean to be the wife of Harry Annesley. Say that it is not to be so, and you will simply destroy me. Of one thing I may be sure,—that I will marry him or nobody. You promised me, not because your promise was necessary for that, but to spare me from trouble till that time shall come. And I am grateful,—very grateful." Then she left him suffering from another headache.

"Was there anything said between you and Mr. Anderson yesterday?" her aunt inquired, that afternoon.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because it is necessary that I should know."

"I do not see the necessity. Mr. Anderson has, at any rate, your permission to say what he likes to me, but I am not on that account bound to tell you all that he does say. But I will tell you. He has promised to trouble me no farther. I told him that I was engaged to Mr. Annesley, and he, like a gentleman, has assured me that he will desist."

"Just because you asked him?"

"Yes, aunt; just because I asked him."

"He will not be bound by such a promise for a moment. It is a thing not to be heard of. If that kind of thing is to go on, any young lady will be entitled to ask any young gentleman not to say a word of marriage, just at her request."

"Some of the young ladies would not care for that, perhaps."

"Don't be impertinent."

"I should not, for one, aunt; only that I am already engaged."

"And of course the young ladies would be bound to make such requests, which would go for nothing at all. I never heard of anything so monstrous. You are not only to have the liberty of refusing, but are to be allowed to bind a gentleman not to ask!"

"He has promised."

"Pshaw! It means nothing."

"It is between him and me. I asked him because I wished to save myself from being troubled."

"As for that other man, my dear, it is quite out of the question. From all that I hear, it is on the cards that he may be arrested and put into prison. I am quite sure that at any rate he deserves it. The letters which Sir Magnus gets about him are fearful. The things that he has done,—well, penal servitude for life would be the proper punishment. And it will come upon him sooner or later. I never knew a man of that kind escape. And you now to come and tell us that you intend to be his wife!"

"I do," said Florence, bobbing her head.

"And what your uncle says to you has no effect?"

"Not the least in the world; nor what my aunt says. I believe that neither the one nor the other know what they are talking about. You have been defaming a gentleman of the highest character, a Fellow of a college, a fine-hearted, noble, high-spirited man, simply because—because—because—" Then she burst into tears and rushed out of the room; but she did not break down before she had looked at her aunt, and spoken to her aunt with a fierce indignation which had altogether served to silence Lady Mountjoy for the moment.



PART II.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

MR. BARRY.

"Good-bye, sir. You ought not to be angry with me. I am sure it will be better for us both to remain as we are." This was said by Miss Dorothy Grey, as a gentleman departed from her and made his way out of the front-door at the Fulham Manor-house. Miss Grey had received an offer of marriage, and had declined it. The offer had been made by a worthy man, he being no other than her father's partner, Mr. Barry.

It may be remembered that, on discussing the affairs of the firm with her father, Dolly Grey had been accustomed to call this partner "the Devil." It was not that she had thought this partner to be specially devilish, nor was he so. It had ever been Miss Grey's object to have the affairs of the firm managed with an integrity which among lawyers might be called Quixotic. Her father she had dubbed "Reason," and herself "Conscience;" but in calling Mr. Barry "the Devil" she had not intended to signify any defalcation from honesty more than ordinary in lawyers' offices. She did, in fact, like Mr. Barry. He would occasionally come out and dine with her father. He was courteous and respectful, and performed his duties with diligence. He spent nobody's money but his own, and not all of that; nor did he look upon the world as a place to which men were sent that they might play. He was nearly forty years old, was clean, a little bald, and healthy in all his ways. There was nothing of a devil about him, except that his conscience was not peculiarly attentive to abstract honesty and abstract virtue. There must, according to him, be always a little "give and take" in the world; but in the pursuit of his profession he gave a great deal more than he took. He thought himself to be an honest practitioner, and yet in all domestic professional conferences with her father Mr. Barry had always been Miss Grey's "Devil."

The possibility of such a request as had been now made had been already discussed between Dolly and her father. Dolly had said that the idea was absurd. Mr. Grey had not seen the absurdity. There had been nothing more common, he had said, than that a young partner should marry an old partner's daughter. "It's not put into the partnership deed?" Dolly had rejoined. But Dolly had never believed that the time would come. Now it had come.

Mr. Barry had as yet possessed no more than a fourth of the business. He had come in without any capital, and had been contented with a fourth. He now suggested to Dolly that on their marriage the business should be equally divided. And he had named the house in which they would live. There was a pleasant, genteel residence on the other side of the water, at Putney. Miss Grey had suggested that the business might be divided in a manner that would be less burdensome to Mr. Barry. As for the house, she could not leave her father. Upon the whole, she had thought that it would be better for both of them that they should remain as they were. By that Miss Grey had not intended to signify that Mr. Barry was to remain single, but that he would have to do so in reference to Miss Grey.

When he was gone Dolly Grey spent the remainder of the afternoon in contemplating what would have been her condition had she agreed to join her lot to that of Mr. Barry, and she came to the conclusion that it would have been simply unendurable. There was nothing of romance in her nature; but as she looked at matrimony, with all its blisses,—and Mr. Barry among them,—she told herself that death would be preferable. "I know myself," she said. "I should come to hate him with a miserable hatred. And then I should hate myself for having done him so great an evil." And as she continued thinking she assured herself that there was but one man with whom she could live, and that that was her father. And then other questions presented themselves to her, which were not so easily answered. What would become of her when he should go? He was now sixty-six, and she was only thirty-two. He was healthy for his age, but would complain of his work. She knew that he must in course of nature go much the first. Ten years he might live, while she might probably be called upon to endure for thirty more. "I shall have to do it all alone," she said; "all alone; without a companion, without one soul to whom I can open my own. But if I were to marry Mr. Barry," she continued, "I should at once be encumbered with a soul to whom I could not open my own. I suppose I shall be enabled to live through it, as do others." Then she began to prepare for her father's coming. As long as he did remain with her she would make the most of him.

"Papa," she said, as she took him by the hand as he entered the house and led him into the dining-room,—"who do you think has been here?"

"Mr. Barry."

"Then he has told you?"

"Not a word,—not even that he was coming. But I saw him as he left the chambers, and he had on a bright hat and a new coat."

"And he thought that those could move me."

"I have not known that he has wanted to move you. You asked me to guess, and I have guessed right, it seems."

"Yes; you have guessed right."

"And why did he come?"

"Only to ask me to be his wife."

"And what did you say to him, Dolly?"

"What did I say to the Devil?" She still held him by the hand, and now she laughed lightly as she looked into his face. "Cannot you guess what I said to him?"

"I am sorry for it;—that's all."

"Sorry for it? Oh, papa, do not say that you are sorry. Do you want to lose me?"

"I do not want to think that for my own selfish purposes I have retained you. So he has asked you?"

"Yes; he has asked me."

"And you have answered him positively?"

"Most positively."

"And for my sake?"

"No, papa; I have not said that. I was joking when I asked whether you wished to lose me. Of course you do not want to lose me." Then she wound her arm round him, and put up her face to be kissed. "But now come and dress yourself, as you call it. The dinner is late. We will talk about it again after dinner."

But immediately after dinner the conversation went away to Mr. Scarborough and the Scarborough matters. "I am to see Augustus, and he is to tell me something about Mountjoy and his affairs. They say that Mountjoy is now in Paris. The money can be given to them now, if he will consent and will sign the deed releasing the property. But the men have not all as yet agreed to accept the simple sums which they advanced. That fellow Hart stands out, and says that he would sooner lose it all."

"Then he will lose it all," said Dolly.

"But the squire will consent to pay nothing unless they all agree. Augustus is talking about his excessive generosity."

"It is generous on his part," said Dolly.

"He sees his own advantage, though I cannot quite understand where. He tells Tyrrwhit that as there is so great an increase to the property he is willing, for the sake of the good name of the family, to pay all that has been in truth advanced; but he is most anxious to do it now, while his father is alive. I think he fears that there will be lawsuits, and that they may succeed. I doubt whether he thanks his father."

"But why should his father lie for his sake, since they are on such bad terms?"

"Because his father was on worse terms with Mountjoy when he told the lie. That is what I think Augustus thinks. But his father told no lie at that time, and cannot now go back to falsehood. My belief is that if he were confident that such is the fact he would not surrender a shilling to pay these men their moneys. He may stop a lawsuit, which is like enough, though they could only lose it. And if Mountjoy should turn out to be the heir, which is impossible, he will be able to turn round and say that by his efforts he had saved so much of the property."

"My head becomes so bewildered," said Dolly, "that I can hardly understand it yet."

"I think I understand it; but I can only guess at his mind. But he has got Tyrrwhit to accept forty thousand pounds, which is the sum he, in truth, advanced. The stake is too great for the man to lose it without ruin. He can get it back now, and save himself. But Hart is the more determined blackguard. He, with two others, has a claim for thirty-five thousand pounds, for which he has given but ten thousand pounds in hard cash, and he thinks that he may get some profit out of Tyrrwhit's money, and holds out."

"For how much?"

"For the entire debt, he tells me; but I know that he is trying to deal with Tyrrwhit. Tyrrwhit would pay him five thousand, I think, so as to secure the immediate payment of his own money. Then there are a host of others who are contented to take what they have advanced, but not contented if Hart is to have more. There are other men in the background who advanced the money. All the rascaldom of London is let loose upon me. But Hart is the one man who holds his head the highest."

"But if they will accept no terms they will get nothing," said Dolly. "If once they attempt to go to law all will be lost."

"There are wheels within wheels. When the old man dies Mountjoy himself will probably put in a claim to the entire estate, and will get some lawyer to take up the case for him."

"You would not?"

"Certainly not, because I know that Augustus is the eldest legitimate son. As far as I can make it out, Augustus is at present allowing Mountjoy the money on which he lives. His father does not. But the old man must know that Augustus does, though he pretends to be ignorant."

"But why is Hart to get money out of Tyrrwhit?"

"To secure the payment of the remainder. Mr. Tyrrwhit would be very glad to get his forty thousand pounds back; would pay five thousand pounds to get the forty back. But nothing will be paid unless they all agree to join in freeing the property. Therefore Hart, who is the sharpest rascal of the lot, stands out for some share of his contemplated plunder."

"And you must be joined in such an arrangement?"

"Not at all. I cannot help surmising what is to be done. In dealing with the funds of the property I go to the men, and say to them so much, and so much, and so much you have actually lost. Agree among yourselves to accept that, and it shall be paid to you. That is honest?"

"I do not know."

"But I do. Every shilling that the son of my client has had from them my client is ready to pay. There is some hitch among them, and I make my surmises. But I have no dealings with them. It is for them to come to me now." Dolly only shook her head. "You cannot touch pitch and not be defiled." That was what Dolly said, but said it to herself. And then she went on and declared to herself still farther, that Mr. Barry was pitch. She knew that Mr. Barry had seen Hart, and had seen Tyrrwhit, and had been bargaining with them. She excused her father because he was her father; but according to her thinking there should have been no dealings with such men as these, except at the end of a pair of tongs.

"And now, Dolly," said her father, after a long pause, "tell me about Mr. Barry."

"There is nothing more to be told."

"Not of what you said to him, but of the reasons which have made you so determined. Would it not be better for you to be married?"

"If I could choose my husband."

"Whom would you choose?"

"You."

"That is nonsense. I am your father."

"You know what I mean. There is no one else among my circle of acquaintances with whom I should care to live. There is no one else with whom I should care to do more than die. When I look at it all round it seems to be absolutely impossible. That I should on a sudden entertain habits of the closest intimacy with such a one as Mr. Barry! What should I say to him when he went forth in the morning? How should I welcome him when he came back at night? What would be our breakfast, and what would be our dinner? Think what are yours and mine,—all the little solicitudes, all the free abuse, all the certainty of an affection which has grown through so many years; all the absolute assurance on the part of each that the one does really know the inner soul of the other."

"It would come."

"With Mr. Barry? That is your idea of my soul with which you have been in communion for so many years? In the first place, you think that I am a person likely to be able to transfer myself suddenly to the first man that comes my way?"

"Gradually you might do so,—at any rate so as to make life possible. You will be all alone. Think what it will be to have to live all alone."

"I have thought. I do know that it would be well that you should be able to take me with you."

"But I cannot."

"No. There is the hardship. You must leave me, and I must be alone. That is what we have to expect. But for her sake, and for mine, we may be left while we can be left. What would you be without me? Think of that."

"I should bear it."

"You couldn't. You'd break your heart and die. And if you can imagine my living there, and pouring out Mr. Barry's tea for him, you must imagine also what I should have to say to myself about you. 'He will die, of course. But then he has come to that sort of age at which it doesn't much signify.' Then I should go on with Mr. Barry's tea. He'd come to kiss me when he went away, and I—should plunge a knife into him."

"Dolly!"

"Or into myself, which would be more likely. Fancy that man calling me Dolly." Then she got up and stood behind his chair and put her arm round his neck. "Would you like to kiss him?—or any man, for the matter of that? There is no one else to whom my fancy strays, but I think that I should murder them all,—or commit suicide. In the first place, I should want my husband to be a gentleman. There are not a great many gentlemen about."

"You are fastidious."

"Come now;—be honest; is our Mr. Barry a gentleman?" Then there was a pause, during which she waited for a reply. "I will have an answer. I have a right to demand an answer to that question, since you have proposed the man to me as a husband."

"Nay, I have not proposed him."

"You have expressed a regret that I have not accepted him. Is he a gentleman?"

"Well;—yes; I think he is."

"Mind; we are sworn, and you are bound to speak the truth. What right has he to be a gentleman? Who was his father and who was his mother? Of what kind were his nursery belongings? He has become an attorney, and so have you. But has there been any one to whisper to him among his teachings that in that profession, as in all others, there should be a sense of high honor to guide him? He must not cheat, or do anything to cause him to be struck off the rolls; but is it not with him what his client wants, and not what honor demands? And in the daily intercourse of life would he satisfy what you call my fastidiousness?"

"Nothing on earth will ever do that."

"You do. I agree with you that nothing else on earth ever will. The man who might, won't come. Not that I can imagine such a man, because I know that I am spoiled. Of course there are gentlemen, though not a great many. But he mustn't be ugly and he mustn't be good-looking. He mustn't seem to be old, and certainly he mustn't seem to be young. I should not like a man to wear old clothes, but he mustn't wear new. He must be well read, but never show it. He must work hard, but he must come home to dinner at the proper time." Here she laughed, and gently shook her head. "He must never talk about his business at night. Though, dear, darling old father, he shall do that if he will talk like you. And then, which is the hardest thing of all, I must have known him intimately for at any rate, ten years. As for Mr. Barry, I never should know him intimately, though I were married to him for ten years."

"And it has all been my doing?"

"Just so. You have made the bed and you must lie on it. It hasn't been a bad bed."

"Not for me. Heaven knows it has not been bad for me."

"Nor for me, as things go; only that there will come an arousing before we shall be ready to get up together. Your time will probably be the first. I can better afford to lose you than you to lose me."

"God send that it shall be so!"

"It is nature," she said. "It is to be expected, and will on that account be the less grievous because it has been expected. I shall have to devote myself to those Carroll children. I sometimes think that the work of the world should not be made pleasant to us. What profit will it be to me to have done my duty by you? I think there will be some profit if I am good to my cousins."

"At any rate, you won't have Mr. Barry?" said the father.

"Not if I know it," said the daughter; "and you, I think, are a wicked old man to suggest it." Then she bade him good-night and went to bed, for they had been talking now till near twelve.

But Mr. Barry, when he had gone home, told himself that he had progressed in his love-suit quite as far as he had expected on the first opportunity. He went over the bridge and looked at the genteel house, and resolved as to certain little changes which should be made. Thus one room should look here, and the nursery should look there. The walk to the railway would only take five minutes, and there would be five minutes again from the Temple Station in London. He thought it would do very well for domestic felicity. And as for a fortune, half the business would not be bad. And then the whole business would follow, and he in his turn would be enabled to let some young fellow in who should do the greater part of the work and take the smaller part of the pay, as had been the case with himself.

But it had not occurred to him that the young lady had meant what she said when she refused him. It was the ordinary way with young ladies. Of course he had expected no enthusiasm of love;—nor had he wanted it. He would wait for three weeks and then he would go to Fulham again.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

MR. JUNIPER.

Though there was an air of badinage, almost of tomfoolery, about Dolly when she spoke of her matrimonial prospects to her father,—as when she said that she would "stick a knife" into Mr. Barry,—still there was a seriousness in all she said which was more than grave. She was pathetic and melancholy. She knew that there was nothing before her but to stay with her father, and then to devote herself to her cousins, from whom she was aware that she recoiled almost with hatred. And she knew that it would be a good thing to be married,—if only the right man would come. The right man would have to bear with her father, and live in the same house with him to the end. The right man must be a preux chevalier sans peur et sans reproche. The right man must be strong-minded and masterful, and must have a will of his own; but he must be strong-minded always for good. And where was she to find such a man as this? she who was only an attorney's daughter,—plain, too, and with many eccentricities. She was not intended to marry, and consequently the only man who came in her way was her father's partner, for whom, in regard to a share in the business, she might be desirable.

Devotion to the Carroll cousins was manifestly her duty. The two eldest girls she absolutely did hate, and their father. To hate the father, because he was vicious beyond cure, might be very well; but she could not hate the girls without being aware that she was guilty of a grievous sin. Every taste possessed by them was antagonistic to her. Their amusements, their literature, their clothes, their manners,—especially in regard to men,—their gestures and color, were distasteful to her. "They hide their dirt with a thin veneer of cheap finery," said Dolly to her father. He had replied by telling her that she was nasty. "No; but, unfortunately, I cannot but see nastiness." Dolly herself was clean to fastidiousness. Take off her coarse frock, and there the well-dressed lady began. "Look at the heels of Sophie's boots! Give her a push, and she'd fall off her pins as though they were stilts. They're always asking to have a shoemaker's bill paid, and yet they won't wear stout boots." "I'll pay the man," she said to Amelia one day, "if you'll promise to wear what I'll buy you for the next six months." But Amelia had only turned up her nose. These were the relatives to whom it would become her duty to devote her life!

The next morning she started off to call in Bolsover Terrace with an intention, not to begin her duty, but to make a struggle at the adequate performance of it. She took with her some article of clothing intended for one of the younger children, but which the child herself was to complete. But when she entered the parlor she was astounded at finding that Mr. Carroll was there. It was nearly twelve o'clock, and at that time Mr. Carroll never was there. He was either in bed, or at Tattersall's, or—Dolly did not care where. She had long since made up her mind that there must be a permanent quarrel between herself and her uncle, and her desire was generally respected. Now, unfortunately, he was present, and with him were his wife and two elder daughters. To be devoted, thought Dolly to herself, to such a family as this,—and without anybody else in the world to care for! She gave her aunt a kiss, and touched the girls' hands, and made a very distant bow to Mr. Carroll. Then she began about the parcel in her hands, and, having given her instructions, was preparing to depart.

But her aunt stopped her. "I think you ought to know, Dorothea."

"Certainly," said Mr. Carroll. "It is quite right that your cousin should know."

"If you think it proper, I'm sure I can't object," said Amelia.

"She won't approve, I'm sure," said Sophie.

"Her young man has come forward and spoken," said Mr. Carroll.

"And quite in a proper spirit," said Amelia.

"Of course," said Mrs. Carroll, "we are not to expect too much. Though we are respectable in birth, and all that, we are poor. Mr. Carroll has got nothing to give her."

"I've been the most unfortunate man in the world," said Mr. Carroll.

"We won't talk about that now," continued Mrs. Carroll. "Here we are without anything."

"You have decent blood," said Dolly; "at any rate on one side,"—for she did not believe in the Carrolls.

"On both,—on both," said Mr. Carroll, rising up, and putting his hand upon his heart. "I can boast of royal blood among my ancestors."

"But here we are without anything," said Mrs. Carroll again. "Mr. Juniper is a most respectable man."

"He has been attached to some of the leading racing establishments in the kingdom," said Mr. Carroll. Dolly had heard of Mr. Juniper as a trainer, though she did not accurately know what a trainer meant.

"He is almost as great a man as the owner, for the matter of that," said Amelia, standing up for her lover.

"He is not to say young,—perhaps forty," said Mrs. Carroll, "and he has a very decent house of his own at Newmarket." Dolly immediately began to think whether this might be for the better or for the worse. Newmarket was a long way off, and the girl would be taken away; and it might be a good thing to dispose of one of such a string of daughters, even to Mr. Juniper. Of course there would be the disagreeable nature of the connection. But, as Dolly had once said to her father, their share of the world's burdens had to be borne, and this was one of them. Her first cousin must marry the trainer. She, who had spoken so enthusiastically about gentlemen, must put up with it. She knew that Mr. Juniper was but a small man in his own line, but she would never disown him by word of mouth. He should be her cousin Juniper. But she did hope that she might not be called upon to see him frequently. After all, he might be much more respectable than Mr. Carroll.

"I am glad he has a house of his own," said Dolly.

"It is a much better house than Fulham Manor," said Amelia.

Dolly was angered, not at the comparison between the houses, but at the ingratitude and insolence of the girl. "Very well," said she, addressing herself to her aunt; "if her parents are contented, of course it is not for me or for papa to be discontented. The thing to think of is the honesty of the man and his industry,—not the excellence of the house."

"But you seemed to think that we were to live in a pigsty," said Amelia.

"Mr. Juniper stands very high on the turf," said Mr. Carroll. "Mr. Leadabit's horses have always run straight, and Mousetrap won the Two-year-old Trial Stakes last spring, giving two pounds to Box-and-Cox. A good-looking, tall fellow. You remember seeing him here once last summer." This was addressed to Miss Grey; but Miss Grey had made up her mind never to exchange a word with Mr. Carroll.

"When is it to be, my dear?" said Miss Grey, turning to the ladies, but intending to address herself to Amelia. She had already made up her mind to forgive the girl for her insolence about the house. If the girl was to be taken away, there was so much the more reason for forgiving her that and other things.

"Oh! I thought that you did not mean to speak to me at all," said Amelia. "I supposed the cut was to be extended from papa to me."

"Amelia, how can you be so silly?" said the mother.

"If you think I'm going to put up with that kind of thing, you're mistaken," said Amelia. She had got not only a lover but a husband in prospect, and was much superior to her cousin,—who had neither one or the other, as far as she was aware. "Mr. Juniper, with an excellent house and a plentiful income, is quite good enough for me, though he hasn't got any regal ancestors." She did not intend to laugh at her father, but was aware that something had been said about ancestors by her cousin. "A gentleman who has the management of horses is almost the same as owning them."

"But when is it to be?" again asked Dolly.

"That depends a little upon my brother," said Mrs. Carroll, in a voice hardly above a whisper. "Mr. Juniper has spoken about a day."

"Then it will depend chiefly on himself and the young lady, I suppose?"

"Well, Dorothea, there are money difficulties. There's no denying it."

"I wish I could shower gold into her lap," said Mr. Carroll, "only for the accursed conventionalities of the world."

"Bother, papa!" said Sophia.

"It will be the last of it, as far as I am concerned," said Amelia.

"Mr. Juniper has said something about a few hundred pounds," said Mrs. Carroll. "It isn't much that he wants."

Then Miss Grey spoke in a severe tone. "You must speak to my father about that."

"I am not to have your good word, I suppose," said Amelia. Human flesh and blood could not but remember all that had been done, and always with her consent. "Five hundred pounds is not a great deal for portioning off a girl when that is to be the last that she is ever to have." One of six nieces whose father and mother were maintained, and that without the slightest claim! It was so that Dorothy argued; but her arguments were kept to her own bosom. "But I must trust to my dear uncle. I see that I am not to have a word from you."

The matter was now becoming serious. Here was the eldest girl, one of six daughters, putting in her claim for five hundred pounds portion. This would amount to three thousand pounds for the lot, and, as the process of marrying them went on, they would all have to be maintained as at present. What with their school expenses and their clothes, the necessary funds for the Carroll family amounted to six hundred pounds a year. That was the regular allowance, and there were others whenever Mr. Carroll wanted a pair of trousers. And Dolly's acerbation was aroused by a belief on her part that the money asked for trousers took him generally to race-courses. And now five hundred pounds was boldly demanded so as to induce a groom to make one of the girls his wife! She almost regretted that in former years she had promised to assist her father in befriending the Carroll relations. "Perhaps, Dorothea, you won't mind stepping into my bedroom with me, just for a moment." This was said by Mrs. Carroll, and Dolly most unwillingly followed her aunt up-stairs.

"Of course I know all that you've got to say," began Mrs. Carroll.

"Then, aunt, why bring me in here?"

"Because I wish to explain things a little. Don't be ill-natured, Dorothea."

"I won't if I can help it."

"I know your nature, how good it is." Here Dorothy shook her head. "Only think of me and of my sufferings! I haven't come to this without suffering." Then the poor woman began to cry.

"I feel for you through it all,—I do," said Dolly.

"That poor man! To have to be always with him, and always doing my best to keep him out of mischief!"

"A man who will do nothing else must do harm."

"Of course he must. But what can he do now? And the children! I can see—of course I know that they are not all that they ought to be. But with six of them, and nobody but myself, how can I do it all? And they are his children as well as mine." Dolly's heart was filled with pity as she heard this, which she knew to be so true! "In answering you they have uppish, bad ways. They don't like to submit to one so near their own age."

"Not a word that has come from the mouth of one of them addressed to myself has ever done them any harm with my father. That is what you mean?"

"No,—but with yourself."

"I do not take anger—against them—out of the room with me."

"Now, about Mr. Juniper."

"The question is one much too big for me. Am I to tell my father?"

"I was thinking that—if you would do so!"

"I cannot tell him that he ought to find five hundred pounds for Mr. Juniper."

"Perhaps four would do."

"Nor can I ask him to drive a bargain."

"How much would he give her—to be married?"

"Why should he give her anything? He feeds her and gives her clothes. It is only fit that the truth should be explained to you. Girls so circumstanced, when they are clothed and fed by their own fathers, must be married without fortunes or must remain unmarried. As Sophie, and Georgina, and Minna, and Brenda come up, the same requests will be made."

"Poor Potsey!" said the mother. For Potsey was a plain girl.

"If this be done for Amelia, must it not be done for all of them? Papa is not a rich man, but he has been very generous. Is it fair to ask him for five hundred pounds to give to—Mr. Juniper?"

"A gentleman nowadays does not like not to get something."

"Then a gentleman must go where something is to be got. The truth has to be told, Aunt Carroll. My father is willing enough to do what he can for you and the girls, but I do not think that he will give five hundred pounds to Mr. Juniper."

"It is once for all. Four hundred pounds, perhaps, would do."

"I do not think that he can make a bargain, nor that he will pay any sum to Mr. Juniper."

"To get one of them off would be so much! What is to become of them? To have one married would be the way for others. Oh, Dorothy, if you would only think of my condition! I know your papa will do what you tell him."

Dolly felt that her father would be more likely to do it if she were not to interfere at all; but she could not say that. She did feel the request to be altogether unreasonable. She struggled to avert from her own mind all feeling of dislike for the girl, and to look at it as she might have done if Amelia had been her special friend.

"Aunt Carroll," she said, "you had better go up to London and see my father there—in his chambers. You will catch him if you go at once."

"Alone?"

"Yes, alone. Tell him about the girl's marriage, and let him judge what he ought to do."

"Could not you come with me?"

"No. You don't understand. I have to think of his money. He can say what he will do with his own."

"He will never give it without coming to you."

"He never will if he does come to me. You may prevail with him. A man may throw away his own money as he pleases. I cannot tell him that he ought to do it. You may say that you have told me, and that I have sent you to him. And tell him, let him do what he will, that I shall find no fault with him. If you can understand me and him you will know that I can do nothing for you beyond that." Then Dolly took her leave and went home.

The mother, turning it all over in her mind, did understand something of her niece, and went off to London as quick as the omnibus could take her. There she did see her brother, and he came back, in consequence, to dinner a little earlier than usual.

"Why did you send my sister to me?" were the first words which he said to Dolly.

"Because it was your business, and not mine."

"How dare you separate my business and yours? What do you think I have done?"

"Given the young lady five hundred pounds down on the nail."

"Worse than that."

"Worse?"

"Much worse. But why did you send my sister to my chambers?"

"But what have you done, papa? You don't mean that you have given the shark more than he demands?"

"I don't know that he's a shark. Why shouldn't the man want five hundred pounds with his wife? Mr. Barry would want much more with you, and would be entitled to ask for much more."

"You are my father."

"Yes; but those poor girls have been taught to look upon me almost as their father."

"But what have you done?"

"I have promised them each three hundred and fifty pounds on their wedding day,—three hundred pounds to go to their husbands, and fifty pounds for wedding expenses,—on condition that they marry with my approval. I shall not be so hard to please for them as for you."

"And you have approved of Mr. Juniper?"

"I have already set on foot inquiries down at Newmarket; and I have made an exception in favor of Mr. Juniper. He is to have four hundred and fifty pounds. Jane only asked four hundred pounds to begin with. You are not to find fault with me."

"No; that is part of the bargain. I wonder whether my aunt knew what a thoroughly good-natured thing I did. We must have no more puddings now, and you must come down by the omnibus."

"It is not quite so bad as that, Dolly."

"When one has given away one's money extravagantly one ought to be made to feel the pinch one's self. But dear, dear, darling old man! why shouldn't you give away your money as you please? I don't want it. I am not in the least afraid but what there will be plenty for me. But when the girl talks about her five hundred pounds so glibly, as though she had a right to expect it, and spoke of this jockey with such inward pride of heart—"

"A girl ought to be proud of her husband."

"Your niece ought not to be proud of marrying a groom. But she angered me, and so did my aunt,—though I pitied her. Then I reflected that they could get nothing from me in my anger,—not even a promise of a good word. So I sent her to you. It was, at any rate, the best thing I could do for them." Mr. Grey thought that it was.



CHAPTER XXXV.

MR. BARRY AND MR. JUNIPER.

The joy in Bolsover Terrace was intense when Mrs. Carroll returned home. "We are all to have three hundred and fifty pound fortunes when we get husbands!" said Georgina, anticipating at once the pleasures of matrimony.

"I am to have four hundred and fifty," said Amelia. "I do think he might have made it five hundred pounds. If I had it to give away, I never would show the cloven foot about the last fifty pounds!"

"But he's only to have four hundred pounds," said Sophia. "Your things are to be bought with the other fifty pounds."

"I never can do it for fifty pounds," said Amelia. "I did not expect that I was to find my own trousseau out of my own fortune."

"Girls, how can you be so ungrateful?" said their mother.

"I'm not ungrateful, mamma," said Potsey. "I shall be very much obliged when I get my three hundred and fifty pounds. How long will it be?"

"You've got to find the young man first, Potsey. I don't think you'll ever do that," said Georgina, who was rather proud of her own good looks.

This took place on the evening of the day on which Mrs. Carroll had gone to London, where Mr. Carroll was about attending to some of those duties of conviviality in the performance of which he was so indefatigable. On the following morning at twelve o'clock he was still in bed. It was a well-known fact in the family that on such an occasion he would lie in bed, and that before twelve o'clock he would have managed to extract from his wife's little hoardings at any rate two bottles of soda-water and two glasses of some alcoholic mixture which was generally called brandy. "I'll have a gin-and-potash, Sophie," he had said on this occasion, with reference to the second dose, "and do make haste. I wish you'd go yourself, because that girl always drinks some of the sperrits."

"What! go to the gin-shop?"

"It's a most respectable publican's,—just round the corner."

"Indeed, I shall do nothing of the kind. You've no feeling about your daughters at all!" But Sophie went on her errand, and in order to protect her father's small modicum of "sperrits" she slipped on her cloak and walked out so as to be able to watch the girl. Still, I think that the maiden managed to get a sip as she left the bar. The father, in the mean-time with his head between his hands, was ruminating on the "cocked-up way which girls have who can't do a turn for their father."

But with the gin-and-potash, and with Sophie, Mr. Juniper made his appearance. He was a well-featured, tall man, but he looked the stable and he smelled of it. His clothes, no doubt, were decent, but they were made by some tailor who must surely work for horsey men and no others. There is a class of men who always choose to show by their outward appearance that they belong to horses, and they succeed. Mr. Juniper was one of them. Though good-looking he was anything but young, verging by appearance on fifty years.

"So he has been at it again, Miss Sophie," said Juniper. Sophie, who did not like being detected in the performance of her filial duties, led the way in silence into the house, and disappeared up-stairs with the gin-and-potash. Mr. Juniper turned into the parlor, where was Mrs. Carroll with the other girls. She was still angry, as angry as she could be, with her husband, who on being informed that morning of what his wife had done had called her brother "a beastly, stingy old beau," because he had cut Amelia off with four hundred and fifty instead of five hundred pounds. Mr. Carroll probably knew that Mr. Juniper would not take his daughter without the entirety of the sum stipulated, and would allow no portion of it to be expended on wedding-dresses.

"Oh, Dick, is this you?" said Amelia. "I suppose you've come for your news." (Mr. Juniper's Christian-name was Richard.) On this occasion he showed no affectionate desire to embrace his betrothed.

"Yes, it's me," he said, and then gave his hand all round, first to Mrs. Carroll and then to the girls.

"I've seen Mr. Grey," said Mrs. Carroll. But Dick Juniper held his tongue and sat down and twiddled his hat.

"Where have you come from?" asked Georgina.

"From the Brompton Road. I come down on a 'bus."

"You've come from Tattersall's, young man!" said Amelia.

"Then I just didn't!" But to tell the truth he had come from Tattersall's, and it might be difficult to follow up the workings of his mind and find out why he had told the lie. Of course it was known that when in London much of his business was done at Tattersall's. But the horsey man is generally on the alert to take care that no secret of his trade escapes from him unawares. And it may be that he was thus prepared for a gratuitous lie.

"Uncle's gone a deal father than ever I expected," said Amelia.

"He's been most generous to all the girls," said Mrs. Carroll, moved nearly to tears.

Mr. Juniper did not care very much about "all the girls," thinking that the uncle's affection at the present moment should be shown to the one girl who had found a husband, and thinking also that if the husband was to be secured, the proper way of doing so would be by liberality to him. Amelia had said that her uncle had gone farther than she expected. Mr. Juniper concluded from this that he had not gone as far as he had been asked, and boldly resolved, at the spur of the moment, to stand by his demand. "Five hundred pounds ain't much," he said.

"Dick, don't make a beast of yourself!" said Amelia. Upon this Dick only smiled.

He continually twiddled his hat for three or four minutes, and then rose up straight. "I suppose," said he, "I had better go up-stairs and talk to the old man. I seed Miss Sophie taking a pick-up to him, so I suppose he'll be able to talk."

"Why shouldn't he talk?" said Mrs. Carroll. But she quite understood what Mr. Juniper's words were intended to imply.

"It don't always follow," said Juniper, as he walked out of the room.

"Now there'll be a row in the house;—you see if there isn't!" said Amelia. But Mrs. Carroll expressed her opinion that the man must be the most ungrateful of creatures if he kicked up a row on the present occasion. "I don't know so much about that, mamma," said Amelia.

Mr. Juniper walked up-stairs with heavy, slow steps, and knocked at the door of the marital chamber. There are men who can't walk up-stairs as though to do so were an affair of ordinary life. They perform the task as though they walked up-stairs once in three years. It is to be presumed that such men always sleep on the ground-floor, though where they find their bed-rooms it is hard to say. Mr. Juniper was admitted by Sophie, who stepped out as he went in. "Well, old fellow! B.—and—S., and plenty of it. That's the ticket, eh?"

"I did have a little headache this morning. I think it was the cigars."

"Very like,—and the stuff as washed 'em down. You haven't got any more of the same, have you?"

"I'm uncommonly sorry," said the sick man, rising up on his elbow, "but I'm afraid there is not. To tell the truth, I had the deuce of a job to get this from the old woman."

"It don't matter," said the impassive Mr. Juniper, "only I have been down among the 'orses at the yard till my throat is full of dust. So your lady has been and seen her brother?"

"Yes; she's done that."

"Well?"

"He ain't altogether a bad un—isn't old Grey. Of course he's an attorney."

"I never think much of them chaps."

"There's good and bad, Juniper. No doubt my brother-in-law has made a little money."

"A pot of it,—if all they say's true."

"But all they say isn't true. All they say never is true."

"I suppose he's got something?"

"Yes, he's got something."

"And how is it to be?"

"He's given the girl four hundred pounds on the nail,"—upon this Mr. Juniper turned up his nose,—"and fifty pounds for her wedding-clothes."

"He'd better let me have that."

"Girls think so much of it,"—Mr. Juniper only shook his head,—"and, upon my word, it's more than she had a right to expect."

"It ain't what she had a right to expect; but I,"—here Mr. Carroll shook his head,—"I said five hundred pounds out, and I means to hold by it. That's about it. If he wants to get the girl married, why—he must open his pocket. It isn't very much that I'm asking. I'm that sort of a fellow that, if I didn't want it, I'd take her without a shilling."

"But you are that sort of fellow that always does want it."

"I wants it now. It's better to speak out, ain't it? I must have the five hundred pounds before I put my neck into the noose, and there must be no paring off for petticoats and pelisses."

"And Mr. Grey says that he must make inquiries into character," said Carroll.

"Into what?"

"Into character. He isn't going to give his money without knowing something about the man."

"I'm all straight at Newmarket. I ain't going to stand any inquiries into me, you know. I can stand inquiries better than some people. He's got a partner named Barry, ain't he?"

"There is such a gentleman. I don't know much about the business ways of my respected brother-in-law. Mr. Barry is, I believe, a good sort of a man."

"It's he as is acting for Captain Scarborough."

"Is it, now? It may be, for anything I know."

Then there came a long conversation, during which Mr. Juniper told some details of his former life, and expressed himself very freely upon certain points. It appeared that in the event of Mr. Scarborough having died, as was expected, in the course of the early summer, and of Captain Scarborough succeeding to the property in the accustomed manner, Mr. Juniper would have been one of those who would have come forward with a small claim upon the estate. He had lent, he said, a certain sum of money to help the captain in his embarrassment, and expected to get it back again. Now, latterly inquiries had been made very disagreeable in their nature to Mr. Juniper; but Mr. Juniper, seeing how the the land lay,—to use his own phrase,—consented only to accept so much as he had advanced. "It don't make much difference to me," he had said. "Let me have the three hundred and fifty pounds which the captain got in hard money." Then the inquiries were made by Mr. Barry,—that very Mr. Barry to whom subsequent inquiries were committed,—and Mr. Barry could not satisfy himself as to the three hundred and fifty pounds which the captain was said to have got in hard money. There had been words spoken which seemed to Mr. Juniper to make it very inexpedient,—and we may say very unfair,—that these farther inquiries into his character as a husband should be intrusted to the same person. He regarded Mr. Barry as an enemy to the human race, from whom, in the general confusion of things, no plunder was to be extracted. Mr Barry had asked for the check by which the three hundred and fifty pounds had been paid to Captain Scarborough in hard cash. There had been no check, Mr. Juniper had said. Such a small sum as that had been paid in notes at Newmarket. He said that he could not, or, rather, that he would not, produce any evidence as to the money. Mr. Barry had suggested that even so small a sum as three hundred and fifty pounds could not have come and could not have gone without leaving some trace. Mr. Juniper very indignantly had referred to an acknowledgment on a bill-stamp for six hundred pounds which he had filled in, and which the captain had undoubtedly signed. "It's not worth the paper it's written on," Mr. Barry had said.

"We'll see about that," said Mr. Juniper. "As soon as the breath is out of the old squire's body we'll see whether his son is to repudiate his debts in that way. Ain't that the captain's signature?" and he slapped the bill with his hand.

The old ceremony was gone through of explaining that the captain had no right to a shilling of the property. It had become an old ceremony now. "Mr. Augustus Scarborough is going to pay out of his own good will only those sums of the advance of which he has indisputable testimony."

"Ain't he my testimony of this?" said Mr. Juniper.

"This bill is for six hundred pounds."

"In course it is."

"Why don't you say you advanced him five hundred and fifty pounds instead of three hundred and fifty pounds?"

"Because I didn't."

"Why do you say three hundred and fifty pounds instead of one hundred and fifty pounds?"

"Because I did."

"Then we have only your bare word. We are not going to pay any one a shilling on such a testimony." Then Mr. Juniper had sworn an awful oath that he would have every man bearing the name of Scarborough hanged. But Mr. Barry's firm did not care much for any law proceedings which might be taken by Mr. Juniper alone. No law proceedings would be taken. The sum to be regained would not be worth the while of any lawyer to insure the hopeless expense of fighting such a battle. It would be shown in court, on Mr. Barry's side, that the existing owner of the estate, out of his own generosity, had repaid all sums of money as to which evidence existed that they had been advanced to the unfortunate illegitimate captain. They would appear with clean hands; but poor Mr. Juniper would receive the sympathy of none. Of this Mr. Juniper had by degrees become aware, and was already looking on his claim on the Scarborough property as lost. And now, on this other little affair of his, on this matrimonial venture, it was very hard that inquiries as to his character should be referred to the same Mr. Barry.

"I'm d—— if I stand it!" he said, thumping his fist down on Mr. Carroll's bed, on which he was sitting.

"It isn't any of my doing. I'm on the square with you."

"I don't know so much about that."

"What have I done? Didn't I send her to the girl's uncle, and didn't she get from him a very liberal promise?"

"Promises! Why didn't he stump up the rhino? What's the good of promises? There's as much to do about a beggarly five hundred pounds as though it were fifty thousand pounds. Inquiries!" Of course he knew very well what that meant. "It's a most ungentlemanlike thing for one gentleman to take upon himself to make inquiries about another. He is not the girl's father. What right has he to make inquiries?"

"I didn't put it into his head," said Carroll, almost sobbing.

"He must be a low-bred, pettifogging lawyer."

"He is a lawyer," said Carroll, on whose mind the memory of the great benefit he had received had made some impression. "I have admitted that."

"Pshaw!"

"But I don't think he's pettifogging; not Mr. Grey. Four hundred pounds down, with fifty pounds for dress, and the same, or most the same, to all the girls, isn't pettifogging. If you ever comes to have a family, Juniper—"

"I ain't in the way."

"But when you are, and there comes six of 'em, you won't find an uncle pettifogging when he speaks out like Mr. Grey."

The conversation was carried on for some time farther, and then Mr. Juniper left the house without again visiting the ladies. His last word was that if inquiries were made into him they might all go to—Bath! If the money were forthcoming, they would know where to find him; but it must be five hundred pounds "square," with no parings made from it on behalf of petticoats and pelisses. With this last word Mr. Juniper stamped down the stairs and out of the house.

"He's a brute, after all!" said Sophie.

"No, he isn't. What do you know about brutes? Of course a gentleman has to make the best fight he can for his money." This was what Amelia said at the moment; but in the seclusion of their own room she wept bitterly. "Why didn't he come in to see me and just give me one word? I hadn't done anything amiss. It wasn't my fault if Uncle John is stingy."

"And he isn't so very stingy, after all," said Sophie.

"Of course papa hasn't got anything, and wouldn't have anything, though you were to pour golden rivers into his lap."

"There are worse than papa," said Sophie.

"But he knows all that, and that our uncle isn't any more than an uncle. And why should he be so particular just about a hundred pounds? I do think gentlemen are the meanest creatures when they are looking after money! Ladies ain't half so bad. He'd no business to expect five hundred pounds all out."

This was very melancholy, and the house was kept in a state of silent sorrow for four or five days, till the result of the inquiries had come. Then there was weeping and gnashing of teeth. Mr. Barry came to Bolsover Terrace to communicate the result of the inquiry, and was shut up for half an hour with poor Mrs. Carroll. He was afraid that he could not recommend the match. "Oh, I'm sorry for that,—very sorry!" said Mrs. Carroll. "The young lady will be—disappointed." And her handkerchief went up to her eyes. Then there was silence for awhile, till she asked why an opinion so strongly condemnatory had been expressed.

"The gentleman, ma'am,—is not what a gentleman should be. You may take my word for it. I must ask you not to repeat what I say to him."

"Oh dear, no."

"But perhaps the least said the soonest mended. He is not what a gentleman should be."

"You mean a—fine gentleman."

"He is not what a man should be. I cannot say more than that. It would not be for the young lady's happiness that she should select such a partner for her life."

"She is very much attached to him."

"I am sorry that it should be so. But it will be better that she should—live it down. At any rate, I am bound to communicate to you Mr. Grey's decision. Though he does not at all mean to withhold his bounty in regard to any other proposed marriage, he cannot bring himself to pay money to Mr. Juniper."

"Nothing at all?" asked Mrs. Carroll.

"He will make no payment that will go into the pocket of Mr. Juniper."

Then Mr. Barry went, and there was weeping and wailing in the house in Bolsover Terrace. So cruel an uncle as Mr. Grey had never been heard of in history, or even in romance. "I know it's that old cat, Dolly," said Amelia. "Because she hasn't managed to get a husband for herself, she doesn't want any one else to get one."

"My poor child," said Mr. Carroll, in a maudlin condition, "I pity thee from the bottom of my heart!"

"I wish that Mr. Barry may be made to marry a hideous old maid past forty," said Georgina.

"I shouldn't care what they said, but would take him straight off," said Sophie.

Upon this Mrs. Carroll shook her head. "I don't suppose that he is quite all that he ought to be."

"Who is, I should like to know?" said Amelia.

"But my brother has to give his money according to his judgment." As she said this the poor woman thought of those other five who in process of time might become claimants. But here the whole family attacked her, and almost drove her to confess that her brother was a stingy old curmudgeon.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

"GURNEY & MALCOLMSON'S."

In Red Lion Square, on the first floor of a house which partakes of the general dinginess of the neighborhood, there are two rooms which bear on the outside door the well-sounding names of Gurney & Malcolmson; and on the front door to the street are the names of Gurney & Malcolmson, showing that the business transacted by Messrs. Gurney & Malcolmson outweighs in importance any others conducted in the same house. In the first room, which is the smaller of the two occupied, sits usually a lad, who passes most of his time in making up and directing circulars, so that a stranger might be led to suppose that the business of Gurney & Malcolmson was of an extended nature.

But on the occasion to which we are about to allude the door of the premises was closed, and the boy was kept on the alert posting, or perhaps delivering, the circulars which were continually issued. This was the place of business affected by Mr. Tyrrwhit, or at any rate one of them. Who were Gurney & Malcolmson it is not necessary that our chronicle should tell. No Gurney or no Malcolmson was then visible; and though a part of the business of the firm in which it is to be supposed that Gurney & Malcolmson were engaged was greatly discussed, their name on the occasion was never mentioned.

A meeting had been called at which the presiding genius was Mr. Tyrrwhit. You might almost be led to believe that, from the manner in which he made himself at home, Mr. Tyrrwhit was Gurney & Malcolmson. But there was another there who seemed to be almost as much at home as Mr. Tyrrwhit, and this was Mr. Samuel Hart, whom we last saw when he had unexpectedly made himself known to his friend the captain at Monaco. He had a good deal to say for himself; and as he sat during the meeting with his hat on, it is to be presumed that he was not in awe of his companions. Mr. Juniper also was there. He took a seat at one corner of the table, and did not say much. There was also a man who, in speaking of himself and his own affairs, always called himself Evans & Crooke. And there was one Spicer, who sat silent for the most part, and looked very fierce. In all matters, however, he appeared to agree with Mr. Tyrrwhit. He is especially named, as his interest in the matter discussed was large. There were three or four others, whose affairs were of less moment, though to them they were of intense interest. These gentlemen assembled were they who had advanced money to Captain Scarborough, and this was the meeting of the captain's creditors, at which they were to decide whether they were to give up their bonds on payment of the sums they had actually advanced, or whether they would stand out till the old squire's death, and then go to law with the owner of the estate.

At the moment at which we may be presumed to be introduced, Mr. Tyrrwhit had explained the matter in a nervous, hesitating manner, but still in words sufficiently clear. "There's the money down now if you like to take it, and I'm for taking it." These were the words with which Mr. Tyrrwhit completed his address.

"Circumstances is different," said the man with his hat on.

"I don't know much about that, Mr. Hart," said Tyrrwhit.

"Circumstances is different. I can't 'elp whether you know it or not."

"How different?"

"They is different,—and that's all about it. It'll perhaps shuit you and them other shentlemen to take a pershentage."

"It won't suit Evans & Crooke," said the man who represented that firm.

"But perhaps Messrs. Evans & Crooke may be willing to save so much of their property," said Mr. Tyrrwhit.

"They'd like to have what's due to 'em."

"We should all like that," said Spicer, and he gnashed his teeth and shook his head.

"But we can't get it all," said Tyrrwhit.

"Speak for yourself, Mr. Tyrrwhit," said Hart. "I think I can get mine. This is the most almighty abandoned swindle I ever met in all my born days." The whole meeting, except Mr. Tyrrwhit, received this assertion with loudly expressed applause. "Such a blackguard, dirty, thieving job never was up before in my time. I don't know 'ow to talk of it in language as a man isn't ashamed to commit himself to. It's downright robbery."

"I say so too," said Evans & Crooke.

"By George!" continued Mr. Hart, "we come forward to 'elp a shentleman in his trouble and to wait for our moneys till the father is dead, and then when 'e's 'ad our moneys the father turns round and says that 'is own son is a—Oh, it's too shocking! I 'aven't slept since I 'eard it,—not a regular night's rest. Now, it's my belief the captain 'as no 'and in it."

Here Mr. Juniper scratched his head and looked doubtful, and one or two of the other silent gentlemen scratched their heads. Messrs. Evans & Crooke scratched his head. "It's a matter on which I would not like to give an opinion one way or the other," said Tyrrwhit.

"No more wouldn't I," said Spicer.

"Let every man speak as he finds," continued Hart. "That's my belief. I don't mind giving up a little of my claim, just a thousand or so, for ready cash. The old sinner ought to be dead, and can't last long. My belief is when 'e's gone I'm so circumstanced I shall get the whole. Whether or no, I've gone in for 'elping the captain with all my savings, and I mean to stick to them."

"And lose everything," said Tyrrwhit.

"Why don't we go and lug the old sinner into prison?" said Evans & Crooke.

"Certainly that's the game," said Juniper, and there was another loud acclamation of applause from the entire room.

"Gentlemen, you don't know what you're talking about, you don't indeed," said Tyrrwhit.

"I don't believe as we do," said Spicer.

"You can't touch the old gentleman. He owes you nothing, nor have you a scratch of his pen. How are you to lug an old gentleman to prison when he's lying there cut up by the doctors almost to nothing? I don't know that anybody can touch him. The captain perhaps might, if the present story be false; and the younger son, if the other be true. And then they'd have to prove it. Mr. Grey says that no one can touch him."

"He's in the swim as bad as any of 'em," said Evans & Crooke.

"Of course he is," said Hart. "But let everybody speak for himself. I've gone in to 'earn a 'eavy stake honestly."

"That's all right," said Evans & Crooke.

"And I mean to 'ave it or nothing. Now, Mr. Tyrrwhit, you know a piece of my mind. It's a biggish lot of money."

"We know what your claim is."

"But no man knows what the captain got, and I don't mean 'em to know."

"About fifteen thousand," came in a whisper from some one in the room.

"That's a lie," said Mr. Hart; "so there's no getting out of that. If the shentleman will mind 'is own concerns I'll mind mine. Nobody knows,—barring the captain, and he like enough has forgot,—and nobody's going to know. What's written on these eight bits of paper everybody may know," and he pulled out of a large case or purse, which he carried in his breast coat-pocket, a fat sheaf of bills. "There are five thou' written on each of them, and for five thou' on each of them I means to stand out. 'It or miss.' If any shentleman chooses to talk to me about ready money I'll take two thou' off. I like ready money as well as another."

"We can all say the same as that, Mr. Hart," said Tyrrwhit.

"No doubt. And if you think you can get it, I advise you to stick to it. If you thought you could get it you would say the same. But I should like to get that old man's 'ead between my fists. Wouldn't I punch it! Thief! scoundrel! 'orrid old man! It ain't for myself that I'm speaking now, because I'm a-going to get it,—I think I'm a-going to get it;—it's for humanity at large. This kind of thing wiolates one's best feelings."

"'Ear, 'ear, 'ear!" said one of the silent gentlemen.

"Them's the sentiments of Evans & Crooke," said the representative of that firm.

"They're all our sentiments, in course," said Spicer; "but what's the use?"

"Not a ha'p'orth," said Mr. Tyrrwhit.

"Asking your pardon, Mr. Tyrrwhit," said Mr. Hart, "but, as this is a meeting of creditors who 'ave a largish lot of money to deal with, I don't think they ought to part without expressing their opinions in the way of British commerce. I say crucifying 'd be too good for 'im."

"You can't get at him to crucify him."

"There's no knowing about that," said Mr. Hart.

"And now," said Mr. Tyrrwhit, drawing out his watch, "I expect Mr. Augustus Scarborough to call upon us."

"You can crucify him," said Evans & Crooke.

"It is the old man, and neither of the sons, as have done it," said Hart.

"Mr. Scarborough," continued Tyrrwhit, "will be here, and will expect to learn whether we have accepted his offer. He will be accompanied by Mr. Barry. If one rejects, all reject."

"Not at all," said Hart.

"He will not consent to pay anything unless he can make a clean hit of it. He is about to sacrifice a very large sum of money."

"Sacrifice!" said Juniper.

"Yes; sacrifice a very large sum of money. His father cannot pay it without his consent. The father may die any day, and then the money will belong altogether to the son. You have, none of you, any claim upon him. It is likely he may think you will have a claim on the estate, not trusting his own father."

"I wouldn't trust him, not 'alf as far as I could see him, though he was twice my father." This again came from Mr. Hart.

"I want to explain to these gentlemen how the matter stands."

"They understand," said Hart.

"I'm for securing my own money. It's very hard,—after all the risk. I quite agree with Mr. Hart in what he says about the squire. Such a piece of premeditated dishonesty for robbing gentlemen of their property I never before heard. It's awful."

"'Orrid old man!" said Mr. Hart.

"Just so. But half a loaf is better than no bread. Now, here is a list, prepared in Mr. Grey's chambers."

"'E's another, nigh as 'orrid."

"On this list we're all down, with the sums he says we advanced. Are we to take them? If so we must sign our names, each to his own figure." Then he passed the list down the table.

The men there assembled all crowded to look at the list, and among others Mr. Juniper. He showed his anxiety by the eager way in which he nearly annihilated Messrs. Evans & Crooke, by leaning over him as he struggled to read the paper. "Your name ain't down at all," said Evans & Crooke. Then a tremendous oath, very bitter and very wicked, came from the mouth of Mr. Juniper, most unbefitting a young man engaged to marry a young lady. "I tell you it isn't here," said Evans & Crooke, trying to extricate himself.

"I shall know how to right myself," said Juniper, with another oath. And he then walked out of the room.

"The captain, when he was drunk one night, got a couple of ponies from him. It wasn't a couple all out. And Juniper made him write his name for five hundred pounds. It was thought then that the squire 'd have been dead next day, and Juniper 'd 've got a good thing."'

"I 'ate them ways," said Mr. Hart. "I never deal with a shentleman if he's, to say—drunk. Of course it comes in my way, but I never does."

Now there was heard a sound of steps on the stairs, and Mr. Tyrrwhit rose from his chair so as to perform the duty of master of the ceremonies to the gentlemen who were expected. Augustus Scarborough entered the room, followed by Mr. Barry. They were received with considerable respect, and seated on two chairs at Mr. Tyrrwhit's right hand. "Gentlemen, you most of you know these two gentlemen. They are Mr. Augustus Scarborough and Mr. Barry, junior partner in the firm of Messrs. Grey & Barry."

"We knows 'em," said Hart.

"My client has made a proposition to you," said Mr. Barry. "If you will give up your bonds against his brother, which are not worth the paper they are written on—"

"Gammon!" said Mr. Hart.

"I will sign checks paying to you the sums of money written on that list. But you must all agree to accept such sums in liquidation in full. I see you have not signed the paper yet. No time is to be lost. In fact, you must sign it now, or my client will withdraw from his offer."

"Withdraw; will 'e?" said Hart. "Suppose we withdraw? 'O does your client think is the honestest man in this 'ere swim?"

Mr. Barry seemed somewhat abashed by this question. "It isn't necessary to go into that, Mr. Hart," said he.

Mr. Hart laughed long and loud, and all the gentlemen laughed. There was something to them extremely jocose in their occupying, as it were, the other side of the question, and appearing as the honest, injured party. They enjoyed it thoroughly, and Mr. Hart was disposed to make the most of it. "No; it ain't necessary; is it? There ain't no question of honesty to be asked in this 'ere business. We quite understand that."

Then up and spoke Augustus Scarborough. He rose to his feet, and the very fact of his doing so quieted for a time the exuberant mirth of the party. "Gentlemen, Mr. Hart speaks to you of honesty. I am not going to boast of my own. I am here to consent to the expenditure of a very large sum of money, for which I am to get nothing, and which, if not paid to you, will all go into my own pocket;—unless you believed that you wouldn't be here to meet me."

"We don't believe nothing," said Hart.

"Mr. Hart, you should let Mr. Scarborough speak," said Tyrrwhit.

"Vell, let 'im speak. Vat's the odds?"

"I do not wish to delay you, nor to delay myself," continued Augustus. "I can go, and will go, at once. But I shall not come back. There is no good discussing this matter any longer."

"Oh no; not the least. Ve don't like discussion; do ve, captain?" said Mr. Hart. "But you ain't the captain; is you?"

"As there seems to be no intention of signing that document, I shall go," said Augustus. Then Mr. Tyrrwhit took the paper, and signed it on the first line with his own name at full length. He wrote his name to a very serious sum of money, but it was less than half what he and others had expected to receive when the sum was lent. Had that been realized there would have been no farther need for the formalities of Gurney & Malcolmson, and that young lad must have found other work to do than the posting of circulars. The whole matter, however, had been much considered, and he signed the document. Mr. Hart's name came next, but he passed it on. "I ain't made up my mind yet. Maybe I shall have to call on Mr. Barry. I ain't just consulted my partner." Then the document went down to Mr. Spicer, who signed it, grinning horribly; as did also Evans & Crooke and all the others. They did believe that was the only way in which they could get back the money they had advanced. It was a great misfortune, a serious blow. But in this way there was something short of ruin. They knew that Scarborough was about to pay the money, so that he might escape a lawsuit, which might go against him; but then they also wished to avoid the necessity of bringing the lawsuit. Looking at the matter all round, we may say that the lawyers were the persons most aggrieved by what was done on that morning. They all signed it as they sat there,—except Mr. Hart, who passed it on, and still wore his hat.

"You won't agree, Mr. Hart?" said Tyrrwhit.

"Not yet I von't," said Hart. "I ain't thought it out. I ain't in the same boat with the rest. I'm not afraid of my money. I shall get that all right."

"Then I may as well go," said Augustus.

"Don't be in a hurry, Mr. Scarborough," said Tyrrwhit. "Things of this kind can't be done just in a moment." But Augustus explained that they must be done in a very few moments, if they were to be done at all. It was not his intention to sit there in Gurney & Malcolmson's office discussing the matter with Mr. Hart. Notice of his intention had been given, and they might take his money or leave it.

"Just so, captain," said Mr. Hart. "Only I believe you ain't the captain. Where's the captain now? I see him last at Monte Carlo, and he had won a pot of money. He was looking uncommon well after his little accident in the streets with young Annesley."

Mr. Tyrrwhit contrived to get all the others out of the room, he remaining there with Hart and Augustus Scarborough and Mr. Barry. And then Hart did sign the document with altered figures: only that so much was added on to the sum which he agreed to accept, and a similar deduction made from that to which Mr. Tyrrwhit's name was signed. But this was not done without renewed expostulation from the latter gentleman. It was very hard, he said, that all the sacrifice should be made by him. He would be ruined, utterly ruined by the transaction. But he did sign for the altered sum, and Mr. Hart also signed the paper. "Now, Mr. Barry, as the matter is completed, I think I will withdraw," said Augustus.

"It's five thousand pounds clean gone out of my pocket," said Hart, "and I vas as sure of it as ever I vas in my life. There vas no better money than the captain's. Vell, vell! This vorld's a queer place." So saying, he followed Augustus and Mr. Barry out of the room, and left Mr. Tyrrwhit alone in his misery.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

VICTORIA STREET.

Lounging in an arm-chair in a small but luxuriously furnished room in Victoria Street sat Captain Mountjoy Scarborough, and opposite to him, equally comfortably placed, as far as externals were concerned, but without any of that lounging look which the captain affected, sat his brother. It was nearly eight o'clock, and the sound of the dinner-plates could be heard through the open doors from the next room. It was evident, or at any rate was the fact, that Augustus found his brother's presence a bore, and as evident that the captain intended to disregard the dissatisfaction evinced by the owner of the chambers. "Do shut the door, Mountjoy," said the younger. "I don't suppose we want the servant to hear everything that we say."

"He's welcome for me," said Mountjoy, without moving. Then Augustus got up and banged the door. "Don't be angry because I sometimes forget that I am no longer considered to be your elder brother," said Mountjoy.

"Bother about elder brothers! I suppose you can shut a door?"

"A man is sometimes compelled by circumstances to think whether he can or not. I'd've shut the door for you readily enough the other day. I don't know that I can now. Ain't we going to have some dinner? It's eight o'clock."

"I suppose they'll get dinner for you;—I'm not going to dine here." The two men were both dressed and after this they remained silent for the next five minutes. Then the servant came in and said that dinner was ready.

All this happened in December. It must be explained that the captain had come to London at his brother's instance, and was there, in his rooms, at his invitation. Indeed, we may say that he had come at his brother's command. Augustus had during the last few months taken upon himself to direct the captain's movements; and though he had not always been obeyed, still, upon the whole, his purposes had been carried out as well as he could expect. He had offered to supply the money necessary for the captain's tour, and had absolutely sent a servant to accompany the traveller. When the traveller had won money at Monaco he had been unruly, but this had not happened very often. When we last saw him he had expressed his intention to Mr. Hart of making a return journey to the Caucasian provinces. But he got no farther than Genoa on his way to the Caucasus, and then, when he found that Mr. Hart was not at his back, he turned round and went back to Monte Carlo. Monte Carlo, of all places on the world's surface, had now charms for him.

There was no longer a club open to him, either in London or Paris, at which be could win or lose one hundred pounds. At Monte Carlo he could still do so readily; and, to do so, need not sink down into any peculiarly low depth of social gathering. At Monte Carlo the ennui of the day was made to disappear. At Monte Carlo he could lie in bed till eleven, and then play till dinner-time. At Monte Carlo there was always some one who would drink a glass of wine with him without inquiring too closely as to his antecedents. He had begun by winning a large sum of money. He had got some sums from his brother, and when at last he was summoned home he was penniless. Had his pocket been still full of money it may be doubted whether he would have come, although he understood perfectly the importance of the matter on which he had been recalled.

He had been sent for in order that he might receive from Mr. Grey a clear statement of what it was intended to do in reference to the payment of money to the creditors. Mr. Grey had, in the first place, endeavored to assure him that his co-operation was in no respect made necessary by the true circumstances of the case, but in order to satisfy the doubts of certain persons. The money to be paid was the joint property of his father and his brother,—of his father, as far as the use of it for his life was concerned, and of his brother, as to its continued and perpetual enjoyment. They were willing to pay so much for the redemption of the bonds given by him, the captain. As far as these bonds were concerned the captain would thus be a free man. There could be no doubt that nothing but benefit was intended for him,—as though he were himself the heir. "Though as to that I have no hesitation in telling you that, you will at your father's death have no right to a shilling of the property." The captain had said that he was quite willing, and had signed the deed. He was glad that these bonds should be recovered so cheaply. But as to the property,—and here he spoke with much spirit to Mr. Grey,—it was his purpose at his father's death to endeavor to regain his position. He would never believe, he said, that his mother was—Then he turned away, and, in spite of all that had come and gone, Mr. Grey respected him.