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 1890 
 
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 THE AT/JEJ^STO.VE SERIES, iVo 
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 13 V 
 
 E, H. BERING, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " SHERBORNE; OR, THE HOLSE X^ THE Kdl k WAYS.' 
 
 "memoirs OF GEORGIANA LADY CHATTERTON," 
 
 '' l.\ THE LIGHT OF THE XXTH CENTURY, " " ESOTERIC BUDDHISM. 
 
 ETC.. ETC. 
 
 QeuQ ovcajj.^} ovccifjiioQ aciicoc, ctX/V (og oivy re CLKaiuraroc, kcu 
 ovK 'ioTiV avTu) ujioiOTtpuv ovcev ii oc ar tijjwy civ yenjrai on ciKaco- 
 Taroc' TTspi rovTov kcu // wc aXrjOuxj ceivorijc ui'cpoc icai ovCevia 
 re KQi avai'Cpia. Pl.\to, Theodtetus. 
 
 IN T WO VO I UME S. 
 VOL. L 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 Brt anO JBooK Company, 
 
 LEAMINGTON, AND 23, KING EDWARD ST., LONDON, E-C. 
 
 1890. 
 
 \All r'ujhts resercecL]
 
 8^5 
 
 3n flDcmoiiam, 
 
 / DEDICA TE THIS BOOK 
 TO MY WIFE, 
 
 GEORGIAN A LAD Y CHA TTERTON, 
 
 BECAUSE I HAVE TRIED TO EXPRESS IN IT SOME 
 
 HIGHER MOTIVES OF ACTION 
 
 THAT I LEARNED FROM HER AND FIRST SAW REALISED 
 
 IX HER LIFE,
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HREE years have passed since a question of 
 identity was raised and solved in the draw- 
 ing-room at Bramscote, to the satisfaction 
 of all concerned, not excepting him who 
 lost a property by it ; so that, even as Sir 
 Roger Arden then and there stated, it all 
 ended just like a play. Sir Roger always 
 adhered to that opinion, and if anyone 
 remarked, in relation thereto, that a play, if true to life, 
 must be true to what has actually happened in life, he 
 invariably retired from an active share in the conversation, 
 saying by way of final protest, " Oh ! I don't understand 
 about your abstract ideas and that sort of thing, but I know 
 it was just like a play." 
 
 If the reader should happen to have read the book in 
 which the events here referred to are chronicled, he will be 
 aware that the praiseworthy and rare virtue of minding 
 one's own business had led Sir Roger Arden more than 
 once into some danger of leaving his own business to mind 
 him ; so that, without the indomitable will and complete 
 contrivances of Mrs. Atherstone, the drive to Hazeley, which 
 decided whether his future son-in-law should know his own
 
 2 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 name or not, would never have come off. No man would 
 take more trouble about other people's business when 
 charity pointed out the way ; but the way must be very 
 plain indeed to make him see its bearings when anything 
 like a mystery lay beyond. The only abstract proposition 
 he has ever been known to put forth is, that " mysteries are 
 no good except in articles of faith and that sort of thing." 
 
 Time keeps its even pace, but the supply of incident with- 
 in it fluctuates much, as most of us can tell ; and we are 
 generally happiest when their is little supply and no demand. 
 The principle would be a startling one in political economy, 
 but it is true in the science of domestic life ; and Sherborne 
 happens to be saying so in the drawing-room at Hazeley just 
 AS De Beaufoy and Lady Fyfield are announced. 
 
 " Better to have no supply at all," said De Beaufoy paren- 
 thetically. " But where is Mrs. Atherstone ? " 
 
 " Out somewhere," answered Sherborne : " she is as active 
 as ever." 
 
 " Has the neighbourhood been as free from the jostling 
 interruption of events as I have — and you too, since I was 
 here last ? " 
 
 " Linus Jones has been made Archdeacon, and he has got 
 the measles in the house, and " 
 
 "And Lord Ledchester had an archery meeting last 
 Thursday at Monksgallo^^s," said Mrs. Sherborne, nee Mary 
 Arden. " And we were caught in a thunderstorm coming 
 home. And Lord Oxborough has given up the hounds." 
 
 " And taken to prize cattle," added Sherborne. 
 
 " And has remembered his near relationship to you since 
 you inherited Hazeley," suggested De Beaufoy. 
 
 " Oh ! well — I don't like that sort of thing. You see he 
 hadn't much chance of knowing where he was before," said 
 Sir Roger, who had ridden over from Bramscote. 
 
 " The old leaven in the convert," answered De Beaufoy. 
 " You see I am not so well in hand as you are ; and after all 
 — why it is true. What other news ? " 
 
 " Since you were here last — a year ago ? Well, nothing 
 under ten miles. Young Freville is at Freville Chase. You 
 know his father died some years ago." 
 
 " Yes, I knew him well. This man is the son of the first 
 wife. His father married again — I forget her name, but she 
 Vr-as Italian, and he died when young Freville was a small
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 3 
 
 child. The second wife died a few days after, leaving a baby 
 who died later on. Sir Richard Dytchley was guardian to 
 the eldest '" 
 
 " Who consequently spent his holidays at Netherwood 
 when he was a boy," said Sherborne, "and has of course 
 been there a great deal since, and goes there as often as he 
 can now, I believe ; but he virtually took possession of 
 Freville Chase about a year and a half ago, though, accord- 
 ing to his father's will, he is not of age till five and twenty, 
 which he will be in a few days. Lady Dytchley is very well 
 satisfied to be rid of him from Netherwood, I think." 
 
 " Now, now, there it is again," said Sir Roger. " Why 
 should she want to get rid of him ? " 
 
 " Why the fact is," began Sherborne, " that when a person 
 is playing two games, and desires to win one more than the 
 other, the other is not likely to have a fair chance." 
 
 " When a person is playing two games ! what games ? 
 what's the meaning of all that ? — I don't want to hear 
 about principles and abstract ideas and that sort of thing." 
 
 " But it was the concrete Lady Dytchley that I was speak- 
 ing of," answered Sherborne. 
 
 " No, no ; I won't hear it," interrupted Sir Roger, rising 
 abruptly and moving towards the door. " It's all the same 
 thing, I must be going. I shall see you all then on 
 Wednesday at dinner : you will meet the Dytchleys and 
 young Freville." 
 
 " As you were saying," suggested De Beaufoy, with a side 
 glance at the closing door. 
 
 " My judgment may be wrong," said Sherborne, " but it 
 can't be rash, inasmuch as I have formed it on sufficient 
 grounds. I knew Lady Dytchley pretty well when I was a 
 boy, and didn't believe in her then. Well — a small boy's 
 judgment goes for nothing of itself — but I don't believe in 
 her now." 
 
 " Which is a great deal for you to say of a woman," said 
 his wife. 
 
 " Yes, I do believe in women — and I have every reason to 
 do so ; but I don't believe in Lady Dytchley. Young 
 Freville has passed a great deal of his time at Netherwood, 
 and there has grown up a sort of — what shall I call it ? — a 
 tacit engagement between him and the eldest daughter, 
 which \Yent on all the more smoothly because Freville's
 
 4 FREYILLE CHASE. 
 
 father and Sir Richard, who were old friends, had arranged 
 it so, conditionally on the subsequent consent of the two 
 people most concerned. The two principals have agreed 
 very much with that view of the case, especially as they grew 
 older. Freville's father died — it must be twenty years ago. 
 Miss Dytchley is now one and twenty, and they say she is to 
 be married as soon as he is of age. But Miss Dytchley is 
 very beautiful and has been very much admired ; other 
 probabilities seem to have got in the way ; Lady Dytchley 
 has begun to pull herself together and put in a sort of con- 
 ditional manner, vaguely suggestive — you know what I 
 mean ? a way of going on that puts you in the wrong what- 
 ever you may happen to do, or seem to do, or be imagined 
 to do, just as the temper of the moment, or some accidental 
 occurence, or the variable accidents of a particular policy 
 may dictate. The long and the short of it is, that poor 
 Freville is just nowhere. He is, I fancy, treated as if he 
 were only half engaged ; yet he is very much engaged, as 
 regards himself and the young lady too, I believe. Now, 
 taking the lowest view of the case, this is neither one thing 
 nor the other, and had better be the other than be as it is : 
 and if, as I think, there is a really deep feeling in them both, 
 it may possibly turn out a more serious affair to every one 
 concerned than Lady Dytchley bargains for. They have 
 grown up together, and as their inclination was at one with 
 the circumstances that favoured it, their lives have grown 
 together " 
 
 " Like two twigs in a hedge," suggested De Beaufoy ; 
 " and human hearts are not adapted for trimming." 
 
 " By the by," said Sherborne, " there are some curious old 
 lines rudely carved in an upper room of the old tower at 
 Freville Chase — a kind of half prophecy that came to pass 
 in a sort of way two or three generations back." 
 
 " I remember seeing it when I was a little girl," said Mrs. 
 Sherborne. " It was carved over the door of the Muniment 
 Room. I copied them at the time, and here they are." 
 
 She brought out an album, and showed the copy of the 
 
 inscription, which ran thus : 
 
 "HClben a soule v|8 wonnc bv \?e barte v!tt batb ^ebroftenn, 
 ani> \:e bnelk vs bcr&e of a ii^mci race, 
 ^e loste sball winne b^ ^c stravncierc b^r toftennc, 
 an5 ^e ^e^tle give l^fc unto jFievvjle Cbasc."
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. O 
 
 " Taking it for what those things are worth," said 
 Sherborne, " it certainly is remarkable. I remember hearing 
 about it in a long winter's evening, when I was a very small 
 boy in the nursery ; and I heard it confirmed by this man's 
 father long afterwards, after I had joined my regiment. The 
 nursery account, as it came through Protestant nurses, w^ho 
 had a very confused notion of Popery, was a mixture of 
 ghosts and impossible conspiracies, and priests hiding behind 
 tapestry ; but the real story, as I heard it from the owner of 
 the place, was this : — Freville's great-grandfather had gone 
 wrong (whether in faith or practice I forget) and remained 
 so, more or less, even after he had fallen desperately in love 
 wnth a young lady, connected with one of the old Legitimist 
 families, and brought up in a convent in France. He 
 married her ; but she died in little more than a year, and on 
 her death-bed implored hini to think of his soul. In a word, 
 grief and conscience brought death and life to him. This 
 happened in France during the very hottest time of the 
 French Revolution ; and Freville, mixed up as he was wnth 
 the Legitimists, ran the greatest risk, and had to hide and 
 fly from place to place with his infant child. Broken-hearted 
 by the death of his young wife, and broken down in health, 
 he sank a few days afterwards under an attack of typhus, or 
 something of the kind, and died a good Christian. So much 
 for the first line. His heart was in a sense broken, though 
 grief did not kill him directly. Then the family was sup- 
 posed to be extinct, as he was the last of that line ; for 
 nothing had been known in England of the infant's birth. 
 That wnll do for the ' knell of a dying race.' Now for the 
 third line. A number of Revolutionists broke into the house 
 the very day of the Funeral, and carried off all the money 
 they could get, with the exception of a few coins called 
 ' tokens ' which a faithful Irish nurse had concealed, and 
 with which she managed to find her way (partly by begging) 
 to England, and was able, by the papers and other evidences 
 she brought with her, to prove the child's identity. Thus 
 the lost was found. And the young mother, who died in 
 giving birth to the child, may do for the last line, as she 
 brought the true light of the faith to her husband, and 
 also life to Freville Chase, in the person of her little son. 
 Anyhow the thing is curious." 
 
 " I have known several very curious things of that sort,"
 
 6 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 said De Beaufoy, "that one could not ascribe to accident 
 without discarding evidence altogether." 
 
 '• The knell," said Mrs. Sherborne, " may have two poetical 
 meanings, referring to the death of the young wife and that 
 of Mr. Freville, and also to the expected extinction of the 
 race. They say that a church bell is heard tolling over the 
 tower before the death of the owner of the place, his wife, or 
 child." 
 
 " There is no mistake about that," said De Beaufoy ; "for 
 I was dining at Freville Chase when the late man was taken 
 ill, and I heard the bell myself distinctly, first in the distance 
 over the Chase, and then just over the tower. Those things, 
 whatever they may be, are not so very uncommon — but here 
 comes Mrs. Atherstone. I can't say how glad I am to see 
 you again, my very valued friend, and still more to find you 
 looking so well." 
 
 " And, were it not for the plagiarism, I should answer you 
 in your own words ; for I do value your friendship very 
 much," answered Mrs. Atherstone. 
 
 " I should claim a good deal as restitution, for your having 
 once disliked me so much," said De Beaufoy ; " only I 
 deserved your dislike." 
 
 " And I yours. We are on even terms about that. We 
 were both of us looking away from what it most concerned 
 us to do ; and when people do so, they are not likely to 
 make themselves pleasant in opposition." 
 
 " Just like your practical way of putting things. But what 
 have you been expending your exhaustless energies on 
 lately ? " 
 
 " Teaching an old woman the Catechism — an old woman 
 as old as myself, who has lately come to the conclusion that 
 there must be something in Popery, and wants to know what 
 it means before she applies to the priest. That is quite 
 enough for me now." 
 
 " Well," thought De Beaufoy, " after the dramatic scene, 
 in which you made a property and a name change hands, 
 and worried poor Sir Roger nearly out of his senses, you are 
 fairly entitled to rest on your oars. Yet I would back you 
 now to ferret out any mystery, if it came in your way, and 
 you felt called upon to interfere in it." 
 
 " How about that mysterious woman you put into your 
 house at the Four Ways ? " said Sherborne. " I believe you
 
 FREVILLE CHASE, *J 
 
 have got a mystery there, if you would only tell us." 
 
 "And another old bureau with secret drawers that will 
 help to unravel it," added De Beaufoy. " Now, do tell us 
 what it is. I was an actor in that mystery, and I think it 
 only fair that I should be one of the audience in this." 
 
 " I w^ill tell you all I know about it, and all I am likely to 
 know," answered Mrs. Atherstone. " Two months ago I 
 went to stay there a few days, as I do from time to time, for 
 the sake of old Susan, who has a nearly equal attachment to 
 me and to that queer old house, I found a poor woman 
 sitting on the door-step, exhausted by want, fatigue and cold 
 — it was a bitterly cold day in March. Her appearance and 
 manner struck me, for she was evidently not a tramp. I 
 stood and watched her critically — a minute or two, I should 
 think, for old Susan began to be indignant at the obstructive 
 trespass, and got so far as ' Lor, ma'am, let me ' — but I told 
 her to be quiet, and continued my critical examination of the 
 poor woman, who neither begged, nor looked up, nor moved. 
 To make a long story short, I took her in, meaning to help 
 her on her way as soon as she should be sufficiently restored ; 
 but as she had nowhere to go, and was evidently unused to 
 roughing it, 1 kept her on, hoping to find her some employ- 
 ment. I have not yet succeeded in doing so ; and as I have 
 not the heart to turn her out, there she is still. That is all 
 I know. She is very reserved, and I don't like to cross- 
 question a person in distress who is under my roof and 
 protection. She gives her name as Jane Davis." 
 
 " Can she be a convert turned out of doors by a father 
 whose indignation has been guided by economy ?" sug- 
 gested De Beaufoy. 
 
 ** No. She is not a Catholic. It is most probable that 
 she is simply a person who has seen better days, and 
 has no means of helping herself. There are but too many 
 such in these days, when the country is filled with people 
 educated out of proportion to their capabilities and chances, 
 and when swindling, under the name of investments, has 
 become a science. * However, there she is at present, and 
 I have no idea who she is, or w^hat she is, except that 
 she is a respectable person." 
 
 And let this suffice for a specimen of the conversation 
 in the library at Hazeley three years within a week or 
 two after De Beaufoy had lost an estate and gained what
 
 8 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 was worth much more to him. How it was that he married 
 Lady Fyfield at last and was happy, after faihng to do 
 so long before, how he became De Beaiifoy, and another 
 man became Sherborne, with lawful possession of Hazeley, 
 how Mrs. Atherstone, who had been living for many years 
 almost unknown in a lonely house where four roads met, 
 turned out to be the lawful owner's great aunt, and how 
 she made his identity most evident, we need not inquire 
 here : for all this has been already written. It is enough 
 for the purpose to have stated the facts. Having done 
 so, we will leave the library at Hazeley.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 **Gih, eran quasi ch' atterzate Fore 
 
 Del tempo che ogni stella e piii lucente 
 
 
 
 7 -zi^^^". 
 
 
 HIGH is Dante's way of saying that it was 
 nearly four o'clock in the morning. There 
 were no stars visible, for it was thundering 
 heavily, but there was a light in Everard 
 Freville's bedroom at Freville Chase. The 
 inmates of Hazeley were asleep, or at least 
 in bed, and thiiiking no more of him at 
 that time than he could cease to think of 
 himself. We cannot help thinking of ourselves when we 
 are in pain or sorrow ; for both force upon our notice the 
 fact that it is we ourselves who are suffering perceptibly. 
 But physical pain is in its nature subjective : sorrow is 
 sometimes inseparable from the thought of a living object. 
 Everard Freville could not cease to think of himself, 
 because he could not do so without ceasing to think 
 of Ida Dytchley. Why he walked up and down the 
 room, while the lightning mocked the puny flame of 
 his one candle, that burned straight and pale on the 
 dressing-table, and the pink light of dawn was deepening be- 
 neath a black curtain of thunder cloud, is evident enough, if 
 we remember that when anxiety passes indefinable limits 
 in kind or degree, the body, unless exhausted, refuses repose. 
 Why the anxiety that kept him in a state of wakefulness, 
 after the storm had awakened him, passed those limits, 
 and why it did so then, rather than before, is a question
 
 ]0 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 easy lo aiis\ver, a problem impossible to solve. It is easy 
 to talk about the subtle intuitions of the heart ; but how 
 do they become more subtle at one time than another? 
 Either the occasion increases the faculty, or the faculty 
 magnifies the occasion, or they act and react on each 
 other. 13ut what sets either in motion ? Which of the 
 two begins to affect the other? However that may be, 
 it is certain that he was anxious, had reason to be so, 
 knew the cause of his own anxiety, yet could scarcely have 
 explained it. 
 
 "This is folly!" he thought after a while, or rather as- 
 serted in his mind. " What has happened ? In what respect 
 has my position changed ? There was one difficulty in 
 conscience, but that has practically ceased to be. Oh ! 
 if her father were a different kind of man — had been 
 different ! But the difficulty is over. She is seeing the 
 truth in spite of everything — has almost seen it. Why 
 have I been tormenting myself lately ? What is the matter 
 with me ? It must be the electricity — the air is very close." 
 
 He threw open the window, but produced no effect 
 except to make the glass rattle at each clap of thunder. 
 
 "It must be the electricity," he again asserted in his 
 mind ; " and the air is closer outside than in." 
 
 He continued to walk up and down, thinking in broken 
 sentences till the sun had risen, and the one candle burned 
 out, and the thunder ceased to roll ; but the thought which 
 recurred most frequently was, " Oh ! if her father were a 
 different kind of man — had been different ! " 
 
 To avoid obscurity, it may be better to finish the sen- 
 tence. If he had been a different man, his daughter would 
 have been a Catholic, and her engagement to Everard 
 Freville would have been straightforward, instead of being 
 tolerated under protest : but he was not different, and we 
 had better see what he was, that we may understand 
 Everard's position. He was what may be called a genea- 
 logical Catholic— a man who hung on to the exterior of 
 the faith, like a leaf that has frozen where it fell, and 
 sticks ^vithout taking root. He never lost his faith, but 
 it lay dormant, except when a dangerous illness or other 
 strong stimulant to the conscience aroused it into action. 
 He would have been very much afraid to die out of 
 the Church, but was kept out of it for ten years by cir-
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 11 
 
 cumstances entirely dependent on his own free will. Weak- 
 ness of character, obstinate infirmity of purpose, will account 
 for this. There was no positive act of the will — for his 
 will never acted otherwise than negatively — no intentional 
 carelessness, for his intentions were vague and toneless 
 as a loosened harp-string. His inclinations were negatively 
 good, but unstable in themselves and dangerously pliable. 
 When he married, at the age of twenty-one, his mind was 
 oscillating between honest Catholicity and minimism, like 
 a weathercock when the wind is chopping. Unfortunately 
 he made the very worst kind of mixed marriage that it 
 was possible for such a man to make. His wife was a 
 member of the Church of England as by law established, 
 rather than a Protestant by conviction. She believed very 
 much in the social and political advantages of not being 
 a Catholic, and cared very little about doctrine except 
 when it started the quiet of the Establishment. She hated 
 extreme Ritualists and ultra-broad Churchmen in equal 
 proportions, and tolerated her husband's Catholicity, so 
 long as it was bad, because there was a certain mysterious 
 dignity in his inheritance of the same, and because he 
 was quite incapable of acquiring personal distinction in 
 any other way. If she believed vaguely in something more 
 than the unknown and unknowable, her religion was cer- 
 tainly " for the most part of the silent sort ; " for she said 
 very little about it at any time, and never except in oi)posi- 
 tion. Her will was obstinate rather than strong. It was 
 not led by the will of others, but it acted servilely under 
 l)ressure from within, and whenever it came in contact with 
 a really strong one, collapsed for the time being, or remained 
 in sullen abeyance, like Achilles sulking off to his black 
 ships. Xevertheless, by reason of a large and lofty figure, 
 with features and expression to match, a full voice sig- 
 nificantly repressed, a commanding manner and habitual 
 self-assertion, she often exercised a real power that she did 
 not possess, but only borrowed from the imagination 
 of others, as an English general once frightened away 
 an invading army by means of women in red cloaks. 
 Beneath her ponderous personality Sir Richard's little weak 
 will disappeared quite, and with it the practice of his 
 religion. His two children, after having been baptized 
 Catholics, gravitated into the Established Church through
 
 12 FIJEVILLE CIIASK. 
 
 neglect on his part and perseverance on hers, and as this 
 would have put him in a dilemma at Easter or thereabouts, 
 he ceased going to his duties till an attack of bronchitis 
 opened his eyes by nearly closing his life. As both his 
 daughters had reached the age at which the law of England 
 supposes every one to be capable of choosing his or her 
 religion with subjective infallibility, he satisfied his con- 
 science by accepting the actual state of affairs as a fait 
 accompli^ contented himself with being just inside the 
 Church, and left his daughters to remain where they were, 
 or find their way as they best could. With regard to his 
 eldest daughter Ida, Everard did his utmost to show 
 her the way, and her instincts went with him ; but Lady 
 Dytchley put false weights into the scale in the shape 
 of no-Popery legends of mysterious origin, dark stories from 
 her own certain knowledge of things that she had no means 
 of knowmg, misrepresentations of doctrines that she had 
 the means of knowing, and a judicious mixture of texts. 
 As Ida believed in her mother, who told her these things, 
 and believed in Everard, who told her the contrary when- 
 ever he had a chance of doing so, the poor girl's be- 
 wilderment was extreme, her interior conflicts pitiable and 
 distressing. Inclination went one way, filial reverence the 
 other. Everard's example pointed in one direction, her 
 father's pointed nowhere. Everard's opportunities were 
 few and interrupted : her mother could make use of hers 
 as she liked. 
 
 Everard Freville, who knew all this but too well, and had 
 some real though indefinable cause for being unusually 
 dis'urbed by it, continued walking up and down his room, 
 after the storm had awakened him, till the sun was high 
 above the horizon, and only an occasional flicker of sheet- 
 lightning from a distant bank of watery grey cloud told 
 that a storm had lately been raging above Freville Chase. 
 
 Whilst he was preparing to go to Mass, three servants 
 who were about to do likewise were standing in the 
 courtyard, opposite the outer door of the chapel, discussing 
 the late storm. They were of a class now all but extinct — 
 as old-fashioned as they could be, old-fashioned far beyond 
 the years of the oldest. They had grown up at Freville 
 Chase, and remembered Everard's grandfather, in whose 
 time nothing had changed from what it was in the days
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 13 
 
 of Bishop Challoner. All three were good solid Catholics 
 who knew the Jesus Psalter by heart, did their duty for 
 the love of God, and would have thought anyone mad 
 for suggesting the possibility of their being in any other 
 service than that of a Freville of Freville Chase. The 
 spelling and grammar of two out of the three would 
 have scandalised a modern pupil-teacher, and they had 
 never heard of latitude and longitude ; but they understood 
 thoroughly everything that belonged to their way of life. 
 and could form a very sound common-sense judgment on 
 any subject within the scope of their intelligence. 
 
 "It were a bad storm," quoth Sandford the coachman. 
 " Just such a night it were as the night the old squire 
 came home with his second wife — that is, Mr. Everard's 
 father — for he weren't old at all, and he died twenty-one 
 years ago come Christmas." 
 
 "And like the night, too, when that foreigner come as 
 murdered the baby," said Anne, the upper housemaid, 
 
 "I never could abear the sight of him" 
 
 " Pack o' nonsense," interposed ?vlrs. Roland the 
 housekeeper. " Nobody was murdered. You were only a 
 bit of a girl then, and didn't know anything about it." 
 
 *' Well," answered Anne ; " all as is, I know Master were 
 took bad with inflammation quite sudden and died next 
 day (which there were two doctors with him) and his young 
 wife (she were a foreign Marchioness) took on dreadful, and 
 
 the baby come too soon, and" 
 
 "Yes, yes, we know all that," said Mrs. Roland. "It 
 was Christmas time and we were having a dance and a 
 big supper and his second wife (a Marchioness she was) 
 having come home for the first time. I had gone upstairs 
 to see Master Everard put to bed, for he had been up late 
 for him when I saw her running along the corridor dis- 
 tracted, poor young lady, and she told me that the Squire 
 
 was very ill " 
 
 "Which I rode off for the doctor immediate," remarked 
 Sandford. 
 
 " Yes," said Anne, " I remember you did : and the 
 Freville bell, which betokens death was heard aringing 
 first down in the Chase, and then in the air right' over the 
 tower, all that night." 
 
 " And mylady, as we used to call her," said Mrs. Roland,
 
 14 FEEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 ignoring the interruption, " though they said it wasn't right, 
 but I don't understand foreign ways " 
 
 " Nor I, neither," said Anne, " and I don't hold with them, 
 partiklar when a foreign Marquis takes and murders a 
 innocent baby." 
 
 " I tell you he didn't murder anybody. The shock 
 brought on mylady's confinement too soon ; and that and 
 the grief together made it go all wrong ; and she died two 
 days after the Squire." 
 
 " And," suggested Sandford, " she were very partial to her 
 brother — that's the Marquis you was speaking of — she 
 couldn't never see as he were of the wrong sort — which he 
 were, in my opinion — and as somebody must be guardian to 
 the child as were born — for who was to see after him with 
 the Squire dead ? she said on her death-bed as he was to be 
 — and begged the priest to send for him " 
 
 " x\nd a nice sort of a uncle," said Anne — " just like the 
 man in the story-book, who buried them princes under the 
 staircase in the Tower of London." 
 
 " I didn't like him myself, not at all," said Mrs. Roland ; 
 " but he didn't murder the child. When he came here and 
 went to see Milady's grave, he grieved awfully ; and I don't 
 think it was humbug. And then he went away, and came 
 back three years after, and carried off the child with him : 
 and nobody could say a word, for Milady had given him the 
 right to do it." 
 
 " Well," said Anne, "all I know is that I've heard queer 
 noises as aint right, in that room in the tower, that's been 
 shut up as long as I can remember, and " 
 
 " The Muniment room," said Mrs. Roland, " it's only full 
 of old papers ; and Mr. Everard has the key of course." 
 
 " I never see him go there," said Anne, " never." 
 
 " Well, he does go there, anyhow," said Mrs. Roland. 
 
 " There's noises as don't belong to this world," said Anne. 
 
 Mrs. Roland paused for a moment or two, and then said 
 with much dignity but not without some secret misgivings 
 touching the applicability of her reply, "You know the 
 Catechism says the First Commandment forbids inquiries 
 after hidden things. Come, the bell is ringing for Mass." 
 
 " There's a deal more nor that, / know," said Anne, 
 walking slowly towards the chapel door. " But perhaps you 
 don't like atalking of it."
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 }5 
 
 "I've no objection — not at all," answered Mrs. Roland, 
 looking back over her left shoulder with much dignity. 
 " There'y no secret about it. I've no objection to tell you 
 all I know, at a proper time — not at all." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 HE storm had passed away, and so had the 
 patches of blue sky, tinged with red and 
 gold, that appeared to force themselves 
 through curling masses of black and greyish- 
 white cloud while the sun w^as rising above 
 the purple horizon. That fair promise, Hke 
 the provisions of a modern treaty, had left 
 no trace, except in the memories of those 
 whose expectations it had disapppointed or fulfilled. The 
 sky was grey and low, the earth smelt fresh, and a vapoury 
 moisture, felt but not seen, streamed up from it. 
 
 Soon after ten o'clock Everard came out through a small 
 door on the west side of the courtyard, where his horse 
 was waiting for him, and mounted as quickly as possible, 
 intending to ride to Netherwood, for the purpose of seeini( 
 Ida. 
 
 Meanwhile we may as well have a view of Freville Chase. 
 The house w^as of grey stone, much mellowed by time 
 in the older parts, where it gave hints of a very soft blue 
 and pink, which the eye perceived but could not distinguish. 
 It had been built at different times, and some of it was 
 of a late period ; yet the different parts harmonised so 
 well that the effect, not only of the whole, but even of 
 the worst part, as it stood there in relation to the rest, 
 satisfied artistic feeling and made criticism seem out of 
 place. Originally a single tower to which Everard's more 
 remote ancestors came occasionally for hunting in the 
 Chase, it had been greatly added to and enlarged during 
 the reigns of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth. During the
 
 16 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 reign of William and Mary, and the other pattern of filial 
 piety, Queen Anne, the head of the family, Lord De Freville, 
 apostatised for the purpose of taking his place in the House 
 of Lords, and his next brother left England, declaring em- 
 phatically his opinion that it was enough to have lost the 
 rights of an Englishman for having kept the faith, without 
 having his name disgraced. The elder brother took his 
 place, flourished according to his measure of things, and 
 finding the memories of Freville Chase unpleasant, built 
 a big house at Beynham, his larger and distant property. 
 The younger, finding himself, after awhile, in some place 
 where merchants most do congregate, took to trading, made 
 money, and returning to England late in life, bought Freville 
 Chase from his elder brother's son, who, as he never went 
 there, was willing to pay off a mortgage by the sale of 
 it. It was not worth much at that time, but when the 
 greater part had been cultivated, and only a small part 
 left as a park, it was worth about ^3000 a year. It was 
 by that time a large house, for inasmuch as its remoteness 
 had been found advantageous during the reigns of Queen 
 Elizabeth and the British Solomon, it was enlarged con- 
 siderably and lived at by succeeding Lords de Freville, 
 until the period of the apostasy at the time before men- 
 tioned, when they deserted Freville Chase, and went to 
 Beynham. 
 
 What the ulterior plans of its recusant possessor in 
 Elizabeth's reign may have been when he began building, 
 it is impossible to say ; but he left the tower, and built 
 an Elizabethan house to the south of it. Fifty years later 
 it formed a square, or rather oblong court, by the addition 
 of two long and lower sides, with a gatehouse and two 
 stone balustrades at the end. The old tower now reared 
 its venerable head exactly half-way between the two ends 
 of the right side, of whose length it made about two-thirds, 
 projecting ten or twelve feet into the court, and considerably 
 more on the outside. In the centre of the left side, and 
 therefore opposite the tower, there had been a side entrance 
 leading into a large vaulted room, perhaps intended for 
 a banqueting hall, or possibly for a chapel, if the owner 
 happened at the time to feel singularly hopeful of better 
 days ; and in fact as soon as there was any possibility 
 of hearing Mass otherwise than by stealth, it did become
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 17 
 
 a chapel. At last, Everard's father, having some ready 
 money at his disposal after a long minority, converted it 
 into a Gothic church, bringing it forward several feet, and 
 making it a little higher. Beyond the Elizabethan part 
 of the building was a terrace fronting the south. The 
 stables were behind the left side of the square on the 
 west, and shut out from the terrace by a high wall covered 
 with ivy. The kitchen gardens were a little way beyond 
 the terrace, to the west, sheltered from the north by a 
 deep clump of old walnut trees. Beyond the terrace on 
 the south, an old-fashioned garden or pleasure-ground sloped 
 gradually down to a piece of ornamental water. Beyond 
 again and around lay the wild park. It was of moderate 
 size, but seemed indefinitely large, by reason of its uncertain 
 boundaries hidden in ferny hollows : its undulating stretches 
 of wild grass-land, and the fact that what little arable there 
 was beyond it could not be seen from the house. Viewed 
 from the terrace, the whole estate, which measured 
 nearly four thousand acres of poor land, appeared to be 
 a wild park of great and uncertain extent. To all appear- 
 ance, it was still in fact, as in name, Freville Chase. 
 
 It is evident that the house was out of proportion to 
 the rent-roll. Two long minorities, with an interval of only 
 twenty-three years between them, had taken off one heavy 
 mortgage and paid for building the church ; but the dis- 
 proportion was not perceptibly diminished. 
 
 Everard had not ridden ten yards down the courtyard 
 when Mrs. Roland appeared at a door on the lower side 
 of the house, and made it evident not only that she had 
 something to say, but that she meant to say it. 
 
 " If it were anybody else," — thought he, as he pulled up. 
 She had not only been fifty years in the family, but had 
 had the sole charge of him between the ages of three 
 and eight, fulfilling that duty with the most remarkable 
 care, judgment, good temper and firmness. Hurry or no 
 hurry, he must listen to her. Her manner, as she approached 
 him, was a perfect model of the almost feudal reverence 
 of a past generation and of the dignified ease that comes 
 from having an assured position in one's own sphere, and 
 valuing it at its just worth. 
 
 " I am in a great hurry," said Everard. " Thunderbolt 
 is very fresh." 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 18 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " You can ride him, Master Everard," she rephed, looking 
 him over with quiet satisfaction. 
 
 " But what is it ? " said Everard. 
 
 " That Marquis is somewhere about in the neighbour- 
 hood," said Mrs. Roland. " I heard so this morning. Bolton, 
 the carrier, saw him yesterday at Ledchester. I don't be- 
 lieve that he murdered the baby — of course not, for I 
 know better ; and besides, he is not altogether bad. I 
 could see that when he was here. But still he is bad, 
 and he has that in him that he oughtn't to be bad : and 
 he has grown so somehow — I don't know how exactly, 
 but I suppose it's the Sects IVe heard talk of. Anyhow, 
 he's no good about here, and he can't have come for 
 any good." 
 
 " But what can I do ? " said Everard. 
 
 " I don't know," said she, " for I don't know what he's 
 come for. But we must look out, and it was my duty 
 to tell you of it, Master Everard." 
 
 " Thank you, my dear kind old friend," said Everard. 
 " I will do what you tell me, as you used to make me 
 do." 
 
 But by this time the horse would bear the delay no 
 longer, and, after a vigorous plunge bolted across the court- 
 yard into the park. 
 
 Everard was so glad to be fairly off, that he let him 
 go, only just holding him together enough to keep him 
 straight. He crossed the park at its narrowest part, steering 
 between clumps of fern towards a small gate that led into 
 a wood on the way he was going ; but finding the ground 
 soft after the last night's heavy rain, he turned down a 
 winding hollow, and taking a low hedge which had no par- 
 ticular business to be where it was, went on by a shorter 
 cut. After crossing a long stretch of grass as wild as the 
 park, he came to a deep stony lane between two rows 
 of overhanging trees. Then, being obliged to go at a foot's 
 pace, he began to reflect ; and this is how he thought : 
 
 " That hedge is of no use, and a wall costs money — 
 so do park pailings, which besides have never been there, 
 and would be out of character here. The hedge must 
 be made better — would that I could see my own way as 
 clearly ! — and a ditch dug. What about this mysterious 
 foreigner — my step-uncle, I suppose I must call him ? So
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 19 
 
 I am to be bothered about ///w, as if I had nothing else 
 to think of! But what harm can the fellow do, except 
 to himself? Dear old Mrs. Roland is always right, where 
 she has any means of judging ; but she has none at all 
 about him. What she said simply amounts to this : — Such 
 fellows as he would not come to these parts without having 
 some mischief on hand : but he has come ; ergo^ he means 
 mischief. Nego majorem. They might easily have other 
 reasons for coming : and moreover " — here he turned aside 
 and w^ent over a ditch into a piece of poor pasture land, 
 with a bridle path at the end — "there is no mischief 
 for him to do, if he would. The baby died of scarlet 
 fever, or something — we know that for certain ; and he 
 has a right to all the money he got by its death. If he 
 is one of the Sect, there is nothing in that line to be 
 done here. It was taken for granted by the rural gossips 
 that he murdered the baby, because, being a foreigner, 
 of course he did ; and having done that, of course he 
 is going to do some villainy about here now. But as we 
 know that he neither murdered the baby nor compassed 
 his death in any way, I can't see why I am to suppose 
 that he is engaged in some strange and impossible machina- 
 tions against my well-being. And what could he do ? He 
 can't touch my property, and as to my life, unless he fires 
 at me, for some unaccountable reason, from behind a hedge 
 (and the hedges are not thick enough in this countr}-) 
 I think I can take care of myself. Rubbish I an empty, 
 idle boast. Nisi Doiniiius custodierit civitatem. But the long 
 and short of it is, that the man, be he what he may, doesn't 
 concern me, nor I him." 
 
 Here he began to leave off thinking, and presently fell 
 into a kind of intellectual doze, attracted by one of those 
 mysterious influences that sometimes force our thoughts 
 out of their course. Perhaps the windmill he passed, and 
 the miller he spoke to offered the occasion ; but probably 
 tlie cause is to be found in that latent instinct of self- 
 preservation which prompts the bravest hearts to seek, 
 or at least to welcome, intervals of comparative repose, 
 when anxiety has become almost unbearable. 
 
 As Everard's had about Ida Dytchley, if that may be 
 called unbearable which has to be borne. 
 
 She had been in his mind w^hile other images floated
 
 20 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 over the surface, and she was there now, distinct where 
 all beside was dreamy. 
 
 He had not gone far beyond the windmill when, turning 
 into the road along which he would have to ride about 
 four miles farther to reach Netherwood, he descried a male 
 figure on horseback, whose identity brought him at once 
 to a sense of present interests. It was a middle-sized man, 
 who looked bigger at a distance, as did his mind (of course 
 it was Sir Richard Dytchley) with wxll-formed features, a 
 good deal spoiled by the weak expression of his mouth, 
 a genial manner, too much on the surface to be cared for, 
 and a neat but rather stiff seat on horseback. 
 
 "Ah! I am glad to see you are coming," said he. "That's 
 right ; I shall be riding back presently — by luncheon time 
 anyhow ! Reading away, as usual, eh ? " 
 
 "Not as much as I might, I am afraid," answered 
 Everard. " I have time enough at present, but having a thing 
 and making use of it are facts of a very different kind." 
 
 " You think too much about things, my dear boy. One 
 can't always carry out principles just as one wants. One 
 thing or another is sure to cross you. All life is more 
 or less a compromise." 
 
 " Yours is, at any rate," thought Everard. 
 
 " In the — the — the — most important things," said Sir 
 Richard ; " even in — even in what is — in what has a — in 
 what concerns — in fact, concerns — our welfare, or, I may 
 say, happiness — yes, indeed, people often make great 
 mistakes about these things. Well ! what was it I was 
 going to ask you ? — Oh yes, I remember ! When is the 
 Archaeological Meeting ? I thought of going to it." 
 
 " Next Thursday, I believe, at Monksgallows — a very 
 suitable name if they happen to look at some old Elizabethan 
 or Jacobean chimney-pieces, and go a little way into the 
 history of the period." 
 
 " Ah ! well — it was a struggle, and a — great mistake all 
 round — more or less — more or less. They didn't mean it 
 exactly as — as we should." 
 
 " I think they meant something when they hanged priests 
 for saying Mass." 
 
 " Well, it was — it certainly was — but I met a very intelli- 
 gent foreigner yesterday in the hotel at Ledchester, who said 
 he should go there — a scientific man, I take it, making the
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 21 
 
 most of his stay in England. I don't know at all who he 
 was." 
 
 " Now I shall find out whether this is the man," thought 
 Everard. '^' There can't be two stray foreigners going about 
 this country without a local habitation and a name." 
 
 " Good-bye," said Sir Richard, putting his horse into a trot. 
 
 Everard rode back in pursuit ; " for," said he to himself, 
 " he had to come to Freville Chase when my father died, 
 being a trustee as well as guardian, and therefore he must 
 know the Marquis Moncalvo by sight." 
 
 Sir Richard, who was satisfied with the wisdom of his own 
 remarks, and had his own reasons for wishing to leave well 
 alone, increased his pace to a hard gallop as he turned off the 
 road up a sandy lane. Everard was taken by surprise at this 
 proceeding and pulled in. 
 
 " Good-bye, I shall be back presently," said Sir Richard, 
 waving his hand. 
 
 " But I want to know this once for all and have done with 
 it," said Everard to himself, racing up the sandy lane till he 
 was alongside of him. 
 
 " Why ! — what's the matter ? " said Sir Richard, pulling 
 up, and trying to look amused. 
 
 " I only wanted to ask about this foreigner. He isn't, by 
 chance, the Marquis Moncalvo ? " 
 
 " Good gracious ! no. Certainly not. I remember him 
 perfectly well, though I haven't seen him these seventeen 
 years. I should know him again anywhere. I am sure I 
 had reason enough to do so, bothered as I was by all the old 
 women swearing ' as they know'd he'd murdered the baby, 
 and hoped I'd take the law of him.' Some of them stick to 
 it now, 1 believe, though I showed one or two of them a 
 certificate of the baby's death, signed by a very well-known 
 English physician of the highest character, who was travelling 
 along the Riviera at the time. What a nuisance people are 
 when they bother one about things that are all right if they 
 would only let them alone ! " 
 
 Thought Everard, " That, like the other wise saws and mod- 
 ern instances, refers to me in particular and to others as an 
 introduction. I wish that he wouldn't continually try to make 
 me forget who he is by forcing my attention on what he is." 
 
 " Well, then, said Sir Richard, good-bye for the present. 
 You may rely upon it that he is not in this part of the world."
 
 22 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " I felt quite sure he was not, before you said so," answered 
 Everard. '' But when you mentioned the foreigner at Led- 
 chester, I asked you the question, that I might be able to 
 stop a lot of idle gossip. Bolton, the old carrier, saw a 
 foreigner (your man) at Ledchester yesterday when you did ; 
 of course it must be Moncalvo, or why was he a foreigner — - 
 and then of course it was, and ' he knowed it were.' Hinc 
 spargere voces — which I wanted to make an end of. The 
 report was absurd on the face of it. The Marquis would 
 have come to Freville Chase if he were in this country, for he 
 remembers me perfectly well. I was seven or eight years old 
 when he came last." 
 
 " Just so," said Sir Richard ; " for there never was anything 
 against him beyond being rather extravagant (I have been 
 told) in early youth. And then to go and say he murdered 
 the child ! Upon my word, you know ! " 
 
 " We have positive proof that he didn't," answered 
 Everard ; " and I know nothing whatever against him in any 
 way, and never heard anything, except that he had no 
 business to be a foreigner, and still less to take charge of the 
 child he was guardian to." 
 
 Here they separated. Sir Richard pursued his way at a 
 moderate pace, uttering within himself moderate opinions. 
 Everard looked at his watch and rode on slowly towards 
 Netherwood, saying within himself : — 
 
 " If I am not too soon, Lady Dytchley will be out or wri- 
 ting letters upstairs, which will do as well. Do as well ! which 
 means that to be rid of her is a boniim however it may come 
 about — which means that without her knowledge or consent, 
 and in a sense diametrically opposed to her wishes, I must 
 and will speak to Ida. A very pretty position for a decent 
 Catholic to be placed in. My father and Sir Richard were 
 great friends (how my father could have cared about such a 
 man I can't imagine) and they both wished this match to be. 
 When I was five years old my father died, and as Sir Richard 
 was my guardian, there I was — left to grow up feeling myself 
 engaged to her, with every opportunity of forming that 
 terribly strong attachment which has taken possession of my 
 life. I had no scruples about it when I grew older, for, 
 besides her strong inclination, she had been brought up a 
 Catholic till she was seven years old, and slipped out of the 
 faith without any act of her own, but simply because her
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 23 
 
 mother meant it to be and her father let it be. And so 
 it went on till Lady Dytchley saw that I was helping my 
 own betrothed wife to get rid of the misty ideas and 
 religious inclusiveness which her father's laissez aller way 
 of going on had forced upon her as the only possible 
 means of feeling any respect for him at all. Then I became 
 aware of a change — an unwonted stiffness in Lady Dytchley, 
 in Ida a strange constraint, a mysterious reserve, a pitiful 
 expression of anxiety without the power of utterance. Then 
 he sent me to travel abroad and I found that, somehow 
 or other, I never could have an opportunity of speaking 
 to her alone afterwards." 
 
 These reflections occupied much more time when they 
 passed through his mind than they do in description, for he 
 thought slowly, as became the immense importance of the 
 subject, and sometimes rode on faster in a state of mental 
 silence. When he reached the brow of the hill leading 
 down to Netherwood he drew a deep breath and pulled 
 in his horse to a slow walk. 
 
 "But I must and will see her alone," he thought. " Ida 
 was baptized and brought up a Catholic, her father is a 
 Catholic — such as he is — and wishes her to be a Catholic, 
 so long as her Catholicity costs him nothing. And am 
 I to leave my betrothed wife in this state, deceived, bullied, 
 betrayed, and say that because parents have a right over 
 their children. Lady Dytchley has a right not only to do 
 what she expressly agreed not to do when she married, but 
 even to use moral coercion when that daughter is of an 
 age to decide for herself? Am I to remain silent while 
 she, profiting by Sir Richard's tacit consent, is pressing 
 their united influence, to stop the growth of nearly matured 
 convictions and undermine the foundations of the faith 
 in her whose soul is the objective part of my own? No! 
 a thousand times no ! whatever it may cost — no ! I 
 have a right, and I claim it ; a duty, and I will do it." 
 
 The last few words had been thought aloud, and he 
 was made aware of it when he entered the village at the 
 bottom of the hill by seeing a pedlar turn at the sound 
 of the repeated words, "whatever it may cost." They 
 had a strange sound when he did hear them. 
 
 "He means to do something he don't like the looks of, 
 and he'll do it too," thought the pedlar, who was a man
 
 24 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 of concrete intuition, and had found the study of character 
 useful in his trade. 
 
 " I am making an ass of myself," thought Everard, 
 referring to the same occurrence. 
 
 The country below that hill is rich, well-wooded and 
 smilingly picturesque, with banks and copses, hedgerow 
 timber and winding lanes, cottage gardens pictorially placed 
 and rural views melting into misty lines of many-shaded 
 blue that gives scope to the imagination, repose to the 
 heart. 
 
 Provided always that it be under no contradictory 
 influence. " Like cures like," we are told in homoeopathy ; 
 but, however that may be, a landscape that is found re- 
 poseful to the heart in health has the opposite effect on 
 the same heart when it is suffering. Everard turned away 
 his eyes from the view, while a cold current seemed to 
 pass through him, as it were a long shiver. 
 
 Netherwood lies about half a mile farther in the valley, 
 a moderately large house in a small park richly timbered. 
 It was rebuilt towards the end of the last century, and 
 IS therefore characterised by squareness, abundance of 
 steps, long sash-windows and a broad expanse of red brick 
 mellowed into reddish brown. The gardens are of the 
 same relative style, and are screened from the north by 
 an overhanging wood with winding walks in it, wild flowers 
 and an old summer-house. Altogether it is a genuine old 
 English home, very homelike and very English. The 
 brick rebuilding is of course bad, very bad compared 
 with what preceded it ; but one may perhaps be allowed 
 to think that the stuccoed pastille-boxes of later date 
 were a good deal worse, and even to question the superiorty 
 of certain modern attempts at imitating the styles of the 
 remote past without the genius to create or the humility 
 to follow. 
 
 The old place (for old it is, though the present house 
 was rebuilt in the days when Sir Robert Walpole was 
 Prime Minister and Lord Chatham a cornet in the Blues) 
 has a character of its own, being genuine of its kind, 
 and impresses one with the idea of antiquity, in spite of 
 the sash-windows. In such English homes the beauty of 
 domestic life used to be reflected in its surroundings, 
 and the instincts that phrenologists call inhabitiveness was
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 25 
 
 Strengthened by habit. That state of Hfe has been im- 
 proved away by modern Enghsh progress, till the normal 
 country-house has degenerated into being a place of passing 
 residence, a station to hunt or shoot from, a free hotel 
 where excitement-seekers come uncared for and depart un- 
 regretted. It still hangs about here and there, a ghost 
 of the days that are gone ; but the old English home, 
 with its heart-filling associations, its local sympathies, and 
 the simplicity that could keep ahve a vague tradition of 
 faith where the One true Faith had been lost, is a thing 
 of the past. 
 
 It was about half-past eleven when Everard rode into 
 the stable yard. 
 
 " Where shall I find her ? " he thought. " I will try the 
 wood-walk : she often reads there in hot weather. How 
 often we have played in the old summer-house, when all 
 was bright and hopeful before us ? and now I have to 
 creep up there by stealth, because Sir Richard is a sneak. 
 Shall I find her there ? Supposing she should be in the 
 house ? And then there will be Elfrida in the way perhaps. 
 I had better try the house — it will seem more accidental, 
 in case I should meet Lady Dytchley — for I have to 
 deal with an adversary well versed in making the worse 
 appear the better part. I had better try indoors. Perhaps 
 I shall find her in the old schoolroom, finishing the Perugino 
 that Sherborne left her to copy." 
 
 He did so, and found her in the old schoolroom, not 
 copying the picture, but reading with forced attention. 
 Their meeting would have been a fine study for an artist : 
 the composition was so grandly simple, the beauty of each 
 comparatively so perfect in its kind. And then they were 
 so completely made for each other. Everard stood for 
 an instant erect and motionless, as fine a specimen of an 
 Englishman as you could see. He was of middle height, 
 well-proportioned, and muscular. His features were classi- 
 cally beautiful, and in the expression of his countenance 
 an indomitable will and an almost feminine gentleness 
 were blended into one, except when some special cause 
 brought either into prominence. But we cannot pause 
 yet to notice them more completely. 
 
 Ida was unnaturally pale, and when he entered the
 
 26 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 room she raised her eyes wearily from the book, as one 
 whose attention had been riveted rather than fixed, en- 
 tangled rather than attracted, yielded rather than given. 
 At the sight of Everard a transparent rose-tint mingled 
 with the unnatural paleness and struggled with it faintly. 
 She threw the book away almost pettishly, and a soft light 
 came into her eyes as she rose and pronounced his name. 
 
 " My own dearest Ida," said Everard in a voice that 
 was firm indeed, but as unnatural as her excessive 
 paleness, "you are simply the whole world to me; but 
 what book is that ? Forgive me, my own Ida, I ought to 
 know, and you know why." 
 
 She placed the book in his hand without speaking a 
 word, and burst into a passionate flood of tears. Everard 
 held the book, but looked only at her. 
 
 " I am so very miserable," she said. 
 
 " I know it," he replied. " I felt it. I was unaccountably 
 impressed with the certainty of it ; and that is why I came 
 to-day. 
 
 " What can you do ? " she answered, sobbing so violently 
 that her words were almost inarticulate. 
 
 '' Have I no power to comfort you ? " he said, controlling 
 his utterance by an extreme effort of will. 
 
 Oh ! what — what can you do ? " she repeated. " What 
 can you do for me ? What can I do for myself? What can 
 anyone do for me ? " 
 
 " I can do everything for you," he said, " if you will do 
 but one thing for yourself, and that is to put forth your 
 will." 
 
 " That dreadful book," she answered, still sobbing, but 
 with less violence. " It says such things." 
 
 " I know what is in the book," said Everard, looking at 
 the title-page. " I will send for a copy, if you wish it, and 
 show you the falsehood of the assertions that have been 
 refuted over and over again, and are repeated over and over 
 again all the same." 
 
 " Oh ! do — do write it for me, that I may see it — have it 
 by me, if" 
 
 " I will ; but the question for you to decide lies deeper, 
 and is as simple as " 
 
 " Oh ! but how can that be. It seems so dreadfully 
 difficult, so complicated, so "
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 27 
 
 ** I can easily simplify it for you, if you will give me your 
 whole attention for a few moments." 
 
 " But I do always — you know I do ? " she answered, in a 
 softly reproachful tone. 
 
 " I know it — indeed I do ; but that was not what I 
 meant. I ask you to fix your attention on " 
 
 •' I have tried — oh ! so much. You told me to do so, the 
 last time you were here, and I did my very best ; but I can't 
 keep it fixed on the things you told me so beautifully. All 
 sorts of unanswerable difficulties break in upon it, and — and 
 I am so helpless I There is no one who w'll hel[) me to see, 
 except you ; and you come so seldom now." 
 
 " My own dearest Ida, you know how miserable I am 
 away from you. Prudence alone has kept me away lately. 
 Had I come oftener, the opportunity of speaking would 
 have been prevented as it has been before ; and this oppor- 
 tunity is, perhai)S, the turning point of our lives, the " 
 
 " What — what do you mean ? O Everard ; — what is it ? '"' 
 said Ida, turning deadly pale. 
 
 " I mean that Almighty God has given you grace to see 
 the truth. I mean that, notwithstanding the peculiar diffi- 
 culties of your position, you do see it, and that if you — I 
 will not say reject it, for the consequences of that would 
 drive me mad to think of, — but if you delay to act upon it, 
 the consequences will, in some way or other, be fatal to the 
 happiness of us both." 
 
 " I have not rejected it — indeed, I have not I Everard do 
 believe me ; I shall go oat of my senses if you don't ! If 
 yon desert me, and say that I shall be fatal to your happiness, 
 and make you — you — make you unhappy ; — Everard, this 
 is — is too much for me, — I — I can't bear it 1 " 
 
 For a few seconds Everard was silenced by this very 
 feminine treatment of the subject, and his heart beat till it 
 could be heard ; but he recovered himself by a strong effort, 
 and said : — 
 
 " Ida, you know how I love you ; but the moments are 
 precious. You want to be sure that your convictions arc 
 convictions, and that the grace of God, which you feel 
 within, telling you what to do, is the grace of God. I will 
 show you how you can be sure of both. But I must first 
 show you what the question really is ; for the objections that 
 have been put before you, and which I will answer one by
 
 28 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 one, if you like, hustle it out of sight by their multitude 
 and confusion, and have much to do with turning people's 
 minds away from it — which is, in fact, why they are multi- 
 plied so and expressed in such loose terms that it is very 
 difficult to lay hold of them. The real question is this : — 
 Did our Lord found the Catholic Church ? We know that 
 He founded a Church, and will be with it always, for He 
 said so Himself; and if the Catholic Church is that Church 
 it must be the only true Church, and the objections to this 
 or that doctrine or practice, however strong they may be 
 made to appear, must be wrong. Have I cleared away the 
 rubbish and made the case plain ? " 
 
 " Yes, I see ; but you said you were going to show me 
 how I am to know something. 
 
 " Something ! Ida, I implore you to attend. You little 
 know what you are bringing on us both " 
 
 " Dearest Everard, forgive me, I didn't mean it. My poor 
 head has been so bewildered by all I have gone through 
 lately— all the " 
 
 "I am here to save you from any more of it, and I can 
 save you, if you will attend for two minutes more. You see 
 what the question is ? " 
 
 " I do — I do really. What can I say more ? " 
 
 " Well, I proved to you three weeks ago that nothing but 
 the Catholic Church can possibly be the Church our Lord 
 founded. Shall I repeat what I then said ? " 
 
 " No — don't. I remember it all ; and you are right I 
 know you are." 
 
 " Then you know that you are convinced ? " 
 
 " Yes, now you have put it so, I do." 
 
 " And when cunning arguments were used in those books, 
 that shook your will and seemed even to paralyse your con- 
 viction, there was a monitor within telling you what to do, 
 urging you to do it. That monitor was the grace of God. 
 But you want to feel sure of not deceiving yourself: you 
 want to be sure that your convictions are true convictions, 
 and that the grace of God is the grace of God. Conviction 
 means that one's former belief, or one's opinion, or one's 
 doubts, have been conqueied by the force of argument or 
 the weight of authority. The time is so short, and we are 
 so liable to interruption from one moment to another, that I 
 can't go again into the proofs which I have given you
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 29 
 
 already, and say why they are conclusive to you. Neither 
 can I recapitulate why the force of authority has also con- 
 vinced you — the authority of the Church which you assure 
 me you believe to have been founded by our Lord. I can 
 only say that as you are convinced regarding the general 
 question — which includes the particular ones — convinced in 
 spite of all this array of hostile and confusing literature, I 
 don't see how you could doubt the reality of the fact — 
 namely, that your doubts have been answered and removed 
 by the force of argument and the weight of authority. 
 We come now to the other motive of belief — the grace 
 of God, which is infinitely higher and infinitely more con- 
 clusive. When the grace of God comes into the soul, 
 showing us the truth, we are convinced, conquered, but 
 much more effectually, if we attend to it, than we were 
 previously by any reasoning however strong ; for arguments 
 appeal to the intellect, but the grace of God commands 
 the soul to obey. You want to be sure, then, that what 
 you feel within, impelling you to be what you were baptized, 
 is the grace of God, and not your own fancy. Now did 
 you, or did you not, find that, when you sought the truth 
 most, and prayed most for light, and were most ready to 
 obey the will of God, irrespective of anything else, you 
 felt most convinced in your mind and in your sonl ? 
 
 " I did. I felt it. I know it, and I will obey it — indeed 
 I will ; but at present — my mother " 
 
 " Ida, the duty of reverent obedience to parents is a 
 sacred obligation. You know what I think about it, and 
 you know that what I think is simply what the Catholic 
 Church teaches. But you know also, that when obedience 
 to parents entails disobedience to God, we must obey God 
 rather than man. God commands you to accept the grace 
 He offers you, and you must obey Hivi even at the cost 
 of disobeying both parents, or you would stand condemned 
 by His own words : ' He who loveth father or mother 
 more than Me is not worthy of Me.' But you are not 
 placed in that position. There is no opposing duty whatever 
 in your case. Even if you were a child, your mother would 
 have no sort of right to your obedience in this : for she 
 is only one parent, and the other does not require it, and she 
 expressly promised not to do so, and you were brought 
 up a Catholic till you were seven years old, and then —
 
 30 FliEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 but I will not pain you by saying more about that. And 
 now I must leave you, for I see Lady Dytchley coming 
 towards the house." 
 
 " Oh ! don't leave me — but you are right, as you always 
 are. It is better so." 
 
 '*The time is drawing near when we shall be always 
 together. Promise me, before I go, that you will now make 
 the one necessary effort which Almighty God demands from 
 you." 
 
 " I will — indeed I will : but what am I to do? " 
 
 " Tell your father and mother the truth, and send for 
 Father Johnson. I say this on your account, not on my 
 own. If it were better for you to wait till after we are 
 married, I should advise you to wait ; but I am sure that 
 it would be worse for your own peace in the meantime^ 
 and make you feel dissatisfied with yourself afterwards. 
 By taking the step now you will free yourself from those 
 books and other controversial worries, that unsettle you, 
 though you don't believe them. The delay seems natural 
 enough now, as if it must be ; but if you were to let it 
 go on any longer, it would so oppress you to the last, 
 I mean till we are married, that you would be scrupulous 
 afterwards, fancying that you had not done your best about 
 it. Believe me, scruples of that sort are terribly torturing 
 and difficult to remove. I want to save you from them ; 
 and that it is the principal reason why I urge you to take 
 the step now. The other reason is, that you know not 
 what troubles may arise from your seeming to hesitate, 
 what complications may come oat of it. Don't make me 
 explain till the danger is past and we can treat it as a 
 thing that never happened ; but do, I entreat you, take 
 my word for the truth of what I say, for your own peace 
 and for the happiness of us both. Were it not for the 
 reasons I have mentioned, I should say, ' Leave it till we 
 are one and uninterrupted : we have only three weeks, 
 to wait.' But I know that circumstances aHer the case 
 and make immediate action a necessity for your own 
 happiness." 
 
 He spoke rapidly, knowing the importance of the occa- 
 sion, and the shortness of available time ; but his heart 
 and will had one completely loved object, and his words
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 31 
 
 were pictured in his eyes, told in his voice, expressed in 
 his every feature. 
 
 " I promise to do as you tell me," she replied. " Vou 
 have persuaded me in the kindest and most convincing 
 manner. But how could it be otherwise, when I see you 
 and hear your voice ? You have done it all like yourself — 
 and what can be better than that?. Oh! what a load 
 you have taken off my heart. But there is my mother 
 coming across the shrubbery. I suppose you must go." 
 
 There was no time for answering, scarcely for one last 
 look. By great quickness he was just able to reach the 
 shrubbery before Lady Dytchley had opened the door 
 that led into it. 
 
 She was a tall large woman. The prevailing impression, 
 when you first saw her, was that of size, and the impression 
 never diminished, though the eye perceived that she was 
 in reality neither so tall nor so large as she appeared : 
 but you would presently be aware of a power which, if 
 you were not afraid of it, would turn out to consist in 
 the obtrusion of a slowly irascible temperament, a heavy 
 self-confidence, and the constant habit of imposing her per- 
 sonality on others. She ought to have been beautiful, and 
 you could hardly make out why she was only what is called 
 a fine woman. There were hints of beauty at times, and 
 glimpses of a softer expression that almost accused you 
 of rash judgment ; but before you could make up your 
 mind, both had vanished, leaving you to speculate on the 
 history of her heart, or shrug your shoulders and say 
 " Che volete ? " The story of her life would not repay 
 the trouble of inquiry ; but it is evident that to be the 
 wife of a man whose character and ways of acting are 
 manifestly contemptible, and who has not shown feelmg 
 enough to attract affection by sympathy, could not be 
 a position favourable to the development of her better 
 nature. 
 
 " So you are here at last," she said, when Everard con- 
 fronted her, not without misgivings, a few paces from the 
 door. 
 
 " I have been very much engaged lately," said Everard, 
 standing in a manner that was not stiff but suggested the 
 idea of fixity, and letting his eyes rest, as by accident, 
 in a line with hers. He understood her character
 
 32 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 thoroughly, and knew that he must assert himself in her 
 presence. Lady Dytchley avoided his eyes, and began 
 to twist the tassel of her parasol. 
 
 "I have had to see the new tenants at Claypit Side 
 and Fernhill Farm." 
 
 "Well?" answered Lady Dytchley, twisting the tassel 
 with slightly increased vehemence. Evidently she was 
 working herself up by degrees : but her eyes vented their 
 anger on the parasol, and gathered strength by not en- 
 countering his. 
 
 "And I have had to be away too," said Everard. 
 "I went" 
 
 •'I don't care about that," interrupted Lady Dytchley. 
 " It's no business of mine where you go. When did I 
 ever ask you about that?" 
 
 "By your saying that I had come at last, I thought 
 you were surprised at my long absence, as you might 
 naturally have been," said Everard. 
 
 She made no answer, but twisted the tassel till it 
 broke, and pressing the parasol with such force that the 
 whalebone marked her glove, said suddenly, 
 
 " I will not have you talking to Ida about religion." 
 
 " I don't think you give me much chance of doing so," 
 answered Everard, smiling, by sheer force of will, so 
 naturally that the effort was not perceptible. 
 
 "That's all nonsense — you know that very well, I 
 would'nt trust you, I can tell you. You are as bigoted 
 as you can be. Haven't I seen you — didn't I see you 
 the last time you were here — trying to influence her by 
 pretending all sorts of things." 
 
 "What did I pretend?" 
 
 "There now. That will do. I tell you, once for all, 
 that I will not allow it. It will be the worse for you 
 if you don't mind what I say. There, that will do — 
 I have some letters to write. 
 
 "What had I better do — go home or stay?" thought 
 Everard, as her train swept stiffly past him. " If possible 
 I must not let her suspect that I have talked to Ida this 
 morning ; or she will take advantage of it, to put doubts 
 into her head, on the grounds of over-persuasion, influence 
 of human motives, and the wonderful controversial training 
 which every ignorant layman is assumed to have had from
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 3^ 
 
 tlie Jesuits. Now if I go home, she will suspect me when 
 I am absent: and if I stay she will suspect me when I 
 am present. Which is the safest for Ida?" 
 
 All this passed through his mind before the stiff train 
 had wriggled its way two yards along the grass. The 
 conclusion was so instantaneous that it could only show 
 itself in its result. He took two long steps very slowly, 
 that brought him in front of the rustling skirt, and said : — 
 
 " I came to-day because I had been prevented lately ; 
 but I had better not stop, I think, on account of having 
 to see one of the two new tenants — which I ought to do 
 this afternoon. I will come again soon." 
 
 "Very well, very well — good-bye," answered Lady 
 Dytchley in a tone of conditional pacification. She was 
 satisfied on the whole with her success, in spite of her 
 inability to face his eyes ; and she had reasons of her own 
 for letting the subject fall into abeyance. Everard read 
 her thoughts easily enough, for they were perceptible in 
 every fold of her dress, and he too was satisfied, feeling 
 that his interview with Ida had been successful. 
 
 As he was leaving the house Sir Richard was coming 
 in. 
 
 "Shall I speak to him about it?" thought Everard, 
 "implore him as he values his own soul, to stand by his 
 child and save her from the persecution which he has 
 himself brought upon her? She is worse than unaided. 
 His passiveness is the one real power against her; for it 
 enables Lady Dytchley to force her into this dilemma, 
 that she must either look away from the oneness of truth, 
 or be obliged to despise her father. Yes! The line he 
 has taken is the one real difficulty that has puzzled her 
 conscience and paralysed her will, and may yet be a cause 
 of practical hesitation. And, in matters of conscience, 
 even unintentional hesitation more or less unsettles the 
 soul. Shall I speak ? 
 
 "You are not going yet?" .said Sir Richard. "Don't 
 be in such a hurry. Have you seen Ida ? " 
 
 "I want to speak to you on a subject that most seriously 
 concerns her," said Everard, with a calm readiness that 
 made the reply seem an answer to the question, and showed 
 no trace of the effort it cost him. 
 
 Sir Richard's reply was quite as ready, but by no means 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 34 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 as calm. "No, not now, not now," said he shuffling in 
 his clothes as if several virulent gnats were biting him 
 at various points. " I, really can't — upon my word, I 
 can't. I have a letter to write before luncheon — I have 
 indeed." 
 
 " I should not detain you five minutes," remarked 
 Everard, forcing himself to look unconcerned. 
 
 But Sir Richard was too cautious to be reassured so 
 easily. He walked into the house in unseemly haste, 
 his legs appearing to move on springs, and, speaking from 
 behind the door, said : — 
 
 " No, no — I haven't a moment, I assure you. Things 
 must be done, you know. There is a man waiting to hear 
 about something" 
 
 "There are a good many doing that, I believe," said 
 Everard in a low voice as he moved slowly towards the 
 stables. 
 
 "Well, yes — there are," answered Sir Richard, who 
 had nearly lost his wits at the prospect of being required 
 to act like a man. " Well, then — perhaps after luncheon,— 
 we will see." 
 
 " I can't stay — I told Lady Dytchley so just now. I 
 have to be at Claypit Side early this afternoon." 
 
 " Ah ! well — next time then. I am sorry you are 
 obliged to go. Good-bye : good-bye." 
 
 " What is to be done with such a man as that ?" thought 
 Everard as he rode away. "It is cross and a temptation — 
 a continual temptation against reverence and humility ; 
 but I must do my best. I ought to be satisfied with the 
 result of my visit, and I am ; for I have Ida's promise, 
 which is everything. It is useless to disturb myself about 
 him — I hope he is not as accountable as he seems — 
 nor about Lady Dytchley, who, at any rate uses her 
 influence in favour of the religion she professes. If she 
 really has an objective belief in it (which, however, is 
 hard to suppose in a woman who agreed to bring up her 
 children in another), she is not blamable for the fact of 
 using her influence that way, when Sir Richard gives her 
 every encouragement, short of apostatising : but the means 
 that she uses are cruel and dishonest. I hope she is not 
 distincdy aware of either. Were it not for the suffering 
 which Ida will have to endure for a while, I should go
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 35 
 
 home perfectly satisfied. If Ida is firm — and she will be — 
 the trial will be short. I must rest on the remembrance 
 of her promise." 
 
 He did rest on it ; so that the way home seemed short, 
 because there were no time-marks within. Not till he 
 was half way through the Chase did a disturbing question 
 enter his mind, suggested perhaps by the accidental 
 opportunity of having it answered. The opportunity came 
 in the form of a grey head and a Roman collar appearing 
 above the fern, where the grass ride on which he then was, 
 turned rather suddenly, 
 
 *' Father Merivale," he said. Do come back to luncheon 
 with me. I want advice — in fact, direction, about" 
 
 " I can't go back," answered Father Merivale, *' because 
 I have a sick call at one of the cottages beyond Chase 
 Mill." 
 
 "Who is it?" said Everard. "Can I do anything?" 
 
 " She is a stranger, and, from what I heard, she will 
 not live long. I will let you know if you can do anything 
 for her." 
 
 " Good-bye, then " 
 
 ''Stay a moment. I am not pressed for a few minutes, 
 and if you have anything important " 
 
 ** Well, yes — I have. You know of my engagement." 
 
 "Yes, and I hope that there is no impediment." 
 
 " You know that Lady Dytchley makes it almost im- 
 })ossible for her to be a Catholic before we are married. 
 What am I to do ? 
 
 "You are sure — are you not? that she luill be. 
 
 " I am — there is no doubt about it. 
 
 " Then, my dear Everard," said Father Merivale, " you 
 need not disturb yourself about it. You are not called 
 upon to sacrifice your own happiness and leave her in 
 the danger of not coming into the Church at all. It is 
 very hard for a man of your principles to be placed in 
 such a position ; but you must bear that, if it is necessary ; 
 and I know you will, like a man. God bless you ! I 
 must be off," 
 
 Father Merivale went his way towards the cottage beyond 
 Chase Mill. Everard cantered home, thinking of Ida
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 T or about eleven o'clock of the next day, 
 whilst Everard was explaining to Mrs. 
 Roland why the foreigner seen by Bolton 
 the carrier could not possibly be the 
 Marquis Moncalvo, Sherborne rode into 
 Lyneham, put up his horse at the White 
 Hart, and having a few minutes to wait 
 before the sitting of the Bench of Magis- 
 trates, went into an empty sitting-room. 
 
 " Then you will ride on to Dredgemere, while I am on 
 the Bench ? " said he to De Beaufoy, who had come with 
 him. " There will be time if you cut across by Thornham 
 brook — the water is low enough just now. You will find 
 Bertram Fyfield very much improved since his marriage." 
 
 " Yes, his mother thinks so too — there never was any real 
 harm in him," said De Beaufoy. " He was only a bit of a 
 fool ; and, as his wife is a sensible woman, he will do very 
 well. Here is the old room, just as it was — the brown 
 blinds, and the horsehair sofa, and the wineglass of tooth- 
 picks on the sideboard, and the print of the Yeomanry 
 Review, and the money-box of the British and Foreign 
 Bible Society. And there is old Tomkin's shop opposite, 
 with its prints of chorister boys and Newfoundland dogs and 
 popular preachers. But Garibaldi has been replaced by a 
 monkey with a red cap — there is continuity in that." 
 
 " I am fond of this room," said Sherborne, " for the sake 
 of its associations ; but you had better be off, or I shall 
 have to start before you get back here." 
 
 De Beaufoy went on his way, and a stranger, followed by 
 the Boots carrying a portmanteau, appeared at the door.
 
 FREYILLE CHASE. 37 
 
 The Boots went up the stairs and the stranger entered the 
 room. He was a tallish broad-shouldered man, apparently 
 of no particular age, with dark eyes, a dark-reddish com- 
 plexion, black moustaches streaked with grey, a thick beard 
 of the same colour, and coarse grisly hair that sat stiffly 
 under a brown velvet travelling cap. His manner was as 
 stiff as his hair, his eyes looked into space, his voice was 
 pitched lower than its quality seemed to warrant. He 
 appeared to be a foreigner, but from what country ? His 
 manner was too stiff for an Italian, his articulation too heavy 
 for a Frenchman. Was he a cosmopolitan Englishman who 
 had taken to absinthe and progressive atheism ? or one 
 of those general foreigners from nowhere, who go about 
 looking as if they had business of their own, yet have no 
 intelligible employment ? Or was he a professor of some- 
 thing from somewhere, who was in the habit of imposing 
 respect on willing audiences by weight of manner ? 
 Sherborne looked at him for a moment, and said interiorly, 
 *' You are one of those fellows who go about making 
 respectable English Protestants believe in liberalism by 
 jjretending to admire the Established Church." Then he 
 turned on his heel and thought no more about him. 
 
 By this time a waiter had appeared, holding a napkin 
 under his left arm, and rubbing one hand in anticipation 
 of orders. The stranger, who spoke with a foreign accent 
 that gave no hint of his birthplace, said : — 
 
 " Nothing, thank you except a glass of water, and a little 
 ink. No, not any paper, thank you. I have it in my 
 travelling bag. And will you let me have a piece of sealing- 
 wax, if you please, to seal a letter." 
 
 The " aspettatore," as a well-known English lady called a 
 waiter in Italy, fidgeted about during the space of a few 
 seconds, looking with rounded eyes into the speaker's face, 
 and standing on either leg by turns, while the forefinger 
 of each hand performed a series of gyrations round the 
 thumb. Finally he drew himself up, said, " Yes, sir, 
 directly," and went in search of the articles named, remark- 
 ing to the Boots on his way : — 
 
 " Well ! he won't ruin hisself with what he's bordered. 
 If he don't have no more than that he won't be no good, 
 nor yet no harm ; for he won't cost nothink except the 
 washing of the sheets and the soap — but. Lord bless you,
 
 38 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 he won't use thai. I daresay his portmanteau is full of 
 rubbidge." 
 
 When he returned, bringing a glass of water, a stump 
 of red sealing-wax and a penny ink-bottle, he found the 
 stranger poring intently over a hunting-map that ha])|)ened 
 to be in the room." 
 
 " How far is it to Monksgallov/s ? " said the latter. I 
 want to go to the Archaeological Meeting there to-morrow." 
 
 " Twelve miles, sir, by the road," answered the waiter ; 
 " but you can get there by rail, if you change at Abury and 
 get out at Repton — just two miles from Monksgallows, 
 sir." 
 
 *' Thank you. How far is Exbourne ? It seems a long 
 way." 
 
 *• Well sir, it must be near thirteen miles, I should say ; 
 and it would be a roundabout journey by rail." 
 
 " Ah ! I must find some way of going there. I want 
 to see a faithful old servant of mine, who is a native of 
 that place. I hear that she is in difficulties, and I wish 
 to help her." 
 
 Thought the waiter, "You don't look much like that — 
 a ordering a hold bottle of ink and a bit of sealing-wax 
 and a glass of water ; but then I don't understand them 
 foreigners." 
 
 "Well, I will see about that to-morrow," said the stranger. 
 " Now, is there any object of interest near here to be 
 seen ? " 
 
 " I don't know of much sir, unless it's the new Roman 
 Catholic Church, as Squire Sherborne has built at Hazeley, 
 close to the house. But to be sure,." he added prudently, 
 casting a sidelong glance at the glass of water, " it's a 
 a long way to walk — over seven miles the nearest way." 
 
 " Well, I shall want a fly to-morrow to take me to the 
 Archaeological Meeting." 
 
 " Bless us ! He's a-coming it strong now," thought the 
 waiter. " 1 ope he means paying." 
 
 " Is there anything else to be seen rather nearer ? I 
 should like a walk." 
 
 " Well, sir, there's a old Roman encampment this side 
 of Bramscote — Sir Roger Arden's place, sir. The Boots 
 can tell you the nearest way to it— he comes from near 
 there — Yes, sir — Boots ! "
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 39 
 
 The latter ejaculation, which was sent forth from behind' 
 the door, caused the speedy appearance of the functionary 
 named. 
 
 " Show the gentleman the way to the Roman encamp- 
 ment, Tom," said the waiter. 
 
 The Boots led the way through the yard into a narrow- 
 street and round two or three corners into a lane, and 
 said, pointing with his thumb, 
 
 " It lies over there, sir. This here lane haint nothink 
 only a bridle road farther on : but you keep on a-follering it 
 till you comes to a old barn, and then you turns up along a 
 footpath as takes you into a village — but you musn't go 
 there. You must go a-skewing along by a farmhouse to 
 the right of it — and mind you go by the one as you'll 
 see has a little thatched cottage down a little way below 
 it, for the other would take you right out of your way. 
 And then you must keep bearing round by the brook 
 (there's a path across the fields there) and you'll get into 
 a road at the bottom of a steepish hill — but you must 
 turn to your right half-way up it, when you get to the 
 sandpit near the corner of" 
 
 " Thank you," said the stranger, who, it is needless to 
 remark, had not understood a word of these complicated 
 instructions, but supposed himself to have noticed which 
 way the Boot's thumb pointed. *'No doubt I shall find 
 my way." 
 
 He went on, and partly by accident, partly by asking, 
 arrived within half a mile of the place, when, taking a 
 wrong turn, he found himself, after a while, close to the 
 house at the Four ways. 
 
 Old Susan, who happened to be standing at an upper 
 window when he passed by, exclaimed, " Lor ! whatever 
 is he ? Miss Davis, do come and look now." 
 
 The person addressed came to the window, looked, and 
 looked again, but could find nothing to attract her observa 
 tion. 
 
 "What of him?" said she. 
 
 " Why, what's he a-staring up here for— a nasty im- 
 pertinent thing ! " 
 
 " Because he knows what you are saying, and sees you 
 looking so hard at him. It is enough to make him look 
 up."
 
 40 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " But how he keeps all on staring at you, a-pretendmg 
 as if he knowed you." 
 
 " Well, I don't know him at any rate. I suppose he 
 mistakes me for somebody." 
 
 " Will you have the kindness to tell me the way to 
 the Roman encampment ? " said the stranger. 
 
 " Round there to the right," answered Susan ; " and then 
 you must turn by the — Lor ! what's the matter, Miss Davis ? 
 you look all-over alike." 
 
 " Nothing. I — I thought I recognised the voice — the 
 voice of an old friend : it was rather like. That is all." 
 
 •" Will you let me in, if you please ? " said the stranger. 
 ** I see that an old friend of mine is here." 
 
 "Don't let him in, whatever you do," said Jane Davis 
 in a hurried whisper. " He may be a robber — and this 
 is a lonely place. Indeed, I don't know him." 
 
 " Lor, bless you ! Do you think I'm agoing to let such 
 chaps as him indoors ? But what makes you so frightened 
 all of a sudden ? " 
 
 " Because he pretends to know me, when he doesn't, 
 and that is the way people get into houses." 
 
 Thereupon they both left the window, and the stranger, 
 finding oral communication impossible, began to try what 
 the door-bell would do for him. He remained at least 
 a quarter of an hour on the steps, ringing at intervals, 
 till, like the 
 
 " Old man who said ' Well ! 
 
 Will nobody answer this bell ? ' " 
 
 he was fairly out of patience, and began to expostulate ; 
 which brought upon him the following reply from old 
 Susan : — 
 
 " I tell you what it is, my man — you had better begin 
 to go. We don't want no tramps here, and that's all about 
 it. What do you mean by coming a-interfering with re- 
 spectable people and trying to get into the house by hook 
 or by crook ? It ain't for no good, / know. Now I tell 
 you what. I ain't afraid of such chaps as you, not I ; 
 and if you don't be off, I'll take and bring the old blunder- 
 buss. It's loaded, I can tell you, for I loaded it myself 
 last Michaelmas, when there was a lot of rough people 
 about, as said they wanted work — but I know'd better.
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 41 
 
 They had got out of Ledchester goal, and was a-making 
 their way back home — them as had any — and was a-peering 
 about to see what they could steal. I knows how to use a 
 gun, which my father was under-keeper at Squire Sherborne's 
 — the last but one — him as died without no heir, and 
 the property went to the last one, till they found as he 
 wasn't the right one after all, and then this here one (as 
 is as good as gold, God bless him ! ) come in for it. My 
 father were under-keeper there, and he's took a-many such 
 fellows as you, only they wasn't foreigners, as don't know 
 where they come from and haven't no name, and keeps 
 on a-ringing at the bell to see what they can get, but 
 shackling chaps as hadn't no work in them, and wouldn't 
 mind a bit of sheep-stealing if they could get a chance 
 on a dark night with the snow on the ground, when they 
 lays mostly under the hedges for shelter, and a lonely 
 bit of road comes handy. He's took a-many such, and 
 I knows em, and I aint afeard on you ; and so you'd better 
 be off, or I'll take and fetch the blunderbuss." 
 
 It is probable that the mysterious foreigner did not 
 understand much of this address ; but when Susan, who 
 had suddenly returned from view, reappeared at the window, 
 carrying a weapon of strange and fearful construction, with 
 a short brass barrel as big as a small cannon towards 
 the muzzle, he showed symptoms of not appreciating the 
 crisis. Susan followed up her advantage by cocking, 
 uncocking, and half cocking the cumbrous machine, to 
 show that she was a keeper's daughter, while her companion 
 signified in dumb show that he had better get out of 
 the way. The final result was that, finding himself in 
 a position both awkward and ludicrous, with just enough 
 danger in it to make the ludicrous element seem much 
 out of place, he followed Susan's advice and began to go. 
 
 " He's a-swearing in his own langwidge," replied Susan, 
 putting her head out of the window. " Don't you hear him 
 grumbling away, for all the world like an old pointer over a 
 bone ? 1 can hear what he says, and though I don't under- 
 stand his gibberish, I know what it's about. I mind there 
 was a French cook when I were a girl, as lived at Bramscote, 
 and I knowed a young person as lived kitchenmaid there ; 
 and she told me he used to go on with his games just like 
 that. He took and throwed the saucepan at her once."
 
 42 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " I don't hear him say anything," said the other woman, 
 in a tremulous voice. 
 
 " Never mind ! he's a-swearing to hisself. I knows their 
 ways : but I knowed I'd get shut on him. Well ! now to be 
 sure — whatever is the matter with you ? You're as pale as a 
 sheet." 
 
 " I daresay I am ; it was enough to make me so. How 
 could I tell what he might do in this lonely place ? I am 
 not so brave as you, who handle firearms as if you had been 
 using them all your life." 
 
 " He won't come here no more/' answered Susan, replac- 
 ing the old blunderbuss on two iron hooks inside a deep 
 closet. 
 
 " Here is the policeman," said the other woman; who was 
 still at the window. " Can't he do something ? " 
 
 " The p'liceman ? In course he can. Hi ! I say, Muggles, 
 just go and see about that chap. He's been a-insulting 
 of us, and wanting to rob the house and that." 
 
 The rural policeman did not see quite sufficient grounds 
 for active measures, but thought he might as well caution 
 him to be on good behaviour generally towards Her Majesty's 
 liege subjects, and especially those residing at the Four 
 Ways. He followed his steps with long strides ; gained upon 
 him by degrees, and when near enough to speak with 
 dignity, inquired if he had lost his road. 
 
 " I have lost it several times to-day," answered the 
 stranger, trying to look at ease, " but not now." 
 
 " You must be careful," said the guardian of the peace. 
 " They've been complaining of you down there." 
 
 " I know they have. I heard the old woman speaking to 
 you. The fact is, I mistook the other woman for someone 
 else, as I passed the window ; so I asked to see her ; and I 
 suppose the old woman took me for a robber." 
 
 " Well, I don't say as it ain't all square. I don't make no 
 charge. But all as is, you had better be careful." So 
 far satisfied with what he had done, Muggles went back to 
 the house, in order to see whether there were any grounds 
 for keeping an eye on the accused. Susan adhered to her 
 former opinion, stating more than once that he was a "nasty 
 good-for-nothing fellow, as meant no good, and wouldn't 
 think nothing at all of robbing anybody, if he got the 
 chance."
 
 FliEVILLE CHASE. 43 
 
 Said Muggles, " That ain't no charge. You've been and 
 made a fool of me, with your nonsense, making me get 
 a-interrupting a respectable man that weren't doing no harm 
 to nobody." 
 
 Susan rose in reply, or would have done so, only she was 
 standing ; but Muggles declined wasting any more time, and 
 proceeded on his rounds. 
 
 In the mean^yhile the stranger was making the best of his 
 way back to Lyneham, much relieved at finding that he was 
 not to be taken before some mysterious tribunal and dealt 
 with according to old Susan's views of the law. He made 
 several wrong turns, and after going at least four miles out 
 of his way, reached the White Hart about four o'clock, 
 a good deal tired and (judging by his gait) rather footsore. 
 The waiter ap])eared with his napkin under his arm, and the 
 following dialogue ensued : — 
 
 " I wish to dine as soon as possible," said the stranger. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; immediately. Chops, beefsteak, roast chicken, 
 — any fish, sir ? " 
 
 " Well, I should like some potage a la bonne femme, 
 filets de soles au gratin, mutton cutlets a la jardiniere, or 
 fricassee de poulet aux truffes ; — yes ; that will be enough— 
 oh ! yes — some meringues glacees, a little Parmesan cheese, 
 and — and a bottle of Chateau Margaux." 
 
 " Ble^s us and save us ! " thought the waiter, whose eyes 
 had grown rounder at each successive item of the menu. 
 Then, being a practical man, he added aloud, " I think, sir, 
 I had better call the landlady, sir. She has been in foreign 
 parts, and I don't rightly understand what it is you've been 
 pleased to border." 
 
 He left the room, and the landlady soon appeared — a tall 
 portly woman with large features that had a fixed expression 
 of readiness to fulfil the legitimate demands of her cus- 
 tomers, open grey eyes that repelled investigation, and a 
 measured voice audibly expressed. He looked at her, and 
 appeared to wish that she were not there. 
 
 " I am afraid sir, that I am not able to furnish the sort ot 
 dinner you would like," she said, making a dignified curtsey. 
 "We have no call here for anything more than roast and 
 boiled, and such like." 
 
 "It is my fault. I ought to have thought of that," 
 answered the stranger. " Well, then, will you be so
 
 44 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 good as to send me what you have — I leave it to you." 
 
 The landlady promised to do her best, and backed out of 
 the room slowly, looking hard at him from under her 
 eyelids. 
 
 *' Thank you," said he, turning away and looking out 
 of the window, " I am sure that the dinner will be excellent." 
 
 In process of time the excellent dinner was put upon the 
 table. The first course consisted of a tough beefsteak 
 decorated with strips of horseradish, a leggy Cochin-China 
 fowl (whether roast or boiled it was hard to say) with thick 
 slices of very fat and strongly-flavoured bacon round the 
 edges of the dish, a huge cauliflower bristling up from an 
 expanse of greasy melted butter, and some half-mashed 
 potatoes of an evil savour akin to that of tallow. Being 
 hungry after his adventures, he began to work away at the 
 beefsteak in grim silence, while the waiter was uncovering 
 the big cauliflower, and calling his attention to the mashed 
 potatoes. After a while he turned his eyes inquiringly 
 towards the fowl, but found no encouragement there. 
 
 " Sherry, sir ? " said the waiter, pouring something out of 
 a decanter. 
 
 The unfortunate foreigner tasted the curious compound 
 and made an involuntary exclamation, that old Susan would 
 certainly have taken for swearing in his own language. It 
 appeared to be a mixture of turpentine and brown sugar. 
 Next came a batter pudding, edged with enormous raisins, 
 and swimming in a sauce of many colours, then a pungent 
 Cheshire cheese, and, last of all, the old wine glass of tooth- 
 picks from the sideboard. 
 
 When he had finished, he gravely complimented the 
 waiter on the excellent cooking of the White Hart, and 
 ordered his bill, saying that he should go to Ledchester by 
 the next train, as it was more convenient for the Archaeo- 
 logical Meeting. Soon after he took his place in the rail- 
 way omnibus, and there we leave him " chewing the food of 
 sweet and bitter fancy," in the recollection of the difference 
 between the dinner he had eaten and the dinner he had 
 imagined. On no account was he sorry to leave the re- 
 spectable market town of Lyneham ; for, besides the un- 
 pleasing reminiscences of his meal, especially of the batter- 
 pudding and the sherry, he was not without vague misgivings 
 touching the ulterior consequences of Muggles' cautionary
 
 FKEVILLK CHA8K. 45 
 
 advice to be careful. For anything he knew, Muggles might 
 have only been waiting for the deposition of the two women, 
 when he said those words of equivocal miport, " I don't 
 make no charge," and was, perhaps, now on his way to the 
 White Hart with old Susan and a pair of handcuffs. She, he 
 thought, would swear that he had tried to break into the 
 house; and the fact of her having driven him from the door 
 with a blunderbuss, an episode that hurt his dignity not a 
 little, would be taken as clear evidence. He did not suppose 
 that the charge would bear cross-examination, even in the 
 opinion of Muggles, but he had more than one private reason 
 for not wishing to stand and unfold himself just at that time. 
 
 " He's a rum un, he is," said the waiter, as the omnibus 
 drove away. " He's glad to be off too, / know. He didn't 
 like hisself here. It's my belief he's one of these card 
 sharpers, and not a Frenchman at all, and bordered all that 
 rubbidge for his dinner to make believe he were." 
 
 The landlady said to herself — " Can he be the man ? He 
 looks too old, and different altogether, It's the voice that's 
 like — rather like — not quite— but it's many years ago. And 
 then people's voices are often alike, more alike than those 
 two. I wish I could know." 
 
 But she took no steps to gain the information.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 HE blunderbuss and the batter pudding had 
 been too much for the stranger's equanim- 
 ity. Was it not enough to be taken for a 
 housebreaker, driven away by an old woman 
 and suspiciously cautioned by a rural police- 
 man, without being poisoned at an inn and 
 paying ten shillings for it? He went indeed 
 to Ledchester, but instead of remaining 
 there, took the next train to London. While that train was 
 steaming and jolting out of the station, the dinner-party at 
 Bramscote was about to begin. First of all came the party 
 from Hazeley, with the exception of Mrs. Atherstone, who 
 had arrived early in the afternoon and was going to return, 
 the next morning. Then a fly drove up, containing two 
 maiden ladies who loved gardening and rented the old 
 Dower House. Sir Richard and Lady Dytchley, Ida, and a 
 man with red whiskers, arrived soon afterwards, followed by 
 Lord and Lady Oxborough, a daughter, and a strikingly 
 handsome young man of about one-and-twenty. Everard 
 was close behind in a dog-cart. Next came the curate of 
 the parish, and then a burly youth who was studying agricul- 
 ture because he liked hunting and shooting. Last of all the 
 priest walked in. He was a young man, slightly built, and 
 pale, with clear spiritual eyes and a firmly set mouth, in 
 which gentleness and strength of will expressed themselves in 
 harmonious proportions. 
 
 " I am afraid I am very late," he said to Sir Roger ; "but 
 I have only just come back from the other end of Lyneham." 
 *' I am only glad that you were not detained altogether." 
 " I was sent for bv a poor Irishman who was passing
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 47 
 
 through. He died a few minutes before I left. I have seen 
 the story of man's hfe to-day represented in the compass of a 
 few hours ; for I married a couple this morning, and baptized 
 a baby just before I started for Lyneham." 
 
 At that moment the entrance of the butler produced a 
 general change of position, and the sound of voices dimin- 
 ished sensibly ; but he had not come to announce dinner, 
 though the dinner was ready to be announced. He walked 
 up to Mrs. Atherstone and told her in a low voice that old 
 Susan wanted to see her. 
 
 " That woman I picked up off the door-step must have 
 done something unpleasant," thought Mrs. Atherstone, glid- 
 ing out of the room as naturally as if she were going to look 
 for a forgotten pockethandkerchief 
 
 "Where shall I find her?" said she, when the door 
 closed behind the butler and herself. 
 
 " In your room, ma'am." 
 
 Upstairs she went, and found old Susan standing erect, 
 her eyes full of vague information. 
 
 "Please, 'm, Miss Davis" said Susan. "Oh! 
 
 ma'am, whatever shall we do ? " 
 
 " But what is it ? " said Mrs. Atherstone. " Has she shot 
 herself with the blunderbuss ? You should have gone for 
 the doctor." 
 
 " No, 'm, not that, which I did fetch the old blunder- 
 buss this morning (it was near one o'clock however) for a 
 scamp of a fellow — a foreigneering man he looked to be, but 
 I should not be surprised if he was a Irishman out of place, 
 as couldn't do no good where he come from, and had got in 
 with bad company somewheres, and were a-trying to make 
 his w^ay back home, and run shortlike, and weren't very par- 
 ticular how he helped hisself on. But I don't think he were 
 neither ; for the Irish don't break into houses as that chap 
 wanted to, and pretended he know'd Miss Davis, that he 
 might get inside. And she stuck to it as she'd never seen 
 him, which it's my belief it's a gang of them together, and 
 as for " 
 
 "My dear Susan, do stop that long story," interrupted Mrs. 
 Atherstone, "I don't care about the man — there are plenty 
 of tramps about the country. What has the woman who 
 calls herself Jane Davis done ? " 
 
 " She's been and took herself oft."
 
 48 FUEYILLE CHASE. 
 
 " Are you sure of that ? She may have gone out for a 
 walk. Why not ? People can't stay indoors for ever." 
 
 " Yes, 'm ; but she's took herself off, you may depend on 
 it. It were just after teatime, and I had just gone to see 
 about " 
 
 " Never mind all that. How long is it since you missed 
 her ? " 
 
 " Four o'clock it were ; and that isn't all. Here's a letter 
 for you, as she left on the table in her room." 
 
 Mrs. Atherstone opened the letter and read as follows : 
 
 " Ho7ioitred Madaf?i, I beg leave to return 7ny most huvible 
 f hanks for the vern great kindness I have received from you. 
 Believe 7ne, Mada?n, I shall never cease to feel the greatest 
 possible gratitude for all you have done since I came to your 
 dooi', a poor friendless creatu7'e without home or food. Circu7n- 
 sta7ices tvhich I am obliged to keep secret at present co77ipel 7ne 
 to fly fro7n the protecti7ig roof that ^' 
 
 " Yes, yes," muttered Mrs. Atherstone. " This is all 
 taken from the sweepings of a Circulating Library. What is 
 the upshot of it ? ' \Vishi71g you eve7y happiness ' and the rest, 
 *" I remain^ with grateful thanks,' — and all that. Well, there it 
 is — we have done all we could for her. Stay a moment — it 
 is late for you to go back." 
 
 " The under-keeper is a-going that way, and will see me 
 liome. But, as I was a-saying, that man didn't mean no 
 good, as 1 told Muggles the p'liceman. I says to him. You 
 don't know nothing at all about it, to say he wasn't ' doing 
 no harm ' ; and you may depend on it she's in league with 
 him to rob the house." 
 
 " Nonsense. If she had wanted to do that, she would 
 have stayed, and let him in when you were asleep. She is 
 not a thief — I am sure of that." 
 
 Mrs. Atherstone then hurried downstairs, and the dinner 
 was announced. 
 
 When Sir Roger Arden had taken in Lady Oxborough, 
 and the handsome young man who came with her had gone 
 next with her daughter. Miss Exmore, followed by Sir 
 Richard Dytchley with Lady Fyfield and De Beaufoy with 
 Lady Dytchley, Mrs. Sherborne, who acted as lady of the 
 house for her father, sent Everard in with Ida ; at which the 
 skirts of Lady Dytchley's dress betrayed symptoms of interior 
 commotion, though its occupant could not but acknowledge
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 49 
 
 to herself that there was no other place for him, since other- 
 wise he must either go out with her, or have the red- 
 whiskered man, who had no particular position, sent before 
 him. The red-whiskered man fell to the lot of Mrs. Ather- 
 stone, the Curate and the student of sporting husbandry 
 were apportioned to the two maiden ladies, Sherborne and 
 the Priest followed, and Mrs. Sherborne closed the proces- 
 sion with Lord Oxborough. When seated at the dinner- 
 table the party was divided thus : 
 
 Lord Oxborough. 
 
 2nd Maiden Lady. 
 
 Burly Youth. 
 
 Mrs. Atherstone. \Q 
 
 Red-whiskered man. Q 
 
 Ida. O 
 
 Everard. 
 
 Lady P^yfield. 
 
 Sir R. Dytchley. 
 
 Mrs. Sherborne. 
 
 The Priest. 
 
 Sherborne. 
 The Curate. 
 1st Maiden Lady. 
 De Beaufoy. 
 Lady Dytchley. 
 Hubert Freville. 
 Miss Exmore. 
 
 Lady Oxborough. 
 
 Sir Roger Arden. 
 
 Seldom has there been a dinner party at which the con- 
 versation was so steadily continuous. The two maiden 
 ladies were Catholics, but they and their next neighbours had 
 common sympathies that made the latter think them ver}' 
 agreeable, as in fact they were. The elder discoursed criti- 
 cally about gardening to the curate, who was an enthusiast on 
 that subject : the younger, who \vas fond of horses, and had 
 done a little quiet hunting in her earlier days, gained the 
 good opinion of the burly youth by the interest she appeared 
 to take in his sporting experiences and theories. Mrs. 
 Atherstone, while taking mental notes of every one, fixed the 
 attention of the red-whiskered man by incisive sentences and 
 
 VOL. L D
 
 50 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 original views of things. They made no very definite im- 
 pression on his mind, for that part of him was of a loose 
 quality, so that in that respect she might as well have tried 
 to model a statue out of sand ; but they amused him because 
 they were new, gratified his curiousity while exciting it, and, 
 by reason of his own deficiencies, left him on good terms 
 with himself. 
 
 Sir Roger Arden, who only required that his next neigh- 
 bour should abstain from rash judgments and abstract pro- 
 positions, kept up a brisk, but somewhat colourless conver- 
 sation with Lady Oxborough, whilst at the other end of the 
 table his daughter was endeavouring to sympathise with 
 Lord Oxborough's taste for fat cattle. Sherborne was very 
 well satisfied to be next the priest, and Miss Exmore was 
 very well satisfied with the handsome young man on her 
 right, but would have been more so if they had not been 
 living in the same house for the last four days. Custom is 
 often a severer test of the subject than of the object. 
 
 At that end of the table the talking opened in an irregular 
 manner. Sir Richard Dytchley, who had known Lady 
 Fyfield many years, and was afraid that some unlucky turn 
 might bring their principles into collision, much to his own 
 disadvantage, began making some remarks to Lady 
 Oxborough inclusively about the Archaeological Meeting and 
 the intelligent foreigner, in hopes of being thus able to get a 
 fair start on safe ground. Sir Roger, being thereby dis- 
 engaged, became third in a desultory dialogue, in which 
 Miss Exmore did the greater part. Presently Sir Richard, 
 having, as he thought, got his fair start, devoted his attention 
 to Lady Fyfield, Sir Roger began his conversational duties 
 to Lady Oxborough, and Miss Exmore went on with the 
 desultory dialogue. 
 
 The handsome young man grew tired of the desultoriness, 
 and tried to interest her in the pictures at the Royal 
 Academy, of which he spoke with taste and judgment. She 
 listened for a while with sullen toleration, became gradually 
 impatient, sitting square with her eyes fixed on the tablecloth, 
 and at last put an end to his artistic disquisition by saying 
 sharply : — 
 
 "You know I care for nothing in the world but hunting." 
 
 " All right ! " said he with a short equivocal laugh, that 
 might indicate pleasure, amusement, admiration, disappoint-
 
 FREYILLE CHASE. 51 
 
 ment, mere surprise, or the breaking up of a half-formed 
 illusion. 
 
 " Well," said she, " are you going to talk ? I want to be 
 amused, and not bored about painters, and fiddlers, and 
 poetry, and all that sort of trash. Tell me something in the 
 way of sport, if you can." 
 
 " Well, then," said he, smiling stiffly, " I heard yesterday 
 that there had been a badger " drawed " in your neighbour- 
 hood." 
 
 She noticed the smile, and coloured angrily; but at that 
 moment Sir Roger called out across the table to Everard. 
 
 " By-the-bye, Freville, you ought to know your relative." 
 
 " I remember being at Freville Chase once, when I was a 
 boy," said the handsome young man to Everard ; " and I 
 was just thinking that I remembered your face." 
 
 " Who is he ? " said the red whiskered man to Mrs. 
 Atherstone, looking in the direction of the last speaker. 
 
 " Lord de Freville's only son," said she. '• No — by-the- 
 by I am wrong — the present Lord is his uncle, and has no 
 children." 
 
 " A distant relation to Mr. Everard Freville, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Yes. The head of the family apostatised in the reign of 
 William IIL, and his next brother did not. Mr. Freville, of 
 Freville Chase, is descended from the one who did not." 
 
 She little knew what she was bringing on herself by this 
 curt statement of facts. The red-whiskered man turned out 
 to be a very tiresome sort of half-finished convert, whom 
 Lady Dytchley had invited to stay at Netherwood, in the 
 hope that his spiritual priggishness and utter want of dis- 
 cretion might help her to illustrate the most disagreeable 
 view of Catholicity before Ida. No sooner had Mrs. Ather- 
 stone inadvertently given him the cue, then he launched 
 forth according to his own measure of things, dashing off in 
 less than five minutes many crude theories on matters which 
 he had neither the right to judge nor the knowledge to 
 understand. When he began to talk of candlesticks and 
 thuribles Mrs. Atherstone began to lose patience, but when 
 he wanted to show his loyalty towards the Holy S-ee by 
 teaching the Pope, she said : — 
 
 " Oh yes. You have a great deal to learn. I daresay I 
 had too ; but then I am so much older than you. I am an 
 old woman, born in the last century ; and you will, I am 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF
 
 52 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 sure, not be angry if I take the privilege of my old age and 
 give you a word of advice. A convert has everything to 
 learn and nothing to teach. We have not only to learn the 
 Catechism, but also to acquire the habit of thinking, feel- 
 ing, seeing, judging, understanding as a Catholic. You have 
 not yet acquired that habit. Your mind wants balancing. 
 Excuse me — you are too busy. You mean to be as loyal 
 as possible, but in fact you set up to teach the Church." 
 
 The red-whiskered man did not appreciate her advice, but 
 was much quieter after she had delivered it. 
 
 In the meanwhile Everard was trying to make the most 
 of his opportunity, such as it was ; but he and Ida were 
 badly placed. Mrs. Atherstone certainly kept the ears of the 
 red-whiskered man, on Ida's left, fully employed ; but then 
 Lady Dytchley sat opposite and watched her at short, un- 
 certain intervals. 
 
 The fish was now being handed round, and De Beaufoy 
 was preparing to attract Lady Dytchley's attention by a 
 series of respectful annoyances, whilst his wife, Lady Fyfield, 
 with equal urbanity, caused Sir Richard to wish himself any- 
 where, rather than sitting by her. 
 
 De Beaufoy's first move had been to notice the beauty of 
 Ida and ask who she was, as if he had not recognised 
 her ; by which opening manoeuvre he at once insured a 
 favourable hearing. Lady Dytchley cast her eyes down- 
 wards, to hide the pleasure she felt them express, and said : 
 " She is my eldest daughter, Ida. Don't you remember her?" 
 
 To which De Beaufoy replied, " Of course. How stupid 
 of me. But she was a child when I saw her last, and the 
 fulfilment has even exceeded the promise." 
 
 He then purposely talked of other things, taking care to 
 speak of places and people within the county, and leading 
 the conversation by imperceptible turns up to Freville Chase. 
 When they had reached that point he paused for a moment, 
 as if the name of the place had reminded him of something 
 too indifferent to be recollected without an effort. 
 
 " I don't think I have been there since his father died," 
 said he, " or even seen it, except when the hounds went 
 by, or we tried the gorse at the back of the house ; and 
 I seldom went to the meets on that side, for the country 
 about is full of rabbit holes and small blind fences, that 
 one's horse tumbles into without giving one the pleasure
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 53 
 
 of a respectable jump or the honour of an orthodox fall." 
 
 " Yes. It is a dreadful country for hunting," said Lady 
 Dytchley in an irascibly sympathising tone of voice. 
 
 " That will do to balance what is coming," thought 
 De Beaufoy. " She hates the place because it is his." 
 
 " But what an exceptionally interestmg old place it is," 
 he said — "the old Chase, unaltered so far as it remains, from 
 what it was five hundred years ago, and the old historic 
 house with its individual character stamped on every stone. 
 I don't know one the least like it. I have not seen young 
 Freville since he was a boy. I must 'introduce myself to 
 him ; for I knew his father before he married, when I first 
 knew your husband. He and I were small boys, and 
 Freville four or five years older. My mother was living at 
 Hazeley then, as I did afterwards till I found out that I had 
 no business there." 
 
 " Oh yes — I was so sorry," said Lady Dytchley. 
 
 " I am much happier where I am, I assure you," answered 
 De Beaufoy, " and much more at home on my own family 
 property than in a place that somehow or other always made 
 me feel as if I had no right to it, though of course I had no 
 idea that such was the case till three years ago." 
 
 " It is very good of you to feel it so, but still " 
 
 answered Lady Dytchley, who could not open her mind so 
 far as to understand how the loss of a property could, on any 
 possible grounds, be otherwise than the greatest of evils. 
 
 " I am much happier as I am," said he ; " and Reginald 
 Sherborne is a much better representative of everything 
 worth representing than I was. But we were talking about 
 former days. I remember Freville all that time ago ; and 
 afterwards, when I was older, I recollect some very pleasant 
 days' shooting there. There used to be lots of rabbits in 
 those days." 
 
 " And that is nearly all the game there is," remarked Lady 
 Dytchley, darting a quick angry glance across the table. 
 
 " Well, I used to enjoy it very much, I remember," said 
 De Beaufoy, not appearing to notice the missile. " I don't 
 care about so much preserving ; but " (and now the respect- 
 ful annoyances came in with the entrees), " I do love an old 
 place that is redolent of the days when men were men, and 
 women were women, instead of trying to be horsebreakers or 
 imitating everything that they ought to be ashamed of having
 
 54 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 even heard of; when both were strong in their respective 
 spheres because Christianity had not then died out of social 
 hfe as it bids fair to do now. Above all, I love an old place 
 where Englishmen kept the faith through crushing persecu- 
 tions, instead of apostatising at the beck of a Tudor or 
 crouching to a Dutch stadtholder " 
 
 Here he checked himself for a moment preceptibly, and 
 added in a parenthesis, " You know all this very well — I 
 should not have said it to other ladies, but I remember your 
 knowledge of history." 
 
 He remembered nothing of the kind, and felt rather 
 scrupulous about having let so rash a statement escape him 
 unawares ; but she took the compliment so naturally that his 
 conscience was comforted, and, as she made no remark, he 
 said : — 
 
 " Those times, like the times that preceded and made 
 them possible, have passed into history. We have now to do 
 with the people who are living and acting among us, and it 
 is pleasant to see the higher types. They are not common : 
 but, if I know anything of physiognomy (and I have studied 
 it a good deal by practical experience) there is one opposite 
 you." 
 
 " Everard ? Oh yes — he is very good and all that," said 
 Lady Dytchley, turning her attention to the supreme de 
 volaille suddenly. 
 
 "Yes — as you say, all that," answered De Beaufoy. "It 
 is just what I judged him to be — only you have expressed it 
 so much better — very much * all that ' — all that which I 
 wanted to express, and you have put it into five words." 
 
 For an instant she knew not what to make of this remark- 
 able interpretation, so different from what she had meant, 
 and was half inclined to resent it ; but inasmuch as there 
 was not the slightest trace either of fun or satire perceptible 
 on his countenance, the compliment took its place by 
 the side of its predecessor as a tribute to her ability. 
 
 " * Soft sawder and human natur' " thought De Beaufoy : 
 "now is my time." 
 
 " As I have known you ever since you married," said he, 
 " and your husband nearly all my life, it gives me real 
 pleasure to congratulate you both, and especially yourself. 
 All I hear of Freville confirms what my judgment tells me, 
 that he is one of the few to whom a wise and anxious mother
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 65 
 
 may safely entrust her child. Believe me (I speak as a man 
 who knows men as they are), a really satisfactory husband 
 was never so difficult to find as now. Habitual club-life, the 
 restless luxury of modern country houses, and that inclination 
 to shirk all restraint which makes people selfish in society, 
 unfit for domestic life, and saps the foundations of Christian- 
 ity in their souls, have brought things to this, that if marriage 
 might once be called a lottery, it is now more like a roulette 
 table — so many and so terrible are the adverse chances." 
 
 *' It is unfortunately too true," said she. " That sort of 
 thing has spoilt the young men of the day dreadfully. They 
 don't go to church or anything — half of them — I am afraid : 
 and so few of the younger sons care to be clergymen now. I 
 don't know what is to become of the family livings by and- 
 by, I am sure." 
 
 "That will be a serious consideration," said De Beaufoy 
 with imperturbable gravity. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," she replied; "but" (and here she paused 
 for a moment or two) " after all, Everard is not the only 
 good man in the world." 
 
 " Certainly not : it would be a bad look-out for the world 
 if he were. But just compare him with others — with the 
 better specimens, I mean. Take for an instance Lord 
 Oxborough's eldest son " 
 
 " I don't see that at all," interrupted Lady Dytchley. 
 
 " Just as I suspected," thought De Beaufoy. 
 
 " He is quite as good as Everard — quite," she added, her 
 voice trembling with suppressed anger. 
 
 " No doubt he is a model young man," answered De 
 Beaufoy. ** I don't deny it for a moment. But that is the 
 strongest proof of what I say." 
 
 "You are getting beyond me — I can't follow your 
 casuistry." 
 
 " Casuistry ? Well, I am glad you view the matter as a 
 case of conscience. But what I was saying is very simple. 
 One compares Freville with the best specimen of a young 
 man one can think of, and one finds him unquestionably 
 superior. What then must be the difference between him 
 and less good specimens, who are the majority ? " 
 
 " But I don't see the difference. He is quite as good as 
 Everard. It is only because he is not a Catholic that you 
 talk in this way."
 
 56 FKEYILLE CHASE. 
 
 " On the contrary, I always make more allowance for 
 Protestants than for Catholics, because their difficulties are 
 so much greater and their advantages so much less." 
 
 "That is your way of putting it, to make me in the wrong." 
 
 " I can't please you any way. Don't you see that I am 
 handicapping them, and weighting Freville more than the 
 other man ? " 
 
 "There, now. I have had enough of it. You always 
 were the most teazing person I ever knew. Do talk of some- 
 thing else." 
 
 "With pleasure, but an bout du compte^ I have made 
 characters and countenances a special study all my life, I 
 have had a long experience of, human nature, and I have 
 never yet seen a man who impressed me so favourably as 
 Freville." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; I said he was very good. What do you want 
 me to say ? " 
 
 " Nothing. I was only taking the privilege of an old friend 
 to say how much I admire the wisdom of your choice." 
 
 ''But suppose I don't care about it?" 
 
 " I am not going to suppose anything of the sort : it 
 would be a great impertinence in me to suppose that you 
 could be anything less than my long acquaintance entitles 
 me to believe." 
 
 " Less than what ? " 
 
 " Less than yourself." 
 
 " And what am I then, pray ? " 
 
 " A sensible woman." 
 
 " And suppose I don't care about the marriage — had 
 rather it were somebody else — no one in particular, but 
 somebody else, and only tolerate it because it has gone on 
 so long, and his father was an old friend of Sir Richard's, 
 and all that. What would you say of me then ? " 
 
 " That you were less wise than I believe you to be. But 
 I am not going to suppose anything of the sort. I have 
 known you many years, and I have lived too long to mistake 
 a joke for a serious opinion." 
 
 " But I am not joking, I tell you. When will you believe 
 what I say ? It really is too provoking. You have known 
 me long enough to have found out that I know what I mean 
 and am not to be turned away from it." 
 
 " Certainly I do " (and so does her contemptible husband,
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 57 
 
 he added internally, " who has made her what she is,) but 
 then I must be sure that you are in earnest, and in this case 
 I am sure that you are not." 
 
 "You are determined to make me angry, whether I will 
 or not. I say that I don't like the marriage, and only 
 submit to it out of" 
 
 " Holy obedience. Well ! there can be no better motive. 
 No doubt the clergyman of the parish, who, of course is your 
 spiritual adviser, has told you that, considering all the" 
 
 " Nonsense ! What has the clergyman of the parish to do 
 with Ida's marriage ? " 
 
 " Why, to say the truth, I couldn't exactly say." 
 
 " You always were the most provoking man in the world, 
 and I am very glad you are not at Hazeley — that I am." 
 
 " My dear Lady Dytchley, we are really agreeing on every 
 point. It is a pity that you should not see it." 
 
 They went on talking in this way during the whole ot 
 dinner-time, till the ladies left the dining-room ; but we had 
 better see what Lady Fyfield was saying to Sir Richard. 
 
 The latter had fondly imagined that, by transferring his 
 remarks about the Arch?eological Meeting and the intelligent 
 foreigner from Lady Oxborough to Lady Fyfield, he had at 
 least secured a good start ; but it so happened that, whilst he 
 was searching his mind for a safe idea. Lady Fyfield asked 
 him who he supposed the said foreigner was ; to which he 
 replied, " Some professor, I should think." ^^'hereupon, as 
 he was again searching for a safe idea, she remarked that 
 there were professors and professors, and that many of them 
 professed infidelity ; to which he, not knowing what else to 
 say, incautiously replied that the one in question appeared 
 to be a liberal-minded sort of man : which brought upon him 
 the troublesome question, " In what sense do you mean?" 
 
 Baronets have been very unjustly supposed to be more 
 tenacious of their precedence than other people. Probably the 
 libel arose from some facetious attempt at doggerel — about 
 
 A supposed Sir Harry. 
 Who was too proud to marry ; 
 
 as Sternhold and Hopkins made the tents black, to rhyme 
 with slack (see Ward's " Reformation ") ; but however that 
 may be, it is certain that Sir Richard Dytchley would have 
 been thankful to resign the bloody hand for that evening, in
 
 58 KKKVILLE CHASE. 
 
 order to be anywhere rather than where he was. He looked 
 about, hoping that some one would say something to him ; 
 but every one was engaged either in talking or eating, and 
 Lady Fyfield was waiting to know in what sense he con- 
 sidered the intelligent foreigner to be liberal-minded. Being 
 thus cast upon his own resources, the idea came into his 
 mind that, as no one would interrupt him, he would interrupt 
 himself, and he said cheerfully : — 
 
 " Oh ! well, in the usual sense — liberal-minded, liberally 
 disposed towards others. By-the-by, have you seen anything 
 lately of those friends of yours (he was a Frenchman, I think) 
 who were staying with you some years ago ? I can't remem- 
 ber their names." 
 
 *' I know who you mean," answered Lady Fyfield. *' She 
 was a friend of a friend of mine ; but I saw very little of 
 them, and what I have heard since has not made me wish to 
 know them any better." 
 
 "Dear me! I am sorry for that — they seemed to be 
 pleasant people." 
 
 " It is one of those painful cases that — but 1 think we had 
 better talk of something else. I should like to know^ how^ 
 your foreigner was liberal-minded — whether in good or bad 
 sense." 
 
 "No, no — I assure you," said he with much alacrity. 
 " You were telling it so well, as you always do. Really, 
 I should like to hear it." 
 
 " Are you quite sure ? " said she gravely. Don't complain 
 afterwards." 
 
 " What on earth is she going to say ? " thought Sir 
 Richard. " But I ///?/^/ hear something, and it can't be as 
 awkward as having to say what I mean by liberal-minded, 
 which I don't know " — — 
 
 " Or, rather don't want to know," said his conscience ; 
 whereat he shook himself together and asked her to proceed. 
 
 " It is," said she, •' one of those painful cases that — do you 
 insist on hearing it? " 
 
 " I should h'^e to do so," he replied, feeling sure that, at 
 the worst, he was choosing the least of two evils. 
 
 " It is one of those cases that show the danger of acting in 
 opposition to the Church. He made a mixed marriage and 
 grew careless. His wife's will was stronger than his, and she 
 was consistent, which he was not. The result is that he will
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 59 
 
 have to answer before Almighty God for betraying the souls 
 of his children." 
 
 " God bless me ! upon my word now ! — D n it ! " said 
 
 Sir Richard to his beloved self. " What the devil is a man 
 to do, beset in the way I am ? Confound that fellow 
 Everard ! I know he will get me into a corner one of these 
 days, and bother me to say something definite — but I won't. 
 And De Beaufoy — he has known me so long that he will 
 think himself privileged to be a nuisance. He's full of that 
 sort of thing, and no doubt put his wife up to it. What does 
 the woman want ? To persuade me to, to — not to leave 
 things alone? Very likely indeed— and have to drive home 
 with one's wife afterwards ! " 
 
 " That is all I know about them," said Lady Fyfield. 
 " I wish you didn't know as much about ;;/<?," thought Sir 
 Richard ; but he made a desparate effort and said. 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! very charm — I mean very unfortunate. But 
 you know, my dear Lady Fyfield, we must not judge others 
 — the Church tells us so — and I am sure that I know many 
 cases of all kinds where things appear (don't you know ?) 
 appear quite different and all that. I daresay that I myself 
 have been misjudged in, in — in that way, you know." 
 
 " I am not judging any one. I state the facts," answered 
 Lady Fyfied. 
 
 " Yes, exactly. To be sure you did ; but I only meant to 
 say that, you know, people have misjudged me — all in kind- 
 ness, but still they have misjudged me — and I should be sorry 
 that you, for whom I have so great a respect, should think 
 anything, you know." 
 " About what ? " 
 
 " Well, you know — about what I said. People are not 
 fair about me. My daughters can see (don't you know ?) 
 what is right, and all that, when they are — are married. 
 They have had their opportunities, and I am in a very 
 awkward position." 
 
 " But I have not been speaking of your affairs, — I have 
 nothing to do with them. You must not think that I was 
 taking the liberty of lecturing you, when I only answered 
 your question about the people you remembered meeting at 
 my house some years ago." 
 
 " Oh no ! I didn't mean that : and I have known you so 
 long that I am sure I should have felt honoured by your
 
 60 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 taking the trouble to say what you thought right. But I 
 thought you might have heard it said that I had done wrong 
 about my daughters, and I should be sorry you should think 
 so. You see it's an uncommonly awkward position. A 
 mother, you know, has everything to do with them, and — 
 and there it is." 
 
 " Forgive me for saying so — I tried all I could to avoid 
 the subject — but was there not an agreement about that ? " 
 
 " Well, there was ; but what is one to do when " 
 
 Lady Fyfield fixed her eyes calmly upon his, and said, 
 " That is a matter which concerns your own soul, at your own 
 peril. God will not be mocked. Now let us talk of some- 
 thing else." 
 
 In the meanwhile Everard, being uninterrupted, except by 
 an occasional look-out from Lady Dytchley, did not fail to 
 take advantage of the times and opportunities for which he 
 had so long waited in vain. As soon as they were seated he 
 whispered, " Have you done anything about it ? " 
 
 " Not yet ; but I will, indeed I will," answered Ida, " Da 
 have confidence in me or I shall go mad. I have borne 
 enough already to make me so ; and if you " 
 
 " / have confidence in you — the fullest confidence. What 
 would become of me, if I had not, when I have staked the 
 happiness of my whole life on you ? But the temptation to 
 delay, is in your case, very great and deceptive." 
 
 " That man who came with us — happily he goes away to- 
 morrow — has hitherto made it impossible : he has taken up 
 one's time so. And he is so tiresome and foolish, though he 
 means well, that he does harm. My mother keeps pointing 
 him out to me triumphantly as a specimen of what Catholics, 
 all but my father, really are when they are not pretending to 
 be different." 
 
 " I have met the fellow. He is an ass. I wonder the 
 Protestant Alliance doesn't buy him and show him about, to 
 bring converts into contempt. But, my own Ida, is he not a 
 living proof that the grace of God is sufficient even for the 
 WTak? That man, as you see, has neither brains nor strength 
 of character, and yet he gave up the only career he was 
 capable of, and straitened his means very much, to obey the 
 evident will of God. He is a poor silly fellow naturally, and 
 will do some harm by his want of ballast, but he has been 
 wise in what concerns the end for which he was created."
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 61 
 
 As Mrs. Atherstone was then trying to put a little more 
 ballast into the man in question, it may be supposed that 
 these remarks were not overheard, notwithstanding the 
 acoustic properties which our own name or its descriptive 
 equivalent is said to possess. Everard interiorly thanked 
 the red-whiskered man for having enabled him to say what 
 he wanted to say, and looking into Ida's eyes, listened 
 anxiously. She became very pale, and spoke in broken half 
 sentences. 
 
 " It is very true," she said, " true as everything you have 
 told me. It is the firmness of will that is wanting, the firm- 
 ness to choose (as you once told me, I remember) the least 
 of two evils, the evil that only hurts oneself and makes one 
 misunderstood, rather than the evil that is evil in itself and 
 against the command of God. I am in a terrible position : 
 you don't know, cannot know how bad it is, for you are not 
 there. Dearest Everard, help me, pray for me. My mother 
 keeps on telling me that, when we are married, I can do as 
 I like about it, and gives me all kinds of reasons why I 
 ought not to take the step before ; but I feel that I am 
 acting a lie by remaining as I am. It would be acting 
 falsely towards God, and making people judge you wrongly 
 too, if I were to put it off till afterwards." 
 
 " Don't mind about me," said Everard. '' People will 
 not take me for a liberal Catholic anyhow ; and besides, I 
 don't care what they think. The reason why you should 
 act at once is, that God has given you the grace to feel the 
 necessity of doing so. Don't, I entreat you, be influenced by 
 any other consideration." 
 
 " I will not : I promise you I will not. But still I must 
 feel how dreadful it would be to be the means of making 
 you seem to act against your principles." 
 
 " My own dearest Ida, do rest assured that I have the 
 most complete confidence in you, and that, if it were for 
 your good to wait till we are married, I should, without any 
 scruple whatever, or fear of being misjudged, advise you to 
 do so. I advise as I do simply on your account." 
 
 " I know you do : you are always so unselfish. But — I 
 should like it to be for yourself too." 
 
 " And so it is, of course ; for my happiness is one with 
 yours. For my sake, then, do what will satisfy your con- 
 science and leave you nothing to regret. When Tarquin
 
 62 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 refused to give the price asked for the sibylline books the sibyl 
 burned three, and again three more, and he had to give the 
 same price at last for three instead of nine. The same thing 
 happens if we delay to accept the grace of God : we sacrifice 
 as much in the end, and lose merit." 
 
 " I have been very wrong to put it off as I have." 
 
 " No ; you have done your best hitherto. But now I 
 entreat you for your own sake " 
 
 " And yours too — do let me feel that." 
 
 " I mean for the sake of your own peace of mind. You 
 are very sensitive, and would, I know, reproach yourselt 
 afterwards, if you were to let anything turn you aside from a 
 known duty. The delay that appeared natural and unavoid- 
 able at the time would become magnified in your mind, and 
 torment you with unmanageable scruples on the very 
 threshold of the faith. Surely that is ' for me too.' " 
 
 " It shall be done to-morrow," said Ida very distinctly. 
 " It shall be known to-night," if that man will only go home 
 outside." 
 
 Here we will leave them, for the rest of their conversation 
 was more interesting to themselves than it would be to the 
 reader : but, before doing so, it may not be amiss to take a 
 passing glance at both and see whether their outward 
 appearance was what we might have expected. 
 
 Everard was, as we have seen, moderately tall, powerfully 
 and gracefully built. He had rich brown hair, with a tinge 
 of gold in it, a silky pointed beard, eyes of very dark gray. 
 His eyebrows and eyelashes were darker than his hair, and 
 strongly pencilled, contrasting with a complexion that was 
 fair and somewhat pale. His nose was classically formed, and 
 rather more Roman than Greek ; his mouth strongly 
 chiselled and singularly expressive. The general expression 
 of his whole countenance, and more or less of every feature, 
 indicated balance of mind, purity of soul, depth of feeling 
 and strength of will. 
 
 If you observed him attentively, and were expert in read- 
 ing countenances, you would have no doubt as to the 
 strength of his will or the intensity of his love for Ida 
 Dytchley : you could see that, if by any means the two last 
 qualities were forced into apposition as regarded her, his will 
 would control his actions, his words, and, in an exceptional 
 degree, his thoughts, but would be powerless over his heart.
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 6»3 
 
 Ida was as lovely a girl as imagination could create. She 
 was too beautiful to be generally appreciated without some 
 puffing ; for the world of our days likes to be startled 
 by sharp contrasts of mind and features, stimulated by 
 angularities, or persuaded by clamour. She was of middle 
 height, graceful in form and movement, distinctively feminine 
 in everything she said, did, or thought. Her complexion 
 was richly fair, her eyes were of a deep and transparent 
 blue, her hair was golden and luxuriant, her voice melodi- 
 ous, with a soft ring in it that became softer and more 
 intense when she was talking to Everard. In her voice, in 
 her eyes, in the untraceable curve of her mouth, there was 
 the evidence of strong deep feeling, sensitiveness that only 
 needed protection, a will that might grow strong or break 
 down, but would not bend, a character that was full of 
 capabilities, and would become strong if allowed to expand 
 with her affections. Taking them both, as they were by nature 
 and accident, you would come to no other conclusion than 
 this : — that Everard was a necessity to her, and she to him. 
 When at last the signal was given that separated them, she 
 said, " I have been so haj^py ; " and he answered, " We have." 
 
 Which was more than Sir Richard and Lady Dytchley 
 could have said, especially the former, who between his 
 dread of what Lady Fyfield might cause his conscience 
 to tell him, his much greater dread that his wife should 
 cause him to reveal the same, and the certain knowledge 
 that he must, in any case, not only drive home with the 
 latter, but remain there at her disposal, had been sitting on 
 thorns, or rather spikes, during the last two hours. Lady 
 Dytchley was (to use a popular mode of expression) in a 
 temper, by reason of the discrepancy between her convic- 
 tions and her wishes. De Beaufoy had simply made her 
 acknowledge to herself what she had known before without 
 acknowledging. She agreed with every word he had said 
 about Everard, and hated De Beaufoy for having compelled 
 her to feel that she did so agree. 
 
 As soon as the ladies had left the dining-room, Hubert 
 Freville went to the other side of the table and sat down by 
 Everard. 
 
 " I am so glad to have met you again," he said. " Do 
 you remember mounting me on your pony, and my coming 
 to grief in a ditch ? "
 
 64 KUEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 "Yes. Come and stay with me when you have finished 
 your v)sit," said Everard, who felt a strange kind of interest 
 in him, for no i)articular reason that he could as yet dis- 
 cover. 
 
 " He is very good looking," thought he ; " but what do I 
 care for that? — He has a frank unaffected manner — and 
 so have others ; but I never thought of asking them to 
 Freville Chase the first time I saw them." 
 
 Hubert Freville was certainly very good-looking, and 
 something more. His features were not so symmetrical 
 as Everard's, but more striking. He was taller, built in 
 sharper curves, more evident. His hair was jet black ; his 
 eyes were also black, with a varying light in them, and were 
 more habitually expressive than those of his distant relative 
 because they were less under control. His countenance 
 betokened a powerful and generous nature, a temperament 
 strongly nervous and sanguine, intellectual capacity above 
 the average, with a possibly dangerous predominance of 
 imagination, a character that was complete in its parts, 
 but not yet properly shaped, and required training rather 
 than development. His manner was earnest, unaffected, 
 thoroughly natural, with the additional quality, so attractive 
 and now so rare, of causing you to feel that he was giving 
 you his whole attention and had pleasure in doing so. 
 He was essentially well-bred, and had the nearly obsolete 
 habit of recalling some pleasant remembrance whenever 
 he met anyone whom he had known before. After running 
 through a series of boyish recollections connected with 
 his visit to Freville Chase he said : — 
 
 " I had bad luck at dinner. After one has stayed four 
 days with people, and exhausted all available subjects, one 
 hardly cares to be put next them. Besides, one gets tired of 
 that sort of thing. I hate to see a girl trying to look like a 
 third-rate horsebreaker, and talking like a schoolboy who 
 wants to astonish his sisters. Do you know Miss Exmore 
 well?" 
 
 *' No ; very slightly. What with having been abroad 
 a good deal, and one thing and another — but I see I must 
 pass the wine — what with one thing and another, I don't 
 know my neighbours as well as I ought." 
 
 " There is not much to know in her. When you have 
 gone through her list of short slangy sentences and solved
 
 IKEVJLLE CHASE. • 65 
 
 the problem whether she is most like a boyish woman 
 or is a feminine boy, you have done all." 
 
 Everard felt no inclination to be Master of the Sentences 
 in that sense ; but having, by this time, an intuitive per- 
 ception, without any direct evidence, that Hubert Freville 
 would be the better for a judiciously moderative treatment, 
 he answered accordingly. 
 
 " Poor girl 1 " he said, " I fancy she has had a bad chance 
 in that way. Her mother, they say, brings fast men of the 
 period to shoot and hang about, taking them for what 
 they ought to be, because she had danced with some of 
 their fathers, and some of their uncles had married some of 
 her bridesmaids ; and so, you see, Miss Exmore, who, I 
 dare say, would make a very good wife if she had had 
 anything like a fair chance, has picked up all this rubbish 
 in her simplicity. I don't like judging in particular cases of 
 real or pretended fastness, and I always try to think of them 
 as charitably as possible, because we are, as a rule, so very 
 ignorant of the causes that have produced it ; but as to the 
 thing itself, there can be no doubt about it^ in the mind of 
 any one who thinks at all. Jt is the most dangerous folly 
 
 that has crept into social life, for it poisons the wells '"• 
 
 " And is repulsive to those who encourage it. Blackguards 
 take pleasure in it, and fools grin, but the better sort are 
 simply scared away from marriage by what they see." 
 
 " Yes. Miss Exmore only imitates the outside of bad 
 examples, as a child takes a tin sword and pretends to be a 
 highwayman ; but the fastness of the day means more than 
 that. The real thing is nothing else than a canker, which, if 
 it continues long, will sap the very foundations of society." 
 
 " I know this," said Hubert, speaking slowly and with 
 unwonted gravity. " Some of the best men I know — men 
 who long to be married, and would be model husbands 
 if they had the chance, are simply bewildered by the pros- 
 pect before them, and keep on looking out in hopeless 
 perplexity, like a person in a haunted room, who doubts, 
 after a while, whether the white thing he sees is a window- 
 curtain or a ghost." 
 
 " I am not surprised at their feeling the risk," answered 
 
 Everard. " They should remember, however that men are 
 
 the most to blame for this state of things, or, at anyrate, 
 
 have been. No doubt the better sort lament it now, and the 
 
 VOL. I. D 2
 
 66 • FREVILLE CHASK. 
 
 more cautious are alarmed : but it is certain that men were 
 fast before women showed the slightest symptom of fastness ; 
 and if man is the nobler animal — which my own experience 
 would tempt me to doubt — what can you expect from their 
 bad example ? Joking apart, evil communication always pro- 
 ceeds originally from the stronger, never from the weaker." 
 
 " Dytchley, will you pass the wine ? " said Sir Roger, in a 
 cheery voice. " Your good story has kept it down there too 
 long." 
 
 " What the good story was the narrator knows not, neither 
 did Sir Richard, who had never told one in his life ; but Sir 
 Roger had once heard him try to do so, and his amiable 
 imagination always enabled him to make use of that attempt 
 whenever he wanted an excuse to say something pleasant. 
 
 " Is that Sir Richard Dytchley ? " asked Hubert. 
 
 Everard, not without secret misgivings as to what might 
 follow, acknowledged the identity. 
 
 " He was your guardian — wasn't he ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and a very careful one." 
 
 " I should think so," said Hubert, fixing his large and 
 penetrating eyes on him ; whereat Sir Richard said con- 
 fidentially to himself : — 
 
 " God bless me ! I hope he didn't overhear what Lady 
 Fyfield, somehow or other — /don't know — made me say." 
 
 " He would be careful," said Hubert," " and honourable 
 in all business matters, but shady if he were called upon to 
 stand up for anything. Tell me (I oughtn't to ask it) 
 but " 
 
 " Go on," said Everard; adding in his own mind, " I 
 foresee what the question will be ; but I want to give him his 
 head, and see what he is made of." 
 
 " Well then," said Hubert, " isn't he a bit of a cad about 
 his religion ? " 
 
 Everard, who had not unfrequently affirmed the fact 
 unawares to himself, and felt that an evasive answer or 
 misleading excuses would only do harm, thought for a 
 moment, and said, " I will answer your question as openly 
 as possible, for I see that something higher than curiosity 
 makes you ask it : but try to get a little more out of earshot.'^ 
 
 Hubert pretended to examine the flowers in the epergne, 
 and Everard, after having drawn his chair in the same 
 direction, said : —
 
 FEEVILLE CHASE. 67 
 
 " He is weak and puzzleminded, and he married a Pro- 
 testant who is neither the one nor the other. She has made 
 use of her will against his conscience, and he has not made 
 use of the little will he has to protect it." 
 
 " I see," said Hubert. " In fact, by making his own con- 
 science ridiculous he has helped a good deal to set hers in 
 opposition to it." 
 
 " Yes," said Everard, " he has certainly helped to form 
 her conscience and set it, such as it may be, against his 
 own. That is the long and short of it — and all I have 
 to tell." 
 
 " If he had acted like a man," said Hubert, " and kept 
 his conscience at all straight, there would have been no 
 difficulty about it. I can understand a marriage of a Catholic 
 and a Protestant." 
 
 " Can you ? " said Everard. " I can't." 
 
 "Well, if they agree on everything but the one point 
 which, in reality, concerns the indivisible conscience of 
 each." 
 
 " But, my dear fellow, the married owners of those two 
 indivisible consciences are made one, in a Christian sense, 
 by a really Christian marriage, and therefore become, in that 
 sense, indivisible. How can a husband and wife be said, 
 with any propriety of language, to be one, if they are two in 
 what concerns them most and for ever ? " 
 
 " I should like to have it out with you at leisure, and here 
 we are, getting up to go to the drawing room," said Hubert 
 after a long pause. " You see I am a Protestant, whatever 
 that may mean — for I never could get an intelligible ex- 
 ])lanation of what it is, except that one is not a Catholic — 
 and so perhaps we may be talking at cross purposes." 
 
 " Well, then, come and stay at Freville Chase. When 
 will you come ? " 
 
 " On Saturday, if that will suit you." 
 
 •' On Saturday then, I shall expect you, and you shall 
 have it out as much as you like." 
 
 '• Freville," said De Beaufoy, joining them on their way to 
 the drawing room. " I am so glad to meet you again. You 
 won't know me, I daresay ; but I remember you very well 
 when you were a small boy, and I have passed many 
 pleasant days at Freville Chase with your father and mother." 
 
 " I remember you perfectly well," answered Everard.
 
 68 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " I should have known you anywhere. How long are you 
 and Lady Fyfield staying at Hazeley ? " 
 
 " A fortnight — perhaps more." 
 
 " When you go, come to Freville Chase." 
 
 " I am afraid I shall be engaged then : but I should like 
 it very much." 
 
 " Do if you can," said Everard as they entered the draw- 
 ing room : " or, at any rate, don't fail me the next time you 
 come to Hazeley." 
 
 There was not much conversation in the drawing room. 
 Sir Richard's main object was to be in the background. 
 Lady Dytchley sulked behind her fan, and made the curate 
 talk to Ida about lawn-tennis, to keep Everard away. 
 Hubert Freville was tired of Miss Exmore, and she of him. 
 Sir Roger did his best, but found it a hopeless case, he knew 
 not why. De Beaufoy found it equally hopeless, and did 
 know why, 
 
 *' It's the temper of that big woman," he said in a low 
 voice to Mrs. Sherborne: "she would spoil any party in 
 spite of every one, for she has not self-control enough about 
 her to sulk like a lady." 
 
 The priest had gone home, and Lady Oxborough wanted 
 to do likewise, the two maiden ladies had talked themselves 
 out, and the burly youth stared in vague wonderment at 
 Mrs. Atherstone, who was tired and thinking of the late 
 untoward events at the Four Ways, while Lord Oxborough 
 was thinking of nothing and saying as much. Mrs. Sherborne 
 began to try what music would do, and went about in search 
 of the same ; whereupon Sir Richard said : — 
 
 " Do you know, Everard can sing uncommonly well. He 
 has got a capital voice — tenor they call it, and learnt from an 
 old fellow at Naples — one of the old school, that didn't 
 make people bawl as they do now." 
 
 Everard, being brought out, verified the statement by 
 singing " U7ia fiwtiva lagrima^^' in a manner that recalled 
 the better days of Italian teaching. Then Miss Exmore 
 sang a ballad about " Breakers on a rock," and the curate 
 whistled something, accompanied by one of the two maiden 
 ladies. By the time the whistling had come to an end the 
 carriages were announced. 
 
 Then Sir Richard came forth jauntily, struck by a sudden 
 thought that the presence of the red-whiskered man would
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 69 
 
 ensure him a safe drive home and by reason of the distance, 
 which was nine miles and a half, help to clear away from his 
 wife's mind any inconvenient recollections or suspicions that 
 might happen to be lying about there. 
 
 The carriage was an old family coach, very convenient for 
 ladies' dresses ; but, unfortunately for Sir Richard, it had a 
 rumble behind, no less convenient for smoking. 
 
 " Surely he's not going to " he exclaimed, as he caught 
 
 sight of his protector preparing to climb into that comfort- 
 able seat. " I say — don't go outside, whatever you do. It's 
 as cold as " 
 
 " I never knew a hotter August night," remarked Lady 
 Dytchley, in a tone that made him redouble his efforts. 
 
 " It's the heavy dew I mean, out of a hot room and " • 
 
 " The dew comes out of the room ? " said she, with a 
 short and (to him) very unpleasant laugh. 
 
 " No, no ; it's the hot vapour that does the mischief — I 
 can see it over the park. 
 
 " When you are looking the other way," said she. 
 
 " Upon my word it is so, though. Come inside — there's 
 a good fellow ! You can smoke in the old billiard room, you 
 know." 
 
 A voice from the rumble answered cheerfully, " Thank 
 you very much, it is so kind of you to think of it. But we 
 are stopping the way." 
 
 " Well, then, I will come and keep you company," answered 
 Sir Richard, opening the door. 
 
 " Don't you hear that we are stopping the way ? " said 
 Lady Dytchley. 
 
 As if in illustration of the fact, Everard's horse reared two 
 or three times and finally backed on the Hazeley carriage, 
 which backed on the fly, which backed on the curate, who 
 ran against the burly youth, knocking his pipe out of his 
 mouth and causing him to swear strange oaths. 
 
 " Don't you see what is happening ? " said Lady Dytchley. 
 " We shall be the death of everybody, all owing to that 
 horse of Everard's." 
 
 " My dear," answered Sir Richard, " if Everard's horse is 
 the cause of it, how can we be ? Do let me now " 
 
 " Stuff ! what has that to do with it ? Drive on, will you ? " 
 
 The family coach began to move, and Sir Richard, im- 
 pressed with the idea that he was driving home with his wife
 
 70 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 after having said, in spite of himself, things not adapted for 
 her ears, began to be talkative, thinking that a httle harmless 
 pleasantry might perhaps be useful in the way of preven- 
 tion. 
 
 *' It was a very pleasant party," he said. *' I always like 
 their parties, and Mrs. Atherstone is worth going any 
 distance to see. I believe she is the Wandering Jew turned 
 into a woman."' 
 
 " Only she lived at the Four Ways the greater part of her 
 life, and never travelled but once," answered Lady Dytchley. 
 
 "Ah ! well, perhaps, then, her mind wandered — that was 
 not bad, eh ? " 
 
 " Fiddlesticks I she is a great deal sharper than you, I can 
 tell you." 
 
 " But that singing, and the fellow who stood up and 
 whistled ! I remember the tune, or something like it, when 
 I was a boy : it was a sentimental ballad about a wreath of 
 orange blossoms. It went in this way " : — 
 
 Here he began to sing, or rather buzz : — 
 
 / saw her but a moment, 
 Yet methinks I see hernow. 
 With a wreath of orange blossoms 
 Upon her snowy brow. 
 
 •' Do, for mercy's sake, be quiet ! " interrupted Lady 
 Dytchley, in a voice that brought his singing to an igno- 
 minious end. '• What is the matter with you ? what have 
 they been giving you ? " 
 
 " Giving me eh ? My dear, really, you know. Upon my 
 word, I never did in my life." 
 
 " Who said you did ? You fancy things, and then put 
 them into my mouth. What did I say, to make you say all 
 that ? " 
 
 " Well, my dear, you see, when you asked me what they 
 had been giving me, it looked odd, you know. That was 
 all : It was my mistake." 
 
 This view of the case was well "meant, no doubt, in his 
 own immediate interest, and might have melted meta- 
 phorical stones ; but it did not melt Lady Dytchley, and for 
 this reason : — She had made up her mind to be angry, 
 irrespective of what he might say or sing. She was in what 
 used sometimes to be called a tantrum, and the tantrum was 
 of so aggressive a nature that, contrary to her habits and
 
 FRKVILLE CHASE. 71 
 
 principles ot acting, she could not restrain herself from vent- 
 ing it on him in the presence of her daughter. 
 
 When they had passed the lodge, and were making their 
 way homewards through a silvery mass of moonlight, between 
 two glistening lines of timbered hedgerows, the tantrum 
 exploded. 
 
 " I can't bear him," she exclaimed with sudden vehemence, 
 in answer to Sir Richard, who had just made the unlucky 
 remark that he was sorry to have lost De Beaufoy from the 
 neighbourhood. " I am very glad he had to go away." 
 
 " Are you, my dear ? " said he. Well, sometimes one 
 doesn't exactly like people, you know — something doesn't 
 quite suit one in them. I remember once hearing an un- 
 commonly clever man say that " 
 
 " I say I can't bear him, and never could ; and now he is 
 more disagreeable than ever, since he went over, on purpose 
 to marry Lady Fyfield, who ought to have been ashamed of 
 herself — such a good and amiable and religious and charm- 
 ing husband as poor dear Sir Henry was." 
 
 " I must say, though, 1 think De Beaufoy suits her 
 better. Don't you think so, my dear, eh ? " 
 
 " That is because they have both turned. Such people 
 always encourage each other of course. But I see she has 
 persuaded you that she is very charming, and clever, and 
 wise ; and yet you didn't look so very comfortable when you 
 were sitting next to her at dinner. What were you talking 
 about?" 
 
 This was too much for Sir Richard's power of self- 
 possession. He jumped at least an inch and a half off his 
 seat, became very red in the face, and looked out of the 
 window^ in search of something to notice, if it w^ere only 
 <i cow asleep or a bat flying round a barn. 
 
 " What were you talking about ? " repeated Lady Dytchley, 
 who had not really cared to know, till these undignified 
 movements stimulated her irascible curiosity. 
 
 " What a lovely night it is, to be sure ! " said Sir Richard, 
 
 leaning out of the window as far as possible, in order to 
 
 support the fiction that he had not heard her. Do look 
 
 now at the moon shining among the trees in that orchard — 
 
 For "'tis tny delight, of a shiny night, 
 
 At this season of the year — 
 
 " I didn't ask you to look out of the window and sing out
 
 72 FKEVILLE CIIASK. 
 
 of tune," said Lady Dytchley. " I asked what you and Lady 
 Fy field were talking about this evening, when you took her 
 in to dinner. I should not have asked the question — for 
 what can it signify to me ? I am sure I don't feel interested 
 enough in her to care for that : but you seem so unwilling 
 to say, that I am sure she said, or you said, or both of you 
 said, something you are ashamed to let me hear. Now what 
 was it ? I must know. I will not have people coming 
 between us and sowing suspicion, and making mischief in all 
 sorts of subtle and cunning ways. It is very wicked and 
 dreadful ; and you ought to know better than to listen to 
 such things — you know you ought — I have never done so by: 
 you — never, never. And you never used to do so, never till 
 now, since Everard has put it into your head by interfering 
 with Ida's faith — the pure, simple, innocent faith that I 
 instilled into her when there was no one else to give her any 
 at all. I know he has, for I could see it in his face though 
 Ida said it wasn't so, because she has been made to believe 
 that black is white. I know he did it yesterday. He rode 
 over on purpose, and saw her while I was out. Now, Ida^ 
 don't tell stories, for I know it was so. I have always been a 
 very good wife to you, and you know it ; and it is very, very 
 hard to be treated in this way, in return for all I have done* 
 It is enough to break one's heart. I can't — can't bear it." 
 
 Her voice failed, and she burst into a passionate flood of 
 tears. Was this but the melting of a thunder-cloud into 
 rain — a merely physical crisis in a fit of unresisted temper ? 
 or the evaporation of contradicted wilfulness and angry self- 
 deception, in which better impulses gave a false colouring to 
 its evil origin ? Or was it a half hysterical outburst of natural 
 feeling, unnaturally repressed by her marriage with a man 
 who had no use for it and could not have called it forth, if 
 he had ? Judging by its commencement and by the prologue 
 before the front door at Bramscote, one would be inclined 
 to think that there was more of the rainy thunder-cloud in it 
 than of the injured wife ; but her dexterous allusion to what 
 she had done and what Sir Richard had not done for their 
 children, in the matter of religion, pointed to a cause quite 
 different from either. That dexterous appeal to Ida's heart 
 and Sir Richard's moral cowardice was not an ebullition of 
 any kind : it was calculated, or it was the result of previous 
 calculation.
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. io 
 
 The effect of that appeal was twofold, as befitted the very 
 different characters of the people to whom it appealed. 
 Sir Richard's abject desire to save himself took such ex- 
 clusive possession of him, that he was not even touched by 
 his wife's tears or the violent sobbing that followed : he was 
 only frightened and bothered. A woman's tears will make 
 any true man feel at least very queer, even though she be 
 very much in the wrong ; but when a man acts like a cur 
 about his faith, he loses half his manhood. 
 
 On Ida the effect of that cunning a])peal was terrible, for 
 a while, and dangerous to her peace of mind ; but Sir 
 Richard relieved her from so painful a position by making 
 another blunder. 
 
 " My dear," said he, " haven't I always left you to do as 
 you thought best about a — you know, about Ida and 
 Elfrida ? " 
 
 " ^Vhy then, does Ida disobey ? " answered Lady Dytchley 
 in a tone that was anything but lachrymose. " I say, why 
 does she disobey ? — when you, her father, command her to 
 do what I tell her about this, and not change her religion at 
 the beck of a bigoted, conceited, self-sufficient " 
 
 " My dear, my dear, I didn't quite say all that, you know, 
 exactly. It is true that I " 
 
 " Hold your tongue, Ida (Ida had not as yet said a word) 
 and learn to do your duty before you teach those who have 
 taught you everythmg. I say again, why does she disobey ? 
 Why does she disobey — not only me, but you — you, her 
 father?" 
 
 " My dear, do calm yourself. I think if we talk it over 
 quietly to-morrow, you know ; we may be able to make her 
 understand how it stands, and " 
 
 " I will do nothing of the kind. I insist on having her 
 promise now that she will not listen to Everard about 
 religion." 
 
 " That promise I never will give," said Ida, articulating the 
 words with a distinctness, that marked the effort they had 
 cost her. 
 
 " You wicked, wicked girl," began Lady Dytchley. 
 
 " I should be very wicked if I were to act otherwise," 
 answered Ida. " I have always obeyed you ; and I would 
 obey you in this, if I could do so without knowingly and 
 wilfully disobeying God. I am sure you would never wish
 
 74 
 
 FR FAILLE CHASE. 
 
 me to do that. Ciod has given me the grace to know that 
 the CathoHc Church is the one and only true Church, and 
 with every feehng of duty and reverence to you, and a 
 perfect readiness to obey you in everything else, I intend to 
 see Father Johnson to-morrow and be a Catholic." 
 
 " And pray who told you that God has given you all this 
 grace ? and what do you know about it ? " 
 
 "Well, my dear," interposed Sir Richard, "hadn't we 
 better give her a little time to think it over, and — and hear 
 what you have to say when you are not so — so tired, you 
 know ? We had a long drive to Bramscote and a lot of 
 talking ; and we shan't be home before twelve o'clock, for 
 we stayed late." 
 
 Lady Dytchley made no reply, and they drove on through 
 the silvery moonlight in dead silence to Netherwood. When 
 they had reached home, Sir Richard, as he walked upstairs 
 impressed with a profound conviction that he should 
 presently hear more of it, came to the conclusion that, for 
 certain reasons well known to himself, the Church was right, 
 after all, in condemning mixed marriages. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 HE date fixed for the Archaeological Meeting 
 was opportune for Sir Richard Dytchley and 
 the inconvenient arrangement of the train, 
 by which he would lose an hour and a half 
 in changing from one line to another, very 
 convenient. Loss of time is not a popular 
 amusement, except when we lose it for our- 
 selves ; but paradoxically Sir Richard gained 
 time on this occasion by losing it, for the hours of departure 
 obliged him to leave home so early, that he was out of the 
 way before Lady Dytchley was awake or Ida could take any 
 steps towards being a Catholic. When he thought of the 
 perils from which the time-table had extricated him, his heart 
 was full of thankfulness to the Directors. 
 
 It happened however, that there was no immediate neces- 
 sity for running away, and the reason was this : — 
 
 The explosion of the tantrum had either shaken Lady 
 Dytchley's nerves, as she said herself (only she called the
 
 FKEVII.LE CHASE. . 75 
 
 tantrum a dreadful trial) or produced a bilious attack, as her 
 maid thought : so that instead of finding himself called upon 
 to choose between the fear of God and the fear of her, in 
 which case the latter, being more consistent with his habits, 
 would have had the preference, he would have found her 
 lying on a sofa, with a Bible, a bottle of sal-volatile and a 
 blotting book,' " smiling at grief." There she lay waiting for 
 the doctor and considering herself to resemble patience on a 
 monument, whilst the maid held the opinion that there was 
 more of the green and yellow melancholy which often 
 accompanies biliousness. 
 
 Ida, who had no notion of what was going on, having been 
 told cheerfully by the maid that Lady Dytchley was "rather 
 tired after the long drive home, and wanted to sleep a little 
 longer," set out for the Presbytery before the big stable 
 clock had struck ten. It was well for her, so far as the 
 benefit extended, that the distance was short ; for when we 
 have struggled much between the evidences of two evils, and 
 chosen the least, we had better not think of them again on 
 the eve of fulfilling the choice. She walked fast, keeping 
 her mind fixed on her resolution, and when she reached the 
 house, rang the bell as naturally as if she were ringing the 
 drawing-room bell ; but when the housekeeper appeared and 
 told her that Father Johnson was away from home, her 
 calmness came to an end suddenly. " How shall I bear the 
 strain till to-morrow?" was the thought that rushed into her 
 mind as she asked when he was expected home. 
 
 " Well, Miss, he is away for a fortnight," answered the 
 housekeeper. " There is a priest here supplying for him from 
 the College at " 
 
 "Shall I see him ? " thought Ida, as she turned from the 
 door. " I have never seen him : but the office, not the 
 man, is what really signifies. And after all I know very 
 little of Father Johnson. Still I do know him, and not the 
 other — and one who knows me will understand so much 
 better. I had rather not go to a stranger. But I promised 
 Everard not to wait, and it would be waiting to put it off 
 when there is a priest here. Would it be waiting, when it 
 was Father Johnson Everard wanted me to see, and he is 
 away from home ? I felt so happy when I thought I was 
 going to see Father Johnson ; but the other would know^ 
 nothing about me, and perhaps misunderstand me. I should
 
 76 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 explain myself wrongly in my agitation. What a7n I to do? 
 If Everard were only here, to tell me what to do ! Shall I 
 turn back, turn back — presently ? " 
 
 In the meantime she was walking towards home, and 
 before she had gone a hundred yards the opportunity was 
 made unavailable by the appearance of her younger sister. 
 
 Elfrida Dytchley was just seventeen, and "looked some- 
 times older sometimes younger than her sister, according to 
 the light in which you looked for the difference. Viewed as 
 a young lady, she was, in face and manner, an overgrown child : 
 considered as a very young woman with a possible character, 
 her age appeared to increase under examination. So that if 
 you sought the truth in both ways you would be likely to halt 
 between two opinions. Her features ought to have been 
 handsome, but were not quite so at present. Hints and 
 unfinished beginnings of a beauty that would be rare or not 
 be at all, promised much and puzzled the imagination. She 
 was shorter than Ida, and stronger in everything except in 
 her health, which had become delicate as she grew up. She 
 had a strong and steady will, a vigorous mind struggling to 
 develop itself, a distinct and original character chilled by 
 the want of intelligent sympathy. No one as yet' really 
 understood her. Sir Richard, of course did not, and would 
 have been afraid of the attempt, if the idea had occurred to 
 him. Lady Dytchley was by nature ill-qualified for acquiring 
 that knowledge, and totally disqualified by habit. Ida would 
 have understood her, if each had understood herself ; but 
 self-knowledge had been carefully checked, as far as possible, 
 in them, to the disadvantage of both, especially of Ida, who 
 had less natural power to repair the damage. Everard would 
 have understood her better than any one ; but she had been 
 carefully kept away from his influence, Lady Dytchley being 
 of opinion that it was " bad enough to have him going about 
 deceiving Ida and Elfrida, without letting him come and talk 
 to her just as he liked." 
 
 " They told me you were out," said she, fixing her eyes 
 powerfully on Ida for an instant and lowering them, as if 
 considering what she should say and how she should say it. 
 " Were you looking for me ? " said Ida. 
 
 •' Yes ; my mother is not well, and has sent for " 
 
 " What is it ? I was only told that she was tired and 
 would get up rather later."
 
 KKKVILLE CHASE. 77 
 
 '' I don't know. She seems excited, and worried about 
 lomething. She tells me that she feels very feverish and ill."' 
 
 " Are you at all frightened about her ? " asked Ida, who 
 laving a vivid remembrance of the tantrum, and some 
 experience of similar explosions followed by the symptoms 
 described, attributed little importance to the latter on this 
 occasion. 
 
 " No, not frightened exactly : but I regret the cause 
 3fitall.'' 
 
 " You know it then ? " 
 
 " Yes, and have known it a long while, though you never 
 said a word to me about it." 
 
 " How could I ? I have longed often and often to tell 
 y'ou, and show you how it is, why it cannot be otherwise, 
 why I am certain that the Catholic religion is the only true 
 one ; but you had no inclination to hear that^ and I could 
 not in conscience have entered upon the subject without 
 speaking openly." 
 
 Elfrida again fixed her eyes on her sister — dark, lustrous 
 eyes with a strange depth of meaning in them — but remained 
 silent. 
 
 " There is something on your mind," said Ida. " Why 
 are you so reserved with me ? " 
 
 " From the same cause that made you reserved with 
 me. I know very well that if I speak of the course you have 
 decided on, you nutst give your reasons, and enter into the 
 subject ; and that means questioning my own convictions, 
 which I should not be justified in doing." 
 
 " Are you so sure that they are convictions? It strikes me 
 that, if they were, you would not be afraid to examine 
 them." 
 
 " Afraid ? " answered Elfrida, pausing for a moment, as if 
 searching for a connection between the thing signified and 
 her own consciousness. " As far as I know, I should not be 
 afraid to face anything that I felt I ought to face ; but 
 I don't feel that I ought to face this. I have no right to run 
 the risk of being unsettled by arguments that I have not 
 sufficient knowledge to answer. We should not be on fair 
 terms. You have Everard to help you ; but who could 
 I apply to in that way, without making mischief between you 
 and my mother ? " 
 
 " If you really have never had any doubts at all," said
 
 78 FKEVILLE CHASK. 
 
 Ida, "I had rather not incur the responsibihty of disturbing 
 your mind, situated as you are ; but don't mistake facts. 
 Everard has never spoken a word of controversy to me. 
 Ask yourself how and when he could have done so ? The 
 day before yesterday, when I saw him for about a quarter of 
 an hour, or yesterday at dinner at Bramscote ? I have had 
 no other uninterrupted conversation with him for more than 
 ten minutes at a time, since I was old enough to understand 
 anything about it. You must know that. How could he 
 have talked any controversy in that time ? You could under- 
 stand and judge all he has ever said to me about religion 
 as well as any one else. He has never quoted any book 
 on the subject, except the Gospels, or used any argument 
 beyond the simplest appeals to common sense." 
 
 " My dear Ida, I am sure that it seems so to you ; and 
 you are older and know more than I do. And I should take 
 
 your opinion if" 
 
 ''It has nothing to do with opinion, but with faith, about 
 which there can be no opinion at all as soon as one has it. 
 Faith is the gift of God ; and the reasons one gives for it, 
 when called upon to do so, are simple, and require nothing 
 but common sense to be understood." 
 
 " That is not your way of speaking," said Elfrida. " They 
 are Everard's words, or at least the same thing differently 
 expressed. You would never have put it in that way." 
 
 " Well, if they are, they are plain enough ; but you are 
 not in a state of mind to listen to them, and I should only 
 do harm by saying any more about it. You began it, and I 
 was obliged to answer you ; but I see that it is better to leave 
 it alone. Whatever I said, you would tell me that Everard 
 had put it into my head." 
 
 " Never mind how they got into your head. I was going 
 to say that the most subtle arguments can be made to 
 appear the most simple, if one is not qualified to deal 
 with them." 
 
 " My dear Elfrida, it is worse than useless for me to talk 
 to you about this. Your mind is shut against it ; and the 
 clearer the proof the more you would say that it was only 
 error cunningly disguised. Some day, I hope, you will see 
 it differently ; but we had better drop the subject now." 
 " Never : I shall never think differently." 
 " That is because vou don't think about it at all."
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 79 
 
 " I do think about it, or how could I feel sure one way or 
 the other ? " 
 
 " O Elfrida ! you make me say what you said to me just 
 now — ' that it is not your way of speaking/ nor of thinking 
 either. You know the difference very well between taking 
 a thing for granted and being able to give your reasons for 
 believing it." 
 
 "I don't take it for granted. I have read enough and thought 
 enough about it to be so convinced, that anything I might 
 hear the other way would have no effect in persuading me." 
 
 " You said just now that you had no right to run the risk of 
 unsettling your convictions. How could they be unsettled, if 
 nothing that could be said would have any effect upon you ? " 
 
 " I said ' no effect in persuading.' not in unsettling." 
 
 " Elfrida, your mind is not settled, or only in the sense in 
 which I have heard ot people's affairs being settled, when it 
 only meant that they got out of paying their debts." 
 
 " It ^' settled though ; and when I say that it might be 
 unsettled by arguments I have not the means of answering, 
 [ mean " — — 
 
 " That you are afraid of believing nothing, if you are 
 shaken in what you now profess — a remarkable way indeed of 
 showing your confidence in what you call your convictions. 
 
 " You don't understand me yet. A thing may unsettle 
 one's mind without touching one's convictions."' 
 
 " Surely convictions are in the mind ; and, if they are, 
 how can anyone unsettle your mind without unsettling your 
 convictions? And besides, you distinctly said 'convictions.' 
 It is disingenuous to say a thing and then explain it away, 
 when it suits your purpose." 
 
 " And it is not captious to bind one down to a word used 
 inadvertently ? " 
 
 " Now don't be untrue. You never thought of the in- 
 advertence till you couldn't get out of the consequences of 
 your words without explaining them away." 
 
 Elfrida remained silent so long that she appeared to have 
 dropped the subject, and they both, insensibly increased 
 their pace homewards. At last she said : — 
 
 " No ; I am not trying to do that." 
 
 " To do what ? " 
 
 " To explain away what I said. I had no intention ot 
 doing so : surely you must know that."
 
 80 FR?:V1LLE CHASE. 
 
 " My dear Elfrida, I am sure you did not intend it ; but 
 I am equally sure that you did so without intending it. You 
 thought that you were bound to resist inquiry as a tempta- 
 tion, and when you found there was something to inquire 
 about, you did your best to think, and make me think, that 
 it was a mistake. I am not blaming you at all : I only see 
 how it is." 
 
 *' What I meant," said Elfrida, " was this— only I can't 
 express it properly. One's convictions may be disturbed (I 
 will not say unsettled, for it has another meaning) but dis- 
 turbed without being taken away. If a person who had 
 learned astronomy were to bring forward a great many 
 scientific arguments to prove that the sun goes round the 
 earth, your conviction that the earth goes round the sun 
 would not be shaken ; because, though you couldn't prove 
 it, you know very well that it can be proved, and could be 
 proved to you, if you knew enough of the science to under- 
 stand the proofs. But you would be bothered and puzzled, 
 because you would have to listen to what you knew to be 
 untrue, without being able to say anything except ' I can't 
 refute what you say, but I know it is not so.' " 
 
 It was now Ida's turn to pause ; for she had heard enough 
 from Everard to be aware that there was a sound principle 
 here, and yet she was no less certain that it was unsound as 
 applied to Elfrida. There was a fallacy somewhere, but 
 where was it exactly ? and how should she answer it ? 
 
 "What do you say to thatV said Elfrida. " You know 
 more than I do, but I don't think you can answer it ; for 
 you would say the same, if the cases were reversed. 
 
 " Can't I ? " answered Ida with sudden vehemence. " Your 
 illustration is apt, and " 
 
 " Forgive me, dearest Ida, but all tliis is Everard's." 
 
 "What does it signify whose it is, if it is true? and, for 
 the matter of that, all that you have said is from — never 
 mind where, but it is not your own, and you know that as 
 well as I do. Of course I should say the same if the cases 
 were reversed, but why? Because the principle would apply 
 in my case, and does not apply in yours ; because Pro- 
 testantism is, at the best, but a sect of the Universal 
 Church " 
 
 " Everard's again: you would never have thought of that." 
 
 " Elfrida, don't provoke me to forget reverence where it is
 
 FREVILLE CIIA8E. 81 
 
 due, and say where your assertions come from. I say it is, 
 at the best, but a sect of the Universal Church. Its pedigree 
 is broken (now don't provoke me any more about Everard) 
 and therefore it has not the right to say that doubts as to 
 its authority are a temptation, as the Cathohc Church 
 lias.'"' 
 
 " If that were the case, of course you would be right. I 
 have not the knowledge to refute, and you have everything 
 at your fingers' ends." 
 
 " You know very well that I have nothing of the sort." 
 
 " Really, I beg your pardon, but I thought you had." 
 
 " Now, Elfrida, you almost force me to say what I ought 
 not to say ; but you understand what I mean without my 
 going further. You have been helped — I must use the 
 word, for you compel me to do so — coached up by my 
 mother to defend the religion you were not baptized in. I 
 have been so, too, but you the most. We have both of us 
 heard a hundred times more on that side than I have heard 
 on the other," 
 
 " Perhaps }0U are right about that : I believe you are, and 
 I was wrong in saying otherwise. But there is something 
 beyond argument and proofs." 
 
 " Of course there is. There is the grace of (iod, without 
 which faith is impossible ; but you must take care not to put 
 impediments in the way. I feel sure you have not as yet ; 
 but don't." 
 
 " I should think it presumptuous in me to say that I feel 
 as I do by the grace of God " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " But I feel that there is internal evidence of that form of 
 Christianity which I believe in." 
 
 " Form of Christianity ! Do you suppose Our Lord 
 founded His Church to be broken up into bits, varying in 
 every direction, and yet all be part of the One and Only 
 Faith, all part of the One Church which He promised that 
 He would be with, even to the consummation of the world, 
 and said that the Holy Ghost should guide to all truth ? You 
 can't say that the words refer to the x^postles, for they died 
 eighteen hundred years ago." 
 
 " Of course not : and if they varied in essentials " 
 
 " What are essentials ? — and how are you to know what 
 they are, when you have no authority but the letter of the 
 
 VOL. T. E
 
 82 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 Bible and the opinion of the people who wrote and taught 
 against the Church that traced its authority from the 
 Apostles and had preserved the Bible for them ? " 
 
 " Well, I suppose that the doctrine of the Trinity " 
 
 " Of course. But is it, or it is not, essential whether we 
 receive Our Lord or a piece of bread ? " 
 
 Elfrida was again silent for some time. When she did 
 speak her utterance was slow and very grave. 
 
 " Ida," she said, " I can't answer your last question : but 
 I am not at all persuaded — which, I think you will acknow- 
 ledge, proves pretty well the strength of my conviction. 
 To me it proves more : it proves the force of irresistible 
 truth in my soul, something so strong that my not being 
 able to answer so startling and yet so simple an objection 
 does not affect it in the least." 
 
 " It proves that you are in good faith, which I was sure 
 you were, and that Almighty God has not yet given you the 
 grace to see the truth," answered Ida." It proves that — and 
 nothing more, nothing more at all." 
 
 " May I say one thing to you about yourself? You are 
 older than I, and know more, and it seems presumptuous in 
 me to advise ; but sometimes another person sees some 
 things clearer than we can ourselves." 
 
 " Say what is in your head. Why should you hesitate ? 
 Are we strangers, that you should not speak openly to 
 me?" 
 
 " You must not think," said Elfrida, " that because I don't 
 agree with you about religion, I should wish you to turn 
 aside or waver. Nothing could be further from my 
 wishes. I cannot see that Our Lord founded a visible 
 Church" 
 
 " Can't you ? Then what did He mean when He said, 
 * If he will not hear the Church, let him be as a heathen 
 and a publican ?' How is anyone to hear the Church, if no 
 one can tell for certain where it is ? " 
 
 " Well, I can't — I sometimes feel tempted to wish that I 
 could. I can't see it, and therefore I can only follow my 
 own conscience, and hope that you will follow yours. Now 
 I can see that you are being very much tried, and you may 
 find yourself — don't ask me in what way, nor why I think 
 so — terribly puzzled how to act." 
 
 " She means by my mother." thought Ida : and this
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 83 
 
 feverish attack will be the occasion. I have need of help 
 indeed, and Everard is away." 
 
 " It would be unbecoming in me to be more explicit," said 
 Elfrida. 
 
 " There is no need for you to be so. I understand you 
 too well. What would you do if you were in my place?" 
 
 " If I believed that God required me now to be a 
 Catholic, no human power nor entreaty nor consideration 
 of any kind whatsoever should make me miss the very first 
 opportunity.'"' 
 
 " And I," said Ida, "have missed mine this morning. But 
 it is not too late — I can turn back. But then my mother — 
 when I know she is ill, and she knows that I know it. 
 Elfrida, I turned away from the Presbytery because a stranger 
 was there, instead of Father Johnson'" 
 
 " I dare not advise in thi?," answered Elfrida ; " I only 
 know what I should have done myself." 
 
 " You would not have turned away, I know. The more 
 shame for me. Will it seem wrong, if I put off seeing my 
 mother a little, and turn back now ? " 
 
 " I cannot give direct advice against my own convictions ; 
 but if I felt as you do, I should not have come away from 
 the Presbytery without having fulfilled the intention that 
 took me there." 
 
 " And perhaps he has gone out, and the opportunity is 
 lost," thought Ida, turning back and walking quickly, whilst 
 Elfrida went on her way towards the house. " If I had 
 taken that decided step, it would have been done, and could 
 not be put off. Who can say what troubles I should have 
 saved myself from ?" 
 
 As the priest's house was less than half a mile from the 
 spot where they had separated, the suspense was not long. 
 "But why does it seem so long ?" she thought, as she reached 
 the door and rang the bell. " After all, it is not irremedi- 
 able. I have gone through so much, that a little more or 
 less makes little difference." 
 
 The housekeeper, who had seen her from the window, 
 came quickly and said, " He went out Miss, ten minutes ago." 
 
 " Will he be back soon ? " 
 
 " Not till two o'clock, or" 
 
 " Oh ! do get him. Can't I send a boy after him ? I want 
 to see him very much."
 
 84 FEEVILLE CHASE, 
 
 " I would, Miss, in a moment, if I knew where to send ; 
 but I don't even know in what direction he is gone." 
 
 Ida walked sadly home, thinking of the opportunity she 
 had lost, and the troubles which that loss might entail, not 
 only on herself but on Everard. When she had reached 
 home she went at once to her mother's room. 
 
 Lady Dytchley received her in the most affectionate 
 manner. There was no trace of last night's explosion, 
 except in the outward sign of its consequences — the Bible, 
 the bottle of sal-volatile, the blotting-book, and the sofli with 
 her upon it at eleven o'clock in the morning. 
 
 "They said you were tired and wanted more sleep, or I 
 should have come long ago," said Ida. 
 
 " I was sure you would," answed Lady Dytchley. " The 
 fact is, I did try to sleep, but I felt so ill and feverish that 
 I was obliged to give it up ; so I sent Elfrida to look for 
 you. Did she find you ? " 
 
 "Yes ; I wish I had known sooner that you were 
 unwell." 
 
 "You came as soon as you did know. It is only three- 
 quarters of an hour since Elfrida went to look for you. I 
 suppose you were in the wood-walk — I wish I were well 
 enough for that." 
 
 " No ; I was the other side of the Lodge when she met 
 me," said Ida. 
 
 " Coming from the village ? Did you call anywhere ? I 
 mean any of the cottages ? " 
 
 "Not this morning. I wanted to be back." 
 
 " Well, I believe I had better be left quite quiet for the 
 present — I am so feverish. But, before you go, I wish to 
 say one thing." 
 
 " That she knows where I have been, and will be more 
 feverish unless I promise to put it off," thought Ida. " I 
 have indeed lost my opportunity. It was my own fault." 
 
 " I didn't mean to be harsh last night," said Lady 
 Dytchley. " I felt very strongly, and expressed myself, I 
 am afraid, with more truthfulness than kindness. But you 
 know that I didn't mean it. You will not mind, will you?" 
 
 " My dearest mother, how can you ask me such a thing ? 
 As if I could " 
 
 There now, don't distress yourself. God bless you, my 
 child. Come and see me by-and-by."
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 85- 
 
 Ida left the room, strolled into the wood-walk for the 
 benefit of its quietness, and did her best to understand the 
 meaning of all this, but could make nothing of it, or at least 
 nothing permanently persuasive. De Beaufoy, had he been 
 aware of what had happened, would probably have said that 
 the illness and the affectionate reception were more, or less, 
 got up sequences of the tantrum, and the latter sequence an 
 acute but not original method of discovering where Ida had 
 been : but then he might have been mistaken, like the rest 
 of us. Poor Ida could only see that her visit to the Pres- 
 bytery was known, and the opportunity lost that would have 
 made delay impossible. 
 
 What use Lady Dytchley made of the Bible is not re- 
 corded. It remained in the same position during the day ; 
 but, as she laid her hand upon it when she remarked to Sir 
 Richard, after his return, at or about nine o'clock in the 
 evening, that " man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly 
 upward " — which made him think of the drive home — it 
 may be inferred that the identity of position was accidental. 
 The sal-volatile may have had a symbolic meaning, but was 
 a useful restorative after the exciting drive in the moonlight. 
 The blotting-book was the most important of the three 
 symbolical articles that lay on the sofa ; for it not only repre- 
 sented industry in illness, duty struggling against fever or 
 bile, the dignity of labour as an unobtrusive principle of 
 life, but it had a special use in connection with a certain 
 policy of which the tantrum had perhaps been the prepara- 
 tory move. When Ida had left the room, in order to give 
 her the rest that she needed, the blotting-book came forth 
 and the adjoining table, with an inkstand on it, was pulled 
 up to the sofa. Let no one suj)pose this action to imply 
 that she was not seeking rest. On the contrary, she 
 both sought and obtained it through the blotting-book, as 
 was proved by the fact that her pulse decreased after she 
 had written and sealed the following letter : — 
 
 " Jify dea7' Lady Oxborough^ — 
 
 '"'' I have been thinkinri over your plea^^ajit proposal that we 
 should join your party to the Italian lakes. I should enjoy 
 if of all things, but I hesitated on account of not liking to 
 leave Sir Richard alone, which he ivouhl be in Septeinber if 
 we were away, as nothing would induce him to miss the
 
 86 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 partridge shooting. I had ?w opportufiity of talking to you 
 about it yesterday evening at Bramscote^ for I found it so 
 dull with 7iothing but perverts to talk to, except Sir Roger, 
 who is ahuays Jiice, but he looked bored after the gentlemen 
 cafne into the drawing-room, and Airs. Sherbor?ie, 7vho was 
 busy trying to amuse the people, and so I thought I would 
 write, though I feel very ill ivith a sort of nervous fever 
 owing to anxiety about Ida, who has been much troubled 
 about Everard Freville, and is far from well, and I expect 
 the doctor every minute. But I am sure that the thoughts 
 of our pleasant journey zvill do me more good than any- 
 tJmig, so I 7vrite to say that I have decided to go abroad as 
 soon as you are ready to start. I feel sure that I am 
 doing rightj for I am persuaded that it 7vill do Ida good 
 after all the ivorries which that foolish arrangeme?it between 
 her father and his old friend Mr. Freville has brought upon 
 her. It has been a great worry to me, as you may imagine, 
 a?id the poor child looks much the worse for it all. I shall 
 look forward to hearing from you as to the time you may 
 -find it convenioit for setting out, and re?nain, my dear 
 Lady Oxborough, yours most sincerely, 
 
 '' Charlotte Dytchley. 
 *' P.S. — I shall leave Elfrida at home, as she does 7iot require 
 the change, and it ivould not be right to leave Sir Richard 
 alone.'' 
 
 If this letter was not a model of composition, at least it 
 thoroughly fulfilled its purpose, which, after all, is the finis 
 cuj us gratia of a letter. Hypercritical people might say that 
 some of her statements would not hear examination, and 
 warm Catholic hearts on the other side of St. George's 
 Channel might even be induced to feel that " it's lying she 
 w^as ; " but habitual self-deception will account for many 
 startling statements that have an unpleasant appearance. It 
 was true that Ida had been much troubled about Everard, 
 and no less true that, on this particular morning, she 
 appeared to be the w^orse for it. That the proposed journey 
 would, under the circumstances, do her good, was indeed a 
 bold statement, almost amounting to what is popularly 
 termed a bouncer, and of course was so materially ; yet if 
 we look at it from Lady Dytchley's point of view, it will 
 have a more charitable interpretation. She had acquired 
 the habit of seeing things as she desired to see them, and as
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 87" 
 
 no one ever raised the question of identity in that respect, 
 her self-confidence was equal to most occasions. 
 
 When she had directed the letter and sent it downstairs, 
 to be put into the bag, she began to agitate herself and her 
 pulse by exciting reflections on the hardness of her case 
 and the ^dreadful ?nisforiune that it would be, if Ida really 
 married Everard' (those were her very words to herself) and 
 the necessity of keeping him away from the Lago Maggiore — 
 for which purpose a plan presented itself to her mind then 
 and there. 
 
 It is not to be supposed that this excitement was a prepa- 
 ration for the doctor's view of her malady ; but it so happened 
 that, during its course, the doctor arrived. 
 
 It was nearly two o'clock. At first he pronounced it to 
 be " a little bilious derangement," and made one or two 
 hypothetical suggestions delicately about eating rich things; 
 but after he had felt her pulse for the third time, and found 
 it increase a little, while she was assuring him that she felt 
 dreadfully feverish, he assumed a graver aspect, and told her 
 that, although he considered it a slight attack, it might 
 possibly turn to a nervous fever, and she must therefore keep 
 very quiet, avoiding all excitement or worry. 
 
 " Ah ! yes. I know it is as you say," said she. '* I know 
 that I ought to do so; but it is so difficult sometimes, and 
 I happen to have some rather worrying things to think of 
 just now about other people — things that worry me on 
 their account. I am afraid I shall have to talk about 
 them." 
 
 " You really must not," said her medical adviser, scruti- 
 nising her countenance acutely. " I don't say that it would 
 be dangerous, but it would retard your recovery, and it 
 mi(j}it — I don't say it would — but it might, with a sensitive 
 and excitable temperament, bring on the nervous fever 
 which, as I said, your attack might possibly turn into." 
 
 " Well, I will try to do as you tell me. Perhaps, then, 
 you would be so kind as to see Miss Dytchley, and tell her 
 how it is ; for she might talk to me on that subject, as she 
 and I have been talking of it lately." 
 
 '' With pleasure," said he. It is my duty to do so. You 
 had better not hear or think of anything that would excite 
 or worry you, for the next three or four days." 
 
 The doctor was a man of acute but not deep intuition,
 
 88 FKEVILLE CHASK. 
 
 and conscientious in the same degree. Had his acutenesi> 
 being adapted to penetrate below the surface, and his con- 
 science to be less exclusive concerning his patients, his 
 interview with Ida would have enlightened him much with 
 regard to Lady Uytchley and her symptoms ; but as it was, 
 he only saw that she was pale, hoped that she would 
 not overtire herself, and said what he had come to say. 
 
 He could not have chosen a worse time for such an inter- 
 view (but that was not his fault) nor have expressed himself 
 more unfortunately. When sent for, she was waiting for the 
 hour at which the priest would return home, and while 
 dreading a summons from her mother, feared to leave 
 the house too soon, lest her absence might awaken sus- 
 picions and aggravate the feverish symptoms— or be thought 
 to do so. 
 
 She found the doctor in the library, looking serious and 
 sympathetically communicative. After a few common-place 
 inquiries about herself, which she answered by assuring 
 him that she was perfectly well, he said in a doctorial 
 voice : — 
 
 "There is nothing to be alarmed about — that is, if proper 
 care is taken. Lady Dytchley is suffering from a slight 
 bilious attack ; but she is decidedly feverish, and if she 
 were excited — for instance, by having any subject, or, still 
 worse, any occurrence of a painful or worrying nature 
 brought accidentally before her, it would certainly be very 
 much aggravated, and might possibly turn to a nervous 
 fever, in which case (don't let me alarm you unnecessarily) 
 it might be a more serious matter." 
 
 "1 don't quite understand," said Ida with a forced calm- 
 ness that he mistook for want of feeling. " Do you mean 
 that she would be in danger?" 
 
 " Well, not positively. A patient's recuperative powers 
 are sometimes exceptionally strong, and hers may be so : 
 I have been so short a time in practice about here that I 
 have had no opportunities of becoming acquainted with 
 her constitution. But I certainly should be very sorry to 
 risk it — very. At present she is going on satisfnctorily. 
 If there should be — any change, if she should be worse, 
 you will send for me." 
 
 Having delivered this professional opinion, which did not 
 commit him to anything, but laid the whole weight of an
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 8^ 
 
 uncertain responsibility on Ida, he left the room, satisfied 
 with what he had done for his patient, and reserving all 
 consideration for Ida till he should be called upon to think 
 about her professionally. This principle had so completely 
 guided his intelligence during the interview, that the idea 
 of having any duty towards her never crossed his mind for 
 an instant. 
 
 What was she to do ? That (question was now, for the 
 first time, both serious and difficult. It is true that she 
 did not believe in the general impression which the doctor's 
 words \\ere calculated to produce ; for she had not failed 
 to notice how carefully his opinion had been guarded by 
 such reservations as, " might possibly turn to," don't let me 
 alarm you unnecessarily." But then his last words were, 
 "I should be very sorry to risk it— very." Risk it, how? 
 " By any occurrence of a painful or worrying nature brought 
 accidentally before her." 
 
 " If I had but done it this morning, when I had the 
 opportunity," thought the poor child, " I should not have 
 to reproach m}se]f so bitterly now and perhaps much more 
 hereafter. Yes — much more, whatever I do ; for I cannot 
 act right now. Everard warned me, only yesterday, against 
 bringing upon myself painful scruples by delay. I had the 
 chance this morning. I delayed, and this is the conse- 
 quence. It was my fault, my miserable fault. If some 
 one I could believe would only tell me to trust my own 
 judgment, instead of the doctor's mysterious hints ! I don't 
 believe what he says and implies — he has never attended 
 her before, and I do know her. But how can I venture, 
 in the face of a doctor's opinion that he should be very 
 sorry to risk it ? And yet I might — if I were quick and 
 lost no time. Yes ! — for she evidently knew where I had 
 been, and perhaps thought I had done what I went for. 
 Why didn't I think of that before ? " 
 
 She ran into the hall, put on the first lady's hat she 
 found, and was already some yards from the door, when the 
 maid, who had caught sight of her from the top of the 
 staircase, ran out and said that Lady Dytchley wanted 
 to see her. 
 
 She returned into the house, walking slowly, and repeat- 
 ing to herself as she went, " I'his is what that one delay 
 has brought me to,"
 
 90 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 Lady Dytchley received her even more affectionately than 
 before. 
 
 " I am better," she said, " and should like to be off 
 this tiresome sofa ; but the doctor will not hear of it at 
 present. It is very annoying, particularly as I happen to 
 have a great number of letters that want answering. We 
 have had such lovely weather lately, and I have been enjoy- 
 ing it so much out of doors, besides having to finish the last 
 volume of ' Middlemarch,' which must go back to Mudie's 
 with the other books, that I have sadly neglected my duties 
 in that way." 
 
 " It is my duty to remain here now, and do my best for 
 her," thought Ida. " Would it were the pleasure it ought 
 to be ! " — "Can I write any letters for you?" she said. 
 " Do let me be of use." 
 
 "Well, my darling, it would be very kind, and save me a good 
 deal of anxiety ; for some of them really ought to have been 
 answered nearly a week ago. There is one about the votes 
 for the Orphan Asylum, and the letter to Madame Corsette 
 about the polonaise that fitted badly, and — oh yes, I ought 
 to have written to Lady Oxborough and sent the money for 
 the — what was it ? I shall think of it directly, or, if you 
 open the davenport (the keys are on the dressing-table) you 
 will find her letter. And then there is — but I must not 
 worry you with such a lot of writing." 
 
 " It will not tire me, indeed : do let me help you," said 
 Ida, who felt that the day was lost and the duty clear. 
 
 " Thank you, my dear — you are always so thoughtful. 
 There is — but you positively must not think of writing 
 them all — there is the character of that housemaid, that 
 I ought to have answered. There is a letter about it from a 
 Mrs. Somebody in Eccleston Square (her letter is in this 
 blotting book) and Lord Ledchester about the hospital 
 ticket for the woodman's consumptive son. And I took away 
 a photograph of Mrs. Sherborne's baby last night by mis- 
 take. I must send it back, and it would be more civil 
 to write a line. And there are five or six regular corres- 
 pondents, very old friends, that I have neglected shamefully 
 — these are their letters in this unfortunate blotting-book. 
 But they must keep till I am better. But I am afraid that 
 Lady Oxborough, and the character in Eccleston Square, 
 and the hospital ticket to be sent to Monksgallows, and (oh,
 
 FREYILLE CHASE. 91 
 
 dear ! there is no end of them) Mignon the French shoe- 
 maker, and the civil service things, and the Corporation of 
 the Sons of the Clergy, must be done." 
 
 Ida wrote them all, and had to re-write her Letter to Lady 
 Oxborough (which was the first), owing to a natural mistake 
 that her mother found inconvenient, as her remarks thereon 
 w\\\ show. 
 
 " Beautifully done, my darling," said she. " But I wouldn't 
 quite say this, I think. ' My mother desires me to say that 
 as she is too ill to write. You see, she is an old friend, and 
 she might think it was something serious, which I hope it is 
 not. I would say, ' As she is suffering from a feverish 
 attack, which makes it advisable to keep as quiet as possible, 
 and has just remembered having omitted to send the money 
 for the subscription she promised, I think it better that 
 I should write for her ' — and so on.' 
 
 " I see. How stupid of me to have worded it so," said 
 the innocent girl, taking another sheet of paper. 
 
 "No, no, my dear : it was very natural. But perhaps it 
 is safer as I said." 
 
 " Very much so ; for, if the original letter had gone to the 
 post. Lady Oxborough must have seen that Lady Dytchley's 
 letter to her had been kept a secret from Ida, and would 
 have been led to suspect that the latter had been " very 
 much troubled " in a different sense from the one therein 
 suggested. 
 
 The letters about the woodman's consumptive son, and 
 the French shoes, and the polonaise, and the baby's photo- 
 graph, and the Orphan Asylum, and the housemaid in 
 Eccleston Square, and the Corporation of the Sons 
 of the Clergy, occupied Ida's time till past six o'clock, 
 after which Lady Dytchley could not refuse her offer of 
 reading aloud some of the last vokmie of " Middlemarch," 
 that must be sent back to Mudie's. By that time it was 
 half-past seven, and the dinner bell was ringing. 
 
 " Thank you so very much, dearest Ida," said Lady 
 Dytchley, drawing her to the sofa, and kissing her forehead. 
 " I have tired you very much, I am afraid, and you will be 
 late for dinner." 
 
 " I am not at all tired, and I shall be ready in a few 
 minutes. The dinner will not be cold in such weather 
 as this."
 
 92 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " You have done wonders," said Lady Dytchley. " I hope 
 that by to-morrow or next day I may be able to begin the 
 others. We shall see what the doctor says. You have 
 really done wonders." 
 
 It was not too much to say that she had. The result was 
 really wonderful, but not the fact, seeing that she had been 
 spurred on by an intense desire to finish the duty as soon as 
 possible, that she might as soon as possible be free to 
 do another no less imperative and immeasurably more 
 important. 
 
 She came back after dinner, and worked hard again, but 
 had hardly finished the first of the five or six letters to old 
 friends, which .were required to contain an immeasurable 
 amount of small details, when Sir Richard appeared, and, as 
 we know, was told, in reference to his wife's patient endur- 
 ance of accumulated trials, that " man is born unto trouble 
 as the sparks fly upward." Sir Richard, who had dined at 
 Ledchester, remained in the room, telling how much he had 
 been interested by all he had seen and heard at the Archceo- 
 logical Meeting, how the intelligent foreigner was not there 
 after all, but was no doubt engaged in some scientific 
 explorations of a more important character, and how the red- 
 whiskered man had been set down at the station, on his way 
 to Belgium. When he had ended his narrative it was ten 
 o'clock, and Lady Dytchley said, " I am very ill, and tired, 
 and feverish. Hadn't we better go to bed ? '' 
 
 And thus was Ida left with the prospect of further 
 mysterious warnings from the doctor, besides the inter- 
 minable letters to old friends, the letter to the Civil Service, 
 and three hundred closely-printed pages of " Middlemarch."
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 N ill-marriage is a spring of ill-fortune," says 
 an old proverb ; and the same idea came 
 unbidden into Sir Richard's mind, from 
 time to time, after his rusty conscience 
 had been polished a little by what he had 
 unwittingly forced Lady Fyfield to tell 
 he forgot to remember that he 
 
 him : but 
 himself had 
 
 made the spring and was 
 responsible for the mischief it was doing. Instead of saying 
 vied culpa, and mending his ways, he only pitied himself and 
 went on as before. The substance of the proverb had 
 occured to him uncomfortably after his return from the 
 Archoeological Meeting, when he could not help recognising 
 in the symbolical juxtaposition of the Bible, the bottle of 
 sal-volatile, and the blotting-book, a significant sequence of 
 the unpleasant drive home ; but being selfish, as all system- 
 atically weak people are, he only thought of himself, and 
 applied his wife's Biblical quotation to his own case, especi- 
 ally the sparks flying upward, which reminded him of the 
 explosion in the family coach. 
 
 The next morning he went out early, saying to himself, 
 '' What is the use of bothering in this way ? What can I do 
 but ^vait and see, wait and see ? 
 
 A little later in the day Ida, too, came to the conclusion 
 that she must wait and see, but under very different circum- 
 stances, and with a very different meaning. The circum- 
 stances were that she found herself entangled in a network 
 of accidental duties, her meaning was that the waiting should 
 last no longer than the circumstances. Lady Dytchley's 
 countenance, when she came forth to her sofa, was — 
 
 Like a lusty winter, 
 Frosty but kindly.
 
 94 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 There was a chill in her manner, warmth in her words and 
 smile. She was less expansive, but the difference could only 
 be felt. The doctor did his duty, as before, according to his 
 lights, and, as before, left Ida burdened with his mysterious 
 warnings. " Middlemarch " and the letters occupied her 
 time all that day, and it was evident that Saturday's sun 
 would set on her still unfinished work. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, whilst she was trying to condense 
 the apparently unlimited information which her mother 
 continued to dictate for the benefit of the fourth old friend, 
 a fly, fairly loaded with luggage on the top and a servant of 
 no particular nationality on the box, drove into the court- 
 yard of Freville Chase. As Hubert Freville was expected 
 about that time, according to the invitation given at Brams- 
 cote, Mrs. Roland and Anne, the upper housemaid, feeling a 
 natural curiosity to see what he had grown to be like since 
 his last visit, were on the look-out for his approach. As they 
 hoped to see him at their convenience, owmg to the position 
 of a door in the hall through which the guest had to pass, we 
 may as well take the opportunity of noticing that part of 
 the house. 
 
 The hall was a large and lofty oak-panelled room, with 
 crossbeams of timber, on the pendant bosses of which were 
 shields, and other armorial emblems. The panelled walls, 
 which ended in a dado of oak carving, were covered with 
 banners, old family portraits, armour, stag heads, and 
 weapons of various kinds, ancient and modern. Opposite the 
 entrance door was a large fireplace, constructed to burn 
 massive logs of wood, and above it a chimney-piece of 
 carved stone, ornamented with gold and colours. On either 
 side of the fireplace was a door leading into the long gallery, 
 which was in fact the drawing room. This gallery was a 
 hundred feet long, and extended along the whole south front 
 of the house, commanding a view over the terraced gardens, 
 the piece of water and the Chase woods beyond. It had five 
 large bay windows, three to the south, formed by the projecting 
 gables — two large, and a smaller one in the middle, forming 
 the Elizabethan E — and two projecting bays at the sides. 
 From the eastern bay window you could see one corner of 
 the old tower where it projected behind the quadrangle on 
 that side. If you looked out of the western bay, you would 
 see an angle of the chapel, a myrtle-covered wall that
 
 FEEVILLE CHASE. 95 
 
 masked the kitchen-garden, and a line of blue hills in the 
 distance. The ceiling of this room was richly carved, and 
 ornamented like that in the hall, with pendant bosses 
 delicately coloured and gilt. The walls were oak panelled, 
 with a deep frieze work of rich carving. Below the frieze- 
 work were family portraits representing many generations of 
 Frevilles — two by Vandyck — and, in the best lights, about 
 half-a-dozen early Italian pictures among which was an 
 original Giotto ; but on the south side of the room, between 
 the windows, where the light would have been bad for 
 pictures, rich hangings of tapestry gave a deep and soft 
 colouring, very gratifying to the eye. Antique cabinets, rare 
 china, tables and chairs of curious workmanship, some of 
 ebony and ivory, others of old Venetian carving richly gilt, 
 completed the furniture of the room. The dining room was 
 on the left of the entrance hall, and the library on the right. 
 At the two corners, right and left of the entrance, were two 
 doors with crimson velvet portierbs, one leading to the 
 chapel on the west side of the court, by a long passage 
 with rooms on the left, the other to the offices on the 
 eastern side. In the shadow of this door and its heavy 
 curtain Mrs. Roland and Anne looked forth, to see what 
 the heir of the elder line was like. 
 
 Anne, being the younger and possessing the lesser dignity, 
 made the first move by bringing her left eye in a line 
 with the front of the portiere, so that she might catch sight 
 of Hubert Freville as he entered the hall. She took up 
 this position while the entrance door was being opened, and 
 kept it for about two minutes, when her head popped 
 suddenly back, and her eyes expanded till they were as 
 round as Giotto's O. 
 
 " Why, lor ! I say — well, I never ! " she exclaimed. '' I 
 always know'd he'd do something." 
 
 "What's the matter ?" said Mrs. Roland, peeping in a 
 dignified manner through the portiere. 
 
 " It's him as murdered the baby," answered Anne, pulling 
 hard at her gown. 
 
 " Hush ! " answered Mrs. Roland, drawing back within the 
 portiere. " They can hear you all over the place. He didn't 
 murder anybody, as I've told you often. There's nothing out 
 of the way in his coming here, connected as he is with the 
 family. It's only his coming unexpected that took me aback."
 
 ■96 FKKVII.LE CHASE. 
 
 " He's a bad lot," said Anne, " and I've a good mind to 
 fetch the p'liceman from Chase End and have him took up." 
 
 " Don't talk like a child, now," answered Mrs. Roland, 
 Avalking away, whilst Anne, whose notions about the law 
 were like those of old Susan, walked after her, saying, 
 " I'd have him took up, if I had my way," and the butler 
 was showing the visitor into the gallery. 
 
 Everard, who was sitting there, waiting for the arrival of 
 Hubert Freville and running his eyes over the " Ledchester 
 Courier," looked up at the sound of the openmg door just as 
 the butler pronounced these unexpected words : " The 
 Marquis Moncalvo." 
 
 The bearer of this title, so unpopular among the old 
 women of Chase End and its vicinity, was a tall, hand- 
 some man of about forty, with very dark and expressive 
 eyes, black hair and moustaches, and a clear complexion of 
 a light-olive colour. The hair and moustaches were blue- 
 tinted, like a raven's wing, and as glossy, the latter giving a 
 very marked expression to the mouth, because the rest of 
 the face was shaved. What that expression did or might 
 mean was not easy to determine, nor is this the time and place 
 for examining the question. The prevalent expression of his 
 eyes at that moment was melancholy. He was very well 
 made. The shape of his head showed intellectual powers 
 above the average. His voice was musical, his manner that 
 of a high-bred gentleman — a being essentially the same 
 wherever he is to be found, though the word in its full mean- 
 ing does not appear to be translateable. 
 
 " If he had come at any other time than this," thought 
 Everard, as he rose and welcomed his unwelcome guest 
 without betraying the smallest sign of surprise. 
 
 " I found myself so near," said the Marquis, " that I 
 thought I would come round by Freville Chase, on my way 
 to the station, and renew the acquaintance made w^hen you 
 were a child. You cannot remember me ; but I think that I 
 can see in you some likeness to what I remember, though it 
 is so long ago." 
 
 ' I have a pretty good memory for faces," answered 
 Everard, " and I can recognise you quite well, knowing that 
 it is you. I don't know that I should, if I had met you 
 without knowing who you were. But don't go away yet. 
 It must not be said that you came all this way to make a
 
 FREVTLT.E ( HASE. 97 
 
 morning visit. It would be against the customs and traditions 
 of Freville Chase for me to receive a friend and connection 
 in that way. 
 
 " It is very kind of you. I ought to be going to Brighton, 
 for I have not half recovered from a bad illness, and the 
 doctors have told me to bathe in the sea there.'" 
 
 " You cannot possibly get to Brighton to-day.'' 
 
 " No : I meant to sleep at Ledchester." 
 
 " But I can't hear of that. Let me ring and have your 
 luggage taken off the fly." 
 
 " You are really so hospitable, that I hardly know how to 
 say no — though I ought to be at Brighton.'' 
 
 Everard rang the bell, and resigned himself to the inoppor- 
 tune visit. The Marquis was of opinion that the welcome 
 was given on principle rather than from inclination ; but he 
 had meant to be invited, had come out of his way for that 
 purpose, and was not going to alter his intention for the 
 sake of an idea. So he accepted the invitation, and said : — 
 
 ■• I must tell you how it was that I happened to be so 
 near. I came to England for some sea-bathing in a bracing 
 air after an attack of Roman fever, which had left me very 
 weak. On my way to London I was talking to a stranger in 
 the train, who, among other things, talked about architecture 
 — he was an architect — and gave me so interesting a des- 
 cription of the English Cathedrals, that I determined to see 
 as many of them as I could ; and as I remembered that 
 Ledchester was not very far from here, I thought thai I 
 would begin with that, and take advantage of being so near, 
 to see once more the old family place of the Frevilles, where 
 my dearest sister died, and renew the acquaintance begun so 
 sadly." 
 
 " It is fortunate for me that you met the architect," said 
 Everard, adding within the recesses of his own mind, " I 
 really should be glad to see you, simpliciter^ but per accidois 
 I wish you were somewhere else." 
 
 The Marquis noticed that he had said everything in the 
 way of welcome except that he was glad to see him, and 
 naturally mistaking the cause, went on to say : — 
 
 • • I wanted to see you for another reason. I have heard 
 — no matter how — that the death of your half-brother, my 
 nephew, has been supposed to have occurred through want 
 of care on my part when, as the guardian appointed by his 
 
 G
 
 98 FREVTLLE CHASE. 
 
 mother, after your lamented father's death, I took him with 
 me to Italy, being compelled to go there without delay for 
 some pressing affairs." 
 
 " I assure you," said Everard, " that I have never believed 
 anything of the sort," 
 
 " I hardly thought you would, and since I have seen you, I 
 am quite sure that you have too much insight into character 
 to believe it ; but I thought it better to mention the 
 subject, because there is quite enough in the facts of the 
 case to put all kinds of suspicions into people's heads, I 
 had been very extravagant and foolish, and my sister had in- 
 herited a considerable fortune from an uncle, which would 
 be mine, failing children. The death of the dear little child 
 put me into possession of that money, and I am not at all 
 surprised that people who had no knowledge of me should 
 have thought the circumstances very suspicious. They little 
 knew the extraordinary affection there was between my 
 dearest sister and myself, and how I cherished everything 
 that belonged to her." 
 
 " Nobody ever doubted it, I hope," said Everard. 
 
 " I took an English maid-servant with me," said the 
 Marquis, " to take charge of him, a woman born and bred 
 in this neighbourhood, and recommended by your neighbour 
 and guardian, I think or rather by his wife " 
 
 " Lady Dytchley. was it not ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I remember the name, now you mention it. I 
 engaged her, in preference to a foreigner, from motives of 
 prudence, to make it evident that every possible care was 
 taken. And that reminds me to ask you if she is living, and 
 if so, whether I can hear anything about her ; for I should 
 like to know. She was a good girl, but weak in the head 
 and subject to a monomania, especially after the death of my 
 poor little nephew, of whom she was excessively fond. She 
 was afterwards lady's-maid to an aunt of mine, and remained 
 with her very happily till my aunt died about a year ago, 
 when she came to England, though I offered her a place in 
 my house wnth nothing to do. I feel of course a great 
 interest in her, not only on account of my poor little 
 nephew, but also because she was so long in my aunt's 
 service, and I want to be sure that she is well off." 
 
 " Her Father lives at Chase End," said Everard ; " and I 
 think I heard that she came home last winter while I was
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 99 
 
 abroad. I don't know whether she is about here now, but I 
 can easily find out. I will see about it now." 
 
 He left the room in search of Mrs. Roland, and meeting 
 her on his way, said ; '• Do you know whether Charlotte 
 Wilcox is with her family, or whether they know where she 
 is ? " 
 
 '' I will inquire if her family know where she is gone," 
 answered Mrs. Roland, with some hesitation. " But, Mr. 
 Everard, what does he want to know for ? " 
 
 " Why she lived sixteen years with his aunt, and when his 
 aunt died, came to England ; and he naturally feels interes- 
 ted to know about her.' 
 
 " W^ell, but Mr. Everard, I don't know any harm of him, I 
 am sure ; but what I haven't liked is his hanging about at 
 Lyneham, and then coming here as if he hadn't. 
 
 " But he never did so. Sir Richard met the man that 
 Bolton took for him, and said he was a different man 
 altogether — not the least like him. He told me so himself, 
 for I asked the question." 
 
 " Well, Sir Richard must know anyhow," said Mrs. 
 Roland to herself as she went her way. " I suppose Bolton 
 thought there was no other foreigner but the Marquis 
 Moncalvo." 
 
 Everard returned to the gallery and told the Marquis that 
 he had not succeeded in obtaining the information he 
 wanted, but would get it from Charlotte Wilcox's father in 
 Chase End. He then asked him how he liked Ledchester 
 Cathedral. 
 
 "Beautiful as a dream — ' un reve en pierre,' as a French 
 book on England, that I read some years ago, says of the 
 Houses of Parliament — which however did not give me that 
 idea, though I admired them very much. It seems to me 
 that they leave too little for the imagination to be like a 
 dream. I thought them more like a great public work of a 
 great nation." 
 
 " I think the man must have been dreaming who put the 
 stones the wrong way up so as to let the weather in," said 
 Everard. 
 
 " No one but an Englishman would have said that," said 
 the Marquis. " I admire the open way in which they find 
 fault with themselves. None but a great nation could afford 
 to do it."
 
 100 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " What is the use of deceiving oneself," said Everard, 
 " when i)eople from other countries have eyes to see, ears to 
 hear, and brains to think with, and when one can't alter 
 the fact by ignoring it ? I can't go so far as to admire the 
 habit of self-criticism, though I very much appreciate your 
 appreciation of it. It strikes me as a very useful habit, 
 l)ut it seems too natural to be worthy of admiration." 
 
 " You are accustomed to it," said the Marquis ; " but to 
 me, as a foreigner " 
 
 " Mr. Sherborne, Mr. De Beaufoy," said the old butler, 
 opening the door and standing square to his front. 
 
 " I am so glad to see the old place again," said De 
 Beaufoy. "How is my old friend Mrs. Roland? I can't go 
 away without seeing her." 
 
 " She is ver}' well," answered Everard, "and doesn't look 
 a day older than when she used to keep me in order in the 
 days of my ingenuous childhood. I believe that she holds 
 herself responsible for my behaviour now." 
 
 " The conversation, which had been in Italian before the 
 entrance of Sherborne and De Beaufoy, now turned into 
 French, and finally into English, which the Marquis spoke 
 grammatically, though with some effort, and preferred to 
 speak it for the sake of practice. After a while he returned 
 to the interrupted topic, and described his surprise at the 
 beauty of Ledchester Cathedral. 
 
 " How little one knows," he said, " especially of things 
 that one ought to know — places within one's reach, and with 
 which one is in a manner connected. I could have told the 
 measurement of the Pyramid of Cheops, and I had not the 
 least idea of the grand Gothic architecture that is to be 
 found in the cathedrals of England. I so much prefer 
 Gothic architecture to our own." 
 
 " So do I," said Everard, " here, where it grew up in the 
 ages of faith. It symbolises in stone the faith that produced 
 it, and is in harmony with the atmosphere, temperature and 
 features of the country. The idea of a basilica in England, 
 however good of its kind, is to my mind not merely incon- 
 gruous, but implies a forgetfulness of history : it implies 
 that, having forgotten the old faith and traditions which we 
 got from Rome, and which inspired those buildings, we have 
 to begin anew, and borrow an architecture as unsuitable as 
 it is untraditional. But I do love basilicas in Rome. Thev
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 101 
 
 harmonise with everything there — air, hght, landscape, the 
 history of the Church and of the world." 
 
 " To require basilicas as a proof of orthodoxy," said De 
 Beaufoy, " which it appears that some excitable newspaper 
 correspondents have occasionally implied, is like insisting on 
 a man's having a Roman nose to show that he is a good 
 Catholic ; but I am as enthusiastic as any one about basilicas 
 in their right places."' 
 
 " There was some function going on within the sanctuary," 
 said the Marquis. '' I don't know what it was." 
 
 ''Have the Dean and Chapter of Ledchester become 
 Ritualists?" asked Everard, looking at De Beaufoy for 
 information. 
 
 " No, no," said De Beaufoy : ''it was only a minor canon 
 and the choristers Avorkingaway out of the Book of Common 
 Prayer." 
 
 " What did you think of the function ? " said Sherborne. 
 
 "That there was no proi)ortion between it and the build- 
 ing." 
 
 "A very well-known German authoress," said De Beautoy, 
 " wrote some years ago, in a work which, for some reason or 
 other, was not printed, that the cathedral service (in West- 
 minster Abbey, I think) reminded her of a withered nut 
 rattling in a shell too large for it." 
 
 " What a difference there is," said Sherborne, " between 
 seeing those things before one has had the light of the one 
 true faith, and after — especially when, in the former case, 
 one believed the Establishment to represent that one true 
 faith given by our Lord to the Apostles, as I did formerly. 
 I have been in Ledchester Cathedral since, while service 
 was going on, and found it, of course, vox et pn^teria nihil ; 
 but I remember the time when the thing it represented was 
 a subjective reality, like a dream or an optical delusion. 
 
 " And you were in perfectly good faith while you beheved 
 it," said the Marquis — " for I am sure that you are too 
 conscientious to have been otherwise — and you must know 
 others no less so who still believe as you did." 
 
 " Most certainly I do. God forbid that it should be 
 otherwise ! " 
 
 " And the Church of England has retained so much of 
 the truth, that really the difference is much less than people 
 who have not been in England would think."
 
 102 fRKVILLE CHA8K. 
 
 This liberal opinion was received with a triple murmur of 
 dissent. 
 
 " Hang it,'"' said De Beaufoy, '' the Depositiwi Fidn was 
 not left to the Church to be drawn upon at will, like a bank. 
 The Catholic faith is indivisible, as faith, though we are 
 obliged to divide it doctrinally ; and he who denies one 
 article only may indeed be near the Church in his heart, and 
 soon to be a member of it in fact, but, till he is so, he is 
 distinctly out of it. There is no boundary line betw^een what 
 our Lord founded and what men made up, out of what they 
 chose to take from it. When a Protestant (as I was) comes 
 into the Church, he doesn't step across the way : he makes 
 an act of the will, and is taken an immense distance, like the 
 man with the wishing carpet in the Arabian Nights." 
 
 "Certainly," said the Marquis. "I only meant that — 
 that the Church of England is very different from Protes- 
 tantism in other countries, for instance German)- and 
 Switzerland, and what little there is of it in France." 
 
 " The difference is very great indeed, both in kind and 
 degree," said Sherborne : but Protestantism in England 
 shows premonitory symptoms of falling into the same condi- 
 tion before another half century at the least. The world is 
 fast becoming tired of compromises " 
 
 " And so am I ! " said Hubert Freville, as the old butler 
 opened the door and announced him. " The fly from the 
 station broke down, or rather the horse, who was taken with 
 the staggers, and I had to choose between carrying a port- 
 manteau, a carpet bag, and a hat box, or coming on in a 
 fish-cart. So I chose the fish-cart, and the smell \vas not 
 refreshing." 
 
 He sent a rapid and penetrating glance into the eyes of 
 the Marquis, saying to himself as he did so, " What is the 
 fellow staring at me for ? "' 
 
 " This is Hubert Freville," said Everard. " But perhaps 
 you have met him before." 
 
 " I have not had that i)leasure," said the Marquis ; "but 
 the name of Hubert, and-that indefinable likeness which is 
 seen between members of a family, even when distantly 
 related, reminded me of my poor nephew Hubert Freville, 
 though he was only three years old when he died. That 
 indefinable likeness — a very slight one it must be between a 
 child and a man — together with the uncommon name of
 
 FREVILLK CHASE. 10:] 
 
 Hubert, must have made me appear to have known him 
 before." 
 
 " A family hkeness," said Everard, " is a curously per- 
 sistent thing. You see it sometimes in people not nearly 
 related, and find the type in an old family picture." 
 
 "And often," said Sherborne, "you are reminded of one 
 face by another without seeing any traceable resemblance of 
 feature." 
 
 " You see it," said De Beaufoy, " as you find your way in 
 a fog, when you can't distinguish the line of country and yet 
 know very well where you are." 
 
 " True," said the Marquis. " That is the kind of likeness 
 I meant. It would scarcely have struck me anywhere else ; 
 but when I heard the very name of my little nephew unex- 
 pectedly, here in this house where my sister died in giving 
 birth to him, everything combined to make me notice it. I 
 see a kind of family likeness now, but very slight. But 
 really I must apologise for talking so much of myself The 
 truth is that the circumstances recalled very painful 
 memories. My sister (the mother of that dear child) was 
 the most affectionate and most true friend I ever had or 
 shall have, and the wisest too. If I had always followed 
 her advice I should have been a better and happier man. 
 Some youthful extravagances of mine gave her much anxiety, 
 the more so because my father and mother were both dead, 
 and she wrote a most touching and beautiful letter to me on 
 that subject after her arrival here. I never saw her again. 
 And now that I have explained the cause of my spoiling the 
 conversation by talking of myself, I hope that you will allow 
 me to make the amende by returning to it. We were speaking 
 of English cathedrals, were we not ? " 
 
 "The catch-word was 'compromises,'" said Hubert. 
 " What were they ? " 
 
 " AVell, I was getting into a long story," said Sherborne, 
 looking at his watch, "and we must be going, for we have 
 ten miles to ride, and the roads are full of loose stones." 
 
 " And I," said the Marquis, should be glad to go to my 
 room, and write a rather important letter that I ought to 
 have written tw^o days ago." 
 
 " Leaving him to write his letter, Sherborne and De 
 Beaufoy started on their way back to Hazely ; Everard 
 and Hubert Freville strolled into the Chase.
 
 104 FREVILLE OIIASE. 
 
 " I don't care about that Marquis Moncalvo," said Hubert, 
 standing still after a while, and poking his stick into the fern. 
 
 " Nor I,"' answered Everard. " But he is a gentleman ; 
 which is a characteristic not without its advantages for 
 those with whom it comes in contact, whoever they may be.'' 
 
 •' Unquestionably, when the thing is solid ; but when the 
 material is rotten, the vigour of the pattern is what a Low 
 Church great aunt of mine used to call a snare and a 
 delusion.'' 
 
 " But I don't think the material is rotten. He looks to 
 me like a man who has lost opportunities, misapplied capa- 
 bilities, wasted life— a man who has repressed his higher 
 aspirations, but not killed them, a man who might say of 
 himself, 'video jneliora, proboqice : deteriora seqiior' I have 
 a strong suspicion that Italian liberalism, with what belongs 
 to it, has been the cause of all the mischief. What you 
 don't like and I don't like in him comes from that, I think. 
 I have been a good deal in Italy, and I know something of 
 the sleepless watch that is kept over the young men by the 
 Sect, in order to ruin their morals first, and then their faith. 
 The first step is to corrupt their principals — that is the major 
 premiss. The second, to put a particular temptation before 
 them — that is the minor. The conclusion is total irreligion 
 and utter ruin. It doesn't follow that all of them get into 
 the secrets of the Sect. Many of them don't, wouldn't if 
 they could, and couldn't if they would. They won't become 
 bad enough, or haven't sufficient will and brains ; but the 
 poison has pervaded them in a smaller degree, like a blood 
 poison in the body, and however slight the infection may 
 be, it is very hard to get rid of. So long as the heart has a 
 soft place in it there is hope ; and the deep feeling he 
 showed for his sister makes me feel sure that, whatever he 
 may have been (which I can only guess at) he will turn out 
 well in the end. To-morrow is Sunday, and we shall see 
 something. Anyhow I don't mean to let him go from here, 
 if I can help it, without seeing what he is made of." 
 
 " You are right — I believe you always are," said Hubert, 
 " though we haven't had it out yet about mixed marriages 
 and some other things. You are a fine fellow anyhow, in 
 every way." 
 
 " I ? " said Everard. " If you could only see me as I see 
 myself you wouldn't think so."
 
 FKKVILLE CHASE. 105 
 
 " I have no doubt that is your opinion." said Hubert. 
 " But we, all of us, think either too much or too little of 
 ourselves. But here he is : his letter wasn't very long." 
 
 The Marquis joined them, and the conversation : the 
 latter changed on his approach. And whilst he was talking 
 agreeably on various subjects, Sherborne was talking to De 
 Beaufoy about him. 
 
 Their ride, as a ride was not of the most pleasant sort, 
 their horses not being suited for picking their way cleverly 
 among loose flints in the month of August. The dear old 
 British hack, with his mingled qualities of the pack-horse 
 and the thorough-bred, light stepping and solid, free and 
 steady, who picked up his feet just enough to clear obstacles, 
 set them down flat, and went as straight to his front as the 
 centre jserjeant when a regiment is advancing in line, has 
 become extinct because men have ceased to require him-. 
 To ride anywhere, except home from hunting, is now held 
 to be slow, and also a waste of time, though the old British 
 hack would have done the distance as quickly as the popular 
 dog-cart; but nothing is said about the time spent in running 
 up by railway to London continually for the purpose of 
 hearing a new play and coming back again in a smoking 
 carriage. Sherborne would have gladly had a good hack if 
 he could, but being unable to find a tolerable substitute for 
 the extinct animal above mentioned, was waiting for a 
 chance of doing so ; and thus it happened that he and De 
 Beaufoy were mounted on two big hunters, who went very 
 well across the country ; but along the road, where in the 
 summertime stones do mostly congregate, shuffled un- 
 pleasantly, rolling about on their shoulders and sticking 
 their toes into the ground. 
 
 " I know a man who has got a hack to sell," said De 
 Beaufoy, " a dark chestnut mare fifteen hands or a little 
 over, as nice an animal of the kind as you could pick up. 
 She steps well, her hind-leg action is equally good, and she 
 sets her feet down flat." 
 
 "Which is more than these horses are doing," said 
 Sherborne. " Whose is she ? " 
 
 " I saw her in Lyneham on Wednesday, when you were 
 on the bench. The ostler at the White Hart can tell you 
 who the owner is ; for he called my attention to her, and 
 said the man was a farmer somewhere between there and 
 
 VOL. I. .H
 
 106 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 Exborne. What do you think of the mysterious Marquis, 
 the bugbear of the old women at Chase End and there- 
 abouts ? " 
 
 "That requires consideration," said Sherborne. " He is 
 not so easy to understand. I should say that the web of 
 his life is, or has been, of a ' /ni?igledyar?i.' " 
 
 " Touching which mixture of good a?id ill together^'' said 
 De Beaufoy, " Shakespeare goes on to say that ' our virtues 
 would be proud if our vices whipped them out' I fancy that 
 the Marquis's virtues must have had a good deal of whipping. 
 Perhaps it made them promise not to show themselves 
 again." 
 
 " If they did," said Sherborne, " they have not kept 
 their promise." 
 
 " You are right : there is good in him, I am certain. 
 But there is something about him that looks as if the good 
 were kept under in spite of him. There is strength in the 
 shape of his mouth, and a certain weakness too, as if the 
 weaker part of his character had to knock under before 
 some external influence, and the stronger were called in to 
 collar the weaker and make it do what it was told." 
 
 " Exactly. I am afraid the sect has got hold of him ; 
 and if so, it is a bad business. It clings to its victims like 
 the ' Old Man of the sea' " 
 
 " I know it does. And you can't shake it off by making 
 it drunk, as Sindbad did ; and if you could, it would only 
 be more sharp-witted than before, like a Scotchman." 
 
 " Yes ; and if he wanted to get out of that, he would 
 have to get out of the way, very much indeed out of the 
 way ; but I have a strong opinion that he is not far in it, if 
 he is at all. I don't think he would suit their book : he 
 would have to be either very much worse than he is, or 
 more pliable. I feel sure that he has got little more than 
 the religion and morals of the thing, and perhaps I am 
 mistaken in thinking he has gone so far as that. He is a 
 fine-looking man, a refined and polished gentleman, but he 
 doesn't show well by the side of Everard Freville." 
 
 " No, but he is a very distinguished-looking man for all 
 that ; and I never met a man with finer or more attractive 
 manners, except of course Everard Freville, who is altogether 
 exceptional. In him the remarkable fine manners are an 
 integral part of the man : in the Marquis they rather suggest
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 107 
 
 the idea of class. But the man and his position should 
 seem one and indivisible, and in Everard they are so. 
 There is another thing too ; and it must be uncommonly 
 striking to make me notice it ; foi as I don't write novels or 
 poetry, I don't much care about distinguishing one man 
 from another, except by what is inside his head. But the 
 expression of Everard Freville's countenance, especially his 
 smile, is something extraordinarily beautiful : it lets you into 
 the whole character of the man, the gentleman, and the 
 Christian. I never took notice before how a man looks at 
 you, and I am not likely to do so again ; but I couldn't help 
 noticing his expression to-day." 
 
 And let this much of the equestrian dialogue suffice. 
 
 While Sherborne and De Beaufoy were exchanging ideas 
 about the Marquis Moncalvo, Anne the housemaid was 
 stating, whenever an opportunity offered, her unalterable 
 conviction that the latter " ought to be took up ; " and as 
 the news of his arrival had passed, through the medium of 
 the grocer's boy, into the village of Chase End, the Marquis 
 had a fair chance of waking up next morning and finding 
 himself famous in that locality. 
 
 But it seemed that mysterious appearances were prevalent 
 at this time. A little before seven o'clock the waiter at the 
 White Hart, in the ancient market town of Lyneham^ 
 walked up to the landlady in a gradual and communicative 
 manner, his eyes expanded, his bearing confidential, and 
 whispered in her ear : — 
 
 " She's come again — that foreign woman." 
 
 The landlady's colour rose a little, and the body of her 
 dress became rather tight, but she replied without any 
 apparent disturbance of mind : 
 
 " Very well. Show her into Number One sitting-room." 
 
 " There's no end of them foreigners," thought the waiter, 
 as he left the bar. " There was that chap here on 
 Wednesday, as hordered a lot of rubbidge for his dinner, 
 and must have know'd all the while he couldn't get it in a 
 respectable house ; and then there's another of them, as 
 came here for a fly to-day, when they was short of flies at 
 the station, and went off to Squire Freville's — but he were a 
 gentleman, and no mistake — not a bit like the other. Now 
 where is she got to ? " 
 
 The foreign visitor was standing just within the house-
 
 108 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 door — a tall, dark woman, with what the waiter described as 
 a very middling countenance. Apparently she was of no 
 definite age. Her features were regular, and might have 
 been handsome once, but were now hard and coarse, 
 perhaps owing to the same cause that produced the 
 middling countenance. 
 
 " This way, ma'am, please," said the waiter, trying to look 
 civil, but eyeing her suspiciously. 
 
 She followed him to Number One sitting room, where 
 the landlady was ready, though not willing, to receive her. 
 As soon as the door was shut, which action was performed 
 by the waiter in a delicate and imperceptible way, so that 
 both the women looked round to see whether he was within 
 hearing or not, the mistress of the White Hart said 
 bluntly : — 
 
 " What are you here for again ? Can't you get an honest 
 living by honest labour, as I do, without going cadging 
 about, spunging on other people. I should be ashamed of 
 living so." 
 
 The visitor's black eyes flashed ominously, as she uttered 
 the word of stormy import, " Pazienza ! " 
 
 " Oh ! yes," said the landlady ; " I have heard that before 
 in your country, and I know it always means they're in a 
 rage." 
 
 " Do not speak so," said the Italian ; and the vibrations 
 of her voice made the landlady look nervously towards the 
 door, remembering how slow the process of shutting it had 
 been. 
 
 " Don't talk so loud," she said. *' Do you w^ant every- 
 body to hear ? It is your business to think of that anyhow." 
 
 '' I cannot speak your language like you," answered the 
 Italian woman. " If I could, you would never say so much, 
 I think. But I can say this : — Give me money, for I 
 want it." 
 
 " Give you money ? Haven't I given you money — given 
 you money till I have barely enough to go on w^ith in 
 business and keep myself? You had as good a chance as I 
 had, without the risks of keeping an inn. You had the 
 same money given you as I had — just the same. If you 
 have chosen to waste it, why am I to ruin myself, to set you 
 on your legs over and over again, I should like to know ? " 
 
 " Che volete ? Sono miserie umane. I have been
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 109 
 
 unfortunate, and you have been prosperous, and you are 
 bound to help me — you know why." 
 
 " Unfortunate ! you have been idle and wasteful, and " — 
 
 " Listen to me ! If you do not give me money to-day, I 
 will tell of you." 
 
 " And of yourself at the same time. You can't do one 
 without the other." 
 
 " And what do I care for that ? Do not try to make me 
 afraid. I am not afraid of you, nor of any woman, nor man 
 neither, and I mean what I tell you. I must have twenty 
 pounds." 
 
 " Twenty fiddlesticks : " 
 
 " I do not know what fiddlesticks are, but I must have 
 the pounds." 
 
 "You won't, I can tell you. Why, in the first place, I 
 haven't got them just now. Do you suppose I could give 
 you fifty pounds last January, and thirty the Michaelmas 
 before, besides all the rest you have bothered me out of, 
 and have money now to give you, with all the expenses of 
 this place, and not half the custom there used to be ? Why 
 in the world don't you go to ////;/ for it ? It's his business, 
 not mine. What right have you to come to me for money 
 any more than I have to ask you for it, eh ? " 
 
 " I cannot find him : he is travelling in some country. 
 If you can tell me where he is " 
 
 " Well, I thought I saw him here a few days ago. I was 
 not quite sure about it at the moment, but " 
 
 " Then why send me to run after him, and to make me 
 look like a fool before him ? Non sono una bestia, sai. 
 Give me the money, and I will go for my affairs. If not 
 — well ! Hm ! ha ! Che volete ? I shall know what 
 thing I ought to do, and I shall do it — I promise it to you." 
 
 •' Well, there now, I am sure that he's the man. If you 
 had listened, I was going to have told you that I ivas sure 
 of it afterwards. Is it so very wonderful that I didn't make 
 him out at first ? Don't people grow older ? I am sure you 
 have. I shouldn't have known you, that I shouldn't, if I 
 hadn't seen you since I saw him last — and I wish to 
 goodness I hadn't — for you have grown to look so old, you 
 have, and" 
 
 " Miseries have made " 
 
 " Miseries ! rubbish ! "
 
 110 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " You have grown old without them — so old — oh ! and 
 as fat as a great old pig." 
 
 " Now don't let us have any words. I tell you he's the 
 man, and the waiter knows where he went to." 
 
 She went forth and questioned that functionary, who 
 replied, " Well'm, he told me he were going to Ledchester 
 for the meeting at Monksgallows, and give me to understand 
 he meant to stay about there a bit." 
 
 *' He wasn't the same party that came here to-day for a 
 fly when I was out, was it ? " said she. 
 
 " Lord bless you ! no. That were a different man 
 altogether. He's a real gentleman, a lot younger, and isn't 
 anyways like that chap. He had his man wuth him, and 
 he's gone to stay with Squire Freville." 
 
 " I thought so," said the landlady, returning quickly to 
 Number One sitting-room. " He is at Ledchester. You 
 will find him at the George Hotel, or, if not, at the 
 Crown." 
 
 " Thank you," answered the woman of the middling 
 countenance ; " but I want some money. I must have ten 
 pounds." 
 
 " I tell you I can't — you have run me dry." 
 
 " Then I will go and tell " 
 
 " Don't be a fool. Can't you understand plain English ? 
 If my poor husband were alive, you wouldn't dare to come 
 bothering me so. He would have taken the law of you 
 long ago." 
 
 " Did the poor husband know ? " 
 
 " Don't be impertinent now. There's a train at 7-35, and 
 the railway bus will call here for it directly." 
 
 " Yes, but give me ten pounds or I will tell " 
 
 The landlady's dress became exceedingly tight. 
 
 "Now, if I give it you this time," she said, "will you 
 promise not to come after me any more ? " 
 
 "I will not, if I can find him," answered the mysterious 
 visitor. The landlady left the room, and presently 
 reappeared with a ten pound note. 
 
 "There it is," said she. "Now remember your promise 
 — don't you come here again." 
 
 " Not if I can find him,'' said her unpleasant friend, 
 pocketing the money and offering her hand. 
 
 The landlady stood erect, and advancing her right arm
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. Ill 
 
 about ten inches from the tightened body of her dress, put 
 two fingers into the outstretched pahn before her. 
 
 Five minutes afterwards the omnibus reheved her of her 
 troublesome visitor, and she retired to the bar, ruffled 
 indeed as to her feehngs at being Hkened to a " great old 
 pig," but satisfied on the whole with the result of the 
 interview. 
 
 " He's the man ; and that beast of a woman will find him 
 there, if he's not gone," thought she as she sat down, pen in 
 hand, to her accounts. " And if he is gone, why he'd have 
 letters to be forwarded somewhere— of course, and she'll 
 find him out in that way. It was worth a ten pound note to 
 do t/iat, though I haven't another to bless myself with just 
 now." 
 
 " They're a queer lot, them foreigners, all except him as 
 is gone to Freville Chase," said the waiter to the ostler, as 
 the omnibus rolled away, bearing the Italian and her black 
 mail to the station. " Here's Bolton the carrier. No, we 
 haven't got nothing for Chase End. But I say, Bolton, you 
 was wrong about that foreigneering chap last Toosday. He 
 wasn't the Marquis as came here to-day and took a fly to go 
 to your Squire's." 
 
 " I never said he were," replied Bolton. " I says, says I, 
 to old Betty Tredgett, There's a foreigner come to the 
 White Hart at Lyneham, they tell me. ' You haven't seen 
 him ? says she.' I cant say, says I, which I never see this 
 one, nor t'other neither. ' You may depend on it, that it is, 
 says she.' And then another woman come up and said, 'In 
 course it's him. Who else would come from foreign parts 
 a-hanging about here ? ' And they set it about, as if they 
 know'd it were him, and said as I had told them so. That's 
 how it were. I never know'd nothing about neither on 'em, 
 nor never see neither on'em." 
 
 Extetnplo Libyce magnas it Fama per tirbes ; 
 Fama malum, quo non aliud velocius ulhim, 
 
 thought the waiter in the following free translation : — " I 
 see. The women got a-talking all over the place. Well I 
 their tongues is queer things to deal with, /know." 
 
 "There's no bounds to 'em when they gets a-talking," 
 said Bolton, as he started on his way back to Chase End. 
 
 About this time the Marquis was sitting down to dinner
 
 112 
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 at Freville Chase, ignorant of his local celebrity, and old 
 Susan, standing on the doorway of the house at the Four 
 Ways, was trying to persuade Muggles of the county police 
 that the mysterious disappearance of Jane Davis could be 
 attributed to nothing else but h.is neglect of duty in not 
 taking up the itinerant foreigner. 
 
 CHAP'i'ER VIII. 
 
 ■ Op. o 
 
 :h; 
 
 
 
 
 r dinner the Marquis talked well on a variety 
 of subjects, but his remarks did not enable 
 his host to discover what he was made of. 
 On Sunday, after Mass, Everard said in 
 confidence to himself. Either his recoUec- 
 tedness was an example to most of us, 
 myself very much included, or his mind 
 was on something else ; but there was 
 something too stiff about it for recoUected- 
 ness : ero^o — no, that is unfair, and there are just as good 
 grounds for putting it in this way : — He was either 
 recollected or thinking of something else : but he was not 
 thinking of something else, for he didn't look about : there- 
 fore he was recollected. That is more charitable, but it will 
 not do, for the mind can be off when the eyes are steady. 
 Either it was recollection, or it was the effort of a man who 
 has neglected his religious duties and is not at home with 
 them. It was too stiff for recollection : therefore — and the 
 rest. And that is what it is. He is in the Church, but not 
 of it. Poor fellow ! who can tell what bad chances he may 
 have had? Perhaps this quiet old place, with no /i/'er^i/i nea.v, 
 may be of use to him. This may be the turning-point of 
 his life. I will ask him to stay here some time." 
 
 Hubert also made confidential remarks to himself about 
 the Marquis, but they were of a somewhat abusive character. 
 Father Merivale was too busy wnth his Sunday's duties — 
 two baptisms, a wedding, a funeral, and a sick call three 
 miles off, to have any opinion about him at all, except that 
 he was a cultivated and well-informed man. The four met
 
 FKKVJLLK UHASE. 113 
 
 at dinner again, with the same result as on Saturday. 'l"he 
 Marquis was as agreeable as ever, but what he was made of 
 did not appear. 
 
 " I'll be hanged if I think he's made of anything except 
 outside," said Hubert, when he and Everard were standing 
 in the hall, and the priest putting on his hat to go home. 
 
 " Yes, he is," said Everard. " You don't doubt that 
 there are works in a watch you see going, though you 
 could't say what they are. You have not seen the works 
 yet ; but there is something more than the case, you may 
 rely upon it." 
 
 " It seems to me," said Father Merivale, " that you are 
 both looking too deep, deeper than he goes. He is a clever, 
 cultivated man, not devout, and not irreligious. I have not 
 seen so much of him as you have, and I may be mistaken ; 
 but I can see no signs of anything more at present." 
 
 Everard, being engaged to meet Sir Richard and the two 
 lawyers on Monday about the settlements, and not liking to 
 leave his two ill-assorted guests for an indefinite time, had 
 proposed to take them with him, and sent a note to that 
 effect. Lady Dytchley had replied that she should be 
 delighted to see them at luncheon, and they prepared to 
 start accordingly for Netherwood on Monday morning. As 
 the Marquis preferred riding, and there were only three 
 horses in the stables, one of them being the same that had 
 backed on the fly at Bramscote, making the fly back on the 
 curate and the curate knock a man's lighted pipe out of his 
 mouth, Everard chose the harness horse for himself, and 
 left the two hunters for his guests. One of them was quiet, 
 the other decidedly not. 
 
 " You had better put me on that one," said Hubert. 
 " Of course he can't ride." 
 
 '' I don't know that at all ; I daresay he can," said Everard ; 
 " but he will find the other horse pleasanter. So you had 
 better ride Thunderbolt. You wouldn't like the chestnut : 
 he goes in harness and has no fore-legs to speak of I will 
 ride him." 
 
 As the business was to be done before luncheon, the 
 three set off for Netherwood at half past eleven o'clock, just 
 as the doctor was feeling Lady Dytchley's pulse and saying, 
 that she was much better, but must be very careful to avoid 
 all worry.
 
 114 |-liKVILr>E CHASK. 
 
 She was in a state of conditional convalescence. The 
 Bible, the bottle of sal-volatile, and the blotting book were 
 still on the sofa; but she moved about the house at intervals, 
 her first appearance downstairs being whispered about before- 
 hand, and the doctors injunctions promulgated. 
 
 Her first appearance took place about half-past twelve 
 o'clock on that Monday morning. She said that she felt very 
 unequal to the exertion, but, as Everard had wished to 
 bring his two friends with him, she would make the effort. 
 
 Sir Richard was then conversing pleasantly with the two 
 lawyers, and congratulating himself on the approaching 
 event which had brought them to the house. 
 
 " They can't bother me any more about Ida after that," 
 thought he. " What a blessing it will be, not to have any 
 more of it ! not to be pestered and blown up, and talked at, 
 and abused, and made out to be wrong, whatever one does, 
 and set upon all round. As for Elfrida, I hope she will 
 marry a Catholic some day, I am sure ; and if I can help 
 her to do it, without having the place turned upside down, 
 why, there it will be — all right — and so it will be. But what 
 a comfort it is that she doesn't make a bother now, to bring 
 about such a row as there was the other night coming home 
 from Bramscote. I have never forgiven that lout of a fellow for 
 getting on the rumble, when I told him he might smoke till 
 he w^as black in the face in the old billiard room. Well, it 
 will be all right in three weeks ; and if Ida will only keep 
 quiet between this and then ! But I see that she will ; so it is 
 all right — all right. I never liked the looks of a lawyer's 
 parchments before. I feel so jolly, that if these two fellows 
 were not here " 
 
 What he would have done in that case did not appear, for 
 at that moment the butler came in and said : — " Please, Sir 
 Richard, Mylady wishes to speak to you in the library." 
 
 Sir Richard was a man whose habits were emphatically 
 respectable, and therefore unseemly words were as great an 
 abomination to his taste as (let us hope) they were to his 
 principles. He had never been induced to utter an oath, 
 and only twice to think one. The first occasion was during 
 the dinner-party at Bramscote : the second, and, as far as is 
 yet known, the last, was at this moment, on being told that 
 Lady Dytchley wanted to speak to him. 
 
 '' D— n it ! The devil take this business ! " said he to him-
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 115 
 
 self in mute confidence. "What can be up now? It's all 
 arranged, and Ida is keeping quiet about the other matter. 
 Surely " 
 
 " Don't let us detain you," said one of the lawyers. '' We 
 have done all that is to be done till Mr. Freville comes." 
 
 " You can find work enough when nobody wishes it," 
 thought Sir Richard, as he rose with a rueful countenance to 
 leave the room ; "and now, when you might keep me here 
 free from bother, you must needs tell me right out, while the 
 man is in the room, that I am not wanted here ! " 
 
 He walked slowly, trying to collect his thoughts, and 
 form a general ])lan of defence against all personal annoy- 
 ances ; but at last the moment arrived when the library door 
 was in front of his nose. He opened it delicately and 
 peeped in. 
 
 "There is that sofa again," thought he, "or at least 
 another of them. I see how it is. I have a great mind to 
 go back again, and pretend I have something to tell the 
 lawyers." 
 
 " Come in," said a well known voice from within. " There 
 is no one here." 
 
 •* I only wish there were," he thought. But there was no 
 help for it, and in he went. 
 
 Lady Dytchley left the sofa and advanced in a determined 
 manner, smiling as a careful mother smiles on her child 
 when it is doubtful whether he will be good or not, and her 
 countenance gives a hint of summary measures. 
 
 " Well, my dear, how are you ? You look ever so much 
 better," said Sir Richard, apjjroaching her in an elastic and 
 cheerful manner. 
 
 "I am better, he tells me," said she, leaning against the 
 sofa, " but liable to a return of the attack in a worse form, if 
 I am at all agitated. It is very provoking, particularly at 
 this time when, after all that has happened, it was most 
 desirable not to put anything off : but he says (and so did 
 Dr. Chloradyne from Ledchester, who came with him just 
 now, only you were engaged) that I must go abroad 
 immediately." 
 
 " I knew there was something," thought Sir Richard. 
 I wish Dr. Chloradyne had given her a sleeping draught 
 instead of sending her abroad. What does he know about 
 abroad ? "
 
 116 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " So I am to start on Thursday and take Ida with me." 
 
 " Well, but — I say, you know, it's uncommonly awkward," 
 said Sir Richard. " We always promised that it should be 
 directly he came of age, and he was five and twenty yester- 
 day, the 6th. Couldn't you manage to put it off a little ? 
 The weather will be cooler for travelling." 
 
 •' If you have any regard whatever for my health, you will 
 not propose that again," was the inauspicious reply. 
 
 " But, my dear, you see " 
 
 " And what would be the use of it ? It would only put off 
 the marriage later still." 
 
 " Why, I thought, you see, as everything is ready, we 
 might have it a little sooner." 
 
 " If you wish to kill me, you will talk in that way and go 
 on pressing me to consent to having it offhand in that 
 disgraceful way, as if we were so delighted with it and it was 
 such a very great honour that we couldn't wait like every- 
 body else, but must hurry and push it on and make fools of 
 ourselves, just because Everard has no feeling for me and 
 never cared what happened to me — he has shown it in a 
 thousand ways. I will not consent to it. Do as you like. 
 Take it all into your own hands, and order the trousseau. 
 Do go and order it — you ought to be ashamed of yourself." 
 
 The reproach was uttered in a tone of such profound 
 conviction that, for an instant. Sir Richard almost felt 
 himself guilty of meddling in the mysteries of dressmaking 
 and its accessory arts ; but, being sure, on reflection, that he 
 had not so offended, he was emboldened to say, " Hasn't 
 the trousseau been ordered yet ? How would there have 
 been time to get it all done by the 20th of August, if things 
 had not been, you know ? " 
 
 " But it isn't wanted for the 20th of August — how foolishly 
 you talk ! " said she, colouring up and looking down. 
 
 " But it was to be then, my dear, you know; and I was 
 thinking that, in that case, you had driven it off rather." 
 
 " Do you suppose, now, that I don't know better than 
 you do how long it takes to get a trousseau ready ? But you 
 must think you know better, on purpose to insinuate that I 
 wasn't obliged to put it off, when I had planned every- 
 thing." 
 
 " I don't insinuate that at all," said Sir Richard. 
 
 She coloured more violently than before. Sir Richard was
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 117 
 
 in momentary danger of hearing something greatly to his 
 disadvantage, and would without doubt have heard it, had 
 not his countenance proved his entire innocence of intention 
 or ability to make grim fun out of the equivocal planning ; 
 but he had seen enough to make him desire peace at any 
 price, not considering that peace patched up on unsound 
 principles is neither permanent nor successful. 
 
 " My dear," he said, " I think we had better talk it over 
 quietly, you know. We can arrange it all, I have no doubt : 
 it is rather awkward, you see, if it's to be long. How long 
 do you want to put it off for ? " 
 
 " Six months. The doctors both say that I am to stay that 
 time ; and I am not going to kill myself and leave Elfrida 
 without a mother, for the sake of pleasing Edward Freville." 
 
 " Of course not : but, you see, what am /to do ? Don't 
 you see, Everard will be here presently, and upon my word, 
 you know, you jnust see the awkwardness of my position, 
 especially as having been his guardian, which threw them so 
 much together, and " 
 
 " And he took advantage of it to set her against all I had 
 taught her, and make her a hypocrite, wanting to turn 
 because she is to marry him." 
 
 " Come, now, really," said Sir Richard, " you must re- 
 member that she w^as baptized a Catholic, and brought up 
 so till she was seven years old, when you, you know — I am 
 not saying you were not quite right in your own mind about 
 it, and in fact my neglect brought it so — but you see there it 
 was." 
 
 "Yes, there it was indeed — all your fault and neglect, and 
 no example at all, but enough to make infidels of the poor 
 dear children, if they had been left to you. And then you 
 encourage Everard to undo all that, and persuade her to 
 turn, merely because he is one of them. Now do leave me, 
 or I shall not be able to receive the people at luncheon." 
 
 " Yes, but how about Everard, and this putting off. J 
 won't tell him, I really can't." 
 
 " And who wants you to do so ? I am not afraid of 
 tellinsj him. Is it such a terrible grievance to wait six 
 months for what he pretends to value so much ? I should 
 think Ida was worth waiting six months for. I suppose you 
 will be at home for luncheon. It would be so rude to leave 
 those two."
 
 118 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " Why you see, I really have to go some way off about 
 
 " Never mind. I don't want to see you standing there 
 inventing excuses. If you are afraid, why run away. You 
 had better be quick, for here they are riding up to the door." 
 
 Sir Richard looked through the window and turned in 
 the opposite direction. It could not be said, in strict 
 propriety of language, that he ran away, but he certainly 
 walked fast until he found himself on the outside of a door 
 at the other end of the room. He said, before shutting it, 
 " Then you must tell these two lawyers that I was obliged 
 to go." 
 
 " Yes, yes. Make haste, or you will be caught," 
 answered Lady Dytchley, accompanying the words with that 
 short laugh which he had heard before to his disadvantage. 
 
 " I can't help it," said he. " If I had to live my life over 
 again, it would be all very well; but now— what can I do ? 
 It has all shaped itself into this mess, and there it is. It will 
 all come right." 
 
 He made his way by a back staircase to his dressing-room, 
 walked up and down for awhile, and sat down to consider 
 the exigencies of the case. 
 
 " I must be off," said his inner consciousness. " I am 
 sorry to seem to desert Everard in his troubles ; but I can do 
 him no good, and should make myself look like a fool. It 
 will all come right, all come right. I wonder what old 
 Chloradyne really did?,^y — and the other doctor too. There's 
 a way of making out things from what a doctor says, that 
 isn't just what he said. I can't see much the matter with 
 her, I can't indeed. Well, I must go somewhere, and without 
 any luncheon, too, just as it's all ready at home. Where 
 the deuce am I to get some luncheon ? Father Johnson is 
 away ; and it's too near, into the bargain. I am uncommonly 
 hungry for I breakfasted at eight o'clock, to get back for 
 those two lawyers (I wish they had never come), and now 
 it's close upon half-past one, and I have to ride off, and 
 keep out all the afternoon, without the chance of a bit of 
 bread and cheese. A pretty thing it is to be starved in one's 
 own house with the smell of the luncheon in one's nose. 
 What am I to do ? In the country there are no clubs, and 
 in my own neighbourhood I can't go to a public-house. If 
 1 call anywhere I shall be too late, even if they are at home;
 
 FKKVJLLE CHASE. 119 
 
 and it would look so odd to go to a farmhouse and say I 
 could get nothing to eat. /don't know what to do. Upon 
 my word it's the hardest case that ever was. It's all nonsense 
 to say that going abroad is necessary for her health, and I 
 don't believe the doctors ever said so. They only saw it was 
 wanted, and thought it would do no harm. I have a great 
 mind to do something. By Jove, I will, too ! I will go and 
 say plainly that I won't have the marriage put off, but put 
 on, and settle the business and get my luncheon." 
 
 It is needless to say that he did nothing of the kind. 
 Hunger could suggest the idea, but not enforce its execution. 
 Starving in the midst of plenty he rode forth, grumbling in 
 his heart while the luncheon bell sounded in his ears. 
 
 To be perfectly just, we must admit that the project was 
 easier to imagine than to carry out. Not only would he 
 have to encounter another tantrum of an aggravated kind, 
 but he must take upon himself an indefinite responsibility in 
 opposition to two doctors ; for though he felt morally certain 
 that their statements had undergone a considerable change 
 in passing through the ima2[ination, how was he to explain 
 himself to that effect in a delicate manner, and how was he 
 to know that her interpretation of what they had said was 
 not sufficiently true to render an explosion of feelings more 
 or less dangerous? Have not large women nerves and livers 
 and physical hearts like other people? He might indeed 
 have questioned the two doctors and acted accordingly, for 
 their answers would have satisfied anyone that the postpone- 
 ment of the marriage was not necessary ; but having gone so 
 far as to tell himself that he had a great mind to do 
 something, he felt at liberty to reward the vigorous intention 
 by doing nothing. Where he went and what he did during 
 the hours of his voluntary exile and involuntary abstinence 
 is not recorded ; but his sudden dejxirture astonished the 
 two lawyers. 
 
 It had been arranged, with the directive concurrence of 
 Lady Dytchley, that Everard should see them after 
 luncheon ; and the arrangement appeared good to every one 
 concerned, especially to herself. She had now to com- 
 municate the change of plans, a duty requiring some skill 
 and not a little self-confidence. The information w^as 
 conveyed in the simplest and most natural manner, as follows : 
 
 " We had better not wait for Sir Richard," said she, when
 
 120 KIIKVHJ.E CHA.SK. 
 
 the luncheon was announced ; " for I know he had to go out 
 quite unexpectedly, and he may be detained some time. I 
 //^ hope and trust it will not put out all your arrangements 
 much. It is excessively provoking, and he was immensely 
 annoyed at it ; but he really couldn't help it." 
 
 Having thus made known as much as she meant her 
 hearers to understand at i)resent. Lady Dytchlcy of Nether- 
 wood waited for a sympathetic reply, feeling much comfort 
 in the assurance that she had told nothing but the truth and 
 kept her husband's dignity intact. The two lawyers had 
 recovered from their natural astonishment before she had 
 concluded her address, and knowing well 
 
 The law's delay. 
 The insolence of office, and the spurns 
 That patient merit of the tin^vorthy takes, 
 
 only thought that Sir Richard was a great fool to waste 
 money in bringing them down to Netherwood for no 
 purpose. One of them said, that as their train would not 
 start till half-past four, she need not feel uneasy, and the 
 subject dropped. 
 
 It was a pleasant luncheon party, and well composed. 
 Lady Dytchley took the greatest pains to be agreeable, and 
 succeeded. The Marquis Moncalvo kept up a brilliant and 
 varied conversation with her and the two lawyers. Hubert 
 Freville found an object of new and attractive interest in 
 Elfrida. Everard, though obliged to join in the general 
 conversation, which Hubert declined to do, found himself 
 next to Ida and had no suspicion of Sir Richard's flight. 
 They sat there till a quarter to three, \vhen Lady Dytchley 
 rose and, ringing the bell, proposed that the Marquis, as he 
 was fond of Gothic architecture, should be taken to see the 
 parish church, w^iich she affirmed (on what authority is not 
 known) to have been built before the Norman Conquest. 
 
 " It can't be so old as that, ' said one of the lawyers to 
 Everard. 
 
 " The arches are Early English, the rest of the nave 
 Perpendicular, and the chancel Debased Gothic of the 
 seventeenth century," answered Everard in a very low voice, 
 moving away lest he should be called upon for any further 
 information within earshot of Lady Dytchley. When the 
 butler came to answer the bell, she asked whether Sir
 
 FllEVILLE CHASE. 121 
 
 Richard had returned, and, after listening with much gravity 
 to the reply, said : — 
 
 " It is too, too provoking ; but he can't be long. Suppose 
 you all go to the church ; it is very near. You can be back in 
 less than half an hour, and then you will have plenty of time 
 for everything. Elfrida, you go with them. Ida and 
 Everard must be ready here to see your father when he 
 comes in." 
 
 As soon as the archiogical party had set out, she said, 
 " Ida, my dear, I wish you would just finish that letter ; it 
 really ought to go to-day, and it will only take a few minutes." 
 
 Ida, who knew that it would take a great many, went 
 upstairs unwillingly, as may he supposed, but without feeling 
 any suspicion of what was to befall her. Lady Dytchley 
 stood for a while at the foot of the staircase, as if she were 
 intending to follow, then turning abruptly towards Everard, 
 })ointed to the library and said, " I want to speak to you in 
 there." 
 
 She opened the door, shut it with a nervous push, and 
 after walking a few paces up the room, stopped suddenly. 
 Everard looked at her and listened. 
 
 " So you see he has not come back," said she. 
 
 " I have not seen him yet," answered Everard. 
 
 "Do you mean to insinuate that he is keeping out of the 
 way, that you may not see him ?" 
 
 " Certainly not. I meant that he might have returned 
 within the last minute or two, but I have not seen him." 
 
 •' It's all of a piece with everything that — but it's no 
 matter. Who says he mightn't have returned within the last 
 minute or two ? and who says you have seen him ? You 
 have no right to hint in that way, when he has been so kind 
 and so anxious and so very much more than a father about 
 it all." 
 
 " But what have I ever done to make you suppose that I 
 meant anything more than I said ? I never hinted in my 
 life. So far from implymg that Sir Richard intended to be 
 away I felt so sure of his returning in good time, that I 
 expected every moment to see him, and naturally answered, 
 " I have not seen him yet.' " 
 
 " What is the use of telling me all that ? Do you suppose 
 I thought you meant to show you didn't care about us ?" 
 
 " You mistake me. I didn't speak of showing : I spoke 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 122 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 of meaning. I tried to show what I meant. I am very sorry 
 if I did not express myself witli sufficient clearness, but you 
 have known me long enough to take my word for the fact." 
 
 " And pray have I ever said you did not ? I really have 
 neither time nor health to go on in this way, listening to all 
 this casuistry and twisting of one's words. Don't I know 
 how people can say one thing and mean another" — 
 
 "But I said that I did not mean what you thought I meant." 
 
 " I don't care what you said. It's too much, and more 
 than I can bear, or ought to bear. I have borne a great, 
 great deal too much, with all this going on, day after day, 
 week after week, month after month, and Ida made to go after 
 a nasty snuffy old priest to have all I taught her made wrong, 
 and all through you. And now, when I have been so very 
 ill, so ill that the doctor said it was very, very dangerous for 
 me to be worried, and says that I must go abroad immediately 
 for six months " 
 
 The remainder of the sentence fell upon ears that heard 
 not. Everard had listened with unshaken calmness to the 
 torrent of contradictory accusations by which she had brought 
 herself up to the required point; but when he was made 
 aware that, by the doctor's orders, real or imaginary, she was 
 going abroad for six months, the cause of Sir Richard's 
 absence flashed across him in an instant, and the meaning of 
 her violence. He saw at once that she meant to postpone 
 the marriage, that Sir Richard had gone away to avoid seeing 
 him, that she had worked herself up into a rage for the 
 purpose of covering the confusion she evidently felt in 
 making the disclosure. Circumstanced as he was, what 
 could he do, if she persisted in her resolution ? What would 
 be the consequence if she did, and what hope was there 
 that she would not ? He was simply overwhelmed at the 
 prospect before him ; for if she could put off the marriage, 
 without having any reason for doing so, except her own will 
 backed by her own views of a doctor's opinion, what 
 guarantee had he that she would not invent some other 
 excuse at the end of the six months, place Ida in the most 
 difficult position, and remain longer abroad to make the 
 dilemma worse ? 
 
 " Well ! and have you nothing to say about it ?" said Lady 
 Dytchley, clutching at her dress and twisting her fingers 
 round one of the bows till it came off. " I should have
 
 FKEYILLE CHASE. 123 
 
 thought you would have cared more about her, or at least 
 pretended you did, than to stand there looking as if nothing 
 had happened, when you must see that your marriage must 
 be put off for six months. Six months — do you understand 
 now ? Six months — the doctor will have it so, and I am 
 not going to kill myself and leave dear Elfrida, who never, 
 never gave me any trouble, without a mother, just for you to 
 get round her and undo all I taught, as you have done with 
 Ida. Do you hear, now, what I say ? I don't believe you 
 care a bit about it except for her fortune. And that was 
 why it was all arranged before you were born, arranged by 
 the priests — now don't tell me it wasn't, for I know it was, 
 as they always do — arranged by your family and the priests, 
 to keep up Freville Chase, bringing all this misery upon me, 
 to see my poor dear child thrown away in this manner. 
 Can't you speak ?" 
 
 '' I was going to do so,"" answered Everard, with the 
 resolute calmness of an exceptionally strong-willed man, who 
 would not by any means whatsover, be made to forget that 
 Lady Dytchley was a woman. The natural answer would 
 have been, "I was trying to do so ; " but he was a man and 
 a gentleman, and therefore he said, " I was going to do so." 
 
 '' Were you ?" she said, raising her voice accidentally or 
 otherwise, and looking suddenly towards him. but avoiding 
 his eyes. 
 
 He answered, " Yes, I was going to answer what you have 
 said, so far as I understand it." 
 
 " It's enough to provoke one of your own saints, that you 
 worship and think more of than you do of God and the ten 
 commandments and the Bible and the good men who gave 
 you the Bible, when your wicked priests had chained it up 
 and made it mean all sorts of false things, and stick images 
 into niches, to make the poor ignorant people believe they 
 can hear you, as if the Bible didn't say, ' They have eyes and 
 see not, ears and hear not.' But go on, go on — do go on." 
 
 " 1 hardly know what it is that you want me to answer," 
 said Everard ; " for I seem to be accused of so many things, 
 and one thing leads on to another before I can answer it, so 
 that I don't know where to begin. At any rate I am not 
 ^accountable for what happened before I was born." 
 
 " And did I say you were ?" 
 
 " I understood you to say so."
 
 124 FKEVILLE CHASE 
 
 " It's a wicked, wicked story, and just like you. I said 
 they had done all that (the priests and the rest) and that you 
 had done the same, and don't care about Ida, except for her 
 fortune, and " — 
 
 " Lady Dytchley, you must hear me now," said Everard, 
 in a penetrating voice that made her turn away and stamp 
 on the ground. " No one knows better than myself what 
 money would do for Freville Chase, which I love more than 
 anything in this world except Ida. Her fortune would do 
 all, and more than all, that I wish to do for the benefit of 
 others, not for myself, and would enable me to fulfil many a 
 project that I have cherished from my boyhood. But I 
 would willingly give up everything, let Freville Chase to a 
 retired tinker, and live in one of my own cottages, growing 
 potatoes, and shooting rabbits occasionally when the tinker 
 invited me, if I had no other means of marrying Ida. I 
 should regret what I had to do, because I love the old place, 
 and still more because I should be of less use, but I should 
 have no hesitation whatever about it ; for, apart from my 
 own feelings, which you may judge by what I have said and 
 what I am prepared to do, I know that I should be right in 
 acting so. We were promised to each other, we have grown 
 up for each other, we are made for each other. I am ready 
 to die for her, but I will not give her up for any earthly con- 
 sideration or any earthly power. Have I made myself clearly 
 understood ?" 
 
 " What did I ever say about your marrying her with 
 nothing ? — and how could you have to do all those 
 ridiculous things if you did, unless yon have been wasting 
 your money, as I daresay you have, giving it to the priests, 
 who know of course, exactly what Ida will have, and 
 spending it in all sorts of ways that I don't know of? — now 
 don't tell me you haven't, for I never said you had. It's 
 abominable of you to say such insulting things, as if we were 
 capable of letting her marry you like a beggar, when she is 
 to be so very well off, as you know better than anybody. 
 You think you can get your way by saying all that, and 
 playing the disinterested, and insulting me by hinting that I 
 want to deprive my own child of what she is to have, and 
 that you can make me go against the doctors and kill 
 myself, to save you the trouble of waiting six months. You 
 think it's all safe, and that you can make me do as you like
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 125 
 
 by threatening to let your place and put Ida in a cottage : 
 but how do you know that it is all safe ? I tell you it's not. 
 It's in our power ; and you will see that it is, if you try to 
 marry her without my consent. And if you say much I will 
 put it off for two years, as I have a great mind to do now for 
 your daring to say that I wanted to deprive Ida of anything." 
 
 " I seem unable to make myself understood," said 
 Everard. " You told me that I only cared for Ida's fortune, 
 which, on reflection, you will, I am sure, regret to have said, 
 and I simply answered a charge as odious and unfounded 
 as could have been made. You must know perfectly well 
 that the necessity I spoke of would not exist, even if Ida had 
 happened to have had no fortune at all, and that I supposed 
 it merely to show, in the strongest manner I could think of, 
 the incorrectness of the charge you inadvertently brought 
 against me. I have never done anything to warrant the 
 opinions you have expressed of me in reference to Ida and 
 in reference to yourself. You know as well as I do that I 
 love Ida for herself, and not for her fortune : you know that 
 I have always shown the most marked respect and con- 
 sideration for you. As for the few words that I have said to 
 Ida from time to time about religion, you must know that 
 she was baptized and, till she was seven years old, brought 
 up a Catholic, that the engagement was made by my father, 
 and afterwards confirmed by myself on the understanding 
 that she would be a Catholic, that you spoke over and over 
 again of her being a Catholic after her marriage, and that 
 you never said anything explicitly to me about not 
 mentioning the subject to her in the meantime till last 
 Tuesday. In what respect, then, have I offended in any 
 way as regards yourself? Surely when a man has already 
 waited some time, as I have been obliged to do by not coming 
 of age till five and twenty, it is not very wonderful that he 
 should feel being put off for six months at the moment of 
 signing the settlements." 
 
 " So you have found that out at last, and begun to see 
 that it did look odd to be talking about all kinds of things, 
 when you might have been expected to have shown some 
 feeling about Ida. What has last Tuesday to do with all the 
 worship of images, and setting up the Pope above God, 
 doing away with the Bible, and buying indulgences to do 
 what you like, and getting absolution by telling what you
 
 126 FKKVJLI.K CHASE. 
 
 please behind a curtain — which you have been trying to 
 teach poor Ida ?" 
 
 " If you really think that I have tried to make her believe 
 such things as you have named, I am unable to understand 
 how you can allow me to enter your house ; but you cannot 
 and do not think so. Just consider what it implies. If you 
 believe that the Catholic Church teaches these abominations, 
 you must believe that your own husband is guilty of them by 
 belonging to it." 
 
 " It implies nothing of the sort. You know very well he 
 doesn't follow all the Ultramontane things that were brought 
 in by the Papal Aggression." 
 
 " Anyhow he believes in the supremacy of the Pope, 
 which, if it means that the Pope is above God, is nothing 
 less than the grossest idolatry ; and he goes to confession, 
 which, if it means getting absolution for telling what one 
 pleases, is hypocrisy of the worst kind. No assurance what- 
 ever could persuade me that you could have found it in your 
 conscience to marry a man whom you believed to be an 
 habitual idolater and hypocrite." 
 
 Lady Dytchley's face turned very red and then very white. 
 She bit her lips in angry meditation for a few moments, 
 changed the position of some books that lay on the table, 
 crumpling the Supplement of the " Times," and upsetting a 
 box of postage stamps. Clearly some kind of struggle was 
 going on within. The fact was that she felt herself beaten 
 on every point. She had neither irritated him by her rude- 
 ness, frightened him by her threats, nor confused him by her 
 irrelevant interruptions and contradictory charges. He had 
 shown her to be in the wrong, and she could not avoid 
 showing that she knew it. What was she to do ? Try 
 another tantrum of extra power ? But they had no effect 
 whatever on him. Recall her words frankly and lay the 
 blame of them on the feverish attack ? After all, Everard 
 had not refused to wait : he had only objected, as any man 
 would. This idea too crossed her mind, but was rejected 
 with scorn. Had she not still the advantage over him in the 
 authority she possessed ? 
 
 " If I could only put him in the wrong," she thought 
 (unawares, let us hope) " make him say something that I 
 could bring up against him whenever he opened his mouth on 
 the subject! But no, of course he will not. I know he won't."
 
 FliEVlLLE CIIA8E. 127 
 
 " You are always trying to put me in the wrong," she said 
 at last, finding the suspense unbearable and her own irritation 
 extreme. 
 
 " I have not done so, never did, and never would," 
 answered Everard decisively. " You were putting yourself 
 in the wrong through a mistake. I was trying to prevent it, 
 and I thought I had done so." 
 
 " I tell you I will have no more of this, not a word more," 
 she exclaimed with renewed vehemence, moving towards the 
 door, and sweeping the skirt of her dress on one side of him 
 in a semicircle. " I have gone on talking and talking and 
 talking till I am tired, trying to make you understand how 
 very wrong you have been about it all, and how dreadfully 
 inconsiderate you are. It's of no use talking to you — I can 
 see that, and if I go on any more I shall be laid up here and 
 not be able to go to the Lago Maggiore, which both the 
 doctors have said, over and over again, is the only thing for 
 me. Now listen before I go ! It mitsth^ as I say. It can't 
 be helped. I can't help being ill — I am ready to drop on 
 the floor now, though of course you don't care for that, and 
 think it's all a pretence because I exert myself through 
 anxiety for my children." 
 
 She paused for breath, owing to the rapidity of her utter- 
 ance and movements. F.verard was tempted to wonder how 
 she could benefit her children by acting unjustly to one and 
 deceiving both, as well as herself; but he had no time to 
 think, for she was evidently preparing to leave the room. 
 She walked up to the door with vigorous or perhaps feverish 
 quickness, and with another sweep of her skirt began again. 
 " It ail depends upon you," she said : " mind that. You 
 have it entirely in your own power to do what is for your 
 own interest or not. I am obliged to go abroad, and I am 
 not in a fit state (the doctors have both said so) to go with- 
 out one of my family — surely you ought to have feeling 
 enough to understand that. Sir Richard must be here for 
 the partridge shooting, for he has asked people to come here 
 to shoot. He can't be left here alone " 
 
 " But can't Elfrida go with you ?" said Everard, driven to 
 desperation. " If you would only wait a very short time — a 
 few days would do, for the settlements are ready — the 
 marriage could take place before your journey, and Ida and 
 I could come here, or go with you, if you like. I am ready
 
 128 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 to give up my honeymoon, be away from Freville Chase till 
 you come back, do almost anything, rather than have the 
 marriage put off; and I know that Ida would say the same. 
 Do me this great kindness, I entreat you : it is the greatest 
 that you can do for me. The time required by the law is no 
 difficulty, for the banns have lueen published already. Do 
 let it be so. Give me the happiness of being always in your 
 debt for the greatest favour that I possibly could receive 
 from anyone." Here he paused for a moment. She made 
 no reply, and he went on : 
 
 " It will take some days," he said, " to get ready for being 
 six months abroad, especially after having been ill ; and 
 your being obliged to be away so long is a most natural and 
 most evidently good reason for having it sooner. It will be 
 only about ten days before the time you had named, and 
 everyone will say that you are right. You will save yourself 
 much dissatisfaction in your owm mind, you will save your- 
 self and Ida the annoyance of unpleasant remarks in the 
 neighbourhood, and you will do me the greatest possible act 
 of kindness, on Ida's account as well as my own. I don't 
 ask you to do it for me ; I ask you to do it for your own 
 comfort and for the sake of Ida. I ask you to save her from 
 being placed in a position the painfulness ofwhich you know 
 far better than I can tell you. All this didn't occur to you 
 at the moment — and very naturally, when you had so many 
 other things to think of; but now that I have put it all 
 before you I am sure you will do what I ask." 
 
 But Lady Dytchley was sure that she would not. His 
 words had penetrated her mind only : an obstinate deter- 
 mination to carry out her own will because it was her own, 
 because it w^as opposed, and because it suited her purpose, 
 rendered her artificially callous. Her heart was closed 
 before the most reasonable, the most touching appeal that 
 could have been made to a woman and a mother. 
 
 "And do you suppose for a moment," she said, " that I 
 would allow such a thing ? — That I would consent to 
 hurrying the marriage like a wedding in a play ? — That I 
 would let my daughter marry without a proper trousseau and 
 a proper wedding, as if I were so anxious for the honour of 
 sending her to Freville Chase that I was ready to get rid of 
 her anyhow. You ought to be ashamed of making so very, 
 very improper a proposal. Have you no feeling for Ida that
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 129 
 
 you can think of marrying her in such a way, hke two gipsies 
 jumping over a broomstick ?— and making her betalked 
 about by every one as if she were running after you — I 
 wonder you are not ashamed of yourself — and making us 
 all ridiculous before the whole country and everywhere else, 
 and all to suit your own convenience ? I had hoped that 
 your own sense and good feeling would have made you act 
 very differently ; but as you refuse to listen to reason, and I 
 am too ill to go on with this miserable dispute any longer, I 
 see that I must end the matter once for all. Ida and I start 
 on Thursday, and the marriage will take place exactly six 
 months to a day from now — to-day is the yth of August. 
 But after the painful scene of to-day it is incumbent on me 
 to take care of myself. I cannot have you coming after us, 
 repeating the same thing and making a scene before ever)-- 
 body in a foreign hotel. Now if you keep quiet, the wedding 
 shall be on the 7th of February ; but if you follow us abroad, 
 I will put it off for two years. I can, and I will. I am not 
 going to be bullied by you. If you don't like it, you are free 
 to break off the marriage ; and, in fact, I consider you as 
 disengaged — remember that — 1 There now, don't try to 
 twist my words again. Come and dine with us on Wednes- 
 day, all of you, and tell me then if you have any more to 
 say ; but remember about not following us abroad, for I 
 shall keep my word if you do. Good-bye now till 
 Wednesday." 
 
 The long skirt disappeared through the door, trailing 
 rapidly after her along the hall, up the staircase, and 
 onwards. Everard remained, as it were, rooted to the spot 
 where he stood when hearing the words, " I consider you as 
 disengaged — remember that." This last blow was so 
 crushing, so unexpected, that he was in a manner stunned 
 by it, and but dimly conscious of what had passed. By 
 degrees the whole conversation, with every look, tone and 
 movement that had emphasised her meaning, opened out 
 before him as if it were taking place over again, while 
 circumstances corroborative of the worst suspicions became 
 connected with it in his mind for the first time. 
 
 " Her late coldness," he thought, " and methodical fits of 
 temper, her going to the Lago Maggiore just when Lady 
 Oxborough is going there with the eldest son, her telling me 
 to consider myself disengaged — what is all this but part of one
 
 loO FKEVJLLK CHASE. 
 
 plan ? I am not afraid of Ida (perish the thought !) hut /or 
 her, for all the annoyances, all the sufferings that I shall be 
 powerless to prevent. I am utterly powerless," 
 
 It was but too evident. The very embodiment of power 
 in himself, he was utterly powerless to protect her. True 
 she was of age, and considering their life-long engagement, 
 under the sanction of both her parents, without any just 
 reason whatever for breaking it, they were fairly entitled to 
 take the responsibility on themselves : but how could that 
 be done with a due regard to propriety, whilst Ida was at 
 Baveno or some other place on the Lago Maggiore ? Lady 
 Dytchley had threatened to put off the marriage for two 
 years, if he followed them, and was quite capable of 
 remaining abroad to ensure the fulfilment of her threat. 
 Then again, how could he measure the amount of varied 
 l)ressure and misrepresentation that might be brought to 
 bear on Ida during his absence, with all the energy of 
 resentment and all the seeming truth of a false conscience? 
 
 " God help me ! I am utterly powerless to protect her," 
 said Everard aloud in the bitterness of his heart, when the 
 door was opened and in walked Elfrida with the two 
 lawyers, Hubert and the Marquis Moncalvo. Elfrida saw 
 at once that something had gone very wrong, and without 
 any previous knowledge guessed the cause, more or less 
 correctly. 
 
 " Everard, there is something the matter with you," she 
 said in a low voice. " Do tell me before you go, and if I 
 can do anything in the world for you " 
 
 " You dear, kind girl ! I will if I can," answered Everard, 
 turning away towards the lawyers. 
 
 The latter could only say that they regretted Sir Richard's 
 unavoidable absence, and had to catch the train. As soon 
 as they had gone Elfrida went up stairs, and returned in a 
 few minutes with a note in her hand. 
 
 " My mother tells me to say," said she, looking very grave 
 and unwilling, " that she is too tired and unwell to come 
 down, and hopes you will all come to dinner on 
 ^Vednesday." 
 
 The Marquis expressed his concern, and hoped that Lady 
 Dytchley's indisposition was not serious. Hubert repeated 
 within himself " My mother tells me to say," and formed his 
 own opinion. Elfrida turned to Everard and said, " Come
 
 FKEVILLK CHASE. 181 
 
 with me a moment, I want to speak to you/' He followed 
 her into a kind of lumber room near the garden entrance, 
 filled with cricket bats, battledores and shuttlecocks, targets, 
 old galoshes, a few hyacinth glasses, and an old damask 
 sofa. 
 
 " Read this first, in case it may require an answer," she 
 said, putting the note into his hand. The note was a.s 
 follows : — 
 
 " My dear Everard^ — You must not niisunde?'sfa?id me. I 
 felt very ill and had been worried besides by the pai?i of 
 disappointing you which I ivould not have do7ie for the ivorld 
 if I could have helped it. And so I am afraid I spoke 
 unkindly to you, my fierves being so shaken that I Jiardly 
 knew what I zvas doing. I wanted to explain too that if you 
 were to follow us abroad it would look odd to explain to the 
 people there who you are, and for you to be with us ivithout 
 explanatioti would have an appeai-ance that you, I am surCy 
 would not like for Ida's sake. I promise you to be back before 
 the time I na?ned, and if I do as tvell as I expect to do thi-ough 
 the change of air, I ivill come back much sooner, so that the 
 delay will be very short. 
 
 " Believe me, your's afectionately, 
 
 " Charlotte Dytchley:' 
 
 " May I see it ? " said Elfrida, when he had read the 
 note. 
 
 " Do : I wish you would. And I should like to say a 
 word to you about what it refers to." 
 
 " I thought so," said she, running her eyes down the first 
 page and turning it over. " I saw that something was 
 wrong. But what is it ? " 
 
 " Your mother told me just now that she must put off the 
 marriage, was going to take Ida abroad, would put it off two 
 years if I went where they were, and considered me as 
 disengaged. I think that is enough, considering that I have 
 given her no cause whatever for treating me so. This note 
 is much kinder, speaks of shortening the delay, and implies 
 that what she said about being disengaged was said in haste; 
 but the words have been said. They must have had some 
 meaning, and none that can bode any good. I don't
 
 132 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 understand it, and I don't know what to do or think. I 
 never felt utterly powerless till now. Can you give me any 
 clue to the mystery ?" 
 
 " 1 can't. I have heard my mother scold Ida about being 
 a Catholic, and tell her she was only doing it on your 
 account, and knew better, and all that ; but I have always 
 heard her speak of the marriage as a settled thing. She has 
 never even expressed a wish that it should not be." 
 " Then what is the cause of the put-off? " 
 " She has not told me anything about it yet ; but she has 
 been under the new doctor's care, and I suppose that she 
 has understood him to have ordered her abroad." 
 
 " But I asked her to wait a little and put forward the wed- 
 ding, and she only became very angry. No doctor would have 
 objected to that ; and, as I told her, it would prevent all the 
 unpleasant remarks that are sure to be made if Ida goes 
 abroad in this way, when the wedding-day had been fixed. 
 No one will believe in the necessity of so sudden a move ; 
 and as your father's marked absence is known to everyone 
 in the house, both guests and servants, the thing will get 
 about, with every sort of conjecture and exaggeration. I 
 wonder she doesn't see it." 
 
 " She will, she must. She can't really mean anything. I 
 wish our old doctor were alive. This one is not so plain- 
 spoken, and she may have misunderstood him to order her 
 abroad, when he only meant to say that it would be a good 
 thing. He will be here presently, and I will speak to him 
 about it. He can and must put it right. Is there anything 
 else that I can do ? " 
 
 " Yes, but if it is possible, I want to see Ida before 
 I go." 
 
 " Impossible. She is writing letters in my mother's room." 
 " Help her, then, as you best can. Support her — we all 
 want support sometimes." 
 
 " You may rely upon it that I will : you may count upon 
 me. I will not fail you." 
 
 " You are a noble-hearted girl," said Everard, leaving the 
 room. " I shall be here on Wednesday." 
 " Stop ! Is there any answer or message ? " 
 " Only to thank her for her — kind note." 
 Elfrida hurried upstairs, and he went back to the library, 
 where the Marquis and Hubert were waiting for him.
 
 FhEVILLE CHASE. 13P> 
 
 Shortly afterwards, the stable clock being on the strike, 
 the hour five o'clock, and Everard on the other side of the 
 lodge, riding back to F^reville Chase with his two guests 
 (but that was no matter). Lady Dytchley sent Elfrida to see 
 an old woman who lived in a cottage on the farther side of 
 the park, and Ida to get some fresh air in the shrubbery ; 
 then betaking herself to the sofa in her bedroom, she 
 reposed there till a knock was heard at the door and the 
 sympathising countenance of the young doctor appeared in 
 the opening. 
 
 "I feel very tired and ill to-day," she said, " but I have 
 had so much to think of and so much to worry me, I quite 
 see that I shall never be well till I can get away and have 
 perfect rest." 
 
 " Change of air and scene is the best thing in such a 
 case," answered the doctor. 
 
 " It troubles me very much, though, that my going abroad 
 should — put anything off and put any one out." 
 
 " If there is anything of importance there is really no 
 
 reason why " 
 
 " Well, I think it is better as it is ; but I can't bear to put 
 any one out." 
 
 " We can't help doing so sometimes," remarked the 
 doctor. 
 
 " No, indeed. I wish one could. Am I to go, then ? " 
 He looked fixedly at her for a moment, said to himself, 
 " she means to go," and replied — " By all means : it will — 
 suit your case exactly." 
 
 "Then you will come to see me on Wednesday afternoon, 
 won't you ? " 
 
 He promised to do so, and went his way, while Elfrida 
 was hurrying onward to the cottage, that she might be in 
 time to see him on her way back. Ida, having been duly 
 informed of his arrival, came in from the shrubbery to her 
 mother's room whilst he was mounting his horse at the 
 stables. 
 
 " He left this minute — how very provoking ! " said Lady 
 Dytchley. " I wanted him to tell you, to save me from 
 telling it, for I can't bear to disappoint you." 
 
 " Oh ! what is it ? " said Ida, turning deadly pale, as the 
 peculiar nature of the feverish attack occurred to her, in 
 combination with Sir Richard's portentous retirement, the
 
 134 F]{EVILI.K CIFASE. 
 
 departure of the lawyers with the unsigned settlements, and 
 her mother's refusal to go downstairs after her interview 
 with Everard. 
 
 '' What is it?" she repeated with sudden and unwonted 
 vehemence, while Lady Dytchley appeared to hesitate. 
 *' Do tell me ! I must know — I will know." 
 
 " My dear Ida," said Lady Dytchley, " don't make up 
 imaginary evils. There is nothing dreadful in what I have 
 to say, nothing more than what happens, more or less, in 
 ninty-nine cases out of a hundred. The doctor says I am 
 to go abroad for a bit, which will interfere with the wedding- 
 day ; but I have no doubt that the change of air and scene 
 will set me up very soon — I feel that it will — so that the 
 delay need be no longer than usually happens, owing to 
 lawyers and dressmakers. That is all. I am grieved that 
 you should have the smallest disappointment about it, but 
 my own marriage was put off twice." 
 
 Ida breathed again; for though the news was bad enough, 
 all circumstances considered, it was immeasurably less so 
 than the vague terrors that her imagination had conjured 
 up. It was worse than disappointing, but it was a relief, 
 which was just what Lady Dytchley meant it to be. 
 
 " You will see Everard the day before we go," said Lady 
 Dytchley, rising from the sofa ; " but I must begin to think 
 of w^hat we must have put up. They all three dine here on 
 Wednesday. You look pale. You have had no air to-day, 
 and I brought you in when you were out. Do walk a little 
 more, my child." 
 
 Ida did so readily, being anxious to review events and 
 see Elfrida. Lady Dytchley, having suspicions of being in 
 a dilemma, and wishing to see her way out of it, was not 
 sorry for her absence. The dilemma was this : — Hubert 
 Freville had paid very marked and thoughtful attention to 
 Elfrida, and Hubert Freville was as eligible in appearance and 
 character as in worldly position. From both points of view 
 the probability was good, as a probability and as a match. 
 Yet she found it advisable to do what would look very 
 much like snubbing him, that is, to start on Wednesday 
 morning and leave Sir Richard to entertain the guests from 
 Freville Chase. Now she must either do this or let Everard 
 and Ida meet again. If she chose the former alternative 
 she would be acting imprudently for Elfrida; if the latter,
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 1.'55 
 
 Everard's presence would })roduce awkward complications. 
 Therefore, whether she did or did not start on Wednesday 
 morning, she must outwit herself. That was her dilemma. 
 The difficulty was graver than it seems at first sight owing 
 to a curious combination of good and evil within her. 
 Respecting Hubert her motives were really good. She 
 valued him not merely for his position but for himself, for 
 what she believed him to be, and what in fact he was. The 
 complication regarded Everard : and here her motives were 
 so mixed that she had ceased to understand them herself 
 She clung with fierce tenacity to her own religion, partly 
 from training and habit, partly through a sort of 
 abstract conscientiousness, fortified for opposition by 
 the stimulating properties of a mixed marriage, and 
 her principles, being strengthened, such as they were, 
 by the absence of any in Sir Richard, had led her, as we 
 have seen, to take the religion of his Catholic children into 
 her own hands, till she looked upon the direction of it as a 
 vested right. Thus the engagement with ^Everard had 
 always been a grievance, but much more so since Ida had 
 declared herself a Catholic, and most of all since the 
 announcement of her marriage had disclosed indirectly the 
 attachment of Lord Oxborough's eldest son, the very man 
 whom Lady Dytchley would have preferred to any other. 
 Now in respect of the man himself, personally, there was 
 everything to be said in favour of the match, always 
 supposing that the two facts of Ida's engagement and 
 Catholicity were out of the way ; and, as Lady Dytchley 
 had always wished them away, it was not so difficult for her 
 to see as she wished, when irritated by seeing the end at 
 hand. Thus, good motives protected the bad, the in- 
 different supported them as being related, self-knowledge was 
 nowhere, and combative religionism diffused itself over the 
 whole question. The dilemma was a subjective reality. 
 While she was revolving these things in her own mind 
 and in her own way. Sir Richard, tired and hungry, 
 dissatisfied with every one, and much reduced in his own 
 esteem, rode into the yard. He had fasted from eight 
 o'clock in the morning (it was now past six) and ridden all 
 about the country in that condition since half-past one, 
 avoiding human habitations, lest he should be caught in the 
 fact of leaving home to go nowhere. Leaving his horse at
 
 136 F15EVILLK CHASE. 
 
 the entrance of the yard, while the old coachman was 
 coming out of the harness-room to take him, the weary 
 exile made a safe entrance into the house by a back door, 
 and sought shelter from possible lawyers or other belated 
 guests by hurrying up the back stairs, with a view to 
 enclosing himself in his dressing-room till he should learn 
 that the coast was clear. At the junction of two passages 
 he saw Ida in the distance, and becoming conscious of 
 something within him very different from the sudden glory 
 that Hobbes defines laughter to be, turned the other way. 
 He had not proceeded far when a door opened and Lady 
 Dytchley, standing before him, said with that short laugh 
 which never boded any pleasant information : — 
 
 " Well ! so you have come back." 
 
 " Can't you have dinner earlier, or have something 
 brought upstairs for me ? " said he, stimulated by the pangs 
 of hunger, and nettled by the contemptuous reception 
 which he knew himself to deserve. 
 
 " Dinner was not ordered later than usual," she replied, 
 retiring into the room, and taking a black silk mantle out of 
 a wicker imperial. " Do come in or out. What is it ? " 
 
 " It is that I have had nothing to eat since eight o'clock, 
 and have been riding all over the country for five hours — 
 with the roads as hard as a brick, and the mare wanting 
 new fore-shoes. If that isn't something I don't know what 
 is. I am downright starved. I feel just like an indiarubber 
 ball with the wind out." 
 
 " And pray, who asked you to do all this ? If you would 
 run away and leave me to do everything, why really " 
 
 The short laugh appropriately closed the sentence, but 
 not Sir Richard's mouth. Hunger annoyance and the local 
 restrictions imposed by his fear of meeting Everard made 
 him plead like a sturdy beggar. 
 
 " Well, I don't know that any one asked me to go ; but 
 it was your doing that I had to go. How could I stay, to 
 look like a fool and worse than a fool ? You have made me 
 break my word " 
 
 " Oh ! if you can say that — but, never mind. You will 
 be sorry some day." 
 
 " Well, but you would have it put off : and there were the 
 settlements and Everard and two family lawyers, all waiting 
 by appointment, and two strangers looking on.'!
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 1:^)7 
 
 '' How did / stay and meet them all, and do what you 
 ought to have done, without any difficulty or bother, or 
 making any disturbance ? " 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know, and I had better not know, I 
 think. You have ways of your own. All I know is, that if 
 I had come in and told a long story about a doctor and 
 Italian lakes, and sent them off with their parchments, and 
 told Everard that I was very sorry for breaking my word, 
 but I couldn't help it, and all that, I should never be able 
 to show my face anywhere again. I had to get out of the 
 way on your account, and now you won't help me to get 
 something to eat, when I haven't had anything for ten hours 
 and a half." 
 
 '• But why come here for it ? " said Lady Dytchley, 
 avoiding the question of the doctor and the Italian lakes as 
 unpleasant and now obsolete. " They would have made 
 you some sandwiches in a few minutes if you had asked for 
 them." 
 
 " Ah ! to be sure," said he. " But have they all gone off 
 — Everard and the rest ? " 
 
 " Long ago — they all dine here on Wednesday," said she, 
 as he was disappearing behind the door in quest of sand- 
 wiches. " It can't be helped, you know — just before the 
 journey and the unfortunate postponement — and with his 
 cousin staying there too. You must see him." 
 
 " I'll be " and those were positively his last words, his 
 
 last two words : they were indeed. 
 
 Elfrida had returned from the cottage, and Everard, 
 leaving the Marquis with Hubert, was turning off to give a 
 message to someone at a farmhouse. As soon as he had par- 
 ted from them, they began to talk about him ; or rather the 
 Marquis made, perhaps accidentally, a remark that led to 
 their doing so. 
 
 " That was a very strange proceeding," said he, " to 
 bring him there with those notaries (or whatever they are 
 called) " 
 
 " They were the family solicitors." 
 
 " To bring the family solicitors with the — what is it ? " 
 
 " Marriage settlements." 
 
 " And then go away. It was a gross insult, and he 
 ought to resent it." 
 
 " That's all very well," said Hubert, opening the gate of a 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 138 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 wood that led down into a hollow of the Chase ; " but when 
 a man really cares for a woman, he is not going to kick up 
 a row and tell her father he's a fool." 
 
 " It touches his honour — there is no doubt of that," said 
 the Marquis. 
 
 " It touches Sir Richard's not his. What would you have 
 him do?" 
 
 " Well, I don't say. Customs are different, and — tempera- 
 ments. I am afraid that I should feel inclined to resent it 
 strongly." 
 
 " Fight Sir Richard, eh ? What with ? Popguns in a 
 saw-pit ? Would you dream of treating such a man 
 seriously, even if the thing were admissible on any 
 grounds ? " 
 
 " You are right ; but really something should be done. 
 It is enough to make him break off his marriage. He 
 would be quite justified in doing so, and I think he 
 ought." 
 
 " All very well again, if the lady were out of the question; 
 but he has a duty to her as well as to himself." 
 " True, but there is a limit." 
 
 " I can't imagine how there can be any limits to the duty 
 of being faithful to a promise of marriage ; and if there are 
 such, his case would not be within them. They have been 
 in a manner engaged all their lives, and any one can see 
 how awfully fond they are of each other." 
 
 " When a woman has looked upon herself as engaged for 
 so long," said the Marquis, " and especially when the idea 
 has been impressed on her in childhood, as appears to have 
 been the case with Miss Dytchley, she feels herself irrevoc- 
 ably bound, and if she has good principles, will love, or 
 
 think she loves, the man to whom she is engaged " 
 
 " I'll be hanged if she will, if she doesn't like him," quoth 
 Hubert. — " There's an old tom-cat poaching. I should like 
 to have a shot at him." 
 
 " Not always, no doubt," said the Marquis, who was not 
 much impressed by the truth, so evident to rural English- 
 men, that a tom-cat in a wood is the right animal in the 
 wrong place. " I do not suppose or believe that Miss 
 Dytchley does not love him entirely." 
 
 " I don't think about it," said Hubert. " I know she 
 does."
 
 fep:ville chase. 139 
 
 '' No doubt you are right : but has he the same feeling ? " 
 
 '' I'll go bail for that," said Hubert, tugging at the farther 
 gate, which hung a little, irritating Thunderbolt so much 
 that he nearly knocked the Marquis and his horse into the 
 ditch. 
 
 The gate was opened at last, and they rode down the 
 hollow into the Chase. 
 
 "It is difficult to know what to think and what to hope 
 about it," said the Marquis. " If Sir Richard's very- 
 extraordinary conduct is not really intentional, all may be 
 right ; but if it is so, and Everard Freville feels it much, the 
 case is serious, and makes one feel great resentment on his 
 account." 
 
 " Oh ! it was only Lady Dytchley's nonsense. Don't you 
 see ? She wants to go somewhere abroad, and put off 
 the wedding to suit her fancy. Everard told me so ju.st 
 now, when I asked him what the row was ?" 
 
 " He appears quite satisfied — which is strange, when a 
 man has just heard that the marriage is to be deferred. But 
 I think that you Englishmen are wiser, more practically 
 philosophical in those things than we are." 
 
 '' I don't know about our being wise," answered Hubert, 
 " and I don't believe in philosophy having anything to do 
 with the matter." 
 
 " It may, and it has, if the feelings are cold enough. 
 Englishmen can reason with gravity on such things, even in 
 their own case, w^hen we should be maddened. So I am not 
 afraid for Everard Freville." 
 
 Hubert thought that he heard something unusual in the 
 tone of his voice, and looking at him suddenly, saw on his 
 face an expression not seen before. 
 
 " What does that infernal look mean ? " thought he. 
 " He looks just like a wicked rival in a play, staring up at 
 the chandelier while he is telling the audience how he 
 hates the other man. I always thought him a beast. It's 
 gone again now, but it's all the worse, to be able to put on 
 a face and take it off like that. Anyhow he shall have his 
 answer." 
 
 " Look here ! " he said. " You are on a wrong tack. I 
 don't know about being maddened, and don't see any good 
 in it. It strikes me that it's better to be sane when you 
 think of marrying. But, as to coldness, there's about as
 
 140 I'KEVn.LE CHASE. 
 
 much of it in Everard Freville as there is inside Mount 
 Vesuvius when the crater is quiet. Do you mean to say- 
 that you can't see that, with all the years you have lived, and 
 all the notice you seem to have taken of people and things?" 
 
 " You are enthusiastic," said the Marquis, his counten- 
 ance relapsing into its habitual expression of melancholy. 
 " It is pleasant to find enthusiasm in these days, when it is 
 generally represented by noise, vulgarity and a strong 
 inclination to steal." 
 
 "What I said about Everard is a simple fact," said 
 Hubert ; " and as to enthusiasm and that sort of thing, you 
 will find plenty of it in England. Jumping about and 
 making a row are not the only proofs of deep feeling." 
 
 The Marquis coloured slightly, and then smiled. "You 
 are right " he said, " and I admire your strong and distinct 
 manner of expressing it. You have also in England a 
 reverence for women. I suppose you have it from the 
 Anglo-Saxons, for it was remarkable among the old Teutonic 
 races. Tacitus describes Herminius rousing the country by 
 an harangue, in which I principally remember that he 
 excited the indignation of his hearers by telling them that 
 the Romans had put forth all their strength to take captive 
 his wife — 7(?iam nmliercula7)i!' 
 
 " Happily there is the same sort of feeling among us yet," 
 said Hubert, " and I hope will always be : the country will 
 be good for nothing if we lose it. But I don't think we can 
 trace it so far. The mixture of races would have got rid of 
 it before now, if there was nothing else to keep it going." 
 
 " Perhaps it would : but to what do you attribute it ?" 
 
 "To country tastes and domestic habits. A man is not 
 likely to have right feelings and principles about women, if 
 he is always hanging about the streets and public places." 
 
 "Country tastes, perhaps, yes — for they are innocent 
 themselves, and remove people from many temptations 
 especially from the danger of bad examples ; but surely 
 domestic habits are an effect of the feeling I admired, not 
 the cause of it." 
 
 " I can't say which is the cause and which is the effect, 
 when both are of the right sort. I should say they were 
 inseparable, and come from not being morally rotten. But 
 they must be real, and not humbug, or they are only a do 
 and a sell. A man may talk a lot of sickly sentimentality^
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 141 
 
 and write sonnets to a lady's pug-dog, and all that, and be 
 nothing but outside all the time — that isn't having a right 
 feeling about women. And he may stay indoors, bothering 
 everybody, till he is a general and particular nuisance, and 
 be the most selfish, ill-tempered, unloving brute unhung — 
 that isn't being domestic." 
 
 *' Very true ; but I hardly understand the meaning of the 
 words ' do ' and ' sell ' as substantives." 
 
 " Well, it means when a fellow tries to take you in by 
 pretending to be straightforward, and makes you believe in 
 his humbug, it you don't see through him. There goes a 
 stoat after a rabbit. He'll have him to a certainty, the little 
 beggar. Did you ever watch one of them at it ?" 
 
 The Marquis confessed with becoming modesty that he 
 had not, and as the little beggar went out of sight at the 
 same time behind a clump of fern, he thought it unnecessary 
 to make any further investigations, but returned into what 
 may be called the centre of their conversation, saying : — 
 
 " The strange behaviour of Sir Richard Dytchley to-day 
 nearly led me into philosophical discussions, for which I 
 should apologise as being out of place during a ride through 
 a wood, w^ere it not that the discussion extracted some 
 valuable opinions from you, which have taught me' much 
 and suggested more. I have enjoyed a very agreeable con- 
 versation, and I am especially glad to hear from you, who 
 have better means of judging than I can have, that there 
 was no intentional slight to Everard Freville." 
 
 " Oh ! as to that," said Hubert, " there was nothing of 
 the sort. Of course it was a beastly shame, and he 
 deserved to be kicked all round his own park, but " 
 
 " Kicked ?" repeated the Marquis in astonishment. 
 
 " Yes, Sir Richard, of course ; and old Everard Freville, 
 your brother-in-law^, was the man to have done it too, from 
 what I have heard of him ; but we mustn't make too much 
 of it. Sir Richard is a trumpery sort of man, and I daresay 
 he couldn't help it." 
 
 " But surely you would not wish Everard to do that ?" 
 said the Marquis, aghast at the idea of resenting an injury 
 with the toe of one's boot. 
 
 " Of course not. The difference of age and their relative 
 positions would make any want of respect inadmissible. All I 
 meant was, that Sir Richard deserved to be treated like a
 
 142 KKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 schoolboy when he dosen't behave as a gentleman should.** 
 
 " Then, are schoolboys kicked ?" 
 
 " Decidedly, when they deserve it. I have had occasion 
 to kick more than one myself, before now." 
 
 At this moment Everard cantered up, and they talked ot 
 other things till they reached home. The Marquis dis- 
 mounted at the gate-house. Hubert took his horse, amid 
 many apologies, and went with Everard to the stables. 
 
 " Well," said Everard, making an effort to rouse himself, 
 " are you satisfied now that he can ride ?" 
 
 " I suppose he can, in his way," answered Hubert. 
 " Thunderbolt nearly knocked him over into the ditch, 
 coming out of the wood — I wish he had." 
 
 " What do you want to roll him into the ditch for ? He 
 has done you no harm." 
 
 " He hasn't had a chance, that I know of; but I advise 
 you to look out, for I saw an expression in his eye, when he 
 was talking about you, that I didn't like at all." 
 
 " You must have fancied it, my dear fellow. I have seen 
 nothing of the kind in him." 
 
 " Perhaps not — I can't help that. I tell you what I saw. 
 You have a hundred times the knowledge and sense and 
 everything else that I have, but I am right about this. For 
 God's sake, don't trust him !"
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 OES he go in for piety of a morning, while he 
 is here ?" said Hubert, just before breakfast 
 the next day. 
 
 " He was not at Mass, if you mean that," 
 answered Everard. " But one mustn't be 
 more CathoHc than the Church, You must 
 understand that it is not of obligation to 
 hear Mass every day." 
 
 " So I supposed ; but if a man were to take the same 
 privilege in worldly matters, and do no more than he was 
 obliged to do, he wouldn't advance much on his own line, 
 whatever it might be. I know as little as possible of what 
 Catholics do and believe, for I never got beyond the outside 
 of one till last Wednesday when I met you again at 
 Bramscote ; but I know this much, that their religion is and 
 must be all, or nothing, and I can't see how it can admit half 
 measures." 
 
 " You are right in principle, and so you are of course in 
 your comparison between what we do for our souls and what 
 
 we do for everything besides " 
 
 " Don't say ' we: ' it doesn't apply to you in the least." 
 " ' Chi pia^ chi tiieno ; ' and the value of the more and the 
 less depends very much on the opportunities we have had. 
 If he had had mine, he would very likely have made a much 
 better use of them than I have, But I was going to say, 
 irrespectively of him, that you mustn' set a man down as a 
 bad Catholic merely for not going to Mass as often as I do. 
 I know many such who are probably very much better than 
 myself. You must take early habits, local customs, tempera- 
 ment, and other things into consideration about that, and 
 also about going to confession and Holy Communion. I
 
 144 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 could show you exemplary Catholics who go four times a 
 year and would never dream of going oftener. But what a 
 preparation they make ! 1 feel ashamed of myself when I 
 see them poring over their old ' Garden of the Soul' which 
 they know by heart. Of course frequent Communion (that 
 is, as frequent as one's director considers prudent) is better 
 in itself, for Holy Communion is the most powerful of all 
 channels of grace, and we cannot afford to deprive ourselves 
 of that ; but there are cases where, from one cause or 
 another, it is well to approach it less often. Some people are 
 afraid of becoming less reverential by greater frequency, 
 others find it better to do as they have been accustomed to 
 do from the first. Others again are not capable of making 
 so good a preparation if called upon to do so oftener. Don 
 Frassinetti in his most beautiful and useful little book, ' // 
 Conforto delV antma Divota,^ speaking of holy Communion, 
 * // pascolo piu sostanzioso deW aiwna^ says : — Se a lie volte 
 non e male astenersi per imiilta e senipre benfatto non astenersi 
 mat per affiore.'* And now we had better get on some other 
 subject. You brought it all on yourself by being so hard on 
 poor Moncalvo." 
 
 " Not a bit hard on the brute. I am glad I said it, and 
 doubly so, because it drew you out. You spoke like a book, 
 and I took it all in with great interest, so far from wanting 
 to get on another subject. Why did you never take me into 
 the chapel ? 
 
 '* We were out all-day yesterday. Suppose we go there 
 after breakfast. You will find it genuine all through. I am 
 proud of it, and feel a sort of right to be so, because I had 
 nothing to do with it myself. My father did it." 
 
 " I didn't mean merely going to look at it : I meant 
 during Mass. Why didn't you take me this morning? I 
 was up and about long before." 
 
 " You had only to open the door and go in. I never offer 
 to take a non-Catholic to hear Mass. What is the use of it ? 
 Mass is at eight o'clock every morning, except Sundays and 
 holy days. You have only to open the door in the hall, 
 
 * "This most sustaining food of the soul, from which, though it is 
 not wrong to abstain sometimes through humility, it is always right 
 not to abstain through love. " The Consolation of the Devoid SotiL 
 Frassinetti. Translated by Georgina Lady Chatterton. Burns and 
 Gates. 1876. P. 165.
 
 FJiKVJLLE CHASE. 145 
 
 opposite the farther door of the gallery, and go straight 
 on." 
 
 " You rather puzzle me. If I believed as you do, 1 should 
 go at everybody and try to make them believe the same : 
 but you take it as coolly as if it didn't signify one \vay or the 
 other." 
 
 " Going at people never did any good, and is likely to do 
 very great harm. Catholic truth \vill no more convince a 
 man, if his mind is not prepared to receive it, than gold leaf 
 \vill stick before the wood has been sized. The only differ- 
 ence is, that we can prepare the wood but not the mind." 
 
 " How do you know that my mind is not ready ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; but I must have some better proof than 
 your wanting to hear ]Mass, before I believe that it is." 
 
 " I don't say that it is, and in fact I don't think so. I 
 respect and admire the Catholic Church immensely, as the 
 most wonderfully perfect institution that ever existed " 
 
 " Which by the by, considering Who instituted it, is not 
 at all wonderful : but I am interrupting you." 
 
 " Well I respect and admire it in every way ; but there is 
 nothing more inside me about it, as far as I know." 
 
 " That is just why I have left you alone. If I had seen 
 anything beyond that, I should have acted differently." 
 
 " But, how did you know what a beautiful service in a 
 beautiful chapel might do ? " 
 
 *' I don't believe in people being converted so. Ceremonies 
 are worse than nothing, apart from what they represent." 
 
 "' Evidently ; but the outside sometimes attracts people to 
 look within." 
 
 " It does ; but unless they are prepared to see straight 
 when they look inside, they had better not look at all. To 
 hover round the Catholic Church, in that way, is to be like 
 a moth flying round a candle ; the light will only singe you." 
 
 " W^ell, I can't say I should see as you see, and I don't 
 believe I should ; but I should look straight anyhow. Either 
 the Catholic Church is the One True Religion, and therefore 
 excludes every other, or its claims and promises are a most 
 beautiful dream, the sum of the highest human aspirations. 
 I want to make out which it is, and I wish you would help 
 me to do so." 
 
 "And suppose you were to find out that it is the One 
 True Church?"
 
 146 FKEVILLK CHASK. 
 
 '' Why, in ihat case I should go in for the whole thing, of 
 course." 
 
 " Are you prepared in that case, to suffer a good deal in 
 consequence, as converts often have to do ? For instance, 
 not only to be shelved hereafter, as a representative English- 
 man, more or less shut out from public life, territorial 
 influence and the confidence of your neighbours (for all that 
 is certain), but perhaps to be put in to the most trying kind of 
 false position as long as your uncle lives, to pass many of 
 the best years of your life in poverty, checked at every turn, 
 cramped in every taste and inclination, possibly obliged to 
 renounce the idea of a happy marriage, or worse, to see one 
 pass away for ever through want of present means ? I am 
 not saying that your uncle would put you in such a position : 
 I don't think he would. But these things do happen — might 
 happen to you — and should be faced beforehand. No one 
 can dip into that question and be as he was before." 
 
 " Surely one can, if one has been honest about it ; and I 
 promise you to be that. Of course one can't be hurried 
 over it." 
 
 " Decidedly not," said Everard ; " but I am certain that 
 sooner or later you will see the truth, if you enter into the 
 question, and therefore I warned you of the trials you 
 might have to encounter. I should not have put every 
 possible and improbable trial before you, all at once, were I 
 not sure that you have the stuff in you to face the whole 
 thing, and qualities that make it better for you to do so." 
 
 At this moment the Marquis passed by the windows of 
 the dining-room, which looked over the Chase to the east, 
 and in a few minutes he came into the room. 
 
 " My watch has lost a quarter of an hour," he said, " and 
 made me late. I hope that I have not kept you waiting long." 
 
 " Oh no, not at all," said Everard. " We have not even 
 had the letters yet. — " Here they are." 
 
 The letters were put on the breakfast table, and presently 
 Hubert, throwing down one that he was reading, exclaimed : — 
 
 " What an abominable nuisance ! as if he couldn't find 
 any other time but this " 
 
 " "What is the matter," said Everard. 
 
 " It's from my uncle at Beynham. Here he begins on 
 two sheets of paper at once — at least he goes on to the other 
 before he has done with the one — with a lot about people I
 
 FiJKVILLK CHASE. 147 
 
 don't know, and don't wish to know. Well, here it is— I 
 mean the beginning of it, which is all that concerns me, and 
 a deal too much." 
 
 '■^ '■ My dear Hubert^ where have you been all this while T 
 (Why, I saw him three weeks ago in London.) ^ I heard 
 fro77i' — (I can't make out the name) — ' that y 02c 7vere staying 
 
 at' Oh ! I can't read that, nor the next line, but the 
 
 letter came here somehow. Here is the upshot of it : / go 
 home to Beynhani ofi Thursday, and shall 7vani you to be there 
 071 the same day in good ti7ne, for some people a7-e C07ning. It 
 is 7iot 7vorth li'hile to say who they are, as you will see that 
 when yo7i C07ne. They are like niyself, old bachelors, or else 
 half-7narried 7nen of the same ki7id — selfish, good-humou7-ed, 
 and 77iore or less afflicted with C7'eeping fogeyism ' — and so on. 
 He isn't a fogey at all ; and his friends are, as a rule, much 
 pleasanter to talk to than most of the men of my own age. 
 They don't think so much of themselves, and they take 
 trouble to make themselves agreeable. But it's hard to be 
 called away when I am so happy here ; and I had no reason 
 to expect it, for I never knew him ask people before the 
 first of September. He is as kind and considerate as 
 possible, and would leave me here, if he knew how much I 
 want to stay : but I don't like to tell him about it, now that 
 he has counted upon me." 
 
 " Come back as soon as you can," said Everard. 
 
 '• That I will. I shall be only too glad." 
 
 " What does he mean by ' half-married men ? ' '" said the 
 Marquis with unaffected curiosity. 
 
 " Oh ! he means one or two that go their own way and 
 neglect their wives : they're a bad lot ; only he has known 
 them a long while, and is so good-hearted that he never gives 
 anybody up." 
 
 " I, too, am obliged to go on Thursday, I find," said the 
 Marquis, raising his eyes from the letter in his hand and 
 looking at Hubert. " I am as sorry as you are, after the 
 very kind and hospitable invitation I have had to remain. 
 I had hoped and believed " (here he turned to Everard) 
 "that I should be able to stay longer; and the air of 
 Freville Chase has done me so much good, that I have 
 abandoned the idea of going to Brighton. But, unfortunately 
 for myself, I am called away. I must hope to make up for 
 my loss at some future time."
 
 148 Fn{p:viLLP: chase. 
 
 " I hope you will," said Everard, as they rose from the 
 breakfast-table. "Only write me word when you think of 
 coming, in case of my being away from home. But I am 
 not likely to be away long at a time. Shall you be ready to 
 ride to Hazeley to-day ? They half expect us at luncheon." 
 
 The Marquis expressed his pleasure at the proposal, and 
 for the first time Hubert found himself agreeing with him. 
 The horses were ordered for eleven o'clock. 
 
 " Mind, I must see the chapel presently," said Hubert. 
 
 " In half an hour, if that will do." 
 
 In half an hour Everard, followed by Hubert, opened the 
 door corresponding with that through which Anne the house- 
 maid had peeped at the Marquis, and passing along a 
 vaulted stone passage, at the end of which, on the left, was 
 the sacristy, entered the chapel. 
 
 Hubert, like other English gentlemen who make what 
 used formerly to be called the Grand Tour, had seen the 
 inside of many Catholic churches and appreciated them, not 
 without critical taste in an architectural and ?esthetical sense; 
 but a Catholic church representing a living reality, with real 
 live English people saying their prayers in it, was a new 
 sensation. The perfume of incense when the door was 
 opened gave him the first idea. He thought that it spanned 
 the history of faith, from the days of Aaron to the days that 
 are, connected the Ritual of the Old and New Testament, 
 and bridged over the space of nearly four thousand years, 
 with the Epiphany for its central arch. 
 
 " Here is a hint of unity," he thought, as he entered the 
 chapel. " And of continuity, and of Divine government 
 delegated to man, from Moses to the present Pope. It is 
 only an outward sign, but it signifies a reality, and belongs 
 to the greatest reality that ever existed." 
 
 His first impression on entering the chapel was strong but 
 not distinct : he only saw a subdued light coming through 
 stained windows and softening the outlines of a white altar 
 that stood within a screen of carved oak. He said nothing, 
 but knelt down for awhile, and then, returning to his former 
 position in front of the chancel, began to distinguish. 
 
 The roodscreen was of dark oak remarkably well carved, 
 its crucifix devotional and in good proportion with the 
 building. The high altar, with its fretwork and pinnacles, 
 that rose up on each side of the stained windows, was of
 
 FKEVILLE CHASK. 149 
 
 pure white stone, the frontal of dark rub)- velvet richly 
 embroidered. The reredos was of alabaster id alto rilievo, 
 with a groundwork of very soft pink. The marble tabernacle 
 was also white, but of a warmer hue and enriched with 
 precious stones. Above the delicate tracery of its pinnacles 
 was a crucifix under a richly carved canopy, and, above that, 
 the chancel window. The roof was of very dark oak, having 
 its principal beams carved, and the groined work between 
 stencilled in warm but delicate colours. The two side altars 
 on the right and left of the chancel arch were of white stone, 
 like the high altar, with fretwork and pinnacles above that 
 formed three niches and their canopies. In the central 
 niche on the Gospel side was a statue of our Blessed Lady : 
 on the epistle side there was one of S. Joseph. The stations, 
 ranged along the nave, and framed in black oak, were of 
 alabaster in alto rilievo, with a background of pale blue. 
 They were embedded in a frieze- work of carved stone that 
 ran all round the walls. Besides the stained glass window 
 in the chancel there were four on each side in the cleristory, 
 and one above the entrance, the former quartrefoil, the 
 latter rosasse. The light was soft and warm, subdued but 
 not dim. 
 
 Hubert examined everything and said nothing : he had 
 never been known to remain silent so long. When he had 
 finished and was beginning again, he said : — 
 
 ''I have not half seen it: I must come again earl\- 
 to-morrow morning, and this afternoon too, if Ave get back 
 from Hazeley in time, t suppose we must be off soon ?" 
 
 "This is the sacristy on the right," said Everard, as they 
 left the chapel. " There is not much to see, but what there 
 is, is good of its kind." 
 
 The sacristy was panelled with dark oak, the lower part 
 carved, as was also the chimney-piece, and all the furniture. 
 When all had been seen, and they were walking back towards 
 the hall, Hubert began to speak. 
 
 " That chapel is a sacred poem," said he, "a practical 
 treatise on all art, a catechism teaching by symbols. In the 
 first place, there was perfect proportion throughout, as I 
 think there was in what you explained to me before break- 
 fast. In both cases there appeared to be no undue 
 importance anywhere. In art proportion is essential to truth 
 and so it must be in every system whatsoever : so that if I
 
 150 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 am right in thinking that I have found it in Cathohcity, I 
 have found there an essential condition of truth. But the 
 question is, whether I shall find it in the Catholic Church, 
 as I half expect to do. I don't find it in non-Catholic 
 Christianity, but just the reverse : the Established Church is 
 like a body with a nose of one type, a mouth of another, 
 eyes of a third, and so on. Now if I find in Catholicity an 
 essential condition of a true system, a true Church, I shall 
 have found a key to the puzzle ; for as God cannot con- 
 tradict Himself, there can only be One," 
 
 "If that key is the handiest to open the door, well and 
 good," said Everard ; " but there are other ways far simpler, 
 more compact and more convincing. What you say about 
 proportion is true, and the subject almost inexhaustible ; but 
 if you compare everything in the doctrine, practice, and 
 history of the Church, your whole life will not suffice for the 
 work, and if you do less, you will only have compared portions. 
 The question really lies in a nutshell, and when fairly put, is so 
 convincing, that our adversaries invariably try to complicate 
 it. If you get hold of that, you will gradually discover facts 
 of every sort and description that point the same way, and 
 they will be as instructive as they are interesting ; but if 
 you begin with them, you will be like a man in a lab5'i-inth 
 without the clue." 
 
 " You are right — I see." said Hubert. " But what is the 
 real question ? We have not had it out about mixed 
 marriages yet ; and this is far more important." 
 
 " If you see the one," said Everard, "you will have no diffi- 
 culty about seeing the other. When can you come again ?" 
 
 " In November. My uncle goes off abroad then : he says 
 that the dead leaves give him something or other. The 
 fact is, that he hates the country and doesn't know what to 
 <io with himself there." 
 
 " What should you be doing then ?" 
 
 " I hardly know. My life is an unsettled sort of thing. 
 I ought to be going in for my degree, but he wanted me so 
 often at Beynham that I had to give it up ; and now I don't 
 quite know what to do. I have two hunters there and lots 
 of invitations all about, but I don't care about it. I had 
 thoughts of travelling in the East." 
 
 "Come, and bring your horses, and remain here till he 
 wants you again. You can travel another time."
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 151 
 
 " So I can — that will keep very well. You are the most 
 hospitable man living. But really I don't want my horses 
 here : I shall be just as happy without them." 
 
 " No, no ; you will want a safety-valve for your energy." 
 
 " But I shall have one," said Hubert, opening the door 
 into the hall. " I shall have so many things to think of." 
 
 *' Or rather so much in a small compass," answered Everard 
 looking up at the clock. " We must be off in about ten 
 minutes. You have to see what the question really is, and 
 to keep to that ; or you will be like a man trying to find his 
 way through a wood by turning into every by-path he 
 comes to." 
 
 " I think I am nearly landed already," said Hubert. 
 " There are the horses at the door." 
 
 " Don't be too sure," said Everard. " Enthusiasm is very 
 good in its proper place, and nothing great is done without 
 it ; but it should be a motive power, not a directing one. 
 Would you have talked in the same way, if the chapel had 
 been ill-proportioned and full of rubbishy decorations in the 
 worst possible taste ? Most of our Catholic churches and 
 chapels in England are more or less in abominable taste. 
 To begin with, the design is generally spoiled for want of 
 money ; then it gets decorated, some time or other, without 
 any regard whatsoeverto the style of the building; then apious 
 lady gives a statue that looks as if it had come out of a 
 hairdresser's shop ; another pious lady puts blue silk and 
 window curtains on it, and the sacristan sticks about all the 
 flower pots and coloured glass that he or she can get hold 
 of. When you see these things you will be bothered, if 
 enthusiasm has encroached on reason. You will be bothered 
 too, if you don't distinguish between theory and practice in 
 your idea about proportion. In theory you are right. 
 Proportion is, as you say, essential to truth and beauty in 
 any art and in any system, and therefore you will find it in 
 all truly Catholic art, as in Catholicity itself; but owing to 
 poverty and other causes that we have no time to speak of 
 now. Catholic art in these days falls, as a rule, very far short 
 of what it ought to be, and if you push the analogy between 
 doctrine and art too far, you will get into a mess. I have 
 seen people disenchanted in that way, when they had gone 
 farther than you have. They saw corrupt art in a church, 
 generalised on what they saw, and inferred corruption of
 
 152 FRKVII.LE CHASK. 
 
 doctrine. Vou have too much good sense to do exactly 
 that, but you must keep your imagination in hand. You are 
 not so near being landed as you think." 
 
 At this moment the Marquis appeared, and they set out 
 for Hazeley, mounted as before. They arrived there a litde 
 before one o'clock, saw the little church that Sherborne had 
 built, returned to luncheon, and mounted again about four 
 o'clock. 
 
 While they were talking about the place and the people, 
 especially Mrs. Atherstone, who had interested the Marquis 
 very much and puzzled him still more, there was an ominous 
 increase in the rate of packing at Netherwood, and 
 mysterious whisperings in the passages. Ida was in the 
 wood-walk, thinking of the late events and trying in vain to 
 understand them, when she heard the sound of footsteps 
 behind, and in another moment Elfrida said : — 
 
 " Do you know that my mother means to start to-morrow 
 morning ?" 
 
 "To-morrow morning? Oh! don't frighten me with 
 reports of that sort. I am nearly worried to death now, and 
 I can't bear any more." 
 
 " It's true, though, and I hurried off to tell you of it, that 
 you might let Everard know, so that he may ride over this 
 evening. Write a line to him and I will get some one to 
 take it." 
 
 " How very good and thoughtful of you," said Ida, 
 walking back towards the house ; " and I took your kindness 
 so impatiently. But I have had really so much to bear, 
 that I hardly know sometimes what I am doing." 
 
 "I don't wonder at your not believing it. I did not, till 
 I saw the wicker imperial locked and overheard my mother 
 say that the break would be wanted at half-past eight to- 
 morrow morning to take the luggage." 
 
 " Has she said anything to you about it ?" 
 
 " Not a word as yet ; but then I am not going." 
 " No ; but she would naturally have told you, when you 
 heard her give the order. And surely it concerns me more 
 than any one, yet I am the last to know it, and now only 
 through your thoughtful care and quickness. It is very, 
 very strange. I never knew her think so much of her health 
 before. It is the fault of that new doctor. He saw that she 
 fancied going abroad, and so he recommended her to go."
 
 FKEVJLLK (J HASH lo3 
 
 " Exactly : that is his way, and a great mistake it is. If 
 I ever have to send for him for myself, I shall tell him 
 plainly not to do so. I don't want to be humoured like a 
 spoilt child. If sugar plums will do one no harm, let him say 
 so, but he has no right to let one suppose they are necessary 
 because one happens to fancy them. You had better 
 write your note in the library: you might find it difficult 
 upstairs." 
 
 They reached the house unobserved, went into the library, 
 and Ida wrote — 
 
 " My dearest Everard — / have just heard that my mother 
 has decided on starting to-morroiv morning early. Do., do ride 
 over here as soon as yon have read this. No time to write a 
 ivord more. — Ida.'''' 
 
 Elfrida put the note in her pocket, and walking as fast as 
 she could, stopped at a cottage a little way beyond the 
 lodge, where there lived an old woman with a half-witted 
 son, who worked industriously at odd jobs and had a local 
 reputation for doing errands. 
 
 " I'll go and fetch him, miss," said the old woman. *' He's 
 only chopping a bit of wood as Sir Richard give me when 
 the old elm, down at the corner, was struck by the lightning 
 last Tuesday night." 
 
 " Never mind fetching him," said Elfrida. " Take me to 
 him : I am in a hurry." 
 
 The old woman led the way to an outhouse in the cottage 
 garden. 
 
 " I want you to take this note directly to Freville Chase," 
 said Elfrida, " and give it to Mr. Freville. Mind, you must 
 see him and give it into his hand. Go the short way. You 
 know the footpath." 
 
 " Yes, miss," said the errand-bearer. " I'll be off now 
 directly." 
 
 Elfrida returned as quickly as possible to the house, and 
 meeting Ida on her way back, said : — 
 
 " The note is on its way. Tim will be at Freville Chase 
 by half-past five : he will save three miles by the footpath." 
 
 " Thank you so much, so very much. I was coming to 
 meet you. The suspense was more than I could bear. So 
 he is really gone with the note. Are you quite sure ?" 
 
 " You may rely upon that. I .saw him going across the 
 footpath and walking at a good pace." 
 
 VOL. T. L
 
 154 FHEVILLE CHASE 
 
 " What should I have done without you ? I should have 
 been too late to do anything. My mother has not told me 
 yet." 
 
 " But have you seen her?" 
 
 " Yes, I have ; and she talked about the journey, but 
 never said a word about going to-morrow morning. Why 
 is it?" 
 
 " Ask her by what train you go on Thursday. She must 
 tell you then that you are going sooner, and why it is." 
 
 Ida did her best to follow this advice, but on returning to 
 the house, was met at the top of the staircase by the maid, 
 who told her that Lady Dytchley was trying to sleep and 
 hoped no one would disturb her at present. 
 
 " I cannot bear it," said the poor girl, as she walked on. 
 " And then she will want me just when Everard is here. 
 How am I to know when he has come ? Elfrida, you must 
 help me to find out. But I must go out again. I can't 
 stay indoors. My head feels on fire." 
 
 " You had better stay quietly in your own room," said 
 Elfrida, " and then I can look out for Everard. Never 
 mind why the day has been changed. It is much more 
 important that you should see htm. Keep out of the way 
 till afterwards." 
 
 " I will : but he can't be here till nearly dinner-time, 
 however fast he may ride. You will come and tell me the 
 moment you see him, won't you ? " 
 
 She followed the advice for awhile, but finding the 
 suspense unbearable, determined to walk up and down 
 between the house and the lodge, or a little way beyond, to 
 meet Everard. She opened the door quickly, ran to the 
 staircase, and had gone half-way down the stairs, when a 
 voice was heard in the distance pronouncing the ill-omened 
 words : — " Ida, my dear, I want to see you for a 
 moment." 
 
 " It is always the same," thought Ida, as she turned 
 back. " Father Johnson was away when I went to the 
 Presbytery ; and the other priest was out when I went 
 again ; and she sent for me when I was going a third time ; 
 and now I can't even see Everard, after we have been put 
 off for I don't know how long. And the journey has been 
 made a day sooner, so that I can't see him to-morrow as I 
 was promised. It is all my fault, my own miserable fault,
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 155 
 
 for not seeing the other priest when I had the opportunity. 
 It would have been all right then, for I have been baptized. 
 There would have been no delay, all would have been done, 
 and perhaps there would have been no journey — no put-off. 
 I see it all. She wants to take me away, that I may not be 
 a Catholic till after we are married. Does she really think, 
 then, that I only want to be so to please Everard, and not 
 because it is right ? She 7niist think so : but it is all my 
 own fault. And now " 
 
 She was by this time in her mother's room. The latter, 
 shutting the door, approached her expansively. 
 
 "I wanted to see you," said she, "for fear you might 
 hear the wrong end of the story and be worried about it " — 
 Ida involuntarily turned her eyes towards the straps and 
 buckles of the wicker imperial — " and so I wanted to see 
 you ; but I was so tired that I was obliged to rest. The 
 fact is, the tooth which was badly stopped at Ledchester 
 has been paining me very much all the morning, and I 
 really must have it attended to — I ought to have gone to 
 London about it some time ago — and so there is nothing 
 for it but to go to-morrow. There will be no time if I 
 don't. But I will leave a message with your father, for 
 Everard to come and see you in town on Thursday. He 
 will go by the first train at six o'clock, so that you will be 
 with him all the afternoon, and see him next morning too. 
 Is your father in ? If he is, I will give him the message for 
 Everard now, or write it down." 
 
 " Shall I go and see if I can find him ? " said Ida. '"'He 
 may be somewhere about, and I want a walk very much." 
 
 " Do," answered Lady Dytchley. " Take your walk, and 
 ask him to come here if you can find him." 
 
 " After all," thought Ida as she left the room, " I am 
 better off than if we were to start on Thursday ; for I shall 
 see more of him in London than I should at dinner to- 
 morrow, and I shall see him presently besides, and be able 
 to talk without interruption. How very ungrateful I was, 
 to think that everything was against me, and that I should 
 miss seeing him altogether." 
 
 " Never mind about looking for your father,'" said Lady 
 Dytchley. " I can tell him afterwards. You had better 
 take your walk." 
 
 Ida's heart bounded within her, nevertheless. As soon
 
 156 FREVTLLE CHASE. 
 
 as the door was shut, she hurried out of earshot, flew 
 downstairs, and seizing a hat off the hall table, walked at 
 her utmost speed towards the lodge. 
 
 While she was walking between the Lodge and the 
 village, looking out for Everard. Everard, having returned 
 from Hazeley, was strolling through the Chase with Hubert, 
 the Marquis Moncalvo was coming across the courtyard to 
 join them, and Tim the trusty messenger was turning in at 
 the gatehouse. 
 
 " Where be I to go ?" thought Tim. " I'm to give it to 
 the Squire hisself Who's that a-coming? He don't look 
 like nobody about here." 
 
 " Please, sir," said he, planting himself in front of the 
 Marquis, " where be I to find the Squire ? I've got a 
 letter for him, as Miss Elfrida said I were to give into his 
 own hands." 
 
 " You will find him in the Chase," said the Marquis. 
 "Stay, I am going to walk with him, and I can give him 
 the letter if you like." 
 
 Suiting the action to the word, he took the note from 
 Tim's outstretched hand and walked on. Tim stood 
 scratching his head and trying to collect his mind, which 
 was not adapted for managing two ideas together. 
 
 " That wasn't it," said he after a while. " I were to give 
 it to the Squire and not to nobody else. Please, sir," he 
 bawled out, " I were told to give it to the Squire hisself." 
 
 But the Marquis had walked fast and was by this time 
 out of hearing. Tim stared for a minute or two, then 
 started off in pursuit, and followed him till he disappeared 
 behind a distant clump of trees. 
 
 " Well, I never ! " said Tim. " What ever were I a-doing 
 ■of. It's all along of staring at him because I couldn't tell 
 who he were. Whatever will Miss Elfrida say ? " 
 
 W^hile Tim was wending his way homewards, much 
 troubled in his mind at having, he knew not how, entrusted 
 the note to vicarious delivery, the Marquis, note in hand, 
 was looking about for Everard and Hubert. He walked 
 fast, and they walked slowly, but he had so long delayed 
 following them that they were out of sight, hidden in a 
 hollow of the Chase or behind a clump of fern. After going 
 some distance and turning in various directions, at cross- 
 purposes with that which they had taken, he relaxed his
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 157 
 
 pace and began to entertain the idea of solacing himself 
 with the fragrant weed that cheers the heart and is good 
 against miasma. While opening his cigar-case and medi- 
 tating as to whether he should choose a big cigar, a small 
 cigar, or a cigarette, all three being present therein, he 
 found the note inconvenient to hold, and put it in his 
 pocket. By this time Everard and Hubert were far away. 
 He continued looking for them for some time longer, but at 
 length, finding the search hopeless, returned to the house 
 and wrote some letters. The letters occupied him till 
 dressing time, the note, being light and of imperceptible 
 size, remained unobserved in the pocket of his morning 
 coat when he dressed for dinner, and the result was, that 
 when he met Everard, he had forgotten its existence. 
 
 Most of us have, at some time or other, and probably 
 more than once, felt a prickly heat over the surface of the 
 head on discovering that we had forgotten a note or a 
 message entrusted to us ; but owing to the British habit of 
 appreciating pockets and frequently manipulating their con- 
 tents, the delay is seldom of much importance. Few would 
 have liked the responsibility of forgetting that note. 
 
 The dinner passed off as before. The Marquis talked 
 well on a variety of subjects, Hubert talked more or less at 
 cross purposes with him, and Everard with extraordinary 
 tact harmonised the conflicting elements of the conversa- 
 tion. Father Merivale was not present. After many 
 subjects had been exhausted, and silence was creeping into 
 notice, Everard began to talk of Hazeley, its owner, the 
 little church he had built, and anything else concerning him 
 that might happen to suggest itself. As this led on to a 
 description of Sherborne's life, which amounted to an 
 epitome of the book named after him, the story lasted till 
 long after they had left the dining-room. They had now 
 gravitated to the upper landing of the carved oak staircase 
 that led out of the hall. It was late, and they were talking 
 of Mrs. Atherstone. Everard told all he knew about her, 
 and when he had finished they began to separate for the 
 night. 
 
 " She is the most remarkable woman I ever met," said 
 the Marquis, taking up his candle. " The manner in 
 which she converted herself was unlike anything I ever 
 heard."
 
 158 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " Yes," said Hubert, " there is no humbug in her. She 
 means what she says. I wouldn't give a rap for a CathoHc 
 who isn't thorough about his rehgion." 
 
 " Spoken hke yourself," said the Marquis. " I like to 
 see enthusiasm, especially at your age." Hubert made no 
 reply, and they went to their rooms. When the Marquis 
 had gone into his, Hubert followed Everard and said : — • 
 *' What does he poke about the tower for? I caught him 
 there this afternoon, just before we went out walking." 
 
 " Why not ? " answered Everard. " Any one who cares 
 for antiquity, as he does" — ("Bosh! " interrupted Hubert") 
 — " would want to see the tower. I ought to have shown 
 him over it. He can't please you anyhow, not even by 
 complimenting you on your enthusiasm." 
 
 " I should think not, when it was only to get out of what 
 I said. Well ! I am glad he is off the day after to-morrow, 
 at any rate ; " for if not, I should, throw over my uncle and 
 stay to look after him. I know^ he means mischief." 
 
 Hubert went to his room. Everard went to his, on the 
 east side of the court, but did not remain there. He 
 exchanged his candle for a lamp with a glass shade over it, 
 and w'alked along the corridor till he came to a massive oak 
 door that moved on enormous hinges. This door opened 
 into the tower through a wall ten feet thick, and was the 
 only way into it on that floor. A passage with low doors on 
 either side led to a spiral stone staircase, and as there was 
 no door at the end of the passage, the draught from the 
 opening in the wall justified the precaution of carrying a 
 lamp instead of a candle. On opening the farther door on 
 the right, he entered a room of moderate size, with a window 
 opposite looking to the east. The window had a stone 
 mullion down the centre, below which the window-seat, 
 formed by the thickness of the wall, sloped a little down- 
 wards to the height of about two feet and a half, so that you 
 could step on it easily and have a fine view of the Chase. 
 Oak book-shelves covered the wall on each side of the door 
 and about half-way round the corner on the right. The 
 other half of that side was filled with enclosed receptacles 
 for papers and books. The book-shelves were well and 
 solidly furnished, containing materials for varied and ex- 
 tensive reading. On the left side of the room was an open 
 fireplace, with dogs for burning wood, and a carved oak
 
 FREVILLE CHASE 159 
 
 chimney-piece above. On either side of it on the pannelled 
 wall hung one of the Arundel Society's chromolithographs — 
 the Death of St. Francis, and the Adoration of the Kings by 
 Luini.^ Right and left of the window there was a large chest 
 of carved oak with shelves above, holding a gun-case or two, 
 a large bottle of ink, his father's favourite hunting whip, 
 some old school books, and several bundles of miscellaneous 
 prints tied up with string. An oak writing-table, contain- 
 ing a Crucifixion in a triptych and a large old-fashioned 
 desk, stood in the middle of the room, covered 
 with letters, scribbled paper and literature of various 
 kinds, periodical and otherwise, including several 
 books of anti-Catholic controversy that had been 
 forced on his notice by being forced on Ida's. A leather 
 arm-chair, two Glastonbury chairs of ample size, and a 
 banner-screen with the Freville arms embroidered on it by 
 his mother, completed the furniture of this his private 
 sitting-room. 
 
 " I ought to have put this back before dinner, when I 
 had done with it," said he, taking up a map of the estate. 
 Then he unlocked a drawer, took out a bunch of keys, 
 large and small, strung on a thick piece of leather, and left 
 the room, lamp in hand. 
 
 He went out of the passage and up the stone staircase 
 into another storey of the tower. On the left of the landing 
 was a low door, and beyond it a winding passage that led to 
 another spiral staircase much narrower than the principal 
 one. Behind the staircase, which just gave you room to 
 pass, was a small panelled room partly furnished as a bed- 
 room. Half-way up the stairs a downward flight of steps, 
 with a sharp turn at the bottom to the right, led to a heavy 
 door studded with iron. This was the muniment room. 
 Everard unlocked an old oak-chest, placed the estate-map 
 in it, and turned the key. It was a strangely romantic 
 scene. The full moon, shining through a long window, 
 between each mullion of which were shields of stained glass 
 richly coloured, sent a stream of warm light into the room, 
 mellowing the stone walls, groined roof and quaint furniture 
 where it fell, and leaving the rest in undefined shadow. 
 Everard had never been there so late at night, and he 
 involuntarily looked around. 
 
 " What a curious effect 1 " he thought. " I never saw
 
 160 FKKVILI.K ('IIA8E. 
 
 such warmth of HglU and depth of shadow in a room, excej^t 
 on the stage. It only shows how well they imitate nature 
 there. The difference is that they can choose what to copy, 
 whether it be scenery or character, whilst in real life we 
 have to take it as it comes, and the exceptional cases are so 
 rare that they seem unreal. How distinct that old inscrip- 
 tion is in the moonlight ! " 
 
 This was the prophecy that Mrs. Sherborne had copied 
 and put in her album. It was rudely carved over the stone 
 arch of the doorway. 
 
 "I had better leave the archaeologists to their own inven- 
 tions about that, w^hen they come here," thought Everard, 
 as he locked the door. " If I tell them what the end of it 
 really was, they will think I am ' poking fun at them,' 
 though it fulfilled the words exactly. I wonder how it came 
 there. One would like to have some evidence as to how, or 
 why, or by whom it was written. Most likely it was 
 a flight of predictive imagination that came true by 
 accident." 
 
 Returning to his private room within the tower, he re- 
 placed the keys and sat down at the writing-table, but had 
 hardly begun to arrange his thoughts when he heard a 
 knock at the door, and looking round, saw Mrs. Roland 
 standing before him, carrying in her hand a lamp of like 
 construction to his own. 
 
 " You are up late to night," said he, " and so am I, for I 
 have much to do that I ought to have done before. What 
 have you on hand now ? " 
 
 " Mr. Everard," said she, shutting the door, " have you 
 seen any one about the tower ? " 
 
 "No one except the cat, who followed me in." 
 
 " Nor heard anything up the other stairs ? " 
 
 " Nothing at all. I went to put back the estate-map in 
 the muniment room." 
 
 " The Marquis has been prying about there, late last 
 night and again this afternoon, w^hen he stayed behind 
 instead of going out walking." 
 
 ^^ Ecce itenini 07V//>//<'>$-," thought Everard. "She is as 
 bad as Hubert. What has the poor fellow done, that he is 
 to be always suspected ? What bad motive could he 
 possibly have in looking at the tower. If I were a stranger 
 here I should certainly go all over it as often as I could."
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. IGl 
 
 " I was thinking," said she, " that it would be as well 
 to keep it locked." 
 
 " I can do that, if you like," said Everard — " lock myself 
 in and out. But I don't see what harm he can do here." 
 
 " ^^'e can't tell. There are many things we don't see 
 through, and yet can make out enough to know that we 
 must be careful." 
 
 "Very well, then, if it will make you more comfortable, 
 the upper door shall be kept locked while he is here ; but 
 I don't see anything odd in his wanting to see this old 
 tower, for it is really worth going some distance to see. Any 
 one would do the same." 
 
 " Not when people are in bed, nor yet when he it belongs 
 to — and who would have taken a pleasure in showing it — 
 was out of the way." 
 
 " Well, but it was my fault, for not having shown it to 
 him. I will to-morrow, hiding-hole and all." 
 
 " Oh ! " exclaimed Mrs. Roland, in a tone that made the 
 interjection seem to say, " I never could have believed this 
 ofyo2i — jou who— oh ! " 
 
 " I won't show him the hiding-hole if you wish me not to 
 do so," answered Everard. " But why are you so particular 
 about it." 
 
 " He is not worthy of being taken there," said she, 
 " where holy priests, one of them a martyr, passed so many 
 hours, for the love of God and the salvation of souls, with 
 hardly room to turn round, and in danger of rack and 
 gibbet every moment. He would only stare, as if he were 
 looking at a peep-show." 
 
 " If worthiness were a condition," thought Everard, 
 "most of us would see very little." "Very well," he said, 
 " to satisfy you, I promise not to take him there." 
 
 " Mr. Hubert can be taken some day when he comes 
 again," said she. " And the key ? " 
 
 " I promise you to keep the upper door locked while the 
 Marquis is here. He goes on Thursday. When I leave 
 here to-night I will take the key with me. But suppose he 
 should happen to be in the tower, counting the stone steps 
 or measuring the thickness of the wall ! There he would 
 be, locked in with the cat and one candle, that would go 
 out before he had done with it, if it hadn't blown out 
 before."
 
 162 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " Serve him right !" said Mrs. Roland. '' What business 
 has he prowhng about the tower at all sorts of times " 
 
 " Only twice, you said, I think," interposed Everard. 
 
 "And enough, too," said she, "considering that he 
 watched you out yesterday before he did so, and came here 
 again last night, after every one was in bed but myself. I 
 had remained up late to finish some work for the fancy 
 bazaar they are to have at Ledchester for the new church, 
 and as I was coming up the back stairs I caught sight of 
 him creeping in here (into the tower I mean) with his hand 
 over the candle, to keep it from being blown out by the 
 wind." 
 
 " But what harm could he do, or want to do, here ? " said 
 Everard. 
 
 " I can't say ; but seeing is seeing," answered Mrs. 
 Roland preparing to retire. 
 
 " Well, anyhow," said Everard, " I will take care to lock 
 the door as you wish. Good-night." 
 
 Mrs, Roland went her way, and Everard turned his 
 attention to other matters. The first thing he did was to 
 finish the last of twenty-eight foolscap pages that he had 
 promised to write for Ida in reply to a book of anti-Catholic 
 controversy. When he had done this, and put the seven 
 sheets into a large envelope, it was half-past two o'clock. 
 " She has no need of this herself," he thought ; " but it w^l 
 help her to put down people, if they bother her." 
 
 Then he began to think of all that had lately happened, 
 would happen, and might happen. A little before daybreak 
 a certain fizzing and spluttering in the wick of his lamp 
 warned him to leave the tower. As he groped his way back 
 to his bedroom, carrying the extinct lamp and the heavy key 
 of the tower, which he had locked, in obedience to Mrs. 
 Roland's injunctions, he said to himself : — 
 
 "After all, how much longer many of the knights in the 
 Middle Ages often had to be kept waiting : only they had 
 active work to do in the meanwhile, and some control over 
 events through their own exertions, whilst I am hedged in 
 by such a combination of checks that I am forced into utter 
 passivity. Nothing however turns out as it looks at first, 
 but ah^ays either better or worse ; and Lady Dytchley's note 
 promises a much shorter delay than she spoke of when I saw 
 her." He had now reached the door of his bedroom.
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 163 
 
 When he opened it, a faint greyish hght on the farther side 
 of the room showed that morning was just beginning to 
 dawn. 
 
 ' ' Homo ad duas res^ ad intelligendiim et ad agendum est 
 natics,'' he thought, as he put the key of the tower into a 
 drawer ; " but I am required to keep the tower locked 
 against Moncalvo without being able to see any reason what- 
 ever for doing so." 
 
 The greyish white light had grown pink, the pink had 
 deepened into a transparent rose colour, and the sun had 
 risen above the hills to the right of Netherwood, before he 
 fell asleep, thinking of the carriage horses that were to arrive 
 at ten o'clock on trial, and the lady's horse, as yet unfound, 
 to carry Ida. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 HEN Everard awoke, after a broken sleep of 
 less than two hours, the first impression on 
 his waking mind was that a horse must be 
 found, and should be found, worthy of 
 carrying Ida. He had seen every lady's 
 horse on sale within twenty miles, had most 
 of them two or three days in his stable, 
 examined each carefully, tried each in every way, and rejected 
 them all. One shied, another had a heavy mouth, another 
 had an upright shoulder, another was inclined to jump about 
 when his head was turned towards home, another showed 
 symptoms of a sullen temper, another had contracted feet. 
 And none of them pleased him either in shape or action. 
 After balancing the pros and cons and calculating the pro- 
 babilities, he came to the conclusion that, as a last resort, 
 the quiet hunter on which he had mounted the Marquis 
 could be made into a good substitute for the ideal animal he 
 wanted ; nevertheless he wrote several letters of appointment 
 to horse dealers and horse-breeding farmers, and another 
 concerning the transmission of the new barouche he was 
 having built for Ida, between the hours of half-past six and 
 a quarter to eight.
 
 164 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 On his way to the chapel he found Hubert walking up and 
 down the hall, and evidently waiting for him. 
 
 " I should like to go to Mass," said Hubert. " I wish you 
 would show me what to do." 
 
 "The best thing you can do is to pray for guidance," 
 answered Everard. 
 
 After Mass Hubert made another critical examination of 
 the chapel, found there the same beauty of proportion as 
 before, drew inferences more or less as before, compared 
 them with Everard's answers, and was unusually silent when 
 he came out. 
 
 As he opened the door into the hall on his way to break- 
 fast, the Marquis Moncalvo passed by, and said : — 
 
 " You make me feel ashamed of myself for my laziness. I 
 am afraid that I have verified the old Italian proverb, ' // 
 campanile iiori miglio7'a la corjiacchia ' ; for, with a chapel in 
 the house, and a perfect gem too, I have not been to Mass 
 except last Sunday. The fact is that I have sat up late every 
 night reading." 
 
 " Getting up early is like taking medicine," remarked 
 Hubert, partly to himself: " it does one good, but it is not 
 pleasant." 
 
 '• You are right," said the Marquis. " I ought to have 
 heard Mass." 
 
 " You will have a chance to-morrow morning," said 
 Hubert, walking on sturdily towards the dining-room. 
 
 " I must lay some of the blame on Sir Walter Scott," said 
 the Marquis. " It was ' Guy Mannering,' that enticed me to 
 sit up so late." 
 
 " No wonder," said Everard, who had come out of the 
 dining-room to wish him good-morning. " I like it the best 
 of all his novels. It seems to me perfect throughout." 
 
 " I have seen a Gilbert Glossin in real life," said Hubert, 
 " only he hasn't the same opportunities, nor the excuse of 
 being a blackguard by profession." 
 
 " I have had to deal with one, a man I had befriended, 
 too," said the Marquis ; "and I lost a considerable sum of 
 money through him when I was a very young man. Will 
 you excuse me for a moment ? I left my pockethandkerchief 
 upstairs." 
 
 Said Everard to Hubert as soon as the Marquis was out 
 of hearing : —
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 165 
 
 " Z)*^ be quiet, if you can ; but I believe you can't help 
 it. You put me into such a position, talking at a fellow in 
 that M'ay. And it isn't fair ; for he never resents anything 
 you say, though he is quite capable of answering you, if he 
 chose to do it." 
 
 " I am sorry to annoy you, my dear fellow, very ; but, as 
 you say, I can't help it, and I know that I am right in not 
 being able to help it." 
 
 " Oh yes, he flatters me, and makes out that I know a lot 
 more than I do. There is some bad meaning in it, I am 
 sure ; and he has some design or other." 
 
 "Well, do, for my sake, try to be civil to him while he is 
 in this house. He won't be here when you come in 
 November." 
 
 " Who could refuse to do anything he asked," thought 
 Hubert, "when he looks at one with that wonderful 
 expression, so strong and wise, and so saintlike ? I will," he 
 said. " I promise you to be civil while he is here — I can't 
 say what I might do if I met him elsewhere. I would do 
 anything in the world for you, and I would believe in him, 
 to please you, if I could ; but I can't. In my opinion the 
 old women of Chase End are right in the main, though I 
 daresay they have embellished their facts. I know that I 
 have bothered you a good deal about him, and I am sorry 
 to have done so ; but I did it, however awkwardly, in your 
 interest. I am a great fool in most things : I know very 
 little that I ought to know, and most of the httle I do know, 
 that is worth knowing, I have learned from you in these few 
 days ; but I am right about this. Now I don't ask you to 
 believe this thing or that about him. All I say is, Don't 
 trust him. Don't place the smallest confidence in him. 
 Mind what you say before him, and how you look. Give 
 him as little as possible to imagine an opinion about, or — 
 There he is again." 
 
 Hubert kept his promise and was very civil, but silent. 
 After breakfast Everard went to look at the carriage horses, 
 and as they had not yet come, he rode off with the Marquis 
 in quest of a lady's horse belonging to a farmer near Bram- 
 scote. After rejecting the horse at first sight, and the 
 carriage horses when he tried them on his return home, they 
 all three took a walk in the Chase. Then Everard offered 
 to show the Marquis over the tower, and presently did so.
 
 166 l'HEVir>LK CHASE. 
 
 having first replaced the key in the door, for the sake of 
 appearances. 
 
 As they were walking upstairs Hubert drew him on one 
 side under the pretence of showing a letter, and whispered : — 
 
 " Don't show him the hiding-hole, whatever you do. I 
 can see it another time." 
 
 Everard made a gesture of assent, and went on, thinking 
 that either Hubert and Mrs. Roland were afflicted with 
 monomania, or himself with an exceeding obtuseness of 
 mental vision. 
 
 When they came to the door of the tower, the Marquis 
 remarked that he should like to have a drawing of it, and 
 Everard replied that he had a photograph somewhere taken 
 by somebody, and would give it to him if he could find it. 
 They then went into the rooms nearest the entrance, and 
 back again till they came to Everard's private sitting-room. 
 The Marquis was enthusiastic in his admiration of its 
 mediaeval appearance and the solid character of the books 
 on the shelves. Hubert noticed everything and said 
 nothing. Everard heard, and answered accordingly, but was 
 thinking that the room would be of no use to him unless it 
 would suit Ida too. They then went downstairs, looked at 
 everything there, came up again by degrees, and stopped at 
 the foot of the upper staircase with the panelled room behind 
 it. Having seen this, they went upstairs, and then down 
 into the muniment room, which the Marquis admired more 
 than anything he had seen. 
 
 " You should have seen it last night in the moonlight, 
 when I came here to put back an estate-map," said Everard. 
 " It would have done for the scene in Faust, when the 
 Doctor soliloquises just before the appearance of Mephis- 
 topheles." 
 
 " And was ready to give all he had worked for," said the 
 Marquis, " all he could call his own, natural or acquired, for 
 a woman's love. No wonder. It is worth the whole world." 
 He spoke with unusual warmth. For a moment or two the 
 polished reserve, that repelled investigation whilst seeming 
 to invite it, had almost disappeared, and his countenance 
 betrayed a mingled expression in which good and evil 
 seemed to be pleading each other's cause : but it passed 
 away in an instant and left no trace behind. 
 
 " I wish I were you," he said to Hubert, " with life before
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE 167 
 
 me, and fresh hopes and opportunities. Youth is generally 
 supposed to be the time of illusions and of prepara- 
 tion for disappointment, but need not be so, ought 
 not to be so, is not always so. It is the time for pre- 
 paring the true reahties of life. Happiness is the only 
 reality." 
 
 " It is a big one, when we can get it," said Hubert, 
 looking as civil as he could, to please Everard. 
 
 " There are two or three rooms over there," said Everard, 
 as they left the muniment room, "and that is all." 
 
 " Is there not a hiding-hole somewhere," asked the 
 Marquis, " where priests were concealed in times of 
 persecution ? I remember hearing of it, during my first 
 visit to Freville Chase many years ago." 
 
 " There is no getting at it now," answered Hubert 
 readily. 
 
 " I am sorry that we can't see it," added Everard, feeling 
 half ashamed of himself, but very grateful to Hubert for his 
 adroit manner of expressing the impossibility. 
 
 *' No doubt they made the approach to it as difficult as 
 possible," said the Marquis, " and probably they had steps 
 of wood or of ropes, which of course have decayed." 
 
 " Yes, they did all sorts of things," answered Hubert. " I 
 have heard of a place where they went up the chimney and 
 got somehow into the wall, like the rats and mice." 
 
 " I am afraid that we ought to be going," said Everard, 
 moving onwards. " We shall have to start for Netherwood 
 in little more than half an hour." 
 
 " Is it so late as that ?" said the Marquis. "How quickly 
 time goes when it is agreeably spent. I have passed an 
 hour in this most interesting place, and I feel as if I had 
 been here only a few minutes. It is always so in human 
 life. The happy hours are few, and they pass as quickly as 
 a tropical sunset." 
 
 " It is generally supposed that they do," said Hubert, 
 " but I am rather inclined to doubt the fact. I suspect 
 that, if we took the measure at the time, we should find it 
 different. I don't believe that God would take away from 
 what He gives." 
 
 "You have given me quite an original view of the 
 subject," said the Marquis : " at least I never heard it 
 before."
 
 16<S FIIEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 Everard said nothing, but was quite sure that the time 
 passed with Ida had an emphatic measurement while it was 
 passing. 
 
 They now left the tower, went to dress, and half an hour 
 afterwards met again in the hall. 
 
 " I hope the old family coach won't break down," said 
 Everard. " It was built when my grandfather married, I 
 believe, and to my certain knowledge has not been in use 
 these twenty years. Old Sandford has got a pair of screws 
 from the White Hart of Lyneham ; and there he is, coming 
 round to the door." 
 
 " It all looks uncommonly well," said Hubert, '*' and very 
 imposing. How well he has rubbed up the old harness. 
 And the horses are of a good stamp too, and look well. 
 And how well he sits on the box ! I like the turn-out 
 immensely." 
 
 " So do I," said the Marquis : " it is so dignified, and so 
 suitable to the character of Freville Chase. It reminds one 
 of a world that has passed away as completely as if it had 
 never been. Europe has become so vulgarised, and is 
 growing worse, especially on the Continent. As for Italy, 
 since the " 
 
 He turned away and began to notice the arms on the 
 family coach. 
 
 " The spirit of revolution," said Everard, "vulgarises what- 
 ever it touches, because it is essentially pushing, and covets 
 what is not its own. It is nearly everywhere now, more or 
 less, though not everywhere in the same degree nor pursuing 
 the same external policy." 
 
 The Marquis replied by a melancholy shrug of the 
 shoulders, took his place in the old coach, and talked of 
 other things. 
 
 The screws from the White Hart went so well that 
 punctuality erred by excess, causing them to reach Nether- 
 wood early enough to meet Sir Richard returning from his 
 ride. He caught sight of the carriage as he was crossing 
 the park, and cantered up to the stables. Everard per- 
 ceived the movement and felt a sudden misgiving. 
 
 " What can it be ? " he thought. " What new trouble to 
 make him get out of my way ? He has time enough to 
 dress, for we are much too soon. There must be something 
 wron<i."
 
 Fl;KVILLE CHASE. 16^ 
 
 He tried to reason himself out of the suspicion, but it 
 increased as they went on, till it became a presentiment of 
 indefinite evil. When they stopped at the door the bell 
 sounded hollow, as if it were ringing through empty vaults. 
 The house looked uninhabited, the air felt chilly and 
 stagnant. He had hardly entered the hall when the butler 
 put a note into his hand. The writing was Lady 
 Dytchley's. " I will follow you directly," he said to the 
 Marquis, and turning towards the door, opened the note. 
 It was dated Wednesday morning, but the W had evidently 
 been made out of a T, and a stain of wax in a corner of the 
 envelope — it was only fastened with gum — suggested the 
 idea of candlelight, an idea which, at that season of the 
 year, had a closer connection with Tuesday evening than 
 with Wednesday morning. As a rule, men are not quick at 
 discovering such little slips of caution, and Everard was not 
 quicker than others in that particular line ; but he saw this 
 and saw through it. The note was as follows : — 
 
 '' My dear Everard^ — 
 
 ^^ I carmot express how grieved I am at being obliged to 
 dissappoitit you about seeing Ida before ive go. I had arranged 
 as you know for you to come here to-day on purpose, and we 
 were to go to London to-morrow ; but having imfortuyiately 
 arranged to start from Folkestone with Lady Oxborongh 
 instead of joining them in Paris as I first thought of doing 
 lias put everything out, for it obliges ?ne to go to London to-day, 
 as otherwise I should twt have tijue to have my tooth stopped, 
 7i'hich has been giving me great pain for the last t7vo days. 
 But unfo7'tu7iately that is not all. Lady Oxborough is obliged 
 to be in Pans o?i Friday, and so I cannot get off going with 
 her after promising to do so, and she having made all her 
 arra?igeme?its, I am terribly af'aid that there is ?io trai?t soon 
 enough to take you to Londo?i before ive leave. L thought at 
 first that you might go up by the mail train a?id catch us at 
 Crawley's Hotel, which is where we shall be, but the very tide 
 is agaitist 7{s. I find that 7ve ??tust leave Lo7ido?i this eveni?ig 
 to catch the boat. It is really too proiwking, but who could 
 have foresee?i that Lady Oxborough 7vould be obliged to start 
 a day sooner or that the stoppi?ig would have come out of my 
 tooth 1 I am very very sorry for all this, and ivould have 
 made thifigs different if I could. I gave you my reasons 
 VOL. T. M
 
 170 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 before for 7vishing you not to follozv us abroad, and I am sure 
 you must see the force of what I said and why it should be as 
 I say on Ida's account, but if you will please me in this, I for 
 my part promise you to return as soon as ever I feel that I can. 
 Everything will be ready so that the 7veddi?ig can take place 
 within a 7veek of our return. — Yours affectionately, 
 
 '* Charlotte Dytchley. 
 
 " P.S. — In the huriy of getting off at this dreadful hour in 
 the morning I have made two blunders. First I began to date 
 my note Tuesday and 7nade a great blot in putting it right, 
 and then let the 7vax fall from a candle on the paper while I 
 was sealing a parcel. I am afraid y 021 ivill find my scrawl 
 'Very difficult to read.'* 
 
 When he had read the note he stood for a while holding it 
 in his hand, his eyes fixed yet not seeing, his limbs rigid, his 
 face ashy white, even to the lips. At length, hearing foot- 
 steps, he turned instinctively, and opening the door, went 
 out into the park ; but before he had gone many yards he 
 felt a hand on his shoulder, and saw Hubert plant himself 
 before him. 
 
 " For God's sake tell me what is the matter," said Hubert. 
 
 " Enough for one day, and rather too much," answered 
 Everard with unnatural calmness, and in a voice that was not 
 his own. " It took me by surprise. But you had better not 
 leave Moncalvo " 
 
 " The devil take Moncalvo ! I ?nust know what has 
 happened, and how I can serve you. Will you not 
 trust me ? " 
 
 )%"■ There is no one that I would sooner trust. Look here, 
 then. You remember the wedding being put off the other 
 day, and the sudden journey abroad. Now read this." 
 
 " Hubert took Lady Dytchley's note, read it through, and 
 said : — 
 
 " If one could only believe it all ! It looks fair enough 
 at first sight, but it proves too much and explains everything 
 too neatly. The doctor, and the dentist, and Lady 
 Oxborough's engagement all of a sudden in Paris, and the 
 correction of Tuesday into Wednesday, and the wax falling 
 on the paper from a candle that was lighted to seal some- 
 thing else, are too many accidents close together. And I 
 don't like that expression, ' would have made this different
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 171 
 
 if I could.' It is too guarded, and may be taken in more 
 ways than one. So she left this thing for the butler to give 
 you, and hadn't the decency to send you a note this 
 morning " 
 
 '* If she had, I could have gone to London," said Everard. 
 " It is evident that she meant all the time to keep me away, 
 and made the dentist and Lady Oxborough suit her purpose. 
 I don't mean to say that she hadn't a toothache, or that 
 Lady Oxborough had no engagement in Paris ; but there 
 was nothing to prevent her joining Lady Oxborough in Paris 
 a few hours later, which would have enabled me to see them 
 in London. But there was no occasion even to do that. If 
 she had sent me a note on Tuesday afternoon, when she had 
 made up her mind to start the next morning, I could have 
 gone by the same train and been with them till they left for 
 Folkestone. It is impossible for me to deceive myself about 
 it. She meant it and contrived it." 
 
 " I am afraid you must give her her head for a while," 
 said Hubert after a pause, " on account of what she swears 
 that the doctor said, and because Sir Richard is (begging 
 your pardon) a beastly sneak ! but it can't go on for long. 
 Lady Dytchley can't, for very shame, stay abroad beyond a 
 few months at the furthest. People would begin to talk, if 
 she were to keep out of the way long under false pretences, 
 after the wedding day had been fixed, neglecting one 
 daughter altogether and leaving Sir Richard to look like a 
 fool about it." 
 
 " I told her so," said Everard, " and it had no effect 
 whatever." 
 
 "Very likely not, but she must act upon it all the same. 
 She cares very much for what the world says." 
 
 " She does ; but when people deceive themselves by a 
 false conscience, as she is doing about this, they see things 
 as they wish to see them." 
 
 "Yes; but there is a limit, and people's tongues will let 
 her know, if she goes beyond it." 
 
 " What you say is perfectly true," answered Everard. " But 
 there is more than that." 
 
 *' I can't see what there can possibly be. The only other 
 thing she could do would be to go on putting off, after their 
 return, with a view to breaking off the engagement. And 
 that she would not dare to attempt ; it would be too gross
 
 172 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 a case before the world she so highly respects. People 
 can't defy the world, when the world is in the right and they 
 are in the wrong. But suppose that she did try it on, and 
 Sir Richard made no sign. Your remedy would then be 
 plain : you then would not only have the right to marry in 
 spite of her, but, under the circumstances of the case, you 
 would be bound to do so, for Miss Dytchley's sake as well 
 as your own." 
 
 " Unquestionably I should : but, as you said, she would 
 never try to do that." 
 
 " Then what is it ? There is something on your mind. 
 But perhaps I am going too far." 
 
 " No. I give my confidence fully or not at all. There 
 is something on my mind. But it isn't the postponement 
 itself, though that is enough, I think, after having been 
 already obliged to wait so long, in consequence of coming of 
 age four years later than the usual time. It is not that, nor 
 is it the way in which the thing has been done. It is the 
 position of — of Ida : it is the position — away there, solitary, 
 helpless, exposed to subtle annoyances that weary the heart 
 and puzzle the will, like water dropping in a dungeon. You 
 understand me, I think." 
 
 " I do. It is horrible to bear, unbearable : but you are 
 not called upon to bear it. What Lady Dytchley says, about 
 not going where they are, is all nonsense." 
 
 " Of course : but she threatened to lengthen the time if I 
 do, and she is quite capable of not only being ' not at home '' 
 if I went, but of going off suddenly without saying where to; 
 so that I should only make things worse. You know what 
 Sir Richard is." 
 
 " Yes, he can be depended upon to do nothing. You are 
 right : I see that you mustn't go. But / can, and I will too, 
 any time you wish me to do so, after my uncle leaves 
 Beynham. It would be better than nothing, for I can back 
 myself not to be taken in." 
 
 " You are a true friend in my greatest need," said Everard, 
 tnrning back towards the house on hearing the sound of 
 carriage wheels. 
 
 " I only wish that I could prove myself to be so in some 
 more effective w^ay," answered Hubert. "This is the most 
 infernal piece of overbearing injustice I ever heard of, and 
 shows an amount of dishonesty, heartlessness, bumptious.
 
 FREVJLLE CHASE. 173 
 
 ill-breeding, and utter inability to appreciate who and what 
 you are, that I should never have expected to find in the 
 mother of such daughters as hers." 
 
 The carriage wheels, whose sound reminded them of the 
 hour, proved to be those of a covered wagonette containing 
 two young ladies, round and rosy daughters of the rector. 
 Everard drew back as they passed, and coming into the 
 room while their entry was apparent, took up his position 
 gradually, so that when the two young ladies had fallen back 
 in small conversation with the Alarquis and Hubert, he was 
 apparently doing likewise. Sir Richard, notwithstanding 
 the sudden rapidity of his return home, had as yet been 
 unable or unwilling to appear, 
 
 Elfrida, who guessed the cause of Everard's absence, 
 talked about anything or nothing till the Marquis and the 
 two rubicund young ladies were fairly engaged in conversa- 
 tion, and then said in a low voice : — 
 
 " Why didn't you come here yesterday evening ?" 
 
 Everard became as pale as when he read Lady Dytchley's 
 note. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" he said. " I never heard any- 
 thing about it. I was told to come now." 
 
 " Didn't you get a note from Ida, that I sent to Freville 
 Chase by half-witted Tim, who was never known to fail in 
 taking a message ? I sent him off myself at half-past three 
 o'clock, and saw him go. He must have got there by six 
 o'clock. Were you at home ?" 
 
 " I was walking in the Chase with Hubert." 
 
 " And no one gave you the note ? I must see Tim to- 
 morrow morning, and find out what is the meaning of this. 
 But, Everard, how dreadfully pale you are — so unlike your- 
 self. I am sorry I told you. I spoke too suddenly, because 
 I was s© anxious for you. But don't let it worry you. Dear 
 Everard, don't look like that — don't, for Ida's sake. You 
 look so dreadfully ill." 
 
 " I am quite well," he said : " I am, really." 
 
 " But I see you are not," interrupted Elfrida, "and you 
 don't speak like yourself. That voice is not like your 
 own." 
 
 " It was the last feather that made the load heavy to bear," 
 answered Everard. '* It is impossible for me not to feel this 
 last blow very acutely. To know that I might have seen
 
 174 FREVILLK CHASK. 
 
 her before she went, and that — but we had better not talk 
 of it any more just now." 
 
 Elfrida instinctively looked round and saw the Marquis's 
 eyes in the act of turning away from him. 
 
 " I hate that man !" she said. " I saw such a bad look in 
 his eyes just now, when he looked this way ; and there was 
 just the same the other day, when the settlements couldn't 
 be signed. Don't trust him, whatever you do." 
 
 *'It is a very strange thing. Hubert says the same, and 
 Mrs. Roland. I can't conceive why, for I have nothing to 
 do with him. He has been a guest at Freville Chase for a 
 few days, and he goes away to-morrow morning. There is 
 nothing for me to trust him about." 
 
 " No ; but you must take care not to let him get hold ot 
 anything. Let him see as little of you as possible before he 
 goes." 
 
 " Go home on the box to-night," said Hubert, who had 
 drawn the other round young lady into conversation with 
 the Marquis. " You ought to try how those horses go, for 
 they might suit you. One often picks up valuable horses in 
 that way. You 7nust drive them a bit, and this is a good 
 opportunity. I will do the talking inside." 
 
 " How kind of you to help me," said Elfrida : " and you 
 came just at the right moment." 
 
 "I was looking out, and listening too, I am afraid," said he, 
 remaining near her whilst Everard took the place he had left. 
 
 At this moment Sir Richard appeared, immediately 
 followed by the butler, who shortened unpleasant references 
 by announcing that dinner was on the table. 
 
 Sir Richard approached nimbly, shook hands with the two 
 round young ladies, the Marquis and Hubert, looked about 
 as if expecting some one else, and said : — 
 
 " He's not here after all. I suppose he was kept some- 
 where. How are you, my dear Everard ? I had asked the 
 priest who is supplying for Father Johnson; but he won't come 
 now, for it's very late. I was — was kept by — by — well, it's 
 no use. I am so — Elfrida will have told you — I never was 
 so annoyed. It was all because Lady Oxborough had to be 
 in Paris sooner, and they had agreed, you know, to go 
 together. I never was so put out; but they will be back 
 very soon, very soon. Well, as he isn't here, we had better 
 go in to dinner."
 
 FUEVILLK CHASE. 175 
 
 And giving his arm to the elder of the two round young 
 ladies, he walked off to the dining-room, saying to his inner 
 consciousness, "I have done that." 
 
 Hubert took in the second round young lady, and the 
 Marquis took Elfrida. Everard, as belonging to the family, 
 was the odd number, and found himself next to Sir Richard; 
 whereat the latter so exerted himself in conversation w^ith the 
 young lady on his right, that she was amazed at his loquacity. 
 Hubert spoke to nobody but Elfrida, and when the ladies 
 left the dining-room, did not utter a word to any one. Sir 
 Richard sat in his place prosing on various subjects and 
 drawing out the Marquis till nearly ten o'clock. Soon after- 
 wards the old coach was announced. At the door Hubert 
 said suddenly as if the idea had just occurred to him : — 
 
 " I wish you w^ould try those horses. They might suit 
 you." 
 
 Everard took the hint, but not the reins. He was 
 thinking of the lost note. Before they reached home he told 
 the coachman to make the most searching inquiries about 
 it, and as soon as he had set foot indoors he said : — 
 
 "I wan't to know what became of the note that was sent 
 here yesterday from Netherwood. I never got it, and I 
 know it came. It was sent by half-witted Tim, and he never 
 makes a mistake about an errand. Somebody must have 
 taken it from him before he got here. I mean, before he 
 reached this house — for none of you would have neglected 
 to give it to me. I 7}iust find out how it was." 
 
 He spoke with such unwonted and startling vehemence, 
 that the Marquis, who had stayed behind to admire the 
 moonlight view over the Chase, felt his curiosity aroused, 
 and walked into the hall. He found the old butler in a 
 state of extreme excitement, affirming solemnly that what 
 had happened had never been known to happen before at 
 Freville Chase, and that he would never rest until he had 
 discovered the perpetrator of such an unheard of enormity. 
 Hubert, seeing him approach, seized a candle in one hand 
 and Everard's arm with the other ; but the Marquis had 
 heard enough to remind him of the note left in his pocket. 
 He stood aside for a few moments in doubt, the nobler part 
 of his nature prompting him to own the simple truth that he 
 had forgotten the note, the lower part shrinking from the 
 unpleasant confession. A complex feeling, that he did not
 
 17G 
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 care to analyse, decided the point, and the struggle ended 
 with the opportunity. 
 
 He turned away, avoiding Everard's eyes as he said 
 " Good-night," and went upstairs. 
 
 "I believe he got hold of it," said Hubert, following him 
 with his eyes. " I am sure he did : I could see it in his 
 face. It never struck me before, and I can't imagine now 
 what his object could be ; but I am sure he did it. Could 
 he have taken it to give you, and forgotten it, and then felt 
 ashamed of saying so ? I have a great mind to ask him, 
 and I will." 
 
 " After all, it matters not now who had it," answered 
 Everard, opening the door that led to the chapel. " The 
 mischief is done." 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 OTWITHSTANDING Hubert's very plain 
 statement about the facilities for hearing 
 Mass every morning at Freville Chase, if 
 the will were strong enough, the Marquis 
 did not put in an appearance. Hubert was 
 in the chapel before the bell had ceased 
 ringing, and worked away vigorously at his 
 prayers. On their way back, Everard stopped 
 him in the long passage and said : — 
 
 " You musn't ask him about it. The mischief is done, 
 and it would be a breach of hospitality to ask such a 
 question." 
 
 " Certainly," answered Hubert. " I saw it at once last 
 night, when you gave me to understand you didn't wish me 
 to do so. But he had the letter, for all that." 
 
 They then went to breakfast, and soon afterwards a fly 
 drove up to the door : whereupon the Marquis rose to 
 prepare for his departure. During his absence, Hubert said : —
 
 FKEVILLE CHASK. 177 
 
 = " Well, then— in November — but I wish you would come 
 and see us at Beynham. You would get on very well with 
 my uncle. You ought to come.'' 
 
 " I am of no use anywhere just now," answered Everard. 
 " However, I will try to go, because you will be there. 
 I shall miss you as I never missed any one before. But I 
 must say the rest on the way to the station : I shall drive 
 you there. You had better get ready, for the dogcart will 
 be at the door in a few minutes. Moncalvo w^ill be late, if 
 he doesn't mind." 
 
 " I shall wait till he is off the premises, if I miss every 
 train by it ; " said Hubert, leaving the room. As he left, the 
 Marquis reappeared, made a graceful valedictory speech, 
 and jumped into the fly, which drove away, followed soon 
 after by the dogcart. 
 
 Anne looked out of an upper window after the fly, and 
 remarked emphatically : — 
 
 " You may depend of it as it was him. I always said he 
 ought to be took up. Why, look here. There's nobody 
 nowhere about as wouldn't do anything in the world for 
 Mr. Everard, and knowing where that note come from, they 
 would have been ever so much more partic'lar about giving 
 of it. I said he'd do something. But there ! what would 
 you expect ? He knows very well as his doings w^ere heard 
 of about here, and I make no doubt he thought that note 
 would convict him, and that was why he took and throwed 
 it away." 
 
 The dogcart and the fly separated on the road, being 
 bound for different stations. When the latter had gone a 
 little distance along the other road, and was crawling up a 
 hill, the Marquis ]\Ioncalvo asked the driver how far out of 
 
 the way it would be to go round by Chase End. The 
 
 flyman, after some consideration, replied that it would be 
 
 about a mile and a half, or rather more, whereupon the 
 
 Marquis said : — 
 
 " I want to see a man named Wilcox, who lives in the 
 
 village. Drive there, if you please. There is another train 
 
 at one o'clock which will do as well for me." 
 
 " And for me too," thought the flyman ; " but what can 
 
 he have to do with Chase End." 
 
 He took the by-road to the right, turned again several 
 
 times in what appeared to be opposite directions, and finally
 
 178 FREVILLE CHASK. 
 
 pulled up at the entrance of the village, which was just out- 
 side the east end of the Chase. 
 
 " I say, missus," said the flyman, addressing an old 
 woman : " the gentleman wants to see Wilcox. I suppose 
 it's him as keeps the shop. There's no other, is there ? " 
 
 " In course not," answered the old woman, and the fly 
 moved on till it stopped at the village shop. The Marquis, 
 on being told that the object of his search dwelt there, 
 walked in and asked if Wilcox was at home. A tall bony 
 woman, of severe aspect, replied that he was not, but that 
 she was his wife; whereat the Marquis, inly rejoicing that 
 she was not his, said pleasantly : — 
 
 " Is not Charlotte Wilcox your daughter ? " 
 
 " No, sir. She's of the first family," replied the woman 
 with an emphasis that betokened scant sympathy for the 
 children of the late Mrs, Wilcox. 
 
 "Ah ! well, but perhaps you can tell me where she is." 
 
 " No, sir, I can't ; which I haven't seen nor heard of her 
 these six months, and more." K'S^ 
 
 " That is unfortunate. She was lady's maid to an aunt of 
 mine, who died last year, and I wish to arrange about giving 
 her a pension. I am particularly anxious to do so, because 
 I think she said that she would not take any other place : 
 and, indeed, she would find it difficult to do so, as she has 
 latterly been subject to monomania " 
 
 " Please, sir, what is that ? " asked the bony woman. 
 " She used to be a bit fanciful and " 
 
 " That was what I meant," he said. " She was liable to 
 strange fancies, and much more so latterly. In fact " 
 
 '• I suppose she's got a little wrong in her head, sir," 
 suggested the stepmother. " Well, I'm sure it's very kind, 
 it is, to think of the poor creature. I have often wondered 
 what would have become of her if she was thrown upon us, 
 with three on our hands, and people as used to come here 
 going by rail and haggling about at the shops in Ledchester, 
 and a lot of 'em running up debts and going off somewheres 
 by the railroad and never pays at all." 
 
 " I understand you perfectly," he said. " Railroads and 
 other changes have been the cause of great losses to many 
 people in villages and even in small towns. I feel for you 
 very much ; and that is another reason why I am so anxious 
 to settle this business before I leave England. Do you
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 179 
 
 think that you could find any means of learning where 
 she is? 
 
 " Well, sir, I am sure you are very kind. I will do the 
 best I can about it ; but I really don't know how I am to 
 get a chance." 
 
 " I think that you will in time. She will have spent her 
 money after awhile, and then she will naturally return to her 
 native place." 
 
 " Maybe so. Well, sir, it's very kind of you, I'm sure, to 
 take so much trouble about her." 
 
 He pulled out an envelope and a postage stamp from a 
 sort of pocket-book, and asking for a pen, wrote his 
 ow^n address on it. " If you do hear of her," he said, " will 
 you have the kindness to write to me ? If you put your 
 letter into this envelope " (here he put on the stamp), " it 
 will be forwarded to me if I should not be at home. Thank 
 you. Good morning. I am very glad to have seen you." 
 
 A sovereign slid imperceptibly from his hand into her's, 
 and in another moment he was off again. The incident caused 
 some local disputation for awhile, divers old women being 
 of Anne's opinion that he ought to be took up, whilst the 
 woman at the shop declared that it was all " a pack of 
 rubbish, which there never was a kinder or civiller spoken 
 gentleman nowhere." 
 
 In the meanwhile Hubert had begun his journey towards 
 Beynham by the other line, and Everard, instead of return- 
 ing home, was taking the nearest road to Netherwood. He 
 arrived there soon after twelve o'clock and looked about for 
 Elfrida. She \vas reading in the same old schoolroom 
 where he had found Ida ten days before. 
 
 " You here so early ? " she said. " I am very glad you 
 have come." 
 
 " I couldn't wait a moment after I had seen Hubert off," 
 said Everard. " Have you made out what became of the 
 note ? " 
 
 •' Yes. The Marquis Moncalvo took it." 
 
 '• Moncalvo ! It's just what Hubert said and maintained. 
 But how did he get it, and why ? what zVthe meaning of it ? 
 
 " All I know is this : — Tim took the note, met a gentle- 
 man in the courtyard, 'a foreigneering sort of gentleman,' 
 he said, and asked him where he could find you to give you 
 the note. The gentleman (who could be no other than the
 
 180 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 Marquis Moncalvo) said that he was going to walk with 
 you " 
 
 " So he was, and missed me " 
 
 " And that he would give you the note. He took it, and 
 didn't give it to you." 
 
 " God forgive him, if he had any bad intention : he could 
 have done me no worse injury." 
 
 " I am not supposing that he did it on purpose. I 
 can't endure the man ; but I don't accuse him of that, 
 simply because he would have had no motive for it, at least 
 as far as one can see." 
 
 " Nor I ; and yet, when I enquired about it last night in 
 his presence, which would have reminded him, if he had 
 forgotten it, he said nothing, but went off to bed." 
 
 " Because he had not the manliness to tell you he had 
 forgotten to give it. He had no motive for keeping back the 
 note, so far as we know: but he might have a motive some 
 day for doing something else, and 1 do hope most earnestly 
 that we may hear no more of him for a long while." 
 
 " You and Hubert and Mrs. Roland all say the same 
 about him. I don't know what to think. Could he make 
 mischief between your mother and myself, if he were to 
 meet them in Italy ? It seems very like a rash judgment to 
 suppose such a thing without any apparent reason for 
 thinking so ; but when suspicion is once set going, a man 
 circumstanced as I am hardly knows when to stop. And 
 yet what possible object could he have in doing such a 
 thing ? What could he gain by it." 
 
 '• He could gain nothing by it, of course, but he might 
 delude himself into imagining that he could. However, he 
 doesn't know where to find them, because he asked me 
 yesterday evening, and I told him without any scruple that 
 I didn't know — which was as true an answer as he had any 
 right to, having no business to ask the question, for I really 
 don't know whether they go at first to Baveno, or not." 
 
 Everard remained silent so long that at last she said, 
 *' There is something more on your mind. What is it ?" 
 
 " I was thinking," said he, " how blind I have been about 
 you. I thought I had known you well all your life, and 
 since last Monday I have discovered that I knew less than 
 nothing. I thought that your character had not even begun 
 to develop, and I find it developed far beyond that of other
 
 FKEVILLK CHASE. 181 
 
 girls older than yourself. I thought that your mind had not 
 yet got beyond learning by heart, and I find you thinking 
 for me, seeing what I had not seen, showing that you have 
 powers of which I was not in the least aware, and proving 
 that you have learned already to use them." 
 
 " My dear Everard," she replied, "a woman learns very 
 early to see a little way, in what concerns those she cares 
 for ; and as this concerns Ida so very much, and you too, 
 who have always been like the kindest of brothers to me, it 
 would be very odd if I had not seen something. I only wish 
 I could see further." 
 
 " That doesn't explain what puzzled me. What you say 
 about women is perfectly true ; but I see a great deal more 
 than that in you now, and I failed to see it before. It is 
 true that I never had an opportunity." 
 
 '• No ; we have never been able to talk of anything more 
 important than lawn-tennis or the violets in the wood-walk. 
 But you judge me too favourably. I feel what has happened 
 very much ; and that, I suppose, has sharpened my wits a 
 little for the occasion." 
 
 " No — what I see in you is far more than a woman's 
 natural quickness of perception guided by strong feeling. 
 There is more in you, a great deal, than you have any idea 
 of; and you had better know it, that you may make the 
 most of the powers God has bestowed on you. But you 
 have cultivated yourself somehow, I can't make out how. 
 What have you done ?" 
 
 " Nothing, except that I tried to think. I have been, in 
 a manner, obliged to think for myself as well as I could, 
 because I have had no one to talk to unreservedly — not even 
 to Ida quite, on account of religion. It made her reserved, 
 and my mother — wished it to be so, and I did in a wa)\ 
 though I was very sorry for it too. You see, when religion 
 has to be shut out, one must be particular about what one 
 says " 
 
 " And you feel like a person exploring a house, when 
 every other door is locked. The position is always more or 
 less embarrassing, and, in your case, most painful : but so it 
 is, and as a Catholic, I take care habitually to remember the 
 fact : for that sort of lock may easily be hampered, if one 
 tries a wrong key, and after all the door must be opened 
 from the inside."
 
 182 FKEVILLE CHASK. 
 
 " How from the inside?" 
 
 " We had better not get upon the subject." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " We are neither of us in a position to do so prudently, I 
 think ; and it would be incautious too, on my part, for it 
 might be said that I have taken advantage of your mother's 
 absence. Now I don't care for what people might say, if I 
 could be of any use to you ; but as I should do no good, 
 and possibly some harm, disposed as you are, we had better 
 leave it alone." 
 
 " How wonderfully clever of you to see that, for I never 
 told you of my own feelings. And how wise you are in 
 everything " 
 
 " About the note, for instance, which, by your own 
 showing, ought to have brought out all that was in 
 me." 
 
 " I was speaking of women " 
 
 "That distinction will not hold good. If strong feeling 
 sharpens perception in what concerns its object, it must do 
 so in men, when they feel strongly, as well as in women." 
 
 " I am not capable of arguing with you; but I know that 
 if you had not been stunned and bewildered for a time, as 
 you were, by all you had heard and had to endure yesterday 
 evening, I should not have the immensely high opinion of 
 you that I have. I am not going to be persuaded out of 
 what I said about your wisdom. Who but yourself would 
 have refused to speak of religion for the reason you 
 gave ?" 
 
 " Any one of common sense." 
 
 " I should have thought — and therefore I ought not to 
 have asked the question — I should have thought, that being 
 so devout a Catholic as you are, you would naturally have 
 tried to push me on." 
 
 " What is the use of pushing a stone up hill ? It will only 
 roll back, or stick half-way." 
 
 Elfrida laughed, and said : — 
 
 "That is just it. I should never in all my life have 
 thought of putting it so, and it came as naturally from you 
 as if you couldn't help saying it. But you always say the 
 right thing at the right time, in the right place. You have 
 made me laugh when, God knows, I am not in a mood for 
 laughing."
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 183 
 
 '• And I," said Everard, " was going to apologise for 
 putting it in that way." 
 
 "Why, it expresses the thing so exactly." 
 
 But not as I should have wished to express it, speaking to 
 a lady.'^ 
 
 " But it would have been such a pity not to have said it 
 when it was just the right thing." 
 
 " Something else would have done as well, or I might have 
 said the same thing differently. It sounded too short, 
 almost blunt ; and I do abominate that, more particularly to 
 a lady. Moreover, said baldly as it was, it might have led 
 you to infer that I looked upon your convictions as not 
 worth discussing ; which I certainly do not. All honest 
 convictions are, in themselves, worth discussing with the 
 utmost care and attention, and yours especially ; for, as I 
 said before, there is more in you, a great deal, than you are 
 aware of, and I am quite sure that your ideas about religion, 
 whatever they may be, are good, so far as you have had 
 light to see by. But for the reasons I have already given, it 
 is not expedient to discuss them. If it ever should be 
 expedient, why then — the case would be different. Good- 
 bye. I must be going. Thank you for all your kindness." 
 
 " My dear Everard, you make me feel ashamed of myself. 
 What have I done ? " 
 
 " Everything that could be done, and more than ever)'- 
 thing no one can do." 
 
 " If you will have it so, you will make it seem so, what- 
 ever I say. But why need you go so soon ? " 
 
 " Because, though we have been as brother and sister all 
 your life, your mother has never allowed me to come here 
 and talk to you, and it would not look well if I were seen to 
 have done it the day after she left home. I came because 
 I had no other means of knowing what had happened to the 
 note ; but I have stayed too long. Good-bye." 
 
 " You are always right " 
 
 " About the note ? " 
 
 " Don't be so tiresome. W^ait one moment. Can't you 
 stay for luncheon ? My father is in." 
 
 " iS'o. It would be awkward for him, after what has 
 happened." 
 
 " There you are, right again ; but I must see you while 
 they are gone."
 
 184 FRKVILLE CHASE 
 
 " Of course, only not in this way. Good-bye again, and 
 thank you again for " 
 
 "I will not hear that any more — but wait one moment. 
 I have one more thing to say, that I ought to have said 
 before ; and I must say it, indeed I must. Don't say. 
 anything about the note when you write to Ida ; for my 
 mother sees her letters, and if she were to hear about it in 
 that way — you understand me." 
 
 " Too well," thought Everard. " T was not meant to 
 know the change of plans, and Ida was not meant to know, 
 and Elfrida found it out for her." 
 
 " But what am I to do? " he said. " I can't and won't 
 leave Ida to think that I had the note and didn't come. 
 There is a limit to endurance — I will not do that." 
 
 " Tell her that you would have come if you had known 
 they were going on Wednesday, and leave her to make out 
 the rest," said Elfrida. 
 
 " It required a woman to think of that," he said. " I will 
 do it. But how do I know what she may be told ? " 
 
 "Told — Oh ! no. My mother, you know, never would, 
 never could " 
 
 " I wish I could feel secure about anything to do with 
 her," he thought, as he hurried downstairs. 
 
 He found Sir Richard, talked to him for a few minutes 
 about some local matters, and drove back to P'reville 
 Chase. 
 
 When the door had closed upon him. Sir Richard drew a 
 deep breath and said : — 
 
 " That is as it should be. A sensible fellow, a sensible 
 fellow. Sees things in the right light evidently, and knows 
 that everything will soon come all right. Everything 
 would do right enough, if people wouldn't make such a 
 row." 
 
 But this optimistic view was not shared by the sensible 
 fellow, nor did he see things in the right light, as defined 
 by Sir Richard. That " everything would do right enough 
 if people wouldn't make such a row," he might have 
 admitted in a general sense, always supposing " people " to 
 mean Lady Dytchley ; but that everything would soon come 
 right, was what he neither knew nor expected. " How 
 long ? " — was the question that racked his brain, made 
 his heart weary, oppressed his spirit.
 
 FliEVILLE CHASE. 185 
 
 On his way home he had little leisure for thinking. The 
 old coachman, who was in the dogcart, had been told of a 
 lady's horse, and had much to say on the subject. The 
 details were lengthened out till he fell in with the curate of 
 the parish about half-way, and took him as far as the 
 carriage entrance to the Chase, when he wished him good- 
 bye, and turning in at the gate, at once forgot everything 
 but the one unanswerable question. The curate, who had 
 recently come into the parish, went his way, remarking to 
 himself that he had never met a man with so attractive a 
 manner. " He individualises one so," thought he, " and 
 makes one feel at home with oneself as well as with him. I 
 have never seen anything like it. There is something so 
 solid about him too, something so remarkable in his 
 countenance and in his voice and in his way of speaking. 
 I can't make it out." 
 
 The curate summed up his cogitations as follows : — 
 
 That Everard was what he was, " either by nature or 
 through some mysterious influence of the most wonderfully 
 organised system," &c., &c. 
 
 But no such influence was apparent either in Sir Richard 
 Dytchley or the red-whiskered man ; and they were two, 
 whilst Everard was one : therefore religion had nothing to 
 do with making Everard what he was. The worthy and 
 intelligent young man came to this conclusion in perfectly 
 good faith, believing that he had exhausted the subject. 
 Had he asked himself whether the " Mysterious influence " 
 had the same nature to work upon in each, and whether the 
 three had corresponded with it equally well, he would have 
 seen cause to conclude differently ; but the idea did not 
 strike him. He was satisfied with his conclusion, and calling 
 at a cottage, thought of other things. 
 
 By that time Everard had reached home, and written a 
 letter about the horse for Ida. While he was directing it, 
 Mrs. Roland, who had followed him gradually, knocked at 
 the door of his room in the tower. 
 
 " What can Moncalvo have done now ? " he thought, as 
 he recognised her personality in the respectful but decided 
 tone of the knock. 
 
 " Mr. Everard," said she, opening the door wide, placing 
 herself before it, and holding it in that position, " I hope 
 you are coming down to luncheon, after all the distance you 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 186 FIIEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 have been this morning and all the — . It's past two." 
 
 " Very well," he said. " I had forgotten it." 
 
 " I knew you had, sir," said Mrs. Roland ; " and that was 
 why I came up. You must take more care of yourself 
 altogether, you must indeed." 
 
 " I assure you that I do take care of myself " 
 
 " Well, sir, I hope you do : but you don't look like it just 
 now." 
 
 " I didn't sleep well last night." 
 
 " And not likely to do so, when you were in the 
 chapel before the Blessed Sacrament till past four this 
 morning." 
 
 "And how did you know it?" said Everard, trying to 
 look cheerful. " That accounts for the figure that I thought 
 I saw in the shadow of the organ gallery. You must have 
 been up there, losing your night's rest, to see whether I was 
 behaving properly." 
 
 " To see how long you were going to stay," said Mrs. 
 Roland. " I knew something was the matter, by your 
 inquiring about the note from Netherwood, and by your 
 going into the chapel at that time of night. And there is 
 something the matter, Mr. Everard : I know there is." 
 
 " There is. The marriage is put off, because the doctor 
 has told Lady Dytchley to go abroad." 
 
 " The doctor ? he ought to be sent to the treadmill for 
 telling her that." 
 
 "Well, he has done so, and — they started yesterday 
 morning ; and, as you know, the note that said they were 
 going to do so never reached me. So I heard the news 
 when I went there yesterday to dinner." 
 
 " It couldn't have been anybody but that Marquis " 
 
 " It was, but, I am convinced, not on purpose. He took 
 the note from Tim, missed finding me, and then, no doubt, 
 forgot all about it." 
 
 " And couldn't remember it last night, when everybody 
 was talking of it before him," added Mrs. Roland. 
 
 " It would have been a disagreeable thing to tell," said 
 Everard, "and the mischief couldn't be undone." 
 
 " You would have told it fast enough before you could 
 speak plain." 
 
 " I should hope so, brought up as I was."
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 187 
 
 " You are made of different stuff from him, Mr. Everard,'"'" 
 said she : " but the luncheon is getting cold." 
 
 " I am ready," he said, taking up his letter. "You see I 
 am going under obedience, for I really don't want it." 
 
 The luncheon was duly eaten, without appetite and with- 
 out disgust. Everard left the dining-room, returned to the 
 tower, and walking about his room, the favourite sitting- 
 room which had always been associated with his day-dreams 
 of Ida, began to reason with himself. 
 
 " Why do I feel this so extremely ? " he thought, " What 
 
 is the matter w^ith me ? Why can't I wait now with as much 
 
 comparative patience as I did before ? Because I expected 
 
 to wait then, but not now, and because this trial is Ida's, as 
 
 well as mine. I have been grossly ill-treated by Lady 
 
 Dytchley in every way, and the Jess one thinks of Sir 
 
 Richard's conduct throughout, the better for charity ; but 
 
 all that is nothing in itself. The snub was public, and 
 
 people will pity me ; and to be pitied, in such a case, is 
 
 anything but a dignified position in the eyes of the world, 
 
 unless one resents it, which is out of the question. Transeat. 
 
 I don't care what they say or think. What weighs me down 
 
 is, that Ida is abroad — at the mercy of a woman whose 
 
 power of self-deception is so great that she is practically 
 
 unscrupulous. Yet after all, what can she do? Remain 
 
 longer abroad : that is all she can do. But there is a limit 
 
 to that. I have her own written promise that the marriage 
 
 shall be directly after their return ; and, if worst comes to 
 
 worst, why then we must act for ourselves. Yes, but in the 
 
 meantime I know not what trials and petty annoyances Ida 
 
 may be exposed to ; and here I shall be ignorant of what is 
 
 going on, and helplessly entangled in the flimsy network, 
 
 like a bumblebee in a cobweb. It is useless trying to 
 
 reason myself out of the fact. My position is horrible at 
 
 present, and I can't bear it long. 1 must assure myself that 
 
 Ida knows why I never came, in answer to her note ; and if 
 
 I hear nothing about it from her, owing to her letters being 
 
 seen, I must go after them, come what may. It is too much 
 
 to bear passively. Will can rule actions, -words, and 
 
 voluntary thoughts \ and that is the extent of what I can do 
 
 with it now, in managing myself." 
 
 He opened three or four books, pushed them back into 
 their shelves, and hurrying downstairs, crossed the court-
 
 188 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 yard to a door beyond the chapel, which was the entrance 
 to the priest's house. 
 
 Father Merivale saw him from a window of his sitting- 
 room and opened the door. Everard walked into the room 
 and said : — 
 
 *' I have come to ask you a strange question, one that 
 probahly you were never asked before, nor will be asked 
 again ; but you will not be able to give me an answer till 
 you have heard why I ask it. I want to know whether I 
 am in my right senses or not, and the reason why " 
 
 " I can answ^er that question straight off, whatever may 
 follow," said Father Merivale decidedly. " I never knew a 
 man with a healthier mind tHan yours, nor a more vigorous 
 body. ' Mens sana i?i corpore sajio^' would be an incomplete 
 definition of you, but it would be most distinctly true as far 
 as it goes. What makes you ask the question ? " 
 
 " Well, I ought to be ashamed at having to ask it " 
 
 " No not at all. I know you well enough to be sure that 
 you would not have expressed yourself as you did without 
 a good motive and a good reason. What is it that troubles 
 you ? " 
 
 " A trouble more serious than it appears. Lady Dytchley 
 has put off the marriage, to go abroad by the advice (at 
 least so she says) of the doctor, and insisted on taking Ida ; 
 and when I dined at Netherwood by her wish, to see Ida 
 before she went, I found they had gone some hours before. 
 Ida sent me a note on Tuesday afternoon, to tell me they 
 would start on Wednesday : it was given to Moncalvo, who 
 forgot to give it, and so I lost the opportunity of seeing her. 
 But that is not all. Lady Dytchley threatens to lengthen 
 the delay if I follow them, and is quite capable of remaining 
 abroad an indefinite time, if I do ; whilst, if I don't, I shall 
 leave Ida to her tender mercies, which are the worse be- 
 cause she deceives herself to the extent of being unscrupul- 
 ous without knowing it. That is my position, and I find it 
 unbearable. It has got the better of my will. Self-control 
 is now-here in the struggle." 
 
 " My dear Everard," said Father Merivale, " do you 
 suppose that our Blessed Lord, who wept at the death of 
 Lazarus, sweated blood over the sins of mankind, and died 
 broken-hearted on the cross to save the world, expects you 
 not to suffer — requires you to be master of your feelings in
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 189 
 
 such a trial as this ? It is terribly hard to bear while it lasts, 
 and the more so because the evil is out of sight, which makes 
 it seem worse than it is ; but you are doing your best to bear 
 it, and you must not be discouraged if it seems to get the 
 better of you at times. It is not really doing so, and will 
 not : I am sure of that. Your will is right and firm, and by 
 frequenting the Sacraments, as you do, you take the best 
 means of keeping it so. Commit your troubles to Almighty 
 God, and He will give you strength to do what He requires 
 from you. I don't wonder at your being maddened (so to 
 speak) when you think of the position in which your dear 
 betrothed wife is likely to be placed for a time. I should 
 wonder if you were not ; and in fact you would have to be 
 some one else first, some one very cold and uninteresting, 
 some one for whom I certainly could not have the great 
 regard that I have for you. But don't forget your distinctions, 
 you who are always so particular and correct in making them. 
 When one talks of a man being maddened, one doesn't 
 mean that there is anything wrong in his head : one means 
 that the intensity of his emotion has excited him to an 
 abnormal degree. In that sense it is true that you have been 
 maddened by what has occurred, for your feelings have been 
 rouf=ed to an extreme pitch ; but your mind is just what it 
 ■w-as — one of the healthiest I have ever had to deal 
 with." 
 
 " I see it now," said Everard. " I should never have 
 dreamt of asking such a silly question at any other time, or 
 of so confusing things " 
 
 " I know you wouldn't ; but don't imagine that there is 
 anything extraordinary in your asking it. When the heart 
 suffers the mind is disturbed, and the disturbance, if extreme, 
 often feels like a disease. The same thing happened once 
 to me, physically. I had palpitations from indigestion, and 
 I fancied there was something organically wrong, till the 
 doctor showed me how it was. The analogy is close enough, 
 I think. Analogies between mental and physical conditions 
 are sometimes useful." 
 
 " And your case corresponds exactly with mine," said 
 Everard, rising to go. " In both the cause was external, and 
 in both it seemed to be where it was not. But I see that 
 you are busy." 
 
 " Only with those tiresome figures for the school-inspector.
 
 wo FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 Don't let that interfere : I can do them to-night or to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 " No. I won't trespass on your kindness, at the cost of 
 leaving you in arrear with all those figures and dots ; but I 
 hope to see you at dinner at half-past seven. Do come, if 
 you can : it will be an act of charity." 
 
 " I will make a point of it. But I must ask you to give 
 me a quarter of an hour's law. In the meanwhile what are 
 you going to do? You must try to keep clear of intro- 
 spection and speculative thoughts just at present. When 
 you have had a letter, and written one in return, you will be 
 in a position to see your difficulties in a different light. At 
 present you can't, and I should be disappointed in you if you 
 could. You had better turn your mind on something that 
 will lay hold of it." 
 
 *' I knew that I must, last night, and I prayed before the 
 Blessed Sacrament." 
 
 " I don't advise you to do so now. You are accidentally 
 in too excited and scrupulous a state. It would not be 
 prudent. Read something stiff, intellectual and cold- 
 Aristotle's Physics, for instance you have it in Greek in the 
 tower — anything, I don't care what, so long as it fixes the 
 attention and leaves the feelings alone." 
 
 " I will," said Everard, leaving the room. " I shall see 
 you, then, at dinner." 
 
 " Nothing but death or a sick call will keep me away. In 
 the meanwhile be assured your sorrow is mine ; that I shall 
 offer the Holy Sacrifice for your intention to-morrow, and 
 as often as I can, and make a memento for you when I 
 can't." 
 
 Everard pressed his hand without speaking, and hurried 
 away to his room in the tower, where, by an extreme effort 
 of will, he forced his attention on the stiffest book he could 
 readily find." 
 
 " He can do it, and he will," thought Father Merivale, 
 " and it is the only thing for him ; but he will have a hard 
 struggle with himself to do it." 
 
 And he had a hard struggle, a struggle that nearly 
 exhausted the strength of mind and body. When he met 
 Father Merivale at a quarter to eight he was like a man who 
 had passed through the crisis of a fever, passive and weary. 
 
 " I have done it," he said, "and it accomplished what
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 191 
 
 you intended : it took me in a manner out of myself for the 
 time being." 
 
 " Yes ; it was the only thing to be done then," said 
 Father Merivale, " but it must not be repeated : it takes too 
 much out of you. Your feelings are so tremendously strong, 
 and your will so indomitable, that it is dangerous to bring 
 them into collision. The will gains the victory, but at a cost 
 that alarms me — and I am not easily alarmed. I wish you 
 would walk with me to-morrow, after breakfast, to three or 
 four places that I have to call at, and extend the walk 
 indefinitely. Take sandwiches and a flask with you, so that 
 we can stay out all day. I have no engagement for to- 
 morrow, except one that will keep, and I can walk any 
 distance. It is bad for you to be alone just now. You 
 want some one at hand to answer your thoughts. You 
 must think out your troubles aloud, turn them loose upon 
 me, leave nothing inside that has anything to do with them. 
 When the heart is sick we see spectres, and want some one 
 to show us that the ghost is only a bush in the moonlight." 
 
 At this moment dinner was announced. 
 
 "Thank you for this and all your other acts of kindness," 
 said Everard. " I shall be most grateful for the opportunity, 
 and if you can only show that the spectre is a bush ! — But I 
 am afraid you will find it otherwise." 
 
 " Please, Father, may I speak a word to you ?" said Mrs. 
 Roland, as they entered the dining-room. 
 
 Father Merivale turned at the sound, and saw her standing 
 within the portiere from which Anne had peeped at the 
 Marquis. 
 
 " I don't like the looks of Mr. Everard, Father," said 
 she. 
 
 " Nor I," said he ; " but I hope that in a day or 
 two " 
 
 " There's a pack of them — her Ladyship, who ought to 
 know better, and Sir Richard, who does know better, and 
 has behaved shamefully all along " 
 
 " And kep' away from his dooties for ten years," said 
 Anne, advancing suddenly round a corner — "I beg your 
 pardon, sir, but I couldn't lielp speaking — kep' away from 
 his dooties for ten years while her Ladyship was a-robbing 
 the young ladies of the faith ; and then that there Marquis, 
 as took and stole Miss Ida's letter from a half-witted fellow
 
 192 KUEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 that brought it, besides creeping about the place dressed as 
 somebody else, and murdering the baby " 
 
 " For shame !" interrupted Mrs. Roland. " He's bad 
 enough, but he didn't murder the baby." 
 
 " There's plenty as says he did," said Anne, " and he 
 ought to have been took up. Ain't I right, Father ?" 
 
 " Well," said Father Merivale, smiling in spite of his 
 anxiety, " you see it would be rather awkward if the police 
 could take us up on hearsay. With so many gossiping 
 people about, we should none of us be quite safe." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said Anne, and making a low curtsey, 
 she retired, greatly relieved by having disburdened her mind 
 to Father Merivale, and remarking to herself as she went, 
 " Well, he didn't say as he oughtn't to be took up, and Fm 
 sure he thinks he ought ; only he's so good, he don't like to 
 say it.'' 
 
 '• It's all true, sir, about Sir Richard and her Ladyship," 
 said Mrs. Roland, " and a great deal more besides. They're 
 killing Mr. Everard, and will, if they're allowed to go on, for 
 he's not the sort to be played these tricks with. Something 
 ought to be done to bring them up short, or there's no saying 
 what her Ladyship may be up to, for she never could bear 
 Mr. Everard — he's too good and straightforward for her. 
 Surely, Father, when the young lady has been promised to 
 him all her life, and is of age, mayn't she have a will of her 
 own about it? Her father wants it to be — only he'll never 
 stand by anything or anybody — and her Ladyship never 
 made any objection, and the wedding day was fixed and all. 
 Her Ladyship will keep on putting off and putting off, if 
 nothing is done about it, and Sir Richard will go on shilly- 
 shallying, and hiding himself whenever she's up to some fresh 
 game ; and there it will be, if something is not done." 
 
 " Have you any idea why she is acting in this way," said 
 Father Merivale, " when the engagement has been made so 
 long a one, and she has never objected to it ?" 
 
 " I can't tell, sir, at all, unless she has some one else in 
 her head, with a great deal of money ; but then. Miss Ida 
 wouldn't have anybody but Mr. p],verard, and her Ladyship 
 would never find such a one as he is, not if she searched all 
 the world through. She can't have the sense that she was 
 born with, not to see that, let alone ivho he is and the 
 family, and Freville Chase — there isn't such another place
 
 FHKVJLLi: CHAISE. 193 
 
 anywhere. But, Father, can't anything be done at once ?"' 
 
 "No. Lady Dytchley has gone abroad, on the plea of 
 ill health, and has promised to return as soon as possible 
 and have the wedding directly after her return. That is how 
 the matter stands, and he would put himself in the wrong if 
 he were to make any move in the meantime. But I am 
 keeping him waiting for dinner," 
 
 " Thank you, sir, and I hope you'll be able to do some- 
 thing with him, for I can see the change in him, and he's 
 not one to give way to himself — he never was from a 
 child." 
 
 " I know he is not. Vou may rest assured that I will do 
 everything I can. You see, the misfortune was, that by not 
 getting the note, he missed seeing Miss Dytchley before she 
 went ; and what he feels so much is, that as she sent it by a 
 very trustworthy man, she must wonder why he didn't come. 
 When he has written and explained, the load will be off his 
 mind." 
 
 " I am afraid, sir, it wasn't meant that he should know 
 they were going a day sooner; and he mightn't like to 
 mention it, for I know her Ladyship reads all the letters. 
 But, to be sure, he mif!;ht say that he would have ridden over 
 if he could have known how it was '' 
 
 " That bit of natural diplomacy is worth all that I have 
 said and thought about the matter/' thought Father 
 Merivale, as he hastened back to the dining-room. 
 
 About the same time that evening Lady Dytchley who, 
 owing to the dentist's engagements or some other cause un- 
 explained, had not left London on Wednesday, was stepping 
 on board the Folkestone boat. Lady Oxborough, too, was 
 there, notwithstanding her appointment, accompanied by 
 her eldest son and two of her daughters. How it came to 
 pass that their departures were simultaneous from Folkestone 
 and from London, though Lady Oxborough, as we were 
 told, had been obliged to leave town on Wednesday and 
 Lady Dytchley obliged to wait till Thursday, is not known. 
 They said nothing about it during their journey from 
 London, nor did they now on board the packet. Perhaps 
 Lady Dytchley, having a great regard for her friend, and 
 desiring to return as soon as possible for the weddino; (see 
 her two notes to Everard) had taken the appointment in too 
 strict a sense, and discovered her error on arriving in
 
 194 KiJKVILLK CHASE. 
 
 London ; but as she said nothing about it, we have no right 
 to affirm positively that such was the case. 
 
 The night being warm and clear, and the sea smooth as a 
 lake, she and Lady Oxborough seated themselves in a con- 
 venient place not far from the man at the wheel, whom no 
 one must talk to. The rest of the party dispersed themselves 
 a litte way off, wherever they could find room, but Ida, to 
 avoid conversation, rose from her seat and walked about the 
 deck. Had she overheard the conversation between her 
 mother and Lady Oxborough, or, at least, the following 
 part of it, she would have heard something that it concerned 
 her to know ; but, as their heads were approximated and 
 their voices low, she did not. 
 
 The nautical sounds that give a foretaste of impending 
 horrors to the sea-sick while a vessel is getting away from 
 her moorings, made the first part of their dialogue inaudible, 
 but when they were out of the harbour and the vessel was 
 cleaving her way steadily through the pond-like sea, without 
 noise or motion, anyone walking by at a slow pace and with 
 interest to listen, might have heard from Lady Dytchley's 
 lips the following fragment of an explanatory reply : — 
 
 " and, you see, when the time drew near, she began 
 
 to feel what a dreadful step she was taking. But then there 
 was that foolish engagement in the way — a silly sort of 
 sentimental fancy as it was, to answer for a baby and bind 
 her to it, like a godfather and godmother in baptism ; and 
 so she tried ?iot to think, and thought she was bound to go 
 on with it, religion and all. And then he came to see her 
 when I was out." 
 
 Lady Oxborough made a gesture of protest against con- 
 crete Popery as exemplified by Everard, but did not commit 
 herself to a verbal expression of her feelings. Lady 
 Dytchley, encouraged by the gesture, thus continued to 
 open her grief : — 
 
 " Yes ! when I was out — but it's just like them — and 
 when he knew too that her father never wanted to interfere 
 with her religion. And he worked upon her so — you know 
 how cunning they are, and how they are taught by the priests 
 to make Romanism look quite different from what it is — 
 that I could see that she was losing her health and spirits. 
 So I determined to bring her with me abroad, instead of 
 Elfrida — I couldn't take both, on account of their father
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 195 
 
 being left alone. I daresay I shall be abused for it all 
 round, and accused of ill-treating him, and of breaking my 
 word too, if the thing is broken off; but I really couldn't 
 see her sacrificed in that way without giving her an oppor- 
 tunity of escape." 
 
 " And you were perfectly right," said Lady Oxborough, 
 drawing up her waterproof cloak to a level with her ears ; 
 " but I find it getting chilly. I think I must go down into 
 the cabin. Well, I think you were bound to act as you 
 did. It is not fair to any girl (so beautiful as she is too) to 
 let her be dragged into a marriage in that way ; and if she 
 is really doubtful about it, and has been influenced by his 
 presence— //" she has." 
 
 Here Lady Oxborough rose from her seat and began to 
 move. 
 
 "She has. That is just it," said Lady Dytchley, walking 
 after her and speaking into the top of the waterproof cloak, 
 lest Ida, who was not far off, should overhear her. "She has. 
 She has been drawn into it and kept up to it. Any one 
 could see how it was preying upon her. That was why I 
 brought her away ; and I told him, before I left, that I 
 considered them disengaged." 
 
 " Did you ? That was a strong measure. What did he 
 say." 
 
 "Nothing at all." 
 
 Lady Oxborough gave a side glance towards her son, who 
 was talking to Ida, and said : — 
 
 " Well, then, if she is tired of it, and he too, the thing 
 may be said to be over " 
 
 " And never was anything really, on her part," affirmed 
 Lady Dytchley, who had grown bolder in her statements by 
 degrees, as success, real or supposed, increased she demands 
 on her imagination. " I have been thought very hard, and 
 very unfeeling, and very foolish, and very unjust, and very 
 flighty, and I don't know what besides, for acting as I have 
 done ; but I know that I have done right." 
 
 " And every one will say so. We are all of us misunder- 
 stood for a while, at sometime or other about something," 
 said Lady Oxborough, descending into the cabin. 
 
 Her misjudged friend was about to follow, when a shadow 
 •crossed the light of the setting sun, and a melodious but 
 melancholy voice, not unknown and not familiar, said : —
 
 196 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " How do you do, Lady Dytcliley? This is an unexpected 
 pleasure for me. I thought you were in Paris." 
 
 It was the Marquis Moncalvo, who, in consequence of 
 the 10.50 train being late, had lost no time by his visit to 
 Chase End, and was safe on board before Lady Dytchley's 
 luggage left the station. 
 
 " I am very glad to have met you," said she ; and her 
 gladness grew, as she rapidly reflected on the advantage of 
 having a second man during the early part of the journey, to 
 avert Ida's attention from the oneness of the other. " She 
 might be set against him at first," thought that prudent and 
 misjudged lady, " for he shows his feelings a little too 
 plainly, poor fellow, and this will just make it right." 
 
 " And besides the pleasure of seeing you," she said, *' this 
 gives me the opportunity of apologising for my apparent 
 rudeness in leaving home when I had the pleasure of 
 expecting you at dinner. The fact is, I was obliged to be a 
 few liours in London, and Lady Oxborough was to have 
 left town yesterday — which I only knew very late — so that I 
 really had no choice. It w^as most provoking, for, as it 
 turned out, I might have stayed." 
 
 " Sir Richard told me that you had been called away 
 suddenly," said the Marquis, " and I regretted the contretemps 
 on your account as well as on my own ; for it must have 
 been very fatiguing to be hurried from home on so long 
 a journey, especially as you were in delicate health." 
 
 " Yes, it tired me very much. I should have been 
 knocked up altogether, if I had not had four-and-twenty 
 hour's rest in London. Did you leave Freville Chase this 
 morning ? " 
 
 " Yes, at ten o'clock ; and Hubert Freville went to 
 Beynham at the same time. Everard is quite alone, with 
 no one to speak to except Father Merivale." 
 
 " Oh ! as long as there is a priest," said she, looking 
 downwards and folding her cloak about her, as if the 
 remark were to herself. 
 
 The Marquis make a vague gesture of assent, and said 
 
 nothing. Ida, hearing Everard's name, had approached by 
 
 degrees. Lady Dytchley noticed the movement, and said 
 
 audibly, *' How was he ? in good spirits ? " 
 
 " Very good," answered the Marquis. 
 
 *' I am glad to hear that he takes his dissappointment so
 
 FKKVILLK CHASE. 197 
 
 philosophically," said she, in a tone of astonishment. " But 
 I suppose he felt it when he came to Netherwood and found 
 us gone ? " 
 
 " I did not observe any difference ; but I think that 
 Englishmen sometimes conceal their feelings, and can (so to 
 speak) regulate them," said the iVlarquis. 
 
 Lady Dytchley shook her head, kept emphatic silence for 
 a few seconds and changed the conversation. Ida drew 
 back, glided away behind the funnel, and went forward 
 among groups of people who knew her not. Lady Dytchley 
 saw her go and thinking that a little quiet reflection on what 
 she had heard would be good for her, looked the other 
 way. 
 
 Ida was of course not aware of her mother's opinion, nor 
 did she suspect such a view of the case ; but hers differed 
 from it widely. She passed through a small crowd of 
 British and foreign men, who smoked wooden pipes or 
 penny cigars according to their nationality, and stood at 
 last where she could look down upon the now dark waters 
 through which the packet was cutting its way. She looked 
 down at that dark water and the sparkles of light dancing 
 over its surface as it rolled away on either side, but heeded 
 it not. Moncalvo's words had laid a burden on her heart 
 that she could neither throw off nor acknowledge. Had she 
 not heard that Everard was in very good spirits a few hours 
 after she had been hurried away without seeing him ? Had 
 she not heard it accidentally from an eye-wtiness whom she 
 had no reason to disbelieve ? Was it not confirmed by the 
 fact that, although he was at home when her note was sent, 
 he did not come to see her ? On the other hand she 
 believed in Everard, and did not much believe in any one 
 else personally known, except Elfrida. At the thought of 
 what Moncalvo had said, the hot blood mounted into her 
 face, and she simply hated him for having said it, whether 
 innocently or not ; but the words rang in her ears, and the 
 recollection of the unanswered note sent a chill through her 
 heart, whilst every mile of the journey seemed as if it took 
 her further and further into doubt and desolation. She 
 remained there, looking at the dark water without noticing 
 it, till the packet arrived at Boulogne. 
 
 While she was following her mother into the hotel and 
 snubbing every one else who approached her, Everard,
 
 198 FREVILLK CHASE. 
 
 having accompainied Father Merivale home, was walking 
 out of the courtyard into the Chase, trying, without any hope 
 of success, to rouse himself from a state of depression so 
 immense that it appeared to have no end. But he was not 
 aware that Lady Dytchley, at the Hotel des Bains, was 
 informing Lady Oxborough of his good spirits and exciting 
 herself gradually, by the sound of the words, to have a 
 theoretical belief in what they represented. 
 
 The air was balmy and fresh, the sky clear, the stars large 
 and brilliant. He drew a deep breath and said to himself, 
 " This ought to clear away cobwebs from the brain, and 
 would, if they were there. They are not. I should only 
 deceive myself, if I thought so." But the air was physically 
 reviving, and he strolled some distance down the carriage 
 road. As he was walking back, he happened to notice a 
 light in or against a window in the tower. The moon had 
 now risen, and, from where he was, might possibly seem to 
 be shining against the glass ; but it was scarcely high 
 enough yet to do so, and the light was too red. 
 
 " It can't be on fire," he thought, quickening his pace o 
 a run, and keeping his eyes on the red light : it can't be, 
 unless Moncalvo went there at night, as Mrs. Roland said he 
 did, and dropped a match — people are so careless. I wish 
 I had never seen him : his name comes across me like a 
 shadow at every turn. But what is this light ? It seems 
 too steady for fire, I think ; yet who can be up there ? It 
 is — yes, it is the room below the hiding-hole." 
 
 He ran on till he was a few yards from the tower, when he 
 stood still and looked at the window carefully. 
 
 " There is nothing on fire," he said ; " but there is the 
 light, and there it ought not to be. I must go at once and 
 see what it means. It is hardly possible that anything should 
 be on fire ; and if it is, there will be time to call people up, 
 and if — I don't know what — I must be there alone." 
 
 By this time he was in the hall. He strode past the old 
 butler, who wondered much at his rapid entrance, ran 
 upstairs to his bedroom for the lamp, and hurried to the 
 tower. When he opened the door he sniffed the air 
 critically. 
 
 " There is no smell of fire," he said, and then he 
 went on to the panelled room behind the further stair- 
 case. Here he stopped and listened. There was a distinct
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 199 
 
 sound, as of hurried and muffled footsteps in the room. 
 
 " Some thieves have got in somehow, and mean to rob the 
 house," he thought, as he set down the lamp on the stairs, 
 " but I don't mean them to do it. I had better have been 
 armed." He stood for a moment erect and motionless, 
 realising the rashness of what he was about to do, and an 
 intense light came into his eyes. Then, opening the door 
 softly he walked in, prepared to equalise the odds, as far as 
 possible, by attacking the invaders before they had recovered 
 from their surprise. But no thieves were there, nor any 
 traces of them, except the light in the room, which came 
 from a rushlight on a table. 
 
 " They must be somewhere," thought he, " and they 
 can't know the hiding-hole. But why is this light left 
 here ? " 
 
 He looked round the room and was still more puzzled. 
 The bed was made, a brush and comb lay on the dressing- 
 table, and there was a small leather bag in a corner. Who 
 could the self-invited occupant of the room be ? " Moncalvo 
 aut Diabolus," he thought. " Am I to believe that he came 
 here in the middle of the night, or that the room is haunted, 
 as somebody has set about. I see how the ghost has been 
 made; for my unknown friend evidently makes himself at 
 home, and has lodged here some time." 
 
 He looked round the room again carefully, and then at 
 the dim, steady flame of the rushlight. A change came over 
 his countenance. The light had died away from his eyes, 
 and the excessive depression which, for a few moments had 
 been taken off by the thought of a hand-to-hand encounter 
 against unknown odds, possessed him again completely. 
 
 " But I must see this out," he said to himself at length. 
 " I will search the hiding-hole first — but there can't be any 
 one there — and then the rest of the tower." 
 
 He pushed back an invisible spring in one of the panels 
 on the left, which opened wide enough for any one to go 
 through. The panel was covered on the other side with 
 thick planks of oak, to prevent discovery by sound. When 
 it was shut there was just room for a big man to stand. A 
 nearly perpendicular staircase went straight up for some 
 distance, parallel with the wall of the room. Up this he 
 went in total darkness, till it turned at right angles and 
 ended in a landing place, with a wall beyond and a large
 
 200 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 recess on the left, where apples had been stored in times of 
 persecution, to suggest a use for the staircase, in the event of 
 its being discovered. The bottom of the recess was a little 
 below the level of the landing place, and the top about two 
 feet above. He touched a spring at the bottom of it, when 
 part of the floor became detached from the rest of the 
 landing, and lifting up that part, like the lid of a box, he 
 disclosed a wooden receptacle, in size and shape like a saw- 
 pit, ventilated sufficiently to keep a human being alive, and 
 lighted by a small grated window that was not seen from the 
 outside, owing to the thickness of the wall. 
 
 When he opened the lid he heard a cry of terror within, 
 and looking down into the hiding-hole, which was about six 
 feet deep, with some rudely cut steps to descend by, saw a 
 woman crouched up in a corner of it. He at once jumped 
 in, and on seeing her face nearer by the light of the moon 
 which shone through the grated window, thought that he had 
 seen her before. 
 
 " Oh ! don't," she said. " Don't look so. Indeed, it is 
 not my fault — it is his. Don't send me away from here : I 
 shall die if you do. I will tell you all, Mr. Everard. Do 
 hear me, and you will see how it is ; but don't drive me 
 away. There is nowhere else where I am safe. Mrs. 
 Roland will tell you, but I implored her not to say anything 
 till he was out of the way." 
 
 " Don't be afraid," said Everard. "You are quite safe. 
 But surely I remember you long ago." 
 
 " You do, sir, when you were a child. I should have 
 known you anywhere, though it is so long ago, and I have 
 had so much trouble since." 
 
 " You must be Charlotte Wilcox." 
 
 " I am that unfortunate creature ; but for pity's sake, Mr. 
 Everard, don't let any one know. Mine is such an extra- 
 ordinary case. You would never imagine what I have gone 
 through." 
 
 " Either most people are out of their senses," thought 
 Everard, " and she in particular, or I never had any." 
 
 " Mr. Everard, you don't seem sure about it," said she, 
 giving away to another paroxysm of fear. " Oh ! do give 
 me shelter here, only for a short time. If you only 
 knew" 
 
 " I will, indeed. Don't be afraid of anything. But wh)
 
 FilEVILLE CHASE. 201 
 
 are you here in this uncomfortable place ? You would be 
 perfectly safe in the room below." 
 
 " It was only because I heard footsteps " 
 
 " Well, now you know whose they were ; so come down 
 and let me see you are better lodged before I go." 
 
 " Oh ! don't go yet, sir. Do let me tell you first why I 
 am trespassing on your kindness in this way, and do let me 
 tell it now at once ; for indeed I would have told you before, 
 and only begged Mrs. Roland not to say anything to you till 
 he was gone." 
 
 " ' He' again !'" thought Everard. " What is coming next ? 
 Moncalvo, of course — Siamo seinpre da capo.'' 
 
 " I mean, gone away out of the country," said she. 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " That dreadfnl Marquis Moncalvo. Oh 1 Mr. Everard, 
 you have no idea what he is. He tried to make out that I 
 was mad long ago, only his aunt prevented him all the while 
 I was in her service ; but she died, and then 1 was obliged 
 to come to England, with no one to protect me in a foreign 
 country. The old Countess took me at first because I was 
 unprotected, and I am sure she knew there was something 
 wrong about the child's death, and when she died, I was so 
 grieved that I could think of nothing else, and he got some- 
 body to say I was out of my mind, and I found out that he 
 intended to shut me up in a madhouse. Then I came to 
 England, for fear of him — for I knew he would swear anything 
 against me — and I hid about till I was nearly starved and had 
 spent all my money. Then I remembered hearing of the 
 hiding-hole when I lived here many years ago, and I begged 
 Mrs. Roland to have pity on me, and " 
 
 " But what object could he have in doing all this ? " asked 
 Everard. 
 
 " It was because I knew too much, though I couldn't 
 prove it so as to take the law of him. I know he made 
 away with the dear child, and I wasn't going to let him think 
 I didn't and say afterwards that I had said nothing about it 
 at the time, in case I should be able to get proof of it some 
 day ; and so I told him that I knew he had done it, and he 
 couldn't bear the sight of me ever after that." 
 
 '•' I don't wonder at that," said Everard. "But he has no 
 power to get you into a lunatic asylum. It can't be done in 
 England without two doctors and a magistrate, who must all 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 202 FHKVILLE CHASE. 
 
 of them have an interview with you ; and as there is no 
 magistrate but myself within six miles, you may set your 
 mind at rest about that." 
 
 " Oh yes, sir, I know you wouldn't let me be wronged ; 
 but he is up to anything. He wouldn't mind about getting 
 me away by force, if he couldn't do it any other way : and 
 then, what could I do among strangers, with him swearing 
 against me and bringing forward what I accused him of, to 
 show I was mad. I can't prove my words, and the magis- 
 trate and the doctors and them would think of course that it 
 showed I was mad." 
 
 " Such things have been done, I know," said Everard ; 
 " but the person who does it must be a relation, or at least 
 show some better right to interfere than he could. The 
 case would be too suspicious. Any magistrate would want 
 to know where you came from, who your relations were, and 
 who the people were that brought you. It would be too 
 daneerous a game for any one to play who has a character to 
 lose." 
 
 " Yes, sir, it would ; but there's no bounds to what he 
 would do. He would think nothing about swearing away 
 my life, he wouldn't indeed." 
 
 "I may as well give in with a good grace," thought 
 Everard. " One may as well try to move a mountain as an 
 idee fixe. " 
 
 " And he is so deep, there's no being even with him," she 
 added, after pausing for a moment in expectation of some 
 word or sign that might be taken for assent. '* He wouldn't 
 stick at anything, to get me out of the way ; and it's no 
 wonder I am afraid to be seen out of doors, with him going 
 about and pouncing down, nobody could tell when or 
 where." 
 
 " To be sure. Well, then, make yourself as comfortable 
 as you can in the room below, and when I hear that he is 
 out of England, I will find some less lonely place for you. 
 We will see about that in a few days." 
 
 Charlotte Wilcox thanked him repeatedly, climbed the 
 steps of the hiding-hole after him, and returned into the rush- 
 lighted room. Everard then said a few kind words, wished 
 her good-night, and went his way. As he passed through 
 the tower he said to himself : — " I have the English doctor's 
 certificate that the child died naturally — a well-known
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 203 
 
 English physician of high character. So much for that. It 
 was Moncalvo's interest that the child should die, and he 
 did die. Charlotte Wilcox told him that he was a murderer^ 
 and he showed that he didn't like it — no wonder, and since 
 she left Italy, thinking he wanted to put her into a lunatic 
 asylum, she has brooded over it till it has become a 
 monomania. No wonder Moncalvo didn't like it. It 
 cannot be pleasant to have a person going about saying that 
 one has murdered a baby. But I wish she had chosen 
 some other hiding-place." 
 
 " Just as he was passing the door of his sitting-room 
 Mrs. Roland opened the door of the tower, and said : — 
 
 " It is very late, sir, I know ; but I wanted to tell 
 you something, and I have had no chance to do so all 
 day." 
 
 " I think I know what you mean," he said. " I have 
 seen her — Charlotte Wilcox, and heard it all. I went 
 there because I saw a light and thought something might be 
 on fire." 
 
 " I wanted to speak about it," said she, " because it 
 looks so very improper of me to take her in like that, and 
 say nothing to you about it. But I assure you I was afraid 
 she would have drowned herself, or something of that kind, 
 if I hadn't promised her to say nothing to anybody until the 
 Marquis went away." 
 
 " My dear old faithful friend," said Everard emphatically, 
 " you must always do what you think best. You are sure 
 to be right, and I shall always think you are right. It would 
 have been unlike yourself and against the old customs of 
 this house, if you had not given shelter to Charlotte Wilcox. 
 I would not have refused it to anyone in distress, much less 
 to a woman born in the parish, and an old servant in the 
 family." 
 
 "You are always like that, Mr. Everard; but it's an 
 awkward business. What is to be done with her ? She 
 would take a place, but is hardly fitted for one now, and she 
 won't go home, because she can't get on with her father's 
 second wife." 
 
 " Well, I must provide for her somewhere. I can't let 
 her go to shift for herself as she is. Did she tell you a long 
 story about the Marquis Moncalvo ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, she keeps on saying, like some of the old
 
 204 FKEVILLE GET ASK. 
 
 women at Chase End, that he did murder your baby 
 brother, and that he wants to put her into an asylum for 
 saying so ; but she owns that she has got no proof. Of 
 course he didn't do that, but I am sure there's something 
 wrong about him. He ought to have told you about that 
 note when it was spoken of. It wasn't straightforward, 
 and I didn't like many other little things about him." 
 
 " I can't make him out," said Everard, opening the door 
 of the tower ; " but you must be tired. It is past twelve. 
 Good-night." 
 
 " He tries to speak cheerfully and make the best of 
 things, but he looks so that it breaks my heart to see him," 
 thought Mrs. Roland. " Lady Dytchley ought to be 
 ashamed of herself, playing the fool, without any feeling for 
 Miss Ida or anything. A great strong thing like her, to 
 talk about being ordered abroad for her health ! It's all 
 very well to say the time is nothing, and will soon be over, 
 but that isn't it. It's the putting it off when everything was 
 ready — having her taken away from him almost at the altar, 
 as you may say. She don't care enough about Sir Richard 
 (and who could ?) to know what it is, but she knows she's 
 doing wrong. Oh, dear ! I hope he'll hear from Miss Ida 
 soon, and then he'll be able to get on better." 
 
 He certainly was far from doing so then. The scene in 
 the tower had passed out of his mind, or remained there but 
 as an unnoticed impression. He only thought of the lost note 
 and all its possible consequences, whilst Ida, without any 
 abatement of confidence in him, was crying herself to sleep 
 over the report of his good spirits, and Lady Dytchley, 
 seeing therein an opening for certain views of her own, was 
 feeling more pleased with him than she had ever felt 
 before.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HEN Ovid put forth the opinion that we can 
 laugh at false reports about us, if we are 
 conscious of being innocent — 
 
 " Conscia mens recti fanuz mendacia visit y'' 
 
 I V^^^°l ^^ might have added, "unless the hearer is 
 l,°^.^Sv !giJ one's betrothed wife, from whom one is 
 unavoidably separated by land and sea," 
 but then he was not acquainted with Lady Dytchley, and 
 perhaps had never met with any one so skilled in utilising 
 other people's words. Everard was very much acquainted 
 with her, and had, on more occasions than one, seen his 
 own words undergo strange transformations under her care ; 
 so that when he began to analyse a little more accurately 
 what it w^as that he had really dreaded, he found it in that 
 utilising power. This discovery, or rather realisation of w^hat 
 he had felt before without having a clear impression of it, 
 brought him into a state of mind that made Father 
 Merivale despair of any good results from the long walk and 
 his own charitable efforts. They began the walk, however, 
 and continued it till about midday, when Father Merivale, 
 after some hard thinking, proposed suddenly to return and 
 take another and a longer walk instead, the next day. 
 
 "I had not thought," he said, " of an important matter 
 that I ought to see to." 
 
 Everard turned back mechanically, not caring much what 
 he did, and they walked home at an increased pace, of which 
 he was not aware.
 
 206 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " Can the dog-cart be of any use to you ?" said he, when 
 they had returned to Freville Chase, and Father Merivale 
 was about to start again. 
 
 " No, thank you," said Father Merivale, " your horse 
 has been worked a great deal lately. " I shall manage very 
 well." 
 
 He walked to a farmhouse about a mile distant, borrowed 
 a cart and drove to Netherwood. When he arrived there 
 he found Sir Richard in the stable-yard preparing to mount. 
 
 " May I speak to you for a moment ? " he said. " I see 
 you are going out, but I will not detain you long." 
 
 " I am so glad to see you," said Sir Richard, in a non- 
 natural sense, for he felt a sudden and quite unaccountable 
 misgiving at this unexpected visit. " Why didn't you come 
 to luncheon ? We should have been so delighted to see 
 you." 
 
 " You are always so hospitable," said Father Merivale, 
 " and I should have had great pleasure in coming sooner ; 
 but the fact is that I came for another purpose altogether, 
 for your sake, as well as for that of a most dear friend." 
 
 " God bless me! What is coming now?" thought Sir 
 Richard. " It can't be about him. It is always a great 
 pleasure to see you," he said nervously, "'and I only wish 
 you had come earlier, for I am really obliged to start at once. 
 I am very sorry, and I see you so seldom too ; but business: 
 you know " 
 
 While pronouncing the last words he put his foot into the 
 stirrup, mounted with exceeding nimbleness, and with a 
 touch of the spur, made his horse sidle away out of distance 
 for private conversation. " Good-bye, good-bye," he said, 
 " I am so sorry. I wish you had happened to come sooner." 
 
 But this manoeuvre only removed him from the protecting 
 ear of the groom, and brought him into a ad de sac ; for in 
 backing to avoid pursuit while saying good-bye so pleasantly, 
 he found himself wedged into a corner of the yard, between 
 the great open gate and the wall, with Father Merivale in 
 front, and as he was not prepared to ride over a priest, 
 suadente diabolo, he was obliged to listen. 
 
 " I will not detain you," said Father Merivale, " but I 
 can't go without saying what I came to say. I should be 
 acting wrongly by you if I did. I have no right to spare 
 myself a disagreeable office, at the risk of helping by omission
 
 FKEViLLE chasp:. 207 
 
 to entail on you serious responsibilities, and perhaps bitter 
 remorse." 
 
 Sir Richard winced perceptibly, and made his horse 
 fidget from side to side, ready to take sudden advantage of 
 an opening ; but Father Merivale kept his post, and said in 
 continuation : — 
 
 " If anything really goes wrong about Everard Freville's 
 marriage, you, who approved and encouraged that marriage, 
 will be responsible for the consequences. He is exceedingly 
 strong in mind and body, but he will not be able to stand 
 that, I am certain. He can't be bent, but he may be 
 broken, and if you allow him to be hard pressed in that 
 point, he will." 
 
 " Really I have acted for the best about it, and done what 
 I could. I think it is I who am hard pressed. Of course I 
 have the greatest respect foryour office, you know, but, really, 
 it's going a little far, and "' 
 
 " I am not here as a priest. I am not speaking as a 
 priest. I have nothing to do with you, in any way, as a 
 priest. And, if I had, I never .should dream of speaking to 
 you as a priest about your private affairs. You know 
 very well that no priest would do so. I speak as one man 
 to another. I speak as a Christian and a neighbour, I speak 
 because I cannot in conscience be silent, 1 speak in your 
 own interest. You have been Everard Freville's guardian ; 
 you stand towards him in loco pa?-€?itis ; you have allowed 
 him to be brought into the present painful and false position, 
 which has already broken him down more than anyone who 
 has not seen him within the last two days would think 
 possible, and you have the responsibility of any and every 
 evil that may arise out of it. I am not in any way supposing 
 that it will, but knowing Everard as well as I do, knowing 
 all the circumstances of the case, and not knowing what 
 might come out of so sudden and unprecedented a post- 
 ponement, on the day fixed for signing the settlements and 
 within three weeks of the wedding day, it was my duty to 
 tell you what you were evidently not aware of and could not 
 know to its full extent. Having done so " 
 
 " Thank you very much," interrupted Sir Richard. "It 
 was very kind of you to mention it." " You see as to what 
 has happened " 
 
 " What has happened is no business of mine ; and as I
 
 208^ FKEVILLK CHASE. 
 
 wisli to mind my own business, I decline entering upon that 
 subject. I should not have broken off a very important 
 engagement to drive eighteen miles in a jolting cart, if I had 
 not been impelled to do so by a motive that I should not 
 have been justified in resisting. As I said before, I am not 
 supposing anything more than what has happened and is 
 happening in consequence ; but you must see that I had 
 good reasons for apprehension, and could have had no 
 assurance that this apprehension might not prove a reality. 
 Feeling as I do the peculiarly delicate position of a priest in 
 such a case as this, I had to do battle with myself for some 
 time before I could make up my mind to come here and 
 speak as I have spoken. I felt that it was my duty towards 
 you, as the person most responsible for the result; but we 
 are all poor weak creatures, and I must confess that I should 
 have shrunk from coming here on that plea. I will be frank 
 with you and confess my weakness. Nothing but my 
 immense regard for Everard Freville would have made me 
 come on such a business to this house." 
 
 Sir Richard fervently A^ished that his regard had been 
 less. " But it's coming to an end," he thought ; and his 
 head made frequent gestures of general assent. 
 
 " Perhaps you don't know Everard as well as I do," said 
 Father Merivale. " I have had peculiarly good opportunities 
 of doing so. He is the noblest specimen of a Catholic 
 layman and an Englishman that I have ever known, and I 
 could not see, or fancy that I saw, the remotest chance of 
 such a life being unjustly sacrificed, without warning the 
 person who would be responsible for it. I have warned you, 
 and in case of possible difificulty, your own conscience must 
 do the rest. Good-morning, Sir Richard, I am sorry to have 
 detained you." 
 
 He drew back, and Sir Richard, escaping from his corner, 
 rode off, waving his hand in mute acknowledgment. 
 
 " I might as well have spoken to the stable door," thought 
 Father Merivale, as he climbed into the cart ; " but he may 
 remember it, if another sharp fit of bronchitis, or some other 
 stimulant of the conscience, happens to make him think." 
 
 The cart started with a jerk that nearly shook the seat out 
 of its place, and after rumbling and jolting over the cross 
 roads forthespace of anhour and twenty-five minutes, brought 
 him at four o'clock to the farmhouse. He had been walking,
 
 FliKVlLLK CIIASF. 209 
 
 driving and unsuccessfully talking, more than six hours, and 
 then had to walk nearly a mile home, with an accumulated 
 amount of work before him, including arrears of office, the 
 books for the school-inspector and the report of a possible 
 sick call. " I have enough to do to-day, of all others," he 
 thought ; " but I must see Everard first." 
 
 He found him in the Chase, holding in his hand three 
 letters brought to Lyneham by the second post and from 
 Lyneham by the old coachman, who had gone there to 
 inquire about the carriage horses. One of the letters was 
 from Ida. 
 
 "Are you satisfied with it ?" said Father ]\Ierivale. " But 
 I see that you are." 
 
 " I am," said Everard. 
 
 ''Deo Gratias! Then I will be off, for I have lots to do." 
 
 " Deo Gratias ? " he repeated mentally as he walked 
 away. " If she had written sooner, I might have spared 
 myself one of the most disagreeable employments that ever 
 fell to my lot. But then I should have missed an oppor- 
 tunity of grappling with an extreme repugnance to do what 
 was right. I never disliked anything so much in my life, 
 either in prospect or in practice. I am very thankful, on my 
 own account, for having been enabled to do it ; and besides, 
 it may be of some use in some way, some day or other, to 
 Sir Richard. Perhaps he never gave any one a chance of 
 telling him so many home-truths. Anyhow it has done me 
 good, and the taste of the pill is gone." 
 
 Whilst Father Merivale was settling down to his arrears of 
 work Everard was reading Ida's letter again. As no one but 
 himself and the writer has seen the inside of that precious 
 missive, the character of its contents must be taken for granted. 
 It satisfied him, and he was by no means in an optimistic state 
 of mind when it arrived. The letter had been written in 
 London and posted too late to be received in the morning. 
 It may be supposed that nothing was said about the lost 
 note ; but the omission would not disturb him, seeing that 
 he was aware of reasons for not mentioning it. 
 
 The other letter was from Lady Dytchley. He read that, 
 too, a second time, and was satisfied with what it said, 
 which was this : — 
 
 " My dear Everard^ — What will you think of me whe7i you
 
 210 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 receice this after )ny telling you I was leaving to7vn yesterday ? 
 I am f 1(11 of business ivitJi dentists and shops for things I had 
 forgotten in my hurry and doctors besides, hailing been quite 
 knocked up 7vith the fatigue of starting a day sooner, and the 
 worry if being obliged to dissappoint you of seeifig Ida here, 
 and after all, 7ve ivere obliged to stay till ?iow, I having 
 in my flurry misunderstood Lady Oxborough's note about the 
 day she would have to be in Paris. I am better noiv, and I 
 fully expect and believe that the fresh sea-air in crossing on 
 such a lovely evening as it seems likely to be ivill begin to set 
 me up quite, and the change of air and scene will, I feel su?'e, 
 take aiaay the rejuains of my attack very soon. I quite think 
 that I shall be able to come back by the middle of October, a?id 
 then the ivedding can be in a feiv days, for everything ca?i be 
 arranged beforehand. In great haste. — Yours affectionately, 
 
 '• Charlotte Dytchley:' 
 
 It seems difficult at first sight to reconcile these comfort- 
 ing assurances with the statements made to Lady Oxborough 
 on board the steam packet and the confidential thoughts 
 imparted to her inner self, from time to time, during that 
 part of the journey ; but sea-air, after the reactionary con- 
 sequences of an intermittent tantrum, has a tendency to 
 encourage hopefulness, and the particular kind of hope 
 thus aroused may be determined one way or another by acci- 
 dental circumstances that would have no force in Paris. 
 There seems to be no other way of explaining the 
 discrepancy. 
 
 Everard, not being aware of what had passed on board 
 the Folkestone boat, was simply satisfied with what was 
 written ; and when he had read Ida's letter for the third 
 time, he opened one from Hubert. 
 
 Hubert's letter began with expressions of regret at leaving 
 Freville Chase, and after some strong abuse of the Marquis 
 Moncalvo, drew to a conclusion thus : — 
 
 " My uncle desires me to say that he has often ivished to sea 
 you, and never could manage to do it siftce you were a boy. 
 He ivants you very tnuch to come and stay here as long as you 
 can, and is sayifig so repeatedly while I am trying to write. 
 So do come, whether you can or not. For every sort of reason 
 I ivant you here ; and to give you no excuse for not coming, 1 
 have told my uncle that you ivere very busy, and ivould
 
 FIJEVILLK CHASE. 211 
 
 probably not be able to come on short notice. So come on the 
 Jist, if there is any difficulty about coming sooner, and you 
 ivill be ready for the partridges, which profnise well in these 
 parts. The post is gone ; so you luill not get this till Saturday, 
 unless some faithful retainer goes into Lyneham and brings it 
 out. I have not begun to forget what you said to me on the 
 most serious of all possible subjects, in answer to the rubbish 
 that I talked about. I said my prayers over it in the train as 
 hard as I could, but nothing particular has come of it yet. 
 Pazienza ! as th>' Italians generally say when they are mucli 
 excited. I suppose that, by trying hard and icishiug to do 
 right one fnds it at last, if it is to be found. . . . 
 
 Everard decided to go to Beynham on the 31st, read 
 Ida's letter for the fourth time, and retiring to his room in 
 the tower, wrote answers to the three letters. First he wrote 
 to Hubert, saying that he would be at Beynham on the 31st, 
 then to Lady Dytchley, thanking her for her letter and 
 distinctly-made promise to hasten the marriage by returning 
 as soon as possible. This he expressed with the greatest 
 civility, but in the plainest terms, as a formal protest against 
 any loose interpretation of her letter. The distinctness of 
 her promise was shown by her own words, brought in 
 skilfully with due and undue acknowledgements ; but want 
 of confidence could not be inferred, nor did he feel any 
 then. It may seem odd that he was satisfied with this third 
 written promise, and not with the two others. The osten- 
 sible reason was this : — The first letter might have been 
 written to keep him quiet till she was out of the way, the 
 second to ensure his not following them before they had left 
 Paris and gone, he knew not whither ; but when she was 
 about to start for Folkestone, feeling morally certain that he 
 was at Freville Chase, what possible motive could she have 
 to commit herself in writing more distinctly than before, 
 unless she meant what she wrote ? That was the reason 
 that appeared conclusive to him, and probably would to 
 any one ; but the sudden reaction inclined him to be more 
 fully satisfied than he would otherwise have been. He 
 wrote a long letter to Ida, skilfully contriving to say as much 
 as Elfrida's warning would allow to prudence, and then he 
 fell to day-dreaming. 
 
 About this time the landlady of the White Hart, at 
 Lyneham, was aroused from contemplation over her
 
 212 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 accounts by the unexpected and unwelcome arrival of the 
 woman of the " middling countenance." That unpleasant 
 visitor presented herself in an abrupt and bold manner. 
 The landlady saw the apparition through the glass door of 
 the room where she sat, and her dress became very tight at 
 the vision. 
 
 " Please'm, she won't go," said the waiter, in anticipation 
 of a refusal." She's a queer customer, she is, and walks 
 about as if the whole place belonged to her. Hadn't I 
 better fetch the police ? '' 
 
 " No ; " said the landlady, drawing a deep breath, to 
 loosen the accidental tightness of her dress. " She is half 
 mad, poor creature. Show her into No. i sitting room." 
 
 The woman was shown in, and the landlady followed, 
 rousing herself to resistance aB-she went. 
 
 "Well! what do you want?" said she, standing square 
 before the intruder and jingling a large bunch of keys. 
 
 " I am come for twenty pounds," replied the woman ; 
 and her countenance looked more middling than before. 
 
 " Then you must want it, for I haven't the money to give 
 you, and wouldn't give it if I had," said the landlady in a 
 bluff but uncomfortable voice. 
 
 " Well, my dear old friend ! H'm ! ha ! I am truly deso- 
 lated, but — che voiete, in soinma ? I cannot be without 
 bread." 
 
 " Bread ! you who have been living like a fighting-cock." 
 
 " I have been fighting with my miseries, but I do not 
 sing like a cock. It is you who do like that. Your big 
 gown shakes while you talk so grand, like the wings of an 
 old cock when he sings very big to another." 
 
 " Do have done with that rubbish ! I say that you have 
 been living better than me, and spending money when I was 
 working hard to save it." 
 
 " What does that import ? We are in the same boat — I 
 can say so much English as that. I must have my money, 
 or" 
 
 " Well ! What are you going to threaten now ? It 
 doesn't signify to me ; for if you bother me any more, I 
 shall sell off — there are plenty who will jump at taking the 
 business — and go away to America." 
 
 " Oh ! If they jump so to have it, you must have more 
 than twenty pounds."
 
 FKEYILLE CHASE. '213 
 
 " I haven't. I tell you. Can't you understand plain words ? 
 How can I have it, with vou sponging upon me in this 
 way." 
 
 " Sponging upon you ? Without doubt you are drunk with 
 your own bad beer and mixed cognac." 
 
 " You are enough to provoke a saint, with your nonsense 
 — playing the innocent and pretending to misunderstand 
 me. Now, look here. I haven't got the money, and can't 
 get it. Do you understand that ? " 
 
 " I understand that you tell me that, but I am not so 
 beast. What for have you that grand cameriere, and the 
 man who carries the baggage on his shoulder, and the man 
 who stands doing nothing at the door, if you have not the 
 money to pay them ? " 
 
 " You are a downright fool. Don't I want money to 
 pay those fellows ? How can I keep them and you too ? " 
 
 " Ah ! Well ! Hm ! I will go to the old " 
 
 " You great fool ! what will you get by that ? Do you 
 suppose you will get money out of /iiP/i ? I advise you not to 
 try that game. You'll get yourself into trouble, if you do, / 
 can tell you." 
 
 " And you too. It imports to you no less." 
 
 " Not a bit of it. What vou say will be worth nothing by 
 itself." 
 
 " Hm ! Will it not ? You will be made to say ; for I can 
 find another who shall say something — you know who. And 
 then what will you do — eh ? eh ? eh ? " 
 
 " I don't care for your threats now^ : so there ! And I 
 haven't the money to give. How was it you didn't find him 
 that must have given it to you ? I told you where to find 
 him." 
 
 " You told me to go where I could noi find him." 
 
 " It was your fault, if you didn't. And what have you 
 done with the ten-pound note I gave you last week, when I 
 hadn't another in the house .^" 
 
 " I have some of it." 
 
 " I should think so, indeed." 
 
 " But I must eat." 
 
 "Go and get an honest living. Go into service again, 
 ^'ou would spend your money when you had it. Work for 
 your living, like a respectable woman, instead of cadging 
 about in this shameful way."
 
 214 FREVILLE C 11 ASK. 
 
 The woman of the middhng countenance made no 
 answer, except a repetition of her former statement — " I 
 must have twenty pounds." The landlady became very red 
 in the face, and breathed hard. 
 
 " I haven't got it ; " she said ; " but I'll tell you what I 
 will do. I will give it you at Christmas, if you will 
 promise not to show your face here again for two years." 
 
 " No, no, my dear," said her persistent tormentor. " I 
 must have it now — twenty pounds, lire sterline." 
 
 The landlady's dress nearly burst, by reason of the 
 excessive demands on its expanding power ; but for the 
 space of a few seconds no articulate sound was given forth 
 by its occupant. 
 
 " I can't ; and that's all about it," she said at last. " Do 
 as you please, you nasty, idle, deceiving, revengeful, 
 ungrateful creature ! " 
 
 While she was pouring out this torrent of adjectives the 
 middling countenance underwent a rapid change. It did 
 not become less middling, but it brightened. An idea, not 
 quite new, but put to flight by the strife of tongues, had 
 struck her forcibly during the interval of silence, and she 
 expressed it in a business-like way. 
 
 '' Now, my dear, I love you very much " — here the land- 
 lady flounced and muttered — so I will do the possible for 
 you. What can we do without the money ? I must have 
 some, that is certain ; But I will give myself the pain to find 
 one other, who must give me money if I can find him ; and 
 I know where I can find him. Now, well ! Give me twenty 
 pounds, that I may have to eat while I am finding him." 
 
 " Pish ! Does he live in California, that you are to 
 spend twenty pounds in eating while you are after him ? " 
 
 " E un modo di dire. You know well what I mean. I 
 must have clothes and I must pay the tickets when I travel 
 in the train. Then let me speak : it shall be good for you. 
 I go to the other man. He would not love it if I — you 
 know what, and you know who he is. Shall I say his 
 name ? " 
 
 " Any one you like, /can't tell what's in your head, do 
 and bother anybody." 
 
 " Anybody ? I know well who he is, and you know. 
 Do not you remember when we were such very dear friends, 
 eh ? eh ? "
 
 FHEVILLE CHASK. 215 
 
 " Do have done with that blarney, and say what you want 
 to do, straight out. We are 7wt friends, and I wish I had 
 never seen your ugly face : so don't let us have any more of 
 that. What is it you want to do ? You've driven me into 
 a corner ; and I mean to show fight, if you try it on any 
 more. What is this dodge of yours ? " 
 
 " What has a dog to do with my travels, and the money I 
 shall get from him when he shall see me ? " 
 
 " Mercy upon me ! I wasn't talking about a dog. I 
 meant to say that I wouldn't stand any more of your tricks, 
 and I won't. But go on — go on." 
 
 " Now, my dearest friend, do be genteel. I say that I 
 shall go to him, and shall get much money from him ; and 
 then I shall not come to get it from vou. ^'ou understand 
 that, I think ? " 
 
 "Of course I do," said the landlady in a softer tone : 
 " but how can I believe you ? " 
 
 The woman of the middling countenance looked hard at 
 the bunch of keys and replied : — 
 
 " You shall see. I have never told you this secret 
 before, because I did not think of it. I shall tell it vou 
 now." 
 
 " I tell you I don't want to hear any of your secrets." 
 
 " But they are your secrets, my dear friend." 
 
 " I won't have any more of this. Will you go ? " 
 
 " When you shall have given me twent} pounds." 
 
 " You thick-headed donkey I I haven't got twenty 
 pounds to give." 
 
 "You shall find them when you shall know that they are 
 the last sterling pounds that you shall give to me.'" 
 
 " Well, if they were, why, of course "- 
 
 " Give them to me, then, to j)ay the travels, and the 
 hotels, and all this, that I may find him. Shall I tell you 
 who he is ? " 
 
 " Bother the man ! I don't care who you mean. Finish 
 what you've got to say." 
 
 " I shall find him, because I know where he lives. And 
 he must give me much money, and then I shall never come 
 to you no more." 
 
 " Well, if vou can do that — whv, of course " 
 
 " 1 can do it. I know where he lives, and he must pay 
 me much money ; but the travels, you know, cost the
 
 216 l-KEVJLLE CM ASK. 
 
 money. Vou must give me twenty jjounds now, and I shall 
 never ask money from you no more." 
 
 The landlady paused and reflected. 
 
 " If you wait a bit," said she, "I shall be able to give it 
 you ; but I really haven't it at present." 
 
 " What for are those keys, if not to open the box where 
 is the money ? " 
 
 "They don't open the money-box ; and if they did, there 
 is nothing in it but some silver." 
 
 '* Then give me the silver " 
 
 " Yes, and leave myself without a penny, when I am near 
 run dry already." 
 
 " Well 1 Hm ! then I must go and tell, and they will 
 make you tell " 
 
 " What, cut your own throat to spite me " 
 
 " It shall be so. I am desperate. Give me twenty 
 pounds, and I shall not trouble you no more. If not you 
 shall hear too much. I go now." 
 
 The landlady placed her portly figure before the door, 
 and considered the case with all her might ; but no practical 
 solution presented itself, for twenty pounds w^ere not in her 
 possession at that moment. 
 
 " You could get the money," remarked the unpleasant 
 woman, moving nearer to the door. 
 
 " Yes, and ruin my credit." 
 
 " That is not my affair. Give me the twenty pounds, and 
 I shall never come to you no more." 
 
 The landlady w^as driven to desperation. 
 
 " What am I to do," she thought, " to get rid of this 
 beast of a woman ? I could get rid of her for ever by giving 
 her twenty pounds — I see that — and I haven't it, and can't 
 get it without ruining my credit in a small town like this, 
 where everybody knows everybody's business. There is one 
 person, that queer old aunt of mine, who — why, there 
 she is!" 
 
 There was a confused murmur of two voices in amicable 
 dispute, then a smothered knock, a decisive push against the 
 door ; and old Susan, of the Four Ways, walked into the 
 room, her head cannoning against the middling countenance, 
 as it gave a last warning at the door. 
 
 " I ask your pardon, ma'am," said Susan. "I were in such 
 a hurry. I don't often see her — she's my niece, ma'am —
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 217 
 
 because I live a good bit away ; for an old woman like me 
 to walk." 
 
 " Yes, it's a long time since I saw her," said the landlady, 
 addressing the Italian. *' I have a word to say to her about 
 some business. Don't go till I come back." 
 
 The mysterious visitor assented, and old Susan followed 
 her niece into the little room with the glass door. 
 
 " She's a queer sort of customer, that woman you saw," 
 said the latter, when the glass door had been safely shut. 
 
 " I knowed she were," answered Susan, opening her eyes 
 and looking forth into space. " Whatever could make you 
 let such a sort as that into the place ?" 
 
 "Well, you see, she has known better days, and I 
 remember her then, a long while ago ; and I don't like to 
 give her the cold shoulder now, when she's in distress." 
 
 " That's right, in course, but lor' ! she's got such a bad 
 look about her ! " 
 
 " She's a deal better than she looks. Trouble, you know 
 — trouble makes people look different from what they have 
 been." 
 
 " It do. I mind how Tom Simcox, as lived groom at 
 Hazeley, and got married to a drab of a girl from Rathole 
 Street — she wasn't no comfort to him nohow — and he took 
 to drinking and lost his place, and the last time I saw him 
 he were a-cadging about with Methodist tracts, and getting 
 drunk when he could get the chance." 
 
 " Just so. She didn't get drunk, but she has seen trouble ; 
 and there it is. I have helped her once or twice ; and this 
 is the last time, for she has the chance to get on well, if she 
 can just turn the corner and pay what she has to pay. She 
 has come to me to help her over the stile, and I would with 
 ])leasure, because I know it would set her right once for all ; 
 but I have had such a lot to pay out lately, with doing up 
 the house which had got dingy, and one thing and another, 
 and the railroad taking the custom away more and more, 
 year after year, and making new stables this year, for they 
 had got too bad to go on with : and so I haven't it to 
 give her," 
 
 " That's a bad job, if she's what you take her to be," said 
 Susan. 
 
 " She's just what I said, and she'll go to ruin, unless I help 
 her; and I can't help her." 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 218 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 '' I don't understand them foreigners," answered Susan ; 
 " but in course it's bad to see a respectable woman, as 
 you've knowed before, a going to rack and ruin for want of 
 a bit of help. But lor' ! some on 'em is that deceiving, as 
 you can't believe a word of it all, and goes and does no good 
 with it, but takes and throws away what you've give 'em, and 
 gets worse off than they was before. I mind lending Widow 
 Perks five pounds — it's eight years come Michaelmas — to 
 pay what she owed at the shop and get a sewing machine, 
 as she said she'd make a living off. But, bless you ! she 
 never made nothing except it was fine clothes for her 
 daughter to strut about in o' Sundays, and I never got paid, 
 nor never shall." 
 
 "That's quite right : it's disheartening work, in general, 
 to help anybody. But I know all about this woman, and I 
 should be sure of what I was doing." 
 
 " Well, you had ought to know her best ; but to me 
 she's about the deceivingest-looking woman as ever I set 
 eyes on. I wouldn't trust her with nothing, no farther than 
 I could see her, nor yet so far. But lor' ! Eliza, whatever 
 are you taking on about, all of a sudden ? " 
 
 " I can't bear it any longer, aunt," said the landlady, who 
 had lost courage at last and was sobbing in a corner. " I'll 
 sell everything off, and go and hide my head in some place 
 where nobody knows me. I've got to the end of what I 
 can bear. I am broken down by it, and that's the 
 truth." 
 
 " But whatever has broke you down like this ? " 
 
 " It's that horrid woman there. Years ago she got me 
 mixed up in a transaction of hers " 
 
 " Them long words," remarked Susan, " never means no 
 good. And couldn't you get out of it ? " 
 
 " No. She dragged me into it " 
 
 " Well, I wouldn't never be dragged into a transaction : 
 it don't sound right." 
 
 " I was deceived about it : but there ! She had got hold 
 of me, and could say I knew about it ; and she threatens to 
 make it known, unless I give her twenty pounds to pay for her 
 journey to where she will be provided for. But what with 
 the extra expenses this year, and having given money to her 
 twice before since Christmas " 
 
 " What ! she's kep' all on a-threatening, has she ?"
 
 FltEVILLE CHASE. 219 
 
 " Yes, because she had spent the money and had nothing 
 to live upon ; but now there are those that will provide for 
 her, and all she wants is to be helped on to the place." 
 
 " Is she a-going there with four post-horses and a man 
 and a maid, as it's to cost such a lot ?" 
 
 " It's the distance, you see, aunt. She comes from so 
 far off." 
 
 " Where missis went, three years ago, is it ? Well, that 
 is a good way, to be sure." 
 
 " Yes, and she can't go without the money. And if I 
 don't give it to her, she will get so savage that she will do 
 what she threatens, I know ; for she is as revengeful as she 
 can be, and won't believe I haven't got the money. I can't 
 borrow it from the bank, and have it all over the place, after 
 keeping my credit and enjoying a good name so long. I 
 must give up, and sell the business for what I can get — sell 
 it for an old song, as it always is when you have to sell in 
 a hurry, and go into service again, if any one will have me, 
 with my bad leg that I can't stand on for half an hour 
 together most times. But that's what I must do. It's a 
 hard case to be sold up, as you may say, and ruined, and 
 driven out upon the world when one's past work, and all 
 because I was too easy ; but there it is, and I must do it at 
 once. I shall tell her that I haven't got the money, and she 
 must do her worst ; and then I'll go and see the auctioneer 
 about the sale. Wait a moment till I have been and told 
 the woman." 
 
 She walked across the room, and was opening the glass- 
 door, when old Susan stopped further proceedings by 
 saying : — 
 
 " Don't do anything of the kind. I've got the money. 
 You must'nt go for to sell up because a nasty beast like her 
 has been a-robbing of you." 
 
 " Well, since you are so very kind as to make the offer," 
 said the landlady, " I don't know how to refuse. It would 
 be a pity to be ruined in such a way, with this property and 
 the business, and money coming in." 
 
 " Which it happens lucky as I've got it with me, what I 
 had kep' a long while going on, and never come into 
 Lyneham to put it in the savings bank till to-day. So here 
 it is. Now you go and get shut of that spiteful creetur. 
 There was another on 'em about 'tother day, and come to
 
 220 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 the Four Ways, he did, and wanted to get inside to speak to 
 a woman missis had give shelter to, who had seen better 
 days, leastwise she made believe she had ; but he wanted to 
 rob the house, as I told Muggles the p'liceman. It's a gang 
 of them all together. But you go and give this one what she 
 wants, and see her off the premises." 
 
 Her grateful niece needed not a second bidding. She 
 walked with due dignity into No. i sitting-room, and said to 
 the woman of the middling countenance : — 
 
 *' Here is the money. I had to borrow it from a person 
 who has worked hard for it and was going to put it into the 
 savings bank. I shall have to go without winter clothes and 
 many other things to pay it off, and I shan't be able to give 
 you any more ever. If you come again you will get nothing, 
 and I shall set off and go to America. You have told me 
 that this money would take you where you can get what you 
 want, and you have promised me that you will never ask me 
 for any more. Am I to believe you, or not ? If there is 
 any doubt about it, I shall not give it to you, and I shall sell 
 up the place at once and go away. Which is it to be ?" 
 
 " Give me the twenty pounds, my dear, and you shall 
 never see me no more," answered the woman, stretching out 
 all her fingers towards the twenty sovereigns which the 
 landlady held in a brown holland bag. " I go to hwi now, 
 and I shall get money from him, I promise it to you. Shall 
 I say one word to him, and make him give you some ? 
 You see I do not forget an old friend, when I can do her a 
 service." 
 
 At this suggestive offer the landlady was struck speechless 
 with repressed indignation. Her ample throat made a con- 
 vulsive effort, as if the affront were a potent liquid, and she 
 labouring to swallow it decently. The middling countenance 
 was exclusively directed to the bag ; and her mouth, forming 
 itself by degrees into an angular smile, put the action into 
 words. 
 
 " Now, my dear," said the repulsive specimen of self- 
 lowered humanity, " I have promised, and I shall do that 
 what I have said. Give me the money, and I shall go for 
 my affair, and you shall never see this poor face no more, 
 unless you shall wish to see your dear friend. I shall 
 come always, if you shall wish to see me, but not till that 
 time."
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 221 
 
 " Here they are, then. Where is your purse ? " 
 
 '* Here, here — this httle thing shall hold it very well." 
 
 A small leather bag was held up and the twenty sovereigns 
 poured into it, after being carefully counted over in both 
 languages. Then came the parting. 
 
 " Good-bye, my dear," said the satisfied levier of black 
 mail. I shall always think of you." 
 
 " Good-bye," said the landlady. " This way, if you 
 please, ma'am." 
 
 She opened the door and stood outside, pointing with her 
 finger, but, while doing so, found herself suddenly folded in 
 the arms of her persecutor, and kissed violently on both 
 cheeks. 
 
 " That will do, now," she gasped out, endeavouring to 
 disengage herself with dignity. 
 
 " Now you be off," added Susan, who had appeared on 
 the scene as soon as the door was opened. We don't want 
 such as you about. You're a pack of you, you and that chap 
 as Muggles ought to have took up, and that tramp as took 
 in missis. You walk off now ! " 
 
 " Yes ; I'm sure we've had enough of you and the lot ot 
 you," chimed in the waiter. " Don't you know as all 
 vagrants found in the town will be prosecuted ? That's law. 
 You'll have the p'lice after you if you don't mind." 
 
 "You might, indeed, if they heard of it," whispered the 
 landlady. " Extorting money is a punishable offence, and 
 you might be sent to prison. / shouldn't have the power to 
 save you." 
 
 This cautionary advice rid the much-tried landlady of her 
 troublesome but successful visitor, and Susan was on the 
 point of starting homewards in a baker's cart when Sherborne 
 and De Beaufoy, who had driven into Lyneham to see the 
 hack recommended by the latter some days before, walked 
 into No. I sitting-room. 
 
 " I don't exactly know why we came in here," said De 
 Beaufoy, walking up to the window and looking out. 
 
 " I do, as far as I am concerned," answered Sherborne. 
 " I am fond of the room. I came here when I first went to 
 Bramscote, and I came here when I was going there again, 
 after all my troubles, to end them by the happiest of 
 marriages. I always walk in here. But there is the dog- 
 cart."
 
 222 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 He left the room and saw old Susan coming out of the 
 glass-door. 
 
 "You here?" he said. " I never saw you so far from the 
 Four Ways before. Let me take you home." 
 
 Susan curtseyed, and followed them to the house-door, 
 where the waiter stood in readiness for all demands. 
 
 ''What's the last news, John?" said De Beaufoy. 
 
 "Well, sir," said the waiter, " I don't know of much, only 
 they've been and put off the wedding, and Lady Dytchley 
 and the young lady is gone off to France, or somewhere. 
 They went o' Wednesday morning from Netherwood." 
 
 "That's true, sir," said Susan, as she settled herself in the 
 seat behind. "The lawyers was there last Monday, with 
 their writings and all, to finish up ; and Sir Richard he took 
 hisself off when they was a-waiting for him to make it right ; 
 and the lawyers had to go away, and Squire Freville, and 
 there was an awful rumpus about it ; and her Ladyship is 
 going about telling 'em she were that ill she ??iust go to foreign 
 parts immediate.'^ 
 
 " I thought Lady Dytchley would try it on," said De 
 Beaufoy, as soon as the dogcart was in motion. " I saw it 
 in her face, and gathered it from the tone of her talking. 
 She means mischief, means this to be the beginning of the 
 end." 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder," said Sherborne. " I don't see how 
 she can carry it out ; but she may bring them into a most 
 painful and difficult position, if the poor girl's natural pro- 
 tector is to take himself off whenever she wants his support." 
 
 " Dytchley ? Oh ! you may depend on his acting like a 
 cur about it. ' A plague o ' such backing.' But society will 
 pull her up, if she goes too far. It would be too gross a 
 case for people to stand." 
 
 " Not if she pleaded religious scruples, and worked them 
 persuasively. * C etait plus fort que moi^'' would be admitted, 
 I think." 
 
 " No. It would be said that they ought to have been 
 brought forward at first — not years after, as an excuse for 
 making her husband break a solemn promise to a man of 
 such high character as Freville. Society resents a gross 
 breach of faith, as a danger to itself; for people know that, 
 if unnoticed, it becomes a precedent and an example that 
 may bring the like on themselves in some form or other."
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 223 
 
 " Happily they do, as a rule," said Sherborne, " but not 
 always. The case may be imperfectly known, and I suspect 
 this is. Is it generally known that theirs is a positive 
 engagement, agreed to beforehand by the parents, on both 
 sides, and not a half-understanding between them, tolerated 
 under conditions? I don't quite think it is." 
 
 " I do : fori have heard lots of j^eople talk of it, and say 
 what a romantic sort of thing it was for two fathers to make 
 such an agreement. The thing is known well enough, and 
 if there is any attempt at breaking it off, I wnll refresh 
 people's memories in such a way that she will not find it 
 advantageous. I can, and certainly wnll, if she does ; but 
 she won't. She might (and no doubt will) try to persuade 
 Miss Dytchley out of it, but that is not to be done. Why, 
 here comes the liberal Catholic himself. I'll make him 
 remember meeting me to-day — Thoucofjt'st in sucha question- 
 able shape, that I will speak to thee. " 
 
 Sir Richard, who was jogging home comfortably from 
 Bramscote, appeared to suspect some evil intent, for he 
 suddenly increased his pace to a smart canter, and waved 
 his hand in token of hurried recognition ; but Sherborne, by 
 an invisible movement of the wrist, made his horse swerve 
 across the narrow road, and pulled him up on his haunches, 
 leaving the captured horseman just sufficient space to keep 
 clear of the ditch. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said he in the most natural manner 
 imaginable. " I don't know what my horse could have been 
 about " 
 
 " Oh, well ! they do sometimes — one can't help these 
 things," answered Sir Richard, remembering but too well 
 how the similar misbehaviour of Everard's horse, on a 
 certain occasion, had caused the collision of two carriages, a 
 fly, a curate, and a man lighting a pipe, whereat the latter 
 swore, and the family coach drove off in haste, with Lady 
 Dytchley and the impending tantrum in it. 
 
 " I have been to call at Bramscote," he said, while 
 Sherborne was backing his horse to make way, "and to 
 Hazeley, where I had the pleasure of finding them at home. 
 ]Mrs. Atherstone was there, which was very pleasant. A 
 wonderful old lady she is." 
 
 '' She is a wonderful reader of character," said De 
 Beaufoy.
 
 224 FREVILLE CHASE 
 
 Sir Richard, who had reasons for disHking that sort of 
 literature, began to move onward. 
 
 " By the by," said De Beaufoy, jumping out of the dog- 
 cart, going close to Sir Richard, and speaking in a low voice, 
 "when is the wedding to be ? " 
 
 " Oh ! very soon, you know. 'I'hey will be back soon." 
 
 " The sooner the better, iox your sake. It's a serious thing 
 for you, worse than it seems — a good deal. But perhaps I 
 oughtn't to say so — only I have known you so long." 
 
 " Serious for me ? Why, what have I to do with " 
 
 " So people say. It's the talk of everybody that you won't 
 have anything to do with what you did yourself. All the 
 waiters and chambermaids and ostlers are talking about it. 
 It's all over Lyneham that you ran away when the settle- 
 ments were to be signed, and it's even known beyond here. 
 People are commenting on it and drawing conclusions of a 
 most unpleasant kind. I tell you, as an old friend, what I 
 know to be the case. You must do as you please." 
 
 " Well, you see, one can't always, as things go. Circum- 
 stances are so awkward." 
 
 " As to circumstances, we have as much to do with them 
 as any one else has. No circumstances are strong enough 
 to make a man break his word without his own consent." 
 
 " But who says I have ? Really this is going beyond 
 what " 
 
 " Beyond what most men would take the trouble to do. 
 I know it is, but I am taking the trouble to do it for your 
 good. The thing is very unpleasantly talked about already, 
 and will be much more, if you don't mind ; for, after what 
 has occurred, people 7i'ill think that the marriage is being 
 surreptitiously broken off, and unless it soon takes place, 
 they will always think that you wanted to break your solemn 
 promise about it." 
 
 " But my dear De Beaufoy," said Sir Richard, fidgeting 
 in his saddle and feeling very hot in both cheeks, " there is 
 no wish to do anything of the kind, and never was — I assure 
 you there is not." 
 
 " I am not supposing that there was. I am advising you, 
 as an old friend, not to let it look so. You are in a false 
 position about it now, to use the mildest term ; and if any 
 harm should come of it — you understand what I mean — the 
 whole responsibility will lie with you."
 
 FKEVJLI.K CIIASK. 225 
 
 " But it's very hard, though," pleaded Sir Richard, " to 
 shove it all on me — it really is." 
 
 " Nobody shoves it on you, my good friend. It is you 
 who are trying to shove it off you." 
 
 "It's all very well to say that; hut it's an infernally 
 awkward position, mine is." 
 
 " I know it is ; but you made it, and will have to answer, 
 not only for making it, but for whatever may happen in con- 
 sequence that you have the right, the power and the 
 obligation of preventing — which you most distinctly have in 
 this case. You can't shift your responsibility on another 
 person. You may look away from it, and try to persuade 
 yourself that people are hard upon you ; but you will have 
 to answer for it to God at last, when you can no longer 
 shove anything off. I am sure you will think of what I have 
 said, and act upon it, because you must see that I have told 
 you the simple truth for your own best interests in every 
 way. One often fails to see a very simple thing till some- 
 body points it out, and then one wonders why one hadn't 
 seen it. I feel sure that this is the first chance you have had 
 of hearing it put plainly before you as it really is " 
 
 " I wish it were ! " muttered Sir Richard, taking advan- 
 tage of a small space between De Beaufoy and the ditch to 
 make his escape. "Twice in one afternoon ! — only Father 
 Merivale was very considerate, I 7)mst say, and didn't tell me 
 that all the waiters and chambermaids in the county were 
 bawling it out all over the place." 
 
 " I could have better spared a better man," remarked De 
 Beaufoy, getting into the dogcart. " It's no matter. 
 Some of it will stick — perhaps as much as he is able to 
 hold." 
 
 " Please, Squire," said Susan from the hind seat, " may 
 I be took on to Hazeley. I wants to see Mrs. Atherstone 
 particular." 
 
 " By all means, and taken home too," said Sherborne. 
 
 Sir Richard trotted on, telling himself at intervals that he 
 had a great mind to go and fish in Norway. 
 
 Old Susan sat bolt upright in the dogcart, saying to herself, 
 " Won't missis stare to think of the woman a-coming like 
 that ? But I expect she's seen plenty such in foreign parts. 
 It's a gang of 'em — this nasty impudent thing as began 
 hugging and kissing (I'd have took and boxed her ears, if it
 
 226 FKEVILLK CHASK. 
 
 had been me) and Jane Davis as come off the door-step, and 
 him as kep' all on a-ringing at the bell. We shouldn't have 
 heard no more of the lot, if Muggles had acted proper." 
 
 Mrs. Atherstone was not at home when they arrived, but 
 Susan took possession of her room, waited there till she came 
 into it, and began at once. 
 
 " Whatever do you think, 'm, I've heard to-day ? It was 
 when I went up to Lyneham, to see my niece, as keeps the 
 White Hart and put the money into the savings bank — only 
 I didn't get it in — all along of her coming cadging with a 
 wicked lie against them as had been so good to her. No 
 doubt but what she's one of the same lot as that Jane Davis 
 and the chap as wanted to rob the house, and would, if it 
 hadn't been for me a-showing him the old blunderbuss. 
 There's a gang of them. And that chap was a-hanging 
 about t'other day to spy for this here woman ; for he stopped 
 at the White Hart, and ordered all manner of rubbidge for 
 dinner (the waiter told me) to make believe he'd some 
 business to be there, and then this nasty impudent thing 
 come and " 
 
 " I can't understand a word of all this," interrupted Mrs. 
 Atherstone. " Who on earth is the nasty impudent thing ? 
 And what did she do ? " 
 
 " Got twenty pounds out of my poor niece, 'm, just when 
 she were short because of a lot of things as she'd had to do 
 on the premises, and money given twice before since 
 Christmas — a nasty, good-for-nothing creetur." 
 
 " More fool she to give it." 
 
 " Well, 'm, you see I wouldn't tell it to nobody else, in 
 course ; but that wicked woman as come there had got my 
 poor niece into some kind of trouble as they called a 
 transaction, and she had to be got rid of." 
 
 " I hope you didn't pay for it with the money you took to 
 put into the savings' bank," said Mrs. Atherstone. 
 
 " Well, you see, 'm, what could I do ? The woman said 
 positive she wouldn't never ask again ; and if she hadn't 
 been give it, she'd have took and made a blow-up. 'Liza 
 would have had to sell the business and cut off, because she 
 shouldn't be brought to shame by this here beast of a 
 woman as had got her into a transaction. But I shall get 
 my money all right. The business is good at the White 
 Hart, only she'd had such a lot to pay just now."
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 227 
 
 Mrs. Atherstone remained silent so long that Susan began 
 to feel uncomfortable as to the legality of paying off the 
 woman of the middling countenance. At last she said : — 
 
 " My dear old Susan, whatever you do, never let yourself 
 be drawn into paying for a transaction again." 
 
 *' No, 'm, I won't," said Susan, preparing to return home. 
 " I didn't never like them long words." 
 
 Old Susan went home to the Four Ways, and Mrs. 
 Atherstone sat in her chair till it was time to dress for 
 dinner, reflecting on what she had heard. 
 
 " This must be some cheating affair," she thought, *' and 
 the fat landlady has been let into it. But why did that 
 man come and hang about the Four Ways ? — and why did 
 Jane Davis, the woman I took care of when she was 
 evidently starving, disappear as soon as he appeared, and 
 write me a rigmarole about circumstances ? I don't see how 
 this man and Jane Davis can have helped the Italian 
 woman to get the twenty pounds ; for they were not at the 
 inn, and the woman got the money by her own threats. 
 But it seems that the man stopped at the White Hart, 
 apparently for no purpose, as he did nothing when he was 
 there except ordering ' rubbidge ' for his dinner. I can't 
 make anything of it. If the three have anything to do with 
 each other, which I doubt, Jane Davis must have been 
 drawn in, like the landlady, and drained of her money by 
 black mail given to the man. That accounts for her alarm 
 and her flight and the tone of her letter to me." 
 
 This solution did not quite satisfy the acute old lady, but 
 as nothing better had presented itself when the dressing bell 
 rang, she laid the subject aside as one that only concerned 
 the landlady of the White Hart.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " ic Gods '. anniJiilatc both time and space. 
 And make two lovers happy." 
 
 —Com US, 
 
 VERARD was satisfied indeed, but not con- 
 tented ; for contentment is satisfaction with 
 what we actually have — contenius qui con- 
 thiei quod animo satisfaciat — while he was 
 only satisfied by anticipation and, during 
 the next few days, was made practically 
 aware of the difference between present 
 and future happiness by finding that, in 
 spite of his bright anticipations, the present was painful and 
 unsettled. He read Ida's letter continually, carried it about, 
 thought of it always ; but the way of his life had been 
 broken up in front, and he must wait till it was passable. 
 He tried the stiff reading again, but its power to fix his 
 attention had ceased with the necessity. Then he began to 
 skim over light and miscellaneous books, thinking that by 
 their variety they might at least distract his mind ; and then 
 he tried hard exercise. Both these attempts failed worse 
 than the first. When stiff reading could not hold his atten- 
 tion, looser thoughts could hardly be expected to do so ; 
 and bodily exercise takes us indeed out of the spot wt were 
 last in, but not out of ourselves. Finally he went into the 
 chapel and remained there till late at night. There alone 
 he found peace, and there he passed a great part of his 
 time till, ten days afterwards, he set out for Bey n ham.
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 229 
 
 Change of scene, like the characters of pubhc men, is 
 overrated and undervalued. The Lady Dytchleys assume 
 it to be a panacea, and Horace's words, 
 
 " Calum 71011 animu7)i ftiutani, qui trans niaje cttrrntit,^' 
 
 are sometimes taken too literally ; but, exaggeration apart, 
 change of scene is a great fact, if the fresh place is free from 
 painful associations, and you are neither quite alone nor in 
 the yet more lonely state of feeling yourself distinctly one 
 among many. Beynham was a fresh place, free from associa- 
 tions of any kind, and Everard was not alone there in either 
 sense. The guests were just what Lord De Freville's letter 
 and Hubert's commentary had led him to expect. Their 
 companionship was morally uncongenial and intellectually 
 unsuitable ; but what made it so was the result of habit and 
 example rather than of bad intentions, and after he had 
 been there two days, the tone of their conversation im- 
 proved, they knew not why. Lord de Freville, who was 
 more impressionable than his friends, felt the improvement, 
 and being more inclined to think than they were, sought the 
 cause, till he found it in the tone of Everard's mind, the 
 strength of his character, and something besides that in- 
 creased the effect of both. What this something could be, 
 that set the rest going, he knew not though he was con- 
 tinually trying to find out the trick, but it so attracted his 
 attention and roused his curiosity, that he pressed Everard 
 to lengthen the visit. 
 
 The mode of life there, whilst the other guests remained, 
 was monotonous, because the pursuit of amusement was 
 unbroken. There were men who thought they could make 
 life availably longer by killing the time that measures it ; 
 and, as Lord de Freville cave them all possible means of 
 doing so, day after day rolled on like wavelets on the sands, 
 leaving an impression of sound, motion and repeated 
 endings. 
 
 They went their ways, then others came and went, and 
 then there was only Everard. Hubert now thought that he 
 should find an opportunity of having it out with him and 
 settling the question — to be, or not to be; but Lord de 
 Freville thought the occasion no less opportune for satisfy- 
 ing his own desire of finding out the trick that metamor- 
 phosed the table-talk, and as he was both inclined and
 
 230 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 accustomed to late hours, he kept them so long in the 
 smoking-room at night, that in the morning there was very 
 little spare time till he was up and active. 
 
 This state of things lasted three days. On the fourth 
 morning Everard had two letters by post, one from the 
 Marquis Moncalvo, the other from Sir Richard Dytchley. 
 The latter, being unexpected, and the cause of it doubtful, 
 was opened first. It may be divided into two parts, a 
 narrative and a request. The substance of the narrative was 
 this — Two days before, while shooting, a wounded partridge 
 got up between him and a short-sighted friend. He hap- 
 pened to turn round at the moment, and, as the bird flew 
 low, the shot struck him, inflicting a wound not honourable 
 but exceedingly painful. This unpleasant wound had laid 
 him up in a state of great discomfort, and under the per- 
 suasive influence of the shots that were sticking into him 
 like the heads of large pins, enlivening his conscience, pro- 
 voking his memory, and stimulating his intelligence, he 
 began to see his own conduct about the marriage in a strong 
 if not a new light. Kept awake by pain and fever, and 
 unable to lay the question aside, he said to himself aloud : — 
 
 " It was a pity, a great pity. I should like to see Everard. 
 I am afraid I rather got out of his way before — the thing 
 was so awkward — and tell him how soon it will be all right, 
 and so on. Besides, he would be such a comfort to one, 
 when one is laid up like this — he's got such a lot in him — 
 and poor Elfrida has no one to ride with while I am in this 
 way. I must write him a line to-morrow," &c., &c., &c. 
 
 The letter that he wrote was short, but its meaning could 
 not be mistaken. Everard felt that he must go to Nether- 
 wood, and decided to go without delay. 
 
 The Marquis Moncalvo's letter was long and elaborate, 
 containing many gracefully-turned sentences appreciative of 
 Everard and Freville Chase, many incidental anecdotes, and 
 many abstract opinions derived from his experiences in 
 England. He began with an apology for not writing sooner, 
 and then explained what the impediment had been : — 
 
 " Though I write frofn here ( Florence )^^ he said, " I have 
 been obliged to make a much longer journey, with busifiess to do 
 in thei?itert'als. Besides that, I have had an attack of my 
 fo?-mer ilhiess, zvhich was driven away by the invigorating air
 
 FEEVILLE CHASE. 2;U 
 
 of Freville Chase, bid 7'etHr?ied in its Jiative place, Rome, 
 where it lives and zuill live, ivith more or less vitality, not- 
 withstanding the eucalyptus. It is wo7ide'rfnl that people do 
 not see how ill-suited Rome is to be the capital of Italy. I had 
 the unec^pected pleasuix of meeting lady and Miss Dytchhx 
 on board the steampacket, a?id travelling i7i their company as 
 far as Paris. Lady Oxborough asked me if I had seen the 
 ghost in the toiver at Freville Chase. I told her that I had 
 not even heard of such a visitor there, but thai I jnust be the 
 ghost, if there is one ; which is true. For one night, after I 
 had left you at the door of your bedroom, I felt a great 
 curiosity to k?iow what was on the other side of the great door 
 at the end of the corridor, and as Iiventin a little way, leaving 
 the door open, the light of my candle and the echo of my foot- 
 steps may have been mistake?i for something preternatural. 
 She then said that a light had lately bee?i seen in a wifidow of 
 the tower, but I annihilated that ghost by telling her that your 
 private sitti?ig-room is there. She shook her head, declaring 
 that she would not have the ghost-story spoilt, and that there 
 ought to be several ghosts there. ' Not a neic o?ie at Freville 
 Cliase,^ said I — but as the train teas the?i stopping at Amie7is 
 7ve went to lu7icheon. And now I am going to make a7i ope7i 
 confessio7i, I ought to have made it before I left your 
 hospitable house, but I was so asha7ned of the culiiable careless- 
 ness of which I a77i goi?ig to tell you, that I defer 7'ed doing so 
 till the ?iext 7fW7yii?ig, and then there was no tit7ie. The 7iote 
 from Nethe7-wood was lost through my fault. lilien I ca7ne 
 out to walk with you in the Chase, after our return fro7n 
 Hazeley, 1 77iet a 7nan i7i the courtyard who said that he 
 wa7ited to give you a note. I told hi7n you we7-e i7i the Chase, 
 a7id offered to take it. The i7ia7i said so77iethi7ig about givi7ig 
 it i7ito your otu?i ha7ids, but as he held it out, I thought he 
 intended 7)ie to have it, and I took it. Whilst I was looki7ig 
 for you, I put the 7iote into //ly pocket i7i order to light a cigar, 
 and after walking about a long ti7ne without finding you, 
 returned to the house. You were not in, and I ivrote S07ne 
 letters. IVJien I dressed for <U7iner I had fo7gotten the note 
 and the whole affair, and I 7iever thought of the 7iote again 
 till I heard you speak of it 071 Wednesday evefiing. My first 
 impulse was to tell you the whole story then, but I was so 
 shocked at havi7ig i?iadve7'te7itly been the cause of so 77iuch 
 mischief that I really kneiv 7iot what to say, a7id so I thought
 
 232 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 that I ivoidd wait till the ?norning. But tiothing ought to be 
 deferred that can be done promptly. In the mortiing I did not 
 see you till we met at breakfast (though I might, if I had gone 
 to Mass, as I ought to have done), and then, to say the truth, 
 J was so ashamed of my worse than stupidity, my culpable 
 forgetful ness, that I hesitated to speak of it before young Hubert 
 Frevtlle. Then the fly came to the door, and the opportufiity 
 was gone. I cannot find words to express the regret and 
 vexation that I feel about this occurrence. It would have been 
 bad e?iough at any time, and under the circumstances it is 
 enough to make you hate me as lo?ig as you live. You are too 
 good a Catholic to do that, but you might be fairly expected to 
 go so far in that direction as charity ^vill permit. I hope you 
 •will do so, for I cannot afford to lose the most valued friendship 
 that I ever had.'' 
 
 The rest of the letter was miscellaneous. Everard read 
 it after breakfast, and left the room, motioning Hubert to 
 follow him. They walked into the shrubbery, and when 
 they were out of sight, Everard said : — 
 
 " I must go this morning. I am very sorry for it, but it 
 can't be helped. Read this." 
 
 Hubert took Sir Richard's letter, read it, and said : — 
 
 " I am very sorry that you have to go, very sorry, for 
 every kind of reason : but the shot was a lucky one. I 
 hope the man missed the bird altogether and sent the whole 
 charge into Sir Richard. The more the better. It will 
 give him just what I want for myself, time to think, and 
 something to drive the right sort of thoughts well in : only 
 I should prefer a less material method." 
 
 "You shall have both the one and the other," said 
 Everard, "when you come to Freville Chase, as much 
 leisure as you like, and what little I can do to put in the way 
 of finding out the truth for yourself. But are you quite 
 sure that you realise all the probable and improbable conse- 
 quences of what you want me to do for you?" 
 
 " Quite. Whatever may happen, I must and will go on 
 with it. I know too much to remain as I am. I don't 
 expect my uncle will make a row about it." 
 
 " Nor I, since I have seen so much of him. My im- 
 pression, from various things he has said, is that he respects 
 the Catholic Church historically, admires it from an aesthetic
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 233 
 
 point of view, is half-ashamed of the ancestor who aposta- 
 tised, and would be a Catholic if he had any religious belief 
 at all. He would not, I think, object to your being a 
 Catholic. He might even envy you and say, ' If I could 
 only believe it ! ' But human nature, without the help of 
 the supernatural, is not to be counted on, and you ^cannot 
 be sure about it." 
 
 " No. I have thought of all that : but it doesn't in- 
 fluence me in the least, one way or the other. I know too 
 much to remain where I am — and there is an end of it. 
 Try to come back here in a week or two, and put me in the 
 way of finding my bearings. Do you think my uncle will 
 ever get beyond the appreciative state ? He really is so 
 good and charitable and honest." 
 
 " I don't know what to think. He is all you say of him, 
 and more : but it isn't enough jto start with. Still I should 
 not be surprised. I half expect that he will, somehow or 
 other, die in the Church." 
 
 " So do I. It seems odd that I should feel anxious about 
 it, when before I am not yet sure about myself; but I do. 
 Perhaps I am surer of myself than I can account for. Any- 
 how, I am sure that if any one can influence him, you will." 
 
 " Perhaps, for we have fitted wonderfully well — I don't 
 know why — agreed generally, and agreed to disagree, in a 
 sort of provisional way that always holds out a vague possi- 
 bility of agreement. He has been extraordinarily kind to 
 me. I have enjoyed a very agreeable and interesting visit, 
 and I have gained a valuable friend. And now I want you 
 to read this other letter. Part of it may give you a better 
 opinion of the writer." 
 
 " Moncalvo, of course," answered Hubert. "I shall be 
 surprised if it does." 
 
 He read it through carefully, gave it back, and muttered, 
 "Well! what of it?" 
 
 " Why, didn't you notice what he says about the note V 
 
 "Very much; and I noticed that he doesn't say what he 
 did with it. He says too much. If he had told you that 
 he had lost it, the story would at least sound natural ; but 
 the pocket tells too much and too little. If it was left there, 
 he must have found it the next time he put on the coat. 
 People don't travel about with a coat for every day in the 
 week."
 
 234 FKKVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " No ; but he had a good many, I think, and he went * 
 away two days after. There is no reason to suppose that he 
 wore that coat again in the meanwhile." 
 
 " Why didn't he say, then, that he hadn't come across the 
 note, because he hadn't put the coat on ? And why didn't 
 he look into the pockets of his coats and his breeches, and 
 every pocket he had, when he heard you making a row 
 about the note ?" 
 
 "Well, no doubt because he was so annoyed at what he 
 had done, that he forgot everything except what he had for- 
 gotten, and only remembered having left it in his pocket 
 afterwards. His not saying what he had done with the note 
 tells in his favour. If he had meant to deceive, he would 
 not have forgotten to explain that." 
 
 "Well, no; I never supposed that he forgot the note on 
 purpose, though I should be sorry to go bail for his not 
 doing so, if it suited him. What I mean is, that when he 
 was reminded of the note on Wednesday evening, he was 
 bound to search all his pockets at once and bring it to you, 
 or, if he hadn't self control enough for that, send it by post. 
 He has confessed the truth at last, simply because he knew 
 that you would find it out ; but he keeps the letter. There 
 can't be any excuse for that, and it looks bad. There can't 
 be any good motive for it." 
 
 " No ; but there needn't be a bad one, for I can see why 
 
 he" 
 
 "I can only see that he has no business to keep your 
 note. Why don't you write and tell him to send it?" 
 
 " I mean to do so, but I feel sure that he destroyed it on 
 Wednesday evening in disgust. If not, he would have sent 
 it in this letter." 
 
 "Well ! if he did that, he ought to be " 
 
 "You don't make allowance for the pressure of sudden 
 temptation. He was ashamed of what he had done ; 
 ashamed to own it ; angry with himself, and therefore 
 angry with the thing ; and under a sudden impulse he got 
 rid of it. But I must see when the next train goes, and tell 
 your uncle how it is that I am obliged to go." 
 
 " There is none that will suit you before half-past twelve,'' 
 said Hubert; "for you can't possibly be at the station by 
 eleven o'clock. You won't find him now, for he is busy 
 with old Barns the steward. He will be very sorry when he
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 235 
 
 does know it. I never knew him take to any one as he has 
 to you. He is civil and kind to everybody, but he doesn't 
 care much about any. One of them does as well as another, 
 unless a man is underbred or offensive." 
 
 " He is too good for the kind of men he has been thrown 
 among," said Everard, "and he feels that they are un- 
 congenial, but he goes on associating with them from 
 habit and good nature. Celibacy, without a religious 
 vocation or something akin to it, is apt to make a man 
 gravitate into some awkward groove of life and stick 
 there." 
 
 " That's it. He has gravitated into a groove of life, and 
 there he is, with tine qualities of every kind thrown away — 
 that is, to a great extent. It often vexes me, for he is 
 so good and has so much in him." 
 
 " Yes, he has great capabilities that have never been de- 
 veloped. He has strength of character not exerted, good 
 abilities unused, and fine moral qualities lying compara- 
 tively idle. All the best of him is in pote?iiia, and little or 
 nothing in actu. There must be some reason for his being 
 so unfinished, or rather stunted. Had he ever any dis- 
 appointment — I mean of the kind that crushes ? " 
 
 "Yes, he had, when he was about my age. He was 
 a younger son then, and there was a hitch about the money, 
 and it was broken off ; and there it was, and there it is, and 
 there he is — outside the door. I suppose you will be some 
 time at Netherwood. I wish I were you — I mean myself 
 where you are going." 
 
 "Is that it?" thought Everard, as he went towards the 
 house to find Lord de Freville. "I hope it will turn out 
 well ; but with his inclination to be a Catholic, and hers not 
 to be, the prospect is not clear. She is exactly suited for 
 him in herself; but if she cares about him and knows that 
 he is inclined to be a Catholic, she will make it a point 
 of conscience to go the other way, for fear of acting on 
 human motives about religion. The prospect is not clear 
 at all, and I shall be dragged nole?is voletis into some of 
 the responsibility. I don't mind that, but I should be 
 grieved beyond measure if they were to make a mistake 
 about each other." 
 
 He found Lord de Freville looking for him, explained the 
 necessity of going to Netherwood, and promised to return,
 
 236 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 if possible, before the wedding. Half an [hour [afterwards 
 he left Beynham. 
 
 "Then it will be in October?" said Hubert, as Everard 
 was taking his place in the train. "After all, you will only 
 have lost six or seven weeks. But you have forgotten to 
 put me off. November will never do." 
 
 "Come a little later, then," said Everard. ''I will write 
 and let you know. I shall always be glad to " 
 
 But the guard whistled close to his ear, shutting the door 
 of the carriage with a bang, and the sentence was cut in two, 
 like the last words of Don Ferolo Whiskerandos. 
 
 The distance between Beynham and Netherwood was 
 under fifty miles; but owing to local necessities and changes 
 from one line to another, the railway mileage was nearly 
 doubled, the trains did not fit into each other, and time, 
 which has been very loosely defined as money, was lost 
 in abundance. It was nearly seven o'clock when Everard 
 arrived at Netherwood in an old yellow [^chariot that did 
 occasional duty as a fly. 
 
 He went at once to the patient's room, and found him 
 a good deal the worse for his accident. Sir Richard thanked 
 him for coming, and then began to talk about his ailments. 
 Romeo's remark that 
 
 " He jests at scars ivho never felt a wound,'' 
 was the substance of his lamentations; only he expressed 
 the idea in less Shakesperian language. 
 
 It's all very well," he said ; " but nobody knows what 
 this sort of thing is who hasn't tried it. I'll never ask him 
 to shoot again. It was that fellow with the red whiskers, 
 who went with us to dinner at Bramscote. He was staying 
 there when I asked him over. I mean to write and advise 
 them to get hold of his cartridges and put blank ones 
 instead. Can you imagine a man firing straight at one, 
 like that? Some of the shots have gone in so far that I 
 don't know, I am sure, how they can be got out. I shall 
 lose all the best of the partridge shooting, and I shall be 
 kept from hunting the whole of November. And your 
 wedding too! Fancy not being able to be at that. He 
 ought to have his gun taken from him — only it wasn't his — 
 it was one of mine. I don't believe he ever had one in his 
 hands before. I ought to have seen, by the cut of him, 
 what he was. How is Lord de Freville ? I remember him
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 237 
 
 formerly — and the young one ? a very pleasant young fellow 
 he is, too. AVell ! I am uncommonly glad to see you. 
 It does me good to see your face, and particularly just now, 
 after you have been so bothered about this unlucky foreign 
 tour — confound it ! I wish there were no foreign countries 
 for doctors to send people to. It has been very hard upon 
 you, and, upon my word, I did all I could to stop it : only 
 there it was, and I had made a mess of things before, don't 
 you know ? and that complicated it because when Ida felt 
 she ought to be a Catholic straight off, and said so, you see 
 it put her mother up, on account of my having let it all go 
 wrong and left it so, and that made her more determined 
 to have her own way about going abroad in the middle : 
 and that's how the thing was. You see, it wasn't altogether 
 illness, and yet it was, too. She was annoyed with the — the 
 thing (you understand) and laid it all on you, for talking to 
 Ida about it. I don't mind telling you, but we had such a 
 row as never was, coming home from Bramscote. I tell you 
 because it's your concern ; and I don't see why I should get 
 the credit of it all, when it wasn't my doing. The whole 
 thing began then. It wouldn't have happened at all, if that 
 same red-whiskered fellow (I always forget his name) hadn't 
 insisted on going outside just as we were starting. If he had 
 been there it couldn't have happened, and the thing would 
 have blown over ; but, instead of that, he only kept on 
 grinning and thanking me, and sticking where he was. And 
 then the thing began, I am sure I don't know how, all about 
 you talking of religion to Ida — as if you hadn't every right 
 to do it, as I was going to say, only I was snapped up so — 
 and she got into an awful state over it, and Ida spoke up, 
 and there it was — about the worst drive I ever had. Then 
 there was a feverish attack next morning, and no wonder ; 
 and the doctor came and said a lot of things that you might 
 take as you fancied, and she took it that way, and one 
 couldn't get her to see it in any other way. Upon my 
 word I was so ashamed of myself and the whole thing, on 
 that black Monday when it all came out, that I couldn't 
 stand it, and I rode about from one till past seven without 
 any luncheon, on a horse with a loose shoe. I don't mean 
 to say that it wasn't my fault at the beginning, for if I had 
 stuck to my duties properly, and all that, the girls wouldn't 
 have been left, as they were, to be educated out of the faith,
 
 2o8 FKEVILLK CHASE. 
 
 and I shouldn't have had that row in the carriage, and the 
 doctor wouldn't have been called upon to talk about going 
 abroad, and the wedding wouldn't have been put off, and 
 Elfrida wouldn't have been left without a chance of getting 
 back into the Church, after being baptized in it. It was all 
 owing to my having grown careless. INIy wife has lots of 
 good in her, mind that, and has been a very good wife, and 
 a very careful mother ; but, my dear fellow ; mixed marriages 
 are bad things. They make the worst of both. Marriage 
 is a wonderful tie, you know, and if you are not one in 
 religion, the Catholic is a])t to lose his landmarks ; and then 
 the other thinks worse of his religion than she did before, 
 and where there are children it's a bad business. Well ! I 
 wanted to say all this, for it weighed on my mind. By the 
 by. Father Merivale drove over here before you went to 
 Beynham, and spoke about it. I didn't much like it at the 
 time, because 1 was bothered and was afraid of another row 
 like the one in the carriage ; but now that I am laid up here 
 with nothing to do but to think, I sse things differently. 
 I wish you would thank him for me. Suppose you ride that 
 way to-morrow with Elfrida. And now, do you know, I 
 can't talk any more at present : I feel quite done up. Come 
 and see me again by and by. Don't say anything now. I 
 know you would say everything that is kind. It will be 
 near dinner time too." 
 
 Everard left the room and w^nt to dress for dinner. 
 
 " How difficult it is to be charitable practically ! " he 
 thought. " I have knovv'n him all my life, and I never 
 understood him till to-day. I seem to have mistaken defect 
 for excess, weakness for want of principle. Suffering is a 
 great preacher, but the sufferer will not be influenced by the 
 preaching unless there is something within that responds to 
 it. I have understood Lady Dytchley much better, and 
 judged her, I think, fairly. I supi)ose it is easier to under- 
 stand excess than defect — strength than weakness. The 
 print is larger."
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Thoi let Die not let pass 
 Occasion zv/iicli now s/jiiles.''^ 
 
 — Paradise Lost. 
 
 OPE, being ugly and spiteful, informs us, on 
 the authority of a lady whom he is addres- 
 sing in one of his Moral Essays, that — 
 
 Most 7i<onie)i have no characters at all. 
 
 His fair moralist must have followed too 
 exclusively the oracle's advice, yrwOt 
 o-fau7-o<',and learned to know herself better 
 than she knew other women ; for the statement will not 
 stand examination below the surface. But if she had said 
 that the characters of many women are checked in their 
 growth and never go to their natural depth, she would have 
 told the truth, though it might not have fitted into the 
 metre of the Moral Essays ; and certainly Elfrida, up to the 
 day on which the settlements were not signed, was, in some 
 degree, an instance of what the process can effect. Sir 
 Richard's faculty of distinction was as weak as his character, 
 but he spoke with j^erfect precision when he said that Lady 
 Dytchley was a careful mother. Care, however, may be 
 conveniently divided, for the present purpose, into three 
 classes : intelligent care, troublous care (which, as the old 
 adage tells us, killed the cat) and care that works on wrong 
 principles. Lady Dytchley was careful in the latter sense. 
 'l"he principles that guided her carefulness could hardly be 
 .right as a whole, for they contradicted each other. She 
 wished her husband to be a Catholic, and her daughters not 
 to be. She wished very much to influence Elfrida, but,
 
 240 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 owing to the necessity of suppressing the contradictions, 
 repressed confidence and checked her development. 
 
 Ida had suffered from the same cause in a different way. 
 It was impossible to keep back the religious question from 
 her, inclined as she was and betrothed to Everard ; there- 
 fore, in her case, Lady Dytchley's efforts had been limited 
 to the time being, and the means restricted to dark com- 
 mentaries on anti-Catholic books. But Elfrida was not 
 betrothed, was not inclined to be a Catholic, knew nothing 
 about the Catholic faith except that her father made no 
 objection to her being brought up out of it. She had been 
 completely severed from the Church of her baptism, and 
 was dealt with accordingly. Given the case and the inten- 
 tion, the course to be pursued vras obvious. Freedom of 
 mind encourages the instinct of inquiry ; therefore, as the 
 general instinct might include the particular one, it had to 
 be checked at all hazards. It was clear, first that affectionate 
 repulsion must be practised, secondly that the process must 
 be felt but not understood. The result appeared to be 
 successful and permanently so, for by a judicious choice of 
 books, imperceptible reserve and habitual kindness, develop- 
 ment of mind and character had been checked, energy kept 
 in abeyance, and religion brought down to the level of a 
 status quo ; but then those means depended mainly on the 
 presence of the repressor and the absence of contrary 
 influences. Now the postponement of Ida's marriage re- 
 moved both safeguards. It took Lady Dytchley away, and 
 it forced Elfrida to think for herself during the troublous 
 days that followed its announcement. At first she thought 
 in the interest of Ida and Everard only ; but thought is 
 prolific, especially when new, and from the lost note she 
 passed on to circumstances, causes, possibilities, principles. 
 The status quo had been disturbed and fixed ideas gradually 
 unsettled. There was no distinct evidence of this on the 
 evening of Everard's arrival, nor during the first half of the 
 next day, though her marked silence was suggestive of 
 something unusual within ; but after luncheon they went 
 out riding, and then the meaning of her silence discovered 
 itself. 
 
 " Is Freville Chase too far for you ? " said Everard as 
 they passed the lodge. " I rather want to go that way, but 
 another time will do as well."
 
 FUKVirj,K CIIASK. 241 
 
 '' I should like a long ride very much indeed," said 
 Elfrida, " and particularly to Freville Chase. Do go 
 there.'"' 
 
 They went on, and so did her silence, till they had turned 
 a shady corner about a mile beyond the village, when she 
 said, without any introduction : — 
 
 " I want you to explain many things that I don't under- 
 stand and must understand." 
 
 " What are they ? " answered Everard. '* I don't under- 
 stand many things myself, but what little I do is at your 
 disposal." 
 
 " AVhy are Christians divided about the meaning of our 
 Lord's words, which He must have intended to be plain ?" 
 
 "Because some of them revolted from the authority of 
 the Church He had founded," answered Everard. " That is 
 the shortest answer I can give, and the least likely to clash 
 against your feelings on the subject." 
 
 " I only feel that I want to know the truth," said she. I 
 thought I did know it ; but things have been forced upon 
 me in a strange manner lately, that make me doubt, and I 
 must have my doubts cleared up. Please, finish what you 
 cut short." 
 
 " When they revolted," said Everard, " they were obliged 
 to differ from it, in some doctrine or other, and say the 
 Church had corrupted that doctrine, for otherwise they 
 would have had no cause to allege for their revolt ; and 
 they were obliged also to encourage private judgment on 
 doctrine, more or less, for they had exercised it themselves 
 and succeeded through the exercise of it in others. After a 
 Avhile some of their followers of course played the same 
 game, for they had been taught it and given the principle. 
 Others again revolted from them, individuals differed from 
 individuals and from themselves at different periods of their 
 lives, till, in these days, it is hardly too much to say that, 
 outside the Catholic Church, there are more sorts of 
 Christianity than there are people who profess it." 
 
 " Yes. I have often heard it said of people that they had 
 such a beautiful faith of their own, and how the ideas of 
 this person or that about one doctrine or another were so 
 comforting. I saw no contradiction in it then, because I 
 took for granted that there couldn't be any in what I had 
 been taught ; but, when one thinks of it, how can one have
 
 '242 FliEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 a faith of one's own, or take one's own ideas as a guide 
 .about doctrine, without contradicting the Bible, which tells 
 us that our Lord founded a Church and would be with it 
 always, even to the end of the world ? The very words 
 ])rove that the promise was not limited to the Apostles ; for 
 they are dead, and the world has not come to an end. How 
 then, in the face of that promise, and of His promise that 
 His Church should be built on a rock', and that the gates of 
 hell should not prevail against it, can we suppose Him to 
 have limited to the Apostles the promise that the Holy 
 (jhost should guide them to all truth? His Church is 
 therefore ])ermanent, and the Holy Ghost guides it to all 
 truth, or our Lord's promise would have failed. What 
 business then can any one have with a faith of their own, or 
 ideas of their own about doctrine ?" 
 
 " What you say is unanswerable," said Everard. " Do 
 you like to canter up this sandy bit of rising ground ?" 
 
 Elfrida put her horse into a canter, but continued the 
 subject. Don't you know where I got it from ?" she said. 
 
 " No, I don't," said he. " I believe you to be quite 
 ca])able of thinking out more than that for yourself." 
 
 " I got it from you." 
 
 " How did you do that, when we never spoke on the 
 subject before ?" 
 
 " Well, I didn't get it all from you, for I made up some of 
 it, but I took the idea from what Ida said to me a month 
 ago — the day after the dinner party at Bramscote. I know 
 it came from you. She would not have put it in that way." 
 
 " If it did, I can't claim— mind that bagman swinging 
 round the corner — I can't claim any originality ; for the 
 thing is self-evident." 
 
 The bagman swinging round the corner, followed by an 
 unattached dog that ran after them, barking at intervals, 
 interrupted the conversation, and a piece of unenclosed turf, 
 on one side of the road, continued the interruption by its 
 convenience for ])rolonging their canter. When they pulled 
 up in a shady spot where the road had been mended with 
 .sharp stones of curious forms and sizes, she said : — 
 
 *' I want to know, then, which is the Church that our 
 Lord founded, and promised to guide to all truth." 
 
 " Ask yourself," said Everard, which of them looks most 
 like it, which of them looks most like the Church of the
 
 fi;eviij,k chase. 243 
 
 Apostles, which of them is One, Holy, Catholic and 
 Apostolic, as the Xicene Creed defines the True Church 
 to be." 
 
 " There is my difficulty," said she. " I see that the 
 Roman Catholic Church is one in Faith, and has one Head ; 
 but the Church of England is one with it in the 
 
 most 
 
 essential things, and believes in the Nicene Creed. How- 
 can we know that our Lord may not have permitted it to be 
 as it is for some inscrutable reason — perhaps to keep up 
 fervour, which might grow cold if everything were smooth ?'"' 
 
 " You will find this a short cut and jjleasanter than the 
 road," said Everard, opening a gate. "These two fields 
 cut off a corner. They belong to what is called a Charity." 
 
 " But you don't answer my question," said Elfrida, her 
 dark eyes expressing disappointment, surprise and annoy- 
 ance. " I ought to have known better — I know I ought. 
 I ought to have known that you wouldn't care to answer the 
 difficulties of a poor uncultivated girl like me. I must find 
 my own way as I best can, or refuse to listen to them, as 
 you do, and take for granted that there is no essential 
 difference — no true Church distinct from the rest. A one 
 True Church is such a beautiful idea, so satisfying, so con- 
 soling, so perfect, that as soon as the possibility occurred to 
 me, I longed for it and believed it might be a reality. It 
 was a beautiful dream, and I must think no more of it." 
 
 " It was Pilate who said, ' What is truth ?' and then went 
 away," remarked Everard, as he rode forward to open the 
 next gate. 
 
 '' I am not going away,'" she said, confirming the state- 
 ment by the symbolical action of pulling up. 
 
 " But I hope you are coming through the gate," said he, 
 " for my horse objects to keeping it open, and I am afraid 
 of its going against you." 
 
 ■" I never knew you like this before," said Elfrida, as she 
 passed through. " It is very, very unkind to treat me so. 
 You wouldn't answer my question, and when I said that I 
 had no means of finding out the truth without, you told me 
 I was like Pontius Pilate." 
 
 " My dear Elfrida," said Everard, " I was only waiting to 
 see whether you were in earnest or not, before I went any 
 further and put myself into one of the awkwardest positions 
 imaginable."
 
 244 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " I am in earnest — indeed I am — terribly in earnest ; for 
 if I cannot be made sure that the Cathohc Church is the 
 one true Church, I shall end in believing in nothing. I 
 would go through fire and water to know it and act 
 upon it." 
 
 " Then I will help you in any and every way that 
 I can." 
 
 " Thank you, dear Everard, a thousand times ; but 
 nothing shall make me bring you into trouble : you have 
 had too much already. I know the peculiar position you 
 are in and, if I say nothing more than that about it, it is 
 because duty and affection keep me silent. I ought to have 
 thought of you before I asked you to help me. You must 
 help me through some one else, when you have gone from 
 here. I can wait, if you promise to do that, and " 
 
 " No," interrupted Everard. " You shall not wait on my 
 account. When a duty is evident, one must do it and 
 leave the consequences to Almighty God. You were 
 baptized a Catholic : you wish to be a Catholic, if you can 
 be convinced that the Catholic Church is the only true one : 
 you assure me that you do wish it and would make any 
 sacrifice to secure what you desire. I must and will help 
 you, to the best of my ability. Where did we leave off? I 
 think the question was this " 
 
 Here a loose horse came after them from the other side 
 of the field, and Everard had to drive him away, at short 
 intervals, till they reached the gate. When they were in the 
 road again, he said : — 
 
 "Your idea, I think, was that the Established Church 
 agrees essentially with the Catholic Church, proves that it 
 does by believing the Nicene Creed, and has probably been 
 permitted to differ from it on other points for some reason 
 that we don't know." 
 
 " Yes, I did say that, and I imagined a reason that I am 
 ashamed of, now that I think of it. I suggested that the 
 differences were to keep up people's fervour — as if divisions 
 about faith could possibly strengthen the fervour that comes 
 from faith ! " 
 
 " Well, that was a slip. We all make slips now and 
 then. Let us try the essentials. The essence of a thing is 
 that by which it is what it is, and not something else: therefore 
 to say that two things are essentially the same, is to say that
 
 FKEVILLK CHASE. 245 
 
 they are the same in what makes them what they are. Am 
 I clear ?" 
 
 " Yes, I understand you perfectly." 
 
 '"Well, then, that is the meaning of 'essential'; but the 
 word is often misused in conversation, and made to stand 
 for anything the speaker wants to guarantee as more 
 important and necessary than something else. lam sure 
 that you would intend to use it in its natural sense." 
 
 *' I do, indeed, I used the word ignorantly ; but please 
 don't let me talk nonsense. I did so, but I didn't 
 mean it." 
 
 " Well, then, I don't see how the Catholic Church and 
 the Protestant Established Church can be said to be the 
 same in what makes them what they are. The Catholic 
 Church is necessarily in communion with Rome, as St. 
 Irenaeus said, who lived in the second century : the 
 Protestant Church of England owes its existence to having 
 separated from it. The Catholic Church teaches the 
 doctrine of Transubstantiation : the Protestant Church of 
 England distinctly denies it in the Thirty-nine Articles, 
 which every Anglican clergyman is obliged to subscribe. 
 The Catholic Church has seven sacraments : the Protestant 
 Church of England has two. The Catholic Church teaches 
 the doctrine of purgatory : the Protestant Church of England 
 declares it in the articles to be a ' fond thing vainly invented.' 
 The Catholic Church teaches that God never did and never 
 will permit her to err in matters of Faith : the Protestant 
 Church of England teaches that she does err on the most 
 vital points. The Catholic Church teaches that General 
 Councils are guided in their decisions by the Holy Ghost : 
 the Protestant Church of England says in her Articles that 
 they may err and have erred, ' even in things pertaining 
 unto God.' The Catholic Church affirms the truth of our 
 Lord's promise that the gates of hell should not prevail 
 against the Church He founded : the Protestant Church of 
 England denies it by explicitly stating in the Second Book 
 of Homilies, which the Thirty-nine Articles declare to 
 contain ' a godly and wholesome doctrine,' that 'laity and 
 clergy, learned and unlearned, all ages, sects, and degrees of 
 men, women, and children, of whole Christendom (an 
 horrible and most dreadful thing to think) have been at 
 once drowned in abominable idolatry, of all other vices
 
 240 I'UEVILLK CHASK. 
 
 most detested of (iod and most damnaMe to man, and that 
 by the space of eight hundred years and more.' The 
 Cathohc Church teaches that the Mass is the unbloody 
 Sacrifice of the Body and Blood of Christ, and that its 
 intercessory value is infinite : the Protestant Church of 
 England denounces both the sacrifice and the intercession 
 as ' blasphemous fables and dangerous deceits.' I might go 
 on much further, but probably you will think that I have 
 said enough about that. . I don't see how the Catholic 
 Church and the Established Church can be said to agree 
 essentially — to agree in that, by being which each is what it 
 it is — when they disagree as to whether the Pope should be 
 obeyed as the Vicar of Christ and the successor of St. 
 Peter, or not ; whether in the Mass the bread and wine is 
 transubstantiated into the Body and Blood of our Lord, or 
 not ; whether holy communion means receiving our Lord 
 Himself — Body, Soul, and Divinity — or a piece of bread ; 
 whether there are seven sacraments or two ; whether the 
 millions who die in the grace of God, but yet not fit for 
 Heaven, where no unclean thing can enter, go to an inter- 
 mediate place of purification, or straight to hell ; whether 
 our Lord kept His promise to the Church He founded, or 
 let the gates of hell prevail against the whole body of 
 Christians for ' eight hundred years and more.' Have I said 
 enough on that point ?" 
 
 " Enough to convince me," said Elfrida, " that my idea of 
 the two agreeing in essentials has no meaning at all, and 
 that the Catholic Church and the present Church of 
 England are two distinct religions, that cannot possibly be 
 both true. What nonsense I have been talking ! And it 
 wasn't even my own; for, now that I think of it, I have 
 heard the whole story, essentials and all (for that was the 
 exact word) from Miss Pasteur, the Swiss governess ; and I 
 used to wonder sometimes how they could agree in that 
 way, if one was idolatrous and the other not. But I 
 supposed it must be right, and left it alone. She must have 
 said so because my father is a Catholic, for she was very 
 spiteful against what she called Romishism ; but I have 
 heard the same thing from others. The upshot of it was 
 that certain people had a right to be Catholics by descent, 
 but that those who became so would fall into something 
 quite different and would be entangled in a sort of cobweb,
 
 FKKVILLE C II ASK. 247 
 
 with the Pope for a spider. But wliat were }oii going to 
 say next ? " 
 
 "That depends on yourself, on what you Avant answered," 
 said Everard. "'The only thing that occurs to me, on the 
 point we have settled, is this :— The Protestant Church of 
 England believes, as you said, in the Nicene Creed, but not 
 in the Catholic sense. I will leave the words, ' Holy 
 Catholic, and Apostolic,' for the present ; but how about 
 ' One,' when she has separated from the centre of Christen- 
 dom, has produced innumerable sects, and is herself divided 
 on fundamental doctrines ? But let us go to an earlier creed 
 still, the Apostle's Creed, and see whether believing in the 
 words necessarily means believing in all that the words 
 contain. Henry IV. of France, before he was a Catholic, 
 told the Duke of Luxembourg that he believed in it, and 
 the Duke said, ' Yes, and you believe in God, but not in 
 His omnipotence.' The King asked why he thought so, and 
 the answer was, ' Because you don't believe that He can be 
 })resent in the Consecrated Host.' The king was much 
 impressed by the answer, and indeed it was and is enough 
 to impress any one who thinks ; for the usual Protestant 
 objection to the doctrine is that, as our Lord's human body 
 is in Heaven, It cannot be present in the Consecrated 
 Species. If that does not implicitly deny His omnipotence, 
 I don't know the meaning of words. People make the 
 objection without seeing what it leads to." 
 
 " I have heard that objection often," said Elfrida : ' in 
 fact, I don't recollect hearing any other reason, except that 
 the Reformers knew it wasn't so." 
 
 " And yet," said Everard, " their founder, Martin Luther, 
 always maintained that it was, though with his usual in- 
 consistency, he suppressed the elevation after consecration 
 in the Mass." 
 
 " I remember reading that," said she, " and being told 
 that of course he couldn't be expected to see everything, 
 brought up as he had been. I rather wondered at his not 
 seeing the triumphant objection that our Lord is in Heaven, 
 which was conclusive to me then, and has impeded me 
 since, till you pointed out what it leads to. The answer was 
 that of course I could see it, because I had not been 
 brought up in prejudices and superstitions, but that it was 
 dreadfully unjust to find fault with a man who had done
 
 248 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 more than any one to unmask the corruptions of Rome and 
 enhghten people who sat in ' darkness and the shadow of 
 death,' merely because he didn't live long enough to see 
 everything. As I believed then that he really had en- 
 lightened all the world, and the rebuke was administered in 
 a sad and solemn tone, I fancied that I saw all those people 
 before me sitting in the dark, loaded with sins they couldn't 
 help, and I asked no more questions. Yet how very simple 
 it is ! It ought to be clear to every one that to deny trans- 
 substantiation on the ground that as our Lord's human body 
 is in Heaven, it cannot be on the altars, is to limit His 
 power and in fact to deny His omnipotence." 
 
 " Yes ; particularly as He said, ' this is my body,' and 
 ' THIS IS MY BLOOD,' when He gave what seemed bread and 
 wine to the Apostles. The one miracle is as great as the 
 other. Protestants tell us that He used these words figura- 
 tively, meaning, ' This represents ; ' and as the verb 'to be ' 
 would not bear such manipulation without endangering 
 other passages, such as ' I and the Father are One,' some- 
 body wrote a book many years ago to prove that in Syriac 
 (which was the spoken language of the Jews at the time 
 named) there is no word for ' represent,' and that therefore 
 our Lord was obliged to say ' is.' Cardinal Wiseman proved 
 that there were upwards of forty (about eight times as many 
 as there are in English), and published the list, with 
 examples from the best Syriac authors." 
 
 I can't see," said Elfrida, " that our Lord's Presence in 
 the consecrated Host is more wonderful than His being 
 both God and man at the same time. They are both the 
 most stupendous miracles of power and goodness and mercy 
 and ineffable condescension. I cannot understand how the 
 Church of England can believe in the Trinity, which is not 
 expressly taught in the Bible, and refuse to believe that our 
 Lord gave His own Body and Blood to the Apostles at the 
 last supper, when the Gospel tells us distinctly, in His own 
 words, that He did so." 
 
 " You believe then that He did ? " 
 
 "I do ; and I believe, too, that when those words are 
 pronounced at the altar, He becomes present in what was 
 before bread and wine, as He did at the last supper. It 
 follows from what He said to St. Peter and to the Apostles ; 
 but I can't put it together properly. I wish you would for me."
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 249 
 
 " Well, it puts itself together simply enough. Our Lord 
 told St. Peter that the gates of hell should not prevail against 
 the Church founded on Him : which can only be the 
 Catholic Church, because no other can trace a hierarchy 
 from the lifetime of St. Peter and the other Apostles. 
 Surely that is a sufficient guarantee against idolatry, which 
 the Mass would be, if He were not really present after the 
 words of consecration. Then he promised all the Apostles 
 that He would be with them even to the consummation of 
 (the Protestant version says ' the end ') of the world ; but 
 they are dead, and the world has not ended. It is in- 
 conceivable that our Lord should be with a Church that com- 
 mits idolatry, or be with it without preserving it from error 
 of so abominable a kind : therefore it is inconceivable that the 
 Catholic Church should perpetuate what He did at the last 
 supper and told the Apostles to do in remembrance of 
 Him, unless He becomes really Present when the Priest 
 pronounces the words of consecration. But there is old 
 Sandford coming along, riding a strange horse. We must 
 leave the discussion where it is, and start again. We shall 
 remember where we left off It must be a lady's horse that 
 he thinks will do for Ida. I have been ransacking every 
 stable in the county, where I could hear that there was or 
 might possibly be one to suit her. 
 
 The horse was a dark chestnut, a Httle under sixteen 
 hands. He was nearly thorough-bred, and had a light 
 sloping shoulder, every muscle of which moved with evident 
 power and freedom as he walked. Everard dismounted, 
 looked him all over, and said : — 
 
 " I like the looks of him very much." 
 
 " He is a downright good 'un, sir," said the old coachman. 
 " I've had him these three days in the stable, and tried him 
 in every way, and can't see no fault in him; and all as I 
 have heard of him is good. But the man wants a long 
 price." 
 
 " I don't care what he asks for him, if he turns out to be 
 what I want," said Everard, as he lengthened the stirrups. 
 I don't give long prices, as you know ; but this is a different 
 affair altogether. If he is the horse I want, I must have 
 him." 
 
 He mounted, walked the horse nearly a mile and cantered 
 •him round a meadow. Then he took him up to a thrashing 
 
 VOL. I R
 
 250 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 machine, a blazing fire of burning weeds, and a heap of 
 many coloured clothes on a hedge. 
 
 " I like what I have seen of him," he said, when he 
 rejoined Elfrida on the road. " Do you mind going a quarter 
 of a mile out of the way ? I want to see an old servant at 
 a cottage just beyond that farmyard over there. We must 
 take this bridle path to the right, that goes from Chase End 
 to Exbourne, and come round through two fields into the 
 road again by Chase Wood." 
 
 *' I should like it very much. Is it any one I know ? " 
 said Elfrida. 
 
 " No ; she went away just before you were born, and has 
 not long come back to this neighbourhood. She is not, 
 strictly speaking, an old servant, for she was only three years 
 at Freville Chase ; but she has gone through a great deal of 
 trouble, in connection with the family, and she is a little odd 
 in the head I think : so I have put her into that cottage next 
 the farm-house. I will tell you about her after we have been 
 there. I have reasons for wanting you to know it." 
 
 The cottage was from two to three hundred yards behind 
 the farm buildings. There was an orchard at the back, a 
 small but well-filled garden in front and, about fifty yards 
 beyond, a narrow lane \\ith banks and hedges on each side. 
 At the sound of their approach a woman, whose age was 
 neither apparent nor easy to guess, came out of the door to 
 meet them. She had no distinct feature except her eyes, 
 which were not remarkable in themselves, but only in their 
 expression of excitability. It was Charlotte Wilcox, who 
 had at last left her hiding-place and been placed by Everard 
 in this, the only available cottage. They dismounted, and 
 leaving their horses with Sandford, walked into the garden. 
 
 " Thank you. Squire, for coming to see me," she said, 
 *' and for putting me here. Is this Miss Ida ? " 
 
 " I wish it were, as it ought to be," thought Everard, 
 looking involuntarily at the horse that was meant for her. 
 *' No," he said with an effort : it is her sister. You don't 
 remember her. She was born just after you left England." 
 
 " Ah ! yes, sir — just after that dreadful time. And would 
 you believe it, sir ? — The Marquis went and called at my 
 father's the very day he left Freville Chase. He made the 
 flyman drive round by Chase End, and he talked ever so 
 long with my stepmother. I have been told it by several
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 251 
 
 people from the village, who came to see me when they 
 heard I was here. It put me about dreadfully, for he could 
 only have gone to find out if she knew where I was : but I 
 was safe then, through your kindness, Squire. He wajits lo 
 make me out mad, and you know, sir, why he does. He 
 would give anything to get me into an asylum, I know. I 
 am afraid to leave the house by myself, and I keep the door 
 locked all day, for, do you know, sir, that nasty servant of 
 his has been seen about lately ; and what good can that be 
 for, with his master abroad, if he really is ? But I don't 
 believe he is abroad ; for you can't believe his saying so, 
 after his going round by Chase End instead of to the station, 
 without saying anything about it, as he would have done to 
 you if he had meant right, and might have gone there any 
 time when he was riding and walking about with you." 
 
 " I know he is abroad," said Everard, " for I had a letter 
 from him yesterday with the Florence post-mark on it." 
 
 "Yes, sir, but he may come again. I know he wants to 
 make me out mad." 
 
 " If he wanted ever so much, he couldn't do it without a 
 certificate from two doctors and an order from a magistrate." 
 
 " But that scamp of a servant ! He wouldn't mind about 
 sticking a knife into me, /know." 
 
 " He would mind being hanged, though. And how could 
 he, a stranger, with such a marked face, get away without 
 being caught ? But are you sure that he really has been 
 seen about here since the Marquis left ? Have you seen 
 him yourself? " 
 
 " No, sir, not myself, but a person who knows his face, 
 because she saw him before at Chase End, on the box of the 
 fly. She saw him get out of a second-class carriage at 
 Ledchester, with a great travellingcaphalf over his face, and 
 push by her to get a fly." 
 
 " But how could she be sure that it was he, if his face was 
 half-hidden and he was pushing by in such a hurry ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, that was because he didn't want to be seen by 
 her." 
 
 " But why ? It is not likely that he would have noticed 
 her face, among the others at Chase End, so accurately as to 
 know her again and remember where she came from. And 
 foreigners with black eyes and marked features are not so 
 very uncommon at Ledchester. Most likely he was a
 
 252 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 music-master, or that teacher of languages who comes here 
 once a week to give lessons to the daughters of the Rector 
 of Puddlecombe-in-the-Marsh and other people. But even 
 if he is the man you suppose, his being at Ledchester 
 wouldn't show that he was looking after you. He may have 
 left his situation and taken one in England." 
 
 "Not he, sir. It's too good a place, and the Marquis 
 can't do without him." 
 
 " Well, anyhow, no harm can happen to you ; but if you 
 feel nervous about going out, I will give you a bull-terrier 
 that is doing nothing at the keeper's lodge. I engage that 
 he will pin any one who molests you." 
 
 " Oh, please, sir, don't. I am very grateful for your kind 
 offer, but I am so afraid of dogs." 
 
 " But you must go out sometimes. I tell you what I will 
 do. I will send some one, every now and then, to take care 
 of you and bring you to Freville Chase and back again. But 
 I must be off now, for I have things to do at home, besides 
 riding back to Netherwood. If you would like to have the 
 bull-terrier let me know." 
 
 Charlotte Wilcox followed them to the gate, thanking 
 Everard again and again for all his kindness. 
 
 " Who is she ? " said Elfrida, as they rode away. " And 
 what is all that about the Marquis — Moncalvo, I suppose ?" 
 ^' She was nursemaid after my half-brother was born, and 
 was his nurse when Moncalvo, who was his guardian, took 
 him to Italy. He died there, as you know, and she not only 
 fancied that Moncalvo had murdered him, but told Mon- 
 calvo so. He didn't like that, of course, and finding her 
 very much excited about it, he suggested the idea that she 
 was a little wrong in the head. She then went into the 
 service of an aunt of his and remained there till her mistress 
 died, when she took it into her head that he wanted to get 
 her into a lunatic asylum ; and so she came to England, 
 working herself up into such a state of panic that she came 
 and hid herself in the tower. One evening (it was the day 
 he and Hubert left) I saw a light in the window under the 
 muniment room, and went up, thinking that some thieves had 
 secreted themselves there. I found no one in the room, 
 but a rushlight was burning. I then went up to the hiding- 
 hole, and there I found this woman, Charlotte Wilcox, who 
 had hidden herself there when she heard my footsteps. She
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 253 
 
 told me what I have told you ; only she made a much 
 longer story of it, and begged me to let her remain. She 
 stayed there nearly a fortnight longer, and then was persuaded 
 to come here ; but I should never be surprised to see her and 
 the rushlight again in the tower. What can one do with a 
 poor woman who has such an inconvenient monomania?" 
 
 " Are you so sure that it is a monomania ?" said Elfrida. 
 ^' She looks to me sane enough." 
 
 " God forbid that it should be anything else ! Of course 
 I have a very indistinct recollection of my little brother, for 
 I was only seven years old when I saw him last ; but the 
 idea that he was murdered is too horrible, as well as impro- 
 bable, to be tolerated without any cause for suspicion what- 
 ever. His death was certified by an English physician of 
 note, who happened to be staying at the place and saw him. 
 I have the certificate, and can show it to you. The cause 
 of death is specified in it." 
 
 "Yes, of course. I spoke without thinking. I ^6* dislike 
 the man so much. But why does he persecute her so, if he 
 has nothing to conceal ? " 
 
 " I have no evidence at all of his having done so — nothing 
 but her own excited statement. He may have said that she 
 had a monomania, and I think he did say so to me ; but 
 how can you wonder at his making that small anticipatory 
 defence. Just consider what it would be, to know or 
 strongly suspect that a person was going about accusing you 
 in holes and corners of carrying off your own sister's child 
 to murder him in another country ? " 
 
 " I see. You are always so just. The fact is, I can't 
 bear the man, and I can only see one thing at a time. You 
 must teach me to see further. Have you heard from him 
 since his visit?" 
 
 " Yes, and he said in his letter that it was he who lost the 
 note. I meant to have told you before, He met Tim, took 
 the note from him, missed finding me, left it in his pocket, 
 and unfortunately — forgot it." 
 
 " Yes. He knew you must find it out, and made a virtue 
 of confessing it." 
 
 " You are as incorrigible about him as Hubert." 
 
 Elfrida made no reply. Her eyes turned from him to 
 the meadow before her, and then towards her horse's 
 withers, where they remained fixed until they had entered
 
 254 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 the wood in which Hubert had called the attention of the 
 Marquis to the old torn cat poaching, when she said : — 
 
 " I don't accuse him of hiding the note. I really believe 
 it was an accident. But I must say it again — I can't help 
 it — I detest the man more than I can express. I can't tell 
 why. There is a great deal in him that is very attractive, 
 and he ought to be good, and might be ; but (I can't tell 
 why) I hate the sight of him." 
 
 "There is something wrong in him, I know," said Everard. 
 '• He puzzles me. I often wish I had never seen him." 
 
 They were now at the gate leading into the Chase. 
 
 " Has this horse been exercised much since you have had 
 him in the stable ? " said Everard to the old coachman. 
 
 " Nothing, sir, only walking exercise. I wanted to see 
 whether he was quiet." 
 
 " Then, if you will both of you go on, I will follow you 
 and see what he does." 
 
 Elfrida and Sandford cantered on. When they had gone 
 about five hundred yards, Everard, who had been walking 
 the horse up and down near the gate, turned him suddenly 
 and put him into a gallop. The dark chestnut stretched 
 himself out and went over the grass in beautiful form, but 
 without pulling an ounce or changing his position. He 
 then raced him a short distance, pulling him up into a 
 canter about a hundred yards behind the other horses, and 
 joined them at a walk. 
 
 " I must have this horse at any price," he said. " He is 
 perfect. What does the man want for him ? " 
 
 '* Well, sir," said Sandford, "that's it. He says he won't 
 take no less than two hundred and fifty : but, I think, if 
 you was to wait a bit " 
 
 " No. I can't wait a moment," said Everard. " I can't 
 wait to bargain, this time. He is perfect, and I see he is 
 sound. I will send a cheque for him by this post. But 
 there is one thing to be done. Have you tried him with a 
 horsecloth hanging down like a habit ?" 
 
 " I've done all that, sir, and put on a yeomanry sword. 
 He don't take no notice of nothing, nor yet alongside of 
 Thunderbolt when he was very fresh." 
 
 " Let me ride him part of the way back," said Elfrida. 
 " Sandford could ride my horse, and we could change half- 
 way."
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 255 
 
 " I should be very glad if you would. I am satisfied 
 about his quietness, but I should like to see you on him. 
 Your riding is about the same as Ida's, and if you find him 
 suit you, as I feel sure he will, I shall have made assurance 
 doubly sure." 
 
 ' What were you doing when you stayed behind ? " 
 
 " Only waiting to let you get forward, that I might see 
 whether he would jump about or pull when I galloped after 
 you with his head towards the stables. Nearly all the 
 accidents and all the anxieties, fears and disenchantments 
 that so often make riding a pain, instead of a pleasure, to 
 ladies who don't go in for being horsewomen, arise from 
 two causes — one of want of care in choosing the horse, or 
 want of care in keeping him exercised — and generally from 
 both. Many a lady has given up riding in despair, when it 
 would be of more use to her than the doctor, simply 
 because her father, or her husband, or whoever she had to 
 do with, hadn't the sense to see that she was properly 
 mounted." 
 
 "Yes ; people don't think much. I have learned that in 
 my small experience. If everyone were like you " 
 
 " Everyone hasn't the same incentive to care that I have. 
 If I were not careful about what concerns Ida, what in the 
 world should I be careful about ? " 
 
 It was half-past four when they rode into the courtyard. 
 "You must have some tea," said Everard, "after your ride 
 and all the talking and all the thinking you have done, and 
 Charlotte Wilcox's wonderful revelations after it all. How 
 long do you like to stay ? " 
 
 " Oh ! an hour at least. I have not been here since I 
 was a very small child. You must show me all over the 
 house. There never was so interesting a place. It really is 
 like a dream. I wonder why I have never been brought 
 here." 
 
 Everard thought that he knew very well, and so did 
 Elfrida before she mounted her horse to ride home. 
 
 Mrs. Roland, who had peeped out from behind the 
 portiere, on hearing the Sound of the gate-bell, came forth 
 to learn what had brought Everard home unexpectedly. 
 When she heard the cause of his being at Netherwood, she 
 inly rejoiced, thought, with Hubert, that it was a lucky shot, 
 and, like him, hoped that the whole charge had lodged
 
 256 FREVILLE CHASE 
 
 itself home. She also rejoiced on discovering who the 
 young lady was ; " for," thought she, " Miss Elfrida will 
 learn a lot off him, and that will be a good thing for every- 
 body." 
 
 Elfrida was no less pleased at making Mrs. Rolands 
 acquaintance, and said, after she had left the hall : — 
 
 " Why have I never seen her before ? Everything here is 
 so full of interest," 
 
 The tea was then brought into the library, and Everard 
 went to send off the cheque for the dark chestnut. On his 
 return they began to go round the house. 
 
 "Where does that door lead to?" said Elfrida, pointing 
 to the portiere corresponding with Mrs. Roland's occasional 
 place of observation. 
 
 " The passage leads on to the sacristy and the chapel ; 
 but on the left, just beyond the door, there is the state 
 bedroom, called the King's room, and two rooms out of it." 
 
 " I want very much to see the chapel. Hadn't we better 
 go their first ? " 
 
 " Just as you like. It would be the most natural place to 
 begin with, if you wish to see it, for it stands the furthest 
 off, on that side." 
 
 " If I wish to see it ! Don't you wish to take me there, 
 after the talk we have had ? " 
 
 " I wish to do so because you desire it : otherwise I should 
 have no wish either way." 
 
 " You rather disappoint me by saying that. Don't you 
 wish me to be a Catholic ? " 
 
 " Of course I do. I wish that every one in the whole 
 world would be so, and you particularly." 
 
 Then you cant't believe that I am serious about it." 
 
 " I am certain that you are." 
 
 "Then why don't you try to help me in that way, as you 
 did in talking ? " 
 
 "I should, if I had thought you would find it any help; 
 but I don't think you are one to be impressed in that way 
 by externals. You want to be convinced, not interested — 
 to see the truth, not to admire its outward symbols." 
 
 " But I a7n seeing it. How tiresome you are." 
 
 "Yes, you are seeing it — gradually, I think." 
 
 " I don't understand what you are at. I begin to think 
 you want to keep me back."
 
 FIIEVILLE CHASE. 257 
 
 " Not to keep you back, but to keep you from hurrying 
 over a most serious and solemn act, an act which must, at 
 your extremest peril, be final. I am ready and anxious to 
 help you in any way that I can, and at any risk to myself, 
 but I will not encourage you to rush at it and land on unsafe 
 ground, like — 
 
 Vaulting ambition, ivhich o'erleaps itself 
 And falls on the other side. 
 
 Perhaps we shall talk out a good deal before dinner-time, 
 and you will think that all has been done. It may be so ; 
 for who can tell how and when the Grace of God, which 
 alone can settle the question, will come into the heart of 
 any one? But you may have difficulties after that — queer, 
 troublesome, unreasonable difficulties, cropping up at odd 
 times, or hanging about you like a dead weight. I don't 
 say that they will, but I must not take it for granted that 
 they will not, lest they should do so for want of having been 
 cleared off beforehand." 
 
 " Yes. I understand. You are so very wise about it. 
 But still I do want to be helped on, for I feel sure that I do 
 see it. Won't you take me to your priest here ? — 1 don't 
 know his name." 
 
 " No. I will not have it said that a priest had ' got hold 
 of you.' When you are in a position to take the final step, 
 you may see Father Merivale, but not till then, if I can help 
 it. I will take the whole responsibility on myself, if you will 
 me." 
 
 " Of course I will. I look to you entirely. But do be 
 as quick as you can." 
 
 They went into the chapel, and he showed her all that 
 was to be seen. She scarcely spoke, but observed atten- 
 tively, and before coming out knelt down for some minutes. 
 Then they went into the sacristy, the King's room and the 
 other two rooms belonging to it. Afterwards he took her 
 into the gallery and the rest of the downstairs rooms, and 
 then upstairs. 
 
 As they walked along the passage leading to the tower, 
 she said suddenly, 
 
 " You must have thought it very odd that I didn't say 
 anything about the chapel, and the King's room, and the 
 gallery, and all that I have seen, but above all that wonder-
 
 258 FUKVILLE CHASE. 
 
 fully beautiful chapel. It satisfies everything — imagination, 
 taste, mind, devotion. I could say nothing at the time." 
 
 " Like the horn that Baron Munchausen's postilion blew 
 in the frost," said P2verard. "It will all come out by and by." 
 
 *'Yes; for I really did observe everything very closely, 
 and admired it beyond measure. There never was anything 
 so attractive as this dear old place and everything about it. 
 But one thing quite took possession of me, so that I could 
 think of nothing else, and can think of nothing else now. 
 When I went into the chapel I was immensely impressed, 
 of course, by all I saw — who would not be, so very 
 beautiful as it is ? — but I felt something more than that, 
 something I could not explain. I felt a Freseiice there, that 
 awed and yet comforted me. I have been puzzling over it 
 ever since. Do explain it for me." 
 
 "You didn't expect any impression of the kind you speak 
 of — did you?" said Everard. 
 
 "Certainly not." 
 
 " And never heard of any Presence in a Catholic church, 
 except that of the people who are in it ?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Are you quite sure that you have never heard why 
 Catholics genuflect in a church — why the Sanctuary lamp is 
 lighted?" 
 
 "I am quite sure that I never heard a word about it." 
 
 " Here we are at the tower," said he, opening the great 
 door. 
 
 "You won't answer my question," said Elfrida. "Why 
 won't you ? You look so tremendously in earnest about it, 
 and yet you put me off in that way. I don't care just now 
 whether this is the tower or the coal-hole. I ask you to ex- 
 plain, if you can, what it was that I felt while I was in the 
 chapel." 
 
 " I was thinking," said he, " that it would be well to let 
 your question stand over till we have been all through the 
 house and are ready to start. It is not one to be interrupted. 
 There should be no distractions when you enter upon that. 
 If you will take my advice " 
 
 "Of course I will. I know I am very tiresome and 
 impatient, and you are so wise about it all, and so con- 
 siderate : but I really mean to follow your guidance entirely. 
 I know it will be all right."
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 259 
 
 "I hope so, and I prayed hard for it when we were in the 
 chapel, just now. Well, then, shall we go over the tower, 
 and finish up with this room of mine at the entrance? 
 There are some books there that you might like to see, and, 
 if you should like to read them, which I advise you to do, I 
 can have them taken to-morrow in the dogcart. Suppose 
 we begin downstairs — but I must get the key of the muni- 
 ment room." 
 
 He opened the door of his sitting-room, on the right, and 
 brought out the key. She followed him to the staircase, 
 down the stone stairs, to the great vaulted kitchen and 
 offices, which were on the ground floor, where Mrs. Roland 
 pointed out to her all that was to be seen. Then they went 
 down again, to the entrance of some curious old cellars. 
 " I must bring a light, next time," said he, and they went 
 up stairs again. The old banqueting hall was still partially 
 furnished, with a few high-backed oak chairs, a long oak 
 table, and some stags' heads over the large fireplace. 
 " This was the original house," he said, as he passed on to 
 the other rooms. "It was a hunting-place of my family up 
 to the sixteenth century, but the later buildings w^ere added 
 before it came into the possession of the younger line that 
 I represent. We must come here again when we have more 
 time." 
 
 They went up another flight of stairs, and finally to the 
 door of the panelled room behind the upper staircase. 
 
 " There is the room that leads to the hidinghole," he 
 
 said "there, behind the staircase. That is the place 
 
 where I went, expecting to collar a thief or two, and only 
 found Charlotte Wilcox's rushlight." 
 
 He went in, pushed aside the moveable panel, and 
 mounted the narrow stairs, followed by Elfrida. 
 
 "Where are we now?" she asked, when they stood at 
 the top. 
 
 He replied by opening the great lid of the hiding-hole. 
 
 "This IS where, in the time of Queen Elizabeth and 
 James I., missionary priests used to be concealed, when 
 they were in immediate danger of being tortured, hanged 
 and cut in pieces alive, for doing their duty to God and 
 man." 
 
 " I have heard of things being conspicuous by their 
 absence, but I never knew what it meant till now," said
 
 260 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 Elfrida. "I have read histories, and heard a good deal of 
 those times ; but the facts you speak of were never referred 
 to nor hinted at. Who were the missionary priests? 
 
 " Men who were trained at Enghsh colleges abroad, 
 when the Church had been despoiled of everything in 
 England and it was made high treason for a priest to say 
 Mass or give the last sacraments to the dying — men who 
 were trained for martyrdom, graduated in it by a life of ex- 
 treme trials, and, in a great number of cases, gained the 
 martyr's crown." 
 
 "What an awful place, and what a story to think of!" 
 said Elfrida, as she looked down into the shadowy depth, 
 dimly lighted by the slit in the wall beyond. 
 
 " Very like a sawpit with a lid," said Everard. " A 
 pleasant abode for a cultivated Christian, and particularly 
 for a priest, obliged to shut himself up there, doing nothing, 
 in order to do his duty when he might." 
 
 "This is enough," said Elfrida, "to make any one a 
 Catholic who has any appreciation of true heroism. People 
 will not go on suffering in that sort of way for what is 
 false — they can't." 
 
 " True said Everard ; and " solitude will find out weak 
 points, if there are any to find. But you must not be led 
 by enthusiasm. It would lead you in the right direction 
 this time ; but you mustn't depend upon it, or take it as a 
 test of truth. Enthusiasm is a valuable friend, but a bad 
 master. Shall we go on ? " 
 
 They descended the dark stairs into the room below, and 
 went up the others to the muniment room. 
 
 "This room," said Elfrida, "makes one fancy oneself in 
 the Middle Ages." 
 
 " It does ; and if you saw it by moonlight "! 
 
 "What is this curious inscription over the door? — 
 
 'TUben a Soulc ^s wonnc bv vc barte ^tt batb v!broftcnn, 
 anb ve ftncllc x>5 berbe of a b\:inti race ; 
 vc lostc 9ball winnc bv vc stravnactc b>?r tofsennc, 
 an5 v)S &cbJic give Ivfc iiiito 3frcvv;tlc Cbasc.'— 
 
 — Who wrote it? and what does it mean? Has it come 
 true?" 
 
 " Nobody knows who wrote it. It was supposed to have 
 come true at the end of the last century, but I really forget 
 how. Mrs Roland knows more about it than I do. Now,
 
 FUEVILLE CHASE. 261 
 
 shall we look at the books ? A\'e have not much time to 
 spare." 
 
 They made their way down the steep staircase and on to 
 the sitting-room. 
 
 "I have some hooks here," he said, "that you should 
 read. They will help you to find your way, or rather to see 
 that you are on the right road. I will just put before you, as 
 we ride home, what the question really is, and what you will 
 have to consider as essential, in the strict sense — not in the 
 other, which, I think, we have disposed of. Then, if you 
 read and reflect, as I am sure you will, the conclusiveness of 
 the truth will penetrate your mind, as the grace of God has, 
 I feel sure, penetrated your soul. Of course no amount of 
 intellectual conviction is of any avail without His Grace ; 
 but He has given us minds to understand, and it is not safe 
 to neglect means that He has given. It may seem to you 
 unnecessary now, but you will find the advantage of it after- 
 wards. Early training and natural affection are against you, 
 and you must not be surprised if they show their influence 
 at odd times, after you had thought yourself convinced." 
 
 "If I know myself at all, they will not," said Elfrida. 
 "Of course it will give me great pain to act in opposition to 
 my mother on the most serious of all subjects, and the more 
 so because she taught me all I knew of religion till to-day. 
 It will bring a great deal of suffering upon me, I know that, 
 and trouble most likely in many ways — I expect that ; but 
 it will have no power at all to interfere with conviction, in a 
 matter that is between myself and God only." 
 
 "I believe you," said Everard. "You have a strong 
 character. Still it is safer to do it thoroughly, and I want 
 you to read what I am going to show you. We have seen 
 that Catholicity and Anglicanism are two religions, distinct 
 and incompatible, so that one of the two at least must be 
 false. It remains to be seen whether either of them is true, 
 and if so, which it is." 
 
 "But I am sure which it is. Why will you doubt it?" 
 
 "I am not doubting it; but let me go on. You then 
 come to the conclusion that our Lord founded a Church 
 which was to last to the end of the world, that He would be 
 always with it, and that the Holy Ghost would guide it to all 
 truth. We needn't repeat the reasons just now. The next 
 conclusion was about the Real Presence ; but that is included
 
 262 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 in the question whether our Lord has continued to preserve 
 His Church from error, or not — which you have already 
 decided for yourself. You have come then to this : — That 
 our Lord founded a Church, and that the Church He 
 founded was, is and will be divinely preserved from de- 
 struction and from errors in faith. But where is this 
 Church ? In the words of the Nicene Creed, which is read 
 at morning service in every Anglican church and chapel, 
 it must be One Holy, Catholic and Apostlic" 
 
 "Yes, and there is no doubt which is the One — you have 
 shown me that — and I have no doubt about the rest ; but I 
 should like you to tell me why." 
 
 " Not now," said Everard. " It is getting late." 
 Here is a book (Waterworth's Faith of Catholics') that takes 
 those four ' notes,' as they are called, and all the marks of 
 the true church, in succession, with the evidence from the 
 Scriptures and from the Fathers, who had the traditions of 
 the Church handed down from the earliest times : for St. 
 Clement of Rome knew St. Peter, St. Polycarp was appointed 
 Bishop by the apostle St. John, and St. Ignatius was one of 
 St. John's disciples. I advise you to read the whole book, 
 or at least enough toshow you how overwhelmingthe evidence 
 is. Here are one or two things that will give you an idea 
 of it. St. Irenasus, who had been taught by St. Polycarp, 
 says (as you see in this second volume) that ' the pathway 
 of those who are in the Church circles the whole universe^ for 
 it has a firm tradition from the Apostles^ a?id gives us to see 
 that the Faith of all is one and the same, . . . and, indeed the 
 public teaching of the Church, in which one and the sa?ne 
 7vay of salvation is shown throughout the whole world, is true 
 and firm. For to this was entrusted the Light of God, and 
 on this account is the wisdom of God, through which He saves 
 all 7tien, proclaimed in the »ates. . . . For everywhere the 
 Church preaches the Truth.''^ Now, considering that the 
 writer of these words had been taught by St. Polycarp, who, 
 he tells us (here it is, if you look at this page) ^had been 
 instructed by the Apostles, and conversed with many who had 
 seen the Lord ^ you have pretty strong evidence that unity 
 was an exclusive mark of the Church founded by our Lord ; 
 and if you read on, you will find the same in the writings of 
 
 ^ Waterworth, vol. ii., p. 193. " Ibid, vol. i., p. 253.
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 263 
 
 the 'other Fathers of the first five centuries. Again, St. 
 Irenaeus says (here it is) that ' ivhere the Church is, there is 
 the Spirit of God ; and ivhere the Spirit of God is, there is 
 the Church and every grace ; but the Spirit is Truth.' And 
 he says furthermore, that, ^the rest ivho depart fro?n the 
 principal succession, a?id assemble in any place ivhatever, 7ve 
 ought to hold suspected, either as heretics and of an evil 
 opinion, or as schismatics and proud, and as men pleasing 
 themselves'. ^ If that doesn't condemn separation from 
 Rome, I don't know what language would ; and here, a few 
 pages on, he makes that passage, if possible, stronger by 
 saying, ' The greatest and most ancient, and universally 
 knoivn Church of Rome— founded and constituted by the tico 
 ?nost glorious Apostles, Peter and Paul . . . to this Church, on 
 account of more powerful pri7icipality, it is necessary that 
 every Church — that is, those 7vho are on every side faithful — 
 resort, in which (Church) alivays by those who are o?i every 
 side, has been preserved that tradition which is from Apostles' - 
 One more passage, and then we must be going. Here it is 
 — an unmistakable prediction by the prophet Malachi, of 
 the unbloody sacrifice of our Lord's Body and Blood in the 
 Mass, and of its universality. ' Prom the rising of the sun 
 even to the going down. My name is great among the Gentiles, 
 and in every place there is sacrifice, and there is offered to My 
 7iame a clean oblatioti : for My name is great among the 
 Gentiles, saith the Lord of Hosts.' " ^ 
 
 " Unmistakeable indeed," interrupted Elfrida. " But go 
 on." 
 
 " Well then, the second and third volumes give evidence 
 and authorities about doctrine ; but I think you may leave 
 them till afterwards, for if you see clearly that the Catholic 
 Church is what she claims to be, it will be clear to you 
 that her doctrines must be true." 
 
 " Certainly. The doctrines of the Church that is divinely 
 guarded from error cannot teach error. Whatever you do, 
 don't keep me back longer than you can help. I will read 
 everything you want me to read afterwards." 
 
 " Well, then, just let me put out some other books to be 
 sent ; and then we must go." 
 
 ^ Wateru'orth, vol. i., p. 20. ^ Ibid, vol. i., p. 314. 
 
 ^ Malachias, i. ii.
 
 264 FKKVILI.E CHASE. 
 
 He took them from the shelves, carried them with the 
 others downstairs to be packed up, and said : — 
 
 " Shall we go into the chapel for a moment ? " 
 
 They knelt down at the nearest bench there, and after a 
 while Elfrida said : — 
 
 " I feel it now, as I did before — a Presence." 
 
 " You see that lamp," said Everard. " It means that our 
 Lord is present in the tabernacle — there, below the crucifix. 
 His most Sacred Body is veiled under the appearance of 
 bread, as His Divinity was veiled when He came in the 
 flesh ; but He is there. We had better come away now." 
 
 " Why ? I feel so happy and peaceful here." 
 
 Everard rose, and she followed him unwillingly. When 
 they were outside the door, she said : — 
 
 " Does every one feel as I did, when they are in a 
 Catholic Church ? " 
 
 " No, and you must not be dissappointed if you never have 
 the same feeling again. It is not for me to give any opinion 
 about such things ; but that strong realisation of the truth, 
 as it were a kind of interior sight, is sometimes given — that 
 is, given when the case requires it. I know a lady, a convert, 
 who experienced something of the kind when receiving con- 
 ditional baptism. She told me that without it she should 
 not have been able to bear what she had to bear, and did bear 
 in consequence of becoming a Catholic. She has not, as far as 
 I know, had it since. We must not desire to have it ; for, if 
 it is good for us, God will give it. St. John of the Cross, 
 one of the greatest masters of spirituality, says that invisible 
 grace is better than sensible sweetness, and that to desire 
 sensible sweetness is a very great imperfection." 
 
 " I see. It brought into my soul what was only in 
 my mind before, and gave me faith instead of mere intellec- 
 tual conviction, which, of course, is not to be depended 
 upon," 
 
 " I believe she is right," thought Everard. " Perhaps I 
 was a little too cautious in giving her no encouragement to 
 go into the chapel — only I felt sure she would." 
 
 " And I wanted it too, no doubt," said she, " to give me 
 strength for what I have to do and to persevere in. I 
 presumptuously thought myself strong enough ; but the trial 
 will be very great, brought up as I have been, and feeling as 
 I do. I realise the trial and the struggle now."
 
 FJJEVJLLE CHASE. 265 
 
 " I am very glad of that. One may carry the principle of 
 not looking on the dark side of things too far. When a 
 thing has to be done, and we don't know how difficult and 
 distressing it may prove to be, the sooner we accustom our- 
 selves to the worst view of it the better. But I am not 
 afraid of your looking away, or turning away from a duty 
 when you have seen it. I am sure you will not. Shall we 
 get on at the stables ? It will save time." 
 
 "Yes, and give me another sight of the court-yard, which 
 I wanted. It is the only part of the house that I have a dim 
 recollection of." 
 
 The side-saddle had been taken off her horse and put on 
 the dark chestnut. As they left the stable yard Everard 
 turned to the old coachman and said : — 
 
 " I have sent the cheque ; so the horse is mine. Send 
 the other back to Netherwood to-morrow" 
 
 " Well, I never ! " remarked Sandford to himself. " I 
 never know'd him in such a hurry about dealing afore. All 
 as is, he's got what he wants. It would be hard to pick such 
 another, give what you would — shape and action and all — 
 and sound all over, and the quietest I ever see." 
 
 The merits of the dark chestnut occupied the attention of 
 Everard and Elfrida, till they had passed Foxhole Wood 
 and nearly reached the turning to Chase End. 
 
 " He is quite perfect," said Elfrida, as they went by the 
 turning, " perfect even in colour. That very dark chestnut 
 is so beautiful and so rare." 
 
 " And doesn't indicate being hot, which light chestnuts, 
 particularly the reddish ones, generally are, ' said Everard. 
 And that was all they said during the next twenty minutes 
 or more. At last Elfrida spoke. 
 
 "■ I am as much astonished as the people in ' The Deserted 
 Village,' that 
 
 Ong s)naU head could caDy all he knew. 
 
 You were more than ready for everything I asked you, 
 and you told me much more than I asked." 
 
 " I had to answer things for Ida," said Everard, " nasty 
 books that made me sick to read, full of lies and cunning. 
 Happily for you they have not come in your way ; so that 
 you have only had to deal with the ' essentials,' that fell to 
 pieces when you laid hold of them. I had to read several 
 
 VOL. I s
 
 266 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 volumes of lies and blasphemy and disgraceful misrepresenta- 
 tions, for Ida, and I finished it up in — I don't know how 
 many pages of foolscap, which I brought with me on that 
 miserable evening when the note was lost and I came to 
 Netherwood to find her gone," 
 
 " I saw it all," said Elfrida, " and I was not as yet in a 
 position to be of any use to her ; but she had no doubts at 
 all. She spoke very strongly to me about it one day, before 
 I could see anything." 
 
 . .," Yes. I only meant to show that these difficulties are ot 
 many kinds, and some more subtle than others. You had 
 been put into a very old-fashioned groove. You believed 
 that Luther was a sixteenth century apostle, sent by God to 
 dig up buried truth ; but all that has been exploded. 
 Hardly any one believes in Luther now, except a few old 
 women round a tea-table. General Protestants (I mean 
 those who, whether Anglicans or Dissenters, have a more or 
 less indefinite creed) find him too dogmatic : the advanced 
 Broad-Churchmen find him out of date : the few Evangeli- 
 cals that yet remain incline more to Calvin, who denied the 
 Real Presence, All three make much of him as the Founder 
 of the Reformation, and admire his teaching in a general 
 sort of way ; but neither his authority nor his contradictions 
 would have any weight at all in argument with them, and 
 still less with the extreme High Church party, who abuse 
 him and all the Reformers in unmeasured terms." 
 
 " I have heard so, and I can't make out what they want 
 to do." 
 
 " To be a body without a head, if one may judge by their 
 way of going on." 
 
 '' Whataretheotherbooksthatyou wantmetoread? Mayn't 
 I read them all afterwards ? I believe firmly that the 
 Catholic Church is the one true Church, and therefore I 
 believe in whatever it teaches. I want that penny 
 Catechism I saw Ida reading once. Do let me send for 
 Father Merivale. Life is uncertain in the youngest of us, 
 and I don't feel it safe to remain as I am, feeling as I 
 do." 
 
 " Nor should I feel it safe to take upon myself the 
 responsibility of advising you to wait," said Everard, after a 
 moment's reflection. " I thought it prudent to do so before, 
 but prudence points the other way now. I was not prepared
 
 FiiEVILLE CHASE. 267 
 
 for your ripening so rapidly, and I didn't believe in it. It 
 puzzles me still." 
 
 "You see I was, in a way, ready for it/' said Elfrida. 
 
 "I see. You were near, with a wall between.'' 
 
 " Yes ; and when the wall was down, I saw where I ought 
 to be." 
 
 " But the wall came down so quickly '' 
 
 " As soon as you pushed it. I was astonished myself, 
 but so it was. You see, I felt I could believe in you." 
 
 " Yes, but I can't take all the credit of pushing the wall. 
 You pushed very well yourself, as soon as you suspected 
 what it was made of.'' 
 
 " No, I only crept through the hole you made. I suppose 
 that my having been baptized a Catholic made it easier ? " 
 
 " Yes, and your seeing the possibility before you in Ida — 
 seeing it dimly and as a forbidden thing, but still seeing it — 
 so that, when you began to see further, the sight was not 
 entirely new." 
 
 "But there was another thing," said Elfrida, "that did 
 more for me than any other human power — much more." 
 
 " What was that ? " said Everard. " I think you have 
 named the only two things that could have been of any use 
 at all beforehand." 
 
 " Much more," she repeated absently. In fact it was that 
 alone that made me long to know, made me ask, made me 
 listen without prejudice." 
 
 " But what in the world was it ? You have fairly puzzled 
 me." 
 
 " It was knowing you " 
 
 " When we never spoke a word on the subject till to-day ? 
 You must be dreaming." 
 
 " No ! I am not dreaming ! " she said, with a calm 
 emphasis that compelled conviction. " I have dreamt a 
 great deal in the course of my life, though it has been a 
 short one, dreamt by day, dreamt when I was awake — at least 
 awake to everything but the one Truth that leads towards 
 the final object of one's life." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, dear Elfrida, for interrupting you," 
 said Everard : " but how did you learn to express yourself 
 in this way ? I have noticed it several times. You have 
 greater power than I thought, though I gave you credit for 
 much more than you believed yourself to have. You have
 
 268 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 had little or no cultivation, and yet you are beyond your 
 age in mind and character. How did you do it ? " 
 
 "I don't know," she said. " I have lived almost entirely 
 alone, in a certain sense. My mother has been all kindness 
 to me, but there was, as it were, a wall between us." 
 
 " She was holding up the wall that has just been broken 
 down," thought Everard in a parenthesis. 
 
 " And Ida has been shut out from me, till within three 
 days of her going abroad, by being engaged to a Catholic. 
 I have not been out in the world yet ; and the visitors we 
 have had at home were not of much use, to say the truth. 
 I was thrown upon my own resources, and had to make the 
 best of them, small as they were. And so I gradually took 
 to thinking, in my own uncultivated way, and tried to make 
 something out of the books that were put in my way. That 
 is all I have done with myself — and little enough it is, only 
 you are so kind to me." 
 
 '• It is not little. You surprise me by what you have 
 done. I have had the best possible opportunity of judging 
 to-day, and I tell you, without partiality, favour or affectation, 
 that you have thoroughly surprised me." 
 
 " It was you who drew out from somewhere — I don't 
 know where — more than was in me." 
 
 " No. Whatever I may have done, or be supposed to 
 have done to bring it out, it could not have come out if it 
 had not been there to come. But I have interrupted you. 
 You were saying " 
 
 " I was going to say, that I was not dreaming when I told 
 you who it was that prepared me to long for the truth, and 
 attracted me to it ; who it was that made me seek for it, 
 and receive it when offered. It was you — not by anything 
 you said to me, for you never mentioned the subject, but 
 what I saw. of you, by the silent influence of your character, 
 by what you are and what you are not. Haven't I known 
 you all my life, and most since you were tried most ? Do 
 you think I didn't observe the force you put upon yourself 
 so often, when everything was against it except — what is the 
 word for a motive that comes from doing what the Grace of 
 God tells you to do ? " 
 
 "The supernatural motive; but please don't apply the 
 term to the bare duty that I did, if I did as much as that. 
 You forget that I had Ida to think of — which means the
 
 F1{EV]LLK CHASE. 269 
 
 whole world, as far as it concerns me. It would have been 
 odd indeed if I had not controlled myself." 
 
 " It's of no use to tell me all those things, for I know- 
 better. Don't I remember at the end of it all, that dreadful 
 Monday, and how you bore one of the most unbearable 
 trials that could have been put upon you ? Do you mean 
 to tell me that all this was natural — could have been done 
 without a higher motive and the habit of always acting upon 
 it ? Do you expect me to believe that you are naturally 
 calm, passive, patient ? I have not known which to admire 
 in you most " 
 
 "You had better admire neither, whatever they may be. 
 There is nothing to admire in anything I have done or 
 forborne to do." 
 
 •' But I know that there is ; and you must let me go on, 
 or I shall not be able to tell you what it was that influenced 
 me without my knowing it. I say that I knew not which 
 to admire in you most " 
 
 " Please, don't. It isn't good for one, particularly when 
 one doesn't deserve it. Of course I desired to act on the 
 higher motive — I was bound to do so, and should have 
 broken down if I hadn't — but carrying out is another thing." 
 
 " It's no use interrupting. You only make me repeat the 
 words you don't like over and over again, instead of once. 
 I knew not which to admire in you most — your strength to 
 do, or your strength to endure." 
 
 " And what have you ever seen me do ? " 
 
 "Never mind that : I know what you are, and I" 
 
 " And what have you ever seen me endure that I could 
 help ? " 
 
 " You are not going to put me off by that, as if I didn't 
 know the difference between not being able to help a thing 
 and bearing it extraordinarily well. The other day, when I 
 was out riding, I saw a cart-horse tread rather heavily on a 
 man's foot. The man couldn't help being trodden on, but 
 he swore and made faces as long as I could see him, and for 
 anything I know, may be doing so at intervals still." 
 
 " I see there is no stopping you : so I may say as well be 
 quiet, but only under protest." 
 
 " Let it be under anything you like, so long as you listen 
 to me. I am telling the simple truth w^hen I say that your 
 influence, unknown to yourself, has led me to be a Catholic.
 
 270 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 I know of course that the Hfe and character of this person 
 or that have nothing to do with whether our Lord founded 
 the Cathohc Church or not ; but one does want something 
 to make one begin, and the Cathohc Church takes, as one 
 can't help seeing, such very high ground, that one looks up 
 to it in spite of oneself, in spite of believing it to be wrong, 
 and one looks to the character and conduct of every 
 Catholic as an example, one way or the other. I have hardly 
 known any but you, and you have been the best witness I 
 could have known. Without you, I should now be as I 
 was." 
 
 " Thank God for the result, any how ! " said Everard. 
 " But that I should have had anything to do with the great- 
 ness of your effort and the immensity of the consequence, 
 makes me think of the world standing on an elephant and 
 the elephant on a tortoise. Now suppose we talk of some- 
 thing else for a bit, something lighter. You have done a great 
 w^ork in the last three hours, with the prospect of much 
 more to do ; and the mind, like the body, requires rest after 
 exertion. Even nuns in the most severe and contemplative 
 orders have recreation ; and w^e, who are not called to that 
 sort of life, want it much more. Who is that red-whiskered 
 man who means so well, and has done so much mischief? 
 I have met him several times, but, somehow or other, I never 
 caught his name." 
 
 "And I can't remember it either," said Elfrida, "though 
 he was staying with us nearly a week. It is a very peculiar 
 name. He is some relation to Lady Oxborough. He is the 
 most tiresome person I ever knew." 
 
 " Yes, he is, poor fellow. He is very conscientious, and 
 proved it by giving up not only a good family living, but 
 other good prospects as well, to become a Catholic and be 
 shelved on a small allowance, without having at that time 
 any apparent chance of being able to do anything for him- 
 self. I respect him very much, but he certainly is very 
 tiresome. He has an incorrigible habit of saying and 
 doing the wrong thing in society. He can't help it : he 
 would, if he knew how\" 
 
 " Yes, I could see that he was very good ; but he really did 
 a wonderful deal of harm in a short time. He contrived 
 in the most ingenious manner to make Catholicity un- 
 pleasant and offensive by half-joking attacks on Pro-
 
 FiiEVlLLE CHASE. 271 
 
 testantism and by extreme opinions of his own. It annoyed 
 and excited my mother very much, made everything worse 
 for Ida, and undid in me, for the time, nearly all the good 
 that your example had done. If things had not happened 
 as they did afterwards, to make me think more reasonably, 
 I should not be a Catholic now, and perhaps never should 
 have been." 
 
 " No. It would only have been a question of time with 
 you — I feel sure of that : but with many the mischief would 
 have been serious, and very likely permanent. Converts 
 may be divided into two classes — those who are as if they 
 had always been Catholics, and those who are not. Some 
 of the latter class are occasionally very trying. They are 
 like a parched pea on a drum : they can't be quiet. They 
 seem, as it were, spiritually drunk. You would find 
 occasional specimens of them in Rome, where they frighten 
 away half-inquiring Protestants and furnish illustrations for 
 domestic arguments against Popery. They mean very well, 
 and are very much in earnest, but they are a great nuisance. 
 You will not be like that : you are too well balanced. But 
 those little patches of sharp colour and cold shading are 
 in strange contrast with the harmonious largeness that 
 characterises the centre of Catholicity." 
 
 " One peculiaricy of his," said Elfrida, " is, that he con- 
 tinually brings in Italian words to explain about religion ; 
 which only has the effect of making Catholicity look foreign 
 and new." 
 
 " Which is the modern English tradition," said Everard, 
 " though we learned constitutional principles from the 
 Benedictine monks and owe all our fine buildings and all 
 our distinctly English customs to Catholic Englishmen." 
 
 " I know it is the modern English tradition, as you say, 
 that the Catholic faith is a foreign importation. The Swiss 
 governess used to tell me so continually, and I wondered, 
 sometimes, how that could be reconciled with England's 
 having been Catholic so much longer than it has been 
 Protestant." 
 
 " There is no excuse for bringing in foreign words now," 
 said he, " for it is not done in these days. When my father 
 was a boy, and even later, it was the fashion to interlard 
 conversations with bits of French, not always of the best ; 
 and it seems that, in the days of Dr. Johnson, ladies used
 
 272 KKKVILLE CHASK. 
 
 to call out '' caro' at the opera when the primo tenore pleased 
 them. One finds it for instance in (Goldsmith's play, ' She 
 Stoops to Conquer.' 
 
 llie fourth act sees her wedded to the Squire^ 
 And madam now begins to hold it higher, 
 Pretends to taste, at operas cries ' caro,' 
 And quits her Nancy Dawson for 'che faro,' 
 
 Whether the false quantity was made to agree with cai'o, or 
 caro brought in to rhyme with Goldsmith's pronunciation of 
 the words in '■che faro senza' Euridice, I don't know." 
 
 " Now I think of it," said Elfrida, " a great aunt of mine 
 (you must remember her at Netherwood when I was very 
 small) used to talk in that way." 
 
 " Yes. I remember her very well, and I remember 
 several people who did it when I was a boy. It was an 
 affectation, though an unintentional one, and it spoilt their 
 English ; but mannerism of some sort appears to be an 
 incorrigible failing in human nature, and those bits of 
 French that came in without rhyme or reason were, at any 
 rate, much better than the slang and sloppy sentences that 
 one hears now in society. The English is worse and the 
 affectation is greater, and the whole is offensive, which the 
 other was not. There is another obsolete fashion of those 
 and earlier days that I really regret. I mean the habit of 
 bringing in Latin quotations and occasionally Greek. I 
 remember about the last of it when I was a little boy. The 
 two or or three old gentlemen who did it are all dead, and 
 they were anachronisms then. It was sometimes carried to 
 a tiresome excess on the right side ; and it guaranteed a 
 certain amount of mental cultivation in many men who, 
 but for the force of fashion, would have had none at all. But 
 I was going to ask you — hasn't your friend of the red 
 whiskers succeeded to a property?" 
 
 " Yes," from an uncle. "They say it is a very interesting 
 old place, with a black and white timbered house ; but the 
 property is very much encumbered, and the house out of 
 repair. I am very sorry for that." 
 
 "Yes, poor fellow. It is a very hard and difficult position, 
 to have a property that brings a quarter of its nominal value 
 and more than the whole of its full claims. But I hope it 
 has been exaggerated. Those things generally are, one 
 way or the other."
 
 FKEviLLE chasf:. 273 
 
 Here the conversation was brought to an untimely and 
 abrupt end by the approach of a bicycle, surmounted by a 
 man dressed in a blue flannel jacket, a blue and white cap, 
 knickerbockers of no particular colour, and grey stockings 
 that moved up and down in the form of a spider's when 
 he is weaving his web. There could not have been a 
 worse place to meet such a machine, for some heaps of 
 stones, put ready for breaking, narrowed the available 
 space. The road was exceptionally narrow at that spot, 
 and the bicycle came suddenly round a corner. 
 
 "Just keep a hand on him," said Everard, riding up 
 close to the dark chestnut, and watching him attentively, 
 " for he may never have seen one of those abominable 
 things before. The roads are too hilly for them where he 
 comes from." 
 
 The dark chestnut turned his head and looked at the 
 movable treadmill wnth some appearance of curiosity, but 
 showed no symptom of fear or resentment, though Ever- 
 ard's horse, which was furthest from it shied resolutely and, 
 but for a sharp dig of the spurs, would have turned round. 
 
 " What a darling horse !" said Elfrida. " I am sure he 
 never saw^ one of those things before, by his looking at 
 it so ; and yet he went on just the same, though it passed 
 close to him, and your horse w^as troublesome about it." 
 
 After this interruption they talked on various subjects, 
 including, after a w^hile, Sir Richard's accident. 
 
 "How wonderfully God brings good out of evil!" said 
 Elfrida. "But for the postponement of your marriage and 
 the aw^kwardness of the red-whiskered man, my father 
 would never have understood you, and I should be still 
 trying to satisfy myself with 'essentials.'" 
 
 " You must mark that off to the credit of your recent 
 guest, against his misdemeanours at Netherwood," said 
 Everard. 
 
 "I do ; but he really was " 
 
 "I don't doubt it; but De Beaufoy told me that Mrs. 
 Atherstone gave him a useful lesson when he dined at 
 Bramscote. So I daresay he learned something. Didn't 
 you find him less aggressive at breakfast the next morning ?" 
 
 "Now that you speak of it, 1 think I did: but he went 
 away directly after." 
 
 They were now coming to the sandy bit of road, and
 
 274 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 they cantered on, talking in a desultory way. After a 
 while, Elfrida si)oke less and less, and then not at all, till 
 they passed the lodge, when she said : — 
 
 *' What a change has come over me, and over everything 
 connected with me, since I passed the gate four hours ago ! 
 I feel so different, and yet so much more myself." 
 
 " Because you have found your whole self," said Ever- 
 ard. "The greater part of it was out of sight before, 
 hidden up in a corner." 
 
 " It was you, then, who brought it to light," said she, 
 " I couldn't have done it without you." 
 
 "I may have been an instrument, or rather one instru- 
 ment ; but if I had not been here, God would have chosen 
 some other if it was His will to make use of one ; or He 
 would have dealt with you in some other way. Your dis- 
 position to correspond with His will and His Grace would 
 not be permitted to fail for want of sufficient help." 
 
 " Certainly : but unless I had had your help, or some 
 other equally strong — and where should I have found it, 
 circumstanced as I was ? — I should not have had sufficient 
 for the purpose. God must have made things happen so 
 that you had to come here." 
 
 "I may have been made use of in that way : but you 
 make too much of the instrument. Much more depended 
 on you than on me, and would, even if I had been up to 
 the work, which I cannot feel that I am. One may make 
 ever so good a key, and handle it like a locksmith ; but if 
 the lock doesn't fit it, the door will not open. The result 
 really depended on your own dispositions, and might have 
 been just the same, and have happened as soon, without 
 any human instrument. People have been converted by the 
 Grace of God in their hearts, without any visible help at all." 
 
 " Yes ; but as a matter of fact, I was not. You have been 
 the instrument, most distinctly ; for, as I said before, it was 
 your example that prepared the way, before I ever spoke a 
 word to you on the subject, or thought of doing so." 
 
 " My example ! When I hear that, and measure it with 
 what I have done, I feel how very much is wanting in me to 
 complete even the outlines of the ideal example which your 
 imagination has pictured." 
 
 They had passed the house and were turning into the 
 stable-yard.
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 27o 
 
 " By tlie by," he said, as they rode in, " your father 
 must know it as soon as possible. When do you think of 
 telhng him ?" 
 
 " 1 thought of doing so to-morrow morning," said she. 
 *' I am so tired now, after all I have gone through. I shall 
 explain myself better in the morning."" 
 
 " True ; and your mother ? " 
 
 " I shall write to her to-morrow, of course." 
 
 When they had dismounted, he said to the coachman, 
 " what do you think of this horse ? I have just bought 
 him." 
 
 The coachman stood square to his front, looked the dark 
 <:hestnut all over, and replied : — 
 
 " AVell, sir, he is a good 'un. I can't see a fault in him. 
 But you always had a capital eye for a horse." 
 
 " I didn't find him out," said Everard. " Sandford got 
 hold of him." 
 
 It was now seven o'clock. Everard went into Sir 
 Richard's room and amused him with a graphic account of 
 the new horse, till he had barely time enough to dress for 
 dinner. Elfrida, while taking off her habit, began to argue 
 internally against his denial of her statements respecting 
 himself, 
 
 " He may say what he likes about it," said she to her 
 inner self; "but his example and the quiet evidence of his 
 beautiful life, did prepare me to receive the truth, did attract 
 me to it : and the way in which he answered my questions 
 did make it clear to me, and what he said when we came 
 out of the chapel did make me understand what I felt. I 
 have read nothing about saints yet, and I have always 
 supposed hitherto that they lived in caves and ate roots ; but 
 if they are ever to be found in ordinary life, he is one. 
 What a wonderful expression there was in his countenance 
 when he was explaining things to me, and again in the 
 chapel, and again at the last, when he tried to make out 
 that the example I spoke of was an ideal of my own. There 
 was a far-off look in his eyes, as if his thoughts were at that 
 moment out of himself and fixed on God. There was a 
 strange light in his eyes, and, as it appeared to me, on his 
 face too, that I never saw before in any one, and never could 
 have imagined. His is a wonderful character ! So strong 
 to do, so strong to resist, so full of fire and vigour, and so
 
 276 
 
 FHEVILLK CHASK. 
 
 self-controlled ! So passionately loving to Ida, and so 
 detached from the world they live in. Ida ought to be the 
 hap[)iest woman living, and will be, must be — must be." 
 
 By this time the process of dressing impeded her 
 reflections, but when she was on her way downstairs — the 
 last emphatic idea repeated itself : — 
 
 " Must be — yes! must be, even now, in spite of all the 
 troubles and delays — must be, even now, the happiest 
 woman living." 
 
 This very strong opinion occurred often in the course of 
 the evening and afterwards. Everard, by the fact of being 
 what he was, had done another work of which he was quite 
 unconscious. He had given Elfrida an ideal of a husband 
 and, by causing her to realise Ida's happiness, changed her 
 from a thinking child into a woman. 
 
 After dinner they went into Sir Richard's room. The 
 wounded sportsman was very cheerful, for the doctor had 
 told him that he was progressing very favourably, and would 
 be in his normal state by the beginning of the hunting 
 season. Hr joked about the red-whiskered man, laughed 
 much at his real and supposed sayings and doings, asked 
 many questions about Mrs. Roland and all the old institu- 
 tions of Freville Chase, told them a long story whose 
 commencement had something to do with Beynham, but 
 had no perceptible point, and finally discoursed on what he 
 had heard of the dark chestnut till the stable-clock tolled 
 midnight, whereat he seemed surprised. Elfrida had long 
 been exhausted by all she had done during the day, and was 
 fast asleep in her chair. 
 
 Thus ended that eventful day ; which, however, was but 
 the beginning of others more eventful. 

 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 read in the " Lady of the Lake," that 
 
 Hope is brightest ii<hen it dawns from fears ; 
 
 but Sir Richard was not of that opinion 
 when he heard of what Elfrida had done 
 and was about to do. In fact the hope of 
 escaping an aggravated tantrum was so low 
 in the horizon, that it could hardly be said 
 to have dawned at all." 
 
 About ten o'clock Elfrida came into his room, and after 
 a few words of affectionate inquiry, plunged in medias res. 
 
 " My dear father," she said in a low voice, but with 
 remarkable distinctness, " I have to tell you what will be 
 very welcome news. I am now a Catholic in heart and in 
 faith, as well as by baptism." 
 
 Sir Richard made an involuntary spring upwards, 
 descended as lightly as he could, and replied : — 
 
 " God bless us all 1 My dear child — you know — don't 
 you see ? It is welcome news indeed, and a great comfort 
 to me, who have had it on my conscience all these years : 
 but it comes at such an awkward time, ^^'hat made you 
 think of it just now ? It must have been Everard. Why 
 couldn't he have left it alone till afterwards ? " 
 
 " Because I asked him to help me now," said she. " I 
 should have had no other opportunity." 
 
 "Well, no ; that's true," said Sir Richard, adding in con- 
 fidence to himself. " I know who would take care of that ; 
 and if she had come to me instead — Good gracious ! what 
 should I have done ? "
 
 278 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " And I should hardly have liked, under the circumstances, 
 to have asked you," said Elfrida. 
 
 " I am glad you didn't do ///^/," said he in a tone that 
 would have convinced any one. " But, you see, there is the 
 wedding to be thought of. There'll be such a row. Couldn't 
 you put it off a bit? " 
 
 " I think you will see that it can't be put off," said she. 
 " I am sure that you will not suspect me of any disposition 
 to act in any way against your wishes, nor of setting myself 
 up to know better than yourself" 
 
 " No, no, my child, certainly not. I should never think 
 that. You have always been as good as gold. Let us talk 
 it over quietly, and see what is to be done. Where is the 
 difficulty about waiting a little — just, you know, till the 
 wedding is over ? " 
 
 "If I do that," said Elfrida, " I shall stand convicted of 
 temporising with my own conscience and wilfully deceiving 
 my own mother — in fact of doing ill that good may come of 
 it, which is just what Catholics are falsely accused of doing, 
 I don't know how I could put you, myself, Ida and Everard, 
 in a more false position, or help more to justify people in 
 their own minds for the calumnies they repeat about Catholic 
 principles. I feel so strongly the right of parents to exact 
 obedience from their children, and the duty of children to 
 obey, that I am prepared to wait till after the wedding, if 
 you require it, trusting that Almighty God will accept my 
 intentions and preserve me to fulfil them : but I implore 
 you not to require it. Do not place me in the dreadful 
 })osition of leaving all the responsibility with you. I am 
 young, but life is uncertain and death sometimes comes 
 unawares. If I should die in the meantime out of the 
 Church, it will be in obedience to you. Don't, I entreat 
 you, bring upon me the grief of seeing you take upon your- 
 self such a responsibility as that. I can't share it with you, 
 as you know. It must be your own." 
 
 " Don?ie, Do7ine ! Eterni Dei ? " thought Sir Richard, 
 moving about, in his disquietude, as much as his condition 
 would allow. He had picked up those three words of 
 Italian at the opera, and was in the habit of quoting them 
 to himself on emergencies. Elfrida stood still and waited 
 his reply. 
 
 " What am I to say ? What am I to do ? " he thought.
 
 FKKVILLE CHASE. 279 
 
 " I don't see any way out of it — I really don't — for the 
 worst of it is that she is right. If she had only not put it in 
 that way ! Responsibility ! Every one has been at me about 
 that, and I see it — I do indeed. But in this case the other 
 side is so awkward. She is right, I see, and she is so good, 
 and so respectful, and so obedient — which hardly any one 
 is now. She is right ; but, somehow or other, I wish that 
 she hadn't shown it before me so." 
 
 It is probable that, had he been given the power of choice, 
 he would have preferred the tantrum in the family coach to 
 his actual position. 
 
 " Well, you see," he said at last, " I can't take upon 
 myself to interfere with your conscience, when you want to 
 come back into the Church. It was bad enough to have 
 left you to drift out of it before you were old enough to 
 know better. I have enough to answer for, without any 
 more, and if my time were to come again — but it's no use — 
 no use talking of what is past. ' What's done can't be 
 undone,' they say ; but the mischief I let be done has been 
 undone as far as you and Ida are concerned, tKough I have 
 had nothing to do with undoing it, I am sorry to say. Well, 
 it's a great blessing, and I am sure I am very thankful for 
 it ; but the awkward part of it is that your coming all right, 
 just at this time, may bring out some doctor or other to 
 recommend more foreign travelling. I don't see where that 
 sort of thing is to stop — eh? ' 
 
 Elfrida remained silent for a while and looked very grave. 
 
 " I ought to have seen that," she said ; " but now that I 
 see it, I can see no further. May I call Everard ? " 
 
 "The best thing you can do. He is the most sensible, 
 right-judging fellow in the world. Do bring him here, and 
 let us hear what he has to say." 
 
 She left the room and, guessing that he was not unlikely 
 to be found in the neighbourhood of Ida's new horse, went 
 to the stables, where she found him. 
 
 " Do come ! " she said. " We are in a dreadful diffi- 
 culty." 
 
 "What is it?" said Everard, walking back with her to 
 the house. 
 
 " I must either do wrong or bring trouble on everybody." 
 
 " I daresay it will turn out to be nothing, after all. One 
 often fancies that things are very bad, when every one else
 
 280 FIIKVILLK CHASE. 
 
 can see they are not. We are all of us bad judges in our 
 own cause." 
 
 Elfrida tried to re{)ly, but after repeating a few incoherent 
 words, burst into a violent flood of tears. 
 
 " I am not used to crying," she said, making a great 
 effort to speak intelligibly, " and I don't remember doing 
 such a thing since I was a child. I have not had occasion 
 to feel very much, I suppose ; for it came upon me in such 
 a way that I couldn't help it. But it was too much for any 
 one with any feeling, to think that what you have done for 
 me should bring trouble on you." 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 " All ! And isn't it enough, to have the alternative of 
 deceiving my mother, bringing scandal on Catholic principles 
 and temporising with the Grace of God, or repaying all you 
 have done for me by " 
 
 '' I see what you mean. In the first place, you would 
 not be temporising with the grace of God by waiting, if 
 prudence required that you should wait ; but, as a matter 
 of fact, prudence does nothing of the kind. Stay a moment 
 and let us settle the question before we go indoors. A 
 prudent act, in the higher sense ot the word, which is the 
 only sense in which it concerns what we are speaking, means 
 a judicious application of a right principle to the particular 
 circumstances of the case that requires it ; otherwise it 
 becomes mere caution, with a strong family likeness to 
 trimming. Now, prudence, in that sense, requires you to 
 avoid giving the appearance of a bad example and false 
 ideas of Catholic practice : it requires you not to run the 
 risk of giving both, which you would do by trying to avert 
 troubles that have come before, without any such cause, and 
 could as easily come again without it. • When one sees what 
 is right to do, one must do it as prudently as one can, and 
 leave the rest to Almighty God." 
 
 " Yes, of course ; but " 
 
 " But what? you really may feel quite satisfied about it?" 
 
 " Yes, and I know it is very wrong of me to have such a 
 wish ; but I can't help wishing, in spite of myself, that 
 Almighty God had made somebody else help me ; for then 
 it would all come upon me, instead of involving you and 
 Ida." 
 
 " You dear, simple child. Don't you know ? — you make
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 281 
 
 me say what I oughtn't to say — don't you know that some- 
 body would give me the credit of the deed, whether I had 
 anything to do with it or not ? " 
 
 " So you really think it makes no difference ? " 
 
 "I am certain it doesn't." 
 
 "Then, in fact, I couldn't prevent anything, do what I 
 would.'"' 
 
 " Not without being in the wrong before God and man ; 
 which could hardly be expected to bring a blessing on me, 
 if I were to advise it." 
 
 " But, if you could only have been married first " 
 
 " In that case I should have been away, and consequently 
 I couldn't have been of any use to you ; and, as you wouldn't 
 wish to remain as you were, you must either be satisfied 
 with things as they are or be dissatisfied with the means that 
 God chose for you." 
 
 " God forbid ! I only meant " 
 
 "I know you didn't mean that, but in reality there is no 
 other alternative. Are you satisfied now ? " 
 
 "Yes, quite ; thanks to you again. We had better go in 
 now. My father wants to see you about it." 
 
 " There is another thing to be considered," said he, as 
 they were walking upstairs, " one that has weight enough in 
 itself to decide the question for you. Your mother, it is 
 true, shows no disposition to be a Catholic, and I see no 
 reason at present to expect that she ever will ; but who can 
 venture to say that doubts and troublous questionings and 
 undefined images of truth outside her experience may not, 
 some day, come into her mind and heart as it came into 
 yours ? You tell me that my example (I can't imagine how) 
 attracted you towards the Church ; which implies that a 
 worse example would have repelled you. Who can say how 
 much, how lastingly, she may be influenced by your 
 behaviour now, when everything you say and do will be 
 attributed to the influence of your religion ? What would 
 be the effect on her, if she found that the very first thing 
 you had done was to conceal your faith and deceive her ? I 
 know her well enough to be sure that nothing you could do 
 afterwards would undo the effect of that. Have I said 
 enough ? " 
 
 "You have, indeed. How strange it is that I didn't see 
 it all myself! " 
 
 VOL. I T
 
 282 FHEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " You would have seen it fast enough, if it had not been 
 your own affair. One naturally takes a side in one's own 
 case, and that makes one an advocate instead of a judge. 
 Besides, your feelings were enlisted, and you were altogether 
 upset." 
 
 " I was, but you have put me to rights. How do you 
 manage to say the right thing always and exacdy in the 
 right way ? " 
 
 " You have posed me now," said Everard, opening the 
 door of Sir Richard's room. " How can I explain what is 
 not ? " 
 
 Ah ! I am glad you have come," said Sir Richard. " I 
 wanted to see you." 
 
 " I should have come before, only I couldn't help going 
 to the stables to have a look at Ida's new horse." 
 
 " To be sure. I wish I could have gone with you to look 
 at him. But we both wanted you, about a difficulty that 
 neither of us could see our way out of. Has she told you 
 what it was ? " 
 
 "Yes; we talked it out on our way from the stables, 
 where she found me." 
 
 " And what did you make of it ? " 
 
 " That she is not to think about me in the matter." 
 
 *' I never made that out of it," said Elfrida, " and never 
 would." 
 
 "Well, it was a way of speaking, a short cut to the 
 upshot ; but I was forgetting that we had not talked it out 
 here." 
 
 " That is just what I want to do," said Sir Richard. " Let 
 us talk it out." 
 
 " I beg your pardon for beginning with the end," said 
 Everard. " The fact is that we finished it off just as we 
 were coming into the room, and so I went on thoughtlessly 
 with the end of it." 
 
 He then repeated all that he had said to Elfrida, and when 
 he had finished, Sir Richard said : — 
 
 "Very true and convincing. You have put it as straight 
 as can be. I am sure I don't know what to say. There is 
 no getting over what you have said. It all comes as clear 
 as possible. But how about Ida — eh ? You can go through 
 a deal yourself, I know, for a principle — whatever that 
 is, which I never could quite make out — but you wouldn't
 
 KREVILLE CHASE. 2."^3 
 
 like to bring Ida into a scrape. Now, supposing anything 
 were to hai)pen ? " 
 
 , " I don't quite understand," said Everard, not without a 
 scruple as to the strict veracity of the statement. 
 
 '• Well, you know, anything to bring bothers and a blo>y- 
 up, and — mind, I don't say that such a thing would be. 
 But any sort of — there are doctors about, you know." 
 . Everard groaned inwardly. " I did hope," thought he, 
 *' that the shots had driven in some notion of seeing justice 
 done to his own child ; but one might as well expect the 
 leopard to change his skin. He can't help it." 
 
 '' What do you say to that — eh ? " said Sir Richard, raising 
 himself up as much as his condition would permit with com- 
 parative impunity. 
 
 " That a doctor was very much about before Elfrida 
 thought of being a Catholic," answered Everard, " and that 
 <as you compel me to say the truth) it would be difficult to 
 find one ready for such hard swearing as the man was wlio 
 ordered the journey to Baveno." 
 
 ** It 7C'as going near the wind, I admit — if he quite said it 
 all — but then there are so many ways of understanding 
 things. P'or my part I don't see much use in language, for 
 it goes into such odd meanings — doesn't it ? Some other 
 fellow might be found, you know, to make out something 
 that would be very awkward for you and Ida." 
 
 " In justice to everyone concerned," said Everard, "there 
 is a limit to the postponement of a marriage approved so 
 solemnly by yourself and all who had authority to do so. 
 You have the power to carry out your own voluntary 
 promise, made when Ida was a baby, continued ever since, 
 and known to every one who knows you. In case of any 
 impediment or further delay, I shall claim the protection 
 which your promise and your authority give me the right to 
 demand." 
 
 " That's all very true," said Sir Richard, looking forth 
 into space, while the expression that was, or might be, in 
 •his eyes grew less as the rounded expanse became larger. 
 *' It's all as true as can be, and you said it so well — you're a 
 wonderful clever fellow. But I have got so many things to 
 consider." 
 
 " I beg your pardon for questioning your wiser judgment," 
 said Everard ; " but with every feeling of respect and regard
 
 284 FREVILLE CHASB. 
 
 to yourself personally and of reverence to Ida's father, I 
 must affirm that there is only one." 
 
 Sir Richard made no immediate reply, and appeared to 
 be considering some of the many things that awaited his 
 final decision. 
 
 '' Perhaps we had better leave you to think over it all," 
 suggested Elfrida, with truly feminine tact. 
 
 " Just so," said he, settling himself more comfortably on 
 the sofa that, a few weeks before, had held Lady Dytchley 
 and her smelling bottle. " I feel rather uncomfortable just 
 now. I should'like to think it over quietly. By the by, I 
 had a letter this morning from Mrs. Sherborne, asking you 
 to go to luncheon. Suppose you ride there and call at 
 Bramscote afterwards. Your mother meant to have called 
 before she went abroad." 
 
 They left the room, and he proceeded to reflect on the 
 state of affairs ; but his views on the question were of a 
 purely subjective kind, as befitted the nature of his 
 apprehensions. 
 
 " What a fool I was," thought he, " though he is such a 
 comfort to me in many ways, to have brought Everard here ! 
 To go and bring all this down upon me, when he was 
 enjoying himself at Beynham, and would have stayed there 
 till close on the time of their coming home ! Elfrida would 
 have come into it all in good time — I am sure she would — 
 and it would all have come right, and have been so much 
 better than lugging everybody into it in this way. But who 
 would ever have thought of her taking this sudden turn 
 because Everard took her out riding ? Fool that I was, to 
 send them out ! But then, who in the world could have 
 guessed what was going to happen ? How on earth could 
 she make it out so quick ? She didn't see a cross in the 
 sky, like Constantine the Great. The worst of it is that I 
 don't know what to answer — both of them put things in such 
 a way. He made out his case as straight as could be, and 
 so did Elfrida before. And there it is ! Here am I, tied 
 by the leg ; and she will be coming back in another three 
 weeks, and kick up a row, worse than the other. And I 
 can't get away ! It's all that red-whiskered fool— I never 
 can remember his name, and I don't want to remember it. 
 He brought on the first row by not coming inside, and then 
 nothing would serve him but he must go and miss a
 
 FREVILLE CFIASE. 285 
 
 wounded bird and send the whole charge into me, when he 
 couldn't have hit a haystack if he had tried. And that 
 made me send for Everard, and that gave Elfrida a chance 
 of asking questions, and — there it is, there it is ! " 
 
 Here the approaching danger of an aggravated tantrum 
 with pathological consequences assumed a pictorial form, 
 and his disquietude became too great for words. Whilst he 
 was thus thinking it out after his own fashion, Elfrida was 
 endeavouring to show cause why Everard ought to go forth 
 without delay and return with Father Johnson, Everard 
 objected to doing either, especially the errand. 
 
 " But you told me yourself," said she, not to wait " 
 
 " Certainly " 
 
 " And yet now you won't help me to go on.'"' 
 
 " But I will, very much. Father Johnson must first 
 satisfy himself that you are properly instructed." 
 
 " Of course : and you are going to do it for me. How 
 kind and thoughtful, and "' 
 
 " Suppose we leave the third adjective and settle what is 
 to be done. You see, there will be no loss of time. We 
 shall avoid the appearance of undue haste before people 
 who don't know the circumstances, and the credit of the 
 work will fall on me, instead of where it would attract 
 exceptional ill-feeling and complicate your difficulties." 
 
 " Forgive me, dear Everard, for being so impatient," said 
 Elfrida, the tears welling up into her eyes at the recollection 
 of all that he was, and all that he had done for her. " And 
 there is that wonderful smile," she thought, " that tells one 
 what one is, and without a word of reproach makes one 
 reproach oneself when one is wrong, and yet shows one the 
 best of oneself." 
 
 '' But you were quite right to be impatient," said Everard. 
 *' • Bless us all ! ' as your old great aunt used to say, what is 
 to become of us, if that is to be set down against you ? If 
 the end we were created for is not enough to make one 
 speak up, I don't know what is. If there was any fault, it 
 was mine for not finishing at once what I had to say." 
 
 •'No. I interrupted you" 
 
 '' Simply because I didn't go on. You were quite right 
 to make a row about it — you were indeed." 
 
 "Then you will teach me, and show me what I have to do?" 
 
 "Yes. I have more time for it than Father Johnson
 
 286 FIfKVlLLK CHASK. 
 
 would have, besides the time when we are out riding. But 
 we mustn't stand here any longer. There is that letter to 
 be written, and you have to get ready for riding to Hazeley 
 and Bramscote, and we must set off about twelve o'clock. 
 Will you ride the new horse ? " 
 
 " Certainly, if you will let me ride him.'' 
 
 She retired to the old school-room, and began to think of 
 what she should say to her mother, or, to speak more 
 correctly, how she should say it. Everard was about to 
 return whence he came, to amuse Sir Richard by desultory 
 talk and readings from newspapers, when the latter made a 
 sudden exclamation of joy and pulled the string that carried 
 on the bell-rope to his sofa. He pulled once, twice, and 
 then tugged again. A happy thought had struck him, and 
 if the wish was father to that thought, it was grandfather to 
 the bell-ringing. 
 
 " I've got it now," he thought. " It will put everything 
 to rights and please everybody. They have always been 
 wanting Elfrida to go and see them at Hazeley, and there 
 was always some difficulty made, but no objection, no 
 objection ever. And now that she is left here, with her 
 mother and sister gone, and me laid up in one room, and 
 Everard here only by chance, it comes quite natural to let 
 her go. And then — why, if she makes it right there, I shall 
 have had nothing to do with it, nor Everard, as far as any 
 one need know. Sherborne won't mind what any one says 
 or does, and would rather enjoy the row. And she wouldn't 
 mind it. Til write at once. Why can't they answer the 
 bell ? " 
 
 At this moment Everard came into the room, intending to 
 furnish amusement without instruction, in the shape of 
 general talking and desultory readings from newsjjapers. 
 Sir Richard jerked himself round on the same sofa that held 
 Lady Dytchley when she told him that " Man is born unto 
 trouble as the sparks fly upward," and explained his plan in 
 a few characteristic words. Everard was prepared to second 
 the proposal, having already thought of it, and he expressed 
 himself to that effect, suggesting however that the visit 
 should not be immediate, but in a few days' time. Sir 
 Richard caught at this apparent delay with much alacrity, 
 failing to see that it was |)roposed in the interest of the 
 penny catechism.
 
 FKEVIIJ.E CHASE. Z«7 
 
 " Then I had better just write a note, and you can take 
 it," said Sir Richard. 
 
 The note was written, and then came the general talk 
 interspersed with readings from newspapers. In the 
 meanwhile Elfrida was engaged in the painful task of re- 
 vealing her faith to the mother who, up to tlie last few hours, 
 had taught her all she had known of religion. The letter 
 was short in length, but, when read, seemed rather long by 
 reason of its completeness. The facts were stated simply 
 and modestly in terms of great affection and reverence, but 
 with due regard of what she was professing. There was 
 not a shadow of apology, not a word of defence, not an ex- 
 pression that would suggest the idea of an alternative, or 
 admit a doubt as to her sole responsibility. 
 
 " No otic pers^laded fue,'" she said. " / never me7itio?ied 
 the subject to any o?ie till I had see?i thai I must go through 
 with it and made up my mind to do so, as you most certainly 
 would, under the same circumstances, without a tnomenfs 
 iiesitatio7iy 
 
 Of Everard she wrote : — 
 
 " He came here from Beynham the day before yesterday, and 
 has bee?i a great comfort to my father, who has been suffering 
 very much from the accident I mentio?ied in my last letter. 
 Lo?'d de Freville tvanted him to stay till your return for the 
 wedding, hut my father was in great pain and feverish, and 
 wished him to come ; so, with his usual unselfishness, he came 
 at once. He never said a word about religion to me, either 
 since he came here or befoi-e, till I told him what I mea?it, 
 asked him some questions, and insisted on having them 
 answered.'' 
 
 Then she went on to say : — 
 
 '■'' I kno7i', to my great sorrow, that you will at first think 
 me mistaken, perhaps presumptuous and selfconjident, but I 
 feel sure that sooner or later you 7vill approve of my act, 
 however much you may regret it. You know how deeply it 
 must grieve me to do ajiy thing that is in any way displeasing 
 or paififul to you ; for I trust that I have always endeavoured 
 to p?'ove the reverence and affection ivhich I never felt more 
 strongly than ?iow. Therefore I need hardly say, that if I 
 had any other alternative than wilful disobedience to God,
 
 288 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 nothing ivould make 7?ie ad against your 7vishes. To be 
 obliged to do so, with no alternative except that of obeying man 
 rather than God, is a more severe trial than any 07ie who has 
 not been so tried could realise ; but I have one comfort as re- 
 gards you, ??iy dearest 7}iother, a comfort that so many others in 
 the same position have ?iot. You fnay for a while thitik me 
 mistaken, in the tvrotig, presu?nptuous, self-confident; but you 
 cannot think that I am follo7vi?tg a false religion, or you 
 would never have manied my father. Do write as soon as 
 possible, and let me feel that you have not and cannot mis- 
 understand my 7notives or f7iy feelings, especially toivai'ds youT 
 
 When she had finished ihe letter she put it into the post- 
 bag and went to put on her riding-habit. At twelve o'clock 
 she mounted the dark chestnut. 
 
 Their ride was not enlivened much by general con- 
 versation, for the penny catechism employed all the time 
 till they had passed the Four ways and were within sight of 
 Hazeley. Then there was a long silence, and finally, as 
 they were turning into the Park, she said : — 
 
 "Tell me, why is it that you know so much more than 
 other people ?" 
 
 " I can't tell you why I do what I do not do," said Eve- 
 rard. 
 
 " Don't be so tiresome. You know what I mean, and you 
 must know that what I say is true." 
 
 " Indeed I don't." 
 
 " Yes, you do ; but let that pass for the moment. What 
 I wanted to say, just now, was that you explain about 
 religion so satisfactorily, besides giving such a beautiful 
 example." 
 
 " I do neither ; but if I know something about it, and if 
 I act at all like a decent Christian, it is because I have had 
 extraordinary advantages, though my mother died, as you 
 know, when I was only three years old. I have only a dim 
 recollection of her teaching me to make the sign of the 
 cross ; but what she would have done if she had lived was 
 carried out faithfully. Mrs. Roland is a very remarkable 
 woman ; and if all Catholic children were brought up by 
 women like her, we should not see the wretched specimens 
 of nominally Catholic training that do more harm to the 
 faith than any other impediment I know of in England.
 
 FJiPTV'ILLE CHASE. 289 
 
 Then, later on, 1 had a very exceptional advantage in 
 Father Merivale, who is not only a model priest, but a man 
 of varied knowledge and deep intuition. Besides, as you 
 know, he is a Benedictine ; so that I have had the ad- 
 vantage of being trained, as it were, under the shadow^ of 
 St. Benedict, and of studying as much of that marvellously 
 perfect rule as an ordinary Christian in the world can aspire 
 to. If I had not tried to do something, after all these 
 advantages, I should be bad indeed."' 
 
 " Yes ; but other people have advantages, and don't profit 
 
 by them, and " 
 
 "Stay a moment. I forgot to tell you of your father's 
 note, which I have in my pocket. The penny catechism 
 put it out of my head. He wants you to come and stay 
 here with Mrs. Sherborne, instead of sending for Father 
 Johnson, which might create an unpleasant feeling. I need 
 say no more.'' 
 
 " And Mrs. Sherborne," said Elfrida, "has often asked 
 me. In one respect 1 had rather not." 
 
 " You mean that your mother appeared to dislike your 
 staying here, and therefore being obliged to go against her 
 wishes in the one thing that has a higher claim on your 
 obedience, you would, more particularly than ever, avoid 
 seeming to do so in anything else." 
 
 " Yes ; how you read one's thoughts " 
 
 " It was not difficult to read that, knowing your principles 
 as well as I do. You are right in principle, of course. 
 There can be no question about it, in the judgment of any 
 one who has any idea at all of duty ; but your mother has 
 not expressed any objection to your coming here, and as 
 your father has now very strongly expressed a wish that you 
 should, I don't see how you can hesitate. The arrangement 
 happens to be prudent in every way ; but the way for you 
 to look at it, as regards what you ought to do, is that your 
 father wishes it. That should decide you." 
 
 Just then Sherborne cantered up and joined them. 
 " I am so glad you have come," said he, giving a rapid 
 glance at the dark chestnut. That is a horse. Where did 
 Sir Richard get him?" 
 
 " He is Everard's. Isn't he a beauty ? " said Elfrida ; 
 "and as good and well-behaved as he is beautiful. He is 
 meant for Ida."
 
 '2{)0 FKKVILLE CHASE 
 
 " She couldn't be better mounted, if he had searched all 
 through England. I have lately got hold of a really good 
 hack, which is the most difficult thing in the world to find. 
 De Beaufoy spied him out one day, and told me of him — 
 the day we rode over to Freville Chase and held sweet 
 discourse about cathedrals with an Italian Marquis, who 
 thought he had seen a function at Ledchester." 
 
 " And De Beaufoy," said P>erard, " reduced it all to a 
 minor canon and some choristers working away out of the 
 Book of Common Prayer. It was my stepmother's brother." 
 
 "That man must have known very well what it was, by 
 the look of it," said Elfrida. 
 
 Sherborne noticed the decisive tone of her voice, and 
 turning instinctively, saw something very like a pout on her 
 expressive mouth. 
 
 " You don't like him ?" said he. 
 
 " No, I can't bear him : and I am sure you would not, 
 if you saw more of him." 
 
 " I only saw him once. He appeared to me to be two 
 men rolled into one, without being well mixed. The good 
 and bad poi)ped out at odd times, each on its own account. 
 He reminded me, in a way, of a man I once knew, but have 
 lost sight of, whose face had different meanings on the two 
 sides of it ; only the contradiction didn't seem to sit so 
 comfortably on the Marquis Moncalvo as it did on my 
 doubled-faced friend. How is Sir Richard going on ?" 
 
 "Very well now, thank you. But only think of a grown- 
 up man shooting just where he w^as and (the keeper says) 
 less than twenty yards from him !" 
 
 " He shouldn't be allowed to have a gun." 
 
 " I don't know that he has. My father was shot with 
 one of his own — which was too hard." 
 
 " You must ask Mrs. Atherstone about him. I believe 
 she bullied the poor fellow out of his life at Bramscote, 
 and puzzled him too — -which was not the worse for his 
 improvement." 
 
 " We have been talking so agreeably," said Everard, 
 "that I was forgetting to give you Sir Richard's note. 
 Here it is." 
 
 Sherborne read the note and said : — 
 
 " This is a very great pleasure ; and we have been de- 
 prived of it so long. When will you come ? "
 
 fi;k\ii.i,i; liiask. 291 
 
 Elfrida looked al Everard, wlio suggested in a whisper, 
 "This day week." vShe answered accordingly, and the day 
 was fixed. 
 
 They were now at the house. Elfrida dismounted, and 
 Everard led the dark chestnut to the stables. As he left 
 the stable-yard Sherborne said : — 
 
 " I am glad we took the horses ourselves, for I wanted to 
 tell you a thing you ought to know." 
 
 Everard turned very pale, and the smile that no one saw 
 without feeling its attraction stiffened into fixed lines that 
 simply expressed indomitable courage. 
 
 " There is nothing the matter," added Sherborne quickly, 
 " and perhaps you know it already ; but letters are often a 
 long while on the road when people are moving about. I 
 believe I had better have left it alone." 
 
 " I am sure that you have a good and kind reason for 
 speaking," said Everard. " What is it ?" 
 
 "Don't let the abruptness of the answer make the thing 
 seem more than it is," said Sherborne. 
 
 " What is it ?" repeated Everard, standing quite still in 
 front of him, and unconciously grasping his riding-stick 
 with both hands, twisting it to and fro as far as it would 
 bend. 
 
 " My cousin Exmore, (the eldest) knowing no better, gave 
 himself leave to propose to Miss Dytchley." 
 
 Everard made no reply, but the riding-stick broke in two, 
 as if it had been a dry twig, and his eyes flashed forth a 
 light never before seen in them, a light that seemed to say 
 for him, in its mute expressiveness, " If I were to let nature 
 fail in its obedience to drace, I should be dangerous," 
 
 '' He must have been deceived about it somehow," said 
 Sherborne, ''for he is a very honourable man." 
 
 " So I thought. I don't understand how it could be." 
 
 " However it may have been, he was so snubbed for his 
 pains that he went off by the first train, and Lady 
 Oxborough bundled away, with her two daughters, as soon 
 as the millinery could be got into the boxes. My wife 
 heard of it from her sister, Winifred de Bergerac, who was 
 tliere."" 
 
 "But what could have made him think of it? What a 
 fool he must be — I beg your pardon — to put himself into 
 such a position."
 
 292 FJ{EVILLE CIIASK. 
 
 " Well, no : he's not a fool : he is a very sensible fellow. 
 And that is what makes me sure that he was led astray 
 about it. You know what Lady Dytchley is, and I have 
 known her since I was a small boy. She has certain 
 prejudices and a diplomatic imagination, and she doesn't 
 understand you at all. It is more than probable that she 
 deceived herself and him, without exactly intending it, and 
 ran the chance of what might turn up. I have put myself 
 into an awkward position by volunteering to speak on such 
 a matter, for you will naturally ask yourself what business it 
 is of mine" 
 
 " To do a kind and friendly act ? 1 was just going to 
 thank you for it. Of course what you suggested, to account 
 for this extraordinary occurrence, must be very painful to me, 
 considering who Lady Dytchley is ; but it would be sheer 
 humbug in me to pretend that it isn't as you say, when I 
 know that it is so, and know that you know her as well as 
 I do." 
 
 " My reason for telling you what has happened," said 
 Sherborne, " was that I thought you might possibly hear a 
 wrong version of it before you heard the right one ; for 
 half-true reports are generally beforehand." 
 
 " It was very friendly of you to tell me," said Everard, 
 casting a penitent glance at the broken riding-stick, "and 
 all the more so because it was a disagreeable thing to do." 
 
 They then went into the house. 
 
 " I am sorry to say," said Sherborne, as they went, " that 
 your old friend, I)e Beaufoy, and his charming wife left us 
 yesterday ; but you will find Mrs. Atherstone, who I must 
 say, is worth meeting." 
 
 By this time they were in the library, and Mrs. Atherstone 
 followed them immediately afterwards. 
 
 " Freville wants to hear what you said to the discreet 
 convert you met at Bramscote," said Sherborne. 
 
 " There is remarkably little to tell," answered Mrs. 
 Atherstone. "He talked nonsense, and I took the privilege 
 of an old woman to tell him so as civilly as I could." 
 
 " I daresay most of us kick over the traces a little before 
 we are used to it," said Sherborne. 
 
 "You never did," said Mrs. Sherborne. "So don't make 
 your public confession of it before me." 
 
 " I am sure he never did and never would," said Everard;
 
 FKKVILLH CHASK. 29:-'» 
 
 but there is a great deal to be said for the 'enfant terrible* 
 whose name nobody seems to remember. Balance of mind 
 is perhaps the rarest quality to be found, and it isn't fair to 
 expect in every convert what one seldom sees in any one." 
 
 " You are quite right," said Mrs. Atherstone ; " and when 
 one comes into the Church out of — no matter what, one wants 
 extra ballast to keep one's newly born sense of freedom with- 
 in the bounds of sobriety. Plenty after starvation must always 
 be a trial to judgment and self-control." 
 
 "Besides that,"said Everard, " the effort of taking such an 
 awfully important step, at the sacrifice of so much — of every- 
 thing indeed, sometimes — naturally inclines a person to zeal, 
 rather than discretion, at first. What surprises me is that 
 converts find their level as well as they do, considering what 
 they have to get rid of and the confusion of tongues all round 
 them, in these days of perpetual motion." 
 
 " I know that I have been immensely edified by a con- 
 vert," said Mrs. Sherborne — "this husband of mine, who was 
 going to make himself out, I don't know what, if I had let 
 him." 
 
 "When I think," said Everard, "of the difficulties and 
 struggles and sacrifices through which converts have found 
 their way where I was placed by the accident of birth, with- 
 out any act of my own, I ask myself what I should have 
 done if I had been in their position, and, as I can give no 
 answer, except that I don't know, I feel very small." 
 
 " As if the first step were everything, and one's whole life 
 nothing," interrupted Elfrida, who till now had been silent 
 and rather reserved. " If you could only be made to com- 
 pare other people with yourself as you are, and not as you 
 
 make yourself out to be " 
 
 " That's right," said Mrs. Sherborne. "Reginald is as bad,, 
 and if I didn't call him all sorts of names, he would persuade 
 people to think of him as he does himself." 
 
 " I have no doubt he deserved all the names, and was 
 much the better for them," said Everard ; " but what have I 
 done ? How can I be so presumptuous as to feel sure that 
 I should have found my way into the Church if I had been 
 brought up out of it ? Now, I can show you, without leaving 
 this room, a young lady just out of the school-room, who has 
 done so, who began to inquire and make up her mind to go 
 through with it before she had spoken a word to any one on
 
 294 FREVJLLE CHASE. 
 
 the subject, and who called me all sorts of names for not 
 answering her inquiries as quickly as she expected." 
 
 *' And who," said Sherborne, turning to his wife and put- 
 ting Sir Richard's note into her hand, " has promised, I am 
 proud to say, that she will make her first Communion here." 
 
 At this moment luncheon was announced. 
 
 " You have brought with you the only news that could 
 increase the pleasure your visit will give us both," said Mrs. 
 Sherborne to Elfrida as they rose to go into the dining- 
 room. 
 
 "Very well and gracefully said, and just enough," thought 
 Mrs. Atherstone. "That will do for everybody." 
 
 As they were people of tact it did for everybody. The 
 conversation changed by tacit consent and without exaggera- 
 tion, may be said to have been kept up brilliantly till, about 
 an hour after luncheon, the horses were brought to the 
 door. 
 
 " I am very sorry you have to go so soon," said Mrs. 
 Atherstone, who had been studying Everard intently all the 
 time and was thoroughly satisfied with the result. 
 
 " You see, poor Sir Richard is laid up," said Everard. 
 
 " Serves him right," said she in an undertone to herself. 
 
 "You must look at the new horse, all of you," said 
 Sherborne, as they were v/alking to the door. " He is worth 
 looking at, I can tell you." 
 
 "And that beautiful, gentle creature is to be for your wife 
 only," said Mrs. Atherstone. 
 
 " Yes. That is to be his occupation," answered Everard. 
 
 " You must have worked hard to find such a horse." 
 
 "I did; but I didn't find him after all. My dear old 
 coachman " (here he put Elfrida up and settled her habit), 
 " whose judgment about a horse is as sound as his Catho- 
 licity, found him out." 
 
 "And she will have the advantage of going about with 
 you — you, just as you are, and not any one else, instead of 
 being with you at intervals' as the fashion is." 
 
 "The advantage is mine. The country about Freville 
 Chase is made for riding, and, in many parts, is bad for 
 driving. I object strongly to the idea of going out alone 
 and leaving Ida in the flower garden, picking the dead leaves 
 off the rose bushes." 
 
 Everard was now in the saddle. Mrs. Atherstone looked
 
 FIJKVILLE CHASE. 295 
 
 at him for a moment, as one who had read him through, and 
 was contemplating what she had read. 
 
 "Well, good bye," she said. "Think sometimes of a j:)Oor 
 old woman in your prayers.'' 
 
 " Miss Dytchley will be, or ought to be, the hapjjiest of 
 women, if all goes right," said she, as Everard and Elfrida 
 rode off. ^all goes right," she repeated after a pause. "I 
 hope it will." 
 
 " Why not? " said Sherborne. " Tlie marriage has only 
 been put off because Lady IJytchley ate too much supreme 
 de volailledX Bramscote, on a hot evening and, being bilious, 
 got out of temper, and being out of temper, thought her- 
 self ill, and thinking herself ill, made the doctor think that 
 he had better order her abroad. There must be an end 
 to that soon, and, as for attempting anything further — ask 
 Exmore how he liked it when he proposed." 
 
 " No doubt," said Mrs. Atherstone, " she snubbed him 
 without measure or mercy : it would have been strange 
 indeed if she had not. There is no reason, that I can see, 
 why everything should not turn out as well as possible. I 
 had no reason at all for laying stress on the 'if,' but only a 
 kind of feeling, or perhaps. a sentimental superstition that 
 I ought to have been ashamed of allowing, and that I can't 
 account for or explain, except by m)- having lived so long at 
 the Four Ways by myself, dreaming over the sad ex- 
 periences of my own early life and reading a great many 
 books of all sorts, good, bad and (worst of all) indifferent, 
 without discretion or guidance. But I must go in, for I 
 want to go out." 
 
 Everard and Elfrida were, at the time, on their way to 
 Bramscote, devoting their time, as before, to the penny 
 catechism. Sir Roger was not at home when they arrived 
 there, and they went on, continuing the course of in- 
 struction till they dismounted at Netherwood. Elfrida then 
 noticed that Everard had neither whip nor stick in his hand 
 and asked the reason why. He changed colour and said : — 
 " It came in two somehow in my Jiands. I heard that 
 Exmore had — (it wasn't his fault, I believe, but he did — ) 
 do you understand ? " 
 
 " Yes. I hope she snubbed him tremendously." 
 " She did, and they all packed up their traps at once and 
 made off."
 
 296 FKKVILLK CHASE. 
 
 " But what could have made him think that he might?" 
 
 Everard made no reply. Elfrida understood the meaning 
 of his silence too well, and she asked no further questions. 
 
 " And now you see," said he, as they came into the 
 house, " how much the self-control that you credit me with 
 is really worth." 
 
 He said this to rouse her from a painful conflict, in which 
 justice was at war with filial reverence. She rose to the 
 bait immediately. 
 
 " What do you mean?" she said. " When did you lose 
 your self-control, I should like to know ? " 
 
 " I did though, or how could that strong cane have 
 broken while I had it in my hands ? It couldn't do so 
 of itself" 
 
 " Simply because your feelings and the self-control that 
 made you speak plainly (don't tell me you didn't) were 
 stronger and harder to manage than the cane. I do know 
 what you are, and you mustn't provoke me to scold and call 
 you names, as I shall, if you try to make out that you were 
 not in the right. I won't stand it. You will only put me 
 out of temper, and you will be answerable for it by 
 provocation, as the catechism says. You shouldn't have 
 taught me that, if you meant to talk in this way. Doesn't 
 the breaking of the stick show how much you had to 
 control, and what an effort you made to control it ? And 
 what would you think of yourself, if you had found nothing 
 to control after what you heard ? One would think you 
 had broken the man's head." 
 
 " Perhaps I might, if he had been near," said Everard 
 dreamily, as he opened the door into the hall. " Life is a 
 great struggle, it seems to me." 
 
 They found Sir Richard in high spirits over the idea of 
 transferring the responsibility of Elfrida's first communion 
 to Sherborne, who would value it. He told her all the 
 anecdotes he could remember, and even took pleasure in 
 describing, for the twentieth time, how the red-whiskered 
 man had missed every shot except the last and biggest. 
 This lasted till seven o'clock, when Everard went into his 
 room to dress for dinner. On the writing-table were two 
 letters, just brought in, from the second delivery, by a groom 
 who had been sent for fish or some other articles of 
 domestic use.
 
 KKEVILLE CHASE. 297 
 
 One was from Ida, the other from Lady Dytchley. They 
 had, of course, been directed to P'reville Chase and re- 
 directed to Beynham, "which makes three days difference," 
 he thought, as he tore open the envelope of Ida's with 
 unrestrained eagerness. It was long : three sheets were 
 filled with expressions of her intense desire to come home 
 and her belief that they would be at home by the middle of 
 October. She made no direct allusion to the proposal, 
 but only said that she had been much annoyed by some- 
 thing which had just occurred, and wanted to tell him 
 about it, but was afraid of committing it to the post. 
 
 " Only three weeks and then a few days," he thought, as 
 he put the letter gently into its envelope and locked it up. 
 Then he opened Lady Dytchley's note and read as 
 follows : — 
 
 " Jfy dear Everard, — 
 
 ''^ li really is too pruvokifig to be obliged to disappoint you 
 again, and I am sure it has worried me beyond everything, 
 and kept me awake all last 7iight and upset me altogether^ and 
 I seem to be followed by one thing and another to do away 
 with the good of our stay at this lovely place, which had set 
 me up wonderfully, and I did hope and believe we should be at 
 Netherivood by the middle of October, and had 7vritten to 
 order everythi?ig to be got ready that you might not be kept 
 waiting after it all, and fiow this comes upoJi vie ! You must 
 know that poor Mr. Exmore fell into a very unfortunate 
 mistake. He has been away so much you knoiv, that it really 
 is not at all surprising his not knoivinghow matters stood, and 
 he unfortutiately for us all proposed to Ida, and she poor dear 
 child ! was so vexed and angry that she is quite ill, only she 
 iL'ill not I am sure say anything to you about it till she sees 
 you, for fear of giving you pain, but she 7'eally is so completely 
 upset, though I know she ivill try to make it appear that she is 
 well for your sake, that I have been obliged after the best 
 advice to give her change of scene, so that we may be detained 
 longer tha?i I told you in my last letter but as short a time 
 as possible. I will write soon and tell you how ive are 
 getting on. You must not be cast do7vn by this contretemps, 
 for only think of all the wo7'ry it is to me ! lean assure you 
 I have no wish to stay abroad a mo7tient longer tha?i I can 
 help, and shall he thankful to come home, and will certainly 
 
 VOL. I U
 
 298 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 come as sooji as I can do so prudently, What a dreadful 
 accident! I wish I had ?te7'er asked that horrid man. 
 Have you been at Nethertvood since ? But I am sure you 
 have and done evety thing that is most kind. 
 
 " Yours affectio7iately , 
 
 " Charlotte Dytchley. 
 " P.S. — Just as I was going to send my letter I heard 
 that -poor Mr. Exmore had gone away in such despair that 
 Lady Oxborough was i?i the g7'catest laieasiizess about him, 
 and theji it ca?ne upon me like a th7i?iderbolt that I ought to 
 have see7i and preve7ited it, thougJi how could I have 
 imagined for a 7no?7ze?it that he was ?iot awai^e of it like 
 everybody else ? and I was made so ill by it that I was iii bed 
 two days and have only got up now to write this and send it 
 off. The doctor, a very clever man says that the only thing 
 to make inefitfoi- co?}ii?ig ho7?ic at the soonest possible time, 
 is to have as much change of air and scene and as mzich 
 distraction as I can, and Ida too who has been fnade much 
 worse by it, of course, and so we are again thrown back, but 
 I do trust not f 07' lo7ig. 07ie comfo7't is that there can be 
 nothing more — a7id I DO wish we had 7iot happened to joi7i 
 Lady Oxborough, which has bee7i the catise of all this. But 
 how could I have guessed that it would tur7i out so ? We 
 start for Ve7tice the day after to-77torrow, as neither Ida 
 nor I have ever bee7i there, a7id tJiere is so 77iuch to see that 
 it will do us 7no7^e good i7i the way of d7'ivi7tg this dreadful 
 catastrophe ou-t of our 77ti7ids tha7i a7iythi7ig else. I a77t 
 terribly af'aid that we 7nay 7iot be ho77ie in consequence of 
 this C077ii7ig as it has after all the rest till late i7i N'ovember, 
 but you ?nay depe7id 07i 77iy retur7ii7ig as soon as ever I can. 
 I will W7'ite agai7i soo7i a7id hope to be able to give you better 
 news, for I still cli7ig to the belief that a little cha7ige will 
 be fou7id sufficie7it, so that after all we 77iay be back 7ioto7ily 
 soo7ier tha7i I thought at first but withi7i three or four 
 weeks of the ti7ne I last 7ia77ied, a7id I still believe we shall, 
 so don't wo7'7-y yourself about it, do 7iot I beg of you. It is 
 very a7tnoyi72g, a7id I do feel for your disappointme7it a7id 
 Ida's, but I really ca7i7iot help it. I am doi7ig 777y best, do 
 believe that, but I a77i su7-e you will. Please burn this 
 scrawl as it would 7iot be right to keep what I have been 
 obliged to tell you about Air. Ex77iore.'" 
 
 *' I might have expected it," thought Everard ; " for she 
 never meant to come home as soon as she said, but only to 
 smoothe over the got-up scene in the hbrary : and this has 
 given her the chance. Viewed as the last move, it is not so 
 very much more to bear ; and at least the dates will show 
 Sir Richard that Elfrida had nothing to do with it."
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 299 
 
 He dressed and then took the letter to Sir Richard, who 
 listened attentively to his remarks upon it, but seemed 
 unable to understand that the further delay had been an 
 accomplished faci: in Lady Dytchley's mind before Elfrida 
 had even begun to ask what the Catholic Church is. He 
 shook his head slowly to and fro, rubbed the top of his 
 right ear with a vigour to which there was no analogy in his 
 habits, and said in an oracular tone : — 
 
 " I always said there would be a doctor about." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 IR RICHARD'S mind opened gradually to 
 the fact, that Lady Dytchley's intended 
 visit to Venice, and other places unnamed 
 had preceded the important ride to Freville 
 Chase by at least seven days ; and when, 
 on the appointed day, Elfrida was fairly on 
 her road to Hazeley, bearing the present 
 of half his responsibility, as an offering of 
 graceful homage to Sherborne, his spirits rose with the 
 occasion, till he felt so comfortable in his whole being, that 
 he forthwith began to joke pleasantly about his accident, 
 relating the circumstances again, with a running commentary 
 on the manners and customs of the red-whiskered man. 
 Elfrida, who had been making the fullest use of her strong 
 intelligence and working at high pressure, was found to be 
 so well instructed that she made her first communion three 
 days after her arrival at Hazeley, where she remained a 
 week. Sir Richard rejoiced much at what had taken place, 
 and still more at being able to remember that the scene was 
 not at Netherwood. When Elfrida returned he patted her 
 head, felt as if his conscience had in some mysterious way 
 or other been vicariously lightened, and hoping that he had 
 contributed something to the result by proposing the visit 
 to Hazeley, put off all further rejoicings to a future day. 
 A day or two afterwards he received a sudden, though 
 expected shock in the shape of a letter from Lady Dytchley.
 
 300 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 He opened the envelope in a delicate manner, as if afraid 
 that it would explode. There was however nothing ex- 
 plosive there. It only contained the information that she 
 could not possibly come home before the end of November. 
 The reasons given were the same as before, but the style of 
 writing was yet more diffuse and involved. He read it over 
 two or three times, began again at the end, and then tried 
 the middle. 
 
 " I can't make head or tail of it," said he to himself, 
 "except that it can't have anything to do with Elfrida, 
 for she doesn't allude to it, Her letter must have got to 
 Baveno after they went away. What a kick-up there will be 
 when she comes home. I think I shall go and stay with 
 somebody till the day before the wedding — I shall be right 
 before then — and go away again after it, for a bit. Why 
 shouldn't I get hold of a doctor to recommend a change of 
 air ? I have been on this beastly sofa much longer than 
 she was. I am sure I was ' born unto trouble,' as she said 
 that evening, I don't know about sparks flying upwards, 
 but the shots flew point-blank at me pretty sharp, and here 
 I've been, and here I am, like old Prometheus, ready to be 
 pecked at. I am sorry for Everard, uncommonly sorry, but 
 I shouldn't like at all to be come down upon here, which- 
 ever way the sparks may fly. I don't believe that Ida 
 wants any change of scene at all, except to see Everard. 
 It's all the fault of that double-distilled booby, sitting there 
 on the rumble, grinning like a Cheshire cat, instead of 
 coming inside like a gentleman, when I asked him. If it 
 hadn't been for that, we shouldn't have had the row going 
 home, and the doctor with a long face, and the smelling- 
 bottle, and the sparks flying upwards, and the foolery over 
 the settlements, and the starting off when she had asked 
 them all to dinner, and Exmore making an ass of himself, 
 and another doctor sending them further out of their road, 
 and a row to come about everything." 
 
 As the greater part of this fervid complaint was thought 
 aloud, Everard, having come into the room to say good-bye 
 before going home on business for two days, could do no 
 less than hear it. But he did something more : he formed 
 on it an opinion and a resolve. 
 
 " The line taken or accidentally traced out," he said to 
 himself, " has been just what his fears have excited him to
 
 fi;eville chase. 301 
 
 detail. I am afraid that Lady Dytchley is playing false, 
 though what her ulterior motive is I am unable to judge ; 
 but whatever it may be, there is a limit to it in justice, in 
 right feeling and in duty. Since the first postponement she 
 has promised me twice in writing to return by the middle of 
 October for the marriage — and to-day is the sixth — then she 
 put it off to the middle of November, and now she says 
 ' not before the end of November.' I will not stand any 
 more of this. That she may have nothing to complain of, 
 I will remain quiet till the end of November, and then, if 
 any further delay is attempted, we shall see which of us has 
 the strongest will. To the world, but not to myself, I 
 should be justified in acting now. She is Ida's mother, and 
 for Ida's sake I must bear it till then — till the fact shall 
 have been made evident that we had no right alternative. 
 I shall wait till then, but not a day longer." 
 
 "Well!" said Sir Richard, who had relapsed into his 
 normal state of defensive optimism, "so you must be off 
 home for a couple of days, eh ? Quite right. Business 
 must be done. But come back as soon as you can. Good 
 bye. The dog-cart will be ready for you. Come back, and 
 stay till they come back, won't you ?" 
 
 "The difficulty is," said Everard, "that I shall be ex- 
 pecting Hubert Freville, for he was to come in November ; 
 and as this last — I really don't know what to call it " 
 
 " Nor I either," said Sir Richard. " Do the best you 
 can. Anyhow I shall hope to see you the day after to- 
 morrow." 
 
 The dogcart was at the door, P^lfrida in the hall, waiting 
 to see him as he went out. 
 
 "The day after to-morrow, then," she said. 
 
 " If I can ; but I am afraid that I may he detamed. I 
 must be off now, or it will be pitch dark before I get home. 
 It's nearly half-past five now. You will ride the new horse, 
 I hope, while I am away." 
 
 " Yes, and begin one of those books you lent me. I am 
 ready for them now. Which of them shall it be ? " 
 
 "The 'Ecclesiastical Discourses,'by ArchbishopUllathorne, 
 then Bishop of Birmingham. But before you begin to read 
 them all from the beginning, and then begin again, as you 
 certainly will, read the three on Science and Wisdom. 
 They were originally one lecture, I believe, delivered to the
 
 302 FEEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 clerics of his ecclesiastical seminary, 'and I can't show 
 better what I think of your mind than by recommending 
 you strongly to read them. I wouldn't do so to any other 
 girl of seventeen that I am acquainted with, I can assure 
 you. And always remember what he says in the first of his 
 lectures on Science and Wisdom : ' The difference beiiveen 
 a philosophic and afi iinphilosophic mind is this, that one 
 thinks by principles, and the other loads itself with undigested 
 details. A prificiple 7vell gained and well applied is like a 
 fixed star in the mind that illuminates many thi?igs.^ Read 
 the first of the three now — get it well into your mind, and 
 then tell me what impressions it has left there. One im- 
 pression will be that you had no idea of being able to 
 understand so much. I shall expect you to tell me, when I 
 come back, what he says about light." 
 
 " I am afraid you will be disappointed in me," said 
 Elfrida, following him to the door. 
 
 " Shall I ? Why do you believe that .the postman will 
 bring the letters to-morrow and the next day and this day 
 six months ? Because he has never disappointed you — 
 isn't that it ?" 
 
 "Yes. I don't know of any other reason." 
 
 " Then why should I expect you to be stupid now for the 
 first time?" answered Everard, as he sprang into the dog- 
 cart and drove off. 
 
 The shadows of an October evening had closed round 
 him and dimmed the outline of the horse's ears before he 
 passed the turning to Chase End. He drove on slowly and 
 pulled up at the gate leading to Charlotte Wilcox's cottage. 
 " I may as well look her up," he thought, " and see "how 
 she gets on. I shall be too busy after to-day." 
 
 The bridle road was but just wide enough for a dogcart, 
 and the grass on either side more than uneven. His 
 progress was very slow, and the darkness had increased per- 
 ceptibly when he came near the farmhouse, where he got 
 out. Taking a short cut through the farmyard, where a 
 sheepdog had a great mind to fly at him, but thought better 
 of it, he crossed the little orchard and stopped at the 
 cottage. He knocked, but no one came ; knocked again 
 and again with the same result. Lastly, he tried the door 
 and found it unlocked. There was no one inside. One ot 
 the chairs lay on the ground, the table was out of its place.
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 303 
 
 and the lattice window hung by one hinge. At this 
 moment his ears caught the sound of wheels in the lane. 
 It was not the sound of a waggon, nor of a farmer's cart, 
 yet no other kind of conveyance ever passed along it. He 
 rushed out of the cottage, ran in the direction of the sound 
 and, jumping down from the bank above, saw three men 
 carrying a woman to the open door of a pair-horse fly. 
 
 " What are you doing here?" said he, pushing his way 
 between two of them, and finding, as he had expected, that 
 the woman was Charlotte Wilcox. 
 
 " What the devil is that to you ?" answered the biggest, 
 a singularly ill-looking ruffian, whilst another held a 
 handkerchief round the struggling captive's mouth, and the 
 third, who appeared to be the director of the proceedings, 
 called out impatiently : — 
 
 " Come, be quick. Do you want to wait till the policeman 
 comes this way ? He knows both of you very well, I 
 think." 
 
 While he was saying this, with a quick distinctness of 
 articulation that suggested Italian birth more than his 
 accent could betray it in these few words, a much quicker 
 succession of images passed through Everard's mind. 
 
 " This is Moncalvo's man," he said to himself," " if I ever 
 recognized any one. Moncalvo, who kept Ida's note, and 
 is untrue to God and man, has sent this scoundrel to per- 
 secute a poor woman who knows too much about him, and 
 beard me on my own ground. 
 
 " You get out of the way, or I'll see about you," said the 
 biggest of the two ruffians, who had evidently been hired 
 for the occasion by the man who had undertaken the 
 enterprise. 
 
 "Do you mean to let go that woman, you blackguard?" 
 said Everard. 
 
 The man replied by dropping his burden and coming 
 towards him, while the other ruffian pushed Charlotte 
 Wilcox into the fly. The driver sat still on his box, pretend- 
 ing to be half asleep, as in fact he was morally, having taken 
 a soporific in the shape of a five-pound note with the promise 
 of another at the conclusion of the affair. Everard drew 
 back cautiously, waited till the big ruffian was within a con- 
 venient distance, and then " put in with his left." The man 
 staggered, and paused for a while to swear, while the blood
 
 304 1'i;f,vjl[.i-: chase. 
 
 trickled from his nose ; but before Everard could follow up 
 his advantage, the other ruffian tried to close with him. 
 Everard, whose blood was thoroughly up, made no attempt 
 at defence, but simply hit out right and left, bringing his 
 antagonist heavily to the ground. He had hardly done so, 
 when the big ruffian, having sufficiently recovered from the 
 effects of the blow, attacked him in front, while the head of 
 the expedition tried to pinion his arms from behind. He 
 swung himself round, threw his wily foe backwards on the 
 stony lane, and sent both fists, with almost electric quick- 
 ness, between the eyes of the giant who was rushing upon 
 him. 
 
 . . . . ' Pallas tc Jioc viihierc, Pallas 
 Inunolat, el fcenain sccleralo ex sanguine suz/iit.^^ 
 
 muttered Everard, with a grim smile, as he looked on the 
 prostrate ruffian and thought of Ida's note. 
 
 But his work was not done. The head man who had 
 already picked himself up, again pushed Charlotte Wilcox 
 into the fly and jumped in himself, telling the flyman to 
 drive on as fast as possible. The fly had begun to move 
 and the second ruffian was on his legs again, guarding the 
 approach. 
 
 " Now, or never ! '' thought Everard. " There is no time 
 for caution." At the same moment he made a sudden 
 spring at the man whose head was still singing its complaints 
 of the recent blow, seized him by the neckcloth with a grasp 
 of iron, threw him down, and shaking him to and fro, as a 
 dog shakes a rat, said : — 
 
 " You scoundrel ! If you don't be quiet, I'll throttle 
 you." 
 
 " I will, Squire, I will, I say," gasped the discomfited 
 bully. " I've had enough of it, and only got five shillings 
 and a quart for it all." 
 
 Everard let him go, and ran after the fly, which, notwith- 
 standing the roughness of the road, was nearly a hundred 
 yards off The driver, disliking the aspect of affairs on his 
 own account, pushed on as fast as the ruts and other natural 
 inequalities of a farm -road would permit, and finding himself 
 hard pref-sed, endeavoured to retard the pursuit by striking 
 at the pursuer's face with his whip. Everard, who was on 
 his guard against this likely style of warfare, avoided the 
 blow and appropriating the weapon, made it convey a strong
 
 KKEVII.r.K CHA8E. oO;> 
 
 persuasion to desist from further annoyance. He then 
 stopped the horses, turned the fly across the road, with the 
 horses' heads against a bank, and opening the door, collared 
 the man inside. 
 
 " Be quick ! — I will make room for you," he said to the 
 captive, pulling the man out and giving him a monitory 
 shake. 
 
 Charlotte Wilcox descended slowly, almost paralysed with 
 terror ; but the end of her troubles had come. The two 
 fighting ruffians had made off across the fields, the driver was 
 rubbing his cheek, over which the lash of his own whip had 
 been neatly laid, and the chief rascal was imploring in 
 several languages to be let off. 
 
 " I can't, you blackguard," said Everard, dragging him 
 away several yards and suddenly propelling him the other 
 way by a vigorous kick that sent him back to the carriage 
 door. The man took the hint and scrambled in, while the 
 fly-driver put his horses into a hard galloj), regardless of 
 ruts and darkness. 
 
 '' Hie ccBstus artejiiqiie^ repono^ I hope," thought Everard : 
 " only I never had occasion to practise the noble art of self- 
 defence before in earnest. There they go, and there let them 
 go ! There was nothing for it but to give him the chance of a 
 good kick to scramble away by, or bring him before the bench 
 and bring forward a horrible scandal about my father's 
 brother-in-law : for no one else could have any interest in 
 kidnapping her, and I feel almost sure that was Moncalvo's 
 servant, inspite of his disguise. But what am I to do with 
 her now ? 
 
 (Charlotte Wilcox answered the question in a manner that 
 left him no choice. 
 
 " Oh sir ! Mr. Everard, you won't leave me at the cottage 
 for these wicked creatures to come again as soon as you are 
 gone ? Do, for pity's sake, take me to Freville Chase to- 
 night, and I will " 
 
 " Don't be frightened," said Everard, with a gentleness of 
 voice and manner that reassured her even more than his 
 words. " I will take you to Freville Chase. All I bargain 
 for is that you stay there openly, not hidden up in the 
 tower. Vou had better sto]) at the cottage as we go by, to 
 put on a cloak, or something of the sort, and a bonnet 
 or hat."
 
 306 FREVir.LE CHASK. 
 
 " What can I ever do, Mr. Everard, to show my gratitude 
 for all your kindness ? " said she, as they were walking 
 towards the cottage. " I can do nothing except work, but 
 I will work at anything. Do, sir, let them set me to any 
 sort of hard work." 
 
 " Indeed, I will do nothing of the kind," he said. " You 
 must rest after all you have gone through this evening. 
 Besides, I can't forget that I am in a manner responsible 
 for all this. Your troubles have come upon you through 
 your having been entrusted with the care of my baby 
 brother, and this last affair would not have happened 
 if I had really believed in the danger you told me of. You 
 have every right to my protection, and I am very glad to be 
 of any use to you. You may rest assured that you will be 
 welcome." 
 
 '•' I will, Mr. Everard : I know your kindness so well. 
 And see what you have done for me ! There must have 
 been a dozen of them at least, and you knocked them all 
 down, one after the other, and made them all run away, 
 except the one you kicked right into the fly — and he was 
 that wicked servant I told you of before. But are you sure 
 that you are not hurt ? " 
 
 " Not at all : I was not hit. But the dozen men were 
 only two. The other was of very little account, and the 
 flyman only wanted to take care of himself." 
 
 " But, Mr. Everard, only think of your doing all that to 
 help a poor forlorn creature like me ! and who could ever 
 have thought you would be there ! " 
 
 " It was very simple. I called at the cottage, on my way 
 from Netherwood, saw that something was wrong, and heard 
 a carriage in the lane. Here we are at the cottage. Get a 
 bonnet and shawl, or something." 
 
 She went in, and presently reappearing, walked on, re- 
 peating her assertion that he had knocked down at least a 
 dozen men. As soon as they could distinguish the dogcart 
 moving slowly along the bridle road, he stopped and said : — 
 
 " Whatever you do, don't say a word, about what has 
 happened this evening, to any one but Mrs. Roland. It is 
 bad enough to be driven to suspect my father's brother-in- 
 law of such a deed, without having it told all over the 
 country." 
 
 "O Mr. Everard ! I hope you don't think I could"
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 307 
 
 " Not intentionally, I am sure ; but you can't be too 
 •cautious. A word or a look might be enough, if anything 
 had got about ; and something is sure to get about, in some 
 way or other. Somebody, you may be sure, either heard 
 the row, or saw the two men making off; and somebody 
 else wondered what the fly was doing in such a place ; and 
 somebody else will wonder why you have left the cottage, 
 and the old women in Chase End will put two and two 
 together. That is sure to happen, and you are the only 
 person who can put them off the track." 
 
 " That I will, sir," said she. " I can easily say it was 
 your kindness, because I felt so lonely there — which is as 
 true as gospel, I am sure. I put the lattice back on its 
 hinges, before I came away, and brought the key in my 
 pocket." 
 
 She then mounted into the hind seat of the dogcart, 
 where she began at once to practise her discretion on the 
 groom, telling him that the Squire had " been so kind (and 
 just like him) as to fetch her away from her cottage, because 
 she was frightened at being all alone, with nobody near, 
 and no labourer with his family to lodge there and be a 
 protection." 
 
 It was now^ pitch-dark, and they had to make their way 
 very slowly, by the narrow bridle-path, back into the road. 
 About eight o'clock they arrived at Freville Chase, and 
 Everard, transferring his charge to Mrs. Roland, went into 
 dinner. 
 
 Whilst he was devoting his time to what the old evan- 
 gelicals used to call creature comforts, the heroine of the 
 plot was giving a graphic, not to say exaggerated description 
 of the combat, for the information of the only person 
 entitled to hear it. Mrs. Roland listened with condescend- 
 ing dignity, and showed no surprise at the number of men 
 knocked into the next parish by the Squire, though they had, 
 by this time, become fifteen or sixteen. In the meanwhile 
 Anne the housemaid, having privately compared the 
 mysterious arrival of Charlotte Wilcox with the light in the 
 tower and the appearances of foreigners without names, 
 was saying to herself at intervals : — 
 
 " They may talk as they please, but I know^ he murdered 
 the baby, and will be up to something now — I know he 
 will. He had ought to have been took up, as I said."
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 ^'^ Be not over exquisite 
 
 7o cast the fashion of nnccrtain evils.^ 
 
 — Com us. 
 
 ITHER these lines, or their equivalent in the 
 practical prose of every-day life, occurred to 
 Everard in the early dawn, when he re- 
 membered, between sleeping and waking, 
 that charity and the traditional customs of 
 Freville Chase had forced upon him, for an 
 indefinite time, the half-responsible charge 
 of a woman who was apparently 
 
 Troubled ivith tliick-coniin:^ fancies. 
 
 and who, while sincerely professing unbounded respect for 
 the family, maintained without ceasing that his father's 
 brother-in-law had committed unjustifiable homicide, after 
 the fashion of King John. 
 
 " Well ! I can't help it," he thought, as the story of the 
 Marquis and the nurse passed in quick review, with all its 
 dramatic incidents, including the fight in the lane. " I 
 can't help it," he repeated aloud, opening his eyes, and 
 sitting up in bed to contemplate the question. " But what 
 a fool he must be — besides the cowardly ruffianism of the 
 thing — to go and try it on in such a way as that, and set 
 the risk of being found out in it against the improbable 
 charges of an odd half-hysterical maid-servant and the gossip 
 of a remote village. I shall write to him and tell him that she 
 is here, and that I have been obliged to protect her after 
 the— &c., &c., &c. — I shall put that very plainly— which
 
 FKEYILLE CHASFl. 30'9 
 
 has almost frightened her out of her senses. He can make 
 what he hkes out of that ; but I think he will take the hint 
 and keep away from here, without forcing me to say in so 
 many words that I don't mean to see him." 
 
 Having settled that point Everard jumped out of bed, 
 declining to enter upon the "uncertain evils" of knowing 
 too much and too little about a man who might possibly be 
 or become unscrupulous. 
 
 The business he had come home to do was finished in two 
 days ; and then, after writing to Hubert, asking him to 
 come as early as possible in November, he returned to 
 Netherwood, where he found that the news of his exploit in 
 the lane had preceded him. How it became known is a 
 mystery ; for Charlotte Wilcox was faithful to her promise 
 of keeping silence, and neither the head man, nor the 
 driver, nor the two ill-fated roughs w^ho had been so roughly 
 handled and only got five shillings and a quart for it, were 
 likely to be loquacious on the subject ; but known it was, 
 after the loose manner of such reports, with various readings 
 and marvellous additions. He heard of it first from the 
 coachman, next from the head keeper, then from the woman 
 at the lodge, and afterwards from various people about the 
 place. They all spoke of it with pride and felt a personal 
 interest in the story. It reached Elfrida's ears at last, but 
 not till a week after his return. 
 
 " Why have you never told me of your adventure in the 
 lane by Charlotte Wilcox's cottage all this time ? " said she, 
 as they were going to Mass. " I heard of it just now by 
 chance, and every one sup])osed that I knew it. Why 
 wouldn't you tell me ? " 
 
 " We have been so busy with the Archbishop Ullathorne 
 discourse on Science and Wisdom," said Everard, " and we 
 have been taking such long rides and divine into so many 
 deep subjects, that the little incident got itself hidden up in 
 a corner,in spite of what may hang upon it, which is supposed 
 to concern " 
 
 " The Marquis Moncalvo, of course," interrupted Elfrida. 
 " I knew it all the time." 
 
 *' I am afraid he has something to do with it, but how 
 much I don't know, and don't seem likely to know." 
 
 " Do tell me what really happened." 
 
 " I had a row Avith two vagabonds who were trying to
 
 310 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 carry her off somewhere in a fly, and as they were slow, 
 lumbering fellows, I had the advantage of them. That was 
 all." 
 
 ' That was not all ; but I can't expect the truth from you 
 about yourself. In the first place, there were more than 
 two." 
 
 " Only the driver, who did nothing — except that he cut 
 at me once with his whip, which came out of his hand when 
 I laid hold of it — and another fellow who strutted about 
 and gave orders and collapsed as soon as he was tackled." 
 
 " A very amusing account," said Elfrida, " and just what 
 I should have known you would say : but I must respect- 
 fully decline to believe it." 
 
 " Wont't you take my word for its being strictly correct ?" 
 
 " No, I won't, though you taught me the catechism. I 
 am ready to believe your figures, but not your facts. There 
 may have been only three men besides the driver, but I am 
 certain that it was not the trifling affair you describe." 
 
 " But I never said it was a trifling affair." 
 
 " No, but you so implied. Now tell me the truth." 
 
 " You are as bad as the old woman who wouldn't stand 
 the flying fish at any price, but believed in the mountains of 
 sugar and rivers of rum. All I can get the story up to, 
 without telling lies about it, is that the two men were big 
 powerful fellows, who would have been more than a match 
 for me if they had known how to use their natural weapons, 
 and that, owing to their incautious way of rushing, I had 
 the best of it. The other was really of no account at all. 
 He tried once to get hold of my arms from behind when I 
 was looking out for an attack in front ; but he did me no 
 harm. The whole affair didn't last three minutes." 
 
 "And you call it nothing — to get the better of two great 
 savages together, with another helping from behind ? " 
 
 " Not together. They were up and down, like two 
 buckets." 
 
 " One after the other then — two great savages rushing at 
 you." 
 
 "Their rushing was my advantage ; for it converted their 
 eyes and noses into targets, for me to practise upon without 
 hindrance. That was how they were persuaded to retire." 
 
 " But are you sure you were not hurt in any way ? " 
 
 " Quite sure. I was never touched."
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 311 
 
 " Have you any idea who they were — who the head man 
 was ? " 
 
 " I am afraid I have : at least I have a strong suspicion. 
 But here we are at the church-door." 
 
 "Promise me, then, to tell me all about it after Mass. I 
 7jmst know.^' 
 
 " Of course I will. I should have told you before : but 
 you have kept me so close to the ' essentials,' that I haven't 
 had a spare corner for it in my memory." 
 
 " They went into the church, and the question waited 
 outside. When they had come out and were clear of the 
 outcoming congregation, Elfrida said : — 
 
 " Who was the head man ? Was it the Marquis Mon- 
 calvo ? " 
 
 "No," said Everard : "he would have shown fight — at 
 anyrate better than that fellow did. Besides, the man was 
 not at all like him. I think it was his servant ; but I can't 
 be quite sure, for he was disguised." 
 
 " Where do you suppose he was going to take her ? " 
 
 " There is the puzzle. How was he to get her out of the 
 country ? The only plan would be to have a yacht waiting 
 off Peveridge Bay, which is about eleven miles from there ; 
 and then I don't see how he could get clear of the coast- 
 guard." 
 
 "Worse and worse. He must have meant to murder 
 her. I daresay he was a brigand before he was a servant." 
 
 " No : he doesn't look like a cut throat. He may have 
 had a boat a few miles further on, where the coast is flatter 
 in places." 
 
 " Anyhow, his master must have sent him." 
 
 This end of the conversation, short as it may seem, took 
 up their time, with pauses and interruptions, till they had 
 reached home. Then they went up to see Sir Richard, 
 who was rejoicing at the prospect of coming downstairs in 
 a day or two, and then they went down to breakfast. The 
 letters claimed their attention first, and kept it. Everard 
 saw one from Ida, and before he could open it, another 
 from the Marquis Moncalvo. There was one for Elfrida 
 from Lady Dytchley. Everard ran his eyes over Ida's 
 letter, to satisfy himself that all was right, and laying it down 
 before him, opened the other ; but he had not read many 
 lines when Elfrida interrupted him.
 
 312 FKEVILLK CHASE 
 
 " Look here ! " she exclaimed. " What an immense 
 comfort ! You were right. My mother has had my letter, 
 and this is what she says : — 
 
 '^ I have but a few minutes to write^ as we are Just starting 
 for Florence. My darting child, what would you have ?ne 
 say 1 Your letter 7vas an awful shock to me of course, and 
 so unexpected I I never could have believed it of you, brought 
 up as you have been and so sensible and right-minded as you 
 used to be. I can hardly believe it fiow, and my only comfort 
 is in the conviction that you will see your error by and by 
 when you find out what the RomisJi religion really is, and 
 not as it pretends to be to catch people. I should never dream 
 of doubting your having acted conscientiously, I am sure you 
 would always do that. And I am sure that Everard would 
 act hono2iral)ly about it and ?nean to do light. I impute 7io 
 blafne to either of you, I only lament the dreadful 
 TiYAJJ'Siio^ you are under which has blinded you for a time. 
 We shall be home (D. V.) by the end of November at latest. 
 I am longing to be at home again and see you. Has your 
 father left his room yet ? How providential his escape 7vas I 
 It makes me shudder to thitik of it.''' 
 
 " That will set your father's mind at rest," said Everard. 
 " Now let me read out this other letter — or at least the 
 important part of it. It completely exculpates him, if he is 
 telling the truth. 
 
 "Who? the Marquis Moncalvo? I wouldn't believe 
 hhn if, he kept on swearing from now till next Christmas 
 that it was true." 
 
 " I can't go so far as that. He is not what he ought to 
 be, and I shouldn't wonder if there were pages in his life 
 that would not be at all edifying to read ; but I am bound 
 to say that he has been open with me. He spoke of 
 Charlotte Wilcox's charge against him on the very first day 
 of his visit, at the evident risk of my saying to myself. Qui 
 s' excuse s' accuse. That was not like concealment. Then, 
 again, he volunteered to make the disagreeable confession 
 that he had taken the note and lost it, though he had no 
 reason whatever to imagine that I suspected him." 
 
 " Yes, but he knew you must find it out." 
 
 "How? The only witness was a man who looks like a
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 313 
 
 gibbering idiot. He had no idea that Tim's facts are more 
 to be relied on than most people's. And now listen to 
 this :— 
 
 " I am listening with all my ears ; but I don't believe a 
 word of it, whatever it may be." 
 
 *' Don't be so sure of that. Here is what he says : — 
 " I have just heard a thing that gives me more pain and 
 annoyance than words can express. When I zvas at 
 Freville Chase I asked you to make inquiries about 
 Charlotte Wilcox, and you kindly did so, telling me that 
 her father kept the village shop in Chase End. On my 
 way to the station I made a detour, by which I nearly lost 
 the train, and calling at the shop, I asked the 7nan's wife 
 to let me know as soon as she should be able to lear7i where 
 her stepdaughter was. Soon afterwards she wrote to say 
 that Charlotte Wilcox had returried, and that you had 
 kindly placed her in one of your cottages. Feeling that tt 
 was my affair, not yours, I asked myself how I could best 
 relieve you from so unfair a burden, and hearing that a 
 cousi?i of mine, who is a great invalid, wanted a servant 
 like her, I sent my servant (the same who was with me at 
 Freville Chase) to England, with a letter for her and 
 orders to escort her back if she should decide on going. 
 This would seem to have been a very simple order, and one 
 that left nothing to his discretion ; but he contrived nroer- 
 theless to bring me, by means of it, into as painful and 
 questionable a position as can be i?nagined. Hoiv the 
 question was put before her, and what sort of an escort was 
 sent, you know better than I do, having showti on that 
 occasion qualities worthy of a Paladin 
 
 ** Nonsense ! " remarked Everard, turning to the next 
 line. 
 
 " Well, he goes on to say : — 
 
 '' But you probably did not recognise, through his 
 disguise, the leader of the party — Yes, I did, and gave him 
 a good kick for his pains. — That man was my servant, who 
 came with me to Freville Chase ; and you may imagine 
 what I felt when he told me what he had done. A nd now 
 that I have told you the fact, I must, in justice to him., 
 explain the cause of his insane act. When he went to 
 Chase End to inquire where she lived, he found that she had 
 openly accused me of nothing less than murdering my own 
 nephew, my dearest sister's child. I know very well that 
 she had done so formerly, and I pitied her, for the delusion 
 arose from, her having been delirious through fever at the 
 time ; but he could only think of his master ^ and he was so 
 VOL. I V
 
 314 FREVILLE CHASE 
 
 maddened by it that he lost all sense of right and wrong. 
 He has been with rne nearly all my life, and is the most 
 faithful being I ever met with ; but he is as si?nple as a 
 child, and afzy ijtj'ury or affront to me blinds him to every- 
 thi?tg beside, so that he is like a ?nadmanfor the ti^ne. I 
 shall take good care never to se7id him anywhere again to 
 say or do a7iythi7ig,for I see that when his feelings are 
 excited, he is dangerous. 
 
 " I didn't find him so at all," thought Everard. 
 
 " Is there much more of this ? " said Elfrida. " The tea 
 is getting cold." 
 
 " No, we are near the end of it. Here it is : — 
 
 '^ He thought that, if he could bring her among people 
 who knew 7ne well, she Tnight gradually lose her delusion, 
 or, at all eve7its, could do no harm, and as he had travelled 
 with 77ie in wild, lawless cou7itries, and has no idea of 
 disti7iguishi7ig one foreign country from a7iother, he ;per- 
 suaded hi7nself that this abominable outrage would be a 
 meritorious a7zd prudent 77iethod of e7ilighte7iing her views 
 and defe7iding 77iy good na7ne. I have e7ilighte7ied him in 
 a more reasonable a7td effectual ma7i7ter, and he begs Tue to 
 express to you his sorrow for what he did. 
 
 "The tea is quite cold," interrupted Elfrida. "Do 
 finish your breakfast, and read the rest of this tiresome 
 letter afterwards. He reminds me of Henry II. and the 
 murderers of St. Thomas of Canterbury. He gave his 
 servant a hint, and the man took it.'"' 
 
 The letter was laid aside till after breakfast, when 
 Everard, who had been looking all the while at the outside 
 of Ida's, and longing to disappear with it into a corner, read 
 out again as follows : — 
 
 ^^ If he had only done as I told hi7n to do, and given my 
 letter y she luould noiv be in a place that would suit her exactly, 
 with a lady who re77ie7nbers her and who was a great friend 
 of my aunt, with who77i she lived so long. You would do me 
 a great favour by explaining all this to her ; a7id if you could 
 persuade her to accept the place that is offered, you would do a 
 true work of charity, not only to her but to the lady, who has 
 written to 77ie again this 7norning, beggi7ig that I would do alt 
 I could to persuade her to C077ie. Were it not for the intoler- 
 able outrage pe7petrated in 77iy na77ie, she ivould have had the 
 letter I sent, and I a7n certain that she would have gladly 
 accepted the place ; for she wanted to have it when my aunt
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 315 
 
 died^ only then it was not vacant. Of course I can do nothing 
 about it now ; for naturally she ?fiust think that my servant 
 was sent by me to do what he did, and I cannot blame her or 
 any one for thinking so. But she has confidence in you. 
 
 " And so he wants you to be answerable for him," said 
 Elfrida, gathering up her letters. " Pray don't do that." 
 
 " I can say that he may have had nothing to do with 
 trying to carry her off," said Everard, " for I believe it ; but 
 I am not going to find servants for invalid ladies at the cost of 
 poor Charlotte's peace of mind. Wait a moment, and hear 
 the rest : — 
 
 ^^ And I must ask you to take the trouble of explaining t» 
 her first how the thing happened " 
 
 " With nothing but his word for the truth of the 
 explanation," interrupted Elfrida, rising from her chair and 
 walking about the room. 
 
 " Hoiu the thing happened,'' repeated Everard, reading on ; 
 " and then she will be able to look at the 7?iatter fairly. I 
 hope that you will do your best to persuade her to take the place. 
 By so doing you will not o?ily benefit her, but will confer an 
 im?nense personal favour on 7ne. Imagi?ie yourself for a 
 momefit in tny position, and ask yourself hozu you would feel 
 if you knew that a person, sane on every point but o?ie, was 
 going about in perfectly good faith tellirig people, as from her 
 own personal knowledge, that you had ?nurdered your 02vn 
 nephew. Would you not wish that person to be ivhere you had 
 friends who would laugh at the delusion and help to remoiie it, 
 rather than a?nong strangers who believed and repeated and 
 spread it about V^ 
 
 " Very pretty indeed!" said Elfrida, "and a very good 
 imitation of truth. He ought to have been a lawyer. Now 
 I really must go. I positively will not stand any more of it." 
 
 " You are as hard as the nether millstone," answered 
 Everard, " not to pity the sorrows of a poor middle-aged 
 man who assures you he couldn't help it. 
 
 E se non piangi, di che pianger siioli ? 
 as the Conte Ugolino said to Dante. Won't you give me 
 another cup of tea, after my reading all this out for your 
 instruction ? I really wasn't going to give you any more ot 
 it. The exculpatory part is ended." 
 
 " And doesn't exculpate him a bit from anything."
 
 316 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 "But you surely don't believe in Charlotte Wilcox's wild 
 story?" 
 
 " I didn't mean that : it would be too horrible. But 
 don't tell me that the servant hired a carriage and two 
 fighting savages to carry her off by force, without having 
 been given to understand by his master that it would be 
 acceptable. Of course he is sorry for it now, when the 
 attempt has failed and the thing is known. Here is your 
 tea — I am afraid you will find it quite cold. I hope you 
 won't be long over the rest of that rubbish. I want you to 
 come with me to my father, and help to explain that the 
 letter I had this morning really is comforting. He will 
 believe it if you say so, and it will comfort him very much." 
 
 Everard thereupon began reading to himself, and this is 
 what he read : — 
 
 ^^ But I have another and far stronger reason for urging^ 
 and (if I may venture to do so) advising that you should do 
 all you can to persuade her to take the place. Perhaps you will 
 think it an impertinence in me to offer advice at all. I shall 
 be very sorry if you do ; but if I ivere sure that you would^ I 
 must still give it. I cannot see you risking your character in 
 a luay that would be so ruinous to your prospects of happiness^ 
 without warning you of the da?iger. Other people besides 
 myself must have seen a light in that part of the toiver supposed 
 to be uninhabited^ but they could not guess, as I did, who it 
 was. I implore you for your own sake, for Miss Dytchley's 
 sake, to reffiove such a conspicuous occasion for evil reports. Jt 
 is not pleasant to give advice unasked in so delicate a matter ; 
 but as I understand that she is again concealed in the house, I 
 should not feel justified in closing my letter without fulfilling 
 so obvious a duty toivards niy sister's stepson. . . . 
 
 "You have overshot your mark, my worthy friend," 
 thought Everard. " The peroration has spoilt it all. It was 
 natural that you should try to persuade me to send 
 Charlotte Wilcox away from a neighbourhood where she 
 was likely to spread such unpleasant reports about you ; 
 but to put forward my interest as your strongest reason for 
 wanting me to persuade her, is going a little too far. So he 
 must have noticed the light in the tower before I did, and 
 never mentioned it to me, but guessed why it was, and no 
 doubt tried to find out more : and that was how Mrs. 
 Roland saw him going into the tower one night. He forgets
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 317 
 
 that he told me a different story about this in the letter I 
 received from him at Beynham. But what is this postcript 
 about ? 
 
 " Kind regards to Sir Richard^'' and " how is he getting 
 on" and the rest, and 
 
 " Are you coming ? " said Elfrida. 
 
 *' Give me one moment. There is news for you in the 
 postscript." 
 
 " I don't want to hear it." 
 
 " Not about your friend the red-whiskered man ? " 
 
 " What mischief has he been doing ? " said she, walking 
 off with her letters. 
 
 " None, I hope," answered Everard, putting his own 
 letters in his pocket and following her out of the room. 
 " He is going to be married. But I read it in such haste 
 and trepidation, with you scolding me all the time. I must 
 show it to you presently, for the account is rather too long to 
 get through on the way upstairs." 
 
 " But what made the man write about him ? " 
 
 "The gun-trick, I suppose." 
 
 They were now at Sir Richard's door. Elfrida went in, 
 to read Lady Dytchley's letter and show forth its comforting 
 qualities. Everard followed as a support, but his per- 
 suasive assistance was not needed. Sir Richard was 
 exceedingly comforted by it and said in the strictest confi- 
 dence to himself: — 
 
 " I shall have no more of the smelling-bottle, and the 
 doctor looking as if one had done something, and the 
 arrangements turned upside down, and the ' sparks flying 
 upwards.' I can't bear those sparks, they always mean a 
 row." 
 
 He then talked and joked in his own mild and cautious 
 fashion, on such a variety of subjects that it was half-past 
 twelve o'clock before Everard could seize a fair opportunity 
 of retiring with his two letters, which he was about to do 
 when he heard a cheerful voice from the once ill-omened 
 sofa, saying : — 
 
 " By the by, I wish you would ride into Lyneham this 
 afternoon, and see Sharpstone about a bit of land he is in 
 treaty about for me — four acres that run into my land by 
 Grumley Gorse. I want you to stir him up : he has been 
 such a time over it. Elfrida will like the ride, and if you
 
 318 
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 could manage to come home by Dripley and through the 
 Ford, you might look at that young horse, up the road that 
 goes by the mill on to Chillingale Heath. He belongs to 
 a man who lives in a red-brick house with high chimneys. 
 I forget his name, but I have seen him out hunting — a sort 
 of half dealer — you know that sort of thing. I should be 
 glad to hear what you think of him (the horse, I mean), and 
 you might just get on him." 
 
 " I know the man," said Everard, hurrying to his room. 
 
 " Directly after luncheon, then." 
 
 After he had read Ida's letter a sufficient number of 
 times, there remained for writing to the Marquis Moncalvo 
 just five minutes, which he employed in expressing his views 
 and intentions. With regard to Charlotte Wilcox, he 
 said : — 
 
 "/ am sorry to disoblige yoti, but I cannot use my 
 iufluence to persuade her to return to Italy, nor can I send 
 her away. Lookiitg at her ;past history , I can only see that 
 she has a right to my protection as long as she claims it. 
 That protection she shall have.'' 
 
 " Certainly, * ifi great haste,' " he thought, as he signed 
 his name, " with the bell ringing for luncheon, and the 
 lawyer to stir up at Lyneham, and the roundabout way 
 home by Dripley, and the horse to try, and the horse- 
 dealing process to be gone through. I hope that I have 
 expressed what 1 meant. I have scrawled over a whole 
 sheet and part of another in my hurry. Stay, I had better 
 take a copy of it, for fear of — mistakes. The letter is cold, 
 but I meant that. Charlotte Wilcox's delusion is harmless, 
 and I said so." 
 
 But the old women in Chase End continued to believe 
 that it was not a delusion, and the Marquis Moncalvo was 
 quite sure that it was not harmless. 
 
 Sm-m^ 
 
 mm:
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 RAY, in his " Progress of Poetry," speaks of 
 
 Thoughts that breathe, and words that bum^ 
 
 both being scattered from the friendly urn 
 
 of bright-eyed Fancy. What business 
 
 bright-eyed Fancy has with an urn, whether 
 
 it contain the ashes of a dead pagan or hot 
 
 water for a tea-pot, it is hard to say ; but 
 
 certainly there are occasions when thought 
 
 seems to escape in the breathing of the thinker, and words 
 
 leave an impression of vital heat, like the touch of a 
 
 feverish hand. 
 
 Such an occasion was made with unintentional exactness 
 
 by Lady Dytchley at Florence, three days afterwards, when, 
 
 having laid down a letter, taken up some work, and heaved 
 
 a sigh, she said in a dreamy voice to her self inclusively : — 
 
 " What a sad world this is !" 
 
 This was not the occasion, but only the way up to it. 
 Ida, who had a modified and temporary belief in the 
 statement, looked up for further information, fearing some 
 practical example in the shape of retarded convalescence 
 and more change of air. 
 
 "My dear, there is always some trouble, if one looks 
 round," said Lady Dytchley in answer to the unspoken 
 question. " But one must not worry oneself about" 
 
 "Oh! but what is it? I really can't bear anymore of 
 this. I have nearly been driven out of my senses, as it is, 
 by all I have gone through in the last two months." 
 
 " My poor child, you have indeed in — so many ways. 
 And at the same time, too, which was so very provoking — 
 I mean so unfortunate," said Lady Dytchley, sighing again 
 and repressing the sigh suggestively. This was a delicate 
 hint that Everard might as well have put off the definite
 
 320 FREVILLK CHASE. 
 
 religion till the honeymoon or thereabouts, and Ida 
 understood it in that sense ; but before she could reply, 
 Lady Dytchley repeated with emphasis and unction, ^^ sa 
 unfortunate," adding, as if in a parenthesis, " not that I was 
 referring to that or to anything you could have — exactly 
 prevented" 
 
 " Prevented ! — What could I have ever prevented ? " 
 
 " No my dear. I didn't mean that you could. I only 
 meant that I — was not thinking of you when I said there 
 was always some trouble. It was foolish of me to refer to 
 it at all." 
 
 " To what ? If it doesn't concern me " 
 
 « Well, it would be painful" 
 
 *' But what ? Don't keep me in suspense. 
 
 " My dear child, there is nothing to alarm you. It was 
 only the — that letter that mentioned — you know how 
 broken-hearted poor Mr. Exmore is." 
 
 " Broken-hearted ! — Nonsense — Rubbish — humbug! " ex- 
 claimed Ida, her eyes flashing fire for the first time in her 
 life, while a flush of uncontrollable resentment mounted 
 into her cheeks and, in a moment, gave place to a paleness 
 that expressed her anger yet more strongly. " He ought to 
 be ashamed of himself. It was the most disgraceful thing 
 I ever heard of. He must have known about Everard. I 
 shall tell his sisters what I think of it, the first time I see 
 them." 
 
 *' My dear ! You mustn't think of doing that, whatever 
 you do," said Lady Dytchley, colouring up to the roots of 
 her hair and feeling an excessive degree of heat among the 
 roots. " You must see that it would not be right or proper 
 in any way." 
 
 "Why not?" said Ida. "He had no right to act so : he 
 knew better. I ought not to bear it. I can't be expected 
 to bear it. I have no right to bear it, and I won't bear it." 
 
 " But, my dear, just consider what you would be doing. 
 It would make a quarrel and " 
 
 " Only with me. I don't care whether they speak to me 
 or not, nor what they do, or think, or say. It would be 
 wrong to myself and to Everard if I were to take no notice 
 of it. Who would believe that any man in the world would 
 have done such a thing without some sort of encourage- 
 ment ? "
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 321 
 
 Lady Dytchley felt uncomfortable in her mind, and wished 
 that she had not begun to moralise on the ubiquity of 
 trouble. She had not read Gray's "Progress of Poetry," but 
 Ida's last reply breathed and burned, though it was not 
 scattered by fancy neither did it come out of an urn, 
 friendly or otherwise. 
 
 There was silence for a while, emphatic and self- 
 prolonging, successive rather than continuous, and stretching 
 out like the shadowy line of kings before Macbeth. She 
 remembered indeed that the sisters ot the man who " would 
 not have done snch a thing without encouragement" were 
 beyond speaking distance ; but then there was the post, 
 which commits people in a more lasting manner. 
 
 "How difficult things are!" she said at last, as if 
 reasoning with herself. " How difficult it is to act wisely 
 for another, and how much more difficult when that other 
 is one's own child, and when one is most anxious to do for 
 the best!" 
 
 " But how could there be any acting for the best or the 
 worst, about that ? said Ida. "How could you have any- 
 thing to do with it?" 
 
 " Well, you know, one has to do with things without 
 meaning it," said Lady Dytchley, holding her words in 
 readiness and the needle pointing to the spot where she had 
 left off. "I think it must have happened through my over- 
 scrupulous care — or fidget, if you like. I w^ouldn't for the 
 world do anything to interfere with such an engagement as 
 yours. I have always looked upon it as a settled thing. 
 But I have known such misfortunes come from people 
 thinking themselves bound by engagements they had not 
 made themselves, that I thought it right to make yours your 
 own, and I told Everard the last time I saw him, that I 
 considered him perfectly free and disengaged — I mean, of 
 course, while we were abroad — and therefore he may have — 
 but you mustn't distress yourself — you really mustn't. If 
 you had lived as long as I have, and been disenchanted as I 
 have been ! I am not complaining ; I am only stating a 
 fact which the experience of other women w^ould confirm. We 
 are all disenchanted, and no doubt it is better for us to be so." 
 
 " I am not disenchanted. I can't be disenchanted. I 
 won't be disenchanted. What do you mean about Everard > 
 He may have — what ? "
 
 322 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 '* Well, he may have said something that led people to 
 think the marriage had been broken off. People are so 
 stupid, and make such mistakes." 
 
 " He never did, would, or could, have said anything of 
 the kind ; and whoever has said so has told the most false 
 and wicked and abominable story that ever was invented." 
 
 " Nobody said that he did ; but he might have mentioned 
 what I told him to some one in confidence." 
 
 " No, he would not ; for he never could have taken what 
 you told him as anything but words, that pained him to 
 hear but had nothing to do with him." 
 
 " He appeared to think that they had something to do 
 with him," said Lady Dytchley, replacing her needle and 
 beginning to work steadily. 
 
 *• Why ? How ? What if he did think that a horrible 
 suggestion meant some fresh trouble for him and me, after 
 all we have had to bear ? You are my mother, and I have 
 always felt and shown the greatest love and respect and 
 obedience to you; but you have nearly driven me out of my 
 senses about Everard, and if you make any more diffi- 
 culties " 
 
 " Make ? you surely ought to know that I have not made 
 them. You know how it all happened." 
 
 " Yes, I do, too well ; but duty keeps me silent. I say, 
 that if you make any more difficulties, you will be sorry for 
 what you have done when it is too late. I have heard these 
 things, in one shape or another, from the day we left 
 Netherwood — one thing after another, continually, without 
 cessation, directly and indirectly, told, hinted, suggested, 
 left to be inferred, and all pointing the same way, all with 
 one evident object, all calculated — yes ! there is no other 
 word, unhappily — all calculated to loosen the tie that has 
 bound me to him all my life, with your own consent and 
 my father's, and now binds me more than ever, heart, soul, 
 will, with all the strength that is in me. Nothing can, 
 nothing shall loosen that tie. No power on earth shall 
 induce me to break an engagement which you and my 
 father made, which you have no right in justice or in 
 prudence or in any way whatever to prevent, and which I 
 have confirmed with the fullest consent of heart and soul. 
 But you may wear me out, body and mind, by this continual 
 pressure, this continual conflict of duties and obligations
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 323 
 
 and affections ; and you will do it if you go on as you have. 
 The strain is too great, placed as I am, away from him, 
 -away from all (I must say it) all protection, hearing all day 
 long the same maddening story in different shapes. Simon 
 killed the Dauphin by giving him no rest, and I am being 
 worn out — whether body or mind will go first I know not 
 — by the same treatment. I am practically, to all intents 
 and purposes, a prisoner while I am out of England, and as 
 much at your mercy as he was at the mercy of Simon. The 
 difference of intention will not affect the result. Now, at 
 least, you know what you are doing. It is for you to decide 
 whether you will continue to do it or not." 
 
 Lady Dytchley decided that she would. Her temper, 
 which had been enlisted in the cause, excited by a failure 
 she would not accept, and embittered by Elfrida's con- 
 version, as well as by Ida's open resistance, now became 
 stiff and cold. She shut her mind against evidence, her 
 heart against natural affection, and persuaded her con- 
 science to " prophesy smooth things " of the object she had 
 in view. 
 
 " I don't think I have quite deserved all that," she said, 
 looking down closely at her work, " nor that it was right of 
 you to think so and yet say nothing to me about it till now. 
 I wouldn't for the world say anything to give you pain, if I 
 could avoid it without helping to bring worse upon you. 
 You felt hurt, I could see, at what I said about Everard ; 
 but how could I do otherwise, in justice to you and with 
 any regard to truth ? I told him that I considered him 
 ■disengaged — that was a fair trial of him, wasn't it ? Well, 
 he said nothing, nothing at all. Would you have me 
 conceal that from you ? I am not giving any opinion or 
 suggesting anything. I simply tell you what happened. 
 You are old enough to judge for yourself. Now do let us 
 talk of something else, or go and see something to distract 
 your mind. I have enough anxieties, without having to 
 feel that every word I say for your good is misconstrued." 
 
 The conversation ended there and then. They neither 
 of them talked of something else, nor went anywhere to see 
 anything. Lady Dytchley was satisfied with her reply, 
 thought it better to leave well alone, and having told the 
 truth about Everard strictly, dismissed the suppressions, or, 
 rather, left them to take care of themselves among worn out
 
 324 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 scruples, whose edges had been smoothed away gradually 
 since the occurrence of the tantrum in the family coach. 
 Ida was not in a mood for talking on any subject. Those 
 little poisonous words, '' He said nothing, nothing at all," 
 rankled in her heart, excited her will into a state of morbid 
 restlessness, disturbed the balance of things in her mind. 
 She rejected the inference against Everard passionately, and 
 determined on the spot that, at any cost, she would not 
 submit to further delay, however short ; but the poisonous 
 words had stirred up two questions that indignation would 
 not silence : — 
 
 Why did he say nothing ? and why did he take no notice 
 of the note? 
 
 Lady Dytchley saw, perceived, guessed, inferred^ 
 speculated, and remained silent. The silence had lasted 
 about three-quarters of an hour when the door opened, and 
 the Marquis Moncalvo was announced. 
 
 Lady Dytchley, who was beginning to find the silence 
 embarrassing, had no available means of shortening it, and 
 would even have welcomed Sir Richard's little song, which 
 had seemed so inopportune in the family coach, received 
 him with evident marks of satisfaction. Ida, who was not 
 aware of any cause for disliking his presence more than that 
 of other people, and felt grateful to him for having shown, 
 rather than expressed, much respectful sympathy, was dis- 
 posed to think that he might as well be there as not. 
 Moreover, she had become accustomed by degrees to his 
 presence. He had been with them at Baveno, living in the 
 same hotel, walking among the same vineyards, helping 
 them to see what was most worth seeing, and since their 
 arrival at Florence he had devoted part of every day to their 
 service in the same way. She was used to meeting him 
 frequently, and he had the great merit of never showing the 
 slightest admiration. Altogether she was not otherwise than 
 glad to see him there and then, particularly then, for the 
 silence had grown oppressive and unmanageable. They 
 talked about pictures and churches, within the limits of 
 Lady Dytchley's general principles, till another visitor came. 
 When he had gone about his business, if he had any to go 
 about. Lady Dytchley remembered that a letter must be 
 written before they went out, and Ida, having had enough 
 of art strictly limited, retired to write. As soon as she was
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 325 
 
 out of the way Lady Dytchley, whose temper was up and 
 stirring, began to unfold her grievances. 
 
 " It is hard, very hard," said she. " I havn't deserved 
 it ! " 
 
 " What has happened ? " said the Marquis in a tone ot 
 broad sympathy. "Is there anjthing that I can do for 
 you?" 
 
 " You are always so kind," said she, " and so large- 
 minded, and see things in such a right way ; but you can 
 do nothing for me in this miserable affair, which has upset 
 me more than anything that could have happened." 
 
 " I hope that you will be able to see it in a more favour- 
 able point of view," said the Marquis in a tone of tentative 
 sympathy. 
 
 " I don't see how that can be," she said, "unless Elfrida 
 changes her mind ; and she won't do that, after having once 
 got herself into it. They won't let her out when they have 
 got her in. I know their ways." 
 
 " Pardon my stupidity. I cannot quite understand " 
 
 " Not at all. You had not heard of it, and I oughtn't to 
 have spoken of it in that way to you ; only you are not like 
 — like the rest of them. The fact is that Everard, who, as 
 you must know, is as bigoted as he can be, has got hold of 
 Elfrida and persuaded her to be a Roman Catholic. She 
 pretends that she did it herself ; but I know better. I 
 know how those Ultramontanes teach people to deceive and 
 give them indulgences to make it right. And then she tells 
 me as an excuse that she was baptized in that way — as if 
 that made any difference, when I have taught her everything 
 since ! " 
 
 The Marquis failed to see how Elfrida could have for- 
 feited her baptismal rights by being deprived of them in her 
 infancy, but not knowing how to reply without either 
 rejecting Lady Dytchley's view of the case or putting off his 
 religion more than he was })repared to do, he made a gesture 
 of general sympathy and said nothing. Whatever his 
 Catholicity might be in practice, he had not lost his faith, 
 and if he allowed other people to speak against the Church 
 before him without let or hindrance, he never did so 
 himself. 
 
 Lady Dytchley ought to have observed this, and in fact 
 had observed it : but when temper rules tact retires, and
 
 326 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 she went on with her story, regardless of everything but the 
 fancied grievances whose local habitation was at Freville 
 Chase. 
 
 " I knew you would feel for me," she said, "and see how 
 very hard it is." The Marquis knew that he did nothing of 
 the kind, but he bowed again. " How very, very hard it is, 
 to be treated so after all I have done for her, and Sir 
 Richard (I must say) never interfering. And all this after 
 he had done the same about Ida almost before my face, 
 under the pretence of his being engaged to her, which I 
 wish she never had been, and she shall not be now, what- 
 ever happens, I am determined. I have always hated this 
 marriage ; and now that he has defied me in this way, and 
 deceived poor dear Elfrida, who never^ never, never, gave 
 me a moment's anxiety before, and destroyed her prospects 
 and her happiness — for, of course, she won't marry a 
 Protestant now, even if his uncle would allow it — just the 
 match I could have wished most in every way, and just 
 after he has made Ida refuse one of the best matches in 
 England, and an admirable man too — quite a pattern — for 
 the sake of this nonsensical engagement that I never could 
 endure ! He shall not marry Ida, whatever I have to do 
 to prevent it. I say he shall not. I don't care what any 
 one says, what the whole world thinks. I don't care what 
 happens to me, I say she shall not marry him. But I 
 needn't take that trouble. He is disgusting her enough by 
 showing so plainly that he doesn't care for her. Why you 
 yourself told me that he was in high spirits when he heard 
 that we had gone away, and didn't care the least about 
 finding her gone when he went to Netherwood, and " 
 
 " Not exactly that," interposed the Marquis. " You 
 asked me whether " 
 
 " No, I didn't, and I won't have it made out so, when 
 you know better. She is getting disgusted with him, and I 
 want you to help me to make her feel it more." 
 
 " Pardon me, dear Lady Dytchley," said the Marquis, 
 turning pale and fixing his eyes on the ground, " I cannot 
 do that. I am ready to do anything for you that a man of 
 honour can do ; but you will see, I am sure, on reflection, 
 that what you ask is impossible." 
 
 " I don't see it at all, and I think it very unkind of you." 
 
 " I think you will see it, if you consider the case dis-
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 327 
 
 passionately. Shall I put it before you as it would appear 
 to every one ? " 
 
 " For goodness' sake, no ! If you won't, you won't. But 
 I daresay you are right, in a way. It doesn't matter. He 
 is cutting his own throat by his conduct and everything. 
 She is finding him out, I tell you. Would you try to 
 prevent her ? There now ! Don't say any more about it. 
 I won't hear anything in his favour or in favour of the 
 marriage, nor any nonsense about engagements and all the 
 rest." 
 
 At this moment a parcel was brought in, and soon after- 
 wards Ida reappeared. The Marquis remained a few 
 minutes and then went away, meditating much on what 
 Lady Dytchley had confided to him when her temper 
 was up. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Awake, arise, or be for ever fallen. — Paradise Lost. 
 
 pp^-.^J 
 
 ^--/-•^* 
 
 ?v 
 
 li 
 
 i 
 
 'f/fl 
 
 the Devil said this to the rebel angels, as 
 Milton says he did — and Milton ought to 
 know something about the hero of his own 
 greatest poem — he must have felt satisfied, 
 after his fashion, as to the tempting pro- 
 perties of the advice ; for he has repeated 
 it ever since, whenever he could find any- 
 one disposed by circumstances and a 
 disordered will to receive the same. 
 
 It seemed that the Marquis Moncalvo was listening to 
 suggestions of this kind between ten and eleven o'clock the 
 next morning, if we may judge by what he said to himself 
 in reference to Everard's letter, which had arrived by that 
 morning's post, and which he had just read. He opened 
 his mind to himself thus : — 
 
 "So it is, and so it must be! Will it ever end, except 
 with my own wasted life ? One false step has led to another, 
 and the way back is closed. Everard Freville has closed it.
 
 328 FREVILLE CHASE. 
 
 Had I but listened to my good and wise sister, and barred 
 my soul against the evil influence that is poisoning the 
 youth of Italy wherever it can enter, I should now be in the 
 grace of God, as I once was, and my life would not have 
 been as I have found it to be, a dark dream, with just suffi- 
 cient light here and there to mark the extent of the darkness. 
 Yet I had not quite abandoned hope ; and after I had 
 been at Freville Chase, a way of escape opened out before 
 me — a way that would have injured no one. Everard 
 Freville might have opened the way, but he would not. He 
 has made me feel more acutely what I have lost, and long 
 to regain it, but he will not save me. He might have been 
 the means of reconciling me to the Church eventually, by 
 helping me to save my reputation novr : but he has refused 
 to do so. Instead of helping me to reach the only way of 
 escape, he has set an impassable barrier before the entrance. 
 He had it in his power to save a reputation and a soul, by 
 allowing me to place that woman where she would be harm- 
 less ; but he would not. And now I must go on to the end — 
 whatever and whenever it may be — hopeless, reckless, 
 despising myself, hating the whole human race for the sake 
 of those who have ruined me in this world and for the next. 
 Hating all ? No ! It were better if I could ; for that one 
 exception is driving me to an act of black treachery. 
 Treachery ? To whom ? What do I owe to him — to the 
 man who has refused to save me, who has closed the way 
 back, who has made penitence impossible ? He must have 
 known what he was doing, for I expressed it so strongly — I 
 almost begged him to do it. He did know. He does 
 know. But then he is so nearly connected with me, and I 
 have felt and do feel, even now, the wonderful attraction of 
 the most perfect character that I have ever known in a man 
 of the world. I know it well. I know what he is. I know 
 it all — all that will, that must be ; but I seem fated to 
 wrong all whom I love or venerate or wish to serve. So it 
 is, and so it must be, and so it shall be ; he has told me so 
 in his letter. He is a saint in the midst of the world, with 
 power and genius and passions that would have led any 
 other man to be of the world. I know that ; but he has 
 driven me to this — I say, driven me. What has right and 
 wrong to do with me now ? He is strong, and can defend 
 himself: he is saintly, and he can bear what I cannot resist.
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. 829 
 
 If he is a saint, or>!t pro nobis ! This letter has torn us apart, 
 as I tear the paper it is written on." 
 
 He tore the letter down the middle with such violence 
 that the two halves were divided, as by a paper-knife, and 
 remained separately in each hand, so that he could not at 
 once destroy the whole. 
 
 " It is well ! " he said. " I shall want to read it again — 
 often, perhaps — to remind me that he had the power to save 
 me and w^ould not. I will keep it about me, in token of 
 having cast myself loose from every obligation whatever 
 towards him — every possible obligation." 
 
 He then put the letter into the tail-pocket of his frock- 
 coat, and went out, saying as he went : — 
 
 '* What can I find to show them to day ? They have seen 
 all the pictures, and I.ady Dytchley would rather see any- 
 thing than a Catholic Church — and so would I now. I feel 
 there like a man exiled from his father's house. Exiled — by 
 whom I Finally by Everard Freville. Here is his letter. 
 Must I take it out of my pocket every minute, to remind me 
 that he might have saved me and would not ? " 
 
 In this frame of mind he continued to affirm false con- 
 clusions from false premises for the space of an hour and a 
 half, when he returned home and did likewise till past two 
 o'clock. He then went out again, to call on Lady Dytchley, 
 repeating to himself, " He might have saved me, and would 
 not," till he entered the room where Lady Dytchley had 
 opened her heart and suggested to his mind possibilities that 
 certainly had not entered into her own. 
 
 She was not in the room, nor was Ida there. A letter 
 was on the table, ready to be posted. It %vas from her to 
 Everard. He took it in his hand, looked at the hand- 
 writing for an instant, and threw it down. 
 
 " If I could be good, or thoroughly bad 1 " he thought. 
 
 " But something seems to hold me back from being the 
 one, and how can I be the other now ? The time for that 
 is past, irrevocably past. I cannot retreat now. The good 
 that clings to me yet — I know not how — and the evil that 
 is making me its own, together forbid it. I cannot. I will 
 not. Will not ? I have no will now, in the true sense of 
 the word. It is too late, too late." 
 
 " Yes, I am afraid it is, unless we start directly," said 
 Lady Dytchley, who had overheard the last words as she 
 VOL. I X
 
 330 FKKA'ILLE CHASK. 
 
 entered the room. " Where did you think of going to- 
 day ? " 
 
 " I must apologise for coming so late," he said, with a 
 smile that had some of its old charm, but was too evidently 
 unfelt within to exercise its former influence. Lady 
 Dytchley, however, was not in a humour to notice the 
 difference, nor did she want to go anywhere, except for the 
 purpose of filling up time and interrupting the course of 
 Ida's thoughts. 
 
 " I have had enough of pictures for the present," said she. 
 
 " Yes, one is confused by so many. One requires to wait 
 and see them again, two or three at a time." 
 
 " Well, to say the truth, I am tired of them. How can I 
 enjoy such things, worried as I am ? And the churches are 
 worse, for it was all that sort of thing that put it into their 
 heads to marry Ida to Everard Freville (but it shall 7iot be), 
 and set Elfrida up to think she must do the same." 
 
 " Perhaps you would like to drive out into the country," 
 suggested the Marquis. " There are many " 
 
 "Yes, yes — by all means: you are always so kind and 
 thoughtful. We might go at three, or half-past." 
 
 " Shall I order the carriage then ? " said he. 
 
 " Thank you, so much ; but I need not trouble you to do 
 that." 
 
 " It will be no trouble at all. Can I do anything else for 
 you ? " 
 
 " Yes : there is that letter on the table. I hate the sight 
 of it, and it must go. Do take it away. They ought to have 
 posted it, and forgot, of course, just because it annoys me 
 so. But, about the carriage, I think we might as well start 
 sooner. I am so tired of sitting here, and the day is so very 
 fine. Would it suit you to go in half-an-hour. Here is the 
 thing." 
 
 In catching the letter up to put it into his hand, she 
 knocked a small vase of flowers down. The Marquis 
 quietly took out his pockethandkerchief, wiped from the 
 table two or three drops of water that had been spilled, and 
 went to order the carriage. 
 
 "He sees that I am right," affirmed Lady Dytchley to 
 herself ; " and he is a man of the world. His opinion is a 
 good test of what the world will think. I knew it was so ; 
 only people are so interfering."
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 331 
 
 " Sir Richard must have had a taste of purgatory, (I think) 
 before his time," thought the Marquis. " It is well for him, 
 and well for me too. Well for me? Yes ! It may, it must 
 save me in spite of Everard Freville. How can a soul that 
 loves as I love be shut out finally from the Church ? It 
 must save me in spite of him. Why should I have scruples 
 about him, when he has had none about me ? He has done 
 his best to drive me to despair. Am I to renounce my only 
 hope for his sake ? He has refused to do for me what he could 
 have done. Am I to ruin myself for ever by attempting for 
 him what I caimot do? / have no power to help him. 
 \Vhatever I say or do, she is not to be allowed to marry 
 him. Her mother says so, said it over and over again. I 
 am therefore doing him no harm. It has been coming to 
 this ever since Lady Dytchley stopped the signing of the 
 marriage settlements. One thing after another has been 
 done by her in the same sense, and has not been resisted 
 by — by either. If he had loved her, and if she had — 
 accursed be the idea ! — She does not, she does not. Lady 
 Dytchley told me so. There is no tie between them, 
 except the idea that they ought to love one another, because 
 their two fathers wished them to do so. Am I then to 
 sacrifice everything for that? Everything? Yes! every- 
 thing ; for by that connection Charlotte Wilcox's stories 
 would be made innocuous in the only neighbourhood from 
 which they could spread. It would then be their wish as 
 well as mine to hush up the thing : and by that fulfilling of 
 the immense human love that has never before met its true 
 object, I shall have taken the first step back towards the 
 faith, which I have so long neglected but never lost." 
 
 He ordered the carriage and thought of Ida's letter. 
 
 " I can post that afterwards," he thought, and turned 
 I'ack, repeating his conclusions till he was on the staircase 
 that led up to Lady Dytchley's apartment, when he suddenly 
 remembered that in his fit of hopefulness, he had forgotten 
 the most important element of success. Assuming that his 
 passionate reasoning was sound hypothetically, what would 
 Ida say to it in practice? He turned deadly pale, said to 
 himself, "It is my only hope," and went on. 
 
 When he entered the room Lady Dytchley confronted 
 him with two half-sheets of Everard's letter. An irascible 
 flush lit up her cheeks with a glow that might almost be
 
 332 FREVILLE CHASE, 
 
 felt. Prickly sparkles were projected from her eyes. 
 Resentment and triumph contended for the mastery of her 
 mouth. Every feature, every expression of attitude and 
 movement excluded questions, doubts and scruples. 
 
 " I am ruined for ever," he said to himself with the 
 morbid calmnes of despair. " 1 must have pulled it out 
 with my pockethandkerchief when she upset the flowers, and 
 the breeze from the open window must have carried it into a 
 corner. She is too quick not to guess that the affair in the 
 lane was contrived by Giacomo in my interest, and she is so 
 curious that she will never rest till she has ferreted out the 
 whole secret. I know her so well. All is lost now, lost for 
 ever."' 
 
 " You needn't begin to pity /f/w," said Lady Dytchley in 
 a sharp voice. I can't think how you can be so unjust- 
 minded as to symyathise with the wrong side like that. 
 Indeed I must say that I am surprised and grieved and 
 disappointed at your keeping such a thing from me. You 
 had this letter in your pocket, and you would have let poor 
 dear Ida go on believing in that wicked hypocrite. ' But 
 they shall kncnv ho7v that this is Thy hand, and that Thou, 
 Lord, hast done it.^ ' For the Lord executeth righteousness 
 and judgmetit for all those that are oppressed 7vith 7vrotig^ 
 and ' therefore whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness shall be 
 heard in the light, and that which ye have spoken in the ear 
 in closets shall be proclaimed upon the housetops ^ 
 
 The Marquis, whose mind had been slightly relieved at 
 hearing himself accused of nothing worse than ill-bestowed 
 sympathy, shuddered at the three texts that followed each 
 other without any sound of full stops. Delivered and 
 emphasied as they were, they left a general impression of 
 people knowing too much about him and of Lady Dytchley 
 clambering over the roofs to proclaim it. The idea may be 
 grotesque, but symbolical images of danger usually are so. 
 He saw no fun in it himself, neither did Lady Dytchley, 
 who, with due regard to appearances, supplemented the 
 texts with a dignified apology for her inspection of the 
 letter. 
 
 " I can't be too thankful for having picked this up," she 
 said, " though it puts me in a very disagreeable position. I 
 picked it off the floor, of course not knowing what it was ; 
 and such words caught my eyes in his handwriting ! I have
 
 FREVILLE CHASE. '>6/> 
 
 only read those few words, but I do think that I ought to 
 see the rest. Here it is. Do as you like about it. I have 
 seen enough to satisfy myself that I was more than right in 
 my opinion of him." 
 
 The Marquis took the two half sheets with a gesture 
 of courteous hesitation, ran his eyes quickly over their 
 contents, and, for the first time since he had re-entered that 
 room, breathed freely. He saw that neither of them be- 
 trayed his own secret, and he let the devil enter into his 
 councils. 
 
 " There is no remedy," he thought, or his monitor 
 suggested. " She must read the rest of these two pages 
 now. She has made the worst inference, and if I show any 
 scruples about her reading it through, I shall enrage her 
 and lose all." 
 
 " Never mind," said Lady Dytchley. " I really don't care 
 to read it. I only thought you might like for your 07v?r 
 sake." 
 
 " Not for my own sake," said the Marquis, putting the 
 letter into her hands, " but for yours. I cannot refuse it to 
 you." 
 
 She took the compliment and the two half sheets, and 
 holding the letter out as if it were a printed proclamation, 
 read it through eagerly. 
 
 " A very pretty revelation indeed," said she. " So he has 
 been concealing a girl in the tower after carrying her off! 
 I think you mig/if have told me of it ; but I suppose 
 you were trying to bring him into a better state of mind. 
 And how came the letter to be torn in two like that ? 
 Were you provoked with it ? — or did you want to light a 
 candle ? There now, that will do. I see by the shrug of 
 your shoulders how it is. What do you think of it ? 
 Don't try to defend him. I will forbid you the house and 
 never speak to you again, if you do." 
 
 The Marquis winced at the needless prohibition, hesitated 
 to give a definite assent, and for a moment wished, with 
 grim sarcasm, that his conscience were as clear of treachery 
 as it was of any intention to defend Everard. 
 
 " I asked you what you thought of it," said Lady 
 Dytchley, again directing the prickly sparkles from her eyes 
 full upon him. 
 
 Still he hesitated. He was prepared to consent by silence
 
 334 FREViLLE CHASE. 
 
 and shrugs, but not in words, not by active co-operation. 
 What should he do ? Time pressed, and the prickly sparkles 
 continued to come at him. Was he to tell her who the 
 woman was, and renounce all his hopes, or choose the 
 alternative in all its blackness ? A way out was suggested, 
 we say not how nor by whom, and responded to thus : — 
 
 " If it be treachery, it is not formal, for I do not consent 
 to it as such." 
 
 That so transparent a sophism could deceive him, let any 
 one believe who can ; but it answered the purpose of 
 hustling away the scruple. 
 
 " It seems a very simple question," said Lady Dytchley, 
 turning aside and shutting up a blotting book, " and might 
 have been answered by one who professes to be a friend. 
 But never mind — it really doesn't signify." 
 
 ''Che w/(?/^ r" thought the Marquis. "What do you 
 wish me — to say ? " he replied, incautiously forgetting the 
 difference of idiom. 
 
 " AVhat do I ivish you to say ? " she exclaimed. " What 
 diO you mean? \i you are ready to say whatever is wanted, 
 tell it to some one else. I asked you what you thought, not 
 what would be convenient to say." 
 
 " I understand your feelings," answered the Marquis, 
 colouring in spite of all efforts to the contrary ; and drawing 
 a deep breath as quietly as he could, " but pray be calm. 
 You surely cannot suppose me to have meant that you 
 wanted me to say what I did not believe, and that I was 
 ready to do so." 
 
 "Now don't be affronted and all that. You must see 
 that it was very provoking to be met with a question when I 
 asked for an answer." 
 
 •' No doubt. It was my mistake. I meant, " What can 
 I say ? What can you expect me to say, feeling as I do ? " 
 
 " To say the truth — nothing more. In the first place, 
 what was the ' affair in the lane ? ' and why was it ' serio- 
 comic ? ' and what were the tii'o roughs doing there ? And 
 who was the leader'! — and what was he the leader of? — and 
 who was the 'poor thing ' that was frightened and ?iot the 
 worse for it? I have more to say about her presently ; but 
 that will do to begin with. What is the meaning of all 
 that ? — and how did you hear of it ? 
 
 " I heard of it as one often hears of things from this
 
 FIIEVILLE CHASE. 3:^5 
 
 person or that, in these days, when half the world does 
 nothing but travel from place to place and write letters." 
 
 '* Yes ; but what had he to do with the woman and the 
 roughs ? " 
 
 '•Well — really, I was not there. How can I be expected 
 to know all his affairs ? " 
 
 " His affairs ! I understand. You needn't say any more. 
 And I suppose he carried her off to P'reville Chase — he says 
 so in fact. Now then — what do you think of that ? 
 
 " I must beg you to excuse me from answering so 
 painful a question," said the Marquis, m a low voice that 
 betrayed strong emotion, as well it might. 
 
 "Yes, if you wish it :" answered Lady Dytchley. "I 
 don't wonder, I am sure, at your feeling ashamed for him 
 I have heard enough, and more than enough." 
 At this moment the carriage was announced. 
 " It must wait," she said. " No ! It had better come back 
 in an hour." 
 
 "Then I will go, and return in time," said the Marquis, 
 who felt a natural anxiety to escape from the danger of 
 further cross-examination. 
 
 " No — don't go yet. I may be able to start sooner. I 
 will be back presently. Here is this precious document." 
 
 She put the two half sheets into his hand and leaving him 
 to his reflections, left the room. He replaced them in his 
 pocket, and repeated to himself many times : — 
 
 " /have not done it. Everything has combined exactly 
 to make it so. She said it all herself, and would ?iot listen." 
 Lady Dytchley went into Ida's room, heaved a reproach- 
 ful sigh, and began a series of sobs, in which the lachrymose 
 element yielded to the explosive, till the sound burst into 
 articulation. 
 
 " I knew how it would be I " she said. " I told you, and 
 warned you, and begged, and prayed, and said all I could, 
 in spite of everything, and you wouldn't listen to me. And 
 now the whole thing comes out worse than I expected — 
 very, very much worse. Thank God, it was found out in 
 time ! But, oh ! oh ! oh ! My poor child ! What a horrible 
 thing ! You really should have trusted me, and belie\?ed 
 that I should never, never have put it off, and come abroad, 
 and left your father to be shot by that Jesuit with red 
 whiskers, and Elfrida to be caught as soon as my back was
 
 336 FKKVILLE CHASK. 
 
 turned, and made to write a pack of lies about it, without 
 good reasons for what I did. And now even j<??^ must see 
 how right I was, and how I couldn't have acted differently, 
 and did the only wise and prudent thing that was to be 
 done in such a position. But oh, it is too dreadful. I don't 
 know how to say it, how to break it to you. Oh ! My poor 
 Ida! Oh" 
 
 Here the oft-repeated interjection swelled and softened 
 Jnto one prolonged sob, that increased rapidly in volume of 
 sound but was somewhat too fat in quality to be alarming. 
 
 Ida struggled, for a few moments, between the influence 
 of a mother's tears and the effect of the secret just let loose 
 like the typical cat out of a bag. The implication that had 
 escaped with it against Everard decided the struggle, and 
 she said firmly :— 
 
 " I thought you came abroad by medical advice. You 
 told me so then, and since repeatedly ? " 
 
 " So I did," answered Lady Dytchley, checking the sobs 
 and reddening from pink to scarlet. It 7uas that — every- 
 body knows it was — and I am sure yoti do, whatever you 
 may say, who were there all the time and Jfiust have seen 
 how ill I was, and two doctors telling me that I must, and 
 he speaking to you about it — that is, I don't know, of 
 course, but I suppose he did. They told me, as you know, 
 that I must have change of air and scene, and I am sure I 
 don't know how I should have got through it at all without, 
 with everything that has happened since we came here : 
 but do you suppose that I should let that interfere with the 
 wedding, unless it had been for your good, and I had 
 known it was, and had reason to feel he wasn't what he 
 seemed ? Oh ! for shame ! you ought to know me better ! " 
 
 " But what have I done ? I only said what you told me 
 before we left home and ever since." 
 
 "Yes, but there was a way of saying it. Well, never 
 mind. I don't blame you, though it 7vas very very hard to 
 ' have it made out as if I had acted wrongly by you. And I 
 know that's what he has said and insinuated, and twisted all 
 my words to make his own case, and made you believe that 
 he was an angel when, all the time he was — Oh ! it really is 
 too much. Oh ! oh ! My poor child ! That I should ever 
 have lived to tell you such a thing ! " 
 
 Here Lady Dytchley buried her face in her hands over
 
 FKKVILLE CHASE. 337 
 
 the table, and the sobs began again ; but their tone was fat 
 and the implication against Everard vaguely intolerable. 
 Ida rose to her feet and stood quite still. Her eyes seemed 
 unnaturally large, and their was no colour in her face. Lady 
 Dytchley looked up through her eyelashes. 
 
 " 1 am not afraid to hear," said Ida. " Xothing can shake 
 my confidence in Everard. What has any one dared to say 
 against him ? " 
 
 Lady Dytchley felt that she must be equal to the occa- 
 sion, though a tiresome misgiving did cross her, as a 
 -cockchafer bumps against one's face on a summer's evening. 
 Had she been the Marquis Moncalvo, she might perhaps 
 have told herself that it was not an occasion of sin, because 
 •she had made, not met it ; but never having heard of such 
 a thing, she escaped that temptation to sophistry of the 
 grosser sort, and simply brushing away the outer scruple, 
 •drew herself up to speak with full w^eight of authority. 
 
 " Dared to say against him ? " she echoed in a tone of 
 mingled sympathy and sarcasm. But the sympathetic note 
 was too flat, and the sarcasm too obtrusive and triumphant. 
 Her temper was up and her tact was down. As Napoleon 
 said after the battle of Waterloo, it was a day of false 
 manaeuvres. 
 
 "Yes," said Ida, " I wish to know what the particular 
 .accusation is, and who has dared to make it. I have a 
 right both to know the one and the other. 
 
 " I was going to tell you, only you wouldn't listen. I 
 hadn't the heart to tell you all at once. It upset me so that 
 I hardly knew what I was saying. That wicked hypocrite 
 Everard Freville " 
 
 " Please don't say that again. I can't remain in the room 
 to hear it. I ask you what has been said of him." 
 
 " Said ? Unhappily I have proofs that all the time he 
 was pretending to be so devoted to you, and so religious, he 
 was concealing an Italian girl in the tower, and as soon as 
 we were out of the way and your father laid up with his 
 accident, took her openly into the house, in spite of the old 
 servants. Oh ! there never was " 
 
 "The whole story is a vile fabrication," interrupted Idi^. 
 " I shall write and tell him of it tit once." 
 
 " Do as you please ; but you will only drag the thing on 
 and prolong the pain of your disenchantment. I should not
 
 338 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 have spoken of it to you, if I had not been certain. I have 
 the proofs." 
 
 " What are they ? " 
 
 " I am not at hberty to say, at least not at present : but 
 you really might believe me and write to break it off finally." 
 
 " Of course I believe that you have been told so " 
 
 " But I tell you I have the proofs." 
 
 " On whose word, and with what guarantee for their 
 truth ? People can make proofs easily enough when they 
 have it all their own way. Les absents 07it toujours tort. 
 When he acknowledges the truth of the charge I will believe 
 it, but not until then, — and that will never be. I will write 
 and ask him now — this moment " 
 
 " And mind you say (or else I shall have to write it my- 
 self) that if he doesn't explain it all and completely clear 
 himself, by return of post, we shall know that he can't deny 
 it, and he must consider that all is at an end. I am sure 
 that is giving him every chance." 
 
 How he could disprove such a charge in a letter by 
 return of post, is a queston to which the answer is not 
 apparent. A lawyer would say that she was giving him no 
 chance at all. Ida's notions of evidence were not very 
 precise ; but she knew that something was wrong about it^ 
 and feeling that his presence had always been their best 
 protection, she said : — 
 
 " He must come. I am telling him so." 
 
 *' Well, if you will have it," answered I.ady Dytchley, 
 startled at this announcement. " But he must be here by 
 return of post — mind that ! " 
 
 " How can he come by the post ? " said Ida, continuing 
 to write. 
 
 " He can come as quick as the post, if he chooses," 
 answered Lady Dytchley, reddening. " The post comes by 
 railway." 
 
 '* Not if he is away from home and the letter sent after 
 him." You are not allowing him time enough to get here. 
 Ten days at least " 
 
 " Well, well, then, ten days. It will all be to no purpose;, 
 but you won't believe me — as if I could have any other object 
 than your good ! Shall you be ready soon to drive out into 
 the country ? It will do you good. I put off the carriage 
 after it had come to the door."
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 339 
 
 " No one told me," said Ida ; " but I shall be ready in a 
 few minutes." 
 
 Lady Dytchley left the room to dress for the drive, and 
 soon afterwards rejoined the Marquis. 
 
 " By the by, I had put the carriage off," she said, ringing 
 the bell. " It is too provoking " 
 
 " Can I do anything for you ? " said he. 
 
 " No, thank you. It wasn't that, it was something else 
 that is so very provoking — but we may as well go at once." 
 
 " He opened the door to order the carriage, and avoid 
 further cross-examination, but being met by the courier, was 
 obliged to return and listen to such things as it might please 
 her to communicate. 
 
 " Yes — too provoking — he is coming here," she said, 
 " Everard, I mean — coming here directly — do you under- 
 stand ? She would have it so. I never imagined that she 
 would send for him ! I can't help it. He is coming about 
 this, and he will persuade her that black is white, and find 
 out, of course, that I have seen his letter to you. He must 
 be sure of that for I had no other way of knowing it. Well ! 
 there it is. /can't prevent her letter going — I onlv wish I 
 could." 
 
 So did the Marquis, with such desperate intensity, that 
 he turned away to recover himself and walked up to the 
 window, pretending to look for the carriage. Ida now came 
 into the room, rang the bell, and gave her letter to be 
 posted. He felt that the crisis of his fate had come: 
 irrevocable ruin w\is before him, and that letter would 
 bring it. 
 
 " Awake, arise ! or be for ever fall' n ! " said the tempter. 
 " Will you give her up, disgrace your name and incur the 
 loss of your soul, for the sake of one who would not stretch 
 forth a finger to save you, when he could ? " 
 
 At the same moment an idea flashed through his mind, 
 and he grasped it with his will. His emotion was now so 
 intense that his manner was calm and his voice quite 
 steady. 
 
 " I will go and hurry the carriage," he said, " or you will 
 be kept waiting, for you ordered it little more than half an 
 hour ago, to come in an hour." 
 
 "Thank you — how very kind,/ said Lady Dytchley. "So 
 thoughtful of you ! Really, I don't like to give you so "
 
 340 FKEVJLLE CHASE. 
 
 " Much trouble ' was the end of the sentence ; but owing 
 to the speed of the Marquis, it was left on the wrong side 
 of the door. She then sat down to gather the general 
 wisdom of the newspapers from (jalignani, deeming it 
 inexi)edient to say more about Everard as yet. While she 
 was settling herself and her dress for that purpose the 
 Marquis was following tlie courier, or rather what was in his 
 hand. He caught him halfway downstairs, put Ida's first 
 letter, which he had delayed to post, into his hand and took 
 away the second, saying — 
 
 " It was a mistake. This is the letter that Miss Dytchley 
 wished to — go." 
 
 The courier bowed his assent to the exchange, and fell 
 back to let him pass. The Marquis went on a few^ paces 
 and stopped again. 
 
 " By the by," he said, " I wish you would tell them to 
 bring the carriage as soon as they can. I was going myself, 
 but I find that I have forgotten something at home. I 
 shall be here before it comes." 
 
 He then hurried home, opened a dressing case, the key of 
 which was on his watch-chain, and taking the four half- 
 sheets of Everard's letter out 'of his pocket, allowed himself 
 to think within limits. 
 
 " There it must remain," he thought. " The next time 
 I might let the wrong halves fall on the ground, to be 
 picked up by Lady Dytchley. I have not done this : it has 
 been forced ujDon me. What right had she to look at 
 another person's letter and insist on reading it all ? All ! 
 Yes, all that she would have let me speak of. AVhen I 
 tried to speak she said, ' Don't defend him,' and refused to 
 listen." 
 
 He jjlaced the four half sheets in the pocket of the 
 dressing-case, and the exchanged letter behind. 
 
 " It shall be posted in a few days," he told himself, as he 
 locked the dressing-case. " I am not depriving him of it. 
 I am only defending myself, struggling to save my own 
 soul." 
 
 The devil had triumphed, and understanding his business, 
 left him alone to float down the stream on which he was 
 now fairly launched. 
 
 A few minutes later the ^larquis handed Lady Dytchley 
 and Ida into the carriage. Ida, who had no suspicion of
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 341 
 
 anything worse than a gross calumny that would collapse at 
 the sight of Everard, talked as much and as agreeably as 
 she could, to make up for what she had been compelled to 
 say about the supposed proofs. Lady Dytchley interpreted 
 this according to her own wishes, and wrote it down on the 
 tablets of her memory for Lady Oxborough. The Marquis 
 saw it in the colour of his own hopes, and indulged in day- 
 dreams nervously at intervals. 
 
 When they had returned home, Lady Dytchley said : " I 
 am quite worn out with it all," and shut herself up for the 
 rest of the day in her bedroom, fuelling her intentions with 
 interior philippics against Everard, who, all unconscious of 
 the strange things extracted from his letter by means of a 
 paper knife, was congratulating himself, at Freville Chase, 
 on a deal by which he had obtained a satisfactory pair of 
 carriage horses for Ida.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 T seemed that foreigners were busy with 
 Everard's affairs about that time ; for, less 
 than a fortnight after, when he was again at 
 Freville Chase, he was told that a French- 
 woman wanted to see him. 
 " In the justice room," he said, and walked 
 in. 
 
 " Alms for herself, or a warrant against somebody," he 
 thought. " I hope there is no mystery. I am beginning 
 to have as great a horror of them as Sir Roger Arden, and 
 with good cause." 
 
 As soon as the woman entered the room he saw that she 
 was not French, but Italian, probably Piedmontese. He 
 had yet to learn who had come to ' start his quiet.' 
 
 " I don't like your face," he thought : but " perhaps you 
 are better than you seem." 
 
 " It would not have been difficult to be so, for her face 
 had a singularly unpleasant expression : but the opinion is 
 doubtful. She was the woman of the middling countenance 
 who had come not for alms nor for a magistrate's warrant, 
 but on business of a private and confidential nature, to be 
 explained in her own way. She cast a quick glance at the 
 door, to see that it was shut, and advanced gradually. Her 
 manner was at once cringing and obtrusive. 
 
 Thought Everard, " You are as unpleasant a specimen of
 
 FHEVILLE CHASE. 343 
 
 humanity as I ever saw. I wish you would go about your 
 business, whatever it may be, and let me ride back to 
 Netherwood before dark," 
 
 "lama poor leetle woman," said she, "who has come 
 for to do to you one big service, very big." 
 
 " Thank you," said Everard reservedly. " AVill you sit 
 down ? What is it ? " 
 
 " That is my secret, what you may know when it shall 
 please you." 
 
 " By what means ? " 
 
 " By me ; but you must pay me money." 
 
 " I knew that," thought Everard. " How much, and 
 what for? " he said. 
 
 "What for? I shall show you how you shall have 
 millions " 
 
 " Nonsense ! My good woman do tell me plainly what 
 your business is." 
 
 " I tell you no lies. It is the truth what I say. You 
 shall be very rich and big, and be an alderman " 
 
 " Thank you ! I had rather not. But how am I get all 
 these wonderful things ? " 
 
 " It is I what shall show it to you ; but I am a poor 
 leetle woman, oh ! so poor." 
 
 " Will you have the goodness to tell me distinctly what it 
 is that you propose to do, and what you want for doing it." 
 
 " I want one hundred pounds now, and a writing, signed 
 by you, to pay me live hundred pounds every year when you 
 shall be what I say." 
 
 " Rather a high price to pay for being an alderman," 
 thought Everard. " How^ am I to get rid of this fortune- 
 teller, or lunatic, or confederate of house-breakers ? " 
 
 " You must have mistaken me for somebody else," he 
 said. " Millions are out of the question, of course ; but I 
 have nothing to inherit from anyone." 
 
 " I not know what inherit means ; but I know where the 
 money is." 
 
 " Where is it then ? " 
 
 " Give me one hundred pounds, and sign the writing, 
 and I shall tell it to you. " 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you expect me to pay you 
 beforehand, without any guarantee for what you state ? " 
 
 " I do not know nothing of guarantee. I know that the
 
 344 FKKVILLE CIIASK. 
 
 money is there, and that I can show you how it may be 
 yours." 
 
 " This is mere waste of time. No one in his senses 
 would listen to such terms." 
 
 " They shall be very good for you, if you believe me. If 
 not um ! " 
 
 "They may be so : but you give me no proof." 
 
 " Ah ! you do not know me." 
 
 " How can I find out whether she is mad or a swindler ?" 
 thought Everard. Is it a mere trick to get money ? Or is 
 there something behind?" 
 
 " You refuse my good offer ? '' said she, getting up and 
 backing towards the door. " Then I go for my affairs. 
 But you shall lose very much. Oh ! so much, and you shall 
 never more have the means to know the secret. Ve lo dica 
 to. Oood morning Sare Freville." 
 
 " I am not refusing your offer," said Everard ; " but you 
 cannot expect me to take your unsupported word as a proof 
 of what you state, and bind myself beforehand " 
 
 " No, not before. It shall be after, after, when you shall 
 have the money. I only ask one hundred pounds now. It 
 is not much." 
 
 " Would you give as much to a person you had never seen 
 or heard of, with only his unsupported word of the truth of 
 what he promised ? " 
 
 " That is not the same. I am a poor leetle woman ' — — 
 
 " Would you risk sixpence on the same terms ? " 
 
 " Sixpence ! I have paid many sixpences for to travel 
 here, all for your good. But I shall go." 
 
 " Let us come to the point. We are strangers to each 
 other, and therefore there cannot be much confidence 
 between us. You want to secure your reward before you 
 trust me with your secret, and I want to be sure that the 
 secret is worth having before I trust you with the money. 
 There is reason on both sides, but much more on mine than 
 on yours. My character is open to your inspection, but 
 yours is not open to mine, unless you open it yourself. 
 Before I agree to anything I must know that you are in 
 good faith. You are a Catholic, of course." 
 
 " Yes, yes. What would you wish me to say ? " 
 
 " I don't care about what you say but about what you 
 are. When did you last go to your duties ? "
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 345 
 
 " Duties ? What duties ? Do they not more soon come 
 to me ? Where shall I go to find them ? " 
 
 "You know very well what I mean," said Everard ; •' and 
 I see how it is about that. Well then — you won't tell me 
 the secret, for which you want a hundred pounds down ; 
 and I won't pay the money without knowing that Avhat I 
 pay it for is worth paying for and may honourably be paid 
 for by me. If you will tell it to the priest here (he is at 
 home now) I promise to do as he shall advise." 
 
 " lo confessarmi ? " screamed the woman of the middling 
 countenance, her face becoming livid with rage and her 
 eyes flaming with malice. " Vattcie al Diavolo con iuiti i 
 tuoi pretacci. You big clerical hypocrite ! You wish to get 
 my secret from the confessional, eh ? " 
 
 " I didn't ask you to tell it in confession but out of con- 
 fession, thus enabling the Priest to advise me about accepting 
 the offer you have made : and you know as well as 1 do 
 that a secret told in that way v/ould be kept as inviolably 
 by a Priest as if it were told in the confessional. You know 
 that there is no other way of showing yourself to be in good 
 faith. You know that, whichever way he might see fit to 
 advise, your secret would be as inviolably in your own power as 
 it is at this moment. You know all this as well as I do, and if 
 you were in good faith, you would accept my proposal. I 
 made it simply for the purpose of testing you, and it has 
 tested you. Your answer has proved what I suspected 
 before, that you have not only given up the practice of 
 religion, but imbibed a deadly hatred of it. I know, and 
 you know, where that hatred comes from. How then can I 
 trust you ? " 
 
 " You know nothing. You are one big fool. I go now 
 to the other man, and you shall never, no, never, never have 
 the riches. You beastly Jesuit! You false aristocrat, 
 sucking the blood of the peoples ! But I shall have my 
 revenge — I tell it you, /. The other man shall have it. 
 And you will wish to see me again, but I shall not come. 
 You shall wish, and be so sorry and grumble and roar ; but 
 it shall never, never be yours. All those great riches and 
 everything shall be for the other man." 
 
 " Take what you like to the other man, whoever he may 
 be ; but do think of your own soul and be reconciled to the 
 Church. You have no excuse. You are sinning against light."
 
 ;546 FUEVILLE CHASE. 
 
 " Have you finished your predica ? " said she in a tone 
 that was meant to be sarcastic, but only expressed rage and 
 despair. " Can you show me my soul, and make me touch 
 it with the hand, eh ? " 
 
 " You know where it will be, sooner or later, if you go on 
 in this way. You know that our Lord died on the cross to 
 save it, and you know that it cannot be saved unless you 
 correspond with the Grace you are rejecting. Listen to me 
 before you go. It may be your last opportunity." 
 
 For an instant she appeared to hesitate, or at least to 
 struggle with herself : then her countenance darkened into 
 an expression of hideous malice. 
 
 " SefTa umilissima^'' she said, oi)ening the door and 
 darting a last look of defiance towards, rather than at him. 
 
 He fixed his eyes on hers, and she quailed beneath them. 
 
 " Have mercy on yourself," he said, " that God may have 
 mercy on you." 
 
 She struggled to escape from that look of mingled pity 
 and reproach. 
 
 " Take away those eyes from me," she said. " They 
 burn. It is too late. I cannot, I will not. That is my 
 last word." 
 
 And so it was, in fact. She wriggled out of sight, round 
 the half-open door, pulled it after her without shutting it, 
 and rushed out of the house, trying to forget the expression 
 of his eyes, and ignore that power in them which had com- 
 pelled her to see herself as she was, obstinately sinning 
 against light. Never more was she seen at Freville Chase. 
 
 Everard left the room and went to his private sitting-room 
 in the tower, where Elfrida, who had ridden with him from 
 Netherwood, was looking over some of his books. 
 
 " The horses are at the door," he said. " I am afraid I 
 have kept you waiting ; but a mysterious stranger detained 
 me." 
 
 " I was not aware of being kept waiting," said she, 
 gathering up her gloves and whip, " for your books 
 interested me so. But who was the stranger ? I don't like 
 mysteries." 
 
 " Mysteries have persecuted me for the last two months 
 and more. I often think of Sir Roger's favourite saying, 
 that they are ' no good except in articles of faith and that 
 sort of thing.' "
 
 FKEVILLE CHASE. 347 
 
 " But do tell me who it was, and wliat he said. Somehow 
 I can't help wishing that I had been present." 
 
 " So do I, for I have a strong belief in your penetration ; 
 but she (for it was a woman) would not have spoken before 
 you. She was an Italian — Piedmontese, I think — with a 
 villanous countenance, and redolent of the worst Italian 
 Liberalism. She said that she could show me how to be 
 very rich. I was to have millions — whether lire sterline or 
 tenpences, I don't know — and be an alderman if I liked ; 
 but she wanted a hundred pounds down for the secret and 
 a bond for five hundred a year, to be paid when I had got 
 the millions. It was only a trick to get a hundred pounds. 
 When I objected to giving it, she was abusive, calling me a 
 Jesuit, with an epithet or two, and an ' aristocrat sucking the 
 blood of the peoples.' " 
 
 " Did she say that of you ? " 
 
 " In so many words ; and she looked as savage as the 
 ' spotted hyena, what the hart of no man can't tame.' " 
 
 Elfrida's eyes flashed fire, and the beautiful curves of her 
 mouth stiffened into strong lines. 
 
 " This of you ! " she said. " You who think of every one 
 except yourself? I wish I had been there." 
 
 " Only the jargon of the sect," said Everard. " There is 
 nothing in that." 
 
 "I daresay; but there is something more in this than appears. 
 An imposter would have been more civil. Couldn't you find 
 out anything?" 
 
 " Not without agreeing to her terms, which no one but a 
 madman would do. And besides, the story is ridiculous." 
 
 " I don't know about that. I feel sure there is something 
 behind. Can't you get hold of the woman and let me see 
 her?" 
 
 " I don't know where she is gone ; but I did all I could. 
 I tested her thoroughly : I will tell you the rest on the wa)- 
 home." 
 
 "Yes," said Elfrida, as she hurried downstairs, "I want 
 to be off at once, and try if we can catch her up." 
 
 " There is no chance of that," said Everard, putting her 
 on her horse. 
 
 "Never mind!" she replied, trotting off: "we can but try." 
 
 As soon as they were out of the courtyard she broke into 
 a canter, and continued to ride at that pace for some
 
 348 frevillp: chase. 
 
 distance, looking about in every direction ; but the woman 
 of the middling countenance was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 " And you really think there is nothing in her story ? " 
 said Elfrida, after a while. 
 
 " Nothing. She only wanted to do me out of a hundred 
 pounds and be off. In the first place, where is the money 
 to come from ? I think nothing of her calling it millions, 
 for a foreigner of her class would be likely to exaggerate, 
 without any definite limit, about English money ; but if I 
 were in the entail of anything, which I am not, or had any- 
 thing left me by will, which I have no reason to expect, I 
 should have legal notice of it." 
 
 " True ; but isn't there such a thing as unclaimed 
 dividends ? " 
 
 " Yes, but there can't be any for me : at any rate, not 
 much. It was only a trick to get a hundred pounds." 
 
 " More likely to get your signature and get you into her 
 power. There is something in the background." 
 
 " I don't see what." 
 
 "There is though." 
 
 And she persisted in that opinion, all arguments to the 
 contrary notwithstanding. 
 
 As they rode into the stableyard they met Sir Richard. 
 
 " I had a letter from your mother by the second post," 
 he said, lifting Elfrida from her horse. " She says they 
 will be here positively by the end of this month, November 
 — if not before — that she means to leave Florence directly, 
 and that we must not be uneasy about not getting letters, because 
 they would only be stopping for one night at different places 
 on their way home. She also says that Ida was expecting 
 to hear from Everard in answer to her last letter." 
 
 "But I wrote the day I received it," said Everard. 
 " Which way are they going ? " 
 
 " Well, she doesn't exactly say ; but it's all right, you 
 know, all right. They were to begin their journey home- 
 wards three days ago." 
 
 " I will write again by to-night's post," said Everard, 
 hurrying into the house. " It may catch them before they 
 leave Florence." 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 
 
 
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