A Secret of the Sea: A Novel. Vol. 2 (of 3)

by T. W. Speight

A SECRET OF THE SEA.

[CHAPTER I.]

MIRIAM BYRNE.

It was nearly dusk on the eighth day after Peter Byrne and his daughter had got settled in their new rooms, when Gerald Warburton knocked at the door of Max Van Duren's house.

"Is my father at home?" asked Gerald of the middle-aged woman who answered his summons.

"If you are Mr. Byrne's son, I was told to send you upstairs when you called," answered the woman. "The first floor, please--door with the brass handle."

It was at Byrne's request that Gerald agreed to pass as his son on the occasion of any visits which he might have to make to Van Duren's house. Gerald could see no reason for the assumption of such a relationship, but in the belief that Byrne might have some special motive in the matter, he acceded without difficulty.

Up the stairs he now went, and knocked at the door indicated by the woman. "Come in," cried a voice, and in he went.

He paused for a moment or two just inside the room, and shut the door slowly after him while his eyes took in the various features of the scene.

The room in which Gerald found himself was of considerable size, and was lighted by three tall, narrow windows, curtained with heavy hangings of faded crimson velvet. The walls were painted a delicate green, and the floor was of polished wood. There was a large old-fashioned fire-place, and a heavy, overhanging marble chimney-piece, across the front of which was carved a wild procession of Baechic figures. A Turkey carpet covered the middle of the floor, but the sides of the room were left bare. Chairs, tables, and bureau were of dark oak, heavy, uncouth, uncompromising--and if not really antique, were very good Wardour Street imitations of the genuine article. On one side of the hearth, however, stood a capacious, modern easy-chair, for the special delectation of Mr. Peter Byrne, while in neighbourly proximity to it was the long-stemmed pipe with the china bowl. On the opposite side of the hearth stood another article, that seemed more out of keeping with the rest of the room, even, than the easy-chair. It was a couch or lounge of the most modern fashion, and upholstered with a gay flowery chintz. There could be no doubt as to the person for whose behoof this gay piece of furniture was intended. Stretched on the floor in front of it, and doing duty as a rug, was a magnificent tiger-skin. On this stood an embroidered footstool. At the back of the couch was a screen painted with Chinese figures and landscapes. Near it hung a guitar.

Gerald advanced slowly into the room, and for a moment or two he altogether failed to recognize the man who rose out of the easy-chair to greet him. It was Byrne and yet it was not Byrne. "It must be his father, or an older brother," said Gerald to himself. Even when the man held out his hand and whispered: "Is there anybody outside the door?" he was still in doubt.

"There is no one outside the door," said Gerald. "I came up the stairs alone."

"That's all right, then, and I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Warburton," said Byrne's familiar voice, after which there could no longer be any doubt. "Not a bad make up, eh?" he added, with a chuckle, as he noted Gerald's puzzled look.

"I certainly did not know you at first," replied the latter. "In fact, I took you for your own father."

"You could not pay me a higher compliment, sir," said Byrne, with a gleeful rubbing of the hands. "It is part of the scheme I have in view, that Van Duren should take me to be an old man, very feeble, very infirm, and nearly, if not quite, on my last legs."

"You look at the very least twenty years older than when I last saw you," remarked Gerald.

"And yet the transformation is a very simple matter," said Byrne. "It would not do to tell everybody how it's done, but from you I can have no secrets of that kind. In the first place, I had my own hair cropped as closely as it was possible for scissors to do it. Then I had this venerable wig made with its straggling silvery locks, and this black velvet skull cap. Two-thirds of my teeth being artificial ones, I have dispensed with that portion of them for the time being, and that of itself is sufficient to entirely alter the character of the lower part of my face. Then this dress--this gaberdine-like coat down to my knees, my collar of an antique fashion, my white, unstarched neckcloth, fastened with a little pearl brooch, this stoop of the shoulders, my enfeebled walk, and the stick that I am obliged to use to help me across the room: all simple matters, my dear sir, but, in the aggregate, decidedly effective."

Mr. Byrne omitted to mention that, as a conscientious artist bent on looking the character he meant to play, he had for the time being abandoned the hare's foot and rouge-pot. Although his use of those, articles had always been marked by the most extreme discretion, his discarding of them entirely did not add to the youthfulness of his appearance.

"And then you must please bear in mind that I am afflicted with deafness," added Byrne, with a smile, when Gerald had drawn a chair up to the fire. "It is not a very extreme form of deafness, but still it is necessary that I should be spoken to in a louder voice than ordinary; and it is sufficiently bad," he added, with a chuckle, "to prevent me, as I sit in my easy-chair by the fire, from overhearing any little private conversation that you and another person--my daughter, for instance--might choose to hold together as you sit by the sofa there, only a few yards away."

"I certainly can't understand," said Gerald to himself, "how all this scheming, and all these disguises, can in any way further the object which Ambrose Murray has so profoundly at heart."

Gerald felt mystified, and he probably looked it. As if in response to his unspoken thought, Byrne presently said: "All these things seem very strange to you, I do not doubt, Mr. Warburton; but you will believe me when I assure you that I have not for one moment lost sight of the particular end for which my services are retained. As soon as I begin to see my way a little more clearly--if I ever do--my plans and purposes shall all be told to you and Mr. Murray. I have built up a certain theory in my mind, and there seems only one way of ascertaining whether that theory has any foundation in fact. If it has, it may possibly lead us on to the clue we are in search of. If it has not--but I will not anticipate failure, however probable it may be. If I still possess the confidence of Mr. Murray and yourself, if you are still willing to let me have my own way in this thing for a little while longer, then I am perfectly satisfied."

"We have every confidence in you, Mr. Byrne," said Gerald, earnestly, "and we are both satisfied that the case could not have been entrusted into more capable hands than yours."

While Gerald was speaking, a door that led to an inner room was opened, and Miriam Byrne came in.

Byrne rose, laid one hand on the region of his heart, and waved the other gracefully.

"My daughter, Mr. Warburton--my only child," he said.

"I am glad that you have called to see us, Mr. Warburton," said Miriam, frankly, in her rich, full voice. "My father has talked so much about you that my curiosity was quite piqued to see for myself what his rara avis was like."

"You will find that I am a bird of very homely plumage," replied Gerald, with a smile. "Your father has been drawing on a too lively imagination. I am afraid that his rara avis will prove to be nothing more wonderful than our familiar friend--the goose."

"What a superb creature!" was Gerald's thought, as he sat down opposite Miriam; and that was the right phrase to apply to her.

Miss Byrne was at this time close upon her twenty-second birthday. Her beauty was of an altogether eastern type. Hardly anyone who met Miriam in the street took her to be an English girl; while to those who knew both her and her father, it was a constant source of wonder how "old Peter" could come to have for his daughter a girl so totally unlike him in every possible way. But Byrne's wife, who died when her daughter was quite an infant, had been a beautiful woman, and Miriam more than inherited her mother's good looks. People knowing the family averred that she was an exact counterpart of her grandmother: a lovely Roumanian Jewess, who had been brought over to England in the train of an Austrian lady of rank, and having found a husband here, had never gone back.

Eyes and hair of the black-set had Miriam Byrne. Large, liquid eyes, shaded with long, black lashes, and arched with delicate, well-defined brows; hair that fell in a thick, heavy mass to her very waist. Tints of the damask rose glowed through the dusky clearness of her cheeks. Her forehead was low and broad as that of some antique Venus. Her mouth was ripe and full, and might have looked somewhat coarse, had it not been relieved by her finely-cut nose with its delicate nostrils. She had on, this evening, a long, trailing dress of violet velvet, which harmonized admirably with her dusky loveliness--a rich, heavy-looking dress by gaslight, but one which daylight would have shown to be faded and frayed in many places. It had, in fact, at one time been a stage-dress, and as such, had been worn by Miss Kesteven of the Royal Westminster Theatre, when playing the heroine of one of Sardou's clever dramas.

The necklace of pearls, with earrings to match, which Miriam wore this evening, were also of stage parentage, but they looked so much like the real thing, that no one, save an expert, could have told without handling them that they were nothing better than clever shams. The one ring, too, which she wore--a hoop of diamonds--on her somewhat large, but well-shaped hand, was not more genuine than her pearl necklace. It had been bought for a few shillings in the Burlington Arcade; but it flashed famously in the gaslight; and as one cannot well take off a lady's ring in order to examine it, answered its purpose just as well as if it had cost a hundred guineas.

But we must not be too hard on Miriam. No doubt she was as fond of a little finery as most of her sisters are at two-and-twenty, but, in the present case, all these sham trinkets had been assumed by her at her father's wish, and "for a certain purpose," as the old man said. At the same time one need not imagine that the wearing of them, although they were counterfeit, was in any way distasteful to Miriam. As she herself would have been one of the first to say, go long as other people accepted her jewellery as real, the end for which it was worn was thoroughly gained.

"And how do you like your new home, Miss Byrne?" asked Gerald.

"I would much rather it had been at the West End than in the City," answered Miriam. "The rooms I like very much. They are large and old-fashioned, and have seen better days. To live in such rooms makes one feel as if one were somebody of importance--as if one had money in the Bank of England. But the look-out is dreadful. At the back, into that horrid churchyard; while in the front, there is nothing to be seen but a high, blank wall. I am always glad when it is time to draw the curtains and light the gas."

"You must get out for a little change and amusement now and then," said Gerald. "It will never do for you to get moped and melancholy through shutting yourself up in this gloomy old house. A visit once a week to a theatre, for instance, or----"

"Don't speak of it," interrupted Miriam. "I hope I shall not see the inside of a theatre for a couple of years, at the very least."

"Perhaps the opera would suit you better," suggested Gerald, altogether at a loss to know why the theatre should be so emphatically tabooed. "If you are fond of the opera, I think I can manage to get a couple of tickets for you now and then."

"Oh, that will be delightful!" exclaimed Miriam, clasping her hands with Oriental fervour. "I have never been to the opera but twice in my life, and I should dearly love to go again."

"Then you are fond of music?" asked Gerald.

"Passionately. I love it anywhere and everywhere; but I love it best on the stage. That is the glorification of music. It is to honour music as it ought to be honoured. When I listen to an opera, I seem to be lifted quite out of my ordinary self. I feel as if I were so much better and cleverer than I really am. And then I always have a longing to rush on to the stage and join in the choruses, and make one more figure in the splendid processions."

"I will send you tickets for Friday, if you will honour me by accepting them," said Gerald.

"You are very kind, Mr. Warburton; and to such an offer I cannot find in my heart to say No," answered Miriam, with a "Oh, how I wish I were clever!" she cried next moment; "clever enough to be a great singer on the stage, or to paint a great picture, or to write a book that everybody talked about. Don't you think, Mr. Warburton, that it must be a glorious thing to be clever?"

"Not being clever myself, I am hardly in a position to judge," answered Gerald, amused at the girl's earnestness. "But if we commonplace people only knew it, I have no doubt that cleverness has its disadvantages, like every other exceptional quality. Besides, it would not do for us all to be clever; in that case, the world would soon become intolerable. I think a moderate quantity of brains, and a large amount of contentment, are the best stock-in-trade to get through life with."

"Hear, hear!" cried Byrne, from his easy-chair. "My sentiments exactly."

Miriam pouted a little.

"Now you are making fun of me," she said.

"No, indeed," returned Gerald, earnestly.

"I don't know why the girl should always be raving about wanting to be clever," said Byrne, addressing himself, to Gerald. "She has plenty of good looks, and ought to be content. Five women out of six have neither brains nor good looks--though they will never believe that they haven't got the latter," added the old cynic, under his breath.

"Oh, yes, I know that I'm good-looking," said Miriam, naively, but not without a touch of bitterness. "People have told me that ever since I can remember anything. Besides, I can see it for myself in the glass," with an involuntary glance at the Venetian mirror hanging opposite.

"Then why are you always dissatisfied--always flying in the face of Providence?" growled Byrne. "What are your good looks given you for, but that some man with plenty of money may fall in love with you, and make you his wife?"

"Why not send me to the slave-market at Constantinople?" said Miriam, bitterly. "I dare say that I should fetch a tolerable price there."

Gerald thought it time to change the conversation.

"Do you come in contact at all with Van Duren?" he said to Byrne.

"We have seen more of him to-day than we saw yesterday, and more of him yesterday than previously. He is gradually learning to overcome the native bashfulness of his disposition," added Byrne, with a sneer.

"Then he has not shrouded himself altogether from view?" said Gerald.

"Not a bit of it. What he would have done had I been living here with a wife instead of a daughter, I can't say. But the fact is, he seems inclined to admire Miriam."

The old man sat staring at Gerald with a twinkle in his eye, as he finished speaking.

Gerald was at a loss to know in what way it was expected that he should greet such an item of news. So he merely fell back on a safe, though unmeaning, "Oh, indeed!"

Miriam, gazing into the fire, either had not heard, or did not heed, her father's words.

"For the sort of ursa major that he is," resumed Byrne, "he doesn't conduct himself so much amiss. Has not been much used to ladies' society, I should say. Does not talk much, but likes to look and listen."

"Then you have had him in here!" said Gerald, with surprise.

"Yes, twice. There's the magnet"--pointing to Miriam. "It isn't me, bless you, not me," added the old man, with a chuckle, as he proceeded to poke the fire vigorously.

To say that Gerald was mystified is to say no more than the truth. But it was evident that whatever Byrne might have to tell him with regard to his plans and purposes, he was not inclined to tell yet, and Gerald would not question him.

"Does Mr. Van Duren keep up a large establishment?" he said.

"No: a small one. Everything on a miserly scale. Every item of expenditure cut down to the lowest possible point."

"Perhaps he is poor."

"Poor! my dear sir. Tcha! When did you ever know a money-lender to be poor?"

"But I did not know that Van Duren was a money-lender."

"That's what he is: neither more nor less."

"Then, in that case, he must be a man of capital?"

"Certainly, to some extent. But you never know how the webs of such spiders as he interlace and cross each other. Perhaps he is only used as a decoy to catch foolish flies for bigger and older spiders than himself. But, in any case, you may be sure that he comes in for a good share of the plunder."

"From what you have said, I presume that he is unmarried?"

"There are no signs of a wife under this roof," said Byrne. "Besides himself, there is, in the office, first, his clerk, Pringle--a drunken, disreputable old vagabond enough, from what I have seen of him; and secondly, a youth of fifteen, to copy letters and run errands, and so on. Then, downstairs, in a dungeon below the level of the street, we have Bakewell and his wife, as custodians of the premises and personal attendants on Van Duren--a harmless, ignorant couple enough. These, with Miriam and myself, make up the sum total of the establishment. Pringle and the boy, I may add, do not sleep on the premises."

"Are you acquainted with Mr. Van Duren?" asked Miriam, suddenly lifting her eyes from the fire.

"I have not that honour," said Gerald, drily.

"There is a great deal of power about him," said Miriam, "and I like power in a man. He seems to me to be a man who would stand at nothing in working out his own ends either for good or evil. For women--weak women--such characters generally have a peculiar fascination."

"That's because you never have a will of your own for an hour together," said Byrne. "Women always admire what they possess least of themselves."

"Papa always runs the ladies down," said Miriam, smilingly, to Gerald. "But if only one-half that I have heard whispered be true, no one could be fonder of their society than he was, so long as he was young and good-looking."

"And now that he is neither----?" said Byrne.

"No one delights to run them down more than he. The old story, Mr. Warburton. Olives have no longer any flavour for him, therefore only fools eat olives."

Gerald rose and made his adieux. It was arranged that he should call again on the following Tuesday or Wednesday.

"You won't forget the tickets for the opera, will you, Mr. Warburton?" were Miriam's whispered words as they stood for a moment at the street door, she having gone down stairs to let him out.

"Well, kitten, and what do you think of your new-found brother?" asked Byrne, as soon as Miriam got back into the room.

"I like him. It would be impossible to help liking him," said Miriam.

"Your reasons--if you have any?"

"Ladies are not supposed to give reasons. I like him because I like him. For one thing, he is not commonplace. There is an air of cleverness about him. You would not feel a bit surprised if at any moment he were to tell you that he was the author of the last celebrated poem, or the painter of the last great picture, or that he had been down the crater of Vesuvius, or had invented a new balloon that would take you half-way to the moon. By the time you have been in Mr. Warburton's society ten minutes, you say to yourself: 'Here's a man who has brains.'"

"Rather different from James Baron, Esq., eh?"

"Now, papa!" said Miriam, in a hurt tone. Then she turned from him and went to the window, and drew aside the curtain, and peered out into the darkness. "I thought it was understood between us that on this point there was no longer to be any contention. I thought you thoroughly understood, papa, that nothing could alter my determination."

"Oh, you have made me understand all that, plainly enough," said Byrne. "But when I think how mad and foolish you are--how determined you are to throw away your one great chance in life, I can't help----"

"Pray spare me, papa! Why cover ground that you and I have trodden so often already?"

"To think," said Byrne, indignantly, "of my daughter demeaning herself to marry a common, underpaid clerk!"

"Yes, a clerk whose father is a dean; and who was educated at college, and----"

"And who was expelled from college for----"

"Papa, for shame! Is his one fault to stick to him through life?"

"Even his own people discard him."

"Let them do so. He will make his way in spite of them. He is a gentleman bred and born."

"A gentleman, forsooth!"

"Yes--a gentleman who has bound himself to marry a ballet girl--for that's what I am. Neither more nor less than a ballet girl!"

"Had it not been for my misfortunes----"

"We need not speak of them, papa. But was it a wise thing on your part to expose me to all the temptations of a theatre?"

"I had every confidence in the strength of your principles."

"Had you known one tithe of the temptations to which I was exposed, you might well have trembled for me. Why, the very last night I was at the Royal Westminster there was a note left for me at the stage door and a splendid bouquet, and inside the bouquet was this."

As Miriam spoke, she extracted from her watch-pocket a ring set with five or six costly brilliants, and handed it to her father.

"You are not going to wear this!" he said, looking up at her with sudden suspicion.

"You ought to know me better, papa, than to ask such a question."

"Do you know from whom it came?"

"It would not be difficult to find out, I dare say."

"Then why have you not sent the ring back?"

"Because I mean the sender of it to pay for his folly. You remember my telling you how little Rose Montgomery broke her leg at the theatre the other week, through falling down a trap. She is little more than a child, and has not another friend than myself in all London. I am going to ask James to sell the ring for me. I shall give Rose the money. It will keep her when she comes out of the hospital till she is strong enough to begin dancing again."

"James! James! How I hate to hear the name!" said Byrne, as he got up and left the room.

"It is the name of the man I love--of the man whose wife I am going to be," replied Miriam.

Then she sat down and began to cry.

[CHAPTER II.]

FLOATING WITH THE STREAM.

Lady Dudgeon's morning-room in Harley Street. At her davenport near the window, pen in hand, sat her ladyship, where, indeed, she was to be found at eleven a.m. six mornings out of seven. On the ridge of her high nose was perched the double gold-rimmed eye-glass which she had taken to wearing of late in the privacy of the family circle, but the existence of which, outside that circle, was kept a profound secret.

On a low chair close by, in a pretty morning-dress, sat Eleanor Lloyd. London life and London hours were beginning to tell upon her already. There was a look of weariness in her eyes, and her cheeks had lost a little of that fresh, delicate bloom which she had brought with her from the country, but which cannot exist long in the atmosphere of Belgravian ballrooms.

At Lady Dudgeon's elbow stood Olive Deane, with her black dress, her snowy collar and cuffs, her colourless face, her black, lustreless hair, and her fathomless eyes--in every point precisely the same as at the time when first we met her. Her ladyship had just been issuing invitations for a grand ball to be given at Stammars, during the ensuing Easter recess, to Sir Thomas's chief supporters at the recent election.

"There, thank goodness, that finishes the last batch of twenty!" said her ladyship, as she put down her pen with an air of relief. "I don't think that I have forgotten any one, or, for the matter of that, invited any one that we could have afforded to ignore. There are eighty of them altogether, leaving out of question the tribe of wives and daughters--quite as many as we can reasonably accommodate." Then, turning to Olive, she added, "Will you kindly see that the whole of the invitations are sent off by this afternoon's post?"

"I will take care to post them myself. Has your ladyship any further commands?"

"None whatever at present, thank you."

Olive bowed, and left the room.

"On such an occasion as the present one Miss Deane is really invaluable," said Lady Dudgeon to Eleanor.

"If you would only let me help you in these little matters, instead of Miss Deane, you would please me more than I can tell YOU."

"My dear child, I could not think of such a thing," said her ladyship, with dignity. "I did not bring you to London to make a drudge of you; I brought you here that you might enjoy yourself."

"I should enjoy myself far better if I had a little more to do sometimes. I might as well be a china figure under a glass shade in the drawing-room, for any use I seem to be in the world."

"My dear, all pretty objects have their uses in the world, if it be only to please the eye and educate the taste of others. Be satisfied at present with trying to look as pretty as you can."

"That seems to me a very empty sort of life indeed."

"Ah, you young people never know what you would be at. You, for instance, my dear, have youth, good looks, and money, and yet you grumble! But about this ball. I mean it to be a great success. It will make Sir Thomas even more popular in the borough than he is now, and no one can stigmatize it as being either bribery or corruption. There is some talk of a general election next autumn, so that we must keep our supporters well in hand."

"You are quite a tactician," laughed Eleanor.

"In these days, my dear, it doesn't do to let one's wits grow rusty. You will derive great amusement at the ball from a study of the toilettes of some of the worthy tradespeople's wives and daughters who will honour us with their company. The originality of idea displayed by some of them is truly astounding. And the waistcoats of the gentlemen are hardly less wonderful."

At this moment a footman brought a letter for her ladyship.

"What a charming surprise, my dear!" she said, as she glanced over it. "Invitations for a private concert at Lady Camperdown's. Most exclusive. That sweet Lady Camperdown! There will be a carpet-dance afterwards. I must write off at once and order our dresses."

"But surely, Lady Dudgeon, one of the ten or fifteen dresses that I have already would do for such an occasion."

"My dear Eleanor! Go to Lady Camperdown's concert in a dress that you have ever worn before! Such a thing is not to be thought of. It would not be doing your duty in that state of life to which it has pleased Providence to call you." Here her ladyship looked at her watch. "My dear, I expect Captain Dayrell here about twelve, and I should like you to change your dress before he arrives. He told me last evening that he wanted to see me to-day, so I asked him to call early, as I am going shopping immediately after luncheon."

"But Captain Dayrell is coming to see you, Lady Dudgeon. There is no occasion for him to see me."

"He is coming to see me, it is true: but I rather suspect it is about a matter that intimately concerns you."

"Indeed! But I really cannot see in what way Captain Dayrell's visit can concern me."

"It may concern you very nearly. I have every reason to believe that Captain Dayrell is coming here this morning to ask my sanction to his making you a formal offer of marriage."

"To make me an offer of marriage! You must be jesting."

"I was never more serious in my life. You could not fail to see with what attention Captain Dayrell treated you at the ball the other evening. And on the two or three previous occasions when he has met you in society, there has been an empressement in his manner which has led me to suspect that he was only waiting to see a little more of you before making up his mind to ask you to become his wife."

"Only waiting to see a little more of me! I am overwhelmed by Captain Dayrell's preference."

"Don't try to be sarcastic, Eleanor. Sarcasm in young people is little less than odious."

Eleanor rose. There was a heightened colour in her cheeks, an added brightness in her eyes. "Lady Dudgeon, should Captain Dayrell come here this morning on such an errand as the one you have mentioned, you can give him his congé as soon as you please. And I beg that you will not send for me, as I shall certainly decline to see him."

"Tut tut, child! you don't know what you are talking about. A little maidenly shyness is all very nice and proper, especially when the offer is a first one. But prudery may be carried too far; and, in the case of Captain Dayrell, a pretended rejection might perhaps frighten him away altogether."

"A pretended rejection, Lady Dudgeon! I fail to understand you."

"It was very foolish on my part," said her ladyship, complacently, without noticing the interruption, "to mention the subject to you at all. I have only succeeded in startling you. I ought to have left Captain Dayrell to plead his own cause with you. Gentlemen, on such occasions, are generally very eloquent after they have made the first plunge."

"I am sorry that you should so persistently misunderstand me," said Eleanor, not without a touch of impatience. "You compel me to speak plainly, and in a way that is most repugnant to my feelings. Under no circumstances could I agree to become the wife of Captain Dayrell. And I trust there will be no necessity for his name ever to be mentioned between us again."

Lady Dudgeon turned slowly on her chair, and surveyed Eleanor through her eye-glass as though she could hardly believe the evidence of her ears.

"You cannot marry Captain Dayrell, Eleanor Lloyd?" she said, with some severity of tone. "May I ask what there is to prevent your marrying him? I hope there is no prior engagement in the case, of which I have been kept in ignorance."

"Were I engaged to anyone, your ladyship would certainly not be kept in ignorance of the fact."

"Instead of engagement, I ought, perhaps, to have used the word 'attachment.'"

"Applied to me, one word would be just as incorrect as the other."

"Then may I ask what particular objection you can have to receive the addresses of Captain Dayrell?"

"My particular objection is that I could never care sufficiently for Captain Dayrell to become his wife."

"I certainly gave you credit for more common sense, Eleanor, than to think that you would allow any foolish sentiment to stand in the way of your proper settlement in life. My theory is this--and I daresay, when you shall have lived as long in the world as I have, you will agree that it is by no means a bad theory--that any girl who has been correctly brought up, and whose affections have not been tampered with, can school herself; without much difficulty, to look with affectionate eyes on whatever suitor her relations or friends may offer to her notice as eligible, in their estimation, to make her happy: and a really good girl will always find half her own happiness in the knowledge that she is making others happy at the same time."

"In a matter involving consequences so serious, I should prefer to make my own choice."

"No doubt you would," said her ladyship drily. "But if young ladies would only be guided by the choice of their best friends, rather than by their own headstrong wills, we should hear far less about unhappy marriages, and the evils they bring." To this Eleanor made no answer. "Most people would agree with me, my dear, that you ought to consider yourself a very lucky girl to have drawn such a prize as Captain Dayrell. A man still young--he can't be more than three or four and thirty--handsome, accomplished, of an excellent family--he is first cousin to Lord Coniston--tolerably rich, and of such an easy, good-natured disposition, that any woman of tact would soon learn to twine him round her finger: what more could any reasonable being wish for?"

"Does affection count for nothing in your estimate of marriage, Lady Dudgeon?"

"Oh, my dear, you may depend upon it that if there is no prior attachment you would soon learn to like him. Captain Dayrell is generally looked upon as a most fascinating man in society."

"Captain Dayrell may be all that you say he is," replied Eleanor, "but for all that, he can never be anything more to me than he is at the present moment."

"So be it. The likes and dislikes of young ladies are among the unaccountable things of this world. But I cannot help saying that your point-blank refusal even to see Captain Dayrell is a great disappointment to me."

"Do not say that, dear Lady Dudgeon!" cried Eleanor, and with that she took the elder lady's hand in hers, pressed it to her lips, and then nestled down on the little footstool by her knees. "Believe me, I am not ungrateful, not insensible to the kindness which prompted you to take an obscure country girl by the hand, and treat her more as a daughter of your own than anything else. But I cannot tell you how sorry I am to find that you should so far have misunderstood me as to think that you were doing me a kindness in endeavouring to secure for me the attention of Captain Dayrell."

"It is certainly a great disappointment to me," said Lady Dudgeon, with a sigh. "I had really set my heart on you and Captain Dayrell making a match of it."

"But cannot you understand that I have no wish to get married, nor any intention of changing my name for a long time to come--if ever?"

"Well, well, child; I only hope that what you say is right, and that there is indeed no prior attachment. But be careful that you do not fall into the hands of some swindling adventurer--of some romantic rogue, with a handsome face and a wheedling tongue, who, while persuading you that he loves you for yourself alone, cares, in reality, for nothing but the money you will bring him. The world abounds with such men. Be warned, or you may have to repent when repentance will be of no avail."

"Ah, Lady Dudgeon if I were not an heiress, what a happy girl I should be!"

"Child, you talk like a lunatic."

"It may be so, but this money weighs me down as though it were a millstone about my neck. And how sadly wise in the ways of the world I seem to have become in a few short months! Friendship--service--affection--I feel, nowadays, as if these treasures were offered me, not for myself, but simply because I am a little rich. In the old, happy days at home, before ever I dreamed of being an heiress, no such doubt ever crossed my mind. Friendship and love--my father's love--were mine: as freely and fully mine as the lilies that grew by the mill-pond brim, or the canary that woke me every morning with its song. But indeed, dear Lady Dudgeon, I am in no wise fitted for a life of fashionable pleasure. My tastes are too homely. Life seems to me far too real, far too earnest, to be frittered away in a perpetual round of balls and parties, of morning calls and drives in the Park. When I think of the poverty and wretchedness that I see on every side of me, every time I stir out of doors, and then of all those useless thousands that are said to be mine, I feel ashamed of myself, and think, with sorrow, how utterly I am living for myself alone. Oh, Lady Dudgeon! if you wish to make me happy, be my almoner; teach me how to employ, for the benefit of my poorer sisters and their little ones, that wealth which came to me so unexpectedly, and which I so little deserve. Teach me to do this, and you will make me happy indeed!"

Lady Dudgeon took a sniff at her salts before she spoke. "My dear Eleanor," she said at last, "if all people of wealth and social standing held the same terrible notions that you do, we should have chaos back again in a very little while. Your mind has been badly trained, child, and we must endeavour to eradicate the noxious weeds one by one. Meanwhile, you will be all the better for this little outburst, and I am not in the least offended by what you have said. And now as regards your costume for Lady Camperdown's concert. I think the new shade of green would harmonise admirably with your style and complexion. As for myself, I shall wear--" But at this juncture the door opened, and in came Sir Thomas with a budget of news, so the all-important subject of dress was put aside for the time being, to be discussed with due solemnity at a more fitting opportunity.

On the Friday following this scene Sir Thomas and Lady Dudgeon, accompanied by Miss Lloyd, went, by invitation, to spend a week at the house of an old family friend at Richmond. On Saturday morning certain important papers reached Gerald, who had been left in charge of matters in Harley Street, which necessitated an immediate consultation with Sir Thomas. Off by the next train hurried Gerald to Richmond, where he found Sir Thomas, in company with his friend Mr. Cromer, smoking a mild cheroot, in a garden-house that looked on to the river. Liking Gerald's manner and appearance, Mr. Cromer would insist upon his staying to dinner. Presently the ladies came sailing across the lawn--Mrs. Cromer and Lady Dudgeon; Miss Cromer, and Miss Lloyd; and then they all walked down to the edge of the river, where lay moored a pretty little boat, named Cora, in honour of Miss Cromer. The weather was warm and sunny for the time of year, and the river looked quite gay, so numerous were the tiny craft which the bright day had coaxed out after their long winter sleep.

"How delightful it would be to go on the river this afternoon!" said Miss Cromer.

"I should like it above all things," replied Miss Lloyd.

"I wish Charley were here to take us for a row," alluding to her brother. "How coquettish my boat looks this afternoon! How she seems to woo us to take her out for a spin!"

Gerald lifted his hat. "I believe that I can handle a pair of oars as awkwardly as most people," he said, with a smile. "If you will trust yourselves to my care, I will promise to bring you back--either alive or dead."

The young ladies vowed that it would be delicious. The elder ladies disapproved faintly, on the ground that there would be a cold breeze on the river, but were overruled. Mr. Cromer waddled back to the house to get some shawls and wraps, and Gerald handed the young ladies into the boat.

In the result, however, Miss Cromer had to be left behind. At the last moment she was seized with her old complaint, palpitation of the heart, and her mother would not let her go. Eleanor would have stayed with her, but both Mr. and Mrs. Cromer insisted upon her going. It did not require much persuasion to make Gerald take them at their word. Eleanor had hardly ceased protesting that she would much rather stay with Cora, when she found herself in the middle of the stream, and all conversation with those on shore at an end.

"Now, Miss Lloyd, will you kindly take charge of the tiller ropes?" said Gerald, decisively. "I presume you know how to use them?"

"I ought to know," said Eleanor. "I had a great deal of practice with them when poor papa and I used to go out boating together."

It would not be high water for half an hour, and the tide was still running up strongly. Gerald put the boat's head up stream, and pulled gently along towards Twickenham. He blessed the happy fortune that, for one delicious hour, had given him Eleanor all to himself. But now that the opportunity was his, what should he talk to her about? He felt that he ought to be at once witty and tender; that now, if ever, he ought to rise above the commonplace level of everyday conversation. He felt all this, and yet he felt, at the same time, that he had nothing to say. If he might only have opened the floodgates of his heart, then, indeed, there would have been no lack of words--no necessity to hunt here and there in his brain for something to talk about. It is true that he might have begun about the weather, or some other equally simple topic; but, then, any nincompoop could have done that, and to-day he wanted so particularly to shine in the eyes of his goddess! But before long it became quite evident that he was not to shine to-day. He must rest contentedly on the level of the nincompoops, and trust to his good fortune that Miss Lloyd would not find out that he was a bigger donkey than the rest of the gentlemen who were in the habit of laying themselves out to fascinate her.

But Miss Lloyd herself seemed to have very little to say this afternoon. It seemed pleasure enough just then to sit quietly in the sweet sunshine and dip her ungloved hand now and again in the cool ripples of the tide.

"Have you ever been as far up the Thames as this before?" asked Gerald at last, in sheer desperation.

"I was never on the Thames in a small boat before to-day," answered Eleanor.

"There are some lovely nooks on it--so thoroughly English, you know: altogether unlike anything of the kind that you can see anywhere else."

"I have been so little abroad lately that I am hardly competent to judge what kind of scenery is thoroughly English, or what is not."

Another awkward silence. "What a goose he must think me! It seems so stupid not to be able to talk except in answer to a question," said Eleanor, to herself. "Why do I feel so different when I am with him< br> from what I do when I'm with anyone else? I never felt like this when I was alone with Captain Dayrell. If Cora had come with us we should have been lively enough." And yet, in her heart, how glad she was that Cora had not come! "Whether this scenery is English or not, it is very beautiful," said Eleanor, at last, with a desperate resolve to break the spell that was weaving itself more strongly around them with every moment. "One can see where spring's delicate brush has been at work here and there among the trees, rubbing-in the first faint tints of green. How lovely it is!"

"If this sunshine would only last, and the tide not tire of running up," said Gerald, "I feel that I could go on like this for a week and not feel weary."

"You are an Englishman, Mr. Pomeroy, and I am afraid that you would soon begin to cry out for your dinner."

"Would not the gods feed us and have a care of us? To-day we are their children. I feel that I have but to summon Hebe, and she would come and wait upon us."

"For my part, Minerva is the only one of the divinities whom I should care to summon."

"So much wisdom would surely overweight our little boat."

"But are we not rather short of ballast just at present?" asked Eleanor, slily.

"Possibly so; but Minerva would certainly swamp us. I should greatly prefer the company of a certain juvenile, called by Schiller der lächelnde Knabe: he would make the proper ballast for such a voyage as ours."

"Where I was at school in Germany they never would let us read Schiller," said Eleanor, demurely. "How happy those swans look!" she added, a moment afterwards, as if to change the subject.

"Yes," said Gerald, "they find their happiness as certain people one sometimes meets with find theirs--in groping about amongst the mud--seeking what they can devour."

"And yet how graceful they are!"

"They are graceful enough as long as they are in their proper element. Out of it, they are as ungraceful as a scullion-maid in a drawing-room. And yet, I daresay that if they can think at all, they think that they look far more graceful during their perambulations ashore than ever they do in the water. But, then, how many of us think in the same way!"

"Why, you are quite a cynic, Mr. Pomeroy. But it is considered fashionable nowadays for young men to be cynical, and one must be in the fashion, you know."

Gerald laughed a little dismally. "I tasted the bitters of life at so early an age that I suppose the flavour of them still clings to my palate."

"Pardon me if I have hurt your feelings!" said Eleanor, earnestly. "I certainly did not intend to do so. But see, the tide is on the turn, and we must turn with it."

"Have we not time to go a little further? The afternoon is still young."

"Yes, you shall row me round yonder tiny island, that looks so pretty from here, and then we must really go back."

When they had rounded the islet, said Eleanor: "I am sure you must be tired, Mr. Pomeroy. Suppose you ship your oars and let the tide float us gently down."

"I am not in the least tired; but, being a good boy, I like to do as I am bidden."

Cunning Gerald knew that by floating down with the stream he should have half an hour more of Eleanor's society than if he had used his oars ever so gently.

"Going back is not nearly so nice as going up stream," he remarked.

"What makes you think so?"

"Because our voyage will so soon be at an end."

"But, when you have landed me, there will be no objection to your having the boat out for as many hours as you like."

"And make a water hermit of myself. I scarcely think that I am sufficiently fond of my own company to care for that. I like solitude, but I must have some one to share it with me. The sweetest solitude is that where two people, whose tastes and sympathies are in accord, shut themselves out from the rest of the world (as you and I are shut out on this silent highway) to find in the society of each other a truer and more complete satisfaction than in aught else this earth can afford."

"Is not that a rather selfish view to take of life and its duties?" asked Eleanor.

"Is it not possible to live in the world and yet be not of it?" he returned--"to do our daily tasks there, and yet have an inner sanctuary to flee to, of which no one but ourselves shall possess the key, and against whose walls the noise and turmoil of the world shall dash themselves in vain?"

"You would have to be very particular in your choice of a companion to share such a solitude with you, otherwise the demon of Ennui would soon make a third in your company."

"Ennui can never intrude itself between two people whose tastes and sympathies thoroughly agree. Four times out of six ennui means neither more nor less than vacuity of brain."

Eleanor laughed. "Next time I am troubled with it I shall know how to call it by its proper name.--I declare if there isn't dear Lady Dudgeon looking out for us with a shawl over her head!"

Her ladyship received them very graciously; but then Mr. Pomeroy was a special favourite with her. "I am glad you have had the good sense to get back early," she said. "The river-damps are said to be very dangerous after sunset."

Not the slightest suspicion of any possible danger to her protégée ever entered her mind. Had anyone even hinted at such a thing, she would have replied indignantly that Miss Lloyd, who had refused the addresses of Captain Dayrell, was not at all likely to fall in love with Sir Thomas Dudgeon's secretary. She judged Eleanor, in fact, by what she herself had been at the same age. She had been brought up to believe that for any young lady to throw herself away simply for love was next door to a crime. As it was totally out of the question that she herself could have ever fallen in love with any man who was without wealth or position, or both, so would it have been utterly inconceivable to her that her darling Miss Lloyd could ever sink to a level which would render possible any such act of social degradation.

[CHAPTER III.]

A QUIET CUP OF TEA.

Tickets for the opera reached Miriam Byrne, in due course, on the morning of the Friday following Gerald Warburton's first visit to the house of Max Van Duren in Spur Alley. Saturday was Miriam's birthday. Beyond an extra kiss from Mr. Byrne, and the expression of good wishes usual on such an occasion, the day brought little or no difference to either father or daughter. The weather was unpleasant, and neither of them stirred out of doors. But when tea time came, the best china was brought out of its retirement, and from some mysterious cupboard was produced a Madeira cake, with a little jar of honey, and some potted shrimps.

"Now, papa, dear, draw up to the table," cried Miriam, gaily, as soon as everything had been arranged in order due.

"I've put an extra spoonful of green into the pot in order to please you, and if you behave yourself nicely, you shall have an extra lump of sugar in your cup, for you are as fond of sweet things as any schoolgirl."

"That's why I'm so fond of you, dear," said Mr. Byrne, drily, as he drew his chair up to the table.

Just then came a knock at the door. Miriam opened it, and there stood Mr. Van Duren, with a pretty little rustic basket in his hands, full of freshly-cut flowers.

"Good evening, Miss Byrne," he said, in a hesitating sort of way. "I happened to hear Mrs. Bakewell remark this morning, that to-day was your birthday. Such being the case, I have taken the liberty of bringing you these few flowers, of which I beg your acceptance, together with my very best wishes for your health and happiness."

"It is very kind of you, Mr. Van Duren--very kind indeed," replied Miriam. "Many thanks for your flowers and good wishes. But pray come inside."

He came a few steps into the room, and then Miriam took the basket and smelled at the flowers.

"They are indeed lovely," she said. "Yours is the only present that I have had to-day, and nothing else that you could have offered me would have been half so acceptable."

The moment he heard the knock, Peter Byrne collapsed, as it were, and became older by a score years in as many seconds. Deaf and senile, he now tottered across the room, his walking-stick in one hand, the other hand held to his ear.

"What is it? what is it?" he quavered. "Flowers, eh? Vastly pretty--vastly pretty!"

"Mr. Van Duren has brought me these lovely flowers as a birthday present, papa," said Miriam, speaking loudly in his ear.

"Very kind of him--very kind indeed," nodding his head at Miriam. "But come in, Mr. Van Duren, come in, sir. Pussy and I were just about to have a quiet cup of tea. Come and join us, sir--come and join us. I like a quiet cup of tea; so does Pussy."

"I should be most happy, if I thought--"

"If you thought you were not intruding," said Miriam. "You are not doing that, I assure you. See, I will give your flowers the place of honour on my tea-table. But perhaps you are not a tea-drinker--perhaps----"

"Oh, yes, I am. Only I never can bear to drink tea alone. I think it a great promoter of sociability, and I only indulge in it when I have some one to keep me company."

"Then come and keep me company for once," said Miriam, with a smile, her magnificent eyes looking full into his face.

He shrank a little before that full-orbed gaze. For a moment or two the colour left his lips. He smiled faintly, and rubbed his hands together, as though he were cold.

"If I had the inclination to refuse--which, indeed, I have not," he said, "it would be impossible for me to do so after such an invitation. I can quite imagine that your life here is a little dull at times," he added, as he drew a chair up to the table.

"It certainly cannot be called a very lively one," returned Miriam, as she began to pour out the tea. "Poor dear papa is both very old and very feeble, and then his deafness is a great drawback, and makes home duller than it would otherwise be."

"But you have a brother, have you not?"

"Yes, one brother."

"In the city?"

"No, not in the city. He is secretary to a gentleman at the west end."

Peter Byrne, after sniffing once or twice at the flowers, toddled back to his easy-chair by the fire, and spreading his handkerchief over his knees, waited patiently for his tea. This Miriam now took to him; placing it on a little low table in front of him.

"Good girl, good girl," he said. Then, turning suddenly on Van Duren, he added, "When I was a young spark, I always liked to have a flower in my button-hole. The girls used to beg them of me--bless their pretty eyes! I daresay the young hussies nowadays do the very same thing."

Max Van Duren, at this time, was fifty years old. He was not very tall, but broad-set and strongly built. His coarse, short-cut, sandy hair showed as yet few traces of age. His face was closely shaven, so that whatever character there was in it could be clearly seen without the disguise of beard or moustache. A massive jaw; a close-shut mouth, with its straight line of thin lips; heavy, overhanging eyebrows, and small, deep-set eyes of a cold, steel gray: such were the prominent features of a face that was full of power, self-will, and obstinacy. His ears were pierced, but the small gold rings he had worn in them when a young man had been discarded years ago. Professional beggars are generally pretty good students of facial character, and no member of that fraternity had ever been known to solicit alms from Max Van Duren.

He had not been used to female society, and he felt himself altogether out of his element as he sat at the tea-table and was waited upon by Miriam.

Miss Byrne had not had her magnificent eyes given her for nothing. Very early in life she had learned how to make use of them. After that one full, unveiled look into Van Duren's eyes when she invited him to take tea with her, she kept her own eyes carefully under subjection. He could not keep his away from her, a fact of which Miriam was perfectly conscious; but now that she had got him there, seated opposite to her, she seemed to have become all at once shy, timid, and all but speechless. Now and then he caught a momentary, half-startled glance aimed at him from under the shadow of her long lashes, but that was all. She seemed to turn her eyes anywhere, rather than look him full in the face. He was quite at a loss what to say. What bond of sympathies, tastes, or ideas, as he asked himself, could there be in common between a man like him and that charming creature opposite? There were a great many subjects that he knew a great deal about, but he could not call to mind one that would be likely to have the faintest possible interest for Miss Byrne. Still, it was requisite that he should say something, or she would think him no better than a mummy.

He looked round the room: there were a number of books scattered about. "Are you fond of reading, Miss Byrne?" he asked, suddenly: as good an opening, under the circumstances, as he could possibly have found.

"Yes, very--when I can get the sort of book I like."

"May I ask what sort of book it is that you do like?"

"Oh, novels of course: a sort of literature for which, I daresay, you care nothing."

"Well, I am certainly not a novel reader. But, were I a young lady, I daresay I should be. You like love-stories, of course?"

"Yes; love-stories. Having had no experience in that line myself, it is only natural that I should like to read about it in others."

"I thought that all young ladies nowadays could graduate and take honours in the Art of Love long before they were twenty."

"A rule is proved by its exceptions. I am one of the exceptions."

"How nice it must be to be able to write love-stories that you know will be read by some thousands of young ladies!"

"But if an author in every case writes only from his own experience, what a fearful experience must his be!"

"I apprehend that in such a case a writer is like a clever violinist. He may play to the public on one string as long as he likes, if only his variations are sufficiently amusing not to weary them."

"Yes, I daresay there is really a very great sameness in such matters," said Miriam, with well-feigned simplicity.

"And yet I suppose it hardly matters how poor a love-story may be; the vivid imagination of your sex supplies all deficiencies, and clothes it with whatever warmth and colour it may otherwise lack."

"I am not so sure on that point. But I am afraid you are getting beyond my depth, Mr. Van Duren. For my own part, I have not much imagination. I am very, very matter-of-fact."

"That ought to form a bond of sympathy between us, seeing that I am one of the most matter-of-fact people in the City of London."

"I have been told that bonds of sympathy are very dangerous things. Papa's Three-per-cent. bonds would be a much safer investment."

Van Duren laughed.

"How would it be, Miss Byrne, if I were to go through a course of reading under your tuition?"

"Do you mean the reading of love-stories?"

"That, and nothing else, is what I mean.

"How would it be possible for me to act as your tutor in such a course of reading when I don't know the alphabet of the language myself?"

"How would it be if we were to try to learn the alphabet together?"

"I am afraid that I am too old to learn a fresh language. Besides, if you are as ignorant as you say you are, we should not know the proper sounds to give to the different letters."

"Nature would be our schoolmistress. With her to teach us, we should soon become apt scholars."

"Very well. We will have our first lesson on Monday. But before we begin, you shall go and bowl your hoop a dozen times round the square at the bottom of the street, and I will sit on a doorstep, with a doll in my arms, and watch you."

All at once Peter Byrne, who for the last ten minutes had been gazing intently into the fire, and neither stirring nor speaking, turned in his chair, and said to Miriam--

"Go up to your room, Pussy, for a little while; I want to have a little private talk with Mr. Van Duren."

Miriam rose.

"Shall I not see you again?" asked Van Duren.

"Yes," whispered Miriam.

Then she crossed to the basket of flowers, plucked a spray, placed it in the bosom of her dress, smiled at Van Duren, and went.

Van Duren's face lost its brightness as soon as Miriam left the room. He crossed to Byrne's chair, laid his coarse hand on the old man's shoulder, and said, not without a touch of sternness--

"I am at your service, sir."

He was obliged to speak in a louder tone of voice than usual, and that of itself annoyed him.

"Sit down, Mr. Van Duren--sit down close beside me. I have something to say to you. But are you sure that we are quite alone?"

"We are quite alone, Mr. Byrne."

"Good."

He said no more for a minute or two, but fumbled nervously with his handkerchief, still keeping his eyes fixed intently on the fire. Then he had a little fit of coughing. When that was over, and he had recovered his breath, he laid his hand on Mr. Van Duren's wrist, and spoke.

"We can't expect to live for ever, Mr. Van Duren--eh?"

"I suppose not," said Mr. Van Duren, with a sneer; "and I for one would certainly not care to do so."

"Are you one of those people who think that a man is likely to die any the sooner for having made his will?"

"Certainly not. I am no believer in such foolish superstitions."

"When a man has anything to leave--when he has any dispositions to make with regard to his property, it is best not to put off making them till the last moment--eh?"

"It is very foolish to do so, Mr. Byrne. But it is what many people do, for all that."

"Then you think that I should be doing a wise thing if I were to make my will--eh?"

"Certainly--a very wise thing--if you have any property to dispose of."

"If I have any property to dispose of! Ech! ech! ech! If I have any property to dispose of--he says!"

He laughed till another fit of coughing nearly choked him, and after that was over he had to gather breath before he could speak again.

"Yes, Mr. Van Duren," he gasped out, "I have a little property to leave behind me--just a little. And I want you, as a business man, to recommend to me some good sound lawyer, to whom I could give the requisite instructions for drawing up my last will and testament."

"Oh, if that's all, I can recommend to you my own lawyer, Mr. Billing, who is a thorough business man, and would do you justice in every way."

"That's kind of you--very kind. There will be nothing complicated about the affair, There's only two of 'em to leave it to--my boy and my girl. I shall divide it equally between them."

Mr. Van Duren was beginning to feel interested. After all, it was quite possible that this pottering, deaf old fellow might be far better off than he--Van Duren--had any idea of.

"House property, or land, chiefly, I suppose?" he said, in a casual, off-hand kind of way.

"Not a bit of it," said the old man. "I don't own a single house, nor an acre of land. No, sir, my property is all in scrip and shares--in good sound investments, every penny of it. And the beauty of it is--ech! ech!--that not even my own boy has any idea what I'm worth--what he and his sister will drop in for when the old man's under the turf. I've always kept 'em both in the dark about my money matters--and the best way too. They might want me out of the way, they might wish me dead, if they knew everything. No, no! I've kept my own counsel. I've speculated and speculated, and nobody but my broker and myself has been a bit the wiser."

Mr. Van Duren began to feel quite an affectionate regard for his lodger--leaving out of the question his lodger's daughter.

"Then Miss Byrne is an heiress without knowing it?" he said.

"Mum's the word," chuckled the old man, as he clutched Van Duren by the sleeve. "I'm telling you what I've always kept a secret from them; but there'll be thirty thousand between 'em when I go. Thirty thousand--not a single penny less!"

Van Duren's colour came and went. Miriam, then, would have a fortune of fifteen thousand pounds, respecting which, at present, she knew nothing! Would not the wisest thing he could do be to propose to her and win her consent to become his wife before she became aware of the golden future in store for her? Afterwards it might be too late--she might regard him with altogether different eyes when she knew that her dowry would be fifteen thousand pounds.

"A noble legacy, my dear sir--a truly noble legacy!" said Van Duren, warmly. "And were I in your place, I should not lose an unnecessary hour in making my testamentary arrangements. You may depend on it that your mind will feel more settled and easy when you have made everything secure, and put your wishes beyond the possibility of dispute."

"Egad! I'll take your advice; and if you'll send that lawyer of yours on Tuesday, I'll have the job got out of hand at once. I don't suppose I shall live a day less for having made my will--eh?"

"Not you, my dear sir--not you. There are many pleasant days in store for you yet. You are as tough as a bit of seasoned oak."

"Aye, aye. It's not always the youngest ones that are the strongest. Why shouldn't I live to be a hundred?"

"What a noble girl is that daughter of yours, Mr. Byrne!"

"A good girl, sir--a very good girl, though it is I who say it."

"I have never met any one in my life whom I have learnt to admire so much in so short a time."

"Ah! poor Pussy will feel it when her old father goes. It preys on my mind sometimes when I think of it. What is to become of her, with her money and her inexperience; and no one to look after her but a brother almost as young and inexperienced as herself?"

"Miss Byrne's fate will probably be that of most other young ladies--she will marry."

"I wish with all my heart that she would: that is, if she would marry the sort of man I should like her to have. But to see her married to some empty-headed, extravagant fop of a fellow, who would squander her money and not make her happy--I could never rest quiet in my grave if that were to happen."

What Van Duren's answer would have been is not upon record, for just at this moment there came a knock at the door, and presently Bakewell's head was intruded into the room.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said, carrying a finger to his forehead, "but there's a gentleman downstairs as wants to see you immediately on important business."

"Confound the gentleman, whoever he may be!" said Van Duren, with hearty goodwill. "Tell him I'll be down presently." Then, turning to Byrne, he added: "We business men can never really call an hour our own. I must ask you to make my excuses to Miss Byrne: I am sorry that I cannot say good-night to her in person."

"It will be your own fault if you don't see her again before long. Come and take a quiet cup of tea with us as often as you like. We are very quiet and very homely, but we shall always be glad to see you. You won't forget the lawyer, will you?"

When Miriam came downstairs a quarter of an hour later, she found her father sitting with his legs perched against the chimney-piece, and smoking his china pipe. He had flung his wig and skull-cap aside, he had relieved himself of his false hump, and he had taken his artificial teeth out of the bureau in which he kept them, and had fitted them carefully into his month.

"Miriam," he said, "before you are a week older Max Van Duren will propose marriage to you. I will tell you to-morrow what you are to say when he makes the offer. To-night I am tired. And now mix me a tumbler of grog: the sort of tumbler that you know so well how to mix, dear."

[CHAPTER IV.]

FASCINATION.

A few days after the private interview between Mr. Van Duren and his lodger, Mr. Billing, the lawyer, called on Mr. Byrne by appointment, and took down that gentleman's instructions with respect to the disposition of his property. Three days later, Mr. Billing called with the all-important document, and found waiting to receive him in Mr. Byrne's parlour, the testator himself, Mr. Van Duren, who had most kindly consented to act as one of the executors, and a certain Mr. Dexter, an old personal friend of Mr. Byrne, who was to act as executor number two.

Then, at the testator's request, the will was read aloud by Mr. Billing. By its provisions Mr. Byrne bequeathed, equally between his son Gerald and his daughter Miriam, the whole of his property, amounting in the aggregate to thirty thousand pounds, the same being partly invested in government three per cents., and partly in the shares of certain railways and other public companies. When the reading was over, Mr. Byrne put his signature to the will in a hand that was remarkably firm and clear for his age. The two executors then appended their signatures. Mr. Billing took charge of the document, and the ceremony was at an end. After that, a couple of bottles of old port were produced, the testator's health was drunk, and there was a little hand-shaking and the expression of many good wishes, and after that the three gentlemen went away, and Mr. Byrne was left to solitude and the company of his own thoughts.

His own thoughts, such as they might be, seemed of an eminently satisfactory nature. Miriam was out--had been sent out purposely during the process of will-signing. Thus it fell out that Mr. Byrne now found himself temporarily deprived of the services of his daughter. But that did not trouble him in the least. He liked to be waited upon--as most men do--but he was not above looking after his own comforts when there was no one else to do it for him. All through life he had been in the habit of celebrating any pleasant little event, or successful stroke of business, by taking something "on the strength of it," as he termed it; and it was hardly likely that he should pretermit such an excellent observance on the present occasion. Accordingly, he no sooner found himself alone than he proceeded to charge and light the inevitable pipe, and to mix for himself the inevitable tumbler of grog. With his chair tilted back on its hind legs, his feet on the table, his wig awry, his pipe in his mouth, and his steaming glass before him, Mr. Byrne was quietly meditating over the day's proceedings, when, without any preliminary knock, the door that gave egress on to the landing was softly opened, and the head of Pringle, Mr. Van Duren's clerk, was thrust into the room. His glassy eyes fixed themselves on Byrne, but without any apparent sign of intelligence lighting up their dull depths. For a few seconds the two men stared at each other without speaking. Byrne was, in fact, too much taken aback to utter a word. "Beg pardon. I thought the governor was here," said Pringle at last. "See he isn't. Sorry to intrude." With that he withdrew his head and shut the door as softly as he had opened it.

"That drunken fool has seen enough to spoil everything!" cried Byrne, as he started to his feet. "What an ass I must have been not to lock the door! My only chance is that he may have had so much to drink as to have forgotten all about what he saw by to-morrow morning."

Pringle, having shut the door of Mr. Byrne's room, stood still on the mat, while he indulged in one of his noiseless, malicious laughs. "I thought the old boy was after some private little game of his own," he said; "and I thought I shouldn't be long before I spotted him. A disguise--eh? And no more deaf, I'll swear, than I am! Haven't I listened at the keyhole, and heard him and the girl talking quite natural and easy like? And then Van Duren's sweet on the girl, but the girl looks too wide awake to be sweet on him, without she thinks him rich, and wants a husband. I can't make out just yet what it all means, but, anyhow, I don't think it means much good to Van Duren, and so long as it don't mean any good to him I sha'n't interfere. I'll watch and say nothing, and if I only find that the pair of them are weaving a net round Van Duren, won't I give them a helping hand! That is," he added, as if suddenly correcting himself, "that is, provided it don't interfere with my own little game."

He went slowly downstairs to the office on the ground-floor. The gas was lighted, but there was no one in the room. "Van Duren and Billing have gone out together. If Van thinks I'm going to wait for him, he's mistaken. I'll just shut up shop, and go to tea. Now, what could Van and the other one want in the old boy's room upstairs? That's a puzzler. Is there some little game on that they are all mixed up in? Or are Van and the other trying to best the old 'un? Or is the old 'un trying to best Van and the other one?" Shaking his head, as though the questions he had put to himself were beyond his powers of solution, he took a ledger under each arm, and carried them slowly downstairs--all Pringle's movements were slow--into the fireproof room in the basement of the house, where Van Duren's books and papers were habitually kept.

This fireproof room was on the same floor as the rooms inhabited by Bakewell and his wife, who had charge of the whole premises, but was separated from them by a brick passage of some length. Opposite the foot of the stairs was a door that opened into this passage, in which a tiny jet of gas was kept burning through the day. At the end of the passage was a strong iron door, which opened into the fireproof room. There was only one key to this door, and that was kept by Van Duren himself. But it was part of Bakewell's duties to go up to his master's bedroom every morning, obtain the key in question, open the door--which was allowed to stand open all day--lock it again at ten o'clock at night, and take back the key to his master's bedroom. When Van Duren went out of town, which he did frequently, the key was given in charge of Pringle. The key of the safe itself never left Van Duren's possession for more than a few minutes at a time. A small, square apartment with a brick roof, and fitted up with shelves and book-racks, with sundry boxes in one corner, and in the other a large patent safe: such was Mr. Van Duren's fireproof room. Like the passage that led to it, it was entirely shut out from daylight, and the gas was kept burning in it all day long.

When Pringle had deposited the ledgers in their proper places, he turned the gas a little higher, and then stood for a few moments listening intently. Not a sound broke the silence. "If one was buried six feet deep in the earth, one couldn't be quieter than one is here," said Pringle, with a shudder. "It's just like a vault, particularly when one knows that there's nothing but dead men's bones all round. No fear of an interruption," he added. "Bakewell's out, and his wife ain't over-fond of this part of the house."

His next proceeding was a very singular one. From an inner pocket of his waistcoat he extracted a key, which key be proceeded to insert into the lock of the patent safe in the corner. "Not quite the thing yet," he muttered, as he tried the key. "Wants another touch of the file here and there. Grainger's three thousand will fall due in about a month's time. I must have everything ready by then. It's sure not to be all in bills. There will be a few hundreds in gold. Then there will be Van's private stock, and other things. Altogether, a pretty little haul."

He withdrew the key from the lock and put it back into his secret pocket. "If he had not treated me like a dog, if he had treated me as one man ought to treat another, I should never have thought of this thing. He thinks that he has me in his power, and that I dare not turn; but he will find himself mistaken. I'm not quite a worm, though he tramples on me as if I were. He will find that I can turn, and sting too, when the proper time comes."

He went back upstairs, turned down the gas in the office, and taking his hat and his faded gingham umbrella, he left the house.

Jonas Pringle was from fifty to fifty-five years old. He was bald, except for a straggling fringe of hair round the back of his head, and had weak, watery eyes, that gave him the appearance, to strangers, of being habitually in tears. He always dressed in black, and always wore an old-fashioned dress coat. But his black clothes were never otherwise than very shabby and threadbare, and shiny with old age at the elbows and knees. He wore a thick black silk neckcloth, above which peered the frayed edge of a dirty collar. Among Pringle's intimates at the Pig and Whistle (his favourite evening haunt) there was a story current that he had not had a new hat for twenty years.

This evening he went mooning slowly along the streets, muttering under his breath, as was his habit, and glancing up with a queer, sudden stare into the face of every woman that passed him. Years before, he had lost his daughter, an only child: lost her, that is, in the sense of her being stolen from him by a villain. It was a fixed article of Pringle's belief that he should one day find his daughter again, and he had got into the habit, when walking along the streets, of looking into the face of each woman that he met, ever hoping that among them he might some time see again the face of his lost Jessie.

It was quite impossible for Pringle to get as far as his lodgings without making one or two calls for refreshment by the way. There were certain houses where his face was well known as that of a regular frequenter, and where they knew, without his having to be at the trouble of asking for it, the particular article (twopennyworth of gin, neat) with which to supply him.

"He's been at it again," remarked Pringle, parenthetically, to the landlord of one of the dirty little taverns which he favoured with his patronage. "He was raving about all morning like a bear with a sore head. Nothing pleased him, nothing one could do was right."

"Ay, ay. I shouldn't stand it if I was you," answered the publican.

"I sha'n't stand it much longer; you may take your oath of that," said Pringle. "There'll be a day of reckoning before long: mark my words, if there ain't."

About the very time that Jonas Pringle was giving utterance to this mysterious threat, the man to whom he referred was sitting alone, thinking deeply--thinking of Miriam Byrne, of her manifold charms of fortune and person, and trying to screw up his courage to the point of asking her to become his wife. He had fully made up his mind that he would so ask her, but he wished with all his heart that the task were well over. In all business transactions he was one of the most prompt and decisive of men, and, it may be added, one of the hardest; but the thought of having to tell this dark-eyed beauty of twenty that he loved her and would fain marry her, fluttered his nerves strangely. That it must be done, and done soon, he had quite made up his mind; but none the less did the thought of having it to do trouble him. To old Byrne he had thrown out one or two hints already, and had not been repulsed. In fact, the old man seemed desirous of seeing his daughter comfortably settled in life, and would perhaps be more likely to encourage the addresses of a man like Van Duren, who knew the world and the value of money, rather than those of some empty-headed popinjay of Miriam's own age, who would, in all probability, first spend her fortune and then neglect her. Ah! if he could only win her for himself--win her and her fortune too--what a happy stroke of luck that would be! He admired the girl for her beauty, admired her more than any woman he had ever met before, and even if she had not been worth a penny, he might in some moment of rashness have flung all other considerations to the winds, and have asked her to marry him. But knowing what he knew about her, would he not be an idiot to let such a golden opportunity slip through his fingers without trying to grasp it and claim it for his own? "If I can find a chance of doing so, I'll propose to her to-morrow," he said to himself, emphatically, as he rose from the table. "I cannot afford to lose another day."

At seven o'clock next evening Mr. Van Duren knocked at the door of his lodgers' sitting-room. His summons was answered by Miriam in person. He started with surprise as his eyes fell on her. He had never seen her dressed as she was to-night. Anyone might have thought that she knew he was going to call upon her, that she suspected what he had made up his mind to say. Had she deliberately laid herself out to fascinate him, to enthral his senses, to make him forget reason and prudence, and all the cautious rules with which his life had heretofore been hedged round, she could not, with all her thought, have done more towards effecting that end than the caprice of a moment was likely to do for her without thought at all. And it was but the whim of a moment that had induced her to attire herself after the fashion in which she presented herself to the eyes of Van Duren to-night.

She wore a long, trailing robe of amber silk, which fitted her very loosely, and was fastened round her waist with a gay Persian scarf of many colours. The sleeves of this dress were cut very short, and Miriam's bare arms were decorated with bracelets of tiny, tinted shells and small coins intermixed. A fringe of coins was bound round her forehead, and fastened at the back with a gilt arrow. Her hair fell to her waist in two long plaits, with which more coins and shells were intermixed. As she walked across the room, and as she reclined on the sofa, the tips of two Turkish slippers, embroidered with gold thread and silks of various colours, could be seen peeping from under the edge of her robe. In her ears hung two tiny bells, that looked like gold, but were only gilt, which tinkled faintly when she moved her head; round her throat was clasped a double string of large amber beads.

"Good evening, Miss Byrne," said Van Duren, as soon as he had recovered his presence of mind. "I have had a small consignment of fruit from France, and I have ventured to hope that you would do me the favour of accepting a box of it."

"You are kindness itself," said Miriam. "But don't stand there, please." Then, when she had shut the door behind him, she added: "How you have so quickly found out two of my pet weaknesses--flowers and candied fruits--is more than I can understand." Then she took the box from his hand. "Many, many thanks. Why, the casket itself is quite a work of art!"

Van Duren crossed to where Mr. Byrne was sitting in his easy-chair by the fire. He had neither spoken nor stirred from the moment of hearing the knock at the door. Van Duren laid his hand on the old man's shoulder. "How are you this evening, Mr. Byrne?" he said, speaking close to the other one's ear.

"Oh, hearty, hearty: never better," answered Byrne, in a querulous voice. "If it wasn't for this nasty cough, and this pain in my side, and one or two other trifles, I should be as right as a trivet."

"We shall soon have the warm weather here now, and that will help you along."

"Of course it will. In another month's time I shall be out and about again, as strong and active as the best of you."

"Poor papa never will allow that he is worse," said Miriam, in a low voice. "He has certainly been weaker and feebler for the last day or two, but he will persist in saying that he is quite the opposite."

"The old boy can't last long," thought Van Duren to himself: "another reason why I ought not to delay."

Next minute, without exactly knowing how it happened, he found himself sitting opposite Miriam, who had resumed he favourite position--a half-sitting, half-reclining one--on the sofa, and was eating daintily a sugared apricot. How round and white her arms looked, contrasted against the deep amber of her robe, from under which the tiny Turkish slippers peeped tantalizingly! She was certainly very lovely, but about her loveliness to-night there was something wild and weird that at once attracted to itself a certain element of savagery that lay latent in the character of her admirer, but which the quiet, humdrum life he had led of late years had all but buried out of sight. An Englishman of the timid conventional type would either have been repelled or frightened had he seen the lady of his love decked out after Miriam's strange fashion, but it only served to draw Van Duren more closely to her. It seemed to him that, could he but have had his own way in the matter, he would never have let her dress otherwise than as he saw her to-night. As he gazed at her, all the pulses of his being seemed to throb with newer life. His eyes brightened, the lines of his hard mouth softened, and for once, as Miriam avowed afterwards to her father, the man looked almost handsome.

Miriam's guitar was resting against the sofa, within reach of her hand. Said Van Duren--

"You were singing and playing the other evening, Miss Byrne, as I went upstairs to my own room, but I have never had the pleasure of hearing you when in your company."

"Then you ought to consider yourself very fortunate," replied Miriam, "for I am really not worth listening to."

"Will you afford me an opportunity of judging for myself?"

"If you put it as a definite request, of course I cannot refuse you. I have accepted your bribe beforehand," she added, with a smile, pointing to the box of fruit.

"I should really like to hear you."

"Then you shall hear me. After that you will be satisfied. You will never want to hear me again."

"That's as it may be," said Van Duren, as he drew his chair several inches nearer the sofa.

"What shall I murder for you?" asked Miriam, as she took up the guitar.

The phrase was an ugly one, and was spoken without thought. Van Duren started as if some one had smitten him suddenly from behind. He shot a look full of suspicion and terror at Miriam; but her eyes were bent on the guitar, one or two strings of which seemed to want screwing up.

"What shall I sing for you?" she said, amending her phraseology this time.

Van Duren recovered himself with an effort.

"The guitar has always been associated in my mind," he said, "with love-songs and serenades, with moonlight and romance."

"Then here's a little serenade for you. I, who sing, am supposed to be a cavalier. If your imagination will carry you so far, you can fancy yourself to be the lady thus lovingly addressed."

She struck a chord or two on the guitar, and began as follows:--

"What throbs through the song of the nightingale?
What makes the red heart of the rose turn pale?

Love, burning love.

What makes me grow drowsy 'neath midsummer skies?
What makes me a slave to my lady's dark eyes?

Love, burning love."

One verse will be quite enough for the reader. Miriam's voice was a rich, clear contralto, which she managed with considerable skill. Now and again as she sang, she shot a glance out of her dangerous black eyes at the rapt listener sitting opposite to her. Her father, in his easy-chair by the fire, gave no further sign of existence than by the troublesome cough which seized him every few minutes, and shook him like a leaf.

As the last line thrilled from Miriam's lips, Van Duren sank down on one knee before her, and tried to seize her hand. With a little involuntary shudder, she drew it away from him. Then he grasped a fold of her dress, and pressed it passionately to his lips.

"Miriam Miriam! do not repulse me, but listen to me!" he cried. "You, who can give such passionate expression to the words of a mere love-song, must have felt and known that I loved you from the first moment that I saw you. I cannot ask or expect that you should give me back such a love as I now offer you. But try to like me a little--consent to be my wife--and I will do all that lies in the power of mortal man to make you happy!"

"Oh, Mr. Van Duren, you do indeed surprise me!" was all Miriam said. But she was not surprised in the least.

"I am richer than the world gives me credit for being," pursued Van Duren. "I have led a quiet, saving life for years; but all that shall be changed if you will only become mine. I can afford to let my wife live as a lady ought to live; I can afford to----"

"Oh, Mr. Van Duren, you must not talk in that way."

"I am quite aware," he pleaded, "that there is a very wide difference between your age and mine, but----"

"That would make no difference in my feelings towards any one for whom I really cared."

"If you would only try to care a little for me!"

"It all seems so strange, Mr. Van Duren."

"What is it that seems so strange, dearest?"

"Why, that a man like you, who have seen so much of the world, who must have seen and known so many ladies, both in England and abroad, should really profess to care about a foolish, frivolous girl like me."

"You are neither foolish nor frivolous. Besides which, you are different from any one whom I ever met before. More than all, you are my fate."

"Your fate, Mr. Van Duren!"

"Yes, the one woman out of all the wide world whom, uncounted ages ago, it was fated, or fore-ordained, that I should love."

"Now you are going further than I can follow you," said Miriam, with a smile. "Perhaps, at the same time, it was fore-ordained that I should reject your suit."

"You do not know how terribly in earnest I am, or you would not laugh at me."

"Indeed, Mr. Van Duren, I am not laughing at you. But pray resume your seat."

"Not till you have told me the best or the worst. Not till you have given me some word of hope, or told me that I must never hope again."

"Mr. Van Duren," said Miriam, with more earnestness than she had yet used, "your offer has come upon me so suddenly that I know not what to say. I think you can hardly expect me to give you an answer to so serious a question without giving me time to consider what that answer must be. Not now, not to-night--can I answer you either one way or the other. Two or three days at the least I must claim, to think over all that you have said to me, and to discover, if it be possible for me to do so, what my feelings are in a matter that concerns my future welfare so closely."

"I can but bow to your decision," said Van Duren. "I hope I may accept it as a good augury that you have not rejected my suit at once and entirely; that you have deemed it worthy of being taken into consideration."

"Ah, Mr. Van Duren, I am afraid that you are not such a novice as you would wish to make out: I am afraid that you understand more of our sex and their ways than you would care to have known."

Then, as if to change the subject, she took up her guitar and began to play. A little while later Van Duren took his leave.

"Very well managed, my dear," said Mr. Byrne, approvingly, wheeling round his chair as soon as the door was closed upon their visitor; "only neither of you seemed to think much about me in the matter."

"I suppose Mr. Van Duren thinks that if he can obtain my consent, yours will follow as a matter of course."

"He is welcome to think what he likes, so long as you succeed in getting out of him the particular information that I want. So far, all has gone off well. In three days' time you will accept him provisionally--accept him on trial, that is, for a month or six weeks, before finally binding yourself to anything. In the course of that month you ought to be able to worm out of him the all-important secret, without which all that we have done up to the present time will be of no avail whatever."

"I understand perfectly what you want, papa, but I cannot tell you how utterly distasteful to me is the whole wretched business."

"Tut, tut, girl, you mustn't talk in that way! Think of the two hundred pounds that will be yours--absolutely your own--if we succeed."

"I do think of it, papa. But even that can hardly reconcile me at times to go through with what I have promised. You don't know the feeling of repulsion, of absolute loathing, that came over me to-night when that man tried to take my hand. Think what it is to be made love to by a murderer; think of this, and pity me!"

"Of course I pity you, and feel for you," said the old man, soothingly. "But our needs are great, and the money will be very useful--you can't but admit that."

"Oh yes, I admit that. But I was never afraid of poverty."

"I am not afraid of it--but I certainly don't like it. But what do you intend doing with your two hundred pounds, Miriam? Better let me invest it for you."

"If I succeed in getting the two hundred pounds---which at present is by no means certain--I shall----"

"Yes: what?"

"I shall furnish a couple of rooms--furnish them very nicely, mind you--and marry James."

"You will!" gasped the old man.

"I shall, most certainly. It is the thought of that and nothing else that strengthens me to go through with this dreadful business. No meaner prize would tempt me."

She stooped and kissed her father lightly on the forehead, and then went quickly out of the room, as if afraid that what she had said might provoke a discussion that would have been unpleasant to both of them.

[CHAPTER V.]

EASTER HOLIDAYS.

The Easter holidays were here, and Sir Thomas Dudgeon and family had gone down to Stammars for a fortnight. The baronet was like a boy released for awhile from the tyranny of school. He had always loved the country; but never had it seemed so sweet and pleasant to him as it did now, after he had been penned up for a couple of months in the great wilderness of London. He spent hours with Cozzard every day, and together the two men visited every nook and corner of the property, and renewed acquaintance with every horse, dog, and cow on the estate. Sir Thomas's speech on the Sugar Duties, being a maiden effort, had been listened to with kindly attention by the House, and had been commented on in favourable terms by one or two of the morning papers. Amplified and embellished with tropes and similes not found; in the original, it had been printed, in extenso, in the Pembridge Gazette, and had formed the basis of a ponderous leader in the editor's best style. Sir Thomas began to feel as if he were a power in the realm. Really, as he sometimes whispered to himself, his wife's estimate of his abilities might not be such an exaggerated one, after all. He had been complimented so often about his speech, that, insensibly to himself, he began to regard it as being altogether his own composition, and to forget or ignore Pomeroy's share in the transaction.

The ball at Stammars came off in due course, and was very successful. It added greatly to the popularity of Sir Thomas among his constituents. Husbands and fathers in Pembridge were as amenable to feminine influences as they are supposed to be elsewhere, and Lady Dudgeon judged rightly that all the ladies would work for her after she had hinted that a similar gathering would probably be held at Stammars every year during Sir Thomas's parliamentary career.

Lady Dudgeon's correspondence had got greatly into arrear during her two months in London. As soon as the ball was over she devoted a week to letter-writing. She had many things to write about, and she did not spare any of her numerous correspondents. She had much to say respecting the fashions and foibles of society in town, the drier details being plentifully garnished with gossip and anecdotes respecting mutual friends, or such notabilities of the day as her ladyship might have been brought into casual contact with in the course of a ten minutes' crush on an aristocratic staircase. But the ball and its eccentricities were not forgotten; and could certain of the Pembridge ladies have seen how mercilessly their "dear Lady Dudgeon" ridiculed them in her letters to her fine friends--their manners, their conversation, and their toilettes--they would never have forgiven her to the last day of their lives.

Captain Dayrell came down for the ball, and stayed the remainder of the week at Stammars. Neither he nor Lady Dudgeon had given up the campaign as hopeless. It was part of the Captain's creed that young ladies, especially in matters matrimonial, did not know their own minds for a week at a time. Because he had been refused in March, that was no reason why he should not be accepted in April or May. He had felt considerably annoyed when Lady Dudgeon had told him the result of her conversation with Miss Lloyd. He hinted to her pretty plainly that she had committed an egregious blunder in broaching the subject to Eleanor at all, instead of leaving him to fight his own battle with that somewhat obstinate young person. "A meddlesome old cat" was the term he applied to her in his own thoughts. To do her justice, however, her ladyship was laudably anxious to atone for her error; therefore was Captain Dayrell invited down to Stammars, where he would have the field entirely to himself: even Mr. Pomeroy would be out of the way, Sir Thomas having given that gentleman a week's release from his not very onerous duties.

"You will have to do your spiriting very gently, Captain Dayrell," said her ladyship. "Miss Lloyd's refusal was a very decisive one."

"So long as there is no prior attachment--and you assure me that there is not--I will not permit myself to despair," said Dayrell. "I tell your ladyship this in confidence. But if it could in any way be hinted to Miss Lloyd that I have accepted her decision as final, and, while deeply hurt by her rejection of me, have no intention of troubling her further, I think my cause might be somewhat benefited thereby."

"Pardon me, but I hardly see the force of your suggestion."

"My dear Lady Dudgeon, it is one of the characteristics of your sex to regard a rejected suitor with a certain amount of tendresse. They say to themselves, 'Here is something that might be mine if I would only hold out my hand to take it.' So long as it is there for the having, they don't care to accept it; but when they have reason to think that they are about to lose it, they will sometimes make a snatch at it rather than let it go altogether--or, perhaps I ought to say, rather than let it fall into the hands of another."

In this matter Captain Dayrell judged Eleanor by himself. He was twice as anxious to win her, now that she had declined his attentions, as he had been before. Not that he would ever have dreamed of asking Miss Lloyd to become his wife had she been other than the heiress she was. He knew too well what was due both to himself and to society.

The suggested hint was duly given to Eleanor. It made her intercourse with Captain Dayrell, during his stay at Stammars, more easy and pleasant than it might otherwise have been, but beyond that it had no effect whatever. When the captain went back to town he was not quite so sanguine of success as he had been a week previously; but being of a persevering disposition, and having no belief in the immutability of a woman's No, he was still very far from considering his case as hopeless.

Olive Deane had three days' leave of absence from her duties at Easter. She went by invitation to spend the time with her aunt and cousin at Pembridge. She had seen neither of them during the two months she had been at Lady Dudgeon's. Matthew Kelvin had once or twice sent his chief clerk to transact business with the baronet, but had never put in an appearance himself. Could it be that he dreaded the possibility of meeting Miss Lloyd? was the question Olive sometimes asked herself; but it was a question to which there was no likelihood of her ever obtaining an answer.

Olive's heart fluttered strangely as she knocked at the familiar door. Absence had in no wise weakened her love for her cousin. Watered with her secret tears, its roots seemed only to grow stronger and to cling more tightly round her heart. "Why should my life be made miserable for the love of this man?" she sometimes asked herself. "He cares nothing for me--he never will care anything for me." But in other moods she would say: "He will learn to love me yet. Such a love as mine must have a magnetism in it strong enough to draw to itself the object of its desires."

But how was it possible that her cousin could grow to love her when she was separated from him by weeks and months of absence? She must devise some scheme that would bring her under the same roof with him again; that was her only chance. Once let Miss Lloyd become engaged either to Mr. Pomeroy or Captain Dayrell--once let Matthew Kelvin realize the fact that, safe in the love of another man, Eleanor was for ever beyond his reach, and she--Olive--would not stop another day at Stammars. Some excuse she would find, some reason she would invent, which would make her once more an inmate of her cousin's house. Now, to-day, when she took her aunt's hand and kissed her, she peered anxiously into her face to read whatever signs might be written there. Was her health much worse than usual? Was there any prospect that before long this poor ailing creature might need her services as nurse? Surely--surely, she could not linger on in this way for ever! She wished no harm to her aunt; but one cannot always help one's thoughts. To-day, however, Mrs. Kelvin looked pretty much as she had looked for the last three or four years--neither better nor worse.

She received her niece very kindly. Matthew was out on business, so there was time for an hour's confidential talk before he came back. One of Mrs. Kelvin's first questions had reference to Mr. Pomeroy; was he comfortable, and did he suit Sir Thomas? Then she was interested in hearing Olive's account of the gay doings in London, and genuinely pleased to find that Lady Dudgeon and her niece agreed so well together.

After that the old lady began to talk about her son. There had been a change in him of late, and it troubled her. He was not bodily ill, she thought; but he seemed to have something on his mind. He was restless and irritable, and seemed to crave for company and excitement more than he had ever done before. When he was talking about one thing he always seemed to be thinking about another.

"He has not read a line to me for I don't know how long," sighed the old lady. "I can see that his heart is not in it, and so I don't care to ask him."

Mr. Kelvin came in while they were still talking about him. His face brightened the moment he saw Olive, and her heart whispered to her, "He is glad to see me!" He shook hands with her, and patted her cheek as he might have done that of a child.

"Your roses were always white ones, Nolly," he said, "and London smoke has certainly done nothing to turn them into red ones."

Olive's anxious eyes were not long in verifying what Mrs. Kelvin had said about her son. He certainly looked more worn and anxious than she had ever seen him look before. He seemed to have grown five years older in a few weeks.

"Will he tell me, I wonder, what has gone amiss with him?" whispered Olive to herself. "Can his anxiety have anything to do with Eleanor Lloyd? or is it common business cares that are troubling his mind?"

From whatever cause Mr. Kelvin's anxiety might spring, he made an effort this evening to put it behind him, and partly succeeded in so doing. He assumed a cheerfulness, if he felt it not, and his mother was only too ready to believe that it was genuine. It struck Olive, however, that she had never seen her cousin drink so much brandy-and-water as he did this evening, and then he would finish up with champagne, toasting Olive in one bumper and his mother in another. After that he went out for a stroll and a whiff in the quiet streets, and had not come back when the ladies retired for the night.

"Your coming, dear, seems to have done Matthew good," said Mrs. Kelvin to Olive, as she kissed her at her bedroom door. "I have not seen him so bright and cheerful for weeks as he has been to-night. But I dare say my company is a little dull for him at times, and the house would be all the brighter for him if you could be here always."

If she could be there always! How the words rang in Olive's ears when shut up in the solitude of her own room! She could not go to bed till she heard Matthew come in, so she put out the candle and drew up the blind, and sat gazing out at the chilly stars till she heard her cousin's footsteps on the stairs.

Mrs. Kelvin never came down to breakfast, a fact of which Olive was aware. She judged that if her cousin had anything particular to say to her, he would say it when his mother was out of the way; so she took care to be down to breakfast betimes next morning.

Kelvin was moody and distrait. After a little commonplace conversation, he lapsed into a silence that seemed deeper than common, and one which Olive did not care to break.

"Do you see much of Miss Lloyd?" he said at last, with a suddenness that was almost startling.

"I see her nearly every day--generally at luncheon," said Olive, quite calmly. She had expected some such question.

"Is she well and happy?"

"Quite well, and, as far as one person may judge of another, quite happy."

Silence again for a minute or two. When Kelvin next spoke, it was with his eyes turned away from Olive.

"She is young, handsome, and presumably rich, consequently not short of suitors--eh?"

"I see so little of Miss Lloyd, except at breakfast or luncheon, that I am hardly in a position to answer your question. There is, however, one gentleman who visits at the house, and who seems to be looked upon with favourable eyes both by Lady Dudgeon and Miss Lloyd."

"Ah! And who may he be?"

"His name is Captain Dayrell. He is said to be cousin to Lord Rookborough."

"Good-looking, of course?"

"Not bad-looking, certainly." Silence again.

Olive Deane knew quite well that in speaking thus of Captain Dayrell to her cousin she was not confining herself to the narrow limits of the truth. She knew quite well--for she was not blind, like Lady Dudgeon--that if the attentions of one man were more pleasant to Miss Lloyd than those of another, that man was John Pomeroy. But instinct warned her that it would not be wise on her part to mention Pomeroy's name in any such relation. That Miss Lloyd should receive the attentions of a man like Captain Dayrell would seem to her cousin no more than natural under the circumstances; but that Miss Lloyd should encourage the suit of a penniless adventurer like Jack Pomeroy would have seemed an altogether different affair. Matthew Kelvin's pride would have revolted at the thought of Pomeroy winning that which he himself had failed to gain. He was just the man to have warned Sir Thomas, and have got Pomeroy discharged, so that the affair might be broken off; but in the case of Captain Dayrell no such mode of procedure was possible. However distasteful such a state of affairs might be to him, he could only submit to it with such grace as there might be in him.

It was characteristic of Olive Deane's crooked method of reasoning, that she fully believed that should her plot result in a marriage between Eleanor and Pomeroy, her cousin would, in time to come, be far better pleased than if no such scheme had been hatched by her busy brain. Would not Matthew Kelvin's revenge be far sweeter to him if the woman who had rejected him so contemptuously should marry an adventurer like Pomeroy, who could have no other object than her supposed wealth in trying to win her for his wife, than if she should become the promised bride of Captain Dayrell, who, though he should be told Miss Lloyd's real history at the last moment, might still be chivalrous enough to make her his wife? In any case, thus it was that Olive reasoned with herself, and for this reason it was that John Pomeroy's name was never mentioned by her in connection with Miss Lloyd.

"That was a devilish scheme of revenge that you suggested to me one morning in my office! I have had no peace of mind since I agreed to it."

"You talk as a woman might talk. I certainly gave you credit for more strength of purpose," said Olive, with the slightest possible touch of contempt in her voice.

"Strength of purpose has nothing to do with the point in question," he said, harshly. "For the first time in my life, I have wilfully tarnished my professional honour, and that is what annoys me so greatly."

"A few weeks more, and the necessity for concealment will be at an end. Captain Dayrell will propose to Miss Lloyd--will win her consent to become his wife. After that you can strike your blow as soon as you like."

Kelvin did not answer, but sat staring moodily into the fire. Olive regarded him furtively for a little while, without speaking.

"I certainly thought that I should have seen you at Stammars on the evening of the ball," she said, after a time.

"I had an invitation, but I did not choose to go. Too much of a tag-rag-and-bob-tail affair for me."

"Your absence was commented upon both by Sir Thomas and Lady Dudgeon at breakfast next morning."

"What does that matter to me?"

"Shall I tell you something else?"

"Just as you please."

"After Sir Thomas and Lady Dudgeon had left the room, I rose from the table and went and sat down for a few minutes in one of the deep window recesses. Miss Lloyd and Captain Dayrell rose too, and went towards the fire-place. I suppose from what followed that Miss Lloyd had forgotten that I was in the room. Said the Captain to her: 'Who is this Mr. Kelvin, whose absence from the ball Sir Thomas seemed to regret so much?'--'Oh, a mere nobody--a provincial attorney,' answered Miss Lloyd."

"She said that, did she!" muttered Kelvin.

"'Oh, by-the-by,' continued the Captain, 'I want to consult a lawyer on a point of business while I'm down here, and I daresay this fellow of Sir Thomas's would do as well as anybody else.'--'Yes, I should rather like you to see him, Frank,' said Miss Lloyd.--'Why him in particular?' asked the Captain.--'Because this very man--this country attorney--actually had the audacity, no very long time ago, to ask me to become his wife!'--'Confound his impudence!' said the Captain, and then they both laughed, and left the room."

A deep flush mounted to the face of Matthew Kelvin. He got up from the table, and went and rested his two elbows on the chimney-piece, and stood gazing into the fire without speaking. The lie just told by Olive, but which he had accepted as truth, had evidently touched him to the quick. Olive, playing with her tea-spoon, watched him narrowly.

"Do you think of telling Miss Lloyd before long that she is not Miss Lloyd?" Olive ventured at last to remark.

"No, not yet--not yet!" answered Kelvin. "Now that I have kept the secret so long, it shall not be told till the eve of her marriage with this man. I leave it for you to let me know when the proper time has come. Let her suffer--as she has made me suffer."

With that he left the room. Nor, during Olive's visit, was the subject again alluded to between them.

All too soon, to Olive's thinking, did her visit come to an end.

"You must steal another holiday before long," said her aunt to her as she was putting on her bonnet on the morning of her return to Stammars. "Matthew has brightened up wonderfully while you have been here, and I can't tell you how thankful I am for it." Matthew himself kissed her as he handed her into the fly that was to take her back. He had not kissed her since that never-to-be-forgotten day at Redcar, now long years ago. How strangely her heart thrilled to the touch of his lips! "Oh! that I could be with him altogether, never to leave him more!" she murmured. She lay back in the fly and cried all the way to Stammars; but already in that crooked brain of hers the embryo of a strange, dark scheme was beginning to take shape and consistency, although as yet she herself was hardly aware of its existence.

Gerald, too, had his holiday at Easter. Not that he wanted it, or even asked for it. To know that he was under the same roof with Eleanor, even though his chances of seeing her might have been few and far between, would have been holiday enough for him. But Sir Thomas's offer was made in such a way that he could not refuse to accept it. He had no suspicion that the prime mover in the affair was Lady Dudgeon, who thought that, by isolating Eleanor as much as possible, she was materially increasing Captain Dayrell's chances of success.

The demon of Jealousy was tugging at Gerald's heart-strings as he left Stammars for London, and all by reason of this same Captain Dayrell. He knew perfectly well that that gentleman, and he alone, had been specially invited to Stammars. He had met the captain once or twice at luncheon, and had seen enough of him to know that he might prove a most formidable rival. Before leaving Stammars he would fain have seen Eleanor, would fain have given her some hint more pointed than any he had yet given as to the state of his feelings, and have tried to win from her some sort of promise in return. But, either through accident or design, he found himself unable to see her even for five minutes; and he was compelled to go away without one word of farewell, but with the bitter knowledge--and bitter indeed it was to him--that his rival was expected to reach Stammars that very day in time for dinner.

"What may not such a man accomplish in ten days!" muttered poor Gerald to himself, as he was being borne Londonwards in the train. "On the one hand, a good-looking, polished man of the world--a roué, doubtless, but how is Eleanor to know that?--full of bright talk and ready wit, and with an adaptability about him that makes him seem at home anywhere; on the other hand, an ardent, impressionable girl, bred in the country, lacking in knowledge of the world and its ways, with a sort of high-flown sentiment about her which Dayrell would know at once how to twist to his own advantage. In an encounter such as this, which of the two is likely to come off victor?"

Of a truth, poor Gerald was very miserable. He did not know, as we know, that he had himself supplied Eleanor with a suit of invisible armour, welded by Love's deft fingers, which would have rendered her proof against the assaults of a hundred Captain Dayrells. He blamed himself in that he had not yet told her of his love--told her by word of mouth--not dreaming that he had already told it in divers other ways, with a silent eloquence which is often more persuasive and powerful than any words.

Gerald spent three days in London with Miss Bellamy and Ambrose Murray. Then he ran over to Paris with a view of seeking a little distraction among his old acquaintances in that gay city. But nothing could distract him for long at a time from his own jaundiced thoughts. The image of Captain Dayrell was a nightmare to him during the hours of darkness, and as a black shadow that never ceased to haunt his footsteps by day. His light-hearted Parisian friends told him that he was one of them no longer, that English fog had so permeated his system, that there was no longer any esprit left in him: he was triste and distrait; and, in a much shorter time than he had intended, he returned to England.

Gerald's first question to the servant who opened the door to him was--

"Is Captain Dayrell still here?"

"No, sir, he went back to town two days ago: and master and missis and the young ladies are gone to a juvenile party, and won't be back till late."

"Miss Lloyd and Miss Deane, are they both at home?"

"Yes, sir. Miss Deane came back four days since. Miss Lloyd was to have gone with her ladyship to the party, but had a headache."

After eating a little dinner hurriedly, Gerald went in search of Eleanor. Unless her headache had compelled her to remain upstairs, he thought that he should probably find her in the back drawing-room. And there, in fact, he did find her. Her headache was better, and she had been playing a capriccio by Schubert. When Gerald opened the door she was still at the piano, sitting with downcast eyes and a finger pressed to her lips--thinking. The noise of the opening door broke her reverie. There was a start of surprise and a sudden blush when she saw who it was that came into the room. She rose from her chair, advanced a step or two, held out both her hands, and said--

"I am so glad you are come back again!"

As Gerald took her hands for a moment in his, he saw that there was a tear trembling in each corner of her eyes, blue as the skies on an April morn. He saw, too, or thought he saw, behind those tears, Love, that, suddenly surprised, had not had time to hide himself. All her being seemed suffused with an indescribable tenderness. The black thoughts that had coiled themselves round Gerald's heart from the hour of his leaving Stammars till the time of his return, his jealousy of Dayrell, his doubts as to whether Eleanor really cared for him--all vanished in this moment of supreme joy, like mists before the rising sun. It was impossible that he should doubt any longer. An impulse that was uncontrollable, that swept away the floodgates of thought and reason, came over him. He was still holding her hands and gazing into her eyes. He drew her to him--close to him. He wrapped his arms round her, and pressed her to his bosom, her face upturned to his. He bent his head, and touched with his lips the blossom of hers.

"Oh, my darling! if I could but tell you how much I love you!" he murmured in her ear. "If I could but tell you how happy it makes me to see you again!"

Her face was rosy red, but the moment he had kissed her, the violet of her eyes seemed to darken, and a strange, fathomless look came into them, such as he had never seen before. Then the tears fell, and for one brief, happy moment--while the secondhand of a clock might have marked six--she let her head rest where he had put it. Suddenly the great hall bell clanged loudly. The family had come back. Eleanor started, as the fawn starts from the covert when it hears the hunter's horn. For a single instant her eyes met Gerald's. An instant later he was in the room alone.

He stood for a little while like a man suddenly roused from sleep, who hardly knows where he is, or what has befallen him. "Was it my darling herself that rested in my arms, and whose lips I kissed just now?" he said. "Or have I suddenly lost my wits and only imagined it all? No! It must be true--it shall be true At last she is mine--mine for ever!" Then, like one who feels himself to be still half asleep, he walked out of the room and shut the door behind him.

Hardly had the door closed, when Olive Deane stepped from her hiding-place behind the curtains of one of the windows, from which spot she had been an unseen witness of the foregoing scene. Her pupils were away, and she had nothing to do. She had gone into the back drawing-room at dusk, before the lamps were lighted, and had sat down on the cushioned seat, that ran round the inner side of the large bow window. Presently a servant came in to light the lamps, but went away again without perceiving Olive. Sitting there, behind the partially-drawn curtains, she was, as it were, in a tiny room of her own; and there she might probably have remained the whole evening without being discovered, had she chosen to do so. In fact, when Eleanor came in a little later, and sat down at the piano and began to play, Olive neither spoke nor stirred, but sat watching her rival with jealous, hungry eyes, and made no sign. Thus it fell out that she became an uninvited witness of the scene between Eleanor and Gerald.

There was a look of triumph on Olive's pale face as she stepped out of her hiding-place. In her black eyes there was an unwonted sparkle. "Checkmate at last!" she said. "Before long, I shall be able to tell Matthew that the hour of his vengeance has come. What will he say when he knows that the accepted lover of dainty Miss Lloyd is no gentleman, such as Captain Dayrell, but a beggarly adventurer, without money enough to pay for the clothes he wears? Surely his revenge will be twice as sweet as it would otherwise have been. As for her--one short hour will strip her of name, wealth, position, and of the man to whom she has given her hand--for Pomeroy is not the man I take him to be if he does not cast her off the moment her real story is told him. Fine feathers make fine birds, Miss Eleanor Lloyd. We shall see how you will look when you are stripped of yours. Before three months are over, you will be grateful to anyone who will obtain for you a situation at forty pounds a year."

[CHAPTER VI.]