HAUNTED LIVES,

CHAPTER XXVI.

CHARLES MANNERING'S MISSION.

AT about eleven o'clock next morning, Charles Mannering knocked at the door of Guildford House. He had received an earnest little note, saying, — "If I was cross the other night, pray forgive me. I seriously want your help now. Don't say so to Mr. Gryston, or to any other person. No one is to know that you suspect that anything has gone wrong, or that I want advice but come, and listen to the very odd story I have to tell, and, by doing so, you will help to relieve me of a real anxiety, and possibly save me from a real danger."

  He was full of curiosity, and a masculine belief in the trivial nature of this feminine complication. Wondering, too, why he had been directed in a postscript to say nothing about the matter to her cousin, Julia Wardell. Now and then an unpleasant fancy that she might have glided into a romance, and begun to lose her way in its mazes, startled him with a momentary pang.

  "A shark — a fortune-hunter, very likely — how could she be so mad? But, after the vows she is fond of repeating, it is hardly credible that she should dream of throwing herself away upon that fellow, of whom she knows absolutely nothing."

  In came Charles. He had not seen Laura Gray in the drawing-room window — but as he put off his coat in the hall, she opened the library door, and called him in.

  "First of all — we are good friends, you know?" said the young lady.

  You may quarrel with me, but I'll not quarrel with you, Challys," said he, looking at her very kindly and gently.

  So she put out her hand to him, and there was another greeting, silent, but very friendly — and he said with a smile —

  "Well, now, Challys, as we used to say at school, what's the row?"

  "Shut the door — sit down there, and I'll tell you. It's a long story, Charles, and I'll begin at the beginning."

  And so she did, and Charles listened, and gravely read the documents as she placed them in his hands, but when he came to the last he laughed. She looked with something of surprise and reproof at him — and he laughed the more.

  "Well, really this is too good," he exclaimed.

  "Too bad, I should have thought."

  "You don't mean to say you believe it?" said Charles Mannering.

  "Believe what?" she demanded.

  "This rubbish."

  "What rubbish, sir? Do, pray, Charles Mannering, speak intelligibly, if you mean me — but perhaps you don't — to understand you."

  "Can you really believe that you are to receive Mr. Dacre's hand — might it not be better to send his foot, the member he has put in it — made up in paper, and directed to Miss Gray, to-morrow evening? Can you really have brought yourself to believe such a piece of incredible burlesque?"

  "The whole thing, up to that, is incredible, and yet it has happened. Here, this locket for one thing. I asked Fleurise and Boyd what it is worth, and they say sixty guineas, and that it must have cost more than a hundred. Is it credible that any one should give away — to a total stranger — sixty guineas? You know it is monstrous. Is it credible, that the names of our visitors, and all my plans — though I scarcely speak them above my breath — should be known to people totally unknown to me — who yet seem resolved, by a kind of torture, to influence my conduct, and are animated by a hatred of that miserable Mr. Guy de Beaumirail, and who have discovered Mr. Dacre's pursuit of them, and threaten to put him out of the way. It is like a dream."

  Charles Mannering listened patiently.

  "And the night before last, while you were here, there came to the window of this room a wicked-looking little man — and the same little demon I saw just as I reached the drawing-room door, stepping into the hall; I felt, for a moment, as if I should have fainted, and I had the house searched, but there was no one; and only ten minutes later he came to the hall-door, and inquired whether Mr. Dacre was in the house. You see they have a system of spies and messengers — and my pearl ring was taken away, and returned — merely to show that somehow they have access to the house, and that nothing is secure from them. Most unscrupulous they have proved themselves — cunning and savage — and their language is ferocious — and I can't in the least comprehend their schemes. And now I ask you, in the midst of this odious labyrinth, what am I to think or do?"

  She paused, and as he did not tell her, she continued — "What am I to believe? I saw only the other day, in the newspaper, the discovery of a dead body described — supposed, it said, to be that of a French gentleman, who left his lodging about ten days before. See how easy it is to murder without detection, in this great, wicked city — and, this morning, there is an account of some pieces of a human body, part of a foot and ankle — you will see it in the news-paper — tied up in a basket under the seat of a railway carriage, where it was left by some unknown person. And now, with all this, and things like it, continually happening in this vicious city, you say it is incredible that a stranger like Mr. Dacre should be murdered and cut in pieces. I wont argue more about it, it is disgusting, and frightful, and has haunted me all night."

  "Relieve your mind upon that point, however; it was simply said to terrify you. I assure you such a hoax would not have been attempted upon any one but an inexperienced girl like you — the idea of giving you notice! Do you fancy that a murderer meditating such a thing would apprize you beforehand, when you would merely have to send a friend to mention the matter to the police, to have detectives placed all about to secure the examination, and the person, if need be, of every messenger who came to your door."

  "You want to comfort me, Charles; it is very kind; but your argument wont do. I thought of all that. But, suppose a very nice carriage, with servants and all proper appointments, were to drive up to the door, in the afternoon, and a nice old lady to inquire particularly how I was, and leave a card, and also a parcel, would not that pass muster? or, suppose the public carrier should deliver the parcel; or one of my tradespeople, to whose shop it might be brought, should innocently send it here — there are so many ways of doing such a thing, with almost no risk of detection, and people who can deliver a letter like that here, and nobody be able to say how it came, could certainly do what they threaten. The best way, as it strikes me, to prevent their sending, is to apprize Mr. Dacre, who is primarily interested, of their designs."

  "Have you the least idea or suspicion who these people may be?" asked he.

  "None; but Mr. Dacre, who knows Mr. de Beaumirail, suspects, notwithstanding the ostentation of hatred assumed by these people, that he may really be implicated in the conspiracy — you men understand one another better than I can — but I don't very clearly see how that is possible."

  "Nor I, either. I have been making inquiries about De Beaumirail, and I believe he is very ill indeed. I don't say, from all I hear, that he would have very many scruples about taking a part in a disreputable enterprize, although I don't quite know that he might not; but he is very ill. Gryston told me yesterday that he should not be surprised if he were dead, and buried, in a month."

  "Well, well, well, what of that?" said the young lady, impatiently.

  "Not much; only this, that being so, I don't see how, in any imaginable way, he could be of the slightest use to these conspirators, as you will give them that lofty title; a parcel of cowardly blackguards, London thieves, and swindlers, I suppose — the first letter written in the character of an Aristides, and the last in the language of an assassin."

  "That is not a reassuring view of the matter, Charlie; but something, you know, must be done."

  "In any way you please to employ me, you have only to command me," said he.

  "Thanks, Charlie; I know that," said she, gravely.

  "Well, what shall I do? Shall I go to the police office?" he asked.

  "No, pray; that would be a very public step," she said.

  "We must take care to secure your house against the impertinences of these people, and I think the best way would be simply to tell the police; and I'll do that, if you'll allow me."

  "Well, no; I say I should not like yet, at least. But do you know Miniver's Hotel?"

  "Oh, yes; everyone knows that. Do you wish me to go there?"

  Yes; you'll go there, and see Mr. Dacre."

  "But I haven't the pleasure of Mr. Dacre's acquaintance," he said, a little dryly, as if he did not desire it; "and I don't believe he's in a bit more danger than I am; and — you'll think me a great brute; but it is as well to be frank — I really don't very much care. I don't think I ever saw a fellow in whom I felt less interest."

  "Well, you will, I am sure, for my ——" and she paused.

  "For your sake! Oh, that's a different thing! for your sake, of course;" he laughed oddly. "You fancy an unseen circle of assassins round him, and I'm to break it for the purpose of warning him of his danger, and so diverting their fire upon me. But what of my unworthy life or person? For your sake, Challys — of course, I should go with pleasure."

  "But I didn't say for my sake — you know I didn't," said she.

  "You were going to say it, and you know you were," said he. "Come, Challys, you used to love truth, and I wont believe, till you tell me so yourself, that change of place will ever change frank Challys Gray."

  "I did not say it, Charlie," she answered; "but it is true I was on the point of saying it; and now I do say it — for my sake you will go there and see him, for he must be communicated with; and as he undertook the search after those people, for my sake, I do ask you, for my sake, to relieve my mind, by apprising him of that which, right or wrong, I cannot help believing may be a real danger."

  "Yes, Challys, that form of invocation is, for me, irresistible. I will go; although I could hardly have imposed a more disagreeable duty — not, of course, that I bear him any ill-will, for I don't even know him, but that he is evidently such a — what can I say without giving offence? I was going to say such a prig, but I wont; but he is just the kind of conceited fellow who would meet one with those airs which I confess I can't endure."

  "You mistake him very much, I assure you; when you know him a little you will like him extremely," said Miss Laura Challys Gray, with that grave and gentle reserve, which, in jealous minds, excites suspicion.

  "Well, what am I to tell him?"

  "Tell him all I have related to you, that is, all that has happened since you and he were here to tea, the evening before last; he knows everything up to that."

  "Does he? Oh!"

  "Yes. I'll tell you some other time how that came about." She blushed. "You need not smile — there is nothing whatever to smile at."

  "Nor to blush at?" said he.

  "Nor to blush at," she repeated, with a flash from her fine eyes — "neither to smile nor to blush at. It may strike you as very ridiculous, to me it is a serious anxiety."

  "Now, now, Challys, you must not quarrel with me so soon again."

  "Quarrel? No. You'll understand it all perfectly, some day — that is, when there are five minutes to tell it in, but now there ain't. Just tell him you come from me — tell him everything — learn all you can, and return here — Charlie, you are a very a kind fellow," and she gave him her hand.

  So away went Charles Mannering upon his mission.

CHAPTER XXVII.

HE RETURNS.

I DON'T care to analyze the feelings with which he undertook this service for handsome Mr. Dacre. If they were of an unfriendly kind, he was not fool enough to allow his churlish feelings to show themselves in his demeanour. With his usual frank bearing and cheery tones he inquired for Mr. Dacre at Miniver's Hotel.

  The hall-porter told him that he had orders to receive letters addressed to Mr. Alfred Dacre, if that was the name, but he did not know whether the gentleman was staying in the house. If he was, it must have been since this morning; and, on inquiry, it turned out that no gentleman of that name was at Miniver's.

  "Does he call for his letters, himself?"

  "No one has called yet, sir."

  "Was it he himself who ordered his letters to be taken in here?"

  The hall-porter here inquired of the waiter.

  "No, sir, a gentleman known in the house ordered it."

  Into the coffee-room went Charles, and wrote this note —

"Miniver's Hotel.

"MY DEAR MR. DACRE,

  "Our friends at Guildford House requested me this morning to call, and, if possible, see you, in order to mention some circumstances which I find it impossible to detail in a note; but if you will be good enough to send me a line, to my rooms, at the Temple, No —, ——- court, naming any hour this afternoon, after three, I shall be happy to meet you at Miniver's.

"&c. &c."

  With the hall-porter he left his letter.

  "Have you any idea where Mr. Dacre is at present staying in London?"

  "No, sir."

  Well, he had honestly done his best, and could return to Laura Gray with a clear conscience. He would have a talk with her, and after luncheon return to town and see whether a note had arrived for him at his chambers, and if this failed, there was nothing for him to reproach himself with — nothing that Miss Gray could censure.

  When he reached Guildford House, and walked up under the shadow of the elm boughs, Laura Gray was not among her flower-beds, nor in the library window — her yesterday's looking out from that window had not been lucky. But, from the drawing-room window, she was already looking out for him. On its pane he heard a tapping, as he approached; on looking up he saw her raising the sash.

  He smiled and nodded, but she looked very grave, and beckoning him to quicken his pace, she leaned over the window-stone, and asked — "Any news?"

  "No, nothing at present; but, by-and-bye, I shall hear."

  "Nothing bad?"

  "Nothing; nothing whatever. I'll run up and tell you everything — which, in fact, is just nothing."

  As he traversed the hall and mounted the stairs his heart was sore and angry.

  "She did not even say, thank you, and she has known me from the time she was beginning to walk and talk, and her head is full of that d——d fellow, just because he is a little handsome — though, hang me, if I can see it. How capricious and cruel and worthless they are!"

  "Well, here I am," he said, cheerfully, as he entered the drawing-room, "about as wise as I went away," and with this preface he told her what had passed. "And now I have told my pointless story. Suppose we come out, the day is so delightful, among your flowers, and sit in that rustic seat there under the shade, and I promise to answer all your questions, if you still have any to put?"

  "Come, then; I'll show you how I get; on at my gardening, and you shall admire the flowers; and shall I make a confession? I have grown such a fool, I have been shut up here all day; I have been afraid almost to look out of the window to-day, lest I should see one of those horrible gipsies. I am quite sure that girl brought the letter that came yesterday, and slipt it into Mersey's pocket while she was pretending to tell her fortune, and then she said things that showed a knowledge of what those wicked people intended. I sometimes feel as if she was a witch, and sometimes as if she was a cheat; and I really am so nervous and ridiculous that you would pity me. But, under your protection, I think I may venture."

  So, without waiting to get her hat, down she ran, and led the way to the steps, and together they descended to the shorn grass, and the brilliant flowers.

  With a childish eagerness and volatility she talked over the perfections of her flowers, her plans and operations, and, for a time, her whole soul was wrapped up in these themes.

  "I'm a good listener, Laura, don't you allow?"

  "Yes, very good."

  "A man, as a rule, I think, is a better listener than a woman," said he.

  "Does not that depend on the subject a good deal?" said she.

  "Well, I grant you, the fashions, the scandals ——"

  "Don't be impertinent."

  "I believe I was very near being impertinent, for I was thinking of speaking the truth."

  "Now, come, do be civil; it is a charming day, and here are we among the flowers, and I disposed to be perfectly polite, and what on earth happiness can there be in simply spoiling a tolerable half-hour by wanton incivility, I can't understand."

  "But it is not wanton incivility — it has a purpose — I'm coming to my point."

  "0h! Then it is in cold blood?"

  "Quite — and very harmless, as you'll see. I have observed, that on a tolerably interesting subject a man will listen a great deal better than a woman, as a rule; but when a woman listens to such yarns, it is because, though the talk can't interest her, the talker does."

  "Well, I'm interested by the talk at present; pray go on."

  "I'm quite sure it is not by the talker," he said with a laugh, which didn't quite conceal his pique; "but I was going to say, the other night, when I drank tea here, when that interesting young gentleman, Mr. Dacre, whose hands are expected here this evening, made up, I believe, in parcels, was entertaining you near the drawing-room window, although I could swear there was not a word of sense in all he said — I never saw a human being so engrossed by language as Miss Challys Gray was by his."

  "Oh, really! It is so good of you, I'm sure, to interest yourself in these things; but, somehow, I can't feel at all obliged, as I suppose I ought, and if you fancy that I'm going to account to you for everything I say or do, you'll find yourself very much mistaken." She had blushed brilliantly and was vexed. "And if you wish that we should continue friends, you'll not repeat the attempt," Miss Challys continued, spiritedly.

  "I do wish that we should continue friends, Challys — real friends, and that can only be on a footing of perfect frankness. You resent my assuming the airs of an adviser — I don't dream of taking that character upon myself, except as you invite, or at least, permit it; but you are very young, and Mrs. Wardell is, in some respects, as easily duped as a child, and cannot, therefore, be relied upon to warn you of the kind of danger to which an heiress, so young and charming as you, is exposed, when left so much to herself."

  "You seem to fancy me a fool — you always talk in that tone," complained Laura.

  "If I ever talk in that tone, it is when I am vexed, and I myself foolish. It is because I honestly think you so clever, that I think it is a pity you should not be reminded of those facts and omissions, on which you are so capable of forming a sound judgment. Now, I only ask, and that

  "Do you understand the signs of those clouds? I wonder what kind of weather we are going to have."

  "Not, weatherwise, Challys — no," he answered, with a sigh, and a smile, and a little shake of the head, as they walked towards the steps; "not weatherwise — in any way." END OF VOL. I.

The Collected Works

Of

Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

An Arno Press collection

All in the Dark. Two volumes. 1866
Checkmate. Three volumes. 1871
Chronicles of Golden Friars. Three volumes. 1871
The Cock and Anchor — Being a Chronicle of Old Dublin City.
	Three volumes, 1845
The Evil Guest. [1895]
The Fortunes of Colonel Torlogh O'Brien: A Tale of the Wars
	of King James. 1847
Ghost Stories and Tales of Mystery. 1851
Guy Deverell. Three volumes. 1865
Haunted Lives: A Novel. Three volumes. 1868
The House by the Church-Yard. Three volumes. 1863
In a Glass Darkly. Three volumes. 1872
A Lost Name. Three volumes. 1868
The Poems of Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu. Edited by Alfred
	Perceval Graves. 1896
The Purcell Papers. Three volumes. 1880
The Rose and the Key. Three volumes. 1871
The Tenants of Malory: A Novel. Three volumes. 1867
Uncle Silas: A Tale of Bartram-Haugh. Three volumes. 1864
The Watcher, and Other Weird Stories. [ 18941
Willing to Die. Three volumes. 1873
Wylder's Hand: A Novel. Three volumes. 1864
The Wyvern Mystery: A Novel. Three volumes. 1869

HAUNTED LIVES. Vol. II

CHAPTER I.

A KNOCKING AT THE DOOR.

WHEN Charles Mannering reached his rooms at the Temple, it was nearly three o'clock. In his letter-box was a note in that pretty, but not unmanly hand which Miss Laura Gray had seen and admired also. "A. D." in the corner of the envelope indicated the writer, who said —

  "DEAR MR MANNERING, — Thank you so much, for your note, which has just reached me. I am at this moment so engaged — I fancy upon the subject of your message — that it is out of my power to name an hour for a meeting. Sometime to-day, however, I certainly shall call at your rooms, in the Temple, on the chance of finding you there.

Believe me, yours very truly,

"ALFRED DACRE."   

  "If he thinks I'm going to wait here all day for him, he flatters himself," said Charles, throwing the note on the table. "That sort of fellow gets so spoiled by women — they are such fools — that they think they may do as they please with us."

  And he laughed scornfully, and took his hat and umbrella and walked down the stairs again, and went off to his club.

  It was all done in a spirit of defiance to this admirable Mr. Dacre, who assumed that Charles Mannering would wait for him, and was to learn that he was to wait on Charles Mannering.

  He did not go again to his rooms till eight o'clock, although, if the truth were confessed, he was a little curious, and would have liked very well to hear what Dacre had to say, if only he could have managed to snub him a little at the same time.

  Up the silent stairs, and into his lonely room, by his latch-key, went he. The papers he expected were on his table, some letters also, but no note in the hand with which he was now acquainted, with "A. D." in the corner of the envelope.

  So he had called, and tried to get in, and was, no doubt, surprised to discover that Charles Mannering had taken such a liberty as to go out, without having made provision for his reception.

  Charles smiled faintly with a grim satisfaction as he pictured to himself the incredulous mortification of this conceited young gentleman, when he found himself obliged to turn about on the lobby, and go downstairs as he came up.

  So he sat down in his easy-chair, with his candles, and not till an hour later was startled from the study of his papers, in which he was now deep, by a knocking at his door.

  On opening it he saw, standing in the moonlight admitted by the lobby window, a gentleman in a loose coat and a felt hat, whom he had no difficulty in recognising as Mr. Dacre.

  Oh, Mr. Mannering!" he said, raising his hat, and his handsome features smiling in the moonlight, looked as if they were fashioned of ivory.

  "Pray come in. I hope you did not call while I was out? I should have waited here, but business compelled me to go out for a time," said Charles Mannering, surprised into politeness and I fear a momentary disregard of truth.

  "Thank you. No, I did not call — in fact I could not — until now. So fortunate to have met you."

  As he now stood, in the light of the room, face to face, Charles Mannering confessed to himself, with a twinge of chagrin, what a very handsome fellow Dacre unquestionably was.

  "You were so good as to say you would give me some information when we met," said Dacre after they had talked a little. "The subject of course is ——"

  "The anonymous correspondence with which Miss Gray has been so shamefully annoyed. It's a mere burlesque, but it is not less an annoyance." And he went on to recount all that Miss Gray had related, and particularly the threat of sending her Mr. Dacre's hand, at which Charles laughed heartily, and the handsome Mr. Dacre laughed also, but not so comfortably, looking at his slender hand and wrist, which he moved under his eye, as if measuring in his mind whereabouts the line of amputation would be traced.

  "Very laughable, but very curious; I'll tell you how just now," said he. "But I hope, so much Miss Gray does not mind it."

  "The whole thing worries and frightens her. I don't think she believes all that; but she is nervous and uncomfortable."

  "It can't be otherwise," said Dacre; "and I'm afraid she suffers even more than she need."

  "I'm thinking of applying to the police about it," said Charles Mannering.

  Dacre shrugged —

  "I can't help it if you do; but the whole thing falls through-mind, I tell you that, and I know more about it than I did yesterday. It would be the greatest pity in life to let those miscreants off."

  "You seem to think rather seriously of it," said Charles.

  "I have reason," said Dacre, with a faint smile. "You are advising Miss Gray in this miserable business?" he asked gently but suddenly.

  "I can hardly say advising, because it seems to me that for the present she has made up her mind to do nothing. I undertook her little message to you, in Lord Ardenbroke's absence — as a friend of yours he would have naturally undertaken it."

  "He is out of town, then?"

  "Yes — likely to remain away for some weeks," said Charles Mannering.

  "Yes; Ardenbroke and I were very intimate long ago. He knows everything about, me. We Dacres are a scattered family. You are aware that this little visit of mine to London is made under peculiar circumstances. I'm under a condition which embarrasses me extremely. I undertook it entirely to oblige other people; but it prevents my putting myself in the way of recognition. My little mission — a labour of love — would be spoiled entirely if I declared myself, As it has turned out, I am sorry I accepted the condition. If I were in a position to avow myself, I would act with infinitely more decision — infinitely; but without what would now amount to cruelty to, others — a terrible disappointment in fact, and something amounting, after all the trouble I've submitted to, and the condition of reserve, to ridicule, as respects myself — I hope in a week, certainly in a fortnight, it will be at an end, and then you will quite understand; you will see clearly how I was circumstanced. No one was ever by nature so little qualified to maintain a mystery, and I assure you it is the most irksome thing I ever undertook. I did not think it would have lasted a week altogether, and I find myself already a fortnight under my incognito, and likely to continue so for as much longer. If I were relieved of it, I could be of very great and immediate use."

  "It's a great pity you can't," said Charles.

  "Yes," said Dacre, "but apart from cruelty, to declare myself at this moment would make me ridiculous, and of course I could not think of doing it — Honour — yes, honour — God bless it — we all respect and wish it well; but honour, as you'll see in a few days, has nothing to do with this question of 'reserve or no reserve;' to declare myself has nothing to do with honour, but it would have a very distinct connexion with absurdity, and that fantastic spirit, ridicule, is the scourge of mankind. There are degrees, you know. Honour stands high; we sacrifice our lives to honour, but honour sometimes to fortune, and fortune itself at times to ridicule. Ridicule, therefore, sits supreme: no thunder so stunning as its titter, no tropical lightning like the half-hidden gleam of its eye, no crashing hurricane like its whisper. You've found it so, and so did I, and so does all the world. Pray forgive my interruption — talking nonsense while weighty matters call you away ——" he glanced at the papers on the table, "so, with many apologies, I'll say good-night."

  With a smile he was about to turn to the door, but Charles Mannering interposed —

  "Pray, one word more. You used the phrase curious; you said that this affair was very curious, you recollect, and you were good enough to say you would tell me how by-and-by."

  "Oh? a little curious naturally yourself."

  Mr. Dacre smiled, and returned a step or two to the table.

CHAPTER II.

ONE — TWO — THREE.

"YES," continued Mr. Dacre, "I'll tell you why I said it was curious. It was apropos of that part of your story which recounted the threat in the letter, which promised to send, as a present to Miss Gray, my poor hand, made up in lint. It is highly melodramatic, and even comical; but it is also curious, because I was fired at last night."

  "Fired at? Really! Are you serious?"

  "Quite serious, although, perhaps, the subject is a little ridiculous; because I do believe if they had shot me, from what I have reason to know of them, if they are the villains I suspect, this hand of mine would have been left at the door of Guildford House, precisely as they promised, this evening."

  Surely you have taken some steps — I should certainly acquaint the police," said Charles, incredulous, but still a good deal shocked.

  "Very kind of you, but it is already done — there is no objection to that. They don't know that I connect them with the attempt. What I must conceal is the fact that I have got a clue by which I may yet reach them with certainty."

  "How was this attempt made, Mr. Dacre — where did it happen?"

  "I'll tell you. Do you know a road near Islington, where they are building a church or a meeting-house — a large place of worship, with three great trees growing in a clump beside it? There is a dead wall opposite, and a portion of the building has hardly risen above the foundations. I had driven to a place called Duckley-row, close to that, to see an accountant on business for a few minutes. As I got out of my cab, I saw some one get out of another, on the other side of the street, and he walked slowly up and down as if looking for a particular house. That is all I recollect of him. He was so employed when I went into Mr. Edgecombe's house."

  "You did not see him fire at you?"

  "I could not say whether it was he. I have only that unreasoning, intuitive belief, on which all my life I have so much relied, that it was the same man, that he was there watching me, and that he waited for, followed, and fired at me when I came out."

  "How did it happen, exactly?"

  "The road in front of the building I've mentioned is very much cut up, with very deep ruts, so I told the driver to take his cab down and wait for me about fifty yards beyond it, where the trees are. As I reached the front of the building I was fired at, and a bullet struck the road a few yards before me. I turned about and saw the flash of a second shot which passed over my shoulder, close by my head."

  "How far away?"

  "I should say about five-and-thirty yards. The shot came from the field close by the road, and over the fence, and that part of the road was in deep shadow. I was going on at a good pace, and picking my steps, zig-zag, and this it was, I think, that saved me."

  "It could not have been a pistol at that distance," said Charles.

  "Quite too far, too much force, too loud a report, and a devilish stinging whistle by my ear. No one but a mug would have tried a pistol at that distance. I had one then, I have one now" — he lifted a revolver from his coat pocket — "but I did not think of using it at thirty yards. I ran back to have my chance at close quarters, but he had run for it, and so I returned with my hand in my pocket, and not in that of Miss Gray's correspondent. Will you kindly tell Miss Gray that I have better hopes than ever of bringing those villains to justice, or at least to submission; and I really must say good night at last; good night."

  Charles Mannering accompanied him to the door, holding a candle.

  "Don't mind, pray don't," said he.

  But Charles was determined to be polite, and he saw, leaning with his back to the wall, a small man with a loose black wrapper about him, and a low-crowned felt hat. He seemed to have been waiting for Mr. Dacre, and he had taken up a position on the lobby between his door and the descending flight of stairs.

  "More than fifteen minutes waiting; you said 'twouldn't be five," said this figure, snarling with something of the peculiar intonation of the Jewish race.

  Charles thought he saw Mr. Dacre make a slight gesture of caution, but his back was turned and he was moving towards this discontented person, while at the same time Mr. Dacre said quietly, "That's right — a cab waiting? Do you get on and see."

  The little man in the black wrapper, Charles felt, looked at him from under the leaf of his broad hat, before running downstairs, which he did without saying another word. He thought this person was affecting to be a servant, a character which Dacre seemed to put upon him, and so, he first and Dacre following, they went down the stairs. Charles Mannering stept to the window on the lobby, and looking out saw these two persons walking side by side, as it seemed in confidential talk, toward the Temple-bar entrance of this series of quadrangles. He made up his mind to join them, got his hat in a moment, and shutting the door, ran downstairs. Here was, perhaps, some light to be had upon the right reading of Mr. Dacre's mystery. He would go boldly up and join him, he did not care a farthing what he thought. He owed a duty to his cousin — second or third we must allow, but still his kinswoman — Miss Laura Gray, and every material for conjecture was valuable.

  They must have quickened their pace very much, however, for they had already got out of sight. Following the direction they had taken, on entering the next square, he saw three persons walking rapidly into that which lay beyond it. In two of these he thought he recognised Dacre and the little man in the loose black coat; but they had got round the corner too quickly, and were too far away for certainty.

  Charles had got into the spirit of the chase, and — shall I tell it? — he actually ran a part of the diagonal distance in hopes of overtaking them. He was saved from an awkward success, however, by the speed with which the shorter distance was traversed by these three persons, and he got in time to the lamp near Temple-bar to see a cab door shut, and Dacre, from the window, smiling a farewell to him, and his hand waving as it drove away. He would have liked to pursue, but there was no cab at hand, and a moment after he bethought him how unwarrantable and even outrageous his pursuit would have been, and returned to his rooms, recovered from his momentary intoxication, and very well pleased that he had failed.

CHAPTER III.

AN INVALID.

DACRE sat back in the cab, the sole of one foot on the, edge of the opposite cushion. The little man in the black wrapper sat beside him, and opposite that unknown person sat a burly gentleman, with broad shoulders and a florid face, and an expression of sly self-confidence.

  It was the pleasure of Mr. Dacre to be silent, and these gentlemen, as in the presence of one of superior rank, when they spoke together, did so in an under tone, advancing their heads.

  At last Mr. Dacre, no doubt amused by his ruminations, burst into a sarcastic laugh, which having indulged without vouchsafing any explanation to his companions, who seemed to count for next to nothing, he relapsed into silence.

  This silence lasted till they had nearly reached St. Paul's Churchyard, when Mr. Dacre produced a cigarette, and with a laconic "Light, please," procured from the little person beside him that necessary appliance.

  The cigarette did not last long, and when it was expended he looked, for the first time, out of the window.

  "Is it far to this house?" he asked of anyone who might please to answer.

  "Quite near," said the little man at his elbow.

  He continued to look listlessly from the window, humming an air. They had turned up, to the left, a street near Cheapside.

  "If it's much further, you may go on, gentlemen, if you like, but I shall leave you and go home."

  The cab drew up, however, almost as he spoke.

  "This is it — here's the house," which he pronounced oushe.

  "You'd better go and try whether he can see us," said Dacre, in the same careless, haughty way.

  Out got the little man; the door was already open, and he asked the dowdy maid who stood by it —

  "How is Mr. Gillespie to-night?"

  "Poorly, sir."

  "Well enough to see us, do you think — two gentlemen with me — expecting us — eh?"

  "Didn't hear, sir."

  "You know me?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, I'll go up and ask him how he does."

  He went to the cab window first.

  "She says he's ailing," said the little man at the window. "Shall I run up and see?"

  "Are you sure it's only gout?"

  "That's the ticket — gout it is."

  "Well, tell him he'd better see me now, for I'm hanged if I come here again."

  And Mr. Dacre leaned back again in his cab, and waited silently for the return of the little gentleman in the black wrapper.

  "He'll do himself that honour," said the little man, in a tone of ceremonious banter, himself opening the cab-door for Mr. Dacre, who jumped out and ran up the steps, followed by the gentleman in black, and the athletic gentleman with the florid face and broad shoulders.

  "He says two of us is as much as he can stand," said the little man to the sly philanthropist, who thereupon nodded, and disengaging a short pipe from his pocket, enjoyed a smoke before the steps.

  The little gentleman in black being more at home than his companion, led Mr. Dacre upstairs, and knocking at the drawing-room door, introduced him.

  Mr. Gillespie was seated in an easy-chair, with his hand in flannel, and a table with several phials and a table-spoon, with a drop of some undesirable fluid drying in its hollow.

  The invalid was that gentleman with a long, square head and white hair whom we saw before in the same box with Mr. Dacre at the opera.

  "Can't get up, sir, to receive ye — laid here, sir — in tether — gout — nae respecter o' persons — ye'll excuse me."

  "I'd rather you didn't under any circumstances. I hate a fuss," said Dacre, taking a chair. "I shouldn't think of treating you with any ceremony."

  "Ye'r right, sir, ye'r verra right — we'll go straight to the point, sir — each wi' other — and what for no?" said the old gentleman drily, with a little wag of his head. "Ye might a fetched lawyer Larkin here, too, for 'twas after his pipe the jig began. I'd a liked verra well to see him here."

  "I think there are quite enough here as it is," said Mr. Dacre, "unless, as Mr. Larkin is so religious, you might have enjoyed his conversation in your present invalided state."

  "Never you fash your beard a-bout that," said Mr. Gillespie, who, in his sick-room and gouty collapse, was talking in the broad Scotch of his early days. "I'll do weel enough. I had enough and mair o' that sort o' clavering in my young days, in Glasgow, to last me the leave o' my years — d—- them! I tell ye, sir, there's mair hypocrisy and downright wickedness comes o' their cant and rant, and Sabbath rules, than is to be found in the same compass in a' the world beside. But there's not much amiss wi' me. Ye'r not to suppose I'm coming out o' this feet foremost. I'll be all right again, mon, in nae time, — only a touch o' the gout — deil gae wi't."

  "Now, Mr. Gillespie, you give me the paper," said Dacre. "It's growing late."

  "H'm! Well, I've been thinking o' that," said the invalid.

  "So have I," said Mr. Dacre.

  "And it's all settled," interposed the little gentleman in black, with a surly and pallid face, and prominent dark eyes.

  "An' what for no? Why deil flee awa' wi' ye, mon, d'ye think, loss or no loss, I'd think o' backing out o' my bargain; na, na, Mr. L. But this I say, sir, it's a very great confidence and a trust I would na' think o' placing if 'twere na' for the undoubted respectabeelity o' the party; ye ha' known me a long time, sir, and I think yell say I've been of use to you on occasion."

  "You let me and Ardenbroke — I wonder he didn't recognise you the other evening — into two or three very profitable speculations."

  The invalid chuckled cynically at these words, looking at the label of his medicine bottle, which he turned slowly about in his fingers.

  "Ye'll be meaning that Hotel thing, and that silver mine; well, that's a gude wheen years bygane," said he, turning on a sudden a little angrily on the young gentleman, and fixing his shrewd and grim eyes from under their white penthouse upon the young man, while he still held the phial up between his finger and thumb.

  Mr. Gillespie had a temper which he was now rich enough, on occasion, to indulge.

  "Why, if ye play at bowls, you'll meet with rubbers," interposed the little man hastily. "My governor was in that himself and got out of it bad enough, and it's more than ten ago."

  "Ten years or twa, it don't matter, we've heard o'er much o' that; folk must creep before they gang; every man must win his ain experience, sir; wise men could not pick up money if there were no fules to throw it about. I always said, a mon must use his brains, and what's their proper object but the fules that Providence throws in his way? Dang me, sir, life's a game like ony ither; if I leave a blot, and the dice serve, ye'll hit it, and what for no? And if ye do the same — I'm talking too much; this 'ill not serve my hand."

  "No, nor your head. Can't you let a thing pass?" urged Mr. Levi.

  "It's all right enough," said Mr. Gillespie, looking at his large gold watch which lay upon the table. "It's time I should have them drops; I'll ask you for them, Mr. L.; will ye measure two o' they spoonfuls into that glass? — and — we'll let byganes be byganes, sir, and I drink to ye," he added, facetiously, with a nod to Mr. Dacre.

  "And now that you are at leisure, Mr. Gillespie, we'll exchange papers, please, and I shall go."

  The old gentleman signed to Levi, who seemed familiar with the arrangements of his room, to bring him his desk.

  "Tis not one man in a thousand I'd do it for," muttered Gillespie, as he handed it to Mr. Dacre, who placed it beside a counterpart which he took from his coat pocket. The writing was very short; the comparison hardly lasted two minutes, and be signed one which he handed to Mr. Gillespie, and placed in his pocket the other bearing that gentleman's signature, and some other signatures beside.

  "Good night, sir," said Mr. Dacre, walking out of the room, followed by Mr. Levi.

  When they reached the landing Mr. Dacre paused. The hall-door was half open, and they could see the companion they had left outside, walking to and fro beside the cab, smoking.

  "I've a mind to drive out to Brompton. We don't want that great, hulking fellow any more; we'll send him off — eh?"

  He glanced at his watch.

  "Hallo! later than I thought — no, I shan't mind," and Dacre jumped into the cab.

CHAPTER IV.

A CONFERENCE.

WHILE Dacre was resolving, for reasons of his own, against visiting Guildford House for some time longer, Charles Mannering was making his way there in a cab.

  It was ten o'clock when he ran up the stairs to the drawing-room. The ladies had already gone to their rooms, and he found the servant on the point of putting out the candles.

  Will you tell Miss Gray's maid, please, that I have come, and that I should be glad to know whether Miss Gray would prefer seeing me now, or would rather wait to hear my news till I come in the morning?"

  Before another minute had passed Miss Gray was in the drawing-room, and, after a hasty greeting, he related his interview with Dacre. The incident which involved an attack upon his life, however, he postponed telling. Perhaps he thought it might alarm her; perhaps he did not care, without sifting evidence a little more, unduly to elevate her hero.

  Your friend, Mr. Dacre, puzzles me," said Charles. "I don't exactly know what to make of him."

  "I don't understand your difficulty," answered she.

  "I don't quite understand it myself," he replied. "The fact is, it has been culminating. All along there has seemed to me something more enigmatical about him than is accountable by a mere temporary secrecy."

  "Yes, of course there is, because we don't know the causes and conditions of his concealment."

  "It is something more — it is something quite indefinable in his manner, but which at times strikes one with a chill of suspicion. I felt it the very first time I saw him, as I looked at him through my glass while he talked with Ardenbroke, and afterwards to that old gray-headed man at the opera, and I felt it again to-night."

  His eyes met Laura's as he said this pale, with an odd smile, her eyes were fixed upon him with a painful inquiry; had she experienced the same repulsion mingling with as mysterious a fascination?

  "One always does connect the idea of insecurity with secrecy," she said, averting her eyes. "But is not that very unjust — obviously unfair? It must be so, if secrecy can ever be justifiable."

  "Yes, so it would appear; yet there seem to be certain ambiguities with which nature or providence, call the power how we may, has associated in our imaginations the idea of what is deadly and perfidious."

  "Yes, in our imaginations; but we must not be governed altogether by that faculty," said the young lady.

  "I fancied it your favourite faculty!"

  "How so?"

  "Why, you profess yourself a creature, not of reason, but of instinct, and the imagination is the seat of instinct."

  You are growing too metaphysical for me — a great deal. Justice is one of our instincts, and justice says very plainly that it would be wrong to condemn any one simply because he chose to be private and unobserved."

  Charles Mannering laughed, but there was some little tinge of reproach in the tone in which he said —

  "I wonder, Challys, whether, under any circumstances, you would take the trouble to plead my cause as well?"

  "Come, Charley, I wont have this. You have been very sensible up to this; why should you on a sudden break down so lamentably, and insinuate that I, the most honest friend in the world, am not reliable? If you say another word of the kind, I have done with you. But have you no better reason for your misgivings about Mr. Dacre? It seems almost a perfidy to ask it, but you and I have known one another so long, and so well."

  "He laughed again a little sadly, and said he —

  It appears odd to me that he should give as his address a place where he does not live; that he should defer his visit to me until the hour at which he usually calls here, although his excuse for coming here so late is, that his business keeps him in the country to that hour; and he told you, you say, that he had abandoned that business for the present, in order to devote himself to the prosecution of this affair. Then, when I came to the door of my chambers, to let him out, there was a companion — a very odd-looking person — waiting on the lobby for him, and I detected a sort of signalling from Dacre, I fancied, to warn that person that he was over-heard, and in fact it struck me so oddly that I followed him downstairs, and I found that in the next court they were joined by a third person, and they walked on abreast so rapidly that I could not overtake them, but as I reached the street Dacre from a cab window nodded and smiled to me, and they drove away together."

  "I can see nothing in all that at all inconsistent with his representations."

  "There is no such conflict of course as would hang him — no actual conflict; but I could not doubt that the persons who joined him were not gentlemen, and there is, I think, a kind of shock in discovering that sort of association; and all I know is, that the whole thing has left on my mind a most uncomfortable uncertainly."

  It is not pleasant, in such an anxiety as I am, to have one's uncertainties aggravated, and I do think wantonly," said Miss Laura Gray, very unreasonably. "And Mr. Dacre is just the kind of person — we can't be blind to the fact that he is unusually elegant and graceful — to make others who happen to be placed beside him look very much more the reverse than they really are; and I don't think there is anything worth a thought in all this; and it does not even make me feel the least uncomfortable, which perhaps is disappointing."

  Miss Challys Gray was very near kindling into one of her indignations.

  Charles smiled and shook his head a little looking almost sad on her pretty face.

  "You smile; you're very odd, certainly," mused Miss Gray, passionately; "just because you see me very much in earnest, I wonder what pleasure you can find in trying to make me believe you, think me a fool?"

  "No, I've told you a thousand times, I think you very clever, on the contrary; if you repeat the accusation I'll say you do so only to make me repeat my poor testimony. If I smile, Challys, it is partly at your character, which also I admire, and partly at my own folly, which I deplore, but cannot cure; and so, having detained you too long, I'll say good night."

  "You'll come again in the morning — wont you?"

  "Yes, certainly; I'm always quite at your command; it is one of my happiest hours that is spent in executing your commissions — so never spare me."

  "A thousand thanks, Charlie, you're so good-natured. Then I will say good-night now; and you'll not forget us in the morning?"

  So they parted. She heard him get into his cab, and drive away. She raised the window and looked out, and round and down the once more silent avenue.

  She sighed as she drew back her pretty head.

  "Poor Charlie! he's sometimes so high-flown; he talks of his folly, and thinks himself so wise, and he's such a good creature."

  She looked up at the stars and smiled and looked somehow oddly pleased, and then, with a little sigh, she turned away and ran up the stairs.

CHAPTER V.

A DRAWING-ROOM CONTROVERSY.

"I DON'T think there is anything worth a thought in all this, and it does not even make me the least uncomfortable," Miss Challys Gray had said; but she had spoken in her haste; it did make her uncomfortable, and that it was, perhaps, which had vexed her.

  In the morning, however, came a pleasant note from Mr. Dacre. It was expressed in these terms: —

  "MY DEAR MISS GRAY, — I have every hope that I shall have very important news to tell you when I have next the pleasure of seeing you. I don't yet comprehend the plot, but I can already identify, I think, at least some of the plotters. Such a gang of wretches! I have been compelled to make some extremely odd acquaintances, and to revive a not very desirable old one, in the course of my inquisition. From one I have just extracted a note, which I shall ultimately use as an instrument to compel a complete confession, and thus bring the conspiracy to its knees. I saw your friend Mr. Mannering, yesterday evening, at his chambers, but had nothing very particular to tell, except my ugly little adventure at Islington, which, perhaps, he related to you. After I had obtained my first success yesterday evening, with the paper in my pocket by which I hope to carry my point, I had just made up my mind — but changed it on good grounds — to run out to Guildford House, and, late as it was, to implore a few minutes; but it was too late, and there were other reasons, as I have said, for delay.

"Believe me, my dear Miss Gray,
Ever yours very truly,

"ALFRED DACRE."   

  When Charles came that day as he had promised, she did not care to show him this note. She simply told him that she had received a line which explained everything, and related how.

  "But," she said "he mentions an adventure which happened to him at Islington. What was it?"

  Charles Mannering was a little put out; but he rallied, and told the story.

  "Good heavens!" she exclaimed with a gasp when he had done. "And how did you come not to tell me all that before?"

  "I can't exactly say; but two reasons, I am sure contributed. In the first place, I suspect there is exaggeration or mistake; and, in the next, I see no possible good in frightening you by such a story, whether true or false. Of course, it tends to make Mr. Dacre, more interesting, and that is motive enough for him; but I am certain that any one who cares for you will say I acted kindly, as I think Mr. Dacre would have done, in allowing that story to continue untold for a little longer.

  "I don't agree with you," she said; "I ought to have heard it. There is no room for mistake about such a thing, nor for exaggeration, that I can see; either it happened or it didn't; of course, it is easy for any one to tell wilful untruths; and I don't suspect him of that, any more than you do, I know; but you don't like him."

  "I don't like people I know nothing about — that's very true," acquiesced Charles.

  "You know quite well what I mean: I mean, you hate him," she said.

  "No," he laughed. "No, I assure you, I don't hate him; but I think he's made too much of. I think he has been allowed to thrust or to insinuate himself into a position to which, I think, he has no earthly claim."

  Miss Laura Gray smiled a little disdainfully, and turned away to her flowers in the window.

  Charles, of course, saw that smile, understood its meaning perfectly, and winced under it.

  "I don't think any unworthy motive has helped me to my opinion of Mr. Dacre. I don't hate him, and I don't like him. I think, I may say, I dislike him."

  Hereupon Miss Gray raised her pretty eyebrows a little, turning towards him with a smile, and made him the faintest little courtesy in the world, and then smiled diligently at her flowers; and he could only see her long eyelash as she looked down at them, re-arranging them with her delicate fingers in the tall, old china vases in which we see them painted in dark Dutch pictures.

  "Yes, I think I may say, I dislike him," continued Charles, defiantly, but coolly. "I am certain he is conceited; his countenance inspires no confidence. I fancy him giddy, selfish, and violent — you like instinct, and I am giving it to you — I fancy him all that; and I think him quite capable of telling fibs, or selling a friend a bad horse at a good price, or anything else of the kind."

  "But is not that merely supposing him a man?" suggested Miss Gray.

  Without noticing, however, this query, Charles Mannering went on with his confession.

  "I don't say it's charitable; but there are a great many opinions that are neither charitable nor uncharitable — that are, in fact, simply just. Ardenbroke knows him, I dare say, and even likes him in a kind of way, as he must do a great many agreeable fellows of the same kind; but that means, as a clever girl like you must suppose, and as every man knows, very little indeed. I say there is something in him that inspires distrust. I don't like him; on the contrary, I dislike him, and I am quite determined I'll make out everything about him."

  "That will task your ingenuity, wont it?" she said gently. "I am rather curious myself; but I don't expect to hear till he chooses."

  "Which may be never," said Charles. "I shan't wait."

  "I don't object," said Miss Gray; "only let us be quite distinct on this point. Remember, I have nothing whatever to do with it. I am quite satisfied; in fact, I should think myself extremely impertinent, to say nothing worse, if I were to engage in any such inquiry respecting a person who has been so kind, and who is, after all, a mere acquaintance, and whom I know to be a friend of Ardenbroke's."

  "I'm glad you have no objection."

  "I can have no objection to your doing anything you please, on your own account, provided it does not affect me," said Miss Gray.

  "He says he has a taste for being a detective. I don't say I have quite that, but, I dare say, when occasion requires, I can be just as sharp as he. My inquiries shall be made in a direct and fearless way. I shan't act like a detective — that is not usual — but I'll learn something about him, and if no one knows such a person I shall make my own inferences."

  "Take care, Charlie, for he has been living abroad, and people are duellists there still."

  "You laugh at me as if you thought I wasn't in earnest. I promise you I'll bring you news of him."

  "Very good — only again remember I did not send you. In fact, I don't see any reasonable ground for pursuing him with inquiries, and there are many obvious reasons against doing so; and I still think it was very odd your not telling me a word of that really frightful adventure at Islington."

  "I am sorry my reasons didn't satisfy you — a cracker or a sixpenny cannon very likely — but we can't, in the present state of evidence, agree on a single point about this interesting person. When a little more light comes perhaps we shall."

  "Perhaps so," said Miss Gray.

  He fancied, I think, that he had alarmed her by threatening inquiry, but she was really amused, for I think she suspected a motive.

CHAPTER VI.

THE SYNAGOGUE.

MR. DACRE did not come that night, nor his "hand," as Charles Mannering learned on making polite inquiry about the promised parcel, nor any word or sign to show people at Guildford House that he was living. No note reached Charles Mannering's chambers — no call was made there by the object of his suspicions.

  But on the day following an odd little note reached Challys Gray from her persistent correspondent, Mr. Dacre. It said:—

  "MY DEAR MISS GRAY, — Don't be alarmed, neither suppose that you shall have any trouble whatever in consequence, but you must aid me in identifying a malefactor! an opportunity occurs to-morrow (Friday). You, who enjoy good music, have you never heard the Jewish service performed at the synagogue in Mortlake-street, in the City? On that evening, pray attend at a quarter-past eight o'clock. I enclose a note, which will secure a good place for you and Mrs. Wardell. You will be placed in the gallery near the stair at the great entrance. At the opposite end of the building will be, in a railed enclosure, in what I shall call the aisle, five singers, who will walk after an officer of the synagogue to the eastern end during the course of the service, and back again. Of these, two will be tenors. You will have an opportunity of observing their faces. Do so, and kindly tell me if anything very particular strikes you in either. Unless something quite unforeseen should happen I shall be there myself, and hope for a word at your carriage window before you leave. Pray do not fail. Your going there will decide a point which at present perplexes me. Everything waits upon it. Pray do not refuse. The worst that can befall you is to hear some fine music without effecting anything more important. On the other hand, you may throw a flood of light upon the darkness that baffles me.

  "Confiding in your good sense and spirit, I am sure you will make the effort. I have the honour of knowing those attributes too well to doubt it. If I write too boldly pray attribute my rashness to my zeal, and forgive me. Believe me, my dear Miss Gray, ever yours most truly,

"ALFRED DACRE.     

  "P.S. — I forgot to say the gallery is exclusively for ladies."

  Here, then, was an adventure. Her drive she had daily. Shopping and all that. Intolerably dull the routine had become. But this excursion was something quite new. To penetrate the City; to sit in a Jewish synagogue and hear their worship and their chanting; and all with a purpose so strange, and even interesting, was quite charming; so thought Miss Gray, and perhaps the thought of that word at the carriage window, and the great eyes of her preux chevalier looking in, contributed something to the interest of the anticipation. She ran into the drawing-room where Mrs. Wardell sat, and, said she —

  "Julia, I am going, to introduce you to a, new religion."

  "What on earth does the mad-cap mean?" exclaimed the old lady, laying down her crochet, and raising her spectacles.

  "Yes, you and I shall be Jewesses, and I've made up my mind we shall be received in the synagogue to-morrow."

  There was a silence, during which Julia Wardell gazed in her grave, handsome face.

  "Oh! come, come, my dear! religion's no subject for joking."

  She remembered some flighty ideas which Laura had picked up out of books, and for which she bad been taken to task by the curate at Gray Forest. She had been present at one of their controversial encounters in the drawing-room, and had been lost in the clouds, and was edified by Laura's audacity and learning, and thought her capable of anything.

  "No, Julia," she said, laughing, "you shall have liberty of conscience. What I really intend is to take you with me to-morrow to a Jewish synagogue in the City, where we shall hear some good music."

  "Well, you need not frighten one by talking as if you were out of your wits. I shouldn't object — in fact , I should like it very well," said Julia Wardell.

  "You mustn't tell any one — it's a secret expedition, mind," Challys Gray enjoined.

  Mrs. Wardell agreed, appending the reflection, "but who is there to tell?"

  "There's Charles Mannering, and I'm sure he'd find out some excellent reason why we should not go."

  "Not if he came with us himself."

  "Well, I don't want that either — we're not obliged to tell Charles Mannering everything we do, and I shouldn't like to take him with us."

  "Very good, dear; there's no very particular reason why we should, and I suppose we mustn't talk — any more than we do in church — so I don't see any good in taking him with us."

  "And don't ask him to tea," said Laura.

  "Why not to tea?" inquired she.

  "Because we are to go in the evening. Don't be alarmed, we shall have a gallery to ourselves, and the carriage shall wait close to the door — and I think it is a charming adventure."

  So on Friday morning she sent a note to Charles to say —

  "We are going out this evening, so don't come" — and having written thus far, she fancied she had meant him to think they were going out to tea — so she resolutely added, "It is not to tea, and. I'm not going to tell you more than that we are going to a place of worship, and I hope that way of spending an evening is approved of by your gravity."

  Charles did not appear. In due time the carriage was at the door; the ladies got in, and away they drove.

  They arrived at their destination a little late. They should have been there before sunset. It was now twilight, and the street lamps lighted.

  When the carriage drew up, Laura looked from the window and saw a large building resembling, she thought with some disappointment, a meeting-house. She saw a large door in the centre, and two smaller doors, one at each side. But no one appeared at the steps to whom they could put a question.

  The footman stood at the carriage door for his orders. In her perplexity she saw a female beckon to her from one of the side doors — and was determined.

  "Come, Julia — come, dear;" and she got out, followed by Mrs. Wardell, and they found themselves in a small chamber, from which a staircase ascended.

  "How did you know, dear, that we wished to come up to the gallery?" asked Laura of the handsome little Jewish girl with raven hair and great dark eyes, and the rich transparent tints of her race.

  "The liveries, please, miss, and — and I was told the colour of your eyes, and that you were very handsome, please."

  Laura smiled, and was disposed to like the little girl, and to admire the place. But there was not, as yet, at least, much to admire. It was very much such a vestibule and staircase, lighted by a hanging lamp, as conduct to the gallery of a common-place church, except that they did not communicate by any side door with the great central passage leading on to the floor of the building.

  She was, however, already interested, for, faint and muffled, she heard the solemn swell of voices chanting. She could distinguish at times the soaring notes of a falsetto mingling with tenors and bassoes; and as she softly ascended, those strange and beautiful harmonies, exceeding, she thought, any she had ever heard in cathedral music, grew grander and more thrilling, until, on reaching the back of the gallery, the music was perfectly distinct. But here she was disappointed for although she found herself in an assembly of Jewish women (as was clear enough from the peculiarities of outline and complexion), a close lattice-work covered the front of the, gallery, and she feared would effectually interrupt her view of the interior of the building.

  The little girl silently indicated two vacant seats in front, to which accordingly they made their way. Here it was easy to see through the lattice, now close to their eyes, all that was passing below.

CHAPTER VII.

A RECOGNITION.

LOOKING beneath and before her she saw a large chamber, the general effect of which resembled that of a church, with, however, few considerable distinctions.

  There was at each side a row of tall windows, which, however, the deepening twilight failed to penetrate, and the lamplight from large hanging candelabra filled the building. Some way up the centre passage, was a railed enclosure containing a table, on a sort of dais, ascended by several steps. At each side of this table stood a man; one the reader, the other an officer of the synagogue, and behind them at a desk were six others, who were, at the moment, chanting the service, led by the reader. Beyond this, at the far extremity, was something resembling a wardrobe, covered before with a red velvet curtain embroidered with gold, and with Hebrew letters embroidered on the valance at its top; and in bas relief an angel, as large as a living human figure, was carved at each side of it. Over this hung a solitary lamp, and at its right extremity stood a figure, very singular. He was dressed in a white satin cassock, that nearly reached the ground; his shoes were fastened with large silver buckles, and on his head a tall, white conical hat, with a dark roll of fur instead of a brim, surrounding his head. The curtained piece of furniture was the ark, and the strangely-costumed man was the Rabbi.

  The officiating people, as well as the congregation, all males, stood facing the East, their backs toward the gallery, and wearing their hats, and each with a white woollen drapery, with a broad stripe of blue, hanging about his shoulders.

  The scene was so odd, almost grotesque, for these white draperies were worn shawl fashion, and had long slender white tassels from their corners — and the voices were so splendid, the entire service proceeding in the Hebrew language, and the Oriental seclusion of the lattice so new and strange, that Laura was too much interested in the novelty of the spectacle and situation for a minute or two, to recollect the particular object of her visit. Soon, however, it recurred. She fixed her attention on the singers. There were two tenors, one a smaller man than the other. But standing as they all did with their backs to the gallery, she almost despaired of any accident's affording her a glimpse of their faces.

  Such a chance, however, did at last occur. The chanting subsided. There was a silence, and the reader called in a few words in a low tone to a person, one of the officers of the synagogue, who proceeded to a distant seat, from which arose a hatted man with his copious white shawl, who proceeded to the ark, drew the curtain, opened a double door, and produced two rolls, which he drew reverently forth from their embroidered velvet cases.

  These were the manuscript copies of the law written on vellum. The reading of the law was to begin, and now, too, began the opportunity for which Laura Gray had been waiting.

  From one of the openings in the side of the railed enclosure the reader proceeded, followed by the six singers, his assistants, who proceeded singly in slow procession behind him up the building, and as they filed round the corner of the railing she had a glimpse of each in the series of those dark Jewish faces — and one, that of the smaller tenor, who was walking like the rest with downcast eyes startled her. She had but a momentary and very imperfect view of the black-haired pallid face which looked to her like the malignant countenance which she had seen at the window and in the hall of Guildford House! She drew back instinctively —— she felt uncertain but frightened. Very much frightened for a few seconds, and then very angry with Mr. Dacre for exposing her to that kind of shock without a warning. Then she began to grow very restless and uncomfortable, and her first impulse was to make her escape quietly and quickly from the place.

  But was she quite certain — was there no mistake? when she looked again these figures stood, like the rest, with their backs turned toward her. The reader was standing a little to the left of the Rabbi, and the singers in a semicircle behind him. The chanting proceeded, and she remained in uncertainty.

  Henceforward the vocal music, rich in harmony, finer still in the quality of the voices that mingled in it, had ceased to enchant her. Like sweet and solemn music heard through a terrible dream, it confused her sensations, but her spirit no longer took part in it. She could think of nothing but the chance of again seeing, and with more certain observation, that odious, face which she was so nearly certain she recognised.

  Now, again, the chanting was suspended. The reader and his choir returned in the same order to their former places, and as they marched slowly down this face turned fully to the gallery, she did see the face that had looked in at the study window and peered into the hall, and that pale, black-browed man, with the large sullen mouth, and the great lurid eyes, chanting the time-honoured Jewish liturgy, was actually one — perhaps the chief — of those miscreant conspirators who were persecuting her with so satanic a persistency, and had actually attempted to murder Alfred Dacre.

  A sense of danger and of horror overpowered her — she felt faint, and whispered in Mrs. Wardell's ear —

  "Let us come away, dear."

  "But may we?" answered the chaperon.

  "I'll try — I wont stay," whispered Laura, and rose quickly. No interruption was offered. Their withdrawal seemed hardly observed. How glad she was of that lattice screen that covered the front of the gallery, for the sullen malignant eye of the little tenor had for a moment swept the place from which she was looking down and held her there.

  On reaching the street door Alfred Dacre stepped swiftly to her side. He looked in her face and saw how pale she was as he offered her his arm. She was seated in the carriage, she scarcely knew how, and he leaning on the window looking in.

  "You are fatigued?" he whispered, taking her hand with an anxious look.

  "Nothing," she said, not removing it.

  "It was so good of you to come."

  "I suspected it was all about my own business, and so it was," she said, looking for a moment darkly into his eyes with a very little nod.

  "I understand. You recognised some one?"

  "Yes."

  "Then my course is clear."

  "You are not to take any step without first consulting me," said Challys Gray, with a sudden access of her imperious manner, "Nothing — I'll never speak again to you if you do, Mr. Dacre. Nothing shall be done without my permission."

  He smiled, and said —

  "May I call to-morrow at Guildford House?"

  Yes, certainly. Who is Mrs. Wardell talking to?" she said, glancing at the other window. "Is that Charles Mannering?" she said addressing the speaker at the other side.

  "Yes, here I am," said Charles, with a laugh; "you did not expect me. I ran down to Brompton on the chance of your having changed your mind and stayed at home, to beg a cup of tea, and I learned from the servant that you had come to this place, and I was impertinent enough to follow."

  Though Charles laughed, she fancied he looked vexed, and was speaking in a tone that was not really so gay as he assumed to be. And though, perhaps, she would not have confessed this to any one, I think it made her uncomfortable.

  "Don't go for a moment," she whispered to him; and, resuming her little talk with Mr. Dacre, she said — "I am so nervous while I stay here. I am longing to leave this place. I was a little vexed with you, for a moment, when I saw that face; but I dare say it was necessary, at least important, that I should."

  "The important and the ridiculous, trick and reality, deceit and enthusiasm, as you, may one day learn, Miss Gray, are strangely mixed up at times. It shall be my office to discriminate. I admire your energy. I wish I could tell you all I owe you. You have showed me the game, and I will run it down."

  "But you remember, you are not to do anything without my consent," she said.

  "Don't be the least uneasy; there shall be no fracas, do you but be half as wise as I believe you."

  "Well, I'll try. And, now, I really am growing uncomfortable; those dreadful people will be coming out; and I think the horses are growing impatient; so I'll say good night," and she gave him her hand and continued — "Julia, dear, Mr. Dacre is going, you must bid him good night." And thus, transferring him to Mrs. Wardell, she herself turned to Charles, and said — "You must come back to tea with us; you'll come in here and drive home with us."

  "Do you really wish it?" said he. "Wish it? Of course I wish it, or I shouldn't tell you to do it," said the young lady.

  "Well, I've got a cab here. I can't take a seat with you, I'm very sorry to say, having a call to make; but it is only a minute or two at my solicitor's chambers, and I shall be at Guildford House in less than ten minutes after you get there; and I wont say good bye."

  "What a very charming person he is exclaimed Julia Wardell, turning towards the speaker.

  "Who?" asked Laura.

  "Oh! Mr. Dacre, of course," said Charles. "I don't know of anyone else, at present, answering to the description."

  "Well, he's gone and we must go also, so I shall expect you, remember," and away they drove toward home.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE FLEET.

AS they drove away Charles saw Mr. Dacre. step into a cab, in which he saw, he fancied, some other persons seated. It drove away just as he got into his hansom. He was in no particular good humour with Mr. Dacre; and, at sight of his companions, his suspicions and his curiosity revived.

  "Drive after that cab and be sure you keep it in sight," said he; himself watching it with a shrewd and steady gaze as they pursued.

  From time to time as they clattered along the pavement, Mannering told the driver to pull in a little, so as to regulate the distance between them; and, with this caution, he followed through several streets, and turning into one, deserted and old-fashioned, Dacre's cab drew up at the steps of a dingy hall-door. Dacre and one of his companions got out, and, after a very few words his friend ran up the steps, and Dacre jumping into the cab, it drove away at a rapid pace. Charles Mannering had his misgivings about Dacre. What or who was he? That was an odd-looking street — a curious habitation for the intimate of a very fine man as, he fancied, Dacre assumed to be.

  Some qualms visited him as he pursued the chase. Was this sort of thing within the limits which circumscribe a gentleman's morality?

  "Yes;" he insisted bullying himself — "it is not merely allowable, but my duty. I will find out who this Mr. Dacre is. I'll learn, at all events, what are his haunts, and who his friends. It is worse than ridiculous, the confidence with which Challys treats him; that the poor little thing should be made such a fool of; and certainly, I'll not spare myself, nor spare him either, and — where are we getting to now?"

  By this time they were approaching a famous place. That grand chemin de fer, the road to ruin, had then, as we know, like other great highways, that daily and nightly pour into a common centre their inexhaustible streams of life — its handsome and convenient terminus, I mean the Fleet Prison; and, at the entrance of this Mr. Dacre's cab drew up, and he and his remaining companion jumped down to the flags — beside a lamp-post, which then stood close to the door.

  With Dacre there entered at this door his companion, a fat, round-shouldered Jew, some sixty years of age, with the characteristic heavy nose; a great moist smiling mouth, and eyes half closed; his hands in his pockets, and his wrinkled and somewhat, dusty black velvet waistcoat crossed and lapped with several gold chains.

  How ish Mr. Blunt this hevening?" he inquired politely of Mr. Blunt the officer at the hatch, a low door, well barred and bolted, which communicated with the interior passage, a view of which it permitted breast high.

  "Well, thank you, sir. Can I do anything for you, Mr. Goldshed?" said this gentleman, touching his hat as he lowered his newspaper.

  "We want to pay a vishit, me and my friend, to Mr. de Beaumirail, if he'sh at home," drawled the Jew, facetiously.

  "Well," said Mr. Blunt unbending, in the same pleasant vein, and opening the enchanted gate to let these privileged spirits pass in; "it's only to knock at his hall-door, sir, and ask the footman." In the passage lounging about the hatch were several nondescript persons, who might be **bailifs or wardens, a reserve force in case of any one's being disposed to be troublesome.

  "Any more detainers against Foljambe?" drawled the Jew in Mr. Blunt's ear, as he passed.

  "Just a little thing o' fifteen pun, sir."

  "Nothing else, you're sure?" said Mr. Goldshed, stopping short.

  "Not a penny, sir."

  Mr. Goldshed whistled some bars of a quiet tune, which was interrupted by a little hiccough, as he shook off his momentary meditation, and swayed and swaggered after his companion. Charles Mannering jumped down to the flag-way, hesitated, and got in again, and then made up his mind, got out once more, told the man to wait where he was, and walked on to the door which Dacre had entered only a minute before.

  Our friend, Charles Mannering, felt as a proud man does who has detected himself doing a shabby thing. His pride upbraided him, and he was inwardly ashamed. He could not acknowledge it though, and he was determined to brazen it out.

  The fact is, he was jealous of this handsome Alfred Dacre, and jealousy is a madness, subject, as we know, to capricious and violent paroxysms. He had seen Dacre talking at the window of the carriage to Challys Gray, and conclusions had instantly possessed his mind. Dacre had, of course, arranged this visit to the synagogue, had accompanied them, and had in fact as much of their society as he pleased; while he had been not only uninvited to be of the expedition, but written to and forbidden to go to Guildford House; but he would have been in the way.

  And who was this Mr. Dacre whom Challys Gray had taken up in so unaccountable a way, and appointed to be her standing counsel, and her knight errant, her prime minister, and even her master of the revels?

  He, Charles Mannering, would find out all about him. He had no idea of mere masks and disguises, mimæ, balatrones, winning their way by sheer impudence and insinuation, with their disguises still on, into such houses as Challys Gray's. He was huffed and wounded, and in no mood to mince matters with Mr. Dacre. The sooner, in his present temper, he thought, they went to the heart of the question, and understood one another, the better. And he was quite sure if Ardenbroke were here, he would thoroughly approve the resolution he had taken.

  He stepped in, expecting to see Dacre, but he had gone in as we have seen, and Charles walked up to Mr. Blunt, and he said — not knowing well what question to put —

  "The gentleman who came in here this minute, can you tell me where he is?"

  "Mr. Goldshed?"

  No, Mr. Dacre; two gentlemen came in here together?"

  "Oh! yes, I know him — gone in to see Mr. de Beaumirail — well, sir?"

  Well, what was to be his next step? He had cooled by this time.

  "Do you want him, sir?"

  "Well, as he's gone in to see a friend, you say, it will answer me another time. I'll — yes — I shall see him elsewhere, to-morrow, or — that will do. Will you allow me to light my cigar?"

  And with this disjointed address, and his cigar glowing, he turned his back upon Mr. Blunt, and full of conjecture, as to what Mr. Dacre could possibly want of De Beaumirail, whom he professed to detest, he returned to his cab.

  "Not too late to follow them to Brompton," he thought, as he looked at his watch under the lamp.

  After all this devious excursion had been accomplished at such a pace that less time than one would have supposed had been wasted upon it. So away he went, having bribed the cabman with a handsome promise, through the still bustling town to the then comparatively rural and sequestered suburb of Old Brompton.

CHAPTER IX.

A WORD IN HASTE.

"OH, Charlie, you're a good creature, after all," said Challys Gray. "I'm so glad you have come."

  So gay and kindly was her voice, that half his jealousy and all his gloom vanished as he spoke.

  "Glad — really glad — well! I'm rewarded. Did you like the singing — was it worth so long a drive, and so unprotected a — what shall I call it?"

  "A frolic," said Challys Gray — "quite worth it; and I advise you to look in and listen, and Julia Wardell will lend you her white Cashmere shawl, and you'll not have the trouble even of taking off your hat. But what do you mean by unprotected? I'll tell you — you mean a question. You men are always accusing us poor women of practising small duplicities and indirections, and, alas, what an example do you set us? For instance, by introducing that one little word, you contrive to ask me, without seeming to do so — did you and Julia Wardell go by yourselves?"

  He laughed.

  "It is so well reasoned, I can't find it in my heart to deny it."

  "Well, I'll meet that confession by telling you as frankly, we did go by ourselves, and witnessed the whole thing without a protector — not among the gentlemen in shawls, but among the ladies in great coats."

  He fancied that she said all this to acquit herself of having been accompanied by Mr. Dacre. There was something unspeakably gratifying in this. Charles's spirit effervesced.

  "Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Wardell, lowering her book of fashions — in which she had been studying a lady in gigot sleeves, smiling over her left shoulder, with pink gloves on, and a lilac pelisse — "all we ladies were shut up together in the gallery, with a little grille before us, so that no one could see us from the lower part of the chamber, or whatever it is, and very comfortably we saw and heard it all. I was rather amused — I mean, of course, it's wrong to say exactly that of a place of — of — is it exactly worship — now that the Jews, you know, are under a curse?"

  "We did not act on that though. We sat there as discreetly as the most orthodox Jewess; and very delightful, really, the singing was."

  "I saw Dacre there," said Charles, who by a glance had ascertained that Mrs. Wardell was deep in her fashions again.

  "Yes," said Laura, a little dryly.

  "Had he anything to tell worth hearing?"

  "No; nothing yet but good hopes."

  "In what direction do his hopes point?" said Charles.

  "He expects a discovery very soon."

  "I think I have made a little discovery myself in the meantime," said Charles.

  "About whom?" she asked, raising her eyes suddenly.

  "About Mr. Dacre," he said, with a faint smile, returning her gaze as steadily.

  "Oh," said Laura, also with a smile, growing a little pale, and then suddenly blushing and looking away.

  She looked back again at him a little fiercely, quite straight. He was still smiling, but his face was sad and pale.

  "Now, Charlie, here we are, a pair of fools," she said, with a gay laugh. "You look at me as if you suspected me of high treason, or worse, if worse can be; and I, like an idiot as I am, blush, as usual, without a reason. Was ever so provoking a trick? I always do it. It is quite enough if I particularly wish not to blush. I am always sure to blush at the wrong moment. One day when we were all together in the drawing-room at Gray Forest, and dear papa reading his newspaper by the window, in came old Medlicot, the housekeeper, in consternation, to report that one of three West Indian fruits — they were like ripe figs — I remember them very well, and a great curiosity, to have been pronounced upon that day after dinner by the collective wisdom — one of them was missing. Dear papa laid down his paper; you were talking to my poor sister, and you were silent. She looked up from her drawing at old Medlicot; and I, what did I do? — I blushed, neck, forehead, all scarlet. I held up my head as long as I could; but I felt the brand of guilt glowing on my cheeks. My eyes dropped to the carpet, and, in an agony of conscious innocence, I burst into tears. My father told old Medlicot it did not matter. I know he thought I had taken it, and was sparing my feelings. I think you all thought I had eaten it — and there never was a time when I could have done so mean a thing — or hid it, if I had, but I didn't; and dear Maud understood me when I told her, and laughed and kissed me, and pitied me ever so much. Poor Maud, she understood me, and always judged me charitably, through all my furies and follies, and made much of the little good that was in me, and made the best of all the bad."

  As she spoke, Challys Gray got up and went to the window, which was open, and looked out.

  A very different scene it was from the lordly timber, the broad river, and high wooded banks which one saw from the great window of Gray Forest. Very different, too, from the still, sultry sea, under the brilliant moon of Naples, with which, for two winters, her eye had grown familiar. Still there was something she liked — something even of poetry, in the dim night view of the tufted trees, and homely and irregular buildings.

  "I'll bid you good-night, I believe," said Julia Wardell, waking gently, and putting her worsteds into her work- basket. "Would you mind touching the bell, Charles? Thanks;" and, giving her dog in charge of the servant, he conveyed the brute upstairs, where, at Mrs. Wardell's door, her maid received the dog and his mistress.

  A tête-a**-tête with Charlie Mannering was nothing — very like uncle and niece, brother and sister — what less romantic?

  "Yes, Challys," he said, when he had closed the door after Julia Wardell, "one other person does understand you perfectly. You are a very odd person, very inconvenient, very like an angel — for I do believe nothing on earth would tempt you to tell a fib. No, from the time you were a tiny little thing, no higher than that, when I was a great clumsy fellow of seventeen, and you a little girl of nine — always quite true. How did it happen? I wonder whether anyone else ever so walked in the light as you, Challys?"

  Come, Charlie, this is quite new. I hardly know you. I expected a lecture instead — wholesome bitters, and here is a shower of bonbons."

  "Well, I used, I believe, to lecture you a great deal more than I had any business to do, but I don't think I have ventured for a long time; that conceited custom has fallen into disuse, hasn't it?"

  "Too long, Charlie, I like old customs, and I think it would do me good."

  "Really, Challys?"

  "Really, for at the worst, I should laugh at it, and laughter is about the pleasantest exercise we have. But what is your discovery, pray, about Mr. Dacre? for since I have employed him in this odd business, I should like to know."

  "He told you, didn't he, that he did not know De Beaumirail, and I've discovered that he does know him, and visits him frequently in the debtors' prison."

  "No, on the contrary, he said very distinctly he did know him: he never said anything else; but he did say that he didn't like him."

  "Oh!" said Charles Mannering, in a disappointed tone, "I'm very glad! Then my discovery amounts to nothing, but I suppose he'll have something to say about his interview?"

  "I don't think you like him much, Charlie."

  "Why?"

  "Because you can't afford him a good word."

  "I know next to nothing about him," answered Charles, "and the little I do know, I confess I don't like. People have a good deal to say of him that is not quite pleasant. I have heard some odd things. I'm not quite certain, that is, I don't quite rely upon them yet, but I'll make out, and you shall hear."

  "I don't expect any marvels, Charlie, at least about him. By the time Ardenbroke comes back all reasons for secrecy will have disappeared, and we shall hear all about him. In the meantime it doesn't matter. I'm much more anxious to learn something about those people — shut the window, I grow nervous whenever I think of them — the people who have been writing those letters, and I did not thank you half enough for all the trouble you have been taking."

  "I only wish, Challys, I could deserve your thanks in any way."

  "Yes, indeed, Charlie, I am very much obliged; and suppose we talk of Gray Forest again, and old times. I think they were very happy times. I shall never be so happy again."

  "Yes, you may — you will — happier than ever. It is I who have reason to despond, to despair."

  "Indeed!" laughed Challys. "Why, what's the matter?"

  "No, thanks, I shan't tell my story — you'd be sure to laugh at it; you've begun already."

  "I told you before, I should like that extremely."

  "Yes; but I shouldn't — no, I could not bear that."

  Challys looked wonderingly at him for a moment. For that moment she was a little puzzled.

  "Is he going," she thought, "to make me his confidante?"

  "I could tell you a great deal, Challys, but it is better not — you'd think me a fool; and as you say you like laughing, you'd be sure to laugh at me."

  She looked at him again. He was not more embarrassed, she thought, than a shy man might be, who was on the point of disclosing to a third person the secret of a romance.

  "Surely, Charles, you are not going to have such a secret and hide it from me?"

  It was Charles's turn now to glance at his companion's face — beautiful, kind; was it more than kind? Grave. What was he to make of that look? But might not there be a great deal — everything in that invitation — so appealing and quite irresistible. And if her looks betrayed no more — was she not a girl, and what spirit so cautious?

  "Well, Challys, I have a story to tell."

  She listened only. How beautiful she looked, as she leaned on the side of the window, listening! He could have kissed the clumsy old window-frame for her sake.

  "May I tell it?"

  "I'm waiting to hear, Charles."

  "Well, Challys, perhaps, you have guessed it. I've tried to hide it even from myself, but it would not do — I can't. I tell you Challys, I have loved you without knowing it for years; I know it now, perhaps, too late. I adore you; if you can ever like me, darling — ever — don't answer now — ever so little; let me hope and wait, for years — any time you please, only don't decide in a moment against me. If you could ever — any time — ever so long — and if not — you'll laugh at me, Challys, for an hour, and then forget me for ever."

  "Forget you!" She looked very angry; there was a brilliant flush in her cheeks. "Never, while a sense of the ridiculous remains to me. We shall never shake hands again."

  There was silence for some seconds, and his ear tingled with these words.

  "It is very hard I can't have a friend!" exclaimed Challys Gray vehemently. "Is there no such relation on earth as a friend and a kinsman? Why will you form your ideas of us girls from bad plays, and even farces? Nothing but lovers! You can't have meant that folly. You shall forget it, Charlie, and so will I, and I'll forgive you."

  There was another silence. Charles was pushing the window as if he meant to raise it, he did not know why, but he turned to Challys, and looked at her —

  "I think you might have spoken a little more kindly," said he at last, with the gentleness of utter disappointment.

  "And if I had, you'd have thought I did not mean what I say, and it would have gone for nothing."

  "I think you may be quite distinct, Challys, and yet kind."

  "No, the unkindness is in being distinct, and if I were less distinct you would not have understood me. Now come, old Charlie, you usen't to be so foolish, and you must give up all this to please me. If I did not like you very much, in the way I choose, I should not ask you. Yes, you must, now and here, make a solemn vow — you must I swear an unalterable indifference, and let us be a pair of steadfast friends, for I do like you; and I should hate to lose you, and I will give you my hand again. There, kind old Charlie, you have made me sorry." And she hastily shook him by the hand, and ran away.

  He was stung, he was mortified, he was grieved; his heart was very full, for he liked her still, better than ever, I think.

  He continued looking at the door for some time, as if he could see her still in the air, and then he turned and leaned on the window-sash, looking out on the starlight, and the blurred and silent landscape, and he wept in silence some very bitter tears.

CHAPTER X.

NEW PLANS.

NOW, here was an heiress; and what was Charles Mannering, that he should aspire to her hand? There was nothing very monstrous in it, however, even in temporal matters, for Charles Mannering had some very good certainties, and much better possibilities; and, I must do him the justice to say, that he would have acted precisely as he did, if she had not fifty pounds to her dowry.

  To a man such as he, with a somewhat rough exterior, yet sensitive, simple, and, in some respects, very reserved, the fear of vulgar misapprehension renders such advantages as those enjoyed by Miss Laura Challys Gray a real impediment in the way of free avowal in such romantic situations.

  It was a long walk to his lodgings that night, for it was too late to find a cab, and in truth he preferred the walk to reaching home more easily and swiftly.

  Until this Mr. Dacre had appeared, he had not suspected the actual state of his heart. Then the alarm of jealousy rang out. Then the danger of losing her was real. But the crisis of this evening had stolen upon him, and a great revolution befallen him unawares.

  Now that he had got home to his lodgings, what was there for him to think about? Still one problem of intense interest. If he could be sure that she did not care for Alfred Dacre, the light of hope would spring up again.

  After all, was it not natural, owing to very special circumstances, that Dacre should be employed, and, being employed, that he should be admitted to confer confidentially in this odd and unpleasant affair; and except in these circumstances, which might just as well exist if Dacre were an old fellow of five-and-fifty, was there anything to alarm, much less to sink him in despair? No, he must not be too much cast down.

  But how would Challys receive him? On second thoughts, would she banish him? In the morning he had resumed that catechism of a hundred questions, with which in like circumstances an ingenious man can always torment himself.

  A very welcome light came — a little lamp in the shape of a note, in the hand of Challys Gray, lay on his table in the morning. It said —

  "You are to come to us to tea, Charlie. I shall have ever so many things to consult you about. I intend to set you down to study maps and handbooks, and make a comprehensive plan of travel for us, for I begin to grow tired of Guildford House; and for this and other reasons I think — but sage as you are, you must not vaunt your superior prescience — I think, I say, sir, I shall lead a wandering life, for a time, and peep at all places worth looking at. And now I must tell you my part of the plan. Your business in London is a make-belief — you don't want it, and it doesn't want you; you shall take your leave of that sham, and enlarge your mind, and. improve your tastes, like us, by seeing the world; every nunnery admits a lay-brother, a porter, or something, and our sisterhood (you remember I am a nun of that strict order who lead apes in the Elysian fields) can't travel so conveniently alone; so you really must make up your mind, old Charlie, and help to take care of us. I should not half enjoy it if you were not of the party. Julia Wardell and an inflexible old maid, may not be the most interesting companions in the world; but we are cheerful, and quite free from that dismal ingredient of human nature called romance. So once for all, Charlie, come you must. Do come, or I shan't believe that you forgive as easily as I forget, and I shall write a great deal more formally in future."

  Now here were two very consolatory sheets of note-paper, for not only did they restore him quite to his old place, but they seemed to say very clearly that Challys Gray, although she would brook no love-making, was yet fancy-free, and quite as resolute a spinster as ever. The sense of relief was immense. He could almost have found it in his heart, at the moment, to forgive Dacre.

  So the edifice overthrown but the night before, rose up again from the rubbish of its ruin at that pleasant spell. Happy compensation, that the hopes of lovers are as easily excited as their fears!

  Notwithstanding what had passed, it was therefore with a lighter heart than he had carried for some time before, that he walked up the double line of old trees to the hall-door of Guildford House.

  A little sad as he drew near, but relieved at least of one terrible uncertainty — a little nervous about meeting Challys, but still happy that the way was not closed against him — he heard on a sudden a pleasant voice in the air calling —

  "Welcome, welcome!"

  "Thanks, Challys, a thousand thanks!" said he, looking up to the flowers and the pretty face in the drawing-room window.

  "We are busy over the map of Europe, and at Murray's Hand-books. Come up and help us."

  No one could have told by Charles's looks or manner that his heart was beating so fast, and that he hardly knew for a minute, or two what he was saying; neither would a shrewder observer than Julia Wardell have suspected from Challys Gray's greeting that so decisive and odd an interview had occurred so lately.

  "I was thinking of Italy," said Miss Gray, pointing with a laugh to the open atlas, and the litter of handbooks about it.

  "But I have just read a few such awful words of Mr. Murray's, about mosquitos, and the summer sun, that I shall certainly take Italy rather late; and I find myself so tired of geography, and so very ignorant of latitudes and longitudes, that I must ask you to help us at our next lesson; and you know we have time enough to decide in, for Mr. Gryston says there are things for me to sign before I go, that wont be ready till the end of June."

  "Oh! I fancied you were going more suddenly."

  "What a pity we can't!" Julia Wardell threw in; "and I don't think the hot weather, if it weren't for the flies, would matter at all. I like warm weather; I've known people say they could not sleep in hot weather, but I never found it disagree, with me."

  "Well, Julia dear, we'll consult again to-morrow, and Charles shall look in and help, us — wont you? — and we'll settle something; but I think we have puzzled over maps so long this evening, that I should like to see that great book shut up and not opened for a week again. Do, pray, shut it, Charles."

  And as she spoke she went to the window, and sat down on the stool there, looking out; and Charles joined her — the window at which only last night they had stood in that strange colloquy; and the page on which that dialogue was inscribed Challys had taken out of the record of their lives — and that history was going on, just as if that passage had never been written.

  "What was that you mentioned yesterday about Mr. Dacre's going to see that wretched man, De Beaumirail?" asked Miss Gray, after a moment's silence.

  Charles recounted the circumstance.

  "I suppose he speaks ill of me to every one," said Challys Gray, after a brief silence; "I can't help it. I wish to Heaven some one less superstitious, or nervous, or whatever it is, had the responsibility of his fate cast upon them. I can't get over my horror of interposing to disturb. I don't argue it; it, is not a matter of reason, I've told you, but one of instinct — superstition overpowering conviction. I can't change myself — nothing can alter me; and all the time he is describing me in such colours; and it does seem so cruel and I can't help it."

  "If Mr. Dacre allows him to speak ill of you in his presence, I don't think it matters one farthing what he thinks of anybody," said Charles.

  "I had another teazing note this morning from that poor old clergyman, Mr. Parker; he's so good, and so foolish. So far from sympathising., he can't even understand what I mean."

  Charles Mannering smiled, but he forbore the old dispute.

  "Another reason why I don't care to go immediately," she said, suddenly recurring to a former part of their conversation, "is that I don't choose those people, whoever they are, who want to frighten me, to fancy that they have driven me away. Everything, I expect, will be quiet in a very little time; the people who gave me all that annoyance will be found out, and stand disarmed and at my mercy. Then I shall go. But they shan't bully me; and here comes tea. Shall I give you some?"

CHAPTER XI.

DE BEAUMIRAIL.

"WHAT kind of tea do you think this is?" asked Miss Gray of her guest.

  Charles raised his cup to his lips.

  While they are sipping their early tea, and talking with the volatility of youth, by this time, on quite other subjects, the reader of these pages is reminded, by the little dialogue at the close of the last chapter, that he has not visited De Beaumirail since his despairing and bitter conference with the worthy old clergyman.

  How, meanwhile, did it fare with the prisoner? He was not better — worse. He lay on his bed. He had sent for his friend, perhaps his only friend, Mr. Parker.

  He entered the dismal bed-room of the prodigal; very tired he seemed at the end of his breathless journey down the road to ruin. He lay in that ample dressing-gown which his few visitors knew so well. His arm was on the pillow; his forehead pillowed on his arm.

  When the old clergyman stept to the bedside, there lay Monsieur de Beaumirail, prone and motionless, his face buried in his arm, little to be seen of him but his long locks lying over that arm, those long folds of shawl drapery, and, lower down, one foot slippered, the other from which the slipper had fallen.

  Have you seen tired or drunken men. He so unstrung and still that they seem to have sunk into the surface that sustains them? Here was a fellow, neither drunk nor yet tired, Heaven knows, by physical exercise, but pressed down by a load immeasurable, who lay like a dead man, sunk down together and into himself, but not by the hand of death — perhaps by a heavier sorrow.

  "Mr. de Beaumirail," murmured the clergyman, placing just his finger-tips timidly on the coverlet. "Mr. de Beaumirail — pray, sir, are you worse?"

  "No, sir. I don't know — I don't care."

  "Has your doctor been with you, sir?"

  "I — upon my honour, I forget. Does it matter to anyone?"

  "I thought you might not have been so well. I fancied he might not have been as well satisfied."

  "Visitation of the sick — I know — thank you — nothing of the kind," said the prisoner gruffly.

  "Would there be any use in my again calling upon Miss Gray? I ventured to write a line to her this morning."

  "I'm sorry you did. None in the world. It has come to this, that even were you to succeed with her now, it could not do me the slightest good," said he. "The wand, one touch of which, in her hand, would have transformed the reptile you see here into a free man, has passed from her cruel fingers into a stronger grasp, and is broken; that chance is gone, and I am a very slave. I'm talking allegories."

  "Well, sir?" said the clergyman.

  "And very hackneyed ones," said De Beaumirail. "It is well to masquerade our degradations in any sort of disguise."

  "But what, pray, has happened, sir, in plain terms?" asked the old man.

  "I have fallen into the hands of villains."

  "Villains! Very strong language. I hope not, sir," said Mr. Parker dissuasively.

  "Here I lie, sir, with the fangs of one — two — three — four wolves holding me fast."

  "Well, now, your interpretation?"

  "A gang of sharpers — a gang of sharpers?" cried De Beaumirail.

  "What have they done?"

  "They have bought up all my debts, except hers. A bargain, sir, I suspect — don't you? I don't think you'd back me to pay a shilling in the pound. Eh?"

  "I never make wagers, sir," said the old clergyman.

  "So much the better, unless you have the talent of making a book."

  "I don't quite follow you, sir."

  "Well, Mr. Parker, they have bought up all the debts, except Miss Gray's. There's an attorney, there's a Scotchman ——"

  "Some of my best friends — some of the best people on earth — are Scotchmen, sir," expostulated the clergyman with some ardour, and a little indignation.

  "Yes, very good fellows among them, no doubt; but they're a d——-d sensible people, sir; their heads are a great deal harder and longer than yours or mine, and I pay a compliment to the nationality when I say I'd rather deal with any rogue than a Scotch one. Yes, there's an attorney, and a Scotchman, and two Jews, sir. You see what a vice I have got into; and if Miss Laura Challys Gray, whose cruelty has brought me to this pass, wished ever so much now to undo the crime against all human feeling she has committed — she no longer could; so bend the knee no more at her shrine — that divinity is deposed. And what news of Alfred Dacre? — have you heard anything of him lately? — is he still in London? — curse him! I beg your pardon — I'll say bless him, if that will do."

  "I don't know — I'm not aware — I'm not in the way of hearing," he replied.

  "Then you haven't been to see Miss Gray; for I'm told he's in her house like a tame cat. She has got me into a bad fix, and herself into worse," he laughed.

  "No, I've not heard of him since," replied the clergyman.

  "Well, last night, one of those wretches who haunt me, brought me his card. You'll see it on the chimney-piece. I would not see him; and since I've been thinking that possibly he was not here at all. I'm encircled by a bell of deception."

  "I can throw no light upon it."

  "I should like to know one thing," returned De Beaumirail, sitting up — "what motive he can possibly have for pursuing a poor devil like me as he does. You did not mention my rash language about Miss Gray, and my resolution to punish her, to any one?"

  "I regarded that, Sir, exactly as you described it — as so many mad and reckless words. I knew very well that reflection would come to your aid, and that you could not mean it."

  De Beaumirail looked down with a musing smile on his ring, and, still smiling, his angry eyes looked suddenly in the old man's face, and said he —

  "I did mean every word I said, and I did not speak without having measured my strength and my weakness. Challys Gray shall suffer the most exemplary punishment that ever befel** a vindictive woman; and if she employs Mr. Dacre any longer as a detective, he shall be suddenly relieved of his office, and she frightened half out of her wits; and you have my permission to tell her what I say."

  "You threaten that young lady in cold blood!" exclaimed the old man, in indignant horror.

  "Threaten her! Oh, fie! My worthy friend, be charitable. I don't threaten. Observe the distinction — the miscreant De Beaumirail threatens, say you. The prophet De Beaumirail predicts, say I."

  But we must return from our excursion to Guildford House, and the little party whom we left there over their tea- cups.

  "Well," answered Charles Mannering, setting down his cup. "It is not gunpowder, is it?"

  You observe that Charles has just answered the question with which this chapter opened, so that the little episode involved really no interruption, not even of a second.

CHAPTER XII.

SONGS.

GRADUALLY twilight came and moonlight, and the lamp at which Mrs. Wardell, worked, and it was night.

  Quite friendly, quite in the old vein, and to all outward seeming, quite unembarrassed, was the conversation, and on it flowed — not very profound, but careless, gay, and various.

  Charles sat in that statuesque pose, which we may describe as riding upon his chair, with his elbows on the back of it, recounting one of those comic school adventures which are remembered with such a sense of their fun, at a much longer distance. He was looking at pretty Challys Gray, who sat listening and amused by the window as his recital proceeded in low tones.

  His back was turned toward the door, so that he could not see, why on a sudden, Challys blushed so deeply, and looked so prettily embarrassed.

  He looked round, and saw Mr. Dacre smiling in the doorway.

  "I'm very audacious," laughed Dacre. "I know I should have waited for an invitation; but having an hour I could not resist, so I ventured, and I hope I'm forgiven."

  "We are always very happy to see you, Mr. Dacre," interposed Mrs. Wardell. "It is very good of you, knowing how very lonely we are here."

  "The odious puppy!" thought Charles, "with his airs of acceptance, and affectation of modesty!"

  "Mr. Mannering, our cousin," she said, introducing that gentleman. The dignity of his rising was embarrassed a good deal by his attitude, but Mr. Dacre went upon his former introduction, and smiled, and spoke a word or two, as to an acquaintance.

  "How encouraging!" thought Charles. "It is really too good; I'm the stranger — he's quite at home. I suppose he does the honours here, and lectures the servants."

  Charles was resolved, however, that he should not lead the conversation, so he instantly began —

  "By-the-bye, I met that woman you both like so much, Mrs. Mauley," said Charles Mannering, with a playful irony.

  "Oh! Really!" moaned Laura.

  "Dear me, how horrid!" exclaimed Mrs. Wardell, more energetically.

  "And I think she meditates a visit. She said she heard you were in town, and asked me where you were," continued Charles.

  "You did not tell her, I hope?" said Julia Wardell, looking straight in his face, with round eyes of horror.

  "I shall leave, London at once," said Laura.

  "But did you tell her?" demanded the elder lady.

  "Well, you know she asked me quite straight if I knew where you were," said Charles.

  "And you told her?" said Mrs. Wardell.

  "Challys, you know, would be angry if I told an untruth," said he.

  "Then you did tell her?" said the old lady.

  "What did you say, Charles?" implored Laura.

  "Well, Challys, I'll relieve you, I lied; I said I did not know."

  "There's no harm on earth in a polite fib now and then when one can't help it," said good Mrs. Wardell.

  "I don't like it, though; I feel very small after I have told one," said he.

  "I don't in the least," said Mrs. Wardell. "What do you say, Mr. Dacre?"

  "I? Oh, of course, I'm for simplicity — whatever is most convenient. If truth answers best, tell truth; if otherwise, fib. In nine cases out of ten, the fib is the more convenient. Human nature is too irascible, life is too short, for veracity. Why should I follow the phantom truth into quags and briars, with the straight path of mendacity before me? Wounded self-love never forgives; by all means let us spare it. For my part I lie quite frankly, whenever my duty to others or myself invites."

  The young man laughed, and his eye glanced on Laura. There was in her look a pained hesitation, as if she doubted whether he was in jest or earnest; but she said nothing. She took up a book that lay on the table, and leaned back as if engrossed by it.

  "I don't agree with you at all," said Charles Mannering. "Everyone, I suppose, tells an untruth now and then; but I hate it. I'm not a bit better than other fellows, but that's not my talent or taste. No, I don't agree with you."

  "On that point?" asked Dacre.

  "Yes," said Charles; "I don't."

  "I think you'll find you do."'

  "Well, I hope I know myself, at least on that point."

  "And now, Miss Gray, I'm going to acquit myself," said Dacre. "I not only agree with Mr. Mannering, but I go further. What I just now said is simply farce. I have suffered as much as any one from falsehood — too much not to hate it; no one on earth is more strict about truth than I. It is the solid foundation of all character, without it the most attractive is but sentiment, impulse, and illusion; it may be beautiful, but as baseless as the rainbow. Nothing so beautiful as truth."

  Challys Gray felt that his glowing eyes were fixed on her, and she said —

  "Well, we are all pretty well agreed, except Julia. You're the only sinner of the party."

  "Oh! don't say that," said Dacre. "I'm bad enough; I only venture to give myself a character for truth, and when I give up that, I give myself up; at the same time, I'm profoundly mysterious."

  "Now, Charles, it's your turn to give an account of yourself," said Mrs. Wardell.

  "Thanks! If I had studied myself carefully enough, and, if I had a proper sense of my importance, perhaps I might expect you to listen; but I really can't talk of myself, where I'm not quite sure of admiration, and I almost fancy there are other people who interest me more."

  Dacre laughed good-humouredly.

  "Modesty is one of the noble attributes; but what is a fellow to do who was born conceited — and that is my hard case? I'm not so bad as I was, though; one learns what one is, as years increase, and I hope I may yet come to be half as modest as I ought to have been at my best."

  "I think you're quite modest enough, Mr. Dacre. I never could see the good of having too low an opinion of one's self."

  "You are too good-natured, Mrs. Wardell — too indulgent; but as I get on, I'm not so much my hero — I'm less in love with my follies; one tires of sugar — one tires even of the looking-glass; there are other things besides what is termed pleasure — other people besides one's self. Will you, Miss Gray, do me a great kindness?" he said, suddenly transferring himself to her side, and lowering his voice as he reached it. "Would you mind playing that charming thing of Beethoven's?"

  "Don't ask me this evening — I feel that it would make me so sad. And — and have you heard anything more?" So said Miss Gray, looking inquiringly into his eyes for a moment. Charles was almost unconsciously watching them with a covert side glance, and he saw still on her cheek the tinge of that blush.

  He turned away, stung and alarmed; his pride and jealousy were awake again, and he entered on a little careless conversation with Mrs. Wardell on a new book upon the treatment, education, and dietetics of lapdogs, which interested that good lady so earnestly that she set down her crochet and discussed the whole matter with a mind greedy of knowledge, if also a little dogmatic.

  "I expected to ascertain something last night," said Dacre. "I went, after I had the pleasure of seeing you, to the prison, for the purpose of seeing De Beaumirail, but he would not admit me. I pressed it all I could, but a perverse demon had got possession of him, — and he resolutely refused to see me. I'm quite certain he will, though. I brought an influence with me; but next time I shall bring one still more powerful. Rely upon me. I never yet took a thing up that I did not carry through; so don't lose faith in me, because my discovery has been postponed from day to day."

  Here was a little pause, and he said —

  "So you wont play that Beethoven to-night?"

  "I can't; but you admitted you could sing, and for us you never have sung," said Miss Gray.

  "If you say I must sing, I will."

  "That's very good of you."

  "No, not a bit," he said in a lower tone, for I can't help obeying you; it is so delightful to be commanded by Miss Gray."

  "That's very pretty, at all events; and now I shall test your sincerity. What do you sing? Do you know the tenors of any of the Italian operas?"

  "Some."

  "Don Pasquale?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, then, the serenade, 'Comè gentil.' Julia, Mr. Dacre is going to sing a song for us."

  "Oh! that's very good of you, Mr. Dacre."

  Challys Gray played the accompaniment, and Dacre sang; yes, Alfred Dacre sang, so exquisitely, with a voice so ringing and plaintive, that one might have fancied the great tenor of those days in the room.

  Dacre was surely a great musician; but we all know it is one thing to fill a drawing-room, and quite another to fill Her Majesty's theatre. Perhaps this chamber-tenor was better here than the great tenor would have been. Other things he sang, making no difficulty, pleased at the delight and wonder of at least some of his little audience. Then there were songs in which Challys, not knowing them, gave up the piano to him, and listened in a rapture; and then he said —

  "Do you know, Miss Gray, I long ago took the subject of that piece of Beethoven's, and made a song of it."

  He touched the accompaniment lightly, hummed the air for a moment, and then sang. The words were odd, mysterious, melancholy. Sitting by the window, leaning on her hand, looking out, Laura listened in a rapture that was almost agony, and the fountains of her heart were opened, and tears flowed down her cheeks.

  "Thank you very much, Mr. Dacre; it is quite a gift. What a resource you must find your music. It is a most charming talent," said Mrs. Wardell. "Isn't it?" she appealed to Charles.

  "My praise is very little worth," said he; "I'm no musician. But," he added, for this sounded rather grudgingly, "I can venture to say what gives me pleasure, and I have seldom listened to music with more."

  "I shall be more conceited than ever," said Dacre, giving Charles a smile.

  That young gentleman's quick glance searched the smile in vain for a latent mockery. Nothing like an irony was there. It was good-humoured, and seemed to say —

  "I understand your feeling; but why should we quarrel? I'm disposed to like you."

  The person whom Dacre most wished to please sat still at the window, looking out, and said nothing. He looked towards her, and then back again at Mrs. Wardell.

  "You have inspired us all with romance and sentiment by that delicious music. There's Laura looking out at the moonlight, and I have tangled my worsteds."

  "That, certainly, is most gratifying evidence. I wish my poor music could move me ever so little."

  "Why, it must. You could not sing with so much feeling if it didn't," said Julia Wardell.

  "I don't know. Nothing moves me much now — not even dinner, or money."

  "Money!" exclaimed Mrs. Wardell.

  "Yes, of course. Riches represent everything we respect on earth," said Mr. Dacre.

  "Not everything, I hope, Mr. Dacre," said the old lady, gravely.

  "You're quite right — except rank, and, as I said, dinner."

  "Oh! fie, Mr. Dacre; you're really too bad."

  "As a rule, men have but one determined principle, which is their interest," he continued; "their Passions may cross and perplex it, but it is there. If we affect to despise money, we must change our manners."

  "Oh! you're a — what is it? — a cynic, Mr. Dacre. It's quite shocking to hear such sentiments from anyone who can sing like you!" exclaimed Mrs. Wardell.

  Dacre laughed. He went over to the window and said very low —

  "My hour has flown — come like shadows, so depart — and I return to darkness. May I come again, Miss Gray?"

  "Do — yes — we shall be so glad to see you; thank you so much for singing — so, very much."

  He held her hand ever so little longer than usual, pressed it a little more, and without another word he returned, and took his leave of Mrs. Wardell.

  To Charles he held out his hand with the same kindly smile. "I shan't forget your approbation; a musician is never without vanity, and ——" Whatever he was going to say he forgot it, or, perhaps, put it off. At all events he shook hands, smiled, and, with another "good night" to the ladies, he disappeared. Laura, at the window, saw a carriage glide swiftly under the branches of the old spreading trees, and away.

  "I'm afraid Mr. Dacre thought you were offended with him," said the elder lady, reprovingly. "It seemed so odd you never said one word about his music, and he was so obliging."

  "I dare say; I forgot," answered Challys, rising dreamily. "But that piece of Beethoven's — dear Mary used to play it, and it always makes me sad — and very sad I felt to-night."

  "But was not his singing quite magnificent?" exclaimed Julia Wardell.

  "I dare say — I suppose so. Was it?" exclaimed Laura Gray.

  "Was it, indeed? You're enough to put one out of patience," said Mrs. Wardell.

  "What did you think of it?" she appealed to Charles.

  "As I said, I'm no judge; but it seemed to me more like that of a public singer than an amateur. I should not be surprised if he turned out to be an artist, as they call themselves."

  "Oh, no — that's not conceivable!" exclaimed the old lady. "Why, Challys, he says that Mr. Dacre is a public singer!"

  "I don't think there is anything theatrical in his manner; but I don't know, I'm sure. I only know that I wish he had not sung that thing from Beethoven. It made me sad, and nothing's so sleepy as sadness. So I think I shall say good night."

  Charles came out to the lobby to light her candle for her, and to say "good night" once more.

  "Good night, Charlie," she said, with a smile a little sad, but very kind, "and I'm so much obliged to you for coming; it was very good of you."

  Up the broad stair she went. He remained looking until she disappeared; then, with a sigh, he returned to the drawing-room, and what more passed between him and Mrs. Wardell, was not, I believe, particularly interesting.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE SILVER DRAGON.

AS Alfred Dacre placed himself in his brougham he smiled. As they turned the corner at the gate, he looked back at Guildford House — at the drawing-room window, from which the light was gleaming — smiling still, but with a shrewd, odd smile.

  The carriage whirled on, and he laughed merrily — Vive la bagatelle! Then he grew grave, very grave — sinking down from level to level, till he had reached that point which is deep thought. As we know, his hands were pretty full, and his brain teeming with all kinds of little plans.

  When Charles Mannering reached his chambers that night, he found, among more serious letters, a little note in his letter-box, which could not have been dropped there many minutes. It was signed "Alfred Dacre," and said:—

  "MY DEAR MR. MANNERING, — I should so much wish that we knew one another better. There are things on which your advice, by-and-by, would be more useful to me than you can imagine. See what selfish creatures we are! It is this instinct that prompts me to violate forms, and venture to ask you to dine with me to-morrow. Pray do come. You mentioned accidentally this evening that you had no particular engagement for to-morrow except to see the billiard match played. That wont be till eleven. I enclose a note for your friend — Captain Transom, I think — who, you mentioned, is to accompany you. Pray persuade him to come with you first to me. I have written to order dinner at such a quaint comfortable old inn, called the Silver Dragon, just three miles out of town, on the old road to ——. All the livery-stable people know it. It is quite an adventure dining there, it is so quaint and pretty. You will be charmed with it. I have told the people to expect us at six, but don't hesitate to change the hour if another suits you better. A line to Miniver's will always find me. Should I not hear, I will conclude that all is settled.

"Ever yours, very truly,

"ALFRED DACRE."    

  Charles Mannering, as we know, did not like him; but somehow he was flattered. In spite of himself, he smiled as he read it.

  "It's a bore, but one can't be absolutely churlish, and he's so very pressing," thought Charles, and the result was that he took his friend, Captain Transom, down with him to the Silver Dragon, where that handsome fellow Dacre received them with a hospitality that was a little ceremonious and foreign, but also very cordial and fascinating.

  The Silver Dragon reminds one of the May-Pole in "Barnaby Rudge" — a miniature May-Pole — antique, quaint, and gabled, with stone chimneys, some spiral, some octagonal at the base and cylindrical upwards, like the barrels of old-fashioned pocket-pistols. There is an old pigeon-house, and half a dozen trees at each side flank the space in front. There is a hedged garden at one side, and tall old pear and cherry trees show themselves in the air. Hollyhocks and roses grow outside, and tint the old place pleasantly, and the great sign of the Silver Dragon swings between two posts at the roadside, with store of florid and gilded ironwork above. I speak of it in the present tense, forgetting the flight of years. I wonder whether the Silver Dragon holds his own still, or has gone, like St. George's, into the land of dreams.

  This day there was a cricket match going on in the field in front of the old inn, and the Ticklepitchers were whacking and running with all their might in their second innings. The bright green field, with its clumps of ancient trees and its old-fashioned white paling, with the lively sounds and sights of the cricket match, gave a vivacity to a scene which might otherwise have been perhaps a little drowsy.

  Before the door of the Silver Dragon, as they arrived, stood an elderly gentleman in tweed trousers, white hat, and white waistcoat, and a black frock coat — a somewhat clumsy figure with an unprepossessing countenance, and whiskers, moustache and hair all white. He was smoking a cigar, and from the elevation of the steps he surveyed the landscape.

  "Mr. Dacre here?" inquired Charles Mannering of the waiter.

  "He's just walked round that way to the oaks, — or, as he pronounced it, hoax, — not five minutes ago, to meet two town gentlemen who is for dinner here, ordered at six, sir."

  It was plain, from a covert glance, that the waiter suspected the new arrivals to be the two gentlemen who, in his undignified phrase, were "for dinner."

  "Well, what shall we do?" said Charles, turning to Transom.

  "We may miss if we follow him."

  "He'll be here again, sir, in five minutes. He thought you might come that way."

  "Ho! that will be Mr. Dacre, then," said the old fellow in the white hat, interposing unceremoniously — "the young, man that's walked round there." He was indicating the direction with the end of his cigar. "I thought I knew his face — I know all about him — is he stopping here?"

  "No, sir — only come down for dinner."

  "Well, I vote we stay where we are," said Charles, looking at Transom, who agreeing, walked down the steps, and looked about him a little.

  Charles, who remembered the white-hatted smoker's remarks about Dacre, addressed a few polite observations to him, which the old fellow received with a shrewd civility. Perhaps he had no objection to talk a little with the young man.

  "We've just run down to meet a friend of yours, I think you said — Mr. Dacre."

  "Well, I can't say a friend, though, by my faith, he should be my friend, for I helped him to one or two deseerable things in the way of business; but I have met him only in that way, sir; and that not over frequently; he's a fine young man, sir; and I know everything about him; and I wish I had his money, sir — by my troth, sir, it wouldn't hurt either of us."

  At this moment the waiter apprized the old gentleman that his dinner awaited him.

  "Who is that gentleman?" inquired Charles, as soon as he was gone.

  "That's Mr. Gillespie, sir. He's a banker, sir, or something, in London, sir."

  "Ho! Scotchman, too," reflected Charles, "good men of business — likely to know — I wish his dinner had not been ready so soon — but a man may have money and be a mauvais sujet — a banker — that Scotch fellow — it's a convenient title — banker — a usurer — I dare say."

  In another moment Dacre had arrived, and they were chatting gaily together.

  "I'll run down, if you let me, after dinner, and have a look at those fellows; there's a jolly good hit to leg," said Transom, from the steps at the inn door. It was his farewell speech, as they went into the comfortable long, low dining-room, wainscoted in oak, and with a glass door at the other end affording a view of the flowers and fruit trees of the garden.

  Very friendly was the host; gay, too, and agreeable. An excellent dinner the Silver Dragon afforded, and wine so good that a learned Judge — noted in his day for a shrewd perception of vintages and flavours — used to make a point of dining at that out-of-the-way little hostelry half-a-dozen times in the year.

  When they had dined, and had some wine, and chatted pleasantly for a time, Transom remembered the cricket, and, with permission, ran away to see. Now it was a tête-a**-tête, and Charles Mannering fancied that Dacre was about perhaps to approach some subjects that specially interested him. But he did not. He chatted on very pleasantly, but somehow he was not making himself at all better known to Mr. Mannering, in the sense in which he had expected, nor was he even growing more intimate in any way. He was disclosing nothing of his life and adventures, nor even of his character, for his reflections on life were seasoned with a spirit of mockery which left Charles in doubt as to whether they represented anything but the whim of the hour.

  Over the chimney-piece clicked an old Louis Quatorze clock, and as he looked into the garden, Charles Mannering fancied he saw his host now and then glance at its dial.

  "The fellow thinks I may be in his way at Guildford House, and that I am to be managed by a little flattery and attention, and everything made easy, and a troublesome cousin cajoled. Hi is counting the minutes till it is time to get away, and laughing at my simplicity."

  Charles was nettled. If this dinner was meant to propitiate him, it had no such pleasant effect, but a good deal the reverse.

  "I think, Mr. Dacre," said Charles, "I once knew a friend of yours, a Mr. Vanhomrigh?"

  "Where did he live?" inquired Dacre.

  He had a very pretty house at Richmond."

  "Ha! the very man; then you've heard that story?"

  Charles had not expected this, and he felt a little awkward. But Mr. Dacre was perfectly himself, and unusually grave, and he continued serenely —

  "I did know him — I've known all sorts of people in my life — I used to consult him about pictures. Otherwise, I think we'll agree, your friend was not a desirable acquaintance; but being a man of some learning and great brutality, he was looked upon as a philosopher, and I did not care what he was, he was not pretty; and there was a peculiarity, you recollect, about his head?"

  "Ah, perhaps there was, I don't quite remember."

  "It was this, his head had no brains in it, and so he was always guided by his own strong common non-sense. He did me the honour to be jealous of me, although his wife was, upon my honour, as indifferent to me as if she had been my own. He insisted on a duel. I shot him only through both legs — a little higher and I should have rid the world, and particularly Mrs. Vanhomrigh, of a bore. But while I — if there be any force in the ordeal — was inscribing the proofs of my innocence upon his legs, his wife was testifying to the same fact, in an equally satisfactory manner, by going away with a Mr. Tromperant. We parted — Mr. Vanhomrigh and I — affectionately, and I don't believe he called Mr. Tromperant out."

  "0h!" said Charles, a little dryly: "people used, I've heard, to tell that a little differently."

  "Ah! did they? You heard she ran away with quite a different person — with me, in fact."

  "Well, I confess it was something a little like that — and — and — but it was very absurd," hesitated Charles Mannering.

  "Tell me, I entreat, what it was. Don't think me a fool; such things never vex me — nothing offends me in a friend but reserve."

  Charles looked at him for a moment shrewdly, and then down, and smiled a little awkwardly. The inquisitor was suffering more than the person undergoing the question. In fact, the examination was begining ??** to be inverted, and the éclaircissement approached at an inconveniently rapid pace. Mr. Dacre smiled very good naturedly.

  "So many things one hears are — are —" hesitated Charles.

  "I know — utterly absurd," said Dacre; "but if my friends do hear them, and that they affect me, I protest against being kept in the dark, be it what it may — pray tell me all about it." "Well the story is that you ran away with her; her husband divorced her, and you then married her," said Mannering, with a little shrug and a laugh, making nothing of it.

  "Ho! There's the whole epic in a nutshell, and simply a lie from first to last. She went away not with me, but a Mr. Tromperant. I don't know whether Vanhomrigh divorced his wife or not, but I'm ready to swear I never married her."

  Here was a short silence.

  "Is the woman alive still?" he resumed, perfectly carelessly. "If she is, pray do me the kindness to sift the story to the bottom. I never was married; but it is very clever of you to have collected so many of the apocryphal gospels that profess to record my life, and very good of you, I'm sure, to tell me what they say."

  "One can't help hearing things, you know; and as you wished me to tell you all about these stories, I could not well refuse."

  "I can never thank you enough. Fame has, however, done me too much honour. I did not marry Vanhomrigh's wife; and as to divorce, in this shameless and cold-blooded age, I don't know why people ever think of it, seeing that marriage is itself a standing divorce, without the inconvenience or the scandal, and with this advantage, that husband and wife can resume one another whenever they choose. I'm not speaking my sentiments, mind, but those of a great many people of my acquaintance."

  "I quite understand," said Mannering, and sipped a little claret.

  "And quite to put an end to that part of the rumour, which, you see, is not pleasant. The next time you and I meet Ardenbroke together, I will ask him the question in your presence. When does he return, by-the-by?"

  "I believe his stay in Scotland is likely to be longer than he expected. But, pray, don't mind asking him, or, if you should, I have no right in the world to be present, and I should not like it."

  "Ah, Mr. Mannering, do you think that quite fair?" said Dacre, with a smile, and a little shake of his head. "I find you're possessed of a variety of disagreeable stories about me — utterly untrue — and one of them such as no man ought to leave unanswered. Now, as I find you in a position to circulate that report, I put it to your honour — reflect — have I not a right to ask permission to arm you with its contradiction?"

  "No man can help hearing reports as they circulate. You have contradicted that one in my presence," said Charles, "and, of course, I can have no difficulty in saying I've heard you do so."

  "No; you're very good — that's quite true," said Dacre, "and my denial will be accepted for precisely what it is worth — you are good enough to set as high a value almost as I do upon it — but it will be rated at the value the world places on all such currency. It is the denial simply of the person interested in denying it, don't you see? and although you and I know it is true, the world wont, and in that bank it wont be accepted."

  "Unlucky for you, Mr. Dacre; but still I can't see that I am called on to ask for, or publish Ardenbroke's testimony in the, matter, and I must, once for all, decline the kind of prominence you are good enough to propose for me."

  "I wish, dear Mannering, I could agree with you;" and suddenly changing his subject with a change of tone, he said, "the sun is already down; and that beautiful moon — it will become more brilliant as the glow in the west fades away — delicious evening! What do you say to a walk across the fields?"

  "Yes, quite charming," said Charles, recovering.

  "A glass of sherry before we start?" said Dacre — "Delicious evening, certainly! That sort of sky sets a fellow ruminating. What a back-ground for a reverie — pleasant, of course, couleur de rose, old echoes mix in our music — we are always looking over our shoulders as we march on — retrospective creatures — we are. I was popular, I have been so consistently; of course, one can't be popular, unless one is a great deal more amusing than I can ever hope or attempt to be, without money, for poverty is universally disgusting. I have good Spirits. I have a sort of commiseration for fools. I enjoy the ridiculous without exposing it; and I am under no constraint with knaves; in short, I am conscious of some ingredients of a man of the world."

  "That's a character I don't aspire to — I feel my incompetence. — I have not the moral talents," said Charles.

  "How tiresome," added Mannering, inwardly — that fellow s incessant talk about himself!"

  And recovering from this incoherent little digression, Dacre returned to his projected ramble over the sheep-walk.

  "We can get through that little garden to the path, I know it perfectly. The walk is quite Arcadian; just at the other side of that foreground, you get into an undulating sheep-walk, wooded with old timber, and utterly solitary; the loneliest place you ever saw in your life; a very singular scene. I undertake to say you'll never forget it while you live. But take some more wine, wont you?"

  "Not any, thanks."

  "Some coffee."

  "No, thanks. Where does the path come out upon the old London road?"

  "Not a mile from this."

  Charles pushed open the glass-door, and walked a few steps into the quaint little garden, and looked westward, where the quickly fading tints of a splendid sunset still flushed and gilded the sky.

  Dacre touched the bell —

  "This is all right, is it?"

  "Yes, sir, to be paid by the old gentleman — Scotch, I think he is, sir, upstairs, we know him here, sir."

  "Yes, and there's a message. Where is Captain Transom?"

  "Talking outside with the gentleman as played in the match, sir."

  "Well, tell him that Mr. Mannering has gone across the fields, and will meet him about a mile on the road to London. Tell the driver to pull up at the Seven Oaks, stile; he knows it; and say to Captain Transom that Mr. Mannering will probably be there before he arrives, and don't let him delay here."

  Then Dacre walked out and joined Charles Mannering among the trees and flowers in the deepening twilight.

(End of Part Three.) To the next installment —>

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