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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/bessyranenovelOOwood 
 
" If yon will please to get off my pony-carriage, Mr. Richard, I '11 drive on. 
 
BESSY RANE 
 
 & fLabtl 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. HENRY WOOD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE." 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, New Bcrlixgtox Steeet. 
 
 PubltsfjcriS til ©rlftiwry to f^rv jKafc&g. 
 
 1877. 
 
 [All rights of Translation and Reproduction are reserved.] 
 
LONDON : 
 
 PBINTED BY J. OGDEN AND CO. 
 
 172, ST. JOHN STREET, B.C. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 Part tfjc JTtr£t. 
 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. 
 
 The Anonymous Letter 1 
 
 II. 
 
 Ellen Adair .... 
 
 
 
 
 14 
 
 III. 
 
 In Mrs. Gass's Parlour . 
 
 
 
 
 23 
 
 IV. 
 
 Alone with the Naked Truth 
 
 
 
 
 35 
 
 V. 
 
 Eetrospect .... 
 
 
 
 
 46 
 
 VI. 
 
 Looking at the Funeral . 
 
 
 
 
 58 
 
 VII. 
 
 After the Funeral . 
 
 
 
 
 69 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Madam's Listening Closet. 
 
 
 
 
 79 
 
 IX. 
 
 In Lawyer Dale's Office . 
 
 
 
 
 92 
 
 X. 
 
 Put to his Conscience 
 
 
 
 
 103 
 
 XI. 
 
 Where's the King ? . 
 
 
 
 
 111 
 
 XII. 
 
 Putting Down the Carpet 
 
 
 
 
 118 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Coming Home .... 
 
 
 
 
 127 
 
 Part tfjc gctmxit. 
 
 XIV. Of what Was, and of what Might 
 
 XV. Mrs. Gass amid the Workmen 
 XVI. Morning Visitors 
 XVII. Three Letters for Dr. Pane 
 XVIII. Madam's Advice . 
 XIX. Mary Dallory . 
 XX. Love among the Poses 
 XXI. The Tontine 
 XXII. At the Sea-side . 
 XXIII. A Last Proposal . 
 XXIV. At Night: Under the Cedar-tree 
 XXV. A Second Fly at the Door 
 XXVI. A Panic 
 XXVII. ¥bt Jelly Saw 
 XXVIII. Desolation . 
 
 Be 
 
 135 
 
 144 
 154 
 162 
 169 
 177 
 1S7 
 194 
 204 
 212 
 222 
 232 
 242 
 252 
 262 
 
IV 
 
 Contents. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXIX. In the Churchyard . 
 XXX. In his Sick Boom 
 XXXI. Jelly's Troubles 
 XXXII. Coming Home to Die . 
 
 XXXIII. Richard North's Revelation . 
 
 XXXIV. Under the same Roof 
 XXXV. In the House Together 
 
 XXXVI. Jelly's Two Evening Visits 
 XXXVII. Mischief Brewing in North Inlet 
 XXXVIII. Days of Pain .... 
 XXXIX. Mrs. Gass in the Sunshine 
 
 XL. Once Again 
 
 XLI. Coming Very Near . 
 
 XLII. "EST-CE QU'lL M'AIME ? " 
 
 XLIII. A Fine Night's Work 
 
 XLIV. Disturbing the Grave 
 
 XLV. A Night Expedition . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 . 274 
 . 280 
 . 2S4 
 . 201 
 . 299 
 . 310 
 . 317 
 . 328 
 . 339 
 . 349 
 . 355 
 . 366 
 . 374 
 . 384 
 . 391 
 . 398 
 . 408 
 
 $art tfje Cljtrfc. 
 
 XLVI. Arthur Bohun's Shame 
 
 XLVII. No Hope 
 
 XLVIII. Brought Forcibly Home to Him 
 
 . 420 
 
 . 431 
 . 438 
 
 XLIX. Conclusion 442 
 
BESSY KANE. 
 
 $art t\)t dFirslt. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 It was an intensely dark night. What with the mist tLafc 
 Jiung around from below, and the unusual gloom above, Dr. 
 Eane began to think he might have done well to bring a lantern 
 with him, as a guide to his steps up Ham Lane, when ha 
 should turn into it. He would not be able to spare time to 
 pick his way there. A gentleman — so news had been brought 
 to him — was lying in sudden extremity, and his services as a 
 medical man were being waited for. 
 
 Straight along, on the road before him, at only half a mile's 
 distance, lay the village of Dallory; so called after the Dallory 
 family, who had been of importance in the neighbourhood in 
 the years gone by. This little off-shoot of it was styled Dallory 
 Ham. Th.3 latter name gave rise to disputes amidst anti- 
 quarians. Some of them maintained that the word Ham was 
 but a contraction of hamlet, and that the correct name of the 
 place would be Dallory Hamlet : others asserted that the 
 appellation arose from the circumstance that the public green, 
 or common, was in the shape of a ham. As both sides brought 
 logic and proof irresistible to bear on their respective opinions, 
 contention never flagged. At no remote period the Ham had 
 been a wild grassy waste, given over to stray donkeys, geese, 
 and gipsies. They were done away with now that houses 
 encircled it ; pretty villas of moderate dimensions, some cot- 
 tages and a few shops : the high road ran, as it always had 
 done, straight through the middle of it. Dallory Ham had 
 grown to think itself of importance, especially since the time 
 
 B 
 
2 Bessy Rane. 
 
 when two doctors had established themselves in it : Dr. Rane 
 and Mr. Alexander. Both of them lived in what might be 
 called the neck of the Ham, which was nearest to Dallory 
 proper. 
 
 Standing with your face towards Dallory (in the direction 
 the doctor was now rnnning), his house was on the right-hand 
 side. He had but now turned out of it. Dallory Hall, to 
 which place Dr. Rane had been summoned, stood a little 
 beyond the entrance to the Ham, lying back on tb e right amidst 
 its grounds, and completely hidden by trees. It was inhabited 
 by Mr. North. 
 
 Oliver Rane had come forth in great haste and commotion. 
 He could not understand the message, except the one broad 
 fact that Edmund North, Mr. North's eldest son, was supposed 
 to be dying. The servant, who brought it, did not seem to 
 understand it either. He spoke of an anonymous letter that 
 had been received by Mr. North, of disturbance and commo- 
 tion thereupon, of a subsequent encounter (a sharp, brief 
 quarrel) between Edmund North and Mr. Alexander, the 
 surgeon ; and of a sort of fit in which Edmund North was now 
 lying senseless. 
 
 Dr. Rane was a gentlemanly man of middle height and 
 slender frame, his age about thirty. The face in its small 
 regular features might have been held to possess a dash of 
 effeminacy, but for the resolute character of the firm mouth 
 and the pointed chin. His eyes — rather too close together — 
 whiskers and hair, were of reddish brown, the latter worn 
 brushed aside from the forehead ; his teeth were white and 
 even : altogether a good looking man ; but one of rather too 
 silent manners, of too inscrutable a countenance to be very 
 pleasing. 
 
 " An anonymous letter ! " Dr. Rane had repeated to himself, 
 with a kind of groan, as he flew from his house like one greatly 
 startled, and pursued his course down the Ham. Glancing 
 across at Mr. Alexander's house opposite, he felt a momentary 
 temptation to go over and learn the particulars — if, haply, the 
 surgeon should be at home. The messenger had said that 
 Mr. Alexander flung out of Dallory Hall in a passion, right 
 in the midst of the quarrel ; hence the summons for Dr. Rane. 
 For Mr. Alexander, not Dr. Rane, was the Hall's medical 
 attendant : this was the first time the latter had been called 
 upon to act as such. 
 
 They had come to Dallory within a day of each other, these 
 
The Anonymous Letter. 3 
 
 two doctors, in consequence of the sudden death of its old 
 practitioner ; each hoping to secure the practice for himself. 
 It was Mr. Alexander who chiefly gained it. Both were clever 
 men ; and it might have been at least an even race between 
 them, but for the fact that Mrs. North, of Dallory Hall, set 
 her face resolutely against Dr. Rane. The reason was inex- 
 plicable, since he had been led to believe that he should have 
 the countenance of Mr. and Mrs. North. She did her best in 
 a covert way to prevent his obtaining practice, pushing his 
 rival — whom she really despised, and did not care a tittle for— 
 into favour. Her object might not be to drive Oliver Rane 
 from the spot, but it certainly seemed to look like it. So Mr, 
 Alexander had obtained the lion's share of the practice in the 
 best families, Dr. Rane but little ; as to the poor, they were 
 divided between them pretty equally. Both acted as general 
 practitioners, and Mr. Alexander dispensed his own medicines. 
 The rivals were outwardly cordial with each other ; but Dr. 
 Rane, no doubt, felt an inward smart. 
 
 The temptation to dash over to Mr. Alexander's passed with 
 the thought ; there was no time for it. Dr. Rane pursued his 
 course until he came to an opening on the right, Ham Lane, 
 into which he turned, for it was a near way to the Hall. A 
 narrow lane, green and lovely in early summer, with wild 
 flowers nestling on its banks, dog-roses and honeysuckles 
 clustering in its hedges. Here was the need of the lantern. 
 But Dr. Rane sped on without regard to inadvertent sideward 
 steps, that might land him in the ditch. Some excitement 
 appeared to be upon him, far beyond any that might arise from 
 the simple fact of being called out to a gentleman in a fit ; yet 
 he was by temperament entirely self-possessed, one of the 
 calmest-mannered men living. A stile in the hedge on the 
 left, which he found as if by instinct, took him at once into 
 the grounds of Dallory Hall ; whence there came w r afting to 
 him the scent of hyacinths, daffodils, and other spring flowers 
 in delicious sweetness, spite of the density of the night air. 
 Not that Dr. Rane derived much advantage from the benefit ; 
 nothing could seem delicious to him just then. 
 
 It was more open here, as compared w T ith the lane, and not 
 so intensely dark. Three minutes of the same heedless pace 
 in and out amidst the winding walks, when he turned a point 
 at right angles, and the old stone mansion was before him. A 
 long, grey, sensible-looking house, of only two stories bigh, 
 imparting the notion of spacious rooms within. Lights shone 
 
4 Bessy Rane. 
 
 from some of the windows and through the fan-light over the 
 entrance door. One of the gardeners crossed Dr. Rane's path. 
 
 " Is that yon, Williams ? Do you know how young Mr. 
 North is ? " 
 
 "I've not been told, sir. There's something wrong with 
 him, we hear." 
 
 " Is this blight ? " called back the doctor, alluding to the 
 curiously dark mist. 
 
 " Not it, sir. It's nothing but the vapour arising from the 
 day's heat. It have been hot for the first day o' May." 
 
 The door yielded to Dr. Rane's hand, and he went into the 
 hall : it was of middling size, and paved with stone. On the 
 left were the drawing-rooms, on the right the dining-room, 
 and also a room that was called Mr. North's parlour; a hand- 
 some staircase of stone wound up at the back. All the doors 
 were closed ; and as Dr. Rane stood for a moment in hesita- 
 tion, a young lady in grey silk came swiftly and silently down 
 the stairs. Her figure was small and slight, her face fair, pale, 
 gentle, with the meekest look in her dove-like grey eyes. Her 
 smooth, fine hair, of an exceedingly light brown, was worn in 
 curls all round the head, after the manner of girls in a bygone 
 time. It made her look very young, but she was in reality 
 thirty years of age ; three months younger than Dr. Rane. 
 Miss North was very simple in tastes and habits, and adhered 
 to many customs of her girlhood. Moreover, since an illness 
 seven years ago, the hair had never grown very long or thick. 
 She saw Dr. Rane, and came swiftly to him. Their hands 
 met in silence. 
 
 " What is this trouble, Bessy ? " 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad you are here ! " she exclaimed, in the 
 soft, subdued tone characteristic of dangerous sickness in a 
 house. " He is lying as though he were dead. Papa is with 
 him. Will you come ? " 
 
 " One moment," he whispered. " Tell me, in a word, what 
 it all is ? The cause, I mean, not the illness." 
 
 " It was caused by an anonymous letter to papa. Ed- 
 mund " 
 
 " But how could any anonymous letter to your papa have 
 caused illness to Edmund ? " he interrupted. And the tone of 
 his voice was so sharp, and the dropping of her hand, clasped 
 until then, so sudden, that Miss North, in her self -deprecation, 
 thought he was angry with her, and glanced upwards through 
 her tears, 
 
The Anonymous Letter. 5 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Bessy. My dear, I feel so grieved and 
 cotifounded at this, that I am scarcely myself. It is to me 
 utterly incomprehensible. What were the contents of the 
 letter ?" he continued, as they hastened upstairs to the sick 
 chamber. And Bessy North told him in a whisper as mnch 
 ftg she knew. 
 
 The facts of the case were these. By the six o'clock post 
 that same evening, Mr. North received an anonymous letter, 
 reflecting on his son Edmund. — His first wife, dead now just 
 eight-and-twenty years, had left him three children, Edmund, 
 Richard, and Bessy. — When the letter arrived, the family had 
 sat down to dinner, and Mr. North did not open it until after- 
 wards. He showed it to his son Edmund, as soon as they 
 were left alone. The charges it contained were true, and. 
 Edmund North jumped to the conclusion that only one man 
 in the whole world could have written it, and that was 
 Alexander, the surgeon. He went into a frightful passion ; 
 he was given to do so on occasions; and he had, besides, taken 
 rather more wine at dinner than was good for him — which 
 also he was somewhat addicted to. As ill fate had it, Mr. 
 Alexander called just at the moment, and Mr. North, a timid 
 man in nervous health, grew frightened at the commencing 
 torrent of angry words, and left them together in the dining- 
 room. There was a short, sharp storm. Mr. Alexander came 
 out almost immediately, saying, " You are mad ; you are mad. 
 I will talk to you when you are calmer." " I would rather be 
 mad than bad," shouted Edmund North, coming after him. 
 But the surgeon had already let himself out at the hall-door ; 
 and Edmund North went back to the dining-room, and shut 
 himself in. Two of the servants, attracted by the sounds of 
 dispute, had been lingering in the hall, and they saw and 
 heard this. In a few minutes Mr. North went in, and found 
 his son lying on the ground, senseless. He was carried to his 
 chamber, and medical men were sent for : Dr. Rane (as being 
 the nearest), and two physicians from the more distant mar- 
 ket town, Whitborough. 
 
 Edmund North was not dead. Dr. Rane, bending over him, 
 saw that. He had not been well of late, and was under the 
 care of Mr. Alexander. Only a week ago (as was to transpire 
 later) he had gone to consult a physician in Whitborough, one 
 of those now summoned to him. This gentleman suspected 
 he had heart-disease, and warned him against excitement. 
 But the family knew nothing as yet of this ; neither did Oliver 
 
6 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Rane. Another circumstance Edmund North had not disclosed. 
 When sojourning in London the previous winter, he had been 
 attacked by a sort of fit. It had looked like apoplexy more 
 than heart ; and the doctors gave him sundry injunctions to 
 be careful. This one also, Dr. Rane thought, knowing nothing 
 of the former, looked like apoplexy. Edmund North was a 
 very handsome man, but a great deal too stout. 
 
 " Is he dead, Oliver ? " asked the grieving father ; who, 
 when alone with the doctor, and unshackled by the presence 
 of his wife, often called him by his Christian name. 
 
 " No ; he is not dead." 
 
 And, indeed, a spasm just at that same moment passed over 
 the prostrate face. All the means that Oliver Rane could 
 think of, and use, he tried with the best heart and efforts — - 
 hoping to recall the fast-fleeting life. 
 
 But when the two doctors arrived from Whitborough, Oliver 
 Rane found he was not wanted. They were professionals of 
 long standing, men of note in their local arena ; and showed 
 themselves blandly cool, condescendingly patronizing to the 
 young practitioner. Dr. Rane had rather a strong objection 
 to be patronized : he withdrew, and went to Mr. North's 
 parlour. It was a dingy room ; the shaded lamp on the table 
 not sufficing to light it up. Red moreen curtains were drawn 
 before the large French window that opened to the side 
 flower-garden. 
 
 Mr. North was standing before the fire. He was a little 
 shrivelled man with stooping shoulders, his scanty hair smoothed 
 across a low, broad forehead, his lips thin and querulous ; his 
 eyes, Worn and weary now, had once been mild and loving as 
 his daughter Bessy's. Time and care and (as some people 
 said) his second wife, had changed him. Oliver Rane thought 
 he had never seen him look so shrunken, nervous, and timid 
 as to-night. 
 
 " What a grievous pity it was that you should have men- 
 tioned the letter to him, Mr. North ! " began the doctor, 
 speaking at once of what lay uppermost in his thoughts. 
 
 " Mentioned the letter to him ! — why, it concerned him," 
 was the surprised answer. " But I never cast a thought to its 
 having this kind of effect upon him." 
 
 "What was in the letter, sir?" was the doctor's next 
 question, put with considerable gloom, and after a long 
 silence. 
 
 " You can read it, Oliver.'* 
 
The Anonymous Letter. J 
 
 Opening the document, he handed it to Dr. Rane. It looked 
 like any ordinary letter. The doctor took it to the lamp. 
 
 " Mr. North, — Pardon a friend who ventures to give you a 
 caution. Your eldest son is in some kind of embarrassment, 
 and is drawing bills in conjunction with Alexander, the 
 surgeon. Perhaps a word from you would arrest this : it is 
 too frequently the first step of a man's downward career — and 
 the writer would not like to see Edmund North enter on 
 such." 
 
 Thus, abruptly and signatureless, ended the fatal letter. 
 Dr. Rane slowly folded it, and left it on the table. 
 
 " Who could have written it ? " he murmured. 
 
 " Ah, there it is ! " rejoined Mr. North. " Edmund said no 
 one could have done it but Alexander." 
 
 Standing over the fire, to which he had turned, Dr. Rane 
 warmed his hands. The intensely hot day had given place to 
 a cold night. His red-brown eyes took a dreamy gaze, as he 
 revolved facts and suppositions. In his private opinion, 
 judging only from the contents of the letter, Mr. Alexander 
 was about the last man who would have been likely to write it. 
 
 "It is not like Alexander's writing," observed Mr. North. 
 
 "Not in the least." 
 
 " But of course this is in a thoroughly disguised hand." 
 
 "Most anonymous letters are so, I expect. Is it true that 
 he and your son have been drawing bills together ? " 
 
 "I gather that they have drawn one ; perhaps two. 
 Edmund's passion was so fierce that I could not question him. 
 What I don't like is, Alexander's going off in the manner he 
 did, without seeing me : it makes me think that perhaps he 
 did write the letter. An innocent man would have remained 
 to defend himself. It might have been written from a good 
 motive, after all, Oliver ! My poor son ! — if he had but taken 
 it peaceably ! " 
 
 Mr. North wrung his hands. His tones were feeble, meekly 
 complaining ; his manner and bearing were altogether those of 
 a man who has been perpetually put down and no longer 
 attempts to struggle against the cares and crosses of the 
 world, or the will of those about him. 
 
 " I must be going," said Oliver Rane, arousing himself from 
 a reverie. " I have to see a poor man at Dallory." 
 
 " Is it Ketler ? " 
 
8 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Yes, sir. Good-night. I trust you will have cause to be 
 in better spirits in the morning." 
 
 " Good night, Oliver." 
 
 But the doctor could not get off at once. He was waylaid 
 by a servant, who said Madam wished to see him. Crossing 
 the hall, the man threw open the doors of the drawing-room, 
 a magnificent apartment. Gilded and gleaming mirrors; light 
 blue satin curtains and furniture ; a carpet softer and thicker 
 than moss : and all kinds of bright and resplendent things 
 were there. 
 
 " Dr. Rane, madam." 
 
 Mrs. North sat on a couch by the fire. In the house she 
 was called Madam — out of the house, too, for the matter of 
 that. A severely handsome woman, with a cold, pale, 
 imperious face, the glittering jewels in her black hair, looking 
 as hard as she did. A cruel face, as some might have deemed it. 
 When Mr. North married her, she was the widow of Major 
 Bohun, and had one son. Underneath the chandelier, reading 
 by its light, sat her daughter, a young lady whose face bore 
 a strong resemblance to hers. This daughter and a son had 
 been born since her second marriage. 
 
 " You wished to see me, Mrs. North ? " 
 
 Dr. Rane so spoke because they took no manner of notice of 
 him. Mrs. North turned then, with her dark, inscrutable eyes; 
 eyes that Oliver Rane hated, as he hated the cruelty glittering 
 in their depths. He believed her to be a woman unscrupu- 
 lously selfish. She did not rise ; merely motioned him to a 
 seat opposite with a haughty wave of her white arm : and the 
 bracelets shone on it, and her ruby velvet dress gleamed with 
 amazing richness. He sat down with entire self-possession, 
 every whit as independent as herself. 
 
 "You have seen this infamous letter, I presume, Dr. 
 Rane ? " 
 
 " I have." 
 
 "Who sent it?" 
 
 " I cannot tell you, Mrs. North." 
 
 " Have you no idea at all ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. How should I have ? " 
 
 " Could you detect no resemblance in the writing to any 
 one's you know ? " 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 "Not to — for instance — Alexander's?" she resumed, 
 making the pauses as put, and looking at him steadfastly. But 
 
The Anonymous Letter. 9 
 
 Dr. Rane saw with a sure instinct that Alexander's was not 
 the name she had meant to speak. 
 
 " I feel sure that Mr. Alexander no more wrote the letter 
 than — than you did, Mrs. North." 
 
 "Does it bear any resemblance to Richard North's ? " sho 
 continued, after a faint pause. 
 
 "To Richard North's!" echoed the doctor, the words 
 taking him by surprise. "No." 
 
 "Are you familiar with Richard North's handwriting ? " 
 
 Oliver Rane paiised to think, and then replied with a pass- 
 ing laugh. " I really believe I do not know his handwriting, 
 madam." 
 
 " Then why did you speak so confidently ? " 
 
 " I spoke in the impulse of the moment. Richard North, 
 of all men, is the least likely to do such a thing as this." 
 
 The young lady, Matilda North, turned round from her 
 book. An opera cloak of scarlet gauze was on her shoulders, 
 as if she were cold ; she pulled it closer with an impatient 
 hand. 
 
 "Mamma, why do you harp upon Richard? He couldn't 
 do it ; papa told you so. If Dick saw cause to find fault with 
 anybody, or tell tales, he would do it openly." 
 
 One angry gleam from Madam's eyes as her daughter 
 settled to her book again, and then she proceeded to close the 
 interview. 
 
 "As you profess yourself unable to give me information or 
 detect any clue, I will not detain you longer, Dr. Rane." 
 
 He stood for a second, expecting, perhaps, she might offer 
 her hand. She did nothing of the sort, only bowed coldly. 
 Matilda North took no notice of him whatever : she was con- 
 tent to follow her mother's teachings when they did not clash 
 with her own inclination. Dr. Rane had ceased to marvel why 
 he was held in disfavour by Mrs. North : to try to guess at it 
 seemed a hopeless task. Neither could he imagine why she 
 opposed his marriage with Bessy ; for to Bessy and her 
 interests she was utterly indifferent. 
 
 As he left the drawing-room, Bessy North joined him, and 
 they went together to the hall door. No servant had been 
 rung for — it was one of Mrs. North's ways of showing con- 
 tempt — and they stood together outside, speaking softly. 
 Again the tears shone in Bessy's eyes : her heart was a very 
 tender one, and she had loved her brother dearly. 
 
 " Oliver, is there any hope ? " 
 
10 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Do not distress yourself, Bessy — I cannot tell you, one 
 way or the other." 
 
 " How am I to help distressing myself ? " she rejoined, her 
 hand resting quietly in both of his. "It is all very well for 
 you to be calm ; a medical man meets these sad things every 
 day. You cannot be expected to care." 
 
 "Can I not?" he answered; and there was a touch of 
 passionate emotion in the usually calm tone. " If any effort 
 or sacrifice of mine would bring back his health and life, I'd 
 make it freely. Good-night, Bessy." 
 
 As he stooped to, kiss her, some quick firm footsteps were 
 heard approaching, and Bessy went indoors. He who came 
 up was a rather tall and very active man, with a plain, but 
 nevertheless an attractive face. Plain in its irregular features; 
 attractive from its open candour and strong good sense, from 
 the earnest, truthful look in the deep-set hazel eyes. People 
 were given to say that Richard North was the best man of 
 business for miles round. It was so : and he was certainly, in 
 mind, manners, and person a gentleman. 
 
 " Is it you, Rane ? What is all this trouble ? I have been 
 away for a few hours, unfortunately. Mark Dawson met me 
 just now with the news that my brother was dying." 
 
 The voice would have been pleasing to a degree if only from 
 its tone of ready decision : but it was also musical as voices 
 seldom £re, clear and full of sincerity. From the voice alone, 
 Richard North might have been trusted to his life's end. Dr. 
 Rane gave a short summary of the illness and the state he 
 was lying in. 
 
 " Dawson spoke of a letter that had excited him/' said 
 Richard. 
 
 " True ; a letter to Mr. North." 
 
 "A dastardly anonymous letter. Just so." 
 
 "An anonymous letter," repeated the doctor. "But the 
 effect on your brother seems altogether disproportioned to the 
 cause." 
 
 "Where is the letter? I cannot look upon Edmund until 
 I have seen the letter." 
 
 Dr. Rane told him where the letter was, and went out. 
 Richard North passed on to the parlour. Mr. North, sitting 
 by the fire, had his face bent down in his two hands. 
 
 " Father, what is all this ? " 
 
 " Oh, Dick, I am glad you are come ! " and in the tone 
 there sounded an intense relief, as if he who came brought 
 
The Anonymous Letter. n 
 
 back strength, and hope. " I can't make top or tail of this ; 
 and I think he is dying." 
 
 " Who is with him ?— Arthur ? " 
 
 11 No ; Arthur has been out all day. The doctors arc with 
 him still." 
 
 " Let me see the letter/' 
 
 Mr. North gave it him, recitiug at the same time the chief 
 incidents of the calamity in a rambling sort of manner. 
 Richard North read the letter twice : once hastily, to gather 
 in the sense ; then attentively, giving to every word full consi- 
 deration. His father watched him. 
 
 " It was not so much the letter itself that excited him, 
 Richard, as the notion that Alexander wrote it." 
 
 " Alexander did not write this," decisively spoke Richard. 
 
 " You think not r 1 " 
 
 "Why, of course he did not. It tells against himself as 
 much as against Edmund." 
 
 " Edmund said no one knew of the matter but Alexander, 
 and therefore no one else could have written it. Besides, 
 Dick, where is Alexander ? Why is he staying away ? " 
 
 " We shall hear soon, I dare say. I have faith in Alexander. 
 Keep this letter jealously, father. It may have been right to 
 give you the information it contains : I say nothing at present 
 about that ; but an anonymous writer is generally a scoundrel, 
 deserving no quarter." 
 
 " And none shall he get from me," spoke Mr. North, 
 emphatically. " It was posted at Whitborough, you see, 
 Dick." 
 
 " I see," shortly answered Richard. He threw his coat back 
 as if he were too hot ; and moved to the door on his way to 
 his brother's chamber. 
 
 Meanwhile Oliver Rane went down the avenue to the front 
 entrance gates, and took the road to Dallory. He had to see 
 a patient there : a poor man who was lying in danger. He 
 threw his coat back, in spite of the chill fog, and wiped his 
 brow, and seemed altogether in a fume, as if the weather or 
 his reflections were too hot for him. 
 
 " What a fool ! what a fool ! " murmured he, balf aloud, 
 apostrophizing, doubtless, the writer of the anonymous letter. 
 Or, it might be, the unfortunate young man who had allowed 
 it to excite within him so fatal an amount of passion. 
 
 The road was smooth and broad : a fine highway, well kept. 
 For a short distance there were no houses, but they soon 
 
12 Bessy Rane. 
 
 began. Dallory was a bustling village, poor and rich living in 
 it. The North Works, as they were familiarly called, from the 
 fact of Mr. North's being their chief proprietor, lay a little 
 further on, and Dallory church beyond still. It was a strag- 
 gling parish, make the best of it. 
 
 Amidst the first good houses that Dr. Rane came to was 
 one superior to the rest. A large, square, handsome dwelling, 
 with a pillared portico nearly abutting on the village pathway, 
 and a fine garden behind. 
 
 "I wonder how Mother Gass is to-night?" thought the 
 doctor, arresting his steps. " I may as well ask." 
 
 His knock at the door was answered by the lady herself, 
 whom he had styled so unceremoniously " Mother Grass." A 
 stout, comfortable-looking dame, richly dressed, with a face 
 as red as it was good-natured, and a curiously fine lace cap, 
 standing on end with yellow ribbon. Mrs. Grass had neither 
 birth nor breeding ; she had made an advantageous match, as 
 you will hear further on : she possessed many good qualities, 
 and was popularly supposed to be rich enough to buy up the 
 whole of Dallory Ham. Her late husband had been the uncle 
 of Oliver Rane, but neither she nor Oliver presumed upon 
 the relationship in their intercourse with each other. In fact 
 they had never met until two years ago. 
 
 " I knew your knock, Dr. Rane, and oame to the door my- 
 self. Step into the parlour. I want to speak to you." 
 
 The doctor did not want to go in by any means, and felt 
 caught. He said he had no time to stay ; had merely called, 
 in passing, to ask how she was. 
 
 " "Well, I'm better this evening : the swimming in the 
 head's less. You just come in, now. I say yes. I won't keep 
 you two minutes. Shut the door, girl, after Dr. Rane." 
 
 This was to a smart housemaid, who had followed her 
 mistress down the wide and handsome passage. Dr. Rane 
 perforce stepped in, very unwillingly. He felt instinctively 
 convinced that Mrs. Grass had heard of the calamity at the 
 Hall and wished to question him. To avoid this he would 
 have gone a mile any other way. 
 
 " I want to get at the truth about Edmund North, doctor. 
 One of the maids from the Hall called in just now and said he 
 had been frightened into a fit through some letter ; and that 
 you were fetched to him." 
 
 " Well, that is the truth," said the doctor, accepting the 
 situation. 
 
The Anonymous Letter. 13 
 
 " My patience ! " ejaculated Mrs. Gass. " What was writ in 
 the letter ? She said it was one of them enonymous things." 
 
 " So it was." 
 
 " Was it writ to himself ? " 
 
 " No. To Mr. North." 
 
 "Well, now," — dropping her voice, — "was it about that 
 young woman he got acquainted with ? You know." 
 
 "No, no; nothing of that kind." And Dr. Rane, as the 
 shortest way of ending the matter, gave her the details. 
 
 "There was not much in the letter," he said, in a confi- 
 dential tone. " No harm would have come of it but for 
 Edmund North's frightful access of passion. If he dies, mind," 
 — the doctor added this in a dreamy tone, gazing out afar as 
 if looking into the future — " if he dies, it will not be the letter 
 that has killed him, but his own want of self-control." 
 
 " Don't you talk of dying, doctor. It is to be hoped it won't 
 come to that." 
 
 " It is, indeed." 
 
 "And Mr. Richard was not at home, the girl said ! " 
 
 "Neither he nor Captain Bohun. Richard has just got in 
 now." 
 
 Mrs. Gass would fain have kept him longer, but he told her 
 the sick man Ketler was waiting for him. This man was one 
 of the North workmen, who had been terribly injured in the 
 arm ; Dr. Rane hoped to save both the arm and the life. 
 
 " That receipt for the rhubarb jam Mrs. Cumberland pro- 
 mised : is it ever coming ? " asked Mrs. Gass as Dr. Rane was 
 quitting the room. 
 
 Turning back, he put his hat on the table and took out his 
 pocket-book. Mrs. Cumberland had sent it at last. He 
 selected the paper from amongst several others and handed it 
 to her. 
 
 " I forgot to leave it when I was here this morning, Mrs. 
 Gass. My mother gave it me yesterday." 
 
 Between them they dropped the receipt. Both stooped for 
 it, and their heads came together. There was a slight laugh ; 
 in the midst of which the pocket-book fell on the carpet. 
 Some papers fluttered out of it, which the doctor picked up 
 and replaced. 
 
 "Have you got 'em all, doctor ? How is the young lady's 
 cold ? " 
 
 " What young lady's ? " he questioned. 
 . " Miss Adair's." 
 
14 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " I did nofc know she had one." 
 
 "Ah, them lovely girls with their bright faces never show 
 their ailments ; and she is lovely, if ever there was one lovely 
 in this terrestial world. Good-night to you, doctor ; you're in 
 a mortal harry." 
 
 He strode to the street-door and shut it after him with a 
 bang. Mrs. Gass looked out of her parlour and saw the same 
 smart maid hastening along the passage : a little too late. 
 
 " Drat it, wench ! is that the way you let gentlefolks show 
 themselves out — scuttering to the door when they've got clean 
 away from it. D'ye call that manners ? " 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ELLEN ADAIR. 
 
 The day promised to be as warm as tbe preceding one. The 
 night and morning mist were gone ; the sun shone hot and 
 bright. Summer seemed to have come in before its time. 
 
 Two white gothic villas stood side by side just within the 
 neck of Dallory Ham, a few yards of garden and some cluster- 
 ing shrubs lying between them. They were built alike. The 
 side windows, facing each other over this strip of ground, were 
 large projecting bay-windows, and belonged to the dining- 
 rooms. These houses were originally erected for two maiden 
 sisters ; hence their relationship (if such a term may be applied 
 to dwellings) one with the other. A large and beautiful 
 garden lay at the back, surrounding the two villas, only a 
 slender wire fence, that a child might have stepped over, 
 dividing it. Entering the Ham from the direction of Dallory, 
 these houses stood on the left ; in the first of them lived Mrs. 
 Cumberland, the mother of Oliver Rane. She had been 
 married twice, hence the difference in name. The second 
 house was occupied by Dr. Rane. They lay back with a strip 
 of grass before them, the entrance doors being level with the 
 ground ; no steps. 
 
 Let us go into the doctor's : turning the handle of the door 
 without ceremony, as Dr. Rane's more familiar patients do. 
 The hall is small, narrowing off at the upper end to a passage, 
 and lighted with stained glass. On the left of the entrance 
 door is the consulting-room, not much bigger than a closet ; 
 beyond it is the dining-room, a good spacious apartment, with 
 its bay-window, already spoken of, looking to the other house. 
 
Ellen Adair. 15 
 
 Opposite the dining-room across the passage, narrow here, is 
 the white-flagged kitchen ; and the drawing-room lies in front, 
 on the right of the entrance. Not being furnished it is mostly 
 kept shnt up. A back-door opens to the garden. 
 
 Oliver Rane sat in his consnlting-room ; the " Whitborough 
 Journal," damp from the press in his hand. It was just 
 twelve o'clock and he bad to go out, but the newspaper was 
 attracting him. By seven o'clock tbat morning he had been 
 at the Hall, and learnt tbat there was no material change in 
 the patient lying there : he had then gone on, early though it 
 was, to see the man, Ketler. The journal gave the details of 
 Mr. North's seizure with tolerable accuracy, and concluded its 
 account in these words : " We have reason to know that a clue 
 has been obtained to the anonymous writer." 
 
 " A clue to the writer ! " repeated Dr. Rane, his eyes seem- 
 ing to be glued to the words. " I wonder if it's true ? No, 
 no ; it is not likely," came the quiet, contemptuous decision. 
 " How should any clue " 
 
 He stopped suddenly ; rose from the chair, and stood erect 
 and motionless, as if some thought had struck him. A fine 
 man ; almost as good-looking at a casual glance as another 
 who was stepping in upon him. The front door had opened, 
 and this one was slightly tapped at. Dr. Rane paused before 
 he answered it, and a fierce look of inquiry, as if he did not 
 care to be interrupted, shot out from his eyes. 
 
 " Come in." 
 
 A tall, slender, and very handsome man, younger than Dr. 
 Rane, opened the door by slow degrees. There was a pecu- 
 liar cast of proud refinement on his fair features ; a dreamy 
 look in his dark blue eyes. An attractive face at all times and 
 seasons, whose owner it was impossible to mistake for any 
 but an upright well-bred gentleman. It was Arthur Bohun ; 
 Captain Bohun, as he was very generally called. He was the 
 only son of Mrs. North by her former marriage with Major 
 Bohun, and of course the step-son of Mr. North. 
 
 "Any admittance, doctor ? " 
 
 " Always admittance to you," answered the doctor, who 
 could be affable or not, as suited his mood. " Why don't you 
 come in ? " 
 
 He came in with his pleasant smile ; a smile that hid the 
 natural pride of the face. Oliver Rane put down the news- 
 paper. 
 
 " Well, is there any change in Edmund North ? " 
 
1 6 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " The very slightest in the world, the doctors think; and 
 for the better," replied Captain Bohun. " Dick told me. I 
 have not been in myself since early morning. I cannot bear 
 to look on extreme suffering." 
 
 A ghost of a smile flitted across Dr. Rane's features at the 
 avowal. He could understand a woman disliking to look on 
 suffering, but not a man. And the one before him had been 
 a soldier ! 
 
 Captain Bohun sat down on an uncomfortable wooden stool 
 as he spoke, gently pushing back the front of his light summer 
 overcoat. He imparted the idea of never being put out 
 over any earthly thing. The movement displayed his cool 
 white waistcoat, across which fell a dainty gold chain with 
 its hanging seal, transparent sapphire, of rare and costly 
 beauty. 
 
 " You have begun summer early ! " remarked the doctor, 
 glancing at Captain Bohun's attire. 
 
 The clothes were of a delicate shade of grey ; looking re- 
 markably cool and nice in conjunction with the white waist- 
 coat. Captain Bohun was always dressed well ; it seemed a 
 part and parcel of himself. To wear the rude and rough 
 attire that some men affect now-a-days, would have been 
 against his instincts. 
 
 "Don't sit on that stool of penitence; take the patient's 
 chair," said the doctor, pointing to an elbow chair opposite 
 the window." 
 
 "But I am not a patient." 
 
 "No. Or you'd be at the opposition shop over the 
 way." 
 
 Arthur Bohun laughed. " It was of the opposition shop I 
 came to speak to you — if I came for anything in particular. 
 Where's Alexander ? Is he keeping out of the way ; or is he 
 really gone to London as people say ? " 
 
 "I know nothing of him," returned Dr. Rane. " Look 
 here — I was reading the account they give in the newspaper. 
 Is this last hint true ? " — holding out the journal — " that a 
 clue has been obtained to the writer of the letter ? " 
 
 Arthur Bohun ran his eyes over the sentence to which the 
 doctor's finger pointed. 
 
 " No, this has no foundation," he promptly answered. "At 
 least so far as the Hall is concerned. As yet we have nob 
 found any clue whatever." 
 
 " I thought so. These newsmongers put forth lies by the 
 
Ellen Adair, t? 
 
 bushel. Just as we might, if we had to cater for an in- 
 satiably curious public. But I fear I must be going out." 
 
 Arthur Bohun brought down the fore-legs of the stool, 
 which he had kept on the tilt, rose, and said a word of apology 
 for having detained him from his patients. His was essen- 
 tially a courteous nature, sensitively regardful of other people's 
 feelings, as men of great innate refinement are sure to be. 
 
 They went into the dining-room, Dr. Bane having left his 
 bat there, and passed out together by the large bay-window. 
 The doctor crossed at once to a door in the wall that bound 
 the premises at the back, and made his exit to the lane be- 
 yond, leaving Arthur Bohun in the garden. 
 
 A garden that on a summer's day seemed as a very paradise. 
 With its clustering shrubs, its overhanging trees, its leafy 
 glades, its shrubberies, its miniature rocks, its sweet repose, 
 its sweeter flowers. Seated in a remote part of that which 
 belonged to Mrs. Cumberland, was one of the loveliest girls 
 that eye had ever looked upon. She wore a morning dress of 
 light-coloured muslin, with an edging of lace on her neck and 
 wrists. Slight, gentle, charming, with a peculiar look of 
 grace and refinement, a stranger would have been almost 
 startled at her beauty. It was a delightful face ; the features 
 clearly cut ; the complexion soft, pure, and delicate, paling 
 and flushing with every emotion. In the dark brown eyes 
 there was a singularly sweet expression ; the dark brown 
 hair took a lustrously bright tinge in the sunlight. 
 
 A natural arbour of trees and branches had been formed 
 overhead : she sat on a garden bench, behind a rustic table. 
 Before her, at a short distance, a falling cascade trickled down 
 the artificial rocks, and thence wound away, a tiny stream, 
 amidst ferns, violets, primroses, and other wild plants. A 
 plot of green grass, smooth and soft as the moss of the rocks, 
 lay immediately at foot, and glimpses of statelier flowers wero 
 caught through the trees. Their rich perfume came wafted 
 in a sudden breeze to the girl's senses, and she looked up 
 gratefully from the work she was busy over ; some small 
 matter of silken embroidery. 
 
 And now you could see the exceeding refinement and deli- 
 cacy of the face, the pleasant expression of the soft bright eyes. 
 A bird lodged itself on a branch close by, and began a song. 
 Her lips parted with a smile of greeting. By way of rewarding 
 it, off he flew, dipped his beak into the running stream, and 
 soared away out of her sight. As is the case sometimes in life. 
 
 c 
 
iS Bessy Rane. 
 
 On the table lay a handful of violets, picked short off at the 
 blossoms. Almost unconsciously, as it seemed, her thoughts 
 far away, she began toying with them, and fell insensibly 
 into the French schoolgirls' play, telling off the flowers. " Est- 
 ce qu'il m'aime ? " was the first momentous question ; and then 
 began the pastime, a blossom being told off with every answer. 
 " Oui. Non. Un peu. Beaucoup. Pas du tout. Passion- 
 nement." And so the round went on, and on again, until the 
 last violet was reached. It came, as chance had it, with the 
 last word, and she, in an access of rapture, her soft cheeks 
 glowing, her sweet lips parting, caught up the flower and put 
 it into her bosom. 
 
 "II m'aime passionnement ! " 
 
 Ah, foolish girl I The oracle seemed as true as if it had 
 come direct from heaven. But can we not remember the 
 ecstasy such necromancy once brought to us ! 
 
 With her blushes deepening as she woke, startling, into 
 reality ; with a smile at her own folly ; with a shrinking sense 
 of maiden shame for indulging in the pastime, she pushed 
 the violets into a heap, threaded a needleful of green 
 floss silk, and went on with her work soberly. A few 
 minutes, and then either eye or ear was attracted by something 
 ever so far off, and she sat quite still. Quite still outwardly ; 
 but oh ! the sudden emotion that rose like a lightning flash 
 within ! and she knew the footsteps. Every vein was 
 tingling ; every pulse was throbbing; the pink on her cheeks 
 deepened to a very sea of crimson ; the life blood of her heart 
 rushed wildly on, and she lay her hand upon her bosom to 
 still it. 
 
 He was passing straight on from Dr. Rane's to the other 
 house, when he caught a glimpse of her dress through the 
 trees, and turned aside. Nothing could have been quieter or 
 more undemonstrative than the meeting ; and yet a shrewd 
 observer, skilled in secrets, had not failed to read the history 
 — that both alike loved. Captain Bohun went up, calm as be- 
 fitted a well-bred man : shaking hands after the fashion of 
 society, and apparently with as little interest : but on his face 
 the flush also shone with all its tell-tale brightness; the hand 
 that touched hers thrilled almost to pain. She had risen to 
 receive him : she was just as calm outwardly as he, but her 
 senses were in one maze of wild confusion. 
 
 She began to go on with her work again in a sort of hurried, 
 trembling fashion when he sat down. The day, for her, had 
 
Ellen Adair. 19 
 
 turned to Eilcn ; the flowers were brighter, the song of tho 
 birds was sweeter, the trees were of a golden green, liko 
 unto emeralds ; all things seemed to discourse a sweet music. 
 True love — idealistic, passionate, pure love — is not fluent of 
 speech whatever the world may say, or poets teach. Dr. 
 Rane and Miss North thought they loved each other : and so 
 they did, after a sensible, sober, plain manner : they could 
 have conversed with mutual fluency for ever and a day ; but 
 their love was not this love. It is the custom of modern 
 writers to ignore it : the prevailing fashion is to be matter-of- 
 fact ; realistic ; people don't talk of love now and of course 
 don't feel it : the capability of it has died out ; modes have 
 changed. Ah me ! what a false age it is ; as if we could put 
 off human nature as we do a garment. 
 
 Captain Bohun was the first to break the silence. She had 
 been content to live in it by his side for ever : it was more 
 eloquent, too, than his words were. 
 " What a fine day it is, Ellen ! " 
 
 "Yes. I think summer has come: we shall scarcely have it 
 warmer than this in July. And oh, how lovely everything is ! " 
 "It was hot yesterday. I had a ride of ten miles between 
 green hedges on which the May is beginning to blossom. 
 Envious darkness had shut out the world before I got home." 
 "And I sat out here all the afternoon," she answered — and 
 perhaps she unconsciously spoke more in pursuance of the 
 thought, that she had sat out waiting and hoping for him, 
 than to give the information. " "Where did you go, Arthur?" 
 " To Bretchley. Some of my old brother officers are quar- 
 tered there : and I spent the day with them. What's that 
 for ? " 
 
 He alluded to the piece of work. She smiled as she held 
 it out in her right hand, on the third finger of which was 
 a plain gold ring. A small piece of white canvas with a pink 
 rose and part of a green leaf already worked upon it in bright 
 floss silk. 
 "Guess." 
 
 " Nay, how can I ? For a doll's cushion ? " 
 " Oh Arthur ! " came the laughing exclamation. " If I tell 
 you, you mist keep counsel, mind that, for it is a secret, and 
 I am working at it under difficulties, out of Mrs. Cumberland's 
 sight. Don't you think I have done a great deal ? I only 
 began it yesterday." 
 
 "Well, what's it for ? " he asked, putting his hand unlei> 
 
20 Bessy Rane. 
 
 neath it as an excuse, perhaps, for touching' the fingers it was 
 in. "A firescreen for pretty faces ? " 
 
 The young lady shook her head. " It's for a kettle-holder." 
 
 " A kettle-holder ! What a prosy ending ! " 
 
 " It's for Mrs. Cumberland's invalid kettle that she keeps 
 in her bedroom. The handle got hot a day or two ago, and 
 she burnt her hand. I shall put it on some morning to sur- 
 prise her." 
 
 There ensued a pause of silence. Half their intercourse 
 was made up of pauses : the eloquent language of true love. 
 Captain Bohun, thinking how kindly natured was the girl by 
 his side, played abstractedly with the heap of sweet blossoms 
 lying on the table. 
 
 " What have you been doing with all these violets, Ellen ? " 
 
 " Nothing," she replied; and down fell the scissors. But 
 that she stooped at once, Captain Bohun might have seen the 
 sudden flush on the delicate face, and wondered at it : a flush 
 of remembrance. II m'alme joassionnement. Well, so he 
 did. 
 
 " Please don't entangle my silk, Captain Bohun." 
 
 He laughed as he put down the skein, one of a bright gold 
 colour. " Shall I help you to wind it, Ellen ? " 
 
 " Thank you, but we don't wind floss silk. It would deaden 
 its beauty. Arthur ! do you know that the swallows have 
 come ? " 
 
 "The swallows! Then this summer weather will stay 
 with us, for those birds, have a sure instinct. It is early for 
 them to be here." 
 
 " I saw one this morning. It may be only an a vant- courier, 
 come to report on the weather to the rest." 
 
 She laughed lightly at her own words, and there ensued 
 another pause. Captain Bohun broke it. 
 
 " What a shocking thing this is about Edmund North ! " 
 
 " What is a shocking thing ? " she asked, with indifference, 
 going on with her work as she spoke. Arthur Bohun, who 
 was busy again with the pale blue violets, scarcely as blue as 
 his own eyes, lifted his face and looked at her. 
 
 "I mean altogether. The illness ; the letter ; the grief at 
 home. It is all shocking." 
 
 " Is Edmund North ill ? I did not know it." 
 
 " Ellen ! " 
 
 Living in the very atmosphere of the illness, amidst its sea 
 of bustle, distress, and attendant facts, to Arthur Bohun it 
 
Ellen Adair. 21 
 
 seemed almost an impossibility that she should be in ignorance 
 of it. 
 
 " Why, -what has Rane been abont, not to tell yon ?" 
 
 " I don't know. What is the matter with Edmund North ?" 
 
 Captain Bohun explained the illness and its cause. Her 
 work dropped on her knee as she listened ; her face grew pale 
 with interest. She never once interrupted him ; every sym- 
 pathetic feeling within her was aroused to warm indignation. 
 
 " An anonymous letter ! " she at length exclaimed. " That's 
 worse than a stab." 
 
 "A fellow, writing one of malice, puts himself beyond the 
 pale of decent society : shooting would be too good for him," 
 quietly remarked Captain Bohun. " Here comes a summons 
 for you, I expect, Helen." 
 
 Even so. One of the maids approached, saying Mrs. Cum- 
 berland was downstairs ; and so the interview was broken up. 
 Captain Bohun would perforce have taken his departure, but 
 Miss Adair invited him in — to tell the sad story to Mrs. Cum- 
 berland. Only too glad was he of any plea that kept him by 
 Ellen's side. 
 
 Putting her work away in her pocket, she took the arm that 
 was held out, and they went wandering through the garden ; 
 lingering by the cascade, dreaming in the dark cypress walk, 
 standing over the beds of beautiful flowers. A seductive time ; 
 life's gala summer; but a time that never stays, for the biting 
 frosts of winter and reality succeed it surely and swiftly. 
 
 Nothing had been said between them, but each was conscious 
 of what the other felt. Neither had whispered in so many 
 words, " I love you." Ellen did not hint that she had watched 
 for him the v\ hole of the past live-long day with love's sick 
 longing ; he did not confess how lost the day had been to him, 
 how worse than weary, because it did not give him a sight of 
 her. These avowals might come in time, but they would not 
 be needed. 
 
 Stepping in through the middle doors of the bay window, 
 as Arthur Bohun had made his exit from the opposite one, they 
 looked round for Mrs. Cumberland, and did not see her. She 
 was in the drawing-room on the other side the small hall, 
 sitting near the Gothic windows that faced the road. A pale, 
 reticent, lady-like woman, always suffering, but making more 
 of her sufferings than she need have done — as her son, Dr. 
 Rane, not over-dutifully thought. Her eyes were light and 
 cold ; her flaxen hair, banded smoothly under a cap, was turning 
 
22 Bessy Rane. 
 
 grey. But that Mrs. Cumberland was entirely occupied with 
 self, and but little with her ward, Ellen Adair, she might have 
 noticed before now the suggestive intimacy between that young 
 lady and Arthur Bohun. 
 
 "Captain Bohun is here, Mrs. Cumberland," said Helen, 
 when they entered. " He has some very sad news to tell 
 
 "And the extraordinary part of the business is that you 
 should not have heard it before," added Arthur, as he shook 
 hands with Mrs. Cumberland. 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland's rich black silk gown rustled a very little 
 as she responded to the greeting ; but there was no smile on 
 her grey face, her cold eyes wore no brighter light. In her 
 way she was glad to see him : that is, she had no objection to 
 see him ; but gladness and Mrs. Cumberland seemed to have 
 parted company. The suffering that arises from chronic pain 
 makes a selfish nature doubly selfish. 
 
 " What is the news that Ellen speaks of, Captain Bobun? " 
 
 He stood leaning against the mantel-piece as he told the 
 tale: told it systematically ; the first advent of the anonymous 
 letter to Mr. Nqrth ; the angry, passionate spirit in which 
 Edmund North had taken it up ; bis stormy interview with 
 the surgeon, Alexander ; the subsequent attack, and the hope- 
 lessness in which he was lying. For once Mrs. Cumberland 
 was aroused to feel sympathy in another's sufferings : she 
 listened with painful interest. 
 
 " And it was Oliver who was called in first to Edmund 
 North ! " she presently exclaimed, with inquiring emphasis, as 
 if unable to credit the fact. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " But how was it he did not step in here afterwards to tell 
 me the news ? " added she, resentfully. 
 
 Captain Bohun could not answer that so readily. Ellen 
 Adair, ever ready to find a charitable excuse for the world, 
 turned to Mrs. Cumberland. 
 
 "Dr. Rane may have had to see patients. Perhaps he did 
 not get home until too late to come here." 
 
 " Yes, he did ; I saw his lamp burning before ten o'clock," 
 was Mrs. Cumberland's answer. " Ah ! this is another proof 
 that I am being forgotten," she went on, bitterly. " When a 
 woman has seen fifty years of life, she is old in the sight of 
 her children, and tbey go then their own way in the world, 
 leaving her to neglect." 
 
In Mrs. G ass's Parlour. 23 
 
 " But, dear Mrs. Cumberland, Dr. Rane does not neglect 
 you," said Ellen, struck with the injustice of the complaint. 
 He is ever the first to come in and amuse you -with what 
 news he knows." 
 
 " And in this instance he may have kept silence from a good 
 nutive — the wish to spare you pain," added Captain Bohun. 
 
 " True, true," murmured Mrs. Cumberland, her mind taking 
 a more reasonable track. " Oliver has always been dutiful." 
 
 On departure, Captain Bohun crossed the road to Mr. Alex- 
 ander's ; a slight limp being visible in his gait. The mystery 
 that appeared to be surrounding the surgeon's movements at 
 present, puzzled him not a little ; his prolonged absence seemed 
 unaccountable. The surgery, through which he entered, was 
 empty, and he opened the door leading from it to the house. 
 A maid-servant met him. 
 
 " Is Mr. Alexander at home ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Papa's gone to London," called out a young gentleman of 
 ten, who came running along the passage, cracking a whip. 
 "He went last night. They sent for him." 
 
 " Who sent for him ? " asked Captain Bohvn. 
 
 " The people. Mamma's gone too. They are coming home 
 to-day ; and mamma's going to bring me a Chinese puzzle 
 and a box of chocolate if she had time to buy them." 
 
 Not much information, this. As Captain Bohun turned out 
 again, he stood at the door, wishing he had a decent plea to 
 take him over to Mrs. Cumberland's again. He was an idle 
 man ; living only in the sweet pastime of making that silent 
 love. 
 
 But Mrs. North never suspected that he was making it, or 
 knew that he was intimate at Mrs. Cumberland's. Still less 
 did she suspect that Mrs. Cumberland had a young lady inmate 
 named Ellen Adair. It would have startled her to terror 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FN MRS. GASS'S PARLOUR. 
 
 Early on the following morning the ringing out of the death- 
 bell from the church at Dallory proclaimed to those who heard 
 it that Edmund North had passed to his rest. He had never 
 recovered consciousness, and died some thirty-six hours after 
 the attack. 
 
24 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Amidst those who did not hear it was Oliver Rane. The 
 doctor had been called out at daybreak to a country patient in 
 an opposite direction, getting back between eight and nine 
 o'clock. 
 
 He sat at his breakfast in the dining-room, unconscious of 
 the morning's calamity. Hot coffee, broiled ham, two eggs. 
 The table stood in front of the large bay-window. 
 
 " She has done it too much — stupid thing ! " exclaimed Dr. 
 Rane, cutting the slice of ham in two and apostrophising his 
 unconscious servant. " Yesterday it was hardly warmed 
 through. Just like them ! — make a complaint, and they rush 
 to the other extreme. I wonder how things are going on there 
 this morning ? " 
 
 He glanced up towards the distant quarter where the Hall 
 was situated, for his query had reference to Edmund North ; 
 and this gave him the opportunity of seeing something else : 
 a woman stepping out of Mrs. Cumberland's dining-room. 
 She was getting on for forty, tall enough for a May-pole, with 
 inquisitive green eyes, sallow cheeks, remarkably thin, as if 
 she had lost her back teeth, and a bunch of black ringlets on 
 either side of her face. She wore the white apron and cap of 
 a servant, but looked one of a superior class. Emerging from 
 the opposite window, she stepped across the wire fence and 
 approached Dr. Rane. 
 
 " What does Jelly want now ? " he mentally asked. 
 
 Jelly ! A curious name, no doubt, but it was hers. Fanny 
 Jelly. When Mrs. Cumberland had engaged her as upper 
 maid, she decided to call her by the latter name, Fanny being 
 her own. 
 
 Jelly entered without ceremony — she was not given to 
 observe much at the best of times. She had come to say that 
 he need not provide anything for his dinner ; her mistress 
 meant to send him in a fowl — if he would accept it. 
 
 "With pleasure, tell her," said Dr. Rane. "How is my 
 mother this morning, Jelly ? " 
 
 " She has had a good night, and is pretty tolerable this 
 morning," replied Jelly, giving a backward fling to her 
 flying cap-strings — for she did not follow the new fashion 
 of a round bit of net on the back hair and call it a cap. 
 " The foreign letters have come in ; two for her, one for Miss 
 •Adair." 
 
 Dr. Rane, not particularly interested in the said foreign 
 letters, went on eating his breakfast. Jelly, with characteristic 
 
/;/ Mrs. G ass's Parlour. 2$ 
 
 composure, stood at case just inside the window watching 
 the process. 
 
 " That ham is dried up to fiddle-strings," she suddenly said. 
 
 " Yes. Phillis has done it too much." 
 
 " And I should like to have the doing of her!" spoke Jelly 
 in a wrathful tone. " It is a sin to spoil good food." 
 
 "So it is," said Dr. Rane. 
 
 " So that poor young man's gone ! " she resumed, as he 
 cracked an egg. 
 
 The doctor lifted his head quickly. " What young man ? " 
 
 "Edmund North. He died at half -past seven this morning." 
 
 "Who says it ? " cried Dr. Rane, a startled look crossing 
 his face and eyes. 
 
 " The milkman told me : he heard the passing-hell toll out. 
 You needn't be surprised, sir : there has been no hope from 
 the first." 
 
 " But there has been hope," disputed the doctor. "There 
 was hope yesterday at midday, there was hope last night. I 
 don't believe he is dead." 
 
 "Well, sir, then you must disbelieve it," equably answered 
 Jelly; but she glanced keenly out at him from, her green eyes, 
 " Edmund North is as certainly dead as that I stand here." 
 
 He seemed strangely moved at the tidings : a quiver stirred 
 his lips, the colour in his face faded to whiteness. Jelly, having 
 looked as much as she chose, turned to depart. 
 
 " Then we are to send in the fowl, sir ? " 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 " Tell Phillis, please, that it will be all ready for the spit." 
 
 He watched her dreamily as she crossed the low fence ar d 
 disappeared within her proper domains ; he pushed the ham, 
 not eaten, from him, he turned sick at the underdone egg, 
 whose shell had just been broken. What, though he preferred 
 eggs underdone in calm times ? calm times were not these. 
 The news did indeed trouble him in no measured degree : it 
 was so sad for a man in the prime of early life to be cut off 
 thus : Edmund North was but a year or two older than him- 
 self : two days ago he had been as full of health and life, deep 
 in the plans and projects of this world, thinking little of the 
 next. Sad ? it was horrible. And Dr. Rane's breakfast was 
 spoiled for that day. 
 
 He got up to walk the room restlessly : he looked at himself 
 in the chimney glass ; possibly to see how the news might 
 have affected his features ; in all he did there was a hurried, 
 
26 Bessy Rane. 
 
 confused kind of motion, betraying that the mind must be in 
 a state of perturbation. By-and-by be snatched up his hat, 
 and went forth, taking the direction of the Hall. 
 
 " I ought to call. It will look well for me to call. It is a 
 civility I owe to them," he kept repeating at intervals, as he 
 strode along. Just as though he thought in his inmost heart 
 he ought not to call, and were seeking arguments to excuse to 
 himself his doing so. 
 
 How eager he was to be there and see and hear all that 
 was transpiring, he alone knew. No power could have stopped 
 him, whether to go were suitable or unsuitable ; for he had a 
 strong will. He did not take the lane this time, but went 
 straight alone the high road, turning in at the iron gates, and 
 up the chestnut avenue. The young green of the trees was 
 beautiful : birds sang on their branches ; the blue sky 
 flickered through the waving leaves. Winding on, Dr. Rane 
 met Thomas Hepburn, the undertaker and carpenter : a sickly 
 looking but very intelligent and respectable man. 
 
 "Is it you, Hepburn ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I've been in to take the orders. What an awful 
 thing it is ! " he continued in a low tone, glancing round at 
 the closed windows, as if fearful they might detect what he 
 was saying. " The scoundrel who Avrote that letter ought to 
 be tried for murder when they discover him. And they are 
 safe to do that, sooner or later." 
 
 "The writer could have done no great harm but for Edmund 
 North's allowing himself to go into that fatal passion." 
 
 " An anonymous writer is — an anonymous writer," re- 
 joined Hepburn with scorn. "They say there'll not be an 
 inquest." 
 
 " An inquest ! " repeated the doctor, to whom the idea of 
 one had never occurred. " There's no necessity for an in- 
 quest." 
 
 " Well, doctor, I suppose the law would in strictness exact 
 it. But Mr. North is against it, and it's thought his wishes 
 will be respected." 
 
 " Any of the medical men can furnish a certificate of the 
 cause of death. I could do it myself." 
 
 " Yes, of course. But I've got no time to stay talking," 
 added the undertaker. " Good-day to you, sir." 
 
 The next to come forth from the house was Alexander, 
 the surgeon. Dr. Rane rubbed his eyes, almost thinking they 
 deceived him. The brother practitioners shook hands ; and 
 
In Mrs. Gasss Parlour. 27 
 
 Mr. Alexander — a little man with dark hair — explained what 
 had seemed uncxplainable. 
 
 It seemed that the very same evening delivery which 
 brought Mr. North the anonymous letter, had brought one to 
 Mr. Alexander. His was from London, informing him that 
 he had been appointed to a post connected with one of the 
 hospitals, and requesting him to go up at once for a few hours. 
 , Mr. Alexander made ready, got a fly, and started with his 
 . wife for the station, bidding the driver halt at Mr. North's 
 iron gates. As he was in attendance at that time on Edmund 
 North, he wished to give notice of his temporary absence. To 
 be attacked furiously by Edmund North the moment he got 
 inside the doors, and as it seemed to him, without rhyme or 
 reason, put Mr. Alexander into a bit of a passion also. There 
 was no time for elucidation, neither was a single word he 
 said listened to, and the surgeon hastened out to his waiting 
 fly. He had returned by the first train this morning — London 
 was not much more than an hour's journey by rail — and 
 found that Edmund North had died of that self -same passion. 
 Half paralysed with grief and horror, Mr. Alexander hastened 
 to the Hall ; and was now coming from it, having fully 
 exculpated himself in all ways in the sight of its master. 
 Nearly as fully he spoke now to Dr. Rane ; in his grief, in his 
 straightforward candour, nothing selfish or sinister could 
 hide itself. 
 
 The transaction in regard to drawing the bill had been 
 wholly Edmund North's. Some months ago he had sought 
 Mr. Alexander, saying he was in want of a sum of money, — 
 a hundred pounds ; he did not know how to put his hands 
 just then upon it, not wishing to apply to his own family ; 
 would he, the surgeon, like a good fellow, lend it ? At 
 first, Mr. Alexander had excused himself ; for one thing he 
 had not the money — fancy a poor country surgeon wi'ch a 
 hundred pounds loose cash, he said ; but eventually he fell in 
 with Edmund North's pleadings. A bill was drawn, both of 
 them being liable, and was discounted by Dale, the lawyer of 
 Whitborough. When the bill had become due (about a week 
 ago) neither of them could meet it ; and the matter was 
 arranged with Dale by a second bill. 
 
 " What I cannot understand is, how Edmund North, poor 
 fellow, could have pitched upon me as the writer of that 
 letter," observed the surgeon to Dr. Rane, when he had 
 finished his recital. He must have gone clean daft to think 
 
28 Bessy Rane. 
 
 it. I had no cause to disclose it ; I did not fear but lie would 
 eventually meet the bill." 
 
 " I told them yon could not have written it," quietly re- 
 joined the doctor. 
 
 Mr. Alexander brought down his hand on a tree-branch 
 with angry emphasis. " Rane, I'd give a thousand pounds out 
 of my pocket — if I were a rich man and had it — to know 
 who wrote the letter and worked the mischief. I never dis- 
 closed the transaction to a living soul ; I don't believe Ed- 
 mund North did ; besides us, it was known only to the dis- 
 counter. Dale is a safe man ; so it seems a regular mystery. 
 And mark you, Rane — that letter was written to damage me 
 at the Hall, not Edmund North." 
 
 Dr. Rane gazed at the other in great surprise. " To damage 
 you ? " _ 
 
 "It is the view I take of it. And so, on reflection, does 
 Richard North." 
 
 " Nonsense, Alexander ! " 
 
 "If ever the hidden particulars see daylight, you will find 
 that it is not nonsense, but truth," was the surgeon's answer. 
 " I must have some enemies in the neighbourhood, I sup- 
 pose ; most professional men have ; and they no doubt hoped 
 to do for me with Mr. North. The Norths in a degree sway 
 other people here, and so I should have lost my practice, and 
 been driven away." 
 
 Oliver Rane had raised his cane, and was lightly flicking tho 
 shrub by which he stood, his air that of one in deep thought. 
 
 " I confess T do not follow you, Alexander. Your ill-doing 
 and well-doing is nothing to Mr. North ; his son's of course 
 was. If you lived by drawing bills, it could be no concern of 
 his." 
 
 " The drawing of bills on my own score would certainly bo 
 of no moment to Mr. North ; but the drawing them in conjunc- 
 tion with his son would be. Upon which of us would he na- 
 turally lay the blame ? Upon a young, heedless man, as 
 Edmund North was ; or upon me, a middle-aged, established 
 member of society, w r ith a home and a family ? The case 
 speaks for itself." 
 
 Oliver Rane did not appear quite to admit this. He thought 
 the probability lay against Mr. Alexander's theory, rather than 
 with it. " Of course," he slowly said, "looking at it in that 
 light, the letter would tell either way. But I think you must 
 be wrong'." 
 
hi Mrs. Gass's Parlour. 29 
 
 " No, I am not. Whoever wrote that missive did it to injure 
 me. I seemed to see it, as by an instinct, the minute Mr. 
 North gave me the letter to read. If the motive was to drive 
 me from Dallory, it might have been spared, and Edmund 
 North saved for I am going to quit it of my own accord." 
 " To quit Dallory ? " 
 
 "Ina month's time from this I and mine will have left it 
 for London. The situation now given to me I have been try- 
 ing for, under the rose, these sis months past." 
 " But why do you wish to quit Dallory ? " 
 
 "To better myself, as the servants say," replied Mr. Alex- 
 ander, "and the move will do that considerably. Another 
 reason is that my wife dislikes Dallory. Madam turned her 
 nose up at us socially when we first settled here ; and that, 
 in a degree, kept the best society closed to Mrs. Alexander. 
 She is well-born, has been reared a lady ; and of course it was 
 enough to set her against the place. Besides, all our friends 
 are in London ; and so, you see, if my exit into the wilderness 
 was what that anonymous individual was driving at, he might 
 have gained his ends without crime, had he waited but a short 
 while." 
 
 " I hate Mrs. North," dreamily spoke Dr. Rane; "and I 
 am sure she hates me, though the wherefore is to me incom- 
 prehensible." 
 
 " Look there," spoke the surgeon, dropping his voice. 
 
 Both had, simultaneously, caught sight of Mrs. North. She 
 was passing the shrubbery close by, and looked out at them. 
 They raised their hats. Mr. Alexander made a movement to 
 approach her ; she saw it, and turned from him back to the 
 dark wall with her usual sweeping step. So he remained 
 where he was. 
 
 " She asked to see me on Tuesday night when I was leaving ; 
 wanting to know if I could tell her who wrote the letter," said 
 Dr. Rane. 
 
 " She suspected me, I suppose." 
 
 " She appeared to suspect— not you, but somebody else ; and 
 that was Richard North." 
 
 " Richard North ! " ironically repeated Mr. Alexander. 
 " She knows quite well that he is above suspicion ; perhaps 
 she was only trying to divert attention from some other : she 
 is made up of craft. Who knows but she wrote the letter 
 herself ? " 
 
 " Mrs. North ! " 
 
30 Bessy Ra?ie. 
 
 " Upon my word and honour the thought is in my mind, 
 Rane. If the motive of the letter were as you think — to do 
 Edmnnd North damage with his father, — I know of only one 
 person who would attempt it, and that is Mrs. North." 
 
 Their eyes met : a strange light shone momentarily in Oliver 
 Rane's. In saying that he hated Mrs. North, he spoke truth ; 
 hut there was every excuse for the feeling, for it was quite 
 certain that Mrs. North had long been working him what ill 
 she could. His marriage with Bessy was being delayed, and 
 delayed entirely through her covert opposition. 
 
 " That she is an entirely unscrupulous woman, and would 
 stand at nothing, I feel sure," spoke Dr. Rane, drawing a deep 
 breath. " But, as to the letter—? " 
 
 " Well, — as to the letter ? " cried the surgeon, in the 
 pause come to. "I don't say she foresaw that it would kill 
 him." 
 
 " This would disprove your theory of its being written to 
 damage you, Alexander." 
 
 " Not altogether. The damaging another, more or less, 
 would be of no moment at all to Mrs. North ; she'd crush 
 anybody without scruple." 
 
 " I'm sure she'd crush me," spoke Dr. Rane. " Heaven 
 knows why ; I don't." 
 
 " Well, if she did write the letter, I think her conscience 
 must smite her as she looks at the poor dead man lying there. 
 Good day, Rane : I have not been home to see my little ones 
 yet. Mrs. Alexander is remaining in town for a day or two." 
 
 In talking, they had walked slowly to the end of the avenue ; 
 Mr. Alexander passed through the gates, and took the road 
 towards the Ham. 
 
 " I may as well go on at once, and see Ketler," thought Dr. 
 Rane. " Time enough to call at the Hall as I return." 
 
 So he went on towards Dallory. Two gentlemen passed 
 him on horseback, county magistrates, who were probably 
 going to the Hall. The sight of them turned his thoughts to 
 the subject of an inquest : he began speculating why Mr. 
 North wished to evade it, and whether he would succeed. 
 For his own part, he did not see that the case, speaking in 
 point of law, called for one. Hepburn said it did ; and he 
 was supposed, as undertaker-in-chief to Dallory, to understand 
 these things. 
 
 Deep in reflection, the doctor strode on ; when, in passing 
 Mrs. Gass's house, a sharp tapping at the window saluted his 
 
In Mrs. Gass's Parlour. 3 1 
 
 ear. It came from that lady herself, and she flung up tho 
 sash. 
 
 " Just come in, will you, Dr. Rane ? I want you for some- 
 thing very particular." 
 
 He felt sure she only wanted to question him about the 
 death, and would a great deal rather have gone on : but with 
 her red and smiling face inviting him in peremptorily, he did 
 not see his way clear to refuse. 
 
 " And so he is gone — that poor young man ! " she began, 
 meeting him in her smart dress and pink cap. " When I 
 heard the death-bell strike out this morning, it sounded to me 
 a'most like my own knell." 
 
 "Yes, he is gone — unhappily," murmured Dr. Rane. 
 
 " Well, now, doctor, the next thing is — what became of you 
 yesterday ? " 
 
 The transition of subject appeared peculiar. 
 
 " Became of me ? " repeated Dr. Rane. " How do you mean ? " 
 
 " All the mortal day I was stuck at this here parlour win- 
 dow, waiting to see you go by," proceeded Mrs. Gass. " You 
 nevfer passed once." 
 
 " Yes, I did. I passed by in the morning." 
 
 " My eyes must have gone a-maying then, for they never 
 saw you," was Mrs Gass's answer. 
 
 " It was before my usual hour. I was called out early to a 
 sick man in Dallory, and I took the opportunity to see Ketler 
 at the same time." 
 
 " Then that accounts for the milk in the cocoa-nuts ; and I 
 waited my time for nothing," was her good-tempered rejoinder. 
 
 " Why did you want to see me pass ? " 
 
 Mrs. Gass paused for a moment before replying. She 
 glanced round to see that the door was closed, and dropped 
 her voice nearly to a whisper. 
 
 " Dr. Rane, who wrote that fatal letter ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell." 
 
 11 Did you ? " 
 
 Oliver Rane stared at her, a sudden flush of anger dyeing 
 his brow. No wonder : the question, put with emphatic 
 earnestness, seemed an assertion, almost like that startling 
 reproach of Nathan to David. 
 
 "Mrs. Gass, I do not know what you mean." 
 
 " I see you don't relish it, doctor. But I am a plain body, 
 as you know ; and when in doubt about a thing, pleasant or 
 unpleasant, I like to ask an explanation straight out." 
 
32 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " But why should you be in doubt about this ? " he inquired 
 wonderingly. " What can induce you to connect me with the 
 letter ? " 
 
 Mrs. Gass took her portly person across the room to a desk ; 
 unlocked it, and brought forth a folded piece of paper. She 
 handed it to Dr. Rane. 
 
 It was not a letter ; it could not be the copy of one : but it 
 did appear to be the rough sketch of the anonymous missive 
 that had reached Mr. North. Some of the sentences were 
 written two or three times over ; in a close hand, in a scrawl- 
 ing hand, in a reversed hand, as if the writer were practising 
 different styles ; in others the construction was altered, words 
 were erased, different ones substituted. Oliver Rane gazed 
 upon it like one in complete bewilderment. 
 
 " What is this, Mrs. Gass ? " 
 
 " Is it not the skeleton of the letter ? " 
 
 " No, certainly not. And yet " Dr. Rane broke off 
 
 and ran his eye over the lines again and again. " There is a 
 similarity in some of the phrases," he suddenly said. 
 
 " Some of the phrases is identical," returned Mrs. Gass. 
 " When Mr. Richard North was here yesterday, I got him to 
 repeat over to me the words of the letter ; word for word, so 
 far as he remembered 'em, and I know 'em for these words. 
 Whoever writ that letter to Mr. North, doctor, first of all tried 
 his sentences and his hand on this paper, practising how he 
 could best do it." 
 
 " How did you come by this ? " 
 
 "You left it here the night before last." 
 
 " I left it here ! " repeated Dr. Rane, looking as if he 
 mentally questioned whether Mrs. Gass was in her right 
 senses. 
 
 "Yes. You." 
 
 "But you must be dreaming, Mrs. Gass." 
 
 "I never do dream — that sort of dreaming," replied Mrs. 
 Gass. " Look here " — putting her stout hand, covered with 
 valuable rings, on his coat sleeve—" didn't you upset your 
 pocket-book here that night ? Well, this piece of paper fell 
 out of it." 
 
 " It could not have done anything of the sort," he repeated, 
 getting flushed and angry again. "All the papers that fell 
 out of my pocket-book I picked up and returned to it." 
 
 " You didn't pick up this ; it must have fluttered away un- 
 seen. Just after you were gone I dropped my spectacle-case, 
 
In Mrs. Gass's Parlour. 33 
 
 and in stooping for it, I saw this piece of paper lying in the 
 shade of the table's claw." 
 
 " But it could not have come out of my pocket-book. Just 
 tell me if you please, Mrs. Grass, what should bring such a 
 document in my possession ? " 
 
 " That's just what I can't tell. The paper was not there 
 before candle-light ; I'll answer for that much ; so where else 
 could it have come from ? " 
 
 The last words were not spoken as an assertion of her view, 
 but as a question. Dr. Bane looked at her, she at him ; both 
 seeming equally puzzled. 
 
 " Had you any visitor lasteverin^besides myself ? " he asked. 
 
 11 Not a soul. The only person that came into the parlour, 
 barring my own servants, was Molly Green, under-housemaid 
 at the Hall. She lived with me once, and calls in sometimes 
 in passing to ask how I am. They sent her into Dallory for 
 something wanted at the chemist's, and she looked in to tell 
 me. The thing had just happened." 
 
 Dr. Bane's brow lost its perplexity : an easy smile, as if the 
 mystery were solved, crossed his face. The hint recently 
 given him by Mr. Alexander was in his mind. 
 
 " I'm glad you've told me this, Mrs. Gass. The paper 
 was more likely to have been left by Molly Green than by me. 
 It may have dropped from her petticoats." 
 
 "Goodness bless the man! From her petticoats! Why 
 she had run all the way from the Hall. And how was she 
 likely to pick it up in that house — even though her gown- 
 hem had been finished off with pot-hooks ? " 
 
 " What cause have I given you to suspect me of this ? " re- 
 torted Dr. Bane in a harsh tone. 
 
 "Only this — that I don't see where the paper could have 
 come from but out of your own pocket-book," replied Mrs. 
 Gass frankly. " I have no other cause to suspect you ; I'd as 
 soon suspect myself. It is just a mystery, and nothing else." 
 
 " Whatever the mystery may be, it is not connected with 
 my pocket-book, Mrs. Gass," he emphatically said. "Did you 
 mention this to Bichard North ? " 
 
 "No. Nor to anybody else. It was not a pleasant thing 
 to speak of, you see." 
 
 " Not a pleasant thing for me, certainly, to be suspected of 
 having dropped that paper. The culprit, an innocent one, no 
 doubt, must have been Molly Green." 
 
 " I never was so brought up in all my life," cried the puzzled 
 
 D 
 
34 Bessy Rane. 
 
 woman. As to Molly Green — it must be just a fancy of yours, 
 doctor, for it never can be fact." 
 
 Oliver Rane drew bis cbair a little nearer to Mrs. Gass, 
 and wbispered a word of tbe doubt touching Mrs. North. He 
 only spoke of it as a doubt ; a hint at most ; but Mrs. Gass 
 was not slow to take it. 
 i " Heaven help the woman ! — if it's her work." 
 
 " But this must not be breathed aloud," he said, taking 
 alarm. " It may be a false suspicion." 
 
 " Don't fear me : it's a thing too grave for me to mis my- 
 self up in," was the reply: and to give Mrs. Gass her due, 
 she did look scared in no slight degree. " Dr. Rane, I am 
 sorry for saying what I did to you. It was the impossibility, 
 as I took it, of anything's having left it here but that flutter 
 of papers from your pocket-book. Whoever would have 
 gave a thought to Molly Green ? " 
 
 Dr. Rane made no answer. 
 
 " She put her basket down by the door there, and came up 
 the room to look at my geraniums ; I held the candle for her. 
 I remember she caught her crinoline on the corner of the iron 
 fender, and it gave her a twist round. The idiots that girls 
 make of themselves with them big crinolines ! Perhaps it 
 dropped from her then." 
 
 " Well, let us bury it in silence, Mrs. Gass ; it is but a doubt 
 at best," said the prudent but less eloquent physician. " You 
 will allow me to take this," he added, alluding to the paper. 
 " I should like to examine it at leisure." 
 
 " Take it, and welcome," she answered ; " I'm glad to be rid 
 of it. As to burying it in silence, we had better, I expect, both 
 do that." 
 
 "Even to Richard North," he enjoined rather anxiously. 
 
 " Even to Richard North. I have kept secrets in my day, 
 doctor, and can keep e'm again." 
 
 Dr. Rane put the paper in his pocket-book, deposited that 
 in the breast pocket of his coat, and took his departure. But 
 now, being a shrewd man, a suspicion that he would not have 
 given utterance to for the whole world, lay on Dr. Rane — 
 that it was more in accordance with probability that the paper 
 had dropped out of his pocket-book than from Molly Green's 
 petticoats, seeing they were not finished off with fish-hooks. 
 
 A heavy weight lying there on his breast ! And he went 
 along with a loitering step, asking himself how the paper 
 could have originally come there. 
 
A hue with the Naked Truth. 35 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ALONE WITH THE NAKED TRUTH. 
 
 Oliver Rane was in his bed-chamber ; a front apartment 
 facing the road. It will be as well to give a word of descrip- 
 tion to this first floor, for it may prove needfnl as the tale goes 
 on. There was a very large landing-place, the boards white 
 and bare, with a spacions window looking full to the side of 
 the other honse, as the dining-room beneath it did. Wide, low, 
 and curtainless was this landing- window ; imparting in con- 
 junction with the bare floors and walls, a staring, bleak ap- 
 pearance to the place. Mrs. Cumberland's opposite landing, 
 (could you have seen it) presented quite a different aspect, 
 with its rich carpet of many colours, its statues, vases, book- 
 cases, and its tasty window-drapery. Dr. Rane could not 
 afford luxuries yet ; or, indeed, superfluous furniture. The 
 stairs led down nearly close to this window, so that in coming 
 from any of the bed-rooms, or the upper floor, to descend 
 below, yon had to face it. 
 
 To get into Dr. Rane's chamber — the best in the house — an 
 ante-room had to be passed through, whose door was opposite 
 to the large window. Two chambers opened fi'om the back of 
 the landing : they faced the back lane that ran along beyond 
 the garden wall. Above, in the roof, were two other rooms, 
 both three-cornered. Phillis, tho old serving- woman, slejjt on 
 that floor in one of them, Dr. Rane on this : the house had no 
 other inmates. 
 
 The ante-room had no furniture : unless some curious- 
 looking articles lying on the floor could be called such. They 
 seemed to consist chiefly of glass : jars covered in dust, a 
 cylindrical glass-pump, and other things pertaining to 
 chemistry, of which science the doctor was fond. Certainly 
 the architect had not made the most of this floor, or he would 
 never have expended so much space on the landing. But if 
 this ante-room was not furnished, Dr. Rane's chamber was ; 
 and well, too. The entrance door was in the middle of the 
 beautifully papered wall of white aud gold, the dressing-table 
 and glass stood opposite before, the window. The fire-place 
 was on the left ; a handsome white Arabian bedstead picked 
 out with gold, on the right, its hangings, of green damask, 
 matching the window drapery and in colour the soft carpet. 
 
36 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Other furniture stood about, all very good of its kind, and 
 the whole in harmony. 
 
 Seated at the round table in the middle, of the room, hi3 
 hand raised to support his head, was Dr. Rane. He had but 
 just come in, and it was now one o'clock — his ordinary dinner 
 hour. Is was that same morning told of in the last chapter, 
 when he had quitted Mrs. Gass's house with that dangerous 
 piece of paper weighing down his pocket and his heart. He 
 had been detained out. As he was entering the door of the 
 sick man, Ketler, whom he had proceeded at once to see, a 
 bustle in the street, and much wild running of women, warned 
 him that something must have happened. Two men had fallen 
 into the river at the back of the North Works ; and excited 
 people were shouting that they were drowned. Not quite : as 
 Dr. Rane saw when he reached the spot : not beyond hope of 
 restoration. Patiently the doctor persevered in his endeavours. 
 He got life into them at length ; and stayed afterwards caring 
 for them. After that, he had Ketler and other patients to see, 
 and it was nearly one when he bent his steps towards home. 
 In the morning he had said to himself that he would call at the 
 Hall on his return ; but he passed its gates ; perhaps because 
 it was his dinner hour, for one o'clock was striking. 
 
 Hanging up his hat in the small hall, leaving his cane in the 
 corner — a pretty little thing with a gold stag for its head — he 
 was making straight for the stairs, when the servant, Phillis, 
 came out of the kitchen. A little woman of some five-and- 
 fifty years, with high shoulders, and her head poking forward. 
 Her chin and nose were sharp now, but the once good-looking 
 face was meek and mild, the sweet dark eyes were subdued, 
 and the hair, peeping from beneath the close white cap, was 
 grey. She wore a dark cotton gown and check apron, and her 
 arms were bare to the elbows. A tidy -looking, respectable 
 woman, in spite of her unfashionable appearance. 
 
 " Is that you, master ? Them folks have been over from the 
 brick-kilns, saying the woman's not so well to-day, if you'd 
 please to go to her." 
 
 Dr. Rane nodded his head. He went on up the stairs and 
 into his own room, the door of which he locked. Why ? Phillis 
 was not in the habit of intruding upon him, and there was no 
 one else in the house. The first thing he did was to take the 
 paper received from Mrs. Gass out of his pocket-book, and 
 read it attentively twice over. Then he struck a match, set 
 fire to it, and watched it consume away in the empty grate. A 
 
Alone with the Naked Truth. 37 
 
 dangerous memento, whosesoever hand had penned it; and the 
 physician did well, in the interests of humanity, to put it out 
 of sight for ever. The task over, he leaned against the window- 
 frame, in the shade of the flowing damask window-curtain, and 
 lapsed into thought. He was dwelling upon the death at 
 Dallory Hall, and what it might bring forth. 
 
 Hepburn, the undertaker, was right. There was to be no 
 inquest. So much Dr. Rane had learned from Richard North : 
 who had hastened to the works on hearing of the accident to 
 his men. The two Whitborough doctors had given the certifi- 
 cate of death — apoplexy, to which there had been a previous 
 tendency, though immediately brought on by excitement — and 
 nothing more was required by law. From a word spoken by 
 Richard, Dr. Rane gathered that it was Madam (as Mrs. 
 North was very generally called) who had set her veto against 
 an inquest. And quite right too ; there was no necessity 
 whatever for one, had been the answering comment made by 
 Oliver Rane to Richard. But now — now when he was alone 
 with himself and the naked truth : when there was no man at 
 hand whose opinion it might be well to humour or deceive : no 
 eye upon him save God's, he could not help acknowledging that 
 had he been Mr. North, had it been his son who was thus cut 
 off from life, he should have called for an inquest to be held. 
 Ay, ten inquests, and the law would have allowed them ; if 
 by that means he might have traced the letter home to its 
 writer. 
 
 Quitting his place by the window, he sat down at the table 
 and bent his forehead upon his hand. Never in his whole life 
 had anything so affected him as this death : and it was perhaps 
 natural that he should set himself to see whether, or not, any 
 kind of excuse might be found for the anonymous writer. 
 
 He began by putting himself in idea into the writer's place 
 and argued the point for him : for and against. Chiefly for 
 it was on that side his bias leaned. It is very easy, as th« 
 world knows, to find a plea for those in whom we are interestet 
 or on whom misfortune falls ; it is so natural to indulge foi 
 their sakes in a little sophistry. Such sophistry came now tt 
 the help of the physician. 
 
 "What cause had Edmund North to fly into a dangerou 
 passion ? " ran the self -argument. " Only a madman woulo 
 have been expected to do so. There was nothing in the lettei 
 that need have excited him, absolutely nothing. It was 
 (probably) written with a very harmless view ; certainly the 
 
33 Bessy Rane. 
 
 writer never could have dreamt that it might have the effect 
 of destroying a life." 
 
 Destroying a man's life ! A flush passed into Oliver Rane's 
 face at the thought, dyeing neck and brow crimson. And, 
 with it, came back the words of Hepburn — that the writer was 
 a mui'derer and might come to be tried for it. A murderer ! 
 a slayer of one's inoffensive fellow-man ! There is no other 
 self-reproach under heaven that can bring home so much 
 anguish to the conscience. But — could a man be justly called 
 a murderer if he had never had thought or intention to do 
 anything of the kind ? 
 
 "Wait here," said Dr. Rane, beginning to speak aloud, as 
 if he were a special pleader arguing in a law court. ' ' Can a 
 man be called a murderer who has never had the smallest inten- 
 tion to murder — who would have flown in horror from the 
 bare idea ? Let us suppose it was — Mrs. North — who wrote 
 the letter ? Alexander suspects her, at any rate. Put it that 
 she had some motive for writing it. It might have been a good 
 motive— that of stopping Edmund North in his downward 
 career, as the letter intimated — and she fancied this might bo 
 best accomplished by letting his father hear of what he, in 
 conjunction with Alexander, was doing. According to Alex- 
 ander, she does not interfere openly between the young men 
 and their father ; it's not her policy : and she may have con- 
 sidered the means she took were legitimate under the circum- 
 stances. Well, could she for a moment imagine that any 
 terrible consequences would ensue ? A rating from Mr. North 
 > to his son, and the matter would be over. Just so : she was 
 innocent of any other thought. Then how can she be deemed 
 guilty ? " 
 
 Dr. Rane paused. A book lay on the table : he turned its 
 leaves backwards and forwards in abstraction, his mind never 
 quitting the subject. Presently he resumed. 
 
 "Or — take Alexander's view of the letter — that it was 
 written to damage him with Mr. North and the neighbourhood 
 generally. Madam — say again — had conceived a dislike to 
 Alexander, wished him dismissed from the house, but had no 
 plea for doing it, and so took that means — the sending of a 
 letter to her husband. Could she suspect that the result would 
 be fatal to Edmund North ? Would she not have shrunk with 
 genuine abhorrence from penning the letter, had she foreseen 
 it ? Cei-tainly ; certainly. Then, under these circumstances, 
 how can a man — I mean a woman — be responsible, legally or 
 
Alone iviih the Naked Truth. 39 
 
 morally, for the death ? It would be utterly unjust to charge 
 her with it. Edmund North is alone to blame. Clearly so. 
 The case is little better than a case of unintentional suicide." 
 
 Having arrived at this view of the subject — so comforting 
 for the unknown writer — Dr. Rane rose briskly, and began to 
 wash his hands and smooth his hair. He took a note-case 
 from his pocket, in which he was in the habit of dotting down 
 his daily engagements, to see at what hour he could most con- 
 veniently go to the brick-fields, in compliance with the message 
 just received. The sick woman was in no danger, as he knew, 
 and he might choose his own time. In passing through tho 
 ante-room — which room, by the way, was generally dis- 
 tinguished as the Drab Room, from the unusual colour of the 
 walls, drab and hideous — he took up one of the glass jars, re- 
 quiring it for some purpose downstairs. And then he noticed 
 something that displeased him. 
 
 " Phillis ! " he called, putting his head out on the landing ; 
 " Phillis! " And the woman, a very active little body, canio 
 running up. 
 
 " You have been sweeping the Drab Room ? " 
 
 " It was so dirty, master." 
 
 " Now look you here," he cried, angrily. " If you sweep out 
 a room again, when I tell you it is not to be swept, I'll keep 
 every place in the house locked up. Some of the glass here is 
 valuable, and I'll not run the risk of having it broken with 
 brooms and brushes." 
 
 Down went Phillis, taking the reproof in silence. As Dr. 
 Rane crossed the landing to follow her, his eyes naturally fell 
 on his mother's house through the large window. The 
 answering window opposite, Mrs. Cumberland's, was being 
 cleaned by one of the servants : at the window of the dining- 
 room underneath, his mother was sitting. It put Dr. Rane in 
 mind that he had not been in to see her for nearly two days ; 
 not since Edmund North 
 
 All in a moment, induced perhaps by the name, a sense of 
 the delusive nature of the sophistry he had been indulging, 
 flashed into his brain, and the truth shone out distinct and 
 bare. Edmund North was dead ; killed by the anonymous 
 letter. But for that fatal letter he had been alive and well 
 now. A sickening sensation, as of some great oppression, 
 crowded over Oliver Rane, and his nerveless fingers dropped 
 £he jar. 
 
 Out ran Phillis, lifting her hands at the crash of glittering 
 
40 Bessy Rane, 
 
 mites lying in the passage. " He has broke one himself now," 
 thought she, referring to the reproof about the glasses. 
 
 " Just sweep the pieces carefully into a dust-pan, and throw 
 them away," said her master as he passed on. " The jar slipped 
 out of my fingers." 
 
 Phillis stared a minute, getting rid of her surprise, and then 
 turned to fetch the dust-pan. The doctor went on to the front 
 door, instead of into the dining-room, as Phillis expected. 
 
 " Master," she called out, running after him, "your dinner's 
 waiting. The fowl's on the table, and I was just coming in 
 with the potatoes." 
 
 But Dr. Rane passed on as though he had not heard her, 
 and shut the door with a bang. 
 
 He turned into his mother's house. Not by the familiar 
 mode of the open window ; he did not gain the premises by 
 stepping over the slight fence ; but he knocked at the front 
 door, and was admitted as an ordinary visitor. Whether it was 
 from having lived apart for so many years of their lives, or that 
 a something was wanting of social cordiality in the disposition 
 of each, certain it was that Dr. Rane and his mother observed 
 more ceremony with each other, and were less familiar, than 
 what usually obtains between mother and son. 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland sat at the open dining-room window just 
 as he had seen her from his staircase landing ; a newspaper 
 lay behind her on a small table, put out of hand when read. 
 Ellen Adair, as might be heard, was at the piano in the drawing- 
 room, playing, perhaps from unconscious association, and low 
 and softly as it was her delight to play, the " Dead March in 
 Saul." The dirge grated on the ears of Dr. Rane. 
 
 " What a melancholy drawl ! " he involuntarily exclaimed ; 
 and Mrs. Cumberland looked up, there was so much irritation 
 in the tone. 
 
 He shook hands with his mother, but did not kiss her, which 
 he was not accustomed to do, and stood back against the broad 
 window, his face turned to it. 
 
 "You are a stranger, Oliver," she said. "What has kept 
 you away ? " 
 
 "I have been busy. To-day especially. They had an 
 accident at the works — two men nearly drowned — and I have 
 been with them all the morning." 
 
 " I heard of it. Jelly brought me in the news ; she seems 
 to hear everything. How fortunate that you were at 
 hand ! " 
 
Alone with the Naked Truth. 41 
 
 He proceeded rather volubly to give the particulars of tho 
 accident and of the process he adopted to recover the men ; 
 voluble for him. Mrs. Cumberland looked and listened with 
 silent, warm affection ; but that she was a particularly 
 undemonstrative woman, she would have shown it in her 
 t manner. In her partial eyes, there was not so fine and hand- 
 some and estimable a man in all Dallory as this her only son. 
 
 " Oliver, what a dreadful thing this is about Edmund North ! 
 i I have not seen you since. Why did you not come in and tell 
 me the same night ? " 
 
 He turned his eyes on her for a moment to express surprise, 
 and paused. 
 
 " I am not in the habit of coming in to tell you when called 
 out to patients, mother. How was I to know you wished 
 it?" 
 
 " Nonsense, Oliver ! This is not an ordinary thing : the 
 Norths were something to me once. I have had Edmund on 
 my knee when he was a baby ; and I should have liked you to 
 pay me the attention of bringing in the news. Only to put it 
 on the score of gossip, it would have been welcome," she added, 
 with a half smile at the words. " It appears to be altogether 
 a more romantic event than one meets with every day, and 
 such things, you know, are of interest to lonely women." 
 
 Dr. Rane made no rejoinder, possibly not having any suffi- 
 cient excuse to offer for his carelessness. He stood looking 
 dreamily from a corner of the window. Phillis (as might be 
 seen from thence) was carrying away the fowl and a tureen 
 of sauce. Mrs. Cumberland probably thought he was watching 
 with critical curiosity the movements of his handmaid. She 
 resumed : 
 
 " They say, Oliver, there has been no hope of him from the 
 first." 
 
 41 There was very little. Of course, as it turns out, thero 
 could have been none." 
 
 "And who wrote the letter? With what motive was it 
 written ? " proceeded Mrs. Cumberland, her pale grey face 
 leaning slightly forward, as she waited for an answer. 
 
 " It is of no use to ask me, mother. Some people hold one 
 opinion, some another ; mine would go for little." 
 
 " They are beginning now to think that it was not written 
 at all to injure Edmund, but Mr. Alexander." 
 
 " Who told you that ? " he asked, a sharper accent dis- 
 cernible in his tone. 
 
42 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Captain Bohun. He came in this morning to apprise me 
 of the death. Considering that I have no claim upon him, 
 that a year ago I had never spoken to him, I must say that 
 Arthur Bohun is very kind and attentive to me. He's one in 
 a thousand." 
 
 Perhaps the temptation to say, " It's not for your sake he 
 is attentive," momentarily assailed Oliver Rane. But he 
 was good-natured in the main, and he knew when to hold his 
 tongue, and when to speak : no man better. Besides, it was 
 no business of his. 
 
 " I entertain a different opinion," he observed, referring to 
 the point in discussion. " Of course it is all gues3 work what 
 the writer's motive was, or what it was not : there's no profit 
 in discussing it, mother ; and I must be going, for my dinner's 
 waiting. Thank you for sending me the fowl." 
 
 " A moment yet, Oliver," she interposed, touching his arm 
 as he was passing her to move away. " Have you heard that 
 Alexander is going to leave ? " 
 
 "Yes: he was talking with me about it this morning." 
 
 If ever a glow of hope, of light, had been seen lately on Mrs. 
 Cumberland's marble face, it was seen then. The tightly- 
 drawn skin on the features had lost its grey tinge. 
 
 " Ohver, I could go down on my knees and thank Heaven 
 for it. You don't know how grieved I have felt all through 
 these past two years, to see you put into the shade by that 
 man, and to know that it was I who had brought you here ! 
 It will be all right now. New houses are to be built, they 
 say, at the other end of the Ham, and the practice will be worth 
 a great deal. I shall sleep well to-night." 
 
 He smiled as he shook hands with her ; partly in affection, 
 partly at her unusual vehemence. In passing the drawing-room, 
 Ellen Adair happened to be coming out of it, but he went on. 
 She supposed he had not observed her, and spoke. 
 
 " Ah ! how do you do, Miss Adair ? " he said, turning back, 
 and offering his hand. "Forgive my haste; I am busy to- 
 day." 
 
 And before she had time to say an answering syllable, he 
 was gone ; leaving an impression on her mind, she could not 
 well have told why or wherefore, that he was ill at ease ; that 
 he had hastened away, not from pressure of business, but 
 because he did not care to stay to talk. 
 
 If that feeling was pervading Dr. Rane, and had reference 
 to the world in general, and not to the young lady in particular, 
 
Alone with the Naked Truth. 43 
 
 it might not have been agreeable to him to encounter an ac- 
 quaintance as he turned out of his mother's house. Mr. Alex- 
 ander was swiftly passing on his way towards home from the 
 lower part of the Ham, and stopped. 
 
 " I wish I'd never said a syllable about my going away till 
 I was off," cried he in his free, off-hand manner — a pleasanter 
 manner and more sociable than Dr. Rane's. " The news has 
 been noised abroad, and I've got the whole place upon me ; 
 asking this — questioning that. One man comes and wants to 
 know if I'll sell my furniture ; another thinks he'd like the 
 house as it stands. My patients are up in arms ; — say I'm 
 doing it to kill them. I shall have some of them in a fever 
 before the day's over." 
 
 " Perhaps you'll not go after all," observed Dr. Rane. 
 
 " Not go ! How can I help going ? I'm elected to the 
 post. Why, it's what I've been looking out for ever so long 
 —almost ever since I've been here. No, no, Rane : a short 
 while, and Dallory Ham will have seen the last of me." 
 
 He hastened across the road to his house, on the run, like a 
 man who has the world's work on his busy shoulders. Dr. 
 Rane's thoughts, as he glanced after him, reverted to the 
 mental argument he had held in his chamber, and he uncon- 
 sciously resumed it, putting himself in the place of the un- 
 known, miserable writer, as before. 
 
 " It's almost keener than the death itself — if the motive 
 was to do Alexander injury in his profession, or drive him from 
 the place — to know that he, or she — Mrs. North — might have 
 spared her pains ! Heavens ! what remorse it must be ! — 
 to commit a crime, and then find there was no necessity for 
 it!" 
 
 Dr. Rane wiped his brow with his white handkerchief — ■ 
 the day was very warm — and turned into his house. Phillis 
 once more put the dinner on the table, and he sat down 
 to it. 
 
 But not a mouthful could he swallow ; his throat was like 
 so much dried chip, and the food would not go down. Phillis, 
 who was coming in for something or other, saw him leave his 
 plate and rise from table. 
 
 " Ain't it tender, sir ? " 
 
 " Tender ? " he responded, as though he did not catch the 
 sense of the question, and paused. " Oh, it's tender enough : 
 but I must go to see a patient. Get your own dinner." 
 
 " Surely you'll come back to yours, sir ? " 
 
44 Bessy Rane. 
 
 "I've had mine — as much as I want. Take the things 
 away. 
 
 " I wonder what's come to him ? " mused the woman as his 
 quick steps receded from the house, and she was left alone 
 with the rejected dishes. A consciousness came dimly pene- 
 trating to her hazy brain that there was some change upon 
 him. What it was, or where it lay, she did not define. It 
 was unusual for his strong firm fingers to drop a glass ; it was 
 still more unusual for him to explain cause and effect. " The 
 jar slipped from my fingers." " I've had as much as I want. 
 I must go to see a patient." It was quite out of the common 
 order of routine for Dr. Rane to be explanatory to his servant 
 on any subject whatever ; and perhaps it was his having been 
 bo in these two instances that took hold of Phillis. 
 
 " How quick he -must have eaten his dinner ! " 
 
 Phillis nearly dropped the dish of fowl. The words were 
 spoken close behind her, and she had believed herself alone in 
 the house. Turning round, she saw Jelly, standing half in, 
 half out at the window. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure ! " cried Phillis, wrathfully. " You needn't 
 come startling a body in that way, Mrs. Jelly. How did you 
 know but the doctor might be at' table ? " 
 
 " I've just seen him go down the lane," returned Jelly, who 
 had plenty of time for gossiping with her neighbours, the du- 
 ties at home not being onerous, and had come strolling over 
 the garden fence now with no other object. " Has he had his 
 dinner ? It's but the other minute he was in at our house." 
 
 "He has had as much as he means to have," answered 
 Phillis, her anger evaporating, for she liked a social gossip too. 
 " I'm sure it's not worth the trouble of serving meals, if they 
 are to be left in this fashion. It was the same thing at break- 
 fast." 
 
 Jelly recollected the scene at breakfast ; the startled pallor 
 on Dr. Rane's face, when told that Edmund North was dead : 
 she supposed that had stopped his appetite. Her inquisitive 
 eyes turned unceremoniously to the fowl, and she saw that the 
 merest bit of a wing was alone eaten. 
 
 " Perhaps he is not well to-day," said Jelly. 
 
 " I don't know about his being well ; he's odder than I ever 
 saw him," answered Phillis. "I shouldn't wonder but he has 
 had his stomach turned over them two half-drowned men." 
 
 Putting the doors open, she carried the dinner-things across 
 to the kitchen. Jelly, who assisted at the ceremony, so far as 
 
fi 
 
 Alone with the Naked Truth, 45 
 
 watching and talking went, was standing in the passage, when 
 her quick eye3 caught sight of two small bits of glass. Sho 
 stooped to pick them up. 
 
 11 Look here, Phillis ! You have been breaking something. 
 It's uncommonly careless to leave the pieces about." 
 
 " Is it ! " retorted Phillis. " You've got your eyes in every- 
 thing. I thought I took 'em all up," she added, looking on 
 the ground. 
 
 " What did you break ? " 
 
 11 Nothing. The doctor did. He dropped one of them dusty 
 glass jars down the stairs. It did give me a start. You should 
 have heard the smash." 
 
 " What made him drop it ? " asked Jelly. 
 
 " Goodness knows," returned the older woman. " He's not 
 a bit like himself to-day ; it's just as if something had come to 
 him." 
 
 She began to eat her dinner as she spoke, standing, her 
 usual mode of taking it. The whole of the fowl was put by 
 into the larder, including the cut wing on the doctor's plate, 
 and she contented herself with a piece of bacon and the gravy 
 remaining in the dish. Phillis was of too economical a turn 
 to waste dainty fowl upon herself, though quite at liberty 
 to do so. Dr. Rane sometimes asked her what she lived 
 upon : Phillis would answer that she lived as well as she ever 
 had lived, and as well as she cared to live. Bread and butter 
 and tea were her chief luxuries. 
 
 Jelly, following her customary free-and-easy habits, stood 
 against the door-post, apparently interested in the progress of 
 the meal. They presented a contrast, these two women, the 
 one a thin giantess bolt upright, the other a dwarf stooping 
 forward. Jelly, a lady's maid, held herself of course altogether 
 above Phillis, an ignorant (as Jelly would have described her) 
 servant-of -all-work, though condescending to drop in for the 
 sake of gossip. 
 
 " Did you happen to hear how the doctor found Ketler ? " 
 
 "As if I should be likely to hear ! " was Phillis's retort. 
 " He'd not tell me, and I couldn't ask. My master's not one 
 of them you can put questions to, Jelly." 
 
 A silence ensued. The gossip apparently flagged to-day. 
 Phillis had it chiefly to herself, for Jelly vouchsafed but a brief 
 answering remark now and again. She was engaged in 
 mental process of wondering what had come to Dr. Rane. 
 
45 Bessy Rane. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 RETROSPECT. 
 
 There nrast be some retrospect to make things intelligible ; 
 and it may as well be given at once. 
 
 Mr. North, now of Dallory Hall, bad got on entirely by bis 
 own persevering industry. Of obscure, though in a certain 
 way very respectable parentage, he had been placed as work- 
 ing apprentice to a firm in Whitborough. It was a firm 
 in extensive work, not confining itself to one branch. Tbey 
 took contracts for public buildings, small and large : they 
 did mechanical engineering ; they had planned one of the 
 early railways. John North — plain Jack North he was 
 known as, then — remained with the firm wben he was out 
 of his time, and got on in it. Thrifty, steady, and plodding, 
 he rose from one step to another ; and at length, in conjunc- 
 tion with one who had been in the same firm, he set up for 
 himself. This other was Thomas Grass. Gass had not risen 
 from the ranks as North had : he was of good connections 
 and had received a superior education ; but his friends were 
 poor. North and Gass, as the new firm called itself, began 
 business near to Dallory ; quietly at first- — as all people, who 
 truly look to get on, generally do begin. They rose rapidly. 
 The confined premises grew into great ones ; the small con- 
 tracts into larger. People said luck was with them — and in 
 truth it seemed so. The Dallory works became of note in the 
 county, employing quite a colony of people : the masters were 
 respected and sought after. Both of them lived at Whitborough; 
 Mr. North with his wife and family ; Mr. Gass a bachelor. 
 
 Thomas Gass had one brother ; a clergyman. Their only 
 sister, Fanny, a pretty young girl, had her home with him in 
 his rectory, but she came often to Whitborough on a visit 
 to Thomas. Suddenly it was announced to the world that she 
 had engaged herself to be married to a Captain Rane, entirely 
 against the wish of her two brothers. She was under twenty. 
 Captain Rane, a poor naval man on half-pay, was nearly old 
 enough to be her grandfather. Their objection lay not so 
 much to this, as to him. For some cause or other, neither 
 liked him. The Reverend William Gass forbid his sister 
 to think of him ; Mr. Tbomas Gass (a fiery man) swore ho 
 
Retrospect. 47 
 
 would never afterwards look upon her as a sister, if she per- 
 sisted in thus throwing herself away. 
 
 Miss Gass did persist. She possessed the obstinate spirit of 
 her brother Thomas, though without his fire. She chose to 
 take her own way, and married Captain Rane. They sailed 
 at once for Madras ; Captain Rane having obtained some post 
 there, connected with the Government ships. 
 
 Whether Miss Gass repented of her ill-assorted marriage, 
 her brothers had no means of learning : for she, cherishing 
 anger, never wrote to them during her husband's life. It was 
 a very short one. Barely a twelvemonth had elapsed after the 
 knot was tied, when there came a pitiful letter from her. 
 Captain Rane had died, just as her little son Oliver (named 
 after a friend, she said) was born. Thomas Gass, to whom 
 the letter had been specially written, gathered that she was left 
 badly off ; though she did not absolutely say it. He went into 
 one of his fumes, and tossed the epistle across the desk to his 
 partner. " You must do something for her, Gass," said John 
 North when he had read it. "I never will," hotly affirmed 
 Mr. Gass. " Fanny knows what I promised if she married 
 Rane — that I would never help her during my life or after it. 
 She knows another thing — that I am not one to go from my 
 word. William may help her if he likes ; he has not got much 
 to give away, but he can have her back to live with him." 
 " Help the child, then," suggested Mr. North, knowing further 
 remonstrance to be useless. " I won't help the child," re- 
 turned obstinate Thomas Gass ; " I'll stick to the spirit of my 
 promise as well as the letter." And Mr. North bent his head 
 down again — he was going over some estimates — feeling that 
 the affair was none of his. "I don't mind putting the boy 
 in the tontine, North," presently spoke the junior partner. 
 " The tontine ! " echoed John North in surprise, " what ton- 
 tine ? " " What tontine ! " returned the hard man — though 
 in truth he was not hard in general, " why, the one that you 
 and others are getting up ; the one you have just put your 
 baby, Bessy, in ; I know of no other tontine." " But that will 
 not benefit the boy," urged Mr. North : " certainly not now ; 
 and the chances are nine to one against its ever benefitting 
 him." "Never mind; I'll put him in it," said Mr. Gass, 
 whose obstinacy always came out well when spurred by oppo- 
 sition. " You are wanting a tenth child to close the list, and 
 I'll put him in it." So into the tontine Oliver Rane, un- 
 conscious infant, was put. 
 
4S Bessy Rane. 
 
 But Mrs. Rane did not further trouble either of her brothers ; 
 or, as things turned out, require assistance from them. She 
 remained in India ; and at a year's end married a Government 
 chaplain there, the Reverend George Cumberland, who had 
 some private property. Little, if any, communication took 
 place afterwards between her and her brothers ; she cherished 
 resentment for old grievances, and would not write. And so 
 the sister and the brothers seemed to fade away from each 
 other henceforth. We all know how relatives, parted by time 
 and distance, become estranged, disappearing almost from 
 memory. 
 
 While the firm, North and Gass, was rising higher and 
 higher in wealth and importance, the wife of its senior partner 
 died. She left three children, Edmund, Richard, and Bessy. 
 Subsequently, during a visit to London, chance drew Mr. 
 North into a meeting with a handsome young woman, the 
 widow of Major Bohun. She was not long from India, where 
 she had buried her husband. A flashing, designing, attrac- 
 tive syren, who began forthwith to exercise her dangerous fas- 
 cinations on plain, unsuspicious Mr. North. She had but a 
 poor pittance ; what money there was belonged to her only child, 
 Arthur ; a little lad : sent out of sight already to a prepara- 
 tory school. Report had magnified Mr. North's wealth into 
 something fabulous ; and Mrs. Bohun did not cease her schem- 
 ing until she had caught him in her toils and he had made 
 her Mrs. North. 
 
 Men do things sometimes in a hurry, only to repent. That 
 Mr. North had been in a hurry in this case was indisputable — 
 it was just as though Mrs. Bohun had thrown a spell over 
 him ; whether he repented when he woke up and found him- 
 self with a wife, a stepmother for his little ones at home, was 
 not so sure. He was a sufficiently wise man in those days to 
 conceal what he did not want known. 
 
 Whom he had married, beyond the fact that she was the 
 widow of Major Bohun, he did not know from Adam. For 
 all she disclosed about her own family, in regard to whom she 
 maintained an entire reticence, she might have dropped from 
 the moon, or " growed " like Topsy ; but, from the airs and 
 graces she put on, Mr. North might have concluded they were 
 dukes and duchesses at least. Her late husband's family 
 were irreproachable, both in character and position. The head 
 of it was Sir Nash Bohun, representative of an ancient 
 baronetcy, and elder brother of the late Major. Before the 
 
Retrospect. 49 
 
 wedding tour was over, poor Mr. North found that his wife 
 was a cold, imperious, extravagant woman, not to be ques- 
 tioned by any means if she chose not to be. When her fas- 
 cinations were in full play (while she was only the widow 
 Bohun) Mr. North had been ready to think her quite an angel. 
 Where had all the amiability flown ? — he rubbed his mental 
 eyes as he asked it. People do change after marriage some- 
 how. At least, there have been instances known of it. 
 
 A little circumstance occurred one day that — to put it mildly 
 — had surprised Mr. North. He had been given to understand 
 by his wife that Major Bohun died suddenly of sun-stroke ; she 
 had certainly told him so. In talking at a dinner-party at 
 Sir Nash Bohun's with some gentlemen not long from India, 
 he and Mr. North being side by side at table after the ladies 
 had retired, the subject of sun-strokes came up. " My wife's 
 former husband, Major Bohun, died of one, "innocently observed 
 Mr. North. " Died of ivhat ?" cried the other, putting down 
 his claret-glass, which he was about to convey to his mouth. 
 " Of sun -stroke," repeated Mr. North. " Bohun did not die of 
 sun-stroke," came the impulsive answer ; " who told you he 
 died of that?" " She did — my wife," was Mr. North's answer. 
 " Oh ! " said his friend ; and drank the claret. " Why, 
 what did he die of, if it was not sun-stroke ? " asked Mr. North, 
 with curiosity. "Well, — I — I don't know; I'd rather say no 
 more about it," was the conclusive reply : "of course Mrs. 
 North must know better than I." And no other words would 
 he speak, save — as Mr. North saw — evasive ones. 
 
 They were staying at this time at Sir Nash Bohun's. In 
 passing through London after the Continental wedding trip on 
 their way to Whitborough, Sir Nash had invited them to make 
 his house their resting-place. Not until the day following his 
 conversation at the dinner-table had Mr. North an opportunity 
 of questioning his wife ; but, that some false representation, 
 intentionally or otherwise, had been made to him on the subject 
 of her late husband's death, he felt certain. They were alone 
 in her dressing-room. Mrs. North, who had a mass of beautiful 
 purple-black hair, was standing before the glass, doing some- 
 thing to a portion of it, when her husband suddenly accosted 
 her. He called her by her Christian name in those first mar- 
 ried days. It was a very fine one. 
 
 " Amanda, you told me, I think, that Major Bohun died of 
 sun-stroke." 
 
 " Well ? " she returned carelessly, occupied with her hair. 
 
 B 
 
50 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " But he did not die of sun-stroke. He died of — of some- 
 thing else." 
 
 Mr. North had watched women's faces turn to pallor, hut 
 never in his whole life had he seen so livid a look of terror as 
 overspread his wife's. The hand of black hair dropped from her 
 hands ; even their very fingers became of a ghastly whiteness. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter ? " he exclaimed. 
 
 She murmured something about a spasm of the heart, a 
 spasm to which she was subject : an excuse, a3 he saw. 
 Auother moment, and she had recovered her composure, and 
 was busy with her hair again. 
 
 " You were asking me something, were you not, Mr. 
 North ? " 
 
 "About Major Bohun : what was it he died of, — if it was 
 not sun-stroke ? " 
 
 "Bat it was of sun-stroke," she said, in a sharp, ringing 
 accent, that would have required but a little more to be a 
 scream. " What else was there that he should die suddenly 
 of in India's burning climate ? He went out in the blaze of 
 the mid-day sun, and was brought home dead ! " 
 
 And nothing more, then or afterwards, did Mr. North learn. 
 Her manner rendered it impossible that he could press the 
 subject. He might have applied to Sir Nash for information, 
 but an instinct prevented his doing so. After all, it did not 
 signify to him what Major Bohun had died of, Mr. North said 
 to himself, and determined to forget the matter. But that 
 some mystery must have attended Major Bohun's death, some 
 painful circumstances which could blanch his Avif e's face with 
 sickly terror, remained on Mr. North's mind as a fact not to 
 be controverted. 
 
 Mrs. North effected changes. Almost the very day she was 
 taken home to Whitborough, she let it be known that she 
 should rule with an imperious will. Her husband became a 
 very reed in her hands ; yielding passively to her sway, as 
 if all the spirit he ever owned had gone out of him. Mrs. 
 North professed to hate the very name of trade : that one with 
 whom she was so nearly connected should be in business, 
 brought to her a sense of degradation and a great deal of talk 
 of it. The quiet, modest, comfortable home at Whitborough 
 was at once given up for the more pretentious Manor Hall at 
 Dallory Ham, which happened to be in the market. And they 
 set up there in a style that might have more properly pertained 
 to the lord-lieutenant of the county. Perhaps it was her as- 
 
Retrospect. 5 1 
 
 sumption of grandeur out of doors and in, combined with the 
 haughty, imperious manner, the like of which had never before 
 been seen in the simple neighbourhood, that caused people to 
 call her " Madam." Or, it might have been to distinguish her 
 in speech from the first Mrs. North. 
 
 In proportion as Mrs. North made herself hated and feared 
 by her husband, his children, and the household, so did she 
 become popular with society. It sometimes happens that the 
 more fascination a woman displays to the world, the more 
 unbearable is she in her own house. It was the case here. 
 Madam put on all her attractions when out of doors ; she 
 visited and dressed and dined and spent; and gave fetes again 
 at Dallory Hall utterly regardless of expense. Little wonder, 
 was there, that she swayed the neighbourhood. 
 
 Not the immediate neighbourhood. With the exception of 
 the Dallory family (and they did not live there always), there 
 was not a single person she would have visited. Some gentle- 
 people resided at Dallory Ham; Mrs. North did not condescend 
 to know any of them. Report ran that when they left cards 
 on her on her first coming to the Hall, she had returned them 
 in blank envelopes. People living at a greater distance she 
 made friends with, but not those around her ; and with as 
 many of the county families as would make friends with her. 
 The pleasantest times were those when she would betake 
 herself off on long visits, to London, or elsewhere : they grew 
 to be looked for. 
 
 But the most decided onset made by Mrs. North was on her 
 husband's business connections. Had Thomas Gass been a 
 chimney-sweep, she could not have treated him with more 
 intense contempt. It was said that if by ill-fortune she met 
 him in the street, she would pick up her skirts with a jerk as 
 she passed him by. Thomas Gass had his share of sense, and 
 pitied his partner far more than he would had that gentleman 
 gone in for hanging instead of second marriage. Mr. Gass 
 was a very wealthy man now ; and had built himself a hand- 
 some and comfortable residence in Dallory. 
 
 But, as the years went on, he was doomed to furnish food 
 himself to all the gossips within miles. Dallory rose from its 
 couch one fine morning, to hear that Thomas Gass, the con- 
 firmed old bachelor, had married his housekeeper. Not one of 
 your "lady housekeepers," but a useful, good, hard-working 
 damsel, who had passed the first bloom of youth, and had not 
 much of beauty to recommend her. It was a nine days' 
 
52 Bessy Rane. 
 
 wonder, nearly a rebellion. Of conrse, however much the 
 neighbours might solace their feelings by ridiculing him and 
 abusing her, they could not undo the marriage. All that 
 remained to them was, to make the best of it ; and by degrees 
 they wisely did so. The new Mrs. Gass, who had glided so 
 easily into her honours, shook as easily down in them. She 
 made an excellent wife to her ailing husband — for Thomas 
 Gass had begun to ail before his marriage — she put on no airs 
 of being superior to what she was ; she turned out to be 
 a thoroughly capable woman of business, giving much judicious 
 advice : she was very good to the sick and suffering, caring 
 for the poor, ready to give a helping hand wheresover and 
 whensoever it might be needed. In spite of her fine clothes, 
 which sat ludicrously upon her, and of her mode of speech, 
 which she did not attempt to get out of ; above all, in spite of 
 their own prejudices, Dallory grew to like and respect Mrs. 
 Gass, and its small gentle-people to admit her to their houses 
 on an equality. 
 
 And so time and years went on, Mr. North withdrawing 
 himself more and more from personal attendance on the busi- 
 ness, which seemed to have grown utterly distasteful to him. 
 His sons had become young men. Edmund was a civil 
 engineer: by profession at least, not much by practice. Never 
 of strong health, given to expensive and idle habits, Edmund 
 North was in general either in trouble abroad, or leading a 
 lazy life at home, his time being much divided between going 
 into causeless passions and writing poetry. Richard was at 
 the works, the mainspring and prop of the business. Mr. 
 Gass had become a confirmed invalid, and could not personally 
 attend ; Mr. North did not. There was only Richard — Dick, 
 as they all called him ; but he was a host in himself. Of far 
 better powers to bring to bear on it than Mr. North had ever 
 possessed, highly educated, of cultivated mind, he was a 
 thorough man of business, and at the same time a finished 
 gentleman. Energetic, persevering, decisive in control, but of 
 courteous and considerate manners to the very lowest, Richard 
 North was loved and respected. He walked through life doing 
 his duty by his fellow-men : striving to do it to God. He had 
 been tried at home in many ways since his father's second 
 marriage, and borne all with patient endurance : how he was 
 tried out of home, he alone knew. 
 
 For a long while past there had been trouble in the firm, 
 ill-feeling between the two old partners ; chiefly because Mr. 
 
Retrospect. 53 
 
 North put no limit to the sums he drew out for his private 
 account. Poor Mr. North at length confessed that he could 
 not help it : the money was wanted by his wife : though how 
 on earth she contrived to get rid of so much, even with all her 
 extravagance, he could not conceive. Mr. Gass insisted on a 
 separation : John North must withdraw from the firm ; Richard 
 might take his place. Poor Mr. North yielded, meek as any 
 lamb. " Don't let it go abroad," he only stipulated, speaking 
 as if he were half heart-broken, which was nothing new ; " I 
 should not like it to be known that I was superseded." They 
 respected his wishes, and the change was made privately : very 
 few having cognizance that the senior partnership in the firm 
 had passed into the hands of a young man. Thenceforth Mr. 
 North ceased to have control over the business ; in fact, to 
 have any actual connection with it. Dallory suspected it not : 
 Mrs. North had not the faintest idea of it. Richard North 
 signed the cheques as he had done before, " North and Grass : " 
 and perhaps the bank at Whitborough alone knew that he 
 signed them now as principal. 
 
 Richard was the scape-goat now. Mr. North's need of 
 money, or rather his wife's, did not cease : the sum arranged 
 to be paid to him as a retiring pension — a very liberal sum, 
 and Mr. Gass grumbled at it — seemed to be as nothing ; it 
 melted in Madam's hands like so much water. Richard was 
 constantly appealed to by his father ; and responded generously, 
 though it crippled him. 
 
 The next change came in the shape of Mr. Gass's death. 
 The bulk of his property was left to his wife ; a small portion, 
 comparatively speaking, to charities and servants ; two 
 thousand pounds to Richard North. He also bequeathed to 
 his wife his interest in the business, which by the terms of the 
 deed of partnership he had power to do. So that his share of 
 the capital was not drawn out, and the firm remained, actually 
 as well as virtually, North and Gass. People generally sup- 
 posed that the " North " was Mr. North ; and Madam went 
 into a cold sea of indignation at her husband's name being put 
 in conjunction with " that woman's." In the years gone by, 
 Mr. North used to have a nice time of it, finding it a difficult 
 matter to steer his course between his partner and Madam, so 
 as to give offence to neither. Madam had never condescended 
 to notice Thomas Gass's wife in the smallest degree : she took 
 to abuse her now, asking her husband how he could suffer him- 
 self to be associated with her. Mr. North, when goaded almost 
 
54 Bessy Rane. 
 
 beyond "bearing, "had much ado to keep his tongue from retort* 
 ing that it was not himself that was associated with her, but 
 Richard. 
 
 Mrs. Gass showed her good sense in regard to the partner- 
 ship, as she did in most things. She declined to interfere 
 actively in the business. Richard North went to her house 
 twice or thrice a week to keep her cognisant of what was 
 going on ; he consulted her opinion on great matters, just as 
 he had used to consult her husband's. She knew she could 
 trust to him. Ever and anon she would volunteer some 
 advice to himself personally : which was invariably good. It 
 could not be concealed from her that large sums (exclusively 
 Richard's) were ever finding their way to the Hall, and for 
 this she took him to task. " Stop it, Mr. Richard," she said 
 — always as respectful to him as she used to be in her house- 
 keeping days : " stop it, sir. Their wants be like a bottomless 
 sack, the more grain you pour into it the more you may. It's 
 doing them no good ; no good, mind. An end must come to 
 it some time, or you'll be in the workhouse. The longer it 
 goes on, the more difficult it will be to put an end to, and the 
 harder for them." But Richard, sorely tried between prudence 
 and filial duty, could not bring himself to stop it so easily ; 
 and the thing went on. 
 
 We must now go back to Mrs. Cumberland. It was some- 
 what singular that, the very week Thomas Gass lay dead, she 
 should make her unexpected appearence at Dallory . But so it 
 was. Again a widow, she had come home to settle near her 
 brother Thomas. She arrived just in time to see him put into 
 his coffin. The other brother, William, had been dead for 
 years. Mrs. Gass, who knew all about the estrangement, 
 received her with marked kindness, and heartily offered her a 
 home for the future. 
 
 But that was declined. Mrs. Cumberland preferred to have 
 a home of her own, possessing ample means to set up one in a 
 moderate way. She gave a sketch of her past life to Mrs. 
 Gass. After her marriage with the Reverend George Cum- 
 berland, they had remained for some time at his chaplaincy in 
 the Madras presidency ; but his health began to fail, and he 
 exchanged to Australia. Subsequent to that, years later, he 
 obtained a duty in Madeira. Upon his death, which occurred 
 recently, she camo to England. Her only son, Oliver Rane, 
 had been sent home at the asre of seven, and was placed with 
 a preceptor in London. When the time came for him to 
 
Retrospect. 5 5 
 
 choose a profession he fixed on the medical, and qualified him- 
 self for it, studying in London, Paris, and Vienna. He passed 
 all the examinations with great credit, including that in the 
 College of Physicians. He next paid a visit to Madeira, re- 
 maining three months there with his mother and step-father, 
 and then came home and established himself in London, with 
 money furnished by his mother. But practice does not always 
 come quickly to young beginners, and Oliver Rane found his 
 means dwindling. He had a horror of debt, and wisely de- 
 cided to keep out of it : taking a situation as assistant, and 
 giving up the expensive house he had entered on. This had 
 just been effected when Mrs. Cumberland returned. For the 
 present she let her son remain as he was : Oliver had all a 
 young man's pride and ambition, and she thought the dis- 
 cipline might do him good. 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland took on lease one of the two hand- 
 some gothic villas at the neck of the Ham, and established 
 herself in it ; with Jelly for a waiting maid, and two other 
 servants for the work. This necessitated the spending the 
 whole of her income, which was a very fair one. A portion of 
 it would die with her, the rest was willed to her son Oliver. 
 
 In the old days when she was Fanny Grass, and Mr. North, 
 plain John North — Jack with his friends — they were intimate 
 as elder brother and young sister. If Mrs. Cumberland 
 expected this agreeable state of affairs to be resumed, she was 
 destined to find herself mistaken. Madam set her scornful 
 face utterly against Mrs. Cumberland : just as she had against 
 others. It did not matter. Mrs. Cumberland simply pitied 
 the underbred woman : her health was very delicate, and she 
 did not intend to visit anyone. The gentle-people of the 
 neighbourhood called upon her ; she returned the call, and 
 there the friendship ended. When invitations first came in, 
 she wrote a refusal, explaining clearly and courteously why 
 she was obliged to do so — that her health did not allow her to 
 visit. If she and Mr. North met each other, as by chance 
 happened, they would linger in conversation, and be happy 
 in the reminiscences of the past days. 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland had thus lived on in quiet retirement for 
 some time, when the medical man who had the practice of 
 Dallory Ham, and some of that of Dallory, died suddenly. 
 She saw what an excellent opportunity it would be for her son 
 to establish himself, if he would but take up general practice, 
 and she sent a summons for him. When Oliver arrived in 
 
56 Bessy Rane. 
 
 answer to it, he entered into the prospect warmly ; left his 
 mother to make arrangements, and returned to London, to 
 compass his removal. Mrs. Cumberland went to Mr. North, 
 and obtained his ready promise to do what he could to push 
 Oliver. It was equivalent to an assurance of success — for 
 Dallory Hall swayed its neighbours — and Mrs. Cumberland 
 did not hesitate to secure the other gothic villa adjoining her 
 own (which happened to be vacant), believing the future 
 practice would justify it. In a week's time Oliver Rane came 
 down and took possession. 
 
 But fate was against him. Dr. Rane said treachery. A 
 young fellow whom he knew in London had told a medical 
 friend — a Mr. Alexander — of this good practice that had fallen 
 in at Dallory, and that Rane was thinking to secure it for him- 
 self. What was Dr. Rane's mortification when, upon arriving 
 at the week's end at Dallory Ham to take possession, he found 
 another there before him. Mr. Alexander had coma the pre- 
 vious day, was already established in an opposite house, and 
 had called on everybody. Dr. Rane went over and re- 
 proached him with treachery — they had not previously been 
 personally acquainted. Mr. Alexander received the charge 
 with surprise ; he declared the field was as open for him as 
 for Dr. Rane — that if he had not thought so, nothing would 
 have induced him to enter for it. He spoke his true senti- 
 ments, for he was a straightforward man. An agent in Whit- 
 borough had also written up to tell him of this opening ; he 
 came to look at it, and decided to try it. The priority, the 
 right to monopolise it, was no more Dr. Rane's, he urged, than 
 it was his. Dr. Rane took a different view, and said so : but 
 contention would not help the matter now, and he could 
 only yield to circumstances. So each held to his right in 
 apparent amicability, and Dallory got two doctors instead of 
 one ; secret rivals from henceforth. 
 
 Not for a moment did Oliver Rane think Mr. Alexander 
 could long hold out against him, as he had secured, through 
 his mother, the favour of Dallory Hall. Alas, a very short 
 while showed him that this was a mistake ; Dallory Hall 
 turned round upon him, and was doing what it could to push 
 his rival. Mrs. Cumberland went to Mr. North, seeking an 
 explanation. He could only avow the truth — that his wife, 
 who was both master and mistress, had set her face against 
 Oliver, and was recommending Alexander. " John, you pro- 
 mised me," urged Mrs. Cumberland. " I know I did and I'd 
 
Retrospect. 57 
 
 keep to it if I could," was Mr. North's dismal answer ; " but 
 nobody can hold out against her." " Why should she have 
 taken this dislike to Oliver ? " rejoined Mrs. Cumberland. 
 " Heaven knows ; a caprice, I suppose. She sets herself 
 against people without reason : she has never taken to either 
 Richard or Bessy ; and only a little to Edmund. If I can 
 do anything for Oliver under the rose, I'll do it : my will's 
 good to help him, Fanny, in remembrance of our friend- 
 ship of the old days." 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland took home news of her non-saccess to 
 Oliver. As to Madam, she simply ignored him, throwing 
 her patronage into the scale of his rival. How bitterly the 
 slight sat upon his heart, none save himself could tell. Mrs. 
 Cumberland resented it ; but ah, not as he did. A sense of 
 wrong was ever weighing his spirit down, and he thought 
 Fate was against him. One puzzle remained on his mind 
 unsolved — what he could have done to offend Mrs. North. 
 
 Mr. Alexander obtained a fair practice : Dr. Rane barely 
 enough to keep himself. His wants and those of the old 
 servant Phillis were not many. Perhaps the entire fault did 
 not lie with Madam. Alexander had the more open manner 
 and address, and they go a long way with people ; he was 
 also an older man, and a married man, and was supposed to 
 carry better experience. A bitter sense of injury rankled 
 ever in Oliver Rane's heart ; of injury inflicted by Alexander. 
 Meanwhile he became engaged to Bessy Rane. During an 
 absence from home of Madam's, the doctor grew intimate at 
 the Hall, and an attachment sprang up between him and 
 Bessy. When Madam came back, his visits had to cease, but 
 he saw Bessy at Mrs. Grass's and elsewhere. 
 
 I think that is all of retrospect — and a pretty long one it has 
 been. It brings us down to the present time, to the period of the 
 anonymous letter and Edmund North's death. Exactly two 
 years ago this same month, May, the rival doctors had appeared 
 in Dallory Ham ; and now one of them was going to leave it. 
 
 Just an incident must be told, bearing on something that 
 has been related, and then the chapter shall close. 
 
 The summer of the past year has been a very hot one. A 
 labouring man, working on Mr. North's grounds, suddenly 
 fell ; and died on the spot. Mr. Alexander, summoned hastily, 
 thought it must have been sun-stroke. " That is what my 
 father died of," remarked Captain Bohun, who stood with the 
 rest. Mr. North turned to him : " Do you say your father 
 died of sun-stroke, Arthur ? " " Yes, sir, that is what he die J 
 
58 Bessy Raw. 
 
 of, did you not know it ? " was the ready reply. " Yon are 
 sure of that ?" continued Mr. North. " Quite sure, sir," re- 
 peated Arthur, turning his dreamy hlue eyes full upon his 
 step-father, in all their proud truthfulness. 
 
 Mr. North knew that he spoke in the sincerity of belief. 
 Arthur Bohun possessed in an eminent degree the pride of his 
 father's race. That innate, self-conscious sense of superiority 
 that is a sort of safeguard to those who possess it : the noblesse 
 oblige feeling that keeps them from wrong-doing. It is true, 
 Arthur Bohun held an exalted view of his birth and family : 
 in so far as that his pride in it equalled that of any man living 
 or dead. He was truthful, generous, honourable, ; the very 
 opposite in all respects to his mother. Her pride was an as- 
 sumed pride ; a despicable, false, contemptible pride, offensive 
 to those with whom she came in contact. Arthur's was one 
 that you admired in spite of yourself. Of a tarnish to his 
 honour, he could almost have died ; to bring disgrace on his 
 own name or on his family, would have caused him to bury 
 his head for ever. Sensitively regardful of other people's 
 feelings, of courteous manner to all, he yet unmistakably held 
 his own in the world. His father had been just the same ; and 
 in his day was called " Proud Bohun." 
 
 To have asserted that Major Bohun died of sun-stroke, had 
 any doubt of the fact lain on his mind, would have been simply 
 impossible to Arthur Bohun. Therefore, Mr. North saw that, 
 whatever the mystery might be, in regard to the real cause of 
 Major Bohun's death, Arthur was not cognisant of it. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 LOOKING AT THE FUNERAL. 
 
 In the comfortable dining-room of Mrs. Gass, securely ensconced 
 behind the closed blinds, drawn to-day, sat that lady and a 
 visitor. It was the day of the funeral of Edmund North ; and 
 Mrs. Gass had put on mourning out of respect to the family : 
 a black silk gown and white net cap : it need not be said that 
 the change from finery improved her appearance greatly : she 
 looked, as she herself would have phrased it, genteel to-day. 
 This was her favourite sitting -room ; she rarely used any other : 
 for one thing it gave her the opportunity of seeing the move- 
 ments of her neighbours. The drawing-room faced the garden 
 at the back : a spacious, beautiful apartment, opening to the 
 smooth green lawn. 
 
Looking at the Funeral. 59 
 
 The visitor was Mrs. Cumberland. For once in her life 
 Mrs. Cumberland emerged from her shell of cold indifference 
 and condescended to evince somewhat of the curiosity of ordi- 
 nary people. She had come to Mrs. Gass's to sec the funeral 
 pass : and that lady made much of her, for their meetings 
 were rare. Mrs. Cumberland was in black silk too : but she 
 rarely wore anything else. The two women sat together, 
 talking in a subdued voice of far-back times : not that they 
 had known each other then ; but each had interest in the 
 past. Mrs. Grass was full of respect, never presuming on her 
 elevation ; though they were sisters-in-law, she did not forget 
 that she had once been but a servant in Mrs. Cumberland's 
 family. They had not much in common, though, and the 
 topics of conversation exhausted themselves. Mrs. Cumber- 
 land was of a silent nature, not at all given to gossip in gene- 
 ral. She began to think the waiting long. For the con- 
 venience of two mourners, who were coming from a distance, 
 the funeral had been put off until four o'clock. 
 
 " Holidays don't improve the working class — unless they've 
 got the sense to use 'em as they ought," observed Mrs. Grass. 
 " Just look at them three, ma'am. They've been at the tap — 
 and more shame to 'em ! They'd better let Mr. Richard catch 
 his eye upon 'em. Putting theirselves into that state, when he 
 is a-following his brother to the grave." 
 
 She alluded to some men belonging to the Dallory Works, 
 closed to-day. They had taken more than was seemly, and were 
 lounging against the opposite shutters, quarrelling together. 
 Mrs. Gass could bear it no longer ; in defiance of appearances 
 she drew up the blind and dashed open the window. 
 
 " Be you three men not ashamed of yourselves ? I thought 
 it was you, Dawson ! When there's any ill-doing going on, 
 you be safe to be in it. As to you, Thomas, you'll not like to 
 show your face to-morrow. Don't you come to me again, 
 Smith, to beg grace for you of Mr. Richard North." 
 
 The men slunk away and disappeared down an entry. Mrs. 
 Gass, in one sense of the word, was their mistress ; at any 
 rate, their master's partner. She shut the window and drew 
 down the blind. 
 
 " Are the men paid for to-day, or do they lose it ? " asked 
 Mrs. Cumberland. 
 
 "They're paid, ma'am, of course. It would be very unjust 
 to dock them when the holiday's none of their making. 
 Neither Mr. Richard nor me would like to be unjust." 
 
Co Bessy Rane. 
 
 " And he — Richard — seems to act entirely for his father." 
 
 "Mrs. Gass coughed. "Mr. North is took up with his 
 garden, and that; he don't care to bother his head about busi- 
 ness. It's better in younger hands." 
 
 Another pause of silence. Mrs. Cumberland felt weary. 
 
 " Is this funeral ever coming ? " she exclaimed. " There 
 seems to be some delay." 
 
 " 'Twas a late hour to fix it for, ma'am. Old Sir what's-his- 
 name wrote word he couldn't be here afore the afternoon ; so 
 they put it off to four o'clock for his convenience." 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland looked up enquiringly. She did not 
 understand. 
 
 " I mean young Bohun's relatives, ma'am. Madam's brother- 
 in-law by her first husband." 
 
 " Sir Nash Bohun ! Is he coming ? " 
 
 " Sir Nash ; that's the name," remarked Mrs. Gass. " I 
 know when Mr. Richard said it, it put me in mind of grinding 
 the teeth." 
 
 " What could have induced them to ask him ? " wondered 
 Mrs. Cumberland. " He is no relative." 
 
 " It sounds grand to have him, ma'am — and that's all she 
 thinks of," returned Mrs. Gass, with slighting allusion to 
 Madam. " Or maybe, as it was an uncommon death, they 
 want to make it an uncommon funeral. I look upon it as no 
 better than a murder." 
 
 " It is very strange about that piece of paper," observed 
 Mrs. Cumberland. 
 
 She lowered her voice as she spoke as if the subject would 
 not bear the broad light of day. Any surprise, greater than 
 what appeared in Mrs. Gass's face at hearing it could not 
 well be imagined. 
 
 " Ma'am ! Did he teU you of that ? " 
 
 " Did who tell me ? " 
 
 " Your son." 
 
 They looked questioningly at each other ; both unconscious 
 that they were alluding to two totally different circumstances. 
 Cross-purposes are sometimes productive of more ill than 
 straight ones. 
 
 It appeared that a night or two subsequent to Edmund 
 North's death, Captain Bohun found in his own desk a sheet 
 of folded note-paper in an envelope. It contained a few words 
 in Edmund's handwriting, not apparently addressed to any- 
 body in particular, but to the world in general. No date was 
 
Looking at the Funeral. 61 
 
 appended, but the ink looked fresh, as if it had been recently 
 written. 
 
 11 When the end comes, malce no fuss iviih me, but bury me 
 quietly out of sight. — E.N." 
 
 Captain Bohun, not having the faintest idea of who put it 
 in his desk, or how it came there, carried it to Richard North. 
 Richard showed it to his father. From thence it spread to the 
 house, and to one or two others. Opinions were divided. 
 Mr. North thought his ill-fated son had intended to allude to 
 his own death : that he must have felt some foreshadowing of 
 it on his spirit. On the contrary, Arthur Bohun and Richard 
 both thought that it was nothing more than one of his scraps 
 of poetry : and this last idea was at length adopted. Arthur 
 Bohun had related the circumstance to Mrs. Cumberland, and 
 it was this she meant to speak of to Mrs. Gass. Mrs. Gass, 
 who knew nothing of it, thought, and quite naturally, that she 
 spoke of the piece of paper found on her carpet. 
 
 " Of course it might have been nothing more than some 
 ideas he had dotted down, poor fellow, connected with his 
 nonsensical poetry," slightingly observed Mrs. Cumberland, 
 who was the first to resume speech : " Richard North and 
 Captain Bohun fully hold to that opinion. I don't. It may be 
 that I am inclined to look always on the sombre side of life ; 
 but I can only think he was alluding to his own death." 
 
 " 'Twere odd sort of poetry," cried Mrs. Gass, after a pause 
 and a stare. 
 
 " The only curious part about it to my mind is, that it should 
 have been found in Arthur Bohun's desk," pursued Mrs. 
 Cumberland, the two being delightfully unconscious still that 
 they were at the cross-purposes. " He says he has not left 
 his desk unlocked at all, that he is aware of — but of course he 
 might have done so. Why Edmund North should have chosen 
 to put it in there, is a mystery." 
 
 " What has Captain Bohun's desk got to do with it ? " 
 enquired Mrs. Gass, beginning to feel a little at sea. 
 
 " The paper was found in Captain Bohun's desk. Though 
 why Edmund North should have hidden it there, remains a 
 mystery." 
 
 " Ma'am, whoever told you that, must have been just trying 
 to deceive you. It was found on this carpet." 
 
 " Found on this carpet ! " 
 
 " On this very blessed carpet that we've each got our feet 
 
62 Bessy Ranc. 
 
 on, ma'am. Right back again' the claw of that there centre 
 dining-table." 
 
 Again they gazed at each other. Mrs. Cumberland thought 
 her friend must be dreaming. 
 
 " But you are quite mistaken, Mrs. Gass. The paper — note, 
 or whatever it was — could not have been on this carpet at all : 
 not in your house, in fact. Captain Bohun discovered it in 
 his desk three days ago, and he has not the slightest notion of 
 how it came there. Mr. North took possession of it, and has 
 never let it go out of his hands since." 
 
 " My dear lady, they have been a-mystifying of you," cried 
 Mrs. Grass. " Seeing's believing. The paper was first found 
 by me. By me, ma'am, on this here carpet, and it was the 
 same night that Edmund North was first took ; not an hour 
 after the fit." 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland made no reply. She was drifting into the 
 conclusion that she had not yet had all the circumstances 
 related to her. 
 
 "I picked the paper up myself," continued Mrs. Cass, 
 anxious for the truth, as straightforward people are apt to be. 
 " I kept it safe here for a day and a night, ma'am, waiting to 
 give it back to your son : what I thought was that he had 
 dropped it out of his pocket-book. I never spoke of it to a 
 single soul, and as soon as I had the opportunity I gave it up 
 to him. If it was found in Captain Bohun's desk afterwards, 
 why — Dr. Rane, or somebody else must have put it there. 
 Ma'am, if, as I conclude, you've heard about the paper from 
 your son, I wonder he did not tell you this." 
 
 " What paper was this ? " enquired Mrs. Cumberland, a dim 
 notion arising that they could not be talking of the same thing. 
 
 " It were the copy of that anonymous letter." 
 
 " The copy of the anonymous letter ! " 
 
 " Leastways, its skeleton." 
 
 Rapidly enough came the elucidation now. Without in the 
 least intending to break faith with Dr. Rane, or with her own 
 resolution to hold the matter secret, Mrs. Gass told all she 
 knew, with one exception. Led on by the miserable, but very 
 natural misapprehension — that Mrs. Cumberland was a de- 
 positary of the secret as well as herself — she spoke, and had 
 not the least idea that she was betraying trust. That exception 
 was the hinted suspicion that Madam might have been the 
 writer. Mrs. Cumberland sat listening, still as a statue. 
 
 "And you thought that — this rough copy of the letter — it 
 
Looking at the Funeral. 63 
 
 was Oliver who dropped it ? " she exclaimed at length, moved 
 out of her usual apathetic calmness. 
 
 "What else could I think ? " debated Mrs. Gass. "Dr. 
 Rane had let fall some papers from his pocket-book five mi- 
 nutes before, and I picked this up as soon as he had gone. I'm 
 sure I never so much as gave a thought to Molly Green — 
 though she had come straight from the Hall. Dr. Rane said 
 it might have dropped from her petticoats : but it was a puzzle 
 to me how ; and it's a puzzle still." 
 
 A keen, enquiring sort of glance shot from the speaker's 
 eyes with the last words. It was but momentary and not in- 
 tentional ; nevertheless, something in it caused Mrs. Cumber- 
 land's heart to quail. A cold hue spread over her grey face ; 
 a cold shade of recollection deadened her heart. Captain 
 Bohun had told her of Mr. Alexander's theory — that the letter 
 was written to damage him. 
 
 " I am sorry I spoke of this, ma'am," struck in Mrs. Gass. 
 " More particular that it should have been you : you'll 
 naturally tell Dr. Rane, and he tvill say I know how to keep 
 secrets — just about as the jackdaws keep theirs. It was your 
 telling of the other paper that misled me." 
 
 "I am quite safe," answered Mrs. Cumberland, with a 
 sickly smile. " The matter's nothing to me, that I should get 
 speaking of it again." 
 
 " Of course it's not, ma'am. After all — Halloa ! here it 
 comes ! " 
 
 This sudden break was caused by an interrupting sound, 
 the roll of a muffled drum, first advent of the advancing 
 funeral procession. Edmund North had belonged to a local 
 military corps, and was to be attended to the grave with hon- 
 ours. Mrs. Gass drew up the white blind an inch above the 
 short Venetian one, which enabled them to look out unseen. 
 The road suddenly became lined with spectators ; men, women 
 and children collecting one hardly knew from whence. 
 
 The band came first — their instruments in rest ; then the 
 muffled drum, on which its bearer struck a note now and again. 
 The hearse and three mourning coaches followed, some privace 
 carriages, and the soldiers on foot. And that was all : except 
 a straggling tail of spectators in the rear, with Hepburn the 
 undertaker and his men on either side the black coaches. The 
 hearse was exactly opposite Mrs. Cumberland when the band 
 struck up the Dead March in Saul. Suddenly to her memory 
 flashed a recollection of the morning, but a very few days ago, 
 
64 Bessy Rane. 
 
 when Ellen Adair had been playing the same dirge, and it had 
 seemed to grate on Oliver's ear. Her eyes fixed themselves 
 on the hearse as it passed, and she saw in mental vision the 
 cold corpse lying within. In another moment, the music, her 
 son, the dead, and the fatal letter, all seemed to be jumbling 
 together in confusion in her brain : and Mrs. Cumberland sat 
 down white and faint, and three parts senseless. The lady of 
 the house, her eyes glued to the strip of open window, made 
 her comments and suspected nothing of the indisposition. 
 
 " Mr. North in the first coach with his white hankecher 
 held to his nose. And well he may hold it, poor berefted 
 gentleman ! There's Mr. Richard sitting by the side of him. 
 Captain Bohun's on the opposite seat : — and — who's the other ? 
 Why ! it's the young one, Sidney North. Then they've sent 
 for him from college, or wherever it is he stays at : Madam's 
 doings, I'll lay. What a little whipper-snapper of a fellow it 
 is !— like nobody but himself. He'll never be half the man 
 his step-brothers be." 
 
 Mrs. Grass's tongue ceased with the passing of the coach. 
 In her plentitude of curiosity she did not observe that she had 
 no response. The second coach came in sight, and she began 
 again. 
 
 " An old gent, upright as a dart, with snow-white hair and 
 them features called aquiline ! It's a handsome face, if ever 
 I saw one ; his eyes be as blue and as fine as Captain Bohun's. 
 There's a likeness between 'em. It must be his uncle, Sir 
 Nash. A young man sits next him with a white unhealthy 
 face ; and the other two — why, if I don't believe it's the young 
 Dallorys ! " 
 
 There was no answering comment. Mrs. Gass turned round 
 to see the reason. Her visitor was sitting back in a chair, an 
 awfully grey shade upon her face and lips. 
 
 " My patience ! Don't you feel well, ma'am ? " 
 
 "I am a little tired, thank you," replied Mrs. Cumberland, 
 smiling languidly as she roused herself. " Looking out at 
 passing things always fatigues me." 
 
 " Now don't you stir, ma'am ; I'll tell it off to you," came 
 the rejoinder, spoken with warm sympathy. " There's only 
 one coach more. And that have got but two inside of it — 
 which is the doctors from Whitborough," added Mrs. Cass; 
 who in moments of unwonted excitement, whether of pleasure 
 or pain, was apt to be signally oblivious of the courtesies of 
 life, as conveyed in correct syntax. " I wonder they didn't in 
 
Loo/dug at the Funeral. 6", 
 
 rite Mr. Oliver — the first called in to the poor yui.^g man — 
 and Alexander. Not thought good enough by -Madam, per- 
 haps, to be mixed with all these here dons." 
 
 She looked after the swiftly passing pageantry with lingering 
 admiration. Mrs. Cumberland sat stillin the chair and closed 
 her eyes, as if all interest in the funeral — and in life too, for 
 the matter of that — had passed away. 
 
 The procession wound along : through the long straggling 
 village street, past the Dallory Works (a mass of buildings 
 that lay on the left), and so to the church. It was the only 
 church in the parish, inconveniently far for some of the 
 inhabitants. Dallory Ham spoke about building one for itself ; 
 but that honour had not been attained to yet. In a corner of 
 the large churchyard lay Mrs. North, Mr. North's first wife 
 and Edmund's mother. The new grave was dug by her 
 side. 
 
 Amidst the spectators, numbers of whom had collected in 
 the burial ground, stood Jelly. Very much no doubt to the 
 astonishment of her mistress, had she seen her. To peep sur- 
 reptitiously from behind blinds, was one thing ; but to stand 
 openly staring in the churchyard, was another ; and Mrs. 
 Cumberland would assuredly have ordered her away. Jelly 
 had come to it with a cousin of hers, Susan Ketler, the wife of 
 the sick man who was being attended by Dr. Rane. Jelly 
 had curiosity enough for ten ordinary women — which is saying 
 a great deal — and would not have missed the sight for the 
 world. 
 
 It was soon over : our burial service is not a long one : and 
 the coaches and mourners moved away again, leaving the field 
 in possession of the mob. There ensued a rush to get a view 
 of the coffin, as yet scarcely sprinkled with earth. Jelly and 
 her friend got close, and the former read the inscription. 
 
 "Edmund, son of John North and of Mary, his first wife. 
 Died May 3rd, 18—, aged 33." 
 
 " I should not have put 'died,' but ' murdered,' if it was 
 me had the writing of it," spoke Mrs. Ketler. 
 
 "And so should I, Susan," significantly replied Jelly. 
 " Here ! let's get out of this throng." 
 
 Jelly, in her loftiness of stature and opinion, was above the 
 throng literally and figuratively ; but it was dense and trouble- 
 some. Neither death nor funeral had been of an ordinary 
 description ; and others besides the great unwashed were 
 crowding there. The two women elbowed their wav out, and 
 
6£> Bessy Rane. 
 
 passed back along the broad highway to Ketler's house in 
 Dallory. He was one of the best of the North workmen, 
 earning good wages ; and the family lived in comfort. 
 
 Ketler was in the parlour, sitting up for the first time. 
 Under Dr. Rane's skilful treatment he was getting better 
 rapidly. A little one sat on his knee, held by his able arm ; 
 the rest were around. The children had wanted (as a matter 
 of course) to go out and seethe funeral. "No," said their 
 father ; ' ' they might get playing, and that would be unseemly." 
 He was a' short, dark, honest-looking man ; a good husband 
 and father. Jelly sat talking for a short while, and then rose 
 to leave. 
 
 But she was not allowed to go. To let her depart at that 
 hour of the afternoon without first partaking of tea, would 
 have been a breach in the obligations of hospitality that the 
 well-to-do workpeople of Dallory never wished to hear of. 
 Jelly, all too easily persuaded where sociability was concerned, 
 took off her bonnet to be comfortable, and the tray was 
 brought in, with plates of bread-and-butter. 
 
 Cups of beer induce men to a long sitting ; cups of tea 
 women. Jelly (who drank four) sat on, oblivious of the 
 lapse of time. The chief topic of conversation was the anony- 
 mous letter. Jelly found to her surprise and anger, that 
 the prevailing belief here was, that it had been written by a 
 clerk named Wilks, who was in the office of Dale the lawyer, 
 and might have become cognisant of the transaction between 
 his master, Mr. Alexander, and Edmund North. 
 
 "Who told you that, Ketler?" sharply demanded Jelly, 
 after a pause, fixing her indignant eyes on the man. 
 
 "I can't rightly say who told me," replied Ketler ; "it's 
 the talk of the place. Wilks, he denies it out and out; 
 but when he's in his evening cups — and that's not seldom. 
 — he does things that next morning he has no recollection of. 
 Doctor Rane laughed at me, though, for saying so : a lawyer 
 knows better than to let private matters get out to his clerks, 
 says the doctor. But he don't know that Tim Wilks as some 
 of us do." 
 
 " Well, I would not say too much about it's being Tim 
 Wilks if I were you, Ketler," cried Jelly, in suppressed 
 wrath, brushing the crumbs off her black gown. " You 
 might find yourself in hot water." 
 
 And then Ketler suddenly remembered that Wilks was her 
 particular friend, so he turned the subject. 
 
Looking at the Funeral. Ci 
 
 Jelly tore herself away at last, very unwillingly ■ gossip 
 and tea-drinking formed her idea of an earthly paradise. 
 Night was setting in ; a light, beautiful night, the moon 
 sailing majestically in the sky. 
 
 Just past the gates of Dallory Hall, in a bend of the road 
 where the overhanging trees on either side gave it a lonely 
 appearance at night (and by day too, for that matter), no 
 dwelling of any sort being within view or hail, stood a bench 
 on the side path. It was a welcome resting-place to tired 
 wayfarers ; it was no less welcome to wandering lovers in 
 their evening rambles. As Jelly went hastening on, a faint 
 sound of voices broke upon her ear from this spot, and she 
 stilled her steps instinctively. The chance of pouncing unex- 
 pectedly upon a pair exchanging soft vows, was perfectly 
 delightful to Jelly; especially if it should happen to be a 
 pair who had no business to exchange them. 
 
 Stealing softly along on the side grass, went she, until sho 
 came to the turn, and then she looked cautiously round. The 
 bushes projected there and favoured her. To do Jelly justice, 
 it must be affirmed that she had neither malice nor ill-will in 
 her nature ; rather the contrary ; but a little innocent prying 
 into her neighbours' affairs presented an irresistible tempta- 
 tion. What, then, was her astonishment to see — not a dying 
 swain and his mistress, side by side : but her own mistress, 
 Mrs. Cumberland, seated on the bench in an agony ef grief, 
 and Dr. Rane standing with folded arms before her. 
 
 Jelly, great at divining probabilities, comprehended tho 
 situation easily. Her mistress must have stayed to take tea 
 with Mrs. Grass, and encountered her son in walking home. 
 
 To come down upon lovers with a startling reprimand was 
 one thing ; to burst upon her mistress and Dr. Rane would 
 be quite another. Jelly wished she had not gone stealing up 
 like a mouse, and felt inclined to steal back again. 
 
 But the attitude and appearance of Mrs. Cumberland 
 riveted her to the spot. Her face, never so grey as now, as 
 seen in the moonlight, dim here, was raised to her son's, its 
 expression one yearning agony ; her hands were lifted as if 
 imploring some boon, or warding off some fear. Jelly's eyes 
 opened to their utmost width, and in her plentitude of 
 astonishment she failed to catch the purport of the first low- 
 spoken words. 
 
 "I tell you, you are mistaken, mother," said Dr. Rane in 
 answer, Jiis voice ringing out clear enough in the still night : 
 
6$ Bessy Rane, 
 
 though it nevertheless had a hushed tone. " Is it probahle ? 
 Is it likely ? I drop the copy of the letter out of my pocket- 
 hook ! What next will you suppose me capable of ? " 
 
 "But — Oliver," — and the voice was raised a little — " how 
 else could it have come upon her carpet ? " 
 
 " I have my theory about that," he rejoined with decision. 
 " Mother, come to your home : I'll tell you more then. Is this 
 a fitting time or place to have thus attacked me ? " 
 
 Air, voice, action, were alike sharp with authority, as he 
 bent and took her hand. Mrs. Cumberland, saying some 
 words of "having been surprised into speaking," rose from the 
 bench. Jelly watched them along the road ; and then sat 
 down on the bench herself to recover her amazement. 
 
 " What on earth does it mean ? " 
 
 Ah ! what did it mean ? Jelly was pretty sharp, but she 
 was afraid to give her thoughts their full range. Other steps 
 grew on her ear. They turned out to be those of Mr. 
 Alexander. 
 
 "Is it you, Jelly ! Waiting for your sweetheart ? " 
 
 Jelly rose. " Standing about to look at funerals, and such 
 things, tires one worse than a ten-mile run." 
 
 "Then why do you do it ? " 
 
 " One fool makes many," returned Jelly with composure. 
 " Sir, I'd like to know who wrote that letter." 
 
 " It strikes me the letter was written by a woman." 
 
 " A woman ! " echoed Jelly, with a shriek of genuine sur- 
 prise. " Good gracious, Mr. Alexander ! " 
 
 " They are so sharp upon us at times, are women," he 
 continued, smiling. " Men don't attack one another." 
 
 "And what woman do you suspect, sir? " cried Jelly, in 
 her insatiable curiosity. 
 
 " Ah ! there's the rub. I have been speaking of women in 
 general, you see. Perhaps it was you ? " 
 
 " Me! " exclaimed Jelly. 
 
 Mr. Alexander laughed. " I was only joking, Jelly. Good 
 night." 
 
 But Jelly, sharp Jelly, rather thought he had not been 
 joking, and that the suspicion had slipped out inadver- 
 tently. 
 
 She went straight home. And when she got there, Mrs. 
 Cumberland was seated by the drawing-room fire, her face 
 calm and still as usual, listening to the low sweet singing of 
 Ellen Adair. 
 
After the Funeral. 69 
 
 And Oliver Rane had passed in to Lis own house with hi3 
 weight of many cares. Half wishing that he could exchange 
 places with Edmund North in Dallory churchyard. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 AFTER THE FUNERAL. 
 
 The two guests, Sir Nash Bohun and his son, were departing 
 from Dallory Hall. They had arrived the previous afternoon 
 in time to attend the funeral, had dined and slept, and were 
 now going again. Their coming had originated with Sir Nash. 
 In his sympathy with the calamity — the particulars of which 
 had been written to him by his nephew, Arthur Bohun — Sir 
 Nash had proposed to show his concern and respect for the 
 North family by coming with his son to attend the funeral. 
 The offer was accepted; albeit Mrs. North was not best pleased 
 to receive them. For some cause or other, Madam had never 
 been solicitous to court intimacy with her first husband's 
 brother : when thrown into his society, there was something 
 in her manner that almost seemed to say she did not feel at 
 ease with him. 
 
 Neither at the dinner last night nor at the breakfast this 
 morning had the master of the house been present : the 
 entertaining of the guests had fallen on Richard North as his 
 father's representative. Captain Bohun was of course with 
 them ; also the rest of the family, including Madam. Madam 
 played her part gracefully in a full suit of mourning : black 
 crape elaborately set off with jet. For once in her life she 
 was honest and did not affect to feel the grief for Edmund 
 that she would have felt for a son. 
 
 Sitting disconsolately before the open window of his parlour 
 was Mr. North. His new black clothes looked too large for 
 him, his slippers were down at heel, his whole air was that of 
 one who seems to have lost interest in the world. It is 
 astonishing how aged, as compared with other moments, men 
 will look in their seasons of abandonment. While we battle 
 Avith our cares, they spare in a degree the face : but in the 
 abandonment of despair, when all around seems dreary, and 
 we are sick and faint because to fight longer seems impossible, 
 look at the poor sunken face then ! 
 
 The room was dingy ; it has already been said ; rather long 
 but narrow ; and it seemed uncared for. The door opened at 
 
70 Bessy Rane. 
 
 the end, the window faced it. The fire-place was in the 
 middle, on the left ; opposite to it an old open secretaire, filled 
 with seeds and papers pertaining to gardening, stood side by 
 side with a closet door. This closet — which was, however, 
 more of a small shnt-in passage than a closet — had an oppo- 
 site door opening to the dining-room. But, if the parlour 
 was in itself dingy, the capacious window and the prospect on 
 which it looked, brightened it. Stretching out before it, 
 broad and large, was the gay parterre of many-coloured 
 flowers, Mr. North's only delight for years past. In the cul- 
 tivation of these flowers, he had found a refuge, a sort of 
 shelter from the conscionsness of disappointment that was 
 ever upon him, from life's daily vexations and petty cares. 
 Heaven is all-merciful, and some counter-balancing interest to 
 grievous and long-continued sorrow is often supplied. " She 
 wants me to give up my garden ; but I should die ; I should 
 die, Dick," Mr. North said one day imploringly to his son 
 Richard after a dispute with Madam. Such disputes were 
 frequent. And yet — could it be properly called a dispute 
 when the railing and reproach were all on one side ? Madam 
 wanted money perpetually ; money and money, nothing but 
 money ; and when her husband avowed — with far more de- 
 precation than he could have used to any other woman on 
 earth — that he was unable to furnish it, she abused him. 
 " Give up your expensive garden," was often the burthen of 
 her cry ; and in very fear, as it seemed, lest he should have 
 to give it up, he had yielded so far as gradually to reduce his 
 staff of gardeners to two. " On my word, I think it is the 
 garden and its cares that keeps life in him," Richard North 
 had exclaimed in a confidential moment to Mrs. Grass. " Then, 
 Mr. Richard, sir," was the answer, "let him always have it; 
 you and me can take care of so much as that." Richard 
 nodded. There were times when circumstances compelled 
 him to entrust home secrets to Mrs- Grass — and he might 
 have had a worse depositary. 
 
 Mr. North sat looking at his flowers. He had been sitting 
 there just as he was for the past hour, buried in reflections 
 that were not pleasant, and the morning was getting on. He 
 thought of his embarrassments — those applications for money 
 from Madam, that he strove to hide from his well-beloved son 
 Richard, and that made the terror of his life. They were 
 apt to come upon him at the most unexpected times, in season 
 and out of season ; it seemed to him that he was never free 
 
After the Funeral. yi 
 
 from them ; that lie could never be sure at any minute she 
 would not come down upon him the next. For the past few 
 days the house had been, so to say, sacred from these carping 
 concerns; even she had respected the sorrow in it; but with this 
 morning, the return to every-day life, business and the world 
 resumed its sway. Mr. North was looked upon as a man per- 
 fectly at his ease in money matters ; " rolling in wealth," people 
 would say, as they talked of the handsome portion his two 
 daughters might expect on their wedding-day. Local debts, 
 the liabilities of ordinary passing life, were kept punctually 
 paid ; Richard saw to that ; and perhaps no one in the whole 
 outer world, save Mrs. Gass, suspected the truth and the 
 embarrassment. Mr. North thougbt of his other son, he who 
 had gone from his view for ever ; but the edge of the grief was 
 wearing off, though he was as eager as ever to find out the 
 writer of the anonymous letter. 
 
 But there is a limit to all things — I don't know what would 
 become of some of us if there were not — and the mind cannot 
 dwell for ever upon its own bitterness. Unhappy topics, as if 
 in very fatigue, gradually drifted away from Mr. North's mind 
 and were replaced by loving thonghtsof his flowers. How could 
 it be otherwise, when their scent came floating to him through 
 the broad open window in a delicious sea of perfume. The 
 assorted colours charmed the eye, the sweet aroma took cap- 
 tive the senses. Spring flowers, all; and simple ones. It 
 was like a many-hued plain ; and further on, beyond the trees 
 that bounded the grounds, a fine view was obtained of the 
 open country over Dallory Ham. Hills and dales, woods 
 and sunny plains, with here and there a gleam of glistening 
 water, lay underneath the distant horizon. Mr. North 
 looked not at the landscape, which was a familiar book to 
 hirn, but at his flowers. The spring had been continuously 
 cold and wet, retarding the appearance of these early 
 flowers to a very remarkably late period. For the past 
 week or two the weather had been lovely, hot with a 
 summer brightness, and the flowers seemed to have sprung 
 up all at once. Hyacinths, blue, pink, white, purple ; gilly- 
 flowers in all their rich shades; white daffodils; primroses, 
 double and single cowslips and polyanthuses, and so on. 
 Just as he chose the most simple flowers to cultivate, so he 
 called them all by their more simple and familiar names. 
 Madam turned up her nose at both in contemptuous derision; 
 sometimes speaking in society of Mi*. North's "vulgar cot- 
 
72 Bessy Rane. 
 
 tage garden." A little later the tulip beds would be in bloom. 
 A rare collection that ; a show for the world to flock to. 
 Great people came boldly inside ; small ones would peep through 
 the shrubs and over the railings, sniffing the sweet scent, and 
 saying the ground was like a many-hued carpet of gorgeous 
 colours. Later on still, the roses would be out, and many 
 thought they were the best show of all. And so the year 
 went on, the flowers replacing each other in their loveliness. 
 
 Sadness sat on them to-day : for we see things, you know, in , 
 accordance with ourown mood, notwith their actual brightness. | 
 Mr. North rose with a sigh and stood at the open window. 
 Only that very day week, about this time in the morning, his 
 eldest son had stood there with him side by side. For this 
 was the eighth of May. " Poor fellow ! " sighed the father, 
 as he thought of this. 
 
 Some one went sauntering down the path that led round 
 from the front of the house, and disappeared beyond the trees ; 
 a short, slight young man. Mr. North recognized him for 
 Sidney : Madam's son as well as his own, and he heaved a 
 sigh almost as profound as the one he gave to the dead Ed- 
 mund. Sidney North was dreadfully dissipated, and had 
 caused already a great deal of trouble. It was suspected — 
 and with truth — that some of Madam's superfluous money 
 went to this son. She had brought him up badly, fostering 
 his vanity, and indulging him in everything. By the very 
 way in which he walked now — his head hanging moodily 
 down, his gait slouching, his hands thrust into his pockets, 
 Mr. North judged him to be in some dilemma. He had not 
 wished him to be called home for the funeral ; no, though the 
 dead had stood to him as half brother ; but Madam took her 
 own way and wrote for him. " He'll be a thorn in her side if 
 he lives," thought the father, his reflections unconsciously 
 going out to that future time when he himself should be no 
 more. 
 
 The door opened, and Richard came in. Mr. North stepped 
 back from the window at which he had been standing. 
 
 " Sir Nash and his son are going, sir. You will see them 
 first, will you not ? " 
 
 " Going ! going already! Why — I declare it is past eleven ! 
 Bless me ! I hope I have not been rude, Dick ? Where are my 
 boots ? " 
 
 The boots stood at hand, ready for him. He put them on 
 in haste, and hid his slippers out of sight in the closet 
 
After the Funeral. 73 
 
 What with his present grief, and what with his disinclination 
 for society, or, as he called it, company, that had been for 
 some time growing npon him, Mr. North had held aloof from 
 his guests. But he was one of the last men to show incivility, 
 and it suddenly struck him that perhaps he had been guilty 
 of it. 
 
 " Dick, I suppose I ought to have been at the breakfast- 
 table?" 
 
 "Not at all, my dear father; not at all. Tour remaining 
 in privacy is perfectly natural, and I am sure Sir Nash feels 
 it to be so. Don't disturb yourself : they will come to you 
 here." 
 
 Almost as he spoke they came in, Captain Bohun with them. 
 Sir Nash was a very fine man with a proud face, that put you 
 in mind at once of Arthur Bohun's, and of the calmest, 
 pleasantest, most courteous manners possible. His son was 
 not in the least like him ; a studious, sickly man, his health 
 delicate, his dark hair scanty. James Bohun's time was 
 divided between close classical reading and philanthropic pur- 
 suits. He strove to have what he called a mission in life : 
 and to make it one that might do him some service in the next 
 world. 
 
 " I am so very sorry ! I had no idea you would be going 
 so soon : I ought to have been with you before this," began 
 Mr. North in a flutter. 
 
 But the baronet laid his hands upon him kindly, and calmed 
 the storm. " My good friend, you have done everything that 
 is right and hospitable. I would have stayed a few hours 
 longer with you, but James has to be in London this afternoon 
 to keep an engagement." 
 
 " It is an engagement that I cannot well put off," interposed 
 James Bohun in his small voice that always sounded too weak 
 for a man. " I would not have made it, had I known what 
 was to intervene." 
 
 " He has to preside at a public missionary meeting," 
 explained Sir Nash. " It seeme to me that he has something 
 or other of the kind on hand every day in the year. I tell 
 him that he is wearing himself out." 
 
 " Not every day in the year," spoke the son, as if taking the 
 words literally. " This is the month for such meetings, you 
 know, Sir Nash." 
 
 "You do not look strong," observed Mr. North, studying 
 James Bohun. 
 
74 Bessy Rane. 
 
 "Not strong in appearance perhaps, but I'm wiry, Mr. 
 North : and we wiry fellows last the longest. What sweet 
 flowers those are," added Mr. Bohun, stepping to the thres- 
 hold of the window. " I could not dress myself this morning 
 for looking at them. I longed to put the window open." 
 
 "And why did you not ?" sensibly asked Mr. North. 
 
 " I can't do with the early morning air, sir. I don't 
 accustom myself to it." 
 . " A bit of a valetudinarian," remarked Sir Nash. 
 
 " Not at all, father," answered the son. "It is well to be 
 cautious." 
 
 "I sleep with my window open, James, summer and winter. 
 Well, well, we all have our different tastes and fancies. And 
 now, my good friend," added the baronet, taking the hands of 
 Mr. North, " when will you come and see me ? A change may 
 do you good." 
 
 " Thank you ; not just yet. Thank you all the same, Sir 
 Nash, but later — perhaps," was Mr. North's answer. He 
 knew that the kindness was meant, the invitation sincere ; 
 and of late he had grown to feel grateful for any shown to 
 him. Nevertheless he thought he should never accept this. 
 
 " I will not receive you in that hot, bustling London : it is 
 getting to be a penance to myself to stay there. You shall 
 come to my place in Kent, and be as quiet as you please. 
 You've never seen Peveril : it cannot boast the charming 
 flowers that you show, but it is worth seeing. Promise to 
 come." 
 
 " If I can. Later. Thank you, Sir Nash ; and I beg you 
 and Mr. Bohun to pardon me for all my seeming discourtesy. 
 It has not been meant as such." 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 They walked through the hall to the door, where Mr. 
 North's carriage waited. The large shut-up carriage. Some 
 dim idea was pervading those concerned that to drive to the 
 station in an open dog-cart would be hardly the right thing 
 for these mourners after the recent funeral. 
 
 Sir Nash and his son stepped in, followed by Captain Bohun 
 and Richard North, who would accompany them to the 
 station. As Mr. North turned in-doors again after watching 
 the carriage away, he ran against his daughter Matilda, 
 resplendent in glittering black silk and jet, with endless 
 chains of jet on her head, and neck, and arms, and skirts. 
 
 "They have invited you to visit them, have they not, papa ? " 
 
After the Funeral. 75 
 
 "They have invited me — yes. But I shall ho none the 
 nearer going, Matilda." 
 
 " Then I wish you would, for I want to go," she returned, 
 
 speaking imperiously. " My Uncle Nash asked me. He 
 
 asked mamma, and said would I accompany her : and I 
 
 I should like to go. Do you hear, papa ? I should like to 
 
 go." 
 
 It was all very well for Miss Matilda North to say "My 
 Uncle Nash." Sir Nash -was no relation to her whatever: 
 hut that he was a haronet, she might have rememhered it. 
 
 " You and your mamma can go," said Mr. North with 
 animation, as the seductive vision of the house, relieved of 
 Madam's presence for an indefinite period, arose mentally 
 before him. 
 
 " But mamma says she shall not go." 
 
 " Oh does she ? " he cried, his spirits and the vision sinking 
 together. " She'll change her mind perhaps, Matilda. I 
 can't do anything in it, yoiT know." 
 
 As if to avoid further colloquy, he passed on to his parlour 
 and shut the door sharply. Matilda North turned into the 
 dining-room, her handsome black silk train following her, her 
 discontented look preceding her. Just then Mrs. North came 
 down stairs, a coquettish, fascinating sort of black lace hood 
 on her head, one sh» was in the habit of wearing in the 
 grounds. Matilda North heard the rustle of the robes, and 
 looked out again. 
 
 " Are you going to walk, mamma ? " 
 
 " I am. Have you anything to say. against it ? " 
 
 " It would be all the same if I had," was the pert answer. 
 Not very often did Matilda North gratuitously beard her 
 mother ; but she was in an ill humour : the guests had gone 
 away much sooner than she had expected or wished, and 
 Madam had vexed her. 
 
 " That lace hood is not moui'ning," resumed Miss Matilda 
 North, defiantly viewing Madam from top to toe. 
 
 Madam turned the hood and the haughty face it encircled 
 on her presuming daughter. The look was enough in itself; 
 and what she might have said was interrupted by the approach 
 of Bessy. 
 
 "Have you any particular orders to give this morning, 
 Madam ? " Bessy asked of her step-mother — whom she as often 
 called Madam as Mamma, the latter fond word never meeting 
 with fond response from Mrs. North to her. 
 
y6 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " If I have I'll give them later," imperiously replied Madam, 
 sweeping out at the hall door. 
 
 "What has angered her now ? " thought Bessy. "I hope 
 and trust it is nothing connected with papa. He has enough 
 trouble without having to bear ill-temper." 
 
 Bessy North was housekeeper. And a fine time she had of 
 it ! Between Madam's capi'icious orders, issued at all sorts of 
 inconvenient hours, and the natural resentment of the servants, 
 a less meek and patient spirit would have been worried beyond 
 bearing. Bessy made herself the scape-goat; labouring, both 
 by substantial help and by soothing words, to keep peace in 
 the household. None knew how much Bessy did, or the care 
 that was upon her. Miss Matilda North had never soiled her 
 fingers in her life, never done more than ring the bell with a 
 dash, and issue her imperious orders after the fashion of 
 Madam, her mother. The two half-sisters were a perfect con- 
 trast. Certainly they presented such outwardly, as witness 
 this morning : the one not unlike a peacock, her ornamented 
 head thrown up, her extended train trailing, and her oddsand 
 ends of gleaming jet ; the other a meek little woman in a black 
 gown of some soft material with a bit of quiet crape upon it, 
 and her smooth hair banded back — for she had put it plain 
 to-day. 
 
 On her way to the kitchens, Bessy halted at her father's 
 sitting-room, and opened the door quietly. Mr. North was 
 standing against the window-frame, half inside the room half 
 out of it. 
 
 " Can I do anythingfor you, papa ? " 
 
 " There's nothing to do for me, child. "What time do we 
 dine to-day, Bessy ? " he asked, after a pause. 
 
 "Isuppose at six. Mrs. North has not given contrary orders." 
 
 " Very well. I'll have my bit of luncheon in here, child." 
 
 " To be sure. Dear papa, you are not looking well," she 
 added, advancing to him. 
 
 " No ? Looks don't matter much, Bessy, when folks get to 
 be as old as I am. A thought comes over me at odd moments 
 — that it is good to grow ugly, and yellow, and wrinkled. It 
 makes us wish to become young and fair and pleasant to the 
 sight again : and we can only do that through, immortality. 
 Through immortality, child." 
 
 Mr. North lifted his hand, the fingers of which had always 
 now a trembling sort of movement in them, to his shrivelled 
 face, as he repeated the concluding words, passing it twice 
 
After the Funeral. fj 
 
 over the weak, scanty brown hair that time and care had left 
 him. Bessy kissed him fondly, and quitted the room with a 
 sigh, one sad thought running through her mind. 
 
 " How sadly papa is breaking ! " 
 
 Mrs. North swept down the broad gravel walk leading from 
 the entrance door, until she came to a path on the left, which 
 led to the covered portion of the grounds. Not covered by any 
 roof ; but the trees in places here grew so thick that shade 
 might be had at midday. This part of the grounds was near 
 the dark portion of the Dallory highway already mentioned 
 (where Jelly had surprised her mistress and Oliver Rane in 
 the moonlight the past night), only the boundary hedges being 
 between them. Thickets of shrubs were there ; hedges of 
 laurel, privet, sweet-briar ; clustering trees, their branches 
 meeting over-head. Dark grottos nestled at ends of walks, 
 covert benches were hidden in corners. It was a sweet spot, 
 affording retirement from the world and shelter from the fierce 
 rays of the burning sun. Madam was fond of frequenting this 
 spot: and all the more so because sundry loop-holes gave her 
 the opportunity of peering out beyond. She could see all who 
 passed to and from the Hall, without being herself seen. One 
 high enclosed walk was especially liked hj her ; ensconced 
 within its shade, quietly resting on one of its rustic seats, she 
 could hear as well as see. Before she had quite gained this 
 walk, however, her son Sidney crossed her path. A young 
 man of twenty now, undersized, insufferably vain, fast, and 
 conceited. His face might be called a pretty face: his auburn 
 curls were arranged after the models in a hairdresser's window ; 
 his very blue unmeaning eyes had no true look in them. 
 Sidney North was like neither father nor mother : like nobody 
 but his own contemptible self. Madam looked upon him as 
 next door to an angel ; he was her well-beloved. There can 
 be no blindness equal to that of a doting mother. 
 
 " My dear, I thought you had gone with them to the station," 
 she said. 
 
 "Didn't ask me to go; Dick and Arthur made room for 
 themselves, not for me," responded Sidney, taking his pipe 
 from his mouth to speak, and his voice was as consequential as 
 his mother's. 
 
 A frown crossed Madam's face. Dick and Arthur were 
 rather in the habit of putting Sydney in the shade, and she 
 hated them for it. Arthur was her own son, but she had never 
 regarded him «-ith any sort of affection. 
 
y8 Bessy Rane. ■ 
 
 " I'm going back this afternoon, mamma." 
 
 " This afternoon ! No, my boy ; I can't part with you to-day." 
 
 " Must," laconically responded Sidney, puffing at his pipe. 
 And Madam had got to learn that it was of no use saying he 
 was to stay if he wanted to go. " How much tin can you let 
 me have ? " 
 
 " How much do you want ? " 
 
 " As much as you can give me." 
 
 His demands for money seemed to be as insatiable as Madam 
 knew her husband found hers. The fact was beginning to give 
 her some concern. Only two weeks ago she had despatched 
 him all she could afford : and now here he was, asking again. 
 A slight frown crossed her brow. 
 
 " Sidney, you spend too much." 
 
 " Must do as others do," responded Sidney. 
 
 " But, my sweet boy, I can't let you have it. You don't 
 know the trouble it causes." 
 
 " Trouble ! — with those rich North "Works to draw upon ! " 
 cried Sidney. " The governor must be putting by mines of 
 wealth." 
 
 "I don't think he is, Sidney. He pleads poverty always ; 
 says we drain him. I suppose it's true." 
 
 " Flam ! All old paters cry that. Look at Dick — the 
 loads of gold he must be netting. He gets his equal share, 
 they say; goes thirds with the other two." 
 
 "Who says it?" 
 
 " A fellow told me so yesterday. It's an awful shame that 
 Dick should be a millionaire, and I obliged to beg for every 
 paltry coin I want ! There's not so many years between 
 us." 
 
 "Dick has got his footing in at the works, you see," 
 observed Madam. "Let him! I'd not have you degrade 
 yourself to it for the world. He's fit for nothing but work ; 
 been brought up to it ; and we can spend." 
 
 " Just so," complacently returned the young man. " And 
 you must shell out liberally for me this afternoon, mamma." 
 With no further ceremony of adieu or apology, Mr. Sidney 
 North sauntered away. Madam proceeded to her favourite 
 shaded walk, where she kept her eyes looking out on all sides 
 for intruders, friends or enemies. On this occasion she had 
 the satisfaction of being gratified. 
 
 Her arms folded over the black lace shawl sho wore, its 
 hood gathered on her head, altogether very much after the 
 
Madam's Listening Closet. 79 
 
 fashion of a Spanish mantilla, and the gown train with "ts 
 crape and jet falling in stately folds behind her, Madam had 
 been pacing this retreat for the best part of an honr, when sho 
 canght sight, through tho interstices of the leaves, of two ladies 
 slowly approaching. The one she recognized at once as Mrs. 
 Cumberland ; the other she did not recognize at all. " What 
 a lovely face ! " was her involuntary thought. 
 
 A young, fair, lovely face. The face of Ellen Adair. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 madam's listening closet. 
 
 Many years before, when the Reverend George Cumberland 
 held his chaplaincy in Madras, there were two friends also 
 there with whom he was intimate — Major Bohun and Mr. Adair. 
 The latter held a civil appointment under Government. At 
 that time, Mr. Adair was not married. Later, this gentleman 
 went to Australia : Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland also went there. 
 Mr. Adair had married in the course of time. His wife died, 
 leaving one little child, a daughter : who was despatched to 
 England for her education. Upon its completion, William 
 Adair wrote and begged Mrs. Cumberland to receive her : he 
 thought it probable that he should be returning home ; and if 
 so, it would not be worth while for Ellen to go out to him. 
 Mrs. Cumberland consented, and the young lady became a:i 
 inmate of her house at Dallory Ham. Very liberal term 3 
 were offered by Mr. Adair : but this was a matter entirely be- 
 tween himself and Mrs. Cumberland. 
 
 Holding herself, as she did, so entirely aloof from her 
 neighbours, there was little wonder in Madam's having re- 
 mained unconscious of the fact that some months ago, nearly 
 twelve now, a young lady had come to reside with Mrs. Cum- 
 berland. Part of the time Mrs. Cumberland had been away. 
 Madam had also been away: and when at home her communi- 
 cation with Dallory and Dallory Ham consisted solely in being • 
 whirled through its roads in a carriage : no one in-doors 
 spoke unnecessarily in her hearing of any gossip connected 
 with those despised places ; and to church she rarely went, 
 for she did not get up in time. And so the sweet girl, who 
 had for some time now been making Arthur Bohun's heart's 
 existence, had never yet been seen or heard of by his 
 mother. 
 
80 Bessy Rane. 
 
 For Mrs. Cumberland to be seen abroad so early was some- 
 thing marvellous ; indeed sbe was rarely seen abroad at all. On 
 this morning sbe came ont of ber room between eleven and 
 twelve o'clock, dressed for a walk ; and bade Ellen Adair make 
 ready to accompany ber. Ellen obeyed, silently wondering. The 
 truth was, Mrs. Cumberland had picked up a very unpleasant 
 doubt the previous day, and would give the whole world to lay 
 it to rest. It was connected with her son. His assurances 
 had partly pacified her, but not quite: and she determined to 
 get a private word with Mr. North. Ellen, walking by her 
 side along the road, supposed they were going into Dallory. 
 Mrs. Cumberland kept close to the hedge for the sake of the 
 shade : as she brushed the bench in passing, where she had sat 
 the past night, a slight shudder took her frame. Ellen did not 
 observe it; she was revelling in the beauty of the sweet spring 
 day. The gates of Dallory Hall gained, Mrs. Cumberland 
 turned in. Ellen Adair wondered more and more ; but Mrs. 
 Cumberland was not one to be questioned at will on any 
 subject. 
 
 On they came, Madam watching with all her eyes. Mrs. 
 Cumberland was in her usual black silk attire, and walked 
 with the slow step of an invalid. Ellen wore a morning dress 
 of lilac muslin. It needed not the lilac parasol she carried to 
 reflect an additional lovely hue on that most lovely face. A 
 stately, refined girl, as Madam saw, with charming manners, 
 the reverse of pretentious. 
 
 But as Madam, fascinatedfor once inherlife, gazed outwards, 
 a certain familiarity in the face dawned upon her senses. That 
 sbe had seen it before, or one very like it, became a conviction. 
 " Who on earth is she ? " murmured the lady to herself — for 
 Madam was by no means stilted in her phrases at leisure 
 moments. 
 
 " Are you going to call at the Hall, Mrs. Cumberland ? " 
 enquired Ellen, venturing to ask the question at length in her 
 increasing surprise. And every word could be heard distinctly 
 by Madam, for they were nearly close. 
 
 " I think so," was the answer, given in a hesitating tone. 
 " I— I should like to tell Mr. North that I feel for his loss." 
 
 " But is it not early to do so— both in the hour of the day, 
 and after the death ? " rejoined Ellen, with deprecation. 
 
 " For a stranger it would be ; for me, no. I and John. 
 North were as brother and sister once. Besides, I have some- 
 thing else to say to him." 
 
Madams Listening Closet. 81 
 
 Had Miss Adair asked what the something else was — which 
 she would not have presumed to do — Mrs. Cumberland might 
 have replied that she wished again to enlist the Hall's influence 
 on behalf of her son, now that Mr. Alexander was about to 
 leave. A sure indication that it was not the real motive that 
 was drawing her to the Hall, for she was one of those reticent 
 women who rarely, if ever, observe open candour even to 
 friends. Suddenly she halted. 
 
 " I prefer to go on alone, Ellen. You can sit down and 
 wait for me. There are benches about in the covered walks." 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland went forward. Ellen turned back and 
 began to walk towards the entrance gates with the slow lin- 
 gering step of one who waits. Mrs. Cumberland had got well 
 on, when she turned and called. 
 
 "Ellen." 
 
 But Ellen did not hear. She had her face turned the other 
 way. 
 
 "Ellen! Ellen Adair!" 
 
 A loud call, this, echoing on the warm summer air, echoing 
 on the curious ears covered by the lace mantilla. Mrs. North 
 gave a quick, sharp start. It looked very like a start of terror. 
 
 " Ellen Adair ! " she repeated to herself, her hungry eyes, 
 hungry in their fear, flashing out on the beautiful face, to see 
 whether she could track home the resemblance now. " Ellen 
 Adair ? jGrood heavens ! " 
 
 Ellen had turned at once. " Tes, Mrs. Cumberland." 
 
 " Do not go within view of the road, my dear. I don't 
 care that all the world should know I am making a call at 
 Dallory Hall. Find a bench and sit down, as I bade you." 
 
 Obedient as it was in her nature to be, the young lady turned 
 promptly into one of the side paths, which brought her within 
 nearer range of Madam's view. She, Madam, with a face 
 from which every atom of colour had faded, leaving it white 
 as ashes, stood still as a statue, like one confounded. 
 
 " I see the likeness : it is to Mm" she muttered. " Can he 
 have come home ? " 
 
 Ellen Adair passed out of sight and hearing. Madam, 
 shaking herself from her fear, turned with stealthy steps to 
 seek the house, keeping in the private paths as long as might 
 be, which was a more circuitous way. Madam intended, un- 
 seen, to make a third at the interview between her husband 
 and Mrs. Cumberland. The sight of that girl's face had 
 frightene'd her. There might be treason in the air. 
 
 a 
 
82 Bessy Rane* 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland was already in Mr. North's parlour. 
 Strolling out amidst his flowers, he had encountered her in 
 the garden, and taken her in through the open window. 
 Madam arriving a little later, passed through the hall to the 
 dining room. Rather inopportunely, there sat Bessy, busy 
 with her housekeeping account books. 
 
 " Take them elsewhere," said Madam, with an imperious 
 sweep of the hand. 
 
 She was not in the habit of giving a reason for any com- 
 mand whatever : let it be reasonable or unreasonable, all to be 
 done was to hear and obey. Bessy gathered her books up in 
 her black apron, and went away, Madam shooting the bolt of 
 the door after her. 
 
 Then she stole across the soft Turkey carpet and slipped 
 into the closet already spoken of, that formed a communica- 
 tion (never used as such) between the dining-room and Mr. 
 North's parlour. The door opening to the parlour was un- 
 latched and had been ever since he put his slippers inside it 
 an hour before. When her eyes became accustomed to the 
 closet's darkness, Madam saw them lying there ; she also 
 saw one or two of his old brown gardening coats hanging on 
 the pegs. Against the wall was a narrow table with an un- 
 locked desk upon it, belonging to herself. It was clever of 
 Madam to keep it there. Opening the lid silently, she pulled 
 up a few of its valueless papers, and let them stick out. Of 
 course, if the closet were suddenly entered from the parlour 
 — a most unlikely thing to happen, but Madam was cautious — 
 she was only getting something from her desk. In this man- 
 ner she had occasionally made an unsuspected third at Richard 
 North's interviews with his father. Letting the lace hood 
 slip off, Madam bent her ear to the crevice of the unlatched 
 door, and stood there listening. She was under the influence 
 of terror still : her lips were drawn back, her face wore the 
 hue of death. 
 
 Apparently the ostensible motive of the interview — Mrs. 
 Cumberland's wish to express her sympathy for the blow that 
 had fallen on the Hall — was over ; she had probably also been 
 asking for Mr. North's influence to push her son. The first 
 connected words Madam caught were these : 
 
 "I will do what I can, Mrs. Cumberland. I wished to do 
 it before, as you know. But Mrs. North took a dislike — I mean 
 took a fancy to Alexander." 
 
 " You mean took a dislike to Oliver," corrected JSIrs. Cum- 
 
Madam's Listening Closet. 83 
 
 berland. " In tlio old days, when you were John North with- 
 out thought of future grandeur, and I was Fanny Gass, we 
 spoke out freely to each other." 
 
 " True," said poor Mr. North. "I've not had such good 
 days since. Ah, what a long while it seems to look back to ! 
 I have grown into an old nian, Fanny, older in feeling than 
 in years ; and you — you wasted the best days of your life 
 in a hot and pestilential climate." 
 
 " Pestilential in places and at seasons," corrected Mrs. Cum- 
 berland. " My husband was stationed in the beautiful climate 
 of the Blue Mountains, as we familiarly call the region of 
 the Neilgherry Hills. It is pleasant there." 
 
 "Ay, I've heard so. Get the cool breezes and all 
 that." 
 
 " People used to come up there from the hot plains to regain 
 their wasted health," continued Mrs. Cumberland, whose 
 thoughts were apt to wander back to the earlier years of her 
 exile. " Ootacamund is resorted to there, just as the colder 
 sea-side places are, here. But I and Mr. Cumberland were 
 stationary." 
 
 "Ootacamund?" repeated Mr. North, struck with tho 
 name. " Ootacamund was where my wife's first husband 
 died ; Major Bohun." 
 
 "No, he did not die there," quietly rejoined Mrs. Cum- 
 berland. 
 
 " Was it not there ? Ah! well, it does not matter. One 
 is apt to confuse these foreign names and places together in 
 the memory." 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland made no rejoinder, and there ensued a 
 momentary silence. Madam, who with the mention of the place, 
 Ootacamund, bit her lip almost to bleeding, bent forward, and 
 looked through the opening of the door. She could just see 
 the smallest portion of the cold, calm, grey face, and waited in 
 sickening apprehension of what the nest words might be. 
 They came from Mrs. Cumberland and proved an intense re- 
 lief, for the subject was changed for another. 
 
 " I am about to make a request to you, John : I hope you 
 will grant it for our old friendship's sake. Let me see the 
 anonymous letter that proved so fatal to Edmund — little 
 Neddums, as I and your wife used fondly to call him in 
 his babyhood. Every incident connected with this calamity is 
 to me so full of painful interest ! " she continued, as if seeking 
 to apologise for her request. " As I lay awake last night, 
 
84 . Bessy Rane. 
 
 unable to sleep, it came into my mind that I would ask 
 yon to let me see the letter." 
 
 "You may see it, and welcome," was Mr. North's ready 
 reply, as he unlocked a drawer in the old secretaire — bureau, 
 he always called it — and handed the paper to her. " I only 
 wish I could show it to some purpose — to somebody who 
 would recognise the handwriting. You won't do that." 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland answered by a sickly smile. Her hands 
 trembled as she took the letter, and Mr. North noticed how 
 white her lips had become — as if with some inward suspense 
 or emotion. She studied the letter well, reading it three 
 times over ; looking at it critically in all lights. Madam in 
 the closet could have hit her for her inquisitive curiosity. 
 
 "You are right, John," she said, with an unmistakable 
 sigh of relief as she gave the missive back; "I certainly do 
 not recognise that handwriting. It is like no one's that I 
 ever saw." 
 
 "It is a disguised hand, you see," he answered. "No 
 question about that : and accomplished in the cleverest 
 manner." 
 
 " Is it true that poor Edmund had been drawing bills in 
 conjunction with Alexander ? " 
 
 " Only one. He had drawn a good many I'm afraid during 
 his short lifetime in conjunction with other people, but only 
 one with Alexander — which they got renewed. No blame 
 attaches to Alexander ; not a scrap of it." 
 
 " Oliver told me that." 
 
 " Ay. I have a notion that poor Edmund did not get into 
 this trouble for his own sake, but to help that young scamp, 
 his brother." 
 
 "Which brother?" 
 
 " Which brother ! " echoed Mr. North, rather in mockery. 
 " As if you need ask that. There's only one of them who 
 could deserve the epithet, and that's Sidney. An awful scamp 
 he is. He is but twenty years of age, and he is as deep in the 
 ways of a bad world as though he were forty." 
 
 " I am very sorry to hear you say it. Whispers go abroad 
 about him, as I dare say you know, but I would rather not 
 have heard them confirmed by you." 
 
 " People can't say much too bad of him. We have got 
 Mrs. North to thank for it : it is all owing to the way she has 
 brought him up. When I would have corrected his faults, she 
 stepped between us. Oftentimes have I thought of the enemy 
 
Madam's Listening Closet. 85 
 
 that sowed the tares amid the wheat in his neighbour's 
 field." 
 
 "The old saying comes home to many of us," observed 
 Mrs. Cumberland with a suppressed sigh, as she rose to leave. 
 "When our children are young they tread upon our toes, but 
 when they get older they tread upon our hearts." 
 
 " Ay, ay ! Don't go yet," added Mr. North. " It is 
 pleasant in times of sorrow to see an old friend. I have nc 
 friends now." 
 
 "I must go, John. Ellen Adair is waiting for me; she 
 will find the time long. And I expect it would not be very 
 agreeable to your wife to see me here. Not that I know for 
 why, or what I can have done to her." 
 
 " She encourages nobody ; nobody of the good old days," 
 was the confidential rejoinder. " There's no fear of her; I 
 saw her going off towards the shrubberies — after Master 
 Sidney, I suppose. She takes what she calls her constitu- 
 tional walks there. They last a couple of hours sometimes." 
 
 As Mr. North turned to put the letter into the drawer 
 again, he saw a scrap of poetry that had been found in 
 Arthur Bohun's desk. This he also showed his visitor. He 
 would have kept nothing from her ; she was the only link 
 left to him of the days when he and the world (to him) were 
 alike young. Had Mrs. Cumberland stayed there till night, 
 he would then have thought it too soon for her to go away. 
 
 " I will do all I can for your son, Fanny," said Mr. North, 
 as they stood for a moment at the glass doors. " I like 
 Oliver. He is a steady, persevering fellow, and I'll help 
 him on if I can. If I do not, the fault will not lie with me. 
 You understand ? " he added, looking at her. 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland understood perfectly — that the fault 
 would lie with Madam. She nodded in answer. 
 
 "Mr. Alexander is going, John — as you know. Should 
 Oliver succeed in getting the whole of the practice — and 
 there's nothing to prevent it — he will soon be making a large 
 income. In that case, I suppose he will be asking you to give 
 him something else." 
 
 " You mean Bessy. I wish to goodness he had her ! " con- 
 tinued Mr. North impulsively ; " I do heartily wish it some- 
 times. She has not a very happy life of it here. Well, well ; 
 I hope Oliver will get on with all my heart ; tell him so from 
 me, Fanny. He shall have her when he does." 
 
 "Shall he ! " ejaculated Madam from her closet, and in her 
 
86 Bessy Rane. 
 
 most scornfully defiant tone — for the conversation had not 
 pleased her. 
 
 They went strolling away amid the parterres of flowers, 
 Madam peering after them with angry eyes. She heard her 
 husband tell Mrs. Cumberland to come again ; to come in 
 often ; whenever she would. Mr. North went on with her 
 down the broad path, after they had lingered some minutes 
 with the sweet flowers. In strolling back alone, who should 
 pounce upon Mr. North from a side path but Madam ! 
 
 " Was not that woman I saw you with the Cumberland, 
 Mr. North ? " 
 
 " It was Mrs. Cumberland : my early friend. She came in 
 to express her sympathy at my loss. I took it as very kind 
 of her, Madam." 
 
 " I take it as very insolent," retorted Madam. " She had 
 some girl with her when she came in. Who was it ? " 
 
 " Some girl ! " repeated Mr. North, whose memory was 
 anything but retentive. "Ah yes, I remember : she said her 
 ward was waiting for her." 
 
 " Who is her ward ? " 
 
 "The daughter of a friend whom they knew in India, 
 Madam. In India or Australia ; I forget which : Greorge 
 Cumberland was stationed in both places. A charming young 
 lady with a romantic name : Ellen Adair." 
 
 Madam toyed with the black lace that shielded her face. 
 "You seem to know her, Mr. North." 
 
 " I have seen her in the road ; and in coming out of church. 
 The first time I met them was in Dallory, one day last 
 summer, and Mrs. Cumberland told me who she was. That 
 is all I know of her, Madam — asyou seem to be curious." 
 
 "Is she living at Mrs. Cumberland's ? " 
 
 "Just now she is. I — I think they said she was going to 
 be sent out to join her father," added Mr. North, whoso 
 impressions were always hazy in matters that did not imme- 
 diately concern him. "Yes, I'm nearly sure, Madam: to 
 Australia." 
 
 "Her father — whoever he maybe — is not in Europe then," 
 slightingly spoke Madam, stooping to root up mercilessly a 
 handful of blue-bells. 
 
 " Her father lives over yonder. That's why the young 
 lady has to go out." 
 
 Madam tossed away the rifled flowers and raised her head 
 to its customary haughty height. The danger had passed. 
 
Madam's Listening Closet. 87 
 
 " Over yonder " meant, as she knew, some far-off antipodes. 
 She flung aside the girl and the interlude from her recollec- 
 tions, just as ruthlessly as she had flung the blue-bells. 
 
 " I want some money, Mr. North." 
 
 Mr. North went into a flutter at once. "I — I have none 
 by me, Madam." 
 
 " Then give me a cheque." 
 
 "Nor cheque either. I don't happen to have a signed 
 cheque in the house, and Richard is gone for the day." 
 
 "What have I repeatedly told you — that you must Jceep 
 money by you ; and cheques too," was her stern answer. 
 " Why does Richard sign the cheques always ? — Why can't 
 you sign them ? " 
 
 She had asked the same thing fifty times, and he had never 
 been goaded to give the true answer. 
 
 " I have not signed a cheque since Thomas Grass died, except 
 on my own private account, Madam ; no, nor for long before 
 it. My account is over-drawn. I shan't have a stiver in 
 the bank until next quarter-day." 
 
 " You told me that last week," she said contemptuously. 
 " Draw then upon the firm account." 
 
 He shook his head. "The bank would not cash it." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because only Richard can sign. Oh dear, this is going 
 over and over the old ground again. You'll wear me out, 
 Madam. When Richard took first acting place at the works, 
 it was judged advisable that he should alone sign the business 
 cheques — for convenience' sake, Madam ; for convenience' 
 sake. Gass's hands were crippled with gout ; I was here with 
 my flowers." 
 
 "I don't care who signs the cheques so that I get the 
 money," she retorted in a rude, rough tone. "You must 
 give me some to day." 
 
 "It is for Sidney; I know it is for Sidney," spoke Mr. 
 North tremulously. " Madam, you are ruining that lad. For 
 his own sake some check must be put upon him : and there- 
 fore I am thankful that to-day I have no money to give." 
 
 He took some short hurried steps over the corners of paths 
 and flower-beds, with the last words, and got into his own 
 room. Madam calmly followed. Very sure might he be that 
 she would not allow him to escape her. 
 
 Ellen Adair, waiting for Mrs. Cumberland, had not felt the 
 time long. Very shortly after she was left alone, the carriage 
 
88 Bessy Rane. 
 
 came back from the station, bringing Arthur Bohun : Richard 
 had been left at Whitborongh. Captain Bohnn got out at the 
 gates, intending to walk up to the house. Ellen saw him 
 come limping along — the halt in his gait was always more 
 visible when he had been sitting for any length of time — and 
 he at the same time caught sight of the bright hues of the 
 lilac dress gleaming through the trees. 
 
 Some years back, the detachment commanded by Arthur 
 Bohun was quartered in Ireland. One ill-starred night it was 
 called out to suppress some local disturbances, and he got 
 desperately wounded : shot, as was supposed, unto death. 
 That he would never be fit for service again ; that his death, 
 though it might be a lingering one, was inevitable ; surgeons 
 and friends alike thought. For nearly two years he was 
 looked upon as a dying man : that is, as a man who could not 
 possibly recover. But Time, the great healer, healed him ; 
 and he came out of his long sickness and danger with only a 
 slight limp, more or less perceptible. When walking slowly, 
 or when he took any one's arms, it was not seen at all. Mrs. 
 North (who was proud of her handsome and distinguished 
 son, although she had no love for him,) was wont to tell 
 friends confidentially that he had a bullet in his hip yet — at 
 which Arthur laughed. 
 
 The sight of the lilac dress caused him to turn aside. Ellen 
 
 rose and stood waiting ; her whole being was thrilling with 
 
 the rapture the meeting brought. He took her hand in his, 
 
 his face lio'htine:. 
 . *-* 
 
 "Is it indeed you, Ellen ! I should as soon have expected 
 
 to see a fairy here." 
 
 " Mrs. Cumberland has gone to call on Mr. North. She told 
 me to wait for her." 
 
 " I have been with Dick to take my uncle and James to the 
 station," spoke Captain Bohun, pitching upon it as something 
 to say, for his tongue was never too fluent when alone with 
 her. " He has been asking me to go and stay with him." 
 
 " Sir Nash has ? " 
 
 "Yes. Jimmy invites nobody; he is taken up with his 
 missionaries, and that." 
 
 " Shall you go ? " 
 
 Their eyes met as she put the question. Go ! away from 
 her! 
 
 "I think not," he quietly answered. "Not at present. 
 Miss Bohun's turn must come first : she has been writing for 
 me this lon£ while." 
 
Madam's Listening Closet. 89 
 
 " That's your aunt." 
 
 " My aunt. And a good old soul she is. Won't you walk 
 about a little, Ellen ? " 
 
 She took the arm he held out, and they paced the covered 
 walks, almost in silence. The May birds were singing, the 
 budding leaves were dancing. Eloquence enough for them : 
 and each might have detected the beating of the other's heart. 
 Madam had her ear glued to that closet door, and so missed 
 the sight. A sight that would have made her hair stand on 
 end. 
 
 Minutes, for lovers, fly on swift wings. When Mrs. Cumber- 
 land appeared, it seemed that she had been away no time. 
 Ellen went forward to meet her : and Captain Bohun said he 
 had just come home from the station. Mrs. Cumberland, 
 absorbed in her own cares, complaining of fatigue, took little 
 or no notice of him : he strolled by their side up the Ham. 
 Standing at Mrs. Cumberland's gate for a moment in parting, 
 Oliver Rane came so hastily out of his house that he ran 
 against them. 
 
 "Don't push me over, Rane," spoke Arthur Bohun in his 
 lazy bat very pleasing manner. 
 
 " I beg your pardon. When I am in a hurry I believe I 
 am apt to drive on in a blindfold fashion," 
 
 " Is anyone ill, Oliver ? " questioned his mother. 
 
 "Yes. At Mrs. Gass's. I fear it is herself . The man who 
 brought the message did not know." 
 
 "You ought to keep a horse," spoke Captain Bohun, as 
 the doctor recommenced his course. " So much running 
 about must wear out a man's legs." 
 
 " Ought ! — oughts go for a great deal, don't they ? " re- 
 plied the doctor, looking back. "I ought to be rich enough 
 to keep one, but I'm not." 
 
 Captain Bohun wished them good day, and they went in- 
 doors. Ellen wondered to hear that Mrs. Cumberland was 
 going out again. Feeling uneasy — as she said — on the score 
 of the sudden illness, she took her way to the house of Mrs. 
 Gass, in spite of the fatigue she had been complaining of. A 
 long walk for her at any time. Arrived there she found that 
 lady in perfect health ; it was one of her servants to whom 
 Oliver had been summoned. The young woman had scalded 
 badly her hand and arm. 
 
 " I was at the Hall this morning, and Mr. North showed 
 me the anonymous letter," Mrs. Cumberland took occasion 
 
90 Bessy Rane. 
 
 to say. " It evidently comes from a stranger ; a stranger to 
 us. The handwriting is entirely strange." 
 
 " So much the better, ma'am," heartily spoke Mrs. Gass. 
 " 'Twould be too bad to think it was writ by a friend." 
 
 " Oliver thinks it was Madam," pursued Mrs. Cumberland, 
 dropping her voice. " At least — he has not gone so far as to 
 say lie thinks it, but that Mr. Alexander does." 
 
 " That's just the word he gave to me, ma'am. Alexander 
 thought it, he said, but that he hisself didn't know what to 
 think, one way or the other. As well, perhaps for us not to 
 talk of it : least said is soonest mended." 
 
 " Of course. But I cannot help recalling a remaxk once 
 innocently made by Arthur Bohun in my hearing : that he 
 did not know anybody who could imitate different hand- 
 writings so well as his mother. Did you " — Mrs. Cumberland 
 looked cautiously round — "observe the girl, Molly Green, 
 take her handkerchief from her pocket while she stood here ? " 
 
 " I didn't see her with any handkercher," was the answer, 
 given after a pause of reflection. " Shouldn't think the girl's 
 got one. She put her basket on the sideboard there, to come 
 forward to my geraniums, and she stood stock still, while she 
 looked at 'em. I don't say she didn't touch her pocket ; but 
 I never saw her at it." 
 
 "It might have been. These little actions often pass un- 
 noticed. And it is so easy for any other article to slip up un- 
 seen when a handkerchief is drawn out of a pocket," con- 
 cluded Mrs. Cumberland in a suppressed tone of almost 
 trembling eagerness. Which Mrs. Gass noticed, and did not 
 quite like. 
 
 But there's a little something yet to tell of Dallory Hall. 
 When Madam followed her husband through the glass doors 
 into his parlour, an unusually unpleasant scene ensued. 
 For once Mr. North held out resolutely. He had no other 
 resource, for be had not the money to give her, and did 
 not know where to get it. That it was for Sidney, he well 
 believed ; and for that reason only would have denied it to 
 the utmost of his poor feeble strength. Madam flounced out in 
 one of her worst moods. Mrs. Cumberland's visit and the 
 startling sight of Ellen Adair had brought to her unexampled 
 annoyance. As ill-luck had it, she encountered Bessy in the 
 hall, and upon her vented her dreadful temper. The short 
 scene was a violent one. When it was over, the poor girl 
 went shivering and trembling into her father's parlour. He 
 
Madants Listening Closet. 91 
 
 had been standing with the door ajar, shrinking almost as 
 much as Bessy, and utterly powerless to interfere. 
 
 " Oh, child ! if I could hut eave you from this ! " ho 
 murmured, as they stood together before the window, and ho 
 fondly stroked the soft hair that lay on his breast. " It's one 
 of the troubles that are wearing me out, Bessy : wearing me 
 out before my time." 
 
 He burst into tears ; perhaps her own sobs set him on ; and 
 they cried in concert. Bessy North was patient, meek, en- 
 during ; but meekness and patience can both be tried beyond 
 their strength. 
 
 "Oliver Rane wants you: you know that, Bessie. If ho 
 could see his way clear to keep you, you should go to him to- 
 morrow. Ay ! though your poor brother has just been put 
 into his grave." 
 
 Bessy lifted her head. In these moments of dire emotion, 
 the heart speaks out without reticence. 
 
 "Papa, I would go to Oliver as he is now, and risk it," 
 she said through her blinding tears. " I should not be afraid 
 of our getting on : we'd make shift together, until better 
 luck came. He spoke a word of this to me not long ago, but 
 his lips were tied, he said, and he could not press it." 
 
 " He thought he had not enough for you ? " 
 
 " He thought you would not consider it so. Ishould, papa. 
 And I think those who bravely set out to struggle on together, 
 have as much happiness in their shifts and economy as others 
 who begin with a fortune." 
 
 " We'll see ; we'll see, Bessy. I'd like you to try it, if you aro 
 not afraid. I'll talk to Dick. But — mind! — not a word 
 here," he added, glancing round at the door to indicate the 
 precincts of Mrs. North. "We shall have to keep it to our- 
 selves if we'd not get it frustrated. I wonder how much Oliver 
 makes a year." 
 
 " Not much ; but he is advancing slowly. He has talked to 
 me about it. What keeps one will keep two, papa." 
 
 " He'll come into about two hundred a year when his mother 
 dies. And I fear she won't live long, by what she tells me. 
 Poor Fanny ! Not that I'd counsel anybody to reckon on 
 dead men's shoes, child. Life's uncertain : he might die be- 
 fore her." 
 
 "He would not reckon on anything but his own exertions, 
 papa. He told me a secret — that he is engaged on a medical 
 work, writing it all his spare time. It is quite certain to take, 
 
92 Bessy Rane. 
 
 he says, to be popular, and bring him good, returns. Oh ! papa, 
 there will be no doubt of our getting on. Let us risk it ! " 
 
 What a bright, hopeful tone she spoke in — " let us risk 
 it ! " — her mild eyes shining, the tears dried on her cheeks. 
 Mr. North caught the glad spirit, and resolved — Dick being 
 willing : sensible Dick — that they should risk it. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. ! 
 
 IN LAWYER DALE'S OFFICE. 
 
 Whitboeough was a good sized, bustling town, sending two 
 members to parliament. In the heart of it lived Mr. Dale, the 
 lawyer, who did a little in money lending as well. He was a 
 short stout man, with a red pimply face and no whiskers, 
 nearly bald on the top of his round head ; and he usually at- 
 tired himself in the attractive costume of a brown tail coat 
 and white neckcloth. 
 
 On this same morning which had witnessed the departure 
 of Sir Nash Bohun and his son from Dallory Hall, Mr. Dale, 
 known commonly amid his townsfolks as Lawyer Dale — was 
 seated in his office at Whitborough. It was a small room, 
 containing a kind of double desk, at which two people might 
 face each other. The lawyer's place at it was against the wall, 
 his face to the room ; a clerk sometimes sat, or stood on the 
 other side when business was pressing. Adjoining this office 
 was one for the clerks, three of whom were kept ; and clients 
 had to come through their room to reach the lawyer's. 
 
 Mr. Dale was writing busily. The clock was on the stroke 
 of twelve, and a great deal of the morning's work had to be 
 done yet, when one of the clerks came in : a tall, thin cada- 
 verous youth with black hair, parted into a fiat curl on his 
 forehead. 
 
 " Are you at home, sir ? " 
 
 " Who is it ? " asked Mr. Dale, growling at the interruption. 
 
 " Mr. Richard North." 
 
 " Send him in." 
 
 Richard came in ; a fine looking man in his deep black 
 clothes — the lawyer could not help thinking so. After shaking 
 hands — a ceremony Mr. Dale liked to observe with all his 
 clients, they being agreeable — he came from behind his desk 
 to seat himself in his dwarf elbow-chair of red patent leather, 
 and gave Richard a seat opposite. The room was small, the 
 
In Lawyer Dale's Office. 93 
 
 desk and other furniture large, and they sat nearly nose to 
 nose. Richard held his hat on his knee. 
 
 " You guess no doubt what has brought me here, Mr. Dale. 
 Now that ray ill-fated brother is put out of our sight in his 
 last resting-place, I have leisure and inclination to look into 
 the miserable event that sent him to it. I shall spare neither 
 cost nor energy in discovering — if so may be — the traitor." 
 
 " You allude to the anonymous letter." 
 
 " Yes. And I have come here to ask you to give me all the 
 information you can about it." 
 
 "But, my good sir, I have no information to give. I don't 
 possess any." 
 
 " I ought to have said information of the attendant circum- 
 stances. Let me hear your history of the transaction from be- 
 ginning to end : and if you can impart to me any hint of the 
 possible writer — that is, if you have formed any private notion 
 of him — I trust you will do so." 
 
 Mr. Dale could be a little tricky on occasion ; he was some- 
 times engaged in transactions that would not have borne the 
 light, and that most certainly he would never have talked of. 
 On the other hand, he could be honest and truthful where 
 there existed no reason for being the contrary : and this 
 anonymous letter business came under the latter category. 
 
 " The transaction was as open and straightforward as could 
 be," spoke the lawyer — and Richard, a judge of character and 
 countenances, saw he was speaking the truth. " Mr. Edmund 
 North came to me one day some short time ago, wanting me to 
 let him have a hundred pounds on his own security. I didn't 
 care to do that — I knew about his bill transactions, you see — 
 and I proposed that somebody should join him. Eventually 
 he came with Alexander the surgeon, and the matter was 
 arranged." 
 
 " Do you know for what purpose he wanted the money ? " 
 
 " For his young brother, Sidney North. A fast young man, 
 that, Mr. Richard," added the lawyer in a significant tone. 
 
 "Yes. Unfortunately." 
 
 "Well, he had got into some secret trouble, and came 
 praying to Mr. Edmund to get him out of it. Whatever 
 foolish ways Edmund North had wasted money in, there's this 
 consolation remaining to his friends — that the transaction 
 which eventually sent him to his grave was one of pure kind- 
 ness," added the lawyer warmly. 
 
 " ' My Father has enough trouble, Dale,' he said to me, ' with 
 
94 Bessy Rane. 
 
 one thing and another, his life's abont worried out of him ; 
 and I don't care that he should get to hear of what Mas'er 
 Sidney's been doing, if it can be kept from him ? ' Yes ; tho 
 motive was a good one." 
 
 " How was it he did not apply to me ? " asked Richard. 
 
 "Well — had yon not, just abont that time, assisted yonr 
 brother Edmund in some scrape of his own ? " 
 
 Richard North nodded. 
 
 " Just so. He said he had not the face to apply to you so 
 soon again ; should be ashamed of himself. Well, to go on, 
 Mr. Richard North. I gave him the money on the bill ; and 
 when it became due, neither he nor Alexander could meet it : 
 so I agreed to renew. Only one day after that, the anony- 
 mous letter found its way to Dallory Hall." 
 
 " You are sure of that ?" 
 
 " Certain. The bill was l^enewed on the 30th of April ; here, 
 in this very room. Mr. North got the letter on the 1st of 
 May." 
 
 " It was so. By the evening post." 
 
 " So that, if the transaction got wind through that renewing, 
 the writer did not lose much time." 
 
 "Well now, Mr. Dale, in what way could that transaction 
 have got wind, and who heard of it ? " 
 
 " I never spoke of it to a human being," impetuously cried 
 the lawyer, giving his knee a thump with his closed hand. 
 And Richard North felt sure that he had not. 
 
 " The transaction, from the beginning, was known only to 
 us three men : Edmund North, the surgeon, and myself. I 
 don't believe either of them mentioned it at all. I know I did 
 not. It's just possible Edmund North might have told his 
 step-brother Sidney the way he got the money — the youug 
 scamp. I beg your pardon, Mr. Richard ; I forgot he was 
 your brother also." 
 
 " It would be to Sidney's interest to keep it quiet," casually 
 remarked Richard. " Our men at the works have got a report 
 running amidst them — I know not whence picked up, and I 
 don't think they know — that the writer of the letter was your 
 clerk, Wilks." 
 
 "Flam!" contemptuously rejoined the lawyer. "I've 
 heard of that. Why should Wilks trouble his head to write 
 about it ? Don't you believe anything so foolish." 
 
 "I don't believe it," returned Richard North. "Wilks 
 could have no motive whatever for it, as far as I can see. 
 
In Lawyer Dales Office. 95 
 
 But I think this — that ho may havo become cognisant of tho 
 affair, and talked of it abroad." 
 
 " Not one of my clerks knew anything about it," protested 
 Mr. Dale. " I've got three of 'em : Wilks and two others. 
 You don't suppose, sir, I take them into my confidence in all 
 things." 
 
 " But, is it quite impossible that any one of them— say 
 "Wilks — could have got to know of it surreptitiously ? " urged 
 Richard. 
 
 "Wilks has nothing surreptitious about him," said the 
 lawyer. " Ho is too shallowed-pated. A thoroughly useful 
 clerk here, but a man without guile." 
 
 "I did not mean to apply the word surreptitious to him 
 personally. I'll change it if you like. Could Wilks, or either 
 of the other two have accidentally learnt this, without your 
 knowledge ? Was there a possibility of it ? Come, Mr. 
 Dale ; bo open with me. Even if it were so, no blame at- 
 taches to you." 
 
 " It is just this," answered Mr Dale, accepting the solici- 
 tation to be open — " that I don't see how it was possible for any 
 one of them to have learnt it ; while at the same time, I see 
 no other way in which it could have transpired. That's the 
 candid truth." 
 
 " But — is it quite impossible they could have learnt it ? " 
 urged Richard North, repeating his words. 
 
 "It seems impossible to me; but it is just one of those 
 things that one could not take a Bible oath to. I lay awake 
 one night for half-an-hour, turning the puzzle about in my 
 mind. Alexander says he never opened his lips upon it ; I 
 know I did not ; and poor Edmund North went into his fatal 
 passion thinking Alexander wrote the letter, because he said 
 Alexander alone knew of it ; which is a pretty sure proof he 
 had not talked himself." 
 
 "Which brings us back to your clerks," remarked Richard 
 North. " They might havo overheard a few chance words 
 when the bill was renewed." 
 
 " I'm sure the door was shut," debated Mr. Dale, in a tone 
 as if he were not sure, but rather sought to tell himself he 
 was sure. " Only "Wilks was in, that morning ; the other two 
 had gone out." 
 
 " Rely upon it that's how it happened. The door could not 
 have been quite closed." 
 
 "W '' I don't know. I generally shut it myself, with a 
 
96 Bessy Rane. 
 
 bang too, when important clients are in here. I confess," 
 honestly added Mr. Dale, " that it's the only loophole I can see 
 If the door was unlatched, Wilks might have heard. 1 had 
 him in last night, and taxed him with it. He denies it out 
 and out : says that, even if the affair had reached his know- 
 ledge, he knows his duty better than to have talked of 
 it." 
 
 "I don't doubt that he does, when in his sober senses. But 
 he is not always in them." 
 
 " Oh, come, Mr. Richard North, it is not so bad as that." 
 
 Richard was silent. If Mr. Dale was satisfied with his 
 clerk and his clerk's discretion, he had no wish to render him 
 otherwise. 
 
 " He takes too much now and then, you know, Mr. Dale ; 
 and he may have dropped a word in some enemy's heai'ing : 
 who perhaps caught it up and then wrote the letter. Would 
 you mind my questioning him ? " 
 
 " He is not here to be questioned, or you might do it and 
 welcome," replied Mr. Dale. "Wilks is lying up to-day. He 
 has not been well for more than a week past ; could hardly do 
 his work yesterday." 
 
 " I'll take an opportunity of seeing him then," said Richard. 
 " My father won't rest until the -writer of this letter shall be 
 traced ; neither, in truth, shall I." 
 
 The lawyer said good morning to his visitor, and returned 
 to his desk. But ere he recommenced work, he thought over 
 the chief subject of their conversation. Had the traitor been 
 Wilks, he asked himself. What Richard North had said was 
 perfectly true — that the young man sometimes took too much 
 after work was over. But Mr. Dale had hitherto found no 
 cause to complain of his discretion; and, difficult as any other 
 loophole of suspicion seemed, he finally concluded that he had 
 no cause now. 
 
 Meanwhile Richard North walked back to Dallory — it was 
 nearly two miles from Whitborough. Passing his works, he 
 continued his way a little further, to a turning called North 
 Inlet ; in which were some houses, large and small, tenanted 
 chiefly by his workpeople. In one of these, a pretty cottage 
 standing back, lodged Timothy Wilks. The landlady was a 
 relative of AVilks's, and as he got his two rooms cheap, he did 
 not mind the walk once a day to and from Whitborough. 
 
 " Good morning, Mrs. Green. Is Timothy Wilks in ? " 
 
 Mrs. Green, an ancient matron in a mob-cap, was on her 
 
In Lawyer Dak's Office. 97 
 
 hands and knees, whitening the door-step. She got up at the 
 salutation, saw it was Richard North, and curtseyed. 
 
 " Tim have just crawled out to get a bit o' sunshine, sir. 
 He's very bad to-day. Would you please to walk in, Mr. 
 Richard ? " 
 
 Here, amidst this colony of his work-people, he was chiefly 
 known as "Mr. Richard." Mrs. Green's husband was time- 
 keeper at the North works. 
 
 "What's the matter with him?" asked Richard, as he 
 stepped over the threshold and the bucket to the little parlour. 
 " Well, sir, I only hope it's not a low-fever; but it looks to 
 me uncommon like it." 
 
 " Since when has he been ill ? " 
 
 " He have been ailing this fortnight past. The fact is, sir, 
 he won't keep steady," she added in a deploring tone. " Once 
 a week he's safe to come home the worse for drink, and that's 
 pay night ; and sometimes its of tener than that. Then for 
 two days afterwards he can't eat ; and so it goes on, and he 
 gets as weak as a rat. It's not that he takes much drink ; it 
 is that a little upsets him. Some men could take half-a-dozen 
 glasses a'most to his one." 
 
 " What a pity it is !" exclaimed Richard. 
 " He had a regular bout of it a week or so ago," resumed 
 Mrs. Green ; who when she was set off on the score of Timo- 
 thy's misdoings, never knew when to stop. It was so well 
 known to North Inlet, this failing of the young man's, that 
 she might have talked of it in the market-place and not be- 
 trayed confidence. " He had been ailing before, as I said, 
 Mr. Richard ; off his food, and that ; but one night he caught 
 it smartly, and he's been getting ill ever since." 
 
 " Caught what smartly ? " asked Richard, not understand- 
 ing North Inlet idioms. 
 
 " Why the drink, sir. He came home reeling, and give his 
 L ad such a bang again the door-post that it knocked him 
 back'ards. I got him up somehow — Green was out — and on 
 to his bed, and there he went off in a dead faint. I'd no 
 vinegar in the house : if you want a thing in a hurry you're 
 sure to be out of it : so I burnt a feather up his nose and that 
 brought him to. He began to talk all sorts of nonsense then, 
 about doing 'bills' whatever that might mean, and old Dale's 
 money-boxes, running words into one another like mad, so 
 that you couldn't make top nor tail o' the sense. I'd never 
 seen him as bad as this, and got a'most frightened." 
 
 H 
 
gS Bessy Rane. 
 
 She paused to take breath, always short with Mrs. Green. 
 The words "doing bills" strnck Richard North. He im- 
 mediately perceived that hence might have arisen the report 
 (for she had no doubt talked of this publicly) that Timothy 
 Wilks was the traitor. Other li iteners could put two and two 
 together as well as he. 
 
 " I thought I'd get in the vinegar, in case he went off again," 
 resumed Mrs. Green, having laid in a fresh stock of breath. 
 " And when I was running round to the shop for it — leastways 
 walking, for I can't run now — who should I meet, turning out 
 of Ketler's but Dr. Rane. I stopped to tell him, and he said 
 he'd look in and see Tim. He's a kind man in sickness, Mr. 
 Richard." 
 
 " Did Dr. Rane come ? " asked Richard. 
 
 "Right off, sir, there and then. When I got back he had 
 put cloths of cold water on Tim's head. And wasn't Tim 
 talking! You might have thought him a show-man at the 
 fair. The doctor wrote something on paper with his pencil 
 and sent me off again to Stevens's the druggist's, and Stevens 
 he gave me a little bottle of white stuff to bring back. The 
 doctor gave Tim some of it in a tea-cup of cold water, and it 
 sent him into a good sleep. But he has never been well, 
 sir, since then : and now I misdoubt me but it will end in low 
 fever." 
 
 " Do you remember what night this was ? " asked Richard. 
 
 " Ay, that I do, sir. For the foolish girls was standing out 
 by twos and threes, making bargains with their sweethearts 
 to go a-maying at morning dawn. I told ! em they'd a deal 
 better stop in-doors to mend their stockings. 'Twas the night 
 afore the First of May, Mr. Richard." 
 
 "The evening of the day the bill was renewed," thought 
 Richard. He possessed the right clue now. If he had enter- 
 tained any doubt of Wilks before, this set it at rest. 
 
 " Did any of the neighbours hear Tim talking ? " he asked. 
 
 "Not a soul but me and Dr. Rane here, sir. But I b'lieve 
 he had been holding forth to a room full at the Wheatsheaf. 
 They say he was in part gone when he got there. Oh, it does 
 make me so vexed, the ranting way he goes on when the 
 drink's in him. If his poor father and mother could look up 
 from their graves, they'd be fit to shake him in very shame. 
 Drink is the worse curse that's going, Mr. Richard — and poor 
 Tim's weak head won't stand hardly a drop of it." 
 
 She had told all she knew. Richard North stepped over the 
 
In Lawyer Dales Office. 99 
 
 bucket again, remarking that lie might meet Tim. Sure enough 
 he did. In taking a cross-cnt to the works, he came upon him, 
 leaning against the wooden rails that bordered a piece of waste 
 land. He looked very ill : Richard saw that : a small, slight 
 young man with a mild pleasant countenance and inoffensive 
 manners. His mother had been a cousin of Mrs. Green's, but 
 superior to the Greens in station. Timothy would have held 
 his head considerably above North Inlet, but for being brought 
 down both in consequence and pocket by these oft-recurring 
 bouts. 
 
 Kindly and courteously, but with a tone of resolution not to 
 be mistaken, Richard North entered on his questioning. He 
 did not suspect Wilks of having written the anonymous letter ; 
 he told him this candidly ; but he suspected, nay, knew, that 
 it must have been penned by some one who had gathered 
 certain details from Wilks's tongue. Wilks, weak and ill, 
 acknowledged that the circumstance of the drawing of the 
 bill (or rather the renewing of one) had penetrated to his 
 hearing in Mr. Dale's office ; but he declared that he had not r 
 so far as he knew, repeated it again. 
 
 " I'd no more talk of our office business, sir, than I'd writ 
 an anonymous letter," said he, much aggrieved. " Mr. D_ik 
 never had a more faithful clerk about him than I am." 
 
 "I daresay you would not, knowingly," was Richard's 
 rejoinder. "Answer me one question, Wilks. Have you any 
 recollection of haranguing the public at the Wheatsheaf ? " 
 
 Mr. Wilks's answer to this was, that he had not harangued 
 the public at the Wheatsheaf. He remembered being at the 
 house quite well, and there had been a good deal of argument 
 in the parlour ; chiefly, he thought, touching the question of 
 whether masters in general ought not to give holiday on the 
 first of May. There had been no particular haranguing on 
 his part, he declared ; and he could take his oath that he never 
 opened his lips there about what had come to his knowledge. 
 One thing he did confess, on being pressed by Richard — that 
 he had no remembrance of quitting the Wheatsheaf , or of how 
 he got home. He retained a faint notion of having seen Dr. 
 Rane's face bending over him later, but could not say whether 
 it was a dream or reality. 
 
 Nothing more could be got out of Timothy Wilks. That 
 the man was guiltless of intentional treachery there was as 
 little doubt of as that the treachery had occurred through his 
 tongue. Richard North bent his steps to the Wheatsheaf, to 
 
ioo Bessy Rane. 
 
 hold conference with Packerton, the landlord of that much- 
 f requented hostelrie. 
 
 And any information that Packerton conld give, he was 
 willing to give ; but it amounted to little. Richard wanted 
 to get at the names of all who went into the parlour on the 
 night of the 30th of April, during the time that Wilks was 
 there. The landlord told over as many as he could remember ; 
 but said that others might have gone in and out. One man 
 (who looked like a gentleman and sat by Wilks) was a 
 stranger, he said ; he had never seen him before or since. This 
 man got quite friendly with Wilks, and went out with him, 
 propping up his steps. Packerton's son, a smart young 
 fellow of thirteen, going out on an errand, had overtaken them 
 on their way across the waste ground. (In the very path 
 where Richard had but now encountered Wilks.) Wilks was 
 holding on by the railings, the boy said, talking with the 
 other as fast as he could talk, and the other was laughing. 
 Richard North wished he could find out who this man was, 
 and where he might be seen ; for, of all the rest mentioned by 
 the landlord, there was not one at all likely to have taken up 
 the cause and written the anonymous letter. Packerton's 
 opinion was that Wilks had not spoken of the matter there ; 
 he was then hardly " far enough gone " to have committed the 
 imprudence. 
 
 " But I suppose he was when he left you," said Richard. 
 
 " Yes, sir, I'm afraid he might have been. He could talk ; 
 but every bit of reason had gone out of him. I never saw 
 anybody but Wilks just like this when they've taken too 
 much." 
 
 Again Richard North sought Wilks, and questioned him 
 who this stranger, man or gentleman, was. He might as well 
 have questioned the moon. Wilks had a hazy impression of 
 having been with a tall, thin, strange man : but where, or 
 when, or how, he knew not. 
 
 "I'll ask Rane what sort of a condition Wilks was in when 
 he saw him," thought Richard. 
 
 But Richard could not carry out his intentions until night. 
 Business claimed him for the rest of the day, and then he went 
 home to dinner. 
 
 Dr. Rane was in his dining-room that night, the white 
 blind drawn before the window, and writing by the light of a 
 shaded candle. Bessy North had said to her father that 
 Oliver was busy with a medical work that he expected good 
 
In Lawyer Dale's Office. 10 1 
 
 returns from when published. It was so. He spared no 
 labour ; over that, or anything else : often writing far into the 
 little hours. He was a patient, persevering man : once give 
 him a fair chance of success, a good start on life's road, and 
 he would be sure to go on tofortnne. He said this to himself 
 continually ; and he was not mistaken. But the good chance 
 had not come yet. 
 
 The clock was striking eight, when the doctor heard a ring 
 at his door bell, and Phillis appeared, showing in Richard 
 North. A thrill passed through Oliver Rane ; perhaps he 
 could not have told why or wherefore. 
 
 Richard sat down and began to talk about Wilks, asking 
 what he had to ask, entering into the question generally. Dr. 
 Rane listened in silence. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he suddenly said, remembering his 
 one shaded candle. " I ought to have got more light." 
 
 " It's quite light enough for me," replied Richard. " Don't 
 trouble. I'd as soon talk by this light as by a better. To go 
 back to Wilks : Did he say anything about the bill in your 
 hearing, Rane ? " 
 
 "Not a word; not a syllable. Or, if he did, I failed to 
 catch it." 
 
 " Old Mother Green says he talked of ' bills,'" said Richard. 
 " That was before you saw him." 
 
 " Does she ? " carelessly remarked the doctor. " I heard 
 nothing of the kind. There was no coherence whatever in his 
 words, so far as I noticed : one does not pay much attention 
 to the babblings of a drunken man." 
 
 " Was he quite beside himself ? — quite unconscious of what 
 he said, Rane ? " 
 
 " Well, I am told that it is the peculiar idiosyncrasy of 
 Wilks to be able to talk and yet to be, unconscious : unconscious 
 for all practical purposes, and for recollection afterwards. 
 Otherwise I should not have considered him quite so far gone 
 as that. He talked certainly ; a little ; seemed to answer me 
 in a mechanical kind of way when I asked him a question, 
 slipping one word into another. If I had tried to understand 
 him, I don't suppose I could. He did not say much ; and I 
 was away from him a good deal about the house, looking for 
 water and rags to put on his head." 
 
 " Then you heard nothing of it, Rane ? " 
 
 " Absolutely nothing." 
 
 The doctor sat so that the green shade of the candle hap- 
 
102 Bessy Rane. 
 
 pened to fall on his face, making it look very pale. Richard 
 North, absorbed in thoughts about Wilks, could not have told 
 whether the face was in the dark or the light. He spoke next 
 about the stranger who had joined Wilks, saying he wished he 
 could find out who it was. 
 
 " A tall thin man, bearing the appearance of a gentleman ? " 
 returned Dr. Rane. " Then I think I saw him, and spoke to 
 him." 
 
 " Where ? " asked Richard with animation. 
 
 " Close by your works. He was looking in through the iron 
 gates. After quitting Green's cottage, I crossed the waste 
 ground, and saw him standing at the gates, underneath the 
 centre gas-lamp. I had to visit a patient down by the church, 
 and took the near way over the waste ground." 
 
 " You did not recognize him ?" 
 
 " Not at all. He was a stranger to me. As I was passing, 
 he turned round and asked me whether he was going right for 
 Whitborough. I pointed to the high road and told him to 
 keep straight along it. Depend upon it, this was the same 
 man." 
 
 " What could he have been looking in at my gates for ? " 
 muttered Richard. " And what — for this is of more conse- 
 quence — had he been getting out of Wilks ? " 
 
 " It seems rather curious altogether," remarked Dr. Rane. 
 
 " I'll find this man," said Richard, as he got up to say good 
 night; "I must find him. Thank you, Rane." 
 
 But after his departure Oliver Rane did not settle to his 
 work as before. A man, once interrupted, cannot always do 
 so. AH he did was to pace the room restlessly with bowed 
 head, like a man in some uneasy dream. The candle burnt 
 lower, the flame got above the shade, throwing its light on his 
 face, showing up its hues and lines and angles. But it was 
 not a bit brighter than when the green shade had cast over it 
 its cadaverous hue. 
 
 " Edmund North ! Edmund North ! " 
 
 Did the words in all their piteous, hopeless appeal come 
 from him ? Or was it some supernatiiral cry in the air ? 
 
Put to his Conscience. 103 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 PUT TO HIS CONSCIENCE. 
 
 A fine morning in June. Lovely June ; with, its bright blue 
 skies and its summer flowers. Walking about amidst his rose- 
 trees with their clustering blossoms, was Mr. North, a rake in 
 his hand. He fancied he was gardening ; he knew he was 
 trifling. What did it matter ? — his face looked almost happy. 
 The glad sunshine was over head, and he felt as free as a bird 
 in it. 
 
 The anonymous letter, that had caused so much mischief, 
 was passing into a thing of the past. In spite of Richard 
 North's efforts to trace him out, the writer remained undis- 
 covered. Timothy Wilks was the chief sufferer, and bitterly 
 resentful thereupon. To have been openly accused of having 
 sent it by at least sis persons out of every dozen acquaintances 
 he met, cankered the mind and curdled the temper of ill- 
 starred Timothy Wilks. As to the general public, they were 
 beginning to forget the trouble— as it is in the nature of a 
 faithless public to do. Only in the hearts of a few individuals 
 did the sad facts remain in all their rugged sternness ; and of 
 those, one was Jelly. 
 
 Poor Mr. North could afford to be happy to-day, and for 
 many days to come. Bessy also. Madam had relieved them 
 of her presence yesterday, and gone careering off to Paris with 
 her daughter. They hoped she might be away for weeks. 
 In the seductive freedom of the home, Richard North had 
 stayed late that morning. Mr. North was just beginning to 
 talk with him, when some one called on business, and Richard 
 shut himself up with the stranger. The morning had gone 
 on ; the interview was prolonged ; but Richard was coming 
 out now. Mr. North put down the rake. 
 
 " Has Wilson gone, Richard ? " 
 
 Yes, sir." 
 
 " What did he want ? He has stayed iong enough. 5 '' 
 
 " Only a little business with me, father," was Richard's 
 answer in his dutiful care. It had not been agreeable business, 
 and Richard wished to spare his father. 
 
 " And now for Bessy, sir? " he resumed, as they paced side 
 by side amidst the sweet-scented roses. " You were beginning 
 to speak about her. 
 
104 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Yes, I want to talk to you. Bessy would be happier with 
 Rane than she is here, Dick." 
 
 Richard looked serious. He had no sort of objection to his 
 sister's marrying Oliver Rane : in fact, he regarded it as an 
 event certain to take place, sooner or later, but he did not 
 quite see that the way was clear for it yet. 
 
 " I make no doubt of that, father." 
 
 "And I think, Dick, she had better go to him now, while 
 we are at liberty to do as we please at home." 
 
 " Now ! " exclaimed Richard. 
 
 "Yes; now. That is before Madam comes back. Poor 
 Edmund is but just put under the sod ; but — considering the 
 circumstances — I think the memory of the dead must give 
 place to the welfare of the living." 
 
 " But how about ways and means, sir ? " 
 
 " Ay, that's it : how about ways and means. Nothing can 
 be spared from the works at present, I suppose, Dick." 
 
 " Nothing to speak of, sir." 
 
 Mr. North had felt ashamed even to ask the question. In 
 fact, it was more a remark than a question, for he knew as 
 well as Richard did that there was no superfluous money. 
 
 " Of course not, Dick. Rane gets just enough to live upon 
 now, and ,no more. Yesterday, after Madam and Matilda had 
 driven off, I was at the front gates when Rane passed. So he 
 and I got talking about it — about Bessy. He said his income 
 was small uoav, but that of course it would very considerably 
 augment itself as soon as Alexander should have left. As he 
 and Bessy are willing to try it, I don't see why they should 
 not, Dick." 
 
 Richard gave no immediate reply. He had a rose in his 
 hand and was looking at it absently, deep in thought. His 
 father continued : 
 
 " It's not as if Rane had no expectations whatever. Two 
 hundred a-year must come to him at his mother's death. And 
 — Dick — have you any notion how Mrs. Gass's will is 
 left ? " 
 
 "Not the least, sir." 
 
 " Oliver Rane is the nearest living relative to her late 
 husband, Mrs. Cumberland excepted. He is Thomas Gass's 
 own nephew — and all the money was his. It seems to me, 
 Dick, that Mrs. Gass is sure to remember him : perhaps 
 largely." 
 
 " She may." 
 
Put to his Conscience. 105 
 
 "Yes; and I think will. Bessy shall go to him ; and bo 
 
 emancipated from her thraldom here." 
 
 " Oliver Rane has got no furnitnre in his house." 
 
 " He has got some. The dining-room and his bed-room are 
 as handsomely furnished as need be. We can put in a bit 
 more. There are some things at the Hall that were Bessy's 
 own mother's, and she shall have them. They have not been 
 taken much account of here, Dick, amid the grand things that 
 Madam has filled the house with." 
 
 " She'll make a fuss, though, at their being removed," re- 
 marked Dick. 
 
 " Let her," retorted Mr. North, who could be brave as the 
 best when two or three hundred miles lay between him and 
 Madam. " Those things were your own dear mother's, Dick ; 
 she bought them with her own money before she married me, 
 and I have always regarded them as heir-looms for Bessy. 
 It's just a few plain solid mahogany things, as good as ever 
 they were. It was our drawing-room furniture in the early 
 days, and it will do for their drawing-room now. When Rane 
 shall be making his six or seven hundred a year, they can buy 
 finer if they choose. JFethought great things of it; Iknowthat." 
 
 Richard smiled. " I remember once when I was a very 
 little fellow, my mother came in and caught me drawing a 
 horse on the centre-table with pen-and-ink. The trouble she 
 had to get the horse out ! — and the whipping I got ! " 
 
 " Poor Dick ! She did not whip often." 
 
 "It did me good, sir. I have been scrupulously careful of 
 furniture of all kinds ever since." 
 
 " Ah, nothing like the lessons of early childhood for 
 making an impression," spoke Mr. North. " ' Spare the 
 rod and spoil the child ! ' There was never a truer saying 
 than that," 
 
 " Then you really intend them to marry at once," spoke 
 Richard, returning to the question. 
 
 " I do," said Mr. North in a more decisive tone than he 
 usually spoke. " They both wish it : and why should I hold 
 out against them ? Bessy's thirty this year, you know, Dick : 
 if girls are not wives at that age, they begin to think it 
 hard. It's better to marry tolerably young : a man and 
 woman don't shake down into each other's ways if they come 
 together late in life. You are silent, Dick." 
 
 " I was thinking, sir, whether I could not manage a couple 
 of hundred pounds for them from myself." 
 
io6 Bessy Rane. 
 
 "You are ever generous, Dick. I don't know what we 
 should all do without you." 
 
 " The question is — shall I give it over to them in money, 
 or spend it for them in furniture ? " 
 
 " In money ; in money, Dick," advised Mr. North. " The 
 furniture can be managed ; and cash is cash. Spend it in 
 chairs and tables and it seems as if there were nothing 
 tangible to show for it." 
 
 Richard smiled. " It strikes me that the argument lies the 
 other way, sir. The chairs and tables are tangible ; whereas 
 cash sometimes melts. However, I think it will be better to 
 do as you advise. Bessy shall have two hundred pounds 
 handed to her after her marriage, and they can do what they 
 consider best with it." 
 
 "To be sure; to be sure, Dick, Let 'em be married; 
 we'll put no impediment on it. Bessy has a miserable life of 
 it here ; and she'll be thirty on the twenty-ninth of this 
 month. Oliver Rane was thirty the latter end of March." 
 
 " Only thirty ! " cried Richard. " I think he must be more 
 than that, sir." 
 
 " But he's not more," returned Mr. North. " I ought to 
 know ; and so ought you, Dick. Don't you remember they 
 are both in the tontine? All the children put into that 
 tontine were born in the same year." 
 
 " Oh, was it so ? I had forgotten," returned Richard care- 
 lessly, for the tontine had never much troubled him. He could 
 just recollect that when they were children he and his brother 
 were wont to teaze little Bessy, saying if she lived to be a 
 hundred years old she'd come into a fortune. 
 
 "That was an unlucky tontine, Dick," said Mr. North, 
 shaking his head. " Of ten children who were entered for 
 it, only three remain. The other seven are all dead. Four 
 of them died in the first or second year." 
 
 " How came Oliver Rane to be put in the tontine ?" asked 
 Richard. " I thought he came to life in India — and lived 
 there for the first few years of his life. The tontine chil- 
 dren were all Whitborough children." 
 
 "Thomas Gass did that, Richard. When he got news 
 that his sister had this baby — Oliver — he insisted upon 
 putting him into the tontine. It was a sort of salve to 
 Tom Gass's conscience ; that's what I thought : what his 
 sister and the poor baby wanted then was money — not to 
 be put into a useless tontine. Ah, well, Rane has got on 
 
Put to his Conscience. 107 
 
 without anybody's assistance, and I daresay will flourish in 
 the end." 
 
 Richard glanced at his watch ; twelve o'clock ; and in- 
 creased his pace ; a hundred and one things were wanting 
 him at the works. Mr. North was walking with him to 
 the gate. 
 
 " Yes, it's all for the best, Dick ; they shall come together. 
 And we'll get the wedding comfortably over while Madam's 
 away." 
 
 " What has been her motive, sir, for opposing Bessy's 
 engagement to Rane ? " 
 
 "Motive ! " returned Mr. North. " Do you see that white 
 butterfly, Dick, fluttering senselessly about, now up, now 
 down ? — as good ask me what Ms motive is, as ask me 
 Madam's. I don't suppose she has any motive — except that 
 she is given to oppose us all." 
 
 Richard concluded it was so. Something might lie also 
 in Bessy's patient excellence as a housekeeper ; Madam, 
 ever selfish, did not perhaps like to lose her. 
 
 As they reached the iron gates, Mrs. Cumberland passed, 
 walking slowly. She looked very ill. Mr. North arrested 
 her, and began to speak of the projected marriage of Oliver 
 and Bessy. Mrs. Cumberland changed colour and looked 
 three parts scared. Unobservant Mr. North saw nothing. 
 Richard did. 
 
 "Has Oliver not told you what's afoot ? " said the former. 
 "Young men are often shyer on these matters than 
 women." 
 
 " It's a very small income for them to begin upon," she 
 observed presently, when Mi*. North had said what he had 
 to say — and Richard thought he detected that she had some 
 private objection to the union. " So very small for Bessy — 
 who has been used to Dallory Hall." 
 
 "It won't always remain small," said Mr. North. "His 
 practice will increase when Alexander goes ; and he'll have 
 other money, may be, later. Oh, they'll get along, Fanny. 
 Young couples like to be sufficiently poor to make struggling 
 upward a pleasure. I dare say you married upon less." 
 
 "Of course, if you are satisfied, — it must be all right," 
 murmured Mrs. Cumberland. " You and Bessy." 
 
 She pulled her veil over her grey face, said good morn- 
 ing, and moved away. Not in the direction of Dallory — as 
 she was previously walking — but back to the Ham. Mr. 
 
ioS Bessy Rane. 
 
 North turned into his grounds again; Richard went after 
 Mrs. Cumberland. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said — he was not as familiar with 
 her as his father was — "will you allow me a word. You do 
 not like this proposed marriage. Have you ought to urge 
 against it ? " 
 
 " Only for Bessy's sake. I was thinking of her." 
 
 " Why for Bessy's sake ?" 
 
 There was some slight hesitation in Mrs. Cumberland's 
 answer. She appeared to be pulling her veil straight. 
 
 " Their income will be so small. I know what a small 
 income is, and therefore I feel for her." 
 
 " Is that all your doubt, Mrs. Cumberland ? — the smallness 
 of the income ?" 
 
 "All." 
 
 "Then I think, as my father says, you may safely leave the 
 decision with themselves. But — was this all ? " added 
 Richard : for an idea to the contrary had taken hold of him. 
 " You have no personal objection to Bessy ?" 
 
 " Certainly it was all," was Mrs. Cumberland's reply. 
 " As to any personal objection to Bessy, that I could never 
 have. When Oliver first told me they were engaged, I 
 thought how lucky he was to get Bessy North ; I wished 
 them success with all my heart." 
 
 " Forgive me, Mrs. Cumberland. Thank you. Good 
 morning." 
 
 Reassured, Richard North turned, and strode hastily away 
 in the direction of Dallory. He fancied she had heard Bessy 
 would have no fortune, and was feeling disappointed on her 
 son's account. It struck him that he might as well con- 
 firm this ; and he wheeled round. 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland had gone on and was already seated on 
 the bench before spoken of, in the shady part of the road. 
 Richard, in a few concise words, entering into no details of 
 any sort, said to her that his sister would have no marriage 
 portion. 
 
 " That I have long taken as a matter of course ; knowing 
 what the expenses at the Hall must be," she answered 
 with a friendly smile. "Bessy is a fortune in herself; she 
 would make a good wife to any man. Provided they have 
 sufficient for comfort — and I hope Oliver will soon be making 
 that — they can be as happy without wealth as with it, if your 
 sister can only think so. Have you — pardon me for recalling 
 
Put to his Conscience. 109 
 
 to von what must be an unpleasant topic, Richard — have you 
 yet gained any clue to the writer of that anonymous letter ? " 
 
 " Not any. It presents mystery on all sides." 
 
 "Mystery?" 
 
 "As it seems to me. Going over the various attendant 
 circumstances, as I do on occasion when I get a minute to 
 myself, I try to fit one probability into another, and I cannot 
 compass it. We must trust to time, Mrs. Cumberland. Good 
 morning." 
 
 Richard raised his hat, and left her. She sat on with her 
 pain. With her pain. Mrs. Cumberland was as strictly rigid 
 a woman in tenets as in temperament ; her code of morality 
 was a severe one. Over and over again had she asked herself 
 whether (it is of no use to mince the matter any longer) Oliver 
 had or had not written that anonymous letter which had killed 
 Edmund North : and she could not answer. But, if he had 
 done it, why then surely he ought not to wed the sister. It 
 would be little less than sin. 
 
 Since this secret trouble had been upon her, more than a 
 month now, her face had seemed to have assumed a greyer 
 tinge. How grey it looked now, as she sat on the bench, 
 passers-by saw, and almost started at. One of them was Mr. 
 Alexander. Arresting his quick steps — he always walked as 
 though running a race — he enquired after her health. 
 
 "Not any better and not much worse," she answered. 
 " Complaints, such as mine, are always tediously prolonged." 
 
 " They are less severe to bear, however, than sharper ones," 
 said the doctor, willing to administer a grain of comfort if he 
 could. "What a lovely day it is! And Madam's off for a 
 couple of months I hear." 
 
 " Have the two any connection, Mr. Alexander ? " 
 
 " I don't know," he said laughing. " Her presence makes 
 winter at the Hall, and her absence its sunshine. If I had 
 such a wife, I'm not sure that I should think it any sin to give 
 her an over-dose of laudanum some day, out of regard to the 
 general peace. Did you hear of her putting Miss Bessy's 
 wrist out ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " She did do it, then. Something sent her into a passion 
 with Miss Bessy ; she caught her hand and flung it away so 
 violently that the wrist began to swell. I was sent for to 
 bind it up. Why such women are allowed to live, I can't 
 imagine." 
 
no Bessy Rane. 
 
 "I suppose because they are not fit to die," said Mrs. 
 Cumberland. " When are yon leaving ? " 
 
 " Sometime in Jnly, I think, or during August. I enter 
 on my new post the first of September, so there's no 
 hurry." 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland rose and continued her slow way home- 
 wards. Passing her own house, she entered that of her son. 
 Dr. Rane was engaged with a patient, so she went on to the 
 dining-room and waited. 
 
 He came in shortly, perhaps thinking it might be another 
 patient, his face bright. It fell a little when he saw his mother. 
 Her visits to him were so exceedingly rare that some instinct 
 whispered him nothing pleasant had brought her there. She 
 rose and faced him. 
 
 " Oliver, is it true what I hear — that you are shortly to be 
 married ? " 
 
 " I suppose it is, mother," was his answer. 
 
 "But — is there no impediment that should bar it?" she 
 asked in a whisper. 
 
 " "Well — as to waiting, I may wait to the end, and not find 
 the skies rain gold. If Bessy's friends see no risk in it, it is 
 not for me to see it. At any rate, this will be a more peaceful 
 home for her than the Hall." 
 
 "I am not talking of waiting, — or of gold, — or of risk, 
 Oliver," she continued solemnly, placing both her hands on his 
 arm, "is there nothing on your mind that ought to bar this 
 marriage ? is your conscience at rest ? If — wait and let me 
 speak, my son ; I understand what you would say ; what you 
 have already told me — that you were innocent — and I know 
 that I ought to believe you. But a doubt flashes up in my 
 mind continually, Oliver ; it is not my fault ; truth knows my 
 will is good to bury it up for ever. Bear with me a moment ; 
 I must speak. If the death of Edmund North lies at your 
 door, however indirectly it was caused, to make his sister your 
 wife will be a thing altogether wrong ; little less than a sin in 
 the sight of Heaven. I do not accuse you, Oliver ; I suggest 
 this as a possible case ; and now I leave it with you for your 
 own reflection. Oh, my son, believe me — for it seems to me 
 as though I spoke with a prophet's inspiration this day ! If 
 your conscience tells you that you were not innocent, to bring 
 Bessy North home to this roof will be wrong, and I think no 
 blessing will rest upon it." 
 
 She was gone. Before Oliver Rane in his surprise could 
 
Where's the Ring. in 
 
 answer a word, Mrs. Cumberland was gone. Passing swiftly 
 out at the open window, she stepped across the garden and 
 the dwarf wire-fence, and so entered her own home. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 where's the king? 
 
 Apparently Dr. Pane found nothing in his conscience that 
 could present an impediment, and the preparations for the 
 wedding went quietly on. Secretly might almost be the better 
 word. In their dread lest the news should reach Madam in 
 her retreat over the water, and bring her back to stop it, those 
 concerned deemed it well to say nothing ; and no suspicion of 
 what was afloat transpired to the world in general. 
 
 Bessy — upon whom, from her isolated position, having no 
 lady about her, the arrangements fell — was desired to fix a 
 day. She named the twenty-ninth of June, her birthday. 
 After July should come in, there was no certainty about 
 Madam's movements ; she might come home, or she might not, 
 and it was necessary that all should be over by that time, if it 
 was to be gone through in peace. The details of the ceremony 
 were to be of the simplest nature : Edmund North's recent 
 death and the other peculiar attendant circumstances forbid- 
 ding the usual gaiety. The bridal party would go to church 
 with as little ceremony as they went to service on Sundays, 
 Bessy in a plain silk dress and a plain bonnet. Mr. North 
 would give his daughter away, if he were well enough ; if not, 
 Richard. Ellen Adair was to be bridesmaid ; Arthur Bohun 
 had offered himself to Dr. Rane as best man. It might be 
 very undutiful, but Arthur enjoyed the stealing a march on 
 Madam as much as the best of them. 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland was no doubt satisfied on the score of the 
 scruples she had raised, since she intended to countenance th? 
 wedding, and be at church. Dr. Rane and his bride would 
 drive away from the church door to the railway station at 
 Whitborough. The bridal tour was to last one week only : the 
 doctor did not care to be away longer from his patients, and 
 Bessy confessed that she would rather be at home, setting her 
 house in order, than prolonging her stay at small roadside inns 
 in Wales. But for the disconcerting fact of Madam's being in 
 Paris, Dr. Rane would have liked to take Bessy across the 
 Channel and give her her first glimpse of the French capital. 
 
112 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Under Madam's unjust rale, poor Bessy had never gone any- 
 where : Matilda North had been taken half over the world. 
 
 The new household arrangements at Dr. Bane's were to be 
 achieved during their week's absence : the articles of furniture 
 (that Mr. North chose to consider belonged to Bessy) to be 
 taken there from the Hall ; the new carpet, Mrs. Cumber- 
 land's present, to be laid down in the drawing-room ; Molly 
 Green to enter as helpmate to Phillis. Surely Madam would 
 not grumble at that ? Molly Green, going into a temper one 
 day at some oppression of Madam's, had given warning on 
 the spot. Bessy liked the girl, and there could be no harm 
 in engaging her for her own housemaid. 
 
 One of those taken into the secret had been Mrs. Gass, 
 Bichard, who respected her greatly in spite of her queer 
 grammar, and liked her too, unfolded the news. She received 
 it in silence : a very rare thing for Mrs. Gass to do. Just 
 as it had struck Bichard in regard to Mrs. Cumberland, so 
 it struck him now — that Mrs. Gass did not quite like the 
 tidings. 
 
 "Well, I hope they'll be happy," she said at length, break- 
 ing the silence, "and I hope he deserves to be. I hope it 
 with all my heart. Do you think he does, Mr. Bichard ? " 
 
 "Bane? Deserves to he happy? For all I see, he does. 
 Why should he not?" 
 
 "I don't know," answered Mrs. Gass, searching Bichard's 
 face. " Oliver Bane is my late husband's nephew, but he's 
 three parts a stranger to me, except as a doctor ; for it's him 
 attends here, you know, sir, — as is natural — and not Alex- 
 ander. Is he truthful, Mr. Bichard ? Is he trustworthy ? " 
 
 "He is, for anything I know to the contrary," replied 
 Bichard North, a little wondering at the turn the conversation 
 was taking. "If I thought he were not, I should be very 
 sorry to give Bessy to him." 
 
 "And let us hope that he is, Mr. Bichard, and wish 'em 
 joy with all our hearts." 
 
 That a doubt was lying on Mrs. Gass's mind, in regard to 
 the scrap of paper found in her room, was certain. Being a 
 sensible woman, it could not be but that — when surrounding 
 mists had cleared away — she should see that the only likely 
 place for it to have dropped from, was Dr. Bane's pocket- 
 book. Molly Green had been subjected to a cross-examination, 
 very cleverly conducted, as Mrs. Gass thought, which left the 
 matter exactly as it was before. But the girl's surprise was 
 
Where's the Ring? 113, 
 
 bo genuine, at supposing any receipt for making plum-pudding 
 (for that's how Mrs. Gass put it) could have been dropped by 
 her, that Mrs. Gass's mind could but revert to the pocket- 
 book". How far Oliver Rane was guilty, whether guilty at 
 all, or not, she was quite unable to decide. A small haze of 
 doubt remained on her mind, though she was glad enough to 
 put it from her. One thing struck her as curious, if not sus- 
 picious — that from the hour she handed him over the paper 
 to this, Dr. Bane had never once spoken of the subject. It 
 almost seemed to Mrs. Gass that an innocent man would, 
 though it had only been to say, I have found no clue to the 
 writer of that paper. 
 
 And if a modicum of the same hazy doubt rose to Richard 
 North during his interview with Mrs. Gass, it was due to her 
 manner. But he was upright himself, unsuspicious as the 
 day. The impression faded again ; and he came away believ- 
 ing that Mrs. Gass, zealous for the Norths' honours, rather 
 disapproved of the marriage for Bessy, on account of the 
 doctor's poverty. 
 
 And so, there was no one to say a word of warning where 
 it might have been effectual, and the day fixed for the wedding 
 drew on. After all, the programme was not strictly carried 
 out, for Mr. North had one of his nervous attacks, and could 
 not go to church. 
 
 At five minutes past nine o'clock, in the warm bright June 
 morning, the Dallory Hall carriage drove up to Dallory church. 
 Richard North, his sister, and Arthur Bohun were within it. 
 The forms and etiquette usually observed at weddings were 
 slighted here, else how came Arthur Bohun, the bridegroom's 
 best man, to come to church with the bride ? "What did it 
 matter ? So closely in its wake that the horses nearly clashed 
 with Mr. North's horses, came up the other carriage — which 
 ought to have been the first. In after days, when a strange 
 ending had come to the marriage life of Oliver Rane and his 
 wife, and Oliver was regarded with dread, assailed with 
 reproach, people said the marriage had been the Norths' 
 doings more than his. Any way, Bessy was first at church 
 and both were a little late. 
 
 But Mr. North was not the only one who failed them ; the 
 other was Mrs. Cumberland. She assigned no reason for 
 absenting herself from the ceremony, excepting a plea that 
 she did not feel equal to it — which her son believed or not, 
 as he pleased. Her new bright dress and bonnet were spread 
 
 1 
 
114 Bessy Ranc. 
 
 cut on the bed ; but she never as much as looked at them : 
 and Ellen Adair found that she and Dr. Rane had to drive 
 to the church alone, in the hired carriage, arriving there 
 almost simultaneously with the other party. 
 
 Richard North took his sister up the aisle, the bridegroom 
 following close on their steps. Ellen Adair and Captain 
 Bohun, left behind, walked side by side. Bessy wore a pretty 
 grey silk and plain white bonnet : she had a small bouquet 
 in her hand that the gardener, Williams, had done up for her. 
 Ellen Adair was in a similar dress, and looked altogether 
 lovely. Mr. Lea, the clergyman, stood ready, book in hand. 
 The spectators in the church — for the event had got wind at 
 the last moment, as these events almost always do, and many 
 came — rose up with expectation. 
 
 Of all the party, the bridegroom alone seemed to suffer 
 from nervousness. His answering voice was low, his words 
 were jerky. It was the more remarkable, because he was in 
 general so self-contained and calm a man. Bessy, timid and 
 yielding always, spoke with gentle firmness ; not a shade of 
 doubt or agitation seemed to cross her. But there occurred 
 a frightful contretemps. 
 
 " The ring, if you please," whispered the officiating clergy- 
 man to the bridegroom when the part of the service camo 
 that the ring was needed. 
 
 The ring ! Oliver Rane felt in his waistcoat pocket, and 
 went into a spasm of consternation. The ring was not there. 
 He mnst have left it on his dressing-table. The little golden 
 symbol had been wrapped in a bit of white tissue paper, and 
 he certainly remembered putting it into his waistcoat pocket. 
 It was as certainly not there now : and he supposed he must 
 have put it out again. 
 
 " I have not got the ring ! " he exclaimed hurriedly. 
 
 To keep a marriage ceremony waiting in the middle, while 
 a messenger ran a mile off to get the ring and then ran a 
 mile back again, was a thing that had never been heard of by 
 the clergyman or any other of the scared individuals around 
 him. What was to be done ? It was suggested that per- 
 haps somebody present could furnish a ring that might suffice. 
 Ellen Adair, standing in her beauty behind the bride, gently 
 laid down the glove and bouquet she was holding, took off 
 her own glove, and gave Oliver Rane a plain gold ring from 
 her finger : one she always wore there. Arthur Bohun alone 
 knew the ring's history ; the rest had never taken sufficient 
 
Where's the Ring? 115 
 
 interest in her to enquire it ; perhaps had never noticed that 
 she wore one. 
 
 The service proceeded to its end. Had Oliver Rane gone a 
 pilgrimage to all the jewellers' marts in Whitborough, he 
 could not have chosen a more perfectly-fitting wedding-ring 
 than this. When they went into the vestry, Bessy, agitated 
 by the mishap and the emotional position altogether, burst 
 into tears, asking Ellen how she came by a wedding-ring. 
 
 The history was very simple. It arose — that is the posses- 
 sion of the ring — through the foolish romance of two young 
 girls. Ellen and one of her schoolfellows named Maria Warne 
 had formed a sincere and lasting attachment to each other. 
 At the time of parting, when Ellen was leaving school for 
 Mrs. Cumberland's, each had bought a plain gold ring to give 
 the other, over which eternal friendship had been vowed, 
 together with an undertaking to wear the ring always. Alas, 
 for time and change ! in less than six months afterwards, Ellen 
 Adair received notice of the death of Maria Warne. The ring 
 had in consequence become really precious to Ellen ; but on 
 this emergency she had not scrupled to part with it. 
 
 As they came out of the vestry, Ellen found herself face to 
 face with Jelly. The clerk, and the two women pew-openers, 
 and the sexton, considering themselves privileged people, 
 pressed up where they chose : Jelly, who of course — living with 
 Mrs. Cumberland — could not be at all confounded with the 
 common spectators, chose to press with them. Her face was 
 as long as one and a half, as she caught hold of Miss Adair. 
 
 "How could you, Miss Ellen?" she whispered. "Don't 
 you know that nothing is more unlucky than for a bride to be 
 married with anybody else's wedding-ring ? " 
 
 " But it was not a wedding-ring, Jelly. Only a plain gold 
 one." 
 
 " Anyway it was unlucky for you. We have a superstition 
 in these parts, Miss Ellen, that if a maid takes off a ring from 
 her own finger to serve at a pinch for a bride, she'll never bo 
 a wife herself. I'd not have risked it, Miss." 
 
 Ellen laughed gaily, Jelly's dismay was so real and her face 
 so long. But there was no time for more. Richard held out 
 his arm to her ; and Oliver Rane was already taking out his 
 bride. Close up against the door stood Mr. North's carriage, 
 into which stepped the bride and bridegroom. 
 
 "My shawl! where's the shawl?" asked Bessy, looking 
 round. 
 
u6 Bessy Rane. 
 
 She had sat down upon it ; and laughed gaily when Oliver 
 drew it ont. This shawl — a thin cashmere of quiet colours — 
 was intended to be thrown on ere they reached the station. 
 Her silk dress covered with that, and a black lace veil sub- 
 stituted for the white one on her bonnet, the most susceptible 
 maid or matron who might happen to be travelling, would 
 never take her for a bride. 
 
 Arthur Bohun deliberately flung an old white satin slipper 
 after the carriage — it struck the old coachman's head, and the 
 crowding spectators shouted cheerily. Richard was going to 
 the works. He placed Ellen in the carriage that had brought her. 
 
 " Will you pardon me, that I depute Captain Bohun to see 
 you safely home instead of myself, Miss Adair ? It is a very 
 busy day at the works, and I must go there. Arthur, will you 
 take charge of this young lady ? " 
 
 What Ellen answered, she scarcely knew. Captain Bohun 
 got into the carriage. The situation was wholly unexpected : 
 and if their hearts beat a little faster in the tumult of the 
 moment's happiness, Richard at least was unconscious of it. 
 
 " It is the first wedding I ever was at," began Ellen gaily, 
 feeling that she must talk to cover the embarrassment of the 
 position. Both were feeling it : and got as far apart from 
 each other as if they had quarrelled : she in one corner, he in 
 the further one opposite. " Of course it had been arranged 
 that I should go home with Mrs. Cumberland." 
 
 "Is she ill?" 
 
 " Dr. Rane thinks it is only nervousness : he said so as we 
 came along. I had to come with him alone. I am sure the 
 people we passed on the road, who had not heard about Bessy, 
 thought it was I who was going to be married to him, they 
 stared into the carriage so." 
 
 Ellen laughed as she said it. Arthur Bohun, drinking in 
 draughts of her wondrous beauty, glanced at her meaningly, 
 his blue eyes involuntarily betraying his earnest love. 
 
 " It may be your turn next, Ellen." 
 
 She blushed vividly, and looked from the window as though 
 she saw something passing. He felt tempted there and then 
 to speak of his love. But he had a large sense of the fitness 
 of the time and place ; and she had been placed for these few 
 minutes under bis protection : it seemed like putting him on 
 his honour, as schoolboys say. Besides, he had fully made up 
 his mind not to speak until he saw his way clear to marry. 
 
 Ellen Adair brought her beaming face ronnd again. " Jelly 
 
Where's the Ring? 117 
 
 is in a terrible way about tbe ring, foretelling all kinds of ill- 
 luck to everybody concerned, and tbankful it did not bappen 
 to her. Will Bessy keep my ring always, do you think ? 
 Perbaps sbe'd not be legally married if sbe gave it me back 
 and took to bcr own — wben it is found ? " 
 
 Artbur Bobun's eyes danced a little. " Perbaps not," be 
 replied in tbe gravest of tones. " I cannot tell wbat tbey 
 would bave done without it, Ellen." 
 
 "I did not tell Bessy one thing, when she asked me about 
 it in the vestry. I will never tell her if I can help it — that 
 Maria Warne is dead. How was it Mr. North did not 
 come ? " 
 
 " Nervousness too, in my opinion. He said he was ill." 
 
 " Why should he be nervous ? " 
 
 "Lest it should come to his wife's ears — that he had so far 
 countenanced the marriage as to be present at it." 
 
 " Can you tell why Mrs. North should set her face against it ? " 
 
 " No. Unless it is because other people have wished it. 
 I should only say as much to you, though, Ellen : she is my 
 mother." 
 
 The implied confidence sounded very precious in her ears. 
 She turned to the window again. 
 
 " I hope they will be happy. I think there is no doubt of 
 it. Bessy is very sweet-tempered and gentle." 
 
 "He is good-tempered too." 
 
 " Yes I think so. I have seen but little of him. There's 
 Mrs. Gass ! " 
 
 They were passing that lady's house. She sat at the open 
 window ; a grand amber gown on, white satin ribbons in her 
 cap. Leaning out, she shook her handkerchief at them in 
 violent greeting, just as though they had been the bride and 
 bridegroom. As Ellen drew back in her corner after bowing, 
 her foot touched something on tbe carpet at the bottom of the 
 carriage. 
 
 "Why! what is this?" 
 
 They both stopped at once. It was the wedding-ring 
 enclosed in its bit of tissue paper. Captain Bohun unfolded 
 the paper. 
 
 "Dr. Bane must have lost it out of his pocket as we went 
 along," cried Ellen. " He said, you know, that he felt so 
 sure he had put it in. What is to be done with it ? " 
 
 " Wear it instead of your own until they come back," said 
 Arthur. " Bessy can then take her choice of the two." 
 
Ii8 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Accepting the suggestion without thought of dissent, Ellen 
 took off her right glove and held out the other hand for the 
 ring. He did not give it. Bending forward, he took her right 
 hand and put it on for her. 
 
 " It fits as well as my own did." 
 
 Their eyes met. He had her hand still, as if trying the 
 fit. Her sweet face was like a damask rose. 
 
 "I trust I may put one onto better purpose some day, 
 Ellen," came the murmuring, whispered, tremulous words. 
 " Meanwhile — if Bessy does not claim this, remember that I 
 have placed it on your finger." 
 
 Not another syllable, not another look from either. Captain 
 Bohun sat down in his corner ; Ellen in hers, her hot face 
 bent over the glove she was putting on, and fully believing 
 that the carriage had changed into Paradise. 
 
 CHAPTER Xn. 
 
 PUTTING DOWN THE CARPET. 
 
 The days went on, and Dr. Kane's house was being made 
 ready for the reception of the bride. No time could be lost, 
 as the wedding tour was intended to be so short a one. As 
 Jelly said, They'd be at home before folks could look round. 
 Mrs. Cumberland presented the new carpet for the drawing- 
 room ; the furniture that had been the first Mrs. North's, 
 arrived from Dallory Hall. Molly Green arrived with it, 
 equally to take up her abode in the house of Dr. Rane. The 
 arranging of these things, with the rest of the preparations, 
 was carried on with a considerable deal of bustle and gossip, 
 Jelly being in at the doctor's house continually, and consti- 
 tuting herself chief mistress of the ceremonies. Phillis and 
 Molly Green, with native humility, deferred to her in all 
 things. 
 
 It was said in a previous chapter that Jelly was one of those 
 who retained an interest in the anonymous letter. She had a 
 special cause for it. Jelly in her propensity to look into her 
 neighbours' affairs, was given to take up any mysterious 
 cause, and make it hers. Her love of the marvellous was 
 great, her curiosity insatiable. But Jelly's interest in this 
 matter really was a personal one and concerned herself. It 
 was connected with Timothy Wilks. 
 
Putting Down the Carpet. ng 
 
 Amidst Jelly's other qualities and endowments, might be 
 ranked one that took almost the pre-eminence— love of admi- 
 ration. Jelly could not remember to have been without an 
 " acquaintance " for above a month at a time since the days 
 when she left off pinafores. No sooner did she quarrel with 
 one young- man and dismiss him, than she took on another. 
 Dallory wondered that of all her numerous acquaintances she 
 had not got married : but, as Jelly coolly said, to have a suitor 
 at your beck and call was one thing, and to be tied to a 
 husband quite another. So Jelly was Jelly still ; and perhaps 
 it might be conceded that the fault was her own. She liked 
 her independence. 
 
 The reigning " acquaintance " at this present period 
 happened to be Timothy Wilks. Jelly patronized him; he 
 was devoted to her. There was a trifling difference in their 
 ages — some ten years probably, and all on Jelly's side — but 
 that disparity had often happened before. Jelly had distin- 
 guished Tim by the honour of taking him to be her young 
 man ; and when the damaging whisper fell upon him, that he 
 had probably written the anonymous letter resulting in the 
 death of Edmund North, Jelly resented the aspersion far more 
 than Timothy did. " I'll find out who did do it if it costs me 
 a year's wages and six months' patience," avowed Jelly to 
 herself in the first burst of indignation. 
 
 But Jelly found she could not arrive at that satisfactory 
 result any quicker than other people. It's true, she pos- 
 sessed a slight clue that they did not, in the few memorable 
 words she had overheard pass that moonlight night between 
 her mistress and Dr. Rane, but they did not serve her. The 
 copy of the letter was said to have dropped out of Dr. Rane's 
 pocket-book on somebody's carpet, and he denied that it had 
 so dropped. Neither more nor less could Jelly make of the 
 matter than this : and she laboured under the disadvantage of 
 not being able to speak of the overheard words, unless she 
 confessed that she had been a listener. Considering who had 
 been the speakers, Jelly did not choose to do that. From that 
 time until this, a good two months, had the matter rankled 
 in Jelly's mind ; she had kept her ears wide open and put 
 cautious questions whenever she thought they might avail, 
 and all to no purpose. But in this, the first week of July, 
 Jelly got a slight light thrown on the clue from Molly Green. 
 The very day that damsel arrived at Dr. Rane's as helpmate 
 to Phillis, and Jelly had gone in with her domineering orders, 
 
120 Bessy Rane. 
 
 the conversation happened to tnrn on plum-pndding — Phillis 
 having made a cnrrant-dumpling for dinner, and let the water 
 get into it — and Molly Green dropped a few words which 
 Jelly's pricking ears canght np. They were only to the effect 
 that Mrs. Grass had asked her whether she did not let fall on 
 her carpet a receipt for making plnm-pndding, the night of 
 Edmund North's attack ; which receipt Mrs. Gass had said, 
 might have belonged to Madam, and been brought from the 
 Hall by Molly Green's petticoats. Jelly pnt a wary question 
 or two to the girl, and then let the topic pass without com- 
 ment. That same evening she betook herself to Mrs. Gass, 
 acting craftily. "Where's that paper that was found on 
 your carpet the night Edmund North was taken ? " asked 
 Jelly with bold tongue. Upon which Mrs. Gass was seized 
 with astonishment so entire that in the moment's confusion 
 she made one or two inconvenient admissions, just stopping 
 short of the half -suspicion she had entertained of Dr. Rane. 
 
 In the days gone by, when Mrs. Gass was a servant herself, 
 Jelly's relatives — really respectable people — had patronized 
 her. Mrs. Gass got promoted to what she was ; but she 
 assumed no fine airs in consequence, as the reader has heard, 
 and she and Jelly had remained very good friends. Vexed with 
 herself for haviug incautiously admitted that the paper found 
 was the copy of the anonymous letter, Mrs. Gass turned round 
 on Jelly and gave her a good sharp reprimand for taking her 
 unawares, and for trying to pry into what did not concern her. 
 Jelly came away, not very much wiser than she went, but with 
 a spirit of unrest that altogether refused to be soothed. She 
 dared not pursue the enquiry openly, out of respect to her 
 mistress and Dr. Rane, but she resolved to pump Molly Green. 
 This same Molly was niece to the people with whom Timothy 
 Wilks lodged, and rather more friendly with the latter gentle- 
 man than Jelly liked. 
 
 On the following morning when Jelly had swallowed her 
 breakfast, she went into the next house with her usual lack of 
 ceremony. Phillis and Molly Green were on their knees 
 laying down the new carpet in the drawing-room, tugging and 
 hammering to the best of their ability, their gowns pinned 
 round their waists, their sleeves stripped to the elbows ; Phillis 
 little and old, and weak-looking ; Molly a comely girl of 
 twenty, with red cheeks. 
 
 "Well, you must be two fools ! " was Jelly's greeting, after 
 taking in appearances. " As if you could expect to put down 
 
Putting Down the Carpet. 12 1 
 
 a heavy Brussels yourselves ! Why didn't you get Turtle's 
 men here ? They served the carpet, and they ought to como 
 to put it down." 
 
 " They promised to be here at seven o'clock this morning, 
 and now it's nine," mildly responded Phillis, her nice dark 
 eyes raised to Jelly's. " We thought we'd try and do it our- 
 selves, so as to be able to get the table, and chairs in, and the 
 room finished. Perhaps Turtles have forgot it." 
 
 "I'd forget them, I know, if it was me, when I wanted to 
 buy another carpet," said Jelly, tartly. 
 
 But, even as she spoke, a vehicle was heard to stop at the 
 gate. Inquisitive Jelly looked from the window, and recog- 
 nized it for Turtle's. It seemed to contain one or two pieces 
 of new furniture. Phillis did not know that any had been 
 coming and went out. Molly Green rose from her knees, and 
 stood regarding the carpet. This was Jelly's opportunity. 
 
 " Now, then ! " she sharply cried, confronting the girl with 
 imperious gesture. " Did you drop that, or did you not, 
 Molly Green ? " 
 
 Molly Green seemed all abroad at the address — as well she 
 might be. " Drop what ? " she asked. 
 
 " That plum-pudding receipt on Mrs. Gass's parlour 
 carpet." 
 
 " Well, I never! " returned Molly after a pause of surprise, 
 " What is it to you, Jelly, if I did ? " 
 
 Now the girl only so spoke by way of retort ; in a sort of 
 banter. Jelly, hardly believing her ears, took it to be an 
 admission that she did drop it. And so the two went flounder- 
 ing on, quite at cross-purposes. 
 
 "Don't stare at me like that, Molly Green. I want a 
 straight-for'ard answer. Did it drop from your skirts ? " 
 
 " It didn't drop from my hands. As to staring, it's you 
 that's doing that, Jelly, not me." 
 
 " Where had you picked up the receipt from? — Out of Mr. 
 Edmund North's room ? " 
 
 "Out of Mr. Edmund North's room!" echoed Molly in 
 wonder. "Whatever should have brought me a-doing that?" 
 
 " It was the night he was taken ill." 
 
 "And if it was ! I didn't go a-nigh him." 
 
 A frightful thought now came over Jelly, turning her quite 
 faint. What if the girl had gone to her Aunt Green's that 
 night and picked the paper up there ? In that case it could 
 not fail to be traced home to Timothy Wilks. 
 
122 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Did you call in at your aunt's that same evening, Molly 
 
 Green?" 
 
 " Suppose I did ? " retorted Molly. 
 
 " And how dare you call in there, and bring — bring — receipts 
 away with you surreptitious ? " shrieked Jelly in her temper. 
 
 Molly Green stooped to pick up the hammer, lying at her 
 feet, speaking quietly as sbe did so. Some noise was beginning 
 to be heard outside, caused by Turtle's men getting a piano 
 into the house, and Phillis talking to them. 
 
 "I can't think what you are a-driving at, Jelly. As to 
 calling in at aunt's, I have a right to do it when I'm out, if 
 time allows. Which it had not that night, at any rate, for I 
 never went nowhere but to the druggist's and Mrs. Gass's. I 
 scuttered all the way to Dallory, and scuttered back again ; 
 and I don't think I stopped to speak to a single soul, but 
 Timothy Wilks." 
 
 Jelly's spirits, which had been rising, fell again to wrath at 
 the name. "You'd better say you got it from him, Molly 
 Green. Don't spare him, poor fellow ; whiten yourself." 
 
 Molly was beginning to feel just a little wrathful in her 
 turn. Though Jelly was a lady's-maid and superior to herself 
 with her red arms and rough hands, that'could not be a reason 
 for attacking her in this way. 
 
 "And what if I did get it from him, pray ? Come ! A 
 plum-pudding prescription's no crime." 
 
 " But a copy of an anonymous letter is," retorted Jelly, the 
 moment's anger causing her to Jose sight of caution. " Don't 
 you try to brazen it out to me, girl." 
 
 "What ? " cried Molly, staring with all her eyes. 
 
 But in the intervening moment Jelly's senses had come back 
 to her. She set herself coolly to remedy the mischief. 
 
 " To think that my mind should have run off from tha 
 pudding receipt to that letter of poor Mr. Edmund's ! It's 
 your fault, Molly Green, bothering my wits out of me ! Where 
 did ycu pick up the paper ? There. Answer that ; and let's 
 end it." 
 
 Molly thought it might be as well to end it; she was getting 
 tired of the play: besides, here were Turtle's men coming into 
 the room to finish the carpet. 
 
 " I never had the receipt at all, Jelly, and it's not possible it 
 could have dropped from me : that's the blessed truth. After 
 talking to me, just as you've done, and turning me inside out, 
 as one may say, Mrs. Gass as good as confessed that it might 
 
Putting Down the Carpet; 1 23 
 
 have fell out of her own bundle of receipts that she keeps in 
 the sideboard drawer." 
 
 Slowly, Jelly arrived at a conviction that Molly Green, 
 in regard to her own non-participation in dropping the paper, 
 must be telling the truth. It did not tend to lessen her wrath. 
 
 " Then why on earth have you been keeping up this farce 
 with me ? I'll teach you manners, with your betters, girl." 
 
 "Well, why did you set upon me?" was the good-hu- 
 moured answer. " There's no such great treason in dropping 
 a plum-pudding-paper, even if I had done it — which I didn't. 
 'Taint a love-letter. I don't like to be brow-beat for nothing : 
 and it's not your place to do it, Jelly." 
 
 Jelly said no more. Little did she suspect that Mr. 
 Richard North, leaning against the door-post of the half- 
 open drawing-room door, while he watched the movements 
 of the men; had heard every syllable of the colloquy. Coming 
 round to see what progress was being made in the house, 
 before he went to the works for the day, it chanced that he 
 arrived at the same time as Turtle's cart. The new piano was 
 a present from himself to Bessy. 
 
 Turtle's men leaving the piano in the hall, went into the 
 room to finish the carpet, and Jelly came out of it. She found 
 her arm touched by Mr. Richard North. He motioned her 
 into the dining-parlor : followed, and closed the door. 
 
 "Will you tell me the meaning of what you have just been 
 saying to Molly Green ? " 
 
 The sudden question — as Jelly acknowledged to herself 
 afterwards — made her creep all over. For once in her life she 
 was dumb. 
 
 " I heard all you said, Jelly, happening to be standing 
 accidentally at the door. What was it that was dropped on 
 Mrs. Gass's carpet the night of my brother's illness ? " 
 
 "It — was — a receipt for making plum -pudding, sir," 
 stammered Jelly, turning a little white. 
 
 "I think not, Jelly," replied Richard North, gazing into 
 her eyes with quiet firmness. "You spoke of a copy of an 
 anonymous letter ; and I am sure, by your tone, you were 
 then speaking truth. As I have overheard this much, you 
 must give me an explanation." 
 
 "I'd have spent a pound out of my pocket, rather than thi? 
 should have happened," cried Jelly, with much ardour. 
 
 " You need not fear to tell me. I am no tattler, as you know.- 
 
 Had there been only the ghost of a chance to stand out 
 
124 Bessy Rane. 
 
 against the command Jelly would have caught at it. But 
 there was not. She disclosed what she knew : more than she 
 need have done. Warming with her subject, when the narra- 
 tive had fairly set in — as it was in Jelly's gossiping nature to 
 warm — she told also of the interview she had been a partial 
 witness to between Mrs. Cumberland and the doctor, and the 
 words she had heard them say. 
 
 Richard North looked grave — startled. He said very 
 little: only cautioned Jelly never to speak of the subject again 
 to other people. 
 
 "I suppose you will be asking Mrs. Gass about it, sir," 
 cried Jelly, as he was turning to leave. 
 
 " I shall. And should be thankful to hear from her that it 
 really was nothing more than a receipt for plum-pudding, 
 Jelly." 
 
 Jelly's head gave an incredulous toss. " I hope you'll not 
 let her think that I up and told you spontaneous, Mr. Richard. 
 After saying to her that I should never open my lips about it 
 to living mortal, she'd think I can't keep my word, sir." 
 
 "Beat ease, Jelly; she shall not suppose I learnt it by 
 aught but accident." 
 
 "And I am glad he knows it, after all ! " decided Jelly to 
 herself, as she watched him away up the Ham. "Perhaps 
 he'll now be able to get at the rights and the wrongs." 
 
 Richard North walked along, full of tumultuous trouble. 
 It could not be but that he should have caught up a suspicion 
 of Oliver Rane — now his brother-in-law — that he might have 
 been the author of the anonymous letter. How, else, could 
 its copy have dropped from his pocket-book — if, indeed, it had 
 so dropped ? Jelly had not thrown so much as a shadow of 
 hint upon the doctor ; either she failed to see the obvious in- 
 ference, or controlled her tongue to caution.: but Richard 
 North could put two-and-two together. He went straight to 
 Mrs. Gass's, and found that lady at breakfast in her dining- 
 parlour, with window thrown up to the warm summer air. 
 
 "What's it you, Mr. Richard ? " she cried, rising to shake 
 hands. " I am a'most ashamed to be found a-breakfasting 
 at this hour ; but the truth is, I overslept myself : and that 
 .idiot of a girl never came to tell me the time. The first part 
 of the night I got no sleep at all : 'twere three o'clock afore 
 I closed my eyes." 
 
 " Were you not well ? " asked Richard. 
 
 " I'd got a touch of my stomach-pain ; nothing more. 
 
Putting Down the Carpet. 125 
 
 Whit h is indigestion, Dr. Rane says: and he's about right. 
 Is it a compliment to ask yon to take some breakfast, Mr. 
 Richard, sir ? Them eggs are fresh, and here's some down- 
 right good tea." 
 
 Richard answered that it wonld be only a compliment ; he had 
 breakfasted with his father and Arthur Bohnn before leaving 
 home. His eyes ran dreamily over the white damask cloth, 
 as if he were admiring what stood on it ; the pretty china, 
 the well-kept silver, the glass with a bunch of fresh roses in it. 
 Mrs. Gass liked to have things nice about her, although people 
 called her vulgar. In reality Richard saw nothing. His mind 
 was absorbed with what he had to ask, and with how he 
 should ask it. 
 
 In a pause, made by Mrs. Gass's draining her cup of 
 tea and pushing her plate from her, Richard North bent 
 forward and opened the communication, speaking in a low 
 and confidential tone. 
 
 " I have come to you thus early for a little information, Mrs. 
 Gass. Will you kindly tell me what were the contents of the 
 paper that was found here on your carpet, the night of 
 Edmund's seizure ? " 
 
 From the look that Mrs. Gass's countenance assumed at the 
 question, it might have been thought that she was about to 
 have a seizure herself. Her eyes grew round, her cheek and 
 nose red. For a full minute she made no answer. 
 
 "What on earth cause have you to ask me that, Mr. 
 Richard ? You can't know nothing about it." 
 
 "Yes, I can; and do. I know that such a paper was 
 found ; I fear it was a copy of the anonymous letter. Bat I 
 have come to you to learn particulars." 
 
 " My patience ! " ejaculated Mrs. Gass. " To think you 
 should have got hold of it at last. Who in the world told 
 you, sir ? " 
 
 "Jelly. But " 
 
 "Drat that girl!" warmly interposed Mrs. Gass. "Her 
 tongue is as long as from here to yonder." 
 
 "But not intentionally, I was about to add. I overheard 
 her say a chance word, and I insisted upon her disclosing to 
 me what she knew. There is no blame dne to Jelly, Mrs. Gass." 
 
 " I say Yes there is, Mr. Richard. What right has she got 
 to blab out chance words about other folk's business ? Let 
 her stick to her own. That tongue of hers is worse than a 
 steam-engine : once set it going, it won't be stopped." 
 
126 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Well, we will leave Jelly. It may be for the better that 
 I should know this. Tell me all about it, my dear old 
 friend." 
 
 Thus adjured, Mrs. Gass spoke ; telling the tale from the 
 beginning. Richard listened in silence. 
 
 "He denied that it came out of his pocket-book ? " was the 
 first remark he made. 
 
 " Denied it out and out. And then my thoughts turned 
 naturally to Molly Green ; for no other stranger had been in 
 the room but them two. He said perhaps she had brought it 
 in her petticoats from the Hall : but I don't think it could 
 have been. I'm afraid — I'm afraid, Mr. Richard — that it 
 must have dropped from his pocket-book." 
 
 Their eyes met : each hesitating to speak out the conviction 
 lying at heart. Notwithstanding there had been confidential 
 secrets between them before to-day. Richard was thinking 
 that he ought not to have married Bessy — at least, until it was 
 cleared up. 
 
 " Why did you not tell me, Mrs. Gass ? " 
 
 " It was in my mind to do so — I said a word or two — but 
 then, you see, I couldn't think it was him that writ it," was 
 her answer. "Mrs. Cumberland told me she saw the anony- 
 mous letter itself, Mr. North showed it her, and that it was 
 not a bit like any handwriting she ever met. Suppose he is 
 innocent — would it have been right for me to come out with a 
 tale, even to you, Mr. Richard, that he might have been 
 guilty?" 
 
 On this point Richard said no more. All the talking in the 
 world now could not undo the marriage, and he was never one 
 to reproach uselessly. Mrs. Gass resumed. 
 
 "If I had spoke ever so, I don't suppose it would have 
 altered things, Mr. Richard. There was no proof ; and, fail- 
 ing that, you'd not have liked to say anything at all to Miss 
 Bessy. Any way they are man and wife now." 
 
 " I hope — I hope he did not write it ! " said Richard fer- 
 vently. 
 
 Mrs. Gass gave a sweep with her arm to all the china 
 together, as she bent her earnest, red face nearer 
 Richard's. 
 
 " Let's remember this much to our comfort, Mr. Richard : 
 if it ivas him, he never thought to harm a hair of your brother's 
 head. He must have writ it to damage Alexander. Oliver 
 Rane has looked upon Alexander as his mortal enemy, — as a 
 
Coming Home. 127 
 
 man "who ought to be kicked, — as a man who did him a right 
 down bad turn and spoilt his prospects, — as a man upon whom 
 it was a'most a duty to be revenged." 
 
 11 Do you think this ? " cried Richard, rather at sea. 
 
 " No ; but I say he thinks it. He never meant worse nor 
 better by the letter than to drive Alexander away from the 
 place where, as Rane fancies, he only got a footing by treachery. 
 That is, if he writ it : sometimes I think he did, and sometimes 
 I think he didn't." 
 
 " What is to bo done ? " 
 
 " Nothing. You can do nothing. You and me must just 
 bury it between us, Mr. Richard, sir, for Miss Bessy's sake. 
 It would be a nasty thing for her if a whisper of this should 
 go abroad, let him be as innocent as the babe unborn. They 
 are fond of one another, and it would just be a cruelty to have 
 stopped the marriage with this. He is a good-intentioned 
 man, and I don't see but what they'll be happy together. Let 
 us hope that he has made his peace with the Lord, and that it 
 won't be visited upon him." 
 
 11 Amen ! " was the mental response of Richard North. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 COMING HOME. 
 
 Dashing up to Dallory Hall in a fiery foam, just a week and a 
 day after the wedding, came Mrs. North. Madam had learnt 
 the news. While she was reposing in all security in Paris, 
 amid a knot of friends who had chosen to be there at that 
 season, Matilda North happened to take up a Times newspaper 
 of some two or three days old, and saw the account of the 
 marriage: "Oliver Rane, M.D., of Dallory Ham, to Bessy, 
 daughter of John North, of Dallory Hall, and of Elizabeth, his 
 first wife." Madam rose up, her face in a flame, and clutched 
 the journal to look : she verily believed Miss Matilda was 
 playing a farce. No : the announcement was there in plain 
 black and white. Making her hasty arrangements to quit 
 the French Capital, she came thundering home : and arrived 
 the very day that Dr. and Mrs. Rane returned. 
 
 A letter had preceded her. A letter of denouncing wrath, 
 that had made her husband shake in his shoes. Poor Mr. 
 North looked tremblingly out for the arrival, caught a glimpse 
 of the carriage and of Madam's face, and slipped out at the 
 
128 Bessy Rane. 
 
 back door to the fields. Where he remained wandering about 
 for hours. 
 
 So Madam found nobody to receive her. Richard was at 
 the works, Captain Bohun had been out all the afternoon. 
 
 Nothing increases wrath like the having no object to expend 
 it on ; and Madam foiled, might have sat for a picture of fury. 
 The passion that had been bubbling up higher and higher all 
 the way from Paris, found no escape at its boiling point. 
 
 One of the servants happened to come in her way ; the first 
 housemaid, who had been head over Molly Green. Madam 
 stopped her ; bit her lips for calmness, and then enquired par- 
 ticulars of the wedding with a smooth face. 
 
 " Was it a run-away match, Lake ? " 
 
 " Goodness, no, Madam ! " was Lake's answer, who was apt 
 to be free with her tongue, even to her imperious mistress. 
 " Things were being got ready for a month beforehand; and 
 my master would have gone to church to give Miss Bessy 
 away himself, but for not being well. All us servants went 
 to see it." 
 
 Little by little, Madam heard the details. Captain Bohun 
 was best man ; Mr. Richard took out Miss Adair, who was 
 bridesmaid, and looked lovely to behold. The bride and bride- 
 groom drove right away from the church door. Captain Bohun 
 went back in the carriage with Miss Adair ; Mr. Richard went 
 off on foot to the works. Miss Bessy — leastways Mrs. Oliver 
 Rane now — had had some furniture sent to her new home front 
 the Hall, and Molly Green was there as housemaid. That 
 Lake should be glowing with intense gratification at being 
 enabled to tell all this, was only in accordance with frail 
 human nature : she knew what a pill it was for Madam ; and 
 Madam was disliked in the household worse than poison. 
 But Lake was hardly prepared for the ashy tint that spread 
 over Madam's features, when she came to the part that told 
 of the homeward drive together of her son and Ellen Adair. 
 
 The girl was in the midst of her descriptions when Arthur 
 Bohun came in. Madam saw him sauntering lazily up the 
 gravel drive, and swept down in her fine Parisian costume of 
 white-and-black brocaded silk, lappets of lace floating from 
 her hair. They met in the Hall. 
 
 " Why ! is it you, mother ? " cried Arthur in surprise — for 
 he had no idea the invasion might be expected so soon. " Have 
 you come home ? " 
 
 He advanced to kiss her. Striving to be as dutiful as she 
 
Coming Home. 129 
 
 would let liim be, he was willing to observe all ordinary re- 
 lations between mother and son : but of affection there existed 
 none. Mrs. North drew back from the offered embrace, and 
 haughtily motioned him to the drawing-room. Matilda sat 
 there, sullen and listless : she was angry at being dragged 
 summarily from Paris. 
 
 " Why did I assist at Bessy's wedding ? " replied Arthur, 
 parrying the attack with light good humour, as he invariably 
 strove to do on these wrathful occasions. " Because I liked 
 it. It was great fun. Especially to see Bane hunting in every 
 pocket for the ring, and turning as red as a salamander." 
 
 "What business had you to do such a thing?" retorted 
 Madam, her face dark with the passion she was suppressing. 
 " How dared you do it ? " 
 
 " Do what, Madam ? " 
 
 Madam stamped a little. " You know without asking, sir; 
 countenance personally the wedding." 
 
 " Was there any reason why I should not ? Bessy stands to 
 me as a sister : and I like her. I am glad she is married, and 
 I hope sincerely they'll have the best of luck always." 
 
 "I had forbidden the union with Oliver Bane," stamped 
 Madam. " Do you hear? — -forbidden it. You knew that as 
 well as she did." 
 
 "But then, don't you see, mother mine, you had no par- 
 ticular right to forbid it. If Matilda there took it into her 
 head to marry some knight or other, you would have a voice 
 in the matter, for or against ; but Bessy was responsible to 
 her father only." 
 
 " Don't bring my name into your nonsense, Arthur," struck 
 in Matilda, with a frown. 
 
 Madam, looking from one to the other, was biting her lips. 
 
 " They had the wedding while you were away that it might 
 be got over quietly," renumed Arthur, in his laughing way. 
 determined not to give in an inch, even though he had to tell 
 a home truth or two. " For my part, mother, I have never 
 ■understood what possible objection you could have to Bane." 
 
 " That is my business," spoke Mrs. North. " I wish he and' 
 those Cumberland people were all at the bottom of the sea. 
 How dared you disgrace yourself, Arthur Bohun ? " 
 
 " Disgrace myself ? " 
 
 " You did. You, a Bohun, to descend to a companionship 
 with them ! Fie upon you ! And you have been said to in- 
 herit your father's pride." 
 
 K 
 
130 Bessy Rane. 
 
 "As I hope I do, in all proper things. I am unable to 
 understand your distinctions, Madam," he added, laughingly. 
 " Rane is as good as Bessy, for all I see. As good as we are." 
 Madam caught up a hand screen, as if she would have 
 liked to fling it at him. Her Land trembled, with emotion or 
 temper. 
 
 " There's some girl living with. them. They tell me you 
 went home with her in the carriage ! " 
 
 Arthur Bohun suddenly turned his back upon them, as if 
 to see who might be coming, for distant footsteps were heard 
 advancing. But for that, Madam might have seen a hot flush 
 illumine his face. 
 
 " Well ? What else, mother ? Of course I took her homo 
 — Miss Adair." 
 
 " In the face and eyes of Dallory ! " 
 
 " Certainly. And we had faces and eyes out that morn- 
 ing, I can tell you. It is not every day a Miss North gets 
 married." 
 
 " How came you to take her ? " 
 
 "Dick asked me. There was nobody else to ask, you see. 
 Mrs. Gass clapped us going by, as if we had been an election. 
 She had a stiff shining yellow gown on and white bows in her 
 cap." 
 
 His suavity was so great, his determination not to be 
 ruffled so evident, that Mrs. North felt three parts foiled. It 
 was not often she attacked Arthur ; he always met it in this 
 way, and no satisfaction came of it. She could have struck 
 him as he stood. 
 
 "What is the true tale about the ring, Arthur? " asked 
 Matilda, in the silence come to by Mrs. North. " Lake says 
 Oliver Rane really lost it." 
 " Really and truly, Matty." 
 " Were they married without a ring ? " 
 " Somebody present produced one," he replied carelessly, 
 in his invincible dislike to mention Ellen Adair before his 
 mother and sister : a dislike that had ever clung to him. Did 
 it arise from the shy reticence that invariably attends love, 
 this feeling ? — or could it have been some foreshadowing, 
 dread instinct of what the future was to bring forth ? 
 " How came Dr. Rane to lose the ring ? " 
 "Carelessness, I suppose. We found it in the carriage, 
 going home. He must have dropped it accidentally." 
 
 " Peac* Matilda ! — Keep your foolish questions for a fitting 
 
Coming Home. 131 
 
 time," stormed Madam. " How dare you turn your back upon 
 me, Arthur ? What money has gone out with the girl ? " 
 
 Arthur turned round to answer. In spite of his careless 
 manner, he was biting his lips with shame and vexation. It 
 was so often he had to blush for his mother. 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know, if you mean with Bossy; it is 
 not my business that I should presume to ask. Here comes 
 Dick : I thought it was his step. You can inquire of him, 
 Madam." 
 
 Richard North looked into the drawing-room, all uncon- 
 scious of the storm awaiting him. Matilda sat back in an 
 easy chair tapping her foot discontentedly ; Arthur Bohun 
 toyed with a rose at the window ; Madam, standing upright 
 by the beautiful inlaid table, her train sweeping the rich 
 carpet, confronted him. 
 
 But there was something about Richard North that in- 
 stinctively subdued Madam ; she had never domineered over 
 him as she did over her husband, and Bessy, and Arthur ; and 
 at him she did not rave and rant. Calm always, sufficiently 
 courteous to her, and yet holding his own in self-respect, 
 Richard and Madam seldom came to an issue. But she 
 attacked him now : demanding why this iniquity — the wed- 
 ding — had been allowed to be enacted. 
 
 " Pardon me, Mrs. North, if I meet your question by 
 another," calmly spoke Richard. " You complain of my 
 sister's marriage as though it were a grievous wrong against 
 yourself. What is the reason ? " 
 " I said it should not take place." 
 " Will you tell me why you oppose it ? " 
 " No. It is sufficient that, to my mind, it did not present 
 itself as suitable. I have resolutely set my face against Dr. 
 Rane and his statue of a mother, who presumes to call the 
 Master of Dallory Hall John ! And I forbade Bessy to think 
 of him." 
 
 " But — pardon me, Mrs. North — Bessy was not bound to 
 obey you. Her father and I saw no cause for objecting to 
 Dr. Rane." 
 
 "Was it right, was it honourable, that you should seize 
 upon my absence to marry her in this indecent manner? — 
 before Edmund was cold in his grave ? " 
 
 " Circumstances guide cases," said Richard. " As for marry- 
 ing her while you were away, it was done in the interests of 
 peace- Yoj't opposition, had you been at home, would not 
 
132 Bessy Rane. 
 
 have prevented the marriage ; it was therefore as well to get 
 it over in quietness." 
 
 A bold avowal. Richard stood before Madam when he made 
 it, upright as herself. She saw it was useless to contend : 
 and all the abuse in the world would not undo it now. 
 
 " What money has gone out with her ? " 
 
 It was a question that she had no right to put. Richard 
 answered it, however. 
 
 "At present, not any. To-morrow I shall give Rane v*. 
 cheque for two hundred pounds. Time was, Madam, when 
 I thought my sister would have gone from us with twenty 
 thousand." 
 
 '' We are not speaking of what was, but of what is," said 
 Madam, an unpleasant sneer on her face. " Mr. North — to 
 hear him speak — cannot spare the two hundred." 
 
 " Quite true ; Mr. North has it not to spare," said Richard. 
 " It is I who give it to my sister. Drained though we are 
 for money perpetually, I could not, for very shame, suffer 
 Bessy to go to her husband wholly penniless." 
 
 " She has not gone penniless," retorted Madam, brazening 
 the thing out. " I hear the Hall has been dismantled for her." 
 
 " Oh, mother ! " interposed Arthur in a burst of pain. 
 
 "Hold your tongue; it is no affair of yours" spoke Mrs. 
 North. " A cart-load of furniture has gone out of the Hall." 
 
 " Bessy's own," said Richard. " It was her mother's ; and 
 we have always considered it Bessy's. A few poor mahogany 
 things, Madam, that you have never condescended to take 
 notice of, and that never, in point of fact, have belonged to 
 you. They have gone with Bessy, poor girl; and I trust 
 Rane will make her a happier home than she has had here." 
 
 " I trust they will both be miserable," flashed Madam. 
 
 Equable in temper though Richard North was, there are 
 limits to endurance ; he found his anger rising, and quitted 
 the room abruptly. Arthur Bohun went limping after him : 
 in any season of emotion, he was undeniably lame. 
 
 " I'd beg your pardon for her, Dick, in all entreaty," he 
 whispered, putting his arm within Richard's, "but that my 
 tongue is tied with shame and humiliation. It was an awful 
 misfortune for you all when your father married her." 
 
 " We can but make the best of it, Arthur," was the kindly 
 answer. " It was neither your fault nor mine." 
 
 " Wbere is the good old pater ? " 
 
 " Hiding: somewhere. Not a doubt of it." 
 
Coming Home. 133 
 
 11 Let us go and find him, Dick. He may be the bstter for 
 having ns with him to-day. If she was not my mother — and 
 upon my word and honour, Richard, I sometimes think she is 
 not — I'd strap on my armour and do brave battle for him." 
 
 The bride and bridegroom were settling down in their 
 house. Bessy, arranging her furniture in her new home, was 
 busy and happy as the summer day was long. Some of the 
 mahogany things were sadly old-fashioned, but the fact never 
 occurred to Bessy. The carpet was bright ; the piano, 
 Richard's present, and a great surprise, was beautiful. It 
 was so kind of him to give her one — she who was but a poor 
 player at best, and had thought of asking Madam to be allowed 
 to have the unused old thing in the old school-room at Dallory 
 Hall. She clung to Richard with tears in her eyes as she 
 kissed and thanked him. He kissed her again, and gave his 
 good wishes for her happiness, but Bessy thought him some- 
 what out of spirits. Richard North handed over two 
 hundred pounds to them: a most acceptable offering to 
 Dr. Rane. 
 
 "Thank you, Richard," he heartily said, grasping his 
 brother-in-law's hand. "I shall be getting on so well shortly 
 as to need no help for my wife's sake or for mine." And 
 Richard knew that he was anticipating the period when the 
 other doctor should have gone, and the whole practice be in 
 his own hands. 
 
 It was on the third or fourth morning after their return, 
 that Dr. Rane, coming home from seeing his patients, met his 
 fellow-surgeon, arm-in-arm with a stranger. Mr. Alexander 
 stopped to introduce him. 
 
 " Mr. Seeley, Rane," he said. "My friend and successor." 
 
 Had a shot been fired at Dr. Rane, he could scarcely have 
 felt more. In the moment's confused blow, he almost 
 stammered. 
 
 " Your successor ? Here ? " 
 
 "My successor in the practice. I have sold him the good- 
 will, and he has come down to be introduced." 
 
 Dr. Rane bowed. The new doctor put out his hand. 
 That same day Dr. Rane went over to Mr. Alexander's and 
 reproached him. 
 
 ' ' You might at least have given me the refusal had you 
 wanted to sell it." 
 
 "My good fellow, I promised it to Seeley ages ago," was 
 
134 Bessy Rane. 
 
 the answer. "He knew I had a prospect of the London ap- 
 pointment : in fact, helped me to get it." 
 
 What was to be said Y Nothing. But Oliver Rane felt as 
 though a bitter blow had again fallen upon him, blighting the 
 fair vista of the future. 
 
 " Don't be down-hearted, Oliver." whispered Bessy, hope- 
 fully, as she clung around him when he went in and spoke of 
 the disappointment. "We shall be just as happy with a 
 small practice as a large one. It will all come right — with 
 God's blessing on us." 
 
 But Oliver Banc, looking back on a certain deed of the past, 
 felt by no means sure in his heart of hearts that the blessing 
 would be upon them. 
 
$Jart tf)t ^ccoirtf. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 OF WHAT WAS, AND OF WHAT MIGHT BE. 
 
 Bessy Kane sat at tlie large window of her dining-room in the 
 coming twilight. Some twelve months had elapsed since her 
 marriage, and summer was ronnd again. Her work had 
 dropped on her lap : it was that of stitching some wristbands 
 for her husband : and she sat inhaling the fresh sweet scent of 
 the garden flowers, and watching Jelly's movements in the 
 dining-room facing her : — Mrs. Cumberland's. Jelly had a 
 candle in her hand, apparently searching for something, for 
 she was throwing its light and her own eyes into every hole 
 and corner. Bessy stooped forward to pluck a sprig of sweet 
 verbena, and sat on tranquilly. 
 
 At the table behind her sat Dr. Rane, writing as fast as the 
 decreasing light would allow. Some unusual and peculiar 
 symptoms had manifested themselves in a patient he had been 
 recently attending, and he was making them and the case 
 into a paper for a medical publication, in the hope that it would 
 bring him back a remunerating guinea or two. 
 
 " Oliver, I am sure you can't see," said Bessy presently, 
 looking round. 
 
 *' It is almost blindman's holiday, dear. Will you ring for 
 the lamp ? " 
 
 Mrs. Rane rose. But, instead of ringing for the lamp, she 
 went up to him, and put her hand on his shoulder persuasively. 
 
 " Take a quarter of an hour's rest, Oliver. You will find 
 all the benefit of it ; and it is not quite time to light the lamp. 
 Let us take a stroll in the garden." 
 
 " You are obstructing what little light is left, Bessy ; stand- 
 ing between me and the window." 
 
 " Of course I am. I'm doing it on purpose. Come ! You 
 ought to know a great deal better than I do that it is bad to 
 try the eyes, sir. Please, Oliver." 
 
136 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Yielding to her entreaties, he pushed the paper from him 
 with a sigh of weariness, and they stepped from the window 
 into the garden. Bessy passed her hand within his arm ; and, 
 turning towards the more covert paths, they hegan to converse 
 with one another in a semi-whisper. 
 
 Many a twilight half -hour had they thus paced together of 
 late, talking together of what was and of what might be. The 
 first year of their marriage had not been one of success in 
 a pecuniary point of view ; for Dr. Rane's practice improved 
 not. He earned barely enough for their moderate wants. 
 Bessy, the cash-keeper, had a difficulty in making both ends 
 meet. But the fact was not known; never a syllable of it 
 transpired from either of them. Dr. Rane was seen out and 
 about a great deal, going to and fro among his patients ; and 
 the world did not suspect his returns were so poor. 
 
 The new surgeon, Seeley, had stepped into all Mr. Alexan- 
 der's practice, and was flourishing. Dr. Rane's, as before, 
 was chiefly confined to the lower classes, especially those 
 belonging to the North Works; and from certain circumstances, 
 these men were not so full of funds as they had been, and con- 
 sequently not so well able to pay him. That Dr. Rane was 
 bitterly mortified at not getting on better, for his wife's sake 
 as well as his own, could not be mistaken. Bessy preached of 
 hope cheerfully ; of a bright future in store yet ; but he had 
 lost faith in it. 
 
 It seemed to Dr. Rane that everything was a failure. The 
 medical book he had been engaged upon in persevering in- 
 dustry at the time of his marriage, from which he had anti- 
 cipated great things both in fame and fortune, had not met 
 with success. He had succeeded in getting it published ; but 
 as yet there were no returns. He had sacrificed a sum of 
 money towards its publication ; not a very large sum, it's true, 
 but larger than they could afford, and nobody but themselves 
 knew how it had crippled them. Bessy said it would come 
 back some day with plenty of interest ; they had only to keep 
 up a good heart and live frugally. 
 
 Poor Bessy herself had one grief that she never spoke of 
 even to him — the lack of offspring. There had been no pro- 
 spect of it whatever ; and she so loved children ! As week after 
 week, month after month went by without bringing sign, her 
 disappointment was very keen. She was beginning to get a 
 little reconciled to it now ; and grew only the more devoted to 
 her husband. 
 
What Was, and What Might Be. 137 
 
 Mrs. Rare was an excellent manager in the household, 
 spending the smallest fraction that she could, consistent with 
 comfort. It had not yet come to the lack of that. At the turn 
 of the previous winter old Phillis became ill and had to leave ; 
 and Bessy had since kept only Molly Green. By a fortunate 
 chance Molly understood cooking ; she had grown to be a 
 really excellent servant. At the small rate of expense they 
 lived at now, Dr. Rane might perhaps have managed to con- 
 tinue to meet it while he waited patiently for better luck ; but 
 he did not intend to do anything of the kind. His only 
 anxiety was to remove to another place, as far away as might 
 be from Dallory Ham. 
 
 Whether this thirst for migration would have arisen had his 
 practice been successful, cannot be told. We can only relate 
 things as they were. With the disappointment — and other 
 matters — lying upon him, the getting away from Dallory had 
 grown into a wild, burning desire,that never quitted him by 
 night or by day. That one fatal mistake of his life seemed to 
 hang over him like a curse. It's true that when he penned 
 the letter so disastrous in its result, he had no more intention 
 in his heart of slaying or killing than had the paper he wrote 
 on ; he had only thought of putting Alexander into disfavour 
 at Dallory Hall ; but it had turned out as it had turned out, 
 and Dr. Rane felt that he had a life to answer for. He might 
 [have borne this ; and at any rate his running away from 
 (Dallory would neither lessen the heart's burden nor add to it; 
 [but what he could not bear was 'the prospect of detection. 
 Not a day passed but he saw somebody or other whose face 
 tacitly reminded him that such discovery might take place. 
 He felt sure that Mrs. Gass suspected him still of having 
 written the letter ; he knew that his mother doubted it ; he 
 picked up a half suspicion of Jelly ; he had more than half a 
 one of Richard North ; and how many others there might be 
 he knew not. Ever since the time when he returned from his 
 marriage trip, he thought there had been an involuntary con- 
 straint in Richard's manner to him ; it could not be his fancy. 
 As to Jelly, the way he sometimes caught her green eyes 
 observing him, was enough to give the shivers to a nervous 
 man, which Dr. Rane was not. How he could have committed 
 the fatal mistake of putting that copy — or semi-copy — of the 
 miserable letter into his pocket-book, he never knew. He had 
 tried his writing and his words on two or three pieces of paper, 
 but he surely thought he had torn all up and burnt the pieces. 
 
138 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Over and over again, looking back upon his carelessness, he 
 said to himself that it was Fate. Not carelessness, in one 
 sense of the word. Carelessness if yon will, but a carelessness 
 that he could not go from in the arbitrary dominion of Fate. 
 Fate had been controlling him with her iron hand, to bring his 
 crime home to him ; and he could not escape it. Whatever it 
 might have been, however — Fate, or want of caution — it had 
 led to his being a suspected man by some few around him ; and 
 continue to live amidst them he would not. Dr. Rane was a 
 proud-natured man, liking in an especial degree to stand well 
 in the estimation of his fellow- creatures ; to have such a de- 
 gradation as this brought publicly home to him would go well 
 nigh to kill him with shame. Rather than face it he would 
 have run away to the remotest quarter of the habitable globe. 
 
 And he had quite imbued Bessy with the wish for change. 
 She but thought as he thought. Never suspecting the true 
 cause of his wish to get away and establish himself elsewhere, 
 she only saw how real it was. Of this they talked, night after 
 night, pacing the garden paths. " There seems to have been 
 a spell of ill-luck attending me ever since I settled in this 
 place," he would say to her ; " and I know it won't be lifted 
 off while I stop." He was saying it on this very night. 
 
 "I hate the place, Bessy," he observed, looking up at the 
 bright evening star that began to show itself in the clear blue 
 sky. " But for my mother and you I should never have stayed 
 in it. I wish I had the money to buy a practice elsewhere. 
 As it is, I must establish one." 
 
 " Yes," acquiesced Bessy. " But where ? The great thing 
 is — what other place to fix upon." 
 
 Of course that was the chief thing. Dr. Rane looked down 
 and kept silence, pondering various matters in his mind. He 
 thought it had better be London. A friend of his, one Dr. 
 Jones, who had been a fellow-student in their student days, 
 was doing a large practice as a medical man in the neighbour- 
 hood of New York : he wanted assistance, and had proposed 
 to Dr. Rane to go over and join him. Nothing in the world 
 would Dr. Rane have liked better ; and Bessy was willing to 
 go where he went, even to quit her native land for good ; but 
 Dr. Jones did not offer this Avithout an equivalent, and the 
 terms he named to be paid down, £500, were entirely beyond 
 the reach of Oliver Rane. So he supposed it must be London. 
 With the two hundred pounds that he hoped to get for the 
 good-will of his own practice in Dallory Ham — at this very 
 
What Was, and What Might Be. 139 
 
 moment lie was trying to ncgociate with a gentleman for it in 
 private — he should set up in London, or else purchase a small 
 share in an established practice. Anything, anywhere, to get 
 away, and to leave the nightmare of daily-dreaded discovery 
 behind him ! 
 
 " Once we are away from this place, Bessy, we shall get on. 
 I feel sure of it. You won't long have to live like a hermit, 
 from dread of the cost of entertaining company, or to look at 
 every sixpence before you lay it out." 
 
 "I don't mind it, Oliver. You know how sorry I should be 
 if you thought of giving up our home here for my sake." 
 
 " But I don't; it's for my own as well," he hastily added. 
 " You can't realize what it is, Bessy, for a clever medical man 
 — and I am that — to be beaten back ever into obscurity ; to 
 find no field for his talents ; to watch others of his generation 
 rise into note and usefulness. I have not got on here ! Madam 
 has schemed to prevent it. Why she should have pushed on 
 Alexander ; why she should push Seeley ; not for their sakes, 
 but to oppose me, I have never been able to imagine. Unless 
 it was that my mother, when Fanny Gass, and Mr. North were 
 intimate as brother and sister in early life." 
 
 "And Madam despises the Gass family, and ours equally. 
 It was a black-letter day for us all when papa married her." 
 
 "It is no reason why she should have set her face against 
 vie. It has been a fatal blight on me : worse than you and the 
 world think for, Bessy." 
 
 "I am sure you must have felt it so," murmured Bessy. 
 "And she would have stopped our marriage if she could." 
 
 "Whoever succeeds me here will speedily make a good 
 practice of it. You'll see. She has kept me from doing it. 
 There's one blessed thing — her evil influence cannot follow us 
 elsewhere." 
 
 "I should like to become rich and have a large house, and 
 get poor papa to live with us," said Bessy hopefully. " Madam 
 is worrying him into his grave with her cruel temper. Oh, 
 Oliver, 1 should like him to come ! " 
 
 " I'm sure I'd not object," replied Dr. Rane good-naturedly. 
 " How they will keep up the expenses at Dallory Hall if this 
 strike be prolonged, I cannot think. Serve Madam right ! " 
 " Do you hear much of the trouble, Oliver ?" 
 "Much of it! Why, I hear nothing else. The men are 
 fools. They'll cut their own throats as sure as a gun. Your 
 brother Richard sees it coming:." 
 
140 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Sees what ?" asked Bessy, not exactly understanding. 
 
 " Ruin," emphatically replied Dr. Rane. "The men will 
 play at bo-peep with reason until the trade has left them. 
 Fools! Fools!" 
 
 " It's not the poor men, Oliver. I have lived amongst them, 
 some of them at any rate, since I was a child, and I don't like 
 to hear them blamed. It is that they are misled. Misled by 
 the trades' unions." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " replied Dr. Rane. " A man who has his living 
 to earn ought not to allow himself to be misled. There's his 
 work to hand ; let him do it. A body of would-be autocrats 
 might come down on me and say, ' Oliver Rane, we want you 
 to join our society : which forbids doctors to visit patients 
 except under its own rules and regulations.' Suppose I listened 
 to them ? — and stayed at home, and let Seeley, or anybody 
 else who would, snap up my practice, and awoke presently to 
 find my means of living irrevocably gone ? — nothing left for 
 me but the workhouse ? Should I deserve pity ? Certainly 
 not," 
 
 Bessy laughed a little. They were going in, and she — still 
 keeping her hand within his arm — coaxed him yet for another 
 minute's recreation into the drawing-room. Sitting down to 
 the piano in the fading light — the piano that Richard had given 
 her — she began a song that her husband was fond of, "0 Bay 
 of Dublin." That sweet song set to the air of " Groves of 
 Blarney," by the late Lady Dufferin. Bessy's voice was weak 
 and of no compass, but true and rather sweet ; and she had 
 that, by no means common, gift of rendering every word as 
 distinctly heard as though it were spoken : so that her singing 
 was pleasant to listen to. Her husband liked it. He leaned 
 against the window -frame, now as she sang, in a deej} reverie, 
 gazing out on Dallory Ham, and at the man lighting the road- 
 side lamps. Dr. Rane never heard this song but he wished he 
 was the emigrant singing it, with some wide ocean flowing 
 between him and home. 
 
 " What's this, I wonder ?" 
 
 Some woman, whom he did not recognize, had turned in at 
 his gate and was ringimg the door-bell. Dr. Rane found he 
 was called out to a patient : one of the profitless people as 
 usuul. 
 
 " Piersons want me, Bessy," he looked into the room to say. 
 " The man's worse. I shall not be long." 
 
 And Bessy rose when she heard the street-door closed. 
 
What Was, and What Might Be. 141 
 
 Taking a clean duster from the drawer, she carefully passed 
 it over the keys before closing her piano for the night. Very 
 much did Bessy cherish her drawing-room and its furniture. 
 They did not use it much : not from fear of spoiling it, but 
 because the other room with its large bay window seemed the 
 most cheery ; and people feel more at ease in the room they 
 commonly sit in. Bessy took pride in her house as though it 
 had been one of the grandest in all Dallory : happy as a queen 
 in it, felt she. Stepping lightly over the drawing-room carpet 
 — fresh as the day when it came out of Turtle's warehouse — 
 touching, with a gentle finger, some pretty thing or other on 
 the tables as she passed, she opened the door and called to the 
 servant. 
 
 " Molly, it is time these shutters were shut." 
 
 Molly Green, in a bit of a cap tilted on her hair behind, and 
 a white muslin apron, came out of the kitchen hard by. Molly 
 liked to be as smart as the best of them, although she had the 
 whole work to do. Which whole was not very much when 
 aided by her mistress's help and good-management. 
 
 "You had better light the hall-lamp," added Mrs. Bane, as 
 she went up stairs. 
 
 It was tolerably light yet. Bessy often did what she was 
 about to do — namely, draw down the window-blinds ; it saved 
 Molly the trouble. The wide landing was less bare than it 
 used to be ; at the time of Dr. Bane's marriage he had 
 covered it with some green drugget, and put a chair and a 
 book-shelf there. It still looked too large, still presented a 
 contrast with the luxuriously furnished landing of Mrs. Cum- 
 berland's opposite, especially when the two wide windows 
 happened to be open ; but Bessy thought her own good enough. 
 Of the two back rooms, one had been furnished as a spare 
 bed-chamber ; the other had not much in it beside Bessy's 
 boxes that had come from the Hall. Bichard had spoken 
 kindly to her about this last chamber. " Should any contin- 
 gency arise ; sickness, or else ; that you should require its 
 use, Bessy," he said, "and Bane not find it quite convenient 
 to spare money for furniture, let me know, and I'll do it for 
 you." She had thanked him gratefully : but the contingency 
 had not come yet. 
 
 Into this back room first went Bessy, passed by her boxes, 
 closed the window, and drew the white blind down. From 
 thence into the chamber by its side — a pretty room with cbintz 
 curtains to the window and the Arabian bed. Dr. Bane was 
 
142 Bessy Rane. 
 
 very particular about having plenty of air in his house, and 
 would have every window open all day long. Next, Bessy 
 crossed the landing back again to her own chamber. She had 
 to pass through the drab rooni (as may be remembered) to get 
 to it. The drab room was just in the same state that it 
 used to be ; its floor bare, Dr. Rane's glass jars and other 
 articles sued in chemistry lying on one side it. Formerly 
 they were strewed about anywhere : under Bessy's neat rule 
 they were gathered together into a small space. Sometimes 
 Bessy thought she should like to make this her own sitting 
 and work-room : its window looked to the fields beyond 
 Dallory Ham. Often, when she first came to the house, sho 
 would softly say to her secret heart, " What a nice day- 
 nursery it would make ! " She had left off saying it now. 
 
 Taking some work from a drawer in her own room, which 
 was what she went up for — for she knew that Oliver would 
 tell her to leave off if she attempted to stitch the wristbands 
 by candle-light — she stood for a minute at the window and saw 
 some gentleman, whom she did not recognise, [turn out of Mr. 
 Seeley's, and go towards Dallory. 
 
 " A fresh patient," she thought to herself, with a sigh very 
 like envy. "He gets them all. I wish a few would come 
 to Oliver." 
 
 As she watched the stranger up the road, something in his 
 height and make put her in sudden mind of her dead brother, 
 Edmund. All her thoughts went back to the unhappy time 
 of his death, and to the letter that had led to it. 
 
 " It's very good of Oliver to comfort me, saying he coxild 
 not in any case have lived long — and I suppose it was so," 
 murmured Bessy; "but that does not make it any the less 
 shocking. He was killed. Cut off without warning by that 
 anonymous, wicked letter. And I don't believe the writer 
 will be ever traced now : even Richard seems to have cooled 
 in the pursuit, since he discovered it was not the man he 
 had suspected." 
 
 Close upon the return of Dr. and Mrs. Rane after their 
 maxriage, the tall, thin stranger who had been seen with 
 Timothy Wilks the night before the anonymous letter was 
 sent, and whom Richard North and others fully believed to 
 have been the writer, was discovered. It proved to be a 
 poor artist, travelling the country to take sketches — who was 
 sometimes rather too fond of being a boon companion with 
 whatever company he might happen to fall into. Hovering 
 
What Was, and What Might Be. 143 
 
 hero some days, hovering there, all in pursuit of Lis calling, he 
 at length made his head-quarters at Whitborough. Hearing 
 he was suspected, he came voluntarily forward, and con- 
 vinced Richard North that he at least had had nothing to 
 do with the letter. Richard's answer was that he fully be- 
 lieved him. And perhaps it was Richard North's manner 
 at this time, coupled with a remark he made to the effect that 
 "it might be better to allow all speculation on the point to 
 rest," that first gave Dr. Rane the idea of Richard's suspicion 
 of himself. Things had been left at rest since : and even 
 Bessy, as we see, thought her brother was growing cold. 
 
 Turning from thfc window with a sigh, given to the memory 
 of her dead brother, she passed through the ante-room to the 
 landing on her way downstairs. Mrs. Cumberland's landing 
 opposite gave forth a brilliant light as usual — for that lady 
 liked to burn plenty of lamps in her hall and staircases — and 
 Ann, the housemaid, was drawing down the window blind. 
 Mrs. Rane's window had never had a blind. 
 
 Molly Green was taking the supper-tray into the dining- 
 room when she got down. Bessy hovered about it, seeing 
 that things were as her husband liked them. She put his 
 slippers ready, she drew his arm-chair forward ; ever solicitous 
 for his comfort. To wait on him and make things pleasant 
 for him was the great happiness of her life. After that she 
 sat down and worked by lamp-light, awaiting his return. 
 
 While Dr. Rane, walking forth to see his patient and walk- 
 ing home again, was buried in an unpleasant reverie, like a 
 man in a dream. That one dreadful mistake lay always with 
 heavier weight upon him at the solitary evening hour. Now 
 and again he would almost fancy he should see Edmund North 
 looking: out at him from the road-side hedges or behind trees. 
 At any sacrifice he must get away from the place, and then 
 perhaps a chance of peace might come : at least from this 
 ever-haunting dread of discovery. He would willingly give 
 the half of his remaining life to undo that past dark night's 
 work. 
 
144 Bessy Rane. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 MRS. GASS AMID THE WORKMEN. 
 
 There was trouble amidst the Dallory workpeople. It had 
 been looming for some time before it came. No works 
 throughout the kingdom had been more successfully carried 
 on than the North Works. The men were well paid ; peace , 
 and satisfaction had always reigned between them and their 
 employers. But when some delegates, or emissaries, or what- 
 ever they may please to call themselves, arrived stealthily at 
 Dallory from the Trades' Unions, and took up their stealthy 
 abode in the place, and whispered their stealthy whispers 
 into the ears of the men, the peace was over. 
 
 It matters not to trace the working of these insidious 
 whispers, or how the poison spread. Others have done it 
 far more effectively and to the purpose than I could. Suffi- 
 cient to say that the Dallory workpeople caught the infection 
 prevailing amidst other bodies of men — which the public, to 
 its cost, has of late years known too much of — and they 
 joined the ranks of the disaffected. First there had been 
 doubt, and misgiving, and wavering ; then agitation ; then 
 dissatisfaction; then parleying with their master, Richard 
 North ; then demands to be paid more and do less work. 
 In vain Richard, with his strong good sense, argued and 
 reasoned : showing them, in all kindness, not in anger, how 
 mistaken was the course they were entering on, and what 
 must come of it. They listened to him with respect, for he 
 was liked and esteemed ; but they would not give in a jot. 
 It had been told privately to Richard that much argument 
 and holding-out had been carried on with the Trades' Union 
 emissaries, some of whom were ever hovering over Dallory 
 like birds of prey : the workmen wanting to insist on the 
 sound sense of Richard North's views of things, the others 
 speciously disproving. But it came to nothing. The work- 
 men yielded to their despotic lords and rulers just as sub- 
 missively as others have done, and Richard's words were set 
 at nought. They were like so many tame sheep following 
 blindly their leader. The agitation, beginning about the time 
 of Bessy North's marriage, continued for many months; it 
 then came to an issue ; and for several weeks now the works 
 had been shut up. 
 
Mrs. Gass amid the Workmen. 145 
 
 For the men had struck. North and Gass had valuable 
 contracts on hand, and they could not be completed. Unless 
 matters took a turn speedily, masters and men would alike 
 be ruined. The ruin of the first involved that of the last. 
 
 Mrs. Gass took things more equably than Richard North. 
 In one sense she had less cause to take them otherwise. Her 
 prosperity did not depend on the works. A large sum of hers 
 was certainly invested in them ; but a larger one was in other 
 securities safe and sure. If the works and their capital went 
 to nought, the only difference it would make to Mrs. Gass 
 was, that she would have so much the less money to leave 
 behind her when she died. In this sense therefore Mrs. Gass 
 could take things calmly : but in regard to the men's conduct 
 she was far more outspoken and severe than Richard. 
 
 Dallory presented a curious scene. In former days, during 
 work time not an idle man was to be met : the village street, 
 the various outlets, had looked almost deserted, save for the 
 playing children. Now the narrow thoroughfares were blocked 
 up with groups of men ; talking seriously, or chaffing with 
 each other, as might be ; most of them smoking and spitting, 
 and all looking utterly sick of the wearily-passing hours. 
 Work does not tire a man — or woman either — half as much 
 as idleness. 
 
 At first the holiday was agreeable from its novelty ; the 
 sis days were each a Sunday, as well as the seventh ; and 
 the men and women lived in clover. Not one family in twenty 
 had been sufficiently provident to put by money for a rainy 
 day, good though their wages had been ; but the trades' 
 unions took care of their new proteges, and supplied them 
 with funds. But as the weeks went on, and Richard North 
 gave no sign of relenting — that is, of acceding to his men's- 
 demands by taking them on again at their terms — the funds 
 did not come in so liberally. Husbands, not accustomed to 
 be stinted ; wives, not knowing how to make sixpence suffice 
 for a shilling, might be excused if they felt a little put out ; 
 and they began to take things to the pawnbroker's. Mr. 
 Ducket, the respectable functionary who presided over tho 
 interests of the three gilt balls at Dallory, rubbed his hands 
 complacently as he took the articles in. Being gifted with a 
 long sharp nose, his scent was keen, and he smelt the good 
 time coming. 
 
 One day, in passing the shop, Mrs. Gass saw three women 
 in it. She walked in herself ; and, with scant ceremony, 
 
146 Bessy Rane. 
 
 demanded what they were pledging. The women slunk away, 
 hiding their property Tinder their aprons, and leaving their 
 errand to be completed another time. That Mrs. Gass or 
 their master, Richard North, should see them at this work, 
 brought humiliation to their minds and shame to their cheeks. 
 Richard North and Mrs. Grass had both told them (to their 
 intense disbelief) that it would come to this : and to be 
 detected in the actual fact of pledging, seemed very like a 
 tacit defeat. 
 
 " So you've began, have you, Ducket ? " commenced Mrs. 
 Gass. 
 
 "Began what, ma'am ? " asked Ducket; a little, middle- 
 aged man with watery eyes and weak hair ; always deferent 
 in manner to the wealthy and fine Mrs. Gass. 
 
 "Began what! Why, the spouting. I told 'em all they'd 
 come to the pawn-shop." 
 
 "It's them that have begun the spouting, ma'am; not 
 me. 
 
 " Where do you suppose it will end, Ducket ? " 
 
 Ducket shook his head meekly, intimating that he couldn't 
 suppose. He was naturally meek in disposition, and the brow- 
 beating he habitually underwent in the course of business 
 from his customers of the fairer sex had tended to subdue his 
 spirit and make him mild as honey. 
 
 "It'll just end in their pawning every earthly thing their 
 home has got inside of 'em, leaving them to the four naked 
 walls," said Mrs. Gass. " And the next move '11 be into the 
 work'us." 
 
 In the presence of Mrs. Gass, Ducket did not choose to 
 show any sense of latent profit this wholesale pledging might 
 bring to him. On the contrary, he affected to see nothing 
 but gloom. 
 
 "A nice prospect for us rate-payers, ma'am, that 'ud be ! 
 Taxes be heavy enough, as it is, in Dallory parish, without 
 having all these workmen and their families throw'd on us 
 to eat us up." 
 
 " If the taxes was of my mind, Ducket, they'd let the men 
 starve, rather than help 'em. When strong, able-bodied 
 artizans have got plenty of work to do, and won't do it, it's 
 time for them to be taught a lesson. As sure as you be stand- 
 ing on that side your counter, and me on this, them misbeguided 
 men will come to want a mouldy crust." 
 
 " Well, I'd not wish 'em as bad as that," said Ducket, who, 
 
Mrs. Gass amid the Workmen. 147 
 
 apart from the hardness induced by his trade, was rather soft- 
 hearted. " Perhaps Mr. Richard North '11 give in." 
 
 " Mr. Richard North give in ! " echoed Mrs. Gass. " Don't 
 you upset your brains with perhapsing that, Ducket. Who 
 ought to give in — looking at the rights and wrongs of the 
 question — North and Gass, or the men ? Tell me that." 
 
 "Well, I think the men are wrong," acknowledged the 
 pawnbroker, smoothing down his coarse white linen apron. 
 "And foolish too." 
 
 Mrs. Gass nodded several times, a significant look on her 
 pleasant-natured face. She wore a top-knot of white feathers, 
 and they bowed majestically with the movement. 
 
 "Maybe they'll live to see it, too. They will, unless their 
 senses come back to 'em pretty quick. Look here, Ducket : 
 what I was about to say is this — don't be too free to take their 
 traps in." 
 
 Ducket's face assumed a rueful cast, but Mrs. Gass was 
 looking at him evidently waiting for an answer. 
 
 " I don't see my way clear for refusing of things when they 
 be brought to me, Mrs. Gass, ma'am. The women 'ud only go 
 off to Whitborough and pledge 'em there." 
 
 " Then'they should go — for me." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," rejoined the man, not knowing what else to 
 say. 
 
 " I'm not particular squeamish, Ducket ; trade's trade ; and 
 a pawnbroker must live as well as other people. I don't say 
 but what the money he lends does sometimes a world of good 
 to them that's got no other help to turn to — and, maybe, 
 through no fault of their own, poor things. But when it comes 
 to the dismantling of homes by the dozen and the score, and 
 the leaving of families as naked and destitute as ever they were 
 when they came into this blessed world, that's different. And 
 I'd not like to have it on my conscience, Ducket, though I was 
 ten pawnbrokers." 
 
 Mrs. Gass quitted the shop with the last words, leaving 
 Ducket to digest them. In passing North Inlet, she saw a 
 group of the disaffected collected together, and turned out of 
 her way to speak to them. Mrs. Gass was entirely at home, 
 so to say, with every one of the men at the works ; more so, 
 perhaps, than a lady of better birth and breeding could ever 
 have been. She found fault with them, and commented on 
 their failings as familiarly as though she had been one of them- 
 selves. Of the whole body of workpeople, not more than three 
 
1 48 Bessy Rane. 
 
 or four had consistently raised their voices against the strike. 
 These few would willingly have^ gone to work again, and 
 thought it a terrible hardship that they could not : but of 
 course the refusal of the many to return practically closed the 
 gates on all. Richard North could not keep his business going 
 with only half-a-dozen pairs of hands in it. 
 
 '• Well," began Mrs. Grass, "what's the time o' day with 
 you men ? " 
 
 The men parted at the address, and touched their caps. 
 The "time o' day" meant, as they knew, anything but the 
 literal question. 
 
 "How much longer do you intend to lead the lives of 
 gentlefolk P " 
 
 " It's what we was a talking on, ma'am — how much longer 
 Mr. Richard North '11 keep the gates closed again us," returned 
 one whose name was Webb, speaking boldly but respectfully. 
 
 "Don't you put the saddle on the wrong horse, Webb ; I 
 told you that, the other day. Mr. Richard North didn't close 
 the gates again you : you closed 'em again yourselves by 
 walking out. He'd open them to you to-morrow, and be glad 
 •to do it." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, but on the old terms," debated the man, 
 looking obstinately at Mrs. Gass. 
 
 " What have you to say again the old terms ? " demanded 
 that lady of the men collectively. " Haven't they kept you 
 and your families in comfort for years and years ? Where was 
 your grumblings then? — I heard of none." 
 
 " But things is changed," said Webb. 
 
 " Not a bit of it," retorted Mrs. Gass. " It's you men that 
 have changed; not the things. I'll put a question to you, 
 Webb — to all of you — and it won't do you no harm to answer 
 it. If these trade union men had never come among you with 
 their persuasions and their doctrines, should you, or should 
 you not, have been at your work now in content and peace ? 
 Come, Webb, be honest, and say." 
 
 " I suppose so," confessed Webb. 
 
 " You know so," corrected Mrs. Grass. " It is as Mr. 
 Richard said the other day to me — the men are led away by a 
 chimera, which means a false fancy, Webb ; a sham. There's 
 the place" — pointing in the direction of the works — "and 
 there's your work, waiting for you to do it. Mr. Richard will 
 give you. the same wages that he has always gave ; you say you 
 woii'J go to work unless he gives more : which he can't afford 
 
Mrs. Gass amid the Workmen. 149 
 
 to do. And there it rests ; you, and him, and the business, all 
 at a standstill." 
 
 " And likely to be at a standstill, ma'am," returned "Webb, 
 but always respectfully. 
 
 "Very well; let's take it at that," said Mrs. Grass, with 
 equanimity. " Let's take it that it lasts, this state of things. 
 What's to come of it ? " 
 
 Webb, an intelligent man and superior workman, looked out 
 straight before him thoughtfully, as if seeking a solution to the 
 question. Mrs. Grass, finding he did not answer, resumed : 
 
 "If the Trades' Unions can find you permanent in food 
 and drink, and clothes and firing, well and good. Let 'em do 
 it : there'd be no more to say. But if they can't ? " 
 
 " They undertake to keep us as long as the masters hold 
 out." 
 
 " And the money — where's it had from ? " 
 
 " Subscribed. All the working bodies throughout the 
 United Kingdom subscribe to support the Trades' Unions, 
 ma'am." 
 
 "I heard," said Mrs. Gass, "that you were not getting 
 quite as liberal a keep from the Trades' Unions as they gave, 
 you to begin upon." 
 
 "That's true," interrupted one named Foster, who very 
 much resented the shortening of supplies. 
 
 Mrs. Gass gave a toss to her lace parasol. " I heard, too — ■ 
 I've seen, for the matter of that — that your wives had begun 
 to spout their spare crockery," said she. " What'll you do 
 when the allowance gets less and less till it comes to nothing 
 and all your things is at the pawnshop ? " 
 
 One or two of them laughed slightly. Not at her figures 
 of speech — the homely language was their owu — but at the 
 improbability of the picture she called up. It was a state of 
 affairs not possible to arise, they answered, while they had 
 the Trades' Unions at their backs. 
 
 "Isn't it," said Mrs. Gass. "Them that live longest '11 
 see most. There's strikes agate all over the country. You 
 know that, my men." 
 
 Of course the men knew it. But for the nearly universal 
 example set by others, they might never have struck them- 
 selves. 
 
 "Very good," said Mrs. Gass. "Now look you here. 
 You can see out before you just as well as I can, you men ; 
 you've got your senses as sharp as I've got mine. When the 
 
150 Bessy Rane. 
 
 whole country, pretty nigh, gets on the strike, where are the 
 subscriptions to come from for the Trades' Unions ? Don't 
 it stand to common reason that there'll be nobody to pay 'em ? 
 Who'll keep you then ? " 
 
 It was the very thing wanted — that all the country should 
 be on strike; for then the masters must give in, was the 
 reply given. And then the men stood their ground and 
 looked at her. 
 
 Mrs. Gass shook her head ; the feathers waved. She sup- 
 posed it must be as Richard North had said — that the men in 
 their prejudice really could not foresee what might be looming 
 in the future. 
 
 " It seems no good my talking," she resumed ; " I've said 
 it before. If you don't come to repent, my name's not Mary 
 Gass. I'm far from wishing it ; goodness knows that ; and I 
 shall be heart-sick sorry for your wives and children when 
 the misery comes upon 'cm. Not for youj because you are 
 bringing it on deliberate." 
 
 " Ma'am, we don't doubt your good wishes for us and our 
 families generally," spoke Webb. " But, if you'll please 
 excuse my saying of it, you stand in the shoes of a master, 
 and naturally look on with the masters' sight. Your interests 
 lie that way, ours this, and they be dead opposed to each 
 other." 
 
 " Well, now, I'll just say something," cried Mrs. Gass. 
 "As far as my own interest goes, I don't care a jot whether 
 the works go on again, or whether they stand still for ever. 
 I've got as much money as will last me my time ; if every 
 pound that's locked up in the works is lost, it'll make no sort 
 of difference to me, or my home, or my comforts — and you 
 ought to know this of yourselves. I shall have as much to 
 leave behind me, too, as I care to leave. But, if you come to 
 talk of interests, I tell you whose I do think of, more than I 
 do of mine — and that's yours and Mr. Richard North's. I 
 am as easy on the matter, on my own score, as a body can be; 
 but I'm not on yours or his." 
 
 It Avas spoken with single-minded earnestness. In fact 
 Mrs. Gass was incapable of attempting deceit or sophistry — 
 and the men knew it. But they thought that, in spite of her 
 honesty, she could but be prejudiced for the opposition cause ; 
 and consequently her words held no more weight with them 
 than the idle wind. 
 
 "Well, I'm off," said Mrs. Gass. "I hope with all my 
 
Mrs. G ass amid the Workmen. 15 r 
 
 heart that your senses will come to you. And I say it for 
 your sakes." 
 
 " They've not left us — that we knows on," grumbled a man 
 in a suppressed and half -insolent tone, as if he were dissatis- 
 fied with things in general. 
 
 "I hear you, Jack Allen. If you men think you know 
 your own business best, you must follow it," concluded Mrs. 
 Gass. -"The old saying runs, A wilful man must have his 
 way. One thing I'd like you to understand : that when your 
 wives and children shall be left without a potater to their 
 mouths or a rag to their backs, you needn't come winning to 
 me to help 'em. Don't you forget to bear that in mind, my 
 men." 
 
 Waiting for her at her own home, Mrs. Gass found Richard 
 North. That this was a very anxious time for him, might be 
 detected by the ever-thoughtful look his face wore habitually. 
 It was all very well for Mrs. Gass, so amply provided for, to 
 take the reigning troubles easily ; Richard was less philoso- 
 phical. And with cause. His own ruin — and the final closing 
 of the works would be nothing less — might be got over. He 
 had his profession, his early manhood, his energies ; his 
 capability and character alike stood high : he could have no 
 fear of making a living for himself, even though it had to be 
 done in the service of some more fortunate firm, and not in 
 his own. But there was his father. If the works came to a 
 permanent close, the income Mr. North enjoyed from them 
 could no longer be paid. All Mr. North's resources, whether 
 hitherto derived from them or from Richard's generosity, 
 would vanish like the mists of a summer's morning. 
 
 "What's it you, Mr. Richard ? " cried Mrs. Gass when she 
 entered, and saw him standing near the window of her 
 dining-room. " I'd not have stopped out if I'd known you 
 were here. Some of them men have been hearing a bit of 
 my mind," she added, sitting down behind- the plants and 
 Untying her bonnet-strings. " It's come to pawning of the 
 women's best gowns now." 
 
 " Has it ? " replied Richard North, rather abstractedly, as 
 if he were buried in thought. " Of course it must come to 
 that, sooner or later." 
 
 " Sooner or later it 'ud come to the pawning of their skins 
 — an' they were able to strip 'em off," spoke Mrs. Gass. " If 
 this state of things is to last, they'll have nothing else left to 
 of 'em to strip." 
 
152 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Richard wheeled round, took a chair in front of Mrs. Gass, 
 and sat down in it. He had come to make a proposition to 
 her ; one he did not quite cordially approve of himself ; and 
 from that cause his manner was perhaps a trifle less ready 
 than usual. Richard North had received from Mrs. Gass, at 
 the time of her late husband's death, full power to act on his 
 own responsibility, just as he had held it from Mr. Gass ; but 
 in all weighty matters he had made a point of consulting 
 them : Mr. Gass while he lived, Mrs. Gass since. 
 
 " It is a question that I have been asking myself a little too 
 often for my peace — how long this state of things will last, 
 and what will be its end," said Richard in answer to her 
 last words, his low tone almost painfully earnest. " The 
 longer it goes on, the worse it will be ; for the men and 
 for us." 
 
 "That's precisely what I tell 'em," acquiesced Mrs. Gass, 
 tilting back her bonnet and fanning her face with her hand- 
 kerchief. "But I might just as well speak to so many 
 postesses." 
 
 " Yes ; talking will not avail. I have talked to them ; 
 and find it to be only waste of words. If they listen to my 
 arguments and feel inclined to be impressed with them, the 
 influences of the Trades' Union undo it all again. I think 
 we must try something else." 
 
 " And what's that, Mr. Richard ? " 
 
 " Give way a little." 
 
 " Give way! " repeated Mrs. Gass, pushing her chair some 
 inches back in her surprise. " What ! give 'em what they 
 want ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. That is what we could not do. I said 
 give way a little." 
 
 "Mr. Richard, I never would." 
 
 "What I thought of proposing is this: To divide the 
 additional wages they are standing out for. That is, offer 
 them half. If they would not return to work on those terms, 
 on that concession, I should have no hope of them." 
 
 "And my opinion is, they'd not. Mr. Richard, sir, it's 
 them Trade Union people that upholds 'em in their obstinacy. 
 They'll make 'em hold out, them misleading Unionists, for the 
 whole demands or none. What do the leaders of the Union 
 care ? It don't touch their pockets, or their comforts. So 
 long as their own nests be feathered, the working man's may 
 f;et as bare as boards. Don't you fancy the rulers '11 let our 
 
Mrs. Gass amid the Workmen. 153 
 
 men give way half. It's only by keeping up agitation that 
 agitators live." 
 
 " I should like to put it to the test. I have come here to 
 ask you to agree to my doing it." 
 
 "And what about the shortening of the time that they 
 want ? " questioned Mrs. Gass. 
 
 " I should not give way there. It is not practicable. They 
 must return on the usual time : but of the additional wages 
 demanded I would offer half. Will you assent to this ? " 
 
 " It will be with an uncommon bad grace," was Mrs. Gass's 
 answer. 
 
 " I see nothing else that can be done," said Richard North. 
 "If only as a matter of conscience I should wish to propose 
 it. When it ends in a comprehensive ruin — which seems 
 only too certain, for we cannot shut our eyes to what is being 
 enacted all over the country in almost all trades — and the 
 women and children come to lie under our very eyes here, 
 famished and naked, I shall have the consolation of knowing 
 that it is the men's own fault, not mine. Perhaps they will 
 accept this offer. I hope so, though it will leave us but little 
 profit. If we can only make both ends meet, just to keep us 
 going during these unsettled times, we must be satisfied. I 
 am sure I shall be doing right, Mrs. Gass, to make this pro- 
 posal." 
 
 "Mr. Richard, sir, you know that I've trusted to your 
 judgment always, and shall trust it to the end : anything you 
 thought well to do, I should never dissuade from. ' You shall 
 make this offer if you please : but I know you'll be opening 
 for the men a loophole. Give 'em an inch, and they'll want 
 to take an ell." 
 
 " If they come back it will be a great thing," argued 
 Richard. " The sight of the works standing still ; the know- 
 ledge that all else involved is standing still, almost para- 
 lyses me." 
 
 " Don't you go and take it to heart at the beginning now," 
 affectionately advised Mrs. Gass. " There's not much damage 
 done yet." 
 
 Richard bent forward, a painful earnestness on his face. 
 " It is of my father that I think. What will become of him 
 if all our means are stopped ? " 
 
 "I'll take care of him till better times come round," said 
 Mrs. Gass, heartily. "And of you, too, Mr. Richard ; if you 
 won't be too proud to let me, sir." 
 
154 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Richard laughed ; a slight, genial laugh ; partly in amuse- 
 ment, partly in gratitude. "I hope the better times will 
 come at once," he said, preparing to leave. "At least, suffi- 
 ciently good ones to allow of business going on as usual. If 
 the men refuse this offer of mine, they are made of more un- 
 grateful stuff than I should give them credit for." 
 
 " They will refuse it," said Mrs. Gass, emphatically. "As 
 is my belief. Not them, Mr. Richard, sir, but the Trades' 
 Unions for 'em. Once get under the thumb of that despotic 
 body, and a workman daredn't say his soul is his own." 
 
 And Mrs. Grass's opinion proved to be the correct one. 
 Richard North called his men together, and laid the con- 
 cession before them ; pressing them to accept it in their 
 mutual interests. The men requested a day for consideration, 
 and then gave their answer : rejection. Unless the whole of 
 their demands were complied with, they unequivocally refused 
 to return to work. 
 
 " It will be worse for them than for me in the long run," 
 said Richard North. 
 
 And many a thoughtful mind believed that he spoke in a 
 spirit of prophecy. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 MORNING VISITORS. 
 
 In the dining-parlour at Mrs. Cumberland's, with its large 
 window open to the garden and the sweet flowers, stood Ellen 
 Adair. It was the favourite morning-room. Mrs. Cumber- 
 land, up in good time to-day, for it was barely eleven o'clock, 
 had stepped forth into. the garden, and had disappeared amid 
 its remoter parts. 
 
 Ellen Adair, wearing a dress of cool pink muslin, almost as 
 thin as gauze, stood in a reverie. A pleasant one, to judge 
 by the soft blush on her face and the sweet smile that parted 
 her lips. She was twirling the plain gold ring round and 
 round her finger, thinking no doubt of the hour when it was 
 put on, and the words spoken with it. Bessy Rane had 
 wholly refused to give back the ring she was married with, 
 and Ellen retained the other. 
 
 The intimacy with Arthur Bohun, the silent love-making, 
 had been going on always. Even now, she was listening lest 
 haply his footsteps might be heard ; listening with hushed 
 
Morning Visitors. 155 
 
 breath and. beating heart. Never a day passed but he con- 
 trived to call, on some plea or other, at Mrs. Cumberland's, 
 morning, afternoon, or evening : and this morning he might 
 be coming,, for aught she knew. At the close of the past 
 summer, Mrs. Cumberland had gone to the Isle of Wight for 
 change of air, taking Ellen and her maid Jelly. She hired a 
 secluded cottage in the neighbourhood of Niton. Singular to 
 say, Captain Bohun remembered that he had friends at Niton 
 — an old invalid brother officer, who was living there in great 
 economy. On and off, on and off, during the whole time of 
 Mrs. Cumberland's stay — and that lasted five months, for she 
 had gone the beginning of September, and did not come home 
 until the end of February — was Arthur Bohun paying visits 
 to this old friend. Now for a day or two ; now for a week or 
 two ; once for three weeks together. And still Mrs. Cumber- 
 land suspected nothing ! It was as if her eyes were held. 
 Perhaps they were : there is a destiny in all things, and it 
 must be worked out. It is true that she did not see or 
 suspect half the intimacy. A gentle walk once a day by 
 the sea was all she took. At other times Ellen rambled at 
 will ; sometimes attended by Jelly, alone when Jelly could not 
 be spared. Captain Bohun took every care of her, guarding 
 her more jealously than he would have guarded a sister : and 
 this did a little surprise Mrs. Cumberland. 
 
 "We ought to feel obliged to Captain Bohun, Ellen," she 
 said on one occasion. "It's not many a young man would 
 sacrifice his time to us. Tour father, and his, and my hus- 
 band the chaplain, were warm friends for a little time in 
 India : it must be the knowledge of that that induces him to 
 be so attentive. Very civil of him ! " 
 
 Ellen coloured vividly. Eminently truthful, of a nature 
 antagonistic to deceit, she yet did not dare to say that per- 
 haps that was not Captain Bohun's reason for being attentive. 
 How could she hint at Captain Bohun's love, plain though it 
 was to her own heart, when he had never spoken a syllable 
 to her about it ? It was not impossible. So things went on 
 in the same routine : he and she wandei'ing together on the 
 sea-shore : both of them living in a dream of Elysium. In 
 February, when they returned home, the scene was changed, 
 but not the companionship. It was an early spring that year, 
 warm and genial. Many and many an hour were they to- 
 gether in that seductive garden of Mrs. Cumberland's, with 
 its miniature rocks, its mossy grass soft as velvet ; the birds 
 
156 Bessy Rane. 
 
 would be singing and their own hearts dancing. But Mrs. 
 Cumberland's eyes were not to be always closed. 
 
 It was scarcely to be expected that so good-looking a girl 
 as Ellen Adair should remain long without a deckired suitor. 
 Especially when there was a rumour that she would have a 
 fortune — though how the latter arose, or whence its grounds, 
 people would have been puzzled to tell. A gentleman of good 
 position in the vicinity ; no other than Mr. Graves, son of one 
 of the county members ; took to make rather pointed visits 
 at Mrs. Cumberland's. That his object was Ellen Adair, and 
 that he would most likely be asking her to become his wife, 
 Mrs. Cumberland saw. She wrote to Mr. Adair in Australia, 
 telling him she thought Ellen was about to receive an offer of 
 marriage, eligible in every way. The young man was of high 
 character, good family, and large means, she said : should 
 she, if the proposal came, accept it for Ellen. By a singular 
 omission, which perhaps Mrs. Cumberland was not conscious 
 of, she did not mention Mr. Graves's name. But the proposal 
 came sooner than Mrs. Cumberland had bargained for : barely 
 was this letter despatched — about which in her characteristic 
 reticence, she said not a word to anybody — when Mr. Graves 
 spoke to Ellen and was refused. It was this that opened Mrs. 
 Cumberland's eyes to the nature of the friendship between 
 Ellen and Captain Bohun. She then wrote a second letter to 
 Mr. Adair, saying Ellen had refused Mr. Graves in conse- 
 quence, as she strongly suspected, of an attachment to Arthur 
 Bohun — the son of Major Bohun, whom Mr. Adair once knew 
 so well. That Arthur Bohun would be wishing to make Ellen 
 his wife, there could be, Mrs. Cumberland thought from 
 observation, no doubt : might he be accepted ? In a worldly 
 point of view, Captain Bohun was not so desirable as Mr. 
 Graves, she added — unless indeed he should succeed to his 
 uncle's baronetcy, which was not very improbable, the present 
 heir being sickly — but he would have enough to live upon as 
 a gentleman, and he was liked by every one. This second 
 letter was also- despatched to Australia by the mail following 
 the one that took the first. Having thus done her duty, 
 Mrs. Cumberland sat down to wait placidly for Mr. Adair's 
 answer, tacitly allowing the intimacy to continue, inasmuch 
 as she did not stop the visits of Arthur Bohun. Neither he 
 nor Ellen suspected what she had done. 
 
 And with the summer weather there had come in another 
 suitor to Ellen Adair. At least another was displaying signs 
 
Morning Visitors. 157 
 
 that he -would like to become one. It was Mr. Seeley, the 
 doctor who had replaced Mr. Alexander. Soon after Mrs. 
 Cumberland's return from Niton in February, she had been 
 for a week or two alarmingly ill, and Mr. Seeley was called 
 in as well as her son. He had continued to be on terms of 
 friendship at her house ; and it became rather palpable that 
 he very much admired Miss Adair. 
 
 Things were in this state on this summer's morning, and 
 Ellen Adair stood near the window twirling round and round 
 the plain gold ring on her finger. Presently she came out of 
 her reverie, unlocked a small letter-case, and began to write 
 in her diary. 
 
 " Tuesday. — Mrs. Cumberland talks of going away again. 
 She seems to me to get thinner and weaker. Arthur says the 
 same. He " 
 
 A knock at the front door, and Mr. Seeley was shown in. 
 He paid a professional visit to Mrs. Cumberland at least every 
 other morning. Not as a professional man, he told her ; but 
 as a friend, that he might see how she went on. 
 
 Miss Adair shook hands with him, her clasp and her man- 
 ner alike cold. He saw it not ; and his fingers parted linger- 
 ingly from hers. 
 
 "Mrs. Cumberland is in the garden, if you will go to her, 
 Mr. Seeley," said Ellen, affecting to be quite occupied with 
 her letter-case. " I think she wants to see you ; she is not at 
 all well. Tou will find her in the grotto, or somewhere about." 
 
 To this semi-command Mr. Seeley answered nothing, except 
 that he was in no hurry, and would look after Mrs Cumber- 
 land by-and-by. He was a dark man of about two-and- 
 thirty, with a plain, honest face ; straightforward in disposi- 
 tion and manner, timid only when with Ellen Adair. He took 
 a step or two nearer Ellen, and began to address her in a low 
 tone, pulling one of his gloves about nervously. 
 
 " I have been wishing for an opportunity of speaking to you, 
 Miss Adair. There is a question that I — that I — should like 
 to put. One I have very much at heart." 
 
 It was coming. In spite of Ellen Adair's studious cold- 
 ness to him, by which she had meant him to take a lesson and 
 learn that he must not speak, she saw that it was coming. In 
 the pause he made, as if he would wait for her permission to 
 go on, she felt miserably uncomfortable. Her nature was 
 essentially generous and sensitive ; to have to refuse Mr. 
 Seeley, or any one else, made her feel as humiliated as though 
 
158 Bessy Rane. 
 
 she had committed a crime. And she could have esteemed 
 the man apart from this. 
 
 They were thus standing : Mr. Seeley looking awkward and 
 nervous, tearing at his glove as no sane man would do; Ellen 
 turning red and white and hot and cold : when Arthur Bohun 
 walked in. Mr. Seeley ; effectually interrupted for the time, 
 muttered a good morning to Captain Bohun and shot into the 
 garden. 
 
 " What was Seeley saying, Ellen ? " 
 
 " Nothing," she rather faintly answered. 
 
 " Nothing ! " 
 
 Ellen glanced up at him. His face wore the haughty Bohun 
 look ; his mouth betrayed scorn enough for ten of the proud 
 Bohuns put together. She did not answer. 
 
 "If he were saying 'nothing,' why should you be looking 
 as you did V — with a great blush on your face, and your eyes 
 cast down ? " 
 
 " He had really said as good as nothing, Arthur. "What he 
 might have been going to say, I — I don't know. It was only 
 that minute he had come in." 
 
 " As you please," coldly returned Arthur, walking into the 
 garden in his turn. " If you do not think me worthy of your 
 confidence, I have no more to say. 
 
 The Bohun blood was bubbling up in a fierce turmoil. Not 
 in doubt of Ellen ; not in resentment against her — at least 
 only so in the moment's passion : but in angry indignation 
 that Seeley, a common village practitioner, should dare to 
 lift his profane eyes to Ellen Adair. Captain Bohun had sus- 
 pected the man's hopes for some short time ; there's an instinct 
 in these things ; and felt outrageous over it. Tom Graves's 
 venture had filled him with resentment ; but he at least was a 
 gentleman of position. 
 
 Ellen, wonderfully disturbed, gently sat down to write 
 again ; all she did was gentle. And the diary got some sen- 
 tences added to it. 
 
 " That senseless William Seeley ! And after showing him 
 as plainly as I could show, that it is useless — that I should 
 consider it an impertinence in him to attempt to speak to me. 
 I don't know whether it was for the worst or the best that 
 Arthur should have come in just at that moment. For the 
 best because it stopped Mr. Seeley's nonsense ; for the worst 
 because Arthur has now seen and is vexed. The vexation 
 will not last, for he knows better. Here they are." 
 
Morning Visitors. 159 
 
 Once more Ellen closed her diary. The " Here they are," 
 applied to the doctor and Mrs. Cumberland. They were 
 walking slowly towards the window, conversing calmly on her 
 ailments, and came in. Mrs. Cumberland sat down with her 
 newspaper. As Mr. Seeley took his departure to visit other 
 patients, Arthur Bohun returned. Close upon that, Richard 
 North was shown in. It seemed that Mrs. Cumberland was 
 to be rich in visitors that morning. 
 
 That Richard North should find his time hang somewhat 
 on hand, was only natural ; he, the hitherto actively-employed 
 man, who had often wished the day's hours to be doubled, for 
 the business he had to do in it. Richard could afford to 
 make morning calls on his friends now, and he had come 
 strolling to Mrs. Cumberland's. 
 
 They sat down. Arthur in the remotest chair he could find 
 from Ellen Adair : she had taken up a bit of light work, and 
 her fairy fingers were plying its threads deftly. Richard sat 
 near Ellen, facing Mrs. Cumberland. He could not help think- 
 ing how lovely Ellen Adair was : the fact had never struck 
 him more forcibly than to-day. 
 
 " How is the strike getting on, Richard ? " 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland laid down her newspaper to ask the 
 question. No other theme bore so much present interest in 
 Dallory. From the time that North and Gass first established 
 the works, things had gone on with one continuous smooth- 
 ness, peace and plenty reigning on all sides. No wonder this 
 startling innovation seemed like a revolution. 
 
 "It is going on," replied Richard. "How the men are 
 getting on, I don't like to think. The wrong way, of course." 
 
 "Your proposition, to meet them half-way, was rejected, I 
 hear." 
 
 " It was." 
 
 " What do they expect to come to ? " 
 
 " To fortune, I should fancy," returned Richard. " To 
 abjure work and not expect a fortune, must be rather a mis- 
 take. - A poor look-out at the best." 
 
 "But, according to the newspapers, Richard, one half of 
 the working classes that the country contains are out on" 
 strike. Do you believe it ? " 
 
 " A vast number are out. And more are going out daily." 
 
 "And what is to become of them all ?" 
 
 " I cannot tell. The question, serious though it is, appears 
 never to occur to the men or their rulers." 
 
iCq Bessy Rane. 
 
 " The journals say — living so much alone as I do, I have 
 time to read many, and I make it my chief recreation — 
 that the work is leaving the country," pursued Mrs. Cum- 
 berland. 
 
 " And so it is. It cannot be otherwise. Take a case of 
 my own as an example. A contract was offered me some days 
 ago, and I could not take it. Literally could not, Mrs. Cum- 
 berland. My men are out on strike, and likely to be out ; I 
 had no means of performing it, and therefore could only reject 
 it. That contract, as I happen to know, has been taken by a 
 firm in Belgium. They have undertaken it at a cheaper rate 
 than I could possibly have done at the best of times : for 
 labour there is cheaper. It is true. The work that circum- 
 stances compelled me to refuse, is gone over there to be 
 executed, and I and my men are playing in idleness." 
 
 " But what will be the end of it ? " asked Mrs. Cumberland. 
 
 " The end of it ? If you speak of the country, neither you 
 nor I can foresee." 
 
 " I spoke of the men. Not your men in pai'ticular, Mr. 
 Richard North, but all those that we include under the name 
 of British workmen : the vast bodies of artizans scattered in 
 the various localities of the kingdom. What is to become of 
 these men if the work fails ? " 
 
 " I see but one of three courses for them," said Richard, 
 lifting his hand in some agitation, for he spoke from the depth 
 of his heart, believing the subject to be of more awful gravity 
 than any that had stirred the community for some hundreds 
 of years. " They must eventually emigrate — provided that 
 the means to do so can be found ; or they must become 
 burdens upon the public charity ; or they must lie down in 
 the streets and starve. As I live, I can foresee no better fate 
 for them." 
 
 " And what of the country, if it comes to this ? — if the work 
 and the workmen leave it ? " 
 
 Richard North shrugged his shoulders. It was altogether 
 a question too difficult for him. He would have liked to get it 
 answered from somebody else very much indeed: justas others 
 would. 
 
 " Lively conversation ! " interposed Captain Bohun, in a 
 half-satirical, half-joking manner, as he rose. It was the first 
 time he had spoken. " I think I must be going," he added, 
 approaching Mrs. Cumberland. 
 
 Richard made it the signal for his own departure. As they 
 
Morning Visitors. 161 
 
 stood, saying adieu, Bessy Rane was seen for a moment at her 
 own window. Mrs. Cumberland nodded. 
 
 " There's Bessy," exclaimed Richard. " I think I'll go and 
 speak to her. Will you pardon me, Mrs. Cumberland, if I 
 make my exit from your house this way ? " 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland stepped outside herself, and Richard 
 crossed the low wire fence that divided the two gardens. 
 Arthur Bohun went to the door, never having said a word of 
 farewell to Ellen Adair. He stood with it in his hand looking 
 at her, smiled, and was returning, when Mrs. Cumberland 
 came in again. 
 
 " Won't you come and say adieu to me here, Ellen ? " 
 
 The invitation was given in so low a tone that she gathered 
 it by the form of his lips rather than by the ear ; perhaps by 
 instinct also. She went out, and they walked side by side in 
 silence to the open hall door. Dallory Ham, in its primitive 
 ways and manners, left its bouse-doors open with perfect safety 
 by day to admit the summer air. Outside, between the house 
 and the gate, was a strip of a bed planted with flowers. 
 Arrived at the door, Captain Bohun could find nothing better 
 to talk of than these, as he stood with her on the crimson mat. 
 
 " I think those lilies are finer than Mr. North's." 
 
 " Mrs. Cumberland takes so much pains with her flowers,'* 
 was Ellen's answer. " And she is very fond of lilies." 
 
 They stepped out, bending over these self -same lilies. Ellen 
 picked one. He quietly took it from her. 
 
 " Forgive me, Ellen," he murmured. " I am not a bear in 
 general. Good-bye." 
 
 As they stood, her hand in his for the parting greeting, her 
 flushed face downcast, shrinking in maiden modesty from the 
 gaze of love that was bent upon her, Mrs. North's open car- 
 riage rolled past. The head of Madam was suddenly pushed 
 as far towards them as safety permitted : her eyes glared : a 
 stony horror sat on her countenance. 
 
 " Shameful ! Disgraceful ! " hissed Madam. And Miss 
 Matilda North, by her side, started up to see wbat the shame 
 might be. 
 
 Arthur Bohun had caught the words and the hiss — not 
 Ellen — and bit his lips in a complication of feeling. 
 
 But all he did was to raise his hat — first to his mother, tben 
 to Elien — as he went out at the gate. Madam flung herself 
 back on her seat, and tke carriage pursued its course up the 
 Ham. 
 
 M 
 
1 62 Bessy Rane, 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THKEE LETTERS FOE DR. BANE. 
 
 " You are keeping quality hours, Bessy — as our nurse used to 
 say when we were children," was Richard North's salutation 
 to his sister as he went in and saw the table laid for break- 
 fast. 
 
 Mrs. Rane laughed. She was busy at work, sewing some 
 outtons on a white waistcoat of her husband's. 
 
 " Oliver was called out at seven this morning, and has not 
 come back yet," she explained. 
 
 "And you are waiting breakfast for him ! You must be 
 starving." 
 
 " I took a piece of bread-and-butter and some coffee when 
 Molly had hers. How is papa, Richard ? " 
 
 " Anything but well. Very much worried, for one thing." 
 
 " Madam and Matilda are back, I hear ?" continued Bessy. 
 
 " Three days ago. They have brought Miss Field with 
 them." 
 
 "And Madam has brought her usual temper, I suppose," 
 added Bessy. " JSTo wonder papa is suffering." 
 
 " That of course ; it will never be otherwise. But he is 
 troubling himself also very much about the works being 
 stopped. I tell him to leave all such trouble to me. but it is 
 of no use." 
 
 " When will the strike end, Richard ? " 
 
 Richard shook his head. It was an unprofitable theme, 
 and he did not wish to pursue it with Bessy. She had 
 enough cares of her own, as he suspected, without their being 
 added to. Three letters lay on the table, close by where 
 Richard was sitting ; they were addressed to Dr. Rane. His 
 fingers began turning them about mechanically, quite in 
 abstraction." 
 
 "I know the handwriting of two of them," remarked 
 Bessy, possibly fancying he was curious on the point; "not 
 of the third." 
 
 " The one is from America," observed Richard, looking at 
 the letters for the first time. 
 
 " Yes ; it's from Dr. Jones. He would like Oliver to join 
 3xim in America." 
 
 " To join him for what ? " asked Richard. 
 
Three Letters for Dr, Rane. 163 
 
 Bessy looked at him. She saw no reason why her brother 
 should not be told. Dr. Rane wished it kept secret from the 
 world ; but this, she thought, could not apply to her good and 
 trustworthy brother Richard. She opened her heart and 
 told him all ; not what they were going certainly to do, for 
 ways and means lay in doubt yet, but what they hoped to be 
 able to do. Richard, excessively surprised, listened in silence. 
 
 They made up their minds to quit Dallory. Dr. Rane had 
 taken a dislike to the place ; and no wonder, Bessy added in 
 a parenthesis, when he was not getting on at all. He in- 
 tended to leave it as soon as ever the practice was disposed of. 
 
 "I expect this letter will decide it," concluded Bessy, 
 touching one that bore the London post-mark. " It is from a 
 Mr. Lynch, who is wishing to get a practice in the country on 
 account of his health. London smoke does not do for him, 
 he tells Oliver. They have had a good deal of correspondence 
 together, and I know his handwriting quite well. Oliver said 
 he expected to get his decision to-day or to-morrow. He is 
 to pay £200 and take to the furniture at a valuation." 
 
 "And then — do I understand you aright, Bessy? — you 
 and Rane are going to America ?" questioned Richard. 
 
 "Oh, no," said Bessy with emphasis. "I must have 
 explained badly, Richard. What I said was, that Dr. Jones, 
 who has more practice in America than he knows what to do 
 with, had offered a share of it to Oliver if he would go and 
 join him. Oliver declined it. He would have liked to go, for 
 he thinks it must be an exceedingly good thing; but Dr. 
 Jones wants a large premium : so it's out of the question." 
 
 " But surely you would not have liked to emigrate, Bessy ? " 
 
 She glanced into Richard's face with her meek, loving eyes, 
 blushing a very little. 
 
 " I would go anywhere that he goes," she answered simply. 
 " It would cost me pain to leave you and papa, Richard ; 
 especially papa, because he is old, and because he would feel 
 it ; but Oliver is my husband." 
 
 Richard drummed for a minute or two on the table-cloth. 
 Bessy sewed on her last button. 
 
 " Then where does Rane think of pitching his tent, Bessy?" 
 
 " Somewhere in London. He says there is no place like it 
 for getting on. Should this letter be to say that Mr. Lynch 
 takes the practice, we shall be away in less than a month." 
 
 " And you have never told us ! " 
 
 " We decided to say nothing until it was a settled thing 
 
164 Bessy Rane. 
 
 and then only to yon, and Mrs. Cnmberland, and papa. 
 Oliver does not want the world to know it sooner than 
 need be." 
 
 " Bnt do yon mean to say that Rane has not told hia 
 mother ? " responded Richard to this in some surprise. 
 
 " Not yet," said Bessy, shaking ont the completed waist- 
 coat. "It will be sure to vex her, and perhaps needlessly; 
 for, suppose, after all, we do not go ? That entirely depends 
 upon the disposal of the practice here." 
 
 Bessy was picking up the threads in her neat way, and 
 putting the remaining buttons in the little closed box, when 
 Dr. Rane was heard to enter and go into his consulting room. 
 Away flew Bessy to the kitchen, bringing in the things 
 with her own loving hands — and, for the matter of that, 
 Molly Green was at her up-stairs work — buttered toast, 
 broiled ham, a dainty dish of stewed mushrooms. There was 
 nothing she liked so much as to wait on her husband. Her 
 step was light and soft, her eye bright. Richard, looking on, 
 saw how much she cared for him. 
 
 Dr. Rane came in, wiping his brow : the day was hot, and 
 he tired. He had walked from a farm-house a mile beyond 
 the Ham. A strangely-weary look sat on his face. 
 
 "Don't trouble, Bessy; I have had my breakfast. Ah, 
 Richard, how d'ye do ? " 
 
 "You have had your breakfast ! " repeated Bessy. "At 
 the farm ? " 
 
 " Yes ; they gave me some." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! won't you eat a bit of the ham, or of the mush- 
 rooms, Oliver ? They are so good: And I waited." 
 
 " I am sorry you should wait. No, I can't eat two break- 
 fasts. You must eat for me and yourself, Bessy." 
 
 Dr. Rane sat down in his own chair at the table, turning 
 it towards Richard, and took up the letters. Selecting the 
 one from Mr. Lynch, he was about to open it when Bessy, 
 who was now beginning her breakfast, spoke. 
 
 " Oliver, I have told Richard about it — what we think of 
 doing ? " 
 
 Dr. Rane's glance went out for a moment to his brother-in- 
 law's, and met it. He made the best of the situation, smiled 
 gaily, and put down the letter unopened. 
 
 " Are you surprised, Richard ? " he asked. 
 
 "Very much, indeed. Had a stranger told me I was going 
 to leave Dallory myself — and, indeed, that may well come to 
 
Three Letters for Dr. Rane. 165 
 
 be, with this strike in the air — I'd as soon have believed it. 
 Shall yon be doing well to go, do yon think, Rane ? " 
 
 " Am I doing well here ? " was the doctor's rejoinder. 
 
 "Not very, I fear." 
 
 " And, with this strike on, it gets all the worse. The 
 wives and children get ill, as nsnal, and I am called in ; but 
 the men have no money wherewith to pay me. I don't 
 intend to bring Bessy to a crnst, and I think it wonld come 
 to that if we stayed here " 
 
 " No, no ; not quite to that, Oliver," she interposed. But 
 he took no notice. 
 
 "Therefore I shall try my fortune elsewhere," continued 
 Dr. Rane. "And if yon would return thanks to the quarter 
 whence the blow has originally come, yon must pay them to 
 your stepmother, Richard. It is she who has driven me 
 away." 
 
 Richard was silent. Dr. Rane broke the seal of Mr. 
 Lynch's letter, and read it to the end. Then, laying it down, 
 he took up the one from America, and read that. Bessy, 
 looking across, tried to gather some information from his 
 countenance ; but Dr. Rane's face was one which, in an ordi- 
 nary way, it was no easier to read than a stone. 
 
 " Is it favourable news, Oliver ? " she asked, as he finished 
 the long letter, and folded it. 
 
 " It's nothing particular. Jones runs on upon politics. He 
 generally gives me a good dose of them." 
 
 " Oh, I meant from Mr. Lynch," replied Bessy. " Is he 
 coming ? " 
 
 " Mr. Lynch declines." 
 
 " Declines, Oliver ! " 
 
 " Declines the negotiation. And he is not much better 
 than a sneak for giving me all the trouble that he has, and 
 then crying off at the eleventh hour," added Dr. Rane. 
 
 " It is bad behaviour," said Bessy, warmly. " What excuse 
 does he make ? " 
 
 " You can see what he says," said Dr. Rane, pushing the 
 letter towards her. Bessy opened it, and read it aloud for 
 the benefit of Richard. 
 
 Mr. Lynch took up all one side with apologies. The sub- 
 stance of the letter was, that a practice had unexpectedly 
 been offered to him at the sea-side, which he had accepted, as 
 the air and locality would sii.it his state of health so much 
 better than Dallory. If he could be of service in negotiating 
 
1 66 Bessy Rane. 
 
 with any one else, he added, Dr. Kane was to make nse of 
 him. 
 
 It was as courteous and explanatory a letter as could be 
 written. But still it was a refusal : and the negotiation was 
 at an end. Bessy Rane drew a deep breath : whether of 
 relief or disappointment it might have puzzled herself to 
 decide. Perhaps there lay in it a mixture of both. 
 
 " Then, after all, Oliver, we shall not be leaving ! " 
 
 "Not at present, it seems," was Dr. Bane's answer. And 
 he put the two letters into his pocket. 
 
 " Perhaps you will be thinking again, Oliver, of America, 
 now ? " said his wife. 
 
 " Oh no I shall not." 
 
 " Does Dr. Jones still urge you to come ? " 
 
 " Not particularly. He took my refusal for final." 
 
 She went on, slowly eating some of the mushrooms. 
 Richard said nothing : this projected removal seemed to have 
 impressed him to silence. Dr. Bane took up the remaining 
 letter and turned it about, looking at the outside. 
 
 " Do you know the writing, Oliver ? " his wife asked. 
 
 " Ncl at all. The post-mark's Whi thorough." 
 
 Opening the letter, which appeared to contain only a few 
 lines, Dr. Bane looked up with an exclamation. 
 
 " How strange ! How very strange ! Bessy, you and I 
 are the only two left in the tontine." 
 
 "What ! " she cried, scarcely understanding him. Bichard 
 North turned his head. 
 
 " That tontine that we were both put in when infants. 
 There was only one Life left in it besides ours — old Massey's 
 £On, of Whitborough. He is dead." 
 
 " What ! — George Massey ? Dead ! " cried Bichard North. 
 
 Dr.Bane handed him the note. Tes : it was even so. The 
 other life had dropped, and Oliver Bane's and his wife's alone 
 remained. 
 
 " My father has called that an unlucky tontine," remarked 
 Richard. "I have heard it said \hafc if you want a child to 
 live, you should put it in a tontine, for the tontine lives are 
 sure to arrive at a green old age, to the mutual general morti- 
 fication. This has been an exception to the rule. I am sorry 
 about George Massey. I wonder what he has died of ? " 
 
 " Last long, in general, do you say ? " returned Dr. 
 Rane, musingly. " I don't know much about tontines my- 
 self. 
 
Three Letters for Dr. Rane. 167 
 
 11 Neither do I," said Richard. "I remember hearing talk 
 of one tontine when I was a boy : five or six individuals were 
 left in it, all over eighty then, and in flourishing health. 
 Perhaps that was why my father and Mr. Gass took up with 
 one. At any rate, it seems that you and Bessy are the only 
 two remaining in this." 
 
 " I wonder if a similar condition of things ever existed 
 before as for a man and his wife to be the two last in a 
 tontine ? " cried Dr. Rane, slightly laughing. "Bessy, prac- 
 tically it can be of no use to us conjointly; for before the 
 money can be paid, one of us must die. What senseless 
 things tontines are ! " 
 
 " Senseless indeed," answered Bessy. "I'd say something 
 to it if we could have the money now. How much is it ? " 
 
 "Ay, by the way, how much is it ? What was it that each 
 member put in at first, Richard ? I forget. — Fifty pounds, 
 was it ? And then there's the compound interest, which 
 has been going on for thirty years. How much would it 
 amount to now ? " 
 
 " More than two thousand pounds," answered Richard 
 North, making a mental calculation. 
 
 Dr. Rane's face flushed with a quick hot flush : a light 
 shone in his eye : his lips parted, as with some deep emotions. 
 " More than two thousand pounds ! " he echoed under his 
 breath. " Two thousand pounds ! Bessy, it would be like a 
 gold mine." 
 
 She laughed slightly. " But we can't get it, you see, 
 Oliver. And I am sure neither of us wishes the other dead." 
 
 " No — no ; certainly not," said Dr. Rane. 
 
 Richard North said, " Good day," and left. Just before 
 turning in at the gates of Dallory Hall, he met a gig contain- 
 ing Lawyer Dale of Whit borough, who was driving somewhere 
 with his clerk ; no other than Timothy Wilks. Mr. Dale 
 pulled up, to speak. 
 
 " Can it be true that George Massey is dead ? " questioned 
 Richard as they were parting. 
 
 "I#s true enough, poor fellow. He died yesterday: been 
 ill but two days." 
 
 " I've just heard it at Dr. Rane's. He got a letter this 
 morning to tell him." 
 
 " Dr. Rane did ? I was not aware they knew each other." 
 
 " No more did they. But they were both in that tontine. 
 Now that George Massey 's gone, Dr. Rane and his wife are 
 
1 68 Bessy Rane. 
 
 the only two remaining in it. Rather singular that it should 
 be so." 
 
 For a minute Mr. Dale could not recollect whether he had 
 ever heard of this particular tontine ; although, being a 
 lawyer, he made it his business to know everything ; and he 
 and Richard talked of it together. Excessively singular. 
 Lawyer Dale agreed, that a tontine should be practically use- 
 less to a man and his wife — unless one of them died. 
 
 "Very mortifying, I must say, Mr. Richard North; es- 
 pecially where the money would be welcome. Two thousand 
 pounds ! Dr. Rane must wish the senseless thing at Hanover. 
 I should, I know, if it were my case. Good morning." 
 
 And quiet Timothy Wilks, across whom they talked, heard 
 all that was said, and unconsciously treasured it up in his 
 memory. 
 
 Richard carried home the news to his father. Mr. North 
 was seated at the table in his parlour, some papers before him. 
 He lifted his hands in dismay. 
 
 "Dead! George Massey dead! Dick, as sure as we are 
 here, there must be something wrong about that tontine ! 
 They'd never drop off like this, else ; one after another." 
 
 " It's not much more than a week ago, sir, that I met 
 George Massey in Whitborough, and was talking with him. 
 To all appearance he was as healthy and likely to live as I am." 
 
 " What took him off ? " 
 
 " Dale says it was nothing more than a neglected cold." " 
 
 " I don't like it ; Dick, I don't like it," reiterated Mr. North. 
 " Bessy may be the next to go ; or Rane." 
 
 " I hope not, father." 
 
 " Well — I've had it in my head for ever so long that that 
 tontine is an unlucky one ; I think it is going to be so to the 
 end. We shall see. Look here, Dick." 
 
 He pointed to some of the papers before him ; used cbequea 
 apparently ; pushing them towards his son. 
 
 " They sent me word at the bank that my account was over- 
 drawn. I knew it could not be, and asked for my cheques. 
 Dick, here are four or five that I never drew." 
 
 Richard took them in his fingers. The filling up was in 
 Madam's handwriting : the signature apparently in Mr. North's. 
 
 " Do you give Mrs. North blank cheques ready signed, sir ? " 
 
 " No, never, Dick. I was cured of that, years ago. When 
 she wants money, I sometimes let her fill in the cheque, but I 
 never sign it beforehand." 
 
Madam's Advice. 169- 
 
 " And you think yon have not signed these ? " 
 
 " Think ! I know I have not. She has imitated my signa- 
 ture, and got the money." 
 
 Richard's face grew dark with shame ; shame for his step- 
 mother. But that Mr. North was her husband, it would have 
 been downright forgery: perhaps the law, if called upon, might 
 have accounted it such now. He took time for consideration. 
 
 " Father, I think — pardon me for the suggestion — I think 
 you had better let your private account be passed over to me. 
 Allow it to lie in my name ; and make my signature alone 
 available — just as it is with our business account. I see no 
 other way of safety." 
 
 " With all my heart ; I'd be glad to do it," acquiesced Mr. 
 North, "but there's no account to pass. There's no account 
 to pass, Dick ; it's overdrawn." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 madam's advice. 
 
 A dinner-party at Dallory Hall. Arthur Bohun was in his 
 chamber, lazily dressing for it. Not a large dinner, this : half 
 a dozen or so, besides themselves ; and the hour six o'clock. 
 Two gentlemen, bidden to it, would have to go away by train 
 afterwards : on such occasions the dinner of necessity must be 
 tolerably early. 
 
 Mr. North and Richard did not approve of Madam's dinners 
 at the most favourable times : now, with all the care of the 
 strike upon them and the great trouble looming in the distance 
 if that strike lasted, the breaking up of their business, the 
 decay of their means, they looked on these fast-recurring 
 banquets as most reprehensible. They were without power to 
 stop them ; remonstrance availed not with Madam. Some- 
 times the dinners were impromptu, or nearly so, Madam 
 inviting afternoon callers at the Hall to stay, or bringing home 
 a carriage-full of guests with her. As was partially the case 
 on this day. 
 
 Captain Arthur Bohun, who liked to take most things easily, 
 dressing included, stood hair-brush in hand. He had drawn 
 aside from the glass, and was looking from the open window. 
 His thoughts were busy. They ran on that little episode of 
 the morning, when Madam, passing in her carriage, had seen, 
 him with Ellen Adair, and had chosen to make display of her 
 
170 Bessy Rane. 
 
 sentiments on the subject in the manner described. That it 
 would not end there, Arthur felt sure ; Madam would inevitably 
 treat Viim to a little more of her mind. It was rather a singular 
 thing — as if Fate had been intervening with its usual cross 
 purposes — for circumstances so to have ordered it that Madam 
 should still be in ignorance of their intimacy. Nearly always 
 when Mrs. Cumberland was at home, it chanced that Madam 
 was away ; and, when Madam was at the Hall, Mrs. Cumber- 
 land was elsewhere. Thus, during Mrs. Cumberland's pro- 
 longed stay at Niton, Madam's presence blessed her household ; 
 the very week that that lady returned to Dallory Ham, 
 Madam took her departure, and had but recently returned. 
 She bad spent the interval in Germany. Sidney North, her 
 well-beloved son, giving trouble as usual to all who were con- 
 nected with him, had found England -rather warm in early 
 spring, and had betaken himself to Germany. His chief point 
 of sojourn was Homburg, and Madam, with her daughter 
 Matilda, had been making it hers since the spring. Mr. North, 
 in the glad relief her absence brought him, had used every 
 exertion to supply her with the money she so rapaciously sent 
 home for. It would appear that the accommodation had not 
 been sufficient, for — as was soon to be discovered by Richard 
 — the cheques shown to him by his father had been drawn by 
 her at Homburg. And so, as Fate or Fortune had willed it, 
 Mrs. North had been Out of the way of watching the progress 
 of the intimacy between her son and Ellen Adair. 
 
 A quick knock at the chamber-door, and Madam swept in,, 
 waiting for no response, a large crimson rose, just brought 
 from the greenhouse, adorning her jet-black hair, her white 
 silk gown rustling and trailing after her. As well as though 
 she had already spoken, Arthur knew what she had come for. 
 He thought to himself that she was losing no time and must 
 have hurried over her toilette purposely. The carriage had 
 not long got home, for she and Matilda had been driving to a 
 distance, and remained out to luncheon. Arthur, not moving 
 from where he was, began brushing at his hair hap-hazard. 
 
 " I suppose I am late, Madam ? " 
 
 "Was it you that I passed this afternoon in Dallory Ham, 
 talking to some girl at a house-door ? " began Madam, taking 
 no notice of his remark. 
 
 "It was me, safe enough; I had been calling on Mrs. 
 Cumberland," replied Arthur, carelessly. " Dick also. By 
 the way you stared, Madam, I fancied you scarcely knew me.'* 
 
Madam's Advice. 171 
 
 A little bit of banter. Madam might take it seriously, or 
 not, as she chose. She went round to the' other side of the 
 dressing-table, and stood opposite him at the window. 
 
 " What girl were you talking with ? " 
 
 11 Girl ! I was with Miss Adair." 
 
 " Who is she, Arthur ? " 
 
 " She is Mrs. Cumberland's ward." 
 
 " What do you know of her ? " 
 
 "I know her as being at Mrs. Cumberland's. I see her 
 when I go there." 
 
 Was he really indifferent ? Standing there brushing away 
 at his hair lazily, now the right way, now the wrong, speak- 
 ing in the most supine manner, his apparently supreme indif- 
 ference could not be exceeded. Madam scanned his face in 
 momentary silence ; he was closely intent upon two sparrows, 
 fighting over a reddening cherry on the branch of the proxi- 
 mate tree. 
 
 "Fight away, young gentlemen; battle it out; you'll get 
 all the better appetite for your supper." 
 
 " Will you attend to me for a short while, Captain Bohun ? " 
 spoke Madam, irritably. 
 
 "Certainly; I am attending," was the Captain's ready 
 answer. 
 
 Just for an instant Madam paused. This was not one of 
 the daily petty grievances that she made people miserable 
 over, but a trouble to her of awful meaning, almost as of life 
 or death. In this, her own grave interests, she could con- 
 trol her temper, and she thought it might be the best policy 
 to do so while she dealt with it. 
 
 " Arthur, you know that you are becoming more valuable 
 to me," she said, with soft calmness; and Arthur Bohun 
 opened his surprised ears at the words and tone. " Since 
 Sidney took up his abode away from England, and cannot 
 come back to it, poor fellow, for the present you are all I 
 have here. If I speak, it is for your welfare." 
 
 "Very good of you, I'm sure," returned Arthur, seeing 
 she waited for him to say something, and feeling how two- 
 faced the words were, mother of his though she was. " What 
 is it you wish to say ? " 
 
 " It's about that girl, Miss — what do you call her ? — Adah*. 
 Young men will be young men ; soldiers especially ; I know 
 that ; but wrong is wrong, and it cannot by the most inge- 
 nious sophistry be converted into right. It is quite wrong to 
 
172 Bessy Rane. 
 
 play with these village girls, as yon seem to be doing with 
 Miss Adair." 
 
 Arthur threw back his head as though his pride were hurt. 
 Madam had seen just the same movement in his father. 
 
 " I have no intention of playing with Miss Adair." 
 
 A gleam shot from her eyes — half fear, half defiance. She 
 bit her lip, and went on in a still softer tone. 
 
 " You cannot mean anything worse, Arthur." 
 
 " I do not understand you, Madam. Worse ? Worse than 
 what?" 
 
 " Anything serious. To play with village girls is repre- 
 hensible ; but " 
 
 " I beg your pardon, mother ; this is quite unnecessary. 
 The playing with village girls — whatever that may mean — 
 is not a habit of mine, and never has been. The caution 
 might be more appropriate if applied to your men-servants 
 than it is to me." 
 
 "Allow me to finish, Arthur. To play with village girls is 
 reprehensible ; but to intend anything serious with one would 
 be far more so in your case. Will you profit by the caution ? " 
 
 " If you wish me to comprehend the word 'serious,' you 
 must speak out. What does it mean ? " 
 
 "It means marriage," she answered, with a burst of 
 temper — so far as tone might convey it. "I allude to this 
 absurd intimacy of yours with Miss Adair. You must be 
 intimate with the girl ; your look and attitude, as I passed 
 to-day, proved it." 
 
 " And if I did mean marriage, what then ? " 
 
 He asked the question jokingly, laughing a little ; but he 
 was not prepared for the effect it had on his mother. Her 
 eyes flashed fire, her lips trembled, her face turned whiter 
 than death. 
 
 "Marriage ! With her ? You must be dreaming, Arthur 
 Bohun." 
 
 " Not dreaming ; joking," he said, lightly. " You may be 
 at ease, Madam ; I have no intention of marrying any one at 
 present." 
 
 " You must never marry Miss Adair." 
 
 " No ? " 
 
 "Arthur Bohun, you are treating all his with mock- 
 ery," she exclaimed, beginning in truth to believe that he 
 really was ; and the relief was great, though the tacit dis- 
 respect angered her. "How dare you imply that you could 
 
Madam* s Advice. 1 73 
 
 think seriously of these village girls ? — only to annoy and 
 frighten me." 
 
 "Yon must he easily frightened to-day, Madam. I don't 
 think I did imply it. As to Miss Adair " 
 
 "Yes, as to Miss Adair," fiercely interrupted Madam. 
 " Go on." 
 
 "I was ahout to say that, in speaking of Miss Adair, we 
 might as well recognise her true position. It is not quite 
 respectful to he alluding to her as a ' village girl.' She is 
 a lady, born and bred." 
 
 "Perhaps you will nest say that she is equal to the 
 Bohuns?" 
 
 " I do not wish to say it. Don't you think this conversa- 
 tion may as well cease, Madam ? " added Arthur, after a 
 short pause. " Why should it have been raised ? One might 
 suppose I had asked your consent to my marriage, whereas 
 you know perfectly well that I am a poor man, with not the 
 slightest chance of taking a wife." 
 
 "Poor men get engaged sometimes, Arthur, thinking they'll 
 wait — and wait. Seeing you with that girl — the world calls 
 her good-looking, I believe — I grew into an awful fright for 
 your sake. It would be most disastrous for you to marry 
 beneath your rank — a Bohun never holds up his head after- 
 wards if he does that ; and I thought I ought to speak a word 
 of warning to you. You must take a suitable wife when you 
 do many — one fit to mate with the future Sir Arthur Bohun." 
 
 " To mate with plain Arthur Bohun. To call me the future 
 Sir Arthur is stretching possibility out very wide indeed, 
 Madam," he added, laughing. 
 
 " Not at all. You will as surely succeed as that I am tell- 
 ing it you. Look at that puny James Bohun ! A few years 
 at most, will see the last of him." 
 
 " I hope not, for his father's sake. Any way, he may live- 
 long enough to marry and leave children behind him. Is vout 
 lecture at an end, Madam ?" he jestingly concluded. " If so, 
 perhaps you may as well leave me to get my coat on, or I shall 
 have to keep the dinner waiting." 
 
 " I have another word," saidMadam ; "your coat can keep. 
 Miss Dallory dines here." 
 
 "Miss Dallory ! I thought she was in Switzerland. Did she 
 come over in a balloon to dine with us ?" 
 
 " She is staying with her brother Frank. I and Matilda 
 called at Ham Court just now and brought her with us." 
 
T74 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Did you bring him ?" 
 
 " I did not see him ; they said he was not in the way. But 
 now why do I mention this ? " 
 
 " As a bit of gossip for me, I suppose. It's very good of 
 you. My coat and the dinner can certainly wait." 
 
 "I have brought Miss Dallory here for your sake, Arthur 
 Bohun," was the rejoinder, spoken with emphatic meaning. 
 " She is the young lady you will do well to think of as your 
 future wife." 
 
 Madam went out of the room with much stately rustle, and 
 swept down stairs. Another minute, and the door opened 
 again to admit Richard North. Captain Bohun had not pro- 
 gressed further in dressing, or stirred from his place, but was 
 leaning against the window-frame in abstraction, whistling 
 softly. 
 
 " Madam's in a way, is she not ?" began Richard in a low 
 tone. " My window was open, Arthur, and I was obliged to 
 catch a word here and there. I made all kinds of noises, but 
 you did not take the hint." 
 
 " She didn't ; and I would as soon you heard as not," was 
 Captain Bohun's answer. " You are ready, I see, Dick." 
 
 " The course of true love never did run smooth, you know," 
 said Richard, laughing. 
 
 " And never will. Whenever I read of the old patriarchal 
 days, in which a man had only to fix on a wife and bring her 
 home to his tent ; and look on all that has to be considered in 
 these — money, and suitability of family, and settlements — I 
 wonder whether it can be the same world. Madam need not 
 fear that I have any chance of marrying." 
 
 " Or you'd not be long a bachelor ? " 
 
 " I don't know about that." 
 
 " You don't know ! Why you do know, and so do L I've 
 seen how it is for some weeks now, Arthur." 
 
 "Seen what?" 
 
 Richard smiled. 
 
 "Seen what?" 
 
 " How it is between you and Ellen Adair." 
 
 " You think you have ? " 
 
 " Think ! You love her, don't you ? " 
 
 Arthur Bohun put down the hair-brush gently, which, he 
 had held all the while, and moved to get his coat. 
 
 " Dick, old fellow, whether it will come to anything between 
 us or not I cannot tell/ he said, his voice strangely deep, bis 
 
Madai?i's Advice. 175 
 
 brow flushing with emotion, "but I shall never care for any 
 •one else as I care for her." 
 
 " Then secure her," answered Dick. 
 
 " I might be tempted to do it, in spite of my mother, had I 
 the wherewithal to set up a home ; but I've not." 
 
 "You have more than double what Bane and Bessy have." 
 
 " Bane and Bessy ! But Bessy is one in a thousand. I 
 couldn't ask a wife to come home to me on that." 
 
 " Just as you think fit, of course. Take care, though, you 
 don't get her snapped up. I should fear it if it were my case. 
 Ellen Adair is the loveliest girl I ever saw, and I think her 
 the sweetest. I could but look at her as we sat in Mrs. 
 Cumberland's room this morning. Other men will be finding 
 it out, Arthur, if they have not already done so." 
 
 Arthur never answered. He had gone back to his former 
 post, and was leaning against the window-frame, looking out 
 dreamily. 
 
 "Madam objects, I presume ?" 
 
 " I presume she would if I put it to her," assented Arthur, 
 as if the proposition admitted of no dispute. 
 
 " I don't see why she should, or you, either." 
 
 " I'm afraid, Dick, weBohuns have our full share of family 
 pride." 
 
 " But Mr. Adair is, no doubt, a gentleman?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. That is, not in trade," added Arthur carelessly. 
 
 " Well, a gentleman is a gentleman," said Bichard. 
 
 " Of course. But I take it for granted that he holds no 
 position in the world. And we Bohuns, you know " 
 
 Arthur stopped. Bichard North laughed. " You Bohuns 
 •would like to mate only with position. A daughter, for 
 example, of the Lord Lieutenant of the county." 
 
 "Exactly," assented Arthur, echoing the laugh, but very 
 much in earnest for all that. " Madam has been recommend- 
 ing Miss Dalloryto my notice." 
 
 " Who ? " cried Bichard, rather sharply. 
 
 "MaryDallory." 
 
 " You might do worse," observed Bichard, after a pause. ' 
 
 " No doubt of that, friend. She is down stairs." 
 
 " Who is down stairs ?" 
 
 " She. So Madam has just informed me." 
 
 " There's the gong." 
 
 "And be hanged to it ! " returned Arthur, getting into his 
 <JOat. " I wish to goodness Madam did not give us the trouble 
 
176 Bessy Ram. 
 
 of putting on dinner dress every other day ! Neither are 
 entertainments seemly in your house during these troubled 
 times." 
 
 "What's more, I don't see how they will get paid for, if the 
 trouble continues," candidly spoke Richard. " Madam must 
 be uncommonly sanguine to expect they can be." 
 
 " Or careless," returned Arthur Bohun in a low tone. 
 "Dick, my friend, it's a bad sign when a man has no good 
 word to give his mother." 
 
 That every grain of filial affection had long gone out of his 
 breast and been replaced by a feeling near akin to shame and 
 contempt, Arthur Bohun was only too conscious of. He strove 
 to be dutiful ! but it was at times a hard task. Living under 
 the same roof as his mother, her sins against good manners and 
 good feeling were brought under his notice perpetually ; he 
 was more sensitively alive to them than even others could be. 
 
 Since Arthur Bohun had quitted the army and recovered 
 from the long sickness that followed on his wound, Dallory 
 Hall had been his ostensible home. Latterly he had made it 
 really such ; for Dallory Ham, contained an attraction from 
 which he could not tear himself. Ellen Adair had his heart's 
 best love : and, far from her he could not wander. A pure, 
 ardent love, honourable as every true passion must be in an 
 honourable man, but swaying his every action with its power. 
 Sir Nash Bohun invited him in vain. His aunt, Miss Bohun, 
 with whom he was a great favourite, could not think why he 
 went so rarely to see her; or, when he did go, made his visit 
 a flying one. Arthur Bohun possessed a few hundreds a 
 year : about four : just enough to keep him as a gentleman ; 
 and he had none of the bad habits that run away with young 
 men's money. Miss Bohun would leave him fairly off when 
 she died : so lie was at ease on the score of the future. 
 One day, after he had been at Dallory Hall for a few 
 months, he put a hundred-pound bank-note into Richard 
 North's hands. 
 
 " What is this for ?" questioned Richard. 
 
 Arthur told him. The embarrassments in the Hall's finan- 
 cial department (caused by Madam) were lightly touched on : 
 this was Arthur's contribution towards his own share of the 
 cost. In the surprise of the moment Richard North's spirit 
 rose, and fought at it. Arthur quietly persisted. 
 
 "As long as I pitch myself among you in the home tent 
 here, I shall hand over this sum every sis months. To you 
 
Mary D cillery. 177 
 
 Dick : there's nobody else to be trusted with it. If I gave it 
 to Bessy, she would be safe to speak of it, and it might be 
 wiled out of her." 
 
 " I never heard of such nonsense in my life," cried Richard. 
 " You will not get me to take it. I'd not countenance any- 
 thing of the kind." 
 
 "Yes you will, Dick. You'd not like me to take up my 
 abode at the ' Dallory Arms.' I declare on my honour I 
 shall do so, if I am forced to be as a guest at the Hall." 
 
 " But, Arthur " 
 
 " Dick, my friend, there's no need of argument. I mean 
 what I say. Don't drive me away. The ' Dallory Arms ' 
 would not be very comfortable as a home ; and I should drift 
 away, goodness knows where." 
 
 " As if one inmate, more or less, made any difference in 
 our home expenses." 
 
 "As if it did not. I have no right or claim whatever to 
 be living on your father. Don't make me small in my own 
 eyes, frere Richard. You know that you'd feel the same in 
 my place, and do the same. No one need know of this but 
 our two selves, Dick." 
 
 Richard gave in : he saw that Arthur was resolute : and 
 after all, it was just. So he took the bank-note to account, 
 and told his father ; and Arthur Bohun stayed on, his con- 
 science at peace. Once, in one of Madam's furious onslaughts 
 of temper, when she spared nobody, she had abused her son 
 for staying at the Hall, and living upon her. Upon her ! 
 Arthur parried the attack with a careless kind of good 
 humour, merely saying he was Dick's guest. When Dick 
 turned him out of the Hall he should go. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 MART DALLOEY. 
 
 The assembled guests waited in the drawing-room. Madam, 
 with a face of gracious suavity, was bestowing her smiles on 
 all, after her manner in society, her white silk dress gleaming 
 in its richness. A slight frown crossed her brow, however, at 
 the tardy entrance of her son and Richard North. 
 
 " We have waited for you," she rather sharply said. 
 *' Dinner has been announced." 
 
 Richard found his father did not intend to be present, and 
 
 S 
 
178 Bessy Rane. 
 
 that he must act as host, which was nothing new. Glancing 
 round the rooni, he was advancing to Miss Dallory — there 
 was no married lady present save Madam — when Madam's 
 voice rang out cold and clear. 
 
 " Take Eliza Field, Richard North. Arthur, you will con- 
 duct Miss Dallory." 
 
 Now that was all wrong according to the rules of etiquette. 
 Miss Dallory, the great heiress, whose family was of some 
 note in the county, should have fallen to Richard : Eliza 
 Field, a middle-aged lady, had only been Matilda North's 
 governess. But Madam had a way of enforcing her own 
 mandates : or, rather, of letting people know they might not 
 "be disputed. There was a moment's awkwardness : Richard 
 and Arthur both stood with arrested footsteps ; and then 
 each advanced to the appointed lady. But Miss Dallory 
 nearly upset it all : she turned away from Captain Bohun to 
 Richard, her hand outstretched. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Richard North ? " 
 
 He clasped it for a moment in his. Madam, who had a 
 shrewd way of making guesses, and of seeing things that 
 nobody else saw, had picked up a notion long ago, that had 
 Richard North's fortunes been in the ascendant, he might 
 have forgotten the wide gulf lying between him and Mary 
 Dallory — she patrician-born, he plebeian — and asked her to 
 step over it. 
 
 "I did not know you had returned, Miss Dallory, until a 
 few minutes ago," said Richard. 
 
 " No ! I have been home two days." 
 
 They separated. Madam was sweeping on to the dining- 
 room on the arm of a Colonel Carter, whose acquaintance she 
 had made at Homburg, and the rest had to follow. Richard 
 brought up the rear with Eliza Field. 
 
 Miss Dallory, a rather tall and graceful girl of two-and- 
 twenty, sat between Arthur Bohun and Richard North. She 
 was not particularly handsome, but very pleasing. A fair- 
 coniplexioned face with plenty of good sense in it, grey eyes 
 set rather deep in the head, and soft, dark -brown hair. Her 
 manners were remarkably open and ready : her^speech can- 
 didly independent. It was this perhaps — the pleasantness of 
 the speech and manners — that made her a favourite with 
 everybody. 
 
 The Dallory family were very wealthy. There were three 
 of them : Miss Dallory and her two brothers, John and 
 
Mary Dallory. 179 
 
 Frank, both older than herself. They had been left orphans 
 at an early age : their father's will having bequeathed his 
 property nearly equally among the three ; the portion of it 
 entailed on his elder son lay in another county. To the sur- 
 prise of many people it was found that he had left Dallory 
 Hall to his daughter ; so that, in point of fact, this Miss 
 Dallory, sitting at Mr. North's dinner-table, was the owner of 
 the house. It had been the residence of the Dallory family 
 during Mr. Dallory's lifetime : after his death, the trustees 
 let it on lease to Mr. North. Which lease was purchased : so 
 that Mr. North had no rent to pay for it. The lease, how- 
 ever, had now all but terminated. Madam hoped to be able 
 to get it renewed : perhaps that might be one of the reasons 
 why she was now setting out to pay court to Mary Dallory. 
 That young lady came into her property when she was one- 
 and-twenty ; and all power lay in her own hands. Nearly 
 two years ago Miss Dallory had gone on the Continent with 
 her aunt, Mrs. Leasom. Illness had prolonged Mrs. Leasom's 
 stay there, and they had but just returned. Mrs. Leasom 
 remained at her home in London ; Miss Dallory came down 
 at once to her younger brother's house — an exceedingly 
 pretty place just beyond the Ham. And that's enough of 
 explanation. 
 
 The dinner progressed. Miss Dallory talked chiefly with 
 Richard : next to whom she sat ; Arthur Bohun, on the other 
 side, was rather silent and glum. She was telling of her 
 travels : and jestingly complaining of finding what she called 
 a grand dinner, when she had thought Mrs. North was only 
 bringing her to dine en famille — as her dress proved. 
 Which was nothing but a coloured muslin. 
 
 " Don't laugh at me, Mr. Richard North. If jov. had been 
 living in a remote village of Switzerland for months, dining 
 off bouilli and a thin chicken in your aunt's chamber, you 
 would think this grand yourself." 
 
 " I did not laugh," answered Richard. " It is a vast deal 
 grander than I like." 
 
 " Do you get it every day ? " 
 
 " Nearly." 
 
 "Where's Mr. North ? "she asked, slightly dropping her voice. 
 
 Richard shook his head. " The grandeur has tired him, 
 • Miss Dallory. He dines nearly always in his parlour : I join 
 him as often as I can." 
 
 " I hear he is breaking," she continued, her deep grey eyes 
 
l8o Bessy Rane. 
 
 looking straight at Richard, pity and concern in their depths. 
 "Frank says so." 
 
 " He is breaking sadly. The prolonged strain is too much 
 for him." 
 
 Madam glanced down the table, and spoke in a tart tone. 
 
 " Are you attending to Miss Field, Richard ? " 
 
 Miss Field was on his left hand : Miss Dallory on his right. 
 
 "Yes, Madam. She heard," added he to Miss Dallory, 
 jcarcely moving his lips. 
 
 " And it was high treason, I suppose," rejoined that young 
 lady, confidentially. " There have been changes in your home, 
 Mr. Richard, since I was last here. Mr. North's first children 
 were all in it, then." 
 
 " And now two of them have gone out of it. Bessy to 
 another home : Edmund to — his last one." 
 
 "Ah, I heard all. How sad it must have been for you 
 and Mr. North ! John and Frank wrote me word that they 
 followed him to the grave." 
 
 "Very sad for him as well as us,"' assented Richard. 
 "But he is better off." 
 
 "Who sent that wicked letter ? " 
 
 Richard North dropped his glance on his plate as he 
 answered, apparently intent on what was there. Miss 
 Dallory's keen eyes had been on his : and she used to read a 
 great deal that lay within them. 
 
 "There has been no discovery at all." 
 
 " It was thought to be Mr. Tim Wilks, I believe." 
 
 " It was certainly not he," said Richard, rather hastily. 
 
 "No ! He had at least something to do with the mischief, 
 if he did not write the letter." 
 
 "Yes. But without intending evil. The next to leave the 
 home here may be myself," he added. 
 
 "You/" 
 
 " Of course you have heard that our works are at a stand- 
 still ? The men have struck." 
 
 " That's old news : I heard it in Switzerland." 
 
 " If we are not able to re-open them — and I begin to think 
 we shall not be — I must go out in the world and seek employ- 
 ment elsewhera" 
 
 " Nonsense, Richard North ! " 
 
 " If you reflect for a moment, you will see that it is all sober 
 earnest, Miss Dallory. When a man does not possess the 
 means of living, he must work to earn one." 
 
Mary Dallory. 181 
 
 She said no more thert. And when she spoke again the 
 subject was changed. 
 
 " Is Bessy's marriage a happy one ? " 
 
 " Very — as it seems to me. The worst is, Rane gets on as 
 badly as ever in his profession." 
 
 " But why does he ?" 
 
 " I know not. Except that Madam nndonbtedly works — 
 always works — to keep him back." 
 
 " What a shame ! He shall come and attend me. I'll get 
 up some headaches on purpose." 
 
 Richard laughed. 
 
 "We have had changes also, since you and I met," 
 resumed Miss Dallory. " But not sad ones. I have become 
 my own mistress in the world ; am independent of everybody. 
 And Frank has taken up his abode at Ham Court, for a per- 
 manency." 
 
 " I hope you intend to make a good use of your inde- 
 pendence," said Richard with gravity. 
 
 " Don't I. And I shall freindependent ; you may rely on that." 
 
 " We heard it rumoured some time ago that you were likely 
 to lose your independence, Miss Dallory." 
 
 " I ! In what way ? " 
 
 " By getting married." 
 
 Their eyes met for a moment, and then dropped. Miss 
 Dallory laughed lightly. 
 
 " Did the news penetrate as far as this ? Well, it never 
 was 'likely,' Mr. Richard North. A — gentleman asked me; 
 but I caught up an idea that he wanted my money more than 
 he did myself, and — so nothing came of it." 
 
 " Who was he ? " 
 
 " It would not be fair to him to tell." 
 
 "Right. Thank you for correcting me," spoke Richard in 
 his earnest way. " I ought to feel shame for asking. I beg 
 your pardon ; and his." 
 
 Happening to glance at the young lady, he saw that her face 
 had turned crimson with blushes. A rare thing for Miss 
 Dallory. She was too self-possessed to display emotion on 
 light occasions. 
 
 " Have you seen Ham Court lately ? " she resumed, looking 
 up ; and the blushes made her look very pretty. 
 
 " Not since your brother came to it. He has not been here 
 long, you know. I called one day, but they said Mr. Dallory 
 was out." 
 
182 Bessy Rane. 
 
 "The place is so rice now. He lias made alterations, and 
 done it np beautifully. You must come again." 
 
 " With pleasure," answered Richard. " How long shall 
 you remain with him ? " 
 
 ' ' As long as he will have me. I am not going away yet. I shall 
 make it my home. Frank has quiet tastes and so have I : 
 and we intend to live together like a brother-and-sister Darby 
 and Joan, and grow into an old maid and an old bachelor." 
 
 Richard smiled. " How is it Francis did not come with 
 you to dinner ? " 
 
 " He was not in the way to get an invitation. May I dare 
 to tell you why ? " she added below her breath. " When we 
 saw Madam's carriage driving up, Frank disappeared. ' Say 
 I am out, Polly,' was his order to me. He and Madam never 
 got on well : as a little boy he was terribly afraid of her, and 
 I think the feeling lasts. When I went to put my bonnet on, 
 I found him shut up in his room with the blinds down. He 
 wished me joy of my visit, and promised to come and walk 
 home with me in the evening." 
 
 " Take care of Madam's ears," breathed Richard. 
 
 " She cannot hear me. Your neighbour even cannot. 
 Arthur may," — looking round at Captain Bokun- question- 
 ingly — "but I don't mind him." 
 
 " Talk away," said Arthur. "Dick and I often wish we 
 had a remote room, with locked door and drawn blinds, to 
 use as a refuge in home storms. Heaven knows it is the 
 pain of my life to be able to say this." 
 
 How suggestive it was ! — of the estimation in which Mrs. 
 North was publicly held. For her son to confess this, for 
 Miss Dallory with her refined mind and feeling to have called 
 it forth, spoke badly for Madam. 
 
 She — Madam — rose from table early. Something in the 
 arrangements seemed not to suit her. It was a warm and 
 lovely evening, and they went out on the lawn. Miss Dallory 
 slipped round the corner of the house to the window of Mr. 
 North's parlour. 
 
 It stood open and he sat just within it. Sat with his hands 
 on his knees, and his head drooping. Miss Dallory started 
 back : not so much because his face was thin and worn, 
 but at its' expression of hopeless despair. In her two years' 
 absence, he seemed to have aged ten. 
 
 She stepped over the threshold, and gently laid her hands 
 on his. He looked up like a man bewildered. 
 
Mary Dal lory. 183 
 
 11 Why — it — it — it cannot be Mary Dallory." 
 " It is Mary Dallory ; come home at last. Yon'll kiss me, 
 won't yon, dear Mr. North." 
 
 He kissed her very fondly. In the old days when John 
 North was supposed to be the most rising man, in a com- 
 mercial point of view, in the connty, Mr. Dallory had thought 
 it worth while to court his friendship, and Mr. North had 
 been asked to stand to his little girl. Mary — after she lost 
 her own parents — was wont to say she belonged to the Hall, 
 and she used to be often there. Her aunt, Mrs. Leasom, who 
 had been a Miss Dallory once, was left personal guardian 
 to the children, with Ham Court as her residence until the 
 younger son should be of age, to whom it would then lapse. 
 But Mrs. Leasom spent a large portion of her time in London, 
 and sometimes the children had not seen their native place, 
 Dallory, for years together. 
 
 " When did you come home, my dear ? " 
 
 " To England a week ago. To Ham Court only yesterday. 
 Do you know that you are much changed ? " 
 
 "Ay. There's nothing but change in this life, my dear. 
 The nearer we approach the end of our days, the faster our 
 sorrows seem to come upon us : I have had more than my 
 share of them; and they have changed me. Turning round, 
 to this quarter, to that quarter, I see only one source of com- 
 fort left to me in the wide world." 
 
 " And that ? " she asked, half kneeling at his feet. 
 
 "My dear son Richard. Nobody knows the good son he 
 has been to me ; the sacrifices he has made. Nobody, save 
 God." 
 
 Miss Dallory gave no answer to this. He was stroking her 
 soft hair in deep abstraction, thinking no doubt of his many 
 troubles — for he always was thinking of them — when the 
 person in question entered; Richard North. Miss Dallory 
 rose and sat down on a chair decorously. 
 
 She remained but a minute or two now, and spent the time 
 talking and laughing. Richard gave her his arm to take her 
 back to the company. Miss Dallory apparently was in no 
 hurry to go, for she lingered over some of the near flower- 
 beds. 
 
 " Is the strike a serious matter ? " she questioned, her voice 
 taking a confidential tone. 
 
 " As serious as it is possible for any matter of the kind to 
 be." replied Richard. 
 
184 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Ton and your men were always on the best of terms : 
 why did they become dissatisfied with you ? " 
 
 " They never became dissatisfied with me. The Trades 
 Unions' agents stepped in and persuaded them they would 
 be better off if they could work less time and be paid more 
 wages. The men listened : it was only natural : and pre- 
 sented themselves to me with these new demands. I did 
 not grant them, and they struck. That's the whole truth in 
 a nutshell, Miss Dallory." 
 
 " I suppose you would not grant them ? " 
 
 " Right. I would not grant them upon principle ; I could not, 
 because my profits did not afford it. I am quite certain of 
 one thing : that if I had acceded, in a short while the men 
 would have demanded more. The Trades' Unions will never 
 allow them to be satisfied, until " 
 
 " Until what ? " she asked, for Richard had stopped. 
 
 "Until the country is ruined. Until its trade has left it." 
 
 "It is a serious thing," she said — and she was very grave 
 now. " I suppose you would take the men on again at the 
 old terms ? " 
 
 " And be glad to do it." 
 
 " And they will not be taken ? " 
 
 " No. I have offered, in regard to their demand for in- 
 creased wages, to meet them half-way. It is of no use. " 
 
 " Then I think those men deserve to learn what want of 
 employment means," she returned warmly. " I thought your 
 men were intelligent ; I used to know many of them. When 
 I go amongst them — and that may be to-morrow — I shall 
 ask if they have taken leave of their senses. What does 
 Mrs. Gass say to it all ? " 
 
 Richard smiled a little. Mrs. Gass said more than he did, 
 he answered, but it was equally useless. 
 
 "And I suppose it is the strike that is troubling Mr. 
 North ? I do think him so changed." 
 
 " It troubles him, of course — and there are other things." 
 
 " Does it trouble you ? " asked Miss Dallory, in a pointed 
 tone, as she looked straight at him. 
 
 " Trouble me ! " he rejoined, in surprise at the superfluous 
 question. " Why, see you not what it involves — unless we 
 can go on again ? Simply ruin. Ruin for me, and for my 
 father with me. There's your brother." 
 
 They had reached the lawn at length, and saw Francis, 
 Dallory, who had come to walk home with his sister. He was 
 
Mary Dallory. 185 
 
 a short, fair young man with an open countenance. Madam 
 had already seized upon him. 
 
 "Where's Arthur? " demanded Madam imperiously, as Miss 
 Dallory came into view on Richard's arm. "I thought he wa3 
 with you." 
 
 Miss Dallory answered that she had not seen Arthur Bohun 
 since she quitted the dinner-table. Nobody had seen him; — 
 that Madam could discover. She suspected he must have 
 gone off somewhere to smoke ; and would have liked to put 
 his pipe behind the fire. 
 
 But the pipe was not in fault. Arthur Bohun, possibly 
 thinking there were enough without him, had surreptitiously 
 made his escape, and gone for a stroll towards the Ham. It 
 took him so near to Mrs. Cumberland's that he said to himself 
 he might as well call in and ask after her headache — that she 
 had been suffering from in the morning. 
 
 Sophistry ! Nothing but sophistry. Captain Arthur Bohun 
 did not really care whether the headache was worse or better; 
 until a minute ago he had not even remembered that she had 
 complained of one. The naked truth was, that he could not 
 bear to rest for even one evening without a sight of Ellen 
 Adair. No mother ever hungered for a lost child, as he 
 hungered for her presence. 
 
 They were at tea. Mrs. Cumberland, Ellen, and Mr. Seeley. 
 When Jelly showed Captain Bohun in, the doctor was just 
 taking his second cup. Ellen, who sat at the tea-tray, asked 
 Captain Bohun if he would like some, and he rather savagely 
 .answered, No. Warfare lay in his mind. What business had 
 that man to be sitting there on a footing of companionship 
 with Ellen Adair. 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland's head was a little worse, if anything, she • 
 replied, thanking Captain Bohun for his solicitude in regard to 
 it. Mi*. Seeley bad given her two draughts of something — 
 ether, she believed — in the afternoon, but they had not done 
 the head any good. Arthur pushed back his golden hair in a 
 passion. Then the man had had the impudence to go there in 
 the afternoon as well as morning and evening ! Hoiv could 
 Mrs. Cumberland so far forget the fitness of propriety as to 
 allow him to take tea with her — to invite him, no doubt — when 
 she knew that by so doing he must also take it with Ellen 
 Adair ? 
 
 It might have come to a question of which would have sat 
 •out the other — for Mr. Seeley detected somewhat of the feelings 
 
1 86 Bessy Rane. 
 
 of Arthur Bohun's mind, and resented them, considering him- 
 self as good a man as he, in regard of possessing the same 
 right to a chance of woman's favour — hut for the entrance of 
 Dr. Rane. Dr. Rane appeared to have no present intention of 
 leaving again, for he plunged into a hot discussion with his 
 hrother practitioner, touching some difficult question in surgery, 
 which seemed quite likely to continue all night, and Arthur 
 Bohun rose. He would have remained on willingly, hut he 
 was ever sensitive as to intruding, and he fancied Mrs. Camber- 
 land might wonder why he stayed. 
 
 As he went out, Francis Dallory and his sister were passing 
 on their walk homeward. Captain Bohun turned with them, 
 and went to the end of the Ham. 
 
 The shades of evening — nay, of night — had stolen over the 
 earth as he went hack ; the light night of summer. The north- 
 west was bright with its b'ue-green tinge of opal ; a star or 
 two twinkled in the heavens. Dr. Rane was pacing his 
 garden walks, his wife on his arm. 
 
 " Good-night, Bessy ! " he called out, to her whom he had 
 always regarded as his step-sister. 
 
 " Good-night, Arthur ! " came the hearty rejoinder — for 
 Bessy had recognised his voice. 
 
 Onwards for a few steps — only af ew — and it brought Arthur 
 Bohun level with the window of Mrs. Cumberland's drawing- 
 room. It was not yet lighted. At the window, their heads 
 nearly close together, stood the other doctor and Ellen Adair. 
 In Captain Bohun's desperate anger, he stared Ellen full in the 
 face, and made no movement of recognition. Turning his 
 head away with a contemptuous movement, quite plainly dis- 
 cernible in the dusk, he went striding on. 
 
 Shakespeare never read more truly the human heart than 
 when he said jealousy makes the food it feeds on. Arthur 
 Bohun went home nearly mad ; not so much with jealousy in 
 its narrow sense, as with indignation at the doctor's most 
 iniquitous presumption. Could he have analysed his own heart 
 in due fairness, he would have found full trust in the good 
 faith of Ellen Adair. But he was swayed by man's erring 
 nature, and yielded to it wilfully. 
 
 How innocent it all was ! how little suggestive of fear, 
 could Captain Bohun but have read events correctly. There 
 had been no invitation to [tea at all ; Mr. Seeley had gone in 
 just as they began to take it, and was offered a cup by Mrs. 
 Cumberland. As to the being together at the window, Ellen 
 
Love among the Roses. 187 
 
 had been standing there to catch the fading'light for her wool 
 "work, perhaps as an excuse for leaving him and Mrs. Cumber- 
 land to converse alone ; and he had just come up to her to say 
 good-night as Captain Bohun paused. 
 
 If we did but divine the real truth of these fancies when 
 jealousy puts them before us in its false and glaring light, 
 some phases of our lives might be all the happier. Arthur 
 Bohun lay tossing the whole night long on his sleepless pillow, 
 tormenting himself by wondering what Ellen Adair's answer 
 to Seeley would be. That the fellow in his audacity was pro- 
 posing to her as they stood at the window, he could have 
 sworn before the Lord Chief Baron of England. It was a 
 wretched night ; his tumultuous thoughts were fit to kill him. 
 Arthur had Collins's " Ode to the Passions " by heart ; but it 
 never occurred to him to recal any part of it to profit now. 
 
 "Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed, 
 Sad proof of thy distressful state. 
 Of differing themes the veering song was mixed : 
 
 And now it courted Love; now, raving, called on Hate." 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 LOVE AMONG THE EOSES. 
 
 The early sunshine is a great purifier. Fancies find but little 
 room in the matter-of-fact bustle of every-day Life. When 
 Arthur Bohun rose, his senses had returned to him. That 
 Ellen Adair's love was his, and that no fear existed of her 
 accepting any other man, let him be prince or peasant, reason 
 told him. He wanted to see her ; for that his heart was 
 always yearning ; but on this morning when, as it seemed, he 
 had been judging her harshly, the necessity seemed over- 
 whelmingly great. His impatient feet would have carried 
 him to Mrs. Cumberland's after breakfast ; but his spirit was 
 a little rebellious yet, and kept him back. He'd not show his 
 impatience, he thought ; he'd not go down until the afternoon ; 
 and he began to resort to all kinds of expedients to kill the 
 earlier time. He walked with Richard North the best part of 
 the way to Dallory : he came back and wrote to his aunt, Miss 
 Bohun ; he went pottering about the flower-beds with Mr. 
 North. As the day wore on towards noon, his restless feet 
 betook him to Ham Lane — which the reader has not visited 
 since he saw Dr. Rane hastening: throus;h it on the dark and 
 
1 88 Bessy Rane. 
 
 troubled night that opened this history. The hedges were 
 green now, blooming with their dog-roses of delicate pink and 
 white, redolent with the perfume of sweet-briar. Captain 
 Bohun went along, switching at these same pleasant hedges 
 with his cane. Avoiding the turning that would take him out 
 into Dallory Ham, he continued his way to another lane, less 
 luxurious ; the lane that ran along the back of the houses of 
 the Ham, and which was f amiliarly called by their inhabitants 
 "the back lane." Strolling onwards, he had the satisfaction 
 of finding himself passing by the dead wall of Mrs. Cumber- 
 land's garden, and of seeing the roof and chimneys of her house. 
 Should he go round and call ? A few steps lower down, just 
 beyond Dr. Rane's, there was an opening that would take him, 
 a public-house at its corner. He had told himself he would 
 not go until the afternoon, and now it was barely twelve 
 o'clock ; should he call, or should he not ? 
 
 Moving on, in his indecision, at a slow pace, he had got just 
 opposite Dr. Rane's back garden door, when it suddenly 
 opened, and the doctor came forth. 
 
 "Ah, how d'ye do ? " said the doctor, rather surprised at 
 seeing Arthur Bohun there. " Were you coming in this way ? 
 The door was bolted." 
 
 " Only taking a stroll," carelessly replied Captain Bohun. 
 "How's Bessy?" 
 
 " Quite well. She is in the dining-room, if you'll come in 
 and see her." 
 
 Nothing loth, Arthur Bohun stepped in at once, the doctor 
 continuing on his way. Mrs. Rane was darning stockings. 
 She and Arthur had always been the very best of friends, 
 quite brother and sister. Meek and gentle as ever, she looked, 
 sitting there with her smooth, curling hair, and the loving 
 expression in her mild, soft eyes. Arthur sat down and 
 talked with her, his glance roving ever to that other house, 
 seeking the form of one whom he did not see. 
 
 "Do you know how Mrs. Cumberland is this morning ? " 
 he inquired of Bessy. 
 
 " I have not heard. Mr. Seeley has been there ; for I saw 
 him in the dining-room with Ellen Adair." 
 
 Arthur Bohun's pulses froze to ice. Figuratively speaking, 
 his golden hair bristled up, stiff and straight. 
 
 " I think they are both in the garden now." 
 ^ " Are they ? " snapped Arthur. " His patients must get on 
 nicely if he idles away his mornings in a garden." 
 
Love among the Roses. 1 89 
 
 Bessy looked up from her darning. " I don't mean that 
 Seeley's there, Arthur — I mean Mrs. Cumberland and 
 Ellen." 
 
 As Bessy spoke, Jelly was seen to come out of Mrs. 
 Cumberland's house, penetrate amidst the trees, and return 
 with her mistress. 
 
 " Some one has called, I suppose," remarked Bessy. 
 
 Captain Bohun thought the gods had made the opportunity 
 for himself expressly. He went out, stepped over the small 
 wire fence, and disappeared in the direction that Mrs. Cum- 
 berland had come from, believing it would lead him to Ellen 
 Adair. 
 
 In the secluded and beautiful spot where we first saw her 
 (but where we shall not often, alas ! see her again) she sat. 
 The flowers of early spring were out then ; the" richer summer 
 flowers were blooming now. A natural bower of roses seemed 
 to encompass her about ; the shrubs clustered, the trees o'er- 
 shadowed her overhead. The falling cascade was trickling 
 softly as ever down the artificial rocks, murmuring its mono- 
 tonous cadence ; the birds sang to it and to each other from 
 branch to branch ; glimpses of the green lawn and of bril- 
 liantly-hued flowers were caught through the trees. Ellen 
 Adair had sometimes thought the spot beautiful as a scene of 
 fairy -land. It was little less so. 
 
 She was not working this morning, An open book lay 
 before her on the rustic table ; her cheek was leaning on her 
 raised hand, from which the wrist-lace fell back, a hand so 
 suspiciously delicate as to betoken some lack of sound strength 
 in its owner. She wore a white dress, with a bow of pink 
 ribbon at the throat, and a pink waist-band. There were 
 times, and this was one, when she looked extremely fragile. 
 . A sound as of footsteps. Ellen only thought it was Mrs. 
 Cumberland returning, and read on. But there was a different 
 sound in these steps as they gained on her ear. Her heart stood 
 still, and then bounded on again with a tumultuous rush, her 
 pulses tingled, her sweet face turned red as the blushing rose. 
 Sunshine had come. 
 
 " Good morning, Miss Adair." 
 
 In a cold, resentful, haughty tone was it spoken, and he did 
 not attempt to shake hands. The sunshine seemed to go in 
 again with a sweep. She shut her book and opened it. shut 
 and opened it, her finders fluttering. Captain Bohun put his 
 hat on the seat. 
 
190 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " I thought Seeley might he here " said he, seeking out a 
 pretty rose, and plucking it carefully. 
 
 " Seeley! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " Seeley. I beg your pardon. I did not know I spoke 
 indistinctly, Seeley." 
 
 He stood and faced her, watching the varying colour of her 
 face, the soft blushes going and coming. Sometimes they 
 increased his anger. 
 
 " May I ask if you have accepted him ? " 
 
 "Ac — cepted him!" she stammered, in wild confusion.. 
 " Accepted what ? " 
 
 " The offer that Seeley made you last night." 
 
 " It was not last night," she replied in a confused impulse. 
 
 " Oh, then it was this morning ! May I congratulate you, 
 or not ? " 
 
 Ellen Adair turned to her book in deep vexation. She had 
 been caught, as it were — deluded into the tacit admission that 
 Mr. Seeley had made the offer. And she was hurt at Arthur 
 Bohun's words and tone. Had he no better trust in her than 
 this ? As she tnrned the leaves of the book backwards and 
 forwards in her agitation, as if seeking for some particular 
 page, the plain gold ring on her finger attracted his sight. He 
 was chafing inwardly, but he strove to appear at the most 
 careless ease, and sat down as far from her as the bench al- 
 lowed, which, seeing that it would only hold two stout people,, 
 could not be very far. 
 
 " I'd be honourable if I died for it," he remarked with in- 
 difference, sniffing at the rose. " Is it quite the thing for you 
 to listen to another man while you wear that ring upon your 
 finger ?" 
 
 Ellen took it off and pushed it towards him along the table. 
 
 This frightened him. He turned as white as ashes. Until 
 this, he had only been speaking in jealously, not in belief. Her 
 own face was becoming white, her lips were compressed to 
 hide their trembling. And thus they sat for a minute or two, 
 like the two simpletons they were. He looked at the ring, he 
 looked at her. 
 
 " Do you mean it, Ellen ? " he asked, in a voice that 
 struggled with agitation, proving how very earnest he deemed 
 the thing was becoming — whatever it might have begun in. 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 " Do you wish to give me back this ring ? " 
 
 " What you said was, I thought, equivalent to asking for it."*' 
 
Love among the Roses, 19 J 
 
 " It was not. Tou know better." 
 
 " Why are you quarrelling with me ? " 
 
 Moving an inch nearer, he changed his tone to gentleness, 
 bending his head forward to speak. 
 
 " Heaven knows that it is bitter enough to do so. Have 1 
 cause, Ellen ? " 
 
 Her eyes were bent down : the colour stole into her face 
 again ; a half smile parted her lips. 
 
 "You know, Ellen, it is a perfectly monstrous thing that a 
 common man like Seeley should dare to cast his aspiring 
 thoughts to you." 
 
 " Was it my fault ? " she returned. " He ought to have 
 seen that — that — I should not like it." 
 
 " What did you tell him ? " 
 
 " That it was quite impossible ; that he was making a mis- 
 take altogether. When he was gone, I complained to Mrs. 
 Cumberland." 
 
 " Insolent jackanapes ! Was he rude, Ellen ? " 
 
 " Rude ! Mr. Seeley ! " she returned in surprise. " Quite 
 the contrary. He has always been as considerate and respect- 
 ful as a man can be. Tou look down on his position, Arthur, 
 but he is as complete a gentleman in mind as you are." 
 
 "I only despise his position when he would seek to unite 
 you to it." 
 
 " It has been very wrong of you to make me confess this. 
 I can tell you I am feeling anything but ' honourable,' as you 
 put it just now. There are things that should never be 
 talked about ; this is one. Nothing can be more unfair." 
 
 Very unfair. Captain Bohun's high-class feeling had come 
 back to him, and he could but assent to it. He began to feel 
 a little ashamed of himself on more points than one. 
 
 " It shall never escape my lips, Ellen, while I breathe. 
 Seeley's secret is safe for me." 
 
 Taking up the ring, he held it for a moment, as if examin- 
 ing the gold. Ellen rose and went outside. The interview 
 was becoming a very conscious one. He caught her up near 
 the cascade, took her right hand in his, and slipped the ring 
 japon her third finger. 
 
 " How many times has it been off ? " he asked. 
 
 " Never until to-day." 
 
 " Well, there it is again, Ellen. Cherish it still. I hope — 
 I hope — that ere long " 
 
 He did not finish, but she understood quite well what he 
 
192 Bessy Rane. 
 
 meant. Their eyes met, and each read the impassioned love 
 seated within the other ; strangely pure withal, and idealistic 
 as ever poet dreamed of. He strained the hand in his. 
 
 "Forgive my petulance, my darling." 
 
 Save for the one sweet word and the lingering pressure of 
 the hand ; save that the variegated rose was transferred from 
 his possession to hers, the interview had been wholly un- 
 characterised by the fond signs and tokens that are commonly 
 supposed to attend the intercourse of lovers. Captain Bobun 
 had hitherto abstained from using such, and perhaps heaven 
 alone knew what the self-denial cost. In his ultra-refined 
 nature he may have deemed such would be unjustifiable, until 
 he could speak out openly and say, Will you be my wife ? 
 
 " What is your book, Ellen ? " he asked, as she returned to 
 take it from the table. 
 
 " Longfellow." 
 
 "Longfellow ! Shall I read it to you ? can you stay out ? " 
 
 " I can stay until one o'clock : luncheon time." 
 
 They sat down and he began : " The Courtship of Miles 
 Standish." The blue sky shone down upon them through the 
 flickering leaves, the cascade trickled, the bees hummed in the 
 warm air, the white butterflies sported with the buds and 
 flowers : and Ellen Adair, her hands clasping that treasure 
 they held, the variegated rose, her eyes falling on it to hide 
 their happiness, listened in wrapt attention, for the voice was 
 sweeter to her than any out of heaven. 
 
 The words of that other poet — not Longfellow, as we all 
 know — most surely were applicable to this period of the ex- 
 istence of Captain Bobun and Ellen Adair. One of them at 
 least would acknowledge it amidst the bitterness of after-life. 
 
 Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands; 
 Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands." 
 
 It could not last — speaking now only of the hour. One 
 o'clock came all too soon ; when he had seemingly read about 
 ten minutes ; and Miles Standish had to be left in the most 
 unsatisfactory state. Ellen rose : she must hasten in. 
 
 " It is a pity to leave it at this," said Arthur. " Shall I 
 come and finish it in the afternoon ? " 
 
 Ellen shook her head. In the afternoon she would have to 
 drive out with Mrs. Cumberland. 
 
 Captain Bohun went home through the green lanes, and 
 soon found himself amidst those other flowers — Mr. North's. 
 
Love among tlie Roses. 1 93 
 
 That gentleman came forth from his parlour to meet him, ap- 
 parently in some tribulation, a letter in his hand. 
 
 " Oh, Arthur, I don't know what to say to you ; I am so 
 sorry," he exclaimed. " Look here. When the postman 
 came this morning, I happened to be out on the lawn, and he 
 gave me my two letters, as I thought, and as he must have 
 thought, going on to the hall door with the rest. I put them 
 iu my pocket and forgot them, Arthur : my spectacles were 
 indoors. When I remembered them only just now, I found 
 one was directed to you in Sir Nash's hand. I am so sorry," 
 repeated poor Mr. North in his most helpless manner. 
 
 "Don't be that, sir," replied Arthur cheerily. "It's 
 nothing ; not of the least consequence at all," he added, open- 
 ing the letter. But nevertheless, as his eyes fell on the con- 
 tents, a rather startled expression took his face. 
 
 "There!" cried Mr. North, looking inclined to cry. 
 " Something's wrong, and the delay has done mischief." 
 
 " Indeed nothing's wrong — in the sense you are thinking," 
 repeated Arthur — -for he would not have added to the poor 
 old man's troubles for the world. *' My uncle says James is 
 not so well as he could wish : he wants me to go up at once 
 and stay with them. Tou can read it for yourself, sir." 
 
 Mr. North put on his glasses. " I see, Arthur. You might 
 have gone the first thing this morning, but for my keeping 
 the letter. It was very stupid of the postman to give it 
 to me." 
 
 Arthur laughed. " Indeed, I should have made no such 
 hurry. There's not the least necessity for that. I think I 
 shall go up this afternoon, though." 
 
 "Yes, do, Arthur. And explain to Sir Nash that it was 
 my fault. Tell him that I am growing forgetful and useless. 
 Fit only to be cut down, Arthur ; to be cut down." 
 
 Arthur Bohun put the old man's arm affectionately within 
 his, and took him back to his parlour. If Mr. North had 
 grown old it was with worry, not with years : the worry 
 dealt out to him daily by Madam ; and Arthur would have 
 remedied it with his best blood had he known how. 
 
 "You had better go up with me, sir; for a little change. 
 Sir Nash would be so glad to see you." 
 
 " I go up with you ! I couldn't, Arthur ; I am not equal 
 to it now. And the strike is on, you know, and my place 
 ought to be here while it lasts. The men look upon me still 
 as their master, though Dick — Dick acts. And th&re's another 
 
 
 
194 Bessy Rane. 
 
 thing, Arthur — I couldn't leave my roses just as they have 
 come into bloom." 
 
 Arthur Bohun smiled ; the last reason was all cogent. Mr. 
 North stayed behind, and he went up that same afternoon to 
 London. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE TONTINE. 
 
 The tontine. If the reader only knew how important a share 
 the tontine — with its results — holds in this little history, he 
 would enter on it with interest. 
 
 Tontines may be of different arrangement. In fact they 
 are so. 'This one was as follows. It had been instituted at 
 Whitborough. Ten gentlemen put each an eqiial sum into a 
 common fund, and invested the whole in the joint names of 
 ten children all under a year old. This money was to be 
 allowed to accumulate at compound interest, until only one of 
 these children should be left alive : that one, the last survivor, 
 would then receive the whole of the money unconditionally. 
 
 Of these ten children whose names were inscribed on the 
 parchment deed, Oliver Rane and Bessy North alone sur- 
 vived. Mr. North had been wont to call it an unlucky ton- 
 tine, for its members had died off rapidly one after another. 
 For several years only three had been left ; and now one of 
 them, George Massey, had followed in the wake of those that 
 were gone. Under ordinary circumstances, the tontine would 
 have excited no comment whatever, but have gone on smoothly 
 to the end : that is, until one of the two survivors had col- 
 lapsed. The other one would have had the money paid him ; 
 and nothing been thought about it, except that he was a fortu- 
 nate man. 
 
 But this case was exceptional. The two survivors were 
 man and wife. For the good fortune to lapse to one of them, 
 the other must die. It was certainly a curious position, and 
 it excited a great deal of comment in the neighbourhood. 
 Dallory, as prone to gossip as other places, made it into that 
 oft-quoted thing, a nine-days' wonder. In the general stag- 
 nation caused by the strike, people took up the tontine as a 
 source of relief. 
 
 Practically the tontine was of no further use to the two re- 
 maining members : that is, to the two combined. They were 
 one, so to say ; and so long as they continued to be such, the 
 
The Tontine. 195 
 
 money could not lapse. If Bessy died, Dr. Rane would take 
 it ; if Dr. Rane died, she would take it. Nothing more could 
 he made of it than this. It had been accumulating now just 
 one-and-thirty years ; how much longer it would he left to 
 accumulate none could foresee. For one-and-thirty years 
 to come, in all human probability ; for Dr. Rane and his wife 
 appeared to possess, each, a sound and healthy constitution. 
 Nay, they might survive ten or twenty years beyond that, and 
 yet not be very aged. And so, there it was ; and Dallory 
 made the matter its own, with unceremonious freedom. 
 
 But not as Dr. and Mrs. Rane did. They had need of 
 money, and this huge sum (huge to them) lying at the very 
 threshold of their door, but forbidden to enter, was more tan- 
 talizing than pen can tell. Richard North had not been far 
 wrong in his computation : and the amount, as it stood at 
 present, was rather considerably over two thousand pounds. 
 The round sum, however, was large enough to reckon by, 
 without counting the odds and ends. Two thousand pounds ! 
 Two thousand pounds theirs of right, and yet they might not 
 touch it because one of them was not dead ! 
 
 How many hours they spent discussing the matter with 
 each other could never be computed. As soon as the twilight 
 of the evening came on, wherever they might be and what- 
 ever the occupation, the theme was sure to be drifted into. 
 In the dining-room when it grew too dusk for Dr. Rane to 
 pursue his writing ; in the drawing-room, into which Bessy 
 would wile him, and sing to him one of her simple songs ; 
 walking together, arm within arm, in the garden paths, the 
 stars in the summer sky above them, the waving trees encom- 
 passing them round about, the subject of the tontine would be 
 taken up : the tontine ; nothing but the tontine. It was no 
 wonder that they grew to form plans of what they would do 
 if the money were theirs : we all know how apt we are to let 
 imagination run away with us, and to indulge visions that 
 grow to seem like reality. Dr. Rane painted a bright future. 
 With two thousand pounds in hand, he could establish him- 
 self in a first-class metropolitan locality, set up well, both 
 professionally and socially ; and there would be plenty of 
 money for him and his wife to live upon while the practice 
 was growing. Bessy entered into it all as eagerly as he. 
 Having become accustomed to the idea of quitting Dallory, 
 she never glanced back at the possibility of remaining. She 
 thought his eager wish, his unalterable determination to leave 
 
196 Bessy Rane. 
 
 it, was connected only with tbe interests of his profession ; Tie 
 knew that the dread of a certain possible discovery, ever 
 hannting his conscience, made the place more intolerable to 
 him day by day. At any cost he must get away from it : at 
 any cost. There was a great happiness in these evening con- 
 versations, in the glowing hope presented by plans and pro- 
 jects. But, where was the use of indulging such, when the 
 tontine money (the pivot on which all was to turn) could 
 never be theirs ? As often as this damping recollection 
 brought them up with a check, Dr. Rane would fall into a 
 gloomy silence. Gradually, by the very force of thinking, he 
 saw a way, or thought he saw a way, by which their hopes 
 might be accomplished. And that was to induce the trustees 
 to advance the money at once to him and his wife jointly. 
 
 Meanwhile the strike continued in unabated force. Not a 
 man was at work ; every one refused to do a stroke unless he 
 could be paid for it what he thought right, and left off his 
 daily labour when he chose. One might have supposed, by 
 the independence of the demands, that the men were the 
 masters, and North and Gass the servants. Privation was 
 beginning to reign, garments grew scanty, faces pinched. 
 There was not so much as a sixpence for superfluities : and 
 under that head in troubled times must be classed the attend- 
 ance of a medical man. It will readily be understood, there- 
 fore, that this state of affairs did not contribute to fill the 
 pockets of Dr. Rane. 
 
 One day, Mr. North, sitting on the short green bench in 
 front of his choicest carnation bed, found two loving hands 
 put round his neck from behind. He had been three parts 
 asleep, and woke up slightly bewildered. 
 
 " Bessy, child, is it you ? " 
 
 It was Mrs. Rane. Her footfall on the grass had not been 
 heard. She wore a cool print dress and black silk mantle ; 
 and her plain straw bonnet sat well on, around the pretty 
 falling curls. Bessy looked quiet and simple always : and 
 always a lady. 
 
 " Did I startle you, papa ? " 
 
 " No, my dear. When I felt the arms, I thought it was 
 Mary Dallory. She comes upon me without warning some- 
 times. Here's room, Bessy." 
 
 Making way for her, she sat down beside him. It was a 
 very hot morning, and Bessy untied the strings of her bonnet. 
 There was a slight look of weariness on her face as if she 
 
The Tontine. 197 
 
 were just a little worried with Lome cares. In truth she felt 
 so : but all for Oliver's sake. If the money came not in so 
 freely as to make matters easy, she did not mind it for her- 
 self, but for him. 
 
 "Papa, I have come to talk to you," she began, laying one 
 of her hands on his knee affectionately. "It is about the 
 tontine money. Oliver thinks that it might be paid to us 
 conjointly ; that it ought to be." 
 
 "I know he does," replied Mr. North. "It can't be done, 
 Bessy." 
 
 Her countenance fell a little. " Do you think not, papa ? " 
 
 " I am sure not, child." 
 
 " Papa, I am here this morning to beg of you to use your 
 interest for us with Sir Thomas Ticknell. Oliver knows 
 nothing of my coming. He said last night, when we were 
 talking, that if you could be induced to throw your interest 
 into our scale, the bank might listen to you. So I thought to 
 myself that I would come to you in the morning and ask." 
 
 " The bank won't listen to me, or to anybody else, in this 
 matter, Bessy. It's against the law to pay the tontine over 
 while two of you are alive, and the Ticknells are too strict to 
 risk it. I shouldn't do it myself in their places." 
 
 " What Oliver says is this, papa. The money must, in the 
 due course of events, come to either him or me, whichever of 
 us shall survive the other. We have therefore an equal inte- 
 rest in it, and possess at present an equal chance of succeeding 
 to it. No one else in the wide world, but our two selves, has 
 the smallest claim to it, or ever can have. We are the only 
 survivors of the ten ; the rest are all dead. Why, then, 
 should the trustees not stretch a point and let us have the 
 money while it can be of use to us conjointly ? Oliver says 
 they ought to do it." 
 
 " I know he does," remarked Mr. North. 
 
 " Has Oliver spoken to you, papa ? " 
 
 "No," said Mr. North. "I heard about it from Dick. 
 Dick happened to be at the bank yesterday, and Thomas 
 Ticknell mentioned to him that Dr. Rane had been urging 
 this request upon them. Dick said Sir Thomas seemed quite 
 horrified at the proposition ; they had told Dr. Bane, in 
 answer, that if they could consent to such a thing it would be 
 no better than a fraud." 
 
 " So they did," replied Bessy. " When Oliver was relating 
 it to me after he came home, he could not help laughing — in 
 
198 Bessy Rane. 
 
 spite of his vexation. The money is virtually ours, so where 
 would the fraud lie ? " 
 
 "To be virtually yours is one thing, Bessy; to be legally 
 yours is another. You young women can't be expected to 
 understand business questions, my dear ; but your husband 
 understands them. Of course it would be a great boon to 
 get the two thousand pounds while you are both together ; 
 but it would not be a legal thing for the bankers to do, and 
 they are right in refusing it." 
 
 " Then — do you think there is no chance for us, papa ? " 
 
 " Not a bit of it, child." 
 
 A silence ensued. Mr. North sat watching his carnations, 
 Bessy watching, with a far-off gaze, the dark -blue summer 
 sky, as if the difficulty might be solved there. In spite of 
 her father's opinion, she thought the brothers, Thomas and 
 William Ticknell, unduly hard. 
 
 The Ticknells were the chief bankers of Whitborough. 
 Upon the institution of the tontines, the two brothers, then in 
 their early prime, had been made trustees to it, in conjunction 
 with a gentleman named Wilson. In the course of time, Mr. 
 Wilson died: and Mr. Thomas and Mr. William Ticknell 
 grew into tolerably aged men ; they wanted now not much of 
 the allotted span, three score years and ten. The elder 
 brother had gone up to court with some great local matter, 
 and he came back Sir Thomas. These two gentlemen had 
 full power over the funds of the tontine. They were straight- 
 forward, honourable men ; of dispositions naturally cautious ; 
 and holding very strict opinions in business. Increasing 
 years had not tended to lessen the caution, or to soften the 
 strict tenets : and when Dr. Rane, soliciting a private inter- 
 view with the brothers, presented himself before them with a 
 proposition that they should pay over the tontine funds to 
 him and his wife conjointly, without waiting for the death of 
 either, the few hairs remaining on the old gentlemen's white 
 heads rose up on end. 
 
 Truly it had seemed to them, this singular application, as 
 touching closely upon fraud. Dr. Rane argued the matter 
 with them, putting it in the most feasible and favourable 
 light : and it must be acknowledged that, to his mind, it 
 appeared a thing not only that they might do, but that it 
 would be in them perfectly right and honest to do. All in 
 vain ; they heard him with courtesy, but were harder than 
 adamant. Richard North happened to go in upon some 
 
The Tontine. 199 
 
 business soon after the conclusion of the interview, and the 
 brothers — they were the bankers to North and Gass — told 
 him confidentially of the application. Richard imparted 
 it to his father : hence Mr. North heard Bessy without 
 surprise. 
 
 Regarded in the narrow, legal view, of course the Messrs. 
 Ticknell might be right ; but, taking it broadly and compre- 
 hensively, there could be no doubt that it seemed hard upon 
 Oliver Rane and his wife. The chief question that had pre- 
 sented itself to Richard North's mind was, if the money 
 were handed over now, would the Messrs. Ticknell be quite 
 secure from ulterior consequences ? They said not. Upon 
 Richard North's suggesting that a lawyer might be consulted 
 on the point, Sir Thomas Ticknell answered that, no matter 
 what a lawyer might say, they should never incur the respon- 
 sibility of parting with the tontine money so long as two of 
 its members were living. " And I think they must be right," 
 Richard remarked afterwards to his father. Turning to 
 Bessy, sitting by him on the bench, Mr. North repeated this. 
 Bessy listened in dutiful silence, but shook her head. 
 
 "Papa, much as I respect Richard's judgment, clever as I 
 know him to be, I am sure he is wrong here. It is very 
 strange that he should go against me and Oliver." 
 
 "It is because of his good judgment, my dear," replied 
 Mr. North simply. "I'd trust it against the world, on 
 account of his impartiality. When he has to decide between 
 two opposite opinions, he invariably puts himself, or tries to 
 put himself, in either place, weighs each side, and comes to a 
 conclusion unbiassed. Look at this strike, now on : Dick has 
 been reproached with leaning to the men's side, with holding 
 familiar argument with them, for and against ; a thing that 
 few masters would do : but it is because he sees they really 
 believe they have right on their side, and he would treat their 
 opinions with respect, however mistaken he may know them 
 ' to be." 
 
 " Richard cannot think the men are not to blame ! " ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Rane. 
 
 "He lays the blame chiefly where, as he says, it is due— 
 on the Trade Union. The men were deluded into listening to 
 it at first ; and they can't help oibeying its dictates now : they 
 have given themselves over to it, body and soul, Bessy, and 
 can no more escape than a prisoner from a dungeon. That's 
 Richard's view, mind ; and it makes him all leniency; I'd try 
 
200 Bessy Rane. 
 
 and bring 'em to their senses in a different way, if I had the 
 power and the means left me." 
 
 " In what way, papa ? " 
 
 " Bessy, if I were what I once was — a wealthy man, inde- 
 pendent of business — I'd close the works for good : break 'em 
 up : burn 'em if need be : anything but re-open them. The 
 trade shonld go where it would, and the men after it ; or stop 
 here and starve, just as they chose. It's not I that would 
 have my peace of life worried out of me by these strikes ; or 
 let men that I have employed and done liberally by always, 
 dictate to me. You've heard of the old saying — cutting off 
 the nose to spite the face : that's just what the men will find 
 they have done. They'll find it, Bessy, to their cost, as sure 
 as that we two are sitting here." 
 
 Mr. North laid bold of the hoe that was resting on the 
 elbow of the bench, and struck it lightly on the ground. 
 Meaning no doubt to give emphasis to his words. Bessy 
 Rane passed from the subject of the strike to that which 
 more immediately concerned her. 
 
 " Richard is honest, papa ; he would never say what he did 
 not think ; but he may be mistaken sometimes. I cannot 
 understand how he can think the Ticknells right in refusing 
 to let us have the money. If there were the slightest, smallest, 
 reason for their keeping it back, it would be different : but 
 there's none." 
 
 " Look here, Bessy. If they go by the strict letter of the 
 law, they cannot do it. The tontine deed was drawn up as 
 tightly as any deed, can be : it expressly says that nine of 
 the members must be dead, and only the tenth remaining, 
 before the money can be withdrawn from where it is invested. 
 The Ticknells can't get over this." 
 
 " Papa — forgive me — you should not say can't, but won't," 
 spoke Mrs. Rane. " They can do it if they please ; there's 
 nothing to prevent it. All power, to act, lies with them ; 
 they are responsible to none : if they paid over the money 
 to Oliver to-morrow, not an individual in the whole world, 
 from the queen upon her throne to the youngest clerk in 
 their counting-house, could call them to account for it. The 
 strictest judge on the bench might not say to them afterwards, 
 You have paid away money that you had no right to pay." 
 
 " Stop a bit, Bessy — that's just where the weak point lies. 
 The Ticknells say that if they parted with the money now, 
 they might be called upon for it again at some future time." 
 
The Tontine. 20 r 
 
 Bessy sat in amazement. " Why ! How could that be ? " 
 
 Mr. North raised his straw hat and rubbed his head before 
 he replied. It was a somewhat puzzling question. 
 
 " Dick put it somehow in this way, my dear : that is, 
 Thomas Ticknell put it to him. If you should die, Bessy, 
 leaving your husband a widower with children (or, for the 
 matter of that, if he should die, leaving you with some) 
 the children might come upon the Ticknells for the money 
 over again. Or Bane might come upon them, if he were 
 the one left ; or you, if you were. It was in that way, I 
 think Dick said, but my memory is not as clear as it used 
 to be." 
 
 "As if we should be so dishonourable! Besides — there 
 could be no possibility of claiming the money twice. Having 
 received it once, the Ticknells would hold our receipt 
 for it." 
 
 Mr. North shook his head. " The law is full of quips and 
 turns, Bessy. If the trustees paid over this money to you and 
 your husband now, against the provisions of the tontine deed, 
 I suppose it is at least a nice question whether the survivor of 
 you could not compel them to pay it again." 
 
 Bessy held her breath. " Do you think they could be com- 
 pelled, papa ? " 
 
 "Well, I don't know, Bessy. I fancy perhaps they might 
 be. Dick says they are right, as prudent men, to refuse. One 
 thing you and Oliver may rest assured of, my dear — that, 
 under the doubt, the Ticknells will never be got to do it as 
 long as oak and ash grow." 
 
 Bessy Rane sighed, and began to tie her bonnet. She had 
 no idea that the paying of the money would involve the 
 trustees in any liability, real or fancied, and hope went out of 
 her from this moment. By nature she was as just as Richard ; 
 and she could not henceforth even wish that the bankers should 
 incur the risk. 
 
 "Dick's indoors, my dear, if you'd like to ask him what 
 Thomas Ticknell said ; he would explain it to you better than 
 I have. No haste now, to go off in a morning : there's no 
 works open to go to." 
 
 " I have heard enough, papa; I quite understand it now," 
 was Mrs. Rane's answer. "It will be a dreadful disappointment 
 to Oliver when he hears that no chance, or hope, is left. It 
 would have been — oh such a help to us." 
 
 " He is not getting on very well, is he, Bessy ? " 
 
202 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " No. Especially since the strike set in. The men can't 
 pay." 
 
 " Seeley mnst feel it as well as Oliver." 
 
 "Not half as ranch ; not a qnarter. His practice chiefly lies 
 amid the richer classes. Well, we mnst have patience. As 
 Oliver says, Fortnne does not seem to smile npon ns just now." 
 
 "If I-conld pnt a hundred-pound note, or so, into yonr 
 hand, while these bad times are being tided over, I'd do it, 
 Bessy, with all my heart. But I can't. Tell Oliver so. The 
 strike is bringing ns no end of embarrassment, and I don't 
 know where it will end. It was bad enough before, as you 
 remember, Bessy : but we had always Richard as a refuge." 
 
 "Richard will take care of youstill, papa; don't be troubled; 
 in some way or the other, I am sure he will. As to ourselves, we 
 are young, and can wait for the good time coming." 
 
 Very cheerily she spoke. And perhaps felt so. Bessy's 
 gentle nature held a great deal of sunshine. 
 
 " I wonder Oliver's mother does not help him," remarked 
 Mr. North. 
 
 " Her will would be glad to do it, papa, but she lives up to 
 every farthing of her income : beyond it, I fancy, sometimes. 
 She has luxuries around her, and her travelling about costs a 
 good deal. Mrs. Cumberland is not one to cut and contrive, or 
 to put up with small lodgings on her different sojourns. Some- 
 times, as you know, she travels post : it is easier, she says ; 
 and that is very expensive." 
 
 "You'll come indoors a bit, won't you, Bessy?" said Mr. 
 North as she rose. "Miss Field and Matilda were sitting in 
 the hall just now, for coolness." 
 
 She hesitated for a moment, and then walked on by his side. 
 Mrs. Rane's visits to the Hall were rare. Madam had not been 
 cordial with her since her marriage ; and she had never once 
 condescended to enter Bessy's home. 
 
 The hall was empty. Bessy was about to enter the drawing- 
 room in seargh of Matilda, when the door opened to give 
 Madam egress. The two touched each other. Madam started 
 haughtily, stepped back, and shut the door in Bessy's face. 
 Next moment, a hand was extended over Bessy's shoulder, 
 and threw it wide. 
 
 "By yonr leave, Madam," said Richard North calmly. 
 "Room for my sister." 
 
 He marshalled her in as though she had been a duchess, 
 iiladam, drawing her lace shawl around her shoulders, swept 
 
The Tontine. 203 
 
 majestically out, vouchsafing neither word nor look. It was 
 nothing more than the contempt often dealt to Bessy : but 
 Richard's blood went up in a boil. 
 
 That the refusal of the trustees to part with the funds of the 
 tontine was irrevocable, there could be no doubt : nevertheless, 
 Oliver Rane declined to see it. The matter got wind, as 
 nearly everything else seemed to do in Dallory, and many of 
 the public took his part. It was a frightful shame, they 
 thought, that a man and his wife could not be let enjoy to- 
 gether the money that was their due, but must wait for one„or 
 the other's death before they got it. Jelly's tongue made itself 
 particularly busy. Dr. Rane was not a favourite of hers on the 
 whole, but she espoused his cause warmly in this. 
 
 " It's such a temptation," remarked Jelly to a select few, 
 one night at Ketler's, whither she had betaken herself to blow 
 up the man for continuing to hold out on strike, to which 
 movement Jelly was a determined foe. 
 
 "A temptation?" rejoined Tim Wilks respectfully, who 
 made one of her audience. " In what way, Miss Jelly ?" 
 
 " In what way," retorted Jelly with some scorn. " Why in 
 the way of stealing the money, if it is to be got at ; or of 
 punching those two old bankers' heads. When a man's kept 
 out of his own through nothing but some naggering crotchet, 
 it's enough to make him feel desperate, Tim Wilks." 
 
 " So it is, miss," acquiesced meek Timothy. 
 
 "If my mistress withheld my wages from me — which it's 
 twenty pounds a year, and her left-off silks — I should fight 
 at it, I know : perhaps take 'em. And this is two thousand 
 pounds." 
 
 " Two thousand pounds ! " ejaculated honest Ketler in a low 
 tone of reverence, as he lifted his hands. "And for the doctor 
 to be kept out of it because his wife's not dead ! It is a shame." 
 
 " I'd not say, either, but it might bring another sort of 
 temptation to some men, besides those mentioned by Miss 
 Jelly," put in Timothy Wilks with hesitation. 
 
 " And pray what would that be ? " demanded Jelly in a tart 
 voice — for she made it a point to keep Timothy under before 
 company. 
 
 " The putting of his wife out of the way on purpose to get 
 the money, Miss Jelly," spoke Tim with deprecation. And 
 the words caused a sudden pause. 
 
 "You — you don't mean the murdering of her !" shrieked 
 Mis. Ketler, who was a timid woman and apt to be startled. 
 
204 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Yes I did," replied Timothy Wilks. " Some might bo 
 found to do it. No offence to Dr. Rane. I'm putting the 
 supposititious case of a bad man ; not of him." 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 AT THE SEA-SIDE. 
 
 The summer was slowly passing. At a small and obscure 
 sea-side place on the East coast was located Mrs. Cumber- 
 land. She bad engaged part of one of the few good houses 
 there — houses that let at an enormous price in the season to 
 visitors — and lived in it with Ellen Adair, and her maid to 
 wait on her. Not Jelly this time, but the housemaid Ann. 
 Mrs. Cumberland's own house at Dallory was being painted 
 inside during her absence. She had deemed it well to leave 
 Jelly in charge : and so brought Ann instead. 
 
 They had been in this place, Eastsea, for some weeks now ; 
 and Ellen privately believed that this sojourn was never com- 
 ing to an end. Any thing more wearisome than it was to her, 
 could not have been found. Arthur Bohun was in London at 
 his uncle's, where he had been staying for some time. It was 
 several weeks since he and Ellen had met: to her it seemed 
 as many months. James Bohun was still ill, but fluctuated 
 much; at one time appearing to be past recovery, at another 
 as if he were all but well. He would not part with Arthur ; 
 Sir Nash said he must not think of leaving. Under the 
 circumstances, Arthur did not see his way clear to get 
 away. 
 
 Another person was fluctuating. And that was Mrs. Cum- 
 berland. Her complaint, connected with the heart, was just 
 one of those that may snap life suddenly, or allow it to be pro- 
 longed for years. That she was gradually growing worse, 
 there could not be a doubt of ; but it was by almost impercep- 
 tible degrees. No change could be noted from day to day ; it 
 was only by comparing her present state with what it had been 
 three, or six, or twelve months before, that the decay could be 
 seen. Sometimes, for days together, she would feel very ill, 
 be quite unable to quit her room ; and again she would have 
 an interval of ease, almost of seeming recovery, and walk and 
 drive out daily. Dr. Rane had come over twice to see his 
 mother : staying but a few hours. His opinion was, that she 
 might yet, with care, live for years ; and probably many. At 
 
At the Sea-side. 205 
 
 the same time, he knew that there cotild he, speaking only in 
 a medical point of view, no certainty of it. 
 
 It was during this sojonrn at Eastsea that Mrs. Cnmber- 
 land received news from Mr. Adair. He wrote in answer to 
 Mrs. Cumberland's letter — the first of the two letters already 
 told of — wherein she had spoken of the probability of Ellen's 
 being sought in marriage by a gentleman every way desirable, 
 but in which she had omitted, probably from inadvertence, to 
 mention the gentleman's name. Mr. Adair's answer, now 
 received, was to the effect that — fully relying on Mrs. Cum- 
 berland's judgment — he could not desire better for hii 
 daughter than that so suitable a marriage should be entered 
 into ; and accorded it his cordial consent. 
 
 But this involved a most unhappy contretemps : of which 
 no one as yet was, or could be, conscious. That first letter of 
 Mrs. Cumberland's had alluded to Mr. Craves : she took this 
 consent to apply to Arthur Bohun. It takes time, as every- 
 body knows, for a letter to get to Australia from England and 
 an answer to come back again. Whether, during the lapse of 
 weeks, Mrs. Cumberland actually forgot that her first letter 
 had applied to Mr. Graves; or whether in her sickness, 
 memory had grown confused between the two, and she re- 
 membered only the last letter, must ever remain a question. 
 Certain it was, that she took this present cordial approbation 
 of Mr. Adair's to apply to Arthur Bohun. It might be, that 
 she had entirely forgotten having written about Mr. Graves. 
 
 With her usual reticence, she said nothing to Ellen Adair. 
 Not a word. Time enough for that when Arthur Bohun 
 should speak — if he ever did speak. She held the consent 
 ready for use if necessity ever required it ; and was at ease. 
 
 " Ellen, how you mope ! " 
 
 Ellen Adair looked up, faintly blushing at the abrupt charge, 
 which came from Mrs. Cumberland. 
 
 " Mope ! " exclaimed Ellen. 
 
 " My dear, you do nothing else. I don't think you like 
 Eastsea." 
 
 " Not very much. At least — it is rather dull." 
 
 " Well, I suppose you can but find it so ; confined in-doors 
 half my time, as I am. At Niton you had often Captain 
 Bohun to go out with : now you have to go alone." 
 
 Ellen turned away, a soft blush rising to her face at the 
 remembrance of Niton. " Shall you be going home soon, 
 do you think, Mrs. Cumberland ? " she asked. 
 
206 Bessy Rane. 
 
 "Oh dear no. I had a note from Jelly this morning, and 
 she says the honse is not half done. Lazy idlers, workpeople 
 are ! once yon get them into a place yon can't get them ont. 
 Bnt if Jelly were ready for ns I should not go. This air is 
 doing me good on the whole. Perhaps I shall stay the winter 
 here." 
 
 Ellen's heart fell within her. All the antnmn in this place, 
 that verily seemed to her like the fag end of the world, and 
 all the winter ! Should she ever again get the chance of seeing 
 her heart's love, Arthur Bohun ? And he ? — perhaps he was 
 forgetting her. 
 
 "Do you feel well enough to come out, Mrs. Cumber- 
 land ? " 
 
 " No. I am sorry, Ellen, but you must go alone. Gret your 
 things on at once, child : the afternoon will be passing." 
 
 Ellen sighed. It was of no moment to her whether she 
 went out or stayed in : she obeyed mechanically, and went 
 forth. Quite alone. Generally speaking Ann attended her, 
 but the servant was this afternoon wanted by her mistress. 
 
 The sunshine played in small sparkles on the clear blue sea, 
 ever changing its hue for one different and more beautiful, as 
 the light autumn clouds floated above it in the sky. Ellen 
 Adair sat in a sheltered place and watched it. It was her 
 favourite seat : one hewn out of the rocks, and apparently fre- 
 quented only by herself, as she had never yet been disturbed 
 in it. Except the small strip of beach before her, nothing 
 was to be seen from it but the sea and the sky. Over -head, 
 she could hear the children's voices at play : the tide below 
 was coming in with gentle monotony. Ellen had a book with 
 her, and she had her diary ; she had read a few pages in the , 
 one, she had written some lines in pencil in the other : and so 
 the hours passed, and she was utterly dreary. The weary day 
 was but the type of the other weary days that at present made 
 the sum total. 
 
 " Will it ever come to an end ? " she murmured, having 
 watched a tiny pleasure-boat shoot past and disappear, leaving 
 her to her silent solitude. " Shall we ever get back to Dallory 
 Ham, and — and the friends that live there? I suppose a 
 winter might be got through in this place, and one be abive at 
 the end of it, but " 
 
 A gentleman in deep mourning walking by on the strip of 
 beach, looking this way, looking that. Ellen's thoughts were 
 cut short summarily, and she rose with a faint cry : the cry of 
 
At the Sea-side. 207 
 
 intense joy that is so near akin in its sound to that of exquisite 
 pain. 
 
 For it was no other than Captain Arthur Bohun. He had 
 not heard it ; but he saw her ; it was for her he had been 
 looking : and he turned to her with an outstretched hand. 
 For a moment she felt utterly bewildered, half doubting the 
 reality of the vision. But oh yes, it was he ; it was he ! The 
 sea, and the sky, and the rocks, and the monotony — they had 
 all changed into paradise. 
 
 "How do you do, Ellen?" 
 
 Nothing more than this commonplace greeting was spoken. 
 They stood in silence, their hands clasped. His lips were 
 quivering slightly, proving how ardent was the feeling that 
 stirred him, at this, their renewed meeting ; Ellen, blushing 
 and paling by turns, was agitated almost to pain. A long look 
 in each other's eyes : both saw what the meeting was to the 
 other. Sitting down quietly by her side on the ledge of rock, 
 he accounted for his unexpected appearance. On his arrival 
 at Eastsea that afternoon, he had gone at once to call at Mrs. 
 Cumberland's. Ann said, her mistress was lying down, and 
 that Miss Adair was on the beach. 
 
 ' ' Did you think I was never coming to see you, Ellen ? I did. 
 I could not get away from my uncle's while James was so ill." 
 
 " Is he — dead ? " hesitated. Helen, looking pointedly at the 
 black clothes. 
 
 " Oh no. It is a cousin of Sir Nash's and of my father's 
 who is dead : a very old man who has lived for years in the 
 south of France. James Bohun is very much better." 
 
 " I thought, by the deep mourning, it must be he." 
 
 " Is it deep ? I suppose it looks so, being all black. We 
 men cannot put on what you ladies call half mourning. 
 Neither should I wish to in the present instance, for the good 
 old man has been generous to me." 
 
 They fell into silence, each feeling the rapture of the other's 
 presence, after the prolonged separation, as something more 
 than human. So intense was it that Ellen, at least, might have 
 been content to die in it there and then. The sea changed ever 
 its beautiful colours, the sky seemed to smile on them, the 
 children played over-head, a flute from some unseen boat in 
 the distance was playing softly. No : Eden never could have 
 been sweeter than this. 
 
 " What have you been doing, all this while by yourself at 
 Eastsea ? " he at length asked her. 
 
208 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Very much what I am now, I think — sitting here to watch 
 the sea," she answered. " There has been nothing else to do. 
 It was always dull." 
 
 " Has Mrs. Cumberland had any visitors ? " 
 
 " Dr. Rane has been here twice. He gives a poor account 
 of things at Dallory. The strike shows no signs of coming to 
 an end ; and the men are in want." 
 
 " So Dick says. I get a letter from him sometimes." 
 
 A great amount of talking, this. They lapsed into silence 
 again. The tide tnrned ; a big steamer went by in the distance. 
 
 " Do you hear that, Ellen ? " 
 
 A man's soft tenor voice had struck up a love song over- 
 head : " Ellen Adair." Robin Adair, as the world more often 
 has' it. Arthur Bohun used to hear it sung as "Ellin Adair," 
 when he was recovering from his wound in Ireland ; the Irish 
 insisted on it that that was the original song ; and he had 
 sometimes got Ellen to sing it so for him since. The children 
 ceased their play ; the verses went on, and they, these unseen 
 two below the rocks, listened to the end, catching every word 
 distinctly. 
 
 " Yet her I loved so well, 
 
 Still in my heart shall dwelL 
 Oh! I shall ne'er forget 
 Ellen Adair." 
 
 " Nor I," softly spoke Arthur, as the refrain died away. 
 
 They quitted the seat at length. As they passed through 
 the town, the man was singing before a house : " The Minstrel 
 Boy." His hat was in his hand ; he looked as though he had 
 seen better days and might have been a gentleman once. 
 Captain Bohun put a shilling into the hat. 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland was up when they got in. Ann had told 
 her of Captain Bohun's appearance and that he had gone to 
 find Miss Adair. Mrs. Cumberland took a few minutes for 
 consideration, and then decided on her course of conduct, 
 and that was to speak to Captain Bohun. 
 
 It might have been all very well, while she was armed with 
 no authority, tacitly to countenance Captain Bohun's frequent 
 visits ; but now that she had authority, she deemed it right, in 
 justice to Ellen, to take a different standing. If Captain 
 Bohun had serious intentions, well and good ; if not, she 
 should request him to bring the intimacy to a close. Feeling 
 the responsibility that lay upon her as the sole guardian in 
 Europe of Ellen Adair, she thought she should be justified in 
 
At the Sea-side. 209 
 
 saying thus much, for, unless Arthur Bohun proposed to make 
 the young lady his wife, it was cruel to allow her to love him. 
 
 When Mrs. Cumberland once made her mind up to any 
 resolve, she did not usually lose time in putting it in practice, 
 and she lost none here. Taking the opportunity this same 
 evening, when Ellen was out of the room, sent from it by her- 
 self on some errand of excuse, she spoke to Captain Bohun. 
 
 But the most fastidious man living could not have taken 
 exception to what she said. She spoke entirely as a lady. 
 Captain Bohun's appearance that day at Eastsea — coupled 
 with the remembrance of his frequent sojourns at Niton when 
 they were staying there, and his constant visits to her house 
 at Dallory Ham — had revived a faint idea that had some- 
 times presented itself to her mind, namely, that he might be 
 growing attached to Ellen Adair. Mrs. Cumberland did not 
 wish to enlarge on this point ; it might be, or it might not 
 be; Captain Bohun alone knew; perhaps she was wholly 
 mistaken ; all she wished to say was this — that if Captain 
 Bohun had no future thoughts in regard to Miss Adair, she 
 must request him to terminate his intimacy at once. When 
 she got back to Dallory Ham she would be glad to see him 
 at her house occasionally, just as any other visitor; but 
 nothing more. 
 
 To this Arthur Bohun answered candidly enough. He did 
 like Ellen Adair ; if circumstances permitted he would be 
 only too glad to make her his wife ; but, as Mrs. Cumberland 
 knew, he had hitherto been very poor. As he pleased, Mrs. 
 Cumberland remarked ; the matter was entirely for his own 
 consideration ; she did not attempt to press it, one way or the 
 other ; if he saw no chance of his circumstances improving, 
 he should freely say so, and terminate his visits ; she could 
 not allow Ellen to be played with. And upon that, Arthur 
 begged to have the night for reflection ; he would see Mrs. 
 Cumberland in the morning, and give her his decision. 
 
 It was left at that. When Ellen returned to the room — 
 entirely unsuspicious of what had been said during her few 
 minutes' absence from it — Captain Bohun took his departure. 
 Arrived at the hotel where he had put up, he devoted himself 
 to the consideration of the grave question, weighing it in all 
 its bearings as fairly as his love for Ellen allowed him to 
 do. Of course that biassed him. 
 
 He had enough to marry upon now. By the death of the 
 relative for whom he was in mourning:, h* 1 had come into 
 
 P 
 
210 Bessy Rane. 
 
 about eight hundred a year. With his own income, that 
 made twelve. Quite sufficient to begin upon, though he was 
 a Bohun. But— there were deterring considerations. In some 
 way, as he suspected, his mother, in her fear of Ellen Adair, 
 had contrived to instil a suspicion into the mind of Sir Nash, 
 that Arthur, unless he were closely controlled, might be 
 making a very disgraceful mesalliance. Sir Nash had alL 
 the pride of the Bohuns, and it frightened him. He spoke to ' 
 Arthur, telling him that unless he married entirely to the 
 approbation of his family, he should never allow him to suc- 
 ceed to the estates. No, nor to the title if he could help it. 
 If James died, he, Sir Nash, would marry first, and leave 
 direct heirs. 
 
 This, it was, that now crippled the decision of Arthur. 
 One fact was known to him — that James Bohun, since this 
 illness set in, had joined his father in cutting off the entail, so 
 that the threat of leaving the estates away from Arthur (even 
 though he succeeded to the title) was- easy of accomplish- 
 ment. What was to be done ? Part with Ellen Adair he 
 could not. Oh, if he might but make her his wife without 
 the world knowing it ; the world abroad, and the world at 
 home ! Might this be ? Very slowly Arthur Bohun arrived 
 at a conclusion — that the one only plan, if Mrs. Cumberland 
 and Ellen would accede to it, was a private marriage. 
 
 Arguments are so easy when inclination lies with them. 
 The future looks very much as we ourselves paint it. They 
 might be married at once, here at Eastsea. If James Bohun 
 recovered and lived, why there could be no question of the 
 title or the estates lapsing to Arthur, and he might avow his 
 marriage as soon as he pleased. If James died, he should not, 
 as he fully believed, have to conceal it long, for he thought 
 Sir Nash's life quite as precarious as James's. A few months, 
 perhaps only weeks, and he might be able to tell the world 
 that Ellen was his wife. He felt an inclination to whisper it 
 beforehand to his good friend and aunt, Miss Bohun. But, 
 he must first of all ascertain from Mrs. Cumberland what was 
 the social standing of Mr. Adair. Unless he were a gentleman 
 undeniable, Ellen could be no fit wife for a Bohun. ( Arthur, 
 swayed by his love, had hitherto been content to take this 
 assumed fact for granted ; now he saw the necessity of ascer- 
 taining it more explicitly. It was not that he had any real 
 doubt, only it was but right to make sure. 
 
 Mr. Adair held some post under the British Government, 
 

 A t the Sea-side. 2 1 1 
 
 formerly in India, for a long while now in Australia. His 
 wife bad died young ; his only child, Ellen, had been sent to 
 a first-class school in England for her education. Upon its 
 completion, Mr. Adair had begged of Mrs. Cumberland to 
 receive her ; he had some floating thoughts of returning home 
 himself, so that he did not wish Ellen to go out to him. An 
 impression was afloat in Dallory that Ellen Adair would 
 inherit a good fortune ; also that Mrs. Cumberland received 
 liberal remuneration for the expenses of the young lady. 
 These generalities Arthur Bohun knew ; but he knew no 
 more. 
 
 He paid the promised visit to Mrs. Cumberland in the 
 morning. Ellen was on the beach with the maid ; there was 
 no interruption, and their converse was long and confidential. 
 Heaven alone knew how Arthur Bohun succeeded in getting 
 Mrs. Cumberland to believe in the necessity for the marriage 
 being kept private. He did succeed. Bat he used no subter- 
 fuge ; he frankly told of the prejudice his mother had taken 
 against Ellen Adair, and that she had gained the ear of Sir 
 Nash. In short, the same arguments he had used to himself 
 the previous evening, he urged now. Mrs. Cumberland : — 
 naturally biassed against Madam for the injury she strove to 
 work Dr. Rane — thought it a frightful shame that she should 
 strive to destroy the happiness and prospects of her own son 
 Arthur, and she sympathised with him warmly,. It was thi3 
 feeling that rendered her more easy than she would otherwise 
 have been — in short, that made her give her consent to 
 Arthur's plan. To counteract the would-be bitter wrong 
 contemplated by Mrs. North, she considered would be a 
 merit on Arthur's part, instead of a sin. And then, wLen 
 things were so far settled, and the speedy marriage deter- 
 mined on, Mrs. Cumberland astonished Captain Bohun by 
 putting Mr. Adair's letter into his hands, explaining how it 
 came to be received, and what she had written to that gentle- 
 man to call it forth. " So that her father's blessing will rest 
 on the marriage," remarked Mrs. Cumberland ; " but for that 
 fact, I could not have consented to a private one." 
 
 This gave Arthur the opportunity to ask about the posi- 
 tion of Mr. Adair, which, in the heat of argument, he had 
 been forgetting. Certainly he was a gentleman, Mrs. Cum- 
 berland answered, and of very good Scotch family. Major 
 Bohjin, Mr. Adair, and her own husband, George Cuniber- 
 berland, had been firm friends in India at the time of Major 
 
212 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Bohun's death. She could not help thinking, she added in 
 conclusion, that it was the remembrance of that early friend- 
 ship which induced Mr. Adair to give so ready and cordial a 
 consent to his daughter's union with Major Bohun's son. 
 
 And so there the matter ended, all couleur-de-rose ; Arthur 
 believing that there could be no possible objection to his 
 marrying Ellen Adair; nay, that the way had been most 
 markedly paved for it through this letter of Mr. Adair's ; 
 Mrs. Cumberland deeming that she was not indiscreet in per- 
 mitting the marriage to be a private one. Both were unsus- 
 picious as the day. He, that there existed any real bar ; she, 
 that Mr. Adair's consent applied to a very different man from 
 Arthur Bohun. 
 
 Captain Bohun went out from Mrs. Cumberland's in search 
 of Ellen, with the light of love flushing his cheeks. He 
 found her in the same favourite sheltered spot, hedged in 
 from the gaze of the world. Again alone. The servant had 
 gone to the shops, ribbon buying. Their salutations hitherto 
 had been nothing but decorum and formality, as witness that 
 of the previous day. 
 
 " Good morning," said Ellen, rising and holding out her 
 hand. 
 
 Instead of taking it, he took Tier. Took her in his arms 
 with a half-cry of pent-up emotion, and laid her sweet face 
 upon his breast, kissing it with impassioned kisses. Ellen, 
 utterly astonished, could not get away. 
 
 " Do not shrink from me, Ellen. You are going to be my 
 wife." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A 1»A.ST PROPOSAL. 
 
 Affaies grew more unsatisfactory at Dallory as the weeks 
 went on. The strike continued ; the men utterly refusing to 
 return to work except on their own terms, or, rather, the 
 Trades' Union refusing to allow them. Supplies to them 
 became more scanty. If not actual famine, something near 
 akin to it began to reign. North Inlet, once so prosperous, 
 looked like a half -starved place out at elbows — the same as 
 its inhabitants. Oh, what senseless folly tt was ! What 
 would it end in ? Mrs. Gass had tired of going amid the 
 men to tell them her mind and try to bring them to reason ; 
 "but Miss Dallory went. Miss Dallory could make no impres- 
 
A Last Proposal. 213 
 
 sion whatever. The men were moody, miserable, three parts 
 starved : they would have been glad to go back to work again 
 almost on no pay at all, only as a relief to the present weary 
 idleness ; but they belonged to the famous Trades' Union now, 
 and must obey its dictates. Mary Dallory got in a passion 
 sometimes, and asked whether they were men, or cravens, that 
 they had no pity for their poor helpless children. 
 
 One day Mrs. Gass and Miss Dallory went forth together. 
 Not of premeditation. One of Ketler's children was ill and 
 weakly ; incipient consumption, Dr. Bane said ; she was a 
 sweet little child, mild and gentle ; and Miss Dallory would 
 sometimes carry her strengthening things. It was a frightful 
 shame, she would tell Ketler, that he should let even this poor 
 sick little one starve : and Ketler humbly acknowledged to 
 his own heart that the child toas starving ; and felt it to his 
 backbone. The man was as well meaning a man as heaven 
 ever sent into the world ; anxious to do his duty : but he had 
 signed himself a member of the Trades' Union, and was com- 
 pletely helpless. 
 
 Miss Dallory wore a print gown, and was altogether a vast 
 deal less fine than Jelly. She had a small basket in her hand, 
 containing fresh eggs. As she passed Mrs. Gass's that lady 
 was standing at her open parlour window, in all the glory ol 
 a gorgeous green satin robe, and white bonnet with bird-of- 
 paradise feather. She dearly loved rich clothes, and saw no 
 reason why she should not wear them. 
 
 "Where be you bound to, my dear ? " asked the grandly- 
 dressed lady, as Mary stopped. 
 
 "I want to take these eggs to little Cissy Ketler. Mrs. 
 Gass, I cannot think what is to become of all the poor children 
 if this state of things should last much longer." 
 
 " I'm sure I can't. It goes again the grain to see 'em want ; 
 but when we give 'em food or help, it's just so much premium 
 offered to the father's incorrigible obstinacy and idleness, my 
 dear." 
 
 " But the child is sick," said Mary Dallory. " And so are 
 many other children." 
 
 " They'll be worse afore long. My dear, I was not a talking 
 at you, in saying that. But I don't see where it's all to end. 
 We can't set up hospitals for the children and women, even 
 with the best will to do it. And the will, I, for one, have 
 not. Once get their wives and children took care of, and the 
 men 'ud lead the lives of gentlemen to the close o' the chapter. 
 
214 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Here ; I'll walk with you, my dear ; and we can talk going 
 along." 
 
 She canie forth, drawing on her lemon-colonred gloves : 
 and they went towards Ketler's. North Inlet looked deserted 
 to-day. Not a man was lounging in it. The few stragglers 
 to he seen were walking along briskly in the direction of the 
 works ; as if they had business on hand, and were without 
 their pipes. Mrs. Gass arrested one who was passing her. 
 
 " What's up, Dawson ? " 
 
 " We've been called together, ma'am, to meet Mr. Richard 
 North. He have got som'at to say to us. Happen, maybe, 
 he's a going to give in at last." 
 
 "Is he!" retorted Mrs. Grass. "I don't think you need 
 worrit your inside with that idea, Dawson. It's a deal more 
 likely that he's going to warn you he'll sell the works out and 
 out — if he can get any fool to buy 'em." 
 
 The man passed on. Mrs. Gass, as she turned to speak to 
 Miss Dallory, gave a flourish with her small white lace parasol 
 and a toss to the bird-of -paradise. 
 
 " Had anybody told me men Gould be so obstinate, in regard 
 to thinking themselves in the right, I'd not have believed it : 
 but seeing's believing. My dear, suppose we just step on to 
 the works, and learn what the matter is that Mr. Richard has 
 in hand." 
 
 The men, going in at the iron gates, branched round to their 
 own entrance. Mrs. Gass took Miss Dallory to a private one. It 
 led at once into what might now be called the audience chamber, 
 for Richard North was already haranguing the men in it : a 
 long and rather narrow room, with a counter running across 
 it. It used to be the pay -room of the men : perhaps some of 
 them, entering it now, recalled those prosperous days with a 
 sigh. Richard North did not see the ladies come in. He 
 stood with his back to them, in his usual every-day attire, a 
 plain black frock coat and grey trousers, with fine white linen. 
 His hands rested on the counter as he talked to the men, who 
 faced him on the other side of it ; a crowd of them, all with 
 attentive countenances.' Mrs. Gass signed to Miss Dallory to 
 halt ; not to conceal themselves from. Richard, but simply lest 
 their advance should interrupt what he was saying. And so 
 they remained listening, Richard unconscious that he had any 
 other audience than his workpeople. 
 
 The matter was this. A contract had just been offered to 
 North and Gass. It was one of value, and would certainly, if 
 
A Last Proposal. 215 
 
 accepted, keep the men employed for some time. It was offered 
 at a certain price. Richard North made his calculations and 
 found that he could accept it, provided the men would work cm 
 the former terms : hut he could not if the rate of wages had to 
 he raised. Considering the present hopeless condition of the 
 men, imagining that they must have had pretty nearly suffi- 
 cient experience of idleness and empty cupboards to bring them 
 to, at least, exercise reason, he determined to lay the proposal 
 before them — that they might accept or reject it. In a clear 
 and concise manner he stated this, and the men heard him 
 respectfully to the end. One of them then advanced a few steps 
 before the rest, and answered. Answered without the smallest 
 deliberation ; without so much as a pretence of inquiring what 
 the feelings of his fellows might be. 
 
 " We can't do it, sir." 
 
 Richard North raised his hand for silence, as if the man had 
 spoken before his time. 
 
 " Do you fully understand the case in all its bearings ? " re- 
 sumed Richard : "if not, take time to reflect until you do 
 understand it. Look at it comprehensively ; take into con- 
 sideration the future as well as the present. Listen again. 
 This contract has been offered me : it is a good one, as you 
 must know. It will set our works going again ; it will be the 
 means of bringing back the business that seems to be drifting 
 more hopelessly away from us day by day. It will provide 
 you with employment, with wages that you not so long ago 
 thought liberal ; and will place you again in what may be 
 called prosperity — great prosperity as compared with what 
 exists at present. Your homes may be homes of plenty again, 
 your children can eat and drink. In short, both to you and 
 to me, this contract offers just the turn of the tide. I wish to 
 accept it : I see nothing but ruin before my father and myself 
 if I cannot : what I see before you I do not care to speak 
 of, if you are 'not wise enough to see it for yourselves. The 
 decision lies with you, unfortunately ; I wish it lay with 
 myself. Shall I take it, or shall I not ? " 
 
 " We couldn't return at them rate of wages, nohow," spoke 
 up a voice from the thick of the throng. 
 
 " It is the last chance that I shall offer you," proceeded 
 Richard. "For your sakes I would strongly advise you to 
 take it. Heaven is my witness that I am honest in saying 
 1 for your sakes.' We have been associated together for many 
 years, and I cannot see the breaking up of old ties without 
 
216 Bessy Rane. 
 
 first using every effort to re-unite them. I must give my 
 answer to-morrow, and accept this work or reject it. Little 
 time is allowed me for decision, therefore I am nnable to give 
 much to you. Virtually the acceptation or rejection lies with 
 you ; for, without you, I could not fulfil it : but I caianot help 
 a remark in passing, that for such a state of things to exist 
 argues something rotten at the core in the relations between 
 master and men. At six o'clock to-morrow morning the 
 great bell shall be rung, calling you to work as formerly. My 
 men, I hope you will all respond to it." 
 
 No, not at the terms offered, was the answer gathered by 
 Richard North from the buzz that rose around. 
 
 " I cannot offer you better." 
 
 " No — and no. Not at them." 
 
 " I have said that this is the last chance," repeated Richard. 
 " I shall never give you the option of working for me again." 
 
 The men couldn't help that. (Thefact was, they only three 
 parts believed it.) One ventured a supposition that if the 
 works were sold, the new firm that bought might give them 
 work on new terms. 
 
 " No," said Richard North. " I am very different from 
 you, my men. You see work at your hand, and will not do it. 
 You look forward to the future with (as I must suppose) easy 
 apathy, giving neither care nor anxiety how you and your 
 families are to live. I, on the contrary, am only anxious to 
 work ; at a reduced rate of profit, on a smaller scale if it must 
 be ; but, any way, to work. Night after night I lie awake, 
 tormented with lively apprehensions for the future. What 
 seemed, when you first turned out, to be a mere temporary 
 stoppage, that reason and good sense on both our sides could 
 not fail to rectify, has assumed gigantic proportions and a 
 permanent aspect. After some time I gave way ; offering to 
 split the difference, as to wages, if you would return " 
 
 " But we wanted the whole," came an interruption. " And 
 you didn't give way as to time." 
 
 " I could not do either," said Richard North, firmly. "I 
 offered all I was able. That is a thing of the past : let it go. 
 I now make you this last and final offer ; and I think it only 
 fair to tell you what my course will be if you reject it. I shall 
 go over to Belgium and see if I cannot engage Belgian work- 
 men to come here and take your places." 
 
 A dead silence fell on the room. Ketler broke it. 
 
 *' You'd surely not do that, sir ! " 
 
A Last Proposal. 217 
 
 " Not do it ! Why you force it on me. I must either get a 
 new set of men, or else give up the works entirely. As I do 
 not feel inclined to the latter course, the former alone is open 
 to me." 
 
 " We'll have none o* them. Belgiums here ! " cried a threaten- 
 ing voice from the outskirts of the crowd. 
 
 "Allow me to tell you, Thorns, to tell you all, that the 
 Belgians will not ask your leave to come," spoke Richard, 
 drawing his head to its full height. " Would you act the 
 part of dogs-in-the-manger ? I offer you the work ; offer 
 it now j and I heartily wish you to accept it, hut if you 
 do not, I shall certainly endeavour to get others here who will." 
 
 "Drat them Belgicks ! Who be they that they should 
 snatch the bread out of honest Englishmen's mouths ! " 
 
 "What are the honest Englishmen about, to let them 
 snatch it ? " retorted Richard. " Look here, my men ; 
 listen," he continued, as he leaned forward and raised his 
 hands impressively. " If you (I speak of the country's hands 
 collectively) refuse to work, it can signify very little to you 
 practically whether the work goes to Belgium (or elsewhere) 
 to be done, or whether strangers come and do it here. It 
 must end in one or the other." 
 
 "It shan't never end in them frogs o' foreigners coming 
 here," spoke Thorns again, vexed that his voice should have 
 been recognized by Richard North. And this second inter- 
 ruption was hissed down by his more sensible comrades; who 
 sharply bade him hold his tongue, and hear the master. 
 Richard put up his hand. 
 
 "We will take it, for the moment's argument, at what 
 Thorns says — that strangers would not, or should not, come 
 here. In that case the other result must supervene — that the 
 work of the country would pass away from it. It has already 
 begun to pass ; you know it, my men ; and so do your rulers 
 the Trades' Unions. How it affects their nerves I don't 
 pretend to say ; but, when once this tide of desolation has set 
 in fairly as a settled result, there won't be much need of 
 their agitation. As truly as that I live, as that I now stand 
 here and speak to you, I believe this will come. In different 
 parts of the country whole places are being dismantled — the 
 work has left it. Do you suppose North Inlet is the only spot 
 where the provision shops may as well be closed because the 
 men have no longer money to spend in them ? Any news- 
 paper you take up will tell you to the contrary. Read about 
 
218 Bessy Rane. 
 
 the ship -building in the East of London ; how it has gone 
 away, and whole colonies of men are left behind starving. 
 Gone to Scotland ; to the banks of the Tyne ; gone anywhere 
 that men can be found to work. It is the same with other 
 trades. Whose fault is this ? — Why the men's own." 
 
 Murmurs. " No. No." 
 
 "No! Why, here's a very present illustration of it. 
 Whose fault is it that my works here are shut up, and you are 
 living in idleness — or, we'll say, starving in idleness, if you 
 like the word better. If I am unable to take this present 
 contract now offered, and it goes elsewhere, whose doings will 
 it be, but yours ? Don't talk nonsense, my men. It is all 
 very well to say that the Trades' Unions don't allow you to 
 take the work. I have nothing to do with that : you and the 
 Unions may divide the responsibility between you." 
 
 " The fact is, sir, that we are not our own masters," said 
 Ketler. 
 
 " Just so. And it seems that you cannot, or will not, 
 emancipate yourselves from your new slavery and become again 
 your own masters. However, I did not call you together to 
 go over this old ground, but to lay before you the option of 
 returning to work. You have the day to consider of it. At 
 six o'clock to-morrow the call-bell will ring " 
 
 "'Twon't be of no use ringing it, sir," interrupted Ketler, 
 some sadness in his tone. 
 
 " At six o'clock to-morrow morning the call -bell here will 
 ring," authoritatively repeated Richard North. "You re- 
 spond to it and I shall heartily welcome you back. If you do 
 not, my refusal must go in, and the job will lapse from me. 
 If we part to-day it is our final parting, for I shall at once 
 take measures to secure a fresh set of workpeople. Though I 
 get but ten together at first, and the work I undertake be in- 
 significant in proportion, Til get them. It will be something 
 like beginning life again : and you will have forced it on me." 
 
 " And of all pig-headed idiotics that mortal master ever had 
 to deal with, sure you men be the worst ! " 
 
 The undignified interruption emanated from Mrs. Gass. 
 Richard looked round, in great surprise ; perhaps all the 
 greater when he saw also Miss Dallory. Mrs. Gass came 
 forward ; \ talking here, talking there ; her bird-of -paradise 
 nodding time to her words. As usual she told the men some 
 home truths ; sounding none the less forcibly because her lan- 
 guage was as their own — homely. 
 
A Last Proposal. 219 
 
 " Is this true ? " asked Miss Dallory in a low tone, as 
 Richard went back to shake hands with her. " Shall you 
 really re-open the works again with another set of men ? " 
 
 " Yes — if these do not return. It will be better, however 
 quietly I may havo to begin, than going out to seek my 
 fortune in the world. At least, I have lately been thinking so." 
 
 " Will the men return ? " 
 
 " I am afraid to give you my true opinion. Lest it should 
 seem like a bad omen." 
 
 " And now you have given it me. It is also mine. They 
 are blind, to infatuation." 
 
 " Not so much blind, I think, as that they are — I have just 
 said so to them — in a state of slavery from which they dare 
 not emancipate themselves." 
 
 "And who would? — under the specious promises of the 
 Trades' Unions ? Don't blame them too much, Mr. Richard 
 North. If some great strong body came down on you and me 
 with all kinds of agitation and golden promises for the future, 
 we might believe in them too." 
 
 Richard shook his head. "Not if the great strong body 
 lived by the agitation : and took our hard-earned money to 
 keep themselves and the golden promises going." 
 
 Mary Dallory laughed a little. " Shall you ring that great 
 bell in the morning ? " 
 
 " Yes. Certainly I shall." 
 
 "Ah, well — the men will only laugh at you from their 
 beds. But I daresay you can stand that. Oh dear me ! 
 What need there is that the next world should be great and 
 good, when this is so foolish a one ! " 
 
 The meeting had broken up. Richard North and some few 
 of the more intelligent of the men — those who had filled the 
 more important posts at the works — remained talking yet 
 together. Mrs. Grass, and Mary Dallory with her basket of 
 fresh eggs, went away together. 
 
 Women stood about with anxious faces, watching for the 
 news. They were tired of the strike : heartsick, as some of 
 them feelingly expressed it. Nothing teaches like experience : 
 the women were as eager for the strike at one time as ever the 
 men could be, believing it would bring a tide of prosperity in 
 its wake. They had not bargained for what it had brought : 
 misery, and dismantled homes, and semi-starvation. But for 
 being obliged to keep up as others did — as we all have to do, 
 whatever may be the life's struggles, the heart's bitter care — 
 
220 Bessy Rane. 
 
 there were those amidst them who would have lain down to 
 die in sheer hopelessness. 
 
 Mrs. Ketler stood at her door in a tattered black net cap — 
 the once tidy woman. She was shading the sun from her 
 eyes as she looked out for her husband. It prevented her 
 noticing the approach of the ladies ; and when they accosted 
 her she backed into her house in her timid fashion, rather 
 startled, attempting some words as by way of apology. The 
 little girl who was sick — a wan child of seven years old — was 
 being nursed by one somewhat older. Miss Dallory looked 
 round to see that there was a chair left capable of being sat 
 upon, and took the invalid on her own lap. Nearly all the 
 available things the house once contained had been parted 
 with ; either pledged or sold. Miss Dallory gave the eggs to 
 the mother, and a half -pint bottle of beef tea that lay at the 
 bottom of the basket. 
 
 " How is Cissy to-day ? " she asked tenderly of the child. 
 
 " Cissy tired," was the little one's answer. 
 
 " Has Cissy finished the strawberry-jam ? " 
 
 Cissy nodded. 
 
 " Then let your big boy come to Ham Court for some more," 
 said Miss Dallory, turning to the mother. 
 
 The " big boy " was the eldest. He had been employed at 
 the works, but was of course condemned to be idle, like the 
 rest. 
 
 " Bain't you pretty nigh tired of this sort o' thing," de- 
 manded Mrs. Gass, who had come to an anchor on a wooden 
 bucket turned upside-down. 
 
 The woman knew what she meant by " this sort o' thing," 
 and gave a groan. It was very expressive, showing how tired 
 she was of it, and how hopeless were prospects of any change. 
 
 " I've heard about the master's offer, ma'am ; but the men 
 mean to reject it," she said. " Smith stopped to tell* me as 
 he went by. The Lord above knows what is to become 
 of us!" 
 
 " If the men do reject it, they'll deserve to sit for the rest 
 of their lives on a iron plough-share with all its spikes stick- 
 ing into 'em," retorted Mrs. Grass — her own present uncom- 
 fortable seat probably suggesting the idea. "Any way, I 
 hope they'll never get the pricks out o' their consciences." 
 
 " It's the Trades' Union," said the woman in a low tone, 
 giving a scared look around. "The men can't do as they 
 would." 
 
A Last Proposal. 221 
 
 "Not do as they would!" echoed Mrs. Gass. "Don't 
 you pick tip their folly and retail it to me again, Susan 
 Ketler. If the men was fools enough to be drawed into 
 joining the Union at first — and I'd not blame 'em too much 
 for that, for the best of us gets led away at times by fair pro- 
 mises that turn out in the end to be smoke, or worse — they 
 ought not to be so pig headed as to keep there. Now that 
 they've seen what good that precious Trades' Union is doing 
 for 'em, and what it's likely to do, they should buckle on the 
 armour of then* common sense and leave it. Mr. Richard 
 North has this day gave them the opportunity of doing so. 
 Every man Jack of 'em can go back to work to-morrow morn- 
 ing at the ringing of the bell : and take up again with good 
 wages and comfort. If they refuse they'll be not so much 
 fools as something worse, Susan Ketler : they'll be desperately 
 wicked." 
 
 "They are afraid," murmured the woman. "They have 
 tied themselves by word and bond to the Union." 
 
 " Then let 'em untie theirselves. Don't tell me, Susan 
 Ketler. Afraid ? What of ? Could the Union kill 'em for 
 it ? Could the men be hung and drawn-and-quartered for 
 leaving it ? Who is the Union ? Giants that were born 
 with thunderbolts in their hands and power from the Creator 
 to use 'em to control people's wills ? — or just simple men like 
 themselves : workmen too once, some of 'em, if reports are 
 true. You'd better not try to come ever me with your falla- 
 cies, Susan Ketler. Facts is facts, and reason's reason. If 
 these men chose to do it, they could send the Trades' Union 
 to the right about this day, and come back, with one accord, 
 to work and their senses to-morrow. Who's to hinder it ?" 
 
 Susan Ketler ventured to say no more. Sho only wished 
 she dared say as much to her husband and the men. But, 
 what with common sense, as Mrs. Gass called it, on the one 
 side, and the Trades' Union sophistries pulling on the other, 
 the steering along in North Inlet just now was perplexing in 
 the extreme. Mrs. Gass rose from her uneasy seat, and de- 
 parted with Mary Dallory. 
 
222 Bessy Rane. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 AT NIGHT: UNDER THE CEDAR-TREE. 
 
 There was commotion that day in Dallory. An offer like 
 this of Richard North's, coming as it did in the very midst of 
 distress and prolonged privation, could not be rejected off-hand 
 without some dissenting voices. The few men who had not 
 joined the Union, who only wished to get back to work, 
 pleaded for its acceptance as if they were pleading for very 
 life. Strangers also — that is, gentlemen who had no direct 
 interest in the question — went about amid the men, striving 
 to impress upon them where their obligations lay, and what 
 their course ought to be. One of these was Dr. Rane. There 
 had been a good deal of sickness lately — when is there not 
 where privation reigns ? — and the doctor's services were in 
 much requisition. In every house he went that day, to every 
 workman with whom he came in contact, he spoke forcibly 
 and kindly : urging them most strongly not to reject this 
 opportunity of putting themselves right with the world. It 
 was one, he said, that might never occur again, if neglected 
 now. Dr. Rane, while blaming the men, was sorry for them ; 
 pityingly sorry for their wives and children. 
 
 He had had a very fatiguing day. When the dusk of even- 
 ing came on, he went and sat in the garden, tired and weary. 
 Bessy was gone to spend the evening at Ham Court with 
 Mary Dallory ; and the doctor had promised to fetch her 
 home. His ruminations still ran, as ever, on the getting away 
 from Dallory ; but at present there seemed to be little chance 
 of his doing it : unless he could dispose of his practice here, 
 he would not have the wherewithal to establish himself in 
 another place. Had Oliver Rane been a less healthy man 
 than he really was, he would long ago have thought himself 
 into a nervous fever. 
 
 It grew darker. Dr. Rane struck his repeater — for it was 
 too dark to see — wondering whether if was time to go for his 
 wife. No ; not quite he found ; he could delay another quar- 
 ter of an hour yet. And he lapsed back into his musings. 
 
 The seat he had chosen was underneath the great cedar- 
 tree at the extreme corner of the garden, close to the wire 
 fence that divided his ground from Mrs. Cumberland's, and 
 
At Night: under the Cedar-Tree. 223 
 
 also close against that lady's back door. An intervening 
 leafy foliage of clematis and woodbine would have hidden 
 him from anyone on the other side even at daylight, and Dr. 
 Kane felt as much in private as he would have been in an 
 African desert. From his own troubles his thoughts went 
 roaming off to other matters : to the long sojourn of his 
 mother at Eastsea, to wondering when Bhe meant to come 
 home ; and thence on to speculate on what the workmen's 
 answer to Richard North's call would be. 
 
 " Will they show the white feather still ? and it is nothing 
 less, this cowardly grovelling to the dictates of the Union," 
 soliloquised Dr. Rane ; "or will they respond to Dick like 
 men of sense, and go back to him ? But for those agita- 
 tors " 
 
 "I can tell you what it is, Mr. Tim Wilks— if you don't 
 choose to keep your time and your promises, you need not 
 trouble yourself to come worrying after me later. A good 
 two mortal hours by the clock have I been at Green's 
 waiting for you." 
 
 The above, succeeding to the sound of footsteps in the 
 lane, and uttered in the sharpest tones of Jelly, cut short 
 the musings of Dr. Rane. A short squabble ensued : Jelly 
 scolding ; Tim Wilks breathlessly explaining. From what 
 the doctor, sitting in silence, and unsuspected, could gather, 
 it appeared that Jelly must have had some appointment with 
 Tim (no doubt of her own imperious making) which he had 
 failed to keep, and that he had come running after her, only 
 catching her up at the garden door. 
 
 Jelly put the key in the lock, and stepped inside the garden : 
 the servants sometimes chose that way of entrance in pre- 
 ference to the front. During the absence of Mrs. Cumber- 
 land Jelly acted as the house's mistress, entertained her 
 friends, and went in and out at will. Mr. Wilks meekly 
 remained where he was, not daring to cross the threshold 
 without her permission. 
 
 " Is it too late for me to come in, Miss Jelly ?" asked he. 
 
 " Yes, it is too late," retorted Jelly ; the pair of them not 
 having the slightest notion that any eavesdropper was near. 
 Though the word could not justly be applied to Dr. Rane : 
 he did not want to hear what was said ; felt rather annoyed 
 at the noise and interuption. 
 
 " I couldn't get home before," resumed Timothy, " though 
 I'm sure I nearly ran my legs off all the way from Whit- 
 
224 Bessy Rane. 
 
 "borough. When a young man has his day's work to perform, 
 and that in a lawyer's office, he is obliged to stop in beyond 
 hours if required." 
 
 " Don't tell me," said Jelly, who stood with the half-closed 
 door in her hand in the most inhospitable manner. " You 
 could have come home if you ckose." 
 
 " But I couldn't, Miss Jelly." 
 
 " You are always stopping beyond hours now. That is, 
 saying that you are." 
 
 "Because we have been so busy lately," answered Tim. 
 " Our head clerk, Repton, is away through illness, and it puts 
 more work on us others. Dale's as cranky as he can be : he 
 works us like horses. If you'll believe me, Miss Jelly, I didn't 
 have time to go out and get any tea. I've not had bit or 
 drop inside me since one o'clock to-day." 
 
 This piteous view of affairs a little mollified Jelly ; and she 
 dropped her tart tone. Dr. Rane was wishing the talkers 
 would go away. He would have gone himself, but that he 
 did not altogether care to betray his proximity. 
 
 "Why does that old Dale not get another clerk ? " demanded 
 Jelly. " I should tell him plainly if I were you, Tim, that 
 going without my regular meals did not suit me." 
 
 " We should not dare to say that. Much he'd listen if we 
 did ! As to getting another clerk, I believe he is doing it. 
 Repton's doctor says he'll never be well again, so Dale thinks 
 it's of no good waiting for him." 
 
 " You were to be put up in Repton's place, if ever he went 
 out of it," said Jelly, quickly. 
 
 "I know I was" — and Timothy Wilks's voice took so 
 strangely rueful a tone that it might have made Dr. Rane 
 laugh under more open circumstances. "But when Dale made 
 that promise, Miss Jelly, you see the affair of the anonymous 
 letter had not taken place." 
 
 " What anonymous letter ?" 
 
 " The one that killed Edmund Forth." 
 
 " Why, you don't mean to insinuate that Dale lays the 
 blame of that on you ? " 
 
 " I don't suppose he thinks I sent it. Indeed I'm sure he 
 does not. But he was anything but pleasant over it to me afc 
 the time, and he has never been quite the same to me since." 
 
 " He is an unjust owl," said Jelly. 
 
 " One does not look for much else than injustice from 
 lawyers." 
 
At Night: under tlie Cedar-Tree. 225 
 
 *' Does Dale say that letter is the reason of his not pro- 
 moting you to Repton's place ? " 
 
 " He doesn't say it : but I know just as well, that it is so, 
 as if he did." 
 
 Jelly struck the key two or three times against the door. 
 She was thinking. 
 
 " That's through your tongue, Timothy Wilks. Ton know 
 you did talk of the matter out 01 the office." 
 
 "They say so," confessed Timothy. "But if I did, I'm, 
 sure I've been punished enough for it. It's hard that it 
 should stick to me always like pitch. Why don't they find 
 the writer of the letter, and plaster him ? He was the 
 villain; not me." 
 
 " So he was," said Jelly. " Tim, what would you say if 
 I told you I knew who it was ? " 
 
 " I ? Excuse me, Miss Jelly, but I should not quite believe 
 it." 
 
 Jelly laughed. Not a loud laugh, was it, but rather de- 
 risive, and full of power. Its peculiar significance penetrated 
 through the slender thicket of green, to him who was seated 
 under the cedar-tree, betraying to him all too surely that 
 Jelly knew his dangerous secret. Even Tim Wilks, less sen- 
 sitive, was struck with the sound. 
 
 " Surely, Miss Jelly, you do not mean that you know who 
 wrote the letter ? " 
 
 " I could put my finger out from where I now stand, Tim, 
 and lay it on the right person," she answered in a low, im- 
 pressive tone, little suspecting how literally true were the 
 words. 
 
 Tim seemed struck aghast. He drew a deep breath. 
 
 " Then, why don't you, Miss Jelly ? " 
 
 " Because — " Jelly stopped short. " Well, because there arc 
 certain considerations that make it inconvenient to speak." 
 
 " But you ought to speak. Indeed you ought, Miss Jelly. 
 If Lawyer Dale got to hear of this, he'd tell you that it's 
 quite obligatory." 
 
 Again there broke forth a laugh from Jelly. But quite a 
 different laugh this time — one of light mirth. Tim decided 
 that she had been only laughing at him. He resented it in 
 his heart, as much as he was capable of resenting anything. 
 
 " Tou shouldn't make game of a young man in this manner, 
 Miss Jelly ! I'm sure I thought you were in earnest. You'd 
 make a fine play-actor." 
 
 Q 
 
226 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Shouldn't I ? " assented Jelly, " and take in the audience 
 nicely, as I take in yon. Well," changing her tone, "you 
 must be soft, Tim Wilks ! The idea of believing that I could 
 know who wrote the letter ? " 
 
 The hint about Lawyer Dale had frightened Jelly, bringing 
 back the prudence which her impulsive sympathy with Tim's 
 wrongs had momentarily scared away. All she could do, 
 then, was to strive to undo the impression raised. There 
 existed certain considerations, and they made it, as she had 
 aptly said, inconvenient to speak. But she felt vexed with 
 herself, and resented it on Tim. 
 
 " Look here," cried she, "I can't stand at this gate all night, 
 jabbering with you ; so you can just betake yourself off. And 
 the next time you make a promise to be home by a certain 
 hour to take a late cup of tea with friends at Mrs. Green's, 
 I'll trouble you to keep it. Mind that, Mr. Wilks." 
 
 Mr. Wilks had his nose round the post, and was beginning 
 some deprecatory rejoinder, but Jelly slammed the door, and 
 nearly snapped the nose off. Locking it with a click, she put 
 the key in her pocket, and marched on to the house. 
 
 Leaving Dr. Rane alone to the night dews under the heavy 
 cedar -tree. Were the dews falling ? — or was it that his own 
 face gave out the damp moisture that lay on it ? He sat still 
 as death. 
 
 So, then, Jelly did know of it ! as he had before half- 
 suspected ; and he had been living, teas living, with a sword 
 suspended over him. It mattered not to speculate upon how 
 she acquired the terrible secret : she knew it, and that was 
 enough. Dr. Rane had not felt very safe before ; but now it 
 seemed to him as though he were treading on the extreme 
 verge of a precipice, whose edge was crumbling from under 
 him. There could be no certainty at any moment that Jelly 
 would not declare what she knew : to-morrow — the next day 
 — the day after : how could he tell which day or hour it might 
 be ? Oliver Rane wiped his face, his hand anything but a 
 steady one. 
 
 The " certain considerations that made it inconvenient to 
 speak," to which Jelly had confessed, meant that she was in 
 service with Mrs. Cumberland, and that he was Mrs. Cumber- 
 land's son. While Jelly retained her place, she' would not 
 perhaps be deliberately guilty of the bad faith of betraying, as 
 it were, her mistress. Not deliberately : but there were so 
 many chances that might lead to it. Lawyer Dale's question- 
 
At Night: tinder the Cedar-Tree. 227 
 
 ings might bring it about — and who could answer for it that 
 such might not at once set in at a word from Wilks ? — or she 
 might be quitting Mrs. Cumberland's place — or taking upon 
 herself to right Tim with the world — or speaking, as she had 
 evidently spoken that night, upon impulse. Tes, yes ; there 
 were a hundred and one chances now of his betrayal ! 
 
 He must get away from Dallory without delay. " Out of 
 sight, out of mind," runs the old proverb — and it certainly 
 seemed to Dr. Rane that if he were out of sight the chances 
 of betrayal would be wonderfully lessened. He could battle 
 with it better, too, at a distance, if discovery came ; perhaps 
 wholly keep it from his wife. Never a cloud had come be- 
 tween him and Bessy : rather than let this disclosure come to 
 her — that he had been the one who caused her brother's death 
 — he would have run away with her to the wilds of Africa. 
 Or, perhaps from her. 
 
 Run away ! The thought brought a remembrance to his 
 mind. That self-same morning another letter had arrived 
 from his friend in America, Dr. Jones. Dr. Jones had again 
 urged on Oliver Rane his acceptance of the offer — to join his 
 practice there — that he had previously made, saying it was an 
 opportunity he might never have again throughout his life- 
 time. Dr. Rane fully believed it: it was, beyond doubt, a very 
 excellent offer ; but, alas ! he had not the requisite money to 
 embrace it. Five hundred pounds — besides the expenses of 
 the voyage and the removal : Dr. Rane had not, to spare, five 
 hundred shillings. The tontine money came flashing through 
 his brain. Oh, if he could but get it ! 
 
 The air grew really damp ; but he still sat in the dark 
 under the shade of the cedar -tree, reviewing plans and projects, 
 ways and means. To him it was growing as a very matter of 
 life or death. 
 
 How long he sat, he knew not : but by-and-by the faint 
 sound of Dallory church clock was wafted to him through the 
 clear air. He counted the strokes — ten. Ten ? Ten ? Dr. 
 Rane started up : he ought to have gone for his wife long and 
 long ago. 
 
 Boom ! boom ! boom ! Six o'clock in the morning ; and 
 the great bell ringing out from the works of North and Gass ! 
 It was a bell Dallory had not heard of late, and sleepy people 
 turned in their beds. Many had been listening for it, know- 
 ing it was going to be rung ; some got up and looked from 
 
228 Bessy Rane. 
 
 their windows to sec whether the street became alive with 
 workmen, or whether it remained silent. 
 
 Richard North was within the works. He had come out 
 thus early, hoping to welcome his men. Three or four entered 
 with him. The bell rang its accustomed time, and then 
 ceased ; its sound dying away, and leaving a faint echo in the 
 air. There was no other answer : the men had not responded 
 to the call. Nothing more, than that faint vibration of sound 
 remained to tell of the appeal made by Richard North. 
 
 Richard North threw up, compulsorily, the offered con- 
 tract ; and proceeded on a journey without loss of time. Some 
 said he went to Scotland, some to Belgium ; but the utmost 
 known about it was that his departure had reference to 
 business. But that he was a temperate man, and given to 
 pity as much as to blame, he could have cursed the men's 
 blind folly. What was to become of them ? The work was 
 there, and they drove it away from their doors, driving all 
 chance with it of regaining prosperity. They were forcing 
 him to their supersedure : they were bringing despair, famine, 
 death upon a place where content and comfort had used to 
 reign. Tes, death : as you will find later. Sure never did 
 greater blindness, than this, fall on mortal sight ! 
 
 Days went on, and grew into weeks : not many : and 
 Richard North was still absent. Prospects seemed to be 
 looking gloomy on all sides. To make matters worse, some 
 cases of fever began to manifest themselves at Dallory. Dr. 
 Rane and his brother practitioner, Mr. Seeley, only wondered 
 that something of the kind had not broken out before. 
 
 Amidst other places that wore an air of gloom was the in- 
 terior of Dallory Hall. Madam's insatiable demands for money 
 had been very partially responded to of late : not at all since 
 the absence of Richard. Even she, with all lier imperious 
 scorn of whence supplies came, provided they did come, began 
 to realize the fact that gold can no more be drawn from 
 exhausted coffers than blood from a stone. It did not tend to 
 render her temper sweeter. 
 
 She sat one morning in what she was pleased to call her 
 boudoir — a charming apartment opening from her dress'ing- 
 room. Several letters lay before her, brought up by her maid : 
 she had carelessly tossed them aside for some hours, but was 
 getting to them now when it was near mid-day. Not very 
 pleasant letters, any of them, to judge by Madam's dark face. 
 One was from Sidney at Homburg, imploring for assistance 
 
At Night: under the Cedar-Tree. 229 
 
 (which had not recently been sent him) in a piteous man- 
 ner ; two or three were rather nrgent demands for the pay- 
 ment of private accounts of Madam's rather long delayed ; 
 one was a polite excuse from Frank Dallory and his sister for 
 not accepting a dinner invitation. There was not a singlo 
 pleasant letter amidst the lot. 
 
 " I wonder what Dick North means by staying away liko 
 this ! — and leaving orders at Ticknell's that no cheques are to 
 be cashed ! " growled Madam in self -soliloquy. " He ought to 
 be here. He ought to force those miserable men of his back 
 to work, whether they will or not. He's away ; Arthur's 
 away ; Sidney's away : and with this uncertain state of things 
 out-doors and trouble in, the house is worse than a dungeon. 
 People seem to be getting shy of it : even Mary Dallory stays 
 without the gates. That girl's an artful flirt : as Matilda 
 said yesterday. If Arthur and Dick were back she'd come 
 fast enough : I should like to know which of the two she 
 most cares for. It is absurd though, to speak of her in con- 
 junction with Dick North. Diclc North! As well suppose 
 she would take up with one of his workmen. I think I'll go 
 off somewhere for a while. Should it be true, this suspicion 
 of fever, the place will not be safe. I shall want a hundred 
 pounds or two. And Sidney must have money. He says 
 he'll do something desperate if I don't send it — but he has 
 said that before. Confound it all ! Why does not gold grow 
 upon trees ? " 
 
 Madam's dress this morning was a striped lilac silk of 
 amazing rustle and richness. Letting it all out behind her, 
 she went down the stairs and through the hall, sweeping tho 
 dust along in a little cloud. Mr. North was not in his 
 parlour ; Madam went about looking for him ; sweeping 
 still. 
 
 To her surprise she found him in the drawing-room ; it was 
 not often he ventured into that exclusive place. He had a 
 shabby long coat on down to his heels, and a straw hat. 
 Madam's scornful head went up fifteen inches when she saw 
 him there. 
 
 "What do you want ?" she asked in a tone that plainly 
 said he had about as much right in the room as an unwelcomo 
 etranger. j*< 
 
 " I have come to beg a bit of cotton of Matilda to tie up 
 these flowers," was Mr. North's answer, showing some in hi3 
 hand — and indeed it was only then he was preferring tiio 
 
230 Bessy Rane. 
 
 request. " Thomas Hepburn's little boy is here, and I thought 
 I'd give the child a posy." 
 
 " A posy ! " mockingly repeated Madam, despising the 
 homely term. 
 
 " I have no cotton," said Matilda, who lay back in a chair, 
 reading. " What should bring cotton in a drawing-room ? " 
 
 "Ah well — I can bind a piece of the variegated grass 
 round," said Mr. North with resignation. " I'm sorry to 
 have troubled you, Matilda." 
 
 " And when you have disposed of your ' posy,' I am coming 
 to your parlour," said Madam. 
 
 Mr. North groaned as he went out. He knew what "coming 
 to his parlour " meant — that his peace would be destroyed for 
 the day. There were moments when he thought heart and 
 mind and brain must alike give way under home worries and 
 Madam's. 
 
 " When did this come ? " enquired Madam, pointing to a 
 letter that stood upright on the mantel-piece: one addressed 
 to Richard North, in her son Arthur's writing. 
 
 " This morning," shortly answered Matilda, not looking up 
 from her book. 
 
 " Yes, Arthur can write often enough to Dick. This is the 
 second letter that has come for him within a week. What did 
 you do with the other ? " Madam broke off to ask. 
 
 " Put it into Dick's room against he comes home." 
 
 " But Arthur does not trouble himself to write to us, or to 
 let us know aught of his movements," resumed Madam. 
 " We have not had a syllable from him since he wrote word 
 that old Bohun was dead. Is he still in London ? — or at his 
 aunt's ? — or where ? " 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know where," retorted Matilda, fractious 
 at being interrupted. 
 
 Neither did she care. Madam turned the letter over in idle 
 curiosity : but the post-mark was illegible, not to be de- 
 ciphered. Leaving it on the mantel-piece, she went to look 
 after Mr. North. He stood on the lawn, doing something to a 
 dwarf-tree of small and most beautiful roses. There was some 
 wind to-day, and the skirts of his coat waved a little in the 
 breeze. 
 
 "Did you hear what I said — that I was coming to your 
 parlour ? " demanded Madam, swooping down upon him ma- 
 jestically. " Money must he had. I want it; Sidney wants it ; 
 the house wants it. I " 
 
At Night: under the Cedar-Tree. 231 
 
 Mr. North, had straightened himself. Desperation gave him 
 a little courage. 
 
 " I'd give it you if I had it. I have always given it you. 
 But what is to he done when I have it not ? You must seo 
 that it is not my fault, Madam." 
 
 " I see that when money is needed it is your place to get 
 it," coolly returned Madam. " Sidney cannot live upon air. 
 He " 
 
 " It seems to me that he lives upon gold," Mr. North 
 interrupted in a querulous voice. " There's no end to it." 
 
 " Sidney must have money," equably went on Madam. "I 
 must have it, for I purpose going away for a time. You will 
 therefore " 
 
 " Goodness me ! here's the telegraph man." 
 
 This second interruption was also from Mr. North. Tele- 
 graphic messages were somewhat rare at Dallory Hall ; and 
 its master went into a fluster. His fears flew to his well- 
 beloved son, Dick. The messenger was coming up the broad 
 walk, a despatch in his hand. Mr. North advanced to meet 
 him ; Madam sailing behind. 
 
 "It is for Captain Bohun, sir," spoke up the man, per- 
 ceiving something of Mr. North's tremor. 
 
 " For Captain Bohun ! " interposed Madam. " Where's it 
 from ? " 
 
 " London, Madam." 
 
 Motioning to the messenger to go to the house and get his 
 receipt, she tore it open without the smallest ceremony, and 
 read its contents : 
 
 " Dr. Williams to Arthur Bohun, Esq. : 
 
 " James Bohun is dying. Sir Nash wishes you to come up 
 without delay." 
 
 Looking here, looking there, stood Madam, her thoughts 
 busy. Where could Arthur be ? Why had he left London ? 
 
 " Do you know ? " she asked roughly of Mr. North. 
 
 " Know what, Madam ? " 
 
 " Where Arthur Bohun is." 
 
 Mr. North stared a little. " Why, how should I know ? " he 
 asked. " It's ever so long since Arthur wrote to me. He 
 sends me messages when he writes to Dick." 
 
 Madam swept into the drawing-room. She took the letter 
 from the mantel -piece, and coolly broke its black seal asunder. 
 Even Matilda's scruples were aroused at this. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, don't ! " she exclaimed, starting up and 
 
232 Bessy Rane. 
 
 putting her Land over the letter. ''Don't open that. It 
 would not be right." 
 
 Madam dexterously twitched the letter away, carried it to 
 the window and read it from end to end. Matilda saw her 
 face turn ghastly through its paint, as if with fright. 
 
 " Serves her right," thought the young lady. "Mamma, 
 what is amiss ? " 
 
 Madam crumpled the letter into a ball of creases in her 
 agitated hand : but no answer came from her white lips. 
 Turning abruptly up the stairs, she locked herself into her 
 chamber. 
 
 " She is in a passion of fright — whatever the cause maybe," 
 quoth Miss Matilda, in self soliloquy. 
 
 Ere the day had closed, the household was called upon to 
 witness Madam's sudden departure by train. She went alone r 
 and gave not the slightest clue where she might be going, or 
 when she would be back. 
 
 Matilda North had aptly worded the paroxysm : " a passiom 
 of fright." Madam was in both. For that rifled letter had 
 given her the news of Arthur Bohun's present place of locality 
 — and that he was by the side of Ellen Adair. What had 
 become of Dick ? the letter asked. He must make haste and 
 come, or he would be too late. Madam did not understand at 
 all. There followed a mysterious intimation to Dick ; to Dick,, 
 whom Arthur so trusted and who was true as steel; it was 
 more obscure even than the rest ; but it seemed to hint at — 
 yes, to hint at — marriage. Marriage ? Madam felt her flesh 
 creep all over. 
 
 " A son of mine marry lier ! " she breathed. " Heaven help 
 me to avert the danger." 
 
 About the last woman, one would think, who ought to call 
 for help from Heaven. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A SECOND FLY AT THE DOOR. 
 
 The tide came rippling up on the sea shore in gentle ridges of 
 sparkling foam, with a monotonous, soothing murmur. The- 
 waves to-day showed themselves not ; the air was densely 
 still : but in the western sky little black clouds were rising, no 
 bigger yet than a man's hand ; and as the weather-wise old 
 fishermen glanced to the spot, they foretold a storm. 
 
A Second Fly at the Door. 211 
 
 Two people, pacing the beach side by side, regarded neither 
 the sea nor the threatened storm. Need you be told who they 
 were ? — Arthur Bohun and Ellen Adair. What were tho 
 winds and the waves to them in their trance of happiness ? 
 Amidst the bitter misery that was soon to set in for both of 
 them, the recollection of this short time spent at Eastsea, theso 
 few weeks since their love had been declared, and their 
 marriage was approaching, would seen like an impossiblo 
 dream. 
 
 The private marriage, consented to by Mrs. Cumberland, 
 must not be confounded with a secret marriage. It was to bo 
 kept from the world in general : but not from every friend 
 they possessed. Mrs. Cumberland intended to be present as 
 Ellen's guardian ; and she very much urged that some friend 
 of Arthur's should also attend. He acquiesced, and fixed on 
 Richard North. Captain Bohun purposed to tell his aunt, 
 Miss Bohun, his true friend in every way : but not until the 
 wedding was over : he would trust nobody beforehand, he said, 
 save Mrs. Cumberland and Dick. Even Dick he did not trust 
 yet. He commanded Dick's presence at Eastsea, telling him 
 that his coming was imperative : that there must be no refusal. 
 Finding Dick did not respond in any way, Arthur wrote 
 again ; but still only mysteriously. The first letter was the 
 one put aside by Miss Matilda North, the second was the one 
 opened by Madam. 
 
 But there were moments when, in spite of his happiness, 
 Arthur Bohun had qualms of conscience for his precipitation : 
 and the more especially did they press upon him immediately 
 after the marriage was decided upon. For, after all, he really 
 knew nothing, or as good as nothing, - of Mr. Adair's position : 
 and the proud Bohun blood bubbled up a little, as a thought 
 crossed him that it was jnst possible he might find too late that, 
 in point of family, hers was not fit to have been mated with 
 his. 
 
 The human heart is very treacherous : given over to self- 
 deceit, and to much sophistry. So long as a thing is coveted, 
 when it seems next door to unattainable, we see nothing but 
 the desirability of gaining it, the advantages and happiness it 
 must bring. But, let this great desire be attained, and lo ! we 
 veer round with a vengeance, and repent our haste. For in- 
 stantly every reason and argument that could bear against it, 
 true or false, rise up within us with mocking force, and we 
 say, Oh that I had waited before doing this thing ! It is that 
 
234 Bessy Rane. 
 
 deceitful heart of ours that is in fault, nothing else ; placing 
 upon all things its own false colouring. 
 
 At first, as they sat together under cover of the rocks, or on 
 the more open benches on the sands, or wandered to the walks 
 inland and the pretty rural lanes, his conversation would turn 
 on Mr. Adair. But Ellen seemed to know as little of her 
 father as he did. 
 
 " It is strange you don't remember more of him, Ellen!" 
 he suddenly said on one occasion when he was alone with 
 her at Mrs. Cumberland's. 
 
 " Strange ! Do you think so ? " returned Ellen, turning 
 round from the bay window where she was standing. " I 
 was sent to Europe at eight years old, and children of that 
 age so soon forget. I seem to recollect a gentleman in some 
 kind of white coat, who cried over me and kissed me, and said 
 mamma was gone to live in heaven. His face was a pleasant 
 one, and he had bright hair ; something the colour of yours." 
 She thought Arthur had alluded to personal remembrance. 
 But he had not meant that. 
 
 " I remember another thing — that papa used to say I was 
 just like my mother, and should grow up like her," resumed 
 Ellen. " It seems ages ago. Perhaps when I see him I shall 
 find that my memory has been giving me an ideal father ; 
 that he is quite different from what I have pictured." 
 •'You know none of your Scotch relatives, Ellen ?" 
 "None." 
 
 " Or in what locality they live ? " 
 " No." 
 
 " Why does not Mr. Adair come home ? " 
 " I don't know. He has been thinking of it for some 
 years ; and that's why he put me with Mrs. Cumberland 
 instead of having me sent out to him. I am sure he must 
 respect Mrs. Cumberland very much," added Ellen after a 
 pause. " His letters prove it. And he often mentions her 
 late husband as his dear friend and chaplain. I'll show you 
 some of the letters if you like. Would you ? I keep all 
 papa's letters." 
 
 Arthur Bohun's face lighted up at the proposition. " Yes," 
 he said with animation. " Yes. As many as you please." 
 
 She crossed the room to unlock her desk, took out three or 
 four letters indiscriminately from a bundle lying there, and 
 brought them to him. He detained the pretty hands as well 
 as the letters, and took some impassioned kisses from the 
 
A Second Fly at the Door. 235 
 
 blushing face, turned up unconsciously to liis. Sweeter kisses 
 than Arthnr Bohun would ever impress upon any other face 
 in after life. Ellenhad almost learned not to shrink from them 
 in her maiden modesty ; he vowed to her that it was now his 
 best right and privilege. 
 
 But the letters told him nothing. They were evidently a 
 gentleman's letters; but of the writer's position or family 
 they said not a word. Arthur returned them with a half sigh : 
 it was of no use, he thought, to disturb himself anymore about 
 the matter. After all, his own father and Mr. Adair had been 
 close friends in India, and that was a kind of guarantee that 
 all must be right. This decided, he delivered himself up to hi3 
 ideal happiness : and the day of the wedding was finally fixed. 
 
 This afternoon, when they were pacing the beach, unseeing 
 the little clouds rising in the west, was the marriage eve. It 
 is the last day they need thus walk together as mere formal 
 acquaintances, not daring to touch each other's hands in view 
 of the public gaze, or to walk arm within arm : for at that 
 little church whose spire is not a stone's-throw off, they will 
 to-morrow be made man and wife. A strange light of happi- 
 ness sits on Arthur Bohun's cheek, a stranger still is ever 
 fluttering at his heart. The day and the hour are drawing 
 very near to its realization : and not so much as a thought has 
 crossed his mind that any untoward fate could arise to mar it. 
 
 Ah, but might not those dark clouds have read him a les- 
 son ? Just as the black trifling circlets out there might rise 
 into an overwhelming storm, before which both man and beast 
 must bow their heads, so might be rising, even then, some 
 unseen threatening wave in the drama of his life. And it was 
 so : though he suspected it not. Even now, as they walked, 
 the clouds were growing bigger : just as was the unseen 
 thunder-storm that would descend upon their lives and hearts. 
 Suddenly, in turning to face the west, Arthur saw them. 
 They were pretty big now. 
 
 " Look at those clouds, getting up ! I hope the weather's 
 not going to change for us to-morrow, Ellen. What does that 
 mean ? " he asked of a man who was doing something to his 
 small boat, now high and dry upon the beach. 
 
 The sailor glanced indifferently to where the finger pointed. 
 
 "It means a storm, master." 
 
 " Shall we get it here, do you think ? " 
 
 "Ay. Not till to-morrow, may be. I fancy we shall, 
 though " — turning up his nose and seeming to sniff around, 
 
236 Bessy Ranc. 
 
 as if the storm were pervading the air. " I knowed there was 
 going to be a change." 
 
 " How did you know it ? " 
 
 " Us fishermen smells a storm afore it comes, master. My 
 foot tells it me besides. I got him jammed once, and he have 
 had the weather in him ever since." 
 
 " And yon think it's going to be a change altogether ? " 
 
 " Ay that it be, master." 
 
 They walked on. " That will be two nntoward events for 
 us," remarked Captain Bohun ; bnt he spoke with a jesting 
 smile, as if no untoward events could mar their security of 
 happiness. " We want a third to complete it, don't we, Ellen ? " 
 
 " What are the two ? " 
 
 " This threatened bad weather for to-morrow's one ; Dick's 
 non-coming is the other. I am vexed at that." 
 
 For, on this same morning, Mrs. Cumberland had received 
 a letter from her son. Amidst other items of news, Dr. Rane 
 mentioned that Richard ISTorth was absent : it was supposed 
 in Belgium, but nobody knew for certain. This explained 
 Richard's silence to Captain Bohun, and put out the hope that 
 Richard would be at the wedding. Dr. Rane also said another 
 thing — which was anything but pleasant news : that beyond 
 all doubt fever was breaking out at Dallory, though it was not 
 yet publicly known. The doctor added that he feared it 
 would prove to be of a malignant type, and he felt glad his 
 mother was away. Bessy was well, and sent her love. 
 
 " Will you rest a little before going in ? " 
 
 They were passing the favourite old seat under the rocks, 
 as Captain Bohun asked it. Ellen acquiesced, and they sat 
 down. The black clouds came higher and higher : but, absorbed 
 in their own plans, in their own happiness, had the heavens 
 become altogether overshadowed it would have been to them, 
 as nothing. In a low voice they conversed together of the 
 future ; beginning with the morrow, ending they knew not 
 where. Their visions were of the sweetest rose-colour ; they 
 fully believed that bliss so great as their own had never been 
 realized on earth. His arm was round Ellen as they sat, her 
 hand lay in his, she could feel his warm breath on her cheek, 
 her shoulder seemed to be resting against his heart. To all 
 intents and purposes they seemed as entirely alone in this 
 sheltered nook as they could have been in the wilds of the 
 desert. The beach was shingly ; footsteps could not approach 
 without being heard : had anybody passed, they would havo 
 
A Second Fly at the Door. 237 
 
 been seen sitting with as decorous a space between them as 
 though they had quarrelled : but the shore seemed deserted 
 this afternoon. 
 
 The arrangement for the marriage was as follows : — Afc 
 half-past eleven o'clock, Arthur, Ellen, and Mrs. Cumberland 
 would enter the little church by a private door, and the cere- 
 mony would take place. Richard North was to have been 
 deputed to give her away, but that was over now. Arthur 
 had the licence ; he had made a friend of the clergyman, and 
 all would be done quietly. He and Ellen were to go away for 
 a few days : she would then return to her home with Mrs. 
 Cumberland, and be to the world still as Miss Adair. After 
 that, Arthur would take his own time, and be guided by cir- 
 cumstances for declaring the marriage : but he meant, if 
 possible, to at once introduce Ellen to his aunt, Miss Bohun. 
 And Ellen Adair ? Not a scruple rested on her mind, not a 
 doubt or hesitation on her heart ; her father had given hia 
 cordial approbation — as expressed in the letter to Mrs. Cum- 
 berland — and she was full of the sweetest peace. 
 
 " Did you feel that, Ellen ? " 
 
 It was a faint, quivering breeze that seemed to pass over 
 them with sharp quickness and to be dying away in a moan. 
 Some white sails out at sea flapped a little, and the boats 
 turned homewards. 
 
 " We had better be going, too, my love ; or we may have it 
 upon us." 
 
 She rose as he spoke, and they walked homewards. The 
 sky was getting darker ; the shades of evening were beginning 
 to gather. Mrs. Cumberland had been lying down and was 
 dressing, the maid said — if Captain Bohun would wait. Ellen 
 took off her bonnet and mantle. 
 
 " While we are alone, let me see that I have not made a 
 mistake in the size, Ellen." 
 
 Taking from his pocket a bit of tissue paper, he unfolded it 
 and disclosed a wedding-ring. Ellen turned the colour of 
 fifteen peonies as he tried it on. 
 
 "I — thought," she timidly began amidst her blushes, "that 
 you meant this to be my wedding-ring " — indicating the plain 
 gold one she habitually wore on her right hand. 
 
 "No. Kane bought that one. This will be mine." 
 
 It was an exact fit. Captain Bohun had not allowed for the 
 probability of those fragile fingers getting larger with years. 
 As he held it on for a minute, their eyes met. Ellen suddenly 
 
238 Bessy Rane. 
 
 recalled that long-past day in Dallory church, when she had 
 taken Maria Warne's ring to serve for Bessy North, with the 
 scene in the carriage afterwards, when Arthur Bohun put the 
 other one on, and his sweet words : she recalled the scene in 
 the garden when he put it on again. This was time the third. 
 
 "If this should ever get too small for me ? " she mur- 
 mured as he took it off the finger. 
 
 " Oh, but that — if ever — won't be for ages and ages." 
 
 Not for ages, and ages ! If they, in their innocent uncon- 
 sciousness, could but have seen the cruel Fate that was 
 already coiling its meshes around them ! 
 
 The storm did not come that night. But whether, in 
 aggravation for the delay, it chose to expend itself with 
 double violence, certain it was that such a one had seldom 
 been seen at Eastsea as raged in the morning. The sky was 
 lurid, angry, and black ; the sea tossed itself ; the wind 
 howled ; the rain came dashing down at intervals as if from 
 so many buckets : all nature seemed at warfare. 
 
 In much distress lay Mrs. Cumberland. Exceedingly 
 subject of late to outer influences, whether it might be this 
 unusual storm that made her ill, she knew not, but she felt 
 unable to rise from her bed. The hour for the marriage was 
 drawing on. It had been fixed for a late one: half-past 
 eleven. The clergyman had a funeral at half -past ten ; and 
 Mrs. Cumberland had said she could not be up and ready 
 before that. At a little after eleven Arthur Bohun came up 
 in the fly that was to convey them to church. Mrs. Cumber- 
 land sent to ask him to go up stairs to her ; and he found her 
 in tears. A curious sight : she was so self-contained a woman. 
 
 " I cannot help it, Captain Bohun : indeed I cannot. Had 
 not the marriage better be put off for a day ? I may be 
 better to-morrow." 
 
 " Certainly not," he answered. " Why should it ? I am 
 very sorry for Ellen's sake ; she would have felt more com- 
 fortable at your being in church. But your presence is not 
 essential to the ceremony, Mrs. Cumberland." 
 
 " Her father and mother were my dear friends. It seems 
 as though I should fail in my duty if I were to allow her to go 
 to church without me." 
 
 Arthur Bohun laughed. He would not hear a word — was 
 it likely that he would ? In less than an hour's time all re- 
 sponsibility in regard to Ellen would be transferred to him, he 
 answered, for he should be her husband. 
 
A Second Fly at the Door. 239 
 
 "The marriage will stand good, believe me, dear Mrs. 
 Cumberland, though you do not witness it," were his last 
 words as he went down stairs. 
 
 Ellen was ready. She wore an ordinary silk dress of light 
 quiet colour, and a plain white bonnet : such as she might 
 have walked out in at Eastsea. There was nothing, save her 
 pale face and quivering lips, to denote that she was a bride. 
 To have to go to church alone was very unpalatable, and she 
 could with difficulty suppress her tears. 
 
 " My dearest love, I am more grieved at it for your sake 
 than you can be," he whispered. " Take a little courage, 
 Ellen ; it will soon be over. Once you are my wife, I will 
 strive to shelter you from all vexation." 
 
 But this illness of Mrs. Cumberland's made a hitch in the 
 programme. Eor Arthur Bohun to go out with Mrs. Cum- 
 berland and Ellen in a fly, was nothing ; he sometimes accom- 
 panied them in their drives : but to go out alone with Ellen, 
 and in fhat storm, would have excited the curiosity of Ann 
 and the other servants. Arthur Bohun rapidly decided to 
 walk to church, braving the rain : Ellen must follow in the 
 fly. There was no time to be lost. It was twenty minutes 
 past eleven. 
 
 " Shall I put you in the carriage first, Ellen ? " he stayed 
 to ask. 
 
 " No. I think you had better not." 
 
 " My darling, you loill come ? " 
 
 Did a doubt cross him, that he should say this ? But 
 she answered that she would : he saw she spoke sincerely. 
 He wrung her hand and went out to the door. 
 
 Had the fly multiplied itself into two flies ? — and were 
 they squabbling for precedence ? Certainly two were there : 
 and the one wet driver was abusing the other wet driver for 
 holding his place close before the door, and not allowing him 
 to draw up to it. 
 
 "Arthur! Good Heavens, how fortunate I am ! Arthur 
 Bohun ! don't you see me ? " 
 
 Every drop of blood in Arthur Bohun's veins seemed to 
 stand still and turn to ice, as he recognized his mother's 
 voice and his mother's face. Madam, driven hastily from the 
 railway station, had come to bear him off in the body. That 
 his wedding was over for that day, instinct told him : she 
 would have gone and forbidden the banns. He stepped to her 
 fly door. 
 
.•?4° Bessy Rane. 
 
 In after-life, he never could recall clearly these next few 
 minutes. Madam spoke of the telegram that had been received 
 at Dallory. She said — giving to matters her own colouring 
 ■ — that James Bohun was in extremity ; that he only waited 
 to see Arthur to die ; that he was crying out for him : not a 
 moment was to be lost. She had hastened to London on 
 receipt of the telegram, and had now come down this morning 
 straight to fetch him. 
 
 " Step in, Arthur. We must catch the quarter-to-twclvo 
 train." 
 
 "I — I cannot go," he answered. 
 
 " Not go ! " screamed Madam. " But I command you to 
 go. Would you disobey the last sacred wishes of a dying 
 man ? " 
 
 Well, no ; he felt that he could not do that. " A quarter to 
 twelve ? " he said rather dreamily. " You must wait, Madam, 
 while I speak to Mrs. Cumberland. There's plenty o:j; time." 
 
 He went indoors with his tale, and up to Mrs. Cumberland, 
 like one in a dream. He was forced to go, he bewailed, but 
 not for more than a day, when he should be back to complete 
 the marriage. What could she answer ? In her bewilder- 
 ment she scarcely understood what had happened or what had 
 not. Leaping downstairs again, he closed the door of the 
 sitting-room upon himself and Ellen, and clasped her to his 
 heart. 
 
 " My darling ! But for this, you would have been on your 
 way to become my wife. Come what may, Ellen, I shall be 
 down again within a few hours. God bless you, my love ! 
 Take care of these." 
 
 They were the ring and licence ; he handed them to her 
 lest he might lose them. Before Ellen could recover herself, 
 while yet her face was glowing with his farewell kisses, he 
 was being rattled away in the fly with Madam to the station. 
 
 Crafty Madam ! Waiting there in the fly at the door and 
 making her observations, she had read what the signs meant 
 almost as surely as though it had been told to her. The other 
 fly waiting, and Ellen dressed ; going out in it on that day of 
 storm ; Arthur out of mourning, and his nice attire covered 
 over with a light over-coat — she guessed the truth (aided by 
 the mysterious hint in the letter she had rifled) and believed 
 full surely that it was nothing less than marriage she had 
 interrupted. Not a word said she on the road to the station. 
 The getting him away was a great victory gained : it would 
 
A Second Fly at the Door 241 
 
 not Jo to risk the marring of it. But when they were in the 
 train, and the whistle had sounded, and they were fairly off,, 
 then Madam spoke. They had the compartment to themselves. 
 " Arthur, you cannot deceive me : any attempt at it would 
 be useless. You were about to marry Ellen Adair." 
 
 She spoke quietly, almost affectionately; when the bosom' 
 is beating with a horrible dread, calmness of manner obtains, 
 more than passion. For a single moment there wavered in 
 Arthur Bohun's mind a doubt of whether it should be avowal 
 or evasion, but not for longer. As it had come to this, why he 
 must take his standing. He raised his head proudly. 
 "Right, mother. I am going to wed Ellen Adair." 
 
 Madam's pulses began to beat nineteen to the dozen. Her- 
 head grew hot, her hands grew cold. 
 
 "You were, you mean, Arthur." 
 
 " Yes. Put it as you like. What was interrupted to-day,, 
 will be concluded to-morrow. As soon as I have seen James,.. 
 I shall return to Eastsea." 
 
 "Arthur! Arthur Bohun ! It must never be concluded. 
 Never. " 
 
 " Pardon me, mother. I am my own master." 
 
 " A Bohun may not wed shame and disgrace." 
 
 " Shame and disgrace cannot attach to her. Madam, I must 
 beg you to remember that in a few hours that young lady will 
 be my wife. Do not try my temper too sorely." 
 
 " No, not to her, but to her father," panted Madam — and 
 Arthur felt frightened, he knew not why, at her strong emotion. 
 " Would you wed the daughter of a — a — " 
 
 Madam paused. Arthur looked at her ; his compressed lip3 , 
 trembled just a little. 
 
 " Of a what, mother ? Pray go on." 
 
 " Of everything that is bad. A forger. A convict." 
 
 There was a dead pause. Nothing to be beard but tho 
 whirling train. " A — what ? " gasped Captain Bohun, when 
 he could get his breath. 
 
 "A Convict," burst forth Madam in a scream; for her 
 agitation was becoming irrepressible. " Why do you make me 
 repeat painful things ? " 
 
 " Mother ! Of whom do you speak ? " 
 
 " Of her father : William Adair." 
 
 He fell back in the carriage like one who is shot. As one ■ 
 from whom life and all that can make it sweet, had suddenly 
 gone out for ever. 
 
242 Bessy Rane. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A PANIC. 
 
 The funerals were going about in Dallory. Dr. Rane's prog- 
 nostications had proved correct ; the fever was a real fever. It 
 spread, and a panic set in. 
 
 As yet it had been confined to the poor. To those who for 
 some months now had been living in squalor and despair and 
 poverty. Some called it the famine fever ; some a relapsing 
 fever ;' some typhus : but, whatever the name accorded to it, 
 one thing was certain — that it was of a malignant and fatal 
 type. 
 
 It possessed a rather singular feature : that it seemed to 
 burst out all at once — in a single night. Before the doctors 
 had well made themselves sure that anything of the kind was 
 in the air, before most of the public had so much as heard ol 
 it it came. The probability of course was that it had been for 
 some days smouldering. On the afternoon that witnessed 
 Madam's departure from Dallory Hall (after the receipt of the 
 telegram and the reading of Dick's letter) there had not been 
 one decided case : in the morning no less than seven cases had 
 shown themselves. After that, it spread rapidly. 
 
 Madam remained away. James Bohun was dead, and she 
 stayed with Sir Nash. Matilda North, taking French leave, 
 went up there to join her without an invitation ; she did not 
 care to stay amidst the sickness. So the master of Dallory 
 Hall was alone, and enjoyed his liberty as much as trouble had 
 left him capable of. 
 
 A week or ten days had passed on now since the outbreak, 
 and the funerals were going about Dallory. The two medical 
 men, Dr. Bane and Mr. Seeley, were worked nearly off their 
 legs. The panic that had set in was at its height. Dallory 
 had been an exceptionally healthy place : people were unused 
 to this state of things, and got frightened. Some of the 
 better families took flight; for the sea-side, or elsewhere. 
 The long-continued distress, resulting on the strike, had pre- 
 disposed the poorer classes for it. It was they whom it chiefly 
 attacked, but there were now two or three cases amid their 
 betters. This was no time for the medical men to speculate 
 whether they should or should not be paid-; they put all such 
 considerations aside, and gave the poor sufferers their best 
 
A Panic. 243 
 
 care. Dr. Rane in particular was tenderly assiduous with his 
 patients. In spite of that fatal letter and the mistake — nay, 
 the sin — it involved, he was a humane-natured man. Were 
 he a successful practitioner, making his hundreds a year, or 
 his thousands, as might be, he would be one of the first and 
 readiest to give away largely of his time and skill to any who 
 could not well afford to pay him. 
 
 The last person whom the fever had attacked was one of the 
 brothers Hepburn of Dallory, undertakers, carpenters, and 
 coffin-makers. Both of them were sickly men ; but exceed- 
 ingly steady and respectable. The younger brother, Henry, 
 was the one seized : it was universally assumed that he caught 
 it in the discharge of certain of the duties of his calling, and 
 the supposition did not tend to decrease the public panic. 
 Dr. Rane thought him a bad subject for the illness, and did 
 all he could. 
 
 Bessy Rane stood in her kitchen, making an apple pudding. 
 It is rather a sudden transition of subject, from sickness to 
 puddings, but only in accordance with existing life. What- 
 ever calamity may be decimating society abroad, the domestic 
 routine of daily existence goes on at home in just its ordinary 
 course. Molly Green was pudding-maker in general : but 
 Molly was hastening over her other work that day, for she had 
 obtained leave to go home in the evening to see her mother : 
 a woman who had been ailing for years with chronic sickness, 
 and lived at Whitborough. So Bessy this morning took upon 
 herself the pudding. 
 
 Mrs. Rane stood at the table ; a brown holland apron tied 
 over her light morning gown, her sleeves turned up to the 
 middle of her arms above her wrists. Hands and wrists and 
 arms were alike pretty. The apples lay in a basin ready 
 pared, and she was rolling out the crust. Ever and anon she 
 glanced at the kitchen clock. Her husband had been called 
 out at early morning, four o'clock, and she was getting a little 
 anxious. Now it was close upon eleven. It cannot be said 
 that Bessy was afraid of the fever for him: she shared in the 
 popular belief that medical men are generally exempt from in- 
 fection ; but she was always glad to see him come home safe 
 and well. 
 
 His latch-key was heard in the door while she was thinking 
 of him. Dr. Rane went straight up-stairs to the unused top- 
 room, changed his clothes, and washed his hands and face — a 
 precaution he always took when he had been with fever 
 
244 Bessy Rane. 
 
 patients. Bessy put the kitchen door open, that ho might 
 see where she was when he came down. 
 
 " Pudding-making, Bessy ! " he cried, looking in. " Why 
 don't you let Molly do that ? " 
 
 "Molly's busy. She wants to go home this evening, Oliver, 
 is soon as we can spare her, and not come back until to- 
 morrow night. She had a letter this morning to say her 
 mother has at last taken to her bed, and the doctor thinks her 
 very ill. I have given her leave to go." 
 
 " But how shall you manage without her ? " 
 
 "I shall have old Phillis in. Molly has been to her, and 
 she says she'll be glad to come." 
 
 Dr. Rane said no more. It was quite the same to him 
 whether Molly, or Phillis, did what was wanted. When men 
 are much harassed in spirit, they cannot concern themselves 
 with petty details. 
 
 " I was thinking, Oliver, that — if you don't mind — as we 
 can have Phillis, I would leave it to Molly whether to come 
 back to-morrow night, or not. If her mother is really growing 
 worse, the girl may like to stay a day longer with her." 
 
 " My dear, do just as you like about it," was the doctor's 
 rather impatient answer. 
 
 " Your breakfast shall be ready in a moment, Oliver." 
 
 "I have taken breakfast. It was between eight and nine- 
 be fore I could get away from Ketler's, and I went and 
 begged some of Mrs. Gass. After that I went round to the 
 patients." 
 
 Bessy was putting the crust into the basin. She lifted her 
 hands and turned in some dismay. 
 
 " Surely, Oliver, they have not got the fever at Ketler's! " 
 
 Dr. Rane slightly laughed. "Not the fever, Bessy: some- 
 thing else. The baby. It was Ketler who called me up this 
 morning." 
 
 " Oh dear," said Bessy, going on with her pudding. " I 
 thought that poor baby was not expected for a month or two. 
 How will they manage to keep it ? It seems to me that the 
 less food there is for them, the quicker the babies come." 
 
 "That's generally the case," observed Dr. Rane. 
 
 " Is the mother well ? " 
 
 " Tolerably so." 
 
 " And — how are other things going on, Oliver ? " 
 
 He knew, by the tone of her voice, that she meant the 
 fever. Bessy never spoke of that without a kind of timidity. 
 
A Panic, 245 
 
 •• Neither worse nor better. It's very bad still." 
 
 " And fatal? " 
 
 *' Yes, and fatal. Henry Hepburn is in danger." 
 
 <; But he'll get over it ? " rejoined Bessy quickly. 
 
 " I don't think so. His brother will have it next if he does 
 not mind. He is as nervous over it as he can be. I am off 
 now, Bessy, up the Ham." 
 
 " You will be in to dinner ? " 
 
 " Before that, I hope." 
 
 Bessy settled to her pudding again, and the doctor de- 
 parted. Not into danger this time, for the fever had not yet 
 shown itself in Dallory Ham. Scarcely a minute had elapsed 
 when the door-bell rang, and Molly went to answer it. Mrs. 
 Kane, her hands all flour, peeped from the kitchen, and saw 
 Mr. North. 
 
 " Oh papa ! How glad I am to see you ! Do you mind 
 coming in here ? " 
 
 Mind ! Mr. North felt far more at home in Bessy's kitchen 
 than in his wife's grand drawing-room. He had brought a 
 small open basket of most lovely hot-house flowers for Bessy. 
 He put it on the table, and sat down on one of the wooden 
 chairs in peace and comfort. Richard had not returned, and 
 he was still alone. 
 
 " Go on with your pudding, my dear. Don't mind me. I 
 like to see-it." 
 
 " It's all but done, papa. Molly will tie it up. Oh, these 
 beautiful flowers ! " she added, bending her face down to 
 them. " How kind of you to think of me ! " 
 
 " I'm going up to Ham Court about some seeds, child ; the 
 walk will do me good, this nice day. I feel stronger and 
 better, Bessy, than I did." 
 
 " I am so glad of that, papa." 
 
 " And so I thought — as I was intending to call in here — 
 that I'd cut a few blossoms, and bring with me. How's the 
 fever getting on, Bessy ? " 
 
 "It is not any better, I am afraid, papa." 
 
 " So I hear. They say that Henrv Hepburn's dying." 
 
 Bessy felt startled. " Oh, I trust not ! Though I think— I 
 fear — Oliver has not very much hope of him." 
 
 " Well, I've heard it. And I came here, Bessy, to ask if 
 you would not like to come to the Hall for a week or two. It 
 might be safer for you. Are you at all afraid of catching it, 
 child?" 
 
246 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " N — o," answered Bessy. But it was spoken dubiously, 
 and Mr. North looked at her. 
 
 "Your husband has to be amongst it pretty well every hour 
 of his life, and I can but think there must be some risk for 
 you. You had better come to the Hall." 
 
 " Oliver is very particular to change his clothes when he 
 comes in ; but still I know there must of course be some little 
 risk," she said. " I try to be quite brave, and not think of it, 
 ^apa : and I have a great piece of camphor inside here " — 
 touching the bosom of her dress — "at which Oliver laughs." 
 
 " Which is as good as confessing that you are nervous about 
 it, Bessy," said Mr. North. 
 
 " Not much, papa. A doctor's wife, you know, must not 
 have fancies." 
 
 "Well, you come up to the Hall to-day, Bessy. It will be 
 a change for you, and pleasant for me, now I'm all alone ; it'll 
 be like some of the old days come back again, you and me 
 together. As to Oliver, I daresay he'll be glad to have the 
 house to himself a bit, while he is so busy." 
 
 Bessy, wiping the flour off her hands on a towel, consented. 
 In point of fact, her husband had proposed, some days back, 
 that she should go away : and she did feel half afraid of taking 
 the fever through him. 
 
 " But it cannot be until to-morrow, papa," she said, as Mr. 
 North rose to depart, and she accompanied him to the door, 
 explaining that Molly was going home. " I should not like to 
 leave Oliver alone in the house for the night. Phillis will be 
 here to-morrow : she can stay and sleep, should Molly Green 
 not return." 
 
 "Very well," said Mr. North. 
 
 It was left at this. Bessy opened the door for her father, 
 and watched him on his way up the Ham. 
 
 Dr. Rane came back to dinner ; and found his patients 
 allowed him an hour's peace to eat it in. Bessy informed 
 him of the arrangement she had made : and that he was to bo 
 a bachelor from the morrow for an indefinite period. Tho 
 doctor laughed, making a jest of it : but nevertheless he 
 glanced keenly from under his eyelids at his wife. 
 
 " Bessy ! I do believe you are afraid ! " 
 
 " No, not exactly," was her answer : " I don't think ' afraid * 
 is the right word. It is just this, Oliver: I do not get 
 nervous over it ; but I cannot help remembering rather often 
 that you may bring it home to me." 
 
A Panic. 247 
 
 "Then, my dear, go — go by all means where you will bo 
 out of harm's way, so far as I am concerned." 
 
 Dinner over, Dr. Eane hastened out again, on his way to 
 see Mrs. Ketler. He had just reached that bench in the 
 shady part of the road at the neck of the Ham, when he saw 
 Jelly coming along. The doctor only wished there was some 
 convenient shelter to dart into, by which he might avoid her. 
 Ever since the night when he had heard that agreeable con- 
 versation as he sat under the cedar-tree, Jelly's keen green 
 eyes had been worse to him than poison. She stopped when 
 she met him. 
 
 " So that child of Susan Ketler's is come, sir ! " 
 
 " Ay," said Dr. Rane. 
 
 " What in the world brings it here now ? " 
 
 "Well, I don't know," returned the doctor. "Children 
 often come without giving their friends due notice. I am on 
 my way thither." 
 
 " And not as much as a bedgown to wrap it in," resentfully 
 went on Jelly, " and not a bit o' tea or oatmeal in the place 
 for her ! My faith ! baby after baby coming into the world all 
 round, and the men out on strike ! This makes seven — if 
 they'd all been alive : she'll be contented perhaps when she's 
 got seventeen." 
 
 " It is the way of the world, Jelly. Set up the children 
 first, and consider what to do with them afterwards." 
 
 "What's this that's the matter with Tim Wilks, sir?" 
 demanded Jelly, abruptly changing the subject. 
 
 " With Tim Wilks ! I did not know that anything was the 
 matter with him." 
 
 "Yes, there is," said Jelly. "I met old Green just now, 
 and he said Timothy Wilks was in bed ill. They thought it 
 miq-ht be a bilious attack, if it was not the fever." 
 
 " I'll call in and see him," said Dr. Rane. " Has he been 
 drinking again ? " 
 
 Jelly's eyes flashed with resentment. Considering that 
 Tim had really kept sober and steady for the past year 
 and half, she looked on the question as a frightful asper- 
 sion. And the more especially so as proceeding from Dr. 
 Rane. 
 
 "Jean answer for it that he has not been drinking — and 
 so, as I supposed, might everybody else," was her tart reply. 
 " Timothy Wilks is worried, sir; that's what it is. He has 
 never been at ease since people accused him of writing that 
 
248 Bessy Rane. 
 
 anonymous letter : and he never will be till lie is publicly 
 cleared of it. Sir, I think he ought to be." 
 
 Was it an ice-bolt that seemed to shoot through Oliver 
 Rane's heart ? — or only a spasm ? Something took it : though 
 he managed to keep his countenance, and to speak with calm 
 indifference. 
 
 " Cleared ? Cleared of what ? I fancied it had been ascer- 
 tained that Wilks was the man who spoke of the affair out of 
 Dale's office. He can't clear himself from that. As to any 
 other suspicion, no one has cast it on him." 
 
 "Well, sir — of course you know best," answered Jelly, re- 
 collecting herself and cooling down : but she could not help 
 giving the words an emphasis. "If Tim should become 
 dangerously ill, it might have to be done to set his mind at 
 rest," 
 
 " What might have to be done ? " demanded Dr. Rane 
 with authority. 
 
 And Jelly did not dare to answer the direct question. She 
 cotild boast and talk at people in her gossiping way so long as 
 she felt safe, but when it came to anything like proving her 
 words, she was a very coward. Dr. Rane was looking at her, 
 waiting for her to speak, his manner uncompromising, his 
 countenance stern. 
 
 " Oh well, sir, I'm sure I don't know at all," she said, her 
 tongue feeling as if it had dried up. " And I'm sure I hope 
 poor Tim has not got the fever." 
 
 " I'll call and see him," repeated Dr. Rane, proceeding on 
 his way. Jelly curtsied and went on hers. 
 
 When beyond her view, he took out his handkerchief and 
 wiped his face, damp as with the dews of death. He must, he 
 must get away from Jelly and Dallory ! But for having a wife 
 on his hands, he might have felt tempted to make a hasty 
 flitting to America and join Dr. Jones. Join Dr. Jones ? — 
 But where was the wherewithal to do it ? He had it not. 
 His thoughts turned, as they ever did on these occasions, to 
 that money of his locked up in the Tontine. Of his : that was 
 how Dr. Rane had got to regard it. That money would bring 
 him salvation. If he could but obtain it 
 
 A bow from some white haired old gentleman, passing in a 
 carriage. Dr. Rane returned it, the singular coincidence of 
 his appearance at that moment flashing through his mind. 
 For it was Sir Thomas Ticknell. Yes : it truly seemed to 
 him that that Tontine money would be nothing less than sal- 
 
A Panic. ■ 249 
 
 vation. Ho went on with a great fear and pain in his throb- 
 bing heart, wondering for how long or short a time Jelly 
 would hold her counsel. 
 
 The next morning was Thursday. It brought news that 
 nearly struck people dumb : Henry Hepburn, the undertaker, 
 was dead, and Mrs. Rane had been seized with the fever. 
 Dr. Rane's account was, that his wife had been very restless 
 all night ; he gave her a composing draught, which seemed to 
 do good for the time : but upon attempting to get up she was 
 attacked with nausea and faintness, and had to go back to 
 bed. The symptoms that subsequently set in he feared were 
 those of the fever. 
 
 It was an awkward time for Bessy to be ill, as Molly Green 
 had gone home : but Phillis, an excellent substitute, was 
 there. She attended on Mrs. Rane, and the doctor went 
 abroad to his patients. Mr. North, disappointed at Bessy's 
 non-arrival, hearing of her indisposition, came to the house ; 
 but Bessy sent down an urgent message by Phillis, begging 
 him not to run into any danger by coming up to her chamber. 
 And Mr. North, docile and obedient — as Madam in her im- 
 periousness had trained him to be — left his best love, and 
 went back home again. 
 
 In the course of the morning Dr. Rane called in at Hep- 
 burn's. It was a kind of double shop and double house ; in 
 the one were sold articles of furniture, in the other the 
 carpenter's work was carried on. Thomas Hepburn and his 
 family lived in the first ; Henry, now dead, had occupied the 
 last. He was a married man, but had no children. When 
 Dr. Rane entered the second shop, he did not at first see 
 Thomas Hepburn ; the two shutters up at the window made 
 the place dark, after coming in from the bright sunshine. 
 Thomas Hepburn saw him, however, and came forward from 
 the workshop behind, where he had been looking on at his 
 men. Various articles seemed to be in the course of active 
 construction, coffins amidst the rest. 
 
 " I am very sorry for this loss, Hepburn," began the doctor. 
 
 " Well, sir, I've not had any hope from the first," sighed 
 Hepburn, his face looking careworn and unusally sickly in 
 the semi-light. " I don't think poor Henry had." 
 
 " The fact is, Hepburn, he had not strength to carry him 
 through the disorder ; it did not attack himlightly. I did all 
 I could." 
 
 "Yes, sir, I'm sure of that " returned Hepburn — and what 
 
250 •• Bessy Rane. 
 
 with his naturally weak voice, and the hammering that was 
 going on behind, Dr. Rane had to listen with all his ears to 
 catch the words. "We've been an ailing family always: 
 liable to take disorders, too, more than others." 
 
 Dr. Rane made no reply for the moment. He was regard- 
 ing the speaker. Something in his aspect imparted the sus- 
 j)icion that the man was in actual present fear. 
 
 " You must keep up a good heart, you know, Hepburn." 
 
 " I'd rather go a hundred miles, sir, than do what I've got 
 to do just now amid the dead," said Hepburn, glancing round. 
 " That's how my brother took it." 
 
 " Let a workman go instead of you." 
 
 The undertaker shook his head. " One has to go with me ; 
 and the other is just as afraid as afraid can be. No, I must 
 go on myself. There'll be double work for me, now Henry's 
 gone." 
 
 "Well, Hepburn, I begin to think the fever is on the turn," 
 said the doctor cheerily, as he walked away. 
 
 The day wore on. Mrs. Rane's symptoms were decidedly 
 those of fever, and the doctor went all the way to Whitborough 
 himself (not far in actual distance, only that he could not well 
 spare the time) to tell Molly Green she was to keep where she 
 was, out of harm's way, and not return until sent for. When 
 he got back home his wife was worse. Phillis met him at the 
 door, and said her poor mistress's face was scarlet, and she 
 rolled her head from side to side. Phillis wanted to stay tho 
 night, but the doctor would not have it : there was no neces- 
 sity, he said, and she had better not be longer in the infection 
 than could be helped. So Phillis went away at ten o'clock. 
 
 Between eleven and twelve, just as Mr. Seeley was pre- 
 paring for rest, Dr. Rane came in and asked him. to go over to 
 see his wife. The surgeon went at once. Bessy was lying in 
 bed in her comfortable chamber, just as Phillis had described — 
 her face scarlet, her head turning uneasily on the pillow. A 
 candle stood on the table, dimly lighting the room ; Mr. 
 Seeley took it close to inspect her face ; but Bessy put up her 
 hand and turned her head away, as if the light hurt her. 
 
 " She seems slightly delirious," whispered Mr. Seeley apart, 
 and Dr. Rane nodded. After that, the two doctors talked 
 together a little on the stairs, and Mr. Seeley went away, say- 
 ing he would come again in the morning. 
 
 In the morning, however, Dr. Rane went over to tell him 
 that his wife, after a most restless night, had dropped into a 
 
A Panic. 251 
 
 quiet doze, and had better not be disturbed. He felt sure sho 
 was better. This was Friday. 
 
 Phillis arrived betimes. She found a wet sheet flapping in 
 the grey ante-room, just outside the bed-chamber door, which 
 Dr. Kane had saturated with disinfecting liquid. Jars of dis- 
 infectants stood on the wide landing, on the staircase, and in 
 other parts of the house. Phillis had no fear, and went in 
 behind the flapping sheet. She could make nothing of Mrs. 
 Kane. Instead of the scarlet face and restless head, she now 
 lay buried in her pillow, still, and pale, and intensely quiet. 
 Phillis offered her some tea ; Mrs Rane just opened her eyes, 
 and feebly motioned it away with her hand, just as she had 
 motioned away the light the previous night. " It's a sudden 
 change," thought Phillis. " I don't like it." 
 
 Later in the morning, Dr. Rane brought up Mr. Seeley. 
 She lay in exactly the same position, deep in the pillow. 
 What with that, and what with the large night-cap, thft 
 surgeon could get to see very little of her face. 
 
 "Don't disturb me," she faintly said, when he would have 
 aroused her sufficiently to get a good look. " I am easy now. " 
 
 "Do you know me?" questioned Mr. Seeley, bending 
 over her. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, opening her eyes for a moment. 
 " Let me sleep ; I shall be better to-morrow." 
 
 " How do you feel ? " he asked. 
 
 " Only tired. Let me sleep." 
 
 " Bessy," said her husband, in the persuasive voice he used 
 to the sick, "won't you just turn to Mr. Seeley ? " 
 
 " To-morrow. I want to go to sleep." 
 
 And so they did not disturb her further. After all, sleep 
 does wonders, as Dr. Rane remarked. 
 
 It might have been that Mr. Seeley went away somewhat 
 puzzled, scarcely thinking that the fever had been on her 
 sufficiently long to leave this kind of exhaustion. 
 
 As the day grew older, a rumour was whispered that Mrs. 
 Rane was dying. Whence it arose none could trace, unless 
 from a word or two dropped by Dr. Rane himself to Thomas 
 Hepburn. They happened to meet in the street, and the 
 undertaker stopped to enquire after Mrs. Rane. She was in 
 a most critical state, was the doctor's answer ; the night would 
 decide it, one way or the other. 
 
 Phillis went up to her mistress several times. Dr. Rane 
 kept the hanging sheet well saturated, and flapped it often. 
 
252 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Mrs. Rane never seemed to rouse herself throughout the day : 
 seemed, in fact, to sleep through it. Phillis began to hope 
 that it was indeed comfortable, refreshing sleep, and that she 
 would awake better. 
 
 " You'll let me stay hereto-night, master ?" she said, when 
 there was nothing more to do, as Dr. Rane — who had been 
 out — came in, and passed by the kitchen. 
 
 " No need," he answered in his decisive manner. " Be here 
 the first thinsr in the morningf." 
 
 Phillis put on her shawl and bonnet, wished him good- 
 night, and departed. It was about ten o'clock. Dr. Rane 
 saw her out and went up to the sick chamber. In less than 
 five minutes he came down again with a white face, opened 
 the front door, and strode across the road to' Mr. Seeley's. 
 The latter was in his surgery, in the act of pouring out some 
 medicine into a small phial. 
 
 " Seeley ! Seeley ! My wife is gone ! " 
 
 What with the suddenness of the interruption, and what 
 with the words, the surgeon was so startled that he dropped 
 the bottle. 
 
 " Gone ! " he cried. " Do you mean dead ? " 
 
 "I do." 
 
 " Why, when I saw you at dusk, you told me she was 
 •sleeping comfortably ! " said the surgeon, staring at Dr. Rane. 
 "Phillis also said it." 
 
 " And so she was. She was to all appearance. Heaven is 
 my witness that I thought and believed the sleep then to be 
 natural — that it was refreshing her. She must have died in 
 it. I went up now, and found her — found her — getting cold. 
 She must have been dead more than an hour." 
 
 Oliver Rane put his arm on Mr. Seeley's counter and bent 
 his face to hide his emotion. The surgeon in the midst of 
 his surprise, had hardly ever felt so sorry for any one as he 
 felt in that moment for his brother practitioner. 
 
 CHAPTER XXYII. 
 
 WHAT JELLY SAW. 
 
 " It was too true ; Mrs. Rane was dead," said sympathising 
 people one to the other ; for even that same night the sad 
 tidings went partially out to Dallory. What with the death 
 of Hepburn the undertaker, and now the doctor's wife — both 
 
What Jelly Saw. 253 
 
 prominent people, so to say, in connection with the sickness — ■ 
 something like consternation fell on such as heard it. Dr. 
 Rane carried the news himself to Dallory Hall, catching Mr. 
 North jnst as he was going to bed, and imparting it to him ia 
 the most gentle and soothing manner he knew how. Fearing 
 that if he left it until morning, it might reach him abruptly, 
 the doctor thus made haste. From thence he went on to- 
 Hepburn's. He had chanced to meet Francis Dallory in 
 coming out of Seeley's ; he met some one else he knew ; these- 
 imparted the tidings to others ; so that many heard of it that 
 night. 
 
 But now we come to a very strange and singular thing thai; 
 happened to Jelly. Jelly in her tart way was sufficiently 
 good-hearted. There was sickness in Ketler's house: the- 
 wife had her three days' old infant : the little girl, Cissy, got 
 worse and weaker : and Jelly chose to sacrifice an afternoon 
 to the nursing of them. Much as she disapproved of the man's- 
 joining the Trades' Union and upholding the strike, often as- 
 she had assured him that both starving and the workhouse,, 
 whichever he might prefer, were too good for him, now that 
 misfortune lay upon the house, Jelly came-to a little. Susan 
 Ketler was her cousin ; and, after all, she was not to blame for 
 her husband's wrong doings. Accordingly, in the afternoon 
 of the last day of Mrs. Rane's illness, Jelly went forth to 
 Ketler's, armed with some beef -tea, and a few scraps for 
 the half-famished children, the whole enclosed in a reticule 
 bag. 
 
 "I shall take the latch-key," she said, in starting, to the- 
 cook, who was commonly called Dinah, " so you can go to 
 bed. If Susan Ketler's very ill I'll stop late. Mind you put 
 a box of matches on the slab in the hall." 
 
 Susan Ketler was not very ill, Jelly found ; but the child, 
 Cissy, was. So ill, that Jelly bardly knew whether to leave 
 her at all, or not. The mother could not attend to her ;. 
 Ketler had gone tramping off beyond Whitborough after 
 Union work, and had not come back. Only that she thought 
 Mrs. Cumberland would not be pleased if she came to hear 
 that Jelly, the confidential servant left in charge, had stayed 
 out for a night, leaving the house with only the cook in it, she, 
 Jelly, had certainly stayed. At past twelve poor Ketler got 
 home, dead beat, sick, faint, having walked several miles 
 without food. Jelly blew hini up a little — she considered that 
 the man who could refuse work when his children wero 
 
254 Bessy Rane. 
 
 starving, because he belonged to the Trades' Union, deserved 
 nothing but blowing-up on any score — bade him look to Cissy, 
 told him ungraciously that there was a loaf in the pan, and 
 came away. Ketler, fit to drop though he was, civilly offered 
 to see her home ; but all the thanks he got in return, was a 
 recommendation to attend to his own concerns and not to 
 meddle with hers. 
 
 It was a fine, still night, rather too warm for the sickness 
 that lay on Dallory ; and Jelly walked on at a swift pace, her 
 reticule, empty now, on her arm. Some women might have 
 felt timid at the midnight walk : Jelly was too strong-minded. 
 She certainly found it a little lonely on entering the Ham, as 
 if the road under the overshadowing trees, beginning now to 
 lose some of their leaves, had something weird about it. But 
 this part was soon passed ; and Jelly came to the houses, and 
 within sight of home. Not a soul met she : it was as dreary, 
 as far as human companionship went, as could be. A black 
 cat sprang suddenly from the hedge, and tore over the road 
 almost across Jelly's feet ; and it made her start. 
 
 She began thinking about Mrs. Rane ; quite unconscious of 
 the death that had taken place. When Jelly left home in the 
 afternoon Mrs. Rane was said to be in danger : at least such 
 wasPhillis's opinion, privately communicated: but, late in the 
 evening, news had been brought to Ketler's that all danger 
 was over ; that Mrs. Rane was in a refreshing sleep, and going 
 on safely to recovery. 
 
 " And I'm downright glad of it, poor young lady ! " said 
 Jelly, half aloud, as she turned in at her gate. " Doctors' wives 
 are naturally more exposed to the chance of catching infectious 
 sickness. But on the other hand they have the best advice 
 and care." 
 
 It was striking one. Letting herself in with the latch key, 
 Jelly felt for the box of matches, passing her hand cautiously 
 over the marble table. And passed it in vain : no matches 
 were there. 
 
 "Forgetful hussy!" ejaculated Jelly, apostrophizing the 
 unconscious Dinah. " Mnch good she's of ! " 
 
 So Jelly crept quietly upstairs in the dark, knowing she 
 had matches in her own chamber : and in a minute came upon 
 another of the negligent Dinah's delinquencies. She had 
 omitted to draw down the blind of the large window on the 
 landing. 
 
 " She has been out at that back-door, talking to people," 
 
What Jelly Saw. 255 
 
 quoth Jelly in her wrath. " Just like her ! Won't she get a 
 taste of my tongue in the morning ! " 
 
 Turning to draw down the blind herself, she was suddenly 
 arrested, with the cord in her hand, by a sight in the opposite 
 landing — Dr. Rane's. Standing there, dressed in something 
 white, which Jelly at the time took for a nightgown or petti- 
 coat, was Mrs. Rane. The landing was faintly lighted, as if 
 by some distant candle, invisible to Jelly ; but Mrs. Rane was 
 perfectly distinct, her features and even their expression quite 
 clear. The. first thought that crossed Jelly was, that Mrs. 
 Rane was delirious : but she looked too still for that. She 
 did not move ; and the eyes had a fixed stare, as it seemed to 
 Jelly. But that she herself must have been invisible from the 
 surrounding darkness, she would have thought Mrs. Rane was 
 staring at her. For a full minute this lasted : Jelly watching, 
 Mrs. Rane never stirring. 
 
 " What in the world brings her standing there ? " quoth 
 Jelly in her amazement. "And what can she be staring at? 
 It can't be at me." 
 
 But at that moment Jelly's bag slipped off her arm, and fell 
 on the carpet with a bang. It caused her to shift her gaze 
 from the opposite landing for a single second — it really did not 
 seem longer. When she looked again, the place was in dark- 
 ness : Mrs. Rane and the faint light were alike gone. 
 
 " She has no business to be out of her bed — and the doctor 
 ought to tell her so if he's at home," thought Jelly. " Anv- 
 way, she must be a great deal better : for I don't think it's 
 delirium." 
 
 She waited a short while, but nothing more was seen. 
 Drawing down the blind with a jerk, Jelly picked up her 
 bag, and passed on to her own chamber — one of the back 
 rooms on this first floor. Where she slept undisturbed until 
 morning. 
 
 She lay late. Being amenable to nobody while Mrs. Cum- 
 berland was away, the house's mistress in fact, as well as 
 Dinah's, Jelly did not hurry herself. She was no laggard in 
 general, especially on a Saturday, but felt tired after her weary 
 afternoon at Ketler's and fi'om having gone so late to rest. 
 Breakfast was ready in the kitchen when she got down ; 
 Dinah — a red-faced young woman in a brown-spotted cotton 
 gown — being busy at the fire with the coffee. 
 
 " Now then ! " began Jelly — her favourite phrase when she 
 was angry. " What have you got to say for yourself ? 
 
256 Bessy Rane. 
 
 "Whereabouts on the slab did you put those matches last 
 night ? " 
 
 Dinah, taken-to, tilted the kettle back. Until that moment 
 she had not thought of her negligence. 
 
 " I'm afraid I never put 'em at all," she said. 
 
 " No you didn't put 'em," retorted Jelly with stinging 
 emfmasis. " But for having matches and a candle in my room, 
 I must have undressed in the dark. And I'd like to know 
 Avhy you didn't put 'em ; and what you were about not to ? " 
 
 " I'm sure I'm sorry," said Dinah, who was a tractable 
 kind of girl. " I forgot it, I suppose, in the upset about poor 
 Mrs. Rane." 
 
 " In the upset about poor Mrs. Rane," scornfully repeated 
 Jelly. " What upset you, pray, about her ? — And you've 
 never been out to fasten back the shutters ! " 
 
 " She's dead," answered Dinah — and the ready tears came 
 into the girl's eyes. " That's what I've got the shutters half- 
 to for. I thought you'd most likely not have heard it." 
 
 A little confusion arose in Jelly's mind. Thought is quick. 
 Mrs. Rane's death (as she supposed) could not possibly have 
 occurred before morning : the neglect, as to the matches, was 
 last night. But, in the shock of the news she passed this- 
 over. Her tart tone went away as by magic : her face changed 
 to an amazed sadness. 
 
 " Dead ? When did she die, Dinah ? " 
 
 "It was about nine o'olock last night, they think. And she- 
 lay an hour after that in her bed, Jelly, getting cold, before it 
 was found out." 
 
 On hearing this, Jelly's first impression was that Dinah 
 must be playing with her. The girl came from, the fire with 
 the coffee, wiping her eyes. 
 
 " Now what d'ye mean, girl ? Mrs. Rane didn't die last 
 night — as I can answer for." 
 
 " Oh but she did, Jelly. Dr. Rane went up to her at ten 
 o'clock — he had been out till then — and found her dead. I 
 can tell you, I didn't half like to go all the way up to bed by 
 myself to that top floor, and me alone in the house, knowing 
 "he was lying there at the very next door." 
 
 Jelly waited to take in the full sense of the words, staring; 
 at Dinah while she did it. What ivas all this ? 
 
 "You must have taken leave of your senses, girl," she said, 
 as she began to pour out the coffee. 
 
 " I'm sure I've not," said Dinah. " Why ? * 
 
What Jelly Saw. 257 
 
 *'To tell me Mrs. Rane died last night. IIow did jou pick 
 tip tlie tale ? " 
 
 "Jelly, it's no tale. It's as true as you and mo's hero. I. 
 was standing at the front gate for a breath of air, before 
 shntting-up, when Dr. Rane came out of his house in a haste 
 like, and went across to Mr. Seeley's. It struck me that Mrs. 
 Rane might be worse and that he had gone to fetch the other, 
 so I stayed a bit to see. Presently — it wasn't long — he eamo 
 back across the road again. Mr. Francis Dallory happened to 
 be passing, and he asked after Mrs. Rane. She was dead, the 
 doctor said ; and went on to tell him how he had found her. 
 You needn't look as if you thought I was making-up stories, 
 Jelly. They stood close by the doctor's gate, and I heard every 
 word." 
 
 Jelly did not precisely know how she looked. If this was 
 true, why — what could be the meaning of that which she had 
 seen in the night ? 
 
 "She can't be dead.?" 
 
 " She is," said Dinah. "Why should you dispute it ? " 
 
 Jelly did not say why. She gulped down her hot coffee at 
 a draught, and went out, eating a piece of bread-and-butter. 
 She did not believe it. Dinah evidently did : but the girl 
 might have caught up some misapprehension : or, as Jelly 
 mentally put it, "heard cross-wise." 
 
 The first thing that struck Jelly when she got outside, was 
 the appearance of the doctor's house. It was closely shut up, 
 doors and windows, and the blinds were down. As Jelly stood, 
 looking up, she saw Mr. Seeley standing at his door without 
 his hat. She went over and accosted him. 
 
 "Is it true, sir, that Mrs. Rane is dead ? " 
 
 " Quite true," was the answer. " She died yesterday 
 evening, poor lady. It was terribly sudden." 
 
 Jelly felt a very queer sensation take her. But she was in a 
 fog of disbelief yet. Mr. Seeley was called to from within, and 
 Jelly returned and knocked softly at Dr. Rane's door. Phillis 
 opened it, her eyes swollen with crying. 
 
 " I say, Phillis, whatever is all this ? " demanded Jelly, in a 
 low tone. " "When did she die ? " 
 
 "Stop a bit," interposed Phillis, arresting her entrance. 
 " You'd better not come in. I am not afraid : and, for tho 
 matter of that, somebody must be here : but it isn't well for 
 -(hose to run risks that needn't. The doctor says it was tho 
 quickest and most malignant case of them all." 
 
 S 
 
2 $8 Bessy Rane. 
 
 "I never caught any disorder in my life, and I don't fcai 
 tliat I ever shall," answered Jelly, quietly making her way to 
 the kitchen. " When did she die, Phillis ? " 
 
 "About nine o'clock last evening, as is thought. Ths 
 minute and hour won't never be known for sure : at ten, when 
 the doctor found her, she was getting cold. And for us below 
 to have thought her quietly sleeping ! " wound up Phillis with 
 a sob. 
 
 The queer sensation grew into tremor. Jelly had never 
 experienced anything like it in her whole life. She stood 
 against the dresser, staring at Phillis helplessly. 
 
 " I don't think she could have died last evening," whispered 
 Jelly presently. 
 
 "And I'm sure I as little thought she was dying," returned. 
 Phillis. " The last time I went up was about half -after seven: 
 she was asleep then ; that I'm positive of ; and it seemed a 
 good healthy sleep, for the breathing was as regular as could 
 be. Sometime after eight o'clock, master went up : he came 
 down and said she was still sleeping, and he hoped she'd sleep 
 till morning, and I'd better not go up again for fear of dis- 
 turbing her. I didn't go up, Jelly. I knew if she woke and 
 wanted anything she'd ring : the bell-rope was to her hand. 
 Master went out to a patient, and I cleared up the kitchen 
 here. He came in at ten o'clock. I was ready to go, but 
 asked him if I should stay all night. There was no need, ho 
 answered, missis being better ; and I went. I never heard 
 nothing more till I come this morning. The milkman got to 
 the door just as I did ; and he began saying what a sad thing 
 it was that she had died. ' Who had died,' I asked him, and 
 he said, ' Why, my missis.' Jelly, you might have knocked 
 me down with a breath of wind." 
 
 By Jelly's looks at this moment, it seemed as if a breath 
 :>f wind might do the same for her. Her face and lips had 
 turned of a yellow whiteness. 
 
 " The master opened the door to me: and told me all about 
 it: about his finding her dead close upon my going out," con- 
 tinued Phillis. " He's frightfully cut up, poor man. Not that 
 there's any tears, but his face is heavy and sad, like one looks 
 who has never been in bed all night — as he hasn't been. I 
 found a blanket on the dining-room sofa, so ho must have lain 
 down there." 
 
 " Where is he now ? " asked Jelly. 
 
 "Out. He was fetched to somebody at Dallory. I must 
 
What Jelly Saw. 259 
 
 stir up the pots,"' added Phillis, alluding to the earthcrn jars 
 that were about with the disinfectants. " Master charged me 
 to do it every hour. It's safer for the undertaker's men and 
 others that have to come to the house." 
 
 Taking a piece of stick, she went into the hall, to wherever 
 stood a jar, and gave the contents a good stir. The dining- 
 room door was open : Dr. Rane's solitary breakfast was laid 
 there, waiting for him. From thence, Phillis went up the 
 staircase to the other jars. Jelly followed. 
 
 " Nasty stuff ! I do hate the smell of it," muttered Phillis. 
 " I'd not come up if I were you," she added to Jelly, in the 
 low, hushed voice that we are all apt to use when near the 
 dead. 
 
 Jelly disregarded the injunction. She believed herself 
 safe : and was not prone to take advice at the best of times. 
 " Whatever's that ?" she exclaimed when she reached the 
 landing. 
 
 The sheet that had been flapping for two days outside the 
 bedroom door, now flapped, wet as ever, on the landing before 
 the door of the ante-room. Dr. Rane deemed this the better 
 place for it now. Phillis gave it some knocks with the stick 
 to bring out its saving properties. 
 
 Compared with the gloom of the rest of the house, behind 
 its drawn blinds, this landing, with its wide, staring, un- 
 covered window, was strikingly bright. Jelly glanced round, 
 it might have been thought nervously, only that she was not 
 a nervous woman. Here, in the middle of the floor, at one 
 o'clock in the morning, her face turned to that window, had 
 stood Mrs. Rane. If not Mrs. Rane — who ? — or what ? 
 
 " Phillis," whispered Jelly, " I should like to see her." 
 
 " You can't," answered Phillis. 
 
 " Nonsense. I am not afraid." 
 
 " But you can't, Jelly. She is fastened down." 
 
 " She is ! — Why what do you mean ? " broke off Jelly. 
 
 Phillis took up a corner of the sheet, unlocked the door — in 
 which the key was left — and opened it half an inch for Jelly 
 to peep in. There, in the middle of the grey room stood a 
 closed coffin, supported on trestles. In the shock of the sur- 
 prise Jelly fell back against the wall, and began to tremble. 
 
 The idea that came over her — as she said to some one after- 
 wards — was, that Mrs. Rane had been put into the coffin alive. 
 What with the sight of the previous night (and Jelly did not 
 yet admit to herself the full thought of what that sight might 
 
260 Bessy Rane. 
 
 have been), and what -with this, she felt in a kind of be- 
 wildered horror. Recovering herself a little, she pushed past 
 the sheet into the room, but with creeping, timid steps. 
 
 " Jelly, I'd not go in ! The master charged me not." 
 
 But Jelly never heard. Or, if she heard, did not heed. It 
 was a common deal shell : its lid nailed down. Jelly touched 
 it with her fore-finger. 
 
 " When was she put in here, Phillis ? " 
 
 " Sometime during the night." 
 
 " And fastened down at once ? " 
 
 "To be sure. I found it like this when I came this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " But — why need there have been such haste ? " « 
 
 "Because it was safest so. Safest for us that are living," 
 as my master said. " The leaden one will be here to-day." 
 
 Well — of course it was safer. Jelly could but acknowledge 
 it, and recovered herself somewhat. She wished she had not 
 seen — that — in the night. It was that sight, so unaccountable, 
 that was turning her mind upside down. 
 
 With her customary lack of ceremony, Jelly opened the 
 bedroom door and looked in. It had not been put to rights : 
 Phillis said her master would not let her go in to do anything 
 to it until the two rooms should have been fumigated. Medi- 
 cine bottles stood about ; the bed-clothes lay over the foot of 
 the bed, just as Hepburn's men must have flung them when 
 they removed the dead. On the dressing-table lay a bow of 
 blue ribbon that poor Bessy had worn in her gown the last day 
 she had one on, a waistband with its buckle, and other trifles. 
 Jelly began to feel oppressed, as if her breath were getting 
 short, and came away hastily. Phillis stood on the landing 
 beyond the sheet. 
 
 " It seems like a dream, Phillis." 
 
 "I wish we could awake and find it was one," answered 
 Phillis, practically, as she turned the key in the lock ; and 
 they went down stairs. 
 
 Not a minute too soon. Before they had well reached the 
 kitchen, Dr. Rane's latch-key was heard. 
 
 " There's the master," cried Phillis under her breath, as he 
 turned into his consulting-room. " It's a good thing he didn't 
 find us up there." 
 
 " I want to say a word to him, Phillis ; I think I'll go in,'" 
 said Jelly, taking a sudden resolution to acquaint Dr. Rane 
 with what she had seen. The truth was, her mind felt so un- 
 
What Jelly Saw. 261 
 
 hinged, knowing not what to believe, what to disbelieve, that 
 she thought she must speak, or die. 
 
 "Need yon bother him now? — what's it about ?" asked 
 Phillis. " I'd let him get his breakfast first." 
 
 But Jelly went on to the consulting-room door ; and found 
 herself nearly knocked over by the doctor — who was turning 
 swiftly out of it. She asked if she could speak to him : ho 
 said Yes, if she'd be quick; but he wanted to catch Mr. Sceley 
 before the latter went out. 
 
 "And your breakfast, master?" called out Phillis in a 
 pitying tone. 
 
 " I'll take some presently," was the answer. " What is it 
 that you want, Jelly ? " 
 
 • Jelly carefully closed the door before speaking, She then 
 entered on her tale. At first the doctor supposed, by this 
 show of caution, that she was going to consult him on some 
 private ailment, St. Antony's fire in the face, for instance, or 
 St. Vitus's dance in the legs ; and thought she might have 
 chosen a more opportune time. But he soon found it was 
 nothing of the kind. With her hands pressing heavily the 
 elbow of the patients' chair, Jelly told her tale. The doctor 
 stood facing her, his arms folded, his back to the drawn-down 
 blind. At first he did not appear to understand. 
 
 " Saw my wife upon the landing in her nightgown ? " ho 
 exclaimed, — and Jelly thought he looked startled. "Surely 
 she was not so imprudent as to get out of bed and go 
 there ! " 
 
 "But, sir, it is said that she was then dead ! " 
 
 "Dead when? She did not die until nine o'clock. Sho 
 could not have known what she was doing," continued Di\ 
 Bane, passing his hand over his forehead. " Perhaps she may 
 have caught a chill. Perhaps " 
 
 " You are misunderstanding me, sir," interrupted Jelly. 
 " It was in the night I saw this ; some hours after Mrs. Rane's 
 death." 
 
 Dr. Rane's face took a puzzled expression. He looked 
 narrowly at Jelly, as if wondering what it was she would 
 say. 
 
 '"Not last night?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. Or, I'd rather say this morning; for it was ono 
 o'clock. I saw her standing there as plainly as I see you at 
 this moment." 
 
 " Why, Jelly, you must have been dreaming ? " 
 
262 Bessy Ra?ie. 
 
 " I was as wide awake, sir, as I am now. I had just got 
 home from Ketler's. I can't think what it was I did see," 
 added Jelly, dropping her voice. 
 
 "Yon saw nothing," was the decisive answer — and in the 
 doctor's tone there was some slight tonch of anger. "Fancy 
 plays tricks with the best of us : it must have played you one 
 last night." 
 
 "I have been thinking whether it was possible that — that — 
 she was not really dead, sir," persisted Jelly. "Whether she 
 could have got up, and " 
 
 " Be silent, Jelly. I cannot listen to this folly," came the 
 stern, checking interruption. " You have no right to let 
 your imagination run away with you, and then talk of it as 
 something real. I desire that you will never speak another 
 word upon the subject to me ; or to anyone." 
 
 Jelly's green eyes seem to have borrowed the doctor's look 
 of puzzled doubt. She gazed into his face. This was a most 
 curious business : she could not see as yet the faintest gleam 
 of any solution to it. 
 
 " It was surely her I saw on the landing, sir, dead or alive. 
 I could swear to it. Such things have been heard of before 
 now as swoons being mistaken for death. When poor Mrs. 
 Rane was left alone after her death — that is, her supposed 
 death — if she revived ; and got up ; and came out upon the 
 landing " 
 
 " Hold your tongne," interposed the doctor, sharply. " How 
 dare you persist in this nonsense, woman ! You must be mad 
 or dreaming. An hour before the time you speak of, my poor 
 wife, dead and cold, was where she is now — fastened down in 
 her shell." 
 
 He flung out of the room with an indignant movement ; 
 leaving Jelly speechless with horror. 
 
 " Fastened down," ran her thoughts, " at twelve o'clock — 
 dead and cold — and I saw her on the landing at one ! Oh my 
 goodness, what does it mean ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIIL 
 
 DESOLATION. 
 
 At the front-parlour window at Eastsea, sat Ellen Adair — 
 looking for one who did not come. Whatsoever troubles, 
 trials, mysteries might be passing elsewhere, Eas^ a ea was goino- 
 
Desolation, 2^3 
 
 on its usual monotonous routine. How monotonous, Ellen 
 Adair could have answered : and yet, even here, something like 
 mystery seemed to be looming in the air. 
 
 " Come what may, Ellen, I shall be down again within a 
 few hours," had been Arthur Bohun's parting words to her. 
 But the hours and the days passed on, and he came not. 
 
 To have one's marriage suddenly interrupted, and the bride- 
 groom borne off from, so to say, the very church-door, was no 
 more agreeable to Ellen Adair than it would be to any other 
 young lady. She watched him away in the fly, while his 
 kisses were yet warm upon her lips. All that remained, was 
 to make the best of the situation. She took off her bonnet 
 and dress, and locked up the ring and licence he had begged 
 lier to take care of. Until the morrow she supposed ; only 
 until the morrow. Mrs. Cumberland sent out a message to 
 the fly-man (her fly-man, not Madam's), by Ann the servant 
 — from whom (Ann) she hoped to avert suspicion — to the 
 ■effect that, finding herself unable to get up, she could not take 
 lier drive, but he was to bring the fly at the same hour on the 
 morrow. Mrs. Cumberland also wrote a line to the clergy- 
 man. 
 
 The morrow came ; and went. Ellen scarcely stirred from 
 the window — which commanded a view of the road from the 
 station — but she did not see Captain Bohun. " Sir Nash's 
 son must be worse, and he cannot leave," she said to herself, 
 striving to account naturally for the delay, while at the same 
 time an under-current of vague uneasiness lay within her, 
 which she made believe not to recognize, or listen to. " There 
 -will be a letter to-morrow morning — or else, himself." 
 
 But on the morrow morning there was no letter. Ellen 
 watched the postman pass the house, and she turned sick and 
 white. Mrs. Cumberland — who was better and had risen be- 
 times, expecting Captain Bohun, and that the marriage would 
 certainly take place that day — took the absence of letters with 
 philosophy. 
 
 "He might as well have written a line, of course, Ellen; 
 but it only shows that he is coming in by the first train. That 
 will be due in twenty minutes." 
 
 Ellen stood at the window, watching : her spirit faint, her 
 heart beating. That vague under-current of uneasiness had 
 grown into a great recognized fear now — but a fear she knew 
 not of what. She made no pretence to eat breakfast ; she 
 ■could not have swallowed a morsel had it been to save hei' 
 
264 Bessy Rane. 
 
 life: Mrs. Cumberland said nothing, except that she must take 
 some after Captain Bohun had come. 
 
 " There's the train, Ellen. I hear the whistle." 
 
 The window had a dwarf Venetian blind ; Ellen sat behind 
 it, glancing through the staves. Three or fonr straggling 
 passengers were at length perceived, making their way down 
 the street. But not one of them was Captain Bohun. The 
 shock of disappointment was turning her heart to sickness, 
 when a station fly came careering gaily up the street. 
 
 Ah me, how hope rose again ! She might have known he 
 would take a fly, and not walk up. The driver seemed 
 making for their house. Ellen's eyes grew bright ; her pale 
 cheeks changed to rose-colour. 
 
 " Is that fly coming here, my dear ?" 
 
 " I think so, Mrs. Cumberland." 
 
 " Then it's Captain Bohun. We must let the clergyman 
 know at once, Ellen." 
 
 The fly stopped at their house, and Ellen hid her head; she 
 would not seem to be looking for him, though he was so soon 
 to be her husband. But — something was called out to the 
 driver in a shrill voice from the inside ; upon which ho 
 started his horse on again, and pulled up at the next door. A 
 lady and child got out. It was not Captain Bohun. 
 
 I wonder whether disappointment so great ever fell on 
 mortal woman ? Great emotions, be they of joy or sorrow, 
 arc always silent. The heart alone knoweth its own bitter- 
 ness, says the wise King, and a stranger may not intermeddle 
 with its joy. Ellen laid her hands a minute or two en her 
 bosom ; but never a word spoke she. 
 
 " He'll be here by the next train," said Mrs. Cumberland. 
 "He must come, you know, Ellen." 
 
 She watched throughout the livelong day. How its hour3 
 dragged themselves along she knew not. Imagination pic- 
 tured all kinds of probabilities that might bring him at any 
 minute. He might post down : he might alight by mistake 
 at the wrong station, and walk on : he might have come by 
 the last train, and be putting himself to rights at the hotel 
 after travelling. Five hundred such ideas, alternating with 
 despair, presented themselves. And thus the weary day went 
 on. Towards night the same delusive hope of the morning 
 again rose ; the same farce, of the apparent arrival of Captain 
 Bohun, was once more enacted. 
 
 It was dusk : almost dark : for Ellen, watching ever, had 
 
Desolation. 265 
 
 not thought about lights ; and Mrs. Cumberland, tired witb 
 her long day, was gone into the small back dining-room to lie- 
 on the sofa undisturbed. The last train for the night was 
 steaming in : Ellen heard the whistle. If it did not bring 
 Captain Bohun she thought she could only give him up for 
 ever. 
 
 A short interval of suspense ; and then — surely he was 
 coming ! A fly or two came rattling along the street from 
 the station : and one of them — yes — one of them drew up at 
 the door. Ellen, thinking she had learnt wisdom, said to> 
 herself that she would not get up any expectation in regard to 
 this. Foolish girl ! when her whole heart was throbbing and 
 beating. 
 
 One of the house servants had gone out, and was opening 
 the fly door. A gentleman's hand pitched out a light over- 
 coat ; a gentleman himself leaped out after it, and turned to 
 get something from the seat. Tall and slender, Ellen took 
 it to be Captain Bohun : the light coat was exactly like his. 
 
 And the terrible suspense was over ! She should now know 
 what the mystery had been. He had written most likely, and 
 the letter had miscarried : how stupid she was not to have 
 thought of that before ! She heard his footsteps in the 
 passage : he was coming in : in another instant she should be- 
 in his arms, feeling his kisses on her lips. It was a moment's 
 delirium of happiness : neither more nor less. Ellen stood 
 looking at the door, her breath hushed, her cheeks changing,, 
 her nervous hands clasped one within the other. 
 
 But the footsteps passed the sitting-room. There seemed 
 to be some talking, and then the house subsided into silence- 
 Where was he ? Whither had he gone ? Not into the 
 dining-room, as Ellen knew, for Mrs. Cumberland might not 
 be awakened. Gradually the idea came creeping in, and then- 
 bounded onwards with a flash that, after all, it might not 
 have been Captain Bohun. A faint cry of despair escaped 
 her, and she put her hands up as if to ward off some ap- 
 proaching evil. 
 
 But the suspense at least must be put an end to ; it was too 
 heavy to bear ; and she rang the bell. Ann, who mostly 
 waited on them, answered it. 
 
 " For lights, I suppose, Miss Ellen ? " 
 
 "Yes. Who is it that has just come here in a fly ? " 
 
 "It's the landlady's son, miss. Such a fine, handsome 
 man ! " 
 
266 Bessy Rane. 
 
 When Mrs. Cumberland entered, Ellen sat, pale and quiet, 
 on the low chair. In good truth the inward burden was 
 becoming hard to bear. Mrs. Cumberland remarked that 
 Captain Bohun had neither come nor written, and she thought 
 it was not good behaviour of him. And, with that, she 
 settled to her evening newspaper. 
 
 " Why, Ellen ! Here's the death of James Bohun," she 
 presently exclaimed. "He died the day after Arthur left. 
 This accounts for the delay, I suppose." 
 
 "Yes," murmured Ellen. 
 
 "But not for his not writing," resumed Mrs. Cumberland. 
 "That is very strange. I hope," she added smiling, "that 
 he is not intending to break with you because he is now heir- 
 presumptive to a baronetcy." 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland, as she spoke, happened to look over the 
 newspaper at Ellen, and was struck by her face. It was pale 
 as death ; the eyes had a kind of wild fear, the lips were 
 trembling. 
 
 "My dear child, you surely did not take what I said in 
 earnest ! I spoke in jest. Captain Bohun is not a man to 
 behave dishonourably ; you may quite rely upon that. Had 
 he come into a dukedom, you would still be made his 
 duchess." 
 
 "I think I'll go to bed, if you don't mind my leaving you 
 alone," said Ellen, faintly. "My head aches." 
 
 " I think you had better, then. But you have been torment- 
 ing yourself into that headache, Ellen." 
 
 To bed! It was only a figure of speech. Ellen sat up in 
 her room, knowing that neither bed nor sleep could bring her 
 ease — for her dreams these past two nights had been worse 
 than reality. She watched for hours the tossing sea — that 
 had never calmed properly down since the storm. 
 
 The morning brought a letter from Captain Bohun. To 
 Mrs. Cumberland ; not to Ellen. Or, rather a note, for it was 
 not long enough to be called a letter. It stated that most 
 urgent circumstances had prevented his returning to Eastsea 
 ■ — and he would write further shortly. He added that he was 
 very unwell, and begged to be remembered to Miss Adair. 
 
 To Miss Adair ! The very formality of the message and 
 name — Miss Adair, and not Ellen — told a tale. Something 
 was wrong: it was evident even to Mrs. Cumberland. The 
 letter was short, constrained, abrupt ; and she turned it "about 
 in haughty wonder. 
 
Desolation. 267 
 
 *' What can the man mean ? Th Is is not the way to write 
 when things are at their present crisis. Here are the ring 
 and licence waiting ; here's the clergyman holding himself 
 and the church in readiness from day to day ; here arc you 
 fretting out your heart, Ellen, and he writes such a note as 
 this ! But for its being his own handwriting, I know what 
 I should think." 
 
 "What ? " asked Ellen, hastily. 
 
 " Why, that he is worse than he says. Delirious. Out 
 of his senses." 
 
 " No, no ; it is not that." 
 
 "I think if it's not, it ought to be," sharply retorted Mrs. 
 Cumberland. " We must wait for his nest letter, I suppose ; 
 there's nothing else to be done." 
 
 And they sat down to wait. And the weary days dragged 
 their slow length along. 
 
 Any position more cruelly difficult than that of Captain 
 Bokun cannot well be conceived. Madam's communication 
 to him did not stop at the one first revelation ; she added 
 another to it. At first there had been no opportunity for 
 more ; the train stopped at a branch station just beyond 
 Eastsea, and the carriage became filled with passengers. 
 Arthur, in his torment, would have put further questions 
 to his mother, praying for confirmation, for elucidation ; but 
 Madam whispered a demand to know whether he was mad, 
 that he should speak there, and then turned her back upon 
 him. The people went all the way to London, but as soon 
 as Arthur had put his mother in a cab, on their way to Sir 
 Nash Bohun's, he began again. The storm that raged at 
 Eastsea had apparently extended its fury to London ; the rain 
 beat, the wind blew 7 in gusts, the streets were as deserted as 
 it is possible for London streets at a busy hour of the after- 
 noon to be. Arthur shuddered a little as he glanced out on 
 the black pools, the splashing mud ; outer influences seemed 
 just now to be nearly as black as his fate. 
 
 " Mother, things cannot rest here," he said, putting up 
 both windows with a jerk. "You evaded my questions in 
 the train ; you must answer them now." 
 
 " Would you have had me speak before half a dozen 
 people ? — and proclaim to them what I know of that man — 
 William Adair ? " 
 
 " Certainly not : but you might have spoken for my ear 
 
268 Bessy Rane. 
 
 alone. Cannot you see how dreadful this suspense must be 
 to me ? I am engaged to marry Ellen Adair : if not to-day, 
 some other day. And now you tell me that, which — 
 which " 
 
 Which ought to break it off, he was about to say : but 
 emotion stopped him. He raised his hand and wiped the 
 cold moisture from his forehead. Madam bent down, and 
 kissed his hand. He did not remember to have been kissed 
 by her since he was a child. Her voice took a soft, tender 
 tone ; something like tears stood in her eyes. 
 
 "I can see how you suffer, Arthur; I am sure you must 
 love hei*, poor young lady ; and I'd give anything not to have 
 to inflict pain or disappointment on you. But what else can 
 T do ? You are my son : your interests are dear to me : 
 and I must speak. Don't you remember how I have always 
 warned you against Miss Adair ? But I never suspected 
 there would be cause for it so great as this ? " 
 
 He did remember it. This new soft mode of Madam's 
 became her well. In the midst of his own sea of troubles 
 Arthur spared a moment to think he had in a degree mis- 
 judged her, and to regret it. 
 
 "I cannot understand how so frightful a charge can be 
 brought against Mr. Adair," spoke Arthur. " What you tell 
 me sounds like a fable. I had been given to understand that 
 he and my father were close friends." 
 
 "As they were, once." 
 
 " And yet you say that he, Mr. Adair, was a — a " 
 
 "A convict," spoke Madam, supplying the words. "I 
 cannot give you details, Arthur : only facts. He was tried, 
 out there, and convicted. He got a ticket-of-leave — which 
 I dare say may not have expired yet." 
 
 " And his crime ? — What was it." 
 
 " I told you. Forgery." 
 
 "Did you ever know him ? " 
 
 " Of course I did : at the time when he was intimate with 
 your father. We never quite knew who he was, Arthur ; or 
 who his people Avere at home, or what had taken him out 
 originally to India ; but Major Bohun was unsuspicious as 
 the day, unsuspicious as ymi. There arose great trouble, 
 Arthur ; gambling and wickedness, and I can't tell you 
 what : and through it all, nearly up to the last, your father 
 believed in Adair." 
 
 " Was he a convict then ? " 
 
Desolation. 269 
 
 " No, no ; all that came afterwards : not tho crime, per- 
 haps, but discovery, trial, and conviction. Arthur — how 
 sorry I am to say it, I can never express — your father's son 
 had better go and many that miserable drab, than a daughter 
 of William Adair." 
 
 She pointed to a poor wretch that was passing. A skeleton 
 of a woman, with a dab of paint on her hollow cheeks, and a 
 tawdry gown trailing in the mud. 
 
 Arthur pressed his hands on his temples ; all kinds of con- 
 fused thoughts were fighting together within his breast. 
 
 "Did Mrs. Cumberland know of this ?" he asked. 
 
 " I cannot say. Her husband did. At the time it all hap- 
 pened, Mrs. Cumberland was away in ill-health. I should 
 think she would hear it from her husband afterwards." 
 
 " Then — how could she encourage me to enter into this 
 contract of marriage with Miss Adair ? " returned Arthur, in 
 a flash of resentment. 
 
 " You must never see her again, Arthur ; you must never 
 see her again. Go abroad for a time if need be : it may be 
 the better plan." 
 
 "What am I to say to them?" he cried in self-commune. 
 " After all, Ellen is not responsible for her father's sins." 
 
 A spasm of fright caught Madam. Was this information 
 not sufficient ? — would he carry out the marriage yet ? 
 
 "Arthur, there's worse behind," she breathed. "Why 
 can't you be satisfied ? — why do you force me to tell you 
 all ? — I'd have spared you the rest." 
 
 " What rest ?" he asked, his lips turning white. 
 
 " About that man — William Adair." 
 
 "What rest?" 
 
 " He killed your father." 
 
 " Killed— my father ? " 
 
 " Yes he did. He forged his name; he ruined him: and 
 in the shock — in the shock — he " 
 
 Madam stopped. "What?" gasped Arthur. 
 
 " Well, the shock killed your father." 
 
 " Do you mean that he died of it ? " 
 
 " He could not bear the trouble ; and he — shot himself." 
 
 Madam's face was white now : white with emotion. Arthur, 
 in liis emotion, seized her hand, and gazed at her. 
 
 " It is true," she whispered. " He shot himself in the 
 trouble and disgrace that Adair brought upon him. And 
 you, his son, would have married the man's daughter ! " 
 
270 Bessy Rane. 
 
 With a horrible fear of what he had all but done, — with a 
 remorse that nearly turned him mad, — with a sort of tacit 
 vow never again to see Mrs. Cumberland or Ellen Adair, 
 Arthur Bohun dropped his mother's hand with a suppressed 
 groan, and kept silence until they stopped before the house of 
 Sir Nash Bohun. 
 
 Mechanically he looked up at the windows, and saw that the 
 shutters were open. So James was not dead. Arthur gave 
 his hand to Madam, to help her in. 
 
 But James Bohun was as ill as he could be. Sinking fast ; 
 and very palpably nearer death than when Madam had started 
 from the house at break of dawn. In fact there had then been 
 some hope, for he had rallied in the night. Arthur never 
 knew that. He supposed his mother had truly come off to 
 fetch him, in solicitude that he should be present at the final 
 close : he suspected not that she had frantically hastened down 
 to disturb him in his paradise. 
 
 And this was Arthur Bohun's present position. It is not 
 possible (as was just remarked) to imagine one more cruelly 
 difficult. Bound by every tie of honour to Ellen Adair, only 
 not married to her through a mere chance, she waiting for him 
 now — now, each hour as it passed — to return and complete the 
 ceremony ; and loving her as he should never love any other 
 in this world. And — in the very midst of these obligations — ■ 
 to have made the sudden and astounding discovery that Ellen 
 Adair was the only woman living who must be barred to him ; 
 whom, of all others, of all the many numbers that walk the 
 earth, he must alone not make his wife. The position would 
 have been bewildering to a man without honour ; to Arthur 
 Bohun, with his fastidiously high standard of it, innate in him 
 from his birth, it was simply awful. And the word is not used 
 in its slight and careless sense, as it has become the f ashion to 
 use it of late yea?s. 
 
 For the few hours that James Bohun lasted, Arthur did 
 nothing. It may almost be said that he thought nothing, for 
 his mind was in a chaos of confusion. On the day following 
 his arrival James died : and he, Arthur, was then heir-pre- 
 sumptive. To many, it might have been looked upon that ho 
 was quite as secure of the succession as though he were heir- 
 apparent ; for Sir Nash was old and ailing. A twelvemonth 
 ago Sir Nash Bohun had been full of life ; upright, energetic, 
 to all appearance strong, hearty, and likely to outlive his son. 
 But since then he had changed rapidly ; and the once healthy 
 
Desolation. 27 1 
 
 mrm seemed to have little health in him. Medical men told 
 him that if he would go abroad and partake for some months 
 of certain medicinal springs, he might— and in all probability 
 would — regain his health and strength. Sir Nash would have 
 tried it but for the decaying health of his son. James could 
 not leave home ; Sir Nash would not leave him. 
 
 What though Arthur Bohun was the heir ? In his present 
 distress, it was to him worse than nothing. A Bohun could 
 not live with tarnished honour : and his must be tarnished to 
 the end of his days. To abandon Ellen Adair would bring the 
 red stain of indelible shame to his cheek ; to marry her would 
 be, of the two, the worst disgrace. What, then, was the 
 expected rank and wealth to him ? — better that he should go 
 out to some land of exile and hide his head for ever. 
 
 He knew not what to do ; even at this present passing 
 moment, he knew it not. What ought he to do ? Torn with 
 conflicting emotions, now swayed this way, now that, he could 
 not see which way his duty lay in this very present dilemma. 
 Think not that, in saying this, it was the marriage he was in 
 doubt over ; that had been given up in his own mind for ever. 
 But what was he to say to Ellen ? — what to Mrs. Cumberland. 
 Where seek for an excuse or plea for his conduct ? They were 
 expecting him, no doubt, by every train, and he did not go. 
 He did not mean to go. What could he write ? — what say ? 
 On the day of James Bohun's death, he took the pen in his 
 hand and sat down : but he never wrote a word. The true 
 cause he could not urge. He could not say to Ellen, Your 
 father was a convict, he has (or had) a ticket-of -leave, he 
 caused my father's death ; and so our union must not take 
 place. If he merely said, I have heard things against your 
 father, Ellen would naturally ask what things — for that she 
 knew nothing of the past or the disgrace attaching to her 
 ia:her, was clear as day. " I tell you these dreadful truths in 
 confidence," Madam had said to Arthur, "you must not speak 
 of them. Tou might be called upon for proofs — and proofs 
 would be very difficult to obtain at this distance of time. 
 The Reverend George Cumberland knew all, even more than 
 I ; but he is dead : and it may be that Mrs. Cumberland knows 
 nothing. I should almost think she does not : or she would 
 never have sought to marry you to Adair's daughter. You can 
 only be silent, Arthur ; you must be, for the girl's sake. By 
 speaking merely a hint of what her father was, you would 
 blight her Life and prospects. Let her have her fair chance : 
 
272 Bessy Rane. 
 
 though she may not marry you, she may he chosen by some 
 one else : don't you he the one to hinder it. If the story ever 
 •comes out through others, why — you will be thankful, I dare 
 say, that it was not through you." 
 
 And there, listening to this, assenting to it with his whole 
 heart, stood Arthur. He speak a word that would blight the 
 life of Ellen Adair ? No : he was blighting it enough himself. 
 But, see you not how this compulsory reticence held him ? 
 He might not assign the true reason for his shameful conduct 
 — and to him it appeared shameful in the worst degree : while 
 he could not find or invent any other plea of excuse. 
 
 He sat with the pen in his hand, and did not write a word. 
 There was no word in the whole English language, or collec- 
 tion of words, that would have served him. " My darling love, 
 Fate has parted us, but I would a great deal rather die than 
 have to write it, and I shall hold you in my heart for ever." 
 Something like that he would have liked to say, had it been 
 practicable. But it was not with romance he had to deal, but 
 with stern reality. 
 
 He put the ink and pens up for the day, and lay back in his 
 chair with a face almost as white as that of his dead cousin ; 
 and felt as though he were dying himself. Man has rarely gone 
 through a mental conflict such as this, and come out scatheless. 
 He saw no way out of his dilemma; no way that was, or could 
 be, open to him. 
 
 On the third day he spoke to Sir Nash. It was not that a 
 suspicion of his mother's veracity on this point crossed his 
 mind : it did not : for she had shown too much agitation her- 
 self for him to doubt that the revelation was genuine. There- 
 fore, it w T as not to have the tale confirmed that he spoke, but 
 in the fulness of his bitter heart. 
 
 They were alone in the library. Sir Nash began talking of 
 different things ; of Arthur's probable succession ; of his dead 
 son. James, never strong, had worn himself out between 
 philanthropy and close reading, he said. Arthur, he hoped, 
 would take a lesson, embrace rational pursuits, and marry- 
 He, Sir Nash, understood there was a charming young lady 
 waiting to be asked by him ; of good family, of good fortune, 
 everything in her favour : he alluded to Miss Dallory. 
 
 "Did you know anything of the cause of my father's death, 
 sir ? " questioned Arthur, who had stood listening, in silence, 
 his elbow on the mantel-piece, his hand supporting his 
 brow. 
 
Desolation. 273 
 
 Sir Nash replied by another question : and he glanced keenly 
 at Arthur as he put it. 
 
 " Do you know ? " 
 
 "I always thought that he died of sunstroke. But my 
 mother has at length disclosed to me the truth. He — died in 
 a different way." 
 
 " He shot himself," said Sir Nash, in a low tone. "My 
 brother got suddenly overwhelmed with a load of trouble, and 
 he — he was unable to bear it. Poor Tom ! " 
 
 Arthur questioned of the particulars : he was hoping to hear 
 them. But Sir Nash could not tell him a syllable more than 
 he already knew : in fact, the baronet seemed in a fog about it 
 altogether. 
 
 " Of coarse I never got hold of the details as if I had been 
 on the spot, Arthur," he said. "Your poor father fell into the 
 meshes of a villanous scoundrel, one Adair, who had somehow 
 forged his way by false pretences into society — which I sup- 
 pose is not difficult to do, out there. And this Adair brought 
 some scandalous disgrace on him from which there was no 
 escape : and — and Tom, poor fellow, could not survive it. He 
 was simplicity itself in honour, trusting implicitly, believing all 
 men to be as upright as he, until he found them otherwise. If 
 he had a failing, it was on the side of pride — but I'm afraid 
 most of us Bohuns think too much of that. A less proud man 
 might have got over it. Tom could not. He died, rather than 
 live with his name tarnished." 
 
 Arthur Bohun, standing there and looking more liko 
 a ghost than a living man, thought of the blow his own 
 honour had just received — the tarnish that would rest on it 
 for aye. 
 
 " And you don't know the details, uncle ? " he resumed. " I 
 wonder you did not stir in it at the time — and bring Adair to- 
 justice." 
 
 " On the contrary, we hushed it up. We have never spoken 
 of it, Arthur, above our breath. Tom was gone ; and it was as 
 well to let it lie. It took placu in some out-of-the-way district 
 of India; and the real truth was not known to half a dozen 
 people. The report there was that Major Bohun died of sun- 
 stroke ; it spread to Europe, and we let it circulate uncontra- 
 dicted. Better, we thought, for Tom's little son — you, Arthur 
 — that the real facts of the death should be allowed to rest, if 
 they would rest." 
 
 There ensued a pause. Presently Arthur lifted his face ; and 
 
 T 
 
274 Bessy Rane. 
 
 spoke, as Sir Nash supposed, banteringly. In good truth, it 
 was in desperation. 
 
 "It would not do, I suppose, for a gentleman to marry 
 Adair's daughter ? " 
 
 Sir Nash turned to him quickly. " Why do you ask this ? 
 I believe you know the girl." 
 
 "I will tell you, Uncle Nash. No one could have been 
 nearer marrying another than I was marrying Ellen Adair. 
 Of course it is at an end : I cannot do it now." 
 
 Sir Nash Bohun stared for a minute, as if unable to take in 
 the absurdity of the words. He then drew up his fine old head 
 with a proud dignity. 
 
 "Arthur! Arthur Bohun ! a gentleman had better do as 
 your poor father did — shoot himself — than marry Ellen Adair." 
 
 And Arthur Bohun, in his bitter misery, wondered whether 
 he had not better do it, rather than live the life that must 
 remain to him now. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 IN THE CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Nothing of late years had affected Mr. North so much as the 
 death of Bessy Rane. The calamity of his son Edmund's 
 death, encompassed though it was by the doubt and trouble 
 connected with the anonymous letter, did not touch him as this 
 did. Perhaps he had been unconscious until now how very 
 dear Bessy was to his heart. 
 
 " Why should Bessy have died ? " he asked over and over 
 again in his deep distress, the tears rolling down his cheeks. 
 " She was not starved ; she had plenty of stamina to meet it. 
 They had been calling it a famine fever, some of them, but why 
 should a famine fever attack her ? I knew she was exposed to 
 danger, her husband coming home continually from his fever 
 patients ; but if she did take it, why should she not have got 
 over it ? Others get over it, many of them, most of them ; 
 who have not half the strength or the good constitution that 
 Bessy had. And why, why did she die so soon ? " 
 
 No one could answer him. Not even Dr. Rane. Fever was 
 capricious ; attacking badly or lightly at its will, the latter 
 said. And death was capricious, he added in a lower tone, 
 often seizing upon those whom we most care to save. 
 
 Dallory in general echoed Mr. North's sentiments. Tha 
 
Iii the Churchyard. 275 
 
 death of Mrs. Ranc — or Bessy North, as many had always 
 continued to call her — was the greatest shock that had fallen 
 on them since the outbreak of the fever. Mrs. Gass, braving 
 infection — but, like Jelly, she did not fear it — went down to 
 Dr. Rane's house on the Monday morning to express her 
 sympathy, and relieve herself of some of her surprise. Sho 
 felt much grieved, she was truly shocked : Bessy had always 
 been a favourite of hers ; it seemed impossible to realize the 
 fact that she was dead. Her mental arguments ran very much 
 as did Mr. North's spoken ones — Why should Bessy, well fed, 
 well nourished, have died, when so many half starved ones 
 recovered ? But the point that pressed most forcibly on Mrs. 
 Gass was the quickness of the death. None had died so soon 
 after seizure as Bessy, or anything like so soon ; it seemed un- 
 accountable tl at she should not have battled longer for life. 
 
 Phillis received Mrs. Gass in the darkened drawing-room ; 
 her master was out. Dr. Rane could not stay indoors to in- 
 dulge his grief and play propriety, as most men can ; danger 
 and death were abroad, and the physician had to go forth and 
 try to avert both from others, in accordance with his duty to 
 Heaven and to man. That he felt his loss keenly, people saw ; 
 there was no outward demonstration of it, neither sighs nor 
 tears ; but he seemed like a man upon whom some heavy 
 weight had fallen; his manner preoccupied, his bearing 
 almost unnaturally still and calm. Phillis and Mrs. Gass 
 were talking, and, if truth must be told, crying together, 
 when the doctor came in. Phillis, standing by the centre 
 table, had been giving the particulars of the death, so far as 
 she knew them, just as she had given them to Jelly the morn- 
 ing after. Mrs. Gass, seated in the green velvet chair, had 
 untied the strings of her black bonnet — for she had not come 
 dowm in satins and birds-of -paradise to-day, but in respectful 
 black — and was wiping her eyes with her broad-hemmed 
 handkerchief while she listened. 
 
 The old servant retired at the entrance of her master. He 
 took a seat, and prepared to go through the interview with 
 equanimity, though he heartily wished Mrs. Gass anywhere 
 else. His house was desolate ; infected also ; he thought that 
 visitors, for their own sake and his, had better keep away. 
 They had not met since the death, and Mrs. Gass, though the 
 least exacting woman in the world, took it a little unkindly 
 that he had not been in, knowing he passed her house several 
 times in the day. 
 
2/6 Bessy Rane. 
 
 In a subdued tone, in accordance with the closed blinds 
 and perhaps with his own heart, Oliver Rane gave to Mrs. 
 Gass a summary of Bessy's illness and death. He bad done 
 all he could to keep her in life, he said ; all he could. Seeley 
 had come over to see her once or twice, and knew that nothing' 
 more had remained in his power. 
 
 "But, doctor, I heard say tbat on the Friday you told peo- 
 ple sbe was getting better and the danger was over," urged 
 Mrs. Gass, with a sob. 
 
 " And I thought it was so," he answered. " What I took 
 to be sleepiness from the exhaustion left by the fever, and what 
 Seeley took to be sleepiness — fatigued nature taking rest to 
 renovate itself — must have been the exhaustion of approaching 
 death. We are deceived thus sometimes." 
 
 " But, doctor, she never had but a day's fever. Was that 
 enough to kill her from exhaustion ? " 
 
 " She had a day and a night. But consider how strong the 
 fever was : I never before saw anything like it. We must not 
 always estimate the duration of a fever, Mrs. Gass, in regard 
 to the effect on the patient, so much as its power. I'm sure 
 the shock and surprise to me — speaking only as shock and 
 surprise — were worse than they could have been to any one 
 else." 
 
 Yes, Mrs. Gass believed that, and warmly sympathized 
 with him. She then expressed a wish to see the coffin. 
 " Would it be well for her to go up ? " he asked. " Oh dear 
 yes," Mrs. Gass answered, " she was not afraid of anything ; " 
 and the doctor took her up without further hesitation. There 
 was not much danger now, if any, he observed, as he pulled 
 aside the sheet, which still hung there, saturated, for her to 
 enter the grey room. He had fumigated the place well. 
 
 Everything was completed. Hepburn's men had been to 
 and fro, and all was finished. The outer coffin was covered 
 with black cloth, bearing the inscription on the lid. Mrs. 
 Gass's eyes fairly gushed out tears as she read it. 
 
 "BESSY RANE. 
 
 AGED 31." 
 
 " But you have never put the date of the death, doctor ! " 
 cried Mrs. Gass, the omission striking her. 
 
 " No ? True. That's Thomas Hepburn's fault ; I left it 
 to him. The man is half crazed just now, what with grief for 
 his brother and fear for himself. It will be put on the grave." 
 
In the Churchyard. 2jj 
 
 From Dr. Rane's Mrs. Gass went to Dallory Hall, knowing 
 Madam was absent. Otherwise she'd not have ventured 
 there. And never was guest more welcome to its master. 
 Poor Mr. North spoke out to her all his grief for Bessy, 
 weeping bitterly. 
 
 But of all the people who felt this death, none were affected 
 by it like Jelly. She could not rest ; day and night wild 
 thoughts tormented her. The idea at first picked up kept 
 floating through her head, and sometimes she could not get it 
 out for hours : that Mrs. Rane had been shut into her coffin 
 alive ; that what she saw was herself, and not her spirit — and 
 this, in spite of the discrepancy, as to time and possibility. 
 But Jelly knew that this could not be, and her imagination 
 would go out to another wild improbability, though she did 
 not dare to follow it — that the poor lady had not died a 
 natural death. One night there came surging into Jelly's 
 brain the supposititious case put by Timothy Wilks, that 
 some men might be found who would put their wives out of 
 the way for the sake of getting the tontine money. Jelly 
 tossed from side to side in her uneasy bed, and stared at the 
 candle — for she no longer cared to sleep in the dark — and 
 tried to get rid of the wicked notion. But she never got rid 
 of it again ; and when she rose in the morning, pale, and 
 trembling, and weary, she believed that the dread mystery 
 had solved itself to her, and would be found in this. 
 
 What ought she to do ? Going about that day like one in 
 .a dream, moping here, halting there, the question perpetually 
 presented itself. Jelly was at her wits' end with indecision : 
 one time (chiefly at night) she'd resolve to tell of the appari- 
 tion, and of her suspicion of Dr. Rane; by day she would fling 
 the ideas from her, and call herself a fool for yielding to them. 
 Dinah could not make out what ailed her, she was so strange 
 and dull, but privately supposed it might be the state of Mr. 
 Timothy Wilks. For that gentleman was confined to his be i 
 with some attack connected with the liver. 
 
 The day of the funeral drew on. Wednesday. It had been 
 a little retarded to allow of the return for it of Richard Xorth. 
 News had been received of him the morning after Bessy's 
 death. It may readily be imagined what Richard's conster- 
 nation and grief must have been to hear of his sister's dca L .h •„ 
 whom he so recently left well, and happy, and as likely to livo 
 sis he was. 
 
 The funeral was fixed for twelve o'clock. Richard only 
 
2?S Bessy Rane. 
 
 arrived the same morning at ten. He Lad been delayed twelve 
 hours by the state of the sea, the Ostend boat not putting out. 
 One cannot control wind and weather : and sometimes they 
 act for us — as we think — in a spirit of contrariety. Jelly, in 
 the feeling of superstition that lay upon her, thought the ele- 
 ments had been conspiring to keep Richard North back from 
 following one to the grave who had not been sent to it by 
 Heaven. 
 
 Long before twelve o'clock struck, groups had formed 
 about the churchyard. The men, out on strike, and their 
 wives, were there in force : partly because it was a break to 
 their monotonous idleness, partly out of respect to their 
 many-years master. The whole neighbourhood sincerely re- 
 gretted Bessy Rane ; she had never made an enemy in her life. 
 
 In the church people of the better class assembled fast, all 
 wearing mourning. Mrs. Gass was in her pew, in an upright 
 bonnet and crape flowers. Seeing Jelly come in looking very 
 woe-begone, she hospitably opened the pew door to her. And 
 this was close upon the entrance of the funeral. 
 
 The first to make his appearance was Thomas Hepburn in 
 his official capacity ; quite as woe-begone as Jelly, and more 
 sickly. The rest followed. The coffin, which Mrs. Gass had 
 seen the other day, and touched, was placed on its stand ; for 
 the few last words of this world. Dr. Rane, as white as a 
 sheet ; and Mr. North, leaning on his son Richard's arm, com- 
 prised the followers. No strangers were invited : Dr. Rane 
 thought, considering what Bessy had died of, they might not 
 care to attend. People wondered whether Captain Bohun 
 had been bidden to it. If so, he certainly had not come. 
 
 It seemed but a few minutes before they were moving out 
 of the church again. The grave had been dug in the church- 
 yard corner, near to Edmun 1 North's : and he, as may bo- 
 remembered, lay next his mother. Mrs. Gass and Jelly took 
 their seats on a remote bench, equally removed from the cere- 
 mony and the crowd. The latter stood at a respectful 
 distance, not caring, from various considerations, to go too 
 near. Not a word had the two women as yet spoken to each 
 other. The bench they sat on was low, and over-shadowed 
 by the trees that bordered the narrow walks. Not ten people 
 in the churchyard were aware that anybody sat there. Jelly 
 was the first to break the silence. 
 
 " How white he looks ! " 
 
 It was rather abrupt ; as Mrs. Gass thought. They could 
 
In the Churchyard. 279 
 
 sec the clergyman in Lis surplice through the intervening 
 trees, and the others standing bare-headed around him. 
 
 "Do you mean the doctor, Jelly?" 
 
 " Yes," said Jelly, " I mean him." 
 
 " And enough to make him, poor berefted man, when the 
 one nearest and dearest to him is suddenly cut off by fever," 
 gravely rejoined Mrs. Grass. "In the midst of life we are in 
 death." 
 
 Now, or never. Sitting there alone with Mrs. Gass, sur- 
 rounded by these solemn influences, Jelly thought the hour 
 and the opportunity had come. Bear with the secret much 
 longer, she could not ; it would wear her to a skeleton, dry 
 up her tongue, worry her into a fever perhaps ; and she had 
 said to herself several times that Mrs. Gass, with her plain 
 common sense, would be the best person to tell it to. Yes, 
 she mentally repeated, now or never. 
 
 " Was it the fever that cut her off ? " began Jelly sig- 
 nificantly. 
 
 " Was it the fever that cut her off ? " echoed Mrs. Gass. 
 " What d'ye mean, Jelly ? " 
 
 Jelly turned her face to the speaker, and plunged into her 
 tale. Beginning, first of all, with the apparition she had cer- 
 tainly seen, and how it was — the staying late at Ketler's, and 
 Dinah's having left the blind undrawn — that she had come to 
 see it. There she paused. 
 
 "Why, what on earth d'ye mean?" sharply demanded 
 Mrs. Gass. " Saw Mrs. Rane's ghost ! Don't be an idiot, 
 girl." 
 
 " Yes, I saw it," repeated Jelly, with quiet emphasis. 
 " Saw it as sure as I sec them standing there now to bury 
 her. There could be no mistake. I never saw her plainer in 
 life. It was at one o'clock in the morning, I say, Mrs. Gass ;. 
 and she was screwed down at twelve : an hour before it." 
 
 " Had you took a drop too much beer ? " asked Mrs. Gass 
 after a pause, staring at Jelly to make sure the epiestion would 
 not apply to the present time. But the face that met hers 
 was strangely earnest : too much so even to resent the 
 insinuation. 
 
 " It was her ghost, poor thing : and I'm afraid it '11 walk 
 till justice lays it. I never knew but one ghost walk in all 
 my life, Mrs. Gass : and he had been murdered." 
 
 Mrs. Gass made no rejoinder. She was taken up with 
 looking at Jelly. Jelly went on. 
 
2 So Bessy Rane. 
 
 " It's said there's many that walk: the world's full of such 
 tales ; but I never knew but that one. When people are put 
 to an untimely end, and buried away out of sight, and their 
 secrets with 'em, it stands to reason that they can't rest quiet. 
 in their graves. She won't." 
 
 Mrs. Gass put her hand with a slap on the black shawl that 
 covered Jelly's arm, and kept it there. " Tell me why you 
 be saying this." 
 
 " It's what I want to do. If I don't tell it somewhere I 
 shall soon be in the grave myself. Fancy ! me living at the 
 very next door, and nobody in the house just now but Dinah ! " 
 
 Jelly spoke out all : that she believed Dr. Rane might have 
 " put his wife out of the way." Mrs. Gass was horrified. 
 jSTot at the charge : she didn't believe a word ; but at Jelly's 
 presuming to fancy it. She gave Jelly a serious reprimand. 
 
 "It was him that wrote that anonymous letter, you know," 
 whispered Jelly. 
 
 " Hush ! Hold your tongue, girl. I've warned you before 
 to let that alone." 
 
 " And I'm willing." 
 
 "This is downright wicked of yon, Jelly. Dr. Rane loved 
 his wife. What motive do you suppose he could have had for 
 killing her P" 
 
 " To get the tontine money," replied Jelly in a whisper. 
 
 The two women gazed at each other ; gaze meeting gaze. 
 And then Mrs. Gass grew on a sudden whiter than Dr. Rane, 
 and began to shiver as though some strange chill had struck 
 her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 IN HIS SICK KOOM. 
 
 Leaning back on the pillows of an invalid's chair was Arthur 
 Bohun, looking as yellow as gold. He had had an attack of 
 jaundice. The day of James Bohun's funeral it had poured 
 with rain ; Arthur got wet, standing at the grave, and caught 
 a chill. It terminated in the yellow jaundice — the distressed 
 state of his mind no doubt doing its full part towards bring- 
 ing on the malady. At first the doctors were afraid of bilious 
 fever, but the danger of that passed. He was recovering now. 
 Sir Nash, at whose house he lay, was everything that was kind. 
 Madam was kind also : at least she made a great professing 
 show of it. Her private object iu life just now was to get 
 
In His Sick Room. 281 
 
 her son to marry Miss Dallory. Madam cared no more for 
 her son Arthnr or his welfare than she did for Richard North ; 
 but she had the shrewdness to foresee that the source, whence 
 her large supplies of money had hitherto come, was now dried 
 up : and she hoped to get some out of Arthur for the future. 
 The marrying an heiress, wealthy as Mary Dallory, would 
 vastly increase his power and means of helping her. More- 
 over, she wished to be effectually relieved from that horrible 
 nightmare that haunted her still — the possibility of his wedding 
 Ellen Adair. 
 
 So Madam laid her plans — as it was in her scheming nature 
 ever to be laying them — and contrived to get Miss Dallory (at 
 that time in London with her aunt) to Sir Nash Bohun's for 
 a few days' visit when Arthur was recovering. The young 
 lady was there now ; and Matilda North was there ; and they 
 both spent a good portion of every day with Arthur ; and Sir 
 Nash made much of Mary Dallory, partly because he liked her 
 for herself, and partly because he thought there was a pi'oba- 
 bility that she would be Arthur's wife. During his illness, 
 Captain Bohun had had time to reflect : not only time, but 
 calmness, in the lassitude it cast on him mentally and bodily : 
 and he began to see his immediate way somewhat clearer. To 
 hold off and say nothing, give no explanation to the two 
 ladies at Eastsea, to whom he was acting (as he felt) so base 
 a part, was the very worst form of cowardice ; and, though 
 he could not explain to Ellen Adair, he was now anxious to 
 do so to Mrs. Cumberland. Accordingly the first use he mado 
 of his partially-recovered health, was to cause writing materials 
 to be put on the bed and pen her a note in very shaky cha- 
 racters. He spoke of his serious illness, stated that certain 
 " untoward circumstances " had occurred to intercept his 
 plans, but that as soon as he was sufficiently well to travel he 
 should beg of her to appoint a time when she could allow him 
 a private conference. 
 
 The return post brought him a letter from Ellen. Rather 
 to his consternation. Ellen assumed — not unnaturally, as the 
 reader will find, a page or two further on — that the sole cause 
 of his mysterious absence was illness ; that ho had been ill 
 from the first, and unable to travel. It ran as follows : — 
 
 " My dearest Arthur, — I cannot express to you what my 
 feelings are this morning ; so full of joy, yet full of pain. Oh 
 I cannot tell you what the past two or three weeks have 
 
282 Bessy Ranc. 
 
 "been to me ; looking back, it almost seems a wonder that I 
 lived through them. For I thought — I thought — I will not 
 say here Avhat I thought, and perhaps I could not, only that 
 you were never coming more ; and that it was to me agony 
 worse than death. And to hear now that you could not 
 come : that the cause of your silence and absence has been 
 dangerous illness, brings to me a great sorrow and shame. 
 Oh Arthur, my dearest, forgive me ! Forgive also my 
 writing to you in this free manner ; but it almost seems to me 
 as though you were already my husband. Had you been called 
 away but half an hour later you would have been, and perhaps 
 even might have had me with you in your illness. 
 
 " I should like to write pages and pages, but you may be too 
 ill yet to read much, and so I will stop here. May God watch 
 over you and bring you round again. 
 
 "Ever yours, Arthur, yours only, with the great love of my 
 whole heart, " Ellen Adair." 
 
 And Captain Arthur Bohun, in spite of the cruel fate that 
 had parted them, in spite of his best hope never to see her 
 more, pressed the letter to his heart, and the sweet name, 
 Ellen Adair — sweeter than any he would ever hear — to his 
 lips, and shed I jars of anguish over it in the feebleness induced 
 by illness. 
 
 They might take Mary Dallory to his room as much as they 
 pleased. ; and Matilda might exert her little wiles to subtly 
 praise her, and Madam hers to leave them "accidentally" 
 together ; but his heart was too full of another, and of its 
 own bitter pain, to allow room for as much as a responsive 
 thought to Mary Dallory. 
 
 "Arthur is frightfully languid and apathetical ! " spoke 
 Miss North one day in a burst of resentment. "I'm sure 
 he is quite rude to me and Mary : he'll let us sit there by 
 him for an hour, and never speak." 
 
 " Consider how ill he lias been — and is," was the remon- 
 itrating answer of Sir Nash. 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland's span of life was drawing into a very 
 aarrow space : and it might be that she was beginning to 
 suspect this. For some months she had been getting inwardly 
 weaker ; but the weakness had for a week or two been visibly 
 and rapidly increasing. The unaccountable behaviour of Cap- 
 tain Bohun had tried her — for Ellen's sake. She was respon- 
 sible to Mr. Adair for the welfare of his daughter, and the 
 
In His Sick Room. 2S3 
 
 matter was a source of daily and hourly annoyance to her 
 mind. When this second tardy note arrived, she considered 
 it, in one sense, a satisfactory explanation ; in another, not ; 
 since, if Captain Bohun had been too ill to write himself, why 
 did be not get some one else to write to her and say so ? 
 However, she was willing to persnade herself that all would 
 be right ; and she told Ellen, without showing her the note, 
 that Captain Bohun had been dangerously ill, unable to come 
 or write. Hence Miss Ellen's return letter. 
 
 But, apart from the silent progress of the illness in itself, 
 nothing had done Mrs. Cumberland so much harm as the 
 news of her daughter-in-law's death. It had been allowed to 
 reach her abruptly, without the smallest warning. I suppose 
 there is something in our common nature that urges us to 
 impart sad tidings to others. We are all alike in it. How- 
 ever grievous and horrible they may be, we find pleasure in 
 imparting them : and Dinah, Jelly's friend and underling, 
 proved no exception. On the day after the death, she sat 
 down and indited a letter to her fellow-servant, Ann, at 
 Eastsea, in which she detailed the short progress of Mrs. 
 Rane's illness, and described the death as "awful sudden."" 
 Ann, before she had well mastered the cramped lines, ran 
 with white face and open mouth to her mistress ; and Miss 
 Adair afterwards told her that she ought to have known 
 better. That it was too great a shock for Mrs. Cumberland 
 in her critical state, the girl in her repentance saw. Mrs. 
 Cumberland asked for the letter, and scarcely had it out of 
 her hand for hours and hours. Dead ! apparently from no- 
 cause ; for the fever had lasted but a day, Dinah said, and 
 was gone again. Mrs. Cumberland, in her bewilderment, 
 began actually to think it was a fable. 
 
 Not for two or three days did she receive confirmation- 
 from Dr. Rane. Of course the doctor did not know and did 
 not suppose that any one else would be writing to Eastsea ; 
 and he was perhaps willing to spare his mother the news as 
 long as he could. He shortly described the illness — saying 
 that he, himself, had entertained but little hope from the first, 
 from the severity of the fever. But all this did not tend to- 
 soothe Mi's. Cumberland ; and in the two or three weeks that 
 afterwards went on, she faded palpably. Little wonder the im- 
 pression, that she was growing w T orse, made its way to Dallory. 
 
2S4 Bessy Rane. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 jelly's troubles. 
 
 "With the same rapidity, to outer appearance, that the sick- 
 ness had come on, so did it subside in Dallory. Mrs. Rane's 
 was the last serious case : the last death ; the very few attacks 
 afterwards were of the mildest description ; and within a fort- 
 night of the time that ill-fated lady was laid in the ground, 
 people were fumigating their houses and throwing their rooms 
 open to the renewed healthy air. 
 
 The inhabitants in general, rallying their depressed courage, 
 thought the sooner they forgot the episode the better. Save 
 perhaps by the inmates of those houses from which some one 
 had been taken, they did soon forget it. It was surprising — 
 now that magnifying fear was at an end and matters could be 
 summed up dispassionately — how few the gaps were. With 
 the exception of Henry Hepburn the undertaker and Mrs. 
 Rane, they lay entirely amidst the poor working people out on 
 strike, and, of those, principally amidst the children. Mrs. 
 Oass told men to their faces that the fever had come of nothing 
 but famine and deprivation, and that they had only themselves 
 to thank for it. She was in the habit, as the reader knows, 
 of dealing out to them some home truths : but she had dealt 
 out something else during the sickness — and that was, good 
 nourishing food. She continued to do so still to those whose 
 •frames had been weakened by it : but she gave them due 
 warning that it was only temporary help, which they'd never 
 liave received from her but for the fever. And so the visita- 
 tion grew into a thing of the past, and Dallory was itself 
 .again. 
 
 One, there was, however, who could not forget : with whom 
 that unhappy past, or rather a calamity left by it, was present 
 night and day. Jelly. That Dr. Rane had in some way wil- 
 fully caused the death of his wife, Jelly was as sure of as though 
 she had seen it done. Her suspicion pointed to laudanum ; 
 or to some preparation of the kind. Suspicion ? Nay, with 
 her it was a certainty. In that last day of Bessy Rane's life, 
 when she was described as sleeping, sleeping, always sleeping ; 
 when her sole cry had been — " I am easy, only let me sleep," 
 Jelly now felt that Dr. Rane knew she had been quietly sleep- 
 ing away to death. Indelibly as though it had been written 
 
Jelly s Troubles. 20' 5 
 
 on her heart with the pen of truth, lay the conviction. Abont 
 that, there could be neither doubt nor hesitation in her mind : 
 the difficulty was — what ought to be her own course ? 
 
 In all Jelly's past life she had never been actually supersti- 
 tious ; if told that she was so now, she would have replied 
 Yes, hecause circumstances forced it upon her. That Mrs. 
 Kane's spirit had appeared to her that memorable night to one 
 sole intent — namely, that she, Jelly, should avenge her dread- 
 ful end by disclosing it to the public, Jelly believed as impli- 
 citly as she believed in the Gospel. Not a soul in the whole 
 wide world but herself (save of course Dr. Rane) had the 
 faintest idea that the death was not a natural one. Jelly 
 moaned and groaned, and thought her fate unjustly hard that 
 she should have been signalled out by heaven (for that's how 
 she solemnly put it) for the revelation, when there were so 
 many other people in the community of Dallory. Jelly had 
 fits of real despondency, when she didn't quite know whether 
 her head was on or off, or whether her mind wouldn't "o , o."' 
 Why couldn't the ghost have appeared to somebody else, she 
 mentally asked at these moments: to Phillis, say; or to> 
 Dinah ; pr to Seeley the surgeon ; just because she had been 
 performing an act of charity in sitting-up with Ketler's sick 
 child, it must show itself to her ! And then Jelly's brain would 
 go off into suppositions, that it might have puzzled one, wiser 
 than she was, to answer. Suppose she had not been at 
 Ketler's that night, the staircase blind would have been drawn 
 clown at dusk as usual, she would have gone to bed at her 
 customary hour, seeing nothing, and been spared all this 
 misery. But no. It was not to be. She went to Ketler's ; 
 she stayed with the sick child to a strangely late hour, because- 
 Ketler himself was detained out : when she reached home she 
 found no light placed for her ; she found the blind not down, 
 both through Dinah's omission : and so — she saw what she did 
 see. And although Jelly, in her temper, might wish to throw 
 the blame on Ketler for staying out, and on Dinah for her 
 negligence, she recognized the finger of Destiny in all this, and 
 knew she could not have turned aside from it. 
 
 What was she to do ? Living in mortal dread of seeing again 
 the apparition, feeling somehow a certainty within herself that 
 she should see it, Jelly pondered the question every hour of the- 
 day. Things could not rest as they were. On the one hand r 
 there was her natural repugnance to denounce Dr. Rane (just, 
 as there had been in the case of the anonymous letter), not 
 
286 Bessy Rane. 
 
 only because she was in the service of his mother, but for his 
 own sake ; for Jelly, with all her faults, as to cariosity and 
 the like, had not a bad heart. On the other, there was the 
 weighty secret revealed to her by the dead woman — and the 
 expression is not wrong, for, but for that apparition Jelly would 
 have known no more than the rest of the world — and the obli- 
 gation it laid upon her. Yet — how could she speak ? — when 
 the faintest breath of such an accusation against her son, would 
 assuredly kill Mrs. Cumberland in her present critical state ! 
 and to Jelly she was a good and kind mistress. No, she could 
 never do it. With all this conflict within her, no wonder Jelly 
 lost flesh and appetite : she had been thin enough before, she 
 was like a veritable skeleton now. As to the revelation to 
 Mrs. Grass, Jelly might just as well have made it to the moon. 
 For that lady, after the first shock was passed, absolutely re- 
 fused to give credence to the tale : and had appeared ever 
 since, by her manner, to ignore it as completely as though it 
 had never been spoken. 
 
 Gradually Jelly grew disturbed by another fear — that she 
 might be taken up as an accomplice after the fact. She was 
 sure she had heard of such cases: and she tormented Tim 
 Wilks nearly out of his patience — that gentleman having re- 
 covered his temporary indisposition — by asking perpetual 
 questions of what the law might do to a person who found out 
 that another had committed some crime, and concealed the 
 knowledge : say stole a purse, for instance, and kept the 
 money — for that's how Jelly generally put it. 
 
 One night, when Jelly, by some fortunate chance, had really 
 got to sleep early — for she more often lay awake till morning 
 light — a ring at the door-bell suddenly aroused her. Mrs. 
 Cumberland had caused a loud night-bell to be affixed to the 
 door : in case of fire, she said : it hung on this first landing, 
 close, so to say, to Jelly's head, so that she awoke instantly. 
 Dinah, sleeping above, might have heard it just as w r ell as 
 Jelly ; but Dinah was a hard sleeper — most people are so who 
 have plenty of work to do and nothing to worry them — and 
 the bell, as Jelly knew, might ring for an hour before it awoke 
 her. However, Jelly lay still, not caring to get up herself, 
 hoping against hope, and wondering who in the world could 
 be ringing, unless it was somebody mistaking their house for 
 Dr. Rane's. Which had happened before. 
 
 Ring ; ring. It was not a loud ring by any means ; but a 
 gentle one, as if the applicant did it in deprecation. Jelly 
 
Jelly's Troubles. 287 
 
 lay on. She was not afraid that it was connected with tho 
 sight she was always in mortal dread of again seeing, since 
 ghosts don't come ringing to annonnce their visits, after tho 
 manner of men and women. In fact, the surprise, and the 
 speculating who it could he, put the fear for the time being 
 altogether out of Jelly's head. 
 
 Ring; ring; ring. Rather a loud peal this turn, as if a 
 little impatience mingled with the deprecation. 
 
 "Drat that girl! " cried Jelly in her wrath, finding that 
 she must get up after all. 
 
 Flinging on a warm shawl, and putting her feet into her 
 shoes, Jelly proceeded to the front room — Mrs. Cumberland's 
 chamber when she was at home — threw up the window, and 
 called out to know who was there. A little man, stepping 
 back from the door into the bright moon-light, looked up to 
 answer — and Jelly recognized the form and voice of Ketler. 
 
 "It's me," said he. 
 
 "You! " interrupted Jelly, not allowing the man to con- 
 tinue. " What on earth do you want here at this hour ? " 
 
 " I came to tell you the news about Poor Cissy. She's dead." 
 
 " Couldn't it wait ? " tartly returned Jelly overlooking the 
 sad nature of the tidings in her anger at being disturbed out 
 of her bed. " Would it have run away, that you must come 
 and knock folks up to tell it as if you'd been the telegraph ? " 
 
 " It was my wife made me come," spoke Ketler, with much 
 humility. " She's in a peck o' grief, Jelly, and nothing 'ud 
 do but I must come right off and tell you ; she thought, 
 mayhap, you'd not be gone to bed." 
 
 " Not gone to bed at twelve o'clock at night ! " retorted 
 Jelly. "And there it is, striking: if you've got any ears to 
 hear. You must be a fool, Ketler." 
 
 "Well, I'm sorry to have disturbed you," said the man, 
 with a sigh. "I'd not have done it of myself; but poor 
 Susan was taking on so, I couldn't say her nay. We was all 
 of us so fond of the child ; and — and " 
 
 Ketler broke down with a great sob. The man had loved 
 his child : and he was weak and faint with hunger. It a 
 little appeased Jelly : not very much. 
 
 " I suppose you don't expect me to dress myself and come 
 off to Susan at this hour ? " she resentfully exclaimed, her 
 tone, however, not quite so sharp. 
 
 "Law bless you, no," answered Ketler. "What good 
 would that do ? It couldn't bring Cissy back to life." 
 
288 Bessy Ranc. 
 
 " Ketler, it's just this — instead of being npset with grief. 
 you and Susan, you might be thankful that the child's taken 
 out of the distress of this world. She won't cry for food 
 where she's gone, and find none." 
 
 The man's sobs were renewed at the last suggestion. But 
 Jelly had really meant it in the light of consolation. 
 
 " She was your god-child, Jelly." 
 
 "You needn't tell it me," answered Jelly. " Could I havo 
 saved her life at any trouble or cost, I'd not have grudged it. 
 If I had a home of my own I'd have taken her to it, but I'm 
 only in service, as you know. Ketler, it is the strike that has 
 killed that child." 
 
 Ketler answered nothing. 
 
 " Cissy was a weakly child and required extra comforts ; as 
 long as you were in work she had them, but when that 
 dropped off — leastways, when you dropped it, I should say," 
 amended Jelly, who did not let the opportunity slip for deal- 
 ing out a modicum of reproach — "of course the child suffered. 
 And now she's gone. She is better off, Ketler." 
 
 " Yes," assented the man as if he were heart-broken. " If 
 it wasn't for the thought of the rest, I wish it was me that 
 was gone instead." 
 
 "Well, give my love to Susan and say I'm sorry for it- 
 altogether, and I'll come down sometime in the morning. 
 And, look here, Ketler — what about the money for the burial ? 
 You've not got anything towards it, I expect." 
 
 Ketler caught up his breath. " Not a penny." 
 
 " Well, I know you'd not like the poor little thing to bo 
 buried by the parish, so I'll see what's to be done, tell Susan.. 
 Good night." 
 
 Jelly shut down the window with a bang. She really 
 looked upon the strike as having led to the child's death — 
 and in a remote degree possibly it had ; so what with that, 
 and what with the untimely disturbance from her bed, her 
 tartness of manner was somewhat excusable. 
 
 In passing back across the landing to her own chamber,, 
 with no more superstitious thoughts in her mind just then 
 than if she had never had cause to entertain such, the large 
 window became suddenly illuminated. Jelly stopped. Her 
 heart, as she would herself have expressed it, leaped into- 
 her mouth. The light came from the outside ; no doubt from 
 Dr. Rane's. Jelly stood stock still. And then — what des- 
 perate courage impelled her she never knew, but believed 
 
jelly's Troubles. 2 89 
 
 afterwards it must Lave been something akin to the fascina* 
 tion of the basilisk — she advanced to the window, and pulled 
 aside the wbite blind. 
 
 But she did not see Bessy Rane this time, as perhaps sho 
 had expected ; only her husband. Dr. Bane had a candle in 
 his hand, and was apparently picking up something he had 
 let fall quite close to the large opposite window. It was this 
 candle that had lighted up Jelly's window. In another 
 moment he lodged the candle on a chair that stood there, 
 so as to have both hands at liberty. Jelly watched. What 
 he had dropped appeared to be several articles of his deceased 
 ■wife's clothing, some of which had come unfolded in the fall- 
 He soon had them within his arm again, caught up the 
 candle, and went down-stairs. Jelly saw and recognized one 
 beautiful Indian shawl, scarlet with a gold border, which had 
 been a present from her own mistress to Bessy. 
 
 "He is going to pack them up and sell them, the wicked 
 man ! " spoke Jelly in her strong conviction. And her ire 
 grew very great against Dr. Rane. " I'd almost rather have 
 seen the spirit of his poor wife again than tills" was her 
 bitter comment, as she finally went into her room. 
 
 Putting aside all the solemn doubts and fears that were 
 making havoc with Jelly's mind, her curiosity was insatiable. 
 Perhaps no woman in all Dallory had so great a propensity 
 for prying into other people's affairs as she. Not, it must 
 be again acknowledged, to do them harm, but simply in 
 her world-wide inquisitiveness. 
 
 On the following morning, when Jelly attired herself to go 
 to Ketler's after breakfast — which meal was seasoned through- 
 out with reproaches to Dinah for not hearing the night bell — 
 she bethought herself that she could first of all step into the 
 next door. Ostensibly for the neighbourly object of informing 
 Phillis of the death of the child ; really, to pick up any items 
 of information there might be to pick up. Dr. Rane, it may 
 be here remarked, had given Molly Green a character to get 
 herself another place, himself preferring to retain the elder 
 servant, Phillis, who, however, only went to him by day. The 
 doctor was alone in his house at night, and Jelly believed he 
 dared not have even old Phillis in, knowing it was haunted. 
 He made no secret now of his intention to quit Dallory. A3 
 soon as his practice should be disposed of, and the tontine 
 money paid, away he would go. 
 
 Jelly coolly walked out of the window of Mrs. Cumberland's 
 
 u 
 
290 Bessy Rane. 
 
 dining-room, and through that of the doctor's. She had seen 
 him go out some little time before. Phillig was upstairs, 
 putting her master's chamber to rights, and Jelly sought her 
 there. She told of the fright Ketler had given her by coming 
 at midnight to bring the news about Cissy ; and Phillis, who 
 had a tender heart, dropped a tear or two to the child's me- 
 mory. Cissy had been loved by everybody. 
 
 " Miss Dallory will be sorry to hear this when she comes 
 back," remarked Phillis. 
 
 "I say, Phillis, what does your master mean to do with 
 Mrs. Rane's clothes ? " abruptly asked Jelly. 
 
 Phillis, dusting the looking-glass at the moment, paused in 
 her occupation, as if considering. 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know, Jelly. He pointed out a few of 
 the plain things to me one day, and said I might divide them 
 between myself and Molly Green, but that he'd not like to 
 see us wear them till he was gone away. As of course we 
 shouldn't, being in black for her." 
 
 " She had lots of beautiful clothes. I'm sure the shawls, 
 and scarfs, and embroidered robes, and worked petticoats, 
 and other valuable Indian things that my mistress was always 
 giving her, would have set up any lady's wardrobe. What 
 will he do with them ? " 
 
 Phillis shook her head, and pointed to a large, high chest of 
 drawers. Her heart was full yet when she spoke of her late 
 mistress. 
 
 " They are all in there, Jelly." 
 
 Are they, thought Jelly. But Phillis was going down now, 
 her occupation finished. Jelly lingered behind, and thrust her 
 black bonnet out at the window, as if looking at something up 
 the road. When Phillis had descended the stairs, Jelly tried 
 the drawers. All were locked except one. That one, which 
 Jelly softly drew open, was filled with articles belonging to 
 the late Mrs. Rane ; none of them, so far as Jelly could gather 
 by the cursory glance and touch, of much value. 
 
 " Yes," she said bitterly. " He keeps these open for show, 
 but he is sending away the best. Those other drawers, if they 
 could be looked into, are empty." 
 
 If ever Jelly had been startled in all her life at human foot- 
 step, it was to hear that of Dr. Pane on the stairs. How she 
 got the draw shut, how she got her bonnet stretched out at 
 the window again as far as ever it would stretch, she hardly 
 knew. The doctor came in. Jelly, bringing in her head, 
 
Coining Home to Die. 291 
 
 apparently as much, surprised as if a rhinoceros had walked 
 up, apologised and explained rather lamely. She supposed' 
 Phillis must have gone down, she said, while she was watch- 
 ing that impudent butcher's boy ; she had made bold to step 
 up to tell Phillis about Ketler's little girl. 
 
 " Ah, she is gone," observed Dr. Rane, as Jelly was walking 
 out. " There has been no hope of her for some time." 
 
 "No, sir, I know there hasn't," replied Jelly, somewhat 
 recovering her equanimity. 
 
 " I told Ketler that he may thank the strike for it." 
 
 Jelly got out with this, and was whisking through the grey 
 room, when the doctor spoke again. 
 
 " Have you heard from your mistress this morning, 
 Jelly ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 " Well, I have. I am very much afraid that she is exceed- 
 ingly ill, Jelly?" 
 
 " Dinah got a letter from Ann a day or two ago, sir ; she 
 said in it that her missis was looking worse, and seemed lower 
 than she'd ever known her." 
 
 " Ay, I wish she would come home. Eastsea is far away, 
 and I cannot be running there perpetually," added the doctor, 
 as he shut the chamber door in Jelly's face. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 COMING HOME TO DIE. 
 
 Time went on again; nearly a fortnight. Dallory had re- 
 lapsed into its old routine, and the fever was forgotten. 
 Houses had recovered the smell of soap and scrubbing : their 
 inhabitants were back again ; and amidst them Mrs. North 
 and her daughter Matilda. 
 
 The chief news Madam found to interest her was, that 
 Richard North had opened the works again. The glow of 
 hope it raised within her was bright indeed ; for she looked 
 upon it as an earnest that supplies would come in again for 
 the future as they had in the past. That she would find 
 herself mistaken was exceedingly probable ; Richard himself 
 could have said a certainty. Madam had the grace to express 
 some calm regret for the untimely death of Bessy, in the 
 hearing of Mr. North and Richard; she had put herself and 
 Matilda into deeper mourning than they had assumed for* 
 
292 Bessy Rane. 
 
 James Bohun. It was all of the most fashionable and costly 
 kind ; and the master of Dallory Hall, poor helpless man, had 
 the pleasure of receiving the bills for it from the London 
 court-milliners and dressmakers. But Madam never enquired 
 into the particulars of Bessy's illness and death ; in her opinion 
 the less fevers were talked of the better. 
 
 Yes: the North works were re-opened. Or, to be quite 
 correct, they were close on the point of it. Upon how small 
 a scale he must begin again, Richard, remembering the mag- 
 nitude of past operations, felt almost ashamed to think. But, 
 as he good-humouredly remarked, half a loaf was better than 
 no bread. He must get a living ; he had not a fortune in the 
 bank, or elsewhere, to fly to ; and he preferred doing this to 
 seeking employment under other firms, if indeed anything 
 worth having had been to be found; but the country's trado 
 was in a most depressed state, and hundreds of gentlemen, 
 like himself, had been thrown out. It was the same thing as 
 beginning life over again ; just a little venture, that might 
 succeed or might not; one in which he must plod on carefully 
 and cautiously, even to keep it going. 
 
 The whole staff of operatives would at first be under twenty 
 men. The old workmen, idly airing themselves still in North 
 Inlet, laughed derisively when they heard this. Twenty men, 
 indoor and out, including the master hisself , in that there big 
 block o' buildings, they shouted to one another. What was 
 they a-going to make — wheelbarrers ? — bridges for dogs to 
 trot across ? — railway carriages to carry dolls ? The men 
 were pleasantly sarcastic over it, thinking perhaps they con- 
 cealed their real bitterness of heart. The new measure did 
 not find favour with them. How should it, when they stood 
 in the light of excluded parties ? Some eight or ten, who had 
 never been willing upholders of the strike, who had been 
 ready to return to work all along, would be taken on again ; 
 the rest, foreigners, Richard North was bringing over from 
 abroad. And the ire of the disaffected was great. 
 
 Truly the men were like the dog in the manger — as Richard 
 North formerly told them. They would not do the work them- 
 selves : had Richard now again offered it to them, they would 
 have declined it, as before : and yet they wished to prevent 
 others doing it. Ay, and intended to prevent, luck being good 
 for it. The strike and its disastrous accompaniments seemed 
 to have wholly changed the character of these poor mistaken 
 operatives. They used, speaking of them as a whole, to be 
 
Coming Home to Die. 293 
 
 as respectable and civil and sensible a body of men as one 
 conld wisb to find ; but now they were sullen aud depressed, 
 almost ferocious, next door to desperate. Out at pocket and 
 elbows ; out of bope and heart ; their homes were desolate, 
 their wives resentful, their children ragged, sickly, dying. 
 Neither men nor women, neither growing children nor infants, 
 ever knew now what it was to have a substantial meal of good 
 wholesome food. And of course the question lay heavily on 
 the minds of the most thoughtful — Where and in what way 
 was it to end ? Richard North had told them — in starvation, 
 or the workhouse ; and the prospect looked nearer now than 
 it had then. The only thing money seemed to be found 
 pretty readily for, was tobacco : since the men might still be 
 seen with their pipes. Beer also could be bought occasionally 
 — and perhaps they required it, in their state of long-con- 
 tinued incipient famine. 
 
 Mrs. Gass entered cordially into Richard's plans. She 
 would have put money wholesale into his new undertaking — 
 or, as she generally expressed it, his new venture ; and in 
 truth it might be called new, and a venture also. But Richard 
 would not have it. Some portion of her capital that had been 
 embarked in the firm of North and Gass, remained in it of 
 necessity — all, in fact, of it that was not lost — but this she 
 reckoned as nothing, and wanted to help Richard further. 
 "It'so' no good crying after spilt milk, Mr. Richard," she 
 said to him, philosophically ; " and I've still got a deal more 
 than I shall ever want." But Richard was firm : he would 
 not be helped further : it was a risk, and he preferred to 
 incur it alone. 
 
 Perhaps there were few people living that Richard North 
 liked better than Mrs. Gass. He even liked her homely mode 
 of speech ; it was honest, genuine ; far more to be respected 
 than if she had made a show of attempting what she could 
 not have kept up. Richard had grown to know her worth : 
 he recognized it more surely day by day. In his uncom- 
 fortable home at Dallory Hall — which had long to him been 
 anything but a home — he had got into the habit of almost 
 making a second one with Mrs. Gass. Never a day passed 
 but he spent an hour or two of it with her ; and she would 
 coax him to remain for meals as often as she could. 
 
 He sat one afternoon at her well-spread tea-table. His 
 arrangements were pretty well organized now ; and in a day 
 the works would open. The foreign workmen had come, and 
 
294 Bessy Rane. 
 
 were lodged with their families in the places appointed for 
 them. Two policemen, paid by Richard, had also taken np 
 their position in Dallory, pnrposely to protect them. Of 
 course the object of the officers was not made known : Richard 
 North wonld not be the one to provoke hostilities, or even let 
 it be suspected he feared them ; but he was quite aware of the 
 ill-feeling obtaining amidst his former workmen. 
 
 "Blessed idiots, they be," said Mrs. Gass, confidentially, 
 as she handed Richard a cup of tea. " They want a lesson 
 .read to 'em, Mr. Richard ; that's what it is." 
 
 " I can't tell about that," dissented Richard. "I should 
 have thought they could hardly find a better lesson than 
 these last few months must have been." 
 
 "Ah, you don't know 'em, as I do, Mr. Richard. I'm 
 almost double your age, sir ; and there's nothing gives one 
 experience like years." 
 
 Richard laughed. "Not double my age yet, old friend." 
 
 "Any ways, I might have been your mother — if you'll 
 excuse my saying of it," she persisted. " You be hard upon 
 thirty-three, and I'm two years turned fifty." 
 
 It was in this plain manner that Mrs. Gass usually liked to 
 make her propositions so undeniable. Certainly she might, 
 so far as age went, have been Richard's mother. 
 
 "I know them men better than you do, Mr. Richard; and 
 I say they want a lesson read to 'em yet. And they'll get it, 
 sir. But we'll leave the subject for a bit, if you please. I've 
 been tired of it for some time past, and I'm sure you havo* 
 To watch men, once sensible, act like fools, and persist in 
 acting, spite of everybody and everything, is wearying to 
 one's patience. Is it to-morrow that you open ? " 
 
 " The day after." 
 
 "Well, now, Mr. Richard, I'd like to say another word upon 
 a matter that you and me don't agree on — and it's not often 
 our opinions differs, is it, sir ? It's touching your capital. 
 I know you'll want more than you can command : it would 
 give me a real pleasure if you'll let me find it." 
 
 Richard smiled, and shook his head decisively. " I cannot 
 say more about it than I have said before," was his reply. 
 " You know all I have urged." 
 
 " Look here : promise this," returned Mrs. Gass. " If ever 
 you find yourself at a pinch as things go on, say you'll come 
 to me. I don't ask you, should the concern turn out a losing 
 ■one, a hopeless one (which I know it won't, unless them 
 
Coming Home to Die. 295 
 
 precious Trades' Union men sets it a-fire, like the incendaries 
 they are, and I can call 'em nothing better), for in that case I 
 know cords wouldn't draw you to have help from me. But 
 when you are getting on, and money would be useful, and its 
 employment safe and sure, I shall look out for you to come to 
 me. Now, that's enough. I want to put a question, Mr. 
 Richard, that delicacy has kept me from bothering you with 
 before. What about their expenses at Dallory Hall ? You 
 can't pretend to keep 'em up." 
 
 "Ah," said Richard, "that has been my great nightmare. 
 But I think I see a way through it — at least, in my own 
 mind. First of all, I have given notice to Miss Dallory that 
 we shall not require the lease renewed : it will be up, you 
 know, next March." 
 
 " Good," observed Mrs. Gass. 
 
 " My father knows nothing of it — it is of no use to trouble 
 him earlier than need be ; and of course Madam does not. 
 She imagines that the lease will be renewed as a matter in- 
 evitable. Miss Dallory will, at my request, keep counsel — or, 
 rather, her brother Francis for her, for it is he who transacts 
 her business." 
 
 "They know then that you are the real lessee of Dallory 
 Hall ? Lawk a mercy, what a simpleton I be ! " broke off 
 Mrs. Gass. " Of course they must have knowed it when the 
 transfer was made." 
 
 Richard nodded. "As soon as Christmas turns I shall 
 begin to look out for a moderate house in lieu of the Hall ; 
 one that I shall have hopes of being able to keep up. It shall 
 have a good garden for my father's sake. There'll be fright- 
 ful rebellion on the part of Madam and Matilda, but I can't 
 help that. I cannot do more than my means will allow." 
 
 " Look here, Mr. Richard ; don't you worry yourself about 
 not being able to keep up a house for Mr. North. I'll do my 
 part to that : all of it, if need be. He and my husband were 
 partners and friends, and grew rich together. Mr. North has 
 lost his savings, but I have kept mine; and I shall never see 
 him wanting in any comfort while he lives. We'll look out 
 for a pretty villa-cottage with a lovely garden ; and he'll be 
 happier in it than he has ever been in that grand big Hall. If 
 Madam don't like to bring her pride down to it, let her be off 
 elsewhere — and a good riddance of bad rubbish ! I say, though, 
 Mr. Richard, have you heard the news about Mary Dallory ? " 
 
 " What news ? " he asked. 
 
2g6 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " That's she's going to be married to Captain Bohun.'* 
 
 Richard North drank down his tea at a gulp. His faco 
 had flushed a little. 
 
 " I hear that Madam wishes it, and is working for it," he 
 answered. " Miss Dallory was staying with them when they 
 were at Sir Nash Bohun's." 
 
 "I know that Madam has given it out that they're going 
 to marry one another," rejoined Mrs. Gass. "By the way, 
 Mr. Richard, how is Captain Bohun getting on, after his fit 
 of the jaunders ? " 
 
 " He is better. Nearly well." 
 
 Mrs. Gass took a good bite of buttered toast. " I shall 
 believe in that there marriage when it has taken place, Mr. 
 Richard ; not before. Unless I am uncommonly out, Captain 
 Bohun cares for another young lady too well to think of 
 Mary Dallory. Folks mayn't suspect it ; and I b'lieve don't. 
 But I have' had my eyes about me." 
 
 Richard knew that she alluded to Ellen Adair. 
 
 " They are both as sweet and good girls as ever lived, and a 
 gentleman may think himself lucky to get either of 'em. Mr. 
 Richard, your coat-sleeve is a-touching of the potted-ham." 
 
 Richard smiled a little as he wiped his cuff. Mourning was 
 always bad wear, he remarked, showing every little stain. 
 And then he said a few words about her for whom it was worn 
 — which he had rarely done since she died. 
 
 " I cannot get reconciled to her death," he said in a low 
 tone. " At times can scarcely believe in it. To have been 
 carried off after only a day of fever ! it seems incredible." 
 
 And Mrs. Gass felt that the words startled her to tremor. 
 She turned away lest he should see it in her countenance. 
 
 Bad news arrived from Mrs. Cumberland. Only a morn- 
 ing or two later, a thundering knock at the front door dis- 
 turbed Jelly and Dinah at their breakfast. Upon its being 
 opened by the latter, Dr. Rane walked straight into the 
 kitchen without ceremony, an open letter in his hand. Jelly 
 rose and curtseyed. She had been markedly respectful to 
 the doctor of late, perhaps in very fear lest he should suspect 
 the curious things her mind was running on. 
 
 " My mother will be home to-night, Jelly." 
 
 " To-night, sir ! " exclaimed Jelly in her surprise. 
 
 " She is much worse. Very ill indeed. She says she is 
 coming home to die." 
 
Coming Home to Die. 297 
 
 Jelly shrieked : startled out of her equanimity. 
 
 " It is only three lines — she writes herself," continued Dr. 
 Rane, just showing the letter in his hand, as if in confirmation. 
 " They were to go to London yesterday, stay there the night, 
 and will come home to-day. Of course you will have all things 
 in readiness." 
 
 "Yes, sir. And what about meeting my mistress at the 
 station ? " 
 
 "I shall go myself," said Dr. Rane. 
 
 He went away with the last words. Jelly sat still for a 
 few minutes to digest the news, and came to the conclusion 
 that " coming home to die " was hut a figure of speech of 
 Mrs. Cumberland's. Then she rose up to begin her prepa» 
 rations, and overwhelmed the bewildered Dinah with fifteeD 
 orders at once. 
 
 During the day, Jelly, in pursuance of something or other 
 she wanted, was walking at a sharp pace towards Dallory, 
 when in passing the Hall gates she found herself accosted by 
 Mrs. North. Madam was taking her usual promenade in the 
 grounds, and had extended it to the gates. Jelly stood still 
 in sheer amazement ; it was the first time within her recol- 
 lection that Madam had condescended to address herself or 
 any other inhabitant of the neighbourhood. 
 
 How was Mrs. Cumberland ? — and where was she ? Madam 
 graciously asked. And Jelly in the moment's haste, answered 
 that she was at Eastsea. 
 
 "To stay the winter, I believe," went on Madam. "And 
 Miss Adair — is she with her ? " 
 
 "I onght to have said ivas at Eastsea," corrected Jelly, 
 who did not like Madam well enough to be more than barely 
 civil. " My mistress is worse, and is coming home to-day. 
 Miss Adair is with her of course. I must wish you good 
 morning, Madam, I've got my work before me." And away 
 went Jelly, leaving Madam a mental compliment : 
 
 " Nasty proud cat ! she had got some sly motive for asking, 
 I know." 
 
 And so the day went on. 
 
 The early dusk of the autumn evening was beginning to fall, 
 together with a storm of rain, when the carriage containing 
 Mrs. Cumberland stopped at her door. Jelly ran out ; and 
 was met by Ellen Adair ; who spoke in a frightened whisper 1 
 
 " Oh Jelly, she is so ill ! she cannot speak." 
 
 The doctor stood helping his mother out. Ann was 
 
298 Bessy Rane. 
 
 gathering small articles in her arms from beside the driver. 
 Jelly caught one glimpse of her mistress's face and fell back 
 in alarm. Surely that blue look was for death ! 
 
 " She ought not to have come," murmured Dr. Rane in 
 Jelly's ear. " Go and ask Seeley to step over — while I get 
 my mother upstairs." 
 
 There was some bustle and confusion for the time. Mrs. 
 Cumberland was put in the easy chair in her room, and un- 
 dressed so far as her bonnet and travelling wraps went. She 
 refused to go to bed. In half an hour or so, when she had 
 somewhat recovered the fatigue, she looked and seemed con- 
 siderably better, and spoke a little, expressing a wish for some 
 tea. The doctors left her to take it, enjoining strict quiet. 
 Jelly knelt down before her mistress, to hold the cup and 
 saucer. 
 
 "What did she die of, Jelly?" came the unexpected 
 question. 
 
 " Who ? " asked Jelly, wonderingly. 
 
 Mrs. Cumberland made a motion in the direction of her 
 son's house : she and her voice were alike of the faintest. 
 "Bessy Rane." 
 
 Jelly gave a start that went well-nigh to upset the tea. 
 She felt her face growing white : but she could not move to 
 hide it. 
 
 " Why don't you speak ! What did she die of ? " ■ 
 
 " Ma'am, don't you know ? She caught the fever." 
 
 "It troubles me, Jelly; it troubles me. I've done nothing 
 but dream of her ever since. And what will Oliver do 
 without her ? " 
 
 The best he can, Jelly had a great mind to answer. But 
 all she said, was, to beg her mistress to leave these questions 
 until the morning. 
 
 " I don't think any morning will dawn for me," was Mrs. 
 Cumberland's remark. " I sent you word I was coming home 
 to die. I wanted to come for many reasons. I knew the 
 ■journey would do me harm ; I put it off too long. But I had 
 to come home: I could not die away from it." 
 
 Every consoling thing that Jelly could think of, she said, 
 assuring her mistress it Avas nothing but the journey that put 
 her on to these low thoughts. 
 
 " I want to see Mr. North," resumed Mrs. Cumberland. 
 " You must go and bring him to me." 
 
 "Not to-night," said Jelly. 
 
Richard North's Revelation. 299 
 
 " To-night. Now. There's no time to lose. To see him 
 was one of the things I had to come home for." 
 
 And Mrs. Cumberland, ill though she was, was resolute to 
 be obeyed as ever she had been in her days of health. Jelly 
 had the sense to know that refusal would excite her worse 
 than any result of compliance, and prepared to obey. As she 
 passed out of the presence of Mrs. Cumberland, she saw Ellen 
 Adair sitting on the stairs, anxiously listening for any sound 
 from the sick room that might tell how all was going on 
 within it. 
 
 " Oh Miss Ellen ! You should not be there." 
 
 ' ' I cannot rest anywhere, Jelly. I want to know how she 
 is. She is my only friend on this side of the wide world." 
 
 " Well now, Miss Ellen, look here — you may come in and 
 stay with her, while I am away : I was going to call Ann. 
 But mind you don't talk." 
 
 Flinging on a shawl, Jelly started on the run for Dallory 
 Hall. It was an inclement night, pouring with rain. And 
 Ellen Adair took up her place in obedient silence by the side 
 of the dying woman — for she was dying, however ignorant 
 they might be of the fact. Apart from Ellen's natural grief 
 for Mrs. Cumberland, thoughts of what her own situation 
 would be, if she lost her, could but intrude on her mind, 
 bringing all kinds of perplexity. It seemed to her that she 
 would have neither home nor protector. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 RICHARD NORTH'S REVELATION. 
 
 For a wonder, the dinner-table at Dallory Hall was a solitary 
 one. Solitary, in so far as that only the family then at home 
 sat at it. Madam headed it ; Mr. North was at the foot ; 
 Richard on one side ; Matilda on the other. Scarcely a word 
 was being spoken. Madam was in one of her imperious 
 humours — indeed, when was she out of them ? — the servants 
 waited in silence. 
 
 Suddenly there rang out a loud crashing peal from the hall- 
 bell. Richard, who was already beginning to be disturbed by 
 vague fears of what his ex-workmen's hostilities might brin^- 
 them to do, sat back in his chair absently, and turned his 
 head. 
 
 "Are you expecting any one, Dick ? " asked his father. 
 
300 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " No, sir. Unless it be a message to call me out." 
 
 It was, however, a message to call out Mr. North ; not 
 Richard. Mrs. Cumberland wanted to see him. " On the 
 instant." the servant added : for that was what Jelly had im- 
 peratively said. 
 
 Mr. North laid down his knife and fork and stared at the 
 man. He did not understand. 
 
 " Mrs. Cumberland is at Eastsea," he cried. 
 
 "No, sir, she has just got home, and she wants to see you 
 very particular. It's the lady's maid who has brought the 
 message." 
 
 " Mr. North cannot go," broke forth Madam loudly to the 
 servant. " Go and say so." 
 
 But Jelly, to whom tbe words penetrated as she stood in 
 the hall, had no notion of her mistress's wishes being set at 
 nought by Madam. Jelly had a great deal of calm moral and 
 physical courage — in spite of the supernatural terrors that 
 had recently held influence over her — some persons might 
 have said her share of calm impudence also : and she made no 
 ceremony of putting her black bonnet, shiny with wet, inside 
 the room. 
 
 "My mistress is dying, sir; I don't think there can be a 
 doubt of it," she said, advancing to Mr. North. " She wishes to 
 say a few last words to you, if you'll please to come. There's 
 no time to be lost, sir." 
 
 " Bless me ! — poor Fanny ! " cried Mr. North, rising : and 
 his hands began to tremble a little. " I'll come at once, 
 Jelly." 
 
 " You will not" spoke Madam, as if she were issuing an 
 imperial edict. 
 
 "I must," said Mr. North. " She is dying, Madam, don't 
 you hear ? " 
 
 " I say No, you will not." 
 
 " The wishes of the dying must be respected by the living," 
 interposed Jelly, still to Mr. North. " Otherwise there's no 
 telling what ghosts might haunt 'em after." 
 
 The grammar was rather obscure, but the meaning of the 
 words plain enough. Mr. North took a step or two towards 
 the door : Madam came round and put herself before him, with 
 her intercepting words : 
 
 " My will is law in this house and out of it you do not go." 
 
 For a minute or two the master (the master !) of Dallory 
 Hall looked utterly helpless, as if he were going to cry like a 
 
Richard Norths Revelation. 301 
 
 child. Then lie cast an appealing look at his son. Richard 
 rose, laying down his table-napkin. 
 
 " Leave the room for an instant," he quietly said to the 
 servants, including Jelly. And they filed out. 
 
 " My dear father, is it your wish to see Mrs. Cumberland ? " 
 
 " Oh, Dick, you know it is," spoke the poor brow-beaten 
 man. " There's not much left to me in life now to caro for ; 
 but if I let her die without going to her there'll be less." 
 
 " Then you shall go," said Richard. Madam turned to him ; 
 passion in her eye, and on her tongue. 
 
 " How dare you attempt to oppose me, Richard North ? I 
 say your father shall not go forth at the beck and call of this 
 crazy woman." 
 
 " Madam, I say he shall," calmly spoke Richard. 
 
 " Do you defy me ? Has it come to that ? " 
 
 "Why yes, if you force me to : it is not my fault. Pardon 
 me if I speak plainly — if I set you right upon one point, 
 Madam," he added. "You have just said your will is law in 
 the house and out of it : in future it must, on some occasions, 
 yield to mine. This is one. My father will go to Mrs. 
 Cumberland's. Say no more, Madam : it will be useless ; and 
 I am going to admit the servants." 
 
 From sheer amazement Madam was still. Resolution — the 
 resolution born of conscious power to will and to execute — lay 
 in every tone and glance of Richard North. Before she could 
 collect her energies, the door was opened to the servants, and 
 she heard Richard's order to make ready and bring round the 
 close carriage instantly. Instantly. 
 
 " Mr. North will be with your mistress as soon as you are, 
 Jelly," said he. And Jelly nodded, as she took her departure. 
 
 But there ensued a scene. Madam had called Mrs. Cumber- 
 land a crazy woman : she seemed nothing less than one herself. 
 Whatever her private objection might have been to her hus- 
 band's holding an interview with Mrs. Cumberland — and there 
 could be no question that she had one — Richard fairly thought 
 she was going mad in her frenzied attempts to prevent it. 
 She stamped, she raved, she threatened Mr. North, defying 
 him to go, she violently pushed him into his chair backwards, 
 she ordered the servants to bar the house doors against his 
 egress, she rushed round to the stables herself and counter- 
 manded the carriage ; she was in fact as nearly mad, as a 
 woman, short of being a caged lunatic, can be. Matilda cried : 
 indifferent as that young lady remained in general to her 
 
302 Bessy Rane. 
 
 mother's ordinary fits of temper, she was frightened now. The 
 servants collected in dark nooks of the hall, and stood j)eeping ; 
 Mr. North stole into his parlonr, and thence, by the window, 
 to a bench in the garden, where he sat in the dark and the 
 rain, shaking in every limb. Of his own accord he had snrely 
 never dared to go, after this : bnt Richard was his sheet 
 anchor. Richard alone maintained his calm equanimity, and 
 carried matters throngh. The servants obeyed his slightest 
 word, only the lift of his finger ; with sure instinct they saw 
 who could be, and was, the Hall's real master : and the 
 carriage at length came to the door. 
 
 But all this had caused delay. And more might have been 
 caused — for what will an unrestrained and determined woman 
 not do — but that just as the wheels, grating on the wet gravel 
 struck on Madam's ear, her violence culminated in a kind of 
 fainting fit. For the time at least she could not move, and 
 Richard took the opportunity to put his father in the carriage. 
 It was astonishing how confidingly the old man trusted to 
 Richard's protection. He clung to his hand. 
 
 " Won't you come also, Dick ? I hardly dare go alone. 
 She'd be capable of coming after me, you know." 
 
 Richard's answer was to step in and sit down beside his 
 father. It was eight o'clock when they got to Mrs. Cumber- 
 land's. Jelly, with a reproachful face, showed them into a 
 sitting-room. 
 
 " You can't go up now, sir ; you'll have to wait!" said she. 
 " Is she any better ? " asked Richard. 
 
 " She's worse," replied Jelly ; " getting weaker and weaker 
 with every quarter of an hour. Dr. Rane thinks she'll last till 
 morning. I don't. The clergyman's up there now." 
 
 And when the time came for Mr. North to be introduced into 
 the room, Mrs. Cumberland was almost past speaking to him. 
 They were alone — for she motioned others away. Mr. North 
 never afterwards settled with himself what the especial point 
 could have been that she had wished to say to him ; unless it 
 was the request that he should take charge of Ellen Adair. 
 
 Her words were faint and few, and apparently disjointed, at 
 times seeming to have no connection the one with the other. 
 Mr. North — sitting on a chair close in front of her, holding one 
 of her hands, bending down his ear to catch what fell from her 
 white lips — thought her mind wandered a little. She asked 
 him to protect Ellen Adair — to take her home to the Hall 
 until she should be claimed by her husband or her father. It 
 
Richard Norttts Revelation. 303 
 
 might be but a few days, she added, before the former came, 
 and he would probably wish the marriage to take place at once ; 
 if so, it had better. Then she went on to say something about 
 Arthur Bohun, which Mr. North could not catch at all. And 
 then she passed abruptly to the past matter of the anonymous 
 letter. 
 
 " John, you will forgive it ! You will forgive it ! " she im- 
 plored, feebly clasping the hand in which hers lay. 
 
 " Forgive that?" returned Mr. North, not in dissent but in 
 surprise that she should speak on the subject. 
 
 " For my sake, John. We were dear friends and playfellows 
 in the old days — though you were older than me. You'll for- 
 give it won't you, John, for my sake; because lam dying, and 
 because I ask it of you ? " 
 
 "Yes, I will," said John North: " I don't think as much 
 about it as I did," he added. " I'd like to forgive everybody 
 and everything before I go, Fanny ; and my turn mayn't be 
 long now. I forgive it heartily; heartily," he repeated, 
 thinking to content her. " Fanny, I never thought you'd go 
 before me." 
 
 " God bless you ! God reward you," she murmured. " There 
 was no ill intention, you know, John." 
 
 John North did not see why he merited reward, neither 
 could he follow what she was talking of. It might be, he 
 supposed, one of the hallucinations of mind that sometimes 
 attend the dying. 
 
 "I'll take every care of Ellen Adair : she shall come to the 
 Hall and stay there, " he said, for that he could understand. 
 "I promise it faithfully to you, Fanny." 
 
 " Then that is one of the weights off my mind, " murmured 
 the dying woman. "There were so many on it. I have left 
 a paper, John, naming you and Richard her guardians for the 
 time being. She's of good family, and very precious to her 
 father. There has been so short a space to act in : it was 
 only three or four days ago that I knew the end was coming. 
 I did not expect it would be quite so soon." 
 
 " It mostly comes when it's not expected," murmured poor 
 John North: " there's a many of us seem to be going very 
 near together. Edmund was the first ; then Bessy ; now it's 
 you, Fanny : and the next will be me. God in His mercy 
 grant that we may all meet in a happier world, and be together 
 for ever ! " 
 
 Richard North had remained below in the dining-room 
 
304 Bessy Rane. 
 
 with Ellen Adair. The heavy crimson curtains were drawn 
 before the large garden window, a bright fire blazed in the 
 grate. Ellen in her black dress, worn for Bessy, sat in the 
 warmth : she felt very chilly after her journey, was nervous 
 at the turn the illness seemed to be taking ; and every now 
 and then a tear stole silently down her sweet face. Richard 
 walked about a little as he glanced at her. He thought her 
 looking, apart from the present sorrow, pale and ill. Richard 
 North was deliberating whether to say a word or two upon a 
 matter that puzzled him. He thought he would. 
 
 " I have been across the Channel, you know, Ellen, since 
 you left for Eastsea," he began. He had grown sufficiently 
 intimate at Mrs. Cumberland's, after his enforced term of 
 idleness set in, to drop the formal " Miss Adair " for her 
 Christian name. And she had always called him " Richard : " 
 or " Mr. Richard." 
 
 " Yes, we heard of it. You went to engage workmen did 
 you not ? " 
 
 " Something of that. When I got back home, I found a 
 letter or two waiting for me from Arthur Bohun, who was 
 then at Eastsea. Madam had opened one." 
 
 Ellen looked up, and then down again immediately. Richard 
 North saw a change pass over her face, as though she were 
 startled. 
 
 " I could not quite understand the letters ; I think Arthur 
 intended me not to fully understand them. They spoke of 
 some — some event that was coming off, at which he wished 
 me to be present." 
 
 Ellen saw that he did understand : at least, that he believed 
 he did. She rose from her seat and went close to him, speak- 
 ing in agitation. 
 
 " Will you grant me a request, Richard ? I know you 
 can be a firm, friend ; you are very true. Do not ever think 
 of it again — do not speak of it to living man or woman." 
 
 "I presume it did not take place, Ellen." 
 
 " No. And the sooner it is altogether forgotten, the 
 better." 
 
 He took her hand between his, and drew her to the fire. 
 They stood before it side by side. 
 
 " I am glad you know that I am your firm and true friend, 
 Ellen ; you may trust me always. It is neither idle curiosity 
 nor impertinence that makes me speak. Madam stopped it, I 
 conclude." 
 
Richard Nortlis Revelation, 305 
 
 " I suppose so. She came and fetched him away ; Jame3 
 Bohun was dying and wanted him. Since then I — I hardly 
 know. He never came down again. He has heen very 
 ill." 
 
 " Yes, very. Let him get his health again ; it will be all 
 right. That's all, my dear. I should like to take a little 
 care of you as though you were my sister." 
 
 "Care!" she replied. "Oh Richard, I don't see what 
 will become of me, or where I shall go. They say Mrs. 
 Cumberland will not live till morning ; and papa, you know, 
 is so far away." 
 
 Jelly appeared with some coffee ; and stayed for a minute or 
 two to gossip, after the bent of her own heart. The carriage 
 and the horses and the coachman were waiting outside in the 
 rain. Dr. Rane was in and out, in his restlessness. It was 
 an anxious night with him. He would, how willingly ! have 
 restored his mother for a time, had human skill alone been 
 necessary to do it. 
 
 Before the interview with Mr. North was over — and it did 1 
 not last twenty minutes — Mrs. Cumberland had changed con- 
 siderably. Her son went into the room as Mr. North left it ;- 
 and he saw at once how fallacious was the hope he had enter- - 
 tained of her lasting until morning. 
 
 Poor Mr. North, broken alike in health and heart, weak in 
 spirit almost as a child, burst into a fit of tears as soon as he 
 entered the dining-room. Richard spoke a few soothing ■ 
 words to him : Ellen Adair, who had rarely, if ever, seen a 
 man cry, stood aghast. 
 
 " They are all going, Dicky," he sobbed; "all going one by 
 one. We were a'most boy and girl together ; I a big one, 
 Fanny a little mite that I'd often hold on my knee. I loved 
 the child ; she was as pretty a little thing as you'd wish to 
 see. She's younger than me by a good deal, and I never 
 thought she'd go before me. There'll be only you left, Dicky; 
 only you." 
 
 Ellen touched Richard's elbow: she held a cup of coffee in 
 her hand. "If he can be brought to drink it, it may do him' 
 good," she whispered, crying for company. 
 
 Mr. North drank the coffee. Afterwards, when he had sat 
 awhile — breaking out ever and anon with the reminiscences 
 of the old days — he said he should like another cup. Richard, 
 as he handed it to him, reminded him that the carriage was. 
 waiting ; upon which Mr. North, who had quite forgotten the 
 
 x 
 
306 Bessy Rane. 
 
 fact, tried to drink it all down at once, and had a fit of 
 choking. 
 
 " I'd like to know how she is before I go, Dicky," he said 
 when it was over. " Whether there's any change." m 
 
 A change indeed. Even as the words left his lips, sofne 
 slight commotion was heard in the honse, following upon Dr. 
 Rane's voice, who had come out of the chamber to speak. 
 The last moment was at hand. Ellen Adair went up, and 
 Jelly went up. Mr. North said he 'must wait a bit longer. 
 
 In five minutes all was over. Ellen Adair, brought down 
 by Dr. Rane, was convulsed with grief. Mr. North said she 
 should go back with them to the Hall, and bade Jelly find what 
 things she might want. At first Ellen refused : it seemed 
 strangely sudden, almost unseemly, to go out of the house thus 
 immediately; but when she came to reflect how lonely and 
 undesirable would be her position if she stayed in it, she grew 
 eager to go. To tell the truth, she felt half afraid to stay : 
 she had never been in personal contact with death, and the 
 idea lay upon her as a dread to be shrunk from. 
 
 So a small portmanteau was hastily repacked — not an hour 
 had elapsed since it was unpacked — and taken out to the car- 
 riage, Jelly undertaking to send the larger box in the morn- 
 ing. And Ellen was in the carriage driving to the Hall with 
 Mr. North and Richard. 
 
 " I am glad to come," she said to them, catching up her 
 breath. "It is so very kind of you to receive me in this 
 extremity." 
 
 "Not at all, my dear," answered Mr. North. " The Hall 
 will be your home until we get instructions from your father. 
 Mrs. Cumberland has appointed me and Richard as your tem- 
 porary guardians : I was telling Dick so when you were 
 upstairs." 
 
 And Ellen burst into fresh tears, and said again and again 
 how kind it was of them. Richard North felt that he loved 
 her as dearly as any sister. 
 
 But there would be words to the bargain : they had not 
 taken Madam into consideration. The supposition that she 
 would object to it never occurred to Mr. North or Richard ; 
 Madam was so very fond of having company at Dallory Hall. 
 When the coachman, tired of being in the wet, dashed up at a 
 canter, and they descended and entered into the blaze of light, 
 and Madam, standing a little back, saw the young lady and 
 the luggage, her face of surprise was a picture. 
 
Richard North's Revelation. 307 
 
 " What does this intrusion mean ? " she demanded, slowly- 
 advancing. 
 
 " It means, Madam, that Mrs. Cumberland is dead, and that 
 she has left Miss Adair in my charge and Dick's for a bit," 
 answered Mr. North with trembling courtesy, remembering 
 the frightful mood he had run away from. While Richard, 
 catching the ominous words and eye of Madam, hastily took 
 Ellen into the drawing-room, introduced her to Matilda, and 
 shut the door on them. 
 
 " You say Mrs. Cumberland is dead ! " had been Madam's 
 next words to Mr. North. 
 
 " Yes, she's dead. It has been frightfully sudden." 
 
 "What did she want with you?" resumed Madam, her 
 voice sinking almost 'to a whisper; and, but that Mr. North 
 was not an observant man, he might have seen her very lips 
 growing white with some dread suspense. 
 
 "I don't know what she wanted," he replied — "unless it 
 was the promise from me to take care of Miss Adair. She was 
 nearly past speaking when I got to see her; things had made 
 me late, Madam." 
 
 " Did she — did she . By the commotion that woman, 
 
 Jelly, made, one would have supposed her mistress had some 
 vast secret to impart," broke off Madam. " Had she ? " 
 
 " Had who ?" asked Mr. North, rather losing the thread of 
 the dialogue. 
 
 " Mrs. Cumberland," said Madam, with a slight stamp. 
 And, in spite of her assumed careless petulance, she watched 
 her husband's face for the answer as if she were watching for 
 one of life or death. " Did she impart to you any — any 
 private matter ? " 
 
 " She had none to impart, Madam, that I am aware of. I 
 shouldn't think she had. She rambled in her talk a bit, as 
 the dying will do ; about our old days, and about the anony- 
 mous letter that killed Edmund. There was nothing else, 
 except that she wanted me to take temporary charge of Miss 
 Ellen Adair, until we can hear from her father." 
 
 Mr. North was too simply honest to deceive, and Madam 
 believed him. Her old arrogance resumed its sway as fear 
 died out. 
 
 " What did she tell you about Jam — the father ?" 
 
 " Nothing ; not a word, Madam : what should she ? I tell 
 you her mind and her speech were both all but gone. She 
 rambled \n about the old days and the anonymous letter 
 
308 Bessy Rane. 
 
 and I couldn't follow her even in that, hut she said no- 
 thing else* 
 
 All was right then. The old will and the old arrogance 
 were in full swing now ; Madam was herself again. 
 
 "Miss Adair goes back to Mrs. Cumberland's to night," 
 said she. " I do not receive her, or permit her to remain here." 
 
 " Eh ? — what ? " cried Mr. North ; and Richard, who had 
 been stepping up, stood still to listen. " Why not. Madam?" 
 
 " Because I do not choose to," said Madam. " That's why." 
 
 " Madam, I'd not do it for the world. Send her back to the 
 house with the dead lying in it, and where she'd have no pro- 
 tector ! I couldn't do it. She's but a young thing. The 
 neighbours would cry shame upon me." 
 
 " She goes back at once," spoke Madam in her most decisive 
 tones. " The carriage may take her, as it rains; but back she 
 goes." 
 
 "It can't be, Madam, it can't, indeed. I'm her guardian, 
 now, and responsible. I promised that she should stay at 
 Dallory Hall." 
 
 And Madam went forthwith into another of her furious 
 rages ; she stamped and shook with passion. Not at being 
 thwarted : her will was law always, and she intended it to bo 
 so now ; but at Mr. North's attempting to oppose it. 
 
 "You were a fool for bringing her at all, knowing as you 
 might that I should not allow her to stay," stamped Madam. 
 " The hall is mine : so long as I am mistress of it, no girl 
 picked up anywhere on a wet night, no brat at fault for a place 
 to put her head in, shall find admittance here. She goes hack 
 at once." 
 
 Mr. North seemed ready to drop. The piteous look of hope- 
 less despair, piteous in its utter helplessness, laid hold of his 
 face. Richard drew nearer, and he caught sight of him. All 
 this had taken place in the hall under the great lamp. 
 
 "Dick, what's to be done ? " wailed Mr. North. " I should 
 die of the shame of turning her out again. I wish I could die; 
 I've been wishing it many times to-night. It's time I was gone, 
 Dick, when I've no longer a roof to offer a poor young lady a 
 week or two's shelter under." 
 
 " But you have one, my dear father. At least I have, which 
 comes to the same thing," added Richard, calmly composed as 
 usual. "Madam" — politely, but nevertheless authoritatively 
 taking Madam's hand to lead her into the dining-room — " will 
 you pardon me if I interfere in this ? " 
 
Richard North's Revelation, 309 
 
 "It is no business of yours," said Madam. 
 
 "Excuse me, Madam, but it is. I think I bad better take 
 it on myself exclusively, and relieve my father — for really, 
 what with one thing and another, he is not capable of bearing 
 much." 
 
 " Oh, Dick, do ; do!" interposed poor Mr. North, timorously 
 following them into the dining-room. " You are strong, Dick, 
 and I am weak. I was strong once, though." 
 
 " Madam," said Richard, " this young lady, Miss Adair, 
 will remain here at the Hall until we get instructions from 
 her father." 
 
 Madam was turning livid. Richard had never taken such 
 a tone until to-rught. And this was the second time ! She 
 would have liked to strike him. Had he been some worthless 
 animal, her manner could not have expressed more gratuitous 
 contempt. 
 
 " By what right, pray, do you interfere ?" 
 
 " Well, Madam, Mrs. Cumberland expressed a wish that I 
 as well as my father, should act as Miss Adair's guardian." 
 
 " There's a paper left that says it," eagerly put in Mr. North. 
 
 *' And what though you were appointed fifty times over 
 and fifty to that ; do you suppose it would give you the right 
 to bring her here — to thrust her into my home ?" shrieked 
 Madam. " Don't you believe it, Richard North." 
 
 "Madam," said Richard, quietly, "the home is mine." 
 
 " On sufferance," was the scornful rejoinder. " But I think 
 the sufferance has been allowed too long." 
 
 " You have known me now many years, Madam : I do not 
 think in all those years you have found me advance a proposi- 
 tion that I could not substantiate. In saying the home here 
 was mine I spoke what is literally true. I am the lessee of 
 Dallory Hall. You and my father (my dear father " — turn- 
 ing to him — " I know you will pardon me for the few plain 
 words I must speak) are here on sufferance. My guests, as 
 it were." 
 
 " It is, every word, Gospel truth," spoke up poor Mr. North, 
 glad to his heart that the moment for her enlightenment had 
 at length come. " Dick holds the lease of Dallory Hall, and 
 he is its real master. For several years now we have all 
 been pensioners on his bounty. He has worked to keep us, 
 Madam, in this his own house ; and he has done it nobly and 
 generously." 
 
 It seemed to Madam that her brain went whirling about in 
 
310 Bessy Rane. 
 
 a maze, for the words brought conviction. Richard the true 
 master ! Richard's money that they had been living npon ! 
 
 " I am grieved to have been obliged to state this, Madam,'* 
 Richard resnmed. " I shall wish never to allude to it further, 
 and I will continue to do the best I can for all. But — in 
 regard to Miss Ellen Adair, she must remain here, and she 
 must be made welcome." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 UNDER THE SAME ROOF. 
 
 A crafty and worldly -wise cunning woman, like Mrs. North, 
 can change her tactics as readily as the wind changes its 
 quarters. The avowal of Richard, that be was the true 
 master of Dallory Hall, so far as holding all power to act in 
 his hands went — had been the greatest blow to her of any she 
 had experienced in all these later years. It struck, don't you 
 see, the death-warrant of lier power ; for she knew that she 
 should never be allowed to rule again with an unjust and iron 
 hand, as it had been her cruel pleasure to do. 'In all essential 
 things, where it was needful for him to interfere, she felt that 
 Richard's will and Richard's policy would henceforth outsway 
 her own. 
 
 Madam sat in her dressing-room that night, mentally look- 
 ing into the future. Or rather striving to look. But it was 
 very dim and misty. The sources whence she had drawn her 
 large supplies were gone ; the unlimited power was gone. 
 Would it be worth while for her to remain at the Hall, she 
 questioned, under the altered circumstances. Since the death 
 of James Bohun, and her short sojourn with Sir Nash, an idea 
 had occasionally crossed her mind that it might be desirable 
 to take up her residence with the baronet — if she could only 
 scheme to accomplish it. From some cause or other she had 
 formerly not felt at ease when with Sir Nash ; but that was 
 wearing off. At any rate, a home in his well-appointed es- 
 tablishment would be far preferable to Dallory if its show and 
 expense could not be kept up ; and all considerations gave 
 way before Madam's own selfish interest. 
 
 Already Madam tasted of deposed power. Ellen Adair was 
 to remain at the Hall, and" — as Richard had emphatically en- 
 joined — to be made welcome. Madam shut her teeth and her 
 hands fiercely as she thought of it. Ellen Adair, whom she 
 so hated and dreaded ! she lost herself in a speculation of 
 
Under the same Roof. 3 1 1 
 
 what Richard might have done had she persisted in her 
 refusal. Would he have taken up his power in the hearing 
 of the servants, and said I am your true master ; you must 
 obey my decrees now, things must be according as I wish 
 them ? Would he have said to Madam, This is my house, 
 and you must either fall in with my wishes or — there's the 
 door and you can walk out of it ? She had been too wise to 
 provoke this : and had yielded an acquiescence, tacitly at any 
 rate, to the stay of Ellen Adair. 
 
 But as Madam sat there, thinking of this, thinking of that, 
 a doubt slowly loomed into her mind, whether it might not, 
 after all, be the best policy for Ellen Adair to be at the Hall. 
 The dread that Arthur Bohun .might possibly renew his wish 
 to marry her, in spite of all that had been said and done, lay 
 occasionally on Madam. In fact it had never left her. She 
 could not make a child of Arthur and keep him at her apron- 
 string : he was free to go hither and thither at will ; and no 
 matter in what spot of the habitable globe Ellen might be 
 located, there was no earthly power that could stop his going 
 to her if he wished to go. Why then, surely it was safer and 
 better that the girl should be under her own eye, always in 
 her own immediate presence. Madam laughed a little as she 
 rose from her musings ; she could have found in her heart to 
 thank Richard North for bringing this about. 
 
 And so, with the morning, Madam was quite prepared to 
 be gracious to Ellen Adair. Madam was one of those accom- 
 modating people who are ready, as we are told, to hold a 
 candle to a certain nameless personage, if they thinlii their 
 interest may be served by doing it. Matilda North, who 
 knew nothing whatever of Madam's special reasons for dis- 
 liking Miss Adair — save that she had heard her mother once 
 scornfully speak of her as a low, nameless young woman, a 
 nobody — was coldly civil to her on Richard's introduction. 
 But the sweet face, the gentle voice, the superior maimers, 
 won even on her ; and when the morning came Matilda felt 
 rather glad that the present monotony of the Hall was relieved 
 by such an inmate, and asked her all about the death of Mrs. 
 Cumberland. 
 
 And thus Ellen Adair was located at Dallory Hall. But 
 Mrs. North had not bargained for a cruel perplexity that was 
 to fall upon her ere the day was over: no less than the return 
 to it of Captain Bohun. 
 
 It has been mentioned that Sir Nash was ailinsr. In. 
 
312 Bessy Rare. 
 
 Madam's new scheme, undefined and incomplete though it 
 was at present — that of possibly taking np her residence in 
 his house — she had judged it well to inaugurate it by trying 
 to ingratiate herself into his favour so far a3 she knew how. 
 She would have liked to make herself neoessary to him. 
 Madam had heard a hint broached of his going over to 
 certain springs in Germany, and as she knew she should 
 never get taken with him there, though Arthur might, she 
 just schemed a little to keep him in England. During the 
 concluding days of her stay with him, Sir Nash had been 
 overwhelmed with persuasions that he should come down to 
 Dallory Hall, and get up his health there. To hear Madam 
 talk, never had so salubrious -a spot been discovered on the 
 earth's surface as Dallory; its water was pure, its air a 
 species of tonic in itself; for rural calmness, for simple 
 delight, it possessed attractions never before realized save in 
 Arcadia. Sir Nash, in answer to all this, had not given the 
 least hope of trying its virtues; and Madam had finally 
 departed believing that Dallory would never see him. 
 
 But on this morning, the one after Ellen Adair's arrival, 
 Madam, amidst other letters, got one addressed to her in her 
 son Arthur's handwriting. According to her frequent habit 
 of late — though why she had fallen into it she could not her- 
 self have told — she let her letters lie, unlooked at, until very 
 late in the morning ; just before luncheon she opened them ; 
 Arthur's the last : she never cared to hear from him. And 
 then Madam opened her eyes as well as the letter. She read 
 that Sir Nash had come to a sudden resolution to accept her 
 proffered hospitality for a short time, and that he and Arthur 
 would be with her that day. Now at this very moment of 
 reading, they were absolutely on their road to Dallory Hall. 
 
 Madam sat staring. Could she stop it, was her first thought. 
 It was very undesirable that they should come. Ellen Adair 
 was there ; and besides, after this new and startling revela- 
 tion of Richard's, Madam was not quite sure that she might 
 continue to crowd the house with guests at will. But there 
 was no help for it ; ransack her fertile brain as she would, 
 and did, there seemed no possible chance of preventing the 
 travellers' arrival. Had she known where a message would 
 reach them, she might have telegraphed that the Hall was 
 burning, or that yellow fever had broken out in it. 
 
 Mrs. North was not the first who has had to make the best 
 of an unlucky combination of circumstances. She gave orders 
 
Under the same Roof. 3 1 3 
 
 amidst her sevants to prepare for the reception of the guests ; 
 and descended to the luncheon table with a smooth face, say- 
 ing there not a word. Richard was out, or she might have 
 told him : he was so busy over the re-opening of those works 
 of his, that he was now only at home night and morning. It 
 happened, however, that on this day he had occasion to come 
 home for some deed of agreement that lay in his desk. 
 
 It was about four o'clock in the afternoon — a showery one 
 — and Richard North was approaching the gates of the Hall 
 with the long swinging step of a man of business, when he 
 saw some one approach them more leisurely from the other 
 side. It was Mary Dallory. He did not know she had come 
 back ; and his face had certainly a flush of surprise on it, as 
 he lifted his hat to greet her. 
 
 " I got home yesterday evening," she said, smiling. "Forced 
 to it. Dear old Frank wrote the most woe-begone letters 
 imaginable, saying he could not get on without me." 
 
 " Did you come from Sir Nash Bohun's ? " asked Richard. 
 
 " Sir Nash Bohun's ! No. What put that in your head ? 
 I was at Sir Nash Bohun's for a few days some ages ago — 
 weeks, at any rate, as it seems to me — but not lately. I havo 
 been with my aunt in South Audley Street." 
 
 " London must be lively at this time," remarked Richard 
 rather sardonically ; as if, like Francis Dallory, he resented 
 her having stayed there. 
 
 " Very. It is, for the tourists and people have all come 
 back to it. I suppose you'd have liked me to stay here and 
 catch the fever. Very kind of you ! I was going in to see 
 your father." 
 
 He glanced at her with a half smile, and held out his arm 
 after passing the gates. 
 
 " I am not sure that I shall take it. You have been very 
 rude, Mr. Richard." 
 
 Richard dropped it at once, begging her pardon. His air 
 was that of a man who has received a disagreeable check. 
 But Miss Dallory had been joking only ; she glanced up at 
 him, and a hot flush of vexation overspread her face. Richard 
 held it out once more, and they began talking as they went 
 along. Some drops were beginning to fall, and he put up 
 his umbrella. 
 
 He told her of Mrs. Cumberland's death. She had not 
 heard of it, and expressed her sorrow. But she had had no 
 acquaintance with Mrs. Cumberland, could not remember to 
 
314 Bessy Rane. 
 
 have seen her more than once, and that was more than three 
 years ago : and the subject passed. 
 
 " I hear you have begun business again," she said. 
 
 " Well — I might answer you as Green, my old time-keeper, 
 answered me to-day. I happened to say to him, ' We have 
 begun once more, Green:' 'Yes, in a sort, sir,' said he, gruffly. 
 I have begun ' in a sort,' Miss Dallory." 
 
 " And what kind of ' sort ' is it ? " 
 
 " In just as cautious and quiet a way as it is well possible 
 for a poor man to begin," answered Richard. "I have no 
 capital, as you must be aware ; or at least, as good as 
 none." 
 
 " I daresay you could get enough of that if you wanted it. 
 Some of your friends have plenty of it, Mr. Richard." 
 
 " I know that. Mrs. Gass quarrels with me every day, be- 
 cause I will not take hers, and run the risk of making ducks 
 and drakes of it. ISTo. I prefer to feel my way alone; to stand 
 or fall by myself, Miss Dallory." 
 
 "I have heard Richard North called obstinate," remarked 
 the young lady, looking into the damp air. 
 
 " When he believes he is right. I don't think it is a bad 
 quality, Miss Dallory. My dear sister Bessy used to say " 
 
 " Oh ! Richard, what about her ? — what of Bessy ? " inter- 
 rupted Mary Dallory, all ceremony thrown to the winds at the 
 mention of the name. " I never was so painfully shocked in 
 all my life as when I opened Frank's letter telling me she was 
 dead. What could have killed her ? " 
 
 " It was the fever, you know," answered Richard, sadly. 
 " I never shall forget what I felt when I heard it. I was in 
 Belgium." 
 
 " It seemed very strange that she should die so quickly." 
 
 " It seems strange to me still. I have not cared to talk 
 about her since: she was my only sister and very dear to me. 
 Rane says it was a most violent attack : and I suppose she 
 succumbed to it quickly, without much struggle." 
 
 " That poor little Cissy Ketler is gone, too." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Is Ketler one of the few men who have gone back to 
 work ? " 
 
 "Oh! dear no." 
 
 "Do you know I should like to shake those men until they 
 come to their senses ? " 
 
 The rain had ceased : but they were walking on, uncon- 
 
Under the same Roof. 3 1 5 
 
 scions of it, under the umbrella. By-and-by the fact was dis- 
 covered, and the umbrella put down. 
 
 " Who's this ?," exclaimed Richard. " Visitors for Madam, I 
 suppose." 
 
 Richard alluded to the sound of carriage-wheels behind. 
 He and Miss Dallory had certainly not walked as though they 
 were winning a wager, but they were close to the house now ; 
 and reached its door simultaneously with the carriage. 
 Richard stood in very amazement, when he saw its inmates 
 — Arthur Bohun, thin and sallow ; and Sir Nash. 
 
 There was a hasty greeting, a welcome, and then they all 
 entered together. Madam, Matilda, and Miss Adair were in 
 the drawing-room. Arthur came in side by side with Miss 
 Dallory ; he was holding her hand ; they were talking to- 
 gether, and a slight flush illumined his thin face. Ellen, feeling 
 shy amidst them all, remained in the back ground : she would 
 not press forward : but a general change of position brought 
 her and Arthur close to each other ; and she held out her hand 
 timidly, with a rosy blush. 
 
 He turned white as death. He staggered back as though 
 he had seen a spectre. Just for a minute he was utterly 
 unnerved ; and then, some sort of presence of mind returning 
 to him, he looked another way without further notice, and 
 began talking again with Miss Dallory. But Miss Dallory had 
 no longer leisure to waste on him. She had caught sight of Ellen, 
 whom she had never seen, and was wonderfully struck. Never 
 in her whole life had she found a face so unutterably lovely. 
 
 " Mr. Richard" — touching his arm, as he stood by Arthur 
 Bohun, and the young lady had to stretch before Arthur to 
 get to it — " who is that young lady ? " 
 
 "Ellen Adair." 
 
 "Is that Ellen Adair ? Oh! what a sweet face it is ! I 
 never saw one so lovely. Do take me to her, Mr. Richard." 
 
 Richard introduced them. Arthur Bohun, his bosom beat- 
 ing with shame and pain, turned to the window : a sick faint- 
 ness was stealing over him ; he was very weak yet. How he 
 loved her ! — how he loved her ! More ; ay, ten times more, as 
 it seemed to him, than of yore. And yet, he must only treat 
 her with coldness ; worse than if she and he were strangers. 
 What untoward mystery conld have brought her at Dallory 
 Hall ? He stole away, on the plea of looking for Mr. North. 
 Madam, who had all her eyes about her and had been using 
 them, followed him out. 
 
316 Bessy Rane. 
 
 There was a hasty colloquy. He asked why Miss Adair 
 was there. Madam replied by telling (for once in her life) the 
 pure truth. She favoured him with a short history of the pre- 
 vious night's events that had culminated in Richard's assump- 
 tion of will. The girl was there, as he saw, concluded Madam, 
 and she could not help it. 
 
 " Did Mrs. Cumberland before she died reveal to Miss Adair 
 what you told me about — about her father ? " enquired Arthur, 
 from between his dry and feverish and trembling lips. 
 
 " I have no means of knowing. I should think not, for the 
 girl betrays no consciousness of it in her manner. Listen, 
 Arthur," added Madam, impressively laying her hand on his 
 arm. " It is unfortunate that you are subjected to be in the 
 same house with her ; but I cannot, you perceive, send her 
 from it. All you have to do is to avoid her ; never allow 
 yourself to speak to her ; never be for a moment alone with 
 her. You will be safe then." 
 
 "Yes, it will be the only plan," he mechanically answered, 
 as he quitted Madam, and went on his way. 
 
 Meanwhile Ellen Adair little thought what cruelty was in 
 store for her. Shocked though she had been the first moment 
 by Arthur Bohun's apparent non-recognition, it was so im- 
 probable a rudeness for him to be capable of, in his almost 
 ultra-native courteousness, even to a stranger, that she soon 
 decided he had purposely not greeted her until they should be 
 alone, or else had really not recognized her. 
 
 In crossing the Hall an hour later, Ellen met him face to 
 face. He was coming out of Mr. North's parlour as she was 
 passing it. No one was about ; they were quite alone. 
 
 "Arthur," she softly said, smiling at him and putting out 
 her hand. 
 
 He went red and white, and hot and cold. He lifted his 
 hat, which he happened to be wearing, having come straight 
 in through the glass doors, and politely murmured some words 
 that sounded like " I beg your pardon, Miss Adair : " but he 
 did not attempt to touch her offered hand. And then he 
 turned short round, and traversed the room back to the 
 garden, putting on his hat again. 
 
 It seemed to her as though she had received her death-blow. 
 There could no longer be any doubt or misapprehension after 
 this, as to what the future was to be. Every drop of blood in 
 her body seemed to rush to her heart and set it beating ; the 
 feeling was one akin to terror. Ellen Adair crept into the 
 
In the House Together. 317 
 
 drawing-room, empty then, and leaned her aching brow against 
 the window frame. 
 
 Presently Matilda North entered. The young lady had her 
 ins and outs of curiosity the same as her mother, and fancied 
 some great sight was to be seen. She increased her speed. 
 
 " What are you looking at, Miss Adair ? " 
 
 "Nothing," answered Ellen, lifting her head. And in 
 truth she had not been looking out at all. 
 
 " Ah ! I see," significantly spoke Miss North. 
 
 Walking slowly side by side along a distant path, went 
 Captain Bohun and Miss Dallory. Matilda, acting on a hint 
 from Madam, would not let slip the opportunity. 
 
 " Captain Bohun is losing no time, is he ? " 
 
 " In what way ? " enquired Ellen. 
 
 "Don't you know that they are engaged ? He is to marry 
 Miss Dallory. We had all kinds of love passages, I asure 
 you, when he was ill at my uncle's, and she was there 
 helping me to nurse him." 
 
 It was a wicked and gratuitous lie : there had been no 
 "love passages," or semblance of them. But Ellen believed 
 it. 
 
 " Do you say they are engaged ? " she murmured. 
 
 " Of course they are. It will be a love match too, for he is 
 very fond of her — and she of him, I think Richard was once 
 a little bit gone in that quarter ; but Arthur has put him out. 
 Sir Nash is so pleased at Arthur's choice ; and mamma is 
 delighted. They are both very fond of Mary Dallory." 
 
 And that ail-but completed ceremony only a few weeks back 
 in the Church at Eastsea ! — and the ring and licence she held 
 in store still ! — and the deep, deep love they had owned to each 
 other, and vowed to maintain for ever — what did it all mean ? 
 Ellen Adair, asked the question of herself in her agony. And 
 as her heart returned the common-sense answer — fickleness : 
 faithlessness — she felt as if a great sea of fire were scorching 
 away hope and peace and happiness. The iron had entered 
 into her soul. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 DT THE HOUSE TOGETHER. 
 
 It was a curious position, that of some of the present inmates' 
 of Dallory Hall. Sir Nash Bohun, who went down to 
 accompany Arthur more than anything else, and who had 
 
318 Bessy Rane. 
 
 not intended to remain above a day or two, stayed on. The 
 qniet life after the bustle of London was grateful to him ; 
 the sweet country air really seemed to possess some of the 
 salubrious properties Madam had ascribed to it. He liked 
 to sit amidst Mr. North's flower beds — that is to say, where 
 the flowers had been, for it was getting too near winter for 
 many to be seen now. He liked to watch the falling of the 
 leaves from the dying trees ; dying until the early spring 
 should come round and renew their vitality. Sir Nash was 
 about to go abroad a long, long way when that genial spring- 
 time should set in, and try the effect of some medicinal waters, 
 that bear the reputation of renewing failing strength. Until 
 then, he was grateful for any change, any society that served 
 to pass the time. 
 
 Sir Nash had been as much struck with the exceeding beauty 
 of Ellen Adair as strangers mostly were. That she was a 
 very sweet girl, one of those who seem made to be specially 
 loved, he could but see. In the bustle of their first arrival, 
 he had not noticed her : there were so many besides her to bo 
 greeted ; and Miss Dallory amidst them, whose appearance 
 was entirely unexpected and consequently a surprise. Not 
 until they were assembling for dinner, did Sir Nash observe 
 her. His eyes suddenly rested on a most beautiful girl in a 
 simple black silk evening dress, its low body and sleeves 
 edged with white tulle, and a black necklace on her pretty 
 neck. He was wondering who she was, when he heard 
 Richard North speak of her as Ellen Adair. Sir Nash drew 
 Arthur Bohun to the far end of the drawing-room, osten- 
 sibly to look at one of Turner's pictures. 
 
 "Arthur, who is she? It cannot be his daughter! 
 Adair's ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir, it is." 
 
 " Mercy be good to her ! " cried Sir Nash in his compas- 
 sionate dismay. " What an awful calamity ! She looks 
 entirely charming in herself ; fit to mate with a prince of the 
 blood-royal." 
 
 "And she is so." 
 
 " To have been born to a blighted name ; an inheritance of 
 ignominy! " continued Sir Nash. " Poor thing! poor thing! 
 Does she know about it ? " 
 
 " No, I am sure she does not," replied Arthur warmly, his 
 tone one of intense pain. " She believes her father to be as 
 honoixrable and good as you are." 
 
In the House Together. 319 
 
 For the very fact of Ellen's having put out her hand to him 
 in the hall with that bright and confiding smile, had convinced 
 Arthur Bohun that at present she knew nothing. 
 
 It made his own position all the worse : for, to her, his be- 
 haviour must appear simply infamous. Yet, how tell her ? 
 — what excuse make ? Here they were, located in the same 
 house ; and yet they could only be to each other as formal 
 strangers. An explanation was due to Ellen Adair ; but from 
 the very nature of the stibject, he could not give it. If he had 
 possessed the slightest notion that she was putting it down to 
 a wrong cause — to an engagement with Miss Dallory — he 
 would at least have set that right. But who was likely to tell 
 him ? No one. Madam and Matilda, be you very sure, 
 would not : still less Ellen herself. And so the complication 
 would, and must, go on; just as unhappy complications do 
 sometimes go on. But there is this much to be said — that the 
 setting straight the only point that might have been set 
 straight, would not have made any difference to the breach be- 
 tween the two who had been hopelessly separated. 
 
 And Sir Wash Bohun never once brought himself to enter 
 on any sort of intercourse with Ellen Adair. He would not 
 have chosen, had he known it beforehand, to take up his 
 sojourn under the same roof with one whose father had played 
 so fatal a part with his long-ago-dead brother : it had been 
 contrived by circumstances. In herself the young lady was 
 so unobjectionable — nay, so deserving of respect and homage 
 — that Sir Nash was won out of his projected coldness ; and 
 he would smile pleasantly upon her when paying the slight, 
 unavoidable courtesies of every-day life. But he never 
 Lingered near her, he never entered on prolonged conversation : 
 a bow or two, and good morning and good-night, comprised 
 their acquaintanceship. He got to pity her ; almost to love 
 her ; and he relieved his feelings at least once a day in private 
 by sending sundry unorthodox epithets after the man. 
 William Adair, for blighting the name held by this fair and 
 sweet young lady. 
 
 .It was not a very sociable party, take it on the whole. Sir 
 Nash had a sitting-room assigned him, and stayed much in it : 
 his grief for his son was not over, and perhaps never would 
 be. Mr. North was often shut up in his parlour, or walking 
 with bent head amid the garden paths. Madam kept greatly 
 aloof, nobody knew where ; Matilda was buried in her novels, 
 French and English, or chattering somewhere above to Ma- 
 
320 Bessy Rane. 
 
 dam's French maid. Richard was at the works all day. 
 Ellen Adair, feeling herself a kind of interloper, stayed in her 
 chamher, or went to remote parts of the garden and sat there 
 in solitnde. As to Arthur Bohun, he was an invalid still, 
 weak and ill, and wonld often not be seen nntil luncheon or 
 dinner-time. There was a general meeting at meals, and a 
 sociable evening after it. 
 
 Madam had not allowed matters to take t.heir course with- 
 out a prompting word from herself. On the day after Sir 
 Nash and Arthur arrived, she came, all smiles and suavity, 
 knocking at the door of Ellen's chamber. She found that 
 young lady weeping bitter tears — who stammered out, as she 
 wiped them away and strove for composure, some excuse 
 about feeling so greatly the sudden death of Mrs. Cumberland. 
 Madam was gracious, considerate ; as she could be when she 
 pleased : she poured some scent on her own white handker- 
 chief, and held it to Miss Adair's nose. Ellen thanked her 
 and gave it back again, and smoothed her hair back with her 
 hand, and dried her tears, and rose up out of the emotion as a 
 thing of the past. 
 
 " I am sorry it should have happened that Sir Nash chose 
 this time to come," spoke Madam ; "you might just now 
 have preferred to be alone with us. Captain Bohun is still so 
 very unwell that Sir Nash says he could but bring him." 
 
 "Yes," mechanically replied Ellen, really not knowing what 
 part it was she assented to. 
 
 " And Arthur — of course he was anxious to come ; he knew 
 Mary Dallory would be back," went on Madam, with candour, 
 like a woman without guile. "We are all delighted at the 
 prospect of his marrying her. Before he was heir to the 
 baronetcy it of course did not so much matter how he married, 
 provided it were a gentlewoman of family fit to consort with 
 the Bohuns. But now that he has come into the succession 
 through poor James's death, things have changed. Did you 
 know that Sir Nash has cut off the entail ? " abruptly broke 
 off Madam. 
 
 Ellen thought she did. The fact was, Arthur had told 
 Mrs. Cumberland of it at Eastsea : but Ellen did not under- 
 stand much about entails, so the matter had passed from her 
 mind. 
 
 " The cutting off the entail has placed Arthur entirely in 
 his uncle's hands," continued Madam. "If Arthur were to 
 offrvid him, Sir Nash might not leave him a ten-shilling piece. 
 
In the House Together. 321 
 
 It is fortunate for all of us that Mary Dallory is so charming : 
 Sir Nash is almost as fond of her as is Arthur. And she is a 
 great heiress, you know : she must have at the very least 
 three or four thousand a year. Some people say it's more ; 
 the minority of the Dallory children was so long." 
 
 " It is a great deal," murmured Ellen. 
 
 " Yes. But it will be very acceptable. I'm sure, by tho 
 way affairs seem to be going on with Mr. North and Richard, 
 it looks as though Arthur would have us all on his hands. It 
 has been a great happiness to us, his choosing Miss Dallory 
 for his wife. I don't believe he thought much of her before 
 his illness. She was staying with us in town during that 
 time, and so — and so the love grew, and Arthur made up his 
 mind. He had the good sense to see the responsibility that 
 James Bohun's death left on him, to make a suitable and 
 proper choice." 
 
 Ellen had learnt a lesson lately in self-control, and main- 
 tained her calmness now. She did not know Madam (except 
 by reputation) quite as well as some people did, and was 
 taken-in to believe she spoke in all sincerity. One thing she 
 could not decide — whether Madam had known of the pro- 
 jected marriage at Eastsea, or not. She felt inclined to fancy 
 that she had not, and Ellen hoped it with all her whole heart. 
 Madam lingered on yet to say a few more words. She drew 
 an affecting picture of the solace, the joy, the consolation this 
 projected union of her son with Mary Dallory brought to her, 
 his mother ; and — as if she were addressing an imaginary 
 audience in the ceiling — turned up her eyes and clasped her 
 hands, and declared she must put it to the honour and good 
 feeling of the world in general never to attempt anything by 
 word or deed that might tend to mar this blessed state of 
 things. With that she kissed Ellen Adair, and said, now that 
 she had apologised for their not being quite alone at the Hall 
 and explained how it happened that Sir Nash came, she would 
 leave her to dress. 
 
 As the days went on, something happened to intensify the 
 state of affairs — or, at least, to strengthen Ellen's view of 
 them — Mary Dallory came on a visit to the Hall. Her 
 brother Francis went away from home to join a shooting 
 party, and Madam seized upon the occasion to invite his sister. 
 She came, seemingly nothing loth ; and with her a great 
 trunkf ul of paraphernalia. Matilda North had once said, when 
 calling Mary Dallory a flirt, that she'd come fast enough to 
 
 T 
 
322 Bessy Kane. 
 
 the Hall when Richard and Arthur were there. Any way, 
 she came now. After this, Arthur Bohun would be more 
 downstairs than he was before ; and he and she would be 
 often together in the grounds ; sitting on benches under the 
 evergreens or strolling along the walks side by side. Some- 
 times Arthur would take her arm with an invalid's privilege ; 
 his limp at the present time was more perceptible than it ever 
 had been : and sometimes she would take his. They seemed 
 to be always talking, their heads close together after the 
 manner of those who hold confidential intercourse. Ellen 
 Adair would watch them through this window, through that 
 window, and press her trembling fingers on her aching heart. 
 She saw it all : or thought she did. Arthur Bohun had found 
 that his future prospects in life, his heirship in fact, depended 
 upon his wedding Miss Dallory, or some one equally eligible ; 
 and so he had resolved to forget the sweet romance of the 
 past, and embrace reality. 
 
 She thought he might have spoken to her. So much was 
 certainly due to her ; to her who had all but been made his 
 wife. His present treatment of her was simply despicable ; 
 next door to wicked. Better that he had explained only as 
 Madam did : what was there to hinder his telling her the 
 truth ? He might have said to her, ever so briefly : " Such 
 and such things have arisen, and my former plans are 
 frustrated, and I cannot help myself." But no ; all he did 
 was to avoid her : he never sought to touch her hand ; his 
 eyes never met hers if he could guard against it. It was 
 exactly as though he had grown to despise her, and sought to 
 show it. Mad he ? When Ellen's fears suggested the ques- 
 tion — and it was in her mind pretty often now — she would 
 turn sick with despair, and wish to die. 
 
 The truth was this. Arthur Bobun's fears lest he should 
 betray his still ardent love, caused him to be more studiously 
 cold to Ellen than he need have been. A strange yearning 
 would come over him to clasp her to his heart and sob out his 
 grief and tenderness : and the very fear lest he might really 
 do this some day, lest passion and nature should become too 
 strong for prudence and conventionality, made him shun her 
 and seem to behave, as Ellen thought it, despicably. He 
 knew it himself : he called himself far more despicable than 
 Ellen could call him : a coward, a knave, a miserably-dis- 
 honoured man. And so, that's the way things went on at 
 Dallory Hall : and were likely to go on. 
 
In the House Together. 323 
 
 One afternoon, a few days after Mrs. Cumberland was 
 interred, Ellen went out to see her grave. Madam, Miss 
 Dallory, Matilda, and Sir Nash had gone out driving : Arthur 
 had been away somewhere since the morning, Mr. North was 
 over the celery-bed with his head gardener. There was only 
 Ellen : she was alone and lonely, and she put her black things 
 on and walked through Dallory to the churchyard. It hap- 
 pened that she met three or four people she knew ; and she 
 stayed to talk with them. Mrs. Gass was one ; the widow of 
 Henry Hepburn was another. But she got on at last, feeling 
 a little shy at being seen abroad alone : in walking so far as 
 Dallory Mrs. Cumberland had always caused a servant to 
 attend her. 
 
 The grave had been made not far from Bessy Rane's. Ellen 
 had no difficulty in distinguishing the one from the other, 
 though as yet there was not a stone to mark either. Mrs. 
 Cumberland's was near that of the late Thomas Gass ; Bessy's 
 was close to Edmund North's. A great winter tree, an ever- 
 green, overshadowed this corner of the churchyard, and she 
 sat down on the bench that went round its trunk. Bessy's 
 grave was almost at her feet ; two yards, or so, away. 
 
 She leaned her face on her hand, and was still. The past, 
 the present, the future ; Mrs. Cumberland, Bessy Rane, 
 Edmund North ; her own bitter trouble, and other things — 
 all seemed to be struggling together tumultuously inher brain. 
 But, as she sat on, the tumult cleared itself a little, and she 
 lost herself in imaginative thoughts of that heaven where 
 pain and care shall be no more. Could they see her ? Could 
 Mrs. Cumberland look down and see her, Ellen Adair, sitting 
 there in her sorrow ? A fanciful idea came to her that per- 
 haps the dead were the guardian angels appointed to watch 
 the living : to be "in charge over them, to keep them in all 
 their ways." If so, why then who was watching her ? — it 
 must be her own mother, Mary Adair. Could these guardian 
 angels pray for them ? — intercede -with the mighty God and 
 the Saviour that their sins here might be blotted out ? How 
 long Ellen gave to these thoughts she never knew : but she 
 wound up with crying softly to herself, and she wondered how 
 long it would bq before she joined them all in heaven. 
 
 Somebody, approaching from the back of the tree, came 
 round with a slow step and sat down on the bench. It was a 
 gentleman in black, she could see that much, though he was 
 nearly on the other side of the tree's trunk, and so had his 
 
324 Bessy Rane. 
 
 back to her. Ellen found she had not been observed, and 
 prepared to leave. It had grown dusk in the twilight of the 
 dull evening. As she stooped to pick up her handkerchief, 
 which had fallen, the gentleman turned and saw her. Saw as 
 well the tears on her face. It was Captain Bohun. 
 
 He got up quicker than he had sat down, intending no 
 doubt to move away. But in his haste he dropped his stick 
 — a great thick stick that he used for support in walking 
 since his illness — and it fell across Ellen's feet. She stooped 
 in some confused impulse to pick it up, and so did he. 
 
 " Thank you — I beg your pardon," he said, with an air of 
 self-humiliation so great that it might have wrung a tender 
 her.rt to see. And then he felt that he could not for very 
 shame go off without some notice, as he had been thinking to 
 do. Though why he stayed to speak and what he said, it 
 might have puzzled him at the moment to tell. Instinct, 
 more than reason, prompted the words. 
 
 " She was taken off very suddenly.** 
 
 Standing close, though he was, to Bessy's grave, Ellen 
 thought he looked across at Mrs. Cumberland's. And the 
 latter had been latest in her thoughts. 
 
 " Yes. I feared we should not get her home. And I feel 
 sure that the journey was fatal to her : that, if she had re- 
 mained still, she would not have died quite so soon." 
 
 " It was of Bessy I spoke." 
 
 " Oh I thought you meant Mrs. Cumberland. Mrs. 
 
 Cumberland's death has made so much difference to me, that 
 
 that 1 suppose my mind runs on her. This is the 
 
 first time I have been here." 
 
 Both of them were agitated to pain : both could fain have 
 pressed their hearts tightly to still the frightful beating there. 
 
 "Ellen, I should like to say a word to you," he suddenly 
 exclaimed, turning his face to her for a moment, and then 
 turning it aside again. " I am aware that nothing can excuse 
 the deep shame of my conduct in not having attempted any 
 explanation. To you I cannot attempt it. I should have 
 given it to Mrs. Cumberland if she had not died." 
 
 Ellen made no answer. Her handkerchief lay in her hand, 
 and she looked down upon it. 
 
 " The subject was so intensely painful and — and awkward 
 - — that at first I did not think I could have mentioned it even 
 to Mrs. Cumberland. Then came my illness. After that, 
 while I lay day after day, left to my own reflections, things 
 
In the House Together. 325 
 
 began to present themselves to me in rather a different light ; 
 and I saw that to maintain my silence would be the most 
 wretched shame of all. I resolved to disclose everything to 
 Mrs. Cumberland, and leave her to repeat it to you if she 
 thought fit — at least, as much of it as would give you the 
 clue to the cause of my strange and apparently unjustifiable 
 conduct." 
 
 Ellen's fingers were pulling at the hem of her handkerchief, 
 this way and that. She did not speak. 
 
 " Mrs. Cumberland's death, I say, prevented this," con- 
 tinued Captain Bohun, who had gathered somewhat of courage 
 now the matter was opened, and stood fully turned to her, 
 leaning both hands on his stick : " and I have felt since in a 
 frightful dilemma, from which I see no escape. To you I 
 cannot enter on an explanation : nor yet am I able to tell you 
 why I cannot. The subject is altogether so very painful " 
 
 Ellen lifted her head suddenly to speak. Every drop of 
 blood had deserted her face, leaving it of an ashy whiteness. 
 The movement caused him to pause. 
 
 " I know what it is," she managed to say from between 
 her white and trembling lips. 
 
 " You— know it ? " 
 
 "Yes. All." 
 
 Alas for the misapprehensions of this world. Ho was 
 thinking only of the strange disclosure made to him concern- 
 ing Mr. Adair ; she only of his engagement to Miss Dallory. 
 At her avowal all kinds of thoughts came surging through his 
 brain. All ! She knew it all! 
 
 " Have you known it long ? " he questioned in a low tone. 
 
 " The time may be counted by days." 
 
 He jumped to the conclusion that Mrs. Cumberland had 
 disclosed it to her on her death-bed. And Ellen's knowledge 
 of it bettered his position just a little. But, looking at her, 
 at her pale sweet face and downcast eyes, at the anguish per- 
 vading every line of her countenance, and which she could not 
 hide, Arthur Bohun's heart was filled to overflowing with a 
 strange pity, that seemed to wring it to breaking. He drew 
 nearer to her. 
 
 " Thank God that you understand, Ellen — that at least you 
 do not think me the shameless scoundrel I must otherwise 
 have appeared," he whispered, his voice trembling with its 
 deep emotion. "I cannot help myself : you must see that I 
 cannot, as you know all The blow nearly killed me. My 
 
326 Bessy Rane. 
 
 fate — our fate, if I may dare still so far to couple your name 
 with mine — is a very bitter one." 
 
 Ellen had begun to stiver inwardly. Something in his 
 words grated terribly on her ear : and pride enabled her to 
 keep down outward emotion. 
 
 " You left the ring and license with me," she abruptly said, 
 in perhaps an access of bitterness of temper. " What am I 
 to do with them ? " 
 
 " Burn them — destroy them," he fiercely replied. " They 
 are worthless to us now." 
 
 But he so spoke only in his anguish. Ellen interpreted it 
 differently. 
 
 " Grod help us both, Ellen! A cruel, wicked fate has 
 parted us for this world : but we may be permitted to be 
 together in the next. It is all my hope now." 
 
 Should she be able to keep down the emotion and the bitter 
 grief ? It was shaking and trying her. 
 
 " Heaven bless you and take care of you, Ellen ! Our 
 paths in life must lie apart, but I pray always that yours may 
 be a happy one." 
 
 Without further word, without touching her hand, thus he 
 went. Limping on to the broad path, and thence down it 
 towards the gate of the churchyard. 
 
 There are moments into which a whole lifetime of agony 
 seems to be compressed. Such a one was this for Ellen Adair. 
 Dusk was coming on now rapidly, but she sat on, her head 
 bent low on her hands. They were, then, separated for ever ; 
 there was no further hope for her ! — he himself had confirmed 
 it. She wondered whether the pain would kill her ; whether 
 she should be able to battle with it, or must die of the 
 humiliation it brought. The pain and the humiliation were 
 strong and sharp now — now as she sat. By-and-by there 
 stole again into her mind those thoughts which Captain 
 Bohun's appearance had interrupted — the heavenly place 01 
 rest to which Bessy and Mrs. Cumberland had passed. In- 
 sensibly it soothed her : and imagination went roving away 
 unchecked. She seemed to see the white robes of the Re- 
 deemed ; she saw the golden harps in their hands, and the 
 soft sweet light around them, and the love and peace. The 
 thoughts served to show her how poor and worthless, as com- 
 pared with the joys of that Better Land, were the trials and 
 pains of this world : how short a moment, even at the longest, 
 they had to be endured : how quickly and surely all here 
 
In the House Together. 327 
 
 must pass away ! Yes, she might endure with patience for 
 the time ! And when she lifted her head, it was to break into 
 a flood of violent and yet soothing tears, that she could not 
 have shed before. 
 
 "Father in Heaven, Thou seest all my trouble and my 
 agony. I have no one in the world to turn to for shelter — 
 and the blast is strong. Vouchsafe to guide and cover me ! " 
 
 But it was close upon night. With a wet handkerchief and 
 eyes still streaming, she rose to make her way out of the 
 churchyard. In a sheltered nook that she passed, sat a man : 
 and Ellen started a little, and quickened her pace. It was 
 Captain Bohun. Instead of going away, he had turned back 
 to wait. She understood it at once : at that hour he would 
 not leave her alone in the grave-yard. He wished to be 
 chivalrous to her still, for all his barefaced faithlessness. In 
 the very teeth of his avowed desertion of her, his words and 
 manner had proved that he loved her yet. Loved her, and 
 not another. It brought its own comfort to Ellen Adair. Of 
 course it ought not, but it did : for the human heart at best 
 is frail and faulty. 
 
 Captain Bohun followed her out of the churchyard, and 
 kept her in sight all the way home, every fibre of feeling he 
 possessed aching for her. He had seen the signs and traces 
 of her fit of weeping ; he knew what must be the amount of 
 her anguish. He might have been ready to shoot himself 
 could it have restored peace to her ; he felt that he should 
 very much like to shoot Mr. Adair, whose bad deeds had en- 
 tailed this misery upon them. 
 
 At the Hall gates he was overtaken by Richard, striding 
 home in haste to dinner. Richard, passing his arm through 
 Arthur's, began telling him that he feared he was going to 
 have some sharpish trouble with his ex- workmen. 
 
 And as they, the once fond lovers, sat together afterwards 
 at table, and in the lighted drawing-room, Arthur as far from 
 her, according to custom, as he could get, none present sus- 
 pected, or could suspect, the scene that had taken place in the 
 churchyard. Ellen Adair's eyes looked heavy ; but that was 
 nothing unusual now. It was known that she grieved for 
 Mrs. Cumberland. 
 
328 Bessy Rane. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 jelly's two evening visits. 
 
 Jelly — to whom we are obliged to refer rather frequently, as 
 she holds some important threads of the story in her hands — ■ 
 found times went very hard with her. A death within the 
 house in addition to the death close without it, were almost 
 more than Jelly could well do with in her present state of 
 mind. The very peculiar and startling circumstances that had 
 characterized Mrs. Kane's demise did not attend Mrs Cumber- 
 land's : but it had been very sudden at last, and Jelly was 
 sincerely attached to her mistress. 
 
 Dr. Rane was left sole executor to his mother's will. It was 
 a very simple one : she bequeathed him all she had. That was 
 not much ; for a portion of her income died with her. He 
 found that he had two hundred a year — as he had known all 
 along he should have — and her household furniture. Of ready 
 money there was little. When he should have discharged 
 trifling claims and paid the funeral expenses, some twenty or 
 thirty pounds would remain over, and that was all. 
 
 Dr. Rane acted promptly. He discharged two of the 
 servants, Ann and Dinah, retaining Jelly for the present to 
 look after the house. He wished, if he could, to get the furni- 
 ture taken-to with the house, for he knew how ruinous in 
 general is a sale to the pocket ; so he advertised it in the local 
 papers. He had been advertising his practice — I think this 
 has been said previously — but nothing satisfactory had come of 
 it. Inquiries had been made, but they all dropped through. 
 Perhaps Dr. Rane was too honest to say his practice was worth 
 much, or to conceal the fact that Mr. Seeley had the best of 
 it in Dallory. Neither was the tontine money as yet paid over ; 
 and, putting out of consideration all other business, the doctor 
 must have waited for that. 
 
 Now, of all things that could have happened, Jelly most dis- 
 liked and dreaded the being left to herself in the house. From 
 having been as physically bold as a woman can be, she had 
 latterly become one of the most timid. She started at her 
 own shadow; she would not for the world have gone alone at 
 night into the room where Mrs. Cumberland died. A shivering 
 kind of fear lay on her constantly. Having seen one ghost, 
 Jelly could not feel sure that she should not see two. Some 
 
Jelly's Tzvo Evening Visits. 329 
 
 people hold a theory that there is given to a very few persons 
 in this world — and not to others — the faculty, or gift, or what- 
 ever you may please to call it, of discerning supernatural sights 
 and things pertaining to the other world. Jelly had heard 
 this : and she took up the notion that for some wise purpose 
 she had been suddenly endowed with it. To stay in the house 
 alone was more than her brain would bear ; and she seized 
 upon Ketler's eldest girl, a starved damsel of thirteen, called 
 at home "Riah," to come and be with her. As it was a mouth 
 less to feed, and they had tried to get Riah a place in vain — 
 for the failure of trade affected all classes, and less servants 
 seemed to be wanted everywhere — Ketler and his wife were 
 very glad to let her go. 
 
 How do rumours get about ? Can anybody tell ? How did 
 a certain rumour get about and begin to be whispered in 
 Dallory ? Certainly no one there could have told. Jelly could 
 have been upon her Bible oath if necessary (or thought she 
 could) that she had not sent it floating. It was a very ugly 
 one, whoever had done it. 
 
 Late one afternoon Jelly received a call from Mrs. Gass's 
 smart housemaid. The girl brought a letter from her mistress ; 
 Mrs. Gass wanted very particularly to see Jelly, and had sent 
 to say that Jelly was to go there as soon as she could. Jelly 
 made no sort of objection. She had been confined to the house 
 much more closely of late than she approved of : partly because 
 Dr. Rane had charged her to be in the way in case people 
 called to look over it : partly because she had found out that 
 Miss Riah had a tendency to walk off, herself, if she could get 
 Jelly's back turned. 
 
 " Now, mind you sit still in the kitchen and attend to the 
 fire, and listen to the door ; and perhaps I'll bring you home a 
 pair of strings for that bonnet of yourn," said Jelly to the girl, 
 when she was ready to start. " The doctor will be in by-and- 
 by, so don't you attempt to get out of the way." 
 
 With these injunctions, Jelly began her walk. She had on 
 her best new mourning — a merino gown of fine texture and 
 fringed shawl of the same — and was in a complaisant mood. 
 It looked inclined to rain — the weather had been uncertain of 
 late — but Jelly had her umbrella : a silk one that had belonged 
 to her mistress, and that Dr. Rane had given, with many other 
 things, to Jelly. She rather wondered what Mrs. Gass wanted 
 with her, but supposed it was to tell her of a situation. It 
 had been arranged that if an eligible one offered, Jelly should 
 
230 Bessy Rane. 
 
 be at liberty to go, and a -woman be placed in tbe house to take 
 care of it. Mrs. Gass had said she would let Jelly know if she 
 heard of anything desirable. So awayfwent Jelly with a fleet 
 foot, little thinking what there was in store for her at her 
 walk's end. 
 
 Mrs. Gass, wearing mourning also, was in her usual sitting- 
 room, the dining-parlour. As Jelly entered, the smart maid 
 was carrying out the tea-tray. Mrs. Gass stirred up her fire, 
 and bade Jelly to a chair near it, drawing her own pretty close 
 to her. 
 
 " Just see whether that girl have shut the door fast afore I 
 begin," suggested Mrs. Gass. " It won't do to have ears 
 a-listening to me." 
 
 Jelly went, saw the door was closed, came back and sat 
 down again. She noticed that Mrs. Gass looked keenly in her 
 face, as if studying it before speaking. 
 
 "Jelly, what is it that you have been a-saying about Dr 
 Rane ? " 
 
 The question was so unexpected that Jelly did not im- 
 mediately answer it. Quite a change, this, from an offer of a 
 nice place. 
 
 "I've said nothing," she replied. 
 
 " Now don't you repeat that to me. Tou have. And it 
 would have been a'most as well for you that you had cutyou>* 
 tongue out afore doing it." 
 
 " I said — what I did — to you, Mrs. Gass. To nobody else." 
 " Look here, girl — the mischief's done, and you'd a great 
 deal better be looking it full in the face than denying of it. 
 There's reports getting up about Dr. Rane, in regard to his 
 wife's death, and no mortal woman or man can have set 'em 
 afloat but you. This morning I was in North Inlet, looking a 
 bit after them scamps of workmen that won't work, and won't 
 let others work if they can help it : and after I had gave a 
 taste of my mind to as many of 'em as was standing about, I 
 stepped in to Mother Green's. She has the rheumatics — and 
 he has got a touch of 'em. Talking with her of one thing and 
 another, we got on to the subject of Dr. Rane and the tontine ; 
 and she said two or three words that frightened me ; that 
 frightened me, Jelly ; for they pointed to the suspicion that the 
 doctor had sacrificed his wife to get it. I pretended to under- 
 stand nothing — she didn't speak out broad enough for me to 
 take it up and answer her — and it was the best plan not to 
 understand " 
 
Jelly's Two Evening Visits. 331 
 
 "For an old woman, Mother Green has got the longest 
 tongue I know," interrupted Jelly. 
 
 "You've got a longer," retorted Mrs. Gass. "Just wait 
 till I've finished, girl. 'Twas a tolerable fine morning, and 
 after that I went walking on, and struck off down by the 
 Wheatsheaf. Packerton's wife was a-standing at the door 
 with cherry ribbons in her cap, and I stopped to talk to her. 
 She brought up Dr. Rane ; and lowered her voice as she did 
 it as if it was high treason ; asking me if I'd heard what was 
 being said about his wife's not having died a natural death. 
 I did give it the woman ; and I think I frightened her. She 
 acknowledged that she only spoke from a hint dropped by 
 Timothy Wilks, and said she had thought at the time it 
 couldn't have anything in it. But what I have got to say to 
 you is this," continued Mrs. Gass to Jelly more emphatically, 
 "whether it's Tim Wilks that's spreading the report, or 
 whether it's Mother Green, they've both got it in the first 
 place from you," 
 
 Jelly sat in discomfort. She did not like this. It is nothing 
 to be charged with a fault when you are wholly innocent ; but 
 when conscience says you are partly guilty it is another thing. 
 Jelly was aware that one night at Mother Green's, taking 
 supper with that old matron and Timothy, she had so far 
 yielded to the seductions of social gossip as to forget her 
 usual reticence ; and had said rather more than she ought. 
 Still, at the worst, it had been but a word or two : a hint, but 
 not a specific charge. 
 
 "I may have let fall an incautious word there," confessed 
 Jelly. " But it was nothing anybody can take hold of." 
 
 " Don't you make sure of that," reprimanded Mrs. Gass. 
 "We are told in the sacred writings — which it's not well to 
 mention in ordinary talk, and I'd only do it with reverence — 
 of a grain of mustard seed, that's the least of all seeds when 
 it's sown, and grows into the greatest tree. You remember 
 Who it is says that, Jelly, so it's not for me to enlarge upon 
 it. But I may say this much, girl, that that's an apt ex- 
 emplification of gossip. You drop one word, or maybe only half 
 a one, and it goes spreading out pretty nigh over the world." 
 
 " I'm sure, what with the weight and worry this dreadful 
 secret has been on my mind, a'most driving me mad, the 
 wonder is that I've been able to keep as silent as I have," put 
 in Jelly, who was getting cross. Mrs. Gass resumed. 
 
 " If the thing is what you think it to be — a dreadful secret, 
 
332 Bessy Rane. 
 
 and it is brought to light through you, why 1 don't know 
 that you'd get blamed — though there's many a one will say 
 you might have spared your mistress's son and left it for 
 others to charge him. But suppose it turns out to be no 
 dreadful secret ; suppose poor Bessy Rane died a natural 
 death in the fever, what then ? — where would you be ? " 
 
 Jelly took off her black gloves as if they had grown sud- 
 denly tight for her hands. She said nothing. 
 
 " Look here, girl. My belief is that you've just set a brand 
 on fire ! one that won't be put out until it's burnt out. 
 My firm belief also is, Hi at you be altogether mistaken. I 
 have thought the matter over with myself hour after hour ; 
 and, except at the first moment when you whispered it to me 
 in the churchyard, and I own I was startled, I have never 
 been able to bring my common sense to believe in it. Oliver 
 Rane loved his wife too well to hurt a hair of her head." 
 
 " There was that anonymous letter," cried Jelly. 
 
 " Whatever hand he might have had in that anonymous 
 letter — and nobody knows the truth on't whether he had or 
 whether he hadn't — I don't believe he was the man to hurt a 
 hair of his wife's head," repeated Mrs. Gass. "And for you 
 to be spreading it about that he murdered her ! " 
 
 "The circumstances all point to it," said Jelly. 
 
 " They don't." 
 
 "Why, Mrs. Gass, they do." 
 
 " Let's go over 'em, and see," said Mrs. Gass, who had a 
 plain way of convincing people. " Let's begin at the beginning. 
 Hear me tell 'em." 
 
 She went over the past minutely. Jelly listened, growing 
 more uncomfortable with every moment. There was abso- 
 lutely not one fact inconsistent with natural death. It is true 
 the demise had been speedy, but the cause assigned for it, 
 exhaustion, might have been the real one ; and the hasty 
 fastening down of the coffin was no doubt a simple measure 
 of precaution, taken out of regard to the welfare of the living. 
 No ; as Mrs. Gass put it in her straightforward, sensible way, 
 there was positively not a single fact that could be urged for 
 supposing Mrs. Rane came to an untimely end. Jelly twirled her 
 gloves, and twisted her hands, and grew hot — not with the fire. 
 
 "There was what I saw — the ghost," she said. 
 
 But Mrs. Gass ridiculed the ghost — that is, the idea of it — 
 beyond every earthly thing. Jelly, however, would not give 
 way there ; and they had some sparring. 
 
Jelly s Two Evening Visits. 333 
 
 11 Ghost, indeed ! and you come to this age ! It was the 
 beer, girl ; the beer." 
 
 " I hadn't had a drop of beer," protested Jelly, almost crying. 
 " How was I to get beer at Ketler's ? They've got none for 
 themselves. I had had nothing inside my lips but tea." 
 
 "Well ; beer or no beer, ghost or no ghost, it strikes me, 
 Jelly, that you have done a pretty thing. This bad story is 
 as sure to get wind now as them geraniums of mine will get 
 air when I open the window to-morrow morning. You'll be 
 called upon to substantiate your story ; and when you can't — 
 and I'm sure that you know that you can't — the law may have 
 you up to answer for it. I once knew a man that rose a bad 
 charge against another ; he was tried for it, and got seven 
 years' transportation. You may come to the same." 
 
 A very agreeable prospect ! If Jelly's bonnet had not been 
 on, her hair might have gone up on end with horror. There 
 could be no doubt that it was she who had started the report ; 
 and in this moment of repentance she sat really wishing she 
 had first cut her foolish tongue out. 
 
 " Nothing can be done now," concluded Mrs. Gass. " There's 
 just one chance for you — that the rumour may die away. If 
 it will, let it ; and take warning to be more cautious in future. 
 The probability is that Mother Green and Tim Wilks have 
 mentioned it to others besides me and Packerton's wife : if so, 
 nothing will keep it under. You have been a great fool, Jelly." 
 
 Jelly went away in mortal fright. Mrs. Gass had laid the 
 matter before her in its true light. Suspect as she might, 
 she had no proof; and if questioned by authority could not have 
 deduced one. 
 
 "Dr. Rane have been in here three times after you," was 
 young Riah's salutation when Jelly got home. 
 
 "Dr. Rane has?'.' 
 
 "And he said the last time you oughtn't to be away from 
 the house so long with only me in it," added the damsel, who 
 felt aggrieved, on her own score, at being left. 
 
 " Oh, did he ! " carelessly returned Jelly. 
 
 But she began considering what Dr. Rane could want. For 
 her parting charge to Riah, that Dr. Rane was coming in, had 
 been a slight invention of her own, meant to help keep that 
 young person to her duty. Just as she had decided that it 
 might have reference to this same report, which he might have 
 heard, and Jelly was growing more and more ill at ease in con« 
 sequence, he came in. She went to him in the dining-room. 
 
334 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Jelly," said the doctor, " I think I have let the house." 
 
 " Have you, sir ? " returned Jelly, blithely, in the agreeable 
 revulsion of feeling. " I'm sure I am glad." 
 
 " But only for a short while," continued Dr. Rane. " Two 
 ladies of Whitborough are seeking for temporary change of 
 air, and will take it if it suits them. They are coming to- 
 morrow to look at it." 
 
 "Very well, sir." 
 
 " They will occupy the house for a month certain, and per- 
 haps continue in it longer. They pay liberally, and it will 
 give me time to let it for a permanency. If you feel inclined 
 to take service with them, I believe there'll be room." 
 
 " Who are they ? " asked Jelly. 
 
 " Mrs. and Miss Beverage. Quakers." 
 
 She knew the name. Very respectable people ; plenty of 
 money. 
 
 "You'll show them over it to-morrow when they come : I 
 may or may not be in the way at the time," concluded Dr. 
 Rane. 
 
 Jelly attended him to the door. It was evident he had not 
 heard the rumour that had reached Mrs. Gass ; or, at least, 
 did not connect Jelly with it. But how was he likely to hear 
 it ? The probability was, that all Dallory would be making a 
 ball of it before it got near him. 
 
 Jelly could not eat her supper. She had taken too nauseous 
 a dose of medicine at Mrs. Gass's to leave room for appetite. 
 Neither did she get any sleep. Tossing and turning on her 
 bed, lay she : the past doubt and the present dread troubling 
 her brain until morning light. 
 
 But, when Jelly had thus tormented herself and regarded 
 vhe matter in all its aspects, the result was, that she still be- 
 lieved her own version of the tale — namely, that Mrs. Rane had 
 not come fairly by her death. True it was, that she had no 
 proof to offer in corroboration : but she began wondering 
 whether such proof might not be found. At any rate, she re- 
 solved to search for it. Not openly ; not to make use of ; but 
 quietly and cautiously: to hold in her hand, as it were, in case 
 of need. She could not tell how to look for this, or where to 
 begin. No one had seen Mrs. Rane after death — except of 
 course the undertakers. Jelly resolved to question them : 
 perhaps something might be gleaned. 
 
 It was afternoon before the expected ladies came. Two 
 nice-speaking women, dressed after the sober fashion of their 
 
Jelly s Two Evening Visits. 335 
 
 sect. Mrs. Beverage, a widow, was sixty; her daughter 
 nearly forty. They liked the house, and said they should 
 take it ; and they liked Jelly, and engaged her to stay as upper 
 maid, intending to bring two servants of their own. After their 
 departure, Jelly had to wait for Dr. Rane : it would not do for 
 him to find only Riah again. He came in while Jelly was at 
 tea. She told him the ladies wished to enter as soon as con- 
 venient ; and the doctor said he would at once go over to see 
 them at Whitborough. 
 
 This left Jelly free. It was getting late when she set forth 
 on her expedition, and she startled at the hedge shadows as 
 she went along. The mind is swayed by its thoughts present ; 
 and Jelly's were of all kinds of uncanny and unpleasant things. 
 Jelly's disposition was not a secretive one, rather the con- 
 trary, and she hated to have to do with what might not be 
 discussed in the broad light of day. 
 
 The commencement of her task was at any rate not diffi- 
 cult : she could enter the Hepburns' house without excuse or 
 apology, knowing them sufficiently well for it. When they 
 were young, Thomas Hepburn, his wife, and Jelly had all gone 
 to the same day-school, and been companions. Walking 
 through the shop without ceremony, save a nod to young 
 Charley, who was minding it, Jelly turned into the little par- 
 lour : a narrow room with the fire-place in the corner sur- 
 mounted by an old-fashioned high wainscot of wood, painted 
 stone-colour. Thomas Hepburn, who seemed to be always 
 ailing with something or other, had got a patch of inflamma- 
 tion on his left arm, and his wife was binding bruised lily 
 leaves round it. Jelly, drawing near to look on, at once 
 expressed her disapprobation of the treatment, saying the 
 leaves would only " draw." 
 
 " I can't think how it should have come, or what it is," he 
 observed. " I don't remember to have hurt it in any way." 
 
 Jelly took the seat on the other side the fire-place, and Mrs. 
 Hepburn, a stout healthy woman, sat down to the small round 
 table and began working by lamplight. Thomas Hepburn, 
 nursing his arm, which pained him, led all unconsciously to 
 the subject Jelly had come to speak upon. Saying that if his 
 arm was not better in the morning, he should show it to Dr. 
 Rane, he thence went on to express his sorrow that the 
 doctor should talk of leaving Dallory, for they liked him so 
 much both as a gentleman and a doctor. 
 
 ' But after such a loss as he has experienced in his wife, 
 
336 Bessy Rane. 
 
 poor lady, no wonder the place is distasteful to him," went on 
 Hepburn. And Jelly felt silently obliged for the words that 
 helped her. 
 
 " Ah, that was a dreadful thing," she observed. " I shall 
 never forget the morning I heard of it, and the shock it gave 
 me." 
 
 " I'm sure I can never forget the night he came down here, 
 and said she was dead," rejoined the undertaker. "It was 
 like a blow. Although I was in a degree prepared for it, for 
 the doctor had told me in the afternoon what a dangerous 
 state she was in — and I didn't like his manner when he spoke : 
 it seemed to say more than his words. I came home and told 
 Martha here that I feared it was all over with Mrs. Rane. 
 Poor Henry was lying dead at the same time." 
 
 "And the answer I made to Thomas was, that she'd get 
 over it," said Mrs. Hepburn, looking up from her sewing at 
 Jelly. "I thought she would: Bessy North was always 
 hearty and healthy. You might have taken a lease of her 
 life." 
 
 " We had shut up the shops for the night, though the men 
 were at work still next door, when the doctor came," resumed 
 Thomas Hepburn, as if he found some satisfaction in recalling 
 the circumstances for Jelly's benefit. "It was past eleven 
 o'clock : but we had to work late during that sad time ; and 
 Henry's illness and death seemed to make a difference of 
 nearly as much as two hands to us. I was in the yard with 
 the men when there came a knocking at the shop door : I 
 went to open it, and there stood the doctor. ' Hepburn,' said 
 he, ' my poor wife is gone.' Well, I did feel it." 
 
 Jelly gave a groan by way of expressing her sympathy. 
 She was inwardly deliberating how she could best lead on to 
 what she wanted to ask. But she never was at fault long. 
 
 "I have heard you express distaste against some of the 
 things that go to make up your trade, Thomas Hepburn, but 
 at least they give you the opportunity of taking last looks at 
 people — which we don't get," began Jelly. " I'd have given 
 I don't know how much out of my pocket to have had a fare- 
 well look at Mrs. Rane." 
 
 " That doesn't always bring pleasure to the feelings — or to 
 the sight either," was the answer of the undertaker. 
 
 " Did you go to her ? " asked Jelly. 
 
 " No. I sent the two men : Clark and Dobson. They 
 took the coffin at once : the doctor had brought the measure." 
 
Jelly s Two Evening Visits. 337 
 
 " And they screwed her down at once," retorted Jelly, with 
 more expressive qnickness than she had meant to use. 
 
 "Ay! It was best. We did it in some other cases that 
 died of the same." 
 
 "Did the men notice how she looked — whether there was 
 mnch change ? " resumed Jelly, in a low tone. " Some faces 
 are very sweet and placid after death : so much so that one 
 can't help thinking they are happy. Was Mrs. Rane's ? " 
 
 " The men didn't see her," said Hepburn. 
 
 " Not see her ! " 
 
 " No. The doctor managed that they should not. It was 
 very kind of him. Dobson he'd had an awful dread all along 
 of catching the fever ; and Clark was beginning to fear it a 
 little : Dr. Rane knew this, and said he'd not expose them to 
 the risk more than could be helped. The men carried the 
 coffin up to the ante-room, and he said he would manage to 
 do all the rest." 
 
 Jelly sat with open mouth and eyes staring. The under- 
 taker put it down to surprise. 
 
 " Medical men are used to these things, Jelly. It comes as 
 natural to them as to us. Dr. Rane said to Clark that he 
 would call over Seeley if he found he wanted help. I don't 
 suppose he would want it: she was small and light, poor 
 young lady." 
 
 Jelly found her tongue. " Then they — Clark and Dobson 
 —never saw her at all ! " 
 
 " Not at all. She was in the far room. The door was 
 close shut, and well covered besides with a sheet wet with 
 disinfecting fluid. There was no danger, Dr. Rane assured 
 them, so long as they did not go into the room where she 
 lay. The men came away wishing other people would 
 take these precautions ; but then, you see, doctors under- 
 stand things. He gave them each a glass of brandy-and- 
 water too." 
 
 "And — then — nobody saw her ! " persisted Jelly, as if she 
 could not get over the fact. 
 
 "I daresay not," replied Thomas Hepburn. 
 
 "He must have hammered her down himself!" nearly 
 shrieked Jelly. 
 
 " He could do it as well as the men could. They left the 
 nails and hammer." 
 
 " Well — it — it — seems dreadful work for a man to have to- 
 do for his wife," observed Jelly after a pause, staring over 
 
 z 
 
338 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Mr. Hepburn's head into vacancy, as if she were mentally 
 watching the hammering. 
 
 " He did violence to his own feelings ont of consideration 
 for the men," said the undertaker. "And I must say it was 
 very good of him. But, as I've observed, doctors know 
 what's what, and how necessary it is to keep away from 
 danger in perilous times." 
 
 "Did he manage the one of lead as well as the first? 
 'twould be heavy for him, wouldn't it ? " continued Jelly in a 
 hard kind of tone, which she found it utterly impossible to 
 suppress. " And there was the third one to come, after 
 that." 
 
 " I went and soldered down the lead myself. The men took 
 up the last one and made all ready." 
 
 "Yes!" thought Jelly. "As soon as her poor dear face 
 was safely nailed in, so that it couldn't tell tales, he might let 
 anybody, that would, do the rest." 
 
 " Were you not afraid of the risk, Thomas Hepburn ? " 
 asked Jelly, somewhat tauntingly, for she despised the man 
 for being so simply unsuspicious. " Soldering takes up some 
 time don't it ? " 
 
 " The rooms had been well disinfected then, the doctor said. 
 We took no harm." 
 
 That Thomas Hepburn held the most perfect faith in Dr. 
 Rane, and never had discerned cause for the smallest suspicion 
 of unfair play, was self-evident. Jelly, in her superior know- 
 ledge, in her wrath altogether, could have shaken him for it. 
 In his place she felt mentally sure she should not have been 
 so obtuse. Jelly forgot that it was only that knowledge of 
 hers that enabled her to see what others did not : and that 
 while matters, looked at from Hepburn's point of view, were 
 all right ; looked at from hers, with a clue in her head, 
 they were all wrong. 
 
 "Well I muse be wishing you good evening, I suppose," 
 she said. I've left only that Riah in the house — and she's 
 of no mortal good to anybody, except for company. With 
 people dying about one like this, one gets to feel dull, all 
 alone." 
 
 " So one does," answered the undertaker. " Don't go yet." 
 
 Jelly had not risen. She sat looking at the fire, evidently 
 in deep thought. Presently she turned her keen eyes on the 
 man. 
 
 " Thomas Hepburn, did you ever see a ghost ? " 
 
Mischief Braving in North Inlet. 339 
 
 He took the question as calmly and seriously as though she 
 had said, Did you ever see a funeral. And shook his head 
 slightly in dissent. 
 
 " I can't say I ever saw one myself. I've known those that 
 have. That is, that say and believe they have. And I'm sure 
 I've no reason to say they've not. One hears curious tale? 
 now and then." 
 
 " They are not pleasant things to see," remarked Jelly a 
 little dreamily. 
 
 " Well, no ; I daresay not." 
 
 "For my part, I don't put faith in ghosts," said hearty 
 Mrs. Hepburn, looking up with a laugh. " None will ever 
 come near me, I'll answer for it. I've too many children 
 about me, and too much work to do, for pastime of that sort. 
 Ghosts come from nothing but nervous fancies." 
 
 Jelly could not contradict this in the positive manner she 
 would have liked, so it was best to say nothing. She finally 
 got up to go — that Riak would be falling asleep with her hair 
 in the candle. 
 
 And in spite of the prospective attractions of a supper of 
 toasted cheese and ale, which she was pressed to stay and par- 
 take of, Jelly departed. Things had become as sure and clear 
 to her as daylight. 
 
 "I don't so much care now if it does come out," she said to 
 herself as she hastened along. " What Thomas Hepburn can 
 tell as good as proves the doctor's guilt. I knew it was so. 
 And I wish that old Dame Grass had been smothered before 
 she sent me in to that doubt and fright last night ! " 
 
 But the road seemed frightfully lonely now; and Jelly 
 literally sprang aside from every shadow. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 MISCHIEF BREWING IN NORTH INLET. 
 
 Morning, noon, and night, whenever the small body of new 
 workmen had to pass to and from the works, they were 
 accompanied by the two policemen specially engaged for their 
 protection, while others hovered within call. North Inlet, the 
 ill-feeling of its old inhabitants increasing day by day, had be- 
 come a dangerous place to walk in. It was not that all the 
 men would have done violence. Ketler, for instance, and 
 others, like him, well-disposed men by nature, sensible and 
 
340 Bessy Rane. 
 
 quiet, would not have lifted a hand against those who had, in 
 one sense of the word, displaced them. But they did this : 
 they stood tamely by to look on, knowing quite well that 
 some of their comrades only waited for their opportunity to 
 kill, or disable — as might be — Richard North's new followers. 
 North Inlet was not quite so full as it used to be: for some of 
 the old inhabitants, weary and out of patience with hope de- 
 ferred (hope they hardly knew of what, unless for the good 
 time of plenty and equalization promised by the Trades' 
 Union), had gone away on the tramp, with their wives and 
 little ones, seeking for a corner of the earth where work might 
 be found, enough to bring in a crust to eat and a roof to 
 shelter them. Others had decamped without their wives and 
 children : and were in consequence being hunted for by the 
 parish. North Inlet, take it on the whole, was in a sore 
 plight. The men and women, reduced (most of them) by want 
 and despair to apply to the parish for relief, found none 
 accorded them in answer. They had brought themselves to 
 this pass ; they had refused to work when work in plenty was 
 to be had ; and to come and ask to be supported in idleness by 
 the parish was a procedure not to be tolerated ; as one resolute 
 guardian, sitting at the head of a table, fiercely told them. 
 Not as much as a loaf of bread would they get, added another, 
 taking up the song. If it came to the pass that they were in 
 danger of dying of hunger (as the applicants urged), why 
 they must come into the house with their wives and families — 
 and a humilating shame that would be for able-bodied men, 
 the guardian added — but they would receive no relief out of 
 doors. So North Inlet, not choosing to go into that unpopu- 
 lar refuge for the destitute, stayed out of it. And a fine 
 plight its natives were in ! 
 
 There was absolutely nothing left to pledge. Except 
 children. And the pawnbroker, Ducket, could not be per- 
 suaded to take in them. Ducket had scarcely done so well by 
 the strike as he had privately anticipated. He had not quite 
 bargained for homes being offered to him wholesale ; for a glut 
 of goods ; and the goods were mostly of that insignificant, if 
 useful character, that does not make a noise in the market. 
 When nearly all the community are seeking to sell, it is clear 
 that few can be wanting to buy. 
 
 An ignominious picture Ducket's interior premises presented. 
 He was so over-laden that the collection had to hang in sight 
 as well as out of it. A motly crowd. Strangers might have 
 
Mischief Brewing in North Inlet. 341 
 
 taken it for no better than a rag-and-bone shop, or a travel- 
 ling tinker's caravan come to a standstill. Gowns (out at 
 gathers and slit at cuffs), petticoats, hats, bonnets, shoes, boots, 
 coats, waistcoats, beds, books, saucepans, gridirons, tables, 
 chairs, frying-pans, birdcages, sheets, blankets, Italian and flat 
 irons, Dutch ovens, tea-kettles, brooms, umbrellas, candle- 
 sticks, mops, and a model of a ship under a glass-case. That's 
 only a few items of the list that would meet the eye on paying 
 a visit to Mr. Ducket's : it was too comprehensive and varied 
 for any recollection to record. The ship had belonged to Ketler, 
 one made and given him by his brother, who was mate of a 
 vessel trading to Ceylon. 
 
 Now, with all these articles, once beloved household gods, 
 staring them in the face whenever they passed Ducket's ; with 
 ragged backs and empty stomachs, with the past life of plenty 
 to look back upon (and thirst perpetually for, after the manner 
 of the fabled Tantalus), and no prospect whatever to look 
 forward to, there was little wonder that this misguided body 
 of men grew to find out that something of the old Satan was 
 in them yet. A great deal of it, too. Perhaps remorse held 
 its full share. They had intended it to have been so entirely 
 for the better when they threw up work ; and it had turned 
 out so surprisingly for the worse. They had meant to return 
 to work on their own terms ; earning more and toiling less : 
 they had been led to believe that this result lay in their proper 
 hands, and was as sure and safe as that the sun is overhead at 
 noonday. Instead of that — here they were, in as deplorable a 
 condition as human beings can well be. Time had been, not 
 very long ago either, that the false step might have been 
 redeemed ; Richard North had offered them their places again 
 and on the old terms. Ay, and he had once conceded a portion 
 of their demands — as they remembered well. But that time 
 and that offer had gone by for ever. Fresh men (few though 
 they were) worked in their places, and they themselves were 
 starving. 
 
 The feeling against these new men was bitter enough ; it 
 was far more bitter against the small number of old workmen 
 who had gone back again. We are told that the heart of man 
 is deceitful and desperately wicked : our own experience shows 
 us that it is desperately selfish. They saw the employed men 
 doing the work which was once theirs ; they saw them with 
 good strong coats on, and food to eat. They themselves had 
 neither coats nor food : and the work they had rejected. It 
 
342 Bessy Rane. 
 
 would not have seemed so hard had the work lain altogether 
 in abeyance, or taken itself off from the place entirely : but to 
 see these others doing it and living in comfort was more than 
 mortal temper conld brook. Only to watch the workmen 
 going home regularly to their meals while they had no meals 
 to go to, was dreadful. 
 
 This was not all. The men, seeing some things in the 
 external world with a jaundice eye — yellow as ever was poor 
 Arthur Bohun's when he had the actual disease — held to it 
 that the fact of these others having taken work again, was the 
 cause that kept themselves out of it. Richard North 'ud ha' 
 come-to they said, but for these curs what had went sneaking 
 back again to lick his hand. They called them worse names 
 than that, but there's no need of repetition. If all on us had 
 held out, Dick North must ha' give in. And this they re- 
 peated so constantly, in their ire, one to another, that at last 
 they got actually to believe it. It was quite wrong, and they 
 were wholly mistaken : for had Richard North not begun 
 again in the cautious way he did, and at the old rate of wages 
 and time, he would not have recommenced at all : but the 
 men refused to see this, and held to their notion, making it 
 into a worse grievance than the lack of food. It is so con- 
 venient to have something substantial on which to vent blame : 
 and unlimited power and permission to punch the obnoxious 
 heads would have afforded intense gratification. Oh, it was 
 very hard to bear. To see this small knot of men re-estab- 
 lished in work, and to know that it was their own work once, 
 and might have been theirs still ! Peeping through hedges, 
 hiding within door-ways, standing sulkily or derisively in tho 
 open ground, they would watch the employed men going to 
 and fro, the two policemen tramping by their side. Many a 
 bitter word, many a crushed oath, many a silent threat was 
 levelled at the small band. Murder had been done from a 
 state of mind not half as bad as they cherished. 
 
 " What be you a-looking at, with them evil signs on your 
 faces ? " 
 
 A group of malcontents, gazing out from a corner of North 
 Inlet at the daily procession, found this question suddenly 
 sounding on their ears. Mrs. Gass had stepped out of a 
 dwelling close by, and put it. Their eyes were following the 
 escorted line of men coming home to their twelve o'clock 
 dinner, so that she had not been observed. 
 
 They turned to her, and their faces dropped the threaten- 
 
Mischief Brewing in North Inlet. 343 
 
 trig expression. A man named Poole, not too well respected 
 at the most prosperons of times, and one of the worst 
 malcontents since, took upon himself to answer. Boldly 
 too. 
 
 " We was a-taking the measm*e o' that small lot o' con vies. 
 A.-wishing we conld brand 'em." 
 
 " Ah, " said Mrs. Gass. " It strikes me some of you have 
 been wishing it before to-day. I'd like to give you a bit of 
 advice, my men ; and you, especially, Poole. Take care you 
 don't become convicts yourselves." 
 
 " For two pins, I'd do what 'ud make me one; I'd do it 
 to-day if others 'ud back me up," was the rejoinder of Poole, 
 who was in a more defiant mood than even he usually dared 
 to show. He was a big, thick-set man, with shaggy light 
 hair and a complexion of brick-dust. His clothes, originally 
 fustian, had been worn and torn and jagged and patched and 
 darned, until now they hardly held together : his clumsy shoes 
 let in the water and the toes peeped out. 
 
 " You are a nice jail-bird, Poole ! I don't think you ever 
 were much better than one," added Mrs. Gass. To which 
 candid avowal Poole only replied with a growl. 
 
 " These hard times be enough to make jail -birds of all of 
 as," interposed another — Foster ; but speaking with civility. 
 " Why don't the Government come down and interfere, and 
 prevent our work being took out of our hands by these 
 branded rascals ? " 
 
 " You put the work out of your own hands," said Mrs. 
 Gass. " As to interference, I should have thought you'd had 
 about enough of that, by this time. If you had not suffered 
 them blessed Trades' Unionists to interfere with you, my men, 
 you'd have been in full work now, happy and contented as 
 the day's long." 
 
 " What we did, we did for the best." 
 
 " What yon did, you did in defiance of common sense, and 
 of the best counsels of your best friends," she said. "How 
 many times did your master show you what the upshot would 
 be if you persisted in throwing away your work ? — how much 
 breath did I waste over you, as I'm a- doing now, asking you 
 all to avoid a strike — and after the strike had come, day after 
 day begging of you to end it ? — could any picture be truer 
 than mine was when I said what you'd bring yourselves to ? 
 — rags, and famine, and desolate homes. Could any plight bo 
 worse than this pickle that you've dropped to now ? 
 
344 Bessy Sane. 
 
 " No, it couldn't," answered Foster. " It's so bad that I 
 say Government ought to interfere for us." 
 
 ' If I was Government, I should interfere on one point — 
 and that's with them agitating Unionists," bravely spoke Mrs. 
 Gass. " I should put them down a bit." 
 
 " This is a free country, ma'am," struck in Ketler, who 
 made one of the group. 
 
 " Well, I'd used to think it was, Ketler," she said; " but 
 old ways seem to be turned upside down. What sort of free- 
 dom do you enjoy just now ? — how much have you had of it 
 since you bound yourselves swOrn members of the Trades ' 
 Unions ? You have wanted to work and they've not let 
 you : you'd like to be clothed and fed as you used to be 
 and to clothe and feed your folks at home, and they deny 
 your exercising the means by which you may do it. What 
 freedom or liberty is there in that ? — Come, now, Ketler, tell 
 me as a reasonable man." 
 
 "If the Trades' Unions could do as they wish, there'd 
 be work and comfort for all of us." 
 
 " I doubt that, Ketler." 
 
 " But they can't do it," added Ketler. " The masters be 
 obstinate and won't let 'em." 
 
 " That's just it," said Mrs. Gass. " If the Trades' Unions 
 held the world in their hands, and there was no such things as 
 masters and capital, why then they might secure their own 
 way. But the masters have their own interests to look after, 
 their businesses and what's embarked in 'em to defend : and 
 the two sides are totally opposed one to another, and all that 
 comes of it, or that will come of it is squabbling. You lose 
 your work, the masters lose their trade, the Unionists fight it 
 out fiercer than ever — and, between it all, the commerce of 
 the country is coming to an end. Now, my men, that is the 
 bare truth ; and you can't deny it if you try till midnight." 
 
 " 'Twouldn't be no longer much of a free country, if the 
 Government put down the Trades' Unions," spoke a man 
 satirically; one Cattleton. 
 
 " But it ought to put down this arbitrary way they've got 
 of preventing others working that want to work," maintained 
 Mrs. Gass. " The Unionists be your worst enemies. I'm 
 speaking, as you know I have been all along, of the head 
 among 'em that make laws for the rest ; not of poor sheep 
 like you that have joined the society in innocence. If them 
 heads like to live without work themselves, and can point out 
 
Mischief Brewing in North Inlet. 345 
 
 a way by which others can live without it, well and good ; 
 there's no law against that, nor oughtn't to be : bnt what I 
 say Government ought to put down is this — their forcing you 
 men to reject work when it's offered you. It's a sin and a 
 shame that, through them, the country should be brought to 
 imbecility, and you, its once free and brave workmen, to 
 beggary." 
 
 " The thought has come over me at times that under the 
 new state of things we are no better than slaves," confessed 
 Ketler, his eyes wearing an excited look. 
 
 Mrs. Gass nearly executed a triumphant dance. " Now 
 you've just said it, Ketler. Slaves. That's exactly what you 
 are ; and I wish to my heart all the workmen in England 
 could open their eyes to it. You took a vow to obey the 
 dictates of the Trades' Union ; it has bound you hand and 
 foot, body and soul. If a job of work lay to your hand, you 
 dare not take it up, the Union masters saying you shall not ; 
 no, not though you saw your little ones dying with famine 
 before your eyes. It's the worse kind of slavery that ever fell 
 on the land. Press-gangs used to be bad enough, but this 
 beats 'em hollow." 
 
 There was no reply from any one of the men. Mrs. Gass 
 had been a good friend to their families even recently ; and 
 the old habits of respect to her, their mistress, had sway still. 
 Perhaps some of them, too, silently assented to her reasoning. 
 
 " It's that much, the coercive interference, that I'd have put 
 down," she resumed. " Let every workman be free to act on 
 his own judgment, to take work or to leave it. Not but what 
 it's too late to say it : as far as I believe, the mischief has 
 gone too far to be remedied." 
 
 " It be mighty fine for the masters to cry out and say the 
 Trades' Unions is our enemies ! Snppose we choose to call 
 'em our friends ? " 
 
 The words came from Poole. He had been lounging against 
 the wall in sulky defiance, smoking and spitting by tarns, 
 and sending the puffs of smoke into Mrs. Gass's bonnet : at 
 any rate, taking no care that they did not get there. She did 
 not mind smoke, however ; and she wore only her old black 
 chip to-day, with its crape flowers. 
 
 " Put it at that, Poole, if you like," said she equably. 
 " The society's your good friend, let's say. How has it 
 showed its friendship ? what has it done for you ? " 
 
 Mr. Poole did not condescend to say. 
 
346 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " It's not so hard to answer, Poole. The proofs lie on the 
 surface — there's not one of the lot of you but may read 'em 
 off-hand. It threw yon all out of yonr good place of work 
 that you had held for years under a good master, that you 
 might have held, the chances were, up to the last day of your 
 lives. It dismantled your homes and sent your things to the 
 pawn-shop — you may go and look at 'em now, ornamenting 
 the walls and hooks at Ducket's. It has reduced you to a 
 mouldy crust, where you'd used to have good joints of fat 
 beef ; it has took your warm shoes and coats away, and sends 
 you abroad half-naked. Your children are starving, some of 
 them dead ; your wives are worn out with trouble and dis- 
 content. And this not for a temporary time but for good : 
 for, there's no prospect for you. No prospect, that I can see, 
 as I am a living woman. That's what your friends, as you 
 call 'em, have done for you ; and for thousands and thousands 
 beside you. I don't care what they meant : let it be that they 
 meant well by you, and that you meant well — as I'm sure 
 you did — in listening to 'em : the result is what I've said. 
 And you are standing here this day, ruined men." 
 
 Mr. Poole puffed fiercely. 
 
 "What is to become of you, and of the others ruined like 
 you, the Lord in Heaven only knows. It's a solemn question. 
 When the best trade of the country's driven from it, there's 
 no longer a place for workmen. Emigration, suggests some 
 of the newspapers. Others say emigration's over-done for 
 the present. We don't know what to believe. Any way, it's 
 a hard thing that a good workman should find no employment 
 in his native land, but must be packed off from it, something 
 like as if he was transported, to be a exile for ever." 
 
 Poole, not liking the picture, broke into a furious oath or 
 two. The other men looked sad enough. 
 
 " You have been drinking, Poole," said Mrs. Gass with 
 dignity. " Keep a civil tongue in your mouth before me if 
 you please." 
 
 " I've not had no more nor half a pint," growled Poole. 
 
 " And that was half a pint too much," said Mrs. Gass. 
 " When people's insides are reduced by famine, half a pint is 
 enough to upset their brains in a morning." 
 
 " What business have Richard North to go and engage 
 them frogs o' Frenchmen ? " demanded Poole — who had in 
 truth taken too much for his good. " What business have 
 them other ratted fellows, as ought to have stuck by us, to 
 
Mischief Braving in North Inlet. 347 
 
 go back to him ? It's Richard North as wants to be 
 transported." 
 
 " Richard North was a good master to yon. The world 
 never saw a better." 
 
 " He's a rank bad man now." 
 
 " No, no — drat th' tongue ! " put in Ketler to Poole. " No 
 good to abuse him." 
 
 " If you men had had a spark of gratitude, you'd have 
 listened to Mr. Richard North, when he prayed you to go 
 back to him," said Mrs. Gass. "No, you wouldn't; and 
 what has it done for him ? Why just ruined him, my men : 
 a'most as bare as you be ruined. It have took his hopes from 
 him ; it have wasted his money, what little he had ; it bave 
 played the very dickens with his prospects. The business 
 he had before never will and never can come back. If once 
 you split a mirror to pieces, you can't put it together again. 
 Mr. Richard has got a life of work to look forward to ; he 
 may get a living, but he won't do much more. You men 
 have at least the satisfaction of knowing that while you did 
 for your own prosperity, you did also for his." 
 
 They had talked so long — for there has been no space to 
 record all that passed — that it was hard upon, one o'clock, and 
 the small band of workmen and the two policemen were 
 coming past again, back towards the works. The malignant 
 look rose on Poole's face : a savage growl stuck in his 
 throat. 
 
 " There'll be mischief yet," thought Mrs. Gass, as she 
 turned away. 
 
 Sounds of a woman's sobbing were proceeding from an 
 open door as she went down North Inlet, and Mrs. Gass 
 stepped in to see what might be the matter. They came from 
 Dawson's wife. Dawson had been beating her. The unhappy 
 state to which they were reduced tried the tempers of the 
 men — of the women also, for that m tter — rendering some of 
 them little better than ferocious beasts. In the old days, 
 when Dawson could keep himself and family in plenty, never 
 a cross word had been heard from him : but all that was 
 changed; and under the new order of things, it often came to 
 blows. The wife had now been struck in the eye. Smarting 
 under that, under ills of body and ills of mind, the woman 
 enlarged on her wrongs to Mrs. Gass, and showed the mark; 
 all of which at another time she would certainly bave con- 
 cealed. The home was miserably bare ; the children, wat> 
 
348 Bessy Rane. 
 
 and thin, were in tatters like their mother ; it was a compre- 
 hensive picture of wretchedness. 
 
 "And all through them idiots having throwed up their 
 work at the dictates of the Trades' Union ! " was the wrathful 
 comment of Mrs. Grass, as she departed. " They've done for 
 themselves in this world : and, to judge by the unchristian 
 lives they be living, seem to be going on for the chance of 
 doing for theirselves in the next." 
 
 As she reached her own house, the smart housemaid was 
 showing Miss Dallory out of it. That young lady, making a 
 call on Mrs. Gass, had waited for her a short while, and was 
 going away. They now went in together. Mrs. Gass, 
 throwing open the door of her handsome drawing-room, began 
 recounting at full the events of the morning; what she had 
 heard, what seen. 
 
 " There'll be mischief done as sure as a gun,"she concluded. 
 " My belief is, that some of 'cm would kill Mr. Richard if they 
 got the chance." 
 
 Mary Dallory looked startled. " Kill him ! " she cried. 
 " Why, he has been their good friend always. He would have 
 been so still, had they only let him." 
 
 " He's a better friend to 'em still than they know of," said 
 Mrs. Gass, nodding her head. " Miss Mary, if ever there was 
 a Christian man on earth, it is Richard North. His whole 
 life has been one long thought for others. Who has kept up 
 Dallory Hall but him ? Who would have worked and slaved 
 on, and on, not for benefit to himself, but to maintain his 
 father's home, finding money cheerfully for Madam's wicked 
 extravagance, to save his poor father pain, knowing that the 
 old man had already more than he could bear. At Mr. 
 Richard's age he ought, before this, to have been making a 
 home for himself and marrying : it's what he would have done 
 under happier circumstances : but he has not been able ; he 
 has sacrificed himself for others. He has done more for the 
 men than they think of ; ay, even at the time that they were 
 bringing ruin upon him — as they have done — and since. 
 Richard North is worth his weight in gold. Heaven, that sees 
 all, knows he is ; and he will sometime surely bo rewarded for 
 it. It may not be in this world, my dear ; for a great many 
 of God's own best people go down to their very graves in 
 nothing but disappointment and sorrow : but he'll find it in 
 the next." 
 
 Never a word answered Mary Dallory. It might almost 
 
Days of Pain. 349 
 
 have been thought from her silence she did not subscribe to 
 the sentiments. All she said was, that she must go. And 
 Mrs. Gass went with her to the front door, talking. They had 
 nearly reached it, when Miss Dallory stopped to put a question, 
 lowering her voice as she did so. 
 
 " Have you heard any rumour about Dr. Rane ?" 
 
 Mrs. Gass knew what must be meant as certainly as though 
 it had been spoken. She turned cold, and hot, and cold 
 again. For once her ready tongue failed her. 
 
 "It is something very dreadful," continued Miss Dallory. 
 " I do not like to speak it out. It — it has frightened me." 
 
 " Lawk, my dear, don't you pay no attention to such rubbish 
 as rumours," returned Mrs. Gass heartily. "J don't. Folks 
 says all sorts of things of me, I make little doubt ; just as they 
 be ready to do of other people. Let 'em ! We sha'n't sleep 
 none the worse for it. Good-bye. I wish you'd have stayed 
 to take a mouthful of my dinner. It's as lovely a turkey- 
 poult as ever you saw, and a jam dumpling." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 DATS OF PAIN. 
 
 Pacing the shrubbery walk at Dallory Hall, a warm grey 
 woollen shawl wrapped closely round her, clipping the narrow 
 crape tucks of her flowing black silk dress ; and her pale, sweet, 
 sad face turned up to the lowering sky, was Ellen Adair. The 
 weather, cold and dull, gave tokens of coming winter. The 
 last scattered leaves left on the nearly bare trees fell fluttering 
 to the earth ; the wind, sighing through the branches, had a 
 melancholy sound. All things seemed to speak of decay. 
 
 This ungenial cold had brought some complication with it. 
 Just as Sir Nash Bohun was about to quit Dallory Hall, 
 taking Arthur with him, the bleak wind struck him in an 
 unguarded moment, and laid him up with inflammation of the 
 chest. Sir Nash took to his bed. One of the results was, 
 that Arthur Bohun must remain at the Hall, and knew not 
 how long he might have to be a fixture there. Sir Nash 
 would not part with him. He had taken to regard him quite 
 as his son. 
 
 Ellen Adair thought Fate was very cruel to her, taking one 
 thing with another. And so it was. While they were together, 
 she could not begin to forget him : and, to see him so con- 
 
350 Bessy Rane. 
 
 tinually with. Mary Dalloiy, brought to her the keenest pain. 
 She was but human : jealousy swayed her just as it does 
 other people. 
 
 Another thing was beginning to trouble her — she did not 
 hear from Mr. Adair. It was very strange. Never a letter 
 had come from him since that one containing the permission to 
 wed Arthur Bohun (as Mrs. Cumberland had read it), received 
 at Eastsea. Ellen could not understand the silence. Her 
 father used to write so regularly. 
 
 " He ought not to remain here," she murmured passionately 
 as she walked, alluding to Arthur Bohun. " I cannot help 
 myself ; I have nowhere else to go : but he ought to go in 
 spite of Sir Nash." 
 
 A greyer tinge seemed to float over and settle in the sky. 
 The shrubbery seemed to grow darker. It was but the first 
 advent of dusk, coming on early that melancholy evening. 
 
 " Will there ever be any brightness in my life again ? " she 
 continued, clasping her hands in pain. " Is this misery to 
 last for ever ? Did anyone, I wonder, ever go through such a 
 trial and live ? Scarcely. I am afraid I am not very strong 
 to bear things. But oh — who could bear it ? Last night I 
 dreamt that Arthur came smiling to me, and said, ' I have 
 only been playing with you, Ellen : how could you think it 
 was anything else ? ' — and in the strange tumult of joy that 
 rushed over me, I awoke. For a few minutes after when re- 
 membrance rushed over me, I thought I should have died with 
 the pain. If I could but have remained in the dream for 
 ever ! " 
 
 She sat down on one of the benches, and bent her aching 
 brow on her hands. What with the gloom around, and her 
 dark dress, some one who had turned into the walk, came 
 sauntering on without observing her. Arthur Bohun. He 
 started when she raised her head : his face was every whit 
 as pale and sad as hers ; but he could not help seeing how 
 ill and woe-begone she looked. 
 
 " I fear you are not well," he stopped to say. 
 
 " Oh — thank you — not very," was the confused answer. 
 
 " This is a trying time. Heaven knows I would save you 
 from it if I could. I would have died to spare you. I would 
 die still if by that means things for you could be righted. 
 But it may not be. Time alone must be the healer." 
 
 He had said this in rather a bard tone, as if he were angry 
 with somebody or other ; perhaps Fate ; and went on his way 
 
Days of Pain. 351 
 
 with a quicker stop, leaving never a touch of the hand, 
 never a loving word, never a tender look behind him ; just 
 as it had been that day in Dallory Churchyard. Poor girl ! 
 her heart felt as though it were breaking there and then. 
 
 When the echo of his footsteps had died away, she drew 
 her shawl closer round her slender throat and passed out of 
 the shrubbery. Hovering in a cross walk, unseen and un- 
 suspected, was Madam. Not often did Madam allow herself 
 to be off the watch. She had scanned the exit of Captain 
 Bohun ; she now saw Ellen's ; and Madam's evil spirit rose 
 up within her, and she advanced with an awful frown. 
 
 " Have you been walking with Captain Bohun, Miss 
 Adair ? " 
 
 " No, Madam." 
 
 " I — thought — I heard him talking with you." 
 
 " He came through the shrubbery when I was sitting there, 
 and spoke to me in passing." 
 
 " Ah," said Madam. " It is well to be cautious. Captain 
 Bohun is to marry Miss Dallory, remember : the less any 
 other young woman has to say to him, the better." 
 
 To this speech — rather remarkable as coming from one who 
 professed to be a gentlewoman — Ellen made no reply, save a 
 bow as she passed onwards, with an erect head and self-pos- 
 sessed step, leaving Madam to her devices. 
 
 They seemed to be at her on all sides. There was no 
 comfort anywhere, no solace. Ellen could have envied Bessy 
 Bane in her grave. 
 
 And the farce that had to be kept up before the world ! 
 That very evening, as fate had it, Captain Bohun took Miss 
 Adair in to dinner and sat next her, through some well inten- 
 tioned blundering of Richard's. It hid pleased Madam to 
 invite a party ; some seven or eight ; it did not please Mr. 
 North to come in to dinner as he had been expected to do. 
 Richard had to be host, and to take in a stout lady in green 
 velvet, who was to have fallen to his father. There was a 
 minute's confusion ; Madam had gone on ; Richard jumbled 
 the wrong people together as if he were shaking up beans in 
 a bac; ; and finally said aloud, " Arthur, will you take in Miss 
 Adair ? " And so they sat, side by side, and nobody observed 
 that they did not converse (for that consisted of perhaps 
 three monosyllables throughout the meal) or that anything 
 was wrong. It is curious the length of time that two people 
 may have lived estranged from each other in a household, and 
 
352 Bessy Rane. 
 
 the rest suspect it not. Have you ever noticed this ? — or 
 tried it ? It is remarkable, but very true. 
 
 After dinner came the drawing-room ; and the evening was 
 a more social one than had been known of late. Music, cards, 
 talking. Young Mr. Ticknell (a relative of the old banker's 
 at Whitborough) was there : he had one of the sweetest voices 
 ever accorded to man, and delighted them with his unaffected 
 singing. One song, that he chose after a few jesting words 
 with Ellen, in allusion to her name, two of them at least had 
 not bargained for. "Ellen Adair." Neither had heard it 
 since that evening at Eastsea ; so long past now, in the events 
 that had followed, that it seemed to be removed from them by 
 ages. 
 
 They had to listen. They could not do else. Ellen sat at 
 the corner of the sofa in her pretty black net dress with its 
 one white flower, that Mr. North had given her, in the middle 
 of the corsage, and nothing at all, as usual, in her smooth 
 brown hair ; lie was leaning against the wall, at right angles 
 with her, his arms folded. And the verses went on to the last 
 one. 
 
 " But now thou art cold to me, 
 
 Ellen Adair : 
 But now thou art cold to me, 
 
 Ellen my dear 
 Yet her I loved so well, 
 Still in my heart shall dwell, 
 Oh ! I shall ne'er forget 
 
 Ellen Adair." 
 
 She could not help it. Had it been to save her life, she 
 could not have helped lifting her face and glancing at him as 
 the refrain died away. His eyes were fixed on her, a wistful, 
 yearning expression in their depths ; an expression so sad that 
 in itself it was all that can be conceived of pain. Ellen dropped 
 her face again ; her agitation at that moment seeming greater 
 than she knew how to suppress. Lifting her hand to shade 
 her eyes, the plain gold ring, still worn on it, was con- 
 spicuously visible. 
 
 "You look as though you had all the cares of the nation on 
 your shoulders, Arthur." 
 
 He started at the address : which came from Miss Dallory. 
 She had gone close up to him. Rallying his senses, he smiled 
 and answered carelessly. The next minute Ellen saw them 
 walking across the room together, her hand within his arm. 
 
Days of Pa in. 353 
 
 The morning following this, Jelly made her appearance at 
 the Hall, bringing up two letters. They were from Australia, 
 from Mr. Adair. One was addressed to Mrs. Cumberland, 
 the other to Ellen. Dr. Kane had bade Jelly bring them 
 both : he considered that Miss Adair was now the only proper 
 person to open Mrs. Cumberland's. Ellen carried it to Mr. 
 North, asking if she ought to open it — if it would be right. 
 Certainly, Mr. North answered, and confirmed the view Dr. 
 Bane had taken, as conveyed in the message brought by Jelly. 
 
 Ellen carried the two letters to a remote and solitary spot 
 in the garden, one that she was fond of frequenting, and in 
 which she had never yet been intruded upon. She opened her 
 own first : and there read what astonished her. 
 
 It appeared that after the despatch of Mr. Adair's last letter 
 to Mrs. Cumberland (the one already alluded to, that she had 
 read with so much satisfaction to Arthur Bohun at Eastsea), 
 he had been called from his station on business, and had re- 
 mained absent some two or three months. Upon his return 
 he found other letters awaiting him from Mrs. Cumberland, 
 and learnt, to his astonishment, that the gentleman proposing 
 marriage to Ellen was Arthur Bohun, son of the Major Bohun 
 wuth whom Mr. Adair had once been intimate. (The reader 
 has not forgotten how Mrs. Cumberland confused matters 
 together in her mind, or that in her first letter she omitted to 
 mention any name.) Dashing off some peremptory lines to 
 Ellen — these that she was now reading — Mr. Adair retracted 
 his former consent. He absolutely forbade her to marry, or 
 ever think again of, Arthur Bohun : a marriage between them 
 would be nothing less than a calamity for both, he wrote, and 
 also for himself. He added that in consequence of some un- 
 expected death in his family, he had become its head, and was 
 making preparations to return to Europe. 
 
 Wondering, trembling, Ellen dropped the letter, and 
 opened Mrs. Cumberland's. An enclosure fell from it : a 
 draft for a large sum of money ; which, as it appeared, Mrs. 
 Cumberland was in the habit of receiving half-yearly for 
 her charge of Ellen. Mr. Adair wrote in still more explicit 
 terms on the subject of the proposed marriage to Mrs. Cum- 
 berland — almost in angry ones. She, of all people, he said, 
 ought to know that a marriage between his daughter and the 
 late Major Bohun's son would be unsuitable, improper, and 
 most distasteful to himself. He did not understand how Mrs. 
 Cumberland could have laid any such proposal before him, 
 
 A A 
 
354 Bessy Rane. 
 
 or allowed herself to think of it for a moment : unless indeed 
 she had never been made acquainted with certain facts of the 
 past, connected with himself and Major Bohun and Major 
 Bohun's wife, which Cumberland had known well. He con- 
 cluded by saying, as he had to Ellen, that he hoped shortly to 
 be in England. Both the letters had evidently been written in 
 great haste and much perturbation : all minor matters being 
 accounted as nothing, compared with the distinct and stern 
 embargo laid on the marriage. 
 
 " So it has happened for the best," murmured Ellen to her 
 breaking heart, as she folded up the letters and hid them 
 away. 
 
 She took the draft to Mr. North's parlour. He put on 
 his spectacles, and mastered its meaning by the help of some 
 questions to Ellen. 
 
 " A hundred and fifty pounds for six months ! " exclaimed 
 he. "But surely, my dear, Mrs. Cumberland did not have 
 three hundred a year with you ! It's a vast sum — just for 
 one young lady." 
 
 " She had two hundred, I think," said Ellen. " I did not 
 know what the exact sum was until to-day : Mrs. Cumber- 
 land never used to talk to me about these matters. Papa 
 allows me for myself fifty pounds every half-year. Mrs. 
 Cumberland always gave me that." 
 
 " Ah," said Mr. North. " That's a good deal, too." 
 
 "Will you please to take the draft, sir ; and let me have 
 the fifty pounds from it at your convenience ? " 
 
 Mr. North looked up as one who does not understand. 
 
 " The money is not for me, child." 
 
 " But I am staying here," she said, deprecatingly. 
 
 He shook his head as he pushed back the slip of paper. 
 
 " Give it to Richard, my dear. He will know what to do 
 about it, and what's right to be done. And so your father is 
 coming home ! We shall be sorry to lose you, Ellen. I am 
 getting to love you, child. It seems that you have come in 
 the place of my poor lost Bessy." 
 
 But Ellen was not sorry. The arrival of Mr. Adair would 
 at least remove her from her present position, where every 
 hour, as it passed, could but bring fresh pain. 
 
Mrs. Gass in the Sunshine. 355 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 MRS. GASS IN THE SUNSHINE. 
 
 A fine and genial day in Dallory. As if the winter were 
 minded to give place to a few hours' brightness before it 
 finally set in, or to make scant amends for the late season of 
 cold and wet and boisterons winds, there intervened a day of 
 almost summer weather. Mrs. Gass threw open her window 
 and sat behind the geraniums enjoying the sun, exchanging 
 salutations and gossip with as many of her acquaintance 
 amidst the passers-by whose time would allow them to stop 
 for it. 
 
 " How d'ye do, doctor ? Isn't this a lovely day ? " 
 
 It was Dr. Rane, hurrying past. He turned for an instant 
 to the window, his brow clearing. For some time now a 
 curious look of care and perplexity had sat upon it. 
 
 " Indeed it is," he answered. " I hope it will last. Are 
 you pretty well, Mrs. Gass ? " 
 
 "I'm first-rate," said that lady. "A fine day, with the 
 wind in the healthy north, always sets me up. I say, doctor, 
 have you got the tontine money paid yet ? " 
 
 "No," said Dr. Rane, his voice changing to a somewhat 
 sullen tone. " There are all kinds of forms to be gone 
 through, seemingly ; and the Brothers Ticknell do not make 
 themselves ill with haste. The two old men are past business, 
 in my opinion. They were always slow and tiresome ; it is 
 something more than that now." 
 
 " Do you stir 'em well up ? " questioned Mrs. Gass. 
 
 " When I get the chance of doing it ; but that's very rare. 
 Go when I will I can scarcely ever see anybody but the confi- 
 dential clerk, old Latham ; and he is as slow and methodical 
 as his masters. ' We are not quite ready for you, sir ; these 
 matters must take their due course,' he says to me. I suppose 
 the money will come, but I am tired of waiting for it." 
 
 " And what about your plans when you get it, doctor ? Be 
 they all cut and dried ? " 
 
 " Time enough when I get the money to decide on them," 
 said the doctor, shortly. 
 
 " But you still intend to leave Dallory Ham ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I shall do that." 
 
 " You won't be going tc tfiat America place ? " 
 
356 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " I think I shall. It is more than likely." 
 
 "Well, I'd not banish myself from my native country for 
 the best medical practice that ever shoes dropped into. You 
 might be getting Red Indians for patients." 
 
 Dr. Rane laughed a little ; and there shone a kind of eager 
 light in his eyes that seemed to speak of glad anticipation, of 
 hope. Only himself knew how thankful he would be to get to 
 another country and be clear of this. 
 
 "I wonder," soliloquised Mrs. Gass to herself, as he walked 
 on his way, " whether it is all straight-for'ard about that ton- 
 tine ? Have the Ticknells heard any of these ugly rumours 
 that's flying about ; and be they keeping it back in con- 
 sequence ? If not, why it ought to have been paid over to 
 him before this. The delay is odd — say the best of it. How 
 d'ye do, sir ? A nice day." 
 
 A gentleman, passing, had raised his hat to Mrs. Gass. She 
 resumed her thread of thought. 
 
 " The rumours be spreading wider and getting nastier. 
 They'll go up with a bang presently, like a bomb-shell. I'm 
 hearty sorry for him ; for I don't believe — no, I don't — that 
 he'd do such a frightful thing. If it should turn out he did — 
 why, then I shall blame myself ever after for having procrasti- 
 nated of my intentions." 
 
 Mrs. Gass paused in thought, and began to tell over those 
 intentions, with a view, possibly, to see whether she was very 
 much to blame. 
 
 " Finding Oliver and his wife couldn't get the tontine paid 
 'em — and a hard case it was !— I had it in my mind to say to 
 'em, ' I'll advance it to you. You'll both be the better for 
 something in my will when I'm gone — the doctor being my 
 late husband's own nephew, and the nearest relation left of 
 him — and if two thousand pound of it will be of real good to 
 you now, you shall have it.' But I didn't say it at once — who 
 was to suppose there was such mortal need for hurry — and 
 then she died. If the man's innocent — and I believe he is — - 
 that Jelly onght to have the end of her tongue burnt off with 
 
 caustic. She halloa ! Why, there you are ! Talk of the 
 
 dickens and he'll appear." 
 
 "Were you talking of me?" asked Jelly: for Mrs. Gass 
 had raised her voice with the surprise and brought it within 
 Jelly's hearing. She had a small basket on her arm, under 
 her black shawl, and turned to the window with the ques- 
 tion. 
 
Mrs. Gass in the Sunshine, 357 
 
 " I was a-tliinking of you," responded Mrs. Gass. " Be you 
 come out marketing ? " 
 
 " I'm taking a few scraps to Ketler's," replied Jelly, just 
 showing the basket. " My mistress has given me general leave 
 to give them any trifles not likely to be wanted at home. The 
 cook's good-natured too. This is a jar of mutton-dripping, 
 and some bones and scraps of bread." 
 
 " And how do you like the Beverages, Jelly ? " 
 
 " Oh, very well. They are good ladies ; but so serious and 
 particular." 
 
 Mrs. Gass rose from her seat, pushed aside a corner of the 
 stand of geraniums, and leaned her arms upon the window- 
 sill, so as to bring her hearty red face nearly within Jelly's 
 bonnet. 
 
 " I'll tell you what I was a-thinking of, girl : it was about 
 these awful whispers that's flying round. Go where you will 
 you may hear 'em. Let it be within a dwelling-house or at 
 the corner of a street, people's tongues be a cackling secretly 
 of Dr. Rane's wife, and asking what she died of. I knew it 
 would be so, Jelly." 
 
 Jelly turned a trifle paler. " They'll die away again 
 perhaps," she said. 
 
 " Perhaps," repeated Mrs. Gass, sarcastically. " It's to be 
 hoped they will for your sake. Jelly, I'd not stand in your 
 shoes to be made a queen to-morrow." 
 
 " I'd not stand in somebody else's," returned Jelly, aggra- 
 vated to the avowal. " I shall have some pretty good proof at 
 hand if I'm forced to bring it out." 
 
 "What proof?" 
 
 " Well, I'd rather not say. You'd only ridicule it, Mrs. 
 Gass, and blow me up into the bargain. I must be going." 
 
 "I guess it's moonshine, Jelly — like the ghost. Good- 
 morning." 
 
 Jelly went away with a hard and anything but a happy 
 look, and Mrs. Gass took her seat again. Very shortly there 
 came creeping by, following the same direction as Jelly, a poor 
 shivering woman, with a ragged shawl on her thin shoulders, 
 and a white, pinched, hopeless face. 
 
 " Is that you, Susan Ketler ? " 
 
 Susan Ketler turned and dropped a curtsey. Some of the 
 women of North Inlet were even worse off than she was. She 
 did have help now and then from Jelly. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, it's me." 
 
358 Bessy Ranc. 
 
 " I say, tow long do you think yon North Inlet people will 
 be able to keep going — as things be at present ? " demanded 
 Mrs. Grass. 
 
 " The Lord above only knows," said the woman, looking 
 upwards with a piteous shiver. " Here's the winter a-coming 
 on." 
 
 " What does Ketler think of affairs now ? " 
 
 Ketler's wife shook ber head. The men were not fond of 
 disclosing what they might think, unless it was to one another. 
 Ketler never told her what he did. 
 
 "Is he still in love with the Trades' Unions, and what 
 they've done for him ? My opinion is this, Susan Ketler," 
 continued Mrs. Gass, after a pause : " that in every place 
 where distress reigns, as it does here, and where it can be 
 proved that the men have lost their work through the dictates 
 of the society, the parish ought to go upon the society and 
 make it feed the men and their families. If a law was passed 
 to that effect, Ave should hear less of the doings of the Trades' 
 Union people than we do. They'd draw in a bit, Susan ; 
 they'd not give the gaping public quite so many of their 
 procession-shows, and their flags, and their speeches. It 
 would be a downright good law to make, mind you. A just 
 one, too. If the society forbids men to work, and so takes the 
 bread necessary for life out of their mouths, it is but fair they 
 should find 'em bread to replace it." 
 
 A kind of hopeful look came into the woman's eyes. 
 " Ma'am, I said as good as this to Ketler only yesterday. 
 Seeing that it was the society that had took the bread from 
 us, and that the consequences had been bad instead of good, 
 for we were starving, the society ought to put us into work 
 again. It might bestir itself to do that : or else support us 
 while we got into something." 
 
 Mrs. Gass smiled pityingly. "You must be credulous, 
 Susan Ketler, to fancy the society can put 'em into work 
 again. Where's the -work to come from? Well, it's not 
 your fault, my poor woman, and there's more people than me 
 sorry for you all. I say," Mrs. Gass lowered her voice, 
 "be any of the men talking treason still ? You know what I 
 mean." 
 
 Susan Ketler glanced over both her shoulders to see that 
 nobody was within hearing, before she gave the answering 
 whimper. 
 
 " They be always a-talking it. I can see it in their faces as 
 
Mrs. Gass in the Sunshine. 359 
 
 they stand together. Not Ketler, ma'am, he'd stop it if ho 
 could : he don't wish harm to none." 
 
 "Ah. I wish to goodness they'd all betake themselves off 
 from the place. Though it's hard to say it, for there's no 
 other open to 'em that I see. Well, you go on home, Susan. 
 Fanny Jelly's just gone there with a basket of scraps. Stay a 
 minute, though." 
 
 Mrs. Gass quitted the room, calling to one of her servants. 
 When she came back she had a half -pint physic bottle 
 corked up. 
 
 " It's a drop of beer," she said. " For yourself, mind, not 
 for Ketler. You want it, I know. Put it under your shawl. 
 It'll wash down Jelly's scraps." 
 
 The woman went along with a grateful sob. And Mrs. 
 Gass sat on and enjoyed the sunshine. Just then Mary 
 Dallory came by in her little low pony-carriage. She often 
 drove about in it alone. Seeing Mrs. Gass, she pulled up. 
 That lady, making no ceremony, went out in her cap and stood 
 talking. 
 
 "I hear you have left the Hall, my dear," she said, when 
 the gossip was coming to an end. 
 
 " Ages ago," replied Miss Dallory. " Frank is home again, 
 and he wanted me." 
 
 " How did you enjoy your visit on the whole ? " 
 
 " Pretty well. It was not very lively, especially after Sir 
 Nash was taken ill." 
 
 " He is better, Mr. Richard tells me," said the elder lady. 
 
 "Yes; he can sit up now. I went to see him yestcr- 
 day." 
 
 " Captain Bohun looks but poorly still. 
 
 " His illness was a bad one. Fancy his getting jaundice ! 
 I had thought it was only old people who got that." 
 
 " Them jaunders attacks young and old. Once the liver 
 gets out of order, there's no telling. Captain Bohun was born 
 in India; and they be more liable to liver complaint, it's said, 
 than others. You are driving alone to-day as usual," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Gass. 
 
 " I like to be independent. Frank won't put himself into 
 this little chaise ; he says it is no higher than a respectable 
 wheelbarrow ; and I'm sure I am not going to have a groom 
 stuck at my side." 
 
 " If all tales told are true, you'll soon run a chance of losing 
 your independence," rejoined Mrs. Gass. " People say a cor- 
 
360 Bessy Rane. 
 
 tain young lady, not a hundred miles at this moment away 
 from my elbow, is likely to give away her heart." 
 
 Instead of replying, Mary Dallory flushed violently. 
 Observant Mrs. Gass saw and noticed it. 
 
 " Then it is trne ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " What's true? " asked Mary. 
 
 " That you are likely to be married." 
 
 "No, it is not." 
 
 " My dear, you may as well tell me. You know me well - 
 that I'll keep counsel." 
 
 " But I have nothing to tell you. How can I imagine what 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " 'Twasn't more than a hint of it I had : that Captain Bohun 
 — Sir Arthur as he will be — was making up his mind to Miss 
 Dallory, and she to him. Miss Mary, is it so ? " 
 
 " Did Madam tell you that ? " 
 
 " Madam wouldn't be likely to tell me — all of us in Dallory 
 are just as so much dust under her feet; quite beneath being 
 spoken to. No : 'twas her maid, Parrit, dropped it to me. 
 She had heard it through Madam though." 
 
 Mary Dallory laughed a little and flicked the ear of the 
 rough Welsh pony. " I fancy Madam would like it," she said. 
 
 "Who wouldn't?" rejoined Mrs. Gass. "I put the 
 question to Richard North — Whether there was anything in 
 it ? He answered that there might be ; he knew that it was 
 wished for." 
 
 "Richard North said that, did he — that it might be ? Of 
 course, so it might — and may — for aught he can tell." 
 
 " But my dear Miss Mary, is it ? " 
 
 "Well — to tell you the truth, the offer's not made yet. 
 When it comes, why then — I daresay it will be all right." 
 
 "Meaning that you'll take him." 
 
 " Meaning that — oh but it is not right to tell tales before- 
 hand, even to you, Mrs. Gass," she broke off, with a sunny 
 laugh. " Let the offer come. I wish it would." 
 
 " You would like it to come, child ? " 
 
 "Yes, I think I should." 
 
 " Then be sure it will. And God bless you, my dear, and 
 bring you happiness whatever turns out. Though it is not 
 just the marriage I had carved out in my own mind for one 
 of the two of you." 
 
 She meant for Arthur Bohun. Mary Dallory thought she 
 meant herself ; and laughed again as the pony trotted away. 
 
Mrs. Gass in the Sunshine. 361 
 
 The next friend that passed the window after Mrs. Gass 
 resumed her scat, was Richard North. He did not stop at tho 
 window, but went in. Some matter of business connected 
 with the winding up of the old firm of North and Gass, had 
 arisen, rendering it necessary that he should see Mrs. Gass. 
 
 "Do as you think best, Mr. Richard," she said, after they 
 had talked together for a few minutes. " Please yourself, sir, 
 and you'll please me. We'll leave it at that : I know it's all 
 safe in your hands." 
 
 " Then I will do as I propose," said Richard. 
 
 " I've had Miss Dallory here — that is, in her pony-chay afore 
 the door," observed Mrs. Gass. "I taxed her with what I'd 
 heard about her and Captain Bohun. She didn't say it was, 
 and she didn't say it wasn't: but Mr. Richard, I think there's 
 truth in it. She as good as said she'd like him to make her 
 an offer: and she did say Madam wished it. So I suppose we 
 shall have wedding cards afore a year's gone over our heads. 
 In their case — him next step to a baronite, and she rolling in 
 money — there's nothing to wait for." 
 
 "Nothing," mechanically answered Richard North. 
 
 "But I did think, as to him, that it would have been Ellen 
 Adair. Talking of that, Mr. Richard, what is it that's amiss 
 with her ? " 
 
 " With her ? — with whom ? " cried Richard, starting out of 
 a reverie. 
 
 " With that sweet young lady, Ellen Adair ? " 
 
 " There's nothing amiss with her that I know of." 
 
 " Isn't there ! There is, Mr. Richard, if my judgment and 
 eyes is to be trusted. Each time I see her, she strikes me as 
 looking worse and worse. You notice her, sir. Perhaps now 
 the clue has been given you'll see it too. I once knew a 
 little girl, Mr. Richard, that was dying quietly under her 
 friends' very eyes, and they never saw it. Never saw it at all, 
 till a aunt came over from another county; she started back 
 when she saw the child and says, ' Why, what have you been 
 doing with her ? she's dying.' They was took aback at that, 
 and called in the first doctor : but it was too late. I don't 
 say Ellen Adair is dying, Mr. Richard ; 'taint likely ; but I'm 
 sure she is not all right. Whether it's on the mind, or 
 whether it's on the body, or whether it's on the nerves, I'm 
 not prepared to say; but its somewhere." 
 
 "I will take notice," said Richard. 
 
 "Anything fresh up about the men, Mr. Richard?" 
 
362 Bessy Rane. 
 
 "Nothing. Except that my workmen are getting afraid to 
 stir ont at night, and the disaffection increases amidst the 
 others. I cannot see what is to be the end of it," he con- 
 tinned. "I do not mean of this rivalry, hut of the sad state 
 to which the men and their families are reduced. I often wish 
 I did not think of it so much : it is like a chain binding me 
 that I cannot get loose from. I wish I could help them to get 
 work elsewhere." 
 
 "Ah!" said Mrs. Grass, "work elsewhere is very nice to 
 look at in dreamland ; but I'm afraid it'll never be seen for 
 'em in reality. It's not as if work was going a-begging : it 
 have been broke up everywhere, Mr. Richard ; and shoals and 
 shoals of men, destitute as our own, be tramping about at this 
 minute, like so many old ravens with their mouths open, ready 
 to pick up any that may fall." 
 
 Richard North went home, his mind full of what Mrs. Gass 
 had said about Ellen Adair. Was she looking so ill ? He 
 found her sitting in the open seat near what would be in spring 
 the tulip bed ; Mr. North having just gone in and left her. 
 Yes : Richard saw that she did look ill ; the face was wan, the 
 eyes were sad and weary. She was coughing as he went up 
 to her : it was a short, hacking cough, not a violent one. Some 
 time ago she had caught a cold, and it seemed to hang about 
 her still. 
 
 " Are you well, Ellen?" he asked, as he sat down beside her. 
 
 " Yes, I believe so," was her reply. " Why ? " 
 
 " Because I don't think you look well." 
 
 A soft colour, like the pink on a sea-shell, stole over her 
 cheeks as Richard said this. But she kept silence. 
 
 "You know, Ellen, we agreed to be as brother and sister. 
 I Avish to take care of you as such : to shield you from all ill 
 so far as I can. Are you happy here ? " 
 
 A moment's pause, and then Ellen took courage to say that 
 she was not happy. 
 
 " I would like to go elsewhere," she said. " Oh Richard, if 
 it could but be managed ! " 
 
 "But it cannot," he answered. 
 
 "I have plenty of money, Richard." 
 
 "My dear, it is not that. Of course you have plenty. I 
 fancy, by sundry signs, that you will be a very rich young 
 lady," he added, slightly laughing. "But you have no 
 near friends in England, and we could not entrust you to 
 strangers. 
 
Mrs. Gass in the Sunshine. 363 
 
 " If I could board somewhere ? — in some clergyman's family, 
 or something of that." 
 
 " Ellen ! " 
 
 She raised her hand from underneath the grey shawl — her 
 favourite out-door covering, for the shawl was warm — and 
 passed it across her brow. In every movement there was a 
 languor that spoke of weariness of body or weariness of spirit. 
 
 " When Mr. Adair comes home, if he found you had been 
 placed out somewhere 'to board,' what would he think and 
 say of us ? Put the question to yourself, Ellen." 
 
 "I would tell him I went of my own accord." 
 
 "But, my dear, you cannot be allowed to do things of your 
 own accord if they are not expedient. I and my father are 
 appointed to take charge of you, and sec that you do not. You 
 must remain with us, Ellen, until Mr. Adair shall come." 
 
 It was even so. Ellen's better judgment acknowledged it, 
 in the midst of her great wish to get away. A wish : and not 
 a wish. To be where Arthur Bohun was, brought her still 
 the most intense happiness ; and this, in spite of the pain sur- 
 rounding it, she would not willingly have relinquished : but 
 the cruelty of his conduct — of their estrangement — was more 
 than she knew how to bear. It was making her ill, and she 
 felt that it was. There was, however, no help for it. As 
 Richard said, she had no friends to whom they could entrust 
 her. The lady in whose house she was educated had recently 
 died, and the establishment was being broken up. 
 
 Ten times a day she longed to say to Arthur Bohun, " You 
 are ungenerous to stay bere. I cannot help myself, but you 
 might." But pride tied her tongue. 
 
 " It may be months yet before papa comes, Richard." 
 
 "And if it should be ! We must try to make you hajrpier 
 with us." 
 
 "I think I must go in," she said, after a pause of silence. 
 " The day has been very fine, but it is getting cold now." 
 
 Folding the grey shawl closer to her throat, as if she felt 
 the chill there, and coughing a little as she walked, Ellen 
 crossed round to the hall door and entered. Richard, occu- 
 pied in watching her and busy with his own thoughts, did not 
 perceive the almost silent approach of Arthur Bohun, who 
 came slowly up from behind. 
 
 "Well, Dick, old fellow ! " 
 
 "Why, where did you spring from?" asked Richard, as 
 Arthur flung himself down in the place vacated by Ellen. 
 
364 Bessy Rane, 
 
 " I have been under that tree yonder, smoking a cigar. It 
 has a good broad trunk to lean against." 
 
 "I thought the doctors had forbidden you to smoke." 
 
 " So they have. Until I should get stronger. One can't 
 obey orders quite strictly always. I don't suppose it matters 
 much one way or the other. You hare been enjoying a con- 
 fidential chat, Dick." 
 
 " Yes," replied Richard. He had not felt very friendly in 
 his heart towards Arthur for some time past. What was the 
 meaning of his changed behaviour to Ellen Adair ? — what of 
 the new friendship with Mary Dallory ? Richard North could 
 not forgive dishonour ; and he believed Arthur Bohun was 
 steeping himself in it to the backbone. 
 
 " Were you making love, Dick ?" 
 
 Richard turned his eyes in silence on the questioner. 
 
 " She and I have had to part, Dick. I always thought you 
 admired and esteemed her almost more, perhaps quite more, 
 than you do any other woman. So if you are thinking of 
 her " 
 
 "Be silent," sternly interrupted Richard, rising in anger. 
 " Are you a man ? — are you a gentleman ? Or are you what 
 I have been thinking you lately — a false-hearted, despicable 
 knave ?" 
 
 Whatever Arthur Bohun might be, he was just then in 
 desperate agitation. Rising, too, he seized Richard's hands. 
 
 "Don't you see that it was but sorry jesting, Richard? 
 Pretending to a bit of pleasantry with myself, to wile away 
 for a moment my awful weight of torment. I am all that you 
 say of me ; and I cannot help myself." 
 
 "Not help yourself?" 
 
 " As heaven is my witness, ko ! If I could take you into 
 confidence — and perhaps I may one of these days, for I long 
 to do it — you would see that I tell you truth." 
 
 "Why have you parted with Ellen Adair? — she and you 
 have parted ? You have just said so." 
 
 " We have parted for life. For ever." 
 
 "You were on the point of marriage with her but a short 
 time back ?" 
 
 " No two people can be much nearer marriage than .she and 
 I were. It was within halt an hour of it, Dick ; and yet we 
 have parted." 
 
 " By your doings, or hers ?" 
 
 "By mine." 
 
Mrs. Gass in the Sunshine. 365 
 
 " I thought so." 
 
 " Dick, I have been compelled to it. When you shall know 
 all, you will acknowledge that I could not do otherwise. And 
 yet, in spite of this — this compelling power — I feel that to her 
 I have been but a false-hearted knave, as you aptly style me : 
 a despicable, dishonourable man. My father fell into dis- 
 honour — or rather had it forced upon him by another — and he 
 could not survive it ; he shot himself. Did you know it, 
 Dick?" 
 
 " Shot himself! "repeated Richard in his surprise. " No, 
 1 never knew that. I thought he died of sunstroke." 
 
 " My father shot himself," wailed Arthur. " He could not 
 live dishonoured. Dick, old fellow, there are moments when 
 I feel tempted to do as he did." 
 
 " What — because you have parted with Ellen ? " 
 
 " No. That's bitter enough to bear ; bat I can battle with 
 it. It is the other thing, the dishonour. That is always 
 present with me, always haunting me night and day ; I know 
 not how to live under it." 
 
 "I do not understand at all," said Richard. "You are 
 master of your own actions." 
 
 " In this case I have not been : my line of conduct was 
 forced upon me. I cannot explain, Don't judge me too 
 harshly, my friend. I am bad enough, heaven knows, but not 
 quite as bad, perhaps, as you have been deeming me." 
 
 And, wringing the hands he held in a grasp of pain, Arthur 
 Bohun went limping away, leaving Richard lost in wonder. 
 
 He limped away to indulge his pain where no mortal eye 
 could be upon him. Parted from Ellen Adair, the whole 
 world was to him as nothing. The sense of dishonour lay 
 ever upon him, the shame of his conduct to her was present 
 to him night and day. With all his heart he wished James 
 Bohun had not died, that there might have been no question 
 of his succession. He would then have gone somewhere away 
 with her, change his name, be happy in obscurity. But there 
 was no place unfrequented by man and tourists ; he could not 
 hide his wife's face ; and she might be recognized as the 
 daughter of Adair the convict. Besides, would it not be an 
 offence against heaven if he wedded the daughter of the man 
 who had caused the death of his father ? No ; happiness 
 might not be his. Look where he would, there was nothing 
 around him but a sea of pain. 
 
366 Bessy Rane. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 ONCE AGAIN. 
 
 Jelly lived, so to stay, with her feet on a volcano. She felt 
 that, figuratively speaking, there was not an hour of the clay 
 or night but she might be blown up. The rumours as to the 
 death of Mrs. Rane were becoming more frightful ; they stole 
 tip and down Dallory like an insinuating tongue of flame, and 
 Jelly had the satisfaction of knowing that it was she who had 
 first set the flame alight. It was all very well for her to say 
 that she had made herself safe by securing the evidence 
 Thomas Hepburn could give : but in her secret conscience she 
 knew that she was not secure ; and that, even in spite of that 
 evidence, Dr. Rane might chance to be innocent. If so, why 
 a pretty box she would find herself in. There was no help 
 for it ; she could do nothing. The flaming tongue went 
 twisting itself in and out, and' she could not still it. 
 
 One night Jelly was lying awake, according to custom now, 
 buried deep in some horrid visions that had lately begun to 
 haunt her : now of being chained to some other woman and 
 working in a gang ; now of stepping incessantly up a revolving 
 treadmill ; and now of picking oakum with her nails and 
 teeth. Twisting round in the bed, to escape, if possible, these 
 maginary pictures, she suddenly heard her door knocked at. 
 A loud hasty knock ; and now a louder. Jelly went into a 
 hot fume, and then turned cold as ice. Had the officers of 
 the law come to arrest her ? 
 
 "Who's there? — what is it?" she asked faintly, not 
 daring to sit up in bed. 
 
 " Art thee awake, Jelly ? " came the gentle response, as her 
 door was opened a few inches. " I am very sorry to have to 
 ask thee to get up, but my mother is worse. Make haste, 
 please." 
 
 Had Miss Beverage's voice been that of an angel, it could 
 not have seemed sweeter to Jelly just then. The relief was 
 great. 
 
 " I'll get up instantly, ma'am," was the ready answer — and 
 Miss Beverage wondered that it should have in it a tone of 
 joyous gratitude. " I'll be with you at once." 
 
 Mrs. Beverage was subject to violent but rare attacks of 
 dangerous spasms. She had felt ill before she went to bed, 
 
Once Again. 367 
 
 but hoped it would be nothing. Jelly and her own two 
 servants were soon at her bedside. She was very ill. Some 
 of them ran to get hot water ready ; Jelly thought it would 
 be well to call in Dr. Rane. 
 
 " I should like the doctor to see her ; at the same time I 
 grieve to arouse him from his sleep," said Miss Beverage. 
 
 " Law, ma'am, that's nothing to doctors ; they are used to 
 it," cried Jelly. 
 
 " Mother, would thee like Oliver Rane fetched ? " asked 
 Miss Beverage, bending over the suffering lady. 
 
 " Yes — yes," was the feeble answer. " I am very ill, 
 Sarah." 
 
 " Thee go, then, Jelly." 
 
 Away went Jelly. Unbarring their own front door, she 
 passed out of it, and approached Dr. Rane's. The doctor's 
 professional lamp burnt clearly, and, to her great surprise, 
 Jelly saw that the door was not closed. 
 
 " He cannot have gone to bed to-night," she thought, as 
 she walked in without ringing. It was past three. 
 
 But the house seemed to be in stillness and darkness. Jelly 
 left the front door open, and the light shone a little way into 
 the passage. She tried the surgery door ; it was locked out- 
 side ; she tried the dining-room ; the key of that was also 
 turned ; the kitchen door stood open, but it was all in 
 darkness. 
 
 " He has gone to bed and forgot to shut up," was the con- 
 clusion Jelly now arrived at. " I'll go up and call him." 
 
 Groping her way upstairs, she had nearly reached the top, 
 when a pale white light suddenly illumined the landing — just 
 the same kind of faint semi-light that Jelly saw once before, 
 and that she remembered all too well. Raising her head 
 hastily to look, for it had been bent downwards, there stood 
 — what ? 
 
 Not quite at the moment did Jelly know what. Not in the 
 first startled access of terror did she recognize clearly the 
 features of Bessy Rane. It was she, all too surely : that is, 
 the likeness of what she had been. She seemed to stand 
 almost face to face with Jelly : Jelly nearly at the top of the 
 staircase, she facing it before her. The light was even more 
 faint in front of the figure than behind : but there was no 
 mistaking it. What it was dressed in or whence it came, 
 Jelly never knew : there it was — the form and the face of Bessy 
 Rane. With an awful cry of agony, that echoed to the ends 
 
368 Bessy Rane. 
 
 of tlie empty house in the night's silence, Jelly turned and 
 flew down again. 
 
 She never looked hehind. Out at the front door went she, 
 banging it, in her terror, to keep in what might be following 
 her ; and she nearly gave vent to another scream when she 
 found herself touched by someone coming in at the gate, and 
 saw that it was Dr. Rane. 
 
 " I am called out to a country patient," he quietly said. 
 " While I was putting the horse to the gig, an impression 
 came over me that I had left my house door open, so I thought 
 I had better come back and see. What are you doing here at 
 this hour, Jelly ? Anyhody ill ? " 
 
 Jelly was in frightful distress and confusion of mind. 
 Clutching hold of his arm as if it gave her protection, she 
 sobbed for an instant or two in hysterical nervousness. Dr. 
 Rane stared at her, not knowing what to make of it. He 
 began to think she must require his seiwices herself. 
 
 " Sir — do you know — do you know who is in the house ? " 
 
 " Nobody's there : unless they've got in these last few 
 minutes through the door — which I suppose I did leave open," 
 was Dr. Rane's rejoinder, and his calm composure contrasted 
 strongly with Jelly's emotion. " When I go out of my house 
 at night, I carry my household with me, Jelly." 
 
 "Your wife's there," she whispered with a bursting sob. 
 " Sir, it is as true as that I am alive to tell it." 
 
 " What do you say ? " 
 
 Jelly's answer was to relate what she had seen. When 
 Dr. Rane had gathered in her full meaning, he turned very 
 angry. 
 
 " Why you must be mad, woman," he cried in a low voice 
 of concentrated passion. " This is the second time. How 
 dare you invent such folly ? " 
 
 " I swear that her ghost walks, and that it is in there now," 
 exclaimed Jelly, nearly beside herself. "It is on the landing, 
 exactly where I saw it before. Why should she come again ? 
 — why should she haunt that one particular spot ? Sir, don't 
 look at me like that. You know I would not invent such a 
 thing." 
 
 "Your fancy invents it, and then you speak of it as if it 
 were fact. How dare you ? " 
 
 But he could not appease Jelly : he could not talk her out 
 of the belief of her eyesight. And the doctor saw it was use- 
 less to try. 
 
Once Again* 369 
 
 " Wh y, why should her poor ghost walk ? " bewailed Jelly, 
 wringing her hands in distress. 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know why it should walk," returned the 
 doctor, as if he would humour Jelly and at the same time 
 make a mockery of her words. " It never walks when I am 
 in the house." But the ridicule was lost on Jelly. 
 
 " She can't lie quiet in her grave. What cause is there ? — 
 oh, what dreadful mystery is it ? " 
 
 Dr. Rane looked as though he would have liked to knock 
 Jelly down. " I begin to think that you are either a fool or a 
 knave," he cried. " What brought you in my house at three 
 o'clock in the morning ? " 
 
 The question, together with his almost irrepressible rage, 
 served to recal Jelly's scattered senses. She told about the 
 illness of Mrs. Beverage, and asked if he would come in. 
 
 " No, I cannot come," said Dr. Rane quite savagely, for it 
 seemed that he could not get over his anger. " I am called 
 out to a case of sudden emergency, and have no time to waste 
 over Mrs. Beverage. If she wants a doctor, get Seeley." 
 
 He opened his door with his latch-key, and shut it fiercely 
 after him. However, it seemed that he got over his ill 
 humour, for when Jelly was slowly walking across the road 
 towards Mr. Seeley's, Dr. Rane came out again, called her 
 back, and said he would spare a minute or two. 
 
 With a sharp caution to Jelly not to make the same foolish 
 exhibition of herself to others that she had to him, he went up 
 to Mrs. Beverage — who was then easier, and had dozed off to 
 sleep. Giving a few general directions in case the paroxysm 
 should return, Dr. Rane departed. About ten minutes after- 
 wards, Jelly was in her room, which looked towards the lane 
 at tho back, when she heard his gig come driving down it and 
 stop at his garden door. After waiting there a short while — 
 he had probably come in for some case of .instruments — it 
 went away quickly across country. 
 
 The horse and gig that the doctor used belonged to the 
 public-house hard by. Dr. Rane had a key of the stables, so 
 that if he wanted to go out during the night, he could harness 
 the horse to the gig without disturbing any one. When 
 medical men are not able to keep horses and grooms of their 
 own, they put up contentedly with many shifts that richer 
 practitioners would not. 
 
 " If he had not said beforehand that he was putting the 
 horse to, I should have thought he'd cone out because bo 
 
370 Bessy Ranc. 
 
 daredn't stay in the house," muttered Jelly, as she flattened 
 her face against the window pane, to look after the doctor and 
 the gig. She could see neither ; the night was very dark. 
 
 Jelly's mind was in a chaos. What she had witnessed 
 caused her still to shake and tremble as though she had the 
 ague ; and she did fully believe that she was in danger of 
 becoming what the doctor had told her she was already — 
 mad. 
 
 Suddenly, there arose a cry in the house. Mrs. Beverage 
 was worse. The paroxysm had returned so violently that it 
 seemed to the frightened beholders as though she would die in 
 it. Dr. Rane was not attainable, and Miss Beverage sent one 
 of the under servants running for Mr. Seeley. Who came 
 promptly. 
 
 In about an hour the danger had passed ; the house was 
 quiet again, and Mr. Seeley was at liberty to return to his 
 rest. He had crossed the road to his own door when he heard 
 a step following him. Turning round he saw Jelly. 
 
 " Surely she is not ill again !" he hastily exclaimed. 
 
 " No, sir, she is all right I think now. Mr. Seeley," added 
 Jelly in agitation so marked that he could not help noticing 
 it, "I want to speak to yon : I want to tell you something. I 
 must tell somebody, or I shall never live till morning light." 
 
 " Are you ill ? " questioned Mr. Seeley. 
 
 " When I was holding the flannels just now, and otherwise 
 helping you, sir, you might have seen that I hadn't all my 
 wits about me. Miss Beverage looked at me once or twice, 
 as much as to ask what had become of 'em. Mr. Seeley, I 
 have got the weight of a most awfnl secret upon me, and I 
 can't any longer bear with it." 
 
 " A secret ! " repeated Mr. Seeley. 
 
 Jelly drew so near to him that her arm touched his. She 
 pointed to the house of Dr. Rane, and lowered her voice to 
 spuak in a whisper. 
 
 •'Mrs. Rane's there." 
 
 He looked across at the house — so apparently still and 
 peaceful behind its white blinds ; he turned and looked at 
 Jelly. Not a syllable did he understand of her meaning. 
 
 " Mrs. Rane comes again, sir. She haunts the house. I 
 have seen her twice with my own eyes. Once, the night of 
 her death, just after she had been put in her coffin; and" again 
 this blessed night." 
 
 " Why, what on earth do you mean ? " questioned Mr. Seeley 
 
Once Again. 371 
 
 in amazement. " Mrs. Rane haunts the house ? — I don't com- 
 prehend." 
 
 " Her ghost does, sir. It is in it now." 
 The surgeon put his back against his door-post, and seemed 
 as though he should never leave off staring at Jelly. He fully 
 thought her mind was wandering. A minute or two passed 
 in utter silence. 
 
 " My good woman, you need a composing draught as badly 
 as Friend Beverage did just now. What is the matter with 
 you, Jelly." 
 
 In reply, Jelly told her story, — in regard to the appearance 
 of Mrs. Rane — told it from the beginning. But she cautiously 
 avoided all mention of suspicion as to unfair play : in fact she 
 did not mention Dr. Rane's name. Mr. Seeley listened quietly, 
 as though he were hearing a fairy tale. 
 
 "Have you spoken of this to Dr. Rane?" was his first 
 question. 
 
 " Yes, sir : both times. To-night I met him as I was rush- 
 ing out of the house in my terror." 
 
 " What does he say to it ? " 
 
 " He ridicules it. He says it's my fancy, and is in a tower- 
 ing rage with me. Mrs. Gass asked whether I had been 
 drinking beer. People are hard of belief as to such things." 
 
 " You told Mrs. Gass, then ? " 
 
 " I told her the first time. I was in great distress and 
 perplexity, and I mentioned it to her as we sat together in 
 the churchyard looking at Mrs. Rane's funeral." 
 
 " What did Mrs. Gass say ? " 
 
 " She cautioned me never to speak of it again to living 
 soul. Neither of that, nor of — of anything. But this blessed 
 night, sir, I have seen it again : and if it is to go on like this, 
 I shall soon be in a lunatic asylum." 
 
 Mr. Seeley had no faith in ghosts. At the same time he 
 saw how implicit -was Jelly's belief in what she fancied sho 
 had seen, and the distressed state of mind it had induced. 
 What to answer for the best, he did not kr.ow. If he threw 
 ridicule on the story, it would make no sort of impression : if 
 he pretended to receive it as truth, it could not bring her 
 ease. 
 
 "Jelly," said he on impulse, "I should not believe in a 
 ghost if I saw one." 
 
 "I didn't believe in them once," answered Jolly. " But see- 
 ing brings belief." 
 
372 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know what to say to you," was his candid 
 avowal. " You are evidently so imbued with your own view 
 of the matter, that any contrary argument would he useless." 
 
 "What troubles me is this," resumed Jelly, as if she had 
 not heard him. " Why is it that she is unable to rest, poor 
 thing ? What's the reason ? " 
 
 "I should say there was no reason," observed Mr. Seeley. 
 
 "Should you, sir?" 
 
 Jelly spoke significantly, and he looked at her keenly. 
 There was a professional lamp over the door, as there was 
 over Dr. Rane's ; and their faces were distinct to each other. 
 The tone had been a slip in the heat of argument, and Jelly 
 grew cautious again. 
 
 " What am I to do, sir ? " 
 
 " Indeed I cannot tell you, Jelly. There is only one thing 
 to do, I should say — get out of the fancy again as quickly as 
 you can." 
 
 " You think I did not see it ! " 
 
 " I think all ghost-stories proceed purely from an excited 
 imagination," said the surgeon. 
 
 " You have not lived here very long, sir, but you have been 
 here quite long enough to know that I've not got much 
 imagination. I don't remember that, before this hajjpened, I 
 ever felt excited in my whole life. My nature's not that 
 way. The first time I saw her, I had come in, as I say, from 
 Ketler's ; and all I was thinking of was Dinah's negligence in 
 not putting out the matches for me. I declare that when I 
 saw her, poor thing, that night, with her fixed eyes staring at 
 me, I was as cool as any cucumber. She stood there some 
 time, looking at me with a stoney stare, as it seemed, and I 
 stood in the dark, looking at her. I thought it was herself, 
 Mr. Seeley, and felt glad that she was able to be out of bed. 
 In the morning, when I heard she was dead, and shut up in 
 her coffin, I thought she must have been shut in it alive. You 
 were the first I asked whether it was true that she was dead," 
 added Jelly, warming with the sudden recollection. " I saw 
 you standing here at the door after Dinah told me, and I 
 stepped over." 
 
 The surgeon nodded. He remembered it. 
 
 " To-night when I went for Dr. Rane, there was not a 
 thought or particle of superstition in my mind. I was 
 troubled about Mrs. Beverage, and wondering what careless- 
 ness brought the doctor's front door open. And there she 
 
Once Again. 373 
 
 stood ! — facing me as I went np the stairs — just in the same 
 identical spot that she had stood the time before. Ugh ! ' : 
 broke off Jelly, with a shudder. " But don't say again, sir, 
 please, that it was my excited imagination." 
 
 " I could tell you stories of the imagination that would sur- 
 prise you, Jelly." 
 
 " If it was not Mrs. Bane — that is, ber apparition — that 
 appeared to me to-night, sir, and that appeared to me the 
 other night, I wish these eyes may never behold anything 
 again," spoke Jelly solemnly. And Mr. Seeley saw how worse 
 than futile it would be to contend farther. 
 
 " Jelly, why have you told me this ? I do not see how I 
 can help you." 
 
 " I've told it you because the weight of keeping it to myself 
 •was greater than I could bear," she replied. " It's an awful 
 thing, and a cruel thing, that it should be just me that's 
 signalled out for it. I think I know why : and I am nearly 
 torn to pieces with the responsibility. As to helping me, sir, 
 I don't think that you or anybody else can do that. Did you 
 see Mrs. Rane after she died ? " 
 
 The question was put abruptly, but in a tone that Jelly 
 meant to be indifferent. Mr. Seeley replied in a very matter- 
 of-fact manner. 
 
 "So." 
 
 " Well, I'll wish you good-night, sir. Keeping you talking 
 here will do no good." 
 
 " Good-morning, I should say," returned the surgeon. 
 
 Jelly had reached her own gate, when she paused for 
 a moment and then turned back across the road. The surgeon 
 had not moved. He still had his back against his door-post, 
 and was apparently gazing at Dr. Rane's. Jelly said what 
 she had come back to say. 
 
 " You will please not speak of this again to any one, Mr. 
 Seeley. There are reasons why." 
 
 " Not I, Jelly," was the hearty rejoinder. " I don't want to 
 be laughed at in Dallory as the retailer of a ghost-story." 
 
 " Thank you, sir." 
 
 With that, the surgeon passed into his dwelling, and Jelly 
 went over to hers. And the winter's night wore on to its close. 
 
 In the favourable reaction that had fallen on Mrs. Beverage, 
 Jelly might have gone to rest again had she so chosen. But 
 she did not. There could be neither rest nor sleep for her. 
 She sat by the kitchen fire, and drank sundry cups of tea : and 
 
374 Bessy Rane. 
 
 rather thought, what with one perplexity and another, that it 
 was not sinful to wish herself dead. 
 
 In the morning about seven o'clock, when she was upstairs 
 in her chamber, she heard the noise of a gig in the lane, and 
 looked out. It was Dr. Rane, returning from his visit to his 
 sick patient. His face was white. An ordinary passer-by 
 would have said the doctor was cold : Jelly drew a different 
 conclusion. 
 
 " It's his conscience," she mentally whispered. "It's the 
 thought of having to dwell in his house now that he knows 
 what's in it. He might have set it down to my fancy the first 
 time : he can't this. Who knows, either, but what she 
 appears to him ? — who knows ? but it strikes me his nerves 
 are made of iron. He must have been driving like mad, too, 
 by the way the gig's splashed ! " added Jelly, catching aglimpse 
 of the state of the vehicle as it whirled round the corner to- 
 wards the public-house. "Good heavens ! what is to be done ? 
 — what is to be done about this dreadful secret ? Why should 
 it have fallen on me ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 COMING VERT NEAE. 
 
 It is not all at once, when rumours of this grave character 
 arise, that they come to a climax. Time must be allowed them 
 to grow and settle. It came at length, however, here. The 
 doubts ripened to convictions : the semi-suppressed breathings 
 widened into broad assertions : Oliver Rane had certainly 
 murdered his wife for the sake of getting the tontine money. 
 People affirmed it one to another as they met in the street — 
 that is (throwing the onus off themselves), said that others 
 affirmed it. Old Phillis heard it one clay, and nearly fell down 
 in a fit. She did not altogether believe it : but nevertheless 
 from that 1 time she could not speak to her master without 
 visibly shaking. The doctor thought she must be suffering 
 from incipient palsy. At length it penetrated to Dallory Hall, 
 to the ears of Madam ; and upon Madam it produced an extra- 
 ordinary effect. 
 
 It has been stated throughout that Mrs. North had con- 
 ceived a violent dislike to Dr. Rane ; or at least, that she 
 persistently acted against him in a manner that gave the im- 
 pression that she had. As if she had only waited for this 
 
Coming very Near. 375 
 
 rumour to accuse him of something tangible, Madam took it 
 np and made the cause her own. She never appeared to ques- 
 tion the truth of the report, or to enquire what its grounds 
 might be ; she drove about, almost like a mad woman, here, 
 there, and everywhere, unequivocally asserting that Bessy 
 Rane had been poisoned, and that her husband, Oliver Rane, 
 had done the deed. 
 
 In good truth Mrs. North had been, if not mad, in a state of 
 inward ferment for some short while past, ever since she had 
 become cognizant of the expected return to England of Mr. 
 Adair. Why she should dread this, and why it should excite 
 her — and she did dread it and it did excite her in no measured 
 degree — she alone knew. Nobody around her had the least 
 idea that the coming home of Mr. Adair would be more to her 
 than the arrival of any stranger might be. Restless, nervous, 
 anxious, with an evil and crafty look in her eyes, with ears 
 that were ever open, with hands that could not be still, waited 
 Madam. The household saw nothing — only that her tyranny 
 became more unbearable day by day. 
 
 It almost seemed as though she seized upon the whispered 
 accusation of Dr. Rane as a vent for some of her uneasiness on 
 this other score to exercise itself upon. He must be brought 
 to the bar of justice to answer for his crime, avowed Madam. 
 She drove to the houses of the different county magistrates, 
 urging this view upon them ; she besieged the county coroner 
 in his office, and bade him get the necessary authority and issue 
 his orders for the exhumation of the body. 
 
 The coroner was Mr. Dale. There had recently been a 
 sharp contest for the coronership (which had become vacant) 
 between a doctor and a lawyer : the latter was Dale, of Whit- 
 borough, and he had gained the day. To say that Madam, 
 swooping down upon him with this command, startled him 
 considerably, would be saying little, as describing his state of 
 astonishment. Occupied very much just now with the pro- 
 ceedings attaching to his new honour, and the accounts it 
 personally involved him in (which he made many a wry face 
 over), Lawyer Dale had found less time for gossiping about 
 his neighbours' affairs than usual ; and not a syllable of the 
 living rumour had reached him. So little did he at first 
 believe it, and so badly did he think of Madam for the part 
 she was playing, that, had she been a man, he would have 
 given her the lie direct. But she was persistent, repeating 
 over and over to him the charge in the most obnoxious and 
 
37 6 Bessy Rane. 
 
 least delicate manner possible : Oliver Rane had poisoned hia 
 wife during her attack of fever, and he had done it to get the 
 tontine money. She 'went over the gi-ounds for suspicion, 
 dwelling on them one by one ; and perhaps the lawyer's belief 
 in Dr. Rane's innocence was just a trifle shaken — which he 
 did not acknowledge. After some sparring between them — 
 Mr. Dale holding back from interference, she pressing it on — ■ 
 the coroner was obliged to admit that if a demand for an 
 inquest were formally made to him he should have no resource 
 but to call one. Finally he undertook to institute some 
 private enquiries into the matter, and see whether there were 
 grounds to justify so extreme a course. Madam sharply 
 replied that if there were the smallest disposition shown on his 
 part to stifle the enquiry, she should at once cause the Secre- 
 tary of State to be communicated with. And with that she 
 swept down to her carriage. 
 
 " Perhaps, of all classes of men, lawyers are most brought 
 into contact with the crimes and follies committed by the 
 human race. Mr. Dale had not been at all scrupulous as to 
 what he undertook ; and many kinds of curious matters had 
 come under his experience. Leaning back in his chair after 
 Madam's visit, revolving this point of the story, revolving 
 that, his opinion changed, and he came to the conclu- 
 sion that, on the face of things, it did look very much 
 as though Dr. Rane had been guilty. Lawyer Dale 
 had no cause to wish the doctor harm ; especially the 
 awful harm a public investigation might entail : had the 
 choice lain with him, he would have remained quiescent, and 
 consigned the doctor to his conscience. But he saw clearly 
 that Mrs. North would not suffer this to be, and that it was 
 more than probable he would have to act. 
 
 The first move he made, in his undertaking to institute 
 some private enquiry, was to seek an interview with Mr. 
 Seeley. He went to it himself; the matter was of too delicate 
 a nature to be confided to a clerk. In his questions he was 
 reticent, after the cautious custom of a man of law, giving no 
 clue, and intending to give none, as to why he put them ; but 
 Mr. Seeley had heard of the rumoured accusation, and spoke 
 out freely. 
 
 " I confess that I could not quite understand the death," he 
 avowed: "but I do not suspect that Dr. Rane, or any one 
 else had any hand in it. She died naturally, as I believe. 
 Mr. Dale, this is a horrible thing for you to bring against him ." 
 
Coming very Near. 377 
 
 " I bring it ! " cried Mr. Dale. " I don't bring it; I'd rather 
 let the doubt lie and die out. It is forced upon me." 
 "Who by ? These confounded scandalmongers ? " 
 " By Mrs. North." 
 
 "Mrs. North!" echoed the surgeon in surprise. "You 
 don't mean to say the North family are taking it up." 
 
 " I don't know about the family. Madam is, and with a 
 vengeance. She won't let it sleep. There is an evident 
 animus in her mind against Dr. Rane. and she means to 
 pursue the charge to its last extremity." 
 
 Mi\ Seeley felt vexed to hear it. "When these rare and 
 grave charges are brought against one of the medical body, 
 the rest, as a rule, would rather resent it than entertain it. 
 And, besides, the surgeon liked Dr. Rane. 
 
 "Come; you may as well tell me the truth," cried the 
 lawyer, breaking the silence. " You'll have to do it publicly, 
 I fancy." 
 
 "Mr. Dale," was the answer, "I have told you the truth 
 according to my belief. Never a suspicion of foul play crossed 
 my mind in regard to Mrs. Rane's death. I saw nothing to 
 give rise to one." 
 
 "You did not see her after she died: nor for some hours 
 before it?" 
 "No." 
 
 "You think she went off naturally." 
 "Most certainly I think she did." 
 
 " But, look here — we lawyers have to probe opinions, you 
 know, so excuse me. If you were to find it proved that she 
 went off in — in a different way, you'd not be surprised ; eh, 
 Seeley ? " 
 
 " I should be very much surprised." 
 
 " Hang it, man, don't you know what I mean? You would 
 not be able, from your recollection of the facts attending the 
 case, to confute it, or to bring forward a single confronting 
 proof to say she did not ? " 
 
 " Well, no ; I should not be able." 
 
 "There's the difficulty, you see," resumed the lawyer; 
 " there's where it will lie. You believe Rane was innocent, I 
 may believe him innocent ; but nobody possesses positive 
 proofs of it, to bring forward, that might serve to stop the 
 enquiry. It will have to go on as sure as fate." 
 " Cannot you stop it, Mr. Dale ? " 
 "I promise you this : that I'll put as many impediments in 
 
378 Bessy Rane. 
 
 the way of it as I can. But once I am called upon publicly 
 to act, my own power to delay will be over." 
 
 That was the end of the interview. It had a little 
 strengthened the lawyer's doubts, if anything. Mr. Seeley 
 had not seen her after death. What he Avas going to do next 
 Mr. Dale did not say. 
 
 By the day following this, perhaps the only two people 
 accustomed to walk up and down the streets of Dallory who 
 still remained in blissful ignorance of the trouble afloat, were 
 Dr. Rane himself, and Richard North. Nobody had dared to 
 mention it to them. Richard, however, was soon to be en- 
 lightened. 
 
 Business took him to his bankers' in Whitborough. It 
 was of a private nature, requiring to be transacted between 
 himself and one of the old brothers at the head of the firm. 
 After it was over they began talking about general things, 
 and Richard asked incidentally whether much further delay 
 Avould take place in paying the tontine money to Dr. Rane. 
 
 " I am not sure that we shall be able to pay it him at all," 
 replied Sir Thomas Ticknell. 
 
 " Why not ? " asked Richard in surprise. 
 
 For answer, the old gentleman looked significantly at 
 Richard for a short space of time, and then demanded whe- 
 ther he was still in ignorance of what had become the chief 
 public topic. 
 
 Bit by bit, it all came out. The brothers Ticknell, it ap- 
 peared, had heard the report quite at the first : there are 
 never wanting kind friends to do a fellow- man an injury when 
 they can ; and somebody had hastened to the bankers with 
 the news. Richard North sat aghast as he listened. His 
 sister was supposed to have come by her death unfairly ! For 
 once in his life he changed to the hue of a sick man, and his 
 strong frame trembled. Sir Thomas made him drink a glass 
 of old wine. 
 
 " We hear the new coroner, Dale, has got it in hand now," 
 remarked Sir Thomas. " I suppose there'll be a fine public 
 scandal." 
 
 Recovering in some degree the shock, Richard North 
 took his departure, and went over to Dale's, whose offices 
 were nearly opposite. The lawyer was there, and made no 
 scruple of disclosing what he knew to Richard. 
 
 " It's a pity that I've got to take the matter up," said Dale. 
 " Considering the uncertainty at present attending it — that 
 
Coming very Near. 379 
 
 Jie doctor may bo innocent — considering also that it cannot 
 bring the dead to life, and that it will be a most painful thing 
 for old Mr. North — and for yon too, Mr. Richard — I think it 
 would be as well to let it alone." 
 
 "But who is stirring in it ?" asked Richard* 
 
 "Madam." 
 
 " Madam ! Do you mean Mrs. North ?" 
 
 " To be sure I do. I don't say but what public commotion 
 and officious people would soon have brought it to the same 
 issue ; but any way, Mrs. North has forestalled them." And 
 he told Richard of Madam's visit to him. 
 
 " You say you have been making some private enquiries," 
 observed Richard. 
 
 Mr. Dale nodded. 
 
 " And what is your candid opinion ? Tell it me, Dale." 
 
 But the lawyer hesitated to say to him, I think Dr. Rane. 
 may have been guilty. Hesitated not only because it was an 
 unpleasant assertion to make to Dr. Rane's brother-in-law, 
 but also because he really had doubts whether it was so or 
 not. 
 
 " I hold no decided opinion as yet," he said. " I may not 
 be able to form one until the post-mortem examination has 
 taken place " 
 
 " You do not mean to say that they will — that they will 
 disturb my sister ! " interrupted Richard North, his eyes full 
 of horror. 
 
 " Why that's the first thing they will do — if the investiga- 
 tion goes on at all," cried the lawyer. " That's always the 
 preliminary step. You are forgetting." 
 
 "I suppose I am," groaned Richard. "This has been a 
 great shock to me. Dale, you cannot believe him guilty ! " 
 
 "Well, I can't tell; and that's the fact," candidly avowed 
 the lawyer. " There are certainly some suspicious circum- 
 stances attending the case : but at the same time, they aro 
 only such that Dr. Rane may be. able to explain satisfactorily 
 away." 
 
 " How have the doubts arisen ? " questioned Richard. 
 " There were none — I suppose — at the time." 
 
 " So far as I can at present ascertain, they have sprung 
 from some words incautiously dropped by Fanny Jelly, the 
 late Mrs. Cumberland's maid. Whether Jelly saw anything 
 at the time of Mrs. Rane's illness to give rise to suspicion I 
 don't kno .v. I have not yet got to see her. It is necessary 
 
380 Bessy Rane. 
 
 to go about this business cautiously, Mr. Eicbard North ; and 
 Jelly, I expect, will be no willing witness." 
 
 " Did Madam tell you this arose from Jelly ?" 
 
 " Oh dear no. Madam does not concern herself as to whence 
 the suspicions came ; she says to me : ' There they are, and 
 you must deal with them.' I got the information from my 
 clerk, Timothy Wilks. In striving to trace the rumours back 
 to their source, I traced them to him. Carpeting him here 
 before rne in this room, I insisted upon his telling me whence 
 he obtained them. He answered me readily enough, ' From 
 Jelly.' It seems Jelly was spending an evening at his aunt's, 
 or cousin's, or grandmother's — whatever it is. I mean the 
 wife of your time-keeper, Mr. Richard North. Wilks was 
 present : only those three ; the conversation turned upon 
 Mrs. Rane's death, and Jelly said a few words that startled 
 them. I quite believe that was the commencing link of the 
 scandal." 
 
 " What can Jelly know ?" exclaimed Richard dreamily. 
 
 " I can't tell. The report is, that Mrs. Rane had some- 
 thing wrong given to her by her husband the last day of her 
 life : and that his object was to get the tontine money, which 
 he could not touch while she lived. A curious thing that the 
 husband and wife should be the two last left in that tontine ! " 
 added the lawyer : " I've said so often." 
 
 "But even" — Richard stopped from pain — "if this had 
 been so, how could Jelly have learnt it ? " 
 
 " Well, things come out in strange ways sometimes ; espe- 
 cially if they are things that ought not to see the light. I've 
 noticed it. Jelly's mistress was away, and she may have 
 gone in to help nurse Mrs. Rane in her illness : we don't yet 
 know how it was." 
 
 Richard North rose to depai't. " At any rate, I do not see 
 that it was Madam's place to take it up and urge on an 
 inquiry," he remarked. " She should have left that to the 
 discretion of my father and myself." 
 
 " She was in a regular fever over it," cried Mr.Dale. "She 
 talked of sending an application to the Secretary of State. I 
 shouldn't wonder but what it is already gone up." 
 
 From the lawyer's house, Richard went direct to that of 
 the late Mrs. Cumberland. The dusk of evening was then 
 drawing on. As he reached the door, Miss Beverage, in her 
 Quaker's bonnet of dove-coloured silk, approached it from an 
 opposite direction. Raising his hat, he asked whether he 
 
Coming very Near. 381 
 
 could be allowed a five minutes' interview with Jelly. Mis3 
 Beverage, who knew Richard by sight, was very chatty and 
 pleasant : sbe took him into the drawing-room and sent Jelly 
 to him. And Jelly felt half inclined to faint as she shut the 
 door, for she well knew what must be coming. 
 
 But, after some fencing with Richard's questions, Jelly gave 
 in. He was resolute in requiring to hear all she could tell, 
 and at length she made a clean breast of it. She related 
 what she knew, and what she suspected, from beginning to 
 end ; and before she had finished, a strangely soothing relief, 
 that Richard should know it, grew up within her. 
 
 "Fori shall consider that the responsibility is now taken 
 off my shoulders, sir," she said. " And perhaps it has been 
 nothing, but this, that the ill-fated lady has wanted me to do, 
 in coming again." 
 
 In all the tale, the part that most struck Richard North, 
 was Jelly's positive and clear assertion that she had since 
 twice seen Mrs. Rane. He was simply astounded. And, to 
 tell the truth, he did not seek to cast ridicule or disbelief on 
 it. Richard North was an educated and practical man of 
 plain common sense, with no more tendency to believe in 
 supernatural appearances than are such men in general ; but 
 his mind had been so unhinged since the interview with Sir 
 Thomas Ticknell, that he almost felt inclined to admit the 
 possibility of his sister's not resting in her grave. 
 
 He sat with his head leaning on his hand. Collecting in 
 some degree his half scattered senses, he strove to go over 
 dispassionately the grounds of suspicion. But he could make 
 nothing more of them than Dale had said. Grounds for it 
 there certainly were, but none but what Dr. Rane might be 
 able to explain away. Jelly drew her own deductions, and 
 called them proofs : but Richard saw that of proofs as yet 
 there were none. 
 
 " I've lived in mortal horror, ever since that first night, of 
 seeing it again," said Jelly, interrupting his reverie. "No- 
 body can imagine, sir, what a dreadful time it has been. And 
 when I was least thinking of it, it came the second time." 
 
 " To whom have you repeated this story of having seen 
 her ? " asked Richard. 
 
 " The first time I told Dr. Rane and Mrs. Gass. This last 
 time I told the doctor and Mr. Seeley." 
 
 " Jelly," said Richard quietly, " there is no proof that any- 
 thing was wrong, except in your fancy." 
 
382 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " And the hasty manner that she was hid ont of the way, 
 sir — no woman called in to do anything for her ; no soul 
 allowed to see her ! " urged Jelly. " If it wanted proof posi- 
 tive before, it can't be thought to want it since what Thomas 
 Hepburn related to me." 
 
 " All that may have been done out of regard to the welfare 
 of the living," said Richard. 
 
 Jelly gave a disbelieving sniff. To her mind it was clearer 
 than daylight. 
 
 But at this juncture, a servant came in to know if she 
 should bring lights. Richard took the opportunity to depart. 
 Of what use to prolong his stay ? As he went out he saw 
 Mr. Seeley standing at his door. Richard crossed over and 
 asked to speak with him : he knew of Dale's interview with 
 the surgeon. 
 
 " Can Rane have been guilty of this thing, or not ?" ques- 
 tioned Richard, when they were closeted together. 
 
 But, no. Not even here could Richard get at any decided 
 opinion. It might have been so, or it might not, Seeley 
 replied. For himself, he was inclined to think it was not; 
 that Mrs. Rane's death was natural. 
 
 Leaving again, Richard paced up and down the dark road. 
 His mind was in a tumult. He, with Seeley, could not think 
 Dr. Rane was guilty. And, even though he were, he began 
 to question whether it would not be better for his father's 
 sake, for all their sakes, to let the matter lie. Richard, pur- 
 suing his natural bias, put the two aspects together, and com- 
 pared them. On the one side there would be the merited 
 punishment of Oliver Rane and vengeance on Bessy's wrongs ; 
 the other would bring a terrible amount of pain, of exposure, 
 almost of disgrace. And Richard truly feared for the effect 
 it might have on Mr. North. Before his walk was over, he 
 decided that it would be infinitely best to hush the scandal up, 
 should that be still possible. 
 
 But, for his own satisfaction, he wished to get at the truth. 
 It seemed to him that he could hardly live in the uncertainty. 
 Taking a rapid resolution, he approached Dr. Rane's ; knocked 
 at the door, and asked old Phillis if he could see her 
 master. 
 
 She at once showed him into the dining-room. Dr. Rane, 
 weary perhaps with the cares of the day, had fallen back in 
 his chair asleep. He sprung up at the interruption ; a startled, 
 almost frightened expression appeared in his face. Richard 
 
Com ing very Near. 383 
 
 North could but notice it, and his heart failed him, for it 
 seemed to speak of guilt. Phillis shut them in together. 
 
 How Richard opened the interview, he scarcely knew, and 
 could never afterwards recal. He soon found that Dr. Rane 
 remained as yet in total ignorance of the stir that was abroad ; 
 and this rendered his task all the more difficult. Richard 
 entered on the communication in the most delicate manner 
 that the subject admitted of. Dr. Rane did not receive it 
 kindly. He first swore a great oath, and then — his fury 
 checked suddenly in its midst as if by some latent thought or 
 fear — he sank back in his chair and bent his head on his 
 breast, like a man struck dumb with tribulation. 
 
 " I think you need not have given credit to this report 
 against me, Richard North," he presently spoke in a reproach- 
 ful accent. "But I believe you lost confidence in me a year 
 and a half ago." 
 
 He so evidently alluded to the anonymous letter that Richard 
 did not affect to misunderstand him. It might be better to 
 speak openly. 
 
 " I believe you wrote that, Rane." 
 
 "True. I did. But not to injure your brother. Ithouo-ht 
 Alexander must be a bad man — that he must be leading 
 Edmund North into money difficulties to serve himself. I 
 had no cause to spare him, but the contrary, for he had in- 
 jured me, was injuring me daily; and I wrote what I did to 
 Mr. North, hoping it might expose Alexander and damn ge him. 
 There : you have it. I would rather have had my hand cut 
 off" — flinging it out with emotion — " than have hurt your 
 brother. I wished afterwards that it had been cut off first. 
 But if was too late then." 
 
 And because of that anonymous letter Dr. Rane knew, and 
 Richard felt, that the accusation, now made, gathered weio-fit. 
 When a man has been guilty of one thing, we think it a rea- 
 son why he may be guilty of another. 
 
 A silence ensued. They sat, the table between them. The 
 room was rather dark. The lamp had a shade on it, the fire 
 had burned low ; before the large window were stretched the 
 sombre curtains. Richard North would have given some 
 years of his life for this most distressing business never to have 
 come into it. 
 
 He went on with what he had to say. Dr. Rane, motion- 
 less now, kept his hand over his face while he listened. 
 Richard told of the public commotion ; of the unparalleled 
 
384 Bessy Rane. 
 
 shock it had been to himself, of the worse shock he feared ifc 
 might bring his father. Again there was an interruption : 
 but Dr. Rane in speaking did not raise his face. 
 
 " Is my personal liberty in danger ?" 
 
 " Not yet — in one sense. I believe you are under the sur- 
 veillance of the police." 
 
 "Watched by them?" 
 
 " Yes. But only to see that you do not get away." 
 
 " That is — they track me out and home, I am to under- 
 stand ? I am watched in and out of my patients' houses. If 
 I have occasion to pay country visits, these stealthy blood- 
 hounds are at my heels, night or day ? " 
 
 " I conclude it is so," answered Richard. 
 
 " Since when has this been ? " 
 
 " Since — I think since the day-before-yesterday. There is 
 a probability, as I hear, that the Secretary of State will be 
 applied to. If " 
 
 " For what purpose ?" 
 
 " For his authority to disturb the grave," said Richard in a 
 low tone. 
 
 Dr. Rane started up, a frenzy of fear apparent in his face. 
 
 " They — they — surely they are not talking of doing that ?" 
 he cried, turning white as death. 
 
 " Yes they are. To have her disturbed will be to us the 
 most painful of all." 
 
 " Stop it, for the Lord's sake!" came the imploring cry. 
 " Stop it, Richard North ! Stop it ! " 
 
 But at that moment there burst upon their ears a frightful 
 clatter outside the door. Richard opened it. Dr. Rane, who 
 had sunk on his seat again, never stirred. Old Phillis, coming 
 in from the scullery after a cleaning bout, had accidentally let 
 fall nearly a small cart-loadful of pots and pans. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 " EST-CE QU'lL M'AIME ?" 
 
 Wintry weather set in again. The past few days had been 
 intensely cold and bleak. Ellen Adair sat in one of her 
 favourite out-door seats. Well sheltered from the wind by 
 artificial rocks and clustering evergreens, and well wrapped- 
 up besides, she did not seem to feel the frost. 
 
 Her later days had been one long great trial. Compelled 
 
" Est-ce qiiil viaime ?" 385 
 
 to meet Arthur Boliun perpetually, yet shunned by him as far 
 as it was possible for him to shun her without attracting too 
 much the observation of others, there were times ''when she 
 felt as though her position at the Hall were killing her. 
 Something, in fact, was killing her. Her state of mind was a 
 mixture of despair, shame, and self-reproach. Captain Bohun's 
 conduct brought to her the bitterest humiliation. Looking 
 back on the past, she thought he despised her for her ready 
 acquiescence in that wish of his for a private marriage : and 
 the self-repentance, the humiliation it entailed on her was of 
 all things the hardest to bear. She almost felt that she could 
 die of the memory — just as other poor creatures, whose sin 
 has been different, have died of their shame. To her mistaken 
 vision, it seemed as though the wrong deed she had consented 
 to — the secret marriage — were quite as much of a shame if not 
 of a sin. The view presented perpetually to her mind was, 
 that Captain Bohun so regarded it ; and had nothing for her 
 but scorn. This was the thought that tried her, that em- 
 bittered her peace by night and by day : it was doing her 
 more harm than all the rest. Her cheeks would redden, her 
 fiEgers tingle with shame as she recalled that fond letter she 
 had written to him from Eastsea, when even then, though she 
 did not know it, he had given her up. To one so sensitively 
 organised as Ellen Adair, reared in all the graces of reticent 
 and refined feeling, this compelled sojourn at Dallory Hall 
 could indeed be nothing less than a fiery ordeal, from which 
 there might be no escape to former health and strength. 
 
 Very still she sat to-day, nursing her pain. Her face was 
 wan, her breathing short : that past cold she had caught 
 seemed to hang by her strangely. No further news had been 
 received from Mr. Adair, and Ellen supposed he was on his 
 way home. After to-day her position would not be quite so 
 trying, for Arthur Bohun was quitting Dallory. Sir Nash 
 had decided that he was strong enough now to travel, and 
 they were to depart together at two o'clock. It was past 
 twelve now. And so — the sunshine of Ellen Adair's life had 
 gone out. Never, as she believed, would a gleam come into 
 it again. 
 
 In spite of the commotion beyond the walls of the Hall 
 now increasing daily and hourly to a climax, in spite of 
 Madam's never resting personal exertions to urge it on, and 
 to crush Oliver Rane, no word of the dreadful accusation had 
 as yet transpired within to its chief inmates. Mr. North, his 
 
 c 
 
386 Bessy Rane. 
 
 daughter Matilda, Ellen Adair, Sir Nash Bohun, and Arthur ; 
 all were alike in igorance. The servants of course knew of 
 it, going out to Dallory, as they often did : but Madam had 
 issued her sharp orders to them to hold their tongues ; and 
 Richard had begged them not to speak of it for their master's 
 sake. As to Sir Nash and Arthur Bohun, Richard was only 
 too glad that they should depart without hearing the scandal. 
 
 He himself was doing all he could to stop proceedings and 
 allay excitement. Since the night of his interviews with Jelly, 
 Mr. Seeley, and Dr. Rane, Richard had devoted his best 
 energies to the work of suppression. He did not venture to 
 see any official person, the coroner excepted, or impress his 
 views on the magistrates ; but he went about amid the popu- 
 lace, and poured oil on the troubled watei's. " For my father's 
 sake, do not press this on," he said to them ; " let my sister's 
 grave rest." 
 
 " Just like Dick North," quoth they, one to another. " Ho 
 was always for peace." 
 
 In effect he said the same to the coroner ; begging of him, 
 if possible, to stop it ; and he implied to all, though not abso- 
 lutely asserting it, that Dr. Rane could not be guilty. So 
 that Ellen Adair, sitting there, had not this knowledge to give 
 her additional trouble. 
 
 A little blue leaf — as it looked — suddenly caught her eye, 
 peeping up from a mossy and tangled green nook, at the foot 
 of the rocks. She rose, and stooped to see. It was a winter 
 violet. Plucking it, she sat down again, and fell into thought. 
 
 For it had brought vividly before her memory, that long- 
 past day, when she had played out her play of violets in the 
 garden at Mrs. Cumberland's. " Est-ce qu'il m'aime ? Oui. 
 Non. Un peu. Beaucoup. Pas du tout. Passionnement. 
 II 111' aims passionnement." ' False augurs, those flowers had 
 been ! Deceitful blossoms which had combined to mock and 
 sting her. The contrast between that time and this brought 
 to Ellen Adair a whole flood-tide of intense misery. And 
 those foolish violets were hidden away still ! Should she 
 carry this in-doors and add it to them ? 
 
 By-and-qy she began to walk towards the house. Turning 
 a corner presently she was brought suddenly to the midst of 
 three excited people : Captain Bohun, Miss Dallory, and 
 Matilda North. The two former had met accidentally in the 
 walk. Miss Dallory's morning errand at the Hall was to say 
 good-bye to Sir Nash ; and before she and Captaiu Bohun had 
 
44 Est-ce quit niaimc t 3 3; 
 
 well exchanged greetings, Matilda bore down upon them in a 
 state of agitation, calling wildly to Arthur to stay and hear 
 the tidings she had just heard. 
 
 The tidings were those that had been so marvellously long 
 kept from her and from others at the Hall — the accusation of 
 Dr. Rane. Matilda North had just learnt them in an accidental 
 manner : in her horror and surprise she had run after her half- 
 brother, Arthur, to repeat the story. Ellen Adair found her 
 talking in wild excitement. Arthur, rather yellow still, was 
 turning to a pale straw colour as he listened; Mary Dallory, 
 to whom it was no news, had covered up her face. 
 
 But Arthur Bohun and Matilda North were strong enough 
 to bear it without any very palpable effect. Ellen Adair was 
 not. As she drank in the meaning of the dreadful words — that 
 Bessy had been murdered — a deadly sickness seized upon her 
 heart ; and she had only time to sit down on a garden bench 
 before she fainted away. 
 
 " You should not have told it so abruptly, Matilda," cried 
 Arthur almost passionately. "It has made even me feel ill. 
 Get some water : you'll go quicker than I should." 
 
 Alarmed at Ellen's state, and eager to be of service, both 
 Matilda and Miss Dallory ran in search of the water. Arthur 
 Bohun sat down on the bench to support her. His path in life 
 was to lie that way, and hers this, the further apart the better ; 
 but he could not in humanity — no, nor in love either — walk 
 away now and leave her to recover alone as she best could. 
 
 Her head lay on his breast, as he placed it. She was entirely 
 without consciousness : he saw that. His arm encircled her 
 waist ; he took one of her lifeless hands between his, to rub it. 
 Thus he sat, gazing down at the pale thin face so near to his ; 
 the face which he — he — had helped to rob of its bloom. 
 
 Oh, but he loved her still ! loved her better than he did all 
 the rest of the world put together ! Holding her there to his 
 beating heart, he knew it. He knew that he only loved her 
 the more truly for their bitter estrangement. His frame was 
 trembling, his pulses were thrilling with the rapture this 
 momentary contact brought him. If he might but embrace 
 her, as of old ! Should he ? Why not ? No human soul, 
 save himself, would ever know it. A strangely irrepressible 
 yearning, to touch her lips with his, came into his eyes and 
 heart. Glancing keenly around first, lest any prying evea 
 should be in ambush, he slightly lifted the pale sweet face, and 
 bent down his own. 
 
■^S8 Bessy Ranc. 
 
 " Oh, my darling ! My lost darling !" 
 
 Lips, cheeks, brow were kissed again and again, with a soft 
 impassioned tenderness, with a kind of hungry rapture. It 
 was so long since he had touched them ! Was he ever going 
 to leave off ? A sigh — more than one — escaped him ; a little 
 sound of irrepressible emotion : and he knew not whether it 
 contained most of bliss or of agony. 
 
 This treatment was quite effective ; more so than the water 
 could have been. Ellen drew a deep breath, and stirred un- 
 easily. As soon as she began really to revive, he managed to 
 get his coat off and fold it across the head and arm of the 
 bench. When Ellen awoke to conciousness, she had her head 
 leaning on it ; and Captain Bohun stood at a very respectful 
 distance, gingerly chafing one of her hands. Never a suspicion 
 crossed her mind of what he had been doing. 
 
 " You are better," he said, " I am so glad ! " 
 
 The words, in his voice, aroused her fully. She lifted her 
 head and opened her eyes, and gazed around her in bewilder- 
 ment, at first remembering nothing. But what Matilda had 
 said came back with a rush. 
 
 " Is it true ? " she exclaimed, looking piteously at him. " It 
 never can be true ! " 
 
 "I don't know," he answered. "If false, it is almost as 
 dreadful to us who hear it. Poor Bessy ! I loved her as my 
 very dear sister." 
 
 Ellen, exhausted by the fainting fit, her nerves unstrung by 
 me news, burst into a flood of distressing tears. Matilda and 
 Miss Dallory running up with water, wine, and smelling-salts, 
 found her sobbing aloud. 
 
 " It is the reaction after the faintness," said Captain Bohun 
 to them in a Avhisper. 
 
 But she soon recovered her equanimity, so far as outward 
 calmness went, without the aid of any of the remedies — which 
 she declined. Rising from the bench, she turned towards the 
 house. Her steps tottered a little. 
 
 " Do give your arm to support Miss Adair, Captain Bohun," 
 spoke Mary Dallory in a sharp quick tone, surprised perhaps 
 that he did not. And upon that, Captain Bohun went to 
 Ellen's side, and held it out. 
 
 "Thank you," she answered, and refused it with a slight 
 movement of the head. 
 
 They walked on at first all in a group, as it were. But 
 Matilda and Miss Dallory got far ahead, the former talking in 
 
" Est-ce qiiil nCaime V* 389 
 
 a most excited state about Bessy Rane and the miserable accu- 
 sation in regard to her. Ellen's steps were slower ; which she 
 could not help ; and Captain Bohun kept by her side. 
 
 "May I wish you good-bye here, Ellen?" he suddenly 
 asked, stopping towards the end of the shrubbery, through 
 which they had been passing. 
 
 " Good-bye," she faintly answered. 
 
 He took her hand. That is, he held out his own, and Ellen 
 almost mechanically put hers into it. To have made a to-do, 
 by refusing, would have hurt her pride worse than all. Ho 
 kept it within his, clasping his other hand upon it. For a 
 moment his eyes met hers. 
 
 "It may be, that we shall never again cross each other's 
 path in life, Ellen. God bless you, my love, and keep you 
 always ! I wish to heaven, for both our sakes, that we had 
 never met ! " 
 
 " Good-bye," she coldly repeated as he dropped her hand. 
 And they walked on in silence and gained the lawn, where the 
 two in advance had turned to wait for them. 
 
 But. this was destined to be an eventful day : to others, at 
 least, if not to them. At the appointed time, Sir Nash Bohun 
 and Arthur took their departure ; Richard North, who had 
 paid the baronet the attention of coming home to luncheon — 
 for there was no concealment now as to who was the true host 
 at Dallory hall — seeing them into their carriage. 
 
 "You have promised to come and stay with me, Richard," 
 said the baronet, at the last hand-shake. 
 
 " Conditionally. When my work shall allow me leisure," 
 answered Richard, laughing. 
 
 " Can't you go with us to the station, Dick ? " put in Arthur. 
 
 " Not to-day, I fear. I must hold an immediate interview 
 with Madam — something important. If you waited for mo 
 you might lose the train." 
 
 Arthur bent his face — one of pain now — close to Dick's, and 
 whispered. 
 
 " Is it money-trouble again, Richard ? " 
 
 "' No ; not this time." 
 
 " If she brings that on you in future, turn her over to me. 
 Yes, Richard: I must deal with it now." 
 
 Farewells were exchanged, and the carriage drove away. 
 Richard, stepping backwards, trod on Miss Dallory. 
 
 " I beg your pardon ! " he exclaimed. " Have I hurt you ? 
 I did not know von were there." 
 
390 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Of course you have not hurt me : and I had no business 
 to be there. I stood to wave my handkerchief to them. 
 Good afternoon, Mr. Richard." 
 
 "Are you going ? " he asked. 
 
 " I am engaged, to spend the afternoon and take tea with 
 Mrs. Gass. That luncheon was my dinner. I saw you looking 
 at me as if you thought I eat a great deal." 
 
 "Miss Dallory!" 
 
 She laughed slightly. 
 
 " To confess the truth, I don't think I noticed whether you 
 eat anything or nothing," said Richard. " I have a great deal 
 of trouble on my mind just now — of more kinds than one. 
 Good afternoon." 
 
 He would be returning to Dallory himself in perhaps a few 
 minutes, but he never said to her " Stay, and I will walk 
 with you." Miss Dallory thought of it as she went away. It 
 had indeed crossed Richard's mind to say so : but he arrested 
 the words as they were about to leave his lips. If she was to 
 be Arthur Bohun's wife, the less Richard saw of her the 
 better. 
 
 Enquiring for Madam when ho went indoors, he found she 
 was ensconsed in her boudoir. Richard went up, knocked at 
 the door, and opened it. Madam appeared not to approve of 
 the procedure ; she bore down on him with a swoop, and 
 would have shut him out. 
 
 " What do you want here, Richard North ? I am not at 
 liberty. I cannot admit you." 
 
 "Pardon me, Madam, I must speak with you for five 
 minutes," he answered, passing quietly in. 
 
 By something he had heard that morning from Dale, Richard 
 had reason to suppose that Mrs. North was still actively pursu- 
 ing the charge against Dr. Rane ; that is, was urging in high 
 quarters the imperative necessity for an investigation. 
 Richard had come to ask her whether this was the case, and 
 to beg her, once for all, to be still. He sat down uninvited 
 while he put the question. 
 
 But Madam acknowledged nothing. In fact, she led him 
 to believe that it was entirely untrue ; that she had not 
 stirred in it at all since the caution Richard had given her, 
 not to, some days ago. It was simply impossible for him to 
 know whether what she said might be depended on — for she 
 told more falsehood than truth habitually. Richard could 
 only hope. 
 
A Fine Night's Work. 39 1 
 
 " It would be a terrible exposure for us," he urged. 
 "Madam, I beg you; I beg you for all our sakes, be still. 
 You know not what you would do." 
 
 She nodded an ungracious acquiescence: and Richard de- 
 parted for his works, casually mentioning to Mr. North, as he 
 passed him in the garden, that he should not be home until 
 night. Like Miss Dallory, he had intended the mid-day meal 
 to serve for his dinner. 
 
 " Dick," cried Mr. North, arresting him, " what's the matter 
 with Matilda ? She seems to be in a fine commotion over 
 something or other." 
 
 Richard knew not what to answer. If his father had to be 
 told, why better that he himself should be the teller. There 
 was still a chance that it might be kept from him. 
 
 " Something or other gone wrong, I suppose, sir. Never 
 mind. How well those new borders look ! " 
 
 " Don't they, Dick ! I'm glad I had them put." 
 
 And Richard went on to his works. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 A FINE NIGHT'S WORK. 
 
 Night had fallen. And it was not a bright or pleasant one. 
 
 Some few skulkers had gathered behind the dwarf hedge, 
 that skirted the piece of waste land near the North Works. 
 An ill-looking lot of men, seen as at present : for they had 
 knelt down so as to bring themselves nearly on a level with 
 the top of the hedge. Their eyes just cleared it, and the view 
 beyond was not interrupted. Poole was in the middle ; his 
 face sternly savage, and a pistol in his right hand. 
 
 Of all the men who had returned to work, the most ob- 
 noxious to the ex-hands was one named Ralley. It was not 
 so much because he had been a turn-coat — that is, after hold- 
 ing out to the eleventh moment, had finally gone back at the 
 twelfth — that the men hated him, as because they believed him 
 to be treacherous. Ralley had been red-hot for the strike ; 
 had done more by his agitation than any one man to bring it 
 about. He had resolutely refused all the overtures made by 
 Richard North : and yet — he had gone back when the works 
 were finally re-opened. For this the men heartily despised 
 him— far more than they did those who had been ready to go 
 
392 Bessy Rane, 
 
 back ail along. In addition to this, they had been suspecting 
 — and lately had felt sure — that he was a snake in the grass. 
 That he had laid himself out to pickup, fairly or stealthily, as 
 might be, bits of information about them, their doings and 
 sayings, their miserable condition, and threats of revenge, and 
 carried them to the works and to Richard North. And so — 
 the contents of this pistol, that Poole held in his hand, were 
 meant for Ralley. 
 
 For a long time the malcontents of North Inlet had been 
 burning to take vengeance on somebody : some new treachery 
 on Ralley 's part, or suspected treachery, had come to light, 
 and they determined to shoot him. Oh, poor, misguided, 
 foolish men ! As if it would make things better for them ! 
 Suppose they killed Ralley, how would it ease their condition ? 
 Ralley had not suffered half what they suffered. He was 
 an unmarried man ; and, during the strike, he had been helped 
 by his relatives, who were pretty well off, so that he had 
 known neither starvation nor rags, as they had : and this 
 made his returning to work look all the worse in their eyes. 
 Ralley was about the age of Richard North, and not unlike 
 bim in height and figure : so much like him, indeed, that since 
 their evil act had been determined on, one of the others had 
 bade Poole take care he did not mistake the master for him. 
 Poole's sullen rejoinder was, that 'twould not much matter if 
 he did. 
 
 The night was dark; a drizzling rain had come on, and that 
 part was not too well lighted. The small band, about to issue 
 from the gates of the works, would come down by this waste 
 land and pass within some fifteen yards of them. Poole had 
 been a famous marksman in his day, and felt sure of his aim. 
 John Allen knelt at his right hand, one Denton at the other; 
 another beyond on either side : five in all. 
 
 Five o'clock struck. Almost simultaneously with it was 
 heard the bell at the Avorks, giving token that it was time for 
 the men to go to tea. Three or four sharp, quick strokes : 
 nothing more. 
 
 " That's Green, I'll swear," cried Denton, alluding to the 
 ringer. "I didn't know he was back again : his rheumatics 
 must be better." 
 
 " Hush — sh — sh ! " was all Denton got. And there ensued 
 a death-like silence. Not for long. Poole broke it. 
 
 " Where the devil are they ? — why don't they come ? " 
 
 Ay, why did they not come ? Simply because there had 
 
A Fine Night's Work. 393 
 
 been scarcely sufficient time for it. But every moment, to 
 these would-be murderers, kneeling there, seemed like a long 
 drawn-oat period. 
 
 " Here they be," whispered Denton. 
 
 It was so. The men were coming out at the gate, about 
 twenty of them ; two and two ; the policemen to-night heading 
 the string. At times the officers were behind it, at other times 
 on either side. Poole rose cautiously and prepared to take 
 aim. They were coming across from the gates at a kind of 
 right angle, and presently would pass the hedge, side-ways. 
 This was the second night the men had thus lain in ambush. 
 The previous one they had alike awaited ; but Ralley happened 
 to be then on the other side his companion in the march, and 
 so for the time was saved. 
 
 Allen stretched his head up. His sight was as keen as a 
 sailor's. 
 
 " Which side's he on, Jack?" whispered Poole. "I don't 
 see him yet." 
 
 For answer John Allen put his hand quickly on Poole's arm 
 to lower the pistol. "No good again, mates," said he. 
 " Ralley ain't there." 
 
 " Not there ! " retorted Poole with a vile oath. 
 
 " I'm as nigh sure as I can be of it," said Allen. " "Wait till 
 they come nearer." 
 
 It proved to be so. Ralley for some cause or other was not 
 with the men. 
 
 " Rat him ! " cried Denton, furiously. 
 
 Tramp, tramp, tramp ; their tread sounded regular in the 
 stillness of the night as they passed, the policemen throwing 
 their eyes on all sides. Poole had crouched down again. He 
 and his companions in evil kept very still : it would not do to 
 let either movement be seen, or noise be heard. 
 
 The steps died away in the distance, and the conspirators 
 ventured to raise their heads. Allen happened to look in the 
 direction of the gates. 
 
 " By Jorkins here he is !" burst forth Allen almost with a 
 scream. "Something kept him back. Now's our time, 
 mates. Here's Ralley." 
 
 " That ain't his hat, Jack Allen," dissented one. 
 
 " Hat be smothered ! it's him" said John Allen. 
 
 Ralley was coming on very quickly, a dark, low-crowned 
 hat drawn down on his brows. A minute's silence, during 
 which you might have heard their hearts beat, and then ■ 
 
394 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Poole fired. Ralley gave a cry ; staggered, and walked on. 
 He was struck, no doubt, but not killed. 
 
 " Your boasted aim bas failed, Poole," cried Denton witb a 
 savage oatb. 
 
 Not more savage tban Poole's, tbougb, as be burst tbrougb, 
 or over, tbe low bedge. Wbat tbe bullet bad not done, the 
 pistol itself sbould. Suddenly, witb a sbriek and a cry, Allen 
 burst after bim, sbouting to him to stay bis band. 
 
 " It's tbe master, Poole ; it's not Ralley. Stop, you fool ! 
 — it's tbe master." 
 
 Too late. It was, indeed, Richard North. And Mr. Poole 
 bad felled bim by a wicked blow on tbe temple. 
 
 Mrs. Gass and Mary Dallory were seated at tea in a sub- 
 dued mood — for tbe conversation bad turned on tbose 
 dreadful rumours tbat, in spite of Ricbard North, could not be 
 bushed, but on the contrary were growing worse hourly 
 Stoutly was Mrs. Gass asserting that she had more faith in 
 Dr. Rane than to believe them, when some commotion dawned 
 on their ears from the street. Mrs. Gass stopped in the midst 
 of a sentence. 
 
 " What's that ? " she cried. 
 
 Fleet steps seemed to be running hither and thither; voices 
 were raised in excitement. They distinctly heard the words, 
 " Mr. Richard," " Richard North." Mrs. Gass drew aside her 
 crimson curtains, and opened the window. 
 
 " Here — is it you, Smith ?" she said, arresting a man who 
 was running in the wake of others. " What is it ? What's 
 up?" 
 
 " I don't rightly know, ma'am," he answered. " They are 
 saying that Mr. Richard North has been shot dead." 
 
 "Lord help us!" cried Mrs. Gass. She shut down the 
 window and brought her face round to the light again. Every 
 bit of colour had gone out of it. Mary Dallory stood rigidly 
 upright, her hands clasped, still as one who had been turned 
 into stone. 
 
 " Did you hear- what he said, child ?" 
 
 " I heard," was the scarcely spoken answer that the lips 
 formed. 
 
 Mrs. Gass caught up a bonnet, which happened to lie on a 
 chair, tilted it on her head, and went into the street. At the 
 entrance to North Inlet a crowd was gathered, men and 
 women. As in all such cases, reports varied. Some said it 
 
A Fine Night's Work. 395 
 
 had taken place in the high road to Whitborough, some said 
 at the works, some said near Dallory Hall. So the mob was 
 puzzled which way to go and not miss the sight. Thorns was 
 talking at the top of his voice as Mrs. Gass got up ; anxious, 
 perhaps, to disclaim complicity on his own S3ore. 
 
 " They've had it in their heads to do it, some o' them bad 
 uns have. I could name names, but I won't. If the master 
 had knowed all, he'd ha' went about in fear of his life this 
 long while past." 
 
 This was enough for Mrs. Gass. Gathering her black silk 
 skirts in her hands that they should not trail in the mud, her 
 bonnet lodged sideways, and her face paler than the assem- 
 blage had ever seen it, she stood, unmindful of the rain, and 
 told them what she thought. 
 
 " If you've shot Richard North, you have shot the best and 
 bravest man you'll ever know in this life. You'll never find 
 such a friend again. Oh, he was brave. Brave to do good in 
 the midst o' difficulties, brave to forbear. Don't you boast, 
 Thorns, with your glib tongue. None of you men round mo 
 now may be the one that's shot him, but you've been all 
 rowing in the same boat. Yes, you have. You mayn't havo 
 planned out murder yourselves — I'd not answer for it that 
 you've not — but, any way, you knowed that otlfers was a- 
 planning it, and you winked at it and held your tongues. Who 
 has been the friend to you that Richard North has ? Since 
 you've been part starving, and your wives and children's been 
 part starving, where has all the help come from, d'ye suppose, 
 that has kept you from starving quite ? Why, from him. The 
 most of it has come from him. The money I gave was his, the 
 things I bought was mostly paid for by him. A little of it 
 came from me, not much ; I was too angry with your folly ; 
 but he couldn't see you quite clam, and he took care you 
 shouldn't. Look at how you were all helped through the 
 fever ; and meat, and bread, and beer gave to you to get up 
 your strength a bit, after it ! Who did all that ? Why 
 Richard North. You thought it was me ; but it was him ; 
 only he wouldn't have it known. That was his return for all 
 the black ingratitude you'd showed, in refusing to work for 
 him and bringing him to ruin. Pray God he may not be dead ! 
 but if he is, there's a good man gone to his reward. Is that 
 you, Ketler ?" 
 
 " Yes, it's me," answered Ketler, who was standing in the 
 6hadow, a worse gloom on his face than the night cast. 
 
396 Bessy Ranc. 
 
 " When that child of yourn died, Cissy — and many a little. 
 help did she get in life from him — who took care that sho 
 shouldn't be buried by the parish but Richard North ? He 
 met Fanny Jelly, and he put some money into her hand, and 
 charged her to let it be thought it was hers. ' They are in 
 great distress, I know, Jelly,' he said ; ' let this be used in any 
 way that's best for them.' Go and ask Jelly, if you don't be- 
 lieve me : I had it from her. And that's the master you've 
 been conspirating together to help to kill, Ketler ! " 
 
 Ketler swallowed down a rising sob. " I'd never have raised 
 a hand again the master ; no, nor countenanced it. If any- 
 body has said I would, it's a lie." 
 
 " There's not one of you but knew what mischief was in the 
 wind, or might have knew it ; and you've countenanced it by 
 keeping silence," retorted Mrs. Grass. "You are a pack of 
 cowards. First of all you ruin him by throwing up his work, 
 and when you find yourselves all a-clamming together, or nigh 
 upon it, you turn round on him and kill him. May the Lord 
 forgive you ! I never will." 
 
 Some disturbance. A tramping of feet, and a shouting of 
 running boys. Mrs. Gass was pushed aside with others to 
 make way for the cause of interruption passing. Poole, Denton, 
 John Alle», and one more were marching by in handcuffs, 
 marshalled by some policemen. A telling hiss greeted them. 
 
 " 'Twas a mistake," said Jack Allen, in answer to the hiss, 
 reckless under his untoward fate. " 'Twas meant for Ralley, 
 not for the master." 
 
 " Is he dead ? " called out Mrs. Gass. 
 
 But amidst the confusion she got no answer. And at that 
 moment she became aware of a pale countenance near her, 
 peeping out from a muffling of wool. 
 
 "Good gracious, Mary, child! You shouldn't be out here." 
 
 " I have been with you all the while." 
 
 " Then, my dear, you just betake yourself home again. I'll 
 come in as soon as I can learn the truth, and where he is." 
 
 Mrs. Gass had not long to wait. Almost as she spoke, 
 Richard North appeared : and thereupon ensued more excite- 
 ment than ever. Blood was trickling from his temple, but he 
 appeared quite sensible, and was walking slowly, helped by 
 two men. 
 
 " Thank God !" said Mrs. Gass aloud : and the words were 
 heartily echoed. " To my house, men. Mr. Richard, sir, it is 
 but a few steps more, and we'll soon get the doctor. A fino 
 
A Fine Night's Work. 397 
 
 night's work, this is ! " she concluded, not speaking in refer- 
 ence to the weather, but to the "work." 
 
 Little Barrington, the druggist, came out of his shop, and 
 helped to put Richard on Mrs. Gass's sofa. They got his 
 coat off. The left arm was injured, as well as the temple. 
 Barrington staunched the blood, trickling from the latter ; but 
 the arm he preferred not to meddle with. "He had better 
 be kept quite quiet, until the surgeon comes," said the 
 druggist to Mrs. Gass. 
 
 Mrs. Gass cleared the room. About fifty excited messen- 
 gers had run to the Ham for Mr. Seeley or Dr. Rane, or both 
 if they should be found at home. She stood at the front 
 door, looking out and waiting. 
 
 Richard North, three parts in a faint, lay with his eyes 
 closed. Opening them in the still room, he saw Mary 
 Dallory kneeling by the sofa, pale and sad. He smiled 
 faintly, and her tears began to drop. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed," he whispered. " It might have been 
 worse." 
 
 " I would have given my life to save yours, Richard," she 
 impetuously exclaimed in the delirium of the moment. And, 
 leaning forward, the tears fell now on his face. 
 
 His right hand went out a little and hers met it. 
 
 " Richard, I wish I might stay and nurse you. You have 
 no sister," she added, as an after-thought. " Matilda is use- 
 less in a sick-room." 
 
 Richard North nervously pressed her fingers. " Don't try 
 me too much, Mary. I am caring for you already more than 
 is good for my peace. Don't tempt me." 
 
 "And if I were to tempt you ? — Though I don't quite take 
 the meaning, " she rejoined softly andnervously. ' ' What then ? " 
 
 "I might say what I ought not." And there he paused. 
 
 "It would make it all the harder for me," he continued. 
 " I am a man of the people ; a man of work. You will belong 
 to — to one of a different order." 
 
 She knew he alluded to Arthur Bohun, and laughed slightly. 
 
 But, though she said no more, she left her hand in his, their 
 fingers entwining together. Richard thought it was done 
 solely in compassion. 
 
 And now there was a bustle heard, and in came Mr. Seeley, 
 his face hot with running. The hands parted, and Mary 
 Dallory went round to the other side of the table, standing 
 there in decorum. 
 
29 S Bessy Ratie. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 DISTURBING THE GEAVE. 
 
 By twos and thi'ees, by fours and fives, by teas and by dozens, 
 the curious and excited groups were wending their way to 
 Dallory churchyard. For a certain work was going on there, 
 which had never been performed in it within the memory of 
 the oldest inhabitant. 
 
 Richard North was lying at Dallory Hall, incapacitated. 
 When Mr. Seeley — assisted by Dr. Rane, who came in — 
 examined int ohis injuries at Mrs. Gass's, he pronounced them 
 not to be grave. The bullet had struck a fleshy part of the 
 arm, and passed off from it, leaving a wound. Care and rest 
 only would be necessary to heal it ; and the same might be 
 said with regard to the blow on the temple. Perfect quiet 
 was essential, perfect rest, to guard against any after conse- 
 quences. Mrs. Gass wished Richard to stay at her house and 
 be nursed through it ; but he thought of the trouble it would 
 cause in her regular household, and said he preferred to bo 
 taken home. It was Mr Seeley who continued to attend him 
 by Richard's own wish ; not Dr. Rane. The public thought 
 the rejection of the latter ominously significant, in spite of 
 Richard's recent exertions to do away with the impression of 
 his guilt. 
 
 " Understand : absolute quiet both of body and mind," 
 enjoined Mr. Seeley, not only to Richard himself but to the 
 family and servants. " If you have that, Mr. Richard, you 
 will be about again in a short time : if you do not have it, I 
 cannot undertake to answer for the result." 
 
 But Richard North, with his good common sense, was an 
 obedient patient. He knew how necessary it was, if only for 
 his recommenced business, that he should not long be laid by, 
 and he kept as quiet as Mr. Seeley could wish. No stranger 
 was allowed to disturb him ; none of the household presumed 
 to carry him the smallest particle of news, public or domestic. 
 It was during this confinement of Richard's that Ellen 
 Adair received her summons for departure. Her father had 
 arrived in London, and wrote to Mrs. Cumberland — all uncon- 
 scious of that lady's death — begging that she and Ellen would 
 join him there. He apologized to Mrs. Cumberland for not 
 coming to Dallory, but said that family business required hia 
 
Disturbing the Grave. 399 
 
 presence in London. Mr. North at first proposed to take 
 Ellen up himself : but he was really not fit to do it : and it 
 was decided that Parrit, Madam's maid, should attend her 
 thither. 
 
 Ellen was allowed to go in and bid good-bye to Richard 
 before her departure. She burst into tears as she strove to 
 thank him for his kindness. 
 
 " You must come and see papa as soon as you are well 
 enough, Richard. When I tell him how kind you have been, 
 he will want to see and thank you." 
 
 "Good-bye, my dear," said Richard, releasing her hand. 
 " I trust you will soon get up all your good spirits again, now 
 your father has come." 
 
 She smiled faintly : it was not on her father — so imper- 
 fectly, if at all, remembered — that her spirits depended. As 
 Ellen was passing through the hall to enter the carriage that 
 would take her to the station, she found herself touched by 
 Madam, and drawn into the dining-room. 
 
 " Tou have not seemed very happy with us, Miss Adair. 
 But I have tried to make you so." 
 
 " Yes, Madam, I am sure you have ; and I thank you very 
 much," returned Ellen gratefully — for Madam really did 
 appear to have been most kind to her of late. " I trust papa 
 will have an opportunity of thanking you and Mr. North 
 personally." 
 
 Madam coughed. " If you think I deserve thanks, I wish 
 you would do me a slight favour in return." 
 
 "If I can. Certainly." 
 
 " Some years ago, when we were in India," proceeded 
 Madam, " my late husband, Major Bohun, and your father 
 were acquainted with each other. Some unpleasant circum- 
 stances took place between them : a quarrel in fact. Major 
 Bohun considered he was injured ; Mr. Adair thought it was 
 himself who was. It was altogether very painful, and I 
 would not for the world have that old matter raked up again; 
 it would cost me too much pain. Will you, then, guard from 
 Mr. Adair's knowledge that I, Mrs. North, am she who was 
 once Mrs. Bohun." 
 
 " Yes, I will," said Ellen in the hasty impulse of the 
 moment, without pausing to consider whether circumstances 
 would allow her to do so. 
 
 " You promise me this." 
 
 " Yes, certainly. I will never speak of it to him, madam." 
 
4C0 Bessy Rane. 
 
 "Thank you, my dear." And Madam kissed her, and w . 
 her out arm in arm to the carriage. 
 
 Day by day Richard North never failed to question the sur- 
 geon in a whisper, whether there was anything fresh arising 
 in regard to the accusation against Dr. Rane. The answer 
 was invariably No. In point of fact, Mr. Seeley, not hearing 
 more of it himself, supposed there was not; *and at length, 
 partly in good faith, partly to calm his patient, who was rest- 
 less on the subject, he said it had dropped through. 
 
 Had it ! During Richard's active opposition, Madam had 
 found her hands somewhat crippled ; for she scarcely deemed 
 it might be altogether to her own interest at the Hall to set 
 him at defiance : but the moment he was laid up, she was at 
 work again more actively than ever. It was nothing but a 
 Providence, Madam considered, that had put Richard out of 
 the way for a time : and could Madam have released Poole 
 from the consequences of his act, and sent him on his road re- 
 warded, she had certainly done it. She gained her point. 
 Poor Mrs. Rane was to be taken up from her grave. 
 
 Dale, who had it in hand, went about the proceedings &3 
 quietly and secretly as possible. He was sorry to have to do 
 it, for he bore no ill-will to Richard North, but the contrary, 
 and he knew how anxious he was that this should not be done ; 
 while at the same time the lawyer hated Madam. But, he had 
 no choice : he had received his orders, as coroner, to call an 
 inquest, and could not evade it. He issued his instructions in 
 private, strictly charging the few, who must act, to keep 
 silence abroad. And not a syllable transpired beforehand. 
 
 The work was commenced in the dark of the winter's morn- 
 ing. By ten o'clock, however, the men had been seen in the 
 churchyard, and secrecy was no longer possible. Like wild- 
 fire ran the news to all parts of Dallory — Mrs. Rane was 
 being taken up. Never had there been excitement akin to 
 this. People rushed about like maniacs. They made nothing 
 of knocking at the doors of others who were strangers to them 
 and leaving the tidings : the street was in an uproar, the 
 windows were alive with heads : had Dallory suddenly found 
 itself invaded by a destroying army, the commotion could not 
 have been greater, 
 
 Oh, then began the exodus to the churchyard. It was as 
 though strings of pilgrims were flocking to a shrine. Mr. 
 Dale had foreseen this probability, and was prepared. A body 
 of police appeared in the churchyard, and the pilgrims found 
 
Disturbing the Grave. 401 
 
 tliey could not approach the actual spot beyond the limits of 
 a respectful distance. Naturally resenting this, they relieved 
 their feelings by loud talking. 
 
 Jelly was there. Never nearer losing her reason than now. 
 Between dismay at what she had set afloat, and horror at the 
 crime about to be revealed, Jelly was not clear whether she 
 stood on her head or her heels. When the news was carried 
 to her of what was going on, Jelly nearly fainted. Now that 
 it had come to the point, she felt that she would have given 
 the world never to have meddled with it. It was not so much 
 of the responsibility to herself that she thought, as of the 
 dreadful aspect of the thing altogether. She went into a fit 
 of trembling, and ran into her chamber to hide it ; when 
 somewhat recovered, she asked leave of Mrs. Beverage to be 
 allowed to go out for a few hours. To have been compelled 
 to remain indoors would have driven her quite mad. The 
 morning was getting late when Jelly arrived at the scene, 
 and the first person she particularly noticed there was Mrs. 
 Gass. 
 
 But Mrs. Gass had not come forth in idle curiosity as most 
 others had done — and there were some superior people, in re- 
 gard to station, amidst the mob. Mrs. Gass was inexpressibly 
 shocked and dismayed that it should really have come to this. 
 Oliver Rane was her late husband's nephew ; she truly did 
 not think he could have been guilty : and she had hastened to- 
 the spot to see whether any argument or persuasion might 
 avail at this, the twelfth hour, to arrest proceedings and spare- 
 this disgrace to the North and Gass families. 
 
 But no. But no. Stepping over the barrier-line that the 
 police had drawn, without the smallest regard to the remon- 
 strance of a red-faced inspector, who was directing things, 
 Mrs. Gass approached the small throng around the grave. 
 She might have spared herself the pains. In answer to her 
 urgent appeal she was told that nobody here had any power 
 now ; it was gone out of their hands. In getting back, crest- 
 fallen, Mrs. Gass encountered Jelly. 
 
 " Well," said she, regarding Jelly sternly, " be you satisfied 
 with your work ? " 
 
 Jelly never answered. In her shame, her regret, her 
 humiliation at what she had done, she could almost have 
 wished herself labouring at some expiating treadmill. 
 
 " Any way, girl, you might have had the decency to keep 
 away." went on Mrs. Gass. 
 
 D D 
 
402 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " I couldn't," said Jelly, meekly. " I couldn't stop at homH 
 and bear it." 
 
 '• Then I'd have gone a mile or two the tother way," re- 
 ',orted Mrs. Gass. " You've got a face of your own — to show 
 .t here. And a conscience too." 
 
 A frightful noise interrupted them : something between a 
 shout and a yell. The heavy coffin was at length deposited 
 on the ground with the tired pick-axes beside it, and the 
 populace were expressing their mixed sentiments at the sight: 
 some in a round of applause at this great advance in the 
 show : others in a condemnatory groan of scorn meant for 
 him who had caused it — Dr. Rane. Mrs. Gass, what with 
 Ihe yelling, and what with the coffin and pick-axes, and what 
 with the crush, had never felt so cruelly humiliated in all her 
 days; and she retired behind a remote tree to hide her face of 
 pain. 
 
 "Where is he, the murderer ? Why don't he come and 
 look on at his poor victim ? She'll soon be open to sight. 
 The crowner ought to ancuff him and haul him here. — Rabbit 
 them watchful perlice ! They've got eyes behind 'em. They 
 wants to be blowed up with a can o' powder. Look at old 
 Jekyll there and his red face ! — Ugh ! the poisoner ! What 
 had poor Bessy North done to him, that he should put her in 
 there ! The lead's thick enough ! it'll take time to open that. 
 Bones ! Blood ! Fire ! " 
 
 These sentences, amidst many others, penetrated to Mrs. 
 Gass's ears. Just then Thomas Hepburn appeared in sight, 
 his face very sad and pale. 
 
 " Hepburn," said Mrs. Gass, " I can't think they'll find 
 anything wrong in there. My belief is she died natural. 
 Unless there were better grounds to go upon than I know of, 
 they ought not to have gone to this shameful length - " 
 
 "Ma'am, I don't think it, either," assented the man. "I'm 
 sure it has been more like a dream to me than anything else, 
 since I heard it. Folks say it is Madam at the Hall that has 
 forced it on." 
 
 Had Mrs. Gass been a man, she might have felt tempted to 
 give Madam a very strong word. What right had she, in her 
 ill-conditioned malice, to inflict this pain on others ? 
 
 " Whatever may be the upshot of this, Thomas Hepburn, 
 it will come home to her as sure as that we two be talking 
 here. What are you going there for ? " added Mrs. Gass, 
 for he was preparing to make his way towards the open grave. 
 
Disturbing the Grave. 403 
 
 11 I've had orders to be here, ma'am. Some of those law 
 officials don't understand this sort of work as well as I do." 
 
 He crossed over, the police making way for him, Inspector 
 Jckyll giving him a nod. Jelly was standing not far from 
 Mrs. Gass, leaning her forehead against a tree, as she strained 
 her eyes to look on. By the eagerness displayed by the crowd, 
 and the difficulty there was in keeping them back, it might 
 have been supposed they thought that they had only to get to 
 see the face of the dead body, lying within, to have all sus- 
 picion of Dr. Rane turned into fact. 
 
 The work went on. Now during an interval of almost 
 breathless silence ; now amidst a halfisnppressed roar. Sud- 
 denly, a frightful report was whispered from one to another ; 
 though who first spoke it, or whence it arose, none could dis- 
 cover — that their righteous curiosity was not to be gratified. 
 That as soon as the shell should be disinterred from the 
 leaden coffin, it was to be taken away unopened with what it 
 contained. 
 
 Unopened ! would they stand this ? "Were they English- 
 men, and should a miserable jackanapes-at-law (meant for 
 Dale) treat them in this way. Had not Bessy North grown 
 amidst them, and would they not see justice done her ? No, 
 no ; they had not come here to be cheated. They'd look on 
 her if they died for it. 
 
 The leaden covering came off amidst a tumult, and the 
 common deal shell alone remained now. So determined were 
 the mob, so threatening grew their aspect and movements — - 
 and, it was a pretty formidable mob now, as to numbers — that 
 a timorous old magistrate, who was present, left the grave : 
 and, putting up his hands for a hearing, assured them that 
 the shell was to be opened, and should be opened, there on 
 the ground. 
 
 It was at this juncture that another spectator came slowlv 
 up — although it might have been supposed that the whole of 
 Dallory was already there. The mob, their excited faces 
 turned to the old magistrate and to Thomas Hepburn, who 
 was already at work, did not see his approach. Which was 
 perhaps as well : for it was Dr Rane. 
 
 Even from him had these proceedings been kept secret, 
 perhaps especially from him : and it was only now, upon 
 coming forth to visit a patient in Dallory, that he learnt what 
 was taking place in the churchyard. He came to it at once : 
 his countenance was stern, his face whiter than death. 
 
404 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Mrs. Gass saw him ; Jelly saw him. Mrs. Gass silently- 
 moved to prevent his further approach, putting her portly 
 black silk skirts in his way. Her intentions were good. 
 
 " Go back," she whispered. "Steal away before you are 
 seen. Look at this unruly mob here. They might tear you 
 to pieces, doctor, in the humour they are in." 
 
 " Let them — when I have stopped that" he recklessly 
 answered, pointing to what Thomas Hepburn was doing. 
 
 "You are mad, doctor," cried Mrs. Gass in excitement. 
 " Stop that ! Why, look, sir, how impossible it would be, 
 even with the best wish, to stop it now. A nail or two more 
 knocked up, sir, and the lid's off." 
 
 It was as she said. Dr. Rane saw it. He took out his 
 handkerchief, and passed it over his damp face. 
 
 "Richard North gave me his word that he would stop it, if 
 it came to such a pass as this," he murmured to himself more 
 than to Mrs. Gass. 
 
 " Richard North knows no more o' this than it seems you 
 knew of it," she said. "He is shut up in his room at the 
 Hall, and hears nothing. Doctor, take advice and get away," 
 she imploringly whispered. " There's time yet." 
 
 " No," he doggedly said. " As it has gone so far, I'll stand 
 my ground now." 
 
 Mrs. Gass groaned. The sound was lost in a rush — afighfo 
 — a hoarse roar — policemen contending against King Mob, 
 King Mob against policemen. It turned even Mrs. Gass pale. 
 Dr. Rane voluntarily arrested his advancing steps. Jelly 
 lifted her face and peered out from the distant tree. 
 
 The lid had been lifted, and the open shell stood exposed. 
 It was more than the excited numbers could witness, and be 
 still. Inspector Jekyll and his fellows keep them back from 
 looking into it ? Never. A short, sharp struggle, and the 
 police and their staves were nowhere. With a triumphant 
 whoop the crowd flew forward. 
 
 But a strange hush, seemingly of consternation, had fallen 
 on those who stood at the grave ; a hush fell on these inter- 
 lopers as they reached it. The coffin was empty. 
 
 Of all unexpected stoppages to proceedings, official or 
 otherwise, a more complete one than this had never fallen. 
 The old magistrate, the coroner — who had just come striding 
 over the ground, to see how things were going on — Thomas 
 Hepburn, and others generally, stared at the empty coffin in 
 profound perplexity. 
 
Disturbing the Grave. 405 
 
 And the draggle-tail mob, when it had taken its fill of star- 
 ing also, elbowing each other in the process, and fighting rue- 
 fully for place and precedence, burst out into a roar. Not at 
 all a complimentary one to Dr. Rane. 
 
 " He have sold her for dissection, he have ! He never put 
 her in at all, he didn't ! He had a sham funeral ! 'Tvvarn't 
 enough to poison of her, but he must sell her a'ter it ! " 
 
 To accuse a man of these heinous offences behind his back 
 and beyond his hearing, is one thing, but it is not felt to be 
 quite so convenient to do it in his presence. The sight of Dr. 
 Rane walking calmly (not to say impudently) across the 
 churchyard into their very midst, struck a kind of timidity on 
 the spirits of the roarers. Silence supervened. They even 
 parted to let him pass, backing on each other's feet without 
 mercy. Dr. Rane threw his glance on the empty coffin, and 
 then on those who stood around it. 
 
 " Well," said he, " why don't you take me ? " 
 And not a soul ventured to reply. 
 
 " I have murdered my wife, have I ? If I have, why you 
 know I deserve no quarter. Come, Mr. Coroner, why don't 
 you issue your edict to arrest me ? You have your officer3 
 handy." 
 
 The exceeding independence with which this was spoken, 
 the impudent freedom of Dr. Rane's demeanour, the scornful 
 mockery of his tone, could not be surpassed. He had the best 
 of it now ; might say what he pleased, and laugh derisively at 
 them at will : and they knew it. Even Dale, the coroner, felt 
 small — which is saying a good deal of a lawyer. 
 
 Turning round, the doctor walked slowly back again, his 
 umbrella swinging, his head aloft in the air. Mrs. Cass met 
 him midway. 
 
 " Tell me the truth for the love of goodness, doctor. I have 
 
 never believed it of you. You did not help her to her death ? " 
 
 " Help her to her death ?" he retorted. " No : my wife was 
 
 too dear to me for that. I'd have killed the whole world 
 
 rather than her — if it must have come to killing at all." 
 
 "And I believe you, doctor," was the hearty response. 
 " And I have told everybody, from the first, that the charge 
 was wicked and preposterous." 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Gass." 
 
 He broke from her from any further questions she might 
 have put, and stalked away towards Dallory, coolly saying 
 that he had a patient to see. 
 
4o5 Bessy Rane. 
 
 As to the crowd, they really did not know what to make of 
 this : it was a shameful cheat. The small throng of officials, 
 including the police, seemed to know as little. To be enabled 
 to take Oliver Rane into custody for the poisoning of his wife 
 they must first find the wife, and ascertain whether she had 
 been poisoned. Lawyer Dale had never met with so bewilder- 
 ing a check in the long course of his practice ; the red-faced 
 Inspector stroked his chin, and the old magistrate clearly had 
 not got his proper mind back yet. 
 
 By the appearance of the shell, it appeared pretty evident 
 that the dead body had never been in it at all. What had he 
 done with it ? — where could he have hidden it ? A thought 
 crossed Mr. Jekyll, experienced in crime, that the doctor 
 might have concealed it in his house — or buried it in his 
 garden. 
 
 " How was it you did not feel the lightness of the shell when 
 you put it into the lead, you and your men ? " asked the 
 Inspector, turning sharply to Thomas Hepburn. 
 
 "We did not do it," was the undertaker's answer. "Dr. 
 Rane undertook that himself, on account of the danger of 
 infection. We went and soldered the lead down, but it was 
 all ready for us." 
 
 A clearer suspicion of guilt, than this fact conveyed, could 
 not well be found : as they all murmured one to another. The 
 old magistrate rubbed up his hair, as if by that means he could 
 rub up his intellect. 
 
 " I don't understand," he said, still bewildered. " Why 
 should he have kept her out of the coffin ? If he — if he did 
 what was wrong, surely to bury her out of sight would be the 
 safest place to hide away his crime. What do you think about 
 it, Jekyll?" 
 
 " Well, your worship, I can only think that — that he might 
 have feared some such proceeding as this, and so secured him- 
 self against it," was the Inspector's answer. " I don't know, 
 of course : it is only an idea." 
 
 " But where is the body, Jekyll ?" persisted the magistrate. 
 " What could he have done with, it H" 
 
 " It must be our business to find out, your worship." 
 
 "Did he cut her up ?" demanded the mob. For which 
 interruption they were chased backwards by the army of dis- 
 comfited policemen. 
 
 " She may be about his premises still, your worship," said 
 the Inspector, hazarding the opinion. " If so, I should say she 
 
Disturbing the Grave. 407 
 
 is lying a few feefc below the surface somewhere in the 
 garden." 
 
 " Bless my heart, what a frightful thing ! '' cried his worship. 
 " And about this ? What is going to be done ?" 
 
 He pointed to the coffins and the open grave. Yes : what 
 was to be done ? Lawyer Dale searched his legal memory 
 and could not remember any similar precedent to guide him. 
 A short counsel was held, the outsiders groaning and hissing 
 an accompaniment to it. 
 
 " When her bones is found, poor lady, they'll want Chris'an 
 bur'al : as good let the grave lie open," interposed one of the 
 grave-diggers respectfully — who no doubt wished to be spared 
 the present labour of filling-in the earth. To which opinion 
 the gentlemen, consulting there, condescended to listen. 
 
 And, finally, that course was decided upon : Thomas 
 Hepburn being requested to have the coffins removed to his 
 place, pending inquiry,, And the gentlemen dispersed, and. 
 the mob after them. 
 
 A very dissatisfied mob it was, shuffling and trampling out of 
 the churchyard. They did not get much pleasure now, poor 
 things, in their enforced idleness, their semi-starvation : and 
 to be balked in this way was about as mortifying a termination 
 as the day could have had. There was only one worse to be 
 imagined — and that was a possibility not glanced at : that it 
 should have been discovered poor Mrs. Rane died naturally. 
 
 The last person left in the churchyard — except a man or 
 two who stayed to guard the coffins, while means were being 
 brought to take them away — was Jelly. To have watched 
 Jelly's countenance when the empty shell stood revealed, 
 would have been as good as looking at a picture. The mouth 
 opened, the jaw dropped, the eyes were strained. It was 
 worse than even Jelly had supposed, and Dr. Rane was a 
 greater villain. Not content with taking his wife's life, he had 
 also taken her body. Whether he had disposed of it in the 
 manner affirmed by the mob, or in that suggested by the 
 Inspector, or in any other way, the doctor must be one of the 
 most hardened criminals breathing — his brazen demeanour just 
 now in the graveyard would bear out that. And now the 
 trouble was no nearer its clearance than before, and Jelly 
 almost wished, as she had wished many a time lately, that sho 
 could die. Hiding herself from the spectators stood she, her 
 brow pressed against the friendly tree's trunk, her heart faint 
 within her. When the echoes of the trampling mob died away 
 
4o3 Bessy Rane. 
 
 in the distance, Jelly lifted her head to depart also, drawing 
 her hlack shawl around her with a shudder. 
 
 " That's why she can't rest, poor lady ; she's not laid in con- 
 secrated ground. A the worst, I never suspected this." 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 A NIGHT EXPEDITION. 
 
 Seven o'clock was striking out on a dark winter's night, as a> 
 hired carriage with a pair of post horses drew up near to the 
 gates of Dallory Hall. Apparently the special hour had been 
 agreed upon for a rendezvous ; for before the clock had well 
 told its numbers, a small group of people might have been 
 seen approaching the carriage from different ways. 
 
 There issued out from the Hall gates, Mr. North, leaning on 
 the right arm of his son Richard. Richard had quitted his 
 chamber to join in this expedition. His left arm was in a 
 sling, and he looked pale ; but he was fast advancing towards 
 recovery ; and Mr. Seeley, consulted confidentially, had given 
 him leave to go. Mrs. Gass came up from the direction of 
 Dallory; and Dr. Rane came striding from the Ham. A red- 
 faced portly gentleman in plain clothes, who was standing by 
 the carriage, greeted them : without his official costume and 
 in the dark night, few would have recognised him for Inspector 
 Jekyll, who had been directing in the churchyard the day 
 before. Mrs. Gass, Mr. North, and Richard, got into the car- 
 riage. The Inspector was about to ascend to the box, the 
 postillion being on the horses, but Dr. Rane said he would 
 prefer to sit outside himself. So Mr. Jekyll got inside, and 
 the doctor got up ; and the carriage drove away down Dallory 
 Ham. 
 
 Peering out after it, in the dark night, behind the post of 
 the gates, was Mrs. North. Someone by her side — it was only 
 a servant-boy — ran off, at a signal from her, towards the 
 stables with a message, as fast as his legs would carry him. 
 There came back in answer Madam's carriage — which must 
 have been waiting for the signal — with a pair of fresh fleet 
 horses. 
 
 " Catch it up, and keep it in sight at a distance," were her 
 orders to the coachman, as she stepped in. So the post car- 
 riage was being tracked and followed : a fact none of its in- 
 mates had the slightest notion of. 
 
A Niglit Expedition. 409 
 
 In her habit of peeping and prying, of listening at this door, 
 of putting her ear to that, of glancing surreptitiously into 
 other people's letters, and of ferreting generally, Madam had 
 become aware during the last twenty-four hours that some 
 unusual stir was shaking the equanimity of Mr. North and 
 Richard : that some journey, to be taken in secret by Mr. 
 North, and kept secret, was being determined on. Conscience 
 — when it is not a good one — is apt to suggest all kinds of un- 
 pleasant things, and Madam's whispered to her that this 
 hidden expedition had reference to herself ; and — perhaps — to 
 a gentleman who had recently arrived in England — William 
 Adair. 
 
 Madam's cheeks turned pale through powder and rouge, 
 and she bit her lips and her nails in impotent rage. She 
 could have found means, no doubt, to keep Mr. North indoors, 
 though she had broken his leg to do it ; she could have found 
 means to keep Richard also, had she known he was to be of 
 the party : but of what avail ? Never a cleverer woman lived, 
 than Madam, and she had the sense to know that a meeting 
 with Mr. Adair (and she believed the journey had reference to 
 nothing else) could not be prevented in this way : it must take 
 place sooner or later. 
 
 A carriage was to be in waiting near the Hall gates after 
 dark, at seven o'clock — Madam got hold of so much. Where 
 was it going ? In which direction ? For what purpose ? At 
 least Madam could ascertain that. She gave private orders 
 of her own : and as night approached, retired to her room 
 with a headache, forbidding Mr. North and the household to 
 disturb her. Mr. North, as he eat his dinner in his parlour, 
 thought how well things were turning out. He had been 
 haunted with a fear of Madam's pouncing upon him, in the 
 moment of departure, with a demand to know the why and the 
 wherefore. 
 
 Madam, attired for a journey likewise, had escaped from the 
 Hall long before seven, and taken up her place amidst the 
 shrubs near the entrance gates, her position conveniently 
 commanding both the way from the house and the road out- 
 side it. On the stroke of seven, steps were heard advancing; 
 and Madam strained her eyes. 
 
 Richard ! Richard / Who had not yet been out of his sick 
 room ! But for his voice, as he spoke to his father, and the 
 black sling, so clear as he passed her, Madam would have 
 thought the night was playing tricks with her eyesight. 
 
41 o Bessy Rane. 
 
 She could x.ot see who else got into the carriage : hut she 
 did see Dr. Rane come striding by ; and she thought it was he 
 upon the box when the carriage passed. Dr. Rane ? Madam, 
 catching up her breath, wondered what private histories Mrs. 
 Cumberland had confided to him, and how much of them he 
 was now on his way to bear testimony to. Madam was alto- 
 gether on the wrong scent — the result of her suggestive 
 conscience. 
 
 In a twinkling almost, she was shut up in her own carriage, 
 as described, her coachman alone outside it. 
 
 The man had no difficulty in obeying orders. The post- 
 carriage was not as light as Madam's. Keeping at a safe 
 distance, he followed in its wake, unsuspected. First of all, 
 from the Ham down the back lane, and then through all kinds 
 of unfrequented, cross-country by-ways. Altogether, as both 
 drivers thought, fifteen or sixteen miles. 
 
 The post-carriage drew up at a solitary house, on the out- 
 skirts of a small hamlet. Madam's carriage halted too, further 
 off. Getting out of it, she told her coachman to wait : and 
 she stole cautiously along under cover of the hedge, to watch 
 proceedings. It was then about nine o'clock. 
 
 They were all going into the house : a little crowd of them, 
 as it seemed to Madam ; and the post-carriage w r ent slowly 
 away, perhaps to an inn. What had they gone to that house 
 for ? Was Mr. Adair in it ? Madam was determined to see. 
 She partly lost sight of prudence in her desperation, and was 
 at the door just as it closed after them. Half a minute and 
 she knocked softly with her knuckles. It was opened by a 
 young girl with a scarlet country face, and red elbows. 
 
 "Law!" said she, " I thought they was all in. Do you 
 belong to 'em ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. North. 
 
 So she went in also, and crept up the dark staircase, after 
 them, 6.irected by the girl. " Fust door you comes to at the 
 top." Madam's face was growing of a ghastly whiteness : she 
 fully expected to see William Adair. 
 
 The voices would have guided her without anything else. 
 Several were heard talking together inside the room : her 
 husband's she distinguished plainly : and, she thought, 
 Madam certainly thought, he was sobbing. Madam went 
 into a heat at that. What revelation had Mr. Adair been 
 already making ? He had lost no time. 
 
 The door was not latched. Madam cautiously pushed it an 
 
A Night Expedition. 4 1 1 
 
 inch or two open so as to enable her to see in. She looked 
 very ugly just now, her lips drawn back from her teeth with 
 emotion, something like a hyena's. Madam looked in: and 
 saw, not Mr. Adair, but — Bessy Rane. 
 
 Bessy Rane. She was standing near the table, while Dr. 
 Rane was talking. Standing quite still, with her placid face, 
 her pretty curls falling, and a violet-coloured merino gown on, 
 that Madam had seen her wear a dozen times. In short, it 
 was just like Bessy Rane in life. On the table, by the side 
 of the one candle, lay some white work, as if just put out 
 of hand. 
 
 In all Madam's life she had perhaps never been so frightened 
 as now — with present sheer fright. The truth did not occur 
 to her. She surely thought it was an apparition, as Jelly had 
 before thought ; or that — or that — Bessy had in some mys- 
 terious manner been conveyed hither from that empty grave. 
 In these moments of confusion the mind is apt to run away 
 with itself. Madam's was not strong enough to endure the 
 shock, and be silent. With a piercing shriek, she turned to 
 fly, and fell against the whitewashed chimney that the architect 
 of the old-fashioned house had thought fit to carry upwards 
 through the centre of it. The nest moment she was in 
 hysterics. 
 
 Bessy was the first to run to attend her. Bessy herself, you 
 understand, not her ghost. In a corner of the capacious old 
 room, built when ground was cheap, was Bessy's bed ; and on 
 this they laid Mrs. North. Madam was not long in recoverino- 
 her equanimity : but she continued where she was, making 
 believe she was exhausted, and put a corner of her shawl over 
 her face. For once in her life her face had some shame in it. 
 
 Yes : Bessy was not dead. Humanly speaking, there had 
 never at all been any more probability of Bessy's demise than 
 there was of Madam's at this moment. Dr. Rane is givino- the 
 explanation, and the others are standing to listen, except Mr. 
 North, who has sat down in an elbow chair of polished wood, 
 while Richard leans the weight of his undamaged arm on its 
 back. Mrs. Gass has pushed back her bonnet from her beam- 
 ing face ; the Inspector looks impassive as befits his calling 
 bat on the whole pleased. 
 
 "I am not ashamed of what I have done," said Dr. Rane, 
 standing by Bessy's side; " and I only regret it for the pain my 
 wife's supposed death caused her best friends, Mr. North and 
 Richard. I would have given much to tell the truth to Mr. 
 
412 Bessy Rane. 
 
 North, but I knew it would not be safe to intrust it to bim, 
 and so I wished to let it wait until we should have left the 
 country. For all that has oeciirred you must blame the ton- 
 tine. That is, blame the Ticknells, who obstinately, wrongly, 
 cruelly kept the money from us. There were reasons — my 
 non-success in my profession for one — why I wished to quit 
 Dallory, and start afresh in another place • 1 and my wife 
 talked of it until it grew, with me, into a disease ; and I be- 
 lieve Bessy got to wish for it at last almost as I did." 
 
 " Yes, I did, Oliver," she put in. 
 
 " Look at the circumstances," resumed Dr. Rane, in his 
 sternest tones, and not at all as though he were on his defence. 
 " There was the sum of money — two thousand pounds — be- 
 longing to me and my wife jointly, and they denied our touch- 
 ing it until one of us should be dead ! It was monstrously 
 unjust. I think you must acknowledge that much, Mr. 
 Inspector." 
 
 " Well — it did seem hard," acknowledged that functionary. 
 
 " I know /thought it so," said Mrs. Grass. 
 
 " It was worse than hard," spoke the doctor passionately. 
 "I used to say to my wife that if I could take it out of the 
 old trustees' hands by force, or stratagem, I should think it 
 no shame. Idle talk, it was! never meant to be anything 
 else. But I'll get on. The fever broke out in Dalloiy, and 
 Bessy was taken ill. She thought it was the fever, and sc 
 did I. I had fancied her a little afraid of it, and was in my 
 heart secretly thankful to Mr. North for inviting her to the 
 Hall. But for her putting off the going to it for a day — 
 which she did herself through the absence of Molly Green — ■ 
 what happened later could never have taken place." 
 
 Dr. Rane paused, as if considering how he should go on 
 with his story. After a moment he resumed it, looking 
 straight at them, as he had been looking all along. 
 
 "I wish you to understand that every word I am telling 
 you — and shall tell you — is the strict truth. The truth, upon 
 my honour, and before Heaven. And yet, perhaps, even after 
 this, you will scarcely give me credit when I say — that I did 
 believe my wife's illness was the fever. All that first day 
 (she had been taken ill during the night with sickness and 
 shivering) I thought it was the fever. Seeley thought it. 
 She was in a very high state of feverish ness, and no doubt 
 the fear of the fever for her served somewhat to bias our 
 judgment. Bessy herself said it was the fever, and would 
 
A Niglit Expedition. 413 
 
 not hear a word of Lope to the contrary. But at night — 
 the night of the first day, remember — she had nearly an 
 hour of sickness ; and was so relieved by it, and grew so 
 oool and collected, that I detected the nature of the case. 
 It was nothing but a bad bilious attack, accompanied by a 
 very unusual degree of fever ; but not the fever. ' You have 
 cheated me, my darling,' I said in a jesting way as I kissed 
 her. 'I shall not get the tontine.' — Here she stands by my 
 side to confirm or refute it," broke off Dr. Rane, but indeed 
 they could all see he was relating the simple truth. " ' Can 
 you not pretend that I am dead, Oliver ? ' she answered 
 faintly, for she was still exceedingly ill ; ' I'll go away, and 
 you can say I died.' Now, of course Bessy spoke this jest- 
 ingly, as I had done : but nevertheless the words did lead to 
 what afterwards took place. I proposed it — do not lay the 
 blame on Bessy — that she really should go away, and I should 
 give out that she was dead." 
 
 A slight groan from the region of the bed, smothered at 
 once by a pretended snore. Dr. Rane continued. 
 
 " In prospective it seemed very easy of accomplishment — 
 very. But had I foreseen all the disagreeable proceedings, 
 the artifice, the trouble, that must inevitably attend such an 
 attempted deceit, I should never have entered upon it. Had 
 I properly reflected, I of course might have foreseen it : but I 
 did not reflect. Like a great many schemes that we enter 
 upon in life, the mind skips the working, and is content to 
 skip it, and looks only to the end accomplished. Nearly all 
 that night Bessy and I conversed together : chiefly planning 
 how she should get away and where she should stay. By 
 morning, what with the fatigue induced by this prolonged 
 vigil, and the exhaustion left from her illness, she was 
 thoroughly worn out. It had been agreed between us that 
 she should simulate weariness and a desire to sleep, the better 
 to evade a discovery of her, so far, restoration ; but there Avas 
 no need to simulate ; she was both sleepy and exhausted." 
 
 " I never was so sleepy before in all my life," interrupted 
 Bessy. 
 
 " The day went on. At ten o'clock, when Phillis left, I 
 went up to my wife's room, and told her the time for acting 
 had come," pursued Dr. Rane. " Next I crossed over to 
 Seeley's with the news that my wife was gone : and I strove 
 to show the grief I should have felt had it been true. Cross- 
 ing back to my home again, I saw Frank Dallory, and told 
 
414 Bessy Rane. 
 
 him. ' The play is inaugurated,' I said to Bessy when I -went, 
 in — and then I betook myself to Mr. North ; and then on to 
 Hepburn's. Do you remember, sir, how I tried to soothe your 
 grief ? — speaking persistently of hope — though of course you 
 could not seethit any hope remained," asked Dr. Rane, turn- 
 ing to Mr. North. " I dared not speak more plainly, though 
 I longed to do it." 
 
 "Ay, I do remember," answered Mr. North. 
 
 " The worst part of all the business was the next ; the 
 bringing in of the shell," continued the doctor. " Worse, be- 
 cause I had a horror of my wife seeing it. I contrived tbat 
 she did not. Hepburn's men brought it up to the ante-room : 
 Bessy was in bed still in the front room, and she heard them: 
 I could not help that. When they left, I put it down by the 
 side of the wall with the trestles, threw some of my coats care- 
 lessly upon it, and so hid it. It was time then for Bessy to 
 get up. While she was dressing, I went round to the stables, 
 where the gig and horse I use are kept, to make sure that 
 the ostler had gone to bed — for he had a habit sometimes of 
 sitting up late. It was during this absence of mine that Bessy, 
 dressed all but her gown, went to the landing to listen whether 
 or not I had come in. The chamber door was open, so that 
 the light shone on the landing ; it happened to be at that 
 moment that Jelly was at the opposite window, and she — 
 later — took it to be Mrs. Rane's ghost that she saw." 
 
 The sight of Mrs. Gass's amused face was something good. 
 She nodded in triumph. 
 
 " I thought it might be beer," said she. " I told Jelly 
 what an uncommon idiot she was. Ghost, indeed ! " 
 
 "Bessy made herself ready, took some refreshment, and I 
 brought the gig to the back door in the garden, and drove my 
 wife away. The only place open at that time of night — or 
 rather morning — would be some insignificant open railway 
 station. We fixed on Hewley. I drove her there ; and left 
 her sitting under cover in solitary state — for I had to get back 
 with the horse and gig before people were astir. As soon as 
 the morning was pretty well on, so as not to be remarked by 
 strangers, Bessy walked to Churchend, about five miles' dis- 
 tance, and took a lodging in this house — this same room. 
 "W here she has been ever since — and it is a vast deal longer 
 time than we calculated on. Poison my wife ! " added Dr. 
 Rane, with some emotion, as he drew her to him involun- 
 tarily, with, a gesture of genuine love. " She is rather 
 
A Night Expedition. 41 5 
 
 too precious to me for that. You know; don't you, my 
 darling." 
 
 The happy tears stood in her eyes as she met his. Ho 
 stooped and kissed her, very fondly. 
 
 " If my wife were taken from me, the Ticknells might keep 
 the tontine money, and welcome ; I should not care for it with- 
 out Bessy. It was chiefly for her sake that my great desire 
 to possess it arose," he added, emphatically. " I could not 
 bear that she should be reduced to so poor a home after 
 Dallory Hall. Bessy constantly said that she did not mind 
 it, but I did ; minded it for her." 
 
 " Couldn't you have managed all this without the funeral ? " 
 asked Richard North, speaking for the first time. 
 
 ".How could I?" returned Dr. Rane. "There were no 
 means of avoiding it. "When my wife was given out as dead, 
 she had to be buried, or Mr. Inspector Jekyll, there, might 
 have been coming in to ask the reason why. Had I properly 
 thought of all that must be done, I should, as I say, never have 
 attempted it. It was hateful to me ; and I declare that I don't 
 know how I could, or did, carry it through. Once or twice I 
 thought I must stick fast, and confess, to my shame, that 
 Bessy was alive — but I felt that might be worse, of the two, 
 than going on with it to the end. I hope the Ticknells will 
 suffer for what they have cost me." 
 
 " Jelly says she saw the ghost twice," observed Mrs. Gass, 
 her eyes twinkling still. 
 
 "Ah! that was Bessy's fault," said Dr. Rane, shaking his 
 head at his wife, in mock reproval, as we do at a beloved 
 child when it is naughty. " She was so imprudent as to 
 come home for a few hours — walking across country by easy 
 stages and getting in after nightfall. It was about her clothes. 
 I have been over here twice at night — or three times, is it not, 
 Bessy? — and brought her things each time. But I brought 
 the most valuable of them : Bessy said she must have the 
 others ; and at last, as I tell you, she came herself, to look after 
 them. I think the clothes were only an excuse — eh, Bessy ? " 
 
 "Partly," acknowledged Bessy. " For, oh ! I longed for a 
 sight of home. Just one more sight as a farewell. I had quitted 
 it in so bewildered a hurry. It again led to Jelly's seeing me. I 
 was at my large chest-of -drawers, papa," she continued, as if 
 speaking for Mr. North alone. " Oliver had gone round to get 
 the gig to bring me back ; I thought I heard him come in 
 again, and went to the landing to listen. It was not he, but 
 
4i 6 Bessy Ranc. 
 
 Jelly ; and we met face to face. I assure you she frightened 
 •me — for consequences — quite as much as I did her." 
 
 "And Bessy, my dear, what have the people here thought 
 about it all the time ?" inquired Mr. North. " Do they know 
 who you are ?" 
 
 "Why of course not, papa. They think I am a lady in poor 
 health ; staying here for the sake of country air — and I did feel 
 and look very ill when I came. It is an old widow lady who 
 has the house, and the girl you saw is her servant. They are 
 not curious. They know us only as Mr. and Mrs. Oliver, and 
 think we live at Bletchley. I want to know who it was that 
 pushed matters to extremity in regard to these proceedings 
 against my husband," added Mrs. Rane, after a pause. " It 
 was not you, papa: and Richard was doing his best to hush it 
 all up. Richard had known the truth since an interview he 
 held with Oliver. Who was it, papa ? " 
 
 Madam tumbled off the bed, moaning a little, as if she were 
 very weak. Bessy had not the slightest idea that Madam had 
 been the culprit. 
 
 " Who was it, Mr. Jekyll ? " continued Bessy. 
 
 The Inspector looked up to the ceiling and down to the 
 floor ; and then thought the candle wanted snuffing. Which it 
 certainly did. Madam said in a shrieking voice as he was 
 putting down the snuffers, that she should depart. If the 
 others chose to stay and countenance all this unparalleled 
 iniquity, she could not. 
 
 She stood, upright as ever, tossing back her head, all her 
 native impudence returning to her. Dr. Rane quietly put him- 
 self in her path as she was gaining the door. 
 
 " Mrs. North, pardon me if I request you to give me a little 
 information ere you depart, as it is probably the last time wo 
 shall meet. What has been the cause of the long-continued 
 and persistent animosity you have borne towards me ? " 
 
 "Animosity to you/" returned Madam, flippantly. "I 
 have borne none." 
 
 The exceeding coolness of the avowal, in the teeth of facts, 
 struck them as almost ludicrous. Mr. North raised his head 
 and grazed at her in surprise. 
 
 " You have pursued me with the most bitter animosity since 
 the first moment that I came to Dallory, Madam," said Dr. 
 Rane, quietly and steadily. "You have kept practice from 
 me ; you have done what you can to crush me. It is you who 
 urged on this recent charge against me — a very present proof 
 
A Night Expedition. 417 
 
 of" what I assert. But for you it might never have been 
 made." 
 
 .Madani was slightly at bay : she seemed just a little flur- 
 ried. Rallying her powers, she confronted Dr. Rane and told 
 him that she did not think him skilful and did not personally 
 like him ; if she had been biassed against him, the feeling must 
 have taken its rise in that — there was nothing else. 
 
 Another of her shuffling untruths — and they all knew it for 
 one. But they would get nothing better from her. 
 
 The fact was this. Madam had feared that Mrs. Cumber- 
 land could, and perhaps would, throw some light on a certain 
 episode of the past years : which contingency Madam had 
 dreaded above any earthly thing : for this she had wished and 
 hoped to drive Mrs. Cumberland from the place, and had 
 deemed that if she could drive away Oliver Rane, his mother 
 might follow. That was the real truth : but no living person, 
 save Madam, suspected it. 
 
 She quitted the room with the last denial, conscious that 
 she did not just now appear to advantage — the sneaking act 
 of tracking them this night, Madam, with all her sophistry, 
 could not plead an excuse for. They let her go. Even the 
 Inspector did not pay her the courtesy of opening the door for 
 her exit, or of lighting her down the crooked old wooden 
 stairs. It was Bessy who ran to do it. 
 
 " When you found things were going to be pushed against 
 you, sir, why did you not declare the truth ?" asked the In- 
 spector of Dr. Rane. 
 
 " I knew that the moment I declared the truth, all hope of 
 the tontine money would be at an end ; that I should have 
 done what I had done for nothing," answered Dr. Rane. 
 "Richard North undertook to give me notice in time if things 
 should be pushed to an extremity ; but he got disabled, you 
 know, and could not. Until they were in the act of disturbing 
 the grave, I had no warning of it." 
 
 A pause of silence followed the answer. Dr. Rane re- 
 sumed. 
 
 " Ill-luck seems to have attended it from the first. Perhaps 
 nothing better was to be expected. Jelly's having seen my 
 wife was a great misfortune. And then look at the delay as 
 to the tontine money ! Had the trustees paid it at once, Bessy 
 and I should have been safe away long ago." 
 
 ■* Where to ? " asked Mrs. Gass. 
 America. It is where we shall new go, in any case. Aa 
 
 E E 
 
418 Bessy Ram. 
 
 I have not the money to join Dr. Jones as partner, I daresay 
 he'll be glad of me as an assistant." 
 
 "Look here," said Mrs. Grass. "I don't say that what 
 you've done is anything but a very wrong thing, doctor ; but 
 it might have been worse : and, compared to what a lot o' 
 fools were saying, it seems but a trifle. I was once about to 
 make you an offer of some money. Finding you couldn't get 
 the tontine paid to you and your wife ; which, as I've told 
 you, I thought was a shame, all circumstances considered ; I 
 resolved to advance it to you myself. Mrs. Rane's death 
 stopped me : leastways, her reported death. You won't get 
 it now, doctor, for certain, from the Ticknells — for I suppose 
 they'll have to be told the truth : and so you shall have it 
 from me. Two thousand pounds is ready for you, at your 
 command." 
 
 A red spot of emotion flushed Dr. Rane's pale face. He 
 gazed at Mrs. Gass eagerly, as if asking whether it could be 
 true. 
 
 " It's all right, doctor. You are my late husband's nephew, 
 you know, and all the money was his. You'll find yourself 
 and your wife substantially remembered in my will ; and as 
 two thousand pounds of it may do you good now, it shall be 
 advanced to you." 
 
 Bessy stole round to Mrs. Gass, and burst into tears on her 
 bosom. Happy, grateful tears. The doctor, the scarlet flush 
 deepening on his face, took Mrs. Gass's hand and clasjied it. 
 
 " And I wish to my very heart I had made no delay in the 
 offer at first," cried Mrs. Gass. " It'll always be a warning 
 to me not to put off till to-morrow what should be done 
 to-day. And so, doctor, there's the money ready ; and Bessy, 
 my dear, I don't see why you and he need banish of your- 
 selves to America. You might get a good practice, doctor, 
 and not go further nor London." 
 
 "I must go to America; I must go," said the doctor, 
 hastily. " Neither I nor Bessy would like now to stay in 
 England." 
 
 " Well, perhaps you may be right," acquiesced Mrs. Gass. 
 
 "But it's a long way," said Mr. North. 
 
 " It may not be for ever, sir," observed Dr. Rane, cheer- 
 fully. " I know I shall do well there ; and when I have made 
 a fortune perhaps we may come back and live in London. 
 Never again in Dallory. Or, if not to live, to visit. The old 
 and the new world are brought very near each other now, sir." 
 
A Night Expedition. 419 
 
 Is it of any use pursuing the interview to its close ? When 
 they went out again, after it was over, Madam's carriage was 
 only then driving off. Madam's coachman had put up his 
 horses somewhere ; and neither he nor they could be readily 
 found. There was apparently no house open in the primitive 
 village, and Madam had the pleasure of undergoing an hour 
 or two's soaking in a good, sound, down-pouring of rain. 
 
 "I shall have to make things right with the authorities; 
 and I suppose Hepburn may keep the coffins for his pains," 
 quaintly remarked Mr. Inspector Jekyll. 
 
 But the carriage took back one less than it had brought. 
 For Dr. Rane did not return again to Dallory. 
 
420 Bessy Rane, 
 
 $art the CInrtJ, 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 ARTHUR BOHUN'S SHAMS. 
 
 A well- spread dessert table of glass and china and plate, 
 glittering under the rays of the handsome chandelier in the 
 dining-room of Sir Nash Bohun's town house. Sir Nash 
 and his nephew Arthur are seated at it, one guest between 
 them. It is General Strachan ; an old officer, Scotch by birth, 
 who had just come home, after passing the best part of his 
 life in India. 
 
 The winter was departing. Arthur Bohun looked better, 
 Sir Nash pretty well. In a month or two both intended to 
 depart for the German springs, that were to renovate Sir 
 Nash's life. 
 
 General Strachan had been very intimate with Sir Nash 
 Bohun in early life, before he went out at all to India. After 
 ho went out he had been equally intimate with Major Bohun : 
 but he was only Captain Strachan then. 
 
 " And so you think Arthur like his father," observed Sir 
 Nash, as he passed the claret. 
 
 " The very image of him," replied the general. " I'm sure 
 I should have known him for Tom Bohun's son had I met 
 him accidentally in the street. Adair saw the likeness, too." 
 
 "What Adair's that ?" carelessly asked Sir Nash. 
 
 "William Adair. Ton saw me with him at the club door 
 this morning. We were going in at the moment when you 
 came up." 
 
 Perhaps Sir Nash was a little struck with the name. He 
 called to mind a good-looking, slender, gentlemanly man, 
 who had been arm-in-arm with the general at the time men- 
 tioned. 
 
 "But what Adair is it, Strachan?" 
 
Arthur Bohun' s Shame. 421 
 
 " What Adair ? Why, the one who was in India when — 
 when poor Tom died. He was Tom's greatest friend. Per- 
 haps you have never heard of him ?" 
 
 "Yes I have, to my sorrow," said Sir Nash. "It wat; he 
 who caused poor Tom's death." 
 
 General Strachan apparently did not understand. " Who 
 caused poor Tom's death p" 
 " Adair." 
 
 " Why bless me, where could you have picked up that ?" 
 cried the general in surprise. " If Adair could have saved 
 Tom's life at any sacrifice to himself he'd have done it. They 
 were close, firm friends to the last." 
 
 Sir Nash seemed to be listening as though he heard not. 
 "Of course we did not get at the particulars of my brother's 
 death, over here, as we should have got at them had we been 
 on the spot," he remarked. " We were glad, rather, to hush i£ 
 up for the sake of Arthur. Poor Tom got into some trouble, 
 some disgrace, and Adair led him into it. That's what we 
 have always heard." 
 
 " Then you heard wrong, Bohun," said the general some- 
 what bluntly. " Tom got into debt, and I don't know what 
 all, but it was not Adair that led him into it. Who could have 
 told you it was ?" 
 
 "Mrs. Bohun, Tom's widow." 
 
 " Oh, she," returned the general, in an accent of contempt 
 that spoke volumes. "Why she — but never mind now," he 
 broke off, suddenly glancing at Arthur as he remembered that 
 she was his mother. "Let bygones be bygones, Bohun," he 
 added, sipping his claret; "no good to recal them. Only 
 don't continue to believe aught against William Adair. He is 
 one of the best men living, and always has been." 
 
 Arthur Bohun, who had sat still as a stone, leaned his pale 
 face a little towards the general, and spoke. 
 
 " Did not this Mr. Adair, after my father's death, get into 
 disgrace, and — and undergo its punishment ? " 
 " Never. Adair got into no disgrace." 
 
 " Has he been a convict ? " continued Arthur in a low, clear 
 tone. 
 
 " A what?" cried the general, putting down his glass and 
 staring at Arthur in amazement. " My good young i'ellow, 
 you cannot know of whom you are speaking. William Adair 
 has been a respected man all his life : he is just as honourable 
 as your father was — and the world knew pretty well what poor 
 
422 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Tom's fastidious notions on the point of honour were. Adair 
 is a gentleman amidst gentlemen ; I can't say better of him 
 than that, though I talked for an hour. He is come into all 
 the family honours and fortune ; which he never expected to 
 do. A good old Scotch family it is, too ; better than mine. 
 There, we'll drop the subject now ; no good to reap up things 
 that are past and done with." 
 
 Sir Nash asked no more : neither did Arthur. Some instinct 
 lay within both of them that, for their own sakes, it might be 
 better not. 
 
 But when the General left — which he did very soon, having 
 an evening engagement — Arthur went out with him. Arthur 
 Bohun knew, as well as though he had been told, that his 
 wicked mother — he could but think of her so in that moment 
 — had dealt treacherously with him ; to answer some end of 
 her own, she had calumniated Mr. Adair. Cost him what pain 
 and shame it might, he would clear it up now. 
 
 " Will you give me the particulars — that which you would 
 not give my uncle," began Arthur in agitation, the moment 
 they were out of the house, as he placed his hand on the 
 General's arm. "No matter what they are, I must know 
 them." 
 
 " I'd give them to your uncle, and welcome," said the plain 
 old soldier. " It was to you I would not give them." 
 " But I must learn them." 
 "Not from me." 
 
 " If you will not tell them, I shall apply to William Adair." 
 
 " William Adair can give them you if he pleases. I shall 
 
 not. Take advice, my dear young friend, and don't enquire." 
 
 " I will tell you what I suspect — that if anyone had a hand 
 
 in driving my father to — to do what he did do, it was his wife ; 
 
 my mother. You may tell me now." 
 
 " No. Because she is your mother." 
 
 "But I have the most urgent reason for wishing to know 
 the particulars." 
 
 " Well, Arthur Bohun, I'd rather not tell you, and that's 
 the truth. If poor Tom could hear me in his grave, I don't 
 think he'd like it, you see. No, I can't. Ask Adair, first of 
 all, whether he'd advise it, or not." 
 " Where is he staying ? " 
 
 " Grosvenor Place. He and his daughter are in a furnished 
 house there. She is very delicate." 
 
 "And — you say — I beg your pardon, General," added 
 
Arthur Bo/tuns Shame. 423 
 
 Arthur in agitation, detaining him as he was going away — 
 "You say that he is? an untainted gentleman." 
 
 " Who ? Adair ? As untainted as you or I, my young 
 friend. Good night." 
 
 In his mind's miserable tumult, any delay seemed dreadful, 
 and Arthur Bohun turned at once to the house in Grosvenor 
 Place. He asked if he could see Mr. Adair. 
 
 The servant hesitated. " There is no Mr. Atlair here, sir," 
 he said. 
 
 Arthur looked up at the number. "Are you sure?" he 
 asked of the man. " I was informed by General Strachan that 
 Mr. Adair had taken this house, and was living here." 
 
 " The General must have said Sir William, sir. Sir William 
 Adair lives here." 
 
 " Oh — Sir William," spoke Arthur, " I — I was not aware 
 Mr. Adair had been knighted." 
 
 " Knighted, sir ! My master has not been knighted, sir," 
 cried the man, as if he were indignant at the charge. " Sir 
 William has succeeded to the baronetcy through the death of 
 his uncle, Sir Archibald." 
 
 What with one thing and another, Arthur's head seemed to 
 be in a whirl. Sir Archibald Adair had been well known to 
 him by reputation : a proud old Scotch baronet, of a proud 
 old lineage. And so this was Ellen's family ! And he had 
 been deeming her not fit to mate with him, a Bohun ! 
 
 " Can I see Sir William ? Is he at home ? " 
 
 " He is at home, sir. I think you can see him." 
 
 In the dining-room of the house sat Sir William Adair 
 when Arthur was shown in — his after-dinner coffee on a stand 
 by his side, a newspaper in his hand. He was a slight man 
 of rather more than middle height, with an attractive coun- 
 tenance. The features were good, their expression was noble 
 and pleasing. It was impossible to associate such a face and 
 bearing with anything like dishonour. 
 
 " I believe my name is not altogether strange to you, sir," 
 said Arthur as the servant closed the door. " I hope you will 
 pardon my intrusion — and especially that it should be at this 
 late hour." 
 
 Sir William had risen to receive him. He could but mark 
 the agitation with which the words were spoken. A moment's 
 vacillation, and then he took Arthur's hand and clasped it 
 within his own. 
 
 " If I wished to be cold to you I could not," he said warmly. 
 
424 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " For, to me, you seem to be your father come to life agaYo. 
 He and I were friends." 
 
 " And did you wish to be cold to me ? " asked Arthur. 
 
 " I have felt cold to you this many a year. Worse than 
 that." 
 
 " But why, Sir William ?" 
 
 " Ah — why. I cannot tell you. For one thing", I have pic- 
 tured you as resembling another, more than him." 
 
 "You mean my mother." 
 
 Sir William looked at Captain Bohun before he replied. 
 " Yes, I do. Will you take a seat : and some coffee ?" 
 
 Arthur sat down, but it may be questioned whether he as 
 much as heard that coffee was mentioned. Sir William rang; 
 the bell and ordered a cup of it to be brought in. Arthur 
 leaned forward to speak ; his blue eyes solemnly earnest, his 
 hand a little outstretched. Sir William almost started. 
 
 " How strangely like him you are ! " he exclaimed. " The 
 look, the gesture, the voice, all are your father's over again. 
 I could fancy that you were Thomas Bohun — as I last saw him 
 in life." 
 
 "You knew him well, — and my mother? You knew all 
 about them ?" 
 
 " Quite well. I knew you too when you were a little 
 child." 
 
 " Tell me one thing, then," said Arthur, his emotion in- 
 creasing. " Was she my mother ?" 
 
 The question surprised Sir William Adair. " She was cer- 
 tainly your mother, and your father's wife. Why do you 
 ask it?" 
 
 " Because — she has so acted — that I — that I — have many a 
 time wished she was not. I have almost hoped it. I wish I 
 could hope it now." 
 
 " Ah," said Sir William. It was all he said. 
 
 " Did you care much for my father, Sir William ?" 
 
 " More than I ever cared for any other man. I have never 
 cared for one since as I cared for him. We were young fellows 
 then, he and I ; not much older than you are now ; but ours 
 was a true friendship." 
 
 " Then I conjure you, by that friendship, to disclose to me 
 the whole history of the past : the circumstances attending 
 my father's shocking death, and its cause. Speak of things 
 as though my mother were no blood relative of mine. I wish 
 to heaven she never had been !" 
 
Arthur Bolmrfs Shame. 425 
 
 " I think you must know somewhat of the circumstances," 
 spoke Sir William. " Else why should you say this ?" 
 
 " It is because I know part that I must know the whole. 
 My mother has — has — lied to me," he concluded, bringing out 
 the word with a painful effort. " She has thrust a false story 
 upon me, and — I cannot rest." 
 
 " Arthur Bohun, although you conjure me by your late 
 father, and for his sake I would do a great deal, I fear that I 
 ought not to do this." 
 
 " General Strachan bade me come to you. I begged of him 
 to tell me, but he said no. Does he know all?" broke off 
 Arthur. 
 
 " Every tittle. I think he and I and your mother are nearly 
 the only three left who do know it. There were but some 
 half-dozen of us altogether." 
 
 " And do you not think that I, Major Bohun's only son, 
 should at least be made acquainted with as much as others 
 know ? Tell it me, Sir William : for my lost father's sake." 
 
 " The only difficulty is — that you must hear ill of your 
 mother." 
 
 " I cannot hear worse of her than I know," impetuously 
 returned Arthur. " Perhaps it was not as bad as I am 
 imagining that it may have been." 
 
 But Sir William held back. The coffee came in and Arthur 
 drank it at a gulp, scalding hot, and sent the cup away again. 
 He seemed on the brink of a fever in his impatience. And, 
 whether it was that, or to clear the memory of Major Bohun, 
 or that he deemed it a righteous thing to satisfy Major Bohun's 
 son, or that he yielded to over-persuasion, Sir William Adair 
 spoke. 
 
 They sat nearly together, the small coffee table between 
 them. Whether the room was light, or whether the room was 
 dark, neither remembered. It was a miserable tale they were 
 absorbed in ; one that need not be very much elaborated here. 
 
 William Adair, when a young man, quarrelled with his 
 family, or they with him, and an utter estrangement took 
 place. His father and mother were dead, but his uncle, Sir 
 Archibald, and other relatives, were left. He, the young man, 
 went to the Madras Presidency, appointed to some post there 
 in the civil service. His family made a boast of discarding 
 him ; he, in return, was so bitterly incensed and resentful 
 against them, that had it been well practicable, he would have 
 abandoned the very name — Adair. Never a word did he 
 
426 Bessy Rane. 
 
 breathe to anyone of who or what his family was ; his Scotch 
 accent betrayed his country, but people knew no more. That 
 he was a gentleman, and in a gentleman's position, was appa- 
 rent, and that was all-sufficient. 
 
 A strong friendship ensued between him and Major Bohun. 
 During one hot season it happened that they both went up in 
 search of health to the Blue Mountains, as Indians call the 
 beautiful region of the Neilgherry Hills. Mrs. Bohun accom- 
 panied her husband; Mr. Adair was not married. There 
 they made the acquaintance of the Reverend George Cum- 
 berland, who was stationed at Ootacamund with his wife. 
 Ootacamund was at that time filled, and a great deal of gaiety 
 (a great deal considering what the place was) was going on ; 
 Mrs. Bohun was noted for it. There was some gambling 
 nightly : and no votary joined in it more persistently than she. 
 Major Bohun removed with her to a little place at a short 
 distance, and a few others went also ; the chaplain, George 
 Cumberland, was one. 
 
 There came a frightful day for Major Bohun. Certain 
 claims suddenly swooped down upon him ; debts ; promissory 
 notes, bearing his signature in conjunction with William 
 Adair's. Neither understood what it could mean, for they 
 had given nothing of the kind. A momentary thought arose 
 to Major Bohnn — that his wife was implicated ; but only so 
 far as that she might have joined in this high play ; nothing 
 worse . He had become aware that she had a passion for gambling, 
 and the discovery had frightened him : in fact, it was to wean 
 her from undesirable associates and pursuits that he had come 
 away on this holiday ; the ostensible plea, health, was not the 
 true one. But this was not known even to his best friend, 
 William Adair. " Let me investigate this, let me deal with 
 it," said the major to Mr. Adair. But Mr. Adair, not 
 choosing to let a man forge his name with impunity — and ho 
 had no suspicion it was a woman — did not heed the injunction, 
 but addressed himself to the investigation. And a nice nesfc 
 of iniquity he found. He traced the affair home to one Rab- 
 hetson — but that was in all probability an assumed name — a 
 man bad in every way ; who was no better than a blackleg ; 
 who had wormed himself into society to prey upon it, and 
 upon men and women's failings. This man Mr. Adair con- 
 fronted with Major Bohun; and then — and then — the fellow, 
 brought to bay, braved it out by disclosing who his helpmate 
 was — Mrs. Bohun. 
 
Arthur Bohuris Shame. 427 
 
 It was even so. Mr. Adair sat aghast at the revelation. 
 Had he suspected this, he would have kept it to himself. 
 How far she had connected herself with this man, it was best 
 not to enquire : and they never did enquire, and never knew 
 One thing was certain — the man could afford to take a high 
 ground. He went out from the interview bidding them do 
 their worst — which with him would not be much, he affirmed ; 
 for it was not he who had issued the false bills, but the major's 
 wife. And they saw he spoke the truth. 
 
 Arthur Bohun listened to this now, sitting still as a statue. 
 
 "I never saw any man so overcome as Bohun," continued 
 Sir "William Adair. " He took it to heart ; to heart. ' And 
 she is the mother of my child ! ' he said to me ; and then he 
 gave way, aud held my hands in his, and sobbed upon my 
 shoulder. ' We will hush it up ; we will take up the bills 
 and the other obligations,' I said to him : though in truth I 
 did not see how I should do my part in it, for I was a poor 
 man : he was poor also ; his expenses and his wife kept him 
 so. ' It cannot be hushed up, Adair,' he answered ; ' it has 
 gone too far.' Those were the last words he ever said to me ; 
 it was the last time I saw him alive." 
 
 " Go on," said Arthur, without lifting his bead. 
 
 "Mrs. Bohun came into the room, and I quitted it. I saw 
 by her face that she knew what had happened ; it was full of 
 evil as she turned it on me. Rabbetson had met her when he 
 was going out, and whispered some words in her ear. What 
 passed between her and Major Bohun I never knew. Before 
 I had been five minutes in my rooms she stood before me ; 
 she had followed me down. Of all the vituperation that a 
 woman's tongue can utter, hers lavished about the worst on 
 me. It was I who had brought on the crisis, she said ; it was 
 I who had taken Rabbetson to her husband. I quietly told 
 her that when I took Rabbetson to Major Bohun, I had not 
 the remotest idea that she was mixed up with the affair in any 
 way ! and that if I had known it, known what Rabbetson 
 could say, I never should have taken him, but have striven to 
 deal with it myself, and keep it dark for my friend Bohun's 
 sake. She would hear nothing ; she was like a mad woman ; 
 she cursed me ; she swore that not a word of it was true ; 
 that Rabbetson did not say it, could not have said it, but that 
 I and Major Bohun had concocted the tale between us. In 
 ehort, I think she was, for the time being, mad." 
 
 " Stay a moment, Sir William," interrupted Arthur. 
 
428 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Who was she ? I have never known. I don't think my 
 father's family ever did know." 
 
 " Neither did I ever know — to a certainty. A cousin, or 
 sister, or some relative of hers, had married a doctor in practice 
 at Madras, and she was out there on a visit to them. Cap- 
 tain Bohun — as he was then — caught hy her face and figure, 
 both fine in those days, fell in love with her and married her. 
 He found afterwards that her father kept an hotel somewhere 
 in England." 
 
 So ! This was the high-born lady who had set up for being 
 above all Dallory. But for the utmost self-control Arthur 
 Bohun would have groaned outright. 
 
 " Go on, please," was all he said. " Get it finished." 
 
 " There is not much more," returned Sir William. "I went 
 looking about for Bohun everywhere that afternoon ; and could 
 not find him. Just before sun-down he was found — found as 
 — as I daresay you have heard. The spot was retired and 
 shady, and his pistol lay beside him. He had not suffered : 
 death must have been instantaneous." 
 
 " The report here was that he died of sun-stroke," said 
 Arthur, breaking a long pause. 
 
 " No doubt. Mrs. Bohun caused it to be so reported. 
 The real facts transpired but to few : Cumberland, Captain 
 Strachan, myself, and two or three others." 
 
 "Did Mrs. Cumberland know of them?" suddenly asked 
 Arthur, a thought striking him. 
 
 " I daresay not. I don't suppose her husband would dis- 
 close to her the shameful tale. She was not on the spot at 
 the time ; had gone to nurse some friend who was sick. I 
 respected both the Cumberlands highly. We made a kind 
 of compact among ourselves, we men, not to speak of this 
 story ever, unless it should be to defend Bohun, or for some 
 other good purpose. We wished to give Mrs. Bohun a chance 
 to redeem her acts and doings in her own land, for which she 
 at once sailed. Arthur, if I have had to say this to you, it is 
 to vindicate your dead father. I believe that your mother has 
 dreaded me ever since." 
 
 Dreaded him ! Ay ! and foully aspersed him in her insane 
 dread. Arthur thought of the wicked invention she had raised, 
 and passed his hands upon his face as if he could shut out the 
 remembrance. 
 
 " What became of Rabbetson ?" he asked, in a low tone. 
 
 " He disappeared. I think, else, I should surely have shot 
 
Arthur Bohuris Shame. 429 
 
 him in his turn, or kicked him to death. I saw him after- 
 wards in Australia dying in the most abject misery." 
 
 "And the claims ?— the bills?" 
 
 " I took them upon myself; and contrived to pay — with 
 time." 
 
 " You left India for Australia ?" continued Arthur, after a 
 pause. 
 
 " My health failed, and I petitioned our government to 
 remove me to a different climate. They complied, and sent 
 me to Australia. I stayed there, trying to accumulate a com- 
 petency that should enable me to live at home with Ellen as 
 befitted my family : little supposing that I was destined to 
 become its head. My two cousins, Sir Archibald's sons, have 
 died one after the other." 
 
 Arthur Bohun had heard all he wished, perhaps all there 
 was to tell. If — if he could make his peace with Ellen, the 
 old relations between them might yet be renewed. But while 
 his heart bounded with the hope, the red shame crimsoned his 
 brow as he thought of the past. Glancing at the time-piece 
 on the mantle-shelf, he saw it was only half-past nine ; not 
 too late. 
 
 " May I see your daughter, sir ? " he asked in a low tone. 
 " We used to be good friends." 
 
 11 So I suppose," replied Sir William. "You made love to 
 her, Mr. Arthur Bohun. You would have married her, I 
 believe, but that I stopped it." 
 
 "You — stopped it!" exclaimed Arthur, quite at sea: for 
 he had not known of the letter received by Ellen. 
 
 " I wrote to Ellen, telling her I must forbid her to marry 
 you. I feared at the time of writing that the interdict might 
 not arrive in time. But it seems it did." 
 
 " Yes," abstractedly returned Arthur, letting pass what he 
 did not understand. 
 
 " You see, I had been thinking of you always as belong, 
 ing to her — your mother — more than to him. That mis- 
 take is over. I shall value you now as his son ; more I dare 
 say than I shall ever value any other young man in this 
 world." 
 
 Arthur's breath came fast and thick. " Then — you — you 
 will give her to me, sir ! " 
 
 Sir William shook his head in sadness. Arthur misunder- 
 stood the meaning. 
 
 ** The probability is, sir, that I shall be Sir Arthur Bohun ; 
 
430 Bessy Rane. 
 
 that I shall succeed my uncle in the baronetcy. Would it not 
 satisfy you ? " 
 
 "You can see her if you will," was Sir William's answer, 
 but there was the same sad kind of denial in his manner. "I 
 would not say No now for your father's sake. She is in the 
 drawing-room. Upstairs, front room. I will join you as soon 
 as I have written a note." 
 
 Arthur found his way to it by instinct. Ellen was lying 
 back in an easy chair ; the brilliant light of the chandelier 
 chining on her face. Opening the door softly, it — that face — 
 was the first object that struck his sight. And he started 
 back from it in a kind of amazed terror. 
 
 Was it death that he saw written there ? All too surely 
 the conviction came home to him. 
 
 Oh ! but it was a more momentous interview than the one 
 just over. Explaining he knew not how, explaining he knew 
 not what, save that his love had never left her, Arthur 
 Bohun knelt at her feet, and they mingled their sobs 
 together. For some minutes neither could understand the 
 other : but elucidation came at last. Arthur told her that 
 the wicked tale, the frightful treachery which had parted 
 them was but a concocted fable on his mother's part, and 
 then he found that Ellen had never known anything about 
 the tale. 
 
 ' ' What then did you think was the matter with me ? " he asked. 
 
 And she told him. She told him without reserve, now that 
 she found how unti'ue it was : she thought he had given her 
 up for another. Madam had informed her he was about to 
 marry Miss Dallory. 
 
 He took in the full sense of what the words implied : of the 
 very abject light in which his conduct must have appeared to 
 her. Going to marry Mary Dallory ! a groan burst from 
 him : he covered bis face to hide its shame and trouble. 
 
 " Ellen ! Ellen ! You could not have thought it of me." 
 
 " It was what I did think. How was I to think anything 
 else ? Your mother said it." 
 
 " Lord forgive her her sins ! " he wailed, in his despair. 
 Ellen hid her face. 
 
 " It was enough to kill you, Ellen. No wonder you look 
 like this." 
 
 She was panting a little. Her breath seemed very short. 
 
 " Pray heaven I may be enabled to make it up to you 
 when you are my wife. I will try hard, my darling." 
 
No Hope. 43 1 
 
 " I shall not live for it, Arthur." 
 
 A spasm took his heart. The words struck him as being so 
 very real. 
 
 " Arthur, I have known it for some time now. You must 
 not grieve for me. I think even that death is rather near." 
 
 " What has killed you ? I ? " 
 
 A flush passed over her wan face. Yes, he had killed her. 
 That is, his conduct had : the sensitive crimson betrayed it. 
 
 " I suppose the fact is, I should not in any case have lived 
 long," she said, aloud. " I believe they feared something of 
 the kind for me years ago. Arthur, don't ! Don't weep ; I 
 cannot bear it." 
 
 Sir William Adair had just told him how his father had 
 wept in his misery. And before Arthur could well collect 
 himself, Sir William entered. 
 
 "You see," he whispered aside to Arthur, " why it may 
 not be. There will be no marriage for her in this life. I am 
 not surprised. I seem to have expected it always : my wife, 
 her niotner, died of decline." 
 
 Arthur Bohun quitted the house, overwhelmed with shame 
 and sorrow. What regret is there like unto that for past 
 mistaken conduct which can never be repaired, never reme- 
 died in this world ? 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 NO HOPE. 
 
 Once more, and for good, does the scene change to Dallory. 
 
 Seated on the lawn-bench at Dallory Hall in the sweet 
 spring sunshine — for the time has again gone on — was Ellen 
 Adair. Sir William Adair and Arthur Bohun were pacing 
 amidst the flower-beds that used to be Mr. North's. Arthur 
 stooped and plucked a magnificent pink hyacinth. 
 
 " It is not treason, sir, is it ? " he asked, smiling. 
 
 " What is not treason ? " returned the elder man. 
 
 " To pick this." 
 
 " Pick as many as you like," said Sir William. 
 
 " Mr. North never liked us to pluck his flowers. Now and 
 then Madam would make a ruthless swoop upon them for her 
 entertainments. It grieved his heart bitterly : and I think 
 that was whence we got an idea that he did not like us to 
 pluck them." 
 
 " No wonder," said Sir William. 
 
432 Bessy Rane. 
 
 The restoration to the old happiness, the clearing-up of the 
 dreadful cloud that had so fatally told upon her, seemed to 
 infuse new vigour into Ellen's shortening span of life. With 
 the exception of her father, everybody thought she was re- 
 covering : the doctors admitted, rather dubiously, that 
 it "might be." She got wonderfully well through the winter, 
 went out and about almost as of old ; and when more genial 
 weather set in, it was suggested by friends that she should be 
 taken to a warmer climate. Ellen opposed it ; it would be of 
 no avail she knew, perhaps only hasten on the end ; and after 
 a private interview Sir William had with the doctors, he 
 did not second it. Her great wish was to go to Dallory : 
 and arrangements for their removal thither were made. 
 
 Dallory Hall was empty, and Sir William found that he 
 could occupy it for the present if he pleased. Mr. North 
 had removed to the house that had been Mrs. Cumberland's, 
 leaving his own furniture (in point of fact it was Richard's) 
 at the Hall, hoping the next tenant, whoever that might 
 prove to be, would take to it. Miss Dallory seemed quite 
 undecided what to do with the Hall, whether to let it for 
 a term again, or not. But she was quite willing that Sir 
 William Adair should have it for a month or two. 
 
 And so he came down with Ellen, bringing his servants. 
 This was only the third day after their arrival, and Mr. Arthur 
 Bohun had arrived. Sir William had told him he might come 
 when he would. 
 
 The change seemed to have done Ellen good, and she had had 
 her visitors. Mrs. Gass had been there; Mr. North had 
 come ; and Richard ran in for a few minutes daily. Sir 
 William welcomed them all heartily ; Mrs. Gass warmly ; for 
 she was the sister-in-law of Mrs. Cumberland, and Ellen had 
 told him of Mrs. Gass's goodness of heart. She had untied 
 her bonnet, tilting it to the back of her head without cere- 
 mony, and stayed luncheon with them. 
 
 Mr. Worth was alone in his new home, and was likely to be ; 
 for his wife had relieved him of her society. Violently indignant 
 at the prospect of removal from such a habitation as the Hall 
 to that small home of the late Mrs. Cumberland's, Madam 
 went off to London with Matilda, and took Sir Nash Bohun's 
 house by storm. Not an hour, however, had she been in it, 
 when Madam found all her golden and aspiring dreams must 
 be scattered to the four winds. Never again would Sir Nash 
 receive her as a guest or tolerate her presence. The long 
 
No Hope. 433 
 
 hidden truth, as connected with his unfortunate brother's 
 death, had been made clear to him : first of all by General 
 Strachan, next by Sir William Adair, with whom he became 
 intimate. 
 
 "What boots it to tell of the interview between Arthur and 
 his mother ? It was of a painful character. There was no 
 out-spoken reproach, there was no loud voice raised. In a 
 subdued manner, striving all the while for calmness, Arthur 
 told her she had wilfully destroyed both himself and Ellen 
 Adair ; her life, for she was dying ; his happiness. He re- 
 capitulated all that had been disclosed to him relating to his 
 father's death ; and Madam, brought to bay, never denied 
 its accuracy. 
 
 "But that I dare not presume deliberately to fly in the face 
 of one of Heaven's express Commandments, I would now 
 cast you off for ever," he concluded in his bitter pain. 
 " Look upon you again* as my mother, I cannot. I Avill 
 help you when you need help ; so far will I act the part 
 of a son to you ; but all respect for you has been forced 
 out of me ; and I would prefer that we should not meet 
 very often." 
 
 Madam went off the same day to Germany, Matilda and 
 Parrit, the maid, in her wake. Letters came from her to 
 6ay she should never go back to Dallory ; never ; probably 
 never set her foot on British soil again ; and therefore she 
 desired that a suitable income might be secured to her 
 abroad. 
 
 And so Mr. North had his new residence all to himself — 
 save for Richard. Jelly had taken up her post as his house- 
 keeper, general manager, and upper servant ; with a boy and 
 a maid under her ; and there was one outdoor gardener. All 
 of whom she domineered over to her heart's content. Jelly 
 was regaining some of her lost flesh, and more than her lost 
 spirits. Set at rest in a confidential interview with Mr. 
 Richard, as to the very tangible nature of the apparition she 
 had seen, Jelly was herself again. Mr. North thought his 
 garden lovely, more compact even than the extensive one at 
 the Hall ; he was out in it all day, working a bit between 
 whiles, and felt at peace. Mrs. Gass came to see him often ; 
 Mary Dallory nearly daily : he had his good son Richard to> 
 bear him company in the evening : and altogether Mr. North 
 was in much comfort. It had been Richard's intention to 
 take a lodging for himself; but the departure of Madam, 
 
434 Bessy Rane. 
 
 changed his plans, and he went into the new house with hia 
 father. Dr. Rane's house remained empty : old Phillis, to 
 whom also had been disclosed the truth, being there to take 
 care of it. The doctor's personal effects had been sent to him 
 by Richard. 
 
 And that's all that need be said of the changes just yet. 
 
 "Ellen looks mnch better, sir," remarked Arthur Bohun, 
 as he twirled the pink hyacinth he had plucked. 
 
 " A little fresher, perhaps, from the country air," answered 
 Sir William. 
 
 "I have not lost hope: she may be mine yet," he 
 murmured. 
 
 Sir William did not answer. He would give her to Arthur 
 now with his whole will and heart, had her health permitted 
 it. Arthur himself looked ill ; in the last few months he 
 seemed to have aged years. An awful amount of remorse 
 was ever upon him ; his life, in its unavailing regret, seemed 
 to be one long agony. 
 
 They turned across to where she was sitting. " Would you 
 not like to walk a little, Ellen ? " asked her father. 
 
 She rose at once. Arthur held out his arm, and she took it 
 Sir William was quite content that it should be so : Arthui, 
 and not himself. The three paced the lawn. Ellen wore a 
 lilac silk gown and warm white burnouse cloak. An elegant 
 girl yet, though worn nearly to a shadow, with the same sweet 
 face as of yore. 
 
 But she was soon tired, and sat down again, Arthur by her 
 side. One of the gardeners came up for some orders, and Sir 
 William went away with him. 
 
 " I have not been so happy for many a day, Ellen, as I am 
 this one," began Captain Bohun. " You are looking quite 
 yourself again. I think — in a little while — that you may be 
 mine." 
 
 A blush, beautiful as the rose-flush of old, sat for a moment 
 on her cheeks. She knew how fallacious was the hope. 
 
 '• I am nearly sure that Sir William thinks so, and will soon 
 give you to me," he added. 
 
 "Arthur," she said, putting her wan and wasted hand on 
 his, "don't lay the hope to heart. The — the disappointment, 
 when it came, would be all the harder to bear." 
 " But, my darling, you are surely better ! " 
 " Yes, I seem so, just for a little time. But I fear that I 
 shall never be well enough to be your wife." 
 
No Hope. 435 
 
 " It was so very near once, you know," was all lie whispered. 
 
 There was no one within -view, and they sat, her hand 
 clasped in his. The old expressive silence that nsed to lie 
 between them of old, ensued now. They could not tell to each 
 other more than they had told. In the most unexpected 
 reconciliation that had come, in the bliss it brought, all had 
 been disclosed. Arthur had heard all about her self-humilia- 
 tion and anguish ; he knew of the treasured violets, and their 
 supposed treachery : she had listened to his recital of the 
 weeks of despair ; she had seen the letter, written to him from 
 Eastsea, worn with his kisses, his tears, and kept in his bosom 
 still. No : of the past there was nothing more to tell each 
 other ; so far, they were at rest. 
 
 Arthur Bohun was still unconsciously twirling that pink 
 hyacinth about in his fingers. Becoming aware of the fact, 
 he offered it to her, putting it in her lap. A wan smile parted 
 her lips. 
 
 " You should not have given it to me, Arthur." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Ellen took it up and smelt it. The perfume was very strong. 
 
 " Why should I not have given it to you ? " 
 
 " Don't you know what the hyacinth is an emblem of ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Death." 
 
 One quick, pained glance at her. She was smiling yet, and 
 looking rather fondly at the flower. Captain Bohun took both 
 the flower and hand into his. 
 
 " I always thought you liked hyacinths, Ellen." 
 
 " I have always liked them very much indeed. And I like 
 the perfume — although it has something in it faint and sickly." 
 
 He quietly flung the flower on the grass, and put his boot 
 on it to stamp out its beauty. A nearer emblem of death, now, 
 than it was before ; but he did not think of that. 
 
 " I'll find you a sweeter flower presently, Ellen. And you 
 know " 
 
 A visitor was crossing the lawn to approach them. It was 
 Mary Dallory. She had not yet been to see Ellen. Something 
 said by Mrs. Gass had sent her now. Happening to call on 
 Mrs. Grass that morning, Mary heard for the first time of the 
 love that had so long existed between Captain Bohun and Mis3 
 Adair, and that the course of the love had been forcibly in- 
 terrupted by Madam, who had put forth the plea to Ellen that 
 her son was enarasred to Miss Dallorv. 
 
436 Bessy Rane. 
 
 Mary sat before Mrs. Gass in mute surprise, recalling facta 
 and fancies. " I know that Madam would have liked her son 
 to marry me ; the hints she gave me on the point were too 
 broad for me to mistake that," she observed to Mrs. Gass. 
 " Neither I nor Captain Bohun had any such thought or in- 
 tention; we understood each other too well." 
 
 " Any way, you once took in me," said Mrs. Gass. 
 
 Mary laughed. " It was only in sport : I did not think you 
 were serious." 
 
 " They believed in it at the Hall." 
 
 " Oh, did they ? So much the better." 
 
 " My dear, I am afraid it was not for the better," dissented 
 Mrs. Gass rather solemnly. " They say that it has killed Miss 
 Ellen Adair." 
 
 "What ?" exclaimed Mary. 
 
 " Ever since that time when she first went to the Hall on 
 Mrs. Cumberland's death, she has been wasting and wasting 
 away. Her father, Sir William, has now brought her to 
 Dallory, not to try if the change might restore her, for nothing 
 but a miracle would do that, but because she took a whim to 
 come. Did you hear that she was very ill ?" 
 
 " Yes, I heard that." 
 
 '' Well, then, I believe it is nothing else but this business 
 that has made her ill — Captain Bohun's deserting of her for 
 you. She was led to believe it was so — and until then, they 
 were wrapt up in each other." 
 
 Mary Dallory felt her face grow hot and cold. She had 
 been entirely innocent of ill intention ; but the words struck a 
 strange chill of repentance to her heart. 
 
 " I — don't understand," she said in a frightened tone. 
 " Captain Bohun knew there was nothing between us ; that 
 there was not the shadow of a pretence of it : why did he not 
 tell her better?" 
 
 " Because he and she had parted on another score ; they had 
 been parted through a lie of Madam's, who wanted him to 
 marry you. I don't rightly know what the lie was ; something 
 frightfully grave ; something he could not repeat again to Miss 
 Adair ; and Ellen Adair never heard it, and thought it was as 
 Madam said — that he had turned his love over to you." 
 
 Mary sat as one struck dumb, thinking of the past. There 
 was a long pause. 
 
 " How did you get to know this ?" she breathed. 
 
 "Ah, well — partly through Mr. Kichard. And I sat an 
 
No Hope. 437 
 
 hour talking with poor Miss Ellen yesterday, and caught a 
 hint or two then." 
 
 " I will set it straight," said Mary ; feeling, though without 
 much cause, bitterly repentant. 
 
 " My dear, it has been all set straight between 'em since the 
 winter. Nevertheless, Miss Mary, 'twas too late. Madam 
 did her crafty work well." 
 
 " Madam deserves to be drawn through the place at the 
 cart's tail," was the impulsive rejoinder of Miss Dallory. 
 
 She betook herself to the Hall there and then. And this 
 explains her approach. Things had become pretty clear to 
 her as she walked along. She had never been able to account 
 for the manner in which Ellen seemed to have shunned her, to 
 have avoided all approach to intimacy or friendship. That 
 Mary Dallory had favoured the impression that was abroad of 
 Arthur Bohun's possible engagement to her, she was now all 
 too conscious ; or, at any rate, had not attempted to refute it. 
 But she had never thought she was doing harm to any one. 
 
 Just as Arthur Bohun had started back when he first saw 
 Ellen in the winter, so did Miss Dallory start now. Wan and 
 wasted ! ay, indeed. Mary felt half sick, to think what share 
 she had held in it. 
 
 She said nothing at first. Room was made for her on the 
 bench, and they talked of indilferent matters. Sir "William 
 came up, and was introduced. Presently he and Arthur strolled 
 to a distance. 
 
 Mary spoke then. Just a word or two, she said of the mis- 
 apprehension that had existed ; and burst forth into her 
 exculpation. 
 
 " Ellen, I would have died rather than have caused you 
 pain. Oh if I had but known ! Arthur and I were familiar 
 with each other as brother and sister : never a thought of aught 
 else was in our minds. If I let people think there was, why — ■ 
 it was done in a kind of coquetry. I had somebody else in my 
 head, you see, all the while ; and that's the truth. And I am 
 afraid I enjoyed the disappointment that would ensue for 
 Madam." 
 
 . Ellen smiled faintly. " It seems to have been a complication 
 altogether. A kind of ill-fate that I suppose there was no 
 avoiding." 
 
 " You must get well, and be his wife." 
 
 "Ay. I wish I could." 
 
 But none could be wishing that as Arthur was. Hope de- 
 
438 Bessy Rane. 
 
 ceived him ; he confidently thought that a month or two would 
 see her his. Just for a few days the deceitful improvement in her 
 continued. 
 
 One afternoon they drove to Dallory churchyard. Ellen 
 and her father ; Arthur sitting opposite them in the carriage. 
 A fancy had taken her that she would once more look on Mrs. 
 Cumberland's grave ; and Sir William said he should like to 
 see it. 
 
 The marble stone was up now, with its inscription, " Fanny, 
 widow of the Reverend George Cumberland, Government 
 Chaplain, and daughter of the late William Gass, Esq., of 
 Whitborough." There was no mention of her marriage to 
 Captain Rane. Perhaps Dr. Rane fancied the name was not 
 in very good odour just now, and so omitted it. The place 
 where the ground had been disturbed, to take up those other 
 coffins, had been filled in again with earth. 
 
 Ellen drew Sir William's attention to a green spot near, 
 overshadowed by the drooping branches of a tree that waved 
 its leaves in the breeze, and flickered the grass beneath with 
 ever-changing light and shade. 
 
 " It is the prettiest spot in all the churchyard," she said, 
 touching his arm. " And yet no one has ever chosen it." 
 
 "It is very pretty, Ellen; but solitary." 
 
 " Will you let it be here, papa ? " 
 
 He understood the soft whisper, and slightly nodded, com- 
 pressing his lips. Sir William was not deceived. Years had 
 elapsed, but, to him, it seemed to be his wife's case over 
 again. There had been no hope for her ; there was none for 
 Ellen. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 BROUGHT FORCIBLY HOME TO HIM. 
 
 Back in an easy chair she lay, in the little room that was once 
 Mr. North's parlour. The window was flung open to the 
 sweet flowers, to the balmy air ; and Ellen Adair drank in 
 alike their beauty and their perfume. 
 
 She took to this room as her own sitting-room the day she 
 came back. She liked it. Sir William, seeing that, had 
 caused the shabby old carpet and chairs and tables to be put 
 out, and fresh and bright furniture brought in. How willingly, 
 had it been possible, would he have kept her in life ! 
 
 Just for a few days had hope lasted — no more. The change 
 in her had come on suddenly, and was unmistakable. She 
 
Brought Forcibly Home to Him. 439 
 
 wore a white gown, tied round the waist with a pink girdle, 
 and a little bow of pink ribbon — her favourite colour — at the 
 neck. She sought to look well yet ; her toilet was attended to, 
 her bright hair was arranged carefully as ever. But the maid 
 did all that. The wan face was very sweet still, the soft brown 
 eyes had all their old lustre. Very listless was the worn 
 white hand lying on her lap ; loosely sat the plain gold ring 
 on it — the ring that, through all the toil and trouble, had 
 never been taken off. Ellen was alone. Sir William had 
 gone by appointment to see over Richard North's works. 
 
 A sound as of steps on the gravel. Her father could not 
 have come back yet ! A moment's listening, and then the 
 red hectic flushed her face ; for she knew the step too well. 
 Captain Bohun had returned, then ! 
 
 Captain Bohun had gone to London to see Sir Nash off on 
 his projected Continental journey to those springs that were 
 to make him young again. Sir Nash had looked for Arthur 
 to accompany him, but he now acknowledged that Ellen's 
 claims were paramount to his. Ellen had thought he might 
 have been back yesterday. 
 
 He came in at the glass doors, knowing he should probably 
 find her in the room. But his joyous smile died away when he 
 saw her face. His step halted ; his already held-out hand 
 dropped at his side. 
 
 "Ellen,!" 
 
 In a timid, frightened, wailing tone was the word spoken. 
 Only three days' absence, and she had faded like this ! "Was it 
 a relapse ? — or what had she been doing to cause the change ? 
 
 For a few minutes, perhaps neither of them was sufficiently 
 collected to know what passed. In his shock of abandon- 
 ment, he knelt by the chair, holding her hands, his eyes drop- 
 ping tears. The remorse ever gnawing at his heart was very 
 cruel just then. Ellen bent towards him, and whispered that 
 he must be calm — must bear like a man : things were but 
 drawing a little nearer. 
 
 " I should have been down yesterday, but that I waited in 
 town to make sundry purchases and preparations," he said. 
 " Ellen, I thought that — perhaps — next month — your father 
 would have given you over to me." 
 
 " Did you ? " she faintly answered. 
 
 "You must be mine," he continued, in too deep emotion to 
 weigh his words. " If you were to die first, I — I think it 
 would kill mo." 
 
440 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " Look at me," was all she answered. u See whether ifc is 
 possible." 
 
 " There's no knowing. It might restore yon. The fresh 
 scenes, the warm pure climate that I would take you to — we'd 
 find one somewhere — might do wonders. I pointed this out 
 to Sir William in the winter." 
 
 " But I have not been well enough for it, Arthur." 
 
 " Ellen, it must be ! Why, you know ; you know that you 
 were almost my wife. Hah' an hour later, and you would 
 have been." 
 
 She released one of her hands, and hid her face upon it. 
 Captain Bohun grew more earnest in his pleading ; he was 
 really thinking this thing might be. 
 
 " I shall declare the truth to Sir William Adair — and I 
 know that I ought to have done so before, Ellen. When he 
 shall know how very near we were to being man and wife, he 
 will make no further objection to giving you to me now. My 
 care and love will restore you if any thing can." 
 
 She had put down her hand again, and was looking at him, 
 a little startled and her cheeks hectic. 
 
 " Arthur, hush. Papa must never know this while I live. 
 Do as you will afterwards." 
 
 " I shall tell him before the day's out," persisted Captain 
 Bohun. And she began to tremble with agitation. 
 
 " No, no. I say no. I should die with the shame." 
 
 " What shame ?" he rejoined. 
 
 " The shame that — that — fell npon me. The shame of— 
 after having consented to a secret marriage, you should have 
 left me as you did, and not fulfilled it, and never told me 
 why. It lies upon me still, and I cannot help it. I think 
 it is that that has helped to kill me more than all the rest. Oh, 
 Arthur, forgive me for saying this ! Do not you renew the 
 shame now." 
 
 Never had his past conduct been brought so forcibly home 
 to him. Never had his heart so ached with its repentant pain. 
 He stood up and laid her face upon hie breast, and the scald- 
 ing tears fell from his eyes upon it. 
 
 " The fear, lest the secret should be discovered, lay upon 
 me always," she whispered. " While I was staying here that 
 time it seemed to me one long mental torment, a pain of pro- 
 longed crucifixion. Had the humiliation come, I could never 
 have borne it. Spare me still, Arthur." 
 
 Every word she spoke was like a dagger thrusting its sharp 
 
Brought Forcibly Home to Him. 441 
 
 point into his heart. She was going — going rapidly — where 
 neither pain nor humiliation could reach her. But he had, in 
 all probability, a long life before him, and must live out his 
 bitter repentance. 
 
 " Oh, my love, my love ! I wish I could die for you !" 
 
 " Don't grieve, Arthur ; I shall be better off. You and 
 papa must comfort one another." 
 
 He was unconsciously turning round the plain gold ring on 
 her wasted hand, a sob now and again breaking from him. 
 How real the past was seeming to him ; even the hour when 
 he had put that ring on, and the words he spoke with it, were 
 very present. What remained of it all ? Nothing, save that 
 she was dying. 
 
 " I should like to give you this key now, while I am well 
 enough to remember," she suddenly said, detaching a small 
 key from her watch-chain. " It belongs to my treasure-box, 
 as I used to call it at school. They will give it you when I 
 am dead." 
 
 "Oh, Ellen!" 
 
 " The other ring is in it, and the licence — for I did not 
 burn it, as you bade me that day in the churchyard ; and the 
 two or three letters you ever wrote me ; and my journal, and 
 some withered flowers, and other foolish trifles. You can do 
 what you like with them, Arthur ; they will be yours then. 
 And oh, Arthur ! if you grieve any more now, like this, you 
 will hurt me, for I cannot bear that you should suffer pain. 
 God bless you, my darliug, my almost husband ! "We should 
 have been very happy with one another." 
 
 Lower and lower bent he his aching brow, striving to sup- 
 press the anguish, that went well-nigh to unman him. Her 
 own tears were falling. 
 
 "Be comforted," she whispered; "Arthur, be comforted! 
 It won't be for so many years, even at the most; and then we 
 shall be together again, in Heaven ! " 
 
 * # * # # 
 
 And so she died. A week or two more of lingering pain 
 and suffering, and then she was at rest. And that was the 
 ending of one of the sweetest girls this world has ever known 
 ■ — Ellen Adair. 
 
442 Bessy Rane. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 The genial spring gave place to a fiery summer ; and summer, 
 in its turn, was giving place to autumn. There is nothing of 
 much note to record of the interval ; just a passing word of 
 gossip here and there. 
 
 Dallory, as regards North Inlet, was no longer a crowded 
 place. The poor workmen, with their wives and families, had 
 mostly drifted away from it ; some few were emigrating, some 
 had brought their minds (or, as they expressed it, their 
 stomachs) to accept that last and hated refuge, the work- 
 house ; and they seemed likely, so far as present prospects 
 looked, to be permanent recipients of its hospitality. The 
 greater portion, however, had wandered away to different 
 parts of the country, seeking for that employment they could 
 no longer get in their native place. Poole and the other con- 
 spirators had been tried at the March assizes. Richard North 
 pleaded earnestly for a lenient sentence on them : and he was 
 listened to. Poole got a term of penal servitude, shorter than 
 it would otherwise have been, and the others hard labour. 
 One and all, including Mr. Poole, declared that they would 
 not willingly have injured Richard North. 
 
 So, what with one thing and another, North Inlet had too 
 much room in it, and was now at peace. There was no longer 
 any need of special policemen. As to Richard, he was going 
 on steadily and quietly ; progressing a little, not much. Some 
 five or six men had been added to his small number, of whom 
 Ketler was one ; Ketler having, as Jelly said, come to his 
 senses. But the works would never be what they had been. 
 For one thing, Richard had not capital ; and if he had, per- 
 haps he might not now have cared to embark it. Provided 
 he could gain a sufficient income for expenses, and employ his 
 time and energies, it was all he asked. 
 
 Madam lived abroad permanently. Mr. North (Richard 
 really) allowed her two hundred a year ; her son Arthur two ; 
 Sir Nash two. Six hundred a year ; but it was pretty plainly 
 intimated to Madam that this income was only guaranteed so 
 long as she kept herself aloof from them. Madam retorted 
 that she liked the Continent too well to leave it for snuffy ole 
 England. 
 
 Matilda North bad married a French count, whom they had 
 
Conclusion. 443 
 
 met at Baden-Baden. She, herself, made the announcement 
 to her step-brother Arthur in a self-possessed letter, telling 1 
 him that as the Count's fortune was not equal to his merits, 
 she should depend upon him (Arthur) to assist them yearly. 
 Sidney North had also married. Tired, possibly, with his 
 most uncertain existence, finding supplies from home were 
 now the exception rather than the rule, and not daring to 
 show his face on English soil to entreat for more, Mr. Sidney 
 North entered into the bonds of matrimony with a wealthy 
 American dame who was a few years older than himself ; the 
 widow of a great man who had made his fortune by the oil 
 springs. It was to be hoped he would keep himself straight 
 now. 
 
 And Mr. North, feeling that he was securely freed from 
 Madam, was happy as a prince, and confidentially told people 
 that he thought he was growing young again. Bessy wrote 
 to him weekly ; pleasant, happy letters. She liked her new 
 home in the new world very much indeed ; and she said 
 Oliver seemed not to have a single care. The new firm, Jones 
 and Rane, had more patients than they could well attend to, 
 and all things were well with them. In short, Dr. and Mrs. 
 Rane were evidently both prosperous and happy. No one was 
 more pleased to know this than Mrs. Gass. She flourished ; 
 and her beaming face was more beaming than ever when seen 
 abroad, setting the wives of Richard North's workmen to 
 rights, or looking out from behind her geraniums. 
 
 Dallory Hall was empty again. William Adair had quitted 
 it, his mission there over. Richard North was thinking about 
 removing the furniture ; but in truth he did not know what 
 to do with it. There was no hurry, for Miss Dallory said 
 she did not intend to let it again at present. 
 
 Perhaps the only one not just now in a state of bliss was 
 Jelly. Jelly had made a frightful discovery of iniquity — Tim 
 Wilks was faithless. For several months now (as it came 
 out) Mr. Wilks had transferred his allegiance from herself to 
 Molly Green, whom he was courting at Whitborough in 
 secrecy. At least, keeping it from Jelly. The truth was, poor 
 Tim did not dare to tell her. Jelly heard of it in a manner 
 that astounded her. Spending a Sunday at Whitborough with 
 Mrs. Beverage's servants, Jelly went to morning service at 
 one of the churches. " Fate " took her to a particular 
 church, she said. And there she heard the banns of marriage 
 read out for the first time of asking, between Timothy Wilks, 
 
444 Bessy Rane. 
 
 bachelor, and Mary Green, spinster. Jelly nearly shrieked 
 aloud in her indignation. Had the culprits been present, she 
 might have felt obliged to box their ears afterwards incoming 
 out. It proved to be all true. Tim and Molly were going to 
 be married, and Tim was furnishing a pretty cottage at Whit- 
 borough. 
 
 And that is how matters were at present in Dallory. 
 
 One autumn day, when the woods were glowing with their 
 many colours, and the guns might be heard making war on 
 the partridges, Richard North overtook one of his Flemish 
 workmen at the base of a hill about half a mile from his works. 
 The man was wheeling a wheelbarrow that contained sand, 
 but not in the handy, ready manner that an Englishman 
 would, and Richard took it himself. 
 
 " Can't you learn, Snaude?" he said, addressing the man 
 by name. " Look here ; you should stoop: you must not get 
 the barrow nearly upright. See how you've spilt the sand." 
 
 Wheeling it along and paying attention to nothing else, 
 Richard took no notice of a basket-carriage that was clatter- 
 ing down the opposite hill. It pulled up when it reached 
 him. Looking up, Richard saw Miss Dallory. Giving the 
 wheelbarrow over to the man, Richard took the hand she held 
 out. 
 
 " Yes," he said laughing, " you stop to shake hands with 
 me now, but you won't do it soon." 
 
 "No? Why not?" she questioned. 
 
 " Tou saw me wheeling the barrow alonj? ? " 
 
 " Yes. It did not look very heavy." 
 
 " I have to put my hands to all sorts of things now, you 
 perceive, Miss Dallory." 
 
 " Just so. I hope you like doing it." 
 
 " Well, I do." 
 
 " But I want to know what you mean by saying I shall soon 
 not stop to speak to you." 
 
 "When you become a great lady. Report says you are 
 about to marry." 
 
 " Does it ? Do you still think, sir, I am going to take *a 
 Bohun?" 
 
 " There has been some lord down at your brother's place, 
 once or twice. The gossips in Dallory sav that he comes for 
 
 you." 
 
 " Then you can tell the gossips that they are a great deal 
 wiser than I am. Stand still, Gyp" — to the shaggy pony. 
 
Conclusion, 445 
 
 u I would not nave him ; and I'm sure he has not the re- 
 motest idea of having me. Why, he is hardly out of his 
 teens ! I daresay he thinks me old enough to be his god- 
 mother." 
 
 Miss Dallory played with the reins, and then glanced at 
 Richard. He was looking at her earnestly, as he leaned on the 
 side of the low carriage. 
 
 " That young man has come down for the shooting, Mr. 
 Richard. Frank takes him out to it every day. As for me, 
 I do not intend to marry at all. Never." 
 
 " What shall you do then ? " 
 
 " Live at Dallory Hall. Frank is going to be married, to 
 the lord's sister. Now there's some information for you, but 
 you need not proclaim it. It is true. I shall remove myself 
 and my bundles to the Hall, and live in it till I die." 
 
 " It will be very lonely for you." 
 
 "Yes, I know that," she answered in a sad tone. "Most 
 old maids are lonely. There will be Frank's children, 
 perhaps, to come and stay with me sometimes." 
 
 Their eyes met. Each understood the other as exactly as 
 though a host of words had been spoken. She would have one 
 man for a husband — if he would have her. 
 
 Richard went nearer. His lips were pale, his tones hoarse 
 with emotion. 
 
 " Mary, it would not be suitable. Think of your money ; 
 your birth. I told you once before not to tempt me. Why 
 you know — you knoiv that I have loved you, all along, too well 
 for my own peace. In the old days when those works of 
 ours " — pointing to the distant chimneys — " were of note, and 
 we wealthy, I allowed myself to cherish dreams that I should 
 be ashamed to confess to : but that's all over and done with. 
 It would not be suitable now." 
 
 She blushed, and smiled ; and turned her head away from 
 him to study the opposite hedge while she spoke. 
 
 " For my part, I think there was never anything .so suitable 
 since the world was made." 
 
 " Mary, I cannot." 
 
 " If you will please get off my basket-chaise, sir, I'll drive 
 on. 
 
 But he did not stir. Miss Dallory played with the rein3 
 again. 
 
 " Mary, lioio can I ? If you had nothing, it would bo 
 different. I cannot live at Dallory Hall." 
 
446 Bessy Rane. 
 
 "No one else ever shall." But Richard had to bend to 
 catch the whisper. 
 
 "'The community would cry shame upon me. Upon the 
 poor man of work, Richard North." 
 
 " How dare you call yourself nanies, Mr. Richard ? You 
 are a gentleman." 
 
 " What would John and Francis say ? " 
 
 " What they pleased. Francis likes you better than any- 
 body in the world; better than — well,yes,sir — better than I do." 
 
 He had one of her hands now. She knew, she had known 
 a long while, how it was with him — that he loved her pas- 
 sionately, but would never, under his altered circumstances, 
 tell her so. And, moreover, she knew that he was aware she 
 knew it. 
 
 " But Maty, since — since before you returned from Swit- 
 zerland up to this hour, I have not dared to think the old 
 hopes could be carried out, even in my own heart." 
 
 " You think it better that I should grow into an old maid, 
 and you into an old bachelor. Very well. Thank you. 
 Perhaps we shall both be happier for it Let me drive on, 
 Mr. Richard." 
 
 He drew her nearer ; he made her turn to him. The 
 great love of his heai*t shone in his face and eyes. A face 
 of emotion then. She dropped the reins, regardless of what 
 the rough pony might please to do, and put her other hand 
 upon his. 
 
 " Oh, Richard, don't let us carry on the farce any longer ! 
 We have been playing it all these months and years. Let 
 us at least be honest with each other : and then, if you 
 decide for separation, why — it must be so." 
 
 But, as it seemed, Richard did not mean to decide for it. 
 He glanced round to make sure that nobody was in the lonely 
 road : and, drawing her face to his, left some strangely ardent 
 kisses on it. 
 
 " I could not give up my works, Mary." 
 
 " Nobody asked you to, sir." 
 
 " It is just as though I had left the furniture in the Hall 
 for the purpose." 
 
 "Perhaps you did." 
 
 " Mary ! " 
 
 " There's the pony going. Stand still, Gyp. I won't give 
 a P C"7P' mind Richard. I know he is frightfully ragged and 
 ugly, and that you despise him more than tongue can tell ; 
 
Conclusion, 447 
 
 but I won't give him up. He can be the set-off bargain 
 against your works, sir." 
 
 "Agreed," answered Richard, laughing. And he chose 
 to seal the bargain. 
 
 Mary said again that she must drive on ; and did not. 
 
 How long they would really have stayed it was impossible to 
 
 say, but for the man's coming back from the works with the 
 
 empty wheelbarrow for more sand. 
 
 # * # # # 
 
 And there's no more to say. When the next spring came 
 round, Richard North and his wife were established at 
 Dallory Hall. Somewhere about the time of the marriage, 
 there occurred a little warfare. Mary, who owned a great 
 nest of accumulated money, wanted Richard to take it for his 
 business. Richard steadily refused. A small portion would 
 be useful to him ; that he would take ; but no more. 
 
 " Richard," she said to him one day, before they had been 
 married a week, " I do think you are more obstinate upon 
 this point than any other. You should hear what Mrs. Grass 
 says about it." 
 
 " She says it to me," returned Richard, laughing. " There's 
 not my equal for obstinacy in the world, she tells me." 
 
 " And you know there's not, sir." 
 
 But the next minute he put aside lightness and grew 
 strangely serious. " I cannot give up business, Mary; I have 
 already said so " 
 
 " I should despise you if you did, Richard," she inter- 
 rupted. " I have money and gentility — I beg you'll not 
 laugh, sir ; you have work, and brains to work with ; so we 
 are equally matched. But I wish you'd take the money." 
 
 " No," said Richard. " I will never again enter on gigantic 
 operations, and be at the beck and call of the Trades' Unions. 
 There's another reason against it — that it would reqiiire 
 larger supervision on my part. And as I have now divided 
 duties to attend to, I shall not increase them. I should not 
 choose to neglect my works ; I should not choose to neglect 
 my wife." 
 
 "A wilful man must have his way," quoth Mary. 
 
 " And a wilful woman shall have hers in all things, save 
 when I see that it would not be for her good," rejoined 
 Richard, holding his wife before him by the waist. 
 
 " I daresay I shall!" she saucily answered. "Is that a 
 bargain, Richard ? " 
 
448 Bessy Rane. 
 
 " To be sure.'* And Richard sealed it as he had the other 
 one some months before. 
 
 And so we leave Dallory and its people* at peace. Even 
 Jelly was in feather. Jelly, ruling Mr. North indoors, and 
 giving her opinion, unasked, in a free and easy manner when- 
 ever she chose, as to the interests of the garden (which 
 opinion poor Mr. North enjoyed instead of reproved, and 
 grew to look for) — Jelly had taken on another " young man," 
 in the person of Mr. Francis Dallory's head gardener. He 
 was a staid young Scotchman ; very respectful to Jelly, and 
 quite attentive. Mr. Seeley had moved into Dr. Rane's old 
 house, and old Phillis was his housekeeper; so that Jelly's 
 neighbourly relations with the next door were continued as 
 usual. 
 
 On. Arthur Bohun there remained the greatest traces of tho 
 past. Sir Nash was restored to health ; and Arthur, in his 
 never-ceasing remorse, would sometimes hope that he would 
 marry again : he should almost hate to succeed to the rank and 
 wealth to which he had, in a degree, sacrificed one who had 
 been far dearer to him than life. Arthur's ostensible home 
 was with Sir Nash ; but he was fond of coming to Dallory. 
 He had stayed twice with Mr. North ; and Richard's home, 
 the Hall, would be always open to him. The most bitter 
 moments of Arthur Bohun's life were those that he spent with 
 Sir William Adair : never could he get rid of the conscious- 
 ness of having wronged him, of having helped to make kim 
 childless. Sir William had grown to love him as a son — 
 which was but an additional stab for Arthur's aching heart. 
 
 And whenever Arthur Bohun came to Dallory, he would pay 
 a visit to a certain white tomb in the churchyard. Choosing 
 x solitary evening for it, after dusk had fallen, and staying 
 by it for hours, there he indulged his dreadful grief. Who 
 can tell how he called upon her ? — who can tell how he poured 
 out all the misery of his repentant heart, praying to be for- 
 given ? Neither she nor Heaven could answer him in this 
 world. She was gone ; gone ; all his regret was unavailing 
 to recal her : there remained nothing but the marble stone, 
 and the simple came on it : 
 
 " ELLEN ADAIR." 
 
 I. CGDEN AND CO., PRINTERS, 1 72, SI. JOCN STREET, B.ft 
 
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