Chapter 8

A Revelation.“If you please,” said a hard, cold voice.And Richard Trevor started to find himself face to face with the object of his remark, one which he had uttered aloud.Trevor stood for a moment looking round; but they were quite alone, and standing now in the lane where Mr Mervyn captured Fin Rea in the rugged tree far up the rocky bank.“You had better return to the house, Mrs Lloyd,” said Trevor, coldly. “I want to speak to you.”“You can speak now, if you please,” said the woman, in a low, suppressed voice. “I don’t suppose you would like the servants to know.”Trevor was getting angry, and he took a step towards the woman, and held up a finger.“You have been watching me, Mrs Lloyd.”“Yes,” she said, coolly—“I came on purpose.”“You sent that poor girl here, then, Mrs Lloyd, and you have been playing the spy?”“You can call it any hard names you like, Mr Richard,” said the woman, defiantly.She rolled her white apron round her arms, tightened her lips until they formed a thin livid line, and looked at him without flinching.Trevor bit his lip to keep down his rising passion, and then went on—“Mrs Lloyd,” he said, “I thought we had made a truce. Mind, you are the one who breaks it, not I.”The woman laughed mockingly.“We may as well understand one another,” said Trevor; “so speak out. You have been forcing that poor girl, day after day, to throw herself in my way—have you not?”“Yes.”She nodded her head many times, as she said the word with quite a sharp hiss.“You wanted me to take a fancy to her?”“Yes.”“To marry her?”“Yes.”“And make her the mistress of Penreife?”“Yes; and I mean to do it.”Trevor stared at her, in wonder at the effrontery displayed.“And, in your foolish vanity, you thought such a thing possible?”“Yes.”“Regardless of the poor girl’s feelings?”“Yes—yes—yes!” said Mrs Lloyd, slowly. “I know what is for her good—and yours.”“Mrs Lloyd,” said Trevor, coldly, “I would gladly keep to my promise with you, that you should never leave Penreife. If harm to your prospects comes of this, don’t blame me. You had better go back to the house.”He turned, as if to walk away; but she caught him sharply by the wrist.“Stop!” she cried, angrily. “Tell me this. Have you been trying to make an engagement with that wax doll up at Tolcarne?”“You insolent old—There, go back, Mrs Lloyd,” he cried, checking himself. “You must be mad.”“Mad? Yes, enough to make me, you wild, ungrateful boy,” she cried, her fingers tightening round his wrist, so that it would have taken a violent effort to free himself. “Stop, and listen to me.”Trevor looked at her, his anger cooling; for he thought the housekeeper was suffering from mental excitement brought on by the disappointment consequent upon the failure of her plans.“What do you want to say?” he said, quietly.“A great deal. Ah, you see, you must listen. Now tell me—that Miss Rea, have you been talking to her father and mother?”“Yes,” said Trevor, thinking it better to humour her till he could get her back to the house.“Then go and break it all off—at once. Do you hear—at once.”“And why, pray?” said Trevor, smiling—the position, now that his anger had passed, seeming ridiculous.“Because you are to marry little Mary, as I wish,” said Mrs Lloyd, in a quick whisper.“The parties, neither of them being agreed. Come, Mrs Lloyd, let’s get back to the house.”“Richard,” cried the woman, shaking his arm—“listen. Do you hear me? How dare you laugh at me like this?”“Come, Mrs Lloyd—come, nurse, what are you thinking about?” said Trevor, good-humouredly. But he was beginning to fret under the opposition.“Of your fixture—of your good, boy. Now, listen to me, Richard. I have long planned this out. I have brought Mary here, educated her, and prepared her for it.”“And now she has fallen in love with Humphrey, and they are going to marry,” said Trevor, laughing.But the smile passed away as he saw the malignant look in the woman’s face.“Humphrey!” she exclaimed, and as she uttered the name she spat upon the ground—“Humphrey shall go. Humphrey shall not stay here. I hate him! His being here is a curse to me.”“Her own son. The woman is crazy,” thought Trevor; and he looked anxiously in her eyes.“Mrs Lloyd,” he began; but she caught him by the other wrist, and her strength in her excitement was prodigious.“Richard,” she exclaimed, “will you mind me—will you do as I wish, and marry Polly?”“Come to the house, and let’s talk about it there, nurse,” he said, kindly.“No—no! here—here! I say youshallhave her, or, mark me, you shall rue it. There, I know what you think; but I’m as sane as you are—more sane, for you would throw yourself away, and I won’t let you.”“Come, Mrs Lloyd, there must be an end to this. Come to the house.”“Stay where you are, boy,” she cried, with her eyes flashing. “Will you obey me?”“No—no—no,” said Trevor, impatiently, and he tried to extricate himself. “Nurse, you are mad.”“Don’t call me nurse,” she cried, viciously. “Do as I bid you, or I’ll make you rue it till your deathbed. But, no, I can’t do that. Richard, you shall mind me—you shall obey me in this. I have a right to be minded.”“Mrs Lloyd, you have gone to the extent of your right, and beyond it; from henceforth you and your husband must find another home. You shall have a comfortable income, but this cannot go on. There, I cannot leave you in this way—come up to the house.”He tried to lead her, but she broke away.“You will have it then?” she hissed, in a hoarse whisper. “Richard, is this the way you treat your mother?”“My—”Trevor started back to the extent of their arms, looking at the woman aghast. The fancy that she was distraught had passed away during the last few minutes, and there was such an air of decision and truth in her words and looks that he staggered beneath the shock. The past, her determined action, her opposition to his will—so different to the behaviour of a dependent, and explained at the time on the score of old service—and many little words and looks, notably her passionate embrace on the night of the encounter in the study, all came back to him like a flash, and he could find no words for quite a minute.“It’s a lie!” he said at last. “Woman, how dare you? My father was too honourable a gentleman ever to descend to a low intrigue with one of his servants.”“Yes,” said the woman, “and Martha Jane Lloyd was too good a wife to have listened to him if he had.”“Then,” cried Trevor, in a fury, “how dare you say what you did?”“Because, my boy, it is the truth. You are my flesh and blood.”“You are mad!” exclaimed Trevor. “Loose my wrist, woman, or I shall hurt you.”He looked sharply round, but there was no help at hand; for his first impulse was to tie her wrists, and have her carried to the house. But she prisoned one of his the tighter, by placing her other bony hand a little higher.“I’mnot mad, Richard,” she said, quietly; “and when you hear me, you will see that you must mind me; for, at a word from me, all your riches would be swept away, and you might change places with your keeper.”“Humphrey!” ejaculated Richard, his brain in a whirl of doubt. “Tell me—what do you mean?”“Only this,” said the woman, hoarsely. “That Mrs Trevor and I had sons almost together. Humphrey and you were the two boys. Do you understand?”“No,” said Richard, fiercely. “Go on.”“I got my sister, Dinah Price, from Caerwmlych to come and be nurse for both, for I was in the house—the maid Jane, as they called me then. Do you want to hear more?”“Go on,” said Richard, in a hoarse whisper.“One day I sat thinking. There was death in the house, Richard, and I was wondering about the fixture—how hard it would be if my fine boy should grow up to poverty through the changes that might take place, and me perhaps sent away by a new mistress. I was jealous, too, of the Trevors’ boy, petted and pampered and waited upon, while my darling had to take his chance. I tell you it made me nearly mad sometimes, for I was ill and weak; and I think the devil came and tempted me, knowing how I was.”“Go on,” said Richard; for she stopped, and the great drops of sweat were standing on his brow.“One day, boy, I felt that I could bear it no longer. Dinah had gone down to the kitchen to join the servants watching the funeral; and I sat thinking, when the Trevors’ baby cried, and no one went. I had you on my knee, Richard, nursing you, and I went up, innocently enough, to quiet the motherless little bairn, and as I saw it lying alone there in its cradle, my heart yearned over the poor little thing, and I took it in my arms, when it nestled to my breast so pitifully, that I nursed it as I did you, and sat there with you both in my arms.”Her voice was very husky now; but her words came firmly, and bore the impress of truth.“It was then, Richard, that the temptation came; for all at once, as I looked down upon you both, the thought came, and I shivered. Then all opened out before me—a bright life, wealth, position, a great future for the helpless babe I held; and I said why should it not be for my boy. I shrank from it for a moment, not more. Then it seemed so easy, so sure, that I did not hesitate. In two minutes you had on the little master’s night-gown, and he wore yours; and I laidyou, Dick—my boy—my flesh and blood, in the cradle, and stole downstairs with theirs.”There was a faint rustle amongst the leaves overhead; but no one heeded, and the woman went on.“As soon as I got down, shivering with fear, a sort of hysterical fit came over me, and I got worse; I grew so feverish that I had to lie down, and I was ill for weeks; but that passed off, and the struggle began. Ah, Richard, boy, your poor mother bore it all for you—that you might be rich and happy, while she suffered the tortures of hell; her heart yearning to take you to her heart, hearing you cry as she lay awake at nights with a stranger nursed at her breast. But that passed off when you both grew bigger; and you know how I treated you after, as I saw you grow up. People said I was hard to Humphrey. Perhaps I was, but I was never hard to you; and many a night I’ve cried myself to sleep with joy, when I have found you loving and affectionate, soothing me for the jealous tortures I suffered because I could not call you mine. But I said ‘no, there is no going back; you have made him, let it be.’”“And Lloyd?” said Richard, hoarsely—“did he know of this?”“Yes, I told him, and he would have confessed; but he did not dare. My boy, when you spoke to me that night in your room—when for the first time for years I kissed you, I felt that I must tell you all.”“It’s monstrous!” cried Richard, and his face looked ten years older. “But, no; I won’t believe it—it can’t be true.”“Not true!” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd, with her sallow cheeks flushing. “Ask your father. Is it so hard,” she added, bitterly, “to find that you have a father and mother alive instead of in the grave?”“It is impossible!” cried Richard.“Hush, hold your tongue!” she said, angrily. “You know the secret now—keep it. What is it to a soul? I never had the heart to send Humphrey away, but treated him well. Send him away now—give him money to go away. He’ll soon forget Polly. You must many her; and Richard—say a kind word to me,” she whispered, softening, “kiss me once—once only, my boy—your mother—before she goes back to be your servant, and to hold her peace for ever.”She crept closer to him, as he stood staring straight away, her thin hands rested on his shoulders, and she gazed up into his eyes, with her face working and growing strangely young, even as his tinned old.“Dick, my darling, handsome son, kiss me—once only. And you’ll marry her, won’t you, and make her happy? One kiss, my own boy.”She uttered a hoarse cry, for he looked down at her with a look of loathing, and thrust her away.“Mother? No!” he cried. “I can’t call you that. Woman, you thought to bless me, and what you have done comes upon me like a curse. Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me. Take away your hands. I cannot bear it.”She clung to him; but he tore her hands away, and pushed her from him.“Dick,” she cried, throwing herself on her knees to him, and embracing his knees. “Your mother. One loving word.”“I can’t,” he gasped—“I can’t. It is too much. An impostor—a pretender; and now to be an outcast! My God! what have I done that I should suffer this? Oh, Tiny! My love—my love!”Those last words seemed torn from his breast in a low, hoarse whisper, as, breaking from the prostrate woman, he rushed away, right into the woods—the undergrowth bending and snapping as he passed on; till, with a groan of despair, he threw himself upon the earth, and lay there, in the deep shade, with his face buried in his hands.

“If you please,” said a hard, cold voice.

And Richard Trevor started to find himself face to face with the object of his remark, one which he had uttered aloud.

Trevor stood for a moment looking round; but they were quite alone, and standing now in the lane where Mr Mervyn captured Fin Rea in the rugged tree far up the rocky bank.

“You had better return to the house, Mrs Lloyd,” said Trevor, coldly. “I want to speak to you.”

“You can speak now, if you please,” said the woman, in a low, suppressed voice. “I don’t suppose you would like the servants to know.”

Trevor was getting angry, and he took a step towards the woman, and held up a finger.

“You have been watching me, Mrs Lloyd.”

“Yes,” she said, coolly—“I came on purpose.”

“You sent that poor girl here, then, Mrs Lloyd, and you have been playing the spy?”

“You can call it any hard names you like, Mr Richard,” said the woman, defiantly.

She rolled her white apron round her arms, tightened her lips until they formed a thin livid line, and looked at him without flinching.

Trevor bit his lip to keep down his rising passion, and then went on—

“Mrs Lloyd,” he said, “I thought we had made a truce. Mind, you are the one who breaks it, not I.”

The woman laughed mockingly.

“We may as well understand one another,” said Trevor; “so speak out. You have been forcing that poor girl, day after day, to throw herself in my way—have you not?”

“Yes.”

She nodded her head many times, as she said the word with quite a sharp hiss.

“You wanted me to take a fancy to her?”

“Yes.”

“To marry her?”

“Yes.”

“And make her the mistress of Penreife?”

“Yes; and I mean to do it.”

Trevor stared at her, in wonder at the effrontery displayed.

“And, in your foolish vanity, you thought such a thing possible?”

“Yes.”

“Regardless of the poor girl’s feelings?”

“Yes—yes—yes!” said Mrs Lloyd, slowly. “I know what is for her good—and yours.”

“Mrs Lloyd,” said Trevor, coldly, “I would gladly keep to my promise with you, that you should never leave Penreife. If harm to your prospects comes of this, don’t blame me. You had better go back to the house.”

He turned, as if to walk away; but she caught him sharply by the wrist.

“Stop!” she cried, angrily. “Tell me this. Have you been trying to make an engagement with that wax doll up at Tolcarne?”

“You insolent old—There, go back, Mrs Lloyd,” he cried, checking himself. “You must be mad.”

“Mad? Yes, enough to make me, you wild, ungrateful boy,” she cried, her fingers tightening round his wrist, so that it would have taken a violent effort to free himself. “Stop, and listen to me.”

Trevor looked at her, his anger cooling; for he thought the housekeeper was suffering from mental excitement brought on by the disappointment consequent upon the failure of her plans.

“What do you want to say?” he said, quietly.

“A great deal. Ah, you see, you must listen. Now tell me—that Miss Rea, have you been talking to her father and mother?”

“Yes,” said Trevor, thinking it better to humour her till he could get her back to the house.

“Then go and break it all off—at once. Do you hear—at once.”

“And why, pray?” said Trevor, smiling—the position, now that his anger had passed, seeming ridiculous.

“Because you are to marry little Mary, as I wish,” said Mrs Lloyd, in a quick whisper.

“The parties, neither of them being agreed. Come, Mrs Lloyd, let’s get back to the house.”

“Richard,” cried the woman, shaking his arm—“listen. Do you hear me? How dare you laugh at me like this?”

“Come, Mrs Lloyd—come, nurse, what are you thinking about?” said Trevor, good-humouredly. But he was beginning to fret under the opposition.

“Of your fixture—of your good, boy. Now, listen to me, Richard. I have long planned this out. I have brought Mary here, educated her, and prepared her for it.”

“And now she has fallen in love with Humphrey, and they are going to marry,” said Trevor, laughing.

But the smile passed away as he saw the malignant look in the woman’s face.

“Humphrey!” she exclaimed, and as she uttered the name she spat upon the ground—“Humphrey shall go. Humphrey shall not stay here. I hate him! His being here is a curse to me.”

“Her own son. The woman is crazy,” thought Trevor; and he looked anxiously in her eyes.

“Mrs Lloyd,” he began; but she caught him by the other wrist, and her strength in her excitement was prodigious.

“Richard,” she exclaimed, “will you mind me—will you do as I wish, and marry Polly?”

“Come to the house, and let’s talk about it there, nurse,” he said, kindly.

“No—no! here—here! I say youshallhave her, or, mark me, you shall rue it. There, I know what you think; but I’m as sane as you are—more sane, for you would throw yourself away, and I won’t let you.”

“Come, Mrs Lloyd, there must be an end to this. Come to the house.”

“Stay where you are, boy,” she cried, with her eyes flashing. “Will you obey me?”

“No—no—no,” said Trevor, impatiently, and he tried to extricate himself. “Nurse, you are mad.”

“Don’t call me nurse,” she cried, viciously. “Do as I bid you, or I’ll make you rue it till your deathbed. But, no, I can’t do that. Richard, you shall mind me—you shall obey me in this. I have a right to be minded.”

“Mrs Lloyd, you have gone to the extent of your right, and beyond it; from henceforth you and your husband must find another home. You shall have a comfortable income, but this cannot go on. There, I cannot leave you in this way—come up to the house.”

He tried to lead her, but she broke away.

“You will have it then?” she hissed, in a hoarse whisper. “Richard, is this the way you treat your mother?”

“My—”

Trevor started back to the extent of their arms, looking at the woman aghast. The fancy that she was distraught had passed away during the last few minutes, and there was such an air of decision and truth in her words and looks that he staggered beneath the shock. The past, her determined action, her opposition to his will—so different to the behaviour of a dependent, and explained at the time on the score of old service—and many little words and looks, notably her passionate embrace on the night of the encounter in the study, all came back to him like a flash, and he could find no words for quite a minute.

“It’s a lie!” he said at last. “Woman, how dare you? My father was too honourable a gentleman ever to descend to a low intrigue with one of his servants.”

“Yes,” said the woman, “and Martha Jane Lloyd was too good a wife to have listened to him if he had.”

“Then,” cried Trevor, in a fury, “how dare you say what you did?”

“Because, my boy, it is the truth. You are my flesh and blood.”

“You are mad!” exclaimed Trevor. “Loose my wrist, woman, or I shall hurt you.”

He looked sharply round, but there was no help at hand; for his first impulse was to tie her wrists, and have her carried to the house. But she prisoned one of his the tighter, by placing her other bony hand a little higher.

“I’mnot mad, Richard,” she said, quietly; “and when you hear me, you will see that you must mind me; for, at a word from me, all your riches would be swept away, and you might change places with your keeper.”

“Humphrey!” ejaculated Richard, his brain in a whirl of doubt. “Tell me—what do you mean?”

“Only this,” said the woman, hoarsely. “That Mrs Trevor and I had sons almost together. Humphrey and you were the two boys. Do you understand?”

“No,” said Richard, fiercely. “Go on.”

“I got my sister, Dinah Price, from Caerwmlych to come and be nurse for both, for I was in the house—the maid Jane, as they called me then. Do you want to hear more?”

“Go on,” said Richard, in a hoarse whisper.

“One day I sat thinking. There was death in the house, Richard, and I was wondering about the fixture—how hard it would be if my fine boy should grow up to poverty through the changes that might take place, and me perhaps sent away by a new mistress. I was jealous, too, of the Trevors’ boy, petted and pampered and waited upon, while my darling had to take his chance. I tell you it made me nearly mad sometimes, for I was ill and weak; and I think the devil came and tempted me, knowing how I was.”

“Go on,” said Richard; for she stopped, and the great drops of sweat were standing on his brow.

“One day, boy, I felt that I could bear it no longer. Dinah had gone down to the kitchen to join the servants watching the funeral; and I sat thinking, when the Trevors’ baby cried, and no one went. I had you on my knee, Richard, nursing you, and I went up, innocently enough, to quiet the motherless little bairn, and as I saw it lying alone there in its cradle, my heart yearned over the poor little thing, and I took it in my arms, when it nestled to my breast so pitifully, that I nursed it as I did you, and sat there with you both in my arms.”

Her voice was very husky now; but her words came firmly, and bore the impress of truth.

“It was then, Richard, that the temptation came; for all at once, as I looked down upon you both, the thought came, and I shivered. Then all opened out before me—a bright life, wealth, position, a great future for the helpless babe I held; and I said why should it not be for my boy. I shrank from it for a moment, not more. Then it seemed so easy, so sure, that I did not hesitate. In two minutes you had on the little master’s night-gown, and he wore yours; and I laidyou, Dick—my boy—my flesh and blood, in the cradle, and stole downstairs with theirs.”

There was a faint rustle amongst the leaves overhead; but no one heeded, and the woman went on.

“As soon as I got down, shivering with fear, a sort of hysterical fit came over me, and I got worse; I grew so feverish that I had to lie down, and I was ill for weeks; but that passed off, and the struggle began. Ah, Richard, boy, your poor mother bore it all for you—that you might be rich and happy, while she suffered the tortures of hell; her heart yearning to take you to her heart, hearing you cry as she lay awake at nights with a stranger nursed at her breast. But that passed off when you both grew bigger; and you know how I treated you after, as I saw you grow up. People said I was hard to Humphrey. Perhaps I was, but I was never hard to you; and many a night I’ve cried myself to sleep with joy, when I have found you loving and affectionate, soothing me for the jealous tortures I suffered because I could not call you mine. But I said ‘no, there is no going back; you have made him, let it be.’”

“And Lloyd?” said Richard, hoarsely—“did he know of this?”

“Yes, I told him, and he would have confessed; but he did not dare. My boy, when you spoke to me that night in your room—when for the first time for years I kissed you, I felt that I must tell you all.”

“It’s monstrous!” cried Richard, and his face looked ten years older. “But, no; I won’t believe it—it can’t be true.”

“Not true!” exclaimed Mrs Lloyd, with her sallow cheeks flushing. “Ask your father. Is it so hard,” she added, bitterly, “to find that you have a father and mother alive instead of in the grave?”

“It is impossible!” cried Richard.

“Hush, hold your tongue!” she said, angrily. “You know the secret now—keep it. What is it to a soul? I never had the heart to send Humphrey away, but treated him well. Send him away now—give him money to go away. He’ll soon forget Polly. You must many her; and Richard—say a kind word to me,” she whispered, softening, “kiss me once—once only, my boy—your mother—before she goes back to be your servant, and to hold her peace for ever.”

She crept closer to him, as he stood staring straight away, her thin hands rested on his shoulders, and she gazed up into his eyes, with her face working and growing strangely young, even as his tinned old.

“Dick, my darling, handsome son, kiss me—once only. And you’ll marry her, won’t you, and make her happy? One kiss, my own boy.”

She uttered a hoarse cry, for he looked down at her with a look of loathing, and thrust her away.

“Mother? No!” he cried. “I can’t call you that. Woman, you thought to bless me, and what you have done comes upon me like a curse. Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me. Take away your hands. I cannot bear it.”

She clung to him; but he tore her hands away, and pushed her from him.

“Dick,” she cried, throwing herself on her knees to him, and embracing his knees. “Your mother. One loving word.”

“I can’t,” he gasped—“I can’t. It is too much. An impostor—a pretender; and now to be an outcast! My God! what have I done that I should suffer this? Oh, Tiny! My love—my love!”

Those last words seemed torn from his breast in a low, hoarse whisper, as, breaking from the prostrate woman, he rushed away, right into the woods—the undergrowth bending and snapping as he passed on; till, with a groan of despair, he threw himself upon the earth, and lay there, in the deep shade, with his face buried in his hands.

With the Owner.How long Richard lay there he did not know. To him, it seemed like a year of torment, during which, in a wildly fevered state, he went over, again and again, the narrative he had heard; tried to find a flaw in it, but in vain. It was too true—too circumstantial; and at last, in a dazed, heavy way, he raised his haggard face, with his hair roughened, and wrinkled brow, to see Humphrey sitting upon a fallen tree by his side.“Ah, Humphrey,” he said, in a calm, sad voice. “How long have you been there?”“Ever since, sir,” said the young man. “I followed you.”“Then you heard?”“Every word, sir. I couldn’t help it, though. I didn’t want to listen.”Richard bowed his head, and remained with his chin upon his breast.“I had left Polly, sir—God bless her! she’d made me very happy with what she said—and I was taking a short cut back to try and catch you, sir, when I came upon you sudden like.”“Yes,” said Richard, looking him full in the face. “But it was no fault of mine. I thought I was too happy for it to last. But I’ll be a man over it. Humphrey,” he exclaimed, rousing himself, “they educated me to be a gentleman, and I won’t belie them there. Once for all, I am very sorry, and I’ll make you every restitution in my power.”“Well, sir, I did wonder why she was always so hard to me: but I don’t understand you, sir,” said Humphrey, quietly.“Don’t sir me, man,” exclaimed Richard, passionately.“Don’t be cross with me about it, Master Dick,” said Humphrey, smiling; “’taint my fault.”“No, no, my good fellow, I know. Oh, it was monstrous!”He turned away his head.“Do you think it’s all true, Master Richard,” said Humphrey, quietly; “it seems so wild-like.”“True enough. Oh yes, it’s true. But there, we won’t talk.”“But I think we’d better, sir.”“Haven’t I told you that I’ll make you restitution, man—give up all?”“Master Richard,” said Humphrey, with a happy smile on his face, “you’ve give up to me my little love, and made me feel as if there was nothing else in the world I’d care to have. Look ye here, sir, it’s stunned me like; it’s hard, you know, to understand. I’m only a poor fellow like, come what may; and if I had the place—oh, you know, it just sounds like so much nonsense!—what could me and Polly do with it, when we could be happier at the lodge? It makes me laugh—it do indeed, sir. You, you see, have been made a scholar, and have your big friends—been made a gentleman, in fact—and nothing would ever make one of me. Let’s go on, then, as we are, sir. I’m willing. Only sometimes Polly, maybe, ’ll want a new dress, or a ribbon, or something of that kind; and then, if I ask you, you’ll give me half a sovereign, or may be a sovereign, eh?”“Half a sovereign—a sovereign! Why, man, can you not realise that you have from now eight thousand a year?”“No, sir, that I can’t,” said Humphrey, smiling pleasantly. “I never was good at figures. Dogs, you know, or horses, or anything in the farming line, I’m pretty tidy at; but figures bothers me. Let things stop as they are, sir; I won’t say a word, even to Polly.”“Humphrey,” said Richard, holding out his hand, “you always were a good, true, simple-hearted fellow.”“I hope so, sir,” said Humphrey, giving his horny palm a rub down his cord breeches before taking the extended hand, “and that’s what makes it right that we should go on as we are. Nature knew it, sir, and that’s how it was the change came about—you being the clever one, and best suited for the estate. I’m glad of one thing, though.”“What’s that?” said Richard, wringing the extended hand.“Why, I know now, sir, why Mrs Lloyd was always so down on me—she always was down on me, awful—regular hated me, like. Ah, the times I’ve cried over it as a boy! Nobody ever seemed to love me like till now, sir—till now.”Humphrey beamed as he slapped his broad chest; and his simple words seemed to corroborate those of Mrs Lloyd, till the last ray of hope was crushed from Richard’s breast.“No, Humphrey,” he said, gravely, though every word cost him a pang, “I cannot stay here as an impostor. The place is yours, I give up all.”“That you just won’t, sir,” said Humphrey. “Why, I should be a brute beast if I let you. Come, come, let it go for a day or two, and think it over. It won’t trouble me. I don’t want it. I’m only glad of one thing—I’ve got somebody on the hip, and she won’t say no now.”“I want no thinking, Humphrey; and we can still be friends. Come up to the house.”“And what would Miss Tiny say?”If Humphrey had stabbed him with the iron-pointed staff he carried, he could not have given him greater pain; and his eyes wore a strange piteous aspect as they gazed upon the young keeper’s face,“You’ve got her to think about too, sir,” said Humphrey, “same as I have. Oh no, Master Richard, it wouldn’t never, never do.”“Come up to the house, Humphrey—come up to the house.”And then, without another word, but closely followed by his late servant, Richard strode hastily through the wood, whose briars and twigs in the unaccustomed path seemed now to take the part of fate, and lashed and tore him in his reckless passage, till his face was smeared with the blood which he had wiped hastily away.“Has Mrs Lloyd come back from her walk?” said Richard to the staring footman.“Yes, sir, two hours ago,” said the man.“Go into the study, Humphrey Trevor,” said Richard, quietly; and then to himself, “Poor woman! and it was done for me.”

How long Richard lay there he did not know. To him, it seemed like a year of torment, during which, in a wildly fevered state, he went over, again and again, the narrative he had heard; tried to find a flaw in it, but in vain. It was too true—too circumstantial; and at last, in a dazed, heavy way, he raised his haggard face, with his hair roughened, and wrinkled brow, to see Humphrey sitting upon a fallen tree by his side.

“Ah, Humphrey,” he said, in a calm, sad voice. “How long have you been there?”

“Ever since, sir,” said the young man. “I followed you.”

“Then you heard?”

“Every word, sir. I couldn’t help it, though. I didn’t want to listen.”

Richard bowed his head, and remained with his chin upon his breast.

“I had left Polly, sir—God bless her! she’d made me very happy with what she said—and I was taking a short cut back to try and catch you, sir, when I came upon you sudden like.”

“Yes,” said Richard, looking him full in the face. “But it was no fault of mine. I thought I was too happy for it to last. But I’ll be a man over it. Humphrey,” he exclaimed, rousing himself, “they educated me to be a gentleman, and I won’t belie them there. Once for all, I am very sorry, and I’ll make you every restitution in my power.”

“Well, sir, I did wonder why she was always so hard to me: but I don’t understand you, sir,” said Humphrey, quietly.

“Don’t sir me, man,” exclaimed Richard, passionately.

“Don’t be cross with me about it, Master Dick,” said Humphrey, smiling; “’taint my fault.”

“No, no, my good fellow, I know. Oh, it was monstrous!”

He turned away his head.

“Do you think it’s all true, Master Richard,” said Humphrey, quietly; “it seems so wild-like.”

“True enough. Oh yes, it’s true. But there, we won’t talk.”

“But I think we’d better, sir.”

“Haven’t I told you that I’ll make you restitution, man—give up all?”

“Master Richard,” said Humphrey, with a happy smile on his face, “you’ve give up to me my little love, and made me feel as if there was nothing else in the world I’d care to have. Look ye here, sir, it’s stunned me like; it’s hard, you know, to understand. I’m only a poor fellow like, come what may; and if I had the place—oh, you know, it just sounds like so much nonsense!—what could me and Polly do with it, when we could be happier at the lodge? It makes me laugh—it do indeed, sir. You, you see, have been made a scholar, and have your big friends—been made a gentleman, in fact—and nothing would ever make one of me. Let’s go on, then, as we are, sir. I’m willing. Only sometimes Polly, maybe, ’ll want a new dress, or a ribbon, or something of that kind; and then, if I ask you, you’ll give me half a sovereign, or may be a sovereign, eh?”

“Half a sovereign—a sovereign! Why, man, can you not realise that you have from now eight thousand a year?”

“No, sir, that I can’t,” said Humphrey, smiling pleasantly. “I never was good at figures. Dogs, you know, or horses, or anything in the farming line, I’m pretty tidy at; but figures bothers me. Let things stop as they are, sir; I won’t say a word, even to Polly.”

“Humphrey,” said Richard, holding out his hand, “you always were a good, true, simple-hearted fellow.”

“I hope so, sir,” said Humphrey, giving his horny palm a rub down his cord breeches before taking the extended hand, “and that’s what makes it right that we should go on as we are. Nature knew it, sir, and that’s how it was the change came about—you being the clever one, and best suited for the estate. I’m glad of one thing, though.”

“What’s that?” said Richard, wringing the extended hand.

“Why, I know now, sir, why Mrs Lloyd was always so down on me—she always was down on me, awful—regular hated me, like. Ah, the times I’ve cried over it as a boy! Nobody ever seemed to love me like till now, sir—till now.”

Humphrey beamed as he slapped his broad chest; and his simple words seemed to corroborate those of Mrs Lloyd, till the last ray of hope was crushed from Richard’s breast.

“No, Humphrey,” he said, gravely, though every word cost him a pang, “I cannot stay here as an impostor. The place is yours, I give up all.”

“That you just won’t, sir,” said Humphrey. “Why, I should be a brute beast if I let you. Come, come, let it go for a day or two, and think it over. It won’t trouble me. I don’t want it. I’m only glad of one thing—I’ve got somebody on the hip, and she won’t say no now.”

“I want no thinking, Humphrey; and we can still be friends. Come up to the house.”

“And what would Miss Tiny say?”

If Humphrey had stabbed him with the iron-pointed staff he carried, he could not have given him greater pain; and his eyes wore a strange piteous aspect as they gazed upon the young keeper’s face,

“You’ve got her to think about too, sir,” said Humphrey, “same as I have. Oh no, Master Richard, it wouldn’t never, never do.”

“Come up to the house, Humphrey—come up to the house.”

And then, without another word, but closely followed by his late servant, Richard strode hastily through the wood, whose briars and twigs in the unaccustomed path seemed now to take the part of fate, and lashed and tore him in his reckless passage, till his face was smeared with the blood which he had wiped hastily away.

“Has Mrs Lloyd come back from her walk?” said Richard to the staring footman.

“Yes, sir, two hours ago,” said the man.

“Go into the study, Humphrey Trevor,” said Richard, quietly; and then to himself, “Poor woman! and it was done for me.”

In Transition.It was a hard fight, and the temptation was strong upon him to hide the truth. Humphrey would be content—he did not want to take his place; and he sat opposite to him now in the study, upon the very edge of the chair. Oh, it was ridiculous that he should have to give the place up to such a man—one whom he had to order before he could get him to sit down in his presence. And even when he felt that his mind was made up, and he was stoically determined to do that which was right, the rightful heir would keep upsetting his plans.“You see, it would be so foolish, Master Dick.”“I can’t help that, Humphrey. You must have your rights. I will not be a party to the imposture.”“Hadn’t you better see a lawyer about it all?”To be sure. There was Pratt—a barrister—he might give good advice.Richard rang the bell and a servant came. “Ask Mr Pratt to be kind enough to step here.”“If you please, sir, Mr Pratt’s gone, sir. I put his letter on your table. Yes, there it is, sir.”Richard started.“The rats desert the sinking ship,” he muttered; and then blushed for his doubt of his friend.“When did he go?”“Hour ago, sir. Telegraph come from Saint Kitt’s, sir; and he wrote that letter, sir, for you, while they got the dogcart ready to take him to the station.”“That will do.”He tore open the letter, which enclosed the telegram from a friend in chambers—“Come directly. A good brief for you. Don’t lose the chance.”The hastily-scrawled letter was as follows:—“Dear Dick,—Don’t blame me for going. I must take work when it comes; and honestly, for reasons I can’t explain, I am glad to go.—Yours, F.P.”“Must be genuine,” thought Richard. “Well, it has happened at a good time. I’m glad he has gone.”Then a thought struck him.He and Humphrey might divide the estate. But, no, he drove it away; he would be honest.“Shall I go over to Saint Kitt’s and fetch Mr Lawyer Dancer, sir?” said Humphrey.“Say no more about it, for Heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Richard. “I want no advice—I want nothing—only this, Humphrey, that you will forgive those old people—my—my parents. Let them have money to the end of their days, even if it is not deserved.”“Oh, but Master Richard.”“And promise me that you will not allow any prosecution and punishment to be held over their heads.”“Is it likely, Master Richard?” said Humphrey, laughing.“Now let me have a few hours to myself, to collect my thoughts, and write a few letters.”Humphrey leaped from his chair.“’Bout draining the little meadow, sir?” he said. “Shall I set the men on? The tiles is come.”Richard’s face contracted with pain, and then a bitter smile crossed it.“My dear Humphrey,” he said, taking his hand, “can you not realise your position? You are master here.”“No, sir,” cried Humphrey, flinging down his hat, and then picking it up—“I’ll be blessed if I can. This has put my head all in a buzz, like bees swarming, and I can’t understand it a bit.”He left the room, and Richard gave a sigh of relief, seating himself at his table, and taking up a pen to write; but only to rest his head upon his hand, and stare before him, dazed—crushed.“Please, sir, Mrs Lloyd says can you make it convenient to see her?” said the footman; and then he started back, astounded at his master’s anger.“No,” roared Richard, “I will see no one. Let me be left alone.”Then he hastily wrote a letter to Pratt, and fastened it down before dropping it in the letter-bag, and threw it into the hall.He had hardly finished before, knocking first softly, Lloyd opened the door, to stand trembling before him.Richard pointed to the door.“Go,” he said, hoarsely. “I can’t talk to you now. Another time—in a week—in a month—wait until then.”“But—”“Go—for Heaven’s sake, go!” cried Richard, frantically.He was left alone.Next came a note in pencil from Mrs Lloyd.“My dearest Boy—Forgive me; it was for your sake I did all this. Pray be careful, for I fear Humphrey has some suspicion. Do see me, and give me your advice.“M.J.L.”“Poor woman!” he muttered, tearing the note bit by bit into tiny fragments. “Her plan is destroyed, save that this niece—my fair cousin, Polly—will sit in the seat she intended, without poor Humphrey is spoiled by prosperity. Poor fellow! It will be a hard trial for him.“Be careful?” he said, laughing in a strange, harsh fashion. “Does she think I am going to remain her accomplice in this horrible fraud?”He sat down, then, to think; but his brain was in a whirl, and he gave up in despair.At last he woke up to the fact that it was growing late, and he remembered that he was to have accompanied the Reas on an expedition that afternoon, and now it was past six. They must have been and returned.What would poor Tiny think?A cold, chilling feeling of despair came over him now. What would she think? Yes, how would she take it? All must be over between them now—at least, for some years to come.A servant announced dinner, and he bade him send it back. Locking the door after him, he sat down in an easy-chair, conscious that several times there had been knocks at the door, but paying no heed whatever.Night fell, and he had not moved; and then, in a strange, fitful, dreamy fashion, the night passed away.He must have dozed at times, he knew; for his thoughts had wandered off into dreams, and the dreams had trailed off in turn into thoughts; and now it was morning, for the grey light was streaming through the antique casement, and a feint glow overhead told of the rising sun.He threw open the windows, and the cool morning breeze, fresh from the Atlantic, seemed to calm and refresh him. His thoughts grew more collected; and at last he left the window, and went out into the hall, to seek his bedroom.A bitter smile crossed his lip as he noticed the luxurious air of wealth about him, and then a sigh drew his attention to the fact that the cause of all his agony had been watching at his door the night through, and was now on her knees stretching out her hands as if in supplication for pardon.“Oh, my boy—my boy, what are you going to do,” she groaned.“Do?” he said, bitterly, as she crept to his feet. “Act like the gentleman you wanted me to be.”“What do you mean, Richard—my son? There, I give up about Polly. I’ll never say another word. You shall do as you like.”“I need not ask you if what you told me yesterday was true,” he said, calmly. “Well, we must make amends.”“How? What do you mean?” she said, starting up.“Mean? Why, by giving up everything to the rightful owner, and leaving him possession at once.”“Richard,” she cried, passionately, catching him by the arm, “you would not be so mad.”“I shall be so honest,” he said.“What, give up—give up everything to Humphrey?”“Everything,” he said, coldly, “and at once.”“You’re mad—mad!” gasped Mrs Lloyd. “And after all I have done for you—to make you a gentleman.”“These are its effects,” he said, bitterly. “You made me a gentleman—I wish to act as one.”“But, Richard—think—your father—your old mother—we shall be turned out in disgrace—to starve,” she cried, piteously.“Mother, I cannot help the disgrace,” he said, coldly. “I would save you if I could, but the disgrace would be greater to keep up this horrible imposture.”“Hush!” she whispered, “the servants will soon be down—they may hear us. Oh, you cannot mean, Richard, what you say.”“I told Humphrey yesterday,” continued Richard, “that I begged he would care for you; but that is only for the present. As soon as I can find means to earn my bread, I will keep you both myself; so that you shall be spared the disgrace of taking alms from the man you wronged.”“Fool—idiot—mad boy!” hissed Mrs Lloyd, seizing his arm angrily, and shaking it. “You shall not act like this. I’ve been nearly thirty years building this up, and do you think I will have it crushed down like that? Say a word if you dare!”“If I dare!” exclaimed Richard. “Do you know that Humphrey does more than suspect, that he knows all—heard all from your own lips in the lane yesterday?”Mrs Lloyd’s jaw dropped.“The true-hearted, honest fellow refused to take advantage of his position.”“Of course, yes,” cried Mrs Lloyd. “We’ll pay him out, and let him go. Yes, he shall have Polly,” she added, with a look of pleasure on her troubled face.“Enough of this,” said Richard, firmly. “Loose my arm. Some day I may be able to talk to you again. Now, go to your room, and make arrangements either for leaving, or make your peace with your new lord. He loves little Polly, and that will act as a shield for you.”“I say you shall not give in,” cried Mrs Lloyd, in a hoarse, angry voice.But he dragged his arm free, and dashed up the stairs.End of Volume Two.

It was a hard fight, and the temptation was strong upon him to hide the truth. Humphrey would be content—he did not want to take his place; and he sat opposite to him now in the study, upon the very edge of the chair. Oh, it was ridiculous that he should have to give the place up to such a man—one whom he had to order before he could get him to sit down in his presence. And even when he felt that his mind was made up, and he was stoically determined to do that which was right, the rightful heir would keep upsetting his plans.

“You see, it would be so foolish, Master Dick.”

“I can’t help that, Humphrey. You must have your rights. I will not be a party to the imposture.”

“Hadn’t you better see a lawyer about it all?”

To be sure. There was Pratt—a barrister—he might give good advice.

Richard rang the bell and a servant came. “Ask Mr Pratt to be kind enough to step here.”

“If you please, sir, Mr Pratt’s gone, sir. I put his letter on your table. Yes, there it is, sir.”

Richard started.

“The rats desert the sinking ship,” he muttered; and then blushed for his doubt of his friend.

“When did he go?”

“Hour ago, sir. Telegraph come from Saint Kitt’s, sir; and he wrote that letter, sir, for you, while they got the dogcart ready to take him to the station.”

“That will do.”

He tore open the letter, which enclosed the telegram from a friend in chambers—

“Come directly. A good brief for you. Don’t lose the chance.”

The hastily-scrawled letter was as follows:—

“Dear Dick,—Don’t blame me for going. I must take work when it comes; and honestly, for reasons I can’t explain, I am glad to go.—Yours, F.P.”

“Dear Dick,—Don’t blame me for going. I must take work when it comes; and honestly, for reasons I can’t explain, I am glad to go.—Yours, F.P.”

“Must be genuine,” thought Richard. “Well, it has happened at a good time. I’m glad he has gone.”

Then a thought struck him.

He and Humphrey might divide the estate. But, no, he drove it away; he would be honest.

“Shall I go over to Saint Kitt’s and fetch Mr Lawyer Dancer, sir?” said Humphrey.

“Say no more about it, for Heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Richard. “I want no advice—I want nothing—only this, Humphrey, that you will forgive those old people—my—my parents. Let them have money to the end of their days, even if it is not deserved.”

“Oh, but Master Richard.”

“And promise me that you will not allow any prosecution and punishment to be held over their heads.”

“Is it likely, Master Richard?” said Humphrey, laughing.

“Now let me have a few hours to myself, to collect my thoughts, and write a few letters.”

Humphrey leaped from his chair.

“’Bout draining the little meadow, sir?” he said. “Shall I set the men on? The tiles is come.”

Richard’s face contracted with pain, and then a bitter smile crossed it.

“My dear Humphrey,” he said, taking his hand, “can you not realise your position? You are master here.”

“No, sir,” cried Humphrey, flinging down his hat, and then picking it up—“I’ll be blessed if I can. This has put my head all in a buzz, like bees swarming, and I can’t understand it a bit.”

He left the room, and Richard gave a sigh of relief, seating himself at his table, and taking up a pen to write; but only to rest his head upon his hand, and stare before him, dazed—crushed.

“Please, sir, Mrs Lloyd says can you make it convenient to see her?” said the footman; and then he started back, astounded at his master’s anger.

“No,” roared Richard, “I will see no one. Let me be left alone.”

Then he hastily wrote a letter to Pratt, and fastened it down before dropping it in the letter-bag, and threw it into the hall.

He had hardly finished before, knocking first softly, Lloyd opened the door, to stand trembling before him.

Richard pointed to the door.

“Go,” he said, hoarsely. “I can’t talk to you now. Another time—in a week—in a month—wait until then.”

“But—”

“Go—for Heaven’s sake, go!” cried Richard, frantically.

He was left alone.

Next came a note in pencil from Mrs Lloyd.

“My dearest Boy—Forgive me; it was for your sake I did all this. Pray be careful, for I fear Humphrey has some suspicion. Do see me, and give me your advice.“M.J.L.”

“My dearest Boy—Forgive me; it was for your sake I did all this. Pray be careful, for I fear Humphrey has some suspicion. Do see me, and give me your advice.

“M.J.L.”

“Poor woman!” he muttered, tearing the note bit by bit into tiny fragments. “Her plan is destroyed, save that this niece—my fair cousin, Polly—will sit in the seat she intended, without poor Humphrey is spoiled by prosperity. Poor fellow! It will be a hard trial for him.

“Be careful?” he said, laughing in a strange, harsh fashion. “Does she think I am going to remain her accomplice in this horrible fraud?”

He sat down, then, to think; but his brain was in a whirl, and he gave up in despair.

At last he woke up to the fact that it was growing late, and he remembered that he was to have accompanied the Reas on an expedition that afternoon, and now it was past six. They must have been and returned.

What would poor Tiny think?

A cold, chilling feeling of despair came over him now. What would she think? Yes, how would she take it? All must be over between them now—at least, for some years to come.

A servant announced dinner, and he bade him send it back. Locking the door after him, he sat down in an easy-chair, conscious that several times there had been knocks at the door, but paying no heed whatever.

Night fell, and he had not moved; and then, in a strange, fitful, dreamy fashion, the night passed away.

He must have dozed at times, he knew; for his thoughts had wandered off into dreams, and the dreams had trailed off in turn into thoughts; and now it was morning, for the grey light was streaming through the antique casement, and a feint glow overhead told of the rising sun.

He threw open the windows, and the cool morning breeze, fresh from the Atlantic, seemed to calm and refresh him. His thoughts grew more collected; and at last he left the window, and went out into the hall, to seek his bedroom.

A bitter smile crossed his lip as he noticed the luxurious air of wealth about him, and then a sigh drew his attention to the fact that the cause of all his agony had been watching at his door the night through, and was now on her knees stretching out her hands as if in supplication for pardon.

“Oh, my boy—my boy, what are you going to do,” she groaned.

“Do?” he said, bitterly, as she crept to his feet. “Act like the gentleman you wanted me to be.”

“What do you mean, Richard—my son? There, I give up about Polly. I’ll never say another word. You shall do as you like.”

“I need not ask you if what you told me yesterday was true,” he said, calmly. “Well, we must make amends.”

“How? What do you mean?” she said, starting up.

“Mean? Why, by giving up everything to the rightful owner, and leaving him possession at once.”

“Richard,” she cried, passionately, catching him by the arm, “you would not be so mad.”

“I shall be so honest,” he said.

“What, give up—give up everything to Humphrey?”

“Everything,” he said, coldly, “and at once.”

“You’re mad—mad!” gasped Mrs Lloyd. “And after all I have done for you—to make you a gentleman.”

“These are its effects,” he said, bitterly. “You made me a gentleman—I wish to act as one.”

“But, Richard—think—your father—your old mother—we shall be turned out in disgrace—to starve,” she cried, piteously.

“Mother, I cannot help the disgrace,” he said, coldly. “I would save you if I could, but the disgrace would be greater to keep up this horrible imposture.”

“Hush!” she whispered, “the servants will soon be down—they may hear us. Oh, you cannot mean, Richard, what you say.”

“I told Humphrey yesterday,” continued Richard, “that I begged he would care for you; but that is only for the present. As soon as I can find means to earn my bread, I will keep you both myself; so that you shall be spared the disgrace of taking alms from the man you wronged.”

“Fool—idiot—mad boy!” hissed Mrs Lloyd, seizing his arm angrily, and shaking it. “You shall not act like this. I’ve been nearly thirty years building this up, and do you think I will have it crushed down like that? Say a word if you dare!”

“If I dare!” exclaimed Richard. “Do you know that Humphrey does more than suspect, that he knows all—heard all from your own lips in the lane yesterday?”

Mrs Lloyd’s jaw dropped.

“The true-hearted, honest fellow refused to take advantage of his position.”

“Of course, yes,” cried Mrs Lloyd. “We’ll pay him out, and let him go. Yes, he shall have Polly,” she added, with a look of pleasure on her troubled face.

“Enough of this,” said Richard, firmly. “Loose my arm. Some day I may be able to talk to you again. Now, go to your room, and make arrangements either for leaving, or make your peace with your new lord. He loves little Polly, and that will act as a shield for you.”

“I say you shall not give in,” cried Mrs Lloyd, in a hoarse, angry voice.

But he dragged his arm free, and dashed up the stairs.

End of Volume Two.

Mistaken Zeal.In the course of the morning Richard grew calmer. He had a long interview with Humphrey, giving him plenty of advice as to his future proceedings; and then sending for Mr Mervyn, whom Humphrey happened to mention as a gentleman in whom he had great confidence.But the messenger was not needed, for Mr Mervyn was coming up the drive, and he was sent on another errand, with a couple of notes to Penreife—one to Sir Hampton, the other to Tiny.“I was on my way here, Mr Trevor,” he began.“My name is Richard Lloyd, Mr Mervyn,” said Richard, quietly.“Yes—yes,” said Mr Mervyn, “I have heard. It is all over the place.”“So soon?” said Richard, bitterly.“Yes; and directly I heard,” said Mervyn, “I came up. But, my dear sir, it’s like a romance; it can’t be true.”“It’s true enough,” said Richard, coldly.“But under the circumstances, Mr Trev—Lloyd,” said Mervyn, “Mr Humphrey here won’t press—”“That’s what I want Master Richard here to understand,” said Humphrey. “As I says to him yesterday, sir, what’s the good of it to me?”“Exactly,” said Mervyn, “right is right; but as Mr Trev—Lloyd is innocent in the matter, and has made engagements and the rest of it, why not come to some arrangement satisfactory to both?”“Mr Mervyn, you are sent for here as the friend of Mr Humphrey Trevor.”“Exactly, Mr Tre—Lloyd. I beg your pardon, but my tongue is not so quick of apprehension as my brain.”“I want you to advise and help him in his novel position.”“I will,” said Mervyn, frankly; “but I should like to advise and help you too. You see, Mr Tre—there—Mr Richard, you have possession.”“I give it up,” said Richard.“But you might hold it, and give friend Humphrey here a great deal of trouble.”“Mr Mervyn, I claim to be still a gentleman, whatever my birth,” said Richard, haughtily. “Will you act as Humphrey’s friend?”“I will.”“Then understand this, sir. I have had a hard fight, and I have come through the temptation, I hope, like a man. I now resign everything to Mr Humphrey Trevor here. I ask his pardon for usurping his rights, and I beg his forbearance towards my poor father and mother. I will not make this cruel injury to him worse by any opposition.”Humphrey shuffled in his seat, and tried to speak, but he only wiped his damp face, and looked helplessly at the man he was bound to oust.“You see, Mr Mervyn,” continued Richard, “Mr Trevor’s will be a peculiar position.”“Yes,” said Mervyn; “but had you not better get some legal advice?”“What for?” said Richard. “Can anything be plainer? As I said, Mr Trevor’s will be a peculiar position. He will be the mark of the designing, and he will need a staunch friend at his side. Will you be that friend?”“I will,” said Mervyn, wringing his hand. “Yours too, my dear fellow, if you’ll let me. But,” he added, in a whisper, “Miss Rea?”A spasm of pain shot across Richard’s face, and he was about to speak when Humphrey turned to him.“Master Richard,” he said, in a husky voice, “we was boys together, and played together almost like brothers. This here comes to me stunning, like. You say it’s mine. Well, it aint my fault. I don’t want it. Keep it all, if you like; if not, let’s share and share alike.”The last words fell on empty air, for Richard had waved his hand to both, and hurried out of the room.That evening, with beating heart, he walked towards Tolcarne gates. He had been busy amongst his papers, tearing up and making ready for that which he had to do on the morrow; and now, more agitated than he would own, he sought the lane where so many happy hours had been spent to see if Tiny Rea would grant him the interview he had written to ask for, that he might say good-bye.It was a soft, balmy night, and the stars seemed to look sadly down through the trees as he leaned against a mass of lichen-covered granite, pink here and there with the pretty stonecrop of the place, waiting, for she was behind time.“Will she come,” he said, “now that I am a beggar without a shilling, save that which I could earn? Oh, shame! shame! shame! How could I doubt her?”No, he would not doubt her; she could not have cared about his money. She was too sweet and loving and gentle. And what should he say—wait? No, he dared not. He could only—only—leave her free, that she might—“Oh, my darling!” he groaned; and he laid his broad forehead upon the hard, rugged stone, weeping now like a child.The clouds came across the sky, blotting out one by one the glistening stars; a chilly mist swept along the valley from the sea, and all around was dark and cold as the future of his blasted life. For the minutes glided into hours, and she came not—came not to say one gentle, loving word—one God-speed to send him on his way; and at last, heart-broken, he staggered to the great floral gate, held the chilly rails, kissed the iron, and gazed with passionate longing up at the now darkened house, and then walked slowly away, stunned by the violence of his grief.The wind was rising fast, and coming in heavy soughs from off the sea. As he reached the lodge gates at Penreife he paused, staring before him in a helpless way, till a heavy squall smote him, and with it a sharp shower of rain, whose drops seemed to cool his forehead and rouse him to action.Starting off, with great strides, he took the short cut, and made for the sea, where the fields ended suddenly, their short, thyme-scented grass seeming to have been cut where there was a fall of full four hundred feet, down past a rugged, piled-up wall of granite, to the white-veined rock, polished by the restless sea below. To any one unaccustomed to the coast a walk there on a dark night meant death, either by mutilation on the cruel rocks, always seeming to be studded with great gouts of crimson blood, where the sea anemones clung in hundreds, or else by drowning in the deep, clear water, when the tide was up, and the waves played amidst the long, chocolate strands of fucus and bladder-wrack, waving to and fro.It was going to be a wild night, but it seemed in keeping with the chaos of his mind. Far out on the sea, softly rising to and fro in the thick darkness, were the lights of the fishing-boats, as a score or so lay drifting with their herring-nets; and in his heart there was not a rough fisher there whose lot he did not envy.“And she could not come!” he groaned, as he stood there, with bare head. “Oh, my love—my love! To go without one gentle word, far, far away, and but yesterday so happy!”The wind increased in force, and, with the gathering strength of the tide, the waves came rushing in, to beat in thunder against the rocks far beneath his feet; and then, with a rush, the fine salt spray was whirled up, and swept in his face, as he gazed straight out to sea.At another time he might have shuddered, standing thus upon the edge of that great cliff, with—just dimly seen in its more intense blackness—the rugged headland that stretched like a buttress into the sea upon his left. But now the horrors of the place seemed welcome, and he felt, as a smile came on his dripping features, that it would be pleasant to leap from where he stood right off at once into oblivion.It seemed so easy, such a quiet way of getting rest from the turmoil and trouble of the future, that the feeling seemed to grow upon him.“No,” he said at last; “that would be a coward’s end. I’ve done one brave thing to-day; and now, old friend, you shall have me again to toss upon your waves, but it shall be as your master, not as a slave.”As he spoke he raised his hands and stretched them out, when he heard a hoarse cry behind him, and as he sharply turned and stepped back, something seemed to come out of the darkness, seize him by the throat, and the next moment he was over the cliff, suspended above eternity.Then there was an awful silence, only broken by the roar, thud, and hiss of the waves below, as they rushed in, broke upon the rocks, and then fled back in foamy spray.Richard’s fingers were dug into the short, velvet turf, and he hung there, with his legs rigid, afraid to move, and wondering whether those were friendly or inimical hands that clutched his throat. It seemed an age of horror before the silence was broken, and then came a panting voice, which he knew as Humphrey’s, to sob, as it were, in his ear—“Master Dick, don’t be scar’d. I’ve got you tight, but I can’t move. Get your nerve, and then shift your hands one at a time to me.”Without a moment’s hesitation, Richard did so, with the damp gathering on his brow the while.“That’s brave, sir. Now get your toes in the cracks of the granite somewhere—gently, don’t hurry—I won’t let go, though I can’t move.”Richard obeyed, drew himself up an inch, then another, and another, felt that he was saved—then made a slip, and all seemed over, but Humphrey held to him with all his strength, and once more Richard tried, tearing hands and knees with the exertion, till he got his chest above the cliff edge, then was halfway up, and crawled safely on, to fall over panting on his side.“Quick, Master Richard, your hand!” shouted Humphrey.And the saved had to turn saver, for the keeper had been drawn closer and closer to the edge by Richard’s efforts, and but for a sudden snatch, and the exercise of all his strength, the new owner of Penreife would have glided off the slippery grass into the darkness beneath.“Safe,” muttered Humphrey, rising. “Give me your hand, Master Richard. I thought, when I followed you, you meant to leap off.”“No, Humphrey,” said Richard, sadly, “I will not throw my worthless life away. It is such glimpses of death as that we have just seen that teach the value of life. Goodnight; don’t speak to me again.”Humphrey obeyed, and followed him in silence to the house.The next morning, as soon as the letters had been brought in, Richard took his—a single one—and, without a word to a soul, carried a small portmanteau to the stable-yard, waited while the horse was put to, and then had himself driven off.As he passed the lodge a note was put into his hand by a boy. An hour later he was in the train, and the destination of that train was the big metropolis, where most men come who mean to begin afresh.

In the course of the morning Richard grew calmer. He had a long interview with Humphrey, giving him plenty of advice as to his future proceedings; and then sending for Mr Mervyn, whom Humphrey happened to mention as a gentleman in whom he had great confidence.

But the messenger was not needed, for Mr Mervyn was coming up the drive, and he was sent on another errand, with a couple of notes to Penreife—one to Sir Hampton, the other to Tiny.

“I was on my way here, Mr Trevor,” he began.

“My name is Richard Lloyd, Mr Mervyn,” said Richard, quietly.

“Yes—yes,” said Mr Mervyn, “I have heard. It is all over the place.”

“So soon?” said Richard, bitterly.

“Yes; and directly I heard,” said Mervyn, “I came up. But, my dear sir, it’s like a romance; it can’t be true.”

“It’s true enough,” said Richard, coldly.

“But under the circumstances, Mr Trev—Lloyd,” said Mervyn, “Mr Humphrey here won’t press—”

“That’s what I want Master Richard here to understand,” said Humphrey. “As I says to him yesterday, sir, what’s the good of it to me?”

“Exactly,” said Mervyn, “right is right; but as Mr Trev—Lloyd is innocent in the matter, and has made engagements and the rest of it, why not come to some arrangement satisfactory to both?”

“Mr Mervyn, you are sent for here as the friend of Mr Humphrey Trevor.”

“Exactly, Mr Tre—Lloyd. I beg your pardon, but my tongue is not so quick of apprehension as my brain.”

“I want you to advise and help him in his novel position.”

“I will,” said Mervyn, frankly; “but I should like to advise and help you too. You see, Mr Tre—there—Mr Richard, you have possession.”

“I give it up,” said Richard.

“But you might hold it, and give friend Humphrey here a great deal of trouble.”

“Mr Mervyn, I claim to be still a gentleman, whatever my birth,” said Richard, haughtily. “Will you act as Humphrey’s friend?”

“I will.”

“Then understand this, sir. I have had a hard fight, and I have come through the temptation, I hope, like a man. I now resign everything to Mr Humphrey Trevor here. I ask his pardon for usurping his rights, and I beg his forbearance towards my poor father and mother. I will not make this cruel injury to him worse by any opposition.”

Humphrey shuffled in his seat, and tried to speak, but he only wiped his damp face, and looked helplessly at the man he was bound to oust.

“You see, Mr Mervyn,” continued Richard, “Mr Trevor’s will be a peculiar position.”

“Yes,” said Mervyn; “but had you not better get some legal advice?”

“What for?” said Richard. “Can anything be plainer? As I said, Mr Trevor’s will be a peculiar position. He will be the mark of the designing, and he will need a staunch friend at his side. Will you be that friend?”

“I will,” said Mervyn, wringing his hand. “Yours too, my dear fellow, if you’ll let me. But,” he added, in a whisper, “Miss Rea?”

A spasm of pain shot across Richard’s face, and he was about to speak when Humphrey turned to him.

“Master Richard,” he said, in a husky voice, “we was boys together, and played together almost like brothers. This here comes to me stunning, like. You say it’s mine. Well, it aint my fault. I don’t want it. Keep it all, if you like; if not, let’s share and share alike.”

The last words fell on empty air, for Richard had waved his hand to both, and hurried out of the room.

That evening, with beating heart, he walked towards Tolcarne gates. He had been busy amongst his papers, tearing up and making ready for that which he had to do on the morrow; and now, more agitated than he would own, he sought the lane where so many happy hours had been spent to see if Tiny Rea would grant him the interview he had written to ask for, that he might say good-bye.

It was a soft, balmy night, and the stars seemed to look sadly down through the trees as he leaned against a mass of lichen-covered granite, pink here and there with the pretty stonecrop of the place, waiting, for she was behind time.

“Will she come,” he said, “now that I am a beggar without a shilling, save that which I could earn? Oh, shame! shame! shame! How could I doubt her?”

No, he would not doubt her; she could not have cared about his money. She was too sweet and loving and gentle. And what should he say—wait? No, he dared not. He could only—only—leave her free, that she might—

“Oh, my darling!” he groaned; and he laid his broad forehead upon the hard, rugged stone, weeping now like a child.

The clouds came across the sky, blotting out one by one the glistening stars; a chilly mist swept along the valley from the sea, and all around was dark and cold as the future of his blasted life. For the minutes glided into hours, and she came not—came not to say one gentle, loving word—one God-speed to send him on his way; and at last, heart-broken, he staggered to the great floral gate, held the chilly rails, kissed the iron, and gazed with passionate longing up at the now darkened house, and then walked slowly away, stunned by the violence of his grief.

The wind was rising fast, and coming in heavy soughs from off the sea. As he reached the lodge gates at Penreife he paused, staring before him in a helpless way, till a heavy squall smote him, and with it a sharp shower of rain, whose drops seemed to cool his forehead and rouse him to action.

Starting off, with great strides, he took the short cut, and made for the sea, where the fields ended suddenly, their short, thyme-scented grass seeming to have been cut where there was a fall of full four hundred feet, down past a rugged, piled-up wall of granite, to the white-veined rock, polished by the restless sea below. To any one unaccustomed to the coast a walk there on a dark night meant death, either by mutilation on the cruel rocks, always seeming to be studded with great gouts of crimson blood, where the sea anemones clung in hundreds, or else by drowning in the deep, clear water, when the tide was up, and the waves played amidst the long, chocolate strands of fucus and bladder-wrack, waving to and fro.

It was going to be a wild night, but it seemed in keeping with the chaos of his mind. Far out on the sea, softly rising to and fro in the thick darkness, were the lights of the fishing-boats, as a score or so lay drifting with their herring-nets; and in his heart there was not a rough fisher there whose lot he did not envy.

“And she could not come!” he groaned, as he stood there, with bare head. “Oh, my love—my love! To go without one gentle word, far, far away, and but yesterday so happy!”

The wind increased in force, and, with the gathering strength of the tide, the waves came rushing in, to beat in thunder against the rocks far beneath his feet; and then, with a rush, the fine salt spray was whirled up, and swept in his face, as he gazed straight out to sea.

At another time he might have shuddered, standing thus upon the edge of that great cliff, with—just dimly seen in its more intense blackness—the rugged headland that stretched like a buttress into the sea upon his left. But now the horrors of the place seemed welcome, and he felt, as a smile came on his dripping features, that it would be pleasant to leap from where he stood right off at once into oblivion.

It seemed so easy, such a quiet way of getting rest from the turmoil and trouble of the future, that the feeling seemed to grow upon him.

“No,” he said at last; “that would be a coward’s end. I’ve done one brave thing to-day; and now, old friend, you shall have me again to toss upon your waves, but it shall be as your master, not as a slave.”

As he spoke he raised his hands and stretched them out, when he heard a hoarse cry behind him, and as he sharply turned and stepped back, something seemed to come out of the darkness, seize him by the throat, and the next moment he was over the cliff, suspended above eternity.

Then there was an awful silence, only broken by the roar, thud, and hiss of the waves below, as they rushed in, broke upon the rocks, and then fled back in foamy spray.

Richard’s fingers were dug into the short, velvet turf, and he hung there, with his legs rigid, afraid to move, and wondering whether those were friendly or inimical hands that clutched his throat. It seemed an age of horror before the silence was broken, and then came a panting voice, which he knew as Humphrey’s, to sob, as it were, in his ear—

“Master Dick, don’t be scar’d. I’ve got you tight, but I can’t move. Get your nerve, and then shift your hands one at a time to me.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Richard did so, with the damp gathering on his brow the while.

“That’s brave, sir. Now get your toes in the cracks of the granite somewhere—gently, don’t hurry—I won’t let go, though I can’t move.”

Richard obeyed, drew himself up an inch, then another, and another, felt that he was saved—then made a slip, and all seemed over, but Humphrey held to him with all his strength, and once more Richard tried, tearing hands and knees with the exertion, till he got his chest above the cliff edge, then was halfway up, and crawled safely on, to fall over panting on his side.

“Quick, Master Richard, your hand!” shouted Humphrey.

And the saved had to turn saver, for the keeper had been drawn closer and closer to the edge by Richard’s efforts, and but for a sudden snatch, and the exercise of all his strength, the new owner of Penreife would have glided off the slippery grass into the darkness beneath.

“Safe,” muttered Humphrey, rising. “Give me your hand, Master Richard. I thought, when I followed you, you meant to leap off.”

“No, Humphrey,” said Richard, sadly, “I will not throw my worthless life away. It is such glimpses of death as that we have just seen that teach the value of life. Goodnight; don’t speak to me again.”

Humphrey obeyed, and followed him in silence to the house.

The next morning, as soon as the letters had been brought in, Richard took his—a single one—and, without a word to a soul, carried a small portmanteau to the stable-yard, waited while the horse was put to, and then had himself driven off.

As he passed the lodge a note was put into his hand by a boy. An hour later he was in the train, and the destination of that train was the big metropolis, where most men come who mean to begin afresh.

Correspondence.It never struck Richard that some of his behaviour was verging on the Quixotic. His only thought now was that he was degraded from his high estate, and that the woman whom he had loved with all his heart—did love still—had turned from him in his poverty and distress.At such times men are not disposed to fairly analyse the motives of others; and Richard was anything but an unbiased judge, as he knit his brow, told himself that he had the fight to begin now, and determined to take help from no one who had known him in his prosperity.With this feeling strong upon him he dismissed the man who had driven him over; and, to the utter astonishment of the Saint Kitt’s station-master, took a third-class ticket for London, and entered a compartment wherein were a soldier with a bottle, a sailor just landed, an old lady with several bundles, bound on a visit to her boy in London—a gentleman, she informed everybody, who kept a public—and the customary rural third-class passengers.And then the long, dreary journey began, Richard making up his mind to suit himself to the company amongst whom he was thrown, and failing dismally; for both soldier and sailor, whose idea of enjoyment seemed to be that they must get hopelessly intoxicated as soon as possible, took it as an offence that he would not “take a pull” of rum out of the bottle belonging to the son of Neptune, and of gin from that of the son of Mars.To make up for this, Richard tried to be civil to a couple of rustic lasses, who received all his little bits of matter-of-fact politeness and conversation with giggles and glances at a young Devonian in the corner of the carriage, till his brickdust-coloured visage became the colour of one of his own ruddy ploughed fields, and he announced that “for zigzpence he’d poonch that chap’s yed.”Hereupon the old lady with the bundles loudly proclaimed a wish that her “zun” was there; and ended by hoping that, if “this young man” (meaning Richard) intended to make himself unpleasant, he would go into another carriage.It was hard—just at a time, too, when Richard’s temper seemed to be angular and sore—when the slightest verbal touch made him wince. But he set his teeth, bore a good deal of vulgar banter with patience, and was able to compliment himself grimly for his forbearance during the long ride along that single line of Cornish railway that is one incessant series of scaffold-like viaducts, over some of the most charming little valleys in our isle.After passing Plymouth, the old lady became so sociable that she dropped asleep against our traveller. The rustics had given place to a tall traveller; and the soldier and sailor grew hilariously friendly after replenishing their bottles at Plymouth. And so, fighting hard to put the past in its proper place—behind—the train bore Richard onward to his goal.Just before nearing Paddington Station, Trevor took out his pocket-book, and the rugged, hard look upon his face was softened. He glanced round the compartment, to see that half his fellow-passengers were asleep, the soldier drunk, the stout old lady with the bundles busy hunting for her railway ticket, and the sailor disconsolately trying to drain a little more rum out of his bottle.By this time Trevor had grown weary of the long journey—so tedious on the hard third-class seats—in spite of his determination; and a sigh would once or twice escape, as recollections of his old first-class luxury intruded.“I’ll hold to it, though,” he muttered.And, determined to go on in his course, he opened his pocket-book, and drew from it a letter which he had received from Tolcarne. It was not long, but it sent the blood dancing through his veins, and nerved him for the fight to come. It ran as follows:—“Dearest Dick—What shall I say to you in this your great trouble? Can I say more than that I would give anything to be by your side, to try and advise—at all events, to try and help and comfort? Papa was very angry when your letter came, and read it to Aunt Matty; but let that pass, as I tell you only, Dick, that you have a friend in dear mamma, who stood up for you as nobly as did darling little Fin, who had been in unaccountably low spirits before. I tried so hard, Dick, to come to you—to answer your letter and scold you; but they would not let me stir. I dare not tell you what they said; you must guess when I tell you that I was a dreadfully disobedient child, and Aunt Matty declared that no good could ever come to a girl who set herself up in opposition to her father and aunt. Poor dear mamma was left out of it altogether. I say all this, Dick, for fear you should think I fell away from you in your trouble, and would not come to you as you wished; but my heart was with you all the time. And now, Dick, darling, to be more matter-of-fact, what is all this to us? You could not help it; and whether you are Richard Trevor or Richard Lloyd by name, how does it alter you in the eyes of her to whom you said so much? Dick, you don’t know me, or you would never have sent me that cruel letter, so full of your dreadful determination. Oh, Dick, do you think—can you think—I wish to be free? You taught me to love you, and you cannot undo your work. For shame, to write in that desponding tone because of this accident. It was very wicked and dreadful of Mrs Lloyd, but you could not help it; and now you have so nobly determined to make restitution to poor Humphrey, let it all go. My Dick only stands out more nobly than ever. You have your profession, sir—go back to that, and they will only be too proud to have you; but don’t go long voyages, or where there are storms. I lay awake all night listening to the wind, and thinking how thankful I ought to be that you were ashore, Dick, and all the time I felt prouder than ever of my own boy. Oh, Dick, never talk to me of freedom! Nothing can make me change. Even if I saw with my own poor little crying eyes that you cared for me no more, I could not leave off loving; and, dear Dick—dearest Dick—don’t think me bold and unmaidenly if I say now what I should not have dared to say if you had not been in trouble—Dick, recollect this—that there is some one waiting your own time, when, rich or poor, you shall ask her to come to you, when and where you will, and she will be your own little wife—Tiny.“P.S.—Pin has looked over my shoulder, and read all this as I wrote it; and she says it is quite right, besides sending her dear love to brother Dick.”Trevor’s forehead went down on his hands as he finished, his face was very pale, and a strange look was in his eyes as he re-perused the note.“God bless her!” he muttered. “I will do something, and I believe she will wait for me; but I can’t drag her down to share my poverty. But there, I won’t curse it, when I see how it brings out the pure metal from the fire. I can’t go back to the sea, though. Pooh! what chance have I—a poor penniless servant’s son—how should I get a ship. Why, my rank has been obtained by imposture.”The rugged, hard look came back, but the sight of an enclosure once more smoothed his forehead.“Here’s dear little Fin,” he said to himself. “Well, after all, it’s very sweet to find out how true some hearts can be.”Saying this to himself, he opened and read a little jerky scrawl from Fin:—“My own dear Brother Dick,—I sent you a message by Tiny, but I thought I’d write too, so as to show you that little people can be as staunch as big. Never mind about the nasty money, or the troublesome estate—you can’t have everything; and I tell you, sir, that you’ve won what is worth a thousand Penreifes—my darling little Tiny’s heart—you great, ugly monster! Dear Dick, I’m so sorry for you, but I can’t cry a bit—only pat you on the back and say, ‘Never mind.’ I’ll take care of Tiny for you, in spite of Aunt Matty—a wicked old woman!—for if she didn’t look up from a goody-goody book, and say that she’d always expected it, and she was very glad. Ma sends her love to you, and says she shall come across to Penreife to see you, the first time papa goes over to Saint Kitt’s. She would come now, only she wants to keep peace and quietness in the house. They’re against you now, but it will soon blow over. If it don’t, we’ll win over Aunt Matty to our side by presenting her with dogs. By the way, Pepine has a cold: he sneezed twice yesterday, and his tail is all limp. Goodbye, Dick.—Your affectionate sister,“Fin Rea.”Richard’s eyes brightened as he read this, and then carefully bestowed it in his pocket-book.He then took out and read again the letter that had come by post:—“My dear old Dick,—Had yours and its thunderclap. Gave me a bad headache. Hang it all! if it’s true, what a predicament for a fellow to find out that he’s somebody else—‘Not myself at all,’ as the song says! But you have possession, Dick; and, speaking as a lawyer, I should say, let them prove it on the other side. Don’t you go running about and telling people you’ve no right to the property; for, after all, it may only be an hallucination of that old woman’s brain. What a dreadful creature! Why, if she isn’t your mother—and really, I think she can’t be—I should feel disposed to prosecute her; and I should like to hold the brief. Don’t be in too great a hurry to give up, but, on the contrary, hold on tight; for that’s a fine estate, and very jolly, so long as you could keep off the locusts. On looking back, though, there are a good many strange things crop up—the wonderful display of interest in dear Master Dick, and all the rest of it. Looks bad—very bad—and like the truth Dick. But, as I said before, legally you’ve got possession, and if I can help you to keep it—no, hang it, Dick! if the place isn’t yours, old boy, give it up. There, you see how suitable I am for a barrister. I could never fight a bad cause. But, as I said before, give it up, every inch of it. I wouldn’t have my old man Dick with the faintest suspicion of a dirty trick in his nature. Cheer up, old fellow, there’s another side to everything. That Sybaritish life was spoiling you. Why, my dear boy, you’ve no idea how jolly it is to be poor. Hang the wealth! a fico for it! Come up and stay with me in chambers, while we talk the matter over, and conspire as to whether we shall set the Thames on fire at high or low water, above bridge or below. Meanwhile, we’ll banquet, my boy, feast on chops—hot chops—and drink cold beady beer out of pewters. Ah, you pampered old Roman Emperor, living on your tin, what do you know of real life? Setting aside metaphysics, Dick, old boy, come up to me, and lay your stricken head upon this manly bosom; thrust your fist into this little purse, and go shares as long as there is anything belonging to, yours truly,“Frank Pratt.“P.S.—I should have liked to see Tolcarne again. Pleasant, dreamy time that. Of course you will see no more of the little girls?”“Poor old Frank,” said Richard, refolding the letter. “I believe he cared for little Fin.”There was no time for dreaming, with the bustle of Paddington Station to encounter; and making his way into the hotel, he passed a restless, dreamless night.

It never struck Richard that some of his behaviour was verging on the Quixotic. His only thought now was that he was degraded from his high estate, and that the woman whom he had loved with all his heart—did love still—had turned from him in his poverty and distress.

At such times men are not disposed to fairly analyse the motives of others; and Richard was anything but an unbiased judge, as he knit his brow, told himself that he had the fight to begin now, and determined to take help from no one who had known him in his prosperity.

With this feeling strong upon him he dismissed the man who had driven him over; and, to the utter astonishment of the Saint Kitt’s station-master, took a third-class ticket for London, and entered a compartment wherein were a soldier with a bottle, a sailor just landed, an old lady with several bundles, bound on a visit to her boy in London—a gentleman, she informed everybody, who kept a public—and the customary rural third-class passengers.

And then the long, dreary journey began, Richard making up his mind to suit himself to the company amongst whom he was thrown, and failing dismally; for both soldier and sailor, whose idea of enjoyment seemed to be that they must get hopelessly intoxicated as soon as possible, took it as an offence that he would not “take a pull” of rum out of the bottle belonging to the son of Neptune, and of gin from that of the son of Mars.

To make up for this, Richard tried to be civil to a couple of rustic lasses, who received all his little bits of matter-of-fact politeness and conversation with giggles and glances at a young Devonian in the corner of the carriage, till his brickdust-coloured visage became the colour of one of his own ruddy ploughed fields, and he announced that “for zigzpence he’d poonch that chap’s yed.”

Hereupon the old lady with the bundles loudly proclaimed a wish that her “zun” was there; and ended by hoping that, if “this young man” (meaning Richard) intended to make himself unpleasant, he would go into another carriage.

It was hard—just at a time, too, when Richard’s temper seemed to be angular and sore—when the slightest verbal touch made him wince. But he set his teeth, bore a good deal of vulgar banter with patience, and was able to compliment himself grimly for his forbearance during the long ride along that single line of Cornish railway that is one incessant series of scaffold-like viaducts, over some of the most charming little valleys in our isle.

After passing Plymouth, the old lady became so sociable that she dropped asleep against our traveller. The rustics had given place to a tall traveller; and the soldier and sailor grew hilariously friendly after replenishing their bottles at Plymouth. And so, fighting hard to put the past in its proper place—behind—the train bore Richard onward to his goal.

Just before nearing Paddington Station, Trevor took out his pocket-book, and the rugged, hard look upon his face was softened. He glanced round the compartment, to see that half his fellow-passengers were asleep, the soldier drunk, the stout old lady with the bundles busy hunting for her railway ticket, and the sailor disconsolately trying to drain a little more rum out of his bottle.

By this time Trevor had grown weary of the long journey—so tedious on the hard third-class seats—in spite of his determination; and a sigh would once or twice escape, as recollections of his old first-class luxury intruded.

“I’ll hold to it, though,” he muttered.

And, determined to go on in his course, he opened his pocket-book, and drew from it a letter which he had received from Tolcarne. It was not long, but it sent the blood dancing through his veins, and nerved him for the fight to come. It ran as follows:—

“Dearest Dick—What shall I say to you in this your great trouble? Can I say more than that I would give anything to be by your side, to try and advise—at all events, to try and help and comfort? Papa was very angry when your letter came, and read it to Aunt Matty; but let that pass, as I tell you only, Dick, that you have a friend in dear mamma, who stood up for you as nobly as did darling little Fin, who had been in unaccountably low spirits before. I tried so hard, Dick, to come to you—to answer your letter and scold you; but they would not let me stir. I dare not tell you what they said; you must guess when I tell you that I was a dreadfully disobedient child, and Aunt Matty declared that no good could ever come to a girl who set herself up in opposition to her father and aunt. Poor dear mamma was left out of it altogether. I say all this, Dick, for fear you should think I fell away from you in your trouble, and would not come to you as you wished; but my heart was with you all the time. And now, Dick, darling, to be more matter-of-fact, what is all this to us? You could not help it; and whether you are Richard Trevor or Richard Lloyd by name, how does it alter you in the eyes of her to whom you said so much? Dick, you don’t know me, or you would never have sent me that cruel letter, so full of your dreadful determination. Oh, Dick, do you think—can you think—I wish to be free? You taught me to love you, and you cannot undo your work. For shame, to write in that desponding tone because of this accident. It was very wicked and dreadful of Mrs Lloyd, but you could not help it; and now you have so nobly determined to make restitution to poor Humphrey, let it all go. My Dick only stands out more nobly than ever. You have your profession, sir—go back to that, and they will only be too proud to have you; but don’t go long voyages, or where there are storms. I lay awake all night listening to the wind, and thinking how thankful I ought to be that you were ashore, Dick, and all the time I felt prouder than ever of my own boy. Oh, Dick, never talk to me of freedom! Nothing can make me change. Even if I saw with my own poor little crying eyes that you cared for me no more, I could not leave off loving; and, dear Dick—dearest Dick—don’t think me bold and unmaidenly if I say now what I should not have dared to say if you had not been in trouble—Dick, recollect this—that there is some one waiting your own time, when, rich or poor, you shall ask her to come to you, when and where you will, and she will be your own little wife—Tiny.“P.S.—Pin has looked over my shoulder, and read all this as I wrote it; and she says it is quite right, besides sending her dear love to brother Dick.”

“Dearest Dick—What shall I say to you in this your great trouble? Can I say more than that I would give anything to be by your side, to try and advise—at all events, to try and help and comfort? Papa was very angry when your letter came, and read it to Aunt Matty; but let that pass, as I tell you only, Dick, that you have a friend in dear mamma, who stood up for you as nobly as did darling little Fin, who had been in unaccountably low spirits before. I tried so hard, Dick, to come to you—to answer your letter and scold you; but they would not let me stir. I dare not tell you what they said; you must guess when I tell you that I was a dreadfully disobedient child, and Aunt Matty declared that no good could ever come to a girl who set herself up in opposition to her father and aunt. Poor dear mamma was left out of it altogether. I say all this, Dick, for fear you should think I fell away from you in your trouble, and would not come to you as you wished; but my heart was with you all the time. And now, Dick, darling, to be more matter-of-fact, what is all this to us? You could not help it; and whether you are Richard Trevor or Richard Lloyd by name, how does it alter you in the eyes of her to whom you said so much? Dick, you don’t know me, or you would never have sent me that cruel letter, so full of your dreadful determination. Oh, Dick, do you think—can you think—I wish to be free? You taught me to love you, and you cannot undo your work. For shame, to write in that desponding tone because of this accident. It was very wicked and dreadful of Mrs Lloyd, but you could not help it; and now you have so nobly determined to make restitution to poor Humphrey, let it all go. My Dick only stands out more nobly than ever. You have your profession, sir—go back to that, and they will only be too proud to have you; but don’t go long voyages, or where there are storms. I lay awake all night listening to the wind, and thinking how thankful I ought to be that you were ashore, Dick, and all the time I felt prouder than ever of my own boy. Oh, Dick, never talk to me of freedom! Nothing can make me change. Even if I saw with my own poor little crying eyes that you cared for me no more, I could not leave off loving; and, dear Dick—dearest Dick—don’t think me bold and unmaidenly if I say now what I should not have dared to say if you had not been in trouble—Dick, recollect this—that there is some one waiting your own time, when, rich or poor, you shall ask her to come to you, when and where you will, and she will be your own little wife—Tiny.

“P.S.—Pin has looked over my shoulder, and read all this as I wrote it; and she says it is quite right, besides sending her dear love to brother Dick.”

Trevor’s forehead went down on his hands as he finished, his face was very pale, and a strange look was in his eyes as he re-perused the note.

“God bless her!” he muttered. “I will do something, and I believe she will wait for me; but I can’t drag her down to share my poverty. But there, I won’t curse it, when I see how it brings out the pure metal from the fire. I can’t go back to the sea, though. Pooh! what chance have I—a poor penniless servant’s son—how should I get a ship. Why, my rank has been obtained by imposture.”

The rugged, hard look came back, but the sight of an enclosure once more smoothed his forehead.

“Here’s dear little Fin,” he said to himself. “Well, after all, it’s very sweet to find out how true some hearts can be.”

Saying this to himself, he opened and read a little jerky scrawl from Fin:—

“My own dear Brother Dick,—I sent you a message by Tiny, but I thought I’d write too, so as to show you that little people can be as staunch as big. Never mind about the nasty money, or the troublesome estate—you can’t have everything; and I tell you, sir, that you’ve won what is worth a thousand Penreifes—my darling little Tiny’s heart—you great, ugly monster! Dear Dick, I’m so sorry for you, but I can’t cry a bit—only pat you on the back and say, ‘Never mind.’ I’ll take care of Tiny for you, in spite of Aunt Matty—a wicked old woman!—for if she didn’t look up from a goody-goody book, and say that she’d always expected it, and she was very glad. Ma sends her love to you, and says she shall come across to Penreife to see you, the first time papa goes over to Saint Kitt’s. She would come now, only she wants to keep peace and quietness in the house. They’re against you now, but it will soon blow over. If it don’t, we’ll win over Aunt Matty to our side by presenting her with dogs. By the way, Pepine has a cold: he sneezed twice yesterday, and his tail is all limp. Goodbye, Dick.—Your affectionate sister,“Fin Rea.”

“My own dear Brother Dick,—I sent you a message by Tiny, but I thought I’d write too, so as to show you that little people can be as staunch as big. Never mind about the nasty money, or the troublesome estate—you can’t have everything; and I tell you, sir, that you’ve won what is worth a thousand Penreifes—my darling little Tiny’s heart—you great, ugly monster! Dear Dick, I’m so sorry for you, but I can’t cry a bit—only pat you on the back and say, ‘Never mind.’ I’ll take care of Tiny for you, in spite of Aunt Matty—a wicked old woman!—for if she didn’t look up from a goody-goody book, and say that she’d always expected it, and she was very glad. Ma sends her love to you, and says she shall come across to Penreife to see you, the first time papa goes over to Saint Kitt’s. She would come now, only she wants to keep peace and quietness in the house. They’re against you now, but it will soon blow over. If it don’t, we’ll win over Aunt Matty to our side by presenting her with dogs. By the way, Pepine has a cold: he sneezed twice yesterday, and his tail is all limp. Goodbye, Dick.—Your affectionate sister,

“Fin Rea.”

Richard’s eyes brightened as he read this, and then carefully bestowed it in his pocket-book.

He then took out and read again the letter that had come by post:—

“My dear old Dick,—Had yours and its thunderclap. Gave me a bad headache. Hang it all! if it’s true, what a predicament for a fellow to find out that he’s somebody else—‘Not myself at all,’ as the song says! But you have possession, Dick; and, speaking as a lawyer, I should say, let them prove it on the other side. Don’t you go running about and telling people you’ve no right to the property; for, after all, it may only be an hallucination of that old woman’s brain. What a dreadful creature! Why, if she isn’t your mother—and really, I think she can’t be—I should feel disposed to prosecute her; and I should like to hold the brief. Don’t be in too great a hurry to give up, but, on the contrary, hold on tight; for that’s a fine estate, and very jolly, so long as you could keep off the locusts. On looking back, though, there are a good many strange things crop up—the wonderful display of interest in dear Master Dick, and all the rest of it. Looks bad—very bad—and like the truth Dick. But, as I said before, legally you’ve got possession, and if I can help you to keep it—no, hang it, Dick! if the place isn’t yours, old boy, give it up. There, you see how suitable I am for a barrister. I could never fight a bad cause. But, as I said before, give it up, every inch of it. I wouldn’t have my old man Dick with the faintest suspicion of a dirty trick in his nature. Cheer up, old fellow, there’s another side to everything. That Sybaritish life was spoiling you. Why, my dear boy, you’ve no idea how jolly it is to be poor. Hang the wealth! a fico for it! Come up and stay with me in chambers, while we talk the matter over, and conspire as to whether we shall set the Thames on fire at high or low water, above bridge or below. Meanwhile, we’ll banquet, my boy, feast on chops—hot chops—and drink cold beady beer out of pewters. Ah, you pampered old Roman Emperor, living on your tin, what do you know of real life? Setting aside metaphysics, Dick, old boy, come up to me, and lay your stricken head upon this manly bosom; thrust your fist into this little purse, and go shares as long as there is anything belonging to, yours truly,“Frank Pratt.“P.S.—I should have liked to see Tolcarne again. Pleasant, dreamy time that. Of course you will see no more of the little girls?”

“My dear old Dick,—Had yours and its thunderclap. Gave me a bad headache. Hang it all! if it’s true, what a predicament for a fellow to find out that he’s somebody else—‘Not myself at all,’ as the song says! But you have possession, Dick; and, speaking as a lawyer, I should say, let them prove it on the other side. Don’t you go running about and telling people you’ve no right to the property; for, after all, it may only be an hallucination of that old woman’s brain. What a dreadful creature! Why, if she isn’t your mother—and really, I think she can’t be—I should feel disposed to prosecute her; and I should like to hold the brief. Don’t be in too great a hurry to give up, but, on the contrary, hold on tight; for that’s a fine estate, and very jolly, so long as you could keep off the locusts. On looking back, though, there are a good many strange things crop up—the wonderful display of interest in dear Master Dick, and all the rest of it. Looks bad—very bad—and like the truth Dick. But, as I said before, legally you’ve got possession, and if I can help you to keep it—no, hang it, Dick! if the place isn’t yours, old boy, give it up. There, you see how suitable I am for a barrister. I could never fight a bad cause. But, as I said before, give it up, every inch of it. I wouldn’t have my old man Dick with the faintest suspicion of a dirty trick in his nature. Cheer up, old fellow, there’s another side to everything. That Sybaritish life was spoiling you. Why, my dear boy, you’ve no idea how jolly it is to be poor. Hang the wealth! a fico for it! Come up and stay with me in chambers, while we talk the matter over, and conspire as to whether we shall set the Thames on fire at high or low water, above bridge or below. Meanwhile, we’ll banquet, my boy, feast on chops—hot chops—and drink cold beady beer out of pewters. Ah, you pampered old Roman Emperor, living on your tin, what do you know of real life? Setting aside metaphysics, Dick, old boy, come up to me, and lay your stricken head upon this manly bosom; thrust your fist into this little purse, and go shares as long as there is anything belonging to, yours truly,

“Frank Pratt.

“P.S.—I should have liked to see Tolcarne again. Pleasant, dreamy time that. Of course you will see no more of the little girls?”

“Poor old Frank,” said Richard, refolding the letter. “I believe he cared for little Fin.”

There was no time for dreaming, with the bustle of Paddington Station to encounter; and making his way into the hotel, he passed a restless, dreamless night.

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