.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 45201
   :PG.Title: Fallen Fortunes
   :PG.Released: 2014-03-24
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Evelyn Everett-Green
   :DC.Title: Fallen Fortunes
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1906
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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FALLEN FORTUNES
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   .. _`The scheming kinsman.`:

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      :alt: The scheming kinsman (page 46).

      The scheming kinsman (page `46`_).

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      FALLEN
      FORTUNES

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      \E. EVERETT-GREEN

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      THOMAS NELSON AND SONS, LTD.
      LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK
      1906

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   CONTENTS.

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I.  `On the Field of Ramillies`_
II.  `Hartsbourne`_
III.  `The Scheming Kinsman`_
IV.  `On the Road`_
V.  `A High-born Dame`_
VI.  `The Pastimes of the Town`_
VII.  `A Fair Face`_
VIII.  `A Startling Discovery`_
IX.  `"A Mad World, my Masters"`_
X.  `"The Old Lion"`_
XI.  `The Lion's Den`_
XII.  `Triumph`_
XIII.  `The Hero of the Hour`_
XIV.  `Fickle Fortune`_
XV.  `Dark Days`_
XVI.  `A Night Adventure`_
XVII.  `In the House of the Duke`_
XVIII.  `"Good Queen Anne"`_
XIX.  `Love's Triumphing`_
XX.  `Merry as a Marriage Bell`_

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   LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

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`The scheming kinsman.`_ . . . . . . Frontispiece

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`The old garden was another favourite haunt of hers.`_

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`He stood quite still to watch Lord Sandford lead
away the fair Geraldine.`_

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`The hero of the hour.`_





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.. _`ON THE FIELD OF RAMILLIES`:

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   FALLEN FORTUNES.

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   CHAPTER I.

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   ON THE FIELD OF RAMILLIES.

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"By the beard of the Prophet, we are in luck's
way at last, Dicon; for if that be not the
armies of the French and the Allies drawn up in
battle array, my name is not Grey Dumaresq!"

The speaker had just pushed his horse over the
brow of a slope which he and his servant had for
some time been mounting, through the steamy warmth
of a foggy May morning.  The thick haze which lay
heavy in this region of marshy ground had hidden
the surrounding country from them hitherto; but as
they reached the summit of the gradual rise they had
been ascending, the cloud wreaths suddenly drifted
away, and the sun began to shine out upon the
undulating plain stretched before their eyes; and lo,
the plain was alive with squadrons of soldiers—infantry,
cavalry, artillery—drawn up in battle array;
and the note of the bugle rang through the air,
whilst away in the distance, on the opposite side of
the plain, there was a movement which told that
already the battle had begun.  A sullen roar from
the guns boomed forth, and the whole plain shook
with the reverberation.  Great masses of smoke
rolled along and slowly dispersed after each salvo;
but it was upon the evolutions of the bodies of
horsemen and footmen that the keen eyes of the
youthful traveller were intently fixed.

"Dicon," he cried, "this is in all sooth a battle; and
where the battle rages, there will the great victor of
Blenheim be.  We have not chanced upon this route
in vain.  Men warned us of the perils of seeking
passage through a country which has become the
theatre of war; but fortune's star has befriended
us thus far, and now, if I mistake me not, we stand
within sight of the greatest warrior of the age.  For
greatly shall I be astonished if the Duke of Marlborough
himself be not conducting the evolutions of
yonder squadrons."

The brilliant dark eyes of the young man lighted
with a great glow of excitement and admiration.  He
shaded them with his hand, and intently followed
the evolutions of the moving masses in the plain
stretched before his eyes.  He was looking upon
the village of Tavières and the mound of Ottomond,
and the waters of the Mehaign rolled below at his
feet.  The right wing of the French army rested here,
as he quickly saw; but for the moment the main
activity lay over in the distance beyond Ramillies
and Offuz, in the direction of Anderkirk.  Yet as
the traveller stood intently gazing, he saw a
movement in the line of the allied army on this nearer
side, and he exclaimed aloud in his excitement,—

"See, Dicon, see!  That attack yonder is but a
feint.  The key of the position lies here beneath us
at Tavières, with its Tomb of Ottomond.  See yonder
those regiments of marching soldiers creeping round
beneath the shelter of that rising ground!  They will
fling themselves upon the enemy's right, whilst the
French general is diverting his available forces to
protect his left.  Villeroi, my friend, you did not
well to dispose your forces in concave lines.  You
lose time in passing from place to place; and with
such a general as our English Duke pitted against
you, you cannot afford to lose any point in the game.
Ha!  See that?  The Dutch and English soldiers are
charging down upon Tavières!  Watch how they
come on—a great resistless tide of well-drilled
veterans.  See how they sweep all before them!  See
how the French fly forth!  Ha, Villeroi, what think
you now?  Yes, you see your error; fain would you
hurry back your reserves from left to right.  But
the time has gone by.  They are miles away, and
here are the Allies carrying all before them!  Hurrah
for old England! hurrah for the great Duke!  Dicon,
have you stomach for the fight?  Do you remember
Barcelona and Mountjuich?  If we were men enough
to help there, why not here too?"

The fellow thus addressed grinned from ear to ear,
and looked to the pistols in his holsters and the
sabre slung at his side.  It would not have been
easy to define by a glance the nationality of this
pair, who evidently stood to each other in the
relation of master and man.  Their faces were tanned
by sun and wind, their dress, which was somewhat
travel-stained and worse for wear, had plainly been
purchased as need suggested—a piece here, and a piece
there, and not all in the same land.

The speaker wore upon his fair curling hair—which
was his own, and not one of the immense
periwigs then in vogue at home and abroad—a
Spanish sombrero of picturesque shape.  His faded
doublet, with its gold lacings, might have been
English made, and was well cut, showing off the
graceful lines of the slender, well-proportioned figure;
but he wore buskins of soft Spanish leather with
gold eyelets, and the short cloak slung across the
saddle-bow had been purchased in Italy.  He rode
a strong, mettlesome barb, whose glossy bay coat
shone like satin in the sunlight.  The horse of the
servant looked somewhat jaded, but that of the
master might have just been taken from the stable.
He was one of those splendid chargers, half Irish,
half Spanish by blood, whose sureness of foot,
untiring energy, and unquenchable spirit and mettle,
made them at once the pride and joy of their owners.
Young Dumaresq might have cut a finer figure in his
own person, had he not elected to spend so large a
portion of his remaining fortune upon the beast he
now bestrode.  But he had never for a moment
regretted the purchase; and he boasted that Don Carlos
had saved his life on more occasions than one.

The young man's eyes were full of fire; his hand
was upon the hilt of his sword, which lay loose in its
scabbard; the horse was pawing the ground and
pulling on the rein, for the sound of battle was in his
ears, and he was snorting with eagerness to hurl
himself into the ranks of the combatants.  The blare
of the bugles, the roar of the guns, the shouts, screams,
cheers of soldiers, the clash of sabres and the rattle of
musketry, were as music to his ears.  Suddenly flinging
up his head, and uttering something between a snort
and a neigh, the creature was off like an arrow from
a bow, heading wildly, yet with a restraint and
self-control which spoke worlds for his training, towards
the hurly-burly raging through the battlefield below.
Grey Dumaresq cast a half-laughing glance in the
direction of his servant behind, who had set spurs
to his steed and was following.

"Needs must, where the devil drives!" he said
with a laugh.  "Don Carlos will make soldiers of us,
whether we will or no."

The battle of Ramillies was now raging.  Marlborough's
generalship had already made its mark.
Tavières was in his hands; the right wing of the
enemy was shaken, and the Dutch and English
soldiers were preparing to charge the closely-serried
lines of the French, even before the travellers had
reached the scene of action.  They heard whilst they
were yet half a mile away the concussion of that
charge, the yells of the soldiers, the cheers of the
Allies as they felt the wavering of their foes.  But
the French, though the first line had been broken,
were not vanquished yet.  The second line was
composed of the pick of the young nobility—men
careless of personal peril, disdainful of death, desirous
only of glory and of victory.  Upon these picked
troops the Allies flung themselves in fury; but they
stood their ground and hurled back the attacking
lines, as the rocks of an iron-bound coast fling back
the oncoming waves of the ocean.  It was now
impossible for the traveller to gauge what was
happening.  He was too near the scene of the
tumult; but he was in the very nick of time to
bear a share in one of the minor incidents of the
day, which might have proved one of infinite
disaster to the cause of his country.

The Duke of Marlborough, who had been directing
the attack upon the French right, saw that this
second charge was less successful than the first, and
giving orders for reinforcements to be hurried up,
he himself galloped in the direction of the fight, to
encourage with his own presence the wavering soldiers,
and direct the next critical operations in person.
He was exceedingly well mounted, and his horse, wild
with excitement, and feeling all that sympathy with
his master's mood which is natural to these noble
creatures, carried him so swiftly forward, that after
he had galloped along the lines, giving orders here,
there, and everywhere as he passed, he overshot his
position, and without noting it in the confusion,
was almost alone and at some small distance from
his own lines.  Before he could pull up his excited
horse, there was a sudden rush from the French
lines.  Several young nobles and gentlemen had
recognized the Duke, had taken in the accidental isolation
of his position, and galloping forward with one
consent, surrounded him before he was well aware what
had happened.

It was just at this critical moment that the two
travellers, half stunned by the noise of the battle,
ignorant of what was happening, but eager for a
share in the fray, topped a little rise in the ground
which hid the plain from them, and came full upon
the scene of the Duke's danger.  The great General
never lacked presence of mind, was never daunted
by personal peril.  He had realized his position, and
setting his horse at a furious gallop, he had already
broken through the ring of would-be captors, and
was charging furiously for his own lines.  At the
very moment when Grey Dumaresq and his servant
took in the meaning of what they saw, he had put
his horse at a wide ditch which lay across his path,
and the animal was rising to the leap.

"Zounds! but the beast is down!  They will have
him again!"

This shout rose from Dicon's throat.  Grey set his
teeth hard.

"It is the Duke himself; they shall never take
him.  Don Carlos shall save him from that!"

The Duke's horse had fallen heavily, throwing his
rider over his head.  Others besides his foes were
heading wildly for the spot.  All who saw it knew
how much hung upon the turn of the next few
seconds.  First of all came the young stranger, who
flung himself from his splendid horse, just as
Marlborough rose to his feet, bruised and shaken, but
with every faculty alert.

"Mount, sire, mount!" cried the traveller, holding
the horse by the head to still his excited plunging.
"The enemy are closing round; but only mount, and
he will carry you safely.  I will stake my last ducat
upon it!"

The Duke had hold of the saddle by now; one of
his own officers sprang forward to hold the stirrup.
Next instant the General was in the saddle; but the
head of the Colonel who stood at the stirrup was
rolling upon the ground.  A cannon ball had carried it
off.  How the Duke had escaped was a marvel and a
mystery.

Excitement and lust of battle had fast hold of
Grey Dumaresq and his horse.  The gallant
animal carried the Duke safely back to his own lines,
amid the cheers of his soldiers.  The young man
swung himself upon the back of the riderless horse
belonging to the killed Colonel, and followed him,
scarce thinking what he was doing.  None forbade
him.  Many had seen his prompt and timely action;
many watched him as the tide of battle raged this
way and that, and saw that, whether a trained soldier
or not, this young stranger was no novice in the art of
war.  The Duke himself turned more than once to
watch him, as he joined in some headlong charge,
and turned and wheeled, or gave thrust or parry
with the ease of practice and the skill which only
comes through experience.  Once in a pause he
beckoned the young man to his side, and said,—

"I would speak with you, sir, when I am at
leisure.  Come to my quarters, wherever they may
be, when the battle is over.  I have somewhat to
say to you."

The young man bowed low, and promised
compliance with this request; but it was many long
hours before he and the victorious General stood
face to face.  The battle itself had been won in
less than four hours, but the pursuit had been
long, lasting far into the night; and the dawn was
well-nigh breaking in the eastern sky when Grey
received a message that the Duke desired speech of
him in the house at Meklert, where he had stopped
short, whilst his soldiers continued the pursuit of the
flying foe almost up to the walls of Louvain.

Marlborough was sitting at a table, whereon stood
the remains of a hasty meal; and from the writing
materials before him, it was plain that he had been
penning one of those dispatches to his wife without
which he could never rest, even after the most arduous
day's campaigning.  He had changed some of his
clothes, and though pale and somewhat jaded,
preserved that air of elegance and distinction which was
always one of his most marked characteristics.  But
even without spotless linen and fine array, there was
something in the high-bred courtesy of Marlborough's
manner, and in the singular beauty of his face and
person, which always won the hearts of those about
him, and particularly so during those years when the
magnificence of his military genius was making him
the man of greatest mark in Europe.

He rose as the young stranger was ushered in, and
offered his hand with a frank and gracious courtesy
free from any alloy of condescension or patronage.

"I wish to thank you in person, sir, for the great
service you this day rendered me with such timely
promptitude.  I have never bestridden a better horse,
and owe you much for the loan.  I would fain learn
the name of the gentleman to whom I am so deeply
indebted."

"My name, your Grace, is Grey Dumaresq; and
that of my horse, Don Carlos.  I thank you for your
gracious words.  We shall feel honoured for all time
in that kind Fortune gave us the chance of rendering
you some small aid in a moment of peril.  The world
would have been terribly the poorer by this day's work,
had mischance touched the Duke of Marlborough!"

The General smiled, and motioned the young man
to be seated.  He himself took a seat opposite, and
studied him with some attention.

"If you and your good horse are in any sort disposed
to put your strength and skill at the service of
your country, Mr. Dumaresq, I think I can promise
you a position not far from my own person, which
will not be without opportunities of profit, and will
give scope to your prowess with sword and lance,
which I have had the opportunity of observing more
than once this day."

The young man's face flushed with pleasure.  He
looked eagerly into the face of the great man.

"Were I a free agent, your Grace, most gladly would
I take advantage of your offer, asking nothing better
at Fortune's hands than to serve you faithfully.  But
I am on my way to England to learn news of my
father.  For three years I have been absent from
my native shores.  For three years I have been a
wanderer, and, I fear me, a spendthrift to boot.  I have
spent or squandered the fortune with which I started
forth.  Rumour has reached me that my father's
health has given way, and that I am needed at
home.  I fear me I have not been a good son to
him heretofore.  I must therefore seek to be the
solace of his declining years, if the reports I have
heard concerning him be true."

Marlborough mused awhile with a slight smile
upon his lips.  He had a good memory for names,
and had an idea that Sir Hugh Dumaresq, the
probable father of the youth before him, had not
been a man to inspire any very deep affection
in the heart of his son.  He bore the reputation
of being a rake of the first order.  It was said
that he had broken his wife's heart, and cared
nothing for the boy who would succeed him.

"That is a pious resolution on your part, my
friend.  I trust you may be rewarded, and I will
not seek to stay you.  Methinks your mother was
a good and gentle woman.  Her son will live to do
her credit yet."

The young man's eyes lighted, and his face
softened.

"My mother was an angel upon this earth.  Would
God I had not lost her so soon!  Did you know her,
my lord?  She was kinswoman to the hapless Lord
Grey, who took up the cause of the Duke of
Monmouth twenty years since, and whom your Grace
defeated and routed on the field of Sedgemoor,
fatal to so many.  She gave me her name, and
she bequeathed to me the small fortune which
passed into my keeping three years ago, when I
came of age.  Since then I have been a wanderer
in many lands.  I have seen hard blows given and
taken; I have been in many perils and battles.  I
was with Lord Peterborough when he fell upon the
fort of Mountjuich, and made himself master of
Barcelona, just when all hope of taking it seemed
at an end.  I have fought in the ranks of the
Duke of Savoy against the veterans of France.  I
have been a soldier of fortune for this year or
more, and though often in peril and hard pressed,
have never received aught but a scratch now and
again.  I did hope that I should not travel
northwards without seeing something of the campaign
under the great Duke, whose name is in all men's
mouths; but I did not dare to ask or hope for
the honour which has been mine to-day."

Marlborough's eyes lighted as the young man
spoke, and he asked many quick and pertinent
questions of the traveller anent those lands of
Spain and Italy, in whose politics and disposition
of parties he was so keenly interested.  He had
desired above all things to prosecute this summer an
Italian campaign.  Difficulties with the Dutch
field-deputies alone hindered the more dashing and offensive
policy which he would so gladly have adopted.  He
listened with keen interest to Grey's account of his
journey through Savoy, his interview with Victor
Amadeus, and his successful feat of carrying
important dispatches into Turin, though hemmed in
by the French, and waiting sorrowfully for relief;
and his escape thence, and journey to the camp or
Prince Eugene, who was seeking to carry relief to
the Duke of Savoy, and eventually to drive the
French back over their own borders.

All this was intensely interesting to Marlborough,
and he more than ever felt a desire to keep in his
service a youth who seemed to possess so many of the
qualifications which he most prized.  But he was a
man, too, who never undervalued the domestic side of
life, or willingly interfered with the duties engendered
by filial or conjugal ties.  So he checked the words
which had well-nigh risen once again to his lips, and
only said graciously,—

"You have indeed been smiled upon by Dame
Fortune, Mr. Dumaresq.  Many a young blood would
give half his fortune for the chances you have had.
Methinks the world will hear of you yet.  The brow
of a poet, the thews of a warrior, a head calm and
well-balanced, and a soul that shrinks not in the hour
of peril—"

He paused a moment, and the young man's cheek
glowed.

"Your Grace thinks too highly of my poor merits,
I fear me.  I trust I have not spoken as a braggart;
for, in sooth, it is little I have to boast me of.  A good
horse beneath me, a faithful comrade by my side, a
keen Toledo blade in mine hand, and all else came
of itself.  I have been happy in my days of peril
and adventure; but now I must lay aside my weapons
and my roving habits, and strive to show myself
a good son, and take up my duties as my father's right
hand and helper, if it be true that he is laid aside from
active life, and needs me with him henceforth."

Marlborough had taken up a pen, and was writing
a few lines upon a sheet of paper which lay upon the
table.  When he had finished, he handed it open to
the young man.

"A pass for yourself and your servant, Mr. Dumaresq;
you may find it useful in passing through a
disturbed country.  But you will be wise to avoid the
French frontier, and all cities where they have
garrisons, and to confine yourself to the Dutch
Netherlands, to make your way to the Hague, and thence
to England.  With this pass in your possession, you
should then have small difficulty in travelling without
molestation.  And let me ask you if you have funds
sufficient for your needs, since it is dear work at
times travelling through a country devastated by war,
and I would not have my benefactor crippled for lack
of a few pieces of gold."

The young man's face flushed slightly, but his eyes
were frank and smiling.  He laid his hand upon an
inner breast pocket, and tapped it significantly.

"I thank your Grace from my heart; but, albeit I
have squandered my fortune something too lavishly,
I have yet enough and to spare to take me home.
Were it otherwise," he added, with a very engaging
look upon his handsome features, "there is nobody to
whom I would be more gladly indebted than to his
Grace of Marlborough."

The Duke's face was pleasant to see.  He had
taken a great liking for this young man.  He
hesitated a moment, and said,—

"You would not care to sell your horse?  I would
give a goodly price for such a charger."

"My lord, if I loved him less, most gladly would I
beg your Grace's acceptance of him, and would rejoice
that Don Carlos should be thus honoured.  As it is,
he is the greatest friend and best comrade I possess
in the world.  I trow I must needs take him home
with me."

"You are right, boy, you are right.  And it is better
so; for he might meet a bloody end any moment in
these rough campaigning days.  But you must not go
hence without some token of the good will and
gratitude John Churchill bears you.  Take this ring, and
wear it for my sake.  And should ever trouble, or
loss, or misfortune fall upon you, and you be in need,
in my absence abroad, of a friend at home, take it
and show it to my wife.  I shall write to her of this
day's peril, and how I was saved in the nick of time;
and when she sees that ring in your hands, she will
know who was her husband's deliverer, and will know,
too, how to receive and reward him."

The ring held out was a large amethyst of great
brilliance and beauty, with a curious oriental-looking
head engraved upon it, with what might be a legend
in some Eastern tongue.  It was a trinket which, once
seen, would not easily be forgotten, and Grey
Dumaresq slipped it upon his finger with a smile of
gratification.  It was no small thing to feel himself thus
honoured by Europe's greatest general.

He rose to his feet and bowed low; but Marlborough
held out his hand and pressed his fingers warmly.
"I shall not forget you, my friend.  I trust that
yours will be one of the faces that will greet me first,
when I shall return home to England after the close
of the campaign."

The young man's face lighted with pleasure at
these words.

"I think your Grace may rely upon that," he said.
"I thank you with all my heart for this most
gracious reception."

"The thanks are mine to give—yours to receive,"
spoke the Duke with his winning graciousness.
"Farewell, my friend.  May Dame Fortune continue
to smile upon your career; and may you live to be
prosperous and famous, and find one to love and be
loved by faithfully—for, believe me, without true
conjugal love, a man's life is desolate and empty, and
nothing can fill the ache of a heart that has no loving
ones at home to rejoice with him in his joy and weep
at his misfortunes.  Ambition may go far, success
may be sweet; but it is love which is the true elixir
of life.  A man who loves and is loved can defy
misfortune, poverty, even age and sickness and death; for
love alone is eternal."

He spoke like one inspired, and his whole face
kindled.  Grey Dumaresq never forgot the smile
upon the face of the great victorious General, as he
saw it in that little room at Meldert on the morrow
of the victory of Ramillies.





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.. _`HARTSBOURNE`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   HARTSBOURNE.

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The soft June dusk was falling with dewy
freshness over smiling meadow and forest glade, and
the long, long shadows were melting away in the
dimness of a night that would never be dark, when Grey
Dumaresq halted upon the brow of a little hill, and
gazed before and around him with eager pleasure,
not untinged with wistfulness.

Somewhere amid those swelling woodlands lying to
the south-west lay his childhood's home.  He had
hoped to make this spot ere the sun sank; and then
he knew he could have traced the gleam of the
shining streamlet, slipping like a silver streak between
masses of sombre green.  He might even, if the
leaves had not made too thick a screen, have descried
the twisted chimneys and timbered gables of the old
house itself.  His heart beat and his throat swelled
as he gazed out over the darkening prospect.  How
he had loved that home of his so long as it had been
blessed by his mother's presence there!  With what
proud delight had he sometimes pictured to himself
the time when it might be his own, his very own!
From childhood he had been called "the little
master—the little heir."  If his mother had not dubbed him
so, the servants had.  For Sir Hugh Dumaresq, alas,
had not been a man to inspire either affection or
respect in the hearts of servants or of son, and the
child had dreamed dreams of the golden days which
he and his mother might some day enjoy, when he
should be lord of all, and live to wipe away tears
from her eyes, and ensure that nothing should trouble
or harass her again.

That fond dream had died its own death when the
mother was laid to sleep beneath the churchyard sod,
and the boy, broken-hearted and indifferent to his
fate, had gone forth first to school and then to college,
and had known the sweet word "home" no longer.

It was years now since he had seen Hartsbourne.
At first he could not bear the idea of revisiting it, to
find it empty of the one loved presence which had
made it what it was to him.  Afterwards his father
had ceased to dwell there, had lived more and more
in London, had even let the old Manor, as Grey heard
before he quitted England for the roving life of the
past three years.

He had been somewhat hurt and angry when this
was told him; for he had planned to go and bid the
old place farewell, and he no longer cared to do so
then.  True, it was a kinsman who dwelt there now.
His father had spoken of him with a cynical smile.

"He is next of kin, after you, my son; and he has a
greater gift of thrift than will ever be mine or yours,
I take it.  If anything should befall you on these
wanderings upon which your heart is set, he would
be the one to come after me, and take title and estates
in his own right.  If he like now to pay me my
price, he may share the old house with the rats and
the bats, for all I care.  I love not to spend good
money upon leaking roofs and bowing walls.  Give
me the parks and the coffee-houses, the Mall and the
play-house!  The devil may fly away with that
rotten old house, for all I care!"

This sentiment, rapped out with a good many of
the fashionable oaths of the time, had been Grey's
first intimation that his beloved old home was falling
into decay.  As a child it had seemed all the more
perfect from that lack of newness or primness, the
wildness of the garden, the encroachments of weed
and woodland, which mark the first stages of decay.
These words had opened his eyes to the fact that his
father was letting the old place take care of itself,
without regard to the future, and even then he had
been conscious of the stirrings of a certain vague
resentment.  But he had been powerless to act; for
although he had just received a small fortune which
his mother had hoarded for him, and which had been
nursed for him by a kinsman on the Grey side, he
had no power to take over Hartsbourne and expend
his wealth upon the old home; moreover, by that
time the longing for travel and adventure was keen
upon him, and he had made every arrangement for
a tour of the then known world.  His father rather
encouraged than lamented his proposed absence; and
the youth longed to be his own master, and to feel
the strength of his wings.

Yet now, after three years' wandering about the
world, Grey found himself gazing with a swelling
heart upon the familiar outlines of the region of his
childhood's home, and the voices of the past seemed
calling him aloud—tender, sweet-toned voices, which
had been silent for long, but which awoke now to
cry aloud with strange insistence.

The solemn moon rose over the tree-tops as Grey
gazed breathlessly upon the dim panorama before
him, and instantly the world became flooded with
a mystic radiance.  A church spire stood suddenly
out like a silver beacon, and Grey caught his breath
as he watched; for his mother's grave lay beneath
the walls of that little church, and the cross upon its
apex seemed like a finger beckoning to him to come.

"Yonder is our goal, Dicon," spoke the young man,
as his servant, whom he had outridden in his eager
haste, spurred up the ridge to his side.  "You cannot
see the house in this uncertain light; but it lies in
yon deep hollow, away to the right from the church.
The river winds about it, guarding it from ill, as I
used to think in my boyish fantasy.  I have seen
the harts and does come down from the forest to
drink at its waters.  Hartsbourne was the name
they gave the house, and methinks it was well
named.  Ah me!—to think how many years have
passed since I beheld it all!  Hark!  Can you not
hear the old familiar voices calling the wanderer
home?"

The honest servant nodded his head with a smile
upon his rugged features.  He loved his young master
devotedly, and was not unaccustomed to share his
musings, whether they were dashed with poetic
melancholy or were full of reckless daring.
Whatever his master's mood, honest Dick admired him
with equal fervour.  As their horses picked a way
down the descent in the darkness, he hazarded a
question.

"You think you will find your noble father there, sir?"

"Why, surely yes, Dicon.  Where should a man be
when failing in health and strength, if not at his own
home?"

"As for that, sir, I know nothing.  But you have
told me how that he loved not his own house, but
gave it over into the hands of his kinsman, that he
might take his pleasure elsewhere."

"Very true, Dicon; but that was when he was
hale and strong.  When ill-health and feebleness
overtook him, I doubt not that all was changed.
True, I have not heard from him these many
months; but that is no marvel, since I myself have
been a very wandering Jew.  But the gentleman who
brought me news of him unawares did say that he
was about to quit London, for whose giddy round
he had no longer strength or inclination.  I have
never doubted but that Hartsbourne would be the
place of his choice; and hither have I come.  I
might have learned news of him by going straight
to London; but why turn aside from our way for
that, when I feel so sure that it is here we shall
find him?  Doth not nature call every man home
to his bed at night, and to his own home at the close
of his life?  My father is not old—Heaven send he
may live long yet; but if disease has crippled his
powers and robbed him of his zest of life, I doubt
not but that it is here we shall surely find him."

Two days previously the travellers had landed
safely at the port of Harwich, having had a safe
and speedy crossing from the Hague.  The pass
given them by the Duke of Marlborough had
rendered their journey from Louvain an easy one.
From the seaport, Grey had taken the direct road
into Hertfordshire, feeling certain that here, and not
in London, would he now find his father.  He had
hoped to arrive ere set of sun; but a few mischances
along the road, and the sultry heat of the midday
hours, had delayed them.  Nevertheless, being now
so near, he pressed on steadily.  He could not rest
so near to home, save beneath the old roof-tree.  As
the windings of the path grew more familiar, his
heart throbbed in his breast.  Here they passed the
boundary of his father's estate.  That broken cross
marked the spot.  And yonder, sleeping in the
moonlight, hoary and beautiful, lay the ruined fragments
of what had once been an old priory.  He could see
that the walls had crumbled away during his years
of absence; but one beautiful arch still stood as of
old, the delicate tracery showing clear in the
moonlight.  White owls flitted from the thick wreaths
of ivy, and hooted weirdly as they sailed by on
noiseless wing.  A wild cat leaped out with a
menacing yell, and both horses snorted and plunged
at the sight and sound.  Dick's hand was on his
pistol stock; but seeing what it was, he uttered a
half uneasy laugh.

"A bad omen, my master," he spoke, as he quieted
his horse.  "That wild black thing was liker some
witch or devil than aught I have clapped eyes on
this many a day.  Saints preserve us from spell or
charm!"

For Dick, albeit a good Protestant by profession,
had caught some of the phrases of the people in
whose lands he had dwelt, and he was by no means
free from superstition, though a bold enough rogue to
meet any peril that he could combat with sword or
bullet.

"Tush, Dicon!  Dost fear a cat, man?  For my
part, I love all the wild things of the woods, and
would be the friend of all.  See yonder!  There
should be a tangled path leading down through the
forest glade, and across the stream by a ford to the
house itself.  Methinks I cannot lose the way, though
the path be overgrown, and the light treacherous.—Onward,
good Carlos!  Fodder and rest are nigh at
hand.  Within the space of half an hour you and I
should both be installed safely at home."

Home!  The word was as music to his ears.  It
seemed to set itself to the beat of the horses' hoofs
along the tangled path, which Grey had some trouble
in finding.  But once found, he was able to trace it
without difficulty; and soon the soft whisper of the
water fell upon his ears, and the stream lay before
him shining in the moonlight.

How beautiful it was upon this still June night!
The young green of the trees could not shut out the
silvery beams of the moon.  The forest was full of
whispering voices, and every voice seemed to be
welcoming back the stranger-son.  The warblers
amid the sedges and the fringe of alders along the
course of the winding stream filled the air with soft
music, not less sweet, if less powerful, than that of
the nightingale pouring out his heart in song a little
farther away.  Sometimes a sleeping deer in some
deep hollow sprang up almost from beneath their
feet, and dashed, phantom-like, away into the dim
aisles of the wood.

And now the wall loomed up before them which
separated the house and its precincts from the
wilderness of wood and water beyond.  Grey well knew
this mouldering wall, from which the coping had
fallen in many places, and which showed more than
one ill-repaired breach in the once sound masonry.
The ivy had grown into a tangled mass upon it, and
was helping to drag it down.  Any active marauder
could have scaled it easily.  But Grey turned his
horse, and skirted round it for some distance.  For
he knew that a door at the angle gave entrance into
the stable-yard, and from thence to the courtyard
and entrance-hall of the old house; and as it was
already past midnight, he preferred to take this way
rather than approach by the avenue to the front of
the house.

He turned the angle of the wall, and there was the
entrance he was making for.  But how desolate it all
looked!  The double doors had rusted from off their
hinges, and stood open, none seeming to care to close
them at night.  The courtyard was so grass-grown
that the feet of the horses scarcely sounded as they
entered.  A range of stables stood half open, some
mouldy straw rotting in the stalls, but no signs of
life either in the stables below or the living-rooms
above.  Grey directed Dicon to the forage store, and
bade him look if there were not something to be
found there for the horses; and whilst the man was
thus engaged, finding enough odds and ends to serve
for a meal for the beasts, the master passed through
an inner door into a second courtyard, and gazed
upward at a range of lancet windows which, in former
days, had belonged to the rooms occupied by the
servants.

Not a light glimmered in any casement; not a dog
barked challenge or welcome.  It was not wonderful
that the house should be dark and silent at such an
hour; but it was more than darkness which reigned
here.  There was a look of utter desolation and
neglect brooding over the place.  Broken casements
hung crazily, and swung creaking in the night air.
Tiles had slipped from the roof, chimney stacks
seemed tottering to their fall.  True, the great
nail-studded oaken door, which Grey well remembered as
leading through a long arched passage past the
servants' quarters and into the front entrance-hall, was
closed and locked; but rust had eaten deep into all
the iron work, and cobwebs hung in festoons from
the eaves of the dilapidated porch.

In vain Grey beat upon the door with the pommel
of his sword.  Not a sound from within betokened
the presence of living creature.  A sudden fear shook
him lest he had come too late.  This idea had never
troubled him before.  His father was still young in
years.  Dissipation might have weakened him, made
him an easy prey to disease; but surely, surely had
aught worse than that befallen, he would have heard
it—he would have been summoned back.  It was
not any very tender bond that had existed betwixt
father and son; but after all, they had no one else.
Grey felt his heart grow suddenly cold within him.

Then a new idea entered his head.  He turned
away from the door, and passed hastily through the
courtyard into a walled enclosure beyond, which had
plainly once been a fine kitchen-garden, where giant
espaliers still lined the paths, and masses of apple
blossom glimmered ghostly in the moonlight.  Striding
along one of the paths under the house wall,
where shuttered windows, looking like blind eyes,
gave back a stony stare, he reached at last a quaint
little offshoot of the house, set in an angle where
house and garden wall joined; and he uttered a short
exclamation of satisfaction as he saw that here there
were traces of habitation in clean, bright window
panes, flowers in a strip of border beneath, and a
door that looked as though it could move upon its
hinges.  Upon this door he thumped with hearty
good will.

"Jock!  Jock!  Wake up, man—wake up!  Don't
tell me that you are a ghost too—that the old house
is peopled only with ghosts of the past.—A dog's
bark!  Good!  Where there is dog, there is man.—Wake
up, Jock!  Wake up and open the door.
Have no fear.  It is I—the young master."

"God bless my soul!  Ye don't say so!" cried a
cracked voice from within.—"Quiet, Ruff; be still,
man!—Yes, yes, I'm comin', I'm comin'."

The sound of a bolt slipped back gave evidence
of this, and next moment the door was opened from
within, a shaggy head was thrust forth, and an old
man, evidently just risen from his bed, gazed for a
moment at the intruder, who stood plainly revealed
in the moonlight and uttered a heartfelt exclamation.

"Heaven be praised!—it is Sir Grey himself!"

The young man fell back as though before a blow.
"Sir Grey!  What mean you by that, Jock?  Sir Grey!"

"Why, master dear, you surely have heard the
news!  You have been Sir Grey since the week
after Christmas."

"You mean—my father—nay, Jock—how can I
speak the words?"

"He died two days after Christmas, Sir Grey.  He
had me with him to the last.  He never trusted that
knave of a kinsman, not he, though he had let
himself get fast into his clutches.  Ah, if you had but
been with us then!  Woe is me! for we wanted you
sorely.  It was hard upon All Saints' Day that the
old master came back.  He was sick; he had lost the
use of his limbs.  The leeches said they could do
naught for him, but that he might live to be an old
man yet.  He made light of it at first.  He vowed
he would cheat them all.  But we all saw death in
his face.  In two months he lay over yonder by the
side of our sweet lady."

Jock, though no great speaker at ordinary times,
had made, for him, a long speech, because the young
master said not a word, but stood leaning against the
angle of the wall as though overcome by the news he
had heard.

"And why was I not sent for?"  The words were
a whisper.

"You were, Sir Grey, you were—leastways the
master told me so.  He said that Mr. Barty had
written many letters, and sent them after you by
trusty messengers.  But Lord, if 'twere only what
that rogue said, belike the trusty messenger was
nothing better than the fire, into which he dropped his
own letters after satisfying the master by writing them."

"What mean you, Jock?" asked Grey, with dry
lips.  "And who is this Mr. Barty of whom you speak?"

"Faith, none other but him as hopes one day to
style himself Sir Bartholomew Dumaresq—your
father's cousin, Sir Grey, and next of kin after you.
'Tis he as has got his grip so fast upon Hartsbourne
that it'll be a tough bit of work to shake it off.  He's
got mortgages on the place, the old master told me at
the last, and he's been squeezing it like a sponge
these many years—cutting the timber, grinding the
tenants, living like a miser in one corner of the house,
letting all else go to wrack and ruin, that there may
be nothing for the heir to come into.  Oh, the master
saw through him at the last, that he did; but 'twas
too late then.  Here he is, stuck fast like a leech to
the old place, and sucking its life-blood dry, and
protected by the law, so that even you can't touch him;
the master told me that before he died.  He'd got
him to sign papers when he was merry with wine,
and knew not nor cared what he signed.  So long as
Mr. Barty supplied him with money, he cared for
naught else; and now he's got such a grip on house
and lands that it'll be a matter of years before ever
he can be got out, if ever that day come at all."

A numb feeling began to creep over Grey.  He
felt like one walking in a bad dream.  The blow of
hearing of his father's death was a heavy one.  It
seemed to shake the foundations of his life to their
very base.  And now his home was lost to him!
Little as he understood the machinations of his
kinsman, he grasped that he had come into nothing but a
barren title and nominal possession of a ruinous and
dilapidated old house, the revenues of which were in
some way alienated to another.  He had heard such
tales before.  He did not discredit old Jock's recital.
It fitted in only too well with what he knew of his
father's recklessness and selfish expenditure, and his
kinsman's artful grasping policy.  So, after all, he
had come to a home that was not his; and he would
have to face the world again as something very like
a beggar.

Old Jock's hand upon his arm aroused him to a
sense of outward things.  Dicon had come up, and
was listening with wide eyes and falling jaw to the
recital of the same story as had been told in outline
to Grey.  The fuller details only made it sound more
true and lifelike.

"Come in, Sir Grey, come in.  There's bite and
sup for you in the cupboard.  The old master didn't
forget me, and I can make shift to earn my bread by
hook or by crook even without regular wage.  Come
in, come in, and I'll give ye what I've got for ye.
'Twas all the old master had left from his hoard; but
he said it would give you a start in life, and that
your wits must do the rest.  He gave it me private
like, when Mr. Barty was off the place, and I buried
it beneath the hearthstone that same day.  'Tis all
safe for you, Sir Grey; and you won't go penniless
into the world, for all that this villain of a kinsman
reigns at Hartsbourne, where you should be."





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.. _`THE SCHEMING KINSMAN`:

.. _`46`:

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   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE SCHEMING KINSMAN.

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They sat face to face in a room which Grey well
remembered.  It had been lined with folios
in those days—great tomes in which he had dug with
breathless delight, for the treasures of wood-cuts and
the strange stories they possessed—and illuminated
missals, where, amid a mass of gilding and wonderful
colours, the story of saint or martyr could be traced.
Other and more modern works had been also there,
specimens of the art of printing as carried on through
the days of the Stuarts.  But where were all these
tomes and scrolls and books now?  Grey swept the
empty shelves with quick, indignant glances.  A
motion of his hands seemed to ask the question his
lips were too proud to speak.

A small and wizened man sat before him, his eyes
furtively scanning the young man's face with an
unwinking attention.  He could not have been old, this
parchment-faced kinsman—not more than five-and-forty
at the most—and yet he wore the look of an
old man, and was fond of speaking of himself as such.
The unhealthy pallor of his face bespoke a life of
inaction, and the lines and wrinkles on the puffy skin,
and the emaciation of the frame and claw-like hands,
seemed either to indicate some wasting disease, or else
a miser-like habit of life which denied its owner the
common necessaries of existence.  Grey fancied that
perhaps this latter surmise might be the right one;
for he himself would have fared ill at breakfast that
morning, had it not been for the fish which Dicon had
caught and cooked for the pair, ere he presented
himself at the meal to which his kinsman invited him on
hearing of his advent to the old house.  That meal
had been so frugal that Grey almost disdained to
partake of it.  And now he and Mr. Dumaresq sat
facing each other in the green light which fell through
the big north window, against which the trees almost
brushed, rather like combatants in a duel, each of
which measures the strength and skill of the other
before attempting to strike.

The wizened man made a deprecating gesture with
his hand, and answered the unspoken question.

"Sold, sold—every one of them!  I did my best
to keep them in the family, but it was of no avail.
Your father would have money—no matter at what
cost.  I was toiling all I knew for him, as it was.
Everything that could be got out of the estate I
squeezed out for him.  Never man had so faithful a
steward as I was to my poor cousin.  But it was like
pouring water through a sieve.  Nay, you need not
look so fiercely at me.  I am not traducing the dead.
Ask those with whom he consorted.  Ask the boon
companions he made in gay London town.  Ask his
very servants, an you will.  You will hear the same
tale from all.  He spent money like water.  Never
did he trouble his head where it was to come from.
I have papers; I can show them if you have
knowledge of the law enough to understand.  I advanced
him sum after sum, on such poor security as this
tumble-down house and impoverished estate has to
offer.  I beggared myself for his sake.  He was the
only kinsman left me.  I could deny him nothing.
And when my funds were gone, I must needs squeeze
all that could be squeezed out of the house and land.
The books went; the timber was felled; the pictures
were taken away; the best of the furniture went to
adorn the houses of merchants and parvenus.  I
argued and entreated in vain.  When the wild fit
was upon him, Hugh would listen to nothing.  I had
to content myself with serving him, by seeing that
he was not cheated beyond bearing by the crew of
harpies he had around him.  At least I secured him
equitable prices for family heirlooms; but it went to
my heart to see them vanish one by one.  And now,
what is left save the shell of the old house, and an
estate burdened and impoverished well-nigh beyond
the power of redemption?"

He heaved a great sigh, looking cunningly at the
young man out of the corners of his ferret-like eyes.
Grey's glance was stern and direct.  His words were
quietly and coldly spoken.

"We will see about that.  I am here to take up
my burden.  I will learn whether or not Hartsbourne
be past redemption."

"You!" cried 'Mr. Dumaresq quickly; "and pray
what can you do?"

"I can live here quietly, and see what can be done
towards retrieving the past.  Even if I toil with my
own hands, I shall think it no shame, if it be for the
home of my forefathers."

"You live here!" sneered the other, seeking to
mask the sneer by a smile; "and by what right will
you do that, pray?"

"I am the owner," answered Grey proudly.  "I
presume that I have the right to live in my own
house, and to administer such revenues as may be left
to the estate?"

"Oh yes, fair kinsman, so soon as the mortgages be
paid.  I will get them out for your high mightiness
to examine.  Pay them off, and house and manor are
yours to do with as you will.  But till that time
come, I, and not you, am master here.  The revenues
are mine; the house I have the right to occupy, to
the exclusion of any other.  It is all writ fair to
see—signed and sealed.  Will you see the papers for
yourself?  They will make pleasant study for a
summer morning."

"I will look at the papers anon," answered Grey
quietly; "but first I would know from you what it
all means.  It is you, not I, to whom Hartsbourne
belongs, then?  You are the master, and I am the
guest?"

"For the present, yes; but a welcome guest, none
the less," spoke the older man with a repulsive leer.
"The situation, my bold young cousin, is easily
understood.  Your father loved not the old family house.
I did love it.  Could he have sold it, it would have
been mine long since; but he had not the power to
alienate it from the title.  But he did all else that
was possible.  He raised mortgage upon mortgage
upon it—first on the house, then on the land.  I came
to live in the house, and paid him rent for it once.
Then I supplied him with money and took up the
mortgages.  He and I had been boys together.  The
tie between us was strong.  I verily believe he was
glad to have me here, and when he was sick and
smitten with mortal disease he came hither to die,
and I was with him to the last.  He was grateful for
my devoted service.  He was glad to think that I
should live on here afterwards.  'It is no life for a
young man,' he said almost at the last.  'Grey will
carve out a career for himself.  Here he could only
rot and starve like a rat in a hole.'  And I pointed
out that you were my natural heir, and that you
might not have very long to wait before coming a
second time into your inheritance."

Grey sat silent and baffled.  It was little he knew
of the law; but he had heard before this of men who
had left nothing save debts and troubles for those who
came after them.  Many a fair manor and estate
passed into alien hands for years, or even for
generations, when trouble fell upon the owners.  He
understood only too well how it had been here at
Hartsbourne—everything squeezed out of the estate,
nothing put in, till at last the house was falling into
ruin, and the rights of the lord of the manor had
passed away from the owner.  It was no consolation
to Grey that a Dumaresq had supplanted him.  He
was cut to the heart by the selfish extravagance of his
father, and the way in which he had played into the
hands of this schemer.  He saw how impossible it
would be to attempt to live here himself, even if he
could establish a legal right to do so.  He was not
certain if his father could have done anything which
should actually hinder him from claiming possession
of the house which was his, but to find money to pay
off the mortgages—he might as well have sought for
money to buy the moon!  And even then, how could
he live in a house without money, without servants,
without friends?  No; he must seek to carve out a
fortune for himself.  His fair dream of a peaceful life
in England as a country squire was shattered into a
thousand pieces.  Some day perhaps—some day in
the dim and distant future, when fortune and fame
were his—he might come back to take possession of
his own.  It should be his dream—the goal of his
ambition—to dwell at Hartsbourne as its lord and
master.  But for the present he could call nothing his
own save the good horse cropping the lush June grass
in the paddock, and that casket so carefully hidden
beneath the hearthstone of old Jock's living-room.
He would look at the papers.  He would make
careful study of them.  He would take notes as to the
amount necessary to clear the estate and make him
master in reality.  And then he would go; he would
not be beholden to this kinsman, whose shifty face he
distrusted heart and soul, though his words were
smooth and fair.  He would ride forth into the fair
world of an English midsummer, and would see what
the future held there for him.

It was not an exhilarating hour which he spent
over the parchments spread out before his eyes, which
were eagerly explained to him by the lynx-eyed
kinsman, who seemed half afraid to trust them out of his
own claw-like clutches.  But Grey perused them with
attention, making notes the while; and after studying
these at the close, whilst the deeds were being locked
away, he said,—

"Then when I return with thirty thousand pounds
in my pocket, I can take over Hartsbourne, house
and lands and all, and be master of my own estate in
deed as well as in word?"

"And how are you to come by this thirty thousand
pounds, fair coz?" asked Mr. Dumaresq, with
something slightly uneasy in his shifty glance.  "Right
gladly would I receive mine own, and make way for
a gallant gentleman like you; but where are these
riches of Aladdin to come from?"

"Perchance from the same source as yours did
come, sir," answered Grey, looking full at his
interlocutor.  "The Dumaresqs have not ranked as a
wealthy family since the days of the Civil War, when
they lost so much.  But you seem to have found
fortune's golden key; and if you, why not I?"

Did he shrink and cower under these words, or was
it only Grey's fancy that he did so?  The young man
could not be sure, though he had his suspicions.  At
any rate he spoke suavely enough.

"Thrift and care, my young friend, care and thrift—these
qualities are better than any golden key of
hazard.  My father was a careful, saving man, and
at his death bequeathed me greater wealth than I
dreamed he did possess.  I followed in his footsteps
until, for your father's sake, I elected to prop the
falling fortunes of the house rather than live in
selfish affluence on my own revenues.  Well, I did what
seemed right; and my reward shall be the hope of
seeing Hartsbourne one day restored to its former
glories.  But for the present I must needs live like a
poor man, though that is no trouble to one who has
ever made thrift the law of life."

Grey went forth from the presence of his kinsman
with a cloud on his brow and a fire in his heart.

"Why doth he speak of himself as poor?" he
asked of himself.  "He takes to himself all the
revenues of the estate; and when I was a boy, I always
heard that the farms were prosperous, the land fertile,
the timber fine, game and deer plentiful, and the
tenants able to pay their dues.  If all that comes in
goes into his pocket, wherefore doth he live like a
miser? wherefore doth he let the house fall into
decay? he ruined himself for my father's sake?  Tush!
A man with that face sacrifice himself for another!
Nay; but he is hoarding up gold for himself, or I
greatly mistake me.  Truly do I believe that he is
playing some deep game of his own.  Well, I can
but wait and see what time will bring forth.  It
is a shame that the old house should be left to go to
ruin like this, with its revenues falling regularly into
the hands of a Dumaresq!  Why doth he not spend
them upon the fine old structure, to make it what it
was before?  Why, now I see.  He thinks it would
stimulate me to fresh desire to make myself master.
He may haply think that I care not for a habitation
given up to rats and ghosts and cobwebs.  He little
thinks that every fallen stone seems to cry out aloud
to me, and that the lower falls the old house in ruin
and neglect, the more urgent is the voice with which
it urges me to come and save it."

The young man was walking up and down the
grass-grown avenue as he thus mused.  From thence
he could see in perspective the long south front, with
its many mullioned windows, its beautiful oriels, and
the terrace up and down which he had raced in the
days of his happy childhood.  Straight in front was
the eastern portion of the house, with its great
entrance doors, led up to by a fine double stairway,
beneath which a coach could stand, and its occupants
in wet weather enter by a lower door.  But the stone
work was chipped and broken; the balustrade had
lost many of its balls, which lay mouldering in the
long grass that grew up to the very walls.  Moss
and lichen and stone-crop clothed all, and the creepers
which clung about the house itself were wild and
tangled, and in many cases had completely overgrown
the very windows, so that scarce a trace of them
could be seen.

Yet even in its decay the old house was strangely
beautiful, and Grey's heart was stirred to its depths.
He wandered through the tangled garden, and out
towards the fish-ponds beyond and then by a winding
pathway he made his way to the churchyard, and
stood bare-headed at his mother's grave.

"I will win it back, mother; I will win it back!"  He
spoke the words aloud, in a low-toned, earnest
voice.  "You loved the place, and you taught me to
love it.  For that alone I would seek to call it one
day mine own.  I will win it back, and methinks
your heart will rejoice when your son is ruling there
at last."

Grey had meant to leave that very day; but there
was much he longed to see, and his kinsman had
given him an earnest invitation to pass the night
beneath the old roof-tree.  Repugnant as this man
was to him, and bitterly as he resented his conduct
and distrusted his motives, it was not in the young
man's nature to be churlish.  Every hour of daylight
he spent wandering about the place, revisiting his
boyish haunts, and chatting with old Jock, who,
without being able to give any exact reason for it,
distrusted and despised the present master as heartily
as Grey himself.

"The old master did too, at the last.  I am main
sure of it," he said; "else for why should he have
given me yon box, sir?  And why should he have
bidden me hide it and guard it, and let none see it
till Sir Grey should claim it himself?  For years he
had thought him a friend; but I trow he knew him
for a false one at the last.  You'll best him yet, Sir
Grey—see if you don't.  A villain always outwits
himself in the end.  You'll be master here one day,
please God, or my name's not Jock Jarvis!"

Grey had taken out the casket, and found that it
contained three hundred golden guineas—the remnant
of his father's fortune, and all that he had been able
to preserve to his son of what had once been a fine
estate.  A few words cautioned Grey to be careful of
the hoard, and let no one know of its existence—"no
one" plainly meaning his kinsman.  It also contained
a few faintly traced words of farewell, and
just a plea for forgiveness—evidently written when
mortal weakness was upon the writer—which brought
sudden tears to the eyes of the son, and blotted out
the bitterness of heart which had been growing up
as he mused upon his fallen fortunes and his lost
inheritance.

That evening Grey supped with his kinsman in a
corner of the despoiled library, which seemed the
only room in the house now lived in.  He had walked
through some of the other state apartments, denuded
of their pictures and the best of the furniture, and
looking ghostlike with closed shutters and overgrown
windows.  He had not had heart to pursue his
investigations far; and all that he carried away with
him were saddened memories, and one little mouldering
volume of poems, with his mother's name on the
fly leaf, which he had found lying in a corner of
the little room with the sunny oriel, where she had
passed the greater part of her time.  He thought he
even remembered the book in her hands; and he
slipped it into his breast as though it were some
great treasure.  The sneering smile of his kinsman
as he bade him keep the volume, and saw where he
placed it, did not endear him any the more.  He
wished he could get rid of his companionship, but
that seemed impossible; and Grey soon gave up the
tour of the house, and let himself be led back to
the library.

"No, I have no plans," he said briefly, as they sat
at their frugal supper, to which, in honour of the
occasion, a small flagon of wine had been added.  "I
think I shall remain in England.  I have been a
wanderer something too long.  A homely saying tells
us that the rolling stone gathers no moss.  I have
youth and health and strength, and the world lies
before me.  Men have won success with more against
them before this, and why not I?"

"I should have thought the battlefield would have
tempted you.  There is honour and renown to be
won there, to say nothing of the spoils of a
vanquished foe," spoke Mr. Dumaresq, looking at him in
a peering, crafty fashion.  "Surely a gallant young
gentleman of your birth and training would not lack
for opportunities of distinction amid the perils and
glories of war!"

Suddenly Grey became aware that his kinsman
was anxious for him to go and fight in the cause of
the Allies.  It could not be that he had heard of
the happy chance which had made Marlborough his
friend, for he had spoken of that to none; and
even if Dicon had boasted to old Jock, neither cared
to have aught to do with the deaf and cross-grained
serving-man who waited upon the master within
doors.  A moment more and Grey had found the
clue, and realized that his own death would make
Bartholomew Dumaresq not only absolute master of
Hartsbourne, but a baronet to boot; and in every
battle thousands of brave soldiers were left dead upon
the field, whilst many fell victim to wounds and the
ravages of disease caught during the hard weeks
of campaigning.

"I think I shall remain in England," he answered
quietly.  "I have seen something of war, but a career
of peace has more attractions for me;" and he smiled
to see the look of chagrin which played for a moment
over the crafty face of his kinsman.

Grey did not find it easy to sleep when he had
climbed up into the great canopied bed in the guest
chamber allotted to him.  He scarcely remembered
this room.  It was very large, and before he went to
rest Grey drew aside all the mouldering draperies
from the windows, and opened every casement wide
to the summer night.  Even so the place felt musty.
There were strange creakings and groanings of the
furniture, and the owls without hooted and hissed in
the ivy wreaths.  More than one bat flew in and out,
circling over his head in uncanny flight; and had it
not been that the previous night had been an almost
sleepless one, Grey would scarce have closed an eye.
As it was, he grew drowsy gradually, and felt a
strange swimming in his head to which he was a
stranger.  He was just wondering whether the wine
he had taken at supper, the taste of which seemed
curious to him at the time, could have anything to do
with this, when sleep suddenly fell upon him like a
pall, and for a space he could not gauge he remained
lapped in the unconsciousness of oblivion.

What was it roused him?  Or was he indeed
awake?  The moonlight streamed into the room, and
lay like bars upon the floor.  Its radiance was
sufficient to light every corner of the room, and Grey
found himself lying still as a stone, yet sweeping
every corner with his gaze, for surely he was not
alone.  He felt some presence close beside him, yet
where could it be?

Suddenly his gaze travelled upwards, and for a few
awful seconds he lay gazing as the bird before the
gaze of the snake.

A shining poniard hung, as it were, over his head.
He saw the gleaming silver of the blade.  Its haft
was grasped by a hand—a lean, claw-like hand.  Its
point was aimed at his own heart.

For a few endless seconds Grey lay staring up
helplessly.  Then the blade moved swiftly downwards.
With a motion as swift, the young man threw himself
sidewise out of bed and upon the floor, and turning,
sprang to his feet to meet the murderous foe.

Behold there was nothing!  He was alone in the
great moonlit room.  The curtains behind the bed's
head were slightly shaken—nothing more.

Horrified and bewildered, Grey dashed them aside.
Behind was a wall panelled like the rest of the room
in black oak.  Was it his fancy, or had he heard just
as he sprang to his feet the click as of a closing spring?
Grey passed his hand over and over the woodwork,
but could find nothing to give a clue.  Old memories
of secret sliding panels, unknown passages to hiding-places,
and ghostly visitants to sleeping guests, rose
in succession before him.  But this was something
more than an ordinary ghostly visitor.  Grey saw
again the murderous gleam of cold steel over his
head—saw the claw-like hand in its faded russet sleeve,
the fierce downward sweep of the weapon.

"It was my kinsman, and he sought to do me to
death—here in the haunted chamber, where perhaps
some infernal machinery exists whereby the corpse
could have been quickly and quietly removed and
heard of no more.  Who would care save Dicon, and
what could a poor varlet like that do if the master
of Hartsbourne were to assert that his kinsman had
ridden off in the early hours of the morning, he knew
not whither?  Did he drug the wine?  Was this in
his head all the while?  Or was the idea suggested
only by my refusal to place my neck in peril at the
wars?  O Barty, Barty Dumaresq, a pretty villain
art thou!  Before this I might perhaps have been
tempted to return to the Duke, and seek to win my
spurs at his side; but now—no.  I will take the
safer, if the slower, path to fame and fortune, and I
will live to make you rue the day you sought to rid
yourself, by secret assassination, of the man in whose
shoes you hope some day to stand."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON THE ROAD`:

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   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   ON THE ROAD.

.. vspace:: 2

With the first streak of midsummer dawn Grey
Dumaresq was in the paddock, looking well
to the condition of his horse, and grooming the soft,
satin coat lovingly with his own hands.

"We must be up and away, my beauty, ere the
sun be high.  This is no place for either you or me,
albeit every foot of ground is mine own, and it will
go hard if I let that weasel-faced scoundrel filch it
altogether from me.  I know him now in his true
colours.  Heaven send the day may come when I
shall repay with interest that which I owe him."

The horse tossed his head and neighed as though
in response; and perhaps Dicon heard the sound from
where he slept, for almost at once he was at his
master's side; and old Jock came cautiously out by
the doorway leading towards the house, and looked
relieved and gratified to see the young master abroad.

"Eh, but I have been sore troubled with bad
dreams this night," he said, as he shambled up.  "Yon
house is full of such, I take it.  How slept you,
my master? and how fare you this morn?  It is
good to see you looking so spruce and sound.  Bad
luck to the dreams that drove sleep from my pillow
at last."

"I had my dreams too, Jock, and I have not slept
since," answered Grey, with a significant glance at the
old man.  "Tell me, good fellow, what know you of
the panelled guest-chamber, with the row of windows
looking south over the park?  Ha! why look you
so, man?  What know you of the chamber?"

"Did he put you there, my master?  Then Peter
lied to me, the false-tongued knave.  If I had known
that!  No wonder the dreams were bad that came to
me.  The haunted room!  Tush! it is not ghosts
that hurt, but men who come and go at will and
leave no trace behind."

"I thought so," spoke Grey composedly.  "Then
there is a secret way of entrance into that room?"

"Ay, behind the bed.  I do not know the trick,
but I have heard of it.  Men have been done to death
in that room ere this, and none the wiser for it.  Oh
if I had but known!"

Grey's eyes were fixed full upon the pallid face of
the old man.  He put the next question gravely and
almost sternly.

"Tell me truly, my friend.  Think you that this
kinsman of mine would plot to do me hurt?  He
made profession of friendship."

"He made the same to Sir Hugh," answered Jock in
a trembling voice, "and for long the master believed
in him.  But methinks he never would have died as
he did, had he not come to live here with Mr. Barty
at Hartsbourne."

Grey started and changed colour, clinching his hand,

"You think that this kinsman of ours compassed
his death?"

Jock looked over his shoulder as though fearful of
listening ears.  He drew a step nearer; and Dicon,
with fallen jaw and staring eyes, came up close to
listen.

"How can I tell?  I was seldom in the house.  I
work in the garden, and because I am a cheap servant,
asking no money, but making a pittance by what I
can sell, Mr. Barty has kept me here where he found
me.  But when the old master came, he often sent
for me.  Before he became too ill, he sometimes
crawled to my little cottage yonder for a bit of chat.
He told me the doctors and leeches told him he had
but to rest and live simply in the country for a few
years to be a sound man again.  But for all that he
dwindled and dwindled away, and was gone in two
months."

"Did no leech attend him here?" asked Grey
breathlessly.

"Not till the very last, when they sent me to
Edgeware to fetch one who could do naught.  Mr. Barty
professed to know many cures, and the master
believed in him.  He eased his pain, but he sank into
an ever-increasing, ever-mastering drowsiness, and he
shrank away to skin and bone.  It went to my heart
to see him.  Many's the time when I have wondered
whether it would have ended so if he had not taken
Mr. Barty's simples and draughts."

"Was he poisoned, then?" asked Grey, between
his shut teeth.

Jock looked nervously over his shoulder; the word
seemed to frighten him.  He shook his old head from
side to side.

"Nay, nay, how can I tell—a poor old ignorant
man like me?  But he used to say that you would
likely never come home again (travellers met such
a deal of peril, he would say), and then his eyes
would gleam and glisten, for there was but the old
master's life and yours betwixt him and the title
and all."

Grey ground his teeth, and his eyes flashed.
Somehow he did not doubt for a moment that foul play
had been used to compass his father's death.  Had
he not escaped assassination himself that night only
by the skin of his teeth?

"Could any man living throw light upon this
matter?" he asked.  "The leech from Edgeware,
or any other?"

"I misdoubt me if any could, save wall-eyed
Peter, Mr. Barty's man; and I trow his master makes
it worth while for him to hold his tongue and know
nothing."

"Gold will sometimes unloose a miscreant's tongue."

"Ay, ay, maybe; but Mr. Barty's purse is longer
than yours, Sir Grey, and his mind is crookeder and
his ways more artful.  Don't you go for to anger
him yet: hurt might come to you an you did.  Get
you gone from the place, and that right soon; for
the sooner you leave Hartsbourne behind you, the
safer it will be for you."

"Yes, my master; let us indeed be gone," pleaded
Dicon earnestly.  "This is a God-forsaken hole, not
fit for you to dwell in.  Take the store of gold pieces,
and let us begone, for I trow that harm will come to
you if you linger longer here."

It took little to persuade Grey to be off and away.
Old Jock provided them with a meal, and they could
break their fast at the old inn at Edgeware, through
which they would pass.  He had no desire to go
through the farce of a farewell to his kinsman.  He
only desired to shake off the dust of his feet against
him; and ere the chimes of the church rang out the
hour of six, Grey was turning on the crest of a ridge
of rising ground, to look his last for the nonce upon
the old home he had dreamed of so many a time, and
round which so many loving thoughts centred.

"Let kind Fortune but smile upon me, Dicon, and
show me the way to affluence and fame, and I will
yet be lord and master there, and the manor of
Hartsbourne shall be one of the fairest in the land!"

"Why, so you shall, Sir Grey, and that right
speedily!" cried honest Dick, who had an unbounded
admiration for his young master, and an immense
confidence in his luck, albeit no special good fortune
had befallen him since he had taken service with him.

Dick had led a seafaring life during his earlier
years, and Grey had picked him up in a shipwrecked,
ragged, and starving condition on the coast of Spain
some two years previously.  In those days
ship-wrecked sailors often had a hard time of it, even
though the terrors of the galleys or the Inquisition
did not loom quite so perilously before them as had
been the case a century before.  To find himself taken
into the service of a young English gentleman of
quality, and to be the companion of his travels, had
been a piece of luck that Dick thanked Providence
for every day of his life.  He had been one of four
servants at the outset; but as Grey's resources diminished,
or his roving life took him into perils for which
some men had little stomach, he gradually lost his
retinue, till, for the past year, Dick alone had
followed him, and the two had become friends and
comrades, as well as master and servant.  Now at their
first halting-place, where they paused to let the horses
breathe after a steady half-hour's gallop, Grey opened
the wallet at his side, which he had filled with gold
pieces from the casket (the rest he had sewn carefully
into his clothes for safety), and counted out a certain
number, which he shook in his fist as he spoke.

"Dicon, I am going to London to try my luck
there.  But, as I have ofttimes heard, fortunes are
as easily lost there as won, wherefore it may be that
I shall become a beggar instead of growing in wealth
and greatness."

"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated Dick in passionate
protest.

"Well, Heaven watches over the undeserving as
well as the virtuous, so there is e'en hope for me,"
answered Grey with his winning smile.  "But look
ye here, Dicon.  You have been a faithful rogue, and
have served me well, and I hope we may company
together many a long day yet.  But inasmuch as
there are uncertainties in life, and we are going forth
into a new world, where perchance I may sink rather
than swim, I desire to give you six months' wage in
advance, whilst I have my pockets lined with gold,
so that should any untoward chance befall me, as it
has befallen better men than myself, I shall not have
to turn you adrift unrewarded, nor will you, if you
can be a wise varlet, and husband your resources, be
thrown on the world without some means of support."

Dick seemed about to protest, but either the look
on his master's face or some idea which had entered
his own head held him silent.  He took the coins
without counting them, and producing a greasy
leathern pouch, such as sailors often carry with them,
he dropped the gold pieces into it one by one, tied it
up, and fastened it safely in an inner pocket.

"That pouch stuck by me when I lost everything
else in the world, and well-nigh my own life," said
the fellow with a grin.  "My mother did give it me
when I first went to sea, and she told me as a wise
witch woman had given it her.  She thought 'twas
the caul of a child; and like enough it be, for salt
water never hurts it, and I was the only one saved
of all the crew that went down off the Spanish coast.
I'd sooner part with the gold pieces than with the
pouch that holds them."

They both rode on with thoughtful faces after this
brief interlude.  Grey was turning over a dozen
different schemes in his mind; but all were vague
and chimerical.  Now and again he looked at an
amethyst ring upon his finger, and it came over him
that the shortest cut to fortune might be to present
himself as a suppliant for favour at the feet of the
great Duchess of Marlborough, who was said to rule
the Queen with a rod of iron, and whose known
devotion to her husband would be certain to raise
high in her favour any person who had rendered him
so timely a service as that which Grey had been able
to offer on the day of Ramillies.

But then, again, it seemed to Grey that to claim
reward for that chance service, which had cost him
nothing, was little better than playing the beggar or
the sycophant.  There was in his nature a strong
strain of chivalrous romance—of love of adventure
for its own sake, without thought of reward or
favour.  That encounter with the great Duke, the
interview which had followed, the consciousness that
he had done his country a notable service that day—all
these things were very sweet to him, forming an
episode pleasant to look back upon.  If he now
presented himself on the strength of it as a petitioner
for place or favour, at once the whole thing would
be vulgarized—he would be lowered in his own
estimation, sinking to the level of one of the crowd
of greedy flatterers and place-hunters who thronged
the antechambers of the rich and great, and fawned
upon them for the crumbs of patronage which they
were able to dispense as the price of this homage.

Grey had seen this sort of thing at foreign courts,
and his soul had sickened at it.  Doubtless, in this
great world of London it was the same.  As a
baronet, a young man of parts, with an attractive
person, and, at present, a well-filled purse, he might
not improbably please the fancy of the Duchess, and
obtain some post in her household or about the Court
that would give him a chance at least to rise.  But
the more he thought of this the less he liked the idea,
and at last he flung it from him in scorn.

"I would sooner live in Grub Street, and drive
a quill!" he said half aloud.  "I could praise a
hero with my pen, but I cannot fawn and flatter
with my lips.  And methinks I am not fit for the
life of a place-man: I have been too long mine own
master.  Surely there are ways by which a man may
rise in the world without abasing himself in his own
esteem first.  I will go to London, and look about
me with open eyes.  There are the world of politics,
the world of art and literature, and the theatre of
war, if other spheres should fail.  Surely there must
be a place for me somewhere; but I will not choose
the latter if I can help it.  I fear not death on mine
own account; but I desire to live, and to grow rich,
that I may square matters with yonder villain, and
avenge upon him my father's untimely death!"

For that his father had been in some sort done
to death by his false kinsman, Grey did not now
doubt, though whether he would be able to bring
that crime home to him later, he could not at present
surmise.  Much might be possible to a man with
friends in high places; but these would have to be
found and won ere any step could be taken.

Grey often felt within himself the stirrings of
ambition.  He had shown promise of something akin to
genius in his Oxford days, and there had not been
lacking those among his companions and tutors who
had declared that he could win fame and fortune
through academic laurels.  But Grey had then turned
a deaf ear to such propositions.  He desired to travel
and see the world, and he had done this with much
zest.  But the muse within had not been altogether
silent, and he had many times covered sheets of paper
with flowing stanzas or stately sonnets, which bore
witness to the fire that burned within.  His pencil,
too, was not without cunning; and his study of the
treasures of many an art gallery, many a foreign
church, had given him knowledge and culture beyond
what the average gallant of the day could boast.  The
double strand in his nature was very marked—a
reckless love of adventure, and a delicate appreciation of
the beautiful.  Often he longed after the days of the
early troubadours, when the two walked hand in
hand.  He pondered these matters in his busy brain
as he rode onward in the sunny brightness of the
June morning, and found it in his heart to wish that
he was not thus possessed by such conflicting passions.
He felt he would have had a better chance of success
had his bent in any one direction been more decided.

They pulled up at the quaint old inn at Edgeware,
and rode into the courtyard, where lackeys and
hostlers were making merry together, and where
some handsome horses were being groomed down,
prior to being put into the cumbersome but very
handsome coach that stood beneath the protecting
galleries which ran round the court.  The lackeys
wore a livery of snuff-coloured cloth, with a quantity
of gold lace about it.  The panels of the coach were
snuff-coloured, and there was much heavy gilding
about it, which was being polished with great zeal by
the servants of the inn.  It was plainly the equipage
of some person of quality, and had evidently put up
there for the night, but was likely to be wanted
shortly for the road again.

Grey dismounted, and leaving Dick in charge of
the horses, made his way in through the low-browed
entrance, along a sanded passage, and so to the public
room, the door of which stood open.  As a boy he
had known this house, and it still seemed familiar to
him, though it had changed hands since he had been
there last, and his face was not known to mine host.

"Your pardon, sir," spoke this functionary, bustling
forward on his entrance, "but this room is bespoke
for my Lord Sandford.  If you are wanting a meal,
it shall be quickly served elsewhere—"

But at that moment a rollicking voice from the
foot of the adjacent staircase broke in upon the
excuses of the host.

"Gadzooks, man, but it shall be nothing of the
sort.  Set a cover for the gentleman at my table.
Gosh! is a man so enamoured of his own company
that he must needs drive all the world away?—Come
in, sir, come in, and take pot-luck with me.—Landlord,
see you give us of your best, or I'll spit you on
your own jack!  I've a great thirst on me, mind you;
and let the dishes be done to a turn.—Take a seat in
the window, sir; the air blows fresh and pleasant,
but it will be infernally hot ere noon.  I must be off
and away in good time.  In London streets you can
find shade; but these country roads—hang them
all!—get like What's-his-name's fiery furnace seven
times heated if they don't chance to run through
forest land!"

The speaker was a young man of perhaps seven-and-twenty,
though reckless dissipation had traced
lines in his face which should not so early have been
there.  He was dressed according to the most
extravagant fashion of the day, with an immense curled
wig, that hung half-way down his back; a coat of
velvet, richly laced, the sleeves so short that the
spotless lawn and ruffles of the shirt showed
half-way up the forearm; a wonderful embroidered vest,
knee breeches of satin equally gorgeous, and silk
stockings elaborately gartered below the knee with bands
of gold lace.  He carried a fashionably cocked hat
beneath his arm, with a gold-headed cane; and a
small muff was suspended from his neck by gold
chains.  The muff held a golden snuff-box, with a
picture on the lid which modesty would refuse to
describe; and the young spark took snuff and
interlarded his talk with the fashionable oaths of the day
as a matter of course.

He looked curiously at Grey when they had taken
their seats; for the traveller, though dressed with
exceeding simplicity, and wearing his own hair in loose,
natural curls, just framing his face and touching his
shoulders, was so evidently a man of culture and of
gentle blood that the dandy was both impressed
and perplexed by him.  For high-bred look and
instinctive nobility of bearing Lord Sandford could
not hold a candle to Grey Dumaresq.

"I saw you ride into the yard just now.  Fine
horse that of yours, sir—very fine horse!  If he's
ever for sale, mind you let me know of him.  Lord
Sandford—your very humble servant—always to be
heard of at Will's Coffee House or the Mohawk Club.
Seem to remember your face; but dash me if I can
give it a name.  Awful memory for names I have—know
too many fellows, I suppose.  Not that there
are so many like you, either; but hang me, I must
have met you somewhere before."

Grey had caught the fleeting memory, and answered
at once,—

"We were at Oxford together, my lord.  Not at
the same college, though; but we have met, doubtless.
My name is Grey Dumaresq—"

"Why, to be sure.  Gad! but that's strange!
Thought I wasn't wrong about a face!  I heard you
spout forth a poem once.  Lord, it was fine, though
I didn't understand one word in ten!  Latin or
Greek—rabbit me if I know which!  And I knew your
father, too; met him in London now and again.  He's
not been seen anywhere these eight or nine months."

"My father died last Christmas," spoke Grey
gravely.  "I did not know it myself, being abroad."  And
led on by Lord Sandford's questions, which, if
not very delicately put, showed a real interest in the
subject, Grey gave him a bare outline of his own life
since quitting Oxford, and of the position in which
he now found himself.

"Oddsfish, man—as our merry monarch of happy
memory used to say—but yours is a curious tale.
The ladies will rave over the romance of it—coupled
with that face of yours.  Oh, never say die, man!
You've the world before you.  What more do you
ask than such a face, such a story, and a few hundred
pounds in your pocket?  Why, with decent luck,
those hundreds ought to make thousands in a very
short time.  You trust yourself to me, my young
friend.  I know my London.  I know the ropes.  I
will show you how fortunes are made in a night;
and you shall be the pet of the ladies and the envy
of the beaux before another month has passed.  We
will find you an heiress for a wife, and—heigh,
presto!—the thing is done."

Grey started, and made a gesture as of repulsion,
whereat Lord Sandford roared with laughter; and
there was something so heartwhole and infectious in
his laugh that Grey found himself joining in almost
without knowing it.  The man had a strong personality,
that was not to be doubted, and at this moment
Grey felt himself singularly lonely, singularly
perplexed about his own immediate future.  He did not
know London.  He had scarcely set foot within its
precincts, save on the occasion when he went to bid his
father farewell, and when it seemed to him that he
stepped into Pandemonium itself.  Since then he had
visited many foreign capitals, and had accustomed
himself to the life there to some extent; but only to
the life of a traveller—an onlooker.  Now he felt
that something more lay before him—that it was as a
citizen and a unit in the great hive that he must go.
And how to steer his bark through the shoals and
quicksands of the new life, he had very small idea.
To win fame and fortune was his wish; but how
were these good things to be achieved?  Never had it
entered his head to look upon marriage as a way of
gaining either.

"Zounds, man, don't look like that!  Better men
than you or I have not been shamed to thank their
wives for their promotion.  But there are more ways
of killing a cat than hanging.  We'll look about and
see.  You put yourself in my hands, and I'll show
you the ropes.  No, no; no thanks.  I want some
diversion myself.  Poor Tom Gregory, my boon
companion, made a fool of himself over the wine the
other night, and got spitted like a cockchafer by
Captain Dashwood.  I've felt bad ever since.  I tried
what a trip into the country would do for me.  But
dash it all, I can't stand the dreariness of it.  I am
on my way back to town as fast as may be.  And
you shall come with me.  Nay, I'll take no denial.  A
man must have something to do with his time, or he'll
get into a pretty peck of mischief.  I've taken a
liking to you; and I always get my own way,
because I won't listen to objections."

So an hour later, when the coach rumbled out from
under the archway of the old inn, Grey Dumaresq
sat within by Lord Sandford's side, and Dick, with
a puzzled but satisfied face, led his master's horse
behind.





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.. _`A HIGH-BORN DAME`:

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   CHAPTER V.


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   A HIGH-BORN DAME.

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Westward from Whitehall, just after one
had left behind the streets and lanes of
the fashionable westerly portion of London town,
and emerged into a fair region of smiling meadows,
blossoming fruit-trees, orchards, and woodlands, were
in those days to be found many pleasant and stately
houses, varying in size and splendour according
to the condition of the owner, but fair mansions
for the most part, and inhabited by persons of
quality, many of whom held posts at Court, and
found this proximity to Whitehall a matter of no
small convenience.

Some of the fairest and seemliest of these
mansions were those which lay along the river banks,
with gardens terraced to the water's edge, where
light wherries could deposit gay gallants at the foot
of the steps leading to the wide gravelled walks,
and where a gay panorama of shipping could be seen
by those who paced the shady walks, or sat in the
little temples and bowers which made a feature of so
many of these gardens.

There was one house in particular that in these
days had a notoriety of its own.  It had been an old
manor house in the time when London had not
extended so far to the west, and it lay embosomed in a
quaint old garden, where fair and tall trees made a
pleasant shade through the hot summer days, where
the turf was emerald green and soft to the foot, and
roses flourished in wild abundance.  Now there was
a formal Dutch garden set in the midst of the
old-time wilderness, where clipped box edges divided the
parterres of brilliant-hued blossoms sent from
Holland, and where nymphs disported themselves around
marble fountains, and heathen divinities on pedestals
kept watch and ward over the long terraces which
lined the margin of the river.  But in spite of these
innovations of modern taste, the silvan charm of the
old garden had by no means been destroyed, and
there were many who declared that not even
Hampton Court itself could hold a candle to Lord
Romaine's riverside garden for beauty and brightness
and the nameless fascination which defies analysis.
Lord Romaine was accounted a rising man.  The
friend of Marlborough and Godolphin, a moderate
Whig in politics, a courtier above all else, and loyal
to the backbone, he had been regarded with favour
by the late King, who had given him some appointment
about the Court, which had been confirmed by
the Queen on her accession.  And although Queen
Anne was herself of such strong Tory leanings, she
was beginning to find that the moderate Whigs were
the men most useful and most to be depended upon;
and the shrewd Duchess Sarah—her dear
"Mrs. Freeman"—herself a convert from high Tory
principles to those of their moderate opponents, was using
her influence steadily and strongly to bring the Queen
round to the same state of mind.

So Lord Romaine's star was likely to rise with the
rising tide of Whig supremacy; and as he was a man
of very large private means, and kept open house in
a lavish fashion, it was likely enough that he would
make his mark in the world.  It would be certainly
no fault of his wife if he did not.

Truth to tell, Lady Romaine's head had been
somewhat turned when, three years before, her husband
succeeded to his father's title and estates, and from
being Viscount Latimer, with moderate means and
only a measure of Court favour to depend upon,
became an earl with a very large rent-roll, and a
great fortune in ready money, which his father, who
lived a secluded existence in the country, had amassed
during the later years of his life.  As Lord and
Lady Latimer this couple had lived at the riverside
house they still occupied when in town; but it had
not then worn the aspect that it did to-day, albeit
the garden had been something of a hobby to its
owner for many years.

The lady cared little for the garden, save for the
admiration it aroused in others; but she longed with a
mighty longing to furbish up the old house after her
own design, and as soon as the funds for this were in
their hands, not a moment was lost in the carrying
out of her cherished plans and projects.  With a
rapidity that astonished the town, a great new front
was added to the old building, converting it into a
quadrangle, in the centre of which a great fountain
threw its waters high into the air.  All the new
rooms were large, stately, and imposing, and
furnished according to the latest mode.  Inlaid cabinets
from the far East, crammed with curios of which my
lady knew not even the names; crooked-legged chairs
and sofas of French make; furniture in the new
mahogany wood, just beginning to attract attention
and admiration; rich carpets and hangings from
India, Persia, or China; embroideries from all
quarters of the globe; Italian pottery, Spanish
inlaid armour, silver trinkets from Mexico, feather
work from the isles of the west—all these things,
jostled and jumbled together in rich confusion, made
Lady Romaine's new house the talk of the town; and
her tall powdered lackeys and turbaned negro pages
were more numerous and more sumptuously attired
than those of any other fashionable dame of her
acquaintance.

My lady was at her toilet upon this brilliant June
morning; and as custom permitted the attendance of
gentlemen at this function, in the case of married
ladies, the hall and staircase leading up to her suite
of private apartments were already thronged by a
motley crew.

There were dandies, fresh from their own elaborate
toilets, reeking of the perfume in which they had
bathed themselves, displaying in their own persons
all the hues of the rainbow, and all the extravagant
fripperies of the day, laughing and jesting
together as they mounted the softly-carpeted stairs,
their cocked hats under their arms, or descended
again after having paid their *devoirs* to my lady,
often cackling with mirth over some *bon mot* they
had heard or uttered.  There were chattering French
milliners or French hair-dressers, with boxes or
bundles of laces, silks, perfumes, or trinkets,
wherewith to tempt the fancy of their patroness.  There
were gaily-dressed pages running to and fro with
scented notes; turbaned negro boys carrying a
lap-dog or monkey or parrot to the doting
mistress, who had suddenly sent for one of her pets.
Tire-women pushed themselves through the throng,
intent on the business of the toilet, which was such
an all-absorbing matter; and the whole house seemed
to ring with the loud or shrill laughter and the
ceaseless chatter of this motley throng, bent on killing
time in the most approved fashion.

Some of the dandies about to depart, who were
sipping chocolate from cups of priceless Sèvres china,
and talking in their free, loose fashion with each
other, kept looking about them as though in hope or
expectation, and more than once the name of "Lady
Geraldine" was bandied about between them.  One
young blood asked point blank why she was never to
be seen at her mother's toilet.  A laugh broke from
his companions.

"If it's Lady Geraldine you come to see, you can
save yourself the trouble of the visit.  They say she
was brought up by a Puritan grandmother, who died
last year, and left her all her fortune.  However
that may be, the Lady Geraldine never appears when
she can escape doing so.  My lady gives way to her.
They say she does not care to have a grown-up
daughter at her heels, she who might pass for
four-and-twenty herself any day, but for that damning
evidence.  But they say the father is beginning to
declare that his daughter is no longer to be kept in
the background.  I suppose the next thing will be
that they will marry her to some young nobleman.
Gadzooks! with that face and that fortune—if the
fortune be not a clever myth—they ought not to find
it a difficult task!"

"I heard it said at the club that Sandford was
the favoured suitor for the hand of Lady Geraldine,"
said one young exquisite, speaking with a lisp and
taking snuff.

There was a laugh from the group of men standing by.

"Oh, Sandford is my lady's favourite!  They say
he is a kinsman; and he amuses her vastly, and
gives her all the homage her heart desires.  But
Lord Romaine may have something to say to that.
Sandford is going the pace that kills, and is playing
old Harry with his fortune and estate.  And as for
my Lady Geraldine—well, 'tis said the pretty little
Puritan will look at none of us.  Split me! but it
will be a pretty comedy to watch!  The awakening
of Aphrodite; isn't that the thing to call it?  But
Aphrodite is not generally credited with much
coyness—ha, ha, ha!  Perhaps it is but a pose on the
part of the pretty maid.  The sweet creatures are so
artful in these days, one can never be too cautious."  And
a roar of laughter answered this sally, caution
being about the last quality ever cultivated by the
speaker.

Whilst all this was going on within doors, the
object of these latter remarks was enjoying a silvan
solitude in the most secluded portion of the beautiful
old garden.

Far away from the house, far out of earshot of all
the fashionable clamour resounding there, set in the
midst of a dense shrubbery of ilex and yew, was an
arbour—itself cut out of a giant yew-tree—commanding
a view of a portion of the river, slipping by its
alder-crowned banks, and overlooking a small, square
lawn, sunk between high turf walls, in the centre of
which stood an ancient moss-grown sundial, whose
quaintly-lettered face was a source of unending
interest to the fair girl, who had made of this remote
and sheltered place a harbour of refuge for herself.

She was seated now just within the arbour, an open
book of poetry upon her knee; but she was not
reading, for her chin rested in the palm of her hand, as
she leaned forward in an unstudied attitude of grace,
her elbow on her knee, her wonderful dark eyes fixed
full upon the shining river, a dreamy smile of
haunting sweetness playing round her lips.  At her feet a
great hound lay extended, his nose upon his paws,
his eyes often lifted to the face of his mistress, his
ears pricked at the smallest sound, even at the
snapping of a twig.  Nobody could surprise the Lady
Geraldine when she had this faithful henchman at
her side.

The girl was dressed with extreme simplicity for
the times she lived in, when hoops were coming in,
stiff brocades, laces and lappets, high-heeled coloured
shoes, and every extravagance in finery all the rage.
True, the texture of her white silk gown was of the
richest, and it was laced with silver, and fastened
with pearl clasps that must have cost a great sum;
but it was fashioned with a simplicity that suggested
the rustic maiden rather than the high-born dame.
Yet the simple elegance of the graceful, girlish
figure was displayed to such advantage that even the
modish mother had been able to find no fault with
the fashion in which her daughter instructed that her
gowns should be cut; and surmises and bets were
freely exchanged by the gallants crowding Lord
Romaine's house as to whether it were a deep form
of coquetry or real simplicity of taste which made
the Lady Geraldine differ so much from the matrons
and maids about her.

She wore no patches upon her face, though the
dazzling purity of her complexion would thereby
have been enhanced.  And in days when the hair
was dressed into tower-like erections, and adorned
with powder, laces, ribbons, and all manner of strange
fripperies, this girl wore her beautiful waving golden
tresses floating round her face in the fashion of the
ladies of Charles the Second's reign, or coiled them
with careless grace about her head in a natural
coronet.  With powder or pomatum, wires or artificial
additions, she would have nothing to do.  She had
been brought up in the country by her grandmother,
a lady of very simple tastes, who would in no wise
conform to the extravagant fashions which had crept
in, and were corrupting all the old-time grace and
simplicity of female attire.

"Leave those fripperies to the gallants," had been
the old lady's pungent remark; "what do we want
with powder and periwigs, patches and pomatum?"

She remembered the simple elegance of the
court-dresses of the ladies in the Stuart times, and
had no patience with the artificial trappings that
followed.  Moreover, albeit not a Puritan in any
strict sense of the word—being a loyal advocate of
the Stuart cause—she was a woman of great piety
and devotion, and studied her Bible diligently; so
that she took small pleasure in the adornment of
the person in gaudy clothing, and the broidering of
the hair, and in fine array.  She taught her
granddaughter to think more of the virtue of the meek
and quiet spirit, and to seek rather to cultivate her
mind, and store it with information and with lofty
aspirations, than to give her time and thoughts to
the round of folly and dissipation which made up
the life of the lady of fashion.

Geraldine was so happy in the care of her grandmother,
and felt so little at home with her fashionable
mother, that her visits had been few and far between
hitherto, until the sudden death of Mrs. Adair six
months previously had obliged her to return
permanently to her father's roof.

Here she found a state of things which amazed
and troubled her not a little, and greatly did she
marvel how her mother could be the daughter of
the guardian of her childhood.  True, Lady Romaine
had married very young, and early escaped from the
watchful care of her judicious mother; but it seemed
marvellous that so close a tie could have existed
between them, and the girl would look on with
amaze and pain at her mother's freaks and follies,
wondering how any woman could find entertainment
in the idle, foolish, and often profane vapourings of
the beaux who fluttered about her, and how any
sane persons could endure such a life of trivial
amusement and ceaseless meaningless dissipation.

.. _`96`:

Pleading with her father her grief at her grandmother's
death, she had obtained a six months' respite
from attendance at the gay functions which made up
life to Lady Romaine.  Those six months had been
spent, for the most part, in the privacy of her own
apartments, which she had furnished with the dim
and time-honoured treasures of her grandmother's
house, all of which were now her own, and which
made her quarters in the old part of the house like
an oasis of taste, and harmony, and true beauty in an
ocean of confused and almost tawdry profusion.  The
old garden was another favourite haunt of hers, for
there were portions of it which were seldom invaded
by the gay butterflies who often hovered about the
newer terraces and the formal Dutch garden, and the
hound always gave her ample warning of any
approaching footstep, so that she could fly and hide
herself before any one could molest her.

So here she prosecuted her studies, read her
favourite authors, and when the house was quiet—her
mother having flown off to some gay rout or card-party
or ball—she would practise her skill on the lute,
virginal, spinet, or harp, and her fresh young voice
would resound through the house, drawing the
servants to the open windows to hear the sweet strains.

Lady Romaine would have humoured the girl's
fancy for seclusion indefinitely.  She felt almost
humiliated by the presence of a daughter so stately
and so mature.  Geraldine was nineteen, but might
have passed for more, with her grave, refined beauty,
and her lack of all the kittenish freakishness which
made many matrons seem almost like girls, even when
their charms began to fade, and nature had to be
replaced by art.  Lady Romaine fondly believed that
her admirers took her for four-and-twenty; and now
to have to pose as the mother of a grown-up daughter
was a bitter mortification, and one which disposed her
to make as speedy a marriage for Geraldine as could
well be achieved.  Lord Romaine had at last insisted
that his daughter should appear in the world of
fashion, and she had been once or twice to Court in
her parents' train, where her striking beauty and
unwonted appearance had made some sensation.
Geraldine had little fault to find with what she saw and
heard there.  Good Queen Anne permitted nothing
reprehensible in her neighbourhood, and her Court
was grave to the verge of dullness.  She was a
loving and a model wife; and the Duchess was
devoted to her husband, though often making his
life a burden by her imperious temper.  Anything
like conjugal infidelity was not tolerated therefore
by either of these ladies, and decorum ruled wherever
the Queen was to be found.

But at other places and in other company matters
were far different, and already Geraldine began to
shrink with a great disgust and distaste from the
compliments she received, from the coarse, foolish,
affected talk she heard, and from the knowledge of
the senseless dissipation which flowed like a stream
at her feet, and which seemed to encircle the span
of her life in a way that made escape impossible.

But she had been taught obedience as one of the
cardinal virtues, and the days of emancipated daughters
were not yet.  When her father bade her lay aside
her mourning and join in the life of the house, she
knew she must obey.  But she had asked from him
the favour of being permitted to design her own
dresses, and to follow her own tastes in matters
pertaining to her own toilet, and also that she might be
excused attendance at her mother's morning levee;
for the spectacle of crowds of men flocking in and
out of her mother's apartments, and witnessing the
triumphs of the coiffeurs and tire-women, was to her
degrading and disgusting; and though Lord Romaine
laughed—being himself so inured to the custom—and
told her she was a little fool, and must get the
better of her prudery, he gave way to her in this,
and the more readily because she represented to him
how that these morning hours were now the only
ones she could command for study; and he was
proud to find in his daughter an erudition and talent
very rare amongst women in those days.

.. _`The old garden was another favourite haunt of hers.`:

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   :alt: The old garden was another favourite haunt of hers (page 96).

   The old garden was another favourite haunt of hers (page `96`_).

But now an approaching footstep warned the girl
that her pleasant morning was over.  The dog sprang
up, but did not growl.  It was Geraldine's own
serving-woman approaching with the girl's
white-plumed hat and long silver-laced gloves.

"My lady's coach waits, and she desires your
presence," was the message that reached her.
Geraldine sat down to let the woman fasten the hat
upon her head, and with a sigh she put away her
books in their basket, and gave it to the charge of
the faithful hound.  She had found that her treasures
were far more carefully safeguarded by him than
when left in the care of a giddy maid, who was more
bent on having the same kind of amusement with the
men-servants that her mistress had with the gallants
than of seeking to discharge her duties faithfully
and well.

"Hasten, child, hasten!" cried Lady Romaine's
shrill voice from the entrance-hall, as Geraldine
approached.  She was a wonderful object as she
stood there in the full light of the June sunshine,
her stiff amber brocade sweeping round her in great
billows, her waist laced in like that of a wasp, and
accentuated by the style of the long-pointed bodice;
her high-heeled shoes, ornamented to extravagance,
the heels being bright red and the uppers sewed with
precious stones; gems glittering in the mass of laces
at her throat, and in a number of clasps fastened to
the bodice; her hair towering upwards to such a
height that she could scarce sit comfortably in her
lofty coach, and could wear nothing in the way of
head-gear save the laces and ribbons which were
worked in with much skill by the French hair-dresser.
She was redolent of perfume; gloves, lace
handkerchief, dainty muff, every little knickknack, of
which she possessed so many, all emitted the same
cloying sweetness.  Geraldine felt herself heave a
sigh of oppression as she followed this grotesque
object into the coach.  She was growing used to the
aspect presented by the dames of fashion, but there
were moments when her first disgust came over her
in great waves.

"I marvel that you like to make yourself such
a figure of fun, child," remarked the mother, as she
settled herself in her coach, smirked towards the
piece of looking-glass let in opposite, and turned
a sidelong glance upon her daughter; "'tis enough
to set the gallants laughing to see how you habit
yourself.  Well, well; you are a lucky girl to have
found a suitor so soon.  Now take good heed to
show him no saucy airs, should he present himself
at our box at the play to-day.  He has been away
these last days, but he can never long absent himself
from town.  Mind you have a smile for him when
he appears, or I shall have somewhat to say to you
later, Miss Impertinence."  And the lady's ivory fan
came down somewhat smartly upon Geraldine's arm.

"Of whom are you speaking, ma'am?" she asked,
whilst the colour mounted suddenly in her fair face.

"Oh, come now; so we are already posing as a
belle of many beaux!  Pray who has ever cast a
glance upon you save my good kinsman Sandford?
And, mind you, he is a man of taste and fashion,
and it is a great compliment that he has singled
you out for notice.  There be girls would give
their ears for a kind glance from his eyes, and there
are as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it;
so mind your manners, miss, and treat him to no
tricks.  It is high time you were wed, and had a
husband to look after you, and that is why I take
you about.  For, as for pleasure in such company,
one might as well play bear-leader to a snow queen!"

"I did not know that Lord Sandford had done me
any favour," spoke Geraldine quietly.  "I have seen
him but seldom, and he has spoke not over much to
me.  But I will bear your wishes in mind, madam,
should he appear to-day."

"Ha! there he is!" suddenly cried my lady,
becoming excited, and rapping smartly with her fan
on the glass of the window.  The next minute the
coach had pulled up, and Lord Sandford, attired in
the very height of the fashion, was bowing over her
hand with his courtliest air.





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.. _`THE PASTIMES OF THE TOWN`:

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   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE PASTIMES OF THE TOWN.

.. vspace:: 2

"The sun shines once again," quoth Lord
Sandford, as he raised the extended hand
of Lady Romaine to his lips, and dropped a light
kiss upon her scented glove.  "The sun shines in
the sky; but let him beware and look to his laurels,
for there are stars abroad of such dazzling lustre
that Phoebus must have a care lest the brightness
of his shafts be quenched in a more refulgent glow."  And
the young man gazed into the lady's eyes with
a bold laughing stare that pointed the meaning of
the compliment.

"La! but you talk the greatest nonsense!" cried
Lady Romaine, highly delighted, as she tapped him
smartly with her fan.  "Come, tell me where you
have been these many days.  Some said you had
been a-wooing in the country, and others that your
dolts of tradesmen were dunning you to distraction,
and others that you had fought a duel and had need
to fly; but, pardieu! if one believed all the gossip of
the town, one would have enough to do.  I know
there has been a duel, and I am aching to hear all
about it.  I'll warrant you know all the story, since
he was your friend.  Come, get into the coach, and
tell me all about it.  Were you there?  What was
it all about?  And what sort of an end did he make?"

Lady Romaine's face expressed the eager pleasure
and curiosity of a child talking over some trivial
pleasure; she flirted her fan, cast languishing glances,
and played off upon the young Earl all those countless
little airs and graces which characterized the fine
lady of the period.

But Geraldine drew back in her corner, her face
growing cold and pale.  She had scarcely
acknowledged Lord Sandford's presence, only just bending
her head in response to his bow.  He had not
addressed her as yet, and he appeared engrossed by
the mother; but he flashed one quick glance upon
her now, and possibly read something of the pain
and disgust which possessed her, for he answered,—

"Nay, madam, let us not talk of what is past
and done.  How can thought of gloom and death
dwell in so radiant a presence?  In sooth, all dark
thoughts take to themselves wings in this company,
and will not be caught or caged.  I forget that we
are not in the bowers of Arcadia; for, in sooth, I am
transported thither so soon as these poor eyes be
dazzled by the light of those twin stars of love and
beauty!"

Again Lady Romaine tapped him with her fan.
She loved a compliment, however fulsome; but she
wanted at this moment to be entertained by the
account of the duel, which had made a little stir
in the town, from the fact of one of the combatants
having been the boon companion and friend of Lord
Sandford.

"You dear, tormenting devil!  But I will have
the story yet!  And we are all dying to know how
you will get on without your Fidus Achates.  By my
troth, you do not look as though you had wasted
away in fruitless longing.  Perchance you have found
already another to fill his place?"

"Perhaps I have, madam," was the negligent reply.
"I had not known the town had so much thought
to spare for worthless me.  I' faith, I am a bigger
man than I thought for.  But I must not keep your
coach standing in this blaze of sunshine.  Whither
are you bound, fair ladies?  To some Arcadian bowers
of Paphos, I doubt not, where Orpheus will charm
you with his lyre, and nymphs will cluster round
in envy, marvelling at those charms which not even
Aphrodite herself can rival."

"Oh fie! you are a sad flatterer!" cried Lady
Romaine, sinking back upon her cushions and waving
her hand.  "We are bound to Lady Saltire's hazard
table for an hour's play.  Shall we meet you there,
my lord?  Afterwards, we take supper at our
favourite India house, and then to the
play—Wynstanly's water theatre.  He has a new
piece—monstrous fine, those who have seen it vow.  They
have nymphs, and mermaids, and tritons, and I know
not what beside; and they ask a pretty price for the
boxes, I can tell you.  But la! one must go and see
what all the world is talking of.  Mind you come
to our box if you be there.  We shall expect you,
and shall welcome you and any friend you like to
bring."

"Even the new Fidus Achates, of whom you spoke
just now?" asked Lord Sandford, with a slightly
ironical bow.

"Oh gracious, yes!" cried Lady Romaine, excited
by the very idea; "bring him at once and present
him to us.  I hope he is a pretty fellow, and can
turn a merry quip and tell a story.  You should
have heard Beau Sidney last night!  Sakes!  I
thought I should have split my sides!"

At this juncture the horses became so fidgety with
standing in the glare of the sun that Lord Sandford
stepped back, and the coach rolled upon its way.
Lady Romaine waved her scented kerchief, and then
routed her scent-bottle out of her reticule, and
turning sharply upon her daughter, said,—

"Why sit you ever like a stuffed owl, without so
much as a word or a smile?  I die for shame every
time I take you out.  What have I done to be
punished with such a daughter?  One would think you
to be a changeling child, if you did not so favour
the Adairs.  How think you you will ever get wed,
sitting gaping there like a farm-house wench, who
is afraid to open her lips lest she should betray
herself by her speech.  You put me to shame, child; I
could cry with mortification.  What will the world
say, save that I have an idiot for a daughter?"

Geraldine knew not what to answer.  As she
listened to the fatuous and stilted talk which was
fashionable in her mother's world, with its senseless
mythological allusions and high-flown extravagances, it
often seemed to her that these gay dandies and dames
were all playing at madmen together.  Her tongue
had never learned the trick of such talk.  It
perplexed and disgusted her, seeming trivial and childish
when it was not improper or profane.  She saw other
young girls who listened eagerly, and as eagerly
reproduced the flowery nonsense amongst themselves
and their admirers; but it seemed impossible to her
to do the like, and she listened in humble silence to
her mother's tirades, wondering whether there were
something radically wrong about herself, or whether
the absurdity and folly were in others.

"But, madam," she said gently at the last, "why
should I get me a husband so soon?  My grandmother
was against very early marriages, and as she lay
dying she often warned me to make very careful
choice ere I gave my hand in troth-plight.  She
said I must needs be certain of mine own heart,
for that no more wretched life could exist for woman
than when she was tied to a man she could not love
or respect."

"Tush, child!  Your grandmother was a good
woman.  I speak no hurt of her.  But she knew less
of life than many a girl of eighteen does nowadays,
and her ideas were all topsy-turvy.  A woman wants
a fine establishment, her powdered footmen, her negro
boys, her dresses, her jewels, and all the world doing
her homage.  That is what makes the pleasure of life.
A good husband who can give you all that is what you
want; and what can you ask better than the addresses
of Lord Sandford?  I tell you there are half the girls
in town would give their ears for his smiles.  He has
been extravagant, 'tis true; but the estate can stand
a heavy drain, and he is lucky at cards.  He soon
finds himself on his legs again.  When he marries
he will open his great house in the Strand, of which
he uses but one wing now.  With your fortune and
his estates and his luck in gaming, you might be the
gayest couple in town.  Look to it, girl, that you
show him no airs.  I am ashamed to have such a
mannerless wench for a daughter.  If you are not
more careful, you will drive all the beaux away; and
then, when it is too late, you will be sorry."

Geraldine had her own ideas on that point.  It
was her one desire just now to keep at arm's length
all those gay popinjays that fluttered about her
mother.  Lord Sandford, it is true, was somewhat
removed from the crowd by a handsomer person, a
more distinguished air, and by a greater force of
character.  On more than one occasion, when he had
put himself about to gain her ear, she had found that
he could drop his mask of gay affectations, and be
both shrewd and entertaining.  Some of his criticisms
had even interested and aroused her; but she was
very far from being captivated.  She did not know
whether it would be possible to give to such a man
either love or reverence, and without either one or
other Geraldine had resolved not to marry,
though she knew that it was a hard task for a
daughter to set at naught the wishes of her parents
in these matters.  She saw that both father and
mother, though for different reasons, desired her to
make a speedy choice, and take up her position in
the fashionable world as a lady of title and importance.

However, she was spared further strictures by the
arrival of the carriage at Lady Saltire's fine house:
and shortly she found herself standing behind her
mother's chair at the hazard table, half stunned by
the clatter and clamour of voices, watching with
grave, pained eyes the eager faces of the players,
their excited gestures as they reached for their
winnings, their rage and disappointment when the luck
went against them, the greed she saw in all faces—that
lust after gold which is of all vices one of the
most hateful and degrading.

Old men and young girls, matrons and aged dames,
all crowded round the tables, their hoops crushing
together, their tall powdered heads sometimes
meeting in sharp collision.  There were scented dandies,
who regarded this "ladies' play" as the merest
bagatelle, and lost or won their gold pieces with careless
grace, thinking of the more serious play which
awaited them later at the club, or at the lodgings
of some member of their own set.

Amongst this motley crowd, gaily apparelled servants
moved to and fro, handing coffee, chocolate, and
delicate confectionery, or offering scented waters for
the refreshment of the ladies.  The gentlemen
preferred stronger potations, and congregated together,
laughing and jesting.  But not infrequently they
would be joined by some giddy young matron, who
called them all by their Christian names, passed jests
with them that would not bear repetition in these
days, and even toasted some "pretty fellow,"
laughing gaily and giddily the while.

There were a few graver spirits congregated
together in one small room, and Geraldine could catch
fleeting glimpses of them through an open door.  She
knew some of the faces, and that they were politicians
and men of letters; and she thought they were
discussing some literary point, for one held a paper
in his hand, and he seemed to be reading from it to
the others.

"I'll warrant they have got a new ode to my Lord
of Marlborough yonder," spoke a voice at Geraldine's
elbow; and turning she saw an elderly man whose
face was known to her from his having been a guest
at her father's house.  "They had a great trouble after
the victory of Blenheim to find a poet able to hymn
the triumph in periods sufficiently fine; but I think
it was Lord Halifax who discovered Mr. Addison,
whose noble lines set the city wondering.  Belike
he has broken forth into lyric or epic praise over
the battle of Ramillies, and the marvellous effects
it has had abroad.  Shall we go and listen to his
periods?"

Geraldine was thankful to get away from the
heated atmosphere of the card-room, and to find
herself amongst men and women who had other
fashions of thought and speech.  But she was not
allowed much peace in these different surroundings;
for she was quickly summoned to her mother's side,
taken from house to house, ever seeing and hearing
the like vapourings, the like fripperies and follies.
It was the same thing at the dinner or supper, where
her mother had a whole train of young bloods in her
wake.  She gave them the best the house afforded,
and spent her time quizzing the dresses of the other
ladies at the surrounding tables, learning all the
gossip about any person whose face or costume struck
her, and drinking in flattery and adulation as a bee
sips honey from the flowers.

In spite of her efforts to please her mother,
Geraldine found it impossible to take any share in this
strange sort of gaiety.  Her answers were little more
than monosyllables.  Often she did not even understand
the allusions or the far-fetched metaphors of
those who addressed her.  More often she shrank
from their glances and their open compliments,
feeling degraded by both, but powerless to repel them.
She was thankful when at last she found herself by
her mother's side in the box at Wynstanly's; for here
she hoped she might find some measure of peace,
since the box would not hold any great number of
persons, and her mother was never satisfied without
the attention of four or five gentlemen at once.

If the play in itself were not very entertaining,
the effects of fire and water were rather magnificent,
and something new, so that more attention was given
to the stage than was usual at such entertainments in
those days.  The fashionable listeners did not turn
their backs upon the players and talk at the top of
their voices all the while the play was in progress, as
in some houses, and Geraldine was quite wrapped in
contemplation of the monsters and mermaids and
denizens of the deep, with Father Neptune and his
trident at their head, so that she knew nothing of
what went on in the box where she sat, till a voice
at her elbow spoke insistently.

"They lack but one thing more—snow-white
Aphrodite rising in peerless beauty from the foam of
the sea; and yet the audience has but to turn its eyes
hither, and behold they will see that crowning marvel
for themselves!"

The girl started, and looked full into the eyes of
Lord Sandford, bent upon her with a significance
there was no misunderstanding.  He was dressed in
a daring costume of scarlet and gold, with quantities
of lace and sparkling jewels.  Even his well-turned
legs were encased in scarlet stockings, and his shoes
were of the same flaming hue.  His height and
breadth of shoulder always made him a notable
figure; and the immense wig he wore, which to-night
was cunningly powdered so as to look almost like
frosted silver, added to the distinction of his
appearance.  Gilded popinjay Lord Sandford with all his
extravagances could never be called.  There was
something too virile and strong about his whole
personality for that.

"I do not like compliments, my lord," she answered,
the words escaping her lips almost before she was
aware; "I have heard something too much of Venus
and Cupid, Pallas and Hymen, since I made my
appearance in London routs.  I am but a simple country
maid, and desire no high-flown compliments.  I am
foolish enough to regard them rather as honeyed
insults.  I pray you pardon my freedom of speech."

"I pray you pardon mine," spoke Lord Sandford
quickly.  "You have spoken, Lady Geraldine, a
deeper truth than perchance you know.  I, for one,
will not offend again.  I would that all our sisters,
wives, and daughters would look as you and speak
as you."

The frank sincerity in face and voice pleased her,
and a smile dawned in her eyes.  It was the first
he had ever seen bent on him, and he was struck
afresh with the pure unsullied beauty of this girl's
face.  Truth to tell, his first attraction towards her
had been the rumour of her fortune, for he was more
deeply in debt than he wished the world to know;
but something in the remoteness and isolation in
which she seemed to wrap herself piqued and
interested him; for his jaded palate required fresh food
when it was to be had, and the vein of manliness and
strength which his life had never altogether warped
or destroyed responded to the sincerity he read in
Lady Geraldine's fair face.

The curtain was down now.  For a few minutes
he spoke of the play and the water apparatus, worked
by a windmill on the roof, which was exciting so much
interest in London.  Geraldine's eyes meantime
travelled round the box.  She saw her mother engrossed
in gay talk with a small circle of admirers; but one of
these edged himself somewhat away from the rest, and
finally stood apart, leaning against the wall of the box
and surveying the house from that vantage point.

Geraldine's eyes were riveted with some interest
upon this newcomer, whom she was certain she had
never seen before.  In some indefinable way he was
different from the men she had been used to meet at
such places.  For one thing, he wore his own hair;
and the floating brown curls, like Cavalier love-locks,
seemed to her infinitely more becoming than the mass
of false hair which was so much in vogue in all ranks
save the lowest.  His dress, too, though far more
simple than that of the beaux fluttering round her
mother, seemed to her far more graceful and
distinguished.  His stockings, breeches, and vest were all
of white, with a little silver frosting.  His coat was
of pale blue, with silver buttons; and his lace cravat,
though small and unostentatious, was rich in quality,
and fastened by a beautiful pearl.  He carried neither
muff nor snuff-box, cane nor toothpick.  He did not
simper nor ogle, nor look as though he desired to
attract the eyes of the house upon himself.  But he
was, notwithstanding, a rather notable figure as he
stood looking gravely and thoughtfully downwards;
there was something very graceful in his attitude,
and in the carriage of his head, and his features were
so remarkably handsome that Lady Romaine turned
her eyes upon him many times, and exerted all her
artifices to draw him back to her immediate
neighbourhood.  But he was perfectly unconscious of this,
not hearing the chatter which went on about him, lost
in some reverie of his own, which brought a peculiar
dreamy softness into his eyes.

Lord Sandford, following the direction of Geraldine's
glance, looked at this motionless figure, then back at
the girl, and laughed.

"Lady Geraldine, pray permit me to present to
you my newly-made friend and comrade, Sir Grey
Dumaresq, who, I doubt not, is dying to make his bow
to so fair a lady."

She flashed him a glance half merry, half reproachful,
and he suddenly laid his hand upon his lips, a
laugh rolling from them hearty and full.

"I' faith I had forgot!  How shall I teach my
rebel tongue a new language?  But Sir Grey will
atone for all my defects.—Here is a lady, if you will
believe it, O friend, who loves not the sugared and
honeyed phrase of adulation, but seeks in all things
truth, virtue, and I know not what else beside.  It is
whispered to me that she is a mistress of all the
*belles lettres*, and perchance a poetess herself."

"Nay, my lord," answered Geraldine, with a blush
and a smile—"only one who loves the poesy of those
who have lived before, and left their treasures for us
who come after, and would fain drink in all the
beauty of their thoughts and of their lives."

Lord Sandford good-naturedly yielded his seat to
Grey, whose sensitive face had lighted at the girl's
words.

"Methought I had come to a world where naught
was dreamed of save fashion and frippery, false
adulation and falser scorn.  I am well-nigh stunned by
the clamour of tongues, the strife of parties, the
bustle of this gay life of fashion."

"Oh, and I too—I too!" breathed the girl softly:
and he flashed at her a quick, keen glance of sympathy
and interest.

"I was bred in the country; my grandam brought
me up.  I lived with my books, amid silvan solitudes,
the songs of birds, the scent of flowers.  This
great glittering world of folly and fashion is like a
fiery wheel going round in my head.  Ofttimes I
could cry aloud for mercy, the pain and bewilderment
are so great.  I know there must be noble men and
good in this strange Pandemonium; but I know not
where to find them, and my heart grows sick.  Would
that I could go back to my books and my dreams!
But alas! a maiden may not choose for herself."

"Still there is life here," spoke Grey quickly, "and
it behoves us to know men as well as books.  I have
studied both.  I will study them again.  I would
fain learn all that life has to teach, whether for weal
or woe.  No hermit-monk was ever truly a man.
Yet there be times when one shrinks in amaze from
all one sees and hears."

The chord of sympathy was struck.  They passed
from one thing to another.  She found one at last
who knew and loved the poets of her childhood's
dreams—who could talk of Spenser and Sidney, of
Watson, Greville, and Drayton, quoting their verses,
and often lighting upon her favourite passages.  Here
was a man who knew Milton and Clarendon, Hobbes,
Herbert, Lovelace and Suckling, Lord Herbert of
Cherbury and Izaak Walton.  He had read eagerly,
like herself, poetry and prose, drama and epic, lyric
and sonnet.  He could speak of Poetry as one who
had loved and courted her as a mistress.  The girl
longed to ask him if he had written himself, but
maiden shyness withheld her.  Yet her eyes
brightened as she talked, and the peach-like colour rose
and deepened in her cheeks; and Lord Sandford,
turning back once again from the mother to look at
the daughter, was struck dumb with admiration and
delight.

"There is a rose worth winning and wearing,
though the stem may not be free from a sharp thorn,"
he said to himself; and Lady Romaine, who chanced
to catch sight of Geraldine during a shifting of the
admirers who surrounded her, gave something very
like a start, and felt a curious thrill run through her
in which pride and envy were blended.

"Gracious!  I did not know I had so handsome a
daughter!  I must wed her as fast as may be, else
shall I find my beaux going from me to her," was her
unspoken thought; and aloud she said, tapping Lord
Sandford with her fan, "Pray tell my daughter that
I am about to depart.  We have had enough of the
naiads and dryads, and I am tired and hungry.  Who
will come home with me to supper—to take pot-luck
with us?"

There was an eager clamour in response; but when
the supper-party assembled round Lady Romaine's
chocolate tables in her favourite private parlour, she
noted that Geraldine had disappeared to bed, and that
Sir Grey Dumaresq had not availed himself of her
open invitation.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A FAIR FACE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A FAIR FACE.

.. vspace:: 2

If Grey Dumaresq was a man who craved a
variety of experiences, and wished to see life
under different aspects, he was getting his wish now;
for the gay world of fashion, into which he suddenly
found himself plunged, differed *in toto* from any of
his former experiences; and so swift was the pace,
and so shifting the throng amid which he moved,
that he often felt as though his breath were fairly
taken away, and as though he had suddenly stepped
into a new existence.

Lord Sandford had chanced upon the young
baronet at a moment when a blank had been made in
his own life by the sudden and violent death of one
who had been his boon companion and friend.  The
gay young man, who had fallen in a foolish duel a
few weeks before, had been the inmate of his house
and the companion in all his freaks and follies; so
much so, that without him the young nobleman felt
for the moment bewildered and lost, and had
absented himself from town with a view to "getting
over it," as he hoped: for he despised himself for
any sign of weakness, and would not for worlds
have had his comrades and boon companions know
how the loss had affected him.

Then, as it seemed just by a lucky chance, this
young and attractive man had fallen as from the very
skies at his feet.  Grey Dumaresq, new to the world
of London, curious and speculative, willing to see all,
learn all, participate in all, seemed exactly the person
to fill the gap in his life.  Grey had no place of abode;
why, then, should he not occupy the vacant chambers
in the wing of the great mansion in the Strand which
Lord Sandford used as his customary lodging, when
he was not spending his time with friends, or making
one of a gay party elsewhere?  Grey had no valid
reason for declining the invitation pressed upon him.
Lord Sandford was a masterful man, and his strong
personality impressed itself upon Grey with
something between attraction and repulsion.  But, on the
whole, attraction seemed the stronger power, and
curiosity to know more of this man and his life held
Grey's soul in thrall.  He had always experienced
a vivid curiosity to taste life in its various forms, to
know and understand the thoughts, the feelings, the
aspirations, the ambitions of other men.  His travels
had given him insight into many matters; but he
felt that these new experiences were likely to be
more searching, more exciting, more full of keen
personal interest.  He had been, as it were, a
spectator heretofore; now he was to be a participator.

He had not meant to be any man's guest; he had
meant to take a modest lodging of his own, and look
about him for something in the way of employment,
but Lord Sandford had roared with laughter over
such a notion.

"What!  Sir Grey Dumaresq going cap in hand to
some proud place-giver to ask for patronage, or I
know not what!  Gadzooks, man, with that face,
that figure, that horse, and a purse full of guineas,
you can do better than that!  Trust yourself to me.
I'll show you where fame and fortune lie.  You
shall redeem your rat-infested old house in a very
brief while, if you will but trust yourself to my
guidance.  You be Damon to my Pythias—or is it
t'other way round, eh?—and I'll show you the royal
road to the goal you want."

For lack of any definite plans, Grey had consented
for the nonce to accept Lord Sandford's advice, and
had quickly found himself installed in some gloomy
and stately yet luxurious chambers in a vast house,
of which only a portion was open for use, and the
rest given over to a neglect and decay that
Hartsbourne itself could scarcely rival.

"But we shall change all that some day," spoke
Lord Sandford, with a careless laugh, as Grey
expressed his surprise at the vast rooms and long
galleries shut up and infested by rats and spiders.
"Oh yes, we shall change all that some day; but
what does a bachelor want with such a house as
this?  What should I be the better for a crowd of
liveried servants, eating off their heads, idling away
their time dicing and drinking?  What have I to
give an army of scullions and cooks to do—I who
seldom take a meal at home after my morning
chocolate?  No, no; I know a trick worth two of that.
I don't ruin myself to keep a crew of fat, lazy rogues
about me, cheating me at every turn.  Half a dozen
fellows and a few kitchen wenches do well enow
for me; but when Lady Sandford comes to her
husband's home—ah well! then we shall see the
difference."

But though he talked jestingly from time to time
of the Lady Sandford that was to be, he gave Grey
no hint as to whether his fancy inclined more to one
or another of the many gay maidens with whom he
chatted and flirted, danced and romped, in the fashion
of the day; and so bewildering and dazzling were
these young madams and their surroundings that the
newcomer was lost in a maze of wonder and bewilderment,
and found it hard to distinguish one face
from another, until he met one, different from all
the rest.

But Grey was not left idle; he had small time for
musing.  The very first day of his sojourn in London
he was surrounded by a fluttering crowd of tailors,
glove-sellers, barbers, fencers, sellers and purveyors of
every imaginable ware, who all professed their
eagerness to serve him, and quoted Lord Sandford as a
patron who could swear to their honesty and the
excellence of their goods.

Into the midst of this motley throng Lord Sandford
thrust himself, laughing his great hearty laugh,
and quickly sent to the right-about two-thirds of the
importunate crowd—a jest here, a keen thrust there,
a slap on back or shoulder in another quarter,
emphasizing his forcible hints.  And when the room
was cleared of all but the lucky few, he flung
himself into an armchair with another laugh, telling
Grey he was sorry his knaves of servants, who
looked for perquisites everywhere, had let in this
flood of rogues upon him, but added that he must
needs have the wherewithal to cut a proper figure
in London town, and forthwith set about the business
of ordering an outfit for the young man which almost
took his guest's breath away.

"Poof!" he cried, when the latter strove to
remonstrate, "you have plenty of money; and these
rascals can wait if it suits your pleasure.  Father's
memory!  Oh, be hanged to all such mawkish
sentiment!  You need not think less of your father
because you wear a blue coat in lieu of a black!
Rabbit me! but you are of a different world from
this if you keep alive your father's memory for six
months after his decease!  No, no; you must cut a
figure.  Sir Hugh's name is clean forgot by now.
I'll eat my boots if 'tis not so.  I'll have you as gay
as my fancy paints you.  No black—no sables for
the gentleman, I tell you.  Let us see those other
patterns.  Ah! here is something more like."

Grey submitted.  In sooth, he cared but little for
the colour of his clothes, or the set of his hat, or
the cut of his coat.  He let Lord Sandford have his
way for the most part, only insisting here and there
upon soft and tender tints, and showing a predilection
for white, which his friend quite approved.

"You shall be a foil to me, not a rival.  I have
learned that art from the ladies.  I like to blaze
like old Sol in his strength; you shall rather recall
gentle Luna amid her galaxy of stars.  Faugh!
One's tongue gets into this silly trick of speech,
so that one cannot drop it even betwixt man and
man!  But you are right to think that white
becomes you well.  You will look a pretty fellow, in
all conscience, when you have added a peruke to
your other adornments."

But here Grey stood firm.  Nothing would induce
him to cumber his head with one of those mountains
of hair.  In vain the perruquiers displayed their wares;
in vain Lord Sandford bantered and laughed, and
made out that he would be reckoned as a mad
fellow by the young bloods of the city.  Grey would
not yield an inch.  He had always found his own
hair sufficient and comfortable, and he would wear
it to the end.  And as the discomfited perruquier
at last departed, Lord Sandford broke into another
of his great laughs.

"I' faith you are right, man.  I like you the better
that you have the courage of your opinions, and care
no whit for fashion.  You'll be a match for more
than the perruquiers yet.  There's a fighting strain
in your blood.  I can see it in the glint of your eye.
Well, you shall not lack opportunity to fight as well
as to laugh here in London town; but we'll not have
cold steel or hot lead again.  I've seen enough of
that cursed duelling to last me for a lifetime."

Grey was quickly to discover the nature of the
battles in which he was to take a part, and at the first
he shrank from them with an instinctive aversion he
could not well have defined, being no grave moralist
or philosopher.  Contests of skill or of luck at the
gaming tables were all the rage of the day with the
young dandies of the town, and the man who could
keep a steady head, and in some cases a steady hand,
was certain in the long run to obtain advantage over
his fellows.  At one club a game something like our
modern billiards was all the rage; and, of course, a
man who was moderate in his cups could score heavily
over the reckless, dissipated bloods, who were seldom
sober after sundown.  Dice and cards had their
vogue at other places; and though some of the games
played were those purely of chance, others required
no small skill and a clear head to ensure success, and
it was here that Lord Sandford's strong head and
Grey's cool blood and temperate habits gave them the
advantage.

The young man had not been a fortnight in town
before finding his capital doubled, as well as all bills
paid to the astonished tradesmen, who seldom looked
to receive their money within a twelvemonth.  He
was disposed to be troubled at this easy fashion of
making money; but Lord Sandford laughed him to
scorn.

"Zounds, man, what does it matter?  Those young
popinjays are bound to lose their money to some one.
Why not then to honest fellows like you and me,
who pay our bills and do good to the community
with the money?  Scruples!  Faugh! you must rid
yourself of them!  Sir Hugh Dumaresq's son need
not trouble himself thus.  Let us eat and drink,
for to-morrow we die.  Isn't that good Scripture?"  But
the reckless young lord paled a little at the
sound of his own words.  He had seen sudden death
once too often for his peace of mind of late.

In sooth, Grey felt but little scruple in taking his
winnings.  The young man was not greatly in
advance of his age, although he was indued with a
nature more finely strung and aspirations more lofty
than belonged to most.  Gambling was so much a
matter of course both in this and in other lands, and
the devotees of the amusement so numerous and so
bent upon their sport, that it would have needed
stronger convictions than Grey as yet possessed to
make any stand on such a point.  He took the same
risks as the others, and if his coolness of head,
steadiness of hand, and quick observation and memory
served to make for success in his case, he rather
regarded this as a witness to his superiority, and felt
only a small sense of reluctance in pocketing his gains;
which reluctance he could only attribute to a
lingering memory of words spoken by his mother when he
was a growing boy, and news came to them from
time to time of Sir Hugh's losses over cards, and the
necessity for further retrenchments upon the already
impoverished estate.

But the cases being so dissimilar, Grey did not see
that he need debar himself from this easy highroad
to fortunes, as it then seemed.  Nobody was dependent
upon him.  Nobody was there to grieve over his
troubles or to rejoice over his success.  His honest
serving-man was in sooth the only being in any way
deeply attached to him; and Dick was as delighted
at his master's brave appearance, and at the golden
stream running into his pocket, as though he had
achieved some great success or triumph.

There was one way by which Grey had pocketed
considerable sums of money that was very congenial
to him, and had given him some very happy hours.
This was the speed and strength of his horse, which
Lord Sandford had made boast of, vowing in the
hearing of some of the smartest dandies of the town
that Don Carlos would beat any steed against whom
he was pitted—a challenge eagerly taken up by the
young bloods, proud of their own horses and
horsemanship, to whom trials of skill and strength, and
contests over which wagers might freely be exchanged,
were as the very salt of life.

So either out at Hampstead, or at Richmond or
Hampton Court, Don Carlos had been set to show
the metal of which he was made, and had come off
easy victor in every race and every match, whether
flat running, or leaping, or a course of the nature of
a steeplechase had been elected.  His strength and
speed, sagacity and endurance, had never once failed
him, and already he was the talk of the town, and
Grey could have sold him for a great price had he
been willing to part with his favourite.

Many bright eyes had smiled upon the young
centaur, many languishing glances had been cast at
him.  He had been called up again and again to
be presented to some high-born dame, or some bevy
of laughing maidens, and he had bowed with courtly
grace, and received their sugared compliments with
suitable acknowledgments.  But no face had attracted
him as that face he had seen once at the water theatre,
almost upon his first appearance in the gay world.
He knew that it belonged to Lady Geraldine Romaine;
and often his eyes roved round some gay assemblage,
searching half unconsciously for a sight of her tall
and graceful figure, and the sweet, earnest face, so
different from the laughing and grimacing crowd in
which he now moved.  Grey had not known much
of women, so far.  His college life first, and then his
roving career of adventure, had hindered him from
making friendships save with those of his own sex;
and his deep love for his mother had preserved as
a living power his chivalrous belief in women, and
a resolute determination to disbelieve the idle,
malicious, and vicious tales he heard of them on all
sides.  Womanhood was sacred to him, and should
be sacred to the world.  That was his inalienable
conviction; and he had striven to be blind and deaf
to much of what had often been passing around him,
that he might not sink to the level of the men he
met, who would tear to tatters a woman's reputation
for an evening's pastime, or revel in every ugly bit of
scandal or tittle-tattle that the young beaux' valets
learned from the lackeys of other fine folk, and
retailed with additions at the door of the theatre, the
gates of the Park, or on the staircases of the
fashionable houses whither their masters and mistresses
flocked for amusement, unconscious or heedless of
the gossip spread abroad about them by their
servants at the doors.

Grey took no pleasure in the society of these
fashionable dames.  His tongue had not learned the
trick of the artificial language then in vogue.  He
was disgusted by the gross flattery every lady looked
to receive, and the lisping platitudes of the attendant
beaux filled him with scorn.  It was small wonder
that he chose rather the society of men of more
virility and stronger fibre, such as Lord Sandford
and his chosen friends; for though many of them
were wild young rakes, and not a few had a very
doubtful record, yet Grey knew little enough about
that, and found them not without attraction, although
the higher part of his nature revolted from much
that he saw and heard.  Nevertheless, he regarded it
all as a part of the experience in life which he
craved, and he might have become in a short while
just such another as these, had it not been for an
incident which suddenly arrested him in his career
of dissipation, and turned his thoughts into different
channels.

It had been early June when he came to town,
and now July had come, with its sultry suns and
breathless nights, when Grey ofttimes felt after an
evening over cards that it was mockery to go to bed,
and lounged away the residue of the night at his
open window, enjoying the only coolness and freshness
that was to be had, as the wind came whispering
from the river charged with refreshing moisture.

Sometimes the river seemed to call him; and at
such times he would lay aside his finery, clothe
himself in some plainer habit, and betake himself through
the silent house, where the night watchman was
always found slumbering at his post, out through the
big courts and down to the river steps, where a few
light wherries were always kept moored, one of which
he would select, and shoot out upon the glimmering
river to meet the new day there.

Some of his happiest hours were spent thus; and
at such times as these he felt rising within him a vague
sense of unrest and of disgust.  He had come to the
world of London to conquer fate, to make for himself
a name and a career; and here he was wasting day
after day in coffee-houses or clubs, with a crowd
of idlers whose thoughts never rose above the fancy
of the hour, whose only ambition was to kill time as
easily and pleasantly as possible, and to line their
pockets with gold, that they might have more to
throw away on the morrow.

Was this what he would come to?  Was this what
he was made for?  Would he become like unto them,
a mere roisterer and boon companion, a man without
aspirations and without ambition?  His cheeks burned
at the thought; and he sent his light craft spinning
rapidly up the stream as the questions formed themselves.

It was an exquisite summer morning.  The bells
in the many towers and steeples of the city had
chimed the hour of five.  The sun had long been up,
yet the glamour and glory of the new-born day still
lay upon the sleeping city and the dewy meadows of
the opposite shore.  Grey rowed on rapidly, yet
drinking in the beauty of all he saw.  He knew not
how far he had rowed; he had lost count of his
surroundings; he was absorbed in a deep reverie, when he
was suddenly brought up breathless and wondering
by the sound of a voice singing—a voice so clear and
sweet and true that he asked himself whether it
could be any creature of earth that sang, or whether
it might be some nymph or mermaid such as sailors
spoke of in their wondrous tales.

He gazed about him.  He saw that he was passing
a garden, and that a group of weeping willows
overhung the water at this spot.  The singing seemed to
come from thence.  Burning curiosity possessed him,
and he very slowly and softly rowed himself onwards,
till the prow of his boat met the drooping boughs
with a soft rustle.  The song ceased suddenly.  Grey
turned in his seat, and drew himself within the
sheltering shade; as he did so, a quick exclamation
broke from him.  He dropped his oars as he exclaimed,—

"The Lady Geraldine!"

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How had it come about?  Grey never could have
said.  But now it was all told—the story of his
chequered life.  She had been silent at the first—not
exactly resentful of his intrusion, not unwilling to let
him have speech of her again, but quiet, with a
maidenly reserve and dignity which had acted upon
him like a charm.  It brought back to him the
memory of his mother, and her noble dignity.  The
look in her eyes recalled those things that he had
learned at her knee, and those aspirations after true
greatness of life which she had cherished and fostered.
Suddenly his present life looked to him utterly sordid,
mean, and unworthy; and in a burst of confidence, for
which he could have given no reason, he told her all
his tale, encouraged by the soft and earnest glances
of her beautiful eyes, although she scarcely spoke a
word from beginning to end.

And now she looked at him with a great compassion
in her face.

"Oh, it is sad, it is sad!" she said in her earnest
musical tones.  "I know a little how sad it is.  I see
it too.  But you are a man.  You are strong, you are
your own master.  Why do you let yourself be made
the sport and plaything of fate?  Oh, do not do it!
Rise to your calling as a man, as a gentleman, as a
Christian!  You can—I know you can!  I read it
in your face!  What is Lord Sandford to you?
The acquaintance of a few weeks.  What are his
comrades to you?  You know that in your heart you
despise them.  Then will you make yourself as one
of them?  Will you sink to their level?  Oh no, no,
no!  Break the fetters; they cannot be fast riveted
yet.  Break them, and stand a free man, and then
see what the world has to offer you."

She was gazing at him now, not shyly, not as a
maiden archly coquetting with a handsome young
swain, but as a woman yearning to reclaim one whose
footsteps had well-nigh slipped in the mire, and whose
whole soul was stirred by the effort.

Grey listened like a man who dreams; and yet his
eyes were on fire, and his heart was kindled to a
great flame—shame at his own weakness, yearnings
after vanished memories and half-forgotten
aspirations struggling together with some new and utterly
unknown emotion which seemed to come surging over
him like a flood, leaving him speechless, motionless.

She had risen, and now held out her hand.

"You will triumph yet.  I am assured of it.  And
I shall pray God to give you His strength and grace.
Farewell, sir; we may meet again sometimes.  I shall
hear of you.  I shall listen to hear naught but good.
Your mother's voice shall plead through mine.  Give
up evil companions; give up idle dissipation, and all
that it brings in its train.  Lead the higher life of
the Courteous Knight, the Spotless Knight, the Knight
of the Holy Grail.  Did we not speak of them all
when first we met, and methought you looked such
a one yourself?  Be true to that better self; and so
I say farewell again.  May God be with you!"

She was gone, and Grey stood looking after her as
a man who sees a vision.





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.. _`A STARTLING DISCOVERY`:

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   CHAPTER VIII.


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   A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

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As Grey Dumaresq drifted downstream with the
tide that sunny July morning, he felt as
though something new and wonderful had come into
his life, as though some great and marvellous change
had fallen upon him, which, for good or ill, must leave
its mark upon his life.

He did not try to analyze the strange feelings
which possessed him.  For a time he did not even
consciously think.  He seemed to be drifting along a
shining pathway—drifting, he scarce knew whither,
and did not care to ask.  His heart was strangely
heavy, and yet strangely light.  A curious loathing
and shame at himself was blended with a sense of
exultant triumph, which held him in a mood of
ecstasy.  For a long while he drifted onwards, scarce
thinking or knowing whither he went, till a sudden
consciousness that he was passing Lord Sandford's
house brought him to himself with a sense of shock.
He had left that house only two hours before; yet it
might have been as many years that had rolled over
his head, so different were his feelings, so changed
was his outlook upon life.

He moored his boat, and went up to his room.
Before long he would be expected to drink coffee or
chocolate at his friend's levee, meet all those of his
comrades who had energy to pay their customary
*devoirs* to their patron, and discuss the plans for the
ensuing day and night.  Grey dashed some cold water
over his hot head, and sat down to think.

What would Lord Sandford say if he suddenly
expressed his intention of giving up gambling in all
its many insidious forms, in order to enter upon a
life totally different from that of the past weeks?
It was not as though he had any alternative plan to
unfold to him.  He was as ignorant how his fortune
was to be made now, after several weeks in gay
London town, as he had been on his first approach
to that city.  He could almost hear the great guffaw
of laughter with which Lord Sandford would greet
his confession.  He half feared the powerful
personality and the imperious temper of the man who
had been a good friend to him, and who had the
reputation of being a dangerous enemy when his will
was crossed.  Grey knew that this man liked him—went
near to loving him—would not easily let him
go.  He knew that he would appear both ungrateful
and capricious; and the young man writhed at the
thought of seeming either the one or the other.  But
yet he must break away.  Pacing up and down the
room, he seemed to see the soft earnest eyes of the
Lady Geraldine bent upon him.  He had pledged his
word to her, and in spirit to his dead mother.  From
that pledge there was no drawing back.  Yet how
could the break best be made?

He thought over the engagements already entered
into.  Was it needful that these should be kept?
He thought not—at least not those which were but
promises to meet at such and such clubs or coffee-houses
for the purposes of card-playing and similar
recreations.  But there was one engagement that
Grey did not see his way honourably to break.
He had promised to ride Don Carlos the following
Saturday in a course against three other picked
horses, and heavy wagers, he knew, had been laid
upon or against his steed.  This engagement he felt
he could not break; but the rest he would.  He
might even make the excuse that Don Carlos wanted
attention, and that he was going to take him into
the country for purposes of training; and, once away
from Sandford House, he ought to be able to pen a
letter to the master which might excuse his return,
and explain the nature of the change which had
come over him.

Yes, that would be the way.  He would not go
open-mouthed to him this morning, to be perhaps
scoffed or cajoled into some rash compromise.  Grey
knew that his ability to see both sides of a question
often led him into difficulties and the appearance of
vacillation.  Surely he could keep his pledge if he
made the break with a certain diplomatic skill.  Not
only would it be easier to himself, but it might prove
the safer method also.

When he saw Lord Sandford in the midst of his
friends, laughing at the last bit of scandal, passing
jokes over the latest repartee of the redoubtable
Duchess of Marlborough to the meek Queen, discussing
the rivalries of the ministers, and the other rivalries
(to them more important) of the reigning beauties
of the gay world, Grey felt that it would indeed be
impossible to speak in this company of any of those
things which were in his mind.  He contented
himself by standing aloof, looking out of the window
and sipping his chocolate, whilst the gay flood of talk
surged around him, and he caught a word here and
a phrase there, but always heard when Lord Sandford's
resonant tones dominated those of all others.

"Talk of rival beauties; we shall see sport
to-night.  Lady Romaine and Lady Saltire—dearest
friends and dearest foes—are to go to Vauxhall
Gardens to-night, each in a new toilet specially
designed and ordered for the occasion.  It will be a
ladies' battle, in very truth; and public opinion must
needs decide which of the rival queens is fairest to
look upon.  I have promised both the dear creatures
to be there, to give my admiration to both alike.
Shall I risk the undying enmity of either by giving
the palm to one?  No such fool, gentlemen—no such
fool is Sandford.  I vow I will have ready such a
pretty speech or couplet for each that she shall go
away with a better opinion of me than ever!  Ha,
ha, ha!  I love to see the pretty dears, tricked out
in their finery, and ready to tear each other's eyes
out!  So, gentlemen, I cancel all previous engagements
for to-night.  I am for Vauxhall, and Heaven
only knows how late we shall be detained there by
the battle of beauty."

"We will all be there!" cried the young bloods,
who were at all times ready to follow Lord Sandford
to whatever place of entertainment he elected to go;
and one voice followed with a laughing question,—

"Will the snow maiden be there in the train of
her mother?"

Grey felt himself start, and was glad his face was
turned away.  He would not for worlds that the
sharp mocking eyes of Lord Sandford should see
him at this moment, albeit he had no notion of any
sort that he had special interest in his spotless Lady
Geraldine.

.. _`He stood quite still to watch Lord Sandford lead away the fair Geraldine.`:

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   :alt: He stood quite still to watch Lord Sandford lead away the fair Geraldine (page 155).

   He stood quite still to watch Lord Sandford lead away the fair Geraldine (page `155`_).

"I trow so," was the carelessly-spoken reply of
Lord Sandford, as he adjusted his wig and suffered
his valet to spray some delicate perfume over his
person, as a finishing touch to his toilet.  "The
Lady Geraldine is no longer to lead the life of a
nun.  It has been decreed that she is to show her
lovely face abroad, and add thereby a lustre to her
mother's charms."

"A lustre her ladyship would well dispense with,"
laughed another.  "She would sooner pose as the
stepmother than the mother of a grown-up daughter—ha,
ha!  How comes it that this young beauty
hath never been shown before to the world?  Other
damsels make their *début* at sixteen; but the Lady
Geraldine can scarce be less than twenty, and has
the dignity of matronhood."

"A vast deal more dignity than the most part of
our matrons do show forth," spoke Lord Sandford
incisively.  "Doubtless she learned it from her
grandam, her mother's mother and her father's aunt;
for my Lord and my Lady Romaine are cousins, and
Mrs. Adair was trusted and revered by both.  Young
children are in the way of such gay ladies of fashion,
wherefore the babe was sent to its grandam, and
remained with her till the virtuous and discreet old
lady died, having bequeathed her store of wisdom
and discretion to the beautiful maid she had reared."

"And her fortune too," sniggered one gay dandy.
"Do not forget that item, my lord.  It is whispered
that it will make the biggest of her charms.  What
is the figure?  Doth anybody know?"

All disclaimed any precise information, and Lord
Sandford spoke no word; his brow was slightly
furrowed, and there was a subdued gleam in his eye
which warned those who saw it that something in
the conversation was not to his mind.  They
therefore hastened to change it, and many of them said
adieu and sauntered away.  Only a small knot
remained with their patron, discussing the plans for
the day; and Grey stood still in the embrasure of
the window, his heart still beating with curious
violence and rapidity.  When those men were
speaking of Geraldine, he had scarce been able to keep
his fingers from their throats.  What business had
they taking her pure name upon their lips?  And
why had they spoken of her fortune?  Could it be
true that she was so great an heiress?  He hated to
believe it; yet what was it to him?  He was wakened
from his reverie by a quick question from Lord
Sandford, which he heard as through the mists of a dream,
and answered,—

"'Tis true I am not quite myself.  I slept not at
all last night, and have been on the river well-nigh
since sunrise to rid me of the vapours.  Methinks I
will seek some sleep in mine own rooms ere night.
Reckon not on me for to-day's pastime."

"Ay, you have the air of a man squeamish and in
need of rest.  Go get thee a good sleep, friend Grey,
for we must keep you in fettle for the match on
Saturday.  Man and beast must come to the field
strong and robust, with nerve and wind and muscle
true and taut.  But you must make one of our party
to Vauxhall to-night.  There will be many bright
eyes on the lookout for the gay cavalier, as the
ladies call you for your love-locks.  You must not
fail us there."

For a moment Grey hesitated, prudence and passion
fighting together for mastery.  But the overwhelming
desire to see Geraldine again—perhaps to
speak a word of farewell—overcame him, and he
answered briefly as he strolled through the room on
his way out,—

"I shall be ready enough for that; you can reckon
on me."

How the day passed Grey never knew, and it was
still broad daylight when he and his comrades started
for the gardens of Vauxhall, where it was the fashion
to spend the evening hours when nothing more
attractive offered, and where such music and such
illuminations as the times had to offer were to be enjoyed,
and where ladies and their attendant beaux fluttered
about like so many gay butterflies, and found
opportunity as the dusk fell for walks and talks of a more
private nature in the bosky alleys and shady paths
than they could hope to gain in crowded routs and
card-parties.  Supper could be obtained too, and
pleasant little parties made up; and the fashionable
world found it agreeable on these hot summer nights
to take their pleasure out in the open air.

Grey detached himself from his friends upon the
first opportunity, and wandered alone through the
gardens, avoiding encounters with persons he knew,
though often accosted with laugh and jest and
challenge by masked ladies, or young bloods eager to
make friends with one whose face and figure began
to be known, owing to his successes in horsemanship
with Don Carlos, and his friendship with Lord
Sandford.  But Grey made small response to overtures,
quickly shook himself free, and pursued his solitary
ramble, till at length a sound of gay voices, laughter,
and almost uproarious mirth, in which the tones of
Lord Sandford could plainly be heard, drew him to a
wide open space where an illuminated fountain seemed
to have drawn a great concourse of people; and there,
amid a tossing crowd of gaudy gallants, and ladies
with towering heads, mincing, giggling, uttering little
shrieks, little jests, or playing off an infinitude of
coquetries and artifices to attract admiration, he
beheld the stately white-robed figure around which
his thoughts and fancies had been playing all through
the long hours of the day.

He saw not the rival queens of beauty in their
gorgeous apparel.  He saw not the surging crowd
that eddied around them, appraising, flattering,
admiring, laughing.  He only saw one white figure,
standing aloof and for the moment alone, the
moonbeams glimmering upon the shining whiteness of her
dress, the fair face bent, as though in some sort of
sorrow or shame.  He saw it, and he was instantly at
her side.

Whether or not he spoke, he knew not.  He offered
his arm, and the next moment he was leading her
away from that giddy, mocking crowd; and he felt
the clinging clasp of her fingers thrilling him to his
heart's core.  He heard the breath of relief as the
chorus of flippant merriment died away in the distance.
He paused, and a quick exclamation escaped his lips.

"This is no place for you, Lady Geraldine.  Why
do they bring you hither?"

She answered not, but turned her gaze for a
moment towards him, and then dropped her eyes.
With an impulse for which he could not account, he
covered the fingers which lay upon his arm with his
own disengaged hand, and passionate words sprang to
his lips.

"Give me only the right, fair lady, and I will save
you from them all.  I ask only to live and die as
your knight—your champion—without wages—without reward!"

Then he was silent.  His breath came thick and
fast.  He felt the quiver of the hand he held.  He
knew not how long the silence lasted, it was so
strangely sweet, so full of mysterious meaning.

"I thank you, sir.  I trow that you speak truth,
and that your words are not idle froth—gone in a
moment—as the words of so many of yonder gallants.
But it may not be.  I may not give you such a right.
A maiden is not free to choose her friends; and the
knights of chivalry are long since vanished from the
earth.  I would that I might call you friend, that
sometimes we might meet and hold converse together.
I trust that I may learn a good report of you, that
one day I may speak with pride of having known
you in your youth.  But that must suffice us.  Let
it be enough for both.  I may not—"

She hesitated, and her voice died into silence.
She spoke with a repressed emotion which he scarcely
understood.  The tumult of his own heart was such
that he could not seek to gauge the depths of her
feelings.

"If I may not be your knight, let me at least be
your friend—your servant!" he pleaded.  "And if
there is anything wherein I can serve you—"

She seemed struck by the phrase.  She lifted her
bent head and gazed earnestly at him; but the words
she spoke seemed strange.

"You are the friend of Lord Sandford; is it not so?"

"I have been his comrade these many weeks.  He
has shown me much kindness and good-fellowship.
I owe him gratitude."

"And you must know him well, I doubt not.  Tell
me, Sir Grey—and I pray you deceive me not—what
kind of a man is this same Lord Sandford?  Is he
leal and true, faithful, loving, and loyal?  Is he
better than the crowd who follow at his heels and
ape his manners, use his name as a watchword, and
fawn upon his favour?  Tell me, what think you
of him?  A friend must needs speak sooth."

"Lady, you have asked a hard question, inasmuch
as I know but little of the man, albeit I have lived
with him above a month.  He attracts me, and yet
there be moments when he repels me too.  He is a
good friend—I would not speak a word against him;
yet it is said that he can be a bitter and an
unscrupulous enemy; and those who have lost his favour
withdraw themselves as speedily as possible from his
notice, fearful lest some evil may befall them."

"Is he then cruel and rancorous?"

"I can believe that he might be, were his passions
roused.  He has that forceful nature which tends to
vehement liking and bitter hatred.  I have experienced
the one; I have not tasted of the other.  For
the rest, he is a man of parts, and can do all well to
which he puts his hand.  Methinks he would be
strong enough to break off his reckless and vicious
habits, had he but motive sufficient to make him!
desire to do so.  But for the nonce he floats with the
current, and lives as the world lives.  More I cannot say."

At that moment a swift, firm tread was heard
approaching along the dim alley; and Geraldine
looked hastily round, her hand dropping from
Grey's arm.

"It is he!" she whispered, and there was a catch
in her voice which the young man heard without
understanding.  He faced round, and beheld the
towering figure of Lord Sandford beside them.

"Well chanced upon!" quoth he in his resonant
tones.  "I was sent by your mother in search of you,
Lady Geraldine.  The court of beauty has sat.  To
her has been adjudged the prize.  She now desires
the presence of her daughter, to share her triumph.
We shall sup anon, and the table will not be
complete without one gracious and lovely presence.
Lady Geraldine, honour me by accepting my
escort.—Grey, will you join us?"

He spoke the last words over his shoulder, and
there was a note in his voice which the young man
had never heard before, and which he did not fully
understand.  It seemed to sting him, but he knew
not why.

"I thank you—no," he answered.  "I am going home."

.. _`155`:

And then he stood quite still to watch Lord
Sandford lead away the fair Geraldine, who threw
him one strange, half-appealing glance over her
shoulder, but spoke no word of farewell.

Grey had meant to go home, but somehow he
could not bring himself to do so.  His brain seemed
on fire, and his heart with it.  He knew not what
ailed him, but a fever was consuming him.  He left
the gardens, but walked on and on, not knowing
or caring whither he went.  The night was far
spent, and the dawn was beginning to blush in the
eastern sky, before he found himself in the region
of Sandford House again.

The place was still and deserted.  The revellers
and roisterers seemed all at home.  A watchman
dozed at his post, thankful for the peace of the
streets, and Grey met no interruption, till suddenly,
round a corner, he came face to face with his host,
who gave him a look, uttered a short laugh, and
linked his arm within his.

"Well met, friend Grey!  You too have had no
desire to woo the somnolent god?  We find metal
more attractive elsewhere.  Say now, what think
you of the future Lady Sandford?  Methought you
had eyes but for her to-night.  Will she not queen
it right royally here—the beautiful stately creature?
You have taste, Grey, and I am well pleased that
you have.  Those painted, patched, and powdered
Jezebels, smirking and ogling and running all over
the town for the adulation of the crowd, are as little
to your mind as to mine.  We can flatter and fool
and make mock with the best; but when it comes
to marriage!  Faugh! one's soul sickens at the
thought.  What man in his senses would trust his
happiness or his honour in the hands of that tawdry
crew?  Gilt and tinsel do very well to play with;
but when one desires to purchase, one asks for gold."

Grey's heart seemed to stand still within him.  He
felt growing numb and cold.  As they passed
beneath the gateway, and the lamp shone upon his
face, Lord Sandford saw that it was white as death,
and a strange gleam came into his own eyes.

"Come, my friend, you do not answer.  What
think you of the wife that I have chosen?  What
think you of the Lady Geraldine Adair?  Is she not
a matchless creature?  Who would have believed such
a sport could come from such a tree?"

Grey commanded himself by a great effort.

"Is the Lady Geraldine Adair, then, your affianced
wife?"

"That, or next door to it.  My suit is approved
of her parents.  We shall be betrothed ere long.  I
thought you might be learning as much from her own
lips to-night.  Did I not hear my name pass between
you twain?"

"She did ask some question anent you," answered
Grey, who had no desire to fence or parry—he felt
too stunned and bewildered; "but she spoke not of
any troth-plight.  Why should she?"

"True, why should she?  She is not one of your
empty-headed chatterers.  She wears not her heart
upon her sleeve.  And your acquaintance is of the
slightest; is it not so?  Have you met before, since
that evening in the water theatre when I did first
present you to each other?"

"I have seen her but once between," answered
Grey, still in the same quiet, stunned fashion; and
when they had entered the house, he made excuse
to go at once to his room, declining all proffer of
refreshment or further converse.

Lord Sandford looked after him with an intent
look upon his face, which slowly clouded over, till
there was something almost malignant and ferocious
in his aspect.

"So it is as I thought.  He has been hit, and
hard hit.  Where can he have seen her in the
interim?  They would not have been standing
thus, talking thus, if some bond had not been
established between them.  Yet I thought I had kept an
eye upon him.  I knew there might be danger.  I saw
it the first moment that they met.  There is something
akin in their natures.  They feel it themselves.
Hr-r-r-rr! that must be put a stop to.  I will have
no rival in Geraldine's heart.  She does not love me
yet; but she fears me a little, and she thinks of me.
That is no bad basis to build upon.  I shall win her
yet, if I have a fair field.  But a rival—no, that must
not be!  And yet I read somewhat in her eyes
to-night which had not been there before.  The fiend
take all false friends!  I must rid myself of this one,
and that speedily.  I have liked him; but he shall
not stand in my way.  Well, 'tis I have made him:
I can quickly unmake him.  Let me but think of
the way and the means.  Grey Dumaresq, you are
a pretty fellow and a pleasant comrade; but you
shall never be suffered to stand in the light of
Sandford's hopes and plans and desires.  Look to
yourself, my friend; for evil is abroad for you!"





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.. _`"A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS"`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   "A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS."

.. vspace:: 2

"Master, master, wake up!  What ails you?
Have you forgot the day, and what has
to be done?"

Dick, with an expression of uneasiness and
determination upon his face, was shaking Grey somewhat
vehemently by the shoulder.  The latter seemed to
find it hard to wake; and when his eyes opened at
last, there was a lack-lustre expression in them that
was strange and unnatural.  Dick's honest face
clouded over yet more.

"I was certain there was some devilry afoot when
they all came here last night.  I have never seen my
master in such a mad mood of merriment," he muttered
half aloud, as he turned away to get a brimming glass
of pure cold water from the table.  "What has come
over them, I don't know.  But I like not the change.
I liked not the look in Lord Sandford's eyes.  He is
a great man, I doubt it not; but I wish my master
had chanced upon another as a friend and comrade
in this great Babylon of a city.  There is more
going on here than I well understand."

"What are you grumbling over there to yourself,
Dicon?" asked Grey from his bed, and his voice
sounded more natural and quiet than his servant
had heard it yet; "and where am I?  For sure this
room is strange to mine eyes, nor have I any
recollection of it overnight; and how come you to
be here, for that matter, honest Dicon?  Methought
you were at Hampstead, watching over Don Carlos,
that he might be ready for Saturday's race."

"Yes, master, and so I am; and this is the hostelry
at Hampstead where I have taken up my quarters
with the horse; and hither it was that you came
yestere'en, with Lord Sandford and his friends, to
be ready for the match to-day.  But beshrew me
if I did think yesterday you would be fit for the
saddle to-day!  Is it strange I should mutter and
grumble to myself when such things happen?"

"Nay now, what things, good Dicon?  I pray you
tell me," spoke Grey, as he drained at one draught
the ice-cold water, and drew a long breath of relief.
"I feel like a man waking from a strange and
fevered dream; for, in sooth, I know but little of
what has been passing these last days.  Some strange
madness seems to have possessed me.  I had meant
to say farewell to Lord Sandford and his world, and
seek mine own fortunes in some other field.  Yet
methinks I have not made the break.  I have visions
of wild orgies and furious gaming—such as I held
aloof from before.  Dicon, I fear me I have made a
desperate fool of myself, and of my fortunes too.  Tell
me, what money have I with me now?"

"Not much, master.  I took what you had—a
matter of some twenty guineas perhaps.  I have it
safe in a bag.  But surely that is not all.  You had
won a fortune, you did tell me—"

"Ay, and now I have lost it.  I can recollect how
the guineas flew, and how the stakes were doubled,
and how I lost again and yet again.  I take it I am
a ruined man, good Dicon.  These twenty guineas
saved from the wreck are all the fortune I possess,
and belike it is better so—better so."

"Better!" echoed the dismayed Dick; "nay, my
master.  But you will win it back again.  The luck
cannot always be against you.  Think how it was at
the first!"

"Yes, Dicon, and perchance it had been better had
the luck been worse.  I love not such gains as these.
Besides, there is somewhat in this beyond my ken.
Lord Sandford desired my friendship and company
then, and luck was with me.  Now that he desires
it no more, the luck has changed, and that so strangely
and desperately that one might almost say there was
magic in it."

Dick's jaw dropped; he longed to know more, but
feared to intrude too much upon his master's secrets.
Grey, however, knew how faithful and attached was
his stanch henchman, and as he went through his
morning toilet he told him a little of the events of
the past three days, in as far as he himself could
remember them.

"I have offended Lord Sandford doubly," he said,
"though he will not openly admit it.  But I know—I
feel the change.  I trow that he is my enemy.
Nay, Dicon, look not so aghast; it will matter little
in the future, since to-day I take my leave of him,
and most like in this great whirling world our paths
will not again cross, either for weal or woe."

"But how?—what?  He did seem to love you well."

"I think he did; but a mischance befell.  He did
not tell me of his troth-plight to a fair lady—a lady
of surpassing beauty, and of a virtue and purity which
make her like a bright particular star amid the painted
dames and mincing damsels of this giddy London town.
Twice or thrice did I meet her and pay homage to
her wondrous beauty and goodness.  It was words
she spoke to me that decided me, ere ever any
ill-blood had been aroused, to leave off from this life
of pleasure-seeking and distraction, and seek a nobler
career than that of the butterfly dandy fluttering
round the town.  But Lord Sandford thought that
there was somewhat more than this betwixt us.  Of
that I am assured.  A flame of jealousy swept over
him; and when I told him of my resolution, I trow
that his suspicions received confirmation.  I did not
see it then, but I see it now.  He thought I left him
to pursue my ends alone, and, perchance, to seek to
win the lady of his choice.  But he spoke nothing of
this—only insisted that for this week my engagements
should be kept, and that after to-day's race I
might go my own way, an I was so resolved.  He
was not unkindly; yet there was something strange
and stern in his bearing and language, and you have
seen how his imperious temper and will sweep all
before them.  I myself was strangely dazed and
something sorrowful.  I scarce do know why my
heart was so heavy within me.  I let him have his
way; and you behold what that way has been.  I
am a ruined man, beggared of all my winnings;
and methinks my Lord Sandford has plotted for
this very thing."

"It is a shame!  Would I could take my horsewhip
to him—"

"Nay, nay, good Dicon; be not so wroth," spoke
Grey calmly and quietly.  "In sooth, I know not
that I owe him aught but thanks.  When all is said
and done, it was but ill-gotten gain.  I would sooner
face life with none of it upon me.  I had a few
guineas to start with—well, it was more than a few;
yet had I spent my time in London, I should have
had but little left by now.  I have learned many
lessons, and I shall start clear of debt, and without
my pockets filled with other men's gold."

Dick was scarce moralist enough to understand or
appreciate his master's scruples—scruples new, indeed,
to Grey himself—but the faithful fellow was ready
to accept any verdict and any decision made by the
man he loved and served; and as he put the finishing
touches to the workmanlike riding toilet which he
had in readiness, he remarked with a short laugh,—

"Faith, master, you and I betwixt us, with Don
Carlos and my good nag for company, and a few
guineas in our pockets, need not fear the future; and
I trow it will be well for you to be quit for ever
of my Lord Sandford's company.  I liked him not
greatly for your friend; I hate him with a goodly
hatred since he shows himself your foe.  Shall we
turn our backs upon him and upon London town,
and seek our fortunes with the army over the water,
where his Grace of Marlborough will give you welcome?"

"I scarce know what the future will bring for
me, Dicon," was the reply, spoken gravely, yet with
a certain listless indifference not lost upon the
servant; "I have made no plans as yet.  Let us see what
this day brings forth first."

"I wager it will fill our pockets anew with gold!"

"I will not touch their gold!" spoke Grey with
eyes that suddenly flashed fire.  "I have cancelled
all my wagers.  I will take nothing at their hands.
I will ride Don Carlos and ride my best for mine
own honour and that of the good steed I shall
bestride; but their money will I not touch.  I
have done with all that.  Nay, stare not in such
amaze, good Dicon.  I have not taken leave of my
senses; rather, I trow, I have come to my better
mind.  Now get me somewhat to eat here, and
then we will to the stables to see my beauty.
This match once over, we turn a new page in our
life's story.  Who knows what the next will be?"

It was not much that Grey could eat.  The three
days which had passed since he and Lord Sandford
had come to an understanding, which was well-nigh
a rupture, had left a mark upon him.  Moreover
there was a weary ache at his heart which he did
not fully understand, and which was harder to bear
than aught beside.  Dimly he knew that it had some
connection with the Lady Geraldine Adair; but he
feared to search too deeply into that matter.  She
was as far removed from him as the moon in the
heavens, and he believed her plighted to another, and
that one a man who had stood his friend, even though
suspicion, jealousy, and an imperious temper had
changed friendship into something very like enmity.
Grey never for a moment dreamed of regarding
himself as an aspirant for that fair hand; but he knew
that the motive which was urging him to change the
manner of his life and become a worthier and a
better man was the hope that she might watch his
career, and hear a whisper of his fame or his success;
or that he might win some laurels in the fields of
literature, art, or politics, which he might perchance
in some sort lay at her feet.

This, however, lurked in the background of his
thoughts.  He scarcely owned to himself that he
expected ever to look upon that fair face again; hence
the sensation of heart sickness which had rendered
him well-nigh desperate for a few days, and had
helped him to squander without a qualm the hoard
which his previous successes had accumulated.  And
now the end of this mad life of gay folly had come.
He had drained the cup to the dregs, and found it
bitter to the taste.  He had neither liking nor respect
for the companions with whom he had associated.
Towards Lord Sandford his feelings were very mixed.
The power of the man was too great to be shaken off
entirely, nor could he despise or dislike him.  But
the tie of friendship had snapped asunder.  A chasm
had opened between them, and he felt that he was
regarded, if not as a foe, yet as something akin, and
it needed not Dick's words of warning to tell him
that the less he saw of this man in the future the
better it would be for himself.

Sounds of laughter and revelry greeted his ears as
he slipped quietly out towards the paddock and shed
where his horse had been stabled these past weeks,
tended and exercised by Dick, and ready for whatever
demand might be made upon him.  He greeted his
master with a neigh of recognition, dropped his nose
in the extended hand, and stood tranquil and content
under Grey's quiet caresses.  The glossy coat was
satin smooth, the delicate tracery of veins could be
distinctly seen, and each muscle stood out hard and
taut; there was no superfluous flesh, but a firmness
and excellence of condition that brought a smile of
satisfaction to Grey's face.  He turned with a smile
to Dick, who stood by beaming.

"Not much fear of him to-day, eh, Dicon?"

"He would jump the moon, master, if you asked it
of him," was the proud and confident answer.

"How do the others look?  Have you seen them?"

"Pretty bits of horseflesh every one; and there is
a black stallion of Mr. Artheret's that will take some
beating.  But he's too heavy for some of the jumps.
He don't take off fast enough.  And he's a nasty
temper too.  There's a gray Arab with pace; but he
falls away behind, as they all do.  I don't think Don
Carlos will be troubled long by him.  None of the
others will take much beating.  Pretty to look at,
but not trained for what they've got to do.  Lord
Sandford was here yesterday early, looking at the
jumps, and he had several of them made stiffer; but
there's nothing Don Carlos cannot sail over like a bird!"

"Let us go and see," said Grey.  "I will take a
canter on the turf to warm myself to the saddle.
Soh, boy, soh!" as he lightly vaulted to his seat, and
the horse curveted beneath him.  "We will take a look
at these obstructions.  The stiffer they are, the better
you and I will be pleased—eh, my beauty?"

Dick mounted his nag, and rode beside his master
to the course, where the horses were to be matched
against each other when Lord Sandford and his
friends should have finished their merry meal, and be
ready to witness the exhibition.  It was a fine stretch
of ground which had been chosen—nearly a mile in
length, and with several natural obstacles, which had
been increased in some cases artificially, to test better
the strength and skill of horse and rider.  A stream
of water with rather awkward banks ran across the
course in one place, and in another was a dip in the
ground filled with gorse bushes—a nasty place to get
entangled in, if the horse could not be persuaded to
clear the whole thing with a flying leap.  A broken
stone wall with a ditch in front was another obstacle;
and the last was a barrier entirely artificial, made of
hurdles and bushes high enough to tax the mettle of
any horse, though not absolutely insurmountable.
Still it was a formidable object enough, and Grey
looked at it critically, walking Don Carlos up and
down, to let the creature take his own observations
with regard to the leap he was to make.

"It was here they were busy yesterday, but I could
not see all they did.  I was afraid to leave Don
Carlos with so many strangers about.  Some of the
grooms with the other horses looked up to mischief.
But I heard them say afterwards that Lord Sandford
had not been satisfied with the field as it was.  He
said they must have something that really would be
a test, or the black stallion and Don Carlos were like
to come in together."

But now a horn blew gaily, and horsemen were
seen approaching from many quarters.  In the
neighbourhood of the inn all was bustle and excitement,
whilst from all sides there appeared streams of people
converging to this spot.  Some fine carriages had
been driven out from London, with bedecked ladies
eager to witness the contest.  Others had stayed the
night in the neighbourhood to be ready; and all the
natives of the place who could get a holiday had
come to gape at the fine folks, and see the grand
gentlemen racing their own horses.

Indeed the hour for the contest had well-nigh
come.  Grey could see that the other horses were
assembling, their riders decked in every colour of the
rainbow, quite eclipsing the quiet and workmanlike
suit of buff which he wore.  But Grey's taste had
always disinclined him to gaudy colours.  The soft
leather, finely chased and stamped in gold, pleased his
eye more than rich-hued cloths or velvets.  His
breeches were of white buckskin cut by Lord Sandford's
own tailor, and he wore long boots fitted with
silver spurs, albeit he scarcely ever had need of the
latter when he bestrode Don Carlos.  His scarf was
of white silk fringed with gold, and his only
adornment was a cravat of fine lace, fastened with a
diamond clasp.  His cocked hat matched his buff coat,
and was adorned with a white plume.  Altogether, as
he rode forward to his place, it would have been hard
to find a fault with his dress or person; and the
ladies behind their fans audibly praised his elegant
figure, graceful seat, and distinguished and handsome
face.

Grey, all unconscious of the favour bestowed upon
him, rode up and saluted courteously the gentlemen
who were to meet him and each other in rivalry.
Lord Sandford, splendidly mounted, was to act as
judge at the winning post.  Another of his friends
was to be starter; and gentlemen were posted at
various points along the course to see that all the
rules laid down were observed, and that no rider
deviated from the well-pegged-out route prescribed
for all.  The spectators scattered hither and thither,
taking up stations wherever their fancy prompted.
The course seemed marked out by a glittering border
extending down both sides.  The sun shone brilliantly
in the sky, and all nature seemed in gladsome mood.

Grey cast a keen look at the seven rival steeds as
they were brought into line for the start.  He picked
out in a moment the two of whom Dicon had spoken,
and saw that he had judged well.  Then he gave his
whole mind to the task in hand, checked with hand
and voice the prancing of the excited Don Carlos, and
brought him up to his appointed place docile and
motionless.

The word was given, but the black stallion had
bounded off a few seconds too soon, and had to be
recalled.  A second start was spoiled by two other
competitors, who suddenly reared at each other, and
strove to fight.  One iron hoof, indeed, inflicted such
a wound upon the shoulder of his neighbour that that
horse had to be taken away limping and bleeding.

It was trying to all, horses and riders alike; but
at the third start all got off, though Grey saw that
again the black stallion had made his bound a second
too soon.  This gave him a few yards the advantage,
which, as his rider pressed him hard from the first,
and his temper was evidently up, he increased in the
next minute to more than a length.  The Arab and
Don Carlos were neck and neck, and sailed over the
first easy jump side by side, the stallion having cleared
it with a tremendous bound a couple of seconds earlier.

The water jump was next, and it was obvious that
one spot offered greater advantages to the horse than
any other.  The stallion made for this spot with a
rush, took off and bounded clear over, just as Don
Carlos and the Arab came rushing up neck and neck,
each rider desirous of the advantage of the sound
bank.  Grey set his teeth and glanced at his
adversary.  A collision at the leap might be fatal to one
or both, so far as the race went.  His rival would
not budge an inch—that he saw.  With a muttered
oath between his teeth, he pulled his left rein, and
used his knees.  Don Carlos felt, and instantly
understood: swerving slightly, he gathered himself together,
and rose magnificently where the water was wider
and the bank less safe; but he landed safely, and
with a hardly perceptible scramble found his feet
again, and amid the plaudits of the people raced on
after the Arab, who, having got a momentary
advantage, was now slightly in advance.

The black stallion had just reached the downward
dip leading to the deep ditch filled with gorse bushes.
His rider had had perforce to pull him up somewhat,
lest he should slip and fall, for the ground was sandy
and treacherous.  But Don Carlos had been born and
bred to this sort of wild work, and dashing onwards
and downwards with the agility of a deer, came neck
and neck with his rival, and having passed the Arab,
cleared with a bound the treacherous gully, landing
true and safe upon the opposite side.  The Arab
followed in his tracks, his rider taking advantage
of the lead given; but the black stallion slipped and
snorted, could not be made to try the leap till another
of the horses came up and took it, after which he
sprang across with a vicious energy which tried the
horsemanship of his rider, and tore like a wild thing
after the leading pair.

These had cleared one after the other the wall
and ditch; but the Arab was showing signs of
distress, whilst Don Carlos looked fresh and eager as
at the start.  There now remained only a quarter
of a mile of smooth sward, and then the last critical
jump; and Grey, knowing himself first, and not
knowing what had betided his rivals, sailed happily
onward, secure of victory, though he heard behind him
the thud of flying horse hoofs, and knew that the
black stallion was not beaten yet.  It was he who
snorted with such excitement and fury, and seemed
to awaken thunders with his iron-shod hoofs.

One glance over his shoulder, and Grey passed his
whip very lightly across the neck of Don Carlos.
The gallant animal sprang forward like an arrow
from a bow, showing how well within himself he
had been travelling so far.  The sound of other
beating hoofs was fainter now.  Grey looked keenly
at the great obstacle looming up in his path, and
measured the height at various places, deciding where
the leap could best be taken.

He felt the tension of the muscles beneath him.
Don Carlos was gathering himself together for the
leap.  He would not fail, falter, or refuse.  The
great mass seemed rushing up against him.  He felt
the slackening with which Don Carlos faced his task,
the motion of his flanks as he took off and rose.
Then what was it happened?  The sound of a click,
sharp and clear—a sickening sensation of falling,
sinking, struggling, plunging.  Grey felt for a moment
as though the end had come.  He and his horse
seemed falling into the very bowels of the earth.
A black shadow almost overhead showed him that
the stallion had cleared the barrier, and the air was
full of shouts, screams, cheers, and cries.

Next moment he felt strong hands lifting and
dragging him upwards.  Dick's white face looked
into his own, and the first words he heard were
hissed in his ear by his faithful henchman.

"Foul play, foul play, my master.  That ditch was
dug and concealed—ay, and more than concealed; it
has been an old well at some time, and it will open
with a spring.  You have been grossly tricked and
cozened.  It has been a trap cleverly laid and baited.
But let me only get at them—my Lord Sandford—"

Dick almost choked in his fury; but Grey was
now on his feet, and his one thought was for the
good horse, who had dropped downwards into this
unseen, unsuspected pit, and was gasping in affright,
but might possibly have escaped serious injury.  He
himself felt little ill effects, having had a marvellous
escape.  But his soul was stirred within him, and in
getting out the horse he saw plainly that Dick had
been right, and that some sort of old trap-door
concealed an opening into the ground which might have
been at one time a well, but was now silted up with
sand.  By luring the foremost rider to this particular
spot to take the leap, any astute enemy aware of the
nature of the ground could almost certainly ensure
his overthrow and defeat; and Grey had his
suspicions that Lord Sandford had hoped that he might
then and there break his neck—a thing which might
very well have happened.

There was a crowd round the spot now, and great
horror was expressed by many at sight of the
unsuspected well, no voice being louder than Lord
Sandford's in proclaiming astonishment and indignation.
But Grey took no notice of the clamour, only busying
himself about his horse; and presently, with some
difficulty, the sagacious and docile creature was got
out, and it appeared that no limb was broken, though
one hock was deeply cut, and one shoulder badly
strained.

Grey stood in silent thought awhile, his hand upon
the neck of his favourite, who stood with drooping
head and dejected mien, as though wondering whether
he would ever be whole and sound again.  Dick was
binding up the wound, his face like a thunder-cloud.
A knot of persons of all ranks stood watching at a
little distance; but Grey had courteously waved away
all proffers of help, and indicated that he desired no
attentions.

"Dicon," he said in a low tone, "we must now
part for a while.  Don Carlos will need you more
than I.  He is now my sole fortune, and must be
respected as such.  Take him and your own nag,
and walk them both by easy stages to Hartsbourne.
There are paddocks enough and to spare, and I
surely have the right to pasture my horse in one;
but if the thing should come to my kinsman's ears,
give him what is due in money, and I will repay
you.  Old Jock Jarvis will be your friend.  He will
rejoice in your company and give you house-room
with him, and it is not so far but that I can get
news of you from time to time.  Your good horse
will bring you to London in three hours or less any
day you have a mind to come; and you can watch for
me what goes on yonder, and bring me word again."

It was a grief to Dick to part from his master;
but he saw the need, and he loved the horse only
second to Grey himself.

"I will do your behest, master.  Nay, I want no
money; I have plenty for all my needs.  I too have
made some modest wealth here in this great city.
Only tell me where I may find you, and I will be
gone, and do what can be done for the poor beast."

"You shall always get news of me at Wills' Coffee
House, good Dicon," was the answer.  "Where I go
and how I live, I know not yet; but I will leave
word there for you.  So now, farewell.  I turn a new
page in my life from this day forth."





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   CHAPTER X.


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   "THE OLD LION."

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Grey Dumaresq, having settled matters with
his servant, and adjusted the disarray of his
own dress and person, turned towards a group of
men who were standing round Lord Sandford,
making believe to laugh and jest, but showing some
vague symptoms of uneasiness as they cast sidelong
glances in the direction of their erstwhile comrade.

Grey walked straight up to Lord Sandford, and
looked him full in the eyes.  Did the glance of the
other quail ever so little before his?  He thought so,
but could scarce be certain.

"My lord," he said, "I have to thank you for
many acts of kindness and courtesy, and a certain
liberality of treatment which I have received at your
hands and within your doors.  In taking my farewell,
I wish freely to acknowledge all this debt.  But
other matters which I need not specify, yet which
are well understood by your lordship, have transpired
to change the relations betwixt us; and I wish to
add that I desire to be beholden to no man.  In the
rooms allotted to me in your lordship's house there
is a quantity of wearing apparel, jewels, trinkets, for
which I have no more use.  I pray you have them
sold, and the amount thus realized will reimburse you
for all charges you have been at in my maintenance
during the time I have dwelt beneath your roof.
That is all I have to say.—Gentlemen, I wish you
a very good day."

And lifting his hat with quiet dignity and grace,
Grey made them a general salute and turned upon
his heel.

But Lord Sandford's voice came thundering after him.
"Do you desire to insult me, sir?  Am I a beggarly
inn-keeper, that I should sell a guest's belongings
to pay my bill?  What do you mean by such
words?  Do you desire that I should demand
satisfaction for them at your hands?"

Grey did not know whether this man desired to
fasten a quarrel upon him or not, and, truth to tell,
he did not care.  He just turned his head over his
shoulder, and threw back an answer in tones of
scarcely veiled contempt.

"That is for your lordship to decide.  I shall have
pleasure in giving any satisfaction demanded at any
time, and in any place appointed.  For the rest, a
man who has sought to compass the death of a
comrade by a foul trick need scarcely fear to soil
his hands by the touch of his gold.  Again I wish
you good-day, my lord."

And without so much as turning his head again,
Grey Dumaresq walked off, his head held high,
neither observing nor returning the many salutes and
bright arch glances shot at him from the lane of
bystanders through which he needs must pass, but
walking like a man in a dream, and so disappearing from
view along the white road which led Londonwards.

Round Lord Sandford men were buzzing like bees
disturbed.

"Insolent young jackanapes!"  "What did he
mean?"  "What was his motive in such an
insult?"  "What will you do, my lord?"  "Whither
has he gone?  Whither will he go?"  "Is it true
that he is ruined?"  "He has lost his horse, at least.
None will give him a score of guineas for the beast
now."  "How did it chance?"  "Was it an
accident?"  "What meant he by his words?"  All were
pouring out these and like questions; but there was
none to answer them, till Lord Sandford himself
spoke.

"The fellow's wits are gone astray," he cried in
his loud, dominating tones.  "It is the Dumaresq
blood.  Sir Hugh was just such another—mad as
a March hare half his time, flinging his gold to the
winds, and quarrelling with every man he met.  Like
father, like son.  It has been coming on for days.
I misdoubted me if ever he would ride this race.
He came and told me he must reform.  That was ever
his father's cry, and he would disappear into the
country for a while, and reappear again as gay as
ever.  'Tis the same with the son.  I saw it then,
and I strove to combat the madness; but 'tis ill
dealing with the lunatic.  You see what we get for
our pains!  Tush! let the fellow alone.  I did wrong
to answer him.  Let him go his own way, and we
will think of him no more."

And Lord Sandford, with a heavy cloud upon his
brow, and a look about the corners of his mouth
which warned those about him to say no more, but
leave matters as they were, flung away from them,
and made his way back alone to the inn, from which
he was presently seen to issue forth in his gorgeous
chariot, driving furiously along the road which led
to St. Albans.

His boon companions, thus left to their own devices,
went over to the spot where the strange thing had
befallen at the race, and where the country folk had
gathered with shakings of the head and questionings
beneath their breath; and there, plain for all men to
see, was the yawning hole with the open trap
hanging down, and the marks of the heavy fall of the
good horse, whose escape with whole bones was little
short of a miracle.

An old countryman was holding forth to a knot
of eager questioners, now swelled by Lord Sandford's
friends.

"I mind well when there was a house here; 'twas
pulled down when I were a young chap.  And the
well must ha' bin hereabouts.  That old trap has
been in the ground ever since I can mind; but there
be no water now, and the sand has pretty nigh silted
it up.  I've a-looked in many a time, and the hole
gets less and less deep.  When I saw them setting
up the brushwood and things here, I made sure they
had covered the trap well.  I walked about it, but
never saw sign of it.  If I'd a thought of danger,
I'd ha' told one of the fine folks.  I suppose they
never seed it.  The grass and stuff do grow long
and rank this time o' year.  And so the gentleman's
horse trod on it, and it gave way with him.  Mercy
me, but 'tis a wonder he didn't break his neck then
and there!"

Lord Sandford's comrades looked each other in
the eyes, and drew a little away.  All knew that
something strange had passed upon him of late, and
that there was some rupture betwixt him and the
man who had but lately accused him of seeking to
compass his death.

"Did he know?"  "Was it plot or plan of his?"
whispered one and another; but none could give the answer.

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A wild, wet September day was drawing to its
close, amid pelting squalls of cold rain, when a tall
young man, gaunt and hollow-eyed, pushed his way
into a small coffee-house in an obscure thoroughfare
somewhere in the region of Drury Lane, and
took a seat in a dark corner as near to the stove as
he could get, for he looked pinched with cold, and
his plain and rather threadbare black suit was pretty
well wet through.  As soon as he was seated, he drew
from his breast a roll of paper, which he regarded
with solicitude.  That at least was dry, and he heaved
a sigh that sounded like one of satisfaction.

In this narrow street the daylight had completely
faded, though it was not yet six o'clock.  The room
was furthermore darkened by clouds of tobacco smoke
which the guests were puffing forth.  The smell of
coffee mingled with the ranker fumes of the tobacco,
and the clink of cup and spoon made ceaseless
accompaniment to the talk, which went on in a
continuous stream.

Grey (for it was he) leaned his head on his hand
wearily, and fell into something like a doze as he sat
in his shadowy corner.  He was exhausted in mind
and in body.  He was faint with hunger, and yet
half afraid to order food; for his funds were
dwindling almost to the vanishing point, and as yet he
had found no means of replenishing his exchequer.
But he had not been able to resist the temptation
to escape from the buffetings of the tempest, and
when the boy in attendance upon the guests came
to ask his pleasure, he ordered some coffee and bread,
and devoured it with a ravenous appetite when it
was set before him.

The pangs of hunger stayed, if not appeased, he
began to look about him, and to wonder into what
manner of company he had thrust himself.  He had
never before been inside this house, though he had,
in the first days of his new career, taken his meals
in some of the numerous coffee or chocolate houses,
or the taverns which abounded throughout the town.
Latterly he had generally bought his food at the
cheapest market, and had eaten it in the attic to
which he had removed himself and his few
belongings.  He was beginning to wonder how long he
should be able even to retain that humble abode as
his own.  Dame Fortune's smiles seemed quite to
have deserted him, and abject poverty stared him
grimly in the face.

A smoking lamp had been brought in, and hung
overhead, lighting up the faces of the company with
its yellow glare.  There was something strange and
Rembrandt-like in the effect of the picture upon
which Grey's eyes rested.  Leaning back dreamily
with his head against the wall, he could almost
fancy himself back in one of those foreign picture
galleries, in which heretofore he had delighted, and
where so many hours of his time had been spent.

But this was a living picture, shifting, changing,
breaking up into groups and re-forming again; and
the hum of talk went on unceasingly, as one after
another took up the word and launched forth his
opinions, generally in florid and flowery language,
and with much gesticulation and indignation.

What first struck Grey as strange was the anger
which seemed to possess all these men.  That they
were in no good case was well-nigh proved by the
shabbiness of their dress, and by the fact of their
being gathered in this very humble and cheap place
of resort, which would not tempt any but those in
adverse circumstances.  But over and above their
poverty, they seemed to be railing at neglect or
injustice of some sort, and ever and anon would break
out into virulent abuse of some person or persons,
whose names were unknown to Grey, but who evidently
were characters well known to the others of
the company.

"There is no such thing as justice left, or purity
of taste, or any such thing!" shouted a handsome,
well-proportioned fellow, whose face had attracted
Grey's notice several times, and seemed dimly
familiar to him.  "Look at the mouthing
mountebanks that walk the boards now!  They strut
like peacocks, they gibber like apes.  They have
neither voice, nor figure, nor talent, nor grace.  But,
forsooth, because some fine dame has smiled upon
them, or they are backed by a nobleman's patronage,
they can crow it over the rest of us like a cock
upon his dunghill, and we, who have the talent and
the gifts, may rot like rats in our holes!"

"Shame! shame! shame!" cried an admiring chorus.

"Look at me!" thundered the young man, his
eyes flashing.  "Who dares say I cannot act?  Have
I not held spellbound, hanging on my lips, whole
houses of beauty and fashion?  Have I lost my
skill or cunning?  Has my voice or has my grace
departed from me?  Wherefore, then, do I sit here
idle and hungry, whilst men not fit to black my
boots hold the boards and fill their pouches with
gold?  Why such injustice, I say?"

A chorus of indignation again arose; but out of
the shadows came a deep voice.

"The answer is easy, friend Lionel; arrogance and
drink have been the cause of your downfall.  How
could any manager continue to engage you?  How
many times has it happened that you have come to
the theatre sodden with drink?  How many
representations have you spoiled by your bestial folly?
They were patient with you.  Oh yes, they were very
patient; for they knew your gifts and recognized
them.  But you met friendly rebuke or warning
with haughtiness and scorn.  You would listen to
no counsel; you would heed no warnings.  The end
should have been plain to you from the beginning, an
you would not mend your ways.  I told you how it
needs must be; and now the time has come when
you see it for yourself.  Worse men are put in
the parts that you excelled in, because they can
be depended upon.  No drunkard can ever become
great.  Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Lionel Field."

At the sound of this new voice, speaking out of
the shadows of the ingle-nook, a great hush had
fallen upon the room.  Grey leaned forward to obtain
a view of the speaker, and the firelight played upon
the striking features and iron-gray hair of a very
remarkable-looking old man of leonine aspect, whose
voice was of that penetrating quality which makes
itself heard without being raised; and it was plain
that something in the personality of the man lifted
him above his fellows, for all listened in silence whilst
he spoke, and even the arrogant young actor looked
for the moment abashed.

"Who is it?" whispered Grey to the man next
him; and the answer came readily, though spoken in
a cautious whisper.

"His name is Jonathan Wylde.  Once he, too, was
a famous actor; but long illness crippled his limbs,
and he has fallen into poverty.  He is always called
the Old Lion, and methinks the name suits him
well.  He is a very lion for courage, else would he
not dare to rebuke Master Lionel Field.  For he is
one who is ready with his fist, or with knife or
bludgeon, and it is ill work meeting him when he is
in his cups."

Grey looked with interest and attention at the old
man in the shadows; but he was leaning back again,
and spoke no more.  The talk surged round him
again from the rest; they spoke of the plays that
were being enacted at the various theatres, and of
those who were playing the various *rôles*.  Some of
them stood up and rolled forth bits of Congreve's
witty and sparkling dramas, and disputed as to
whether the "Old Bachelor" or the "Way of the
World" were his happiest effort; whilst some declared
that the "Double Dealer" was the best of all.  They
talked excitedly of the revival at Drury Lane of
Farquhar's "Love and a Bottle," which had scored
such a success some fourteen or fifteen years
previously.  And there were some who lauded and some
who depreciated Colley Cibber and his "Careless
Husband" and "Love's Last Shift," which were favourites
throughout the town.

It was a new world to Grey; but he listened with
a certain fascination, for the drama had always
attracted him, and he watched the gestures of the
actors and listened to their mouthing periods with
something between wonder and amusement.  He
could understand that these men had been failures.
Only Lionel Field appeared to have any true histrionic
gift, and the cause of his downfall was plain to be
read after the speech of the "Old Lion."  From time
to time, as the light flickered upon the striking face
in the ingle, Grey caught a fine-lipped smile upon it,
and once or twice he thought the old actor's eyes
met his in a gleam of humour.  But of that he
could not be sure—it might be but the trick of
the firelight; and presently wearied nature asserted
itself, and the young man passed from drowsiness
to actual sleep, and knew nothing more till a
sharp grip upon his arm roused him to a sense of
his surroundings.

It was the tapster who thus shook him; and when
he opened his eyes, Grey saw—or thought, at
least—that the room was empty.  What the time was he
had no idea; but it must be late, and he rose hastily
to his feet with a muttered apology at having
overstayed the closing time.

At that moment there emerged out of the shadows
of the ingle-nook a bent figure, dignified even in its
infirmity, and the voice which Grey had heard before
spoke in quietly authoritative accents.

"Bring hither coffee and a dish of eggs for two.
The wind and rain yet howl around the house.  This
gentleman will sup with me ere we go home.  Go
and serve us quickly, for we have both a good
stomach, and would eat ere we depart hence."

The tapster vanished quickly to do the bidding of
the guests, and Grey turned a wondering glance upon
the Old Lion, whose face, framed in its shaggy gray
hair, looked more leonine than ever, the bright eyes
shining out of deep caverns from under bushy brows,
the rugged features full of power, not unmixed with
a curious underlying ferocity.  But the glance bent
upon Grey was kindly enough.

"Sit down, young man; I would know more of
you.  I have a gift for reading faces.  I have marked
yours ever since you entered this room.  Tell me
your name.  Tell me of yourself, for you were not
born to the state to which you have now fallen."

"My name is Grey," was the ready answer.  Grey
had dropped his title and patronymic with his fallen
fortunes, and used his mother's name alone.  "My
father was a country gentleman.  I was gently
reared, and was at one time a scholar at Oxford, where
I dreamed many dreams.  Afterwards I travelled
abroad, returning to find my father dead and my home
in the hands of a kinsman to whom it was mortgaged
by my father.  The small fortune I received I
squandered foolishly in a few weeks of gay living
with young bloods of the town.  I wakened from my
dream to find myself well-nigh penniless, disgusted
alike with myself and those I had called my friends.
I have ever been something ambitious.  I misdoubt
me I am a fool; but I did think that I might win
laurels upon the field of literature.  I have never lost
the trick of rhyming, and jotting down such things
as pleased my fancy, whether in prose or in verse.
Do I weary you with my tale?"

"No, sir—far from it.  Let me hear you to the
end.  I did see you take forth a roll of paper from
your breast as you came in.  That action, together
with your face, told me much.  You have the gift of
a creative fancy.  You have written a poem or a play."

"Neither the one nor the other, but a romance,"
answered Grey, the colour flushing his face as it
flushes that of a maiden when the love of her heart
is named by her.  "I scarce know how to call it, but
methinks it savours more of a romance than of aught
besides.  When I was rudely awakened from my
pleasure-loving life, saw the folly and futility thereof,
and desired to amend, I did take a quiet lodging high
up in a building off Holborn, and there I did set
myself to the task, and right happy was I in it.  I had
a score of gold pieces still left me, and my needs I did
think modest; though, looking back, they seem many
to me now.  The weeks fled by, and my work reached
its close.  When my romance was finished, my money
was all but spent.  For the past week or more I
have been seeking a publisher for it.  In my folly I
did think that it would bring me gold as fast as I
wanted.  My eyes have been rudely opened these last days."

The Old Lion nodded his head many times.

"You made a mistake in seeking a publisher,
young sir.  You should first have sought a patron."

Grey's face flushed slightly, and he hesitated before
he spoke.

"Others have said the same to me; but there are
difficulties.  I have not learned to go cap in hand to
cringe for patronage to the great ones of the earth."  But,
as Grey saw a slight smile flicker in the old
man's eyes, he added rather hastily, "And then I
desire not to be known and recognized by those whom
I did know ha my former life.  There is scarce an
antechamber in those fine houses where patrons
dwell where I might not meet the curious and
impertinent regard of those who would know me again.
That I will not brook."  And now Grey's eyes flashed,
thinking of Lord Sandford, and how he would chuckle
to hear how low his rival had fallen.  "No; if I am
to succeed at all, I must needs do so without a patron.
If I fail, there is one resource left.  Able-bodied
paupers are sent to the wars.  I can go thither and fight."

Again a smile flickered over the Old Lion's face;
but the tapster was entering with the smoking
viands, and the gleam in Grey's eyes bespoke the
wolf within him.

"Set to, my friend, and make a good meal.  When
we have cleared the trenchers, you shall come with
me to my lodging.  I would hear the end of your
tale; but that can wait till after supper."





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   CHAPTER XI.


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   THE LION'S DEN.

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"Welcome to the Lion's Den!" spoke the
man Wylde, as he threw open the door
of a room which he had unlocked, and kicking a
smouldering log upon the hearth, evoked a cheery
blaze, by the aid of which he lighted a lamp that
swung over a table littered with books, papers, and
quills.

Grey stepped within the threshold, and looked
about him with curious eyes.  The house they had
entered a few minutes before was a tall and narrow
one in Harpe Alley, leading from Shoe Lane.  It
was not an old house, for it came within the area of
the great fire of fifty years back, and had been
rebuilt, like the whole of the surrounding buildings,
with greater speed than discretion.  Grey had once
come across Sir Christopher Wren in his other life,
and had talked with him of the short-sighted policy
observed in the rebuilding of the city.  The great
architect declared that had his plans been carried out,
London would have been the finest city in the world:
but the haste and false economy of the citizens and
city companies had thwarted his plans, and the old
lines of narrow and crooked streets were kept as
before, to the cost of succeeding generations.

This house had been hastily run up, like those
surrounding it, and the tempest from without rattled
and shook the walls and windows as though to drive
them in.  But the room itself, though no more than
an attic, bore an air of comfort very pleasant to the
eyes of the homeless Grey, whose own quarters only
contained the barest necessities of life; for there were
some rough shelves full of books in one corner, and a
rug before the fire gave a look of comfort to the
place.  Two armchairs of rude pattern, but furnished
with down cushions, seemed to invite repose;
and everything was scrupulously clean, even to the
boards of the floor.

"'A poor thing, but mine own,'" spoke the Old
Lion, with his grim smile, as he motioned to Grey to
take one chair, and he himself pulled up the other.
"I have dwelt here two years and more now, and
I have not been unhappy; albeit I never thought to
end my days in a garret, as belike I shall do now."

"Fortune has been hard upon you," spoke Grey
earnestly.  "You have the gifts and the powers;
it is cruel that your limbs should have become
crippled."

"We must take the rough and the smooth of life
as we find it," answered the other.  "I have had my
moments of rebellion—I have them still; but I seek
the consolations of philosophy; and I have never yet
wanted for bread or shelter.  But there be times
when the future looks dark before me.  Those who
remember me, and pity my misfortunes, drop away
one by one.  I lacked not for patrons at the first.
When I could not longer tread the boards, I was
ofttimes engaged to make men laugh or weep at
some gay rout at a nobleman's house.  Then, too,
my jests and quips were in request at gay
supper-parties, and I was paid to set the table in a roar,
which in all sooth was not difficult when the
wine-bottle was going round and round.  Oh, I knew gay
times for many a year after my stage career closed.
But patrons have died off one by one.  I am more
crippled than I was, and the young wits are pushing
to the front, whilst the Old Lion has been crowded
out.  My pen still serves me in a measure.  I can turn
an epigram, or write a couplet, or even make shift to
pen a sonnet that lacks not the true ring.  Grist yet
comes to the mill, but more and more slowly.  There
come moments when I wonder what will be the
end of the Old Lion's career—the poorhouse, or a
death by slow starvation in some garret!"

"No, no," cried Grey almost fiercely; "that would
be shame indeed.  Surely, if nothing better turn up,
there must be places of refuge for fallen genius.
Have not almshouses been built, again and again, by
the well-disposed for such men as sickness has laid
aside?  You smile, but in sooth it is so."

"Ay, and how many are there to claim the
benefits of pious founders?  Yet no matter.  I
brought you not here to talk of my troubles, but
of yours.  That romance of which you speak—"

"It would seem the world cares little for such
things.  I did hear the same tale everywhere.  Was
it a pamphlet I had to give them, a lampoon upon
some great man, an attack against the Tories, the
Whigs, the Dissenters?  If so, they would read it;
for there was great eagerness amongst the people to
read such things, and no matter what side was
attacked, there were hundreds eager to buy and to
read.  But a romance—no; that was a mistake
altogether.  A writer of successful pamphlets might
perhaps find readers for a merry tale, or even a
romance; but for an unknown aspirant to fame—no,
that was another matter.  No one would buy it;
no one would even read it; though there were one
or two who took it and glanced through some pages,
praised the style and the easy flow of words, and
advised me to take to pamphleteering, promising that
they would read anything like that."

"That is it, that is it!" cried the Old Lion, rising
and pacing up and down the room with his halting
stride.  "Write a filthy lampoon, a scurrilous libel,
a fiery diatribe against any great or notable man,
and all the world will read and set themselves
agog to know the writer.  Look at Swift, with his
'Tale of a Tub;' look at De Foe, with his crowd of
pamphlets—men of talent, I do not doubt or deny, but
full of gall and bitterness.  Yet they are read by all
the world.  Fame, if not fortune, has come to them, and
fortune will doubtless follow.  The late King, they
say, would have made Swift a bishop.  The Queen
will not: his ribald wit disgusts her; but he has
admirers and patrons everywhere.  It is the bold
and unscrupulous who flourish like the grass of the
field.  True poetry and literary beauty are not asked,
or even desired.  A pen dipped in gall is a pen
dipped in gold in these days of party strife.  And
the genius that wields not this bitter pen sits in
dust and ashes, asking bread, and that well-nigh
in vain."

"How should I write these party diatribes—I
who know little of their cries?  Whig or Tory, Tory
or Whig—what care I?  The Tory of one Parliament
is the Whig of the next.  Have not Lords
Marlborough and Godolphin gone over to the Whigs?
The Queen herself, they say, is changing slowly."

"Nay, the Queen herself will never change!" cried
Wylde, with an emphatic gesture.  "The Duchess has
changed, and she seeks to use her influence with the
Queen to make her change also, and give up her Tory
advisers altogether.  But she will not succeed.  The
Queen may be timid and gentle, but she has all her
father's tenacity and obstinacy.  Let my Lady of
Marlborough look to it!  She may strain the cord
to breaking point.  Already they say that the new
favourite, Mrs. Masham, is ousting her kinswoman,
the Duchess, from the foremost place in the Queen's
affections.  Favourites have fallen ere this through
too great arrogance.  The victories of Ramillies and
Oudenarde, and the successes that have followed,
make the Duke the idol of the nation and the
favourite of the Queen yet; but the day may
come when this may change, and then the high
Tories may come in once more with a rush."

"I should be sorry for the Duke to lose favour,"
spoke Grey thoughtfully.  "I did see him once, and
had speech with him after the battle of Ramillies,
and a more gracious and courtly gentleman it has
never been my lot to meet."

Suddenly the Old Lion's eyes flashed fire.

"You have seen and had speech with the Duke on
the field of Ramillies?  You saw the battle, or
something of it?  Speak!  Tell me all!  I must hear
this tale.  It may mean much to us both."

"In sooth it is little I can tell you of the battle,
for I was in the thick of it myself.  It was by
accident that my servant and I came upon the rival
armies; and another happy accident gave me the
chance of doing a small service for the Duke.  After
the battle, when we were hard by Louvain, he
called me to him, and spoke many gracious words.
I would fain hope that some day I may see him again."

"You had speech with him?  You saw his manner
and his port?  Tell me—show me—how did he
carry himself?"

Grey rose to his feet, laughing.  He humoured
the whim of the old actor.  He was not lacking
in the histrionic gift, and threw himself into his
part with good will.  He uttered quick commands, as
though to his officers; he threw out his arms, as
though directing one man here, another there.  He
recalled numbers of words spoken by the General,
and these he reproduced faithfully and with an
excellent imitation of Marlborough's polished,
courteous, yet commanding air.  Then he let his face
soften, and addressed the old man as he himself had
been addressed, with words of thanks and with
promises of friendship.  Finally, throwing off the
mask, he broke into a laugh, and was astonished at
the eager change which had come upon the Old Lion.

"Boy!" he cried, with a new access of energy, "I
trow I see for both of us a way to fame and fortune."

Grey's eyes lighted as he eagerly asked his meaning.

"That is soon told.  Have you heard how, after
the victory of Blenheim, none could be found to hymn
the praises of the great General till the poet Addison
was introduced to notice, and penned his immortal
lines?  Now, since the victory of Ramillies, I have
burned with desire to show the world by somewhat
more than verse alone the power and genius of
England's mighty soldier.  See here!"

The old man rose and crossed to his table, where he
fetched from a drawer a scroll covered with writing,
which he put in the hands of his companion.  Grey
saw that it was a dialogue cast in dramatic form, and
though he could not read it then and there, he
could see, by casting his eyes over it, that there
were many very fine periods in it, and that it was
filled with descriptive passages of some great battle,
and the energy and glory of the General in command.
He raised his eyes inquiringly to the impassioned face
of the author, which was working with excitement.

"See you not something of the form?  It is a
dramatic interlude.  It should be played upon the
stage during the intervals of the play.  Time sits
aloft, aged and grim, his scythe in his hand, his
hour-glass beside him, and he speaks of the decay of
mankind—that the world's greatness is vanishing, its
men of genius growing ever fewer and fewer.  That
is my part.  I take the *rôle* of Time.  To him then
enters one in the guise of youth—one in the flush
of manhood's prime—one who has seen great and
doughty deeds, and comes to rehearse the same in
the ears of old Time, to bid him change his tune, to
tell him that giants yet live upon the earth.  This
youth comes with songs of victory; he speaks of
what he has seen; he describes in burning words
and glowing colours that last great fight wherein
England's General put to flight the hosts of the
haughty monarch of France.  For months has this
been written; for months have I gone about seeking
the man to take the part of youth and manhood.
But I have sought in vain.  All those whom I
would have chosen have other work to do, and did
but laugh at me.  Those who would gladly do my
bidding, I will none of.  You saw how they did
mouth and rant to-night, thinking to show their
talent, when they only displayed their imbecile folly.
But here have I found the very man for whom I
have long waited.  You have youth, beauty—that
manly beauty which transcends, to my thinking,
the ephemeral loveliness of woman; you have the
gift; you have seen the great hero: you have
caught the very trick of his words and speech.  Oh,
I know it!  Once did I hear him address the House
of Lords, and when you spoke I seemed to see and
hear him again.  The great world of fashion will go
mad over you.  We shall draw full houses; we
shall succeed.  I know it!  I feel it!  The Old
Lion is not dead yet!  He shall roar again in his
native forest.  Say, boy, will you be my helper in
this thing?  And in the gains which we shall make
we will share and share alike."

It was a very different sort of fame from
anything Grey had pictured for himself, and for a
moment he hesitated; for he realized that were this
dramatic sketch to take hold of the imagination of
the town, and draw fashionable audiences, he could
scarcely avoid recognition, disguise himself as he
might.  But as against this there was the pressing
need of the moment.  He was well-nigh penniless;
his romance seemed likely to be but so much waste
paper.  He was hiding now even from Dick, who
periodically visited London to see him, lest the
honest fellow should insist upon maintaining him
from his own small hoard.  Here was an opening,
as it seemed, to something like prosperity; and the
alternative of being drafted into the army as a
pauper recruit was scarcely sufficiently attractive to
weigh in the balance.  Moreover, there was something
so earnest and pathetic in the glance bent upon
him by the Old Lion that he had not the heart to say
him nay, and he held out his hand with a smile.

"I will be your helper; and as for the gains, let
them be yours, and you shall give me what wage
I merit.  The play is yours, the thought is yours:
it is for you to reap the harvest.  I am but the
labourer—worthy of his hire, and no more."

The compact was sealed, and the old man then
insisted that Grey should take his bed for the night,
as he must sit up and remodel his play upon lines
indicated by the young man, who had seen the field
of Ramillies and the disposition of troops.  Grey
furnished him with sundry diagrams and notes, and
left him perfectly happy at his task, which would
doubtless occupy him during the night, whilst the
weary guest slumbered peacefully upon the humble
bed in the little alcove beyond the larger room.

When Grey awoke next morning, the sun was
shining; a frugal but sufficient meal was spread
upon the table; a fire was blazing cheerily upon the
hearth; and there was the Old Lion, with his
manuscript before him, muttering beneath his breath, and
throwing out his hand in telling gesture, making so
fine a picture with his leonine face and shaggy mane
of hair that Grey watched him awhile in silence
before advancing.

"Good-morrow, and welcome to you, my son," was
the greeting be received.  "I have had a beautiful
night.  The muse was hot upon me.  The rounded
periods seemed to flow from my pen without effort.
Let us to breakfast first; then shall you read what
I have written, and together we will amend it, if
need be.  But first shall you remove hither from
that unsavoury lodging of which you did speak.
Here is money: pay your reckoning, and bring
hither any goods and chattels you may value.  We
must dwell together these next weeks.  We will
work hard, and before the week closes I will have
some manager here to listen to our rendering of this
scene.  We will have the world crowding to see and
hear us yet!—King Fortune, I salute thee, and I
thank thee from my heart that thou didst send this
goodly youth to me, and didst prompt my heart
from the first to take note of him and seek his
friendship."

The removal of Grey's simple belongings took but
little time, and lucky did he feel himself to be able
to call this comfortable abode his home.  A small
attic upon the same floor of the house made him a
sleeping chamber at very small cost, and his days
were spent in the sunny south garret, which was
called the Lion's Den; and there they studied, and
wrote, and rehearsed this eulogy upon the Duke,
and the prowess of the English arms, the old man
introducing here and there allusions and innuendoes
which Grey scarcely understood, but which Wylde
declared would bring down thunders of applause
from the house—as, indeed, proved to be the case.

Grey had a faint misgiving at the first that no
manager might be forthcoming to admit the dialogue
to his boards; but there the old actor knew his
ground.  He succeeded in inviting two of the most
successful managers to listen to a performance in
the attic, without the accessories which would add
much to the effect upon the stage; and even so the
scene proved so telling, the acting of the Old Lion
was so superb in its quiet dignity, and Grey (who
had learned and studied patiently and diligently)
went through his part with such spirit, such power,
such dramatic energy, that even his instructor was
surprised at his success, and the managers exchanged
glances of astonishment and pleasure.

It was just the sort of piece to catch the public
favour at this juncture.  Marlborough was still the
idol of the nation, and might be expected home some
time before the winter closed—perhaps before
Christmas itself.  The nation was discussing how to do
him honour, and would flock to see a piece wherein
his praises were so ably sung.

"With a wig such as the Duke wears, and with
military dress, Mr. Grey could be made to look the
very image of the great General," cried one.

"He has something the same class of face—handsome,
regular features, grace of action and bearing.
He does but want to be transformed from fair to
dark, and his acting of the Duke will bring down
veritable thunders of applause from all."

And then began a gratifying rivalry as to terms,
in which the Old Lion sustained his part with dignity
and firmness.  Both managers desired to secure this
interlude for their respective theatres, and at the
last it was settled that the performance was to be
given two nights a week at Drury Lane, and two at
Sadler's Wells, the astute old actor retaining the
right to make his own terms at private houses upon
the two remaining nights of the working week.
The costumes were to be provided by the managers,
but were to be the property of the actors, who would
undertake to replace them should any harm befall
them at private representations.

When these matters had been satisfactorily settled,
and certain other details arranged, the great men took
their leave in high good humour; and the Old Lion,
shaking back his mane of shaggy hair, grasped Grey
by the hands, his eyes sparkling in his head.

"Your fortune is made, young man! your fortune
is made!  You will never need to fear poverty again.
What life so grand as that of the man who can sway
the multitude, make men laugh or weep at his
bidding, hold them suspended breathless upon his lips,
move them to mirth, or rouse them to the highest
realm of passion?  Ah, that is life! that is life!
Have I not tasted it?  Do I not know?  And that
life lies before you, my son.  I will be your guide
and mentor; you have but to use patience and
discretion, and with your gifts and with your person
you shall hold all men in thrall.  Ay, and you shall
write, too—Cibber shall find a rival.  Men shall sing
your praise.  The world shall lie at your feet.  And
I shall see it—I, who have found and taught you,
who have discerned your powers with pen and
tongue.  I shall be content.  I ask nothing better
of fortune.  Ah, my son, it was indeed a providence
which made our paths to cross!"

Grey smiled, and was silent.  The life of an actor
was not the life of his ambition, and he doubted if
it would enthrall him as it had enthralled the Old
Lion.  But it would be at least a new experience.
He was ready and willing to make trial of it.  As
matters now stood with him, he had scarce a choice.
He would go through with this thing that was
planned, and with the future he would not
immediately concern himself.

So he smiled back at the old man, and took his
hand, saying simply,—

"I am well pleased that I have acquitted myself
to your liking.  I will seek to do you credit in the
eyes of the world."





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.. _`TRIUMPH`:

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   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   TRIUMPH.

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Grey gazed at himself in astonishment.  His
fear of the eyes of quondam friends vanished
into thin air.  Scarce would he have known himself.
That others would know him, he could not believe.
He had had no idea of the transforming properties of
one of the great flowing wigs of the period; but when
his own brown curls were covered and hidden beneath
this mass of perfumed hair, his brows darkened and
the skin of his face olive-tinted, his figure padded
and arrayed in full military finery such as the Duke
of Marlborough was wont to wear, he could almost
believe that he saw that great warrior before his eyes,
so cunningly had the artificers wrought.  He looked
younger than the General, but that was intended—an
impersonation of youth and manly beauty and
war-like prowess.  This was what the author of the
interlude aimed at, and this Grey looked to perfection, as
he stood habited in the garments in which he was to
appear before the public.

The Old Lion, himself transformed into an excellent
presentment of Father Time, stood gazing at the
young man with glowing eyes, directing the attendants
to give a touch here or there to accentuate any point
he wished brought out.  Satisfaction beamed from
every feature of his face.  He seemed to see the town
at his feet.  In a week's time all London would be
ringing with the fame of Jonathan Wylde.

It was just the sort of artificial scene likely to
catch the popular taste.  There was a rage for
semi-mythological representations—dryads and nymphs
and mermaids at the water theatre, Cupids and
Psyches and heathen or classical deities at other
places, whilst stilted and absurd allusions to Arcadian
joys, nectar and ambrosia, spicy breezes of Paphos,
or Hymen's seductive temples, fell trippingly from the
tongues of every dandy with any claim to be a man
of fashion, and were echoed in simpering accents
by the ladies to whom this flowery nonsense was
addressed.

The setting of the dramatic interlude had been
carefully arranged.  Father Time, with his flowing
white beard, his scythe leaning against him, and his
hour-glass at his feet, was seated aloft at one side
of the stage overlooking a dim and vague expanse,
which was supposed to represent the earth.  There
was something very majestic in the aspect of the old
actor, whose name many still remembered, and a
burst of applause followed the rise of the curtain.
Curiosity was raised to a high pitch by the gossip
already excited in dramatic circles, and the house was
crowded to the ceiling with breathless and eager
spectators.

The Old Lion delivered his harangue with all
the fire and dignity for which his acting had been
celebrated in past years.  Seated upon his throne,
surveying, as it were, the world, the crippled limbs no
longer hampered him.  A few telling gestures of the
brown and skinny hand, the play of facial expression,
the thunder or the melting pathos of his rich voice—these
were all the aids he needed, and he used them
with excellent effect.  The audience sat spellbound.
The young bloods even shrank and quailed and
exchanged shamefaced glances as Father Time launched
his thunders of scorn at the decadence of manhood,
the decay of all true chivalry, the gilded luxury, the
senseless folly, the gross extravagance he beheld on
all hands.  Where were the men? he asked, pointing a
long and skinny finger straight at the house filled to
overflowing with the fashion and wealth of the town.
How did the youth of the great cities show their
valour now?  Why, by scouring the streets at night,
setting upon helpless citizens, using them shamefully,
even to leaving them half dead, with eyes gouged out,
in emulation of the barbarous fashion of the Indian
tribes, after which these gallants were not ashamed to
call themselves.  In the past men had laid down their
lives to defend their country and the liberties of the
subject; now they banded together to maltreat the
very men who were set to maintain law and order.
Of old, womanhood was sacred, and knights went
forth to do doughty deeds for the honour of their
ladies, and for the upholding of all the laws of
chivalry, which they held dearer than life itself.
Now young gallants delighted to show their reverence
for womanhood by rolling some hapless citizen's
wife or daughter down a sloping street in a barrel,
laughing the louder if she screamed piteously, or even
swooned with fright.

Was there a man yet left in the land?  Where
was such to be found?  And tears streamed down
the face of Father Time, as he made his moan,
lamenting the days which had gone by, and fearing
he would never see the like again.

Then came a telling pause of deep silence.  The
applause, which had broken out once and again during
the monologue, had been hushed into shamed stillness
at the last.  Murmurs of sympathy and approval rose
from the many present who hated and lamented the
folly and extravagances of the day, and delighted to
hear them so tellingly and scathingly reproved.  Even
the young bloods themselves could not but admire the
skill and power of the speaker.  They recognized the
truth of the indictment, and felt a sense of shame and
uneasiness which no preacher in the pulpit had ever
aroused—perhaps because they so seldom went to
listen, and only stayed to mock.

And then the silence was as suddenly broken by
a tumultuous burst of amazed applause.  A second
figure had stepped upon the stage—tall, graceful,
alert, instinct with strength and manly beauty; and
a thundering shout went up from all the house,—

"The Duke!  The Duke!"

Paying no heed to the tumult of applause, the
Youth went slowly forward towards the throne upon
which sat Father Time, and to him he made a deep
obeisance.  Then amid the breathless hush of the
house began the animated dialogue betwixt the twain,
wherein the Youth did strive to show that manhood
was not yet dead, and to call to the notice of Father
Time the things which he had seen, and which were
yet taking place upon the face of the globe.

Then after a good deal of discussion, in which
telling phrases were dropped on both sides, which
evoked roars of applause and approval, the young man
was called upon to tell of those great acts of which
he spoke.  Whereupon came Grey's great speech,
descriptive of the battle of Ramillies, and the superb
generalship and dauntless personal courage of
England's great General.

The audience hung spellbound upon the words and
gestures of the speaker.  A breathless hush told of
the effect produced.  To those who had known the
Duke, it seemed as though he himself were recounting
the story of his victory.  To those who had not, it
was still a marvellous and soul-stirring oration, as
though the strictures lately passed upon manhood by
Father Time were in some sort swept away, and England's
honour vindicated by this young champion, who
represented the nation's idol.

The thing was an unqualified success.  Behind the
scenes the two actors were received with warm
congratulation scarcely tinged by jealousy.  Old Wylde
was greeted by many a friend who had not troubled
to recognize him during his days of eclipse; and in
addition to the ovations from managers and actors,
scores of men, and even of fine ladies, crowded round
behind the scenes to shake hands with the heroes of
the night, and satisfy their curiosity by gazing at
them at close quarters.

This part of the business was little to the taste of
Grey, who desired nothing so little as any recognition
by former acquaintances.  He saw one or two faces
that he knew, but no one came near him to whom he
remembered having spoken in his past life.  He
retained his heavy wig and military dress as he talked
with those pressing round him.  But as soon as he
was able he disengaged himself from the crowd, and
ordering a coach to be called, he and his comrade
drove home together, weary but exultant.

"I told you how it would be!" spoke the Old Lion,
as they stood together in their upper chamber, smiling
at the remembrance of the scene just passed through.
"I knew I had but to find the right man, and our
fortune would be made!  You were fine, boy; you
were fine!  I had reckoned upon you; yet one never
knows how it will be till the moment comes.  Some
are struck with stage-fright, and blunder and trip, till
all illusion vanishes.  Others mouth and strut through
pure terror of the myriad eyes bent upon them, and
bring down ridicule and contempt upon their heads.
But I had confidence in you, and my confidence was
not misplaced.  We have taken the town by storm
this night; and as we have begun, so shall it be to
the end."

Certainly it seemed as though this prediction were
to be fulfilled, for every performance was crowded to
the utmost limit of the two theatres; and the
extraordinary resemblance of the young actor—whose name
was quite unknown to the world—to the great Duke
of Marlborough was the talk of the whole town, and
raised an immense curiosity, which spread through all
classes.

Grey called himself Edward White upon the
playbills, and was thus known to the theatre managers,
who could give no information about the young man
save that he was a pupil of the old actor Wylde, who
had written the piece, and cast it especially for
himself and his *protégé*.  When it was urged that the
young man must have known the Duke, else how
could he so accurately reproduce his tricks of voice
and speech and manner, they drily shook their heads,
saying that of his past history they were ignorant,
but that as an actor they were satisfied with his
capacity, and were struck by his similarity in figure
and bearing to the great General.

The talk spread through the town, the theatres
filled to overflowing, and crowds flocked behind the
scenes nightly to get speech with the successful actors.

It was perhaps a week after the first performance,
and Grey was just meditating the possibility of escape
from the attentions of the fashionable mob, when a
loud and resonant laugh broke upon his ear, and his
face flushed deeply beneath its olive tinting.

Lord Sandford made his way through the crowd
about him, and in a moment the two were face to face.

Grey had of set purpose taken up a station,
according to his custom, in a place where the light was
sufficiently bad.  The passages and rooms behind the
scenes were never brilliantly illuminated, and the
shadows fell somewhat deeply upon his face; yet it
seemed to him well-nigh impossible, as he looked full
into the eyes of the man he had trusted, and who had
failed him, that he should not at once be discovered.

But there was no trace of recognition in Lord
Sandford's bold glance, though it rested upon his face
with a shrewd curiosity.

"Good-even, sir.  I have desired to see your
performance ere this, but have always been hindered.  A
fine piece of acting as ever I saw.  And yet your
name is unknown to me, and I thought I knew every
actor in the town and in the country."

"It is my first appearance, your lordship," answered
Grey in his stage voice.  "I owe my success to the
kindliness of Mr. Wylde.  I have had no previous
training.  I have to thank the public for a very kind
reception."

"No previous training for the boards?  I can
believe that, my friend.  But I warrant me you have
had previous acquaintance with the great world.
You are no stranger to my lord of Marlborough—that
I will warrant."

"I did see him once, my lord; and there are some
persons whom once to see and hear is always to
remember.  The impression of a great personality is
not easily effaced."

Lord Sandford's bold eyes were roving over Grey's
face and figure in a way that was disconcerting, but
he would not flinch or abase his gaze.  He, at least
had nothing of which to be ashamed.

"I have seen you before, Mr. White," he remarked
suddenly; "I cannot yet say where or when.  But
you have been in my company ere this.  Say, is not
that true?"

"To have been in your lordship's company is surely
no great distinction," answered Grey, with slightly
veiled irony.  "Is it not well known that Lord
Sandford goes everywhere, is seen everywhere, and keeps
company with all sorts and conditions of men?"

The young peer threw back his head and broke
into a great laugh.

"Gadzooks, you have a ready tongue, my friend,
and are not afraid to use it.  Well, well, if you
desire to tell me nothing, I will ask no more.  Every
man has a right to his own secret, though I make no
pledge that I will not discover yours ere long.  I have
a mighty curiosity about some men's affairs, which I
will gratify at my pleasure."

"Was it a threat?" asked Grey of himself, "and
had he any suspicion?"  He scarce thought so.  He
would have seen a glint of recognition in his eyes had
he been known beneath his disguise.  But he was
glad when Lord Sandford turned away with another
loud laugh, though his heart seemed to throb with a
painful intensity as he heard his loud voice speaking
to his companions,—

"Well, I must away to my Lord Romaine's house.
My lady holds a rout to-night, and will be ill pleased
if I present not myself.  The Lady Geraldine will
expect to see me.  We must not disappoint the pretty
birds.  Who is for the rout, and who to stay for
what fare they give us here?"

Grey turned away with his heart on fire.  What
meant that jesting allusion to the Lady Geraldine?
Could it be that she had plighted her troth to him?
What else could he expect to hear than that she
would obey the wishes of her parents?  If Lord
Sandford were the husband chosen for her, how could
she escape the fate of becoming his wife?  Would
she even desire to escape it?  How could a pure and
innocent maiden know the sort of life which he had
hitherto led?

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Lady Romaine's rooms were full of gay company,
and a clamour of laughter and chatter rose up in a
never-ceasing hum.  The card-tables were crowded,
and little piles of gold coins were constantly changing
hands.  Gay gallants fluttered hither and thither like
great painted butterflies, first stopping before one fair
lady and then hovering round another; taking snuff
with one another; bandying jest or anecdote, quip or
crank; putting their heads eagerly together over
some bit of new scandal, and then going off in high
glee to tell the news elsewhere.

There were a few grave politicians gathered
together in one corner discussing the affairs of the
day—the successful campaign on the Continent, and the
possibilities of an honourable peace.  There were
none of the high Tories to be seen at Lord Romaine's
house.  He belonged to the Whig faction, and pinned
his faith to Godolphin, whom he thought the finest
statesman of the day.  He was on friendly terms
with all the men of the so-called Whig junto, and
Lord Halifax and Lord Sunderland were to be seen
at his house to-night, foremost amongst those who
preferred quiet converse on weighty matters to the
laughter and giddy talk in the larger rooms.

The Lady Geraldine had betaken herself to the
inner apartment, where her father was to be found in
converse with his friends.  It interested her far more
to listen to the topics of the day discussed by them
than to receive the vapourings of the gilded dandies,
or to hear the chatter of painted dames.  To her
great relief Lord Sandford had not appeared at the
rout, and sincerely did she hope he would continue
to absent himself.  Of late his attentions had
become more pressing, and every day she feared to
hear from her father that he had made formal
application for her hand, and had been accepted.

Geraldine did not want to marry him.  From the
first she had shrunk from his admiration, but had
not been able to satisfy herself as to whether such
shrinking were just or right.  She knew her mother
favoured him, and that her father thought he would
rise to eminence if once he could shake off the follies
and extravagances of youth, and settle down to
wedded life with the woman of his choice.  There
was something attractive in his great strength, and
in the manhood which was never eclipsed even when
he followed the fashion of the day in dress and talk.
But whilst she was hesitating, something had come
into her life which seemed quite to have changed its
current; and from that time forward she had resolutely
set herself against Lord Sandford's suit, and
received his attentions with a coldness and aloofness
which whetted his desire and piqued his vanity as
nothing else could have done.

There was one face for which Geraldine looked in
vain, and had looked for many long weary weeks.
Why she so desired to see that face, she could scarce
have told; yet thus it was.  But it never came.  She
asked questions now and again of some young beau
who had lived in Lord Sandford's world; but it was
little she could learn of what she so much wished.

"Oh, Sir Grey and my Lord Sandford had a quarrel.
None know the cause, but they say 'twas about a
woman.  I know naught of it.  But they parted
company; and belike he has gone off to the wars, for
none of us have set eyes upon him since the day
when he lost the race, and went near to lose his life."

"How was that?" Geraldine had asked with whitening lips.

Then she had heard, with sundry embellishments,
the story of the race, and the suspicions which had
been aroused as to whether or not a trap had been
laid for the young baronet, into which he had fallen,
and had only escaped severe injury by a happy
chance.

Geraldine's heart had been filled with horror.

"Think you that Lord Sandford had a hand in
it?" had been her whispered question, to which a
careless laugh was the answer.  She gathered from
more than one source that his companions believed
Lord Sandford quite capable of such a deed; for
he had the reputation of being a man good as a
friend, but bad to quarrel with, and absolutely
unscrupulous when his passions were roused.  None
would ever answer for what he might do.

A great horror had fallen upon Geraldine at
hearing this tale—a horror which haunted her still
after all these weeks.  She could not forget how
Lord Sandford had come upon her and Grey in the
gardens of Vauxhall, and how he had spoken in a
stern voice, and had carried her off with an air of
mastery that she had been unable to resist.  And
almost immediately after this had come the
quarrel—which men said was about a woman—and the
disappearance of Sir Grey Dumaresq from the world
which had known him.  Her heart often beat fast
and painfully as she mused on these things.  Had
he not promised her to give up that idle life, that
gaming and dissipation which in their hearts they both
despised?  And he had kept his promise.  He had
broken loose from his fetters.  He might now be
living a life of honourable purpose elsewhere.  But
she had hoped to see and know more of him.  She
had not thought of his exiling himself altogether.
True, if Lord Sandford were his foe, and such a
dangerous one to boot, it were better he should be
far away.  And yet she longed to see him again, to
hear his voice, to know how it went with him.
Oft-times in the midst of such gay scenes as the one
before her eyes her thoughts would go roving back
to that golden summer morning when he had come
to her upon the shining river; and she would rehearse
in her memory every word that had passed, whilst
her eyes would grow dreamy, and her lips curve
softly, and her whole face take an expression which
was exquisite in its tenderness and purity.

"Good-even, Lady Geraldine!  I trust that your
thoughts are with your poor servant now before you,
who has been chafing in sore impatience at the delay
in presenting himself here."

She raised her eyes, and there was Lord Sandford
standing before her; and they seemed almost alone,
for no one was near, the group of politicians having
moved farther away towards the doorway commanding
the larger suite.

She rose and made him the sweeping curtsy of
the day; but he possessed himself of her hand, and
carried it to his lips.

"I pray you treat me with none such ceremony,
sweet lady.  We may surely call ourselves something
more than acquaintances, after all that has passed
betwixt us.  I may safely style myself your friend,
I trow.  Is it not so, Lady Geraldine?"

There was something almost compelling in the
glance he bent upon her.  There was a ring of
mastery in his words, despite the gentleness he
strove to assume.  She felt it, and she inwardly
rebelled, although she gave no sign.

"Friendship, I trow, my lord, doth mean something
very near and intimate and sacred.  I scarce
know myself at what point an acquaintance doth
become a friend.  I would that all true and
noble-hearted men and women would honour me by their
friendship, for I prize not any other."

He looked at her searchingly, wondering what
she meant, and if she were levelling any taunt at
himself.  The thought was like the sting of a lash
upon his skin, and a flush rose slowly to his brow,
out his voice was steady as he answered,—

"I care not how intimate and near and sacred
such friendship be, provided it be vouchsafed to me,
madam.  I have not been thought by those who
know me to be a bad friend; but it would ill
become me to sing mine own praises to win the regard
of the woman who is queen of my heart."

It was the first time he had spoken quite so
openly, and Geraldine's fair, pale face flushed
beneath his ardent gaze.  What she would have
answered she never knew; he held her gaze almost as
the snake holds that of the bird it has in thrall.
Yet, all the while, her heart was rebelling fiercely,
and her vague doubts and misgivings were changing
rapidly into a very pronounced fear and distrust and
loathing.

But ere she had time to think what she should
say, or he to make further protestations, a great
rustling of silken skirts was heard, and in rushed
Lady Romaine in a state of her usual artificial
excitement and animation.

"Ah, my lord, there you are!  They did tell me
you had come.  And it is said that you have been
to see the representation of which all men are
talking—the dreadful old Father Time, who says such
horrid things, but is put to shame by a wonderful
youth who is as like the Duke of Marlborough as
though they were cast in the same mould.  Tell me,
is this so?  What is it like, this performance?  I
have been dying to see it, yet never have done so.
Tickets are scarce to be had—and such a price!  All
the town is flocking.  Tell us truly, is it such a
wonderful thing, or is it just something for empty
heads to cackle over?"

"It is well enough," answered Lord Sandford
carelessly, wishing the ogling lady farther at this
moment.  "The acting is good, and the piece not bad;
there is power and wit in it, as all may hear, and it
lacks not for boldness neither.  But 'tis the
resemblance of the young actor to the great Duke which
is the attraction to the populace.  I went to speak
with him after all was over, to see if the likeness
was as great close at hand as it seems on the stage."

"And is it so?" asked the lady breathlessly.

"No; the features in no way favour the Duke's,
save that both are handsome and regular.  But the
carriage, the action, the voice—these are excellent.
The fellow must have known his Grace in days gone
by.  But no man knows who he is nor whence he
comes.  He calls himself Edward White; but none
know if that be his name or not."

A sudden flush mounted to Geraldine's face, and
faded, leaving her snow-white.  A thought had flashed
into her mind; it set her heart beating violently.
White!  How often had he said to her, "Would I
were white as thou!"  He had gifts; she had told
him of them.  He had seen and known the Duke,
and was tall and comely to look upon; and she had
heard him speak with his voice and manner as he
told her of their meeting.  Everything seemed whirling
in a mist about her.  She was recalled to herself
by hearing her mother exclaim, in her shrill, eager
tones,—

"Then, by my troth, we will have them here, and
see for ourselves what they can do, without the
crowding we should suffer at the theatre.  We will
engage them for the first night they can come."





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.. _`THE HERO OF THE HOUR`:

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   CHAPTER XIII.


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   THE HERO OF THE HOUR.

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Grey's heart was beating to suffocation as he
put the finishing touches to his toilet.  The
Old Lion sat beside the fire in his costume of Father
Time, bending forward to the blaze, but giving vent
from time to time to a hollow cough, which at a less
all-engrossing moment might have caused Grey some
uneasiness.  But to-night his head was filled with
other thoughts.  He was about to start for Lord
Romaine's house.  The representation of "Time and
the Youth" was to be given there before a large and
fashionable assembly.  *She* would be there!  That
was his first thought.  She would watch the
performance.  He might even be able to pick her out
from crowded audience, and feast his eyes upon
her pure, pale beauty.  At least for an hour he would
be near her.  That alone was enough to set his heart
beating in tumultuous fashion.  She would be there.
At Lord Romaine's own house it was impossible
it should be otherwise.  Their eyes might meet;
and though she would know him not—better that
she should not, indeed—he would gaze upon those
features which were dearest to him out of all the
world.  And whether for weal or woe, Grey knew
by this time that the love of his whole being was
centred in Lady Geraldine Adair, though he was
schooling himself to the thought of seeing her and
knowing her to be another man's wife.  To him she
could only be as a star in the firmament of heaven—as
a benignant influence guiding him to higher and
nobler paths.  That was how he must ever learn to
regard her, for her world and his were poles asunder.
And what had he to offer to any woman—he whose
future lay all uncertain before him, and whose
fortunes were yet in the clouds?

A message from below warned them that the coach
which was to convey them to Lord Romaine's house
was now at the door.

"You are tired, sir," spoke Grey, suddenly waking
from his reverie and turning to the old man, who
rose with an air of lassitude which his strong will
could not entirely conceal; "I fear me you are not
quite yourself to-night.  This constant acting is
something too great a strain upon you."

"Ay, my boy, I am growing old," answered the
other, with a note of pain in his voice; "I feel it as I
never felt it before.  My triumph has come just a
little too late.  I am too old to take up the threads
of the past again.  The Old Lion has risen once
again to roar in the forest, but he must needs lay
him down soon in his den—to die."

Over Grey's face there passed a quick spasm of
anxiety and pain.

"Nay, nay; say not so.  I have never heard you
speak in such vein before.  What ails you to-night,
dear master?"

"No matter, boy, no matter; heed not my groanings,"
answered Wylde, assuming more of his usual
manner, though he held tightly to Grey's arm as
they descended the stairs.  "I have been somewhat out
of sorts these last few days, and you know how they
did tell me at the theatre that my voice was not well
heard the other night—"

"Ah, but you had that rheum upon you.  It is
better now.  Yesterday your notes rang forth like
those of a clarion."

"Ah yes, that may be; but what has happened once
may chance again.  Boy, did you observe a
gray-headed man standing in the slips and watching my
every action, his lips following mine as I spoke my
part?"

"I did.  I thought he seemed to know every word
by heart himself.  He had the face of an actor,
methought."

"He is one, and a favourite with the people—Anthony
Frewen is his name.  He and I have held
many an audience spellbound ere now.  What think
you he was there for?"

"Nay, I know not, save to watch and learn and
admire."

"Ay, truly, to watch and learn, that he may step
into Father Time's part, should the day come when I
can hold my throne no longer."

A violent fit of coughing here interrupted the old
man's words, seeming to give a point to his speech
that otherwise it might have lacked.

Grey supported him tenderly whilst the paroxysm
lasted; but he sat aghast, thinking what might be
coming upon his master and friend.  If, indeed, he
were to be laid aside by illness, how could the successful
dramatic interlude be carried on, save by another
actor?  And did it not look as though theatre
managers were foreseeing this contingency, and preparing
for it?

"Could they, indeed, supersede you, sir?" he asked
at length.  "Have they the right to do so, since the
thing was written by you?  Must they not rather
wait for you to take up your part again, should the
cold seize upon you, and for a time render you unfit
for your part?"

"Nay, nay, they will not do that; and they have
purchased the rights to produce the piece as long as
they will.  I could not complain.  I could only
submit."  He stopped and drew his breath rather hard,
and then broke out with something of his old fire:
"But what matter? what matter?  It is nature's law!
The old must give way to the young.  I have lived
my life.  I have shown men what I can do.  I have
aroused me from sleep, and shone like a meteor in
the sky ere my long eclipse shall come.  I am
content.  I ask no more.  Let Elisha take up the
mantle which falls from Elijah.  My work will be
remembered when the hand that penned it is dust."

Grey was almost horrified by these words.  It
seemed to him as though the Old Lion were almost
making up his mind to some approaching calamity;
and at the thought of losing his one friend, the young
man's heart stood still.  He had become greatly
attached to Wylde; but he knew that amid those
of his own profession he had many enemies.  Nor
had he been many weeks amongst actors before
he had learned the jealousies and emulations that
burned so fiercely amongst them, and how eagerly
every vacant place was snapped up by one of a crowd
of eager aspirants.  Who knew but that somebody
might even now be studying his part of the Youth,
ready to step into his shoes should any untoward
event occur to incapacitate him?  He had
constantly seen the handsome but unsteady Lionel Field
hanging about the theatre, and once or twice he had
come to see them in their lodgings, and had asked the
Old Lion to speak a good word for him, declaring
that he had resolved upon turning over a new leaf,
and becoming steady and sober again.  Grey remembered
now how many questions he had put about the
Duke of Marlborough, asking how Grey had become
so well acquainted with his person and voice and
gestures.  These he himself had imitated, not
without success, for the young man had considerable
natural gifts, and far more training than Grey could
boast, although he had won so great success through
the close instructions of an able master.

The young man knew perfectly by this time that
Wylde was somewhat feared in dramatic circles for his
keen criticisms, his autocratic temper, and his
scathing powers of retort.  He knew, likewise, that he
was regarded as something of an interloper—a man
who had risen suddenly into notice by what might
be called "back-stair" influence.  Grey was fully
aware himself that he had served no apprenticeship
to his present calling, that he had stepped into success
simply and solely through a series of happy accidents.
He could not wonder that to others he should seem
to be something of an impostor and a fraud.  Whilst
under the Old Lion's immediate patronage, nobody
dared to flout or insult him; but he was sometimes
conscious of an undercurrent of hostile jealousy
directed against him, which increased with his
increasing popularity with the public.  He could not
doubt that if some mischance were to befall him or
his patron, his fall would be acclaimed in many circles
with delight, as making room for another to fill his
vacant place.  And Grey, looking at the hollow
cheeks and the gaunt frame of the Old Lion, hearing
from time to time his painful coughing, began to
fear that he, indeed, would not long be able to face
the world or fight his own battle; and doubtful,
indeed, did he feel of his own power and ability to
fight that battle for himself single-handed.

.. _`The hero of the hour.`:

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   :alt: The hero of the hour (page 251).

   The hero of the hour (page `251`_).

These fears and misgivings, however, though
somewhat dismal at the moment, were all driven away
as the carriage rolled under the archway of Lord
Romaine's house, and he found himself at his
journey's end, and so close to the object of his heart's
desire.

The actors were not, of course, taken into any of
the thronged drawing-rooms; the day for the
reception of dramatists as honoured guests at the houses
of the nobility was not yet.  They were, however,
respectfully conducted to a small apartment and
offered refreshments, which they partook of
sparingly, and then conducted through the garden to a
large temporary structure, which Lady Romaine had
insisted on having run up, so that she might invite a
very large audience to her house for the occasion.

There was a well-arranged stage for the actors, and
the scenery, such as it was, had been well painted,
in imitation of that at the theatres; Father Time's
throne was a very fine erection, and all the arrangements
were excellent.  The old man seemed to throw
off his lassitude as he made his observations, and the
fire came back to his eyes and the power to his voice.
Grey forgot his uneasiness in the excitement of the
moment, and in the realization of where he was and
who might at any moment appear before his eyes,
and he was resolved that this representation should
be the finest which had ever been seen heretofore.


In the grand reception-rooms of the Countess,
Geraldine stood apart as one who dreams.  She saw
the throng of fashionable persons assembling; she
heard delighted exclamations about the wonders of
the little theatre which all had heard of.  It had been
brought from Spring Gardens, and the moving of it
had been quite a small excitement for the fashionable
world, who declared that Lady Romaine was the
cleverest and most delightful of women, and that it
was quite too charming to be able to witness this
representation, of which all the town was talking,
without the crush and fatigue of attending the theatres.

Geraldine heard as in a dream all this hubbub and
clatter.  She herself was as eager as any to witness
the dramatic interlude, but from a motive different
from that of the rest of the world.  There was
an unwonted flush upon her cheeks, a brilliance in
her dreamy eyes.  Many persons, who had scarcely
noticed her before, or had passed her by with the
epithet, "a maid of ice," "a snow-queen," now
regarded her with greater attention, and said one to
another that the Lady Geraldine was a more beautiful
creature than they had fancied before.

Lord Sandford, pushing his way through the
throng towards her, felt a peculiar thrill of triumph
run through him as his eyes dwelt upon her face.

"She is a splendid woman—just fit to be the
future Lady Sandford, the mother of those who shall
come after me!  My wooing shall not last much
longer.  I know the mind of her mother, and though
her father promises nothing, he wishes me well.  He
will not have her coerced, nor would I.  She must
come to me willingly; but come she shall.  She has
no mind towards marriage, as other maids and damsels.
Better so, better so.  I would not have my mistress
one of those whose ears are greedy for the flattery of
all the world—one who looks upon each man as he
appears in the light of a possible suitor.  No, I would
have my white lily just as she is—pure, spotless,
calm, cold.  It is for me to kindle the fire, for me to
unlock the heart; and I will not grumble if the task
be something hard, for better is the prize for which
we have toiled and sweated, than the one which drops
into our hands at the first touch."

So thinking, he pushed his way till he stood by
Geraldine's side, and met the clear, steady glance of
her eyes.

"Fair lady, I give you greeting.  You are not
going to absent yourself from the representation this
night?  We never know in our garish world where
the Lady Geraldine will appear, or what places she
will illumine with the light of her countenance.  I
rejoice to see you here to-night."

"I have a great desire to see this spectacle of
which I have heard so much," answered Geraldine
quietly; "I would fain have gone to the theatre, if so
be that my mother had not arranged this representation
here.  I have heard of the Old Lion of the
stage, though never have I seen him.  There is
something grand in the story I have heard of his talent,
his early successes, and his bravely endured eclipse
and poverty.  I am right glad he has lived again
to taste success and the plaudits of the people."

Lord Sandford laughed at her earnestness.

"You are a philanthropist in sooth, Lady Geraldine,
to interest yourself in the affairs of such persons as
these."

"Are they not of our own flesh and blood, my
lord?" she asked.

"Faith, I know not, and I care not!  At least,
they are not of our world, which is more to the point
in these days."

Geraldine turned away with a look upon her face
which roused the hot blood of Lord Sandford; he was
not used to scorn.

"Lady Geraldine," he began; but a sudden stir
and as sudden a hush in the great rooms brought his
words to an abrupt stop.  The Duchess of Marlborough
herself was making her formal entry, and
there was almost the same respect paid to her as
though royalty itself were appearing.  They were
only waiting for her to troop through the covered
way into the theatre; and Geraldine, taking
advantage of the movement and the confusion incident to
this, escaped from Lord Sandford, who would have
given her his arm, made her way rapidly downstairs
by a private way, and took up a position in the
theatre where he was quite unable to get near her.

She had decided beforehand where she would sit—near
to a side-door into the garden, which, standing
half-open, let in a current of cool air into the heated
place.  It had been warmed beforehand, and was dimly
lighted by a number of small lanterns overhead, such as
were used in the gardens of Vauxhall and Ranelagh.

Her heart was beating almost to suffocation as the
curtain went up, and she saw the often-described
figure of Time upon his throne.  But it was not of
his rounded periods nor his telling gestures that she
had been dreaming; and though she listened and
watched with a sense of fascination, she knew that
she was waiting—waiting—waiting for the next
actor, with a sense almost of suffocation in her
throat.

Why had she thought this thing?  Why had it
seemed to her no impossibility that Sir Grey
Dumaresq, vanished utterly from his old world, should be
masquerading now in this part of the Youth?  She
could not have answered even to herself these
questions, yet her heart was all in a tumult.  Had he not
once said to her, as he plucked a white rosebud and
gave it her, "Why was my name not White instead
of Grey?  Then it would be like unto you"?  Was
that enough to build upon?  Hardly, but yet she
could not help it.  Did not men speak of his grace,
dignity, manly beauty? and did not many say of him
that his face seemed familiar in some sort, yet none
could say who he was?  And now a thunder of new
applause rent the air.  For a moment her vision
grew dim and she could not see.  Then it cleared,
and her heart gave a great bound.  Clear silver tones
fell upon her ear, and the ring of a voice that she
knew.  His face for the moment was turned away.
He was addressing himself to Father Time; but as
he turned towards the house and gazed full upon the
audience sitting in spellbound silence, the foot-lights
fell full upon his face, and she knew him!

She knew him—that was enough!  What he said
or did, she knew not—cared not.  She sat with her
gaze fastened full upon him.  She recked not why
that alone seemed enough.  A strange trance that
was half dream fell upon her.  She gazed, and gazed,
and gazed.

"Good lack, but the fellow is the very mirror of
my husband!  I had not believed it, had I not seen it
with mine own eyes."  The voice of the Duchess was
clearly heard above the clarion notes of the actor.
She was not one to hush her tones, and she was not
a little astonished by the performance.  Pleasure,
gratification, and surprise were all written upon the
hard but handsome features of the Queen's favourite;
and every now and again she would tap her long
ivory fan with some vehemence upon the back of the
seat in front, and would exclaim aloud,—

"Vastly good!  Vastly well done!  Faith, but he
is a pretty fellow, and knows what he is about.  I
must have speech with him.  I would learn more of
this.  Beshrew me, but the Duke must see this when
he returns!"

This loud-voiced praise could not but reach the
ears of the actors, and they could not fail to know
who it was that spoke.  All knew that the Duchess
was to be present, as a special mark of good will and
condescension, and that she should speak such open
praise seemed to set a seal upon the success of the
entertainment.  Lady Romaine could scarce contain
herself for delight.

Geraldine still sat as in a maze of bewildered
happiness.  It was not till just as the performance
was closing that she was awakened from her trance,
and that somewhat rudely.  The last words of the
interlude were being spoken.  Father Time and the
Youth were standing together making their last
speeches to the audience, and she was gazing with all
her eyes into the face of one whom she alone out of
all the company had recognized, when one of the
lanterns overhead, insecurely fastened, burnt its way
loose, and fell flaring and blazing upon the light
train of her dress.  Instantly she was in a blaze.
The flames shooting up made a glare all over the
house, and a hundred piercing shrieks attested the
terror of the ladies at the sight.

.. _`251`:

But one had seen even before the flames shot up.
Already the young actor had leaped like a deer to
the floor of the house; in a moment he had reached
the side of the lady.  He had caught up in his hands a
great rug which was picturesquely flung over the throne
of Father Time, and before any other person in the
room had recovered presence of mind sufficient to stir,
he had the flaming figure wrapped round in this rug,
and had borne it out through the half-open door into
the safety of the grassy garden without, where, laying
his burden down upon the ground tenderly, despite
his haste, he was quickly able to stifle the flames and
extinguish the last spark.

He bent over her, his face white and ghastly in
the moonlight.

"You are not hurt—say you are not hurt!"

"I think not; you were so quick—so quick.  How
can I thank you?"

Her eyes looked into his; it was just one moment
before the people came rushing out upon them in a
frantic crowd.  But that moment was their own.
They looked into each other's eyes, and a thrill passed
from heart to heart that never could be forgotten.
Out rushed Lord Romaine, frantic with anxiety; out
followed a motley crowd—some weeping, some gasping,
some exclaiming, some even laughing in hysterical
excitement.  Grey stood up suddenly, and slipped
away like a wraith in the moonlight.

Lord Romaine bent tenderly over his daughter,
who was struggling to her feet, still encumbered by
the folds of the great rug.  She was dishevelled, her
dress was torn and burnt, she held the folds of the
covering wrap about her still; but her voice was
only a little tremulous as she clung to her father's
arm.

"I am not hurt; no, I am sure I am not.  The hot
breath of the fire just scorched for a moment; but
then it was crushed out..  Please send the people
away.  I do not want to be stared at.  I am not
hurt.  Please take me in, and let me go to my own
room."

"Bless me, but what a pretty kettle of fish!" cried
a loud and imperious voice.  "Let me see the child
and be sure she is all safe.  Ha, there you are, my
pretty white bird!  A nice scare you gave us all
wrapped about in a ring of fire like—who was the
woman?—Brynhild, or some such outlandish name.
But it was a fine ending to the drama.  We have not
quite lost our heroes yet.  My faith, how he leaped
down!  He must have seen it before any of the rest
of us.  Well, well, well; it is a good thing that his
fine show of bravery was not all in words.  He is a
mettlesome youth, and deserves the praise of the
town.  He will be more the hero of the hour than
ever.  Where is the boy?  I would have speech of
him myself."

The Duchess looked about her; but no one like the
Youth was to be seen.  He had vanished altogether;
but, doubtless, he would be somewhere on the place,
and could be fetched to receive the thanks of the
parents and the compliments of the Duchess.

It was too cold to stand out in the moonlight, and
there was a general move towards the house, Geraldine
still clinging to her father's arm, avoiding the shrill
questions, comments, and congratulations of the
company, and shrinking back especially when Lord
Sandford would have approached.

"The luck was not for me to-night," he said;
"nevertheless, give me the chance, Lady Geraldine,
and you shall see what I will do.  But that actor
chap shall not lose his reward for his promptitude.
I will see to that."

She started as though she had been stung.

"My lord, do not insult him!"

He stared at her in amaze; but she slipped away
and vanished like a wraith.  He strode moodily about
the rooms, joining in the general inquiry after the
young actor whom the Duchess had sent for; but the
servants came back after some time to say that the
young man could not be found.  He seemed to have
disappeared into thin air.





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.. _`FICKLE FORTUNE`:

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   CHAPTER XIV.


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   FICKLE FORTUNE.

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Grey had a double reason for his rapid
disappearance from the scene of his recent
exploit.  For one thing, he had recognized amid the
audience assembled by Lady Romaine to witness the
performance quite a number of men whom he had
known with more or less intimacy in the former days,
and whom he now desired to avoid.  He knew that
both his flowing wig and his fine clothes had received
some injury from the fire, and moreover he quickly
felt that his hands and one of his arms had suffered
from the flames.  If he were to be taken possession
of by friendly or compassionate persons, to have these
matters looked to, there was no end to the possible
complications which might arise.  The sensitive pride
of the young man of gentle birth rose in arms against
being unmasked in the midst of old associates.  He
pictured the laugh with which Lord Sandford would
make the discovery that the youthful baronet, his
whilom friend, was playing upon the boards of the
theatre for a livelihood.  That was a thing he could
not and would not endure.  And he had fled hastily
from the coming crowd, so soon as he had been assured
that Lord Romaine was on the spot to take care of
his daughter.

Again, he was frightened by the intensity of his
own feelings.  When he held Geraldine in his arms,
and when their eyes met, and he knew himself
recognized, the flood of emotion which surged over him
had well-nigh mastered him and led him into some
wild act of folly.  He had had much ado to stay the
burning words which rushed like a torrent to his
lips.  He dared not trust himself to look again upon
Geraldine's fair face.  He was frightened at the
immensity of the temptation which had assailed him
to break into some wild declaration of love.

But when he had reached the waiting coach which
was to convey him and his companion back to town,
his thoughts were directed into quite another channel
by the frightened faces of the servants who stood by.

"You had better get Master Wylde home without
delay," spoke one, "and have a leech for him.  He
was taken with bleeding at the mouth almost as soon
as he left the stage.  He has only spoken once, and
that was to ask for you.  He should be got to bed
as quick as may be, and kept there till he is better."

With a pale and anxious face Grey threw himself
into the coach where the Old Lion was sitting, leaning
back feebly against the cushions, his face ghastly,
his hand holding to his mouth a kerchief stained and
spotted with blood.  In a great fright the young
actor bade the man drive fast, and stop on his way
at the residence of one of the many physicians, or
quacks, who drove so brisk a trade in these times,
each having some wonderful nostrum of his own
for the cure of all ills under the sun, and some of
them thriving so mightily that they drove four or
six horses in their coaches, and had lackeys in
scarlet and silver lace running beside them and
distributing small leaflets, in which the wonders their
master had performed were set forth.

Grey had heard of some of these men, and that
they performed wonderful cures; and he cared not
what he paid, at that moment, so that his master
and friend might be relieved and healed.

With no small trouble he got him up the stairs
to their attic, and put him to bed.  But more than
once the hacking cough brought back the dreaded
bleeding; and by the time that the leech arrived,
pompous and haughty, and none too well pleased
at being summoned from the convivial gathering of
friends whither he had betaken himself, he looked
more like a corpse than a living man.

Grey was in a fever of anxiety, and listened with
earnest heed to the words of the leech, and his
instructions for the relief of the patient.  He bought
every suggested medicament, regardless of the cost,
and made no hesitation in handing the exorbitant
fee demanded by the great man for his valuable
services.  He cared for nothing, so that his master
should recover; and the leech, finding that gold was
plentiful in this humble abode, and rather interested
in the discovery that he was attending the actor
whose Father Time had made such talk in the town,
really began to take some interest in the case, and
to put forth his best skill; so that before very long
the death-like hue of the patient's face changed to
something more natural, and the hemorrhage was
for the time being checked.

"He must be kept perfectly quiet.  On no account
must he exert his voice, or leave his bed, or take any
liberties.  Nature must be humoured, my dear sir;
nature must be helped and aided.  She is a kind
mother to her obedient and reasonable children, but
she has many a rod for the backs of those who
despise her warnings.  Our worthy friend has been
tendering a deaf ear to her counsels; therefore has
she chastened him somewhat severely.  But let him
show himself mild and docile under her rod, and it
may be that she will restore him to favour again,
and that the world will once more pay to him its
tribute of admiration and praise."

So saying the leech took his departure, promising
to come at any hour of the day or night that he
might be sent for; and Grey was left alone with his
patient, who had been soothed off to a quiet sleep
by a draught administered.  And it must be said
in justice to these men—half physician, half
quack—who flourished at this time, that some of their
remedies were of no small value when properly
applied.  They used herbs and concoctions brewed
from the leaves and roots of plants far more freely
than has since become fashionable.  Many purchased
their nostrums from old women, who went forth into
the fields and lanes, and distilled from their spoil
mixtures which they regarded as remedies of
infallible potency.  Much ignorance prevailed as to the
action of these simples upon the human body; but
many of them were of no small value in sickness,
and when used in cases where it chanced to be the
thing required, worked wonders in rapid healing,
and became at once the favourite elixir of the
moment amongst those who had known of the cure.

So the Old Lion was at least soothed to quiet sleep,
and in the warm atmosphere of the attic his
breathing was sensibly relieved.  Grey was able now to
strip off his own finery, rather aghast at the sorry
state of his coat, the total destruction of his costly
ruffles, and the singed condition of his wig.

"These must be made good quickly, or I shall not
be fit to appear on the boards on Monday night," he
mused, as he looked at them.  Luckily as this was
Saturday night, he felt as though there were breathing
time before him.  "I must send word to Mr. Butler
of what has befallen.  Anthony Frewen, or
some other, must needs play Father Time for a score
of performances at least, I fear me.  It will be a loss:
I shall earn but the half of what was given us before.
Still it will suffice to keep us, and I trust and hope
that it will not be long ere he recover, to take his
place once more."

A troubled look came over Grey's face as he looked
towards the bed, and noted the patient's sunken
cheek and cavernous eyes.  He wondered that he
had not before seen how thin and shrunken the old
man was getting; but there was always so much fire
about him that it deceived even those who saw him
oftenest and loved him best.

"It has been too much for him," mused Grey, as
he sat beside the fire, pain of body and anxiety of
mind precluding all thought of sleep.  His hands
were becoming increasingly painful, and he had
forgotten to ask the leech for any medicament for them.
However, he applied linen rag steeped in oil; and the
burning smart lessened somewhat, though he had no
disposition to seek sleep.

"It hath been too much for him—the triumph,
the adulation, the excitement of taking again his old
place before the world.  It meant so much to him,
this play.  It was like the child of his old age.  It
brought him his final triumph; but it took much
out of him also.  The fires of life blazed up too
fiercely.  Now they seem sinking down to ashes.
Heaven grant that we may feed them yet, that he
may recover him of this sickness.  Yet will he ever
be able to face the world again as heretofore?  It
is hard that his trumpet voice should be taken—the
last of those attributes which made him the idol of
the stage.  Oh, it has been hard how one thing has
followed another with him!  Some men seem born
to success and triumph, whilst others with equal gifts
and powers are doomed to misfortune and sorrow."

Grey fell into a reverie of a sombre nature.  "Was
he fated to be one of those luckless mortals, ever
falling lower and lower in fortune's favour, till perhaps
a pauper's grave should at last close over him?

"What has life given me heretofore?  A good old
name, which I may not use for very pride; an
estate so burdened and crippled that it is none of
mine, save in name.  I have had my days of glory
and happiness; but what lies before me now?  If
my master dies, or lies sick and helpless, what will
become of us in the future?  I may play the part
of the Youth with Anthony Frewen or some other
till the world tires of it; but what then?  Shall
I join the crowd of cringing, hollow-eyed men,
crowding the taverns and the stage doors of the theatres,
and begging for some inferior part upon the boards?
Shall I go vaunting my powers, or chaffering my
wares in a market already overstocked, that wants
none of me?  No.  Whatever happens, I will have
none of that.  I have tasted of the life, but it hath
no charms for me.  Rather would I gird my sword
upon my thigh, and go forth as a soldier in foreign
lands; and, indeed, were I alone in the world,
methinks I would hesitate no longer, but offer myself
for this."

As he spoke, his eyes turned to the bed where the
old man lay, and a softer look came over his face.

"I cannot leave him.  With him I must stay till
he recover, or till he die.  He took me in in my
hour of need.  To desert him in his would be base
beyond all words.  I will play the part of son to him
so long as he needs me; and for his sake will I go
through my part as before, though without him the
joy will be gone.  But it will bring us the needful
gold; and we are not without our hoard, as it is.
Truly my master was wise when he decided not to
leave these rooms—not to live like rich men on the
strength of our earnings.  We have sufficient gold
laid by against a rainy day.  Ere that is spent,
doubtless there will come some change to our fortunes."

But with the dawn of another day Grey found
himself in very sorry plight.  Great blisters had
risen over his hand and arm, and the fingers were
so swollen and painful that he could scarcely move
them.  He was forced to contrive a sling in which
to carry his left hand and arm, and he could only
just use his right sufficiently for the needful
attendance upon the sick man, and that not without
considerable pain.  He began to feel feverish and weak
himself from the effects of pain and shock.

It began to come over him with more and more
conviction that he himself would be unfit to appear
upon the stage on the morrow.  And as soon as the
morning light had fully come, he sent the servant of
the house wherein they lodged to the rooms occupied
by Mr. Butler of the Drury Lane theatre management,
asking him to come at once to see him upon
a matter of importance.

Mr. Butler was part proprietor of the theatre, and
the practical stage manager, and he listened with
great interest and concern to Grey's tale, looking
earnestly at the sick man muttering to himself upon
the bed, but taking no notice of what went on about
him, and bending over him not untenderly, to see if
could elicit some response.  But the Old Lion
unclosed his dim eyes for a few moments, looked
into his face, and then turned restlessly and began
the mutterings as before, interrupted sometimes by
fits of coughing, which left him visibly exhausted,
although there was no return of the hemorrhage.

"I have had my fears of this," spoke Mr. Butler,
turning back to Grey.  "He is scarce fit for the
strain of the past weeks.  He uses himself up too
fast.  The fires burn within too fiercely; and his
long illness, though seeming only to cripple his limbs,
has told upon him.  I have feared it might be so,
therefore we are not altogether unprovided."

"I know," answered Grey quietly.  "I was going
to say as much.  Anthony Frewen has the part of
Father Time at his fingers' ends.  He can play it
for Mr. Wylde till this illness be overpassed."

"That is true.  I am glad you should know.  He
is ready at any time to take the part.  It will be for
him a great opportunity.  But it would be well for
you to rehearse with him ere appearing before the
public.  Shall we arrange for this to-morrow
forenoon?  As for this dress, it must be given at once
into the hands of tailor and perruquier.  But there
should be no difficulty in having it repaired in time.
A few guineas will set that matter to rights."

"At my cost," answered Grey promptly.  "Let
that be understood.  It is in the bond; though I
shall be grateful if you will see to the matter for
me.  As for the rehearsal, and even the performance
to-morrow and the next few nights, I am not certain
if I myself shall be able to go through my part.  See
here!" and Grey drew from the sling his maimed and
stiffened hand, showing even a greater extent of
injury in the daylight than he had observed before.
His white face and drawn brows showed that he was
suffering considerable pain; and Mr. Butler whistled
in dismay.

"This is serious," he said, with a look of perplexity
on his face.

"Yet methinks there is a way out of the difficulty,"
spoke Grey, with some eagerness.  "Could you find
and send to me the young actor Lionel Field, who
has lodgings somewhere in these regions, for he
comes and goes at the theatre, and has visited us
often, albeit he has never told me where he dwells?"

"I could find the fellow, doubtless," was the answer;
"but do you know your man?  A fellow sober one
day, drunk the next, upon whom no reliance can
be placed, though his talent is considerable, and he
has caught the public taste before now."

"Ay, and adversity has something sobered and
tamed him," answered Grey eagerly.  "I have a sort
of liking for the fellow, though he has a jealous
feeling towards me, in that I have stepped into a place
without serving apprenticeship thereto.  But believe
me, he could act this part of mine.  I am sure of it.
He has studied it, I know.  He has sat many a time
in that chair whilst I have been going through my
paces before my master.  I have seen him watching
and following all.  Send him hither to me.  I will
undertake that he shall be ready to act for me till
I am my own man again.  Let him have the chance.
I am sure he will remain sober.  He has been steadier
for long; and this, he knows, may give him just that
lift for which he has been waiting and longing.  It
may be the beginning for him of better things; and
since we are much of the same height, and he is only
something broader and more stoutly built, there will
be little trouble with the dress.  Let him play the
Youth for one week at least in my place, and I will
give my time to my sick friend yonder, and let my
injured hands recover their strength and suppleness."

The manager had been studying Grey's face with
some attention.  He saw that it would be impossible
for the young man to act for some days to come.
There was a look of fever about him, and the state
of his hands was quite prohibitive.  He spoke with a
note as of warning in his voice.

"Do you know what it is that you would do?" he
asked.  "Have you heard the tale of the countryman
who warmed a viper at his hearth, which afterwards
did him to death?"

"The fable I know," answered Grey with a smile,
"but I do not see the application in the present."

"Perchance you may have reason to understand
it, if you do as you purpose towards Lionel Field.
A man consumed by vanity and envy is not the
safest wearer of one's discarded shoes."

"But is there any other?" asked Grey.  "I know of none."

"No, nor I, i' faith.  We have feared that the old
man might break down—he has been growing so gaunt
and hollow-eyed of late; but we had never thought
of such a thing as the Youth failing us.  We have
no substitute for you, Mr. White.  If you fall ill,
the interlude must cease; and it were pity too, for
it still draws us crowded houses."

"No, it need not cease," spoke Grey with energy.
"Send me only Lionel Field this day, and I will
undertake that by to-morrow forenoon he shall be
fit for the rehearsal with Anthony Frewen in the
theatre.  Let him take my place till I am ready to
fill it again.  He will do it better than I, with these
maimed hands, and with my heart so full of anxious
fears for Mr. Wylde."

"Then so be it," answered the manager, with
audible relief in his tones.  He had no wish to
withdraw the piece whilst it was still so high in favour.
No one knew how soon the capricious public might
tire of it; but for the moment, with the Duke of
Marlborough the popular idol, and expected home
week by week, nothing that gave him praise and
honour could fail to catch the popular taste.  The
house filled double as full on those nights on which
Time and the Youth were to appear as it did on the
others.  Grey knew this, and would not for the world
have had the performances to cease on his account.
He had no petty jealousy of an understudy.  He
simply desired that a man he had come to pity
sincerely should have the chance he so coveted; and
when Lionel Field stood before him, flushed, excited,
filled with strenuous desire to succeed—to fill the
part as ably as it had been filled before—Grey's only
desire was to help him to this end.

It was a strange day that was passed in that upper
chamber.  On the bed lay the sick man, for the most
part lying in the lethargy of weakness, but from time
to time rousing up, watching with sudden feverish
eagerness the actions of the young men, and occasionally
in whispering tones giving some fragment of
keen criticism or dramatic suggestion.  At the other
end of the room stood Lionel, going through his part
again and yet again, with an unwearied energy and
with increasing grip and power; whilst Grey, white-faced
and exhausted, but still bent on the task before
him, sat beside the fire watching, listening,
instructing, rising every now and again to show how a
certain trick of manner or of voice must be managed,
to recall the great Duke to those who knew him.
The master was in earnest; the pupil was eager and
resolved to excel.  Lionel had never lacked talent.
What he had lacked was the power of self-restraint,
whilst vanity had led him into the snare of thinking
himself invaluable.  A bitter lesson had followed, and
he had learned wisdom by experience.  His chance
had now come to him most unexpectedly.  He meant
to use it well.  He was grateful to Grey for selecting
him at this juncture.  He did not consciously
meditate doing him an ill turn, but he resolved in his
heart that this opportunity should be used to the
uttermost.  It would bring him once more before the
public which once had favoured him.  He would take
care he did not sink into obscurity again.

It was dusk before he left with his part perfect,
and everything learned that Grey could teach him.
As his footsteps clattered down the wooden stairs,
Grey sank back exhausted into his chair, closing
his eyes in utter lassitude.  It was more than an
hour before he moved, and then nothing but the
necessity for giving food to Wylde would have
roused him.

The Old Lion was awake now, and his breathing,
though very rapid, was somewhat easier.  He was
excessively weak; but the quiet day spent in the
warm attic and without any exertion on his part had
not been without effect, and there was more
comprehension in the gaze now bent upon Grey's face than
he had seen there since the previous night, when the
old man had been taken suddenly ill.

"What is the matter, boy, and what have you been
doing all day?  Who was that went out at dusk?
Methought it looked like young Lionel Field."

"It was he, sir.  He came to learn—or rather to
perfect—the part of the Youth.  You and I are to
take a week's holiday, and enjoy a rest together.
Your cough is too bad for you to go abroad, and I
have burnt my hands and must needs get them
healed ere I step the boards again.  Anthony Frewen
and Lionel Field will take our places for the nonce;
and after we are restored to our former health, and
strength, the public will welcome us back the more
gladly for our absence."

The Old Lion's eyes flashed suddenly from beneath
their heavy lids.  He half raised himself in his bed.

"I shall never tread the boards again.  My acting
days are done.  I murmur not.  I have had my
heart's desire.  I can now depart in peace.  But you,
boy—you!  Why have you given up the place that
was yours?  I hear the knell tolling for you too.
Not for your life—nay, you will live after these
limbs are laid in the grave; but for your triumph—for
your fame.  You have given up your birthright
to the supplanter.  You will never take your rightful
place again—never—never!"

Grey smiled at the sorrowful intensity with which
these words were spoken.  He laid the old man down,
and spoke to him soothingly.

"Nay, do not fear; do not let such thoughts
trouble you.  I have seen Mr. Butler.  All will be
well.  My place will be kept for me till my return.
When I am able for it, I shall play the 'Youth'
again; and we will live upon the proceeds till you
are hale and strong; and then you shall write a
great play which shall hold the whole world captive
and enthralled.  But now trouble not yourself of these
matters.  Only rest, and all will be well."

"Well, well; yes, for me all will soon be well," was
the old man's dreamy answer.  "But for you, my
son—for you, what will befall?  Fickle Fortune did
smile at you; but her smile has changed to a frown.
The open door is closing in your face, and where will
you find another?"

Grey smiled and answered not.  At the present
moment he was too worn out in mind and body even
to care what the future might hold.





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.. _`DARK DAYS`:

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   CHAPTER XV.


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   DARK DAYS.

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For above a fortnight things went very strangely
for Grey in that upper room which had been
for so long his home.  The Old Lion was very
ill—dangerously ill for many days; and though the leech
was called in several times, and sometimes gave a
medicine which brought relief, it was little his skill
availed, and the tender nursing of the young man was
undoubtedly the means under Providence whereby the
sick man's life was saved.

But Grey himself was suffering from severe
prostration, from an intermittent fever, and from much
pain from his burns, which were slow to heal and
made his task of nursing very difficult.

Nevertheless he would let no one else rob him of
this labour of love; for none could soothe the sick
man as he could, and if left to other care, he always
became restless and feverish.

As for the world without, that was altogether
blotted out from Grey's thoughts.  He never even
heard of the return of the Duke of Marlborough from
his glorious campaign of victory; he never knew of
the grand procession through the streets from
Whitehall to Guildhall, and thence to the Vintners' Hall,
where the victor of Ramillies was feasted by the civic
authorities, after the standards taken at the great
battle had been flaunted through the streets and
acclaimed by a huge and enthusiastic crowd.

All this, if he heard rumour of it, passed through
his brain unheeded.  He did not even know that
the Duke attended a performance at Drury Lane of
"Time and the Youth," and laughed and applauded
the representation, in which so much subtle flattery
had been introduced.  Always eager for popular
applause, the Duke was not a little delighted by the
ovation he received in his own person, and in the
words of the interlude itself, which were cheered to
the echo by a house crowded to suffocation.
Afterwards the actors were summoned before him, and
each received a purse of gold from the hands of the
Duchess.  And she told the Duke how that the young
actor had been so brave and prompt in the saving of
the life of her favourite, Lady Geraldine, at the private
performance of the piece a short while back.  So
great a lady as the Duchess could not be expected to
note any difference in the actors of the interlude, and
none explained her error, for what did it matter?
Anthony Frewen and Lionel Field were drawing just
as well as the original pair had done, since the
enthusiasm for the Duke was increasing with his
presence in England.  They asked lower terms for their
services, and they gave none of the trouble that the
Old Lion had done by his autocratic demands and
his hasty temper.  The managers of both theatres
were well content with matters as they were, and
congratulated themselves that nothing more had been
heard of their former employés.  Wylde's uncertain
health would render his re-engagement a matter of
some difficulty, if not of impossibility; and Anthony
Frewen had openly declared that he would act only
with Field.  They had studied together.  They
understood each other, and they wanted no
"interloper" coming between them.

This was in substance what Grey heard when, after
three weeks of anxiety and watching, he found that
their exchequer was almost empty, and realized that he
must bestir himself again to earn the needful weekly
sum to enable them to live comfortably, and provide
the wherewithal for the sick man's needs.  His hands
were now almost well.  He had discarded his sling
and could use his arm freely.  The fever had left him
somewhat weak, but he believed he had power to take
his part without any fear of failure, and he sought
out the friendly stage-manager, Mr. Butler, to tell
him as much.  Little did he anticipate the answer he
received.

The matter was fully and kindly explained; but
there seemed no hesitation about the decision.

"I am sorry—very sorry—Mr. White.  But what
are we to do?  Frewen and Field are both old stage
favourites.  Their return has been hailed with
approval in many quarters.  They have acted all this
time together, and Frewen declines to act with any
other.  It is possible that he fears in you a rival;
for there is a dash and a divine afflatus (if I may use
the phrase) in your acting which is lacking in that of
Field.  Talent is always ready to be jealous of genius.
It may be that the matter lies in that nutshell.
However this may be, these are the facts.  These two
mean to do well; they refuse to be separated, and
therefore—"

"I understand," answered Grey quietly.  "It is quite
right, I suppose.  For myself I care little, but for
Mr. Wylde I have my regrets.  After all, it is his
piece that is filling your pockets.  Has he no claim
upon you for that?  I know not what the law may
be; but can you suffer him to be in want whilst his
genius is bringing you such success?"

"Well, well, well, we will see what we can do.  I
am sorry, very sorry, that you ever gave up your
part.  Oh, I know it was inevitable.  You were not
able for it; and you showed magnanimity in your
instruction of another.  But it was a mistake on your
own part—the countryman and the viper—did I not
warn you?  A man of more worldly wisdom would
have done differently."

"If you will only see that Mr. Wylde lacks not for
the necessaries of life, I care nothing for my own
loss," answered Grey with perfect truthfulness.  "I
am young and strong; I have the world before me.
But whilst he is ill I cannot leave him; and if I lose
my post here, how can I hope to support him through
the bitter winter now upon us?  I can face destitution
for myself, but it were shame to let him suffer."

"Well, well, he shall not starve; we will do
something for him.  I promise you that.  But it was a
thousand pities that you did not receive the purse of
gold from the hands of the Duchess last week.  That
would have set you on your feet for some time to
come; and, after all, it was for you it was really
meant.  Field should be made to divide it."

"No, no," answered Grey, with sudden haste and
imperiousness; "I touch no gold that I do not earn."  And
when he heard the story of the performance at
which the Duke had been present, he rejoiced greatly
that he had not played the "Youth" that night.  He
felt as though the eagle eyes of the Duke would have
penetrated his disguise; and how could he have met
the victor of Ramillies again in the garb of an actor,
winning his bread on the London boards?

There was a curious strain of pride in the young
man's nature.  Although his short dramatic career
had been so successful, he shrank with the deepest
distaste from recognition by any of his former friends.
He hated the very thought that the name of Grey
Dumaresq should be linked with that of the actor of
the "Youth."

In the same way he had always abstained from
making any use of the token of favour bestowed
upon him by the Duke of Marlborough as a pledge of
friendship.  He always carried the ring about his
person, hung round his neck by a silken cord.  But
although he knew it would win for him the
patronage of the great Duchess, whose influence with the
Queen, if not the paramount power it once was, was
still very great, he had never been able to make up
his mind to use it.  He had not learned how to
present himself as a suppliant for favour.  He felt
that he had talent.  He desired to see that talent
recognized and rewarded.  But to go about seeking
for a patron to push him into notice was a thing he
had never brought himself to do.  Whilst living with
the Old Lion he had rewritten his romance, and had
made of it a very delicate piece of workmanship,
which might well win him fame if he could but get
it taken up.  But hitherto he had been too busy to
think much about the matter.  The romance must
wait his greater leisure.  Now, however, turning
away from the theatre feeling very certain that his
dramatic career had closed as suddenly as it had
opened, he began to realize that something must be
done to keep the wolf from the door; and his
thoughts instinctively turned to his pen with a
certain joy and pride.  For therein lay more real
delight to him than in the plaudits of assembled
crowds.  If he could win fame in the realms of
literature, he would with joy say farewell to his brief
career as actor.

Walking thoughtfully along, he almost ran into two
men who were strolling arm in arm along the pavement.
Stopping short from the recoil, he looked at
them, and saw that they were Anthony Frewen and
Lionel Field—the very two whose amicable partnership
had ousted him from his hoped-for employment.
But there was no rancour in Grey's heart.  Already
his facile and eager mind had turned to other themes.
He would have held out his hand in fellowship to
his quondam pupil; but the young actor's face had
suddenly flushed a deep crimson, and he pulled his
companion down a side alley, laughing loudly, and
affecting not to have seen the other.  Plainly, he
feared reproaches and recriminations, and was stung
by the goad of an uneasy conscience.

Grey smiled a little as he pursued his way.

"It is something strange," he mused, "how that a
man can never forgive one whom he has injured!
Had I supplanted him, he might have swaggered up
to demand explanation or redress, and we might even
have made it up again; but since he has injured me,
he will have none of it.  I am henceforth to him an
outcast."

Grey was not disposed at once to return home, to
encounter the keen eyes and perhaps the burst of
righteous indignation which no doubt his news would
awaken within the breast of the Old Lion.  That
Wylde had had some fears of what the event had
justified, Grey was aware.  He knew the emulations,
jealousies, and small cabals of the theatre, and how
a young actor, raised by lucky chance to a post of
eminence, is suspected and plotted against by others
as an interloper.  His own reputation and Grey's
brilliant success had served them in good stead so
long as he was able to retain his own place; but now
that his influence was withdrawn, and Grey had
shown himself not indispensable, the thing which he
foresaw had come to pass; and the young man
regretted it more for his master's sake than for his
own, save for the immediate difficulty of seeing where
the daily necessities of life were to come from.

But at least he had obtained a promise that
something should be done for the old man, and he could
surely fend for himself.

He was walking northward along the frost-bound
road.  A spell of bitter weather had succeeded the
torrents of rain which had characterized the earlier
part of the winter.  Icicles hung from the eaves, and
the water was frozen in the gutters and puddles.
The sun hung like a red ball in the clear frosty sky,
and there was a biting keenness in the air which
made rapid motion a necessity.

Grey was not depressed, though he was grave and
thoughtful.  He walked on rapidly, one thought
chasing another through his brain.  Had it not been
for the necessity of taking care of his old friend, he
would have liked well enough to walk all the way to
Hartsbourne, to see old Jock and faithful Dick, from
whom the recent almost impassable state of the roads
had sundered him.  During the days of his extreme
poverty Grey had hidden himself even from Dick.
But with brighter times he had written to his
faithful henchman; and once the latter had visited him
at his new abode, and had accompanied him to the
theatre to watch the performance there, which had
filled him with pride and joy at his master's triumph,
albeit he felt a pang of pain to see him reduced to
such a method of earning his bread.

That was the last time they had met, for the
constant rains had made the roads well-nigh impassable.
But the frost had come as a friend to travellers, and
Grey felt sure that Dick would not be long in
availing himself of the changed conditions for a visit to
town.  It might be indeed that they would meet one
another, if only he persevered in his walk.  He
wanted news of Don Carlos—now his one valuable
asset.  Much as it went against him to sell his
beautiful horse, he brought himself to contemplate it as a
possibility.  As a poor man in London, the creature
was of little use to him, and there were a score of
wealthy young bloods who had offered again and
again to purchase the horse at his own price.
The strained shoulder had entirely recovered.  The
creature was as sound as ever.  Perhaps—perhaps—Grey
had got as far as that, when he suddenly
heard himself hailed in rapturous tones as
"Master! master!" and there was Dick racing to meet him at
the top of his speed.

But the honest fellow's face was troubled; and
scarce had Grey time to greet him ere the evil news
was out.

"He is stolen, master—he is stolen!  Don Carlos
is gone!  Oh, it has been foul play from first to last!
We had kept him so safely, Jock and I.  The old
skinflint had no notion of his being there.  He
grazed out of sight of the house, and at night was
never brought in till after dark.  But that one-eyed
Judas must have discovered the secret at last, and
told his master.  We never suspected it; but I will
wager it was so.  Then they played this scurvy trick
on me.  They said the old man was dying.  The
doctor must be fetched at all cost.  I and my nag,
who paid our board, were known to be living with
old Jock.  I galloped off to Edgeware for the leech,
and Jock was kept within doors, making hot large
quantities of water, never allowed for a moment
outside the brew-house, where stood the great copper
filled with water.  I rode away gleefully enough,
for I had no fears for the old man's life, though of
course I would not have him die for lack of succour.
I found the leech, and bade him ride back with me
full speed; but we had both been long making the
journey, for the roads were like troughs of mire, and
the beasts flagged sorely when urged.  We were forced
to let them pick their way as they could, and so it
was well-nigh dusk ere we arrived.  He went up to
the sick-room, and I to groom down my jaded horse
and fetch in Don Carlos.  When I went for him
to the far paddock, he was gone!  The rails were
down.  There was abundant trace of trampling hoofs
and footprints of men.  He had given them trouble;
but they had him at last.  The horse was stolen!"

Grey listened in silence.  He felt somewhat as did
the patriarch Job when one after another the messengers
of evil tidings came with their words of woe.
He scarce heard all that Dick was saying now—whom
he suspected of being in complicity with his unscrupulous
kinsman in this matter.  But one name arrested
his attention, and he stopped to ask a quick question.

"Lord Sandford!  What said you of him?"

"Why, master, as I was telling you, when I began
to make inquiry here, there, and everywhere, I heard
that my Lord Sandford had been seen as near as
Edgeware, and that he had been asking something
about a horse.  More I cannot find out; but it is
enough for me.  There is devilry in the matter, and
Barty Dumaresq and Lord Sandford are both mixed
up in it.  I have come to town to see you first, and
then to get some knowledge of his lordship's stables,
and I'll wager I'll find out before very long where
the Don is hidden away."

Grey's eyes flashed with anger.  Was it possible
that this man should sink to plotting a common
theft?  Or was it his kinsman who had stolen the
horse, and sold him for a great sum to the young
nobleman, who had always coveted the creature?
This was most probably the truth, for the recluse of
Hartsbourne had plainly feigned illness to get Dick
and Jock out of the way.  The whole thing was a
dishonourable conspiracy, and he could only hope that
Lord Sandford's part in it had been merely that of
purchaser.  If he had stooped to plot a theft with
the old miser, he would be a worse and a meaner
villain than Grey would willingly believe, since it
was already the talk of the town that he would wed
with the Lady Geraldine Adair so soon as the
spring-tide should come.

Master and man discussed the matter for some
time, and Grey agreed that Dick should carry out
his plans, and report to him of the result at intervals.
It was above a week since the horse had vanished;
but the state of the roads had prevented the man
from attempting the walk to London before, and he
did not desire to be burdened with his own horse, as
he knew not where he might have to lodge, or what
was likely to turn up.

"Our fortunes are at a low ebb just now, good
Dicon," said Grey as they parted.  "You have but a
few gold pieces left, and our exchequer is almost bare.
But we must hope that Dame Fortune, who has
shown a frowning face of late, will treat us to some
of her smiles again.  For the world is a harder place
than once I thought it, and life a sorer struggle."

"But you have the Duke's token still, sir?" spoke
Dick eagerly.  "You need not despair whilst that
remains.  They say he is in London now.  Why not
take it boldly to him, and remind him of yourself and
his promise?  They say he has a kindly heart, as well
as a gracious manner."

"I believe that is true," answered Grey with a
smile.  "Yes, why not go to him?  Why not?  Ah,
Dicon, I would that life looked as simple to me as it
does to you.  But perhaps—perhaps—  Who knows
what may next betide?  At least, so long as the
token remains, I have still a card to play; and who
can tell but that the last card shall take the trick
and win the game?"

The sunlight had faded by the time Grey reached
the attic, and the fire had burnt itself out to a
handful of ashes.  Wylde was turning restlessly upon his
bed, coughing more than he had done of late; and
Grey reproached himself with his long absence, though
he quickly had things comfortable and bright again.
But the old man must needs hear of his journey to
the theatre; and though he professed himself in no
wise astonished, it was plain that the blow struck
home.

His *protégé* had been set aside for another.  They
ceased to regard him as a power.  He was laid upon
the shelf, and another had stepped into his place.
His word carried no weight.  No one cared whether
he lived or died.  He had brought success and
prosperity by his talents to others, but he was to be left
to die in obscurity and want.  Ah well, better men
than he had been treated just so.  He desired of
Grey to leave him to die alone, and to go forth and
make his own way in the world that had no room
for a feeble and broken man whose work was done.

Grey soothed him as well as he was able, but he
could not find much to say that was hopeful or
encouraging.  He dared not speak of any promise of
help from the theatres, lest the old man should
wrathfully refuse to receive alms, where justice was denied.
So he represented that there was still money left in
their purse, which was in a measure true; but the
funds were so excessively scanty that in a few days
they would be quite exhausted.  And when the old
man at last passed into slumber, Grey went carefully
over all his possessions, which had increased
somewhat of late, and carefully detached from his clothing
any ornaments which might be sold for small sums
to eke out their subsistence till something should turn
up.  For it was evident that Wylde must not be left
long by himself, as this day's experiment had proved.
And how was Grey to obtain any sort of paid work,
were he to be tied to this attic and to almost constant
attendance upon his old friend and master?

How the next days passed by Grey scarcely knew,
for the Old Lion had a relapse, medicines had to be
obtained, together with food such as his condition
required; and although a small sum of money had been
sent by Mr. Butler, with an intimation that the same
amount should be paid weekly for the present, it had
soon melted away, and there came a night when Grey
had not so much as a penny left in the purse, and he
himself was almost faint for want of food.

But the old man lay sleeping peacefully; the fire
burned clear and bright.  The night was fine and
cold, and Grey slipped forth into the streets, wrapping
himself well up in a voluminous cloak belonging to
his friend, which completely disguised him.

A strange desperation seized him, and he cared not
what he did.  He entered tavern after tavern, singing
a roundelay in one, telling a story in another,
reciting a speech or a part of a dramatic scene in
another, and once going through the whole dialogue
of "Time and the Youth," taking both parts himself,
but so changing his aspect from moment to moment
that his audience was electrified, and silver coins as
well as coppers were his portion on this occasion.

He had now enough for two days' needs.  He had
supped well, and now must return home.  He felt as
though he had passed through a strange black dream;
but he had learned how at a pinch the next day's
wants might be supplied—at least until he had been
the round of all the taverns and coffee-houses, and
men were tired of him.  But he would not think of that yet.

He, Sir Grey Dumaresq, had sunk to playing the
buffoon in pot-houses, to earn coppers from the idle
sots who frequented such places.  He laughed aloud
as the thought presented itself to him thus.  Dame
Fortune had proved a sorry shrew so far as he was
concerned.  Was there any lower turn in her wheel
that he must presently experience?

He had wandered some distance from home, since
after having supped he had been fired to try his luck
at some of the more fashionable resorts of the day;
and his last performance had been given at a coffee-house
in one of the better localities, though for the
life of him he could not exactly tell where he was.

It was long since he had walked in these wider
streets, and the night, though starlight, was very dark.
Suddenly a sound as of blows and cries wakened him
from his reverie.  Instinctively he started to run in
the direction whence they came, and almost directly
he met some fellows wearing livery fleeing
helter-skelter, as for dear life, from a band of young
Mohawks or Scourers, as they termed themselves, who
made the terror of the town at night.  In the
distance there was still some tumult going on, and Grey,
half guessing the cause, rushed onward, not heeding
the pursuit he passed.  A lamp dimly burning over
a house showed him the outline of one of those chairs
in which ladies of fashion were carried to and fro
from house to house.  Plainly the liveried servants
in charge of the chair had been chased away, and its
occupant was now at the mercy of the half-drunken
young bloods against whom Father Time had
inveighed so eloquently.

Grey understood in a moment, and with a cry of
rage and scorn he flung himself into the heart of the
fray, intent upon the rescue of the lady in the chair,
whoever she might be.





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.. _`A NIGHT ADVENTURE`:

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   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A NIGHT ADVENTURE.

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The all-important Duchess of Marlborough had
taken one of her sudden and somewhat vehement
and exacting likings for the Lady Geraldine.
This was a matter of no small gratification to Lord
and Lady Romaine, notwithstanding the fact that
the mother felt some jealousy and vexation that her
daughter should have been singled out for this
distinguished lady's favour, whilst she herself was
entirely passed over.  Still she was woman of the
world enough to accept the situation with philosophy.
She always declared freely that the Duchess bored
her to death, and that she would never be able to
put up with her temper and her autocratic ways.
But she was glad enough to let Geraldine visit at
Marlborough House whenever an invitation (or rather
summons) came for her; and Geraldine herself was
glad and thankful to go, for here at least she was
safe from the unwelcome and ever more pressing
attentions of Lord Sandford.  And above and beyond
this, her parents were disposed to treat her with more
respect since she had been "taken up" by the Queen's
favourite.  When she begged of her father not to
make any promise to Lord Sandford regarding the
disposition of her hand, he laughingly consented to
wait awhile; for in his heart he began to wonder
whether his beautiful daughter might not do better
for herself.  Lord Sandford's reckless expenditure
was becoming the talk of the town, and unless he
had larger reserve funds to draw upon than were
known, he might possibly find himself in awkward
straits.  In the house of the Duchess, Geraldine might
possibly meet admirers with more to recommend them
or at least with prospects more sound and secure.  It
is true that Lady Romaine still upheld her favourite
Sandford's suit as warmly as ever; but Lord Romaine
was quite willing to accede to his daughter's request,
and to let things take their own course without bringing
matters at once to a climax.  Lord Sandford was
not to be dismissed; but Geraldine was not to be
coerced.

It was natural that the girl should welcome with
pleasure and gratitude a friendship which brought
her immunity from what promised to become something
very like persecution.  Her occasional visits to
Marlborough House formed the brightest spots in
her present life.

If the Duchess were proud, capricious, autocratic,
and uncertain in temper, as her detractors declared,
at least she possessed warm and deep feelings, and
could be infinitely agreeable and kindly when she
chose.  To Geraldine she was uniformly gentle and
sympathetic.  Perhaps she already felt that she had
passed the meridian of her days of power.  The
kinswoman, Abigail Hill (now Mrs. Masham), whom she
had first introduced to the Queen, was rapidly rising
in royal favour, and seemed likely to prove not only
a rival, but a supplanter.  It had not come to that
yet; and the return of the Duke, covered with glory
and honour, averted for a while the calamity already
overshadowing her.  But so clever and astute a
woman could not be altogether blind to the Queen's
waning affection; and perhaps the consciousness
of her own faults and shortcomings, and her
unguarded temper, helped at this juncture to soften
the asperities of this rough but sterling nature, and
disposed her to take pleasure in the sincere and
undisguised affection and admiration of this beautiful
girl.

Geraldine on her part took great pleasure in the
society of one who held in a semi-masculine contempt
the follies, frivolities, and buffooneries of the present
day code of manners.  Of men and women alike, the
Duchess spoke with hearty scorn, her eyes flashing
and her lips curling in a fine contempt.  Her
influence at Court had always been on the side of gravity,
decorum, and what the fashionable dames and gallants
called "dullness."  She and the Queen were at one in
all these matters, as they were at one in their ideas
of conjugal fidelity and the sacredness of the marriage
bond.  The Queen was as devoted to her weak-minded
husband as the Duchess to her victorious lord.  Both
held in detestation the laxity which prevailed in the
world of fashion, and neither cared for the criticisms
passed upon the dullness of the Court, so long as its
virtue was preserved untainted.

Geraldine, sickened by what she saw and heard at
the gay routs to which she had been taken in her
mother's train, felt the solemn stately gravity of the
Duchess's house as a haven of rest.  She spent her
time during her visits in the private apartment of the
great lady, where the latter came and sat whenever she
had leisure to do so, writing short notes to her
husband, to be dispatched by special couriers, or
talking of him and his triumphs, or the prospects of
the war or of parties at home, to one who was eager
to learn and ready to take a keen and intelligent
interest in all, and whose sincere admiration and
affection, expressed rather in looks and little
unconscious actions than in words, seemed to soothe and
refresh her not a little, accustomed as she was to
full-mouthed flatteries to her face, and the scheming of
jealousy behind her back.

With the return of the Duke came a break in
these pleasant visits.  But the break was not final in
any sense of the word, and Geraldine received many
little affectionate notes, expressing a hope of seeing
more of her when they could escape from attendance
at Court, and enjoy a season of privacy in their own
house.  At first it was necessary for the Duke to
be constant in his attendance at Whitehall or
Kensington Palace, and the Duchess went with him.  But
a day came at last when Geraldine was summoned to
Marlborough House, to spend the afternoon with the
Duke and Duchess, and to remain through the
evening with the latter, as the Duke had to attend a
meeting of friends at Lord Halifax's house, and the
Duchess desired to keep the girl, asking that her
chair might not be sent for her until eleven o'clock.

Geraldine was pleased and excited by this prospect;
for as yet she had never seen the Duke at close
quarters, though from all she had heard of him from
his wife and others she felt as though he were familiar
to her, and her admiration for him was very great.
She had heard of his weakness where money was
concerned, and she knew that he had more than once
changed sides in his politics, and even in his loyalty.
But those were days of change and confusion, when
it was often difficult to see the way clear before one,
and when the outlook varied so continually with
changes of dynasty and of foreign and domestic
policy that a perfectly consistent and straightforward
walk in life was a thing almost impossible of achievement.
The girl was not disposed to criticise him or
suspect him of overmuch self-seeking.  Still less so
when the charm of his personality was brought to
bear upon her.  She well understood all she had
heard respecting his powers of fascination, and felt
that she could have listened for ever to the music of
his voice, watching the changing expressions of his
handsome, mobile features, and the graceful telling
gestures of his beautiful white hands.

They enjoyed a little quiet dinner in their private
apartments, almost unattended by servants.  And it
was as they sat with wine and dried fruits before
them, awaiting the moment when the Duke must
take his leave, that he suddenly addressed his wife,—

"Ha, Sarah!  There is a question I have wanted to
put a hundred times, but ever when it sprang to my
lips the moment was not favourable.  Tell me, has
a young gentleman of prepossessing appearance ever
presented himself to you with my amethyst ring as
token of his good faith?  I did surely tell you of the
narrow escape I had at the battle of Ramillies, and
how that I was saved and helped by the timely
assistance of a gallant young English traveller."

"You did, my good lord; and I have greatly desired
myself to see and to thank this young gentleman
for the service rendered.  You did warn me that you
had bidden him come to me, if in need of any favour
or influence.  A warm welcome should have been his
at any time, but he has never presented himself."

"Let us hope, then, that he has prospered without
our aid," spoke the Duke.  "He did tell me somewhat
of himself, and I do remember how that I thought
his future something uncertain.  But the details of his
story have escaped my memory, and I fear even his
name is not clearly remembered.  It was Grey—the
Christian name—that do I recollect; for he said it was
that of a kinsman of his whom I had overthrown at
Sedgemoor in the days of the rebellion in the west.
Grey, Grey—yes, that is clear; but for the rest—"

"Could it have been Sir Grey Dumaresq?"

Geraldine's was the voice which broke in here.
They turned and looked at her.  Her face was flushed:
her eyes were bright.  The Duke smiled as he made
instant reply.

"Grey Dumaresq—that was the name.  Say, fair
lady, is this man known to you?  I would fain renew
my acquaintance with him, and show him some token
of gratitude."

"I know not where he is now," answered Geraldine.
"For a while he was dwelling with Lord Sandford, as
his friend and comrade.  But they say that they had
some quarrel.  Strange stories were told of them.
And Sir Grey disappeared—no man knows whither.
Many whispers and rumours have gone forth concerning
him, even to the one which said that he had
taken the part of the Youth in the representation you
did witness, your Grace, at the theatre."

"It was not Grey Dumaresq whom I did see afterwards,"
spoke Marlborough quickly.  "I do not forget
faces.  I should have known him instantly.  That
report could not be true."

Geraldine's face was changing colour every moment;
her breath came thick and fast.  Heretofore she had
spoken no word of this matter, which had been on her
mind night and day for long.  Now an impulse of
speech came over her.

"Ah, but the actors have changed," she said.  "I
did hear from our servants that the old man who
played Father Time was taken ill the very night that
they played at our house; and your Grace doth know,"
turning to the Duchess, "how that my dress caught
fire, and how that the young actor did spring down
and extinguish the flames, escaping away ere we
could call him back to thank him.  It was then that
I made sure.  I had suspected it before; but when
I saw his face so near, I could not doubt.  It was he."

"Extraordinary!" exclaimed the Duke.  "How
could things have come to such a pass with him?
Why had he not sought you out, and told of his
adversity?  To be sure, many a gentleman born to
fortune falls upon evil days, sometimes through no
fault of his own.  But with my token—well, there
was no need for this.  I must consider what should
be done.  Have you seen him since, Lady Geraldine?"

"Nay; and he has not been acting of late.  Two
strangers, or rather two other actors, have been
playing the parts since that night.  I did ask of my
mother leave to send and seek him out, that we
might at least give him thanks for the service
rendered me; but she would not believe I had recognized
him aright—she said it was but my fantasy; and
for the rest, if the man wanted a guerdon, he had but
to come and ask for it.  Hence, nothing has been done."

"Well, 'tis a strange story; and yet, as I saw that
representation at the theatre, I did say within myself
that some eye-witness of the battle of Ramillies
must have planned and written it.  We will think
and speak more of it anon.  Stranger things have
befallen ere this.  It would please me well to
befriend a gallant and chivalrous youth, too proud or
too noble to ask favours for himself.  I told him he
had something of the poet in him.  He may have
a career before him yet.  Well, sweetheart, I must
needs be going now; but I will return ere midnight,
and Lady Geraldine will beguile the hours of my
absence."

He rose, and kissed his wife with a lover-like
devotion which sat gracefully upon him, and which
to Geraldine seemed in no wise ridiculous,
notwithstanding the fact that this couple had grown-up
children, married themselves.  It was a beautiful
thing, she thought, to see how their love survived,
and grew in depth and intensity.  She was able to
speak of the Duke, when he had gone, in terms which
brought smiles of pleasure to the wife's face.

It was a happy evening for Geraldine; for the
flame of hope leaped up in her heart, and she felt as
though something bright and beautiful had come into
her life.  The Duke had shown interest in the
subject of the young actor, who had saved her from
injury on the night of the performance at their house.
He did not gibe at her half-formed fancy.  On the
contrary, he seemed disposed to examine for himself
the possible truth of the tale.  He would seek out
Grey—for Grey, she knew, it was.  He would raise
him out of obscurity and poverty into the position to
which he was born.  There seemed no end to the
possibilities of good fortune which might come to him
with the favour and gratitude of the Duke.  The girl
passed a happy, dreamy evening, these fancies
weaving themselves into a background for her thoughts,
whilst she talked with the Duchess of the Duke's
magnificent reception, of the palace of Blenheim
being erected at the cost of the nation for a residence
for him, and of the honours to which he was likely to
attain through his genius and the favour of her
Majesty.

She was in the same happy frame of mind when
she got into her chair shortly before midnight; for
the Duchess kept her talking till past the time
arranged, and it never occurred to her to be afraid
of the darkness of the ill-lighted streets.  She had
her bearers—her father's liveried servants.  And,
after all, the distance to traverse was not so very
great.

She had not proceeded far, however, before she was
aroused from her pleasant reverie by the sounds of
shouts, yells, and hurrying steps.  She felt her own
bearers break into a run, and the chair swayed from
side to side in a fashion that was alarming.  Something
struck sharply against the panels, then a shower
of missiles seemed to rattle against its side.  Her own
men yelled aloud in fear or pain, and next moment
the chair seemed to be heavily dropped, and the air
was rent with sounds of strife, the fall of weapons,
and cries of pain and terror.  There was no mistaking
what had happened.  She was the object of some
attack from the street bullies; but whether by a
luckless chance or by premeditation and design, the
frightened girl could not guess.  The thought of
Lord Sandford and his unscrupulous ways flashed
into her mind, and a shudder ran through her frame.
She could see little or nothing of what was going on
without.  Her breath had dimmed the window-panes;
there was scarcely any light in the streets.  Never
was any creature more helpless than a lady shut into
one of the cumbersome chairs of the period.  She
could by no means get out, or even let down a
window from within; and before many minutes had
elapsed, the girl was perfectly certain that her bearers
had run wildly away to save their own skins, and
that she was left to the mercy of one of the lawless
bands of street marauders, the terror of the helpless
old watchmen, powerless to cope with them, the
scandal of the whole town.

For a moment it seemed as though pursuers and
pursued had alike left her alone, and she made at
that juncture a frantic but useless effort to escape
from her prison.  Then roars of laughter and the
trampling of feet assured her that her foes were
coming back, and she closed her eyes and set her
teeth, and, clasping her hands, tried to frame a few
words of prayer, for she knew not what next would
betide her.  A hand seemed fumbling with the chair.
In another moment it would be thrown open.  But
ere that moment had arrived a new sound arose.
More footsteps came tearing along—a fierce voice—shouts
of derision—more blows—more oaths—cries of
pain and anger—fierce threats—savage recriminations.
What was going on?  Had some one flown to the
rescue?  Oh, when would the horrid scene end?
These men were capable of doing to death any single
or unarmed man who tried to stand between them
and their brutal pastimes.

But what was this?  Another sound!  The roll of
wheels—a commanding voice that she knew ringing
through the darkness of the night, dominating all
other sounds.

"It is the Duke—the Duke himself!" cried
Geraldine, falling back almost fainting on the
cushions; but the next minute lights were flashing
round her, then the head of the chair was lifted off,
and she saw the Duke himself bending towards her,
his face full of concern and anxiety.

"What!  The Lady Geraldine!  Then, indeed, I
come in good time.  Are you hurt, sweet lady?
Answer quick!  For these villains shall not escape so
easily, if you are."

"No, no, I am not hurt; but I fear me some one is
who came to my rescue.  I heard him shout to them
to stop their coward play.  They were about to look
inside the chair, but they all turned upon him with
shouts of derision and fury.  I trow he gave them
blow for blow, for I heard them yell and swear the
fiend was in him.  Oh, I fear me they must have been
too many for him, and that he has been injured in
my defence.  Pray, your Grace, let your people see
to it.  I might have been grossly ill-treated but for
his opportune arrival."

"There is a young man lying in the roadway here,
your Grace," spoke one of the servants, "his clothes
half torn from his back, his head bleeding, and his
arm broken.  I think he is not of that band we
dispersed, for I saw one of them deal him a kick and
swear a lusty oath at him as they ran off."

"Oh, it is my preserver—I know it is!" cried
Geraldine, with tears in her eyes.  "Ah, your Grace
will know what to do."

"Why, put him into the coach, and take him
home," spoke Marlborough at once, his well-known
humanity towards his wounded soldiers extending
instantly to this injured citizen, who had risked perhaps
life itself on behalf of law and order, and in defence
of some unknown victim.  "And as for you, Lady
Geraldine, you must likewise return with me.  I
cannot suffer you to be abroad with these bands of
ruffians prowling the streets.  I will send a message
to your father's house, and your dispersed servants
will doubtless find their way home in time.  Lord
Romaine shall know you safe; but you must return
with me to-night."

Geraldine was only too thankful to do so.  The
very presence of the great Duke, calm and fearless,
dissipated her fears and gave her confidence.  She
saw him superintend the lifting of the injured and
unconscious man into the coach, heard him give
directions to the servants to drive direct to Marlborough
House, and then he himself took up his position
beside her chair, and walked with it till they entered
the hall of his great house, where she was suffered to
alight, to be met by the Duchess (to whom a messenger
had been hastily dispatched), and embraced by
her with a motherly solicitude of which Lady Romaine
would have been quite incapable.

"My dearest girl, what a terrible fright has been
yours!  Oh, how I rejoice that no hurt has come to
you!  I should never have forgiven myself for
detaining you so long.  Ah! and what have we
here?  Poor creature! he surely is not dead!  What
a ghastly object!  Come away, dearest; it is no
sight for you.  What?  He came to your rescue?
One against a band?  No wonder he has been roughly
handled.  Oh, he shall be well tended; I warrant you
that.  Yes, let him be carried into yonder ante-room.
He shall have his wounds washed and dressed, and
we will hear his story later.  Geraldine, my love,
what ails you?  What do you see that you should
look like that?"

For Geraldine's eyes, fixed upon the face of the
wounded man being carried into the hall under the
personal direction of the humane Duke, had grown
fixed and glassy, and every drop of blood had ebbed
from her face, leaving it of a marble hue.

As the sense of the Duchess's questions penetrated
to her senses, the girl grasped her by the hand and
whispered in tones of unrestrainable emotion,—

"It is he! it is he!  And he has laid down his
life for me!"

"It is who?  What mean you, child?  Do you
know the—the gentleman?" asked the Duchess,
perplexed and bewildered in her turn.

Geraldine's grip on her hands was firmer and
faster.

"It is he of whom we were speaking but this
evening.  It is Sir Grey Dumaresq himself."

With an exclamation of amaze, the Duchess stepped
forward to get a better view of the white and
blood-stained face.  She saw now that, despite his torn and
muddy garments, his lack of all the fine adjuncts of
the man of fashion, even to the falling wig, so
essential to the equipment of the "gentleman" of the
day, it was no low-born personage who had been
carried into their stately house.  Something of the
refinement of the young man's face and features
could be distinguished even in the midst of the
disfiguring wounds and bruises and mire stains.  She
grasped her husband by the arm, and whispered in
his ear,—

"Husband, look well at yonder man, for Geraldine
declares it to be Sir Grey Dumaresq, of whom we
were speaking but a few hours back.  What a
strange thing, if it be!"

Marlborough bent over the young man, less with
the intent of identifying him at the present moment
as of ascertaining the extent of his injuries, and
whether life yet remained whole in him.  Experience
on the battlefield had given him considerable powers
of discerning these things, and he knew that the
bludgeons and rapiers of the young bloods of London
streets could do as deadly work as the bullets and
sword-thrusts of actual battle.

Opening the young man's vest to ascertain whether
the heart still beat, he saw something sparkling lying
within, and the next moment had uttered a quick,
sharp exclamation of astonishment.

Beckoning to his wife to approach, he held up the
token—the amethyst ring which he himself had given
to the stranger who had risked so much for him upon
the field of Ramillies.

"Then Geraldine is right!" cried the Duchess in
great excitement.  "It is Grey Dumaresq; he is
found at last."





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.. _`IN THE HOUSE OF THE DUKE`:

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   CHAPTER XVII.


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   IN THE HOUSE OF THE DUKE.

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When Grey became next aware of any sensation,
it was of a throbbing pain in his head,
which gradually asserted itself and dissipated the
black cloud of unconsciousness which had blotted
out for the moment time and space and memory
itself.  He had no desire to open his eyes; but in
a faint and feeble fashion he began to wonder what
it was that had happened, and what was the cause of
this pain.  Gradually he felt also a strange powerless
numbness in one of his arms, which he was unable
to move.  Also he felt that he was reposing on something
very soft, with a scent of lavender in his nostrils,
and a warmth and comfort to his body that went far
to atone for pain in some of his members.

He heard the fall of coals in the grate; he knew
that he was lying between smooth linen sheets; his
soothed senses seemed to take in an atmosphere other
than that of the attic which had so long been his
home.  He thought of Hartsbourne; it almost seemed
as though he were back there once more.  He decided
that either this was a dream, or else that all which
had gone before was one.  Perhaps he was, in truth,
a boy, and had been dreaming of manhood's struggles,
manhood's crosses.  Perhaps when he awoke, it would
be to find his mother bending over him, and to hear
of some boyish escapade in which he had hurt
himself.  Such things had been in the past, and might
be again; but sleep overtook his drowsy brain ere he
had reasoned matters out.

How long he slept he knew not; but suddenly he
woke with a mind more clear.  The events of the
previous evening came back to him sharply defined—the
emptiness of their treasury; the urgent need upon
him to obtain food and money; the shifts to which he
had been reduced in so doing; and last of all, that
race towards some lady's chair, attacked by street
ruffians; the short, sharp tussle round it, and the rain
of blows which had stretched him senseless in the
gutter.

Yes, he remembered it all now, and could account
for the pain in his head and arm.  But what had
befallen him since, and where was he now?  As
these questions asserted themselves, Grey opened his
eyes; and what did he see?

He was lying in one of those huge canopied beds
in which our ancestors delighted.  He lay deep in a
nest of down, fair linen sheets and silken coverlets
were spread over him, and crimson curtains were
drawn round three sides of the bed.  He saw lace
ruffles upon the night-robe in which he lay, and the
air was charged with an aromatic fragrance which
might haply proceed from a mixture of drugs and
perfumes.  But it was not upon these matters that
Grey's attention was concentrated, but upon a quiet
figure seated at a small table beside a brightly-blazing
fire, his eyes bent fixedly upon the pages of a roll of
manuscript spread open before him, and illumined by
the soft radiance of a cluster of wax tapers set in
a rich silver candlestick of many branches.  This man
was attired in a flowing dressing-gown (as we now
call such a garment) of richly-embroidered silk,
fastened at the throat with a jewelled clasp, and bound
at the waist by a girdle of golden cord.  The falling
hair from the ponderous wig served in part to veil
the face, which was turned slightly away from the
bed; but as the reader moved to turn the page, and
to trim one of the candles with the silver snuffers,
his face was fully revealed to Grey, and the young
man uttered an exclamation of astonishment, striving
to start up in bed as he did so.

"The Duke himself!"

The words were scarcely articulate, for his tongue
was dry and his voice sounded hoarse and strange in
his own ears; but at the sound of it the Duke rose
quickly from his seat, and came forward towards the
bed with a pleasant smile upon his face.

"Ah, my young friend, so you have come to your
senses.  That is well—that is very well.  Nay, nay;
seek not to move.  You must needs remain quiet
awhile, to mend you of your hurts; but I trust they
are of no very serious nature, and that you will soon
be sound and whole."

"But, your Grace, how come I here?  What means
it that I find myself in such a place as this?  I
surely am not dreaming.  It can be none other but
the great Duke of Marlborough himself!"

"And wherefore not," questioned the Duke, smiling,
"since it was hard by my house that you were felled
by ruffians, and in defence of a lady who had but
lately left my doors?  So now the mystery is
explained; and we meet again, Grey Dumaresq, not
on the field of battle this time, albeit you, who escaped
without a scar or scratch at Ramillies, lie wounded
here at Marlborough House.  And right glad am I to
welcome you within my doors; for it was but a few
hours earlier that I was speaking of you with my
wife, and wishing that I might meet you once more."

"Your Grace does me too much honour," spoke
Grey in bewildered accents, "to bring me to your
house, to sit up by my side—"

"Tush!  That is but the habit of an old
campaigner.  My couch wooes me not as it does other
men.  I am used to little sleep and hard days.  I
live something too soft when I reach this land.
Besides, yonder scroll absorbed me.  For that you
are responsible, my friend.  Did I not tell you when
first we met that you had the face of a poet?  And
for me there is stronger attraction in the poetry of
prose than in that which expresses itself in rhyme
and metre, which has a fashion of halting, like a
horse whose legs begin to fail him, and who changes
his feet or stumbles ever and anon."

The colour swept over Grey's pale face.  He
remembered now that the packet containing his romance
was buttoned up tightly in the breast pocket of the
outer coat which he wore that day.  Doubtless, it
had fallen out when they took off his clothes, and
there it lay spread out upon, the table, more than
three parts read by the Duke himself.

"I ask no pardon for my boldness in thus scanning
your romance," proceeded the great man kindly, "albeit
I did open the packet with intent to discover if it
might contain your place of abode, so that I might
send word to your friend where you were and what
had befallen you.  Now wherefore this start and
upraising?  Did I not tell you it behoved you to lie
still?  Must I call the physician from his slumbers
to repeat his orders himself?"

"I crave your Grace's pardon," answered Grey,
sinking back upon his pillows; "but your words
did bring back to me the remembrance of a sick
old man, dependent upon me for tendance and care.
When I left him, I knew that for many hours he
had all that he did need beside him.  But if I am
long detained from his side, he must needs suffer lack
and hurt."

"Nay; but I will see that he does neither.  Tell
me only where he may be found, and I will send a
trusty messenger to do all that is needful, and make
arrangements for his comfort during the time which
may elapse before you can return."

So Grey gave the needful information, and the
Duke issued some orders to his servants in the outer
room, returning to the bedside with a face expressive
of a kindly curiosity and wonder.

Sitting down at the bedside, and entering into
friendly talk with the young man, it was not
difficult to draw from him a full and detailed account
of all that had betided since they first met upon
the field of Ramillies, and Grey had gone back to
his native land to see what fortune had in store for
him there.

The Duke made an excellent and sympathetic
listener.  He was sincerely interested in this young
man.  He owed him a personal debt of gratitude.
Both he and his wife suspected that Lady Geraldine
Adair, her favourite, was more than a little attracted
by young Sir Grey Dumaresq, whom she had admitted
to have met more than once during his brief
career as a gentleman of fashion and the friend of
Lord Sandford.  They had seen self-betrayal in her
face last night when he was carried in senseless,
and she knew that he was her unknown preserver,
who had diverted the attack of the young street
ruffians from her chair, and had thus given time
for the Duke's carriage to come up; and it had
recalled to their minds and hearts the memory of
their own young courting days, when John Churchill
was paying his addresses to Sarah Jennings, and
they could see and think of nothing but each other
and their love.  That Grey Dumaresq had fallen upon
evil times there could be no manner of doubt, and
that his fortunes were at the lowest ebb was
manifest; yet the Duke, as he listened to the tale, was
revolving many matters in his mind, and only spoke
to lead the young man on by some well-timed
question to express himself with more freedom and detail.

As for Grey, when once the ice had been broken,
he had no desire for reserve.  There was a strange
sense of comfort and relief in pouring out his tale into
sympathetic ears.  The only matters he held back
were his suspicions of others—firstly, those respecting
his kinsman, and any possible hand he might have had
in hastening his father's death; and secondly, those
concerning Lord Sandford and his possible treachery
towards himself.  It seemed to him unfair to speak
of unproven suspicions of crime or evil plotting to one
so high in station as the Duke of Marlborough, whose
smile or frown might mean so much to those who
merited it.  But of all else he spoke with frank
freedom and unreserve; and at the last, when his tale was
told, he saw the kindly gaze of the Duke bent upon
him with shrewd searching inquiry.

"And so, Grey Dumaresq, you came actually to
know the lack of food; and yet you bore upon your
person all the while the token I had given you,
telling you that you had but to show the same to my
wife, and she would find means of rewarding you for
the service done to her husband."

"I had had my reward in your Grace's favour and
kindness," answered Grey with quiet dignity; "I
prized that token as a thing most precious.  Yet I
never desired to use it as a means of gain.  I will not
say I never thought of it," he added, after a moment's
pause, his colour slightly rising as he spoke; "and
perchance had matters gone so with my old friend
Jonathan Wylde that privation or starvation nearly
threatened him, I might e'en have swallowed my
pride, and become a suppliant for favour.  But I
should have fallen in my own esteem had I been
forced to such a step.  It may be pride—false
pride—haughtiness of spirit—I know not; but in the days
of my prosperity I would not seek to curry favour
by making capital out of something which I desired
to retain as a pleasant memory.  And when poverty
had fallen upon me, and I had dropped my name and
my title, and was known only as a poor actor, living
in obscurity and poverty, how could I hope to be
admitted to the presence of the Duchess?  How could I
desire to parade my fallen fortunes before the eyes of
her train of servants?  Your Grace had called me
friend—that was my reward."

With a smile the great man slowly shook his head.
Although a love for money amounting to greed was
his own besetting sin, he could admire disinterestedness
and honourable pride in others.  He knew that
had Grey played his cards well, seeking only personal
advancement and place, he might by this time have
risen, through the influence of the Duchess, into
some position which would have secured him ease and
affluence.  He knew that in his place he would not
have scrupled to do this, nor would nine-tenths of the
men of the day.  Although he smiled at the romantic
folly and chivalrous scruples of the youth of poetical
temperament, he could yet admire those highly
unpractical qualities which had gone near to bring him
to ruin.

"Well, my young friend," he said at last, "there
must be an end of this masquerading in rags and
tatters.  I shall make it my business to bring your
case before the Queen herself.  I trow that you have
been scurvily treated by your kinsman, and that that
matter requires investigation.  In addition to this, no
man with that book in his hands," and he pointed to
the roll upon the table, "should lack for daily bread.
There should be a fortune in it, or in the hands of the
man who owns the brain that conceived and the hand
that penned it.  See here, Sir Grey.  The Queen is
not exactly a critic of literature or a patron of all
genius, but she has a love for what is pure and
beautiful and simply true.  I warrant that yonder romance
will go home to her heart.  My wife shall take it and
read it to her this very afternoon, when she is to be
in attendance upon her Majesty.  When that has
been done, take my word for it, you will have half
the publishers of the town crowding cap in hand to
crave the favour of bringing it out for the world to
read.  Oh, you need not blush, like a young mother
when her firstborn babe is praised!  I trow I know a
good book when I see it; and that is one which will
mightily please her Majesty, since it sings the praise
of pure love and chivalrous fidelity, and all those
virtues which seem well-nigh out of date, but which the
Queen would fain see restored as in the bygone days
of knights-errant and King Arthur's Round Table."

"I was told that there was no sale nowadays for
aught but scurrilous libels and bitter lampoons, or at
best for political pamphlets treating of subjects of
which I know naught."

"Ay, men love garbage, when they can get it; and
the strife of bitter tongues is entertaining to those
who would fain believe all that is bad of their fellows.
Yet are there enough pure and loving souls left in
this great Babylon to appreciate such work as yonder;
and when once her Majesty's favour has been shown
to it and its writer, you will see how these same
publishers will change their tone.  Every aspirant to
literary fame needs a patron, and your patron shall
be the Queen."

It was almost too wonderful for belief.  Grey was
not sure still that he did not dream.  And after he had
swallowed the draught which his host mixed and held
to his lips, he quickly fell into a sound slumber from
which even dreams were banished.  But when he woke
again the sun must long have been up, and surely he
was again dreaming; for here was Dick himself, clad
once more in the livery of a well-to-do servant,
standing at his bedside with a tray containing a light but
savoury breakfast.

"Dicon!  Why, will wonders never cease?  Man
alive, how came you here?"

"Why, if you will but sit up, and let me give you
of this broth which has been specially prepared for
you, I will gladly tell you all.  Master, my dear
master, I trow that all our troubles are ended now!"

"If I could be sure I were not dreaming, good
Dicon, belike I might say the same; but my head is
so bewildered, I know not what to believe.  Yet it is
good to see your honest face again, even in a dream."

"Faith, I am no dream, master, and my tale can
soon be told.  I came into the town soon after dawn,
to tell you I had discovered Don Carlos in Lord
Sandford's stables at St. Albans, where he keeps the beasts
he uses for racing and such like.  And no sooner had
I stepped into a tavern not so far from here for a pot
of ale and crust of bread, when I did hear that all the
town was ringing with the tale of how young Sir
Grey Dumaresq, who had disappeared mysteriously
not long since had risked his life not far from
Marlborough House in beating off a gang of Mohawks
from besetting and perhaps injuring the Lady
Geraldine Adair, who was returning homewards after an
evening spent with the Duchess.  Nay, master, what
ails you?  You are white as a ghost.  Lie down
again, and let me fetch the leech."

"Nay, nay, good Dicon; 'tis but a passing qualm.
Heed it not.  So it was the Lady Geraldine who was
in that chair?"

"Yes; and there is no knowing what might have
befallen her, but for the timely arrival of Sir Grey.
That is what all the town is buzzing about.  Well,
when I heard that, I thought I would make bold to
present myself here, and lay claim to be your servant.
And who should come to speak with me but the Duke
himself, who even remembered having seen my face
that day at Ramillies!  I vow he did talk with me
for hard upon an hour; and I did tell him—oh, I
told him everything that I could think of—things I
have not yet dared to speak to you, my master.  I
have told him what Jock Jarvis and I do think of old
Barty at Hartsbourne, and what I think of my Lord
Sandford, and how he did first seek to cause you
to break your neck, and then robbed you by foul
means of your horse—the horse that carried his Grace
so bravely through the battle of Ramillies.  Oh, I saw
how his eyes flashed.  I trow he will have a rod in
pickle for my Lord Sandford yet!  He is a noble
and knightly gentleman; and when he had heard all
I had to say, he did call me an honest fellow; and he
gave me some gold pieces, and sent me out with one of
his servants to get me a livery such as it became Sir
Grey's servant to wear.  And he told me to come back
to wait upon you, my master, for that he and her
Grace were about to go to Whitehall to attend upon
the Queen this afternoon and evening; and I warrant
they will tell a tale to her Majesty which will put a
spoke in some fine gentleman's wheel."

Grey lay back upon his pillows breathless with
wonder and excitement; but it was excitement of
that joyful kind which acts rather as a tonic upon
the system than as a deterrent to recovery.  He sent
Dick away to make inquiries about the Old Lion; and
as the man went out, the Duke's physician entered
and examined the wound upon Grey's head and the
condition of the broken arm, which he had skilfully
set, and ended by permitting his patient, after other
two hours of quiet rest, to leave his bed for a few
hours to sit in the adjoining room for a while under
the care of his servant.

"Had you been like too many of our young
gallants, full-blooded, heated with wine, softened by
gluttony and rich living, these injuries might have
involved blood-letting and other severe remedies.
But your temperate life and meagre living of late
tell in your favour now.  You need heartening up
and strengthening by good food and a little old
wine carefully administered, and you will soon cease
to feel any ill effects.  I congratulate you heartily
on the occasion which has brought you once again
into the notice of the Duke, who can be a stanch
and true friend, as I have reason to know."

When Dick returned to him he was laden with
fine clothing, such as Grey had been wont to wear,
and which the man spread out with an air of pride
and delight that was good to see.

"See there!  The Duke's own clothes—those he
wore some few years since, when he was something
slimmer than now.  He bade his man look them out
for you, seeing that your own garments were all torn
and mud-bespattered—"

"Ay, and of fustian, in lieu of cloth, and silk, and
velvet," added Grey, as he looked smilingly at the
rich clothing before him.  "Well, well, Dicon, when
one comes suddenly into the midst of an enchanted
palace, one must take the good the gods provide.
But tell me of Mr. Wylde.  Have you learned aught
concerning him?"

"Why, truly yes.  I saw the messenger who had
been to him; and at the sight of the Duke's livery
the whole house was astir, and not a creature there
but will wait hand and foot upon the old man till other
arrangements for him can be made.  The fellow saw
him and gave him news of you, and he was right
well content.  He said he should lack for nothing;
and the man did leave with the host two gold
pieces sent by his Grace, and told him that he would
have to answer to the Duke if aught went amiss
with him.  After that you need have no fear."

Grey's last anxiety thus set at rest, he seemed to
have nothing left to wish for.  He drowsed away
another hour in peaceful dreamy fashion, and felt
fully equal to the fatigue of being dressed by Dick,
and walking with the help of his arm into the
adjoining room—a pleasant sunny apartment, on the table
of which stood a great bowl of pure white snowdrops,
at which Grey gazed with an infinite delight; for the
sight of white flowers always brought back to his
mind one particular face and form, and the very
thought of his nearness to her last night set his
heart beating tumultuously within him.

He was lying back luxuriously in a deep
armchair, beside the glowing heat of the fire.  The
sunlight filtered in through the great mullions of
the window, and the light seemed to concentrate
itself upon the whiteness of the flowers near at
hand.  Dick had retired into the inner room to set
his master's things in order there.  Grey was
alone—alone with his bewildering thoughts of happiness
to come, scarce knowing how much of all he had
heard could be true, or what would be the outcome.

Had he slept as he sat there musing?  What was
that sound somewhere in the room?  He lifted his
head and looked round.  A tall, slender, white-robed
figure was standing outlined against the rich tapestry
of the wall behind.  He had not heard the door open
or the arras lifted.  But she was there; and
somehow he was not astonished.  It seemed only natural
to see her, the golden shafts of sunlight seeming to
cling to her, and to follow her as she came slowly
forward with that inimitable grace of movement he
knew so well.

For one moment he sat spellbound, and then
struggled to his feet, holding out his hands.

In a moment she was beside him, holding them—holding
them fast; for he was weaker than he knew,
and he swayed a little, a mist before his eyes.  Then
he was back in his chair, and she was standing over
him.  She was holding something to his lips.  He
drank, and his senses cleared.

"Forgive me," she said; "I should not have come
yet; but I so longed to thank you myself, and to be
assured that you had not suffered too much in my
service."

"I could not suffer too much in such service," he
answered.  "And from my heart I thank you for
coming.  I have been so hungry for the sight of
you, Geraldine."

"And I too," she answered in the lowest whisper,
as she just touched his hair lightly with her hand.





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.. _`"GOOD QUEEN ANNE"`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   "GOOD QUEEN ANNE."

.. vspace:: 2

Sir Grey Dumaresq bent the knee before
the little upright figure in the great carved
chair, and the courtiers and ladies pressed one upon
the other, as far as etiquette permitted, to get a sight
of a personage who, for the moment, was all the talk
of the town.

In her gentle, rather thin and high-pitched voice
the Queen spoke, and a deep hush fell upon the great
room.

"Rise, Sir Grey.  I have sent for you here,
inasmuch as I have heard much of your story from both
the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough, my very good
friends; and I have desired to see you, and to hear
somewhat of many matters from your own lips."

"Your Majesty has but to speak, and I will answer."

"I hear that you did first encounter his Grace of
Marlborough upon the field of Ramillies, and that you
did there render him no small succour in a moment
of personal peril."

"It was my good fortune, madam, to possess a
horse of great courage, and strength, and mettle;
and when the Duke was for the moment surrounded
by a party of the enemy, and had to force his own
horse to a perilous leap, which caused him to fall and
become useless, I was able, being close at hand, to
mount him upon my good steed, which carried him
through that day, which his own genius and courage
has rendered for ever glorious."

"How came it that you did adventure yourself
into the heart of the danger, not being a soldier,
or having any call to risk your life in the cause?"

"Madam, I am an Englishman, and every true-born
Englishman is called to adventure himself
wherever he may by happy chance be able to serve
his country.  That is my excuse for being where
perchance I had no right to be, save the right of
which I have spoken, and of which I pray that your
Majesty will not rob me.  To serve his Queen and
his country must needs be the desire of every man
worthy the name, be he soldier or be he none."

A smile played over the pleasant countenance of
the Queen.  The pale, handsome face, the graceful
bearing, the courtly address of the young man,
pleased her well.  Simply attired, without any of
the extravagances of frippery which distinguished
so many courtiers, and with his own curly brown
locks floating round his head, his appearance was
striking and prepossessing enough.  To be sure, the
Queen could resent any too great easiness in dress
amongst her courtiers; and when one of her ministers,
coming in haste, had appeared before her in a small
wig, such as gentlemen used at their toilets, rather
than in full dress, she had remarked to her ladies
that she supposed his lordship would present himself
in his night-cap next!  But there was nothing slovenly
in the rich plainness of Grey's attire; and he looked
so much the poet and the dreamer, with the pallor
of illness still upon him, and that slimness of figure
partly due to privations now past, and partly to
his active and temperate life, that the Queen
regarded him with increasing favour, and a smile of
decided approval was his reward.

"Well and bravely spoken, my young knight.
And let me in my own person thank you for the
service rendered that day to one who has been,
and still will be, I doubt not, his country's most
able defender.  Had aught befallen the Duke on
the field of Ramillies, a glorious victory would
have become, I cannot doubt, a fearful defeat.
France would have swept the Netherlands with
her victorious armies, and there would have been
none with genius and power to roll back the tide
of battle.  Wherefore England herself owes you a
debt of gratitude, Sir Grey, which must not be
forgotten."

"Madam, I have been richly repaid already for
any poor service of mine—first by the gracious favour
of the Duke, and now in still fuller measure by these
words from your Majesty.  Had fortune not so far
favoured me that I was close at hand at the moment,
I cannot doubt but that a score of others would
have done what I was favoured by doing.  To serve
the man who serves his country so well is its own
reward."

"Ah, my young friend, it is easy to see you were
never bred up in courts," spoke the Queen, with a
smile for Grey, and a quick searching glance round
at the knots of courtiers and gentlemen filling the
room.  At this most of them shrank back, a little
abashed at her look and her words.  Shameless
place-hunting was all the fashion of the day; and for any
man to make light of service rendered, and to desire
no reward, was a thing almost unheard of.

But after having just launched this shaft, the
Queen said no more on that subject.  She was by
nature timid and gentle, and though not lacking in
wit or in a quiet penetration, which was not always
appreciated by those about her, was for the most
part an indulgent mistress, not disposed to overmuch
blame even where she saw weakness.

"And I hear more of you than this, Sir Grey.
You are not only a man of prompt action, but you
are also a dreamer and a poet.  I have read with
pleasure your romance of pure chivalry, and I would
that we could find in these degenerate days more
knights and gentlemen, more spotless maidens and
virtuous women, such as those of whom your pen
delights to tell, and my ears delight to hear."

The young man bowed low, the crimson flush,
which praise of his courage had not evoked, dyeing
his cheek now that the child of his brain and hand
was praised.  The Queen continued graciously,—

"I have heard the whole romance, and its beauty
touches my heart, and pleases also those amongst my
ladies and gentlemen as are best able to appraise the
merits of such poetic work.  I desire, Sir Grey, that
you will dedicate the tale to me, as one who has read
and approved it, and would desire it to be widely
known and read in the land.  To be a patron of all
true and beautiful art is the privilege of rulers, and
therefore do I give this charge to you.  I desire that
such a story as you have conceived and penned
should be circulated amongst my faithful subjects.
They will learn from it loyalty, love, purity, and
singleness of heart, and surely no nation can thrive
or excel in which these virtues be absent."

A little buzz of amaze and gratulation went round
the room as the Queen spoke thus.  The young man's
fortune as a writer was assuredly made.  A second
Philip Sidney had suddenly come to light.  All the
world would delight to honour the man approved of
royalty.

Grey himself was speechless.  Such a eulogy
was altogether unexpected and bewildering.  If
Dame Fortune had, in the past, showed an unkind
face towards him, surely she was atoning for her
frowns by the most gracious of smiles now.

Perhaps the young author's confused and blissful
silence pleased the Queen more than any florid words
of gratitude such as she was used to hear.  She
spoke again, still in her most gracious and kindly
way.

"Moreover, Sir Grey, I have heard somewhat of
your history from his Grace of Marlborough, and it
doth appear to me that you have been scurvily
treated with respect to your rightful inheritance, the
manor of Hartsbourne, which, though your property,
you are debarred from enjoying.  I have made strict
inquiry into this matter, and have sent down special
commissioners to seek speech with your kinsman now
in possession, and to make some settlement with him
for the restitution to you of the estate.  It is not
fitting that one to whom the country and its Queen
owe a debt of gratitude should be ousted from his
inheritance either by the cunning craft of a greedy
miser, or for lack of means to satisfy a creditor and
release his lands from debt.  From what hath been
told me, I misdoubt that unscrupulous means have
been employed to oust you from possession and
enjoyment of your house and lands.  But whether or
not this be so, it is not fitting that things should
longer continue as now.  Sir Grey Dumaresq of
Hartsbourne Manor must live upon his hereditary
acres in becoming style.  That fiat hath already gone
forth.  England's Queen and people will have it so.
It were shame to both if the preserver of her great
General should go unrewarded."

Grey, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the grace
bestowed upon him, could only sink upon his knees
before the Queen, murmuring some confused but
heartfelt words of gratitude and loyalty.  The royal
lady gave him her hand to kiss, and looked smilingly
upon him.

"Sir Grey," she said gently, "had you come hither
to the Court at once on your return, boasting of what
you had done, displaying the Duke's token, and
seeking fame and fortune for yourself, belike I should
have thought but little of the matter.  I am for
ever hearing the petitions of those seeking great
things for themselves—seeking place, preferment,
emoluments, with or without desert.  Had you come
thus, you had been lost in a crowd.  I perchance
should scarce have heard your name.  But you have
asked nothing for yourself.  You endured hardship,
privation, misery; you thought not scorn to win your
bread—and the bread of another who had befriended
you—by following a humble vocation.  With that in
your possession which would have at least placed you
above want, you faced want itself rather than stultify
your noble act by seeking to trade upon it.  You
rather sought to win the fame you merit by using
those great gifts of poetry and art which it hath
pleased God to bestow upon you.  Therefore are you
different from others; therefore hath your story
touched the heart of your Queen; therefore is her
favour won, in that she can value a man who seeks
and asks nothing for himself, but rather desires that
the glory of a noble deed shall be its own reward."

Again she tendered her hand, which Grey kissed
in deepest reverence and gratitude.  Then at a sign
from the Duchess, who had all this time been standing
behind the Queen's chair, he rose and made a
deep inclination.

"I thank your Majesty a thousand times," he said
in a very low voice.  "I have no words in which to
tell my gratitude, but I pray Heaven that in the future
I may have the opportunity to show how deep and true
that gratitude is."

"Deeds, and not words, will be your motto through
life, I take it, Sir Grey; and in such fashion shall
you best please your Queen and serve your country."

Then Grey found himself, he scarce knew how, in
the outer room, thronged by courtiers and nobles
and gentlemen, all eager to make his acquaintance,
all agog to hear such parts of his story as were
yet unknown to them, and above all eager to read
the book of which it had pleased the Queen to speak
in such high praise.  To these worthies Grey was
already a rising star, and they longed to bask in the
light of his rays.

Quietly and courteously Grey replied to direct
questions and to the advances showered upon him
by the Court; but he disengaged himself as quickly
as he could, and was glad to find himself in the
coach which had brought him, and on his way to
Marlborough House, where he was still a guest.  For
although he had quickly mended from his hurts,
his hosts would not hear of his returning to his
old quarters; and the Old Lion had been equally
insistent on this point when Grey visited him, which
he did on the first opportunity, to tell in person his
marvellous tale.

"Nay, nay, my boy; you are now Sir Grey Dumaresq,
and your life will run in different grooves.
I did guess from the first that you were not
what you seemed, and ever have I hoped that you
would be restored to your rightful position in the
world.  As for me, I am well content.  I have no lack
of tendance—thanks to the liberality of the Duke,
and to that wonderful personal visit he did pay me,
which has raised me to a pinnacle of glory in the
eyes of all men here.  It contents me well to
know that I am not forgotten, that you still have kindly
thought to spare for the Old Lion.  But for us to
dwell beneath the same roof would not now be fitting
or seemly.  So think of that no more."

"When I have a roof of mine own I shall think of
it much," spoke Grey with quick decision; "but for
the nonce I am naught but a guest beneath that of
the hospitable Duke.  Well, let it remain so in the
present; but for the future I make no pledge."

It was more than a week now since those words
had been spoken, but they recurred to Grey's mind as
he was driven homewards through the sunny streets.
Hartsbourne!  The name seemed to thrill in his
ears like a clarion note of joy.  Hartsbourne—his
own old home—so well-beloved, so fair!  Could it
be possible that he would be master there again?
The thought filled him with a sense akin to
intoxication.  The blood mounted to his head; he almost
laughed aloud in his joy.  Hartsbourne and its
revenues his own!  His romance published, and
bringing him gold as well as fame!  What might he not
accomplish?  How often had he dreamed in bygone
years of what he would do for the restoration and
adornment of the beautiful old house, and how he
and his mother would live there in peace and happiness!
True, that last part of the dream could not be
realized now.  His mother lay sleeping beneath the
churchyard sod.  Her eyes beheld, he doubted not,
fairer sights than these.  But yet, must his dream
be altogether without fulfilment?  Was there none
other—nearer, dearer, if possible, than a mother—who
might be the sharer of his joys?  Had he
not read something dazzling, wonderful, well-nigh
unbelievable, in one pair of sweet eyes whose light
seemed shining on him now?  His lips had not dared
to frame as yet either question or protestation; but
did they not understand each other?  His heart beat
high with rapture.  Perfect love had cast out fear.
He knew that they belonged to each other for time
and for eternity.  And now what hindered him from
taking her to his heart, and telling her that he had
loved her from the first moment of their meeting?

.. vspace:: 2

The Duke sat in his private closet, where he
transacted his more important business, and Grey stood
before him, having been summoned thither from his
own apartments.  He was received with a pleasant
smile, and bidden to be seated.

"Well, my young friend," questioned the Duke,
who, having been absent from home for a few days,
had not seen his guest in private just recently, "and
how has the world been serving you?  And how
goes the matter of the book?"

"Ah, I must tell you of that.  I had, as your
Grace did warn me, quite a levee of publishers
desiring to issue it, each with some tempting offer as to
payment.  But I did as you bade me, and referred
the matter to Mr. Poysner, by whose advice, I told
them, I should be guided.  And, in sooth, methinks
he hath advised well; for not only have I received a
handsome sum in gold already for the work, but I
shall receive more according to the sale; and it is
even now being printed as fast as the presses can
work.  Her Majesty is to have the first copy, bound
with the choicest skill that can be brought to bear
upon such work.  Other choicely-bound volumes are
to be reserved for my friends, after which it will be
sold to the public; and already they say that the
book is being eagerly asked for.  Truly the word of
a Queen and the patronage of the great are mighty
factors in the world of letters!"

"As men of letters are fast learning, my young
friend," replied the Duke with a smile.  "Genius
without a patron is like (as some wag remarked
not long since) 'Paradise Lost' without the devil!
It falls flat and unfruitful on unheeding ears.  But
now for another matter of import to yourself.  Have
you had news from Hartsbourne since her Majesty
did speak to you anent that matter?"

"No, my lord; I have heard nothing.  My servant
Dick was sent thither by request to answer certain
questions made by her Majesty's messengers, but he
hath not yet returned, and I know nothing of what
has transpired there."

His face expressed a keen desire for information,
and the Duke at once satisfied this wish.

"Something strange has happened there which
simplifies matters not a little.  Your kinsman,
Mr. Dumaresq, when questioned by the Queen's
Commissioners as to his rights and position there, showed
a number of papers which seemed on the face of
them fair and right; but his uneasiness was manifest,
and awoke suspicion.  Also it was not clear that he
possessed all the rights he claimed over the estate, or
that Sir Hugh had signed all the papers; for upon
some the writing of the name looked to practised
eyes little like his.  The more Mr. Dumaresq was
questioned, the more uneasy did he become.  So they
left him that day, saying that they would come again
on the morrow and finish the inquiry.  By that time
your man Dick had arrived, and he with an old man
upon the place had long talk with the messengers that
night in the old man's room.  It seems as though
Mr. Dumaresq or his servant must have had some way
of listening to what passed.  A terrible suspicion was
broached that your father's end was hastened by foul
means.  This was a point which the Commissioners
declared must be thoroughly investigated later.  They
went away, but on the morrow returned—to find
Mr. Dumaresq dead in his bed.  His servant said he had
been subject to seizures of late, and that agitation
had probably caused the attack.  Old Jock Jarvis
and your man Dick are, however, strongly of opinion
that he precipitated his own end by the use of
perhaps the very same drug which he is suspected of
having employed in your father's case.  Be that as it
may, the man is dead, and he has died without a will,
so that whether or not he was ever legally entitled to
what he so long held, you are now absolute master of
Hartsbourne and all its revenues, without the need
of any action or interference upon the part of the
lawyers of the Queen."

Grey stood like one in a dream.  He could scarce
take in the meaning of it all.  He had known that
Hartsbourne was to be restored to him—he had had
the Queen's word for that—but he had expected
vexatious delays, complications, and difficulties.  He had
not dared to let himself hope to escape these.  And
now the Gordian knot had been cut—cut in a rather
terrible fashion, perhaps, but still effectually cut.
He was absolute master of his own again.  He could
ride to Hartsbourne and take possession so soon as
his kinsman was laid to rest in the grave, where all
enmity and all unhallowed secrets are buried.  He
had not found his tongue to express his feelings before
the door opened and a secretary glided in and
whispered something into the Duke's ear.

"He comes in good time," spoke Marlborough; "let
him enter at once.  Probably he brings news of the
matter in hand."

Grey looked up, and behold there was Dick,
travel-stained and bespattered with mud, but with a
glowing, eager face, evidently full of news.

"Well, sirrah," spoke the Duke, smiling, "so you
have come post haste with news.  What wonderful
tidings do you bring?"

The man made his semi-military salute, first to
the Duke and then to his master.  He needed no
further encouragement in order to unburden himself
of his tale.

"May it please your Grace, and you, my master, I
have news of a wonderful discovery made by Jock
and myself at Hartsbourne at dawn to-day.  We
have had our eye sharp upon old Judas, as we call
Mr. Barty's wall-eyed Peter; and we have known
right well that he has been up to some trick of his
own ever since his master died.  He has been
prowling like a wild beast all about the house.  We have
heard him knocking and even sawing, when he
thought himself alone there.  It was old Jock to
whom the thought first came.  'The old man has
some secret hoard; and Judas knows of it, but not the
place.  He is looking for it, trying to find it ere he is
turned out.  Well, that is a game that two can play at.
You and I will look too, Dicon.'  That is what old
Jock said.  Whilst Mr. Dumaresq was buried, and his
man must for decency's sake go and stand beside
the grave, we searched the house from basement to
garret; but we had no more luck than Judas had."

"But you have had luck ere this, honest fellow; I
see it in your eyes," spoke Marlborough with a laugh.
"Come, let us know what you found, and what is the
value of the treasure."

"It was to me the thought came," spoke Dick, with
honest pride.  "I was lying awake at night puzzling
and pondering, when suddenly I remembered that first
and only night you spent there, master, and how that
you saw the old man suddenly appear behind your
bed with a shining knife in his hand, and that he
vanished ere you could grapple with him, and it
seemed more like a vision than a reality.  But I
sprang from my bed, and I roused old Jock, and I
yelled in his ear, 'Man, man, I know where the
treasure is hid!  Behind the wall of the tapestried
guest-chamber, where my master slept, and where the
wall did move from behind the bed head, and let his
foe steal upon him unawares!'"

"Good thought!" ejaculated Grey excitedly; "and
was it so?"

"We rose and dressed, and made our way into the
house and up to the bed-chamber, and a tough job
we had.  And, my master, you must pardon us for
the havoc we have made of woodwork and panelling;
for the trick of the opening we could not find till all
had been hewn away.  But when it was at last laid
bare, we saw the spring, and then the wall swung
inwards with a noiseless, ghostlike motion, and within
was a secret chamber well-nigh filled with coffers,
some containing jewels—Dumaresq jewels, I doubt
not—some gold pieces, some silver vessels.  We did
not open all.  We had found enough.  Master, there
are the savings of years—the revenues of the broad
lands which were paid to him—stowed away in yonder
chamber.  Oh, I can almost forgive him his villainies,
now that all hath come to you!  It is all there: it is
all safe.  We did pack Judas off with his wages and
his belongings, and his master's clothes, which, I trow,
none will grudge him; and we did get in a few trusty
fellows from the place who hate Barty and long to
see Sir Grey reigning at Hartsbourne again.  And
having made all safe, and the house in charge, under
Jock, of these trusty lads, I did take horse forthwith
to bring the news to my master, and here am I."

"And you shall not lose your reward, my trusty
Dicon," spoke Grey with fervour; "for the love and
trust of a loyal heart is worth more than treasure
and gold."





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.. _`LOVE'S TRIUMPHING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   LOVE'S TRIUMPHING.

.. vspace:: 2

"Mother, I cannot.  I have tried—in all
truth, I have.  But it is all of no avail.  I
cannot love Lord Sandford.  I cannot be his wife."

"You could be his wife very well, if you chose
obstinate girl; and as for loving him—poof!—love
matters little when there is wealth and title, broad
lands, and all that heart can desire into the bargain.
You put me out of all patience with your mincing
ways and disdainful airs.  What more do you want
than Lord Sandford offers?  Does a countess's coronet
not satisfy you?  Do you desire to be a duchess, and
take precedence of your own mother?"

And Lady Romaine brought her ivory fan down
upon her daughter's shoulder with a tap that was
almost like a blow.  Tears of vexation and
disappointment stood in her eyes.  In her hand
held an open letter, across the bottom of which the
word "Sandford" could be easily read, traced in a
large and firm hand.

Before Geraldine had found words in which to
reply, Lady Romaine had burst out again more
petulantly than ever.

"To think of all the trouble I have been at with
you!  Do you think I want a great lumbering girl,
looking ten years older than her years, and with all
the affectations of a Quaker—horrid people!—in her
gait and dress and speech, for ever in my train?  Do
you think it is pleasant for me to hear men laughing
at your prim ways and silly scruples, and wondering
where you learned them?  Do you know what they
call you behind your back?  'Mistress "No, I thank
you, sir."'  Faugh! it makes me sick.  Who are you,
to hold up your opinions against the whole world?
It makes me blush with shame and anger.  And then,
when I have gotten you a suitor in one of the best
known nobles of the gay town, and reckon to have
you off my hands and in the keeping of a husband
who will know how to deal with your airs and graces,
you must needs turn stubborn as a mule, and refuse
his offer.  Lard! it makes me sick to think I should
have such a daughter."

"I am very sorry that you are vexed, mother,"
answered Geraldine quietly, "but my father does not
seem greatly to desire the match with my Lord
Sandford.  He did speak of it to me awhile back, but of
late I have heard nothing anent the matter from him."

"Tush, girl! your father is no judge in such matters.
He is wrapped up in politics, and has no thought to
spare for other things more close at home.  And
because, forsooth, Lord Sandford finds the Court too
dull for him, and is seen there but seldom, your father
must needs think lightly of him.  As though half the
gayest and most fashionable of the younger nobility
did not eschew the deadly dullness of the Queen's
presence-chamber!  Why, I should die of boredom in
a week had I to dance attendance on her Majesty.
Lord Sandford shows his good sense by staying
away.  Oh to hear the tales some of them tell!
Saints preserve me from the like!"

Geraldine answered no word.  She hoped that the
had now blown itself out.  Not to her mother
could she speak of those tender, wonderful, beautiful
thoughts and hopes and feelings which had lately
come into her life.  In her heart of hearts she knew
herself beloved of Grey Dumaresq—knew that it would
not be long ere he declared himself.  She had heard
also rumours of what the world was saying about
him—that his name was becoming known to all men,
and that he was regarded as one who would rise to
eminence and prosperity.  But it was not for these
things that she loved him.  Her heart had been his
long before—almost before she knew it herself—in
the days of his poverty and obscurity, when she
dreamed of him, rather than thought consciously,
wondering whither he had gone, and what he was
doing, and whether he was holding fast to the
resolutions he had made.  She knew how her heart had
leaped at sight of him in the guise of the Youth—how
he had flown to her rescue before all others when
peril menaced her.  Then her eyes had been opened
to the love which had sprung up all unknown in
her heart; but she had lost him once more, only to
find him again in the unknown champion who had
risked his life, without knowing for whom he did it,
in the dark streets of London some few weeks back
now.  Since then she had seen him but once, and
their words had been few, but their eyes had spoken
more eloquently than their lips, and she knew that
she had only to possess her soul in patience, and that
all would be well.  The Duke and the Duchess were
her friends: that would be enough, and more than
enough, for her father.  As for Lady Romaine, she
had always been the warm advocate of Lord Sandford's
suit, and being ignorant of what was passing
elsewhere, jealous of her daughter's friendship with
the Duchess, wrapped up in her own trivial round of
vanity and pleasure, imagined that the only way of
getting rid of the incubus of this grave and stately
daughter was by marrying her off-hand to the only
suitor whom the girl had ever tolerated for a moment.
Therefore this absolute refusal on Geraldine's part,
and the indifference of Lord Romaine, who had merely
told her he would not have the girl forced to any
such step against her will, awoke in her a chagrin and
vexation which were hard to bear, and which vented
themselves in positive tears of passion and pain.

"Then you shall give the man his dismissal yourself,
you minx, you obstinate hussy!" cried the
enraged lady at last, flinging down the letter upon the
table.  "He says he will come to hear his fate
to-morrow evening, and I vow I will have no hand in
the telling of the tale of your shilly-shally and folly.
Here have you been leading him on all these months—"

"Mother, that is not true," spoke Geraldine, rising
to her feet and flashing one of her strange, earnest
glances full upon her mother's face; "I did never
lead him on.  I did never encourage him.  I did but
obey your strict injunctions to speak with him, to
make his acquaintance, to try if so be that I might
learn to return the affection with which he professed
to honour me."

"And was that not enough to encourage him, in
one who played the prude or the vixen so well in
other quarters?" fumed Lady Romaine.  "That you,
who chose to send away every other man who addressed
compliments to you with a flea in his ear—that
you should suffer him to attend upon you, and seem
to take pleasure in his converse—was not that
enough?  Why make yourself the talk of the town
with him, to send him away now?"

The injustice of this accusation caused the girl's
cheek to flame; but she retained her self-control, and
answered gently: "Methinks you are hard to please,
mother; for whether I send men away or listen to
them awhile, I am always in the wrong.  I did but do
your bidding in the matter of Lord Sandford, and I
do not deny that I found him ofttimes an interesting
talker, and that for a while I was willing to regard
him as a friend.  But then, as I came to know more
and to hear more, my opinion was forced to change.
I fear me that Lord Sandford himself did change, and
for the worse.  Nevertheless, I would not judge him;
only this I say—that I cannot and I will not marry him."

"Then go your own way and die a spinster, soured
with your own tempers and megrims!" cried Lady
Romaine in a towering passion, as she swept from the
room, her high heels clattering on the polished floor,
her draperies making an angry hissing, like that of a
snake disturbed.  "I wash my hands of you from
this time forth.  Give Lord Sandford his dismissal
yourself, and lose me one of my best and most useful
friends.  That is always the way with daughters.
Young vipers they should be called!"  And having
now reached the door, Lady Romaine passed out and
banged it hard behind her, as a further mark of her
displeasure.

Geraldine, left alone, took up the letter and read it.
It contained a definite proposal for her hand, was
written to her mother (always Lord Sandford's friend
and ally in this), and asked leave for the writer to
present himself upon the following evening to learn his
fate.  The girl raised her eyes with a start, for it was
upon the following day that the Duke and Duchess
had invited themselves to dine with Lord and Lady
Romaine, and to bring with them a guest whom they
desired to present afresh to their hosts.  Lady
Romaine had shrugged her shoulders and professed to
be bored at the prospect, though in reality somewhat
gratified at the idea of entertaining such illustrious
guests.  Her lord had been undisguisedly gratified,
and believing the invitation in some sort due to his
daughter, had regarded her with increased favour.
But as Geraldine revolved the situation, it seemed to
her a strange and rather dangerous complication that
Lord Sandford should appear upon that very night;
for was it not said that he and Sir Grey Dumaresq
had quarrelled bitterly, and that the former had even
sought to compass the life of his friend?

Geraldine went to seek her father, but he was not
to be found.  Her mother refused her entrance into
her rooms, and the girl was forced to await the result
of the following evening without communicating her
vague fears to any one.  After all, who would be likely
to heed them, and what could she say?  It was only
the vaguest rumours she had heard; the rest was
but her own intuitions, which others would never
consider.

.. vspace:: 2

"Sir Grey Dumaresq, let me present you to my
daughter, Lady Geraldine Adair, whom you will
perhaps lead to the dinner-table when the time comes."

So spoke Lord Romaine, his face beaming with
gratification and pleasure.  The Duke and Duchess
had arrived, the last of the select company invited
for that day, and the Duke had held a short,
low-toned conversation with his host, which had brought
many gratified smiles to the face of his interlocutor.
Now Geraldine's hand was within that of the young
baronet, and her voice trembled a little as she said to
her father,—

"Sir Grey and I have met before."

"Ah yes; I believe that is so.  But Sir Grey's
appearance was something too brief and meteor-like
that last time.  Now I hope he comes as a fixed star
to shine steadily in the sky.  If all we hear be true,
his brilliance will add a lustre to the times in which
he lives."

"You do me too much honour, sir," answered Grey
a bow; but there was no time for more, for the
company was already moving, and Geraldine's hand
was upon his arm, and the delicate fragrance which
seemed always to cling about her brought a strange
intoxication to his senses, which made speech at the
first difficult to him.

Perhaps she shared this feeling, for she was silent
too; but the delicate flush upon her face, and the
soft shining of her eyes, enhanced her beauty to an
extent which made many marvel that they had not
observed it before.  Now and again the eyes of the
undeclared lovers met in a quick, eloquent glance;
but for a while they did not directly address one
another, for the table was silent, listening to the
words of the Duke, who was addressing his host,
and discussing with him some matter of general
interest.  It was only later on, when the hum of
talk became more dispersed, that Geraldine was able
to say in a low voice,—

"I have heard of the success of your book.  It
has made my heart glad and happy.  I did read
some or it ere it went to the Queen.  I thought it
more beautiful than I can say."

"It should be beautiful, in all sooth, fair lady,"
answered Grey in a very low voice, "for the thought
of it was inspired by the looks and words of one who
is of all living creatures the fairest, the purest, the
most precious.  If my poor work meets with success
in the world, it will be due not to any skill of mine,
but to the goodness of two gracious ladies, one who
inspired and the other who approved its motive."

Geraldine's face burned; there was a great joy in
her heart.  She could not misunderstand the look he
bent upon her.  Could it indeed be true that she had
had any part or lot in this matter?  The thought
was bewildering, unspeakable.  She sat as one in a
dream.  She heard him tell softly the tale of those
strange events which had brought him unexpected
wealth and prosperity.  She realized that the time
of trial and poverty and struggle was over, and
that the sun of success was shining in his sky,
and her heart was glad within her.  Yet she
rejoiced to think that he had faced privation and
poverty bravely, and had sought by no unworthy way
to mend his broken fortunes.  She had trusted him
and loved him in the hour of darkness: she was
not ashamed to admit it now; she was proud and
glad that it had been so.

Later on in the evening they found themselves
together and alone in the little room at the far end
of the reception suite, where they could talk
undisturbed and unheard.  It was sweet with the scent
of violets, and the soft light of the wax candles in
silver sconces illumined it only dimly.  He closed
the door, and let the curtain fall across it, and
then he held out his uninjured hand to her.  The
broken arm, though mending fast, was still in a
sling.

"Geraldine! my beloved!"

She went straight to him then, like a bird to its
nest.  No protestations were needed between them.
They loved each other, and they knew it.

How long they had been alone, they did not know—time
flies so quickly at times like these.  It seemed
but a few minutes to them, though it might well
have been an hour, when the handle of the door was
turned, and the curtain drawn back.  Geraldine
uttered a little cry of startled amaze.  It was Lord
Sandford who hail entered, and she had forgotten
his very existence!

Had her mother, in one of her spiteful moods, told
him that he would find her here?  It was not impossible;
and the girl's face grew a little white, for Lord
Sandford's rapier dangled at his side, as was indeed
the fashion of the times, and he was a man upon whose
hot passions nobody could absolutely reckon.  Strange
stories had been told of him before this.

The young Earl stood for a moment framed in the
doorway, his powerful face set in lines the meaning of
which it were hard to read aright.  Grey had risen
and stood close to Geraldine, his eyes fixed vigilantly
upon the massive figure of the man who had once
been his friend.  To the girl it seemed as though
their eyes met, and glanced one against the other,
like the blades of duellists in a preliminary pass.
Her breath came thick and fast.  She felt the
anxious, tumultuous beating of her heart.

Lord Sandford was the first to break the tense
silence.

"Lady Geraldine, I came hither to-night to receive
an answer to the offer of marriage which I sent to
you through your mother, Lady Romaine.  Is this
the answer you have prepared for me?"

He looked straight at the girl, and then at Grey,
with a wide, unabashed gaze that did not shrink or
falter.  Grey made one step forward, and spoke in
low, quiet tones.

"My lord, you may receive your answer at my
hands, for the Lady Geraldine Adair is now my
promised wife."

"Lady Geraldine," spoke Lord Sandford, "is this
the truth?"

"It is, my lord, albeit I had not meant to give you
your answer in such like fashion.  I thank you for
the honour you have done me; but my heart is given
elsewhere."

"Right!" spoke Lord Sandford, in his resonant
and emphatic tones.  He had dropped the curtain
behind him, and now came forward several paces.
His face was not easy to read, but he held his
head proudly, and looked the lovers straight in
the eyes.  "I would not have it otherwise, Lady
Geraldine; for you have chosen well.  You have
chosen such an one as you must needs choose.
Like will seek like; virtue, fidelity, purity, and
honour must fly upward, will not be dragged
downward.  I saw it from the first; and at the first I
rebelled.  I swore it should not be so.  I stooped
to dishonour to remove an obstacle from my path.
I thought I had succeeded; but soon I knew I had
not advanced my cause one whit.  I was rightly
served.  I did wrong with open eyes.  I sinned,
as it were, with a cart-rope; and I have had my
deserts.  I lost my friend, but I won no wife.  I
was outwitted, at every point.  I went on hoping.
I am not a man who easily gives up what my
heart is set on.  Up to the last I hoped to win.
But yesterday, after my letter was written and
dispatched, I knew that I was beaten at every
point."

"Yesterday," faltered Geraldine.

"Even so, lady.  I have been absent from town
of late; but yesterday in the afternoon I returned.
I went as usual to the coffee-house to learn the news,
and I learnt it."

Lord Sandford's gaze flashed full upon Grey.  He
stood squarely in front of him, and held out his hand.

"Grey Dumaresq, I did once seek to do you a
great and a grievous wrong.  I confess the same
with shame of heart.  Will you accept my hand
in friendship now, and with it my heartiest good
wishes for your happiness in life with the lady of
your choice?"

Grey did not hesitate; his hand was in Lord
Sandford's, clasping it close.  All was forgotten, at
that moment save the old attraction and fascination
which this man had exercised upon him from the first.

"I love the lady of your choice," spoke the Earl,
without the faintest shade of hesitation in his tone.
"I have loved her long.  I doubt me if ever I shall
love another in like fashion.  And because I love
her with every best and truest feeling of my heart,
so am I able to desire above all else in the world her
best happiness.  That happiness she will find with
you rather than with me.  I am not fool enough
not to know that.  If I could have won her, I
would have sought to make her happy.  I swear
it before God!  But having failed, I yet desire
above all things to see her happy with the man of
her choice; and I say that she has chosen wisely."

It was indeed a triumph of love.  The innate
strength and nobility of this man's nature had been
brought out by the honest fervour of his love.  He
had enough greatness of soul to be able to give the
right hand of fellowship to his successful rival, though
he himself must forego that happiness which he had
long been seeking to attain.  Grey felt that in the
days that were to come Lord Sandford must needs
show himself in different colours from those of the
past.  This victory must surely be a stepping-stone
on which he would rise to higher and nobler things.

Geraldine now stood before him, all shrinking over,
her eyes alight with pure womanly gratitude,
admiration, and affection.

"I thank you, my lord, for such good words.
Forgive me if I have ever misjudged you."

"Nay, lady, you never did that; you did but
appraise me too truly."

"Yet I had ever some liking for you, my lord—think
it not otherwise—save when I thought, I feared—"

"Yes, yes; I know, I understand.  Friendship
you had for me, so long as I deserved it; but
love—never.  And you were right, Lady Geraldine; you
were right to withhold that.  Perchance if your sweet
eyes, like wells of liquid light, had not seen so clearly,
had not read the secrets I sought to hide, my own
love might not have blazed so fiercely.  It is ever the
unattainable which men desire to possess.  But let us
think of that no more.  Let us bury the past, and
live anew in the future.  Friendship is left to us—a
friendship which, I trust, will last a lifetime."  And so
speaking he turned once more to Grey, and said with
a smile lighting his face,—

"And shall I, for a wedding-gift, restore to you
your good horse, Don Carlos, at present in my stables
at St. Albans?"

He spoke so freely and openly that Grey heard
him in amaze.

"Have you Don Carlos?" spoke Geraldine, much
astonished.  "I did think that he was stolen from Sir
Grey."

"And so think I; but I have had no hand in that
business, save that I did hear something of the
matter, and fearing foul play I resolved to become
master of the gallant beast.  Grey had disappeared,
I knew not where.  My evil anger had burned itself
out, and I loathed myself for what I had done in the
past.  I thought that I might perchance make some
reparation by purchasing the good horse he loved,
since I heard it was to be sold, that I might keep it
awhile, and restore it to its owner if kind fortune
gave me the chance.  It seemed to me all the amends
I might ever make to the steed and his rider for the
mischief I sought once to do to both.  So, my friend,
the horse is yours whensoever you like to lay claim to
him.  I restore him the more readily in that none
of my people can ride him.  He brooks not long a
strange rider on his back.  He has condescended to
carry me for a brief while, but he goes unwillingly;
he frets after his old master.  He would win no races
for a new one.  So tell me only where and when to
deliver him, and you shall have him so soon as you
desire.  I trow the old miser of Hartsbourne, who,
I hear, is now dead, filched him from you by subtlety,
for you would never sell your friend."

Grey, ashamed of the thoughts he had harboured
against Lord Sandford in this matter, told the whole
tale of the creature's disappearance; but he added,
with a smile,—

"I suspect that whatever price you paid for him is
lying in one of the coffers now discovered in the old
house, and I will gladly buy him back."

"Nay, nay; that must not be.  It is my wedding-gift
to you or to your gentle lady here; and all I ask
is, that upon some future day you will suffer me to
visit you in your wedded home at Hartsbourne, and
see Don Carlos and his master united once more."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MERRY AS A MARRIAGE BELL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   MERRY AS A MARRIAGE BELL.

.. vspace:: 2

The brilliant light of a sunny June morning was
illumining the private chapel, where a marriage
was being solemnized in presence of the Queen, and
of certain favoured persons connected with the Court,
of whom the Duchess of Marlborough was one.

The Duke himself was in Holland, whither he had
gone so soon as the army was able to leave its winter
quarters.  The year of victory, from which he had
returned a few months before, was destined to be
followed by a year of disaster to the Allies, and already
the brow of the Duchess seemed somewhat clouded by
care.  She had her own troubles, too, at Court.  The
Queen's favour was distinctly waning, and the
imperious temper of the Duchess knew not how to put up
with what seemed to her coldness or slights.  She
felt the influence of Harley, and of her kinswoman
and his, Mrs. Masham, gaining ground daily; and the
presage of coming trouble seemed to be hanging over
her now.  Yet she bore herself bravely, and to-day
her face was wreathed in smiles; for Sir Grey
Dumaresq was her particular favourite, and had been her
guest for a great part of the year, whenever he was
in town; and the Queen's interest in the young man
and his career and success was one of the strongest
links which still bound them together.

And to-day Grey Dumaresq was to wed the Lady
Geraldine, and the Queen had decreed that the
ceremony should take place at an early hour in her own
private chapel in Kensington Palace, that she might
witness the nuptials herself; for she had been greatly
pleased by the beauty and modesty and gentleness of
Geraldine, who had been presented to her by the
Duchess, and she desired to show her approval of the
young baronet's choice by her own presence at his
espousals.

Lady Romaine had forgotten her anger and jealousy
against her daughter in her pride and delight at the
honour bestowed upon them.  It had pleased her to
speak slightingly of the Queen and her Court at such
times as she had been uncertain of the nature of her
own reception there; but now she could not boast
sufficiently of the condescension and kindness of the
Queen, of her intimacy with the Duchess, and of the
favour in which her son-in-law-elect was held by
royalty and by all the Court.  The matron had even
found it well to throw aside some of those frivolities
and follies that hitherto had been jealously retained,
as giving her favour in the eyes of the young bloods
of fashion, with whom she had been wont to amuse
herself.  Her ready observation told her that she was
derided for these by graver persons, and that at the
Court they would hinder rather than help her advance
to favour.  With quick adaptability, she had sought
to model herself upon the graver ladies surrounding
the Queen, and even to emulate the Duchess of
Marlborough in her stately dignity of demeanour.  If she
had not succeeded in this, she had at least gained
much that had hitherto been lacking, and her husband
and daughter rejoiced heartily in the change.  If some
of her admirers forsook her, she found their place
taken by men of far greater standing, who regarded
Lord Romaine as a man likely to be useful to his
party, and paid a certain polished court to his
handsome wife.  The lady began to talk politics now, to
discuss the Act of Union, the Occasional Conformity
Bill, and other topics of the day, with an air of interest
and knowledge; and being gifted with considerable
quickness and powers of assimilation and reproduction,
she was soon able to hold her own, and pass for a
woman of acuteness and observation.

She had found her daughter of great use to her at
the first, for Geraldine was remarkably well educated,
and had a very clear notion of the state of parties
and the history of public movements.  All her stores
of information were at her mother's disposal, and so a
new link had been formed between them during the
months of the girl's betrothal, and instead of the
mother's looking forward with delight to being rid of
the incubus of a grown-up daughter, she was disposed
to be pathetic over the separation and her own
personal loss.

Now this was a very happy change for Geraldine,
for the lack of a mother's love had been very keenly
felt by her.  Her face, as she stood at the altar,
plighting her troth to the man she loved, was full of
a wonderful happiness and joy—a different face from
the grave and almost wistful one of the past; different,
and yet with an enhanced beauty which riveted the
eyes of all beholders, and caused the Queen to wipe
her eyes with her lace kerchief as she gazed, whisper
softly in the ear of one of her ladies,—

"Ah me! it is good to be young and beloved!
Heaven send she may never know aught to dim that
joy and that love!"

Sir Grey's happiness and joy was no whit less than
that of his bride, and was written almost as clear upon
his face.  Bride and bridegroom were both clad in
white, as became the season and the ceremony; and
the young man's gleaming whiteness was well set off
by the gorgeous colours of Lord Sandford's attire, as
he stood beside him as his supporter and "best
man."  This he did by his own request, and with the ready
consent of the Queen.  She had been told enough of
Lord Sandford to be interested in that rather
remarkable personage.  She had given him audience more
than once, and had intrusted him earlier in the year
with a special embassy to the Duke of Marlborough
and Prince Eugene, which he had so ably carried out
that it was whispered he was likely to obtain more
such secret service errands.  It was the sort of work
for which he was eminently fitted, and the
responsibility had sobered him and kept in check all
disposition on his part to break out into any of the wild
excesses with which he had been wont to amuse
himself in order to while away the time.  He was now
setting to work to get his affairs into order.  Having
failed to win the fortune of the heiress, he had to
turn his mind to other methods.  He had sold his
horses for large sums to the gilded dandies who
fluttered about him, and with some heavy winnings
at the card-tables he paid off a number of his debts,
and began to feel like a free man.  The sale of his
property at St. Albans, which he no longer wanted,
enabled him to pay off a mortgage upon his ancestral
acres; and with a little care and moderate luck in
gaming (for Lord Sandford was not possessed of the
scruples which had harassed Grey, and which were
far in advance of his day), he hoped soon to retrieve
the position of a man of wealth and position, which
he had been inclined to fling away for the pleasures
of a careless and vicious age.

His friendship with Grey Dumaresq, strangely begun,
and strangely broken, was now cemented afresh, and
seemed likely to last and to increase.  It was by his
own wish that he stood beside him on his marriage
day.  He had so schooled himself that he could do
this without pain, and he would have grudged the
place to any other, claiming his own right as being
Grey's oldest available friend.

And now the brief ceremony was ended.  Sir Grey
and his bride came down from the steps of the altar
to receive the felicitations and gratulations of their
friends.  The Queen kissed the bride upon her brow,
wished her happiness, and presented her with a
beautiful clasp of diamonds and pearls, which she
took from the laces about her throat, and bade the
young wife wear for her sake.  Then when the royal
lady had taken her departure, and the little
procession had left the chapel, other friends and
well-wishers crowded round, prophesying happiness and
all other good things to the youthful pair.  They
streamed out—a rainbow-tinted bevy—into the
courtyard, where coaches waited to convey them
to the wedding feast at Lord Romaine's house;
and this they found laid out in *al fresco* fashion
beneath the trees of the beautiful old garden, which
had been Geraldine's place of refuge for so long,
and to which she would be half sorry now to bid
farewell.

"Do you remember, sweetheart," whispered Grey
in her ear, as they stood together and a little apart at
the conclusion of the banquet—"do you remember
that summer morning a year ago when I did hear
you singing, and could not keep away?"

"Remember!  Do I ever forget it as I stand here
looking at the shining river?  Ah dear my lord,
methinks it was upon that day that my heart first
did leave mine own keeping, albeit it was long ere I
knew it!"

"Could we but have seen how it would be a year
hence with us, how little would the clouds and
darkness which followed have disturbed and troubled our
peace!"

"And yet methinks, dear love, it is better not to
know; for so do we learn to trust the love of our
heavenly Father, and to put our faith and confidence
in Him.  So He leads us from darkness into light,
and our hearts are filled with love and gratitude
towards Him."

Grey bent and kissed her on the brow.

"You shall teach me more of your pure faith and
love, my wife, that we may be one in all things."

.. vspace:: 2

Don Carlos was pawing the stones of the courtyard,
in fretted impatience which Dick had some ado to
curb.  Beside him stood a light, graceful barb,
bearing a lady's saddle on his back.  A little in the rear
were some half-dozen horses and some liveried
servants.  The clock in the tower of Lord Romaine's
house had just struck the hour of three.

The doors were flung open wide, and forth there
came a gay company of guests, all eager to speed
upon their way the newly-wedded pair.  These had
changed their wedding finery for riding dress.  Grey
wore his favourite workman-like suit of fine buff,
stamped in silver, with white buckskin breeches and
long boots.  His lady was habited in a riding-dress of
white face-cloth, with lacings of golden cord, a white
hat with a drooping plume, and long white gauntlet
gloves.  Her palfrey was snow-white too, as became
the bearer of a bride; and as Grey swung her deftly
to her saddle, the pretty creature curveted and pranced,
as though in pride at bearing so fair a burden.

The next minute the bridegroom had leaped upon
Don Carlos, and both riders were waving their hands
in response to the eager clamour of gratulation and
farewell which sprang to the lips of the bystanders.
Smiling and waving his hat, Grey put Don Carlos at
a trot, and the little procession swept out of the
courtyard in all the glory of the summer afternoon, with
the voices of their friends sounding gaily in their ears.

"We shall be at Hartsbourne ere the day dies,
sweet wife," spoke Grey, as he looked up at the
sunny sky.  "You will not be fatigued by the ride,
after all you have gone through?  You would not
rather spend a night upon the way?"

"Ah no; this is rest," answered Geraldine, as her
light, mettlesome palfrey cantered gently alongside the
stalwart Don Carlos.  "I could ride for ever through
this clear, soft sunshine, with the wind fanning our
faces.  Nay, nay, but we will reach Hartsbourne
to-night.  Have I not waited long enough to see my
future home, O tyrant husband, who would not take
me there before?" and a laugh sparkled in her eyes
as she spoke these words, for it had always been one
of their cherished jests that not till she came there
as his wife should she look upon the beauties and the
charms of Hartsbourne.

"Did you desire it then so much, dearest?" he
asked.  "It was my wish that it should be made a
meet and fitting home for you ere I did bring you
thither.  It looked so desolate when I reached it after
being long absent.  I did desire to take away that
air of desolation ere your dear eyes should behold it.
Yet had I thought you wished it so much—"

"I wish nothing but to do your will, good my
lord," she answered, with a look in her eyes that set
his heart beating tumultuously within him.  "And is
not this worth waiting for?  Can any sight of it be
precious as this one will be, when my husband takes
me home?"

They had distanced their servants, and were riding
alone in the lane; for they skirted the great city
instead of passing through it, and kept to the softer,
pleasanter tracks through fields and woodlands; so he
could reach forth and take her hand, and hold it in
his as they rode onwards with free elastic stride.

"My beloved, my beloved, my beloved!" he replied,
and his tongue refused all other words.

.. vspace:: 2

The glory of the summer sunset was in the sky as
they breasted the last wooded ridge which hid them
from the hollow in which Hartsbourne lay.  The
woods, shimmering in their exquisite dress of golden
green, seemed to take fire from the level glory of the
ruddy rays lying across them.  The waving grass
tossed like a restless sea of light, as the breeze played
over it; and the birds in the thickets, silent during
the hours of heat, now burst into liquid melody to
sing to rest the dying day.

Halting at the top of the ridge, as Grey had
halted there so long ago, as it now seemed to him,
he pointed downwards with his whip, and there was
a little quiver in his voice as he said,—

"Yonder, in that hollow, lies our home.  You can
scarce see it for the screen of the trees; but you will
see it anon—there where the shining stream meanders
and the glades of the wood open out.  Come, let us
leave the road, and ride through my favourite glade.
So shall I show you a glimpse of your home, where
to my eyes it looks the fairest."

They moved along side by side.  The horses' feet
made scarce a sound, sunk deep in grass and moss.
The golden glamour of the beech wood encircled
them, lights and shadows played hide-and-seek along
the sward, flowers gemmed the hollows, and the breath
of the honeysuckle was sweet to their senses as they
pursued their way.  The deer got up in haste at their
approach, and scuttled away into deeper shadow; and
squirrels and rabbits whisked hither and thither,
astonished at this sudden invasion of their silvan solitude.

But the bride and bridegroom scarce exchanged a
word; their hearts were well-nigh too full.  The
happiness was almost oppressive.  Suddenly Grey
paused, and, drawing her a little to the left, pointed
through an opening in the trees and said,—

"There is your home, my dearest!"

She saw it then, and her heart gave a great throb.
They were looking upon the west front of the gray
old house, no longer lying desolate, forlorn, shut up,
its windows broken or shuttered, neglect and decay
everywhere.  No, all that was changed now.  The
windows shone between their carved mullions; the
creepers which curtained the walls had been cut and
trained, so that they could bloom and breathe once
more, instead of hanging in vast masses, almost
broken down by their own weight.  The last of the
sunlight gilded the tracery of oriel window and ancient
carving; lay like a caress upon the smooth green of
the wide terrace in front, with its clipped yew trees, its
stone vases and statues, and its ancient sundial.  Two
stately peacocks walked up and down, uttering from
time to time their strange, melancholy trumpet note.  A
great hound rose up from a sheltered corner, threw his
head into the air, sniffed for a few moments, and then
bounded towards them with a mighty baying sound.

"Our first welcome, dear heart," spoke Grey.  "This
is one of the guardians of Hartsbourne's treasure.
Well, he must learn that he has a new and a greater
treasure to guard now."

The hound knew the master well.  He fawned
upon him with delight; and, after having gravely
sniffed at Geraldine's proffered hand, took her once
and for all beneath his protection, and shared the
love of his faithful heart betwixt her and her lord.

The young wife slipped from her saddle as they
reached the little wooden bridge which led over the
stream, and the servants coming up in a few moments
took the horses round by the road, whilst husband
and wife went onwards with the hound in attendance,
up the sloping greensward, where flowers gemmed
the borders, and roses gave forth their sweetness upon
the evening air; through the gardens, already
partially restored, and in time to be made yet more
beautiful; towards the house which was their home,
lying dim and dreamlike in the gathering twilight.

"Dear heart, we are at home.  Welcome to Hartsbourne!"
spoke he.  And she could only lift her
quivering lips to his, for she had no words in which
to answer him.

And so they passed into the ancient house together,
to receive the loving greetings of their retainers and
servants, who all knew the master by this time, and
were eager and joyfully ready to receive the bride of
his choice.  Old Jock was there, in the glory of his
new place as house-steward, the tears of joy standing
in his eyes as he kissed the hand the lady graciously
extended, when she thanked him for his protestations
of devotion, and told him how she had heard of his
fidelity to his master.  It was all so happy, so full
of simple joy and good will.  She read affection to
her lord in every face; she saw by the flower-decked
rooms and the loving care everywhere visible throughout
the quaint old house how much all had desired
that this home-coming should bring joy to their
hearts and bespeak the welcome of loving service.
That was more to her than the beauty of the things
her eyes rested upon—the soft hangings, the quaint
carvings, the pictures, the plenishings, the rare and
costly objects which met her gaze at every turn.

"They were found in the secret chamber, most of
them," Grey told her as, after having supped, they
walked hand in hand through the house, which was
all lighted up for their inspection.  "When and how
and whence they came there, I know not.  Jock
declares that many are heirlooms, which must have
been hidden away in some time of peril—possibly
at the rising of Monmouth, or at the Revolution;
some perhaps even in the civil war; others,
methinks, my poor father must have won from luckless
gamblers, and have sold to his kinsman, or paid over
to him as interest upon debts.  I know not, I
cannot tell; but here they are, and all men tell me they
are mine.  They will serve to make a fitting setting
for the priceless jewel which my house doth now
enshrine; and in so doing, they and we must needs find
contentment."

It would have been hard, in sooth, not to feel
contentment in such environment.  Grey had taken care
not to destroy, but to restore, when the old house
passed into his keeping once more.  The old world
charm hung yet upon it; nothing garish or bizarre
was to be found there, as in the houses of fashionable
dames such as Lady Romaine, who loved to jumble
together trophies and curiosities from every part of
the globe in confusion worse confounded.  There was
none of this lavish profusion or confusion here; but
each thing looked in its own place, set off by polished
panelling or dusky arras.  And even the scent of rose
leaves was the same as in his mother's day; and Grey
whispered to his bride that he liked to think she
could see them now, and share in some sort their
happiness.

As they reached the end of a long gallery, which
brought their wanderings almost to a close, Grey
paused before the door of a certain room, and
instead of turning the handle immediately, he knocked
upon the panels of the door.

A deep sonorous voice bade him enter; and taking
his wife's hand in his, he led her into a large, low,
airy apartment, which had windows looking both
south and west, where, upon a cleverly-contrived
couch, running very easily upon wheels, lay an old
man with a lion-like face and a mass of snow-white
hair, whose hands were extended in eager yet
restrained and dignified greeting.

"Welcome—thrice welcome—happy bridegroom!
Methought you would not fail to come and visit me
to-night!"

"Of course I should not fail, good friend; and here
I bring you my wife, whom you have ofttimes
desired to see.—Geraldine, need I tell you that this is
my friend, Mr. Jonathan Wylde, whom last you saw
as Father Time with his scythe and hour-glass?  Well,
he has cheated both, you see, albeit he was like to be
mown down once.  He will remain as our honoured
guest and friend so long as he is spared to us.  For
he did come to my aid when I was very near to
desperation and despair, and we have stood shoulder to
shoulder ever since."

"I know all the tale," answered Geraldine, and she
knelt down and took the old man's hands in hers,
bending upon him one of her sweetest glances.  "It
is a tale that goes to my heart, for it is hard to think
even of sufferings past, where those we love are
concerned.  I thank you from my heart for all you did
at that time for my husband.  And indeed it was
(under Providence) through you that his bark reached
at the last so fair a haven, and that we are here
together this night."

The tears which had sprung to the old man's eyes
slowly rolled down his cheeks.  His happiness in
seeing again the man he loved with his bride at his side
was almost too much for him.  Geraldine saw this,
and pressed his hands gently, rising to her feet at the
same time.

"Nay, nay," he answered brokenly; "I was but an
instrument in the hands of Providence—a link of the
chain not made by human hands."

"Yes, truly, we will think of it like that.  It is
God who has brought good out of evil, peace out of
strife, calm out of storm for us all.  To Him will we
give the thanks and the praise.  And now, good
friend, we must bid you farewell, though only till
the morrow."

He took their hands, one in each of his, and looked
at them as one of the old patriarchs might have gazed
upon his beloved ones.

"God bless and prosper you, my children!" he
said; and they softly answered, "Amen."

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   PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN AT
   THE PRESS OF THE PUBLISHERS.

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