Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.In Chase.Those who ran off on foot, upon first seeing the carriage clash by, gave up after a two-mile race, and the most impetuous of them were standing at a corner when the barouche came in view.“What is it? Have you seen them?” cried Sir Philip, who was standing up in front, and holding on by the driver’s seat, directing him so that the horses were now arrested.“No, Sir Philip,” said one man, “they’ve gone right on ahead, but they were nearly over here.” And he pointed to the wheel-marks, which, in the sudden curve, showed that the chariot must have torn round at a fearful rate; so swiftly, indeed, that the equilibrium had been destroyed, and the corner cleared only on two wheels.“Drive on!” exclaimed Sir Philip Vining hoarsely. “Gallop!” And away sped the barouche for another mile along the unfrequented country road.“Seen a carriage—Sir Philip’s carriage and four?” shouted the coachman to a man driving a cart.“Ah, raight on ahead, going full gallop,” shouted the man in reply; and away once more sped the barouche, till white specks of foam began to appear upon the horses’ glossy coats, to be succeeded by a lather wherever there was the play of rein or trace. Cart after cart was passed, and the same news was obtained of all, till, after a two-mile run without seeing any trace of vehicle or pedestrian of whom to inquire, a farmer’s gig was overtaken.“No, sir,” was the reply; “I’ve seen no carriage but yours.”“Not one with four horses and postillions?” exclaimed Sir Philip.“No, sir,” said the fanner, “but you’d better not trust to me; I’ve not been long on this road.”“Drive on!” impatiently cried Sir Philip, who now became less agitated. Above four miles from Lexville, and no upset, there must have been time for the first heat of the excited beasts to cool down, and for the postillions to regain command over them; so that he was in momentary expectation of encountering the returning chariot; but still it did not appear.“Should we be in time if we found him now?” exclaimed Sir Philip.“What, to get back to the church?” said Mr Bray, nervously referring to his watch. “I fear not, I fear not.”“How unfortunate!” exclaimed Sir Philip; and then he relapsed into silence, save when at intervals he spoke to the coachman, who kept the well-bred pair of horses at a brisk gallop.“Stop here,” cried Sir Philip, as they neared a roadside inn, where a wagon and half a dozen labourers were standing, ready enough to stare at the rapidly-approaching vehicle.“Carriage and four go by here a few minutes ago?” cried Sir Philip to the landlord, who now came bustling out.“No, sir; not by here.”“Are you sure?” exclaimed Sir Philip, with a perplexed air.“Sure, sir? O yes, sir, quite sure,” said the landlord, “or must have seen it. We see everything that goes by here, sir.—Haven’t seen a four-horse coach go by, have you, lads?” he continued, addressing the wagoners.“No, no,” cried Sir Philip. “A chariot with four horses and postillions—post-boys in bluejackets?”“No, sir—no, sir—not come by here!” was chorused.“We could not have passed them, upset in one of the ditches, could we?” hinted Mr Bray.“Impossible!” cried Sir Philip. “But where could they have turned off?”“Like to take the horses out and wait, sir? They may come soon,” said the landlord.“No, no, my man,” hastily cried Sir Philip. “There is nowhere for a carriage to turn off from the high-road during these last two miles, is there?”“Whoy yes, sur,” said one of the wagoners, “there’s Bogle’s-lane as goes to Squire Lethbridge’s fa-arm; and the low lane down by the beck.”“Ay, lad, and theer’s ta by-ro-ad as goes to Bellby and La-a-anton.”“Laneton—Laneton?” Sir Philip exclaimed. “Here, my lads,” he cried, and he threw two or three coins amongst the men. “To be sure! Turn back quick, William; they may have gone that way.”The coachman turned his panting horses, and they went back at a smart trot towards the by-lane mentioned, a good mile and a half back; while a flood of thought passed the while through Sir Philip’s troubled brain.“Laneton—Laneton! What could be the meaning of that? But absurd; the horses had taken fright and been turned up there. Of course, the lane would be very heavy at this time of the year, and it was done to tire out the horses. But then Mrs Brandon lived at Laneton. It was there that that interview took place with Miss Bedford. But absurd; Miss Bedford had left there for long enough, and no doubt they would find at the entrance of the lane that the carriage had turned down there, and now exhibited the back tracks. They had overshot the mark, and it was a great pity. It was unfortunate altogether, but one thing was evident: the wedding could not take place that day.”So mused Sir Philip, till, as they neared the narrow entrance that they had barely noticed, another troublous thought flashed upon his mind.“Did you send a man on horseback from the church?” he asked eagerly of Mr Bray.“Man on horseback?” said Mr Bray, looking confusedly up at where Sir Philip stood upon the front cushions.“Yes, a messenger. Did you send one to the Court?”“No,” said Mr Bray decidedly.“Did any one, then? do you know of one being sent?” exclaimed Sir Philip.“No,” said Mr Bray stoutly. “We sent no messenger.”What did it mean, then, that strange man on the panting horse, who had brought a message for his son? Something must, then, be wrong, and this was no accident.“Gone down here, Sir Philip, after all,” said the coachman, pointing with his whip, as he drew up at the entrance of the narrow lane.“And come back again, have they not?” cried Sir Philip eagerly, peering down at the wheel-tracks in the hope of finding that in his own mind he had been raising up a bugbear of undefined shape and dread portent.“No, Sir Philip, they ain’t come back,” said the coachman, turning his horses into the lane.The carriage had to be driven here slowly through rut and hole, worn by the farmers’ heavy wagons; but still at a good sharp trot where the road admitted, till a wagon blocked the way about a mile down, when a good deal of contriving had to be exercised for the two vehicles to pass.“Did you see a carriage lower down?” asked Sir Philip of the wagoner.“Ay, sur. A foine un it were, too: four bosses, and chaps in blue, and torsels in their caps. Passed me, ah, moren half an hour agoo.”“Were the horses running away asked?” Mr Bray, for Sir Philip was silent.“Roonnin’ awa-ay, sur? Noa, cos they had to wa-ait while I drawed up to ta hedgeside, for t’ la-ane’s narrerer lower deown.”“Go on, William!” said Sir Philip fiercely, for his suspicions were now assuming a bodily form; and it was with anger gathering in his breast that he sat there thinking—knowing, too, the goal to which to shape his course. But he said no word to Mr Bray, only sat down now, with his brow knit, as he felt the impossibility of overtaking the other carriage; but from time to time he started up impatiently, to urge the coachman to renewed efforts; so that whenever a plain hard piece of road presented itself, the horses appeared almost to fly.Shame and disgrace seemed to Sir Philip to have marked him for their own; and he shrank from his companion, dreading, after awhile, to hear him speak; for his son’s acts were as his own; nay, he felt that they would fall upon him more heavily. It was cruel, cruel, cruel; or was he mad? Impossible! But what could he do, what could he say?“Wait awhile,” he muttered at last; and then, starting up once more, he ordered the coachman to drive faster. And onward they tore, till the carriage jolted here and there, and the springs threatened to snap; but Sir Philip heeded nothing but his own thoughts, as his heart asked him where was his son. A question that he could have answered again and again, as his brow grew more deeply marked with the anger and shame that oppressed him; but he forbore.“Quicker, William, quicker!” exclaimed Sir Philip at last; and the coachman lashed the horses into a gallop, but only to hasten the catastrophe that had been predicted for the chariot; for, as the horses sprang forward, and the barouche swayed again with the speed, there was a sharp crack, a swerve, a crash, and the handsome carriage was over, with the horses kicking madly, and the driver and occupants lying stunned and senseless in the muddy road.

Those who ran off on foot, upon first seeing the carriage clash by, gave up after a two-mile race, and the most impetuous of them were standing at a corner when the barouche came in view.

“What is it? Have you seen them?” cried Sir Philip, who was standing up in front, and holding on by the driver’s seat, directing him so that the horses were now arrested.

“No, Sir Philip,” said one man, “they’ve gone right on ahead, but they were nearly over here.” And he pointed to the wheel-marks, which, in the sudden curve, showed that the chariot must have torn round at a fearful rate; so swiftly, indeed, that the equilibrium had been destroyed, and the corner cleared only on two wheels.

“Drive on!” exclaimed Sir Philip Vining hoarsely. “Gallop!” And away sped the barouche for another mile along the unfrequented country road.

“Seen a carriage—Sir Philip’s carriage and four?” shouted the coachman to a man driving a cart.

“Ah, raight on ahead, going full gallop,” shouted the man in reply; and away once more sped the barouche, till white specks of foam began to appear upon the horses’ glossy coats, to be succeeded by a lather wherever there was the play of rein or trace. Cart after cart was passed, and the same news was obtained of all, till, after a two-mile run without seeing any trace of vehicle or pedestrian of whom to inquire, a farmer’s gig was overtaken.

“No, sir,” was the reply; “I’ve seen no carriage but yours.”

“Not one with four horses and postillions?” exclaimed Sir Philip.

“No, sir,” said the fanner, “but you’d better not trust to me; I’ve not been long on this road.”

“Drive on!” impatiently cried Sir Philip, who now became less agitated. Above four miles from Lexville, and no upset, there must have been time for the first heat of the excited beasts to cool down, and for the postillions to regain command over them; so that he was in momentary expectation of encountering the returning chariot; but still it did not appear.

“Should we be in time if we found him now?” exclaimed Sir Philip.

“What, to get back to the church?” said Mr Bray, nervously referring to his watch. “I fear not, I fear not.”

“How unfortunate!” exclaimed Sir Philip; and then he relapsed into silence, save when at intervals he spoke to the coachman, who kept the well-bred pair of horses at a brisk gallop.

“Stop here,” cried Sir Philip, as they neared a roadside inn, where a wagon and half a dozen labourers were standing, ready enough to stare at the rapidly-approaching vehicle.

“Carriage and four go by here a few minutes ago?” cried Sir Philip to the landlord, who now came bustling out.

“No, sir; not by here.”

“Are you sure?” exclaimed Sir Philip, with a perplexed air.

“Sure, sir? O yes, sir, quite sure,” said the landlord, “or must have seen it. We see everything that goes by here, sir.—Haven’t seen a four-horse coach go by, have you, lads?” he continued, addressing the wagoners.

“No, no,” cried Sir Philip. “A chariot with four horses and postillions—post-boys in bluejackets?”

“No, sir—no, sir—not come by here!” was chorused.

“We could not have passed them, upset in one of the ditches, could we?” hinted Mr Bray.

“Impossible!” cried Sir Philip. “But where could they have turned off?”

“Like to take the horses out and wait, sir? They may come soon,” said the landlord.

“No, no, my man,” hastily cried Sir Philip. “There is nowhere for a carriage to turn off from the high-road during these last two miles, is there?”

“Whoy yes, sur,” said one of the wagoners, “there’s Bogle’s-lane as goes to Squire Lethbridge’s fa-arm; and the low lane down by the beck.”

“Ay, lad, and theer’s ta by-ro-ad as goes to Bellby and La-a-anton.”

“Laneton—Laneton?” Sir Philip exclaimed. “Here, my lads,” he cried, and he threw two or three coins amongst the men. “To be sure! Turn back quick, William; they may have gone that way.”

The coachman turned his panting horses, and they went back at a smart trot towards the by-lane mentioned, a good mile and a half back; while a flood of thought passed the while through Sir Philip’s troubled brain.

“Laneton—Laneton! What could be the meaning of that? But absurd; the horses had taken fright and been turned up there. Of course, the lane would be very heavy at this time of the year, and it was done to tire out the horses. But then Mrs Brandon lived at Laneton. It was there that that interview took place with Miss Bedford. But absurd; Miss Bedford had left there for long enough, and no doubt they would find at the entrance of the lane that the carriage had turned down there, and now exhibited the back tracks. They had overshot the mark, and it was a great pity. It was unfortunate altogether, but one thing was evident: the wedding could not take place that day.”

So mused Sir Philip, till, as they neared the narrow entrance that they had barely noticed, another troublous thought flashed upon his mind.

“Did you send a man on horseback from the church?” he asked eagerly of Mr Bray.

“Man on horseback?” said Mr Bray, looking confusedly up at where Sir Philip stood upon the front cushions.

“Yes, a messenger. Did you send one to the Court?”

“No,” said Mr Bray decidedly.

“Did any one, then? do you know of one being sent?” exclaimed Sir Philip.

“No,” said Mr Bray stoutly. “We sent no messenger.”

What did it mean, then, that strange man on the panting horse, who had brought a message for his son? Something must, then, be wrong, and this was no accident.

“Gone down here, Sir Philip, after all,” said the coachman, pointing with his whip, as he drew up at the entrance of the narrow lane.

“And come back again, have they not?” cried Sir Philip eagerly, peering down at the wheel-tracks in the hope of finding that in his own mind he had been raising up a bugbear of undefined shape and dread portent.

“No, Sir Philip, they ain’t come back,” said the coachman, turning his horses into the lane.

The carriage had to be driven here slowly through rut and hole, worn by the farmers’ heavy wagons; but still at a good sharp trot where the road admitted, till a wagon blocked the way about a mile down, when a good deal of contriving had to be exercised for the two vehicles to pass.

“Did you see a carriage lower down?” asked Sir Philip of the wagoner.

“Ay, sur. A foine un it were, too: four bosses, and chaps in blue, and torsels in their caps. Passed me, ah, moren half an hour agoo.”

“Were the horses running away asked?” Mr Bray, for Sir Philip was silent.

“Roonnin’ awa-ay, sur? Noa, cos they had to wa-ait while I drawed up to ta hedgeside, for t’ la-ane’s narrerer lower deown.”

“Go on, William!” said Sir Philip fiercely, for his suspicions were now assuming a bodily form; and it was with anger gathering in his breast that he sat there thinking—knowing, too, the goal to which to shape his course. But he said no word to Mr Bray, only sat down now, with his brow knit, as he felt the impossibility of overtaking the other carriage; but from time to time he started up impatiently, to urge the coachman to renewed efforts; so that whenever a plain hard piece of road presented itself, the horses appeared almost to fly.

Shame and disgrace seemed to Sir Philip to have marked him for their own; and he shrank from his companion, dreading, after awhile, to hear him speak; for his son’s acts were as his own; nay, he felt that they would fall upon him more heavily. It was cruel, cruel, cruel; or was he mad? Impossible! But what could he do, what could he say?

“Wait awhile,” he muttered at last; and then, starting up once more, he ordered the coachman to drive faster. And onward they tore, till the carriage jolted here and there, and the springs threatened to snap; but Sir Philip heeded nothing but his own thoughts, as his heart asked him where was his son. A question that he could have answered again and again, as his brow grew more deeply marked with the anger and shame that oppressed him; but he forbore.

“Quicker, William, quicker!” exclaimed Sir Philip at last; and the coachman lashed the horses into a gallop, but only to hasten the catastrophe that had been predicted for the chariot; for, as the horses sprang forward, and the barouche swayed again with the speed, there was a sharp crack, a swerve, a crash, and the handsome carriage was over, with the horses kicking madly, and the driver and occupants lying stunned and senseless in the muddy road.

Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.Going Back.As the old novelists used to say, in their courtly polished style, that makes us think that they must have written with a handsome bead-work presentation pen dipped in scented ink, and held by a delicate hand clothed in a white-kid glove, “Gentle reader, we must now return to our heroine.”In the plain English and more matter-of-fact way of the year of grace eighteen hundred and seventy, it is given to my hard steel broad-point to be dipped in the ordinary infusion of galls and copperas—rather bitty by the way, and given to turn mouldy—and then, when well-charged with the ink-rusting fluid to declare that we have a long arrear to fetch up relative to the proceedings of Ella Bedford, which could not well be told until the career of the two country families had reached the point recorded in the last chapter.Ella’s had been a weary life at Crescent Villas, and she had had much to contend with: the evil tempers of three spoiled children, who resented every word of correction, complained to their weak mother, and enlisted her sympathy; the pettish frivolous complaints of the lady herself; and the bitter knowledge that, according to all appearances, she was being made a screen for the foolish flirting attentions of Max Bray.At one time she was under the impression that the attentions to Mrs Marter were an excuse for obtaining the entrée of the house; but the conduct of Max was so entirely different: he spoke to her so seldom, and then in so quiet and gentlemanly a tone, that, from being watchful and distant, Ella was at length completely thrown off her guard, though there seemed no occasion now for her to trouble herself respecting the visits paid to the house.Vain to an excess, both Mr and Mrs Marter seemed to approve highly of the visits of so distinguished a leader of the fashion; but Mr Marter had his own ideas upon the subject, telling his lady that it would be a fine thing for Miss Bedford; whereupon the weak little woman nodded and smiled.To use a very trite expression, there was not the slightest harm in Mrs Marter; but, all the same, she adored incense and the offerings of concert and opera tickets with an escort; when, had it not been for the said escort, she could not have gone, Mr Marter being a man without, so his lady said, a single taste; but all the same we must do Mrs Marter the credit of saying that she would not have stirred an inch to have seen the finest opera in the world without Ella Bedford was of the party; and hence it followed that, willing or no, Ella’s visits to places of amusement were not very few.But Ella was far from being at ease in her mind. She foresaw that the present state of things could not last; and during some capricious fit of Mrs Marter, when ill-temper, weakness, and petty annoyance were all employed to make her wretched, she would think that to stay out the year was a sheer impossibility. At such times, too, she would feel convinced that Max Bray was playing a part; so that, in spite of his distant respect, she became more cool and guarded in her behaviour; while, as to leaving, she determined to bear all, telling herself, with a feeling of something like despair, that, go where she would, she must be tracked. Then her thoughts turned on Charley Vining, whom she knew to have called; and, as she congratulated herself upon having escaped him—upon his having given up the quest in despair—the warm tears fell, and she knew in her heart of hearts that she was bitterly disappointed.But it was quite right,—it was as matters should be, she thought; and she hastily dashed away the tears, little thinking that letter after letter had been sent to her, to be smiled over by Mrs Marter and Max, as the latter redirected them to the sender, telling Mrs Marter the while that she was doing an act of kindness and thoughtfulness towards the motherless girl looking to her for protection.In fact, Max Bray most carefully flattered the self-esteem of Mrs Marter, till the foolish little woman felt herself to be a perfect paragon of matronly greatness and virtue. Mr Marter, too, was taken into their confidence upon this matter of Charley Vining’s attentions to Ella.“Of course, Mr and Mrs Marter, you can act as you please; for you see, bai Jove! it would ill become me to be offering advice upon such a matter; but for my part, I should never let him write to her, or see her for a moment. It’s a great pity, bai Jove it is, that the young men of the present day have not better aspirations.”“Quite agree with you, Mr Bray—I do indeed!” said Mr Marter, while his lady smiled her approbation.“You see, bai Jove! it hardly becomes me, as a near neighbour, to say anything against Vining: but I know as a fact that he worried the poor girl till she was obliged to leave Mrs Brandon’s, the lady’s, you know, where she went to last; and when a man has behaved, bai Jove! shabbily to another man’s own sister, bai Jove! it’s enough to make another man speak!”“Very true, Mr Bray—very true. I quite agree with you,” said Mr Marter, in a satisfied air.“But, there, bai Jove! don’t let me come hyar dictating to you. It’s like my dooced confounded impudence to say a word. I’m only too grateful to find a welcome, and a little refined female society; for to a man situated as I am, London is a very dreary place. One can get amongst set after set of fellows, and into plenty of inane fashionable drawing-rooms; but, bai Jove! Mr Marter, that isn’t the sort of thing, if I may be allowed to say so, that a man of soul thirsts after. He wants something to satisfy his brain—something that when he’s spent an evening, he can go and lay his head down upon his pillow, bai Jove! and say to himself, ‘Look here, bai Jove! old fellow: you’ve been out this evening; you’ve been in refined and improving society; and, bai Jove! here you are, just as you ought to be at the end of another day—a better man, bai Jove!’”“Ah, Saint Clair,” sighed Mrs Marter, “if you could only say that of a night!”“To be sure,” said Max, “mai dear fellow, you’ve no idea how much better you feel—you haven’t indeed; but, bai Jove! we must change the conversation.”With all due modesty on his part, Max changed the conversation; for just then Ella, in obedience to orders, entered the room, playing pianoforte piece after piecer till the hour for Mr Bray’s departure, when—was she deceived? or was that a quiet firm pressure of the hand he was bestowing upon her at parting?The next minute he had gone, and Ella felt a strange shiver pass through her; for if there had been any mistake about the pressure of the hand, there could have been none concerning the look which followed.“Bai Jove!” ejaculated Max, as he sought a cab on his departure, “how confoundedly slow! But it’s nearly ripe at last!”Then to make up for the slowness, Max Bray had himself driven to a highly genteel tavern in Saint James’s, where the society was decidedly fast; so that, on returning about three to his apartments, and laying his head upon his pillow, the slow and the fast society must have balanced one another; for he snored very pleasantly, no doubt feeling a better man, bai Jove!

As the old novelists used to say, in their courtly polished style, that makes us think that they must have written with a handsome bead-work presentation pen dipped in scented ink, and held by a delicate hand clothed in a white-kid glove, “Gentle reader, we must now return to our heroine.”

In the plain English and more matter-of-fact way of the year of grace eighteen hundred and seventy, it is given to my hard steel broad-point to be dipped in the ordinary infusion of galls and copperas—rather bitty by the way, and given to turn mouldy—and then, when well-charged with the ink-rusting fluid to declare that we have a long arrear to fetch up relative to the proceedings of Ella Bedford, which could not well be told until the career of the two country families had reached the point recorded in the last chapter.

Ella’s had been a weary life at Crescent Villas, and she had had much to contend with: the evil tempers of three spoiled children, who resented every word of correction, complained to their weak mother, and enlisted her sympathy; the pettish frivolous complaints of the lady herself; and the bitter knowledge that, according to all appearances, she was being made a screen for the foolish flirting attentions of Max Bray.

At one time she was under the impression that the attentions to Mrs Marter were an excuse for obtaining the entrée of the house; but the conduct of Max was so entirely different: he spoke to her so seldom, and then in so quiet and gentlemanly a tone, that, from being watchful and distant, Ella was at length completely thrown off her guard, though there seemed no occasion now for her to trouble herself respecting the visits paid to the house.

Vain to an excess, both Mr and Mrs Marter seemed to approve highly of the visits of so distinguished a leader of the fashion; but Mr Marter had his own ideas upon the subject, telling his lady that it would be a fine thing for Miss Bedford; whereupon the weak little woman nodded and smiled.

To use a very trite expression, there was not the slightest harm in Mrs Marter; but, all the same, she adored incense and the offerings of concert and opera tickets with an escort; when, had it not been for the said escort, she could not have gone, Mr Marter being a man without, so his lady said, a single taste; but all the same we must do Mrs Marter the credit of saying that she would not have stirred an inch to have seen the finest opera in the world without Ella Bedford was of the party; and hence it followed that, willing or no, Ella’s visits to places of amusement were not very few.

But Ella was far from being at ease in her mind. She foresaw that the present state of things could not last; and during some capricious fit of Mrs Marter, when ill-temper, weakness, and petty annoyance were all employed to make her wretched, she would think that to stay out the year was a sheer impossibility. At such times, too, she would feel convinced that Max Bray was playing a part; so that, in spite of his distant respect, she became more cool and guarded in her behaviour; while, as to leaving, she determined to bear all, telling herself, with a feeling of something like despair, that, go where she would, she must be tracked. Then her thoughts turned on Charley Vining, whom she knew to have called; and, as she congratulated herself upon having escaped him—upon his having given up the quest in despair—the warm tears fell, and she knew in her heart of hearts that she was bitterly disappointed.

But it was quite right,—it was as matters should be, she thought; and she hastily dashed away the tears, little thinking that letter after letter had been sent to her, to be smiled over by Mrs Marter and Max, as the latter redirected them to the sender, telling Mrs Marter the while that she was doing an act of kindness and thoughtfulness towards the motherless girl looking to her for protection.

In fact, Max Bray most carefully flattered the self-esteem of Mrs Marter, till the foolish little woman felt herself to be a perfect paragon of matronly greatness and virtue. Mr Marter, too, was taken into their confidence upon this matter of Charley Vining’s attentions to Ella.

“Of course, Mr and Mrs Marter, you can act as you please; for you see, bai Jove! it would ill become me to be offering advice upon such a matter; but for my part, I should never let him write to her, or see her for a moment. It’s a great pity, bai Jove it is, that the young men of the present day have not better aspirations.”

“Quite agree with you, Mr Bray—I do indeed!” said Mr Marter, while his lady smiled her approbation.

“You see, bai Jove! it hardly becomes me, as a near neighbour, to say anything against Vining: but I know as a fact that he worried the poor girl till she was obliged to leave Mrs Brandon’s, the lady’s, you know, where she went to last; and when a man has behaved, bai Jove! shabbily to another man’s own sister, bai Jove! it’s enough to make another man speak!”

“Very true, Mr Bray—very true. I quite agree with you,” said Mr Marter, in a satisfied air.

“But, there, bai Jove! don’t let me come hyar dictating to you. It’s like my dooced confounded impudence to say a word. I’m only too grateful to find a welcome, and a little refined female society; for to a man situated as I am, London is a very dreary place. One can get amongst set after set of fellows, and into plenty of inane fashionable drawing-rooms; but, bai Jove! Mr Marter, that isn’t the sort of thing, if I may be allowed to say so, that a man of soul thirsts after. He wants something to satisfy his brain—something that when he’s spent an evening, he can go and lay his head down upon his pillow, bai Jove! and say to himself, ‘Look here, bai Jove! old fellow: you’ve been out this evening; you’ve been in refined and improving society; and, bai Jove! here you are, just as you ought to be at the end of another day—a better man, bai Jove!’”

“Ah, Saint Clair,” sighed Mrs Marter, “if you could only say that of a night!”

“To be sure,” said Max, “mai dear fellow, you’ve no idea how much better you feel—you haven’t indeed; but, bai Jove! we must change the conversation.”

With all due modesty on his part, Max changed the conversation; for just then Ella, in obedience to orders, entered the room, playing pianoforte piece after piecer till the hour for Mr Bray’s departure, when—was she deceived? or was that a quiet firm pressure of the hand he was bestowing upon her at parting?

The next minute he had gone, and Ella felt a strange shiver pass through her; for if there had been any mistake about the pressure of the hand, there could have been none concerning the look which followed.

“Bai Jove!” ejaculated Max, as he sought a cab on his departure, “how confoundedly slow! But it’s nearly ripe at last!”

Then to make up for the slowness, Max Bray had himself driven to a highly genteel tavern in Saint James’s, where the society was decidedly fast; so that, on returning about three to his apartments, and laying his head upon his pillow, the slow and the fast society must have balanced one another; for he snored very pleasantly, no doubt feeling a better man, bai Jove!

Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.Rather Close.“Bai Jove, Mrs Marter, it does a man good to see you,” said Max Bray, sauntering one afternoon into the Marter drawing-room, carefully dressed, as a matter of course, and with a choice Covent-garden exotic in his button-hole. “I declare it makes one quite disgusted with the flowers one buys, it does, bai Jove!” and then showing his white teeth, he raised her hand, touched the extreme tips of her nails with his lips, and then resigned the hand, which fell gracefully upon the side of the couch. “Bai Jove, Marter, I envy you—I do, bai Jove! You’re one of the lucky ones of this earth, only you don’t know it: feast of reason, flow of soul, and all that sort of thing’s blooming, if I may say so, upon your own premises.”“I’m sure,” simpered Mrs Marter, “there ought to be a new official made at the palace—Court flatterer—and Mr Bray given the post.”“Wouldn’t be amiss, if there was a good salary,” said Mr Marter, looking up from his newspaper.“Bai Jove, now, that’s too bad—’tis indeed, bai Jove! There are some of you people get so hardened by contact with the world, that, bai Jove! you’ve no more faith in a fler’s sincerity than if there wasn’t such a thing to be found anywhere.”“O! but,” simpered Mrs Marter, “do you think we can’t tell when you are sincere?”“Bai Jove, no!” said Max earnestly, and with a wonderful deal of truth. “But look here: I’ve got tickets for Her Majesty’s to-night—three, you know—forLa Figlia. You’ll go, of course, Marter?”“Go to an opera!” said Mr Marter, with a shake of the head. “I never go to operas—I only go to sleep.”“O, bai Jove! that’s too bad!” cried Max. “You’ve never been with us anywhere yet; and I do think you ought to go for once in a way.”“No, I sha’n’t go!” said Mr Marter; “and besides, I have promised to dine out. Take Miss Bedford.”“Bother Miss Bedford! Bai Jove, one can’t stir without your governess. I say, Marter, do go!”“Can’t, I tell you; and, besides, I shouldn’t go, if I had no engagement,” said Mr Marter testily. “You three can go if you like.”Max Bray seemed rather put out by the refusal, and for a time it almost appeared as if he were about to throw the stall tickets behind the fire; but by degrees he cooled down, and after it had been decided that he was to call for the ladies about half-past seven, he rose to leave.“But why not have an early dinner here?” said Mr Marter.“No, bai Jove, no!” said Max. “I’m always here; and besides, I’ve some business to attend to. Till half-past seven, then—au revoir.”Max kissed the tips of his gloves to Mrs Marter as he left the room; and soon after he was being driven to his chambers, where he wrote a long letter to Laura, sent it by special messenger, and then sat impatiently waiting for an answer, gnawing his nails the while.The reply came at last, very short and enigmatical, but it was sufficient to make him draw a long breath, as if of satisfaction, though the words were only—“Yes! No more; for we are going out.”Then Max Bray lit a cigar, and sat thinking over the events of the past few days, and of what he had done. He had been several times to the Marters’; he had run down, on the previous day, to Lexville; and a couple of days before that he had posted a letter, the reply to which he now anxiously awaited.What time would it come? He kept referring to his watch, and then he went over and over again the arrangements for some project he evidently had in view, before sauntering off to his club and dining; when, to his great delight, upon his returning to dress for the evening’s engagement, he found a couple of letters awaiting him, one of which he tore open, and then threw into the fire with an impatient “Pish!” the other he took up and examined carefully, reading the several postmarks, and then, smiling as he glanced at the round legal writing, placed it unopened in his breast-pocket.There was a strange exultant look in Max Bray’s eye as he drew on his white-kid gloves that evening, and started for the residence of Mrs Saint Clair Marter, where he found the ladies ready, and did not scruple to behave almost rudely to Ella as he prepared to take them down, hardly condescending to speak to her; but as the evening wore on, and they were seated in front of the orchestra, he condescended to make to her a few remarks, more than one of which drew forth a smile, from their satirical nature, as, evidently in a bitter spirit, he drew attention to the various eccentricities of dress in their neighbourhood.Max Bray did not know, though, that within a few yards sat the man whom he had again and again maligned; neither did Ella Bedford divine that a pair of blood-shot eyes were gazing upon her almost fiercely, as she turned from time to time to respond to the remarks of Max, who talked on, till, towards the end of the opera, he stood up to direct his opera-glass here and there, for indulgence in that graceful, truly refined, nineteenth-century act, so much in vogue at the higher-class places of entertainment.He had tried in three or four different directions; but, perhaps from being in a satirical mood, he did not see a single face to attract his attention, till, concluding with a grand sweep of the best tier, he suddenly stopped short, kept the glass tightly to his eyes, whisked round swiftly, and sat down; for the field of the glass had for the moment been filled by the figures of Mrs Bray and Sir Philip Vining.“Bai Jove!” muttered Max to himself; and had Charley Vining and Laura been there all the evening, close behind him? They must have been, and be sitting now at the back of the private box. Bai Jove! what should he do? It was horrible to have gone so far—so near—and then to have all spoiled! What an ass he must have been! Laura had said that they were going out; but who would have thought that they were coming here?Max sat rigidly still for the rest of the evening, encouraging Mrs Marter to stay through the ballet; and at last, cautiously peering round, he found, to his great satisfaction, that the private box occupied by the Brays was empty.Ella had not seen who was so near, for she was calm and unmoved.“Bai Jove, what an escape!” thought Max; and a cold chill ran through him—one that would have been more icy, had he known how close they had been to arencontre. But there was still another peril—Charley Vining might be waiting yet, and she would see him!They reached the fly, however, uninterrupted, and Max Bray’s spirits rose; but, though he stayed to a late meal—half-tea, half-supper—at Crescent Villas, he was more distant than ever in his behaviour to Ella—so distant, indeed, that Mrs Marter was half-disposed to ask him if Miss Bedford had given him any offence.It was past one when Max departed; and, hardly knowing why, Ella went to her bed that night tearful and sad, little thinking that it was a pillow she would never again press.

“Bai Jove, Mrs Marter, it does a man good to see you,” said Max Bray, sauntering one afternoon into the Marter drawing-room, carefully dressed, as a matter of course, and with a choice Covent-garden exotic in his button-hole. “I declare it makes one quite disgusted with the flowers one buys, it does, bai Jove!” and then showing his white teeth, he raised her hand, touched the extreme tips of her nails with his lips, and then resigned the hand, which fell gracefully upon the side of the couch. “Bai Jove, Marter, I envy you—I do, bai Jove! You’re one of the lucky ones of this earth, only you don’t know it: feast of reason, flow of soul, and all that sort of thing’s blooming, if I may say so, upon your own premises.”

“I’m sure,” simpered Mrs Marter, “there ought to be a new official made at the palace—Court flatterer—and Mr Bray given the post.”

“Wouldn’t be amiss, if there was a good salary,” said Mr Marter, looking up from his newspaper.

“Bai Jove, now, that’s too bad—’tis indeed, bai Jove! There are some of you people get so hardened by contact with the world, that, bai Jove! you’ve no more faith in a fler’s sincerity than if there wasn’t such a thing to be found anywhere.”

“O! but,” simpered Mrs Marter, “do you think we can’t tell when you are sincere?”

“Bai Jove, no!” said Max earnestly, and with a wonderful deal of truth. “But look here: I’ve got tickets for Her Majesty’s to-night—three, you know—forLa Figlia. You’ll go, of course, Marter?”

“Go to an opera!” said Mr Marter, with a shake of the head. “I never go to operas—I only go to sleep.”

“O, bai Jove! that’s too bad!” cried Max. “You’ve never been with us anywhere yet; and I do think you ought to go for once in a way.”

“No, I sha’n’t go!” said Mr Marter; “and besides, I have promised to dine out. Take Miss Bedford.”

“Bother Miss Bedford! Bai Jove, one can’t stir without your governess. I say, Marter, do go!”

“Can’t, I tell you; and, besides, I shouldn’t go, if I had no engagement,” said Mr Marter testily. “You three can go if you like.”

Max Bray seemed rather put out by the refusal, and for a time it almost appeared as if he were about to throw the stall tickets behind the fire; but by degrees he cooled down, and after it had been decided that he was to call for the ladies about half-past seven, he rose to leave.

“But why not have an early dinner here?” said Mr Marter.

“No, bai Jove, no!” said Max. “I’m always here; and besides, I’ve some business to attend to. Till half-past seven, then—au revoir.”

Max kissed the tips of his gloves to Mrs Marter as he left the room; and soon after he was being driven to his chambers, where he wrote a long letter to Laura, sent it by special messenger, and then sat impatiently waiting for an answer, gnawing his nails the while.

The reply came at last, very short and enigmatical, but it was sufficient to make him draw a long breath, as if of satisfaction, though the words were only—

“Yes! No more; for we are going out.”

Then Max Bray lit a cigar, and sat thinking over the events of the past few days, and of what he had done. He had been several times to the Marters’; he had run down, on the previous day, to Lexville; and a couple of days before that he had posted a letter, the reply to which he now anxiously awaited.

What time would it come? He kept referring to his watch, and then he went over and over again the arrangements for some project he evidently had in view, before sauntering off to his club and dining; when, to his great delight, upon his returning to dress for the evening’s engagement, he found a couple of letters awaiting him, one of which he tore open, and then threw into the fire with an impatient “Pish!” the other he took up and examined carefully, reading the several postmarks, and then, smiling as he glanced at the round legal writing, placed it unopened in his breast-pocket.

There was a strange exultant look in Max Bray’s eye as he drew on his white-kid gloves that evening, and started for the residence of Mrs Saint Clair Marter, where he found the ladies ready, and did not scruple to behave almost rudely to Ella as he prepared to take them down, hardly condescending to speak to her; but as the evening wore on, and they were seated in front of the orchestra, he condescended to make to her a few remarks, more than one of which drew forth a smile, from their satirical nature, as, evidently in a bitter spirit, he drew attention to the various eccentricities of dress in their neighbourhood.

Max Bray did not know, though, that within a few yards sat the man whom he had again and again maligned; neither did Ella Bedford divine that a pair of blood-shot eyes were gazing upon her almost fiercely, as she turned from time to time to respond to the remarks of Max, who talked on, till, towards the end of the opera, he stood up to direct his opera-glass here and there, for indulgence in that graceful, truly refined, nineteenth-century act, so much in vogue at the higher-class places of entertainment.

He had tried in three or four different directions; but, perhaps from being in a satirical mood, he did not see a single face to attract his attention, till, concluding with a grand sweep of the best tier, he suddenly stopped short, kept the glass tightly to his eyes, whisked round swiftly, and sat down; for the field of the glass had for the moment been filled by the figures of Mrs Bray and Sir Philip Vining.

“Bai Jove!” muttered Max to himself; and had Charley Vining and Laura been there all the evening, close behind him? They must have been, and be sitting now at the back of the private box. Bai Jove! what should he do? It was horrible to have gone so far—so near—and then to have all spoiled! What an ass he must have been! Laura had said that they were going out; but who would have thought that they were coming here?

Max sat rigidly still for the rest of the evening, encouraging Mrs Marter to stay through the ballet; and at last, cautiously peering round, he found, to his great satisfaction, that the private box occupied by the Brays was empty.

Ella had not seen who was so near, for she was calm and unmoved.

“Bai Jove, what an escape!” thought Max; and a cold chill ran through him—one that would have been more icy, had he known how close they had been to arencontre. But there was still another peril—Charley Vining might be waiting yet, and she would see him!

They reached the fly, however, uninterrupted, and Max Bray’s spirits rose; but, though he stayed to a late meal—half-tea, half-supper—at Crescent Villas, he was more distant than ever in his behaviour to Ella—so distant, indeed, that Mrs Marter was half-disposed to ask him if Miss Bedford had given him any offence.

It was past one when Max departed; and, hardly knowing why, Ella went to her bed that night tearful and sad, little thinking that it was a pillow she would never again press.

Volume Three—Chapter Fourteen.The Bearer of Tidings.Nine o’clock the next—or rather, by the way in which we calculate time, calling by the same title the hours of obscurity and those of sunshine, the same—morning, Mr and Mrs Marter were not down, nor likely to be for some time; but Ella was just rising from the schoolroom breakfast-table, where she had partaken of a pleasant meal of extremely weak tea, sweetened with moist sugar of a fine treacley odour, and thick bread, plastered with rank, tubby, salt butter. The meal had gone off more quietly than usual,—no one had upset any tea, neither had the youngest child turned her delicate hand and arm, as was much her custom, into a catapult, for the purpose of hurling bread-and-butter at her sisters. Certainly, this young lady had made one snatch at the butter, lying lumpy and yellow upon a plate, and had succeeded in grasping it, as was shown by the traces of her fingers; but when admonished therefor, and threatened with long tasks, she had only howled for five minutes, and had not, as was her wont, thrown herself upon her back upon the floor, and screamed until she was black in the face.“Mr Bray wants to see you, miss,” said a housemaid, entering the schoolroom, the footman not being dressed at so early an hour.“To see me?” ejaculated Ella.“Yes, miss; he says he wants to seeyoupertickler, and he’s now waiting in the dining-room.”“Is Mrs Marter down yet?” said Ella, troubled at this unusual call, and at such a strange hour.“No, miss; nor won’t be for long enough.”“Ask Mr Bray if he would be kind enough to call again at twelve,” said Ella, after a few moments’ thought. “I am engaged now with the children.”“Yes, miss,” said the girl; and she departed, to return at the end of five minutes, with a card bearing in pencil:“If you value your peace of mind, come to me. I have a letter for you from the country. A case of life or death!”“Mrs Brandon must be ill,” thought Ella; and hurriedly leaving the room, she stood the next minute face to face with Max, who was very pale, as he respectfully held out his hand, which was, however, unnoticed.“Miss Bedford,” he said softly, “I fear that my visits have always been associated with that which was to you unpleasant, from the fact, though, that you did not know my real nature. This visit will, I fear, be only another that shall add to the dislike you entertain for me, but which of late you have so kindly disguised.”Ella did not speak, but stood watching him eagerly.“You know I was late home last night. I found there this letter, delivered evidently by the late post, and you will guess my emotion when you read it. I came back here; but I could not get a cab, and it was half-past two when I reached the house. If I had roused you, nothing could have been done, while now a calm night’s rest has made you better prepared. So I returned to lie down upon the sofa for a few hours’ rest, meaning to be here as soon as the house was opened; but—I am almost ashamed to tell it—I slept heavily from the effects of my long walk, and did not wake till eight. Can you bear to read it?” he said gently.“Yes, yes,” cried Ella huskily; and she took a formal-looking letter, that had evidently been hurriedly torn open. She glanced at the address—to “Maximilian Bray, Esq., 109 Bury-street, Saint James’s, London.” The postmark, two days old, Penzance, while the London mark was of the day before. “Am I to read this?” she said, without raising her eyes.“Yes,” he said gently; and he turned away from her, but only to go to the mantelpiece and cover his eyes with his hands, where it was quite possible that he might have been able to see, by means of the mirror, every act of the trembling girl.Ella drew out a folded letter from the envelope, when a smaller one fell to the ground, addressed to her in the same hand as that in which the larger letter was written.The characters seemed to run together as she opened this second envelope, took out a little folded note in another hand, read it, and then for a few moments the room seemed to swim round. But by an effort she mastered her emotion, re-read the note, and then hastily perused the letter through and through before doubling both together, and standing white and trembling, clutching the papers tightly as she gazed straight before her at vacancy.There was no cry, no display of wild excitement; nothing but those white quivering lips and the drawn despairing look, to show the agony suffered by that heart, till she started back, as it were, into life, when Max turned softly and stood before her.“Miss Bedford,” he said gently, “I will not trouble you with words of commiseration. I must go now to make preparations.”“Preparations?” she said, as if not understanding his remark.“Yes; preparations. I telegraphed to Lexville as I came; and now I must go, for I shall run down by the express. There will be no time saved if I start earlier.”“You are going?” said Ella dreamily.“Yes,” he said almost angrily, “of course! Do you take me to be utterly devoid of feeling? But you will write, and I will be the bearer.”“Write!” said Ella, with a wild hysterical sob—“write!”“Yes. Surely you will do that,” he said anxiously.“Heaven help me!” cried Ella. “I must go.”“You will go?” he said excitedly.“Yes,” she said, with a strange dreamy look; “it is my fate. I must go.”“Ella—Miss Bedford—will you trust me?” said Max in an earnest voice. “Leave matters to me, and I will arrange all. But Mrs Marter will object to your leaving.”“I must go,” said Ella, who seemed to be speaking as if under some strange influence.“You will go in spite of her wishes?” said Max.“Yes, yes; I must go,” said Ella huskily; and raising her hands to her face, she would have left the room.

Nine o’clock the next—or rather, by the way in which we calculate time, calling by the same title the hours of obscurity and those of sunshine, the same—morning, Mr and Mrs Marter were not down, nor likely to be for some time; but Ella was just rising from the schoolroom breakfast-table, where she had partaken of a pleasant meal of extremely weak tea, sweetened with moist sugar of a fine treacley odour, and thick bread, plastered with rank, tubby, salt butter. The meal had gone off more quietly than usual,—no one had upset any tea, neither had the youngest child turned her delicate hand and arm, as was much her custom, into a catapult, for the purpose of hurling bread-and-butter at her sisters. Certainly, this young lady had made one snatch at the butter, lying lumpy and yellow upon a plate, and had succeeded in grasping it, as was shown by the traces of her fingers; but when admonished therefor, and threatened with long tasks, she had only howled for five minutes, and had not, as was her wont, thrown herself upon her back upon the floor, and screamed until she was black in the face.

“Mr Bray wants to see you, miss,” said a housemaid, entering the schoolroom, the footman not being dressed at so early an hour.

“To see me?” ejaculated Ella.

“Yes, miss; he says he wants to seeyoupertickler, and he’s now waiting in the dining-room.”

“Is Mrs Marter down yet?” said Ella, troubled at this unusual call, and at such a strange hour.

“No, miss; nor won’t be for long enough.”

“Ask Mr Bray if he would be kind enough to call again at twelve,” said Ella, after a few moments’ thought. “I am engaged now with the children.”

“Yes, miss,” said the girl; and she departed, to return at the end of five minutes, with a card bearing in pencil:

“If you value your peace of mind, come to me. I have a letter for you from the country. A case of life or death!”

“Mrs Brandon must be ill,” thought Ella; and hurriedly leaving the room, she stood the next minute face to face with Max, who was very pale, as he respectfully held out his hand, which was, however, unnoticed.

“Miss Bedford,” he said softly, “I fear that my visits have always been associated with that which was to you unpleasant, from the fact, though, that you did not know my real nature. This visit will, I fear, be only another that shall add to the dislike you entertain for me, but which of late you have so kindly disguised.”

Ella did not speak, but stood watching him eagerly.

“You know I was late home last night. I found there this letter, delivered evidently by the late post, and you will guess my emotion when you read it. I came back here; but I could not get a cab, and it was half-past two when I reached the house. If I had roused you, nothing could have been done, while now a calm night’s rest has made you better prepared. So I returned to lie down upon the sofa for a few hours’ rest, meaning to be here as soon as the house was opened; but—I am almost ashamed to tell it—I slept heavily from the effects of my long walk, and did not wake till eight. Can you bear to read it?” he said gently.

“Yes, yes,” cried Ella huskily; and she took a formal-looking letter, that had evidently been hurriedly torn open. She glanced at the address—to “Maximilian Bray, Esq., 109 Bury-street, Saint James’s, London.” The postmark, two days old, Penzance, while the London mark was of the day before. “Am I to read this?” she said, without raising her eyes.

“Yes,” he said gently; and he turned away from her, but only to go to the mantelpiece and cover his eyes with his hands, where it was quite possible that he might have been able to see, by means of the mirror, every act of the trembling girl.

Ella drew out a folded letter from the envelope, when a smaller one fell to the ground, addressed to her in the same hand as that in which the larger letter was written.

The characters seemed to run together as she opened this second envelope, took out a little folded note in another hand, read it, and then for a few moments the room seemed to swim round. But by an effort she mastered her emotion, re-read the note, and then hastily perused the letter through and through before doubling both together, and standing white and trembling, clutching the papers tightly as she gazed straight before her at vacancy.

There was no cry, no display of wild excitement; nothing but those white quivering lips and the drawn despairing look, to show the agony suffered by that heart, till she started back, as it were, into life, when Max turned softly and stood before her.

“Miss Bedford,” he said gently, “I will not trouble you with words of commiseration. I must go now to make preparations.”

“Preparations?” she said, as if not understanding his remark.

“Yes; preparations. I telegraphed to Lexville as I came; and now I must go, for I shall run down by the express. There will be no time saved if I start earlier.”

“You are going?” said Ella dreamily.

“Yes,” he said almost angrily, “of course! Do you take me to be utterly devoid of feeling? But you will write, and I will be the bearer.”

“Write!” said Ella, with a wild hysterical sob—“write!”

“Yes. Surely you will do that,” he said anxiously.

“Heaven help me!” cried Ella. “I must go.”

“You will go?” he said excitedly.

“Yes,” she said, with a strange dreamy look; “it is my fate. I must go.”

“Ella—Miss Bedford—will you trust me?” said Max in an earnest voice. “Leave matters to me, and I will arrange all. But Mrs Marter will object to your leaving.”

“I must go,” said Ella, who seemed to be speaking as if under some strange influence.

“You will go in spite of her wishes?” said Max.

“Yes, yes; I must go,” said Ella huskily; and raising her hands to her face, she would have left the room.

Volume Three—Chapter Fifteen.Hovering round the Snare.“Stop, stop!” said Max hoarsely. “We must have no scene with that weak woman. I will be in waiting by the park entrance of the Colosseum with a cab at four. Meet me there. The train leaves Paddington at 4:50. But do you hear me?”“Yes,” she said, speaking as if in a dream.“Do you understand? At the Colosseum at four, without fail.”“Yes,” said Ella again abstractedly, as he held her cold hand in his, her face being turned towards the door.“But mind this,” he said, “this is no time for child’s-play. If you are not there soon after the time named, I must catch the train, and I dare not wait. If you are not there, I go alone!”“Do you think I could fail?” said Ella, turning upon him her sweet candid countenance. “I will be there.”Was Max Bray ashamed of his face, that he held it down as he hurried from the house? Perhaps not; but he was evidently much excited, for he muttered half aloud, as if running over certain plans that he had arranged for a particular end.“Could it be right? Was it all true?” Ella asked herself, when alone in her bedroom, with the sense of a deep unutterable misery crushing her; and once more she read the letters she had retained.“O yes, it was too true, too true! But what was she about to do? To accompany the man she mistrusted, the man she dreaded? He had been trusted, though, before now; and of late, too, his conduct had been so different—he had even seemed to dislike her. Still, under any other circumstances, she would not have gone; but at such a time, in answer to such an appeal, how could she stay?”Her brain was in a whirl, and she could not reason quietly. She only knew now the depth of love she felt, and urged by that love, everything else seemed little and of no import.Hours must have passed, when, after sending twice to Mrs Marter, she received that lady’s gracious permission to wait upon her.“I should have sent for you before long—as soon as I felt that I could bear it, Miss Bedford,” said Mrs Marter—“to demand some explanation of your receiving visitors early in the morning without my consent. I understand that somewhere about seven o’clock—”“I believe the clock had struck nine,” said Ella quietly.“Seven, or eight, or nine, or ten, it’s all the same!” exclaimed Mrs Marter angrily. “Pray, Miss Bedford, what did Mr Bray want here this morning? Was it supposed that I should not know of the visit?”“Mr Bray came to tell me of the illness of a very dear friend,” said Ella pitifully; “and now I come to ask your consent to absent myself for a few days.”“Of course, I might have known that that was coming! Certainly not, Miss Bedford! And until I have communicated with Mrs Brandon, I desire you do not leave the house. What next, I wonder?”“Mr Bray brought me letters. It is a matter of life and death!” said Ella earnestly. “Surely, madam, in such a case you will not refuse me?”“And pray who is it that is ill?” said Mrs Marter sneeringly.Ella was silent. She could not have spoken then, in spite of every effort, even to have saved her life.“I can see through it all! I am not blind!” exclaimed Mrs Marter. “I shall certainly not give my consent, Miss Bedford. It is a planned affair, and I have been deceived. Now leave the room.”Ella would have spoken, but she felt that it would have been without avail; and hurrying out, she once more sought her own chamber.What did Mrs Marter mean? What was planned? Impossible! She had the proof in those letters. And once more she read them with beating heart before asking herself whether she would be doing right or wrong.What had she promised? To meet Max Bray at four—to trust herself to his guidance. What had she to fear? Surely scheming baseness could never go so low! But it was absurd! She had those letters, and did she not know the handwriting?She examined her purse. The store was slender, but not so small as of old. Then she prepared a few necessaries in a small travelling-bag before referring again and again to the time, which seemed to lag slowly by, as she pictured scene after scene of misery and death, till she seated herself at a table, and rested her aching throbbing brow upon her hands.About two o’clock a message came from Mrs Marter to know why she did not attend the young ladies’ dinner; when, starting up, she descended, matters of the present having quite escaped her in the rush of terrible thoughts which swept through her brain.She went through her duties mechanically, hurrying back as soon as she possibly could to her room, and dressed for a journey; when standing, bag in hand, ready, and waiting for the appointed hour, now very near at hand, a strange nervous dread began to oppress her—a cold shivering sense of evil, which made her hands feel damp and cold, and her lips hot, parched, and dry.Twenty times over she was about to tear off her things and give up, but her hand seemed to go mechanically to her breast, when a touch of those letters strengthened her resolve. She felt then that she must go—something was drawing her that she could not resist. But again began the shrinking, and each time to be struggled with till the dread was beaten; and at last, waking from a wild, nervous, excited struggle between strength and indecision, Ella found that the hour was long past, and, bag in hand, she fled down the stairs.“Miss Bedford—Miss Bedford!” screamed a passionate voice as she passed the drawing-room. But, with face pale and eyes fixed, Ella seemed to be walking in her sleep, or labouring under the stupor produced by some narcotic; for she passed on, heedless of the call—one hand holding the travelling-bag, the other clasping the letters, which acted as a talisman to nerve her in each sore time of shrinking.The poison was working well. But in the passage she stayed for an instant, hesitating. What step was she taking? Where would this end?A cold shudder passed through her; but once more she was drawn on against her will, her better sense, and the powers that should have withheld her.Another moment and her hand was on the fastening of the door; and for the last time she paused, hung back for an instant, and would have returned, when her hand again pressed the letters. She uttered a feeble wailing cry as her lips formed a name, and then, opening the door, she stood upon the steps as if hesitating; but the portal swung to, and fastened itself with a loud snap; and fully feeling now that she had taken the step, she drew down her veil and hurried over the distance that lay between her and the Colosseum, suffering from a new dread.The step taken, she felt now nerved for any contingency, and recalling Max Bray’s words, she reproached herself for her delay.What had he said? If she were not there, he would go alone!She almost ran now over the pathway till she caught sight of a cab.Was that the one, or had he gone? Was she too late?Yes, she was too late, she told herself, for he was not there; but the next moment, giddy with excitement, she felt her hand seized, the bag taken from her, the banging of a cab-door; when, as a voice exclaimed, “At last!” there was a noise of wheels, and she felt that she was being hurried through the streets.

“Stop, stop!” said Max hoarsely. “We must have no scene with that weak woman. I will be in waiting by the park entrance of the Colosseum with a cab at four. Meet me there. The train leaves Paddington at 4:50. But do you hear me?”

“Yes,” she said, speaking as if in a dream.

“Do you understand? At the Colosseum at four, without fail.”

“Yes,” said Ella again abstractedly, as he held her cold hand in his, her face being turned towards the door.

“But mind this,” he said, “this is no time for child’s-play. If you are not there soon after the time named, I must catch the train, and I dare not wait. If you are not there, I go alone!”

“Do you think I could fail?” said Ella, turning upon him her sweet candid countenance. “I will be there.”

Was Max Bray ashamed of his face, that he held it down as he hurried from the house? Perhaps not; but he was evidently much excited, for he muttered half aloud, as if running over certain plans that he had arranged for a particular end.

“Could it be right? Was it all true?” Ella asked herself, when alone in her bedroom, with the sense of a deep unutterable misery crushing her; and once more she read the letters she had retained.

“O yes, it was too true, too true! But what was she about to do? To accompany the man she mistrusted, the man she dreaded? He had been trusted, though, before now; and of late, too, his conduct had been so different—he had even seemed to dislike her. Still, under any other circumstances, she would not have gone; but at such a time, in answer to such an appeal, how could she stay?”

Her brain was in a whirl, and she could not reason quietly. She only knew now the depth of love she felt, and urged by that love, everything else seemed little and of no import.

Hours must have passed, when, after sending twice to Mrs Marter, she received that lady’s gracious permission to wait upon her.

“I should have sent for you before long—as soon as I felt that I could bear it, Miss Bedford,” said Mrs Marter—“to demand some explanation of your receiving visitors early in the morning without my consent. I understand that somewhere about seven o’clock—”

“I believe the clock had struck nine,” said Ella quietly.

“Seven, or eight, or nine, or ten, it’s all the same!” exclaimed Mrs Marter angrily. “Pray, Miss Bedford, what did Mr Bray want here this morning? Was it supposed that I should not know of the visit?”

“Mr Bray came to tell me of the illness of a very dear friend,” said Ella pitifully; “and now I come to ask your consent to absent myself for a few days.”

“Of course, I might have known that that was coming! Certainly not, Miss Bedford! And until I have communicated with Mrs Brandon, I desire you do not leave the house. What next, I wonder?”

“Mr Bray brought me letters. It is a matter of life and death!” said Ella earnestly. “Surely, madam, in such a case you will not refuse me?”

“And pray who is it that is ill?” said Mrs Marter sneeringly.

Ella was silent. She could not have spoken then, in spite of every effort, even to have saved her life.

“I can see through it all! I am not blind!” exclaimed Mrs Marter. “I shall certainly not give my consent, Miss Bedford. It is a planned affair, and I have been deceived. Now leave the room.”

Ella would have spoken, but she felt that it would have been without avail; and hurrying out, she once more sought her own chamber.

What did Mrs Marter mean? What was planned? Impossible! She had the proof in those letters. And once more she read them with beating heart before asking herself whether she would be doing right or wrong.

What had she promised? To meet Max Bray at four—to trust herself to his guidance. What had she to fear? Surely scheming baseness could never go so low! But it was absurd! She had those letters, and did she not know the handwriting?

She examined her purse. The store was slender, but not so small as of old. Then she prepared a few necessaries in a small travelling-bag before referring again and again to the time, which seemed to lag slowly by, as she pictured scene after scene of misery and death, till she seated herself at a table, and rested her aching throbbing brow upon her hands.

About two o’clock a message came from Mrs Marter to know why she did not attend the young ladies’ dinner; when, starting up, she descended, matters of the present having quite escaped her in the rush of terrible thoughts which swept through her brain.

She went through her duties mechanically, hurrying back as soon as she possibly could to her room, and dressed for a journey; when standing, bag in hand, ready, and waiting for the appointed hour, now very near at hand, a strange nervous dread began to oppress her—a cold shivering sense of evil, which made her hands feel damp and cold, and her lips hot, parched, and dry.

Twenty times over she was about to tear off her things and give up, but her hand seemed to go mechanically to her breast, when a touch of those letters strengthened her resolve. She felt then that she must go—something was drawing her that she could not resist. But again began the shrinking, and each time to be struggled with till the dread was beaten; and at last, waking from a wild, nervous, excited struggle between strength and indecision, Ella found that the hour was long past, and, bag in hand, she fled down the stairs.

“Miss Bedford—Miss Bedford!” screamed a passionate voice as she passed the drawing-room. But, with face pale and eyes fixed, Ella seemed to be walking in her sleep, or labouring under the stupor produced by some narcotic; for she passed on, heedless of the call—one hand holding the travelling-bag, the other clasping the letters, which acted as a talisman to nerve her in each sore time of shrinking.

The poison was working well. But in the passage she stayed for an instant, hesitating. What step was she taking? Where would this end?

A cold shudder passed through her; but once more she was drawn on against her will, her better sense, and the powers that should have withheld her.

Another moment and her hand was on the fastening of the door; and for the last time she paused, hung back for an instant, and would have returned, when her hand again pressed the letters. She uttered a feeble wailing cry as her lips formed a name, and then, opening the door, she stood upon the steps as if hesitating; but the portal swung to, and fastened itself with a loud snap; and fully feeling now that she had taken the step, she drew down her veil and hurried over the distance that lay between her and the Colosseum, suffering from a new dread.

The step taken, she felt now nerved for any contingency, and recalling Max Bray’s words, she reproached herself for her delay.

What had he said? If she were not there, he would go alone!

She almost ran now over the pathway till she caught sight of a cab.

Was that the one, or had he gone? Was she too late?

Yes, she was too late, she told herself, for he was not there; but the next moment, giddy with excitement, she felt her hand seized, the bag taken from her, the banging of a cab-door; when, as a voice exclaimed, “At last!” there was a noise of wheels, and she felt that she was being hurried through the streets.

Volume Three—Chapter Sixteen.In the Gin of the Fowler.“I was afraid that you would not come, Miss Bedford,” said Max respectfully. “You look pale and ill.”Ella could not answer, when, seeing her agitation, her companion forbore to speak, but kept on consulting his watch. Now he pulled down the front window to tell the driver to hasten; now he drew it up again, but only five minutes after, to tell the man to slacken his pace, till, apparently annoyed at the interruptions, the driver settled down into a quiet regular trot, out of which neither the threats nor exhortations of his fare could move him.In one of his movements, Max dropped a note from his breast-pocket, as he knocked down Ella’s reticule, which flew open; but gathering up the escaped contents, he replaced them for her, and with them his own letter, when closing the snap, he handed the reticule back to her, saying, “There is nothing lost, Miss Bedford.”He was quite right; but for Ella there was much gained.“We shall lose the train!” now exclaimed Max excitedly. “Bai Jove, we shall! and when one had got so near too!”Then he once more shouted at the driver to hasten; but in vain. At last, though, as they reached Paddington, Max referred again to his watch, his face flushing the while with excitement, as he exclaimed, “We shall be just right, after all!”Then, in what seemed a dream of excited haste, Ella felt herself dragged from the cab—there was the loud ringing of a bell; the rattling of money; Max’s voice adjuring the porter to hasten with their little luggage; and then, profoundly ignorant that Charley Vining was within a few yards, Ella felt herself half lifted into a first-class carriage, where she sank back amongst the cushions as the door banged; and, as if to increase her giddiness, the train glided past walls, empty carriages, signal-posts, engine-houses, and then over a maze of switches and points—farther and farther each moment, off and away with a wild scream down the main line.“Hard fought for, but gained!” muttered Max Bray, as he stooped down to conceal the look of triumph which overspread his countenance; and in that attitude he remained for fully half an hour, when, carefully arranging rug and wrapper for his companion’s comfort, he once more leaned back, drew forth a paper, and answering one or two attempts made by fellow-passengers to commence conversation with a bow of the head, he appeared to read.And for Ella?Giddiness and excitement, the rattle of the train, the flashing of the lights of stations they dashed by as night came on, and then a stoppage, and a voice called out, “Reading!” Then on again, giddiness and excitement and the rattle of the train seeming to form itself into one deep voice, the burden of whose song was always telling her to hasten onward, till in the dim light of the ill-lit carriage, she felt ready at times to start forward and ask if any one had called. Then it seemed in the darkness as if the train was rapidly going back, at a time when she was hungering to get to her journey’s end.Max sat back, silent and thoughtful, opposite to her, apparently without taking the slightest heed; but once or twice it seemed to her that she caught sight of a flashing eye.There were two more passengers in the same compartment; but after the first attempt at conversation, they subsided into their corners, and not a word was spoken.Another slackening of the swift express, after thundering along for another many miles’ run, and still Ella feared no evil; but as Max roused himself and threw aside wrappers, she evinced her readiness to follow him.“Swindon!” he said. “Just upon seven. We had better have a little refreshment here, for it is one of the best places we shall pass till we get to Exeter at 10:20. Take my arm, Miss Bedford?”“Thank you,” said Ella; “but I cannot—I would rather not have any refreshment.”“It is absolutely necessary,” he said firmly. “You have a very long journey before you, and unless you prepare for it, you will be totally unfit to get through it all. Let me draw this closer round your throat.”Quiet gentlemanly attentions, kind consideration, great respect. Was this the Max Bray of old? Ella was ready to ask herself, as she suffered him to draw her cloak more tightly round her; and then, taking advantage of the ten minutes’ law allowed, he pressed upon her refreshments, every mouthful of which was as gall and ashes between her lips.More giddiness and excitement, the clanging of a bell, and they were once more in their places. There was the guard’s shrill whistle, the engine’s shriek, and then again the rattle of the train forcing itself into adjuring words, bidding her “hasten on—hasten on!” or she would be too late; and then out once more in the darkness, rushing on with a wild thundering speed, away dashed the train, whirling up dust, dead leaf, or scrap of straw, and casting each fragment away, as the very earth quivered beneath the weight of the huge load. And still again came that strange sense of the engine now standing still, now reversing its action, so that they were hurrying once more back towards town.“Hasten on—hasten on! Too late—too late!” The words kept repeating themselves to her excited imagination; and to relieve herself from the apprehensive feelings engendered, she tried to gaze out of the window; but all was darkness. She glanced round the compartment. The two passengers were evidently asleep, and for the first time now since they had started, a shiver of dread came over her, as her eyes rested for a moment on Max, who, leaning back, silent and reserved, was evidently watching her every movement.But she drove away the fancy that troubled her, and sat trying to picture the scene she would soon be called upon to witness, and a sigh of misery and despair tore from her breast.And still on and on, hour after hour, till, well on their journey, Exeter was reached. A five minutes’ stay made, and then they glided out of the great station, and into the darkness once more. Half-past ten now, and nearly two more hours to travel before Plymouth would be reached—the extent of their journey for that night.There were three other passengers in the train this time; but a movement upon the part of Max Bray now troubled her. It was a mere trifle, but the slightest act was likely to arouse her distrust; and, as he changed his seat from opposite to her side, she involuntarily shrank away, when he immediately returned, folded his arms, and sat watching her.And now more than ever came upon her the thoughts of the extent of the step she had taken, oppressing her terribly, till, as if seeking relief, she began to repeat the words of the letter placed in her hands that day.

“I was afraid that you would not come, Miss Bedford,” said Max respectfully. “You look pale and ill.”

Ella could not answer, when, seeing her agitation, her companion forbore to speak, but kept on consulting his watch. Now he pulled down the front window to tell the driver to hasten; now he drew it up again, but only five minutes after, to tell the man to slacken his pace, till, apparently annoyed at the interruptions, the driver settled down into a quiet regular trot, out of which neither the threats nor exhortations of his fare could move him.

In one of his movements, Max dropped a note from his breast-pocket, as he knocked down Ella’s reticule, which flew open; but gathering up the escaped contents, he replaced them for her, and with them his own letter, when closing the snap, he handed the reticule back to her, saying, “There is nothing lost, Miss Bedford.”

He was quite right; but for Ella there was much gained.

“We shall lose the train!” now exclaimed Max excitedly. “Bai Jove, we shall! and when one had got so near too!”

Then he once more shouted at the driver to hasten; but in vain. At last, though, as they reached Paddington, Max referred again to his watch, his face flushing the while with excitement, as he exclaimed, “We shall be just right, after all!”

Then, in what seemed a dream of excited haste, Ella felt herself dragged from the cab—there was the loud ringing of a bell; the rattling of money; Max’s voice adjuring the porter to hasten with their little luggage; and then, profoundly ignorant that Charley Vining was within a few yards, Ella felt herself half lifted into a first-class carriage, where she sank back amongst the cushions as the door banged; and, as if to increase her giddiness, the train glided past walls, empty carriages, signal-posts, engine-houses, and then over a maze of switches and points—farther and farther each moment, off and away with a wild scream down the main line.

“Hard fought for, but gained!” muttered Max Bray, as he stooped down to conceal the look of triumph which overspread his countenance; and in that attitude he remained for fully half an hour, when, carefully arranging rug and wrapper for his companion’s comfort, he once more leaned back, drew forth a paper, and answering one or two attempts made by fellow-passengers to commence conversation with a bow of the head, he appeared to read.

And for Ella?

Giddiness and excitement, the rattle of the train, the flashing of the lights of stations they dashed by as night came on, and then a stoppage, and a voice called out, “Reading!” Then on again, giddiness and excitement and the rattle of the train seeming to form itself into one deep voice, the burden of whose song was always telling her to hasten onward, till in the dim light of the ill-lit carriage, she felt ready at times to start forward and ask if any one had called. Then it seemed in the darkness as if the train was rapidly going back, at a time when she was hungering to get to her journey’s end.

Max sat back, silent and thoughtful, opposite to her, apparently without taking the slightest heed; but once or twice it seemed to her that she caught sight of a flashing eye.

There were two more passengers in the same compartment; but after the first attempt at conversation, they subsided into their corners, and not a word was spoken.

Another slackening of the swift express, after thundering along for another many miles’ run, and still Ella feared no evil; but as Max roused himself and threw aside wrappers, she evinced her readiness to follow him.

“Swindon!” he said. “Just upon seven. We had better have a little refreshment here, for it is one of the best places we shall pass till we get to Exeter at 10:20. Take my arm, Miss Bedford?”

“Thank you,” said Ella; “but I cannot—I would rather not have any refreshment.”

“It is absolutely necessary,” he said firmly. “You have a very long journey before you, and unless you prepare for it, you will be totally unfit to get through it all. Let me draw this closer round your throat.”

Quiet gentlemanly attentions, kind consideration, great respect. Was this the Max Bray of old? Ella was ready to ask herself, as she suffered him to draw her cloak more tightly round her; and then, taking advantage of the ten minutes’ law allowed, he pressed upon her refreshments, every mouthful of which was as gall and ashes between her lips.

More giddiness and excitement, the clanging of a bell, and they were once more in their places. There was the guard’s shrill whistle, the engine’s shriek, and then again the rattle of the train forcing itself into adjuring words, bidding her “hasten on—hasten on!” or she would be too late; and then out once more in the darkness, rushing on with a wild thundering speed, away dashed the train, whirling up dust, dead leaf, or scrap of straw, and casting each fragment away, as the very earth quivered beneath the weight of the huge load. And still again came that strange sense of the engine now standing still, now reversing its action, so that they were hurrying once more back towards town.

“Hasten on—hasten on! Too late—too late!” The words kept repeating themselves to her excited imagination; and to relieve herself from the apprehensive feelings engendered, she tried to gaze out of the window; but all was darkness. She glanced round the compartment. The two passengers were evidently asleep, and for the first time now since they had started, a shiver of dread came over her, as her eyes rested for a moment on Max, who, leaning back, silent and reserved, was evidently watching her every movement.

But she drove away the fancy that troubled her, and sat trying to picture the scene she would soon be called upon to witness, and a sigh of misery and despair tore from her breast.

And still on and on, hour after hour, till, well on their journey, Exeter was reached. A five minutes’ stay made, and then they glided out of the great station, and into the darkness once more. Half-past ten now, and nearly two more hours to travel before Plymouth would be reached—the extent of their journey for that night.

There were three other passengers in the train this time; but a movement upon the part of Max Bray now troubled her. It was a mere trifle, but the slightest act was likely to arouse her distrust; and, as he changed his seat from opposite to her side, she involuntarily shrank away, when he immediately returned, folded his arms, and sat watching her.

And now more than ever came upon her the thoughts of the extent of the step she had taken, oppressing her terribly, till, as if seeking relief, she began to repeat the words of the letter placed in her hands that day.

Volume Three—Chapter Seventeen.Aid Where Unexpected.“Hasten on—hasten on!” The rattle of the train still repeating those words, and Ella’s heart sinking, as they sped through the darkness; for still, in spite of her struggle with reason, it would seem as if they were ever going back. Her brain seemed at times unable to support the stress placed upon it—the excitement more than she could bear.She gazed out upon the black night, but only to see in the dim breath-blurred glass the interior of the carriage reproduced, with the dark-blue cloth padding, the silent passengers, the globe lamp, and Max Bray seated opposite, with his eyes glittering as if ready to spring at her each instant. She could at any moment have succumbed, become weak and helpless, and trembled at her forlorn condition; but the brave spirit held up, although incipient fever was claiming her for its own, and a strange unnatural throbbing in the pulses of her temple told where the peril lay.Plymouth at last!—the train’s resting-place for the night; and again quiet and thoughtful, Max engaged a fly, wrapper and luggage were placed therein, and, quiet and gentlemanlike, he talked to her till they reached one of the principal hotels, where Ella gladly sought her chamber, and tried to find in sleep the relief from the mental strain she so sadly needed.But all through the early hours of that wintry morning came to torture her the endless repetition of those words: “Hasten on—hasten on!” while her burning head seemed chained to the pillow by links heated to redness.Again and again she started up, to gaze round the dark room, thinking that a voice whose tones she so well remembered was calling her; but, with a sigh, she sank back once more, to doze and listen in her sleep to the endless warning, “Hasten on—hasten on!”She descended to breakfast pale, restless, and excited. She could not eat, though pressed again and again by Max, who was gentle and attentive, asking with every show of consideration respecting her health.“I have made all arrangements and inquiries,” he said, “and been down to the station this morning. Our train leaves at ten.”“Not till ten?” she said in a disappointed tone.He smiled as he drew forth his watch.“It is half-past nine now,” he said. “We have only time to get comfortably down to the station.”Ella rose and left the room, to return in a few minutes ready to continue the journey; but during her absence, Max had placed a letter in the waiter’s hand, with an accompanying half-sovereign.“To be posted in a week’s time,” were the instructions.“More wrecks down in the bay,” said Max, as Ella re-entered the room. “It has been a sad winter!”“Let us—let us—hasten on,” she said with an effort; and leading her out, they were soon in the station, and secured their seats in an empty compartment, where Ella took her place by the window, to gaze abstractedly out at the damp sodden landscape for quite an hour.“Have we far to go now?” she asked of Max, who sat watching her.“Not much farther,” he said.And again she asked that question at the end of an hour, and of another hour, but always to receive the same answer.“Is it not less than a hundred miles from Plymouth to Penzance?” she at length asked uneasily.“Yes,” he said; “but you are travelling now upon a line of rail where stoppages are frequent and there is no speed. Bai Jove, though, they ought to be prosecuted for dawdling so.”Max smiled as he said those words, for his plan was nearly ripe; and that smile was not lost upon his companion. But she said nothing, only sat there pale, excited, and watchful till another hour had elapsed, during which time the well-fee’d guard had not intruded another passenger.But this could not last for ever. One moment silent and watchful, the next moment with the full conviction of how she had been betrayed upon her, Ella Bedford sprang up and tried to open the door, the train dashing along at the rate of forty miles an hour.There was a strong pair of hands upon her wrists, though, in an instant, and she was forced back into her seat.“Silly child!” exclaimed Max, with an insolent laugh. “What are you going to do?”“We are going back!” exclaimed Ella, struggling to free herself.“Well, not exactly,” he said, laughing, and now throwing off all disguise.“Where are you taking me?” she exclaimed.“O, only into North Wales, my trembling little dove,” laughed Max, as he held his captive firmly in her place. “Now look here, little one: every dog has his day. It is mine now, and I mean to make use of it. You have braved and jilted me long enough, and it is my turn now. There, you need not struggle; it is of no use. Let’s quietly look at the state of affairs. What have you done? Well, you’ve made an excuse to Mrs Marter, something about going to see a sick friend, and, bai Jove—not to put too fine a point on it—you have eloped with me, Maximilian Bray. I’ve no doubt our dear friend Mrs Marter has sent word of it to Mrs Brandon by this time. Mrs Brandon will tell the Brays of Lexville, when Mrs Bray will be shocked, and my beloved papa will no doubt leave me his curse; but, all the same, the Vinings will hear all about it. My plan took a long time hatching, but, now it is hatched, it cuts double-edged.”“Will you loose my wrists?” cried Ella faintly, “or am I to call for assistance?”“O, call if you like, my love; bai Jove, as much as you like! only you may save yourself the trouble, for no one will hear you. What!” he cried, laughing, “can the little gentle dove turn savage, and ruffle her plumes and peck? Come, now, what is the use of being vicious? You have thrown away that delicate little gossamer dress that ladies call fame, so why not say pleasantly, ‘My dear Maximilian, let us be married at once, and live happy ever after’? No, it’s of no use; you are not going to jump out on to the line to be broken up, I value you too much; and as I told you before, it is of no use to scream. There’s no dear Charley Vining to come to your help, for he is too busy with hisfiancée, my sweet sister Laura. Now, come, sit still and listen. Are you going to be reasonable? It’s of no use to be angry because I brought you off so cleverly; and bear in mind that I have been waiting months upon months, with the patience of half-a-dozen Jobs, to bring this plan from the most raw sourness to full ripening. Confound the girl! how strong she is! Bai Jove, Ella, you are a little Tartar!”Max Bray had talked on, and part of what he had said was understood; but no explanation was needed. Ella Bedford knew one thing—that she had been cruelly betrayed, and that she was in the hands of a brutal heartless libertine, who, under the guise of a gentleman, possessed a nature blacker than that of the lowest rough in London.He spoke on, holding her wrists pinioned as he did so; but despair and the fever fire in her blood gave her strength, and twice over it was only by a desperate struggle that he was able to prevent her from dashing herself through the open window.She did not cry out, feeling that it would be useless; but her struggles to escape from his pinioning hands were frantic, till there came a warning shriek from the engine. The train drew up at a platform, and as Max started back into his seat, the carriage-door opened, and Ella Bedford fainted.“Taken ill,” said Max in explanation. “Half mad, bai Jove! Hard work to keep her from dashing out of the window. Most painful thing.”“Friend or stranger?” said the newcomer, suspiciously watching the countenance of Max.“Friend or stranger!” said Max. “Bai Jove, that’s cool. My wife—travelling for pleasure.”“I beg pardon, I’m sure,” said the stranger; “but I should certainly alight at the next station. Your pleasure-travel is over, sir, and you must get all the medical aid you can, for your lady is in a high state of fever.”“Fever!” cried Max, involuntarily shrinking.“Yes,” said the other, with a look of contempt. “But you need not fear, sir; I should say it is the brain. The lady has evidently suffered from some severe mental strain.”“Bai Jove!” ejaculated Max; “are you a doctor?”“No, sir; only an old Indian officer; but I have seen sufficient illness to know a case of fever when I see one.”“Bai Jove!” exclaimed Max again; and then he sat helpless and frowning, while the stranger laid back the poor girl’s head that she might breathe more freely, and half supported her till they reached the next stopping station, where she was transferred to a fly, and conveyed, under the care of Max Bray, to the nearest hotel.There is no difficulty in obtaining a doctor in a country town, and it was not long before one was by the sofa upon which Ella had been laid.“Well,” said Max, after five minutes’ examination, “what’s to be done?”“Send for a nurse, and have Mrs—Mrs—I beg pardon, what name did you say?”“Williams,” said Max.“To be sure—Williams,” said the doctor; “and let Mrs Williams be at once conveyed to bed. She will have to be carefully tended and watched.”“Fit to travel again to-morrow, I suppose?” said Max. “Come, now, no professional dodging.”“To-morrow two months,” said the doctor sharply, “perhaps;” and then he looked anything but pleasantly at Max.“What!” exclaimed Max viciously. “Bai Jove, you don’t mean that!”“I mean, sir,” said the doctor seriously, “that your lady is in a dangerous state, and I would not answer for her life if she were moved. I’ll do my best, and we must be hopeful for what is to follow.”“Bai Jove!” ejaculated Max, as he left the room; and sympathising hands were soon busy with the insensible form.“Mrs Williams, eh?” said the doctor to himself, as he superintended a portion of the arrangements; and then left to get some medicine made up. “Mrs Williams, eh? But, poor child, she does not travel in her wedding-ring!”

“Hasten on—hasten on!” The rattle of the train still repeating those words, and Ella’s heart sinking, as they sped through the darkness; for still, in spite of her struggle with reason, it would seem as if they were ever going back. Her brain seemed at times unable to support the stress placed upon it—the excitement more than she could bear.

She gazed out upon the black night, but only to see in the dim breath-blurred glass the interior of the carriage reproduced, with the dark-blue cloth padding, the silent passengers, the globe lamp, and Max Bray seated opposite, with his eyes glittering as if ready to spring at her each instant. She could at any moment have succumbed, become weak and helpless, and trembled at her forlorn condition; but the brave spirit held up, although incipient fever was claiming her for its own, and a strange unnatural throbbing in the pulses of her temple told where the peril lay.

Plymouth at last!—the train’s resting-place for the night; and again quiet and thoughtful, Max engaged a fly, wrapper and luggage were placed therein, and, quiet and gentlemanlike, he talked to her till they reached one of the principal hotels, where Ella gladly sought her chamber, and tried to find in sleep the relief from the mental strain she so sadly needed.

But all through the early hours of that wintry morning came to torture her the endless repetition of those words: “Hasten on—hasten on!” while her burning head seemed chained to the pillow by links heated to redness.

Again and again she started up, to gaze round the dark room, thinking that a voice whose tones she so well remembered was calling her; but, with a sigh, she sank back once more, to doze and listen in her sleep to the endless warning, “Hasten on—hasten on!”

She descended to breakfast pale, restless, and excited. She could not eat, though pressed again and again by Max, who was gentle and attentive, asking with every show of consideration respecting her health.

“I have made all arrangements and inquiries,” he said, “and been down to the station this morning. Our train leaves at ten.”

“Not till ten?” she said in a disappointed tone.

He smiled as he drew forth his watch.

“It is half-past nine now,” he said. “We have only time to get comfortably down to the station.”

Ella rose and left the room, to return in a few minutes ready to continue the journey; but during her absence, Max had placed a letter in the waiter’s hand, with an accompanying half-sovereign.

“To be posted in a week’s time,” were the instructions.

“More wrecks down in the bay,” said Max, as Ella re-entered the room. “It has been a sad winter!”

“Let us—let us—hasten on,” she said with an effort; and leading her out, they were soon in the station, and secured their seats in an empty compartment, where Ella took her place by the window, to gaze abstractedly out at the damp sodden landscape for quite an hour.

“Have we far to go now?” she asked of Max, who sat watching her.

“Not much farther,” he said.

And again she asked that question at the end of an hour, and of another hour, but always to receive the same answer.

“Is it not less than a hundred miles from Plymouth to Penzance?” she at length asked uneasily.

“Yes,” he said; “but you are travelling now upon a line of rail where stoppages are frequent and there is no speed. Bai Jove, though, they ought to be prosecuted for dawdling so.”

Max smiled as he said those words, for his plan was nearly ripe; and that smile was not lost upon his companion. But she said nothing, only sat there pale, excited, and watchful till another hour had elapsed, during which time the well-fee’d guard had not intruded another passenger.

But this could not last for ever. One moment silent and watchful, the next moment with the full conviction of how she had been betrayed upon her, Ella Bedford sprang up and tried to open the door, the train dashing along at the rate of forty miles an hour.

There was a strong pair of hands upon her wrists, though, in an instant, and she was forced back into her seat.

“Silly child!” exclaimed Max, with an insolent laugh. “What are you going to do?”

“We are going back!” exclaimed Ella, struggling to free herself.

“Well, not exactly,” he said, laughing, and now throwing off all disguise.

“Where are you taking me?” she exclaimed.

“O, only into North Wales, my trembling little dove,” laughed Max, as he held his captive firmly in her place. “Now look here, little one: every dog has his day. It is mine now, and I mean to make use of it. You have braved and jilted me long enough, and it is my turn now. There, you need not struggle; it is of no use. Let’s quietly look at the state of affairs. What have you done? Well, you’ve made an excuse to Mrs Marter, something about going to see a sick friend, and, bai Jove—not to put too fine a point on it—you have eloped with me, Maximilian Bray. I’ve no doubt our dear friend Mrs Marter has sent word of it to Mrs Brandon by this time. Mrs Brandon will tell the Brays of Lexville, when Mrs Bray will be shocked, and my beloved papa will no doubt leave me his curse; but, all the same, the Vinings will hear all about it. My plan took a long time hatching, but, now it is hatched, it cuts double-edged.”

“Will you loose my wrists?” cried Ella faintly, “or am I to call for assistance?”

“O, call if you like, my love; bai Jove, as much as you like! only you may save yourself the trouble, for no one will hear you. What!” he cried, laughing, “can the little gentle dove turn savage, and ruffle her plumes and peck? Come, now, what is the use of being vicious? You have thrown away that delicate little gossamer dress that ladies call fame, so why not say pleasantly, ‘My dear Maximilian, let us be married at once, and live happy ever after’? No, it’s of no use; you are not going to jump out on to the line to be broken up, I value you too much; and as I told you before, it is of no use to scream. There’s no dear Charley Vining to come to your help, for he is too busy with hisfiancée, my sweet sister Laura. Now, come, sit still and listen. Are you going to be reasonable? It’s of no use to be angry because I brought you off so cleverly; and bear in mind that I have been waiting months upon months, with the patience of half-a-dozen Jobs, to bring this plan from the most raw sourness to full ripening. Confound the girl! how strong she is! Bai Jove, Ella, you are a little Tartar!”

Max Bray had talked on, and part of what he had said was understood; but no explanation was needed. Ella Bedford knew one thing—that she had been cruelly betrayed, and that she was in the hands of a brutal heartless libertine, who, under the guise of a gentleman, possessed a nature blacker than that of the lowest rough in London.

He spoke on, holding her wrists pinioned as he did so; but despair and the fever fire in her blood gave her strength, and twice over it was only by a desperate struggle that he was able to prevent her from dashing herself through the open window.

She did not cry out, feeling that it would be useless; but her struggles to escape from his pinioning hands were frantic, till there came a warning shriek from the engine. The train drew up at a platform, and as Max started back into his seat, the carriage-door opened, and Ella Bedford fainted.

“Taken ill,” said Max in explanation. “Half mad, bai Jove! Hard work to keep her from dashing out of the window. Most painful thing.”

“Friend or stranger?” said the newcomer, suspiciously watching the countenance of Max.

“Friend or stranger!” said Max. “Bai Jove, that’s cool. My wife—travelling for pleasure.”

“I beg pardon, I’m sure,” said the stranger; “but I should certainly alight at the next station. Your pleasure-travel is over, sir, and you must get all the medical aid you can, for your lady is in a high state of fever.”

“Fever!” cried Max, involuntarily shrinking.

“Yes,” said the other, with a look of contempt. “But you need not fear, sir; I should say it is the brain. The lady has evidently suffered from some severe mental strain.”

“Bai Jove!” ejaculated Max; “are you a doctor?”

“No, sir; only an old Indian officer; but I have seen sufficient illness to know a case of fever when I see one.”

“Bai Jove!” exclaimed Max again; and then he sat helpless and frowning, while the stranger laid back the poor girl’s head that she might breathe more freely, and half supported her till they reached the next stopping station, where she was transferred to a fly, and conveyed, under the care of Max Bray, to the nearest hotel.

There is no difficulty in obtaining a doctor in a country town, and it was not long before one was by the sofa upon which Ella had been laid.

“Well,” said Max, after five minutes’ examination, “what’s to be done?”

“Send for a nurse, and have Mrs—Mrs—I beg pardon, what name did you say?”

“Williams,” said Max.

“To be sure—Williams,” said the doctor; “and let Mrs Williams be at once conveyed to bed. She will have to be carefully tended and watched.”

“Fit to travel again to-morrow, I suppose?” said Max. “Come, now, no professional dodging.”

“To-morrow two months,” said the doctor sharply, “perhaps;” and then he looked anything but pleasantly at Max.

“What!” exclaimed Max viciously. “Bai Jove, you don’t mean that!”

“I mean, sir,” said the doctor seriously, “that your lady is in a dangerous state, and I would not answer for her life if she were moved. I’ll do my best, and we must be hopeful for what is to follow.”

“Bai Jove!” ejaculated Max, as he left the room; and sympathising hands were soon busy with the insensible form.

“Mrs Williams, eh?” said the doctor to himself, as he superintended a portion of the arrangements; and then left to get some medicine made up. “Mrs Williams, eh? But, poor child, she does not travel in her wedding-ring!”

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