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GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. HENRY WOOD. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "ROLAND YORKE," "THE CHANNINGS," 
 
 "MILDRED ARKELL," "THE LOST WILL," "THE HAUNTED TOWER," 
 
 "A LIFE'S SECRET," "THE MYSTERY," "THE RUNAWAY MATCH," 
 
 "LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS; OR, THE EARL'S HEIRS," 
 
 " VERNER'S PRIDE," "OSWALD CRAY," " ST. MARTIN'S EVE,' : 
 
 " THE CASTLE'S HEIR ; OR, LADY ADELAIDE'S OATH," 
 
 "SQUIRE TREVLYN'S HEIR," " ELSTER'S FOLLY," 
 
 " SHADOW OF ASHLYDY AT," "WILLIAM ALL AIR," 
 
 "ORVILLE COLLEGE," " LOST BANK NOTE," 
 
 " THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD," ETC. 
 
 Printed from the author's Manuscript and advanced Proof-sheets, purchased 
 
 by us from Mrs. Henry Wood, and issued here simultaneously 
 
 with the publication of the work in Europe. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 
 
 306 CHESTNUT STREET. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S70, by 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the 
 Eastern District of Pennsylvania. 
 
 MRS. HENRY WOOD'S NOVELS. 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in 
 
 paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
 ROLAND YORKE. A Sequel to "THE CHANNINGS." One volume, 
 
 octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
 THE CHANNINGS. A DOMESTIC NOVEL IN REAL LIFE. One 
 
 volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
 THE CASTLE'S HEIR ; or, LADY ADELAIDE'S OATH. One volume, 
 
 octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
 SQUIRE TREVLYN'S HEIR ; or, TREVLYN HOLD. One volume, octavo. 
 
 Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
 VERNER'S PRIDE. A Tale of Domestic Life. One volume, octavo. Price 
 
 $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
 THE SHADOW OP ASHLYDYAT. One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in 
 
 paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
 LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS; or, THE EARL'S HEIRS. One 
 
 volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
 OSWALD CRAY. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
 ELSTER'S FOLLY. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
 ST. MARTIN'S EVE. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
 THE RED COURT FARM. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
 MILDRED ARKELL. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 
 THE MYSTERY. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 
 A LIFE'S SECRET. Price 50 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 
 ORVILLE COLLEGE. Price 50 cents. 
 
 THE LOST BANK NOTE, and Martyn Ware's Temptation. Price 75 cents. 
 THE RUNAWAY MATCH, and THE DEAN OF DENHAM. Price 50 cents. 
 THE LOST WILL, and THE DIAMOND BRACELET. Price 50 cents. 
 THE HAUNTED TOWER. Price 50 cents. 
 A LIGHT AND A DARK CHRISTMAS. Price 25 cents. 
 WILLIAM ALLAIR. Price 25 cents. 
 THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. Price 25 cents. 
 
 The above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all of the 
 above books will be sent per mail, postage pre-paid, to any part of the United 
 States, on receipt of the price of the ones wanted by the Publishers, 
 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 
 
 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 
 

 CONTENTS. 
 
 Chapter Page 
 
 I.— IN THE EVENING LIGHT 21 
 
 II.— DOWN AT CHILLING 29 
 
 III.— WITH LADY KAGE 33 
 
 .IV.— KEZIAH DAWKES 38 
 
 V.— CALLED UP BY TELEGRAM 45 
 
 VI.— UNDER THE MOONLIT SKY 50 
 
 VII— ENTERING ON A NEW HOME 58 
 
 VIII —A TERRIBLE FEAR 64 
 
 IX.— SUNSHINE GONE OUT FOREVER 72 
 
 X.— COMING HOME 80 
 
 XL— IN THE EVENING PAPER 87 
 
 XII.— THE SHADOW OF THE FUTURE 93 
 
 XIII.— AT THE ROCK 103 
 
 XIV.— A SOLEMN WARNING 109 
 
 XV— DISINHERITED 117 
 
 XVI.— SPRING ROUND AGAIN 122 
 
 XVII— LOVE AT LAST 127 
 
 XVIIL— THE FUNERAL 133 
 
 XIX.— MORE VIGOROUS THAN EVER 138 
 
 XX.— A PAINFUL INTERVIEW 144 
 
 XXL— CAPTAIN DAWKES IN TOWN 152 
 
 XXIL— PLAYING FOR HIGH STAKES 156 
 
 XXIII.— BREAKING THE NEWS TO BELLE 162 
 
 XXIV.— AT MRS. RICHARD DUNN'S 167 
 
 XXV.— AT THE FESTIVE BOARD 172 
 
 XXVI.— MRS. GARSTON'S PURCHASE 178 
 
 XXVII— NOT QUITE HEARTLESS 183 
 
 XXVIIL— A FEW WHISPERED WORDS 186 
 
 XXIX.— CALLED OUT OF THE RECEPTION-ROOM 191 
 
 XXX.— AN OLD WARNING RECALLED 195 
 
 XXXL— VERY UNSATISFACTORY 200 
 
 (19) 
 
20 CONTENTS. 
 
 Chapter Page 
 
 XXXII.— MRS. DAWKES AT HOME 203 
 
 [ XXXIII.— A FLOOD OF GOLDEN SUNLIGHT 210 
 
 .XXXIV.— "DIED IN A FIT." 213 
 
 | XXXV.— ENSHROUDED IN MYSTERY 219 
 
 XXXVI.— THE POSTERN DOOR 226 
 
 XXXVII.— IN THE SOUTH WING 232 
 
 XXXVIII.— ON THE WATCH 239 
 
 XXXIX.— SEARCHING FOR FENCING-STICKS 246 
 
 XL.— THE LAWYER'S SECRET VISIT 252 
 
 XLL— THE LAST AND FINAL WILL 257 
 
 XLIL— CONCLUSION .• 265 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 IN THE EVENING LIGHT. 
 
 Nothing could be more beautiful. 
 The sun was sinking in the west, cast- 
 ing direct rays on the long line of blue 
 water, in a flood of golden brightness. 
 It shone on the white sails of the pleas- 
 ure-boats, on the fishing-craft putting 
 out for their night's work ; it brought 
 into clearer distinctness the fine vessels 
 passing far away on their course ; it 
 played on the chain of mountains that 
 terminated the land prospect to the right, 
 stretching their undulating outline miles 
 on in the distance. Calm, soothing, still. 
 The turbulent sea-waves were unseen 
 this evening ; the froth and foam rose 
 not. All the world seemed to be at rest 
 from its troubles and its turmoil, its sin- 
 ful passions and petty strifes, as if it 
 would impart to men's hearts a foretaste 
 of that peace which shall be realized 
 only in heaven. 
 
 The place, Little Bay, was a small 
 quiet Welsh watering-place, where the 
 bathing was good, the air salubrious, and 
 the sea-view of vast extent. Little fre- 
 quented in those earlier days, it was of 
 meek pretension and very reasonable, en- 
 tertaining no prevision of the fashiona- 
 ble resort it was destined afterwards to 
 become. 
 
 Within a large open bow-window, 
 partly looking out on the scene that 
 one of them, so loved, partly listening to 
 the desultory talk of a gentleman who 
 stood outside and leaned his arms on its 
 frame, were two girls. She who was 
 
 next to him, answering his repartees be- 
 fore they were well spoken, was richly 
 dressed in charming blue silk and lace — 
 a young, fair, bright girl of seventeen, 
 in appearance almost a child ; her laugh- 
 ing eyes of a purple blue, her hair dark 
 brown and luxuriant, her cheeks rival- 
 ing the hue of the damask rose — alto- 
 gether as lovely a vision of beauty as 
 ever enthralled the senses of man. The 
 other was very nice-looking also, but of 
 quieter aspect. A gentle girl, she, just 
 nineteen, with large shy hazel eyes, hair 
 of a lighter shade of brown, a complex- 
 ion fair and rather pale — a soft sweet 
 face that was pleasant to look upon. 
 Sh§ was taller than her companion, and 
 yet not more than of middle height ; 
 her dress was a simple muslin, costing 
 at most but a few shillings. You can- 
 not judge by dress of the ways and 
 means of its wearer, as all the world 
 knows. The richly-dressed girl in her 
 blue silk and its costly Honiton lace — 
 Caroline Kage — had been straitened in 
 means all her life, and never expected to 
 be lifted out of the straits except by 
 some fortunate marriage ; the other 
 would probably inherit at least a hun- 
 dred thousand pounds, for she was one 
 of the daughters of the rich Mr. Can- 
 terbury, of Chilling. 
 
 And he who talked to them — Thomas 
 Kage? He was a barrister by profes- 
 sion, and had to work hard for his liv- 
 ing, not expecting to be helped by so 
 much as a shilling from anybody in the 
 world. A slight-made man, appearing 
 from his slenderness almost of middle 
 
 (21) 
 
22 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 height, hut not so in reality. His hair 
 and eyes were dark ; his face, nothing 
 to hoast of, was honest, genial, true. 
 People called Thomas Kage " plain," 
 and plain he was, judging him by the 
 lines of severe beauty ; hut the coun- 
 tenance was a good countenance, carry- 
 ing its own index straight to the hearts 
 of discerning men. 
 
 It was the third week in September ; 
 they had gone to the seaside the third 
 week in August ; so that for a month 
 now he and these two girls had been 
 daily and almost hourly companions. 
 The result was one that is not rare. 
 Which of the two had learnt to love him 
 most, it would be difficult to say. Mil- 
 licent Canterbury had never met him in 
 her life before ; Caroline Kage had, 
 though not frequently : he and she were 
 cousins several degrees removed. 
 
 " Why are you so serious, Miss Can- 
 terbury ? " he suddenly asked, bending 
 his head more forward to look at her 
 where she sat, a little back from the 
 window. 
 
 " Am I serious ? " she returned, a 
 pink blush mantling in her smooth 
 cheek at his words, and she bent her 
 too-conscious face to hide it. 
 " At least, you are silent. " 
 "I was listening to you and Caroline." 
 " I think you generally prefer listen- 
 ing to talking," he said, a smile of rare 
 sweetness breaking over his lips. Tjjiat 
 smile was the one sole beauty of Thomas 
 Kage's face, redeeming it from its re- 
 proach while it lasted. 
 " Do I ? " 
 
 Do I ! Carelessly though the answer- 
 ing words were given, Millicent Canter- 
 bury knew that the charge was widely 
 true, and the pink blush increased to 
 crimson. When in his presence, she 
 could no more have been free of tongue 
 than a mute: her love for him was ear- 
 nest, real, passionate ; and this same 
 love, as most of us know, chains the lips 
 when in the presence of its idol. 
 
 " And do you agree with Caroline or 
 with me ? " 
 
 " With you," Millicent was obliged to 
 confess, for she was of a straight-forward 
 nature, knowing nothing of evasion; 
 but the avowal caused the crimson to 
 become as a very spot of fire ; " for I feel 
 sure Mrs. Kage will not allow us to go." 
 They had been discussing a projected 
 sail for the morrow, these two girls, with 
 
 Miss Annesley as companion, who was 
 staying with them, and Mr. Kage as 
 protector. Caroline spoke of it as an 
 event sure and decided ; he had quietly 
 declared it would turn out " all moon- 
 shine." 
 
 " You will see," continued Miss Kage. 
 — " Leta, what in the world are your 
 cheeks so scarlet for? — And I think it 
 is exceedingly wicked of you, Thomas, to 
 throw cold water on what I propose." 
 Thomas Kage laughed. 
 
 " Cold water ! Ah, Caroline, if you 
 only knew how hot the water I would 
 throw, if that might bring the sail to 
 fruition ! " he pursued in a tone of grav- 
 er meaning. "The prospect of taking 
 you is delightful, but it will not be real- 
 ized. As Miss Canterbury says, your 
 mother would not permit it." 
 
 " It is so stupid of her to be afraid of 
 the water," said Caroline hastily. "As 
 if people got drowned in a calm sea ! " 
 
 He made no reply, only glanced at her, 
 and something like emotion passed over 
 her lovely face. She was conscious, and 
 he was conscious, that Mrs. Kage's veto 
 would not be laid upon the expedition on 
 account of any danger they might incur, 
 although it was true that she was a cow- 
 ard in regard to the water, but because 
 she was beginning to dread this frequent 
 and close companionship. 
 
 " Mrs. Kage regards the sea as a 
 treacherous ogre, waiting always to swal- 
 low up the unwary who may venture on 
 it, you know, Caroline," he remarked in- 
 differently, as he opened a book he held 
 and turned over its pages. 
 
 "What will you say to me to-morrow 
 morning if I meet you with the news 
 that I have persuaded mamma into con- 
 senting? " 
 
 " I shall say you are the dearest cous- 
 in in the world — " 
 
 " That's easily said when you have no 
 other," she petulantly interrupted." 
 
 " And the most clever of diplomatists," 
 he continued. "You should let a man 
 finish, Caroline. I wish you success, but 
 I have no expectation that the wish will 
 be realised." 
 
 "What kind of wish do you call that, 
 pray ? " 
 
 " A faithless one, I suppose." 
 
 "Just so. And I will convict you of 
 shame when I bring you mamma's con- 
 sent." 
 
 " So be it, Caroline," he answered. — 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 " And you, Miss Canterbury ? You have 
 not said you will go. Will you ? " 
 
 "Yes, I — I think so," was the reply, 
 given with some hesitation. "I don't 
 care much to go on the sea." 
 
 " Why, I have heard you say that you 
 love the sea." 
 
 " I love to look at it. Seeing it as we 
 do from these windows, I cannot imagine 
 anything in the world more beautiful. I 
 could look at it for ever, and not be tir- 
 ed : watching its changing colors; spec- 
 ulating on the large vessels that pass; 
 seeing what they do in the little boats 
 cruising off the land. My love for the 
 sea is something strange. But on it I 
 am nearly as great a coward as Mrs. 
 Kage : and in rough weather I am so 
 sea-sick ! " 
 
 He laughed at the wind-up. Caroline 
 Kage spoke rather testily. 
 
 " There's no particular necessity for 
 your going into raptures over the sea, 
 Leta, if you do love it." 
 
 '■No," said Leta in a meek tone, "of 
 course not." 
 
 They called her "Leta" almost always. 
 When a little child, before she was able 
 to speak plain, she had so pronounced 
 her own name Millicent; the appellation 
 had never left her, and never would. 
 
 The sun went down in a blaze of gold. 
 The clear and beautiful opal tints, seen 
 only in the north-western sky, succeeded 
 to it; and still Thomas Kage stood on. 
 
 Suddenly, as if prompted by some mo- 
 mentary recollection, he removed his 
 arms from the window to look at his 
 watch ; and Caroline saw the movement 
 with a jealous eye and failing heart. It 
 seemed to foreshadow his departure ; and 
 she would willingly have kept him by 
 her side for ever. 
 
 " W T hy do you not come in, Thomas ? 
 The idea of having stayed outside all 
 this while ! " 
 
 " I cannot come in now. I promised 
 my mother to be with her for tea." 
 
 " How many more evenings will you 
 tell us that ? Your mother is very ex- 
 acting." 
 
 '■ Never was there a mother less so," he 
 rejoined emphatically, a glow on his hon- 
 est face. " But she likes to have me with 
 her at tea; and I have been keeping her 
 waiting for it. Tiresome sirens, both of 
 you, to enchain a fellow so, and cause 
 him to forget the hour-glass ! Farewell, 
 and better manners to you." 
 
 He turned down the gravel path with 
 a quick step — the house stood back in a 
 garden — passed through the gate, and 
 nodded gaily as he raised his hat. It 
 was as if a shadow had fallen on the 
 hearts of both ; and they listened in si- 
 lence and sadness to the echo of his fleet 
 footsteps. 
 
 He had set off to run as though he 
 were a school-boy. Turning a bend of 
 the road, a lady came in view, and he 
 had to slacken speed. It was Miss An- 
 nesley ; she had come to Little Bay with 
 Mrs. Kage. 
 
 " Are you bound for Mrs. Garston's ?" 
 she stopped to ask. 
 
 "Not now. I am hastening home to 
 my mother." 
 
 " That is well," returned Miss Annes- 
 ley quaintly. " Had you been going to 
 Mrs. Garston, I should have said, don't 
 go. She is cross this evening ; cross 
 with you." 
 
 " I know I ought to have gone there," 
 he confessed, a smile breaking over his 
 face. " That's it, I suppose ? " 
 
 " That is it. And I was charged to tell 
 you, if we by chance met, that she would 
 not receive you now until to-morrow. 
 She means it, Mr. Kage." 
 
 " Very well. I'll go and make my 
 peace with her then. Thank you. Fare- 
 well for the present." 
 
 Resuming his quick pace, he gained 
 the door of a pretty cottage, also facing 
 the sea. A staid, hard woman of fifty, 
 as tall as a lighthouse, admitted him'. 
 
 " You have kept your mother waiting 
 a long while, Mr. Thomas," was the 
 greeting he received, delivered with a 
 severe countenance. " She'd not let the 
 tea be made till you came in." 
 
 " I am very sorry, Dorothy," he an- 
 swered, never thinking, as most men at 
 his age would, that it was nearly tkne 
 Dorothy left off her lectures to him. 
 She had nursed him when a baby, and 
 been his mother's ever-faithful atten- 
 dant since, through good and ill, for 
 eight - and - twenty years. " I did not 
 happen to look at my watch, and the 
 time slipped on." 
 
 " I think I'd leave the coming home to 
 meals an open question, if I were you, 
 sir, while we are here. My lady ought 
 to have had her tea early this evening, 
 for she's got a fearful bad headache come 
 on." 
 
 The keeping the " meals " waiting by 
 
24 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 so much as five minutes was amidst the 
 catalogue of Dorothy's cardinal sins; 
 and Thomas Kage was aware he had not 
 been strictly punctual of late. 
 
 "A headache ! " he repeated in some 
 surprise ; for Lady Kage was not sub- 
 ject to the malady. 
 
 "Yes, she have," said Dorothy, as 
 Thomas went in. 
 
 At the open window of the sitting- 
 room sat Lady Kage — a gentle, thought- 
 ful woman, with a countenance as good 
 as his own, and a voice as sweet. She 
 had but reached the age which women 
 are apt to call middle life ; but she was 
 in ill health, and her delicate face looked 
 careworn. 
 
 " My darling mother ! " he said, kiss- 
 ing her fondly ; "lam so sorry." 
 " Sorry for what, Thomas ? " 
 " For keeping you waiting tea. Why 
 did you not take it ? Dorothy says 
 your head is bad." 
 
 She kept his hand in hers; and her eyes, 
 looking up to his, were full of smiles. 
 " Dorothy has been talking, I see." 
 " That she has, giving it me well. 
 But you ought to have had your tea, 
 mother dear. You don't know how 
 these things pain me." 
 
 " They need not, Thomas." 
 "They do, though, and bring home to 
 me all my selfish ingratitude. If I 
 were wanting my tea, and you out, I 
 should be sure to order it without 
 thought of you." 
 
 " That you would not, if you expected 
 me to come home ; no, though your head 
 were splitting for want of it, which 
 mine is not." 
 
 " I don't know how I came to let the 
 time slip on unheeded. I was talking 
 with Miss Canterbury and Caroline. 
 What can have given you the headache, 
 mother ? " 
 
 " I think I walked too far this morn- 
 ing. I mean to have a whole day's rest 
 to-morrow indoors." 
 
 It may almost be said that Lady 
 Kage answered mechanically ; for her 
 thoughts, as she spoke, were far away. 
 The time had slipped on unheeded, 
 " talking with Miss Canterbury and 
 Caroline." 
 
 Mr. Kage's apologies of late had 
 been so entirely similar to this present 
 one, that the suspicion hovering in his 
 mother's mind grew greater and greater. 
 
 That he must be learning to love one 
 of those two young ladies she felt as 
 sure of as though she could look into 
 his heart and read it. Which of them 
 was it ? 
 
 Dorothy brought in the tea-tray, and 
 placed it on the side of the table farthest 
 from her mistress. 
 
 " Mr. Thomas can pour it out this eve- 
 ning, as you feel ill, my lady," decided 
 she, with the privileged authority of one 
 used to have her way. — "It's quite 
 ready, sir." 
 
 He laughed as he sat down, saying 
 he hoped he should not put the cream 
 and sugar into the tea-pot instead of 
 the cups. 
 
 Thomas Kage had not roughed it in 
 chambers or lodgings as three-fourths 
 of the young men have : his mother's 
 home in London was his home, and his 
 mother indulgently did all things for 
 him. The world guessed little how 
 very simple the home was, or how 
 entirely happy they were in it*. Mother 
 and son have rarely been so bound in 
 heart together. . 
 
 Awkwardly as most unaccustomed 
 men, Thomas Kage served his mother, 
 with her tea first, and then poured out 
 his own. He was quite unconscious 
 that his cup was consequently the 
 stronger of the two. He would have 
 given her every good at his own expense 
 that this world can bestow, and thought 
 it no sacrifice. 
 
 " You say you have been with the two 
 young ladies this evening?" observed 
 Lady Kage. 
 
 " Are you sure I have put enough 
 cream and sugar? — Y^es, I have been 
 with them." 
 
 " As usual — as usual, Thomas. Are 
 you drifting into love for either of 
 them ? " 
 " Mother ! " 
 
 It was all very well to say " Mother ! " 
 and to say it with a start ; but Lady 
 Kage could not avoid seeing one thing, 
 — that her son's face grew red and con- 
 scious as a girl's. She knew now that 
 she was not mistaken. He upset some 
 water on the tea-tray, in a sudden effort 
 to drown the tea-pot. 
 
 " Which of the two is it, Thomas ? " 
 she quietly asked. 
 
 By this time he was recovering his 
 self-possession and equanimity. He 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 25 
 
 looked at his mother in the twilight, 
 and then, pausing, sent his good, dark, 
 candid eyes rather far out to sea 
 through the open window. 
 
 " Mother, I think you are mistaken ; 
 I hope you are. The maddest thing I 
 could do would he to fall in love with 
 any girl, no matter whom she might be. 
 It may be years — years and years — be- 
 fore my circumstances enable me to 
 think of a wife, if they ever do." 
 
 " That is just it, Thomas. Other- 
 wise — " 
 
 " Otherwise I might be at liberty to 
 fall in love to-morrow," he said with a 
 laugh. "Ah, j r es ; we all have to bend 
 to circumstances." 
 
 Lady Kage did not dismiss her 
 opinion, but would not seem to pursue 
 it. 
 
 " Which of the two (if either) would 
 your choice have fallen upon, Thomas ? 
 Miss Canterbury ? " 
 
 " Miss Canterbury ! " he echoed in 
 surprise so genuine that something like 
 a chill struck across his mother's heart, 
 and destroyed a vision that had been 
 rearing itself in fondness before her 
 mind. " You must be dreaming, moth- 
 er dear. Miss Canterbury will count 
 her money by scores of thousands, per- 
 haps by hundreds of thousands. Old 
 Canterbury may be worth a million." 
 
 '' If Millicent Canterbury is rich in 
 wealth, you are rich in worth, Thomas. 
 A union between you would not be un- 
 equal." 
 
 He smiled and shook his head at the 
 thought of his mother's partiality; but 
 his answer was given in a tone of firm 
 decision : 
 
 " It would be so unequal, mother 
 dear, that I should never attempt to en- 
 tertain it for a moment — no, not though 
 I were dying of love for her. But the 
 thought of loving Millicent Canterbury 
 has never entered my head ; so be at 
 ease." 
 
 " I could not have wished a better wife 
 for you than Millicent Canterbury ; I 
 never met a sweeter girl," spoke Lady 
 Kage. " As to Caroline, Millicent is 
 worth a thousand of her." 
 
 " Caroline is as poor as I am ; and 
 therefore, to speak of marriage in con- 
 nection with her, would be talking fruit- 
 less nonsense," returned Mr. Kage, an 
 embarrassment in his tone that his I 
 
 mother did not like to hear, for it be- 
 trayed too surely where his affections 
 laj*. And then ensued a silence. 
 
 Thomas broke it. Lifting his head, 
 after a pause of thought, he looked full 
 at his mother in the deepening twilight 
 as if he deemed it well to set the matter 
 at rest, for himself as well as her. 
 
 " I was twenty-seven last July, moth- 
 er, as you know ; and I am earning so 
 little at my profession, as you also know, 
 getting on so slowly in it — not at all, in 
 fact — that the chances are I may attain 
 to forty years of age without being able 
 to keep a wife as I should like to keep 
 her. Believe me, therefore, there is no 
 danger, no hope, that I can or shall fall 
 in love to any purpose. I may cast a 
 fancy here, I may cast it there, but 
 nothing is likely to result from it." 
 
 " I should not wish you to get into 
 hopeless love," spoke Lady Kage in a 
 low tone. 
 
 " Nor I. But if I did, I could bear 
 it." 
 
 The beautiful opal tints in the clear 
 north-western slsy grew less distinct in 
 the fading light. Lady Kage, her head 
 growing more painful, went up to bed ; 
 and Thomas sat alone, with his own re- 
 flections. 
 
 No, there might be no thought of 
 marriage for him. As to this pleasant 
 dream he had been lately falling into, 
 why, let him dream on while he might ; 
 it would not be for so very long. In 
 October the sea-side party would dis- 
 perse, he and his mother for London, 
 the others for their far-away home. 
 And then ? Then would come for him 
 the old working life again, during which 
 he should forget — forget, or pretend at 
 it. And she — 
 
 " Ain't there no lights wanted here ? " 
 
 The interruption came from Dorothy. 
 She had opened the door, crusty still, to 
 ask ; and Thomas Kage awoke out of 
 himself to find it was as dark as it 
 would be that night. 
 
 No, no lights 3 r et. The clock was 
 striking eight, and he put on his hat and 
 went out. 
 
 Calm, warm, light, and lovely was the 
 night. The clear sky was luminous, the 
 lights from the different vessels on the 
 sea twinkled like stars. Passing down a 
 turning, he came to a house that, in com- 
 parison with the cottage rented by his 
 
26 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 mother, looked like a mansion. A foot- 
 man answered his knock. 
 
 " Has Mrs. Garston retired to her 
 room ? " 
 
 " No, sir, not yet." 
 
 "Say to her, then, that I send in my 
 kind regards, and will come to see her 
 after breakfast in the morning." 
 
 Regard for the very old lad} r prompted 
 him to come and say this. Mrs. Gars- 
 ton was eighty years of age. Never had 
 living man a kinder heart than Thomas 
 Kage, and he was grieved to have failed 
 in his customary visit to her. And he 
 departed on his way again. 
 
 On the lawn before Mrs. Kage's house, 
 flitting about in freedom, were the two 
 girls. Mr. Kage joined them. Now 
 they stood together at the railings, watch- 
 ing the aforesaid lights, and* tracking the 
 vessels on their gentle course ; now they 
 paced the walks, now rested on the green 
 bench under the mulberry-tree. But the 
 same low, unconsciously tender inter- 
 change of converse was ever there. The 
 companionship, becoming all too sweet, 
 was not interrupted. Every minute, 
 every hour, as they went by, did but add 
 strength to the links of the chain by which 
 Fate was binding the three hearts togeth- 
 er; indissolubl}-, but in a cross and con- 
 trary fashion, as it is in the nature of fate 
 to do. 
 
 ' Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his 
 
 glowing hands ; 
 Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden 
 
 sands.' 
 
 They would have lingered on until 
 midnight, but at nearly ten o'clock out 
 came Miss Annesley. She was a good 
 and true young woman, wanting some 
 years of thirty, amiable, prudent, sensi- 
 ble, and calm of temperament ; as it is 
 only right the daughter of an earnest 
 clergyman should be. 
 
 " Mrs. Kage is so vexed that you 
 should be out of doors. She wishes you 
 to come in at once." 
 
 " Oh, mamma has woke up at last, has 
 she?" responded Caroline carelessly. 
 " A little the worse in temper for her 
 long sleep, I suppose." 
 
 "You must know, Caroline, that it is 
 high time you did come in," said Miss 
 Annesley. 
 
 " There, don't preach, Sarah ; we are 
 coming." And Millicent was the first to 
 hasten in. 
 
 Years and years before — say thirty — 
 an officer who had risen rapidty in India, 
 Colonel Sir Charles Kage, K. C. B. came 
 home on a three years' leave, with his wife 
 and little daughter. He was without 
 connections in the sense that the word is 
 generally understood, only possessing a 
 few plain relatives. But a K. C. B. is 
 sure to find friends in plenty ; and Sir 
 Charles's London residence was soon 
 overflowing with them. Amidst others, 
 frequenting it, was a peer who had nearly 
 come to the end of his available income 
 — his children having considerably assis- 
 ted in its disposal — and consequently he 
 put off a small portion of his superfluous 
 pride : Lord Gunse. 
 
 The object which had chiefly brought 
 Sir Charles Kage home was the ill-health 
 of his wife. Just for a few weeks she 
 rallied, but only to sink again ; and in 
 less than six months from the day of 
 their landing in England, she died. 
 The little girl, Charlotte, was six years 
 old then, and Sir Charles immediately 
 took a young lady into his house as her 
 governess. She was a Miss Carr, a gen- 
 tle, retiring, unpretending girl, who kept 
 herself in all humility out of the way of 
 Sir Charles's guests, and learnt to love 
 the little Charlotte. If the guests by 
 chance saw her, they took no notice of 
 her. Lord Gunse and Lady Gunse and 
 the Honorable Misses Gunse quite ignor- 
 ed her. In point of fact, those aristo- 
 cratic people, had they condescended to 
 think of the nursery governess at all, 
 would have classed her as a domestic. 
 She was of no family ; perhaps had 
 never had as much as a father and 
 mother. 
 
 Lady Gunse and the Misses Gunse 
 were at that time much at Sir Charles 
 Kage's house, consoling the bereaved 
 widower. It was thought by the maid- 
 servants (who are generally shrewd ob- 
 servers) that their master might have 
 had any one of the three honorable 
 young ladies for the asking. A fine man 
 of only five-and-forty, a K. C. B. already, 
 and with plenty of service before him, 
 would be a prifce undoubtedly in the mat- 
 rimonial market. 
 
 What, then, must have been the shock- 
 ed indignation of this noble family to 
 awake one morning to the news of Sir 
 Charles Kage's marriage ? Just twelve 
 months after the death of his wife he 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 27 
 
 quietly led to church the nursery govern- 
 ess, saying nothing to anybody. When 
 taxed with his crime by Lord Gunse (out 
 of pure regard for Sir Charles, of course, 
 and his blighted interests), the brave sol- 
 dier wrung the peer's hand, and avowed 
 that the good qualities of Maria Carr had 
 won his esteem and love, and that he 
 could not have given the little Charlotte 
 a more loving and admirable mother had 
 he taken the whole world to pick and 
 choose from. Of course she was young; 
 he did not deny that ; but every year as 
 it went by would remedy the defect. 
 
 " She is of no family," groaned the 
 wrathful peer. 
 
 "No family!" repeated Sir Charles. 
 " My dear lord, she is of as good a fam- 
 ily as my own." 
 
 And thus the patient, humble govern- 
 ess, Maria Carr, had become the second 
 Lady Kage. 
 
 Poor young wife ! A child was born 
 to her in due course, a little boy, who 
 was named Thomas Charles Carr, and 
 she was the happiest of the happy. Sir 
 Charles waited for the christening, and 
 then went back to India, for his leave 
 was up. Lady Kage did not accompany 
 him. He was tender of her, as though 
 she were some rare and precious plant, 
 and he knew she was scarcely yet strong 
 enough to bear the fatigue of travel. In 
 the course of the year she and Charlotte 
 and the boy-baby should come out to 
 him, he said ; and so they parted. Part- 
 ed to meet no more in this world, for 
 Sir Charles Kage died very soon after 
 regaining India. 
 
 Upon her slender pension, which 
 would die with her, Lady Kage had 
 lived since, devoting herself to the two 
 children, her step-daughter and son, with 
 equal care and love. None save herself 
 and Dorothy, and perhaps her dutiful, 
 thoughtful boy, knew how she had man- 
 aged, and cut and contrived her income, 
 so as to educate them well and to give 
 him his terms at college. Dorothy — 
 faithful to her young mistress, stern to 
 everybody else, eating ever the bread of 
 carefulness, and seeing that the rest ate 
 it, doing the work of ten — making a boast, 
 of waiting on her lady as efficiently in 
 her one sole person as if she had had at 
 command a leash of helpmates. 
 
 So the years passed on, and the chil- 
 dren grew up. Charlotte married: 
 
 Thomas qualified himself for the Bar. 
 And when it might have seemed that 
 Lady Kage could have taken some ease 
 from her solicitude and care, her health 
 began to fail. Very gradually at first. 
 Even Dorothy saw nothing of it ; but the 
 development of the disease, which the 
 doctors thought was connected with the 
 heart, was more rapid, and anxiety su- 
 pervened. Not yet alarm. This visit to 
 the salubrious Welsh watering-place was 
 made at her son's earnest solicitation, in 
 the hope that change of air might restore 
 her. How anxiously Thomas looked at 
 her morning after morning he strove to 
 hide from all eyes : and he was forced to 
 confess to his heart secretly that he did 
 not discern much improvement. 
 
 Back again for an instant to the time 
 of Colonel Sir Charles Kage's residence 
 in London. At his house there was fre- 
 quently to be met a distant cousin of his, 
 Alfred Kage, for whom he had purchased 
 a commission, and otherwise befriended. 
 He was a very handsome and gentlemanly 
 young fellow, good natured, empty-head- 
 ed. The honorable Misses Gunse liked 
 to talk nonsense with him, especially the 
 youngest of them, Caroline, who was as 
 empty-headed as himself. After the 
 startling marriage of Sir Charles, Lord 
 Gunse gave orders that the intimacy be- 
 tween the two houses should peremptori- 
 ly cease. This was accomplished ; but 
 Lieutenant Kage and Caroline Gunse 
 had grown really attached to each other ; 
 and, some two or three years afterwards, 
 she married him in defiance of parental 
 displeasure. They had nothing but his 
 pay; and therefore the union, to a per- 
 son of the Honorable Caroline Gunse's 
 expensive tastes could not be said to have 
 turned out felicitously. He lived but 
 about ten years, attained to a captaincy 
 only, and left her with one child, Caro- 
 line, almost an infant. Mrs. Kage, who 
 was the Honorable Mrs. Kage in spite of 
 her poverty, and prided herself upon the 
 fact, retired to Chilling, a village on the 
 border of Wales, noted for its lovely scen- 
 ery and for the reasonableness of both 
 rent and provisions, and there establish- 
 ed herself. She had her pension, and also 
 a small income left her by one of her 
 sisters — altogether about five hundred 
 a-year. Caroline was turned seventeen 
 now, more lovely than her mother used to 
 be, and quite as wilful. 
 
28 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 It was somewhat curious that Mrs. 
 Kage and Lady Kage should have come 
 to sojourn bj T accident this year at the 
 same watering-place. The} r had met oc- 
 casionally in the past thirty years ; but 
 the old dislike and scorn felt for the gov- 
 erness, who had forgotten herself so com- 
 pletely as to suffer a K. C. B. to marry 
 her, had little, if at all, abated. The 
 Honorable Mrs. Kage was decorously 
 civil when face to face with her; but she 
 generally had recourse to an essence- 
 bottle if Lady Kage's name was by 
 chance mentioned, as if it brought 
 some infection with it. Mrs. Kage had 
 grown into a sigh-away, die-awa}' lady 
 now, liking to pass her time on a sofa, 
 surrounded bj r shawls and scents and easy 
 indolence. Her soft languor and show 
 of sweetness, her subdued voice of affec- 
 tation, might have taken in a saint ; but 
 there lived not a woman in this world of 
 deceit more utterly heartless, more in- 
 tensely, selfishly alive to her own inter- 
 ests, than the widow of Alfred Kage. 
 
 It is not a nice thing to say of a wo- 
 man that she is made up of craft within 
 and artlessness without ; but it must be 
 said of Mrs. Kage, for it was the simple 
 truth. Even in this visit of hers to the 
 seaside she had craftily contrived to come 
 free, at the cost of others. But for hav- 
 ing her expenses paid, she could not have 
 ventured on it at all. The two young 
 ladies she had brought with her — Sarah 
 Annesley, the only child of the Kector of 
 Chilling, and Millicent, the youngest 
 daughter of the wealthy George Canter- 
 bury — had their share of the cost so libe- 
 rally provided, especially the latter, that 
 Mrs. Kage's pocket escaped scot-free, as 
 she had meant it to do. In her sweetly- 
 artless manner, she had affectionately 
 enlarged to Mr. Canterburj^ on the ne- 
 cessity of some bracing sea-air for his 
 jroungest and prettiest daughter; she 
 had assured old Parson Annesley it would 
 be more than good for Sarah ; she had 
 enlisted warmly the wishes of the two 
 young ladies themselves ; and the thing 
 was done. 
 
 They came to Little Bay ; and Mrs. 
 Kage was not agreeably surprised to find 
 that Lachy Kage, with her son, had also 
 taken possession of a cottage in the same 
 place, not three days before ; Mrs. Kage, 
 making the best of things, was civil, but 
 capricious and affected in manner, and 
 
 held herself as much aloof as she could. 
 She need not have feared : Lady Kage 
 was too ill to seek for even her society ; 
 but Thomas, quite unconscious that Mrs. 
 Kage looked down on his mother, or 
 wished to slight her, grew intimate with 
 them, and was at their house continually. 
 Had he been compelled to say which of 
 the two ladies bore the higher position, 
 he might in his simplicity have awarded 
 it to Lady Kage. So how was it likely 
 to -cross his mind that his mother was 
 despised? 
 
 Miss Annesley, as you have seen, came 
 forth to the garden to interrupt the 
 subtly-dangerous companionship, and bid 
 them enter. On the chintz sofa, having 
 woke up from a longer evening nap than 
 usual, sat Mrs. Kage, with her fan and 
 her essence-bottles — a small, slender gen- 
 tlewoman, with a faded face and a faded 
 cap, and faded straw-colored hair. The 
 cheeks would have been faded too, but for 
 the delicate carmine daily imparted to 
 them in her toilet-chamber. She took 
 out the stopper of her smelling-salts as 
 they entered, and held it to her nose, 
 speaking softly. 
 
 " My dear children, how could you 
 think of being out in the air so late ? — 
 Did you keep them, Thomas Kage ? " 
 with a slight accession of acrimony. 
 
 " I am not sure but I did ; and I have 
 come in to take the blame," he lightly 
 answered, with the ever-cordial tone in 
 his true voice. " But it is a warm, genial 
 night, Mrs. Kage — one to tempt even 
 you." 
 
 Mrs. Kage languidly opened her fan, 
 and did not seem to hear. She had the 
 gift of being deaf when occasion needed 
 it. 
 
 Caroline went to the piano. Some- 
 times he sang with them, or stood by 
 listening to their songs. She glanced 
 around for him now. 
 
 " No, Caroline, I cannot stay to- 
 night." 
 
 But that Caroline turned her face 
 back, and kept it turned, Mrs. Kage 
 might have read the look of blank dis- 
 appointment which rose at the words. It 
 was getting late, he added, and his 
 mother was ill. 
 
 " Quite right, certainly," spoke Mrs. 
 Kage. " Don't you think that your 
 mother — ah — gives way a little ? " she 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 29 
 
 continued, having made the pause to 
 flirt some drops out of her cologne-water 
 phial. 
 
 " Gives way ! my mother ? " he re- 
 joined in surprise. If you only knew 
 how earnest and energetic she is in all her 
 duties, you would not fancy so. My 
 great fear now is, that she is exerting 
 herself beyond her strength, sirnpty be- 
 cause she will not give way to illness." 
 
 " Possibly," rejoined Mrs. Kage, with 
 gentle indifference, as she resumed her 
 fan. " Good-night to you, if you must 
 go." 
 
 In an opportunity that occurred pres- 
 ently, when she and her daughter were 
 alone, Mrs. Kage took occasion to re- 
 mark, in her languid manner, that she 
 thought they had rather much of Thom- 
 as Kage's company, and to wonder why 
 he came. Caroline laughed a forced 
 laugh. The words seemed to be spoken 
 without ulterior motive ; but she was 
 quite conscious that her mother shot a 
 keen glance at her from the depths of 
 her cold light eyes. 
 
 " What if I were to tell you, mamma, 
 that he comes for Leta ? " 
 
 For once in her life, Mrs. Kage was 
 startled into sincerity. The notion of 
 connecting Thomas Kage's visits with 
 Millicent Canterbury had never present- 
 ed itself to her mind. 
 
 " For Leta ! " 
 
 " One cannot help one's thoughts, 
 mamma. Of course, it is all pure non- 
 sense ; it could not turn out anything 
 else, with Thomas Kage's poor pros- 
 pects ; hut I'm sure there is a little bit 
 of fancy between them, especially on 
 Leta's side." 
 
 Caroline's pretty face wore a height- 
 ened color, as she toyed with one of her 
 mother's essence-bottles. Perfectly con- 
 scious was she of the deliberate deceit. 
 She did not scruple to speak it, for it 
 threw off suspicion from herself. 
 
 " Dear me ! " 
 
 " And he wants to take us all for a sail 
 to-morrow — Sarah and Leta and me. I 
 promised for them ; I knew you would 
 let us go." 
 
 Mrs. Kage leaned back on the sofa, 
 her mind relieved. For Caroline to fall 
 in love where there was no money, would 
 have been intolerable — her own fate en- 
 acted over again ; but Leta Canterbury 
 was different. If she and Thomas Kage 
 
 chose to lapse into a liking for each 
 other, why, they must get out of it 
 again in the best way they could. Sel- 
 fish, selfish woman ! 
 
 "Yes," she said ; "I don't mind your 
 going for a sail, with Sarah to chaperone 
 you, should the sea be calm. I suppose 
 he understands the management of 
 boats." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DOWN AT CHILLING. 
 
 A stately mansion bordering upon 
 Wales, and resting on a gentle emin- 
 ence, was the far-famed residence of 
 George Canterbury. Its description 
 must be deferred to a later chapter. 
 Through the open park, across the state- 
 ly terraces, up the broad steps into the 
 spacious hall, we must go now. 
 
 The view commanded from the win- 
 dows was beautiful. Sunshiny dales, 
 sheltering woods, silverj' brooks of water, 
 that murmured .as they ran gently 
 through mossy glens, trees waving in the 
 breeze, hills with their light and shade 
 ever changing — giving to an imagina- 
 tive mind pictures of the flowery plains 
 of Arcadia. 
 
 In one of the various rooms that 
 opened on either side the hall was the 
 eldest daughter of George Canterbury. 
 The room was of magnificent propor- 
 tions ; she was as a magnificent queen 
 in it. Her gleaming silk swept the 
 ground as she stood, tall and upright, 
 before the window, her head held a little 
 back, its natural position. She was 
 rather a large woman, with a comely face 
 of power, and clearly-cut features ; her 
 hair was of a purple black, her eyes 
 were dark gray. The landscape on 
 which she looked was no summer scene 
 of green glade and gladness ; far and 
 near it was one white spotless plain of 
 snow. The January sun shone brightly, 
 the glad robins piped from the snowy 
 trees. 
 
 " I think we shall have a thaw," she 
 observed to her sister Jane, who sat at 
 the table writing. 
 
 Jane Canterbury looked up from her 
 desk. 
 
 " I hope not. I do so dislike a thaw." 
 
30 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 " So do I ; but it is an evil that must 
 follow snow, and the sooner it's over the 
 better." 
 
 " Have you any message to Lydia ? " 
 
 " No ; only my love. I wrote to her 
 yesterday." 
 
 Jane Canterbury dipped her pen in 
 the ink, but did not immediately resume 
 her writing. She glanced again at her 
 sister. 
 
 " Do you know, I think that their not 
 coming down for Christmas has made a 
 very disagreeable impression on papa. 
 I mean Lydia and her husband." 
 
 "Disagreeable! In what way? ask- 
 ed Miss Canterbury. "They could not 
 help it. He was too ill to come." 
 
 " Of course. Papa does not blame 
 them. He began talking about it yes- 
 terday evening when you were at the 
 rectoiy, saying that the break-up of the 
 family Christmas party looked like a 
 foreshadowing of the breaking up of the 
 family." 
 
 " That was done, so to say, when Ed- 
 gar died, counting from the year that we 
 lost mamma," observed Miss Canter- 
 bury, in the low steady tone with which 
 she had schooled herself to mention her 
 dead brother's name. 
 
 " I said so to papa nearly in the same 
 words," returned Jane, " and he began 
 to cry a little. I think— I think—" 
 
 " What do you think, Jane ? " asked 
 Miss Canterbury wonderingly, for Jane's 
 hesitation had come to a final pause. 
 
 " Well, I cannot help thinking that 
 papa is not quite so strong as he was," 
 was Jane's answer, given with a good 
 deal of deprecation. " In vigor of 
 mind ; I do not mean in health." 
 
 Miss Canterbury made no answer. 
 Of clear and vigorous intellect herself, 
 of quick perception and sound common 
 sense, she, dutiful and loving daughter 
 though she was, could not be ignorant 
 that Mr. Canterbury's intellect had been 
 all his life but common place. She bent 
 forward as if something in the white 
 landscape had attracted her attention, 
 and before the silence was broken Milli- 
 cent entered with her walking-things on. 
 
 " Where are you going, Leta ? " ask- 
 ed the elder sister in a tone of authority. 
 
 " Oh, to five hundred places." 
 
 " In this snow ? " 
 
 " As if it would hurt me, Miss Canter- 
 bury ! I like walking in the snow above 
 everything." 
 
 "Do you, young lady! I hope you 
 have good snow-boots on." 
 
 Leta held up one foot with a laugh to 
 show how thick the boots were. She 
 wore a pretty bonnet of bright violet, 
 some white blonde lace shading and set- 
 ting off the fair, delicate cheeks, and 
 sweet hazel eyes. Her dress was violet ; 
 her black-velvet mantle was edged with 
 some kind of rare fur. 
 
 "And where are the five hundred f 
 places ? " I 
 
 " As if I could enumerate them all ! " 
 returned Leta lightly. " The rectory 
 will be the first, and the schools the 
 next, and then Mrs. Kage's, and then — 
 I think papa wants a message taken to 
 old Fry's," she broke off; "I am going 
 to ask him. Good-bye." 
 
 "You must be home to luncheon, 
 Leta." 
 
 " Oh yes, if I can. If not, please put 
 by a piece of bread-and-butter for me." 
 
 Leta shut the door, and crossed the 
 hall to her father's study. George Can- 
 terbury — a tall, thin, fair man, some 
 years turned sixty — sat reading near 
 the fire in his spectacles. His auburn 
 hair was thinning rapidly ; in fact, not 
 to mince the matter, the top of his head 
 was getting bald ; and the crows'-feet 
 were deepening round the corners of his 
 eyes. All of which troubled Mr. Can- 
 terbury ; he had been a vain man all his 
 life, and would be to its end. The thin 
 face was handsome still, though not dis- 
 playing any great strength of intellect. 
 The nose and mouth were beautifully 
 formed, but the forehead receded much. 
 His daughters Jane and Millicent would 
 have been very like him but for this last 
 defect, which their faces did not possess. 
 
 " Papa, don't you want some message 
 taken to John Fry ? " inquired Leta. 
 
 " No, my dear, not now," replied Mr. 
 Canterbury, putting aside his newspa- 
 per, and turning his kindly blue eyes on 
 her ; " I have sent Neel to him." 
 
 " Oh, very well ; that will be one 
 place less, then." 
 
 " You will call at the parsonage, Mil- 
 licent, and see how the poor old man is." 
 
 " I am going there first, papa." 
 
 " Do so, child. And if he would like 
 some grapes, or some — " 
 
 " Oh papa, Miss Canterbury, you 
 know, remembers all that," was Leta's 
 interruption. 
 
 They were in the habit, in a playful 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 31 
 
 kind of war, of calling the eldest sister 
 " Miss Canterbury." 
 
 " Yes, I hope so. I think I'll step 
 down myself presently ; the snow's not 
 very bad between here and the parson- 
 age. Tell them I'm coming." 
 
 " Very well, papa. Good-bye." 
 
 Her other calls made, Leta Canter- 
 bury turned to the residence of Mrs. 
 Kage, a small, pretty villa-cottage with 
 low French windows. Caroline saw her 
 coming, and ran out regardless of the 
 snow, shaking a shower of it from the 
 laurels as she brushed past them. Her 
 dark -blue eyes were animated; her 
 cheeks as bright as a June rose. 
 
 " What good fairy sent you here, 
 Leta ? " 
 
 " The fairy was myself. Why ? " 
 
 " He is come ! " whispered Caroline. 
 
 " Who ? " 
 
 " Who ! As if you needed to ask. 
 He came down to Aberton on business 
 yesterday, and walked here this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 With a bright blood-red flush rising 
 to her face, with a sudden coursing-on 
 of every vein and pulse, with a sweet 
 feeling of in*ense bli-s, as if heaven had 
 opened to her, Millicent Canterbury 
 stood for a moment speechless. Caroline 
 laughed. The like emotion had been 
 hers but an hour ago, at the unexpected 
 appearance of Thomas Kage, and so she 
 could not mistake its signs in another. 
 
 In later years, when certain events in 
 the chances and changes of life plunged 
 Caroline, young still, into awful misery, 
 and brought her very near the grave, a 
 remembrance of the deliberate deceit 
 she had practised on Millicent Canter- 
 bury was not the least amidst the cata- 
 logue of errogji that stung her conscience. 
 From the night at the seaside, when she 
 had given the lying hint to her mother, 
 Caroline had set herself, after the man- 
 ner of girls, to tease Leta about Thomas 
 Kage. " He loves 3 T ou," was her reit- 
 erated whisper ; and Millicent, covered 
 with blushes, never dreamt that she was 
 being purposel}' deceived. Caroline was 
 playing the false part still, now and al- 
 ways. 
 
 A matter of moment connected with 
 Mr. Kage's profession had brought him 
 down to Aberton, a large town about 
 three miles distance from Chilling, and 
 he took the opportunity to walk over. 
 
 On his way to the presence of Caroline 
 the snowy road seemed but as a soft car- 
 pet of velvet. How his heart had fed 
 on her image since they parted in Octo- 
 ber, he would not have liked the world 
 to know. Mrs. Kage, treating the visit 
 as one of common courtesy, paid solely 
 from the accident of his being in the 
 neighborhood, and never supposing but 
 that her daughter looked upon it with 
 similar indifference, received him civilly, 
 and condescended to inquire with quite 
 a show of interest after the health of 
 Lady Kage. 
 
 She was sitting back on her comforta- 
 ble sofa, drawn to the fire, when Milli- 
 cent went in ; a soft down-cushion cov- 
 ered with embroidered silk was at her 
 back, another beside her ; her scent- 
 bottles lay on the pretty little coffee- 
 table at hand ; a pastile burnt in a sau- 
 cer, making the room smell like a Ro- 
 man-Catholic oratory. Thomas Kage, 
 taking his elbow from the mantelpiece, 
 advanced to shake hands with Millicent. 
 She met him with a flushed, conscious, 
 downcast face, and stood in shyness and 
 silence. 
 
 " I am so glad to see you," he said in 
 his cordial, earnest tone, for Millicent 
 was a great favorite of his. "I am here 
 but for an hour." 
 
 " You timed your visit well, Miss 
 Millicent," spoke Mrs. Kage, languidly 
 playing with the chain of her eye-glass. 
 
 " Did you come on purpose, knowing 
 Mr. Kage would be here ? " 
 
 " No, indeed," replied Millicent vehe- 
 mently, half crying with confusion at 
 the sudden charge. "I did not think 
 — I did not know anything about Mr. 
 Kage. I came for my music." 
 
 Thomas Kage laughed at the eager- 
 ness, but suspected not that there could 
 be a cause for it. Caroline — false girl ! 
 — telegraphed a meaning look to her 
 mother, as much as to say she did not 
 believe the denial. Leta turned her hot 
 face to the piano, and kept her back to 
 them. 
 
 " Can you let me have the music, 
 Caroline ? " she asked touching some 
 pieces that lay there. " Olive accuses 
 me of having lent it to you to avoid 
 practising it myself; she knows I dis- 
 like difficult pieces." 
 
 " I don't think you have any very 
 great talent for music, my dear Miss 
 
32 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 Millicent, 1 ' observed Mrs. Kage, lifting 
 her thin white hand with its glittering 
 rings. "It is a great gift — peculiar, I 
 may almost say, to the Gunse family, 
 for we all had it largely, — as your moth- 
 er knew/' looking at Thomas Kage, 
 " when she was governess at Sir 
 Charles's. Caroline inherits it from 
 me." 
 
 " I am sure I have not any gift at all 
 for music," spoke Leta readily, turning 
 her ingenuous and truthful face to them 
 for a moment. " All I know of it has 
 had to be drilled into me." 
 
 " As Miss Carr had to drill it, at the 
 time I speak of, into Charlotte Kage," 
 murmured the lady. — " Do sit down, 
 Millicent love. How is Mr. Canter- 
 bury ? " 
 
 " He is quite well, thank you," answer- 
 ed Millicent. " Mr. Annesley is worse. 
 Sarah is in — so much distress." 
 
 The pause was caused by the remem- 
 brance of something she had just heard 
 at the rectory against Mrs. Kage. Sa- 
 rah Annesley had called her false and 
 deceitful : and Millicent, sensitive and 
 ever considerate to others, felt as guilty, 
 face to face with Mrs. Kage as though 
 she had made the charge herself. 
 
 " 0, poor old duck ! we heard he was 
 worse. But you know he is seventy-five, 
 so his time has come I suppose. Even 
 parsons can't expect to live for ever. — 
 Can they, Thomas ? " 
 
 " Why, no, Mrs. Kage ; and none 
 should know that more certainly than 
 Mr. Annesley. By all I have heard of 
 him — of his good, humble, useful life — 
 there can be few better prepared to wel- 
 come death than he." 
 
 Mrs. Kage threw her eyes across at 
 the speaker, a shrewd look of curiosity 
 in their depths. 
 
 " Where have, you heard of old 
 Annesley ? 0, I forgot — from his 
 daughter." 
 
 " No, Mrs. Kage ; I have been in the 
 habit of hearing of Parson Annesley — it 
 is what my good friend alwa} r s calls him 
 — long before I met his daughter last au- 
 tumn'. I speak of Mrs. Garston." 
 
 " Deaf old Worry ! " faintly aspirated 
 Mrs. Kage. "I give you my word, 
 Thomas, that the half-hours' visits I 
 paid to that antedeluvian fossil at Little 
 Bay upset my nerves for three days. 
 Caroline knows it. Millicent Caster- 
 
 bury, dear love, you know it. What ill 
 fate sent her to the same identical sea- 
 side place that I chose, I am unable to 
 imagine." 
 
 " Mrs. Garston came to Little Bay be- 
 cause my mother was there." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mrs. Kage frigidly. 
 " How Sarah Annesley could go to sit 
 with her day after day, and survive it, 
 was to me a marvel. — Do unscrew this 
 difficult stopper for me, Thomas ; my 
 fingers are unequal to it." 
 
 Holding out the bottle to him with 
 those same fingers of affectation, Thomas 
 Kage took out the stopper and returned 
 it to her. She fluttered a few drops of its 
 pungent essence on the carpet. And 
 thus talking, and some three of them, 
 at least, feeling as if that little parlor 
 were a haven of Eden, twenty minutes 
 wore away. 
 
 Millicent, not liking in her self-con- 
 sciousness, to staj 7 longer, took her leave. 
 Mr. Kage attended her to the door, and 
 thence walked with her along the path 
 to open the gate. 
 
 " The next time I come down, I hope 
 to have the honor of calling on the Miss 
 Canterburys," he said, as he shook her 
 hand. " I feel ashamed not to do so 
 now, but time will not permit it." 
 
 " You are going back to Aberton 
 soon ? " 
 
 " As soon as I have been to the rec- 
 tory. I am compelled to call there, short 
 though my time is; for I promised Mrs. 
 Garston to do so, and take her back 
 news of Mr. Annesley." 
 
 " Will you give my kind regards to 
 her?" spoke Millicent gentL. "I 
 think she is a very worthy old lady, in 
 spite of her peculiarities." 
 " Yes, she is." 
 
 " And I should like to send my love 
 to your mother," added Millicent, blush- 
 ing a little. 
 
 " Thank you. Until my next visit, 
 then." 
 
 " Perhaps 3 T ou will never make anoth- 
 er ! " Leta stayed to say, her sweet face 
 turned to him rather wistfully. 
 
 " Indeed I shall, and very shortly too. 
 The business that has brought me down 
 to Aberton now must bring me again 
 soon, when I will try not to be so tied 
 for time. Fare you well, dear Miss Can- 
 terbury ! " 
 
 He lifted his hat and Millicent walk- 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 33 
 
 ed away, carrying the piece of music, a 
 whole flood-tide of sunshine making 
 glad her beating heart. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WITH LADY KAGE. 
 
 Apart from the crowd of lofty and 
 pretentious houses sprung up of late 
 years in the region that somebody has 
 called " Westburnia," stand two dwel- 
 lings smaller and prettier, each in the 
 midst of its garden, and almost under 
 the very wing of that aristocratic place, 
 Paradise-square. These two houses had 
 not kept pace with others in grandeur. 
 They had a kind of plain, old, and staid 
 look, answering no doubt to their respec- 
 tive occupants, who had been in them 
 years before the fashionable squares and 
 terraces around were built or thought 
 of. In the one lived Mrs. Garston, 
 and in the other Lady Kage. They 
 were held on long leases, and the rents 
 were low. Doubtless the landlord was 
 ready to eat his finger-ends with morti- 
 fication, at seeing the great rents exac- 
 ted by others for houses, not half as good 
 as these in point of real comfort and 
 convenience. Mrs. Garston remained in 
 hers from habit, from past associations. 
 Her fortune brought her in nearly three 
 thousand a-year, and the house was en- 
 tirely out of proportion with such an in- 
 come as that ; but she would as soon 
 have thought of changing her skin as 
 her dwelling. She kept six servants in- 
 doors, and a large close carriage and a 
 coachman in Paradise-mews. Several 
 rooms had been built out at the back of 
 her house at her own expense, otherwise 
 some of the six servants might have 
 lacked dormitories. It is not with Mrs. 
 Garston, however, that we have to do 
 just/ now, but with Lady Kage. 
 
 Her income has already been mention- 
 ed, — a few hundreds a-year, all told — and 
 it would die with her. Thomas Kage 
 made a little, after lr's chambers and other 
 expenses were paid ; and he took it home 
 and threw it into the common fund. 
 They had kept two servants ; but since 
 Lady Kage grew worse another was 
 taken on; and D.-rothy attended solely 
 to the comforts of her mistress. 
 
 Seven o'clock London time, on a Jan- 
 2 
 
 uary evening, and two very charming 
 concomitants for London streets — a 
 thaw and a fog. Thomas Kage, arriv- 
 ing at home from that brief visit of his 
 to Aberton, mentioned in the last chap- 
 ter, thought it about one of the most 
 disagreeable nights he had ever experi- 
 enced as he sprung out of the hansom 
 with' his small black travelling - bag;. 
 Letting himself in with his latch-key, 
 he turned into the dining-room, where 
 he expected to find his mother. The 
 empty chair, however — her own chair in 
 the warmest corner — struck upon him 
 with a kind of foreboding chill. 
 
 « "Where's my mother ? " he asked of 
 a servant-maid who came running up. 
 
 " My lady is not quite so well, sir," 
 was the answer. " She has not been 
 down at all to-day. Dorothy thinks it's 
 this nasty weather that's trying her. 
 sir, and if you please," added the girl, as 
 he was making his way to the stair-case, 
 " Mrs. Garston's footman has been here 
 to ask you to be kind enough to step in 
 as soon as you got back." 
 
 Lady Kage was in the small sitting- 
 room above, cheerful with fire and two 
 wax - candles. A gray chenille shawl 
 lay on the back of her easy - chair ; a 
 small cap of white lace shaded her deli- 
 cate face, which grew bright at the en- 
 trance of her son — her good, noble, lov- 
 ing son — who had never in his whole 
 life brought to her one moment's pain. 
 He kissed his mother fondly, and then 
 sat down by her. 
 
 " And now what is this great matter, 
 that my mother should be up here this 
 evening? " he asked in a light, almost a 
 joking tone; for he knew how strangely 
 impressionable to outer influences her 
 spirits had of late been. 
 
 " My breath has been so bad to-day, 
 Thomas." 
 
 And as she spoke he became conscious 
 that the breath (not very free for a long 
 while) was remarkably short. Thomas 
 did not like this. 
 
 He drew a chair to the fire, railed a 
 little at the fog, thick enough to affect 
 anybody's breath, and at what he called 
 the slush, and then passed to the topic 
 of his late visit, and the business that 
 had induced it, of which Lady Kage was 
 cognizant. 
 
 " Will vou be able to succeed in it, 
 Thomas '! " 
 
34 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 " Yes. But I shall have to go down 
 again, I expect, more than once.'" 
 
 " And Mrs. Kage is well ? — And Car- 
 oline ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Kage is blooming, and greater 
 in essences and affectation than ever." 
 
 " Thomas ! " spoke his mother, with a 
 reproving smile. 
 
 " Well, it is not a libel." 
 
 " You saw Caroline ? " 
 
 " I saw Millicent Canterbury also. 
 She asked me to give her love to you." 
 
 " You ought to have called on the 
 Canterbury?, Thomas." 
 
 " If I had I should not have been back 
 to-day ; and I did not care to leave you 
 alone for two nights, mother mine. I 
 saw Mr. Canterbury at the parsonage, 
 and said I would call the next time I 
 went down. 
 
 Dorothy came in, grim as usual, to tell 
 him his dinner was waiting downstairs. 
 " Which it was nothing but two mutton- 
 chops and mashed potatoes," she added, 
 for they had not been certain of his get- 
 ting home. Thomas Kage ran down to 
 the potatoes and chops as contentedly as 
 he would have done to a rich repast, — 
 he had been brought up to be thankful, 
 — and then, mindful of Mrs. Garston's 
 message, went in to the next door. 
 
 Mrs. Garston was in her drawing- 
 room : a tall, deaf old lady, with vigor- 
 ous gray eyes, large features, and an ir- 
 ritable temper; her dress, of rich white 
 brocade silk, with a small running pat- 
 tern on it of bright-colored flowers, stood 
 out stiffly, and her head-dress of black 
 velvet and pearls ; all of a bygone fash- 
 ion, like herself. She had heard from 
 her servants of Mr. Kage's arrival at 
 home, and had sat bolt upright in her 
 chair ever since, expecting him, her gold.- 
 headed stick, with which she supported 
 .her steps in walking, resting as usual 
 against her. She took it in her hand 
 when he entered, and began to tap the 
 carpet ; by which signs Thomas knew 
 that she was not in a genial humor. 
 
 " So ! You have come, have you ? 
 And taken your time over it." 
 
 It was rather by guess than ear that 
 Thomas Kage caught the sense of the 
 words. Mrs. Garston's eight}- years had 
 rendered her toothless ; and she would no 
 more have allowed the loss to be artificial- 
 ly supplied than she would have submitted 
 to the wrongest thing invented by Satan. 
 Putting aside any pain there might be 
 
 to the gums in fixing them, she looked 
 upon false teeth as one of the world's 
 new and reprehensible sins. 
 
 He took her hand in his as he sat 
 down close to her, his kindly, honest dark 
 eyes looking pleasantly into her sharp 
 ones of steel-gray. In his slow, distinct, 
 impressive tones, heard by her distinctly, 
 he explained that he had sat a little 
 while with his mother, whom he had 
 found worse, and stayed to eat his din- 
 ner after his long journey, before coming 
 in ; and it disarmed her anger. 
 
 " Is anything fresh ailing your moth- 
 er?" 
 
 " Her breath is labored," spoke Thom- 
 as in her ear, " and she seems very low 
 this evening. Dorothy thinks it may be 
 the effect of the weather ; I hope it is." 
 
 Mrs. Garston gave a violent rap with 
 her stick, which slightly incommoded 
 Thomas Kage, for it struck his foot in- 
 stead of the floor. 
 
 " What do fogs come for, I should like 
 to know ? " 
 
 " I think we should be puzzled to tell." 
 
 " They are horrible ; they affect every- 
 body's breath : you tell Lady Kage so 
 from me. When I was out in the car- 
 riage to-day for my airing, driving round 
 and round Paradise-Square — for I'd not 
 let the coachman venture farther in such 
 a mist — I was choked with the damp 
 and fog. Clinked, I assure you, Thomas. 
 And one with bad breath would natural- 
 ly feel it more than I did. Now, you tell 
 your mother that ; do you hear?" 
 
 " I'll be sure to tell her," said Thom- 
 as, who w T as used to Mrs. Garston. 
 
 " Don't let her get low through a 
 mischievous fog. Lowness is bad for us 
 all, but it must be worse than a dose of 
 physic to Lady Kage. I should not like 
 to have heart-complaint myself, Thomas ; 
 though I can't help saying that what's 
 called heart-complaint is generally noth- 
 ing but what comes of nerves and fancy. 
 Did you see Parson Annesley ? " 
 
 Thomas Kage answered in the affirm- 
 ative, and gave her his opinion of the 
 clergyman's state. The old people had 
 been friends in early life. 
 
 " And so you went to see tho?e 
 Kages ! " commented the unceremonious 
 dame, when she had gathered various 
 items of news in answer to her questions. 
 
 '"/shouldn't. They are not worth it, 
 Thomas." 
 
 " Not worth it, ma'am ? " 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 35 
 
 "No, not worth it!" she repeated ir- 
 ascibly. " Why do you contradict ? The 
 mother's a lump of pretension and hypoc- 
 risy, and the daughter's a chip of the 
 old block. Now, then ! " 
 
 He only smiled in answer to her fierce 
 look. 
 
 " They are not worthy to bear the 
 same name as your mother; no, nor as 
 you, Thomas, when }'ou behave yourself. 
 I knew the Gunses. — What sort of a 
 provision has Philip Annesley made for 
 his daughter?" 
 
 " I do not know. I never heard any- 
 thing about it." 
 
 Mrs. Garston grunted : she very much 
 resented any check to her curiosity. 
 Thomas Kage did not mend the feeling 
 bj' inquiring if she had any news of 
 Barnaby Dawkes. 
 
 "Now, don't you bring up Barnaby 
 Dawkes's name to me," shrieked the old 
 lady, seizing her stick menacingly ; " I'll 
 not stand it from you, Thomas Kage. 
 He had the impudence to send me a let- 
 ter to-day, saying he must quit the army 
 and go through the Insolvent court, un- 
 less I paid his debts. What do you 
 think of that for a piece of brass?" 
 
 " Very wrong, of course," murmured 
 Thomas. " But perhaps if he were 
 once set straight, he would keep so." 
 
 " Is it anything to you, pray, that 
 you should take his part ? " she retort- 
 ed. " Are you in league with Barby 
 Dawkes ? " 
 
 " Surely not. I scarcely know Cap- 
 tain Dawkes ; I have not seen him 
 more than three times in my life." 
 
 "And that's three times too often. 
 You keep clear of him, Thomas Kage, 
 or perhaps he may infect you with the 
 propensity of getting into debt. He's 
 a vain fop, that's what Barby Dawkes 
 is, and lives in the billiard-room all his 
 spare time. I don't like him ; and I 
 don't like Keziah. Debts last year, 
 debts this year, debts next year, and 
 then he comes to me to pay them for 
 him ! Why does he make them ? " 
 
 She put the question so pointedly to 
 Thomas Kage, with her keen gaze fixed 
 on his face, that he could only make 
 some kind of answer. He did not know 
 Why Captain Dawkes made them. 
 
 "Nor I," said Mrs. Garston. "But 
 I'll tell you one thing, Thomas Kage, 
 he will make his debts once too often. 
 
 There ; you may put that down in your 
 diary, if you will, to remind you later 
 that I've said it." 
 
 Thomas Kage did not put it in his 
 diary, scarcely in his memory ; but a 
 time was to come when he would re- 
 member it with a shudder, for the 
 prophecy was destined to be awfully ful- 
 filled. 
 
 " What keeps Charlotte away from 
 her mother ? " resumed Mrs. Garston 
 in a fierce tone. " Lady Kage told me 
 yesterday she had not seen her for a 
 week." 
 
 " Charlotte cannot come abroad, just 
 now ; she is always ill, as you know, be- 
 fore her babies are born." 
 
 Mrs. Garston gave a resentful knock 
 in the air at some imaginary object. 
 
 " Babies here, babies there, babies 
 eveiywhere ! How many will this next 
 make ? " 
 
 " Nine ! " 
 
 " Nine ! " repeated Mrs. Garston, lift- 
 ing her hands. " Why do people have 
 so many children ? Where's the use 
 of it ?'" 
 
 " I'm sure I can't tell," said Thomas, 
 with a laugh. " I have none." 
 
 " And don't you have any," advised 
 the old lady. " Don't you get married, 
 my dear, for you are better off single. 
 With such a mother as yours to come 
 home to, and me next door to talk to at 
 will, you've everything you can reason- 
 ably want. W T ives are but a lottery at 
 best, for I'll be whipped if the 'cutest 
 men living can tell what they are till 
 they've got 'em for better or worse. 
 And children may turn out spendthrifts 
 like Barnaby Dawkes." 
 
 " Which would not be desirable," 
 thought Thomas Kage. 
 
 " Over and over again I warned 
 Charlotte against that marriage," re- 
 sumed Mrs. Garston. " I told her that 
 where the exchequer was low, children 
 generally arrived in shoals. She did 
 not heed me, and what's the conse- 
 quence ? Don't you go and make a 
 spectacle of yourself, Thomas. Barna- 
 by Dawkes — Who's come with such a 
 noise as that, I should like to know ? " 
 
 It was a summons at the front door ; 
 a knock and ring so loud and startling 
 as to have penetrated even to the deaf 
 ears. The footman came in, looking a 
 little scared as he spoke to Mr. Kage. 
 
86 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 " One of your servants is come to say, 
 sir, that her ladyship's taken worse — if 
 you'd please to go in." 
 
 A parting pressure of the hand, and 
 Thomas Kage was gone, long before his 
 old friend in her impatient flurry com- 
 prehended a word. 
 
 Lady Kage was lying insensible, and 
 medical aid was summoned. It was 
 but a prolonged fainting-fit ; but ere 
 the doctor departed, Thomas Kage had 
 learnt the fatal news, that the end, in 
 all probability, could not be retarded 
 beyond many days. It nearly over- 
 whelmed him. He had known for some 
 time now that the termination must be 
 fatal, most likely sudden, but he had 
 not expected it so soon. It is the ordi- 
 nary case of life's experience. So soon ! 
 so soon ! He sat by her with his aching 
 heart : but for the strongest efforts of 
 self-control, he must have given way to 
 his emotion. 
 
 Lady Kage knew the truth nearly as 
 certainly as he, and did not fail to de- 
 tect his inward agitation. She seemed 
 quite comfortable again, and sat in her 
 chair just as if nothing had happened, 
 shunning bed as long as might be, for 
 the feeling of suffocation was very 
 strong this evening, and always oppress- 
 ed her worse when she la} 7 down. 
 Thomas was standing in silence, his 
 e} r es fixed on the fire, when she put out 
 her hand to him. He went up and 
 clasped it. 
 
 " What has Dr. Tyndal been saying 
 to you ? " she asked, gazing up to his 
 face with a wan smile, meant to be a 
 cheer} T one. 
 
 The sudden question upset him. By 
 the tone, the manner, he saw she knew 
 the worst. His chest heaved, his lips 
 quivered, and he turned a little from 
 her. 
 
 " Thomas ! " 
 
 He flung both his hands on his face 
 to hide his pain, and a sharp faint cry 
 involuntarily escaped from him. 
 
 " Thomas, Thomas ! My darling son ! 
 Do not grieve as though there were no 
 hope." 
 
 She motioned that he should draw 
 his chair close and sit* down on it, and 
 their hands were locked together. It 
 had not been hope for this life she spoke 
 of, but for the next. The great love, 
 always existing between them in heart, 
 
 had been suppressed in manner ; they 
 had not been demonstrative the one 
 with the other : this cannot be with 
 those of a higher nature, where the feel- 
 ings are sensitive, true, deep. But on 
 this night, with the great parting 
 brought suddenly close to hand, reserve 
 was thrown aside, and they spoke " face 
 to face," as though the reticence that 
 pertains to earth had taken wings to it- 
 self and flown away. Then, if Thomas 
 Kage had never known it before, he 
 learnt haw excellent a son she had ever 
 found him, how truly she had appre- 
 ciated his goodness, his sacrifices, his 
 never-failing and most considerate love. 
 A quarter of an hour of deep agitation, 
 and Thomas remembered that he must 
 be calm, even to the end, for his moth- 
 er's sake. His face had lines in it, his 
 eyes were red, but he sat quietly staring 
 into the fire, her hand held quietly in 
 his, while his heart felt as if it must 
 burst with anguish. 
 
 " I have made my will, Thomas," she 
 said, knowing that practical considera- 
 tions must be spoken of as well as 
 others. " There's not much to leave, 
 my dear ; still, I have been able to put 
 by a little } r early since Charlotte mar- 
 ried, and you paid your own expenses. 
 It is about six or seven hundred pounds, 
 I think — it will be that, I mean, when 
 everything is paid; and — Thomas"' — 
 Lad) r Kage spoke hesitatingly and 
 dropped her voice — " I have left it to 
 Charlotte." 
 
 "Quite right — quite right," he warm- 
 ly answered. "Charlotte wants it; I 
 don't. I have my profession." 
 
 " That was what swayed me. I 
 thought it over a long while, prayerfully, 
 trustingly, and I seemed to see that poor 
 Charlotte, with her flock of children and 
 her many needs, had the most right to it. 
 But 0, my son, my good son ! what can 
 I leave to you ? " 
 
 A great sob escaped him, and his eye- 
 lashes were wet as he turned them to 
 her. 
 
 " Leave me your blessing, mother." 
 
 " You have it always ; my heart is 
 blessing you ever}' hour of its existence. 
 And if I may be permitted to look down 
 from there" (glancing upwards), "It will 
 bless you still. Be at ease, my dear son : 
 a better blessing than mine is vours — 
 God's." 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 He suddenly knelt down by the fire 
 and poked it violently — anything to car- 
 ry off the emotion that was stirring him 
 so terribly within. And then he throw 
 his arms across his mother's lap, and hid 
 his thee upon it. 
 
 " Do not sorrow as those without 
 hope," she whispered ; " do not mourn as 
 those who have no comforter. Where 
 will be the profit of my daily patient 
 teaching, Thomas, if you are to give way 
 under this blow ? " 
 
 " It is so sudden." 
 
 ' ; Nay, you cannot have failed to know 
 that death was coming." 
 
 " But not so soon — not so soon. 
 [Mother! I don't know how to bear it." 
 
 "You cannot think, Thomas, how 
 quickly my life seems to have passed 
 since that brief period of time into which 
 all momentous events for me were crowd- 
 ed : my marriage, y T our birth, and your 
 father's death. Looking back, it seems 
 to be as yesterday. So — quickly — will 
 your life pass ; and then we shall be re- 
 united where there can be no more part- 
 trig." 
 
 She could feel the inward sobbing 
 as he leaned against her. The tears 
 gathered in her own eyes, and dropped 
 on his head as she looked down at him. 
 
 " Heaven knows how I have sti-iven 
 to work on patiently and silently for the 
 goal," she said. " In the midst of all 
 my short-comings and mistakes and sins, 
 I have ever tried to keep the end in view, 
 and to bear on for it. It has not been in 
 vain," she softly whispered. " Thom- 
 as, I have been so helped ! — so helped ! 
 1 do not presume to say, with St. Paul, 
 that " henceforth there is laid up for me 
 a crown of righteousness ; " but I dare to 
 hope and say that I shall live amidst the 
 redeemed in heaven. And the time of 
 "fay departure is at hand." 
 
 If ever there had been a true, humble 
 Christian in the world, it was Maria 
 Ivage. Thomas knew how sure all this 
 was ; but the bitter pain of parting filled 
 his heart, and he could not find comfort. 
 That would come later, when all was 
 over, and the anguish had in a degree 
 gone by ; but he did not see it now. 
 
 " I should like you to keep on the home 
 and old Dorothy, Thomas," Lady Kage 
 resumed, as he sat up in his chair again ; 
 " at least for a year. She will keep 
 things straight for you ; so that, in that 
 respect, you will not so much miss me." 
 
 Even in the midst of his distress, the 
 thought crossed him that he should be 
 little likely to retain the home and Dor- 
 othy, wanting means ; but he did not say 
 this ; he could not speak. 
 
 " I wish you would not grieve so." 
 
 " M} r grief is so bitter that I could al- 
 most wish to go with you. mother, 
 say you forgive me for the pain I have 
 caused you, wilfully or thoughtlessly; 
 for all moments of ingratitude, for the 
 want of love, that has been so poor to 
 what it ought to have been ! " 
 
 She took his hands, and bent down to 
 him, a tender light in her earnest eyes. 
 
 " I forgive you for all, Thomas. I say 
 it to satisfy you. But none can know 
 better than you how little there is to for- 
 give; I can recall nothing. You have 
 been my dutiful, loving, thoughtful 
 son ; not to me only, but in the sight of 
 Heaven." 
 
 " Don't, mother ! " 
 
 His tone was one of imploring an- 
 guish. In that moment, when she to 
 whom he had been so closely knit was 
 about to be taken from his sight for ever 
 in this world, it seemed that he had not 
 loved her and cherished her and worked 
 for her half enough. 
 
 " God's ways and will are not as ours, 
 Thomas, or I could have wished to live 
 until I saw you more prosperous." 
 
 " Do not be anxious for me," was the 
 hasty answer. " 1 have no fear of get- 
 ting on." 
 
 " If I could be anxious for you, I 
 should think my own life's lessons had 
 been in vain. I leave you with entire 
 trust ; and be assured, Thomas, that you 
 will get on just as much and just as lit- 
 tle as God shall please." 
 
 He knew that. 
 
 " I have never once asked for riches 
 for you, Thomas," she said in a deeper 
 whisper; '"I have been content to leave 
 that to Higher wisdom than mine. It 
 is the other kind of riches I have be- 
 sought for you — 0, very earnestly — those 
 that will serve you when the gold of this 
 world shall have flown away." 
 
 A glow of sweet gladness, not lost im- 
 mediately in the hour's sorrow, illumined 
 his heart. He had full faith in the great 
 belief that the child of a praying mother 
 would never be lost. 
 
 " Do you remember the words of that 
 verse in Sintram, Thomas — the one you 
 used to be so fond of? " 
 
38 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 He knew which she meant, and nod- 
 ded. They ran through his mind rap- 
 idly as she spoke. 
 
 " My Lord and God, I pray, 
 Turn from his heart away 
 
 This world's turmoil; 
 And call him to Thy light. 
 Be it through sorrow's night, 
 
 Through pivin or toil." 
 
 '•It is that that has been rather my 
 chief prayer for you," she breathed. 
 '* Thomas, should it come — pain, toil, 
 sorrow, whatever trouble may be deemed 
 necessary for you — you will not fail; 
 you will bear up bravely, looking to the 
 end?" 
 
 " Yes," he clearly answered, " God 
 helping me." 
 
 " It seems so little when you have 
 passed through," she began again, after 
 a long pause. " The cares, griefs, per- 
 plexities, distress, that appear so terrible 
 to us at the time as hardly to be borne, 
 seem as nothing looked back to when life 
 is closing. Thomas, battle with the 
 storm-waves as you best can ; they must 
 assail you sooner or later. Bear up man- 
 fully, never sinking, looking aloft always 
 to the light that never fails. The waves 
 that feel so cruel in the breasting them, 
 are only sent to carry you onwards. No 
 cross, no crown." 
 
 "' I know," he whispered : " j^es." 
 
 " I shall he in heaven waiting for you ; 
 waiting until your appointed labor shall 
 be done and life's sun has set. Thomas, 
 I had a dream this afternoon when I drop- 
 ped asleep in the twilight, and I thought 
 I was in a vast space of subdued, beauti- 
 ful light, where ail seemed to be rest and 
 happiness. Crowds were moving about 
 in white robes ; a great river ran along 
 below ; bright green trees and lovely- 
 colored flowers clustering on either side 
 it. It was heaven, Thomas; it was 
 heaven. I saw myself — s<uv myself 
 from a distance, as it seemed — in white 
 as the rest were, like an angel. 1 was 
 looking down, watching for some one 
 who was to come from very far, some one 
 who was sure to come ; for I saw the 
 glad smile of welcome on my face. 
 Thomas, I know that was you." 
 
 It was getting almost more than 
 Thomas Kage could bear. He doubted 
 also whether it was not for his mother, 
 though she seemed so calm, with a glad, 
 steady peace inward and outward. 
 
 " I know that dream was sent to coin- 
 
 fort me, my son, to reconcile me to the 
 parting. I am going to heaven. Just 
 so shall I watch there in reality until 
 you come to me. It will not be long ; 
 time passes so quickly." 
 
 "My darling mother, say no more to- 
 night," he urged, putting his cheek 
 against hers ; " we will talk again to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " I think I have said nearly all. You 
 will step round to Charlotte's. Tell her 
 that I am a little worse, and if she can 
 possibly come to me in the morning, to 
 do so Read first." 
 
 " Do you care that I should read to- 
 night ? " 
 
 " I shall care for it to the end, Thom- 
 as." 
 
 Since Lady Kage's illness it had been 
 his turn to read ; but he verily believed 
 he should break down to-night. To at- 
 tempt more than a few verses he dared 
 not. It was chance more than anything 
 else that caused him to begin where he 
 did. 
 
 " But I would not have you to be ig- 
 norant, brethren, concerning them which 
 are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as 
 others which have no hope. 
 
 " For if we believe that Jesus died 
 and rose again, even so them also which 
 sleep in Jesus will God bring with him." 
 
 And so on to the end of the chapter. 
 After that, he closed the book. 
 
 " ' Ever be with the Lord ' ! " repeated 
 Lady Kage in a low tone ; and she took 
 his hands, and looked into his eyes with 
 a great gladness while she said it. 
 
 " For ever and ever, please God ! " 
 
 But, nevertheless, it was a curious 
 chance that caused Thomas Kage to fix 
 upon those particular verses that night. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 KEZIAH DAWKES. 
 
 In her square, comfortable, but rather 
 small dining-room, with its thick purple 
 Turkey carpet, and sideboard of glitter- 
 ing plate at her back, sat Mrs. Garston 
 in her arm-chair, bolt upright. She 
 wore the stiffest of black silks, and a 
 head-gear of quilled white net and love- 
 ribbon, being in mourning for her many- 
 years' friend and neighbor, Lady Kage. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 39 
 
 By the position she sat in, rigidly per- 
 pendicular, those accustomed to her 
 moods might have seen that something 
 had put her out of humor. Though, 
 indeed, so far as speech went, it was not 
 very often she could have been said to 
 be in it. 
 
 Opposite to her, on the other side the 
 hearthrug, was a plain young woman in 
 fashionable attire. She had a gray, 
 cold face, dusky rather than clear, and 
 wide-open green eyes, with brown spots 
 in them. It was Miss Dawkes. The 
 grandmother of Miss Dawkes and Mrs. 
 Garston's husband had been brother 
 and sister ; so that the old lady stood to 
 the younger in the affinity of great- 
 aunt. And when aunts (or uncles 
 either) possess a large fortune, with 
 freedom to will it away at pleasure, 
 their relatives to the nine-and-ninetieth 
 degree do not fail to gather about them / 
 like a flock of hungry ravens waiting 
 for food. 
 
 To give Miss Dawkes her due, it 
 must be confessed that not from any ex- 
 pectation of benefiting herself had she 
 come forth to invade Mrs. Garston that 
 winter day, genial in temperature as 
 one of spring. Mrs. Garston did not 
 like to be invaded by Miss Dawkes. 
 And Miss Dawkes knew it; for the an- 
 cient lady contrived to let her likes and 
 dislikes be known without the smallest 
 scruple. She had come to plead the 
 cause of her brother, Captain Dawkes ; 
 to endeavor to conciliate Mrs. Garston's 
 anger against him, and, if possible, get 
 her to pay his debts. 
 
 To possess a kinsman from whom we 
 have ' expectations ' is not always a 
 good thing. No, not even when the 
 money cannot fail to become ours in the 
 due course of events. The fact some- 
 times works badly. It had in the case 
 of Captain Dawkes. But for looking 
 to Mrs. Garston's wealth, assuming that 
 it must, or at least a large portion of it, 
 inevitably descend to him, he might 
 never have grown into the fast spend- 
 thrift that he was. The clear-sighted 
 old lad} 7 saw this ; and perhaps that 
 caused her to be more lenient to his 
 faults than she would otherwise have 
 been. There was little that she did not 
 see ; her vigorous intellect went deep 
 into things passing around her, and 
 grasped their points unerringly. 
 
 " I wonder you have the face to come 
 to me, Keziah ! When I was your age, 
 fifty years ago, I'd have hid myself in 
 a bag, head downwards, first. You 
 want a year of thirty yet, you know. 
 Manners are changed nowadays. Chil- 
 dren are 3'oung women, and young 
 women are bolder than old ones." 
 
 Keziah Dawkes murmured some dep- 
 recating reply in the lowest of tones. 
 Mrs. Garston saw that words came 
 from her lips, but she could not by any 
 possibility have heard their purport. 
 And Keziah intended this : nothing, as 
 she knew, so aggravated the old lady as 
 opposing answers. It was rare indeed 
 that Miss Dawkes did anything without 
 a purpose ; wary, cold, cautious, she 
 weighed life's chances deliberately. 
 
 " If he has thrust one letter upon 
 me, he has thrust half-a-dozen. The 
 first came three weeks ago. I didn't 
 answer it. I didn't answer any of 'em, 
 and so he keeps on writing. What do 
 you think of that for impudence ? " 
 
 " Dear Aunt Garston, it is tlu fact 
 of your not answering that has caused 
 him to write again and again." 
 
 Had any sensitive stranger been 
 present, he might have started at Miss 
 Dawkes's voice. It sounded like a 
 gruff man's, and was very harsh. 
 These voices are not pleasant to the 
 ear : we are apt to think that they 
 carry their index with them. A sweet 
 voice has been called an excellent thing 
 in woman : it is so in more senses of 
 the word than the one generally under- 
 stood, whether possessed by woman or 
 by man. 
 
 Mrs. Garston seized her stick, and 
 gave a thump on the floor that might 
 have dented -in the board but for the 
 intervening carpet. 
 
 " How many times have I paid Bar- 
 by's debts ? Answer me that." 
 
 But Miss Dawkes kept a wise silence. 
 
 "Twice over I have settled his whole 
 catalogue of liabilities, and set him 
 straight with the world ; fifteen times 
 at the least I have paid stray ones for 
 him. What is the use of it, Ke- 
 ziah ? " 
 
 It may be, that to this Miss Dawkes 
 had no satisfactory answer to make. 
 A faint red, dark and dusky, tinged her 
 cheeks. 
 
 " The oftener I pay, the oftener I may 
 
40 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 pay; and where, I ask, is it to end? 
 It is doing him no good, Keziah. You 
 see that for yourself, you know, and yet 
 you come pestering me. If he were 
 put straight to-morrow, the next day he 
 would begin to pile up debts again. 
 The best thing for Barby, the kindest 
 thing, will be to do no more for him. 
 If once I say I won't, I wont ! Mark 
 you that." 
 
 " But you will not say it, dear Aunt 
 Garston ; you will not in justice say 
 it!" And Miss Dawkes in her eager- 
 ness rose and crossed the hearthrug, her 
 petitioning hands held out. 
 
 " Keep your seat, if you please, Ke- 
 ziah." 
 
 "I — I thought perhaps you would 
 hear me better if I sat nearer to you, 
 Aunt Garston." 
 
 " I hear you quite well enough. You 
 want me to pay Barby's debts ; there's 
 lio fear I shouldn't hear that. And 1 
 say, Keziah Dawkes, you are bold to ask 
 it. What do you mean by "justice"? 
 I heard that, you see." 
 
 "He has been taught to consider him- 
 self your heir, Aunt Garston." 
 « My bear ! " 
 " Heir. I said heir." 
 " Has he ? Who taught him ? " 
 " Everybody. My father and mother, 
 while they lived." 
 
 " A man called yesterday, Keziah 
 Dawkes, saying he wished to see me on 
 business, and was shown in — here, to this* 
 very dining-room. He asked for a five- 
 guinea subscription to some improve- 
 ments they want to set on foot in the 
 garden of Paradise-square. When I told 
 him I'd not give five shillings, let alone 
 five guineas, that the Paradise-garden 
 improvements wer3 nothing to me, he be- 
 gan to resent it, saying the committee had 
 counted upon my help because I was rich, 
 and they had put my name down for the 
 amount. Do you consider I was respon- 
 sible for that, Keziah ? " 
 
 " Acquainted with your well-known 
 benevolence, the)' — " 
 
 " I ask you if you think I was respon- 
 sible for what the committee chose to do 
 without my knowledge ? " shrieked Mrs. 
 Garston, rapping violently. 
 " No. Certainly not." 
 " Very well. It is an example in point. 
 I was not responsible for what your folks 
 did when they taught Barnaby Dawkes 
 to think himself my heir." 
 
 " My father, had he lived, would have 
 been } r our heir." 
 
 " What ? " asked Mrs. Garston, bend- 
 ing her deaf ear. 
 
 " I spoke of papa, Aunt Garston. He 
 was to have been your heir, had he sur- 
 vived you." 
 
 " That's as it might have been. He 
 would have come in for a share. But 
 you may remember one fact Keziah — your 
 father would not have made ducks and 
 drakes of it." 
 
 Keziah knew that. Her father's tem- 
 perament had been cold, cautious, self- 
 denying, as was her own. 
 
 " Your father's mother was my hus- 
 band's sister : but the money I enjoy 
 comes from my side, not his; it is my 
 own. Therefore, your family have no 
 right to it, Keziah. We were friendly 
 with your father, and I should not have 
 forgotten him substantially in my will. 
 But to say that Barby has any claim to 
 consider himself my heir, is a fallacy. 
 Do you hear ? — a fallac}*." 
 
 "If Barnaby cannot be helped, he must 
 go through the Insolvent Court," spoke 
 Miss Dawkes. 
 
 " And a good thing for him. 'Twould 
 take down his consequence a notch or 
 two." 
 
 " But think of the disgrace to the 
 name, Aunt Garston :" 
 
 "It wouldn't be my name," returned 
 the shrewd old lady. "His own and 
 yours ; but not mine." 
 
 Miss Dawkes began to think that she 
 should be worsted in the argument. 
 Mrs. Garston, searching her with her 
 keen steel eyes, saw it. 
 
 "There is no earthly thing you care 
 for in this mortal world, Keziah, except 
 that brother of yours ; apart from him, 
 you hold no interest in it. There's only 
 three years' difference in your ages, for 
 he'll be six-and-twent}' next month ; 
 but j'ou seem to regard him with the 
 indulgent love of a mother rather than of 
 a sister. Does it do him good ? " 
 " It does him no harm." 
 " I say it does do him harm. You 
 don't see his faults ; and that encourages 
 him in his reckless folly. W'hether 
 you can't see them, or whether you wink 
 at them, I don't pretend to judge; the 
 effect is the same ; most likely it's some- 
 thing of both. He goes on spending, 
 and you go on winking." 
 
 " His means are so very shallow, Aunt 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 41 
 
 Garston ; the merest trifle, except his 
 
 pay- 
 
 You 
 
 " I know his brains are shallow, 
 need not tell me ? " 
 
 ''His means, I said: his income. How 
 can he keep straight upon it." 
 
 " How does Thomas Kage, at the next 
 door, keep straight upon a tithe of it ? " 
 demanded Mrs. Garston, growing fierce. 
 
 " Why, because he knows that he must. 
 Don't attempt to play the sophist with 
 me, Keziah Dawkes ; it will not answer. 
 If Barnab}' had not me and my parse to 
 turn to, he'd live within his income." 
 
 Miss Dawkes, in her private opinion, 
 thought that was likely. At the same 
 time, she deemed it most unreasonable 
 and unjust for Barnaby to be expected 
 to live within it, considering that Mrs. 
 Garston and her purse were there. The 
 old lady held up the fore-finger of her 
 right hand, glittering with diamonds of 
 the first water. 
 
 " Listen to me Keziah. I have no wish 
 to see Barnaby go to the dogs. He is a 
 kinsman,. and I'd rather he turned out 
 respectably. The tack he is on is the 
 wrong tack ; and neither you nor I can 
 6ee where it will lead him to. Let him 
 change it ; he is young enough to do so 
 yet. But if it is persevered in till thirty's 
 turned, the chances are that his spend- 
 thrift habits will so have mastered him 
 tli at he must indulge them at any cost. 
 Tell him this; impress it upon his mind : 
 hit him get out of them while he may. 
 Heaven alone knows what the cost might 
 be." 
 
 Could there have been a prevision in 
 Mrs. Garston's mind as she said this ? 
 It really seemed (as things were to turn 
 out in the future) that it was so ; that she 
 saw, as in a mirror, the chain of events 
 to come. 
 
 Miss Dawkes saw something quite dif- 
 ferent, which she looked upon as prophet- 
 ic : that by the time Barnaby was thirty 
 years of age the old lady before her would 
 have ceased to count years, and he be in 
 the full enjoyment of her large fortune. 
 In spite of these restive interludes on the 
 part of Mrs. Garston, neither she nor her 
 brother entertained a shadow of doubt 
 that the money would come to him. The 
 only douht attaching to the -matter was, 
 how he should carry on until then. 
 
 " For this one time, dear Aunt Gars- 
 ton ! You will help him this one time ? 
 
 He is almost afraid to be in the streets, 
 lest he should get arrested." 
 
 " Dissected ! Who is going to dissect 
 him?" 
 
 " Arrested. Arrested, and put in 
 prison." 
 
 "Prison, eh? The safest place for 
 him. A month or two of it might bring 
 him to his senses." 
 
 "And ruin him with his regiment. 
 For this once, dear aunt, in mercy ! " 
 
 " I will not listen to any more, Keziah. 
 What you say can make no difference one 
 way or the other, and you had better not 
 put me out of humor. If I pa}' his debts, 
 I pay them ; if I don't, I don't ; and 
 there's an end of it. You can stay the 
 day with me if you like, and go upstairs 
 and take you bonnet off." 
 
 Miss Dawkes, knowing the old lady's 
 moods, looked upon this speech altogeth- 
 er as a kind of concession, and was 
 too wise to mar it. She slowty untied 
 the strings of her bonnet, and rose. 
 
 " I saw Mrs. Annesley at the window 
 as I came by, aunt, and went in for a 
 minute. She says it is feared that Mr. 
 Dunn is dying." 
 
 "Which of them?" 
 
 " The member, Herbert." 
 
 Mrs. Garston bent her ear. 
 
 " Richard Dunn was here three 
 nights ago, with a shocking bad cold. I 
 hope it's not him." 
 
 " It is Herbert, aunt — the one who 
 married Miss Lydia Canterbury." 
 
 " And a fine tossed-off, bold-speaking 
 thing she is ! " pronounced Mrs. Gar- 
 ston, rapping violently. " Herbert 
 Dunn brought her here to call after they 
 were married; and, before she had well 
 got out of the house again, she called 
 me a scarecrow. A deaf old scarecrow ! 
 I heard of it; and I told Dickey of it, 
 that he might let his brother know. I 
 am sorry for Herbert, but I've not en- 
 couraged his wife here. What's the 
 matter with him?" 
 
 " He has been ill since before Christ- 
 mas, Mrs. Annesley says — seriously so. 
 But danger was not thought of." 
 
 "And who says there's danger 
 now ? " 
 
 " There's great danger, aunt. He was 
 taken worse in the night, and Dr. Tyn- 
 dal was called up. The doctor has de- 
 sired that his relatives may be summon- 
 ed ; he thinks he is dying." 
 
42 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 "Dying, dying!" angrily repeated 
 Mrs. Garston, as if the word offended 
 Iter. " One dying on this side, another 
 born on that ! I wonder what the 
 world's coming to ! Charlotte Lowther's 
 baby arrived this morning ; and that 
 makes her ninth." 
 
 " Charlotte Lowther ? " repeated Miss 
 Dawkes, not remembering the name ; 
 '• who is Charlotte Lowther, aunt ? " 
 
 " Who is Charlotte Lowther ? Why, 
 Thomas Kage's sister : poor Lady 
 Kage's step-daughter, that she brought 
 up like her own, and sacrificed her- 
 self to. You never know anybody, Ke- 
 ziah. Ring the bell." 
 
 " We have not had any acquaintance 
 with the Kages, you know, aunt." 
 
 " It was your loss, not theirs. Barby 
 might take a lesson to his profit from 
 Thomas Kage. As to Charlotte, she 
 would marry Bob Lowther, and she has 
 got her troubles through it. The man 
 is a good husband, I believe ; but I 
 question if he makes more than six or 
 seven hundred a-year, and everybody 
 knows how far that goes in London." 
 
 " I remember now. He is a civil en- 
 gineer." 
 
 " He is as civil as you at an}' rate," 
 retorted Mrs. Garston. "Robert Low- 
 ther's a favorite of mine." 
 
 " I did not say he was uncivil, aunt." 
 
 " 0, didn't 3'ou, though ! I know 
 your sneering ways, Keziah. There's 
 nobody in the world good enough to tie 
 Barby's shoe. You'd like to tell it me 
 to my face. Ring that bell again." 
 
 The entrance of the servant prevent- 
 ed the necessity. Mrs. Garston wanted 
 her carriage round without delay. The 
 man felt a little surprised at receiving 
 the order, for it was earlier than she us- 
 ually went out, but retired to transmit 
 it. 
 
 " I am going round to Paradise- 
 square," she explained to her grand- 
 niece. "Herbert Dunn's wife is not a 
 courteous woman, but that's no reason 
 why I should not inquire after him. I 
 shall come back to luncheon ; and if you 
 like to take an airing with me after- 
 wards, Keziah, you can." 
 
 The carriage (a veiy handsome equi- 
 page, with a pair of tine white horses) 
 came to the gate ; and Mrs. Garston, 
 in her black bonnet and black-silk cloak, 
 stepped into it ; and was driven away. 
 
 W r arm sunshine lay on the pave- 
 ments ; London, for once, looked bright ; 
 some little sparrows were gaily twitter- 
 ing beneath the roofs, in the delu.sive 
 belief that the biting frosts of winter 
 had flown away, never to come back 
 again. 
 
 Keziah unceremoniously drew Mrs. Gar- 
 ston's arm-chair in front of the fire, and 
 put her feet on the fender. That things 
 would go on all right she entertained no 
 doubt ; really to fear so great a catastro- 
 phe as that they would iiot, never seri- 
 ously entered her thoughts ; only, Barby 
 would have to be cautious how he played 
 his cards. In the main, Keziah wished her 
 brother would be careful in many more 
 things than he was at present given to 
 be. 
 
 " The old woman is right, after all," 
 soliloquized she. " Barby only gets his 
 debts settled that he ma}' be at liberty 
 to contract more. If he had not her for- 
 tune in prospective, it might be a bad 
 look-out, unless he ceased spending; but 
 he has it ; she could not for shame leave 
 it away from him, neither would she. 
 He is the on!}' male representative of 
 the family living, and " 
 
 "Captain Dawkes, ma'am." 
 
 " The only male representative of the 
 family came forward at the servant's an- 
 nouncement. To be correct, however, it 
 should be stated that it was the Dawkes 
 family alluded to, not the Garston. 
 
 Captain Dawkes was a handsome man 
 — ver}' handsome in his regimentals ; 
 not that he wore them to-day. His fig- 
 ure was fine, his features were good, 
 with quite a carmine flush on the.cheeks 
 that his black and shining whiskers bor- 
 dered. On his horse he looked more 
 than well ; seen close, as Keziah saw 
 him now, he was less so ; for the very 
 dark eyes were too near each other, and 
 the expression of the face was not open 
 — defects which half the world would 
 never detect ; and Keziah made one 
 amongst them. Blinded by partiality, 
 she verily believed that, had he taken 
 his place amid the gods and goddesses on 
 Mt. Olympus, the rest would have knelt 
 and done homage to his beauty. 
 
 " Barby, is it you ? Why did you 
 come ? " 
 
 " To see the grand aunt. Is the an- 
 cient party visible ? " 
 
 " She will think it a conspiracy, Bar- 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 43 
 
 by. I here first, and you next ; both of 
 us in one day. Why did you not tell 
 me you were coming here ? " 
 
 " I may as well say, ' Why did you 
 not tell me you were ?' " returned Cap- 
 tain Dawkes ; " and with more reason, 
 Keziah ; for you generally inform me 
 of your probable movements for the day, 
 and I don't often know mine." 
 
 Keziah was silent. She had intended 
 this visit of persua-uon 'to be kept secret 
 from Barnaby. For his sake she would 
 have gone to the end of the world bare- 
 foot, and thought it no sacrifice. All 
 she could do now was to tell him of the 
 unpropitious mood the ancient lady was 
 betra}'ing, and leave it to his own judg- 
 ment whether he would remain to see 
 her or not. 
 
 " The fact is, Keziah, things have 
 come to a tolerable crisis," observed 
 Captain Dawkes, after listening. " The 
 sharks are after me. If it were not for 
 that confounded mess that might come 
 of it, I'd let myself fall into their clutch- 
 es, and get locked-up for a day and a 
 night. That would bring her to her 
 senses." 
 
 " I doubt if it srould, in the sense you 
 mean. She has been saying the best 
 place for you would be a prison ; that it 
 would uring you to your senses. What 
 are you looking at, Barby ? " 
 
 Securely sheltered by the window- 
 curtain from outside observation, Cap- 
 tain Dawkes had been peering up the 
 road and down the road to satisfy him- 
 self that it was clear. 
 
 Keziah a little changed color. 
 
 " Surely you do not fear that you 
 have been followed here ! " 
 
 "Not much. It is all right, I see. 
 Been saying a prison is the best place 
 for me, has she ? Considerate old octo- 
 p-enarian ! But that's only her temper, 
 Keziah. When women get to her age, 
 they say anything. It is so unreason- 
 able ! " 
 
 " What is ? " 
 
 '•To live so long. In the ordinary 
 course of events I ought to have come 
 into my inheritance ten years ago." 
 
 Keziah did not say that Mrs. Garston 
 had just hinted that the inheritance 
 might be none of his, that he had no 
 legal right or claim to it. She spared 
 him when she could : telling him, of 
 disagreeable news, only what could not 
 be avoided. 
 
 " How long do you expect her to be 
 away, Keziah ? If I thought it might 
 be better not to see her, why I'd decamp, 
 and come in to-morrow. She — Halloa ! 
 that's Kage, I think. I want to ask 
 him a question." 
 
 Seizing his hat, Captain Dawkes ran 
 along the garden — for these two houses 
 were built back, not like the modern 
 ones. Thomas Kage was passing on to 
 his own, when he found himself called, 
 and turned to see Barnaby Dawkes. 
 The Captain met him with outstretched 
 hand. 
 
 " I was awfully sorry, old fellow, to 
 hear of your loss," he began, the deep- 
 mourning attire reminding him of it. 
 " Forgive my laying hold of you in 
 this manner. You know Briscoe, don't 
 you ? " 
 
 " Sam Briscoe ? Yes." 
 
 " Can you give me his address ? " 
 
 Mr. Kage hesitated, and then told 
 the truth in his straightforward man- 
 ner. 
 
 " I am not at liberty to give it. Bris- 
 coe is in some difficultly, you know." 
 
 " He's not in half as much difficult}' 
 as I am. Come, let's have it, Kage." 
 
 " I cannot, Captain Dawkes. It was 
 by the merest accident that I became 
 acquainted with his present address ; he 
 said he must trust to my good,-fee>Jing 
 and honor not to disclose it to any man 
 living, though it were his own brother." 
 
 " Does Briscoe owe you money? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Well, he does me. It's not much, 
 but upon my word I am so hard up that 
 the smallest sums are of moment. If 
 Briscoe can pay me, I know he will. I 
 don't want to bother him." 
 
 " Give me a letter for him. I'll for- 
 ward it at once." 
 
 " Very well ; I'll write it now and 
 send it in to you. But for this cross- 
 grained old grand-aunt of mine turning 
 crusty, I should not need to trouble 
 anybody. It may be a month yet before 
 she comes to ; and that will about land 
 me in the Thames." 
 
 " In the Thames ! " 
 
 " If I don't get money from some- 
 where, I must either hang or drown 
 myself. Good-day." 
 
 Captain Dawkes turned in with a 
 look as gloom}' as his tone, and Thomas 
 Kage passed on to his home. 
 
 Never did he now put the latch-key 
 
44 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 in the lock and enter, "but a feeling of 
 wear}' desolation shot across his heart, 
 as if the world and the house were alike 
 steeped in gloom that admitted of no 
 enlightenment. However he might 
 temporarily forget his loss abroad, amid 
 the absorbing cares of the day's business, 
 the moment he approached his home it 
 returned to his mind with redoubled 
 force. 
 
 It was a curious coincidence that he 
 should have chosen those particular 
 words in the Bible to read to his moth- 
 er that past night — as already told of — 
 for they were the last he ever read to 
 her. Lady Kage dlt>d that night. 
 When Thomas came baeK from carrying 
 the news of her increased illness to Mrs. 
 Lowther, Lady Kage was in bed, and 
 seemed quite comfortable. She smiled 
 when he bent over her, saying she feJ^ 
 so easy and happy, just as if she should 
 be quite well in the morning. Thomas 
 hissed her, and said he hoped she would 
 be. 
 
 He sat np in her room. He was not 
 easy, and could not leave her. Doroth}" 
 resented it : she had always sat up with 
 her lad} r before; things had come to a 
 pretty pass if Mr. Thomas must take 
 her duties on himself. Thomas quietly 
 replied that Doroth}' might sit up too, 
 and keep him company if she pleased. 
 Dorothy did not please, and betook her- 
 self to an adjoining room in dudgeon. 
 
 Lady Kage dropped into a quiet 
 sleep. He sat in the arm-chair, and 
 kept the chamber in stillness, dropping 
 solitary bits of coal on the fire with his 
 noiseless hand. He thought that a 
 night of undisturbed rest might go far 
 to refresh and strengthen her. And 
 the night wore on, and the little hours 
 of the morning struck. 
 
 Lady Kage died in her sleep ; so 
 peacefully, so calmly, that her faithful 
 son, watching by her side, knew not 
 that the spirit had passed away. 
 
 Three weeks had elapsed since. Only 
 three weeks ! And yet it seemed to 
 Thomas Kage, in his grief, that it was 
 nearly half a life-time. 
 
 Closing the hall-door, he turned into 
 the room where they had so often sat 
 together — the dining- parlor. There 
 was nobody to give him a smile of wel- 
 come now. The arm-chair stood there 
 as of yore, but it was vacant ; vacant 
 for ever. 
 
 Dorothj r came in, looking rather more 
 grim than usual in her black, to know 
 if he wanted an3 T thing. He was left 
 sole executor to his mother, and busi- 
 ness connected with the various arrange- 
 ment's had brought him home on occa- 
 sions in the middle of the day. No, he 
 wanted nothing. 
 
 "Mrs. Lowther's going on well ; and 
 the boy's as fine a boy as need be ; I've 
 been round to see," jerked out Dorothy, 
 who always seemed to speak as if she 
 were at variance with the world and the 
 listener. 
 
 " I know," said Thomas. " I called 
 there this morning." 
 
 " And I've took in the news to Mrs. 
 Garston, sir."' 
 
 "All right, Dorothy." 
 Dorothy shut the door with a sharp 
 click. And her master, opening a sec- 
 rctoire, set himself to examine some 
 papers in it. His good countenance 
 was pale to-da}' ; looking like that of a 
 man who had some special grief upon 
 him. Grief it was, in truth ; he had so 
 tenderly loved his mother. But no re- 
 morse was mingled with it. Well 
 would it be for us all had we performed 
 our duties lovingly and faithfully to 
 those gone on before, as had Thomas 
 Kage ! There would be less of bitter 
 regret in the world. 
 
 Lad} r Kage had expressed a wish to 
 her son that he should continue to occu- 
 py the house for twelve months ; and 
 for this she had provided in her will ; 
 paying the rent for that time, paying 
 also Dorothj^'s wages. The greater por- 
 tion of the furniture, he found, was left 
 to him ; a little of it only going to 
 Charlotte. Matters in the household 
 were already re-organized. One of the 
 maids was discharged ; the other re- 
 mained with Dorothy; and Thomas 
 Kage was the sole master. 
 
 The future presented itself to his views 
 in an indistinct form ; something like a 
 picture with a veil over it. Whether he 
 should rise rapidly in his profession, or 
 get only bread-and-cheese at it for years 
 and years, as but too many do, he knew 
 not. It was a lottery at best. On very 
 rare occasions, he would see, as in a 
 glimpse, a vision of success : the old house 
 renovated, ease prevailing, and a sweet 
 form, sitting beside the chair that had 
 been his mother's. It's realisation was 
 so very improbable, that he wondered 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 45 
 
 whether he was becoming foolish for an- 
 ticipating such a thing. Nevertheless, 
 it caused his heart to beat and his cheek 
 to glow. 
 
 Meanwhile, a hitch occurred in the 
 business that had taken him to Aberton, 
 and he began to doubt whether there 
 would be any necessity to go down again 
 In which case, he should have no plea for 
 a second visit to Chilling. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 CALLED UP BY TELEGRAM. 
 
 The village of Chilling was a small 
 village, scarcely to be called one. It was 
 retired, primitive, and very beautiful. A 
 green there was, on which the stocks 
 stood, unused now, and a bare common 
 with a pound in its corner. The high- 
 road wound past both green and common, 
 with its handful of cottagers' dwellings 
 on the other side of it. It went wind- 
 ing up by the entrance-gates of the Rock, 
 leaving the gray church to the right, 
 which stood midway between the Rock 
 and the village. The church and par- 
 sonage were alike built of stone ; but 
 whereas the former remained rugged and 
 time-worn, the latter had undergone ren- 
 ovation and improvement, so as to be, to 
 all intents and purposes, a modern dwell- 
 ing-place. Some few mansions were 
 scattered about — gentlemen's seats — but 
 none of them could boast of half the mag- 
 nitude and beauty of Mr. Canterbury's 5 — 
 the Rock. Whence it derived its name 
 — suggestive of bleak cliffs and barren 
 heights — none now living could tell. Cer- 
 tainly neither rocks nor bleak barrenness 
 were near it ; but, instead, all that can 
 be imagined of sunny plains and rich fo- 
 liage, and scenery that had scarce its fel- 
 low in the land. 
 
 Passing the quaint old lodge at the 
 entrance-gates, the open park was gain- 
 ed, soft to the feet as grass-green moss, 
 white in the season with its chestnut 
 blossoms. The trees were very fine ; 
 the deer liked to rub their antlers against 
 them ; the young ladies, George Canter- 
 bury's daughters, used, when children, to 
 sport under their shade. There, on its 
 gentle eminence, close by as it were, for 
 the park was small, rose the Rock, with 
 
 its beautiful parterres of many-colored 
 flowers, its white terraces, and its fine 
 broad entrance-steps. 
 
 A castle once stood there, on the very 
 self-same spot. Nearly all triice of it, save 
 its legends, had long since passed away ; 
 but that it must have been of great re- 
 pute and beauty in its time, the preserv- 
 ed records showed. George- Canterbury, 
 iuto whose hands they had come when he 
 purchased the Rock, kept them as pre- 
 cious heir-looms. 
 
 The house faced the west, the terraces 
 and the gay parterres of flowers alone 
 intervening between it and the park. 
 On the northern side the grounds were 
 also comparatively open, and laid out 
 with exceeding taste ; on the southern 
 side there was a very wilderness of shrubs 
 and trees, extending quite to the bound- 
 ary-wall, wonderfully refreshing to the 
 sight on a day of burning heat, and a 
 grateful resting-place of shelter from the 
 afternoon sun. 
 
 In the midst of this wilderness stood 
 an old well or fountain, sparkling with 
 water once perhaps, but dry now. 
 Shrnbs, withered and stunted and dark 
 with age, green and beautiful in their 
 long -past prime, clustered round the 
 brink in a tangled mass,. It bore the 
 name of the Lady's Well ; and the his- 
 tory attaching to it, whether fabled or 
 real, was one of painful interest. The 
 well has nothing whatever to do with 
 modern times, or with this modern story, 
 so its legend shall be omitted altogether ; 
 for some readers might grumble at its 
 insertion as a needless interruption. 
 George Canterbury, who held possession 
 of it amidst other records, refreshed his 
 memory with a perusal of it from time to 
 time. He felt a kind of pride in the ac- 
 cidental fact that his own son had borne 
 the same name — Edgar — as the renown- 
 ed Crusader-knight, Edgar de Chilling. 
 Strong-minded Lydia Canterbury, the 
 second daughter, who was of a hard, prac- 
 tical turn of mind, without an ounce of 
 sentiment to leaven it, was wont to say 
 her father's brain was so full of the knight 
 and the old family, that he had grown, she 
 verily believed, to think he was descended 
 from them. But Miss Lydia was rather 
 free of tongue. You have heard Mrs. 
 Garston, seeing her after her marriage 
 and for the first time, pronounced her a 
 " tossed-ofij bold-speaking thing : " and 
 
46 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 all because the young lady, in her ran- 
 dom freedom, had called her a " scare- 
 crow." 
 
 The Lady's well had a fame of its 
 own, apart from its romance and its leg- 
 ends. Superstition was rife there, as it 
 is in manj' places to which curious sto- 
 ries attach. A lady's ghost was said to 
 haunt it on windy nights ; and very few 
 of the Rock's female retainers would 
 have cared to promenade on that side the 
 house after dark, or perhaps in daylight 
 either. Whether from this cause or not, 
 certain it was that this part of the 
 grounds was almost entirely unfrequent- 
 ed. The gardeners kept the clustering 
 shrubs and trees in passable order, and 
 there the culture ended. For one thing, 
 nobody had cause to come on this south- 
 ern side ; the state-entrance la}' in front, 
 the household entrance at the back. On 
 the northern side glassed-doors opened 
 to the beautiful lawn, and were very gen- 
 erally used by the family. A tale went 
 abroad that, in certain conditions of the 
 atmosphere, a reflection of a grand old 
 castle might be seen in the sky, above 
 the Rock, something after the fashion of 
 a mirage. Some shepherds, tending 
 their flocks on the far-away Welsh hills, 
 professed to have seen this ; and forth- 
 with it was assumed to be a picture of 
 the once-famous castle, called in its day 
 the Castle of Chillingwater. Altogether, 
 what with the present beauty of the 
 place, what with the ancient histories of 
 the castle whose site it covered, what 
 with the still-existing well and its su- 
 perstition, the Rock had become the show- 
 place of the county; and' it was quite a 
 common thing for strangers sojourning 
 in the neighborhood to beg permission to 
 go over it: which Mr. Canterbury was 
 rather proud, than otherwise, to accord. 
 Thus it may be perceived that the Rock 
 was one of those fine and desirable man- 
 sions that the world talks and writes 
 about. 
 
 It was of more importance than its 
 owner, George Canterbury ; for Mr. Can- 
 terbury, in point of descent, was a very 
 small personage indeed. He and his 
 father — but chiefly his father — had made 
 their immense fortune in mining specu- 
 lations ; and George Canterbury was but 
 a young man when he withdrew alto- 
 gether from business, and purchased the 
 Rock. People, making a random guess, 
 
 said he was worth a million of money. 
 He was certainly worth a great deal, 
 but nothing like so much as that. 
 
 Wealthy and luxurious though the 
 Rock was, it had not been able to keep 
 out our last enemy. Death had gone 
 within George Canterbury's portals, and 
 never said, With your leave, or By your 
 leave. Mrs. Canterbury was the first to 
 die. Miss Canterbury was then in her 
 twentieth year, and she had at once as- 
 sumed her post as the household's most 
 efficient mistress. Several years subse- 
 quently, the only son was taken — Edgar. 
 The young man, after he came to years 
 of discretion, was neither steady nor se- 
 date : certain odds and ends of light con- 
 duct had come out now and again, and 
 penetrated to the ears of the family, 
 causing concern to his sisters, bringing 
 down reprobation from his father. But 
 when his almost sudden death took place, 
 it was to all of them a bitter and lasting 
 grief. His faults were forgotten ; they 
 were, in fact, but those that too common- 
 ly attach to young men, and in one of 
 less exalted station would never have 
 been talked about. His virtues re- 
 mained. Edgar Canterbury had the 
 making of a fine man in him, and would 
 have turned out well yet, had his life 
 been spared. He lay ill little more than 
 a week, in his rooms in the south wing; 
 and then died. All their care, all their 
 prayers, all the medical aid brought to- 
 gether from far and near, did not avail 
 to save him. From two to three years 
 had elapsed now ; and they had left off 
 their mourning for him : but the south 
 rooms remained untenanted, almost sa- 
 cred ; Edgar's things in their accustom- 
 ed places, just as though he inhabited 
 them still. 
 
 Miss Canterbury was now regarded as 
 the heiress to the Rock. That she would 
 succeed to it just as surely as though it 
 were entailed upon her, none doubted. 
 It was well known that in the first 
 weeks succeeding Edgar's death Mr. 
 Norris, the family solicitor, had been 
 summoned to the Rock by its master, to 
 make a fresh will. It was legally exe- 
 cuted ; and Mr. Canterbury informed 
 his daughter that he had put her in Ed- 
 gar's place ; and he delivered to her sun- 
 dry injunctions, charges, wishes, in re- 
 gard to the property, when he should be 
 no more. None of the property was 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 47 
 
 entailed. In all respects Miss Canter- 
 bury was well fitted to succeed her fa- 
 ther; gossips said she would make a 
 more comprehensively -liberal mistress 
 than he had been a master. It was 
 certain that Miss Canterbury would 
 never marry — at least, as certain as such 
 contingencies ever can be. She had 
 been on the point of marriage once to 
 Harry Lynn-Garston, the eldest son of 
 Mr. Lynn-Garston. Very painful cir- 
 cumstances parted them, and I only 
 wish there was space to relate the his- 
 tory ; but you might sa} T it took up 
 time unnecessarily. They were parted, 
 and Harry Lynn-Garston's death fol- 
 lowed rather soon upon it. Miss Can- 
 terbury said nothing to the world ; what- 
 ever of grief and remorse she might feel 
 — for the parting was her doing, not his 
 — she buried it within her in silence. 
 She had loved him deeply, enduringly, 
 ardently, and never more so than when 
 she gave him his dismissal. Love and 
 haughty pride had had a struggle to- 
 gether in her spirit ; the latter conquer- 
 ed, and he went back to India a rejected 
 man. But when the news came of Cap- 
 tain Lynn - Garston's death in battle, 
 Miss Canterbury knew that the sun- 
 shine of her existence had gone out for 
 ever. She made no sign ; for all people 
 saw, she was indifferently tranquil ; but 
 later, when her father would have urged 
 upon her the acceptance of another offer, 
 she quietly told him she should live and 
 die Olive Canterbury. And she was not 
 one to break her resolution, in that mat- 
 ter or in any other. 
 
 After Mrs. Canterbury's death, there 
 had been a stir in the county. Every 
 mother for miles round who had daugh- 
 ters waiting to be married, ordered 
 horses to her carriage, and set off to con- 
 dole with George Canterbury. What 
 though he had a flock of children — four 
 daughters and a son — was not the Rock 
 as a very mansion of refuge, if by good 
 chance it might be attained to ? Were 
 not the riches, real and fabulous, as 
 lumps of hanging delight, making 
 hearts hanker and mouths water ? 
 Even so. George Canterbury had to 
 run the gauntlet his widowed state 
 brought upon him, just as other widow- 
 ers with desirable possessions are run- 
 ning it at this very hour. He came out 
 unscathed, uncaught. It might have 
 
 been that the very palpable nature of 
 the overtures put him on his guard. 
 Something or other rendered him mail- 
 proof; and as the years and years went 
 on, and nothing came of them, the hopes 
 died away as bad, and Mr. Canterbury 
 was left in peace. 
 
 So the Rock was to be the inheritance 
 of Olive Canterbury ; and it was sur- 
 mised, by those likely to know, that the 
 fortunes of the three younger daughters 
 would be about a hundred thousand 
 pounds each. They might well be called 
 heiresses ! Lydia had married Mr. 
 Dunn, member for the county. He was 
 a good deal older than herself. Mr. 
 Canterbury had settled a thousand a- 
 year upon her ; but the larger portion 
 of her fortune would not be hers until 
 his death. They had no children, ami 
 Mr. Dunn had latterly been in ill-health. 
 The snow had dispersed ; the country 
 wore a warmer aspect, for the sun shone 
 brightly. It was but early in the year, 
 and those who were weatherwise said 
 winter would be back yet. In the 
 breakfast-room at the Rock, the white 
 cloth lighted up with its glittering sil- 
 ver, and service of Worcester china 
 stood the two elder Miss Canterburys, — 
 Olive and Jane. Olive was turned thir- 
 ty now — a tall, stateby, handsome woman, 
 with a face of power, but good and gen- 
 ial. Her fine hair was of a purple 
 blackness, her features were pale and 
 clearly cut, her eyes were dark gray. 
 They had some trouble in their depths 
 this morning. Her gleaming silk swept 
 the ground, as she stood with a folded 
 paper in her hand. Olive Canterbury 
 was never seen in merinos or cottons. 
 Jane, the next sister, was fairer and 
 quieter looking, betraying little of Ol- 
 ive's decision of mind and manner. 
 
 The Rock seemed to live so entirely 
 within itself, possessing few interests 
 without, and no business, that the arri- 
 val of a telegram was a startling event. 
 One had been just delivered, addressed 
 to Mr. Canterbury. Olive bent her 
 brow a little, Jane turned pale. !N~eel 
 the butler, who had brought it in, wait- 
 ed for orders. 
 
 " It had better go up to papa at once, 
 !N*eel. Is he getting up, do you know ? " 
 " Yes, ma'am. The shaving - water 
 went in some time ago." 
 •' Take this up, then." 
 
48 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 Neel went out with the formidable 
 
 missive. Millicent, coming in at the 
 time, saw it in his hand. 
 
 " What is that, Olive ? " she asked, 
 after wishing her sisters good-morning. 
 
 " A telegraphic despatch." 
 
 " A telegraphic despatch ! " repeated 
 Millicent in a frightened tone. " 
 Olive ! What can it be ? Who is it 
 from ? " 
 
 " Millicent, child, don't put yourself 
 out ; that cau do no good." 
 
 " What are you fearing, Olive ? " 
 
 "That something is amiss with Lydia 
 or her husband. I know of no one else 
 likely to be telegraphing." 
 
 "If Lydia— Hark!" 
 
 Mr. Canterbury's dressing-room bell 
 was ringing loudly. Neel, coming down 
 from delivering the despatch to his mas- 
 ter, hastened back again. 
 
 " Breakfast instantly ! " was the order. 
 " Tell Miss Canterbury." 
 
 The telegram was from Mrs. Dunn. 
 Her husband was alarmingly worse, it 
 was feared dying, and Mr. Canterbury 
 was prayed to hasten to London. 
 
 Mr. Canterbury was one of those who 
 can but lose their heads on such an oc- 
 casion. Olive would have been as tran- 
 quil as the day. Everything necessar}" 
 to be done could have been done for him. 
 His servants would have put up his 
 clothes ; he had but to say, " I am going 
 to London," and take his breakfast in 
 peace, and step into his carriage to be 
 combed leisurely to the station at Ab- 
 erton. Not so. Mr. Canterbury was in 
 as much commotion as though his own 
 life depended on his departure, or as if 
 the business of the world had been sud- 
 denly thrown upon his shoulders. He 
 could not take his breakfast sitting; 
 every moment he got up from it — now 
 looking from the window, now dodging 
 to the fire, now calling out, "I shall want 
 this put into my portmanteau," or " I 
 shall not want that." To be summoned 
 out in this haste had never occurred to 
 him before in his tranquil life, so there 
 might be an excuse for him. 
 
 " Dear papa, it will be all right," spoke 
 Olive ; " there is not the slightest neces- 
 sity for this. The first train you can go 
 by is the ten o'clock." 
 
 " Dear me ! I'm sure I shall not get 
 there. I know I shall forget everything 
 I ought to take. Had there been time, 
 
 I should have liked to ask whether I 
 could take up any message for the par- 
 sonage. ' Their relations, the London 
 Annesleys, live close by Lydia." 
 
 " I will go to the parsonage and in- 
 quire, papa," said Millicent, starting up. 
 " I'll bring you back word." 
 
 ; ' You have not finished breakfast." 
 
 "Indeed I have. While you've been 
 fidgetting, papa, I've been eating. 
 There's plenty and plenty of time." 
 
 In two minutes Millicent was out of 
 the house, her mantle on, and tying her 
 bonnet as she ran through the park, and 
 gained the road. The church was not far, 
 a quarter of a mile or so; the schools 
 were on that side it, the parsonage was 
 on this. It was a low, broad house, 
 sheltered by trees, with a portico en- 
 trance, and a level lawn, surrounded by 
 sweet-scented flowers. Woodbine, wild- 
 roses, clematis, jasamine, clustered round 
 the porch in summer, and spread to the 
 lower windows on either side. 
 
 The Reverend Philip Annesley, Rec- 
 tor of Chilling for the past five-ami thir- 
 ty years, was old now and fading fast. 
 He had christened all George Canter- 
 bury's children, and they looked up to 
 him as a second father. It was a break- 
 down altogether, rather than any spe- 
 cific malady. Sarah Annesle}', his con- 
 siderate, dutiful and most loving daugh- 
 ter, bitterly regretted having left him 
 for so many weeks the previous autumn, 
 to accompany Mrs. Kage to the sea-i-ide. 
 There lay on her mind a lively resent- 
 ment against that lady for having taken 
 her, which was perhaps a little unjust. 
 
 Entering on her hasty errand, Milli- 
 cent found Miss Annesley in trouble. 
 Her father was palpabl}- weaker that 
 morning than he had been at all — quite 
 unable to get up. For the first time, the 
 doctor had not ventured to speak of 
 hope. Millicent, struck into herself at 
 the news, did not at once mention the 
 cause of her early visit. 
 
 "I thought until to-da3 r he might ral- 
 ly and get about again," said Sarah, as 
 they stood side by side on the hearthrug, 
 the firelight betra} T ing the tears resting 
 in her eyes, and causing them to glitter 
 like glass; "but I do fear now there is 
 not much hope of it. And 0, how I 
 blame myself! " 
 
 " For what ? " asked Millicent in sur- 
 prise. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 49 
 
 If ever there had been a daughter anx- 
 ious to fulfil unselfishly every duty of 
 life, it had surely been Sarah Annesley. 
 
 " For having left him alone in the au- 
 tumn, you know. I spoke of this to you 
 once before, Millicent. The regret 
 grows upon me; it lies with a heavy 
 weight to-day. Six weeks ! six weeks, 
 Millicent ! — and he seventy-five ! I shall 
 never forgive myself for my thoughtless- 
 ness. It seems to me at odd moments 
 as if I could not be forgiven by Heav- 
 en." 
 
 " But he was so well at that time." 
 
 " I know it. So well, that I was 
 lulled into a false security. I did think 
 I ought not to leave him ; and when 
 Mrs. Kage first proposed to me to accom- 
 pany her, I said decisively that I could 
 not quit my father. What did she do ? 
 She came here one afternoon when I had 
 gone out with Caroline, and talked papa 
 into the belief that I required a change 
 and sea-air. I think she alarmed him 
 about me, saying I looked pale and fag- 
 ged ; I do, indeed, Millicent. Papa 
 made all the arrangement at once, with- 
 out waiting to consult me, and I was 
 weak enough and wicked enough, after a 
 faint opposition, to fall in with them." 
 
 '■' And so would any one else, Sarah." 
 
 " When I came home, at the end of 
 the six weeks, and saw the alteration in 
 papa, my heart sunk within me. Of 
 course, the chief fault was mine ; but I 
 do feel afraid that I have hated Mrs. 
 Kage ever since." 
 
 " Sarah ! It was so kind of her to 
 take charge of us."' 
 
 "I don't think it was done in kind- 
 ness," avowed Sarah, speaking freely in 
 her honest indignation. *' I think she 
 only proposed for us to go that.s/t# might 
 be able to do so. The sum she named 
 to papa as my share of the expenses was 
 not very large ; but she brought back 
 an account which was, and the payment 
 of it crippled him. Millicent, she had 
 a larger one from Mr. Canterbury ; and 
 I know the two must have paid the 
 whole cost of the expedition, so that she 
 and Caroline went free." 
 
 A flush shone in Millicent's face at the 
 possibility of the truth. She — simple, 
 honest, guileless — could not quite be- 
 lieve it. Sarah had said somewhat of 
 this before, but not so full v. 
 
 " The regret lies upou me with pain- I 
 
 ful bitterness," resumed Miss Annesley. 
 "I cannot sleep; and if I do get to 
 sleep, I wake up again with a start. 
 Never before did I know what remorse 
 was." 
 
 " Don't you think that your sorrow 
 for Mr. Annesley is causing you to take 
 an exaggerated view of this ? " Mil- 
 licent ventured to ask. 
 
 "No. But for my leaving him all 
 that while, I do not think his health 
 would have failed so soon," Sarah con- 
 tinued in a low tone of emotion, as she 
 pressed her face down on the cold white- 
 marble mantelpiece to hide its anguish. 
 " He had more work to do in the parish, 
 mine and his own ; he had no one to 
 help him in the visiting; he took all 
 the duty on the three Sundays when 
 Mr. Lowe was ill ; and he finished up 
 by catching a terrible cold, which he 
 could not stay indoors to nurse. Alto- 
 gether, it told upon him, Millicent, and 
 he broke down earlier than he would 
 have done." 
 
 " I cannot stay, Sarah," Millicent 
 said, as she proceeded to tell of Mr. 
 Canterbury's summons to London, and 
 inquire if he could do anything. 
 
 " Thank you, no. Should he see 
 Mrs. Annesley, he can explain to her 
 how ill papa is. We have never had 
 much acquaintance with the London 
 Annesleys, Millicent. I fane}' she is a 
 very cold woman. I hope your papa 
 will find Mr. Dunn better. I wonder 
 Lydia did not send for Miss Canterbury 
 or Jane." 
 
 " You must have forgotten Lydia to 
 suppose she could do an}'thing of the 
 sort," answered Millicent, with a smile. 
 " Lydia stands upon her own indepen- 
 dence. She would be far likelier to 
 warn Miss Canterbury and Jane that 
 she did not want them, than to accept 
 of their companionship if offered. She 
 is so strong-minded, you know. Good- 
 bye, Sarah. Papa will be in a fever." 
 
 The first thing she saw on quitting 
 the rectory-gate was the carriage of 
 Mr. Canterbury. It drew up ; the foot- 
 man got down to open the door, and 
 Millicent delivered the slight message 
 to her impatient father. 
 
 " Oh, very well. Good - bye, Leta 
 dear. I know I shall be late at the 
 station." 
 
 The handsome equipage bowled on, 
 
50 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 and Millicent glanced after it with a 
 smile. He would be, as she had ex- 
 pressed it, in a fever until he got to the 
 station, and then he would have twenty 
 minutes to spare. 
 
 " What is the carriage abroad so 
 early for ? " 
 
 A hand was laid on her shoulder as 
 the question was put, and Millicent 
 turned to see the lovely face of Caroline 
 Kage. If it was unusual to see Mr. 
 Canterbury's carriage abroad at that 
 early hour, it was at least as'unusual to 
 see her. And Millicent, as a great 
 many more of us do, asked the reason 
 of it, instead of answering the question. 
 
 " Mamma came down in the crossest 
 mood possible. She found fault with 
 me and with everybody else, so I 
 thought I would go and and have a 
 whole morning at the schools. Work 
 now and then makes a change. Good- 
 ness knows it is monotonous enough 
 here." 
 
 " Monotonous ! " 
 
 " I feel it so. That time at the sea- 
 side last autumn did me harm, I sup- 
 pose, insomuch as that I have found 
 Chilling intolerably weary since. And 
 the carriage, Leta ? " 
 
 Leta told her what had happened, 
 and where Mr. Canterbury had gone. 
 To London : summoned by the startling 
 dispatch. 
 
 " Did you charge him to give your 
 love?" 
 
 "No; I forgot it. Things have all 
 been at sixes and sevens this morning. 
 Lydia would not have appreciated it if 
 1 had ; she never cares for such messa- 
 ges, and never sends them." 
 
 " I was not speaking of Lydia, but 
 of Thomas Kage." 
 
 " Caroline ! " 
 
 " Ah, well ! You would have liked 
 to send it him, you know ; and he 
 would have liked to receive it. He has 
 only you, now his mother's gone. 
 Don't you get scarlet, Leta ? " 
 
 Leta Canterbury ran away. How- 
 ever the name of Thomas Kage might 
 cause her heart to glow, it was not 
 pleasant to be thus spoken to. Caro- 
 line — false Caroline ! — went on to the 
 post-office before turning in at the 
 schools, and dropped a letter into the 
 box, addressed to Thomas Kage. 
 
 For they had fallen into the habit of 
 
 corresponding with each other. But 
 onl} r as friends — or cousins. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 UNDER THE MOONLIT SKY.. 
 
 It was a bright Easter. And things, 
 since that hurried visit of Mr. Canter- 
 bury's to London, had had time to get 
 round. Mr. Dunn had died ; but Mr. 
 Annesley was better, and at his duty 
 again. It is true the old pastor shook 
 his head, and said it was but like the 
 spark of a dying candle, life flickering 
 up momentarily before going out. 
 
 Easter Monday was a great day at 
 Chilling. Prayers at the church in the 
 morning, the poor children's treat in 
 the school-house in the afternoon, a din- 
 ner at the Rock in the evening. They 
 were on their way to the school-house 
 now. 
 
 The parsonage-gate was swung back, 
 and the good old Rector, with his be- 
 nevolent face a*nd his white hair, came 
 forth, leaning on his daughter's arm. 
 On the small patch of greensward be- 
 side the schools he encountered a group 
 of friends who had stayed to talk — the 
 Miss Canterburys, the Honorable and 
 Reverend Austin Rufort, Mrs. Kage 
 and her daughter. Mr. Rufort, a tall 
 and fine man, some years past thirty, 
 displaced Miss Annesley from her post 
 with a smile, and gave his strong arm 
 of support to the Rector — for whom he 
 had latterly often come over to do duty. 
 All these were to dine at the Rock in 
 the evening. 
 
 " Papa, you are only to stay in the 
 school half an hour, you know, said 
 Sarah. " You will like to say grace, 
 but Mr. Rufort must do all the talk- 
 ing." 
 
 " Every word of it," put in Mr. Ru- 
 fort. 
 
 " I wonder, my dear sir, that you 
 should venture to the school at all," 
 languidly observed Mrs. Kage. "Char- 
 ity children are tiresome animals at the 
 best." 
 
 Mrs. Kage held her glass to her eye 
 as she spoke, surveying fresh comers. 
 She wore a lavender- silk gown and 
 white bonnet, and would have called it 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 51 
 
 mourning with a steady face. She had 
 put on "complimentary mourning" for 
 Lady Kage, as the latter had a title. 
 It sounded well to say to the world " I 
 am in mourning for the late Lady 
 Kage," however she might have despis- 
 ed that lady during life. The Miss 
 Canterburys were in mourning for Mr. 
 Dunn — black silk and crape. 
 
 " Ah, Fry ! " cried the Rector, hold- 
 ing out his hand to an elderly man who 
 was leaning on a stick. " How are you, 
 Fry ? " 
 
 " I thought I'd crawl out, sir, this 
 fine daj T and just have a look at 'em for 
 the last time," said the man addressed, 
 who was the parish clerk, though unable 
 to perform his duty now, and had been 
 the boys' schoolmaster. " Your servant, 
 gentlefolks. — I shall be lying low 
 enough before another Easter, sir." 
 
 " And somebody else b} r your side, 
 John, unless I am mistaken." replied 
 Mr. Annesley with significance. 
 
 So much occupied were they with 
 each other, these people, as not to ob- 
 serve some one turn off the high-road 
 and come towards them : a gentleman 
 in black, with a deep band on his hat. 
 Mrs. Kage, twirling her eye-glass on 
 various objects within range, twirled it 
 at length on him ; and certainly thought, 
 when she had got him well to view, that 
 the glass must be playing her false. 
 For it was Thomas Kage. 
 
 " How very extraordinary ! " ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Kage. " What can bring 
 him here ? " 
 
 They wheeled round at the words. 
 He was close up then, and his appear- 
 ance excited no little commotion, out- 
 wardly and inwardly. Those who knew 
 him — Mr. Annesley and his daughter 
 — put out their hands to welcome him, 
 Mrs. Kage extended the tip of her fore- 
 finger; those who did not, stared; and 
 the two young ladies, Millicent and Car- 
 oline, were conscious that burning blush- 
 es arose in their faces and a soft tumult 
 in their hearts. 
 
 Millicent very shyly introduced him to 
 her sisters — " Mr. Kage." And Olive, 
 who did not remember so much about 
 " Mr. Kage " as she did, was in some 
 doubt, but she bowed courteously in her 
 grand way; and took an opportunity of 
 inquiring of her sister. 
 
 " What Mr. Kage is it, Leta ? Who 
 is he ? " 
 
 " Why, Olive, don't you know ? The 
 Mr. Kage we saw at Little Bay. He 
 came down here last January, and had 
 not time to call ; papa saw him at the 
 rectory; and his mother, Lady Kage, 
 died as soon as he got back to London." 
 
 Rather a roundabout explanation, Ol- 
 ive thought, and shyly delivered; but 
 Leta was naturally shy, and not very flu- 
 ent of speech. 01iv£, enlightened as to 
 the identity, turned to the stranger to 
 make better acquaintance with him ; 
 she had heard through the Garstons of 
 this mother and son — heard nothing but 
 good ; and she liked his face besides. 
 Olive Canterbury could read countenan- 
 ces as a book, and said none had ever de- 
 ceived her. Leta blushed again violently, 
 for she saw her father come up to Mr. 
 Kage, with a stretched-out hand. Besides 
 that first meeting at the parsonage, they 
 had since made better acquaintance with 
 each other in London. 
 
 Mr. Kage's appearance was soon ex- 
 plained. The business on which he 
 previously came to Aberton had again 
 brought him down, whence he had walked 
 over to Chilling. 
 
 " Being holiday in London, I took the 
 opportunity of running down," he said, 
 " not remembering that it would be a 
 greater holiday in the country, and all 
 the Aberton business people off for the 
 day. I must remain there now until to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " And dine with me, I hope, this eve- 
 ning at the Rock," said Mr. Canterbury. 
 " We shall be a pleasant party ; all these 
 friends are to meet there." 
 
 " Thank you. But I have no dinner- 
 coat with me." 
 
 The} 7 laughed at that. Miss Canter- 
 bury pointedly said that she would be 
 just as happy to see him in his frock- 
 coat as in any other ; and Mr. Rufort 
 declared he meant to appear in a long 
 coat, and not a short one. And so it was 
 settled. 
 
 Millicent, stealing glances at him from 
 where she stood apart, thought he was 
 looking ill — wan, thin, pale. As indeed 
 he had looked ever since his mother's 
 death, for his grief for her was indulged 
 to an extent that told upon him. 
 
 But the school-room was waiting, and 
 they turned to it. Caroline Kage, her 
 lovety face radiant, lingered behind with 
 Millicent, deceitfully feeding — as was her 
 
52 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 wont to do — the unsuspecting girl's heart 
 with whispers of the love of Thomas Kage. 
 
 " He must have dreamt of the fete to- 
 day, Leta, and that lie would meet you at 
 it." 
 
 u He is meeting the rest as well." 
 
 " What of that ? " 
 
 " Don't you think he looks ill ? " 
 
 Caroline had noticed nothing of it. 
 She was not a quick observer. 
 
 " Everyone looks pale in deep mourn- 
 ing. He is in black, you see, even to his 
 shirt-studs." 
 
 " Yes. But his face has a wan, worn 
 look." 
 
 " That's through pining after you." 
 
 " Caroline." said Leta very gravely, 
 and with a warm flush, " I must once 
 more beg of you not to continue this. 
 Why will you persist in doing it ? It is 
 the height of folly, besides being unpleas- 
 ant to me, to couple m} r name with that 
 of Mr. Kage. We have nothing at all to 
 •do with each other, as you must know. 
 He does not care for me more than he 
 does for any one else." 
 
 " Which is as much as to say that you 
 do not care for him." 
 
 " No, it is not. Do pray drop it for 
 the future. Fancy the dilemma I should 
 be in if Olive or any of them- heard you." 
 
 Caroline laughed provokingly. 
 
 " Please, Caroline ; you would not like 
 it yourself. Only think of his having 
 met papa in London ! Papa never men- 
 tioned it." 
 
 " I wonder how he is left ? " cried Car- 
 oline abruptly. 
 
 " Left ! " 
 
 " As to money. Mamma says Lady 
 Kage was a great screw, so she may have 
 saved a fortune." 
 
 " I once heard your mamma say Lady 
 Kage was very poor. Perhaps she meant 
 poor for a titled woman." 
 
 " There he is, waiting for — for you, 
 Leta." 
 
 Mr. Kage had halted outside the 
 school-house, and was looking back. 
 The soft flush on Caroline's face deep- 
 ened ; and it was she who walked in with 
 him side-by-side — in spite of her words 
 — leaving Leta anywhere. 
 
 School-treats were not in Mrs. Kage's 
 line. She came out to them because oth- 
 ers did, and that it was a kind of a gala- 
 time, allowing for the display of her best 
 dress and sentimental manners. This 
 
 one proved not more palatable than oth- 
 ers had been ; and when the Rector left, 
 leaning on the arm of Thomas Kage — 
 of whom he was asking questions about 
 his old friend Mrs. Garston — Mrs. Kage 
 took the opportunity of leaving also. 
 There was nothing to wait for : Mr. Can- 
 terbury had stayed but a short while, 
 Lord Rufort had not come ; they were 
 the two great resources of Mrs. Kage, 
 with whom she liked to consort — the one 
 held in estimation through his riches, the 
 other through his rank. " When I am 
 with Lord Rufort, I feel at home ; it 
 seems like old days come back again," 
 Mrs. Kage was rather fond of saying to 
 her friends. 
 
 Leaving the clergyman indoors, Mrs. 
 Kage turned towards her home, taking, 
 without ceremony, the arm of Thomas, 
 that he might attend her to it. 
 
 "You are not in a hurry to get back 
 for five mflnutes ? " observed Mrs. Kage. 
 
 In point of fact, that estimable lady 
 had an end to serve. In spite of her 
 daughter's ruse to deceive her, persisted in 
 still, Mrs. Kage could not help indulg- 
 ing a faint suspicion that the love, if 
 there existed any, was not between Mr. 
 Kage and Leta Canterbury, but between 
 Mr. Kage and Caroline herself. This 
 would be terribly awkward — not to be 
 thought of at all if Thomas had nothing; 
 but his profession ; if, however, he had 
 inherited money- from his mother, why 
 perhaps his having the misfortune to he 
 the son of that despised woman might in 
 time be overcome. Mrs. Kage had heard 
 of instances where barristers (on whom 
 she scornfully looked down as a class) 
 had risen to the Woolsack. A rumor had 
 reached Chilling that Lady Kage had 
 died rich. Mrs. Kage was surprised, but 
 thought it might be. This must be as- 
 certained. 
 
 Crossing the road from the rectory, a 
 privet-path — as it was called, from there 
 being a privet-hedge on either side of it 
 — led to Mrs. Kage's house. It was 
 not far, and she talked of ordinary 
 things as they went along. Causing 
 him to enter the sitting-room, she closed 
 the dooi*. 
 
 " And now that we have a moment to 
 ourselves, Thomas dear, you must allow 
 me to ask how things are left?" she 
 began in an affectionate, confidential 
 tone, such as she had never used to him 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 53 
 
 in her life. " Your dear mother's death 
 came upon me, I assure you, with an 
 overwhelming shock." 
 
 " As it did on all of us," he quietly 
 answered, standing by the window, 
 while she took a seat on the opposite 
 sofa. 
 
 " Ay, it was very sad. I would have 
 made Caroline read the burial service to 
 me the day of the interment, but that 
 it might have given her gloomy ideas, 
 poor child." 
 
 The calling up of such was by no 
 means agreeable to Mrs. Kage herself, 
 even now ; and she emptied three-fourths 
 of a phial of cologne-water on her hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 " Sit down, Thomas ; I cannot talk on 
 these melancholy subjects unless people 
 are close to me. Are you left well off, 
 my dear ? " 
 
 " A great deal better than I expected 
 to be. My mother was full of love for 
 me to the end." 
 
 " That's well," said Mrs. Kage, open- 
 ing her fan complaisantly. " Had La- 
 dy Kage saved much money ? " 
 
 " Yes, I consider that she had." 
 
 His ideas, in so answering, were run- 
 ning on his mother's small income, and 
 what she had to make it do for. Mrs. 
 Kage's notions were altogether different, 
 very high in the air indeed. 
 
 •' And she has left it all to you, dear- 
 est Thomas ? " 
 
 ' She has left it all to my sister, Mrs. 
 Lowther. Not any of it to me." 
 
 It was very rare that Mrs. Kage al- 
 lowed so vulgar an emotion as surprise 
 to be seen on her face, but she could not 
 help it now. And, indeed, this answer 
 seemed at variance- with what he had 
 just said. Her manner froze a little. 
 
 " We are connections, you know, 
 Thomas ; I can scarcely say relatives. 
 Perhaps you will not mind telling me 
 the particulars of how } T our mother's af- 
 fairs were left. It is only natural that 
 I should have thought sometimes about 
 it." 
 
 " I will tell you everything with the 
 greatest pleasure," he replied, his good, 
 frank countenance bent a little forward, 
 his honest eyes fixed on hers as he sat,' 
 his arm resting on the table, There is 
 not much to tell ■" 
 
 " Your mother made a will, I pre- 
 sume ? " interrupted Mrs. Kage sharply. 
 
 "She made a will, and left me sole 
 executor. The money she has been able 
 to save, turned out, after all claims were 
 paid to be over eight hundred pounds. 
 I gave Charlotte my cheque for it last 
 week." 
 
 Mrs. Kage's mouth dropped. To one 
 whose thoughts are running on twice as 
 many thousands, eight hundred pounds 
 seems very mean and poor. 
 
 "01" said Mrs. Kage. « Then 
 what did you mean by saying she left 
 you better off than you expected ? " 
 
 " When the will was opened, I found 
 she had left me the greater portion of 
 the furniture. A few of the things only 
 go to Charlotte, and half the silver, 
 which was but a very small stock alto- 
 gether. A sum was set apart for the 
 next year's rent, and I am enjoined to 
 remain in the- house for that period, 
 should nothing of importance call me 
 out of it." 
 
 Mrs. Kage was fanning herself rather 
 violently. " A very unjust will, I must 
 say ! " she remarked. " Charlotte Low- 
 ther was no blood - relation to your 
 mother." 
 
 " She was my fathers child ; and my 
 mother loved her as her own. Besides, 
 Charlotte wants help far more than I do. 
 I think the will the justest that my dear 
 mother could have made." 
 
 " Oblige me by setting light to a pas- 
 tile, Thomas ; there's one close to you. 
 Did Lady Kage leave anything to Doro- 
 thy ? " 
 
 " She left her to me," he answered, 
 with a slight smile, as he looked for the 
 pastile. " Dorothy had some clothes 
 and twenty pounds, and her next year's 
 wages paid in advance." 
 
 " And \'ou have only a few paltry bits 
 of old furniture ! Dear me ! "One does 
 hear of queer things." 
 
 " It is so much more than I looked 
 for. I only thought to have her bless- 
 ing. Do you know, when I read the will, 
 and found the home was secured to me for 
 a year, and the rent paid, and Dorothy's 
 wages, I felt like a rich man. If I could 
 only see my mother for one minute to 
 pour out my gratitude ! " 
 
 Mrs. Kage did not think it worth 
 while to contend further ; she looked 
 upon him as only three degrees removed 
 from a fool. She felt half inclined to 
 look upon herself as another, for having 
 
54 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 for a moment entertained the thought 
 that Lady Kage could have died worth 
 any thing to speak of. Thomas was at 
 liberty to quit her now ; and she com- 
 posed herself, after a few drops of red 
 lavender, which the maid came in to ad- 
 minister, to take a refreshing nap. 
 
 It lasted so long that she found, on 
 awaking, she had barely time to dress for 
 dinner at the Rock. Caroline was late, 
 too, and came forth from her room at the 
 last moment, in a white dress and black 
 sash, with jet necklace and bracelets. 
 Mrs. Kage stared at the attire, so differ- 
 ent from what had been fixed upon. 
 
 '• And your pink silk ? And your 
 pearls ? " 
 
 " O mamma, I could not put them 
 on ! " was Caroline's answer, with quite 
 a burst of fueling. " How could I go 
 out flaunting in colors, when Thomas 
 Kage in his deep black, was to dine at 
 my side ? " 
 
 " You were not in mourning to-day. 
 He saw you then." 
 
 " I know it all ; and I never felt so 
 ashamed of myself before. He cared so 
 much for his mother; and sbe has not 
 been dead quite two months !" 
 
 " And if she has not ? " 
 
 " He must think us so heartless." 
 
 u It is not of any consequence what 
 he thinks. He — Is that the carriage? 
 Dear me ! I wanted to have told you 
 something." 
 
 The fine large close carriage with its 
 attendant servants, belonging to the 
 Rock, had bowled up, Mr. and Miss An- 
 nesley inside. It had been arranged 
 that it should call for Mrs. Kage and 
 Caroline, and convey them home in the 
 evening. 
 
 Thomas Kage, he could not tell why, 
 unless it was through hearing so much 
 of the vast revenues of the master of 
 the Rock, had in his own mind associa- 
 ted the place with just the slightest 
 soupgon of ostentation, that kind of dis- 
 play we are apt to fancy pertains to the 
 nouveau rir/ic. His late father's name 
 had secured for Mr. Kage the entrance 
 to good society, and his tastes, a little 
 fastidious, were all on the side of sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 He was agreeably surprised. When 
 he saw the good order and refined 
 breeding that prevailed at the Rock ; 
 its perfectly-appointed rooms and ser- 
 
 vice ; its intellectual books and quiet 
 ways; the pure home -life that shone 
 out unmistakably ; the simple manners 
 of the girls ; and the lack of ostenta- 
 tion in any shape, his conscience smote 
 him. Luxury there was certainly at 
 the Rock ; it could not be otherwise 
 with such an income as George Canter- 
 bury's ; but it was a luxury felt, rather 
 than seen, one that might belong to a 
 taste as pure as his own. 
 
 Lord Rufort, a tall man, stiff as a 
 poker, with iron-gray hair and a head 
 that bent to nobody, took in Miss Can- 
 terbury ; Mr. Canterbury took Mrs. 
 Kage. Thomas Kage neither saw nor 
 knew how the rest of the party were 
 paired : he had Caroline, and that was 
 all he cared for. Leta got Austin Ru- 
 fort — and thought herself very ill-used. 
 Perhaps Mr. Rufort considered he was ; 
 for he looked upon Leta as a bread-and- 
 butter school-girl, and would a vast deal 
 rather have been with her sister Jane. 
 But Jane was alloted to Mr. Carlton»of 
 Chilling Hall. Miss Canterbury always 
 exercised her privilege of ordering 
 these social arrangements, and there 
 might be no appealing against her 
 authority. 
 
 Sixteen were at table. Olive, mag- 
 nificent in her black-net dress with the 
 white rose in her hair, and a small black 
 circlet inlaid with silver on her beauti- 
 ful neck, was at its head ; a noble, gra- 
 cious mistress. Mr. Canterbury, good- 
 looking still, quite young, so to say, 
 erect, slender, sat at its foot — Mrs. 
 Kage beside him, her neck terribly thin 
 and wiry through its lace covering. 
 The servants were ample and atten- 
 tive ; the appointments of the table 
 rich and beautiful. Retter than all, the 
 guests amalgamated, and sociality reign- 
 ed. It was the pleasantest dinner-party 
 Thomas Kage had ever been present at, 
 and for its brief existence he was cheat- 
 ed into forgetting his grief and the 
 mother who had been so much to him. 
 Time is a great consoler, and the sin- 
 cerest mourner of us all insensibly 
 yields to it. While we are saying, " I 
 shall never look up again from the blow 
 that has fallen on me," Heaven itself 
 is gently lifting the weight from the 
 heavy eyes. 
 
 There was music after dinner. So 
 genial was the night that the large win- 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 55 
 
 dow of one of the drawing-rooms was 
 flung open, and some of them stood at 
 it and looked out on the fair scene be- 
 yond, steeped in moonlight. But Mr. 
 Canterbury came up to preach about 
 the night-air, and had it closed. Mr. 
 Annes.ley and his daughter went home 
 immediately after dinner. Mrs. Kage, 
 who was to have taken advantage of 
 the carriage to leave when they did, 
 said she was not ready to go, and re- 
 mained. 
 
 " Olive," said Mr. Canterbury, sitting 
 down for a single minute by his daugh- 
 ter, " what an exceedingl}' nice fellow 
 he.is!" 
 
 "Who, papa?" Miss Canterbury 
 naturally asked. 
 
 " Young Kage. I liked him the first 
 time I saw him, that few minutes at the 
 parsonage last January ; I liked him 
 more in London ; I like him most now. 
 An uncommonly clever man, I know; 
 sensible and unaffected." 
 
 Olive nodded; and smiled to find her 
 father right for once. In a general 
 way George Canterbury could no more 
 read character than a block of wood 
 could. She, keen and sure in discern- 
 ment, had also conceived a liking for 
 Thomas Kage. And the evening wore 
 on. 
 
 Mr. Carlton offered a seat in his car- 
 riage to Mrs. Kage ; Caroline, in her 
 wilful way, said she should walk home ; 
 the night was too lovely not to be en- 
 joyed ; her cousin, Thomas Kage, could 
 take care of her. 
 
 Very lovelj T indeed, was it when they 
 went out, Caroline with a shawl on her 
 shoulders and nothing on her head. 
 Mr. Canterbury was afraid she would 
 catch face-ache, at which Caroline burst 
 out laughing: it was only old people 
 who had that, she saucily answered. 
 Two or three of the other guests walked 
 also, and they all set out together, 
 choosing the way across the fields. 
 Jane and Leta Canterbury went with 
 them as far as the side- gate, and 
 then ran home gleefully. 0, the happy, 
 careless days of youth ! when the body 
 fears no ailments, the mind knows 
 naught of trouble. 
 
 Mrs. Kage, deposited at home from 
 Mr. Carlton's carriage, heard the noise 
 the} - made in coming over the field, and 
 she opened the shutter to look out. 
 
 Her eyes were growing dim of sight 
 which she would not have acknowledg- 
 ed for the world ; but it is wonderful 
 how keen dim eyes can still be when 
 swaj T ed by fear or self-interest. She 
 managed to discern — and a frown rose 
 to her face as she did so — that though 
 the rest were laughing and talking 
 loudly, Caroline and Mr. Kage walked 
 apart, far behind, concerning themselves 
 only with one another. 
 
 It was so. When they came out, 
 Caroline went close to him, and he gave 
 her his arm. It was she who caused 
 their steps to linger ; it was her voice 
 that first took the low, tremulous tone 
 that of itself unconsciously betrayed 
 love. Thomas Kage's whole heart was 
 bursting with it; a sweet tumult, in 
 the delight of her presence, of holding 
 her on his arm, was all aglow within 
 him. But he was of a strictly honor- 
 able nature, and made no sign ; walking 
 along, save for a common -place word 
 now and again, in telling silence. 
 
 Mrs. Kasre, getting him by her that 
 evening in Miss Canterbury's drawing- 
 room, had whispered with affectionate 
 candor a word or two of her great views 
 for her daughter. Caroline was to 
 make a match in accordance with the 
 rank of her grandfather, Lord Gunse. 
 Mrs. Kage was not sure, she added, that 
 the Honorable and Reverend Mr. Ru- 
 fort had not cast a covetous eye on Car- 
 oline ; but she had taken care to give 
 him a hint that her daughter must 
 marry wealth as well as rank. Crafty 
 Mrs. Kage knew perfectly well that the 
 Honorable and Reverend Mr. Rufort 
 thought no more of her daughter than 
 he did of her ; but she deemed it con- 
 venient to invent the fable for the bene- 
 fit of Thomas Kage. 
 
 To what end ? She need not have 
 feared that Thomas Kage would speak 
 of love to her daughter, or to any other 
 young lady, until his position enabled 
 him to speak to some purpose. So far 
 as present prospects went, that desirable 
 state of affairs would be achieved by 
 the time Caroline might expect to be a 
 grandmother. He would have given 
 the whole world for his circumstances 
 to be different ; but the} 7 were not, and 
 he could not make them so. Not under 
 any seductive surroundings was Thomas 
 Kage one to lose his head incautiously : 
 
56 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 his prudence was in his own hands if 
 his love was not, and Caroline's true in- 
 terests were as dear to him as she was. 
 She was as safe from avowals with him 
 as with her mother. 
 
 But he had not the least objection to 
 linger as long as might be on this night 
 walk — which would remain on his mem- 
 ory as one of the few sweet moments 
 of existence until time for him should 
 be no more. The moon, looking like 
 pale gold in the blue sky, shone, white 
 and lovely, on the blades of early grass, 
 on either side the field-path, on the bud- 
 ding hedges, on the stile they would 
 have to cross ; the air was balmy, the 
 night altogether one of bright, soft love- 
 liness. That Caroline loved him Mr. 
 Kage no longer doubted ; her manner 
 showed it very plainly. He had fondly 
 fancied it before ; he knew it now ; and 
 it maybe that his accents took a tender- 
 er tone in spite of himself as he spoke 
 to her — a tone rarely mistaken by its 
 recipient. A dazzling vision of future 
 promise seemed to rise in the sky, turn- 
 ing all things to gold. Don't blame 
 him for it — remember the moments when 
 it rose for you. 
 
 " Is it true that we shall not see you 
 after to-night ? " she asked, breaking a 
 long interval of silence. 
 
 " Quite true. I must get my business 
 in Aberton over betimes to-morrow, and 
 go back by the eleven-o'clock train." 
 
 " I wonder } 7 ou do not manage to stay 
 a little longer," she went on, hoping he 
 would not hear the beating of her heart. 
 " Perhaps you do not care to." 
 
 " I should care for it very much, Car- 
 oline ; but it is one of the things that 
 cannot be. Life has its crosses as well 
 as its hopes and pleasures. 
 " Have you crosses ? " 
 "Yes." 
 
 « What are they ? " 
 " Some of them would not particular- 
 ly interest you. Others, that might, I 
 cannot mention now." 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " The time has not come.. Should it 
 ever do so, } r ou shall hear them." 
 
 It is possible that she understood him ; 
 it is even possible that he intended she 
 should. There was no more said. Caro- 
 line remembered afterwards, with a burn- 
 ing blush, that she had unconsciously 
 pressed his arm a shade closer by way of 
 
 answer ; and they walked the rest of the 
 way in that delicious conscious silence 
 which is more eloquent than any speech. 
 " I must run back ; I have left my 
 umbrella at the Rock," he exclaimed as 
 they reached Mrs. Kage's gate between 
 the laurels, where the rest of the party 
 had halted. "' In five minutes I shall be 
 back, Caroline, and will come in to wish 
 your mother good-bye." 
 
 Caroline went in, and said as much to 
 Mrs. Kage. That lady received the 
 message ungraciously. Closing the half- 
 shutter she had held open to reconnoitre, 
 she sat down by the fire in the midst of 
 her scents and j'astiles. 
 
 " He need not trouble himself to wish 
 me good-bye ; it does not matter. What 
 a blow he has got ! " 
 
 " Who has ? " cried Caroline. 
 " Tom Kage. I said he looked worn 
 and ill." 
 
 " But what is it ? " 
 
 Caroline's breath was hushed a little 
 as she spoke. And Mrs. Kage, flirting 
 out some pungent essence from a patent- 
 stoppered bottle, flirted it by accident 
 into Caroline's face. 
 
 " His mother has not left him a shil- 
 ling ; she has left it all to Charlotte — 
 what's her name ? — I never can remem- 
 ber it. Not that it was much to leave — 
 a few paltry hundreds. He says he is 
 glad Charlotte should have it instead of 
 him, of which I believe just as much as 
 I like. Of course the poor creature 
 wants it, with her crowd of children and 
 her scrambling 1 fe. It serves her right. 
 Sir Charles Kage's daughter (who was 
 not connected, you know, with the low 
 woman he afterwards married) should 
 have respected herself better than to 
 marry a man beneath her — one of those 
 working engineers." 
 
 Caroline Kage, sitting with her check 
 in her hand and her elbow on the arm of 
 the chair, felt as if her heart had grown 
 cold suddenly. 
 
 " Lady Kage was not a low woman, 
 mamma." 
 
 " Not a low woman ! " softly respond- 
 ed Mrs. Kage, taking up her smelling- 
 salts. " My dear Caroline, do you think 
 you know better than I ? In the old 
 days, when Maria Carr came into the 
 room in attendance on the little Char- 
 lotte, she did not presume to sit in the 
 presence of my family — not to sit, my 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 57 
 
 dear, unless bade to do so. Ah, it was 
 a fatal tiling, Sir Charles's engaging the 
 girl ! And he did it in the teeth of the 
 most munificent offer made him by my 
 people." 
 
 Caroline questioned with her eyes. 
 
 " My mother went to him and offered 
 to take the child into our house and 
 bring her up, without recompense of 
 course, except what Sir Charles might 
 choose voluntarily to give. She urged it 
 on him ; and, by the way, Charlotte 
 showed her self-willed temper then ; for 
 when my sister Matilda caught her to 
 her arms and said, would she go home 
 with her to be loved and have sugar- 
 plums, the ill-conditioned little wretch set 
 up 'a loud scream. My mother told Sir 
 Charles it washer black frock that made 
 her cry, and Sir Charles said, " Most 
 likely." He did not accept the offer, and 
 what were the deplorable consequences ? 
 Maria Carr got into the house, and nev- 
 er went out of it." 
 
 Overpowered by the reminiscence, Mrs. 
 Kage saturated her handkerchief with 
 eau de cologne and held it to her nose, 
 glancing furtively over the cambric at 
 her daughter. 
 
 " Has Thomas Kage had nothing left 
 to him ? asked Caroline, thinking only 
 of the one thing. 
 
 " Nothing. She paid the rent of the 
 place they are in for a year, that he 
 might have, at least for that time, a roof 
 over his head ; and Dorothy's wages for 
 as long, that she might see to him. A 
 few of the old chairs and tables are his ; 
 nothing more. My dear, I see how it 
 will be, and he sees it — that in twent}' 
 3^ears to come he will be no better oft' than 
 he is now, a poor briefless barrister, toil- 
 ing to get bread-and-cheese and beer, and 
 hardly doing it. He has no interest ; he 
 told me so to-day. How can he be likely 
 to get on ? " 
 
 Caroline put her hand for a moment 
 upon her chest, as if she had a pain 
 there. 
 
 " Is this true, mamma ? " 
 
 " It is as true as Heaven's gospel," 
 responded Mrs. Kage ; and for once in 
 her life, forgetting her languid affectation, 
 she spoke with energy, her face lighted 
 up with interest. Caroline saw that it 
 was true ; and with that miserable mo- 
 ment the sunshine of her young life went 
 out. 
 
 Thomas Kage came back laughing, his 
 breath spent, his umbrella in his hand. 
 The early day had been cloudy ; the 
 night might have turned out rainy, and 
 he had to walk to Aberton. Mr. Canter- 
 bury had offered a carriage, but it was 
 not accepted. He had come away from 
 the Rock with a pressing invitation from 
 its master to go and stay at it during the 
 autumn vacation. This he told them 
 now. 
 
 " Ah, indeed," drawled Mrs. Kage, 
 quite oppressed with languor ; " I'd not 
 advise you to accept it : there'd be no 
 enjoyment. Olive Canterbury is dictato- 
 rial, and Jane is buried in church and 
 school business up to her elbows ; and 
 Leta's a simpleton. I'll say adieu to 
 you, Thomas Kage. It is late, and I am 
 fatigued. This has been quite a day of 
 dissipation." 
 
 She held out the tips of two fingers. 
 Nothing more. 
 
 Caroline, asking nobody's leave, went 
 out with him round the laurels to the 
 outer gate. He turned and took her 
 hand when he passed through it. 
 
 '•' Good-bye, Caroline," he said in a 
 low tone ; " God bless you ! " 
 
 Her heart was sore with its pain ; she 
 struggled with it for an instant and 
 burst into tears. 
 
 He was intensely surprised. Perhaps, 
 had he said a word then of the love and 
 hope that so yearned for utterance, their 
 lives might have been widely different, 
 and the course of events so changed, 
 that the great trouble lying in the 
 womb of the future, and which was des- 
 tined to overshadow one of them fatally, 
 the other in a degree, had never been 
 led up to. 
 
 " Good-bye, Thomas — good-bye." 
 
 The words, spoken with a wail of an- 
 guish, came forth as abruptly as the 
 tears had done. She wrenched her 
 hand from his, after pressing his ringers 
 almost to pain, shot away rapidly in- 
 doors, and he heard the bolt slipped. 
 
 " Good-night, mamma," Caroline call- 
 ed out as she passed the sitting-room ; 
 " I'm going to bed." 
 
 Forth from the open window she lean- 
 ed in her dinner-dress, the moonlight 
 playing on her white shoulders, on the 
 tears streaming down her cheeks. 
 
 Caroline had the sense to look matters 
 in the face and judge them truly. She 
 
58 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 knew that she never could he a poor 
 man's wife, unless she would become a 
 wretched, heartless woman, like her 
 mother — worried in private, made up of 
 small affectations in public, discontented 
 and false always. She loved Thomas 
 Kage with that passionate love that can 
 touch the heart bat once ; but she knew 
 that she must give him up, and her 
 heart half broke with its pain. She 
 watched him across the open fields 
 towards Aberton, onh/ the faintest speck 
 in the distance now; he was all but out 
 of sight ; and her young face grew wild 
 with anguish, and her covetous eyes 
 were strained through their blinding 
 tears ; and in an excess of despair she 
 flung her hands out imploringly. 
 
 " Farewell, Thomas, my best-beloved ! 
 — farewell forever !" 
 
 She got to sleep towards morning, and 
 c're.imt of falling into ten thousand 
 a-j'ear, and of going to be happy with 
 Thomas Kage ; and for some few mo- 
 ments after waking the dream held the 
 semblance of a blessed reality. A faint 
 cry — than which no moan contained ever 
 deeper anguish — supervened. The truth 
 had dawned on Caroline Kage. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ENTERING ON A NEW HOME. 
 
 Summer weather had come in, and 
 the heat and the dust of a windy day 
 in early June filled the London streets. 
 The pavements were scorched below, the 
 gusts reigned above ; it was a relief to 
 Thomas Kage when he turned into the 
 shelter of one of the railway-stations, to 
 meet a train that came from the direc- 
 tion of Wales. 
 
 Five minutes, and it steamed in. It 
 had left Aberton in the morning, and 
 the journey had been uneventful. Mr. 
 Kage regarded each first-class carriage 
 attentively as it slowly passed, and saw 
 a young lady in deep mourning looking 
 from the window of one. A cordial 
 smile of greeting lighted up his eyes as 
 he raised his hat to her in recognition. 
 
 Death had been finding its way to 
 Chilling. The good old Rector, Philip 
 Annesley, had not been mistaken in say- 
 ing that his apparently-renewed lease of 
 
 life was a deceptive one, like unto a can- 
 dle that shoots up a bright spark before 
 going out. Almost close upon the fes- 
 tivities of that Easter Mondaj^, he had 
 failed again, and Death came in to claim 
 its own. 
 
 The value of the living was but mod- 
 erate — barel}'- three hundred a-year — 
 and Mr. Annesley for some ten years 
 past had to keep a curate, and pay him 
 out of it, besides other expenses. Until 
 recently a sick sister had been partly de- 
 pendent on him ; he was in the habit of 
 transmitting her ten pounds every quar- 
 ter. The renovations to the parsonage- 
 house — which he had to make — had cost 
 a great deal : he was very charitable ; 
 and altogether his income had run awav. 
 Nevertheless, pleuty of people were found 
 to say he ought to have saved more, 
 when it was heard how very slender a 
 provision was left for his daughter. 
 
 Not a provision at all, as the world 
 would count it. When all resources 
 were gathered together, including the 
 sum paid for the furniture by the new 
 Rector, it was found that she would have 
 about thirty pounds a-year. Not a frac- 
 tion more : if anything, rather less. 
 She had been invited to take up her 
 abode temporarily with some relatives in 
 London, until — to use the expression of 
 the lady inviting her — she could turn 
 herself round; which, of course, meant, 
 secure some suitable employment. 
 
 The new Rector appointed to the liv- 
 ing of Chilling was the Honorable and 
 Reverend Austin Rufort. .It had been 
 expected that he would be ; and, for a 
 wonder, eveiybody was satisfied. Mr. 
 Rufort did not wish to hurry Miss An- 
 nesley from her home : had she chosen 
 to remain in it for a twelvemonth she 
 had been welcome ; but when once 
 things were settled, she thought it well 
 to leave. Mr. Annesley had been dead 
 about six weeks then. Accepting the 
 invitation offered to her, she fixed the 
 day of her journey to London, and 
 Thomas Kage had been solicited to re- 
 ceive her at the station. 
 
 " How kind it is of you to come and 
 meet me ! " she exclaimed in a glad ac- 
 cent. " How very kind ! " 
 
 Expecting to meet none but strangers, 
 half afraid of encountering the bustle of 
 the great Babel, the sight of a face she 
 knew struck upon her with joyous sur- 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 59 
 
 prise, with more importance in fact than 
 the slight circumstance deserved. To 
 the low-spirited girl, full of douhts and 
 shrinking, it really had the appearance 
 of a fortunate omen. 
 
 " Mrs. Anneslej 7 requested me to 
 come ; she is not well herself, and her 
 daughter is scarcely old enough to be 
 trusted at the station. Perhaps I might 
 say not steady enough," he added with 
 a good-natured smile, as the}' walked to- 
 gether along the platform, and took up 
 their standing to see the luggage thrown 
 out of the van. 
 
 Sarah smiled too. "I have heard 
 Mrs. Dunn call her flight}'." 
 
 " Precisely so. She is but a young 
 girl, full of life and merriment. Mrs. 
 Annesley, with her ill -health, is too 
 grave a companion for her." 
 
 " Mrs. Annesley has very ill-health, 
 has she not ? " 
 
 " She seems to be always ailing. She 
 has nervous headaches, for one thing. 
 Just now she is recovering from a severe 
 attack of bronchitis/' 
 
 " Are you very intimate with them ? " 
 
 " Not very. I happened to call last 
 evening. Mrs. Annesley had been re- 
 gretting that she had no one but a ser- 
 vant to send here to meet you, and I 
 said perhaps I should do to come." 
 
 " I would rather have seen your face 
 than anyone's," spoke Sarah with simple 
 truth. " You do not know how much I 
 dread strangers." 
 
 " Is Mrs. Annesley quite a stranger to 
 you ? " 
 
 " Veiy nearly so. Ten years ago my 
 dear father and I were in London for 
 five days, and stayed at their house — Mr. 
 Annesle} 7 was alive then — and the fol- 
 lowing summer they came to us for a 
 month at Chilling, with the little girl — 
 a fair, sweet child of about seven. That 
 is all the acquaintance I have had with 
 them ; we have not even corresponded, 
 save on any extraordinary occasion ; and 
 I think it is very kind of Mrs. Annesley 
 to invite me now." 
 
 " She could do no less," said Thomas 
 Kage. " Your father and her husband 
 were brothers." 
 
 " Only half-brothers. Mr. James An- 
 nesley was twenty years younger than 
 papa, ar.d they were not very cordial with 
 each other. My dear father thought he 
 had been much wronged in regard to the 
 
 family property, which was left entirely 
 to Mr. James Annesley : but it does not 
 matter to recall that now. My good fa- 
 ther put away the grievance from his 
 heart long and long ago." 
 
 " Had Mrs. Annesley not invited you 
 to stay with her, Mrs. Garston would," 
 he remarked. " I think she resents hav- 
 ing been forestalled in it." 
 
 " There's my luggage ! " exclaimed 
 Sarah. "Box the first coming out 
 now.-" 
 
 " How many boxes have j 7 ou ? " 
 
 " Two, and a small one. Mr. Rufort 
 kindly said I might leave as much lum- 
 ber as I liked at home until I saw what 
 my plans would be. Is it not strange, 
 Mr. Kage, that I and Lydia Dunn 
 should cross each other ? " 
 
 "Cross each other!" he repeated, at 
 a loss to understand what she meant. 
 
 " Don't you know ? — Mrs. Dunn is 
 going down to the Rock to-day on a long 
 visit. I am so sorry. Had she been in 
 London, the great town might have 
 seemed less strange to me. She is a 
 widow now, you are aware ? " 
 
 " Yes ; these four or five months past." 
 
 Not until they were seated in the cab 
 did Thomas Kage speak of the loss she 
 had sustained, and of his deep sympathy 
 with it ; and then only by a word or two. 
 Those who feel the deepest say the least. 
 She understood him, and the tears came 
 into her eyes : not very long ago he had 
 gone through the same sorrow and suf- 
 fering. 
 
 Mrs. Anneslej', the widow, lived 
 in Paradise-terrace. Fine substantial 
 houses, but not to be compared to the 
 mansions in the grand square adjoining 
 — Paradise-square. Thomas Kage ac- 
 companied her into the house, and intro- 
 duced her to its mistress, who left the 
 fireside and an easy-chair to receive her. 
 
 She was four-aud-fifty years of age, 
 and she looked four-and-sixty. A cold 
 silent woman, with gray hair, straight 
 black e} T ebrows, and a severe expression 
 of face. Her heart was warmer than her 
 manner, but neither would have set the 
 Thames on fire ; and she was well-mean- 
 ing, wishing to do her duty by all. She 
 was apt to tell people, if they inquired, 
 that she never enjoyed a day's health : 
 what with her ailments of one kind and 
 another, and the giving way to them, she 
 perhaps never did. Recently she had 
 
60 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 been really ill, and would not feel recov- 
 ered for a long time. 
 
 Mrs. Annesley welcomed Sarah, her 
 niece one degree removed (if it may be 
 called so) with as much cordialit}' as a 
 woman of her cold and reserved nature 
 could. She kissed her cheek, and said 
 she was welcome. Sarah caught at the 
 arm of Thomas Kage : for a momentary 
 faintness, quite unusual, stole over her. 
 To one who has had a happy and beloved 
 home of her own, the entering that of a 
 stranger is a bitter heart-sickness. 
 
 Years and years ago — more than you, 
 my reader, would care to say you can look 
 back to — Philip Anneslpj, a 3'oung man 
 keeping his first term at the Cambridge 
 University, heard with intense surprise 
 and some natural shock, that his father 
 had married again-. He had deemed that 
 he and his sister were all-in-all to their 
 father ; hut, as it seemed, he was mistak- 
 en. The new wife gained full ascend- 
 ency ; later she had one son born : and 
 when death, some twenty years after- 
 wards, took the old man, her husband, it 
 was discovered that he had bequeathed 
 the whole of his property to her, uncon- 
 ditionally. In her turn she bequeathed 
 it to her own son James; ignoring Phil- 
 ip, then the incumbent of Chilling ; ig- 
 noring the daughter, Mar) - , who had lived 
 at home with her. 
 
 Had James Anneslej? been a just and 
 right-feeling man, he would at once have 
 divided the property into three shares, 
 giving one each to his half-brother and 
 sister. He did nothing of the kind ; he 
 kept the whole; and Philip in his heart 
 resented it. Mary found a home with 
 her brother Philip at Chilling, who was 
 still a single man, and remained so for 
 some years after that. When he did 
 marry, Mary left him ; James wanted her 
 then, for he had married, and been left a 
 widower Witli one little boy. Later by 
 ever so many years, James married 
 again, the present Mrs. Annesley, now 
 standing up to receive Sarah and Mr. 
 Kage, and she had one daughter. 
 
 1 hope the account has been clear. 
 With so many people and interests and 
 marriages . to speak of, ideas are apt to 
 get a little complicated. James Annes- 
 ley, when he died, did not do as his father 
 had done — leave all he had to his wife 
 unconditionally. The interest was to he 
 hers for her life — a handsome income: 
 
 at her death it would go to the two 
 children, but not equally : his son by his 
 first wife' would take the larger share, the 
 young girl the smaller. Perhaps Mrs. 
 Annesley felt aggrieved at this, but she 
 had no power to remedy it. Old Mrs. 
 Garston, rapping her stick with ardor, 
 told her to her face it was the only just 
 thing James Annesley ever did. The 
 son, Walter Annesley, had been sent to 
 the West Indies as clerk in a merchant's 
 house there; he was getting on well, was 
 married, and had a prospect, it was un- 
 derstood, of a junior partnership. 
 
 Sarah Annesley, resolutely rallying 
 from the passing sensation of faintness 
 — for there lived not a young woman in 
 the world less willing to give way than 
 she — turned from Mr. Kage to meet the 
 young girl who had come up and waited. 
 A bright fairy of seventeen, with a pro- 
 fusion of fair hair that she chose to wear 
 in a shower of drooping curls, laughing 
 blue eyes, and saucy features. She had 
 no regular beauty whatever, only the 
 great charm that }'Outh and a kind of 
 randomly-wild carlessness sometimes im- 
 part. The hair was beautiful ; the 
 laughing light-blue ej'es were beautiful ; 
 and there the boasting ended. The nose 
 was small and turned up to the skies ; 
 the very pointed chin was one of the most 
 impertinent ever seen. She was very 
 little, not of the smallest account to look 
 at, impudent to everybody about her ex- 
 cept her mother, and saucy to the rest of 
 the world. But these saucy, piquant 
 women often sway man with an iron 
 hand, and render him helpless. 
 
 Sax*ah kissed her involuntarily, and 
 then held her at arm's length, regarding 
 her with quite a fond expression. The 
 child (she quite looked like one) wore a 
 pretty black silk, with a white-lace edg- 
 ing on her neck, and black ribbons fall- 
 ing amidst her fair hair. 
 
 " Can this be little Belle ? But per- 
 haps I ought not to call her Belle now Y " 
 ■' Belle always," spoke Mrs. Annesley. 
 " Annabel only when I am seriously 
 angry with her." 
 
 " Is that often ? " put in Mr. Kage. 
 Miss Belle, in answer to his question 
 and smile, gave him a sharp flirting rap 
 with her jet chain. But an impercepti- 
 ble sigh broke from Mrs. Annesley ; it 
 seemed to imply that she found her 
 daughter more troublesome than perhaps 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 61 
 
 Mr. Kage might have given credit for. 
 It appeared nearly impossible to believe 
 that that careless, laughing, blue-eyed 
 girl could be the daughter of the staid, 
 stony, dark-browed woman : the one so 
 redolent of light-hearted gaiety, the oth- 
 er seeming never to have known it. 
 Between thirty and forty when she mar- 
 ried, Mrs. Annedey had been already set 
 down as an "old maid" by the generous 
 world ; she had certainty been stiff and 
 cold as any old maid can be ; and though 
 the reproach was lifted from her, she re- 
 mained stiff to the end. But the fault 
 — it has just been said so — lay in man- 
 ner more than in heart. 
 
 " Will you show your cousin to her 
 room, Belle?" spoke Mrs. Annesley. 
 " Harriet will be there waiting, no 
 doubt." 
 
 The first thing Miss Belle did when 
 she got outside the door was to plant her- 
 self at the foot of the stairs, impeding 
 further progress, and stare into her cous- 
 in's face. 
 
 " I remember you quite well ; I re- 
 member lots of things when I was young- 
 er than that; but you are looking ever 
 so much older." 
 
 " Of course I am," said Sarah. " It 
 is ten years ago." 
 
 " Good gracious ! You must be get- 
 ting an old woman." 
 
 " Getting on that way. I shall be 
 thirty in three yeai's." 
 
 " How dreadful ! When I get thirty it 
 will be all over, for I'd as soon be sixty 
 at once. What I want to say is this — 
 you are not going to watch me ?" 
 
 " To watch you ? " repeated Sarah, in 
 a questioning tone. 
 
 " Yes, to watch me ; to be a spy upon 
 me. Because, if you are, I'll not stand 
 it," 
 
 " My dear child, I really do not know 
 what you mean." 
 
 " Yesterday, when mamma was talk- 
 ing about my wildness, she said how 
 glad she was you were coming, for she 
 should ask you to look after me, and re- 
 port to her all you saw amiss. 0, you 
 can't imagine what it is at home ; she's 
 like an old lady-abbess looking after a 
 flock of nuns. If my bedroom is in a 
 mess, she groans ; if 1 buy a sash with- 
 out first asking her, she sighs, and says 
 I'm on the high-road to ruin. Perhaps 
 I should be if I had an old duenna at 
 
 my heels alwaj's to report ill of me ; I'm 
 sure I'd spend a crown then where I now 
 spend half one. The other day she 
 •nearly fainted because she came into the 
 study and found all my oil-paints spilt 
 on the carpet. You wont tell tales of me, 
 will you ? " 
 
 "No; certainly not." 
 
 " That is a promise ? " said Miss 
 Belle, with a stamp of her pretty foot. 
 
 "It is ; and I will keep it faithfully. 
 There's the seal of it, Belle." 
 
 Sarah bent forward and kissed the 
 bright young face upturned to hers. 
 Belle was a very siren ; and she had some 
 of a siren's attributes, besides fascina- 
 tion. 
 
 Having seen Miss Annesley safely 
 housed, Thomas Kage took his departure 
 for Mrs. Garston's. He was making the 
 afternoon into a kind of holiday, and did 
 not go back to his chambers : but it was 
 getting late now. Mrs. Garston had 
 charged him to come and inform her all 
 about Miss Annesley's arrival ; and 
 Thomas Kage, who had been in the hab- 
 it of obeying her for many years almost 
 as he did his mother, insensibly did it 
 more than ever now that that mother 
 was gone. 
 
 A stylish open vehicle on two wheels, 
 with a stylish tiger taking care of the 
 horse, stood before the gate as he reach- 
 ed it. Mr. Kage wondered whose they 
 were, when the appearance of Captain 
 Dawkes, jauntily treading the gravel- 
 path, solved the problem. The gallant 
 Captain had been making a call on the 
 lady, whom he rather facetiously styled 
 the "ancient party" to his military 
 friends. Not staying to shake hands 
 with Mr. Kage, he ascended to his seat 
 with a patronising nod, touched the 
 horse, and dashed away, his purple whis- 
 kers more silken than ever, his teeth 
 whiter, his cheeks and himself altogeth- 
 er blooming. 
 
 As Mr. Kage passed in at the garden- 
 gate, Mrs. Garston met him in the path- 
 way. On sunny days she was fond of 
 being out of doors, and walked about the 
 sheltered garden almost as firmly as she 
 did twenty years before, never accepting 
 help except from her stick, planted vig- 
 orously on the ground with every step 
 she took. Therefore Thomas Kage did 
 not offer his arm, but; simply turned 
 with her and kept by her side. He 
 
62 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 was in deep mourning still ; the old la- 
 dy wore an enormous sun-bonnet of gray 
 silk, and a white lama shawl. 
 
 " Did you see that turn-out ? " were 
 the first words she addressed to him, in 
 allusion to the equipage just gone away : 
 and, by the tone, Thomas knew that it, 
 or something else, had displeased her. 
 
 " Yes," he said. " The horse is a 
 high-mettled one ; Captain Dawkes must 
 take care of him in the more crowded 
 streets." 
 
 Captain Dawkes was in feather again. 
 Mrs. Garston had prevailed upon herself 
 to pay his debts and set him free. It 
 was some three or four months ago now. 
 At temporary ease in the world, he lived 
 like a man of fortune, and paid visits to 
 Mrs. Garston as often as he could force 
 himself to the infliction. 
 
 " He has begun again." 
 
 The remark was given abruptly, and 
 Thomas Kage, whose thoughts had gone 
 roving to other matters, really did not 
 catch its thread. 
 
 " Begun what, ma'am ? " 
 
 " Begun what ? Why, to make more 
 debts," irascibly returned Mrs. Garston. 
 " I'm speaking of Barby Dawkes. He 
 has as much cause to set up tliiffc fine 
 tandem as I have to set up a dandy- 
 horse. Where's the use of your laugh- 
 ing, Thomas Kage ? " 
 
 He was biting his lip, not to hide the 
 smile — for he could but be open in all 
 he did — but to prevent its going on to a 
 laugh. Mrs. Garston would look curious 
 on a dand}'-horse. 
 
 "It is not a tandem, ma'am." 
 
 " It is a tandem ! Why do you con- 
 tradict ? It's a tandem that he has set 
 up ; he told me so to my face. There 
 may be one horse in the shafts to-da_y, 
 but he puts another on at times, and al- 
 ways in the country. I told him he'd 
 look more consistent in a wheelbarrow 
 drawn by two grey jackasses." 
 
 " If Captain Dawkes is tolerably cau- 
 tious in other matters, he can afford to 
 keep two horses," spoke Mr. Kage, who 
 would willingly have smoothed away dis- 
 pleasure from his worst enemy. 
 
 " If ! Did you ever hear of Barby 
 Dawkes being cautious ? I set him free 
 with the world last' March. This is 
 June ; and I'd lay you the worth of these 
 two houses, yours and mine that he has 
 already made a string of debts a yard 
 long : now, then, Thomas Kage ! " 
 
 Thomas Kage strolled on the lawn by 
 the old lady's side in silence. He 
 thought it quite probable -j that the al- 
 ready-contracted debts might be two 
 yards long, instead of one ; but he would 
 not say so. 
 
 " I told Barby what it would be. I 
 told Keziah that my setting him free, if 
 I did do it, would only be the signal for 
 him to begin again, and run up fresh li- 
 abilites ; and he is doing it. Don't tell 
 me!" 
 
 " I suppose he says he is not ? " 
 
 " He'd not sa} r he is to me, be yo\\ sure 
 of that ; but I have warned him, and take 
 you notice of it, Thomas Kage. When 
 he stood up before me smiling, not five 
 minutes ago, I warned him as plainly as 
 words can do it. ' Run 'em up,' I said 
 to him, ' run up a cartload of 'em, if you 
 choose, Barby Dawkes ; but you may find 
 it much harder to get me to discharge 
 'em than you have done.' Whatever 
 comes of it, he can't sa}' I didn't warn 
 him. There ! I shall sit down." 
 
 She took her seat on a green bench 
 under a fine old spreading tree. Mr. 
 Kage placed himself by her, and began 
 speaking of the arrival of Miss Annesley 
 from Chilling. It was rather a sore 
 subject with Mrs. Garston : first, because 
 Sarah Annesley had been left without 
 provision ; and secondly, that she had 
 been forestalled by Mrs. Annesley in the 
 invitation to stay in London. 
 
 " Thirty pounds a year, perhaps under 
 it ! " commented the old lady, striking 
 her stick sharply on the soft grass. 
 " Philip Annesley had three hundred 
 a-year, and a house to live in, and might 
 have done better for her. We were 
 playfellows together when we were chil- 
 dren, he and I ; but I was the elder by 
 some five 3~ears. I remember once a 
 mad cow ran after us, and we leaped a 
 dwarf wall, and scrambled through a 
 thick blackberry-hedge. You'd not think 
 it now." 
 
 " You could not do it now," was his 
 answer. 
 
 " I thought Philip would have had 
 more sense ; his brains were sharp as 
 a boy. Nobody should live up to their 
 income if they've children to provide 
 for ; mark you that, Thomas Kage. 
 But I hope it will be a long time before 
 3 t ou put yourself in the way of having 
 any." 
 
 A very conscious flush crossed his 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 63 
 
 cheek. Within the last clay or two a 
 possible view of advancement had been 
 laid before him ; and, if he accepted it — 
 and Caroline Kage — 
 
 "I wonder she could stomach that in- 
 vitation of Mrs. Annesley's!" came the 
 interruption to his thoughts in the quaint 
 language of the old lady, which belonged 
 to a bygone day. "I do ; and I don't 
 think her father would have liked her to, 
 neither. If ever man was ill-used 
 among 'em, he was. Philip Annesley 
 was brought up to think he'd succeed to 
 the half of his father's property, and 
 his sister to the other half. Old Annes- 
 ley marries again, drivels on for twenty 
 years in his tight keeping under his new 
 wife's thumb, and then dies and leaves 
 every shilling to her son James. It's 
 all very well to say Philip forgave 'em, 
 as a good clergyman and Christian 
 should; but I'll 'be whipped if he must 
 not have been an uncommon good one to 
 do it." 
 
 " I think he was that, Mrs. G-arston." 
 "I don't say the present Mrs. Annes- 
 ley, James's widow, had any hand in the 
 injustice ; she didn't know 'em at the 
 time ; but she became James's wife after- 
 wards, and that would have been enough 
 to make some people resent it on her as 
 belonging to them. She enjo} r s the mon- 
 ey too — seven hundred a-year, Thom- 
 as." 
 
 " Is it so much as that ? " 
 " It is that in hard income, my dear ; 
 and there was furniture, and plate, and 
 accumulated money besides. James did 
 not make quite so unjust a will as his 
 wretched old father: he left his wife 
 a life-interest only ; at her death the 
 son in the West Indies gets four hun- 
 dred a-year of it; the girl three; the 
 furniture and things to go as Mrs. An- 
 nesley chooses. And we need not spec- 
 ulate upon who'll get that, consider- 
 ing the girl is her daughter, the young 
 man only her step -son. But James 
 never remembered the suppressed claims 
 of the Philip Annesleys ; and I say I'd 
 not have -accepted an invitation from any 
 of the lot, had I been Philip's daughter. 
 What does she say about those Kages?" 
 The transition of subject was abrupt. 
 -Thomas, who had been sitting in a rev- 
 erie, his eyes bent on the grass, hearing, 
 and not hearing, looked up. 
 " What Kages, ma'am ? " 
 
 Mrs. Garston lifted her stick as if she 
 had a mind to strike him, bringing it 
 down on the grass with a thump. 
 
 " If you get in the habit of useless 
 cavilling, Thomas Kage, you'll hear a 
 bit of my mind. I mean those Kages 
 down at Chilling — the woman with the 
 affectation and the smelling-bottles. Her 
 soft voice is as false as Barby Dawkes's 
 smile when he tells me he is living with- 
 in his income. I knew her as Caroline 
 Gunse, and what she was ; and her 
 daughter takes after her. Did I ever 
 know any other Kages, pray, but them, 
 except 3 r ourself and your dear mother ? 
 Do you know any ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Very well, then, why need you ask 
 me what Kages ? What does Sarah 
 Annesle^y say about them ? " 
 
 " She said nothing to me, except that 
 they are well. Miss Annesley will come 
 and see you herself to-morrow. She is 
 vexed at one thing — that Mrs. Dunn 
 should have gone down home just at 
 this time, and regrets her absence very 
 much." 
 
 "A fine thing she is to regret!" 
 scornfully spoke Mrs. Garston. 
 
 " I fancy Miss Aunesley was particu- 
 larly intimate with her when she was 
 Lydia Canterbury ; more so than with 
 the other sisters." 
 
 " Then why could not Lydia Dunn 
 have put off her visit home for a week, 
 and stayed here to receive her?" sensi- 
 bly spoke Mrs. Garston. " Perhaps she 
 cares for Lydia Dunn more than L)'dia 
 Dunn cares for her. My opinion is, if 
 you wish to know it, that Mrs. L\ 7 dia 
 Dunn never cared for anybody but her 
 own blessed self. Now, then ! and you 
 may tell Philip Annesley's daughter that 
 I sa3 r it. Where are you going, Thom- 
 as ? " 
 
 " Home." 
 
 " You are not ; you are going to dine 
 with me. Don't you know that you are 
 worth fifty thousand of such men as 
 Barnaby Dawkes ? " 
 
 He smiled, and took out his watch. 
 It wanted half-an-hour to her usual din- 
 ner-hour. Mrs. Garston's invitations 
 were commands, and might not be reject- 
 ed when it was possible to accede to 
 them. 
 
 " Thank you," he said ; " I will come 
 back by six ; but I expect a letter will 
 
64 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 be waiting for me at home, and I may 
 have to write an answer to it." 
 
 It was there. When he got home, 
 the letter was staring him in the face. 
 He opened it, not eagerly, hut slowly and 
 thoughtfully, as if it were big with some 
 momentous fate that he felt half-afraid to 
 read of. 
 
 A proposition had been made to 
 Thomas Kage to go out to India. An 
 influential friend, the Earl of Elster, had 
 obtained the promise of an appointment 
 for him there, and Mr. Kage was expect- 
 ing the bona-fide offer of it daily. He 
 thought perhaps this letter contained it; 
 but he found he was mistaken, that he 
 would have to wait yet for some days. 
 Holding the letter open still when read, 
 for it must be replied to, he sat in doubt 
 and deep reflection. 
 
 Not in doubt as to whether the offer 
 would come — of that he was as sure as 
 he could be ; but in doubt whether or 
 not to accept it when it came. He had 
 not made up his mind. In good truth, 
 lie was advancing so slowly in his pro- 
 fession — the case frequently with young 
 barristers — that he had grown disheart- 
 ened. He got enough to keep him and 
 his moderate household in necessaries ; 
 and Lady Kage, as may be remembered, 
 had provided for the year's rent ; but of 
 prospects he seemed to have none. The 
 salary of the appointment iu India would 
 commence at seven hundred a-year, and 
 go on increasing. 
 
 Had there been no one in the ques- 
 tion but himself, he would not have hes- 
 itated one moment over the decision — to 
 reject it. To go to India, or to any other 
 country, for an indefinite number of 
 years, would seem to him no better than 
 banishment. Some men like to go a- 
 roving ; he did not. He loved his own 
 country ; he loved his profession, and 
 looked forward to rise in it in time. In 
 time — there was the difficulty. 
 
 For there existed something that he 
 loved better than all — Caroline Kage. 
 If he remained at home, there appeared 
 little chance of his ever telling that love. 
 He could not expect her to wait years 
 and years, until fortune came to him ; 
 or. if she would, her mother would cer- 
 tainly not allow her. But if he closed 
 with this offer to go to the East when it 
 should be made, he thought he wight 
 without breach of honor ask her to go 
 with him. 
 
 That she loved him with her whoh 
 being he knew. Had he doubted before 
 her conduct at Easter, when he was at 
 Chilling, was sufficient to show it to him. 
 His heart was at rest ; a soft glow stole 
 across his thin cheeks, a tender light 
 into his eyes in thinking of her. Even 
 now, as he sat there, his every pulse was 
 beating with happiness. It is true, she 
 had not written to him once since Eas- 
 ter ; but he knew the fault lay with 
 Mrs. Kage. 0, if she, if they should 
 deem this Indian project worth entering 
 u-pon ! And he might take her out 
 with him, his wife ! He fully believed 
 it might be so. 
 
 And Thomas Kage began to pen an 
 answer to the letter in his hand, the 
 whole world, to his entranced sight, 
 seeming to be flooded with an atmos- 
 phere of brightness. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A TERRIBLE FEAR. 
 
 A brilliant day in June. In the 
 sweet summer-room facing the north, so 
 grateful to the sight and senses in blad- 
 ing weather, sat the four daughters of 
 George Canterbury. Mrs. Dunn was in 
 deep black robes and a widow's cap. 
 The others had assumed slight mourn- 
 ing, and wore muslins. 
 
 It was some days now since Mrs. 
 Dunn had arrived at the Rock, purpos- 
 ing to make a long visit. They had 
 been pressing her to do it ever since her 
 husband's death, but the settlement of 
 his affairs had kept her in town. She 
 was left (as she considered) very badly 
 off. Mr. Dunn, who was member for 
 the count} 7 when Lydia Canterbury 
 married him, was not a rich man. He 
 had something to do with iron ; his wife 
 never took the trouble to ascertain pre- 
 cisely what; and a great portion of his 
 interest in the business, whatever it 
 might be, went from him at his death. 
 Mrs. Dunn woulo have about twelve or 
 fourteen hundred a-year ; it was nothing 
 compared with what she expected to in- 
 herit fr >"i her father, nothing to the fab- 
 ulous wealth of the Rock. So Lydia 
 Ouim consider.^ herself hardly used by 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 65 
 
 Fortune, and wondered how she should 
 exist. 
 
 She was three or four years younger 
 than her sister Olive, and a plain like- 
 ness of her. A less tall figure, and 
 without Olive's majesty, with more than 
 a tendency to plumpness, which Olive 
 had not. Her hair was of the same 
 beautiful shade of purple - black ; her 
 features wanted the refined grace of 
 Olive's, while they displayed the resolu- 
 tion. Mrs. Dunn was positive, outspok- 
 en, very fond of domineering; Olive, 
 quietly resolute, was full of gracious 
 courtesy. Rumor went — it was impos- 
 sible to know whether it spoke truth — 
 that Mr. Dunn had ventured to address 
 Miss Canterbury first, and, upon finding 
 out his mistake, had transferred his hopes 
 to Lydia. 
 
 Whether that might have been the 
 case or not, one fact was certain — Lydia 
 knew nothing of it. If any such thing 
 had passed, it was confined to Miss 
 Canterbury's own breast, and Lydia 
 married Mr. Dunn in peace. The very 
 large fortune to which the Miss Canter- 
 bury's were heiresses caused them to be 
 marks for suitors — great prizes to be 
 shot for. High and low alike cast a 
 longing eye on them ; but the con- 
 sciousness that this must inevitably be 
 the case caused the Miss Canterburys to 
 be exceedingly inaccessible. It was not 
 that they would have made their riches 
 any bar, but the fear lest those riches 
 were the attraction, and not themselves, 
 lay more or less upon their minds al- 
 ways. Fifteen curates in all, during the 
 last half-dozen years, had laid them- 
 selves and their gowns at the feet of one 
 or other of the heiresses at the Rock — 
 worthy men, no doubt, but not quite free 
 from suspicion as to motives. Jane and 
 Leta were wont to wish, to some extent 
 in earnest, that they had been born por- 
 tionless. 
 
 The window was thrown open to the 
 steady north landscape lying around 
 in its beauty, with its subdued light, its 
 welcome shade. On this side the park 
 was not extensive, a mere strip, and be- 
 yond it lay the green fields that would 
 lead by a cross road to Aberton. At 
 the end of this first field — a large one, 
 and divided by a fence, with a stile in 
 the middle — was situated the dwelling 
 of Mrs. Kage. June roses, lilies, sweet- 
 4 
 
 scented flowers of many colors, threw up 
 their perfume from the beds immediate- 
 ly underneath the windows, imbuing the 
 atmosphere of the room with sweetness. 
 It was the young ladies' favorite sitting- 
 room. Not a showroom by any means, 
 though the pictures on the delicately- 
 papered walls were of value, and the 
 furniture was of costly green-and-gold, 
 but rather an undress room, in which 
 they worked and read and played and 
 talked, and might make an untidy litter 
 at will. 
 
 Olive and Jane were busy to-day — 
 the one cutting out work for the charity- 
 school, the other tacking the pieces to- 
 gether. Staid, steady, well-conducted 
 ladies, the Miss Canterbuiys directed 
 the schools judiciously, and other parish 
 benefits, of which they were the chief 
 supporters. Mrs. Dunn sat back in an 
 easy-chair near the window, doing noth- 
 ing, as usual — all the industry she pos- 
 sessed lay in her tongue ; and Millicent 
 was at the piano trying a new piece 
 very softly and quietly. 
 
 " That is wrong, I am sure, Leta." 
 
 It was Mrs. Dunn who spoke, in the 
 quick abrupt way very usual with her. 
 She was the only really good musician 
 of the family; her taste for it was in- 
 nate, and something, or other in the 
 playing had grated on her correct ear. 
 
 Leta played to the end of the page, 
 and then rose from the piano. Con- 
 scious of her own inferior skill, she did 
 not often care to try new pieces before 
 Mrs. Dunn. 
 
 " I have played an hour," she remark- 
 ed, " and Olive tells me that is quite 
 long enough at one time." 
 
 Going to a writing-table, Leta opened 
 one of the desks there, her own, with 
 the intention of beginning a letter to 
 Miss Annesley. Putting the writing- 
 paper before her, she suddenly remem- 
 bered that some information concerning 
 parish interests, which Sarah had asked 
 for, was not yet obtained. 
 
 " Oh dear ! I can't write until to- 
 morrow," cried Leta. " Lydia, what 
 sort of people are they where she is 
 gone ? " 
 
 " Where who is gone ? " naturally 
 demanded Mrs. Dunn, who could not be 
 supposed to see into her sister's thoughts. 
 
 " Sarah Annesley." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by 
 
6Q 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 'sort.' Mrs. Annesley is a widow with a 
 flighty young daughter. Quite middle- 
 class people, living quietly with three 
 rnaid-servants in Paradise-terrace — near 
 to old Mrs. Garston's, you know. They 
 are rather friendly with her." 
 
 " I wish Mrs. Garston had invited 
 Sarah," spoke Leta earnestly. " She 
 might as well; she took a wonderful lik- 
 ing for her when we were at Little Bay 
 last autumn. Middle-class people ! I 
 don't suppose Sarah will be very happy 
 there." 
 
 " Now don't you run away with wrong 
 notions, Miss Millicent," sharply en- 
 joined Mrs. Dunn. " The Annesleys 
 are gentle-people, and know what's what. 
 In calling them middle-class, I alluded 
 to their moderate house and style of liv- 
 ing. My late husband's brother, Rich- 
 ard Dunn, is intimate there. As to 
 Sarah Annesley, she is not the first of 
 us who has had to bend to adverse cir- 
 cumstances ; look at me, left with noth- 
 ing a-year ! " 
 
 Leta bent her face to hide a smile. 
 Mrs. Dunn's grievance of her "nothing 
 a-year," had become a joke between the 
 other sisters. Leta toyed with her writ- 
 ing-paper ; it was tiresome to sit down to 
 her desk, and then find that it was to 
 no purpose. 
 
 Olive," she said, looking up, u may 
 I write a note to ask Caroline Kage to 
 come here for the day?" 
 
 Miss Canterbury made no reply. She 
 was puzzled over her w T ork just then, 
 counting pieces. Millicent deferred to 
 her as she would to a mother. 
 
 " This is wrong, Jane. Nine pairs of 
 sleeves, and only eight pairs of gussets : 
 you must have miscounted. — What was 
 it you asked me, Leta ? " 
 
 " If I may send for Caroline Kage." 
 
 " Caroline Kage is always here," in- 
 terrupted Mrs. Dunn. " She was here 
 to tea yesterday, and to luncheon the day 
 before ; and for the whole morning, with 
 her mother, the day before that. You 
 had better have her to live here, Milli- 
 cent," 
 
 The words were delivered with so 
 much acrimony that Millicent looked at 
 Mrs. Dunn in pure astonishment. Miss 
 Canterburjr, her interest buried in the 
 gussets and sleeves, did not notice the 
 tone, though she heard the words. 
 
 " That is just what Millicent would 
 
 like — to have her to live here, Lydia," 
 Olive said with a smile. 
 
 " Ah ! *' returned Lj'dia, flicking her 
 broad-hemmed handkerchief at a wasp 
 that seemed inclined to enter. 
 
 " Caroline Kage is very pleasant, 
 Lydia; we all like her," put in Jane. 
 
 " A pretty, good-natured sort of girl ; 
 not much in her," somewhat slightingly 
 remarked Miss Canterbury. 
 
 " If she were one of earth's young- 
 lady angels, her constant intrusion would 
 be irksome," returned Mrs. Dunn. 
 "The Chinese have a proverb, "Pay 
 your visits only on alternate days, lest bv 
 continual going you weary your friends 
 and they become estranged from jou.'' 
 It is full of wisdom." 
 
 " Intrusion ! " exclaimed Millicent, 
 disregarding the proverb. 
 
 " Yes, intrusion," decisively repeated 
 Mrs. Dunn. 
 
 " But, Lydia. we are pleased to have 
 her." 
 
 Jane Canterbury lifted her scissors 
 from the calico, and turned round to ad- 
 dress Mrs. Dunn. 
 
 " The fact is, Lydia, they have grown 
 thus intimate from Leta's want of other 
 companions. We are older than she is, 
 and have different interests. The 
 Kages are our nearest neighbors, you 
 know, and she and Caroline have been 
 so much together that an affection has 
 sprung up between them." 
 
 Mrs. Dunn lost some of her angry look. 
 " Ever the same, Jane ; smoothing down 
 difficulties for everybody. But I do 
 think it is time you left off that unmean- 
 ing word, " Leta : " I assure 3 T ou it does 
 not contribute to Millicent's dignity." 
 
 " I don't think it does," smiled Jane. 
 " But it is a long-used habit ; just as is 
 the coming here of Caroline Kage : and 
 every-day habits are hard to relin- 
 quish." 
 
 "May I write, Olive?" resumed Mil- 
 licent, who had sat with her pen in hand 
 and paper before her, breaking the si- 
 lence that had ensued. 
 
 Mrs. Dunn made a gesture of impa- 
 tience ; and her words, for she spoke be- 
 fore Olive, were impatiently uttered. 
 
 " Caroline Kage is better where she 
 is than here. Let her be." 
 
 " Yes, yes," decided Olive hastily, 
 considering that Mrs. Dunn, both as a 
 married woman and as a visitor, should 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 67 
 
 "be especially deferred to ; " we will not 
 have Caroline to-day, Millicent." 
 
 Millicent slowly closed her writing- 
 desk, and then leaned her elbow upon it 
 and her cheek upon her hand, her face 
 plainly expressing disappointment. She 
 was sincerely attached to Caroline ; and 
 it might be — it might be, that she hun- 
 gered for a word of news of Thomas 
 Kage. Never once, since that visit of 
 his at Easter, when he had dined at the 
 Bock, had his name passed Caroline's 
 lips. Before that period she had been 
 always speaking of him. Caroline her- 
 self had seemed changed since ; the 
 once light, trifling girl had become 
 thoughtful and silent. Once, and once 
 only, Leta had taken courage to ask af- 
 ter Mr. Kage : " We know nothing of 
 him," was Caroline's short answer. 
 
 The door opened, and Mr. Canterbury 
 put his head in, as if asking permission 
 to enter. The room belonged so exclu- 
 sively to his daughters that he seemed 
 to think he had no right in it uninvited. 
 
 " Come in, papa." 
 
 There was a change in Mr. Canter- 
 bury. The head, growing so thin of hair 
 at the top, was now surmounted by an 
 auburn wig of curly luxuriance, almost 
 as natural as though it grew there. An 
 eye-glass dangled on his waistcoat ; his 
 morning-clothes were cut in the most 
 approved style of a fashionable London 
 tailor. In fact, Mr. Canterbury would 
 have looked like a young dandy had he 
 not been an old man. 
 
 "I think I shall ride into Aberton, 
 Olive. Have you any commands?" 
 
 " Thank you, papa ; no. Not this 
 morning." 
 
 " Is your head better, Lydia ? " he in- 
 quired of Mrs. Dunn, who had com- 
 plained of headache at breakfast. 
 
 " It aches still, papa ; I have had it a 
 good deal lately. I think these hot caps 
 help to give it to me," she added, push- 
 ing her widow's cap back on her head. 
 
 " Why do you wear them, then ? " 
 
 " well, papa, you know it is the cus- 
 tom. Had I not followed it, people 
 would have been found to say I had not 
 cared for my husband." 
 
 " I should not let what such people 
 could say trouble me," sensibly remarked 
 Mr. Canterbury. — " You look as if you 
 had the headache, also," he added to 
 Millicent, his gaze falling on her. 
 
 "No, I have not," said she. rousing 
 herself, and rising from her seat. 
 
 " What's the matter, then ? " 
 
 "Not much, papa." 
 
 "Not much! What is it?" 
 
 "I only felt disappointed," explained 
 Leta shortly, a little vexed at having to 
 confess it. 
 
 "What at?" persisted Mr. Canter- 
 bury, who did not like to see his daugh- 
 ters' faces clouded, especially hers, who 
 had been in a degree the plaything of 
 them all — Leta. 
 
 " I wanted to write for Caroline Kage 
 to come and spend the day here, and 
 Olive will not let me." 
 
 " Caroline Kage is here too much ; 
 she inundates us," sharply interrupted 
 Mrs. Dunn, in a voice of authority. 
 " Not a day since I came home have we 
 been free from Caroline Kage. Seven 
 days I have been here, and seven visits, 
 some of them lasting for hours, we have 
 had of that girl's ! It is unreason- 
 able." 
 
 There was a pause ; Mr. Canterbury 
 broke it. Leta, feeling uncomfortable 
 at having caused the unpleasantness, 
 went and stood at the window. 
 
 " Why do you dislike her, Lydia ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Oh, I don't dislike her, papa," re- 
 turned Mrs. Dunn, suppressing her irri- 
 tation badly : but I consider that she is 
 here too much." 
 
 " Here is Caroline herself, coming 
 up ! " exclaimed Millicent. 
 
 Miss Kage was advancing underneath 
 the window then ; they heard her voice 
 as she looked up and spoke to Leta. 
 Mr. Canterbury, about to quit the room, 
 turned, with his hand on the door. 
 
 " Then, as she is here, you can ask 
 her to stay for the day," he said, looking 
 at Olive. "Why not? I do not like 
 to see Millicent with a sad face," he 
 concluded, as if accounting for his de- 
 cision. 
 
 Mr. Canterbury met Miss Kage in 
 the hall, and two or three minutes 
 elapsed before she came to the room — 
 alone ; a remarkably pretty girl this 
 morning, in her pink-muslin dress, and 
 a white bonnet as light and airy as her- 
 self. 
 
 "You have come to save us the 
 trouble of sending for you, Caroline," 
 spoke Millicent, forgetting vexation in 
 
68 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 the exuberance of her spirits. " We 
 want you to remain the day." 
 
 " I cannot remain ten minutes," re- 
 plied Miss Kage. " Many thanks." 
 
 " 0, I am so sorry ! " exclaimed Mil- 
 licent. " Ten minutes, Caroline ! where 
 was the use of your coming at all ? " 
 
 " I came for mamma. She has had 
 one of those tiresome letters again, and 
 sent me with it to Mr. Canterbury. I 
 have given it to him." 
 
 " But why can you not remain ? " 
 
 " Because my cousin has just arrived 
 on one of his flying visits, and I must 
 go back home." 
 
 " What cousin ? " asked Olive. 
 
 " Thomas Kage." 
 
 " Caroline," said Jane archly, " I 
 fancy that cousin of yours has some 
 other motive than cousinship in these 
 flying visits of his." 
 
 Miss Kage tossed her head ; she had 
 caught Jane's meaning aptly. It was 
 some weeks now since she had resolved 
 to put old feelings behind her, to regard 
 them as though they had never been. 
 
 " What an idea, Miss Jane ! Cer- 
 tainly not. Thomas Kage is grave as a 
 judge, and poor as any church-mouse. 
 You are quite wrong. As if I would 
 encourage him / " 
 
 The vivid blush rising on her face 
 faded away to a deathlike paleness. 
 Leta Canterbury, shaded by the curtain, 
 saw it, and wondered. 
 
 " You might tolerate a worse," said 
 Mrs. Dunn in her strong tones, the first 
 words she had spoken. "Thomas Kage 
 is one of the worthiest of created men." 
 
 " Is he ? " rejoined Caroline, with a 
 painful effort to be careless. "He is 
 very poor." 
 
 " I don't care whether he is poor or 
 rich ; you'll not find another like him, 
 search the world through." 
 
 Olive turned round. She could not 
 understand her sister Lydia this morn- 
 ing, and felt thoroughly ashamed of her 
 sharp rudeness. " Will you spend to- 
 morrow with Leta, my dear ? " she said 
 pleasantly to Caroline. 
 
 " Yes, thank you, Miss Canterbury. 
 I shall be very glad." 
 
 She wished them good-morning, and 
 departed. Leta went to the end of the 
 room, and began to sort some silks for 
 her embroidery. Olive and Jane remain- 
 ed at their useful work over the table. 
 
 " What brought her up with that let- 
 ter ? " abruptly cried Mrs. Dunn, turn- 
 ing her chair from the window, so as to 
 face her sisters. 
 
 Their surprise increased. Lydia had 
 alwa} 7 s been fond of setting the world to 
 rights, and interfering in what did not 
 concern her ; but this acrimonious turn 
 of mind was something new. 
 
 " Caroline said Mrs. Kage sent her 
 with the letter," replied Jane meekly. 
 " Poor Mrs. Kage has had some trouble- 
 some law -business to contend with, 
 lately, and papa advises her upon it, 
 Lydia." 
 
 " Law - business ! " retorted Lydia, 
 with an angry scoff. 
 
 " Law- business of some nature: I 
 don't understand it. How lovelj 7 Caro- 
 line was looking this morning ! " 
 
 " And how well she dresses ! " re- 
 marked Olive. " Those lace sleeves 
 were real Brussels. I wonder how they 
 manage it." 
 
 "I mean, what brought her up with 
 it ?" continued Mrs. Dunn, tapping her 
 foot with impatience. " Why could 
 Mrs. Kage not have sent it by a ser- 
 vant ? " 
 
 " I daresay Caroline was glad to 
 bring it herself. What has put you 
 out, Lydia ? " 
 
 Mrs. Dunn did not say. She took up 
 a book and began to read. But she 
 seemed to grow restless : now turning 
 the leaves forward, now backward, as if 
 her mind or her temper would not get 
 straight. 
 
 " I have no green of the right shade," 
 cried Leta, looking up from her silks. 
 " May I go out for it, Olive ? " 
 
 " Where to ? — Chilling ? You would 
 never get it there." 
 
 " I think I might ; it is the dark 
 green. At least, I can try, Olive, if 
 you have no objection." 
 
 "None at all. You can carry some 
 of this work to the school at the same 
 time. 
 
 A small bundle was made up and 
 given to Leta, when she came in with 
 her things on. Mrs. Dunn, whose rest- 
 lessness seemed on the increase, pres- 
 ently flung her book down, and stood at 
 the window, fanning her hot and angry 
 face. Suddenly she put up her hands 
 to shade her eyes, as if looking at some- 
 thing, and then turned with a hasty 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 69 
 
 movement to open the doors of an orna- 
 mental cabinet. 
 
 " Where is the glass that used to he 
 kept here ? " 
 
 " The small telescope, do you mean, 
 Lydia ? Poor Edgar took it out with 
 him one day just before he died, and 
 lost it." 
 
 " The large one, then ? " 
 
 "0 — that? I don't know where 
 that is," slowly added Miss Canterbury. 
 
 " Somewhere in papa's possession, I 
 fancy." 
 
 " The house seems quite upset since I 
 left it — nothing to be found," muttered 
 Mrs. Dunn, taking up her post at the 
 window again. " As to me, I am more 
 near-sighted than ever." 
 
 " Did you want to discern any- 
 thing?" asked Jane, kindly leaving 
 her seat to join Mrs. Dunn. " Perhaps 
 I can see it for you." 
 
 " Look at those two in the distance, 
 leaning as it seems to me — on a stile, 
 and talking. Is not one of them 
 papa ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Jane, casting her good 
 sight to the spot. " Papa and — yes, 
 and Caroline Kage. I can see her pink 
 dress. He has gone after her, I dare- 
 say, to send a message to her mother 
 about the letter." 
 
 u And perhaps to repeat my invitation 
 for to-morrow," added Olive, " though 
 he does not know of it." 
 
 " Or to inquire why she cannot re- 
 main to-day," said Jane, returning to 
 her work. "Papa is ever thinking for 
 us." 
 
 " You blind geese ! you simple wo- 
 men ! " exclaimed Mrs. Dunn, in an ac- 
 cent of earnestness so impassioned that 
 they dropped what they .held, and gazed 
 at her in startled alarm. " Is it possible 
 that your eyes and understanding have 
 been closed?" she continued, flinging 
 herself back in the arm-chair. " Olive, 
 where have yours been ? Jane is meek 
 and unsuspicious ; Millicent is young ; 
 but you ! Olive, are you quite blind, 
 quite oblivious to what is. going on ? " 
 
 " What is going on ? " demanded 
 Olive, when her astonishment allowed 
 her to speak. 
 
 "It is a sin and a shame that you 
 should need to ask." 
 
 Olive Canterbury felt just a little ag- 
 grieved at being thus called to account 
 by her younger sister ; she, the efficient 
 
 -" Jane, give 
 
 mistress. She waited to draw a thread 
 in the linen, and then spoke with calm 
 impassibility. 
 
 " What is it that you detect amiss ? 
 I look closely after the household in all 
 requisite things." 
 
 " More closely than you will in future ; 
 more closely than you will have an op- 
 portunity of doing. You will not long 
 be the house'* mistress." 
 
 "Indeed!" said Olive.- 
 me the large scissors." 
 
 " Olive ! Olive ! you are treating me 
 as if I were a simpleton. — Jane, put 
 down that wretched work, and listen ; I 
 am in earnest. I say that Olive will 
 not much longer be here the ruler." 
 
 She did seem in earnest. Neverthe- 
 less, they thought her intellects must be 
 wandering. Jane let her delicate hands 
 drop idly on the work. Her ideas 
 had taken a curious turn : she could 
 only think the words applied to Olive's 
 possible death. 
 
 "What is it that you are fearing, 
 Lydia? Olive is quite well. She ai- 
 wa} T s looks pale in hot weather." 
 
 " 0, you — you idiots ! " returned Mrs. 
 Dunn, wringing her hands ; " was there 
 ever blindness like unto yours ? It is 
 not Olive that there's anj'thing the mat- 
 ter with, but your father. He is turning 
 foolish in his old age. He is going to 
 put a mistress over you." 
 
 They were, indeed, blindly unsuspi- 
 cious. "A mistress! " slowly repeated 
 Miss Canterbury, not yet understand- 
 ing. 
 
 " Yes, a mistress : for the house and 
 for you. A second wife." 
 
 A pause of moments : it needed that 
 to take in the sense of the words. 
 Jane's face, generally so calm, grew 
 painfully agitated. Olive turned red 
 with indignation. Her well - balanced 
 mind refused to believe a word of the 
 assertion. • 
 
 " Lydia, I did not think you were ca- 
 pable of sa} r ing this." 
 
 " But if it be true ? And I tell you 
 that it is. Your father has fixed upon 
 a second wife as surely as that we sit 
 here." 
 
 " Of whom can you be thinking ? " 
 asked Miss Canterbury, slightly per- 
 plexed, as her thoughts went out to the 
 neighborhood and home again. " Of 
 Mrs. Kage ? " 
 
 " No. I wish it was : it would be 
 
70 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 the less evil of the two. It is the girl 
 — Caroline." 
 
 " Lydia ! " was simultaneously ut- 
 tered, in resentful incredulity. 
 
 Mrs. Dunn rose from her seat again : 
 she seized Olive with one hand, Jane 
 with the other, and pulled them towards 
 the window. 
 
 " Are they gone ? No, not yet. I 
 can see the figures, indistinct figures to 
 me. To Jane they are plain ; perhaps 
 to you also, Olive. They are talking 
 still." 
 
 " And if they are," said the angry 
 Olive, " what does that prove ? If pa- 
 pa chooses to stand talking to a child, 
 and to talk all day long, what is there 
 in that ? " 
 
 " Not much — in that alone : he might 
 so stand talking to me or to you. You 
 have no cause to he angry with me, 
 Olive : you will find it too true. I had 
 my suspicions the very first day of my 
 return." 
 
 The hare idea in itself, apart from 
 its possible truth, that Mrs. Dunn's 
 words presented to these ladies, was ex- 
 ceedingly unpleasant and unpalatable ; 
 it might not be too much to say repul- 
 sive. In spite of their hitherto com- 
 plete unconsciousness, a miserable feel- 
 ing arose in either heart, as they stood 
 looking at the figures in the distance. 
 
 " A child like Caroline Kage ! " re- 
 monstrated Miss Canterbury, determin- 
 ed to combat to the end. 
 
 " There's the worst of the evil — a 
 child," said Mrs. Dunn. " Had he 
 married one of his own age, or near to 
 it, it would not have been so bad for us ; 
 it would have been more seemly in eve- 
 ry way. Though what on earth he can 
 want to marry at all for, after being a 
 widower all these years, I cannot tell." 
 Jane's eyes were full of tears. 
 " It is not likely that it can be true, 
 Lydia ; it is not probable. How can 
 you have formed so strange a notion ? " 
 " Just as you might have formed it, 
 had scales not been over your sight. 
 The most extraordinary events take 
 place under people's noses every day, 
 and they cannot see them. This 
 was your case. I came fresh into the 
 house, with my eyes and understanding 
 wide awake, and I saw it all." 
 
 "Saw what? What was there to 
 see ? " persisted Miss Canterbury, in as 
 
 irritable a tone as Mrs. Dunn herself 
 might have used — she, the ever-gracious 
 woman. 
 
 "Various little points, which taken to- 
 gether, make an ominous whole," was 
 the answer. " Though you might say 
 that this was nothing, and that was noth- 
 ing, looked at separately." 
 
 The figures at the stile had parted 
 now, and Mr. Canterbury was on his 
 way back again. Some other gentle- 
 man, who had come up to the spot, was 
 walking on with Caroline. 
 
 " When I got here a week ago, and 
 papa came out to the carriage to see me, 
 I was so struck by his appearance, that 
 for a moment I could not greet him," 
 said Mrs. Dunn. " Where was there so 
 negligent a man in regard to dress as he 
 used to be ? He had on a white waist- 
 coat ; his white wristbands were dis- 
 played ; and an eyeglass hung from an 
 invisible chain. When did he ever put 
 on a white waistcoat in the daj'time ? 
 or show the ghost of a wristband ? or 
 discard his spectacles for an eyeglass ? " 
 " I think he took to show his wrist- 
 bands when he was in mourning for Ed- 
 gar," interposed Jane. 
 
 " I don't care when he took to show 
 them. Not then ; or, if he did, he left 
 it off again : it is a new thing now. 
 Everything's new about him, and it 
 must have a purpose," argued Mrs. 
 Dunn. 
 
 There was a most uncomfortable si- 
 lence. 
 
 " And his wig ! " resumed Mrs. Dunn. 
 " Was there ever such a dandified thing 
 seen ? Look at it ! " 
 
 " The top of his head was getting so 
 bald : that's why he took to a wig," 
 spoke Jane in a low tone. 
 
 "Rubbish!" said Mrs. Dunn. "He'd 
 no more have cared for his bald head, 
 when there was only you to look at it, 
 than he'd have cared for flying. Have 
 it, if you like, that he did wish for a 
 wig: need he have gone and bought a 
 thing only fit for a turning dummy, in 
 a hairdresser's window — a top-knot of 
 perfumed curls ? " 
 
 " We did say it was too young for papa 
 the first morning he came down to break- 
 fast in it," murmured Jane. 
 
 " He has had his three teeth put in," 
 pursued Mrs. Dunn. 
 
 " They were out," said Jane. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 71 
 
 " They had been out nearly as long as 
 I can remember 5 certainly before mam- 
 ma died. Why should he have taken a 
 sudden freak to have them put in now, 
 after all these years ? He'll he putting 
 rouge on his cheeks next ; the} 7 say some 
 men do it." 
 
 " Lydia, I will not have you speak so 
 of your father," reproved Olive, her feel- 
 ings stung to the quick. 
 
 "Very well ; I'll let him alone. Turn 
 to Caroline Kage. Do you suppose she 
 comes here, so persistently, for } r ou girls ? 
 — dresses up her pretty face in smiles 
 for your benefit ? Why does papa stand 
 by when she is singing ? Why does he 
 laugh, and joke, and whisper — I have 
 seen him whisper to her — and why does 
 he walk home with her in an evening, as 
 he nearly always does ? " 7 
 
 " I believe he has only paid her these 
 attentions as he might pay them to any 
 other child — paid them partly because 
 she is a child," stoutly spoke Olive. 
 
 " Has he ? " sarcastically retorted Mrs. 
 Dunn. 
 
 " It never occurred to "me to think 
 otherwise, Lydia." 
 
 " Well, does it occur to you now — now 
 that the clue has been given ? " 
 
 Miss Canterbury did not answer. The 
 clue, as Mrs. Dunn called it, was forcing 
 its way to terrible conviction, in spite of 
 her assumption of disbelief. Jane felt 
 wretched, and stood with a blank face of 
 distress. 
 
 " That you have helped this on, per- 
 haps even led to it wholly, by having her 
 here so much, is certain," said Mrs. 
 Dunn, with the air of one who has re- 
 ceived a deep injury. " How you could 
 have been so obtuse I cannot imagine, 
 when the very first hour I saw them to- 
 gether was enough for me." 
 
 "You have had so much more experi- 
 ence than we have; you have been out 
 in the world," urged Jane dtprecatingly. 
 " And I think, Lydia, that being mar- 
 ried must tend to enlarge the understand- 
 ing, and give experience of mankind." 
 
 '• It just does," emphatically pro- 
 nounced Mrs. Dunn ; " if you mean as 
 to their tricks and turns. As long as we 
 are girls at home, the men seem to us 
 like so many saints, who could not go 
 wrong if they were paid for it ; but that 
 delusion wears off uncommonly quick, I 
 can tell you, when we go out amongst 
 
 them. I don't complain of my late hus- 
 band; he was a good one personally; 
 but I learnt a little as to men in general." 
 
 How all this grated on the ears of 
 Miss Canterbury, she alone could have 
 told. 2sot for many a long year had such 
 a burden of dread taken up its seat with- 
 in her. 
 
 " Lydia, I trust — I trust yon are 
 mistaken!" escaped from her full heart. 
 " Or at least, if not, that the mischief 
 may be averted." 
 
 " Mistaken I am not, Olive ; but as to 
 averting it, that's another thing. I do 
 not say matters have gone so far as to 
 prevent that," continued Mrs. Dunn, 
 somewhat qualifying her former hasty 
 words. "Papa has got an idea in his 
 head, for certain, as to Caroline Kage ; 
 but he may not commit himself to irre- 
 deemable folly." 
 
 "Here he is, coining through the 
 gate," observed Jane. 
 
 They looked at him, one and all, as he 
 turned in from the park to the grounds, 
 and bore round for the front of the house, 
 where his groom was waiting with the 
 horses, withdrawing themselves a little 
 from the window as they gazed. Mr. 
 Canterbury was presented to their view 
 in a new and curious aspect. Not but 
 that he was the same ; only their ideas in 
 regard to him had undergone a change. 
 
 " God help us all, if it should be so ! " 
 fervently aspirated Olive under her 
 breath. 
 
 wily Mrs. Kage ! It was she who 
 had brought about this undesirable con- 
 summation of things ; for Lydia Dunn 
 was not mistaken. Coming fresh upon 
 the scene, with all her wits about her, 
 vividly open to all impressions, she had 
 seen what the lookers-on had failed to 
 detect even by the smallest suspicion. 
 
 Casting about for a desirable establish- 
 ment for her daughter, Mrs. Kage had 
 laid covetous eyes on the Rock. It's 
 true it had its disadvantages — she could 
 not conceal that from herself; but think 
 of its wealth ! Mr. Canterbury had long 
 left sixty behind him, and his grown-up 
 children, all of them older than Caroline, 
 were fixtures in the house. But with a 
 fortune such as his, what might not be 
 overlooked ? she mentally argued. Cer- 
 tainly all minor difficulties. And if Car- 
 oline could only be persuaded At 
 
72 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 this point of her weaving, Mrs. Kage in- 
 variably lost the thread. 
 
 The web was begun, and grew. Per- 
 haps Mrs. Kage and Mr. Canterbury 
 went in for nearly an equal share iu its 
 work ; though the lady was undoubtedly 
 the primary originator, and set it on 
 a-weaving. Fortune sometimes favors 
 these schemes, as if the goddess herself 
 were an arch-plotter : and it was the case 
 here. Mrs. Kage got into some legal 
 difficult}^ touching a good sum of monej' 
 sought to be charged upon the very small 
 property she had inherited from her sis- 
 ter. Thomas Kage would have been the 
 right man to apply to — he could have set 
 it right in no time ; but Mrs. Kage 
 shrank from his very name ; for that 
 Caroline was wilful enough to care for 
 him as she would never care for anyone 
 else, Mrs. Kage had become convinced 
 of at Easter. Ko ; anyone rather than 
 him ; and Mrs. Kage contrived to find 
 another, and to kill two birds with one 
 stone. She consulted Mr. Canterbury. 
 That gentleman, possessing about as 
 much legal acumeu as one of the deer 
 in his own park; but considering himself 
 equal to the best lawyer going, was both 
 ready and willing to be consulted, and 
 went into the affair with energy. It in- 
 volved many visits to Mrs. Kage, where 
 he was always plunged amidst the fas- 
 cinations of Caroline, wdio .was not slow 
 to exercise them. It involved visits back 
 to Mr. Canterbury ; letters to be shown, 
 fresh thoughts and fears to be verbally 
 told ; and Caroline was generally chosen 
 for the messenger. This bore rapid fruit. 
 When elderly gentlemen fall into an at- 
 tachment of this kind, they do it in a 
 great hurry, as if time w r ere coming to 
 an end before the year were out ; and 
 Mr. Canterbury served for an exemplifi- 
 cation. Caroline was as wise as he ; be- 
 fore the man had advanced farther than 
 thinking her a sweet, lovable, charming 
 girl, and showing in manner that he 
 thought it, she saw what kind of an end 
 was to supervene. If she did not posi- 
 tively encourage his admiration, she cer- 
 tainly never repelled it; but she saw it 
 needed no specific encouragement. In 
 the coquetry of a light-minded woman — 
 and Caroline had it and exercised it in 
 abundance — she was content to be made 
 covert love to, to feed Mr. Canterbury's 
 growing dreams, and to let the future 
 
 take care of itself. Whether she should 
 accept Mr. Canterbury, when the time 
 came for a decision, and become mistress 
 of the Rock and its wide revenues; or 
 whether she should laugh prettily, and 
 stare at him with wide-open eyes of won- 
 dering simplicity while she rejected him, 
 Caroline w r as unable to foresee, and did 
 not care to think. Ever and anon a vis- 
 ion came over her of Thomas Kage's 
 making his unexpected appearance at 
 Chilling, with the news that he had drop- 
 ped into a large fortune through some 
 old relative or friend (Mrs. Garston, say) 
 who had conveniently died, and asked 
 her, Caroline, to share it with him. So 
 wildly would her bosom throb with its 
 momentary rapture, that she had to press 
 her hand there. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 SUNSHINE GONE OUT FOREVER. 
 
 The advance portion of Caroline 
 Kage's delusive dream was suddenly re- 
 alized. Between ten and eleven o'clock 
 on a brilliant June morning — the one 
 mentioned in the last chapter — Thomas 
 Kage walked in. Caroline's heart leap- 
 ed up within her ; in her tumultuous 
 joy, she could scarcely believe his ap- 
 pearance real. 
 
 And Mrs. Kage's spirits went down 
 in about an equal proportion. Mr. Can- 
 terbury's attentions had become so palpa- 
 ble that Mrs. Kage thought some climax 
 must be at hand, or ought to be. Let- 
 ters touching her law-business arrived 
 conveniently quick : one that same 
 morning. She had been telling Caro- 
 line to take it up to Mr. Canterbury, 
 and what to say about it, when they 
 were thus broken in upon by Thomas 
 Kage. Mrs. Kage was struck into a 
 state of dismay at the unwelcome inter- 
 ruption, and at thought of the mischief 
 it might work to the smooth on-fiow of 
 existing things. In answer to her short 
 questions, he said he had taken the 
 night-train down to Aberton ; and he 
 said no more. Mrs. Kage inwardly 
 wished the train had buried itself in 
 some dangerous cutting en route, and 
 him with it. 
 
 " Business at Aberton, I suppose, as 
 usual," she observed resentfully. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 73 
 
 "No. I had no business at Aberton 
 this time," was Mr. Kage's answer. 
 
 "You must have had a warm walk 
 from there." 
 
 " Not very. It is an exceedingly de- 
 lightful morning, Mrs. Kage, with a 
 pleasant breeze. — Will you come out 
 with me presently, and try it ? " he ad- 
 ded pointedly to Caroline. 
 
 She neither said yes or no. His com- 
 ing down had put her into a perplexing 
 state of indecision. Was that vision 
 of hers about to be realized ? Had for- 
 tune come to him? Quite accidentally, 
 Mrs. Kage caused the question to be 
 solved. 
 
 " Are you getting on well in your 
 profession ? " 
 
 " Not well ; very slowly," he answer- 
 ed. " In fact, so slowly, that I am not 
 sure but I shall give it up, and try my 
 luck in another line." 
 
 Caroline listened. She could have 
 laughed a bitter laugh at her own fond 
 folly. And that fair hopeful dream, as 
 connected with fortune and Thomas 
 Kage, flew abruptly away forever. 
 
 Getting the letter into her possession, 
 she put on her prettiest bonnet, and 
 contrived to quit the house unseen. 
 Something in his manner, when he had 
 asked her to go out with him, imparted 
 to her an almost certain conviction that 
 he wanted to speak of his love : in these 
 matters, there is a language not to be 
 misunderstood : and Caroline would 
 fain shun the interview. But she did 
 not dare remain long at the Rock, lest 
 he should come in search of her. 
 
 This he did. W T hile she and Mr. 
 Canterbury stood together at the stile in 
 close converse, Thomas Kage walked 
 across the field and joined them. Vex- 
 ed at the inopportune interruption, Mr. 
 Canterbury was rather short with the 
 young barrister, in spite of his real lik- 
 ing for him, and turned back home 
 again after a shake of the hand and a 
 few words. 
 
 " Why did you not tell me you were 
 going to the Rock, Caroline ? " began 
 Mr. Kage, as he assisted her over the 
 stile, and the}' proceeded onwards. " I 
 would have walked with you." 
 
 In defiance of the warm love that 
 glowed within her, tingling her pulses, 
 flushing her cheeks, Caroline Kage 
 steeled her heart against him. The 
 
 very effort to do it — the consciousness 
 that it must be done — rendered her 
 manner cold, abrupt, and petulant. 
 
 That is just what I did not tell you," 
 she said. " I wanted to go alone." 
 
 " Will you take my arm ? " 
 
 " No, thank you. It's not the fash- 
 ion to take arms in this part of the 
 world." 
 
 " It was, the last time I was down 
 here. Do you remember our moonlight 
 walk over these same paths ? And I 
 think you were just now leaning on Mr. 
 Canterbury's." 
 
 " But he is so very close a friend." 
 
 " And I am your cousin." 
 
 " A great many degrees removed," 
 she said, with a little nervous laugh. 
 
 " The more the better, Caroline, in 
 one point of view. W 7 hat a beau he is 
 getting ! " 
 
 " Who is ? " 
 
 " Old Canterbury. He is ten years 
 younger, to look at, than he was two 
 months ago. What has he been doing 
 to himself?" 
 
 How came you to pay us a visit to-day, 
 and to come without sending word ? " 
 quickly inquired Caroline, as if anxious 
 to pass by the subject of Mr. Canter- 
 bury's looks. 
 
 " I came to see you, Caroline." 
 
 "0!" she slighting^ said, wishing 
 she had wings and could fly away. " I 
 thought you always had business at Ab- 
 erton. Don't say any more about it ; 
 I would rather not know." 
 
 " First of all, I wish to tell you some 
 news, Caroline," he continued quietly ; 
 " and then I would ask your advice. I 
 have had a post offered me in India, and 
 I am deliberating whether it will or will 
 not be worth my while to give up the 
 law and accept it. The commencing 
 salary would be seven hundred a-3'ear ; 
 the rise, thej' sa} r , tolerably rapid. In 
 six or seven years from this it might be 
 fifteen hundred — rather more than 
 doubled." 
 
 "You do not make seven hundred 
 a-year in London ? " 
 
 "Nothing like it; I wish I did; 
 there'd be no question then of my leav- 
 ing it. This year I expect to make 
 about three hundred, all told." 
 
 " Then I should go to India," she 
 said, with animation. " You may never 
 have such a chance thrown in your way 
 
74 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 again. Accept it at once, without hesi- 
 tation. I should start by the next 
 mail." 
 
 " Should you ? Is that your deliber- 
 ate advice ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I could not go alone, Caroline." 
 
 The moment was coming. She hated 
 it very much, simply because she knew 
 she should be false both to him and her- 
 self. Her face took a white hue. 
 
 " If I can — can induce one to go out 
 with me, 1113^ loving companion, and 
 share my fortunes, then I will go. 
 Otherwise, I stay and fight out my fate 
 in England." 
 
 Caroline Kage did not answer. Her 
 manner and face had grown cold as a 
 stone. He resumed, turning on her his 
 good honest eyes, speaking in a low, 
 steady tone. 
 
 " A great hope has lain within me for 
 several months now ; in fact, since that 
 sojourn at the sea-side last year ; you 
 and I have met twice since then, and 
 with each time it has grown brighter 
 and surer. I did not speak of it; while 
 my future was so doubtful, it was im- 
 possible to do so in honor ; neither did 
 I betray it bj T so much as a look — at 
 least, not willingly ; in these cases there 
 lies generally a tacit understanding, 
 arising one knows not how or whence, 
 and I think you have understood me. 
 When this post was first placed at my 
 disposal, my impulse was to reject it. 
 But I considered it well ; and I saw 
 that it might present a solution to what 
 seemed a hard fate — prolonged, inter- 
 minable waiting — if you also could be 
 brought to regard it, with your mother's 
 approbation, in the same light. And 
 so I determined to lay the case before 
 you, and ask you, Caroline, to go out to 
 India with me." 
 
 She was a little agitated, opening her 
 lips to speak and closing them again 
 abruptly. Her color went and came. 
 
 " I wish you to understand fully, be- 
 fore deciding, Caroline ; not for worlds 
 would I induce you to take a step that 
 might result afterwards in disappoint- 
 ment. Therefore try and realise what 
 I am about to say. You have, I pre- 
 sume, some notion of the relative value 
 of money — what seven hundred a-year 
 may imply as to ways and means. 
 
 Y"our mother's income is, I believe, just 
 five hundred per annum ; mine will be 
 seven ; but then money goes less far in 
 India than at home. I should start 
 with a few hundreds in hand, and my 
 salary will have a yearly increase. "Y\ e 
 should have quite enough for comfort, a 
 little for moderate luxury." 
 
 He paused, but received no answer. 
 
 " Would the companion venture with 
 me?" 
 
 " No," she answered. And her tone 
 was low and cold. " No." 
 
 A change, like a blight, passed over 
 his features. " Think again, Caroline," 
 he said, after a pause. ''Reflect upon 
 it, and give me an answer later in the 
 day." 
 
 " There is no necessity. I should 
 only say what I do now — no." 
 
 In perfect silence they walked on 
 some yards. Caroline suddenly quick- 
 ened her pace, as though she would 
 have quitted him. He put out his 
 hand to stop her. 
 
 " Caroline, have you fully understood 
 me?" 
 
 " I imagine so : I am quite sure so. 
 Quite fully." 
 
 "And you reject me?" 
 
 " Don't be silly. Reject ! Well, then, 
 — 3 r es ; if you will have an answer. 
 Cousins we are, and cousins we must 
 remain ; nothing more." 
 
 " I have waited long to say this ; I 
 could not speak without some such jus- 
 tification as that which now offers. You 
 have misled me, Caroline." 
 
 " What will you say next ? If there 
 has been any misleading in the matter, 
 it must have been } r our fancy." 
 
 " You have misled me, and you know 
 it," he reiterated, too earnest to heed 
 the signs of his own agitation. "You 
 have been misleading me all along." 
 
 " Tom, I have not. I dread poverty, 
 and should never marry to encounter it, 
 so how could I mislead you ? Don't 
 make a spectacle of yourself; I hate 
 scenes, especialty in an open field." 
 
 " I am not one to make a spectacle of 
 myself," he rejoined, with sufficient 
 calmness, " but — I must repeat it — you 
 have cruelly misled me. Do you forget 
 that when I was last here, you — ' 
 
 " Yes, I forget all about it and I 
 don't wish to remember," she heartlessly 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 75 
 
 interrupted. " Why, I'd rather he turn- 
 ed into that glove of yours than wed 
 myself to poverty." 
 
 " Do you call the income I have de- 
 scribed poverty ? " 
 
 " Of course I do ; dreadful poverty to 
 marry upon. Where's the good of mar- 
 rying at all, if you are to be no better 
 off than before ? Seven hundred a-year, 
 indeed ! it would not half keep me in 
 dress." 
 
 " Upon what income, then, would you 
 marry ? " 
 
 " Upon as many thousands. Not a 
 fraction under." 
 
 Partly from the agitation that the 
 moment brought to her, so that she 
 scarcely knew what she said or did, 
 partly because she felt herself in a di- 
 lemma which half- frightened her, her 
 manner and words were alike repellent, 
 while her heart was silently beating 
 with its love. But for a golden vista 
 already dazzling her worldly eyes, Car- 
 oline Kage might have been true to 
 love and herself, and gone out with him. 
 That she had led him to hope in a man- 
 ner unmistakable, that she was using 
 him miserably ill, her mind was as con- 
 scious of as his. Thomas Kage strug- 
 gled to be his own calm self, and if his 
 countenance betrayed its sense of wrong, 
 he did not speak it ; and thus walking 
 side by side in silence, each with a 
 bursting heart, they reached the gate. 
 Caroline would have passed in hurriedly. 
 
 " Surely you will not leave me thus ! " 
 he said, with emotion. " Do you know 
 what you are doing for me? — that my 
 life henceforth will be a blighted one ? " 
 
 " I am very sorry ; I hope you will 
 soon forget me, Tom," she answered, 
 her voice a little softening. " The 
 sooner the better." 
 
 " What if I were to tell you that you 
 are heartless ? " 
 
 Heartless she certainly was not, in 
 respect to having loved him. But she 
 knew the safer plan now was to appear 
 so. 
 
 " I cannot help it if you do. You 
 should never have thought of me or 
 come near me, knowing your prospects 
 were what they are. How was I to 
 know ? " 
 
 " Then it is not me you would reject, 
 but my want of sufficient income ? Let 
 me lay the case before Mrs. Kage, and 
 
 see if she considers it an insuperable 
 bar." 
 
 " I would advise you not. It would 
 be a waste of time. Knowing my 
 mother as you do, you must be aware 
 that, far from persuading me to marry 
 upon a small income, she would be the 
 first to stop me. That is not to the pur- 
 pose, however : were she even to urge 
 me to accept you for my husband, I 
 should answer her as I have answered 
 you — I will not." 
 
 " So, hope is to go out for me thus ; 
 now, and for evermore ! " 
 
 " Hope never ought to have existed. 
 Unless you could offer me a suitable 
 home, with carriages and court-dresses 
 and opera-boxes and all that, you might 
 have had better sense than to think of 
 me. Thomas, I cannot help saying it." 
 
 " Does happiness lie in court-dresses 
 and opera-boxes, think you, Caroline ? " 
 he sadly asked, his pale face made paler 
 by the contrast of the green laurels. 
 
 " Yes, of course. I cannot do with- 
 out them. What is more, I shall never 
 be induced to try." 
 
 " Caroline, my love, let me pray of 
 you not to deceive yourself. I speak for 
 your own sake. These things, unless 
 your heart can be with him who gives 
 them, will turn out but mocking 
 shadows." 
 
 " Never ; for 'me. I was born to pomp 
 and state on my mother's side, as you 
 know. Though they have not been mine 
 yet, I shall not love them less when they 
 come." 
 
 " God forgive you, Caroline, for play- 
 ing me false. You know how you have 
 led me on from the first, and what your 
 manner has been to me. The sunshine 
 of my life goes out with you." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " 
 
 " That you may never repent this day 
 is ray earnest wish ; hut I cannot help 
 saj T ing that you will, in all probability, 
 live to recall it with pain. A woman 
 cannot heartlessly jilt a man, as you are 
 about to jilt me, without its pressing 
 sometimes unpleasantly on her memory. 
 I will try and bear in silence, wishing 
 you no ill-will, rather praying ever that 
 God shall bless you." 
 
 She ran in doors for safety, her eyes 
 
 filling with tears as she went, in manner 
 
 repellent to the last. It was well to go: 
 
 | had she stayed another moment, she 
 
76 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 might have fallen on his bosom in re- 
 pentance. Thomas Kage looked after her 
 with yearning eyes. It had been the 
 turning-point in his life; the turn which 
 so many must pass and survive : all green 
 behind, bright hopeful green, as a mead- 
 ow in spring; all gray henceforward, a 
 dull, cheerless, leaden gray. One word of 
 his had been apt : if ever man was jilted 
 in this world, he had been by Caroline 
 Kage. 
 
 Luncheon was on the table when he 
 entered, and Mrs. Kage in the fidgets. 
 She would willingly have chained him bj T 
 the leg, rather than that he should be 
 lingering in the verdant fields, in the 
 sweet summer air with Caroline. 
 
 That young lady, gone up stairs to take 
 off her bonnet, came down with a serene, 
 unconscious lace. Mrs. Kage approached 
 the table, and put her eyeglass up. 
 
 " Cold lamb ! " she said. « Will you 
 save me the trouble of carving, Thomas? 
 And mind you make a good luncheon : 
 it must be millions of hours since you 
 breakfasted." 
 
 He did as he was told : carved ; and 
 made a good luncheon, or appeared to do 
 so : Mrs. Kage was not one to take much 
 notice, and Caroline seemed occupied 
 with her own plate. The conversation 
 turned on general subjects, partly upon 
 Mrs. Garston, upon Sarah Annesley and 
 her new home in London :' but not a word 
 did he say further of himself or his affairs. 
 When the tray was removed, and Mrs. 
 Kage had resumed her sofa, her fan, and 
 her essence-bottles, he approached her to 
 say farewell. 
 
 " Are you going now ? " cried Mrs. 
 Kage. 
 
 " I must, indeed." 
 
 " I understood you to say that you 
 might stay for dinner." 
 
 He had sail something of the sort — 
 anticipating a different answer from Car- 
 oline. The night train had brought him 
 down ; the next night train he had in- 
 tended should convey him back. He 
 would take the first that started now. 
 
 " I am anxious to get back to town : 
 this is a busy time at Westminster. 
 And now that I have seen you and Car- 
 oline — " 
 
 He did not finish his sentence — if it 
 had any finish. A shake of Mrs. Kage's 
 delicate hand, faded like her face, and 
 then he turned to Caroline. 
 
 " Am I to say farewell ? " 
 
 So he had not given up hope, even 
 then? The low tone was full of mean- 
 ing, the eyes went questioningly out into 
 the depths of hers. 
 
 Only for a moment. She turned them 
 away with a hard coldness, and put out 
 her hand with a grudging air. 
 
 " Good-bye, Thomas. I wish you a 
 pleasant journey." 
 
 Was it said in mockery ? Ko, but he 
 verily thought it. The front door closed 
 after him, and next the gate between the 
 laurels. 
 
 "There never was any comprehend- 
 ing him," said Mrs. Kage, languidly re- 
 freshing her face with eau-de-Cologne. 
 "Fancy his coming all that immense dis- 
 tance, and travelling all night, to stay 
 but an hour ! " 
 
 How long Caroline remained motion- 
 less at the window, straining her eyes on 
 the gate Mr. Kage had passed through, 
 she heeded not. If the sunshine, as he 
 said, had gone out of his heart, very bit- 
 terly conscious was she that it had equally 
 gone out of hers. In his departure, in 
 the miserable certainty that he and she 
 were finally divided for ever, there came 
 a revulsionof feeling. Perhaps for a few 
 moments Caroline saw things in their 
 true colors, shorn of fancj r , and discerned 
 the superiority and the worth of the man 
 she had thrown away. But for its utter 
 fruitlessness, she might have stretched 
 out her repentant arms with the cry that 
 had once before broken from her lips ; 
 " mj 7 love, my love, come back to me ! " 
 
 " Have you lost your hearing, Caro- 
 line?" demanded Mrs. Kage. " I ask 
 you what could have brought the young 
 man down on this fhying visit ? He con- 
 fessed he had no business at Aberton this 
 time." 
 
 The direct questions recalled Caroline 
 to existing things. She roused herself, 
 but did not answer. 
 
 " He certainly said at first he should 
 be happy to remain to dinner," pursued 
 Mrs. Kage. "Kot that I wanted him to, 
 I'm sure. It is quite disagreeable to 
 possess a sixteenth cousin, unhappily of 
 the same name, who takes the liberty of 
 popping in upon you at all hours and 
 seasons — this is the third time he has 
 come. But, having come, what has he 
 gone flying back again for in so vast a 
 hurry ? " 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 77 
 
 " I "believe it is through me that he 
 has gone," said Caroline in a low tone, 
 for she wished to make a clean breast of 
 it, and of something else besides. "I 
 offended him, and it sent him away." 
 
 " How was that ? " asked Mrs. Kage, 
 putting on that indifferent drawl in 
 which she was an adept. " Adjust this 
 cushion at my feet, will you, Caroline ?" 
 
 " He has had a place in India offered 
 to him," said Caroline, sinking her voice 
 and disregarding the cushion. " He said 
 he would accept it if I would go out with 
 him." • 
 
 " What is the value of it ? " eagerly 
 responded Mrs. Kage, as she leaned for- 
 ward, forgetting her languor in glowing 
 mists of lakhs upon lakhs of rupees. 
 
 " Seven hundred a-year." 
 
 Mrs. Kage fell back again. " ! " 
 
 " Seven hundred to begin with, and 
 rising year by year up to fifteen. He 
 thought it right to warn me that money 
 does not go far in India." 
 
 " Well ? " said Mrs. Kage sharply, in 
 the pause come to by Caroline. 
 
 " I ridiculed it, mamma." 
 
 " What else should you do, child ? 
 That's well. I always thought Thomas 
 Kage a fool ; he has just proved himself 
 one." 
 
 Caroline took up a ball of cotton and 
 tossed it dreamily, as though her thoughts 
 were far away. Mrs. Kage drew her 
 white shawl over her shoulders and re- 
 sumed. 
 
 " Did you see Mr. Canterbury this 
 morning ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and left the letter with him. 
 He will come in about it by and by." 
 
 Mrs. Kage began unscrewing the 
 stopper of her smelling-salts, an obsti- 
 nate stopper, given to stick in, and made 
 no remark. 
 
 " He joined me as I was leaving, and 
 walked with me through the park," con- 
 tinued Caroline, breaking the pause. 
 
 Mrs. Kage had heard this so often 
 that she was getting a little irritated. 
 For the life of her she could not tell 
 whether Mr. Canterbury meant any 
 thing by these attentions or whether he 
 did not. 
 
 "All shilly-shallying, Caroline. Mr. 
 Canterbury ought to speak to you." 
 
 " He has spoken. As we stood at the 
 Btile that divides the park from the field, 
 one word led to another, I suppose, and 
 he asked me to be Mrs. Canterbury." 
 
 The young lady spoke with listless 
 apath}' ; but not with apathy was the 
 intelligence received. The Honorable 
 Mrs. Kage could be roused sometimes, 
 though it took a good deal to do it. 
 
 " You lucky girl ! To be provided for 
 in this splendid manner at eighteen. 
 How delightful ! " 
 
 " Does it bode good-luck or ill-luck to 
 receive two offers of mnrriage in one 
 morning ? " dreamily wondered Caro- 
 line. 
 
 "Ill-luck!" screamed Mrs. Kage. 
 " Ill-luck to be made the mistress of a 
 splendid place like the Rock ! — of un- 
 limited wealth ! — of jewels and dia- 
 monds ! You happy child! You will 
 be the envy of the world." 
 
 " Well, I don't know, mamma," said 
 Caroline ; and her tone certainly did not 
 tell of happiness. "I had not used to 
 care so much for those things until you 
 talked me into it. Of course a fine es- 
 tablishment is desirable, and money and 
 jewels are desirable ; but — I can't tell." 
 
 " Desirable ! " broke in Mrs. Kage ; 
 " money is the only desirable thing in 
 life ; I know it to " my cost. I was a 
 simpleton, and married for love : married 
 one who had nothing but his face aud his 
 figure and his scarlet regimentals ; I, 
 a peer's daughter. He was a perfect 
 Adonis, to be sure — and you, dear, are 
 the very image of him, as I continually 
 tell you — but one can't live upon beauty. 
 And what were the wretched, miserable, 
 lasting consequences ? Why, that I 
 sunk down to the level of an obscure 
 officer's wife — and widow — and was 
 obliged to eke out my paltry bit of 
 money as I best could, and am neglec- 
 ted and forgotten by those of my own 
 rank. I have told your papa many a 
 time that he had better have buried me 
 alive than run away with me : and so he 
 had." 
 
 " Still, money is not everything, 
 mamma; no, nor jewels either; and I 
 do not know whether they will compen- 
 sate for the drawbacks of an old husband 
 who has old children. I wish I did 
 know." 
 
 " Yes, they will, Caroline," said Mrs. 
 Kage, leaning on her elbow and sniffing 
 at her vinaigrette. " Believe me. It is 
 woman's destiny, unhappily, to grow up, 
 and be married ; and of course she can't 
 go aside from it. And if she could, she 
 wouldn't. Girls have exalted notions, 
 
78 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 you see, as to a married life ; implanted 
 in them at their birth, I think, by some 
 spirit of contrariness, for I'm sure I 
 don't know how else they come. To 
 their notion, it seems a sort of celestial 
 Paradise, and all they think of is, how 
 to get in, never reflecting that, once in, 
 there's no getting out — " 
 
 " There it is, mamma." 
 
 " Let me finish. I say, child, it is a 
 woman's destiny to be married, just as it 
 is a stray sheep's to be put into the 
 pound ; but I do assure you that it is 
 not of the very slightest consequence 
 what the husband may be : youth or age, 
 beauty or deformity, stocked with intel- 
 lect or devoid of brains ; it is all one, 
 provided he has a deep purse. This is 
 the one only thing to look at. Suppose I 
 had had a heap of children," logically 
 proceeded Mrs. Kage, " where should I 
 have been ! Why, in the workhouse ; 
 worse off than any poor stray lamb in 
 the pound." 
 
 Caroline leaned from the window, and 
 plucked a piece of clematis. Her moth- 
 er resumed : 
 
 " I repeat, that a marriage for love is 
 the most miserable fate on earth, where 
 a good income does not accompany it. 
 I married for love myself, and I ought 
 to know. Your dear papa said I worried 
 him into his grave with my complaints ; 
 but one may just as well be in the grave 
 as out of it, where the money is lacking. 
 As to love, it is the most wearisome 
 Darby-and-Joan kind of thing you can 
 imagine, enough to give one the cold 
 shivers." 
 
 " He wears a wig," grumbled Caroline, 
 reverting ro her own grievances, as they 
 ran one after another through her mind. 
 
 " The most enchanting wig I ever saw, 
 dear : no living soul could tell that it's 
 not growing hair. It is so beautifully 
 blended with his own — of which he has 
 a full crop behind — that a French coif- 
 feur, with all his artistic skill, could not 
 tell where the hair ends and the wig be- 
 gins." 
 
 " But it is a wig," argued Caroline. 
 
 " Whether it's a wig, or whether it is 
 not, it will not. add to, or take from, do- 
 mestic felicity." 
 
 Caroline Kage raised her eyebrows. 
 " Domestic felicity, and old Father Can- 
 terbury ! " irreverently thought she. 
 Involuntarily, another form rose to her 
 
 mind, in connection with that word : one 
 she had just watched out of sight. 
 
 " Does he take it off at night ? " 
 
 " Take off what ? " asked Mrs. Kage, 
 in momentary forgetfulness of their sub- 
 ject. 
 
 " The wig," irritably explained Caro- 
 line. " If he does, and I see his bald 
 head, I shall scream frightfully." 
 
 " My dear child, let your thoughts 
 centre upon the enormous wealth that 
 will be yours, not upon a perishable wig," 
 said Mrs. Kage, refreshing her face 
 again. 
 
 " I wish I knew, I wish I knew," 
 murmured Caroline in a low tone, but 
 her mother caught the words. 
 
 " Knew what ? " 
 
 " Whether it will be for good or for 
 ill." 
 
 Could it have been that her guardian 
 angel was, even then, warning her from 
 this marriage ? A very powerful in- 
 stinct against it had arisen in her heart. 
 Caroline hid her ej^es in her hands, and 
 strove to see what she had best do — it 
 was not yet too late. Had she been in 
 the habit of seeking for a Guidance that 
 cannot fail, she would have sought it 
 then ; but she never had been. The 
 Honorable Mrs. Kage had taught her 
 how to enter a ballroom gracefully, had 
 shown her how to win, by deception if 
 need were, the favor of desirable men ; 
 but that other kind of tuition had been 
 utterly passed over. Poor Caroline ! 
 
 Mrs. Kage looked at her with a kind 
 of hungry keenness, scarcely assured yet; 
 and sprinkled half-a-dozen essences 
 abroad at once. 
 
 " Was he all rapture, dear?" 
 
 " Who ? " cried Caroline, starting 
 from her reverie, and a burning blush 
 diffused itself over her face. 
 
 " Mr. Canterbury." 
 
 " ! " was the slighting comment, for 
 the question had certainly borne another 
 reference in her mind. " Why should 
 Mr. Canterbury be in a rapture ? " 
 
 " When you accepted him, dearest." 
 
 "I did not accept him." 
 
 Mrs. Kage half raised herself, looked 
 at Caroline with open mouth, and then 
 fell back in a flood of tears, bemoaning 
 her hard fate, and her daughter's folly in 
 having rejected the Pock. She had al- 
 ready been anticipating a large share of 
 its magnificent comforts. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 79 
 
 "A mansion fit for a king ; carriages 
 ab command ; servants in numbers ; lux- 
 urious pineries, and hothouses, and con- 
 servatories ; wines from every part of 
 the known w r orld ; delicacies served on 
 silver and gold ; and a banker's book that 
 has no end ! — Caroline !" 
 
 Caroline pushed her hair off in a heat, 
 and looked rather defiant. This upset 
 Mrs. Kage. 
 
 " She's a regular chip of the old 
 block!" cried that lady, going into a 
 frightful passion. " Her father was one 
 of the fools of the world, and she takes 
 after him. I've said so twenty times. 
 Go after that miserable Tom Kage, you 
 ungrateful girl ! Be off to India with 
 him ! Live in barracks, or starve ! what 
 shall I care ? " 
 
 " There is no necessity to put yourself 
 out, mamma," coolly spoke Caroline. 
 
 " The purple and fine linen she might 
 have indulged in ! — the opera-boxes and 
 Richmond fetes ! — the delights of a Lon- 
 don season — the presentation at Court in 
 feathers and pearls. And to give it all 
 up for Thomas Kage, the low-born!" 
 
 " I said that I rejected Mr. Kage." 
 
 "You said as well that you had reject- 
 ed Mr. Canterbury. Yah ! How dare 
 you answer me ? " 
 
 "No, I did not," calmly went on Car- 
 oline. " I said I had not accepted Mr. 
 Canterbury. I suppose I should have 
 done so had there been time ; but Thom- 
 as Kage came up at the moment while I 
 was hesitating. We were standing with 
 our backs this way, and never saw him 
 until he was close." 
 
 Away went Mrs. Kage's sobs. " Dear- 
 est, darling child, why did 3-ou not say 
 so at first ? My own love ; you will ac- 
 cept him ? " 
 
 Caroline knitted her brows. I sup- 
 pose so. I don't know what else to do." 
 
 " I will accept him for you to-night, 
 my dear, and tell him how happy you 
 are to be his wife. My poor nerves!" 
 
 " If I could only foresee a little into 
 the future ! " exclaimed Caroline, her face 
 gloomy, her tone miserably doubtful. 
 Mrs. Kage glanced at her stealthily, as 
 she threw some sweet odors about. 
 
 " My sweet dove ! I am sure you did 
 like the notion of this grand good fortune. 
 I could not have been mistaken." 
 
 " Yes, in one sense," answered Caro- 
 line, inwardly conscious that she had 
 
 done her share towards leading Mr. Can- 
 terbury on. " But a strange foreboding 
 
 that will not bring me happiness is up- 
 on me, now that the moment for decision 
 has come." 
 
 "I am delighted to hear it, dear;" 
 and Mrs. Kage had reassumed all her af- 
 fected languor. " De-lighted. Things 
 all turn out and go by contrary. Winn 
 I had given your poor papa the promise 
 to have him, in spite of everybody — and 
 an idiot he was for asking it. knowing 
 what his paltry income was — I was all 
 in a glow of rapturous anticipation. My 
 marriage resulted in disappointment; 
 youts will bring everything that's good. 
 I foresee it, dear." 
 
 " If I do have Mr. Canterbury, I 
 should like to be master and mistress." 
 
 " 0, to be sure, sweetest. He is ex- 
 cessively good-natured, and jour wishes 
 will be his. I should have liked to see 
 your dead papa attempt to contradict 
 mine ! " 
 
 " I don't allude to him. Of course I 
 shall do all I like, as far as he goes. I 
 spoke of the Miss Canterburys. Suppose 
 Olive should try to domineer over me ? 
 I would not stand it." 
 
 The notion of Olive Canterbury's at- 
 tempting to domineer over her father's 
 wife so tickled Mrs. Kage, that she laugh- 
 ed till she upset her choicest essence- 
 bottle. 
 
 " To think of the inexperienced goose 
 j T ou are, dear Caroline ! You will be sim- 
 pl} x a queen, and exercise a queen's will. 
 As to Mr. Canterbury's daughters, 1 will 
 take care, once you are installed at the 
 Rock, that another home is found for 
 them." 
 
 " Mamma ! " exclaimed Caroline, half- 
 startled at the semi-promise. 
 
 "Yes, yes, dear, it will be all right; 
 rely upon me. My respected father, Lord 
 Gunse, always said what a talent I had 
 for diplomacy." 
 
 And the Lord Gunse's honorable 
 daughter fell back in easy complacency 
 on her sofa, and gathered up the fallen 
 essence-bottle. 
 
 Scarcely knowing, certainly not heed- 
 ing, which way he took, Thomas Kage, 
 leaving the house and his hopes behind 
 him, had turned into the narrow privet- 
 walk. The sun shone still on the world, 
 but for him it seemed to have set for ever. 
 
80 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 Only those who have passed through the 
 ordeal can tell what that awful moment 
 of awaking was to him. The heart had 
 had its best life crushed out of it ; it had 
 been withered with the cruel blow. 
 
 Winding round between the close 
 hedges, when he was halfway through 
 the confined walk he came face to face 
 with Millicent Canterbury. So entirely 
 was he buried in the moment's anguish, 
 that at first he positively did not recog- 
 nise her. Millicent stopped, half-scared ; 
 scared at what she saw on his counte- 
 nance. 
 
 A few hurried words ensued — an apol- 
 ogy for not being able to call at the 
 Rock ; an intimation that he was hasten- 
 ing away to catch a London train ; and 
 Mr. Kage, lifting his hat, passed on, 
 leaving Millicent gazing after him, a 
 wondering surprise on her face, a sense 
 of blank disappointment in her heart. 
 
 " What can be amiss ? " she said aloud. 
 " He looks like a man stricken for death." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 COMING HOME. 
 
 In his fine library, its walls lined with 
 valuable books, and its appointments fit 
 for a royal potentate, paced George Can- 
 terbury. The light, lingering still in the 
 western sky after the sun went down, 
 cast its soft brightness on the room 
 through the beautiful painted window at 
 the farther end, imparting a red glow to 
 the still handsome face of the room's 
 master, so that he looked heated. Per- 
 haps he was: the day had been sultry; 
 Mr. Canterbury had just dined, and the 
 flush might have been more than surface- 
 heat. Besides, there were other causes ; 
 and if the blood coursed on faster than 
 ordinary, it was only natural that it 
 should. 
 
 George Canterbury, turned sixty, had 
 made an offer of marriage that day to a 
 young girl of eighteen. He called in at 
 her mother's late in the afternoon to 
 know his fate, and was accepted. So far, 
 it was all very smooth and pleasant ; but 
 he had to make the communication to his 
 daughters, and that was less so. It 
 ought to be done at once, and he was 
 thinking of the words he should use, and 
 
 exactly what he could say, as he paced 
 there — something after the manner of a 
 schoolboy who cons his lesson. 
 
 The shades in the room grew darker, 
 and a servant came in to light the wax- 
 candles ; but he found himself stopped. 
 A semi-darkened atmosphere is less em- 
 barrassing to make a disagreeable com- 
 munication in than a broad glare of 
 light ; and the master of the Rock was 
 conscious of it. 
 
 " Don't light up yet, John. Go and 
 say to Miss Canterbury that I wish to. 
 see her here." 
 
 Olive came in. A shivering dread lay 
 within her of what she was going to 
 hear ; but nothing of it appeared in her 
 manner; she was calm, grand, stately as 
 usual. 
 
 " Do you want me, papa ? " 
 "Yes. Sit down, Olive. " 
 Every word that George Canterbury 
 had been rehearsing went clean out of 
 his head. He had never been troubled 
 with nervousness in any form ; but it 
 was not pleasant to have to tell this good 
 and grand daughter, who was herself 
 turned thirty, and for many years the 
 Rock's entire mistress, that he was about 
 to bring home a young wife. Olive sat 
 down, implicitly obedient, and waited. 
 
 He imparted the news somehow, in 
 rather a lame fashion ; and he had less 
 trouble than he expected in being under- 
 stood. Had he made the communication 
 four and twenty hours earlier, Olive 
 Canterbury's utter surprise and shock 
 would have discomposed him ; but she 
 had now been warned of it. 
 
 Never a word did she utter while 
 he spoke. To anyone but her father 
 she would have remonstrated against so 
 unsuitable a scheme, and not spared it 
 condemnation ; but to him, remembering 
 the duty of a daughter, she remained si- 
 lent. She could not praise ; she would 
 not blame. It was a bitter moment in 
 Olive Canterbury's life. 
 
 " Do you fancy, sir, that this can pos- 
 sibly bring satisfaction to yourself?" 
 she asked in a low tone, breaking the 
 painful silence. 
 
 " Certainly I do, Olive ; there can be 
 no doubt it will." 
 
 " I — I suppose you wish me to under- 
 stand that the measure is irrevocably 
 fixed upon, not merely one that you con- 
 template as probable ? " 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 81 
 
 " Of course it is," answered Mr. Can- 
 terbury, in the rather fractious tone that 
 opposition sometimes induces : for of all 
 men living, none bore opposition less 
 well than George Canterbury. His 
 temperament was the most yielding in 
 the world, and to be crossed troubled him. 
 
 " Should I have sent for you to tell 
 you this, Olive, had it not been irrevoca- 
 bly fixed? We shall be married direct- 
 
 ly." 
 
 There was nothing further to be said 
 then. Olive tried to falter out some 
 words of congratulation, of hope for his 
 future happiness; but they froze on her 
 tongue, and her dry lips refused to speak 
 them. She was glad to escape from the 
 room ; Mr. Canterbury was not less glad 
 that she should. 
 
 " Well, what were you wanted for?" 
 was the salutation that greeted Miss 
 Canterbury, when she returned to her 
 sisters in the lighted drawing room ; and 
 it was Mrs. Dunn who spoke it. " What 
 news have you heard?" 
 
 " The worst news possible to be heard ; 
 the news you prepared us for to-da} r , 
 Lydia," was Olive's reply, as she sank 
 into a seat stunned and miserable. 
 " Caroline Kage is to take my dead 
 mother's place." 
 
 " I told you so," was Lydia Dunn's 
 answer. And there was actually a kind 
 of complaisant satisfaction in her tone — 
 not at the doubtful blow being true, but 
 at her own clear-sightedness in finding 
 it out. 
 
 Jane Canterbury turned her head 
 from the light with a faint moan ; Milli- 
 cent dropped her face on the table amidst 
 her sewing-silks, and burst into tears; 
 Mrs. Dunn, on the contrary, advanced 
 full into the rays of the chandelier, and 
 stood upright, angry, indignant. 
 
 " Do not meet it in this spirit, girls ; 
 show 3'our dignity, if ^ou possess an}\ 
 I presume you stood up for your rights, 
 Miss Canterbury ? '*' 
 
 " What rights ? " returned Olive, too 
 utterly prostrated to retain her usual 
 self-possessed good sense. 
 
 " What rights ! " repeated Mrs. Dunn 
 in a taunting tone, for she had no no- 
 tion of people's yielding to ill-fortune. 
 " Well, that is a pertinent question ! " 
 
 But Olive could not retort; Mrs. 
 Dunn saw it, and made the best of it. 
 
 " Has it not occurred to you, Olive, 
 5 
 
 that you ought to have an explicit un- 
 derstanding with your father? — that 
 your privileges and your sisters' liberties 
 and comforts, as daughters of this house, 
 must remain intact, secure from the ca- 
 pricious control of any interloper? Did 
 you say this ? " 
 
 " Lydia, I could not say it ! " 
 
 " I see I must act for you all," said 
 Mrs. Dunn with condescending patron- 
 age. " I did. think you were strong- 
 minded, Olive." 
 
 " So did I," said poor Olive, " until 
 this came." 
 
 Perhaps Mrs. Dunn — a hard woman 
 by nature — could not understand or real- 
 ize to herself what a blow this, their fa- 
 ther's marriage, was to the unwedded 
 daughters of the house. She had quit- 
 ted home and home-ties ; she had her 
 dwelling and her interests away; her fa- 
 ther and the Rock no longer, so to say, 
 belonged to her ; but she was quite 
 ready, in her domineering spirit, to 
 make their cause hers. She thought it 
 was her mission to put the world, includ- 
 ing Mr. Canterbury, to rights when it 
 wanted it ; and she liked amazingly the 
 anticipated battle. 
 
 The library was lighted when she en- 
 tered, and George Canterbury sat in his 
 evening spectacles (which had double 
 glasses), calmly reading the county pa- 
 per. To see his self-asserting daughter 
 L} T dia come in, pushing back the door 
 with an air of authority, acted on him 
 as a kind of shock. He had hoped the 
 unpleasantness of the matter was over ; 
 and he had always been rather afraid of 
 positive Lydia. 
 
 " Sir, this is a startling communica- 
 tion you have made to Olive," she be- 
 gan, not choosing to hint at any previous 
 suspicions of her own. " Can it possi- 
 bly be true ? " 
 
 Mr. Canterbury fidgeted the least in 
 the world, so far as slightly to ruffle the 
 leaves of the journal, and intimated 
 that it was true. Lydia had taken up h?r 
 station right in front of him, at a few 
 paces' distance. 
 
 " What is to become of my sisters ? " 
 
 " Become of them ! " repeated Mr. 
 Canterbury, holding the paper before his 
 face, as if still perusing it. " In what 
 way ? " 
 
 '• I put myself out of the discussion 
 altogether, having my own home — which 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 I shall very soon return to now," contin- 
 ued Mrs. Dunn decisively. " But they 
 have no other home to retire to, sir." 
 
 " They do not require any other." 
 
 "As soon as you marry, it will he 
 your wife's home, not theirs." 
 
 " Absurd ! " repeated Mr. Canterbury. 
 " If I chose to bring home four-and- 
 twenty wives there would be room for 
 your sisters then." 
 
 " In point of space there might be. 
 But young wives are given to be domi- 
 neering, and Miss Kage may take a 
 fancy for indulging in it. How, in that 
 case, could they remain at the Rock ? 
 There's no sa} T ing, indeed, what extent 
 of putting-upon Jane might bear ; but 
 Olive " 
 
 " This is uncalled-for, Lydia," inter- 
 rupted Mr. Canterbur}', rising in sur- 
 prise, and facing his daughter. " Miss 
 Kage is of amiable nature ; she and 
 they are on intimate and affectionate 
 terms, as you know. Those terms will 
 be only cemented by a closer union." 
 
 Never had Lydia Dunn a greater 
 mind for anything in her life than to 
 tell her father he was a fool for thinking 
 so. Looking at him, she wondered 
 whether any remonstrance or reasoning, 
 possible to be urged, could arrest this 
 most unsuitable and wild project; and 
 she decided that it would not. It had 
 not been Lydia, however, if she had 
 kept her tongue quite silent. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, papa — I cannot 
 help speaking. Caroline Kage is so 
 young, that she might be your grand- 
 daughter ; if you many her you will be 
 the laughing-stock of the whole coun- 
 ty." 
 
 George Canterbury felt grievously of- 
 fended. 
 
 " It is not your place to say these 
 things to me, Lydia. As to Caroline's 
 age, that is a matter solely for her con- 
 sideration and mine." 
 
 " You had a great deal better marry 
 Mrs. Kage." 
 
 " Thank you," he spoke stiffly. " I 
 think you have said nearly enough, 
 Lydia." 
 
 Convinced that whatever she said 
 would do Uo good towards arresting the 
 marriage, Lydia thought perhaps she 
 had. She returned to the subject of her 
 sisters. 
 
 " Will you promise — will you under- 
 
 take that my sisters' home shall not be 
 rendered unhappy? — that the}' shall be 
 as free and independent in it as they 
 have been ? " 
 
 " Certainly I will," responded Mr. 
 Canterbury. " You must have taken 
 up very strange ideas to fear otherwise." 
 " No, sir, the ideas are quite natural. 
 There will probably be two antagonistic 
 powers in the house, once Caroline Kage 
 enters it. Olive has been its mistress 
 hitherto : and her own." 
 
 " She can be mistress of herself and 
 all else as much as she has been," hasti- 
 ly spoke Mr. Canterbury. " Except, of 
 course, in the matter of — of housekeep- 
 ing, and that," he added, his thoughts 
 falling on domestic matters. " Olive 
 must resign her control over the house- 
 hold." 
 
 " Olive will not expect to retain it, sir, 
 when you put a wife at its head. I 
 speak of my sisters' personal interests. 
 Will they be allowed the perfect free- 
 dom of action, the comfort, the uncon- 
 trolled liberty of themselves and their 
 time, that they have hitherto posses- 
 sed ? " 
 
 "Yes, certainly they will. What 
 should hinder it ? " 
 
 Mr. Canterbury stared in a little sur- 
 prise as he put the question. He was 
 by no means a clear-sighted man : the 
 old saying, of not seeing an inch beyond 
 the nose, would have aptly applied to 
 him. He fully believed his daughters 
 would be just as free and happy when 
 Caroline came home as they were now ; 
 and he deemed Lydia most unreasona- 
 ble to suggest otherwise ; thinking, in- 
 deed, that she must be doing it for the 
 sake of cavilling. 
 
 " I will say no more, papa, except to 
 remind you that things in similar cases 
 have been known to turn out quite dif- 
 ferently from pleasant expectations. I 
 foresee that they may in this ; and I 
 hope, shou-ld it be so, you will remember 
 your promise to take care of the comfort 
 and happiness of Olive and her sisters." 
 " The girl must be a little off her 
 head to-night," said George Canterbury 
 to himself, as Lydia went out and left 
 him alone. 
 
 " No hope, no redress ! " she exclaim- 
 ed when she returned to her sisters ; 
 and she flung up her hands in temper as 
 she spoke. " He is going to make an 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 83 
 
 idiot of himself, and won't be stopped in 
 it ; and Caroline Kage will soqu be mis- 
 tress of the Rock." 
 
 The year had grown later ; the brown 
 and red tints of autumn were spreading 
 in the foliage, imparting that wondrous 
 beauty to Nature's landscape that the 
 other seasons lack. 
 
 Not in their own pleasant morning- 
 room, but in the great magnificent draw- 
 ing-room, were gathered the unmarried 
 daughters of George Canterbury. They 
 sat, as may be said, in state, awaiting 
 the return home of the bridegroom and 
 bride after their honeymoon. In state, 
 so far as the room went, but they were 
 at their ordinary occupations. Miss 
 Canterbury and Jane wore silks of a 
 violet hue ; Leta had on a charming 
 pink of some fancy material. 
 
 After a few days given to their natu- 
 ral repugnance and grief when the com- 
 munication was first made to them, to 
 the bitter heartache than which nothing 
 could be keener, the Miss Canterbury's 
 resigned themselves to what they could 
 not prevent, and made the best of mat- 
 ters with outward cheerfulness and 
 grace. Not so Mrs. Dunn. She prided 
 herself upon being independent, upon 
 " showing what she thought," and went 
 back to London. Simpering Mrs. Kage, 
 with her own peculiar taste, expressed 
 her wonder to Lydia that she did not re- 
 main to " assist" at her father's wedding. 
 Mrs. Dunn bluntly answered that, of 
 the two, she thought she would rather 
 assist at his funeral. 
 
 The marriage took place in August ; 
 so, you see, no time was lost. Mrs. 
 Kage never was free from an inward 
 fear that Caroline might retract her con- 
 sent yet, and hurried it on at least in an 
 equal degree with the fond bridegroom 
 elect. She got up a charming little fable 
 that Thomas Kage had fallen in love 
 with some London lady of fortune, to 
 whom he was about to be united, and re- 
 peated it (with a vast many confirma- 
 tory details) for the edification of Caro- 
 line. But Mrs. Kage need not have 
 feared ; Caroline had no thought of re- 
 tracting. Like a child dazzled by the 
 glitter of a coveted toy, she was eager 
 for it. 
 
 Mrs. Kage showed her sense and craft 
 in one respect— she caused the wedding 
 
 to be almost a private one. When some- 
 thing was said about who should give 
 the bride away, Mr. Canterbury suggest- 
 ed, as was but natural, her only living 
 relative on the father's side — Thomas 
 Kage. Mrs. Kage did not accept the 
 suggestion ; she wrote a pretty note to 
 Mr. Carlton of Chilling Hall, and he 
 undertook the office. The day of the 
 wedding was kept private, the hour 
 fixed for it was the early one of nine in 
 the morning, and the church had no 
 spectators. The Miss Canterburys coun- 
 tenanced it by their presence ; Millicent 
 was bridesmaid; Mr. Rufort, the new 
 rector, performed the ceremony. There 
 was a simple breakfast at Mrs. Kage's, to 
 which all sat down except the two elder 
 Miss Canterburys, who drove straight 
 home from church ; and then the happy 
 pair, as announced by the local news- 
 papers in newspaper phraseology, started 
 on their tour for the Lakes, to enjoy the 
 honeymoon. 
 
 It was October now. The honej-moon 
 was over, and a good long honej'moon it 
 had been ; and it was to be hoped they 
 had enjoyed it. The " happy pair " 
 were expected home to-day, after their 
 six weeks' absence. Everything was in 
 readiness to receive them. The Miss 
 Canterburys, knowing that all was com- 
 plete and in order, sat in the state draw- 
 ing-room, quietly pursuing their ordi- 
 nary occupations. Like right-minded 
 ladies as they were, they were prepared 
 to render due honor and deference to 
 their father's wife. 
 
 But, as Judith, one of the house- 
 maids at the Rock, remarked to a help- 
 mate, it was " hard lines " for them. No 
 doubt of that ; a great deal of heart- 
 schooling discipline was requisite still. 
 
 "Leta, how you keep getting up! 
 Your drawing will not be the better for 
 it." 
 
 " I can't help it, Olive. Things seem 
 to be so strange that it makes me rest- 
 less. Suppose I should forget myself, 
 and call her Carry ! " 
 
 " What are we to call her ? " sudden- 
 ly wondered Jane. " It never occurred 
 to me." 
 
 " Mrs. Canterbury, when speaking of 
 her," said Olive. 
 
 " But when speaking to her ? " 
 " I don't kriow. Nothing. It would 
 be rather ridiculous to say ' Mamma,' " 
 
84 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 and Olive's fine face took a momentary 
 tinge of mockery — " and equally out of 
 place to call her ' Caroline.' There is 
 only ' Mrs. Canterbury,' to fall back 
 upon." 
 
 " Did you recollect to order mamma's 
 portrait to be taken out of tbeir rooms, 
 Olive ? " asked Leta. 
 
 " My dear, I have recollected every- 
 thing. It is removed to mine ; and Ed- 
 gar's is also. Mrs. Canterbury will find 
 all things as they should be. Listen ! I 
 really believe JSTeel is bringing in a vis- 
 itor ! " 
 
 Olive was right. The butler, speak- 
 ing with some one as he advanced, threw 
 open the door, and made the announce- 
 ment: 
 
 " Mrs. Kage." 
 
 "What an oppressive day for Octo- 
 ber!" languidly spoke Mrs. Kage, as she 
 sank on the nearest sofa. " My dears, 
 how are you ? Do place me a screen, 
 Millicent; 3'our fire is like a volcano." 
 
 She took off her bonnet and cloak ; 
 and, pushing back her shawl of black 
 lace, left her dress displayed. By which 
 dress they saw she had come intending 
 to remain for dinner. 
 
 " A lovely day, though, although it is 
 close : quite a good omen for the return 
 of the travellers. My dears, I heard 
 from your mamma this morning.'' 
 
 Olive bit her lip, partl} r in amusement. 
 Your mamma! And Caroline more than 
 half-a-score years younger than herself." 
 
 " We have heard also, Mrs. Kage. 
 My father wrote. They will be at home 
 this evening to dinner." 
 
 " Yes, that is what I came up about, 
 for one thing; all the morning I had a 
 nervous headache, or should have been 
 been here earlier to see about the ar- 
 rangements." 
 
 "What arrangements?" inquired 
 Olive, in surprise. 
 
 " My daughter's rooms, and so forth." 
 
 " The arrangements are made : the 
 rooms are in readiness," returned Olive. 
 
 " My dearest Miss Canterbury, you 
 have no doubt done to the best of y'our 
 ability, but a mother's eye can alone tell 
 what will please her daughter. 
 
 Olive drew herself up. " I trust the 
 arrangements will please Mrs. Canter- 
 bury. I should like her to see that we 
 have cared for her comfort. Should she 
 wish any alteration made in the rooms, 
 
 she can give her own orders when she 
 sees them." 
 
 "Thank you, my dear 5 I will pres- 
 ently go through them, if you please, 
 with one of the housemaids," rejoined 
 Mrs. Kage, whose tone, drawling as it 
 was, bespoke quiet resolution. " And 
 now about dinner? what have you or- 
 dered ? " 
 
 Miss Canterbury was silent, from sheer 
 amazement. 
 
 " Can I see the housekeeper ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Kage ! " uttered the astounded 
 Olive, " I do not understand this. The 
 dinner was fixed upon some hours ago. 
 It will prove satisfactory to Mrs. Canter- 
 bury, I have no doubt." 
 
 " I know what my dear pet likes; and 
 she has begged me, in her letter, to take 
 care that things are comfortable for her." 
 
 " As I trust they will be found," said 
 the indignant Olive, whilst Jane stole 
 out of the room, and Millicent bent over 
 her cardboard with a heightened color. 
 " Should there be any particular dish 
 you wish added to the dinner, I will as- 
 certain whether it can be done." 
 
 " I will see the housekeeper myself, 
 dear," persisted Mrs. Kage, in the most 
 gently-polite tone imaginable, " and di- 
 rect the alterations I may think neees- 
 saiy. " 
 
 A flash of Olive's imperious temper 
 broke out. She rose from her seat, not, 
 however, lifting her voice to anger, 
 though it was unmistakably firm. 
 
 " I have been mistress of the house 
 for many years, Mrs. Kage, and I be- 
 lieve I have been found capable of con- 
 ducting it. So long as I remain so — 
 which will only be until the coming 
 home of Mrs. Canterbury — I am in no 
 need of assistance, and cannot permit 
 interference. The dinner must be serv- 
 ed this evening as I have ordered it." 
 
 "But you are shockingly rude, my 
 dear, in saying this to my face: quite 
 ill-bred." 
 
 " I think not. I do not wish to be." 
 
 " I am Mrs. Canterbury's mother." 
 
 " I do not forget it. As soon as Mrs. 
 Canterbury enters the house, I give up 
 all authority to her ; until she does, I 
 cannot 3-ield the smallest portion of it, 
 even to you. Forgive me for saying I 
 am exceedingly surprised that you 
 should wish it." 
 
 " Well my dear Miss Canterbury, in 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 showing this obstinacy in regard to 
 your new mother I can but think you 
 stand in the light of your own interests. 
 However, let it pass ; as you say, you 
 have but an hour of further power; it 
 does not much matter for that short 
 time." 
 
 Olive clenched her hand on the beau- 
 tiful table-cover, keeping down her pas- 
 sion ; Millicent's brow burnt as she 
 turned it — and could not help the )ook 
 it bore — on Mrs. Kage. That lady 
 glided off the sofa. 
 
 (i And now, dears, you will ring for 
 the upper housemaid. I will visit the 
 rooms and see what changes may be ex- 
 pedient." 
 
 " No ! " spoke Olive, her temper flash- 
 ing out at last. " The rooms shall re- 
 main as they are, Mrs. Kage, until your 
 daughter enters into possession of 
 them." 
 
 Olive meant what she said, and Mrs. 
 Kage saw it. All in a minute a doubt 
 crossed that honorable lad}' whether her 
 policy had been a safe one. So intense- 
 ly afraid had she been ever since the 
 marriage that perhaps her own influ- 
 ence at the Rock might not be what she 
 fully purposed it should be, or that her 
 daughter might find her sway curbed by 
 the imperious and powerfully - willed 
 Miss Canterbury, that she had come to 
 tne resolution of taking the bull by the 
 horns and bringing her authority to 
 bear before its time. A sentence in 
 Mrs. Canterbury's letter, hoping things 
 would be made comfortable for her, and 
 that her mamma must see they were — 
 though it is more than probable the 
 writer had not exactly meant in the way 
 of beds and tables, and dishes for din- 
 ner — had afforded Mrs. Kage the plea 
 for coming up as she did. But had she 
 been quite wise in doing so ? In the 
 doubt of it that came crossing her, she 
 deemed it well to veer suddenly round 
 to sweetness, and so disarm hostilities. 
 
 " Pray forgive me, my darling Miss 
 Canterbury. It is quite an anomalous po- 
 sition that my poor child will be placed 
 in, and I was so anxious to spare you 
 trouble. If yon do not feel the different 
 arrangements as a worry, why, of course, 
 I should not have wished to interfere. 
 Caroline has a charming temper, I as- 
 sure you, aud I feel certain you will all 
 be very happy together." 
 
 " I desire nothing better than that 
 we should, Mrs. Kage," coldly spoke 
 Miss Canterbury. 
 
 Mrs. Kage, amiably sweet, sank back 
 on the sofa, after requesting that one of 
 the lady's-maids might be called to 
 carry away her things. Placing her fun 
 and her various bottles on a small stand 
 beside her, for she never went out with- 
 out them, she flung some scent about 
 and grew confidential. 
 
 " Of course, my dears, you are women 
 of the world. At least, you are, my 
 good Miss Canterbury ; necessarily so 
 from your age and position. Therefore 
 I may speak without hesitation all the 
 thoughts of my heart. To marry a man 
 of Mr. Canterbury's years was a great 
 sacrifice for a beautiful girl of eighteen. 
 It is of no good mincing the fact. ; some 
 things are as palpable as that much- 
 talked-of problem in Euclid about the 
 ass and the bridge, which my father, the 
 Lord Gunse, was given to quote. But I 
 am quite sure Caroline did not look 
 upon the marriage in that light ; she 
 did not see it as a sacrifice, for she was 
 in love with your father." 
 
 Olive made no reply. She began 
 counting the stitches in her netting. 
 
 " Adored him, I may say," resumed 
 Mrs. Kage, improving upon her tissue 
 of falsehoods. " A-dored him. I saw 
 it from nearly the first. Of course I 
 naturally thought she would be averse 
 to such an offer — might probably not 
 listen to it. ' Now, my darling,' I said 
 to her one day, ' there cannot be the 
 smallest doubt what good Mr. Canter- 
 bury's intentions are; but let me im- 
 plore of you, don't allow any thoughts 
 of his wealth to influence you ; dis-conv- 
 age him if you do not like him.' ' Dear- 
 est mother,' the innocent lamb respond- 
 ed, ' it's not his wealth that will influ- 
 ence me, but himself; I love Mr. Can- 
 terbury.' And so, when I hear the 
 impertinent world sa}' that my daugh- 
 ter's was nothing but a marriage of in- 
 terest — and that delightful old maid, 
 Mr. Carlton's sister, said it to my face 
 only yesterday — the remembrance of 
 that outspoken avowal of Caroline's acts 
 on my mind like a balm of comfort." 
 
 " I think your daughter could not have 
 been quite indifferent to my father's 
 wealth," said Olive, wishing the balm 
 extended also to Mrs. Kage's tongue. 
 
86 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 But she did not wait to prolong the con- 
 versation ; she left the room on the plea 
 of seeing after Jane, leaving Leta as 
 hostess. 
 
 " Ah, my dear, your sister would not 
 say it if she knew all," said Mrs. Kage 
 to Leta. "Caroline had the most mag- 
 nificent prospect offered to her of going 
 out to be a nabob's wife in India. And 
 he was a young man." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 "She received both the offers in one 
 day. Your father's first, the other's 
 next. He came miles and miles and 
 miles to make it. ' Give up Mr. Can- 
 terbury for h im ! ' she said indignantly. 
 ' jSo ; not though he could offer me 
 all the rupees contained in Bengal.' 
 ' Quite right, my sweet love,' I replied 
 to her ; ' never let vile gold sway your 
 best affections.' And I say she was 
 right." 
 
 Leta had lifted her head ; her color 
 was going and coming. Was it jjossible 
 that this could be true ? Too well she 
 knew who it was that had come " miles 
 and miles and miles " that past day. 
 Unconsciously she let his name escape 
 her — Thomas Kage. 
 
 " Well, yes, it was Thomas Kage, my 
 dear Miss Leta," confessed the wily 
 lad}-, a little taken aback at Leta's dis- 
 cernment. "I don't mind telling you; 
 but you m-ftSt not talk of it again. He 
 began to love Caroline when we were at 
 Little Bay ; /was afraid of it; but — ah 
 — some one contrived to throw me off 
 the scent then. As the months went on, 
 he went on, loving her all the more pas- 
 sionately ; and as soon as he thought he 
 could marry, through this Indian ap- 
 pointment being offered him, he came 
 down to ask her to go out. Of course 
 she said ' No,' Mr. Canterbury being in 
 the way, for whom she had learnt to 
 care, you see, Miss Leta ; and Tom 
 Kage went away with a broken heart, 
 /saw that." 
 
 A distant sound of carriage - wheels 
 was an excuse for Millicent's running to 
 the window. Her face had turned 
 white aud cold as snow in winter. 
 
 Things that had appeared strange to 
 her before were become suddenly clear. 
 It was Caroline Kage he had loved ; it 
 was Caroline his visits had been intend- 
 ed for, not her ; and Caroline — 0, it 
 flashed upon her all too surely — had 
 
 only been fooling her in prating of his 
 love. She — Caroline herself — had loved 
 him ; and Millicent felt half sick at the 
 thoughts instinct revealed to her. Too 
 well she comprehended now the look, as 
 of death, on Thomas Kage's face when 
 they met in the privet walk ; he had 
 then been given up for the wealthy mas- 
 ter of the Hock. Just as the bitterness 
 of awaking had been his then, so was it 
 now Millicent Canterbury's. 
 
 The sound of wheels drew nearer ; 
 the carriage came in view, its four horses 
 prancing gaily up the park. It con- 
 tained the gay bride and bridegroom ; 
 and Leta in the stir escaped to her 
 chamber. 
 
 Caroline was looking charming, charm- 
 ing as a summer rose, as Mr. Canterbury 
 handed her out of the carriage, and came 
 in with her on his proud arm. What- 
 ever the young wife had found the 
 honey-moon, dull or spiritless, tame or 
 more than a little wearying, he had 
 thought it rapture. She was gay 
 enough now in meeting them ; she kiss- 
 ed her mother, she kissed Olive, she 
 kissed Jane; she asked Neel how his 
 wrist was (for the man had had a rather 
 serious accident to it just before the 
 wedding) ; she nodded to John ; she 
 won, in fact, all hearts. 
 
 " But where's Leta ? " 
 
 Ah, where was Leta ? 
 bury thought Leta had 
 drawing-room to the last moment ; Mrs. 
 Kage confirmed it, saying Leta had 
 been the one to announce to her their 
 arrival. Of course it was supposed that 
 Leta would turn-up from somewhere ; 
 and the pleased young wife went to her 
 rooms. 
 
 She did not see Leta until just before 
 dinner. Mrs. Canterbury was turning 
 out of her boudoir rather swiftly, in the 
 prettiest white -silk dress that young 
 bride ever wore, with an amethyst neck- 
 lace on her delicate neck, and caught 
 Leta gliding swiftly by. She drew her 
 in. 
 
 " Where have you been, Millicent, 
 that you did not come to welcome me ? " 
 
 But ere the question could be answer- 
 ed, Mrs. Canterbury obtained a better 
 view of the face partially turned from 
 her. A white cold face, more like a 
 face of terror than aught else ; certainly 
 one that had a great deal of despair in it. 
 
 Miss Canter- 
 been in the 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 87 
 
 " Millicent, what is the matter ? " 
 
 Never did there exist a more straight- 
 forward, open-natured girl than Milli- 
 cent Canterbury. One single moment 
 of inward battle with those feelings that 
 seemed as if they had been outraged, 
 insulted, .deceived, and then she answer- 
 ed, looking full at the surprised ques- 
 tioner. 
 
 " Mrs. Canterbury, I have been think- 
 ing in my room whether to speak to you, 
 or — or to bury it all for ever," said poor 
 Millicent in a still tone, with pauses oc- 
 casioned by her labored breath. This 
 minute alone with you has decided it. 
 You did me a great wrong: why, when 
 we were at Little Bay, and after it — for 
 months after it — why did you feed me 
 with the fable that he was in love with 
 me ? — he, Thomas Kage ? " 
 
 A burning rush of color, fading away 
 into a ghastly whiteness ; a trembling, 
 terrified, glittering stare in the beauti- 
 ful violet-blue eyes : but Mrs. Canter- 
 bury gave no other answer. 
 
 " It was you he loved," continued 
 Millicent. He thought no more of me 
 than of the idle wind that passes. You 
 knew it all. Why did you deceive me ? 
 Only this day — au hour ago — have my 
 eyes been opened. What had I done 
 that you should have played upon me so 
 cruel a joke ? " 
 
 " I don't know what it is you are 
 talking of," said Mrs. Canterbury, find- 
 ing her tongue and her self-possession to- 
 gether. " I remember nothing about 
 Thomas Kage, or you, or Little Bay. 
 For goodness', sake don't attack me un- 
 necessarily, Leta." 
 
 But the tone had a hard, shrill, hys- 
 terical ring in it, proving how powerfully 
 the accusation had told upon her ; and 
 she went back into her chamber and 
 shut the door abruptly, leaving Millicent 
 standing there in her bitter pain. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 1ST THE EVENING PAPER. 
 
 Thomas Kage sat in his chambers 
 in the Temple. It was a bright after- 
 noon in August (for the exigencies of 
 the story require us to go back for some 
 weeks), passing rapidly on to evening. 
 
 All the world had gone out of Louden 
 except Mr. Kage: he could not well 
 afford a holiday, and said to himself 
 that he did not want one. 
 
 Seated at his table in the inner room, 
 whose window overlooked the Temple 
 Garden, and the river winding past it, 
 he was busy perusing some papers. 
 The business that had taken him to Ab- 
 erton early in the spring, and to which 
 an interruption occurred, was again go- 
 ing on. It was not entirely connected 
 with his profession as a barrister, but 
 was a matter he had taken in hand pri- 
 vately to help a friend. The law-courts 
 were up, Thomas Kage had little to do 
 publicly, and so was at liberty to give 
 his time to this. 
 
 He sat with his head leaning on his 
 hand, thinking that very shortly he 
 would have to go to Aberton again, un- 
 less his friend, Mr. Rashburn, came up 
 to London. He did not care to go to 
 Aberton ; but if he had to go, should 
 he, or should he not, walk over to Chill- 
 ing, and see her who had played that 
 havoc with his heart ? 
 
 The traces of the conflict he had 
 gone through since that fatal June day, 
 only two months past, but to him seem- 
 ing like an age, might be seen in his 
 countenance. The cheeks were even 
 thinner than before, the eyes wore a 
 feverish light, the voice had an habitu- 
 ally-subdued tone of sadness in it; 
 signs that an accurate observer may 
 sometimes note in one who has gone 
 through an ordeal of silent mental suf- 
 fering. Perhaps it was not well — well 
 for his resolve of forgetting her — that 
 ever and anon some foolish thought or 
 proverb, such as, AVhile there's life 
 there's hope, should dart into his mind, 
 and leave a faint ray of what looked 
 very like hope behind it. While she re- 
 mained Caroline Kage, and unappropri- 
 ated ; while there existed a chance — 
 and the world is full of such chances 
 — that he should work^ on to riches, it 
 seemed not absolutely impossible that 
 brightness might succeed to the dark- 
 ness. 
 
 Passionately though he had loved her, 
 perfect as he thought her, he had not 
 failed to see that she had used him 
 cruelly ill ; and he had come up to town 
 that June day calling her heartless. 
 He rejected the offer of going to India ; 
 
83 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 he set himself a task — to forget her. 
 But as the weeks went on, and the pain 
 ever racking his breast, became a trifle 
 less keen, or perhaps it was only that he 
 grew more inured to it, she resumed 
 some of her old ascendency over him, 
 and he began to find excuses for her. 
 She had not rejected him ; at least, not 
 of her own free will ; her mother must 
 have forced her to it. And so, if he had 
 to go to Aberton, it might be a question 
 whether he should not go on to Chilling; 
 he was beginning to yearn for another 
 sight of her as few men have yearned 
 for anything in this life. One fact he 
 was very certain of: he knew he could 
 not be mistaken in that — she had loved 
 him passionately, with all her heart. 
 It might be — well, yes, it might — that 
 she was suffering as he suffered ; and 
 that to see him once more would bring 
 happiness to her as it would to him. 
 
 He looked up at the bright ray of sun 
 slanting past the window, but not touch- 
 ing it; and somewhat of the same bright- 
 ness illumined his spirit. 
 
 The London clocks chimed out an 
 evt ning chime, and Thomas Kage was 
 working on. The boy came in: one he 
 shared with two more barristers, both of 
 whom had gone on the wing, so Mr. 
 Kage could have the whole of him. 
 
 " It's the paper come, sir," he said, 
 putting the evening journal on the table. 
 
 Mr. Kage nudded. " You need not 
 wait, James." 
 
 No need for a second dismissal. The 
 boy said good-evening to his master, and 
 flew off. Mr. Kage, coming to the end 
 of the parchment he had been looking 
 over, thought he had done enough for 
 the day, and put the dry law documents 
 by until the morrow. Taking up the 
 newspaper, he walked to the window, 
 holding it in his hand while he looked 
 out on the busy clamor and noise. 
 
 The gardens were alive, so to say. 
 With the rising of the law-courts a week 
 hack, and the migration of the barristers, 
 leaving the Temple to emptiness and 
 Thomas Carr Kage, the large gardens 
 had been simultaneously opened for a 
 couple of hours about sunset to the poor 
 little riff-raff children of London. From 
 ' the reeking courts, within a stone's throw, 
 they came ; from the miserable haunts, 
 lying nearly contiguous to St. Clement 
 Danes' fine church ; from the seven 
 
 Dials and St. Giles's ; from the unwhole- 
 some stacks of buildings on the Surrey 
 side, and near the river : on, on they 
 trooped, these ill-fated children, making 
 for the pleasant grass-green place in sure 
 and swift bands, something like that 
 great army of bearing-on locusts, that 
 are not to be turned aside by man, so 
 powerfully described in the prophecies of 
 Joel. They had not long been let in ; 
 a fine crowd of them : boys and girls, 
 and toddling wee things and babies : 
 scarcely a whole garment or good shoe 
 amongst them — only rags and tatters and 
 dirt ; and with it all merry shouts and 
 light laughter, just as though they had 
 been the favored of the land, and slept 
 on cots of down with silken curtains of 
 purple. 
 
 How they enjoyed that freedom on the 
 greensward ; leaping, tumbling, rolling 
 on it ! How careful they were not to in- 
 jure Mr. Broom's growing chrysanthe- 
 mums — for they had been warned of the 
 danger that might cause to this gener- 
 ously-accorded privilege. But Mr. Kage 
 thought they might have been contented 
 with making half the noise, and felt in- 
 clined to stop his ears. 
 
 A crowded steamer — City men going 
 homewards — passed up the Thames ; one 
 with not a dozen people on it steamed 
 downwards. Some of the noisy infantile 
 crew below rushed to the garden's edge 
 and shouted cheers after both of them. 
 In clattered the boy again, James; and 
 his master, who had just opened the pa- 
 per, turned round. 
 
 Mr. James, having lingered on the 
 stairs and landing-places with an acquain- 
 tance or two, had been waylaid by the 
 postman. Two letters for T. C. Carr 
 Kage, Esq. On the whole, young Mr. 
 James had reason to like the master he 
 chiefly served, and did not very much 
 grudge the going back into the rooms to 
 deliver the letters. 
 
 But Mr. Kage's eye had been caught 
 by something in the evening journal. He 
 motioned to the table, and the boy kft 
 the letters on it. 
 
 It was a flaming paragraph, written in 
 the true style of the newspaper-contribu- 
 tor, who seems to like to expend his en- 
 ergies equall}' in recording fashionable 
 movements and unfashionable murders. 
 This was of a " marriage in high life." 
 George Canterbury, of the Rock, Chill- 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 89 
 
 ing, to Caroline, only child of the late 
 Captain Alfred Kage and of the Honor- 
 able Mrs. Kage, and granddaughter of 
 the late Right Honorable Augustus Lord 
 Griinse. 
 
 There was an account of the lovely 
 bride's charming attire, and of the state 
 in which the happy pair departed for the 
 Lakes, there to pass the honeymoon; but 
 Thomas Kage read it not. After the 
 first few words of announcement, telling 
 the tale, he sat like a man turned into 
 stone ; the journal fallen from his hands, 
 his white face lifted. 
 
 Very strange to say, not a syllable of 
 the contemplated union had penetrated 
 to London and Thomas Kage. And yet 
 perhaps not so strange, if circumstances 
 are taken into consideration. When 
 Lydia Dunn went back from the Rock 
 full of it, there la} T on her heart a faint 
 hope that even then some fortunate acci- 
 dent might happen to prevent the un- 
 seemly wedding ; and for once her tongue 
 was still. The Miss Canterbury's, in writ- 
 ing to Sarah Annesley, felt ashamed to 
 speak of it ; time enough, they thought, 
 when it should actually have taken place. 
 Other people did not know of it ; and 
 Mrs. Kage had been cautiously silent 
 throughout. Anyway, it came upon 
 Thomas Kage this evening with a blow. 
 At the first moment he believed it not. 
 
 But the account was too elaborate for 
 an} T thing but truth. Smoothing the 
 newspaper, he read it again ; all. So it 
 was for Mr. Canterbury, the sexagenari- 
 an, he had been rejected ! It was for the 
 grandeur and riches of the Rock ; Caro- 
 line's words — spoken in that last memo- 
 rable interview — came surging back to 
 him ; of the carriages, the court-dresses, 
 the jewels, the grandeur, the thousands 
 and thousands a-year she must gain in 
 marrying, or not marry at all. There 
 could be no doubt that she had been 
 thinking of Mr. Canterbury. The alli- 
 ance must have been even then arranged. 
 A cold damp moisture overspread his 
 gray face; and he flung up his hands to 
 cover it, shutting out the evening's 
 bright light. 
 
 "God forgive her for her heartlessness. 
 and me for my credulitj' ! God help me 
 to bear it ! " 
 
 Ay ! And none knew — none in this 
 world — how much need of help he had; , 
 how he was shrinking under this decisive 
 blow. 
 
 He could not have told afterwards how 
 long he sat there. Had be been a woman 
 he might have fallen on the ground in 
 utter abandonment, and buried his face 
 from even the very light of heaven. He 
 only sat still as a statue ; never moving, 
 scarcely breathing, his head and eyelids 
 alike drooping; looking just as though 
 the blow had struck him physically as well 
 as mentally. 
 
 When he roused himself it was with 
 a shiver. The letters waiting on the * 
 table caught his eye. The one was from 
 Aberton, concerning the business-matter 
 he was engaged on ; from the other, as 
 he opened it, fell two cards, tied together 
 with silver cord — which fashion was not 
 obsolete in Chilling. No need to specu- 
 late whose names they bore ; and the 
 address was in the characterless, nearly 
 illegible handwriting of Mrs. Kage. 
 "Mr. Canterbury." "Mrs. Canter- 
 bury." Thomas Kage tore each card in 
 two, and threw the pieces into his waste- 
 paper basket. 
 
 Twilight was falling on th.3 earth 
 when he went out. The hum and the 
 noise were no longer heard ; the disor- 
 derly crew had dispersed, leaving their 
 traces behind them. Numberless scraps 
 of paper lay about; rags from dilapida- 
 ted frocks ; soles or tops of shoes. As 
 Thomas Kage turned into the garden, a 
 thought came across his mind, in the 
 midst of its confusion, that if the power 
 lay with him he would banish this un- 
 tidy crew ; but the next moment he re- 
 membered the boon it was to the poor 
 things, and regretted the thought. 
 
 He wandered on by the path to the 
 foot of the garden, and there sat down 
 with his pain. The sunny daylight had 
 turned into a gray evening ; the air 
 seemed heavy, the skies were lead-color- 
 ed — all a type of his own bruised and 
 weary heart. 
 
 The recollection of his last interview 
 with his mother flashed into his mind. 
 " Pain, toil, sorrow, whatever trouble 
 may be deemed necessary for you — you 
 will not fail," Lady Kage had said. 
 " You will bear up bravely, looking to 
 the end." And his answer had been he 
 would bear: " Yes, God helping me." 
 
 A light in the leaden sky above drew 
 his attention upwards. The thick 
 clouds had parted, giving glimpse of a 
 golden radiance ; the young moon 
 showed herself for a moment. It actu- 
 
30 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 ally seemed a type to Thomas Kage, 
 that the help he had wished for was 
 surely there ; always waiting for any 
 moment when necessity should call for 
 it. He thought, perhaps fancifully, that 
 his mother might be looking down for 
 him — as she herself had said in dj'ing 
 she should do, and drawn her comfort 
 from the imaginative picture. Did she 
 see all his heart-sick pain ? Could her 
 influence, reminding him of his under- 
 taking to struggle manfully, reach him 
 here ? He surety believed it might. 
 
 Bending his forehead in his hand, he 
 thought and thought ; making good re- 
 solves to bear up, and to strive from 
 that moment to put from him resolutely 
 all remembrance of the love that had 
 formed his day-dream. Henceforth, 
 being helped, he would be more ener- 
 getic in all life's duties ; bearing his 
 cross in silence, looking not for reward 
 here ; and so forget that anj'thing but 
 working on patiently for the better end 
 had ever been hoped for. 
 
 He rose up then, got out of the soli- 
 tary garden, and bent his steps westward, 
 disregarding cabs and omnibuses and 
 any other modes of conveyance that 
 might present themselves. When the 
 mind is racked with trouble walking is 
 the most acceptable. His dinner might 
 be waiting at home, but he could not eat 
 it. Old Dorothy would only have it put 
 away, and think business detained him. 
 
 In passing through Paradise-square, 
 for he took the longest way home he 
 could find, he saw Mrs. Dunn's carriage 
 standing at her door. That .lady, going 
 abroad to some evening-party, came 
 swiftly out of her house at the same mo- 
 ment, the lappets of her jaunty widow's 
 cap stirring gently behind her. 
 
 " Is it you, Mr. Kage ? How are 
 you ? " 
 
 " Thank you," was all he answered. 
 " Are you well ? " 
 
 •' As well as that disgraceful news 
 from home will allow me to be," said 
 Mrs. Dunn tartly, drawing him a few 
 steps farther up on the broad white pave- 
 ment, that her servants, waiting with 
 the carriage, might not hear the com- 
 plaint. " Yes, Mr Kage, I repeat the 
 word deliberately — disgraceful." 
 
 " You allude to — " 
 
 " To my father's marriage," she inter- 
 
 rupted, speaking what he had hesitated 
 to do. " You have heard of it, of 
 course ? " 
 
 " Some cards came to me this after- 
 noon." 
 
 " Cards ! " wrathfully repeated Mrs. 
 Dunn. "That woman, the mother, has 
 had the face to send some to me. She'd 
 better have sent a caricature of two 
 fools' heads instead. How long have 
 you known of it, Mr. Kage ? " 
 
 " I never had the slightest suspicion 
 that such an event was in contempla- 
 tion." 
 
 " That it was possible, you might say. 
 No ; there has been craft at work, and 
 the thing was kept quiet. My father 
 was a fool, the women were rogues. I 
 cannot help speaking my mind of them, 
 although they are your relatives." 
 
 " Were j'ou not made acquainted with 
 it?" • 
 
 "I found it out," said Mrs. Dunn. 
 " When I went down home last June, I 
 had not been many hours in the house 
 before my suspicions were aroused. I 
 saw the game Mrs. Kage and her daugh- 
 ter were playing ; I saw that it must 
 have been going on for some time. 
 Every possible wile were they exercis- 
 ing to entrap my father." 
 
 " Surely not Caroline ? " he interrup- 
 ted. "It must have been solely her 
 mother." 
 
 " Caroline was the worse of the two," 
 answered plain-speaking Mrs. Dunn. 
 " If her mother planned, she executed. 
 I never saw a girl go more warily to 
 work. I watched for some days, and 
 made mj^self sure before I said a word. 
 They little suspected I was looking on 
 at the cards ; and I saw the hands of 
 both, and how they played them. Had 
 Caroline Kage's heart been engaged in 
 the contest — though even to say such a 
 thing seems unpardonably absurd — had 
 she been seeking to entrap the most de- 
 sirable young fellow living, she could not 
 have put forth her fascinations with 
 more subtle skill." 
 
 " I could not have supposed her capa- 
 ble of it," he murmured. 
 
 " I daresay not," and Mrs. Dunn's 
 voice took a slightly sarcastic tone. 
 " Some of them thought her an angel : 
 perhaps 3 T ou did." 
 
 A bright flush, visible enough had they 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 91 
 
 been standing "to face the gas-lamp at 
 the corner, dyed his face ; but he did not 
 answer. 
 
 " She is a pretty child outwardly, 
 while inwardly she is nearly as crafty as 
 her mother; and that's saying a good 
 deal," avowed Mrs. Dunn, continuing to 
 pace the pavement in perfect indepen- 
 dence of all gazers. ''When I disclosed 
 to my sisters the play I saw going on, 
 they were petrified — once they could be 
 got to believe it might be true. Nothing 
 could be done, it was too late; during 
 that very hour that I was speaking to 
 them, my father proposed to the girl, 
 and the wedding was fixed. I came 
 away from the Rock, refusing the coun- 
 tenance to affairs that my presence there 
 might tacitly have given. You no 
 doubt wondered that my anticipated long 
 visit there turned out so short a one." 
 
 " I remember," he murmured. 
 
 " I never opened my lips to a living 
 soul. It was possible, I thought, that 
 some fortunate accident might intervene 
 to prevent the wedding ; and I was, be- 
 sides, too grieved to speak. My sisters 
 said nothing in their letters, and I hoped 
 it was done away with — that my father 
 had come to his senses, or Caroline Kage 
 to hers. When those miserable cards 
 arrived to-day, ' Mr. and Mrs. Canter- 
 bury,' I wished I was near enough to 
 fling them back in Mr. and Mrs. Can- 
 terbury's faces, and tell them what I 
 thought," 
 
 Thomas Kage remembered where he 
 had flung his. 
 
 " I shall tell it to Mrs. Kage some 
 time, if I don't to them. One of these 
 days she and I may be face to face 
 again ; and I am at liberty to speak, 
 you know, Mr. Kage : having a home of 
 my own, I feel free to do so, just as one 
 might who is independent of the family. 
 Yes, yes, Madam Kage ; you no doubt 
 think you have accomplished a great 
 tiling ; but it may not turn out to be al- 
 together for Miss Caroline's good." 
 
 " I should scarcely think it can," he 
 said, in a low tone, speaking the senti- 
 ments that kept beating upon his heart. 
 " Think ! " retorted Mrs. Dunn. 
 " No match, ever made in this world, 
 was more incongruous. My father is 
 turned sixty ; she is not twenty — what 
 can they expect ? " 
 " Very true." 
 
 "Have you reflected on what it must 
 be for my sisters?" whispered Mrs. 
 Dunn, as they drew slowly towards the 
 carriage; and for once her tone told of 
 pain. "Olive has been mistress of the 
 Rock for twelve years, and my father 
 brings home a mistress to put over her 
 head, — a girl younger in years than Mil- 
 licent. Do you know what I think, Mr. 
 Kage ? " 
 " No." 
 
 " I'll tell you, then ; and, mind, some 
 good instinct whispers me that I am 
 right. When a girl can thrust herself 
 in this unseemty manner between a 
 father and his children's home, she may 
 look out for punishment instead of hap- 
 piness." 
 
 The carriage drove off, leaving him 
 standing, Mrs. Dunn bowing her silent 
 adieu from its window. It seemed to 
 him that there were to be nothing but 
 encounters that night ; for as he turned 
 into Paradise-terrace, not caring where 
 he walked, he met Miss Annesley. The 
 servant in attendance on her went for- 
 ward to get Mrs. Annesley's door open. 
 "I have been spending an hour with 
 Mrs. Garston," she explained. " Have 
 you — have you heard the news from 
 Chilling ? " 
 
 He simply nodded in answer, his pale 
 face turning itself a little from her. 
 
 " When Leta's letter reached me to- 
 day, I sat thunderstruck. Mr. Kage, 
 how unsuitable it is ! Mrs. Garston has 
 been laughing over it all the evening, 
 and saying hard truths." 
 « Ay ! " 
 
 " To me it seems an unholy marriage ; 
 a terrible thing." 
 " Does it ? " 
 
 Does it ! His lips could not frame a 
 better answer ; these last few minutes 
 had been trying him to the very utter- 
 most. Light flashed on Sarah Annes- 
 ley. Had she never seen or suspected 
 before, the strangely-wan countenance, 
 the passively - constrained tone, might 
 have told her the secret. 
 
 " Forgive me, forgive me, Mr. 
 Kage ! " she said in a flutter of agita- 
 tion. " I — I did think you cared for 
 her ; I fancied it all that while back at 
 Little Bay. Take comfort. If she 
 knew it — and I am sure she did — she 
 could not be worthy of you. All may 
 be for the best." 
 
92 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 Wringing his hand, she turned in- 
 doors, as if not caring to look at him af- 
 ter her avowal of knowledge. Thomas 
 Kage walked on down the terrace, 
 which was a long one. His sister, Mrs. 
 Lowther, lived at the hist house in it. 
 A servant was standing at the open 
 door. 
 
 " How are the children to-night ? " 
 he stopped to ask. 
 
 " Very ill, sir. There's a change for 
 the worse in Master Fairfax, and Ann 
 has just run round for Dr. Tyndal." 
 
 Thomas Kage turned in. The sitting- 
 rooms were empty, and he went on up- 
 stairs to the nursery. The children 
 were ill with scarlatina; and Mr. Low- 
 ther was in Belgium, superintending the 
 construction of a railroad. Walking 
 about the room was the nurse, singing 
 softly to the baby in her arms. 
 
 " Hush-sh-sh ! he's all but off/' cried 
 she hastily, hearing some one enter, and 
 supposing it to be one of her fellow-ser- 
 vants. " And I'm sure I dou't want 
 him woke up again, for I'm tired enough 
 as it is." 
 
 " What is amiss, nurse ? " he whis- 
 pered. 
 
 The young woman turned round. 
 
 " O sir, I beg your pardon. Master 
 Fairfax is very ill to-night, sir; he's 
 quite delirious, and my mistress is afraid. 
 Not but what I think it may be only 
 just the turn of the disorder, when it's 
 sure to seem at its worst." 
 
 Some one pushed open an inner door, 
 saw who was there, and came forward. 
 It was Mrs. Lowther. She had a nice 
 face, in spite of its plain features ; it was 
 a little careworn, and she looked her full 
 age, six-and-thirt3 r . Her flaxen hair 
 was put carelessly back ; her gown, a 
 black-and-white muslin, had plenty of 
 creases in it ; just now she was too 
 busj' helping to nurse her sick children 
 to be particular about attire. 
 
 " I am sorry for this, Charlotte. One 
 of them is worse, I hear." 
 
 " I think he is dying," she said in a 
 weary, still tone. " It's Fairfax. But 
 are you not afraid of being up here, 
 Thomas ? You may catch the fever.'' 
 
 " I afraid of catching a children's fe- 
 ver!" he lightly answered. "There's 
 no fear. But I hope you are mistaken 
 as to his danger. Where is he ? " 
 
 Mrs. Lowther passed into the chil- 
 
 dren's room. In one of the small beds 
 lay a boy of ten. His gray eyes had a 
 strange brightness in them ; his cheeks 
 were of a crimson hectic. Throwing his 
 head about the bed, or quite still by 
 turns ; now he would seem to be falling 
 into a doze, and now would wake up, 
 rambling wildly. 
 
 "Poor little fellow!" exclaimed 
 Thomas Kage. 
 
 Young Master Lowther was as mis- 
 chievous a gentleman in ordinary asi 
 could be found within the precincts of 
 west London. He laj r disabled now. 
 His mother stood looking on in tears. 
 
 " Do you know me, my boy ? " gent- 
 ry asked Mr. Kage, taking the little hot 
 hand. It was snatched away petu- 
 lantly. 
 
 " You sha'nt do it, then, you fellows ! 
 I'm not Faxy ; I tell you I'm not ! " 
 
 He was rambling in brain amidst his 
 schoolmates, with the great school griev- 
 ance tormenting him. The boys had 
 taken to call him " Faxy," which was 
 particularly objectionable to Master 
 Fairfax. The more he showed his dis- 
 like of it (speaking now of past reality), 
 the more they had shouted it. 
 
 Thomas Kage bent his lips, with 
 their soothing tones, close to the troub- 
 led, restless ear. 
 
 "It is Fairfax — Fairfax. There! 
 Fairfax." 
 
 " I am sure he is dying, Thomas," 
 spoke Mrs. Lowther. " And Robert 
 abroad ! " 
 
 He took her by the hand and made 
 her sit down, and waited a minute while 
 she gave way to her tears. The boy 
 was quiet again. 
 
 " Charlotte, you are very tired." 
 
 " Very — very. It is two nights since 
 I was in bed." 
 
 " And, being so tired, your spirits are 
 naturally depressed, so that things wear 
 their worst aspect to you," he calmly re- 
 sumed. " I have had some experience 
 in illness, and do not think he is in the 
 danger you imagine. Children seem 
 d} r ing one minute and are running about 
 the next." 
 
 " He is very ill, Thomas ; there can- 
 not be a question of that. It is Robert's 
 being away that makes me more fearful. 
 I shall telegraph for him as soon as the 
 doctor has been." 
 
 " What have you taken to-day ? " he 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 93 
 
 asked, seeing how exhausted she ap- 
 peared. 
 
 " Some tea." 
 
 " Tea ! Nothing better than tea ? " 
 
 " "With all the children ill, except 
 baby, and Fairfax lying like this, how 
 can I get time to take regular meals ? 
 I've had some toast-and-butter with the 
 tea." 
 
 " It is the very time when you ought 
 to be cautious to keep up, so far as may 
 be, your strength, Charlotte. If mother 
 were here still, she would tell you so." 
 
 Mrs. Lowther burst into a flood of 
 tears. Overcome with fatigue, fear, 
 anxiety, and no doubt want of suste- 
 nance, a word was sufficient to try her. 
 
 " Thomas, don't make me more un- 
 happy by recalling her. If she were 
 but here still, I should have something 
 to lean on." 
 
 He went downstairs, saj'ing nothing; 
 found some sherry, got an egg beaten 
 up in it, and carried it back to her. 
 Charlotte took it, and gazed at him 
 through her blinding tears. 
 
 " You put me more and more in mind 
 of her every day, Thomas. Not in 
 looks — they say, you know, that you are 
 more like our dead father, whom you 
 cannot remember, and I only slightly — 
 but in thoughtful care for others." 
 
 Dr. Tyndal came in as Charlotte was 
 speaking. She drank down her pleas- 
 ant dose at a draught, and stood with 
 her brother and the ph}*sician round the 
 boy's bed. Fairfax was rambling again. 
 
 The doctor said very little, except 
 that he hoped and thought the lad 
 would be better in the morning. He 
 suggested one or two slight remedies, 
 and gave him, with his own hands, a 
 teaspoonful of the medicine. Mrs. 
 Lowther intimated that she was about 
 to telegraph to Belgium for her hus- 
 band. 
 
 " Y~ou will go to the office and send 
 the message for me, won't you, Thom- 
 as ? " she said. 
 
 Mr. Kage nodded his head in the 
 affirmative, and went downstairs with 
 the man of medicine. 
 
 " Don't telegraph ! " cried the doctor 
 emphatically, drawing Thomas Kage in- 
 to a room only lighted by the street- 
 lamps. " Poor Lowther is up to the 
 eyes in work, over there ; he won't 
 thank even his wife for disturbing him 
 
 needlessly. Before to-morrow morning 
 there'll be a change of some sort: if, as 
 I believe, the boy shall then be out of 
 danger, there'll be no need of him; if 
 it's the other change, time enough to 
 summon him then." 
 
 " It is your true opinion — that the 
 boy will get over it ? " 
 
 '•It is. A great deal depends upon 
 the care and nursing he gets for the 
 next twelve hours. His mother and the 
 nurse are three-parts worn out." 
 
 "I intend to sit up with him." 
 
 " All right, You heard my direc- 
 tions ? " 
 
 " Distinctly. I understand." 
 
 The doctor departed, and Thomas 
 Kage went up again. He told Char- 
 lotte what he intended to do — sit up 
 with the boy, and, if God so willed, 
 bring him through it. But for her dis- 
 tress, she would have laughed at the 
 idea of his turning nurse. 
 
 He carried his point, however. Char- 
 lotte and the tired maid lay down to get 
 the needed rest, and Thomas Kage took 
 charge of the patient. 
 
 He had leisure to think in that long 
 night watch. Not at first; all his at- 
 tention and care were needed for hours. 
 At four o'clock in the morning the lad 
 fell asleep, and Thomas knew he was 
 saved ; and that the need for sending 
 for Mr. Lowther was over. As he sat 
 back in the easj'-chair afterwards, still 
 as a mouse, a gleam of sunshine came 
 in to illumine his heart. Every hope of 
 happiness for himself seemed over ; but 
 life might yet have pleasant work for 
 him in unselfishly helping his fellow- 
 wayfarers. 
 
 " And that, after all, must be the true 
 way to attain to the End," mused 
 Thomas Kage. " Only through tribula- 
 tion can we forget self, and enter on its 
 track. I am glad I came in here." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF THE FUTURE. 
 
 The rejoicings at the christening of 
 an heir to the goodly estate of the Bock 
 were beginning to die away in neighbor- 
 ing ears. The bonfires were burnt out, 
 the ashes of the fireworks scattered to 
 
94 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 the far winds, the tenants and laborers 
 had digested the dinner and the drink, 
 and things had quietly settled down 
 again. Such rejoicings ! both indoors 
 and out : and all because a poor little 
 infant had come into this world of 
 trouble. 
 
 Legally speaking he was not born the 
 heir, for the estate was not entailed, and 
 Mr. Canterbury, its owner, could be- 
 queath it to whom he would. Little 
 danger, though, that he would leave it 
 away from this child of his old age ; no 
 urchin, playing at soldiers in a sword 
 and feather bought at the fair, was ever 
 half so vain-glorious as was Mr. Can- 
 terbury over this new baby. 
 
 The child was born on the 18th of 
 August, which had also been, rather 
 singular to say, his mother's wedding- 
 day twelve months before. Only one 
 short twelvemonth ! and yet strange 
 changes had taken place in it. The 
 Miss Canterburys had quitted the Rock, 
 and Mrs. Kage spent so much of her 
 time there, that it might almost be said 
 she had made it her home. 
 
 Lydia Dunn's prophecy — that her 
 sisters would be driven from their home 
 by its new mistress— had turned out to 
 be a true one; and the lady of strong 
 common sense would have been full of 
 self-gratulation accordingly, but for the 
 indignant pity that was burning her to 
 her ringers' ends. 
 
 Young Mrs. Canterbury, indulged to 
 folly by her husband, had commenced 
 her sway at her new home as if she 
 thought the world was made 'for her ex- 
 clusively. At first — quite at first — she 
 seemed inclined to be pleasant, and to 
 consider others as well as herself; but 
 she speedily fell into the mistake, that 
 some, in a like position, had made be- 
 fore her — that of seeking to bend every- 
 one by whom she was surrounded to 
 her own capricious and sovereign will. 
 It is possible that she might not have 
 tried to break the peace of the Miss 
 Canterburys, but for the secret urging to 
 it of her mother. Nay, it is not too 
 much to say that Caroline might have 
 been sufficiently well-disposed towards 
 them, might have let them be happy in 
 their father's home in her indifferent, 
 thoughtless temperament, but for the 
 private promptings of Mrs. Kage. She 
 wanted them out of it. 
 
 The young ladies bore in silence as 
 long as they could. They wished to bear, 
 and to be considerate to their father's 
 wife, yielding to her all proper deference. 
 But when it came to thwartings of their 
 will and petty galling tyrannj 7 , to tacit 
 but very palpable insult, then Olive 
 turned. Not in the same spirit, but 
 grandly and loftily, essaying to bring 
 reasoning and calm remonstance to bear. 
 Young Mrs. Canterbuiy resented it, and 
 unpleasantness ensued. Mrs. Kage, like 
 an amiable fox stepped in to heal the 
 breach, and made it ten times wider. It 
 was impossible but that Olive should de- 
 tect the motive of all this — that they 
 should be driven from the Rock, so that 
 it might be left entirely free for Mrs. 
 Canterbury and her mother. 
 
 She appealed to Mr. Canterbury. 
 There was appealing and counter-appeal- 
 ing. That gentleman threw the whole 
 blame back on his daughters. He was 
 quite honest in doing it, for he could only 
 believe them to be in fault : had an angel 
 whispered to him that his wife could be 
 wrong, he would have disbelieved it. 
 With his new idol by his side in all her 
 beauty, and the Honorable Mrs. Kage 
 whispering sweetly- insidious whispers 
 into his ear every other hour in the day, 
 how could it be otherwise? Ere Christ- 
 mas had well turned, the ill-fated young 
 ladies could bear it no longer, and were 
 compelled to acknowledge themselves 
 driven from their childhood home, to find 
 refuge elsewhere. It was arranged that 
 they should remove to a pretty house on 
 the estate called Thornhedge Villa ; Mr. 
 Canterbury setting them up with all 
 things he thought necessary, including a 
 carriage, and covenanting to allow them 
 fifteen hundred a-year. He assumed 
 that it would be but a temporary sepa- 
 ration ; that they would soon " make it 
 up," with his wife and return to the 
 Rock. " 0, of course, dear sir, nothing 
 but temporary ; they'll speedily come to 
 their senses," said Mrs. Kage, softly ac- 
 quiescent. And so, on a cold, bitter day 
 in February, when the icicles hung from 
 the trees, and the snow was falling, George 
 Canterbury's daughters went out of their 
 luxurious home, to take possession of the 
 comparatively humble dwelling, Thorn- 
 hedge Villa; 
 
 One great feature in the programme 
 of young Mrs. Canterbury's visions had 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 95 
 
 to be dispensed with — tlie season in Lon- 
 don. How ardently she had anticipated 
 it, none save herself could tell. The 
 presentation at Court, with its attendant 
 outlet for gratified vanity — the opera- 
 box, the balls, the park, the thousand- 
 and-one features of aristocratic London 
 life — had all to be postponed to another 
 year. Ere the time fixed on for remov- 
 ing thither — April — Caroline had fallen 
 into so weak and suffering a state of 
 health, that she herself was not the last 
 to know and say she could not stir from 
 the Rock. George Canterbm-y, while 
 bewailing the fact in great anxiety, felt 
 nevertheless quite aglow with pride and 
 hope, in his consciousness that it was 
 within the range of probability an heir 
 would in course of time be born. The 
 neighbors for miles round hoped the an- 
 ticipated heir would turn out a girl ; for 
 they were brimful of sympathy for the 
 wrongs of George Canterbury's daugh- 
 ters. And so the time went on to Au- 
 gust, and on the 18th of that month 
 doubts and fears were solved by the little 
 child's birth — a boy. 
 
 But the year, apart from their sorrow, 
 had not been altogether destitute of event 
 for the Miss Canterbury's. Jane was en- 
 gaged to be married. An attachment 
 had existed for some time between her 
 and Mr. Rufort, the new Rector of Chill- 
 ing. Just before Christmas, he had 
 made proposals for her formally to Mr. 
 Canterbury, and been accepted. His fa- 
 ther, Lord Rufort, offered no objection to 
 the match ; but he privately told his son 
 he ought to have done much better in 
 point of family. Austin laughed : his 
 reverence for " family," was not so great 
 as his father's; and the stern old lord 
 condescended to say that Miss Jane 
 Canterbury's wealth would in a great 
 degree atone for the other deficiency. 
 
 It was a fine night in the beginning of 
 •October. The rejoicings at the birth of 
 the heir had died awaj-, as already said, 
 and Chilling was quiet again. Mr. Ru- 
 fort was spending the evening with the 
 Miss Canterburys at Thornhedge Villa : 
 which, in point of fact, was nothing un- 
 usual. They had drawn away from the 
 lights to collect round the large French 
 window of the drawing-room ; it opened 
 to the sloping lawn outside, with its tufts 
 of geraniums and other sweet autumn 
 flowers. The night was verj' beautiful — 
 
 calm and still and clear : the hunter's 
 moon shone brightly in the heavens. 
 It was growing time for Mr. Rufort to 
 depart : they had had some music, had 
 talked of various subjects of interest, 
 gossip and else, and so the evening had 
 rapidly passed. Only that day week the}' 
 had been at the Rock, at the christening 
 of the little boy-babj'. A fearfully grand 
 affair, that christening. Mr. Rufort, as 
 rector of Chilling, had but assisted at it ; 
 nobody less than a bishop was allowed to 
 perform the ceremon} 7 . In quitting the 
 Rock as their residence, the Miss Can- 
 terbur} r s — gentle, right-minded ladies — 
 had not brought matters to a rupture ; 
 amicable relations existed, so to. say, still, 
 at which the Honorable Mrs. Kage 
 looked on with a green, wary, jealous eye. 
 Onty this very afternoon, Mrs. Canter- 
 bury's carriage had stopjied at Thorn- 
 hedge Villa, and Mrs. Canterbury her- 
 self, lovely and more blooming than ever, 
 had come to pay a visit. One fact the 
 young ladies could not help noticing ; 
 that they were not encouraged to go to 
 the Rock at will. If invited on any 
 chance state occasion, well and good ; but 
 otherwise they were not expected at it. 
 Ah, the}' had a great deal to bear ! 
 But the evening was over ; Mr. Rufort 
 could not linger, and shook hands with 
 them. 
 
 " I may as well go out this way," he 
 observed, opening the half-window. 
 
 " But your hat," said Miss Canter- 
 bury.— " Ring, Millicent." 
 
 " Do not ring ; I have it here," he in- 
 terposed, taking from his pocket a cloth 
 cap, doubled into a small compass. 
 " There," said he, exhibiting it on his 
 hand for their inspection ; " what do you 
 think of it ? I call it my weather-cap. 
 If I am fetched out at night, I put on this, 
 tie it over my ears, and so defy wind and 
 rain." 
 
 " You had no wind or rain to-night," 
 remarked Millicent. 
 
 " No ; but in coming out I could not 
 find my hat. It is a failing of mine, that 
 of losing my things in all corners of the 
 house. I sadly want somebody to keep 
 me in order," he added, looking at Jane. 
 
 " Some men never can be kept in or- 
 der," interposed Millicent rather sau- 
 cily, with a touch of her old light spirit, 
 which, from some cause or other, had been 
 sadly heavy for a long while. 
 
^ 
 
 96 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 "I am not one of those," laughingly 
 replied Mr. Rufort. " Well, good-night. 
 Jane, you may as well come as far as 
 the gate with me." 
 
 Jane glanced at Olive as she would 
 have glanced to a mother; Miss Canter- 
 bury had been regarded by the others 
 almost in the light of one. Mr. Rufort 
 held the glass-door wide for her, and she 
 stepped on to the gravel path; he then 
 closed the window, and held out his arm. 
 Jane finished tying her pocket-handker- 
 chief round her throat, and took it. He 
 walked bareheaded. 
 
 " Put on your cap, Austin." 
 " All in good time," he replied. 
 " You will take cold." 
 " Cold, Jane ! A clergyman is not fit 
 for his work if he cannot stand for an 
 hour with his head uncovered in bad 
 weather — and to-night is fine. If j^ou 
 saw the model of a guy this elegant cap 
 makes of me and my beauty, you might 
 ,take it into your head to reject me." 
 
 Jane smiled ; her own quiet, confiding 
 smile ; and Mr. Rufort looked at her, 
 and drew her arm closer against his side. 
 " Jane, I had a selfish motive in 
 bringing you out with me. It was to 
 tell you that the rectory wants a mistress, 
 a id the parish wants a mistress, and I 
 want a wife. We cannot get along as 
 we are." 
 
 " Mr. Annesley had no — "' wife, Jane 
 was going to say, but stopped herself ere 
 the word fell. " The rectory and the 
 parish had no mistress in his time," she 
 resumed, framing her answer more to 
 her satisfaction, " and he got along, 
 Austin." 
 
 " After a fashion ; a miserable fashion 
 it must have been. That's one cause 
 why things have tumbled into their 
 present state. / don't mean to let them 
 be without one long." 
 
 Like the arguments of a great many 
 more .people, Mr. Rufort' s, strictly exam- 
 ined, would not have held water. If the 
 late Rector had not (for many years at 
 least) had a wife, the rectory and the 
 parish had had in his daughter a most 
 efficient mistress. Mr. Rufort, so far, 
 was but speaking in jest, as Jane knew. 
 " Here we are at the gate," she said. 
 " And now I must go back, or Olive will 
 be calling to me. She is watching me 
 from the window, I am sure, to see that 
 I don't linger." 
 
 " Not she. She knows you are safe 
 with me." 
 
 " Oh,' certainly ; but she is always 
 fancying we shall take cold." 
 
 " Yon take cold"? I declare I forgot 
 that. I beg your pardon for my thought- 
 lessness, Jane. Well, then, I will not 
 keep you now, but I shall speak further 
 to-morrow." 
 
 He threw his arm round her waist 
 with a quick movement, and drew her 
 behind the shrubbery which skirted the 
 gate, so that they were hidden from the 
 house. And there he imprinted kiss 
 after kiss upon her unresisting face. 
 
 " my goodness ! " groans the fasti- 
 dious reader. " A clergyman ! " 
 
 ■ Well, of course it was grievously im- 
 proper. But, as it did happen, where's 
 the use of hypocritically concealing it ? 
 
 " Jane, my darling," he murmured, 
 " I must have 3*011 at the rectory before 
 Christmas. Think it over." 
 
 " As you will," she softly answered. 
 
 With the last kiss, Mr. Rufort opened 
 the gate, swung through it, and took the 
 path that led to the rectory. Jane stood 
 a moment to watch him : she saw him 
 put on his " gu} 7 of a cap;" she saw 
 him turn and nod to her in the moon- 
 light : and she clasped her hands togeth- 
 er with a movement of happy thankful- 
 ness, thinking how very much she loved 
 him. Olive, anxious on the score of the 
 night-air, for she did not fancy Jane was 
 particularly strong, tapped at the window 
 and the young lady ran in. 
 
 The following afternoon, as the Miss 
 Canterburys were crossing the Rock- 
 field, as it was called, ' on their way 
 home, they saw Mr. Rufort at a distance. 
 He turned to meet them ; but his step 
 seemed slow and weary ; his face wore a 
 vexed, grave look. Millicent noticed it. 
 "He has been annoyed with some 
 parish business or other," surmised Olive ; 
 " though it must be more than a trifle to 
 affect Mr. Rufort. I must sa} r , Jane, 
 you will have a good-tempered husband. 
 If Austin has no other praisable quality, 
 he has that of a sweet temper." 
 
 " I think he has a great many oth- 
 ers," returned Jane in her quiet way. 
 And Olive laughed. 
 
 Mr. Rufort came up. After a minute 
 spent in greeting, he touched Jane, and 
 caused her to slacken her pace. Miss 
 Canterbury and Millicent walked on. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 97 
 
 u Jane," said he, when the distance 
 between them had increased, " what is 
 this barrier that has come, or is com- 
 ing, between us ? " 
 
 Jane Canterbury looked at him for 
 a few moments in silent surprise. His 
 face was pale ; he was evidently agi- 
 tated. 
 
 " I do not know what you are speaking 
 of, Austin," she said at length. 
 
 "My father rode over to-day, and told 
 me, without any preparation or circum- 
 locution, that things must be at an end 
 between us. And when I asked him what 
 he meant, and wherefore it was to be, he 
 said I might ask that of Mr. Canterbury. 
 Have you heard anything ? " 
 
 " Nothing," said Jane — " nothing." 
 And her look of consternation too plainly 
 indicated that she had not. " But did 
 Lord Rufort give you no further explan- 
 ation ? " 
 
 "I could get nothing else from him. 
 He was in that inaccessible humor of 
 his, which is a sure indication that some- 
 thing has gone wrong. He did not get 
 off his horse. Mrs. Kage, who in pass- 
 ing had stepped inside the rectory gate 
 to look at my autumn flowers, was with 
 me in the garden when he rode up. He 
 made a sign to me with his whip, and I 
 went out. The groom had drawn up 
 close behind, and my father, seeing this, 
 said, 'Ride on, sir;' and of course Rich- 
 ard rode on. I knew by the sharp tone 
 all was not smooth ; and then he told 
 me what I have said to you, just in so 
 many words." 
 
 Jane's heart was beating. " What 
 was it he meant about my father ? " 
 
 " I asked an explanation. He seemed 
 too angry, or too — if I may use the 
 word — too lofty to give it ; and said I 
 had best inquire that of Mr. Canterbury. 
 ' Or of the neighborhood either, for it is 
 no secret,' he added, as he rode off, 
 barely lifting his hat to Mrs. Kage, who 
 had come to the gate." 
 
 " Papa was with us this morning," 
 observed Jane. " He appeared just the 
 same as usual, and did not hint at any- 
 thing amiss; indeed, he was joking with 
 me, and asked me when I meant to take 
 up my residence at the rectory. Do you 
 think there can be any mistake — any 
 misapprehension on Lord Rufort's 
 part ? " 
 
 " Misapprehension of what ? " de- 
 
 manded Mr. Rufort, standing still as he 
 asked the question. 
 
 She could not say ; she could not im- 
 agine what, more than he. Both were 
 completely at sea. One fact waa indis- 
 putable — that Lord Rufort sedate, sure, 
 cautious, was the last man in the world 
 to take up a mistaken notion, no matter 
 what it might relate to. That some 
 trouble or other had arisen, they felt 
 very certain ; and a miserable sense of 
 discomfort took possession of both. Mr. 
 Rufort was the first to speak. 
 
 " Whatsoever it inay be, Jane, let us 
 prepare to meet it," he impressively 
 said, laying his hand upon her arm, and 
 gazing into her eyes. " We are no 
 longer children, and may not be dealt 
 with as such. To fly in the face of pa- 
 rental authority and marry in defiance 
 of it, is what, with our professed feel- 
 ings and principles, we could neither of 
 us do ; but on the other hand, no father, 
 whether yours or mine, can be justified 
 in attempting to separate us. There- 
 fore, should a storm be bursting over 
 our heads, we will wait with what pa- 
 tience we may until it is weathered, im- 
 plicitly trusting in each other's faith, se- 
 cure in each other's love. Do you un- 
 derstand me, my dearest ? " 
 
 " Yes," she sighed ; " and I think you 
 are right, Austin. I promise to be 
 guided by you in all things. I know 
 you will not lead me wrong." 
 
 He snatched her hand and clasped it. 
 They were in the open field, or he might 
 have snatched something else. 
 
 " Then we rest secure in mutual faith 
 and truth," he said as they began to 
 walk on. " Whatsoever shall betide, 
 you are still mine : remember that, 
 Jane." 
 
 Olive and Millicent had stopped, and 
 were looking back. Olive thought they 
 seemed agitated, and she wondered : the 
 calm-natured, easy - mannered minister, 
 the sensible, tranquil Jane. Could any- 
 thing be wrong ? 
 
 " Walk on and wait at the stile," 
 said Miss Canterbury to Millicent, 
 whom she was a little apt to consider a 
 child still. And so Millicent went on, 
 and Olive took a few steps backward to 
 meet them. 
 
 " Is anything amiss, Mr. Rufort ? " 
 
 "Austin, let us tell Olive," was Jane's 
 hurried whisper. 
 
93 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 " Of course,"' he answered. " I in- 
 tended to do so." 
 
 Olive listened to his explanation, and 
 smiled a little as she did so. Jn her 
 way she was every whit as lofty as Lord 
 Rufort, in mind and manner too. That 
 anything could be supposed to happen 
 sufficient to separate Jane and Austin 
 Rufort, short of their own free will, she 
 looked upon in the light of a simple ab- 
 surdity. Mistakes, misapprehensions, 
 were common enough in the world, she 
 observed ; this must be one. 
 
 " Not the least -to -be -comprehended 
 part of the whole is, that my father 
 should have said it was no secret in the 
 neighborhood," observed Mr. Rufort. 
 
 " Yes, that certainly sounds a little 
 curious," assented Olive. 
 
 " The most feasible construction I can 
 put upon it is, that his lordship and Mr. 
 Canterbury may have had some quarrel," 
 continued Mr. Rufort. " Though how 
 my father can construe that into a rea- 
 son for my giving up Jane, I cannot 
 conceive. He is not an unjust man." 
 
 " I feel thoroughly sure that when we 
 saw papa this morning, he had had no 
 quarrel whatever with Lord Rufort," re- 
 plied Olive ; " and I feel almost as sure 
 that they have not met since. Papa 
 left us before one o'clock to go home to 
 an early luncheon, for he and Mrs. Can- 
 terbury were going out afterwards to 
 pay some visit ; and we saw the car- 
 riage drive by with them." 
 
 " They cannot have met Lord Rufort, 
 and — and — had any disagreement 
 then ? " hesitated Jane. 
 
 " Nonsense, Jane," reproved Olive ; 
 " They would not dispute in the pres- 
 ence of Mrs. Canterbury. To suppose 
 either of them likely to dispute, under 
 any circumstances, seems to me exces- 
 sively improbable. Who is it that Leta 
 is talking to over the stile so eagerl} 7, ? — 
 0, Mr. Carlton." 
 
 " Is it Carlton ? " cried the rector. 
 " They are discussing the world's pri- 
 vate affairs, then, for he hears all the 
 gossip and can keep nothing in. But I 
 must leave you for the present, Miss 
 Canterbury ; I shall see you to-night. — 
 Good-bye, Jane." 
 
 He struck across the field, and they 
 walked on leisurely towards the stile. 
 Millicent turned, and ran back to meet 
 
 them in haste and unmistakable excite- 
 ment. 
 
 "What is it, Leta?" asked Miss 
 Canterbur}-. 
 
 " Olive ! " was the reply, and 
 Millicent was breathless as she spoke it, 
 " I don't fully understand what it is. 
 Mr. Carlton has been telling me some- 
 thing about papa." 
 
 "What has he been telling you ? " 
 
 Millicent entered on the tale as 
 succinctly as her agitation permitted 
 her. Between that, and her own im- 
 perfect knowledge, it was not very clear. 
 It appeared that as she reached the 
 stile, when sent forward by Olive, their 
 old friend, Mr. Carlton of Chilling Hall, 
 was passing down the road in his pony- 
 gig. Seeing Millicent, he stopped, got 
 out, and went to her. 
 
 " My dear," he began, without greet- 
 ing or circumlocution, "tell your sisters 
 that I have refused to act, for I will 
 never have a hand in robbing them or 
 you." 
 
 "In robbing us, Mr. Carlton!" was 
 Leta's surprised rejoinder. 
 
 " To give your patrimony to others 
 and turn you out penniless is a robbery, 
 and nothing less," continued Mr. Carl- 
 ton ; " therefore I have informed my 
 old friend Canterbury that he must get 
 somebody else to help 'him in his injus- 
 tice, for I won't. Tell your sisters this, 
 my dear ; and tell them that if they 
 should be- stripped of their rights, they 
 shall come home to the Hall and be my 
 daughters." 
 
 This was what had passed ; and what 
 Millicent now repeated to her sisters 
 nearly word for word. 
 
 " Was this all ? " asked Olive, as the 
 recital ceased. 
 
 "All," said Millicent. "Mr. Carlton 
 had to run on to the pony, which would 
 not stand, and I came to you. What 
 can it mean, Olive ? Does Mrs. Canter- 
 bury wish papa to take from us the in- 
 come he allows and turn us from Thorn- 
 hedge Villa, as she did — for it was her 
 doing — from the Rock ? " 
 
 " No," answered Miss Canterbury, 
 drawing up her head in her haughty 
 way, " papa will not allow her to go 
 that length, I think. The world must 
 have got hold of some preposterous and 
 improbable invention, and poor Mr. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 99 
 
 Carlton has heard it. He takes in 
 everything, whether true or false. 
 Why, Millicent, you could have contra* 
 dieted it on the spot; was not papa with 
 us this morning, kind as ever?" 
 
 "This is what has reached the ears of 
 Lord Rufort, then," remarked Jane. 
 
 " No doubt. Lord Rufort is known 
 to he a gold-worshipper, and Austin's 
 living is small. How can so improbable 
 a tale have arisen ? " 
 
 When they reached the stile, the first 
 object visible was Mr. Carlton, standing 
 by his pony-gig a short way down the 
 road. Something was amiss with the 
 harness, and he was setting it to rights. 
 
 " Mr. Carlton, where did you pick up 
 that sublime information ? " inquired 
 Olive, walking up to him. 
 
 " What ? " asked he, busy with his 
 straps and buckles. 
 
 " That we are to be consigned to the 
 Union to-morrow, and our house and 
 furniture let to the highest bidder, plate 
 included ? " she said, with good-humor- 
 ed sarcasm. 
 
 " Did Leta tell you that ? " 
 
 "Something equivalent to it," laugh- 
 ed Olive. 
 
 " She did, did she ? A young goose ! 
 I perceive you have kept it from her ; 
 I saw she did not understand me ; so I 
 laid the blame on my pony, poor quiet 
 creatm-e, and flew away from her, with- 
 out saying more. Miss Olive, I am 
 truly sorry ; this infatuation of your 
 father's has given me a sleepless night. 
 Had I ever supposed this was to be the 
 upshot, I'd have seen Mrs. Kage hang- 
 ed before I'd consented to stand father- 
 in-church at the wedding." 
 
 Olive felt herself in the dark. And 
 it was not a pleasant darkness by any 
 means. 
 
 t " Will you please inform me what 
 there is to be sorry for, Mr. Carlton, 
 and what is the nature of my father's 
 ' infatuation ? ' There's many a foolish 
 tale concocted in the village club-room." 
 
 Mr. Carlton turned from his harness 
 to look at her. He was a genial-looking 
 man, with a ruddy countenance, silver 
 hair, and dark pleasant eyes. 
 
 "Are you asking me this seriously, 
 Olive ? Or are you carrying on a jest 
 with me ? " 
 
 " Nay," said Olive, " are you carry- 
 ing on a jest with us ? Is there, or is 
 
 there not, anything to tell ? Papa was 
 with us this morning ; he hinted at 
 nothing ; he was as kind and talkative 
 as usual." 
 
 " Then you don't know it ? " cried 
 Mr. Carlton in amaze. 
 
 " I know nothing. What is there to 
 know ? " 
 
 " My dear Miss Olive, I surely be- 
 lieved you knew all — more, indeed, than 
 I do. I thought I understood from Mr. 
 Canterbury that his daughters were 
 privy to the arrangement ; I fully 
 thought he said so. It must have been 
 my own mistake." 
 
 Olive waited ; she supposed he would 
 come to the point in time. Mr. Carlton 
 appeared to be revolving matters while 
 he stood. Suddenly he struck the shaft 
 of the gig with emphasis. 
 
 " Well, I don't regret having told 
 you, my dear. No, I don't. It would 
 be a cruel thing for it to come upon you 
 like a thunderbolt when he was gone." 
 
 " But you have not told me, Mr. 
 Carlton. See how patiently I am wait- 
 ing to hear it." 
 
 " Your father dropped me a note some 
 days ago saj'ing he was going to make 
 his will, and asking me if I would oblige 
 him by being one of the executors," be- 
 gan Mr. Carlton, plunging into the 
 story. " I dropped a note back to say 
 Yes. But I reminded him that I was 
 born in the same year that he was, and 
 that his life, so far as anybody knew, 
 was just as good as mine. Don't you 
 think it is, Miss Olive ? " 
 
 " Yes. Pray go on." 
 
 " Well, the will was prepared ; and I 
 conclude we should have been called up- 
 on to sign shortly. But yesterdaj 7 morn- 
 ing when I was at the Rock, in talking 
 of it with Mr. Canterbuiy, I said to 
 him — just as old friends do say such 
 things to each other — that I hoped he 
 had taken good care of his daughters. 
 And, to my utter surprise, I found he 
 had cut you off with the most paltry 
 sum conceivable — five thousand each." 
 
 A spot of glowing vermillion shone 
 forth from Miss Canterbury's cheeks. 
 They burnt like fire. 
 
 " So I told him I would be no execu- 
 tor to that will; and therefore, if he 
 could not make a better, he must find 
 somebody else to act, I wouldn't. And 
 away I came in a huff, and nearly fell 
 
100 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 over Mrs. Canterbury, who was at the 
 study -door when I opened it. Miss 
 Olive " — and the speaker dropped his 
 voice to a whisper, as if afraid the pony 
 might hear, or the hedges on either side 
 — "I think young madam must have 
 been listening, though I'd not have such 
 a hint get abroad for all the money ever 
 coined. And her mother was peeping 
 her old face round the boudoir-door see- 
 ing that she did it." 
 
 u The property is left to Mrs. Canter- 
 bury ! " remarked Olive, her eyes flash- 
 ing. 
 
 " Of course. To her and the boy be- 
 tween them. I was too hot and vexed 
 to retain the particulars, but I can get 
 them if I want to. Its being willed 
 away from you and your sisters was too 
 much for me. Why, Miss Olive, the 
 least he could do would be to leave you 
 fifty thousand apiece, seeing that you 
 were but lately heiresses to all of it. 
 Or let him be just, in spite of his new 
 wife and boy, and halve the whole." 
 
 Old friend though Mr. Carlton was, 
 almost like a second father, Olive Can- 
 terbury almost disdained to discuss the 
 affair with him. It was not the loss of 
 the money, so much as the injustice in 
 itself that angered her. 
 
 ••How did this family -matter get 
 abroad ? " she asked somewhat ab- 
 ruptly. 
 
 " 0, it is known everywhere," was the 
 Irish answer. " We were talking about 
 it at the magistrates' meeting at Aber- 
 ton yesterday." 
 
 " Who told it there ? ,y persisted 
 Olive. " Did you ? " 
 
 " I don't think I did ; I am not sure, 
 though. I know we began talking of 
 it all in a hurry, and forgot to send up 
 the memorial about a prisoner to the 
 Secretary of State. When the meeting 
 was over, Lord Rufort came out with 
 me, and asked me the particulars." 
 
 " Your poor tongue ! " thought Olive. 
 
 " And that's all, my dear. And don't 
 you forget, if this wholesale thieving is 
 carried out and you are deprived of your 
 own, that there's more than room for 
 you and Leta at the Hall — Jane will be 
 at the rectory, I suppose. You must 
 come to it and be my daughters." 
 
 He shook her hand as he spoke, and, 
 hastily ascending to his gig, drove off 
 out of her sight, for his eyes were filling. 
 
 Miss Canterbury went back to her sis- 
 ters, who were waiting for her at the 
 stile. 
 
 " I cannot stay to say anything now, 
 Jane," hastily spoke Olive, purposely 
 anticipating questions. Walk home 
 now with Millicent, will you ? I am 
 going into Chilling again." 
 
 " To Chilling ! " 
 
 "Yes, I have business there." 
 
 She was accustomed to rule things in 
 this decisive way, and they never 
 thought of questioning it. But Jane 
 glanced at her watch. Their dinner- 
 hour was six, and it wanted but half-an- 
 hour to it. 
 
 " If you go back now, Olive, you will 
 not be home in time to dress." 
 
 " Then I must dispense with dressing 
 for one evening — or with dinner," was 
 the reply ; and Olive's tone as she spoke 
 was very bitter. 
 
 Leaving her sisters standing in sur- 
 prise, Miss Canterbury went back along 
 the field-path ; it was rather shorter 
 than the roadway. To say she felt in- 
 dignant at the news breathed into her 
 ear would not be saying half enough ; 
 but the first thing to be done was to as- 
 certain if the tale were true, for Mr. 
 Carlton's information was not always to 
 be depended on. He was as a very 
 woman for gossip, and sometimes, quite 
 unconsciously to himself, took up an as- 
 pect of reports that was afterwards 
 found to be quite the reverse of fact. 
 That no one but Mr. ISTorris, the family 
 solicitor, would be employed upon legal 
 business by her father, she felt sure. 
 His office was at Aberton ; his residence 
 at Chilling, not far from the parson- 
 age. He was a man in extensive prac- 
 tice, and moved in good society. Olive 
 went straight to his house, and found he 
 had just got home. 
 
 Mr. Norris came to her in the draw- 
 ing-room. The young ladies knew him 
 well; but, in spite of his mixing with 
 them on an ajiparent equality, Olive was 
 fully conscious of the real distance that 
 existed. It peeped out this evening in 
 her manner ; and in her heart she was 
 resenting his having been in any way a 
 participator in making so unjust a will. 
 She turned to face him as he came in, 
 and spoke without any preface of com- 
 pliments, her air and voice alike redolent 
 of command. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 101 
 
 " Mr. ISTorris, what is this I hear about 
 my father's will ? " 
 
 " How have you heard it ? " was the 
 rejoinder of Mr. aSTorris. 
 
 Olive darted a glance at him from be- 
 neath her haughty e} T elids, which plain- 
 ly inquired by what right he put the 
 question ; and the lawyer understood it 
 perfectly. 
 
 " I heard it in the same way that oth- 
 ers have heard it ; it is the common topic 
 of the neighborhood. Did you make it 
 for him ? n 
 
 " I did. The reason I inquired where 
 you had heard it, Miss Canterbury, was 
 that I hoped it might have been from 
 himself. I think if Mr. Canterbury would 
 only converse with his daughters respect- 
 ing it, he might be brought to see his de- 
 cision in a different light. Pray be seat- 
 ed, Miss Canterbury." 
 
 " I prefer to stand. Will you give me 
 the heads of the will?" 
 
 " I find that its particulars have really 
 got abroad, so that I can have no scru- 
 ples in doing so," he replied. " I cannot 
 but think Mr. Carlton is the traitor: not 
 an intentional one, poor man ; but, if 
 ever a secret does get intrusted to him, 
 it is a secret no longer." 
 
 " What is the amount willed to me and 
 my sisters ? " impatiently interrupted 
 Miss Canterbury. 
 
 " Five thousand pounds each." 
 
 " Shameful ! " responded her heart. 
 
 " And the rest to Mrs. Canterbury ? " 
 she inquired aloud. 
 
 " Mrs. Canterbury has her settlement, 
 and a very large sum besides ; but the 
 bulk of the property is left to the infant. 
 In case of its death, it becomes Mrs. 
 Canterbuty's." 
 
 " All of it ? » 
 
 " All. It passes to her absolutely and 
 unconditionally." 
 
 " Does the Rock pass to her ? " 
 
 " The Rock, and also its large reve- 
 nues." 
 
 " Mr. Norris, do you call this a just 
 will ? " 
 
 " It is the most unjust will I ever 
 made!" he replied with warmth. "I 
 said so to Mr. Canterbury. I assure you, 
 Miss Canterbury, that if you and your 
 sisters have been thus dealt by, it was 
 not for want of remonstrance on my part. 
 All I could venture to urge, in my posi- 
 tion as legal adviser, I did urge ; but 
 
 Mr. Canterbury has in this instance 
 proved himself -a, self-willed client." 
 
 " My father must have been influenced, 
 as he has been in other matters," re- 
 marked Miss Canterbury. And Mr. 
 Norris's raised eyebrows and expression 
 of countenance told that he more than 
 agreed with her. " Is the will signed? " 
 
 " No. There is some delay in conse- 
 quence of Mr. Carlton's refusing to act 
 as executor. When he heard what were 
 the provisions of the will, he turned on 
 Mr. Canterbury and said he would not 
 act : he came to my office at Aberton, 
 and told me. Carlton said he had hith- 
 erto managed to keep his hands from dab- 
 bling with injustice, and hoped to do so 
 still." 
 
 " Who are the other executors ? " 
 
 " There is only one other named — 
 Mrs. Canterbury." 
 
 " 0," said Oiive. 
 
 " Since Mr. Carlton's refusal to act, I 
 have seen Mr. Canterbury, and again 
 urged upon him that a more equitable 
 disposal should be made. I gained noth- 
 ing by it, I fear." 
 
 " What was Mr. Canterbury's reply ? " 
 
 " He said that he had been advised it 
 was not an unequitable disposal : that a 
 wife and son generally inherited to the 
 exclusion of daughters." 
 
 " Advised ! " scornfully ejaculated 
 Olive. " Mrs. Kage has had to do with 
 this — more than Mrs. Canterbury. Does 
 he call five thousand pounds a fitting 
 portion for us, brought up in the luxury 
 we have been, and with our expecta- 
 tions ? " 
 
 "I submitted that question to him, 
 Miss Canterbury, almost in the same 
 words you have used. He replied, that 
 you already inherited five thousand 
 pounds each by the death of your moth- 
 er — as is the case — and that five thous- 
 and more would make it ten thousand." 
 
 "Ten thousand pounds for the daugh- 
 ters of Mr. Canterbury of the Rock!", 
 was Olive's resentful comment. 
 
 " Ten thousand, all told," quietly re- 
 plied the lawyer. " Mrs. Kage has a like 
 sum." 
 
 " A like sum ! Bequeathed by my 
 father ? " 
 
 Mr. Korris inclined his head in the af- 
 firmative. 
 
 Olive's breath left her. A hundred 
 remo-nstances rose to her mind, a hun- 
 
102 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 dred indignant protests to her lips. So 
 many, so tumultuous were they, that 
 none were uttered. 
 
 " Is there no appeal, no redress 
 against these unjust wills ? " she ex- 
 claimed, when her silence had spent it- 
 self. 
 
 "The only appeal can lie in getting 
 the testator to revoke them," he replied, 
 looking meaningly at Miss Canterbury. 
 " When once the testator has passed 
 away, the will becomes law, and must be 
 carried out. I will urge the bearings of 
 the case again on Mr. Canterbury, 
 but—" 
 
 "No," interrupted Miss Canterbury, 
 " it is his family who must urge it upon 
 him ; if only to save his name from re- 
 proach." 
 
 " I was about to say so," returned the 
 lawyer. '•' It is Mr. Canterbury's family 
 — in fact, you, Miss Canterbury, who 
 must deal with this. If you cannot pre- 
 vail with him, no one can ; there's not a 
 chance of it." 
 
 Olive knew it well. 
 
 " I will delay the execution of the 
 will as long as possible, Miss Canterbury, 
 in the hope that I may be furnished with 
 instructions to make a different one. I 
 told Mr. Canterbury I would charge noth- 
 ing for drawing a fresh one out. Not — 
 pardon me — to save his pocket, but that 
 he might see how urgent I considered the 
 necessity to be." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Norris," frankly 
 spoke Olive. " I was blaming you in 
 my heart when I came in, but I perceive 
 no fault lies with } r ou." 
 
 She shook hands with him. He at- 
 tended her to the door, and she departed 
 on her walk back across the Rock-field, 
 plunged into deep reflection. That this 
 terrible, barefaced act of injustice was 
 owing almost entirely to Mrs. Kage, 
 Olive felt sure : Caroline, let alone, would 
 never have thought of being so grasping. 
 And Olive was right. 
 
 In point of fact, that honorable lady 
 had been feathering her nest pretty con- 
 siderably ever since the marriage. Her 
 daughter largely helped her ; there could 
 be no question of it. Mrs. Kage's former 
 modest household of two servants had 
 been augmented by a smart lady's-maid 
 named Fry. A beautiful pony-carriage 
 — kept at the Rock — was devoted to her 
 special service, and Mrs. Kage, with a 
 
 parasol in one hand and scent-bottle in 
 the other, went about in it, driven by a 
 natty boy-groom. A close carriage was 
 at her service wheaever she chose to send 
 and order it. Her table was munificent- 
 ly supplied with the choicest fruit from 
 the Rock-gardens when she did not dine 
 at the Rock. Fish and other delicacies 
 came daily to her from Aberton. Her 
 attire was now magnificent, especially in 
 the respect of costly old lace, and pinch- 
 ing in mone3^-matters was at an end. In 
 short, Mrs. Kage's lines had dropped into 
 pleasant places ; and there could be no 
 question that her daughter's marriage 
 with George Canterbury had brought to 
 her all its hoped-for realisation. 
 
 This assistance might have been car- 
 ried out for her mother twice over, had 
 Mrs. Canterbury so pleased, and nobody 
 found fault with it. To Mr. Canter- 
 bury's great wealth it was as a drop of 
 water to the ocean. But to will away 
 the daughters' inheritance was a very 
 different affair ; and so little necessity 
 was there for anything of the kind, Mr. 
 Canterbury's riches being amply suffi- 
 cient to provide munificently for all, that 
 a doubt crossed Olive, as she walked 
 along the field, of Mrs. Kage's sanity. 
 Tracing events back, she could see that 
 it was all a part of one deep-laid scheme ; 
 and Mrs. Kage had driven them from 
 the Rock to have room to work it out. 
 The birth of the child had been made a 
 pretext for Mrs. Kage's taking up her 
 abode at the Rock ; she had not yet 
 come away from it. With that wily, 
 plotting, soft-speaking woman ever at 
 his elbow, Olive felt that her chance of 
 being heard to effect was very small in- 
 deed. Bitterly she deplored her father's 
 pliant, yielding disposition, and the 
 strange ascendency it had enabled the 
 new wife and the crafty mother-in-law 
 to gain over him. 
 
 When she reached home, she impart- 
 ed the news to her sisters ; and they 
 spent the evening talking it over with 
 the Reverend Mr. Rufort. It was deci- 
 ded that Olive should proceed to the 
 Rock the following day, and see what 
 impression she could make upon her fa- 
 ther. 
 
 " I heartily wish you success, Miss 
 Canterbury," were Mr. Rufort's last 
 words to her, when he was leaving. 
 
 u You cannot wish it more than I do. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBFltY'S WILL 
 
 jo; 
 
 Putting our own interests aside, I would 
 not that my father, for his own sake, 
 should leave behind him so unjust a will, 
 for his name would lie under obloquy for 
 ever." 
 
 But, notwithstanding the words, there 
 lay an instinct on Miss Canterbury's 
 heart that she should not prevail ; and 
 the whole night long she never closed 
 her eyes. 
 
 She reached the Rock in the morning 
 between eleven and twelve, when she 
 knew her father would most probably be 
 alone in the library. The initiative pre- 
 liminary of the visit was not propitious. 
 The servant who opened the door to her 
 happened to be a fresh one ; a fine gen- 
 tleman just arrived from London as own 
 footman to Mrs. Canterbury. Olive 
 walked straight into the hall without 
 speaking. The man stared, and then 
 seemed to recollect something. 
 
 " I beg your parding, mem — might 
 you be Miss Canterbury ? " 
 
 " I am Miss Canterbury," Olive con- 
 descended to repty, though she consid- 
 ered the question, and the manner too, 
 somewhat impertinent. 
 
 The man placed himself in her way 
 as she was walking on towards the li- 
 brary. 
 
 " Then if you please, mem, will you 
 step into this here parlor ? You are not 
 to go in, mem." ' 
 
 Olive turned her lofty face upon him. 
 He did not altogether like its air of 
 command, and resumed with civility. 
 
 " Mem, Mrs. Kage told me that you 
 was not to go in to Mr. Canterbury, 
 should you happen to call, but was to be 
 showed in here, and herself fetched 
 down to you. She ordered it, mem, and 
 I could not think of dLobeying of her." 
 
 " Sir ! " burst out Olive, " do }*ou 
 know to whom you speak ? I am in my 
 father's house. Stand aside ! " 
 
 He stood aside, foolish and humble, 
 and at the same moment the butler came 
 forward. 
 
 "Neel," said she, in a calm tone, al- 
 most an indifferent one, " you had better 
 tell that man who I am ; he does not ap- 
 pear to understand, I think." 
 
 Neel, all astonishment, gazed at the 
 new footman, whom he did not particu- 
 larly favor, from head to foot ; and 
 turned to usher Miss Canterbury into 
 his master's presence. 
 
 In passing through the hall, the door 
 of one of the drawing-rooms was flung 
 back, and the nurse came out carrying 
 the baby. Olive, unthinkingly, turned 
 her head to look in. There, talking to- 
 gether face to face, stood Mrs. Canter- 
 bury and Thomas Kage. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 AT THE ROCK. 
 
 Only the beginning of October ; but 
 the woods and dales around Chilling 
 were variegated with the autumn foliage 
 of many colors ; the Welsh hills, stretch- 
 ing out to the distance, looked gay with 
 their light and shade ; the skies were 
 blue and cloudless — all beautiful, as seen 
 from the windows of that fine mansion, 
 the Rock. 
 
 In one of its gorgeous drawing-rooms, 
 newly furnished and decorated to suit 
 the taste and pleasure of the new wife, 
 and quite shining again with mirrors 
 and gilding and resplendent vanities, 
 sat Mrs. Canterbury, young and lovely 
 as when her husband had brought her 
 home fourteen months before ; but ten 
 times vainer, ten times more self-willed 
 than she had been even then. She was 
 attired in a fine morning robe of French 
 cambric, fancifully embroidered, and 
 much adorned with rich pink ribbons 
 and delicate lace; and — though her 
 sunny curls were far too youthful for it 
 — she wore a little cap of the same pink 
 ribbons and lace. At a distance, half- 
 reclining on a soft velvet ottoman, with 
 one cushion propping up her back and 
 another her feet, was her mother, the 
 Honorable Mrs. Kage, all nerves and 
 languishment as usual, but looking a 
 little more faded than ordinary in the 
 clear morning light. How many weeks 
 had elapsed since Mrs. Kage had taken 
 up her abode at the Rock, and how many 
 more she intended to remain, she kept a 
 discreet silence upon. Its luxurious 
 quarters were on a different scale from 
 those of her own home, and entirely 
 agreeable. 
 
 Seated near Mrs. Canterbury was a 
 gentleman who had but now entered — 
 entered unexpectedly, and given to her 
 heart a wild flutter of joyous confusion, 
 
104 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 married though she was. Perhaps his 
 heart fluttered too, for he had once 
 thought her more of an angel than man, 
 young ardent man, often thinks woman. 
 If so, nothing of it was betrayed in his 
 manner, which was calm, equable, pleas- 
 ant, at the very most, as a well-regulated, 
 self-controlled man should be under the 
 circumstances, whatever feelings may be 
 stirring within him. It was Thomas 
 Kage. 
 
 " Do you find me altered ? " she was 
 asking him, with rising blushes and a 
 tremor that could not be concealed. 
 
 "Altered for the better. I never saw 
 you looking so well, or so — " 
 
 "So what?" returned she, in her 
 conscious vanity. 
 
 " So fascinating, Caroline. I know 
 not why I should have hesitated ; for 
 such praise, honestly given, cannot do 
 harm to a married woman." 
 
 But the word was spoken without the 
 smallest warmth ; for all the admiration 
 he displayed, he might just as well have 
 said, " so uglj-." In the midst of her 
 amusement, Mrs. Canterbury felt a latent 
 pique. 
 
 " I think that must be a new theory ; 
 is it one of your own ? " 
 
 " I should have said, ought not," he 
 replied, correcting the former phrase. 
 " How is Mr. Canterbury this morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 " Oh, he is very well ! " was the care- 
 less answer. " He is always in his study 
 from ten till twelve, busy with his ten- 
 ants and his farm-business and all that 
 trumpery." 
 
 " I am so glad to see you so happy, 
 Caroline," continued Mr. Kage ; and he 
 certainly spoke heartily now. " I trust 
 you have found the bliss in your married 
 life that you hoped for — found it in all 
 ways." 
 
 " Yes, thank you, of course I have," 
 she flippantly said, but with the crimson 
 rising in her lovely cheeks. " Thom- 
 as," she continued in a deeper tone, " do 
 not let us play at talking fine with each 
 other. You know that in marrying a 
 man of — of — Mr. Canterbury's age, one 
 does not expect a bower of bliss, all lilies 
 and roses." 
 
 " Very true," he quietly replied ; " one 
 cannot have everything in the very 
 brightest of marriages. You have a 
 
 superfluity of luxury and wealth ; and 
 that, I expect, is what you married for." 
 
 " Of course, I have everything in 
 that way — more than a superfluity," 
 replied Mrs. Canterbury, her voice just 
 a little fractious. " And then he is so 
 fond of me! That's very tiresome." 
 
 Mr. Kage slightly laughed. 
 
 "I can tell you that it is," she em- 
 phatically repeated. " I must not go 
 out at night, lest I take cold ; I must 
 not run out at will by day, lest I fatigue 
 mj'self. I am not rheumatic, and I'm 
 not quite sixty." 
 
 "All to your benefit, no doubt. I 
 daresay j'ou find it so." 
 
 " I might if I tried it ; but when he 
 says I am not to go anywhere or do any- 
 thing, I immediately go and do it. But 
 I tell you what, Thomas," she added 
 more earnestly, " I have found out that to 
 have all your wishes fulfilled ere ex- 
 pressed, to know beforehand that your 
 slightest whim will be carried out, does 
 not bring happiness. It creates weari- 
 ness and satiety, but never happiness. 
 I often wish myself back in the old days, 
 when we had but five hundred a-year, and 
 I had to tease mamma before I could get 
 a new dress bought. It seems now that 
 to cut and contrive, and spin out our 
 income, was a real pleasure ; it was a 
 daily object to live for, don't 3 T ou see ? 
 Not that I would part with any of my 
 present wealth ; I'd not grumble if it 
 were more." 
 
 " More, Mrs. Canterbury ! " he ex- 
 claimed, and his astonishment was gen- 
 uine. " If I had as many hundreds 
 a-year as you have thousands, I should 
 feel rich enough for an emperor." 
 
 "Are you going to call me that?" 
 she asked, her countenance paling, her 
 voice falling low, though the conversa- 
 tion could but be unheard ; for Mrs. Kage, 
 buried in her distant cushions, and sniff- 
 ing at her essence-bottles, turned neither 
 ear nor heed nor thought to them. Be- 
 fore her daughter's marriage, it was high- 
 treason for Thomas Kage to attempt to 
 say a word to her. He might talk at 
 will now. 
 
 " It is your name." 
 
 " Not to you. Surely I may be ' Car- 
 oline,' as before. What need is there of 
 formality between cousins ? " 
 
 " Just as you please," he said in a civil 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 105 
 
 tone of ready acquiescence, but with 
 nothing in it of a wanner feeling. 
 " Some ladies would take offence at be- 
 ing addressed indiscriminately by their 
 Christian name after marriage." 
 
 " How was it Mr. Canterbury met you 
 last night ? " she resumed. " I do not 
 understand." 
 
 u Quite accidentally. I was quitting 
 the railway station, on my arrival at Ab- 
 erton, when his carriage drove past. He 
 saw me, and stopped it, and made me 
 promise to come over to-day." 
 
 " Which otherwise you would not have 
 done," she quickly rejoined. 
 
 " Well, I had been fancying it might 
 not be convenient to me to spare the 
 time." 
 
 " I wonder Mr. Canterbury did not 
 think to mention it. He went to a gen- 
 tleman's dinner-party at Aberton last 
 night, and was at home by eleven. But, 
 do } t ou know, it seems to me he has be- 
 come forgetful of late ? I don't think 
 he can be remembering it at all, or he 
 would be here." 
 
 " He is — " getting old, was on the tip 
 of Thomas Kage's tongue ; but he ar- 
 rested the words in time. With that 
 fair young wife before him, they would 
 have sounded like a sin. 
 
 " And what have you been doing, 
 Thomas, all these many months?" 
 
 " Working." 
 
 " We hear of you now and again at 
 rare moments, through Sarah Annesley 
 or Mrs. Dunn, who both correspond with 
 the Miss Canterburys." 
 
 " I scarcely ever see either of the two," 
 he remarked. " Sarah Annesley goes 
 sometimes to Mrs. Garston's, but her 
 hours for calling are different from mine, 
 and we only meet by chance." 
 
 " The deaf old body ! Is she as ex- 
 acting as ever ?" 
 
 " Much the same," he answered, with 
 a slight smile at the reminiscence. " I 
 was surprised to hear that the Miss Can- 
 terburys had quitted the Eock. How 
 was it ? " 
 
 A faintly-conscious red increased the 
 delicate bloom on Caroline Canterbury's 
 cheeks. She toyed for a moment with 
 her watch-chain before replying. 
 
 " All parties thought it better that 
 they should have a home of their own. 
 At Thornhedge Villa they are indepen- 
 dent." 
 
 " And were they not so here ? " 
 
 " Of course, in a degree. It does not 
 do to have a second mistress in a house. 
 I am sufficient, without Olive." 
 
 " Certainly. Was she a second mis- 
 tress ? » 
 
 " She wanted to be." 
 
 Mrs. Canterbury might have added 
 that Olive wanted to be only in what 
 concerned herself; but she had not yet 
 learnt to be strictly honest in speech. 
 
 " I think your mamma looks consider- 
 ably older, Caroline." 
 
 " Do you ? She has put too much 
 bloom on her cheeks this morning, and 
 that always brings out the wrinkles. I 
 wonder sometimes whether old people 
 really look younger for sailing under 
 false colors — rouge, dyed hair, powdered 
 skin — or older ? " 
 
 " Older, most decidedly," he said. 
 " Never you touch any such things, Car- 
 oline." 
 
 " I ! It will be ages and ages before I 
 require any." 
 
 She crossed the room to ring the bell, 
 laughing as she did so, and then slipped 
 out. The answer to the summons was a 
 nurse with an infant. The young moth- 
 er took him in her arms outside the 
 door, and carried him to the window, 
 where Mr. Kage was then standing look- 
 ing out. 
 
 " Is not mine a darling babj' ? " 
 
 He turned round quickly, and saw 
 her holding the child towards him. 
 His calm pale face changed to hectic — a 
 glowing carmine red, as bright as that 
 on Mrs. Kage's spreading even to the 
 roots of his hair. It might have been 
 caused by the suddenness of the surprise. 
 Whatever the root of the emotion, it did 
 not extend to his manner, and he rallied 
 bravely. 
 
 " A fine child, indeed. Will you 
 allow me to try my hand at nursing ? " 
 
 Mrs. Canterbury put the iufant into 
 his arms. 
 
 " A fine child you call him ! That is 
 a compliment very wide of the mark, 
 sir, or else it betrays how much you 
 know about babies. He is not a fine 
 child, for he is remarkably small ; but 
 he is a very pretty one. They say he 
 has my eyes, and all my features." 
 
 " I think he is like you. One can 
 never trace much resemblance to any- 
 body in these young faces." 
 
106 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 "You seemed astonished, Thomas, 
 when I brought him in. Did you not 
 know of his birth ?" 
 
 " Yes, I saw it in the Times. He was 
 born just twelve months after your wed- 
 ding-day." 
 
 " How did you know that ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " I remembered the date — the 18th 
 of August." 
 
 " What a memory you must have ! " 
 she said rather flippantly — or it sounded 
 so in his ears. "You are not half as 
 awkward at holding him as Mr. Canter- 
 bury is," she continued, after a pause. 
 
 " No ? Charlotte, my sister, says lam 
 a first-rate nurse." 
 
 " 0, poor creature — the idea of bring- 
 ing her up ! She has nine hundred chil- 
 dren, has she not ? " 
 
 u She has nine." 
 
 "Nine! that's nearly as bad. I hope 
 I shall never have more than this one 
 darling. I could not afford any love for 
 another — he has it all." 
 
 " What is his name ? " 
 
 " Thomas." 
 
 Mr. Kage looked up quickly. 
 
 " Thorn — " But his eager tone was 
 changed for an indifferent one. " Who 
 chose that old-fashioned name ?" 
 
 " I chose it," she answered, casting 
 down her drooping eyelids towards some 
 point on the baby's dress. " I like the 
 name." 
 
 The child suddenly discovered that he 
 was in strange arms, and set up a scream ; 
 Mrs. Kage set up a louder, and, drop- 
 ping some of her scent -bottles, which 
 she was never seen without, stopped her 
 ears. Mrs. Canterbury laughed, and 
 took the infant. 
 
 " Make that your object, Caroline," he 
 whispered. 
 
 " My object ! I don't understand." 
 
 "You were saving just now — at least, 
 I understood you to imply it — that you 
 had not much object in life. Make the 
 training of your child your object ; bring 
 him up to good." 
 
 Mrs. Canterbury opened wide her vio- 
 let-blue eyes. 
 
 "Good!" she echoed wonderingly. 
 " He will have good enough, in all rea- 
 son, Thomas. He is born to loads of 
 wealth." 
 
 " And without constant, never-tiring 
 training, the wealth may prove but a 
 
 snare and a delusion," he rejoined, a 
 grave earnest light in his honest dark 
 eyes. "''Precept must be upon precept,' 
 you know: 'Line upon line; here a 
 little, and there a little.' " 
 
 You know ! It had been with more 
 reason had he said, "you do not know ; "' 
 for Caroline Kage, now Caroline Canter- 
 bury, had never herself received any 
 training of this kind whatsoever. 
 
 The nurse, quitting the room with the 
 baby, had the door wide open, when 
 some one passed it at the moment, and 
 glanced in. Mrs. Kage, happening to l.e 
 looking round from her far sofa, caught 
 a glimpse, but no more. 
 
 "Who was that ? " she sharply called 
 out. 
 
 But her daughter and Mr. Kage, talk- 
 ing face to face as they stood together, 
 had seen no one. 
 
 " It was -the nurse, mamma ; she has 
 taken baby awa} r ." 
 
 "It was a lady's hat," said Mrs. 
 Kage. "Now, do look, Caroline! It 
 may be one of those Canterbury women ; 
 though I have given my orders. — 
 Well ? " 
 
 She broke off as Caroline opened the 
 door and shut it again. 
 
 " There's not a soul, mamma." 
 
 Mrs. Kage supposed she must have 
 been mistaken. In point of fact, Caro- 
 line had not given herself time to recon- 
 noitre, or she would have seen the butler 
 ushering Miss Canterbury into her 
 father's study. Mrs. Kage suddenly be- 
 came awake to her own claims, and im- 
 peratively summoned Thomas Kage to 
 approach her ottoman. 
 
 " What brought you into the country, 
 Thomas ? " she asked in an affected 
 voice. 
 
 " The rail, madam." 
 
 " Farceur ! I meant what did you 
 come for ? " 
 
 " The old business on which I came 
 down occasionally some time ago. In 
 fact, to see Mr. Rash burn." 
 
 " Dear me ! Kashburn — who may he 
 be ? " 
 
 " An iron-master at Aberton." 
 
 Mrs. Kage suddenl}' emptied an es- 
 sence-bottle. Iron-masters could not be 
 expected to come between the wind and 
 her nobility. 
 
 " And to think that you would not go 
 to India to be a Nabob Thomas! Such 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 107 
 
 a delightful offer, that of being made 
 into a Nabob ! How could you refuse 
 it?" 
 
 Caroline Canterbury, standing by, 
 turned and glanced at him — perhaps 
 not intentionally, let us give her the 
 credit for that. He did not look back 
 at her ; and there rose up resentment in 
 her vain woman's heart at the slight. 
 
 " India is not a healthy climate, Mrs. 
 Kage," he said ; " It is apt to entail 
 liver-complaint. I was careful of my- 
 self, you see." 
 
 " It did not give your father liver- 
 complaint," she returned rather tartly, 
 as if the declining to go out had been a 
 personal affront to herself. 
 
 " It killed him, for all that," answered 
 Thomas in a low tone. 
 
 " Dear me ! I wish you'd not talk 
 about such things as ' killing.' Pour 
 me out some more elder-water, Thomas"; 
 there's the flacon. I'm sure when Sir 
 Charles quitted London — " 
 
 A rather startling interruption caused 
 Mrs. Kage to break off what she had 
 been about to say ; that is, it startled 
 her. To see Mr. Canterbury come into 
 the room with his eldest daughter, the 
 two in animated conversation, was a sort 
 of shock ; for it convinced Mrs. Kage 
 that it was Miss Canterbury who had 
 passed along the hall towards the li- 
 brary to hold communication with her 
 father ; and all such communication 
 Mrs. Kage was most anxious to prevent 
 just now. 
 
 Even so. Miss Canterbury — her 
 sense of right, her best feelings, her 
 good and noble mind sadly outraged by 
 the news that had reached her touching 
 the premeditated disinheritance — had 
 come to remonstrate, and went straight 
 into the library to her father's presence, 
 in spite of the new footman's attempt 
 to stop her. 
 
 But Miss Canterbury gained nothing 
 by it. Whether Mr. Canterbury sus- 
 pected her errand — though he was, of 
 all men, the least suspicious — or 
 whether he had been warned by Mrs. 
 Kage not to expose himself to remon- 
 strance, or had promised that much to 
 his wife, yielding wholly to her sway, 
 powerful over him then, certain it was 
 that the master of the Rock rose up in a 
 sort of hasty fright, and all but stopped 
 his ears in his daughter's face. Finding 
 
 that did not stop what she was about to 
 say, he suddenlj' quitted the library and 
 took refuge in the drawing-room. Olive 
 followed him : she had come to speak, 
 and she would do it. 
 
 It was perhaps only natural that, see- 
 ing Mr. Kage there, Olive should hasti- 
 ly conclude he, young Mrs. Canterbury's 
 only male relative, was a party to the 
 plot. Since that dinner, on a certain 
 Easter Monday, he had never been at 
 the Rock. Olive, in her somewhat 
 hasty judgment, felt no doubt that he 
 had been summoned from London to the 
 conference to strengthen his relatives' 
 cause against that of Mr. Canterbury's 
 daughters. Finding any other stranger 
 there, Olive might have forced herself to 
 present silence ; him she regarded not. 
 
 At first it was a Babel of tongues — 
 all speaking at once, and Mrs. Kage 
 contributing the largest share, hoping 
 to put Miss Canterbury down. Olive's 
 tone was perfectly courteous, rather sub- 
 dued, but resolute. Thomas Kage 
 would have retired, but Olive's enemies 
 would not let him ; they hoped his pres- 
 ence might deter her from saying much. 
 
 " Was it not enough to drive us from 
 our home?" were nearly the first dis- 
 tinct words heard from Olive, more in 
 plaint than anger ; and her manner 
 to her father was strictly respectful. 
 " How distressing that was to us, papa, 
 you never knew ; but that was as nothing 
 to the present contemplated injustice. 
 Sir, the whole county will ring with in- 
 dignation if it be carried out." 
 
 " What injustice ? " responded Mr. 
 Canterbury, in a timid tone, helplessly 
 looking by turns at his wife and her 
 mother, as if he needed protection. 
 
 She, Caroline, went up to him and 
 put her arm within his. They were 
 near an inlaid table bearing its glasses 
 of choicest flowers ; Mrs. Kage had not 
 left her sofa ; Olive was at right angles 
 between them. The young barrister, 
 finding his exit from the room stopped, 
 turned to the window and stood there 
 looking out, his back towards them. 
 
 The injustice of disinheriting us, 
 your unoffending and always dutiful 
 daughters — we have ever been so, sir ; 
 you know we have — and of bequeathing 
 your money to strangers," said Olive, in 
 reply. 
 
 Mrs. Kage let fall a bottle of some- 
 
108 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 thing which filled the room with odor 
 and stained the ottoman. 
 
 " My dear Miss Canterbury, this is 
 really shocking. You call your papa's 
 beloved son a stranger ! " 
 
 " Yes, Olive, he is my son," repeated 
 Mr. Canterbury, as if it were something 
 to catch at. 
 
 " I have not forgotten it, sir. And, 
 as your son, he ought to receive a large 
 proportion of 3'our fortune. Mrs. Can- 
 terbury ought also to receive a suitable 
 portion ; she is } r our wife. Think not 
 we would wish to be uujust, sir, or to 
 deprive others of what they ought to re- 
 ceive. You might provide amply for 
 them — what, perhaps, even themselves 
 would think ample — but you should also 
 provide for us. — Mrs. Canterbury, speak : 
 am I urging anything that is not per- 
 fectly fair and just ? " 
 
 " Now, Olive, don't bring me in," 
 said the young wife in prett}' affectation. 
 " I told Mr. Canterbury these things 
 were to be settled without me; that I 
 should say nothing, one way or the 
 other. If he likes to leave his money 
 to me and the ducky, of course he can ; 
 on the other hand, if he leaves it to 
 your part of the family, I don't prevent 
 him. I am neuter." 
 
 " In taking your word, Mrs. Canter- 
 bury," replied Olive, and she was una- 
 ble quite to repress all signs of sarcasm, 
 " I can only remark that, were I you, 
 I would not be neuter. You might 
 respect your husband's good name, and 
 urge him to remember it.-r-Papa, it is 
 the thought of you, no less than our 
 own claims, the hope that no shadow 
 may rest upon your memory in future 
 years, that has brought me up this day." 
 
 " It was a most extraordinary proced- 
 ure for you to come at all, my dearest 
 Miss Canterbury, whatever ma}' have 
 been your motive, drawled Mrs. Kage. 
 
 " Friends in plenty would have come 
 for me, madam ; but, in my opinion, 
 this subject should, as far as possible, be 
 confined to the family ; hence the motive 
 of my procedure," retorted Olive. — 
 " Papa, will you do me and my sisters 
 justice ? Will you leave us a fair 
 share of your great wealth ? We were 
 brought up to expect it." 
 
 No man living — I think this has 
 been said before — could bear reproach 
 or interference less well than George 
 Canterbury. He stood now something 
 
 like the ass between the bundles of hay, 
 looking at his daughter and Mrs. Kage 
 by turns. Olive's strong impression as 
 she watched him was, that a portion of 
 his mental vigor had departed. 
 
 "I — I — you said what I left my 
 daughters was a fair share, Mrs. Kage," 
 uttered the unhappy gentleman, appeal- 
 ing to the ottoman. 
 
 A delicate pink tinged the lady's 
 faded nose. She buried it in some pun- 
 gent smelling-salts. 
 
 " 0, if you are good enough to ask 
 my sentiments, dear Mr. Canterbury, I 
 can but express them. I do think it a 
 very nice sum indeed for single young 
 ladies." 
 
 Olive turned towards her. 
 " It is five thousand pounds." 
 "For each of you, dear Miss Canter- 
 bury." 
 
 " And you, madam, receive ten thous- 
 and in the same will." 
 
 Mrs. Kage gracefully opened her fan. 
 " Really these are Mr. Canterbury's 
 affairs, not mine. I am surprised at 
 you, Miss Canterbury." 
 
 " Father," pleaded Olive with emo- 
 tion, taking a step towards him, " you 
 have very ample wealth. It is more 
 than ample to provide munificently for 
 whomsoever you will. Think of the 
 injustice should we, your children, be 
 excluded from it." 
 
 "The baby is his own child," resent- 
 fully interrupted Mrs. Kage. — "Thomas, 
 dear, do pray get me another cushion 
 for my back. And set light to a pastile, 
 will you ? I am overpowered." 
 
 " That son may die," said Olive, 
 looking at her father and Mrs. Canter- 
 bury. 
 
 Nobody spoke. 
 
 " Thomas, then ! don't you hear ? " 
 said Mrs. Kage fractiously. " I want a 
 pastile lighted." 
 
 Mr. Kage reluctantly turned from 
 the window. Olive continued to follow 
 out her argument. 
 
 " Should the child die, the whole 
 property — if what I hear be true — is to 
 lapse to Mrs. Canterbury. It is to be 
 hers unconditionally, at her sole and en- 
 tire disposal. The whole property," 
 emphatically repeated Olive, " save this 
 wretched five thousand pounds to us, 
 and the ten thousand bequeathed to 
 Mrs. Kage." 
 
 " 0, but you know he is not going to 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 109 
 
 die," broke in Mrs. Canterbury, in tbe 
 same pretty little voice of affectation 
 that she used throughout the scene. 
 
 And Thomas Kage who held a pastile 
 in one hand and a light in the other, 
 forgot both, and stood gazing at her as 
 if transfixed by what he heard. 
 
 " You do not only destroy our pros- 
 pects, sir, but our happiness," proceed- 
 ed Olive. " I speak more particularly 
 of Jane. Her marriage would have 
 taken place before Christmas, and now 
 Lord Rufort has ordered his son to 
 break off the match. Papa," — and 
 Olive's eyes filled, which only made her 
 raise her head more proudhy, — " it is a 
 great humiliation to bring upon your 
 daughters." 
 
 Mr. Canterbury fidgeted on his legs ; 
 but his wife held his arm tight : he 
 could not fidget that. 
 
 " You have not done it of your own 
 free will," pursued Olive. " And, that 
 you have not, is well known to all ; for 
 you have been ever kind to us. You 
 would be so still were you left uninflu- 
 enced. Will you be so, papa ? will you 
 only be just? " 
 
 The uncomfortable state of indecision 
 displayed by Mr. Canterbury's counte- 
 nance was almost curious to look upon. 
 Thomas Kage remarked it with surprise. 
 
 " For goodness' sake let this end," 
 murmured the indulged wife in her hus- 
 band's ear. " Get rid of her." 
 
 And Mr. Canterbury, thus prompted, 
 took a spurt of courage. 
 
 " I will take these family matters in- 
 to consideration, and you shall then 
 hear from me," he said, addressing his 
 daughter. " You had better now retire, 
 Olive." 
 
 Without any resistance, only with a 
 light bow to Mr. Kage, Olive swept to 
 the door ; but ere she had well gained 
 it, she turned to speak, addressing par- 
 ticularly Mrs. Kage and Mrs. Canter- 
 bury. 
 
 " Pardon me that I say a last word. 
 If the result of my father's considera- 
 tion be unfavorable to us, if the birth- 
 right of his children is thus to pass 
 from them to you, I can only assert, 
 from my true heart, that we shall be 
 happier in our poverty than you will be 
 in the wealth so gained. It'is far bet- 
 ter to be the spoiled than the spoilers." 
 
 Another moment and Olive was gone 
 
 Mr. Canterbury, feeling rather little 
 no doubt in many respects, intimating 
 that he had some matter of business on 
 hand, and would return in a few min- 
 utes, slipped away to his library ; and 
 Mrs. Kage, with her collection of nerve 
 auxiliaries, stepped daintily from the 
 room to enjoy the composing quiet of 
 her own chamber. 
 
 Which left Mrs. Canterbury and 
 Thomas Kage alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A SOLEMN "WARNING. 
 
 There was a long pause. Thomas 
 Kage, strangely silent, stood looking 
 from the window again, his back to the 
 room. She, Mrs. Canterbury, stole up 
 to see what he might be gazing at ; 
 surely at something particular, with 
 that intent stare ! But no. The beau- 
 tiful slopes with the groups of autumn 
 flowers lay beneath ; the park beyond, 
 with its fine trees and its herds of deer ; 
 the charming scenery went stretching 
 around in the distance. But this was 
 no unusual sight ; and of men and 
 women there were none. 
 
 " What are you looking at, Thomas ? " 
 
 The question aroused him. His eyes 
 and his thoughts came back to present 
 things with a start. 
 
 " Looking at ? 0, nothing. Noth- 
 ing in particular." 
 
 " I wish you'd open the window. 
 This dist/urbance has made me quite 
 hot," 
 
 He flung up the wide sash of plate- 
 glass. And some one walking along 
 the broad path close underneath, that 
 ran along the front of the house — some 
 one who had just come into view from 
 the house — turned upon them a stead}" 
 gaze as they stood there side by side. 
 It was Olive Canterbury. 
 
 " Where can she have been linger- 
 ing ? " exclaimed Mrs. Canterbury ; 
 and the words must undoubtedly have 
 reached Olive, for the resentful haughty 
 tone was by no means a subdued one. 
 " Surreptitiously cross-questioning Neel, 
 perhaps, as to our sayings and doings." 
 
 Anyone less likely than Olive Canter- 
 bury to cross-question "surreptitiously" 
 
110 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 could not well have been found. Thom- 
 as Kage made no reply whatever ; he 
 seemed to have relapsed into thought 
 again. The sweet perfume of the gay- 
 looking autumnal flowers came wafting 
 in ; and Miss Canterbury, with her state- 
 ly sweeping walk, passed on to the small 
 side-park entrance, and so out of sight. 
 
 " Did you ever witness such a scene, 
 Thomas ? Quite vulgar, as mamma ex- 
 pressed it." 
 
 Thomas Kage, lost in a reverie, made 
 no reply, although he must have heard 
 her. 
 
 " This has given you a specimen of 
 what those Canterbury women can be. 
 That is mamma's name for them — ' Can- 
 terbury women.' After this, I should 
 think they would be forbidden the 
 house." 
 
 But still Thomas Kage did not an- 
 swer. His hand, with the deep mourn- 
 ing-ring worn on it in memory of his 
 mother, was lifted to push back his dark 
 hair from his right temple ; his dark eyes, 
 fixed again unconsciously on the distant 
 landscape, wore a dreamy expression. 
 Mrs. Canterbury, feeling herself neglect- 
 ed, went to the hearth and began knock- 
 ing the fire about with strange petu- 
 lance. 
 
 " Caroline ! " 
 
 The accent was so sharply imperative 
 that she dropped the poker and turned 
 to him. 
 
 " Did I understand clearly — that Mr. 
 Canterbury's large fortune goes uncon- 
 ditionally to you ? " 
 
 " No ; not if you understood that. 
 The greater portion goes to the child. I 
 have my settlement and — " 
 
 " I was alluding to the contingency 
 of the child's death," he quickly inter- 
 rupted. " In that case it becomes 
 yours ? " 
 
 " In that case, yes." 
 
 " Caroline, take the advice of a friend 
 — you know I am one. Do not allow 
 the property to be so willed. " 
 
 " But why ? " she rejoined, resuming 
 her place by his side. " If my baby 
 should die, what more natural than that 
 his money should revert to me ? Not 
 that he is going to die, or likely to die. 
 He is a hearty little fellow." 
 
 " Let it not revert to you," repeated 
 Mr. Kage. " Caroline, I am advising 
 you as I would my own sister ; as one 
 
 for whose true welfare I have as much 
 interest as it is possible for man to have. 
 I say it to you emphatically ; do not 
 suffer things to be so arranged that this 
 great wealth shall revert to you on the 
 contingency, of the child's death." 
 
 " Do you mean that none of it ought 
 to revert to me ? " 
 
 " Either none, or but a small portion. 
 You will have a very large and ample 
 income without it." 
 
 " I wish you would tell me why you 
 say this. It sounds very unreasonable." 
 
 " For one thing, you may mar^ again 
 — most probably would do so. And your 
 second husband — " 
 
 " Whatever are you talking of?" ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Canterbury, breaking the 
 pause he had come to abruptly. " You 
 speak mysteriously, and are looking 
 mysteriously, just as though your vis- 
 ions were far away, in the future or in 
 the past." 
 
 Very true. His eyes wore their far- 
 off dreamy gaze, his voice its most 
 dreamy tone. 
 
 " I once saw a good deal of — " he 
 hesitated for a moment — " of ill, arising 
 out of a will of this kind. The proper- 
 ty was not a tithe of what your child's 
 will be. It was but a few poor hun- 
 dreds a-year — some three or four — but 
 the manner in which it was left was 
 productive of much after distress." 
 
 "Are not such wills made every 
 day ? " 
 
 " They are. And I do not know 
 why this one particular case should have 
 thrust itself so forcibly on my remem- 
 brance. Nevertheless, take my advice 
 — it is not possible that I can urge any- 
 thing on you more ernphaticalty than I 
 would this. Do not let any vast sum 
 accrue to you in the event of your bo3 T 's 
 death. Your second husband " — his 
 voice changed here to one of lightness 
 — "might get to wish him out of the 
 way." 
 
 " Don't you think you are rather pre- 
 mature in speaking of my second hus- 
 band ? " asked Mrs. Canterbury in sar- 
 casm. 
 
 " Pardon me, Caroline, no ; not in this 
 case. We lawyers have to look forward 
 to all kinds of possibilities," he contin- 
 ued with a smile. " Just as doctors 
 probe wounds, we must probe feelings. 
 I have not quite done with yours yet." 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 111 
 
 « Well ? Go on." 
 
 " When Miss Canterbury was speak- 
 ing here just now, it seemed to me that 
 I must be listening to a fable. Is it 
 true that any such measure can be in 
 contemplation as the disinheriting of 
 Mr. Canterbury's daughters ? " 
 
 " They are to have five thousand 
 pounds each, including Mrs. Dunn. 
 And they came into five thousand each 
 on the death of their mother. What are 
 you staring at, Thomas? " 
 
 He was looking at her fixedly, won- 
 deringly, almost reproachfully. The 
 gaze said volumes, and the soft bloom on 
 Mrs. Canterbury's cheeks grew a shade 
 brighter ; her violet-blue eyes seemed to 
 take a darker tinge. 
 
 " Were such injustice to be committed, 
 Caroline, the very stones of which the 
 Rock is built might be expected to cry 
 out. If Mr. Canterbury could make so 
 shameful a will, I should say — pardon 
 me — that he must be fit only for a lunatic 
 asylum." 
 
 " You always had a verj T downright 
 way of putting things before people, 
 Thomas." 
 
 " Yes. My dear mother taught me to 
 be earnestly sincere, even, when needs 
 must be, at the expense of politeness. 
 Caroline, indeed I have your true in- 
 terest at heart. Be persuaded by me ; 
 be persuaded by the dictates of your 
 own conscience ; and tell Mr. Canter- 
 bury that this strangely-conceived and 
 most ill-judged thing must not be car- 
 ried out. Show him that his daughter's 
 claims must be respected." 
 
 " I have not advised him either way," 
 she peevishly said. ' " You heard me 
 tell Olive so. I remain neuter." 
 
 " And what was Miss Canterbury's 
 answer to you ? — that you ought not to 
 be neuter. The pretence of saying you 
 are is the merest sophistry, Caroline." 
 
 " Thank you, sir. I hope you have 
 learned to be rude enough since we last 
 met. I do not interfere in these affairs. 
 Mamma gets talking to my husband 
 about things. I don't." 
 
 "Very well. Then change your 
 policy, and talk to him yourself. Tell 
 him it is your wish that his daughters 
 should be suitably provided for. Your 
 mamma ! Nonsense. Mrs. Kage's in- 
 fluence over Mr. Canterbury would fade 
 to nothing beside yours; and I am sure 
 
 you must know that. Why, Caroline, 
 have you never reflected on what the 
 effect would be were Mr. Canterbury to 
 disinherit his daughters in the manner 
 proposed ? You could never hold up your 
 head again in this neighborhood. Good 
 men and women would despise you." 
 
 She made no reply. The mockery 
 of her face had disappeared, to be re- 
 placed by a look of serious thought. 
 Something or other in what he said had 
 at length made an impression on her. 
 Mr. Kage moved from the window. 
 
 " You are not going, Thomas ? You 
 said you would stay to luncheon." 
 
 " I must call on the Miss Canter- 
 bury's," he answered. " There is plenty 
 of time for it before luncheon. Where 
 do they live now ? " 
 
 " Thornhedge Villa. You can't miss 
 it. A white house that you catch 
 glimpses of on the right through the 
 trees, as you go down the road." 
 
 " Good morning for the present, then, 
 Caroline." 
 
 He passed through the beautiful hall, 
 crossed the terrace, and so on to the 
 park. Caroline watched him, her heart 
 softly beating, the flush on her fair face 
 taking a brighter hue. Thornhedge 
 Villa was not far: he might make his 
 call and be back in half an hour ; but 
 even that half-hour she grudged sorely. 
 
 The appearance of Thomas Kage had 
 shown her one thing plainly ; shown it 
 her in spite of her previous make-pre- 
 tence to ignore the fact — that she loved 
 him as deeply as ever. This short visit 
 seemed like a sweet green island, amid a 
 great desert of arid waste stretching 
 backwards and forwards. 
 
 " We cannot help our feelings," 
 thought Caroline by way of excuse for 
 the disloyalty to her husband the admit- 
 ted consciousness implied. "And what 
 does it signify ? So long as I bury it 
 within me — and that will always be — 
 nobody is either the wiser or the worse. 
 But, 0, has not he grown crotchety ? 
 The notion of his advising me not to be 
 named inheritor after my darling little 
 Tom ! " 
 
 When Mr. Kage reached Thornhedge 
 Villa, Miss Canterbury had not return- 
 ed. Jane had gone to the schools. 
 Miss Millicent, the servant thought, 
 was in the garden ; most likely in the 
 
112 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 large arbor, lie added : the young ladies 
 sometimes took their work to it on a 
 fine warm clay. And Thomas Kage 
 said he would go himself to seek for her. 
 
 Millicent was seated with her profile 
 turned to the sunlight ; not working, 
 but reading, her face a little bent over 
 the book. Thomas Kage was nearly 
 close before she raised it ; and he saw 
 that she looked thinner and paler. 
 Turning her head slowly to see who had 
 approached, for one single moment she 
 sat motionless, and then sprang up with 
 a start, blushing a fierce crimson, like a 
 dark June rose. 
 
 Ah me ! And it told him no tale. 
 No, not even when her hands trembled 
 perceptibly, and her sweet eyes fell in a 
 soft tremor, and the roses faded to a 
 dead whiteness, and the face looked 
 cold and faint as a lily. He put it all 
 down to surprise, and was as innocent 
 as one could be who had never loved. 
 The emotion was a sealed book to Thom- 
 as Kage. 
 
 "Pardon me if I have surprised you 
 too greatly, Miss Millicent Canterbury. 
 Your servant said you were here, and I 
 told him I would come to you." 
 
 " But how is it that you are at Chill- 
 ing ? " asked Millicent, scarcely know- 
 ing what she said in her mind's tumul- 
 tuous confusion. " It is so very long 
 since the last time." 
 
 " Ay. Some fifteen or sixteen months. 
 I have been once or twice to Aberton 
 since, but did not find time to get as far 
 as Chilling." 
 
 They were walking now slowly to- 
 wards the house through the shrubbery 
 path. Millicent was beginning to re- 
 cover her equanimity ; at least, of man- 
 ner. 
 
 " Have you been quite well since I 
 saw you, Miss Millicent ? " 
 
 " Why ? " she asked ; for the ques- 
 tion was put in an anxious tone. 
 
 " Because you don't look as though 
 you had." 
 
 " yes, I have been well," she an- 
 swered rather eagerly. " Quite, thank 
 you. — There's Jane." 
 
 Jane Canterbury was coming in at 
 the gate ; anxiety on her face, her step 
 restless. In truth she had only gone to 
 the schools that morning because she 
 could not rest indoors. So sure as Mr. 
 Canterbury disinherited them, so sure 
 
 did Jane believe that her marriage with 
 Austin Rufort would never come to pass. 
 
 "Has Olive not returned?" she ask- 
 ed of Millicent, when she had greeted 
 Mr. Kage, whom she was surprised to 
 see. 
 
 "No, Olive had not come home. And 
 Jane Canterbury, of a remarkably open 
 nature, spoke a word upon the trouble 
 that had fallen on them, asking Mr. 
 Kage if he had heard the report. He 
 replied that he had been present, acci-' 
 dentally, at the interview that morning 
 at the Bock ; and in another minute 
 they were all speaking confidentially to- 
 gether. 
 
 " The marriage itself was felt by us 
 as a great blow," observed Jane. 
 "Chiefly, I think, for papa's sake; it 
 was so very unsuitable. W T hen we saw 
 people with smiles on their faces, and 
 heard whispers reflecting on him and it, 
 nothing could, to us, have been more 
 painful." 
 
 " It came upon you as a surprise, I 
 believe," remarked Mr. Kage. 
 
 " A surprise indeed. At first we 
 never believed the report. In truth we 
 had fancied that — " Jane suddenly 
 stopped, and blushed as she looked at 
 him. 
 
 " Fancied what ? " he innocently re- 
 joined. 
 
 " That she was engaged to you, Mr. 
 Kage." 
 
 A red gleam, as of a streak of crim- 
 son across a gray sky, flashed into the 
 cheeks of Thomas Kage, leaving them 
 afterwards white as ashes. Jane, walk- 
 ing side by side with him, saw it not. 
 Millicent saw everything. 
 
 " No, she was not engaged to me," 
 he said in a quiet tone. " A poor man 
 as I am, cannot venture to hope for any 
 such good fortune." 
 
 " At any rate, she liked you ; I am 
 sure of it," said Jane. " Of course I 
 never said a word to any one ; but the 
 signs to me were very plain. To you 
 also, I fancy Mr. Kage." 
 
 He did not answer, only looked 
 straight forward with Ids white face. 
 Millicent felt at war with the whole 
 world, and, most of all, with herself. 
 How could she in her blindness, have 
 indulged that mistaken fable of the 
 past, when others, not interested, had 
 seen the truth ? 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 113 
 
 "Well, those matters are done with, 
 however it might have been, and she 
 is my father's wife," continued Jane. 
 " But that is no reason why we should 
 be disinherited." 
 
 " Indeed it is not," he warmly an- 
 swered. 
 
 He did not enter the house ; time 
 would not permit him, he said, but left 
 a card for Miss Canterbury. However, 
 while he was shaking hands, Olive came 
 in. Very coldly indeed did she look up- 
 on Mr. Kage, saluting him with a dis- 
 tant bow. 
 
 " I have had the pleasure of seeing 
 Mr. Kage before this morning," spoke 
 she in a haughty tone. " He made 
 one of the party at the Rock." 
 
 " Among them, but not of them," re- 
 turned Mr. Kage. " How I longed to 
 take up the sticks for you, Miss Canter- 
 bury, I cannot describe. But it was 
 not my business ; and, besides, I might 
 only have done your cause harm." 
 
 " Then you are not an ally of the en- 
 emy?" said Olive. "You were not at 
 the Rock to aid them in their schemes ? " 
 
 "I!" His luminous eyes, with all 
 their honest depth of truth, shone full 
 upon her. " Miss Canterbury, I possess, 
 I believe, as innate a sense of justice as 
 any man. I fulty agreed with every 
 word you spoke. And after your depart- 
 ure, when I was left alone with Mrs. 
 Canterbury, I took upon myself to ten- 
 der her some advice. Let us hope she 
 will follow it." 
 
 Again Olive's heart went out to this 
 young man as it once before had in the 
 days gone by. It seemed in that mo- 
 ment that she could have trusted him 
 with her life. 
 
 " Forgive me," she said, putting her 
 hand into his in her frank but grave 
 manner. "I ought never to have doubt- 
 ed you, Mr. Kage. It was the seeing 
 you at the Rock, and the manner in 
 which they kept you in the room, that 
 caused the idea to cross me." 
 
 " Never doubt me, Miss Canterbury," 
 he said earnestly, as he clasped it. " I 
 am not capable of wearing two faces." 
 
 " Surely they will not attempt to carry 
 out this wholesale robbery!" 
 
 " I should say most certainly not. 
 Their self-humiliation would be too 
 great." 
 
 " It is Mrs. Kage," whispered Olive. 
 7 
 
 "Yes. As primary mover." 
 
 They had walked with him to the gate. 
 He wished them farewell, and set off at 
 a fleet pace up the road. Olive and Jane 
 went back talking ; Millicent lingered 
 yet, and watched his receding steps. 
 Thomas Kage had spoken of humiliation. 
 What humiliation could be like unto 
 hers for having beguiled herself into love 
 unsought ? she mentally asked. For 
 having fed and cherished the feeling 
 through months and months, deceiving 
 herself with the fond delusion that he 
 cared for her, when all the while his 
 whole heart and hopes had been given to 
 another? 
 
 Even already some unpleasant fruits 
 of the proposed schemes were coming 
 home to its plotters ; and during the 
 short half-hour that intervened between 
 Thomas Kage's exit and entrance, a 
 slight disturbance had occurred at the 
 Rock. 
 
 The nurse to the little heir was a su- 
 perior woman named Tring ; very re- 
 spectable, almost a lady. She had been 
 a resident at Chilling for several years, 
 and on the death of her husband, a land- 
 survej-or in a small way, was forced to 
 look out for some employment. She com- 
 menced a da} T -school, and undertook to 
 do plain and fancy work. The Miss Cau- 
 terburys had been very kind and friend- 
 ly to her, and helped her a good deal, 
 purchasing some of her pretty little 
 drawings. However, she made but a 
 precarious living ; and when the place of 
 nurse to the new heir (as the child was 
 styled) at the Rock was, so to say, going 
 begging, Mrs. Tring applied for it, and 
 was chosen out of several applicants. 
 
 " 0," how could you ! " exclaimed 
 Leta, when she heard of it. 
 
 " Better do that, Miss Millicent, than 
 starve ; and I am not sure but it would 
 have come to that with me," was Mrs. 
 Tring's answer. " I love infants. I 
 seem to yearn for them ever since I lost 
 my only little one ; and I can do my 
 entire duty by the child. As to my 
 pride, I had to put that in my pocket 
 long ago." 
 
 Now it seemed that Mrs. Kage, in her 
 perfectly inexplicable antagonism to Mr. 
 Canterbury's daughters, would not regard 
 the nurse with any great degree of favor, 
 simply because they did. Although she 
 had become a servant in their father's 
 
114 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 household, the young ladies would not 
 put aside their previous marks of re- 
 spect, calling her " Mrs. Tring," to her 
 face and showing her consideration. 
 Mrs. Kage dashed open her scent-hottles 
 when she heard them, and seemed as if 
 she would faint. 
 
 Mrs. Canterbury, seeing Olive quit the 
 Rock a little later than she might have 
 done on the close of that morning's in- 
 terview, had wondered, speaking with 
 Thomas Kage, what had detained her. 
 The fact w r as, that as Olive was crossing 
 the hall to depart, she saw in a small 
 parlor (the self-same room that the new 
 footman had wished to invite her to on 
 entering) Mrs. Tring and the baby. She 
 went in and took the child in her arms, 
 nursing it fondly. He was the innocent 
 cause of a great deal of heartburning, 
 this little child ; but Olive's mind was 
 too noble and just to resent it upon him, 
 as some might have done. 
 . " Pie is asleep, Mrs. Tring." 
 
 " Very nearly, ma'am. I was just 
 about to take him upstairs." 
 
 " I will take him myself," said Olive. 
 With soft steps lest she should awake 
 the sleeping baby, Olive ascended the 
 grand staircase, followed by Mrs. Tring. 
 Over the beautiful day-cot of polished 
 ebony, with its inlaid workings of silver 
 (for young Mrs. Canterbury had provided 
 things for her expected infant, not in ac- 
 cordance with the simplicity that is 
 most suitable to infants, but with her 
 husband's revenues), Olive pressed some 
 more soft kisses on the sleeping face. 
 
 " You sweet little fellow ! " she mur- 
 mured. " It is not your fault that they 
 would put this wrong upon us." 
 
 " ma'am," spoke the nurse, in the 
 moment's impulse, "surely what we hear 
 cannot be true ! So great a wrong nev- 
 er can be inflicted on deserving ladies ! " 
 Olive laid the child down and covered 
 him over. Perhaps she was a little sur- 
 prised to find that the rumor was so ex- 
 tensive. 
 
 " How did you hear it, Mrs. Tring ? " 
 she inquired, quitting the cradle to face 
 her. 
 
 "It was being talked of last night, 
 ma'am, in the housekeeper's room. I 
 went down there for something I want- 
 ed, and heard it. I have not slept all 
 night, thinking of the cruel injustice," 
 added Mrs. Tring, her face — a very deli- 
 cate one — flushing crimson. 
 
 Very contrar} 7 to Miss Canterbury's 
 usual lofty, though in a sense courteous, 
 reticence to her inferiors, she continued 
 the subject instead of passing it by — con- 
 tinued it for a minute or two. But she 
 said not a word that she would have ob- 
 jected to say before Mrs. Canterbury or 
 any other member of the family ; and 
 she spoke openly, her tone of voice free 
 as ordinary. Mrs. Tring was not quite 
 so calm ; all her indignation and sorrow 
 had been aroused, and she warmly ex- 
 pressed both. 
 
 " The snake in the grass is Mrs. Kage," 
 she observed, " though I'm sure I ought 
 to beg her pardon for saying it. As long 
 as she stays here, ma'am, }'ou and the 
 voung ladies will never have fair play ; 
 Mr. and Mrs. Canterbury would be quite 
 different without her. I have not been 
 in the house a mouth yet, but I cannot 
 shut my eyes to things that are going on 
 in it."' 
 
 Olive made no reply to this, except 
 that she must be going, and turned to 
 the staircase. Mrs. Tring attended her 
 down, and opened the hall-door. 
 
 Rather, perhaps, to the latter's sur- 
 prise, upon reentering the nursery, there 
 stood Mrs. Kage. And Mrs. Kage's 
 countenance was not pleasant to look 
 upon. That amiable lady, ascending to 
 her room close on the heels of Miss Can- 
 terbury, had put her ear to the nursery- 
 door and heard the whole colloquy. 
 Which was not very much in all, not a 
 tithe of what Olive had just said public- 
 ly in the drawing-room ; but it served to 
 show Mrs. Kage what the nurse's sen- 
 timents were. 
 
 Tring verily thought she was going to 
 be struck. Mrs. Kage was in the habit 
 of being as contemptuous to her as might 
 be, but she had never been violent. Her 
 passion was something to shrink from. 
 In fact, Tring's little compliments to her- 
 self — the expressed opinion given confi- 
 dentially to Miss Canterbury as to the 
 kind of mission the honorable lady ful- 
 filled in the house — had set her all aflame. 
 She could not get over the " snake in the 
 grass." 
 
 There ensued a scene. The nurse re- 
 ceived a summary dismissal, and Caro- 
 line was called in to confirm it. Mis. 
 Kage outrageously exaggerated the fault 
 to her daughter, and the overheard words ; 
 she affirmed, with angry passion, that 
 Trine was " in league with those Can- 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 115 
 
 terbury women to undermine the peace 
 of the house, into which she had only 
 come as their spy." Tring, not allowed 
 to speak in her defence and the Miss Can- 
 terbury's' — for Mrs. Kage condescended 
 to push her with her own hands out of 
 the room — was ordered to be away from 
 the Rock within the space of an hour, or 
 else she would be hunted from it. Mrs. 
 Kage was not choice in her expressions 
 that day. 
 
 " For pity's sake call my maid, Caro- 
 line dear, and let her get me some red 
 lavender," exclaimed the exhausted 
 dame, sinking on the first chair she came 
 to in her own room. But Caroline, who 
 was not altogether unused to similar 
 scenes on her mother's part, and thought 
 little of them, neither called for the maid 
 nor rang, but stood still with a blank 
 countenance. 
 
 " It is all very well for you to dismiss 
 Tring in this short way, mamma, but 
 what is to become of my baby ? Who 
 will nurse him ? " 
 
 A pertinent question. Of all exacting 
 things, a baby must be attended to ; and, 
 to say the truth, many a nurse knows 
 this, and tyrannises over households ac- 
 cordingly. Mrs. Kage, with wild eyes, 
 an inflamed face, and a phial of red laven- 
 der in her hand, vowed (to put it polite- 
 ly) that " Tring the Jesuit " should not 
 eat another meal nor sleep another night 
 in the house ; and Caroline felt helpless. 
 
 In the emergency, when the state of 
 the case became known, one of the house- 
 hold servants came forward asking to be 
 allowed to supply the deficiency — Judith, 
 the second housemaid. She was a sensi- 
 ble, willing young woman ; had lived at 
 the Rock for several } 7 ears, and been much 
 liked by Olive and her sisters. But Mrs. 
 Canterbury felt dubious as she listened to 
 the request; a common housemaid (it was 
 how she phrased it) could scarcely be fit 
 for the post of nurse. 
 
 " You cannot know anything about the 
 management of children, Judith." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, ma'am, but I 
 know a great deal," was Judith's answer. 
 " When I first went out to service, it was 
 as nurse. I lived three years in the sit- 
 uation, and Miss Canterbury had a very 
 good, character with me. When your 
 little baby was born, ma'am, I thought 
 how much I should like to become his 
 
 nurse ; but before I could pick up the 
 courage to speak, Mrs. Tring got the 
 place." 
 
 "You can't write, you know, Judith," 
 said Mrs. Canterbury, much perplexed. 
 
 '' Well no, ma am. But I don't see that 
 a nurse need know how to write." 
 
 Mrs. Canterbury, ransacking her 
 brains, could not altogether see it either. 
 Judith's ignorance in regard to what she 
 called " book learning" was a proverb in 
 the family. It told against her. When 
 she first came to the Rock she could not 
 read ; the Miss Canterburj^s, upon discov- 
 ering this, had caused her to be taught. 
 But, though an excellent and capable 
 servant in regard to hand labor, Judith 
 Collett proved very remarkably deficient 
 in brain work ; even now she could not 
 read through a chapter in the Bible, but 
 had to spell through it. As to writing, 
 when something was said about her learn- 
 ing that, Judith flatly refused. Reading 
 was bad enough, she said ; writing might 
 fairly puzzle her senses away. 
 
 I hope the reader will not deem these 
 small details unnecessary or puerile. 
 They have to be told. All with a pur- 
 pose ; as will be found later in the stor} T . 
 
 " Well, I think I will try you, Judith/* 
 decided Mrs. Canterbury. " At any rate, 
 while we look out for another." 
 
 And thus Judith Collett, the second 
 housemaid, was installed in the higher 
 and far more important post of nurse at 
 the Rock. Could Mrs. Kage have fore- 
 seen how strong a link that was destined 
 to prove in a future and fatal chain, she 
 had surely buried Tring's offence in si- 
 lence, and never dismissed her. 
 
 Seated at the sumptuous luncheon- 
 table a few minutes later, Mrs. Canter- 
 bury and her mother _all smiles and 
 sweetness, Thomas Kage had little con- 
 ception of the storm just enacted. The 
 master of the Rock, upright in his accus- 
 tomed place, had learnt nothing of it. 
 Tring was his child's nurse" still, for 
 aught he knew to the contrary. 
 
 The meal was soon over. Thomas 
 Kage had to go back to Aberton, and 
 could not linger. Mr. Canterbury of- 
 fered to drive him, and went round to the 
 stables, rather undecided what horses to 
 take; one of the pair that he himself 
 usually drove being lame. 
 
 " When do you go back to London ? " 
 
116 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 asked Mrs. Canterbury as they stood 
 round the fire, Mrs. Kage having put 
 herself into an arm-chair. 
 
 " By to-night's train." 
 
 " And when shall you come down 
 again ? " 
 
 " Not at all, I fancy. There will be 
 no necessity for it." 
 
 " I meant to see us. I was not think- 
 ing of Aberton. Mr. Canterbury has just 
 told you you must come for Christmas. 
 Will you, Thomas ? " 
 
 " Thank you ; he is very kind. I fear 
 I sliall not be able to come." 
 
 And, by the cold and guarded tone, 
 Mrs. Canterbury felt certain that he 
 never meant to come again — 0, perhaps 
 for ages to come. But she would not 
 urge it. For one thing, she was sure it 
 would be all the same if she did. 
 
 " I forgot to ask you. Thomas, if you 
 found the Miss Canterburys at home." 
 
 "I found Millicent at home. The 
 others came in afterwards. Millicent 
 Canterbury has altered," he suddenly 
 added. 
 
 <•' Altered ? " 
 
 " Yes. I am sure I do not fancy it. 
 She looks I could almost say careworn. 
 As though she had gone through some 
 sorrow." 
 
 Caroline Canterbury dropped her eyes. 
 She knew what the sorrow was too well, 
 and that it was herself who had led to it. 
 
 Mrs. Kage looked up from her chair. 
 
 " I wonder, dear Thomas, that you 
 could care to call on those people ! One 
 might have thought the display made by 
 Olive here was enough for you." 
 
 Thomas Kage took a step forward to 
 face her. 
 
 " With every word that Miss Canter- 
 bury uttered here, I agreed, and more 
 than agreed," he said in a firm clear tone. 
 "As you have spoken of this subject to 
 me, Mrs. Kage, I v/ill speak. I have no 
 right to do so ; I am aware of that ; but 
 I do it for } r our sake. Let me pray of 
 3 7 ou not to suffer this injustice to be com- 
 mitted—"' 
 
 " It is Mr. Canterbury's business not 
 mine," interrupted Mrs. Kage, in a voice 
 so unpleasant as to be almost a scream. 
 • Thomas Kage slightly drew in his lips. 
 The gesture said that he ignored Mr. 
 Canterbury altogether in the matter, as 
 plainly as gesture could. 
 
 " Bemember that the money is theirs 
 
 by right of birth," he impressively con- 
 tinued. " They were born to it. You 
 and Caroline are — forgive me if I speak 
 the word — in a sense interlopers. Let 
 it be at least equally shared with them." 
 
 With her fan and her essence-bottles 
 in her hand, and a white lama shawl that 
 was on her shoulders trailing after her, 
 Mrs. Kage went mincing from the room. 
 
 " Such a headache ! " she said plain- 
 tively. " Dear me ! " 
 
 Caroline had drawn to the window, ig- 
 noring the conversation just as Thomas 
 Kage ignored Mr. Canterbury. He 
 went up to her. 
 
 "I must say good-bj^e, Caroline ; the 
 carriage is coming round, I see. Fare 
 you well." 
 
 She turned to face him, abandoning 
 her hands to his. He paused a moment 
 ere he spoke. 
 
 " Will you take my advice ? Nothing 
 in this world could I urge so solemnly 
 upon you. Let not this grievous wrong 
 be inflicted on Mr. Canterbury's daugh- 
 ters. They have an equal claim with 
 you — some might say a greater claim." 
 
 " It is not my affair," she answered. 
 " You heard me say I was neuter." 
 
 " And, above all. do not you be the in- 
 heritor contingent on the boy's death. 
 The thought is troubling me like a black 
 shadow." 
 
 " Why should it trouble you ? " 
 
 " I do not know. It is as bad as a 
 haunting dream. Let the Miss Canter- 
 burys inherit it ; anybody rather than 
 you. Take your portion of it if you 
 like ; a fifth share with them." 
 
 11 And if I were not to take your ad- 
 vice ? " 
 
 " Take it ; take it on both questions," 
 was all he urged in answer. " I think, 
 if you suffered this crying injustice to be 
 committed, that I could never esteem 
 you again. As my cousin, you are dear 
 to me still." 
 
 She tossed back her pretty curls, still 
 worn in the free flowing manner of her 
 girlhood ; tossed them partly in petu- 
 lance, partly in vanity. 
 
 '•' Caroline, mark me. It would never 
 bring you good." 
 
 " Don't I tell you, Thomas, the affair 
 is not mine ? It lies with Mr. Canter- 
 bury." 
 
 She seemed hard indeed to be con- 
 vinced. He fixed his keen luminous 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 117 
 
 eyes on her, and spoke in an impressive 
 whisper : 
 
 " ' Remove not the old landmark, and 
 enter not into the field of the fatherless. 
 For their redeemer is mighty ; he shall 
 plead their cause with thee.' " 
 
 " Why — what in the world — have j^ou 
 turned parson ?" irreverently exclaimed 
 Caroline in her extreme astonishment. 
 " Have you the Bible by heart ? " 
 
 " A verse or two of it that my mother 
 taught me," he answered, his tone chang- 
 ing to a careless one. " Fare you well, 
 Caroline." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 DISINHERITED. 
 
 Whether Mrs. Canterbury followed 
 the advice of Thomas Kage, and whis- 
 pered to her husband a permission to re- 
 member his daughter's claims, cannot 
 here be told, since nobody knew whether 
 she did or did not. One fact was indis- 
 putable — that he never would have 
 thought of disinheriting them in the first 
 instance but for its being put into his 
 head. No, nor persisted in it without 
 perpetual promptings. 
 
 However it might have been within 
 the precincts of the Rock, out of it an 
 impression went abroad that the unjust 
 will remained in force and the Miss Can- 
 terburys were disinherited. As the 
 noise (I should like here to use the 
 French word bruit; we have none so 
 appropriate) of this ran round Chilling 
 and its environs, everybody cried out 
 " Shame ! " 
 
 The first real fruits of the calamity 
 fell on Jane. Lord Rufort, finding his 
 son was not likely to allow the change 
 to affect his engagement, went forth to 
 an interview with Austin at the Rectory, 
 and peremptory ordered him to bring 
 it to an end. He was met bj' a refusal ; 
 low, coiu^teous, and deprecatory, but still 
 a refusal. It astonished the old peer to 
 such a degree that for a few moments 
 he was speechless. His sons were get- 
 ting to be middle aged now; the eldest 
 was approaching forty, Austin consider- 
 ably past thirty ; but they had always 
 continued to yield him perfect submis- 
 sion. 
 
 " You won't give Miss Jane Canter- 
 bury up ! " exclaimed the old lord, sitting 
 bolt upright in his usual stately fashion 
 in the stiffest chair in the study, his rid- 
 ing-whip lying across his angular knees, 
 that were cased in black silk -velvet 
 breeches. 
 
 " I cannot do it, sir," replied Austin, 
 who stood at a respectful distance, tall 
 and upright too, with nobility marked 
 on every line of his open and genial face. 
 " If you go the length of forbidding the 
 marriage, all we can do is to wait. Nei- 
 ther she nor I would directly fly in the 
 face of the edict." 
 
 " Wait for what ? " demanded Lord 
 Rufort, his mass of iron-gray hair look- 
 ing slightly ruffled and himself too. 
 
 " For a more propitious time : when 
 the embargo should be removed." 
 
 "What! you would marry her in 
 spite of the loss of fortune ? " 
 
 " Father, we are not childz-en that we 
 can kiss and part. If I were to break 
 with Jane Canterbury, I should never 
 find another woman to care for as I care 
 for her ; no, not though I spent my life 
 seeking one the world through. I fan- 
 cy, if Jane could be induced to express 
 her true sentiments, she would on her 
 side avow the same. We shall come to- 
 gether some day, I hope, with time and 
 patience. If not, I do not suppose ei- 
 ther of us will ever marry." 
 
 Lord Rufort stared a little, as if una- 
 ble to comprehend matters clearly. On- 
 ly in height and form were he and his 
 son alike ; the peer's face was narrow, a 
 secretive one ; Austin's was open, can- 
 did, and good. 
 
 " And pray, under this calamity, what 
 would you do, if left to your own devi- 
 ces ? " asked Lord Rufort. 
 
 "I should not let it make the slight- 
 est difference. We were to have been 
 married before Christmas, and should be 
 still." 
 
 " What would you live upon — bread- 
 and-cheese ? " 
 
 " If we could get nothing better, we 
 should be willing to eat that. It would 
 not come quite to it, sir. This house is 
 good the garden productive ; and both are 
 mine, free of charge. My income from 
 the living, is about three hundred 
 a-year ; and Jane is not quite tiisiuher- 
 ited. She has five thousand pounds 
 now, out at good interest ; and will have 
 
118 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 five thousand more, at present showing, 
 after Mr. Canterbury's death." 
 
 " It would be starvation," growled 
 Lord Bufort. " Call it five or six hun- 
 dred a-year, all told. He member that 
 you are a peer's son. Would it be con- 
 sistent that you, the Honorable and 
 Reverend Austin Bufort, should set up 
 house-keeping upon so miserable a pit- 
 tance ? " 
 
 A half-smile showed itself for a mo- 
 ment on Austin's lips. 
 
 " I cannot help having been born what 
 I am, sir. I have been calculating ex- 
 penses versus income all day, and find 
 we shall have enough for quiet comfort, 
 if Jane can but think so. It is she who 
 is most to be considered, father — reared 
 in so much luxury." 
 
 " But for the large revenues expected 
 to be inherited bj' George Canterbury's 
 daughters, I should never have given my 
 consent to your proposing to one of 
 them," was the haughty answer. 
 
 " That she has lost the prospect, sir, 
 is no fault of hers or of mine," said Aus- 
 tin. " Perhaps we shall be as happy 
 without wealth as with it." 
 
 "You will not risk it, Austin — never, 
 with my consent. If George Canterbury 
 chooses to lose his senses, that's no rea- 
 son why I should drop mine. I cannot 
 help you with money — your eldest broth- 
 er is too extravagant for that ; he drains 
 me of all I have. In giving you your 
 clerical profession and your good name, 
 I gave you all I had to give. There may 
 be a trifle for you after my death ; there 
 can be no help before it." 
 
 " I should not think of asking it, fa- 
 ther," said the Hector, who was feeling 
 this to be a most uncomfortable inter- 
 view. " But do you not think that the 
 fact of my possessing no money should 
 be a just cause for your overlooking the 
 deficiency of it in m}' future wife ? " 
 
 "No, I don't," said the old Lord 
 bluntly. " You will make her the Hon- 
 orable Mrs. Bufort, next remove to a 
 peeress ; and this is an advantage that 
 ought to be met in money, if it can't be 
 in kind- Let Canterbury settle an in- 
 come of a thousand a-year upon Miss 
 . Jane, and I'll withdraw my opposition." 
 " She and I — I have just said we are 
 not children — might be allowed to judge 
 of the amount of income we could make 
 sufficient to be contented upon." 
 
 " Contented in theory," retorted Lord 
 liufort with a grim frown ; " it wouldn't 
 be in practice. You are talking like a 
 child now." 
 
 Austin Bufort pushed his bright dark 
 hair from his brow, the movement betok- 
 ening vexation. To induce his father to 
 see things in the proper light, he felt 
 was becoming more and more hopeless. 
 
 " You would be sending to Bufort Hall 
 every month of your life to beg help of 
 me, Austin. I will not risk that ; 
 neither will I suffer you to rush into 
 poverty. I am sorry to have to inter- 
 pose my veto against your marriage with 
 Miss Jane Canterbury, but the circum- 
 stances compel me to do it. Good-day ; 
 you need not come out." 
 
 Lord Bufort went stalking away, his 
 head in the air ; Austin, spite of the in- 
 junction, dutifully attending him. His 
 horse and mounted groom waited at the 
 gate, and they rode awa^y. 
 
 Whether Lord Bufort felt a doubt of 
 Austin's implicit obedience, cannot be 
 said ; but he deemed it well to follow up 
 his mandate by an active measure. The 
 Bector of Chilling found himself called 
 suddenly upon to attend his father on a 
 continental excursion of some weeks' du- 
 ration — a substitute and the bishop's 
 leave of absence being already provided 
 without any effort of his. Before Jane 
 Canterbury had well heard the news that 
 the parish was about to be handed over 
 to the care of a stranger, Austin came 
 to Thornhedge to wish her good-bye. 
 Jane, quiet and calm though her exte- 
 rior was, felt it all bitterl}-. It seemed 
 like the knell of past hopes. 
 
 " Is it to be for ever, Austin ? " she 
 asked in a low tone, as Mr. Bufort took 
 her hand in farewell, when the brief in- 
 terview of five minutes was over — all 
 his time could allow to it. 
 
 Not immediately did he make answer. 
 He held her hand in his, and looked 
 steadily into her blue eyes, sad now, with 
 a questioning gaze. 
 
 " I thought we had mutually agreed 
 on our line of conduct, Jane ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but you are not free to act as 
 you will." 
 
 " Indeed, I am — quite sufficiently so 
 to keep my word, and wait. I have told 
 Lord Bufort that on the advance shadow 
 of the blow, we had made up our minds 
 to look forward in hopeful patience. Do 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 119 
 
 not fear me, Jane. Be it for ten weeks 
 or ten years that the waiting has to last, 
 we shall come together, Heaven sparing 
 
 Us. 
 
 " And — do we separate until then ? " 
 she rejoined, the tears running from her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Most certainly not. Our intercourse 
 will be the same — you permitting it — 
 that it has been. My father cannot con- 
 trol that, though he may put his veto on 
 the one serious act of a son's life — mar- 
 riage. And now, Jane, time is up. 
 God bless 3 7 ou ! " 
 
 A minute longer yet, and then the 
 parting was over. 
 
 Kind gossips said it was to be a final 
 separation. Mrs. Kage, gently fanning 
 herself, observed to a friend in confidence 
 that, for her part, she never had believed 
 in the serious attentions of the Honorable 
 Mr. Rufort to Jane Canterbuiy. 
 
 Meanwhile the will remained in the 
 possession of Mr. Norris M?i-executed ; 
 for that slow solicitor, what with this ex- 
 cuse and that excuse, contrived to delay 
 it utterly. But one day Mr. Canter- 
 bury's large barouche drove into Aber- 
 ton, and drew up before the lawyer's 
 office. The carriage was well filled ; 
 Mrs. Canterbury and her mother sat in 
 it side by side, all feathers and finery ; 
 Mr. Canterbury opposite to them, and the 
 young heir on the lap of the new nurse, 
 Judith. And it may be observed, en 
 parenthese, that Judith was proving 
 herself so apt at her new duties, and 
 gave so much satisfaction in them, as to 
 stand a fair chance of remaining iu 
 them permanently. The footman came 
 round to open the carriage-door for his 
 master, who alighted and went in. 
 
 Country offices are not always on a 
 magnificent scale. Mr. Norris's consis- 
 ted of one room, and what might be 
 called a large closet. The closet was for 
 Mr. Norris's two clerks ; the room for 
 himself and his clients. Just now the 
 lawyer was at home alone, so he and 
 Mr. Canterbury had the office to them- 
 selves. 
 
 George Canterbury looked more of a 
 beau than usual. He had been getting 
 younger and younger ever since his mar- 
 riage ; that is, certain adjuncts of his 
 had. His teeth were newer and whiter ; 
 his auburn hair had a fuller and more 
 graceful flow ; his clothes would have 
 
 become a young fellow just out of his 
 teens. Whether the sexagenarian, 
 George Canterbury, looked the older or 
 the younger for all this, was a mutter of 
 opinion : some hold to the belief that 
 the more craftily an ancient man and 
 woman endeavor to hide the ravages of 
 time by false adornments, the older they 
 louk. I think it is so. Art cannot real- 
 ly contend with Nature. 
 
 " Is my will ready for signature, Mr. 
 Norris ? " 
 
 "Not quite, sir," was the lawyer's re- 
 ply, who had given up to Mr. Canter- 
 bury the post of honor in the arm-chair, 
 and had taken his own seat opposite. 
 
 " Not quite ! " repeated Mr. Canter- 
 bury. "This is the fourth or fifth time 
 I have come here asking the same ques- 
 tion, and beeu met with the same 
 answer." 
 
 " I have been very busy," said Mr. 
 Norris. 
 
 " You must find me a better excuse 
 than that. My business has not been 
 accustomed to wait for other people's." 
 
 " The truth is, Mr. Canterbury, that 
 I do not like the will," spoke the law- 
 yer ; " but I have said so until I am 
 tired of saying it." 
 
 " Very well. I will not submit to 
 another day's delay. As you object to 
 act for me — and these excuses and pro- 
 crastinations amount to it — I shall put 
 it in the hands of Watkins." 
 
 And Mr. Canterbmy evidently meant 
 what he said. The law} r er knitted his 
 brow : Watkins was a rival solicitor in 
 Aberton. 
 
 " The injustice of such a will, sir — " 
 " You have said quite enough on that 
 score, Norris," interrupted the master 
 of the Rock, drawing himself angrily 
 up. '•' I did not come here to listen to 
 more of it. This is Tuesday. If you 
 choose to undertake that the will shall 
 be ready for signature by this hour ou 
 Thursday, I still give you the option of 
 drawing it up. if you will not, I go at 
 once to Watkins." 
 
 That there would be no reprieve from 
 the unjust will, Mr. Norris had long 
 been sure of; and so — he embraced the 
 alternative. As it must be done, as 
 well he should do it as another. 
 
 " Very well. You force me to this, 
 Mr. Canterbury. I will draw up the 
 will ; but I do it uuder protest, and 
 
120 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 wash my hands of consequences. 
 What are to be its provisions ? " 
 
 " Exactly what the last were : except 
 in the matter of executors." 
 
 " There must be a change in them," 
 replied the lawyer in a cynical kind of 
 tone, that his client perceived and did 
 not like. " Both Lord Rufort and Mr. 
 Carlton have notified to me their refusal 
 to act." 
 
 " I shall not be so courteous this time 
 as to ask the question," said Mr. Can- 
 terbury ; " and you will have the good- 
 ness, Mr. Norris, not to let the name of 
 the executor transpire." 
 
 The lawyer caught at the word. 
 
 ' ; Executor ! Do you mean to have 
 but one ? " 
 
 " It will be enough," said George 
 Canterbury. 
 
 Five minutes more of conversation, a 
 reiteration of the former will's chief pro- 
 visions, lest the lawyer should have for- 
 gotten them, and then the master of the 
 Rock went out to his waiting carriage. 
 Mrs. Kage, glancing at him over her un- 
 dulating fan, which she used equally in- 
 doors and out, a sharp keen glance, as 
 he took his seat in front of her, made 
 smiling way for him. 
 
 " Is it at length signed, dear Mr. Can- 
 terbury ? " she sweetly asked. 
 
 " No, Norris has not got it ready. It 
 will be signed on Thursday." 
 
 "0!" said Mrs. Kage sharply. 
 "That man never has anything read}'. 
 I don't like him." 
 
 " In accordance with the positive di- 
 rections that he could no longer evade, 
 Mr. Norris drew out the will ; and at 
 the appointed time it was duly executed. 
 How the report of the fact got about 
 was not known ; but that it was very 
 speedily public property was indispensa- 
 ble. " Shame," again said the neigh- 
 borhood. " Shame, and double shame ! " 
 
 So it was settled definitely ; and 
 the Miss Canterburys were, so to say, 
 disinherited. The first brunt of the 
 shock over, they set themselves to make 
 the best of it ; just as they had done in 
 regard to their father's marriage. That 
 he was no longer in possession of his 
 full vigorous intellect (not that it had 
 ever boasted great things), they fully 
 believed. Olive thought Mrs. Kage 
 could not be in hers, or she never would 
 
 have shown herself so strangely grasp- 
 ing and covetous. Olive, large-minded, 
 generous-hearted, had 3'et to learn what 
 an unprincipled greedy woman is capa- 
 ble of, and how fast she can drive when 
 the reins are put temporarily in her 
 hands. It was a dangerous temptation ; 
 and Lord Gunse's rather battered daugh- 
 ter went into it wholesale, lacking 
 strength to resist and moderation to 
 temper. Caroline Canterbury could 
 have come to the rescue, but did not. 
 
 But the wholesome advice of Thomas 
 Kage, and the impressive words it was 
 couched in would not leave Caroline. It 
 was in her mind always. One night she 
 dreamt that she had not followed his ad- 
 vice, that the money all descended to 
 her and her little son, and that some 
 terrible, ill supervened. She thought 
 she saw the baby sitting on the carpet, 
 staring up at an enormous mountain of 
 3 T ellow gold — sovereigns — towering up 
 before him. Suddenly her child's face 
 changed to one of great and exceeding 
 fear ; and in the same moment the gold- 
 en mountain began to change. Into 
 what, she did not know ; never, never 
 afterwards could she remember ; only 
 that it was something dreadful to look 
 upon. Caroline awoke with the amaz- 
 ing terror ; and for half an hour she 
 literally shook as she lay, her head 
 damp with sweat. 
 
 " I'll tell Mr. Canterbury to make a 
 just will," she said to herself in the 
 moment's agony. 
 
 Could we but keep our good resolu- 
 tions, how very different things might 
 be in this world ! Had Caroline Can- 
 terbury kept hers, and whispered the 
 word to her husband that would set mat- 
 ters right, the word that the man was 
 longing for — for, though a very reed in 
 her hands and her mother's, there is no 
 doubt his conscience pricked him alwa}\s 
 on the score of his once-loved and still- 
 respected daughters — had she kept this 
 resolution, the chief ill that this story 
 has yet to tell of would never have 
 taken place. Dajdight chased away 
 ghostly fancies, and Caroline's dream 
 faded before real ity, although it had per- 
 haps come from her guardian angel. 
 
 Mr. Rufort got home in November. 
 The first intimation people had of his 
 return was the seeing him in the read- 
 ing-desk when they went to church on 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 121 
 
 Sunda} r morning. The parish was not 
 large, and he kept no curate. Jane 
 Canterbury grew red and white with as- 
 tonishment ; she naturally asked herself 
 how long he had been back. It was a 
 busy day with the Rector; be had come 
 home to find sickness in the district ; 
 and, beyond a hand-shake outside the 
 church -door after both morning and 
 afternoon service, Jane had no communi- 
 cation with him. 
 
 Late the following afternoon he came 
 to call. Olive and Leta were out; only 
 Jane was there. The dusk of the No- 
 vember twilight was already spreading 
 its wings on the earth when Jane rose 
 up to greet him. 
 
 "I hear it is all definitively settled, 
 Jane," he observed, after a few minutes 
 given to general conversation ; " that 
 Mi'. Canterbur}' has positively signed 
 his unjust will ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered in a low tone, 
 feeling very uncomfortable. " I am 
 ashamed to confess it, for papa's sake." 
 
 "And for the sake of others also, I 
 should say," added Mr. Rufort. " It is 
 Mrs. Canterbury's work ; there cannot 
 be a doubt of that ; and very especially 
 her mothers." 
 
 " 0, of course. We have been laying 
 out our plans in accordance with the 
 change of prospect, and are already be- 
 ginning to act upon them,'' added Jane. 
 " Papa intends to continue our present 
 allowance during his life ; there is to be 
 no alteration in that, and we shall save 
 what we can out of it. One or two 
 of our servants must be parted with ; 
 our carriage is already laid down ; and, 
 in short, we are about to live in the 
 small style that we shall be compelled to 
 adopt in after } T ears." 
 
 " You say ' we/ " remarked Mr. Ru- 
 fort. 
 
 " Yes. Olive and Leta and myself." 
 
 " But what is the Rectory to do, 
 Jane ? " 
 
 " Austin, do not play with me." 
 
 The question was nearly too much for 
 her. While trying to speak very calm- 
 ly, her heart had been full to overflow- 
 ing. She supposed he had put it in idle 
 jest. Mr. Rufort crossed over to her, 
 and she stood up. 
 
 " Will you have me at once, Jane, un- 
 der the present state of things ? " 
 
 Could he be jesting still ? Jane Can- 
 
 terbury turned and looked into the fire, 
 her hands and heart alike trembling. 
 
 "You know how small are the reve- 
 nues of my living, Jane," resumed Mr. 
 Rufort, standing close to her. "The 
 merest bagatelle in comparison with 
 those of the Rock ; a poor trifle even 
 compared to what you enjoy here. The 
 consciousness of this lies upon me as I 
 speak, and so I may not press the ques- 
 tion, but only put it to you quietly and 
 — I had almost said — coldly. Knowing 
 what my income is, will you venture up- 
 on it, and come home to me ?" 
 
 " What ! in defiance of Lord Rufort ? 
 Austin!" 
 
 "No; were he defiant still, I should 
 not ask you." 
 
 A wild rush of happiness in her heart, 
 a glow of rapture in her blue eyes, as 
 she turned to him. He put his hand 
 upon her shoulder, and his tone, losing 
 the formality to which he had constrain- 
 ed it, became low and sweet. 
 
 " Lord Rufort has come to his senses, 
 Jane. In the weeks I have been spend- 
 ing with him on the Continent, I 
 believe he grew to see that you and I 
 both meant waiting ; that our patience 
 might endure beyond his opposition. 
 On Saturday, when I left him at the 
 Hall, he said just a word, a tantalizing 
 word, which might mean one thing as 
 well as another. So this morning I 
 went over after breakfast to put the 
 question decisively to him : would he 
 sanction our union ? I had to wait 
 three hours, for he had gone to Aber- 
 ton." 
 
 Jane was waiting now ; Mr. Rufort 
 had paused. 
 
 " And he gave me his answer, Jane. 
 He informed me that, if you and I are 
 still so foolish as to wish to set up on 
 bread-and-cheese, he will not oppose our 
 doing it, as it is a matter chiefly affecting 
 ourselves personally. One proviso he 
 makes — that when the Rectory shall be 
 filled with children, we do not go to him 
 for help to keep them." 
 
 The tears were stealing down her 
 glowing cheeks. 
 
 " Is it true ? " she softly whispered. 
 
 " Quite true, Jane. So far as my fa- 
 ther's consent and approval are concern- 
 ed, I may take you home to bread-and- 
 cheese to-morrow. Upon the bread-and- 
 cheese view of the affair, he has all 
 
122 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 along dwelt particularly. But the scru- 
 ples are ou my part now." 
 
 She glanced quickly up. 
 
 "Much as we had learned to care for 
 each other, Jane, I should never have 
 asked you to share my small income but 
 for your possessing ample means of your 
 own. I should have felt that I was not 
 justified in doing it, reared, as you had 
 been, in luxury." 
 
 " Would your scruples have been for 
 me, or for yourself? " 
 
 "Jane!" 
 
 A bright smile stole over her face. 
 
 " We shall not be so ver} T badly off, 
 Austin. I have a little still, you know." 
 
 " You will not be afraid ? " 
 
 « Afraid ! " 
 
 Mr. Rufort took Jane in his arms as 
 tenderly as he was wont to take the ba- 
 bies who were brought to him to be 
 christened. The suspense and the 
 trouble were over. 
 
 "We can keep to our old arrange- 
 ment, Jane, my darling. And I shall 
 have you at the Rectory before Christ- 
 mas." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 SPRING ROUND AGAIN. 
 
 With every crevice in the large bed- 
 room, through which air could enter, 
 stopped ; with a roaring fire in the 
 grate ; with crimson draperies of silk 
 and wool at the windows, and a hand- 
 some screen at the back of the sofa, the 
 chamber was sent up to nearly fever-heat. 
 Thomas Kage felt it so, what with the 
 real atmosphere and the trimming he 
 was getting. 
 
 On the sofa, enveloped in an Indian 
 shawl, and an ornamental night-cap cov- 
 ering her white hair, sat Mrs. Garston. 
 Her gray eyes, vigorous as they used to 
 be, were glaring with angry brightness on 
 Thomas Kage. She was a healthy, 
 strong old lady ; but early in the month 
 of January, that foe to old and young, 
 bronchitis (which, it seems to me, was 
 not known much of until recent years), 
 attacked her, and she really had had a 
 fight for life. Her good constitution 
 and excellent habits saved her. She 
 was out of danger now, but remained a 
 prisoner to her chamber until warmer 
 
 weather should set in, for the spring was 
 early yet. 
 
 Two years had now elapsed since the 
 death of Lady Kage, and Thomas Kage 
 had continued to reside in the house ad- 
 joining, according to his mother's evi- 
 dent wish. But he did not get ou fast ; 
 and expenses, quietly though he lived, 
 ate up every shilling of his earnings. 
 In point of fact, the house, with its cost, 
 was too much for him. He did not care 
 entirely to part with it, so he resolved to 
 let it furnished. A tenant was found 
 sooner than he had anticipated ; the 
 agreement for taking it off his hands for 
 twelve months was signed, and Thomas 
 Kage had come in to disclose the news 
 to Mrs. Garston. 
 
 She received it with bitter resent- 
 ment. Had he been a boy, she would 
 decidedly have shaken him. Leaning 
 forward on her sofa, the Indian shawl on 
 her shoulders, the bright screen of many 
 colors behind her, a glass full of sweet 
 spring flowers on the table near, she sat 
 rapping her stick in passion, now on the 
 hearth-rug, now on the fender, and glar- 
 ing at Thomas Kage in the opposite 
 chair. But that he had backed it just 
 out of her reach, she might have rapped 
 on him. 
 
 " I can't be up in my room a week or 
 two, but you must go and make a fool 
 of yourself, and sign away your home !" 
 she repeated for the tenth time, when 
 his arguments and excuses had been 
 nearly exhausted by reiteration. "Not 
 able to keep it up ! Don't talk nonsense 
 to me, Thomas Kage. What am I good 
 for, that you could not come to me for a 
 hundred or two ? I've got it to spare, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " You are very kind, very generous," 
 he murmured. " But indeed, Mrs. Gars- 
 ton, I never thought of such a thing; 
 I would rather get on myself than be 
 helped, even by you." 
 
 " You'd rather be a pig-headed, un- 
 grateful, senseless idiot," retorted Mrs. 
 Garston. " Not ungrateful ? Don't 
 tell me ! Nobody but an underhanded 
 man, Thomas Kage, w r ould have taken 
 advantage of my being laid by to act 
 against me." 
 
 " Indeed, I did not take advantage of 
 that. But that you were too ill to see 
 me, I should have told you of my project 
 from the first." 
 
 " And to go and sijrn the deed ! One 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 123 
 
 would think the world was coming to an 
 end. I say the agreement shall be can- 
 celled." 
 
 " It is impossible, Mrs. Garston. I 
 am veiy sorry you are vexed." 
 
 " A pretty thing for vie to be pester- 
 ed with new neighbors at my time of 
 life ! I wish your dear mother could 
 look down and see what you have done, 
 Thomas Kage ! " 
 
 " I did it all for the best," he an- 
 swered. " Situated as I am, I ought not 
 to have attempted to keep on the house 
 longer than the twelvemonth enjoined 
 by my mother. My rooms in the Tem- 
 ple will do very well for me, and I've 
 had a bed put into them. As to the new 
 neighbors, I thought of you, and w r as 
 cautious there. Mr. and Mrs. Rashburn 
 are elderly people, very quiet ; they have 
 but four elderly servants, and no family." 
 
 Down came the stick ; on the bars of 
 the grate this time. "Rashburn! 
 Who's Rashburn ? Those iron people 
 at Aberton ? " 
 
 " Distant relatives of theirs. It was 
 through Mrs. Dunn I heard that they 
 wanted a house." 
 
 " It would become Lydia Dunn better 
 if she concerned herself more with her 
 own affairs, instead of putting her fin- 
 ger into other people's," was the irasci- 
 ble interruption. 
 
 " And she heard of it through her 
 brother-in-law, Richard Dunn. He^" 
 
 " Stop ! Are thej'- friends of Dick- 
 ey's ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. Mr. Rashburn is in a 
 state of health that* requires constant 
 medical supervision ; and he has come 
 to town to be under the best. They 
 have taken my house for twelve months." 
 
 Mrs. Garston growled. Nevertheless, 
 if an} T thing, under the circumstances, 
 could mollify her desperate vexation, it 
 was the fact that the new tenant in pro- 
 spective was a friend of Richard Dunn's. 
 • For Richard — or, as she generally called 
 him, Dickej' — was a favorite of hers. 
 
 " Who's going to keep Dorothy ? " 
 fiercely demanded Mrs. Garston. "She's 
 ill, and not fit for service." 
 
 " Well, of course I shall in part. She 
 has saved a little. Dorothy's wants are 
 so very few, that she will not need much. 
 I think she means to take a room in 
 some rural place : if anything will re- 
 store her, it is quiet and country air." 
 
 " Do you know what you'd do, Thom- 
 as Kage ? You'd give away your head 
 if it were loose. You are as bad as 
 3'our mother was. Lady Kage never 
 thought of herself in all her life ; it was 
 other people, other people, other people, 
 always with her ; and it's the same with 
 you." 
 
 " I think I'd rather live for others 
 than myself." 
 
 " Of course you would, being devoid 
 of brains." 
 
 A pause ensued. Thomas Kage want- 
 ed to get away, but hardly dared to 
 make a move. The old lady was nod- 
 ding her head, her face stern, her lips 
 compressed. 
 
 "Well, I never thought you'd aban- 
 don me in my old age, Thomas, and 
 when I've been right at death's door ! 
 From the time when you were a child in 
 petticoats and climbed on my knee, I've 
 looked upon you as belonging to me 
 a'most as much as to your mother. If 
 you wanted to part from me, why didn't 
 you take that precious dance to India? " 
 
 " But I am not going to abandon you, 
 or to part from }-ou ; I would not do any- 
 thing of the kind," he returned, sinceri- 
 ty in his earnest eyes. " I will come up 
 to see you two or three times a-week." 
 
 " Two or three times a-week ! " resent- 
 fully repeated Mrs. Garston. " You used 
 to come in every day before I was ill, 
 sometimes morning and evening too." 
 
 True. She had been exacting, and he 
 kind and considerate. Snappish and 
 domineering though she was with him, 
 he knew that she looked and longed for 
 his presence as she did for no one's else, 
 and that his visits were the one daily 
 break in her monotonous life. The Tem- 
 ple was a great deal farther off than next 
 door ; but he began to ask himself the 
 question — could he get up to her, as usu- 
 al, daily ? It almost seemed, her steel- 
 gray eyes looking into his, that she di- 
 vined his thoughts. 
 
 " You might come up to me every 
 evening ! " 
 
 " I will try. It may not be quite ev- 
 ery evening. I don't suppose business 
 will admit of that." 
 
 " Now you do as I bid you. If your 
 mother's gone, I'm here, and I act as I 
 please. I wonder what would become of 
 your poor head but for me ! Consider- 
 ing that you are a steady Christian man, 
 
1 24 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 Thomas Kage, I never met with one so 
 likely to lose it. I don't mean you'd 
 drift into folly," she explained, with a 
 sharp knock on the leg of the sofa ; " like 
 Barby Dawkes and the bad young men 
 of the present day. If you could do that, 
 you might pay me a call in your fine 
 tandem when the wind blew this way, but 
 you'd never get pressed to come. Hold 
 your tongue till I've finished ! I'm old 
 enough to be your grandmother. I dine 
 at six ; you know it — well and good. 
 Every day in the week, from Monday till 
 Saturday, there'll be your knife and fork 
 laid in my dining-room, whether you 
 come to use it or not. And on Sundays 
 of course you'll spend the day here.'' 
 
 He got up, and took her hand, his 
 eyes so expressively earnest and grateful 
 that they seemed to have tears in them. 
 Not for the promised dinners, but for the 
 kindness. No man living could have a 
 heart more sensitive to that than Thom- 
 as Kage. 
 
 Wishing her good-day, he went out, 
 and bent his steps towards Paradise- 
 square, for he wanted to see Mrs. Dunn. 
 His way to it lay through Paradise-ter- 
 race ; and, as he was passing Mrs. An- 
 nesley's, an impulse of civility prompted 
 him to turn in. For, in truth, he could 
 not remember how long it was since he 
 called there. Not often in the day-time, 
 Sundays excepted, was Mr. Kage away 
 from his chambers in the Temple. 
 
 The servant ushered him into the 
 drawing-room quietly. Every movement 
 of the household was regulated by the 
 example of its cold and quie't mistress. 
 Thomas Kage surprised Miss Belle in a 
 solitar3 r waltz. The pretty }'ounggirl, a 
 very fairy, in a white-lace evening dress 
 and profusion of blue ribbons, was whirl- 
 ing round the room to a gay tune from 
 her own lips. He rather marveled at her 
 attire. 
 
 " Good gracious ! I thought it was 
 mamma, and wondered what brought her 
 home so soon," exclaimed the young lad} 7 , 
 ceasing her dance abruptly to welcome 
 Thomas Kage. And all in a breath, see- 
 ing him looking at her gala robes, she 
 began volubly to explain. A party was 
 to take place that evening at the fashion- 
 able seminary, MissGammerton's, where 
 the j T oung lady had been educated, and 
 she was invited to it. 
 
 " There was a break-up of the girls be- 
 
 fore Christmas through the fever, and so 
 to-night is to be prize-giving night. It 
 will be a grand affair ; not one of the 
 stupid sets-out they have generally in 
 the half-year, when gentlemen are not 
 admitted. I don't care to go to them," 
 added Miss Belle with candor. 
 
 " You have dressed early, young lady," 
 remarked Mr. Kage. 
 
 She burst into a merry laugh. " For 
 one thing, we go early — five o'clock. 
 The prizes and the tea will take up the 
 time till seven, the concert till nine; 
 and if we began dancing later than that, 
 Miss Gammerton would go into a fit, 
 thinking the girls could do no lessons af- 
 terwards for a week to come. But. it's 
 not that." 
 
 "Not what?" asked Thomas Kage, 
 looking at the flitting movements of the 
 pretty child, who continued to take a 
 waltzing step from side to side while she 
 talked. 
 
 " M} T having dressed so soon. I heard 
 mamma tell Sarah this morning that she 
 should send me in my drab silk, which 
 was warm ; and Sarah answered, " Yes, 
 that would be best, as the weather was 
 still bleak." Sarah's nothing but a regular 
 old maid, you know, Mr. Kage. Will I 
 go in my drab ! I thought. So as soon 
 as their backs were turned, I went up 
 and put on this. The % y've gone out to pay 
 visits, because the day's fine. I told 
 mamma if she made me go with her, I 
 should be tired to death when night 
 came ; and she left me at home. Tra, 
 la, la, la ! " 
 
 " Your mamma may insist on the drab 
 when she returns," said Thomas Kage, 
 interrupting the gay-hearted singing, his 
 own eyes bright with amusement. 
 
 " 0, will she, though ! I am to go 
 round in the brougham that brings them 
 home, and I shall have my opera-cloak on 
 by that time, and my fan and bouquet in 
 my hand, and be ready. She will groan 
 at first, and scold and grumble ; but she 
 never makes me do a thing I hold out 
 about ; she can't, you know, for I have a 
 will of my own. Whom do you think 
 Miss Gammerton has invited this time ? " 
 " I'm sure I can't tell. Not me." 
 " Dickey Dunn," continued the girl, 
 her whole face alive with mischief and 
 merriment. " Dickej^ knows her a little, 
 and must have said he'd like to go. 
 Won't we girls make sport of him ! " 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 125 
 
 " Of Mr. Dunn ? " 
 
 She nodded. " Old Dicke}' is my lov- 
 er, you know. That is, he'd like to be. 
 Fancy an old ruan of eighty making up 
 to me ! " 
 
 Child though she was in mind and 
 manners, if not quite so in years, there 
 was something in the light mockery that 
 jarred on the true heart of Thomas 
 Kage. Few men could bear to hear sa- 
 cred feelings ridiculed less than he. 
 
 " Mr. Dunn is not yet forty, Belle," 
 he said, in a grave tone. " I know noth- 
 ing of what you say ; it may or may not 
 be; but I don't think you ought to 
 speak of him in this way to anyone." 
 
 " I hope he'll ask me to waltz ; I hope 
 he will ! I'll make him whirl round and 
 round till his breath goes. Good gra- 
 cious, Mr. Kage, why do 3 T ou look so 
 grave ? You are as bad as Sarah." 
 
 He did not stay — in fact, had not the 
 time ; but departed, leaving cards for 
 Mrs. and Miss Annesley. It may be as 
 well to mention here that the visit of 
 Sarah Annesley had resulted in a per- 
 manent residence. Mrs. Annesley had 
 formally proposed it to her; nay, had 
 bosought her to remain ; offering her a 
 happy home, free of every cost, in return 
 for the valuable companionship Sarah 
 supplied to her flighty daughter. And 
 Sarah Annesley had seen well to accept 
 ■it, and strove to do her duty. Which 
 was rather difficult. 
 
 At the door of Mrs. Dunn's, Thomas 
 Kage found himself in the midst of a 
 group before he was aware of it — callers 
 like himself. The blue-and-silver livery 
 of the attendant servants, the arms on 
 the carriage before the door, from which 
 the callers had descended, might have 
 shown him who it was, but that he was 
 buried in a reverie and noticed nothing 
 till it was too late. A brilliant girl 
 (she looked but like one), attired in violet 
 velvet and ermine, with a dainty white 
 bonnet just touching her lovely face, had 
 her hand held out to him. 
 
 " Mrs. Canterbury ! " he exclaimed as 
 he took it, emotion changing even yet 
 the hue of his tale-telling countenance. 
 
 Mrs. Canterbury it was; and by her 
 side, dressed young enough and gay 
 enough for a girl in her teens, stood 
 Mrs. Kage ; Mr. Canterbury in attend- 
 ance on both of them. Deprived of her 
 anticipated season in town the previous 
 
 year, Caroline had been quite determined 
 not to be so this. As soon as Christmas 
 was turned, she bade her husband see 
 about engaging a house through a Lon- 
 don agent ; one had been found ; and 
 this, the second week in February, had 
 witnessed their arrival in town. 
 
 Thomas Kage entered Mrs. Dunn's 
 hall with them. Had he seen his way 
 clear to go away again, he had certainly 
 done so ; but Mr. Canterbury had taken 
 him b} r the arm, and Caroline was talk- 
 ing to him. Was it Thomas Kage's 
 fancy, or was it fact, that George Can- 
 terbury had become enfeebled both in 
 mind and body ? 
 
 Mrs. Dunn, all unconscious of the 
 surprise in store for her, was sitting with 
 her late husband's brother, Richard 
 Dunn, who had called in. Thomas 
 Kage involuntarily thought of Miss 
 Belle Annesley's ridicule as his eyes fell 
 on the iron-merchant. Perhaps that is 
 not quite the proper designation to give 
 him, but his business had entirely to do 
 with iron. He rented two floors some- 
 where in the City, his counting-house 
 and other offices faking up one, himself 
 dwelling in the other. Anyone less 
 likely to be made the subject of ridicule 
 than Richard Dunn could not well be 
 conceived. He looked his full age, close 
 on forty — a fine-made, personable man, 
 with intellectual features of calm good 
 sense ; his dark hair was tinged with 
 gray, and scanty on the top of his head. 
 
 Mrs. Dunn stood with a momentary 
 astonished stare, as if she hardly recog- 
 nized her visitors. Neglecting the two 
 ladies, she walked forward and kissed 
 her father, and then turned to welcome 
 them, but very coldly. The grasp of the 
 hand she gave to Thomas Kage was far 
 warmer than any vouchsafed to either. 
 
 " I did not know you were in London, 
 papa." 
 
 " Eh, child. — no ? We came up to — 
 where is it, Caroline ? " 
 
 " Belgrave-square," interposed Mrs. 
 Kage, settling herself on a sofa, with a 
 cushion at her back. " Dear Mr. Can- 
 terbury has taken it furnished for six 
 months." 
 
 It was not so much Mrs. Kage's an- 
 swer ; there was nothing in that, savo 
 perhaps that it was a little impudent to 
 take the words out of other people's 
 mouths ; it was the tone in which Mr. 
 
126 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S Yv T I L L 
 
 Canterbury spoke that caused Lis daugh- 
 ter's heart to leap with an unpleasant 
 thrill. "Was his mind gone?'*' She 
 mentally asked herself the question as 
 she looked keenly at him. No, not quite, 
 3'et ; hut it had weakened much and was 
 gradually going. He was stooping, too 
 — he, the hitherto upright, slender, ap- 
 parently strong-framed man. 
 
 " What's the matter with you, papa ? " 
 asked Mrs. Dunn abruptly ; " j 7 ou are 
 very much changed." 
 
 " Changed for the better, dear Mrs. 
 Dunn," simpered Mrs. Kage, who seemed 
 not to care that Mr. Canterbury should 
 answer his daughter. " Quite for the 
 better, since he had a good wife to take 
 care of him." 
 
 Mrs. Dunn, fairly turning her back on 
 the speaking lady, crossed the room, and 
 sat down by her father. He talked to 
 her then about his little boy and the 
 house in Belgrave-square, which was 
 less convenient than he had hoped for; 
 about her sisters Olive and Millicent ; 
 about Austin llufort and his wife ; and, 
 in short, on any topic she chose to intro- 
 duce. But through all his conversation 
 there ran a kind of insane look and tone, 
 putting Lydia in mind of a child. She 
 gave a terrible sigh, made up of anger 
 and pain, and wondered if it would have 
 been so soon thus had he not married. 
 
 " I have merely come to town to see 
 my dear daughter settled in her house," 
 spoke Mrs. Kage, for the benefit of the 
 company generally, as she opened her 
 fan of ivory and gold. " With my poor 
 weak nerves, a London season might be 
 too much for me ; and I do not mean to 
 try it. In a week or two I return 
 home." 
 
 This was really true. But perhaps 
 Mrs. Dunn, with her experience o£ the 
 innate encroaching propensities of the 
 honorable lady, might have been excused 
 for doubting it. 
 
 " A season in town is ver) 7 exhausting, 
 ma'am, for those who enter into its 
 gaieties," said Mr. Dunn in his polite- 
 ness, perceiving that no one else answered 
 Mrs. Kage. 
 
 Her reply to this was to put up her 
 eye-glass and view him very coolty. 
 
 " Not that I speak from experience," 
 added Mr. Dunn. " I do not enter into 
 anything of the kind mj'self : business 
 men have no time for it." 
 
 Mrs. Kage dropped her glass at once. 
 " Business, ! " said she. 
 
 " Why did you not come down to 
 Jane's wedding, Lydia ? " asked Mr. 
 Canterbury in the midst of a sudden 
 pause. 
 
 " Well, to tell you the truth, papa, I 
 do not care to go to Chilling," she plain- 
 ly answered. " There have been so 
 many changes, you know : I couldn't 
 witness them and keep my temper. 
 They are bad enough to hear of; they 
 would be worse to see." 
 
 " She was married in December. 
 Olive thought j r ou would come and stay 
 the Christmas." 
 
 " Ali, j'es, poor Olive ! I spent my 
 Christmas at home, papa." 
 
 They had formed into couples, as it 
 were — Lydia with her father, Thomas 
 Kage and Mrs. Canterbury. The dis- 
 jointed ones were Mrs. Kage and the 
 iron-merchant, who were on opposite 
 sofas. 
 
 " You will take me out sometimes, 
 will you not, Thomas?" Caroline 
 pleadingly asked. "If my husband 
 has to go with me too much, and be up 
 late, I think he may break down. We 
 have secured a good opera-box." 
 
 " I am sorry to have to decline, Mrs. 
 Canterbury," was the decidedly damp- 
 ing answer. " You must not depend on 
 me. I have no time to give to gaiet}', 
 and therefore keep out of it altogether. 
 Work and dissipation will not get on 
 side by side." 
 
 " At least j'ou will come to see us in 
 Belgrave-square," was all she rejoined 
 in her mortification. 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 " You have not been again to Chilling, 
 Thomas." 
 
 " No ; I have been busy this winter." 
 
 "I am going to be presented at the 
 first Drawing-room," she said in a 
 minute, with gleeful vanity. " I wish 
 you could go too, and see me in my 
 court-dress : it is to be white lace and 
 satin and diamonds." 
 
 Thomas Kage smiled. "Diamonds, 
 eh ? " 
 
 " Beautiful diamonds — the most mag- 
 nificent set you ever saw! 1 have 
 brought them up with me ; they were 
 the first Mrs. Canterbuiw's." 
 
 " And were given by her on her 
 death-bed to my sister Olive," spoke up 
 
G E ORGE CANTERBURY'S W ILL. 
 
 127 
 
 Mrs. Dunn sharply. — " You were pres- 
 ent at the time, papa." 
 
 " Dear Thomas, do go out to the car- 
 riage and get my smelling-salts," shriek- 
 ed out Mrs. Kage, with that unpleasant 
 tone her voice took when annoyed. 
 " You'll find them somewhere amidst 
 the cushions." 
 
 In the carriage, on the nurse's lap — 
 Judith — sat the boy, a lively little fel- 
 low, six months old now, with his 
 mother's violet-blue eyes. Seizing hold 
 of Thomas Kage's finger as babies will 
 do, the blue ej T es smiled in his face. 
 
 " It's you, is it, sir ? Why, you have 
 grown into a man. — He looks well and 
 hearty, nurse." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; he is as healthy a little 
 fellow as I'd wish to nurse. And a 
 sweet temper he has got," she added 
 fondly ; " quite his father's, it is." 
 
 Releasing his finger, and patting 
 gently the little face, Thomas Kage 
 looked for the bottle of salts — a beauti- 
 fully-cut crystal with a gold stopper. 
 Sending it in by Mrs. Dunn's servant, 
 he walked away. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 LOVE AT 
 
 LAST. 
 
 If Miss Belle Annesley had "brains 
 for any one thing more than another, 
 it was music : in that she excelled, and 
 she sang sweetly. To see her at her 
 harp was a charming sight ; to stand 
 and turn over the music for her at the 
 piano while she sang, was, to one man 
 at least, the acme of human bliss ; and 
 that man was Richard Dunn. Her 
 boast to Thomas Kage had not been an 
 idle one. 
 
 " There is no passion fools us like 
 that of love." It has, indeed, been well 
 said and sung. Here was this middle- 
 aged sensible man — one of the most re- 
 spected in the higher ranks of the com- 
 mercial world — burning to lay himself 
 and his wealth at the feet of that flighty 
 child. He had been caught by the win- 
 ning ways, the laughing eyes, and the 
 blue ribbons of this fairy girl ; and all 
 the arguments of all the sages that the 
 world ever produced could not have con- 
 vinced him that she would not be for 
 
 him a suitable wife. Evening after eve- 
 ning, when the occupations of the day 
 were over, found him at Mrs. Annesle3 T 's. 
 There he would sit listening to her 
 songs, and fancy himself, not in Para- 
 dise-terrace, but in a real Paradise. 
 
 She detected his love ; she saw the 
 nature of his attentions. When does a 
 woman, and a vain one, no matter how 
 young she may be, ever mistake such ? 
 And though Belle Annesley ridiculed 
 him and his hopes behind his back — as 
 she had done to Thomas Kage — she prac- 
 tised all sorts of little arts and coquet- 
 ries before his face, which she knew 
 were enthralling his heart the closer. 
 She had not the smallest purpose in the 
 world in doing this, except her love of 
 admiration and of teasing. 
 
 Mrs. Annesley, seeing things but 
 dimly, as an interested looker-on often 
 does, did not interfere one way or the 
 other. It se,emed next to impossible 
 that Richard Dunn — the grave, staid 
 City man, the wealthy iron-merchant — 
 could cast a serious thought to her friv- 
 olous, light daughter. She was the 
 very essence of cold proprietj" — as was 
 once before said — and how she came to 
 have so giddy a child was a marvel to 
 the world. A vast deal more giddy, 
 Miss Belle, than the stern woman sus- 
 pected. Had she known of the flirting 
 scrapes Belle sometimes drifted into, she 
 would have gone crazy. 
 
 There was not any harm in Belle 
 Annesley, and she by no means deserv- 
 ed the epithet that has come into use of 
 late — " fast." Wild and thoughtless was 
 she — a careless, flitting butterfly, who 
 held hearts to be very light articles, 
 and had not as yet felt her own touch- 
 ed. With it all, she was a tender little 
 plant, not very able to bear rough and 
 rude winds, should they ever assail her. 
 
 I wish there was time to tell of an 
 acquaintance she fell heedlessly into 
 with a handsome foreign gentleman of 
 magnificent whiskers. His behavior 
 was good ; and Belle, through a mistake 
 for which nobody was responsible, un- 
 derstood that he was staying with a 
 nobleman, the Duke of Derbyshire. 
 " Staying with," in Belle's idea, could 
 mean nothing but visiting. When the 
 denouement came, it was discovered that 
 he was only the duke's cook — a ver}' ca- 
 pable man in his profession, and by no 
 
128 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 means ill-born, enjoying, too, a very 
 large salary. That was really a lesson 
 to Belle, and for some time she was tol- 
 erably steady. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Dunn, intending to 
 quit the City and come westward, took 
 on lease one of the better houses in 
 Paradise-square, and was busy furnish- 
 ing it. One day Miss Belle, in her 
 saucy way, told him he would want a 
 wife when he went into it. 
 
 They happened to be alone. Mr. 
 Dunn seized on the occasion and said 
 yes, he should : would she be the wife ? 
 Belle affected to be taken with the most 
 intense surprise, and almost as good as 
 retorted that he had better make an 
 offer to her grandmother. The episode 
 passed off, without much compromising 
 of himself on Mr. Dunn's part. 
 
 A listener might have been in doubt 
 whether he really meant to put the 
 question, or had intended it as a joke. 
 And somehow with that moment his 
 eyes opened to his folly, and he knew 
 that he should forever thank his propi- 
 tious stars that the frivolous girl, in her 
 caprice, had been wiser than he. 
 
 But it does not fall to the lot of all 
 of us to do foolish things and not be 
 talked of. How it got about, mischief 
 only knew ; but rumors of Mr. Dunn's 
 forthcoming marriage, or at least of the 
 offer, went spreading abroad : whether 
 whispered by the girl in her heedless- 
 ness he never knew. They penetrated 
 even to the deaf ears of Mrs. Garston ; 
 who, as deaf people often do, took up 
 the tale a tort et a travers. 
 
 " So we shall soon have to congratu- 
 late you upon giving up your bachelor- 
 ship," she said one day that he had gone 
 in to see her. 
 
 Mr. Dunn became the color of a rose. 
 Who could have been talking to her of 
 his affairs ? 
 
 " If you take a wife at all, it's time 
 you set about it," pursued the ancient 
 lady, " for you are hard upon forty, my 
 dear. You and my poor son — who lived 
 but a day — were bom in the same win- 
 ter." 
 
 " How's your deafness, ma'am ? " 
 asked Mr. Dunn. " It was very bad 
 when I was last here." 
 
 "0, that's better, Bichard. I don't 
 make mistakes now. She is a good, pru- 
 dent, sensible girl, that Miss Annesley ; 
 one in a thousand." 
 
 " Is she ? " thought Mr. Dunn. 
 "Though full 3 T oung for you, Dickey. 
 That gossiping woman, Mrs. Williams, 
 used to say she knew you were up to 
 your eyes in love with An — Anna — what's 
 her name ? — Annabel. I asked her one 
 day if she did not give Bichard Dunn 
 credit for more sense than to fall in love 
 with a flighty young creature, only fit for 
 a dancing-girl at Astley's. But you have 
 chosen well, my dear, and have shown 
 your sense." 
 
 "What are you talking of?" asked 
 Mr. Dunn. 
 
 "Isn't it true, then?" returned the 
 old lacby. " Are you not going to be 
 married ?" 
 
 " Not a bit of it ! " exclaimed the mer- 
 chant wrathfully. " I'd see all the girls 
 at— York, first ! " 
 
 " The tales that people invent! " cried 
 Mrs. Garston, heaving up her hands in 
 wonder. " Somebody came here the 
 other daj T , and said you had made an 
 offer to Miss Annesley, and were furnish- 
 ing your new house in splendor for the 
 wedding." 
 
 " She's too young and flighty for me, 
 ma'am," he roared in her ear. " Never 
 you fear that I shall marry heT." 
 " What's too young and flighty ? " 
 " Miss Belle Annesley." 
 "I didn't allude to her!" screamed 
 Mrs. Garston, rapping her stick wildly 
 on the floor in her deafness and wrath. 
 " It's her cousin Sarah ; old Parson An- 
 nesley's daughter. I hope you don't 
 call her flighty — a well-brought-up, 
 sweet-tempered, elegant young woman. 
 You might be proud to get her, Dickey." 
 " She is not far wrong," grumbled the 
 merchant to himself when he went away. 
 " I have sometimes questioned, even 
 when in the height of my infatuation, 
 whether I had not neglected the gold to 
 hug the gilding." 
 
 The spring grew older ; but there's 
 nothing much to tell of it. Mrs. Can- 
 terbuty was the gayest of the gay Lon- 
 don world ; her husband tried to be, but 
 made a signal failure of it. The poor 
 drooping old man (so upright not long 
 ago) ought to be at home at the Bock, 
 people said ; and Mrs. Garston gave the 
 young wife one of her sharp reprimands 
 on the score. Thomas Kage called on 
 them once a month or so ; and that was 
 the extent of the intercourse he allowed 
 himself with Mr. and Mrs. Canterbury. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 129 
 
 Caroline took refuge in a fit of haughty 
 resentment, and let him follow his own 
 course. Not until July did she and her 
 husband depart for the Rock. 
 
 Summer passed on, and Thomas Kage 
 came home from circuit, on which he had 
 gone. His coming and going mattered 
 little to any body, except, perhaps, Mrs. 
 Garston, for he confined himself mostly 
 to his work and his chambers. Sarah 
 Annesley was then at Chilling, whither 
 she had departed on a long visit. 
 
 Which left Miss Bell comparatively 
 free. That young lady's turn was to 
 come, however ; and she, who had 
 laughed at others, was soon to have her 
 own heart touched to infatuation. 
 
 For so fashionable a man as Captain 
 Dawkes to appear in London when every- 
 bodj^ that he would have deemed of con- 
 sequence was out of it, argued something 
 under the surface. For more than two 
 years Captain Dawkes had been in Ire- 
 land with his regiment. Hi now sud- 
 denly reappeared in London. On leave, 
 he said. 
 
 People can get through money in Ire- 
 land, if so inclined, just as fast as in 
 England ; and Barnaby Dawkes had 
 found it so, to his cost. The gallant 
 captain had come to the very end of his 
 tether, available and unavailable. He 
 pleaded sickness at head-quarters, and 
 got leave to absent himself from duty ; 
 his real business being.not sickness, but 
 to move every propitiator}' power to ena- 
 ble him to raise the wind. 
 
 The chief power — that is, the chief 
 hope, Mrs. Garston — was not propitious. 
 Quite the contrary. It really seemed to 
 Barnaby Dawkes that the old lady must 
 be gifted with a kind of second sight; 
 so accurately did she divine the state of 
 affairs, and recount it to his face. At 
 first Barnaby thought Keziah must have 
 been talking ; but he found she had not. 
 It was all good guess-work. Mrs. Gars- 
 ton said he should have no help from 
 her ; the money-lenders were not to be 
 seduced ; and Barnaby Dawkes, captain 
 and gentleman, sat down and seriousl} T 
 asked himself what there remained to 
 do. 
 
 It might have been pure pastime — 
 pour faire passer le temps ; or in his love 
 of a pretty face — Belle's, or any other ; 
 or because his usual expensive life was 
 not obtainable under the present adverse 
 
 circumstances, that Captain Dawkes 
 took, during this sojourn in London, to 
 go a good deal to Mrs. Annesley's. Ke- 
 ziah was tolerably intimate there; with 
 her brother their acquaintance had been 
 but very slight. A sober moderate 
 household such as that was not one like- 
 ly to attract Captain Dawkes. During 
 his absence in Ireland, the frivolous 
 child, Belle, had grown into a very love- 
 ly young woman — if indeed the term 
 "woman" can be applied to a girl not 
 out of her teens. Captain Barnaby 
 Dawkes was agreeably struck, and began 
 to talk in whispers to her forthwith. 
 
 How do people fall in love ? What 
 subtle instiuct is there that induces it ? 
 While one man, good and honest and 
 worthy, will press his suit in vain — and, 
 in spite of all reason, a woman can no 
 more persuade her heart to care for him 
 than for the idle wind — another will 
 step in and take it by storm. It was so 
 with Annabel Annesley. Ere Barnaby 
 Dawkes had called at the house three 
 times, her cheeks would glow, her whole 
 pulses thrill at his approach. He was a 
 handsome man, as Miss Belle counted 
 handsomeness ; but this had nothing to 
 do with the enthralment, for she knew 
 that if he had been as ugly as a satyr 
 her love would be just the same. With 
 her whole heart and life she had learnt 
 to love Barnaby Dawkes. 
 
 How it changed her ! Her very na- 
 ture seemed to have been replaced by 
 one essentially different. The thought- 
 less butterfly, ready ever to sip sweets 
 from all the world, whose pleasure 
 seemed to have lain in meeting attrac- 
 tive men and laughing with and at 
 them, became as sedate as a judge. 
 When Mrs. Annesle}' came home from 
 Chilling, at the end of October, she 
 wondered what had come to the child — 
 all her lightness was gone. Gone, to be 
 superseded by a tender, subdued joyous- 
 ness, shining ever from the now shy 
 eyes. Belle did not care to go out now, 
 she stayed at home and sang her songs 
 — love-songs always — in a tender, half 
 hushed tone, or worked slippers or other 
 trumpery, and was as good as gold ; ever 
 seeming to be listening for the step of 
 visitors. Belle Annesley had made her 
 life's choice, for weal or for woe. 
 
 It might be that Captain Dawkes was 
 a little touched also ; that what had beeu 
 
130 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 begun from the lightest of all motives 
 was continued because he had grown to 
 like the pastime. At any rate he perse- 
 vered in it. A tall, big, fine man he, 
 with glossy, fierce, dark whiskers, that 
 might set the world a-longing and a bar- 
 ber off in ecstasies; and she the sweet- 
 est little blue-eyed fairy to be found in 
 London. If contrasts attract, as wise 
 ones say, then the episode in these two 
 lives need not be wondered at. 
 
 In an unfashionable part of Pimlico, 
 in a quiet street through which nothing 
 more aristocratic bowled than an occa- 
 sional cab or baker's cart, lived Miss 
 Dawkes. Sbe occupied the drawing- 
 room floor, and had so done for some 
 years now. When Barnaby was in Lon- 
 don she moved to a small room at the 
 top of the house, and slept amidst her 
 boxes, leaving the better chamber behind 
 the sitting-room for him, if he choose to 
 come home to it. He gave his address 
 at his club : never here. The sitting- 
 room was of very moderate size, with 
 drab curtains to the widows, and a 
 drab-and-green table-cover, both some- 
 what the worse for wear. Miss Dawkes's 
 income amounted to just one hundred and 
 twenty pounds a -year ; so she had to be 
 content with small lodgings. 
 
 It was a gloomy evening in November, 
 seven o'clock striking by the London 
 churches. Miss Dawkes had dined at 
 one o'clock off beefsteak-pie ; the re- 
 mainder of the pie — a small one — had just 
 been put upon the table for supper, with 
 bread and cheese. Keziah liked good liv- 
 ing, and would very much have preferred 
 to dine luxuriously at six ; but fate and 
 fortune were adverse. She was subject to 
 frightful headaches, and never dared take 
 her supper much later than seven. The 
 fire burnt clear, the lamp was bi-ight and 
 well turned on, for Barnaby might arrive 
 at any moment, though she did not par- 
 ticularly expect him. 
 
 A rush of wind and rain in at the 
 street-door below as it opened, and Cap- 
 tain Dawkes came up, his coat and um- 
 brella dripping. Keziah took both from 
 him. and wentjwhere she could leave them 
 to dry. 
 
 " Cursed weather." remarked the 
 Captain when she returned. " It's rain- 
 ing like cats and dogs." 
 
 " Whose umbrella is that, Barnaby ?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " Whose ? Why, mine." 
 
 " Indeed, it is not. This is like yours 
 in general appearance, but it is a little 
 smaller, and has ' S. A. ' engraved on 
 the handle." 
 
 A pause of consideration. Captain 
 Dawkes, tailing up the whole of the fire, 
 and gently touching his luxuriant whis- 
 kers, was admiring his face in the very 
 small pier-glass. 
 
 " I've left mine at the Annesley,<', 
 then, and brought one of theirs away by- 
 mistake. ' S. A.' ? That must stand 
 for the parson's daughter. She is going 
 to be married to Richard Dunn." 
 
 " What, Sarah Annesley ! Well, I 
 thought it was coming to it," slowly add- 
 ed Miss Dawkes. " He has grown to 
 like her, I suppose ; and she, as anyone 
 may see, likes him. How do you know 
 it ? " 
 
 " Belle whispered it to me." 
 
 " It will be a very suitable match ; 
 but he was in love with little Belle 
 once." 
 
 " Like his impudence," remarked Cap- 
 tain Dawkes. "I wish I had his money." 
 
 " Will you take some supper, Bar- 
 naby ? " 
 
 The captain turned to survey the table. 
 " D'ye call that supper ? " 
 
 " It is the best we have to-night. 
 They told me downstairs they could not 
 cook anything, or I would have ordered 
 you a cutlet. The parlor-floor has got a 
 party." 
 
 " I wonder you stop in these lodgings, 
 Keziah." 
 
 " If I moved elsewhere, I should be no 
 better off; perhaps worse. And I am 
 used to them ; I don't care to go." 
 
 " You want the energy to move, Ke- 
 ziah." 
 
 " Not the energy, Barby dear' — the 
 money." 
 
 " Captain Dawkes growled at Fate. 
 " I wish the devil had all the money, 
 Keziah ! There'd be no bother then : 
 should all be in the same box." 
 
 She was serving the pie, and putting 
 the choicest morsels on his plate, with 
 every drain of gravy the spoon would 
 take up. On her own plate she put the " 
 hard ends of crust, the dry meat, the 
 odd bits of fat. Barnaby Dawkes 
 watched all this but never an objection 
 made he ; and he sat down and began 
 upon his supper without so much as a 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 131 
 
 word of thanks. He had been living 
 upon his sister entirely for two months 
 now. It seemed his province to take 
 all the good things of life that came in 
 his way, though she had to starve upon 
 the worst. Keziah had spoilt and pam- 
 pered him. 
 
 ." You are hungry, Barby." 
 
 " Well I may be ! I have had no din- 
 ner. Stone asked me to dine, but I found 
 I should meet somebody I'd rather not 
 meet just now." 
 
 " Have you seen Aunt Garston to- 
 day ? " 
 
 " Yes. And she threw her stick at 
 me." 
 
 " Barby ! I suppose you put her 
 out." 
 
 Captain Dawkes scraped up the scraps 
 on his plate, for he was really hungry. 
 Keziah resented the company on the par- 
 lor-floor, and wished she could have 
 cooked him the missing cutlet. 
 
 " You should have had something bet- 
 ter had I thought you would come home 
 to dinner, Barby." 
 
 " I should order pigeon-pies, Keziah ; 
 or chicken. Beefsteak-pies are common 
 kind of things." 
 
 Keziah inwardly wished she could. 
 She began mentally to ask herself when 
 this state of affairs would end. Not for 
 her own sake, or for the expense and con- 
 trivance it cost her, but for Barnaby's. 
 
 " I do my best, Barnaby. Oftentimes 
 I wonder that, with my small income, the 
 best is so good as it is." 
 
 Captain Dawkes, considering his sister 
 as nobody, had turned his back on the 
 table and sat hiding the fire, bending 
 over it and twirling his moustache, 
 
 " I suppose it will have to come to sell- 
 ing-out, Keziah." 
 
 " And if it does ? You £ould not keep 
 the money, and would be worse off than 
 you are now. With the proceeds of the 
 commission gone, you would simply be a 
 beggar:" 
 
 Yes. And it was a very gloomy look- 
 out. Captain Dawkes saw that as well 
 as anybody. No man liked to stand bet- 
 ter with the world than he. As to living 
 the semi-hiding, make-shift life with Ke- 
 ziah — as he one day politely told her — 
 he would rather hang himself. 
 
 " And after the selling-out, the next 
 thing will be to sell myself," continued 
 the Captain gloomily. 
 
 "Sell yourself!" 
 
 " To a woman. There will be noth- 
 ing less left for it, Keziah. I suppose 
 you'd not like to see me with a Mrs. 
 Dawkes ; but it will have to come to it." 
 
 A keen pain shot through Keziah's 
 heart. How keen, let those tell who 
 have experienced the same. 
 
 " She will have eight or nine hundred 
 a-year when the old mother drops off, 
 which I think won't be long first. That 
 will be better than a prison." 
 
 Keziah tried to swallow the piece of 
 cheese she was eating, but her throat 
 seemed to close to it. Instinct more 
 than reason, Barnaby's visits most of 
 all, guided her to a right guess. 
 
 "Are you speaking of Belle Annes- 
 ley?" 
 
 " Right you are." 
 
 " She will have but three hundred 
 a-year, Barnaby. Her half-brother out 
 in the torrid zone, Walter Annesley, 
 takes the larger portion of it." 
 
 " Bight in theory, Keziah, wrong in 
 fact. Walter Annesley is dying, and 
 Belle will take the whole. The last 
 West-India mail brought news of some 
 slight accident he had met with ; the one 
 in to-day says it has turned out serious, 
 and that there's not a chance of his life. 
 As thing have come to the present low 
 ebb with me, it may be worth while to 
 think of her." 
 
 " Do you care for her very much ? " 
 
 " She's a nice little thing." 
 
 Another lump to swallow. 
 
 " Enough to take her with only tho 
 three hundred ? " 
 
 *' Certainly not. I'd see her some- 
 where first. Unless I had money my- 
 self, I'd not wed a girl with only that 
 sum if she were a royal princess." 
 
 " Then, Barnaby, wait until Walter 
 Annesley shall really be dead before you 
 commit yourself." 
 
 " I never intended to do otherwise. 
 You can't teach me, Keziah. What do 
 you say ? — money go to Walter Annes- 
 ley' s children ? No ; it comes to Belle 
 if he dies in his mother's lifetime. A 
 fellow went in and saw the will for me 
 at Doctors' Commons." 
 
 Keziah might be pardoned if a doubt 
 crossed her. 
 
 " That would be a rather unusual will, 
 would it not, Barby ? " 
 
 " Perhaps," indifferently answered 
 
132 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 Barby. " Curious to say, there's no 
 provision made for the fellow's marry- 
 ing ; contingency doesn't seem to have 
 occurred to the old father. If Walter 
 survives his stepmother, the share goes 
 to him ; if he dies in his mother's life- 
 time, all goes to Belle. Shall wait and 
 see how things turn. If certificate of 
 funeral comes over, may go in for her 
 then ; don't know yet." 
 
 In Keziah Dawkes's heart of hearts 
 she thought her brother would, from his 
 two special propensities, love of roving 
 and love of spending, be an unfit man 
 to marry, unless the acquired fortune 
 were commensurate with the sacrifice. 
 
 " Eight hundred a-year for you would 
 be nothing, Barnaby. It might about 
 keep you in gloves and cigars." 
 
 " Seems to be standing just now be- 
 tween me and that delectable place the 
 work -house," responded the Captain. 
 " Shall make up my mind, one way or 
 the other, when next West-India mail 
 comes in." 
 
 " And that maj T bring different news," 
 said Keziah dreamiby. " And the girl 
 might not have you, after all." 
 
 " Can make tolerably sure of that be- 
 forehand," returned the gallant Captain, 
 a complacent smile on his satisfied face. 
 " I wish old mother Garston was dead 
 and buried, and I had got her money." 
 
 "She says she has made her will, and 
 left all away from you, Barby." 
 
 " Don't believe her, though." 
 
 " Barby ! She says awfully hard 
 things, but they are nearly always true. 
 At the best, things in regard to her are 
 at an uncertainty." 
 
 " Yes ; the uncertainty is the devil of 
 it," retorted Captain Dawkes. 
 
 Keziah rang for the tray to be taken 
 away. While this was being done, he 
 went to the window and looked out. 
 The heavj* rain had been but a storm ; 
 the streets were drying again. Captain 
 Dawkes called for his coat and the wet 
 umbrella, and went out. 
 
 Keziah sat on alone. Books and a 
 newspaper lay on the table, but she took 
 up neither. The world that night 
 teemed to be steeped in a vista of gloom, 
 the future to have an ominous, undefin- 
 ed shadow spread before it. In former 
 days she had been blindly tolerant of 
 her brother's faults ; but his exceeding 
 recklessness in getting into debt, his ut- 
 
 ter improvidence, were very plain to her 
 now. She' took his part against Mrs. 
 Garston and all else, but she could not 
 help seeing that the stern old lady had 
 good reason for her sternness. " If I 
 set him free, he will begin at once and 
 run up a fresh ladder' of debts, and 
 where is it to end ? " Mrs. Garston had 
 impressively asked. The very words 
 came into Keziah's mind now as she 
 sat ; and all the answer she could, give 
 was, " I don't know where." 
 
 No, Keziah did not. And she might 
 thank Heaven that the fore-knowledge 
 was spared her. 
 
 The returning of the umbrella and 
 getting his own, afforded an excuse for 
 paying a night-visit at Mrs. Annesley's. 
 Belle happened to be alone in the draw- 
 ing-room when he entered. She was 
 seated on a footstool at a corner of' the 
 hearth, a book lying listless on her lap, 
 and her favorite blue ribbons falling 
 from her golden hair. Up she started, 
 her whole frame in a joyous tremor, her 
 cheeks damask, her heart wild. Bufin 
 manner she stood quiet as a lamb. 
 Nevertheless the experienced Captain 
 saw the signs ; his great dark eyes bent 
 on her their most fascinating light. 
 
 " Alone ! " he whispered, making a 
 prisoner of her hands. 
 
 She hardly knew what she answered 
 him. In the tumult that his presence 
 induced, words fell from her mechanical- 
 ly. Mamma had stayed in the dining- 
 room, finishing a letter to Walter ; Sa- 
 rah had stepped in to see Mrs. Lowther. 
 
 " My pretty one ! " exclaimed the Cap- 
 tain, who was an adept in charming 
 phrases. 
 
 " I — we — did not expect to see you 
 again this evening," said poor, flutter- 
 ing, cor r ised Belle. 
 
 " I w juld never be away from you if 
 I could help it," said the great story-tel- 
 ler. And the words were sweeter to her 
 ear than the sweetest honey. 
 
 '■ But I fancy sometimes your mother 
 does not care to see me here too often," 
 he added, never having released the 
 hands; "yet I have an excuse for her 
 to-night. What will you do without 
 me, Belle, when I go back to Ireland?" 
 
 A pang shot through her heart. 
 When that should happen, all the sun- 
 shine would go out of her young life. 
 Her cheek paled a little ; the blue eyes, 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 133 
 
 lifted momentarily to his, had wet eye- 
 lashes. Captain Dawkes suddenly clasp- 
 ed her to him, and kissed her face with 
 what seemed to Belle heaven's own 
 kisses. 
 
 " My darling ! " 
 
 But the approaching step of Mrs. An- 
 nesley was heard. The Captain took 
 his seat decorously on a remote chair ; 
 and Belle hid her eyes and her blushing 
 face, feeling as if she were in a dream 
 of some sweet enchantment. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 "Well, if he ain't a grand sight! 
 Why, his head's a-stretching all down 
 past here, and his tail's not out o' the 
 lodge-gates yet ! " 
 
 The speaker was a country-woman, 
 peeping from the partialty-opened door 
 of one of a row of cottages. The doors 
 of all were similarly being peeped 
 through, though the shutters to the 
 windows were closed ; and the women 
 and children who were thus gazing ex- 
 hibited signs of having quitted their 
 household occupations to look at the 
 passing sight. 
 
 The intelligent reader may imagine, 
 by the woman's remark, that some inde- 
 scribable animal of fabulous length was 
 looming by. But it was nothing of the 
 sort : for the " head " was represented by 
 two solemn mutes, gorgeously apparelled 
 in the blackest of black, and the " tail" 
 by a couple of undertaker's men, 
 equally orthodox to look at. The mid- 
 dle comprised all the paraphernalia of a 
 most extravagant funeral — coaches, 
 horses, plumes, velvets, fringe, batons, 
 attendants, carriers, mourners, ribbons, 
 crape, white handkerchiefs, and pomp 
 and vanity. 
 
 " I wonder what he cost, now ! " con- 
 tinued the woman, in the vernacular of 
 the locality, which did not pay particu- 
 lar regard to genders. " He'll be a 
 sight to remember, he will; and to tell 
 our children on, when we grows old." 
 
 " Ah, she have done the thing hand- 
 some, she have ; she haven't spared no 
 money," replied the matron at the con- 
 tiguous door, to whom the observation 
 had been made. 
 
 " No more she oughtn't to spare it," 
 retorted the first, in an indignant tone. 
 " Ain't it the last money he'll cost 
 her?" 
 
 " Except the moniment over his 
 grave in the church. They'll put him 
 up a brave one, from the flag-stones to 
 the roof. But, I say, what was up, that 
 it were put off from yesterday till to- 
 daj ? The bur'al were fixed for yester- 
 day." 
 
 " Some relation of young madam's, 
 that had to come from Lunnon for it, 
 and he didn't get here." 
 
 The speaker turned her head, and saw 
 for the first time that a stranger was 
 standing at her elbow. A tall, dark, 
 gentlemanly -looking man, who had 
 been sauntering listlessly up the road, 
 and halted to gaze at the passing pro- 
 cession. 
 
 " Whose funeral is that ? " he in- 
 quired of the woman. 
 
 " Mr. Canterbury's, sir," she replied, 
 dropping a curtsey. " Mr. Canterbury's 
 of the Bock." 
 
 " A magnificent funeral. He must 
 have been a man of some note." 
 
 "The richest gentleman for miles 
 round, sir," answered the other woman, 
 whose tongue was the readiest. " He 
 were our landlord." 
 
 " Ah," returned the stranger, glanc- 
 ing down the row of cottages, " that ex- 
 plains why you are all shut up." 
 
 " There's not a house on the estate, 
 sir, poor or rich, but what's shut close 
 to-day. He has been took off sudden, 
 like, at last ; and not to say an old man 
 neither. But he has been ailing and 
 ailing ever so long ! " 
 
 " Does he leave a family ? " 
 "A young wife and child. He mar- 
 ried her three summers agone. His 
 own daughters were older nor she. 
 Good ladies they be, and — There, sir, 
 look, look ! In that shiny black coach- 
 and-four, what's a passing now, there's 
 a gentleman a-sitting forrard ; you can 
 see him well." 
 
 " What of him ? " inquired the listen- 
 er, wondering at the sudden abruptness 
 of the gossiping woman. 
 
 " It's Mr. Rufort. sir, Lord Rufort's 
 son ; and he married one of the young 
 ladies, Miss Jane. He is our rector, 
 but another gentleman is to bury Mr. 
 Canterbury, and Mr. Rufort goes as a 
 mourner. There ! in that next shiny 
 
134 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 coach, that old gentleman with gray 
 hair, a-sitting bolt upright, that's Lord 
 Rufort. It's just the way he sits his 
 horse, and never bends his head one 
 way nor t'other. The young ladies 
 have not been friendty at the Rock of 
 late, but they have went up since their 
 father was took worse ; all but Mrs. 
 Rufort, and she's ill, and couldn't leave 
 the rectory." 
 
 But that the gentleman, listening to 
 all this, was very much pre-occupied 
 with his own affairs, not very satisfac- 
 tory at the present moment, and accord- 
 ed but half an ear and no real attention, 
 he might have recognised the deceased 
 as one whom he knew at least by name. 
 But it was a positive fact that he did 
 not. 
 
 '•What is this village called?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Chilling, sir." 
 
 "Chilling, eh! And a chilling kind 
 of place it seems to be," he mentally 
 concluded, as he went strolling on his 
 road again. 
 
 The funeral procession moved on to a 
 distant church, to the Canterbury vault ; 
 and in an hour's course the living por- 
 tion of it moved back again. A very 
 few of the followers entered the Rock ; 
 the greater number stepped into their 
 private carriages, and were driven to 
 their respective homes. Lord Rufort, 
 when requested to go in, started off to 
 his chariot with his iron-gray head in 
 the air, as if there were something in- 
 doors that displeased him. Mr. Carlton, 
 of the Hall, went in ; Mr. Rufort, Mr. 
 Norris, and Thomas Kage. The women, 
 as we heard, said the ceremony had 
 been put off for a day ; it was on ac- 
 count of Thomas Kage. When sum- 
 moned to attend the funeral, he had 
 pleaded inability to absent himself from 
 London, and then there went up a more 
 peremptory request, urging his attend- 
 ance. 
 
 The family were assembled in the 
 library. Mrs. Canterbury young and 
 lovely, in her heavy black robes and a 
 dandified apology for a widow's cap, sat 
 with her boy on her knee ; Mrs. Kage, 
 a mass of jet, with a new spreading 
 black fan, was on a sofa near ; on the 
 other side were the two Miss Canter- 
 burys. Mrs. Rufort was unable to quit 
 .iiome : Mrs. Dunn was somewhere in 
 
 Germany. Thomas Kage shook hands 
 with Mrs. Canterbury in silence, and 
 simply bowed to the rest. He had ar- 
 rived onl} T an hour before the one fixed 
 for the funeral. 
 
 The weighty business for which they 
 were assembled was that of hearing the 
 will read. Perhaps no one present, save 
 the solicitor who had drawn it up, knew 
 what its provisions would really turn 
 out to be. 
 
 Mr. Norris proceeded to read it; and 
 the listeners found that rumor, for once 
 in a waj r , had been correct. The unjust 
 testament, formerly so much talked 
 about, had never been altered. Almost 
 all the property was bequeathed to the 
 new wife and child ; Mrs. Kage inherit- 
 ed ten thousand pounds, the four daugh- 
 ters of the deceased five thousand each. 
 
 " ' And I appoint Thomas Charles 
 Carr Kage the trustee for my son 
 Thomas until he shall attain his major- 
 ity, and I appoint him also sole execu- 
 tor.' " 
 
 The above sentence (legally confirm- 
 ed in other portions of the will), when 
 read out with emphasis by Mr. Norris, 
 was heard with surprise by several in 
 the room, and with the most intense 
 surprise by Thomas Kage himself. His 
 thin face flushed, and the thought that 
 crossed him was, "I shall refuse to act." 
 
 "Would anyone wish to look at the 
 will ? " inquired Mr. Norris breaking 
 the silence that fell upon the room. 
 
 " Oh dear, no," murmured Mrs. 
 Kage, in her simpering, affected voice, 
 as she fanned herself with the great 
 black fan, and sprinkled some essence 
 on the floor. " You can put it up, Mr. 
 Norris." 
 
 Perhaps the lawyer deemed that the 
 Honorable Mrs. Kage did not repre- 
 sent the interests of the whole company, 
 for he held it out, and glanced at Mr. 
 Rufort. But Mr. Rufort gave a bow 
 of denial. 
 
 " There is no more to be seen than 
 you have read, ISTorris, and our seeing it 
 would not alter it," observed the plain- 
 speaking Mr. Carlton. " My dears," he 
 added, walking up to the Miss Canter- 
 burys, " is it your wish to look at it ? " 
 
 " To what end ? — as you observe," 
 replied Miss Canterbury. " No." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," interrupted 
 Thomas Kage, apparently intending the 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 w 
 
 apology to be general, but speaking to 
 Mr. Norris. " How is it that I am ap- 
 pointed trustee and executor ? " 
 
 " I obeyed Mr. Canterbury's direc- 
 tions, sir ; I know no more," was the 
 answer. And Thomas Kage, who 
 would have liked to say two or three 
 things, thought better of it, and com- 
 pressed his lips to silence. 
 
 Mr. Rufort rose to leave. Mrs. 
 Kage, who seemed to be assuming a 
 good deal of authority, and to cloak it 
 under a more than customary display of 
 inertness, stretched out her fau and 
 tapped him. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Rufort, you are not 
 going ! We expect you to remain. 
 There's a cold collation laid in the din- 
 ing-room." 
 
 " Thank you. Mrs. Rufort's indispo- 
 sition obliges me to go home. — Olive, 
 shall I take charge of you and Milli- 
 ceut ? " he continued in a low tone to 
 Miss Canterbury. 
 
 Miss Canterbury's reply was to rise 
 and put her arm within his. "We will 
 also wish you good day, Mrs. Canter- 
 bury." 
 
 " Dear me, how very unsocial ! " broke 
 in Mrs. Kage, as she had recourse to 
 her smelling-salts. "We thought you 
 would all have sta} r ed with us, dearest 
 Miss Canterbury." 
 
 The young widow rose and spoke in 
 some hesitation. "Olive, I shall be 
 happy if you will remain. Do not bear 
 malice. This disposal of his property 
 was my husband's own act." 
 
 " Malice ! " returned Miss Canter- 
 bury, and her tone was certainly free 
 from it, " we do not bear any ; you are 
 mistaken if you think so. To-day is 
 not a day for the indulgence of malice, 
 Mrs. Canterbury." 
 
 " At least say farewell in cordiality." 
 
 Mrs. Canterbury put out her hand 
 and Olive took it. Olive then stooped 
 and kissed the child, her young half- 
 brother, a gentle little fellow, now two 
 years old. Whatever undue influence 
 had been at work to give him the for- 
 tune, part of which ought to have been 
 hers and her sisters', it was no doing of 
 the child's, and Olive Canterbury was 
 too just to visit it upon him. Millicent 
 also kissed him, and followed her sister 
 and Mr. Rufort from the room. 
 
 " And now PR go," cried Mr. Carl- 
 ton, " and I wisk'*you good-day, ladies. 
 
 And I wish you luck over your of- 
 fice, sir," he added in a marked manner 
 to Mr. Kage : " it is one I and my old 
 friend, Lord Rufort, scorned to under- 
 take. — Good-day, Norris." 
 
 Mr. Norris had been folding up the 
 will, and now laid it on the table. 
 "Sir," said he to Mr. Kage, "any in- 
 formation or assistance that you may re- 
 quire, I shall be ready to afford." And 
 again the words of rejection rose to 
 Thomas Kage's lips, and again he did 
 not speak them. 
 
 " The lawyer bowed himself out of 
 the room, and Mrs. Kage rose. The 
 affair had altogether gone off so much 
 more peaceably than she had antici- 
 pated, that, inwardly, she was in a glow 
 of congratulation. 
 
 " I feel inclined to retire and com- 
 pose myself for an hour. These gloomy 
 epochs in daily life try one's nerves dis- 
 tressingly ; it is a mercy they don't 
 come often. Of all ceremonies, funerals 
 are the worst for delicate susceptibilities, 
 
 and a will-reading Thomas, you sue, 
 
 now, why a second and more urgent 
 summons was despatched to you," Mrs. 
 Kage broke off her fanning and her 
 sentence to say. " I am sure you will 
 look well after my dear child's interests 
 and the little chickabiddy's." 
 
 The little chickabiddy had betaken 
 himself to the window, and stood on a 
 chair in his short black frock, looking 
 out. As Thomas Kage came back from 
 closing the door after the lady and her 
 fan, Mrs. Canterbury could but notice 
 the marked expression of severity on 
 his countenance. 
 
 " Thomas, you are angry ! What is 
 the matter ? " 
 
 "Allow me to put the question to 
 you, Mrs. Canterbury, that Mr. Norris 
 could not answer. Whose doing was it 
 to make me executor to this will ? " 
 
 " I think my husband was the first to 
 propose it : and I and mamma gladly 
 acquiesced. There is no one I can feel 
 so safe with as you." 
 
 " You ought to have inquired, first of 
 all, whether I was willing to act." 
 
 " Would you have refused ? " 
 
 "Yes. As others had already done." 
 
 " Others had not," she returned. 
 " There was only Mr. Carlton." 
 
 " I beg your pardon. There was 
 Lord Rufort." 
 
 " But Lord Rufort was an interested 
 
136 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 party. He wanted a lot of money left 
 to Jane. My r husband only asked those 
 two."' 
 
 " I wish he had asked me. I feel this 
 as a blow. T really do." 
 
 Mrs. Canterbury did not like the 
 tone. "You had 'better decline to act 
 now," she said in petulant resentment. 
 
 " I think I shall," was his unexpect- 
 ed answer. 
 
 " Thomas ! You do not care what 
 becomes of my interests ? " 
 
 "I am anxious for your best interests, 
 Caroline. But, ere consenting to take 
 part in a thing like this, a man should 
 sit down and count the cost." 
 
 " What cost ? " 
 
 " This will is one that will have cen- 
 sures cast upon it from far and wide. 
 The world will bitterly condemn it and 
 all who have part in it." 
 
 " We know what the world's scorn is 
 worth." 
 
 " Ay, Caroline ; but I spoke of the 
 scorn of good men. I, as your relative 
 and the sole executor of the will, can- 
 not hope to escape it ; complicity is the 
 1 ' a s t dark reproach that will be thrown 
 ai me. It has already begun : when 
 Miss Canterbury and her sister bowed 
 to me on quitting the room, and when 
 Mr. Carlton followed with his marked 
 words, I felt like a guiltj T accomplice, 
 conscious that I was appearing as such 
 to them." 
 
 " I remember, a long while ago, you 
 took their parts ! " 
 
 " Yes," he interrupted, " and the 
 conversation I then held with \ r ou ought 
 to have prevented my being thus drawn 
 in. Caroline, I said all to you then that 
 I thought I was justified in saying : I 
 besought you not to suffer so unjust a 
 will to stand ; not to deprive Mr. Can- 
 terbury's daughters of their rights. 
 Were the case mine, I would cut off my 
 right hand before it should so grasp the 
 propertj' of others." 
 
 Airs. Canterbury let fall some tears. 
 " My husband was a kind husband to me, 
 and I will not hear this reproach cast 
 upon his memory." 
 
 " I cast reproach on you, not on Mr. 
 Canterbury. He is gone. And were he 
 .not, were he sitting by your side now, I 
 would honestly aver before him that to 
 you reproach was due, rather than to him. 
 Caroline, is it possible you can fancy 
 
 the world does not see this transaction in 
 its true light? That Mr. Canterbury 
 was influenced to make this unjust will, 
 is palpable as are the stars in heaven. 
 The acting element may have been your 
 mother ; but your boasted neutrality was 
 equally culpable. He loved his daugh- 
 ters ; and by nature he was not an un- 
 just man." 
 
 Mrs. Canterbury wept in silence. 
 Though she had never loved her hus- 
 band, she felt natural grief at his death. 
 In this moment she was feeling it much, 
 and it was mixed up with a little self- 
 reproach and a great deal of vexation. 
 
 " Just tell me one thing," she sobbed 
 forth, as she drew her quiet little boy 
 from the window to her knee ; " is this a 
 fit theme for the very day that my hus- 
 band is put into his grave ?" 
 
 " Perhaps it is not," he returned, "but 
 the conversation arose with circum- 
 stances ; neither of us entered upon it 
 with premeditation. We will resume it 
 to-morrow, Caroline ; I will stay for it ; 
 and by that time I shall have reflected 
 whether or not I will act." 
 
 " No," dissented Mrs. Canterbury ; 
 " if you choose to take till to-morrow to 
 decide whether you will perforin the part 
 of' a friend to me and this fatherless babe, 
 you must do so ; but if you had more to 
 say on this point, say it now, for not an- 
 other word wdl I listen to again." 
 
 "Not now; yon have reminded me 
 that to-day should be sacred." 
 
 " Now or never," she impetuously 
 said ; "it shall be for the last time." 
 
 " Very well. My decision cannot be 
 given now; but I will say what I have 
 to say, and offer the advice I wish to of- 
 fer. Unpalatable though it may at first 
 sound, I beseech you, Caroline, to weigh 
 it well. It lies in j^our power to repair 
 the injustice of the will ; do so. At lea^t, 
 in a small degree; I fear it would be 
 useless for me, or anyone, to urge more. 
 Make over to the Miss Canterbury s a 
 sum which will secure to them the income 
 recently allowed to them by their father. 
 And should this little fellow ever be tak- 
 en from you," added Mr. Kage, la^yim;- 
 his hand upon the child's head, " divide 
 your fortune with them." 
 
 Mrs. Canterbury opened her e3 r es in 
 wide astonishment. Give over money 
 that would bring them in fifteen hundred 
 a-year ! — divide her substance with them 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 137 
 
 in the event of the child's death ! She 
 truly thought that Thomas Kage must 
 be a little mad to suggest it. 
 
 " Your ideas were alwaj's Utopian, 
 Thomas," she said, when a few almost 
 angry words had passed. 
 
 " The time may come when you will 
 see that it is what you ought to do," was 
 his calm answer. 
 
 At least Mrs. Canterbury could not see 
 it now. In her heart she was a miser, 
 loving money ; loving show, and all the 
 other good things that money can bring. 
 And she took refuge in a subterfuge. 
 
 " I would not so insult my husband's 
 memory as to render his acts null and 
 void. He apportioned his money as he 
 judged well, and I shall abide by the de- 
 cision." 
 
 " I will wish you good-bye for the 
 present then, Caroline." 
 
 She held out her hand to him, looking 
 almost beseechingly into his face. 
 
 " You will act, Thomas ? " 
 
 " When I have made up my mind you 
 shall know the result. I can scarcely 
 see which way my duty lies." 
 
 As Mr. Kage was turning out of the 
 park-gates into the high road, he came 
 suddenly upon a gentleman who seemed 
 to be looking about him with some curi- 
 osity ; at the fine large house, at the 
 magnificent old trees, at the deer that 
 liked to rub their antlers against the mas- 
 sive trunks. It was the stranger who 
 had talked to the gazing and gossiping 
 women earlier in the day. There ensued 
 a mutual recognition. 
 
 " Kage, it's never you ! " 
 
 " Captain Dawkes, 1 think. How are 
 you ? I supposed } 7 ou had sailed for In- 
 dia. The departure of your regiment 
 was announced some weeks ago." 
 
 " Captain Dawkes no longer, unless by 
 courtesy ; I have sold out. Which wa} r 
 are you walking ? This ? I'll turn with 
 you ; all ways are the same to me, for I 
 am an idle man just now, and a horribly 
 bored one." 
 
 He put his arm uninvited within that 
 of Mr. Kage, and thej r went onwards. 
 
 " I leave for London to-night," remark- 
 ed Mr. Kage. " Are you making a stay 
 here ? " 
 
 " The Fates know. Kage, you are a 
 good fellow. I remember that, of old ; 
 don't proclaim to everybody j'ou meet in 
 London that you have seen me here. I 
 
 am in a mess again, and am keeping out 
 of the reach of sheriffs' officers." 
 
 " The old story," said Mr. Kage pleas- 
 antly. " Be at ease. I will forget that 
 I have seen you." 
 
 " There's a solitary public-house in a 
 hamlet abo.ut a mile and a half from this, 
 and I've taken up my quarters at it, tell- 
 ing the people I'm here for fishing. I 
 got to it the night before last." 
 
 "From London ? " 
 
 " London has not seen me this many a 
 week past. From meandering about from 
 one rural village to another, like a wan- 
 dering ghost, I wish I was a ghost some- 
 times." 
 
 " Is Mrs. G-arston still inexorable ? " 
 
 " I suppose you know whether she is 
 or not better than I do," retorted Cap- 
 tain Dawkes. "You see her often; J, 
 never." 
 
 " I assure you I know nothing of your 
 affairs. As a proof it, I imagined you 
 had sailed with the regiment. It must 
 be quite a twelvemonth now since Mrs. 
 Garston has allowed me to mention your 
 name. She told me she would throw her 
 stick at my head if I ever breathed it 
 again ; and I think she meant it." 
 
 " Dreadful old tyrant ! " muttered the 
 ex-captain. 
 
 Fate and fortune had been playing fast 
 and loose with Barnaby Dawkes since he 
 had last the pleasure of seeing him. 
 Walter Annesley recovered, instead of 
 dying, and Belle lost the promotion in- 
 tended for her by the gallant Captain. 
 He continued to whisper love to her, to 
 make the sunshine of her existence, and 
 the girl was too happy even to think of 
 anything more. The next turn in his 
 fortune was a legacy inherited by Kezi- 
 ah. Of course Barnaby fingered the 
 whole of it ; it relieved him from some of 
 his worst embarrassments, and sent him 
 back to his duty in Ireland. More debts 
 were made then — it really seemed a 
 mania with Captain Dawkes to make 
 them, as if he were utterly unable to 
 keep straight — and the old ones, unset- 
 tled yet, began to press heavily on him. 
 No resource remained but selling his com- 
 mission, unless Mrs. Garston would relent. 
 Over to London he came again, and tried 
 her. Keziah tried her. No. The best 
 thing for Barby would be to sell out, was 
 all the answer she gave. And Barby did. 
 A little while of ease and of extrava- 
 
138 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 gance, and of mailing sweet love again 
 to Belle Annesley, and then inor.e debts 
 cropped up. Captain Dawkes, quite on 
 his beam-ends now, had to disappear 
 from the busy world, and hide himself in 
 romote districts. It was a strange chance 
 that brought him to Chilling. 
 
 "What are you doing in this part of 
 the country, Kage ? " 
 
 " I came to attend Mr. Canterbury's 
 funeral. Have you seen much of the 
 scenery about here ? It is very beauti- 
 ful." 
 
 "What do I care for scenery ? If it 
 showed gold-mines, I might look at it. 
 People are saying his will is an unjust 
 one." 
 
 " Very unjust," replied Thomas Kage ; 
 " Mr. Canterbury has left his large for- 
 tune to his wife and son, to the exclusion 
 of his daughters. The good old notions 
 of right and wrong seem to be out of 
 fashion nowadays." 
 
 " Completely so," assented Mr. 
 Dawkes. " Witness the conduct of that 
 selfish old party in Loudon next door to 
 
 you." 
 
 Thomas Kage smiled. 
 
 " I don't know the Canterburys, for 
 my part," observed' Captain Dawkes; 
 " it's all the same to me how the money's 
 lef . Didn't know their place was in 
 these parts until to-day. She is uncom- 
 monly charming, they say." 
 
 He alluded to Mrs. Canterbury. 
 Thomas Kage did not encourage the 
 conversation, and turned off to pay a 
 visit at the Rectory, wishing his com- 
 panion good-day. But when he came 
 out again, there stood Captain Dawkes, 
 waiting for another parting word. 
 
 " Kage, could you do a fellow a ser- 
 vice r " 
 
 f What is it ? " 
 
 " Lend me ten pounds. I'm regular- 
 ly down in the world, and it will be an 
 act of charity." 
 
 " I have nothing like so much money 
 with me." replied Mr. Kage. " And I 
 must keep something for my fare up." 
 
 Captain Dawkes bit his lips. 
 
 " Couldn't you borrow from some of 
 the rich people down here ? " 
 
 " No, Dawkes, I cannot do that. I 
 
 • will see wdiat I can lend you," he added, 
 
 taking out his purse. " Five, six, and 
 
 some silver. I can let you have four 
 
 pounds, if it will be of any use." 
 
 " Make it five, Kage, make it five ; you 
 don't know how desperately I require 
 it." 
 
 The tone was one of painful entreaty ; 
 and Thomas Kage, after a moment's hes- 
 itation, put five sovereigns in his hand. 
 It would entail his getting back to Lon- 
 don in the cheapest manner ; but he was 
 one who rather searched, than not, to 
 make sacrifices for others. It was all 
 one to Barnaby Dawkes ; provided he 
 got the money, Kage might take the 
 stoker's place on the engine, and wel- 
 come. 
 
 " Try and say a good word for me with 
 that ancient deaf mummy, Kage ! She'll 
 repay you the five pounds," continued 
 the Captain with cool assurance. u Tell 
 her you let me have it to keep me out of 
 the slough of despond in the shape of 
 the nearest pool." 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 MORE VIGOROUS THAN EVER. 
 
 In the dining-room at Mrs. Garston's, 
 very much as we once saw them before, 
 sat that ancient lady and Keziah Dawkes. 
 
 About nine months before, Miss 
 Dawkes had rather mysteriously disap- 
 peared from London. Mysteriously, be- 
 cause she never said a word of her in- 
 tention to go ; neither did she disclose 
 the place she might happen to be bound 
 for. Since then, Mrs. Garston had re- 
 ceived a letter from her occasionally, in 
 which she stated she was travelling from 
 place to place in search of health. The 
 shrewd old lady knew that there was 
 some private motive in all this, just as 
 surely as though Keziah had told her ; 
 and she suspected it had reference to 
 Barnaby ; for Captain Dawkes had dis- 
 appeared from London even longer ago 
 than Keziah, and was entirely a myth. 
 Time rolls on in its course in spite of us. 
 Nearly twelve months had elapsed since 
 the death of George Canterbury, and 
 autumn tints were stealing again into 
 the foliage. 
 
 Mrs. Garston decidedly grew younger; 
 she was more vigorous in look and 
 tongue and temper. The past twelve 
 months seemed only to have renewed 
 her strength. It had passed in an un- 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 133 
 
 usually peaceful manner, for neither Cap- 
 tain Dawkes nor Keziah came forth to 
 persecute her on the score of his needs. 
 Eor recreation, she had Thomas Kage, 
 who passed most of his evenings with 
 her, except when he was, on circuit, and 
 diligently waited on her, and read the 
 news to her in the loudest tone he could 
 command, and gave her his arm twice 
 on a Sunday from the carriage-door to 
 her pew in church — for she went to ser- 
 vice twice always, in spite of her eighty 
 years — and was to her as a son. 
 
 But one day, when Mrs. Garston was 
 least expecting it or thinking of it, Miss 
 Dawkes walked into her dining-room. 
 The .old lady sat there in the morning, 
 beeause she got the sunshine. 
 
 There ensued a slight explanation from 
 Keziah, simply to the effect that she had 
 come back to London again, most likely 
 for good, and then a passage-at-arms. 
 The old lady sat upright, keen-eyed, de- 
 liberately inaccessible. 
 
 " Where's the use of your beating 
 about the bush, Keziah? What is it to 
 me that your old lodgings in the street 
 in Pimlico were let, and you've had to 
 take up with another street ? Tell out 
 the truth — that you have only come here 
 to ask for money." 
 
 " I have not asked you for any for a 
 long while, Aunt Garston." 
 
 Mrs. Garston brought down her stick 
 vehemently. " Don't beat about the 
 bush, I tell you. Have you come for 
 mone} r for Barby ? " 
 
 " I have, aunt ; and I hope you will 
 hear me, for Barnaby's sake." 
 
 Straining all her faculties to listen, the 
 dame caught the sense of the words. 
 Keziah's belief was, that she heard better 
 than before, and she mentally asked her- 
 self the question, " Was the ancient 
 creature to go on living forever ? " 
 
 "Where have you been hiding your- 
 self, Keziah ? " 
 
 " I have been staying in the country, 
 Aunt Garston. I actually went ha} r mak- 
 ing, do you know ? " 
 
 Four or five irritable nods. 
 " Look here, Keziah Dawkes : I 
 know just as well as you can tell me 
 that you have been in hiding with Bar- 
 by — keeping guard over him, maybe, and 
 fencing him in from the consequences of 
 his debts. But I choose to be told. 
 You disclose to me all about him — where 
 
 you've both been, and what you've been 
 doing." 
 
 " Indeed, aunt, there's nothing partic- 
 ular to disclose." 
 
 " Very well," said the old lady, firm- 
 ly and coldly ; " we'll let it go so, if you 
 please, Keziah ; but not another single 
 syllable will I hear of what you've come 
 to sa}\" 
 
 Keziah knew the tone of old; knew 
 that the resolution thus expressed could 
 never be broken. In the silence that 
 ensued, she asked herself whether it 
 might not be better to tell — at least in 
 part. Barnabj' had strictty forbidden 
 her to say where he was, or what he was 
 doing ; but she thought she could cook 
 up the history, and deprive it of harm. 
 If you, good reader, object to the word 
 " cook " in such a matter, I can only say 
 it was the one that ran through Miss 
 Dawkes's mind. 
 
 " I will tell 3 r ou, aunt," she said with 
 well-acted frankness, as she crossed the 
 hearth-rug, and ventured to place her 
 graj T bonnet in close proximity to the 
 least deaf ear. " If we have kept our 
 movements from you, it was only to 
 spare you pain." 
 
 Mrs. Garston gave a derisive grunt, 
 and disposed herself to listen to the tale, 
 which she interrupted perpetually. 
 
 " When Barnaby quitted London some 
 months ago, Aunt Garston — " 
 
 " It's twelve months, if it's a day." 
 
 " Twelve months ago, he wandered 
 about the country on foot, to save ex- 
 pense. But even that he found beyond 
 his means, for roadside inns are expen- 
 sive for a slender pocket — " 
 
 " That's according to what he ordered 
 in them, Keziah." 
 
 " And at last he took a little tiny cot- 
 tage near to a trout-stream, and there 
 settled down, passing his time catching 
 the fish, which he lived upon." 
 
 " Did he ? Don't tell me ! " 
 
 " But it was verj r dull for him ; and 
 the rent of even that poor little place 
 was more than he could afford. He 
 wrote to me, and asked me if I would go 
 down and join my income to his." 
 
 " What is his ? " 
 
 " Ah, you may well ask it, Aunt Gars- 
 ton ! It's nothing ; for what he had 
 been living upon was only a small rem- 
 nant left after paying his creditors — a 
 few pounds saved from the wreck." 
 
140 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 " Paying his creditors ! I didn't 
 know they were paid." 
 
 " Some were, aunt." 
 
 " 0, some ! Go on." 
 
 "And I answered his appeal by going 
 down ; and we have been doing our best 
 to exist upon my poor pittance, without 
 troubling others to help us. But living 
 is expensive everywhere, especially for a 
 gentleman ; and I — I, determined not to 
 get into debt, forestalled my own income ! 
 Aunt Garston, for some years to come, I 
 shall scarcely receive what will keep me 
 in bread-and-butter. I mean it liter- 
 ally." 
 
 That this was true — the forestalling of 
 her income — the pain in her countenance 
 betrayed : and Mrs. Garston saw it. 
 
 " More idiot you, Keziah ! Barnaby 
 won't thank you for it." 
 
 "Well, the money I borrowed on my 
 income is gone, aunt : and it is hard to 
 starve. It is ver}' hard to see Mm 
 starve. I have come up to ask you to 
 help us." 
 
 In the main, the above was all correct ; 
 but had Mrs. Garston been able to take 
 a bird's-eye view of the pretty cottage 
 thuis inhabited, and the luxurious style 
 kept up in it in a small way, she had 
 defined Keziah a good story-teller. 
 
 ' : 'And pray why have you kept your 
 residence there a secret ? " 
 
 Ah, why ! It was not Keziah's pleas- 
 ure to tell. She gave as an excuse 
 (partly true, again) what she would far 
 rather have kept out of view. 
 
 " On account of Barnaby's creditors, 
 aunt ; it would not do for them to sus- 
 pect where he was." 
 
 " And where was that ? " 
 
 " Oh, we went about from place to 
 place," answered Keziah carelessly. 
 
 "Did the cottage you were starving 
 in go about with you ? " was the sharp 
 question that ensued. 
 
 It was of no use attempting to deceive 
 Mrs. Garston. Keziah felt that she 
 could have struck the keen gray eyes, 
 that were looking her through and 
 through. 
 
 " I only mean we went sometimes, 
 aunt." Which was untrue, for they 
 never had gone. 
 
 " Where is the cottage ? How many 
 more times am I to he put off?" 
 
 u It is in Wales " And Miss Dawkes 
 spoke a very unpronounceable name. 
 
 " What ? Can't you speak louder ? " 
 shrieked the old lady, supposing the de- 
 fect lay in her hearing. 
 
 "It's impossible to pronounce it, aunt, 
 plainer than that. Barnaby and I 
 never tried to. It is in a remote district 
 of Wales ; he chose it because of the 
 cheapness." 
 
 " Is he there still ? " asked Mrs. Gars- 
 ton, satisfied in a tart way with the ex- 
 planation, and deceived for once. 
 
 "Yes, aunt, he is there, waiting until 
 I can send him some relief. Aunt, 
 dear aunt, you'll not refuse it ! I 
 don't petition for a large sum — just a 
 hundred pounds, to enable him to go 
 on for another year." 
 
 " Are you going back to him ? " 
 
 "Not just yet. What do you say, 
 aunt ? " 
 
 "That I'll not give you a farthing for 
 him." 
 
 Keziah's hard face took a tinge as 
 green as her unbecoming bonnet-strings. 
 
 " Aunt ! " 
 
 " Not a farthing, Keziah Dawkes. If 
 Barby chooses to come to town and see 
 me, he'll hear a bit of my mind, and I'll 
 then tell him what I will do and what I 
 won't." 
 
 " But he could not come to town. His 
 creditors might see him." 
 
 " Be you very sure of one thing, Mis- 
 tress Keziah : if Barby wanted to run 
 up for his own pleasure, it is not fear of 
 his creditors would stop him : he'd con- 
 trive to dodge them. As you please. 
 If he comes, and I see my way clear to 
 give him a trifle, I'll do it ; but he'll not 
 get a brass sixpence sent to him." 
 
 And with that Keziah was forced to be 
 content, for there might be no appeal 
 from these stern decisions. She took 
 luncheon, and sat with Mrs. Garston for 
 the afternoon, but would not stay to dine, 
 preferring to depart, that she might 
 write a private letter to Barbv. 
 
 "Why, child! Is it you f" 
 
 A fairy-faced girl, with blue eyes and 
 gleaming hair, came right into Keziah's 
 way as she was passing through Mrs. 
 Garston's gate. It was Belle Annesley, 
 but the face appeared to be a little thin 
 and worn. 
 
 " Have you been ill, Belle ? You look 
 delicate." 
 
 Not at first did Keziah get any an- 
 swer. The long absence of Captain 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S W I L L 
 
 141 
 
 Dawkes from London, the dearth of news 
 from him, the uncertainty of when they 
 should be meeting again, had been wear- 
 ing out this poor girl's heart, if not her 
 frame. In the revulsion of joy at meet- 
 ing Keziah, breath and speech alike mo- 
 mentarily left her. 
 
 " Miss Dawkes ! I am so glad to 
 see you ! " 
 
 Knowing what Keziah knew of Bar- 
 naby's former love — or make-believe 
 love — for this young girl, — knowing 
 what she knew of his present hopeful 
 projects, she deemed it well, now that 
 the first surprise had passed, to be 
 rather chillingly reserved. 
 
 " Have you come back for good, Miss 
 Dawkes ? " 
 " Probably." 
 
 " Is — your — brother quite well ? " 
 stammered Belle, her face flushing pain- 
 fully. 
 
 " I believe so. He was the last time 
 I heard from him." 
 
 " Where is he ? " Belle asked in her 
 desperate courage. 
 
 " My dear Miss Annesley, he is here 
 and there and everywhere. Captain 
 Dawkes was never famous for the cer- 
 tainty of his movements, as you perhaps 
 remember. I do not suppose London 
 will ever see him again. Good-bye; I 
 stayed too long with Mrs. Garston, and 
 am in a hurry." 
 
 She sailed swiftly away ; and Belle 
 Annesley drew aside from the garden- 
 path and put her cheek, fading to white- 
 ness, against the trunk of one of the 
 clustering trees. The one cruel sen- 
 tence, " 1 do not suppose London will 
 ever see him again," seemed to strike 
 the life from her heart. All this while, 
 months and months now, she had, so to 
 say, lived on the remembrance of Bar- 
 naby Dawkes. Hers was no transient 
 love ; the capability to feel the passion 
 ia all its depths lay within her, and Cap- 
 tain Dawkes had done his best to call 
 it forth. If it suited him to propose 
 marriage to her — that is, to patch up 
 his penniless state with the moderate 
 means that would be hers — well and 
 good ; if it suited him to desert her — 
 to pass off all that had passed, his love 
 whispers and love vows, as mere pastime 
 — well and good also. The girl and 
 her feelings went for absolutely nothing 
 in the estimation of Barnaby Dawkes, 
 
 ex-officer and gentleman. There are 
 very many more men besides him to 
 whom a girl's heart seems but a worth- 
 less plaything. 
 
 He was killing time elsewhere, ab- 
 sorbed in other plans and prospects. 
 She lived on the love of the past. It 
 served her still ; nothing else in exist- 
 ence was half so sweet ; she fondly 
 hoped it would serve her, realised, in 
 the future. For this gallant captain 
 and honorable man contrived to let 
 Belle think he was still her slave — hers 
 only, and forever. It might be well 
 (the Captain mentally argued, looking 
 ahead) to provide against contingencies ; 
 to have the young girl and her three 
 hundred a-year to fall back upon if 
 grander dreams failed. Two or three 
 letters, carefully worded and posted 
 from some strangely out-of-the way 
 places, ( had found their course to her, 
 enjoining her not to forget him. Belle 
 only too literally carried out the injunc- 
 tion. Any honorable man would have 
 deemed himself as irrevocably bound to 
 Belle Annesley as though their engage- 
 ment had been ratified by all the for- 
 malities that attend a betrothal in the 
 Vaterland ; and Belle regarded it as 
 such. Captain Dawkes simply intend- 
 ed to play fast and loose, as circumstan- 
 ces and self-interest dictated. 
 
 But the long delay, the absence of all 
 certain news, perhaps some subtle in- 
 stinct that on occasion mercifully pre- 
 cedes an avalanche of misery, had been 
 making havoc with Belle's secret heart. 
 Energy had gone; lively expectation 
 had gone ; and hope only broke out by 
 fits and starts. All she thought was, 
 that his affairs had fallen into a hope- 
 less state, and she feared they might 
 never be redeemed to allow of his com- 
 ing out of exile to marry her. Ah, yes, 
 the depressing words of Miss Dawkes 
 were needlessly cruel ; and she felt them 
 so as she leaned for support against the 
 tree. 
 
 "Why, Belle! What is it, my 
 dear ? " 
 
 It was Thomas Kage : who had come in 
 at the gate and caught a view of her ere 
 she was aware any one was there: the poor 
 pale cheek against the tree, the damp 
 brow T , the hopeless wretchedness of the 
 whole countenance, the listless hands 
 hanging down. Thomas Kage had 
 
142 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 nursed her on his knee when she was a 
 child ; he regarded her as such still, and 
 was apt to address her like a tender 
 elder brother. With a start she leaped 
 away and stood in the path, her face 
 crimson, stammering some words of 
 ready excuse. 
 
 But Thomas Kage was not to be de- 
 ceived. The sight of Keziah, to whom 
 he had spoken in passing, enlightened 
 him. There were two people in the 
 world who had not been wholly blind to 
 Captain Dawkes's love-making — Sarah 
 Annesley, now the wife of Richard 
 Dunn, and Mr. Kage ; and both had 
 watched the effect that hope deferred 
 was taking on that young heart. 
 
 " I — I was going in to say how d'ye 
 do to Mrs. Garston," she spoke hastily. 
 "But I don't think I'll go now; it is 
 late." 
 
 She was passing onwards to the gate, 
 but he caught her hand. Not thus 
 would he let her escape, if he could say 
 only'half a word of comfort. 
 
 " Treat me as your elder brother, 
 Belle. I'm sure I might be your father, 
 so far as feelings go, for in them I am 
 old. Tell me what your trouble is." 
 
 " I — have no trouble," she answered 
 in a flutter. 
 
 He had her hand in his, gazing on 
 her downcast face and its trembling 
 emotion. It was too much perhaps to 
 expect her to speak openly to him, and 
 yet he wished she would. For Mr. 
 Kage had scanty confidence in Barnaby 
 Dawkes, and it might be as well that 
 this child should not go drifting blindly 
 on without a rudder. 
 
 " Did Miss Dawkes give you any 
 news of her brother ? " 
 
 "No. I think she does not know 
 where he is. She says he will not come 
 back for a long while, if ever." 
 
 " Were I a young lady, Belle, I 
 should call that good news," he mean- 
 ingly said. 
 
 " You do not like Captain Dawkes, 
 Mr. Kacre ; I have known that before," 
 spoke Belle ; and her hearer could not 
 be deaf to the tone of resentment the 
 voice took. 
 
 " You are wrong, my dear. Person- 
 ally, I neither like nor dislike Captain 
 Dawkes. I think this of him — that he 
 is not worth the love of an honest girl." 
 
 " Why is he not ? " — and the heaving 
 chest proved what the question cost. 
 
 " He has no stability. And the love, 
 instead of finding him a sure anchor, 
 might get thrown back to its giver. 1 
 should forget Captain Dawkes, Belle ; 
 put him out of my memory altogether." 
 
 Belle burst into a forced laugh. 
 
 " This is all metaphor," she said, pass- 
 ing him ; " we are forgetting common 
 sense. I must wish you good-bye 
 mamma will wonder what is keepii.* 
 me." 
 
 " Is your mamma better? " 
 
 M She is better one hour and worse 
 the next. I shall say Thomas Kage in- 
 quired after her." 
 
 He stood a moment watching her flit- 
 ting footsteps, and that peculiar and fre- 
 quent action of hers — the drawing of her 
 mantle closer to her chest. It was as if 
 she always felt cold there. 
 
 Mrs. Garston, stick in hand, was stand- 
 ing at her drawing-room window when 
 he entered. She turned her head, speak- 
 ing sharpty. 
 
 " Who was that you had got in my 
 garden ? Belle Annesley ? " 
 
 " Yes," he replied, thinking how keen 
 the old eyes still were. " She was com- 
 ing in to see you, but seemed to think it 
 rather too late." 
 
 " What is the matter with that child, 
 Thomas Kage ? " 
 
 "The matter?" 
 
 " Now don't you pick up my words as 
 if you were the parish echo. 1 can tell, 
 if you can't, — she's pining after that 
 man. Barhy Dawkes." 
 
 Had Mrs. Garston gravely asserted 
 Miss Belle was pining after the man in 
 the moon, he could not have been more 
 surprised. How had she known it? A 
 thought flashed over him that Mrs. Rich- 
 ard Dunn must have let a word drop, 
 perhaps inadvertently. 
 
 " She has got the yellow sickness fret- 
 ting after that flashy gentleman and his 
 shiny whiskers. You need not stare, 
 Thomas Kage ; that's what we used to call 
 it in my young 1 days, when a girl took a 
 false man into her heart and couldn't put 
 him out of it again. What business had 
 Barhy Dawkes to make love to the 
 girl?" 
 
 As Mr. Kage could not say, he remain- 
 ed silent. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 143 
 
 " There are some fellows who would 
 make love to a pump-handle. You may 
 thank your stars that you are not one, 
 for trouble mostly comes of it. Though 
 you were touched once, Thomas Kage." 
 
 " I, ma'am ! Touched ! " 
 
 " Yes ; you. After that heartless 
 Kage girl, who went out and made her- 
 self an old man's wife. Barby's a sol- 
 dier, and has a soldier's impudence ; but 
 he might have spared a poor weak child 
 like Belle Annesley." 
 
 Even at that distance of time the red 
 color flushed the brow of Thomas Kage 
 at this abrupt allusion to his once dear- 
 est and most secret feelings. He rejoin- 
 ed carelessly ; anything that came upper- 
 most. 
 
 " I met Miss Dawkes as I came in. 
 She had been to see you." 
 
 " She had been to beg of me. It's the 
 old story over again, Thomas ; Barby's 
 needs and Barby's debts. It will never 
 he anything else while his life shall last." 
 
 " Do you know where he is now ? 
 Abroad, I suppose." 
 
 " He is at some place with a crack-jaw 
 name. Keziah has got her answer. If 
 Barby chooses to come up, he shall hear 
 once for all what I mean to do for him. 
 And he'll be fit to eat his fingers when 
 he finds I have chosen another heir. 
 And that's yourself, Thomas." 
 
 He did not appear to understand her. 
 
 " Myself ! For what, ma'am ? " 
 
 " For what ? For that. The greater 
 portion of my money will descend to 
 you." 
 
 For a minute or two he seemed to he 
 unable to take in the sense of the words. 
 And then his whole face flushed with a 
 kind of fear ; his hands were lifted as if 
 to ward off an evil. 
 
 "Never, never; Mrs. Garston, this 
 must not be," he cried in deep emotion. 
 " Leave your money, I pray you, to any- 
 one rather than to me." 
 
 " What ! " shrieked Mrs. Garston. 
 
 " I beg your pardon for my seeming 
 ingratitude ; I thank you truly for your 
 good intention. But I could not take 
 the money. I have no right to it, and 
 would not inherit it." 
 
 They stood glaring on each other ; at 
 least that expression might be applied to 
 the angry stare in her wide-open steel- 
 gray eyes. His were as honest and good 
 
 as ever, but unmistakably in earnest. 
 She, in her pearl-gray satin dress and 
 ruffles of point lace, was as stately and 
 stern and grand a dame as ever painter 
 depicted upon canvas. 
 
 " I wonder what your mother would 
 say to hear you, Thomas Kage." 
 
 " Were my mother to hear me — and 
 perhaps she can," he reverently added, — 
 " I think that she would approve of all 
 I say. Dear, dear Mrs. Garston, believe 
 that I am truly grateful, but you must 
 not make me the heir to your wealth." 
 
 "Has it never occurred to you that I 
 might make you the heir ? " 
 
 "No, never. I think — I almost think 
 that if it had I should set conventional- 
 ity at defiance and spoken first, telling 
 you that it must not be." 
 
 " What is your objection ? " 
 
 "That I have no right to it. Were 
 you to-leave me your money, and I could 
 ever bring myself to enjoy it, I should 
 feel always as though I were a thief — a 
 robber of Barnaby Dawkes." 
 
 " Barnaby Dawkes will not get it." 
 
 "You have other relatives. I am not 
 one. I have no right to a shilling of it. 
 And I think money should not be divert- 
 ed from its legitimate course without 
 grave cause ; but I hope } r ou will forgive 
 me for saying so. During this past 
 twelve month of my executorship to Mr. 
 Canterbury's will, the. papers have never 
 been in my hand but the injustice of that 
 will has struck upon me with fresh pain. 
 I should not like to be made a second 
 example of it." 
 
 " Look you well, Thomas Kage : if I 
 take you at your word now, I take it for 
 good and aye. Mind you that." 
 
 " Indeed I hope and expect it is what 
 you will do. My dear mother did not 
 pray for wealth for me," he added in a 
 half-whisper, an earnest radiance in his 
 dark eyes ; " least of all wealth to which 
 I had no right : rather than that, pov- 
 erty. God has given me health and 
 strength and brains to earn my own liv- 
 ing, dear Mrs. Garston, and I should pre- 
 fer to do it." 
 
 '* Listen to a word first. I — " 
 
 "Dinner is served, madam," interpos- 
 ed the footman, opening the door with a 
 swing. 
 
 Down came Mrs. Garston's stick in 
 anger ; she nearly threw it at him. 
 
144 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 " Dinner may wait," she sharply said ; 
 and the man shut the door again. 
 
 " Are you listening to me, Thomas 
 Kage ? " 
 
 " Indeed I am." 
 
 "Very well. You have just said, per- 
 haps your mother can hear us, — and I 
 don't know whether such a thought 
 comes from heaven, or whether it doesn't, 
 — hut at least, in the teeth of it, I'd not 
 say aught but what's true as heaven's 
 Gospel. Whoever may inherit the bulk 
 of my fortune, Bamaby Daickes will 
 not. Neither will any other relative I 
 may possess in the world. This decision 
 I shall never revoke. If you refuse it, 
 it will go to strangers. Now, then, consid- 
 er. Take your time before you answer." 
 
 " I could not answer differently if I 
 considered forever," he gently answered. 
 " Thank you very truly ; but it must be 
 as I say." 
 
 Possibly the gentleness disarmed her 
 wrath. The stick was held quietly, and 
 she put her hand on his arm to go in to 
 dinner. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A PAINFUL INTERVIEW. 
 
 The twelvemonth went by, and 
 Thomas Kage was ready to resign his 
 executorship : some law details had thus 
 protracted the settlement. The deed of 
 release was forwarded for Mrs. Canter- 
 bury and the other parties to sign, and 
 Mr. Kage also left London for the Rock : 
 there was no legal necessity for his pre- 
 sence there, but he chose to spare the 
 time for the journey. The railway was 
 now extended to within two miles of the 
 Rock ; and an omnibus, as Mr. Kage 
 was informed, plied between the termi- 
 nus and Chilling. He was hastening to 
 luok for the conveyance when he ran 
 across Mr. Carlton. That gentleman 
 had long been disabused of his resent- 
 ment against Mr. Kage on the subject 
 of the executorship ; for the lawyer, 
 Norris, told him how craftily the appoint- 
 ment had been made. 
 
 " Don't get into that jolting omnibus," 
 cried the warm-hearted squire ; " let me 
 drive you in my pony-gig ; there's room 
 for you and your portmanteau too. I 
 
 came to look after a parcel of books, and 
 it has not arrived." 
 
 They were soon bowling along the 
 road, Mr. Cai'lton full of gossip, as he 
 loved to be. In relating some news 
 he . mentioned the name of Captain 
 Dawkes. 
 
 " Captain Dawkes ! " exclaimed Mr. 
 Kage. "What! is he here?" 
 
 And Mr. Kage found, to his very great 
 surprise, that Captain Dawkes was not 
 only there at present, but had been there 
 ever since, or nearly ever since, his first 
 appearance in the place twelve months 
 before. Just for a few moments he could 
 scarcely believe it : that Captain 
 Dawkes should remain at Chilling had 
 never crossed the mind of Thomas Kage. 
 A certain five-pound note, borrowed, had 
 been intended to take him to some re- 
 mote fishing-town on the W T elsh coast ; 
 at least, the Captain had said so. 
 
 " Do you know him ? " questioned 
 Mr. Carlton. 
 
 " A little. What is he doing here ? " 
 
 " Fishing and sporting, he says. He 
 does fish ; but as to being a sportsman, 
 why he is the greatest muff in the field 
 you ever saw. The fact is, he is fonder 
 of indoor sports than outdoor ones," con- 
 tinued Mr. Carlton significantly. "I 
 fancy he is likely to become a relation of 
 yours." 
 
 " A relation of mine ! In what way ? " 
 
 "Rumor goes that he will marry Mrs. 
 Canterbury." 
 
 "Ridiculous!" involuntarily burst 
 from Thomas Kage. 
 
 " I suppose she does not think so. 
 He is a good-looking man, very ; and is 
 heir to a large fortune, they say." 
 
 "Who says it?" quietiy asked Mr. 
 Kage. 
 
 " Who ? I don't know. Every- 
 body ; and he says it himself." 
 
 " How has he become intimate with 
 Mrs. Canterbury ? " 
 
 " Through living in the neighborhood. 
 He has been here a long while : ever 
 since Mr. Canterbury's death, it seems 
 to me." 
 
 " How and where does he live ? " 
 questioned Mr. Kage, who appeared to 
 be absorbed, and not pleasantly, in what 
 he heard. 
 
 " Pirst of all, he was at the inn, and 
 then he removed to a little furnished 
 box there was to let, and had his sister 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 145 
 
 down. He took it from mouth to 
 month at starting, but now he seems to 
 have it altogether." 
 
 " And is intimate, you say, at Mrs. 
 Canterbury's ? " 
 
 " Uncommonly intimate," was the an- 
 swer of Mr. Carlton, who relished a disli 
 of gossip more than anything. " Is at 
 the Rock every da} r of his life. Folks 
 say that Mrs. Kage went up there, and 
 took her daughter to task about it ; but 
 Mrs. Canterbury is her own mistress, 
 and will do as she likes." 
 
 " But surely Mrs. Kage is living at 
 the Rock ? " 
 
 " Not she." 
 
 " It was decided that she should, as 
 Caro — as her daughter is so young." 
 
 " Ay, there was some such arrange- 
 ment made, I remember. Mrs. Kage 
 fished for it and got it. But it did not 
 last long, — nobody thought it would, — 
 and she went back to her own home at 
 the cottage. Mrs. Kage assumed too 
 much domestic control, and the young 
 mistress of the Rock would not put up 
 with it. Mrs. Canterbury visits a great 
 deal, and is extremely popular in the 
 county." 
 
 " In spite of the unjust will." 
 
 " She and Mrs. Kage got a great deal 
 of blame at the time, but people seem to 
 have forgotten it now." 
 
 "Ay," mused Thomas Kage, "time 
 is the great obliterator of human actions, 
 whether they be evil or good." 
 
 He fell into a reverie as he spoke, and 
 Mr. Carlton found he had been talking to 
 himself; which was what he liked. The 
 hint just given troubled Mr. Kage, in 
 spite of its ntter improbability. Barnaby 
 Dawkes with his debts and his ill-living, 
 and sweet Caroline Canterbury with 
 her marvellous wealth ! The thing was 
 utterly absurd, painfully incongruous ; 
 but, nevertheless, Thomas Kage would 
 have given a great deal to be made sure 
 that nothing was in it, or ever would be. 
 
 How was it, he wondered, that he had 
 not heard until now of this lengthy so- 
 journ of the ex-captain's at Chilling? 
 His own correspondence with the place 
 had been confined to a few business let- 
 ters exchanged with the lawyer, Norris; 
 for Mrs. Canterbury seemed to have 
 taken umbrage at something or other on 
 the day of the funeral, and had never 
 written him one. Still, he thought he 
 9 
 
 might have heard bits of gossip through 
 Sarah Annesley, now Mrs. Richard 
 Dunn. But Mrs. Duun's chief friends, 
 the Canterbury family, were all in Ger- 
 many. Mrs. Rufort's health necessita- 
 ted a change, her condition gave great 
 anxiety to her husband and sisters ; and 
 Mr. Rufort got leave from the bishop of 
 the diocese to substitute a clergyman in 
 his place for twelve months ; so that 
 from them Sarah Dunn could hear no 
 home news. Another circumstance, not 
 explained to Mr. Kage until long after, 
 had also tended to keep the fact of Cap- 
 tain Dawkes's residence there a secret 
 from London ears. At first, he had been 
 called Mr. Barnaby. That he had, in 
 his desire for privacy, given this name, 
 was more than probable : he said the 
 people at the inn had taken it up from 
 seeing it on a letter, and assumed it to 
 be his surname. The public called him 
 "Mr. Barnaby" still; and the Captain 
 made a joke of the same to the very few 
 acquaintances he made down there ; 
 Mrs. Canterbury, her mother, and Mr. 
 Carlton nearly comprising the whole. 
 At any rate, whatever might have been 
 the inducing causes, Mr. Kage had 
 never known or suspected that Captain 
 Dawkes was at Chilling. ISTow that he 
 knew it, his thoughts were busy. Mr. 
 Carlton talked on, and he answered Yes 
 and No at random, as one who hears not. 
 
 When they reached the Rock, Mr. 
 Carlton halted, and shouted for the keep- 
 er to open the lodge-gates. She came 
 running out. 
 
 " I will walk up to the house," said 
 Mr. Kage. " I should prefer it, for my 
 legs are cramped. Thank you for 
 bringing me." 
 
 He took out his portmanteau, and 
 carried it inside the lodge, observing 
 that he would despatch a servant for it. 
 The woman took it in her hand, to test 
 its weight. 
 
 " It's not heavy, sir. My boy can 
 run up with it at once." 
 
 " Very well," replied Mr Kage. 
 
 Close upon the house he heard the 
 sound of voices at some little distance, 
 and saw a gentleman playing with a 
 child : now running with him, now toss- 
 ing him, now carrying him on his shoul- 
 der. It was growing dusk, but Thomas- 
 Kage had no difficulty in recognizing 
 Barnaby Dawkes ; and the child was, 
 
146 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 beyond doubt, the young heir to the 
 Rock. 
 
 Mrs. Canterbury was alone in the 
 drawing-room ; she had just come down 
 attired for dinner. The article she had 
 called a widow's cap was discarded; and 
 with the expiration of the twelvemonth, 
 a few days ago, also her heavy mourn- 
 ing. She wore a black -lace evening 
 dress, with jet necklace and bracelets, 
 and some jet beads in her sunny and 
 luxuriant hair. Her emotion at sight 
 of her visitor was vivid, and he could 
 not fail to observe it. 
 
 " Thomas ! this is indeed unexpect- 
 ed." 
 
 " I wrote you word last week I should 
 be coming." 
 
 " But you did not say when. And I 
 never thought you meant so soon." 
 
 " Am I too soon, Caroline ? " 
 
 " no, no ; my surprise is all gladness. 
 Have you come from London to-day ? " 
 
 " I will answer as many questions as 
 you like, when I have taken off some of 
 this travelling dust ; but I had better 
 do it first, for it must be close upon your 
 dinner hour. You will let me stay for 
 that ? " 
 
 " Stay for that ! I hope you have 
 come for longer by a great deal. Re- 
 member how often you have promised 
 to come to the Rock." 
 
 " I had intended to stay one night at 
 it; but " 
 
 He didnot finish the sentence. Car- 
 oline was looking at him with her wide- 
 open blue eyes ; dusk though it was, he 
 could see their depths of beauty. 
 
 " What do you mean by •' but,' 
 Thomas ? " 
 
 " Well — yes ; I will remain until to- 
 morrow. How is Mrs. Kage ? I thought 
 she was living with you, Caroline." 
 
 " She comes in most days to dinner. 
 I have long wanted to see you, Thomas ; 
 to thank y>u for acting for us as exec- 
 utor after all, in spite of your scruples." 
 
 A stange gravity came over his face 
 with the introduction of the subject. 
 His voice took a colder tone. 
 
 " If my declining to act would have 
 changed the provisions of the will, I 
 should have declined. But, in striving 
 to perceive on which side my duty lay, 
 that fact, above all others forced itself 
 upon my notice. The refusal would 
 have brought no good to anyone ; only 
 
 some trouble on you ; and so T put aside 
 my personal feelings, which were all 
 against it, and went on with the task." 
 
 He quitted the room as he spoke, to 
 be shown to the chamber assigned him ; 
 and, on descending again, found himself 
 in the presence of both Mrs. Kage and 
 Captain Dawkes. Dinner was an- 
 nounced immediately. Captain Dawkes 
 — we give him the title from habit — was 
 advancing to Mrs. Canterbury, but Mr. 
 Kage stepped before him quietly, but 
 with unmistakable decision. The gal- 
 lant Captain fell behind to Mrs. Kage, 
 her fan, her essence-bottles, and her 
 mincing affectation. 
 
 Mrs. Canterbury, from the head of 
 the table, asked Thomas Kage to take 
 the opposite place. Captain Dawkes 
 was on his best behavior, subdued and 
 gentlemanly. Mr. Kage caught, at odd 
 moments, a glance of the eyes directed 
 surreptitiously towards his quarter, and 
 he knew his appearance at Chilling was 
 just about as welcome to their owner as 
 snow in harvest. 
 
 " I hear you have been making a long 
 stay in this neighborhood, Captain 
 Dawkes." 
 
 " Pretty well. I rather like it." 
 
 After dinner the boy was brought in, 
 little Thomas Canterbury. He was too 
 gentle to be what is called a spoilt child, 
 but his mother seemed wrapt in him. 
 Mr. Dawkes appeared equally fond ; he 
 took the boy on his knee, fed him with 
 sweet things, kissed him, petted him, 
 and kept him there until the ladies re- 
 tired and carried him away with them. 
 As Thomas Kage returned to his seat 
 from closing the door, the Captain took 
 a five-pound note from his pocket and 
 laid it on the table. 
 
 " Kage, I owe you a thousand apolo- 
 gies for not having repaid you before. 
 I am so glad to see you — and relieve 
 myself of the debt." 
 
 " You might have sent it," observed 
 Mr. Kage. 
 
 '■ I know I might ; but negligence is 
 one of my failings. Thanks for the 
 loan. You never got it repaid by that 
 ancient relative of mine, I suppose ?" he 
 added, as an after-thought. 
 
 " I never mentioned the matter to 
 her." 
 
 " Keziah writes me word that she is 
 only waiting my presence in Loudon 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 147 
 
 to kiss and be friends. I thought she 
 would come-to. For the past twelve- 
 month, you see, I have got along with- 
 out asking help from her, and that has 
 put her in good-humor." 
 
 " But how have you been able to get 
 along ? " 
 
 " I had a windfall from a brother- 
 officer. A fellow who owed me a lot of 
 money, and came down like a brick with 
 it. I had given it up for a bad job ; but 
 he suddenly came into a fortune, and 
 paid up his debts." 
 
 This was true. But Captain Dawkes 
 did not think it necessary to add that 
 the " windfall " arose from a former bet 
 at gambling ; or that its payment had 
 enabled him to make for a time a show 
 at Chilling, and pass off for a tolerably 
 rich man ; or that Keziah's means had 
 been sacrificed bit by bit to keep the 
 show up. 
 
 " Do you see any signs of decay? " 
 
 "Decay in what ? " asked Mr. Kage. 
 
 " In the deaf party. It's an awful 
 shame of her to live so long, keeping a 
 fellow out of his own ! " 
 
 " Are you sure that Mrs. Garston's 
 death would benefit you ? " 
 
 " Yes. To the extent of the greater 
 portion of her fortune." 
 
 " I think you are mistaken, Dawkes." 
 
 "No, I'm not," said the Captain, 
 smacking his lips as he put down his 
 glass. " Capital wine, this of old Can- 
 terbury's ! You don't seem to appre- 
 ciate it, Kage." 
 
 " A short while ago, Mrs. Garston be- 
 gan talking to me about her will," re- 
 sumed Mr. Kage, passing over in silence 
 the remark on the wine. " I did not 
 ask her for it : I did not care to hear 
 about it, for it was nothing to me. But 
 she then said, as solemnly as it is well 
 possible for a woman to speak, that you 
 would not inherit her money. If I tell 
 you this, Dawkes, it is in kindness — 
 that you may not deceive youself with 
 false hopes." 
 
 "Perhaps you imagine that you will 
 inherit it," rejoined the Captain with a 
 scarcely-suppressed sneer. 
 
 "I am sure that 1 shall not," was the 
 quiet answer. " Mrs. Garston will be- 
 queath her money without reference to 
 me. Bel} T upon one thing, however, 
 Dawkes : that you will not have it any 
 
 more than I shall. Were I not per- 
 suaded of the positive truth of this, I 
 would not have mentioned it to you." 
 
 " Were I not persuaded of the posi- 
 tive truth that I shall have it, I 
 should not be living at ray ease as I 
 am," was the retort. " She may have 
 changed her mind since telling you this, 
 or perhaps only said it in momentary 
 pique : but I do know for a certainty, 
 through Keziah, that Mrs. Garston will 
 do right, and make me her heir." 
 
 The assertion was utterly devoid of 
 truth, though the Captain's bold face 
 was a marvel of candor as he delivered 
 it. The fact was, it suited him to pass 
 off at Chilling for a man whose large 
 expectations could not be imperiled. 
 Mr. Kage silently supposed there might 
 be some inadvertent misconception on 
 Keziah's part, or that her hopes de- 
 ceived her. 
 
 " You do not ask after your little 
 friend, Belle Annesley, Dawkes." 
 
 " Hope she's well," was the careless 
 comment. " Had nearly forgotten her. 
 Nice little girl enough : wonder when 
 she's going to get married." 
 
 It was not Thomas Kage's province 
 to tell Captain Dawkes he ought to be 
 the bridegroom. In point of fact, he 
 did not know how much or how little 
 had passed between the two. Belle 
 might have given her heart without due 
 inducement ; a not entirely uncommon 
 case. 
 
 " Yes, she is a very nice girl," he 
 said warmly. " Something seems to ail 
 her, Dawkes. All her childish ways are 
 put aside ; and she is as staid as she 
 was once light- mannered. Sad, in 
 fact." 
 
 " Sad, is she ? It's through living 
 with that wearying old mother. How's 
 town looking ? " he added, deliberate!}' 
 passing off the subject. And Mr. Kage 
 was content to let it pass. They rose 
 from table together, and went into the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 " It was not altogether a merry even- 
 ing. Thomas Kage was silent and 
 thoughtful; the ex -captain like one 
 under some constraint ; Mrs. Kage shot 
 keen glances, and not always pleasant 
 ones, at the assemblage generally, from 
 over the top of her smelling-salts. Call- 
 ing Thomas to her, she made room for 
 
118 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 him on the sofa near the fire. A large 
 one was kept up every night that Mrs. 
 Kage was there. 
 
 " You have not told me how I am 
 looking," she said, tapping him play- 
 fully with her fan. 
 
 Had Thomas Kage told, and truly, he 
 would have said, very ill. Of all bat- 
 tered, worn-out old creatures, the late 
 Lord Gunse's daughter was the worst. 
 Her head nodded involuntarily. Mrs. 
 Garstou, over twenty years her senior, 
 looked younger. In this past }"ear she 
 seemed to have aged ten. 
 
 '• I hope you feel well, Mrs. Kage," 
 was all he could bring himself to say to 
 the appeal. 
 
 " Perfectly charming. Don't I look 
 so ? When Fry settled this white 
 feather in to-day," — pointing to the top 
 of her withered old head, — " she saidtit 
 became me in a wonderful manner, mak- 
 ing quite a girl of me. Some of us 
 never grow old, you know. — Thomas, 
 I don't like that man." 
 
 The transition rather startled him. 
 Her simpering face of affectation had 
 changed to a sharp one, her self-suffi- 
 cient voice to a dissatisfied whisper be- 
 hind her fan ; her eyes cast forth gleams 
 of rage at Captain Dawkes,. who stood 
 for the moment at the far end of the 
 room with his back to them. 
 
 "He makes himself too much at 
 home here. I tell Caroline so, but she 
 does not see it. Sometimes I think he 
 must have designs on Caroline and her 
 money. And that, you know, dear 
 Thomas, would be undesirable." 
 
 " Entirely so." 
 
 " I wish he'd go away, and leave the 
 place. He doesn't like me, and I 
 don't like him. He is heir to Mrs. 
 Garston's great wealth, poor deaf old 
 object! — but still I don't like the impo- 
 lite man. Do you know much of him ? " 
 
 Certainly Thomas Kage did not know 
 much good of him, had he chosen to 
 say so. 
 
 " I took a dislike to his rolling black 
 eyes ; it was the first day, when he as 
 good as told me I'd got paint on. I do 
 assure you, Thomas, my complexion is 
 sweetly natural." 
 
 Thomas Kage bit his lip to hide a 
 smile, and the tetc-a-tete was broken by 
 the gallant Captain himself, who came 
 up too near to be talked of. 
 
 Both the guests left early. Late 
 hours were getting to be barred luxuries 
 to Mrs. Kage; and, the Captain gave 
 her his arm to the little close carriage 
 that brought and took her, taking his 
 own departure at the same time. It 
 was scarcely ten o'clock when Mrs. 
 Canterbury and her cousin were left 
 alone. She caused the chess-table to be 
 brought forward, and set out the men. 
 
 " You will play, Thomas, will you 
 not ? " 
 
 He drew his chair up, and they 
 commenced the game. In five minutes 
 Mrs. Canterbury had checkmated him. 
 Then he began to put the pieces up. 
 
 " But will you not play again ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " Not to-night. My thoughts are 
 elsewhere." 
 
 He finished his employment, pushed 
 the table back, and dropped into a mus- 
 ing attitude, his elbow on the arm of 
 his chair. Mrs. Canterbury glanced at 
 him as she played with the trinkets that 
 were hanging from her chain. Her 
 own spirits throughout the night had 
 been gleefully high. 
 
 " Is anything the matter, Thomas ? 
 You have been as solemn as a judge all 
 the evening.''' 
 
 " Is it true that you are likely to 
 marry Dawkes ? " was his abrupt re- 
 joinder. 
 
 " My goodness ! what put that in 
 your head ? " 
 
 " Is it true, Caroline ? " he more sad- 
 ly repeated. 
 
 "No, it is not true," she emphatically 
 said. " How came you to think of such 
 a thing ? " 
 
 " A hint of it was whispered to me 
 since I came down here." 
 
 " 0, then, I know — it was by mamma," 
 she slightingly said, her lip curling. 
 
 " No, Caroline. It was by a stran- 
 ger." 
 
 " I am surprised at your taking it up 
 seriously, Thomas : there's not a shade 
 of truth in it. But why cannot people 
 keep their mischief- making tongues 
 within due bounds ?" 
 
 " It was not prudent, Caroline, to 
 allow a man, of whom you know noth- 
 ing, to become so intimate here. In the 
 first place, you are too young for it." 
 
 " No, not too young in position. I 
 am mistress of the Rock, and a widow ; 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 149 
 
 I have a child of three years old. You 
 were always tiltra-crotehety. Thomas." 
 
 " Let me tell you a little of what I 
 know of Dawkes," was his calm re- 
 joinder. " He has heen a wild gay 
 man ; up to his ears in debt and em- 
 barrassment ; has lived in little else for 
 years past. Mrs. Garston has come to 
 his relief on occasion, but it has not 
 seemed to serve him much. When he 
 came to this neighborhood it was to be 
 safe from his creditors." 
 
 " Few men have been exempt from em- 
 barrassment at some time or other of 
 their lives," observed Mrs. Canterbury. 
 " Captain Dawkes's having been in debt 
 ought not to tell against him, now he is 
 free from it." 
 
 " How do you know he is free from 
 it?" 
 
 " Of course he is. He lives here open- 
 ly, and seems to have plenty of money." 
 
 " He may have paid his debts in part ; 
 he may have some ready-money to go on 
 with ; I do not know that it is not so, and 
 you do not know that it is. But I do know 
 that plenty of money he cannot have. It 
 is only a very short while ago that his sis- 
 ter Keziah — I mention this in strict con- 
 fidence, Caroline — applied to Mrs. Gars- 
 ton for help for him." 
 
 " And if she did — it would be like ask- 
 ing for his own. He will inherit Mrs. 
 Garston's large fortune." 
 
 In the most earnest words he could use, 
 Thomas Kage assured Mrs. Canterbury 
 that Captain Dawkes would not inherit 
 it; that his own expectation on the point 
 would inevitably prove a fallacy. Know- 
 ing the old lady so thoroughly, he was 
 convinced, beyond danger of mistake, 
 that Captain Dawkes would never be her 
 heir after the words she had spoken, and 
 he deemed himself justified in saying as 
 much to Mrs. Canterbury. 
 
 " I'm sure he may be cut off with a 
 shilling for aught I care," was Mrs. Can- 
 terbury's answer. "Captain Dawkes and 
 his prospects are nothing to me, Thom- 
 as." 
 
 " I thought it strange if he could be. 
 But reflect for one moment, Caroline — 
 to such a man as this, with his, at best, 
 uncertain future, what a temptation a 
 fortune like yours must hold out ! 
 The—" 
 
 " What a shame it is people can't mind 
 their own business ! " interrupted Mrs. 
 
 Canterbury. " They interfere with me 
 in the most unwarrantable manner ; they 
 say I visit too much, and they say I left 
 off my ugly widow's caps too soon — I 
 wore them nearly twelve months, and 
 they were spoiling my hair. And now 
 they have been talking to you about Cap- 
 tain Dawkes." 
 
 " I was about to observe that the 
 tastes and pursuits of Captain Dawkes 
 — I have seen something of them — are 
 not calculated to bring happiness to a 
 wife, Caroline." 
 
 She smiled ; a bright laughing smile. 
 Mr. Kage was vexed ; he thought it a 
 derisive one. 
 
 " Caroline, I speak for }'our sake only 
 — for your happiness." 
 
 " Then you really do care for my hap- 
 piness ? " 
 
 " I have never cared for anyone's so 
 much in my life. You knew it once, 
 Caroline." 
 
 Mrs. Canterbury had risen to stand on 
 the hearth-rug before the large pier-glass, 
 and the red glow of the fire deepened to 
 crimson the blushes on her cheeks. Or 
 had they deepened of themselves ? any- 
 way, they were rich and beautiful. 
 Thomas Kage thought so as he stood 
 near to her ; far too innocent and beauti- 
 ful to be thrown away on Barnaby 
 Dawkes. 
 
 " I thought it once," she hesitatingly 
 said, " until — " 
 
 "Until when?" 
 
 " Until I married. But it was all over 
 then." 
 
 " Not so ; I am anxious for your hap- 
 piness still, and I wish you would let me 
 try and guide you to it." 
 
 " How would you begin ?" she mer- 
 rily said. 
 
 " First of all, you should break off the 
 intimacy with Dawkes — How was it 
 brought about ? " he interrupted himself 
 to ask. 
 
 " It began by his taking a fancy for 
 my boy. He made acquaintance with 
 him and his nurse iD their walks, and 
 the child grew so attached to him, noth- 
 ing was ever like it. How could I help 
 being civil to one who is so fond of my 
 child ? " 
 
 " Let there be truth between us, Car- 
 oline," he interrupted in a pained tone. 
 
 " I am telling you truth ; I will tell 
 you all. I care nothing for Captain 
 
150 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 Dawkes, and I only like him because lie 
 loves the boy. But he has grown to like 
 me in a different way," she added ; " and 
 last week he asked me to become his 
 wife." 
 
 " What was your answer ? " 
 
 " My answer ! It was such that I do 
 not think Captain Dawkes will ever ven- 
 ture to speak to me in that manner again. 
 He begged my pardon humbly for his 
 mistake. 'It was then that he told me 
 — but I had heard him say it before — 
 that he would to a certainty inherit Mrs. 
 Garston's fortune." 
 
 "This having been your answer, how 
 is it that he is still intimate here ? " 
 
 " He begged me to bury what had 
 passed in oblivion, to pardon him for it, 
 to let it die out of my remembrance as a 
 thing that never had place, and to allow 
 him to continue his friendship with the 
 Rock. It would grieve him painfully, 
 almost kill him, to part with the boy, he 
 said. I told him it was so entirely a mat- 
 ter of indifference to me, that he might 
 continue to come here on occasion if he 
 chose." 
 
 " Then you do *not love him, Caro- 
 line ? " 
 
 u No ; it is not to him that my love is 
 given." 
 
 " That tone, Caroline, would almost 
 imply that it is given elsewhere. Is it 
 so ? ; ' 
 
 She had spoken incautiously ; and the 
 flush of crimson rising in her face was so 
 vivid that she turned it from him. 
 Thomas Kage took her hand and held it 
 between his. 
 
 " Would you have me go through life 
 alone ? " she sadly asked. " Why should 
 I not marry again ? Some mothers call 
 girls at my age too young for wives. I 
 am not three-and-twenty." 
 
 "My dear, I hope you will many 
 again ; my only anxiety is that you 
 should marry for happiness. What is the 
 matter ? " 
 
 Mrs. Canterbury had burst into tears. 
 
 " It is such a lonely life," she whis- 
 pered ; " it has been so lonely all along. 
 I married, — you know about it, that I did 
 not care for him, — and I found I had 
 grasped the shadow and lost the sub- 
 stance. I tried to carry it off to others 
 and be gay ; but there was the aching 
 void ever in my heart. Since I have been 
 free, it has been the same : no real hap- 
 
 piness : nothing but a yearning after 
 what I have not. Sometimes hope 
 springs up and pictures a bright future ; 
 but it flies away again. I have never," 
 she continued, raising her ej'es for a mo- 
 ment, " breathed aught of these my feel- 
 ings to man or woman : I -could not to 
 anj'one but you." 
 
 "Caroline, you are indulging a love- 
 dream ! Who is its object ? " 
 
 She was trembling excessively : he 
 could feel that, as he held her hand, which 
 she had not attempted to remove. 
 Alone with him in that" quiet evening 
 hour, her heart full of romance and sen- 
 timent, Caroline Canterbury may be for- 
 given if she betrayed herself. Though 
 she had heartlessly rejected Thomas 
 Kage to marry a rich man, she had loved 
 him passionately then, and she loved him 
 passionately still. 
 
 " Who is it, Caroline ? " 
 
 " Do not ask me." 
 
 « Who is it, Caroline ? " 
 
 •' Need you ask me ? " 
 
 No, he need not ; for in that same 
 moment the scales fell from his own eyes. 
 Her agitated tone, her downcast look, told 
 him what he had certainly not had his 
 thoughts pointed to. He dropped her 
 hand, and went and leaned his own 
 elbow on the mantlepiece, with a flush as 
 rosy as hers. 
 
 Thomas Kage was no coxcomb — never 
 a truer-hearted man than he in tho world. 
 His first feeling was surprise ; his second 
 self-blame for having himself provoked 
 the avowal. But that Caroline Canter- 
 bury should love him still, after her delib- 
 erate rejection of him to marry another, 
 after all these lapse of years, and the 
 time she was a wife, never once entered 
 into his mind. Rather would he have 
 expected her to avow a love for the great- 
 est stranger — for this man Dawkes, even 
 — than for him. 
 
 " Caroline," he whispered, breaking 
 a long silence, " was this your dream ? " 
 
 Vexed at having betrayed so much, 
 her sobs increased hysterically. He 
 waited until she grew calm. " It cannot 
 be," he continued in agitation. " Wheth- 
 er it might have been, whether the old 
 feelings might have been renewed be- 
 tween us, I have never allowed myself to 
 ask. There is an insuperable barrier." 
 
 " In my having left you to marry Mr. 
 Canterbury ? " 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 151 
 
 " Mr. Canterbury is gone and has left 
 vou free. The barrier lies in his unjust 
 will." 
 
 "I do not understand you," she faint- 
 ly said. 
 
 Thought after thought came chasing 
 each other through his mind : some of 
 them Utopian, perhaps ; but, as she used 
 herself to tell him, that was in his na- 
 ture. 
 
 " Our former attachment was known 
 to some people — or, at least, suspected," 
 he remarked in a low tone. " Were I 
 to make you my wife now. who but would 
 say that will was a work of complicity 
 planned between us ? — the money be- 
 queathed to you, and I the executor ! 
 Caroline, were you as dear to me as for- 
 merly, as perhaps you might become 
 again, I would die of heart-break rather 
 than marry your money, and so sacrifice 
 my good name." 
 
 Her face and lips had turned of a 
 stony white ; her heart felt turning to 
 stone within her. Mr. Kage resumed : 
 
 " In my mind there has always been 
 a kind of fear connected with the will. 
 "When it flashes into my memory sud- 
 denly, as events will so flash, I seem to 
 shrink with dread. It is a strange feel- 
 ing ; one that I have never been able to 
 account for. Caroline, rather than be 
 connected with that will, in the way of 
 benefit to myself, I would fly the king- 
 dom." 
 
 She had turned her face to look at 
 him : it expressed a kind of puzzled 
 wonder. 
 
 " Yes, I see how inexplicable this must 
 sound to you. But the aversion to the 
 will, the dread of it, lies sure and fast 
 within me. Mr. Canterbury bequeathed 
 me, as you may be aware, one hundred 
 pounds for my trouble as executor. 
 What little expense it entailed upon me, 
 I honestly repaid myself; and the rest 
 of the sum I have sent to one of our 
 most necessitous hospitals. I only men- 
 tion this to prove to you how impossible 
 it is that I could, under any circumstan- 
 ces, consent to reap benefit from that 
 unjust will." 
 
 " Answer me one thing," she rejoined 
 in agitation. " When you urged me so 
 strongly to induce Mr. Canterbury to 
 make a more equitable will, was this — 
 this — in your thoughts ? — that perhaps, 
 sometime, as — as he was an old man, 
 
 and I almost sure to be left free when 
 still young — that this question of to- 
 night might arise between us?" 
 
 " No," he earnestly answered, " I 
 spoke alone in the interests of justice. I 
 wished you to be just in the eyes of men ; 
 to endeavor to be so in the sight of God. 
 From the day of your marriage with Mr. 
 Canterbury, I have never thought of you 
 but as lost to me ; and I schooled my 
 heart to bear." 
 
 Recollection, remorse, grief, were 
 telling upon her. She shook as she 
 stood, and turned to lay hold of some- 
 thing by which to steady herself. He 
 could but walk across the rug to support 
 her. But it was done without the small- 
 est tenderness. 
 
 " I suffered then as you are suffering 
 now," he whispered. 
 
 " Let me make it up to you," she re- 
 turned, heeding little what she said in 
 her despair — "let us make it up to each 
 other. You do care for me still — I have 
 riches, I have my love. Thomas, let 
 me make it up to you !" 
 
 "Don't you see it is those riches that 
 make it impossible ? Caroline, do not 
 tempt me; it can never be." 
 
 " I will give up my riches and think 
 it no sacrifice." 
 
 " You cannot give them up. The 
 greater portion are held in trust for your 
 son. 
 
 Yes, she saw it ; quitting his side to 
 lean against the mantel-piece, she sa it. 
 The riches must cling to her like some 
 foul thing that could never be shaken 
 off. The gold, so coveted and deceitfully 
 planned for, was already turning to bit- 
 terness in her mouth, like the apples of 
 Sodom. 
 
 " Then you reject me," she faintly 
 said. 
 
 " As a wife ; I have no other alterna- 
 tive. But, Caroline, we can be dear to 
 each other still — as brother and sister." 
 " Brother and sister ! brother and sis- 
 ter ! " she wailed. " That is not a tie 
 to satisfy the void of an aching heart." 
 
 " Caroline, mj' darling sister, you 
 must school your heart," he urged in 
 his faithfulness. "1 had to do it. I 
 have to do it still. Why ! do you think 
 this, now passing between us, is not 
 bringing me the most exquisite pain ? " 
 he broke off, giving way for a single 
 moment to his emotion. " But for the 
 
152 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 harrier that Fate has raised up around 
 you, I should take yoxi to my breast with 
 rapture, now as we stand here, thanking 
 God that sunshine had come into mj 7 
 life at last. It has been cold and bleak 
 enough without you, all these years." 
 
 The jet necklace on her white neck 
 heaved and fell. But for the utmost 
 control, but for the reticence of action 
 that never forsakes a modest, right-mind- 
 ed woman, she had fallen on his breast 
 then. 
 
 " As brother and sister," repeated Mr. 
 Kage, retaining his distance ; but he was 
 quite sure of himself. "Any warmer 
 feeling, any more sacred tie. between us 
 is impossible. Be composed, Caroline ; 
 be yourself." 
 
 " Yes, I will be myself," she answered, 
 pride coming to her aid. " Farewell, 
 Thomas." 
 
 She was walking rapidly to the door 
 to seek her chamber. Thomas Kage 
 opened it fur her, and held out his hand 
 as though nothing had happened. 
 
 " Good-night, Caroline. To-morrow 
 we will meet as usual, and forget all 
 this. I shall have to leave you very 
 soon after breakfast." 
 
 In attempting to return his good- 
 night a smothered sob of anguish escap- 
 ed her. His own heart echoed it as he 
 closed the door and went back to the fire 
 for some few minutes. The rejection he 
 had had to give was as painful as any 
 ever spoken by man. 
 
 And poor Mrs. Canterbury ? As she 
 tossed on her sleepless pillow, recognis- 
 ing at last the upright worth, the value 
 of the man she had once rejected, retri- 
 bution seemed to have laid hold of her 
 with its piercing fangs. Throughout 
 the whole of the live-long night she be- 
 wailed the possession of the vast riches 
 that were not justly hers. Fatal, 
 worthless, molten riches ; as they seem- 
 ed to be in her ej T es now. The} 7 had 
 brought the reproach of the world in 
 their train ; they had heaped this present 
 misery and mortification on her head ; 
 they had thrown up an impassable gulf 
 against him who had alone made her 
 day-dream. 
 
 Pretty well, all this. But Mrs. Can- 
 terbury — looking upon them in that 
 bitter moment as a sort of evil gift, a 
 fatality — caught herself wondering what 
 else of ill they might bring in the fu- 
 ture. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 CAPTAIN DAWKES IN TOWN. 
 
 Face to face with each other — she 
 bolt upright in her richest brocaded silk, 
 on the stiffest of her drawing-room 
 sofas, he tilted forward from a small 
 chair — sat Mrs. Garston and Captain 
 Dawkes. Their faces nearly met. It 
 was a momentous interview ; and the 
 Captain always had the idea that she 
 could not hear one word in ten unless 
 he were within an inch of her. 
 
 The year had grown older by a week 
 only since Thomas Kage's visit to Chill- 
 ing. Captain Dawkes, weighing plans 
 and projects, ways and means, had at 
 length brought himself to town, braving 
 the danger that might accrue if his 
 creditors caught sight of him. But he 
 had learnt caution of old. 
 
 His large dark eyes wore a gloomy 
 light as they gazed into the cold gray 
 ones of Mrs. Garston. She had been 
 telling him, in terms not to be misun- 
 derstood, that the inheritor of her 
 money would not be himself. 
 
 " You never ought to have looked for 
 it, Barby Dawkes ; never. But I don't 
 blame you for doing so, so much as I do 
 those who flattered you up that it would 
 be yours. Keziah, to wit. I told her, 
 when she was last here bothering me, 
 that if you'd come and see me you 
 should hear what I would and would 
 not do." 
 
 " And I have come, ma'am." 
 
 "You've took your time about it," 
 was the old lady's retort. " But that 
 was your business, not mine. And now 
 I will fulfil my part of the bargain. 
 First of all, though — is it true what 
 Keziah tells me : that she has sunk 
 some of her small capital for you ? " 
 
 " That is true." 
 
 " And more shame for you to let it 
 be true, Barnaby Dawkes ! What ? — 
 no other means? Most men would 
 have gone and broke stones in the road 
 before they'd have robbed a sister." 
 
 " I live in hopes to repay her," said 
 Barnal>3\ 
 
 " Do you ! " spoke Mrs. Garston with 
 iron}'. " What do you suppose Keziah 
 said to me the other da\ T ? " 
 
 " I can't imagine. She says queer 
 things on occasion." 
 
 " That if you were a married man 
 you would be as steady as old Time." 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 153 
 
 " And so I should be," rejoined Bar- 
 naby eagerly. " I should be as steady 
 and saving as you are. Aunt Garston." 
 
 She did not speak at once. Her 
 bright gray eyes were gazing into his, 
 as though she sought to know whether 
 trust might be placed in his words. 
 
 " If I were fortunate enough to get 
 married — that is, if my circumstances 
 allowed me to do so — it would be the 
 turning-point in my life," he impres- 
 sively said. " My future safeguard." 
 
 " Barnaby Dawkes, I think it might 
 be." 
 
 To hear even this concession from one 
 who never spoke of him, or to him, but 
 in terms of the most utter disparage- 
 ment, rather surprised the Captain, and 
 very much gratified him. 
 
 " It is true, Aunt Garston, on my 
 honor. Let me get the chance of be- 
 coming a married man, and you would 
 see how good a member of society I 
 should make. You might safely leave 
 your fortune to me then, without fear 
 that it would ever be wasted." 
 
 " What do you say ? " she asked, 
 bending her best ear. And Captain 
 Dawkes repeated his words. 
 
 " Listen, Barnaby. I told you just 
 now, as plain as I could speak, that the 
 bulk of my fortune would not go to you. 
 Take you heed of that once for all : it 
 never will. W'hen my will is opened, 
 after my death, you will find two hun- 
 dred pounds a-year secured to you ; and, 
 besides that, a sum of five hundred 
 pounds down, which you may use to 
 pay j'our debts with." 
 
 If ever a blank look settled on man's 
 face, it did on that of Captain Dawkes. 
 
 " You cannot mean it, Mrs. Garston," 
 he said after a pause. 
 
 " It is all you will inherit from me, 
 Barnaby," was the cold resolute rejoin- 
 der. " I shall never make it another 
 shilling — except on one condition. 
 
 " What's that ? " he gloomily asked. 
 
 " That you marry. Now don't you 
 mistake me, and think I want to urge 
 you into marriage," added Mrs. Gars- 
 ton, rapping with her stick violently ; 
 " I'd be sorry to do it \>y the person 
 dearest aud nearest to me in the world. 
 People should look out for themselves in 
 such serious matters, and then nobody 
 else is responsible for consequences." 
 
 " The devil take Keziah ! " was the 
 
 Captain's mental comment. " She must 
 have been letting loose that tongue of 
 hers." 
 
 " You fell in love with a girl in Lon- 
 don, Barnaby ; made love to her, that 
 is. Considering that you are worthless 
 in conduct, and hampered by debt, it 
 was three-parts a swindle to have done 
 it." 
 
 " But I — don't know what you mean, 
 ma'am," replied the surprised Captain. 
 " How came you to hear such a thing 
 of me ? It has no foundation what- 
 ever." 
 
 " How I came to hear it is nothing to 
 you. Perhaps I saw it for myself. I 
 can see one thing, Barby Dawkes — that 
 the foolish child is pining her heart 
 VL\\a.y for you." 
 
 " But — who is it, Aunt Garston ? " 
 
 He knew quite well, and there was 
 an untrue ring in his voice as he asked 
 it. Down came Mrs. Garston's stick, 
 ominously near his foot. 
 
 " It is Belle Annesley. How dare 
 you pretend ignorance to me, sir ! Do 
 you suppose it will serve you ? " 
 
 His face grew a little hot. He 
 would not acknowledge to this ; he 
 might not venture, in the teeth of her 
 inconsistency, to deny it. " It was 
 quite a mistake," he lamely muttered ; 
 " quite a mistake." 
 
 " If it's the want of money that 
 keeps you from marrying her, I'll rem- 
 edy the bar." said Mrs. Garston " She 
 will inherit three hundred a-year from 
 her mother ; I'll settle on you both 
 jointly, and your children after you, 
 seven hundred more ; which will be an 
 annual income of one thousand pounds. 
 If you can't think that enough, you de- 
 serve to die in the work-house. Over 
 and above, I will pay your debts, Bar- 
 by, on the wedding-day." 
 
 Some twelve months before, Barby 
 Dawkes would have leaped at this offer 
 as a boon. Now, in the teeth of greater 
 and grander visions, it only perplexed 
 him. He stroked his purple moustache. 
 
 " But — suppose, Aunt Garston, that I 
 were to decline the marriage ; that I 
 were — in short — to find it would not suit 
 either myself or the }'oung lady — what 
 then ? " 
 
 " What then ? Nothing. 1 don't urge 
 it; I've said so. If a word from me 
 would marry the pair of you, I'd not 
 
154 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 speak it. The decision lies with you and 
 her. But if you are both set on it, and 
 you intend to be what you ought to be 
 to her, you shall not be hindered for 
 want of means." 
 
 " You are very kind," muttered Bar- 
 naby. " What I wished to ask was — 
 about monej'-matters in regard to my- 
 self, if I don't marry her." 
 
 " Were you deaf ? " roared Mrs. Gars- 
 ton. " Didn't I tell you that, not mar- 
 ried, you'd get two hundred a-year at my 
 death ? Where's the use of my repeat- 
 ing things ? " 
 
 " And — until your death ? " he ven- 
 tured to urge. " I am in embarrass- 
 ment now." 
 
 " Until my death I'll allow you one 
 hundred a-year, Barnaby Dawkes. Not 
 another penny, though it were to save 
 you from hanging." 
 
 There ensued a silence. To attempt 
 to contradict Mrs. Garston never brought 
 forth good fruit ; as Barnaby knew. He 
 saw another thing — that what she had 
 said now would be irrevocable for life. 
 It was the first time she had explicitly 
 stated her intentions, and he knew they 
 would be abiding ones." 
 
 " Would you make me the same offer, 
 Aunt Garston, if I married some one 
 else ? " 
 
 " If you did what '? " 
 
 "Married another lady; not Belle An- 
 nesley Y " 
 
 The question put Mrs. Garston into 
 such a rage that he was fain to withdraw 
 it, saying she had comprehended him 
 wrongly. 
 
 " I hope I did. But I don't think it. 
 If you could go and marry another, after 
 what you've led that child to expect, 
 you might look for Heaven's vengeance 
 to come down upon you. She'd be well 
 quit of a man who could act so, but it 
 would break her heart. You may be a 
 villain, Barnaby Dawkes; but I'd advise 
 you to keep it to yourself in my hearing. 
 And that's all I've got to say." 
 
 Barnaby Dawkes pushed his chair 
 back, and fell into thought. A minute 
 or two, and he lifted his head again. 
 
 " Marriage is a serious matter, Mrs. 
 Garston; few of us, I imagine, like to 
 enter upon it rashly. I must take a 
 week or two for consideration." 
 
 " That's the most sensible thing you've 
 said this evening, Barby Dawkes." 
 
 " And go back to Wales while I re- 
 flect ; I dare not stay in London. You 
 will help me, Aunt Garston ? I cannot 
 live upon air." 
 
 Mrs. Garston grunted. Air was cer- 
 tainly not very substantial to live upon. 
 
 " I'll give you fifty pounds." 
 
 " Thank you. If you would but make 
 it a hundred ! " 
 
 " Now don't you try my patience too 
 much. What I've said I mean, Barby. 
 Will you take some dinner ? " 
 
 " Thank you. With immense pleas- 
 ure." 
 
 "Then just ring that bell to let them 
 know I'm ready for it. I'd have left oat 
 the " immense," if I had been you." 
 
 When the announcement of the din- 
 ner's being served was brought, the Cap- 
 tain gallantly held out his arm. Mrs. 
 Garston put it aside with her stick and 
 stalked on, leaving him to follow behind. 
 
 " I go in by myself when Thomas 
 Kage is not here." 
 
 " Crush him for a snake in the grass ! '' 
 mentally uttered the rejected Captain. 
 " He'll get the bulk of the money, the 
 smooth reptile." 
 
 To partake of Mrs. Garston's good din- 
 ner was one thing; to remain the whole 
 evening with her was another; and Cap- 
 tain Dawkes rose to leave with the table- 
 cloth, making an excuse that he had a 
 pressing engagement. 
 
 '• I thought 3 7 ou were afraid of meet- 
 ing some sheriffs' officers in the streets," 
 spoke the old lady in her open manner. 
 
 " There's not so much danger, ma'am, 
 after dark." 
 
 But nevertheless, when the Captain 
 reached the gate, he looked cautiously up 
 the road and down the road, pulling his 
 coat-collar high about his ears. 
 
 Little did Belle Annesley, enshrined 
 within the safety of her mother's home 
 so short a distance away, dream of the 
 joy that the hour had in store for her. 
 Mrs. Annesley, whose health was failing 
 much, spent the greater portion of her 
 time in her own chamber. On this day 
 she had been downstairs for a few hours, 
 but went up again, and to rest, at dusk ; 
 so that Belle was alone. 
 
 Time had been when Mrs. Annesley 
 would have scrupled to leave her so much 
 without a companion, but Belle's random 
 days were over : never a lady in the land 
 more staid, tranquil, home-sick, than she 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 155 
 
 now. Mrs. Lowther and Mrs. Richard 
 Dunn were alwaj*s more than glad to see 
 her ; but she did not go to either very 
 often ; sometimes they ran in to sit with 
 her. 
 
 Seated at work by the light of the 
 lamp, her fingers slow and listless, her 
 countenance hopelessly sad, was she. 
 But she was not less pretty than of old. 
 The face was young and fair; the blue 
 ribbons — she cared for no other color — 
 were still adorning the fine light hair 
 with its golden tinge. Her dress this 
 evening was a white sprigged muslin, 
 and altogether she looked infinitely 
 charming. 
 
 "That's Sarah Dunn," she softly 
 said to herself, as a ring was heard. " I 
 thought she would be coming in." 
 
 "Captain Dawkes, miss," announced 
 the servant. 
 
 One moment's gaze, as though she had 
 not heard, and then Belle dropped her 
 work, and rose. Her pulses were tingling, 
 her heart bounding, her face turning 
 white as death. She felt sick with the 
 rush of joy. her hands and frame were 
 alike trembling ; for a moment her sight 
 left her, and she grasped the table for 
 support. 
 
 Standing before her, when they were 
 shut in alone, Captain Dawkes, experi- 
 enced man that he was, read the signs, 
 read the love. It brought him pleasure ; 
 for if his heart had a preference, it was 
 for this girl. He took her hands in his, 
 he bent his face with a soft whisper. 
 
 " You are glad to see me, Belle ? " 
 
 Glad ! An instant's struggle to 
 maintain her calmness, as a well-trained 
 young lady should, and then poor Belle 
 gave way. She burst into tears, and 
 Captain Dawkes gathered the pretty face 
 to his shoulder. He scrupled not to kiss 
 it, and kiss it again ; although he had 
 as much intention of marrying her as he 
 had of marrying you. 
 
 " It has been so long — so long ! " mur- 
 mured Belle, ashamed of her emotion, 
 and sitting down to the work. " I 
 thought you were never coming again." 
 
 " As did I," responded the Captain, 
 taking a chair in front of her. " Things 
 have been going cross and contrary, my 
 little one." 
 
 " Are the}' straight now ? " 
 " Anything but that. If that wicked 
 old party would but do her duty by me, 
 
 I should have been all right long ago. 
 I've just come awa} r from her; been un- 
 dergoing the penalty of dining with the 
 mummy." 
 
 " And have you come to London to re- 
 main, Barnaby ? " 
 
 " Only until to-morrow." 
 
 Her face fell sadly. He drew his 
 chair a trifle nearer. 
 
 " You know, my pretty one, where I 
 would be if I could — where my heart is. 
 But if the Fates are unpropitious, what's 
 to be done ? " 
 
 " It must be very dull for you, away 
 from everybody." 
 
 "A frightful exile." 
 
 " I am dull too," she added in a plain- 
 tive tone. " Mamma is always ill ; 
 Sarah has her own home now, and her 
 baby ; and I am mostly alone." 
 
 " What's the matter with Mrs. Annes- 
 ley?" 
 
 " The doctors call it a break-up of the 
 constitution. She is sadly weak and 
 spiritless. How do you manage to amuse 
 yourself, Barnaby ? " 
 
 "Fishing," answered the Captain 
 shortly. " That and the bemoaning of 
 my hard fate fill up the time." 
 
 " Have you many friends down 
 there ? " 
 
 " Friends ! There ! You never saw 
 such a miserable, lonely, out-of-the-world 
 place as it is, Belle." 
 
 The color in the fair cheeks was going 
 and coming; the fingers, plying the 
 needle, began to tremble again. Belle's 
 voice was faint as she spoke : 
 
 "Do you know what I heard? I 
 want to tell you." 
 
 " Tell away, child. What did vou 
 hear ? " 
 
 " That you were going to be mar- 
 ried." 
 
 " Married ! I ! " And the Captain 
 acted well his perfect astonishment. 
 
 " I thought it could not be true. For- 
 give me for repeating it, Barnaby." 
 
 " Why, you silly child, you might have 
 known it was not." 
 
 The words and the reassurance caused 
 her whole heart to thrill with rapture. 
 0, but it was good to undergo the past 
 doubt and suffering for this relief! The 
 dark daj^s gone by were as nothing now. 
 One shy glance at him from the loving, 
 pretty blue eyes, and Belle sat on in 
 silence. A question actually crossed 
 
156 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 Captain Dawkes's mind for the moment 
 — should he accept the offer made by 
 Mrs. Garston, and take this girl to his 
 heart as his wife ? He cared for her 
 more than he could ever care for any 
 other. The next minute he nearly 
 laughed at himself: a thousand a-year 
 and domestic bliss would not suit Barna- 
 by Dawkes. 
 
 " What work is that you are so busy 
 over, my fairy ? " 
 
 " One of mamma's new handkerchiefs ; 
 I am hemming them for her," was the 
 simple answer. 
 
 " Wish I'd got somebody to hem 
 mine." 
 
 Belle smiled and glanced at him. In 
 her heart she was feeling ten years 
 } r ounger. Captain Dawkes suddenly 
 bent down, and kissed the hand that 
 held the cambric. 
 
 "Halloa ! who's this, I wonder? " 
 
 A visitor's step in the hall called forth 
 the exclamation. Captain Dawkes was 
 in the act of pushing his chair back to a 
 respectable distance, when Mrs. Richard 
 Dunn entered, in a pink silk hood. 
 Belle's face wore some conscious confus- 
 ion ; and Mrs. Dunn thought she must 
 have interrupted a scene of love-making. 
 
 And Captain Dawkes, who did not 
 particularly like Mrs. Richard Dunn, 
 took up his hat and went forth, braving 
 the danger from the sheriff's officers. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 PLAYLNTG FOR HIGH STAKES. 
 
 In her own favorite room at the 
 Rock, with its soft carpet of many col- 
 ors, and its beauteous furniture, its rare 
 and costly surroundings, sat Mrs. Can- 
 terbury. The French window was 
 opened to the ground, and the gay 
 autumn flowers were wafting in their 
 sweetest perfume. On the lawn beyond, 
 the young heir to the Rock was sport- 
 ing with his attentive friend, Captain 
 Dawkes. The blue sky was overhead, 
 the warm sunshine shed delight around. 
 Pleasant things all; but to Caroline 
 Canterbury they seemed as dismal as a 
 dark night. For her the world had lost 
 its charm. 
 
 She sat in a low chair drawn back 
 
 from the window, dressed for gaiety. 
 It was afternoon yet, but she had a 
 drive of ten miles to keep a dinner en- 
 gagement, and the carriage to convey 
 her was already coming round. It was 
 only yesterday that Thomas Kage had 
 quitted her after his brief visit, and yet 
 it seemed to her that she had since 
 lived a lifetime. 
 
 None, save herself, might know what 
 fond dreams she had been indulging 
 since the death of Mr. Canterbury ; 
 dreams of which Thomas Kage was the 
 hero. There was no sin in doing it, as 
 she would softl}' repeat over and over to 
 herself: she was as free as air, and there 
 could be no sin. None, save herself, 
 could ever know or conceive what awful 
 pain, mortification, and repentance his 
 rejection inflicted on her. Bright was 
 she to look at in her gala-robes ; the 
 black-net dress with its white-satin rib- 
 bons, than which nothing could be more 
 attractive to the eye, and the diamonds 
 gleaming in the hair where the widow's 
 cap so recently had been ; but the heart 
 within was encased in sackcloth and bit- 
 ter ashes. What were all the jewels 
 and gauds of the world to her, since she 
 might not enjoy them ? 
 
 She could not enjoy them alone. 
 Whatever might have been Caroline 
 Kage's greed of gain, one great need 
 was implanted in her by nature — that 
 of companionship. It might be, that 
 until this moment she never knew the 
 full extent of her love for Thomas 
 Kage : we rarely do find the true value 
 of a thing until we lose it. He was 
 lost to her forever. The money for 
 which she had sold herself was hers ; 
 but it had deprived her of Thomas 
 Kage. In that moment it seemed that 
 the beautiful things in the room, the 
 Rock itself, the fine lands she looked 
 out upon, had all grown hateful to her. 
 One balm amidst it alone remained, and 
 that was her little boy ; her love for him 
 approached idolatry. 
 
 When she and Mr. Kage had met at 
 breakfast-, the morning after that pain- 
 ful and decisive interview took place, no 
 allusion to it was made by either of 
 them. Caroline chose to have the 
 child at the breakfast-table, perhaps as 
 a break to what might otherwise have 
 been an embarrassing meal. But Mr. 
 Kage, for his part, seemed to retain no 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 157 
 
 remembrance of it ; he was calm, kind, 
 self-contained in manner as usual ; 
 read}' of speech, talking of indifferent 
 things, and still very solicitous for her 
 comfort and welfare. They spoke of 
 business matters before his departure ; 
 his closed executorship, and the future 
 of the child, to whom he was trustee. 
 And this morning Caroline had received 
 a letter from him, which must have 
 been written, she thought, on his jour- 
 ney to town. It concluded as follows : 
 
 " Your life at the Rock must indeed 
 he very lonely. When you alluded to 
 it this morning, I felt the fact just as 
 forcibly as you. I had thought your 
 mother lived with you. You do not 
 please to have her, you say ; but is 
 there no one else that you could have ? 
 I do not like to suggest one of the Miss 
 Canterburys, say Millicent ; but she 
 would be very suitable, and you used to 
 be the best of friends and companions. 
 Think of it, Caroline. If not one of 
 them, take some other lady : and a de- 
 sirable inmate would not be difficult to 
 find. 
 
 "Meanwhile, I beg you to remember 
 what I said to you in regard to Barna- 
 by Dawkes. Dismiss him at once from 
 intimacy, and gradually drop his ac- 
 quaintance altogether. I should not 
 bid you do this, Caroline, without good 
 and sufficient reason. 
 
 " One thing more. If you are ever 
 in need of advice or counsel, or aid of 
 any sort, send for me. Whatever my 
 engagements may be, I will not fail to 
 come to you without delay. 
 
 " Give my love to my little namesake, 
 Thomas. Train him well — Caroline, 
 train him well in the best sense of the 
 word : you will find all comfort in doing 
 it. And believe me ever to be your 
 faithful friend and affectionate cousin, 
 "Thomas C. C. Kage." 
 
 This note lay in Mrs. Canterbury's 
 bosom, now as sKe sat. She was in a 
 very humble frame of miud, and count- 
 ed the friendship of such a man as 
 something. 
 
 But it was a great deal easier to say, 
 Dismiss Barnaby Dawkes at once from 
 intimacy, than it might be to do it. 
 Besides, Caroline could not quite see 
 the urgent necessity for this step. He 
 
 was little Tom's friend and playmate — 
 there they were now, playing on the 
 lawn — and what harm could it be ? So 
 that portion of the letter, and it was the 
 only one calling for prompt action, she 
 disregarded. 
 
 " Mamma, there's the carriage at the 
 door," said the little fellow, running in, 
 with his imperfect speech. 
 
 Mrs. Canterbury took him on her 
 knee, kissing him passionately. Beyond 
 this child, she had nothing in life to sat- 
 isfy the longing of an aching heart ; 
 and hers was so young still ! The many 
 years to come looked long and dreary 
 enough when she cast a thought to 
 them. 
 
 " Be a good boy, my darling. Mam- 
 ma must go." 
 
 Her maid appeared with a cloak, and 
 Mrs. Canterbury rose. Captain Dawkes, 
 coming in through the open window, 
 took the mantle and asked leave to place 
 it on her shoulders. Then he offered his 
 arm to conduct her to the carriage, and 
 assisted her in. It was all done in a 
 quiet, almost deprecating, kind of way; 
 neither Mrs. Canterbury nor anybody 
 else could have taken alarm at it. The 
 last sight that met her view, as she drove 
 awa}', was her boy kissing his hand to 
 her from Captain Dawkes's shoulder. 
 
 Within a week of this time, Captain 
 Dawkes left Chilling for London, to hold 
 his interview with Mrs. Garston — as was 
 before related. On the third day he was 
 back again. Mrs. Canterbury was gen- 
 uinely pleased to see him; the little boy 
 had felt sadly dull, and in truth so had 
 she. She had no love for Captain 
 Dawkes, but she liked him ; and such 
 was the monotony of her life, that he, 
 their daily visitor, had been sensibly 
 missed. He told Mrs. Canterbury that 
 he had made it all right with that old 
 aunt of his, and that she had placed his 
 succession to her fortune beyond doubt. 
 
 The autumn days went on, and with 
 them Mrs. Canterbury's sense of isola- 
 tion. When the first sting of Thomas 
 Ivage's rejection had in a degree worn 
 away, she grew to resent it, and her mind 
 filled itself with bitter feelings towards 
 him. She began to contrast his heart- 
 less rejection of her with Captain 
 Dawkes's unobtrusive homage. 0, but 
 Barnaby Dawkes was playing his cards 
 well ! And the stakes were high. 
 
158 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 Mrs. Kage looking on with sharpened 
 eyes, took alarm. The Captain's visits 
 to the Rock grew, in her mind, more 
 suspicious. One evening, going thereto 
 dinner at dusk, she saw Caroline on his 
 arm, pacing the dim walks ; and the two 
 seemed to be talking confidentially. 
 Mrs. Kage made her way to a private 
 room, and sent a mandate for her daugh- 
 ter. Caroline received the reproaches 
 coolly. 
 
 " There's not the slightest cause for 
 this, mamma. Even if I were going to 
 marry Captain Dawkes, as you seem to 
 insist upon it that I must be, what 
 should you have to urge against it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Kage was in too great a passion 
 to say what. She broke her choicest 
 smelling-bottle. 
 
 " Captain Dawkes is a gentleman, 
 mamma. Looking after my money ? 
 dear, no ; he has no need to look after it, 
 he will have plenty of his own. All 
 Mrs. Garston's will be his, you know." 
 
 " That's just what I don't know," 
 shrieked Mrs. Kage. " And if I did, I 
 don't like the man, Caroline. I'm sure 
 there's something or other against him. 
 What has he been staying at Chilling 
 for, all this while, I'd like to know ? 
 He's playing a part, that's what he is ; 
 and his pretended love for little Tom is 
 all put on — it's as false as he. my 
 poor nerves ! why do you excite me, 
 Caroline ? " 
 
 Caroline only laughed in answer, and 
 said that dinner was waiting. Mrs. Kage 
 liked her dinner very much, and did not 
 keep it waiting long. 
 
 But, to Mrs. Canterbury's intense sur- 
 prise, she heard the next day that her 
 mother and her mother's maid, Fry, had 
 gone to London. Captain Dawkes held 
 his breath when he heard it, and asked 
 what they had gone for. 0, just a whim, 
 she supposed, was Caroline's careless an- 
 swer ; and after that she thought no 
 more about it. 
 
 Mrs. Kage, more energetic than was 
 her usual custom, had taken a sudden 
 resolution to clear up the mystery that, 
 in her opinion, surrounded Captain 
 Dawkes. She and that gentlemen 
 owned to a kind of subtle instinct 
 against each other ; and it would not be 
 too much to say that she had hated him 
 since the day he was bold enough to in- 
 sinuate that her delicate complexion did 
 
 not owe its lovely tints to nature. For 
 the rude man to aspire to Caroline and 
 her wealth, was worse than gall and 
 wormwood to Mrs. Kage ; and she de- 
 termined to go and learn a little about 
 him from Mrs. Garston. To whose house 
 she proceeded amidst a dense November 
 fog on the day subsequent to her arrival 
 in London. 
 
 But, what with Mrs. Kage's mincing 
 affectation, always in extreme flow in 
 society, what with Mrs. Garston's deaf- 
 ness, always worse when under any sur- 
 prise, the interview was a little compli- 
 cated. Compliments over — which Mrs. 
 Kage entered upon and Mrs. Garston re- 
 ceived ungraciously, inwardly wondering, 
 and very nearly asking, why so battered- 
 looking an old creature, her head nod- 
 ding incessantly, should have come, out 
 from her home — the visitor entered upon 
 her business ; explaining, rather frankly 
 for her, the motive of her visit — that she 
 feared Mrs. Garston's relative, Captain 
 Dawkes, was casting covetous eyes on her 
 daughter, with a view to marriage and to 
 the grasping of her daughter's wealth. 
 She prayed Mrs. Garston to feel for her, 
 and candidly tell her what there was 
 against Captain Dawkes — it was some- 
 thing bad, she felt sure — that she might 
 "open Caroline's eyes to his machina- 
 tions." 
 
 But now, between the mincing tone, 
 and the frequent application to one or 
 other of those auxiliaries to weak nerves, 
 the scent-bottles, all that Mrs. Garston 
 comprehended of this harangue was, 
 that Barnaby Dawkes was going to be 
 married. 
 
 " 0," said she, " made up his mind at 
 last, has he ? He has taken his time 
 over it. It's a good two months since 
 he sat where you do, talking it over with 
 me." 
 
 Mrs. Kage felt inclined to faint. 
 " Did you approve of it, then ? " 
 
 "Did I what?" asked Mrs. Garston. 
 
 " Uphold him in his crafty scheme? 
 I'd never have believed it ! " 
 
 Had Mrs. Garston caught the word 
 crafty, her answer might have been ex- 
 plosive. It was only hard. 
 
 " Barnaby Dawkes told me he want- 
 ed to marry. Keziah as good as told 
 me ; promising he would then be as 
 steady as Old Time. I neither said to 
 him " do " nor " don't ; " but I told him, 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 159 
 
 if he did marry the girl, he might look 
 to me for an income." 
 
 "Dear me ! Do you think it right to 
 play with a lady's name in that free 
 way ? " demanded Mrs. Kage, gently 
 touching her nose with essence of lav- 
 ender. 
 
 "Right!" retorted Mrs. Garston; 
 " the girl's d} T ing for him." 
 
 " Mrs. Kage's head nodded ominously. 
 
 " Well, I'm sure ! How dare you say 
 such a thing of my daughter?" 
 
 " Say it of whom ? " 
 
 " My daughter, Mrs. Canterbur}\ 
 Deaf old model ! " added the honorable 
 lady for her own especial benefit. 
 
 " Who did say it of your daughter? " 
 retorted Mrs. Garston, bringing down 
 her stick with such force that the visit- 
 or leaped upwards. " It was of Belle 
 Annesley ! " 
 
 Mrs. Kage thought they must be at 
 cross-purposes, and blamed the deafness. 
 
 "I don't think you understand 
 ma'am." 
 
 "I don't think you do!" was Mrs. 
 Garston's irascible answer. " It's Belle 
 Annesley that Barby Dawkes is going 
 to marry, if he marries at all. He has 
 been courting her for these two or three 
 years past." 
 
 Bit by bit, it all came out ; at least 
 the version of it that lay in the old 
 lady's mind. They wanted, she was 
 told, to get married ; and she had 
 smoothed the way by promising to settle 
 on them seven hundred a-year, which, 
 with Belle's three hundred when her 
 mother died — and that might not be 
 long first — would make their income a 
 thousand. The relief to Mrs. Kage was 
 something better than perfume. She 
 opened her fan, and gently wafted a 
 little cool air to her heated face. As 
 she was doing this, a question arose to 
 her, and she put it openly : " Why, if 
 Captain Dawkes were going to marry 
 Belle Annesley, should he remain so 
 long at Chilling?" 
 
 Mrs. Garston was at no fault for an 
 answer ; the reason, to her mind, was 
 clear enough. 
 
 " I said I'd pay his debts on the wed- 
 ding-day ; but I expect my gentleman 
 has such a pack of them, that he is try- 
 ing to make an arrangement with his 
 creditors to take less than their due, be- 
 cause he is ashamed of letting me know 
 the extent of the whole. 
 
 " Oh, Captain Dawkes has debts, 
 then ! " said Mrs. Kage. 
 
 " Bushels of 'em ; he never was with- 
 out debts, and he never will be, that's 
 more. The money I settle will be set- 
 tled upon her and her children. I'd 
 not trust it to his mercy." 
 
 " He tells society at Chilling that he 
 is to be your sole heir." 
 
 " Does he ! ' Society ' needn't be- 
 lieve him." 
 
 "Will he be?" 
 
 " My heir ! " and down came the 
 stick with a flutter. " No, he never 
 will! I'd not make Barby Dawkes my 
 heir to save him from hanging. If he 
 marries Belle, he gets what I told you; 
 otherwise, he'll never have more from 
 me than will keep him on bacon and 
 eggs in lodgings. Barby knows all this 
 just as well as I do. I went into it 
 with him when he was last here." 
 
 " I think he must be — if you'll ex- 
 cuse my saying it — rather given to tell 
 boasting falsehoods," spoke Mrs. Kage. 
 
 Out it all came. Thus set off on the 
 score of Barby's boastings and doings, 
 Mrs. Garston told all the ill she knew 
 of him : his fast living, and his many 
 accumulations of debt ; his meannesses, 
 and deludings of his creditors ; his 
 startings afresh on his legs, through her, 
 and his speedy topplings-down again. 
 Mrs. Kage placidly folded her hands as 
 she listened, and hoped Miss Belle An- 
 nesley would get " a bargain." Any 
 lady was welcome to him, provided it 
 was not her own daughter ; and in her 
 intense selfishness she would not have 
 lifted a finger to save Belle Annesley 
 from him. 
 
 " It's the best thing he can do ; 
 they'll get along on a thousand a-year ; 
 very — ah — generous of you, I'm sure ! 
 I suppose he is — ah — attached to her." 
 
 " If he's not, he ought to be," snap- 
 ped Mrs. Garston. "He made enough 
 love to her, they say ; and she has been 
 pining out her heart for him, silly 
 child ! " 
 
 "Vastly silly," assented Mrs. Kage, 
 surreptitiously flinging some pungent 
 drops on the carpet. 
 
 " Barby seemed to be doubtful about 
 the marriage when we were having mat- 
 ters out together, and said he must take 
 time to consider — afraid of his mass of 
 debts, I suppose ; I'll answer for it, 
 some of them are not of too reputable a 
 
160 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 nature. He soon made up his mind, 
 though ; for he went straight from me 
 that night to Belle Annesley, and 
 Dickey Dunn's wife found him there 
 love-making. Every mortal day since 
 have I been expecting him here to 
 claim my promise, and get money-mat- 
 ters put in train for the marriage ; and 
 I know by the delay he is in some deep 
 mess that it's not so easy to get out of." 
 
 " No doubt," murmured Mrs. Kage. 
 And he has found the Rock good quar- 
 ters to dine at while he's doing it. 
 Won't Caroline listen when I open the 
 budget ! " 
 
 " He will contrive it, though ; he is 
 crafty and keen/' pursued Mrs. Gars- 
 ton, not having caught a syllable of the 
 intervening words. " I shouldn't won- 
 der but they'll be married now before 
 Christmas. I told Belle so when she 
 was here two or three days ago; it made 
 her blush like a robin. She confessed 
 to have had a letter from him that very 
 morning." 
 
 Perhaps no diplomatist ever went 
 away from an interview more completely 
 satisfied than Mrs. Kage from hers. 
 Her fears in regard to the gallant Cap- 
 tain and Caroline were laid to rest. 
 She purposed returning to Chilling on 
 the morrow and carrying her budget 
 with her, making herself comfortable 
 meanwhile at her hotel. 
 
 "But now, whether it was that the 
 journey up had been too much for her 
 strength, or that the London fog had 
 struck to her, Mrs. Kage, on the even- 
 ing of this same day, fouud herself feel- 
 ing ill. The following morning she 
 seemed very ill ; and Pry, her maid, 
 called in a doctor. That functionary 
 decided that she had taken a severe cold, 
 and said she must not attempt to quit 
 her bedroom, or to travel for at least a 
 week. Lying at rest, and being petted 
 with nice invalid dishes — game and 
 such-like good things, and plenty of 
 mulled wine — was rather agreeable than 
 not to Mrs. Kage. The week passed 
 pleasantly enough, in spite of its soli- 
 tude. She sent to ask Sarah Annesley, 
 that was, to come and see her ; but 
 learnt that Richard Dunn and his wife 
 were staying at Brighton. 
 
 At the week's end Mrs. Kage went 
 home. Pry wanted her to break the 
 journey by sleeping on the road, but 
 
 Mrs. Kage did not like strange inns, 
 and pushed on. She got home at nine 
 at night, too much done up for anything 
 but bed. 
 
 Breakfast was taken to her in the 
 morning. Poor wan old thing she look- 
 ed in her nightcap, sitting up to eat it ! 
 Without her face embellishments, she 
 did not like to be stared at, even by 
 Fry ; and she sharply told the maid to 
 come back for the tray when she should 
 have finished. Between the intervals 
 of her going and returning, Pry chanced 
 to hear a piece of news ; and when she 
 went in again it was with a face as 
 white as her mistress's, though not so 
 haggard. 
 
 Report ran that Mrs. Canterbury had 
 gone out of the Rock on her way to 
 church, to be married to Captain 
 Dawkes. 
 
 "Eh?" exclaimed Mrs. Kage, too 
 much startled to realize the words, and 
 looking up in a helpless manner. 
 
 " I think it's true, ma'am," said Fry. 
 " The sexton's boy is telling them down- 
 stairs." 
 
 How Mrs. Kage was rushed into her 
 clothes, and her bonnet put on, and her 
 face made passable, and got down to the 
 church in the space of a few minutes, 
 Fry says she shall never know to her 
 dying day. The news was true, and 
 Mrs. Kage was not in time. 
 
 Very, very true. Captain Dawkes, 
 taking alarm no doubt at the mother's 
 sudden journey to London, had made 
 good play with Mrs. Canterbury, and per- 
 suaded her to a quick and quiet mar- 
 riage. That the sore feeling induced by 
 the rejection of Thomas Kage urged her 
 on in fatal blindness was, no doubt, the 
 secret of her acceding. But that was 
 known only to herself, and is of little mo- 
 ment to us. The unhappy step was 
 taken, and already past redemption. 
 
 The ceremony bad just concluded, and 
 the bride and bridegroom, with Keziah 
 for bridesmaid, and a friend of Captain 
 Dawkes's as groomsman, were quitting 
 the altar for the vestry. Caroline wore 
 a quiet gray-silk dress and white bon- 
 net; Keziah similar attire. Mrs. Kage, 
 a variety of emotions giving her wings, 
 flew into the vestry after them ; Fry sit- 
 ting down in a pew to wait. 
 
 That a scene of confusion ensued will 
 readily be imagined. Noise, reproaches, 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 101 
 
 tumult. Captain Dawkes and Keziah, 
 their end attained, were cool and calm as 
 unbroken ice; but for the clergyman, 
 Mr. Rufort's substitute, they bad polite- 
 ly, but forcibly, conducted Mrs. Kage 
 from the church again. The Rev. Mr. 
 Jennings, a middle-aged, fresh-colored, 
 capable man, stood by Mrs. Kage and 
 protected her. 
 
 " I ivill speak," panted that lady : "I 
 am her mother; and Mr. Jennings told 
 them decisively that the speaker ought 
 to be heard. But perhaps he was not 
 prepared for quite all she had to say. 
 
 Every accusation that Mrs. Garston 
 had made on Barnaby Dawkes, every dis- 
 paraging epithet she had applied to him, 
 Mrs. Kage repeated; affirming that it 
 was as true as gospel. She was really ag- 
 itated, and for once in her life affecta- 
 tion was thrown aside, as she demanded 
 whether the ceremony could not be un- 
 said. Caroline, between fright and emo- 
 tion, burst into tears. 
 
 " You have cause to cry, child, Heav- 
 en knows. He has been hiding down 
 here all this while from his creditors ; he 
 is engaged to that sweet girl, who is 
 breaking her heart for him ; they were 
 to have been married before Christmas. 
 Caroline, it is not you he wants, but 
 your money, to help him out of his debts ! 
 He has millions of them. Deny it if you 
 dare ! " she added with a shriek, Stamp- 
 ing at Barby. 
 
 And with that shriek, Mrs. Kage broke 
 down. She sank on a chair, white and 
 cold ; the exertion had been rather too 
 much for the worn-out frame. Nobody 
 saw anything was amiss ; it was only sup- 
 posed she had no more to say. 
 
 Caroline, utterly bewildered, doubting, 
 sick, not knowing what to believe or dis- 
 believe, looked at her new husband. It 
 had not been Barnabj r Dawkes if he had 
 failed in his powers of rhetoric now. 
 With a smile of calm contempt at the 
 mass of words, and of sweetness for Caro- 
 line, he put her hand within his arm, 
 and spoke a few low earnest syllables of 
 reassurance. He turned to the clergy- 
 man, and quietly declared the whole 
 thing a mistake ; a tissue of misrepre- 
 sentations from beginning to end — as 
 the future would prove. And such was 
 his cool self-asserting manner, that the 
 clergyman yielded belief to it a< well as 
 the young wife. 
 10 
 
 " These stories have been concocted by 
 Mrs. Garston," spoke Keziah boldly. 
 " She was bitterly against my brother's 
 marrying, and hoped to stop it. The 
 poor ancient lady is in her dotage." 
 
 With a sob of relief, Caroline looked 
 at her husband as he led her down the 
 aisle of the church. She implicitly be- 
 lieved in him, and a smile rose to her face 
 to chase away the tears. Fry stood up 
 as they passed her, and curtsied. The 
 groomsman, led out Kezi'ah ; the clergy- 
 man followed slowly at a distance, his 
 surplice on still. 
 
 It was not in Fry's nature to stay be- 
 hind. The bride and bridegroom were 
 going away from the church-door direct 
 on their wedding-tour; the carriage had 
 post-horses to it, an imperial was on it, 
 a man and maid-servant behind. Cap- 
 tain Dawkes handed in his bride, and 
 they set off at a canter. Keziah who 
 would be going back to London in the 
 course of the day, started on foot for her 
 brother's cottage to change her attire, the 
 groomsman by her side. 
 
 "But where is my mistress?" ex- 
 claimed Fry, turning round when she had 
 sufficiently feasted her eyes, and could 
 see only the back of the carriage fading 
 away in the distance. 
 
 " She is in the vestry," said Mr. Jen- 
 nings. " I held out my arm to her, but 
 she would not notice it. It is a sad pitj T , 
 Fry, she should be put about like this by 
 the marriage." 
 
 " It has come upon her so sudden, you 
 see, sir, for one thing," was Fry's an- 
 swer. 
 
 " So it seems. When Captain Dawkes 
 came to me last night about the arrange- 
 ments — and that was the first intimation, 
 I had of it — I'm sure I thought he said 
 Mrs. Kage was privy to it. My mistake, 
 I suppose." 
 
 Fry hastened on to the vestry. Mr. 
 Jennings, returning more leisurely, and 
 unbuttoning his surplice as he walked^, 
 was surprised to see her dart out again, 
 livid with fright. 
 
 " What's the matter ? " he asked. 
 
 " sir, please come and see ! Mj r mis- 
 tress is fallen sideways, with the most 
 dreadful face you ever saw. 
 
 The Reverend Mr. Jennings made but 
 one step to the vestry. Mrs. Kage had 
 been seized with paralysis. 
 
162 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 BREAKING THE NEWS TO BELLE. 
 
 The handsome carriage of Mrs. Gars- 
 ton, with its fat old coachman on the box 
 in front, and its footman behind, holding 
 his gold-headed stick slantwise, was 
 steadily making its way along the Strand. 
 But that Mrs. Garston was a little eccen- 
 tric, ordering her carriage out at all hours 
 as the mood took her, her servants might 
 have wondered what took her abroad so 
 early this morning. St. Mary's Church 
 was striking eleven as they bowled past 
 it. 
 
 Thomas Kage felt surprised, if the ser- 
 vants did not. He was hard at work in 
 his chambers on the dull November 
 morning, when Mrs. Garston's footman 
 penetrated to the room, saying his mis- 
 tress was coming up. Hastening down, 
 Mr. Kage met her on the first flight of 
 stairs, ascending by help of her stick. 
 She took his arm without a word of greet- 
 ing, and pointed upwards. He stirred 
 his fire into a blaze, and brought forward 
 the most comfortable chair for her to sit 
 in. 
 
 "Have you heard the news?" she 
 shortly asked. And they were the first 
 words she had spoken. Mr. Kage re- 
 plied that he had heard none in partic- 
 lar. 
 
 Upon that Mrs. Garston dived into her 
 pocket, and brought forth two letters, 
 which she placed on the table. She was 
 relieving herself of some weighty emo- 
 tion by emphatic thumps with her stick. 
 Thomas Kage wondered what in the 
 world had happened. 
 
 " She'll repent it to the last hour of 
 her life. Mark you that, Thomas — 
 though I ma}' not live to see it. I 
 thought her a :fool for making that other 
 marriage,; but she was not half the fool 
 then that she is now." 
 
 And still Thomas Kage was in the 
 dark. 
 
 The two letters before Mrs. Garston 
 were written, one by Barnaby Dawkes, 
 airily announcing his marriage with 
 Mrs. Canterbury; the other by Keziah. 
 Kesiah very briefly mentioned the cere- 
 mony at which she had assisted ; and 
 followed it up by telling of the seizure 
 of Mrs. Kage. She, Keziah, intended 
 to remain with the sick woman that one 
 
 night ; and a despatch had been sent 
 after Mrs. Dawkes, who might be ex- 
 pected to return on the morrow. Alto- 
 gether, what with one untoward event 
 and another, Caroline's second marriage 
 did not seem to have been inaugurated 
 happily. 
 
 " Married ! To him — and in this 
 indecent haste ! " Thoma^ Kage could 
 not help exclaiming. " What can have 
 induced it ? " 
 
 " Induced it ! " wrathfully echoed 
 Mrs. Garston. " Why, his persuasive 
 tongue, his cajolery — that's what has 
 induced it. Barby Dawkes, with his 
 rolling eyes and his tongue of oil would 
 wile a door off its hinges. I under- 
 stand now the reason for his burying 
 himself alive in the place, and conceal- 
 ing it from everybody. I understand 
 why Keziah made a mystery of it to me 
 and pretended that the place was in 
 Wales, and she couldn't pronounce the 
 name. He has been at Chilling all the 
 while, practising his arts on George 
 Canterbury's widow." 
 
 Thomas Kage, standing against th* 1 . 
 window and looking dreamily out, re- 
 membered how he had heard the news 
 of her first marriage in this selfsame 
 spot. This did not shake him as that 
 had done ; proving how well time had ex- 
 ercised its healing properties. Brought 
 face to face with her the night that 
 they stood together lately at the Rock, 
 some of the old passion cropped up in 
 his heart, and it had almost seemed to 
 him that he loved her as of yore ; in 
 that hour of sentiment, when practical 
 reality was lost sight of in romance, it 
 could scarcely have been otherwise. 
 All his present grief was felt for Caro- 
 line, and it was intensely keen. He 
 saw, with a certainty so great as to par- 
 take of the nature of prevision, that this 
 marriage was nearly the worst mistake 
 she could possibly have made. 
 
 Mrs. Garston rose from her chair and 
 came towards him, tapping his arm with 
 her forefinger, her eyes and face almost 
 solemnly earnest. 
 
 " Look you, Thomas, — this marriage 
 will not bring Barby good. It has been 
 brought about by deceit. He has been 
 deceiving her all along as to himself, his 
 character, his means ; he has been mis- 
 erably deceiving that unhappy child 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 1C3 
 
 Belle Annesley. Grand stroke of for- 
 tune though it may be in his opinion, it 
 will never bring him good." 
 
 " I am sure it will not bring her 
 good," cried Thomas Kage impetuously. 
 
 ■" I know now what his game was. 
 He has been playing fast and loose with 
 Belle, intending to take her if the richer 
 scheme failed. I know now why he 
 wanted his time to consider of it ; and 
 who he meant when he asked me if I 
 would make the same terms if he mar- 
 ried another. Ah, ha, Mr. Barby ; } 7 ou 
 would afterwards have persuaded me it 
 was my deafness that heard the question 
 amiss ! You and Keziah have been act- 
 ing together to deceive me and gain your 
 ends : it may not serve you much in the 
 long-run." 
 
 Thomas Kage made no answer. 
 
 " She has got a wagon-load of wealth, 
 hut he'll get through as much as he can 
 of it," proceeded the shrewd old lady. 
 " I've never had much love for Barby, or 
 Keziah either; I dislike them now. 
 What have they cared for playing with 
 the fe-elings of Belle, so that their turn 
 was served ? He liked her too, he did. 
 And it is not Mrs. Canterbury he has 
 abandoned the girl for, but Mrs. Canter- 
 bury's money. Old Canterbury was a 
 fool ever to leave her such a prey." 
 
 Very true. From first to last the will 
 seemed to have brought nothing but ill. 
 Last ? The last was not come yet. 
 
 " I'm sorcy for the poor old woman, 
 Thomas. It seems she has got some 
 feeling, for all her affected folly. You 
 should have seen her the da} T she came 
 to me — with her painted cheeks and her 
 girl's white bonnet and flowers ; and her 
 palsied head nodding nineteen to the 
 dozen over all. She brought in a fan 
 and a cargo of smelling-bottles — it's as 
 true as that I'm telling it. I'm afraid, 
 too, I misled her — saying that it was 
 Belle Annesley Barby was going to mar- 
 ry ; but then you see, I thought it was. 
 0, but they are crafty, he and Keziah ! 
 But for hoodwinking me, and causing 
 me to say what I did, Mrs. Kage might 
 have gone back at once to Chilling, and 
 stopped the marriage." 
 
 " Yes, it might have been so," Thomas 
 acknowledged. But he remembered what 
 he himself had told Caroline of Barnaly 
 Dawkes, and therefore he felt that she 
 
 was almost as much to blame as he. 
 What infatuation could have blinded 
 her ? 
 
 " And now I'll go," said Mrs. Gars- 
 ton, " And, Thomas, you'd better call in 
 at Belle Annesley's and break the news 
 to her. It will be a blow ; mind you 
 that. Better not let it come upon her 
 suddenly. I'm sorry for the child. So 
 long as she was no better than a stage 
 dancing-girl, flirting with every man she 
 came near, I'd have nothing to say to her 
 except abuse ; but she was wise in time, 
 and put all that aside. You break it to 
 her ; you know how to do such things ; 
 and so did your mother before you." 
 
 " I shall not be able to leave my cham- 
 bers until late in the day." 
 
 " Very well ; it will keep. Dickey 
 Dunn and his wife are away, and there's 
 nobody else would be likely to tell her. 
 For the matter of that, I don't suppose 
 it's known to a soul in London except 
 you and me. There'll be a flaming par- 
 agraph in the Times to-morrow, as there, 
 was last time she had a wedding, but it 
 couldn't be got in to-day. 0, Barby 
 Dawkes is a crafty one ! " 
 
 Seizing Thomas Kage's arm, Mrs. 
 Garston moved a step towards the door. 
 Suddenly she dropped it again. 
 
 " You are trustee to the child's money 
 I think, Thomas?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Take you good care of it then, or 
 Barb} 7 wilh-be too many for 3 r ou. He'd 
 wring the heart out of a live man, if it 
 were made of gold." 
 
 Thomas Kage smiled ; but there was 
 nevertheless a very determined tone in 
 his voice as he gave his answer. 
 
 " So long as I am in trust, he shall 
 never wring a sixpence out of me be- 
 longing to the boy, Mrs. Garston. Re- 
 ly upon that." 
 
 Mrs. Garston nodded with some satis- 
 faction ; and stood to take a look from 
 the window. The river flowed on drear- 
 ily, the grass looked poor, even Mr. 
 Broom's chrysanthemums, dying away, 
 had a sombre look as of the dead. 
 
 " It's a dull look out, Thomas. I think 
 I'd rather see plain bricks-and- mortar." 
 
 " All things look dull on these dark 
 November days. You should see it in 
 the spring sunshine." 
 
 " I can't think, for my part, how old 
 
164 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 Broom gets his flowers to such perfection. 
 They must have been a show a month 
 ago." 
 
 " Indeed they were ; a very fine one." 
 
 " I'll go, Thomas, now. I suppose 
 I'm only hindering you. Show me 
 where you sleep first.'' 
 
 He opened the door of his bed-room, 
 and Mrs. Garston and her stick marched 
 round it, making her comments. 
 
 " Not bad for a makeshift ; sheets and 
 counterpane a tolerable color ; places ti- 
 dy. Who makes your bed, Thomas?" 
 
 " A woman comes to do all I want. 
 She is the bo}''s mother." 
 
 "Does she shake up the feathers 
 well ? Some of 'em are too lazy to give 
 it more than a turn and a push." 
 
 " It's a mattress," he answered, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 " Ah, that was one of Lady Kage's 
 crotchets, I remember — mattresses. 
 Well, I'm glad to see that there's some 
 approach to comfort for you, Thomas ; 
 but you'd be better off in your own 
 home." 
 
 " Indeed I am glad that Mr. Rash- 
 btirn has remained my tenant so long. 
 The lease will be out next year, Mrs. 
 Garston — " 
 
 " Do you suppose I don't know that ? " 
 was the interruption. "Mine will be 
 out as well as yours." 
 
 " And I am not sure but I shall give 
 it up," he added. "A single man does 
 not need a house of that sort." 
 
 " Give it up, will you ? Just as you 
 please, Thomas Kage. Your mother 
 thought } T ou'd be a good son and neigh- 
 bor to me ; but her wishes and mine 
 don't go for much, I see." 
 
 " Indeed they do, dear Mrs. Garston." 
 
 " Indeed they don't. Would you ever 
 have gone out of your house, else, and 
 let it to strangers ? " 
 
 She walked rapidly through the rooms 
 as she spoke, ungraciously accepting his 
 arm at the stairs. Mr. Kage helped 
 her into her carriage — to the admiration 
 of a small collection of urchins, who 
 had assembled to stare at the equipage 
 and the attire of the imposing footman. 
 
 " Good-bye, Thomas Kage. You'll 
 come in to dinner, and tell me how the 
 child takes it." And he nodded assent 
 as the carriage rolled off. 
 
 Mr. Kage did not by any means like 
 his task ; for he knew he should inflict 
 
 pain. But he accepted it as a duty. 
 Some one would have to be the inflictor 
 — better himself than a stranger. 
 
 He did not get up westward until 
 long after dusk had set in, which came 
 on early that gloom)' day. Belle Amies- 
 ley, quite unconscious of the shock that 
 was in store for her, was at that time in 
 her mother's chamber. Mrs. Annesley, 
 in an invalid wrapper, her feet stretched 
 out to the warm fire, had dozed off in 
 her easy-chair. Belle, seated on a low 
 stool on the other side, was indulging 
 herself with a peep at Barnaby Dawkes's 
 last letter, not yet a fortnight old, hold- 
 ing the pages noiselessly to the fire- 
 light, when a servant came in and said 
 Mr. Kage was below. The noise, slight 
 though it was, aroused the sleeper ; and 
 Belle, as if by magic, had nothing at all 
 in her hands. 
 
 " What did Ann say, my dear ? " 
 
 u Mr. Kage has called, mamma. 
 Shall I go down ? " 
 
 " Of course ; he has come to see me, 
 Belle; but I'm very tired to-night. Per- 
 haps, if he does not mind, he would let 
 me be until another evening." 
 
 "I'll tell him," said Belle gleefully, 
 the soft passages of the hidden letter — 
 meaning nothing to an impartial ear — 
 making melody in her mind. "But, 
 mamma dear, I think he might do you 
 good. I am sure you want rousing, and 
 Thomas Kage is very gentle." 
 
 "Not this evening, dear; not this 
 evening. Is it tea-time, Belle ? " 
 
 " It will be soon. I'll dismiss Mr. 
 Kage in a whirlwind of hurry, and come 
 and make it." 
 
 " Ah, child, what spirits you have ! 
 And you were for a long while so down- 
 hearted. I never knew why, or what 
 the reason was ; but you've got all your 
 natural gaiety back of late." 
 
 " The reason ? — why, mamma, I was 
 lamenting for my sins ! " spoke Belle, 
 with a light laugh. " Don't you know 
 what a naughty girl I used to be? 
 Don't you remember the uneasiness I 
 gave you ? Sarah often said I frighten- 
 ed her : but we called her an old maid 
 in those days." 
 
 Mrs. Annesley was looking at her 
 daughter. The ga} T tone, the glad coun- 
 tenance, the dainty dress — a pale-blue 
 gleaming silk — all told of a mind at 
 rest within. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 165 
 
 "What are you dressed for, child ? " 
 
 " This is Mrs. Lowther's night." 
 
 " To be sure. You are going there." 
 
 " But not for ages yet, mamma. I 
 shall have tea with you first, and go in 
 at my leisure ; seven o'clock or so. The 
 children won't leave till nine or ten. 
 Perhaps Thomas Kage has come to go 
 with me. I never thought of that." 
 
 Glancing at her pretty self in the 
 glass, touching her golden hair and the 
 blue ribbons that mingled with it — for 
 Miss Belle was a vain little coquette still 
 at heart — she ran lightly down. Thom- 
 as Kage Was standing by the dining- 
 room fire. 
 
 " Have you come to accompany me to 
 Mrs. Lowther's ? " she asked, as he 
 shook hands. 
 
 " To Mrs. Lowther's ? No." 
 
 " She has a child's .part}'' to-night. I 
 shall make mamma's tea and take some 
 with her before I go in. Perhaps you 
 came to see mamma, then ? But she is 
 tired : she has been very low and weak 
 all the afternoon." 
 
 " No, not your mamma. My visit is 
 to you, Belle." 
 
 He had never smiled once : tone and 
 face were alike remarkably grave. She 
 could but notice it ; and one of those in- 
 stincts of ill, that perhaps we have all 
 experienced, stole over her. 
 
 " Have you brought me any bad ti- 
 dings, Thomas ? " she asked, calling 
 him by the familiar name, as she had 
 done before at earnest moments. " Mrs. 
 Garston is not ill ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Garston is quite well. She 
 has had some news from the country to- 
 day, and I — I have come to tell you 
 what it is." 
 
 " Good news, or bad ? " 
 
 " It relates to a wedding; but I call 
 it bad. Won't you sit down, Belle ? " 
 
 " I'd rather stand. I've been sitting 
 all day in mamma's room. Well ?" 
 
 " A friend of yours has been getting 
 married, Belle," he continued, think- 
 ing how very badly he was performing 
 his task, now that the critical moment 
 had come. " Can vou guess who it 
 is?" 
 
 " A friend of mine ? 0, I can't 
 guess. It's nobody that I care much to 
 hear about, I suppose. I have no very 
 close friends, Thomas ; except married 
 ones." 
 
 She was perplexingly unsuspicious. 
 Thomas Kage did not speak for a min- 
 ute, and the young lady took occasion to 
 call his attention to her attire. 
 
 " Is not this a lovely dress ? " pulling 
 the skirt out with her two hands to show 
 its beauty. " If mamma were as partic- 
 ular as she used to be, she'd grumble 
 like anything at my wearing it to a 
 child's part}'. But she's not. She says 
 I'm changed ; I'm sure she is." 
 
 " Belle, I must get my news out," he 
 said with sudden resolution. " I am 
 beating about the bush, my dear, be- 
 cause I dislike to have to give you pain. 
 Of all the people in the world, whose 
 marriage would you be the most unpleas- 
 antly surprised to hear of? " 
 
 "Of all the people in the world?" 
 repeated Belle, dropping her dress and 
 lifting her innocent face. " Do you 
 mean the women ? " 
 
 " No ; the men." 
 
 " O, I— I don't know." 
 
 The color was beginning to flush her 
 face, her voice to hesitate. But still 
 Belle had not the least suspicion of the 
 astounding news. To connect any one 
 in ideal marriage now with Barnaby 
 Dawkes was simply impossible, unless it 
 had been herself. Looking at Thomas 
 Kage from a hopeless sea of mist, the 
 notion suddenly flashed over her that 
 some harm had happened to the gallant 
 gentleman. 
 
 " Have you — come to tell me anything 
 bad about — about Captain Dawkes ? " 
 she timidly whispered, hanging her head. 
 
 " You may call it bad. I would not 
 pain you with it if I could help, Belle." 
 
 " He was not in that — Mr. Kage, 
 there was an awful railway accident in 
 the Times this morning ! He was not 
 in that?" 
 
 " No, no. Captain Dawkes has been 
 behaving like a villain : it is neither 
 more nor less. Can't you take my hint, 
 child?" 
 
 Belle's face was growing whiter than 
 chalk. 
 
 " You must tell me, please," came 
 from her trembling lips. 
 
 " Dawkes is married." 
 
 0, the sound of anguish that broke 
 from that poor girl's heart ! Mr. Kage 
 thought she was going to faint, and threw 
 his arm round her. 
 
 " My dear child, be calm. You see 
 
166 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 now how utterly unworthy he has always 
 been of you." 
 
 " Will you please put me in a chair ? " 
 she gently said. 
 
 He was just in time. She did not 
 quite faint, ouly lay like a dead weight 
 for some minutes, and then her heart be- 
 gan to beat frightfully. Thomas Kage 
 would not call assistance, for her sake. 
 Presently she sat up, trying to be brave, 
 and leaned her cheek upon her hand. 
 He drew his chair close. 
 
 " Now tell me all about it, please. I 
 must know. Whom has he married ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Canterbury of the Rock." 
 
 " Mrs. Canterbury of the Rock ! " al- 
 most shrieked the girl in her surprise. 
 " — then — it may be for her money. It 
 — may not — have been — for love." 
 
 " Be you very sure that money would 
 outweigh love in his estimation any day," 
 spoke Mr. Kage with scornful emphasis. 
 
 " But she is young, and very lovely," 
 came the bitter rejoinder, the one grain 
 of comfort losing itself in torment. 
 "Nearly as young as I am." 
 
 Mr. Kage took the listless, trembling 
 hands in his, speaking gently. You 
 must regard me as a brother, Belle, — 
 and pour out your soul's trouble to me. 
 It will make it easier for you to bear. I 
 went through the same ordeal ouce my- 
 self, child, and can give you back sympa- 
 thy for sympathy, sigh for sigh. I was 
 the fittest person to break this to you — 
 and badly enough I've done it — but I 
 knew I should be more welcome than a 
 stranger. All that you are suffering I 
 suffered : suffered for years." 
 
 Belle bent her head and let her cold 
 forehead rest a moment on Mr. Kage's 
 hands as they held hers. It was a token 
 that she understood and thanked him. 
 
 " Was it for her ? I can feel more at 
 ease if you tell me. We will keep each 
 other's secret for ever." 
 
 " Yes, it was." 
 
 " I think I'll go to mamma, please," 
 she said, attempting to rise ; and ner 
 bosom was heaving, and her voice seemed 
 to have lost its life. But Mr. Kage de- 
 tained her. 
 
 " An instant, while I speak to you of 
 Barnaby Dawkes. I can now give you 
 my opinion freely. While there was a 
 possibility that — that a nearer tie might 
 sometime exist between you, my tongue 
 was tied." 
 
 " You have never thought well of 
 him." 
 
 "Annabel, there exists not a man in 
 the world whose conduct I think much 
 worse of than I do of his. I do not be- 
 lieve that he has the smallest sense of 
 honor. He is a false, pitiful, self-indul- 
 gent coward. Had you married him, I 
 feel persuaded he would have made your 
 life a misery." 
 
 " And she ? Will hers be that ? " 
 
 " I fear so ; but in a less degree, per- 
 haps, than yours would have been. With 
 her vast wealth they can live as fashiona- 
 ble people — he going his way, she hers." 
 
 A moment's pause. W T as Belle about 
 to faint again ? Her wan face suggested 
 it. Thomas Kage rose, holding her hands 
 still and bending over her. 
 
 " My dear, believe me, and try to real- 
 ise what I say to your own heart. A 
 marriage with Barnaby Dawkes would 
 have been nothing but a great misfor- 
 tune. Take comfort. Your pain just 
 now is difficult to bear, but I think you 
 will be able, regarding him as entirely 
 lost to you, to throw it off day by day. 
 I had to do it." 
 
 She wrung his hands with a lingering 
 grasp, and turned to quit the room. As 
 he was opening the door for her, she 
 stopped. 
 
 " I cannot go to Mrs. Lowther's. Do 
 you mind telling her ? Say — say — O 
 Thomas, I don't know what you can say! 
 I had so faithfulty promised to go." 
 
 " I will say that Mrs. Annesley is very 
 tired to-night, and you do not care to 
 come out. Leave it to me. God bless 
 and comfort you, child ! " 
 
 She went straight to her own chamber 
 — not at present was she fit for mortal 
 eyes — and there she strove to battle out 
 the first ful-y of the pitiless storm. Des- 
 olation ! desolation ! Amidst all the 
 tumult of her unhappy heart, Annabel 
 Annesle}^ was conscious that it would be 
 nothing less for ever. 
 
 When she emerged from the room, her 
 silken robe had been replaced by one 
 plain and soft, the blue ribbons were no 
 longer in her hair. There was no emo- 
 tion visible, no sign left of the anguish 
 she had passed through ; her face and 
 herself were alike strangely quiet. 
 
 " My love, how long you have been ! " 
 said Mrs. Annesley, glancing at the yet 
 unused tea-tray that waited on the table. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 167 
 
 " I am very sorry, mamma. You shall 
 liave }our tea in one minute. I have 
 been talcing my dress off." 
 
 The tone of the voice seemed changed; 
 it was so meekly subdued as to sound 
 like one of despair. Mrs. Annesley 
 glanced at Belle busy with the teacups, 
 and noted the change of attire. 
 
 " Why, what's that for ? " 
 
 " I don't care to go to Mrs. Lowther's, 
 after all. I will stay with you instead, 
 mamma." 
 
 Her mother alone henceforth. Belle 
 had nothing else left in life to cherish 
 now. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 AT MRS. RICHARD DUNN'S. 
 
 Another j'ear had come in, and was 
 coursing onwards. The sweet Ma} r flow- 
 ers were above ground, the May sunshine 
 was making gay even London streets ; 
 those fine white houses in Paradise - 
 square seemed ablaze with its light. 
 
 In one of the best of the said houses, 
 the one owned by Richard Dunn, there 
 sat, in what is called an American chair, 
 a young girl in deep mourning, who was 
 coughing sadby. Her face, surrounded 
 by its golden hair, was painfully thin, 
 her form shadowy. She was tired of sit- 
 ting by the fire, and had dragged the 
 chair to the window to sit in the sun- 
 shine v You would scarcely have known 
 her for the Belle Annesley of six months 
 before. 
 
 Mrs. Annesley had died in March. 
 The home was broken up ; and Belle, 
 with her portion of three hundred a-year, 
 had been staying since with her cousin, 
 Mrs. Richard Dunn. Where her home 
 would eventually be fixed was not de- 
 cided ; all concerned w T ere content to 
 leave it to the future. It was proposed 
 that in the autumn Belle should go on a 
 visit to her brother in the West Indies, 
 and so avoid the cold of the next English 
 winter, for her chest seemed delicate. 
 
 Her chest seemed delicate : it was 
 said from one to another. The girl was 
 wasting away to death before their ej-es, 
 and yet it was all they saw ! " She 
 coughed too much, and her chest was 
 weak, and she grew thin grieving for hex 
 
 mother ! " 0, but they were all blind 
 together. 
 
 The first to see any cause for appre- 
 hension was Mrs. Garston ; what was 
 there that the keen old eyes did not see ? 
 Belle — poor, sick, weary, hopeless, griev- 
 ing child — had been strange]}' averse to 
 going out for a long while. Before her 
 mother died, the plea of remaining with 
 her was an excuse ; since her death, that 
 had been the plea. But Mrs. Garston 
 drove one morning to Richard Dunn's, 
 gave them a sound trimming all round 
 for yielding to Miss Belle's inertness, and 
 carried the young lady off with her for 
 the rest of the day ; at least, until dusk 
 approached. She sent her. back in the 
 carriage then, telling her to keep the 
 windows shut ; and when Thomas Kage 
 came as usual in the evening, abruptly 
 met him with the announcement that 
 Belle Annesley was dying. Mr. Kage, 
 seeing Belle often, for he generally went 
 in to Richard Dunn's two or three even- 
 ings in the week, rather disputed this ; 
 and it aroused Mrs. Garston's ire. Con- 
 tradiction always did. He had certainly 
 thought Belle looking ill when he got 
 home from circuit, but he attributed it to 
 her mother's death, and perhaps some- 
 what to the mourning robes, 
 
 " How long is it since you saw her by 
 daylight ? " demanded Mrs. Garston. 
 
 Thomas Kage could not remember. 
 Not, he thought, since last winter. 
 
 " If you are not entirely overdone with 
 work to-morrow, you just quit it for an 
 hour, Thomas Kage. To hear you talk 
 of the amount of business on your shoul- 
 ders, one would think you must be mak- 
 ing your fortune as quick as it'ud take 
 an air-balloon to get from here to Jer- 
 icho." 
 
 " I have to do a great deal of work for 
 a very little pay," he answered laugh- 
 ingly. " It is only the great guns amid 
 us who make fortunes." 
 
 " You ' don't see much change in 
 her!' she has 'a bright color of an 
 evening!' You are a fool, Thomas 
 Kage ! " 
 
 " But—" 
 
 " Now don't you begin a dispute. 
 Anybody, not a fool, would know that 
 invalids like Belle always do pick up in 
 an evening. If you can spare a couple 
 of hours of that precious time of yours, 
 you go and see her to-morrow by day- 
 
168 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 light, and then tell me whether I'm right 
 or wrong. Will you do this?" 
 
 " Yes I will." 
 
 And accordingly on this very da} 7 , 
 when Belle had just drawn her chair 
 into the sunshine in Mrs. Dunn's hand- 
 some drawing-room, Thomas Kage came 
 in. He talked of indifferent matters 
 with as cool an air as if he were con- 
 scious of no secret motive for calling ; 
 chiefly to Mrs. Dunn and Mrs. Dunn's 
 bab} T , a little damsel who sat on her 
 mamma's knee, fiercely biting away at a 
 coral and flinging her small fat arms 
 about. 
 
 But he took the opportunity to glance 
 between whiles at the rocking-chair op- 
 posite him, and at her who sat in it. 
 Wan, white, shadowy ; her blue eyes 
 weary, her golden hair somewhat neg- 
 lected ; the thin hands lying inert on 
 the black crape of the lap ; so sat she. 
 A pang of regret darted through Thomas 
 Kage ; 
 
 " How long has your cough been so 
 troublesome, Belle?" he asked, as the 
 baby grew restless, and Mrs. Dunn rose 
 to cany it about. Not that it was a vi- 
 olent cough ; but hacking and frequent. 
 
 " 0, I don't know. I had it last 
 spring. It went away when the hot 
 weather came in." 
 
 " I shall feel your pulse, young lad}- ; 
 being a bit of a doctor." 
 
 He crossed over, and took her hand in 
 his ; a hot, damp, fragile hand, its palm 
 very pink. Thomas Kage laid it down 
 again, and put his gentle fingers on her 
 forehead. 
 
 " I have had a doctor," said Belle. 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Dunn called in Dr. 
 Tyndal in spite of my saj'ing there was 
 nothing the matter with me. There is 
 nothing, Thomas, except the cough ; 
 and that will go away with the advent 
 of warm weather." 
 
 " What did the doctor say to you ? " 
 
 " Say ! That nothing did ail me, that 
 he could find out. He says it every time 
 he comes." 
 
 "He really does," interposed Mrs. 
 Dunn, jogging the baby in her arms as 
 she spoke. " I tell him that Belle gets 
 thinner,* but he seems to think there is 
 no cause for it. He says he has several 
 young patients suffering from coughs; 
 through the coldness of the spring, he 
 thinks. Why, here's May, ami we have 
 
 no warm weather yet. If the sun shines, 
 it is only with a cold brightness." 
 
 "I should say he is a mufi," remark- 
 ed Thomas Kage. " The doctor I mean ; 
 not the sun." 
 
 Mrs. Dunn laughed, Belle laughed, 
 and the laughing appeared to offend the 
 baby, who set up a defiant cry. Upon 
 which Mrs. Dunn left the room to con- 
 sign her to ignominy and the nursery. 
 
 " Belle," said Thomas Kage in a low 
 tender tone, seating himself near her and 
 bending forward, "you are letting past 
 troubles lay hold of you." 
 
 The wan face became lovely with a 
 crimson flush. 
 
 " No," she said evasively ; " no." 
 
 " Nay, Belle, speak the truth, as to 
 your own heart. It is so." 
 
 There was just a little feeble battle 
 with the instinctive effort to maintain 
 the denial, and Belle gave it up for ever. 
 For a moment she looked into the kind 
 dark eyes, bent in true concern upon her, 
 and then hid her face in her hands. 
 
 " And if it be so ? Will you tell me 
 how I am to help it ? " 
 
 " But, my dear child — look up, Belle ; 
 this is serious. If you do not make 
 head against it, it will make head 
 against you." 
 
 " Do you see that I am looking very 
 ill?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, I do. It did not strike me 
 until to-day." 
 
 " Do you think that I am dying? " 
 
 " Belle, you should not say foolish 
 things." 
 
 " But I feel like it." 
 
 She was looking at him now earnestly, 
 and he at her; her sad eyes wore a 
 strangely peculiar light. 
 
 "There's nothing to live for. I have 
 felt that since — you know ; and now that 
 mamma is gone, there is less and less. 
 But it is not that, Thomas. Though 
 life had everything to make me wish to 
 stay in it, to strive to stay, I feel that it 
 would be of no use. It is drifting away 
 from me." 
 
 " It is wrong of you to think this." 
 
 " But if it be so, and if I cannot help 
 feeling and knowing that it is, where's 
 the wrong then ? " she persisted. 
 
 " Are you conscious of any malady ? " 
 
 " No, not of body. I lose strength, 
 and I get thinner and thinner ; that's 
 all." 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY^ WILL. 
 
 1G9 
 
 " Then why should you feel that you 
 
 are dying 
 
 ? » 
 
 " I don't mean dying yet. Only that 
 I shall never get up again and be as I 
 once was — as other people are. Thomas, 
 will you believS that I have come to long 
 for death ? Heaven only knows what I 
 have gone through — what my pain has 
 been." 
 
 " You told me a minute ago that you 
 had no pain." 
 
 "Neither have I of body — except the 
 cough." 
 
 He took her left hand very tenderly 
 within his, and stroked it, as a mother 
 might soothe a sick child. The right 
 hand was raised, shading her face. 
 
 " The pain and anguish are killing me, 
 Thomas. I cannot help it. Indeed, I 
 did try to take your advice to throw 
 things off, and to forget gradually ; but 
 I could not do it. I'm afraid I was not 
 strong, and it has worn me out." 
 
 " You must make a true, earnest, 
 prayerful effort, once for all. and rally." 
 
 - I have not prayed to rail} 7 . I have 
 prayed for death — but only if God 
 pleases. There is no sin in that. I be- 
 lieve He sees that I could not live on 
 with my broken heart." 
 
 " Hearts don't break so easily, my dear 
 girl. I once thought mine had snapped 
 right asunder, but I fancy it is whole 
 
 yet." 
 
 She shook her head sadly. 
 
 " It has been breaking ever since that 
 time — breaking and breaking, night and 
 day. I did not think any one could go 
 through what I have, and live. I could 
 not go through it again." 
 
 " I am afraid, Belle, this state of mind 
 is sinful,"' he rejoined, really not know- 
 ing what to say that would make any 
 impression on her. 
 
 '• I hope not. The horrible pain is 
 upon me always, Thomas, always. It is 
 wearing out my heart; it is killing me ; 
 it prevents any desire to live. If the 
 pain were lifted off me — and 0, how 
 willingly I would lift it if I could ! — 
 then I should be happy again, and wish 
 to live on ; but I cannot lift it ; it is not 
 in my power: instead of leaving me, it 
 seems only to grow more real. Don't 
 you see ? I and my will are, as it were, 
 helpless." 
 
 " Yes, I see," he murmured, his tone 
 partaking of the pain she spoke of. 
 
 " It is making me wish for death, 
 Thomas. There can be no other relief. 
 0, I know how good you are, and how 
 good Lady Kage was ; but don't blame 
 me, please don't blame me ! " 
 
 " Blame you ! " he interjected feel- 
 ingly. 
 
 " And sometimes I think that God is 
 not blaming me ; that He is sending all 
 this in love. I was such a wicked girl, 
 you know : doing what I could to plague 
 my mother, to ridicule and annoy every- ' 
 body. It was well that punishment 
 should come to me — that I should see 
 my sin. With heaven in view, Thomas, 
 it seems like sin now." 
 
 " Is heaven in view ? " 
 
 " I think it must be," she softly said. 
 " I think God means me to see it, and to 
 long for it. I have taken lately to, dream 
 of being in the sweetest place ; where 
 the sense of perfect rest is upon me, and 
 pain and tears are over; the light is 
 beautiful, softer and brighter than any- 
 thing on earth, and the flowers are 
 sweeter. It is heaven, nothing less. 
 When I wake up, and my real pain rushes 
 back on me, I stretch out my arms feebly 
 to God, and ask Him to please to take me 
 to it. I think He will." 
 
 Thomas Kage sat for an instant in 
 silence. This was difficult to deal with. 
 
 "Listen to me, Belle. If you mean 
 that you really and truly think you are 
 in danger of death, it must be seen to. 
 We must call a consultation." 
 
 " A consultation ! It would be worse 
 than useless. What I am suffering 
 from is nothing within the scope of a 
 ph} T sician. I am just drifting out of life 
 without any malady — except that of a 
 broken heart." 
 
 " But—" 
 
 " Thomas, believe me," she earnestly 
 pursued, " nothing can be done for me ; 
 there is no disease to work upon. If you 
 called in all the doctors in London, they 
 could say no more than that. Dr. Tyn- 
 dal sees me every other day : he will 
 preach to you by the hour about want of 
 ' tone,' and spring's deceitful winds, and 
 young ladies' fancies; and finally tell 
 you there's nothing else the matter with 
 me. Go and ask him. Many a girl has 
 suffered, and wasted away to death as I 
 am wasting, and the doctors have never 
 known what she died of. It is not their 
 skill that is in fault." 
 
170 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 "Granted; but—" 
 
 " And mind, Thomas, you must not 
 speak of this ; you know that there's no 
 one else in the wide world that I would 
 breathe it to. I could not have told you 
 but for what you disclosed to me that 
 night. We—" 
 
 A servant came in, bringing the cards 
 of visitors. Not seeing his mistress, he 
 presented them to Miss Annesley. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose they must come up," 
 she answered, wishing the house was her 
 own, so that she could be denied. 
 
 As the man left the room again, she 
 cast her eyes carelessly on the cards, and 
 started up with a faint cry. Thomas 
 Kage bent to look. 
 
 Captain Dawkes — Mrs. Dawkes. 
 
 Since the inauspicious marriage (if 
 you knew all, my reader, 3'ou would 
 indorse the word) of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Dawkes the previous November, they 
 had chiefly resided at the Rock. Mrs. 
 Kage recovered in a degree from her 
 attack of paratysis, but only to be more 
 battered in look than ever, more dilap- 
 idated in constitution ; and to pay her a 
 visit daily Mrs. Dawkes found an intol- 
 erably wearisome task. How Captain 
 Dawkes contrived to reassure his wife on 
 the score of his accredited ill-doings, 'he 
 best knew ; woman is credulous, and man 
 is wary. He did contrive to do it ; and 
 after the accusations in the vestry, Mrs. 
 Dawkes heard no more. Those who 
 would have spoken the truth to warn her 
 from the man, found their lips sealed as 
 soon as he had become her husband. If 
 Mrs. Dawkes had cause for any suspi- 
 cion, it was confined to her own breast. 
 She had committed the great impru- 
 dence of marrying without having her 
 available money settled on herself, and 
 if Captain Dawkes made free with it, 
 why the law would have said it was his 
 own to do with as he pleased. They 
 went in for a vast deal of show and ex- 
 pense ; and the Captain was a gentle- 
 man at large again, to display his face 
 in the London world at will, and get as 
 much credit as lie chose. He had re-pur- 
 chased into the army, and was altogether 
 grand. Their London house, the lease 
 of it bought recently, was one of the 
 most fashionable mansions in Belgravia ; 
 and Captain and Mrs. Dawkes had now 
 come up to take possession of it, with 
 the intention of being a very fashionable 
 
 couple. Caroline had always loved show 
 and glitter ; and it may be she loved it 
 all the better since her heart had grown 
 a little seared with a certain blight Fate 
 had cast upon it. But for the cold 
 spring, and the rather delicate health of 
 little Tom Canterbury, Mrs. Dawkes had 
 been up before May. The Captain had 
 been a good deal away from the Rock 
 himself, pleading his soldier's duties. 
 However, here they were now in London, 
 and had come to make a call on Mrs. 
 Richard Dunn. 
 
 The crimson flush of emotion burn- 
 ing in Belle Annesley's cheeks was al- 
 ready fading to an ashy whiteness. She 
 had started up to quit the room, but the 
 sound of voices and steps close outside 
 the door cut off her escape. Thomas 
 Kage laid his restraining hand upon her 
 in calm composure, and it almost seem- 
 ed to give her strength. 
 
 " Be still. Annabel. You have noth- 
 ing to do but keep quiet. I will shield 
 you." 
 
 And as if to receive the visitors, Mr. 
 Kage placed himself before her. Mrs. 
 Dunn unconsciously helped matters by 
 coming in at the moment. There was 
 greeting and much talking; and it was 
 only when they separated to place them- 
 selves in chairs that the invalid girl in 
 her deep mourning was perceived. 
 
 " Ah, Miss Annesley ! — how are 
 you?" said the Captain, putting out 
 his hand as eoolty as though he had 
 never played fast and loose with her. 
 
 Caroline took a step forward in curi- 
 osity when she heard the name. She 
 had never seen Belle Annesley, but she 
 could not forget that it had been said 
 she was Barnaby Dawkes's love. Bar- 
 nab}", when asked about it by his wife 
 in private, bad burst out laughing at the 
 very idea; had made game over it, game 
 also of Belle. But Mrs. Dawkes was 
 curious, nevertheless ; and she came 
 across the room to see. 
 
 Belle had risen. A fragile girl with a 
 mass of goldrn hair, and a transparent 
 face whose delicate cheeks weie shining 
 with a hectic glow. But if Caroline 
 had been calling up incipient ideas of 
 jealous)', they went out at once as she 
 stood; for there was something about 
 the girl that seemed to say she was nut 
 very long for this world, and Carotin' \s 
 heart filled itself with a wondrous pity. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 171 
 
 "Sarah, is this your cousin?" she 
 asked, calling Mrs. Dunn by the old fa- 
 miliar Christian name. 
 
 « Yes. Miss Annesley, Mrs. Dawkes." 
 
 The two had stood looking at each 
 other, apparently waiting for the intro- 
 duction, or Mrs. Dunn had surely never 
 been so formal as to make it She felt 
 a little confused herself, remembering 
 what Barnaby Dawkes's conduct had 
 been. 
 
 Belle sat down again, her bosom heav- 
 ing and fluttering; the leaf-like hectic 
 fading out of the cheeks. Thomas 
 Kage moved near her; the Captain 
 crossed over and took a chair by Mrs. 
 Dunn. 
 
 " I cannot think how it is we never 
 met during the six months that I passed 
 in London, when my boy was a baby," 
 began Caroline, who seemed as if she 
 could not take her eyes off the sick girl. 
 " I feel quite sure I never saw you. 
 We called twice on Sarah — who was 
 then staying with your mamma — but I 
 do not remember you at all." 
 
 Belle cast her thoughts back to the 
 time spoken of by Mrs. Dawkes, in a 
 kind of transient shame. Too well she 
 remembered that spring : it was in the 
 very height of her thoughtless and flirt- 
 ing days, when she had no care for 
 aught save her admirers. The advent 
 of Barnaby Dawkes and his love had 
 not dawned then. 
 
 " I must have happened to be out 
 when you came," she replied. " I 
 know I once went with mamma and Sa- 
 rah to call on you in Belgrave-square, 
 but you and Mr. Canterbury were not 
 at home. I was very young then, and 
 mamma did not take me out much. 
 But I saw you once, Mrs. Dawkes." 
 
 " Ah, you mean in the old, old days 
 when we were little mites of children, 
 and you came down to Chilling Rectory 
 on a visit. That w r as just after mamma 
 settled at the place. Of course we saw 
 each other then." 
 
 u No. I meant when you were in 
 town. You had been calling upon Mrs. 
 Garston, and Mr. Canterbury was put- 
 ting you into the carriage. I stood in- 
 side the gate and watched yon away ; 
 but you did not notice me," added Belle, 
 losing herself in the reminiscence. 
 
 " You don't seem well," said Caroline, 
 a little abruptly. And the remark 
 seemed to scare Belle's senses away. 
 
 Thomas Kage came to the rescue, 
 speaking quietly. 
 
 "I was just telling Miss Annesley 
 that her cough was making her look 
 ill and thin ; but she says she had it 
 last 3'ear, and only got strong when the 
 warm weather came in. It has been a 
 late spring." 
 
 It has not been much of a spring at 
 all, down with us," observed Caroline, 
 playing with her wa r ch-chain, and never 
 looking at him as she spoke. Face to 
 face with Thomas Kage, it could not be 
 but that remembrance should lie upon 
 her. " Little Tom has had a cough too; 
 they think his chest is weak." 
 
 " Have you brought him to town ? " 
 asked Mr. Kage. 
 
 " What a question, Thomas ! " she 
 answered, with a laugh that seemed not 
 to be very real. " As if I should go 
 anywhere without my boy ! You'll 
 come and see him, will you not ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Mamma says I had a delicate chest 
 myself when I was a child ; she was 
 always afraid for me. Papa died of 
 consumption. But I grew up to be 
 strong and well, and 1 don't see why 
 Tom should not." 
 
 " The boy has always seemed to me 
 to be a particularly healthy child," ob- 
 served Mr. Kage. " Though small and 
 slightly formed, he is quite sound." 
 
 " Of course he is," acquiesced Caro- 
 line. " Captain Dawkes says sometimes 
 that Tom is not strong, but I am sure it 
 is all fancy." 
 
 " Shall you make a long stay in 
 town ? " 
 
 " Until August, I suppose. I want 
 to spend September on the Rhine. By 
 the way, can you tell me whether Mrs. 
 Dunn is in London ? — Lydia Canter- 
 bury, you know." 
 
 " She is." 
 
 " The Miss Canterburys are abroad 
 still. Austin Rufort and his wife came 
 back to the Rector} 7 just as we left Chil- 
 ling. I did not see them ; we crossed 
 each other on the road." 
 
 " The Miss Canterburys are in London, 
 staying with their sister, Mrs. Dunn," 
 spoke Thomas Kage. " I seem to know 
 more about your family than you do, 
 Mrs. Dawkes," he added, with a slight 
 laugh. 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes bit her pretty lip. She 
 did not like his calling her *' Mrs. 
 
172 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 Dawkes," or the coolly civil indifference 
 that characterised his tone and manner, 
 as if she could never be an object of the 
 smallest interest to him henceforth for 
 ever. Neither did she care to hear that 
 the Miss Canterbury^ were in London. 
 A sense of the wrong inflicted on her 
 late husband's daughters lay dormant 
 in a remote corner of her heart ; the 
 sight of them invariably woke it up, 
 and Caroline would rather have been 
 spared the meeting. 
 
 " 0, staying with L}'dia Dunn, are 
 they ? Do they look well ? " 
 
 " I have not seen them, Mrs. Dawkes." 
 
 " Mrs. Dawkes " again ! And Mrs. 
 Dawkes drawing her chair round, joined 
 in the conversation with her husband 
 and Mrs. Richard Dunn. 
 
 But Captain and Mrs. Dawkes soon 
 rose. Perhaps neither felt quite at 
 ease in the present company. In the 
 movement, — the slight bustle of the 
 farewells, — Captain Dawkes got an un- 
 observed moment behind with Belle. 
 Clasping her fragile hand within his, so 
 warm with strong life, he bent his face 
 until it nearly touched hers, speaking in 
 a sweet and tender whisper : 
 
 " Do not blame me until you know 
 how 1 was tried. The misery has been 
 worse to me than to you. Heaven 
 bless you, Belle ! " 
 
 And when Thomas Kage came back 
 across the room to say his own adieu 
 after they had disappeared, he wondered 
 what had come to Belle Annesley. Her 
 blue eyes were shining as with the light 
 of love ; the dead weariness had mo- 
 mentarily left her face; and her cheeks 
 were bright with a soft rose color. 
 
 CHAPTER XNV. 
 
 AT THE FESTIVE BOARD. 
 
 The crowded and prolonged season 
 gave no signs yet of drawing to a close. 
 If the spring had been cold and dull, 
 the summer was lovely. London was 
 very full ; Hyde-park shone with beau- 
 ty ; frivolity reigned everywhere. 
 
 Amidst the gayest of the gay were 
 Captain and Mrs. Dawkes. In their 
 fine mansion in Belgravia, the lease of 
 which had been recently purchased, 
 
 they reigned a king and queen of fash- 
 ion, entertaining frequently the world, 
 regardless of cost. From the state and 
 expense kept up, by the w r ay the money 
 was squandered right and left, it might 
 have been thought their purse was with- 
 out end. The most absurd stories of 
 Mrs. Canterbury's wealth had flown 
 about, and society deemed her revenues 
 to be at least regal. Possibly in her in- 
 experience she fancied them so herself. 
 
 The Captain was in clover. Unlim- 
 ited wealth and a high position amidst 
 his fellow-men, had been the dream of 
 his ambition from boyhood. A dream 
 of fanc} T , however, rather than of hope ; 
 for Barnaby Dawkes had never thought 
 to be more wealthy than Mrs. Garston's 
 money would have made him. And 
 even that he had not looked upon as a 
 certainty. Although Keziah and others 
 had told him he was sure to succeed to 
 the old lady's inheritance, in his own 
 heart there had always lain a doubt of 
 it. She herself had never led him to 
 expect it — never by a single hint ; on 
 the contrary, words had many a time 
 fallen from her lips from which he knew 
 he might draw a totally opposite deduc- 
 tion. And therefore Mr. Barnaby 
 could never in reality plead expectations 
 as an excuse for the spendthrift ways he 
 took up. But what was Mrs. Garston's 
 moderate wealth compared to this that 
 he had come into by his marriage with 
 Mrs. Canterbury ? Barnaby Dawkes 
 estimated that now much as he did a 
 few ashes from his cigar. He could at 
 length afford to snap his fingers at the 
 old lady ; and did so metaphorical ly. 
 
 To marry Barnaby Dawkes was an 
 imprudent step of Mrs. Canterbury's ; 
 to marry him in the haste she did, and 
 without any kind of settlement, was 
 imprudence terrible. For } r ou see that 
 by so doing all moneys, not secured to 
 her separate use by her first husband, 
 passed into his power ? Reviewing this 
 desirable fact in his mind while he 
 shaved, the morning after his marriage, 
 complacently regarding himself in the 
 glass, the Captain called it a " God- 
 send." Possibly; but he had not the 
 sense to foresee that to a man of his 
 lavish tastes and self-indulgent habits 
 it might prove a dangerous one. He 
 paid his debts, — more, were they, than 
 the world or Keziah knew of; he re- 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 173 
 
 purchaser! into the arn^; he flung money 
 about as inclination dictated, without 
 the slightest stint; and he and his 
 wife, quitting the Rock, set up their 
 gorgeous tent in Belgravia for the sea- 
 son, to live on the scale of princes. 
 
 They were a fashionable couple in 
 other respects as well ; politely indiffer- 
 ent to each other, rather than cordial. 
 That Caroline had found out her mis- 
 t ,ke in mariying him was only too prob- 
 able ; and the very listlessness in which 
 her daj's were passed caused her to en- 
 ter the more eagerly into gaiety. If 
 she repented, she did not show it ; 
 woman-like, she buried it within her 
 breast ; and talked, and dressed, and 
 laughed, and was the gayest of the gay. 
 She liked the life ; possessing, in point 
 of fact, an innate genius for it. A late 
 breakfast in the morning, she and Bar- 
 naby lounging over it together, glancing 
 at their plans for the day and picking 
 out the most agreeable ways of killing 
 time ; very fine and fashionable both, 
 in look and manner and speech, and in- 
 tensely heartless ; he away afterwards, 
 she devouring some charming novel ; a 
 few select morning callers ; a grand 
 luncheon, taken nearly always in com- 
 pany ; the real visiting and being visit- 
 ed ; then going out to buy dress and 
 flowers and sweetmeats — anything at- 
 tractive that shops display ; the Park 
 next ; dinner (always a gorgeous one), 
 out or at home ; the Opera and evening 
 assemblies ; and to bed in the morning 
 sunlight. This was the life ; it was, in 
 fact, nothing but a whirl of excitement, 
 and both Captain and Mrs. Dawkes 
 thought it paradise. He, of course, 
 had other pursuits — billiards and wine- 
 drinking and gambling. 
 
 But it is not entirely of Captain and 
 Mrs. Dawkes that this chapter must 
 treat. Looking on at all this extrava- 
 gance and gaiety were the inmates of a 
 house in a less fashionable quarter, but 
 not so very far removed either ; and 
 that was Mrs. Dunn's, of Paradise- 
 square. Mrs. Dunn had her two sisters 
 staying with her — Olive and Millicent 
 Canterbury. It was natural that they 
 should see all this lavish waste of money, 
 their money, with grievous heart-burn- 
 ing. Yes, their money ; they could not 
 but look upon it as theirs still of right, 
 for they had been born to it. Who 
 
 were these strangers, these interlopers, 
 Caroline Dawkes and Barnaby her hus- 
 band, that they should be revelling in 
 the sisters' birthright ? Olive and Mil- 
 licent did not suffer their lips to put the 
 question even to each other. Mrs. 
 Dunn, less reticent, asked it a dozen 
 times a day. But, like many another 
 bitter wrong, it had to be endured, for 
 there was no remedy ; and two of them 
 at least strove to make the best of it. 
 
 The two houses kept up a show of 
 friendship. Stay ; not friendship, ac- 
 quaintanceship. Miss Canterbury will- 
 ed it so. It was better, she urged ; 
 and, after all, what good would be gain- 
 ed by showing resentment? Millicent, 
 following her eldest sister's lead always, 
 acquiesced without a word. Mrs. Dunn 
 grumblingly yielded ; not to comply 
 with Olive's advice, but because in 
 her curiosity she would see a little fur- 
 ther into Captain and Mrs. Dawkes, 
 and the Captain and Mrs. Dawkes' 
 menage. So a call had been exchanged 
 twice or thrice, and now there was going 
 to be a dinner. Caroline felt a kind of 
 uneasiness in their presence always, her 
 husband none. Indeed, he personally 
 could not be charged with offence to 
 them. 
 
 The fine June day was drawing, like 
 the month itself, to a close, as Keziah 
 Dawkes picked her wa}' across the 
 watered streets of Belgravia to her 
 brother's residence. However gratified 
 Barnaby Dawkes might be with the 
 substantial good resulting from his mar- 
 riage, Keziah was less so. In the ab- 
 stract she had not wished her brother to 
 marry at all ; she felt, to this hour, the 
 keen pang that shot across her heart the 
 evening that he had first spoken of 
 Belle Annesley as his possible future 
 wife ; for Keziah loved him jealously. 
 But when Barnaby cast his covetous 
 eyes on the wealth} 7 Mrs. Canterbury, 
 and sent for Keziah to help him scheme 
 to get her, she had entered into it with 
 her whole spirit. What precise good 
 Keziah pictured to result from it for 
 herself, she never said; but she certain- 
 ly looked for a great deal. And she 
 was feeling disappointed, for as yet the 
 good had not come. To be welcomed as 
 an inmate of this Belgravian mansion 
 she had confidently anticipated ; but she 
 had not got there yet. In point of fact, 
 
174 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes did not like Keziah, and 
 she told her husband that she would not 
 have her there. Keziah thought he 
 might have taken the reins into his own 
 hands ; and she intended to suggest it 
 to him. Reaching the door, she gave a 
 knock and then a ring ; and a smart 
 footman, in the smart Canterbury livery, 
 appeared. 
 
 " Is Captain Dawkes at home ? " 
 
 " No, mem.'' 
 
 " Mrs. Dawkes ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Dawkes has not come in yet, 
 mem. There's nobody within but Mrs. 
 Kage." 
 
 Keziah felt a little surprised. 
 
 " Mrs. Kage ! Is she here ? " 
 
 " She come up three or four days ago, 
 mem," said the man. " 1 think she is 
 in her room, a being dressed for dinner." 
 
 "I will wait," said Keziah. 
 
 Making herself at home in the house, 
 as she chose always to do, she turned in- 
 to the dining-room. The table was al- 
 ready laid, and for several people. 
 
 " There's a dinner-party to-day, I see," 
 observed Keziah quickly, the beautiful 
 glass and silver glittering in her eyes like 
 so many diamonds. 
 
 " Not much of a party, mem ; a fami- 
 ly assemblage, I believe," answered the 
 servant, who minced his words affectedlj' 
 like some of his betters. " The Misses 
 Canterburys is to dine with us, and one 
 or two more." 
 
 Keziah passed into a small room that 
 her brother called his " study." Pipes 
 and pistols, and such-like curiosities, lay 
 about ; but of materials for other kinds 
 of study there appeared to be none. 
 She sat down by the window, which had 
 a lively prospect of the back yard. 
 
 " When my brother comes in, say that 
 I am waiting here to see him," she said. 
 And the man left her. 
 
 Captain Dawkes and his wife arrived 
 together. He had been driving her in 
 the Park. As Mrs. Dawkes passed up- 
 stairs, the servant delivered the message 
 to his master. 
 
 " Well, Keziah," said the Captain, 
 beginning to unbutton his gloves slowly 
 as he entered. 
 
 Keziah shook hands with him. Since 
 the marriage her manners had become, 
 perhaps unconsciously, more formal. 
 Time was when her only greeting to him 
 had been a loving kiss. 
 
 "I have been waiting in for you every 
 evening for a week past, Parnaby," she 
 began, some resentment in her tone. 
 *' You promised to come and talk one or 
 two things over with me." 
 
 " Awfully sorry for it," said the Cap- 
 tain, with a great show of repentance. 
 " Haven't been able to come, 'pon honor." 
 Keziah took her bonnet-string in one 
 hand and stroked it with the other. — a 
 habit she had when in deep thought, — 
 while her eyes were fixed reproachfully 
 on Parnaby. 
 
 " The matters must be talked of be- 
 tween us, Parnaby, for my sake, if not 
 for yours. I have never thought but of 
 3^ou through life; but I — I must consid- 
 er a little for myself now." 
 
 " To-morrow, or next day, I'll come 
 for certain, Keziah. We get up awfully 
 late here, and the morning's gone before 
 one can look round." 
 
 " I suppose that is a consequence of 
 your going to bed late ? " said Keziah / 
 alluding to the getting up. I'm out of 
 my bed at eight every morning in the 
 year." 
 
 "Jolly freezing that, in winter!" re- 
 marked the gallant Captain. " Look 
 here, you'll stay dinner. Go up and take 
 your bonnet off." 
 
 " You have a party to-day, and I am 
 not dressed for it." 
 
 " A party ? no. The Canterburys and 
 Dunns and Tom Kage. Don't think 
 there'll be anybody else. No need of 
 particular dress for them." 
 
 " I did think you would have asked me 
 to come here and stay a few days with 
 you, Parnaby," she broke forth, the sore 
 feeling finding vent at last. " It would 
 be a relief after my poor lodgings." 
 
 " Fact is, Caroline objects to have peo- 
 ple staying with her," spoke the Captain 
 with indifference. 
 
 " You might invite me." 
 " I'll see later. No time to think 
 about things. Hands full of engage- 
 ments already. You'll stay to dinner 
 though ? " 
 
 " Par nab}', do you ever look back to 
 the old days," she asked in a low tone, 
 her gray hard face bent forward with an 
 expression of intense pain, " when you 
 and I struggled on together, with very 
 few comforts and no dainties, and you 
 went in fear of your liberty? Do you 
 ever recall that time ? " 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 175 
 
 " Why, on earth, should I? " demand- 
 ed the Captain. " I'm only too glad to 
 6end it amidst the bygones. What's the 
 matter with you, Keziah ? " 
 
 The matter with her ! Keziah Dawkes 
 was only learning the hard lesson that 
 many another woman has had to learn. 
 His turn served, the wealth and position 
 he had coveted his at last, Barnaby 
 L>awkes's entire selfishness displayed it- 
 self in its true colors. He cared no more 
 for the 'sister who had sacrificed so much 
 for him than he did for the rest of the 
 world. Self it had been always with 
 Barnaby ; self it would be to the end. 
 
 " I did think j 7 ou might have liked to 
 have me for a short while in your house, 
 Barby, now that you have one worth 
 coming to," she said a little plaintively. 
 
 " Ah — tell you, got no time to think 
 about it just now, Keziah," was the su- 
 premely independent answer. " Such a 
 lot to do in town always. You shall 
 come and stay with us at the Rock." 
 
 A gracious promise apparently, but 
 not a sincere one. Barnaby's private be- 
 lief was, that his wife would no more 
 have Keziah at the Rock than she would 
 in Belgravia. For himself it was a mat- 
 ter of nearly perfect indifference ; of the 
 two, he would rather prefer Keziah's 
 room to her company. 
 
 " Barnaby ! what a splendid dia- 
 mond ! " 
 
 Captain Dawkes did most things with 
 the drawling slowness of a man of fash- 
 ion, and he had by this time got off one 
 of his gloves. A diamond on the third 
 finger of his right hand flashed in the 
 light. 
 
 "Rather nice," acquiesced the Cap- 
 tain listlessly, as if diamonds were as 
 common with him now as debts once 
 were. " It's a little too large : got to wear 
 it on this finger; shall have it taken in." 
 
 " It must have been a priceless dia- 
 mond," remarked Keziah. 
 
 " No ; cheap, for what it is. Gave 
 three hundred and fifty for it. Saw it by 
 accident at Garrard's the other day, and 
 nailed it on the spot. Ordered a set of 
 studs to match ; doubt if they'll get 'em 
 as fine as — My dear, what's the matter? " 
 For Mrs. Dawkes had come into the 
 room in a kind of commotion. She did 
 not at first see Keziah, and began to 
 speak very rapidly. 
 
 " Did you ever Jcnoio anything like 
 
 mamma ? She says she is going to 
 dine at table, and is being got up for it 
 in a low dress. — 0, how do you do, Ke- 
 ziah ? " 
 
 " I was telling Keziah to take her 
 bonnet off and stay to dinner," remark- 
 ed the Captain. "Not dressed for it, 
 she answers : as if that mattered ! " 
 
 " 0, don't think of your dress," said 
 Caroline graciously. — " But about mam- 
 ma, Barnaby : what's to be done ? " 
 
 " Let her dine at table if she wants 
 to," was Barnaby's comment. 
 
 "But she'll look— she'll look— such 
 an object," returned Mrs. Dawkes, hesi- 
 tating to applj' the word to her mother, 
 but finding no ready substitute. 
 
 " And if she does ? " said the easy 
 Captain. ' ; There'll be no strangers." 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes and Keziah went up- 
 stairs together. The latter unbuttoned 
 her mantle, and glanced at her tight-fit- 
 ting brown-silk dress. Good of its kind, 
 but not quite the thing for a dinner-par- 
 ty. Keziah Dawkes, however, had out- 
 lived the age of vanity. She never pos- 
 sessed much ; all hers had been concen- 
 tered in her handsome brother. 
 
 She went and sat in the drawing-room 
 alone, and there waited for the appear- 
 ance of the company, in-door and out- 
 door. What a beautiful room it was ! 
 Keziah was engaged in a mental calcu- 
 lation as to how many hundreds of 
 pounds the furniture and the fittings-up 
 had cost, when her attention was attract- 
 ed by the entrance of Mrs. Kage. 
 
 Keziah's eyes took a startled stare of 
 surprise, and she drew back involunta- 
 rily. W"as it indeed Mrs. Kage ? or 
 some poor puppet fantastically attired to 
 frighten the world ? Sure such a paint- 
 ed face was never seen in connection 
 with paralysis ! For the remains of 
 that seizure were still upon her : the 
 legs were uncertain, the arms shook, the 
 mouth twitched incessantly. Fry, the 
 maid, dragged rather than led her across 
 the room to a seat. Keziah, in her hu- 
 manity, went up and helped. 
 
 " dear ! — much obliged — who is 
 it ? " asked the poor cracked jerking 
 voice, and the dim eyes looked up ; eyes 
 too near their final closing to be tricked 
 out as they were with belladonna. 
 
 " It is I — Keziah Dawkes. I am 
 glad to see you can be about again, Mrs. 
 Kage." 
 
176 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 " 0, I'm quite well, thank you ; quite 
 blooming. — Fry, where are you putting 
 me ? " 
 
 Fry and Keziah were putting her in- 
 to the easiest and safest chair they could 
 find, one with large elbows ; from an 
 unsafe one she might have tumbled out. 
 0, what a mockery it was ! — her bedi- 
 zened face ; the flowers and feathers 
 nodding on the head never still ; the 
 bare neck with its thin black-lace cover- 
 ing; the jangling beads on the skeleton 
 wrists ! When Mrs. Kage should be at- 
 tired for her coffin, lying in it at rest, 
 she would be more seemly to the eye 
 than she was now. 
 
 Fry had scarcely fixed her, or finished 
 picking up the fans and scent-bottles 
 that would keep falling from her hands 
 and lap, when Mrs. Dawkes entered — a 
 lovely vision she, in pearls and blue sat- 
 in. Something like dismaj 7 rose to her 
 beautiful face. 
 
 " Fry ! how could you think of bring- 
 ing mamma here ? " came the vexed 
 question. " She should have been taken 
 at once to her place at the table." 
 
 " She'd not go, ma'am," answered 
 Fry. " She would not hear of it." 
 
 " But how is she to be got down when 
 the people are here ? — Mamma" — bend- 
 ing down her face to the palsied one — 
 "you had better go to the dinner-table 
 at once, it will be more comfortable for 
 you." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked Mrs. 
 Kage shrilly. "I am going down with 
 the rest ; I am not a child. "0, the in- 
 gratitude of daughters! After I. have 
 schemed for j t ou, Caroline, to put jou in 
 your beautiful position, and got you 
 loads of wealth and — " 
 
 •'There, there, mamma; that will do. 
 — Fry, pour some eau -de - cologne on 
 mamma's hands." 
 
 Mrs. Kage was ever ready for scent 
 in any shape, and the "pouring it on 
 her hands " took her attention from un- 
 desirable reminiscences. Caroline, bit- 
 ing her pretty lips, w'alked to the win- 
 dow and looked out. 
 
 She was just in time to see the stop- 
 page of Mrs. Dunn's carriage under- 
 neath. One, the first to step from it, 
 caused her heart to thrill even then ; it 
 was Thomas Kage. He turned round 
 to give his hand to the rest. Millicent 
 Canterburj 7 jumped lightly down ; Olive 
 
 came next ; Lydia Dunn last. Captain 
 Dawkes, entering the room with them, 
 found himself pulled gently by the coat- 
 tails. 
 
 " May I come in, papa ? " 
 
 "No, certainly not," growled the 
 Captain angrily. " We don't want you, 
 sir. Be off back ! " 
 
 The child — it was little Tom Canter- 
 bury — si) rank awa} 7 timidlj 7 . He had 
 his mother's blue eyes and her fair hair. 
 Mr. Kage, who had lingered a moment 
 to give Mrs. Dunn's footman his direc- 
 tions, came just in the boy's way, and 
 stretched out his arms plaj'fully on ei- 
 ther side to make a barrier. They were 
 alone on the landing. Something like a 
 sob burst from Tom. 
 
 " Why, my little fellow, what is it ? " 
 
 " Papa won't let me go in ; he is al- 
 ways cross now. Mamma is there, and 
 I've got to go away to the nursery." 
 
 " I'll take you," said Mr. Kage. 
 " We'll go together." 
 
 Picking the child up in his arms, he 
 carried him up the stairs very tenderly. 
 Some instinct whispered to him that 
 Captain Dawkes's show of love before 
 marriage for this unfortunate child had 
 faded into air. In point of fact it was 
 so ; Captain Dawkes was not deliberate- 
 ly harsh or cruel to the bo} 7 — his wife 
 would not have permitted that ; but he 
 was coldty indifferent, sometimes very 
 cross. Judith, the nurse, sat in the 
 nursery, mending a pinafore. 
 
 " Back again, Master Tom ! I knew 
 it was of no good your asking." 
 
 She turned round, saw Mr. Kage, and 
 rose. The little boy ran to a box of 
 bricks, and began showing Mr. Kage 
 what a good house he could build. They 
 were the best of friends, rare though 
 their meetings were ; and Mr. Kage 
 never failed to come without some de- 
 lightful book to please the child's eye or 
 ear. He drew one from his pocket now, 
 and took the boy on his knee. Tom — 
 he was always gentle — pressed his little 
 hands together with delight at the first 
 picture. 
 
 " What's that, Mr. Kage ? An an- 
 gel ? " 
 
 " I never see such a child," interpos- 
 ed Judith in a superstitious semi-whis- 
 per. " He's always wanting to talk of 
 angels and heaven, sir; one would think 
 they had called him to go up there." 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 177 
 
 "Well, this is an angel," said Thom- 
 as Kage, smiling pleasantly. ''See, 
 Tom — he is standing at the top of the 
 ladder ; and Jacoh is asleep at the foot, 
 with his head on the hard stone." 
 
 " Does the ladder reach right up into 
 heaven ? " ashed little Tom. 
 
 "Right np. And the angels, though 
 we cannot see them, Tom, will help us 
 all to climb it in our turn." 
 
 " I dream of the angels sometimes," 
 baid Tom ; I like to." 
 
 "Just hark at him !" interjected Ju- 
 dith to herself. 
 
 " Nobody tells me about them but 
 you," said Tom. " I wish you'd come here 
 oftener." 
 
 "I have to stay at home and work," 
 said Mr. Kage. " Ask mamma to tell 
 
 you." 
 
 " Mamma says she has no time." 
 
 "You audacious little Turk, taking 
 mamma's name in vain ! " interposed a 
 fond voice at this juncture ; and the child 
 slid off Thomas Kage's knee to fly to it. 
 Caroline clasped him in her arms, kiss- 
 ing him passionately. Her love for him 
 could not fade or weaken. With a laugh- 
 ing apology for not speaking to him at 
 once, she held out her hand to Mr. Kage. 
 
 " I thought I might find you here. 
 But what kind of manners do you call it, 
 sir, to pay your respects to Mr. Tom be- 
 fore 3 7 ou pay them to me ? " 
 
 " He waylaid me on the stairs, and I 
 carried him up here." 
 
 " Papa would not let me go into the 
 drawing-room. I wanted you, mamma." 
 
 " Not let you ! Nonsense, Tom ! The 
 dinner's not quite ready ; you shall go 
 down with me." 
 
 " I don't care now," dissented Tom. 
 I've got a book with some angels in it. 
 Mr. Kage gave it me." 
 
 " You are very kind to him," ex- 
 claimed Caroline, a mist of gratitude ris- 
 ing in her eyes. " I think you wish to 
 be a true friend to him." 
 
 " It is what I mean to be, Heaven per- 
 mitting me." 
 
 Tom sat down on the carpet, picture- 
 book on lap, and Mrs. Dawkes and her 
 cousin descended the stairs together, her 
 vain glance lingering in any mirror they 
 happened to pass. Thomas Kage had 
 rejected her for his wife ; but she liked to 
 look her best in his ej'es, for all that. 
 Whether she were more vain of herself or 
 11 
 
 her precious boy, it would have puzzled 
 Mrs. Dawkes to tell. 
 
 " He is a queer little darling, she sud- 
 denly said. " Fancying his staying up 
 there from choice, to ' look at the an- 
 gels ' ! " 
 
 " He could not look at better things, 
 Caroline." 
 
 " 0, of course not. I think it must 
 have been j^ou who first gave him the 
 fancy. Judith says he would always be 
 talking of angels and heaven." 
 
 " I think in these rare cases, it is 
 Heaven itself that gives it," gravely 
 spoke Mr. Kage. " Caroline, are you do- 
 ing 3'our duty by him ? " 
 
 The question sounded rather an abrupt 
 one. Mrs. Dawkes turned her face to 
 the speaker. 
 
 " My duty ! " 
 
 " I mean in the higher sense of the 
 word. A child should be trained to think 
 of these solemn things. Are you train- 
 ing him ? " 
 
 " Thomas, how old-fashioned j t ou are ! 
 What do I know of angels, more than 
 anybodj 7 else knows ? " 
 
 His good dark eyes rested for a mo- 
 ment upon hers. That she certainly 
 knew next to nothing, had never been 
 taught to know, he was only too well 
 aware. 
 
 " The child has just said to me, talk- 
 ing of angels, ' Mamma has no time to 
 tell me about them.' Caroline, you must 
 make the time. It is the solemn dut} T of 
 every mother to endeavor to train her 
 child for heaven." 
 
 " I wish you'd not preach as though 
 you were in a pulpit, Thomas. I do train 
 him. He says his'prayers, and all that. 
 One would think you feared I meant him 
 to be a heathen ! " 
 
 " His father is dead ; you alone are left. 
 If Mr. Canterbury can look dow r n on this 
 world, Caroline, think what his grief and 
 agony might be at seeing his little son 
 left untaught. The training of children 
 is the most solemn duty that can be as- 
 signed to us in this world. Very few ful- 
 fil it as they ought." 
 
 "How earnest 3 r ou are in this!" she 
 involuntarily exclaimed. 
 
 " Because my mother trained me" he 
 whispered. " Caroline, for your boy's 
 sake, I beseech j'ou look to it." 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Richard Dunn had 
 arrived when they got back to the draw- 
 
178 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 ing-room ; also two gentlemen invited by 
 Captain Dawkes. The butler was com- 
 ing up to announce dinner. 
 
 " Mind, Thomas, you go in with me," 
 said Mrs. Dawkes hurriedly, as she went 
 forward to shake hands with Sarah 
 Dunn. 
 
 "And your young inmate, Belle An- 
 nesley ? " she asked. " I wrote word 
 that we hoped to see her." 
 
 " She is past going out to dinner now, 
 Caroline," was Mrs. Dunn's answer. 
 " She gets weaker and weaker." 
 
 " Poor girl ! When does she start for 
 the West Indies ? " 
 
 " I fear, never. I fear she will not live 
 for it." 
 
 "Is she so ill as that?" exclaimed 
 Caroline, all sympathy. " What can have 
 induced it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Dunn said nothing. Her eyes 
 chanced to meet those of Thomas Kage ; 
 both could have answered what, had they 
 chosen. 
 
 After all, Thomas Kage did not take 
 first place, as proposed. There appeared 
 to be so much difficulty in getting down 
 Mrs. Kage and her fans, that he went to 
 Fry's assistance. Her poor legs were 
 dropping beneath her at every stair, but 
 she was landed in safety. He took a seat 
 by her ; no one would have smoothed 
 difficulties for her as he did : Caroline was 
 tolerably content that it should be so, 
 and bade another gentleman to her side 
 in his place. But a sharp cloud passed 
 momentarily over her brow when she saw 
 that Thomas Kage had Millicent Canter- 
 bury on his other hand, and that they 
 appeared to be on terms of assured friend- 
 ship. 
 
 What a display it was ! — the fantastic, 
 shaking puppet at the festive board, 
 amidst the lights and the flowers and the 
 gala dresses ! A death's-head, more than 
 anything else, by contrast looked she. 
 The shaking fork rattled against the 
 shaking teeth, the food fell, the wine was 
 spilled ; and she, poor thing, strove to 
 make a pretence of being juvenile with 
 the rest, and tapped Thomas Kage's arm 
 with her fan, and thought she was flirt- 
 ing with him. He did his best to cover 
 her deficiencies, and got very little dinner 
 for his pains; but she was a pitiable ob- 
 ject, tottering on the edge of the grave. 
 
 Was it for this that she had schemed 
 and plotted, and lost the favor of good 
 
 men ? Had her grasping and her basely- 
 acquired wealth brought her no other or 
 better reward ? The means and the end 
 were in fitness with each other : and Mrs. 
 Kage in horrible fitness with them. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 MES. GARSTON's PURCHASE. 
 
 The streets were comparatively empty, 
 comparatively cool ; for the London great 
 world had not yet come out to throng 
 them, and the burning summer's sun had 
 scarcely attained to its midday heat. 
 Traversing the shining pavement, with 
 the deliberate step of one who talks as he 
 goes, was Thomas Kage ; and by his side 
 a young lady, whose gentle face and cool 
 muslin dress were equally pleasant to 
 look upon. Never saw man a nicer face 
 than hers ; for it was Millicent Canter- 
 bury's. Miss Canterbury and Lydia 
 Dunn were on in advance. 
 
 Take it for all in all, the days of Mr. 
 Kage were greatly occupied just now ; on 
 this the day after Mrs. Dawkes's dinner, 
 he would be very busy. Labor always 
 accumulated when he prepared to depart 
 on circuit; and for once in his life, 
 he had lately been striving to unite bu i- 
 ness with pleasure, for he went out a 
 good deal with the Miss Canterburys. 
 
 Accident in the first instance, led to 
 his doing so. Dining one evening at 
 Mrs. Dunn's soon after the Miss Canter- 
 burys came on their visit to her, Olive 
 happened to remark, in answer to a ques- 
 tion of whether they had seen some 
 show-place, that they did not go about 
 so much as they would, in consequence 
 of having no gentleman to accompany 
 them ; Mr. Richard Dunn, who was al- 
 ways kind and polite, being very much 
 in Wales at his mines just now, and 
 only running up occasionally. Upon 
 that, Mr. Kage offered himself as Rich- 
 ard Dunn's substitute, and was with 
 them as much as leisure allowed. 
 
 The expedition this morning was noth- 
 ing formidable; only the calling upon 
 Mrs. Garston. That active lady, rebel- 
 lious to fashion's habits, preferred to 
 see visitors literally in the morning ; 
 after ten o'clock she was ready for any 
 who might call. At Mrs. Dawkses's 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 179 
 
 dinner-table the previous evening, Mr. 
 Kage, hearing that the Miss Canterbury's 
 purposed going there, had made a half 
 promise to come round and fetch them. 
 He was living in his own home again, as 
 a temporary arrangement. The friends 
 who had tenanted it were gone, and Mr. 
 Kage slept at home for safety. He had 
 written to the landlord, saying he should 
 resign it at the approaching expiration 
 of the lease. 
 
 Absorbed in conversation, their steps 
 lingered, and Olive and Mrs. Dunn were 
 first at Mrs. Grarston's gate. It did not 
 surprise Thomas Kage to see the old lady 
 with them, for she liked to pace her 
 garden in fine weather. Leaning on her 
 stick, her gray bonnet tilted a little for- 
 ward on her head, she watched their ap- 
 proach with her keen eyes. 
 
 " So, Thomas Kage, you are taking 
 holiday to-day ! " 
 
 " Not whole holiday," was his answer, 
 as he held out his hand to her. a I am 
 going to my chambers by and by." 
 
 But the venerable lady did not respond 
 to the movement. She despised the for- 
 mality of hand-shaking, except when 
 people met but rarely. Thomas Kage 
 was used to her, and he thought the re- 
 jection meant no slight. Walking to a 
 shady path, where two benches faced 
 each other, Mrs. Garston seated herself, 
 and they grouped themselves around her. 
 It was within view of that tree where 
 poor Belle Annesley had leaned her 
 aching forehead the day she met Keziah 
 Davvkes and her cruel words. 
 
 " What makes you so late ? " was 
 Mrs. Garston's first question to Miss 
 Canterbury. 
 
 " Do you call it late ? " replied Olive. 
 " I thought it early/ 1 
 
 11 Why, it is not twelve o'clock yet," 
 put in Mrs. Dunn. " I said to Olive, 
 coming along, that you would take us 
 for Vandals." 
 
 Mrs. Garston's stick struck the smooth 
 hard gravel. The latter speaker was no 
 more in favor with her than she ever had 
 been. 
 
 " I've never taken you for much else, 
 Lydia Dunn. You'd go in for fashion 
 and frivolity yourself, if you were not so 
 restless. I wonder you come here." 
 
 " But I like to see you now and then," 
 laughingly answered Mrs. Dunn, taking 
 the reproach in good humor. 
 
 "Then behave yourself when you 
 come, and don't talk false nonsense 
 about the day's being early when it's 
 half gone. It's disrespectful to me, 
 Lydia Dunn. I am old enough to be 
 your grandmother, and with some years 
 to spare." 
 
 " I wish we could bring our country 
 habits with us to London, and find them 
 welcome here," remarked Miss Canter- 
 bury with a smile. " We are earlier 
 there than even you, Mrs. Garston. 
 Chilling is but a primitive place." 
 
 " Earlier are you ? " returned the ven- 
 erable dame. " I am down to breakfast 
 every morning at nine o'clock, Olive 
 Canterbury, and often in my garden at 
 ten. And so you were out at dinner last 
 night?" 
 
 "Yes ; we dined with Mrs. Dawkes." 
 
 " With her that was Caroline Kage, 
 and next Caroline Canterbury, and then 
 went and made a fool of herself by mar- 
 rying Barby Dawkes," commented the 
 old lady. " Well, they are not ill-suited 
 to each other ; heartless frivolities, both 
 of 'em. You had an escape there, Thom- 
 as Kage." 
 
 The color flushed sharply into his face 
 even then, at the allusion ; as was to all 
 perfectly visible, standing there with his 
 back against the tree-trunk. Mrs. Gars- 
 ton lifted her stick, but not in wrath. 
 
 " You needn't redden up so, Thomas. 
 Many a man as good as you has had his 
 eye8 taken by a pretty girl — and his 
 heart too. But you were too good for 
 her, and I b'lieve Heaven saw it, and 
 spared you. Barby has got her, and she 
 is too good for him. She'll find it out, 
 too. Well, I didn't envy you your din- 
 ner last night." 
 
 " We did not envy ourselves," re- 
 marked Lydia Dunn. " It is never very 
 pleasant to us to meet Caroline. The 
 remembrance of certain wrongs recur 
 with more force at the sight of her." 
 
 " I don't mean for that," retorted Mrs. 
 Garston, with a few violent knocks. 
 " Nobody supposes it would be pleasant ; 
 but if you choose to go in for it, you 
 bring the consequences on yourself, 
 whether they are pleasure, or whether 
 they are pain. I spoke of Mrs. Kage. I 
 should not like to sit down to dinner, and 
 have a skeleton at the same table with 
 painted cheeks and rattling bones ! 
 'Twould have upset my stomach." 
 
180 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 Millicent burst out laughing, somewhat 
 irreverently. Olive lifted her finger in 
 reproof, and turned to Mrs. Garston. 
 
 " You have heard about the dinner, 
 then ? " 
 
 *' I have heard all about it. Early as 
 you may consider it, Mistress Lydia 
 Dunn, Keziah Dawkes was here more 
 than an hour ago. She happened to call 
 at Barby 's yesterday, and they asked 
 her to stay to dinner." 
 
 " I don't like Keziah Dawkes at all," 
 spoke Mrs. Dunn, with her usual blunt 
 candor. 
 
 ■' You like her as well as I do, I'll 
 lay," said Keziah's great-aunt. " She 
 knows it too, and does not come here 
 often — a'most never, but when she 
 wants anything. There's some trouble 
 up about the iuoney she advanced for 
 Barby before his marriage ; the people 
 are claiming some of the charges twice 
 over, and Barby has managed to lose 
 the papers. Daresay he never kept 
 'em. Keziah came here to ask if I re- 
 membered a certain date." 
 
 " Keziah Dawkes always gives me 
 the idea of being a thoroughly good sis- 
 ter," interposed Thomas Kage. 
 
 " She's that. She has been to Barb}' 
 one in a thousand. Keziah Dawkes 
 would sacrifice all the world to him, her- 
 self included ; but she is hard-natured 
 in the main — ill-conditioned also. You 
 should have heard her sneers this morn- 
 ing at Mrs, Kage. Why did they let a 
 poor object like that dine at table ? " 
 
 " I think Mr. Kage has the' most cause 
 to ask that," said Lydia Dunn. " He 
 had all the trouble of her." 
 
 " Had he ! Serve him right. He 
 gives enough trouble to other folks." 
 
 Of course the aspersion caused Thom- 
 as Kage to look up. His old friend was 
 glaring at him with no sweet expression. 
 " What have I done now, dear Mrs. 
 Garston ? " 
 
 " Now, suppose } r ou put that question 
 to yourself, Thomas Kage. Just think 
 over your actions of the last day or two, 
 and perhaps you mightn't need to ask it 
 of other people." 
 
 " I really do not know what j^ou 
 mean," he resumed, after a pause. 
 
 " Have you wrote a notice to your 
 landlord to quit your house, or have you 
 not ?" she asked, lifting her stick in his 
 face. 
 
 " I have done that. I told you that 
 I should do it, Mrs. Garston." 
 
 " But I didn't suppose you were in 
 earnest," she angrily said. " I never 
 thought you'd have the heart to give up 
 the house that your mother died in ; or 
 the face to abandon me. I thought bet- 
 ter of you, Thomas Kage. What's the 
 matter with the house ? Answer me 
 that." 
 
 " Not anything. If I were at all 
 likely to settle in life, I should like none 
 better. For me, a single man, it is a 
 great expense, and I feel that I should 
 scarcely be justified in renewing the 
 lease." 
 
 " And the leaving me counts for noth- 
 ing, though I've been as good to } t ou as 
 a mother ! " 
 
 " But I shall not leave you, dear Mrs. 
 Garston. I can be with you just as 
 much as though I lived next door." 
 
 Mrs. Garston's head was nodding 
 ominously — not- after Mrs. Kage's help- 
 less fashion, but in anger. Thomas 
 Kage had expected some such explosion ; 
 but he wondered how she had got to hear 
 of the notice so speedily, since it was 
 sent only on the previous day. 
 
 " What are you thinking to do with 
 your sticks and stones, pray ? " 
 
 He did not answer for the moment, 
 for the subject was rather a sore one. 
 " Sticks and stones" that have been for 
 years in our old homesteads can be part- 
 ed from only with lively pain. 
 
 "Some of 'the furniture — it is not of 
 much intrinsic value — I shall sell ; and 
 the articles that were prized by my 
 mother must be warehoused," was his 
 tardy answer. Anything but a satisfac- 
 tory one to Mrs. Garston, who was bend- 
 ing forward to listen. 
 
 " Warehoused ! You would ware- 
 house the good old articles that were 
 dear to your mother ! I wonder what 
 you'd call that, Thomas Kage ? Sacri- 
 lege ? " 
 
 " They shall be well taken care of, 
 somehow," he murmured. 
 
 " And you'll sell the rest ! Sell ! 
 D'ye suppose there's anything among 
 'em that might suit me ? " she resumed 
 in a pleasant tone. " Let us step in and 
 have a look. I'm going to rebuild my 
 coachman's house, and shall want furni- 
 ture for it." 
 
 She went marching off with her stick, 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 181 
 
 taking Thomas Kage's arm when he 
 held it out to her. The rest followed. 
 Mr. Kage smiled at the sudden invasion 
 of his premises, and hoped they would 
 be found in order. 
 
 He need not have feared ; for old 
 Dorothy, in renewed health, was hack 
 again, and ruled over matters with a 
 critical eye. Mrs. Garston, without the 
 smallest ceremony, went from room to 
 room till the whole house had been visit- 
 ed, making her comments aloud. All 
 very disparaging comments, and tending 
 to the point that it wanted "doing up." 
 
 " It is as I sa} 7 — the place must be 
 re-done," she observed, coming to an 
 anchor in the dining-room. " Just you 
 get a pencil and paper, Thomas Kage, 
 and jot down what the landlord will have 
 to do before it's taken by a fresh ten- 
 ant." 
 
 " But — it will not be any business of 
 mine," dissented Mr. Kage. 
 
 " Now you do as I bid you," she ar- 
 bitrarily rejoined. "I know that land- 
 lord too well ; and so do you, Lydia 
 Dunn, I expect, for he is yours. He'll 
 give a single coat of paint and a dab 
 o'varnish, and call a room done." 
 
 " I thought tenants had to put a house 
 habitable at the expiration of a lease," 
 interposed Miss Canterbury. 
 
 " That's as the lease may be worded," 
 returned Mrs. Garston. " Ours is this 
 way. — Now then, Thomas Kage, where's 
 that pencil and paper?" 
 
 Putting the paper before him without 
 so much as a smile, he sat down to write 
 what she desired : he had grown to obey 
 her almost implicitly. It must be waste 
 of time, he knew ; and tedious, he feared, 
 to the Miss Canterburys. 
 
 The house was to be papered and 
 painted throughout, and thoroughly ren- 
 ovated, all in the best style and manner ; 
 drains were to be looked to; a scullery, 
 much wanted, should be built out at 
 the back ; the premises altogether made 
 complete. 
 
 " Is that all ? " asked Thomas Kage, 
 looking up with a laugh as she came to 
 an end. 
 
 " It's all I think of for the present," 
 she answered. " How ever } r ou and poor 
 Lady Kage could have lived with this 
 horrid red paper on the wall " (striking 
 it with her stick), " I can't think. And 
 your mother had good taste in general, 
 Thomas." 
 
 " We did not like the paper because 
 it lighted up so badly ; but it is hand- 
 some of its kind." 
 
 " Handsome of its kind ! You may 
 say that of a dancing-bear. If I had a 
 red-papered room in my house, I should 
 whitewash it over. Give me the list." 
 
 As he handed it to her, she caught the 
 look of smiling incredulity on his coun- 
 tenance. It a little annoyed her. 
 
 " I see ; you deem this quite useless 
 — waste of time, as you said just now." 
 
 " I am sure the landlord will never do 
 so much, nor the half of it," he answer- 
 ed. " And in any case, dear Mrs. Gars- 
 ton, it cannot concern me." 
 
 " I'll answer for this much, Thomas 
 Kage — that the landlord will do every 
 item you've written down here. Wheth- 
 er it shall concern you or not — that is, 
 whether you shall choose to stop on in 
 the house, or whether you go out of it — 
 it shall be put into proper repair." 
 
 " You must have made it a condition 
 with him, then, in renewing your own 
 lease." 
 
 "Never you mind whether I have or 
 haven't ; don't you be so fond of contra- 
 dicting me. — We will go back again 
 now." 
 
 When they reached her garden, Mrs. 
 Garston led the way indoors to her own 
 dining-room. Its beautiful paper of 
 white and gold was cheerful to see in the 
 midday sun. She called their attention 
 to it. 
 
 "This is the right sort of paper. I 
 like large-looking rooms, and I like light 
 ones ; and you don't get either when the 
 walls are red. This self-same pattern, 
 if it can be got, shall be put into that 
 parlor of yours, Thomas Kage." 
 
 " If you can get the landlord to do 
 it," he answered, humoring her. 
 
 " The landlord happens to be myself." 
 
 The avowal took them by surprise. 
 Mrs. Garston made it from her large 
 chair, in which she had put herself; 
 her gray bonnet was thrown back; her 
 keen gray eyes sought theirs ; her stick, 
 held in both hands, gently tapped the 
 carpet before her. Never did a more 
 self-asserting old lady sit for a portrait. 
 But if some doubt appeared in Thomas 
 Kage's face, he might be pardoned. 
 She saw it ; perhaps had been watching 
 for it. 
 
 " You'd like to telj me to my face 
 that I am saying what is not true, 
 
182 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 Thomas Kage. What would your 
 mother have said to such manners ? she 
 always trusted me. I have bought the 
 house next door, and I have bought this. 
 Now then ! " 
 
 " I'm sure I am very glad to hear it," 
 he murmured. 
 
 " I wished to buy them years ago : 
 your mother knew that. But that land- 
 lord, scenting the wish, put such a price 
 upon them that I'd not give it him. 
 You have left me no resource now, 
 Thomas Kage." 
 " I ! " 
 
 " You. Don't you be insolent — star- 
 ing at me as if I talked Dutch ! Could 
 I submit to the chance of having any 
 kind of people next to me ? — and you 
 said in my ear months ago, you know, 
 that you should give up the house when 
 the lease ran out. A travelling circus 
 might have come and took it, for all I 
 could answer — the grounds are big. So 
 I sent for the landlord, and said to him, 
 ' Put on your own price ; ' which he did, 
 and a nice price it was : but I paid it, 
 and the property is mine." 
 
 " Dear me ! that was going to work 
 in a very costly manner," commented 
 Mrs. Dunn, who never could refrain 
 from interfering in other people's busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Mrs. Garston rewarded her by a sharp 
 reproof. 
 
 " It was my own affair, Lydia Dunn. 
 If it had cost me ten times as much, I 
 should have done it. Once my mind is 
 set upon a thing, who is to. say me 
 nay?" 
 
 '' But the waste of money ? " persist- 
 ed Lydia. 
 
 " Money ! I've got enough of that — 
 more than I know what to do with 
 sometimes. And now — a last word 
 with you, Thomas Kage. Ah, you little 
 thought when you penned that fine no- 
 tice yesterday that it was coming to me. 
 I wish you to remain on in the next 
 house. I've bought it that you may ; 
 and whether you pay me rent, or 
 whether you pay me none, is a matter 
 of indifference to me. If I were to say 
 I'd not receive any, your pride would 
 rise up all cock-a-hoop ; so I don't say 
 it. But I beg you to understand this 
 one thing — if my wishes go for naught 
 and you quit the house, it will remain 
 empty, for I shall never suffer any other 
 tenant to enter while I live." 
 
 As if to give effect to the assertion, 
 Mrs. Garston brought her stick down 
 with a thump so emphatic that Millicent 
 Canterbury, standing by the chair's el- 
 bow, started backwards. They rose to 
 depart ; the visit, including the time 
 they spent in the other house, had been 
 unconscionably long, as Lydia Dunn 
 expressed it. Thomas Kage, feeling 
 rather bewildered, prepared to attend 
 them. In going down the garden he 
 found himself pulled back by Mis. 
 Garston. The others were well on in 
 advance. 
 
 " You made a mistake once in your 
 life, Thomas," she said. " Are you 
 thinking to remedy it ? " 
 
 " What mistake, dear Mrs. Garston ? " 
 
 " In falling in love with that Kage 
 girl. You see how she served you. 
 Many a one before } T ou has thrown away 
 the kernel for the shell." 
 
 He smiled a little. "What kernel ? — 
 what shell ? " 
 
 " She." And the stick was pointed at 
 Millicent, who had turned round at the 
 end of the path to wait. " If I can 
 read countenances — and I used to do it 
 — that girl is one of the best living. 
 She'd make you happier than the other 
 ever would ; ay, though you had mar- 
 ried that 'un in the heyday of love." 
 
 He flushed a very little, laughing 
 lightly. 
 
 " Millicent Canterbury must be as a 
 forbidden star to me, my dear old 
 friend." 
 
 " And why must she ? " 
 
 " She has ten thousand pounds. I 
 have nothing ; or next to nothing." 
 
 Never had Mrs. Garston been nearer 
 going into a real passion than then. 
 Her gray eyes flashed sparks on the 
 speaker. 
 
 " Ten thousand pounds ! and you 
 nothing ! Are you saying this to en- 
 rage me, Thomas Kage ? It's false 
 sophistry, every word of it. Though 
 the girl, or any other girl, had ten times 
 ten thousand, and }'ou had but the coat 
 and breeches you stood up in, you'd be 
 more than her equal. A husband such 
 as you'll make, a good man as your 
 mother trained 3'ou to be, is worth, to 
 the woman who gets him, a king's ran- 
 som. Ten thousand pounds ! — ten thou- 
 sand rubbish ! " 
 
 Mortally offended, Mrs. Garston turn- 
 | ed in and slammed the door in his face. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 183 
 
 He went forward with rather a conscious 
 countenance. 
 
 "What is Mrs. Grarston angry with 
 you for ? " asked Millicent. 
 
 " I said something that did not please 
 her," he answered, glancing at the 
 sweet eyes cast on him with unsuspi- 
 cious inquiry. 
 
 For some little time now he had es- 
 teemed Millicent Canterbury above 
 everybody else in the world ; not with 
 that early passionate love that can touch 
 man's heart but once, but with a far 
 more lasting friendship. To what end ? 
 since, in spite of Mrs. Carston's anger, 
 he did not look upon social problems ex- 
 actl\ r as she did. 
 
 " We must step out, Millicent. Your 
 sisters have got on the length of the 
 street." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 NOT QUITE HEARTLESS. 
 
 The window was thrown open to the 
 summer sun, and a fire burnt in the 
 grate. To every one but the poor sick 
 invalid the heat seemed stifling. Rich- 
 ard Dunn, a fine portly man, mentally 
 pronounced it to be so as he paced the 
 room with gentle steps. She was cold ; 
 and a suspicion was dawning on those 
 around that it might be with the ad- 
 vance shadow of death. 
 
 She was passing away very gently : 
 the painful adjuncts that too often at- 
 tend even young girls to the grave 
 spared Belle Annesley. The maid 
 dressed her still, and combed out the 
 soft curls of her pretty hair, and now 
 and again tied a bit of ribbon in it. 
 The cough had left her : there seemed 
 absolutely nothing the matter with her 
 but weakness. Wise Dr. Tyndal, pay- 
 ing his visit this morning, had declared 
 to Mr. Dunn that if they could only 
 fight against that, she might recover. 
 But Mr. Dunn knew quite well that 
 they could not fight against it. The 
 child herself knew it. 
 
 She really looked but a child ; more 
 so than ever, in spite of the huge shawl 
 that wrapped her up, and her black-and- 
 white muslin dress. She lay back in 
 the easy-chair, her feet on a footstool ; 
 
 the trembling fingers of her delicate 
 hands plucking at the white handker- 
 chief that lay in her lap. Richard 
 Dunn happening to notice the restless 
 movement, and not liking the looks of it, 
 stood still for a few minutes regarding 
 her. 
 
 " What is amiss with the handker- 
 chief, Belle ? " 
 
 " Nothing," she listlessly answered, 
 pushing it aside. The next minute she 
 had begun again — at the shawl this 
 time. Mr. Dunn sat down by her, and 
 took her hand in his. 
 
 " Do vou feel worse, my dear ? " 
 
 "No." Why?" 
 
 " You are very silent," he answered 
 by way of excuse. 
 
 "I was thinking — thinking of the 
 past. Of those old days, when I was so 
 wild and heartless and wilful. They 
 seem to be ages ago now." 
 
 " Past time often does, my dear." 
 
 "Always, I should think, to one like 
 me — leaving the world forever. I want 
 you to say that you forgive me," she 
 added in a whisper. 
 
 " Forgive you ! What for ? " 
 
 " 0, you know. I did cause you pain 
 in those days, and I caused it wilfully. 
 A vain, mocking, ridiculing thing — 
 that's what I was; nothing else. I — I 
 don't care to recall it all in words ; but 
 I want you to say you forgive me." 
 
 Richard Dunn stooped over her and 
 kissed her forehead. " My dear child, 
 if there is anything you need forgive- 
 ness for, take it heartily ; but I think 
 you are fanciful to-day. I wish — I wish 
 you had been spared to us. Sarah and 
 I would have striven to make life pleas- 
 ant to you." 
 
 " Thank you for all your kindness ; 
 thank you for ever." 
 
 The trembling fingers, entwined in 
 his, presently released themselves and 
 began to work again. Mr. Dunn did 
 not altogether like the signs. He quit- 
 ted the room to find his wife. During 
 the interval, little Tom Canterbury came 
 in with his nurse. 
 
 When the boy had been taken down 
 to dessert the previous evening at the 
 dinner in Belgravia — for we have not 
 got beyond the day spoken of in the 
 last chapter — Mrs. Richard Dunn asked 
 him to go to them on the following 
 morning ; and Judith was told to bring 
 
184 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 him. In the old days at Chilling, when 
 Miss Annesley was the rector's daugh- 
 ter, she had taken part in trying to 
 teach Judith to read. The instruction, 
 as previously hinted, had not come to 
 much, but Judith was grateful all the 
 same. During this present sojourn in 
 London, she had occasionally, when out 
 with her little charge, found herwaj' to 
 Mrs. Richard Dunn's. Tom had grown 
 to like to go there, and to see Belle An- 
 nesley, between whom and himself a 
 great friendship had arisen ; in point of 
 fact it was Belle, who, when her cousin 
 was starting for the dinner-visit, had 
 asked her to bid Tom come. 
 
 And so Judith and he had arrived, 
 nothing loth. Tom wore his morning 
 attire : a plaid dress reaching to the 
 knees, his straight legs incased in little 
 white socks ; in the afternoon Mrs. 
 Dawkes would have him decked out in 
 velvets and gewgaws ; but Judith had 
 her own way till then. A quiet, 
 thoughtful, mild child was he, whose 
 disposition and temper were admirable. 
 
 Belle Annesley kissed him ; she took 
 off his straw hat with her own fragile 
 fingers, and stroked the falling curls of 
 his light hair. Tom looked at her wist- 
 fully : it might be that he detected a 
 change in her countenance, for a child 
 .sometimes sees signs hidden from older 
 Myes. 
 
 " Lift him up, Judith." 
 There was ample room for the two on 
 the large chair, and the boy was placed 
 side b}' side with Belle. After consider- 
 able tugging, he succeeded in getting a 
 book out of some mysterious uuder- 
 pocket. 
 
 " I brought it for you to see," he 
 said, as Judith left them to go and en- 
 joy a gossip with Mrs. Dunn's nurse. 
 " It has got an angel in it, and Jacob's 
 ladder. Mr. Kage gave it me last 
 night. Look : that's the angel, and 
 that's the ladder, and it's end is right 
 up in heaven." 
 
 Belle Annesley's eyes were riveted 
 on the picture with as much earnest in- 
 terest as though she had been a child 
 herself. Tom, waiting for sympathetic 
 "admiration, heard none. 
 
 "Isn't it pretty, Belle? I should 
 like to be an angel." 
 
 Dropping the book, she clasped both 
 his hands in hers. Her face and voice 
 were alike strangely earnest. 
 
 " We may both be so shortly, Tom. 
 1 shall. You may not be long after 
 me." 
 
 The words were remarkable-^taken 
 in connection with what the hidden 
 future was destined to bring forth. 
 But the dying sometimes speak with 
 curious prevision. 
 
 Tom Canterbury, to judge by his 
 eyes, did not know whether to be most 
 awed or interested. Belle had fallen 
 back in her chair, and was plucking at 
 the shawl again. He thought his book 
 neglected. 
 
 "Judith didn't want me to bring it, 
 Belle. Mrs. Dunn said last night I was 
 to come." 
 
 " Yes, I wished for you," answered 
 Belle. " I thought you were not com- 
 ing, though : it is nearly afternoon." 
 
 " Judith didn't get read}'. She went 
 in to help Fry with grandmamma." 
 
 Belle rose from her seat, and tottered 
 to a desk that was on a side-table, hold- 
 ing by the furniture as she went. Her 
 strength for walking had almost passed 
 away. Standing up before the desk, 
 the shawl fell off her shoulders, and she 
 looked like a shadow. The child got 
 down with a jump and picked it up. 
 She tottered back again, holding some- 
 thing in her hand. 
 
 It was a beautiful little box of mother- 
 of-pearl, made in the form of a shell, 
 and inlaid with silver. Inside was a 
 raised fret -work of silver enclosing a 
 miniature painting in bright colors — a 
 baby borne by two angels, who were 
 gazing upwards. Sitting down, Belle 
 put it into the boy's hand : the toy was 
 so small, that his hand easily clasped it. 
 " My brother brought it for me, when 
 he came over from the West Indies at 
 mamma's death. Tom, I give it to 
 you. You must keep it always for my 
 sake." 
 
 Tom, opening the lid, stood entranced 
 with admiration, oblivious of everything 
 but the picture that so charmed him. 
 He had an eye for bright colors, which 
 were wout to impart to him a strange 
 delight. 
 
 " It's angels too," he said breathless- 
 ly. " They are carrying the baby up to 
 heaven." 
 
 " When you look at it sometimes 
 after I am gone, Thomas, remember 
 that they have carried me up there," 
 she whispered. 
 
GEORGE CANT E U B L U V 8 WILL. 
 
 185 
 
 " Do you like to go ? " asked the boy, 
 somewhat dubious on the point, now 
 that it seemed to be coming to action. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But wouldn't you like to stay here, 
 and have playthings ? Such things as 
 this ? " 
 
 "No, not now. It is so weary here." 
 
 She was feebly endeavoring to fold the 
 shawl around her, and said no more. 
 The little exertion had fatigued her ; 
 she lay back panting for a few moments, 
 and then as if it brought relief, her fin- 
 gers were at work at the shawl again. 
 Mrs. Dunn, who had entered, took in all 
 the signs with a rapid searching glance. 
 
 " Belle, my darling," she said, pushing 
 the hair from the pale damp brow, "you 
 seem a little restless." 
 
 " Do I ? " returned Belle with apathy. 
 " I am very tired, Sarah." 
 
 Tired indeed ! Tired sadly in bod} r , 
 and very tired with the world and its 
 cares. Poor Belle Annesley was dying, 
 with all her trouble upon her — that un- 
 fortunate love for the man who bad 
 played her false. It racked her still ; not 
 as it had done, but. more than was good 
 for her comfort. One great wish lay ever 
 upon her — that she could see him once 
 again. It almost seemed to her that she 
 could not die without it. Foolish, foolish 
 girl ! if her death, she thought, should 
 but bring a pang of repentance to him, 
 a bitter loving regret, why, then to her- 
 self it would be welcome. Sentiment 
 clung to her to the last ; and she wanted 
 Barnaby Dawkes to see the wreck she 
 bad become for his sake. But she had 
 not been able to call up the courage to 
 ask for him. 
 
 It was to be, however. When Judith 
 departed with little Canterbury, Mrs. 
 Dunn went downstairs with them. She 
 was standing for an instant atone of the 
 front windows, and saw Thomas Kage 
 pass. He had just left the Miss Canter- 
 bury's at their door after that visit to 
 Mrs. Garston. She made a sign to Mr. 
 Kage, and he came in. 
 
 " Go you up to her, Mr. Kage," she 
 said, after telling him that both she and 
 her husband fancied some change for the 
 worse was approaching in Belle Annes- 
 ley. " See what }'ou think, and then 
 come down and tell me ; I'll wait here. 
 Mr. Dunn has had to go out, but he will 
 not be long." 
 
 When Mr. Kage entered the room, 
 
 Belle had her eyes closed. He noticed 
 the movement of the fingers spoken of 
 by Mrs. Dunn. They were slowly at 
 work. She gave a great start as he ap- 
 proached, and stared wildly. 
 
 " 0, is it you ? " she said in a minute, 
 an accent of disappointment in her tone. 
 "I — I — I think I had dozed and was 
 dreaming." 
 
 " Of whom were you dreaming, 
 Belle ? " he asked very gently, as lie sat 
 down near her and took one of her wast- 
 ed hands in his. 
 
 The pale cheeks took a tinge of bright 
 color at the question ; the bine eyes, get- 
 ting a little glassj' now, fell downwards. 
 But she gave the true answer. She gen- 
 erally did give it to Mr. Kage. 
 
 " I was dreaming of Captain Dawkes. 
 I fancied he stood at that door talking 
 to me ; and when you came up, I — in 
 the confusion of awaking — I really 
 thought it was he." 
 
 "Would you like to see him, my 
 dear ? " asked Mr. Kage after a pause. 
 
 Another faint flush of hectic. 
 
 "Perhaps he would not care to come. 
 But — if he would, I should like to say 
 good-bye to him." 
 
 " And how do you feel to-day ? " re- 
 sumed Mr. Kage, changing the subject 
 without comment. "Brave and strong ?" 
 
 " 0, I feel about the same," she an- 
 swered listlessly. " I'm very tired." 
 
 " It is a pity I disturbed your snatch 
 of sleep. And for nothing either, for I 
 cannot stay. I have a hundred-and-one 
 things to do to-day and to-morrow." 
 
 " But I shall see you again ? " she 
 said, as he stood up. 
 
 " Of course. I will come in this even- 
 ing." 
 
 Happening to look back at her as he 
 turned to close the door, Thomas Kage 
 could but mark the eager, questioning, 
 yearning look in the eyes that seemed to 
 follow him. But still he said nothing 
 about Captain Dawkes. That worthy 
 gentleman might not choose to pay the 
 visit although bidden. 
 
 " Well, what do you think ? " asked 
 Sarah Dunn anxiously. 
 
 " I do not see much difference in her," 
 was Mr. Kage's answer. " Nevertheless 
 I think the end will not be very long de- 
 layed." 
 
 "Did you notice what I said about her 
 fingers?" 
 
 " Yes. But I have seen the same 
 
186 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 thing "in patients who have subsequently 
 got well." 
 
 " You are sure of that ? " 
 
 Quite. She would like to see Dawkes." 
 
 " Would she ! " exclaimed Mrs. Dunn 
 in astonishment. " Were the case mine, 
 I would rather send him miles away than 
 see him. I do not understand it." 
 
 A peculiar expression crossed the face 
 of Thomas Kage. Matter-of-fact rather 
 than imaginative, Sarah Dunn was just 
 one of those who could not be likely to 
 understand. 
 
 " Dawkes may not be willing to come," 
 observed Mr. Kage. " He probably 
 would rather go miles any other wa}\" 
 
 But Barnaby Dawkes was not alto- 
 gether heartless, and if he had cared for 
 any one in the world, it was certainly 
 Belle. As Thomas Kage was bending 
 his steps across one of the squares, he 
 accidentally met him in his mail-phaeton, 
 two grooms seated behind. Mr. Kage 
 made a sign that he would speak with 
 him; and afterwards the Captain changed 
 his course, and pulled up at Mrs. Richard 
 Dunn's door. 
 
 Her head lay upon his arm, and the 
 tears were trickling down her flushed 
 cheeks. Barnaby Dawkes was a selfish 
 man by nature and by habit, indifferent 
 to all that did not concern himself, utter- 
 ly careless of any world save this present 
 one ; but, looking on the wreck of that 
 once sweet girl, on the unmistakable 
 signs that said the life would so shortly 
 close, he went into a fit of remorse and 
 tenderness, both genuine. 
 
 " You will not quite forget me ? " she 
 sobbed, clinging to him. "I mean no 
 treason against your wife, Barnaby ; I 
 would not for the world ; only — only — 
 that you will think of me at an odd mo- 
 ment now and then." 
 
 Incredible as it may be deemed, little 
 as the gallant Captain might ever be- 
 lieve it of himself afterwards, a tear 
 dropped from his eyes on her upturned 
 face. Belle saw it, and felt repaid for 
 her lost life and the agony that had short- 
 ened it. 
 
 " Don't grieve for me too much, Bar- 
 naby ; I should not like that. I hope 
 you will be happy always, you and your 
 wife. If she ever hears about me — 
 about me and the past — give my dear 
 love to her, and say I said it." 
 
 " I wish I had never met you, child ! 
 I was an awful brute to leave you and 
 marry another — and that's the fact. My 
 love was all yours, Belle ; but I was in 
 a feai'ful state of embarrassment, and 
 wanted the money. Why did you care 
 so much for me? Why did you let it 
 prey upon you ? I was not worth it." 
 
 Never a truer word spoke he than 
 that. Belle's restless fingers, at peace 
 for the moment, were entwined within 
 his. 
 
 " I daresay it was all for the best," 
 she murmured. "I might have died just 
 the same." 
 
 Voices were heard on the stairs, and 
 the Captain prepared to take his depar- 
 ture. 
 
 " Say you forgive me," he whispered. 
 
 " I forgive it all — the death, and the 
 pain, and the weariness. I hope we 
 shall meet in heaven, all of us, and live 
 together in happiness for ever and for 
 ever. God bless and keep you, Barnaby, 
 until that time shall come ! " 
 
 It may be that Barnaby Dawkes, irre- 
 ligious man though he was, echoed the 
 wish for the passing moment. Wheth- 
 er he did or not, was known to him alone. 
 He kissed her cheeks, her brow, her lips, 
 as he had been wont to kiss them in ear- 
 lier days, and laid her wan face back on 
 the pillow, and resigned her hands the 
 last. 
 
 " Good-bye, Belle. Good-bye, my best 
 and dearest ! " 
 
 The voices were those of Mr. Dunn 
 and Doctor Tyndal. Captain Dawkes 
 exchanged courtesies with them as he 
 passed, and went out to his carriage. 
 
 When Thomas Kage got there in the 
 evening, according to promise, the hands 
 of the dying girl, in her bed then, were 
 working feebly at the counterpane; the 
 advance shadow of death, no longer to 
 be mistaken, lay on the face. But the 
 shadow seemed to have brought peace 
 with it. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 A FEW WHISPEKED WORDS. 
 
 On the pseudo-mosaic floor of a place 
 of worship — that was neither Protestant 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 187 
 
 church, nor Roman-catholic chapel, nor 
 curiously decorated mediaeval drawing- 
 room, but partaking something of all 
 three — knelt Keziah Dawkes. A hard 
 cold woman looked she, as she rose and 
 sat down to listen to the sermon, with 
 never a smile on her gray leaden face. 
 The services did not seem to bring much 
 cheer to her. When the short sermon 
 of ten minutes was ranted through — and 
 which Keziah and every other one of the 
 scattered worshippers present might have 
 been defied to make top or tail, or any 
 sort of sense of — she quitted her seat 
 and glided into the street ; into the 
 pleasanter light of a spring twilight 
 evening. The place she had just quitted 
 was almost dark at mid-day; else how 
 would the lighted candles on the commu- 
 nion-table have borne effect ? For some 
 time now, Keziah Dawkes had been a 
 lonety, disappointed woman, finding her 
 heart and her love thrown back upon her. 
 She had never had but one object of af- 
 fection throughout her life — and that was 
 her brother Barnaby. Worthless Bar- 
 naby ! But it often happens that the 
 more worthless a man is, the closer some- 
 body or other clings to him. Barnaby 
 Dawkes had done nearly as much as he 
 could do to throw his sister's affection 
 off; at least, so it seemed to her perhaps 
 exacting heart. Wounded to the core, 
 ready to die with disappointment and 
 weariness, Keziah in sheer ennui took to 
 attending one of the ultra-ritualistic dail} T 
 services that were springing up around 
 her as rapidly as mushrooms. 
 
 Time has gone on, reader. Nearly 
 four years have elapsed since the mar- 
 riage of Barnaby Dawkes and Mrs. Can- 
 terbury. They have latterly been stay- 
 ing almost entirely in London ; more 
 fashion to be met with in Belgravia than 
 at the Rock, and both Major Dawkes 
 and his wife are votaries of it. He is 
 Major Dawkes now — having got up a 
 step ; and the world looks upon him as 
 one of the most wealthy and flourishing 
 officers in her Majesty's service. A few 
 people — money-lenders, lawyers, and the 
 like — perchance could tell a different tale 
 — that there exists not a more embarrass- 
 ed man in secret than he. 
 
 Keziah suspected something of this 
 embarrassment ; but not to its fullest ex- 
 tent. When we love any one very deep- 
 ly, we seem to see, as by intuition any 
 
 ill that may surround him. Keziah was 
 very little with Major and Mrs. Dawkes; 
 less even than she used to be, although 
 their mansion was not far removed from 
 her home. Sometimes she would not call 
 upon them once in two months. She had 
 paid them one visit at the Rock in the 
 earlier days of their marriage, but the 
 invitation had never been repeated. 
 
 That a man with Major Dawkes's pro- 
 pensity to spend — that any one living on 
 the scale he did, flinging away hundreds, 
 ay and thousands of pounds — should have 
 gone on from three to four mortal years 
 and not have burst up, might have been 
 deemed one of the marvels pertaining to 
 Major Dawkes. Mrs. Dawkes's was al- 
 most what might have been called a regal 
 income, though in truth not so much as 
 the world set it down at ; but Barnaby 
 had fingered it in a lavish style. If I 
 had ten thousand a-vear, and spent twen- 
 ty thousand, it would not need a conjur- 
 er to foretell what must come of it. Ke- 
 ziah, sharp and calculating, knew pretty 
 well what the state of affairs must be ; 
 and she was looking for the explosion of 
 the bombshell. To her, it seemed almost 
 like retribution ; a judgment upon them 
 for their neglect of her. 
 
 But in that well-appointed Belgravian 
 mansion nothing was suspected of its 
 master's embarrassment. He kept it to 
 himself. He had no other resource in 
 decency but to do so, since the troubles 
 were wholly his own. For, it was not 
 the state and stj'le in which they lived 
 that could have hampered them, but Ma- 
 jor Dawkes's private pursuits. Neither 
 mistress nor servants knew aught of the 
 matter : the latter were aware that some 
 people, shabby men and others, intruded 
 often on the Major, who avoided them 
 when he could ; and when he could not, 
 held private colloquies with them in his 
 stud}-, aud showed them out of doors him- 
 self. The household bills, too, were being 
 pressed for. 
 
 Keziah Dawkes left the chapel — or 
 what she might please to call it — behind 
 her, and walked steadily on to her lodg- 
 ings ; the same lodgings where you once 
 saw her, reader. She had lost them dur- 
 ing that long absence, when she was down 
 at Chilling, helping Barnaby to scheme 
 for Mrs. Canterbury ; but she had regain- 
 ed them. The evening was chill ; the 
 clouds chased each other across the sky j 
 
188 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 the wind blew round the corners with a 
 wintry sound. Passing a gay shop-win- 
 dow, its wares lighted up with the blazing 
 gas, Keziah's eyes were caught by some- 
 thing, and she stopped to look in. 
 
 " It's a sweet bonnet," she exclaimed 
 after a long gaze ; " and only ten-and- 
 sixpence ! I could not make it for much 
 less m} 7 self; and somehow my home- 
 made bonnets have alwa}'s a dowd} r look. 
 It's not so high but I could afford it ; and 
 spring's getting on. Suppose I come by 
 daylight and look at it ? But then " — 
 pausing — " there's aunt Garston ! I don't 
 think she can last much longer ; and it 
 would be waste of money to buy it, if I 
 had to go in mourning soon afterwards." 
 
 With a lingering look, Keziah turned 
 away, and continued her course towards 
 home, revolving the bonnet argument in 
 her mind, for and against the purchase. 
 The wind took her cloak, the chilly air 
 seemed to penetrate her; but Keziah was 
 used to wind and weather. Arrived at 
 her door, she opened it, and went up- 
 stairs; taking off her cloak on the land- 
 ing, and shaking it. The tea-things 
 were on the table, glowing pleasantly in 
 the firelight ; and some dark form, to 
 which her eye was not accustomed, filled 
 the easy-chair with its washed-out, thin 
 chintz-cover. 
 
 " Barnaby ! Is it you ? " 
 
 " What an awfullj' long time you've 
 been coming in!" was the Major's re- 
 sponsive greeting. " Thought you must 
 have gone out to make a night of it." 
 
 " I have only been to evening pray- 
 ers." 
 
 " Been to what ? " 
 
 " The evening service at a new chap- 
 el. A place we have got opened here." 
 
 " It's not Sunday," said the Major, 
 6 taring. 
 
 " I know that. What am I to do, 
 alone here always? never a soul to 
 speak to ! The evening services break 
 the monotony ; it's an object to get out 
 for : but I don't go every evening. I'd 
 not have gone now had I thought you 
 were coming." 
 
 She put her bonnet on the bed in the 
 inner room, came back, and began to 
 make the tea. The shining copper ket- 
 tle stood singing on the brass plate ; a 
 new loaf and some butter were on the 
 table. 
 
 " You will take a cup of tea, Barna- 
 by ? » 
 
 " Not I. Wishy-washy stuff ! " 
 
 " Some bread-and-butter, then ?" 
 
 " That's worse." 
 
 " Is there anything else that I can 
 get you ? " 
 
 "No; thanks. I'm going home to 
 dinner." 
 
 Keziah took the candles from the 
 mantelpiece, and lighted both in honor 
 of her company ; when alone, she gener- 
 ally contented herself with one. That 
 Barnab}' had come for some aid or oth- 
 er, she was sure of; but she did not see 
 what he, the great man, could want from 
 her now. The candles lighted up his 
 face ; the same handsome face, with the 
 shining black eyes and hair as of yore; 
 but somewhat of perplexity sat on his 
 features. He was leaning forward to- 
 wards the fire, and pulling at his mous- 
 tache moodily, as if in a brown study. 
 Keziah poured out her tea, and sat sip- 
 ping it, 
 
 " Do you think you could do anything 
 for me with the old party?" he sudden- 
 ly began. 
 
 "In what way?" coldly asked Ke- 
 ziah; knowing that the "old party" 
 meant Mrs. Garston. 
 
 " I don't believe she'll last a month 
 longer, Keziah." 
 
 " She will not last long ; I am sure 
 of that, When those vigorous old 
 women begin to fail — as she is now fail- 
 ing — their time is drawing to a close." 
 
 There ensued a pause. Keziah, brim- 
 ful of her wrongs and Barnaby's ingrati- 
 tude, would not prompt him by so much 
 as a word. She cut herself a piece of 
 bread-and-butter. 
 
 " I want you to see her for me, Ke- 
 ziah." 
 
 " To see her for you ! " 
 
 The chilling tone grated on the Ma- 
 jor's ear. He turned his head. 
 
 " What's the matter with you, Kezi- 
 ah ? " 
 
 " The matter with me ? " repeated 
 Keziah, as if bent on reechoing his 
 words. " Nothing more than usual." 
 
 fi You have not been pleasant with 
 me for some time, Keziah." 
 
 " AVhat have you been with me ? " 
 
 " I ! " — the Major turned to the fire 
 again in a frightful access of gloom — ■ 
 " I've not meant to be anything else. 
 But — I am awfully worried, Keziah." 
 
 " You bring your worry on yourself, 
 I expect." 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 189 
 
 He did not attempt to gainsay it ; he 
 had never been otherwise than tolerably 
 candid with his sister. 
 
 " I am in a mess, Keziah. If I can- 
 not .get helped out of it, Heaven knows 
 what the end will be/' 
 
 " You have been in many a mess be- 
 fore." 
 
 " Never such as this. I want to talk 
 it over with you : as I used to talk over 
 the troubles of the old daj r s, Kezzy." 
 
 " Yes ! You come to me when you 
 need anything — never else. Barnab}', I 
 do not believe Heaven ever created your 
 fellow for selfishness !" 
 
 " I am not selfish ! " snapped the 
 Major. 
 
 " Not selfish ! Listen, Barnaby : I 
 may be the better, perhaps, for letting 
 loose a little of the grievances long 
 burning within me. When we were 
 brother and sister together, who helped 
 you as I did — and loved you — and cher- 
 ished you? Who stood between you 
 and aunt Garston, and told her lies 
 without end to cover your faults, and di- 
 vert her shrewd suspicions from you ? 
 Who parted with all available means, 
 that you should be pulled out of ditches 
 and straits ? Who helped you to a rich 
 wife ; and shielded you in all ways when 
 y >u wanted shielding ? Answer me 
 that." 
 
 " You did." avowed the Major, fancy- 
 ing an open policy might be the best 
 in the awkward situation. 
 
 " Yes : I. You married your wife, 
 and came into what would once have 
 seemed to you incalculable wealth — 
 what was so, in fact ; and how did you 
 recompense me ? By throwing me 
 over, as if I were some menial that you 
 had no longer work for." 
 
 " Don't talk nonsense, Keziah ! " 
 
 " Is it nonsense ? You know better. 
 It is true you repaid me the bare money 
 I had advanced ; but not a fraction over, 
 for thanks or interest. Without the re- 
 payment I could not have lived, for it 
 was my income that I forestalled and 
 risked for you ; had it not been my in- 
 come — had it been saved money — I don't 
 believe you would have ever troubled 
 yourself to repay it at all. Since your 
 marriage you have not treated me as a 
 sister — I was nobody in your fresh ties." 
 
 '"Twas not that," burst forth the 
 Major. " Ties ! The ties have never 
 been to me half what you were." 
 
 "It has been self with 3 T ou always, 
 Barnaby — self, self, self," she resumed, 
 the hard tone subsiding into a plaintive 
 one, for the avowal had somewhat ap- 
 peased her. "It of course was nothing 
 for your wife to neglect me — it was to 
 be expected, perhaps : but I did not look 
 for it from you; and the pain has been 
 hard to bear." 
 
 " I don't see why I should not tell 
 you the truth," he said, " though I've 
 never told it before. The neglect has 
 been Caroline's. She — she took a dis- 
 like to you, Keziah, goodness knows 
 why ; and I have never been able to pre- 
 vail upon her to have you with us, ex- 
 cept for that short visit when 3'ou came 
 to the Rock. My will has been good to 
 have you — to have you always; but she 
 would not." 
 
 It was all very well to excuse himself 
 in this way. He had been quite aa 
 willing to neglect her as his wife was. 
 Keziah was coming round. The old 
 love for him had only been smouldering; 
 it would never leave her but with life. 
 
 " It may be as you say, Barnaby ; but 
 your wife is not 3^011. Y011 might have 
 come to see me — 3 r ou might have been 
 generous to me ; it was in your power 
 to make m3 T life bright, and you have not 
 attempted to throw even a ray on it. A 
 hundred times have I sat here, b3 r my 
 solitary fire, on a winter's evening, re- 
 peating over to nwself that old song of 
 Shakespeare's : " Blow, blow, thou win- 
 try wind ; thou art not so unkind as 
 man's ingratitude." 
 
 Apparently the remembrance overcame 
 her. Keziah Dawkes burst into tears, 
 and put her handkerchief to her face. 
 Barnab3 r could not remember ever to 
 have seen her CT3' in all his life. A sud- 
 den impulse of affection — if such could 
 exist in the man's nature — or of self-in- 
 terest well acted, caused him to put out 
 his hand, and clasp fondly the one lying 
 unoccupied on her lap. Almost at once 
 she dried the tears, as though ashamed 
 to have given way to them. 
 
 " Let bygones be bygones, Keziah ; 
 there's nobody in the world I care for 
 half as much as I do for you ; there's no 
 one else I would tell my troubles to. 
 Will you hear, and help me? " 
 
 " I am willing to hear you, Barnaby. 
 But as to help, I should not think any of 
 that lies in m3 T power." 
 
 " Substantial help of course does not. 
 
190 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 You need not fear I wish to ask for the 
 advance of your little income again. It 
 would be of no use to me ; but as a 
 bucket of water to tbe flowing Thames. 
 AVhat I do want is, that you would see 
 Mrs. Garston, and get her — get her to 
 make her will in my favor. Not a stone 
 must be left unturned, Keziah." 
 
 " You want it badly ? " 
 
 " Badly ! Worse than Keziah, happi- 
 ly for her, had as yet any notion of. The 
 Major drew a sketch of his embarrass- 
 ments and difficulties ; and Keziah grew 
 a little frightened. 
 
 "Barnaby! How could you have 
 been so mad ? " 
 
 " Money melts," said the Major 
 gloomily. "It is only when a man 
 pulls himself up that he sees how much 
 has gone." 
 
 " But how can you have got into this 
 state ? " 
 
 " The pigs know," he wrathfully an- 
 swered ; " / don't." 
 
 " I suppose — it is — the play," she said 
 in a hesitating whisper. " O Barnaby ! 
 and you so faithfully resolved to leave it 
 off when you married Mrs. Canterbury ! " 
 
 "A man could leave off many things, 
 but for the cursed temptation that sur- 
 rounds him on all sides in this miserable 
 town. What's the good of his resolves 
 then ? » 
 
 " I suppose it has been going from bad 
 to worse — bad to worse ? " 
 
 " It is pretty bad now, I know that." 
 
 " What can be done ? " 
 
 tl I must get some money. If I don't 
 get that — " here the Major stopped. 
 
 " Well ? " said Keziah. 
 
 " I must get it ; that's all," repeated 
 he. 
 
 " I suppose it is a great deal that you 
 want ? " 
 
 " Tolerable." 
 
 " And have you any idea how it is to 
 be had ? " 
 
 " I've run it over in my mind ; I have 
 been doing nothing else for some time 
 past ; and I see only two waj's possible. 
 That Kage should advance me some of 
 Tom Canterbury's hoards ; or that old 
 Mother Garston should put me down for 
 *a pot of money in her will." 
 
 " Is either likely ? " asked Keziah, in 
 a tone that said volumes. 
 
 " Deuced unlikely. I have tried 
 Kage : went down to his chambers, and 
 put the matter to him in as favorable a 
 
 light as circumstances allowed. He did 
 not entertain it ; it would not have been 
 him if he had, hang him ! He stopped 
 me off-hand, in his coldly civil manner, 
 and as good as showed me the door." 
 
 Keziah shook her head. 
 
 " You would find it difficult, I am sure, 
 to get anj'thing of that kind out of Mr. 
 Kage ; he sticks up for principle. He 
 would be afraid of not getting it paid 
 back ; and that either he must refund, or 
 little Canterbury be a loser." 
 
 " He was afraid of something — and be 
 shot to him ! I hate the man. Anyway, 
 that outlet seems closed ; and there's only 
 Mrs. Garston to fall back upon." 
 
 Keziah, in her secret heart, knew 
 there was no more chance of Barnabj's 
 getting money from her, by will or other- 
 wise (beyond what she might have al- 
 read}' left him), than there was of his get- 
 ting it from Mr. Kage. Less, in fact : 
 of the two, she considered there would be 
 more hope with the barrister. 
 
 " Barnaby, you may put aunt Garston 
 out of the question, for she will never 
 lend you any, or leave you much." 
 
 " You must try what you can do," 
 said the Major irritably. 
 
 " She would not hear me. If I per- 
 sisted in pressing the question, she would 
 call her servants to show me out of the 
 house. Since that — that unhappy affair, 
 she has never once allowed me to men- 
 tion your name." 
 
 Barnaby Dawkes lifted his eyes in 
 surprise. 
 
 " What affair?" 
 
 " Of Belle Annesley." 
 
 A minute's silence. Keziah turned 
 round, and drank what tea was left in her 
 cup. 
 
 " Keziah," he said hoarsely, his black 
 eyes taking quite a fierce gleam as he 
 looked at her — a gleam born of trouble 
 — " I tell }'Ou that I must have money, 
 though I move heaven and earth to get 
 it." 
 
 " My will is good to give it you, Bar- 
 by," she answered, all the old affection 
 coming back with a rush ; "but when I 
 know — I know — that the notion of get- 
 ting it from Mrs. Garston is more vision- 
 ary than that wind now sweeping past the 
 window, it would be foolish of me to de- 
 cieve you with hope. Could you not bor- 
 row money upon your income ? Upon 
 your wife's income, I mean." 
 
 " I have done a little in that way," 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 191 
 
 acknowledged the Major. " Can't get 
 another stiver on it from any money- 
 lender breathing; have tried the greater 
 portion of 'em. Don't you see ? if she 
 died to-morrow, it would not come to me, 
 but to the boy ! and they are cautious." 
 
 " 1 don't quite understand." 
 
 " Should Caroline die in the boy's life- 
 time, the income she enjoys lapses to 
 him ; should he die in hers, while he is a 
 minor, his money lapses to her. When 
 old Canterbury made his will, he seemed 
 to forget that anybody existed in the 
 world but those two." 
 
 " And should the boy die after he is of 
 age, to whom does it lapse then ? " 
 
 " To whomsoever he shall will it. It's 
 an awful lot of money, his is ; and Kage 
 will take sharp care of the accumulations. 
 By Jove ! when I remember sometimes 
 that that miserable little unit of six years 
 old is keeping me out of wealth, I'm — 
 I'm — savage." 
 
 " Don't, Barnabv." 
 
 " Don't what ? " 
 
 " Talk in that way. You should keep 
 such thoughts down," added Keziah sen- 
 sibly. "The thing is so, and you can- 
 not alter it. You ought to have begun 
 at first to put by out of } r our wife's large 
 income, and insured her life." 
 
 "How I hate Kage!" growled the 
 Major. "Any other trustee would have 
 accommodated me under the circum- 
 stances." 
 
 "I don't think there has ever been 
 much love lost between you and him." 
 
 "Curse him ! It is he who hopes to 
 come in for that old creature's money. 
 He has her ear always. I'd not bet a 
 crown that it is not he who is keeping up 
 the ball against me." 
 
 Keziah shook her head. 
 
 "Wrong, Barnaby. I do not fancy he 
 will come in for her money ; and, though 
 he is no favorite of mine, I believe he is 
 too honorable to touch the ball against 
 you, let alone keep it up." 
 
 Major Dawkes rose. 
 
 " Will you see her to-morrow ? Do as 
 I bid you, Keziah : move heaven and 
 earth to get her to remember me well. 
 " I'd say almost forge a will ! " he added 
 impulsively — though, it must be confess- 
 ed, without any real meaning — "for 
 money I must have." 
 
 " Don't be angry with me, Barnaby, 
 if I suggest to you another course. I 
 
 do so, only in the conviction that the 
 two you mention are hopeless." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Be a bankrupt at once." 
 
 Major Dawkes glared a little. He a 
 bankrupt ! 
 
 " You don't know what you say, Ke- 
 ziah." 
 
 " I see the social disadvantages just as 
 well as you ; but at least you would be 
 clear. Of course I don't mean a regular 
 bankruptcy as tradespeople have to go 
 through — I mean privately ; what they 
 call whitewashed." 
 
 " I can't be." 
 
 "Can't be?" 
 
 " Will you help me, or won't you ? " 
 he repeated in desperation. " There's 
 more necessity for help than you know 
 
 yet." ^ 
 
 " What necessity? Tell me all, Bar- 
 nab}'', if you have not told it. It may 
 be better. Perhaps we are at cross-pur- 
 poses." 
 
 It is possible that the Major thought 
 it might be better. He hesitated for half 
 a moment, looking at her up-turned face ; 
 then he whispered two or three words in 
 her ear, and went out, whistling softly, 
 leaving Keziah as white as ashes. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 CALLED OUT OF THE RECEPTION- 
 ROOM. 
 
 Lamps at the door and carriages dash- 
 ing up to it, and the shouting of clashing 
 coachmen, and the sweet scent of exotics 
 through the hall and up the staircase, 
 proclaimed that Major and Mrs. Dawkes 
 were holding a reception. Strictly speak- 
 ing, it was hers. When the Major got 
 home, after his interview with Keziah, 
 he had barely time to get his dinner-coat 
 on. Half-a-dozen people dined with them, 
 and the reception came later. The Ma- 
 jor had quite forgotten there was to be a 
 party, if indeed he had ever been made 
 aware of it. 
 
 He was beginning to hate these crowds 
 at his own home. Careless - natured 
 though he was, there were certain dan- 
 gers besetting his path that half fright- 
 ened him ; and the mob jarred upon his 
 nerves. 
 
192 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes did not consult him when 
 she should hold her receptions ; and was 
 not likely to. As yet the dangers were 
 at a tolerable distance; and the Major, 
 always sanguine, hoped to avert them. 
 
 Not one person do we know amidst the 
 crowd. Satins, feathers, fans, bouquets, 
 jostle the black coats of men ; a goodly 
 company; but to us they are strangers. 
 Mrs. Dawkes, in white silk and lace, her 
 golden hair worn carelessly — and perhaps 
 that is the chief reason of its looking so 
 wondrously beautiful — stands to receive 
 them. But now some one comes in 
 whom we do know — Thomas Kage the 
 barrister. And his presence in that house 
 is so very rare — at least at its gay doings 
 — that Major Dawkes lifts his supercili- 
 ous e}-ebrows, and wonders audibly what 
 the dickens has brought him. 
 
 This. Somebody had said in his ear 
 lately, that Mrs. Dawkes was killing her- 
 self — killing herself with the dissipated 
 life she led. That she was looking just as 
 though she had one foot in the grave, 
 and might be in it now before her moth- 
 er, if she did not take care. 
 
 For that poor old shaking scarecrow 
 was alive yet. A sad burden to herself, 
 a wearing trouble to all around her, she 
 existed on, never moving out of the one 
 room she occupied in her house at Chill- 
 ing. Fry, her maid, had quitted her 
 place, strength and patience alike reduc- 
 ed, and had taken service with Mrs. 
 Dawkes. But it is not with Mrs. Kage 
 that we have anything to do. 
 
 So Thomas Kage came to. see. He 
 generally had a standing card for Mrs. 
 Dawkes's assemblies. In spite of his 
 non-attendance, she always sent them ; 
 and he thought he would for once make 
 use of it. He also wanted to say a word 
 to the Major. Drawing aside to let the 
 crowd pass in advance, he stood against 
 the wall while he scanned her. 
 
 Even so. She was looking thin, worn, 
 ill. Dark circles were round her eyes ; 
 her lips were feverish ; her cough — she 
 coughed three or four times — had a hol- 
 low hacking sound. A strange pang shot 
 through the heart of Thomas Kage. 
 
 " You here !" exclaimed Caroline, her 
 face lighting up with pleasure as she 
 met Mr. Kage's hand. " I should think 
 it would rain gold to-morrow." 
 
 " Because my appearance here is so 
 rare ? " 
 
 " You know it is. If my poor recep- 
 tions were poison, Thomas, you could 
 not eschew them more than you do." 
 
 " I wish I could induce you to eschew 
 them, Caroline." 
 
 " I ! That is good ! " 
 
 " You are looking very thin." 
 
 " Yes, I am thin. I have not been 
 well lately." 
 
 " What has been the matter ? " 
 
 " O, a cold, I think. I have spit a 
 little blood once or twice." 
 
 " Caroline ! " 
 
 She laughed at his look of consterna- 
 tion. 
 
 " It was ever so many weeks ago. 
 Nothing but the cough brought it on. 
 One night, coming out of St. James's 
 Hall, the carriage could not get up. Major 
 Dawkes was in a hurry to go somewhere, 
 so we walked to it. I had nothing on my 
 neck but a thin lace cape, and the cold 
 caught my chest. 1 am quite well again. 
 It is the sitting up late and the rackety 
 life we lead that makes me look thin." 
 
 " Caroline, I am glad to hear } t ou ac- 
 knowledge that fact. To lead this life 
 always would injure one twice as strong 
 as you are. There's reason in roasting 
 eggs, you know." 
 
 " Apropos of what ? " 
 
 "But there's no reason in leading it 
 without cessation," continued Mr. Kag^, 
 following out his argument. " Why 
 don't you go down to the block ? " 
 
 Caroline shrugged her pretty shoul- 
 ders. The diamonds resting on her neck 
 (Olive Canterbury's diamonds by right) 
 glittering in their marvellous brightness. 
 
 " Do you want me to die of ennui, 
 Thomas ? I should if I went there." 
 
 " You did not die of it when you lived 
 there in the days gone by." 
 
 " But I had not then tried a London 
 life. It is dull for me there, Thomas. 
 You cannot say otherwise ; and the Ma- 
 jor never stays there with me. The last 
 time I went there, if he came down for 
 a couple of daj-s, he was all restlessness 
 until he got off again. He has his pur- 
 suits here, his brother officers and that, 
 and cannot bear to tear himself away 
 from them. In July, or August at the 
 latest, I shall go with little Tom to one 
 of the quiet German baths for two 
 months. It will set us both up." 
 
 "Tom is not very strong," he re- 
 marked. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 193 
 
 " He was as strong and healthy a 
 little fellow born as could be, but he has 
 ailed somewhat lately. They say his 
 chest is weak." 
 
 " I know what I should say — if you 
 will allow me, Caroline." 
 
 " Say on," she laughingly rejoined. 
 
 " That it is the confinement in London 
 that disagrees with him. For the first 
 three or four years of the child's life he 
 .was kept chiefly in the healthy country 
 air, and then you transplanted him to 
 this close town. Suppose } T ou treated a 
 plant so. It would soon droop, if .not 
 die." 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes grew grave. The argu- 
 ment struck her. 
 
 " There is really nothing amiss with 
 the child, Thomas ; except that he has 
 lately looked delicate." 
 
 " But he should look hardy, and not 
 delicate. I say, Caroline, that he re- 
 quires country air. And so do you." 
 
 " He has a wonderful affinity with me, 
 that child," exclaimed Caroline fondly. 
 " If I droop, he seems to droop. You 
 come to see him often er than you do me, 
 sir." 
 
 " Is it my fault if you lie in bed of a 
 morning ? " asked Mr. Kage in a laugh- 
 ing tone. " In going to the Temple I 
 sometimes walk round here : it is the 
 most convenient time for me and for 
 Tom. ' Mamma's not up,' he always 
 says." 
 
 The soft strains of a band in another 
 apartment rose on their ear. Caroline 
 passed her arm within her cousin's. 
 
 " You will go through a quadrille with 
 me, Thomas ? " she whispered. 
 
 And Mr. Kage heard it with intense 
 surprise. 
 
 " A quadrille ! I ! Why, do you know 
 how long it is since I danced one ? " 
 
 " How long is it ? " 
 
 " So long that I cannot recollect. 
 Yes, I do. The last time I danced a 
 quadrille was that long bygone year 
 when I was staying with my mother at 
 Little Bay. I danced it with you, Car- 
 oline." 
 
 Their eyes met, quite unintentionally 
 on either side ; and for a brief moment 
 •the sweet fantasy of that departed time 
 was recalled to either heart. 
 
 " 1 have never danced one since," said 
 Mr Kage. 
 
 " But vou will this evening ? " 
 12 
 
 " I do not think 3'ou ought to dance 
 at all. You give yourself too much fa- 
 tigue without that." 
 
 " I will be good, and have but this 
 one, if you will dance it with me., 
 There ; that's a promise." 
 
 " Really, Caroline, I do not remember 
 the figures." 
 
 She gently drew him on, and he stood 
 up with her. Two or three very young 
 men, embryo barristers, put up their 
 glasses when they saw him, and laughed 
 with each other. There was nothing to 
 laugh at, either in him or his dancing; 
 but they had never seen the sight be- 
 fore. 
 
 Later, when looking about for Major 
 Dawkes, in the rooms and out of them, 
 and unable to find him, Judith appeared 
 in view, coming down the stairs. 
 
 " I never see such a child," she ex- 
 claimed to Mr. Kage, between whom and 
 herself there was much confidence on the 
 score of her little charge. "Just look, 
 sir" — indicating a bit of folded paper 
 in her hand. " Because his mamma did 
 not have him in to say good-night, he 
 has been writing this to her, and made 
 me bring it. — 0, it's you, ma'am." 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes opened the paper, hold- 
 ing it so that Thomas Kage could see. 
 
 "My dearest mamma, I say good- 
 night to you. You must come and kiss 
 me when the people are gone. I shall 
 lie awake looking at the angels. I have 
 said my prayers." 
 
 "What does he mean by 'looking 
 at the angels' ?" questioned Mr. Kage 
 of Caroline. 
 
 " 0, he means that little toy that poor 
 Belle Annesley gave him. He never 
 goes to bed without it, does he, Judith ? " 
 
 " Never, ma'am ; there he is now, set 
 up on end in his little bed, and the thing 
 open before him." 
 
 " You ought to make him go to sleep, 
 Judith." 
 
 " I should like to know how, ma'am," 
 replied the girl respectfully ; " he's 
 a'most as fond of music as he is of his 
 angels. There'll be no sleep for him till 
 the tunes have shut up for the night." 
 
 " I will come to him before I go to 
 bed," said Caroline, escaping to her 
 guests. 
 
 But Mr. Kage thought he should like 
 to see the 003' then, and turned towards 
 the stairs. It was a frightfully high 
 
194 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 liouse, this Belgravian mansion ; the 
 roof pretty nigh in the clouds. This 
 floor was devoted to reception-rooms ; on 
 the next were the best bed-chambers; 
 on the one above that, slept Tom ; and 
 there were the cloud apartments yet, no 
 end to them. The day and the night 
 nursery opened one into the other ; they 
 were rather small, for on that landing 
 were crowded several rooms. 
 
 Tom was sitting up in bed, the purple- 
 silk curtain at its head drawn between 
 his face and the door. Mrs. Dawkes was 
 careful of her treasure, as though he 
 v ere some rich toy, and surrounded him 
 with comforts. He thought it was his 
 nurse coming back. 
 
 " Did you get to see her, Judith ? " 
 
 "Yes, and gave the document." 
 
 The answer was in Mr. Kage's voice, 
 and the boy put aside the silk curtain 
 with a joyful shout. Not a loud shout ; 
 he was never boisterous, as boys mostly 
 are. His fair curls were brushed back ; 
 It is white night-gown lay smooth on his 
 shoulders ; before him, on the counter- 
 pane, was the pretty toy given him by 
 Utile. 
 
 " What do you mean by this line of 
 conduct, young sir ? Sitting up like this, 
 when 3 T ou should be fast asleep ! " 
 
 Tom laughed. "I am hearing the 
 music ! " he said. 
 
 •' Do you make a point of listening to 
 it always at these hours, when it ma} 7 be 
 going on ? " 
 
 " Yes, always," said Tom stoutly ; " I 
 wish they'd play ' Here we suffer grief 
 and pain ' ! " 
 
 " What may that be ? " asked Mr. 
 Kage. 
 
 " It's a song Fry taught me. Shall I 
 sing a verse of it to you ? " 
 
 There was a lull in the down-stairs 
 music at the time ; and the boj 7 began, 
 in his weak, gentle, but very sweet 
 voice : a voice that would be worth hear- 
 ing some day if he lived — 
 
 " Here we sutler grief and pain, 
 Here we meet to part again, 
 
 In heaven we part no more. 
 O. that will be joyful, joyful, joyful ! 
 O, that will be joyful ! 
 
 When we meet to part no more." 
 
 The boy, who had clasped his hands 
 as he sang, unclasped them, and looked 
 up. 
 
 " You are a curious child," thought 
 Mr. Kage. 
 
 " The other verse is about little chil- 
 dren ; but 1 don't know it quite yet. It 
 begins, " Little children will be there." 
 In heaven, you know." 
 
 Thomas Kage made no answer. He 
 was gazing down, lost in thought, on the 
 boy's delicate face. An idea came over 
 him, almost like a prevision, that the 
 lad would not live beyond the age of 
 childhood. For a moment regret had 
 full place. 
 
 " God knows best," he said, in his in- 
 ward heart ; and he laid his hand on the 
 child's head, and kept it there. 
 
 " Where's Judith, Mr. Kage?" 
 
 The question recalled him to present 
 things ; and Judith's step was even 
 then heard. Mr. Kage went down, in- 
 tending to find Major Dawkes as he de- 
 parted, and say the word he wished to 
 say. But the Major seemed not easy to 
 be found. 
 
 A short while before this, one of the 
 servants had made his way quietly to 
 his master, saying in a whisper that 
 he was wanted below. The man, Rich- 
 ard by name, was attached more than 
 any of the rest to his master's personal 
 service, and knew pretty well about his 
 embarrassments. 
 
 "Wanted at this hour!" exclaimed 
 the Major haughtily. " Who is it ? " 
 
 " It's Mr. Jessup, sir." 
 
 " Mr. Jessup ! Did vou admit 
 him ? " 
 
 " He admitted himself, sir. The 
 front doors are open to-night." 
 
 " You are a fool, Richard," said the 
 Major wrathful! v- 
 
 Mr. Jessup was the Major's principal 
 lawyer. His coming at that late hour 
 boded no good ; and good or ill, the Ma- 
 jor resented being disturbed. There 
 were times for business, and times for 
 pleasure. Richard had put Mr. Jessup 
 into the' Major's study — the room with 
 the .pipes and pistols. Many an un- 
 pleasant interview had it been witness 
 to lately : Major Dawkes was beginning 
 to shun it. 
 
 Only one of the gas-lights was burn- 
 ing; and Mr. Jessup, a portly man with 
 a flaxen wig, stood under it. Major 
 Dawkes had just told his servant Rich- 
 ard he was a fool ; Mr. Jessup, waiting 
 for his audience, was thinking that, of 
 all fools the world ever saw, his client 
 Barnaby Dawkes was about the greatest. 
 
GEORGE CANT E RBU I! Y " S WILL 
 
 195 
 
 Standing together, the conference was 
 carried on in a low tone — almost a whis- 
 per ; dangerous secrets cannot be dis- 
 cussed at a high pitch. A certain mat- 
 ter — or rather a suspicion of a certain 
 matter — had got to Mr. Jessup's ears 
 that evening, and he came down to the 
 Major. 
 
 " Is it so, Major ? You had better 
 tell me." 
 
 The Major would a great deal rather 
 not tell. He shuffled and equivocated, 
 and finally subsided into silence. Mr. 
 Jess up did not make a pretence of lis- 
 tening to him ; he knew what he knew. 
 
 " No earthly thing can patch up this 
 and avert exposure, save one, Major ; 
 and that is, money. You must get it. 
 No light sura, either." 
 
 It was the lawyer's parting mandate. 
 Major Dawkes, left alone, took a rapid 
 survey of his situation, feeling some- 
 thing like a man desperate. Money he 
 must have; it was as true as heaven. 
 
 A sharp glance upwards, as the door 
 opened; and ji.i angry frown. He had 
 thought it was the lawyer coming back 
 again ; but it was Mr. Kage. Richar^. 
 had said where his master might be 
 found. 
 
 " I will not disturb you for a minute, 
 Major Dawkes. I bave but a word or 
 two to say. Are you giving it out that 
 I am going to advance you some of 
 Thomas Canterbury's money ? " 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " Two or three applications have been 
 made to me — from your creditors, I pre- 
 sume — asking whether it be true that I 
 am about to accommodate Major Dawkes 
 with funds from the estate to which I 
 stand trustee. I could only think you 
 had been spreading the report." 
 
 " I may have said that I wished you 
 would do it," said the Major. " People 
 jump to conclusions." 
 
 " I wish you would undeceive them, 
 then. It gives them trouble, and me 
 too." 
 
 " What was your answer, pray ? " 
 
 "That they were under a misappre- 
 hension altogether ; that I had neither 
 the power nor the will to advance any 
 money belonging to Thomas Canter- 
 bury." 
 
 Major Dawkes bit his lip. " It 
 would so oblige me, Kage — if you could 
 be induced to do it. The money would 
 
 be as safe as the Bank of England ; I 
 would give you security, and repay the 
 whole within a year." 
 
 " You had my answer before, Major. 
 I told } r ou then that I must decline dis- 
 cussion on the subject ; pardon me if I 
 adhere to it. Could I allow even that, I 
 should be scarcely a true trustee. Good- 
 night." 
 
 " Good-night," was the Major's an- 
 swer. " And I wish you were dead, I 
 do ! " he growled, as a parting blessing. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 AN OLD WARNING RECALLED. 
 
 Shrunken and wasted nov*. The 
 fire had gone out forever from the once 
 fierce gray eyes ; the strong hands were 
 as feeble as a child's ; but the will was 
 vigorous yet, and the body strove to be. 
 Mrs. Garston, with her all but ninety 
 years, was better than are some at 
 seventy. 
 
 She sat by the fire in her handsome 
 chamber, in a warm dressing-gown of 
 quilted gray silk, her nightcap on her 
 head. Towards evening she would get 
 up, in spite of Dr. Tyndal — in spite of 
 everybody. Her hands lay on her lap, 
 her head was bowed forward — the old 
 stiff uprightness could not be main- 
 tained now. 
 
 " It's time I was gone, Thomas. The 
 silver cord 's loosed, and the golden 
 bowl 's broken. A few more weary days 
 and nights, and you'll put me in the 
 grave." 
 
 In his sense of truth, in the strong 
 opinion he held against attempting to 
 deceive the dying with false hopes, 
 Thomas Kage did not attempt to refute 
 her words. He sat near her, having 
 called in, as was his custom, on coming 
 home from the Temple. 
 
 " I should like to lie by your mother. 
 We lived side by side in life ; why not 
 repose together in death? Mind about 
 that, Thomas — but it's in the directions 
 I've written. She was young enough 
 to be my daughter, and she was called 
 away years before me. Only a little 
 while to wait now." 
 
 The fire played on the fresh colors 
 of the hearth-rug. Mrs. Garston liked 
 
196 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 bright things yet. Its flame flickered 
 on the face that would never more be 
 winsome. 
 
 " It seems a dark road at starting, 
 Thomas — this setting out for the jour- 
 ney of the Valley of the Shadow of 
 Death. Once the gate 's passed through, 
 it will be light eternal. A nianj r have 
 gone tli rough it before me ; a many 
 have got to come after." 
 
 Something in the words struck oddly 
 on Thomas Kage's heart. He bent for- 
 ward, speaking in a whisper. 
 
 " You do not fear the passage ? " 
 
 " Me ! Fear it ? I hope not, child. 
 God help my ingratitude if I did ! — 
 He'd have given me my patriarch's 
 years in vain. I am setting out for the 
 golden city, Thomas ; and I don't care 
 how soon I'm there." 
 
 She held up one of her hands. He 
 drew his chair nearer, and sat clasp- 
 ing it. 
 
 <; You've been like a son to me, 
 Thomas. You were better than a son 
 to your mother ; and, mind, God's bless- 
 ing will go with you alwaj-s. I'm sure 
 of that. You are another that need not 
 fear the summons to the Valley ; no, 
 not though it came to you to-night." 
 
 Mr. Kage grew slightly uneasy. She 
 had never talked in this way before. He 
 thought there must be some hidden and 
 perhaps unconscious cause for it — that 
 the summons she spoke of might be al- 
 ready overshadowing the spirit. 
 
 A pause ensued — rather a long one ; 
 her eyes were turned to the fire in 
 thought. When she began to speak 
 again, it was of other things. 
 
 " I'd like you to move into this house, 
 Thomas, remember. You- can let your 
 own." 
 
 i( This house ; it would be too large 
 for me." 
 
 " Not it. When a man marries, and 
 gets a family about him, he wants 
 plenty of room. Don't you forget that 
 I wish you to come to it. You'd hardly 
 bring Millicent Canterbury home to the 
 next door if you could bring her here. 
 She'd go with you to a hovel ; that's my 
 opinion ; but she may like elbow-room 
 for all that, when there's no reason why 
 she shouldn't have it." 
 
 Not a word said Thomas Kage in re- 
 futation. That Millicent Canterbury 
 would be his wife sometime — certainly 
 his wife if he married at all — he had 
 
 grown to think very probable. While 
 his prospects were unassured he would 
 not marry, in spite of Mrs. Garston's 
 sharp orders to do so ; but he was get- 
 ting on well now. 
 
 " You'll walk up together once in a 
 way on a summer's evening, you and 
 your wife, Thomas, to take a look at my 
 grave. So will Charlotte. Mind you 
 keep it in good order ; but I know you 
 will, because you so keep your mother's. 
 —What's the news ? " 
 
 The transition was sudden. Thomas 
 Kage, smiling slightly, said he knew of 
 none in particular. 
 
 " Heard anything about Barnaby 
 Dawkes ? " 
 
 " No. Is there any to hear ? " 
 
 "That's what I asked you" said Mrs. 
 Garston, with a touch of her old retort. 
 " I fancied there might be ; that's all. 
 Barby's in a mess again, Thomas ; a 
 deep one, too." 
 
 Mr. Kage thought this more than 
 probable ; indeed he as good as knew it. 
 It was but the day after the one spoken 
 of in the last chapter, when he had been 
 at the reception in the Major's house. 
 
 " Keziah called this afternoon. They 
 told her I was in bed, not well enough 
 to see any one, and asleep too. She said 
 she must see me, and waited. So when 
 my tea came in, she came with it, for I 
 had but then awoke. What do you 
 think she wanted, Thomas?" 
 
 Money, he supposed, but did not say 
 so. He slightly shook his head. 
 
 " She had got a face, Thomas ; but 
 Keziah always had wheri it was to serve 
 Barby. You'd not believe it unless I 
 told you with my own tongue — she 
 wanted me to alter my will in Barby's 
 favor ! Something's up with him, Thom- 
 as: as true as we are here, something's 
 up. What he has been getting into 
 now. she wouldn't say ; I asked her : 
 but it's something bad. She prayed for 
 money for him by gift or by will, as if 
 she were praying for her life ; and her 
 voice and hands shook like leaves in the 
 wind." 
 
 " I conclude he must be in debt 
 again," observed Thomas Kage. 
 
 " Debt, of course, and pretty deep. 
 It's not a little thing that would move 
 Keziah. I did feel a bit sorry for her." 
 
 " Major Dawkes should fight his own 
 battles ; not trouble his sister." 
 
 " Major Dawkes knows he'd not dare 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 191 
 
 to put his foot inside my door with any 
 such petition," sharply returned the old 
 lady. " I've kept him at my stick's 
 length, I can tell you, since that matter 
 of little Belle Annesley. She's better 
 off in heaven, poor child, than she'd 
 have been with him" 
 
 She sat silent a minute, thinking per- 
 haps of the past, and the girl's blighted 
 life., Mr. Kage did not .interrupt. He 
 would have preferred to hear no more of 
 Major Dawkes and Keziah's petitions. 
 Mrs. Garston began to nod her head. 
 
 " Yes, she had a face — to comtf asking 
 for money for Barb}'. He has got the 
 fingering of an income half-a-dozen 
 times as heavy as mine ; and hasn't 
 ma le it do, it seems ! ' What did I say 
 to you, Keziah ? ' I asked her — ' that if 
 Barby had one hundred thousand a-year, 
 he'd want two.' And so he would, 
 Thomas. ' He is in great need, aunt 
 Grarston,' cried Keziah — and upon my 
 word, her lips seemed to be turning blue 
 as she said it — ' he may have to fby the 
 country if he does not get it ! ' ' And 
 the sooner he flies it, the better for them 
 that remain, Keziah,' I answered ; ' if 
 Barb} 7 had been sent out of it 3'Pars ago 
 at the Queen's cost, he'd only have got 
 what he deserved.' And so he would, 
 Thomas. ' Would you save him from 
 such a fate as that now, aunt Garston?' 
 says she to me. ' No, I would not,' I 
 told her. And so she got uiy answer, 
 and went away — it's not above an hour 
 ago. But, Thomas, you take my word 
 for it — that bad man is in for it. shoul- 
 der deep. To help him would be a great 
 mistake, next door to a sin ; he goes 
 through the world scattering ill both 
 sides his path ; and if he gets stopped, 
 so much the better." 
 
 What she said was true enough. 
 Money would never help Barnaby 
 Dawkes — never do him any real good. 
 The more he got, the more he would 
 need to get. 
 
 Wishing Mrs. Garston good-night, 
 Thomas Kage proceeded to his home, 
 hungry enough ; for he had not yet 
 dined, and it was later than usual. He 
 had for some time thought that the 
 starving in his house (as Mrs. Garston 
 in a sense compelled him to do) was all 
 for the best; he was making an ample 
 living now, and his name stood high in 
 his calling before the world. 
 
 Opening the house-door with a latch- 
 key, he was about to enter the dining- 
 room, when a maid-servant ran up. 
 
 " A lady is there waiting for you, sir. 
 She says she wants to see you on par- 
 ticular business." 
 
 " Who is it ? " he asked. 
 " I don't know, sir. She has been 
 here above an hour.. We showed her 
 in there, as there was no fire in the 
 drawing-room : and so the cloth 's not 
 laid." 
 
 When a man, starving for his dinner, 
 is told the cloth 's not laid, it is by 
 no means agreeable news. Thomas 
 Kage made the best of it, as he was 
 wont to do of most other ills in life. 
 But he did wonder what lady could be 
 wanting him. Seated before the fire, 
 her back to the door, he saw some one 
 in a gray-plaid shawl. She got up as he 
 entered, and turned her head. Keziah 
 Dawkes ! 
 
 Gray though her shawl might be, it 
 did not equal the gray hardness of her 
 face : but that had grown habitual. 
 Mr. Kage closed the door, and sat down 
 near her, the recent remark of Mrs. 
 Garston's passing through his mind — - 
 that Keziah's voice and hands trembled 
 and her lips turned blue when pleading 
 for Barby. Her voice was not trem- 
 bling now, as she apologized for taking 
 his house by storm to wait for him. 
 He said a few courteous words, and then 
 left her to tell her business. 
 
 " I have come to request a great fa- 
 vor of you," she began. " I know how 
 vast is the liberty I am taking in med- 
 dling with what you may deem cannot 
 concern me ; but interests are at stake 
 which — which — " 
 
 Keziah broke down. Not from emo- 
 tion : she was not one likely to be super- 
 fluously agitated, even for Barby; but 
 because she doubted what she could say 
 to justify her plea, and yet not say too 
 much. It had to be done ; those calm, 
 honest, steady eyes were patiently fixed 
 on her. She went on a little more 
 quickly. 
 
 " You are the sole trustee to Mrs. 
 Dawkes's little son, I believe, Mr. 
 Kage." 
 
 " The trustee to his property ? Yes." 
 " It is accumulating largely, they say." 
 " Of course. With so large a fortune 
 it could not be otherwise." 
 
198 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 " I want you to lend a very, very 
 infinitesimal portion of those savings to 
 the child's stepfather," continued Ke- 
 ziah. 
 
 " To Major Dawkes ? " 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I am truly sorry you should have 
 come here to prefer any such request to 
 me, Miss Dawkes. It is not in my power 
 to grant it/' 
 
 " In your power it is, Mr. Kage ; in 
 your will it may not be." 
 
 " Indeed you are in error. It is not 
 in my power to touch a fraction of 
 Thomas Canterbury's money, to lend to 
 Major Dawkes or to any other person. 
 If I did so, I should be false to my 
 trust." 
 
 " Not false really ; only in your own 
 estimation." 
 
 " False really ; I think you must see 
 that, Miss Dawkes. But, put it as you 
 suggest, I like to stand well with my 
 conscience," he added, smiling, wishing 
 to pass the matter off as lightly as he 
 could. 
 
 " I have come to beg, pray, entreat of 
 you to do this," rejoined Keziah with 
 deep earnestness, as if the smile offend- 
 ed her. '• I have come to wrestle with 
 you for it, Mr. Kage, if need be." 
 
 She half rose from her chair as she 
 spoke. Mr. Kage got up and put his 
 elbow on the mantlepiece. He foresaw 
 the interview might possibly turn out 
 more painful than pleasant. 
 
 " To wrestle with you, as Jacob wres- 
 tled with the angel on the plains of 
 Peniel," she continued, her voice falling, 
 her cold gray eyes searching his. " To 
 say to you as he said, I will not let you 
 go unless you bless me." 
 
 " Were it a thing I could do, Miss 
 Dawkes, I should not need this persua- 
 sion. Being what it is, no entreaty or 
 persuasion can move me." 
 
 The voice was all too quietly firm. 
 Keziah's heart began to fail within her. 
 " I never thought you a hard man." 
 " I do not think I am one. This is 
 not a question of hardness, but of right 
 and wrong." 
 
 " To grant the request would cost you 
 , nothing." 
 
 " The cost to me we will put out of 
 sight, please, Miss Dawkes, as a super- 
 fluous consideration. The request is — 
 pardon me — one that you have no right 
 
 to make, or I to suffer. See you not," 
 he added, bending his head a little in the 
 force of argument, " that if I were ca- 
 pable of lending (say) one hundred 
 pounds of this money lying in my charge, 
 I might, in point of principle, as well 
 lend the whole ? If I could bring my- 
 self to touch any of it, what is there to 
 prevent my taking it all ?" 
 
 Of course Keziah saw it ; she was a 
 strong-minded woman of sense and dis- 
 cernment. But Barby's position made 
 her feel desperate, obscuring right and 
 wrong. 
 
 " The position I stand in, as sole trus- 
 tee to so large a property, is a very 
 onerous one," he pursued. "When I 
 found I was appointed to it by Mr. Can- 
 terbury's will, the responsibility that 
 would lie on me struck me at once, and 
 I hesitated, for that and other reasons, 
 whether to accept it. Eventually I did 
 so ; but I was quite sure of myself, Miss 
 Dawkes. Had I not been, the world 
 would never have found me acting." 
 
 Keziah sat forward in the chair, her 
 head resting on her hand. Mr. Kage, 
 still standing, faced her. He seemed 
 firmer than that celebrated mansion 
 pertaining to the boy's property — the 
 Rock. 
 
 " It is so trifling a sum that I ask 
 you the loan of! Only three or four 
 thousand pounds." 
 
 " The amount, more or less — as you 
 must perceive — has nothing to do with 
 it." 
 
 " Do you think that Major Dawkes 
 would not pay you back ? " 
 
 " I think Major Dawkes neither would 
 nor could," fearlessly replied Mr. Kage. 
 " But — pardon me for repeating it — the 
 question does not lie there." 
 
 " Can you suppose that you are ful- 
 filling your duty to the child, when you 
 thus refuse this poor little meed of aid 
 to one who stands to him as a father?'' 
 flashed Keziah, temper getting for a mo- 
 ment into the ascendant. 
 
 " My duty to the child, my duty to 
 his dead father, lies in refusing it," said 
 Mr. Kage quietly. " But that Mr. Can- 
 terbury felt perfectly secure in my faith- 
 fulness, he surely would not have placed 
 in my sole hands this great amount of 
 power." 
 
 Argument.seemed useless, and Keziah 
 si»hed heavily. Her face besan to take 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 199 
 
 a hopeless look, and Thomas Kage felt 
 for her. But he would have given up 
 his life rather than his probity. 
 
 "When Major Dawkes applied to me 
 upon this subject — which fact, I pre- 
 sume, is known to you, by your coming 
 yourself — I stopped him at the onset, 
 Miss Dawkes. I told him that the 
 matter was one that did not admit of 
 argument ; neither would I permit any." 
 
 Keziah did not take the hint. Tena- 
 cious by nature in all that concerned 
 Barnaby, she was persistently so now. 
 
 " Put yourself in my brother's place, 
 Mr. Kage," she pleadingly said, her tone 
 taking a degree of softness. " If you 
 had some desperately pressing need of 
 temporary help, how would you feel if 
 it were denied you — as you are denying 
 me ? " 
 
 " I must really beg of you not to 
 pursue this farther," was his rejoinder. 
 " It gives you pain, and is utterly use- 
 less." 
 
 "Did you understand my hint? " she 
 asked, dropping her voice. " He is in 
 desperate need of it ; desperate ! Noth- 
 ing else would justify my persistency 
 after your refusal. It is not common 
 debt." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear it," said Mr. 
 Ka<^e. " I suspected something of the 
 kind."' 
 
 " Will you not lend it him ? " 
 
 " No. I regret you should make me 
 repeat \x\y refusal so often. There is no 
 alternative." 
 
 Keziah began to understand that 
 there would be none. She lifted her face 
 to his. 
 
 " Could } T ou lend him any of your own 
 money, then ? I would be responsible 
 as well as he for its return." 
 
 Mr. Kage smiled. 
 
 " You would find me much less hard 
 in regard to my own, if I had any to lend. 
 A struggling barrister does not put by 
 mone}-.'' 
 
 " For ' struggling ' say ' rising.' You 
 are that now." 
 
 " But I have not been so long enough 
 to grow rich," he rejoined ; involuntarily 
 thinking that, if he Were rich, Major 
 Dawkes would be the last person to 
 whom he would lend money. 
 
 " Do you know any one who would ? 
 any client, for example ? Barnaby 
 would pay high interest." 
 
 " I do not, indeed. A solicitor would 
 
 be the proper person to apply to — or a 
 money-lender." 
 
 Keziah's private belief was, that Bar- 
 naby had exhausted those accommodat- 
 ing gentlemen. She sat on, never at- 
 tempting to move, and at last began to 
 say a good word for Barnaby. 
 
 " There is every excuse to be made fur 
 my brother ; you must acknovvdedge that, 
 Mr. Kage." 
 
 " Excuse for what ? " 
 
 " For running into debt. He has been 
 placed in the midst of temptation. Mar- 
 ried to a woman who has so large an in- 
 come, what else could be expected of a 
 man ? " 
 
 Thomas Kage stared a little. 
 
 " I should have considered it just the 
 position that a man might find safety in, 
 Miss Dawkes. Every luxury of life is 
 provided for, without a cost to himself." 
 
 " You forget his personal expenses — 
 gloves and that." 
 
 " Not at all. He reckons, I believe, to 
 draw two thousand a-yearfrom his wife's 
 income for them. And there's his pay 
 besides.'' 
 
 " Who told you that ? " asked Keziah, 
 quite sharply. 
 
 "Mrs. Dawkes. I had occasion to 
 consult her on a matter connected with 
 the estate, and she incidentally men- 
 tioned that Major Dawkes drew two 
 thousand a-year for his private pocket." 
 
 Keziah bit her lip. 
 
 " Well, what's two thousand a-year to 
 a man of my brother's habits ? He has 
 to do as others do." 
 
 " I question if Major Dawkes confines 
 himself to the two thousand," rejoined 
 Mr. Kage. " Mrs. Canterbury married 
 him without being secured, and her mon- 
 ey lies at the bank in his name. As we 
 are upon the point, Miss Dawkes, it is as 
 well to be correct." 
 
 " You wish to make out that he draws 
 just what he pleases of it ! " she said 
 resentfully. 
 
 " I wish to make out nothing. I have 
 not the smallest doubt but that he does 
 do it." 
 
 Keziah stood at bay. She had risen 
 to leave ; was she to go in her despair, 
 resigning every hope ? Once more a 
 piteous appeal for help went out to Mr. 
 Kage. And yet she knew it would be 
 useless as she spoke it. At length she 
 turned to go, Mr. Kage attending her. 
 
 " The mystery to me is, how he can get 
 
200 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 rid of so much money," he remarked on 
 impulse, as he laid his hand on the lock 
 of th.e door. 
 
 " He gambles," whispered Keziah, 
 forgetting Barnaby's interests for once in 
 her bitter abandonment. 
 
 " Gambles. Ay, there it is." 
 
 But Thomas Kage had no doubt 
 known as much before. He closed the 
 street-door on his guest, and Keziah went 
 into the bleak night, wondering what 
 now could be done for her brother. 
 
 Thomas Kage returned to his room, 
 and while standing over the fire until 
 they should bring his dinner, recalled a 
 certain warning in regard to the boy's 
 money that Mrs. Gars ton had given him 
 years before. He had thought it super- 
 fluous then. 
 
 " Take } r ou care of it, or Barby will be 
 too many for you. He'd wring the heart 
 out of a live man if it were made of 
 gold." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 VERY UNSATISFACTORY. 
 
 Something like a week went by, and 
 then Mrs. Garston's house was closed. 
 The hale old lady had gone to her rest. 
 
 Down came Mr. Jessup, her solicitor : 
 the same man of law who acted (but not 
 al\va3 7 s) for Barnaby Dawkes. Major 
 Dawkes was sometimes involved in odds 
 and ends of affairs that he would not have 
 taken to him, a respectable practitioner. 
 Before her death, Mrs. Garstoh had said 
 to those about her, " When anything 
 happens to me, send for Jessup, and let 
 him look in my desk for instructions." 
 
 Keziah Dawkes was with her when she 
 died. Whether in any hope that a second 
 appeal might be of use to Barnaby, 
 whether in solicitude for the old lady's 
 precarious state, Keziah presented her- 
 self at the house one morning, and found 
 .her aunt dying — all but gone. Keziah 
 was very angry that she had not been 
 summoned ; but Mrs. Garston's maid— 
 who had grown old in her service — said 
 her mistress had forbidden her to send to 
 either her or the Major. Mr. Kage had 
 taken his leave of her the previous night ; 
 when he called in that morning, she was 
 already insensible. Keziah listened, and 
 could but resign herself to fate. 
 
 In less than an hour all was over. 
 Keziah, taking off her bonnet, remained. 
 She felt to be more mistress in the house 
 than she had ever been before ; she went 
 peering about surreptitiously in various 
 places, thinking she would give the whole 
 world to know how things were left. A 
 faint foolish hope had been growing up in 
 her heart — that perhaps, after all, her 
 aunt had relented in favor of Barby. 
 
 Mr. Jessup searched for the paper of 
 instructions. Thej T were found to have 
 reference chiefly to her funeral. Keziah 
 looked over bis shoulder. Mrs. Garston 
 directed that she should be buried by 
 the side of Lady Kage, and that Thomas 
 Kage should follow her as chief mourner. 
 
 He the chief mourner ! — a pang of 
 dread shot through Keziah's heart. 
 Could this be an intimation that she had 
 made that man her heir ? Barby had 
 said it would be so. 
 
 And yet, one slight circumstance gave 
 Keziah some little courage : she gathered 
 from the servants that Mr. Jessup had 
 been summoned to a conference on the 
 Friday in the past week. Counting back 
 the days, Keziah found this must have 
 been the one following that pleading visit 
 of hers for Barby. A burning hope 
 sprang up again within her ; yes, Mrs. 
 Garston might have relented. 
 
 " Can j t ou tell me whether my aunt has 
 altered her will lately ? " inquired Ke- 
 ziah of Mr. Jessup, who was putting a 
 seal on an Indian cabinet, where Mrs. 
 Garston's principal papers were kept. 
 
 The lawyer turned and looked at the 
 speaker, as if questioning her right to 
 ask. 
 
 " You think the inquiry an indiscreet 
 one, I see, Mr. Jessup. In truth, it is 
 almost needless, considering that the will 
 must be so soon made public. But as 
 Mrs. Garston sent for you last week, I 
 thought, perhaps, she might have wanted 
 some alteration made in her will. The 
 summons was a peremptory one, I be- 
 lieve." 
 
 " That's just what she did want, Miss 
 Dawkes." 
 
 " Did it concern my brother ? " quick- 
 ly cried Keziah, holding her breath. 
 
 " I cannot say but what it did," was 
 the lawyer's answer. " That is all I can 
 tell you now, Miss Dawkes," he added, 
 interrupting her as she was about to 
 speak. " For particulars on that and 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 201 
 
 other points you must be content to wait 
 for the will itself." 
 
 Well, Keziah could do that; there 
 were some grains of hope to live upon. 
 Very anxiously did she search the law- 
 yer's countenance, if by good luck she 
 might gather from it courage or disap- 
 pointment ; but it gave out neither. A 
 wax face in a barber's shop could not be 
 more expressionless than his. 
 
 Tying on her bonnet with eager fin- 
 gers, pulling her gray-plaid shawl around 
 her, she made her way to the street-door, 
 and met Thomas Kage in the garden. 
 A few words passed between them con- 
 cerning the old friend gone, and then Ke- 
 ziah put a home question. 
 
 " Do j'ou know how things are left 
 Mr. Kage ? " 
 " No." 
 
 " Jessup is in there sealing up the 
 places," continued Keziah, looking hard 
 at Thomas Kage, almost as though she 
 doubted his denial. " I find that my 
 aunt altered her will last week, and that 
 the alteration concerned Barnaby." 
 " Indeed ! " was all he answered. 
 " Of course, after our recent interview, 
 you cannot but know that this is of the 
 very utmost moment to me, Mr. Kage, 
 for my brother's sake," she resumed. 
 " To him it is almost a matter of life or 
 death. If you do know how Aunt Gars- 
 ton's will is left, it cannot hurt you to 
 tell me." 
 
 " But I do not," he replied. " I as- 
 sure you, Miss Dawkes, that I know 
 nothing whatever about the will — abso- 
 lutely nothing. She never told me how 
 h?r affairs were settled ; never has given 
 me so much as a hint of it." 
 
 Keziah saw that he was speaking 
 truth, and continued her way, leaving 
 him to enter. Barnaby Dawkes's com- 
 munication to her that night at her house 
 — the few whispered words as he was 
 leaving — had nearly scared her senses 
 away. Unless help came to him — Ke- 
 ziah shivered as she strove to put away 
 the thought of what might follow after. 
 Her great anxiety to ascertain whether 
 he was left well off was this, that Bar- 
 naby might be able to quiet unpleasant 
 creditors at once with the news. 
 
 '• Barb}', she's gone ! " exclaimed Ke- 
 ziah, bursting in upon him as he sat in 
 his study looking over some letters, a 
 cigar in his mouth. 
 
 " Who's gone ? " returned the Major, 
 thinking of any one at the moment rath- 
 er than Mrs. Gars ton. 
 
 " The poor old deaf creature. She 
 died about an hour ago." 
 
 Major Dawkes got up and stood with 
 his back to the fire, into which he threw 
 the cigar. Keziah thought he looked 
 startled. 
 
 " Dead, is she ? Rather sudden ! " 
 
 "No, they say not. It's a shame I 
 was not sent for." 
 
 " You see now there was not so much 
 time to lose," remarked the Major. " You 
 might as well have done as I asked 
 you, Keziah." 
 
 " I did do it, Barby dear. I went 
 to her the day afterwards. She'd not 
 give me the slightest hope ; was just as 
 rudely abusive of you as ever. So then 
 I weut to Mr. Kage." 
 
 The Major lifted his eyes. "What 
 for ? " 
 
 " To get him to lend you a small 
 mite of the trust money ; or rather to 
 try to get him. It was of no use ; he 
 was as hard as adamant." 
 
 "I could have told you it would be 
 no use going to him," was the rough 
 answer; and I'm sorry you went." 
 
 " Well, I did it for the best," she 
 said, thinking how thankless he was — 
 readj' to swear at her rather than be 
 grateful. 
 
 Major Dawkes gave the fire a stamp 
 with his heel. 
 
 " Old Jessup is at the place sealing 
 up the things," continued Keziah. " He 
 had to come and open the instructions 
 for the funeral. Thomas Kage is to be 
 the chief mourner. If " 
 
 "And the chief heir too, I expect," 
 explosively interrupted the Major. "A 
 sly, sneaking, greedy hound!" 
 
 " He's not that, Barby. If she has 
 left him her heir, depend upon it, it is 
 without any connivance of his. But I 
 think there's a chance for you." 
 
 " It's to be hoped there, is." 
 
 She told him what she had learnt, 
 about the lawyer's being summoned to 
 make some alteration in the will, and his 
 acknowledgment that it concerned Major 
 Dawkes. The Major shouted at the 
 news. He looked upon it as a certainty 
 in that sanguine moment, and his spirits 
 went up to fever heat. 
 
202 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 The funeral was over. The fine spring 
 day was drawing to a close, as the car- 
 riages came back again. Thomas Kage, 
 according to appointment, was the chief 
 mourner; just as he had been many 
 years before at another grave lying close 
 beside. 
 
 The mourners assembled in the draw- 
 ing-room. Keziah Dawkes, the only 
 lady present, looking very grim in her 
 black robes ; Mr. Kage ; Richard Dunn ; 
 Major Dawkes; Charlotte Lowther's 
 husband ; Mr. Lynn-Garston, a wealthy 
 country squire, whose brother, Harry 
 Lynn-Garston, was to have married Olive 
 Canterbury ; and the lawyer. The will, 
 exciting so much hope and fear in Ke- 
 ziah's breast, was at last about to be made 
 public. 
 
 Mr. Jessup unfolded it before them. 
 Within it was a sealed paper, which, ac- 
 cording to the deceased's directions, was 
 to be read before the will. It was writ- 
 ten in Mrs. Garston's own stiff hand. 
 Mr. Jessup explained that Mrs. Garston 
 had handed him this paper sealed up, 
 giving him no intimation of what the 
 contents might be — only directions to 
 put it in with her will, and read it first. 
 The lawyer looked at it with evident in- 
 terest. His audience listened eagerly. 
 It turned out to be a kind of will, or 
 script of her will, interspersed with vari- 
 ous remarks, and curiously worded. 
 
 " Whereas " (it began, after a few in- 
 troductory sentences) " Thomas Kage 
 refuses obstinately to be my heir, as I 
 wished and intended to make him, I dis- 
 pose of my property amidst others, and 
 I do it unwillingly. 
 
 " To Richard Dunn five thousand 
 pounds. He is an honest man, ami has 
 been my good friend. 
 
 " To Charlotte Lowther, the step- 
 daughter of ray late dear friend Lady 
 Kage, five thousand pounds. 
 
 " To Dr. Tyndal five hundred pounds. 
 
 " To Mr. Jessup, my lawyer, five hun- 
 dred pounds. 
 
 " Legacies to all my servants — as my 
 will specifies. They have been faithful. 
 
 " To Olive Canterbury my case of 
 diamonds, in remembrance of Harry 
 Lynn-Garston. There are few young 
 women I respect as I do Olive Canter- 
 bury. 
 
 " To Millicent Canterbury my set of 
 pearls, and the emerald ring I am in the 
 habit of wearing on my little finger. 
 
 " To Lydia Dunn a plain Bible and 
 Prayer-book which my executors will 
 purchase — hoping she will read and 
 profit by them. 
 
 " To Keziah Dawkes an annuity of 
 one hundred pounds for her life. Also a 
 present sum in ready-money of two 
 hundred and fifty pounds ; to be paid to 
 her within twenty -one days of my death, 
 free of legacy duty. Also my set of 
 corals and the two rings lying in the 
 same case. Also four of my best gowns 
 (she is to choose them) and the black 
 velvet mantle, and the lace that is con- 
 tained in the top drawer of the ebony 
 miniature set of drawers in the blue bed- 
 room. Keziah Dawkes would have got 
 three hundred a-year instead of one, but 
 for the way in which she has joined 
 Barby to deceive me through a course of 
 years. 
 
 "To Thomas Charles Carr Kage I 
 leave these two houses — this and the 
 one he lives in. He has been as a son 
 to me these many years, and I thought 
 to make him heir to the greater por- 
 tion of my money. He refuses abso- 
 lutely — having had enough of unjust 
 wills, he says, in old Canterbuiw's — but 
 I know that he would have used the 
 money well. If he refuses these houses, 
 I direct that they should be razed to 
 the ground. It is my earnest desire 
 that he should not refuse ; and I can- 
 not think he will so far disregard my last 
 wishes as to do so. 
 
 " To various charities, as specified in 
 my will, I leave five thousand pouuds. 
 
 " Barnab} 7 Dawkes. I declare in this 
 my last testament, that it never was in 
 my thoughts to make Barb}' Dawkes my 
 heir. Had he shown himself worthy of 
 it, I would have left him amply well 
 off; but my heir he never would have 
 been. As he is unworthy, he will not 
 find himself much the better for me. 
 I bequeath to him an annuity of two 
 hundred and eight pounds ; and I fur- 
 ther bequeath to him a present sum of 
 five hundred pounds, free of duty, to be 
 paid to him within twenty-one days of 
 my death. 
 
 " The rest of nay property, I leave to 
 Arthur Lynn-Garston, and make him 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 203 
 
 my residuary legatee. And I appoint 
 Richard Dunn and himself my execu- 
 tors. 
 
 " Margaret Garston." 
 
 Arthur Lynn -Garston looked up in 
 mute astonishment. He had not ex- 
 pected to be remembered at all : certain- 
 ly not to this large amount. But this 
 was not the true will. Very rapidly 
 the lawyer was proceeding to read that, 
 as if desirous not to give time for com- 
 ment. 
 
 It proved, so far as the bequests went, 
 a counterpart of the paper. And Bar- 
 naby Dawkes's legacy of two hundred 
 and eight pounds a-year was to be paid 
 to him by weekly instalments. 
 
 " That's all," said the lawyer, folding 
 it up. 
 
 Keziah's pale lips were trembling. 
 She approached him with an angry tone. 
 
 " You told me Mrs. Garston mafle 
 some alteration in my brother's favor 
 only a week before she died. Where is 
 it?" 
 
 " I did not say whether it was in his 
 favor or against him, Miss Dawkes : 
 only that it concerned him," replied Mr. 
 Jessup in a low tone. " The alteration 
 Mrs. Garston desired me to make was 
 this — that Major Dawkes's annuity of 
 two hundred pounds should be increased 
 to two hundred and eight ; and be paid 
 to him weekly. She remarked that Mrs. 
 Dawkes would not live for ever, and he 
 might come to want bread-and-cheese." 
 
 What could K-eziah answer ? Noth- 
 ing. But her face took an ashy turn 
 in the shaded room's twilight. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 . MRS. DAWKES AT HOME. 
 
 Th 1 '. clocks were chiming the quarter 
 before midnight, as a gentleman splash- 
 ed through the mud and wet of the 
 London streets, on his way to a private 
 West-end gambling-house. It was the 
 bai-rister, Thomas Kage. He was not 
 given to frequent such places on his own 
 account, but he was in urgent search of 
 one who was — a man he had once call- 
 ed friend, and who had brought himself 
 into danger. Not a cab was to be had, 
 
 and his umbrella was useless; glad 
 enough was he to turn into the dark 
 passage that led to the house's entrance, 
 and shake the wet from his clothes. 
 Dark, cold, and gloomy as it was here, 
 inside would no doubt be all light and 
 warmth, and he was about to give the 
 signal which would admit him, when 
 the door was cautiously opened and two 
 gentlemen came forth. 
 
 One of them — he was in her Majesty's 
 regimentals — wore a scowling aspect. 
 It was Major Dawkes ; earlier in the 
 evening he had been to an official din- 
 ner, which accounted for his dress. 
 More and more addicted had he become 
 to that bad vice, gambling ; the worst 
 vice, save one, that man can take to 
 himself; and this night he had lost fear- 
 full} 7 . To lose money now was, in the 
 Major's case, simply madness ; but the 
 fatal spell was upon him, and he eould 
 not shake it off. Not caring to be seen, 
 Mr. Kage drew into a dark corner. At 
 the same moment from the opposite 
 corner stepped some one who must have 
 been waiting there. 
 
 " Major," said this latter gentleman, 
 " I must speak to you." 
 
 " What the — mischief — brings you 
 here ? " demanded Major Dawkes with 
 a hard word. 
 
 " I have waited for you two mortal 
 hours. I. was just in time to see you 
 enter ; and got threatened by the door- 
 keepers for insisting upon going in after 
 you. I had not the password. Can I 
 speak a word with you, Major ? " 
 
 " No, you can't," was the defiant an- 
 swer of the Major. But that he had 
 taken rather more wine than was good 
 for him, he might have been civil fur 
 prudence' sake. "I'll hear nothing. 
 Go and talk to Jessup." 
 
 " Major Dawkes, this will not do. 
 You know perfectly well that Jessup 
 won't have anything to do with the af- 
 fair; 'twould soil his hands, he says." 
 
 " You know where I live," stamped 
 the Major. "Come there, if you want 
 to see me. Pretty behavior this is, to 
 wayla\ r an officer and a gentleman." 
 
 " Excuse me, Major, but if } T ou play at 
 hide-and-seek — " 
 
 " Hide-and-seek ! " interrupted Major 
 Dawkes. " What do you mean, sir ? " 
 
 " It looks like it," returned the other 
 with a significant cough. '•' You caD 
 
204 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 never be seen at your house, and you 
 will not answer our letters. It has not 
 been for pleasure that I have waited 
 here, like a lackey, this miserable nig it ; 
 we might have sent a clerk, but I came 
 myself, out of regard to your feelings. 
 If I cannot speak with you, I will give 
 you into custody ; and you know the 
 consequences of that." 
 
 Though not quite himself, the Major 
 did know the consequences. Drawing 
 aside into the dark corner that the law- 
 yer — as he evidently was — had come out 
 of, a few whispered words passed be- 
 tween them. 
 
 " To-morrow, then, at twelve, at our 
 office," concluded the lawyer. " And 
 you will do well to keep the appoint- 
 ment, Major, this time," he significant- 
 ly added. " If you do not, we will not 
 wait another hour." 
 
 The speaker turned out of the passage 
 into the pool at its entrance, and then 
 waded through other pools down the 
 street. Major Dawkes and his friend 
 stood watching him. The Major's cab 
 waited, but his man, probably not ex- 
 pecting him so soon, was in the public- 
 house round the coi-ner. Somebody 
 else's man flew to fetch him. 
 
 " Horrid wretches these creditors 
 are !" cried the Major's friend in warm 
 sympathy. " But it is the most incom- 
 prehensible thing in the world, Dawkes, 
 that you should suffer yourself to be 
 bothered in this way. Of course it is 
 no secret that you are up to your eyes 
 in embarrassment ; there's not a fellow 
 in the regiment owes half what you do 
 for play, let alone other debts. Why 
 don't you pay up, and get clear ? " 
 
 " Where's the money to do it ? " re- 
 torted the Major. " I don't possess a 
 mine of gold." 
 
 " But your wife does. She has 
 thousands and thousands and thousands 
 a-year. W r here does it all go to ? " 
 
 " Nonsense ! My wife's income is 
 not half so much," peevishly said Major 
 Dawkes, possibly oblivious that no par- 
 ticular sum had been specified. " It 
 might be, if her child died." 
 
 " Ah, yes, I forgot ; the best part of 
 the ingots are settled on little Canter- 
 bury. Can't you touch a few of his 
 thousands ? " 
 
 " No ; or I should not have waited 
 until now to do it. His thousands are 
 
 tied up to accumulate. His will be a 
 lordly fortune by the time he is of age." 
 " But with so much money in the 
 family — } r our own sou's, as inay be said 
 — surely there are ways of getting at it. 
 You might have the use of some to 
 clear you, and pay it back at your leis- 
 ure." 
 
 " So I would, if it were not for the 
 boy's trustee," returned the Major. 
 " He's as tight a hand as you could find. 
 The point was put to him some weeks 
 ago ; I broached it myself, not taking 
 Mrs. Dawkes into my counsels ; and 
 Kage cut me short with a haughty de- 
 nial. He's a regular curmudgeon." 
 
 Little .thought the Major that the 
 " curmudgeon " was in the dark passage 
 behind him and his confidential friend. 
 To play the eavesdropper was particu- 
 larly objectionable to Thomas Kage, 
 but he would very decidedly have ob- 
 jected to show himself just now. 
 
 " But if things are like this, Dawkes, 
 how on earth can j t ou expect to get 
 clear ? " demanded his friend. 
 
 The Major did not answer. He 
 bared his brow for a moment to the 
 damp air : a whole world of care seemed 
 to be seated there. 
 
 " Pull up while there's time, Dawkes," 
 was the prudent advice next offered. 
 " How can you go on, plunging farther 
 into the mud, at the rate you do ? To- 
 night you must have lost — " 
 
 "It is in my nature to spend, and 
 spend I must, let who will suffer," fear- 
 lessly interrupted the Major. 
 
 " Well," said the other candidly, " it 
 does seem hard that a sickly child should 
 be keeping you out of this immense 
 wealth." 
 
 So hard did it seem, that Major 
 Dawkes gave a curse to it in his heart; 
 and another curse, spoken, to his servant, 
 who now dashed up. He entered his 
 cab, and giving his friend a lift, was 
 driven away, while Mr. Kage was admit- 
 ted to the hidden mysteries of the house. 
 But with his business there we have 
 nothing to do. 
 
 Several weeks had gone on since Mrs. 
 Garstou's death, when we last saw Major 
 Dawkes. How he had gone on was a 
 different affair altogether, and not so easy 
 to discern. At that time he had thought 
 it an impossibility that many days could 
 pass over his head without the mine, he 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 ■205 
 
 always trod on, exploding ; and yet they 
 had : the rlauie had only been smoulder- 
 ing until now. But things were growing 
 more ominous hour by hour; and per- 
 haps the Major continued to enter into 
 undesirable expenses as much to drown 
 care as from infatuation. 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes had been ill — seriously 
 so. A return of the chest- attack she 
 had early in the spring came on ; the re- 
 sult of late hours and her own impru- 
 dence, as the doctors told her. She was 
 not strong naturally, and she was doing 
 what she could, in the shape of turning 
 night into da} T in her pursuit of gaiety, 
 to bring her lack of strength conspicu- 
 ously forth. For three weeks she had 
 been confined to her bed, but was getting 
 better now. 
 
 When Major Dawkes's cab deposited 
 him at his house in Belgravia — return- 
 ing now to the present night, making 
 itself so agreeable with rain — he ascend- 
 ed at once to his bedroom ; one he had 
 been occupying temporarily since his 
 wife's illness. It was on the floor above 
 hers, and immediately opposite the da}'- 
 nursery of little Tom Canterbury. Put- 
 ting off his regimentals and other things 
 as quickly as he could, the Major got in- 
 to bed. But not to sleep : anxiety pre- 
 vented that. He had taken nothing 
 since leaving the gambling-house, and 
 his brain was getting somewhat clearer. 
 It is at these moments that any trouble 
 that a man may have shows itself with 
 redoubled force. Time had been when 
 Major Dawkes sent away trouble with 
 what he had an hour before bestowed up- 
 on his servant — a curse. He was of a 
 selfish, reckless nature, and would not 
 let things worrj- him. Ah, but then his 
 worst trouble had been debt ; now it was 
 something else, and he had dwelt on it 
 until it had made him painfull} 7 nervous. 
 His position was looking fearfully black, 
 and the Major did not see how to im- 
 prove it. 
 
 In saying he was by nature a spend- 
 thrift, Barnaby Dawkes spoke only partial 
 truth ; it would have been more correct 
 had he said by habit. To launch out in- 
 to sinful expenses was only customary 
 with him ; but these expenses had at 
 length brought their consequences be- 
 hind them. Very unhappy was it for 
 Barby Dawkes that the consequences did 
 not consist of debt alone. 
 
 At the turn of the past Christmas, 
 Major Dawkes, to get himself out of some 
 frightful pit of embarrassment, obtained 
 money upon a bill, which — which — had 
 something peculiar about it, to speak 
 cautiously ; and which, later, perhaps 
 nobody would be found to own. So easy 
 a way did it seem to Major Dawkes of 
 relieving himself of a load of temporary 
 care, that he tried the process again, and 
 once or so again. This was the secret 
 breathed to Keziah that night when the 
 Major visited her. This was the secret 
 that Jessup, the lawj'er, got access to. 
 The Major used superhuman efforts, and 
 patched up matters for a time, and so 
 averted an explosion. But the secret had 
 now been discovered by two or three 
 most undesirable people who were inter- 
 ested, and public exposure was looming 
 ominously near. 
 
 A firm had innocently discounted one 
 of these bills — solicitors in sharp prac- 
 tice. One of the partners it was who 
 had lain in wait for the Major in the 
 dark passage. Perhaps they might be 
 induced to hush the affair up for " a con- 
 sideration," in addition to all the money 
 and expenses, otherwise they were 
 threatening criminal proceedings; ay, 
 and as the miserable Major knew, they 
 would inevitably keep their word. For 
 the bill, you see, had got somebodj-'s 
 name to it, and that somebody had never 
 written it, or heard of it. That was only 
 one of the bills ; there were one or two 
 more quite as doubtful. Other parties to 
 whom the Major was under terrible obli- 
 gations, legal, if not criminal, had be- 
 come tired out, and were about to take 
 very unpleasant steps. What with one 
 thing and another, it seemed to the man 
 that a fortune almost as great as Tom 
 Canterbury's was needed to extricate 
 him. 
 
 It was a perilous position ; more than 
 enough to disturb the Major's rest. He 
 knew quite well that if all came out that 
 might come out — and there were matters 
 besides the peculiar bills — things must be 
 over with him. His wife would quit him ; 
 the army would drum him out of it ; so- 
 ciety would scout him. 
 
 " A nice state of affairs ! " groaned the 
 Major. " Something must be done. What 
 a fool I have been ! " 
 
 Something! But what? The help 
 he wanted was no slight sum ; and he 
 
200 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 saw but one hope — and that not a real 
 hope ; only a possible one. A persistent 
 mind, indeed, must be Major Davvkes's 
 to cherish it still — though in fact he did 
 not cherish it, but only glanced to it in 
 sanguine moments ; for it was the old 
 scheme of getting some of the child's 
 money from Mr. Kage. Only a few 
 thousands out of the boy's large fortune, 
 he would say to himself — only a few 
 thousands ! The thought of this fortune, 
 so close at hand, yet so inaccessible to 
 ])i m — for, if the child died, you remember, 
 the whole of it reverted to Mrs. Dawkes 
 — had begun to be to the Major as a very 
 nightmare: it haunted his dreams, it 
 haunted his daily thoughts ; it was ever 
 present to him, sleeping or waking. 
 Like unto the gold-fever that fell on some 
 of us years ago, and sent us out to Aus- 
 tralia little better than eager madmen, 
 so had a gold-fever attacked Major 
 Dawkes. As the value of a thing covet- 
 ed is enhanced to a fabulous height by 
 longing, and diminished by possession, so 
 did this fortune of little Tom Canter- 
 bury's wear, to his stepfather, an aspect 
 of most delusive brightness. In its at- 
 tainment appeared to lie the panacea for 
 all ills ; the recompense for past and 
 present troubles ; a charming, golden 
 paradise. 
 
 Major Dawkes had a particular dislik- 
 ing for children ; but in feigning a love 
 for little Tom Canterbury before the mar- 
 riage — to ingratiate himself with the 
 child's mother — he had really acquired a 
 liking for him. This in a degree wore 
 oii' later; and he was often severe with 
 the child — a mild gentle little follow 
 whom any one might love — but on the 
 whole he liked the boy. However, since 
 this hankering after his fortune had aris- 
 en, Major Dawkes had almost grown to 
 hate him, looking on him as a deadly 
 enemy who stood between him and light. 
 
 In spite of his fast habits, few men 
 living cared so much to stand well with 
 the world as Barnaby Dawkes : certain- 
 ly none so dreaded to stand ill with it. 
 There was one ugly word moving ever 
 before his mental sight in fierce letters of 
 flame — F-o-r-g-e-r-y. Rather than have 
 such a word brought home to him, he 
 would have died — and Major Dawkes 
 was very fond of life. It was not the 
 act itself he repented, but the chance of 
 exposure. Safe from that, he would have 
 done the same thing to the end of time. 
 
 Dropping asleep towards morning, he 
 dreamt that he was in the midst of some 
 surging sea, whose waves were perpetu- 
 ally going to overwhelm him. He want- 
 ed to turn his head. and look behind, but 
 the waves would not let him. He knew 
 that some awful phantom was there in his 
 pursuit, to overtake him unless he turn- 
 ed to confront it ; and yet he could not. 
 A fresh and curious epoch must have ar- 
 rived in Major Dawkes's life when it 
 came to dreams. 
 
 Remembering his engagement for the 
 morning, Major Dawkes rose in time to 
 keep it. That might no longer be ig- 
 nored — as he knew too well. Swallow- 
 ing his breakfast with what appetite he 
 had, he took his departure. Of the two, 
 Barnaby Dawkes would rather havo 
 gone to an hour's recreation in the pil- 
 iory than to the appointment in the 
 house of this legal firm, with the brand 
 of guilt and shame on his forehead. 
 
 And yet, in one sense, the interview 
 must be utterly superfluous. All the 
 argument in the world would but have 
 amounted to this — that the full indem- 
 nifying money must be produced, or the 
 Major would be made a nine days' spec- 
 tacle. He knew it himself, as he dash- 
 ed there in his carriage, driving his 
 high - mettled horses. Humble pedes- 
 trians, glancing admiringly up from the 
 pavement, thought what a great man 
 the Jehu must be, and how silky was 
 his fine black moustache ; but they 
 could not read his heart, or see the can- 
 kering care eating it away. The car- 
 riage drew up in Lincoln's-inn, and the 
 Major went into purgatory. The con- 
 sultation was a pretty long one ; the 
 lawyers were uncompromising, and the 
 client was almost helpless ; but he ar- 
 gued and denied and equivocated ; and 
 then they rang a bell, and desired a 
 clerk to hold himself in readiness to 
 perform a certain mission at Scotland- 
 yard. The Major was brought meta- 
 phorically to his knees, and he came 
 forth at length with a knitted brow. • 
 
 " Where the devil am I to get it ? " 
 was the puzzling question put to him- 
 self, and spoken unconsciously aloud as 
 he ascended to his carriage. Again and 
 again he saw but one solitary opening — 
 the appealing to Mr. Kage. Look 
 where he would, around the whole wide 
 world, he saw no other. 
 
 He drove straight home, regardless 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 207 
 
 of a pelting 1 shower that was coming 
 down, upon him, and found a bevy of 
 visitors in the drawing-room. Mrs. 
 Dawkes, lovely still, but pale from her 
 recent illness, sat in their midst, her at- 
 tire — mauve color — charming as usual ; 
 a lame apology for mourning, worn 
 for Mrs. Gkirston. Talking with one, 
 laughing with another, exacting admira- 
 tion from all : an adept was she in the 
 wiles and the petty nothings of frivolous 
 existence. The Major saw no chance of 
 private conversation with her then, and 
 shut the door with a suppressed growl, 
 not caring whether he had been per- 
 ceived or not. 
 
 When these idlers were gone and the 
 sun was shining again, Mrs. Dawkes 
 called for her boy. He had been sitting 
 on the stairs, patient, loving child, hop- 
 ing for the summons. Indulged though 
 he was by his mother, never was there a 
 more obedient, modest, good little son 
 than he, never presuming upon her af- 
 fection. He wore the Scotch dress, and 
 his fair curls floated on his neck : nearly 
 seven years old now he scarcely looked 
 his age. Mrs. Dawkes once said to Mr. 
 Kage that the child had a strange affin- 
 ity for her ; if she drooped, he drooped. 
 Certain it was that, during this recent 
 illness of hers, the boy had seemed pale, 
 languid, anything but well. Exceed- 
 ingly delicate he looked to-day, as she 
 took him on her knees. 
 
 " Did you eat a good dinner, Tom ? " 
 
 " yes, mamma." 
 
 " What did you have ? " 
 
 " Some fowl and some custard-pud- 
 ding and some jam. I've been reading 
 my fairy-tales since. Judith's mending 
 my puzzle." 
 
 " Is she getting ready to take you 
 cut, Tom? It's time." 
 
 "I told her I'd not go," said Tom. 
 " I'd rather stay with you, mamma. 
 When will you come out with me 
 again ? " 
 
 i£ When this showery weather is 
 over," replied Mrs. Dawkes, who had 
 not been allowed to go out of doors 
 since her illness. " But, Tom — " 
 
 What she had been about to say was 
 arrested by the appearance of Major 
 Dawkes. Putting his head in to recon- 
 noitre, and seeing the room now clear 
 of visitors, he came forward. 
 
 " Caroline," said he, " send Tom 
 away. I want to speak with you." 
 
 "Is it something you cannot say be- 
 fore him?" she asked; for there was 
 no longer much cordial feeling in her 
 heart for her husband, though they 
 maintained a show of civility. 
 
 " Are you so infatuated with that 
 child that you cannot bear him out of 
 your sight?" angrily demanded the 
 Major, who was in a most wretched mood, 
 and particularly bitter against the child. 
 Mrs. Dawkes was surprised : his 
 ebullitions of temper had usually been 
 restrained in her presence. She did not 
 condescend to retort. 
 
 " Go to that table, Thomas, and 
 amuse yourself with the large picture- 
 book," she said, pointing to the far end 
 of the room, where he would be out of 
 hearing. ". What is it ? " she apatheti- 
 cally said, addressing her husband. 
 
 " My dear, you must pardon me ; I 
 am in much trouble and perplexity," 
 resumed the Major, remembering that to 
 provoke- his wife was not exactly the 
 best way to attain his ends. " It is 
 frightful trouble, Caroline ; and nothing 
 less." 
 
 " 0, indeed. Have you broken your 
 horses' knees? I saw you drive away 
 rather furiously this morning." 
 
 " I have been answering for the debts 
 of a brother-officer, Caroline, and have 
 got into difficulties through it," he 
 avowed, having mentally rehearsed the 
 tale he meant to tell. 
 
 " Rather imprudent in you to do so, 
 
 was it not ? " interrupted Mrs. Dawkes. 
 
 " I suppose it was, as things have 
 
 turned out; for he died, and it has fallen 
 
 on me." 
 
 " The liability ? " 
 The Major nodded. 
 
 " I have been trying to pay it off, as 
 I could, and have run into debt myself 
 in consequence. Caroline, my dear," 
 he added in a sepulchral tone, " your 
 husband is a ruined man." 
 
 To Mrs. Dawkes, who had a splendid 
 country mansion and some thousands 
 a-year in her own right, of which no- 
 body's imprudence could deprive her, 
 husband or no husband, the above an- 
 nouncement did not convey the dismay « 
 it would to many wives. Not to mince 
 the matter, the Major, looking at her 
 from the corner of his eye, saw that it 
 had made no impression whatever. 
 
 " How will you get out of the mess ?" 
 quoth she. 
 
208 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 "I can get out of it in two ways. 
 One is by paying up ; the other, by 
 shooting myself." 
 
 " Ah," said she equably, "people who 
 talk of shooting themselves rarely do it. 
 Don't be an idiot, Barnaby." 
 
 " Caroline," he rejoined in a tone that 
 was certainly agitated, " if I make light 
 of it to you, it is to save you vexation : 
 but I speak literally and truly that I 
 must pay, or — or — disappear somewhere 
 — either into the earth or over the seas." 
 
 " What can be done ? " she inquired, 
 after a pause of consideration. " We 
 have no ready-money to spare : our ex- 
 penses seem to swallow up everything. 
 Often I can't make it out." 
 
 " Our ready-money would not suffice. 
 The poor fellow was inextricably in- 
 volved ; and," he added, dropping his 
 voice to a faint whisper, " ten or twelve 
 thousand pounds would not more than 
 pay it." 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes gave a scream of semi- 
 dismay. As to the " ten or twelve 
 thousand," the Major did not think it 
 prudent to mention a higher sum then, 
 but that much would prove but a sop in 
 the pan. 
 
 "But for that deceitful old aunt of 
 mine dying, and leaving me nothing in 
 her will (I hope that there's a Protes- 
 tant purgatory, and that she's in it !) I 
 should never have had occasion to tell 
 you this. Indeed, but for the expec- 
 tation of inheriting her fortune, I should 
 not have answered for the poor fellow." 
 
 " What is to be done ? "- repeated 
 Mrs. Dawkes, returning to the practical 
 consideration of the dilemma, and leav- 
 ing the bygone " expectation " in abey- 
 ance ; for it was a question upon which 
 she and he entertained opposite opinions. 
 
 " One thing can be done, Caroline ; 
 you can help me out — if you will." 
 
 " I ! " she repeated. 
 
 " You can get Tom's trustee, Kage, to 
 let me have the money. I will repay it 
 as soon as I possibly can. There will 
 be no difficulty in that, and no risk." 
 
 " He will not do it." 
 
 " He will, if you bid him. For me 
 he would not." 
 
 " He never will," she repeated. " I 
 know Thomas Kage too well. He is 
 the most perfectly straight-forward, hon- 
 orable man breathing ; ridiculously so. 
 I am right, Barnaby, cross as you look 
 
 over it. Tom's money is not his to lend, 
 and I am sure he would not advance a 
 pound of it." 
 
 Major Dawkes nearly lost his temper. 
 It was a way of meeting the request that 
 he did not at all admire. 
 
 " Will you ask Kage ? " 
 
 "No. Ask him yourself." 
 
 " An ill-conditioned worthless man ! 
 He never ought to have been made the 
 boy's trustee," spoke the Major in a sup- 
 pressed foam. 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes smiled equably. 
 
 " If you were but half as worthy as 
 he!" 
 
 " Will you lend it me ? " demanded 
 the Major. 
 
 " I have not the power; and if I had 
 I would not suffer Tom's money to be 
 played with." 
 
 "You have this much power ; any re- 
 quest preferred to Kage by you, and 
 made a point of, would be complied 
 with." 
 
 "Nonsense! I'll do nothing of the 
 kind. M} T child is my child, and his in- 
 terests are identified with mine. You 
 should not get into these liabilities. No 
 man would, with common foresight, un- 
 less he knows that he will have the means 
 to meet them." 
 
 Angry and wroth, Major Dawkes broke 
 out in a temper. The little boy, most 
 sensitively timid, shivered at the raised 
 voices, left his picture-book and stoJe for- 
 ward, halting in the middle of the room. 
 
 "You see how necessary it is that 
 Tom's trustee should be a man of firm- 
 ness, that he may guard against such 
 emergencies as the present," spoke Mrs. 
 Dawkes rather tauntingly — at least, it so 
 sounded to the Major's pricking ears. 
 " I am very sorry, Barnaby, that you 
 should have got yourself into this dilem- 
 ma ; but it is not my boy's money that 
 can extricate you from it.-" 
 
 Biting his lips to control his fury, Ma- 
 jor Dawkes turned round and stepped 
 against the child, not knowing he stood 
 so near him." It wanted but that en- 
 counter to set him off. Out came the 
 passion. 
 
 " You little villain," he cried with an 
 imprecation, " do you dare to stand be- 
 tween me and — and — your mother ? 
 There's for you ! " 
 
 It was a cruel blow he struck the child, 
 and it felled him to the ground. Quite 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 209 
 
 beside himself in the blind hatred of the 
 moment, the irrepressible passion, Ma- 
 jor Dawkes gave him a kick as he la\ T — 
 one of contempt more than of violence 
 — and went from the room, a furious 
 man. Mrs. Dawkes raised the boy in 
 her arms and tottered to a seat; weak 
 from her late iliness, it was indignation 
 that gave her strength to bear him. For 
 several minutes neither of them spoke. 
 The child sobbed on her neck ; she sobbed 
 on his. 
 
 " Mamma, what had I done ? " 
 li You have done nothing, my darling. 
 He wants to spend your money," she 
 added in her indignant resentment. 
 
 " mamma, let him have it ; let us 
 go awaj T from here ! Papa is never kind 
 to me now." 
 
 " Yes, we will go away," she emphat- 
 ically rejoined. " We will go to the 
 Rock, my boy ; your own home, and 
 mine. If papa likes to follow us, and 
 behave himself, he may ; and if not, he 
 can stay where he is." 
 
 "Let papa have my money," repeated 
 Tom Canterbury. li I don't care for 
 money." 
 
 " You do not understand, dear. The 
 money is Mr. Kage's at present ; he 
 would not give it to Major Dawkes if he 
 asked him ever so." 
 
 In came Judith at this juncture, ready 
 to attend Master Canterbury on his 
 walk. She saw the tears and the red 
 eyes. 
 
 " Why, what has taken him now ? " 
 cried she in surprise. 
 
 " He has been vexed," replied Mrs. 
 Dawkes hastily ; " a little thing seems 
 to vex him now. I don't think he can 
 be quite well, Judith." 
 
 " It's the warm weather, ma'am," said 
 Judith. "He'll get up all right after 
 a bit. What he wants is fresh country 
 air." 
 
 " And he shall have it too. The streets 
 are damp after the rain, Judith," con- 
 tinued Mrs. Dawkes, " too damp for him 
 to walk. You had better order the car- 
 riage." 
 
 So the carriage came round, and the 
 young heir of the Rock was driven away 
 in it to take the air, his nurse sitting 
 opposite to him. When the sound of the 
 wheels had faded away on the ear, Major 
 Dawkes entered the drawing-room. He 
 was ready to strike himself down, as he 
 13 
 
 had struck the boy, for giving way to so 
 impolitic a gust of passion. His wife 
 listened to his apologies in haughty 
 silence. 
 
 " Caroline, believe me, I was betrayed 
 out of my senses ; but it arose from over- 
 anxietj' for your peace and comfort." 
 
 " It is for my peace and comfort that 
 you ill-treat my child ! " sarcastically re- 
 joined Mrs. Dawkes. 
 
 " He is an angel, and I love him as 
 such," proclaimed the Major emphatical- 
 ly. " 1 was in a whirlwind of passion, 
 Caroline, and did not know in the least 
 what I did. I was agonized at the 
 prospect before you : yes, my dear, before 
 3 r ou : for if I can't pay that poor dead 
 man's creditors, they'll come in. Into 
 this very house, and seize upon it, and 
 all that is in it." 
 
 " Seize our house and all that is in it ! " 
 exclaimed Mrs. Dawkes in an access of* 
 consternation. 
 
 " Every earthly thing the walls con- 
 tain." 
 
 " Will they seize me and Tom ? " 
 
 Major Dawkes gave vent to a dismal 
 groan : but for his state of mind it would 
 have been a laugh. Mrs. Dawkes, shield- 
 ed always from this kind of the world's 
 frowns, utterly inexperienced, had put 
 the question in real earnest. 
 
 " They'd not touch you and Tom, my 
 dear ; but they would take every stick 
 and stone in the place. They are frigh t- 
 ful harpies. You would be left here with 
 bare rooms, and I should be in prison, 
 unable to protect you. It is not that ; 
 think of the shock such a scandal would 
 cause in society ! " 
 
 The last sentence told on her ear. So- 
 ciety ? Ay, there's the terrible bngbear 
 of civilised life. What will society 
 think ? what will society say ? But for 
 society our " sticks and stones " would 
 often be lost with less intense pain than 
 they are. Major Dawkes enlarged upon 
 the frightful prospect, painting the 
 scenes of the canvas in strong colors, 
 until his wife shrank from it as much as 
 he did. Writing a note, she despatched 
 it by a servant to Mx. Kage's chambers. 
 
 When little Tom Canterbury got home 
 from his drive, his stepfather lifted him 
 from the carriage himself and carried 
 him in to his mother. He did feel sorry 
 for having struck the blow. 
 
210 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXIII. 
 
 A FLOOD OF GOLDEN SUNLIGHT. 
 
 Sitting alone together in the even- 
 ing twilight, Mrs. Dawkes explained the 
 embarrassment to Thomas Kage, who 
 had answered her summons speedily. 
 Years ago — he remembered it well, and 
 so did she — he had bid her send for him, 
 if in need of counsel, at any hour of the 
 day or night. That is, she explained the 
 embarrassment as far as she was cogni- 
 zant of it ; and then preferred the request 
 — that Mr. Kage would advance some 
 twelve thousand pounds of Tom's money 
 to her husband. 
 
 " Major Dawkes has been prompting 
 you to ask this," was the barrister's an- 
 swer. 
 
 " He pressed me to ask it to-day ; I 
 refused to do so at first, and it caused an 
 unpleasant scene between us," she said, 
 her cheek reddening with the remem- 
 brance. " But when he explained the 
 frightful position we are in — that rude 
 rough men, harpies he called them, will 
 break in here and seize upon our things, 
 and leave the house empty, of course it 
 startled me into feeling that something 
 must be done to prevent it. The Major 
 says they'll bring vans to take the furni- 
 ture away, and pitch beds and such like 
 out of the window into the street. Only 
 think the uproar the neighborhood would 
 be in, seeing that." 
 
 "Caroline," rejoined Mr. Kage in a 
 low tone, " when I finally decided to act 
 as the child's trustee — and you know I 
 at first wished to decline it — one reason 
 for my doing so was, that I might iden- 
 tify myself with, and protect, his inter- 
 ests. I informed you that I should nev- 
 er, under any inducement, be prevailed 
 upon to advance you, or any future hus- 
 band you might take, or any other person 
 whatsoever, any portion of the money. 
 You must remember this ? " 
 
 " Certainly, I remember it ; it is not 
 so long ago." 
 
 " Then, remembering this, how can 
 you prefer such a request as the present ? 
 I have foreseen that a man, with your 
 husband's extravagant habits, would 
 probably become embarrassed, and — " 
 
 " Did you ?" interrupted Caroline, in 
 great surprise ; " I'm sure he has had 
 enough to spend. But this trouble is not 
 caused by the Major's own debts ; they 
 
 are liabilities he has entered into for a 
 brother-officer." 
 
 Mr. Kage looked at her. 
 
 " Did Major Dawkes tell you this ? " 
 
 She knew her cousin well, every turn 
 of his countenance and voice. 
 
 " Thomas, you don't believe this ! " 
 
 " I prefer not to discuss the matter 
 with you, Caroline." 
 
 " Whichever way it may be, however 
 contracted, the debts are not the less 
 real," she continued ; " and nothing but 
 the scandal likely to arise in our home 
 would have induced me to apply to you 
 for a loan to him of Tom's money. Will 
 you let him have it ? " 
 
 " No. And I am sorry that Major 
 Dawkes should have suggested this to 
 you. He had alreacly had a decisive neg- 
 ative from me." 
 
 " Has he asked you before ?" 
 
 " Yes. Several weeks ago." 
 
 " 0, indeed," she uttered in a tone of 
 pique ; pique against her husband. " He 
 might have had the grace to consult me 
 first, considering whose money it is." 
 
 Mr. Kage had thought so at the time. 
 He made no remark. 
 
 " You will advance it now, Thomas, 
 for my sake." 
 
 " I would do a great deal for your 
 sake, Caroline ; but not this. 1 will not 
 be a false trustee, or part with my own 
 integrity." 
 
 Some thought, some recollection, came 
 over Mrs. Dawkes, and she betrayed for 
 a moment vivid emotion. Thomas Kage 
 took up a book that lay on the table and 
 turned over its leaves. He would not so 
 much as glance at her. 
 
 "What am I to do, if people do come 
 in here and take the furniture ? " 
 
 " Go to the Rock, Caroline : that is 
 my advice to you. Go at once, and leave 
 the Major to fight out the battle with 
 his creditors ! " 
 
 " They cannot come into the Rock ? " 
 she exclaimed in sudden apprehension. 
 
 " Certainly not. The Major's liabili- 
 ties could no more touch that, or any- 
 thing it contains, than mine could. It 
 is yours for use until your boy shall be 
 of age : after that, his absolutely." 
 
 " But would not the seizing these 
 things be like a lasting disgrace ? " 
 
 "It is a disgrace occurring every day 
 in families higher in position than yours, 
 and it is thought little of. But in this 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 211 
 
 case, Caroline, no disgrace will be reflect- 
 ed on you. You are shielded from it by 
 your own position. It is a peculiar one. 
 You have your large fortune; you are in 
 possession of tbo Rock. The Major's 
 embarrassments cannot touch you ; they 
 aie bis own exclusively, and people re- 
 gard them as such." 
 
 " Regard ! " sbe interrupted, quickly 
 taking up the word. " Are they already 
 known ? " 
 
 " Somewhat of them, I fancy. But 
 I ought to have said, ' will regard/ for 
 I was thinking of the contingency we 
 have been speaking of. If these things 
 must go, let them go, Caroline : it may 
 serve as a warning to the .Major to be 
 prudent in future." 
 
 " Thomas, } T ou know that all the 
 things are mine. They were bought 
 with my mone}'." 
 
 " They were purchased in his name, 
 and the law can take them." 
 
 " That's a great shame. The law 
 must know they really belong to me." 
 
 "There was no marriage settlement, 
 you see, Caroline." 
 
 "Well, well, I know how stupid that 
 was ; no good going over it again." 
 
 " None in the world. I am sorry 
 your husband should have troubled you 
 with this." 
 
 " He said if he could not have the 
 money be would shoot himself," said 
 Mrs. Dawkes. 
 
 Mr. Kage's eyes twinkled with a mer- 
 ry expression. 
 
 " I remember, some years ago, when 
 the Major was in want of money, he 
 said he must have it, or drown himself. 
 I don't think he had it ; and he is alive 
 yet. Tell him, Caroline, he will do well 
 to forget that Tom has money. And do 
 you go at once to the Rock, where the 
 Major's grievances cannot disturb your 
 peace." 
 
 " It has just come to what I antici- 
 pated ; for I did not really expect you 
 would advance him any," she observed 
 with equanimity ; " and I know you are 
 right. But won't he be in a passion 
 when I tell him ! " 
 
 " I will tell him myself, if you like," 
 said Mr. Kage. " Indeed I would pre- 
 fer to do so." 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes acquiesced, glad to have 
 the matter taken out of her hands. 
 And the next day the bewildered Major 
 received a short decisive note, which 
 
 convinced him that all hope from that 
 quarter was really over. 
 
 Many a time since has Thomas Kage 
 asked himself the question, whether, if 
 Major Dawkes had gone to him and re- 
 vealed the whole truth of his peril, and 
 pleaded to him for salvation, as a man 
 just condemned sometimes pleads to the 
 judge for his life — whether he might 
 have been tempted to prove false to his 
 trust, and save him. And he has al- 
 ways been thankful that the difficulty 
 was not brought to him. 
 
 The next scene fated to be enacted in 
 the drama was the illness of little Tom 
 Canterbury. Not quite immediately 
 did Mrs. Dawkes act on Mr. Kage's ad- 
 vice — to go to the Rock. She could not 
 tear herself at once from her fashionable 
 friends ; and she had a ready excuse in 
 the fact that she was yet rather weak for 
 travel. Just a few days she intended 
 should elapse first. Before they were 
 over, Tom was taken ill with a malady 
 he had been attacked with before — in- 
 flammation of the chest. He was in 
 great danger. Mrs. Dawkes hung over 
 him, scarcely quitting his bedside; now 
 giving way to hope, now to all the an- 
 guish of despair. 
 
 But see you not what a flood of gold- 
 en sunlight this same dangerous illness 
 opened on the Major? It could not be 
 said, perhaps, that he positively praj'ed 
 for the child to die ; but the possible 
 contingency la} T on his heart continually 
 in a kind of wild wish, never leaving it. 
 To temporize much longer with those 
 men whom he so terribly feared would 
 not be in his power. 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes sat at the child's bed- 
 side, the purple silk curtain drawn be- 
 tween him and the meridian sun. There 
 appeared to be little doubt that be was 
 dying. A wan white face it was, laid 
 on the pillow, the blue eyes half-closed, 
 the fair hair falling around. One hand, 
 stretched out on the counterpane, held 
 the mother-of-pearl shell given him by 
 Belle Annesley. It was open ; and the 
 vivid coloring of the angels' robes in the 
 picture, bearing the child to heaven, 
 shone brightly in a stray sunbeam that 
 fell across the bed. It was strange the 
 hold this simple toy bad taken — or rath- 
 er the picture it contained — on the im- 
 agination of the boy : he was, in good 
 truth, too susceptible. 
 
 He had been lying for some time 
 
212 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 without moving, his mother -watching 
 him, tears in her eyes, a dull pain in her 
 aching heart, when the eyes fully open- 
 ed, and some slight animation appeared 
 in the still face. 
 
 " Let him have my money, mamma." 
 
 The words, suddenly breaking on the 
 previous stillness, startled Mrs. Dawkes. 
 She did not catch the thread of what he 
 meant. 
 
 " Let who have your money, my dar- 
 ling ? " 
 
 " Papa. 0, let him have it ! He'll 
 not be angry with you then." 
 
 She understood now. His mind was 
 running on that unhappj 7 scene of a 
 short while before, when Major .Dawkes 
 had struck him down, and terrified him 
 with furious words. It had laid hold of 
 his imagination for ill. 
 
 " We shall not want money in heaven, 
 mamma." 
 
 " No, that we shall not." 
 
 "And Heaven's better than the 
 Bock." 
 
 " Much better," she said from the 
 depths of her weary heart. 
 
 " I wish I was there," sighed the 
 child. " See how good the angels are ! " 
 — with a movement of the shell towards 
 her. " They take us up without any 
 pain." 
 
 " Tom, ni} 7 darling, don't talk of dy- 
 ing. It will break my heart." 
 
 But the boy did not seem to heed the 
 words. He lay with his eyes wide open, 
 as if looking for something in the dis- 
 tance, presently repeating again the bur- 
 den of his song. 
 
 " I wish I was there ! It is full of 
 flowers and sunshine ; and no one is cru- 
 el ; Jesus will not let them be. Mamma, 
 I wish I was there." 
 
 And Mrs. Dawkes bent her anguished 
 brow on the pillow by his side. The 
 wish sounded in her ears like an omi- 
 nous prevision. 
 
 In the afternoon Major Dawkes came 
 up. Tom was worse then ; lying almost 
 without motion, and breathing with diffi- 
 cult} 7 . 
 
 "There is no further hope ; I am sure 
 of it," moaned Mrs. Dawkes in her 
 heartfelt anguish. 
 
 The Major felt entirely of the same 
 opinion. He was looking at the small 
 white face, when one of the servants ap- 
 peared and cautiously beckoned him out. 
 He was wanted downstairs. 
 
 " You did not saj 7 I was in ? " utter- 
 ed the Major, after closing the door on 
 the sick-room. 
 
 " The gentleman would not listen to 
 me, sir. He walked straight in, when I 
 answered the door, and sat down in the 
 dining-room. He says he shall sit there 
 till he sees you. It is Mr. Bosse." 
 
 Major Dawkes nearly fainted. Mr. 
 Bosse was a lawyer, and one of those 
 dangerous enemies he so dreaded. Go 
 to him, he was obliged : and yet — he 
 scarcely dared. He shrank from the in- 
 terview like the veriest coward. 
 
 " You are worse than a fool, Bichard," 
 foamed the Major. " If you cannot 
 contrive to keep people out of my house 
 that I don't want to see, you ma}' quit 
 my service." 
 
 " It's not possible to keep the door 
 barred, sir, with visitors and doctors and 
 other people coming to it perpetual," 
 was all the answer Bichard ventured to 
 make. 
 
 The conference was a stormy one, 
 though carried on in cautious tones, and 
 within closed doors. Things had come 
 to an extremity. 
 
 " Only a few da} r s more ; onlj 7 a day 
 or two ! " implored Major Dawkes, wip- 
 ing his forehead, which had turned cold 
 and damp. "It is impossible that he 
 can survive, and then I shall have thou- 
 sands and thousands at command, and 
 will amply recompense you. You have 
 waited so long, you can surely accord me 
 this little additional grace : I will pay 
 the bill twice over for it, and twice to 
 that." 
 
 "Upon one plea or another we have 
 been put off from day to day and from 
 week to week. This may be as false 
 an excuse as the others have been." 
 
 " But it is not a false excuse ; the 
 child is lying upon his bed, dying. If 
 Mrs. Dawkes were not with him, you 
 might go up and see for yourself that it 
 is so. Hark, that is the physician's step." 
 
 The phj'sician it was ; he had been 
 up stairs, and was coming down again. 
 Major Dawkes threw wide the door of 
 the dining-room. 
 
 " Doctor, what hope is there ? I fear 
 but little." 
 
 " There's just as much as you might 
 put in your hand and blow away," re- 
 plied the doctor, who was a man of quaint 
 sayings, and knew that Major Dawkes 
 bore no blood relationship to the child- 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 213 
 
 u The only hope that remains lies in the 
 elasticity of children ; they seem ready 
 to be shrouded one hour, and are run- 
 ning about the room the next. We can 
 do nothing more for our little patient ; 
 and if he does rally, it will be owing to 
 this elasticity, this tenacity of life in the 
 young. I do not think he will." 
 
 The doctor passed out at the hall-door, 
 and the Major turned to his visitor. 
 
 " You hear what he says ; now will, 
 you give me the delay ? " 
 
 " Well — under the circumstances — 
 one day longer," replied the lawyer, 
 whose firm would prefer their money, 
 even to the exposure of the Major. Let 
 them once get clear of Major Dawkes, 
 and he might swindle all the bill-brokers 
 in London afterwards for what they 
 cared. He stepped across the hall 
 towards the door, and the Major atten- 
 ded him. 
 
 " But if the child should not die — if 
 he should recover — what then ? " Mr. 
 Rosse suddenly stopped to ask. 
 
 The Major's heart and face alike 
 turned sickly at the supposition ; it was 
 one he dared not dwell upon — literally 
 dared not. 
 
 "There is no 'if about it; he is 
 quite sure to die. When I was up with 
 him- just now, he looked at the last gasp ; 
 the nurse thought he was dead then, up 
 to the knees. I'll drop you a note as 
 soon as it's over." 
 
 Night drew on. The child lay in the 
 same state — his eyes closed, and quite 
 unconscious — battling with death. The 
 medical men came and went, but they 
 could render no assistance ; and it 
 seemed pretty certain that no morning 
 would dawn for little Tom Canterbury. 
 Mrs. Dawkes would sit up with him, in 
 spite of her husband's remonstrances, 
 who told her that the incessant fatigue 
 and watching would make her ill again. 
 He went to rest himself, and slept sound- 
 ly ; for his troubles seemed at an end. 
 The sick-room, as may be remembered, 
 was near his own ; and Major Dawkes 
 was suddenly aroused by a movement in. 
 it. He heard the nurse come out, call 
 to Richard, and tell him to run for the 
 doctor. The man had been kept up all 
 night, to be ready if wanted. The 
 Major looked at his watch — five o'clock. 
 
 " It's over at last," thought he. 
 " What a mercy ! I did not think he'd 
 hold out so long. Ah, they may send, 
 
 but doctors cannot bring the dead to life. 
 And now 1 am a free man again ! " 
 
 He would not go into the death-cham- 
 ber; he did not care to witness death- 
 scenes ; and it would be time enough to 
 condole with Mrs. Dawkes bj'-and-bv. 
 So he lay, indulging a charming vision 
 of the golden paradise which had at 
 length opened to him, which was partly 
 imagination, parti} 7 a semi-dream. 
 
 The return of Richard disturbed him. 
 He heard the latch-key placed in the 
 door, and the man came up the stairs. 
 Major Dawkes l-ose, put on his slippers, 
 opened his door an inch or two, and ar- 
 rested his servant. 
 
 " You have been round to the doctor's, 
 Richard ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. He'll be here in a minute 
 or two. 
 
 "There was no necessity to disturb 
 him, only that it may be more satisfac- 
 tory to your mistress. The child is dead, 
 I suppose ? " 
 
 " Dead, sir ! no. He has took a turn 
 for the better." 
 
 " What ? " gasped Major Dawkes. 
 
 " He seems to have took a turn, sir, 
 and has rallied ; and that's why my mis- 
 tress sent for the doctor." 
 
 " I — I — don't understand," cried the 
 bewildered Major. 
 
 He really did not. So intense had 
 been the conviction of the child's death, 
 that his mind was unable at once to 
 admit any different impression. 
 
 " When the doctor was here the last- 
 thing, sir, he thought there might be a 
 change in the night, for the better or the 
 worse. If it was for the better, he was 
 to be sent to, he said," explained Rich- 
 ard. 
 
 " And— it is for the better?" 
 
 " dear yes, sir, happily. Judith 
 says she's sure he will get over it now." 
 
 Major Dawkes withdrew into his room, 
 and softly closed the door. He felt as 
 though the death-blow, which was to 
 have overtaken the child, had missed its 
 aim, and fallen upon him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 "died in a fit." 
 
 A "week elapsed ; and little Tom Can- 
 terbury, owing no doubt, to the " elastic- 
 ity," appeared to be getting well rapidly. 
 
214 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes, heart and spirits alike 
 raised, caring not even for folly and 
 fashion in comparison with her darling 
 child, gave orders that preparations 
 should he made for removal to the Eock. 
 If the Major was unable to leave Lon- 
 don, he could remain behind, she oblig- 
 ingly told him ; but Tom wanted country 
 air, and Tom should have it. 
 
 To depart for the Rock, or to depart 
 for Kamtschatka, would have seemed all 
 one to the Major, provided either place 
 would shield him and his reputation. 
 Scarcely once during this last week had 
 he dared to show himself out of doors. 
 His time had been chiefly spent in writ- 
 ing bulletins of little Canterbury's state 
 to sundry people interested, every one 
 of which represented the child as "slowly 
 going." So long as this farce could be 
 kept up, and his enemies be deceived 
 into believing it, he felt tolerabh' safe. 
 Tolerably only : it was Major Dawkes's 
 misfortune never to feel quite assured 
 upon the point at any moment, night or 
 day. But, in fact, he was so. With 
 the prospect of Tom Canterbury's thou- 
 sands and tens of thousands slipping 
 speedily into his fingers, to be squan- 
 dered as Major Dawkes knew how to 
 squander, people considered that it lay 
 in their interests not to proceed to ex- 
 tremity with him. And such an ex- 
 tremity ! 
 
 How harshly Fate was dealing with 
 him in thus restoring Tom to life, Major 
 Dawkes felt to the back-hone. He 
 looked upon it as a grievous wrong ; an 
 injury done him : in the perversion of 
 mind caused b} r need, he had come to 
 regard the fortune as his by right. Did 
 it stand to any reason that this sickly 
 infant ought to keep him out of what 
 would put him straight with the world, 
 and relieve him from this horrible night- 
 mare ? Children who died were happi- 
 er than children who lived : little Tom 
 wanted to go to heaven ; he was saying 
 so continually ; and heaven could not be 
 kind when it thus renewed the lease of 
 his poor frail life on earth. So reasoned 
 Major Dawkes. There were moments 
 . now when he wished he had died in his 
 childhood, before worry and debt had 
 come ; and in pursuing this line of argu- 
 ment he was honest enough. 
 
 But — what was he to do? Tom Can- 
 terbury's recovery could not be kept se- 
 
 cret for ever. The period, when it must 
 be known, was looming all too near ; ad- 
 vancing close, even then, to his threshold. 
 And it was bringing with it an abyss of 
 agony and shame, than which to Major 
 Dawkes nothing could be more terrible. 
 It seemed that he must forfeit life, rather 
 than meet it. 
 
 At this, the week's end, the medical 
 men pronounced it safe for Tom to travel : 
 Mrs. Dawkes at once fixed the following 
 morning for their departure ; and gave 
 the Major that obliging permission to go 
 or stay behind mentioned before. Soon 
 after hearing it, Major Dawkes was cross- 
 ing the hall, when a knock and ring 
 startled him ; startled him, as it seemed, 
 to abject terror. His first impulse was to 
 dart into the nearest room and bolt him- 
 self in ; his next to dart out again and 
 seize Richard's arm, who was coming 
 along to open the door. 
 
 " Richard," he whispered — and the 
 man stood amazed at the wild alarm 
 mingled with entreaty, in his master's 
 aspect and accent — " don't open the door, 
 for your life. Go into the area and see 
 who it is. If it's any one for me, say I 
 went out of town at seven this morning, 
 and sha'nt be back till — till late to-night. 
 Swear to it, man, if they dispute your 
 word." 
 
 Richard descended the kitchen-stairs, 
 and his master strode up the upper ones, 
 four at a time, stealthily, silently, like a 
 man who is flying from danger. Up to 
 the second-floor went he, as if the higher 
 he went the more secure he should feel 
 from it. Instead of entering his own 
 room, he turned into the one opposite, 
 the day-nursery. It opened into the lit- 
 tle boy's bed-chamber, but the door was 
 closed between them. 
 
 Judith stood at the round table by the 
 fire — which Mrs. Dawkes thought well to 
 have lighted daily, though summer 
 weather had come in. She was measur- 
 ing a dessert-spoonful of mixture from a 
 small green medicine-bottle. Little Tom 
 Canterbury was by her side, watching 
 her. 
 
 " What's this ? " asked Major Dawkes, 
 taking up the bottle, when she had re- 
 corked it, and put it on the mantlepiece. 
 
 " I don't know, sir ; I can't read writ- 
 ing," replied Judith, thinking the Majoi 
 meant the direction, which he was look- 
 ing at. If he had meant anything, it was 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 215 
 
 probably tbe mixture ; but he bad spok- 
 en in total abstraction, for his mind was 
 a chaos just then. 
 
 " The Mixture. Master Canterbury," 
 were the words written there. 
 
 " Does he require medicine still ? " ex- 
 claimed Major Dawkes. " I thought he 
 was well." 
 
 " It's only some stuff the Doctor sends 
 to comfort bis inside, sir, which had been 
 out of order," replied Judith. " He 
 takes a spoonful three times a day: 
 morning, afternoon, and before he goes to 
 bed at night." 
 
 Major Dawkes took out the cork, smelt 
 the mixture and tasted it, simply by way 
 of doing something, while Tom drank up 
 his spoonful. But, as Richard was heard 
 coming up the stairs, the Major hastily 
 returned the bottle to the mantlepiece, 
 and went out to meet him. 
 
 " Was I wanted ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. The gentleman was that 
 one who never gives his name ; and I 
 saw two men standing off, as if they be- 
 longed to him," added Richard, in a con- 
 fidential tone. " They are a-waiting op- 
 posite now." 
 
 " You said I was out of town ? " 
 
 " I told hiin I'd take a oath to it, sir, 
 if he liked — as you desired me. And he 
 said it would be none the nearer truth if 
 I did." 
 
 Major Dawkes wiped bis damp brow 
 and turned into his bedroom ; his per- 
 plexities were growing fast and thick. 
 This present matter was one of simple 
 debt ; aud simple debt would have been 
 as nothing compared to the other thing 
 he dreaded. Exposure could not be more 
 than a day's course off now. 
 
 " Agony, disgrace, punishment ! " 
 spoke he to bis own soul, as he glanced to 
 the future. " The abhorrence and con- 
 tempt of my wife ; the haughty con- 
 demnation of my brother-officers ; the 
 cool scorn of the world ; the hulks for me ! 
 I am in dread danger of it all ; and onty 
 because the weak thread of a wretched 
 child's life is not broken ! Why could he 
 not have died ? It was but the hesita- 
 tion of the balance ; a turn the other 
 way, and — we should both have been the 
 better. There has been a devil abroad 
 since that night, ever at my elbow, whis- 
 pering temptation. 
 
 Even so. And tbe devil bad never 
 3tood closer to Major Dawkes than in this 
 
 self-same moment. To give him his due, 
 he struggled against the fiend as well as 
 he knew how. 
 
 The Major did not go out that day ; 
 he did not dare ; what was to become of 
 him on the next — and the next — and the 
 next, he shuddered to contemplate. He 
 dined at home with his wife at six o'clock, 
 in her dressing-room. She felt very un- 
 well, and had been lying there on the 
 sofa all the afternoon. 
 
 '•'It is the fatigue of nursing Tom," 
 said the Major. " I knew it would bring 
 its reaction." 
 
 " It is nothing of the sort," retorted 
 Mrs. Dawkes. " I have taken a violent 
 cold, or else caught Tom's complaint, for 
 my chest feels sore. Country air will set 
 both me and Tom to rights. We start 
 in the morning. Do you intend to go 
 with' us ? " 
 
 " I — I don't think I can," replied the 
 miserable Major. 
 
 He quitted the room after dinner; and 
 went prowling about the bouse like a 
 restless spirit, not venturing to go out 
 before dusk. Mrs. Dawkes lay down on 
 the sofa again and rang for her boy. 
 Judith brought him, and her mistress 
 began talking about the arrangements 
 for the morning. 
 
 " The carriage will be at the door be- 
 fore half-past nine, } t ou know, "Judith." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; I shall be quite ready. 
 What about Master Tom's physic ? " 
 added Judith. " Had he better take it 
 in the morning, ma'am ? — there'll be just 
 one dose left." 
 
 " No, I think not. To-night he must." 
 
 " yes, I shall give it him as soon as 
 he is undressed," said Judith, " and thate 
 won't be long first: it's ever so much af- 
 ter seven. I think he had better come 
 now, ma'am, that he may have a good long 
 night's rest. — Master Tom, won't you say 
 good-night to your mamma ? " 
 
 Of course it was right that the boy, 
 still so weak and delicate, should have a 
 good night's rest to fortify him for the 
 morrow's journey. Mrs. Dawkes strained 
 the child to her ; and the child's little 
 arms strained her. It was a long and close 
 embrace, and he cried when he was taken 
 from her : which was somewhat remark- 
 able, as it was not a usual thing for him 
 to do. 
 
 " God bless you, my darling ! We 
 shall both get well at the Rock." 
 
21G 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes, left alone, drank a cnp 
 of tea brought by her maid, Fry, and 
 then went into her bed-room to prepare 
 for rest. She was irritable and impa- 
 tient ; so much so, that the maid asked 
 whether she felt worse. 
 
 " 0, I don't know ! " was the queru- 
 lous' answer. " Since I drank that cup 
 of hot tea, my tooth has begun to ache 
 again. It is enough to distract me." 
 
 " I would have it out, ma'am, if I 
 were you," cried Fry. " It's always 
 a-distracting of you." 
 
 " Have it out ! have a tooth out at my 
 age ! " echoed Mrs. Dawkes, " I'd rath- 
 er suffer martyrdom. Be quick over my 
 hair, and don't saj 7 such things to pro- 
 voke me." 
 
 So Fry went on with her duties, and 
 her mistress went on groaning, and 
 holding one side of her face. 
 
 "Perhaps, ma'am, if you were to put 
 a little brandy to it, it might ease you," 
 Fry ventured to say again. " Some 
 cotton steeped in brandy, and put into 
 the tooth, has cured man} 7 a toothache. 
 Laudanum's best, but I suppose there's 
 none in the house." 
 
 " It would do me no good," fretfully 
 answered Mrs. Dawkes. 
 
 Fry left her mistress to rest. But 
 there was no sleep for Mrs. Dawkes ; 
 the pain of her tooth prevented it. She 
 tossed and turned from side to side, five 
 minutes seeming to her like an hour. 
 
 Now it happened that there was some 
 laudanum in the house ; at any rate, 
 some preparation of opium, though the 
 maid bad been unconscious of it. It 
 had been brought in for some purpose 
 several weeks before, and had stood 
 since then in the Major's dressing-room. 
 Mrs. Dawkes, in a moment of despera- 
 tion, rose from her bed, resolved to try 
 it. Her own dressing-room opened on 
 one side the bed-chamber, the Major's 
 on the other; and she snatched the 
 night-light which was burning — for Fry 
 had closed the shutters to shut out all 
 the remains of daylight — and went into 
 the latter. 
 
 It was a very small place, little better 
 than a closet, and had no egress save 
 through the bedchamber. Her own 
 dressing-room was large, and had two 
 entrances. Over the Major's washhand- 
 stand was a narrow slab of white marble, 
 and on that had stood the bottle requir- 
 
 ed by Mrs. Dawkes. His tooth-powder- 
 box and shaving- tackle usually stood 
 there ; but since he had occupied the 
 room upstairs, they had been removed, 
 with various other things pertaining to 
 him, the unused laudanum-bottle alone 
 being left. 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes went to the slab, and 
 stretched forth her hand to take the 
 bottle. Most exceedingly astonished 
 was she to find that no bottle was there. 
 The slab was perfectly empty. 
 
 " Why, what can have become of 
 it ? " she exclaimed aloud. " The bot- 
 tle is always there ; I saw it there this 
 very day. And the servants do not 
 come in here since the room has been 
 unused." 
 
 She looked about with the light, but 
 could see nothing of it — the shelves and 
 places were bare. Exceedingly cross, 
 she returned to her bedroom, steeped a 
 bit of cotton - wool in some spirits of 
 camphor, put that to her tooth, and lay 
 down again. The pain subsided at once, 
 and she was dozing off to sleep, when 
 some one came cautiously into the room 
 from the passage - entrance. Mrs. 
 Dawkes pulled aside the curtain, and 
 saw her husband. He started back. 
 
 " Is it you ? " she exclaimed." 
 
 " What brings you in bed now ? " 
 cried the Major, looking still like a man 
 startled. 
 
 " I could not sit up. I wish you'd 
 not come disturbing me. Is it late or 
 early ? " 
 
 " It is not } r et nine." 
 
 He went into his dressing-room as he 
 answered, but came out again immedi- 
 ately, and sta}-ed to speak. 
 
 " Caroline, I am going down to Kage 
 about the matter we talked of the other 
 day — to see if he won't help me. He 
 ought, and he must." 
 
 " It will be of no use." 
 
 " At any rate, I shall try. I really 
 want help very badly. Have you any 
 message for him ? " 
 
 " None," she answered drowsily. " I 
 don't care to talk ; it may set my tooth 
 on to ache again." 
 
 " Well, good-night ; but I am sorry 
 to have disturbed you. I shall see you 
 in the morning." 
 
 The Major descended the stairs. 
 Calling up Richard, he gave him sundry 
 commissions and injunctions ; and then 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 217 
 
 went out, peering into the dusk to see 
 that the coast was clear. Bolting round 
 the corner and into a hansom, he order- 
 ed the driver to take him to Mr. Kage's 
 house. There he learnt that the barris- 
 ter was not expected until late, and 
 would probably be found at his cham- 
 bers. The hansom dashed down to the 
 Temple. 
 
 Mr. Kage was at work late. Rather 
 surprised was he to see his visitor ; much 
 more surprised to hear what he had 
 come for. 
 
 Why, what amount of impudence 
 must the man possess, thus to persist in 
 this anno3 r ance ! He had come to press 
 for that loan again ; and sat down and 
 did it. Mr. Kage may be forgiven if 
 he answered sharply. 
 
 " Thomas Canterbury's money ! " 
 echoed the Major, in reply to some 
 words. " You speak as though I asked 
 for all his coffers, and the Rock into the 
 bargain. I only wish to borrow a very 
 trifling portion of it — three or four 
 thousand pounds." 
 
 " The sum, more or less, is not of any 
 consequence ; but Mrs. Dawkes men- 
 tioned twelve thousand," spoke Thomas 
 Kage stiffly. 
 
 " Mrs. Dawkes must have mistaken 
 what I said I should like for what I 
 said I wanted. From three to four 
 thousand pounds will *be sufficient." 
 
 " Were it but three thousand pence, 
 it would be all the same. I am surpris- 
 ed at you, Major Dawkes. Permit me 
 to say that no gentleman would persist 
 in these applications, in the teeth of my 
 .refusal and'its reasons." 
 
 " I shall pay you back, long before 
 little Canterbury is of age. Kage, my 
 good fellow," added the Major, wiping 
 the perspiration from his brow — and, in- 
 deed, he had done little else since enter- 
 ing, for he seemed full of agitation — 
 " consider the strait I am in. If I can't 
 get money, and don't get money, there'll 
 be nothing for it but — but — the Insol- 
 vent Court. Mrs. Dawkes would never 
 hold up her head again." 
 
 A half- contemptuous smile crossed 
 the barrister's lips. He peremptorily 
 declined further appeal on the subject. 
 
 " Were the money my own, you 
 should have had it before now," said he 
 finally; " but my trusteeship I will 
 hold inviolate." 
 
 " Then to-morrow morning I must see 
 
 about filing my petition," gloomily re- 
 sponded the Major. 
 
 " Quite the best thing you can do," 
 said Mr. Kage. 
 
 '' Your cousin, Mrs. Dawkes, will 
 have j'ou to thank for it." 
 
 No reply to this. The Major moved 
 to the door as slow as a bear. Mr. Kage 
 took the lamp to light him downstairs. 
 
 " I suppose Tom is all right again — 
 getting stronger daily ? " he observed, 
 stretching the light out beyond the rail- 
 ings. 
 
 "0, he is quite well; he wants noth- 
 ing now but change of air. His mother 
 takes him to the Rock to-morrow. 
 Good-night to you." 
 
 The Major jumped into the hansom 
 that had waited for him, and was driven 
 off. Having been immured in-doors for 
 days, he thought he needed some in- 
 demnifying recreation, and intended to 
 " make a night of it." 
 
 The morning dawned brightly. At 
 seven o'clock Fry was in her mistress's 
 room, according to orders. Mrs. Dawkes 
 did not like getting up at seven any 
 more than do other people who are ac- 
 customed to lie late abed ; but her child's 
 welfare just now was paramount, and she 
 was determined the journey should not 
 be deferred through delay on her part, 
 or on that of the household. She was 
 gracious this morning, telling Fry that 
 her toothache was gone and that she felt 
 stronger altogether. 
 
 " Now, Fry, is everything ready ? " 
 she asked, while she dressed. 
 
 " Quite ready, emphatically responded 
 Fry; "leastways all that lies in my de- 
 partment to get ready. I am only too 
 glad to be off to Chilling myself, ma'am. 
 It seems an age since I saw my relations 
 there. I'd like to see my poor old mis- 
 tress, too." 
 
 Did Caroline Dawkes take that last 
 sentence as a reproach to herself? It 
 was not meant as such. She rejoined, 
 rather peevishhy, 
 
 " In the sad state poor mamma lies, it 
 is so very distressing to see her, you 
 know, Fry. I'm sure I did not get over 
 the pain for days, when I left her last. 
 It is not good for her to see me, either. 
 It excites her; the doctor says so." 
 
 " Very true, ma'am," acquiesced Fry. 
 
 " Is the Major going with us or not, 
 do you know ? " resumed Mrs. Dawkes. 
 
 ; ' I fancy not, ma'am. I don't think 
 
218 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 Richard has got any orders about pack- 
 ing." 
 
 " That tells nothing. A gentleman's 
 things can be put together in five min- 
 utes. The Major must be called, Fry." 
 " The Major did not sleep at home, 
 ma'am." 
 
 " Not sleep at home ! " 
 "And he is not come in yet," added 
 Fry, who was no particular friend to the 
 Major, and had not the least objection to 
 put in a word against him if opportunity 
 offered. 
 
 " How do you know he did not sleep 
 at home ? " 
 
 " Because, ma'am, his room is just in 
 the state it was last night when the 
 housemaid left it ready for him, with the 
 door stark staring open." 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes, albeit caring very little 
 for the Major, was no better pleased than 
 are other wives when told their husbands 
 have not slept at home, and continued to 
 dress in silence. Presently she sent Fry 
 to see whether the nurse was getting up. 
 Certain though she felt of the fact, it 
 was as well to be on the safe side, and 
 ascertain it. Judith had passed many 
 nights of late in watching, and sleep 
 might be reasserting its claims. While 
 Fry was absent, she threw a warm wrap- 
 per over her petticoats, and went into the 
 Major's dressing-room to ring the bell 
 there, knowing that it would bring up 
 Richard. An unexpected object met her 
 eyes. 
 
 Great as had been Mrs. Dawkes's sur- 
 prise the previous night to find the laud- 
 anum-bottle absent from the slab, far, far 
 greater was her jiresent surprise to see it 
 in the exact place it had always occupied, 
 as if it had never been touched. Mrs. 
 Dawkes mechanically took it in her 
 hand : it was the veritable bottle, label- 
 ed as usual, " Tincture of opium. Ma- 
 jor Dawkes." 
 
 Had she only dreamt that she came to 
 look for it ? — the question really occur- 
 red to her. None of the servants had 
 been through her room in the night. But 
 on her own dressing-table lay the cotton 
 and the phial of camphorated spirit, to 
 prove that it was no dream. 
 
 " Judith has been up ever so long, 
 ma'am, and she's soon going to dress 
 Master Tom," said Fr} r , coming back. 
 " There's Richard standing outside, say- 
 ing the Major's bell rang. I tell him 
 his ears must have heard double." 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes went to the door. What 
 she wanted with Richard was. to ask 
 whether his master had said where he 
 was going. Richard replied in the neg- 
 ative : he had supposed his master was 
 coming home to sleep as usual. Mrs. 
 Dawkes went back to her dressing-table, 
 and sat down for Fry to be^in her ha;r. 
 
 Directly afterwards the Major came in, 
 laughing gaily. He seemed determined 
 to put a light face on the absence. His 
 wife kept her head fixed under Fry's 
 hands, looking neither to the right nor 
 the left, not condescending to notice him 
 in any way whatsoever. 
 
 "Did you think I had taken flight, 
 Caroline ? After leaving Kage, I went 
 up to Briscoe's rooms. We got to cards ; 
 and, upon my word, the time passed so 
 unconsciously, and it grew so late, that 
 he gave me a bed. I feared I might 
 disturb you, coming in between two and 
 three o'clock." 
 
 Caroline did not see the point of the 
 speech. All an excuse, thought she. 
 Three o'clock was no absolutely unusual 
 hour for the Major to come in ; and as 
 for disturbing her, it was not her room 
 he had to come to. 
 
 " Very accommodating of Captain 
 Briscoe to keep beds ready made-up for 
 his friends," she coldly remarked. 
 
 "And that was a sofa," laughed the 
 Major. " You will have a splendid day 
 for your journey. The wind is in its 
 softest quarter for Tom." 
 
 " You don't go with us, then ? " 
 " I wish I could. I daresay I shall 
 follow you within the week." 
 
 " O, do you ! " cried Mrs. Dawkes, her 
 temper a little ruffled. " Just as you 
 please." 
 
 Major Dawkes stood for a moment, 
 watching the process of hair-dressing. 
 Caroline fancied he must want some- 
 thing, but would not ask. 
 
 " What of Mr. Kage ? Did you see 
 him?" 
 
 " I saw him. Had to go down to his 
 chambers. He is a regular rat, Caro- 
 line ; he will do nothing." 
 
 " I told you he would not," she grave- 
 ly rejoined ; " and he is quite right not 
 to do it. As to a rat — if all people were 
 as little like one, the world might be 
 more comfortable." 
 
 " Is that a slash at me ? " asked Ma- 
 jor Dawkes, smiling gaily, and seeming 
 fully determined not to be put out. "I 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 219 
 
 and Kage never could hit it off well to- 
 gether, you know, Caroline ; therefore it 
 was hardly likely he would go out of his 
 way to do me a service. Perhaps I may 
 get what I want through Briscoe. 
 He—" 
 
 " Whatever is the matter? " 
 
 The interruption came from Fry, who 
 at that moment was facing the door. 
 The nurse, Judith, had stolen quietly in- 
 side the room, and was standing there 
 with clasped hands, and face wild and 
 white. Major and Mrs. Dawkes turned 
 round. 
 
 " What do you want, Judith ? " in- 
 quired her mistress. 
 
 " I got up at six, ma'am," hegan Ju- 
 dith, " and when I had dressed myself, I 
 put up the things I had left last night, 
 thinking I'd let the child sleep as long 
 as I could. I said to myself, what a long 
 night's rest he was having ; what a 
 beautiftil sleep ! And I — I went to take 
 him up now; and I — sir — ma'am — I can't 
 awaken him." 
 
 She had spoken just as she looked, in 
 a wild, bewildered sort of manner ; and 
 she appeard to shake all over. 
 
 " If is the remains of his illness," re- 
 marked Mrs. Dawkes ; but she gazed 
 hard at Judith, thinking her manner, 
 and her coming at all, very strange. 
 " Children are sure to sleep well after an 
 illness. Take him gently up ; he will 
 awake as 3 r ou dress him." 
 
 "But I can't take him up, ma'am," 
 returned the trembling Judith. " He — 
 he — won't awake." 
 
 Fry stared at her with open mouth, in 
 private persuasion that she had lost her 
 senses. 
 
 " Will you please to come and see, 
 sir ? " added Judith, addressing her 
 master. 
 
 " Nonsense, Judith girl ; why should 
 I come ? " demanded the Major. " Sure- 
 ly } t ou don't want my help to arouse a 
 sleeping child ! Take him up yourself, 
 as your mistress says. Splash a handful 
 of cold water in his face ; that will wake 
 him soon enough." 
 
 " Oh sir, come ! " pleaded Judith. 
 " Please come. — Not you, ma'am." 
 
 The Major quitted the room in answer 
 to the appeal. No sooner had he got 
 out than Judith, shutting the door, 
 seized upon his arm, and spoke in a whis- 
 per : 
 
 "Sir, I think he's dead." 
 
 "What?" retorted the Major, as if 
 angry at her folly. 
 
 " It is so, sir, if ever I saw death yet. 
 I did not dare ' to speak before my mis- 
 tress. He is stiff and cold." 
 
 Major Dawkes pushed her aside with 
 his elbow, and ascended the stairs, Ju- 
 dith at his heels. There was a noise be- 
 hind, and they turned to look : Mrs. 
 Dawkes and Fry were following them 
 up. 
 
 " She had better not come in, sir," 
 whispered Judith. " It may be too much 
 for her." 
 
 The Major went back to stop his wife. 
 Judith stood at the room door. It was 
 of no use. Caroline broke away from the 
 detaining hand, and went resolutely on- 
 wards. 
 
 Thomas Canterbury was lying in his 
 little bed, shaded by the purple-silk 
 hangings, cold, white — and dead. The 
 shell, with the angels carrying the child 
 to heaven, was clasped in his hand. The 
 angels had been down now to carry him. 
 
 " He must have died in a fit," cried 
 Fry. 
 
 And Mrs. Dawkes fell across the bed 
 with a low cry of piteous anguish. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 ENSHROUDED IN MYSTERY. 
 
 Late in the afternoon of as brilliant 
 a day as London can produce, when the 
 spring is merging into summer, Thomas 
 Kage, in his professional costume, might 
 have been seen ascending to his cham- 
 bers in the Temple with the fleet steps 
 of one who runs a race against time. 
 
 And Mr. Kage was doing little less. 
 He had a vast amount of business on 
 his shoulders just now, legal and private. 
 Only the past night Major Dawkes (as 
 we saw in the last chapter) found him 
 late at his chambers, hard at work. 
 This evening he would have to quit 
 London on some private matters con- 
 nected with his friend Lord Hartledon, 
 and to be away for some three or four 
 days. 
 
 Dashing off his wig and gown, he was 
 about to settle down to his table, and go 
 over certain papers, there waiting for an 
 
220 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 opinion, when Lis clerk, Mr. Taylor — for 
 he could afford one now — accosted him. 
 
 " One of Major Dawkes's servants 
 has been here, sir, to ask if you would 
 go up there as quickly as you could. 
 Mrs. Dawkes — " 
 
 " But I can't," interrupted Mr. Kage. 
 " With what I have yet to do to-day, it 
 is not possible. Did }-ou say so ? " 
 
 " No, sir. I said I would give you 
 the message. I told him you were busy. 
 The little boy is dead I" 
 
 " What little boy ? » 
 
 " Mrs. Dawkes's, sir — little Canter- 
 bury." 
 
 Thomas Kage's hands ceased rattling 
 the parchments. He looked up as one 
 who believes not. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " He is dead, sir, sure enough, and all 
 that pot of money lapses. He died in 
 the night." 
 
 "But what did he die of? What 
 was the matter with him ? " 
 
 " The man couldn't say. It was that 
 Richard who has brought notes here 
 once or twice." 
 
 " The boy was well again," reiterated 
 Mr. Kage, feeling utterly bewildered. 
 " Dawkes said so when he was here last 
 night ; besides, 1 know it." 
 
 " What the man said was, that the 
 nurse found him dead in his bed this 
 morning," pursued Mr. Taylor. " Mrs. 
 Dawkes was in a very terrible state, and 
 her maid sent him to ask you to go up." 
 
 A rapid argument in his own mind, 
 whether he might venture to put off his 
 journey until the morrow, and sit up 
 that night to complete his work, was de- 
 cided in the affirmative. At almost any 
 cost he would go to his cousin in her 
 sore need. But he could really do it by 
 taking the first train in the morning. 
 
 " I shall want you to stay late to- 
 night, Mr. Taylor." 
 
 " Very well, sir." 
 
 He went up to Belgravia as fast as a 
 cab could take him, and was shown at 
 once into the presence of Mrs. Dawkes. 
 Her state was pitiable to witness. Just 
 as she had been when the alarm came, 
 and she had run to the child's room, 
 so she was still — a loose robe on, and 
 her hair hanging down. She had re- 
 mained since in the very extremity of 
 anguish — now in a semi-fainting state ; 
 now rushing to the death-room and call- 
 
 ing on her child to live — to live ! In 
 short, she. was frantic. Could she but 
 have wept — could she but have fallen 
 into a real faint, and so have induced 
 weakness — it had been better for her. 
 Fry said all this to Mr. Kage in a few 
 rapid sentences, as she stood with her 
 hand on the door-handle. 
 
 " I can scarcely believe it to be true, 
 Fry, that the child is dead," he whis- 
 pered. 
 
 '•' And that's like us, sir. We cannot 
 believe it now." 
 
 " But what was it ? " 
 
 " 0, it must have been a sudden fit, 
 sir. There's nothing else that I know 
 of could kill a child in his sleep." 
 
 With a kind of choking cry, some- 
 thing like that you may hear from one 
 in an attack of epilepsy, Mrs. Dawkes 
 sprang forward when she saw Mr. Kage, 
 and flung herself into his arms. The 
 sight of him brought the reaction that 
 had been wanted ; and she began to sob 
 frightfully, piteously imploring Thomas 
 Kage to bring him — her lamb, her 
 angel-boy, her all — back to life. With 
 difficulty could he unwind her arms ; 
 with difficulty attempt a word of con- 
 solation. He did not know what to do 
 with her. Fry, hearing the sobs of 
 emotion, came in. Mr. Kage sent her 
 for water and other restoratives. Where 
 was the Major ? he mentally wondered 
 in deep anger. Surely his proper place 
 was by his wife's side at such an hour as> 
 this ! 
 
 Major Dawkes had gone out to see, 
 as was understood by Fry, about some 
 necessary arrangements. 
 
 " I don't care now how soon I die 
 myself, Thomas," exclaimed the poor 
 mother, at the end of a prolonged and 
 exhaustive fit of violent sobbing. 
 
 " Hush, Caroline ! May God temper 
 the trial to you ! " he added more as a 
 prayer than in answer. 
 
 The next to come in, with a whiter 
 face than usual, as if stricken to fear, 
 and words of condolence that seemed 
 genuine enough on her lips, was Keziah 
 Dawkes. Keziah had heard the news 
 by pure accident. Happening to meet 
 one of the servants in the street, she 
 stopped him to inquire after the health 
 of the house, and learnt what had taken 
 place. Caroline was lying on the 
 sofa then, in another of the semi-faint- 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 221 
 
 ing fits, utterly exhausted. Fry, kneel- 
 ing by her side, strove to put teaspoon- 
 fuls of weak brandy-and-water within 
 her lips. Mr. Kage took the opportu- 
 nity to slip away in search of Judith. 
 
 He found her in the day-nursery ; 
 her hands lying idle on her knees, the 
 tears slowly coursing down her face. 
 She stood up when he entered, and 
 strove to dry them. 
 
 " What has the child died of, Ju- 
 dith ? » 
 
 " Sir, I know no more than the dead — 
 no more than he does, pretty pale lamb- 
 kin. Fry insists upon it that it must 
 have been a fit ; but I don't believe it. 
 He never had a fit in his life ; and it 
 stands to reason, that if he'd had one last 
 night I must have heard him. The least 
 noise awakes me. Since his illness he 
 couldn't move in his little bed but I start- 
 ed up. All last night I never heard him 
 stir, never once, and I was awake twice 
 myself. This morning, when I got up, 
 he was still sleeping, as I supposed, and 
 I went on putting things ready for the 
 journey." 
 
 " You did not discover it immediately, 
 then ? " 
 
 "No, sir. I thought I'd let him lie 
 as long as I could, for he had seemed 
 dead asleep last night. I'd hardly laid 
 him down in his bed, before he was off. 
 I might have let him lie longer too, but 
 for Fry's coming up with a message 
 from my mistress, that we was both to 
 be ready without delay. I finished what 
 I was about, and then went to his bed- 
 side. ' Master Tom,' says I, ' it's time 
 to get up ; and your mamma's astir al- 
 ready, and the morning's beautiful.' 
 But he never answered. ' Wake up, my 
 darling,' says I then, and put the bed- 
 clothes down. Sir, you might almost as 
 well have killed me : there he lay dead ! " 
 
 " What did the doctor say ? " 
 
 " The first thing he said after seeing 
 that the child was really dead, was to 
 ask what I'd been giving to him ; he 
 asked it sharply too, as if I should give 
 him anything that could hurt ! " 
 
 She proceeded to recount the few facts 
 connected with the last days of the 
 child's life, Mr. Kage listening. He 
 had eaten his meals well ; the last thing 
 he took having been a basin of bread- 
 and-milk for his tea. Judith had seen 
 him take them all — having, in fact, taken 
 
 her own meals with him ; and not for 
 a minute the previous day had the boy 
 been out of her sight. 
 
 " There's the last thing I gave him," 
 she sobbed, pointing to the medicine- 
 bottle on the mantel-piece. "He sat on 
 my lap after he was undressed, and took 
 it as good as gold. I little thought I 
 should never give him anything again." 
 
 " What is it ? " asked Mr. Kage. 
 
 Judith explained. It was a bottle of 
 mixture sent by the doctor, a dessert- 
 spoonful of which the child had been 
 taking three times a-day. Mr. Kage 
 took the bottle in his hand, examined it, 
 and read the label, " The mixture. Mas- 
 ter Canterbury." 
 
 " He had took it every drop but that 
 one dose that's left ; and a great deal of 
 good it had done him," said Judith, in 
 her deep sorrow, as Mr. Kage returned 
 the bottle to the mantel-piece. " me ! 
 there's moments, sir, when I think it 
 can't be nothing but a dream." 
 
 In truth, it seemed quite like one to 
 Thomas Kage. 
 
 " Will you see him, sir ? " 
 
 He nodded assent ; and Judith, un- 
 locking the door of the next room, stood 
 aside for him to pass. Many a time and 
 oft had Mr. Kage gone in to be greeted 
 with the loving words of the gentle 
 child. 
 
 At rest now ; an angel in the heaven 
 where he had so often wished to be. 
 
 " You have been up to see him ! " 
 cried Mrs. Dawkes, almost passionately, 
 when Mr. Kage returned to her. " Why 
 did you not tell me ? I'd have gone 
 with you. I wanted to go ! " 
 
 It seemed that some of the old excite- 
 ment was coming on again ; he laid his 
 restraining hand on hers to enjoin calm- 
 ness. Keziah Dawkes, sitting at the 
 curtained windows with her bonnet- 
 strings untied, looked gray as before. 
 Mrs. Dawkes had not invited her to take 
 the bonnet off. This death would bring 
 no end of good to her beloved brother 
 Barby, but she did not seem to be mak- 
 ing a festival of it. Caroline moaned 
 faintly again and again, and let her fin- 
 gers entwine themselves within those 
 strong ones, in which there felt to be at 
 least protection. 
 
 " What did he die of, Thomas — what 
 did he die of? " 
 
222 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 " In truth I see nothing that he can 
 have died of, except God's visitation,'" 
 was his honest answer. " No harm 
 seems to have come to him in any shape 
 or form, to account for the death." 
 
 " And we were to have gone to the 
 Rock to-day, he and I ! By this time 
 we should have been there." 
 
 " Try and realise one thing, Caroline, 
 — that he is now in perfect happiness; 
 and let it comfort 3 T ou." 
 
 " Comfort ! for me ! " she rejoined, 
 opening her eyes on him for a moment. 
 " Never again in this life ! " 
 
 And poor Caroline Dawkes turned her 
 face down upon the sofa-cushion, to moan 
 out the anguish that seemed as if it must 
 kill her there and then. 
 
 The dusk of evening had come on be- 
 fore Mr. Kage went down to take his de- 
 parture. He encountered Major Dawkes 
 in the hall, who was then entering. 
 They turned together into the Major's 
 study. 
 
 " This is a very strange and sad 
 event," observed Thomas Kage. 
 
 " It is the strangest thing that ever 
 happened in this world," returned the 
 Major; "and the saddest too — for my 
 wife's sake." 
 
 " You can throw no light upon it, I 
 suppose ; or conjecture what can have 
 been the cause of death ? " 
 
 " I. I am the least likely to of any- 
 body," spoke the Major, with volubility. 
 " I never saw the child but once yester- 
 day, so far as I can remember ; and I 
 have been taxing my memory over it. 
 That was in the morning. He went out 
 with Judith, I hear, in the carriage in 
 the afternoon ; but I know nothing about 
 it personally. I was shut up in my study 
 the best part of the day, writing letters 
 and going over ac " 
 
 A movement of Mr. Kage's caused 
 the Major to stop. Looking quickly be- 
 hind him he saw the gray face of his sis- 
 ter. And it certainly wore a scared ex- 
 pression — an expression that she seemed 
 unable to keep under. A hasty greet- 
 ing — which the Major never looked in 
 her face to give — and he went on with 
 what he had been saying. 
 
 " I am telling Kage that I never saw 
 the boy but once yesterday, Keziah ; 
 never saw him at all, in fact, after the 
 morning. It is most unfortunate. Not 
 that m\' seeing him could have shown 
 
 me what was to happen, or prevented it. 
 As ill-luck, had it, too, I did not sleep at 
 home last night." 
 
 A slight movement of surprise in Mr. 
 Kage's eyes. No other answer. 
 
 " Of course I'd give a good deal not to 
 have been out last night. I've not done 
 it for ages. Things are sure to happen 
 crossly. After leaving your chambers, 
 Kage, I went up to Briscoe's. We sat 
 late at cards, and he gave me a bed. My 
 wife had seemed very poorly when I left 
 her, and I did not care to go home when 
 it got so late, lest she should hear me 
 and be disturbed. I came round betimes 
 this morning, knowing of the day's jour- 
 ney ; and before I had been five min- 
 utes in the house, the alarm took place. 
 When Judith came in, saying something 
 was the matter with the child, and then 
 called me out to whisper he was dead, I 
 thought she must be saying it for a 
 farce." 
 
 Keziah Dawkes drew a long deep 
 breath, as if of relief. " 0, Barnaby 
 dear ! and have you no idea of the cause 
 of death ? " 
 
 " What I think is this. • That the 
 child's late illness, or something connect- 
 ed with it, must have been the cause ; 
 and that the doctors were mistaken in 
 supposing he had recovered." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; it must have been so," 
 sighed Keziah. 
 
 " Possibly so," admitted Mr. Kage, 
 speaking slowly. " There seems to be 
 no other way of accounting for it. I 
 fear it will have a sad effect on Mrs. 
 Dawkes." 
 
 " For a time," said the Major, show- 
 ing a long face. " But she'll get over 
 it after a bit ; she'll get over it. Other 
 mothers do." 
 
 A coroner's inquest would have to be 
 held on the child : very much to the re- 
 sentment of Major and Mrs. Dawkes. 
 More to that of the former, however, 
 than of the latter. But for his enlarg- 
 ing in his wife's presence on the degra- 
 dation of Tom's being " inquested," as 
 though he were a common pauper's 
 child, she would never have thought of 
 it, one way or the other. Major Dawkes's 
 resentment, however, could not stop the 
 law's demands ; and an inquest was fix- 
 ed for the Thursday afternoon, the child 
 having been found dead on the AYednes- 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 223 
 
 day. Earl}' on Thursday morning the 
 doctors made the post-mortem examina- 
 tion ; and they came to the astounding 
 conclusion that the child had died from 
 some narcotic poison, say opium — an 
 overdose of opium. 
 
 The first frantic violence of Mrs. 
 Dawkes's grief had spent itself, and on 
 this morning, Thursday, she was tolera- 
 bly calm — calm, save for a restless ner- 
 vousness, that prevented her from be- 
 ing still. Her medical attendants recom- 
 mended her to remain in bed ; but Mrs. 
 Dawkes paid no heed to them, and by 
 ten o'clock she was up, and in her dress- 
 ing-room, which was, in fact, a kind of 
 boudoir. 
 
 Here she sat, the breakfast-tray before 
 her, making believe to sip her tea, and 
 to bite small morsels of the thin toast. 
 Major Dawkes had breakfasted below as 
 usual, and was just now closeted in the 
 dining-room with the two doctors who 
 had been making the examination. On 
 coming from the room above, they had 
 requested to see him, and were shown to 
 him in the dining-room. Major Dawkes 
 was not holding the doctors in much fa- 
 vor just now, for they were at the root 
 of this, to him, offensive proceeding, the 
 calling of the inquest. In the absence 
 of all certainty as to the cause of death, 
 thej' had declined to give the requisite 
 certificate. 
 
 Never for a moment, save during the 
 intervals when she slept the sleep of ex- 
 haustion, was her child's image absent 
 from Mrs. Dawkes's mental sight, or its 
 memory from her heart. It seemed to 
 her that Heaven had been bitterly un- 
 kind ; and the more she told herself it 
 was wrong to think so, the more she 
 thought it. 
 
 " Only two days ago, and he was with 
 me in this very room," she moaned ; 
 "prattling to me while I ate my break- 
 fast. I divided a bit of my toast be- 
 tween us, him and me. Judith, stand- 
 ing by, said hot buttered toast was not 
 good for him. 0, my boy, my boy ! " 
 
 Fry came in with an expression of 
 face that attracted even the attention of 
 her desolate mistress. It was a mixture 
 of intense surprise, of puzzled curiosity, 
 and of mortification. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " asked Mrs. 
 Dawkes. 
 
 The matter was this. The doctors, 
 requiring to ask two or three questions 
 
 in the conclusion they had come to re 
 garding the death of the child, had chos- 
 en to put them to Fry, knowing she was 
 in a degree a confidential servant, and 
 had caused her to be called in. There 
 Fry learnt — but she was the only one in 
 the household to whom it was suffered 
 to transpire — that the death was the re- 
 sult of opium. The declaration dis- 
 pleased Fry beyond everything : she had 
 formed her opinion that the child had 
 died m a fit, and would not part with it 
 easily. 
 
 " It s nice thing they are saying now, 
 ma'am," replied Fry in answer to her 
 mistress, closing the door softly and 
 speaking in a covert tone. " It wouldn't 
 be doctors if they didn't have some 
 crotchet to invent. What he died of, 
 sweet child, was a fit, and nothing else." 
 Mrs. Dawkes paused in some sur- 
 prise. "Why, what do they say it was, 
 then ? " 
 
 "They say he was poisoned, ma'am. 
 Leastwaj's that he took something that 
 was as good as poison ; senseless idi- 
 ots ! " 
 
 " They — say — he — was — poisoned !" 
 echoed Mrs. Dawkes, leaning forward in 
 her chair with dilating eyes. " Take 
 care what you assert, Fry." 
 
 " I think it's them should be told to 
 take care of that, ma'am," was Fry's 
 rather resentful answer. " They declare 
 he must have died from taking an over- 
 dose of opium ; which amounts to pret- 
 ty nigh the same thing as saying he was 
 poisoned. I'd like to ask them who was 
 likely to give him opium. There was 
 was not such a thing as a drop in the 
 house ; but doctors must have their say. 
 It was a fit." 
 
 A faint noise, curious in its sound, 
 caused Fry to turn sharply. She had 
 been putting the breakfast-things to- 
 gether while she talked. Was her mis- 
 tress going to have a fit ? She looked 
 like it. 
 
 " Opium ! He died from opium ! 
 Do they say that ? " 
 
 " They do, ma'am. They are telling 
 the Major of it now in the dining-room ; 
 but I don't believe it's true." 
 
 With a face as white as ashes, with 
 hands lifted up before her as if to ward 
 off some dreadful blow, with a strange 
 terror pervading her whole aspect, stood 
 Mrs. Dawkes. 
 
 " But— but— " 
 
224 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 Not another syllable. Utterance fail- 
 ed ; and she fell back on the seat in a 
 dead faint. 
 
 '' And enough to make her, poor dear, 
 when such atrocious things can be said 
 of her own child ! " ejaculated the sym- 
 pathizing Fry, flying to the rescue. 
 
 When the coroner's inquest met in 
 the afternoon, the medical men declared 
 their opinion — that the child had died 
 from the effect of some narcotic, proba- 
 bly opium. Judith, as nurse, was very 
 sharply questioned — turned inside out, 
 as may be said — as to what food the 
 child had taken in the evening of the 
 day preceding his death. She was to 
 the full as indignant as Fry — more 
 so, indeed, at their supposing anything 
 of the kind could have found its way to 
 him by any chance whatever ; but Ju- 
 dith, unlike Fry, was not loud. Swal- 
 lowing down her tears and striving for 
 calmness, she was very quiet and re- 
 spectful, only insisting upon it that the 
 doctors must be wrong. Neither bit 
 nor drop had approached the child's lips 
 but what she herself had given him — 
 saving a small bit of his mamma's but- 
 tered toast in the morning, which both 
 she and her mistress had watched him 
 eat. 
 
 " He never was out of my sight dur- 
 ing the whole day for one minute, gen- 
 tlemen," she earnestly reiterated to the 
 jury; "and I can take my oath that he 
 had nothing but his ordinary and prop- 
 er food. The doctors say that what he 
 took to harm him must have been taken 
 at night ; but after his tea at five 
 o'clock, which was bread-and-milk, he 
 had nothing whatever — except the des- 
 sert-spoonful of physic when he was un- 
 dressed ; and the doctors know that that 
 couldn't have hurt him, for it was their 
 own physic, sent in by themselves, and 
 he had been taking it for two or three 
 days." 
 
 Judith's simplicity and earnest man- 
 ner made its' own favorable impression 
 on the coroner's court. Major l)awkes, 
 who was present, testified that she was 
 a truthful, faithful servant, valued by 
 her mistress, and fond almost to idolatry 
 of the child. The medicine-bottle, re- 
 maining in its place on the mantel-piece 
 with the one close left in it, had been 
 examined at once by the medical men, 
 and found to be exactly as they had 
 
 sent it in — right and proper and harm- 
 less medicine. In fact, so far as reliable 
 testimony went, nothing could be more 
 clearly proved than that the child had 
 taken nothing improper, and, moreover, 
 that there had positively occurred no op- 
 portunity whatever for anything else to 
 be administered to him. 
 
 No one could have had access to him. 
 When the child was in bed — and the 
 nurse testified that he fell asleep almost 
 as she laid his head on the pillow — she, 
 Judith., had remained in the room. 
 Closing the door between the two nur- 
 series, she had set to work to turn out 
 her drawers and pack up her own 
 things, all of which were in the bed- 
 room. The child never stirred, she said ; 
 he was sleeping sound and fast. Of 
 course it was now known that he was in 
 the sleep of stupor, passing quietly on 
 to death. At ten o'clock — she heard 
 the hour strike from the churches — she 
 ran down-stairs for her supper — some 
 bread-and-butter. Bringing it up on a 
 plate, she went on arranging her things, 
 and went to bed between eleven and 
 twelve. 
 
 A juryman interrupted to inquire 
 how long she remained downstairs, and 
 whether any one meanwhile could have 
 had access to the child. 
 
 " I was not down two minutes, sir," 
 was Judith's answer ; " and no one 
 could have had access to the child. 
 Only my mistress was upstairs — she 
 was in bed in her own room ; and the 
 Major was not at home. It happened 
 that I saw every one of the servants 
 down-stairs, except Richard ; and I've 
 heard since that he had gone out on 
 business for his master. 
 
 Major Dawkes nodded a corroboration 
 of this. Before going out himself that 
 evening, he had given his servant Rich- 
 ard a commission to execute out of 
 doors. 
 
 ".No one can regret more than my- 
 self that I should have been absent on 
 this particular evening and night," add- 
 ed the Major with some natural emotion. 
 '•' It was getting on for nine o'clock when 
 I left home. I had business with Mr. 
 Kage the barrister, and went down to 
 his chambers in the Temple. I slept at 
 Captain Briscoe's, and got home between 
 seven and eight in the morning." 
 
 " So that personally, you know noth- 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 225 
 
 ing of the sad event, Major Dawkes ? " 
 Bpoke the coroner with civility. 
 
 "Nothing, whatever, I am sorry to 
 say. I consider my absence most unfor- 
 tunate. Not that, had I been at home 
 ever so, I could have done any good, or 
 prevented the death. The chances are 
 — nay, I may say the certainty — that I 
 should not have known of it one mo- 
 ment earlier than I did ; but I neverthe- 
 less regret that it should have fallen out 
 BO." 
 
 " Did the child appear to you to he as 
 well and lively as usual that day, Major 
 Dawkes ? " 
 
 " Quite so ; what little I saw of him. 
 I did not see him at all after the morn- 
 ing. Once or twice, in passing to my 
 bedroom, I heard him chattering to his 
 nurse, the two shut up in the nursery ; 
 but I did not see him myself during the 
 latter part of the day." 
 
 " Can you at all account for this fact 
 — that he must have taken opium ? " 
 
 " So little can I account for it, that 
 when the medical men informed me it 
 was the case, I could not, and did not, 
 believe them. Even now I am loth to 
 admit it ; for it seems to me absolutely 
 impossible that the child could have 
 been brought into contact with anj- 
 opium, or taken it. His nurse, as you 
 have heard, says she never quitted him 
 at all ; and I believe it to have been so. 
 She is a perfectly reliable woman. 
 
 The coroner and jury were evidently 
 at a nonplus. Judith was recalled, and 
 told to restate minutely the events of 
 the evening from and after the boy's 
 tea-time. Particularly was she pressed 
 upon the point, whether she was positive 
 she did not lose sight of him at all be- 
 fore he was in bed ; one of the jury re- 
 marking that children were apt to taste 
 at anything they came near if not watch- 
 ed ; his were. 
 
 " We had tea together in the nursery, 
 gentlemen — him and me,''" said Judith 
 in obedience. " Both of us had bread- 
 and-milk : it's what I'm fond of, having 
 been brought up in the country, where 
 milk's a plentj'. Little Tom read to me 
 after tea — it was what he liked doing — 
 first a fairy tale, and next a Bible stor}\ 
 Soon after seven, his mamma's bell rang 
 for him to go down to her. I took him ; 
 and my mistress began talking to me 
 about the morrow's journey. We stay- 
 14 
 
 ed there ten minutes maybe, or a quar- 
 ter of an hour. I went back with him, 
 then, and soon undressed him — " 
 
 "Was he as lively as usual?" came 
 the interruption. 
 
 " Yes, that he was, sir — talking about 
 the Rock — and didn't want to go to 
 bed. But when I told him how tired 
 he'd be on the morrow, and what a long 
 way it was, he said no more. He was 
 the most tractable child a body could 
 have to do with — as good as gold. He 
 said his prayers at my knee ; and I gave 
 him his spoonful of physic; and then 
 he got drowsy, and I put him into bed. 
 Nobody came near him, gentlemen ; and 
 there was not the smallest chance that 
 anybody could come. After he was in 
 bed, I shut myself into his room, and 
 began putting the things together, us 
 I've already said." 
 
 "Did any of the servants come jp 
 during this time? " asked a juryman. 
 
 "I don't know, sir. They might 
 have come into the day-nursery without 
 my hearing them. I don't think they 
 did ; for 1 noticed nothing touched in 
 the room when I got back to it." 
 
 " Were the servants in the habit of 
 coming up?" resumed the same jurv- 
 man. 
 
 "Sometimes they'd come and talk a 
 bit. None of them came that evening, 
 sir, that I know of." 
 
 " If all the servants came to the 
 nursery after the boy was out of it, it 
 could make no difference to the question 
 at issue," interposed the coroner impa- 
 tiently. " So far as the testimony goes, 
 — and it seems to me that we may rely 
 upon it, — neither person nor thing could 
 have approached the boy to harm him." 
 
 " I am certain that it didn't," replied 
 Judith, hot tears gathering in her eyes. 
 
 There appeared to be no farther evi- 
 dence to sift — nothing more to be learnt. 
 The case presented a shroud of impene- 
 trable ni3 T stery ; and after some discus- 
 sion, the coroner and jury were fain to 
 give it up as a bad job, and return their 
 verdict. 
 
 " Died from opium ; but how admin- 
 istered, there is no evidence to show." 
 
 And little Tom Canterbury's body was 
 buried in a London cemetery, his soul 
 having departed with the angels. And 
 Major Dawkes was a free man again, and 
 a wealthy one. 
 
226 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 THE POSTERN DOOR. 
 
 The wild wind was whistling and 
 booming round the station at Chilling as 
 the train came rushing along in the dusk 
 of a line evening; when autumn was 
 merging itself into winter. Time, work- 
 ing its changes and changes, had exten- 
 ded still farther the branch of the Aber- 
 ton railway, and Chilling itself had a sta- 
 tion now. It was not much more than 
 a bleak little shed and a telegraph-box; 
 but Chilling was proud of it, and at least 
 three trains a-day stopped there. 
 
 It brought freight this time. Out of 
 one first-class compartment stepped 
 Thomas Kage, out of another Mrs. 
 Dunn — Lydia Canterbury in the days 
 gone by ; neither of whom had known 
 that the other was in the train. It 
 sometimes happens so. Both of them 
 had come down unexpectedly — that is, 
 unknown to their friends in Chilling. 
 A solitary fly was waiting outside. Mrs. 
 Dunn made for it in haste, lest anybody 
 else should appropriate it first, and was 
 calling out to the porter to bring her 
 luggage, when Thomas Kage went up 
 to her. 
 
 " Goodness me ! " cried she in her off- 
 hand manner, "what brings you here?" 
 
 " I have come down on a little busi- 
 ness," he answered. " I did not know 
 you were in the train." 
 
 " I'm sure 1 did not know you were. 
 I wish I had known it. Would you like 
 a seat in the fly ? I am going to surprise 
 them at Thornhedge Villa; they don't 
 know of my coming." 
 
 " ~No, thank you. I shall see you 
 soon." 
 
 The fly, laden with its luggage, was 
 rattled off. Mrs. Dunn ordered it to 
 stop at Chilling Rectory ; it lay in the 
 line of route to Thornhedge Villa ; and 
 indeed, in her usual free and easy inde- 
 pendence, she had not quite made up 
 her mind which dwelling to honor with 
 a visit first. Thomas Kage thought she 
 must have come to surprise some of 
 them with a tolerably long sojourn, as 
 he looked after the pile of boxes on the 
 fly's roof. 
 
 Turning away, he found himself greet- 
 ed by a respectable, portly man, wearing 
 the black clothes and white necktie of 
 an upper servant. Mr. Kage knew the 
 
 face, but could not remember where he 
 had seen it.- 
 
 " Neel, sir ; butler at the Rock." 
 
 " To be sure," said Mr. Kage. " I 
 remember Mr. Dawkes told me you re- 
 mained at the Rock." 
 
 " Yes, sir. They wanted a responsi- 
 ble person to take charge at the Rock 
 during their long absences from it, what 
 with the valuable paintings and furni- 
 ture, so I have stayed ; and the Major 
 took on a London butler up there, who 
 robbed them frightfully, we hear." 
 
 " Is Mrs. Dawkes staying at the Rock 
 now ? " 
 
 " She is, sir. She has never been 
 away from it since she came down when 
 the poor little heir died in the summer. 
 I think she is very ill, sir." 
 
 " I will see her to-morrow," said Mr. 
 Kage. 
 
 He walked away with Neel's last 
 words ringing in his ears, cariying his 
 small travelling-bag in his hand — for he 
 had the same propensity to wait on him- 
 self as of 3 r ore, when practicable. He 
 had not seen Mrs. Dawkes since the day 
 of the child's funeral, for she had quitted 
 London immediately. Twice he had 
 written to her at the Rock, friendly notes 
 of inquiry as to her health and welfare ; 
 but Mrs. Dawkes had not answered 
 either. When he met the Major in 
 town, as would happen sometimes by 
 chance, he was told Mrs. Dawkes was 
 pretty well, and enjoying the country. 
 
 During the long vacation a matter of 
 pressing business connected with Lord 
 Hartledon .had taken Mr. Kage first to 
 Switzerland and then to Scotland. He 
 returned to London in October, was up 
 to his eyes in business for a fortnight, 
 and had now travelled down to Chilling 
 for a specific purpose — to ask Millicent 
 Canterbury to be his wife. 
 
 Turning into the modest inn, the Can- 
 terbury Arms, he washed some of the 
 dust off him, changed his coat, bespoke 
 a bed, and then went forth again; for he 
 wished to put the question at rest with- 
 out delay. Taking the nearest way to 
 Thornhedge Villa — the Miss Canter- 
 bury's' residence since their father's ill- 
 omened second marriage — he was enter- 
 ing the garden-gate, when a young lady, 
 running up with fleet footsteps from the 
 opposite direction, nearly ran against 
 him. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 2.7 
 
 "Millicent!" 
 
 She gave a little scream of surprise, 
 and started in the dusk from the exten- 
 ded hand. But it was truly and verita- 
 bly Thomas Kage — his voice, his hand, 
 himself — and Miss Millicent timidly 
 begged his pardon, and blushed like a 
 schoolgirl. 
 
 " It has so surprised me. There's 
 scarcely any one in the world I should 
 have less thought of seeing than you. I 
 have been to the schools," Millicent added 
 rapidly, as if wishing to cover some agi- 
 tation that she was very conscious her 
 manner betrayed. " My sister Jane is 
 not strong, and I take the trouble of the 
 schools from her." 
 
 " I think there is another surprise in 
 store for you. What should you say if 
 I told you your sister is here ? " 
 
 "Mrs. Eufort?" asked Millicent, 
 looking towards the windows of the 
 house. 
 
 " Mrs. Dunn." 
 
 " Impossible ! " 
 
 " Quite possible, and quite true," said 
 Thomas Kage. 
 
 " But she is in Germany. We are 
 beginning to think she intends to take 
 up her abode there for good." 
 
 " I think she must be intending to 
 take it up here for good. I judge by the 
 trunks that have come with her." 
 
 Millicent laughed. He explained 
 about the meeting as they walked along. 
 In point of fact, Mrs. Dunn, obejung one 
 of her many sudden whims, had taken 
 it into her head to quit Germany, and 
 come down to see her relatives. The 
 writing to inform them she had looked 
 upon as quite superfluous. 
 
 Millicent's pulses were beating. Hers 
 had in truth been a lasting love, endur- 
 ing through many years and no encour- 
 agement. No encouragement, at least, 
 that she could take hold of, though now 
 and again stray tones and looks in their 
 rare meetings might have whispered 
 hope to her heart. 
 
 " You have not seen Mrs. Dawkes 
 lately ? " observed Millicent. 
 
 " Not since her child died. What a 
 blow that was ! " 
 
 " A worse one for her than we can 
 even imagine, I fear," said Millicent. 
 " She looks fearfully ill ; but we very 
 rarely meet. You have come down I 
 suppose to see her ? " 
 
 " Not so. I came down, Millicent, to 
 see }'ou." 
 
 A hot flush in her face, a startled look, 
 visible even in the dim twilight. Mr. 
 Kage touched her arm, and drew her 
 down a side-path they were passing. 
 
 " Let us walk here for a few minutes, 
 Millicent." 
 
 Seated by her dressing-room fire, 
 with little prevision of the surprises in 
 store for her, was Olive Canterbury. 
 The door opened softly, and Millicent 
 came in. 
 
 " Olive, will you go into the drawing- 
 room ? " she said. " Some one is* there." 
 
 " Who is it, Leta ? " asked Olive, won- 
 dering what could have sent the young 
 lady's face into its scarlet glow. 
 
 " Thomas Kage. He came down by 
 train. He wants to see you." 
 
 Down sat Millicent as she spoke : she 
 was not wanted in the drawing-room. 
 Olive Canterbury took notice of the signs 
 — of the faltering .tones and the down- 
 cast eyes — drew her conclusions, and 
 passed out of the room with a stately 
 step. As to Mrs. Dunn, she had gone 
 out of Beta's mind wholesale. 
 
 " Your visit is unexpected, but I am 
 very glad to see you," said Olive, shak- 
 ing Mr. Kage's hand heartily, for he was 
 a great favorite of hers. 
 
 " My visit is to Millicent, he answered, 
 plunging at once into the matter that 
 had brought him down. " I have come 
 to ask her to be my wife. I should have 
 asked it long ago, but that briefs did not 
 come in so quickly as I wished. They 
 have taken a turn for the better of late." 
 
 " And what does Millicent say ? " 
 
 " Millicent ran away and said noth- 
 ing," he answered with a smile ; " noth- 
 ing very decisive, at any rate. So I call- 
 ed out that I had better see you." 
 
 " A good sign," laughed Miss Canter- 
 bury. " I fancy you and Leta have un- 
 derstood each other for some time," she 
 added. " I know I used to think so when 
 we were in London." 
 
 " Tacitly, I think we have. And T 
 hope Millicent has understood why it was 
 only tacitly. I was too poor to speak." 
 
 " Millicent's fortune would have help- 
 ed you on, Mr. Kage." 
 
 " It is that fortune which has kept me 
 from her," he replied. 
 
 " It need not. It is only ten thousand 
 pounds." 
 
228 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 Thomas Kage raised his eyes, bright 
 with amusement, to Miss Canterbury's 
 face. " Only ten thousand ! A very 
 paltry sum, no doubt, to the Miss Can- 
 terburys, reared to their hundreds of 
 thousands, but a Golconda to a strug- 
 gling barrister.'' 
 
 " Beared to their hundreds of thou- 
 sands ; yes ! " retorted Miss Canterbury, 
 with a swelling heart, "but not enjoying 
 them." 
 
 Sitting down, he went briefly over his 
 position with her ; showing her what his 
 present income was; saying how greatly 
 the bequest of the two houses from Mrs. 
 Garston had helped him on. He should 
 scarcely think himself justified yet in 
 removing to the larger of the two, accord- 
 ing to the wish expressed by his kind old 
 friend, he said; but Millicent should de- 
 cide the point for herself. Both of them 
 evidently took her consent to the mar- 
 riage for granted. Miss Canterbury ask- 
 ed him to stay and partake of dinner, 
 without ceremony. 
 
 But ere that meal could be announced, 
 even now as they were talking together, 
 up dashed Mrs. Dunn's fly, with part of 
 the luggage, taking the house by storm. 
 The other part had been left at the Rec- 
 tory, for she meant to divide her time be- 
 tween them, she told Olive. Olive was 
 delighted to see her; it seemed an age 
 since they met. 
 
 Not a greater contrast than of yore 
 did the three sisters present sitting down 
 to dinner together. Olive, lofty in mind, 
 lofty in manner, tall, handsome, always 
 self-possessed ; Lydia Dunn, stout, rest- 
 less, an inveterable talker ; Millicetit, 
 much younger than either, quiet and 
 graceful. But Millicent would never see 
 twenty-seven again. Time passes swift- 
 ly : year follows year, each with a more 
 rapid wing than its precursor. Miss Can- 
 terbury took as usual the head of her ta- 
 ble, requesting Thomas Kage to face 
 her. 
 
 " Now then, Mr. Kage, I am going to 
 cross-question you," impatiently began 
 Mrs. Dunn, the instant the servant had 
 left them alone after dinner. " Who 
 gave the poison to that child, little Tom 
 Canterbury ? " 
 
 " That is a problem I cannot solve," 
 was his reply. 
 
 " You were on the spot at the time." 
 
 " I was in London." 
 
 " And I abroad," pursued Mrs. Dunn 
 
 in a tone of much resentment. " It was 
 a dreadful occurrence ; and all the infor- 
 mation I could gain of it was by letters 
 or hearsay. Do you tell me the particu- 
 lars. I had a great mind to come over 
 and ascertain them for myself; but it 
 would have answered no end. Begin at 
 the beginning, please. Had he been 
 ill ? " 
 
 " He had been dangerously ill witlvin- 
 flammation of the chest, but was getting 
 better ; in fact, was nearly well," said 
 Mr. Kage, obeying her implicitly, and 
 recalling the facts. " Mrs. Dawkes was 
 about to take him to the Rock for change 
 of air. That same morning, the one they 
 ought to have started, he was found dead 
 in his bed." 
 
 •' And had died from a dose of opium. 
 But now, who gave it him ?" 
 
 " The facts were shrouded in mystery," 
 continued Mr. Kage, " and the coroner's 
 jury returned an open verdict. The 
 nurse was perfectly trustworthy, and the 
 child had not been out of her sight the 
 whole of the previous day. She undress- 
 ed him, gave him his regular medicine, 
 and put him into his bed by the side of 
 her own. She heard nothing of him in 
 the night ; and in the morning, when she 
 came to take him up, he was dead." 
 
 "What was that medicine ?" suspi- 
 ciously asked Mrs. Dunn. 
 
 " Harmless, proper medicine, as was 
 proved at the inquest. He had been 
 taking a dessert-spoonful of it three times 
 a-day." 
 
 " Some one must have got into the 
 bedroom and administered the poison ; 
 that's clear," said Mrs. Dunn. "The 
 nurse Judith was trustworthy ; I'll give 
 her that due. She was one of the house- 
 maids at the Rock, before we left it, or 
 my father had made a simpleton of him- 
 self by marrying that flighty child Car- 
 oline Kage. When the changes came 
 and the new baby was born, Judith be- 
 came its nurse. Yes, she was to be 
 trusted. But somebody must have got 
 into the chamber while she slept." 
 
 " No one went in ; that seems to have 
 been certain," observed Mr. Kage 
 
 " 0, aj T , I know it was so asserted," 
 contemptuously returned Mrs. Dunn ; 
 " but the boy could not have found a 
 bottle of laudanum in his bed, uncorked 
 ready for use, and swallowed it down. It 
 does not stand to reason, Mr. Kage." 
 
 "Judith deposed that she never left 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 229 
 
 the room for more than a couple of min- 
 utes after the boy was in bed, and then 
 no one could have got to him. She put 
 up some things that would be wanted 
 for the journey in the morning, and then 
 went to bed herself, the doors being lock- 
 ed ; and they were so locked when she 
 rose in the morning. No one could have 
 entered." 
 
 " Well, all I know is, that poison can- 
 not be taken into a child's mouth with- 
 out its being put there ; and you are the 
 first person that ever I heard say it 
 could, Mr. Kage." 
 
 He glanced at the angry lady with a 
 spice of merriment ; but for the grave 
 subject, lie might have laughed outright. 
 " Did I say it could, Mrs. Dunn ? " 
 
 " Just as good, when you assert that 
 nobody was near him but Judith." 
 
 " Judith never left him ; that appears 
 to be a fact," interposed Miss Canter- 
 bury, speaking for the first time. " The 
 medical men thought the poison had 
 been taken about evening time, did they 
 not, Mr. Kage ? " 
 
 Thomas Kage nodded. 
 
 " Now, Olive, pray let me speak," 
 broke in her impatient sister. " You 
 were in the way of hearing it at the 
 time, remember. Mr. Kage, I want to 
 know what your opinion is — how did he 
 come by the poison ? Do you suspect 
 any one of having given it to him ? 
 Answer me frankly amidst ourselves." 
 
 " Frankly speaking, Mrs. Dunn, I 
 cannot answer you. As to suspecting 
 any one — No. The child seems to have 
 been so entirely compassed about by 
 protection, that I do not see how it was 
 possible for harm, whether in the shape 
 of mankind or womankind, to approach 
 him. The matter to me appears to be 
 one of those mysteries that cannot be 
 accounted for." 
 
 " Then j'ou positively know nothing 
 more to tell me ! " cried the exasperated 
 Mrs. Dunn. 
 
 " I really do not." 
 
 " Well, I'm sure I never heard of such 
 a thing. So unsatisfactory ! Where's 
 Judith now ? " 
 
 " Judith took another situation after- 
 wards," said Miss Canterbury. " Some- 
 where in Essex, I think." 
 
 " Mrs. Dawkes has been a fine gainer. 
 The death gave her all the splendid 
 Canterbury fortune." 
 
 "Hush, Lydia!" interrupted Olive. 
 " However much we may have felt dis- 
 posed to cast previous reflections on 
 Mrs. Dawkes, we can but have the sin- 
 cerest sympathy for her in her great 
 mi-fortune. I believe she idolized the 
 child." 
 
 "She was very fond of him," said 
 Mr. Kage, " and her grief was pitiable 
 to witness. She clung round me and 
 asked if I could not bring him back to 
 life. Fry sent for me in the afternoon, 
 and I found Caroline almost beside her- 
 self. Major Dawkes had gone out, 
 about some of the necessary arrange- 
 ments, they said, and she was alone. 
 She clung to me, as I tell you, in a sad 
 state ; I hardly knew what to do with 
 her." 
 
 " She came down to the Rock a mere 
 skeleton, the day after the funeral," re- 
 marked Miss Canterbury. We were 
 shocked when we called upon her. She 
 briefly and shrinkingly told us the par- 
 ticulars, tallying with what you have 
 now related, and said she should never 
 recover the blow during life. I thought, 
 as she spoke, that she little knew how 
 time heals the worst pangs ; but I fear 
 my thoughts were too fast, for she does 
 not recover either strength or spirits. 
 We scarcely ever see her : there seems 
 to be an unwillingness on her part to 
 receive visitors, and she leads a very se- 
 cluded life. I do not think it can be 
 good for her." 
 
 "The Major passes most of his time 
 in London," abruptly remarked Thomas 
 Kage. 
 
 " He passes it somewhere," replied 
 Miss Canterbury; "he is rarely at the 
 Rock." 
 
 "At any rate, he has gained by the 
 bargain," cried the incorrigible Mrs. 
 Dunn. "It is a magnificent fortune for 
 him to have dropped into, all unexpect- 
 : edly, through the demise of a little step- 
 son." 
 
 " It is his wife who has dropped into 
 it, not he," remarked Miss Canterbury. 
 
 " As if he did not have the fingering 
 of it ! " retorted Mrs. Dunn. 
 
 And Thomas Kage drew in his lips, 
 compressing them to silence. Fingering, 
 ay ! 
 
 "Keziah Dawkes, that sister of his, 
 lives with her, I hear," said Mrs. Dunn. 
 " Austin Rufort told me. A nice wet 
 
230 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 blanket she must be judging by her 
 face, to live with an invalid ! " 
 
 " A cold, gray, hard-looking woman," 
 acquiesced Olive Canterbury. " Caro- 
 line comes abroad but rarely ; when she 
 does, it is but to walk or drive to her 
 mother's cottage and home again ; and 
 Miss Dawkes is always with her like 
 her shadow. Poor Caroline seems as 
 though she could never more find com- 
 fort in life ; it is a sadness painful to 
 look upon." 
 
 " my goodness ! And what satis- 
 faction has the fortune brought her, that 
 she so schemed for ? " cried Lydia Dunn. 
 " Only a few short years, and to have 
 it believed that there's no more comfort 
 for her in life ! And her mother — the 
 worse plotter of the two — a nice misera- 
 ble object she is, by all account ! Aus- 
 tin Rufort came in from seeing her this 
 afternoon while I was there. We are 
 better off than they are, with all their 
 wealth. As to that Dawkes, Mrs. Gars- 
 ton knew what she was about when she 
 left her fortune away from him. She 
 was an insolent old woman to the last, 
 though. Fancy a Bible and Prayer- 
 book the legacy to me, and to Olive a 
 case of diamonds ! I'm sick of the 
 world at times. Let us go to the draw- 
 ing-room, if nobody wants to take any- 
 thing more." 
 
 In her unceremonious fashion, she 
 rose at once and went away. When 
 Mr. Kage followed them, he found Milli- 
 cent alone near the fire ; her sisters 
 were at the far end of the room, exam- 
 ining some presents brought by Mrs. 
 Dunn from Germany. 
 
 " Millicent, I have had no direct an- 
 swer, remember," he said in a low tone. 
 "But I am easy on the score ; for I 
 know the signs of rejection well, and 
 you do not wear them." 
 
 " Have you been rejected that you 
 (know them well ? " 
 . " Once — years ago." 
 
 " By Caroline Kage ? " she whispered. 
 
 " Even so. I thought you must have 
 known it at the time. I loved her, 
 Millicent ; how deeply, matters little 
 now, and has not mattered since that 
 time. She broke the spell too rudely." 
 
 " When she left you to marry my 
 father — or rather, his fortune ; for that 
 was what in truth she married. But 
 she did love you, Thomas : 1 saw it then ; 
 
 and she continued to love you, or I am 
 mistaken, after papa's death." 
 
 He knew she had. But he was 
 strictly honorable ; and that love and 
 its acknowledgment would be buried 
 within the archives of his own breast 
 for ever. 
 
 "I shall not make you the less fond 
 husband, Millicent, for having indulged 
 a dream in the days gone by." 
 
 She felt that to be true. But there's 
 a dash of coquetry in all women, and 
 will be to the end of time. Millicent 
 affected to doubt. 
 
 " If Major Dawkes were to die to- 
 morrow, leaving Caroline free, j t ou 
 might wish then you had not spoken 
 to me." 
 
 Mr. Kage looked at her. "That 
 contingency has arisen once, when your 
 father died." 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " Millicent, seeing as I see now, lov- 
 ing one of you as I do now, and not the 
 other, were you and Caroline standing 
 before me for my choice, and she had 
 never been else than free, never a wife, 
 it is you I should take. Time has 
 worked its changes within me, as well 
 as in life's events. My darling, you 
 need not doubt me ! " 
 
 Her hand was sheltered in his ; a sweet 
 smile parted her lips ; and on her cheek, 
 partly turned from him, shone a bright 
 glow of rose-color. 
 
 It was rather cruel abruptly to inter- 
 rupt the interview ; and perhaps Olive 
 Canterbury herself thought so, she had 
 no other resource. A servant had come 
 in, bringing a note for Mr. Kage, marked 
 " Immediate." He wondered who could 
 be writing to him there and then ; but 
 when he looked at the supersciption, he 
 saw it was from Mrs. Dawkes. 
 
 " Open your note, Mr. Kage ; don't 
 stand on ceremony." 
 
 He was opening it as Mrs. Dunn 
 spoke. She watched him, feeling curi- 
 ous. It contained a request, than which 
 none more earnest had ever been penned, 
 that he would go at once to the Rock, 
 would return with the messenger, and 
 not speak of it to any one. 
 
 " Who has brought this ? " he asked 
 of the servant. 
 
 " It's Fry, sir, Mrs. Dawkses's maid ; 
 she is waiting at the door ; she'd not come 
 in." 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 231 
 
 With a word of apology to Miss Can- 
 terbury for his departure, but none of 
 explanation, Mr. Kage withdrew. Out- 
 side he found Fry. She said that Mrs. 
 Dawkes wanted to see him for some- 
 thing very particular indeed, if he would 
 be so kind as to go back to the Rock 
 with her. Mr. Kage acquiesced, and 
 they proceeded on the way together. 
 
 "I hear your mistress is not in a good 
 state of health," he observed. 
 
 f< She's just in that state, sir, that un- 
 less a change takes place more speedier 
 than it's possible, she will not last long," 
 was the maid's answer. 
 
 He was deeply shocked, but he made 
 no comment ; though he could not but 
 think there was something unreasonable 
 in her thus grieving to death for the loss 
 of a fragile child. 
 
 " Is the Major at the Rock just now ? '' 
 he inquired. 
 
 " No, sir. His sister is with us; she 
 came down here the day following the 
 one me and my mistress came, and she 
 has never gone away since. As to the 
 Major, it's not often he troubles the 
 Rock." 
 
 " But with his wife in this precarious 
 state ? " debated Thomas Kage. 
 
 " 0, as to that, my poor mistress would 
 as lieve have his room as his company. 
 The}' are not too good friends, sir." 
 
 Fry gave her head a toss in the star- 
 light. It seemed evident that she was 
 not too good a friend of the Major's 
 either. Mr. Kage said nothing. 
 
 "My mistress has been wanting to see 
 you so much, sir, that she was talking of 
 sending to London for you," resumed 
 Fry. " When I told her to-night that 
 you were at Chilling, she said it was 
 nothing but a Providence that had 
 brought you down." 
 
 " How did }'ou know I was here ? " 
 
 " Neel brought in word, sir. He 
 went to the station after a parcel of books 
 Miss Dawkes expected, and saw you 
 there. I went round to the inn first, and 
 they said they thought you had gone to 
 Miss Canterbury's." 
 
 "Is it the grieving for the child that 
 has brought your mistress into this sad 
 state of health ? " 
 
 " It can't be anything else, sir. She 
 has never looked up, so to say, since he 
 was put into his grave. Not that she 
 ever speaks of it, even to me. I have 
 
 ventured once or twice to say that she 
 ought not to let it prey upon her mind 
 so, as the dear little boy is better off; but 
 she answers nothing — only tells me to 
 hold my tongue." 
 
 " She wants cheerful society, and 
 change." 
 
 "Just what I say, sir," returned Fry. 
 " Always alone, and brooding upon it, it 
 stands to reason that she can't shake it 
 off. I'm sure the way she tosses and 
 turns and moans in her sleep is enough 
 to make her ill, let alone anything else. 
 I sleep in her room now, sir. The day 
 the inquest took place in London, she 
 saj's to me, ' Fiy, get a bed put up in my 
 room to-night ; I am ill, and may want 
 attendance in the night.' Since that 
 she has never let me go out of her room 
 again. If she moves her room — and she 
 has twice since she came to the Rock — 
 my bed has to be moved too." 
 
 "Is Miss Dawkes a sufficiently cheer- 
 ful companion for your mistress ? " asked 
 Mr. Kage, a doubtful accent in his voice. 
 
 " Well, sir, I believe she does her best 
 to amuse her. But my mistress sits a 
 great deal alone in her own rooms, where 
 she won't always admit Miss Dawkes : 
 she never liked her, and that's the fact." 
 
 Walking quickly, they had approached 
 the Rock, and were close on the front 
 entrance. Fry took a sudden detour to 
 the right. 
 
 " This way, if you please, sir," she 
 whispered. 
 
 " This way ! " echoed Mr. Kage ; for 
 the wa} r led direct into the wilderness of 
 trees that bordered the south wing of the 
 Rock. " Wherefore ? " 
 
 " It's all right, sir." 
 
 Glancing back at the house, he saw 
 how dull it looked ; scarcely any lights 
 to be seen in its windows : just like the 
 dwelling of one who lives a sick life, se- 
 cluded from the world. Fry plunged 
 into a labyrinth of trees, and Mr. Kage 
 followed her. 
 
 " My mistress does not wish your visit 
 to her known, sir ; and I am going to take 
 you in by the small iron postern-door 
 in the south wing," said Fry in a confi- 
 dential tone. " A rare trouble I had to 
 unlock it to-night, for it has never been 
 used — no, nor opened either — since the 
 time of young Mr. Edward Canterbury. 
 I thought I should have bad to call Neel, 
 but my mistress said do it myself, if I 
 
9S-? 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 could. You've beard of the door, sir, I 
 daresay ; it opens on a staircase which 
 leads right up to the rooms in the south 
 wing ; and Mr. Edgar used to steal in 
 and out that way, when his father want- 
 ed to keep too tight a hand upon him. 
 My mistress has changed her apartments 
 for these. I didn't want her to. Edgar 
 Canterbury died in them, and I thought 
 it looked like a bad omen ; but Miss 
 Dawkes said she was to go in them if she 
 liked, and not be checked in such a trifle. 
 But for her being in them, I'm sure I 
 don't know how ever} r ou would have got 
 to her to-night, sir, unbeknown." 
 
 " To whom does Mrs. Dawkes not wish 
 my visit known ? " he asked. " To the 
 servants ? " 
 
 " Chiefly to Miss Dawkes, sir. But 
 there's none of them she'd trust, except 
 me and Neel ; thej^ are all regular gos- 
 sips. Mind your face, sir." 
 
 It all sounded mysteriously enough, 
 especially Ery's voice. The shrubs were 
 dense just here, and the recommendation 
 as to his face was connected with the 
 spreading brambles, the door — a small 
 iron door — being completely hidden by 
 them. Fry dexterously fought her way 
 to it, took a ke} T from her pocket, and 
 turned it iu the lock. After a great deal 
 of creaking and groaning, the door al- 
 lowed itself to be pushed open. Mr. 
 Kage saw a flight of narrow stairs, on 
 one of which stood a lighted hand-lamp. 
 '• You must excuse the dust, sir. It's 
 an inch thick." 
 
 Locking the door behind her, she took 
 the lamp to light him up. At the top 
 of the stairs another door had to he 
 opened, andadark closet passed through. 
 This brought them to the habitable part 
 of the south wing. Crossing the richly- 
 carpeted corridor, Thomas Kage found 
 himself in the presence of Mrs. Dawkes. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 IN THE SOUTH WING. 
 
 Shocked though Mr. Kage had been 
 by Fry's account of her mistress's state, 
 * far, far more shocked was he to see her. 
 The room was small but handsome, and 
 replete with every comfort. Mrs. 
 Dawkes sat on a sofa near the fire : her 
 
 features were white and attenuated, her 
 cheeks and lips scarlet with inward 
 fever, and a dark circle surrounded her 
 wild bright eyes. The black-silk dress 
 she wore sat loosely ; her beautiful 
 golden hair, bound back by a bit of 
 black ribbon, fell carelessly • on her 
 shoulders. She did not rise from the 
 sofa, but held out both her hands to 
 Thomas Kage. He advanced and took 
 them in silence. 
 
 " Fr}'," said Mrs. Dawkes, bending 
 aside to look beyond him, " remain in 
 the room next the baize door. If she 
 comes to the door, call out to her that I 
 am not visible to-night; but don't un- 
 lock it to answer her. I am too unwell 
 to go down, say, and can see no one 
 here." 
 
 " All right, ma'am," answered Fry as 
 she went out and closed the door. 
 
 Thomas Kage still retained her 
 hands, looking the pity he would not 
 express. He thought her culpably 
 wrong to give way to this intense grifri", 
 but supposed it had become morbid. 
 She gazed up into his face with a yearn- 
 ing look. 
 
 " Years ago, in this very bouse," she 
 began, " } T ou said that }'ou would hence- 
 forth from that time be unto me as a 
 brother, other relationship between us 
 being barred. You said that if ever I 
 were in need of a true friend, I was to 
 apply to you. I have put aside the old 
 feelings — I have indeed; but I want a 
 friend. Will } r ou be one ? " 
 
 " You know I will, Caroline. Your 
 best and truest friend : your brother." 
 
 He relinquished her hands, and sat 
 down by her. 
 
 " I have had a door put up — you 
 might have seen it had you looked to 
 the other end of the corridor — a strong 
 green-baize door that fastens inside. I 
 made the excuse that the apartments in 
 this wing were cold, and 1 would have 
 them shut in from the draught." 
 
 It was not so much the words that 
 struck upon Thomas Kage as being un- 
 pleasantly singular ; it was the manner, 
 the tone in which they were uttered. 
 She spoke in a hushed whisper, and 
 turned her eyes to different parts of the 
 room, as if in dread of being watched 
 from the walls. 
 
 " I think I dreamt of this evening — 
 of your coming here," she continued ; 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 233 
 
 " T am sure it has been presented in- 
 distinctly to my mind. And I knew 
 that 1 could not talk to you undisturb- 
 ed, so I had the door put up for that, as 
 well as to keep her out — and him, when 
 he is down here." 
 
 " You dreamt of this evening ? " ask- 
 ed Thomas Kage, not catching distinct- 
 ly the thread of the sense. 
 
 " I seem to have foreseen it. I knew 
 that I should need to see you before I 
 die — for who else is there that I can 
 trust ? — and I knew that so long as she 
 could get access to me there was no 
 chance of any private conversation. 
 Besides, I wanted to be alone, all to 
 myself; away from the weariness of her 
 continual presence, from her observant 
 eyes ! She's a spy upon me, she is." 
 
 A strange fear came over Thomas 
 Kage as he listened. Had she in any 
 degree lost her mind? Something in 
 the words and the unconnected tone 
 suggested the thought to him. But he 
 was wrong. Highly feverish she was ; 
 her mind restless, her manner nervous ; 
 but nothing more. 
 
 " I know she is placed over me as a 
 spy. I can see it, and so can Fry ; but 
 I am now in that state of nervous weak- 
 ness that any great scene of agitation 
 might kill me, so I do not exert my 
 authority to turn her out. But I am 
 the. Rock's mistress, and I will be as 
 long as I live ; and I sent for the man, 
 a:id gave my orders, and had the door 
 put up." 
 
 " You speak of Miss Dawkes ? " 
 " Yes. She watches me like a cat by 
 n^ght and by day. What do you think ? 
 — she actually proposed to take Fry's 
 place in my room at night. It was the 
 first time he was down after we came 
 here. That did arouse me. I told 
 him, that if his sister pushed herself too 
 much on me — and he knew I had never 
 cared for her — I should apply for a sep- 
 aration from him, and be rid of both of 
 them. I can't think how I ever took 
 courage to say it ; but Mr. Carlton had 
 called that day, and Miss Canterbury 
 had called, and it seemed to make me 
 think I was not quite without friends, 
 and that I need not be so much afraid. 
 We have moments of inspiration, you 
 know. It answered too, for nothing 
 more was said about her sleeping in my 
 room. And then the time went on, and 
 
 I moved into this wing, and had the 
 door put up. She does not know of the 
 postern staircase." 
 
 " Caroline, you are feverish ; your im- 
 agination is excited," he soothingly 
 said. " Can I get you anything to calm 
 you, my dear ? " 
 
 " I am no more feverish than usual. 
 And as to excitement — let any one lose 
 a child in the way I did, and see if 
 their imagination would ever calm down 
 again." 
 
 "But you do very wrong to indulge 
 this excessive grief. I must point out 
 your errors, Caroline : you know I have 
 always spoken for your good, your wel- 
 fare." 
 
 " yes, I know } 7 ou have," she in- 
 terrupted, in a tone of anguished re- 
 morse. " If I had but heeded you ! 
 You told me such a will ought not to 
 be made ; you told me that money 
 Wuuld not bring me good. If I 1 > a ■ 1 bnt 
 heeded you ! You told me Captain 
 Dawkes was not a fit husband for me. 
 Thomas, I accepted him in a fit of 
 angry passiou ; of pique against you." 
 
 "These eveuts are past; wdiy recall 
 them ? " 
 
 " Why not recall them ? I am pass- 
 ing from the world, and I would not 
 that you should think I go blindfold to 
 the grave ; though I may have lived 
 blindfold, or partially so. When you 
 quitted the Rock, after that decisive in- 
 terview had taken place between us, 
 which I am sure you remember as vivid- 
 ly as I, I seemed not to care what be- 
 came of me. I was bitterly angry with 
 you ; and when the man proposed again 
 to me, I believe I accepted him only be- 
 cause you had warned me not to do it, 
 and I hoped it would vex you. God 
 has punished me." 
 
 "It cannot be recalled, Caroline: 
 surely you ma}' let it rest," he rejoined. 
 " I ask j'ou why you give way to this 
 unaccountable sorrow. It is a positive 
 sin to talk of grief sending yoa into the 
 grave. Your child is better off. He is 
 at rest ; he is in happiness." 
 
 " I am not grieving for him. I have 
 learnt to be glad that he went before 
 me." 
 
 " Then what is all this ? You are se- 
 riously ill in mind as well as in body ; 
 what distress is it that you are suffering 
 from ? " 
 
234 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 " I must have inherited a touch of pa- 
 pa's complaint ; he died of consumption, 
 I believe. Before Tom went, I was very 
 ill and weak, as you may remember ; 
 and — and — the shock, I suppose, prevent- 
 ed my rallying. In short, it is that 
 which has killed me." 
 
 "The grief?" 
 
 "No, not the grief." 
 
 "The shock, then?" 
 
 " No, not the shock. It's the wretch - 
 e aess altogether. Then things are 
 preying upon me ; things which I can- 
 not speak of: and whenever he is at the 
 Rock, I am in a dreadful state of ner- 
 vousness. And no one knows how her 
 being here angers me and worries me." 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes's words were by no 
 means intelligible to their hearer. He 
 could not help remarking, either, the 
 strange avoidance of her husband's and 
 Miss Dawkes's names. 
 
 " I do not comprehend the half of what 
 you say, Caroline. What things are they 
 that prey upon you ? " 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes shuddered. 
 
 "I tell you I cannot speak of them. 
 Thomas, will you serve me ? " 
 
 " Certainly I will. What is it that you 
 wish ine to do ? " 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes glanced over her shoul- 
 der, in apparent dread of being heard. 
 Which was quite a foolish apprehension ; 
 for the south wing, enclosed with its 
 strong walls, was entirely apart from the 
 rest of the house, and Fry, the on by pres- 
 ent inmate save themselves, sat in her 
 far-off chamber, near the green-baize en- 
 trance-door. Caroline bent towards her 
 cousin and spoke ; but in so low a tone 
 that he did not catch the words, and had 
 to ask her again. 
 
 '• I — want — a — will — made," she slow- 
 ly repeated. 
 
 " Have you not made one since the 
 child died ? " 
 j "No— no." 
 
 " Then it is right and proper that you 
 should make one. And without delay." 
 
 " Will you contrive that I shall do it ? 
 Will you help me ? Will you take my 
 instructions and get it executed ? " 
 
 " My dear, what ails you ? " he re- 
 joined. " The shortest way, the best 
 way, will be for you to send for Mr. Nor- 
 ris, and give your instructions to him." 
 
 "That is the very thing I cannot do," 
 she said. " She will take care that 1 
 don't make one." 
 
 He knew she alluded still to Miss 
 Dawkes. 
 
 " But she must let you make one ; she 
 cannot hinder 3 7 ou." 
 
 " Thomas, she is here to see that I 
 don't make one. For no other purpose 
 whatever than that is she put here to 
 keep guard over me." 
 
 " Caroline, how can you have taken 
 these ideas into your head ? " he remon- 
 strated, reverting again to the doubt 
 whether her nervous state did not border 
 on insanity. 
 
 " A woman possessing the immense 
 property that you do is bound to make a 
 will." 
 
 " If I die without one, it goes to my 
 husband — money, and land, and the 
 Rock. Everything, nearly, would go to 
 him." 
 
 " Of course, if you leave no will." 
 
 "Then do you not see now why he 
 does not want me to make one; to/iy he 
 will not permit me to make one ; why 
 he puts his sister here, to watch over me 
 that I don't make one ? It would be too 
 wearisome for him to remain on guard — 
 let alone the issue we might come to — 
 and so he leaves her on duty." 
 
 " I hope you are mistaken," Thomas 
 Kage" gravely replied. " Major Dawkes 
 must feel that he has little right to the 
 whole fortune of Mr. Canterbury." 
 
 " He has no right to it, and he shall 
 not have it ! " she vehemently broke 
 forth. " Thomas, Thomas," she con- 
 tinued, changing her tone to one of wail- 
 ing, " why did I not listen to you, when 
 you begged me not to suffer the money 
 to be so left — not to inherit it, contingent 
 on the death of my child ? " 
 
 " Hush, Caroline ! Do not, I say, re- 
 call the past." 
 
 " What possessed Mr. Canterbury to 
 make so dangerous a will ? what pos- 
 sessed my mother to incite him to it, and 
 I to second her?" she went on, paying 
 no attention to the interruption. " I 
 wish it had been burnt ; I wish the mon- 
 ey and the Rock had been sunk at the 
 bottom of the sea ! " 
 
 " It was an unjust will, bordering, as I 
 think, on iniquity ; but why do you call it 
 a dangerous one ? How am I to under- 
 stand the term as applied to Mr. Canter- 
 bury's will ? " 
 
 " Do you not understand it ? " she 
 asked, with pointed emphasis. " I sit 
 here, in my solitude, in my terrible ner- 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 235 
 
 vousness, and dwell on many things, real 
 and unreal, on the past and on the fu- 
 ture ; and I have fancied that you fore- 
 saw how it might become dangerous. 
 There was a day, in this very house when 
 you earnestly warned me against suffer- 
 ing such a will to stand ; when you 
 seemed to be buried in a vision of the time 
 to come, if I did let it stand, and shrank 
 from it as from a black shadow, from a 
 haunting dream. I have not forgotten it, 
 Thomas, or your words." 
 
 Neither had he ; but he did not choose 
 to say so. The past was past ; and for 
 many reasons he thought it well not to 
 bring it back again. 
 
 '• Caroline, we were speaking of the 
 real, not of the ideal. I am unable to 
 comprehend your position, as you seem to 
 put it. You are mistress of this house, and 
 of its servants. It is your own absolutely ; 
 your husband has legalty no authority in 
 it. If the presence of Miss Dawkes is 
 not agreeable to you, politely request her 
 to terminate her visit. Try and shake 
 off this nervousness, my dear ; for ner- 
 vousness it must be, and nothing else." 
 
 " If I only stirred in the matter, if I 
 only said to her, Go, it would bring him. 
 They are acting in concert." 
 
 '' What if it did ? Though he is your 
 husband, he cannot take from you your 
 freedom of action. The whole property is 
 yours, remember ; not subject to Major 
 Dawkes's control." 
 
 " But there would be dreadful scenes, 
 I say, and they would shatter me. Be- 
 sides," she added, sinking her voice 
 and glancing round with another of those 
 looks of apprehensive terror, u I might 
 be poisoned." 
 
 " 0, Caroline ! " 
 
 " Tom was, you know," she continued, 
 staring at him with her wild eyes. " And 
 I must make the will first." 
 
 Was she wandering now ? Mr. Kage 
 mentally debated the question, and with 
 intense pain. 
 
 " I wish to leave this wretched fortune 
 — wretched it has been to me and mine 
 — to its rightful owners: I wish tore- 
 pair the injustice that was committed on 
 the Miss Canterburys. Will you advise 
 me whether Olive — " 
 
 "I cannot advise you on the disposal 
 of your money," he interrupted, in a voice 
 almost of alarm ; " neither will I inherit 
 any of it, neither will I be the executor. 
 Leave it as you think well yourself: I 
 
 must decline all interference. The mon- 
 ey has lapsed to you, Caroline ; my 
 trusteeship is over ; do not now request 
 me to take it up again'." 
 
 " But you will advise me how to leave 
 my money ? " 
 
 » No." 
 
 " Not advise me ! What can be the 
 motive for your refusal ? " 
 
 " The motive is of no consequence, 
 Cai'oline. Y"ou have experience to guide 
 you now ; vou can take advice of your- 
 self." 
 
 " But you must have a motive. Tell 
 it me. If you do not, the wondering 
 what it can be will worry me for days 
 and nights ; you don't know how weak 
 I have grown. Thomas, I conjure you, 
 tell it me." 
 
 He would have preferred not to tell 
 her ; at least, during this interview. 
 But she left him no resource. In his 
 straightforward truth, he spoke ; his 
 voice somewhat low and unwilling. 
 
 " I am to marry Millicent Canter- 
 bury." 
 
 She looked down upon her thin white 
 hands clasped together, and did not 
 speak. But for the crimson hue that) 
 stole over her face and neck, he would 
 have thought she did not hear. Surely 
 she must love him still! In spite of her 
 two marriages, hers must indeed have 
 been an enduring love. 
 
 " Well, be it so," she said at length. 
 " Thomas, I am glad to hear it ; or I 
 shall be when the brunt of the news 
 has a little passed. Do not mistake me ; 
 the old remembrances are upon me to- 
 night, or I should not feel this. You 
 could not have chosen a better girl than 
 Leta. Indeed I am glad of it ; I have 
 never been so selfish as to wish you not 
 to marry." 
 
 " You see, therefore, why I cannot, 
 and will not, advise as to leaving money 
 to the Miss Canterburys," explained 
 Mr. Kage, in a very matter-of-fact tone. 
 " Individually,- I would prefer that you 
 did not, for it may be the means of sep- 
 arating me from Millicent ; on the other 
 hand, they have claims on their father's 
 estate. I cannot advise or interfere." 
 
 '• Chivalrous and honorable as usual ! 
 You are too much so, Thomas. Had 
 you been less so " 
 
 " What then ? " he asked, for she did 
 not continue. 
 
 " This conversation never would have 
 
2-36 
 
 GEORGE C A X T ERBURY'S W ILL. 
 
 had place, and my child would be here 
 by my side, and I should not be dying." 
 
 What she said was too true ; and he 
 knew it. They had not been able to 
 fight against fate. Little use, then, to 
 picture now what might have been. 
 Caroline had played him false to marry 
 a wealthy man; and all the regret in the 
 world, and the bitter repentance, would 
 not alter it. 
 
 " I must get a will made," she resum- 
 ed, breaking the silence. " Can you 
 show me how it may be done ? I am 
 virtually a wretched prisoner, remem- 
 ber." 
 
 He thought it over for a moment. 
 Assuming what she said to be a fact, 
 there was difficulty in the prospect. 
 
 " Let Mr. Norris come to j T ou in the 
 way I have done to-night, and take your 
 instructions, Caroline." 
 
 She appeared to catch eagerly at the 
 suggestion. 
 
 " So he might ! I had not thought 
 of it. The fact is, it was only when I 
 heard you were in the neighborhood, and 
 I was worrying myself to contrive how 
 I could get to see you alone, that Fry 
 suggested the opening of the postern- 
 door. Yes, yes ; Norris is honest, and I 
 will send for him, I shall leave my hus- 
 band nothing, Thomas." 
 
 "Leave him nothing!" exclaimed 
 Mr. Kage, surprised out of the remark. 
 "Nothing ? Would that be justice ? " 
 
 "Justice and mercy too. I leave him 
 my silence ; and that is more mercy 
 than he deserves. He poisoned my 
 child." 
 
 " Hush!" rebuked Mr. Kage. 
 
 " He poisoned my child," she persist- 
 ed, beginning to tremble. 
 
 The} r gazed into each other's eyes. 
 Hers were fixed, wild, bright ; his, seri- 
 ously questioning. 
 
 " Caroline, this is an awfully grave 
 charge." 
 
 " It is a true one," she affirmed. " I 
 have known it all along. I knew it 
 when the coroner's inquest was sitting ; 
 I knew it when you all went to put him 
 in the grave. He had a bottle of lauda- 
 num in his dressing-room, but I believe 
 none of the inmates of the house, save 
 myself, had noticed that he had it ; and 
 lucky for him they had not. That laud- 
 anum bottle had been there for weeks, 
 untouched ; but it was missing from its 
 
 place the evening before Tom died. I 
 looked for it, and it was gone ; I wanted 
 some to put to my tooth. Was it not 
 strange that that ver} r night, of all oth- 
 ers, I should have looked for it, and but 
 that night?" 
 
 Mr. Kage made no reply. He was 
 lost in thought. 
 
 " I went to bed early that night, at 
 eight o'clock ; and after I was in bed, I 
 got up to fetch the laudanum-bottle from 
 his dressing-room. It was not there. 
 I was amazed at its absence, because I 
 knew it always was there, and I had 
 seen it earlier in the day. Soon after- 
 wards he came in ; and when he saw 
 me he started like a guilty man, and 
 hurried something under his coat as he 
 went through to his dressing-room. It 
 must have been the bottle — it was the 
 bottle ! The next morning I saw the 
 bottle in its place again. No one but 
 himself had gone through my room that 
 night ; and therefore I knew that it was 
 he who had replaced it. I thought noth- 
 ing of it at the moment ; no, nor even 
 when the alarm of the death came." 
 
 " Allowing all this to be true — and I 
 cannot disbelieve you — how could he 
 have administered it to the child ? Ju- 
 dith never left him." 
 
 " He did not administer it ; Judith 
 did that," 
 
 " Judith ! " uttered Thomas Kage. 
 
 " Judith ; but not intentionally. She 
 believed, poor woman, when she gave 
 him his dessert-spoonful of mixture that 
 evening, that she was giving him his 
 proper medicine. When she brought 
 the child down to me, I did not send her 
 back, but kept her talking ; the nursery 
 was therefore vacant. That was his op- 
 portunity. The mixture -bottle must 
 have been then taken away, and the 
 laudanum-bottle substituted. 0, I as- 
 sure you, Thomas, I have gone over all 
 this so often since in my mind, that I 
 seem to have seen it all done. Judith 
 gave him a dessert-spoonful of the opi- 
 um instead of his proper medicine. Ma- 
 jor Dawkes must have waited in his 
 room opposite ; and when she had shut 
 herself into the night-.nursery, he went 
 softly in and changed the bottles again, 
 having taken out the same quantity of 
 the rightful physic. I daresay he swal- 
 lowed it. Then he came sneaking down 
 with the laudanum-bottle in his hand, 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 237 
 
 little thinking I had been searching for 
 it, or that I was in my room. I saw the 
 next morning that some of the contents 
 had been taken out." 
 
 " Were the bottles alike ? " 
 
 " Exactly alike. Green-glass bottles, 
 with about the same quantity of stuff 
 in each ; and the color of the mixture 
 and of the laudanum tallied. The la- 
 bels were not alike, and Judith cannot 
 read writing." 
 
 ; ' I know she cannot." 
 
 " ' Tincture of Opium. Major Dawkes,' 
 was on the one ; ' The Mixture. Mas- 
 ter Canterbury,' was on the other. 
 Some days after the dreadful truth had 
 revealed itself to me, I had Judith 
 alone, and cautiously questioned her. 
 She was in much distress, and confessed 
 that a matter was preying on her mind. 
 It was this : after she had given the 
 mixture to the child that evening, he 
 shook his head and said it was ' nasty, 
 which had never been his complaint be- 
 fore. In putting in the cork her eye fell 
 on the words of the label, and she 
 thought they looked different — not the 
 same she was accustomed to see ; but in 
 the impossibility (as she supposed) of its 
 being any other label or bottle, she had 
 concluded it was her fancy. The next 
 morning by daylight, the old familiar 
 writing seemed to be returned to the 
 bottle. Not until after the child was 
 buried, she said, did this incident recur 
 to her memory. It was strange that it 
 should not ; but I could not disbelieve 
 her, for Judith was ever truthful." 
 
 Did you do well to conceal these cir- 
 cumstances ? " inquired Mr. Kage, in a 
 low tone. " They might have been in- 
 vestigated." 
 
 Had I known them — had they presen- 
 ted themselves to m}' mind at the mo- 
 ment of my boy's death, I should inev- 
 itably have proclaimed them to the 
 world. But Fry was hasty with her 
 opinion that he must have died in a fit ; 
 the Major seconded it ; and I thought it 
 was so, in my wild grief. When the 
 doctors had held their post-mortem ex- 
 amination, and declared the cause of his 
 death to be opium, the news of which 
 was brought in by Fry, then the truth 
 flashed upon me — in a confusion of ideas 
 at first ; but, little by little, each distinct 
 point grew, and stood out with awful 
 clearness." 
 
 " He came down to my chambers that 
 night, asking me to advance some of the 
 child's money," murmured Thomas 
 Kage. 
 
 " yes, that was a part of his cun- 
 ning scheme," was Mrs. Dawkes's bitter 
 answer. "He had laid his plans well, 
 be you sure of that, to divert suspicion 
 from himself. He went to }'ou, that you 
 might testify, if needful, he was away in 
 the evening j he asked to borrow the 
 money — knowing that you were not like- 
 ly to lend it — that it might be assumed 
 he saw no prospect at that, the eleventh 
 hour, of succeeding to my boy's. He 
 slept out, that it should be seen he had 
 not gone near Tom to harm him, and 
 hoping to be away when the alarm oc- 
 curred." 
 
 " And you have not spoken of this ! " 
 
 " Never, until this night. How could 
 I ? No one suspects the part he took, 
 unless it be Judith, and — no doubt — • 
 Miss Dawkes. Fry does not ; she would 
 abuse the doctors by the hour together 
 in my presence, for saying Tom died 
 from opium, seeing lie could not have 
 got at any ; but I stop her always. Can 
 you wonder," added Caroline in an al- 
 tered tone, "that I have lived since in 
 fear — in nervous dread — and that I dare 
 not provoke an open rupture with him I 
 once called husband?" 
 
 " Did you ever hint at your suspicions 
 to him ? " 
 
 " Only once. If ever I thought to do 
 it, my tongue seemed to dry in my mouth, 
 my heart to sicken. On the daj' of the 
 inquest, he came in to condole with me 
 after it was over — the false hypocrite ! 
 and I suddenly spoke to him. " That 
 bottle of laudanum you kept in your 
 dressing-room was away from it the even- 
 ing before Tom died; where was it?" 
 He was taken by surprise, and turned as 
 white as ashes ; his lips were ghastly 
 and tremulous, as they strove to say it 
 was not away from it, so far as he knew. 
 That look alone would be sufficient to 
 prove his guilt. I said no more ; I only 
 gazed steadily at him, and he turned 
 away. I could not be the first to accuse 
 him ; he had been my husband ; had anj' 
 one else done so, I should have said what 
 I knew. We have lived an estranged 
 life since the-n ; to appearance, outwardly 
 civil. I came here the next day, with 
 my dreadful secret ; he has been down 
 
238 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 once or twice, and we go through the 
 ceremony of haqd-shaking at his arrival 
 and departure ; and she is here — my 
 keeper." 
 
 Mr. Kage leaned his head upon his 
 hand. 
 
 " Yes, I am here with my dreadful 
 secret," she reiterated ; " and he is living 
 in a whirl of gaiety, of sin. I sometimes 
 wonder whether the past lies a burden 
 upon him also in the silence of the accus- 
 ing night." 
 
 " A dreadful secret indeed ! " Thomas 
 Kage echoed, wiping his brow. " Caro- 
 line, why did you tell it me ? " 
 
 " Not for you to accuse and betray 
 him ; not to repeat again. When this 
 conversation shall be over, you can bury 
 it in the solitude of your own breast, and 
 leave him to his conscience and the fu- 
 ture. But I could not go to my grave 
 without telling you what has sent me 
 there." 
 
 Mr. Kage sat thinking — thinking over 
 the chain of events from their commence- 
 ment. The foolish marriage of Mr. Can- 
 terbury with this young girl; the unjust 
 will ; the dangerous clause of the great 
 fortune reverting to her should the child 
 die. Yes, dangerous ; Mrs. Dawkes had 
 called it by its right name. Dangerous 
 if she married a needy and unscrupulous 
 second husband. 
 
 " O, but it was an awful temptation ! " 
 he exclaimed aloud ; not to her, but in 
 self-communing. " Awful, awful, to such 
 a one as Dawkes. Poor man ! " 
 
 " You say * poor man ! ' • You pity 
 him ? " 
 
 " Not his guilt}'- weakness in yielding 
 to it; not his wicked sin ; but I pity him 
 for his exposure to the temptation. Bet- 
 ter that Mr. Canterbury had left his 
 money to revert to his daughters after 
 the child ; better that he had left it to 
 the county hospital." 
 
 " Did you think of this horrible con- 
 tingency when you urged me, almost 
 with a praj^er, not to inherit after my 
 child ? " 
 
 " Do not recur to what I thought," he 
 sharply cried, as if the question struck 
 an unpleasant chord within him. " I 
 am given to flights of fancy, and don't 
 know what I may have thought." 
 
 " I will send for Norris," she resumed ; 
 " he must come in as you came to-night. 
 
 You see now why I dare not venture to 
 let it be -known I wish to make a will. 
 Major Dawkes comes into all after my 
 death ; he sees that I cannot last long, 
 she sees it. Of course they will not let 
 me make a will." 
 
 " Yes, I see, Caroline." 
 
 '•' Were I to insist upon it — were they 
 only to suspect that I wished to make 
 one, that I so much as thought of it, they 
 — he — might put me out of the way as 
 he put Tom," she said with glistening 
 eyes. 
 
 It was altogether so strange and sad 
 a thing that Thomas Kage scarcely 
 liked to leave her. But it must be. He 
 took her hands in his when he rose to 
 say farewell, bending over her. 
 
 " I shall come in state to the front 
 entrance to-morrow, Caroline, and pay 
 you a formal visit, as though we had not 
 met since you left London." 
 
 " Since the day of my boy's funeral ! 
 Do so. She will be in the room all the 
 time; there's no chance of any visitor 
 being allowed to see me alone. Good- 
 night, good-night ; we shall not meet 
 many more times in this world ! " 
 
 " Caroline," he lingered to whisper, 
 an anxious look arising to his own face, 
 " are you prepared for the next ? " 
 
 " I think of it as a rest from weary 
 sorrow ; I think of it as a place of loving 
 pardon and peace. I wish I was better 
 fitted for it." 
 
 " Why do you not send for Mr. Eu- 
 fort ? " 
 
 " She would not let him come to be 
 with me alone." 
 
 " She must let him ; she shall let 
 him." 
 
 " Thomas, let me get the will made 
 first, and I shall be more at ease. I am 
 in no immediate danger." 
 
 " Good-night, my dear child. Keep 
 up your spirits." 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes touched a silver hand- 
 bell, and Fry came flying out of a room 
 at the end of the corridor, one close to 
 the new baize door. Thomas Kage saw 
 the door as he looked that way. Fry 
 conducted him down the dusty stairs, 
 and out at the rusty postern entrance to 
 the mass of entangled shrubs ; and he 
 picked his way through them lost in 
 thought, deeply pondering on the reve- 
 lations his visit had brought forth. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 £39 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII I. 
 
 ON THE WATCH. 
 
 An enemy could not have said that 
 Keziah Dawkes was unkind to her 
 brother's wife. With the exception that 
 she never quitted that unhappy lady for 
 more than two minutes together through- 
 out the day, she was as kind to her as 
 kind could be. Keziah, made of as hard 
 iron as it is possible for a woman to be, 
 could not but have some grains of com- 
 passion for the delicate girl (she was little 
 more than a girl yet) wasting away to 
 death under her eyes. It might be that 
 she had qualms of remorse also. Xot for 
 the watching : Keziah thought her sister- 
 in-law none the worse for that. Not on 
 her own score at all ; but for a certain 
 event that might be lying on her brother's 
 conscience, and of whicli she strove to 
 drive out intruding suspicions. They 
 were too dreadful even for Keziah. Car- 
 oline's grief for her poor child was pitia- 
 ble to witness, and Keziah felt for her in 
 regard to that. 
 
 When Mrs. Dawkes would come clown 
 stairs in the morning, be it early or be it 
 late, there sat Keziah waiting for her, and 
 beguiling the waiting with some ever- 
 lasting knitting. After that, she stuck 
 to Mrs. Dawkes throughout the day, her 
 very shadow. If Caroline strolled out 
 in the garden, to sit on the autumn-win- 
 try bench, wrapped up in furs (a rare 
 occurrence), Keziah and her knitting 
 went too ; when Caroline walked or drove 
 over to see her mother, Keziah was her 
 companion ; if, by rare chance, visitors 
 called at the Bock, Keziah sat in the 
 drawing-room by the side of its mistress. 
 Only in her own chamber was Caroline 
 free. It was this disagreeable espionage 
 that caused her to remove into the south 
 wing, and have a barrier-door erected. 
 JS'ot, at that time, had the slightest 
 thought of the postern-door, as a possible 
 means of admittance to her own friends, 
 crossed her mind. It never might have 
 been thought of, or used as such, but for 
 the happy suggestion of her maid Fry. 
 Fry lived in a chronic state of resent- 
 ment against Miss Dawkes, and was 
 warmly attached to her mistress. Any 
 way, then, that she could find to " cir- 
 cumvent " the former (Fry's own word, 
 in her whispered confidences to the 
 butler) was more welcome to her than 
 flowers in May. 
 
 But Fry had opposed the removal to 
 the south wing. Edgar Canterbury had 
 died in those rooms ; they had never 
 been inhabited since ; and for her mis- 
 tress to go into them she looked upon as 
 boding ill-luck — nothing less than an 
 omen that she would die in them, in her 
 turn. Keziah came to the rescue, and 
 said Mrs. Dawkes might remove into 
 them if she liked — why not ? All un- 
 conscious was she of the heavy blow it 
 might be the means of eventually deal- 
 ing her brother. And so poor Caroline 
 took up her abode in the long-unused 
 wing ; and very shortly afterwards caused 
 that intervening door, covered with green 
 baize, to be erected, shutting out the 
 wing from the rest of the house, and 
 from Keziah. Keziah did not care : if 
 Mrs. Dawkes chose to pass part of her 
 days in seclusion, with Fry in attendance 
 upon her, why, let her; it was only a re- 
 lief to Keziah. She could take care that 
 no chance visitor was admitted to the 
 south wing unaccompanied by herself. 
 Never did it enter into Keziah's imagin- 
 ation — no, not in its wildest dreams — 
 that an outer door existed to that south 
 wing. She had never heard of it. 
 
 The postern-door, encompassed hy the 
 wilderness of trees and shrubs around, 
 was invisible to the eye. In the midst 
 of this wilderness (as was related earli- 
 er in the story) stood the Lad}*'s Well ; 
 and this had so sure a reputation for be- 
 ing haunted — the lady's ghost, as was 
 well known ; appearing at will, and 
 shrieking frightfully on windy nights — 
 that no one ever thought of penetrating 
 to that side of the house. And there- 
 fore, in the lapse of time, the postern- 
 door came to be entirely forgotten by 
 the few who had been cognisant of its 
 existence. In after-life, Fry was wont 
 to say that nothing less than a special 
 revelation had made her remember it 
 the evening when Thomas Kage was at 
 Chilling. But Keziah Dawkes knew 
 nothing of the postern -door; and when 
 her sister-in-law was shut up within 
 that wing, she supposed her to be as 
 safe as if she were in her own presence. 
 What though Caroline did take freaks 
 at times to bar the green door against 
 her ? She was welcome to do it for Ke- 
 ziah, who supposed it arose from simple 
 caprice or a real desire for solitude. 
 
 Caroline was correct in the opinion 
 she had expressed to Thomas Kage, 
 
240 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 that what they feared was, that she 
 might make a will. Of course this 
 could not, in the Major's interests, he 
 allowed ; neither did they intend it 
 should be. All the watching was on 
 this score : there existed no other cause 
 for it. Keziah had little fear. Caroline 
 seemed to be overwhelmed with apathy 
 — to have no more thought or care for 
 the future disposal of her property than 
 if it had been a tract of land in the 
 wilds of Africa. She seemed to care for 
 nothing. She had never attempted to 
 write a letter since she came to the 
 Rock ; her days were passed in inert 
 sadness — in one long monotony ; and 
 Keziah believed this would continue to 
 the end. As well, perhaps, that she did 
 not attempt to write letters : they would 
 not have been permitted to go out of the 
 house without a supervision, so that it 
 might have come to the same in the 
 end. Keziah watched always ; she 
 would never relinquish the watching so 
 long as Caroline lingered in life ; but 
 she was as sure as sure can he that it 
 was an entirely superfluous precaution. 
 And meanwhile she did not intend that 
 Mrs. Dawkes should see she was watch- 
 ed, and had no suspicion Caroline had 
 already detected it. 
 
 " What ever can your mistress do 
 with herself, shut in all alone evening 
 after evening, with not a soul to speak 
 to ? " Keziah had said to Fry only a 
 day or two before this visit of Thomas 
 Kage's. " She must be frightfully 
 lonesome." 
 
 " For the matter of that, Miss 
 Dawkes, she has been nothing else but 
 lonesome ever since the poor boy died," 
 was Fry's answer. " As to what she 
 does, she mostly lies on the sofa, some- 
 times with a book, oftener without one. 
 All she wants is to lie in quiet, where 
 folks won't come in to bother her with 
 talking." 
 
 A hint for Keziah. Fry's words were 
 j honest ; and Miss Dawkes was aware she 
 had always been objectionable to her 
 young sister-in-law. Caroline dared 
 not order her out of the house, as she 
 would have done in former days. In 
 her broken spirit, and with the remem- 
 brance of the child's death and its at- 
 tendant circumstances ever upon her, 
 she had grown to be terribly afraid of 
 Keziah and Baruaby. She removed to 
 
 the south wing from no other motive 
 than to be sometimes free of the for- 
 mer's presence, and stayed there as a 
 refuge. But as the days went on, and 
 she was drawing (as she fulty believed) 
 nearer to death, the obligation to make 
 a will pressed itself with greater urgen- 
 cy upon her, until it seemed to grow in- 
 to a religious duty that she must not 
 fail in if she would find peace in 
 Heaven. 
 
 A fine bright morning — the one fol- 
 lowing the secret visit of Mr. Kage — 
 and Keziah Dawkes sat at her solitary 
 but sumptuous breakfast full of compla- 
 cency. Caroline took hers in her own 
 chamber. Fry urged her to take it in 
 bed ; but there seemed to be ever a rest- 
 lessness upon her that prevented hor 
 lying long once morning had dawned. 
 Sitting in her arm-chair by the fhe, 
 partially dressed only, and wrapped in 
 her dressing-gown of lavender silk, Mis. 
 Dawkes generally took her breakfast 
 from the small low stand drawn close 
 before her. 
 
 "I wonder what she'll do to-day?" 
 thought Keziah, as her meal over, she 
 sat with her head upon her hand. " She 
 said something yesterday about wanting 
 to call on the Miss Canterburys. I'm 
 sure I hope she'll not. ' Don't let hor 
 get intimate with those women,' sa d 
 Barby to me when he was down hei:e 
 last; and he is quite right. On the 
 other hand, if she will call, I suppose 
 she must : it may not do to draw the 
 reins too tight. I wish to goodness the 
 downright cold weather would set in ! ' 
 
 Bising from her chair, Keziah gave a 
 shake to the folds of her gray-merino 
 morning-dress with its black trimmings, 
 and passed. out to betake herself to the 
 south wing. Ascending the stairs, she 
 went through the picture-gallery to a 
 small corridor which brought her to the 
 green-baize door. Opening it at will, 
 she was in the south wing. It contained 
 four rooms only, and a dark lumber-clos- 
 et, paneled with oak, in which recepta- 
 cle were stowed away sundry articles that 
 had belonged to Edgar Canterbury. The 
 door of the staircase descending to the 
 postern entrance was in this closet; and 
 Keziah had seen it one day that she chose 
 to take a look round on Mrs. Dawkes's 
 first removal ; but it looked exactly like 
 one of the panels, and Keziah suspected 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 241 
 
 nothing. Of these four rooms two were 
 Caroline's — her sitting- and bed-rooms ; 
 the small one next the baize-door Fry sat 
 in ; the fourth was not used. Keziah 
 walked along the passage, carpeted late- 
 ly, and knocked at Mrs. Dawkes's door. 
 
 " Come in," came the faint, spiritless 
 answer. 
 
 Caroline sat iu the elbow-chair, in the 
 pretty silk gown, her golden hair falling 
 over it in curly waves, as it was mostly 
 let fall now. Keziah took her hand. 
 
 " How are you, my dear, this morn- 
 ing ? » 
 
 " 0, about the same, I think," was the 
 listless reply. "I've not coughed much 
 to-night. It's very fine — is it not ? " 
 
 " Beautifully fine ; but so sharp and 
 cold. I don't think it will do for you to 
 venture into the air to-day, Caroline." 
 
 lt I am not thinking of venturing into 
 it, that I know of," returned Caroline 
 peevishly. " I shall see when I come 
 down." 
 
 " And, my dear, is there anything 
 particular that you could fancy for your 
 luncheon ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 A few more of these questions and an- 
 swers, a little chat on Keziah's part — 
 items of news she had read in the jour- 
 nal last night — and then she withdrew ; 
 and Caroline was left alone, to have her 
 dressing completed by Fry. About 
 twelve o'clock she went downstairs, dress- 
 ed for the day in her black silk, her hair 
 gathered up in order. Keziah drew a 
 warm chair to the fire, and hastened to 
 bring one of the rich-painted white-vel- 
 vet foot-stools. Close upon this the old 
 doctor came in. He had been medical 
 attendant to the Rock as long as the 
 Canterburj's had inhabited it — a hale 
 simple-minded gentleman, turned seven- 
 ty now, with fresh-colored cheeks and 
 white hair. Mr. Owen's daily visits 
 were the only break in Caroline's monot- 
 onous life. As he sat there to-day, tell- 
 ing of various out-door interests, he men- 
 tioned the arrival of Mrs. Dunn and of 
 Mr. Kage. 
 
 Caroline's cheeks grew scarlet, know- 
 ing that she had to appear as if it were 
 neios ; and her attempt at doing so was 
 rather a poor one ; but Keziah failed to 
 notice : in her own intense, and not 
 pleasurable, surprise she observed noth- 
 ing. 
 
 15 
 
 " Mr. Kage ! " exclaimed Keziah. 
 " What ! — Thomas Kage ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I don't know any other Mr. 
 Kage,' was the surgeon's answer. " He 
 got here yesterday evening, he tells me, 
 and is staying at the inn." 
 
 " But, Mr. Owen, what has he come 
 for?" 
 
 " To see the old place again, I suppose, 
 Miss Dawkes. I didn't ask him." 
 
 Keziah lapsed into silence, pondering 
 over certain interests with herself. She 
 thought it very undesirable that any 
 communication should take place be- 
 tween Mr. Kage and Caroline, and won- 
 dered what ill wind could have blown 
 him to Chilling just now. Who was to 
 know that he, connected as he had been 
 with the child's property, might not 
 get urging his cousin to make a will ? 
 
 " Of course, he will come to call on 
 me," suddenly spoke Caroline, the first 
 words she had uttered. " Mr. Owen, if 
 you see him tell him that he must not 
 go away without calling on me." 
 
 Rather lame words ; as Keziah might 
 have thought, but that she was so pre- 
 occupied with her own reflections. For 
 Thomas Kage to come to Chilling and 
 not call to see Caroline would have been 
 an anomaly. 
 
 When Mr. Owen left, Keziah, as was 
 her frequent custom, went with him to 
 the hall. She was in the habit of evin- 
 cing much anxiety that Caroline's health 
 should be restored, her life prolonged. 
 
 "No, I do not think her any better, 
 Miss Dawkes," was the doctor's answer 
 to the query put ; and at the same mo- 
 ment Fry, happening to see them from 
 the back of the hall, came forward to 
 join in the colloquy. u Looks brighter, 
 you fancy ? Nonsense ! She's flushed, 
 if you will ; flushed with nervousness 
 and sleeplessness. I tell you she is 
 nearly as weak as a woman can be, my 
 dear madam, short of absolute helpless- 
 ness. The poor young thing is eating 
 away her heart with grief for her child ; 
 and my emphatic opinion is — and has 
 been, you know, Miss Dawkes, for some 
 time — that the solitude she lives in is not 
 good for her." 
 
 " And so I say," put in Fry, who 
 did not at all like the solitude on her 
 own account. " To mope all alone can- 
 not be good for any one. Sire never does 
 an earthly thing but read a bit — as I've 
 
242 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 told you, Mr. Owen — and that not for 
 five minutes together. But if she won't 
 he roused, whv, she won't — and there 
 it is." 
 
 u Ah," concluded the doctor, as he took 
 his departure, " it's one of those sad 
 cases, I'm afraid, that all our care and 
 skill, exert them as we will, are unable 
 to touch." 
 
 A comforting assurance for the inter- 
 ests of Barnaby Dawkes. Keziah heard 
 it with an unruffled face, and turned 
 indoors. 
 
 The next visitor to make his appear- 
 ance was Thomas Kage. The sun was 
 at its meridian height when he was 
 shown in, and poor Caroline sat where 
 its rays could fall on her wan face. She 
 seemed strangely passive ; a little faint 
 coloring might flush into the face, but 
 she did not rise from her chair ; only let 
 him take her hand in silence. The emo- 
 tion of the meeting had spent itself the 
 previous night ; Caroline, besides, was 
 afraid lest an incautious word should be- 
 tray that it had taken place, and so kept 
 still. Keziah Dawkes, sitting quite in- 
 conveniently near, was agreeably sur- 
 prised at the apathetic character of the 
 inverview. 
 
 Keziah talked. Mr. Kage talked. 
 Caroline scarcely spoke a word. But 
 the conversation turned on commonplace 
 nothings ; and so far as Keziah could 
 see, Mr. Kage's visit to Chilling had been 
 made without reference to Mrs. Dawkes. 
 She would have liked to knit a thanks- 
 giving for it into her. knitting. . 
 
 " Caroline," he said, " do you know 
 that you are looking quite painfully 
 thin ? » 
 
 " Yes ; painfully so ; you have used 
 the right word, Thomas. I know it more 
 and more every day when they dress me, 
 for my things hang upon me now like 
 bags." 
 
 "You should have some change; 
 staying in this solitude at the Rock can- 
 not be good for you. Miss Dawkes, I 
 think you might have perceived this be- 
 fore, and suggested to Major Dawkes 
 that something should be tried." 
 
 Miss Dawkes let her knitting fall on 
 her gown, and stared at Caroline with 
 a face of concern, as if she saw the 
 signs of sickness for the first time. As 
 her eye met, quite accidentally, that of 
 Mr. Kage, a vivid recollection of the 
 
 interview she had once held with him 
 in her sick despair flashed into her 
 mind, bringing a tinge to her leaden 
 cheek. Perhaps she thought of the con- 
 trast between Barnaby's hopeless con- 
 dition then and his flourishing state 
 now; or — perhaps the flush arose be- 
 cause she feared Mr. Kage must be think- 
 ing of it. 
 
 "Caroline does look thin; unusually 
 so to-day," she quietly replied ; " I hope 
 a little time will see an improvement. 
 She is unwilling to stir from home." 
 
 " 1 shall never stir from home until I 
 am carried out of it," interposed Caro- 
 line. " What does it matter where I am 
 — here or elsewhere ? It won't be for so 
 very long." 
 
 " But, Caroline, you should not in- 
 dulge this kind of thought," said Mr. 
 Kage, in a tone of remonstrance. 
 
 " Why not ? I do not wish to live. 
 And if I did wish it, it would be all the 
 same, for I know that nothing can pro- 
 long my existence. When they took my 
 boy's life, they virtually took mine." 
 
 The last sentence was evidentl}' not 
 spoken with any invidious meaning. 
 Mr. Kage made no observation ; Keziah 
 was picking-up some stitches that had 
 dropped. 
 
 " I should like to go to Tom. When 
 he used to wish to be with the angels, I 
 wondered greatly. I could not under- 
 stand it. But I wish it now myself — to 
 go away and be with the angels — and 
 with him." 
 
 Keziah lifted her eyes and telegraph- 
 ed a confidential look to Mr. Kage. It 
 meant to say, " Don't notice her ; this 
 comes of low spirits." He made no an- 
 swering sign : he believed it came of tho 
 truth — and that she was following her 
 little son as quickly as was possible. 
 
 " Caroline, do you see Mr. Rufort ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " But you ought to do so. Speaking 
 in a worldly point of view only, his vis- 
 it would do you good ; he is a very agree- 
 able man. And — if there be any graver 
 necessity — " 
 
 " The last time he came, Miss Dawkes 
 sent word out I was too poorly to be 
 seen," interrupted Caroline. 
 
 " And so you were, my dear," cried 
 that affectionate lady in a sweetly sooth- 
 ing tone. 
 
 " And the time before that you went 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 243 
 
 out and met him, and he turned back 
 again ; and another time you told me he 
 had been to tbe cottages, on the common 
 where the scarlet-fever was, and that it 
 would not do for him to come in to me 
 then," quietly went on Caroline. 
 
 Mr. Kage turned his luminous eyes on 
 Miss Dawkes. Questioning eyes just 
 then. 
 
 " My dear Caroline, Mr. Rufort can 
 come to you every day, if you like," said 
 the guardian dragon, who felt scared out 
 of the best part of her equanimity in the 
 presence of Mr. Kage. I'll drop him a 
 note, my dear, to-daj'." 
 
 A little more conversation bringing 
 forth no particular fruit, and then lunch- 
 eon was announced. Mr. Kage rose to 
 leave, declining the invitation to stay. 
 Caroline got up as he took her hands. 
 She was visibly agitated. 
 
 " Shall I see you again, Thomas ? 
 Shall I ever see you again ? " 
 
 " Ever ? — yes, I hope so. Not this 
 time, I fear, for I leave for London to- 
 morrow morning. You can write to me 
 news of how you go on, and — " 
 
 tl I never write," interrupted Caroline. 
 ° It is too much exertion for me now. 
 I have not written a word to anybody, 
 Thomas, since the blow fell." 
 
 " Perhaps Miss Dawkes, then, will 
 drop me a line, should there be any 
 change," he rejoined, glancing at that 
 lady. " Should you need me in any way, 
 Caroline, I will come." 
 
 Miss Dawkes graciously acceded : 
 promising and vowing to write on any 
 and every occasion that Mr. Kage could 
 possibly be wished for. Without, how- 
 ever, having the smallest intention of 
 doing it. 
 
 " Why are you going so soon ? " re- 
 sumed Caroline. " I think you might 
 take this one meal with me." 
 
 " I agreed to take it at Miss Canter- 
 bury's." 
 
 " As you please, of course. I am 
 nothing to any one now, and shall soon 
 be less." 
 
 Her subdued voice spoke of pain, hot 
 tears stood in her eyes. Thomas Kage 
 held out his arm to lead her to the din- 
 ing-room, and sat down by her side. 
 His heart smote him for the unkindness 
 he would have committed. Never again, 
 in all probability, would the opportunity 
 be afforded him of taking the meal with 
 her ; whereas he would most likely often 
 
 take it in future times and seasons with 
 the Miss Canterburys. 
 
 And she was gratified : there was no 
 doubt of that. A soft pink shone on her 
 cheeks, a light in her eyes ; and she 
 talked a little. Keziah, almost ignored, 
 glanced up again and again surrepti- 
 tiously from her place below, as she rev- 
 eled in the delicacies provided. 
 
 But Caroline ate nothing. The wing 
 of a partridge was on her plate, but she 
 merely toyed with it ; and the pink faded 
 again, and the bright eyes grew dim. 
 Every soothing attention that Thomas 
 Kage could give, he did give. Perhaps 
 the remembrance of the first dinner he 
 had ever eaten in this magnificent room, 
 when she was by his side, but not then 
 the Rock's mistress, lay on both of them. 
 Could they have foreseen at that happy 
 banquet the fruits that a few years would 
 bring forth ! Time does indeed work 
 strange changes. 
 
 The meal over, Mr. Kage, preparing 
 finally to depart, held out his hand again 
 to Caroline. Instead of responding to 
 it, she took his arm, and went with him 
 outside the door. Keziah came flying 
 up with a warm cloak — the ostensible 
 plea — and stuck herself close to Caro- 
 line's side. It was a warm lovely day 
 for late autumn ; quite a contrast to 
 the cold of the preceding one, the wind 
 — what slight wind there was — being in 
 its softest quarter. Mr. Kage turned his 
 steps to the right, towards the side gate. 
 " Why are you going this way, Thom- 
 as ? " 
 
 " I shall cross over to your mamma's 
 cottage, Caroline. I must see her this 
 afternoon, and this is the nearest way." 
 At the gate to which they walked in 
 silence, Caroline halted, not losing his 
 arm. Miss Dawkes, making pretty re- 
 marks about the scenery and the weath- 
 er, was patient as any tame lapdog. 
 
 " I think I will go with you, Thomas. 
 I can walk as far as that." 
 
 This did arouse Miss Dawkes. In 
 the first place, the continued companion- 
 ship with Thomas Kage was not desira- 
 ble ; every minute she was on greater 
 thorns lest he might accidentally hit on 
 so undesirable a topic of conversation as 
 the ultimate disposal of the vast proper- 
 ty on which he trod. In the second, 
 Keziah had nothing on her head, and 
 was very subject to face-ache. 
 
 " Walk to Mrs. Kage's ! " she ex- 
 
244 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 claimed almost with a scream. " My 
 dear Caroline, you must not attempt it. 
 The last time you could hardly get 
 home ; that's a fortnight ago, and you 
 are weaker since then." 
 
 " But I had not my cousin's arm to 
 lean upon, Miss Dawkes," was the cold 
 answer. — " Thomas, I should like to go, 
 if you will not mind the trouble of 
 walking back with me. I feel that it 
 might do me good." 
 
 Without a word of dissent he took 
 her through the gate, and bade her lean 
 all her weight upon him. Had there 
 never been any feeling between them 
 but that arising from relationship, he 
 might have passed his arm round her 
 waist to help her on her vray. But the 
 very consciousness of what had been 
 had made him throughout her married 
 life more carefully respectful to her. 
 And so they walked along — Caroline in 
 her warm woolen cloak and hood, Kezi- 
 ah in nothing. 
 
 " There is not the slightest necessity 
 for you to come, Miss Dawkes," said 
 Caroline, stopping to speak. " Mr. 
 Kage will take care of me." 
 
 " 0, my dear, I couldn't be so unkind 
 as suffer you to go alone," returned Ke- 
 ziah. " Don't mind me." 
 
 " I am not alone. You have no bon- 
 net on." 
 
 " It is quite delightful, dear, to be 
 without a bonnet this sweet day. I'm 
 sure it's like summer," responded Ke- 
 ziah, shivering just a little, and wishing 
 Mrs. Dawkes could be taken with a fit, or 
 any other ailment that might stop the 
 expedition. " Mr. Kage, how is your sis- 
 ter Charlotte ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Lowther ? Quite well, and 
 busy and happy as usual with her many 
 children." 
 
 " Does Mr. Lowther get on any bet- 
 ter?" continued Keziah in a tone of 
 compassion. 
 
 "Thank you, he does. Lowther has 
 turned the lane at last, and is in a fair 
 way of accumulating a fortune. Mrs. 
 Garston's legacy to his wife has been the 
 means of effecting it." 
 
 "0!" said Keziah. 
 
 They came to the barrier in the field 
 where the stile used to be. It was a gate 
 now. How vividly the spot brought 
 back that unhappy day to Thomas Kage, 
 when he had found Caroline talking 
 
 there with George Canterbury, and the 
 blow she had dealt himself within a few 
 minutes of it ! He had never been the 
 same man since. And she, the vain 
 heartless girl, had grown into this poor, 
 sickly, spiritless shadow, leaning on his 
 arm, soon, very soon to die. 
 
 Mrs. Kage was a worse spectacle — a 
 miserable dried-up mummy, who had 
 some little remains of mind left : but no 
 capability of comfort in life. She could 
 not eat and drink as she used; that had 
 remained her chief solace, and that was 
 leaving her. She sat huddled up in her 
 chair in the bedroom, close to the fire, and 
 was the veriest object Mr. Kage had ever 
 looked upon. For a moment he started 
 back. No rouge now, no teeth, no false 
 hair \ when mortals get very near the 
 grave, these adjuncts are left off. She was 
 wrapped up in an old blue -silk cloak 
 lined with ermine, that had once been 
 young Mrs. Canterbury's; her palsied 
 fingers kept catching at the fastening 
 cord and tassels. 0, what a wreck it was ! 
 What a wreck both were ! What good 
 had George Canterbury's money, that 
 they so schemed for, brought to either? 
 Thomas Kage could not help a fancy 
 coming over him that it must have en- 
 tailed evil. 
 
 Blinking upwards, she at length recog- 
 nised her visitors. Caroline and Mr. 
 Kage sat down by her; Keziah put her- 
 self on the other side, nearby into the fire. 
 The sight of Thomas Kage appeared to 
 re-awaken the palsied woman to memories 
 and interests. 
 
 "What's the matter with her? " she 
 suddenly asked, touching Caroline, but 
 addressing Mr. Kage. 
 
 11 I do not know. I am grieved to see 
 her looking so ill." 
 
 " She's dying. I know it. Every 
 time she comes to see me there's less life 
 in her. — What do you do to her — you 
 and that false brother of yours ? " 
 
 The latter query was directed with a 
 raised voice and menacing gesture to 
 Miss Dawkes. That lady, receiving it 
 in silence, stared a little ; it took her by 
 surprise. 
 
 " I'd like you to ask it, Thomas ; and 
 to require an answer from them. I can't, 
 and Fve got nobody here to do it for me, 
 or to speak to. They are killing her be- 
 tween them. He'll get all the money, 
 you know." 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 245 
 
 Keziah's gray face took a tinge of pur- 
 ple. This turn in the conversation was 
 by no means agreeable. Caroline was 
 the one to break the silence. 
 
 " Mamma, do not let my state of health 
 trouble you. I am as happy at the Rock 
 as I should be anywhere else ; happier 
 perhaps. Major Dawkes has gone his 
 own way this many a day, and I have 
 gone mine. As to Miss Dawkes here, 
 she is as attentive to me as can be." 
 
 Mrs. Kage blinked out at the three 
 and shook her head. The matter was 
 too complicated for her weakened mind 
 to deal with or retain long. Again she 
 bent towards Thomas Kage, and lowered 
 her voice to a semi-whisper. 
 
 " If the time could come over again, 
 Thomas, I'd not urge her to marry into 
 the Rock. We might have been better 
 off had we stayed as we were. Where's 
 the boy ? " 
 
 " The boy ! " stammered Mr. Kage, 
 all too conscious of the secret that lay 
 upon him. 
 
 " What did he die of, that sweet little 
 boy ? I have dark dreams about it, I can 
 tell you. I wonder if the Major has? " 
 Caroline rose, pleading fatigue. Ke- 
 ziah — her face a bright purple now 
 — glanced round to see if that curious 
 hint affected the company, and thought 
 not, which was satisfactory. One thing 
 Keziah did not bargain for — the strange- 
 ly-expressive look that sat in Mr. Kage's 
 eyes, as her glance happened to meet his. 
 Keziah had felt cold outside from lack of 
 a bonnet ; she turned far colder now. 
 
 They got safely out from the presence 
 of the poor old woman, who seemed to 
 have taken up some undesirable fancies, 
 and whose last words were a loud lamen- 
 tation over her daughter's ill-starred 
 marriage with Barnaby Dawkes. It was 
 now that Thomas Kage contrived to get 
 a couple of minutes' private conversation 
 with Caroline, in spite of Keziah's dra- 
 gon-like precaution. That bonnetless 
 lady, not daring to risk uncovered that 
 same cold walk back again, stayed behind 
 to borrow a shawl of Mrs. Kage's maid : 
 and the others went on together. 
 
 In a few clear, concise, but rapid 
 words, Thomas Kage inquired whether 
 Caroline would wish to be anywhere 
 else than at the Rock — whether she 
 would choose to be an entirely free 
 agent, and relieved of the espionage of 
 
 Miss Dawkes ; if so, he undertook that 
 it should be at once accomplished. The 
 secret he possessed gave him the power 
 to act for her welfare in any way she 
 pleased ; and the Major should not dare 
 to lift voice or finger in opposition. 
 But Caroline shook her head and refus- 
 ed ; all she wanted was to be left in 
 peace to the end. 
 
 The end ! Mr. Kage had made it his 
 business to see the surgeon, Owen, that 
 morning, in regard to Mrs. Dawkes's 
 state, and inquired whether anything 
 could be done for her. Nothing at all, 
 the doctor answered ; it was too late. 
 She was dying of a complication that 
 Mr. Owen could not well understand — 
 chest-weakness and grief and a kind of 
 nervous irritabilit}' ; dying slowly, no 
 doubt, but quite surely. Neither Mr. 
 Kage, nor any other anxious friend could 
 arrest the fiat. With this knowledge 
 within him, Thomas Kage could not 
 urge any removal upon her. 
 
 The last confidential word was spoken 
 as Keziah's footsteps were heard. 
 When she came hurrying up, a shawl 
 pinned over her head, Mr. Kage was 
 talking about the white clouds floating 
 gently across the deep-blue sky. Ke- 
 ziah began pathetically to deplore the 
 " wandering state " of poor dear Mrs. 
 Kage. Mrs. Kage's daughter agreed 
 that it was very pitiable. Not for the 
 world would Caroline have aroused- any 
 suspicions in Keziah ; for who could 
 tell what might come of such ? The 
 one earnest desire lay on her mind and 
 heart like a nightmare — to succeed in 
 getting a will made. 
 
 " God bless and keep you, my dear 
 Caroline ! " were the murmured words 
 of Thomas Kage, as he stood to say 
 farewell when they reached the Rock. 
 " I shall see you again, I hope, some 
 time." 
 
 ''Yes; in heaven," she answered, 
 bursting into tears. " Thank you for 
 your life-long kindness to me, Thomas ; 
 thank you for ever." 
 
 And in all the phases of their many 
 meetings and separations, never had 
 Thomas Kage's heart ached worse than 
 it did now, when he wrung her hands, 
 and quitted her for the last time. His 
 career in life, so to say, was beginning : 
 hers was ending. 
 
 that miserable will of George Can- 
 
246 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 terbury's! What good had it done to 
 anybody ? what ill not wrought ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 SEARCHING FOR FENCING-STICKS. 
 
 Keziah Dawkes stood at the en- 
 trance-door of the Rock, in the light of 
 the afcernoou sun. It might have been 
 thought that she was standing there to 
 admire the view, so beautiful as seen 
 from that elevated spot. Perhaps she 
 was; and speculating upon the fast ap- 
 proaching period when her beloved 
 brother Barby — beloved still, as few 
 brothers have been, in spite of his many 
 sins, real or suspected, against Keziah 
 and the world in general — should have 
 this fine domain in actual absolute posses- 
 sion. Her mood was one of complacency. 
 Thomas Kage had gone away without 
 any undesirable interference — he was 
 barely out of sight even yet — and so far 
 as Keziah could understand, he was not 
 likely to trouble them with a visit soon 
 again. As to poor Mrs. Dawkes, Kezi- 
 ah, in her hard way, did feel some pity 
 for her. She was very young to die ; 
 but Keziah comforted herself with this 
 consolation — that she could not help it. 
 If Mrs. Dawkes was sick with a sickness 
 that would, apparently, only end in 
 death, and not long first, either, it was 
 certainly no fault of hers ; she had not 
 helped her to the sickness or the sorrow 
 — was not responsible for it' in any way 
 whatsoever. 
 
 Upon coming in from the walk, and 
 parting with Thomas Kage just within 
 the hall, Caroline said she felt weary 
 and would go to her room to rest, desir- 
 ing not to be disturbed. Keziah acqui- 
 esced, speaking some kind words, and 
 accompanied her to the foot of the stairs 
 quite affectionately. It was in return- 
 ing, that the rays from the western sun, 
 streaming into the hall through the 
 open entrance-door, drew Keziah out by 
 their brightness. The shawl borrowed 
 from Mrs. Kage's maid was wrapped 
 round her still ; Keziah felt quite com- 
 fortable, and stayed there thinking, as 
 if she meant to make it her abode for 
 the rest of the day. 
 
 " Quite the best thing she could do," 
 
 murmured Keziah, and the words ap- 
 plied to the retreat of her sister-in-law 
 to rest in the south wing. " She is qui- 
 et there, and Fry's at hand to wait on 
 her, and it saves me an immense deal 
 of trouble. It is a strain to have to 
 make conversation without ceasing for a 
 person with whom you have no sympa- 
 thies in common ; or, rather, who has 
 none with you. As to that horrible old 
 Mrs. Kage, I could have found in my 
 heart to put a pitch -plaster on her 
 mouth. She is more knave than fool. 
 Talk of her being imbecile, indeed. 
 Just because Thomas Kage was present, 
 she said that ! Caroline did not take it 
 up ; that was a blessing ; neither did 
 he : but there was a look in his eyes I 
 did not like to see. Thanks be to all 
 the saints that the man has gone again ! 
 If he were to stay in the neighborhood, 
 mischief might come of it. Only to 
 think of her walking there and back be- 
 cause he was going to walk ! He has 
 great influence over her. And he is one 
 of those inconveniently straightforward 
 men that might prove troublesome if 
 his suspicions were aroused as to — to 
 anything. I should like to know what 
 brings him down here. Not Caroline's 
 interests, though — as I feared when old 
 Owen first said he was come. I'm sure 
 my heart leaped into my mouth ; I felt 
 that I ought to telegraph to Barby. 
 But it's all right. I'll just mention 
 that he has been here when I write to 
 Barby presently ; and if Barby chooses 
 — my goodness ! why, there he is ! " 
 
 The last words applied to Barby him- 
 self. An open fly had driven in and 
 was approaching the hall-steps; in its 
 inmate — a gentleman who leaned back 
 with rather a pompous air — Keziah 
 surely thought she recognised Barby. 
 Did the sun's rays deceive her ? — the}' 
 were shining right into her eyes, daz- 
 zling her sight — and she thought it 
 must be so. The traveller took off his 
 hat, and gave it a gentle wave by way 
 of greeting. It was Barby. Keziah 
 sounded a peal on the visitors' bell to 
 bring out the servants. 
 
 Major Dawkes came up the steps, and 
 Keziah received him with a warm em- 
 brace — which he did not seem to ap- 
 preciate sufficiently. She led the way 
 to the sitting-room, and stirred the tire 
 into a blaze. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 247 
 
 " All well ? " asked the Major, taking 
 oft' his overcoat, and standing on the 
 hearth-rug to warm his hands. 
 
 " Quite well," answered Keziah. 
 " Except that I fear Caroline grows 
 weaker." 
 
 " Does she ? — dear me ! Where is 
 she ? " added the Major, looking round 
 the room. 
 
 " She has just gone to lie down, Bar- 
 naby. What will you take ? " 
 
 " Nothing at present. Is Kage down 
 here ? " 
 
 And, with the last question, Ke- 
 zialrs understanding was opened : Major 
 Dawkes must have heard of Mr. Kage's 
 visit, and had c mie to checkmate it. 
 
 Even so. Keziah was au accurate 
 guesser. On the previous afternoon, 
 chance, or luck, or whatever the genius 
 might be that presided over the interests 
 of Barnaby Dawkes, had taken that 
 gentleman's lawyer to Mr. Kage's cham- 
 bers. So vast a property as the Major 
 had dropped into — or, to be correct, his 
 wife, but it came to the same practically 
 — had its complications. More than 
 once, Mr. Kage, as the previous acting- 
 trustee, had to be referred to for details 
 connected with the past management. 
 Some need of this kind took lawyer 
 Jessup to the barrister's chambers, and 
 there he heard that Mr. Kage Jiad just 
 goue down to Chilling. Later in the 
 day, another chance, or accident, caused 
 Major Dawkes to call at his lawyer's — 
 the objects of the two visits being quite 
 unconnected with each other. While 
 there, the lawyer incidentally mentioned 
 the item of news he had heard — that 
 Mr. Kage had gone to Chilling. 
 
 " To see your wife, Major, no doubt," 
 innocently quoth old Jessup, who had 
 not the faintest notion of anything that 
 might be involved, or of the sudden turn 
 the suggestion gave the Major. 
 
 " Ah, yes, possibly so ; they are cous- 
 ins," drawled the Major, stroking his 
 black moustache, and relieving his feel- 
 ings by a little mental swearing. 
 
 The Major would have liked to drive 
 direct to the Paddington Station and 
 take the first train for Chilling. That 
 might not be, however ; but he made 
 arrangements to leave in the morning. 
 Down he came, as fast as the engine 
 would bring him ; his mind rather in- 
 conveniently tormenting itself as to the 
 
 motive that had taken Thomas Kage 
 thither. That it was to see Mrs. 
 Dawkes he assumed to be a matter of 
 course ; but — with what object ? Con- 
 science makes cowards of the best of us 
 — it made a coward of the Major oftener 
 than his friends might think — and is apt 
 to suggest all kinds of improbabilities. 
 The least he feared was, that Mr. Kage 
 had gone down to inform his wife she 
 ought to make a will. There might be 
 one or two things in life Major Dawkes 
 dreaded more than that, but he dreaded 
 it quite enough. 
 
 She might be leaving half the fortune 
 aw r ay from him, once she got the idea 
 of a will put in her head, as the Major's 
 common sense told. He did not intend 
 she should. Having come to revel in 
 the sweets of wealth, it would not be 
 pleasant to relinquish any of it. Major 
 Dawkes w 7 as living rather a fast life, 
 spending the late Mr. Canterbury's 
 money wholesale. The principal he 
 could not touch ; but he made free as 
 air with the large amount returned as 
 interest. 
 
 Keziah, feeling at rest as to the rea- 
 son of his sudden appearance, slipped 
 off the shawl, and took up her knitting. 
 
 " Is Kage down here ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What has he come for ? " 
 
 " I was asking the veiy same question 
 of myself just as you arrived, Barnaby. 
 1 don't know." 
 
 " Where the deuce is he staying ? In 
 the house ? " 
 
 " Certainly not," quietly answered 
 Keziah, as she told, in a few words, all 
 she knew of the matter — the hearing of 
 his arrival from Owen the doctor, and 
 Mr. Kage's subsequent visit. Major 
 Dawkes listened with a gloomy brow. 
 
 " 0, yes, I daresay ! It's all very well 
 for you to tell me he is going back to- 
 morrow morning, and will not call here 
 again. I don't believe it." 
 
 " You maj r depend upon one thing, I 
 think, Barnaby : that, whatever business 
 may have brought him here, it is not 
 connected with Caroline." 
 
 " You are a fool, Keziah," politely re- 
 joined the Major. 
 
 " Not where you are concerned," was 
 Keziah's composed answer. " You had 
 never cause to charge me with being 
 that in the years gone by. 
 
248 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 " Do you suppose she wrote for him ? " 
 
 " Who ? — Caroline ? I am sure she 
 did not. She has never put pen to pa- 
 per since we came to the Rock. Had 
 you seen the quiet apathetic manner with 
 which she received him when he came in 
 this morning, you would put aside all idea 
 of lier having sent for him — or of her 
 wishing to see him either." 
 
 " The man must want something, Ke- 
 ziah. He'd not come all this cursed long 
 railway journey for pleasure. What in- 
 terests has he in Chilling but Caroline ? 
 Don't tell me." 
 
 Keziah, knitting always, silently re- 
 volved the points in her mind. There 
 was reason in what Barby said. On the 
 other hand, she could not disbelieve her 
 sight and ears, and senses generally. 
 Thomas Kage had paid but a formal call, 
 as any other stranger might do, and was 
 certainly not coming again. 
 
 " That man has been a sort of enemy 
 to me through life ; cropping up at all 
 kinds of unseasonable times," observed 
 the Major, giving the rich and thick 
 hearth-rug a passionate kick. 
 
 " But you hr«.ve always managed to 
 hold your own against him in the long- 
 run," quietly returned Keziah. 
 
 " Yes, and will still. I'm sure I wish 
 the fellow was buried ; there's no man 
 living I — " 
 
 Major Dawkes came to a sudden pause. 
 " I dread so much as him," had been the 
 words on the tip of his tongue. But'it 
 was not always convenient to speak out 
 his full thoughts, even to Keziah. 
 
 "Look here, Keziah. The man must 
 have come down on some matter connect- 
 ed with Caroline ; and I don't care what 
 you say to the contrary. He may have 
 got it in his head — and my firm belief is 
 that he has — that she ought to make a 
 will. Considering the faculty he has for 
 mixing himself up with other people's 
 affairs, it's onl} T what he might be ex- 
 pected to do. He has come here to see 
 whether she has done it, and to suggest 
 it to her." 
 
 " I tell you no, Barnaby," reiterated 
 Keziah. " He did not hint at such a 
 thing ; he nevor said a word to her that 
 anybody could disapprove of. The con- 
 versation was upon the most indifferent 
 topics you can imagine. I was with 
 them all the time." 
 
 Major Dawkes twirled the corners of 
 
 his moustache savagely. Things did 
 not look absolutely clear. 
 
 "Does she ever express a wish to 
 make one ? " 
 
 " Never. I do not suppose the thought 
 or wish has occurred to her. I feel 
 quite sure she looks upon you as her 
 legal successor here." 
 
 " And of course I am such," interject- 
 ed the Major. 
 
 " One day last week we were on the 
 lawn ; Caroline sat down to rest ; things 
 were looking beautiful. A remark slip- 
 ped from me quite involuntarily, that I 
 hoped you, when you were sole master 
 here, would keep the gardeners to their 
 duty, as they were kept now. ' Yes, 
 indeed ; if I thought otherwise, I should 
 be sorry to leave the place,' she an- 
 swered. Barnaby, rely upon it, she has 
 no thought of leaving anything away 
 from you." 
 
 The Major felt a little reassured. 
 
 " A will is an inconvenient article, 
 you see, Keziah. Once a man or 
 woman sets himself to make one, he 
 may be led away to leave no end of 
 •property to individuals indiscrimi- 
 nately." 
 
 " Ease your mind," was Keziah's as- 
 suring answer. "Caroline has no 
 thought of doing it ; and if she had, I 
 am at hand, remember. She is in a 
 state of complete apathy ; I don't be- 
 lieve she cares one iota whose the prop- 
 erty is, or who will inherit it after her." 
 
 The Major let fall his coat-tails, which 
 he had picked up under his arm, and 
 moved off the hearth-rug. 
 
 " I'll go up and see her. South wing, 
 isn't it ? A curious freak, to take up 
 her abode in that gloom}' place." 
 
 " She is quiet there, j'ou see ; and to 
 be quiet is all she cares for now. As to 
 the wing being gloomy, I think the 
 rooms are very nice and comfortable." 
 
 " And look out on a howling wilder- 
 ness," observed the Major. " If I 
 recollect rightby, that is the chief pros- 
 pect the windows possess." 
 
 " There are some charming hills and 
 other scenery in the distance." 
 
 " Every one to his taste : distant hills 
 possess no attractions for me." 
 
 Without giving himself the trouble to 
 knock, the Major opened the green-baize 
 door, which was rarely bolted in the day- 
 time, and entered. Fry came flying out 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 249 
 
 of the room close by, and stood in utter 
 astonishment at sight of the visitor. 
 
 " Which room is }-our mistress in ? " 
 
 " She — she's in her sitting-room, sir," 
 was Fry's answer, when her surprise 
 allowed her to speak. " I'll tell her you 
 are here." 
 
 Caroline was lying on the sofa. She 
 felt equally surprised with Fry at sight 
 of the Major, but did not evince it. 
 Rising from the sofa, she coldly shook 
 hands with him, and then sat down on 
 it. The Major had seemed to under- 
 stand for some time now that he must 
 not attempt any warmer greeting. 
 
 " How are you, my dear ? " inquired 
 the Major, taking up the position he had 
 taken below — his back to the fire. 
 
 " Middling. I am not very strong." 
 
 " Dear me ! You look pretty well, 
 too." 
 
 At that moment perhaps she did. A 
 red flush, born of aversion and other 
 complicated feelings, had risen to her 
 face lately whenever he appeared in her 
 presence, and was illumining it now. 
 
 " I've been wanting to run down for 
 this week past ; couldn't get the time 
 until yesterday," cried the truthful 
 Major. " Lots of duties on hand just 
 now in town." 
 
 "A pity 3 t ou left them." 
 
 " Came down to see you and Kez., and 
 how things were getting on here. Wish 
 you could pick up a bit, my dear." 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes, sitting in what seemed 
 to be the completest state of apathy, 
 made no response. He began again : 
 
 " Hear you've had a visitor to-day — 
 Kage. Awfully astonished to find he 
 was down here. Passed him in the 
 street in town but a few days ago." 
 
 Again no answer. 
 
 " What has Kage come to Chilling 
 for?" 
 
 " I did not ask him." 
 
 " Lively and agreeable this," thought 
 the Major. And no doubt it was. 
 
 " I hope Kage came for the purpose 
 of seeing you, Caroline, my dear. It's 
 good to be remembered by one's old ac- 
 quaintances." 
 
 " He did not come to see me. If he 
 had come for that, he would have said 
 so." 
 
 " Does he make a long stay ? " 
 
 " He goes again to-night, or to-mor- 
 row ; I forget which he said. Keziah 
 would know." 
 
 Beyond these short answers, nothing 
 could the Major get. He strove to make 
 himself agreeable ; told an amusing an- 
 ecdote or two ; but they sufficed not to 
 arouse Caroline from her cold resentful 
 state. The Major swallowed down about 
 fifteen yawns. 
 
 " By the way," said he briskly, " there 
 used to be some fencing-sticks of mine at 
 the Rock. Do you happen to know where 
 they were put ? " 
 
 " I don't know anything about them." 
 
 " I had them here when we were first 
 married, Caroline. Briscoe came down 
 to stay, you may remember ; and we used 
 to come up to the big room of this wing 
 — the one you make your bed-chamber 
 now, I suppose — and have a fencing- 
 bout." 
 
 "I don't know anything about them," 
 repeated she, in the same inert tone. 
 
 The Major walked to the door and 
 called Fry, telling her what he was in- 
 quiring after. 
 
 "There was a lumber-closet somewhere 
 here ; we used to throw them into it when 
 done with. Perhaps they are m it yet." 
 
 Fry felt discomposed. It was from 
 this self-same lumber-closet that the way 
 led down to the postern entrance. The 
 Major suddenly remembering the posi- 
 tion of the closet, threw open the door. 
 
 A way had been cleared inside it for 
 Mr. Kage to come through on the pre- 
 vious night, consigning all the " lumber" 
 on either side. It lay indiscriminately, 
 one thing upon another. As the Major 
 stood contemplating the interior from the 
 door — as well as the semi-light enabled 
 him — he faced exactly the paneled en- 
 trance, so bare now. Well indeed was it, 
 for the sake of justice, that the panel gave 
 to the eye no indication of its secret 
 opening. 
 
 Fry, her eyes dilating a little, made a 
 furious onslaught on the lumber, and 
 blocked up the cleared passage. The 
 Major, standing just inside, suddenhy saw 
 his wife at the entrance-door, her face 
 pale and scared. 
 
 " What is it ?" she asked. « What 
 is the matter ? " 
 
 '■ We are looking for the fencing-sticks. 
 Don't you come, my dear." 
 
 " Look here," said Fry, stopping in 
 her work. " If the Major would leave me, 
 and you'd leave me, ma'am, perhaps I 
 might find 'em. I think I've &een 'em 
 here." 
 
250 
 
 (GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 " Whereabouts ? " cried the Major ea- 
 gerly. 
 
 " I never can do anything when I'm 
 looked at and bothered ; my mistress 
 knows I can't," was Fry's answer. 
 " Both of you just leave me to myself, sir, 
 and I'll find the sticks if they are to be 
 found." 
 
 But as she spoke something caught 
 the Major's quick eye. He drew it up ; 
 it proved to be one of the fencing-sticks. 
 This gave an indication to the locality 
 of the other, and it came to light soon. 
 When Caroline went back after the in- 
 vestigation, her chest was heaving with 
 ominous quickness. 
 
 " The commotion has disturbed you, I 
 fear," observed the Major. " I'm really 
 very sorry. These fencing-sticks — " 
 
 He was interrupted. Neel had come 
 up to say that a visitor was below — Mrs. 
 Dunn. 
 
 " Plague take it ! who wants to see 
 her?" cried the Major. "Mrs. Dunn! 
 I thought she was abroad." 
 
 " The family thought so too, sir," ob- 
 served Neel, who considered the old fam- 
 ily far more than he did the new one. 
 " Mrs. Dunn came to Chilling yesterday 
 and surprised them." 
 
 " She's a horrid woman," cried the 
 Major. — " Will you come down, my 
 dear ? " 
 
 "No," was Mrs. Dawkes's answer. — 
 "Just say, if you please, Neel, that lam 
 very tired and poorly. I do not feel equal 
 to it." 
 
 " I can say that. I suppose I must 
 go," grumbled the Major, stalking off 
 with his fencing sticks. 
 
 Mrs. Dunn, in very fashionable foreign 
 attire — quite a contrast to anything ever 
 assumed by Keziah Dawkes — sat on a 
 sofa in the grand drawing-room, to which 
 Neel had shown her. There was no fire; 
 at which she gave her head a disdainful 
 toss, and remarked to Neel that the ways 
 of the house appeared to be altered. 
 
 " And so they are, ma'am," answered 
 Neel confidentially. " Miss Dawkes is 
 manager." 
 
 '' O ! Mrs. Dawkes gives it up to her 
 then ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Dawkes has never gave a single 
 blessed order since she came into the 
 house this last time," was Neel's reply. 
 " She don't care who gives 'em, and who 
 don't; she's too ill for if, ma'am." 
 
 Major and Miss Dawkes, the latter 
 
 with her knitting, presented themselves 
 together; and Mrs. Dunn condescended 
 to give each in succession the tip of her 
 forefinger. Neel could not despise these 
 new people half as much as she did. 
 The feeling peeped out in her manner, 
 too, in spite of her surface civility. 
 
 " Too ill to come down to me, is she ! " 
 cried Mrs. Dunn, receiving the apologies 
 for the non-appearance of the Bock's 
 mistress. " I hear she is ill, and I am 
 sorry for her." 
 
 " Too tired to come, I said," corrected 
 the Major. " On the whole, she is 
 rather poorly." 
 
 " If what I am told be true, she is a 
 great deal more than poorly, Major 
 Dawkes," retorted Mrs. Dunn. " Owen, 
 with whom I was talking this morning, 
 fears you'll not have her very long 
 amidst you." 
 
 " Dear me ! " cried the Major, with a 
 start of dismay. " But Owen always 
 did look on the black side of things, I 
 remember. 1 think her somewhat bet- 
 ter than she was when I was here last." 
 
 "You know, I suppose, how it is — 
 that she is alarmingly ill ? " resumed 
 Mrs. Dunn, turning the fire of her 
 tongue on Keziah. 
 
 " I do not know that she is alarming- 
 ly ill," was Keziah's composed answer, 
 given very slowly, for she was picking 
 up some stitches in the everlasting knit- 
 ting. " Mrs. Dawkes is certainly weak 
 and languid ; but I hope she will soon 
 regain strength." 
 
 " It was the state she is represented to 
 me as being in that brought me here this 
 afternoon. I should have liked to see 
 her, poor thing ; I knew her when she 
 was a child. It is her boy's death, they 
 say, that has brought on her illness." 
 
 But the Major denied this rather ve- 
 hemently. His wife had been at death's 
 door before the boy died, he observed ; 
 her lungs and chest were weak." 
 
 Mrs. Dunn left her sofa without cere- 
 mony, and took a seat that faced the 
 Major and Miss Dawkes. It was this 
 same magnificent room that had witness- 
 ed the contention about the will between 
 Olive Canterbury and her father. Not 
 an executed will at that time, only a 
 purposed one. Caroline had no doubt 
 remembered the scene often enough 
 since, when sitting there. 
 
 "What did that boy die of, Major 
 Dawkes ? » 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 251 
 
 The question was a pointed one ; es- 
 pecially so as Mrs. Dunn put it. Bend- 
 ing forward, her eyes fixed on the Major, 
 save when they wandered to Keziah, 
 her voice low and full of meaning, — it 
 was thus she asked it. 
 
 " It's of no use to recall it now," re- 
 plied the Major, looking down on the 
 rich carpet — out at the window — to the 
 walls of the room. Anywhere except 
 at her. 
 
 "But it is of use. I ask to know. 
 You were in the midst of it ; T was 
 abroad, shut out from all news, except 
 hearsay. As I remarked to Mr. Kage 
 at our dinner-table last night, when I 
 besought him to tell me." 
 
 " And pray what might he have told 
 you, Mrs. Dunn ? " inquired the Major, 
 not with so much polite indifference as 
 Keziah would have liked to hear. 
 
 " He said he could tell me nothing, 
 except what I knew before — that the 
 doctors said the boy died from poison." 
 
 " Ah, yes," replied the Major, " they 
 did say it. But doctors are mistaken 
 sometimes, and I think they were." 
 
 " That's rubbish, Major Dawkes," 
 was Mrs. Dunn's complimentary answer. 
 " You don't really think so. The doc- 
 tors could not have dreamt they found 
 opium within the boy, if none was 
 there. Do you mean to charge them 
 with telling a falsehood ? " 
 
 Keziah's knitting was trembling a 
 little. But she kept her attention on it. 
 As to her lips, they seemed to be com- 
 pressed into nothing. Happening to 
 glance at her, Mrs. Dunn thought she 
 was unusually gray. 
 
 " I don't charge them with anything, 
 Mrs. Dunn," resumed the Major. " I 
 only think they were mistaken." 
 
 "And I say I don't believe you think 
 it. The opium was in the child, safe 
 enough : it was proved so. What I 
 want to ask you is — who gave it him ? " 
 
 Keziah looked off her knitting and 
 took up the answer. She could bear it 
 no longer. Her lips were turning 
 strangely white. 
 
 " That never was ascertained. It was 
 proved beyond all dispute or doubt that 
 the child had not taken anything of the 
 kind ; had not been in the way of tak- 
 ing it. It was an absolute impossibility 
 that any such thing had come near 
 him." 
 
 " An absolute fiddlestick," said Mrs. 
 
 Dunn. " Of course it is to your sister's 
 interest and yours, Major Dawkes, to 
 uphold this view and stifle farther in- 
 quiry; but you cannot expect common- 
 sense people to believe it." 
 
 " To my — my interest ! " retorted the 
 Major, with a kind of stammer. 
 
 " To be sure it is. Haven't you come 
 in for the child's money ? " 
 
 " Certainly I have not," said the Ma- 
 jor boldly. " The money reverted to 
 the boy's mother, not to me." 
 
 " It reverted to her in name. "Not, I 
 expect, in fact. Who draws the cheques, 
 pray ? Major Dawkes, you cannot play 
 at sophistry with me." 
 
 Major Dawkes rose and walked to the 
 window with an air of easy carelessness, 
 gazing out upon the setting sun. Ke- 
 ziah looked as if she were going to be 
 sick. 
 
 " Had I been in England, I should 
 have caused the investigation to be re- 
 opened," said Mrs. Dunn. " Mr. Kage, 
 as the boy's trustee, was culpabty care- 
 less not to enforce a more searching one. 
 One would think it would be as satisfac- 
 tory to you to come to the bottom of it, 
 as to us," she added, throwing a full 
 look after him. 
 
 " Immensely so," acquiesced the Ma- 
 jor. " I begged the medical men not to 
 leave a stone unturned. The authority 
 lay in my hands, not in Mr. Kage's ; but 
 he could have done no more than I did." 
 
 " Had I been he, I should have tried 
 at it. There's a secret in the matter 
 somewhere, Major Dawkes, and it ought 
 to have been got at. It ought to be 
 still. For two pins, I'd re-open the in- 
 quiry myself." 
 
 " It would do no earthly good, and be 
 a frightful amount of trouble," spoke 
 the Major, somewhat hurriedly. 
 
 " It would be a trouble, of course ; 
 but I think 'I should rather like it. He 
 stood to me in the light of half-brother, 
 absurd though it sounds, to say it of a 
 little fellow of that age." 
 
 " My firm persuasion is, that the boy 
 died from nothing but his illness," said 
 the Major in a candid note, as he return- 
 ed to his seat. " I went over the mat- 
 ter full}'-, point after point, at the time, 
 and since, and I am quite unable, as my 
 sister here knows, to arrive at any other 
 conclusion. It was very much to be re- 
 gretted that I was away from home." 
 
 " Well, it strikes me as being one of 
 
252 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 the most unaccountably mysterious cases 
 I ever came across ; nothing satisfactory 
 about it in any way. But I can't stay 
 to talk farther of it now," concluded 
 Mrs. Dunn, rising to depart. The rec- 
 tory people and Thomas Kage are com- 
 ing in to dine with us. and I like to take 
 my time in dressing." 
 
 "Is Mr. Kage's visit at Chilling to 
 you ? " asked the Major on the impulse 
 of the moment. 
 
 " I suppose it may be considered to 
 my sister Millicent ; they are engaged 
 to be married," she replied. 
 
 And as Barnaby Dawkes heard the 
 avowal, he felt as if a whole weight of 
 lead had been lifted from his heart. 
 
 In an airy, graceful, sprightly man- 
 ner, as though no care or dread had ever 
 oppressed his soul, he attended Mrs. 
 Dunn to the very extreme gates of the 
 Rock, chatting amicably, and sending 
 his respects to the Miss Canterbury's. 
 Keziah had disappeared when he re- 
 turned, and he did not see her again un- 
 til dinner. They took the meal togeth- 
 er ; Caroline remaining in her own 
 room. 
 
 " That's what has brought Kage 
 down," he observed to Keziah, alluding 
 to the information volunteered by Mrs. 
 Dunn of the engagement to Millicent. 
 
 " Yes, Barby dear. I knew it had 
 nothing to do with us." 
 
 " Wish him joy of her ! I'd not like 
 one of the Canterburys for my wife. 
 And, Keziah — keep that woman, civilly, 
 at arm's distance ; the Dunn. Don't let 
 her get near Caroline, if } r ou can help it. 
 Her tongue's made of fire." 
 
 " All right," nodded Keziah. 
 
 With the morning Mr. Kage started 
 for London. The Major stayed to see 
 the coast clear of him, and then depart- 
 ed himself, his fears dispersed. Disa- 
 greeable doubts were over ; and Barna- 
 by Dawkes went gleefully back into the 
 sunshine of London streets, that to him 
 might be said to be paved with gold. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE LAWYER'S SECRET VISIT. 
 
 Major Dawkes departed, and the 
 Rock was its own quiet self again. A 
 strangely monotonous abode now, its at- 
 
 tractions, its fine rooms, its natural beau- 
 ties, going for naught to those two silent 
 women living in it — the one so hard and 
 gray, something like a block of stone ; 
 the other passing swiftly and surely on 
 to the tomb that must soon encase her. 
 That each had inward cares, was indis- 
 putable. Keziah was never quite free 
 from a living dread — a dread of some 
 vague danger on Barby's account — that 
 would not quite keep itself down ; it 
 tinted the charming landscape, it gave a k 
 bitter taste to the dishes she ate of, it 
 poisoned her pleasure sleeping and wak- 
 ing. It seemed to her that this danger 
 would pass with Mrs. Dawkes's life ; 
 once she was beyond speaking, the fear 
 would be nearty completely over. Bar- 
 by would be in full possession of the 
 Rock and its large revenues then, and 
 who might dare to breathe a slander on 
 him ? Never a word had passed be- 
 tween her and her brother on that incon- 
 venient subject, the death of the child ; 
 but Keziah, a shrewd sensible woman, 
 had discerned odds and ends of things 
 for herself. W T hat Caroline knew or 
 knew not, she did not dare to glance at ; 
 something, she feared ; else why the life 
 of estrangement she had lived ever since 
 from her husband, and which he acqui- 
 esced in as a matter of course, without 
 a dissenting word ? Strangers could 
 not be more entirely separate than they 
 were ; and Mrs. Dawkes took no trouble 
 to hide the fact. There were moments 
 when Keziah awoke out of her sleep in 
 a great horror — a sleep in which she 
 had seen Barnaby in the hands of men 
 who are the administrators of England's 
 criminal laws ; and Caroline was inva- 
 riably the Nemesis that brought him to 
 his punishment. Keziah knew these 
 were but miserable dreams, the result of 
 the waking nightmare that was ever up- 
 on her ; but nevertheless her limbs 
 would shake in the bed with terror, her 
 hair be wet with a cold perspiration. 
 There could be no true safety for Barby, 
 or peace for her, until Mrs. Dawkes 
 should have been removed from the 
 world ; and Keziah, while pitying her, 
 saw every fresh sign of weakness with a 
 feeling that was certainly not sorrow. 
 Barnaby's sins might be very great ; 
 but he was dearer to Keziah's heart than 
 all the rest of the world. Had the 
 whole inhabitants of the globe been 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 253 
 
 ranged on one side, and Barnaby on the 
 other, she would have sacrificed them 
 all to him, had there been need of it. 
 
 Major Davvkes might well return to 
 town in full reliance on his sister. No 
 undesirable visitors would be admitted 
 to any private interview at the Rock ; 
 no opportunity afforded for so much as 
 a documentary line being executed, let 
 alone a will. Keziah was a sure and 
 vigilant keeper. The strain on herself, 
 taking one hidden thing with another, 
 was great just now ; but she looked for 
 the time when it should be removed for 
 ever, and she and Barnaby be at liberty 
 to breathe again. One great consolation 
 attended it all : Caroline's state of inert 
 apathy. It was quite apparent that she 
 intended no active ill to her husband ; it 
 was equally apparent that never a thought 
 of leaving her money away from him 
 had place within her. It sometimes 
 crossed Keziah's mind to question wheth- 
 er Mrs. Dawkes remembered the fact, 
 that the disposal of her property lay in 
 her own power. 
 
 What with Caroline's almost certain 
 denial to visitors — between her own dis- 
 taste for it and Keziah's manoeuvring, 
 that was sure to be the result when call- 
 ers came — the Rock had been deserted 
 by such before the time of Mr. Kage's 
 visit. After his departure, Mr. Rufort 
 took to come with rather inconvenient 
 persistency. The fact was, Thomas 
 Kage had told him he ought to see Mrs. 
 Dawkes occasionally, considering the un- 
 certain state of health she was in — or, 
 rather, its too certain state ; and Mr. 
 Rufort acted on it. He got at length 
 to see the mistress of the Rock, going in 
 and out with tolerable regularity. But, 
 like the doctor, he never got to see her 
 alone. Just as Keziah invariably ac- 
 companied Mr. Owen to the rooms in the 
 south wing, so did she accompany Mr. 
 Rufort. Mr. Rufort hinted that he 
 should like to be, in his capacity as 
 Christ's minister, alone with the sick la- 
 dy. Keziah practically refused to take 
 the hint. She liked Mr. Rufort's visits, 
 she said ; they did her good. When 
 Mr. Rufort said, that in praying with 
 his sick parishioners he preferred to be 
 alone with them, Keziah rejoined that 
 she liked prayers. Mr. Rufort yielded ; 
 for Caroline besought him in a private 
 whisper — with anxious eyes of entreaty, 
 
 and a clasp of the hand to pain — not to 
 insist on the point ; at least, at present ; 
 time enough for it when she should be 
 nearer death. Mr. Rufort felt altogeth- 
 er a little puzzled, but said no more ; 
 and Keziah enjoyed the personal benefit 
 of the prayers. 
 
 Had Keziah Dawkes been told that 
 her sister-in-law was, in one sense, acting 
 a part, she had refused credence to it. 
 With all her knowledge of human nature, 
 its wiles and concealments, its tricks and 
 its turns, she had never believed that 
 Caroline was deceiving her; or that the 
 weak woman lying in the south wing, to 
 all appearance in utter inertness, in com- 
 plete apathy, could be plotting and plan- 
 ning as anxiously as the best of them. 
 But it was so. 
 
 Caroline set about what she had to do 
 with more cautious dread than there was 
 a necessity for. From the moment she 
 had parted with Thomas Kage, the night 
 of his secret visit by the postern-door, 
 her mind and brain had been incessantly 
 on the rack, thinking how she could get 
 Mr. Norris the solicitor to her. The un- 
 expected visit of her husband startled her 
 so effectually, that for some days she let 
 the matter rest. Over and over again 
 she asked herself the question : Had he 
 suspected what she was about to do, and 
 come down in consequence ? Fully did 
 Caroline believe that nothing, save the 
 watching over his own interests, would 
 bring him away from London. The ter- 
 ror she had felt when he went to the 
 lumber-closet in search of the fencing- 
 sticks, she felt still : it had seemed a con- 
 firmation of her fears. The Major's de- 
 parture, after only one clear day's stay, 
 somewhat reassured her ; but even then, 
 for some days, she did not dare to move 
 in it. The time came, however. And 
 while Keziah was knitting fresh patterns 
 into her woolen work below, congratu- 
 lating herself, rather than the contrary, 
 that her sister-in-law was lying more of 
 her hours away than usual in inert list- 
 lessness, shut up alone in the south wing, 
 with Fry within hearing of the silver 
 bell, Caroline was up and doing. Not 
 that the term "up and doing" could be 
 applied to poor Caroline in any but the 
 slightest degree. 
 
 " My dear Mr. Norris, — I have an 
 urgent reason for wishing to see you, 
 
254 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 and. to see you alone. It is essential 
 that your visit to me should be kept en- 
 tirely private, from my household as 
 well as from people in general. Please 
 note this. Will you be at the postern- 
 gate of the south wing to-morrow even- 
 ing at seven o'clock ? Fry will be wait- 
 ing for you, and bring you up to me. 
 She will take this note to you, and carry 
 back your verbal answer. I rely upon 
 'you, as my first husband's legal adviser, 
 and I may add friend : I have no one 
 else to rely upon. Be very cautious. 
 " Very sincerely yours, 
 
 " Caroline Dawkes." 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes sat reading this note 
 after it was written. It was the third 
 she had attempted. Neither of the 
 others pleased her, and they were 
 already in the fire. 
 
 " I think it will do," she murmured, 
 as she folded and sealed it. 
 
 Frv had her instructions. It was 
 necessary for Caroline to place some con- 
 fidence in her; but she did not tell her 
 what she wanted with Mr. Norris. Fry 
 was trustworthy ; and thought the little 
 private programme as good as a play. 
 
 Caroline went down to dinner that 
 da3 7 ; she said she felt better. Keziah 
 thought she looked it : the fact was that 
 the excitement caused by the conscious- 
 ness of what she was doing imparted 
 some life and coloring to the faded coun- 
 tenance. Rather to Keziah's surprise, 
 Caroline did- not go up after dinner, but 
 settled herself in an arm-chair.- It was 
 not often that she dined below now ; but 
 if so, she went away when the meal was 
 over. Of course, Keziah was full of 
 congratulation ; she talked to her sister- 
 in-law, and read to her a short story 
 from a magazine. Just as it had con- 
 cluded, Caroline was taken with a shiv- 
 ering fit, and Miss Dawkes rang for a 
 warm shawl. Mr. Owen did not much 
 like these attacks of shivering — they 
 had come on three or four times lately ; 
 he thought, though, they were purely 
 nervous. 
 
 " Where's Fry ? " demanded Miss 
 .Dawkes, when the s*hawl was brought 
 in by the upper housemaid. 
 
 "Fry's gone out, ma'am. She said 
 she wanted to buy herself some aprons." 
 
 '* She has no right to go out when she 
 knows her misti'ess may want her at any 
 
 moment," sharply returned Keziah. 
 " Did she ask your leave, Caroline ? " 
 
 "I forget," answered poor Caroline. 
 " I heard her say she wanted some new 
 aprons." 
 
 " She ought to have gone in the day- 
 time," persisted Keziah, who had no no- 
 tion of Fry's doing as she pleased with- 
 out permission. "Suppose you had 
 wanted to go to bed ? " 
 
 " Don't be angry with her, Keziah. 
 I keep her in so very much ; except to 
 church, she never goes out ; and she must 
 buy herself necessary things." 
 
 Keziah let the matter drop. Fry was 
 gone, as the reader knows quite well, to 
 Mr. Norris. It was only in the evening 
 she could see him ; for he was all day 
 long at his office at Aberton. Fry had 
 cleverly made the aprons the ostensible 
 excuse to the household. 
 
 The reader may think that all com- 
 ment might have been avoided by Fry's 
 going out by way of the postern -door. 
 But the truth was, poor Caroline had 
 got into that nervous state, that she was 
 afraid to be alone in the south wing after 
 dark. What with the surroundings of 
 little Tom's death (so dreadful to her im- 
 agination), and the reputation of the 
 ghost that was wont to hover around the 
 Lady's Well outside the windows, Car- 
 oline preferred company to solitude. 
 
 It was a bright starlight night when 
 Fry went forth. Mr. Norris's residence 
 was situated a little beyond the rectory, 
 as the reader may remember ; for he once 
 went to it with Miss Canterbury. She 
 knocked at the door and asked for the 
 lawyer. 
 
 " Not at home." 
 
 " Not at home ? " retorted Fry, as if 
 the man, an old acquaintance of hers, 
 were telling a story. " Mr. Norris gets 
 home before this." 
 
 " He do mostly. He's late to-night. 
 Is it anything I can say to him ? " 
 
 " No — I think not," replied Fry, as if 
 in deliberation. " I just wanted to say 
 a word to him myself. It can wait." 
 
 But, even as she was speaking, Mr. 
 Norris approached the door. He had 
 come from Aberton by the usual train, but 
 had called on some friend at Chilling. 
 
 " To see me, Fry ? Come in, then. 
 I suppose it's about that money you let 
 your brother have?" added the lawyer, 
 as he led the way to a sitting-room. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 255 
 
 "Yes, sir," was Fry's bold answer, 
 for the benefit of any ears that might he 
 open. " If he can't give me the money 
 back, he might try and pay me interest." 
 
 But, when the door was closed, she 
 presented the note in silence, and waited. 
 Mr. Norris read it, glanced at Fry, and 
 read it again. 
 
 " Do you know the purport of this? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Well, sir, I b'lieve it is to ask you 
 to come to the Rock to-morrow night ; 
 and I am to let } r ou in by the postern- 
 door." 
 
 " Just so. Your mistress says she 
 wishes to see me." 
 
 He looked at Fry, and she looked at 
 him. Each of them would have liked 
 to speak out pretty freely to the other. 
 
 " I fancied that postern entrance was 
 wholly unused, Fry. It's years since 
 I've heard it mentioned ; I'm not sure 
 but I had half forgotten there was such 
 an entrance." 
 
 " It was me that thought of it," said 
 Fry, proud of being able so far to com- 
 pliment her own memory. "There's 
 folks in our bouse no better than watch- 
 ful cats, and the servants be nothing but 
 tattling gossipers." 
 
 " And your mistress is virtually a 
 prisoner, eh, Fry ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't know but she is, sir. 
 For one thing, she don't seem to care to 
 be anything else. As to the Rock, that 
 was once so gay, it seems no better now 
 than a dungeon. A rare bother I had 
 to get that postern-door open. What 
 message am I to take back, sir?" 
 
 " Say to Mrs. Dawkes that I will come. 
 She mentions seven : at that hour I will 
 be at the postern-door." 
 
 " All right," said Fry. " If you will 
 come into the grounds, sir, by that little 
 private gate on the south side, it will 
 bring you past the Lady's Well to the 
 postern-door ; and you'll not be likely to 
 meet anybody, my mistress says. I 
 don't suppose you mind about what used 
 to be talked of — that the way was 
 haunted ? " 
 
 " Not very much," said Mr. Norris, 
 with a silent laugh. " I hear your 
 mistress is looking very ill, Fry." 
 
 '' She is just as ill as she looks," was 
 Fry's answer. "It won't be long, sir, 
 as far as I believe, before she goes after 
 the poor child she's always regretting." 
 
 Mr. Norris saw Fry out himself, whis- 
 
 pering to her a last charge, to be at her 
 post in readiness for him on the follow- 
 ing night. Fry dashed on to the gen- 
 eral shop in the village — for her wanting 
 the new aprons had been no false excu.se 
 — and went home with the checked mus- 
 lin in triumph. Keziah said a sharp 
 word to her — poor Caroline was in 
 weary waiting for her bed — which Fry 
 flung back again. 
 
 And when the next day came, circum- 
 stances seemed really to be favoring 
 Caroline. She was so weak, and looked 
 so ill, that Keziah, paying her morning 
 visit, advised her not to move out of her 
 room all day. At dusk Fry was down 
 stairs ; and coming in contact with Miss 
 Dawkes, said her mistress was still in 
 bed, and had given her orders to close up 
 the green baize door for the night, wish- 
 ing for perfect quiet in the wing. Miss 
 Dawkes nodded her head complacently, 
 and told Fry to be cautious not to make 
 any noise herself. 
 
 But the first thing Fry did, after bolt- 
 ing and barring the said door, was to as- 
 sist her mistress to dress and proceed to 
 the sitting-room. The fire burnt with a 
 bright blaze, the room had its full amount 
 of light. Cai'oline, sipping her tea, 
 looked the only faded thing in it. She 
 wore her usual black-silk gown — a mile 
 too large for her ; it was covered with a 
 shawl ; and her beautiful hair hung care- 
 lessly. Excitement lent her both heat 
 and color. In the state of sickness she 
 was, bodily and mentally, this coming 
 interview with the lawyer, and what she 
 must say at it, put her into a veritable 
 fever. 
 
 "Fry! Fry!" 
 
 Fry came in at the nervous covert call. 
 
 " It is seven o'clock, Fry. You ought 
 to be down at the postern-door." 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes had sat with her fever- 
 ish eyes fixed on the mantel-piece clock. 
 The hands were fast approaching the 
 hour. 
 
 " It w r ants six minutes good, ma'am, 
 by the right time ; that clock is five 
 minutes too fast. Mr. Owen said so 
 when he was here to-day ; and I know it 
 besides." 
 
 " Mr. Norris's watch may be fast also. 
 He must not be kept waiting, Fry." 
 
 "No fear. Them lawyers are never 
 afore their time, ma'am, unless it's to 
 sue a poor man for money." 
 
 " Fry, I tell you to go down. Better 
 
256 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 for you to wait than for Mr. Norris. He 
 might go away again." 
 
 Fry, grumbling a little, took her lamp, 
 and went clown. Waiting at that dusty 
 door, with the wind moaning amid the 
 trees outside, and the ghost farther off' 
 — it was said to come always on a windy 
 night — was not altogether agreeable. 
 But she had not stood there long when 
 footsteps were heard, the boughs were 
 pushed aside, and Mr. Norris stood 
 there. 
 
 " All right," he said. " How is your 
 mistress to-night ? " 
 
 " She is just as fidgety as she can be, 
 thinking I should not be down here in 
 time, and you might go away again," 
 was Fry's answer. " I'll tell you what 
 it is, sir : if the excitement of folks com- 
 ing to her this way was to last, she'd 
 just be in her grave before her time. 
 All dajr long she has kept her bed, 
 through nothing but the fever and wor- 
 ry she was in last night from knowing 
 I had come to you. Can you see, sir ? 
 I'll go on with the lamp." 
 
 " These stairs don't get wider with 
 age," remarked the lawyer, in a low 
 tone. 
 
 " They are the steepest and narrowest 
 stairs it was ever a lady's lot to go up or 
 down," was Fry's answer ; " which 
 stands to reason, seeing they are built in 
 the wall. I'd as soon come down a lad- 
 der : and sooner — there'd be less danger 
 of pitching over." 
 
 " As I did once," said Mr. Norris. 
 
 "You!" exclaimed Fry, stopping to 
 turn and look at him in the midst of the 
 said stairs. " Were you ever here before, 
 sir ? " 
 
 " Yes ; in the days of Edgar Canter- 
 bury. " The place has never been dusted 
 since that time, I should think, Fry. 
 My gloves are covered." 
 
 " It has never been as much as open- 
 ed, let alone dusted," answered Fry. 
 " Here we are, sir." 
 
 With alight tread the lawyer stepped 
 through the lumber-closet, and into the 
 presence of Mrs. Dawkes. The shawl 
 had slipped from her shoulders. Very 
 thin and worn and'shadowy did she look ; 
 and Mr. Norris could but contrast the 
 poor faded thing before him with the 
 beautiful and blooming girl whose en- 
 trance into the Canterbury family had 
 caused so much trouble and heart-burn- 
 
 ing. He had hated the intruder in his 
 heart of hearts, for a love of justice was 
 implanted strongly within him, lav^er 
 though he was ; but in this moment his 
 resentment passed away with a cry of 
 pity, for he almost thought he was look- 
 ing on the dead. 
 
 " Poor thing !" he involuntarily mur- 
 mured, as he took her hand. " My dear, 
 you are very ill." 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " the time is 
 getting short now. That is why I was 
 so anxious to see you." 
 
 Mr. Norris sat down by her, and they 
 talked together in a low tone. The con- 
 sciousness of the necessity of secrecy lay 
 upon them, otherwise both knew it was 
 impossible they could be overheard. Mr. 
 Norris had been cognisant of the past 
 troubles connected with Edgar Canter- 
 bur} T , and he knew this part of the house 
 just as well as its present mistress. 
 
 Caroline told him what she wanted — a 
 will made that would in a degree repair 
 the injustice of Lhe last one. Without 
 speaking with the express plainness she 
 had used to Thomas Kage, Mr. Norris 
 gathered a vast deal. He nodded his 
 head, and drew in his lips, and thought 
 it was altogether about the most remark- 
 able case he had ever come across. 
 
 " I could not die in peace if I did not 
 make the will," she said with feverish 
 lips. " I should never rest in my 
 grave." 
 
 " My dear lady," he said, " there's 
 no earthly reason why you should not 
 make one. It's what you ought to do. 
 As to that watchful person downstairs, I 
 think we can manage to keep her in the 
 dark. If you were in stronger health, I 
 should advise a totally different course 
 of procedure ; but — " 
 
 " But I am not strong enough for it," 
 interrupted Caroline with painful eager- 
 ness. " You mean open opposition, the 
 asserting of my own position and 
 rights ; but if matters came to that, it 
 would kill me." 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " Will }-ou write down my instruc- 
 tions ? I have thought of all I wish to 
 do — and say." 
 
 Mr. Norris took some paper from his 
 pocket, a pen, and a tiny ink-boltle. 
 He began unscrewing the stopper. 
 
 " I suppose it will be legal ? " she 
 said. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 257 
 
 He did not understand. "What le- 
 gal ? the will ? Most certainly. Why 
 should it not be ? " 
 
 "I thought — because it is made in 
 secret." 
 
 " As a vast many wills are made. 
 Trust to me for its being in due order. 
 And now — " 
 
 What Mr. Norris was about to say 
 received a most startling interruption — 
 startling, at least, to one who heard it. 
 It was a loud knocking at the green- 
 'baize door, followed by the voice of Ke- 
 ziah Dawkes. 
 
 Caroline gave a faint cry. Were Mr. 
 Norris to be seen with her, all was at 
 an end. 
 
 With her trembling hands clasped 
 upon her bosom — with her poor face 
 whiter than ashes — with steps that tot- 
 tered as she stood, and a sick faintness 
 that seemed as if it must overpower her, 
 Caroline looked forth. 
 
 " Don't answer, don't answer ! " she 
 breathed to Fry, who had appeared at 
 her own door with a carelessly-defiant 
 countenance. 
 
 '• Not going to," nodded Fry in a 
 whisper. "Let her think I've gone to 
 bed myself. — That's right, Madam 
 Dawkes; you can knock again." 
 
 '■ Fry ! Fry ! " cried out Keziah, " it's 
 a letter for your mistress; it has 'Im- 
 mediate ' marked upon it." 
 
 No response. Keziah went away 
 grumbling. Things were coine to a 
 pretty pass, she thought, when servants 
 went to bed at seven o'clock in the 
 evening. 
 
 " All right, Madam Dawkes ! " said 
 impudent Fry ; " you don't get over me. 
 The letter will have to keep, though it 
 came from the Pope o' Rome." 
 
 But later, when Mr. Norris, his busi- 
 ness for the night accomplished, had been 
 escorted down the postern-stairs and was 
 safely away, Fry went to Miss Dawkes 
 with a face as bold as brass. Asking 
 whether, or not, anybody had knocked : 
 she fancied to have heard it, but was en- 
 gaged at the time with her mistress. 
 
 And the letter proved to be nothing but 
 a note from Mr. Owen, containing some in- 
 structions in regard to the medicine Mrs. 
 Dawkes was taking that he had omitted 
 to give in the morning when paj'ing his 
 visit to the Rock. 
 
 " Shall I get the will executed, or 
 1G 
 
 not ?" murmured poor Caroline from her 
 sleepless bed, when the household was 
 hushed in sleep. It seems a great chance. 
 Perhaps Heaven will help me ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE LAST AND FINAL "WILL. 
 
 In the comfortable compartment of a 
 first-class carriage, one of a train that 
 was on its way to Chilling, sat Major 
 Dawkes. It was not a cold day by any 
 means, for spring sunshine lay on the 
 earth, wooing the hedges to start into 
 bud, the flowers to blossom ; but Major 
 Dawkes liked to travel warmly, and a ricil 
 fur wrapper, lined with wool and scarlet 
 silk, lay on his knees. His cheeks wore 
 their usual bloom, his whiskers were of 
 the same old purple richness, and the Ma- 
 jor was decidedly getting plump : but he 
 composed his countenance to a grave sad- 
 ness befitting the occasion, for he was 
 hastening dowu to his wife's deathbed. 
 
 At least he would have told you lie 
 was hastening — as lie did incidentally toll 
 the old lad} 7 and gentleman seated opp> 
 site to him in the carriage — for he was 
 rather given to indulge in little boasts of 
 fiction. But the real fact was, that in- 
 stead of hastening down, he had so con- 
 trived to retard his movements, that the 
 closing scene would in all probability 
 be over before he arrived. Which was 
 what he secretly wished. 
 
 Mrs. Dawkes had lingered longer than 
 was expected by herself, by her medical 
 attendants, or by anyone about her. 
 Strange somewhat to say, with the cold 
 weather of the winter she had rallied a 
 little. If it could not be said that she 
 grew materially better, at least she did 
 not appear worse ; her progress to the 
 grave seemed to have made a halt — to 
 have become for the time stationary. 
 But the life she led was not any the less 
 secluded ; with the exception of the doc- 
 tors and Mr. Rufort, she scarcely saw 
 any one ; visitors to her were, she ac- 
 knowledged, utterly distasteful. The 
 former restlessness of mind and manner 
 had subsided, and given place to a still 
 calmness. Very peacefully did she seem 
 to wait for the coming death. Nay, to 
 welcome it. 
 
258 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 In February Mrs. Kage died. Keziah 
 Dawkes, who took upon herself the or- 
 dering of matters, let her be buried with- 
 out any needless ceremony ; neither Ma- 
 jor Dawkes nor Thomas Kage was in- 
 vited to attend the funeral. Caroline 
 seemed not to care one way or the other, 
 and did not interfere ; her poor mother 
 was " better off," she said to Mr. Rufort, 
 and it seemed to be her whole feeling in 
 regard to it. So Keziah had it all her 
 own way. Later, Mrs. Dawkes began 
 herself to droop again ; and when it be- 
 came apparent that the end was close at 
 hand, Keziah sent up a telegram to her 
 brother. The Major telegraphed up to 
 say he was " on duty," but would get 
 away as immediately as he could. He 
 had always made " duty " a standing 
 plea of excuse. Quietly suffering two 
 days to elapse, the Major then went 
 down. 
 
 The first person he saw at Chilling sta- 
 tion was Mr. Carlton of the Hall : quite 
 a young man in activity still, in spite of 
 his more than seventy years. He hap- 
 pened to be on the platform when Major 
 Dawkes alighted. The latter (privately 
 wishing him a hundred miles off) went up 
 to him with outstretched hand and a face 
 as long as a walking-stick, mournfully 
 hoping his dear wife was better. 
 
 '•' She is dead," said Mr. Carlton, pri- 
 vately believing just as much and as little 
 of the displayed concern as he chose. 
 
 " Dead ! My wife dead ! " 
 
 " She died at five o'clock this morning, 
 Major Dawkes. So you are somewhat 
 late, you see. Some of us thought you 
 might have been coming earlier." 
 
 " Duty," groaned the Major, bolting 
 into the only fly waiting. " Dear me ! 
 — Richard, see to my portmanteau." 
 
 Keziah, gray in face as ever, but in- 
 tensely calm, received him in one of the 
 smallest and snuggest sitting-rooms. He 
 went through the same farce here — the 
 plea of " duty." She believed just as 
 much as she chose ; but she held his 
 hand in hers, and murmured her heart- 
 felt thanks that he, her ever-beloved 
 brother, was free at last. 
 
 " Got any of the brown sherry up, 
 Keziah ? » 
 
 " Yes, dear." 
 
 " I'll take some." 
 
 Miss Dawkes went and brought it in 
 herself. The Major drank two glasses of 
 it at once, Keziah fondly watching him. 
 
 " All's right, I suppose, Keziah ? " 
 " All is quite right. But I don't ex- 
 actly know what you mean." 
 
 " She expressed no wish at the last 
 about the property, I suppose ? " 
 
 " None. It was the same as usual to 
 the last hour of her life — utter indiffer- 
 ence to all worldly things. She never 
 mentioned her property at all ; I feel 
 sure she did not so much as think of it." 
 " All's mine, then." 
 " Everything, Barby dear, every- 
 thing." 
 
 The Major dashed off another glass of 
 the famous brown sherry — the same that 
 Mr. Canterbury in his life-time used to 
 boast of. Major Dawkes's head was 
 strong; a few glasses more or less of 
 good old wine made no difference to him. 
 " You s e now the utility of my tak- 
 ing care that Caroline had no opportunity 
 of making a will, Keziah. She might 
 have got bequeathing some of her money 
 to thos^ C mterbury women." 
 
 " As if I should have allow-d it ! " re- 
 sponded Keziah. " Barnaby, it is an 
 immense inheritance." 
 
 The Major smacked his lips ; partty at 
 the sherry, parti}' at the suggested 
 thought. He liked to be reminded that 
 he was a millionaire. 
 
 " You shall have a share in it, Kez. 
 I shall set you up in comfort for life. 
 This is real property, you see ; what I 
 came into when I married was but a lim- 
 ited income." 
 
 Keziah smiled. " Limited ! " 
 " Well it toas in comparison. The 
 bulk of the property lay in Kage's hands 
 then, as the child' trustee. I wonder 
 what he'll think now — hang him ! Have 
 you seen anything of the fellow late- 
 ly?" 
 
 "No. He has not been down since 
 that one visit. When Mrs. Dunn went 
 up to her house in London for Christmas, 
 she took the Miss Canfcerburys with 
 her; and they have not long come back 
 again. Lydia Dunn is with them. Kage 
 has written to Caroline two or three times, 
 but she gave me the letters to answer." 
 "What was in his letters?" 
 '^Nothing much. Inquiries after 
 health, and that. It is all right, Barby ; 
 it has all been smooth as glass." 
 
 Barby stroked his whiskers compla- 
 cently'. Yes, it had all been smooth, 
 his heart responded, and h.e was ^vast 
 inheritor. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S AYILL 
 
 259 
 
 " I wish to goodness that miserable 
 old woman was alive now, Keziah ; our 
 ancient aunt. She'd open her eyes at 
 my wealth. Her own, that she grudged 
 me, was a flea-bite by the side of it." 
 
 " I wish she was, Barby. 'Tvrould 
 give her a fit of the spleen." 
 
 There was a short pause. Major 
 Dawkes turned and gave the fire a knock 
 with his boot. 
 
 " Did she suffer much at the last ? " 
 " no," was the reply, for Keziah 
 knew he was speaking of his wife. " She 
 drifted out of life very quietly and 
 calmly." 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by 
 the entrance of Mr. Rufort. Hearing 
 of the Major's arrival, he had come up 
 to see him, having been charged with a 
 note from Mrs. Dawkes. The Major 
 took it wonderingly, perhaps with some 
 inward trepidation ; but it proved to be 
 a very harmless missive indeed — merely 
 expressing some wishes about her fun- 
 eral. 
 
 She had first of all expressed them to 
 Mr. Rufort in the presence of Keziah, 
 though Keziah only partially gathered 
 their purport, for she had been engaged 
 at the moment in a wordy war with Fry. 
 Mr. Rufort had suggested to Mrs. 
 Dawkes that she should convey them in 
 a note to her husband ; and she so far 
 complied as to pencil down the wishes 
 on paper, put it in an envelope, and di- 
 rect it to the Major, charging Mr. Rufort 
 to deliver it. 
 
 It appeared that she desired the same 
 friends and relatives to attend her fun- 
 eral who had attended her former hus- 
 band's — Mr. Canterbury. She wished 
 the Miss Canterburys to be invited to 
 spend the day of the funeral at the Rock 
 — as they had been at the former one — 
 also Mrs. Rufort ; and Mrs. Dunn, as 
 she was staying at Chilling. In short, 
 she directed tfiat the arrangements for 
 this funeral, with one notable exception, 
 should be similar to the last that went 
 out of the Rock. Mr. Canterbury had 
 been put into his grave with all the pomp 
 and pageantry of a theatrical show : she 
 was to be taken to it with the smallest 
 ceremony and expense that should be 
 deemed consistent. 
 
 Major Dawkes, relieved of any private 
 doubts, was all suavity. Had his late 
 wife wished that the whole parish should 
 
 be at the Rock that day, he would cor- 
 dially have invited them. 
 
 " Your late wife's wishes appear very 
 simple ones, Major Dawkes ; I presume 
 there will be no difficulty put in the way 
 of their being carried out," observed the 
 Rector. 
 
 " None in the world," heartily replied 
 the Major. 
 
 " She seemed to make a great point of 
 it — the dj'ing have these fancies you 
 know — and begged me to see them car- 
 ried out. I told her I could only urge it 
 upon you, Major, and that she had bet- 
 ter write to j'ou herself." 
 
 " They are precisely my own wishes," 
 spoke the complaisant Major. " Only 
 the half of any wish, expressed by my 
 dear departed wife, I can but look upon 
 as a solemn charge, strictly to be com- 
 plied with. Perhaps you will oblige me 
 by giving in the list of people yourself, 
 Mr. Rufort ; I was not at Mr. Canter- 
 bury's funeral, and might make a mis- 
 take over it." 
 
 But in one sense, he had been at Mr. 
 Canterbury's funeral. For he had 
 watched the pageant along the road, and 
 made his comments. The recollection 
 flashed into his mind now, bringing a 
 flush to his face. His hopeless condition 
 then, and his flourishing state now, were 
 indeed a strange contrast. 
 
 " Who conducts the funeral ? " he 
 asked, turning to Keziah. 
 
 " I have given no orders," she replied. 
 " I waited for you." 
 
 " I wonder who conducted Mr. Canter- 
 bury's ? " 
 
 " I can tell you about that," said the 
 Rector. "Young Mrs. Canterbury was 
 inexperienced ; and at her request Norris 
 the solicitor undertook all the trouble of 
 it, transmitting her wishes himself to the 
 proper quarters. Of course he charged 
 for his time." 
 
 " Then I think Norris had better un- 
 dertake this one," spoke the Major in a 
 fit of liberality. " You can write to him, 
 Keziah." 
 
 In his anxiety that things should go 
 smoothly, that all unpleasant reminis- 
 cences of the past should be kept down, 
 as well as reflections on the present, Ma- 
 jor Dawkes was eagerly desirous that 
 these wishes of his wife's should be car- 
 ried out to the letter. A conviction 
 darted across him that it would be any- 
 
2i30 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 thing but agreeable to have the Canter- 
 bury family at the Rock on the day of 
 the funeral, and he would very much in- 
 deed dislike the presence of Thomas 
 Kage ; but there was no help for it. If 
 he refused compliance, how could he tell 
 that something would not be made of it ? 
 — tungues were so venomous : that the 
 very idea of any inquiry or unpleasant- 
 ness turned him sick with an undefined 
 fear. Refuse concession in this little 
 matter, and people might but a k how- 
 lie had come into all the money, and 
 what right he had to it. No; the very 
 conciousness that it might be suspected 
 he had wished for his wife's death, made 
 him all the more scrupulous, if only from 
 prudential considerations, to carry out 
 her wishes to the extreme letter. Had 
 they been transmitted to him in private, 
 he would simply have put them and the 
 paper they were written on into the 
 nearest tire; but they came publicly, 
 through the Honorable and Reverend 
 Austin Rufort. 
 
 " I should have refused, Barnaby, had 
 I been you," remarked Keziah, as she 
 finished the note to Mr. Norn's, after 
 they were left alone. " It will be fright- 
 fully disagreeable to have the Canter- 
 bury family here." 
 
 " You are a foul, Keziah." 
 
 " For myself I don't mind ; but I am 
 sure von will not like it, Barby dear," 
 she resumed, passing over in silence the 
 compliment to herself. 
 
 " Don't you see there was no help for 
 it ? ' 
 
 " Yes, there was. You are now sole 
 master here, and need fear no one." 
 
 " I don't know about fear," said the 
 Major dreamily. " One likes to stand 
 well in the world's opinion. The invi- 
 tation must be given to them and Kage 
 also ; but I should think the Canter- 
 bury's will not accept it. They must 
 feel that they have no business here, 
 and will be quite out of place. How 
 she came to think of so foolish a thing, 
 is beyond me to imagine." 
 
 " Some idea of respect to their father 
 and to them must have been floating in 
 her weakened head, poor creature," sur- 
 mised Keziah. " She was Mr. Canter- 
 bury's wife once, and would not have 
 his daughters quite ignored at her funer- 
 al. I wish the daj r was over. Barnaby, 
 if I were you I should let the Rock." 
 
 " I shall sell it," said the Major, im- 
 proving upon the suggestion. " If I 
 can get my price for it." 
 
 He rather wished with Keziah that 
 the funeral-clay was over : and it was 
 fixed for an early one. The presence 
 of those ladies and of Thomas Kage 
 would no doubt a little put him out of 
 ease. But it could not last more than 
 its appointed hours, and he determined 
 to make the best of it, and act the host 
 with courteous grace. The anticipation 
 did not disturb him: he was in too gra- 
 cious a mood for that. His golden 
 dreams were at last realised, and with 
 the death of his wife all tormenting 
 dread had passed away. This magnifi- 
 cent mansion and its magnificent reve- 
 nues were his ; his only, as Keziah said ; 
 it was a costly nugget to have come in- 
 to : and that there could be any doubt 
 that he had come into it, never for the 
 faintest shadow of a moment crossed 
 Major Dawkes's mind. 
 
 Once more a stately funeral issued 
 from the Rock. In one respect Major 
 Dawkes ignored his dead wife's com- 
 mands and abandoned the simplicity 
 she had expressed a wish for. If the 
 funeral procession was not quite of the 
 gorgeous nature that had characterised 
 Mr. Canterbury's, the show was at least 
 sumptuous to look at it. In a coach all 
 to himself, following next the hearse, sat 
 the bereaved Major, black with all the 
 trappings of woe. In the next were 
 Thomas Kage and Austin Rufort; the 
 latter attending as mourner and relative 
 to-day, not as pastor. And so ou, a 
 string of coaches and carriages imposing 
 to the eye. 
 
 George Canterbury's daughters had 
 accepted the invitation to the Rock, 
 very much to Major and Miss Dawkes's 
 secret surprise, as well as to that of the 
 neighborhood. The only one of them 
 who had fought against it was Mrs. 
 Dunn. Millicent was passive as usual. 
 Olive decided that they should go. 
 After this day, all connection with the 
 Rock and with the second family would 
 be at an end, she observed ; and it was 
 well for the parting to have a peaceful 
 feeling about it. Besides which, it was 
 the last expressed wish of poor Caroline 
 Dawkes, and therefore to be complied 
 with. 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 201 
 
 So the four sisters, attired in suitable 
 mourning, arrived at the Rock a short 
 while before the hour fixed on for the 
 funeral. They sat in the grand drawing- 
 room — Olive, Mrs. Rufort, Mrs. Dunn, 
 and Millicent. Keziah, in deep black, 
 also was there, playing the hostess. 
 Civility reigned, of course ; but, in 
 spite of effort, the conversation flagged, 
 only a remark being made now and 
 then. Once, Mrs. Dunn, in her free 
 wa} r , found fault with some arrangement 
 at the lodge, saying their carriage had 
 waited at least three minutes for the 
 gates to be opened. She could not tell 
 for her part, why they were closed at 
 all. 
 
 " The keeper is getting negligent," 
 observed Keziah ; " my brother intends 
 to discharge him. There are several al- 
 terations and changes he means to 
 make ; but he thought it as well to let 
 them be during Mrs. Dawkes's life." 
 
 No answer from anybody. Mrs. 
 Dunn had to bite her rebellious tongue 
 though, which had a mind to tell Keziah 
 that the power to make alterations be- 
 fore lay with the Major's wife, not with 
 him. 
 
 A weary while it seemed to wait ; 
 and, in truth, even Olive wondered why 
 they should have been summoned to the 
 Rock, and thought it was somewhat 
 of a mistake. But the coaches were 
 coming back at last, with their slow 
 tread, bearing the immediate personal 
 friends of the family. The comparative 
 strangers were taken home direct from 
 the churehj-ard. 
 
 As the coaches stopped at the entrance, 
 Major Dawkes (who had been pnvatelj 7 
 hoping nobody would alight) found that 
 everybod}' did alight, and that Norris the 
 solicitor was taking upon himself to in- 
 vite the company to enter. The Major 
 turned rather red, and would have liked 
 to resent the liberty ; but, in the face of 
 the gentlemen, could not say he did not 
 want them to come in. While he hesitat- 
 ed, Mr. Norris walked forward, threw 
 open the door of the library — a room 
 scarcely used since Mr. Canterbury's 
 time — and marshalled the people to it : 
 Lord Rufort and his son, Mr. Carlton 
 and Mr. Kage. Major Dawkes brought 
 up the rear, and politely asked them if 
 the}'' would like to sit down. He could 
 not imagine why they need have enter- 
 
 ed, or what fit of officiousness had taken 
 Norris. 
 
 But Norris had disappeared. Onlyfor 
 an instant, when he came in with the 
 ladies — Mr. Canterbury's daughters and 
 Keziah. They all sat down ; and then 
 the lawyer adressed Major Dawkes. 
 
 " Shall we proceed now, sir, to read 
 the will ? " 
 
 Major Dawkes looked at him. 
 " Whose will ? " 
 " Your late wife's, sir." 
 " Mrs. Dawkes made no will." 
 " Pardon me, Major ; Mrs. Dawkes 
 executed a w T ill, all in due order. She 
 wrote to me a few days before her death, 
 stating it would be found in the large 
 drawer of this bureau, quite at the bot- 
 tom, beneath the old leases and the other 
 out-of-date papers." 
 
 The lawyer touched a piece of furniture 
 as he spoke ; but the widower smiled with 
 incredulity. The attention of the whole 
 room was aroused, and drawn to Mr. Nor- 
 ris. 
 
 " There is no will, I tell you," persist- 
 ed the Major. " My wife never made 
 one." 
 
 " Major Dawkes, she did." 
 ■' When and where ? " 
 "In this house, some months ago," re- 
 plied the lawyer. " I made it." 
 
 Miss Dawkes half rose from her seat. 
 Her gray face had a scornful look on it ; 
 the gruffness of her voice was unpleasant- 
 ly perceptible. 
 
 " Mrs. Dawkes made no will in this 
 house ; I can take upon myself to assert 
 it ; and you never were here, Mr. Norris.'' 
 " I beg your pardon, madam. I came 
 here and took Mrs. Dawkes-'s instructions 
 for a will. When it was prepared, I 
 came again, and brought witnesses with 
 me to attest her signature." 
 
 The words were spoken so calmly, in 
 so matter-of-fact a tone, that the Major 
 was startled. He turned a look, full of 
 evil, upon his sister. 
 
 " It is false ! " she cried, utterly refus- 
 ing credence. " It is a conspiracy con- 
 cocted amongst the Canterbury family to 
 deprive you of your rights, Barnaby. I 
 will pledge myself to the fact that Mrs. 
 Dawkes made no will : she could not 
 have done so without my knowledge." 
 
 " Your not having been cognisant of 
 this is easily explained, madam," return- 
 ed Mr. Norris. " Mrs. Dawkes became 
 
232 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 possessed of an idea that she was not 
 quite a free agent in her own house : cer- 
 tainly was not permitted to be so much 
 alone as she desired to be. She there- 
 fore retired to the south wing, and caus- 
 ed the baize door to be erected to shut in 
 her apartments. This, so far, is patent 
 to you and to all. Later, when she had 
 occasion to see a friend or two in private, 
 she ordered the small postern-door to be 
 unfastened. It leads direct up to those 
 apartments, and by that means she was 
 enabled to receive her visitors. They 
 were confined, however, to one or two. 
 That is how I got access to her." 
 
 " The postern - door ? " gasped Miss 
 Dawkes, after taking in the sense of the 
 lawyer's words with a sickening heart. 
 ' 4 What postern-door ? I did not know 
 there was one." 
 
 " Possibly not, madam. You are, com- 
 paratively speaking, a stranger here, and 
 the door is hidden by trees, and has nev- 
 er been used of late years." 
 
 Major Dawkes, amidst a multitude of 
 feelings that were anything but agreea- 
 ble, began wondering whether he had 
 ever known of the postern-door. At 
 first he could not decide ; but a thought 
 began to dawn over him that he did once 
 hear of this, and had afterwards forgot- 
 ten it. 
 
 " I can assure you Mrs. Dawkes made 
 her will," persisted Mr. Norris. 
 
 " And I can assure you she never did," 
 uselessly persisted Keziah. 
 
 " The shortest way to settle it is to 
 look in the drawer and see if. there is a 
 will," interrupted Mr. Carlton. " Mor- 
 ris told me, coming back in the coach, 
 that I am one of the executors." 
 
 "You are," said Mr. Norris ; "and 
 Lord Rufort is the other." 
 
 Lord Rufort sat still in his chair, too 
 stately to be moved by that, or by any 
 other information ; and there was a 
 pause. 
 
 " We wait, sir," he said to Major 
 Dawk ps. 
 
 Major Dawkes was at bay. 
 
 " My lord, there is no will. I will 
 equally pledge myself to it with my sis- 
 ter. It will be useless to examine the 
 place." 
 
 " As you please, Major Dawkes," said 
 Mi-. Norris. " The will was made, and 
 signed, in duplicate ; and I took charge 
 of the other copy. ' To guard against 
 
 possible accidents,' Mrs. Dawkes said. 
 I have it with me." 
 
 Major Dawkes, foiled, and doubly at 
 bay, searched for the key and opened the 
 drawer. There was the will. He could 
 have gnashed his teeth, but for those 
 around. He sat down, and bit one of 
 the fingers of his black-kid glove. 
 
 " She may have left half the money 
 away from me," he murmured in Keziah 'a 
 ear, dashing his hair from his damp 
 brow. 
 
 Mr. Norris opened the deed and put 
 on his spectacles. 
 
 The will began by premising that no 
 person whatever was a party to its eon- 
 tents : that it was the testator's own 
 uncounselled act and deed, biased by a 
 sense of justice alone. There were a 
 few legacies to servants and friends ; the 
 largest was one. fift,y pounds a-year, to 
 the nurse Judith for her life, and at her 
 disposal afterwards ; and there was a 
 command that the remains of her little 
 bo} r should be brought from the ceme- 
 tery at Brompton, to be finally laid by 
 herself and his father. 
 
 Mr. Norris then cleared his throat, 
 and the Major turned red with expecta- 
 tion. 
 
 " I bequeath this mansion, the Rock, 
 and all that it contains, — plate, furniture, 
 books, pictures, together with the lands 
 and revenues pertaining to it, — to Olive 
 Canterbury, absolutely. I bequ sath the 
 whole of the money of which I may die 
 possessed, the remainder of the lands, the 
 houses (save and except the Rock), to 
 the four daughters of my late husband, 
 George Canterbury, to be shared by them 
 in equal portions. I bequeath to Thom- 
 as Kage my gold watch and chain, with 
 the locket, key, and seal attached ; and 
 I be,^ him to accept them a token of 
 gratitude for his unvarying kindness to 
 me and his solicitude for my best wel- 
 fare. And I bequeath to my present 
 husband, Barnaby Dawkes, the sum of 
 five-and-twenty pounds, wherewith to 
 purchase a mourning-ring, which he will 
 wear in remembrance of my dear child, 
 Thomas Canterbuiw." 
 
 Such, shorn of its technicalities, was 
 the substance of the will. 
 
 An intense silence prevailed in the 
 room. The surprise of all present was 
 so great, that every tongue was tied. 
 Only with their eyes did people look at 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 263 
 
 each other, and seem to question whether 
 it was a dream. 
 
 Major Dawkes sat, a pitiable object to 
 look upon, like unto a man who has re- 
 ceived his death-blow. Suddenly the 
 perspiration, great drops of it, began 
 breaking out on his livid face. Was it 
 the fact of his entire disinheritance, or 
 the peculiar allusion to Thomas Canter- 
 bury, that caused his face to wear that 
 deathly hue ? He was a ruined man : 
 yesterday he stood on a high pinnacle, 
 vaunting his wealth and position ; to-day 
 he was hurled from it, and hurled from 
 it for ever. 
 
 He felt reckless. " I dispute the 
 will ! " Cried he, in his desperation. 
 " Mr. Norris, you will take mj* instruc- 
 tions preparatory to setting it aside.". 
 
 Mr. Norris smiled. "You forget that 
 I am solicitor to the Canterbury family. 
 — I presume I may say so much ? " he 
 added, turning to Miss Canterbury. 
 
 Olive bowed. 
 
 " Why, you might just as well tell 
 the 'sun not to shine, as attempt to set 
 aside a plain will like that, Major," 
 cried Mr. Carlton. " Though I sym- 
 pathize with your disappointment, 
 Dawkes," he added, " I cannot imagine 
 how you could so mortally have offended 
 your wife, as to be cut off with noth- 
 
 ing." 
 
 "Very strange indeed!" remarked 
 Lord Rufort. And " Very strange 
 indeed ! " murmured everybody else, 
 with the exception of the lawyer and 
 Thomas Kage. 
 
 Mr. Rufort stepped forward, and held 
 out a small parcel towards Mr. Kage. 
 
 " It is the legacy mentioned in the 
 will," said he ; " the w y atch and chain. 
 Mrs. Dawkes gave it into my charge to 
 convey to you." 
 
 And Thomas Kage rose and took it, a 
 vivid flush of bygone recollections dye- 
 ing his face. 
 
 " I wonder you had not a better me- 
 mento than that ; a good thumping sum 
 of money, for instance," exclaimed the 
 unceremonious Mr. Carlton to Thomas 
 Kage. " You were her nearest relative 
 save her mother : her only relative liv- 
 ing. The chronometer is valuable, 
 but counts for nothing as a legacy." 
 
 " In legacies from friends we do not 
 look at value, Mr. Carlton," was 
 Thomas Kage's reply, given in a low 
 tone. 
 
 Rut Miss Dawkes, only now begin- 
 ning to recover her scared senses, could 
 not let the matter rest. She must fight 
 it out to the last. 
 
 " When my brother gives it as his 
 opinion that this will has been concocted, 
 he only states what is no doubt the fact. 
 Perhaps you Were her adviser, sir ? " — 
 turning sharply on Mr. Rufort. 
 
 " Indeed, no," Mr. Rufort quietly 
 replied ; " I had nothing to do with the 
 will in any way. Mrs. Dawkes once 
 said to me that her pecuniary affairs 
 were settled, and that is all I ever 
 heard. Had any one asked me, previ- 
 ous to this hour, to whom her fortune 
 was most likely left, I should have an 
 swered, to her husband. I never sup- 
 posed there was a doubt that he would 
 have it." 
 
 " Were you one of the visitors we 
 now hear of as sneaking in through 
 the postern-door ? " continued the angry 
 lady. 
 
 " Certainly not. There was no neces- 
 sity. I never knew the postern-door 
 had been unfastened. Allow me to re- 
 mind you, Miss Dawkes, that 3 - ou invari- 
 ably made a third at my interviews with 
 Mrs. Dawkes, up to the last," pointedly 
 concluded Mr. Rufort. Had she wished 
 for any private conversation with me, or 
 I with her, the opportunity was not af- 
 forded for it." 
 
 True ; very true. Keziah drew in 
 her thin lips as she mentally acknowl- 
 edged it. And 0, of what avail had 
 been all the precaution ? Of all 
 moments of Keziah's past life, this was 
 perhaps the most hopelessly miserable. 
 
 A general rise to leave shortly took 
 place : to say the truth, neither the Can- 
 terbury family nor the Dawkses felt at 
 ease. That this was but a restitution 
 of the justice so long diverted, Olive 
 knew ; but it seemed to be harder than 
 it need have been on Major Dawkes. 
 Unless — a suspicion was crossing her 
 mind that she started from with horror ; 
 and would willingly have put far away, 
 but that thoughts are not under our own 
 control. Mr. Norris approached the 
 Major. 
 
 " You will be prepared to give up pos- 
 session at your earliest convenience, 
 Major," he said. " Not at your incon- 
 venience, you know : I am sure Miss 
 Canterbury would not wish that." 
 
 And perhaps, of all the shocks he had 
 
264 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 receiver! during the past half-hour, this 
 practical one was the most startling. 
 Give up possession ? Ay, give up pos- 
 session of all : Major Dawkes's day was 
 over. 
 
 It seemed impossible to realize it. 
 Watching the carriages away, through 
 the half-raised blind, it seemed simply 
 impossible that it could be reality. A 
 man of almost unlimited wealth when 
 he rose that morning; his, the fair do- 
 main, stretched out far and wide ; nu- 
 merous servants who called him master ; 
 c irriages and horses at his sole com- 
 mand ! And now — all had been dashed 
 down at one fell swoop, and he was — 
 what he was. 
 
 Turning to Keziah with a stamp and 
 an evil frown, he cursed her. It was 
 something to have a vent for blame to 
 stand upon. Cursed her want of vig- 
 ilance, that he said had wrought the 
 mischief. 
 
 " Stay, Barnabv," she interposed. 
 " The fault lies with you — if anywhere ; 
 certainly not with me. I could not di- 
 vine there existed a private door to the 
 wing; there was no inspiration to tell 
 it me. If you knew of it, you should 
 have warned me." 
 
 Ay. But then his memorj'- had plaj-ed 
 him treacherously. 
 
 "It appears to me to be just one of 
 those unhappy chances of life for which 
 there is no human prevention," resumed 
 Keziah, her tone low from intense inward 
 pain. " I'd never have failed you, Bar- 
 naby, fair play being given me ;.but how 
 could I combat with shadows that I did 
 not know were there ? " 
 
 Must he give all up ? Was there no 
 possible loophole by which he could right 
 matters again — or at least fight for it ? 
 The Major was deeply engaged in this 
 mental calculation when Mr. Norris came 
 into the room. Instead of departing 
 with the others, he had remained to give 
 sundry private charges to Neel, as to 
 the looking closely after valuables. He 
 trusted neither the Major nor Miss 
 Dawkes. 
 
 " I have resolved upon my course of 
 conduct," spoke the Major, overcoming 
 *his surprise; for he too thought Mr. 
 Norris had departed. " Mrs. Dawkes 
 was, beyond all doubt, insane when she 
 made the will ; that is, so mentally 
 weakened as not to be of lucid capacity. 
 On those grounds, I shall dispute it." 
 
 Mr. Norris sent Miss Dawkes from the 
 room, saying that he must speak a word 
 to her brother in private. He made the 
 Major sit down, and drew a chair for 
 himself in front of him. 
 
 "Look here, Major Dawkes," he whis- 
 pered in a cautious tone ; " your best and 
 only policy will be to give up quietly. I 
 say this for your own sake. Lying down 
 deep in a chest of mine is another paper 
 of your wife's, not a will. She wrote it 
 lest some such contingency as what you 
 speak of should arise. 1 have not read 
 it ; it is signed and sealed ; and my word 
 is passed to your dead wife that that pa- 
 per shall never see the light of day, and 
 that human e\ r e shall never rest on its 
 contents, unless you force it. It con- 
 tains a full and explicit statement of the 
 causes and reasons for her disinheriting 
 you. I guess what they are; in fact, I 
 gathered them from her, perhaps unin- 
 tentionally on her part, when she was 
 giving me the directions for her will. I 
 fancy Mr. Kage could say something, 
 and the nurse-girl Judith. This is pri- 
 vate information to you. Take my ad- 
 vice : we lawyers have to give such some- 
 times, you know : and I shall never speak 
 of it to living soul. That paper, in your 
 own solemn interests, must not be dis- 
 lodged from its resting-place. You, per- 
 haps, know what the consequences would 
 be : it would not be a question of the loss 
 of property then, Major, but of some- 
 thing more. If I speak plainly, it is for 
 your own sake. Make no fight; don't 
 stir up muddy waters." 
 
 The Major's eyes were bent on the 
 ground, and his face wore again its livid 
 tinge. But Mr. ISTonis, accustomed to 
 read countenances, saw that all ideas of 
 opposition was perforce abandoned. 0, 
 they were bitter — the pills that unhappy 
 sinner had to swallow! 
 
 " And you will give up possession, 
 
 Major. Miss Canterbury said at your 
 
 convenience ; I say do it .soon. It will 
 
 be more agreeable for you, 1 feel sure, 
 
 to be away from here. What I looked 
 
 in to say was, that I considered it my 
 
 duty to place Neel in charge, as it were, 
 
 of the family valuables and that. This 
 
 is a very exceptional case, you see. M;ijor 
 
 I Dawkes ; so I hope you will pardon ex- 
 
 | ceptional measures. And look here : I 
 
 I have no ill-will to you, Heaven knows. 
 
 Man £ets led into all sorts of queer cor- 
 
 j ners thoughtlessly ; and if I can do you, 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL. 
 
 265 
 
 a good turn, I will. Miss Canterbury is 
 of a nobly-generous nature, and I think 
 she'd do something for you, if she were 
 asked. There!" 
 
 The lawyer disappeared with the last 
 words, waiting for neither comment nor 
 answer. Major Dawkes sat on, still as 
 a statue, plunging into a vista of the fu- 
 ture — a future encompassed about with 
 the stings of remorse and bitter disap- 
 pointment. What had he gained by 
 that dark deed he had accomplished in 
 secrecy and silence ? Not the golden 
 Utopia, the luxurious freedom he had 
 pictured to himself; but poverty, and 
 guilt, and shame. His wife gone — her 
 money gone — the Rock gone — position 
 gone — all the good things were wrested 
 from him forever! And Major Dawkes 
 started up wildly, and pulled at his hair 
 with vengeful hands, as the thought sud- 
 denly flashed over him that, but for that 
 woful deed, he would have been revelling 
 in them yet. 
 
 It is often thus. Satan lures us on to 
 commit evil that good may come, and 
 then turns on us with a mocking laugh. 
 Of all men living, perhaps, Major 
 Dawkes was in that hour the most mis- 
 erable. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 CONCLUSION". 
 
 Thomas Kage had quitted the Rock 
 in the Miss Canterburys' carriage ; Mrs. 
 Dunn would go with the Rector and his 
 wife. Scarcel} 7 a word was spoken on 
 the way home. The strange event of 
 the day seemed very startling \-et. 
 
 " Shall I come in ? " he asked when 
 he had assisted them to alight. And he 
 spoke it with so much deprecation, that 
 Olive looked at him. 
 
 "Shall you!" she repeated; "why 
 should you not ? " 
 
 " What has passed this morning bars 
 my right to do so — at least, on the pre- 
 vious footing," lie continued when they 
 had entered. — " Millicent," he added, 
 turning to her, " this is a cruel blow ; 
 for it ought, in justice, to deprive me of 
 you. But it is only what I looked for." 
 
 "What now?" cried Olive. 
 
 " I possess, by dint of scraping and 
 saving, a thousand pounds laid by in 
 
 the bank, to purchase chairs and tables. 
 Millicent, is now worth, at least, a hun- 
 dred thousand — how much more, I dare 
 not guess. Can I, in honor, still hold 
 her to her promise to become my 
 wife ? " 
 
 Millicent Canterbury turned red and 
 white, and hot and sick, and finally 
 burst into tears. Olive, on the contrary, 
 felt inclined to laugh. 
 
 " It is the first time I ever heard a 
 rising barrister — looking forward to the 
 Woolsack, no doubt, in his own vain 
 heart — say that a hundred thousand 
 pounds was a thing to reject or quarrel 
 with. Would }'ou have liked it to be a 
 million, sir ? " 
 
 "Miss Canterbury!" 
 
 " Ay, Miss Canterbury indeed ! Look 
 at Leta. I daresay she has had her 
 visions, as well as you. The Lord 
 Chancellor and his wig rule England, 
 and yhe rules the Lord Chancellor, may 
 have been one of her ambitious ideali- 
 ties for the far-off future. No slight 
 temptation to a young lady, let me tell 
 you, Mr. Kage. And now you want to 
 upset it all ! " 
 
 " It is the money which upsets it." 
 
 " Poor child ! " cried Olive, advancing 
 and stroking Millicent's hair; "you 
 have cause for tears. He sa\-s he will 
 not give you a home now ; and I am 
 sure I will not give you one. I won't 
 harbor a rejected and forlorn damsel at 
 the Rock." 
 
 " You are making a joke of it," he 
 said ; and that she should do so rather 
 jarred upon his very serious mood. 
 
 " Of all fastidious men you are the 
 most absurd, sir. I don't suppose it is 
 the first time the accusation has been 
 brought against you." 
 
 " What would }'ou have me do, Miss 
 Canterbury?" 
 
 " Do ! " she echoed, in a changed tone. 
 " Ask Millicent. Money separate you ! 
 What next ? I never was ashamed of 
 you until now, Thomas Kage." 
 
 She left the room ; and the next min- 
 ute Millicent was sobbing on his breast. 
 Separate, indeed ! 
 
 With a commotion of rustling skirts, 
 and a fierce bang, in came Mrs. Dunn, 
 who had chosen to alight at Thornhedge 
 Villa instead of going on to the Rectory. 
 Millicent was then seated, her face bent 
 over a book (held upside down) ; Thorn- 
 
266 
 
 GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL, 
 
 as Kage was looking demurely from the 
 window. 
 
 " Olive ! Where's Olive ? I waut 
 Olive. — Why, Leta, you look as though 
 you had been crying ! " 
 
 " I ! " stammered poor Leta. 
 
 " I'm sure it's nothing to cry about," 
 reprimanded Mrs. Dunn, who had not 
 parted with her propensity to set the 
 world to rights. " Poor Caroline Dawkes 
 had been as good as dead so long, that 
 one can't feel it much at last. Don't be 
 stupid, child. — 0, here you are, Olive !" 
 
 Olive would have liked them to have a 
 few minutes' conversation to themselves, 
 that they might get reconciled to the 
 new state of things ; and she thought 
 Mrs. Dunn was a great marplot. But 
 there was no help for it. Miss Canter- 
 bury sat down by Mr. Kage, and began 
 talking. 
 
 " Mrs. Dawkes's will, in a different 
 way, is as strange a one as my father's," 
 she observed to hiin. " Can you account 
 for it ? " 
 
 " I do not wish to account for it," was 
 the evasive reply of Thomas Kage. 
 
 " There's one part I can't account for, 
 and that is why she should have cut off 
 her husband absolutely," put in Mrs. 
 Dunn, tilting her black bonnet off the 
 back of her head. " Who can ? " 
 
 There was no reply. She had not ad- 
 dressed the question to any one in par- 
 ticular, so an answer was saved. Miss 
 Canterbury was occupied with her jet 
 chain ; Thomas Kage had turned to the 
 window again. 
 
 " One thing strikes me as being re- 
 markably curious," pursued Lydia Dunn. 
 " That Mrs. Garston at the last altered 
 her will, so that the pittance she left the 
 Major should be paid to him weekly. It 
 was just as though she foresaw what has 
 come to pass, and would secure him from 
 absolute starvation." 
 
 " Yes, that was curious," warmly as- 
 sented Thomas Kage, a strange light in 
 his luminous eyes. 
 
 " It strikes me that you know more 
 than you will tell us, Mr. Kage," she 
 rejoined suddenly. 
 
 " That I know more ? What of? " 
 
 " Why, of the reason for Mrs. 
 Dawkes's cutting him off. He was her 
 husband : nobody can deny that. I see 
 you won't admit anything, Mr. Kage. 
 You law-people are closer than wax. 
 
 But I have my own thoughts about it 
 now and again. Odd ones, too." 
 
 " I cannot help feeling sorry for Ma- 
 jor Dawkes," observed Olive. " His 
 present position must be a pitiable one." 
 As to its cause — I mean his wife's mo- 
 tive — I do not think we are called upon 
 to speculate upon it, Lydia." 
 
 " He'll quit the army — that's a matter 
 of course," went on Lydia. " He and 
 Keziah will club their means together, 
 and go over the water and live. You'll 
 see. He has his four pounds a week : 
 she has about the same. They won't 
 quite starve." 
 
 " No, I must take care of that," mur- 
 mured Miss Canterbury. "I think, with 
 Mr. Carlton, that it is very strange Car- 
 oline left nothing to you," she added to 
 Thomas Kage. " I have a suspicion 
 that you prevented it yourself." 
 
 " I told her I would not accept it if 
 she did." 
 
 " But why ? " 
 
 " The money, in point of right, was 
 not Caroline's to leave ; and what claim 
 had I on Mr. Canterbury's property? " 
 
 " A small slice of it would not have 
 been missed." 
 
 " Perhaps not," he said ; but I had no 
 claim to a slice, small or large. No; I 
 would not have accepted a shilling." 
 
 " Well, you are fastidious," cried 
 Olive, looking at him : chivalrously hon- 
 orable." 
 
 " I think I am only just, Miss Canter- 
 bury." 
 
 " But 0, what a strange thing it is, 
 that our own monej' should have come 
 bark to us ! " she exclaimed with enthu- 
 siasm. " I cannot } r et realise it : when 
 I wake up to-morrow morning, I shall 
 not believe it's true. It did not bring 
 altogether luck or happiness to those to 
 whom it was left when papa disinherited 
 his own people." 
 
 " Indeed it did not, warmly replied 
 Thomas Kage : and he knew it, far bet- 
 ter than she did. " Be assured of one 
 tiling, Miss Canterbury : that an unjust 
 will never prospers the inheritors. All 
 my experience in life has proved it to 
 me." 
 
 And do you be assured of it also, my 
 readers, for it is a stern truth. Look out 
 for yourselves in life, and mark these 
 cases. Years may go by, all apparently 
 flourishing, justice may seem to have 
 
GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL 
 
 267 
 
 flagging wings ; but when the final re- 
 sult shall come — as it surely will — you 
 will see what it brings. Over and over 
 again has the bitter truth been spoken — 
 " It brought no blessing with it." 
 
 Summer sunshine lay around the 
 Rock ; summer brightness glistened on 
 it. The old family were within its walls 
 again, ami wrongs had been righted. 
 There had beeu no trouble ; Major 
 Dawkes had given up early possession, 
 betaking himself off one morniug quiet- 
 ly with Keziah at his heels. He was 
 no longer Major now, except by cour- 
 tesy. As Mrs. Dunn predicted, he had 
 made haste to sell out of the army, nev- 
 er again to reenter it ; and had taken 
 up his residence across the Channel with 
 his sister, on a very fair and sufficient 
 income. Were men generalby rewarded 
 here in accordance with their deserts, 
 Major Dawkes might perhaps have con- 
 fessed to himself that, after all, he was 
 more lucky than he deserved to be. 
 
 Not quite all the family back at the 
 Bock who had been turned out of it ; 
 for Miss Canterbury alone was left of 
 them. Mrs. Rufort was at the Rectory ; 
 Millicent was already on the verge of 
 entering a new home. 
 
 For this was the wedding-day — as 
 might be seen by the gay carriages pass- 
 ing to and fro, and the gala dresses 
 within them. In vain Millicent had 
 pleaded for a quiet wedding ; in vain 
 Thomas Kage had threatened to run 
 away with Leta beforehand if thej 7 were 
 to be subjected to display ; Miss Canter- 
 bury willed it otherwise. They had had 
 enough of quiet wedding, she said, and 
 decided for a grand one. A gracious 
 mistress, she, reigning in her own birth- 
 place, the Rock; but rather an autocrat 
 still in the matter of taking her own 
 way. And grand it was, especially con- 
 sidering that two lords were at it. 
 
 Lord Rufort begged to be allowed to 
 give the bride away. Percival, Earl of 
 Hartledon invited himself, and came 
 
 down with Mr. Kage — the two close 
 and confidential friends of man} - years. 
 Richard Dunn' and his wife Sarah came 
 to it ; Lydia Dunn was of course there, 
 busier and finer than anj'body. Lord 
 Rufort's stiffness had somewhat relaxed 
 of late ; for the fortune his daughter-in- 
 law had come into afforded him. the most 
 intense gratification. 
 
 But the ceremony was over, and the 
 breakfast was over, and the bridal-car- 
 riage was at length off amidst its cloud 
 of old shoes. The out-door groups were 
 cheering, the church-bells were ringing. 
 
 " Thank goodness, it's at an end/' 
 laughed Thomas Kage, as he leaned 
 back in the carriage, leaving the noise 
 and excitement behind. " Leta, I vow 
 I'll never get married again." 
 
 " I think one time quite enough," 
 she answered, with a shy laugh, and a 
 blush. 
 
 " Farewell to Chilling," he murmured, 
 three parts to himself; " farewell to all 
 the old reminiscences, sad ones most of 
 them) that the place has wrought into 
 its history. Henceforth we begin a new 
 life, Leta. I trust a happy oue." 
 
 " I am sure of it," she breathed. 
 
 " Ay, yes ; with Heaven's blessing." 
 
 A very short bridal tour was to be 
 theirs, for Thomas Kage had chosen to 
 get married in the busy season when the 
 law-courts were sitting, instead of wait- 
 ing sensibly for the autumn. And then 
 the house that had been Mrs. Garston's 
 would receive them, henceforth to be 
 their home. 
 
 The sunshine lay, wdiite and calm, on 
 the road ; the birds sang, the swallows 
 dipping as they flew ; the yellow corn 
 was ripening ; the summer flowers threw 
 up their sweet perfume ; the trees 
 waved gently against the blue sky ; the 
 mountains basked in their hues of light 
 and shade ; on all things there seemed 
 to rest a holy gladness, speaking to the 
 heart of peace. 
 
 And the horses, spanking along, 
 carried the chariot away in the distance. 
 
 THE END. 
 
I Ml 
 
 
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12 
 
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14 
 
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T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS' LIST OE PUBLICATIONS. 
 
 15 
 
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16 
 
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 Mrs. Whipple and Jesse 
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 FirstLove 25 
 
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 Year after Marriage 25 
 
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 Whitehall 75 
 
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