Chapter V: Part 5

"Good boy, good boy. Now, look here, Arthur: you are behaving very well over this, and if the affair comes off as I wish, and you behave very nicely, I'll see next what I can do by way of finding you a wife with a snug fortune; only you must not be too particular about her looks."

"I leave myself in your ladyship's hands."

"There, now you may get down. I'm going to make two or three calls in the Palace."

"One moment, Lady Littletown," said Litton eagerly; "I'm just starting a society for the preservation of ancient trees and old--"

"Now, _mon cher_, that will do," said the old lady decidedly. "You know I never give money or--"

"I only ask for your name as a patroness or supporter."

"And you will not have it; so now be a good boy, and go. I've got your name down upon my tablets, Arthur, so wait your time. Stop!"

The horses were checked; the footman descended and opened the door, rattling the steps loudly; Arthur Litton leaped out, raised his hat; Lady Littletown kissed the tips of her gloved fingers to him, and the carriage passed on.

"I wonder whether she will," said the young man, as he walked towards the station. "However, we shall see."

Volume 1, Chapter X.

A DINNER FOR AN END.

"My income, my dears, just suffices for my wants," said Lady Littletown; "and I have never anything to spare for charities and that sort of thing."

So said her ladyship to her aristocratic friends living in pinched circumstances in the private apartments; and it may or may not have been intended for a hint not to try and borrow money.

"One would like to be charitable and to give largely, but what with one's household expenses and the horses and carriages, and my month in town in the height of the season, I really sometimes find myself obliged to ask his late lordship's agent for a few hundreds in advance of the time when the rents are due. But then, you see, one owes so much to one's position."

The Honourable Misses Dymcox said one certainly did; Lady Anna Maria Morton, who had been longing for a new silk evening dress for three years, said the same; and, thoroughly feeling it to be a fact, Lady Littletown tried to pay honourably what she owed to society by rigidly living up to the last penny of her fairly handsome income in the pleasant mansion near Hampton Court.

She gave about four dinner-parties in the course of the year, and afterwards received.

This was one of her special parties for a special purpose, and when the last of her fifteen guests had arrived and been looked at through her great gold eyeglass held with the left hand, while the tips of the fingers of the right were given in assurance of her being "so delighted," her ladyship proceeded to marshal her forces for the procession to the dining-room.

"Here's what it is to be a lone widow!" she exclaimed playfully. "Moorpark, might I ask you to take the foot of the table?--Miss Marie Riversley."

Lord Henry had murmured to himself a good deal about being dragged down all the way from Saint James's Square to Hampton just at a time when his heart told him that he ought to be married, and though terribly dissatisfied with the success which had attended his attentions to Gertrude Millet, his brain was full of her bright, refined features. He, however, now advanced, quite the handsome, stately gentleman, with a pleasant, benevolent look upon his thin face, and at once entered into conversation with the dark beauty to whom he had been introduced.

"Mr Elbraham," continued Lady Littletown, in a confidential whisper, as she inspected him as if he were for sale, "would you oblige me?--Miss Dymcox's niece."

The reputed millionaire started, and a scowl began to dawn in his face, for the name Dymcox brought up the faces of the honourable sisters; but as he was led to dark, glowing, southern-faced Clotilde, the scowl reached no farther than its dawn, and the ruddy sun of his coarse round face rose out of the fog, and beamed its satisfaction upon the handsome girl.

"Oh, I say, Glen, what a shame!" whispered little Dick Millet to his chosen companion, who, consequent upon his being an officer and the friend of dear Lady Millet's son, had been invited, like his major, to the feast.

Dick began grinding his white teeth in the corner, where he had been making eyes at Clotilde and Marie in turn, whichever looked in his direction; and for the moment he seemed as if he were going to tear either his curly hair or the dainty exotic from his button-hole.

"Hush! be quiet," was the reply.

"Hurrah! viva!" whispered Dick again. "The Black Douglas is being tacked on to that old scrag."

"That old scrag" was the Honourable Philippa Dymcox, and "the Black Douglas" Major Edward Malpas, who, probably from disappointment in connection with a late marriage, was contemplatively watching Clotilde; but his courtesy was perfect as he bent toward the Honourable Philippa.

"Now there's that other old she-dragon, Glen," whispered Dick. "Oh, I say, it's too bad of the old woman! I won't, that I won't. I didn't come here to be treated so, and if she says I'm to march in that dreadful skeleton I'll be taken ill and make a bolt of it. I say, Marcus," he continued, "my nose is going to bleed," and as he spoke he took out his delicately-scented pocket-handkerchief.

"Captain Glen, will you take in the Honourable Isabella Dymcox?" said Lady Littletown, showing just a trifle of gold setting as she smiled.

Marcus Glen told the truth when he said he would be most happy, for he recognised in the lady of the old-fashioned lavender poplin one of the companions of Clotilde and Marie in their walk in the Palace gardens.

Dick Millet thrust his scented cambric back into the pocket of his silk-lined coat, and after a glance at the ladies, either of whom he longed to take in to dinner, he had a look round the room to see which would be the most eligible dinner-table companion of those that were left; but to his disgust he began to find that he was being left entirely in the cold, for the hostess, with all the skill of one who has well made her plans beforehand, was rapidly finishing her arrangements.

"It's enough to make any man's nose bleed, and compel him to bolt," muttered the handsome little fellow, who had got himself up in the most irreproachable manner, having even been to town that afternoon on purpose to place himself in a hairdresser's hands.

"Hang it all! am I nobody?"

It was hard work getting hold of the ends, but Dick managed to give a vicious twist to his delicate floss silk moustache, and he was contemplating a fresh appeal to his scented handkerchief and making the threatened bolt, as he termed it, with the cambric held to his nose, when Lady Littletown approached.

"Now, my dearest Richard," she exclaimed, and her many years, the speck of gold near one top tooth, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and the suggestions of untruthfulness about her hair, all seemed to be softened down and seen through an eyeglass tinted _a la rose_, "I'm a very covetous person, and I always make a point, like the wicked old widow I am, of reserving the most _beau chevalier_ for myself. Now you have to take me in, we two last; and you'll be obliged to help me out of my difficulties if there is anything to carve."

Dick coloured a little with pride:

"And we, too, must have a pleasant chat about mamma and the dear girls; and, oh, I am so glad you took to the army and are quartered down here. It will be so pleasant for me; but I shall, for mamma's sake, watch all your doings. I am not going to have you turn out a _roue_ like your wicked Major. Come along."

So Dick took in her ladyship, feeling taller, and actually seeming to swell a little, as he found himself seated at his hostess's right hand. Then, the places being found, every guest's name neatly written on a porcelain _menu_, Lord Henry, at the foot of the table, closed his eyes, bent forward, and in a low, reverent voice said grace, to which Mr Elbraham added a very audible "Amen!" and the dinner commenced.

Of course it was all by way of paying her dues to society that things were done so well, for certainly the dinner was as exquisite as the table itself, with its decorations of plate and glass, amidst which, half hidden in almost a redundancy of exotic flowers, was a thoroughly choice dessert. Richard Millet, who rather trembled in the midst of his pride, and had twice in imagination seen wings of chicken, as he dismembered a bird, flying in a cloud of brown sauce into people's laps, was spared all trouble, for the viands were served _a la Russe_, and were perfect of their kind.

"I'm deuced glad I came," thought Mr Elbraham, as the choice, well-iced wines reached him in turn, and after several rather awkward attempts at conversation with Clotilde he found himself getting on much better. For his companion, in spite of her delight at being present at such a party, and having been affectionately kissed by Lady Littletown, and called "My dearest child," was disappointed because Captain Glen had not spoken to her, neither had he been chosen to take her in to dinner. But, then, he had looked at her--looked at her several times. He admired her. There was no doubt about that. His looks said so plainly; and, for her part, there was something very pleasant to her eyes in the well-built, manly fellow, with his easy, indifferent ways and his gentlemanly, chivalrous attention to her aunt; who, poor soul! was nervous, and fluttered with the unusual excitement.

"I don't like him; he's a dreadful creature," said Clotilde to herself, as her companion grew more at home, and, after a glass or two of a very choice champagne of unusual potency, began to talk to her in a fashion somewhat suggestive of his style at a private supper at the Rantan or at Latellier's, and ladies who were in the habit of performing show parts in public were present.

"I'm deuced glad I came. She's a devilish handsome girl, and I like her," thought Mr Elbraham, and during his next remark, of course inadvertently, his coat-sleeve touched Clotilde's firm, white, well-rounded arm.

"And so you lead a very quiet, very retired life," said Lord Henry to Marie, as, scarcely partaking of anything himself, he chivalrously devoted his attention to his companion, enjoying her evident delight and hearty young appetite, which as a rule was none too well satisfied.

She, too, had been, in the midst of her delight in her charming dress, the reflection of her handsome self in Lady Littletown's mirror, that lady's affectionate greeting, and the brilliant dinner-table, rather disappointed that she had not been taken in by Captain Glen, or that dark handsome Major, or even by the funny pretty little page style of officer; but by degrees that wore off, and she listened with real pleasure to Lord Henry's words.

He was quite an elderly gentleman, but, then, he was a nobleman, with a truer feeling of admiration for the beautiful woman he had been called upon to escort. There was something delightfully new, too, in her ways. She was very different to the society young ladies he was accustomed to meet, all gush and strained style of conversation. Marie was as if fresh from a convent, and he was even amused with some of her naive remarks.

The Honourable Misses Dymcox had given their nieces the most stringent instructions upon etiquette; above all, they were not to taste wine; but while Marie was answering a remark made by Lord Henry, one of the servants filled that faintly prismatic glass, like half a soap-bubble in its beauty, and from old habit Marie lifted the drinking vessel by her hand, tasted, found the clear sparkling wine delicious, and had sipped again and again.

The effect was trifling, but it did remove some of her diffidence, and she found herself chatting willingly enough to her cavalier.

"Oh yes; a very, very retired life. We spend most of our time in the schoolroom, and when we take walks it is in the gardens or in the park with our aunts, at times when none of the London people are down."

"Have you been on the Continent?"

"Oh no," replied Marie, "not since Mr Montaigne brought us over to the Palace?"

"May I ask who is Mr Montaigne?"

"He was a very old friend of poor mamma's."

"Poor mamma?" said Lord Henry inquiringly.

"Oh yes; poor mamma and papa died when we were very little girls, and we have been with our aunts ever since."

Lord Henry sipped his wine, gazed sidewise at his beautiful companion, and sighed. He thought of Gertrude Millet, and let his eye rest from time to time upon her brother, vainly trying to trace a resemblance, and also that though Lady Millet had undoubtedly seemed pleased by his advances, Gertrude had been chilling, and Marie Dymcox was not.

Possibly, too, as the old man sighed, he thought that he had no time to lose now that he had been thinking that he would marry, and he sighed again as if in regret of something he had lost, something he might have had, but had been too careless or indifferent to win.

A close observer would have noticed that there were tears in his eyes just then. Lady Littletown was a close observer, and by the aid of her eyeglass she did notice it, and secretly hugged herself.

"But you go out a good deal--to parties, to concerts, or balls?"

"Oh no!" laughed Marie, and her white teeth showed beneath her coral lips, while Major Malpas, who was nearly opposite, looked at her intently from beneath his heavy eyelids, and softly stroked his moustache. "I was never at a party before."

"And do you like it?" said Lord Henry, beaming upon her, as, with a secret kind of satisfaction, he quietly admired the animated countenance beside him.

"Oh yes, yes," she said softly. "I can't help liking it very much."

"Well," said Lord Henry, smiling in quite a pleased manner, "why should you help liking it?"

"I don't know," she said thoughtfully; "only we are always so quiet at the Palace, and aunts have often said that too much gaiety was bad."

"Too much, my dear child. Yes, certainly; but a little is very pleasurable, and innocent, and good."

Marie's eyes, as they met his, said that they were delighted to hear it, and as she sat and let the quiet, chivalrous old gentleman draw her out, no one would have credited her with being one of the heroines of some of the schoolroom scenes in which poor little Ruth had been the victim.

Lord Henry Moorpark grew more and more thoughtful as he chatted on with his companion. There was something inexpressibly refreshing in Marie's words and ways, and he, too, congratulated himself upon the dinner-party, which he had looked upon as a nuisance, and to which he had come solely out of respect for Lady Littletown, turning out so pleasurable and fresh.

He was not the only elderly guest who thoroughly enjoyed the dinner, for the Honourable Isabella Dymcox partook of her share of the courses in a state of, for her, unwonted flutter. In accordance with the plotting and planning that had been at work in the Palace coterie, she had come fully prepared to give a furtive observation to what was going on with Clotilde and Marie, the children who, with her sister, she was fain to confess had arrived at a marriageable age; but from the moment she had laid her tremulous hand upon Marcus Glen's arm, and had been led by him to her seat, her nieces had been forgotten.

Certainly Glen had several times over exchanged glances with Clotilde, and taken notice of the fact that Elbraham was growing more and more familiar and loud; but all the same he had found ample time to devote himself with a good deal of assiduity to Miss Isabella, making her at first surprised and cold, soon after pleased and full of agreeable thoughts, and at last thoroughly gratified at the way in which her companion attended to her lightest wishes and conversed upon society at Hampton Court.

"I--I won't be so foolish as so think he means anything," said Miss Isabella to herself; "for he is quite young and manly-looking, almost handsome, while I am getting very old indeed, and all hope of _that_ is past; but he is very nice and gentlemanly, and so very different to officers as a rule. I must say I like him very much."

She showed, too, that she did as soon as the cold formal crust had been melted away, and Marcus was not slow to realise the fact.

He was perfectly honest, for he knew that the Honourable Isabella was the aunt of Clotilde, and being as impressionable as most young men of his age, he had felt to some extent the power of that lady's eyes. Under the circumstances, as he had been thrown with the relative, he had thought it fair campaigning to make friends with her, and this he had done to such an extent that the attentions she had received, and a glass or two of wine, made the lady very communicative, and far happier than her sister, who found the dinner much less to her taste.

For Major Malpas was not best pleased at having to take her in, and he had confined himself to the most frigid civilities. He was perfectly gentlemanly, but as the dinner wore on he grew more polite, and by consequence the Honourable Philippa became icy in her manner, till at last she seemed to be frozen stiff.

"Humph!" he thought, "better have gone and sat with Renee Morrison. Yes," he continued, staring hard at Dick, "your sister, my half-fledged cockerel."

The other guests merely formed chorus to the principal singers in the little social opera, but they were wonderfully led by Lady Littletown, whose tongue formed her conductor's baton, by which she swayed them with a practised ease.

She had a word in season for everyone where it was needful to keep up the balance of the parts, and wonderfully skilful was her way. She gave a great deal of her time to everybody, but little Richard Millet never missed any of her attentions. In a very short time she had quite won his confidence, and knew that Major Malpas was a regular plunger, that Captain Glen was the dearest and best fellow in the world, that he hadn't any more vice in him than a child, that they were the dearest of friends, and that Marcus had only about two hundred and fifty a year besides his pay.

"I begin to like Hampton Court, Lady Littletown," said the boy warmly, for the champagne had been frequent.

"I'm sure you'll love the place when you begin to know us better. Of course you will come to all my `at homes?'"

"That I will," exclaimed the delighted youth. "By the way, Lady Littletown, what lovely girls those Miss Dymcoxes are!"

"Yes, are they not?" replied Lady Littletown; "but oh, fie, fie, fie! This will not do. I will not listen to a single word. I'm not going to lend myself to any match-making. What would Lady Millet say?"

"But, really, Lady Littletown--"

"Oh dear me, no; I will not listen. I know too well, sir, what you officers are--so wicked and reckless, and given to breaking ladies' hearts. I think I shall absolutely forbid you even approaching them when you come up to the drawing-room. I would not for the world be the means of causing any heart diseases amongst my guests."

"But surely, Lady Littletown, a fellow may admire at a distance?"

"Oh dear no," said her ladyship playfully; "I think not. I'm afraid you are a very bad, dangerous man, and I shall have to withdraw my invitation."

Dick Millet pleaded; the invitation was not withdrawn; and the little fellow was better satisfied with himself than he had felt for months.

"It's an uncommonly well got-up affair, after all," he thought; "but I wish the ladies would go now. I want to get the wine over, and go up to the drawing-room."

To the little fellow's satisfaction the long-drawn-out repast did come to an end, that cleverly-managed signal was given which acts electrically at a certain stage of a dinner; the ladies rose, and in place of one of the younger gentlemen opening the door, Lord Henry performed that duty, a genial but half-sad smile playing about his thin, closely-shaven lips, as Marie looked up in his face in passing. Then the last lady went out, and the gentlemen closed up to their coffee and wine.

Somehow or other, Marcus Glen found himself now near Lord Henry, and while a knot of listeners heard Mr Elbraham's opinion upon the Eastern Question, especially with regard to the new Sultan and the position of Egypt, the young officer entered into a quiet discussion upon the history of the old Palace, and was surprised and pleased to find how much his companion knew of the past days of the old red-brick building, but above all at the genial, winning manner the old gentleman possessed.

Acting the part of host now for the time being, he soon proposed that they should adjourn, for there was a strange longing within him to be within sight and hearing of Marie.

"Ah, to be sure," said Elbraham; "if I wanted to invest, gentlemen, I should say Egyptian bonds. By all means, let's join the ladies."

He, too, had come to the conclusion that he should like "another talk to that girl." But the drawing-room was filling fast, and there were no more _tete-a-tetes_. Arthur Litton arrived soon after ten, and his chief approached him to shake hands, as if they had not met for some time.

"Well?" said Litton.

"Stunning, sir, stunning! 'Bove par."

"Oh!"

"Deuced good dinner, Litton, 'pon my soul. People not half so snobbish as I expected to find them. I say, look here. What do you think of that piece of goods?"

He indicated Clotilde, about whom Dick Millet was now hovering; but who had turned from him to listen to a remark just made by Glen.

"Hum, ha!" said Litton critically. "Oh, that's one of the Dymcox girls, isn't it?"

"I didn't ask you anything about who she is; I said what do you think of her?"

"Not bad-looking, I should say," replied Litton coolly; "but nothing particular."

"Oh, you be blowed!" said the great financier, and he screwed his short thick neck down a little lower into his chest, and turned away.

"Well, Lady Littletown, how do matters make themselves?" said Litton quietly, when, after a time, her ladyship passed his way.

"Oh, _Arturo, mio caro_!" said her ladyship, tickling the centre stud in his shirt-front with the end of her closed fan. "_Maravigliosamente_. My dear boy, it is wonderful. You shall have a rich wife, Arthur, if you are good, and this affair is _un fait accompli_."

"Why didn't you try a bit of German, too?" muttered Litton, as her ladyship passed on. "Here, I must get on with some of these officers; perhaps they'd take me to their quarters, and give me a smoke and an S. and B. Hang this tea! I forgot, though, I promised Potiphar to go home with him. Hang the beast! but it will save me a fare."

Everyone was delighted. Lady Littletown was charmed over and over again, but when at last an obsequious footman, who seemed to be shod with velvet, whispered to the Honourable Philippa that her carriage had arrived, that lady, who felt very tired and sleepy, said mentally, "Thank goodness!"

But it was half an hour later before she made a move, and the drawing-rooms were growing unbearably hot with the chattering, buzzing crowd.

Suddenly there was silence, as the Honourable Misses Dymcox rose to go.

Lady Littletown was so sorry the evening had been so short, but she managed to exchange meaning looks.

"I think, yes," she whispered; and the Honourable Philippa nodded and tightened her lips.

"Good-night, my sweet darling," said Lady Littletown, kissing Clotilde affectionately. "Mind you come and see me soon. Good-night, dearest Marie. How well you look to-night, child!"

Then her ladyship saw through her square eyeglass, with the broad chased gold rim, Elbraham, podgy, stout and puffy, take Clotilde down to the carriage, followed by Lord Henry with Marie, and Captain Glen with the Honourable Isabella, and little Richard Millet with the Honourable Philippa; everyone but Joseph being perfectly ignorant of the fact that Mr Buddy had been imbibing largely of the stimulants plentifully handed round to the various servants outside.

But the ladies were duly packed inside, the jangling door was banged to, and Joseph, having mounted to the box beside Mr Buddy, perhaps only out of regard for his own safety, assumed the reins of government himself, and steered the fly to the Palace doors.

"Good-night, children," said the Honourable Misses Dymcox in duet. "Take care of your dresses whatever you do!"

"Oh, Rie!" cried Clotilde, as soon as they were in their bedroom.

"Oh, Clo!" cried Marie. Then, crossing to the farther door to the cupboard in which Ruth's bed was squeezed--"'Sleep, Ruthy?"

"No, Marie," was the reply, as a troubled, pale face was lifted from the pillow.

"Why, I declare she has been crying!" said Clotilde. "There, jump up and help us to undress, Cindy, and we'll tell you all about the prince and the ball. You weren't there, were you?"

No; Cinderella, otherwise Ruth Allerton, had not been there; but she had been crying bitterly, for she had had a fright.

Volume 1, Chapter XI.

FAMILY MATTERS.

Captain Robert Millet's lunch was carried up to him upon a very stiff, narrow tray, which took dishes and plates one after the other in a long row. It was evidently something or several somethings very savoury and nice from the odours exhaled, but everything was carefully covered over.

It was no easy task, the carriage of that long, narrow tray from the basement to the back drawing-room on the first floor, especially as there were gravies and other liquids on the tray; but Valentine Vidler and his wife had taken up breakfasts, lunches, and dinners too many thousand times to be in any difficulty now.

So, starting from the dark kitchen, where coppers, pewters, and tins shone like so many moons amidst the gloom, the odd couple each took an end of the tray, which was quite six feet long, and Vidler's own invention. Salome went first, backwards, and Vidler followed over the level, when, as the little woman reached the mat at the foot of the kitchen stairs, there was a pause, while she held the tray with one hand and gave her long garments a hitch, so as to hold one end in her teeth and not tread upon them as she went up backwards. Then, stooping and holding the tray as low as she could, she began to ascend, Vidler following and gradually raising his end to preserve the level of the tray till he held it right above his head.

This raising and lowering in ascent and upon level was all carried out in the most exact and regular way--in fact, so practised had the old couple grown in the course of years, that they could have carried a brimming glass of water up the gloomy stairs without spilling a drop. Hence, then, they reached the drawing-room with the tray preserving its equilibrium from bottom to top.

As soon as they were inside Salome placed her end upon the little bracket while Vidler retained his; then she went out of the room, took up a big, soft drumstick, and gave three gentle taps on a gong that hung in its frame--three taps at long intervals, which sounded like the boomings of a bell at the funeral of a fish and a fowl--and then returned to the drawing-room and stood on the right-hand side of the panel close to the wall with one hand raised.

As she took her place the panel was softly slid back towards her. Then she took off the first cover, Vidler acting in conjunction, made the long tray glide slowly forwards into the opening, its end evidently resting on something within. Then two hands appeared, a knife and fork were used, with a glass at intervals, and the fish was discussed.

As soon as the knife and fork were laid down Salome whipped off two more covers, and the tray glided in a couple of feet further, both the lady and her lord keeping their eyes fixed upon the floor.

The calmness and ease with which all this was carried on indicated long practice, and for precision no amount of drilling could have secured greater regularity. As the knife and fork fell upon the plate again there was a pause, for a pint decanter and glass were pushed opposite the thin white hands that now approached, and, removing the stopper, filled the glass. Then a cover was raised, and the tray glided onward once more, with some steaming asparagus on toast; and after a short pause the cold, colourless voice was heard to repeat a short grace, the tray was slowly withdrawn, the panel glided to, and Vidler and his little wife bore the remains of the luncheon to the lower regions.

Hardly had the tray been set down before there was a double knock, and on going upstairs Vidler found John Huish at the front door.

"Would Captain Millet give me an interview, Vidler?" he asked.

The little man looked at him sidewise, then tried the other eye, and ended by standing out of the way and letting the visitor enter, shutting out the light again as carefully as before.

"I'll try, sir," he said; "I don't think he will. I was just going to take up that," he continued, pointing to a basket of coloured scraps of print. "He's about to begin a new counterpane to-day."

"A new what?" said Huish.

"A new counterpane for the Home Charity. That'll be six he has made this year. I'll show you the last."

He led Huish into the darkened dining-room, and showed him a wonderfully neat piece of needlework, a regular set pattern, composed of hundreds upon hundreds of tiny scraps of cotton print.

"Makes 'em better than many women could, and almost in the dark," said the little man; "but I'll go up and see. Miss Millet and her sister have not been gone long."

"What!" cried Huish, "from here?"

"Gone nearly or quite an hour ago, sir. Been a good deal lately."

"My usual fortune," muttered Huish excitedly. "But go up," he said aloud; "I particularly want to have a few words with him."

"I don't think it's of any use, sir; but I'll see," repeated the little man; and he went upstairs, to return at the end of about five minutes to beckon the visitor up, and left him facing the panel.

It was evident that the young man had been there before, as he took a seat, and waited patiently for the panel to unclose, which it did at last, but not until quite a quarter of an hour had passed.

"Well, John Huish," said the voice, "what do you want?"

It was rather a chilling reception for one who had come upon such a mission; but he was prepared for it, and dashed at once into the object of his visit, in spite of the peculiarity of having to address himself to a square opening in the wall.

"I have come for advice and counsel," said Huish firmly.

"You, a man of the world, living in the world, come to such an anchorite as I!" said the voice--"as I, who have for pretty well thirty years been dead to society and its ways?"

"Yes," said Huish. "I come to you because you can help."

"How much do you want, John Huish?" said the voice. "Give me the pen and ink."

The thin white hand appeared impatiently at the opening, with the fingers clutching as if to take the pen.

"No, no, no!" said the young man hastily. "It is not that. Let me tell you," he exclaimed, as the fingers ceased to clutch impatiently at the air and the white hand rested calmly upon the edge of the opening--"let me speak plainly, for I am not ashamed of it--I am in love."

There was a faint sigh here, hardly audible to the young man, who went on:

"I come to you for help and advice."

"What can I do to help? As for advice," said the voice coldly, "I will do what I can. Is she worthy of your love?"

"Worthy?" cried Huish, flushing. "She is an angel."

"Yes," said the voice, with a sigh. "They all are. But, tell me, does she refuse you."

"No, sir."

"Then what more do you want? Who and what is she?"

These last words were said with more approach to interest, and the fingers began to tap the edge of the opening.

"It is presumption on my part," said Huish, growing excited, and rising to stride up and down the room, "for I am poor and unworthy of her."

"No true honourable man is unworthy of the woman he loves," said the voice calmly, "though he may, perhaps, be unsuited. Go on. Who is the lady?"

"Who is she, sir? I believed that you must know. It is your niece-- Gertrude."

"My God!"

It was almost a whisper, but John Huish heard it, and saw that the thin white hand seemed to be jerked upwards, falling slowly back, though, to remain upon the edge of the opening trembling.

"I shock you, sir, by my announcement," said Huish bitterly.

"No--yes--no; net shock--surprise me greatly." There was a pause, and the fingers trembled as they were now and again raised, then grew steady as they were laid down. "But tell me," it continued, trembling and becoming less cold, "does Gertrude return your love?"

"Oh yes, Heaven bless her, yes!" cried the young man fervently; and there was another silence, such as might have ensued had the owner of the voice been trying to master some emotion.

"What more, then, do you want?" said the voice, now greatly changed. "You, an honourable young man, in love with a girl who is all sweetness and purity. It is strange; but it is the will of God. Marry her, and may He bless the union!"

"Captain Millet, you make me very, very happy," cried the young man; and before the hand could be removed it was seized and pressed in his strong grasp.

It was withdrawn directly, and a fresh silence ensued, when the voice said softly:

"And my brother, does he approve?"

"Oh yes; I think so," replied Huish; "but--"

"The mother objects--of course. She has made her choice. Who is it?"

"Lord Henry Moorpark."

"A man nearly three times her age. It would be a crime. You will not permit such an outrage against her youth. Moorpark must be mad."

"What can I do, sir?" cried Huish. "That is why I ask your help and counsel."

"Bah!" said the voice contemptuously. "You are young and strong; you have your wits; Gertrude loves you, and you ask me for help and counsel! John Huish, at your age, under such circumstances, it would have been a bold man who would have robbed me of my prize. There, go--go, young man, and think and act. Poor Gertrude! she has a mother who makes Mammon her God--a woman who has broken one of her children's hearts; do not let her break that of the other. Go now, I am weary: this has been a tiring day. You can come to me again."

"Do not let her break that of the other," said John Huish to himself as the panel slowly closed; and from that moment the dim twilight of the shuttered house became to him glorious with light, and he went away feeling joyous and elastic as he had not felt for days. As he neared his chambers a thin, grey, hard-faced-looking woman, who had stood watching for quite an hour, stepped out of a doorway and touched him on the arm.

He turned sharply, and she said in a low voice:

"I must see you. Come to-morrow night at the old time."

Before he could speak she had hurried away, turned down the next street, and was gone.

"To-morrow night--the old time?" said Huish, gazing after her, and then raising his hat to place his hand upon his forehead. "Quite cool. Is it fancy? Why should that woman speak to me?"

Then, turning upon his heel, he entered the door of his chambers, and set himself to work to think over his interview, and to devise some plan for defeating Lady Millet in her projected enterprise.

"It would shock her," he said at last; "but when she knows of her uncle's views she might be influenced. She must, she shall be. The poor old man's words have given me strength, and I shall win, after all. But what slaves we are to custom and prejudice! I ought not to be the man to study them in such a case as this."

Then the words just spoken to him at the door came back to puzzle and set him thinking of several other encounters--or fancied encounters with people whom he felt that he had never seen before.

"I don't know what to say to it," he thought; "Stonor ought to know; but somehow I feel as if he had not grasped my case. There, I will not trouble about that now."

He kept the thoughts which troubled him from his brain for a time, but they soon forced themselves back with others.

"I wonder," he mused, "what took place in the past? There must have been something. My father and mother must have known Captain Millet very intimately. He received his injury from some fall, and Dr Stonor saved his limb, I believe. But there's a reticence about all that time which is aggravating. I suppose I must wait, and when I learn everything which puzzles me now, it will be only shadowy and vague. Only my mother always asks about the Captain with so tender a tone of respect. Ah, well! I must wait."

At about the same time that John Huish was pondering over his state in connection with his love affairs, Renee Morrison called in her carriage for her sister, bore her off to where she thought they could be alone, and sent the carriage back. The place chosen was the Park, which, though pretty well thronged with people, seemed to them solitary, as they strolled across toward the Row.

Gertrude was very silent, for she felt that Renee had something important to say; but the minutes sped on, and their scattered remarks had been of the most commonplace character, and at last, as she glanced sideways, Gertrude saw that if her sister were to confide her troubles and be the recipient of those effervescing in her own breast she herself must speak.

"You do not confide in me, Renee dear," she said tenderly, as they took a couple of chairs beneath one of the spreading trees. "Why do you not always make me more your confidant? One feels as if one could talk out here in the park, where there are no walls to listen. Come, dear, why do you not tell me all?"

"Because I feel that my husband's secrets are in my keeping, and that I should be doing wrong to speak of what he does."

"Not wrong in confiding in me, Renee. You are not happy. Oh, Ren, Ren, why did you consent? Trouble, and so soon!"

"Don't talk to me like that, now, Gerty," cried Renee in a low, passionate voice, "because it was mamma's will that we should marry well and have establishments, and satisfy her pride. Sometimes I think it would have been better if I had never been born."

"Oh, Ren, Ren," her sister whispered, pressing her hand. "But Frank--he is kind to you?"

"Yes," said Renee sadly; "he is never angry with me."

"But I mean kind and loving and attentive, as your husband should be?" said Gertrude softly.

Renee looked at her with a sad, heavy look, and now that the first confidence had been made, her heart was open to her sister.

"Gertrude," she whispered to her, "he never loved me!"

"Oh, Ren dear, think what you are saying!"

"I do think, dear, and I say it once more. He never loved me."

"But, Renee, you have been kind and loving to him."

"Yes, as tender as a woman could be to the man she had sworn to love; but he does not care for me, and I am haunted."

"Haunted, Renee?"

"Yes; hush! Here is Major Malpas."

Gertrude glanced in the direction taken by her sister's eyes, and her heart seemed to be compressed as by a cold hand, as she turned indignantly to her sister.

"Renee!" she said, in a horrified whisper, "oh, do not say you care for him still!"

"Gertrude!" cried Renee, catching her hand, "how dare you say that! I hate--I detest him! I thought him a gentleman once, and I did love him; but that was over when I married Frank, and since then he has haunted me; he follows me everywhere, and Frank makes him his constant companion, and he leads him away."

"Oh, this is dreadful!"

"Dreadful!" cried Renee, "I feel at times that I cannot bear it. Come away: he has seen us, and is coming here."

"Is--is that Mr Huish?" whispered Gertrude, gazing in another direction.

"Yes. Who is the dark lady on his arm?"

"I do not know," said Gertrude quietly. "Some friend, perhaps; but, look, is not that Frank?"

She drew her sister's attention towards a phaeton in which Frank Morrison was driving a handsome-looking woman dressed in the height of fashion; and directly Renee saw him plainly the Major came up.

"What a delightful meeting, Miss Millet!" he said. "Mrs Morrison, I hope I shall not be _de trop_?"

"My husband's friends have too great a claim on me," said Renee quietly, as she left her seat and moved in the direction of her own home; but she kept glancing in the direction taken by the phaeton.

It was cleverly-managed, and as if Malpas knew exactly when the carriage would next come by, timing his place so well that the sisters were close to the railings as the dashing pair scattered some of the earth over the young wife's dress.

"Who is that with Frank Morrison, Major Malpas?" said Gertrude quickly.

"I beg your pardon?" he said.

"That fashionably-dressed lady in my brother-in-law's phaeton. There they go."

"Indeed!" said the Major. "I was not looking. Are you sure it was he?"

"Certain," replied Gertrude.

"My dear Mrs Morrison, is anything the matter?" cried the Major, with a voice full of sympathy.

"No, nothing," said the young wife, who was now deadly pale. "May I ask you--to leave us?"

"Yes," he said earnestly; "but I shall not go. Pray take my arm. Miss Millet, your sister is ill. I fear you have been imprudent and have taxed her strength. I must see her safely home, or I could not face Morrison again."

"He haunts me!" thought Gertrude to herself, as she recalled her sister's words, and found that the Major persisted in walking by her side till they reached Chesham Place, where, murmuring his satisfaction that Renee seemed better, he left the sisters in the hall.

"All things come to the man who waits," he muttered to himself, as he went off smiling.

"Renee," said Gertrude, as soon as they were alone, "have you ever encouraged him in any way since your marriage? How is it he seems to have such a hold upon you?"

"I do not know--I cannot tell," said Renee wearily, as, with brow contracted, she sat thinking of the scene in the Park. "But do not mention him--do not think of him, Gertrude dear; he is as nothing in face of this new misery."

"New misery?" said Gertrude innocently.

"Yes," cried Renee passionately; "do you not see? Oh, Frank, Frank!" she moaned, "why do you treat me so?"

Gertrude, upon whom all this came like a revelation, strove to comfort her, and to point out that her fears might be mere exaggerations, but her sister turned sharply.

"You do not understand these things, Gertrude," she said. "He does not love me as he should, and, knowing this, Major Malpas has never ceased to try and tempt him away from me--to the clubs--to gambling parties, from which he comes home hot and feverish; and now it seems that worse is to follow. Oh, mother, mother! you have secured me an establishment which I would gladly change for the humblest cottage, if it contained my husband's faithful love."

Gertrude's heart beat fast at these words, and a faltering purpose became strengthened.

"But, Ren darling," she whispered; "have you spoken to him and tried to win him from such associations? Frank is so good at heart."

"Yes," sighed Renee; "but so weak and easily led away. Spoken to him, Gertrude? No, dear. As his wife, I have felt that I must ignore such things. I would not know that he visited such places--that he gambled-- that he returned home excited. I have put all such thoughts aside, and met him always with the same smile of welcome, when my heart has been well-nigh broken."

"My poor sister!" whispered Gertrude, drawing her head to her breast and thinking of the husband and establishment that her mother had arranged for her to possess.

"But this I feel that I cannot bear," cried Renee impetuously. "It is too great an outrage!"

"Oh, Ren, Ren!" whispered Gertrude, "do not judge him too rashly; wait and see--it may be all a mistake."

"Mistake!" said Renee bitterly; "did you not see him driving that woman out? Did you not see her occupying the place that should be mine?"

"Yes--yes," faltered Gertrude; "but still there may be some explanation."

"Yes," said Renee at last, as she dried her tears and sat up, looking very cold and stern; "there may be, and we will wait and see. At all events, I will not say one single harsh word."

Gertrude left her at last quite calm and composed, the brougham being ordered for her use, and she sat back thinking of John Huish with the dark lady; but only to smile, for no jealous fancy troubled her breast.

End of Volume One.

Volume 2, Chapter I. The Story--Years Ago--(Continued).

MR MONTAIGNE ESTABLISHES A BOND OF SYMPATHY.

Mr Paul Montaigne was one of those quiet, bland gentlemen who, apparently without an effort, seemed to know everything that went on in his immediate neighbourhood. He never asked questions, but waited patiently, and the result was that, drawn, perhaps, by his quiet, persuasive way, people told him all he wanted to know.

Somehow, he had the knack of winning the confidence of women, and if he had been a confessor his would have been an easy task.

There were those who said that he was a Jesuit, but when it came to his ears he merely smiled pityingly, and made a point of attending church at all the week-day services, and repeating the responses in a quiet, reverent way that, combined with his closed eyes, gave him the aspect of true devoutness.

How he lived none knew, but it was supposed that he had an income from a vineyard in Central France, one which he had inherited from his father, an English gentleman who had had a taste for wine-growing.

Mr Paul Montaigne never contradicted the rumour, and he never entered into particulars about his past. He had been the friend of the mother of Clotilde and Marie. He had brought the children over to England when quite a young man, with a very French look and a suggestion of his being a student at a French religious seminary. He had brought letters of introduction with him, and he had been in England ever since.

Time seemed to have stood still with Paul Montaigne. Certainly, he was just a shade stouter, and there were a few bright, silvery-looking hairs about his temples; in other respects he looked quite a young man, for his smoothly-shaven face showed scarcely a line, his dark eyes were bright, and his black brows were as smoothly arched as if drawn with a pair of compasses.

Upon that smooth face there was always a pensive, half-sad smile, one which he seemed to be constantly trying to wipe off with his soft, plump, well-shaped, and very white hand, but without success, for the smile was always there--the quiet, beseeching smile, that won so many women's confidence, but sometimes had the contrary effect upon the sterner sex.

Those who said that he was a student were to some extent right, for his modest lodgings at Teddington were well furnished with books, and he was a familiar object to many, as with his white hands clasped behind him he walked in his semi-clerical habit to and from the Palace at Hampton Court--through Bushey Park, and always on the same side of the road, making a point of pausing at the inlet of the Diana Pool to throw crumbs of bread to the eager fish, before continuing his walk in by the Lion Gate into the Palace gardens to the large fountain basin, where the great gold and silver fish also had their portion.

He never spoke to anyone; apparently nobody ever spoke to him, and he went his way to and fro, generally known as "the priest," making his journeys two or three times a week to call at the apartments of the Honourable Misses Dymcox to see his young pupils, as he called them, and to converse with them to keep up their French.

Upon these occasions he partook of the weak tea handed round by Joseph, and broke a portion off one of the thin biscuits that accompanied the cups. In fact, he was an institution with the Dymcox family, and had been duly taken into the ladies' confidence respecting the movement proposed by Lady Littletown.

"My dear ladies," he had responded, "you know my position here--my trust to the dead; I watch over the welfare of their children, and you tell me this is for their well-being. What else can I say but may your plans prosper?"

"But I would not mention it to the children, Mr Montaigne," said Miss Philippa.

"I mention it! My dear madam, all these years that you have known me, and is my character a sealed book to you still?"

"For my part, I don't like him," said Joseph once to Markes, and he was politely told not to be a fool. Cook, however, who had a yearning after the mysterious, proved to be of a more sympathetic mind, and when Joseph told her his opinion, that this Mr Montaigne was only a Jesuit and a priest in disguise, cook said she shouldn't a bit wonder, for "them sort often was."

Now, cook had not seen Mr Montaigne, so her judgment should be taken _cum grano_, as also in the case where Joseph declared Mr Montaigne to be "a deep 'un," when she declared that was sure to be the case.

On the night of the dinner-party at Hampton, the carriage--to wit, Mr Buddy's fly--had no sooner departed than Markes announced her intention of going next door to see Lady Anna Maria Morton's maid; at which cook grunted, and, being left alone, proceeded to take out a basket from the dresser drawer, and seated herself to have what she called a couple of hours' good darn.

One of those hours had nearly passed, and several black worsted stockings had been ornamented with patches of rectangular embroidery, when the outer door-bell rang.

"If that's one of them dratted soldiers calling with his impudence, he'll get sent off with a flea in his ear," cried cook.

She bounced up angrily, and made her way to the door. It was no gallant Lancer in undress uniform and a cane under his arm, but Mr Paul Montaigne, whom cook at once knew by his description.

"The ladies in?" he said quietly.

"No, sir; which, please, they've gone to dine at Lady Littletown's."

"To be sure, yes, I had forgotten," he said, smiling nicely--so cook put it--at the plump domestic. "But never mind, I will have a few minutes' chat with Miss Clotilde and Miss Marie."

"Which they've gone as well, sir."

"To be sure, yes, I ought to have known," said the visitor absently, "I ought to have remembered; and is Miss Ruth gone as well?"

"Oh no, sir; she's in the schoolroom all alone!"