golden-feathered birds into the net; and sometimes, perhaps, when I am
playing _écarté_ with one of your admirers, behind whose chair you may
happen to be standing, you may contrive to combine a flattering
interest in _his_ play with a substantial benefit to _mine_."

Paulina's eyelids fell, and a crimson flush dyed her face: but she
uttered no exclamation of anger or disgust. And yet she understood only
too well the meaning of Sir Reginald's words. She knew that he wished
her to aid him in a deliberate system of cheating. She knew this, and
she did not withdraw her friendship from this man.

Alas, no! she loved him. Not because she believed him to be good and
honourable--not because she was blinded to the baseness of his nature.
She loved him in spite of her knowledge of his real character--she
yielded to the influence of an infatuation which she was so powerless
to resist that she might almost be pardoned for believing herself the
victim of a baleful destiny.

"It is my fate," she murmured to herself, after this last revelation of
her lover's infamy. "It must needs be my fate, since women with less
claim to be loved than I possess are so happy as to win the devotion of
good and brave men. It is my fate to love a cheat and trickster, on
whose constancy I have so poor a hold that a breath may sever the
miserable bond that unites us."

Victor Carrington was one of the first persons whom Reginald Eversleigh
introduced to Madame Durski after her arrival in England. She was
pleased with the quiet and graceful manners of the Frenchman; but she
was at a loss to understand Sir Reginald's intimate association with a
man who was at once poor and obscure.

She told Sir Reginald as much the next time she saw him alone.

"I know that in most of your friendships convenience and self-interest
reign paramount over what you call sentimentality; and yet you choose
for your friend this Carrington, whom no one knows; and who is, you
tell me, even poorer than yourself. You must have a hidden motive,
Reginald; and a strong one."

A dark shade passed over the face of the baronet.

"I have my reasons," he said. "Victor Carrington was once useful to
me--at least he endeavoured to be so. If he failed, the obligation is
none the less; and he is a man who will have his bond."

                             CHAPTER XVIII.

                               AT ANCHOR.

The current of life flowed on at River View Cottage without so much as
a ripple in the shape of an event, after the appalling midnight visit
of Miser Screwton's ghost, until one summer evening, when Captain
Duncombe came home in very high spirits, bringing with him an old
friend, of whom Miss Duncombe had heard her father talk very often; but
whom she had hitherto never seen.

This was no other than George Jernam, the captain of the "Albatross,"
and the owner of the "Stormy Petrel" and "Pizarro."

In London the captain of the "Albatross" found plenty of business to
occupy him. He had just returned from an African cruise, and though he
had not forgotten the circumstances which had made his last intended
visit to England only a memorable and melancholy failure, he was in
high spirits.

The first few days hardly sufficed for the talks between George Jernam
and Joyce Harker, who aided him vigorously in the refitting of his
vessel. He had been in London about a week before he fell in with
honest Joe Duncombe. The two men had been fast friends ever since the
day on which George, while still a youngster, had served as second-mate
under the owner of the "Vixen."

They met accidentally in one of the streets about Wapping. Joseph
Buncombe was delighted to encounter a sea-faring friend, and insisted
on taking George Jernam down to River View Cottage to eat what he
called a homely bit of dinner.

The homely bit of dinner turned out to be a very excellent repast; for
Mrs. Mugby prided herself upon her powers as a cook and housekeeper,
and to produce a good dinner at a short notice was a triumph she much
enjoyed.

Susan Trott waited at table in her prettiest cotton gown and smartest
cap.

Rosamond Duncombe sat by her father's side during the meal; and after
dinner, when the curtains were drawn, and the lamp lighted, the captain
of the "Vixen" set himself to brew a jorum of punch in a large old
Japanese china bowl, the composition of which punch was his strong
point.

Altogether that little dinner and cheerful evening entertainment seemed
the perfection of home comfort. George Jernam had been too long a
stranger to home and home pleasures not to feel the cheerful influence
of that hospitable abode.

For Joseph Duncombe the companionship of his old friend was delightful.
The society of the sailor was as invigorating to the nostrils of a
seaman as the fresh breeze of ocean after a long residence inland.

"You don't know what a treat it is to me to have an old shipmate with
me once more, George," he said. "My little Rosy and I live here pretty
comfortably, though I keep a tight hand over her, I can tell you," he
added, with pretended severity; "but it's dull work for a man who has
lived the best part of his life on the sea to find himself amongst a
pack of spooney landsmen. Never you marry a landsman, Rosy, if you
don't want me to cut you off with a shilling," he cried, turning to his
daughter.

Of course Miss Rosamond Duncombe blushed on hearing herself thus
apostrophized, as young ladies of eighteen have a knack of blushing
when the possibility of their falling in love is mentioned.

George Jernam saw the blush, and thought that Miss Duncombe was the
prettiest girl he had ever seen.

George Jernam stayed late at the cottage, for its hospitable owner was
loth to let his friend depart.

"How long do you stay in London, George?" he asked, as the young man
was going away.

"A month, at least--perhaps two months."

"Then be sure you come down here very often. You can dine with us every
Sunday, of course, for I know you haven't a creature belonging to you
in London except Harker; and you can run down of an evening sometimes,
and bring him with you, and smoke your cigar in my garden, with the
bright water rippling past you, and all the ships in the Pool spreading
their rigging against the calm grey sky; and I'll brew you a jorum of
punch, and Rosy shall sing us a song while we drink it."

It is not to be supposed that George Jernam, who had a good deal of
idle time on his hands, could refuse to oblige his old captain, or
shrink from availing himself of hospitality so cordially pressed upon
him.

He went very often in the autumn dusk to spend an hour or two at River
View Cottage, where he always found a hearty welcome. He strolled in
the garden with Captain Duncombe and Rosamond, talking of strange lands
and stranger adventures.

Harker did not always accompany him; but sometimes he did, and on such
occasions Rosamond seemed unaccountably glad to see him. Harker paid
her no more attention than usual, and invariably devoted himself to Joe
Duncombe, who was frequently lazy, and inclined to smoke his cigar in
the comfortable parlour. On these occasions George Jernam and Rosamond
Duncombe strolled side by side in the garden; and the sailor
entertained his fair companion by the description of all the strangest
scenes he had beheld, and the most romantic adventures he had been
engaged in. It was like the talk of some sea-faring Othello; and never
did Desdemona more "seriously incline" to hear her valiant Moor than
did Miss Duncombe to hear her captain.

One of the windows of Joseph Duncombe's favourite sitting-room
commanded the garden; and from this window the captain of the "Vixen"
could see his daughter and the captain of the "Albatross" walking side
by side upon the smoothly kept lawn. He used to look unutterably sly as
he watched the two figures; and on one occasion went so far as to tap
his nose significantly several times with his ponderous fore-finger.

"It's a match!" he muttered to himself; "it's a match, or my name is
not Joe Duncombe."

Susan Trott was not slow to notice those evening walks in the garden.
She told the dashing young baker that she thought there would be a
wedding at the cottage before long.

"Yours, of course," cried the baker.

"For shame, now, you impitent creature!" exclaimed Susan, blushing till
she was rosier than the cherry-coloured ribbons in her cap; "you know
what I mean well enough."

Neither Captain Duncombe nor Susan Trott were very far wrong. The
"Albatross" was not ready for her next cruise till three months after
George Jernam's first visit to River View Cottage, nor did the captain
of the vessel seem particularly anxious to hasten the completion of the
repairs.

When the "Albatross" did drop down into the Channel, she sailed on a
cruise that was to last less than six months; and when George Jernam
touched English ground again, he was to return to claim Rosamond
Duncombe as his plighted wife. This arrangement had Joyce Harker's
hearty approbation; but when he, too, had taken leave of George Jernam,
he turned away muttering, "I think he really _has_ forgotten Captain
Valentine now; but I have not, I have not. No, I remember him better
than ever now, when there's no one but me."

The "Albatross" came safely back to the Pool in the early spring
weather. George Jernam had promised Rosamond that she should know of
his coming before ever he set foot on shore, and he contrived to keep
his word.

One fine March day she saw a vessel sailing up the river, with a white
flag flying from the main-mast. On the white flag blazed, in bright red
letters, the name, "_Rosamond_!"

When Miss Duncombe saw this, she knew at once that her lover had
returned. No other vessel than the "Albatross" was likely to sport such
a piece of bunting.

George Jernam came back braver, truer, handsomer even than when he went
away, as it seemed to Rosamond. He came back more devoted to her than
ever, she thought; and a man must have been indeed cold of heart who
could be ungrateful for the innocent, girlish affection which Rosamond
revealed in every word and look.

The wedding took place within a month of the sailor's return; and,
after some discussion, George Jernam consented that he and his wife
should continue to live at the cottage.

"I can't come here to take possession of your house," he had said,
addressing himself to his future father-in-law; "that would be rather
too much of a good thing. I know you'd like to keep Rosy in the
neighbourhood, and so you shall. I'll do as you did. I'll find a little
bit of ground near here, and build myself a comfortable crib, with a
view of the river."

"Stuff and nonsense!" replied Captain Duncombe. "If that's what you are
going to do, you shall not have my Rosy. I've no objection to her
having a husband on the premises; but the day she leaves my roof for
the sake of any man in Christendom, I'll cut her off with a
shilling--and the shilling shall be a bad one."

The captain of the "Albatross" took his young wife into Devonshire for
a brief honeymoon; and during this pleasant spring-time holiday,
Rosamond made the acquaintance of her husband's aunt. Susan Jernam was
pleased with the bright-eyed, pure-minded, modest girl, and in the few
days they were together, learned to regard her with a motherly feeling,
which was destined to be of priceless value to Rosy at an unforeseen
crisis of the new life that began so fairly.

Never did a married couple begin their new life with a fairer prospect
than that which lay before George Jernam and his wife when they
returned to River View Cottage. Captain Duncombe received his
son-in-law with the hearty welcome of a true seaman; but a few days
after George Jernam's return, the old sailor took him aside, and made
an announcement which filled him with surprise.

"You know how fond I am of Rosy," he said, "and you know that if
Providence had blessed me with a son of my own, he couldn't have been
much dearer to me than you are; so come what may, neither you or Rosy
must doubt my affection for both of you. Come now, George, promise me
you won't."

"I promise, with all my heart," answered Captain Jernam; "I should no
more think of doubting your goodness or your love for us, than I should
think of doubting that there's a sun shining up aloft yonder. But why
do you speak of this?"

"Because, George, the truth of the matter is, I'm going to leave you."

"You are going to leave us?"

"Yes, old fellow. You see, a lazy, land-lubber's life doesn't suit me.
I've tried it, and it don't answer. I thought the sound of the water
washing against the bank at the bottom of my garden, and the sight of
the ships in the Pool, would be consolation enough for me, but they
ain't, and I've been sickening for the sea for the last six mouths. As
long as my little Rosy had nobody in the world but me to take care of
her, I stayed with her, and I should have gone on staying with her till
I died at my post. But she's got a husband now, and two trust-worthy
women-servants, who would protect her if you left her--as I suppose you
must leave her, sooner or later--so there's no reason why I should stop
on shore any longer, pining for a sight of blue water."

"And you really mean to leave us!" exclaimed George Jernam. "I am
afraid your going will break poor Rosy's heart."

"No it won't, George," answered Captain Duncombe. "When a young woman's
married, her heart is uncommonly tough with regard to everybody except
her husband. I dare say poor little Rosy-posy will be sorry to lose her
old father; but she'll have you to console her, and she won't grieve
long. Besides, I'm not going away for ever, you know. I'm only just
going to take a little cruise to the Indies, with a cargo of dry goods,
make a bit of money for my grandchildren that are to be, and then come
home again, fresher than ever, and settle down in the bosom of my
family. I've seen a neat little craft that will suit me to a T; and I
shall fit her out, and be off for blue water before the month is ended."

It was evident that the old sailor was in earnest, and George Jernam
did not attempt to overrule his determination. Rosamond pleaded against
her father's departure, but she pleaded in vain. Early in June Captain
Duncombe left England on board a neat little craft, which he christened
the "Young Wife," in compliment to his daughter.

Before he went, George promised that he would himself await the return
of his father-in-law before he started on a new voyage.

"I can afford to be idle for twelve months, or so," he said; "and my
dear little wife shall not be left without a protector."

So the young couple settled down comfortably in the commodious cottage,
which was now all their own.

To Rosamond, her new existence was all unbroken joy. She had loved her
husband with all the romantic devotion of inexperienced girlhood. To
her poetic fancy he seemed the noblest and bravest of created beings;
and she wondered at her own good fortune when she saw him by her side,
fond and devoted, consent to sacrifice all the delights of his free,
roving life for her sake.

"I don't think such happiness _can_ last, George," she said to him one
day.

That vague foreboding was soon to be too sadly realized! The sunshine
and the bright summer peace had promised to last for ever; but a dark
cloud arose which in one moment overshadowed all that summer sky, and
Rosamond Jernam's happiness vanished as if it had been indeed a dream.

                              CHAPTER XIX.

                            A FAMILIAR TOKEN.

Joseph Duncombe had been absent from River View Cottage little more
than a month, and the life of its inmates had been smooth and
changeless as the placid surface of a lake. They sought no society but
that of each other. Existence glided by, and the eventless days left
little to remember except the sweet tranquillity of a happy home.

It was on a wet, dull, unsettled July day that Rosamond Jernam found
her life changed all at once, while the cause for that dark change
remained a mystery to her.

After idling away half the morning, Captain Jernam discovered that he
had an important business letter to write to the captain of his trading
ship, the "Pizarro."

On opening his portfolio, the captain found himself without a single
sheet of foreign letter-paper. He told this difficulty to his wife, as
it was his habit to tell her all his difficulties; and he found her, as
usual, able to give him assistance.

"There is always foreign letter-paper in papa's desk," she said; "you
can use that."

"But, my dear Rosy, I could not think of opening your father's desk in
his absence."

"And why not?" cried Rosamond, laughing. "Do you think papa has any
secrets hidden there; or that he keeps some mysterious packet of old
love-letters tied up with a blue ribbon, which he would not like your
prying eyes to discover? You may open the desk, George. I give you my
permission; and if papa should be angry, the blame shall fall upon me
alone."

The desk was a large old-fashioned piece of furniture, which stood in
the corner of Captain Duncombe's favourite sitting-room.

"But how am I to open this ponderous piece of machinery?" asked George.
"It seems to be locked."

"It is locked," answered his wife. "Luckily I happen to have a key
which precisely fits it. There, sir, is the key; and now I leave you to
devote yourself to business, while I go to see about dinner."

She held up her pretty rosy lips to be kissed, and then tripped away,
leaving the captain to achieve a duty for which he had no particular
relish.

He unlocked the desk, and found a quire of letter-paper. He dipped a
pen in ink, tried it, and then began to write.

He wrote, "_London, July 20th_," and "_My Dear Boyd_;" and having
written thus much, he came to a stop. The easiest part of the letter
was finished.

Captain Jernam sat with his elbows resting on the table, looking
straight before him, in pure absence of mind. As he did so, his eyes
were caught suddenly by an object lying amongst the pens and pencils in
the tray before him.

That object was a bent gold coin.

His face grew pale as he snatched up the coin, and examined it closely.
It was a small Brazilian coin, bent and worn, and on one side of it was
scratched the initial "_G_."

That small battered coin was very familiar to George Jernam's gaze, and
it was scarcely strange if the warm life-blood ebbed from his cheeks,
and left them ashy pale.

The coin was a keepsake which he had given to his murdered brother,
Valentine, on the eve of their last parting.

And he found it here--here, in Joseph Duncombe's desk!

For some moments he sat aghast, motionless, powerless even to think. He
could not realize the full weight of this strange discovery. He could
only remember the warm breath of the tropical night on which he and his
brother had bidden each other farewell--the fierce light of the
tropical stars beneath which they had stood when they parted.

Then he began to ask himself how that farewell token, the golden coin,
which he had taken from his pocket in that parting hour, and upon which
he had idly scratched his own initial, had come into the possession of
Joseph Duncombe.

He was not a man of the world, and he was not able to reason calmly and
logically on the subject of his brother's untimely fate. He shared
Joyce's rooted idea, that the escape of Valentine's murderer was only
temporary, and that, sooner or later, accident would disclose the
criminal.

It seemed now as if the eventful moment had come. Here, on this spot,
near the scene of his brother's disappearance, he came upon this
token--this relic, which told that Valentine had been in some manner
associated with Joseph Duncombe.

And yet Joseph Duncombe and George had talked long and earnestly on the
subject of the murdered sailor's fate, and in all their talk Captain
Duncombe had never acknowledged any acquaintance with its details.

This was strange.

Still more incomprehensible to George Jernam was the fact that
Valentine should have parted with the farewell token, except with his
life, for his last words to his brother had been--

"I'll keep the bit of gold, George, to my dying day, in memory of your
fidelity and love."

There had been something more between these two men than a common
brotherhood: there had been the bond of a joyless childhood spent
together, and their affection for each other was more than the ordinary
love of brothers.

"I don't believe he would have parted with that piece of gold," cried
George, "not if he had been without a sixpence in the world."

"And he was rich. It was the money he carried about him which tempted
his murderer. It was near here that he met his fate--on this very spot,
perhaps. Joyce told me that before my father-in-law built this house,
there was a dilapidated building, which was a meeting-place for the
vilest scoundrels in Ratcliff Highway. But how came that coin in Joseph
Duncombe's desk?--how, unless Joseph Duncombe was concerned in my
brother's murder?"

This idea, once aroused in the mind of George Jernam, was not to be
driven away. It seemed too hideous for reality; but it took possession
of his mind, nevertheless, and he sat alone, trying to shut horrible
fancies out of his brain, but trying uselessly.

He remembered Joseph Duncombe's wealth. Had all that wealth been
honestly won?

He remembered the captain's restlessness--his feverish desire to run
away from a home in which he possessed so much to render life happy.

Might not that eagerness to return to the sailor's wild, roving life
have its root in the tortures of a guilty conscience?

"His very kindness to me may be prompted by a vague wish to make some
paltry atonement for a dark wrong done my brother," thought George.

He remembered Joseph Duncombe's seeming goodness of heart, and wondered
if such a man could possibly be concerned in the darkest crime of which
mankind can be guilty. But he remembered also that the worst and vilest
of men were often such accomplished hypocrites as to remain unsuspected
of evil until the hour when accident revealed their iniquity.

"It is so, perhaps, with this man," thought George Jernam. "That air of
truth and goodness may be but a mask. I know what a master-passion the
greed of gain is with some men. It has doubtless been the passion of
this man's heart. The wretches who lured Valentine Jernam to this house
were tools of Joseph Duncombe's. How otherwise could this token have
fallen into his hands?"

He tried to find some other answer to this question; but he tried in
vain. That little piece of gold seemed to fasten the dark stigma of
guilt upon the absent owner of the house.

"And I have shaken this man's hand!" cried George. "I am the husband of
his daughter. I live beneath the shelter of his roof--in this house,
which was bought perhaps with my brother's blood. Great heavens! it is
too horrible."

For two long hours George Jernam sat brooding over the strange
discovery which had changed the whole current of his life. Rosamond
came and peeped in at the door.

"Still busy, George?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered, in a strange, harsh tone, "I am very busy."

That altered voice alarmed the loving wife. She crept into the room,
and stood behind her husband's chair.

"George," she said, "your voice sounded so strange just now; you are
not ill, are you, darling?"

"No, no; I only want to be alone. Go, Rosamond."

The wife could not fail to be just a little offended by her husband's
manner. The pretty rosy lips pouted, and then tears came into the
bright blue eyes.

George Jernam's head was bent upon his clasped hands, and he took no
heed of his wife's sorrow. She could not leave him without one more
anxious question.

"Is there anything amiss with you, George?" she asked.

"Nothing that you can cure."

The harshness of his tone, the coldness of his manner, wounded her
heart. She said no more, but went quietly from the room.

Never before had her beloved George spoken unkindly to her--never
before had the smallest cloud obscured the calm horizon of her married
life.

After this, the dark cloud hung black and heavy over that once happy
household; the sun never shone again upon the young wife's home.

She tried to penetrate the secret of this sudden change, but she could
not do so. She could complain of no unkindness from her husband--he
never spoke harshly to her after that first day. His manner was gentle
and indulgent; but it seemed as if his love had died, leaving in its
place only a pitiful tenderness, strangely blended with sadness and
gloom.

He asked Rosamond several questions about her father's past life; but
on that subject she could tell him very little. She had never lived
with her father until after the building of River View Cottage, and she
knew nothing of his existence before that time, except that he had only
been in England during brief intervals, and that he had always come to
see her at school when he had an opportunity of doing so.

"He is the best and dearest of fathers," she said, affectionately.

George Jernam asked if Captain Duncombe had been in England during that
spring in which Valentine met his death.

After a moment's reflection, Rosamond replied in the affirmative.

"I remember his coming to see me that spring," she said. "He came early
in March, and again in April, and it was then he began first to talk of
settling in England."

"And with that assurance my last hope vanishes," thought George.

He had asked the question in the faint hope of hearing that Joseph
Duncombe was far away from England at the time of the murder.

A fortnight after the discovery of the Brazilian coin, George Jernam
announced to his wife that he was about to leave her. He was going to
the coast of Africa, he said. He had tried to reconcile himself to a
landsman's life, and had found it unendurable.

The blow fell very heavily on poor Rosamond's loving heart.

"We seemed so happy, George, only two short weeks ago," she pleaded.

"Yes," he answered, "I tried to be happy; but you see, the life doesn't
suit me. Tour father couldn't rest in this house, though he had made
himself such a comfortable home. No more can I rest here. There is a
curse upon the house, perhaps," he added, with a bitter laugh.

Rosamond burst into tears.

"Oh, George, you will break my heart," she cried. "I thought our lives
were to be so happy; and now our happiness ends all at once like a
broken dream. It is because you are weary of me, and of my love, that
you are going away. You promised my father that you would remain with
me till his return."

"I did, Rosamond," answered her husband, gravely, "and, as I am an
honest man, I meant to keep that promise! I am not weary of your
love--that is as precious to me as ever it was. But you must not
continue to reside beneath this roof. I tell you there is a curse upon
this house, Rosamond, and neither peace nor happiness can be the lot of
those who dwell within its fatal walls. You must go down to Allanbay,
where you may find kind friends, where you may be happy, dear, while I
am away."

"But, George, what is all this mystery?"

"Ask me no questions, Rosamond, for I can answer none. Believe me when
I tell you that you have no share in the change that has come upon me.
My feelings towards you remain unaltered; but within the last few weeks
I have made a discovery which has struck a death-blow to my happiness.
I go out once more a homeless wanderer, because the quiet of domestic
life has become unbearable to me. I want bustle, danger, hard work. I
want to get away from my own thoughts."

Rosamond in vain implored her husband to tell her more than this. He,
so yielding of old, was on this point inflexible.

Before the leaves had begun to fall in the dreary autumn days the
"Albatross" was ready for a new voyage. The first mate took her down to
Plymouth Harbour, there to wait the coming of her captain, who
travelled into Devonshire by mail-coach, taking Rosamond to her future
abode.

At any other time Rosamond would have been delighted with the romantic
beauty of that Devonian village, where her husband had selected a
pleasant cottage for her, near his aunt's abode; but a settled
melancholy had taken possession of the once joyous girl. She had
brooded continually over her husband's altered conduct, and she had at
last arrived at a terrible conclusion.

She believed that he was mad. What but sudden insanity could have
produced so great a change?--a change for which it was impossible to
imagine a cause.

"If he had been absent from me for some time, and had returned an
altered creature, I should not be so much bewildered by the change,"
Rosamond said to herself. "But the transformation occurred in an hour.
He saw no strange visitor; he received no letter. No tidings of any
kind could possibly have reached him. He entered my father's
sitting-room a light-hearted, happy man; he came out of it gloomy and
miserable. Can I doubt that the change is something more than any
ordinary alteration of feeling or character?"

Poor Rosamond remembered having heard of the fatal effects of
sunstrokes--effects which have sometimes revealed themselves long after
the occurrence of the calamity that caused them; and she told herself
that the change in George Jernam's nature must needs be the result of
such a calamity.

She entreated her husband to consult an eminent physician as to the
state of his health; but she dared not press her request, so coldly was
it received.

"Who told you that I was ill?" he asked; "I am not ill. All the
physicians in Christendom could do nothing for me."

After this, Rosamond could say no more. For worlds she would not have
revealed to a stranger her sad suspicion of George Jernam's insanity.
She could only pray that Providence would protect and guide him in his
roving life.

"The excitement and hard work of his existence on board ship may work a
cure," she thought, trying to be hopeful. "It is very possible that the
calm monotony of a landsman's life may have produced a bad effect upon
his brain. I can only trust in Providence--I can only pray night and
day for the welfare of him I love so fondly."

And so they parted. George Jernam left his wife with sadness in his
heart; but it was a kind of sadness in which love had little share.

"I have thought too much of my own happiness," he said to himself, "and
I have left my brother's death unavenged. Have I forgotten the time
when he carried me along the lonely sea-shore in his loving arms? Have
I forgotten the years in which he was father, mother--all the world to
me? No; by heaven! I have not. The time has come when the one thought
of my life must be revenge--revenge upon the murderer of my brother,
whosoever he may be."

                               CHAPTER XX.

                                ON GUARD.

Mr. Andrew Larkspur, the police-officer, took up his abode in Percy
Street a week after his interview with Lady Eversleigh.

For a fortnight after he became an occupant of the house in which she
lived, Honoria received no tidings from him. She knew that he went out
early every morning, and that he returned late every night, and this
was all that she knew respecting his movements.

At the end of the fortnight, he came to her late one evening, and
begged to be favoured with an audience.

"I shall want at least two hours of your time, ma'am," he said; "and,
perhaps, you may find it fatiguing to listen to me so late at night. If
you'd rather defer the business till to-morrow morning--"

"I would rather not defer it," answered Lady Eversleigh; "I am ready to
listen to you for as long a time as you choose. I have been anxiously
expecting some tidings of your movements."

"Very likely, ma'am," replied Mr. Larkspur, coolly; "I know you ladies
are given to impatience, as well as Berlin wool work, and steel beads,
and the pianoforte, and such like. But you see, ma'am, there's not a
living creature more unlike a race-horse than a police-officer. And
it's just like you ladies to expect police-officers to be Flying
Dutchmen, in a manner of speaking. I've been a hard worker in my time,
ma'am; but I never worked harder, or stuck to my work better, than I
have these last two weeks; and all I can say is, if I ain't dead-beat,
it's only because it isn't in circumstances to dead-beat me."

Lady Eversleigh listened very quietly to this exordium; but a slight,
nervous twitching of her lips every now and then betrayed her
impatience.

"I am waiting to hear your news," she said, presently.

"And I'm a-going to tell it, ma'am, in due course," returned the
police-officer, drawing a bloated leather book from his pocket, and
opening it. "I've got all down here in regular order. First and
foremost, the baronet--he's a bad lot, is the baronet."

"I do not need to hear that from your lips."

"Very likely not, ma'am. But if you set me to watch a gentleman, you
must expect I shall form an opinion about him. The baronet has lodgings
in Villiers Street, uncommon shabby ones. I went in and took a good
survey of him and his lodgings together, in the character of a
bootmaker, taking home a pair of boots, which was intended for a Mr.
Everfield in the next street, says I, and, of course, Everfield and
Eversleigh being a'most the same names, was calculated to lead to
inconvenient mistakes. In the character of the bootmaker, Sir Reginald
Eversleigh tells me to get out of his room, and be--something
uncommonly unpleasant, and unfit for the ears of ladies. In the
character of the bootmaker, I scrapes acquaintance with a young person
employed as housemaid, and very willing to answer questions, and be
drawed out. From the young person employed as housemaid, I gets what I
take the liberty to call my ground-plan of the baronet's habits;
beginning with his late breakfast, consisting chiefly of gunpowder tea
and cayenne pepper, and ending with the scroop of his latch-key, to be
heard any time from two in the morning to day-break. From the young
person employed as housemaid, I discover that my baronet always spends
his evenings out of doors, and is known to visit a lady at Fulham very
constant, whereby the young person employed as housemaid supposes he is
keeping company with her. From the same young person I obtain the
lady's address--which piece of information the young person has
acquired in the course of taking letters to the post. The lady's
address is Hilton House, Fulham. The lady's name has slipped my young
person's memory, but is warranted to begin with a D."

Mr. Larkspur paused to take breath, and to consult the memoranda in the
bloated leather book.

"Having ascertained this much, I had done with the young person, for
the time being," he continued, glibly; "and I felt that my next
business would be at Hilton House. Here I presented myself in the
character of a twopenny postman; but here I found the servants foreign,
and so uncommonly close that they might as well have been so many
marble monuments, for any good that was to be got out of them. Failing
the servants, I fell back upon the neighbours and the tradespeople; and
from the neighbours and the tradespeople I find out that my foreign
lady's name is Durski, and that my foreign lady gives a party every
night, which party is made up of gentlemen. That is queer, to say the
least of it, thinks I. A lady who gives a party every night, and whose
visitors are all gentlemen, is an uncommonly queer customer. Having
found out this much, my mouth watered to find out more; for a man who
has his soul in his profession takes a pleasure in his work, ma'am; and
if you were to offer to pay such a man double to waste his time, he
couldn't do it. I tried the neighbours, and I tried the tradespeople,
every way; and work 'em how I would, I couldn't get much out of 'em.
You see, ma'am, there's scarcely a human habitation within a quarter of
a mile of Hilton House, so, when I say neighbours, I don't mean
neighbours in the common sense of the word. There might be
assassination going on every night in Hilton House undiscovered, for
there's no one lives near enough to hear the victims' groans; and if
there was anything as good for our trade as pork-pie making out of
murdered human victims going nowadays, ma'am, Hilton House would be the
place where I should look for pork-pies. Well, I was almost beginning
to lose patience, when I sat down in a fancy-stationer's shop to rest
myself. I sat down in this shop because I was really tired, not with
any hope of making use of my time, for I was too far away from Hilton
House to expect any luck in the way of information from the gentleman
behind the counter. However, when a man has devoted his life to
ferreting out information, the habit of ferreting is apt to be very
strong upon him; so I pass the time of day to my fancy-stationer, and
then begins to ferret. 'Madame Durski, at Hilton House yonder, is an
uncommonly handsome woman,' I throw out, by way of an opening.
'Uncommonly,' replies my fancy-stationer, by which I perceive he knows
her. 'A customer of yours, perhaps?' I throw out, promiscuous. 'Yes,'
answers my fancy-stationer. 'A good one, too, I'll be bound,' I throw
out, in a lively, conversational way. My fancy-stationer smiles, and
being accustomed to study smiles, I see significance in his smile. 'A
very good one in _some_ things,' replies my fancy-stationer, laying a
tremendous stress upon the word _some_. 'Oh,' says I, 'gilt-edged
note-paper and cream-coloured sealing-wax, for instance.' 'I don't sell
her a quire of paper in a month,' answers my stationer. 'If she was as
fond of writing letters as she is of playing cards, I think it would be
better for her.' 'Oh, she's fond of card-playing is she?' I ask. 'Yes,'
replies my fancy-stationer, 'I rather think she is. Your hair would
stand on end if I were to tell you how many packs of playing-cards I've
sold her lady-companion within the last three months. The
lady-companion comes here at dusk with a thick black veil over her
face, and she thinks I don't know who she is; but I do know her, and
know where she lives, and whom she lives with.' After this I buy myself
a quire of writing-paper, which I don't want, and I wish my
fancy-stationer good afternoon. 'Oh, oh,' I say to myself when I get
outside, 'I know the meaning of Madame Durski's parties now. Madame
Durski's house is a flash gambling crib, and all those fine gentlemen
in cabs and broughams go there to play cards.'"

"The mistress of a gaming-house!" exclaimed Honoria. "A fitting
companion for Reginald Eversleigh!"

"Just so, ma'am; and a fitting companion for Mr. Victor Carrington
likewise."

"Have you found out anything about _him_?" cried Lady Eversleigh,
eagerly.

"No, ma'am, I haven't. At least, nothing in my way. I've tried his
neighbours, and his tradespeople also, in the character of a postman,
which is respectable, and calculated to inspire confidence. But out of
his tradespeople I can get nothing more than the fact that he is a
remarkably praiseworthy young man, who pays his debts regular, and is
the very best of sons to a highly-respectable mother. There's nothing
much in that, you know, ma'am."

"Hypocrite!" murmured Lady Eversleigh. "A hypocrite so skilled in the
vile arts of hypocrisy that he will contrive to have the world always
on his side. And this is all your utmost address has been able to
achieve?"

"All at present, ma'am; but I live in hopes. And now I've got a bit of
news about the baronet, which I think will astonish you. I've been
improving my acquaintance with the young person employed as housemaid
in Villiers Street for the last fortnight, and I find from her that my
baronet is on very friendly terms with his first cousin, Mr. Dale, of
the Temple."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Honoria. "These two men are the last between whom I
should have imagined a friendship impossible."

"Yes, ma'am; but so it is, notwithstanding. Mr. Douglas Dale,
barrister-at-law, dined with his cousin, Sir Reginald, twice last week;
and on each occasion the two gentlemen left Villiers Street together in
a hack cab, between eight and nine o'clock. My friend, the housemaid,
happened to hear the address given to the cabmen on both occasions; and
on both occasions the address was Hilton House, Fulham."

"Douglas Dale a gambler!" cried Honoria; "the companion of his infamous
cousin! That is indeed ruin."

"Well, certainly, ma'am, it does not seem a very lively prospect for my
friend, D. D.," answered Mr. Larkspur, with irrepressible flippancy.

"Do you know any more respecting this acquaintance?" asked Honoria.

"Not yet, ma'am; but I mean to know more."

"Watch then," she cried; "watch those two men. There is danger for Mr.
Dale in any association with his cousin, Sir Reginald Eversleigh. Do
not forget that. There is peril for him--the deadliest it may be. Watch
them, Mr. Larkspur; watch them by day and night."

"I'll do my duty, ma'am, depend upon it," replied the police officer;
"and I'll do it well. I take a pride in my profession, and to me duty
is a pleasure."

"I will trust you."

"You may, ma'am. Oh, by-the-bye, I must tell you that in this house my
name is Andrews. Please remember that, ma'am."

"Mr. Andrews, lawyer's clerk. The name of Larkspur smells too strong of
Bow Street."

The information acquired by Andrew Larkspur was perfectly correct. An
intimacy and companionship had arisen between Douglas Dale and his
cousin, Reginald Eversleigh, and the two men spent much of their time
together.

Douglas Dale was still the same simple-minded, true-hearted young man
that he had been before his uncle Oswald's death endowed him with an
income of five thousand a year; but with the accession of wealth the
necessity for industry ceased; and instead of a hard-working student,
Douglas became one of the upper million, who have nothing to think of
but the humour of the moment--now Alpine tourist, now Norwegian angler;
anon idler in clubs and drawing-rooms; anon book collector, or amateur
litterateur.

He still occupied chambers in the Temple; he still called himself a
barrister; but he had no longer any desire to succeed at the bar.

His brother Lionel had become rector of Hallgrove, a village in
Dorsetshire, where there was a very fine old church and a very small
congregation. It was one of those fat livings which seem only to fall
to the lot of rich men.

Lionel had the tastes of a typical country gentleman, and he found
ample leisure to indulge in his favourite amusement of hunting, after
having conscientiously discharged his duties.

The poor of Hallgrove had good reason to congratulate themselves on the
fact that their rector was a rich man. Mr. Dale's charities seemed
almost boundless to his happy parishioners.

The rectory was a fine old house, situated in one of those romantic
spots which one scarcely hopes to see out of a picture. Hill, wood, and
water combined to make the beauty of the landscape; and amid verdant
woods and fields the old red-brick mansion looked the perfection of an
English homestead. It had been originally a manor-house, and some
portions of it were very old.

Douglas Dale called Hallgrove the Happy Valley. Neither of the brothers
had yet married, and the barrister paid frequent visits to the rector.
He was glad to find repose after the fatigue and excitement of London
life. Like his brother, he delighted in the adventures and perils of
the hunting field, and he was rarely absent from Hallgrove during the
hunting season.

In London he had his clubs, and the houses of friends. The manoeuvring
mammas of the West End were very glad to welcome Mr. Dale at their
parties. He might have danced with the prettiest girls in London every
night of his life had he pleased.

To an unmarried man, with unlimited means and no particular occupation,
the pleasures of a life of fashionable amusement are apt to grow
"weary, flat, stale, and unprofitable," after a certain time. Douglas
Dale was beginning to be very tired of balls and dinner parties,
flower-shows and morning concerts, when he happened to meet his cousin,
Reginald Eversleigh, at a club to which both men belonged.

Eversleigh could make himself very agreeable when he chose; and on this
occasion he exerted himself to the utmost to produce a good impression
upon the mind of Douglas Dale. Hitherto Douglas had not liked his
cousin, Reginald; but he now began to fancy that he had been prejudiced
against his kinsman. He felt that Reginald had some reason to consider
himself ill-used; and with the impulsive kindness of a generous nature,
he was ready to extend the hand of friendship to a man who had been
beaten in the battle of life.

The two men dined together at their club; they met again and again;
sometimes by accident--sometimes by appointment. The club was one at
which there was a good deal of quiet gambling amongst scientific
whist-players; but until his meeting with Reginald Eversleigh, Douglas
Dale had never been tempted to take part in a rubber.

His habits changed gradually under the influence of his cousin and
Victor Carrington. He consented to take a hand at _écarté_ after dinner
on one day; on another day to join at a whist-party. Three months after
his first meeting with Reginald, he accompanied the baronet to Hilton
House, where he was introduced to the beautiful Austrian widow.

Sir Reginald Eversleigh played his cards very cautiously. It was only
after he had instilled a taste for gambling into his kinsman's breast
that he ventured to introduce him to the fashionable gaming-house
presided over by Paulina Durski.

The introduction had a sinister effect upon his destiny. He had passed
unscathed through the furnace of London life; many women had sought to
obtain power over him; but his heart was still in his own keeping when
he first crossed the threshold of Hilton House.

He saw Paulina Durski, and loved her. He loved her from the very first
with a deep and faithful affection, as far above the selfish fancy of
Reginald Eversleigh as the heaven is above the earth.

But she was no longer mistress of her heart. That was given to the man
whose baseness she knew, and whom she loved despite her better reason.

Sir Reginald speedily discovered the state of his cousin's feelings. He
had laid his plans for this result. Douglas Dale, as the adoring slave
of Madame Durski, would be an easy dupe, and much of Sir Oswald's
wealth might yet enrich his disinherited nephew. Victor Carrington
looked on, and shared his spoils; but he watched Eversleigh's schemes
with a half-contemptuous air.

"You think you are doing wonders, my dear Reginald," he said; "and
certainly, by means of Mr. Dale's losses, you and I contrive to
live--to say nothing of our dear Madame Durski, who comes in for her
share of the plunder. But after all, what is it? a few hundreds more or
less, at the best. I think you may by-and-by play a better and a deeper
game than that, Reginald, and I think I can show you how to play it."

"I do not want to be mixed up in any more of your schemes," answered
Sir Reginald, "I have had enough of them. What have they done for me?"

The two men were seated in Sir Reginald's dingy sitting-room in
Villiers Street when this conversation took place.

They were sitting opposite to each other, with a little table between
them. Victor Carrington rested his folded arms upon the table, and
leaned across them, looking full in the face of his companion.

"Look you, Reginald Eversleigh," he said, "because I have failed once,
there is no reason that I am to fail always. The devil himself
conspired against me last time; but the day will come when I shall have
the devil on my side. It is yet on the cards for you to become owner of
ten thousand a-year; and it shall be my business to make you owner of
that income."

"Stay, Carrington, do you think I would permit--?"

"I ask your permission for nothing: I know you to be a weak and
wavering coward, who of your own volition would never rise from the
level of a ruined spendthrift and penniless vagabond. You forget,
perhaps, that I hold a bond which gives me an interest in your
fortunes. I do not forget. When my own wisdom counsels action, I shall
act, without asking your advice. If I am successful, you will thank me.
If I fail, you will reproach me for my folly. That is the way of the
world. And now let us change the subject. When do you go down to
Dorsetshire with your cousin, Douglas Dale?"

"Why do you ask me that question?"

"My curiosity is only prompted by a friendly interest in your welfare,
and that of your relations. You are going to hunt with Lionel Dale, are
you not?"

"Yes; he has invited me to spend the remainder of the hunting season
with him?"

"At his brother's request, I believe?"

"Precisely. I have not met Lionel since--since my uncle's funeral--as
you know." Sir Reginald pronounced these last words with considerable
hesitation. "Douglas spends Christmas with his brother, and Douglas
wishes me to join the party. In order to gratify this wish, Lionel has
written me a very friendly letter, inviting me down to Hallgrove
Rectory, and I have accepted the invitation."

"Nothing could be more natural. There is some talk of your buying a
hunter for Lionel, is there not, by-the-bye?"

"Yes. They know I am a tolerable judge of horseflesh, and Douglas
wishes me to get his brother a good mount for the winter."

"When is the animal to be chosen?" asked Victor, carelessly.

"Immediately. We go down to Hallgrove next week, I shall select the
horse whenever I can get Douglas to go with me to the dealer's, and
send him down to get used to his new quarters before his hard work
begins."

"Good. Let me know when you are going to the horse-dealer's: but if you
see me there, take no notice of me beyond a nod, and be careful not to
attract Douglas Dale's attention to me or introduce me to him."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Reginald, looking suspiciously at his
companion.

"What should I mean except what I say? I do not see how even your
imagination can fancy any dark meaning lurking beneath the common-place
desire to waste an afternoon in a visit to a horse-dealer's yard."

"My dear Carrington, forgive me," exclaimed Reginald. "I am irritable
and impatient. I cannot forget the misery of those last days at
Raynham."

"Yes," answered Victor Carrington: "the misery of failure."

No more was said between the two men. The sway which the powerful
intellect of the surgeon exercised over the weaker nature of his friend
was omnipotent. Reginald Eversleigh feared Victor Carrington. And there
was something more than this ever-present fear in his mind; there was
the lurking hope that, by means of Carrington's scheming, he should yet
obtain the wealth he had forfeited.

The conversation above recorded took place on the day after Mr.
Larkspur's interview with Honoria.

Three days afterwards, Reginald Eversleigh and his cousin met at the
club, for the purpose of going together to inspect the hunters on sale
at Mr. Spavin's repository, in the Brompton Road.

Dale's mail-phaeton was waiting before the door of the club, and he
drove his cousin down to the repository.

Mr. Spavin was one of the most fashionable horse-dealers of that day. A
man who could not afford to give a handsome price had but a small
chance of finding himself suited at Mr. Spavin's repository. For a poor
customer the horse-dealer felt nothing but contempt.

Half a dozen horsey-looking men came out of stables, loose boxes, and
harness-rooms to attend upon the gentlemen, whose dashing mail-phaeton
and stylish groom commanded the respect of the whole yard. The great
Mr. Spavin himself emerged from his counting-house to ask the pleasure
of his customers.

"Carriage-horses, sir, or 'acks?" he asked. "That's a very fine pair in
the break yonder, if you want anything showy for a mail-phaeton.
They've been exercising in the park. All blood, sir, and not an ounce
too much bone. A pair of hosses that would do credit to a dook."

Reginald asked to see Mr. Spavin's hunters, and the grooms and keepers
were soon busy trotting out noble-looking creatures for the inspection
of the three gentlemen. There was a tan-gallop at the bottom of the
yard, and up and down this the animals were paraded.

Douglas Dale was much interested in the choice of the horse which he
intended to present to his brother; and he discussed the merits of the
different hunters with Sir Reginald Eversleigh, whose eye had lighted,
within a minute of their entrance, upon Victor Carrington. The surgeon
stood at a little distance from them, absorbed by the scene before him;
but it was to be observed that his attention was given less to the
horses than the men who brought them out of their boxes.

At one of these men he looked with peculiar intensity; and this man was
certainly not calculated to attract the observation of a stranger by
any personal advantages of his own. He was a wizened little man, with
red hair, a bullet-shaped head, and small, rat-like eyes.

This man had very little to do with the display of the horses; but
once, when there was a pause in the business, he opened the door of a
loose-box, went in, and presently emerged, leading a handsome bay,
whose splendid head was reared in a defiant attitude, as the fiery
eyeballs surveyed the yard.

"Isn't that 'Wild Buffalo?'" asked Mr. Spavin.

"Yes, sir."

"Then you ought to know better than to bring him out," exclaimed the
horse-dealer, angrily. "These gentlemen want a horse that a Christian
can ride, and the 'Buffalo' isn't fit to be ridden by a Christian; not
yet awhile at any rate. I mean to take the devil out of him before I've
done with him, though," added Mr. Spavin, casting a vindictive glance
at the horse.

"He is rather a handsome animal," said Sir Reginald Eversleigh.

"Oh, yes, he's handsome enough," answered the dealer. "His looks are no
discredit to him; but handsome is as handsome does--that's my motter;
and if I'd known the temper of that beast when Captain Chesterly
offered him to me, I'd have seen the captain farther before I consented
to buy him. However, there he is; I've got him, and I must make the
best of him. But Jack Spavin is not the man to sell such a beast to a
customer until the wickedness is taken out of him. When the wickedness
is taken out of him, he'll be at your service, gentlemen, with Jack
Spavin's best wishes."

The horse was taken back to his box. Victor watched the animal and the
groom with an intensely earnest gaze as they disappeared from his sight.

"That's a curious-looking fellow, that groom of yours," Sir Reginald
said to the horse-dealer.

"What, Hawkins--Jim Hawkins? Yes; his looks won't make his fortune.
He's a hard-working fellow enough in his way; but he's something like
the horse in the matter of temper. But I think I've taken the devil out
of _him_," said Mr. Spavin, with an ominous crack of his heavy
riding-whip.

More horses were brought out, examined, discussed, and taken back to
their boxes. Mr. Spavin knew he had to deal with a good customer, and
he wished to show off the resources of his stable.

"Bring out 'Niagara,'" he said, presently, and in a few minutes a groom
emerged from one of the stables, leading a magnificent bay. "Now,
gentlemen," said Mr. Spavin, "that animal is own brother to 'Wild
Buffalo,' and if it had not been for my knowledge of that animal's
merits I should never have bought the 'Buffalo.' Now, there's apt to be
a good deal of difference between human beings of the same family; but
perhaps you'd hardly believe the difference there can be between horses
of the same blood. That animal is as sweet a temper as you'd wish to
have in a horse--and 'Buffalo' is a devil; yet, if you were to see the
two horses side by side, you'd scarcely know which was which."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Sir Reginald; "I should like, for the curiosity of
the thing, to see the two animals together."

Mr. Spavin gave his orders, and presently Jim Hawkins, the
queer-looking groom, brought out "Wild Buffalo."

The two horses were indeed exactly alike in all physical attributes,
and the man who could have distinguished one from the other must have
had a very keen eye.

"There they are, gents, as like as two peas, and if it weren't for a
small splash of white on the inner side of 'Buffalo's' left hock,
there's very few men in my stable could tell one from the other."

Victor Carrington, observing that Dale was talking to the horse-dealer,
drew near the animal, with the air of an interested stranger, and
stooped to examine the white mark. It was a patch about as large as a
crown-piece.

"'Niagara' seems a fine creature," he said.

"Yes," replied a groom; "I don't think there's many better horses in
the place than 'Niagara.'"

When Douglas Dale returned to the examination of the two horses, Victor
Carrington drew Sir Reginald aside, unperceived by Dale.

"I want you to choose the horse 'Niagara' for Lionel Dale," he said,
when they were beyond the hearing of Douglas.

"Why that horse in particular?"

"Never mind why," returned Carrington, impatiently. "You can surely do
as much as that to oblige me."

"Be it so," answered Sir Reginald, with assumed carelessness; "the
horse seems a good one."

There was a little more talk and consultation, and then Douglas Dale
asked his cousin which horse he liked best among those they had seen.

"Well, upon my word, if you ask my opinion, I think there is no better
horse than that bay they call 'Niagara;' and if you and Spavin can
agree as to price, you may settle the business without further
hesitation."

Douglas Dale acted immediately upon the baronet's advice. He went into
Mr. Spavin's little counting-house, and wrote a cheque for the price of
the horse on the spot, much to that gentleman's satisfaction. While
Douglas Dale was writing this cheque, Victor Carrington waited in the
yard outside the counting-house.

He took this opportunity of addressing Hawkins, the groom.

"I want a job done in your line," he said, "and I think you'd be just
the man to manage it for me. Have you any spare time?"

"I've an hour or two, now and then, of a night, after my work's over,"
answered the man.

"At what time, and where, are you to be met with after your work?"

"Well, sir, my own home is too poor a place for a gentleman like you to
come to; but if you don't object to a public--and a very respectable
public, too, in its way--there's the 'Goat and Compasses,' three doors
down the little street as you'll see on your left, as you leave this
here yard, walking towards London."

"Yes, yes," interrupted Victor, impatiently; "you are to be found at
the 'Goat and Compasses'?"

"I mostly am, sir, after nine o'clock of an evening--summer and
winter--"

"That will do," exclaimed Victor, with a quick glance at the door of
the counting-house. "I will see you at the 'Goat and Compasses'
to-night, at nine. Hush!"

Eversleigh and his cousin were just emerging from the counting-house,
as Victor Carrington gave the groom a warning gesture.

"Mum's the word," muttered the man.

Sir Reginald Eversleigh and Douglas Dale took their places in the
phaeton, and drove away.

Victor Carrington arrived at half-past eight at the "Goat and
Compasses"--a shabby little public-house in a shabby little street.
Here he found Mr. Hawkins lounging in the bar, waiting for him, and
beguiling the time by the consumption of a glass of gin.

"There's no one in the parlour, sir," said Hawkins, as he recognized
Mr. Carrington; "and if you'll step in there, we shall be quite
private. I suppose there ain't no objection to this gent and me
stepping into the parlour, is there, Mariar?" Mr. Hawkins asked of a
young lady, in a very smart cap, who officiated as barmaid.

"Well, you ain't a parlour customer in general, Mr. Hawkins; but I
suppose if the gent wants to speak to you, there'll be no objection to
your making free with the parlour, promiscuous," answered the damsel,
with supreme condescension. "And if the gent has any orders to give,
I'm ready to take 'em," she added, pertly.

Victor Carrington ordered a pint of brandy.

The parlour was a dingy little apartment, very much the worse for stale
tobacco smoke, and adorned with gaudy racing-prints. Here Mr.
Carrington seated himself, and told his companion to take the place
opposite him.

"Fill yourself a glass of brandy," he said. And Mr. Hawkins was not
slow to avail himself of the permission. "Now, I'm a man who does not
care to beat about the bush, my friend Hawkins," said Victor, "so I'll
come to business at once. I've taken a fancy to that bay horse, 'Wild
Buffalo,' and I should like to have him; but I'm not a rich man, and I
can't afford a high price for my fancy. What I've been thinking,
Hawkins, is that, with your help, I might get 'Wild Buffalo' a bargain?"

"Well, I should rather flatter myself you might, guv'nor," answered the
groom, coolly, "an uncommon good bargain, or an uncommon bad one,
according to the working out of circumstances. But between friends,
supposing that you was me, and supposing that I was you, you know, I
wouldn't have him at no price--no, not if Spavin sold him to you for
nothing, and threw you in a handsome pair of tops and a bit of pink
gratis likewise."

Mr. Hawkins had taken a second glass of brandy by this time; and the
brandy provided by Victor Carrington, taken in conjunction with the gin
purchased by himself was beginning to produce a lively effect upon his
spirits.

"The horse is a dangerous animal to handle, then?" asked Victor.

"When you can ride a flash of lightning, and hold that well in hand,
you may be able to ride 'Wild Buffalo,' guv'nor," answered the groom,
sententiously; "but _till_ you have got your hand in with a flash of
lightning, I wouldn't recommend you to throw your leg across the
'Buffalo.'"

"Come, come," remonstrated Victor, "a good rider could manage the
brute, surely?"

"Not the cove as drove a mail-phaeton and pair in the skies, and was
chucked out of it, which served him right--not even that sky-larking
cove could hold in the 'Buffalo.' He's got a mouth made of cast-iron,
and there ain't a curb made, work 'em how you will, that's any more to
him than a lady's bonnet-ribbon. He got a good name for his jumping as
a steeple-chaser; but when he'd been the death of three jocks and two
gentlemen riders, folks began to get rather shy of him and his jumping;
and then Captain Chesterly come and planted him on my guv'nor, which
more fool my governor to take him at any price, says I. And now, sir,
I've stood your friend, and give you a honest warning; and perhaps it
ain't going too far to say that I've saved your life, in a manner of
speaking. So I hope you'll bear in mind that I'm a poor man with a
fambly, and that I can't afford to waste my time in giving good advice
to strange gents for nothing."

Victor Carrington took out his purse, and handed Mr. Hawkins a
sovereign. A look of positive rapture mingled with the habitual cunning
of the groom's countenance as he received this donation.

"I call that handsome, guv'nor," he exclaimed, "and I ain't above
saying so."

"Take another glass of brandy, Hawkins."

"Thank you kindly, sir; I don't care if I do," answered the groom; and
again he replenished his glass with the coarse and fiery spirit.

"I've given you that sovereign because I believe you are an honest
fellow," said the surgeon. "But in spite of the bad character you have
given the 'Buffalo' I should like to get him."

"Well, I'm blest," exclaimed Mr. Hawkins; "and you don't look like a
hossey gent either, guv'nor."

"I am not a 'horsey gent.' I don't want the 'Buffalo' for myself. I
want him for a hunting-friend. If you can get me the brute a dead
bargain, say for twenty pounds, and can get a week's holiday to bring
him down to my friend's place in the country, I'll give you a
five-pound note for your trouble."

The eyes of Mr. Hawkins glittered with the greed of gold as Victor
Carrington said this; but, eager as he was to secure the tempting
prize, he did not reply very quickly.

"Well, you see, guv'nor, I don't think Mr. Spavin would consent to sell
the 'Buffalo' yet awhile. He'd be afraid of mischief, you know. He's a
very stiff 'un, is Spavin, and he comes it uncommon bumptious about his
character, and so on. I really don't think he'd sell the 'Buffalo' till
he's broke, and the deuce knows how long it may take to break him."
"Oh, nonsense; Spavin would be glad to get rid of the beast, depend
upon it. You've only got to say you want him for a friend of yours, a
jockey, who'll break him in better than any of Spavin's people could do
it."

James Hawkins rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Well, perhaps if I put it in that way it might answer," he said, after
a meditative pause. "I think Spavin might sell him to a jock, where he
would not part with him to a gentleman. I know he'd be uncommon glad to
get rid of the brute." "Very well, then," returned Victor Carrington;
"you manage matters well, and you'll be able to earn your fiver. Be
sure you don't let Spavin think it's a gentleman who's sweet upon the
horse. Do you think you are able to manage the business?"

The groom laid his finger on his nose, and winked significantly.

"I've managed more difficult businesses than that, guv'nor," he said.
"When do you want the animal?"

"Immediately."

 "Could you make it convenient to slip down here to-morrow night, or
shall I wait upon you at your house, guv'nor?"

"I will come here to-morrow night, at nine."

"Very good, guv'nor; in which case you shall hear news of 'Wild
Buffalo.' But all I hope is, when you do present him to your friend,
you'll present the address-card of a respectable undertaker at the same
time."

"I am not afraid."

"As you please, sir. You are the individual what comes down with the
dibbs; and you are the individual what's entitled to make your choice."

Victor Carrington saw that the brandy had by this time exercised a
potent influence over Mr. Spavin's groom; but he had full confidence in
the man's power to do what he wanted done. James Hawkins was gifted
with that low cunning which peculiarly adapts a small villain for the
service of a greater villain.

At nine o'clock on the following evening, the two met again at the
"Goat and Compasses." This time their interview was very brief and
business-like.

"Have you succeeded?" asked Victor.

"I have, guv'nor, like one o'clock. Mr. Spavin will take
five-and-twenty guineas from my friend the jock; but wouldn't sell the
'Buffalo' to a gentleman on no account."

"Here is the money," answered Victor, handing the groom five bank-notes
for five pounds each, and twenty-five shillings in gold and silver.
"Have you asked for a holiday?"

"No, guv'nor; because, between you and me, I don't suppose I should get
it if I did ask. I shall make so bold as to take it without asking.
Sham ill, and send my wife to say as I'm laid up in bed at home, and
can't come to work."

"Hawkins, you are a diplomatist," exclaimed Victor; "and now I'll make
short work of my instructions. There's a bit of paper, with the name of
the place to which you're to take the animal--Frimley Common,
Dorsetshire. You'll start to-morrow at daybreak, and travel as quickly
as you can without taking the spirit out of the horse. I want him to be
fresh when he reaches my friend."

Mr. Hawkins gave a sinister laugh.

"Don't you be afraid of that, sir. 'Wild Buffalo' will be fresh enough,
you may depend," he said.

"I hope he may," replied Carrington, calmly. "When you reach Frimley
Common--it's little more than a village--go to the best inn you find
there, and wait till you either see me, or hear from me. You
understand?"

"Yes, guv'nor."

"Good; and now, good-night."

With this Carrington left the "Goat and Compasses." As he went out of
the public-house, an elderly man, in the dress of a mechanic, who had
been lounging in the bar, followed him into the street, and kept behind
him until he entered Hyde Park, to cross to the Edgware Road; there the
man fell back and left him.

"He's going home, I suppose," muttered the man; "and there's nothing
more for me to do to-night."

                              CHAPTER XXI.

                          DOWN IN DORSETSHIRE.

There were two inns in the High Street of Frimley. The days of
mail-coaches were not yet over, and the glory of country inns had not
entirely departed. Several coaches passed through Frimley in the course
of the day, and many passengers stopped to eat and drink and refresh
themselves at the quaint old hostelries; but it was not often that the
old-fashioned bed-chambers were occupied, even for one night, by any
one but a commercial traveller; and it was a still rarer occurrence for
a visitor to linger for any time at Frimley.

There was nothing to see in the place; and any one travelling for
pleasure would have chosen rather to stay in the more picturesque
village of Hallgrove.

It was therefore a matter of considerable surprise to the landlady of
the "Rose and Crown," when a lady and her maid alighted from the
"Highflyer" coach and demanded apartments, which they would be likely
to occupy for a week or more.

The lady was so plainly attired, in a dress and cloak of dark woollen
stuff, and the simplest of black velvet bonnets, that it was only by
her distinguished manner, and especially graceful bearing, that Mrs.
Tippets, the landlady, was able to perceive any difference between the
mistress and the maid.

"I am travelling in Dorsetshire for my health," said the lady, who was
no other than Honoria Eversleigh, "and the quiet of this place suits
me. You will be good enough to prepare rooms for myself and my maid."

"You would like your maid's bed-room to be adjoining your own, no
doubt, madam?" hazarded the landlady.

"No," answered Honoria; "I do not wish that; I prefer entire privacy in
my own apartment."

"As you please, madam--we have plenty of bedrooms."

The landlady of the "Rose and Crown" ushered her visitors into the best
sitting-room the house afforded--an old-fashioned apartment, with a
wide fire-place, high wooden mantel-piece, and heavily-timbered
ceiling--a room which seemed to belong to the past rather than the
present.

Lady Eversleigh sat by the table in a thoughtful attitude, while the
fire was being lighted and a tray of tea-things arranged for that
refreshment which is most welcome of all others to an Englishwoman.
Jane Payland stood by the opposite angle of the mantel-piece, watching
her mistress with a countenance almost as thoughtful as that of Honoria
herself.

It was in the wintry dusk that these two travellers arrived at Frimley.
Jane Payland walked to one of the narrow, old-fashioned windows, and
looked out into the street, where lights were burning dimly here and
there.

"What a strange old place, ma'am," she said.

Honoria had forbidden her to say "my lady" since their departure from
Raynham.

"Yes," her mistress answered, absently; "it is a world-forgotten old
place."

"But the rest and change will, no doubt, be beneficial, ma'am," said
Miss Payland, in her most insinuating tone; "and I am sure you must
require change and fresh country air after being pent up in a London
street."

Lady Eversleigh shook off her abstraction of manner, and turned towards
her servant, with a calm, serious gaze.

"I want change of scene, and the fresh breath of country air, Jane,"
she said, gravely; "but it is not for those I came to Frimley, and you
know that it is not. Why should we try to deceive each other? The
purpose of my life is a very grave one; the secret of my coming and
going is a very bitter secret, and if I do not choose to share it with
you, I withhold nothing that you need care to know. Let me play my part
unwatched and unquestioned. You will find yourself well rewarded by and
by for your forbearance and devotion. Be faithful to me, my good girl;
but do not try to discover the motive of my actions, and believe, even
when they seem most strange to you, that they are justified by one
great purpose."

Jane Payland's eyelids drooped before the serious and penetrating gaze
of her mistress.

"You may feel sure of my being faithful, ma'am," she answered,
promptly; "and as to curiosity, I should be the very last creature upon
this earth to try to pry into your secrets."

Honoria made no reply to this protestation. She took her tea in
silence, and seemed as if weighed down by grave and anxious thoughts.
After tea she dismissed Jane, who retired to the bed-room allotted to
her, which had been made very comfortable, and enlivened by a wood
fire, that blazed cheerily in the wide grate.

Jane Payland's bedroom opened out of a corridor, at the end of which
was the door of the sitting-room occupied by Honoria. Jane was,
therefore, able to keep watch upon all who went to and fro from the
sitting-room to the other part of the house. She sat with her door a
little way open for this purpose.

"My lady expects some one to-night, I know," she thought to herself, as
she seated herself at a little table, and began some piece of
fancy-work.

She had observed that during tea Lady Eversleigh had twice looked at
her watch. Why should she be so anxious about the time, if she were not
awaiting some visitor, or message, or letter?

For a long time Jane Payland waited, and watched, and listened, without
avail. No one went along the corridor to the blue parlour, except the
chambermaid who removed the tea-things.

Jane looked at her own watch, and found that it was past nine o'clock.
"Surely my lady can have no visitor to-night?" she thought.

A quarter of an hour after this, she was startled by the creaking sound
of a footstep on the uncarpeted floor of the corridor. She rose hastily
and softly from her chair, crept to the door, and peeped put into the
passage. As she did so, she saw a man approaching, dressed like a
countryman, in a clumsy frieze coat, and with his chin so muffled in a
woollen scarf, and his felt hat drawn so low over his eyes, that there
was nothing visible of him but the end of a long nose.

That long, beak-like nose seemed strangely familiar to Miss Payland;
and yet she could not tell where she had seen it before.

The countryman went straight to the blue parlour, opened the door, and
went in. The door closed behind him, and then Jane Payland heard the
faint sound of voices within the apartment.

It was evident that this countryman was Lady Eversleigh's expected
guest.

Jane's wonderment was redoubled by this extraordinary proceeding.

"What does it all mean?" she asked herself. "Is this man some humble
relation of my lady's? Everyone knows that her birth was obscure; but
no one can tell where she came from. Perhaps this is her native place,
and it is to see her own people she comes here."

Jane was obliged to be satisfied with this explanation, for no other
was within her reach; but it did not altogether allay her curiosity.
The interview between Lady Eversleigh and her visitor was a long one.
It was half-past ten o'clock before the strange-looking countryman
quitted the blue parlour.

This occurred three days before Christmas-day. On the following evening
another stranger arrived at Frimley by the mail-coach, which passed
through the quiet town at about seven o'clock.

This traveller did not patronise the "Rose and Crown" inn, though the
coach changed horses at that hostelry. He alighted from the outside of
the coach while it stood before the door of the "Rose and Crown,"
waited until his small valise had been fished out of the boot, and then
departed through the falling snow, carrying this valise, which was his
only luggage.

He walked at a rapid pace to the other end of the long, straggling
street, where there was a humbler inn, called the "Cross Keys." Here he
entered, and asked for a bed-room, with a good fire, and something or
other in the way of supper.

It was not till he had entered the room that the traveller took off the
rough outer coat, the collar of which had almost entirely concealed his
face. When he did so, he revealed the sallow countenance of Victor
Carrington, and the flashing black eyes, which to-night shone with a
peculiar brightness.

After he had eaten a hasty meal, he went out into the inn-yard, despite
the fast-falling snow, to smoke a cigar, he said, to one of the
servants whom he encountered on his way.

He had not been long in the yard, when a man emerged from one of the
adjacent buildings, and approached him in a slow and stealthy manner.

"All right, guv'nor," said the man, in a low voice; "I've been on the
look-out for you for the last two days."

The man was Jim Hawkins, Mr. Spavin's groom.

"Is 'Wild Buffalo' here?" asked Victor.

"Yes, sir; as safe and as comfortable as if he'd been foaled here."

"And none the worse for his journey?"

"Not a bit of it, sir. I brought him down by easy stages, knowing you
wanted him kept fresh. And fresh he is--oncommon. P'raps you'd like to
have a look at him."

"I should."

The groom led Mr. Carrington to a loose box, and the surgeon had the
pleasure of beholding the bay horse by the uncertain light of a stable
lantern.

The animal was, indeed, a noble specimen of his race.

It was only in the projecting eye-ball, the dilated nostril, the
defiant carriage of the head, that his evil temper exhibited itself.
Victor Carrington stood at a little distance from him, contemplating
him in silence for some minutes.

"Have you ever noticed that spot?" asked Victor, presently, pointing to
the white patch inside the animal's hock.

"Well, sir, one can't help noticing it when one knows where to look for
it, though p'raps a stranger mightn't see it. That there spot's a kind
of a blemish, you see, to my mind; for, if it wasn't for that, the
brute wouldn't have a white hair about him."

"That's just what I've been thinking," answered Victor. "Now, my friend
is just the sort of man to turn up his nose at a horse with anything in
the way of a blemish about him, especially if he sees it before he has
tried the animal, and found out his merits. But I've hit upon a plan
for getting the better of him, and I want you to carry it out for me."

"I'm your man, guv'nor, whatever it is."

The surgeon produced a phial from his pocket, and with the phial a
small painters' brush.

"In this bottle there's a brown dye," he said; "and I want you to paint
the white spot with that brown dye after you've groomed the 'Buffalo,'
so that whenever my friend comes to claim the horse the brute may be
ready for him. You must apply the dye three or four times, at short
intervals. It's a pretty fast one, and it'll take a good many pails of
water to wash it out."

Jim Hawkins laughed heartily at the idea of this manoeuvre.

"Why you are a rare deep one, guv'nor," he exclaimed; "that there game
is just like the canary dodge, what they do so well down Seven Dials
way. You ketches yer sparrer, and you paints him a lively yeller, and
then you sells him to your innocent customer for the finest canary as
ever wabbled in the grove--a little apt to be mopish at first, but
warranted to sing beautiful as soon as ever he gets used to his new
master and missus. And, oh! don't he just sing beautiful--not at all
neither."

"There's the bottle, Hawkins, and there's the brush. You know what
you've got to do."

"All right, guv'nor."

"Good night, then," said Victor, as he left the stable.

He did not stay to finish his cigar under the fast-falling snow; but
walked back to his own room, where he slept soundly.

He was astir very early the next morning. He went down stairs, after
breakfasting in his own room, saw the landlord, and hired a good strong
horse, commonly used by the proprietor of the "Cross Keys" on all his
journeys to and from the market-town and outlying villages.

Victor Carrington mounted this horse, and rode across the Common to the
village of Hallgrove.

He stopped to give his horse a drink of water before a village inn, and
while stopping to do this he asked a few questions of the ostler.

"Whereabouts is Hallgrove Rectory?" he asked.

"About a quarter of a mile farther on, sir," answered the man; "you
can't miss it if you keep along that road. A big red house, by the side
of a river."

"Thanks. This is a great place for hunting, isn't it?"

"Yes, that it be, sir. The Horsley foxhounds are a'most allus meeting
somewheres about here."

"When do they meet next?"

"The day arter to-morrow--Boxing-day, sir. They're to meet in the field
by Hallgrove Ferry, a mile and a quarter beyond the rectory, at ten
o'clock in the morning. It's to be a reg'lar grand day's sport, I've
heard say. Our rector is to ride a new horse, wot's been given to him
by his brother."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, sir; I war down at the rectory stables yesterday arternoon, and
see the animal--a splendid bay, rising sixteen hands."

Carrington turned his horse's head in the direction of Hallgrove
Rectory. He knew enough of the character of Lionel Dale to be aware
that no opposition would be made to his loitering about the premises.
He rode boldly up to the door, and asked for the rector. He was out,
the servant said, but would the gentleman walk in and wait, or would he
leave his name. Mr. Dale would be in soon; he had gone out with Captain
and Miss Graham. Victor Carrington smiled involuntarily as he heard
mention made of Lydia. "So you are here, too," he thought; "it is just
as well you should not see me on this occasion, as I am not helping
your game now, as I did in the case of Sir Oswald, but spoiling it."

No, the stranger gentleman thanked the man; he would not wait to see
Mr. Dale (he had carefully ascertained that he was out before riding up
to the house); but if the servant would show him the way, he would be
glad, to get out on the lower road; he understood the rectory grounds
opened upon it, at a little distance from the house. Certainly the man
could show him--nothing easier, if the gentleman would take the path to
the left, and the turn by the shrubbery, he would pass by the stables,
and the lower road lay straight before him. Victor Carrington complied
with these directions, but his after-conduct did not bear out the
impression of his being in a hurry, which his words and manner had
conveyed to the footman. It was at least an hour after he had held the
above-mentioned colloquy, when Victor Carrington, having made himself
thoroughly acquainted with the topography of the rector's premises,
issued from a side-gate, and took the lower road, leading back to
Frimley.

Then he went straight to the stable-yard, saw Mr. Spavin's groom, and
dismissed him.

"I shall take the 'Buffalo' down to my friend's place this afternoon,"
he said to Hawkins. "Here's your money, and you can get back to London
as soon as you like. I think my friend will be very well pleased with
his bargain."

"Ay, ay," said Mr. Hawkins, whose repeated potations of execrable
brandy had rendered him tolerably indifferent to all that passed around
him, and who was actuated by no other feeling than a lively desire to
obtain, the future favours of a liberal employer; "he's got to take
care of hisself, and we've got to take care of ourselves, and that's
all about it."

And then Mr. Hawkins, with something additional to the stipulated
reward in his pocket, and a pint bottle of his favourite stimulant to
refresh him on the way, took himself off, and Carrington saw no more of
him. The people about the inn saw very little of Carrington, but it was
with some surprise that the ostler received his directions to saddle
the horse which stood in the stable, just when the last gleam of the
short winter's daylight was dying out on Christmas-day. Carrington had
not stirred beyond the precincts of the inn all the morning and
afternoon. The strange visitor was all uninfluenced either by the
devotional or the festive aspects of the season. He was quite alone,
and as he sat in his cheerless little bedroom at the small country inn,
and brooded, now over a pocket volume, thickly noted in his small, neat
handwriting, now over the plans which were so near their
accomplishment, he exulted in that solitude--he gave loose to the
cynicism which was the chief characteristic of his mind. He cursed the
folly of the idiots for whom Christmas-time had any special meaning,
and secretly worshipped his own idols--money and power.

The horse was brought to him, and Carrington mounted him without any
difficulty, and rode away in the gathering gloom. "Wild Buffalo" gave
him no trouble, and he began to feel some misgivings as to the truth of
the exceedingly bad character he had received with the animal.
Supposing he should not be the unmanageable devil he was
represented,--supposing all his schemes came to grief, what then? Why,
then, there were other ways of getting rid of Lionel Dale, and he
should only be the poorer by the purchase of a horse. On the other
hand, "Wild Buffalo," plodding along a heavy country road, almost in
the dark, and after the probably not too honestly dispensed feeding of
a village inn, which Carrington had not personally superintended, was
no doubt a very different animal to what he might be expected to prove
himself in the hunting-field. Pondering upon these probabilities,
Victor Carrington rode slowly on towards Hallgrove. He had taken
accurate observations; he had nicely calculated time and place. All the
servants, tenants, and villagers were gathered together under Lionel
Dale's hospitable roof. To the feasting had succeeded games and
story-telling, and the absorbing gossip of such a reunion. That which
Victor Carrington had come to do, he did successfully; and when he
returned to his inn, and gave over his horse to the care of the ostler,
no one but he, not even the man who was there listening to every word
spoken among the servants at the rectory, and eagerly scanning every
face there, knew that "Niagara" was in the inn-stable, and "Wild
Buffalo" in the stall at Hallgrove.

                              CHAPTER XXII.

               ARCH-TRAITOR WITHIN, ARCH-PLOTTER WITHOUT.

The guests at Hallgrove Rectory this Christmas-time were Douglas Dale,
Sir Reginald Eversleigh, a lady and gentleman called Mordaunt, and
their two pretty, fair-faced daughters, and two other old friends of
the rector's, one of whom is very familiar to us.

Those two were Gordon Graham and his sister Lydia--the woman whose
envious hatred had aided in that vile scheme by which Sir Oswald
Eversleigh's happiness had been suddenly blighted. The Dales and Gordon
Graham had been intimate from boyhood, when they had been
school-fellows at Eton. Since Sir Oswald's death had enriched the two
brothers, Gordon Graham had taken care that his acquaintance with them
should not be allowed to lapse, but should rather be strengthened. It
was by means of his manoeuvring that the invitation for Christmas had
been given, and that he and his sister were comfortable domiciled for
the winter season beneath the rector's hospitably roof.

Gordon Graham had been very anxious to secure this invitation. Every
day that passed made him more and more anxious that his sister should
make a good marriage. Her thirtieth birthday was alarmingly near at
hand. Careful as she was of her good looks, the day must soon come when
her beauty would fade, and she would find herself among the ranks of
confirmed old maids.

If Gordon Graham found her a burden now, how much greater burden would
she be to him then! As the cruel years stole by, and brought her no
triumph, no success, her temper grew more imperious, while the quarrels
which marred the harmony of the brother and sister's affection became
more frequent and more violent.

Beyond this one all-sufficient reason, Gordon Graham had his own
selfish motives for seeking to secure his sister a rich husband. The
purse of a wealthy brother-in-law must, of course, be always more or
less open to himself; and he was not the man to refrain from obtaining
all he could from such a source.

In Lionel Dale he saw a man who would be the easy victim of a woman's
fascinations, the generous dupe of an adventurer. Lionel Dale was,
therefore, the prize which Lydia should try to win.

The brother and sister were in the habit of talking to each other very
plainly.

"Now, Lydia," said the captain, after he had read Lionel Dale's letter
for the young lady's benefit, "it will be your fault if you do not come
back from Hallgrove the affianced wife of this man. There was a time
when you might have tried for heavier stakes; but at thirty, a husband
with five thousand a year is not to be sneezed at."

"You need not be so fond of reminding me of my age," Lydia returned
with a look of anger. "You seem to forget that you are five years my
senior."

"I forget nothing, my dear girl. But there is no parallel between your
case and mine. For a man, age is nothing--for a woman, everything; and
I regret to be obliged to remember that you are approaching your
thirtieth birthday. Fortunately, you don't look more than
seven-and-twenty; and I really think, if you play your cards well, you
may secure this country rector. A country rector is not much for a
woman who has set her cap at a duke, but he is better than nothing; and
as the case is really growing rather desperate, you must play your
cards with unusual discrimination this time, Lydia. You must, upon my
word."

"I am tired of playing my cards," answered Miss Graham, contemptuously.
"It seems as if life was always to be a losing game for me, let me play
my cards how I will. I begin to think there is a curse upon me, and
that no act of mine will ever prosper. Who was that man, in your Greek
play, who guessed some inane conundrum, and was always getting into
trouble afterwards? I begin to think there really is a fatality in
these things."

She turned away from her brother impatiently, and seated herself at her
piano. She played a few bars of a waltz with a listless air, while the
captain lighted a cigar, and stepped out upon the little balcony,
overhanging the dull, foggy street.

The brother and sister occupied lodgings in one of the narrow streets
of Mayfair. The apartments were small, shabbily furnished,
inconvenient, and expensive; but the situation was irreproachable, and
the haughty Lydia could only exist in an irreproachable situation.

Captain Graham finished his cigar, and went out to his club, leaving
his sister alone, discontented, gloomy, sullen, to get through the day
as best she might.

The time had been when the prospect of a visit to Hallgrove Rectory
would have seemed very pleasant to her. But that time was gone. The
haughty spirit was soured by disappointment, the selfish nature
embittered by defeat.

There was a glass over the mantel-piece. Lydia leaned her arms upon the
marble slab, and contemplated the dark face in the mirror.

It was a handsome face: but a cloud of sullen pride obscured its beauty.

"I shall never prosper," she said, as she looked at herself. "There is
some mysterious ban upon me, and on my beauty. All my life I have been
passed by for the sake of women in every attribute my inferiors. If I
was unloved in the freshness of my youth and beauty, how can I expect
to be loved now, when youth is past and beauty is on the wane? And yet
my brother expects me to go through the old stage-play, in the futile
hope of winning a rich husband!"

She shrugged her shoulders with a contemptuous gesture, and turned away
from the glass. But, although she affected to despise her brother's
schemes, she was not slow to lend herself to them. She went out that
morning, and walked to her milliner's house. There was a long and
rather an unpleasant interview between the milliner and her customer,
for Lydia Graham had sunk deeper in the mire of debt with every passing
year, and it was only by the payment of occasional sums of money on
account that she contrived to keep her creditors tolerably quiet.

The result of to-day's interview was the same as usual. Madame Susanne,
the milliner, agreed to find some pretty dresses for Miss Graham's
Christmas visit--and Miss Graham undertook to pay a large instalment of
an unreasonable bill without inspection or objection.

On this snowy Christmas morning Miss Graham stood by the side of her
host, dressed in the stylish walking costume of dark gray poplin, and
with her glowing face set off by a bonnet of blue velvet, with soft
gray plumes. Those were the days in which a bonnet was at once the
aegis and the sanctuary of beauty. If you offended her, she took refuge
in her bonnet. The police-courts have only become odious by the clamour
of feminine complainants since the disappearance of the bonnet. It was
awful as the helmet of Minerva, inviolable as the cestus of Diana. Nor
was the bonnet of thirty-years ago an unbecoming headgear--a pretty
face never looked prettier than when dimly seen in the shadowy depths
of a coal-scuttle bonnet.

Miss Graham looked her best in one of those forgotten headdresses; the
rich velvet, the drooping feathers, set off her showy face, and Laura
and Ellen Mordaunt, in their fresh young beauty and simple costume,
lost by contrast with the aristocratic belle.

The poor of Hallgrove parish looked forward eagerly to the coming of
Christmas.

Lionel Dale's parishioners knew that they would receive ample bounty
from the hand of their wealthy and generous rector.

He loved to welcome old and young to the noble hall of his mansion, a
spacious and lofty chamber, which had formed part of the ancient
manor-house, and had been of late years converted into a rectory. He
loved to see them clad in the comfortable garments which his purse had
provided--the old women in their gray woollen gowns and scarlet cloaks,
the little children brightly arrayed, like so many Red Riding hoods.

It was a pleasant sight truly, and there was a dimness in the rector's
eyes, as he stood at the head of a long table, at two o'clock on
Christmas-day, to say grace before the dinner spread for those humble
Christmas guests.

All the poor of the parish had been invited to dine with their pastor
on Christmas-day, and this two o'clock dinner was a greater pleasure to
the rector of Hallgrove than the repast which was to be served at seven
o'clock for himself and the guests of his own rank.

There were some people in Hallgrove and its neighbourhood who said that
Lionel Dale took more pleasure in this life than a clergyman and a good
Christian should take; but surely those who had seen him seated by the
bed of sickness, or ministering to the needs of affliction, could
scarcely have grudged him the innocent happiness of his hours of
relaxation. The one thing in which he himself felt that he was perhaps
open to blame, was in his passion for the sports of the field.

No one who had stood amongst the little group at the top of the long
table in Hallgrove Manor-house on this snowy Christmas morning could
have doubted that the heart of Lionel Dale was true to the very core.

He was not alone amongst his poor parishioners. His guests had
requested permission to see the two o'clock dinner-party in the
refectory. Lydia affected to be especially anxious for this privilege.

"I long to see the dear things eating their Christmas plum-pudding,"
she said, with almost girlish enthusiasm.

Mr. Dale's parishioners did ample justice to the splendid Christmas
fare provided for them.

Lydia Graham declared she had never witnessed anything that gave her
half so much pleasure as this humble gathering.

"I would give up a whole season of fashionable dinner-parties for such
a treat as this, Mr. Dale," she exclaimed, with an eloquent glance at
the rector. "What a happy life yours must be! and how privileged these
people ought to think themselves!"

"I don't know that, Miss Graham," answered Lionel Dale. "I think the
privilege is all on my side. It is the pleasure of the rich to minister
to the wants of the poor."

Lydia Graham made no reply; but her eyes expressed an admiration which
womanly reserve might have forbidden her lips to utter.

While the pudding was being eaten, Mr. Dale walked round amongst his
humble guests, to exchange a few kindly words here and there; to shake
hands; to pat little children's flaxen heads; to make friendly
inquiries for the sick and absent.

As he paused to talk to one of his parishioners, his attention was
attracted by a strange face. It was the face of an old man, who sat at
the opposite side of the table, and seemed entirely absorbed by the
agreeable task of making his way through a noble slice of plum-pudding.

"Who is that old man opposite?" asked Lionel of the agricultural
labourer to whom he had been talking. "I don't think I know his face."

"No, sir," answered the farm-labourer; "he don't belong to these parts.
Gaffer Hayfield brought 'un. I suppose as how he's a relation of
Gaffer's. It seems a bit of a liberty, sir; but Gaffer Hayfield always
war a cool hand."

"I don't think it a liberty, William. If the man is a relation of
Hayfield's, there is no reason why he should not be here with the
Gaffer," answered Lionel, good-naturedly, "I am glad to Bee that he is
enjoying his dinner."

"Yes, sir," replied the farm-labourer, with a grin; "he seems to have
an oncommon good twist of his own, wheresoever he belongs to."

No more was said about the strange guest--who was an old man, with very
white hair, which hung low over his eyebrows; and very white whiskers,
which almost covered his cheeks. He had a queer, bird-like aspect, and
a nose that was as sharp as the beak of any of the rooks cawing
hoarsely amongst the elms of Hallgrove that snowy Christmas-day.

After the dinner in the old hall, Lionel Dale and his guests returned
to their own quarters; Mrs. Mordaunt and the three younger ladies
walked in the grounds, with Douglas Dale and Sir Reginald Eversleigh in
attendance upon them.

Miss Graham was the last woman in the world to forget that the income
of Douglas Dale was almost as large as that of his brother, the rector;
and that in this instance she might have two strings to her bow. She
contrived to be by the side of Douglas as they walked in the
shrubberies, and lingered on the rustic bridge across the river; but
she had not been with him long before she perceived that all her
fascinations were thrown away upon him; and that, attentive and polite
though he was, his heart was far away.

It was indeed so. In that pleasant garden, where the dark evergreens
glistened in the red radiance of the winter sunset, Douglas Dale's
thoughts wandered away from the scene before him to the lovely Austrian
woman--the fair widow, whose life was so strange a mystery to him; the
woman whom he could neither respect nor trust; but whom, in spite of
himself, he loved better than any other creature upon earth.

"I had rather be by her side than here," he said to himself. "How is
she spending this season, which should be so happy? Perhaps in utter
loneliness; or in the midst of that artificial gaiety which is more
wretched than solitude."

The rector of Hallgrove and his guests assembled in the old-fashioned
drawing-room of the manor-house rectory at seven o'clock on that snowy
Christmas-night. The snowflakes fell thick and fast as night closed in
upon the gardens and shrubberies, the swift-flowing river, and distant
hills.

The rectory drawing-room, beautified by the soft light of wax-candles,
and the rich hues of flowers, was a pleasant picture--a picture which
was made all the more charming by the female figures which filled its
foreground.

Chief among these, and radiant with beauty and high spirits, was Lydia
Graham.

She had contrived to draw Lionel Dale to her side. She was seated by a
table scattered with volumes of engravings, and he was bending over her
as she turned the leaves.

Her smiles, her flatteries, her cleverly simulated interest in the
rector's charities and pensioners, had exercised a considerable
influence upon him--an influence which grew stronger with every hour.
There was a sweetness and simplicity in the manners of the two Misses
Mordaunt which pleased him; but the country-bred girls lost much by
contrast with the brilliant Lydia.

"I hope you are going to give us a real old-fashioned Christmas
evening, Mr. Dale," said Miss Graham.

"I don't quite know what you mean by an old-fashioned Christmas
evening."

"Nor am I quite clear as to whether I know what I mean myself,"
answered the young lady, gaily. "I think, after dinner, we ought to sit
round that noble old fire-place and tell stories, ought we not?"

"Yes, I believe that is the sort of thing," replied the rector. "For my
own part, I am ready to be Miss Graham's slave for the whole of the
evening; and in that capacity will hold myself bound to perform her
behests, however tyrannical she may be."

When dinner was announced, Lionel Dale was obliged to leave the
bewitching Lydia in order to offer his arm to Mrs. Mordaunt, while that
young lady was fain to be satisfied with the escort of the disinherited
Sir Reginald Eversleigh.

At the dinner-table, however, she found herself seated on the left hand
of her host; and she took care to secure to herself the greater share
of his attention during the progress of dinner.

Gordon Graham watched his sister from his place near the foot of the
table, and was well satisfied with her success.

"If she plays her cards well she may sit at the head of this table next
Christmas-day," he said to himself.

After less than half-an-hour's interval, the gentlemen followed the
ladies into the drawing-room, and the usual musical evening set in.
Lydia Graham had nothing to fear from comparison with the Misses
Mordaunt. They were tolerable performers. She was a brilliant
proficient in music, and she had the satisfaction of observing that
Lionel Dale perceived and appreciated her superiority. She could
afford, therefore, to be as amiable to the girls as she was captivating
to the gentlemen.

The Misses Mordaunt were singing a duet, when a servant entered, and
approached Lionel Dale.

"There is a person in the hall who asks to see you, sir," said the man,
"on most particular business."

"What kind of person?" asked the rector.

"Well, sir, she looks like an old gipsy woman."

"A gipsy woman! The gipsies about here do not bear the best character."

"No, sir," replied the man. "I bore that in mind, sir, with a view to
the plate, and I told John Andrew to keep an eye upon her while I came
to speak to you; and John Andrew is keeping an eye upon her at this
present moment, sir."

"Very good, Jackson. You can tell the gipsy woman that, if she needs
immediate help of any kind, she can apply in the village, to Rawlins,
but that I cannot see her to-night."

"Yes, sir."

The man departed; and the Misses Mordaunt finished their duet, and rose
from the piano, to receive the usual thanks and acknowledgments from
their hearers.

Again Miss Graham was asked to sing, and again she seated herself
before the instrument, triumphant in the consciousness that she could
excel the timid girls who had just left the piano.

But this time Lionel Dale did not place himself beside the instrument.
He stood near the door of the apartment, ready to receive the servant,
if he should return with a second message from the gipsy woman.

The servant did return, and this time he begged his master to step
outside the room before he delivered his message. Lionel complied
immediately, and followed the man into the corridor without.

"I was almost afraid to speak in there, sir," said the man, in an
awe-stricken whisper; "folks have such ears. The woman says she must
see you, sir, and this very night. It is a matter of life and death,
she says."

"Then in that case I will see this woman. Go into the drawing-room,
Jackson, and tell Mrs. Mordaunt, with my compliments, that I find
myself compelled to receive one of my parishioners; and that she and
the other ladies must be so good as to excuse my absence for half an
hour."

"Yes, sir."

The rector went to the hall, where, cowering by the fire, he found an
old gipsy woman.

She was so muffled from head to foot in her garments of woollen stuff,
strange and garish in colour, and fantastical in form, that it was
almost impossible to discover what she really was like. Her shoulders
were bent and contracted as if with extreme age. Loose tresses of gray
hair fell low over her forehead. Her skin was dark and tawny; and
contrasted strangely with the gray hair and the dark lustrous eyes.

The gipsy woman rose as Lionel Dale entered the hall. She bent her head
in response to his kindly salutation; but she did not curtsey as before
a superior in rank and station.

"Come with me, my good woman," said the rector, "and let me hear all
about this very important business of yours."

He led the way to the library--a low-roofed but spacious chamber, lined
from ceiling to floor with books. A large reading-lamp, with a Parian
shade, stood on a small writing-table near the fire, casting a subdued
light on objects near at hand, and leaving the rest of the room in
shadow. A pile of logs burnt cheerily on the hearth. On one side of the
fire was the chair in which the rector usually sat; on the other, a
large, old-fashioned, easy-chair.

"Sit down, my good woman," said the rector, pointing to the latter; "I
suppose you have some long story to tell me."

He seated himself as he spoke, and leaned upon the writing-table,
playing idly with a carved ivory paper-knife.

"I have much to say to you, Lionel Dale," answered the old woman, in a
voice which had a solemn music, that impressed the hearer in spite of
himself; "I have much to say to you, and it will be well for you to
mark what I say, and be warned by what I tell you."

The rector looked at the speaker earnestly, and yet with a
half-contemptuous smile upon his face. She was seated in shadow, and he
could only see the glitter of her dark eyes as the fitful light of the
fire flashed on them.

There was something almost supernatural, it seemed to him, in the
brilliancy of those eyes.

He laughed at himself for his folly in the next instant. What was this
woman but a vulgar impostor, who was doubtless trying to trade upon his
fears in some manner or other?

"You have come here to give some kind of warning, then?" he said, after
a few moments of consideration.

"I have--a warning which may save your life--if you hear me patiently,
and obey when you have heard."

"That is the cant of your class, my good woman; and you can scarcely
expect me to listen to that kind of thing. If you come here to me,
hoping to delude me by the language with which you tell the country
people their fortunes at fairs and races, the sooner you go away the
better. I am ready to listen to you patiently: if you need help, I am
ready to give it you; but it is time and labour lost to practise gipsy
jargon upon me."

"I need no help from you," cried the gipsy woman, scornfully; "I tell
you again, I come here to serve you."

"In what manner can you serve me? Speak out, and speak quickly!" said
Lionel; "I must return to my guests almost immediately."

"Your guests!" cried the gipsy, with a mocking laugh; "pleasant guests
to gather round your hearth at this holy festival-time. Sir Reginald
Eversleigh is amongst them, I suppose?"

"He is. You know his name very well, it seems."

"I do."

"Do you know him?"

"Do _you_ know him, Lionel Dale?" demanded the old woman with sudden
intensity.

"I have good reason to know him--he is my first-cousin," answered the
rector.

"You _have_ good reason to know him--a reason that you are ignorant of.
Shall I tell you that reason, Mr. Dale?"

"I am ready to hear what you have to say; but I must warn you that I
shall be but little affected by it."

"Beware how you regard my solemn warning as the raving of a lunatic. It
is your life that is at stake, Lionel Dale--your life! The reason you
ought to know Reginald Eversleigh is, that in him you have a deadly
enemy."

"An enemy! My cousin Reginald, a man whom I never injured by deed or
word in my life! Has _he_ ever tried to injure me?"

"He has."

"How?"

"He schemed and plotted against you and others before your uncle Sir
Oswald's death. His dearest hope was to bring to pass the destruction
of the will which left you five thousand a year."

"Indeed! You seem familiar with my family history," exclaimed Lionel.

"I know the secrets of your family as well as I know those of my own."

"Then you pretend to be a sorceress?"

"I pretend to be nothing but your friend. Sir Reginald Eversleigh has
been your foe ever since the day which disinherited him and made you
rich. Your death would make him master of the wealth which you now
enjoy; your death would give him fortune, position in the world--all
which he most covets. Can you doubt, therefore, that he wishes your
death?"

"I cannot believe it!" cried Lionel Dale; "it is too horrible. What!
he, my first cousin! he can profess for me the warmest friendship, and
yet can wish to profit by my death!"

"He can do worse than that," said the gipsy woman, in an impressive
voice; "he can try to compass your death!"

"No! no! no!" cried the rector. "It is not possible!"

"It is true. Sir Reginald Eversleigh is a coward; but he is helped by
one who knows no human weakness--whose cruel heart was never softened
by one touch of pity--whose iron hand never falters. Sir Reginald
Eversleigh is little more than the tool of that man, and between those
two there is ruin for you."

"Your words have the accent of truth," said the rector, after a long
pause; "and yet their meaning is so terrible that I can scarcely bring
myself to believe in them. How is it that you, a stranger, are so
familiar with the private details of my life?"

"Do not ask me that, Mr. Dale," replied the gipsy woman, sternly; "when
a stranger comes to you to warn you of a great danger, accept the
warning, and let your nameless friend depart unquestioned. I have told
you that an unseen danger menaces you. I know not yet the exact form
which that danger may take. To-morrow I expect to know more."

"I can pledge myself to nothing."

"As you will," answered the gipsy, proudly. "I have done my duty. The
rest is with Providence. If in your blind obstinacy you disregard my
warning, I cannot help it. Will you, for your own sake, not for mine,
let me see you to-morrow; or will you promise to see anyone who shall
ask to see you, in the name of the gipsy woman who was here to-night?
Promise me this, I entreat you. I have nothing to ask of you, nothing
to gain by my prayer; but I do entreat you most earnestly to do this
thing. I am working in the dark to a certain extent. I know something,
but not all, and I may have learned much more by to-morrow. I may bring
or send you information then, which will convince you I am speaking the
truth. Stay, will you promise me this, for my sake, for the sake of
justice? You will, Mr. Dale, I know you will; you are a just, a good
man. You suspect me of practising upon you a vulgar imposition.
To-morrow I may have the power of convincing you that I have not done
so. You will give me the opportunity, Mr. Dale?"

The pleading, earnest voice, the mournful, dark eyes, stirred Lionel
Dale's heart strangely. An impulse moved him towards trust in this
woman, this outcast,--curiosity even impelled him to ask her, in such
terms as would ensure her compliance, for a full explanation of her
mysterious conduct. But he checked the impulse, he silenced the
promptings of curiosity, sacrificing them to his ever-present sense of
his professional and personal dignity. While the momentary struggle
lasted, the gipsy woman closely scanned his face. At length he said
coldly:

"I will do as you ask. I place no reliance on your statements, but you
are right in asking for the means of substantiating them. I will see
you, or any one you may send to-morrow."

"You will be at home?" she asked, anxiously. "The hunt?"

"The hunt will hardly take place; the weather is too much against us,"
replied Lionel Dale. "Except there should be a very decided change,
there will be no hunt, and I shall be at home." Having said this,
Lionel Dale rose, with a decided air of dismissal. The gipsy rose too,
and stood unshrinkingly before him, as she said:

"And now I will leave you. Good night. You think me a mad woman, or an
impostor. This is the second occasion on which you have misjudged me,
Mr. Dale."

As the rector met the earnest gaze of her brilliant eyes, a strange
feeling took possession of his mind. It seemed to him, as if he had
before encountered that earnest and profound gaze.

"I must have seen such a face in a dream," he thought to himself;
"where else but in a dream?"

The fancy had a powerful influence over him, and occupied his mind as
he preceded the gipsy woman to the hall, and opened the door for her to
pass out.

The snow had ceased to fall; the bright wintry moon rode high in the
heaven, amidst black, hurrying clouds. That cold light shone on the
white range of hills sleeping beneath a shroud of untrodden snow.

On the threshold of the door the gipsy woman turned and addressed
Lionel Dale--

"There will be no hunting while this weather lasts."

"None."

"Then your grand meeting of to-morrow will be put off?"

"Yes, unless the weather changes in the night."

"Once more, good night, Mr. Dale."

"Good night."

The rector stood at the door, watching the gipsy woman as she walked
along the snow-laden pathway. The dark figure moving slowly and
silently across the broad white expanse of hidden lawn and flower-beds
looked almost ghost-like to the eyes of the watcher.

"What does it all mean?" he asked himself, as he watched that receding
figure. "Is this woman a common impostor, who hopes to enrich herself,
or her tribe, by playing upon my fears? She asked nothing of me
to-night; and yet that may be but a trick of her trade, and she may
intend to extort all the more from me in the future. What should she be
but a cheat and a trickster, like the rest of her race?"

The question was not easy to settle.

He returned to the drawing-room. His mind had been much disturbed by
this extraordinary interview, and he was in no humour for empty
small-talk; nor was he disposed to meet Reginald Eversleigh, against
whom he had received so singular, so apparently groundless, a warning.

He tried to shake off the feeling which he was ashamed to acknowledge
to himself.

He re-entered the drawing-room, and he saw Miss Graham's face light up
with sudden animation as she saw him. He was not skilled in the
knowledge of a woman's heart, and he was flattered by that bright look
of welcome. He was already half-enmeshed in the web which she had
spread for him, and that welcoming smile did much towards his complete
subjugation.

He went to a seat near the fascinating Lydia. Between them there was a
chess-table. Lydia laid her jewelled hand lightly on one of the pieces.

"Would you think it very wicked to play a game of chess on a Christmas
evening, Mr. Dale?" she asked.

"Indeed, no, Miss Graham. I am one of those who can see no sinfulness
in any innocent enjoyment."

"Shall we play, then?" asked Lydia, arranging the pieces.

"If you please."

They were both good players, and the game lasted long. But ever and
anon, while waiting for Lydia to move, Lionel glanced towards the spot
where Sir Reginald Eversleigh stood, engaged in conversation with
Gordon Graham and Douglas Dale.

If the rector himself had known no blot on the character of Reginald
Eversleigh, the gipsy's words would not have had a feather's weight
with him; but Lionel did know that his cousin's youth had been wild and
extravagant, and that he, the beloved, adopted son, the
long-acknowledged heir of Raynham, had been disinherited by Sir
Oswald--one of the best and most high-principled of men.

Knowing this, it was scarcely strange if Lionel Dale was in some degree
influenced by the gipsy's warning. He scanned the face of his cousin
with a searching gaze.

It was a handsome face--almost a perfect face; but was it the face of a
man who might be trusted by his fellow-men?

A careworn face--handsome though it was. There was a nervous
restlessness about the thin lips, a feverish light in the dark blue
eyes.

More than once during the prolonged encounter at chess, Reginald
Eversleigh had drawn aside one of the window-curtains, to look out upon
the night.

Mr. Mordaunt, a devoted lover of all field-sports, was also restless
and uneasy about the weather, peeping out every now and then, and
announcing, in a tone of disappointment, the continuance of the frost.

In Mr. Mordaunt this was perfectly natural; but Lionel Dale knew that
his cousin was not a man who cared for hunting. Why, then, was he so
anxious about the meet which was to have taken place to-morrow?

His anxiety evidently was about the meet; for after looking out of the
window for the third time, he exclaimed, with an accent of triumph--

"I congratulate you, gentlemen; you may have your run to-morrow. It no
longer freezes, and there is a drizzling rain falling."

Mr. Mordaunt ran out of the drawing-room, and returned in about five
minutes with a radiant face.

"I have been to look at the weathercock in the stable-yard," he said;
"Sir Reginald Eversleigh is quite right. The wind has shifted to the
sou'-west; it is raining fast, and we may have our sport to-morrow."

Lionel Dale's eyes were fixed on the face of his cousin as the country
squire made this announcement. To his surprise, he saw that face blanch
to a death-like whiteness.

"To-morrow!" murmured Sir Reginald, with a sigh.

                             CHAPTER XXIII.

                      "ANSWER ME, IF THIS BE DONE?"

All through the night the drizzling rain fell fast, and on the morning
of the 26th, when the gentlemen at the manor-house rectory went to
their windows to look out upon the weather, they were gratified by
finding that southerly wind and cloudy sky so dear to the heart of a
huntsman.

At half-past eight o'clock the whole party assembled in the
dining-room, where breakfast was prepared.

Many gentlemen living in the neighbourhood had been invited to
breakfast at the rectory; and the great quadrangle of the stables was
crowded by grooms and horses, gigs and phaetons, while the clamour of
many voices rang out upon the still air.

Every one seemed to be thoroughly happy--except Reginald Eversleigh. He
was amongst the noisiest of the talkers, the loudest of the laughers;
but the rector, who watched him closely, perceived that his face was
pale, his eyes heavy as the eyes of one who had passed a sleepless
night, and that his laughter was loud without mirth, his talk
boisterous, without real cheerfulness of spirit.

"There is mischief of some kind in that man's heart," Lionel said to
himself. "Can there be any truth in the gipsy's warning after all?"

But in the next moment he was ready to fancy himself the weak dupe of
his own imagination.

"I dare say my cousin's manner is but what it always is," he thought;
"the weary manner of a man who has wasted his youth, and sacrificed all
the brilliant chances of his life, and who, even in the hour of
pleasure and excitement, is oppressed by a melancholy which he strives
in vain to shake off."

The gathering at the breakfast-table was a brilliant one.

Lydia Graham was a superb horsewoman; and in no costume did she look
more attractive than in her exquisitely fitting habit of dark blue
cloth. The early hour of the meet justified her breakfasting in
riding-costume; and gladly availing herself of this excuse, she made
her appearance in her habit, carrying her pretty little riding-hat and
dainty whip in her hand.

Her cheeks were flushed with a rich bloom--the warm flush of excitement
and the consciousness of success. Lionel's attention on the previous
evening had seemed to her unmistakeable; and again this morning she saw
admiration, if not a warmer feeling, in his gaze.

"And so you really mean to follow the hounds, Miss Graham?" said Mrs.
Mordaunt, with something like a shudder.

She had a great horror of fast young ladies, and a lurking aversion to
Miss Graham, whose dashing manner and more brilliant charms quite
eclipsed the quiet graces of the lady's two daughters. Mrs. Mordaunt
was by no means a match-making mother; but she would have been far from
sorry to see Lionel Dale devoted to one of her girls.

"Do I mean to follow the hounds?" cried Lydia. "Certainly I do, Mrs.
Mordaunt. Do not the Misses Mordaunt ride?"

"Never to hounds," answered the matron. "They ride with, their father
constantly, and when they are in London they ride in the park; but Mr.
Mordaunt would not allow his daughters to appear in the hunting-field."

Lydia's face flushed crimson with anger; but her anger changed to
delight when Lionel Dale came to the rescue.

"It is only such accomplished horsewomen as Miss Graham who can ride to
hounds with safety," he said. "Your daughters ride very well, Mrs.
Mordaunt; but they are not Diana Vernons."

"I never particularly admired the character of Diana Vernon," Mrs.
Mordaunt answered, coldly.

Lydia Graham was by no means displeased by the lady's discourtesy. She
accepted it as a tribute to her success. The mother could not bear to
see so rich a prize as the rector of Hallgrove won by any other than
her own daughter.

Douglas Dale was full of his brother's new horse, "Niagara," which had
been paraded before the windows. The gentlemen of the party had all
examined the animal, and pronounced him a beauty.

"Did you try him last week, Lionel, as I requested you to do?" asked
Douglas, when the merits of the horse had been duly discussed.

"I did; and I found him as fine a temper as any horse I ever rode. I
rode him twice--he is a magnificent animal."

"And safe, eh, Lio?" asked Douglas, anxiously. "Spavin assured me the
horse was to be relied on, and Spavin is a very respectable fellow; but
it's rather a critical matter to choose a hunter for a brother, and I
shall be glad when to-day's work is over."

"Have no fear, Douglas," answered the rector. "I am generally
considered a bold rider, but I would not mount a horse I couldn't
thoroughly depend upon; for I am of opinion that a man has no right to
tempt Providence."

As he said this, he happened by chance to look towards Reginald
Eversleigh. The eyes of the cousins met; and Lionel saw that those of
the baronet had a restless, uneasy look, which was utterly unlike their
usual expression.

"There is some meaning in that old woman's dark hints of wrong and
treachery," he thought; "there must be. That was no common look which I
saw just now in my cousin's eyes."

The horses were brought round to the principal door; a barouche had
been ordered for Mrs. Mordaunt and the two young ladies, who had no
objection to exhibit their prettiest winter bonnets at the general
meeting-place.

The snow had melted, except here and there, where it still lay in great
patches; and on the distant hills, which still wore their pure white
shroud.

The roads and lanes were fetlock-deep in mud, and the horses went
splashing through pools of water, which spurted up into the faces of
the riders.

There was only one lady besides Lydia Graham who intended to accompany
the huntsmen, and this lady was the dashing young wife of a cavalry
officer, who was spending a month's leave of absence with his relatives
at Hallgrove.

The hunting-party rode out of the rectory gates in twos and threes. All
had passed out into the high road before the rector himself, who was
mounted on his new hunter.

To his extreme surprise he found a difficulty in managing the animal.
He reared, and jibbed, and shied from side to side upon the broad
carriage-drive, splashing the melted snow and wet gravel upon the
rector's dark hunting-coat.

"So ho, 'Niagara,'" said Lionel, patting the animal's arched neck;
"gently, boy, gently."

His voice, and the caressing touch of his hand seemed to have some
little effect, for the horse consented to trot quietly into the road,
after the rest of the party, and Lionel quickly overtook his friends.
He rode shoulder by shoulder with Squire Mordaunt, an acknowledged
judge of horseflesh, who watched the rector's hunter with a curious
gaze for some minutes.

"I'll tell you what it is, Dale," he said, "I don't believe that horse
of yours is a good-tempered animal."

"You do not?"

"No, there's a dangerous look in his eye that I don't at all like. See
how he puts his ears back every now and then; and his nostrils have an
ugly nervous quiver. I wish you'd let your man bring you another horse,
Dale. We're likely to be crossing some stiffish timber to-day; and,
upon my word, I'm rather suspicious of that brute you're riding."

"My dear squire, I have tested the horse to the uttermost," answered
Lionel. "I can positively assure you there is not the slightest ground
for apprehension. The animal is a present from my brother, and Douglas
would be annoyed if I rode any other horse."

"He would be more annoyed if you came to any harm by a horse of his
choosing," answered the squire. "However I'll say no more. If you know
the animal, that's enough. I know you to be both a good rider and a
good judge of a horse."

"Thank you heartily for your advice, notwithstanding, squire," replied
Lionel, cheerily; "and now I think I'll ride on and join the ladies."

He broke into a canter, and presently was riding by the side of Miss
Graham, who did not fail to praise the beauty of "Niagara" in a manner
calculated to win the heart of Niagara's rider.

In the exhilarating excitement of the start, Lionel Dale had forgotten
alike the gipsy's warning and those vague doubts of his cousin Reginald
which had been engendered by that warning. He was entirely absorbed by
the pleasure of the hour, happy to see his friends gathered around him,
and excited by the prospect of a day's sport.

The meeting-place was crowded with horsemen and carriages, country
squires and their sons, gentlemen-farmers on sleek hunters, and humbler
tenant-farmers on their stiff cobs, butchers and innkeepers, all eager
for the chase. All was life, gaiety excitement, noise; the hounds,
giving forth occasional howls and snappish yelpings, expressive of an
impatience that was almost beyond endurance; the huntsman cracking his
whip, and reproving his charges in language more forcible than polite;
the spirited horses pawing the ground; the gentlemen exchanging the
compliments of the season with the ladies who had come up to see the
hounds throw off.

At last the important moment arrived, the horn sounded, the hounds
broke away with a rush, and the business of the day had begun.

Again the rector's horse was seized with sudden obstinacy, and again
the rector found it as much as he could do to manage him. An inferior
horseman would have been thrown in that sharp and short struggle
between horse and rider; but Lionel's firm hand triumphed over the
animal's temper for the time at least; and presently he was hurrying
onward at a stretching gallop, which speedily carried him beyond the
ruck of riders.

As he skimmed like a bird over the low flat meadows, Lionel began to
think that the horse was an acquisition, in spite of the sudden freaks
of temper which had made him so difficult to manage at starting.

A horseman who had not joined the hunt, who had dexterously kept the
others in sight, sheltering himself from observation under the fringe
of the wood which crowned a small hill in the neighbourhood of the
meet, was watching all the evolutions of Lionel Dale's horse closely
through a small field-glass, and soon, perceived that the animal was
beyond the rider's skill to manage. The stretching gallop which had
reassured Mr. Dale soon carried the rector beyond the watcher's ken,
and then, as the hunt was out of sight too, he turned his horse from
the shelter he had so carefully selected, and rode straight across
country in an opposite direction.

In little more than half an hour after the horseman who had watched
Lionel Dale so closely left the post of observation, a short man,
mounted on a stout pony, which had evidently been urged along at
unusual speed, came along the road, which wound around the hill already