Volume Two—Chapter Four.

Volume Two—Chapter Four.The “Candlestine” Interview.Sir Philip Vining ate his dinner alone that day, for his son was an absentee. In fact, a good half-hour before the appointed time Charley Vining was in Gorse Wood walking up and down, crushing the thin grass and trampling through the undergrowth, as he vainly sought to control the impatience of his spirit.But he was in no controllable humour, and the more he tried to beat down the feelings that troubled him, the more fretful his spirit grew. It had been a day of misery and disappointment, such as he had never thought to see, and he was bitterly mortified with his own conduct. He told himself that it was his duty to have sternly answered Laura Bray, whereas he had allowed her to go on till, as they parted, her look of intelligence seemed to intimate that she was happy and satisfied, and that he had been making love to her, when—When? Why should he trouble himself about a light frivolous girl, who gave love tokens to a tailor’s dummy—a contemptible jackanapes? But all the same, there was no reason why he should marry Laura Bray, and give up his happy independent life.“A fig for all womankind!” said Charley at last, out loud; “but then the poor old gentleman!”Charley’s face darkened as he thought of his father and his wishes. What should he do? Let matters run their course?He asked himself that last question rather grimly, as he thought of how easily he could be in accord with all Sir Philip wished. A few quiet tender words to Laura Bray, and all would go on satisfactorily. And why should he not utter them? She would be well content, and he need trouble himself no farther, but seek in his old amusementsdélassementand balm for the disappointment he had met with.How plain it all was! Max had come down again on Ella’s account. Why, he had not spent so much time down at Lexville since he was a boy! Of course, the Brays would not sanction it; but, anyhow, it was another of Mr Maximilian Bray’s conquests.“Ah, well,” said Charley, as he stood leaning against an oak, “it’s the old story: one’s boy love never does come to anything!—What, my little wood-nymph!”“O, Charley, Charley, Charley!” cried Nelly, running up to him panting, “what shall I do? I amso, somiserable; and they think I’m in the schoolroom now; and I can’t bear it, and I hate it; and I’ve run out through the side gate and over the elm meadow like a mad girl, for they all watch me; and I stay in my bedroom most of the time; for since Miss Bedford’s gone—”“What?” roared Charley, seizing Nelly’s arm.“Don’t frighten me, Charley, and please don’t pinch so! That’s what I wanted to tell you. That Laura led her such a cruel life with her temper, and Max was such a horrible donkey, that she told ma she would rather not stay, and—O, O, O!” sobbed Nelly, crying out aloud, “she’s gone away, and I didn’t say good-bye; for she went early in the morning, and came and kissed me when I was asleep; and me such a thickheaded, stupid old dormouse that I never knew—knew it—or—or I’d have put my arms so tightly round her neck that I’d never have left go.”“But where has she gone?” cried Charley fiercely.“I don’t know,” sobbed Nelly—“nobody knows. She would not say a word even to mamma; and mamma said it was very obstinate, and that she was obstinate altogether.”“Do you think—” said Charley huskily, and then he stopped as if he could not utter the words—“do you think she told Max?”“Told Max!” said Nelly, almost laughingly; “no, she wouldn’t tell him. She hated him too much, for he was always worrying her, when all the time she was ever so fond of you, Charley. I knew it, though she never said so. Pah, she would never tell such a donkey as that, when she would not tell me! They think I’m very stupid; but I know well enough why she wouldn’t stay, nor yet say where she was going: it was all because of Max, so that he should not bother her any more.”“Go on, pray!” exclaimed Charley.“I have not got anything more to tell you,” said Nelly pitifully, “only that there was such a scene over and over again; for at the last Laury and Max both wanted her to stay, and Laury asked her over and over again; but I could see through that: it was because Max made her, for some reason of his own.”Here was a new light altogether: Laura and Max both asking her to stay, and the poor girl led such a life that she was compelled to leave. Why had she not confided in him, then, when he had implored her to listen to him? But that ring?Troubled in spirit, Charley began to stride up and down the wood, but only to stop once more in front of Nelly.“When did she go?” he asked.“Yesterday morning,” said Nelly; “but I couldn’t send you word till to-day. And now I want to ask you something, Charley.”“Quick, then!” he said hoarsely, as he turned to go.“Will you try and find out where Miss Bedford is gone, and then tell me when you know?”“Yes, yes!” cried Charley, rushing off.“Yes, yes, indeed!” cried Nelly; “that’s a pretty way to leave a lady who has given him a mysterious assignation in a wood; and—There, now—what shall I do? If I haven’t forgotten all about the pears!”

Sir Philip Vining ate his dinner alone that day, for his son was an absentee. In fact, a good half-hour before the appointed time Charley Vining was in Gorse Wood walking up and down, crushing the thin grass and trampling through the undergrowth, as he vainly sought to control the impatience of his spirit.

But he was in no controllable humour, and the more he tried to beat down the feelings that troubled him, the more fretful his spirit grew. It had been a day of misery and disappointment, such as he had never thought to see, and he was bitterly mortified with his own conduct. He told himself that it was his duty to have sternly answered Laura Bray, whereas he had allowed her to go on till, as they parted, her look of intelligence seemed to intimate that she was happy and satisfied, and that he had been making love to her, when—

When? Why should he trouble himself about a light frivolous girl, who gave love tokens to a tailor’s dummy—a contemptible jackanapes? But all the same, there was no reason why he should marry Laura Bray, and give up his happy independent life.

“A fig for all womankind!” said Charley at last, out loud; “but then the poor old gentleman!”

Charley’s face darkened as he thought of his father and his wishes. What should he do? Let matters run their course?

He asked himself that last question rather grimly, as he thought of how easily he could be in accord with all Sir Philip wished. A few quiet tender words to Laura Bray, and all would go on satisfactorily. And why should he not utter them? She would be well content, and he need trouble himself no farther, but seek in his old amusementsdélassementand balm for the disappointment he had met with.

How plain it all was! Max had come down again on Ella’s account. Why, he had not spent so much time down at Lexville since he was a boy! Of course, the Brays would not sanction it; but, anyhow, it was another of Mr Maximilian Bray’s conquests.

“Ah, well,” said Charley, as he stood leaning against an oak, “it’s the old story: one’s boy love never does come to anything!—What, my little wood-nymph!”

“O, Charley, Charley, Charley!” cried Nelly, running up to him panting, “what shall I do? I amso, somiserable; and they think I’m in the schoolroom now; and I can’t bear it, and I hate it; and I’ve run out through the side gate and over the elm meadow like a mad girl, for they all watch me; and I stay in my bedroom most of the time; for since Miss Bedford’s gone—”

“What?” roared Charley, seizing Nelly’s arm.

“Don’t frighten me, Charley, and please don’t pinch so! That’s what I wanted to tell you. That Laura led her such a cruel life with her temper, and Max was such a horrible donkey, that she told ma she would rather not stay, and—O, O, O!” sobbed Nelly, crying out aloud, “she’s gone away, and I didn’t say good-bye; for she went early in the morning, and came and kissed me when I was asleep; and me such a thickheaded, stupid old dormouse that I never knew—knew it—or—or I’d have put my arms so tightly round her neck that I’d never have left go.”

“But where has she gone?” cried Charley fiercely.

“I don’t know,” sobbed Nelly—“nobody knows. She would not say a word even to mamma; and mamma said it was very obstinate, and that she was obstinate altogether.”

“Do you think—” said Charley huskily, and then he stopped as if he could not utter the words—“do you think she told Max?”

“Told Max!” said Nelly, almost laughingly; “no, she wouldn’t tell him. She hated him too much, for he was always worrying her, when all the time she was ever so fond of you, Charley. I knew it, though she never said so. Pah, she would never tell such a donkey as that, when she would not tell me! They think I’m very stupid; but I know well enough why she wouldn’t stay, nor yet say where she was going: it was all because of Max, so that he should not bother her any more.”

“Go on, pray!” exclaimed Charley.

“I have not got anything more to tell you,” said Nelly pitifully, “only that there was such a scene over and over again; for at the last Laury and Max both wanted her to stay, and Laury asked her over and over again; but I could see through that: it was because Max made her, for some reason of his own.”

Here was a new light altogether: Laura and Max both asking her to stay, and the poor girl led such a life that she was compelled to leave. Why had she not confided in him, then, when he had implored her to listen to him? But that ring?

Troubled in spirit, Charley began to stride up and down the wood, but only to stop once more in front of Nelly.

“When did she go?” he asked.

“Yesterday morning,” said Nelly; “but I couldn’t send you word till to-day. And now I want to ask you something, Charley.”

“Quick, then!” he said hoarsely, as he turned to go.

“Will you try and find out where Miss Bedford is gone, and then tell me when you know?”

“Yes, yes!” cried Charley, rushing off.

“Yes, yes, indeed!” cried Nelly; “that’s a pretty way to leave a lady who has given him a mysterious assignation in a wood; and—There, now—what shall I do? If I haven’t forgotten all about the pears!”

Volume Two—Chapter Five.Mr Maximilian Beginneth to Show his hand.Gone without leaving a trace behind! Would she take another engagement, and write to Mrs Bray for a recommendation? She might, or she might not. She had taken the train at Lexville station after Dudgeon had, by Mrs Bray’s gracious permission, driven the light cart in with “the governess’s boxes;” but upon Mr Dudgeon being favoured with five shillings by Charley Vining, he shook his head.“Sutternly, sir, I did see her boxes in the station, but I didn’t read the directions.”Foiled there, Charley inquired of the booking-clerk.“O yes, sir; remember it perfectly well. Mr Max Bray asked the very same question only this morning. She took a ticket for London, sir.”“Max Bray asking,” mused Charley. “Then he did not know where she was, and there could be no undercurrent at work there. Max wanted to know her address, confound him! He had better mind how he stood in his way.”But, save when his thoughts turned in the direction of Laura Bray, which complication in his affairs troubled him, Charley Vining felt lighter of heart; for though Max held that ring, and so ostentatiously displayed it, there was no reason why he might not have obtained it by some hazard, as he himself had once gained possession of a plain golden cross. Matters were not so desperate after all, and he need not give up hope. And yet what misery for her to leave Lexville like that, without one word of farewell—flying, as it were, from his persecution, as well as from that of Max Bray!Thinking over the words, too, of Nelly, how he could imagine the wretched life the poor girl must have led! and then, with brightened eye, he determined to find out where she had taken refuge. But London—the place of all others where a quest seemed vain.Charley’s musings were interrupted by one of the servants handing him a letter.“John Dudgeon, Mr Bray’s man, sir, gave it to our Thomas this morning.”Charley hastily tore open the thimble-sealed epistle, to find it written on a very dirty sheet of paper, and in a character that was almost undecipherable; but fortunately the note was not long, and he read as follows:“Hon’d Sur,—This comes hoppin to fine you verry wel, as it leves me at presen. Mr Maxy Million comes a hordrin an a swerin at a pore suvvant lik ennythink, an thare aint know pleesing im. An that ante the wa 2 get ennythink out of him as nose. E say wairs Mis Bedfors bocksis drecty 2, an off korse I wasn goin 2 tel he; but mi gal jain, she se an rede em bofe, an I lik doin gents a good turn as has sivil tungs for a por suwant, and shes gon to missus Brandins Kops all laintun; an if Mr Macks Million wan 2 no, dont let im kum to ure umbel suwant to kommarn,“Jhon Dugegin.“P.S. Wich you wone sa i tole u, ples, or yung marsta wil get me the sak.”Mrs Brandon’s, Copse Hall, Laneton! Why, across country that was, not above a dozen miles off, on a branch of the South Midland Railway. Nothing could have happened more fortunately. He would have the dogcart and drive over at once—no, not at once: he would go the next day; and, come what might, he would see her again. Surely she would not be so hard, so cruel, with him—His musings were brought to an end by the entrance of Sir Philip with a note in his hand.The old gentleman looked pale and troubled, but his words were gentle, as he said: “A note from Mr Bray, Charley: he asks us to dinner there to-morrow. Shall I say that we will go?”“To the Elms?—to-morrow?” said Charley. “No, I cannot; I have an engagement.”“An engagement!—to-morrow, Charley!” said Sir Philip sadly.“Yes, I am going out—I cannot go,” said Charley hastily.Sir Philip said no more, but he sighed deeply as he turned and left the room to decline the invitation, thinking bitterly the while of her who had robbed him of his son’s confidence and affection; for hitherto father and son had lived almost for one another, and now there was coldness and estrangement.Laura Bray’s eyes sparkled as she saw the servant returning on horseback with the reply from Blandfield Court, for there was a strange excitement now pervading her. In obedience to her brother’s wish she had consented to try and prevail upon Ella Bedford to stay; but it was a source of infinite pleasure to her when she had written to tell Max, in London, that, in spite of all persuasion, Miss Bedford had insisted upon leaving, and had gone—bearing his reproaches and anger with the greatest of patience, when he came down by the fast train, and abused her, and charged her with counterplotting, in the midst of which scene he was interrupted, as we know, by the coming of Charley Vining. As for the events of the next quarter of an hour, they were burned in Laura’s memory; and, her rival gone, her heart was light, and she had sat longing for the time when she should next see him who so engrossed her thoughts.It was at her instigation that a dinner-party had been arranged at the shortest of short notices, ostensibly so that Maximilian Bray might have Charley Vining to see him—a pleasant fiction, which formed the text for much good-humoured banter at the Bray table, while Laura blushed and looked conscious.The man was a terrible while before he took in that letter, and Laura’s colour came and went a score of times. Then it seemed as if the footman would never bring the letter up. But at last it was handed to Mr Bray, who was so long getting out his glasses, that Laura, unable to contain herself, exclaimed:“Let me look for you, papa.”Seizing the letter, she tore it open, read a few lines, and then dropped it with a look of the utmost disappointment. Then she walked to the window; but only to hurry the next moment from the room, so as to conceal her tears.Max joined her, though, ten minutes after. “I thought you two had made it up?” he said inquiringly.“Yes—no—I don’t know,” she answered passionately.“He’s going out to-morrow, is he?” continued Max musingly. “What’s he going to do?—where’s he going?”“Have you found out what you want?” said Laura, to turn the current of the conversation.“Not yet,” he said. “You ought never to have given me the trouble. But I am at work, and so is he.”“What!” cried Laura eagerly, as she caught her brother’s hand.“He’s at work too,” said Max. “Bai Jove! he thinks himself very cunning, but he won’t get over me.”“But you do not mean to say that he is trying to get that creature’s address?” cried Laura pitifully.“Raving mad after it, bai Jove!” said Max. “You see you want me, Laury. I must take her out of your way altogether, or it’s no good. He won’t throw her up till he hears something.”“Hears something?” said Laura slowly.“Yes,” said Max in a whisper; “hears something. I had nearly ripened my plans, only this evasion of hers disturbs them, and now I have to begin all over again.”“But are you sure he has been trying to find out where she is gone?”“Certain of it; yes, bai Jove, I am!”“How cruel!—how treacherous!” muttered Laura.“There, don’t go into the high flights, and spoon!” said Max roughly. “Set your wits to work. And look here, Laury, take my advice. Now, then, are you listening?”“Yes—yes!” cried Laura, for she had been pressing her hands abstractedly together.“Then look here. Don’t show that you either hear or see anything. I have him on the hip in a way he little thinks for. What you have to do is to meet him always with the same gentle unvarying kindness. Wink at everything you hear about him; and even if he comes to you straight from her, you must receive him with open arms. Do you hear me?”“Yes,” said Laura bitterly; “I hear.”“For, bai Jove! he’s not the man to be played with! Any show of jealousy, or whim, or snubbing, or any of that confounded tabby-foolery you women are so well up in, will drive him away.”Laura sighed.“There, don’t be a fool, Laury! Bai Jove, I’m ashamed of you! I thought you were a woman of more spirit. But look here: I was put out—I was, bai Jove!—when I came down and found the little dove had spread her soft little wings and flown away, for it put me to a great deal of trouble and inconvenience and expense; but you trust to me, and you shall be Lady Vining—of course, I mean when the old gentleman drops off. But Charley will come back to you like a great sheep as he is.”“How dare you, Max!” cried Laura, firing up.“O, there, I don’t want to upset the fair sister’s sweet prejudices,” said Max, with a sneer. “There, we’ll call him the noble baronet-apparent. He’ll come back to you by and by to soothe the pains in his great soft heart, and you shall heal them for him.”Laura bit her pocket—handkerchief fiercely, and kept tearing it again from between her teeth.“I have him, I tell you; and, bai Jove! the day shall come when he shall frown at the very mention of the little soft dove’s name!”“But when—when?” cried Laura.“When!” said Max coolly; “bai Jove! how can I tell? I shall work hard as soon as I have found out the address, and when the proper time comes, my charming sister, I shall want your help in a scene I havein petto. It may be a month, or it may be two, or perhaps three; but,” he said excitedly, as he again threw off the drawl, and effeminate way, to let flash out the evil passions of his heart, “I am in earnest, Laury, and I’ll have that address before many days are gone by.”“But how—how will you get it?” cried Laura.“Well,” said Max, sinking back into his old way, “I’ve got a plan for that too—one that will give but little trouble, and so I don’t mind telling you.”“Well—quick, tell me!” cried Laura.“Bai Jove! how excited you are!” said Max, laughing insolently, and taking evident delight in probing his sister’s wounds. “Charley is hard at work trying to find out her address.”“Yes, yes!” cried Laura, pressing her hand to her side.“And he’ll be sure to find it sooner or later.”“Yes, yes!” cried Laura pitifully, her eyes flashing with jealous hate the while she stood before her brother, the style of woman who, had she lived at an earlier period, would have gladly taken a leaf from the book of Lucrezia Borgia, and ridded herself of her rival.“Well,” said Max coolly, “I said he’d be sure to find it out, didn’t I?”“Max—Max! why do you torture me?” cried Laura. “Tell me how you will manage, when you say that you will leave him to find out what should be yours to do, if there is to be any faith in your promise!”“Faith!—yes, bai Jove, you may have faith in me! And there, I won’t hurt your feelings any more. Charley will find out the address, and so shall I.”“But how?” cried Laura passionately, stamping her foot.“How? Why, bai Jove,I shall watch him!”

Gone without leaving a trace behind! Would she take another engagement, and write to Mrs Bray for a recommendation? She might, or she might not. She had taken the train at Lexville station after Dudgeon had, by Mrs Bray’s gracious permission, driven the light cart in with “the governess’s boxes;” but upon Mr Dudgeon being favoured with five shillings by Charley Vining, he shook his head.

“Sutternly, sir, I did see her boxes in the station, but I didn’t read the directions.”

Foiled there, Charley inquired of the booking-clerk.

“O yes, sir; remember it perfectly well. Mr Max Bray asked the very same question only this morning. She took a ticket for London, sir.”

“Max Bray asking,” mused Charley. “Then he did not know where she was, and there could be no undercurrent at work there. Max wanted to know her address, confound him! He had better mind how he stood in his way.”

But, save when his thoughts turned in the direction of Laura Bray, which complication in his affairs troubled him, Charley Vining felt lighter of heart; for though Max held that ring, and so ostentatiously displayed it, there was no reason why he might not have obtained it by some hazard, as he himself had once gained possession of a plain golden cross. Matters were not so desperate after all, and he need not give up hope. And yet what misery for her to leave Lexville like that, without one word of farewell—flying, as it were, from his persecution, as well as from that of Max Bray!

Thinking over the words, too, of Nelly, how he could imagine the wretched life the poor girl must have led! and then, with brightened eye, he determined to find out where she had taken refuge. But London—the place of all others where a quest seemed vain.

Charley’s musings were interrupted by one of the servants handing him a letter.

“John Dudgeon, Mr Bray’s man, sir, gave it to our Thomas this morning.”

Charley hastily tore open the thimble-sealed epistle, to find it written on a very dirty sheet of paper, and in a character that was almost undecipherable; but fortunately the note was not long, and he read as follows:

“Hon’d Sur,—This comes hoppin to fine you verry wel, as it leves me at presen. Mr Maxy Million comes a hordrin an a swerin at a pore suvvant lik ennythink, an thare aint know pleesing im. An that ante the wa 2 get ennythink out of him as nose. E say wairs Mis Bedfors bocksis drecty 2, an off korse I wasn goin 2 tel he; but mi gal jain, she se an rede em bofe, an I lik doin gents a good turn as has sivil tungs for a por suwant, and shes gon to missus Brandins Kops all laintun; an if Mr Macks Million wan 2 no, dont let im kum to ure umbel suwant to kommarn,“Jhon Dugegin.“P.S. Wich you wone sa i tole u, ples, or yung marsta wil get me the sak.”

“Hon’d Sur,—This comes hoppin to fine you verry wel, as it leves me at presen. Mr Maxy Million comes a hordrin an a swerin at a pore suvvant lik ennythink, an thare aint know pleesing im. An that ante the wa 2 get ennythink out of him as nose. E say wairs Mis Bedfors bocksis drecty 2, an off korse I wasn goin 2 tel he; but mi gal jain, she se an rede em bofe, an I lik doin gents a good turn as has sivil tungs for a por suwant, and shes gon to missus Brandins Kops all laintun; an if Mr Macks Million wan 2 no, dont let im kum to ure umbel suwant to kommarn,

“Jhon Dugegin.

“P.S. Wich you wone sa i tole u, ples, or yung marsta wil get me the sak.”

Mrs Brandon’s, Copse Hall, Laneton! Why, across country that was, not above a dozen miles off, on a branch of the South Midland Railway. Nothing could have happened more fortunately. He would have the dogcart and drive over at once—no, not at once: he would go the next day; and, come what might, he would see her again. Surely she would not be so hard, so cruel, with him—

His musings were brought to an end by the entrance of Sir Philip with a note in his hand.

The old gentleman looked pale and troubled, but his words were gentle, as he said: “A note from Mr Bray, Charley: he asks us to dinner there to-morrow. Shall I say that we will go?”

“To the Elms?—to-morrow?” said Charley. “No, I cannot; I have an engagement.”

“An engagement!—to-morrow, Charley!” said Sir Philip sadly.

“Yes, I am going out—I cannot go,” said Charley hastily.

Sir Philip said no more, but he sighed deeply as he turned and left the room to decline the invitation, thinking bitterly the while of her who had robbed him of his son’s confidence and affection; for hitherto father and son had lived almost for one another, and now there was coldness and estrangement.

Laura Bray’s eyes sparkled as she saw the servant returning on horseback with the reply from Blandfield Court, for there was a strange excitement now pervading her. In obedience to her brother’s wish she had consented to try and prevail upon Ella Bedford to stay; but it was a source of infinite pleasure to her when she had written to tell Max, in London, that, in spite of all persuasion, Miss Bedford had insisted upon leaving, and had gone—bearing his reproaches and anger with the greatest of patience, when he came down by the fast train, and abused her, and charged her with counterplotting, in the midst of which scene he was interrupted, as we know, by the coming of Charley Vining. As for the events of the next quarter of an hour, they were burned in Laura’s memory; and, her rival gone, her heart was light, and she had sat longing for the time when she should next see him who so engrossed her thoughts.

It was at her instigation that a dinner-party had been arranged at the shortest of short notices, ostensibly so that Maximilian Bray might have Charley Vining to see him—a pleasant fiction, which formed the text for much good-humoured banter at the Bray table, while Laura blushed and looked conscious.

The man was a terrible while before he took in that letter, and Laura’s colour came and went a score of times. Then it seemed as if the footman would never bring the letter up. But at last it was handed to Mr Bray, who was so long getting out his glasses, that Laura, unable to contain herself, exclaimed:

“Let me look for you, papa.”

Seizing the letter, she tore it open, read a few lines, and then dropped it with a look of the utmost disappointment. Then she walked to the window; but only to hurry the next moment from the room, so as to conceal her tears.

Max joined her, though, ten minutes after. “I thought you two had made it up?” he said inquiringly.

“Yes—no—I don’t know,” she answered passionately.

“He’s going out to-morrow, is he?” continued Max musingly. “What’s he going to do?—where’s he going?”

“Have you found out what you want?” said Laura, to turn the current of the conversation.

“Not yet,” he said. “You ought never to have given me the trouble. But I am at work, and so is he.”

“What!” cried Laura eagerly, as she caught her brother’s hand.

“He’s at work too,” said Max. “Bai Jove! he thinks himself very cunning, but he won’t get over me.”

“But you do not mean to say that he is trying to get that creature’s address?” cried Laura pitifully.

“Raving mad after it, bai Jove!” said Max. “You see you want me, Laury. I must take her out of your way altogether, or it’s no good. He won’t throw her up till he hears something.”

“Hears something?” said Laura slowly.

“Yes,” said Max in a whisper; “hears something. I had nearly ripened my plans, only this evasion of hers disturbs them, and now I have to begin all over again.”

“But are you sure he has been trying to find out where she is gone?”

“Certain of it; yes, bai Jove, I am!”

“How cruel!—how treacherous!” muttered Laura.

“There, don’t go into the high flights, and spoon!” said Max roughly. “Set your wits to work. And look here, Laury, take my advice. Now, then, are you listening?”

“Yes—yes!” cried Laura, for she had been pressing her hands abstractedly together.

“Then look here. Don’t show that you either hear or see anything. I have him on the hip in a way he little thinks for. What you have to do is to meet him always with the same gentle unvarying kindness. Wink at everything you hear about him; and even if he comes to you straight from her, you must receive him with open arms. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” said Laura bitterly; “I hear.”

“For, bai Jove! he’s not the man to be played with! Any show of jealousy, or whim, or snubbing, or any of that confounded tabby-foolery you women are so well up in, will drive him away.”

Laura sighed.

“There, don’t be a fool, Laury! Bai Jove, I’m ashamed of you! I thought you were a woman of more spirit. But look here: I was put out—I was, bai Jove!—when I came down and found the little dove had spread her soft little wings and flown away, for it put me to a great deal of trouble and inconvenience and expense; but you trust to me, and you shall be Lady Vining—of course, I mean when the old gentleman drops off. But Charley will come back to you like a great sheep as he is.”

“How dare you, Max!” cried Laura, firing up.

“O, there, I don’t want to upset the fair sister’s sweet prejudices,” said Max, with a sneer. “There, we’ll call him the noble baronet-apparent. He’ll come back to you by and by to soothe the pains in his great soft heart, and you shall heal them for him.”

Laura bit her pocket—handkerchief fiercely, and kept tearing it again from between her teeth.

“I have him, I tell you; and, bai Jove! the day shall come when he shall frown at the very mention of the little soft dove’s name!”

“But when—when?” cried Laura.

“When!” said Max coolly; “bai Jove! how can I tell? I shall work hard as soon as I have found out the address, and when the proper time comes, my charming sister, I shall want your help in a scene I havein petto. It may be a month, or it may be two, or perhaps three; but,” he said excitedly, as he again threw off the drawl, and effeminate way, to let flash out the evil passions of his heart, “I am in earnest, Laury, and I’ll have that address before many days are gone by.”

“But how—how will you get it?” cried Laura.

“Well,” said Max, sinking back into his old way, “I’ve got a plan for that too—one that will give but little trouble, and so I don’t mind telling you.”

“Well—quick, tell me!” cried Laura.

“Bai Jove! how excited you are!” said Max, laughing insolently, and taking evident delight in probing his sister’s wounds. “Charley is hard at work trying to find out her address.”

“Yes, yes!” cried Laura, pressing her hand to her side.

“And he’ll be sure to find it sooner or later.”

“Yes, yes!” cried Laura pitifully, her eyes flashing with jealous hate the while she stood before her brother, the style of woman who, had she lived at an earlier period, would have gladly taken a leaf from the book of Lucrezia Borgia, and ridded herself of her rival.

“Well,” said Max coolly, “I said he’d be sure to find it out, didn’t I?”

“Max—Max! why do you torture me?” cried Laura. “Tell me how you will manage, when you say that you will leave him to find out what should be yours to do, if there is to be any faith in your promise!”

“Faith!—yes, bai Jove, you may have faith in me! And there, I won’t hurt your feelings any more. Charley will find out the address, and so shall I.”

“But how?” cried Laura passionately, stamping her foot.

“How? Why, bai Jove,I shall watch him!”

Volume Two—Chapter Six.The New Home.John Dudgeon was right. Ella Bedford’s luggage was directed to Mrs Brandon’s, Copse Hall, Laneton, to reach which, unless a fly had been engaged to convey her across country, Ella had to go up to town by one line, and then take her ticket by another. This she did, and reached Copse Hall, a gloomy-looking dwelling, late one evening, her heart sinking as the station fly conveyed her down a muddy lane, on the Croppley Magna road. The hedges were heavy, and the trees seemed all weeping—drip, drip, drip—while an occasional gust of wind drove the rain against the fly window.Cold, sombre-looking, and bare was the house; and feeling that the refuge she had sought by means of advertising would be to her as a prison, Ella descended from the fly. A tall hard-looking footman opened the door, and kept her standing on the mat of a great bare hall, whose floor was polished oak, and whose ornaments were a set of harsh stiff-backed chairs, that looked as if they had been made out of old coffin boards, while the cold wind rushed through and shut a door somewhere in the back regions with an echoing bang.“There’ll be a row about that,” said the hard-faced footman, as he set down the second trunk and closed the door, and the flyman drove off. “Missus hates the doors to bang, and they will do it when the wind’s in the south. You’re to come in here, please, Miss—Bedford, isn’t it?”Trembling, in spite of her efforts to be calm, Ella responded to his query, and then followed the footman to a great gaunt-looking door. He opened it, and announced, “Miss Bedford.” She advanced a few steps, seeing nothing for the blinding tears that would stand in her eyes—tears that she had much difficulty to keep from falling. Then the door was closed behind her, and she felt two warm soft hands take hers, and that she was drawn towards a great glowing fire.“Why, my dear child!” said a pleasant voice, “you are chilled through. Come this way.”Then, as in a dream, she felt herself placed in a soft yielding easy-chair, her bonnet and mantle removed, the same soft hands smoothing back her hair, and then, as a pair of warm lips were pressed to hers, the same voice said gently:“Welcome to Copse Hall, my love! I hope it will prove to you a happy home.”Ella started to her feet as those words thrilled through her; words so new, so tender, so motherly, that she could no longer restrain her feelings, but threw herself, sobbing violently, upon the gentle breast that seemed to welcome her; for two arms pressed her tightly there for a few moments. Then there were soothing whispers, soft hands caressing her; and at last Ella was seated calm and tranquil at Mrs Brandon’s feet, feeling that, after the storms of the past, a haven of safety had been reached; and long was the converse which followed, as ingenuously Ella told all to her new friend, whose hand still rested on, or played with, the soft glossy bands of hair.“We will not make a host of promises,” said Mrs Brandon cheerfully; “but see how we get on. You were quite right to leave there: and I had such a kind letter from the Reverend Henry Morton, that I was glad to secure your aid for my children’s education.”“Mr Morton was very, very kind,” said Ella, “and offered me a home when poor mamma died; but I thought that I ought to be up and doing, though I did not expect so much trouble at the outset.”“Trouble, my child,” said Mrs Brandon softly,—“the world is full of it;” and Ella, looking up, glanced at the widow’s weeds. “Yes, seven years ago now,” she continued, interpreting Ella’s glance. “But the troubles here could be lessened, if we studied others more and self less. But there, bless me, you haven’t seen the children!” and jumping up, she rang, and the hard-faced footman appeared.“Tell Jane to bring in the young ladies, Edward,” said Mrs Brandon; and, five minutes after, two bright happy-looking girls of eight and ten came running in. “There, my dears, that is Miss Bedford—your new governess.”The two girls went smiling up to offer their hands and kiss her, the younger clinging to her, and reading her face with a curious childish gaze.“They are both totally spoiled, Miss Bedford,” said Mrs Brandon, gazing fondly at her children; “and they’re behindhand and tomboyish, and will give you no end of trouble. But you must rule them very strictly; and as they’ve not been quite so bad to-day, they may have tea with us this evening.”The girls clapped their hands, and over that pleasant meal it seemed to Ella that she must have been there for months; while, when Mrs Brandon accompanied her to her bedroom that night—a snug pleasant chamber, with a fire, books, and a general aspect of comfort—and left her alone with the sense of the warm kiss on her lips—a friendly pressure on her hand, Ella sank upon her knees, and the tears would for a while flow—tears this time, though, of thankfulness for the refuge she had found.Two days of happiness had passed like a dream, in spite of sad thoughts and an undefined dread that all was too bright to last, when, seated in the drawing-room with Mrs Brandon, Ella’s heart leaped, and then the blood seemed to rush to her heart, for the clangour of the hall bell proclaimed a visitor. The next minute the hard footman entered with a card upon a salver.“Gentleman wishes to see Miss Bedford,” he said; and Ella with trembling hand took the card, to read thereon:“Mr Charles Vining, Blandfield Court.”

John Dudgeon was right. Ella Bedford’s luggage was directed to Mrs Brandon’s, Copse Hall, Laneton, to reach which, unless a fly had been engaged to convey her across country, Ella had to go up to town by one line, and then take her ticket by another. This she did, and reached Copse Hall, a gloomy-looking dwelling, late one evening, her heart sinking as the station fly conveyed her down a muddy lane, on the Croppley Magna road. The hedges were heavy, and the trees seemed all weeping—drip, drip, drip—while an occasional gust of wind drove the rain against the fly window.

Cold, sombre-looking, and bare was the house; and feeling that the refuge she had sought by means of advertising would be to her as a prison, Ella descended from the fly. A tall hard-looking footman opened the door, and kept her standing on the mat of a great bare hall, whose floor was polished oak, and whose ornaments were a set of harsh stiff-backed chairs, that looked as if they had been made out of old coffin boards, while the cold wind rushed through and shut a door somewhere in the back regions with an echoing bang.

“There’ll be a row about that,” said the hard-faced footman, as he set down the second trunk and closed the door, and the flyman drove off. “Missus hates the doors to bang, and they will do it when the wind’s in the south. You’re to come in here, please, Miss—Bedford, isn’t it?”

Trembling, in spite of her efforts to be calm, Ella responded to his query, and then followed the footman to a great gaunt-looking door. He opened it, and announced, “Miss Bedford.” She advanced a few steps, seeing nothing for the blinding tears that would stand in her eyes—tears that she had much difficulty to keep from falling. Then the door was closed behind her, and she felt two warm soft hands take hers, and that she was drawn towards a great glowing fire.

“Why, my dear child!” said a pleasant voice, “you are chilled through. Come this way.”

Then, as in a dream, she felt herself placed in a soft yielding easy-chair, her bonnet and mantle removed, the same soft hands smoothing back her hair, and then, as a pair of warm lips were pressed to hers, the same voice said gently:

“Welcome to Copse Hall, my love! I hope it will prove to you a happy home.”

Ella started to her feet as those words thrilled through her; words so new, so tender, so motherly, that she could no longer restrain her feelings, but threw herself, sobbing violently, upon the gentle breast that seemed to welcome her; for two arms pressed her tightly there for a few moments. Then there were soothing whispers, soft hands caressing her; and at last Ella was seated calm and tranquil at Mrs Brandon’s feet, feeling that, after the storms of the past, a haven of safety had been reached; and long was the converse which followed, as ingenuously Ella told all to her new friend, whose hand still rested on, or played with, the soft glossy bands of hair.

“We will not make a host of promises,” said Mrs Brandon cheerfully; “but see how we get on. You were quite right to leave there: and I had such a kind letter from the Reverend Henry Morton, that I was glad to secure your aid for my children’s education.”

“Mr Morton was very, very kind,” said Ella, “and offered me a home when poor mamma died; but I thought that I ought to be up and doing, though I did not expect so much trouble at the outset.”

“Trouble, my child,” said Mrs Brandon softly,—“the world is full of it;” and Ella, looking up, glanced at the widow’s weeds. “Yes, seven years ago now,” she continued, interpreting Ella’s glance. “But the troubles here could be lessened, if we studied others more and self less. But there, bless me, you haven’t seen the children!” and jumping up, she rang, and the hard-faced footman appeared.

“Tell Jane to bring in the young ladies, Edward,” said Mrs Brandon; and, five minutes after, two bright happy-looking girls of eight and ten came running in. “There, my dears, that is Miss Bedford—your new governess.”

The two girls went smiling up to offer their hands and kiss her, the younger clinging to her, and reading her face with a curious childish gaze.

“They are both totally spoiled, Miss Bedford,” said Mrs Brandon, gazing fondly at her children; “and they’re behindhand and tomboyish, and will give you no end of trouble. But you must rule them very strictly; and as they’ve not been quite so bad to-day, they may have tea with us this evening.”

The girls clapped their hands, and over that pleasant meal it seemed to Ella that she must have been there for months; while, when Mrs Brandon accompanied her to her bedroom that night—a snug pleasant chamber, with a fire, books, and a general aspect of comfort—and left her alone with the sense of the warm kiss on her lips—a friendly pressure on her hand, Ella sank upon her knees, and the tears would for a while flow—tears this time, though, of thankfulness for the refuge she had found.

Two days of happiness had passed like a dream, in spite of sad thoughts and an undefined dread that all was too bright to last, when, seated in the drawing-room with Mrs Brandon, Ella’s heart leaped, and then the blood seemed to rush to her heart, for the clangour of the hall bell proclaimed a visitor. The next minute the hard footman entered with a card upon a salver.

“Gentleman wishes to see Miss Bedford,” he said; and Ella with trembling hand took the card, to read thereon:

“Mr Charles Vining, Blandfield Court.”

Volume Two—Chapter Seven.Mrs Brandon’s Receptions.Mrs Brandon made no movement as the card was handed to Ella; but a look of firmness seemed imperceptibly to sweep across her pleasant matronly face, and one skilled in physiognomy would have said that she was waiting anxiously to see how the young girl would act, under what threatened to be very trying circumstances. Then, glancing at Ella, she saw her standing, pale as ashes, with the card in her hand.“Where have you shown the gentleman, Edward?” said Mrs Brandon.“Breakfast-room, ma’am,” said the hard footman.“Very good; you need not wait,” said Mrs Brandon; and the next moment they were alone, when, with pleading eyes, Ella held out the card.“Indeed, indeed, ma’am, I could not help this,” she whispered. “I hoped that my retreat would not have been known.”“My dear child,” said Mrs Brandon kindly, “I do not blame you;” and she also rose and passed her arm round Ella’s waist. “But you would like to see him?”“No, no,no!” cried Ella hastily. “I must not—I would rather not—it cannot be! I hoped to have been left here in peace, and free from persecution. I cannot see him; I must never see him again.”“You wish, then, that Mr Charles Vining should be told that you decline to see him, and you beg he will not call again?” said Mrs Brandon softly, as she drew the fair girl nearer to her.“I would not willingly hurt him,” said Ella hoarsely; “but I have told you all, and what else can I do? It can never be!”“My child,” said Mrs Brandon tenderly, “I don’t know how it is, but you seem to have even in this short time made yourself occupy the place of a daughter. You are quite right, and this gay gallant must be checked and kept in his place. We cannot have hawks here to flutter our dovecot. I will go and see him—that is, if it is indeed your honest wish and desire that he should see you no more.”“Yes, yes, it is indeed!” said Ella, with a sob that tore its way from her breast. “I can never see him more.”Mrs Brandon made a movement to leave the room, but Ella clung to her.“Do you repent of what you have said?” Mrs Brandon quietly asked.“No, no!” said Ella half hysterically: “but—it is very kind of you to see him—but—but you will speak gently to him—you will not be harsh or cruel; for he is good and noble, and true-hearted and manly, and I believe he feels all this deeply.”Mrs Brandon smiled incredulously, but there was pity in her words as she bent over Ella, and tried to calm her.“Is it really then like that, my poor, weak, gentle little dove?” she whispered. “Has he then made so firm a footing in this poor soft yielding heart? But you are quite right; you must not see him, and the soreness will soon wear off. You do not know the ways of the world, and of these gay, insidious, smooth-tongued gallants, born with the idea that every pretty face beneath them in station, forsooth, is to minister to their pleasure. I see—I see; and I don’t blame you for believing all he said.”“But I think you mistake his character,” said Ella pleadingly.“Perhaps so,” said Mrs Brandon, smiling; “but will you leave your welfare in my hands, Ella?”It was the first time Mrs Brandon had called her by her Christian name, and the young girl looked up with, a sad sweet smile.“I am very young, very helpless, and quite alone in the world,” she said softly; “and I have met here with kindness such as I have not before known sincetheydied. I was so happy, so hopeful, so trustful that happier days were coming; and, indeed. I wish to be grateful.”Mrs Brandon kissed her again, and made a movement once more to leave; but Ella made a clutch at her hand.“Shall I stay?” said Mrs Brandon softly. “Will you see him yourself?”Ella was silent for a moment, for there was a great, a wild struggle in her breast; but she conquered, and drawing herself up, she stood, pale and cast-down of eye, with one hand resting on a chair-back.“Do I understand you, Miss Bedford?” said Mrs Brandon.“Yes, yes,” said Ella, in a calm sad voice. “I must never see him again.”Mrs Brandon moved towards the door, and laid her hand upon the lock, making it rattle loudly as she turned to gaze at Ella; but the latter never moved; and as the door closed, Mrs Brandon’s last glance showed her Ella pale and motionless as a statue.“Now for this lordly gallant!” muttered Mrs Brandon, as she stood for a moment in the gaunt hall; “now for this sportive disturber of young hearts! If I had my will,” she exclaimed, her handsome matronly features flushing up, “I’d have them all banished—I would!”Then, with a firm step, and her head drawn back, she crossed the hall, threw open the door, and entered the room where Charley Vining was impatiently walking up and down.

Mrs Brandon made no movement as the card was handed to Ella; but a look of firmness seemed imperceptibly to sweep across her pleasant matronly face, and one skilled in physiognomy would have said that she was waiting anxiously to see how the young girl would act, under what threatened to be very trying circumstances. Then, glancing at Ella, she saw her standing, pale as ashes, with the card in her hand.

“Where have you shown the gentleman, Edward?” said Mrs Brandon.

“Breakfast-room, ma’am,” said the hard footman.

“Very good; you need not wait,” said Mrs Brandon; and the next moment they were alone, when, with pleading eyes, Ella held out the card.

“Indeed, indeed, ma’am, I could not help this,” she whispered. “I hoped that my retreat would not have been known.”

“My dear child,” said Mrs Brandon kindly, “I do not blame you;” and she also rose and passed her arm round Ella’s waist. “But you would like to see him?”

“No, no,no!” cried Ella hastily. “I must not—I would rather not—it cannot be! I hoped to have been left here in peace, and free from persecution. I cannot see him; I must never see him again.”

“You wish, then, that Mr Charles Vining should be told that you decline to see him, and you beg he will not call again?” said Mrs Brandon softly, as she drew the fair girl nearer to her.

“I would not willingly hurt him,” said Ella hoarsely; “but I have told you all, and what else can I do? It can never be!”

“My child,” said Mrs Brandon tenderly, “I don’t know how it is, but you seem to have even in this short time made yourself occupy the place of a daughter. You are quite right, and this gay gallant must be checked and kept in his place. We cannot have hawks here to flutter our dovecot. I will go and see him—that is, if it is indeed your honest wish and desire that he should see you no more.”

“Yes, yes, it is indeed!” said Ella, with a sob that tore its way from her breast. “I can never see him more.”

Mrs Brandon made a movement to leave the room, but Ella clung to her.

“Do you repent of what you have said?” Mrs Brandon quietly asked.

“No, no!” said Ella half hysterically: “but—it is very kind of you to see him—but—but you will speak gently to him—you will not be harsh or cruel; for he is good and noble, and true-hearted and manly, and I believe he feels all this deeply.”

Mrs Brandon smiled incredulously, but there was pity in her words as she bent over Ella, and tried to calm her.

“Is it really then like that, my poor, weak, gentle little dove?” she whispered. “Has he then made so firm a footing in this poor soft yielding heart? But you are quite right; you must not see him, and the soreness will soon wear off. You do not know the ways of the world, and of these gay, insidious, smooth-tongued gallants, born with the idea that every pretty face beneath them in station, forsooth, is to minister to their pleasure. I see—I see; and I don’t blame you for believing all he said.”

“But I think you mistake his character,” said Ella pleadingly.

“Perhaps so,” said Mrs Brandon, smiling; “but will you leave your welfare in my hands, Ella?”

It was the first time Mrs Brandon had called her by her Christian name, and the young girl looked up with, a sad sweet smile.

“I am very young, very helpless, and quite alone in the world,” she said softly; “and I have met here with kindness such as I have not before known sincetheydied. I was so happy, so hopeful, so trustful that happier days were coming; and, indeed. I wish to be grateful.”

Mrs Brandon kissed her again, and made a movement once more to leave; but Ella made a clutch at her hand.

“Shall I stay?” said Mrs Brandon softly. “Will you see him yourself?”

Ella was silent for a moment, for there was a great, a wild struggle in her breast; but she conquered, and drawing herself up, she stood, pale and cast-down of eye, with one hand resting on a chair-back.

“Do I understand you, Miss Bedford?” said Mrs Brandon.

“Yes, yes,” said Ella, in a calm sad voice. “I must never see him again.”

Mrs Brandon moved towards the door, and laid her hand upon the lock, making it rattle loudly as she turned to gaze at Ella; but the latter never moved; and as the door closed, Mrs Brandon’s last glance showed her Ella pale and motionless as a statue.

“Now for this lordly gallant!” muttered Mrs Brandon, as she stood for a moment in the gaunt hall; “now for this sportive disturber of young hearts! If I had my will,” she exclaimed, her handsome matronly features flushing up, “I’d have them all banished—I would!”

Then, with a firm step, and her head drawn back, she crossed the hall, threw open the door, and entered the room where Charley Vining was impatiently walking up and down.

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.Mrs Brandon’s Receptions: First Visitor.Charley Vining started as, instead of Ella Bedford, he was confronted by a tall, handsome, middle-aged lady, who bowed stiffly, and motioned him to a seat, taking one herself at the same time.“I have the pleasure of addressing—?” said Charley inquiringly.“Mrs Brandon,” was the reply.“And Miss Bedford is not ill, I trust?” said Charley anxiously.“Miss Bedford has requested me, as her particular friend, to meet you, and answer any questions upon her behalf.”“But she will see me, will she not?” said Charley earnestly. “Her leaving us was so sudden—I was taken so by surprise. You say, madam, that you are her friend?”Mrs Brandon bowed, and Charley wiped the dew from his forehead.“May I then plead for one interview, however short?”Mrs Brandon frowned, and then rising, she stood with one hand resting upon the table.“Young man,” she said firmly—and Charley started as she looked down almost fiercely upon him, “you are the son of Sir Philip Vining, I believe?”“I am,” said Charley, slightly surprised.“A worthy old country squire, whose name is known for miles round in connection with kindly deeds.”“My father,” said Charley proudly, “is, in every sense of the word, a gentleman.”“Then why is not his son?” said Mrs Brandon fiercely.“Me? Why am not I?” said Charley, in a puzzled voice.“Yes, sir, you!” exclaimed Mrs Brandon angrily. “Why should not the only son be as the father?”“Because,” said Charley proudly, once more, “it does not befall that there should be two such men for many generations.”“It seems so,” said Mrs Brandon bitterly; “but the son might learn something from the father’s acts.”“Good heavens, madam! what does this mean? What have I done that you should speak to me thus?” cried Charley earnestly.“What have you done!” exclaimed Mrs Brandon, standing before him with flashing eyes. “You pitiful coward! you base scoundrel! how dare you come before me with your insidious, plausible, professing ways—before me, a mother—the wife of an English gentleman, who would have had you turned out of the house! Silence, sir!” she exclaimed, as Charley rose, now pale, now flashed, and looked her in the face. “You shall hear me out before you quit this room. I say, how dare you come before me here, and parade your interest, and the trouble you are in becauseshehas left the Elms? Do you think I do not know the ways of the world—of the modern English gentleman? You pitiful libertine! If I were a man, my indignation is so hot against you, that I should even so far forget myself as to strike you. Could you find no pleasanter pastime than to insinuate your bold handsome face into the thoughts of that sweet simple-minded country girl—a poor clergyman’s daughter—a pure-hearted lady—to be to her as a blight—to be her curse—to win a heart of so faithful and true a nature, that once it has beaten to the command of love, it would never beat for another? I can find no words for the scorn, the utter contempt, with which you inspire me. But there, I will say no more, lest I forget myself in my hot passion; but I tell you this, she has been here but a few hours, and yet, few as they are, they have been long enough to show me that she is a pearl beyond price—a gem that your libertine fingers would sully. She has won from me a mother’s love, I may say; and wisely trusting to me, she bids me tell you that she will see you no more!”“She bade you tell me this?” said Charley hoarsely; “and have you poisoned her ears against me thus?”“Poisoned her ears!” exclaimed Mrs Brandon, forgetting herrôlein her excitement, “poor, innocent, weak child! She believes you to be perfection, and but a few minutes since was imploring me to be gentle with the gay Lothario who has so basely deluded her, though she had the good sense and wisdom to seek another home. What—what!” cried Mrs Brandon, “are you so hardened that you dare smile to my face with your nefarious triumph?”“Smile!” said Charley slowly, and in a strange dreamy way; “it must be then the reflection of the heart that laughs within me for joy at those last words of yours. Mrs Brandon,” he exclaimed, firing up, “but for the proud knowledge that your accusations are all false, the bitter lashing you have given me would have been maddening. But you wrong me cruelly; I deserve nothing of what you say, unless,” he said proudly, “it is wrong to purely love with my whole heart that sweet gentle girl. Mrs Brandon, you are a woman—you must once have loved,” he cried almost imploringly. “What have I done that I should be treated so? Why should she meet me always with this plea of difference of worldly position? You see I am not angry—you have made my heart warm towards you for the interest you take in her. It may be strange for me to speak thus to you, a stranger, but you broke down the barrier, and even if it be simple, I tell you that I am proud to say that I love her dearly—that I can know no rest till she is mine. Indeed, you wrong me!” he cried, catching her hand in his. “Intercede for me. This indignation is uncalled for. Yes; look at me—I do not flinch. Indeed my words are honest!”Mrs Brandon gazed at him searchingly, but he did not shrink.“I am no judge of human hearts,” said Charley earnestly, as he continued pleading; “but my own tells me that one so easily moved to indignation in a righteous cause must be gentle and generous. You have shown me how you love her, and that, in spite of your cruel words, draws me to you. Think of my pain—think of what I suffer; for indeed,” he said simply, “I do suffer cruelly! But you will let me see her—you will let me plead my own cause once more, as I try to remove the impression she has that a union would blight my prospects. It is madness! But you will let me see her?”For the last five minutes Mrs Brandon had been utterly taken aback. Prejudging Charley from her own experience, she had emptied upon his defenceless head the vials of her wrath, while ever since the first burst of indignation had been expended, the thought had been forcing itself upon her that she had judged rashly—that she was mistaken. No frivolous pleasure-seeking villain could have spoken in that way—none but the most consummate hypocrite could have uttered those simple sentiments in so masterly a fashion. And surely, her heart said, this could be no hypocrite—no deceiver! If he were, she was one of the deceived; for his upright manly bearing, his gentle appealing way, the true honest look in his eyes, could only have been emanations from a pure heart; and at last, overcome by her emotion, Mrs Brandon sank back in her seat, as, still grasping her hand tightly, Charley stood over her.“Have I, then, wronged you?” she faltered.“As heaven is my judge, you have!” cried Charley earnestly. “I never loved but one woman before.”“And who was that?” said Mrs Brandon anxiously.“My dead mother; and her I love still!” said Charley earnestly.“Mr Vining,” said Mrs Brandon, “I beg your pardon!”“What for?” cried Charley; “for showing me that Miss Bedford has found a true friend? Heaven bless you!” he said; and he raised her hand to his lips before turning away and walking to the window.At the end of a minute he was back at her side.“Mrs Brandon,” he said, “will you also be my friend? Will you act as counsel and judge for us both? I will leave my fate in your hands. Think quietly over it all, talk to Ella, and see what is right. You will not judge me wrongly again,” he said, smiling.“I cannot think calmly now,” she said; “I am agitated and taken aback. I thought to castigate a libertine, and I have been, I fear, lacerating the heart of a true gentleman! Go now, I beg of you!”“But you will let me see her once—but for a minute?” pleaded Charley.“No!” said Mrs Brandon firmly. “It is her wish,and mine, that you should not see her now.”“Now!” said Charley, catching at the word. “Then I may call again—to-morrow—the next day?”“No!” said Mrs Brandon thoughtfully; “no! be content. I am but a weak woman, and I have shown myself to be no judge of human character. I must have proof and the words of others; when, if you come scatheless from the ordeal, I will be your friend.”“You will!” cried Charley joyfully, as he caught her hands in his; and then what more he would have said was choked by his emotion. “When may I come again?” he said at last.“To seeme?” queried Mrs Brandon smilingly.“Yes,” replied Charley, with a sigh.“This day week,” said Mrs Brandon. And five minutes after Charley’s mare was galloping at such a rate that her rider did not see the grinning face of Max Bray peering at him from over a hedge. In fact, Charley saw nothing but his own thoughts till he reached the Court, where he encountered his father on the steps.“Where have you been?” said the old gentleman sternly, but with a shade of sadness in his voice.“To Copse Hall, Laneton,” replied Charley boldly.“Is that where Miss Bedford now resides?” said the old gentleman, watching the play of his son’s features.“Father,” said Charley, “I never deceived you yet.”“No, Charley,” said Sir Philip with trembling voice. “Is it there?”“Yes!” replied the young man; and he turned away.

Charley Vining started as, instead of Ella Bedford, he was confronted by a tall, handsome, middle-aged lady, who bowed stiffly, and motioned him to a seat, taking one herself at the same time.

“I have the pleasure of addressing—?” said Charley inquiringly.

“Mrs Brandon,” was the reply.

“And Miss Bedford is not ill, I trust?” said Charley anxiously.

“Miss Bedford has requested me, as her particular friend, to meet you, and answer any questions upon her behalf.”

“But she will see me, will she not?” said Charley earnestly. “Her leaving us was so sudden—I was taken so by surprise. You say, madam, that you are her friend?”

Mrs Brandon bowed, and Charley wiped the dew from his forehead.

“May I then plead for one interview, however short?”

Mrs Brandon frowned, and then rising, she stood with one hand resting upon the table.

“Young man,” she said firmly—and Charley started as she looked down almost fiercely upon him, “you are the son of Sir Philip Vining, I believe?”

“I am,” said Charley, slightly surprised.

“A worthy old country squire, whose name is known for miles round in connection with kindly deeds.”

“My father,” said Charley proudly, “is, in every sense of the word, a gentleman.”

“Then why is not his son?” said Mrs Brandon fiercely.

“Me? Why am not I?” said Charley, in a puzzled voice.

“Yes, sir, you!” exclaimed Mrs Brandon angrily. “Why should not the only son be as the father?”

“Because,” said Charley proudly, once more, “it does not befall that there should be two such men for many generations.”

“It seems so,” said Mrs Brandon bitterly; “but the son might learn something from the father’s acts.”

“Good heavens, madam! what does this mean? What have I done that you should speak to me thus?” cried Charley earnestly.

“What have you done!” exclaimed Mrs Brandon, standing before him with flashing eyes. “You pitiful coward! you base scoundrel! how dare you come before me with your insidious, plausible, professing ways—before me, a mother—the wife of an English gentleman, who would have had you turned out of the house! Silence, sir!” she exclaimed, as Charley rose, now pale, now flashed, and looked her in the face. “You shall hear me out before you quit this room. I say, how dare you come before me here, and parade your interest, and the trouble you are in becauseshehas left the Elms? Do you think I do not know the ways of the world—of the modern English gentleman? You pitiful libertine! If I were a man, my indignation is so hot against you, that I should even so far forget myself as to strike you. Could you find no pleasanter pastime than to insinuate your bold handsome face into the thoughts of that sweet simple-minded country girl—a poor clergyman’s daughter—a pure-hearted lady—to be to her as a blight—to be her curse—to win a heart of so faithful and true a nature, that once it has beaten to the command of love, it would never beat for another? I can find no words for the scorn, the utter contempt, with which you inspire me. But there, I will say no more, lest I forget myself in my hot passion; but I tell you this, she has been here but a few hours, and yet, few as they are, they have been long enough to show me that she is a pearl beyond price—a gem that your libertine fingers would sully. She has won from me a mother’s love, I may say; and wisely trusting to me, she bids me tell you that she will see you no more!”

“She bade you tell me this?” said Charley hoarsely; “and have you poisoned her ears against me thus?”

“Poisoned her ears!” exclaimed Mrs Brandon, forgetting herrôlein her excitement, “poor, innocent, weak child! She believes you to be perfection, and but a few minutes since was imploring me to be gentle with the gay Lothario who has so basely deluded her, though she had the good sense and wisdom to seek another home. What—what!” cried Mrs Brandon, “are you so hardened that you dare smile to my face with your nefarious triumph?”

“Smile!” said Charley slowly, and in a strange dreamy way; “it must be then the reflection of the heart that laughs within me for joy at those last words of yours. Mrs Brandon,” he exclaimed, firing up, “but for the proud knowledge that your accusations are all false, the bitter lashing you have given me would have been maddening. But you wrong me cruelly; I deserve nothing of what you say, unless,” he said proudly, “it is wrong to purely love with my whole heart that sweet gentle girl. Mrs Brandon, you are a woman—you must once have loved,” he cried almost imploringly. “What have I done that I should be treated so? Why should she meet me always with this plea of difference of worldly position? You see I am not angry—you have made my heart warm towards you for the interest you take in her. It may be strange for me to speak thus to you, a stranger, but you broke down the barrier, and even if it be simple, I tell you that I am proud to say that I love her dearly—that I can know no rest till she is mine. Indeed, you wrong me!” he cried, catching her hand in his. “Intercede for me. This indignation is uncalled for. Yes; look at me—I do not flinch. Indeed my words are honest!”

Mrs Brandon gazed at him searchingly, but he did not shrink.

“I am no judge of human hearts,” said Charley earnestly, as he continued pleading; “but my own tells me that one so easily moved to indignation in a righteous cause must be gentle and generous. You have shown me how you love her, and that, in spite of your cruel words, draws me to you. Think of my pain—think of what I suffer; for indeed,” he said simply, “I do suffer cruelly! But you will let me see her—you will let me plead my own cause once more, as I try to remove the impression she has that a union would blight my prospects. It is madness! But you will let me see her?”

For the last five minutes Mrs Brandon had been utterly taken aback. Prejudging Charley from her own experience, she had emptied upon his defenceless head the vials of her wrath, while ever since the first burst of indignation had been expended, the thought had been forcing itself upon her that she had judged rashly—that she was mistaken. No frivolous pleasure-seeking villain could have spoken in that way—none but the most consummate hypocrite could have uttered those simple sentiments in so masterly a fashion. And surely, her heart said, this could be no hypocrite—no deceiver! If he were, she was one of the deceived; for his upright manly bearing, his gentle appealing way, the true honest look in his eyes, could only have been emanations from a pure heart; and at last, overcome by her emotion, Mrs Brandon sank back in her seat, as, still grasping her hand tightly, Charley stood over her.

“Have I, then, wronged you?” she faltered.

“As heaven is my judge, you have!” cried Charley earnestly. “I never loved but one woman before.”

“And who was that?” said Mrs Brandon anxiously.

“My dead mother; and her I love still!” said Charley earnestly.

“Mr Vining,” said Mrs Brandon, “I beg your pardon!”

“What for?” cried Charley; “for showing me that Miss Bedford has found a true friend? Heaven bless you!” he said; and he raised her hand to his lips before turning away and walking to the window.

At the end of a minute he was back at her side.

“Mrs Brandon,” he said, “will you also be my friend? Will you act as counsel and judge for us both? I will leave my fate in your hands. Think quietly over it all, talk to Ella, and see what is right. You will not judge me wrongly again,” he said, smiling.

“I cannot think calmly now,” she said; “I am agitated and taken aback. I thought to castigate a libertine, and I have been, I fear, lacerating the heart of a true gentleman! Go now, I beg of you!”

“But you will let me see her once—but for a minute?” pleaded Charley.

“No!” said Mrs Brandon firmly. “It is her wish,and mine, that you should not see her now.”

“Now!” said Charley, catching at the word. “Then I may call again—to-morrow—the next day?”

“No!” said Mrs Brandon thoughtfully; “no! be content. I am but a weak woman, and I have shown myself to be no judge of human character. I must have proof and the words of others; when, if you come scatheless from the ordeal, I will be your friend.”

“You will!” cried Charley joyfully, as he caught her hands in his; and then what more he would have said was choked by his emotion. “When may I come again?” he said at last.

“To seeme?” queried Mrs Brandon smilingly.

“Yes,” replied Charley, with a sigh.

“This day week,” said Mrs Brandon. And five minutes after Charley’s mare was galloping at such a rate that her rider did not see the grinning face of Max Bray peering at him from over a hedge. In fact, Charley saw nothing but his own thoughts till he reached the Court, where he encountered his father on the steps.

“Where have you been?” said the old gentleman sternly, but with a shade of sadness in his voice.

“To Copse Hall, Laneton,” replied Charley boldly.

“Is that where Miss Bedford now resides?” said the old gentleman, watching the play of his son’s features.

“Father,” said Charley, “I never deceived you yet.”

“No, Charley,” said Sir Philip with trembling voice. “Is it there?”

“Yes!” replied the young man; and he turned away.

Volume Two—Chapter Nine.Mrs Brandon’s Receptions: Second Visitor.Mrs Brandon returned to the drawing-room after Charley Vining’s departure, to find Ella as she had left her, standing cold and motionless, supporting herself by one hand upon the chair-back, but ready to confront Mrs Brandon as she entered the room.“Has he gone?” whispered Ella, with a strange catching of the breath.“Yes,” said Mrs Brandon, who watched her keenly; and then, as a half-suppressed sob forced itself from the wounded breast, Ella turned and began to walk slowly from the room.“My child!” whispered Mrs Brandon, hurrying to her side, and once more passing a protecting arm around her.Ella turned her sad gentle face towards Mrs Brandon with a smile.“Let me go to my own room now,” she said. “You are very good. I am very sorry; but I could not help all this.”Mrs Brandon kissed her tenderly, and watched her as she passed through the door, returning herself to sit thoughtfully gazing at the floor, till, taking pen, ink, and paper, she wrote three hurried notes, and addressed them to various friends residing in the neighbourhood of Blandfield Court. One will serve as an example of the character of the others. It was addressed to an old intimate and schoolfellow—Mrs Lingon; and ran as follows:“My dear Mrs Lingon,—Will you kindly, and in strict confidence, give meyouropinion respecting the character and pursuits of a neighbour—Mr Charles Vining. I have a particular reason for wishing to know. With kind love, I am yours sincerely, Emily Brandon.”The answers came by the mid-day post on the second afternoon, when, Ella being pale and unwell, one of the upper servants had been sent with the children for their afternoon walk.Mrs Brandon was evidently expecting news; for, after sitting talking to Ella in a quiet affectionate way for some time, she rang the bell, and the hard footman appeared.“Has not Thomas returned from Laneton with the letter-bag?”“Just coming up the lane as you rang, ma’am,” said the man, who then hurried out, to return with several letters, three of which Mrs Brandon read with the greatest interest and a slight flush of colour in her cheeks, when, with a gratified sigh, she placed them in a desk, and closing her eyes, leaned back quiet and thoughtful, till her musing was interrupted by the reappearance of the footman, with salver and card.“Gentleman wishes to see Miss Bedford,” said the man, handing the card.“Not the same gentleman?” exclaimed Mrs Brandon excitedly, and as if annoyed at what she looked upon as a breach of faith.“No, ’m; ’nother gentleman—a little one,” said the hard footman.“That will do,” said Mrs Brandon quietly; and the man left the room, as, with the colour mounting to her cheeks, Ella handed the card just taken.“Mr Maximilian Bray,” said Mrs Brandon, glancing at the delicate slip of pasteboard, enamelled and scented. “That istheMr Bray you named?”Ella bowed her head, and then, as if transformed into another, she said hastily,“Mrs Brandon, I think you give me credit for trying to avoid this unpleasantly; you know I cannot help these calls. It will be better,” she said huskily, “that I leave here, and at once.”“Give you credit? Of course, child!” said Mrs Brandon quietly. “Sit down, you foolish girl. So, this is the dandy—the exquisite! I think we can arrange for his visiting here no more. That is,” she said playfully, “unlessyouwish to see him.”Ella’s eyes quite flashed and her nostrils dilated as she recalled past insults; all of which was duly marked by Mrs Brandon, who smiled once more as she rose to leave the room.“I need not spare his feelings, I presume?” she said.“What excuses can I offer you?—what thanks can I give you?” cried Ella earnestly.“Just as many as I ask you for,” said Mrs Brandon, smiling, and then kissing her affectionately. “I believe you are a little witch, my child, and that you are charming all our hearts away. Why, the cook has been civil ever since you have been here; and Mary the housemaid has not said a word about giving warning; and as for Edward, he has not let the great passage-door slam once. But, bless me, child!” she said merrily, as she glanced at the mirror in front, “am I in fit trim to present myself before the great Mr Maximilian Bray?”But Ella could not smile: her heart beat fast, and she was troubled; and, in spite of Mrs Brandon’s affectionate behaviour, she feared that this persecution might tend to shorten her stay at Copse Hall. A sense of keen sorrow pervaded her at such a prospect—at a time too when it seemed that she had found a haven of peace, where she might bear the sorrows of the past; and as Mrs Brandon left the room, she sank down in her chair, and covered her face with her hands.There was a smile upon Mrs Brandon’s countenance as she entered the breakfast-room, to find Max busy before a glass, battling with a recalcitrant stud.Most men would have been slightly confused on being found in such a position; but not so Max. He turned round slowly, displaying the manifold perfections of his exquisite toilet, smiled, showed his fine white teeth and pearl-grey gloves, and then advanced and placed a chair for Mrs Brandon, taking the one to which he was waved by the lady of the house, who was still smiling.“Charming weather, is it not?” said Max in his most fascinating tones, as he caressed one whisker, and placed boot number one a little farther out in front, so that the fit might be observed. “Pleasure of addressing Mrs Brandon, I presume?”Mrs Brandon bowed.“Ah! ya-as, bai Jove! mutual acquaintance, and all that. Heard the Lingons speak of you, and being riding this wa-a-ay, took the liberty—”“Yes!” said Mrs Brandon rather sharply.“Ya-as, just so, bai Jove!” said Max obtusely. “Took the liberty of giving you a call. Country’s ra-ather dull just now: don’t you find it so?”“Not at all,” said Mrs Brandon, who was evidently highly amused.“Just so! ya-as, bai Jove!—of course!” said Max. “Miss Bedford be down soon, I suppose? Hope you like her—most amiable girl.”“I quite agree with you,” said Mrs Brandon.“Ya-as, just so—of course!” drawled Max, who either could not or would not see the half-amused, half-contemptuous way in which his remarks were received. “Thought I’d call and see her,” he continued. “We all thought a deal of her; but she would go.”“Indeed!” said Mrs Brandon.“Ya-as,” drawled Max. “Fancy it was some annoyance she met with from young Vining: not that I wish to say anything—bai Jove, no!”“I’m sure Miss Bedford will be delighted to hear of the kind interest you take in her,” said Mrs Brandon.“O, I don’t know so much about that!” said Max; “but we were always very good friends.”“You puppy!” muttered Mrs Brandon.“Always liked her because of the interest she took in a sister of mine. Down soon, I suppose?”“Who—Miss Bedford?” said Mrs Brandon.“Ya-as,” drawled Max; “should like to have a quiet chat with her;” and he directed one of his most taking glances at the lady, who, all smiles and good-humour, had been studying his manners and dress in a way that Max set down for admiration, and presuming thereon, he grew every moment more confidential. “You see, when she was at home, Mrs Brandon, I felt a natural diffidence.”“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs Brandon.“Natural diffidence—kind of drawing back, you know,” explained Max. “Didn’t seem the sort of thing, you see, to be too attentive to the governess; but—er—er—must own to a sort of weakness in that direction. Nature, you see—bai Jove!—and that sort of thing, for she is a dooced attractive girl.”“Very,” said Mrs Brandon; and Max went on, for he was in his blind-rut mood—a rut in which he could run on for hours without ever seeing that he was being laughed at.“Glad you think so—I am, bai Jove! Very kind of you too, to be so cordial and—”“Pray do not imagine—” began Mrs Brandon.“No, no. Don’t make any excuses, pray,” said Max, interrupting her. “You see, I’ve been candid, and I’ve no doubt that you’ll give me your permission to call frequently.—But is Miss Bedford coming down?”Mrs Brandon did not reply; but still smiling pleasantly, she rose, rang the bell, and then resumed her seat.“Bai Jove! don’t trouble yourself—I can wait,” said Max. “Ladies’ toilets do take a long while sometimes.”Mrs Brandon smiled, and then rose again, as the hard-faced footman opened the door.“Edward,” she said in the coolest and most cutting manner, “do you see this gentleman?”“Yes, ma’am, I see him,” said the astonished servant.“He has made a mistake in coming here.”“Yes, ma’am,” said the footman.“Show him to the door; and if ever he has the impertinence to call here again, either to ask for Miss Bedford or me, order him off the premises; and if he does not immediately go, send for the policeman.”“Bai Jove!” drawled the astonished Max, “what does this mean?”“You will show him out directly,” said Mrs Brandon, who would not turn her face in his direction, but continued to address the man; “and give him fully to understand what will be his fate if he should have the insolence to call any more.”“Yes, ma’am,” said Edward, trying to keep back a grin.“Bai Jove, she’s mad!” ejaculated Max.“Now then, sir; this way, please,” said the hard-faced footman, whose countenance, if stony before, was now adamantine.“Hyar, I say, you—Mrs Brandon!” ejaculated Max, “what does this mean?”“Air you coming, sir, or airn’t you?” said the footman angrily. Then, opening the door to its widest extent, he placed a chair against it, and advanced so fiercely towards the unwelcome visitor, that, to give him his due, more from dread of a disarrangement of his attire than fear of the man, he retreated round the table, stumbling once over a chair as he did so, and then in his confusion halting in the doorway. The next moment he was hurried into the great hall, and backed out by Edward, who, enjoying his task, proved himself to be the most uncompromising of footmen, and slightly exceeded his duty by slamming the hall-door after his discomfited guest with all his might, just as his mistress crossed and entered the drawing-room, where, pale and excited, Ella sat awaiting her.“There, my child, that’s over!” exclaimed Mrs Brandon; and then, in spite of Ella’s troubled face, she leaned back in her chair, and burst into an uncontrolled fit of laughter, till, seeing how disturbed her companion looked, she sat up once more.“I meant to have been angry, and given him a tremendous snubbing,” she said; “but, as he says, ‘bai Jove!’ it was impossible. Of all the consummate puppies I ever beheld, I think he is the quintessence. And he is so dense too, he seems to have not the slightest idea when you are laughing at him. There, my dear Ella, never wear that troubled face about the donkey. He is not worthy of a moment’s thought; and besides, he will never show his face here again.”“I cannot help feeling troubled about him,” said Ella slowly, and as if she were telling her thoughts. “I fear him; and, dear Mrs Brandon, you do not know his character. It seems to me that that artificial glaze covers much that is gross, and unprincipled, and relentless. It has been my misfortune to have attracted his notice, and I never think of him without a shiver of dread. He seems to have cast a shadow across my path; and a dread of coming evil in some way connected with him—a strange undefined sense of peril—haunts me again and again.”“There, there; what nonsense!” laughed Mrs Brandon merrily. “We’ll watch over you like dragons, and no one shall molest you; or, if it should come to the worst, we will set one chivalrous knight against the other—in plain English, Mr Charles Vining shall trounce, or call out and shoot, or do something to Mr Maximilian, the scented. Bah! he is in my nostrils now! But who is to be the next? Really, I am hard set to keep my little acquisition. How many more visitors of the masculine gender will there be, Miss Bedford?”Ella looked at her so pitifully, that she directly ceased her light bantering tone, and changed the subject; while, perfectly astounded at the unexpected termination of his reception, Max Bray rode slowly home.

Mrs Brandon returned to the drawing-room after Charley Vining’s departure, to find Ella as she had left her, standing cold and motionless, supporting herself by one hand upon the chair-back, but ready to confront Mrs Brandon as she entered the room.

“Has he gone?” whispered Ella, with a strange catching of the breath.

“Yes,” said Mrs Brandon, who watched her keenly; and then, as a half-suppressed sob forced itself from the wounded breast, Ella turned and began to walk slowly from the room.

“My child!” whispered Mrs Brandon, hurrying to her side, and once more passing a protecting arm around her.

Ella turned her sad gentle face towards Mrs Brandon with a smile.

“Let me go to my own room now,” she said. “You are very good. I am very sorry; but I could not help all this.”

Mrs Brandon kissed her tenderly, and watched her as she passed through the door, returning herself to sit thoughtfully gazing at the floor, till, taking pen, ink, and paper, she wrote three hurried notes, and addressed them to various friends residing in the neighbourhood of Blandfield Court. One will serve as an example of the character of the others. It was addressed to an old intimate and schoolfellow—Mrs Lingon; and ran as follows:

“My dear Mrs Lingon,—Will you kindly, and in strict confidence, give meyouropinion respecting the character and pursuits of a neighbour—Mr Charles Vining. I have a particular reason for wishing to know. With kind love, I am yours sincerely, Emily Brandon.”

“My dear Mrs Lingon,—Will you kindly, and in strict confidence, give meyouropinion respecting the character and pursuits of a neighbour—Mr Charles Vining. I have a particular reason for wishing to know. With kind love, I am yours sincerely, Emily Brandon.”

The answers came by the mid-day post on the second afternoon, when, Ella being pale and unwell, one of the upper servants had been sent with the children for their afternoon walk.

Mrs Brandon was evidently expecting news; for, after sitting talking to Ella in a quiet affectionate way for some time, she rang the bell, and the hard footman appeared.

“Has not Thomas returned from Laneton with the letter-bag?”

“Just coming up the lane as you rang, ma’am,” said the man, who then hurried out, to return with several letters, three of which Mrs Brandon read with the greatest interest and a slight flush of colour in her cheeks, when, with a gratified sigh, she placed them in a desk, and closing her eyes, leaned back quiet and thoughtful, till her musing was interrupted by the reappearance of the footman, with salver and card.

“Gentleman wishes to see Miss Bedford,” said the man, handing the card.

“Not the same gentleman?” exclaimed Mrs Brandon excitedly, and as if annoyed at what she looked upon as a breach of faith.

“No, ’m; ’nother gentleman—a little one,” said the hard footman.

“That will do,” said Mrs Brandon quietly; and the man left the room, as, with the colour mounting to her cheeks, Ella handed the card just taken.

“Mr Maximilian Bray,” said Mrs Brandon, glancing at the delicate slip of pasteboard, enamelled and scented. “That istheMr Bray you named?”

Ella bowed her head, and then, as if transformed into another, she said hastily,

“Mrs Brandon, I think you give me credit for trying to avoid this unpleasantly; you know I cannot help these calls. It will be better,” she said huskily, “that I leave here, and at once.”

“Give you credit? Of course, child!” said Mrs Brandon quietly. “Sit down, you foolish girl. So, this is the dandy—the exquisite! I think we can arrange for his visiting here no more. That is,” she said playfully, “unlessyouwish to see him.”

Ella’s eyes quite flashed and her nostrils dilated as she recalled past insults; all of which was duly marked by Mrs Brandon, who smiled once more as she rose to leave the room.

“I need not spare his feelings, I presume?” she said.

“What excuses can I offer you?—what thanks can I give you?” cried Ella earnestly.

“Just as many as I ask you for,” said Mrs Brandon, smiling, and then kissing her affectionately. “I believe you are a little witch, my child, and that you are charming all our hearts away. Why, the cook has been civil ever since you have been here; and Mary the housemaid has not said a word about giving warning; and as for Edward, he has not let the great passage-door slam once. But, bless me, child!” she said merrily, as she glanced at the mirror in front, “am I in fit trim to present myself before the great Mr Maximilian Bray?”

But Ella could not smile: her heart beat fast, and she was troubled; and, in spite of Mrs Brandon’s affectionate behaviour, she feared that this persecution might tend to shorten her stay at Copse Hall. A sense of keen sorrow pervaded her at such a prospect—at a time too when it seemed that she had found a haven of peace, where she might bear the sorrows of the past; and as Mrs Brandon left the room, she sank down in her chair, and covered her face with her hands.

There was a smile upon Mrs Brandon’s countenance as she entered the breakfast-room, to find Max busy before a glass, battling with a recalcitrant stud.

Most men would have been slightly confused on being found in such a position; but not so Max. He turned round slowly, displaying the manifold perfections of his exquisite toilet, smiled, showed his fine white teeth and pearl-grey gloves, and then advanced and placed a chair for Mrs Brandon, taking the one to which he was waved by the lady of the house, who was still smiling.

“Charming weather, is it not?” said Max in his most fascinating tones, as he caressed one whisker, and placed boot number one a little farther out in front, so that the fit might be observed. “Pleasure of addressing Mrs Brandon, I presume?”

Mrs Brandon bowed.

“Ah! ya-as, bai Jove! mutual acquaintance, and all that. Heard the Lingons speak of you, and being riding this wa-a-ay, took the liberty—”

“Yes!” said Mrs Brandon rather sharply.

“Ya-as, just so, bai Jove!” said Max obtusely. “Took the liberty of giving you a call. Country’s ra-ather dull just now: don’t you find it so?”

“Not at all,” said Mrs Brandon, who was evidently highly amused.

“Just so! ya-as, bai Jove!—of course!” said Max. “Miss Bedford be down soon, I suppose? Hope you like her—most amiable girl.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Mrs Brandon.

“Ya-as, just so—of course!” drawled Max, who either could not or would not see the half-amused, half-contemptuous way in which his remarks were received. “Thought I’d call and see her,” he continued. “We all thought a deal of her; but she would go.”

“Indeed!” said Mrs Brandon.

“Ya-as,” drawled Max. “Fancy it was some annoyance she met with from young Vining: not that I wish to say anything—bai Jove, no!”

“I’m sure Miss Bedford will be delighted to hear of the kind interest you take in her,” said Mrs Brandon.

“O, I don’t know so much about that!” said Max; “but we were always very good friends.”

“You puppy!” muttered Mrs Brandon.

“Always liked her because of the interest she took in a sister of mine. Down soon, I suppose?”

“Who—Miss Bedford?” said Mrs Brandon.

“Ya-as,” drawled Max; “should like to have a quiet chat with her;” and he directed one of his most taking glances at the lady, who, all smiles and good-humour, had been studying his manners and dress in a way that Max set down for admiration, and presuming thereon, he grew every moment more confidential. “You see, when she was at home, Mrs Brandon, I felt a natural diffidence.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Mrs Brandon.

“Natural diffidence—kind of drawing back, you know,” explained Max. “Didn’t seem the sort of thing, you see, to be too attentive to the governess; but—er—er—must own to a sort of weakness in that direction. Nature, you see—bai Jove!—and that sort of thing, for she is a dooced attractive girl.”

“Very,” said Mrs Brandon; and Max went on, for he was in his blind-rut mood—a rut in which he could run on for hours without ever seeing that he was being laughed at.

“Glad you think so—I am, bai Jove! Very kind of you too, to be so cordial and—”

“Pray do not imagine—” began Mrs Brandon.

“No, no. Don’t make any excuses, pray,” said Max, interrupting her. “You see, I’ve been candid, and I’ve no doubt that you’ll give me your permission to call frequently.—But is Miss Bedford coming down?”

Mrs Brandon did not reply; but still smiling pleasantly, she rose, rang the bell, and then resumed her seat.

“Bai Jove! don’t trouble yourself—I can wait,” said Max. “Ladies’ toilets do take a long while sometimes.”

Mrs Brandon smiled, and then rose again, as the hard-faced footman opened the door.

“Edward,” she said in the coolest and most cutting manner, “do you see this gentleman?”

“Yes, ma’am, I see him,” said the astonished servant.

“He has made a mistake in coming here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the footman.

“Show him to the door; and if ever he has the impertinence to call here again, either to ask for Miss Bedford or me, order him off the premises; and if he does not immediately go, send for the policeman.”

“Bai Jove!” drawled the astonished Max, “what does this mean?”

“You will show him out directly,” said Mrs Brandon, who would not turn her face in his direction, but continued to address the man; “and give him fully to understand what will be his fate if he should have the insolence to call any more.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Edward, trying to keep back a grin.

“Bai Jove, she’s mad!” ejaculated Max.

“Now then, sir; this way, please,” said the hard-faced footman, whose countenance, if stony before, was now adamantine.

“Hyar, I say, you—Mrs Brandon!” ejaculated Max, “what does this mean?”

“Air you coming, sir, or airn’t you?” said the footman angrily. Then, opening the door to its widest extent, he placed a chair against it, and advanced so fiercely towards the unwelcome visitor, that, to give him his due, more from dread of a disarrangement of his attire than fear of the man, he retreated round the table, stumbling once over a chair as he did so, and then in his confusion halting in the doorway. The next moment he was hurried into the great hall, and backed out by Edward, who, enjoying his task, proved himself to be the most uncompromising of footmen, and slightly exceeded his duty by slamming the hall-door after his discomfited guest with all his might, just as his mistress crossed and entered the drawing-room, where, pale and excited, Ella sat awaiting her.

“There, my child, that’s over!” exclaimed Mrs Brandon; and then, in spite of Ella’s troubled face, she leaned back in her chair, and burst into an uncontrolled fit of laughter, till, seeing how disturbed her companion looked, she sat up once more.

“I meant to have been angry, and given him a tremendous snubbing,” she said; “but, as he says, ‘bai Jove!’ it was impossible. Of all the consummate puppies I ever beheld, I think he is the quintessence. And he is so dense too, he seems to have not the slightest idea when you are laughing at him. There, my dear Ella, never wear that troubled face about the donkey. He is not worthy of a moment’s thought; and besides, he will never show his face here again.”

“I cannot help feeling troubled about him,” said Ella slowly, and as if she were telling her thoughts. “I fear him; and, dear Mrs Brandon, you do not know his character. It seems to me that that artificial glaze covers much that is gross, and unprincipled, and relentless. It has been my misfortune to have attracted his notice, and I never think of him without a shiver of dread. He seems to have cast a shadow across my path; and a dread of coming evil in some way connected with him—a strange undefined sense of peril—haunts me again and again.”

“There, there; what nonsense!” laughed Mrs Brandon merrily. “We’ll watch over you like dragons, and no one shall molest you; or, if it should come to the worst, we will set one chivalrous knight against the other—in plain English, Mr Charles Vining shall trounce, or call out and shoot, or do something to Mr Maximilian, the scented. Bah! he is in my nostrils now! But who is to be the next? Really, I am hard set to keep my little acquisition. How many more visitors of the masculine gender will there be, Miss Bedford?”

Ella looked at her so pitifully, that she directly ceased her light bantering tone, and changed the subject; while, perfectly astounded at the unexpected termination of his reception, Max Bray rode slowly home.

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