"Mr Raymond," I exclaimed, "how can you be a Whig?"

"Pardon me, but what is the connection?" asked he, looking both astonished and diverted.

"Don't you see it? You are much too good for one."

Mr Raymond laughed. "Thank you; I fear I did not detect the compliment. May I put the counter question, and ask how you came to be a Tory?"

"Why, I was born so," said I.

"And so was I a Whig," replied he.

"Excuse me!" came laughingly from my other hand, in Miss Newton's voice. "The waters are not quite so smooth as they were, and I thought I had better be at hand to pour a little oil if necessary. Mr Raymond, I am afraid you are getting worldly. Is that not the proper word?"

"It is the proper word for an improper thing," said Mr Raymond. "On what evidence do you rest your accusation, Miss Theresa?"

"On the fact that you have twice in one week made your appearance in Mrs Desborough's rooms, which are the very pink of worldliness."

"Have I come without reason?"

"You have not given it me," said the young lady, laughing. "You cannot always come to tell one of the guests that his (or her) relations have been taken prisoner."

I looked up so suddenly that Mr Raymond answered my eyes before he replied to Miss Newton's words.

"No, Miss Courtenay, I did not come with ill news. I suppose a man may have two reasons at different times for the same action?"

"Where is our handsome friend of the dreadful name?" asked Miss Newton.

"Mr Hebblethwaite? He told me he could not be here this evening."

"That man will have to change his name before anybody will marry him," said Miss Newton.

"Then, if he takes my advice, he will continue in single blessedness," was Mr Raymond's answer.

"Now, why?"

"Do you not think it would be preferable to marrying a woman whose regard for you was limited by the alphabet?"

"Mr Raymond, you and Miss Courtenay do say such odd things! Is that because you are religious people?"

Oh, what a strange feeling came over me when Miss Newton said that! What made her count me a "religious person"? Am I one? I should not have dared to say it. I should like to be so; I am afraid to go further. To reckon myself one would be to sign my name as a queen, and I am not sufficiently sure of my royal blood to do it.

But what had I ever said to Miss Newton that she should entertain such an idea? Mr Raymond glanced at me with a brotherly sort of smile, which I wished from my heart that I deserved, (for all he is a Whig!) and was afraid I did not. Then he said,—

"Religious people, I believe, are often very odd things in the eyes of irreligious people. Do you count yourself among the latter class, Miss Theresa?"

"Oh, I don't make any profession," said she. "I have but one life, and I want to enjoy it."

"That is exactly my position," said Mr Raymond, smiling.

"Now, what do you mean?" demanded she. "Don't the Methodists label everything 'wicked' that one wants to do?"

"'One' sometimes means another," replied Mr Raymond, with a funny look in his eyes. "They do not put that label on anything I want to do. I cannot answer for other people."

"I am sure they would put it on a thousand things that I should," said Miss Newton.

"Am I to understand that speaks badly for them?—or for you?"

"Mr Raymond! You know I make no profession of religion. I think it is much better to be free."

The look in Mr Raymond's eyes seemed to me very like Divine compassion.

"Miss Theresa, your remark makes me ask two questions: Do you suppose that 'making no profession' will excuse you to the Lord? Does your Bible read, 'He that maketh no profession shall be saved'? And also— Are you free?"

"Am I free? Why, of course I am!" she cried. "I can do what I like, without asking leave of priest or minister."

"God forbid that you should ask leave of priest or minister! But I can do what I like, also. What the Lord likes, I like. No priest on earth shall come between Him and me."

"That sounds very grand, Mr Raymond. But just listen to me. I know a young gentlewoman who says the same thing. She is dead against everything which she thinks to be Popery. Submit to the Pope?—no, not for a moment! But this dear creature has a pet minister, who is to her exactly what the Pope is to his subjects. She won't dance, because Mr Gardiner disapproves of it; she can't sing a song, of the most innocent sort, because Mr Gardiner thinks songs naughty; she won't do this, and she can't go there, because Mr Gardiner says this and that. Now, what do you call that?"

"Human nature, Miss Theresa. Depend upon it, Popery would never have the hold it has if there were not in it something very palatable to human nature. Human nature is of two varieties, and Satan's two grand masterpieces appeal to both. To the proud man, who is a law unto himself, he brings infidelity as the grand temptation: 'Ye shall be as gods'—'Yea, hath God said?'—and lastly, 'There is no God.' To the weaker nature, which demands authority to lean on, he brings Popery, offering to decide for you all the difficult questions of heart and life with authority—offering you the romantic fancy of a semi-goddess in its worship of the Virgin, in whose gentle bosom you may repose every trouble, and an infallible Church which can set everything right for you. Now just notice how far God's religion is from both. It does not say, 'Ye shall be as gods;' but, 'This Man receiveth sinners': not, 'Hath God said?' but, 'Thus saith the Lord.' Turn to the other side, and instead of your compassionate goddess, it offers you Jesus, the God-man, able to succour them that are tempted, in that He Himself hath suffered being tempted. Infallibility, too, it offers you, but not resident in a man, nor in a body of men. It resides in a book, which is not the word of man, but the Word of God, and effective only when it is interpreted and applied by the living Spirit, whose guidance may be had by the weakest and poorest child that will ask God for Him."

"We are not in church, my dear Mr Raymond!" said Miss Newton, shrugging her shoulders. "If you preach over the hour, Mrs Desborough will be sending Caesar to show you the clock."

"I have not exceeded it yet, I think," said Mr Raymond.

"Well, I wish you would talk to Eliza Wilkinson instead of me. She says she has been—is 'converted' the word? I am ill up in Methodist terms. And ever since she is converted, or was converted, she does not commit sin. I wish you would talk to her."

"I am not fit to talk to such a seraph. I am a sinner."

"Oh, but I think there is some distinction, which I do not properly understand. She does not wilfully sin; and as to those little things which everybody does, that are not quite right, you know,—well, they don't count for anything. She is a child of God, she says, and therefore He will not be hard upon her for little nothings. Is that your creed, Mr Raymond?"

"Do you know the true name of that creed, Miss Theresa?"

"Dear, no! I understand nothing about it."

Mr Raymond's voice was very solemn: "'So hast thou also them that hold the doctrine of the Nicolaitanes, which thing I hate.' 'Turning the grace of our God into lasciviousness.' Antinomianism is the name of it. It has existed in the Church of God from a date, you see, earlier than the close of the inspired canon. Essentially the same thing survives in the Popish Church, under the name of mortal and venial sins; and it creeps sooner or later into every denomination, in its robes of an angel of light. But it belongs to the darkness. Sin! Do we know the meaning of that awful word? I believe none but God knows rightly what sin is. But he who does not know something of what sin is can have very poor ideas of the Christ who saves from sin. He does not save men in sin, but from sin: not only from penalty,—from sin. Christ is not dead, but alive. And sin is not a painted plaything, but a deadly poison. God forgive them who speak lightly of it!"

I do not know what Miss Newton said to this, for at that minute I caught sight of Hatty in a corner, alone, and seized my opportunity at once. Threading my way with some difficulty among bewigged and belaced gentlemen, and ladies with long trains and fluttering fans, I reached my sister, and sat down by her.

"Hatty," said I, "I hardly ever get a word with you. How long do you stay with the Crosslands?"

"I do not know, Cary," she answered, looking down, and playing with her fan.

"Do you know that you look very far from well?"

"There are mirrors in Charles Street," she replied, with a slight curl of her lip.

"Hatty, are those people kind to you?" I said, thinking I had better, like Annas, take the bull by the horns.

"I suppose so. They mean to be. Let it alone, Cary; you are not old enough to interfere—hardly to understand."

"I am only eighteen months younger than you," said I. "I do not wish to interfere, Hatty; but I do want to understand. Surely your own sister may be concerned if she see you looking ill and unhappy."

"Do I look so, Cary?"

I thought, from the tone, that Hatty was giving way a little.

"You look both," I said. "I wish you would come here."

"Do you wish it, Cary?" The tone now was very unlike Hatty.

"Indeed I do, Hatty," said I, warmly. "I don't half believe in those people in Charles Street; and as to Amelia and Charlotte, I doubt if either of them would see anything, look how you might."

"Oh, Charlotte is not to blame; thoughtlessness is her worst fault," said Hatty, still playing with her fan.

"And somebody is to blame? Is it Amelia?"

"I did not say so," was the answer.

"No," I said, feeling disappointed; "I cannot get you to say anything. Hatty, I do wish you would trust me. Nobody here loves you except me."

"You did not love me much once, Cary."

"Oh, I get vexed when you tease me, that is all," said I. "But I want you to look happier, Hatty, dear."

"I should not tease you much now, Cary."

I looked up, and saw that Hatty's eyes were full of tears.

"Do come here, Hatty!" I said, earnestly.

"Grandmamma has not asked me," she replied.

"Then I will beg her to ask you. I think she will. She said the other day that you were very much improved."

"At all events, my red cheeks and my plough-boy appetite would scarcely distress her now," returned Hatty, rather bitterly. "Mr Crossland is coming for me—I must go." And while she held my hand, I was amazed to hear a low whisper, in a voice of unutterable longing,—"Cary, pray for me!"

That horrid Mr Crossland came up and carried her off. Poor dear Hatty! I am sure something is wrong. And somehow, I think I love her better since I began to pray for her, only that was not last night, as she seemed to think.

This morning at breakfast, I asked Grandmamma if she would do me a favour.

"Yes, child, if it be reasonable," said she. "What would you have?"

"Please, Grandmamma, will you ask Hatty to come for a little while? I should so like to have her; and I cannot talk to her comfortably in a room full of people."

Grandmamma took a pinch of snuff, as she generally does when she wants to consider a minute.

"She is very much improved," said she. "She really is almost presentable. I should not feel ashamed, I think, of introducing her as my grand-daughter. Well, Cary, if you wish it, I do not mind. You are a tolerably good girl, and I do not object to give you a pleasure. But it must be after she has finished her visit to the Crosslands. I could not entice her away."

"I asked her how long she was going to stay there, Grandmamma, and she said she did not know."

"Then, my dear, you must wait till she do." [Note 1.]

But what may happen before then? I knew it would be of no use to say any more to Grandmamma: she is a perfect Mede and Persian when she have once declared her royal pleasure. And my Aunt Dorothea will never interfere. My Uncle Charles is the only one who dare say another word, and it was a question if he would. He is good-natured enough, but so careless that I could not feel at all certain of enlisting him. Oh dear! I do feel to be growing so old with all my cares! It seems as if Hatty, and Annas, and Flora, and Angus, and Colonel Keith, and the Prince,—I beg his pardon, he should have come first,—were all on my shoulders at once. And I don't feel strong enough to carry such a lot of people.

I wish my Aunt Kezia was here. I have wished it so many times lately.

When I had written so far, I turned back to look at my Aunt Kezia's rules. And then I saw how foolish I am. Why, instead of putting the Lord first, I had been leaving Him out of the whole thing. Could He not carry all these cares for me? Did He not know what ailed Hatty, and how to deliver Angus, and all about it? I knelt down there and then (I always write in my own chamber), and asked Him to send Hatty to me, and better still, to bring her to Him; and to show me whether I had better speak to my Uncle Charles, or try to get things out of Amelia. As to Charlotte, I would not ask her about anything which I did not care to tell the town crier.

The next morning—(there, my dates are getting all wrong again! It is no use trying to keep them straight)—as my Uncle Charles was putting on his gloves to go out, he said,—

"Well, Cary, shall I bring you a fairing of any sort?"

"Uncle Charles," I said, leaping to a decision at once, "do bring me Hatty! I am sure she is not happy. Do get Grandmamma to let her come now."

"Not happy!" cried my Uncle Charles, lifting his eyebrows. "Why, what is the matter with the girl? Can't she get married? Time enough, surely."

Oh dear, how can men be so silly! But I let it pass, for I wanted Hatty to come, much more than to make my Uncle Charles sensible. In fact, I am afraid the last would take too much time and labour. There, now, I should not have said that.

"Won't you try, Uncle Charles? I do want her so much."

"Child, I cannot interfere with my mother. Ask Hatty to spend the day. Then you can have a talk with her."

"Uncle, please, will you ask Grandmamma?"

"If you like," said he, with a laugh.

I heard no more about it till supper-time, when my Uncle Charles said, as if it had just occurred to him (which I dare say it had),—"Madam, I think this little puss is disappointed that Hatty cannot come at once. Might she not spend the day here? It would be a treat for both girls."

Grandmamma's snuff-box came out as usual. I sat on thorns, while she rapped her box, opened it, took a pinch, shut the box with a snap, and consigned it to her pocket.

"Yes," she said, at last. "Dorothea, you can send Caesar with a note."

"Oh, thank you, Grandmamma!" cried I.

Grandmamma looked at me, and gave an odd little laugh.

"These fresh girls!" she said, "how they do care about things, to be sure!"

"Grandmamma, is it pleasanter not to care about things?" said I.

"It is better, my dear. To be at all warm or enthusiastic betrays under-breeding."

"But—please, Grandmamma—do not well-bred people get very warm over politics?"

"Sometimes well-bred people forget themselves," said Grandmamma, "But it is more allowable to be warm over some matters than others. Politics are to some degree an exception. We do not make exhibitions of our personal affections, Caroline, and above all things we avoid showing warmth on religious questions. We do not talk of such things at all in good society."

Now—I say this to my book, of course, not to Grandmamma—is not that very strange? We are not to be warm over the most important things, matters of life and death, things we really care about in our inmost hearts: but over all the little affairs that we do not care about, we may lose our tempers a little (in an elegant and reasonable way) if we choose to do so. Would it not be better the other way about?

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Note 1. The use of the subjunctive with when and until, now obsolete, was correct English until the present century was some thirty years old.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

CARY IN A NEW CHARACTER.

"God has a few of us whom He whispers in the ear."

BROWNING.

I feel more and more certain that something is wrong in Charles Street. The invitation is declined, not by Hatty herself, but in a note from Mrs Crossland: "Miss Hester Courtenay has so sad a catarrh that it will not be safe for her to venture out for some days to come." [Note 1.]

"Why, Cary, that is a disappointment for you," said my Uncle Charles, kindly. "I think, Madam, as Hester cannot come, Mrs Crossland might have offered a counter-invitation to Caroline."

"It would have been well-bred," said Grandmamma. "Mrs Crossland is not very well connected. She was the daughter or niece of an archdeacon, I believe; rather raised by her marriage. I am sorry you are disappointed, child."

This was a good deal for Grandmamma to say, and I thanked her.

Well, one thing had failed me; I must try another. At the next evening assembly I watched my chance, and caught Charlotte in a corner. I asked how Hatty was.

"Hatty?" said Charlotte, looking surprised. "She is well enough, for aught I know."

"I thought she had a bad catarrh?" said I.

"Didn't know she had one. She is going to my Lady Milworth's assembly with Mrs Crossland."

I felt more sure of ill-play than ever, but to Charlotte I said no more. The next person whom I pinned to the wall was Amelia. With her I felt more need of caution in one sense, for I did not know how far she might be in the plot, whatever it was. That no living mortal with any shadow of brains would have trusted Charlotte with a secret, I felt as sure as I did that my ribbons were white, and not red.

"Emily," I said, "why did not Hatty come with you to-night?"

"I did not ask," was Amelia's languid answer. I do think she gets more and more limp and unstarched as time goes on.

"Is she better?"

"What is the matter with her?" Amelia's eyes betrayed no artifice.

"A catarrh, I understand."

"Oh, you heard that from Miss Newton. The Newtons asked her for an assembly, and Mrs Crossland did not want to give up my Lady Milworth, so she sent word Hatty had a catarrh, I believe. It is all nonsense."

"And it is not telling falsehoods?" said I.

"My dear, I have nothing to do with it," said Amelia, fanning herself. "Mrs Crossland may carry her own shortcomings."

I felt pretty sure now that Amelia was not in the plot.

"Will you give a message to Hatty?" I said.

"If it be not too long to remember."

"Tell her I wanted her to spend the day, and my Aunt Dorothea writ to ask her to come, and Mrs Crossland returned answer that she had too bad a catarrh, and must keep indoors for some days."

"Did she—to Mrs Desborough?" said Amelia, with a surprised look. "I rather wonder at that, too."

"Emily, help me!" I said. "These Crosslands want to keep Hatty and me apart. There is something wrong going on. Do help us, if you ever cared for either of us."

Amelia looked quite astonished and nuzzled.

"Really, I knew nothing about it! Of course I care for you, Cary. But what can I do?"

"Give that message to Hatty. Bid her, from me, break through the snares, and come. Then we can see what must be done next."

"I will give her the message," said Amelia, with what was energy for her. "Cary, I have had nothing to do with it, if something be wrong. I never even guessed it."

"I don't believe you have," said I. "But tell me one thing, Emily: are they scheming to make Hatty marry Mr Crossland?"

"Most certainly not!" cried Amelia, with more warmth than I had thought was in her. "Impossible! Why, Mr Crossland is engaged to Marianne Newton."

"Is Miss Marianne Newton a friend of yours?"

"Yes, the dearest friend I have."

"Then you will be on my side. Keep your eyes and ears open, and find out what it is. I tell you, something is wrong. Put yourself in the breach; help Miss Marianne, if you like; but, for pity's sake, save Hatty!"

"But what makes you suppose that what is wrong has anything to do with Mr Crossland?"

"I do not know why I fancy it; but I do. I cannot let the idea go. I do not like the look of him. He does not look like a true man."

"Cary, you have grown up since you came to London."

"I feel like somebody's grandmother," said I. "But I think I have been growing; to it, Amelia, since I left Brocklebank."

"Well, you certainly are much less of a child than you were. I will do my best, Cary." And Amelia looked as if she meant it.

"But take no one into your confidence," said I.—"Least of all Charlotte."

"Thank you, I don't need that warning!" said Amelia, with her languid laugh, as she furled her fan and turned away. And as I passed on the other side I came upon Ephraim Hebblethwaite.

All at once my resolution was taken.

"Come this way, Ephraim," said I; "I want to show you my Uncle Charles's new engravings."

I lifted down the large portfolio, with Ephraim's help,—I don't think Ephraim would let a cat jump down by itself if he thought the jump too far,—set it on a little table, and under cover of the engravings I told him the whole story, and all my uneasiness about Hatty. He listened very attentively, but without showing either the surprise or the perplexity which Amelia had done.

"If you suspect rightly," said he, when I had finished my tale, "the first thing to be done is to get her out of Charles Street."

"Do you think me too ready to suspect?" I replied.

"No," was his answer; "I am afraid you are right."

"But what do they want to do with her, or to her?" cried I, under my breath.

"Cary," said Ephraim, gravely, "I am very glad you have told me this. I will go so far as to tell you in return that I too have my suspicions of young Crossland, though they are of rather a different kind from yours. You suspect him, so far as I understand you, of matrimonial designs on Hatty, real or feigned. I am afraid rather that these appearances are a blind to hide something deeper and worse. I know something of this man, not enough to let me speak with certainty, but just sufficient to make me doubt him, and to guide me in what direction to look. We must walk carefully on this path, for if I mistake not, the ground is strewn with snares."

"What do you mean?" I cried, feeling terrified.

"I would rather not tell you till I know more. I will try to do that as soon as possible."

"I never thought of anything worse," said I, "than that knowing, as he is likely to do, that Hatty will some day have a few hundreds a year of her own, he is trying to inveigle her to marry him, and is not a man likely to be kind to her and make her happy."

"He is certainly likely to make her very unhappy," replied Ephraim. "But I do not believe that he has any intentions of marriage, towards Hatty or anybody else."

"But don't you think he may make her think so? Amelia told me he was engaged in marriage with a gentlewoman she knows."

"I am sorry for the gentlewoman. Make her think so? Yes, and under cover of that, work out his plot. I would advise Miss Bracewell to beware that she is not made a catspaw."

I told Ephraim what I had said to Amelia.

"Then she is put on her guard: so far, well."

"Ephraim, have you heard anything more of Angus?"

"Nothing but what you know already."

"Nor, I suppose, of Colonel Keith? I wish I knew what he is doing."

"He has not had much chance of doing anything yet," said Ephraim, rather drily. "A sick-bed is not the most favourable place for helping one's friends out of prison."

"Has Colonel Keith been ill?" cried I.

"Mr Raymond did not tell you?"

"He never told me a word. I do not know what he may have said to Annas."

"A broken arm, and a fever on the top of it," said Ephraim. "The doctor talks of letting him go out to-morrow, if the weather suit."

"O Ephraim!" cried I. "But where is he?"

"Don't tell any one, if I tell you. Remember, Colonel Keith is a proscribed man."

"I will do no harm to Annas's brother, trust me!" said I.

"He is at Raymond's house, where he and I have been nursing him."

"In a fever!"

"Oh, it is not a catching fever. Think you either of us would have come here if it were?"

"Ephraim, is Mr Raymond to be trusted?" said I. "I am sure he is a good man, but he is a shocking Whig. And I do believe one of the queerest things in this queer world is the odd notions that men take of what it is their duty to do."

"Have you found that out?" said he, looking much diverted.

"I am always finding things out," I answered. "I had no idea there was so much to be found. But, don't you see, Mr Raymond might fancy it his duty to betray Colonel Keith? Is there no danger?"

"Not the slightest," said Ephraim, warmly. "Mr Raymond would be much more likely to give up his own life. Don't you know, Cary, that Scripture forbids us to betray a fugitive? And all the noblest instincts of human nature forbid it too."

"I know all one's feelings are against it," said I, "but I did not know that there was anything about it in the Bible."

"Look in the twenty-third of Deuteronomy," replied Ephraim, "the fifteenth verse. The passage itself refers to a slave, but it must be equally applicable to a political fugitive."

"I will look," I answered. "But tell me, Ephraim, can nothing be done for Angus?"

"If it can, it will be done," he made answer.

He said no more, but from his manner I could not but fancy that somebody was trying to do something.

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I never had two letters at once, by the same post, in my life: but this morning two came—one from Flora, and one from my Aunt Kezia. Flora's is not long: it says that she and Annas have reached the Isle of Wight in safety, and were but three hours a-crossing from Portsmouth; and she begs me, if I can obtain it, to send her some news of Angus. My Lady De Lannoy was extreme kind to them both, and Flora says she is very comfortable, and would be quite happy but for her anxiety about my Uncle Drummond and Angus. My Uncle Drummond has not writ once, and she is very fearful lest some ill have befallen him.

My Aunt Kezia's letter is long, and full of good counsel, which I am glad to have, for I do find the world a worse place than I thought it, and yet not in the way I expected. She warns me to have a care lest my tongue get me into trouble; and that is one of the dangers I find, and did not look for. Father is well, and all other friends: and I am not to be surprised if I should hear of Sophy's marriage. Fanny gets on very well, and makes a better housekeeper than my Aunt Kezia expected. But I have spent much thought over the last passage of her letter, and I do not like it at all:—

"Is Hatty yet in Charles Street? We have had but one letter from the child in all this time, and that was short and told nothing. I hope you see her often, and can give us some tidings. Squire Bracewell writ to your father a fortnight gone that he was weary of dwelling alone, and as the Prince's army is in retreat, he thinks it now safe to have the girls home. If this be so, we shall soon have Hatty here. I have writ to her, by your father's wish, that she is not to tarry behind."

I cried aloud when I came to this: "The Prince in retreat from Derby! Uncle Charles, do you know anything of it? Sure, it can never be true!"

"Nonsense!" he made answer. "Some silly rumour, no doubt."

"But my Uncle Bracewell writ it to my Aunt Kezia, and he dwells within fifteen miles," I said.

My Uncle Charles looked much disturbed.

"I must go forth and see about this," answered he.

"With your catarrh, Mr Desborough!" cried my Aunt Dorothea.

For above a week my Uncle Charles has not ventured from the door, having a bad catarrh.

"My catarrh must take care of itself," he made answer. "This is serious news. Dobson, have you heard aught about the Prince being in retreat?"

Dobson, who was setting down the chocolate-pot, looked up and smiled.

"Yes, Sir, we heard that yesterday."

"You idiot! why did you not tell me?" cried my Uncle Charles. "In retreat! I cannot believe it."

"Run to the coffee-house, Dobson," said Grandmamma, "and ask what news they have this morning."

So Dobson went off, and has not yet returned. My Aunt Dorothea laughs all to scorn, but my Uncle Charles is uneasy, and I am sure Grandmamma believes the report. It is dreadful if it is true. Are we to sit down under another thirty years of foreign oppression?

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Before Dobson could get back, Mrs Newton came in her chair. She is a very stout old lady, and she puffed and panted as she came up the stairs, leaning on her black footman, with her little Dutch pug after, which is as fat as its mistress, and it panted and puffed too. Her two daughters came in behind her.

"Oh, my dear—Mrs Desborough! My—dear creature! This is—the horridest news! We must—go back to our—red ribbons and—black cockades! Could I ever have—thought it! Aren't you—perfectly miserable? Dear, dear me!"

"Ma is miserable because red does not suit her," said Miss Marianne. "I can wear it quite well, so I don't need to be."

"Marianne!" said her sister, laughing.

"Well, you know, Theresa, you don't care two pins whether the Prince wins or loses. Who does?"

"The Prince and my Lord Tullibardine," said Miss Newton.

"Oh, of course, those who looked to the Prince to make their fortunes are disappointed enough. I don't."

"I rather thought Mr Crossland did," said Miss Newton, with a mischievous air.

"Well, I hope there are other people in the world beside Mr Crossland," said Miss Marianne.

"All right, my dear," replied her sister. "If you don't care, I am sure I need not. I am not in love with Mr Crossland—not by any means. I never did admire the way in which his nose droops over his mouth. He has fine teeth—that is a redeeming point."

"Is it? I don't want him to bite me," observed Miss Marianne.

Miss Newton went off into a little (subdued) burst of silvery laughter, and I sat astonished. Was this the sort of thing which girls called love?—and was this the way in which fashionable women spoke of the men whom they had pledged themselves to marry? I am sure I like Mr Crossland little enough; but I felt almost sorry for him as I listened to the girl who professed to love him.

Meanwhile, Grandmamma and Mrs Newton were lamenting over the news—as I supposed: but when I began to listen, I found all that was over and done with. First, the merits of Puck, the fat pug, were being discussed, and then the wretchedness of being unable to buy or wear French cambrics, and the whole history of Mrs Newton's last cambric gown: they washed it, and mended it, and ripped it, and made it up again. And then Grandmamma's brocaded silk came on, and how much worse it wore than the last: and when I was just wondering how many more gowns would have to be taken to pieces, Mrs Newton rose to go.

"Really, Mrs Desborough, I ought to make my apologies for coming so early. But this sad news, you know,—the poor Prince! I could not bear another minute. I knew you would feel it so much. I felt as if I must come. Now, my dear girls."

"Ma, you haven't asked Mrs Desborough what you came for," said Miss Marianne.

"What I—Oh!" and Mrs Newton turned back. "This absurd child! Would you believe it, she gave me no peace till I had asked if you would be so good as to allow your cook to give mine her receipt for Paradise pudding. Marianne dotes on your Paradise puddings. Do you mind? I should be so infinitely obliged to you."

"Dear, no!" said Grandmamma, taking a pinch of snuff, just as Dobson tapped at the door. "Dobson, run down and tell Cook to send somebody over to Mrs Newton's with her receipt for Paradise pudding. Be sure it is not forgotten."

"Yes, Madam," said Dobson. "If you please, Madam, the army is a-going back; all the coffee-houses have the news this morning."

"Dear, it must be true, then," said Grandmamma, taking another pinch. "What a pity!—Be sure you do not forget the Paradise pudding."

"Yes, Madam. They say, Madam, the Prince was nigh heart-broke that he couldn't come on."

"Ah, I dare say. Poor young gentleman!" said Mrs Newton. "Dear Mrs Desborough, do excuse me, but where did you meet with that lovely crewel fringe on your curtains? It is so exactly what I wanted and could not get anywhere."

"I got it at Cooper and Smithson's—Holborn Bars, you know," said Grandmamma. "This is sad news, indeed. But your curtains, my dear, have an extreme pretty trimming."

"Oh, tolerable," said Mrs Newton, gathering up her hoop.

Away they went, with another lament over the Prince and the news; and I sat wondering whether everybody in this world were as hollow as a tobacco-pipe. I do think, in London, they must be.

Then my thoughts went back to my Aunt Kezia's letter.

"Grandmamma," I said, after a few minutes' reflection, "may I have a chair this afternoon? I want to go and see Hatty."

Grandmamma nodded. She had come, I think, to an awkward place in her tatting.

"Take Caesar with you," was all she said.

So after dinner I sent Caesar for the chair, and, dressed in my best, went over to Charles Street to see Hatty. I sent in my name, and waited an infinite time in a cold room before any one appeared. At last Charlotte bounced in—I cannot use another word, for it was just what she did—saying,—

"O Cary, you here? Emily is coming, as soon as she can settle her ribbons. Isn't it fun? They are all coming out in red now."

"I don't think it is fun at all," said I. "It is very sad."

"Oh, pother!—what do you and I care?" cried she.

"You do not care much, it seems," said I: but Charlotte was off again before I had finished.

A minute later, the door opened much more gently, and Amelia entered in her calm, languid way. But as soon as she saw me, her eyes lighted up, and she closed the door and sat down.

Amelia spoke in a hurried whisper as she kissed me.

"One word, before any one comes," she said. "Insist on seeing Hatty. Don't go without it."

"Will they try to prevent me?" I replied.

Before she could answer, Mrs Crossland sailed in, all over rose-coloured ribbons.

"Why, Miss Caroline, what an unexpected pleasure!" said she, and if she had added "an unwelcome one," I fancy she would have spoken the truth. "Dear, what was Cicely thinking of to put you in this cold room? Pray come up-stairs to the fire."

"Thank you," said I, and rose to follow her.

The room up-stairs was warm and comfortable, but Hatty was not there. A girl of about fourteen, in a loose blue sacque, which looked very cold for the weather, came forward and shook hands with me.

"My daughter," said Mrs Crossland. "Annabella, my dear, run up and ask Miss Hester if she feels well enough to come down. Tell her that her sister is here."

"Allow me to go up with Miss Annabella, and perhaps save her a journey," said I. "Messages are apt to be returned and to make further errands."

"Oh, but—pray do not give yourself that trouble," said Miss Annabella, glancing at her mother.

"Certainly not. I cannot think of it," answered Mrs Crossland, hastily. "Poor Miss Hester has been suffering so much from toothache—I beg you will not disturb her, Miss Caroline."

I suppose I was rude: but how could I help it?

"Why should I disturb her more than Miss Crossland?" I replied. "Sisters do not make strangers of each other."

"Oh, she does not expect you: and indeed, Miss Caroline,—do let me beg of you,—Dr Summerfield did just hint yesterday—just a hint, you understand,—about small-pox. I could not on any account let you go up, for your own sake."

"Is my sister so ill as that?" I replied. "I think we might have expected to be told it sooner. Then, Madam, I shall certainly go up. Miss Crossland, will you show me the way?"

I do not know whether Mrs Crossland thought me bold and unladylike, but if she had known how every bit of me was trembling, she might perhaps have changed that view.

"O Miss Caroline, how can you? I could not allow Annabella to do such a thing. Think of the clanger!—Annabella, come back! You shall not go into an infected air."

"Pardon me, Madam, but I thought you proposed yourself to send Miss Annabella. Then I will not trouble any one. I can find the way myself."

And resolutely closing the door behind me, up-stairs I walked. I did not believe a word about Hatty having the small-pox: but if I had done, I should have done the same. I heard behind me exclamations of—"That bold, brazen thing! She will find out all. Annabella, call Godfrey! call him! That hussy must not—"

I was up-stairs by this time. I rapped at the first door, and had no answer; the second was the same. From the third I heard the sound of weeping, and a man's voice, which I thought I recognised as that of Mr Crossland.

"I shall not allow of any more hesitation," he was saying. "You must make your choice to-day. You have given me trouble enough, and have made far too many excuses. I shall wait no longer."

"Oh, once more!—only once more!" was the answer, interrupted by heartrending sobs,—in whose voice I rather guessed than heard.

Neither would I wait any longer. I never thought about ceremony and gentility, any more than about the possible dangers, known and unknown, which I might be running. I opened the door and walked straight in.

Mr Crossland stood on the hearth, clad in a queer long black gown, and a black cap upon his head. On a chair near him sat a girl, her head bowed down in her hands upon the table, weeping bitterly. Her long dark hair was partly unfastened, and falling over her shoulder: what I could see of her face was white as death. Was this white, cowed creature our once pert, bright Hatty?

"What do you want?" said Mr Crossland, angrily, as he caught sight of me. "Oh, I beg pardon, Miss Caroline. Your poor sister is suffering so much to-day. I have been trying to divert her a little, but her pain is so great. How very good of you to come! Was no one here to show you anywhere, that you had to come by yourself?"

The bowed head had been lifted up, and the face that met my eyes was one of the extremest misery. She held out her arms to me with a low, sad, wailing cry—

"O Cary, Cary, save me! Cannot you save me?"

I walked past that black-robed wretch, and took poor Hatty in my arms, drawing her head to lie on my bosom.

"Yes, my dear, you shall be saved," I said,—I hope, God said through me. "Mr Crossland, will you have the goodness to leave my sister to me?"

If looks had power to kill, I think I should never have spoken again in this world. Mr Crossland turned on his heel, and walked out of the room without another word. The moment he was gone, I made a rush at the door, drew out the key (which was on the outside), locked it, and put the key on the table. Then I went back to Hatty.

"My poor darling, what have they done to you?"

Somehow, I felt as if I were older than she that day.

But she could not tell me at first. "O Cary, Cary!" seemed to be all that she could say. I rang the bell, and when somebody tried the door, I asked the unknown helper to send Miss Amelia Bracewell.

"I beg your pardon, Madam, I dare not," answered a girl's voice. "Nobody is allowed to enter this chamber but my mistress and Fa—and my master."

It seemed as if an angel must be helping me, and whispering what to do. Perhaps it was so.

"Will you be so good as to take a message to the black servant who came with me?" I said.

"Certainly, Madam."

"Then please to tell him that I wish to speak with him at the door of this room."

"Madam, forgive me, but I dare not bring any one here."

I tore a blank leaf out of a book on the table. I had a pencil in my pocket. "Give him this, then; and let no one take it from you. You shall have a guinea to do it."

"Gemini!" I heard the girl whisper to herself in amazement.

I wrote hastily:—"Beg my Uncle Charles to come this moment, and bring Dobson. Tell him, if he ever loved either me or Miss Hester, he will do this. It is a matter of life and death."

"Promise me," I said, unlocking the door to give it to her, "that this piece of paper shall be in my black servant's hands directly, and that no one else shall see it."

I spoke to a young girl, apparently one of the lower servants of the house. Her round eyes opened wide.

"Please do it, Betty!" sobbed poor Hatty. "Do it, for pity's sake!"

"I'll do it for yours, Miss Hester," said the girl, and her kindly, honest-looking face reassured me. She hid the paper in her bosom, and ran down. I locked the door again, and went back to Hatty.

"O Cary, dear, God sent you!" she sobbed. "I thought I must give in."

"What are they trying to make you do, Hatty?"

To my amazement, she replied,—"To be a nun."

"To be what?" I shrieked. "Are these people Papists, then?"

"Not to acknowledge it. I had not an idea when we came—nor the Bracewells, I am sure."

"And did they want all three of you to be nuns?"

"No—only me, I believe. I heard Father Godfrey saying to the Mother that neither Charlotte nor Amelia would answer the purpose: but what the purpose was, I don't know."

"Who are you talking about? Who is Father Godfrey?—Mr Crossland?"

"Yes. He is a Jesuit priest."

"You mean his mother, then, by 'the Mother'?"

"Oh, she is not his mother. I don't think they are related."

"What is she?"

"The Abbess of a convent of English nuns at Bruges."

"And is that poor little girl, Miss Annabella, one of the conspirators?"

"She is the decoy. I think her wits have been terrified out of her; she only does as she is told."

"Hatty," I said, "you do not believe the doctrines of Popery?"

"I don't know what I believe, or don't believe," she sobbed. "If you can get me out of here and back home, I shall think there is a God again. I was beginning to doubt that and everything else."

A voice came up the stairs, raised rather loudly.

"You must pardon me, Madam, but I am quite sure both my nieces are here," said my Uncle Charles's welcome tones.

I rushed to the door again.

"This way, Uncle Charles!" I cried. "Hatty, where is your bonnet?"

"I don't know. They took all my outdoor things away."

"Tie my scarf over your head, and get into the chair. As my Uncle Charles is here, I can walk very well."

He had come up now, and stood looking at Hatty's white, miserable face. If he had seen it a few minutes earlier, he would have thought the misery far greater.

"Well, this is a pretty to-do!" cried my Uncle. "Hatty, child, these wretches have used you ill. Why on earth did you stay with them?"

"At first I did not want to get away, Uncle," she said, "and afterwards I could not."

We went down-stairs. Mrs Crossland was standing in the door of the drawing-room, with thin, shut-up lips, and a red, angry spot on either cheek. Inside the room I caught a glimpse of Annabella, looking woefully white and frightened. Mr Crossland I could nowhere see.

"Madam," said my Uncle Charles, sarcastically, "I will thank you to give up those other young ladies, my nieces' cousins. If they wish to remain in London, they can do so, but it will not be in Charles Street. Did you not tell me, Cary, that their father wished them to come home?"

"My Aunt Kezia said that he intended to write to them to say so," I answered, feeling as though it were about a year since I had received my Aunt Kezia's letter.

"Really, Sir!" Mrs Crossland began, "the father of these gentlewomen consigned them to my care—"

"And I take them out of your care," returned my Uncle Charles. "I will take the responsibility to Mr Bracewell."

"I'll take all the responsi-what's-its-name," said Charlotte, suddenly appearing among us. "Thank you, Mr Desborough; I'd rather not stop here when Hatty is gone. Emily!" she shouted.

Amelia came down-stairs with her bonnet on, and Charlotte's in her hand. "You can't go without a bonnet, my dear child."

"Oh, pother!" cried Charlotte, seizing her bonnet by the strings, and sticking it on the top of her head anyhow it liked.

"One word before we leave, Mr Desborough, if you please," said Amelia, with more dignity than I had thought she possessed. "I have strong reason to believe these persons to be Popish recusants, and the last to whom my father would have confided us, had he known their real character. They have not used any of us so kindly that I need spare them out of any tenderness."

"I thank you, Miss Bracewell," said my Uncle Charles, who also, I thought, was showing qualities that I had not known to be in him. (How scenes like these do bring one's faculties out!) "I rather thought there was some sort of Jesuitry at work. Madam," he turned to Mrs Crossland, "I am sure there is no necessity for me to recall the penal laws to your mind. So long as these young ladies are left undisturbed in my care, in any way,—so long, Madam,—they will not be put in force against you. You understand me, I feel sure. Now, girls, let us go."

So, we three girls walking, and Hatty in the chair, with Dobson and Caesar as a guard behind, we reached Bloomsbury Square.

"Charles, what is it all about?" said Grandmamma, taking a bigger pinch than usual, and spilling some of it on her lace stomacher.

"A spider's web, Madam, from which I have been freeing four flies. But one was a blue-bottle, and broke some of the threads," said my Uncle Charles, laughing, and patting my shoulder.

"Really!" said Grandmamma. "I am pleased to see you, young ladies. Hester, my dear, are you sure you are quite well?"

"I shall be better now," Hatty tried to say, in a trembling voice,—and fainted away.

There was a great commotion then, four or five talking at once, making impossible recommendations, and getting in each other's way; but at the end of it all we got poor Hatty into bed in my chamber, and even Grandmamma said that rest was the best thing for her. My Aunt Dorothea mixed a cordial draught, which she gave her to take; and as Hatty's head sank on the pillow, she said to my surprise,—

"Oh, the rest of being free again! Cary, I never expected you to be the heroine of the family."

"I think you are the heroine, Hatty."

"Most people would have thought I should be. But I have proved weak as water—yet not till after long suffering and hard pressure. You will never see the old Hatty again, Cary."

"Oh yes, dear!" said I. "Wait a few days, till you have had a good rest, and we have fed you up. You will feel quite different a week hence."

"My body will, I dare say, but me—that inside feeling and thinking machine—that will never be the same again. I want to tell you everything."

"And I want to hear it," I replied. "But don't talk now, Hatty; go to sleep, like a good girl. You will be much better for a long rest."

I drew the curtains, and asked Amelia to stay until Hatty was asleep. I knew she would not talk much, and Hatty would not care to tell her things as she would me. Going down-stairs, my Uncle Charles greeted me, laughing, with,—

"Here she comes, the good Queen Bess! Cary, you deserve a gold medal."

Grandmamma bade me come to her, and tell her all I knew. She exclaimed several times, and took ever so many pinches of snuff, till she had to call on my Aunt Dorothea to refill the box. At the end of it she called me a good child, and the Jesuits traitors and scoundrels, to which my Uncle Charles added some rather stronger language.

Charlotte seems to have known nothing of what was going on; or, I should rather say, to have noticed nothing. She is such a careless girl in every way that I am scarce surprised. Amelia did notice things, but she had a mistaken notion of what they meant. She fancied that Hatty was in love with Mr Crossland, and that she, not knowing of his engagement in marriage with Miss Marianne Newton, was very jealous of what she thought his double-dealing. Until after I spoke to her, she had no notion that there might be any sort of Popish treachery. Something which happened soon after that, helped to turn her mind in that direction. But Hatty says she knew next to nothing.

"But," says my Uncle Charles, "how could a Jesuit priest marry anybody? It seems to be all in a muddle."

That I cannot answer.

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Hatty is better to-day, after a quiet night's rest. She still looks woefully ill, and Grandmamma will not let her speak yet. Now that Grandmamma is roused about it, she is very kind to Hatty and me also. I do hope, now, that things have done happening! The poor Prince is a fugitive somewhere in Scotland, and everybody says, "the rebellion is quashed." They did not call it a rebellion until he turned back from Derby. My Uncle Bracewell has writ to my Uncle Charles again with news, and has asked him to see Amelia and Charlotte sent off homeward. Hatty will tarry here till we can return together.

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At last our poor Hatty has told her story: and a sad, sad story it is. It seems that Mr Crossland was pretending to make court to her at first, and she believed in him, and loved him. At that time, she says, she would not have brooked a word against him; and as to believing him to be the wretch he has turned out, she would as soon have thought the sun created darkness. There was no show of Popery at all in the family. They went to church like other people, and talked just like others. From a word dropped by Miss Theresa Newton, Hatty began to think that Mr Crossland's heart was not so undividedly her own as she had hoped; and she presently discovered that he was not to be trusted on that point. They had a quarrel, and he professed penitence, and promised to give up Miss Marianne; and for a while Hatty thought all was right again. Then, little by little, Mrs Crossland (whose right name seems to be Mother Mary Benedicta of the Annunciation—what queer names they do use, to be sure!)—well, Mrs Crossland began to tell Hatty all kinds of strange stories about the saints, and miracles, and so forth, which she said she had heard from the Irish peasantry. At first she told them as things to laugh at; then she began to wonder if there might be some truth in one or two of them; there were strange things in this world! And so she went on from little to little, always drawing back and keeping silence for a while if she found that she was going too fast for Hatty to follow.

"I can see it all now, looking back," said Hatty. "It was all one great whole; but at the time I did not see it at all. They seemed mere passing remarks, bits of conversation that came in anyhow."

Hatty felt sure that Mrs Crossland was a concealed Papist long before she suspected the young man. And when, at last, both threw the mask off, they had her fast in their toils. She was strictly warned never to talk with me except on mere trifling subjects; and she had to give an account of every word that had been said when she returned. If she hid the least thing from them, she was assured it would be a terrible sin.

"But you don't mean to say you believed all that rubbish?" cried I.

"It was not a question of belief," she answered. "I loved him. I would have done anything in all the world to win a smile from him; and he knew it. As to belief—I do not know what I believed: my brain felt like a chaos, and my heart in a whirl."

"And now, Hatty?" said I. I meant to ask what she believed now: but she answered me differently.

"Now," she said, in a low, hopeless voice, "the shrine is deserted, and the idol is broken, and the world feels a great wide, empty place where there is no room for me—a cold, hard place that I must toil through, and the only hope left is to get to the end as soon as possible."

Oh, I wish Flora or Annas were here! I do not know how to deal with my poor Hatty. Thoughts which would comfort me seem to fall powerless with her; and I have nobody to counsel me. I suppose my Aunt Kezia would say I must set the Lord before me; but I do not see how to do it in this case. I am sure I have prayed enough. What I want is an angel to whisper to me what to do again; and my angel has gone back into Heaven, I suppose, for I feel completely puzzled now. At any rate, I do hope things have done happening.

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Note 1. Our forefathers thought colds a much more serious affair than we do. They probably knew much less about them.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

BOUGHT WITH A PRICE.

Host. "Trust me, I think 'tis almost day." Julia. "Not so; but it hath been the longest night That e'er I watched, and the most heaviest."

SHAKESPEARE.

I am writing four days later than my last sentence, and I wonder whether things have finished beginning to happen.

Grandmamma's Tuesday was the day after I writ. The Newtons were there,—at least Mrs Newton and Miss Theresa,—and ever so many people whom I knew and cared nothing about. My Lady Parmenter came early, but did not stay long; and very late, long after every one else, Ephraim Hebblethwaite. Mr Raymond I did not see, and have not done so for several times.

I was not much inclined to talk, and I got into a corner with some pictures which I had seen twenty times, and turned them over just as an excuse for keeping quiet. All at once I heard Ephraim's voice at my side:

"Cary, I want to speak to you. Go on looking at those pictures: other ears are best away. How is Hatty?"

"She is better," I said; "but she is not the old Hatty."

"I don't think the old Hatty will come back," he said. "Perhaps the new one may be better. Are the Miss Bracewells gone home?"

"They start to-morrow," said I.

"Cary, I am going to ask you something. Don't show any surprise. Are you a brave girl?"

"I hardly know," said I, resisting the temptation to look up and see what he meant. "Why?"

"Because a woman is wanted for a piece of work, and we think you would answer."

"What piece of work?—and who are 'we'?" I asked, turning over some views of Rome with very little notion what they were.

"'We' are Colonel Keith, Raymond, and myself."

"And what 'piece of work'?" I asked again.

"To attempt the rescue of Angus."

"How?—what am I to do?"

"Did you ever try to personate anybody?"

"Well, we used to act little pieces sometimes at Carlisle, I and the Grandison girls and Lucretia Carnwath. There has never been anything of the sort here."

"Did they think you did it well?"

"Lucretia Carnwath and Diana Grandison were thought the best performers; but once they said I made a capital housemaid."

"Were you ever a laundress?"

"No, but I dare say I could have managed it."

"Are you willing to try?"

"I am ready to do anything, if it will help Angus. I don't see at present how my playing the laundress is to do that."

"You will not play it on a mock stage in a drawing-room, but in reality. Neither you nor I are to do the hardest part of the work; Colonel Keith takes that."

"What have I to do?"

"To carry a basket of clothes into the prison, and bring it out again."

"I hope Angus will not be in the basket," said I, trying to smother my laughter; "I could not carry him."

"Oh, no," replied Ephraim, laughing too. "Now listen."

"I am all attention," said I.

"Next Tuesday evening, about nine o'clock, slip out of this room, and throw a large cloak over your dress—one that will quite hide you. You will find me at the foot of the back-stairs. We shall go out of the back-door, and get to Raymond's house. A lady, whom you will find there, will help you to put on the dress which is prepared. Then you and I (who are brother and sister, if you please) will carry the basket to the prison. Just before reaching it, I shall pretend to hear something, and run off to see what is the matter. You will be left alone (in appearance), and will call after me in vain, and abuse me roundly when I do not return, declaring that you cannot possibly carry that heavy basket in alone. Then, but not before, you will descry a certain William standing close by,—who will be Colonel Keith,—and showing surprise at seeing him there, will ask him to help you with the basket. He and you will carry the basket into the prison, and you will stand waiting a little while, during which time he will (with the connivance of a warder in our pay) visit Angus's cell. Presently 'William' will return to you, but it will be Angus and not Keith. You are to scold him for having kept you such an unconscionable time, and, declaring that you will have no more to do with him, to take up the empty basket and walk off. Our warder will then declare that he cannot do with all this row,—you must make as much noise as you can,—and push you both out of the prison door. Angus will follow you, expressing penitence and begging to be allowed to carry the basket, but you are not to let him. A few yards from the prison, I shall come running out of a side-street, seize the basket, give Angus a thump or two with it and bid him be off, for I am not going to have such good-for-noughts loitering about and making up to my sister. He will pretend to be cowed, and run away, and you will then abuse me in no measured terms for having left you without protector, in the first place, and for having behaved so badly to your dear Will in the second. When we are out of sight, we may gradually drop our pretended quarrel; and when we reach Mr Raymond's house, you will return to Caroline Courtenay, and I shall be Ephraim Hebblethwaite. There is the programme. Can you carry out your part?— and are you willing?"

My heart stood still a moment, and then came up and throbbed violently in my throat.

"Could I? Yes, I think I could. But I want to know something first. How far I am willing will depend on circumstances. What is going to become of Colonel Keith in this business?"

"He takes Angus's place—don't you see?"

"Yes, but when Angus has got away, how is he to escape?"

"God knoweth. It is not likely that he can."

"And do you mean to say that Colonel Keith is to be sacrificed to save Angus?"

"The sacrifice is his own. The proposal comes from himself."

"And you mean to let him?"

"Not if I could do it myself," was the quiet answer.

"I don't want you to do it. Is there nobody else?"

"No one except Keith, Raymond, and myself. Raymond is too tall, and I am not tall enough. Keith and Angus are just of a height."

"And if Colonel Keith cannot escape, what will become of him?"

Silence answered me,—a silence which said far more than words.

"Ephraim, Colonel Keith is worth fifty of Angus."

"I have not spent these weeks at his bedside, Cary, without finding that out."

"And is the worse to be bought with the better?"

"It was done once, upon the hill of Calvary. And 'This is My commandment, that ye love one another as I have loved you.'"

I was silent. I did not like the idea at all.

"You must talk to Keith about it before we leave the house," said Ephraim. "But I am afraid it will be of no use. We have all tried in vain."

I said no more.

"Well, Cary,—will you undertake it?"

"Ephraim," I said, looking up at last, "I cannot bear to think of sacrificing Colonel Keith. I could do it, I think, for anything but that. It would be hard work, no doubt, at the best; but I would go through with it to save Angus. But cannot it be done in some other way?"

Ephraim shook his head.

"We can see no other way at all. There are only three men who could do it—Colonel Keith, Mr Raymond, and myself; and Keith is far the best for personal reasons. Beside the matter of height, he has, or at any rate could easily put on, a slight Scots accent, which we should find difficult, and might very likely do it wrong. He is acquainted with all the places and people that Angus is; we are not. And remember, it is not only the getting Angus out of the place that is of consequence: whoever takes his place must personate Angus for some hours, till he can get safely away. [Note 3.] Only Keith can do this with any chance of success. As to sacrifice, why, soldiers sacrifice themselves every day, and he is a soldier. I can assure you, it seems to him a natural, commonplace affair. He is very anxious to do it."

"He must be fonder of Angus—" I stopped.

"Than we are?" answered Ephraim, with a smile. "Perhaps he is. But I think he has other reasons, Cary."

"What made you think of me?"

"Well, we must have a girl in the affair, and we were very much puzzled whom to ask. If Miss Keith had been here, we should certainly have asked her."

"Annas? Oh, how could she?" I cried.

"She has pluck enough," said Ephraim. "Of course, Miss Drummond would have been the most natural person to play the part, but Keith would not hear of that, and Raymond doubted if she were a suitable person. With her, the Scots accent would be in the way, and rouse suspicion; and I am not sure whether she could manage such a thing in other respects. Then we thought of Hatty and you; but Hatty, I suppose, is out of the question at present."

"Oh yes, quite," said I.

"She would have been the very one if she had been well and strong. She has plenty of go and dash in her. But Raymond and Keith both wanted you."

"And you did not?" said I, feeling rather mortified that Ephraim should seem to think more of Hatty than of me.

"No, I did not, Cary," he said, in a changed voice. "You think I am paying you a poor compliment. Perhaps, some day, you will know better."

"Does anyone in this house know of the rescue plot?"

"Mr Desborough knows that an attempt may be made, but not that you are in it. Lucette is engaged to keep the coast clear while we get away. And now, Cary, what say you?"

"Yes, Ephraim, I will do it, though I almost wish it were anything else. May God help Colonel Keith!"

"Amen, with all my heart!"

We had no opportunity to say more.

So now I wait for next Tuesday, not knowing what it may bring forth.

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It was about a quarter of an hour before the fated moment, when Miss Theresa Newton sat down by me.

"Very serious to-night, Miss Caroline!" said she, jestingly.

I thought I had good cause, considering what was about to happen. But I turned it off as best I could.

"Where is our handsome friend this evening?" said she.

"Have we only one?" replied I.

Miss Newton laughed that musical laugh of hers.

"I should hope we are rather happier. I meant Mr Hebblethwaite— horrible name!"

"I saw him a little while ago," said I, wondering if he were then at the foot of the back-stairs.

"What has become of the Crosslands? Have you any idea? I have not seen them here now for—ever so long."

"Nor have I. I do not know at all," said I, devoutly hoping that I never should see them again.

"My sister is perfectly in despair. Her intended never comes to see her now. I tell her she had better find somebody else. It is too tiresome to keep on and off with a man in that way. Oh, you don't know anything about it. Your time has not come yet."

"When it do," said I, "I will either be on or off, if you please. I should not like to be on and off, by any means."

Miss Newton hid her laughing face behind her fan.

"My dear child, you are so refreshing! Don't change, I beg of you. It is charming to meet any one like you."

"I thank you for your good opinion," I replied; and, my Aunt Dorothea just then coming up, I resigned my seat to her, and dropped the conversation.

For a minute or two I wandered about,—asked Hatty if she were tired (this was her first evening in the drawing-room with company), and when she said, "Not yet," I inquired after Puck's health from Mrs Newton, told Miss Emma Page that Grandmamma had been admiring her sister's dress, and slipped out of the door when I arrived at it. In my room Lucette was standing with the cloak ready to throw over me.

"Monsieur Ebate is at the escalier derobe," said she. Poor Lucette could get no nearer Hebblethwaite. "He tell me, this night, Mademoiselle goes on an errand for the good Lord. May the Lord keep safe His messenger!"

"Mr Hebblethwaite goes with me," said I. "He will take all the care of me he can."

"I will trust him for that!" said Lucette, with a little nod. "He is good man, celui-la. But, Mademoiselle, 'except the Lord keep the city—' you know."

"'The watchman waketh but in vain.' Yes, Lucette, I know, in every sense. But how do you know that Mr Hebblethwaite is a good man?"

"Ah! I know, I. And I know what makes him stay in London, all same. Now Mademoiselle is ready, and Caesar is at the door, la-bas."

Down-stairs I ran, joined Ephraim, who also wore a large cloak over his evening dress, and we went out of the back-door, which was guarded by Caesar, whose white teeth and gleaming eyes were all I could see of him in the dusk.

"Lucette asked leave to take Caesar into the affair," said Ephraim. "She promised to answer for him as for herself. Now, Cary, we must step out: there is no time to lose."

"As fast as you please," said I.

In a few minutes, we came to Mr Raymond's house. I never knew before where he lived. It is in a small house in Endell Street. An elderly woman opened the door, who evidently expected us, and ushered us at once into a living-room on the right hand. Here I saw Mr Raymond and a lady—a lady past her youth, who had, as I could not help seeing, been extreme beautiful. I thought there was no one else till I heard a voice beside me:

"I fear I am almost a stranger, Miss Cary."

"Mr Keith!" I did not feel him a stranger, but a very old friend indeed. But how ill he looked! I told him so, and he said he was wonderfully better,—quite well again,—with that old, sweet smile that he always had. My heart came up into my throat.

"Mr Keith, must you go into this danger?"

"If I fail to go where my Master calls me, how can I look for His presence and blessing to go with me? They who go with God are they with whom God goes."

"Are you quite sure He has called you?"

"Quite sure." His fine eyes lighted up.

"Have you thought—"

"Forgive my interruption. I have thought of everything. Miss Cary, you heard the vow which I took to God and Flora Drummond—never to lose sight of Angus, and to keep him true and safe. I have kept it so far as it lay in me, and I will keep it to the end. Come what may, I will be true to God and her."

And looking up into his eyes, I saw—revealed to me as by a flash of lightning—what was Duncan Keith's most precious thing.

"Now, Miss Caroline," said Mr Raymond, "will you kindly go up with this lady,"—I fancied I heard the shortest possible sign of hesitation before the last two words,—"and she will be so good as to help you to assume the dress you are to wear."

I went up-stairs with the beautiful woman, who gave a little laugh as she shut the door.

"Poor Mr Raymond!" said she; "I feel so sorry for the man. Nature meant him to be a Tory, and education has turned him into a Whig. He has the kindest of hearts, and the most unmanageable of consciences. He will help us to free a prisoner, but he would not call me anything but 'Mistress' to save his life."

"And your Ladyship—?" said I, guessing in an instant what she ought to be called, and that she was the wife of a peer—not a Hanoverian peer.

"Oh, my Ladyship can put up with it very well," said she, laughing, as she helped me off with my evening dress. "I wish I may never have anything worse. The man would not pain me for the world. It is only his awful Puritan conscience; Methodist, perhaps, Puritan was the word in my day. When one lives in exile, one almost loses one's native tongue."

And I thought I heard a light sigh. Her Ladyship, however, said no more, except what had reference to our business. When the process was over, I found myself in a printed linen gown, with a linen hood on my head, a long white apron made quite plain, and stout clumsy shoes.

"Now, be as vulgar as you possibly can," said her Ladyship. "Try to forget all your proprieties, and do everything th' wrong way. You are Betty Walkden, if you please, and Mr Hebblethwaite is Joel Walkden, and your brother. You are a washerwoman, and your mistress, Mrs Richardson, lives in Chelsea. Don't forget your history. Oh! I am forgetting one thing myself. Colonel Keith, and therefore Lieutenant Drummond, as they are the same person for this evening, is Will Clowes, a young gardener at Wandsworth, who is your lover, of whom your brother Joel does not particularly approve. Now then, keep up your character. And remember,"—her Ladyship was very grave now—"to call any of them by his real name may be death to all of you."

I turned round and faced her.

"Madam, what will become of Colonel Keith?"

I thought her Ladyship looked rather keenly at me.

"'The sword devoureth one as well as another,'" was her reply. "You know whence that comes, Miss Courtenay."

"Is that all?" I answered. "If any act of mine lead to his death, how shall I answer it to his father and mother, and to Annas?"

"They gave him up to the Cause, my dear, when they sent him forth to join the Prince. A soldier must always do his duty."

"Forgive me, Madam. I was not questioning his duty, but my own."

"Too late for that, Miss Courtenay. My dear, he is ready for death. I would more of us were!"

I read in the superb eyes above me that she was not.

"Forward!" she said, as if giving a word of command.

Somehow, I felt as if I must go. Her Ladyship was right: it was too late to draw back. So Ephraim and I set forth on our dangerous errand.

I cannot undertake to say how we went, or where. It all comes back to me as if I had walked it in a dream: and I felt as if I were dreaming all the while. At last, as we went along, carrying the basket, Ephraim suddenly set it down with, "Hallo! what's that?" I knew then that we must be close to the prison, and that he was about to leave me.

"I say, I must see after that. You go on, Bet!" cried Ephraim; and he was off in a minute—in what direction I could not even see.

"Gemini!" cried I, catching up the word I had heard from Mrs Cropland's Betty. "Joel! I say, Joel! You bad fellow, can't you come back? How am I to lift this great thing, I should like to know?"

A dark shadow close to the wall moved a little.

"Come now, can't one of you lads help a poor maid?" said I. "It's a shame of Joel to leave me in the lurch like this. Come, give us a hand!"

I was trembling like an aspen leaf. Suppose the wrong man offered to help me! What could I do then?

"Want a hand, my pretty maid?" said a voice which certainly was not Colonel Keith's. "I'm your man! Give us hold!"

Oh, what was I to do! This horrid man would carry the basket, and how could I explain to the warder? How could I know which warder was the right one?

"Now then, hold hard, mate!" said a second voice, which I greeted with delight. "Just you let this here young woman be. How do, Betty? Why, wherever's Joel? He's no call to let the likes o' you carry things o' thisn's."

What had the Colonel done with his Scots accent? I did not hear a trace of it.

"Oh, Will Clowes, is that you?" said I, giving a little toss of my head, which I thought would be in character. "Well, I don't know whether I shall let you carry it."

The next minute I felt how wrong I was to say so.

"Yes, you will," said Colonel Keith, and took the basket out of my hands. I should never have known him, dressed in corduroy, and with a rake over his shoulder. He shouted something, and the great prison door opened slowly, and a warder put his head out.

"Who goes there?"

"Washing for Cartwright's ward."

"Ay, all right. Come within. Cartwright!" shouted the porter.

We went in, and stood waiting a moment just inside the door, till a warder appeared, who desired Colonel Keith to "bring that 'ere basket up, now."

"You can wait a bit, Betty," said the Colonel, turning to me. "Don't be afraid, my girl. Nobody 'll touch you, and Will 'll soon be back."

They say it is unlucky to watch people out of sight. I hope it is not true. True or untrue, I watched him. Yes, Will Clowes might be back soon; but would Duncan Keith ever return any more?

And then a feeling came, as if a tide of fear swept over me,—Was it right of Flora to ask him to make that promise? I have wondered vaguely many a time: but in that minute, with all my senses sharpened, I seemed to see what a blunder it was. Is it ever right to ask people for such unconditional pledges to a distinct course of action, when we cannot know what is going to happen? To what agony—nay, even to what wrong-doing—may we pledge them without knowing it! It seems to me that influence is a very awful thing, for it reaches so much farther than you can see. May it not be said sometimes of us all, "They know not what they do"? And then to think that when we come out of that Valley of the Shadow into the clear light of the Judgment Bar, all our unknown sins may burst upon us like a great army, more than we can count or imagine— it is terrible!

O my God, save me from unknown sins! O Christ, be my Help and Advocate when I come to know them!

How I lived through the next quarter of an hour I can never say to anybody. I sat upon a settle near the door of the prison, praying—how earnestly!—for both of those in danger, but more especially for Colonel Keith. At last I saw a man coming towards me with the empty basket, in which he had inserted his head, like a bonnet, so that it rather veiled his face. I remembered then that I was to "make as much noise as I could," and quarrel with my supposed lover.

"Well, you are a proper young man!" said I, standing up. "How long do you mean to keep me waiting, I should like to know? You think I've nothing in the world to do, don't you, now? And Missis 'll say nought to me, will she, for coming home late? Just you give me that basket— men be such dolts!"

"Come, my girl,"—in a deprecating tone—said a voice, which I recognised as that of Angus. I hoped nobody else would.

"I'm not your girl, and I'll not come unless I've a mind, neither!" cried I, loudly, trying to put in practice her Ladyship's advice to be as vulgar as I could. "I'm not a-going to have fellows dangling at my heels as keeps me a-waiting—"

"Come, young woman, you just clear out," said the warder Cartwright. "My word, lad, but she's a spitfire! You be wise, and think better of it. Now then, be off, both of you!"

And he laid his hand on my shoulder, as if to push me through the door, which I pretended to resent very angrily, and Angus flung down the basket and began to strip up his sleeves, as if he meant to fight the warder.

"Now, we can't do with that kind of thing here!" cried another man, coming forward, whom I took to be somewhat above the rest. "Be off at once—you must not offer to fight the King's warders. Turn them out, Cartwright, and shut the door on them."

Angus caught up the basket and dashed through the door, and I followed, making all the noise I could, and scolding everybody. We had only just got outside the gate when Ephraim came running up, and snatched the basket from Angus. There was a few minutes' pretended struggle between them, and then Ephraim chased Angus into a side-street, and came back to me, whom he began to scold emphatically for encouraging such idle ne'er-do-wells as that rascal Clowes. I tried to give him as good as he brought; and so we went on, jangling as we walked, until nearly within sight of Mr Raymond's door. Then, declaring that I would not speak to him if he could not behave better, and that I was not going to walk in his leading-strings, I marched on with my head held very high, and Ephraim trudged after me, looking as sulky as he knew how. We rapped on the back-door, and Mr Raymond's servant let us in. In the parlour we found Mr Raymond and her Ladyship.

"I am thankful to see you safe back!" cried the former; and his manner suggested to me the idea that he had not felt at all sure of doing so. "Is all well accomplished?"

"Angus Drummond is out, and Keith is in," replied Ephraim. "As to the rest, we must leave it for time to reveal. I am frightfully tired of quarrelling; I never did so much in my life before."

"Has Miss Courtenay done her part well?" asked her Ladyship.

"Too well, if anything," said Ephraim. "I was sadly afraid of a slip once. If that fellow had insisted on carrying in the basket, Cary, we should have had a complete smash of the whole thing."

"Why, did you see that?" said I.

"Of course I did," he answered. "I was never many yards from you. I lay hidden in a doorway, close to. Cary, you make a deplorably good scold! I never guessed you would do that part of the business so well."

"I am glad to hear it, for I found it the hardest part," said I.

Her Ladyship came up and helped me to change my dress.

"The Cause owes something to you to-night, Miss Courtenay," said she. "At least, if Colonel Keith can escape."

"And if not, Madam?"

"If not, my dear, we shall but have done our duty. Good-night. Will you accept a little reminder of this evening—and of Lady Inverness?"

I looked up in astonishment. Was this beautiful woman, with her tinge of sadness in face and voice, the woman who had so long stood first at the Court of Montefiascone—the Mistress of the Robes to Queen Clementina, and as some said, of the heart of King James?

My Lady Inverness drew from her finger a small ring of chased gold. "It will fit you, I think, my dear. You are a brave maid, and I like you. Farewell."

I am not at all sure that my Aunt Kezia would have allowed me to accept it. Some, even among the Tories, thought my Lady Inverness a wicked woman; others reckoned her an injured and a slandered one. I gave her what Father calls "the benefit of the doubt," thanked her, and accepted the ring. I do not know whether I did right or wrong.

To run down-stairs, say good-bye to Mr Raymond,—by the way, would Mr Raymond have allowed my Lady to enter his house, if he had believed the tales against her?—and hasten back with Ephraim to Bloomsbury Square, took but few minutes. Lucette let us in; I think she had been watching.

"The good Lord has watched over Mademoiselle," said she, as she took my cloak from me.

Ephraim had gone back to the drawing-room, and I followed. I glanced at the French clock on the mantelpiece, where a gold Cupid in a robe of blue enamel was mowing down an array of hearts with a scythe, and saw that we had been away a little over an hour. Could that be all? How strange it seemed! People were chattering, and flirting fans, and playing cards, as if nothing at all had happened. Miss Newton was sitting where I had left her, talking to Mr Robert Page. Grandmamma sat in her chair, just as usual. Nobody seemed to have missed us, except Hatty, who said with a smile,—"I had lost you, Cary, for the last half-hour."

"Yes," said I, "something detained me out of the room."

I only exchanged one other sentence in the course of the evening with Ephraim:

"You will let me know how things go on? I shall be very anxious."

"Of course. Yes, I will take care of that."

And then the company broke up, and I helped Hatty to bed, and prayed from my heart for Colonel Keith and Angus, and did not fall asleep till I had heard Saint Olave's clock strike two. When I woke, I had been making jumballs in the drawing-room with somebody who was both my Lady Inverness and my Aunt Kezia, and who told me that Colonel Keith had been appointed Governor of the American plantations, and that he would have to be dressed in corduroy.

When I arose in the morning, I could—and willingly would—have thought the whole a dream. But there on my finger, a solid contradiction, was my Lady Inverness's ring.

————————————————————————————————————

For four days I heard nothing more. On the Friday, my Uncle Charles told us that rumours were abroad of the escape of a prisoner, and he hoped it might be Angus. My Aunt Dorothea wanted to hear all the particulars. I sat and listened, looking as grave as I could.

"Why, it seems they must have bribed some fellow to carry in a basket of foul clothes, and then to change clothes with the prisoner, and so let him get out. There appears to have been a girl in it as well—a girl and a man. I suppose they were both bribed, very likely. Anyhow, the prisoner is set free, I only hope it is young Drummond, Cary."

I said I hoped so too.

"But, dear me, what will become of the man that went in?" asked my Aunt Dorothea.

"Oh, he'll be hanged, sure enough," said my Uncle Charles. "Only some low fellow, I suppose, that was willing to sell himself."

"A man does not sell his life in a hurry," said my Aunt Dorothea.

"My dear," replied my Uncle Charles, "there are men who would sell their own mothers and children."

"Oh, I dare say, but not themselves," said she.

"I suppose somebody cared for him," observed Hatty.

I found it hard work to keep silence.

"Only low people like himself," said Grandmamma. "Those creatures will do anything for money."

And then, Caesar bringing in a note with Mrs Newton's compliments, the talk went off to something else.

On the Saturday evening there was an extra assembly, and I caught Ephraim as soon as ever I could.

"Ephraim, they have found it out!" I said, in a whisper.

"Turn your back on the room," said he, quietly. "Yes, Cary, they have. There goes Keith's first chance of safety—yet it was a poor one from the beginning."

"Can nobody intercede for him?"

"With whom? The Electress is dead: and they say she was the only one who had much influence with the Elector."

"He has daughters," I suggested.

Ephraim shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say that was a very poor hope.

"Your friend Mr Raymond, being a Whig," I urged, "might be able to do something."

"I will see," said he. "Do you know that Miss Keith is to be in London this evening?"

"Annas? No! I have never heard a word about it."

"I was told so," said Ephraim, looking hard at an engraving which he had taken up.

I wondered very much who told him.

"She might possibly go to the Princess Caroline. People say she is the best of the family. Bad is the best, I am afraid." [Note 2.]

"How did Mr Raymond come to know my Lady Inverness?"

"Oh, you discovered who she was, did you?"

"She told me herself."

"Ah!—I cannot say; I am not sure that he knew anything of her before Tuesday night. She was our superior officer, and gave orders which we obeyed—that was all."

"I cannot understand how Mr Raymond could have anything to do with it!" cried I.

"Nor I, precisely. I believe there are wheels within wheels. Is he not a friend of your uncle, Mr Drummond?—an old friend, I mean, when they were young men."

"Possibly," said I; "I do not know."

Somebody came up now, and drew Ephraim away. I had no more private talk with him. But how could he come to know anything about Annas? And where is she going to be?

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The next morning Caesar brought me a little three-cornered note. I guessed at once from whom it came, and eagerly tore it open.

"We arrived in London last night, my dear Caroline, and are very desirous of seeing you. Could you meet me at Mr Raymond's house this afternoon? Mr Hebblethwaite will be so good as to call for you, if you can come. Love from both to you and Hester. Your affectionate friend, A. K."

Come! I should think I would come! I only hoped Annas already knew of my share in the plot to rescue Angus. If not, what would she say to me?

I read the note again. "We"—who were "we"?—and "love from both." Surely Flora must be with her! I kept wishing—and I could not tell myself why—that Ephraim had less to do with it. I did not like his seeming to be thus at the beck and call of Annas; and I did not know why it vexed me. I must be growing selfish. That would never do! Why should Ephraim not do things for Annas? I was an older friend, it is true, but that was all. I had no more claim on him than any one else. I recognised that clearly enough: yet I could not banish the feeling that I was sorry for it.

When Ephraim came, I thought he looked exceeding grave. I had told Grandmamma beforehand that Annas (and I thought Flora also) had returned to London, and asked me to go and see them, which I begged her leave to do. Grandmamma took a pinch of snuff over it, and then said that Caesar might call me a chair.