Evening was beginning to close in--the evening of the day following that of the interview between Barney Dale and Hermia--when the latter, accompanied by Aunt Charlotte and Clement, alighted from a fly at the gates by the ruined lodge, and walked through the park to Broome, where they were admitted by Barney at the side entrance. It had been deemed best by the old man that Hermia should be introduced to Miss Pengarvon when he took in the lighted candles, which of itself made a little interruption, sufficing to break the current of his mistress's sombre meditations and bringing her back, if only for a few minutes, to a sense of time and place.
Since the fit, or seizure, of which Barney had made mention to Clement, although to all seeming she was now as well bodily as she had previously been, her nervous system had become even more acutely irritable than before her attack. She seemed to live almost entirely in the past, and to talk more and more with the shadows that kept her company in the Green Parlor--Sir Jasper, Lady Pengarvon, Miss Letitia, and Isabel, with others whom Barney was unable to identify with anyone whom he had known.
Barney trembled inwardly for the result of the experiment he was about to venture upon, but having once given his promise, he was determined to abide by it, come what might.
So, when the proper moment had come, Barney, carrying the stately silver candlesticks, opened the door of the Green Parlor and went in, followed by Hermia, who was bareheaded and dressed with quaker-like simplicity, in a gown of some softly-clinging grey material. Even the two candles scarcely sufficed to dissipate the shadows which seemed to have their natural gathering-place in the gloomy old room; but when Miss Pengarvon proceeded to extinguish one of them, which she did at once, a number of the shadows came trooping back on the instant, as though they had known beforehand what she would do, and were only waiting for it. Hermia could readily have fancied that the intervening years were nothing but a dream, and that she was standing there again, a three-year-old mite, with her hands behind her, only she had then been confronted by two stern-faced ladies, whereas now there was only one. But there, close to the table, in the place where it had stood when she was alive, was the empty chair of the dead and gone Miss Pengarvon--she who had crept into Hermy's room at midnight and had kissed her in her sleep.
Despite the changes which eighteen years had brought about, Hermia knew Miss Pengarvon at once. The chilly, unsympathetic, blue-grey eyes, and the heavy brows were there as of old, but the once dark locks were now nearly snow white, and although her face had always been long and thin, the bones now stood out with startling prominence, with the shrunken, yellow-ivory skin stretched tightly over them. But in the steel-cold eyes there now shone something which caused Hermia's heart to beat faster even than it had beat on entering the room. It was the gleam of incipient insanity which she saw there, although she knew it not.
Notwithstanding the warmth of the weather, a few embers were burning in the grate, and it was not till Barney moved aside and proceeded to rake them together that Miss Pengarvon's eyes fell on Hermia. Not even by as much as the flicker of an eyelid did she evince the slightest surprise at sight of the girl.
"So you have come at last," she said, speaking in the hard, measured tones of an icy displeasure. "How many times have I had to tell you of late that I will not have you wandering in the park at this late hour of the afternoon? You see, Letitia, how utterly unbiddable the girl is." Here she was evidently addressing the unseen occupant of the vacant chair. "You choose to plead for her, and to urge this and that in her favor, although I have told you over and over again that Isabel's is one of those disobedient and ungrateful dispositions on which kindness is absolutely thrown away." Then, turning to Hermia, she added, frowningly, "I have nothing more to say to you. Go to your room, and stay there till I give you permission to leave it."
Who was the Isabel for whom Miss Pengarvon evidently mistook her? Hermia could not help asking herself; could it be her mother?
But it was not a time to ask questions. Advancing a step or two she said, "My name is not Isabel, Miss Pengarvon. I am Hermia Rivers. Do you not remember seeing me here when I was a little girl?"
"Hermia Rivers!" echoed Miss Pengarvon, in a whisper loud enough for the others to hear, as a person at the moment of waking might repeat with a kind of frightened surprise some name which, spoken in his ear, had been enough to break his sleep. "And who, pray, may Hermia Rivers be?" she demanded next moment, as she rose slowly and not without difficulty from her chair and drew herself up to her full height. "No such person is known to me." Then, turning abruptly on the trembling Barney, she said, "How many times have I given you my orders that, on no pretence whatever, should you introduce any one into my presence without having first obtained my permission to do so? Take this young woman away at once--at once, I say--and never let me see her face again! She is an intruder. I know her not!" With an imperious gesture she pointed to the door. The old man beckoned sorrowfully to Hermia, and the two left the room without a word more.
Barney's experiment had resulted in failure; but for that the old man was in no way to blame. He had done his best to bring about an explanation between Miss Pengarvon and her niece, and that he had not succeeded was no fault of his. Saddened and disheartened, our trio went back to Stavering.
Not knowing at what hour they should be back, they had left the question of dinner till their return, and they now separated, pending its preparation. As Hermia passed up the staircase on her way to her room, she encountered a middle-aged, military-looking man, with a grey mustache, who happened to be coming down at the same moment. The lamp at the head of the staircase shone full on Hermia, and as they passed each other the stranger, whose eyes had been fixed on her face, gave a palpable start, and at the same instant made a clutch at the balusters as if to keep himself from falling. Then he turned and gazed after Hermia's retreating figure; and then, instead of keeping on his way down stairs, he re-ascended them and went back to his room with the air of a man who was at once puzzled and disturbed in his mind. He was none other than Major Strickland. He who, but a month or two before, had met with such a decided rebuff at the hands of Miss Pengarvon. He had come down to Stavering again in the hope that Miss Pengarvon, who in the meantime would have had ample time to think over and review certain particulars which he had then laid before her, might now see fit to accord him the information she had then refused him, which, so far as he could judge, it would be hopeless for him to seek elsewhere.
Accordingly, on the morning of the day when we meet him for the second time, the Major had again walked over to Broome and had sent in his card by the hand of Barney Dale, whom he now saw for the first time. It had been brought back to him two minutes later, torn in half by Miss Pengarvon, who refused absolutely to see him, and ordered Barney to shut the door in his face--an order, however, which the latter chose to interpret in his own way. Then had the Major returned to Stavering, disheartened and sad at heart, even as, a few hours later, three other persons had come back from Broome.
On returning to his room after being so startled by the vision he had encountered on the stairs, Major Strickland opened his portmanteau and took from it a miniature painted on ivory, in an oval case. Opening it, he gazed long and earnestly at the likeness inside, which was that of a very beautiful young woman, apparently not more than about twenty years of age.
"The resemblance is certainly most extraordinary," he soliloquized aloud. "But for the changed fashion of dress and the different arrangement of the hair, it seems to me that each of them might sit for the other's portrait. Who can she be? Gruding may be able to tell me something about her. I will seek him at once."
"The name of the young lady is Miss Hermia Rivers--at least, that's the name entered in the register," said the landlord, when found and questioned by the Major ten minutes later. "But you are ill, sir. What can I get you? What can I do for you?"
"It is nothing--nothing at all. I shall be better in a minute or two." Then to himself he added: "It is she--it must be she! The name alone is enough to prove it. How strange and unaccountable are the ways of Providence!" He seemed lost in thought for a few moments, then rousing himself, he said: "From the fact that Miss Rivers is staying under your roof, I presume that, like myself, she is only a visitor here?"
"That is all, sir. They arrived yesterday--the three of them--though the young gentleman was here before, about a fortnight since."
"I have no wish to be thought inquisitive," resumed the Major, "but I must confess that I am extremely desirous of ascertaining the nature of the business which has brought Miss Rivers to Stavering. My motive is a very different one from idle curiosity."
"Well, sir, as far as I can make out," answered Gruding, "the business of the party seems to be much of a muchness with that of yourself, if you'll excuse my saying so."
"As how?" demanded the Major, quickly.
"Why, sir, they only arrived yesterday afternoon, and yet they have been twice to Broome already, and when the young gentleman--Doctor Hazeldine is his name--was here before, he had no end of questions to ask me about Miss Pengarvon; just like yourself, sir."
"A proof the more, had any been needed," said the Major, under his breath. Then, after a minute's thought, he added aloud: "I must see Miss Rivers this evening. Find out, if you can, when the best time will be for me to ask for an interview."
"They were rather late in getting back from Broome and have not yet dined," said Gruding. "Suppose I send you word, sir, when dinner is over and the things cleared away."
"Do so," replied the Major; and with that he rose and went back to his room.
The Major had not been gone more than three or four minutes when Gruding was buttonholed by Doctor Hazeldine.
Hermia, while on their way back from Broome, had not failed to recount to Aunt Charlotte and Clem how Miss Pengarvon had addressed her by the name of Isabel, evidently mistaking her for someone else. This fact had greatly impressed Clem. Who was the unknown Isabel to whom Hermia bore a likeness so striking as to cause Miss Pengarvon to mistake one for the other? It was with a view of solving this question that he now sought the landlord.
"Mr. Gruding," he began, "when I was here last you were able to tell me a great deal about Broome and the Pengarvon family. Do you happen to know, or have you ever heard, of any member of the family in question whose name was Isabel?"
"Why, to be sure, sir. Miss Isabel was the present Miss Pengarvon's youngest sister by the late Sir Jasper's second wife. She ran away from Broome some twenty-one or two years ago, with a young gentleman as had been staying at this house for a couple of months or more, fishing and sketching, and such like. It was in everybody's mouth at the time, I can tell you, sir."
"And what became of Miss Isabel afterwards?"
"That's more than anybody seems to know, sir, unless it's Miss Pengarvon herself. Anyhow, she was never heard of in these parts again, as far as I know."
"And what was the name of the young gentleman?"
"Ah, now you puzzle me, sir. I've been trying of late to bring it to mind, but, for the life of me, I can't. You see, sir, it's such a long time ago; and one's memory, as one gets on in life, ain't as ready as it used to be."
Here was food for thought! Dinner was announced a few minutes later, and Clement decided that, for the present, he would keep what Gruding had just told him to himself.
It was a balmy evening in early summer. The room in which dinner had been served overlooked a bowling-green at the back of the hotel, set round with borders of old-fashioned flowers. A faint shimmer of moonlight lay over everything. Clem was smoking on the balcony; Miss Brancker and Hermia were seated by the window. A shaded lamp stood on a centre table. There was a tap at the door, and in came the waiter carrying a card on a salver, which he presented to Miss Rivers with one of his most deferential bows. Hermia took it with a little surprise, and crossing to the lamp, read the name on it aloud:
"Major Strickland."
"The gentleman desires to see Miss Rivers on very particular business," said the man.
A slight sound caused them to turn their heads, and there stood Major Strickland, hat in hand, in the doorway. As he came forward the waiter went out and shut the door.
"Pardon this intrusion," said the Major, his eyes fixed intently on the startled girl; "have I the pleasure of addressing Miss Hermia Rivers?"
"That is my name, sir."
"Mine is on the card you are now holding. But from this hour I hope you will know me by another and a very different name. My dear young lady, in me you see your grandfather; in you I behold the daughter of my only son!"
Had a bomb burst in the room it might have caused more alarm, but it could scarcely have been the cause of more astonishment than was the Major's sudden announcement.
It was half-an-hour later. The first access of wonder had in some measure subsided. There had been question and answer on both sides. The Major told how, in the first place, he had been struck by Hermia's extraordinary likeness to the miniature in his possession, and, in the second, by her surname (his son's full name had been Warren Rivers Strickland); and how, when he found that only that very day she had been to Broome to seek an interview with Miss Pengarvon, he had at once come to the conclusion that it was not possible that she could be anyone other than the granddaughter he had sought for so long a time, but had hitherto sought in vain.
Then came the Major's turn to be told the story of Hermia's adoption by John Brancker and his sister, followed by an account of Mr. Hodgson's visits to Ashdown, which naturally led up to the particulars of Clement's quest and what had resulted therefrom, the whole ending with an account of what had passed at the interview between Miss Pengarvon and Hermia only a few hours before.
But something more remained to be told, to wit, the story of the ill-fated young couple, Warren Strickland and Isabel Pengarvon. This the Major now proceeded to narrate as far as the facts connected therewith were known to him. The following summary of what he had to tell is all that need be given here:
At the time young Warren Strickland went down to Stavering for the purpose of trout-fishing, he had just passed his final army examination and was awaiting his commission and appointment. While at Stavering he met Isabel Pengarvon, fell in love with her, and persuaded her to agree to a secret marriage. He was very poor, Isabel had not a farthing of her own, and on both sides the marriage was an act of the maddest imprudence. Young Strickland kept the affair a profound secret from all his friends and connections, and when he received his commission and was ordered to Aldershot, he established Isabel in lodgings in London, and ran up to see her there as often as he could get away. In those lodgings Hermia was born.
One day, when Isabel had been about a year married, a strange woman called upon her and announced herself as Warren Strickland's first wife, producing in proof of her claim what purported to be a certificate of marriage at a registrar's office, which anyone less ignorant of such matters than Isabel would at once have seen to be an impudent forgery. That Warren, when scarcely more than a boy--indeed, he was hardly more than that when he married--had been entangled in the toils of the woman, who was some half-dozen years his senior, and in a moment of infatuation had promised her marriage, there was little reason to doubt. Finding herself jilted, and Warren married to another, she had determined on the scheme of revenge described above. Unfortunately Isabel chose to believe the woman's tale, so plausibly was it told, and backed up by such apparent proofs; and without waiting to question Warren, she at once quitted her lodgings, taking her child with her, and leaving behind her a note in which she told her husband that she had left him for ever and the reason why, and begging of him, if he had any love for her still left, to make no attempt to find her.
It was not till three or four days after Isabel had gone that the blow fell. Warren had run up to town to bid his wife a hurried farewell. His regiment was ordered to India, where a frontier war had just broken out, and he was due to embark at Portsmouth forty-eight hours later. For a few hours he was like a man bereft of reason; then the necessity for immediate action of some kind forced him, in his own despite, to face the facts of the case with some degree of outward calmness. At length he decided to adopt the only course which seemed to hold out any prospect of success. To have himself set about any search for his wife with only a few hours at his command would have been the sheerest folly. Having contrived, by means best known to himself, to raise a hundred pounds, he went to a Private Inquiry Agent and placed the whole of the facts in his hands, giving the man an address in India to write to. Little as it seemed at the time, it was all he could do, and a few hours later he went aboard ship.
Whether the agent used his best endeavors to trace Isabel and failed in the attempt, or whether he quietly pocketed his fee and satisfied his conscience by making a few perfunctory but futile inquiries was a point as to which nothing was ever known, nor ever would be now, the man himself having died a few months later. In any case no communication from him ever reached Warren Strickland. As it fell out, however, the young soldier came by his death within a year after landing, having been mortally wounded in a skirmish with some of the hill tribes. He lived long enough to enable him to dictate a letter to his father--who was himself in India at the time, but a thousand miles away from where his son lay dying--in which he told him all about his marriage and the flight of Isabel; making it his last request that on his father's return to England, he should use every endeavor to find his daughter-in-law and her child, and prove to Isabel how terribly mistaken she had been in acting as she had. With his letter the dying man enclosed his marriage certificate. For reasons which need not be detailed, Major Strickland had been precluded from doing anything towards the fulfilment of his son's last wishes till a month or two before his first call on Miss Pengarvon.
"There is one question," said the Major, in conclusion, addressing himself directly to Hermia, "which I have refrained from asking till after I had told you all there is to tell, as far as I am concerned. It is about your mother, my dear. Is she still living? Is she----?" Something in the girl's face bade him pause.
"Not till yesterday did I know who my mother was, or anything about her," replied Hermia, in broken accents. "But she is dead--so I am now told. She died when I was only a few weeks old."
"Is that indeed so?" said the Major, with a sigh. "Then the hope of finding her, and of proving to her the utter falsity of the charge made by that vile woman against my poor boy must now be abandoned for ever. But had it not been for my endeavors to trace her, I should not have found you. For that, my dear child, I can never be sufficiently thankful. I have no one but you in the world, and already I feel that you are very dear to me."
They were sitting on the sofa side by side. The Major moved a little nearer to the girl, and taking her head gently between his hands, he drew it towards him and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. Then Hermia's arms were wound round his neck, and with her cheek resting against his shoulder, her overcharged heart found its natural relief in tears. Aunt Charlotte rose, and beckoning to Clem, they left grandfather and granddaughter together.
The ladies had retired for the night, and the Major and Clem were sitting over a final weed.
"It seems to me," said the former, after they had smoked awhile in silence, "now my granddaughter and I have been brought together in a way so strange and unexpected, that we ought to make Miss Pengarvon acquainted with what has come to pass, and give her one last opportunity of acknowledging her niece. If, after that, she still persists in the course she has hitherto followed, I do not think that either Hermia or I will care to trouble her in time to come. But what is your opinion, Dr. Hazeldine?"
It may here be remarked that the relation in which Clement and Hermia stood towards each other had been duly explained to Major Strickland in an "aside" by Aunt Charlotte, although he had probably guessed the truth by the time he had been ten minutes in their company; whereupon he had at once shaken hands heartily with Clem, and had declared laughingly, that he was sincerely glad to hear that the task of finding a husband for his granddaughter had been taken off his hands, and that the arrangement met with his entire approbation.
Doctor Hazeldine was quite of the Major's opinion, that a final appeal ought to be made to Miss Pengarvon. "It has seemed to me, when considering the matter," he went on to observe, "that possibly there may have been a doubt lurking in Miss Pengarvon's mind all these years, as to whether her sister was really married, in which case one can readily understand her determination to keep everything connected with the affair a profound secret. She comes of a stock which have always been known round about as 'the Proud Pengarvons,' and of which the family motto is, 'Pride I Cherish.' This seems to me a factor in the affair which ought not to be overlooked. May I ask whether you happen to have your son's marriage certificate by you?"
"It is in my portmanteau upstairs. I brought it with me, thinking that I might possibly be called upon to produce it."
"Then, if you will allow me to say so, why not take it with you to Broome to-morrow? In your place, I should insist on seeing Miss Pengarvon, and on laying the certificate before her as evidence which not even she can doubt or cavil at. If, after that, she should still persist in maintaining her present attitude, I agree with you in thinking that nothing more can be done."
"What you urge is certainly worthy of a trial," said the Major, "and to-morrow shall see it put to the test."
Barney Dale had happened to mention that since her late attack Miss Pengarvon seldom rose before noon, so it was not till between four and five o'clock the following afternoon that Major Strickland, his granddaughter and Clement found themselves at Broome. Miss Brancker, feeling that she might perhaps be in the way, had stayed behind, and Clement would have followed her example had not the Major insisted on his accompanying them.
Earlier in the day, Clem had sent Barney a note by messenger, so that he was prepared for their arrival. This time they drove up to the front entrance, and, in response to the Major's summons, Barney flung open the massive oaken door, which since Sir Jasper's death had so rarely turned on its hinges to admit anyone.
"This young lady is my granddaughter and Miss Pengarvon's niece," said the Major. "We are about to leave Stavering in the course of a few hours, but are desirous of seeing Miss Pengarvon before doing so. Be good enough, please, to lead the way to her room, and announce our arrival to her."
At any other time Barney would have refused admittance to the Major until he had obtained his mistress's permission, but Clem in his note had told him the object of their visit--it was "all for Hermia's sake," he had written--so now he simply bowed and held wide the door for them to enter. Then having shut the door, he motioned to them to follow him, all without a word, and led the way to the Green Parlor. The Major and Hermia obeyed his mute directions, but Clement stayed behind in the entrance hall.
Barney--the Major and Hermia a little way behind him--knocked with his knuckles on the door of the Green Parlor, and bent his ear for the familiar summons to enter. But none came. Presently he knocked again, louder than before. Still no response. The only sound that broke the strained silence was the fluting of a blackbird somewhere outside the Hall. Then, after a scared look at the others, Barney opened the door and made one step forward into the room. Next moment a cry that was half a wail broke from the old man's lips; the Major, followed by Hermia, hurried into the room.
There, in her high-backed chair, with its empty fellow chair facing her on the opposite side of the table, with her glazed eyes staring straight before her, and a look of awe unutterable on her ashen-grey face, sat Miss Pengarvon, stone dead. On the table in front of her were scattered a number of yellow, time faded letters, which she had apparently been engaged in looking over at the moment the Great Captain touched her suddenly on the shoulder, and beckoned her to follow him.
Immediately on the discovery of what had happened, Clement was summoned by the Major, who then conducted Hermia to another room. A brief examination sufficed to prove that Miss Pengarvon must have been dead a couple of hours at the least. When Doctor Bland arrived a little later he seemed in no way surprised. His patient had been suffering from heart disease for years, and in no case could a fatal termination have been much longer delayed.
At last Barney Dale's lips were unsealed; his mistress's death had absolved him from his oath. He was now as willing to tell all he knew as before he had been obstinately dumb. With what degree of interest his narrative was listened to may readily be imagined.
On that snowy December night, now more than twenty years ago, poor Isabel was all but dead when carried into the house by Barney and his wife. She never recovered consciousness, nor even as much as opened her eyes, but presently breathed three or four faint sighs and was gone. Her infant, lying warmly against its mother's bosom, had suffered but little harm. There was no wedding-ring on Isabel's finger, but one was found suspended by a ribbon round her neck. On the child's clothes a third name had been carefully erased, the words "Hermia Rivers" being alone left. Miss Pengarvon had at once leaped to the conclusion that her sister had not been married. It would never do to let the world know that the family honor of the "Proud Pengarvons" had been smirched. At any and every cost Isabel and her fault must be hidden away. Barney Dale had a nephew in Stavering, a carpenter by trade; this man secretly made an oak coffin, and conveyed it to Broome after nightfall. Exactly below the Green Parlor, and hollowed out of the soft sandstone on which the Hall was built, was an underground room which had been used as a hiding-place in the old, bad days of religious intolerance and persecution, and was known as the "Priest's Chamber." Access to it was obtained by means of a narrow stairway in the thickness of the wall, hidden by a sliding panel behind the old bureau.
The secret of the Chamber had always been carefully confined to members of the family, and not even Barney had known of its existence until Miss Pengarvon revealed to him her design, which was to make it the last resting-place of her sister. Accordingly, in the dead of night, a portion of the flooring of the Green Parlor was taken up by Barney and his nephew, and the coffin and its inmate lowered into the vault below--Miss Letitia, on her knees, weeping and praying silently, while Miss Pengarvon stood by, frowning and dry-eyed. The flooring was then replaced, and a month later, Barney's nephew, who had long been desirous of emigrating, had his passage to the States paid by Miss Pengarvon, and in addition, a sum of money given him to enable him to make a fair start in life when he got there.
Hermia was brought up by a sister of Barney, who lived at a distance, until she was three years old, at which age she passed into the keeping of John Brancker and his sister.
Next day Clement Hazeldine went back home and got into harness again without an hour's delay. Hermia, Miss Brancker, and the Major stayed at Broome over the funeral. It was a double funeral, for Miss Pengarvon and the sister whom living she had so cruelly treated were laid to rest in one grave. No will could be found; neither, so far as could be ascertained, had Miss Pengarvon ever made one. Broome, and the two small farms pertaining to it, together with the accumulated savings of the two sisters during a long course of years, all devolved upon Hermia as next of kin. She was the last of the old race.
It was only natural that Edward Hazeldine's thoughts should turn again in the direction of Miss Winterton, now that Varrel, by his confession, had absolved the elder Mr. Hazeldine's memory of the charge of self-murder. The confession had been published in the newspapers, and the facts of the case were now known to the world at large. Sometimes Edward told himself that he would tempt fortune once again at the very first opportunity which should offer itself; at other times he said to himself, "Although my father's memory has been cleared, nothing can do away with the fact that I proposed to Miss Winterton at a time when I had every reason to believe that he had committed suicide, trusting to her and the world's ignorance of that fact for the successful issue of my suit. How is it possible that she should ever forgive me?"
Whether or no he would ever have summoned up courage enough to urge his suit again may well be doubted, had not the lady herself, after a fashion which it would be futile for one of the opposite sex to attempt to describe, contrived to make him aware that his chance of success might not, perhaps, be quite so hopeless as in his more desponding moods he was inclined to believe it to be. In any case, he did propose, and was accepted.
It was not till some time after she had made him happy that he ventured to ask Miss Winterton for an explanation of one point which had always been a mystery to him, namely, by what means she had been led to believe that his father had committed suicide. Her explanation was a very simple one.
It has been mentioned that Ephraim Judd had two sisters, one of whom, at the time of his illness and death, was in service at Seaham Lodge, while the other, Eliza by name, was at home, waiting till she could obtain another situation. Eliza, who had a large measure of the curiosity which was so marked a trait of her brother's character, was penetrated by a strong desire to ascertain what it was Ephraim had to say to Doctor Hazeldine which no one else must be allowed to hear. Ephraim's room was divided from the next room by a pair of folding doors, behind which Eliza took up a position as listener, the next time Doctor Hazeldine called. She could not hear all that passed, but she heard what she took for a positive statement by her brother that Mr. Hazeldine's death was the result of his own act. Like Ephraim, she was close of tongue, and she spoke of what she had heard to no one but her sister. This sister was a favorite of Miss Winterton, filling among other duties, those of maid to her, and she it was who repeated the story Eliza had told her. As a consequence, Miss Winterton at once sent for Eliza, and then bound both the girls to secrecy; and, so far as was known, neither of them had broken the promise they had then given her. At the same time that Miss Winterton told all this to Edward, she led him to understand that, had he frankly confided to her when he first proposed what at that time he believed to be the truth about his father, her answer might have been a different one. It had been his secrecy in the matter, not the manner of his father's death, which, for the time being, had turned her against him.
To Frank Derison a few parting words are due.
As week by week his balance at the Ashdown Savings Bank kept on melting away, he vowed to himself, not once but a hundred times--generally when on his way home with empty pockets--that he would never cross the threshold of the "Bons Frères" again. But by the time next evening, or the evening after that, had come round, he was again under the influence of the fatal fascination, so that even while telling himself he would not go, his feet would lead him, almost as it seemed in his own despite, in the direction of the railway station; and when once he got as far as that he knew there was no going back for him. At length the day came when he drew his last sovereign out of the Bank, yet even then he lacked the strength of mind to put his foot down and say resolutely to himself: "Not a single step further will I advance on the pleasant but delusive path which has already led me to the brink of ruin." Instead of that, he began to borrow money here and there among his many friends and acquaintances, but chiefly from Mr. Howes. Mr. Howes was a bachelor, and a thrifty man to boot, and had a pleasant little banking-account of his own. He made no demur about lending Frank a few pounds now and again, being careful to take his I.O.U. in return. In all probability the young man would one day be taken into partnership, and Mr. Howes calculated that whatever sums he might now disburse in the way of loans would be repaid him many times over, if not in one form then in another, after that event should have come to pass. It is to be said in his favor that, although he sometimes wondered why Frank stood in need of such frequent loans, he had not the remotest suspicion of the purpose to which the money was really put. Since Mr. Avison had spoken to him, Frank had to all seeming developed into one of the most sober and steady-going of Bank officials. As already stated, all his gambling was done at Dulminster.
But by this time the "Bons Frères" Club had acquired for itself a very unenviable reputation among the more staid circles of Dulminster society. More than one promising young man had ruined himself, or had been ruined by others--it came to the same thing in the end--in that cosy octagon room built out at the back of the Club, where so many pleasant fellows forgathered night after night. By-and-bye it began to be whispered about that the place was little better than a den of thieves. Thus it came to pass that one day an information was sworn against the Club by the father of a youngster who had come to grief within its walls, the consequence of which was that the same night the police made a raid on the premises, and not content with seizing the whole of the gambling plant, they marched everyone they found there to the police-station, where names and addresses were taken down, and a summons handed to each delinquent to appear next morning before the magistrates. Among those thus taken red-handed was Frank Derison. From that moment, as he knew full well, his career at the Bank was at an end. Such an escapade was one of those things which Mr. Avison was the last man in he world to overlook; indeed, Frank never went near him afterwards. Two days later, without saying a word to anyone, he took the train for London and enlisted.
This little affair of Frank's happened about a fortnight before Richard Varrel's confession was made public. When Mr. Avison read the confession in his morning paper, he saw the way open to him for an act of reparation, which he had been longing for some time to carry into effect, but which his pride--in this instance, surely, a very foolish sort of pride--had hitherto kept him from doing. Now, however, he wrote a very gracious note to John Brancker, in which the latter was asked to call upon the Banker without delay. It will be sufficient to record the result of the meeting, which was that John was asked to accept the position of junior partner in the firm.
But little more remains to be told.
It was a great mortification to poor Mrs. Hazeldine, and one which it took her some time to recover from, to find that both Lady Glendoyle and the Hon. Mrs. Gore-Bandon, after calling twice upon her--their carriages and liveried servants waiting for them at the door meanwhile--dropped her as easily and quietly as they had taken her up. Whether their calls in the first instance had originated in a feeling of sympathy for her in her great affliction, not unmixed, it may be, with a hardly acknowledged wish to ascertain the particulars of the late tragedy at the fountain-head, or whether they discovered certain qualities in Mrs. Hazeldine which seemed to render it desirable that they should not cultivate her further, were points best known to themselves, and as to which they took nobody into their confidence. In any case, the fact remained the same--the widow saw them no more.
After a time--that is to say, when her husband had been dead about half a year--Mrs. Hazeldine, at Fanny's prompting and instigation, began to receive such of her friends and acquaintances as chose to favor her with their company to five o'clock tea. It was a species of mild dissipation, such as she would not have ventured upon during her husband's lifetime; but she was not long in discovering that it imparted a zest to existence undreamed of before.
Mrs. Hazeldine could not afford to keep a carriage, and being naturally indolent, she had a great distaste for walking exercise, while she was one of those women who have a perpetual craving for society, and whose mental exigencies, so to call them, are not satisfied without an ample supply of gossip--not for the world would one call it scandal--and a knowledge of all that is happening within the limited round of their acquaintance, from the arrival of Mrs. A.'s latest baby to the appearance at church of Mrs. Z. in a new and ultrafashionable bonnet.
As matters were now arranged, she could enjoy herself to her heart's content without the necessity of setting foot across her own threshold. To be expensively dressed--and mourning can be made very expensive, as some of us know to our cost--and to receive a constant succession of visitors in your own drawing-room, who are just as ready to tell you everything there is to tell--with, it may be, a few more or less fanciful additions of the narrator's own incorporated here and there--as you are to listen to it, and yet who neither put you to too much outlay in return, nor stay long enough to bore you--can anything be more delightful?
To Fanny Hazeldine the first three or four months after her father's death were the dreariest she had ever known. The dreadful nature of the tragedy which had overshadowed her own and her mother's life had the effect of intensifying their bereavement in the eyes of the world, and, for the time, of isolating them more completely than if Mr. Hazeldine's death had resulted from natural causes.
That Fanny doffed her "horrid crape" at the earliest possible date goes without saying. She was fully alive to the fact that the soft semi-tones of half-mourning became her admirably; and before long she began to plume herself for further conquests.
But, indeed, when she came once more to cast her eyes around, the prospect was a most disheartening one; for where is the use of a young Amazon donning her armor and going forth on conquest bent, when with every year that passes it becomes a more difficult matter to find anyone on whom it is worth while to try one's prowess? And that such is becoming the case in Ashdown can no longer be denied. More and more the young men, while not yet out of their teens, take to turning their back on their provincial homes, going to fight the battle of life, and find wives for themselves elsewhere.
Well may Fanny Hazeldine, as one birthday comes treading on the heels of another, begin to feel a touch of despair. In years gone by she was an arrant flirt, having entered the lists at an early age, and in pure recklessness, and because she loved the game too well to bring it willingly to a close, spurned two or three really excellent offers. Now it seems as if the Fates are about to avenge themselves, as they have a way of doing, sooner or later, by allowing her--dreadful phrase!--to be "left on the shelf."
Hermia and Clement were married about three months after Miss Pengarvon's death, by which time Clement had succeeded to a great part of the practice of Doctor Finchdown, whom advancing years had compelled to retire. A tenant was found for Broome in the person of a wealthy manufacturer. Even had her husband been a man of independent means, instead of a hard-working country Doctor, Hermia would have shrunk from making the old house her home. It was associated in her mind with too many painful episodes in connection with her mother for her ever to have felt happy under its roof. At her wish, the entrance to the "Priest's Chamber" was bricked up, and the Green Parlor panelled afresh.
Barney Dale, liberally pensioned by Hermia, took up his abode with his niece and her husband. Twice a year he spends a week with Mr. and Mrs. Hazeldine at Ashdown, on which occasions the old man is made much of and petted to his heart's content.
Major Strickland, who is fond of his club, fluctuates between London and Oaklands, which is the name of Doctor Hazeldine's new house, where his room is always kept in readiness for him, so that he can come and go as the whim takes him, which is just what he likes to do.
The latest news anent Edward Hazeldine is to the effect that he has at length definitely made up his mind to offer himself to the electors of Ashdown as a candidate at the next General Election. In this he is encouraged by his wife, who has her ambitions; and as Lord Elstree, who has considerable influence in the borough, has promised to back him up in every legitimate way possible, there seems a fair chance of success for him, more especially in view of the fact that the present member has contrived to render himself thoroughly obnoxious to a large number of his supporters.
When, in due course, a son and heir made his appearance at Oaklands, at the christening Uncle John and Aunt Charlotte acted as sponsors for the child. When Master Hazeldine woke up in his cot after the christening guests had gone and made his voice heard in the land, his mother, on going to him, was surprised to find that his chubby fingers were firmly grasping a piece of paper. This, on being examined, was found to be a cheque for the twelve hundred and odd pounds about which we know something already. It was Uncle John and Aunt Charlotte's gift to their godson.
Should you chance to walk past Nairn Cottage almost any Friday evening between eight and ten o'clock, the strains of music proceeding therefrom will be pretty sure to greet your ears, for the old quartete parties have by no means been allowed to fall into desuetude. There, as of old, Mr. Kittaway's puckered face stares at you over his high cravat, what time, with an antiquated flourish of his bow arm, he evokes the resonant accents of his beloved 'cello, which at his bidding seems to do everything but speak. John with his flute, and Clement with his fiddle, play as if they had one soul between them, while Hermia at the piano with deft fingers blends the whole into one rich, full, harmonious volume of sound. Dear Aunt Charlotte with a kitten on her lap and a piece of crewel-work in her hands, which, however, progresses but slowly, listens and looks on, placidly happy in the happiness of those she loves. Stretched at full length on the hearthrug may be seen a sturdy urchin intent on putting together a more than usually intricate puzzle picture, and thereby proving to all and sundry what a clever and important personage he is. But, as far as his mother and his Aunt Charlotte are concerned, no such proof is needed. They have been fully convinced of the fact long ago.