Chapter XI: Part 11

"Hark at him!" cried Gellow excitedly, "when every day he stops away may mean ten thousand pounds."

"She may have been ill, and I have been unwell," said Glyddyr sullenly.

"And all the time the old man's money might be running down the sink hole, or into the poor relatives' pockets. What are you at?"

"I tell you I couldn't go to the house with that old man lying there dead," cried Glyddyr, with a half-suppressed shudder.

"Look at him!" cried Gellow angrily, "shivering and shaking as if he had been on the drink for six months. Not afraid of a dead man, are you?"

"Your language is revolting," cried Glyddyr passionately.

"Well, ain't it enough to make any man revolt? Why, you ought to have hold there; you ought to have taken possession and looked after everything. It's as good as your own. Oh, where would you be if I didn't look after you. Now, then: you'd better get over there at once."

"No," said Glyddyr, "not yet;" and, in spite of himself, he shuddered, and then glanced at his visitor to see if it had been noticed.

"Look at him! Why, the old man isn't there now. There, I won't bully you, dear boy. I see how it is. Ring the bell; have in the steward, and let me mix you a pick-me-up. You're down, regularly down. I'll soon wind you up, and set you going again. I'm like a father to you."

Glyddyr obeyed in a weak, helpless way, ringing for the steward, and then ordering in the spirits.

"Bring in the _liqueurs_ too, my lad--Curacoa, Chartreuse, anything.-- You want me now, old fellow, but you must take care. You're as white as wax, and your hand's all of a tremble. It won't do. You don't drink fair. Now, as soon as your man brings in the tackle, I'll give you a dose, and then you've got to go over yonder."

"No," said Glyddyr hoarsely, "no: not to-day."

"Yes, to-day. You don't want two chaps cutting the ground from under your feet.--Hah, that's your sort, steward. Better than being aboard ship, and having to put your hand in your pocket every time you want a drink. Needn't wait."

The man left the little saloon, and Gellow deftly concocted a draught with seltzer and _liqueurs_, which Glyddyr took with trembling hand, and tossed off.

"Talk about making a new man!" cried Gellow. "You feel better already, don't you?"

Glyddyr nodded.

"Of course you do. Now, then, let's take the boat and go over yonder. I'm curious to see the place."

"No: impossible," said Glyddyr, flushing.

"Not a bit impossible. Come on, and I'll back you up."

"No: I will not take you there."

"Coming round more and more," said Gellow, laughing. "Well, will you go alone?"

"Not to-day."

"You'll leave those two chaps to oust you out of what is your own?"

"No. I'll go and call."

"When?"

"Now: at once."

"That's your sort," cried Gellow. "Never you say I'm not your friend."

Ten minutes later the boat was manned, and Glyddyr was ready to step in, but Gellow laid his hand upon his arm, and drew him back.

"Don't," he said, almost with tears in his eyes; "don't go like that, dear boy."

"What do you mean?"

"Go and change that tie. If you haven't got a black one, put on a white."

Glyddyr obeyed him sullenly, and changed his tie before starting, while his visitor went down into the saloon, helped himself to a cigar, and took up a glass and the brandy decanter.

"A nip wouldn't do me any harm," he said with a laugh, and, removing the stopper, poured out a goodly dram.

It was half-way to his lips when he stopped, and poured it back.

"No," he said quickly, "I want a clear head now; I can enjoy myself when I've got Master Glyddyr quite in trim."

He went on deck, to begin smoking and asking questions of the two men left on board; but all the time he had an eye on Glyddyr's boat, watching it till it reached the pier-steps, and then he was able to see its owner at intervals, till he disappeared among the houses.

After this, Gellow went below and used the binocular, fixing it upon the Fort till he made out Glyddyr approaching the house, where he stood in the entry for a few moments talking to a servant, and then turned away.

Gellow set down the glass, thrust his hands in his pockets, and stood with the cigar in the exact centre of his lips, puffing away rapidly--"For all the world like a steam launch," said one of the men left on board when talking about it afterwards--till Glyddyr came on board.

"Out," said the latter laconically.

"Fashionable slang for engaged with another chap," said Gellow, with a sneer.

Glyddyr turned upon him fiercely.

"Don't be waxey, dear boy," said Gellow; "but it was quite time I came down."

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The progress of affairs at the Fort had been business-like meanwhile.

"I beg your pardon, miss."

"It is nothing, Woodham; come in," said Claude quietly, as the woman was withdrawing after giving an unheeded tap, and entering the room.

"Mr Trevithick's compliments, ma'am, and would you see him in the study?"

"Yes, at once," said Claude; and both thought how she had seemed to change during the past few weeks, from the slight girl into the dignified woman. "Come, Mary."

"Isn't it private business?" said Mary, shrinking back strangely.

"Yes, dear; our private business," said Claude, and they passed out, Sarah Woodham holding open the door.

Claude gave her an affectionate smile, and crossed to the study; and, as the door closed after them, Sarah Woodham stood alone in the doorway, with her hands clasped and eyes closed as she muttered softly--

"And let me live for her--die for her, grateful for her undeserved love, in expiation--oh, my God, in expiation!"

"Ah!" said Trevithick, rising from a chair at the table covered with papers, and looking like the great, heavy, bashful Englishman he was, as he placed chairs opposite to where he had been seated, "I am sorry to trouble you, Miss Gartram, Miss Dillon too," he said with a smile, as he beamed upon her.

Mary gave him an angry, resentful look, and he turned chapfallen on the instant, and became the man of business again, then cold, and seeming to perspire figures.

"Miss Dillon takes part in our little conference, Miss Gartram?" he said, rather stiffly.

"Of course. My cousin is, as it were, my sister, Mr Trevithick."

"Yes, of course," he said, as he slowly resumed his seat, pursed up his lips a little, and then he took up a pen, with the holder of which he scratched his head as he studied a paper before him on the table. "Are you ready, Miss Gartram?"

"Quite."

"Well, then, I have very bad news for you, I am sorry to say."

"I am used to bad news, Mr Trevithick."

"My dear madam, I spoke too bluntly. I meant bad news as to money matters. Forgive me my rough way. I am a man of business--a mere machine."

Claude smiled her thanks, for the words were uttered with a manly sympathy that was pleasant to her ears, and Mr Trevithick felt better, and beamed again at Mary.

Mary once more resented that beam, and Trevithick passed his hand through his hair, which more than ever resembled a brush, and sighed, and said--

"I have gone over all papers and accounts, Miss Gartram, over and over again, and an auditor may perhaps find an error, but for the life of me I can't tell where, for I have studied the figures night and day ever since I came here last, and I cannot bring them right. I was wrong to the extent of one, seven, eight; but I found a receipt afterwards, evidently carelessly thrown into the drawer before entering, and I wish I could find the other."

"What other?" said Mary sharply.

"That other," said Mr Trevithick, beaming at her again, being silently snubbed, and collapsing once more. "As I make it, Miss Gartram," he continued, in the most stern and business way, "you inherit from my late respected client, your father, the freehold quarry, this residence, also freehold and of great value, while the quarry is almost inexhaustible; the furniture and plate, good debts, etcetera, and five hundred and twenty-seven thousand eight hundred and forty-nine pounds, seven shillings and four-pence, including half-a-sheet of stamps."

"Indeed?" said Claude, with a sigh.

"What bad news!" said Mary, with preternatural solemnity.

"That is to come, Miss Dillon," said Trevithick, with a look of triumph which met so sharp a glance that it was turned aside on the instant, and he took refuge in his papers.

"Yes, madam," he repeated, "that is to come. There is a very serious deficit, Miss Gartram. I find that there should have been five hundred and sixty-eight thousand, eight hundred and forty-nine, seven and four-pence--a deficit, you see, of forty-one thousand pounds--I need not add, a very large sum."

"Yes," said Claude quietly.

"Yes," said Trevithick. "Well, madam, what have you to say?"

"Nothing, Mr Trevithick."

"But really, my dear madam, I think you ought to say something about this sum, and give me some instructions what to do to recover it."

Claude shook her head gravely.

"No," she said, "I cannot regard this as a loss in the presence of one so much greater. Thank you very much, Mr Trevithick, for all that you have done; and now, pray, give me some advice as to what to do with this money."

"Good, my dear madam, and that I am sure you will do."

"I mean as to its investment."

"To be sure. I was coming to that, for the sooner this heavy amount is out of your hands the more comfortable you will be."

"I said something like this to my cousin a little while back, Mr Trevithick," said Mary sharply. "Pray give her some better advice than that."

The solicitor looked disconcerted, but he recovered himself.

"Well, Miss Gartram, I have plenty of clients who want money, and would agree to pay five per centum; but, excuse me, you don't want to make money, and, as your father's trusted legal adviser, I shall give his daughter the most valuable advice I can."

"And what is that, Mr Trevithick?"

"Let me at once invest all this money for you in Consols. Only two and a half now, but there will be no fluctuations, no heavy dividend one year, nothing at all the next, and some day perhaps failure. It is very poor advice, perhaps, but safe as the Bank of England."

"Take the necessary steps at once, Mr Trevithick," said Claude decisively.

"Thank you, madam," making a note; "it shall be done."

"And that is all?" said Claude.

"Oh, no, my dear madam. The next question is this residence. If you will part with it, I have a client who will give a very handsome sum-- its full value--and take it, furniture and all. Cash."

"And is that all?" said Claude quietly.

"No, madam, there is the quarry. I should advise you to sell that to a small company. You can get your own price, for it is very valuable, and retain shares in it if you liked; but I should say no--sell; add the purchase money to that for this house, and let me invest it in Consols also."

"No," said Claude, rising, and speaking firmly, though with tears in her eyes; "the opening of that quarry was my father's dearest enterprise, and the building of this house his greatest pleasure. While I live, his quarry and his people shall be my life business, and nothing shall be touched, nothing shall be changed in this his house."

"My dear Miss Gartram," said the lawyer, colouring like a girl, as he rose and stretched out his hand to take Claude's, which he raised reverently to his lips, "I feel proud of the confidence you placed in me. I feel far more proud now, and I honour you for what you have just said. Your wishes shall be carried out. One word more. You will require some assistance over the commercial matters of the quarry--a gentleman learned in stone, and--"

"No, Mr Trevithick, I shall only want help as to the monetary affairs of the business. That I hope you will oblige me by supervising yourself. The workpeople will help me in the rest."

The lawyer bowed, and once more beamed on Mary, but looked stern again.

"Now, have you done, Mr Trevithick?" said Claude.

"Not quite. The deficit."

"If, as you say, there is a deficit, it must remain. There is enough."

"But my late client would not have rested till it was put straight."

"No," said Claude dreamily; "but my father may have had some project of which we are ignorant. We had better wait. You will stay with us a few days longer?"

"I should say no," replied Trevithick; "but I cannot conscientiously leave these premises till this money is safe. Till then, my dear madam, I am your guest."

Claude would have spoken again, but the look she cast round the study brought up such a flood of painful memories that she could only make a sign to Mary to follow, as she hurried from the room.

"A woman any man might love," said the lawyer, as soon as he was alone. "I hope no money-hunting scoundrel will catch her up. No; she is too strong-minded and firm. Now, what have I done to offend little Mary?" he added, with a sigh. "Bless her, I don't get along with her as I could wish."

He was quiet and thoughtful for a few moments, and then began tapping the table.

"Gartram had that forty--one thousand. His books say so, and he was correct as an actuary. Some one knew the secret of this room, and got at that cash."

"Yes. I should like to find that out. It would please little Mary, too."

Volume Three, Chapter IV.

WIMBLE SEIZES THE CLUE.

"Love is blind," said Michael Wimble, with a piteous sigh. "Yes, love is blind."

He had been a great many times past Mrs Sarson's cottage, always with a stern determination in his breast to treat her with distance and resentment, as one who shunned him for the sake of her lodger; but so surely as he caught a glimpse of the pleasant lady at door or window, his heart softened, and he knew that if she would only turn to him, there was forgiveness for her and more.

Upon the morning in question he had had his constitutional, and found a splendid specimen of an auk washed up, quite fresh, which he meant to stuff and add to his museum.

An hour later a neat little servant-maid came to the door with a parcel and a letter.

"With missus's compliments."

Wimble took the letter and parcel, his hands trembling and a mist coming before his eyes, for it was Mrs Sarson's little maid.

"We are all wrong," he said, as he hurried in, his heart beating complete forgiveness, happiness in store, and everything exactly as he wished.

He turned back to the door, slipped the bolt, and then seated himself at the table with his back to the window, and cut the string of the parcel with a razor.

"She has relented, and it is a present," he said to himself, as he tingled with pleasure; "a present and a letter."

He stopped, with his fingers twitching nervously and his eyes going from parcel to note and back again.

Which should he open first--note or parcel?

He took the parcel, unfastened the paper, and found a neat cardboard box; and he had only to take off the lid to see its contents, but he held himself back from the fulfilment of his delight by taking up the note, opening it, and reading--

"Mrs Sarson would be greatly obliged by Mr Wimble's attention to the enclosed at once. To be returned within a week."

"Attention--returned--a week!" faltered Wimble; and with a sudden snatch he raised the lid, and sat staring dismally at its contents.

"And me to have seen her all these times and not to know that," he groaned, as he rested his elbows on the table and his brow upon his hands, gazing the while dismally into the box. "Ah! false one--false as false can be. Why, I've gazed at her fondly hundreds o' times, but love is blind, and--yes," he muttered, as he took the object from the box and rested it upon his closed fist in the position it would have occupied when in use, "there is some excuse. As good a skin parting as I ever saw. One of Ribton's, I suppose."

There was a long and dismal silence as Michael Wimble, feeling that he was thoroughly disillusioned, slowly replaced the object in its box.

"How can a woman be so deceitful, and all for the sake of show? And me never to know that she wore a front!"

"All, well!" he sighed, "I can't touch it to-day," and rising slowly he replaced it in the box, dropped the note within, roughly secured the packet, and opened a drawer at the side.

As he pulled the drawer sharply out, something rolled from front to back, and then, as the drawer was out to its full extent, rolled down to the front.

He picked it out, dropped the cardboard box within, and shut it up, ignoring the bottle he held in his hand as he walked away to slip the bolt back and throw open the door.

He was just in time to receive a customer in the shape of Doctor Asher, who entered and nodded.

"I want you, Wimble," he said. "When can you come up? Beginning to show a little grey about the roots, am I not?"

"Yes, sir, decidedly," said Wimble, as the doctor took off his hat, and displayed his well-kept dark hair.

"When will you come, then?"

"When you like, sir," said Wimble, unconsciously rubbing the tip of his nose with the cork of the little bottle he held in his hand.

"To-morrow afternoon, then," said the doctor sharply; "and you needn't shake the hair dye in my face."

"Beg pardon, sir? Oh, I see! That's not hair dye, sir."

"What is it, then? New dodge for bringing hair on bald places?"

He held out his hand for the bottle, and the barber passed it at once.

"Oh, no, sir," he said, "nothing of that kind."

With the action born of long habit, the doctor took out the cork, sniffed, held the bottle up to the light, shook it, applied a finger to the neck, shook the bottle again, tasted the drug at the end of his finger, and quickly spat it out.

"Why, Wimble, what the dickens are you doing with chloral?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing; only an old bottle."

"Throw it away, then," said the doctor hastily. "Don't take it. Very bad habit. Recollect that's how poor Mr Gartram came to his end. Good-day. Come round, then, at three."

"Yes, sir, certainly, sir; but you forgot to--"

"Oh, I beg pardon. Yes, of course," said the doctor, handing back the bottle, and then, beating himself with his right-hand glove, he walked hastily out of the place.

Wimble stood looking after his visitor till he was out of sight, and then walked slowly back into his museum to operate upon the dead bird, which lay where he had placed it upon a shelf ready for skinning.

"Ah," he said mournfully, as he rubbed his nose slowly with the cork of the little bottle, "what a world of deception it is. There is nothing honest. Were all more or less like specimens. A front, and me not to have known it all this time. If she had taken me sooner into her confidence, I wouldn't have cared. The doctor did. Hah! I wonder who ever suspected him, with his clear dark locks, as I keep so right. Yes, he's a deceiver, and without me what would he look like in a couple of months?--Deceit, deceit, deceit.--And I trusted her so. It's taking a mean advantage of a man.

"Well, it was a mark of confidence, and perhaps I have been all wrong. It shows she is waiting to trust me, and ought I to? Well, we shall see."

Michael Wimble looked a little brighter, and then his eyes fell upon the bottle, which he shook as the doctor had shaken it, took out the cork, applied a finger to it, and tasted in the same way, quickly spitting it out as he became aware of the sharp taste.

"What did he say: chloral? Don't take any of it. No, I sha'n't do that."

Wimble suddenly became thoughtful and dreamy as he replaced the cork, and he seemed to see the bright ray of light once more on the dry patch of sand beyond where the tide had reached.

Then he thought about Gartram's death by chloral.

"Might have been the same bottle," he said thoughtfully; "took what he wanted, and then threw it out of the window."

He looked at the tiny drop in the bottom, turned it over and over, and his thoughts seemed to run riot in his brain, till he grew confused at their number. But after a time he followed the one theme again.

"What a piece of evidence to have brought up at the inquest. How important a witness I should have been. But why should he have thrown the bottle out of the window? He didn't poison himself. He wasn't the man to do that. Thousands upon thousands of money. Everything he could wish for. Regular king of the place. He wouldn't do that--he couldn't."

Wimble stood with his brow wrinkled up, and then all at once, as if startled by the suddenness of a thought, he dropped the bottle on the oilcloth and drew back, gazing at it in a horrified way, his eyes dilating, and the white showing all round.

"Somebody must have given it to him."

"No, no. They wouldn't do that; it would be murder. No one would try to murder him."

He passed his hand over his forehead, and drew it away quite wet.

"His money!" he half whispered, as the thought seemed to grow and grow. "They say he kept thousands up there. Or some one who hated him, as lots of people did."

Wimble dropped into his shaving chair, and sat thinking of the numbers of workpeople who had quarrelled with Gartram and spoken threateningly; but he did not feel that it was possible for any one of these to have done such a deed.

"Some one who hated him--some one who wanted to get rid of him--some one who, who--no, no, no, it's too horrible to think about. I wouldn't know if I could."

He lifted the little bottle between his finger and thumb, and drew back with his arm extended to the utmost to hurl the little vessel across the road, and right out toward the sea.

But he checked himself thoughtfully, drew back, and went across his shop to the side. Here he stood, bottle in hand, thinking deeply, before slowly opening the drawer and placing it in a corner.

"It would be very valuable," he said softly, "if that was the bottle some one used to poison the old man; and if it was, why, I haven't got a specimen in my museum that would attract people half so much. `The Danmouth murder; the bottle that held the poison,' Why, they'd come in hundreds to see it."

He took the phial out again, for it seemed to have a strange fascination for him, and after staring at it till his hands grew moist, he took out a piece of white paper, carefully rolled it therein, and placed it in another drawer, which he had to unlock, and fastened afterwards with the greatest care.

"That bottle's worth at least a hundred pound," he said huskily, as he put the key in his pocket. "It will be quite a little fortune to me.

"Somebody who hated him--somebody who wanted him out of the way," he said, as he tapped his teeth with the key. "No, I can't think, and won't try any more. I'm not a detective, and I don't want to know.

"Some one who hated him and had quarrelled with him, and who wanted him out of the way."

In spite of his determination not to think any more of the subject, it came back persistently, and at last, to clear his brain and drive away the thoughts, he took down his hat, and determined to let the museum take care of itself for an hour, while he walked down along the beach.

He knew, as he came to this determination, that he would go straight down beneath the Fort, and look at the spot where he found the bottle; but, all the same, he felt that he must go, and, putting on his hat, he took the key out from inside of the door, and standing just inside the shop, began to put the key into the outer portion of the lock, as the thought came again more strongly than ever--

"Some one who hated him and had quarrelled with him, and wanted him out of the way."

He was in the act of closing his door as a quick step came along the path, and as the door closed, a voice said to some one--

"How do, Edward?" and the speaker passed on with creel on back and salmon rod over his shoulder.

Wimble darted back into the museum, shut the door, and stood trembling in the middle of the place.

"Oh!" he said, in a hoarse whisper, as the great drops stood out upon his brow. "What did Brime say?"

He shivered, and his voice dropped into a whisper.

"Mr Chris Lisle! He was there that night!"

Volume Three, Chapter V.

MR WIMBLE IS IN DOUBT.

"Want lodgings, sir?" said Reuben Brime taking his short black pipe from his lips, and gazing straight out to sea, as if he thought there was plenty of room for a good long rest out there. Then straightening himself from having a good, thoughtful lean on the cliff rail, where he had been having his evening's idle after the day's work done, he turned, and, looking thoughtfully at a youngish man in tweeds, as if he were a plant not growing quite so satisfactorily as could be wished, he said again, in a tone of mild inquiry,--"Lodgings?"

"Yes, lodgings," said the new-comer shortly.

"Well, I was trying to think of some, sir; and I could have told you of the very thing if something as I had in hand had come up--I mean off."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, sir," said the gardener thoughtfully. "I don't mind who knows it. I'd got as nice a little cottage in my eye as any man would wish to have there, the money to buy all the furniture, as much more as was wanted, theirs being very old; and I could have said to you, `There's a bedroom and a setten'-room, and the best of attendance.'"

"But it is not in hand, eh?"

"In hand, sir? No, sir; nothing like in hand."

"How's that?"

"Ah, well, I don't care who knows it now, sir. Mebbe if she heard how it's talked about, and the man's disappointment, she may get better, and alter her mind."

"She? The lady?"

"Yes, sir; the lady, as I may say I'd engaged myself to; but she's took bad and strange, and I suppose it's all off."

"Ah, well, I'm sorry to hear that," said the stranger, looking amused, and as if he thought the man he addressed was a little wanting in brains.

"Thank you, sir, kindly. Lodgings?--no. You see this isn't a seaside place."

"Then what do you call it?" said the stranger.

"Call it, sir? Well, we calls it Danmouth, or, mostly, Dan'orth, because you see it's shorter, and more like one word."

"Oh, yes, I know the name; but what do you call it if it isn't a seaside place?"

"I calls it a port, sir, and as good a little port as there is anywheres about this coast. Dinton and Bartoe and Minxton's seaside places, with lots of visitors and bathing machines, and bands and Punch and Judies. Lodgings, eh? Let me see. Lodgings for a gentleman? What do you say to the Harbour Inn? They've got as good a drop of beer there as a man could wish to drink."

"No, no, I don't want to be at a public house. I'm here for a fortnight's fishing, and I want nice, comfortable apartments."

"And you want comfortable apartments?" said Brime respectfully, as he rubbed his sunburned face with the stem of his pipe. "Fishing, eh? You mean pottering about with a rod and line; not going with a boat and nets?"

"Quite right."

"I've got it," said the gardener. "Mrs Sarson; she lets lodgings. Stop a moment. I'll take you on to the museum."

"Museum! Hang it all, man, I'm not a specimen."

Brime laughed for the first time for a month.

"No, sir, you don't look as if you was stuffed. I was going to take you to our barber's. He knows everything; and he'll tell us whether Mrs Sarson can take you in."

"Is it far--the museum?"

"Only yonder. Just where you see that man looking out of the door."

"Ah, yes," said the stranger sharply. "Yours seems a busy place."

"Tidy, sir, tidy."

"Whose castle's that?"

"Mr Gartram's, sir. Leastwise it was. He's gone."

"Oh! Dead?"

"Yes, sir. The hardest and the best master as ever was. Some on us'll miss him, I expect."

"Curious kind of master, my lad, and likely to be missed. Gartram? Oh, yes, I know; the stone quarry man. Mr Trevithick, in our town, has to do with his affairs."

"If you talked all night, sir, you couldn't say a truer word than that. Mr Trevithick, sir, very big man, lawyer."

"Yes; they call him Jumbo our way."

Kck!

Brime burst out into a monosyllabic half laugh, and then stopped short as Wimble was drawing back into his den to let them pass.

"Here, Mr Wimble, sir, this gent wants to ask something about Mrs Sarson."

"Eh! Yes!" said the barber sharply; and the suspicious look which had been gathering of late in his face grew more intense. "Step in, sir, pray," he added eagerly.

"Oh, that's not worth while now," said the stranger, passing his hand over his chin. "Give you a look in to-morrow. My friend here thought you could tell me about Mrs Sarson's lodgings."

"Yes," said Brime; "and--of course, this gent wants to go fishing, and Mr Lisle's always fishing."

"Mr Lisle?" said the stranger. "Christopher Lisle?"

"That's the man, sir," said the barber sharply. "You know anything about him, sir?"

"Only that he has a good heavy account with our bank."

Wimble looked sharply at the stranger, with his head on one side, and more than one eager question upon his lips. But the new-comer felt that he had made a slip by talking too freely, and prevented him by asking a question himself.

"Do you think Mrs Sarson could accommodate me?"

"No, sir," said Wimble, looking at him searchingly. "No: she has no room, I am sure. Take the gentleman up to Mrs Lampton's at the top of the cliff road. I daresay she could accommodate him."

"Why, of course," said Brime; "the very place. I never thought of that."

"No, Mr Brime," said Wimble patronisingly, as he looked longingly at the visitor with cross-examination in his breast. "Say I recommended the gentleman."

"All right. Come along, sir, I'll show you; and if you want a few worms for fishing, I'm your man."

"Worms?" said the visitor, laughing. "I always use flies."

"Most gents do, sir. Mr Chris Lisle does. But the way to get hold of a good fish in a river is with a whacking great worm."

"Do you know Mr Lisle?"

"Know him? Poor young man, yes."

"Poor? I don't call a gentleman who lately came in for a big fortune poor."

"Big fortune, sir? Mr Chris Lisle come in for a big fortune, sir? Hurrah! Our young lady will be glad."

The visitor was ready to pull himself up again sharp, for this was another mistake.

Brime stopped, smiling, at a pretty cottage, where fuchsias and hydrangeas were blooming side by side with myrtles, and was going off, when the visitor offered him a shilling for his trouble.

"Thankye, sir, and I hope you'll be comfortable," said the gardener, descending the chief path.--"Well, I am glad. Come in for a large fortune. Now, if I were him, I'd just send Mr Glyddyr to the right about, and get the business settled as soon as it seemed decent after master's death. He is a good sort, is Mr Lisle, and he's fond enough of her. Why, they'll be married now, and keep up the old place just as it is; and if I speak when we want more help, he isn't the gent to tell a hard-working man to get up a bit earlier and work a bit later. Not he. He made a friend of me when he gave me that half-sov'rin, and I made a friend of him when I caught him. My, what a lark it was when I dropped on to him, and he thought it was the governor! I know he did."

Reuben Brime smiled as he had not smiled for days, and a minute or two later he grinned outright. From his point of vantage, high up the cliff side, he could see to the mouth of the glen, and there, to his intense delight, he could just make out two figures in deep mourning, one tall and graceful, and the other short, and her head low down between her shoulders, walking away from him in the distance, and, not far behind, a sturdy-looking man in light brown tweeds, with a fishing creel slung at his back, and a rod over his shoulder, trying hard to overtake the pair in front.

"Wouldn't give much for Mr Glyddyr's chance," thought Brime, as he watched the trio out of sight. "Been an awfully cloudy time, but the sun's coming strong now, and things'll grow. What a fellow I am to give up because she was a bit off. Friends with the new guv'nor means friends with the new missus, and as Sarah about worships her, and'll do what she tells her, why, it'll come right in the end."

He walked on, building castles as he went, and in the height of his elation he said, half aloud--

"It's only six pounds a year, and I could let it till she said yes. Hang me if I don't take the cottage after all."

"Well, Mr Brime," said a voice at his elbow, "did Mrs Lampton take the gentleman in?"

"Eh? Oh, I don't know, as I didn't stop. But she'd be sure to."

"Oh, yes, it will be all right," said Wimble. "But you'll come in, Mr Brime?"

"No. I think I'll get back now, and finish my pipe by the cliff."

"With a beard like that, sir? Better have it off."

"Eh? No, it isn't shaving day."

"Your beard grows wonderfully fast, Mr Brime, believe me, sir. I wonder at a young man like you being so careless of his personal appearance. You'll be wanting to marry some day, sir, and there's nothing goes further with the ladies than seeing a man clean-shaved."

It was not quite a random shot, for Wimble had wheedled out a little respecting the gardener's future, and he had only to draw back with a smile for the man to follow him in, passing his hand thoughtfully over his chin, wondering whether it had anything to do with the very severe rebuff he had more than once received.

Once more in the chair, tied up in the cloth, and with his face lathered, he was at Wimble's mercy; and as the razor played about his nose and chin, giving a scrape here and a scrape there, the barber cross-examined the gardener in a quiet, unconcerned way, that would have been the envy of an Old Bailey counsel. In very few minutes he had drawn out everything that the gardener had learned, and so insidiously soft were the operator's words, that Brime found himself unconsciously inventing and supplying particulars that the barber stowed up in his brain cell, ready for future use.

"There, Mr Brime," he said, after delivering the final upper strokes with a dexterity that was perfect, though thrilling, from the danger they suggested, "I think you will say, sir, that a good shave is not dear at the price."

These last words were accompanied by little dabs with a wet sponge, to remove soapy patches among the thick whiskers, and then the towel was handed, and the victim walked to the glass.

"Yes, it does make a difference in a man," he said, as he dabbed and dried.

"Difference, sir? It's a duty to be clean-shaved. To a man, sir, speaking from years of experience, a beard is hair, natural hair. To a woman, sir, it is nothing of the kind. A woman cannot help it, sir; it is born in her, but to her, sir, a beard is simply dirt."

"Hah!" ejaculated the gardener, and he thought deeply.

"Yes, sir; I've often heard them call it so. Even on the properest man, it is, in their eyes--dirt."

Brime paid and took his departure, while Wimble plunged at once among his own dark thoughts.

"That man is blind as a mole," he said, "and can see nothing which is not just before his eyes. He can dig a garden, but he cannot dig down into his own brain. How horrible! how strange! And how the slackest deeds will come out in a way nobody who is guilty suspects. Yesterday, quite a poor man--to-day, very rich--a heavy banking account--come in for a fortune. Yes, it's all plain enough now. Now, ought I to do anything--and if so, what?"

Volume Three, Chapter VI.

TWO MEETINGS.

After a long stay within the walls of the Fort, Claude had yielded to her cousin's importunity, and gone out.

She felt the truth of the French saying before she had gone a hundred yards from her gates. It was only the first step that cost, for, as she passed along the little row of houses facing the harbour, there was a smile from one, a look of glad recognition from another, and several of the rough fishermen who were hanging about waiting for signs of fish doffed their hats with a hearty "How do, miss?"

A thrill of pleasure ran through her, and a feeling of awakening as from a time of sloth, as she realised that life could not be passed as a time for mourning.

She turned to speak to Mary, after another or two of these friendly salutations to the lady of the Fort, and was met by a smile and a nod.

"There, I told you so, Claudie. It was quite time you came out. It was a duty."

Claude felt her cheeks burn slightly as she noted the direction in which they were going, but she kept on, feeling truly that she would have felt the same whichever direction they had taken.

It was a glorious evening, with the sun turning the whole of the western sky to orange and gold; and, as she breathed in the soft elastic air, watched the brilliant shimmer of colour as of liquid flames at sea, she listened to the murmurs of the ripple among the boulders, where the little river ran swiftly down from the glen, and the twitter of the birds in birch and fir. The joyous sensation that filled her breast was painful, even to drawing tears.

It was to her like the first walk after a long illness, when there is a feeling akin to ecstasy, and life seems never to have been so beautiful before. She could not speak, but wandered on beside her cousin--over the bridge, where they paused to gaze down at the golden-amber water, sparkling and foaming on its way to the sea. Ever onward and up the glen, but not far before the sound of a large pebble, kicked by a heavy boot out into the rippling water, where it fell with a splash, told them that they were not alone, and the next minute Chris had overtaken them and held out his hand.

There was a look almost of reproach in Claude's eyes, as, with quivering lip, she laid her hand in his, and yielded it, as he gently and reverently carried it to his lips.

"I have not been to you; I have not written," he said, in a deep voice. "I felt that it was a duty to respect your sorrow. I have felt for you none the less deeply."

She stood looking gravely in his eyes, and he went on--

"Under the painful circumstances, I could not come to you; I was driven from your side. But Claude, dearest," he continued, with the passion within him making his words vibrate, as it were, in her breast, and her heart flutter as it had never beaten before. "I love you more clearly than ever; and listen, darling--I would not say it, but cruel words have been spoken about my mercenary thoughts."

"Don't, don't," she murmured.

"But one word--for your sake."

"No, no," she cried piteously.

"Then for mine," he pleaded.

"What do you wish to say?"

"Then I am no longer the poor beggar I was called."

"Chris!"

"But comparatively rich, love. I only said that so that those who would see evil in my acts may meet something to act as a shield to cast off these malicious darts. No, no, don't withdraw your hand, dearest. I know how you have suffered. I have suffered too--sorrow for you--bitter jealousy of that man."

"Chris," she whispered, with a look of appeal, "for pity's sake! I am weak and ill--I cannot bear it."

"Forgive me," he cried; "what a selfish brute I am! There, I hold your dear hand once more, and I am satisfied. I will not say another word, only go and wait patiently. My Claude cannot be anything but all that is kind and just to me. I'll go and wait."

She stood looking in his eyes, and he clasped her hand, while the soft, ruddy glow which struck right up the glen seemed to bathe them both in its warm light. Her lips moved to speak, but no sound came, though her eyes were full of joy and pride in the brave, manly young fellow whose words had thrilled her to the core.

"If it could have been," she felt. And then a pang of agony shot through her, and she shuddered.

"How worn and thin you look, darling," he said tenderly. "My poor, poor girl."

This seemed to unloose the frozen words within her; the tears gushed from her eyes, and she tried to withdraw her hand, but it was too tightly held.

"Chris," she said at last, and she clung to his hand as she spoke, "I do not doubt you. I know all you say is the simple truth, but it seems cruel to me now."

"Cruel! My darling!"

"Hush, pray hush. It would be cruel, too, in me to let you speak like this about what can never, never be."

"Claude! What are you saying?"

"That I have my poor father's words still ringing in my ears. He forbade it, and I cannot go in opposition to his washes."

"Claude!"

"I cannot help it. It is better that the words should be spoken now, and the pain be over. Chris, when we meet again it must be as friends."

"No," he cried passionately; "you must meet me as my promised wife."

"It is impossible," she said faintly, after a painful pause. "No, Chris, as my friend--brother, if you wish, but that is at an end."

"But why--no, no; don't answer me. You are ill and hysterical, dear. You think seriously of words that will grow fainter and of less import as the time goes on. There, come. Let us put all this aside now. I am content that we have met, and you know the truth--that I have spoken, and so plainly, once again."

"No; you must hear me now," she said with a sigh, that seemed to be torn from her breast.

"Well, then, speak," he said, with a smile full of pity.

"Once more," she said, after a pause; "you must never speak to me again as you have to-night."

"Why?"

"You know, Chris, my father's wish."

"The result of a mistake. Claude, you love me."

She made an effort once more to free herself, and stood with her eyes fixed upon the ground.

"Claude," he cried passionately, "you will tell me that."

"I cannot," she said firmly.

He let her hand fall from between his, and a curiously heavy look came slowly into his face as the jealous anger within him began to seethe.

"You cast at me your father's words," he said hurriedly.

"I am obliged to remind you of his wish."

"That you should marry this man, this Glyddyr. Claude, you cannot, you dare not tell me this."

"I do not tell you this," she said, quickly and excitedly. "No, that is impossible. I could not be his wife: I must not be yours."

"You are speaking in riddles."

"Riddles that you can easily read," she said sadly. "Chris, my life is marked out for me. I have my duties waiting. I cannot, I will not marry a man I do not love, but I will not disobey my poor dead father and listen to you. Good-bye now--I can bear no more. Some day we can meet again patiently and calmly as in the happy old times."

"Yes," he said, with the angry feeling passing away, "I shall wait contented, for you will not marry this man--you promise me that?"

"Claude, dear; Claude."

They had neither of them given Mary a thought, and she had discreetly walked away but to return now quickly, and as they raised their eyes it was to see her close at hand, and some fifty yards away Parry Glyddyr advancing fast.

Claude saw that Glyddyr looked white and strange, but it was the rage in Chris Lisle's eyes which startled her, as Glyddyr strode up, with extended hand, ignoring the presence of her companion.

"Claude, don't leave them alone, as there'll be trouble," whispered Mary, and her cousin's words seemed to cast a lurid light upon the situation.

She did not give Glyddyr her hand, but turned to Chris and said gently--

"Good-bye. It will be better that we should not meet again--not yet."

He took the hand gravely, let his own close over it in a firm, warm clasp, and released it silently.

"Mary."

Claude turned to go, and her cousin went to her side white as ashes. Glyddyr stood looking from one to the other, as if hesitating what to do.

"Claude, do you hear me," whispered Mary.

"Mr Glyddyr, are you going this way?" said Claude in a low deep voice.

"Yes, of course," he cried, with his face lighting up, and darting a look of triumph at his rival, who stood motionless, with one hand resting upon his rod as though it were a spear, he went on down the glen by Claude's side.

"Mr Lisle--Chris--do you not hear? Good-bye."

Chris started back as it were into life, and saw that Mary had run back and laid her hand in his.

"Ah, little woman," he said, with a gentle, pitying tone in his voice, "I was thinking, I suppose. Good-bye, Mary, and don't fall in love, dear; it's a mistake."

"Chris," she cried, with the tears in her beautiful eyes, as she gazed at the broad-shouldered sturdy fellow, "why do you talk like that?"

"Why do I talk like that?" he said bitterly. "Because I am a weak fool, I suppose. Look there."

He pointed down the glen.

"Chris!"

"There, run after them, and play propriety, little lady," he said bitterly. "Or no--they do not miss you; better stop behind, or shall I see you home?"

"Chris, dear Chris," she whispered.

"Don't talk to me," he cried. "I'm half mad. Good-bye, Mary, good-bye."

He turned sharply and hurried away up the glen, and as Mary watched, she heard his reel begin to sing as he walked on down by the stream, making casts blindly among the boulders.

"Poor fellow," she said, as she turned and walked swiftly away. "I wish I had not said a word."

She gave one more glance back and hurried after the retreating pair. Had she looked long enough she would have seen Chris Lisle stride into the first clump of trees and throw himself down with his face buried in his arms, and there he was lying still long after darkness had come on, and the stars were peering down and glistening in the rushing stream.

Volume Three, Chapter VII.

GLYDDYR ENDORSES A NOTE.

"There, I'm off back to London town to keep a certain party quiet. You are going on all right here. You are bound to win, but don't be rash-- play her very carefully."

Glyddyr nodded.

"And now take my advice; go and see a doctor--that man--what's his name? Get him to set you up, dear boy. There: good-bye. Bless you, my son. It's perhaps a million. Don't play with it."

"Haven't got it to play with."

"No; but you will have it by-and-by. There: once more, good-bye. Be gentle with her. Go early in the day, and promise me you'll call at the doctor's."

"Yes, I promise," said Glyddyr; and he stood watching Gellow, as he was rowed ashore, cursing him bitterly the while, but confessing in his own mind that he was right.

"Yes, I'll go and see Asher," he muttered. "He'll set me up. I must go on with it. I'll be a good husband to her. It'll be like doing penance for the past--ugh!"

He shuddered and looked ghastly.

"It's being low makes me think of it so much," he continued. "Yes; as soon as the boat gets back I'll go and see Asher."

Vacillating to a degree, he was firm in this, and stepped into the boat as soon as it reached the yacht, ordering the men to put him ashore, and this done, the men watching him as he walked sharply away, clinging to the hope that a strong tonic would calm his feelings and give him strength to go on with his plans, and trusting to time to dull the agony of his thoughts.

"Seems horrible to go on," he said. "But it will be like penance; and, poor old boy, he did wish it." Then aloud--"Doctor Asher at home?"

He was shown into the doctor's consulting-room to be warmly received.

"Yes, of course," said the doctor. "I don't wonder you are a bit run down. I'll soon set you right."

Then after a short examination, and a little professional business.

"Wonder whether he knows what's really the matter with me;" thought Glyddyr.

"Wonder whether he thinks me such a fool as not to know that he is saturated with brandy?" said the doctor to himself, as he composed a draught, while Glyddyr took up a card box from the chimney-piece, opened it mechanically, and then, as the doctor raised his hand to the shelf where the chloral bottle stood, the box slipped through Glyddyr's fingers, fell on the edge of the fender, burst open, and the cards were scattered over the rug, and beneath the fireplace.

"I beg your pardon."

"Oh, never mind! Don't stop to pick them up."

Glyddyr paid no heed, but nervously collected the pack together, rose with them in his hands, and then, watching the doctor as he wrote out the directions on a label, involuntarily, and as if naturally from feeling the cards in his hands, began to shuffle them slowly.

The doctor smiled.

"You play a bit, I see."

"Oh! yes, of course," said Glyddyr, hastily setting down the pack. "Confoundedly stupid of me to drop them."

"Nonsense! Very unprofessional to have them here, eh?"

"You play, then?" said Glyddyr, repeating the doctor's query.

"Not often. No one to play with. A game now and then would do you good."

"Yes, yes," said Glyddyr, eagerly. "Come on board. I'm very dull there."

"Most happy if you'll have a game here sometimes."

Glyddyr accepted the proposal so readily that in a few minutes they were seated together at piquet, and when the patient rose he was ten pounds in the doctor's debt.

"I shall have to give you my IOU, doctor," said Glyddyr, "I have no cash down here."

"All right, my dear sir," said the doctor, smilingly; and Glyddyr wrote the indebtedness upon half a sheet of notepaper, to go away feeling better for his visit, and after the doctor had promised to go on board the yacht that night and give him his revenge.

This was given, Glyddyr managing to win twenty pounds, and receiving back his IOU and a ten-pound note.