LI B R.ARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UN IVLR5ITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 DS45d 
 
 V.I
 
 DEEP WATERS.
 
 DEEP WATERS 
 
 a iSobd 
 
 ANNA H. DRURY, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " MISKEPRESENXATIOX," "FRIENDS AND FORTUNE," &C. 
 
 m THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. 
 
 1863. 
 
 [The right of Translation reserved.]
 
 s:^3 ■ 
 
 HER IMPERIAL AND ROYAL HIGHNESS 
 
 "•1 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF BRABANT 
 
 THIS TALE IS, BY PERMISSION, DEDICATED, 
 
 ^ WITH GEATEFUL RESPECT, 
 
 LO 
 
 Ol BY 
 
 HEE IMPERIAL AND ROYAL HIGHNESS's 
 >Z OBLIGED AND MOST OBEDIENT SERVANT, 
 
 i 
 
 ANNA H. DRURY.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. L 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Home of the Claverings . . . . 1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 What Me. Atterbury thought . . .19 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 What Uncle Rupert found when he came . . 35 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 The Wedding Present . . . . .68 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Eve of the Wedding . . . . . S8 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 Six Weeks after . . . . .120 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 The Merry Angler . . . . . . 138
 
 Viii CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 City News ...... 152 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 City Lodgings . . . • • • 169 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 Divided Counsels . . . • .184 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 Convalescence ...... 202 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 Hester .....•• 225 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 Miss Craggs keeps her Resolution . . .235 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 Mr. Martock at Home . . . . . 253 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 Family Eriends . . . • .267 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 One Creditor pardons . . . . . 298
 
 DEEP WATEES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE HOME OF THE CLAVERINGS. 
 
 An old family seat, known by name, and 
 marked in tlie maps of many generations, is 
 always an object of respect; but of respect 
 mingled with melancholy, when it stands as a 
 memorial of a family's decay. Lawleigh, the 
 
 residence of the Claverings of shire, had 
 
 been in no other hands for fiye centuries ; and 
 as long as a Clavering existed, it would, if pos- 
 sible, be retained ; but of the original wealth 
 and consequence of the race, little else was 
 left. The old house stood in its garden, with 
 what had once been pleasure-grounds turned 
 into paddock and potato fields ; the timber 
 mostly cut down, the broad acres in the pos- 
 session of other landlords. Adversity of va- 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 rious kinds had brought down the fortune of 
 the family as low as it could well go ; and the 
 small residue of income just allowed the worn- 
 out master of Lawleigh to pass by the hearth 
 of his ancestors the existence that would have 
 had no comfort elsewhere. His father had 
 struggled hard to mend matters ; and, in the 
 struggle, had sunk most of their last resources, 
 as well as his own strength ; and when he 
 died, there were four descendants of the old 
 stock sharing its poverty : his two sons, Henry 
 and Rupert; Anne, the daughter of his deceased 
 son Charles ; and Edward Wilton, the son of 
 his deceased daughter Ellen. Marriage had 
 introduced iio additional wealth into the 
 family ; Anne was a penniless orphan, depen- 
 dent on her uncles, and Edward's father, 
 though high in the ranks of scholarship, was 
 in worldly position only a London curate. 
 Small chance of either being the favoured 
 individual to rebuild the glories of the Cla- 
 verings of Lawleigh. But as the last of the 
 race, they were dearer to the brothers than 
 all the world beside, and for them, at least, 
 some new eifort must be made. 
 
 " Brother," said Rupert Clavering, when 
 they came to arrange their affairs, "it has 
 come to this : one of us must go elsewhere
 
 THE HOME OF THE CLAVERINGS. 3 
 
 and make a- fortune, if fortunes are to be 
 made. You are weak and ailing, and I am 
 strong. My mind is made up. I shall go to 
 Australia." 
 
 This was in the comparatively early days of 
 Australian emigration, and it sounded then 
 like the daring of the old Cortez and Pizarro 
 navigators. However, when a Clavering once 
 made up his mind, it took a great deal to 
 change it ; and Rupert, with his small share 
 of the paternal inheritance converted into a 
 backwoodsman's outfit, sailed for the land that 
 is the last hope of so many. He had never 
 come back, though twenty years had slipped 
 away; but from time to time he had sent 
 money, to assist in the bringing-up of the two 
 young people ; and there was always a tradi- 
 tionary hope in their minds, that he would 
 come home rich some day, and renew the good 
 old times at Lawleigh. The new times, mean- 
 while, went on but hardly in that ancient 
 mansion. Henry Clavering was in feeble 
 health when he came into his heritage, and 
 it gradually aifected his mental powers. From 
 the period that Anne left school, which she did 
 at fifteen, she became the actual mistress of 
 Lawleigh, and the guardian of its master. 
 With two women-servants — one of them her 
 B 2
 
 4 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 own nurse — and an old man, whose age no 
 one could fathom, for he had been old ever 
 since they could remember, and talked of 
 Master Henry and Master Rupert as if they 
 were boys — she kept the establishment orderly, 
 and the garden productive. Her own active 
 hands took the lead in every homely duty, 
 and acquitted themselves in a style worthy 
 of those olden days when the yellow re- 
 ceipts were compiled, that amused her some- 
 times to decipher for the edification of Nurse 
 Moyle : and as the house was too large for 
 their needs, so many rooms were shut up, that 
 the remainder was capable of being kept in 
 order, even in elegance — as far as flowers 
 and ladylike management could triumph over 
 poverty. The carefully cultivated garden sup- 
 plied them with fruit and vegetables sufficient 
 for their daily consumption, and a little to 
 spare; the meadows afforded pasture for two 
 cows, and the dairy was no light portion of 
 the work that had to be got through. In this 
 department Nurse Moyle was paramount, and 
 her achievements were the glory of the house- 
 hold, and the admiration of the parish. In 
 short, the lives of the five inhabitants of Law- 
 leigh were, in a quiet English fashion, the 
 parallel of the life the exiled Rupert and his
 
 THE HOME OF THE CLAVERINGS. 5 
 
 fellows had been living in the bush : depend- 
 ing on the daily labour of their hands, sub- 
 sisting on the produce of their soil, and with 
 very little time or desire for the luxuries of 
 the outer world, so that they might but hold^ 
 their own, and owe no man anything. 
 
 But the period of a woman's life, between 
 fifteen and twenty-five — especially when that 
 woman is of an energetic, impulsive race, and 
 with a refined natural taste — is not the one 
 when all its aspirations can be satisfied by the 
 colour of the Midsummer butter, or the weight 
 of the Christmas pig. Mistress of herself, as far 
 as necessity would allow her to be, Anne Cla- 
 vering had no companion of her own sex, but 
 her nurse, and no books, but what stood on t^e 
 library shelves when she was born. Of these 
 two resources she made ample use : her nurse 
 taught her everything she knew herself, and 
 treated her with that deference and loyalty 
 that prevented her ever being anything less 
 than Miss Clavering of Lawleigh : and as for 
 the books, they grudged her nothing ; they, 
 too, told her all they knew, and she loved 
 them as teachers are not always loved. She 
 knew every curl of the old corners ; was hand 
 •and glove with many an author of whom the 
 subscribers to Mudie have never heard — many
 
 b DEEP WATERS. 
 
 of them, very possibly, writers she miglit pro- 
 fitably have left alone — but she knew nothing 
 about that, and welcomed all as they came — 
 kites and daws as well as eagles — Helenus as 
 well as Hector. The ancient novelists were all 
 her friends. Unlikely, incredible as it may 
 appear in the present day, it is nevertheless a 
 fact, that she was deeply read in those recon- 
 dite classics, Burney, Inchbald, Austen, and 
 Edgeworth : nay, had even studied, and that 
 right diligently. Sir Charles Grandison : while, 
 alas ! of the novels of her own period, she was 
 most lamentably ignorant ; depending solely 
 for their acquaintance on such stray volumes 
 of cheap editions, as travelled in Edward Wil- 
 ton's pocket when he came to pay them a 
 visit. 
 
 Had Edward Wilton but possessed the 
 means, there would not have been many of 
 the good things of life, whether in the shape 
 of book or otherwise, that would have been 
 denied to his Cousin Anne. Shillings were 
 scarce as comets in his schooldays : his holi- 
 day trip to Lawleigh was always by the 
 cheapest conveyance, and the result of months 
 of careful forethought and contrivance on his 
 father's part; but somehow or other, there 
 was always a treat stored up for her in his
 
 THE HOME OF THE CLAVERINGS. 7 
 
 portmanteau of the kind she loved best. If 
 he denied himself the expenditure of his 
 weekly pence — they were not so many but 
 that they might be counted — it was that he 
 might have a book, a magazine, a woodcut of 
 some popular picture — something to add to 
 her intellectual store, and to the brightness of 
 those dark eyes that were to him already the 
 brightest in the world. And her pleasure in 
 these dearly-bought luxuries more than repaid 
 his self-denial. Shut up as she was at Law- ' 
 leigh from all society — the civilities Mr. Cla- 
 vering could not return as he wished, he had 
 long ago declined accepting — these visits of 
 Edward's became of a value to the solitary 
 girl, only equalled by his delight in payiiag 
 them. Lawleigh was Arcadia to the young 
 Londoner; and no amount of wealth could 
 have given him more enjoyment than the 
 country fare, the out of doors occupations — 
 hard work as they were sometimes to his un- 
 practised arm — the pettings and lectures of 
 Nurse Moyle, the patronage of Old Thomas, 
 always graciously disposed towards " Miss 
 Ellen's boy," but pitying the defects in his 
 training — and Anne for his hostess, his com- 
 panion, his pupil and his teacher by turns. 
 Time went on; he had left school, he had
 
 8 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 beofun to work for his bread : lie lost liis 
 father, and was alone in London, struggling 
 up-hill with silent patience, and true Clavering 
 stout-heartedness ; but still, his holiday, when 
 holidays were his, was spent nowhere but at 
 Lawleigh, and the -aifection of the boy had 
 grown, unawares, into the deep tenderness of 
 the man, who has made his choice for once 
 and for all. 
 
 That tenderness grew deeper as he perceived 
 the effect that her secluded existence began 
 to have on Anne's disposition. Early habits, 
 healthy occupations and freedom, had given 
 her a strong elastic frame, and active spirits, to 
 which anything like morbid brooding wotild 
 have been essentially foreign. But her mind 
 began to crave something more than was 
 within her r(^_g,ch ; she secretly wearied of her 
 every -day routine, and longed for change, 
 even if it should be for the worse. Not that 
 any prospect would have allured her to forsake 
 Uncle Henry in his feebleness ; tliat she would 
 have shrunk from as a sin; but the longing 
 for something to stir the passionless depths of 
 her life became so strong as to surprise her- 
 self afterwards, on looking back, when those 
 depths were never to be passionless again.
 
 THE HOME OF THE CLAVERINGS. d 
 
 * 
 
 The change came, as such changes generally 
 do, when least looked for. 
 
 It happened one summer afternoon, in the 
 end of July, that Anne Clavering was return- 
 ing from a visit to a sick pensioner in a dis- 
 tant hamlet ; a basket on h'er arm, much lighter 
 than when she started, and her favourite 
 water-spaniel, Bruno, for her guard and com- 
 panion. Now, Bruno, favourite as he was, 
 had one grievous fault, and that was his quar- 
 relsome propensity. No lectures, no coaxing, 
 could break him of the habit of looking upon 
 every stranger as his natural enemy, and me- 
 nacing him accordingly ; though when once 
 the first introduction was over, he was as 
 pleasant an acquaintance as dog could be. On 
 the present occasion, he paid dearly for this 
 universal distrust of human ipture. They 
 were crossing a rustic bridge that spanned the 
 beautiful little river, beloved of artists and 
 fishermen, as it bounded along its rocky bed, 
 when Bruno caught sio;ht of an unknown 
 figure coming to meet them, evidently to cross 
 the bridge in his turn. He pricked up his 
 ears, and growled disapprovingly. His mis- 
 tress's rebuke quieted him for a moment, till 
 the stranger, an athletic young fellow, in light
 
 10 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 pedestrian attire, with a small knapsack and 
 sketching-book slung on his shoulders, began 
 to twirl a stout stick round his wrist, as he 
 walked to the whistled accompaniment of " La 
 donna e mobile.''' This was more than Bruno 
 could or would put up with. Off he set at 
 full speedj and flew open-mouthed at the legs 
 of the traveller ; who recoiled a step, and then 
 threw himself into an alarmingly hostile at- 
 titude. Anne shrieked to him to forbear, but 
 her voice was drowned in Bruno's bark, and 
 all her haste could not bring her to the spot 
 in time to prevent the evil she dreaded. One 
 blow of the stick, dealt by that powerful 
 young arm, had been quite enough, and Bruno 
 lay yelling on the ground with a broken leg. 
 Anne dropped her basket, and threw herself 
 beside her fayourite, sobbing with grief and 
 breathlessness. 
 
 " Oh, my dog, my dog, you are dreadfully 
 hurt ! Why did not you mind me ? And how 
 could you, sir, be so cruel ? I begged you not 
 — it is only his way with strangers — he never 
 hurt any one in his life. You have killed my 
 dear old dog. I am sure you have !" 
 
 " I sincerely trust not ; I shall never forgive 
 myself," replied the young man, whose passion 
 had cooled directly the blow was given, and
 
 THE HOME OF THE CLAVERINGS. 11 
 
 who was full of consternation at the result. 
 " I really did not intend to do him an injury; 
 but he took me by surprise, and I was rather 
 too hasty. I am exceedingly sorry. What can 
 I do ?" 
 
 His voice and manner were gentlemanly 
 and sincere, and Anne's indignation in some 
 degree subsided ; especially when he knelt on 
 the grass by Bruno, and with a quiet, sooth- 
 ing hand, which the dog submitted to without 
 resistance, began to examine the state of the 
 leg. He shook his head over it, however, and 
 looked up at Miss Clavering with an air of 
 deep concern. ''It is broken, certainly ; I 
 would a great deal rather have smashed my 
 own; but I hope it can be set, and that he 
 will recover. May I ask if you have far 
 to go?" ^ J. 
 
 " Oh no ; my home is near at hand, through 
 this plantation. But how is he to crawl 
 there?" 
 
 " He shall not crawl a yard ; with your 
 permission I will carry him, but we must first 
 sling his leg. Poor fellow — there, good dog. 
 You are a beauty, there is no doubt of that, 
 and of true mettle, by your bearing no 
 malice." 
 
 Anne could only gratefully accept this ser-
 
 12 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 vice ; indeed, slie felt he could do no less, and 
 it would liave been rather hard work without 
 his help. He contrived, in a very handy way, 
 to put poor Bruno in a tolerably easy position, 
 and carried him as tenderly as if he had been 
 a child, again expressing his remorse as they 
 walked on. Anne begged him to forgive him- 
 self, as she did, heartily; indeed, now she 
 thought of it, she had to apologise for the un- 
 provoked assault on Bruno's part. He had 
 often been corrected for the bad habit, but it 
 was now past curing. 
 
 " Like many other bad things," said the 
 stranger, " only left oiF when the opportunity 
 of doing them ceases, I have often found 
 exemplary reformed characters owing their 
 improvement to that simple cause. Perhaps, 
 however, I may have cured Bruno this time, 
 in which case I may hope my hastiness will 
 be really overlooked in the benefit." 
 
 " It certainly will," said Anne, " but it is 
 always a slow process to be grateful for a 
 sharp cure. If faults and bad habits could be 
 knocked out of us with a stick and an arm 
 like yours, I wonder which of us would have 
 moral strength to court the operation." 
 
 " It can hardly concern you^''' he said, 
 smiling, "but I have no scruple in saying
 
 THE HOME OF THE CLAVERINGS. 13 
 
 that I, for one, would rather let it alone. A 
 complete cure would not leave me a bone in 
 my skin." 
 
 They were just entering the plantation; 
 Anne held the gate open for her companion. 
 He bowed his head as he passed her. 
 
 " What a pretty country this is of yours !" 
 he cried. " I have been walking about it the 
 last three days, and never was so charmed 
 with any scenery in all my life. There is no 
 sort of travelling, after all, like going on foot, 
 and alone." 
 
 "Rather more spirited than sociable, is it 
 not?" 
 
 " By no means : rest is never so sweet, and| 
 society is never so agreeable, as on a solitary I 
 tramp, where they only occur as luxuries." 
 
 " Well," said Anne, " I have often envied 
 gentlemen their independence of encumbrances 
 on such occasions, I must confess. It must be 
 very pleasant to go where you will, instead of 
 where you must." 
 
 " I admire your spirit," he returned, quickly; 
 " and after all, travelling, like life, does not 
 consist in flying from one place to another, 
 but in getting as much entertainment as you 
 can on the way. So long as the road is plea- 
 sant, what does it matter where it goes ?"
 
 14 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 The audacious smile witli which this was 
 asked, made Anne shake her head. " Do you 
 find that a safe theory ?" she asked, not quite 
 certain how he meant to be understood. 
 
 "Safe? I should think not, indeed. It 
 would not be worth holding if it were." 
 
 They walked a little farther in silence ; Anne 
 pondering unconsciously on his words, and 
 wondering what Edward would think of them; 
 till observing him shift his load as if to ease 
 his right arm, ci\ility made her ask if he had 
 walked far that day ? 
 
 " I have not an idea," said he, "for I have 
 been on my legs ever since daybreak ; but I 
 never measure my journey by distances, only 
 by events." 
 
 " Then you must be tired; or is it a point 
 of etiquette never to acknowledge that weak- 
 ness ?" 
 
 " Not at all : I own I am a little tired, but 
 I think as much from vexation as anything 
 else. Nothing is so easy as to make a fool of 
 yourself, an,d nothing is such hard work." 
 
 " I think you are beginning to wish you had 
 kept to the ordinary style of travelling." 
 
 "I wonder you should; it would be very 
 strange if I did at this moment. Really," 
 before she had time to show any displeasure
 
 THE HOME OF THE CLaYERINGS. 15 
 
 at the complimentj " this is all uncommonly 
 pretty. Whose property is it ? " 
 
 " It is now Mr. Maberley's : it belonged for- 
 merly to the Lawleigh estate." 
 
 "Lawleigh? Mr. Clavering's, you mean?" 
 
 " Yes, my uncle. I am Miss Clavering." 
 
 He concealed his start under a bow of ac- 
 knowledgment. 
 
 " The name seems well known in the coun- 
 try," he said, politely. " I have heard it men- 
 tioned too often not to remember it." 
 
 He did not think it necessary to explain 
 that it had been generally coupled with the 
 remark it was fast going to the dogs. Anne 
 had fewer scruples. 
 
 " In former times," she said, " you might 
 have heard a great deal about it, for I be- 
 lieve the greater part of the surrounding 
 property belonged to the family: but, like 
 many others, the honour of the remembrance 
 is all that is left. My uncle lives a very re- 
 tired life, and we keep rather primitive hours. 
 You are, I conclude, a stranger in these 
 parts ?" 
 
 " Quite. I know something of Mr. Maber- 
 ley, but I was never here before. My name 
 you may, perhaps, be familiar with — it is At- 
 terbury."
 
 16 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " Oh, of course I have read of the Bishop 
 of Rochester." 
 
 " Of course you have : but that will not 
 help us muchj for we claim no relationship 
 with the right reverend prelate. I doubt if we 
 have a single peg on which to hang a claim 
 to historical honours. Our fame is built of 
 grosser materials — pounds, shillings, and pence 
 —rubbish, of course, but not to be despised, 
 Miss Clavering, when you can get nothing 
 better." 
 
 " No," said Anne, " nor when you cannot 
 get anything half so good, as is our case some- 
 times." 
 
 " Don't regret it : your family name and 
 position in the county are worth all the money. 
 If my father were but a country gentleman, 
 instead of a London banker (you cannot pre- 
 tend not to have heard of Atterbury and Co.), 
 I should have a chance of living, instead of 
 turning into a calculating machine. I detest 
 business, and it is my fate to be tied down 
 to it." 
 
 " You do not seem to have suffered much 
 yet," remarked the young lady, good humour- 
 edly. 
 
 " For a very excellent reason. Miss Claver- 
 ing : I have had nothing to do with it yet. I
 
 THE HOME OF THE CLAVERINGS. 17 
 
 have a year's liberty still to enjoy, before I 
 put my neck into the golden yoke : and I am 
 making the most of it, though poor Bruno 
 may not appreciate the result." 
 
 Poor Bruno ! He certainly bore no malice, 
 notwithstanding his infirmity of temper ; for, 
 except a plaintive whine every now and then, 
 he endured the journey with wonderful pa- 
 tience, and showed no signs of fear or dislike 
 to the strong arms that were doing their best 
 to make him amends. As for Anne, thouo^h 
 she had conversed on other matters from a 
 sense of politeness, she was too anxious about 
 her favourite not to be thankful when they 
 reached her uncle's gate; Old Thomas was 
 working in the garden, and his aid being called 
 for, Bruno was carried into the kitchen, laid 
 on the dresser, and all the surgical skill of the 
 family put in requisition. Anne's heart was 
 touched by the feeling showed by Mr. Atter- 
 bury. He took all the blame on himself, apo- 
 logising to Thomas, to Sally, to Nurse Moyle, 
 in terms that appeased them all; and what 
 was more to the purpose, his steadiness, and 
 neatness of hand, in binding up the leg, mate- 
 rially assisted the operation. When all was 
 done that their united experience (each having 
 a private opinion, more or less opposed to the 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 rest) could devise and agree upon, lie was be- 
 ginning to take liis leave : but, by this time, 
 Mr. Clavering had been informed of the cir- 
 cumstance, and a courteous message invited 
 him to rest, and take some refreshment. As 
 this was just what he had been hoping for, he 
 allowed himself to be pressed into accepting, 
 and Anne conducted him to her uncle's apart- 
 ment. What his impressions of that first visit 
 were, may best be told by himself in an ex- 
 tract or two from his correspondence, to w^iich 
 we must devote another chapter.
 
 19 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 WHAT MR. ATTERBURY THOUGHT. 
 Frederick AtterJmrT/, Esq., to John Despard, Esq, 
 
 " . . . . . . To confess the truth, after what 
 
 I had heard of this old decayed family rem- 
 nant, vegetating in pride and poverty on the?r 
 hearthstone, sooner than leave it, I was rather 
 more curious to see than anxious to share in 
 the details of their menage. I pictured it 
 to myself, something between Bareacres and 
 Eugenie Grandet, with a slight dash of Caleb 
 Balderstone; and being on my best beha- 
 viour, after the mischief I had done, I was 
 prepared to eat bad salt butter and leaden 
 bread without a murmur, to look impressed if 
 stately covers were taken off dishes of empti- 
 ness, and if I heard a crash, or a thunder- 
 storm came on, to believe implicitly that an 
 c2
 
 20 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 accident had spoiled all the entrees^ and the 
 electric fluid had turned the beer. You, who 
 know me, will allow there was no small 
 amount of heroism in such a state of mind. 
 Unluckily — for such heroic impulses are not 
 to be got up every day — it was all wasted. I 
 never was more comfortable in my life. 
 
 " The room into which Miss Clavering con- 
 ducted me was, in fact, the hall ; but being 
 oak-panelled, with a large handsome fireplace, 
 has long been used as a parlour, and I soon 
 ascertained that it was the only apartment 
 ever sat in, except a little room where the 
 young lady received her poor people and kept 
 her stores. The other rooms were shut up ; 
 only now and then opened for dusting and 
 cleaning, against, as she told me, ^ Uncle 
 Rupert's return.' This uncle in Australia, it 
 seems, is to bring no end of money, and to 
 do great things. It is a happy delusion ; I 
 would not contradict her. We have all uncles 
 in Australia in some shape or other. I wish 
 mine would look sharp about coming home. 
 
 ^' If this much-desired relative resembles his 
 brother and niece, the Claverings are a hand- 
 some race. Anne's grandmother was a Spa- 
 nish beauty ; and there is no mistake about 
 the tint of her olive complexion and the deep
 
 WHAT MR. ATTERBURY THOUGHT. 21 
 
 shade of her eyes, though her carriage and 
 manner are straightforward and English, with- 
 out an atom of the charming coquetry of the 
 young ladies of Seville. Mr. Clavering is a 
 small, thin, kind, picturesque old gentleman, 
 with scanty white locks and regular features, 
 and the most perfect simplicity of heart and 
 speech. He welcomed me as graciously as if 
 he had been his Grace of Lawleigh, letting 
 me know at once that he made an exception 
 in my favour to his rule of not receiving 
 visitors ; and then, without the least effort, 
 making it appear that my visit was one of the 
 kindest things I had ever done in my life. 
 My contrite apologies for my misdemeanour 
 were received just in the same way. True, I 
 had maimed the dog of a Clavering, and 
 therefore the Claverings generously forgave 
 me ; but, on the other hand, I had more than 
 compensated for it by affording them this 
 gratification, and doing them this honour. It 
 was like a chapter in an old story, and I soon 
 found myself bowing and speech-making, like 
 a chevalier of the old regime. 
 
 " Meanwhile, a sumptuous tea was being set 
 out; Miss Clavering, without any attempt at 
 concealment, aiding in its arrangement. Once 
 in a twelvemonth or so, there is nothing so
 
 22 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 perfect as a tea of this sort after hard exer- 
 cise ; and by this time I was hungry enough 
 to have eaten up my friend Bruno, spHnts 
 and all. And here were poached eggs, and 
 fried ham, and excellent butter, and delicious 
 bread, and fruit, and cream, and preserves, 
 and an unlimited allowance of hot tea. I 
 was relieved of my worst anticipations, and 
 made the amende by doing the repast ample 
 justice. 
 
 " Mr. Clavering, I saw, watched my pro- 
 gress with serene satisfaction, and, by way of 
 seasoning: the viands, entertained me with 
 some interminably long stories of old times, 
 of which, as I could not make head or tail at 
 the time, you will not require me to give a 
 distinct report now. The gist of the whole was 
 to impress on my understanding that nothing 
 was ever so wise, or great, or honourable, as 
 the Claverings in their best days — except the 
 Claverings in their worst. Certainly, they 
 carried off their adversity well if this was their 
 ordinary style of living ; but that I had reason 
 to doubt. I suspect they made a gala for me 
 out of all their best stores ; for it transpired, 
 accidentally, but without causing any sensa- 
 tion, that Miss Clavering made the butter I 
 found so good, and helped to make the bread ;
 
 WHAT MR. ATTERBURY THOUGHT. 23 
 
 that the fruit was reared by the industry of 
 the Avhole party; and that the sale of the 
 different articles of produce was one of their 
 few resources. I could have made sure Anne 
 Clavering was accustomed to work by the 
 look of her hands. Coarse, do you say ? Not 
 a whit — ^they were as ladylike as could be, 
 but there was a firmness and spring about the 
 touch of the fingers that spoke of energy and 
 strength, such as our fair friends can seldom 
 boast. Not in the least, mind you, was she 
 ashamed of her usefulness, neither did she glory 
 in it ; indeed, she owned once that she should 
 be heartily glad, sometimes, if she had people 
 to do it for her., 
 
 ^' Everything about them, I plainly saw, in- 
 dicated their condition past and present. The 
 spoons were silver, with the family crest, but 
 worn by time to attenuation ; the table-linen 
 was of fine damask, all over delicate darns — 
 Miss Clavering's bright eyes must have spent 
 a great deal of light over such stitches; the 
 furniture was so antique it was hard to tell 
 what the original pattern of the chair-covers 
 could have been, or what the pristine hues of 
 the carpet, which, by its size, must have been 
 costly once. As to dress, the young lady's 
 was of the plainest and simplest order, and
 
 24 DEEP WATERS. ' 
 
 tlie old gentleman's as ancient and neat as 
 himself. 
 
 ^' I was so taken with all this, so different 
 in every way to what one is used to meet in the 
 world, that I felt very reluctant to go. To my 
 great relief, just as I was making up my mind 
 to take leave, it really did come on to thunder, 
 and lighten, and pour with rain ; and the good 
 old man would not hear of my going any 
 farther — I must honour them by accepting a 
 bed. I did accept, after a slight resistance, 
 and Miss Clavering soon left the room to play 
 the housemaid's part, I felt convinced, in my 
 service ; while in return, I played chess in 
 hers with her uncle. How I did bother his 
 game, to be sure ! 
 
 " It was an hour before she came in again^ 
 during which, I believe, I had risen in Mr. 
 Clavering s opinion many degrees, by my play. 
 For once in my life, one of my accomplish- 
 ments was of use to me. I could see by 
 her face she had been hard at work, but, of 
 course, could not say a word to imply that 
 they had not bedrooms at their command. I 
 only discovered afterwards that it had been a 
 good hour's heavy labour to arrange every- 
 thing as I found it when I went to bed — fresh, 
 clean, and inviting, with a little fire, which, in
 
 WHAT MR, ATTERBURY THOUGHT. 25 
 
 spite of its being July, was made acceptable 
 by the rain and the coldness of the house. 
 Really, it struck like a vault, going through 
 the uninhabited passages ; and I doubted whe- 
 ther I had not escaped Caleb Balderstone to 
 fall into the hands of Aldobrand Oldenbuck. 
 However, no ghost disturbed my rest, except 
 those raised by day-dreams. How early Miss 
 Clavering rose next morning I cannot say; 
 some hours, I fear, before I did ; and to most 
 efficient purpose, for aur breakfast was as 
 sumptuous as the tea had been, and my appe- 
 tite was so uncompromising, I felt positively 
 ashamed. Bruno was doing well, and like a 
 magnanimous dog that he is, received my at- 
 tentions in as friendly a spirit as they wer% 
 given, which is saying a great deal. I took 
 his likeness for his mistress, and, on the sly, 
 took hers too ; but this she did not find out. 
 At noon I forced myself to take leave, first 
 obtaining permission when I came that way 
 again, to call and inquire, nominally, after my 
 victim patient. It was given me in his name ; 
 and long life to old Bruno, say I, for as long 
 as he lives I will keep up a visiting acquaint- 
 ance with him. I owe that yelp of his one of 
 the pleasantest visits I ever paid, at any rate, 
 if I never pay another.
 
 26 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " I wrote the above a week ago, and forgot to 
 send it. I don't knoAV wliat has come over me, 
 but I can settle on no plan, and have already- 
 broken as many engagements as the said week 
 has days. I can't make up my mind to go 
 out of the county without another call at that 
 house. The truth is, Despard, that face of Anne 
 Clavering's will not let me rest ! I had no idea 
 I was in for this — but, see her again I must, 
 and I will. I can hear your Avhistle as you read 
 this. Don't be alarmed. It is the fifteenth 
 time I have been in love, and here I am still 
 to tell the tale ; though I have never yet seen 
 a woman like Anne Clavering, and question if 
 I ever shall. I am off in half an hour. Bruno 
 — my benison on his leg — must be my excuse 
 for returning so soon. 
 
 " Well, Jack, I paid my visit, and though 
 my return caused some surprise, there was no 
 displeasure to daunt me. I rather hoped I 
 saw the reverse. At any rate, I had been 
 thought of in my absence. Mr. Clavering had 
 never ceased pondering over our last game of 
 chess, and wishing for another ; and Nurse 
 Moyle had repeated scores of times, it did her 
 heart good to see a young gentleman enjoy 
 his meals as I did. Bruno was limping, but 
 amiable ; he knew me again directly, and we
 
 WHAT MR. ATTERBURY THOUGHT. 27 
 
 renewed our vows of eternal regard, tliougli I 
 gave liim a private caution, that if his leg got 
 well too fast, I should break it again. Anne — 
 I could not extract an acknowledgment that 
 she had thought of me at all — but her hand 
 was cordial and her smile pleasant ; never 
 was such a smile on any woman's face ! I 
 felt at home directly I got into the oak- 
 panelled hall, whose smell had haunted me 
 ever since I left ; and the only drawback to 
 my enjoyment was the difficulty I could not 
 overlook, of getting up a sound ostensible 
 excuse for being in it constantly. Why had I 
 not broken my own leg instead of Bruno's, 
 while I was about it, and then I must have 
 remained there to be nursed ? As it was, I 
 knew there was pride enough in both uncle 
 and niece to make it incumbent on me to be 
 wary. Any attempt at intrusion would have 
 been met with a prompt repulse, as had been 
 the case once before with some ill-advised 
 visitors, who thought they would patronise 
 the decayed gentry. Luckily for me, there 
 came in while I was there the old parson of 
 the parish, a great ally of the Claverings, and 
 a keen brother of the angle. We made friends 
 at once, and he gave me an invitation to his 
 house for as long as I chose to stay. I jumped
 
 28 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 at the oifer, and am writing now from his 
 parlour. I have been here the best part of a 
 week, and have seen Anne every day. I have 
 just heard that there is some good shooting to 
 let for the season hereabouts ; it would be a 
 sin to let it slip, as it is going for a mere song. 
 If you see my father, just put him up to that 
 fact, there's a good fellow. I have some re- 
 mains of conscience, and have run rather fast 
 over the ground this year ; but this is such a 
 glorious chance. Pave the way for me — you 
 know what I mean. She will make me the 
 happiest fellow in the world." 
 
 It is to be opined that the paving suggested 
 above was skilfully done, for the result was 
 that Frederick Atterbury took the shooting he 
 wished for, and though obliged to leave Hel- 
 stone Parsonage after a reasonable visit had 
 been paid, came back to the neighbourhood for 
 the first of September. He had early ascer- 
 tained that nothing was so acceptable to Mr. Cla- 
 vering as game, and the youngest and plumpest 
 birds were sure to find their way into the larder 
 at Lawleigh. Of course, a tired sportsman 
 bringing his ofi*ering, was to be welcomed hos- 
 pitably, and Atterbury was apt to grow tired 
 as soon as he had birds enough for an excuse,
 
 WHAT MR. ATTERBURY THOUGHT. 29 
 
 leaving the supply necessary to satisfy London 
 claims to be provided by the keeper. And so, 
 week after week, the acquaintance between him 
 and Anne ripened, and grew strong ; and the 
 young man's admiration became a passion, and 
 the solitary girl found a dazzling vista opened 
 in the midst of her common-place routine of 
 tranquil usefulness. At what stage of the ac- 
 quaintance she first admitted young Atterbury 
 to the chief place in her heart she never knew 
 — she was long before she knew that he was 
 there — but from their first meeting life had 
 assumed a diiFerent aspect, and before she even 
 dreamed of danger, her citadel was taken, and 
 her garrison disarmed. 
 
 Time passed on, and still he came and went: 
 there was always some excuse to be found for 
 his reappearance; he had come down for a 
 week's hunting, or a few days' fishing, or a 
 sketching tour; it did not much signify, as 
 whatever he came to do, he contrived to leave 
 undone, and devote his hours to Lawleigh and 
 Anne. And the neighbourhood began to talk 
 of it, and Edward Wilton grew uneasy at the 
 frequent recurrence of his name in her letters ; 
 and last, and slowest of all. Uncle Henry began 
 to open his eyes, and ask himself, what made 
 that pleasant young man call so often ?
 
 30 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 '' I liave something to tell you, Anne, my 
 love," he said, in his mild, deliberate manner, 
 as she came into the hall one bright spring 
 day, bearing the produce of a good morning's 
 cowslipping in her basket ; " something you 
 will be rather sorry to hear. Mr. Atterbury 
 has been sitting with me for an hour." 
 
 " Has he, indeed. Uncle Henry? Well, I 
 do not know why I should be sorry, since you 
 like his company so much. You always say 
 how agreeable he is." 
 
 " So I do, my love; but then you missed 
 seeing him at all." 
 
 " Wen, dear, and if I did? He wiU call 
 again soon, no doubt ; so it does not much 
 matter." Not but what it did, only Miss 
 Clavering was not going to own it. 
 
 " No, very true, my love ; as you say, it 
 does not matter at all ; only — I was going to 
 tell you — he is not coming back." 
 
 "• Not coming back ?" Her careless manner 
 was gone now, and she looked at him with 
 suspended breath. 
 
 " No — at least not for a very long time. 
 He is going to take seriously to business, he 
 says, and has promised his father he will be 
 idle no longer. A very sensible promise for a 
 young man to make, if he only will keep it. I
 
 WHAT MR. ATTERBURY THOUGHT. 31 
 
 am sorry you missed liim, my love — you 
 would have liked to wish him good-bye, and 
 he could not wait any longer, as he had to 
 call at the parsonage." 
 
 " The parsonage? then there is time still," 
 she said, with a flush of hope, and hastily 
 snatching up a bunch of cowslips, she was 
 gone before her uncle could interfere, or in- 
 deed look round. 
 
 He sat after she left him, for some time, 
 quite still ; his hands resting on his stick, and 
 his eyes fixed on the door. The vague doubts, 
 fears, and resolutions, that had floated through 
 his brain for weeks and months past, were 
 forming themselves now into a tangible shape ; 
 and at length, by an impulse he could no mofe 
 resist than explain, he rose, took his garden- 
 hat from its peg, and followed her into the 
 garden. She was not there, and something 
 made him reluctant to call her, so on he went, 
 without asking himself why, in the direction 
 of the parsonage. 
 
 He had not very far to go. 
 
 There was an old stile, with a wide step, 
 leading from one of his fields into the plan- 
 tation of Mr. Maberley, on which his own 
 name and his brother's were cut, with many 
 more, to which there was now no response in
 
 32 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 this world. It commanded tlie best view of 
 the house, and for the sake of the old associa- 
 tions it called up, had been patched, repaired, 
 and cherished, as a relic of the family whose 
 decay had gone on still faster than its own — 
 like them, too, preserving a sturdy steadfast- 
 ness to the last. And by that stile, with her 
 back to her home, his niece Anne was stand- 
 ing, her hand clasped in those of Frederick 
 Atterbury, leaning on the rails from the other 
 side. There they stood in the light of the 
 April sunshine, as if there were no world but 
 that spot and themselves — divided by the 
 boundary rails, as fate was dividing them that 
 hour-;— yet holding each other as firmly as if 
 to defy his power to sever ; forgetting every- 
 thing past, present, and to come, except that 
 they were still together, and were soon to 
 part. 
 
 How long they would have stood there, and 
 he have stood watching them, it were hard to 
 say ; but the striking of the church clock re- 
 minding them of the hour, they had to take 
 leave suddenly at last — Atterbury bending 
 one moment over Anne's hand, and then turn- 
 ing hastily away, and disappearing in the 
 plantation. 
 
 Anne remained alone, so absorbed in her
 
 WHAT MR. ATTERBURY THOUGHT. 33 
 
 own thoughts as not to hear the faltering steps 
 that toiled so wearily along the rough path- 
 way to reach her, so that she was not a little 
 startled to find her uncle by her side. Even 
 the bound of her pulse could scarcely deepen 
 the glow of her cheeks, but the anxious, dis- 
 tressed, almost timid inquiry in his eyes, 
 brought into her own the tears she had kept 
 from Frederick Atterbury. She clung round 
 him as if she had been still the child he had 
 so often lifted over that very stile, and the 
 story of her life was told in a moment. 
 
 " Oh, Uncle Henry ! he loves me — he told 
 me so. He will have to work first, before he 
 comes to ask your consent, and he did not 
 mean to tell me yet, but it came before he was 
 aware, and he loves me so very, very dearly. 
 You are not angry, are you?" 
 
 '' No, my love, but I am tired, and — and I 
 wish your Uncle Rupert was here. Let us 
 go in." 
 
 And in they went together, and she helped 
 him to his usual seat in the corner, and placed 
 the stool for his feet, and stroked down his hair, 
 and poured out all her visions of the future ; 
 how she should try and improve herself in every 
 art and accomplishment, to be more fit for 
 Frederick's wife, and how, when they were as 
 
 VOL. D
 
 34 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 rich as he said they should some day be, they 
 would repair and new furnish dear old Law- 
 leigh, provide for the servants — give hand- 
 some presents to Mr. Wynne and the church 
 — make Cousin Edward's fortune, and write for 
 Uncle Rupert, that they might all be happy 
 together. 
 
 He let her go on unchecked, listening me- 
 chanically with the assenting smile he was ac- 
 customed to give to all she suggested or fore- 
 told ; but more than once that evening — on 
 many evenings afterwards — when sitting in his 
 usual attitude, leaning his hands on his cane, 
 she was startled to hear him murmur, in a 
 tone of sorrowful anxiety, " I wish Rupert was 
 come home !"
 
 35 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WHAT UNCLE RUPERT FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 
 
 Time passed on, and Uncle Rupert came 
 home at last. 
 
 It was on a fine afternoon in the beginning 
 of June, just at the height of the Crimean 
 war, that Edward Wilton, now a Government 
 official, was waiting at the Waterloo terminus 
 for the Southampton train ; that was to bring 
 this long-looked for, long-loved, and almost 
 unknown relation and friend. His heart was 
 full of hopes and fears, as every young heart 
 must be under such circumstances ; the Uncle 
 Rupert with whom he had corresponded ever 
 since he could shape a letter, he understood 
 thoroughly, and could see as vividly as if they 
 had lived under one roof; but would the vi- 
 sible, tangible Uncle Rupert be the same man ? 
 d2
 
 36 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 His letters were all kindness — would his man- 
 ners be the same ? Would he be disappointed 
 in what he found — would he expect better 
 looks, greater talents, and a host of other 
 agreeable qualifications which Edward felt 
 himself without? It was possible, and Edward 
 had plenty of time to torment himself with 
 the possibility, from the unpunctuality of the 
 train. Self-torment was only too easy to his 
 diffident, sensitive nature, impressed as he was 
 with a low opinion of himself, continually 
 kept lower by more tenderness of conscience 
 than is very common at his time of life. 
 Slightly made, fair, and quiet in demeanour, 
 he looked younger than he really was, and 
 often found himself treated accordingly; a 
 circumstance that went far to keep up the ner- 
 vous self-mistrust, which his good sense told 
 him was weakness, and against which his con- 
 science sometimes protested, as only a more 
 specious form of pride. 
 
 Early habits of industry, patience, and self- 
 denial had, however, given to his face a 
 steadfast expression, which to those who took 
 the trouble of observing it, marked him as a 
 man to be depended upon, notwithstanding 
 his boyish exterior. Care and sorrow, and 
 anxious affection, too, had been at work there,
 
 WHAT UNCLE RUPERT FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 37 
 
 and had left on his features the stamp so often 
 found on a woman's — the mark peculiar to 
 those who bear the burdens of others. 
 
 The weight had lately become almost too 
 much, and it added to the anxiety with which 
 he watched for his uncle's arrival, that he w^as 
 the only individual entitled to assist him in 
 bearing it. How little the traveller knew of 
 the endless matters deferred till his coming ! 
 And what if, when he did come, he should 
 not prove the wise, indulgent, powerful friend 
 they had been brought up to consider him? 
 In such a case, what, Wilton thought, would 
 become, not of himself, but of Anne ? 
 
 Suspense w^as nearly at an end on one point 
 at any rate. The bell began to ring, the 
 porters to bestir themselves, the watchers to 
 vibrate with expectation. A few" minutes more, 
 and the rush and roar were upon them, and 
 every carriage was pouring out its liberated 
 captives. Bronzed faces and big beards there 
 were many, for invalids from the East were 
 coming home by every boat ; and among 
 these Edward was still seeking the face he felt 
 he should recognise, when a voice, strangely 
 familiar, asked close to his ear, " Is not that 
 Edward Wilton ?" — " Yes, yes," he replied, 
 breathlessly, even before he could discern who
 
 38 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 spoke — "is that Uncle Rupert?" and lie 
 felt Ills hands grasped with a vigour that left 
 no doubt on the matter. His sight became 
 clear as he warmed to the animating pressure, 
 and he saw before him a small, spare, sunburnt 
 man, with grey hair and frank keen eyes — the 
 outhne of whose features sufficiently resem- 
 bled those he knew and loved so well, to make 
 the contrast of the general effect the more 
 striking. 
 
 " I thought there could be no mistake 
 about Ellen's profile ; I should have known 
 her son among a hundred. Do you think you 
 should have known me V 
 
 "I think so now, sir; but, to tell you 
 the truth, I was looking for you among 
 those " 
 
 " Those bearded fellows, were you ? Well, 
 you will not make such a mistake again ; not 
 but what you might have paid me a worse 
 compliment. Now I have found you, let us 
 make ourselves of use. This way." 
 
 He' worked through the crowd with the 
 dexterity of youth, and regained the door of 
 the carriage he had just left, in which one of 
 his fellow-travellers was still seated. 
 
 " I have found my nephew. Captain, and 
 now let us help you out. Here, Edward, take
 
 WHAT UNCLE KUPERT FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 39 
 
 this gentleman's bag, will you ? and if lie will 
 lean on my arm " 
 
 " You are too good — ^tlie porters will attend 
 to me presently, when they have time to think 
 of the baggage," said the person addressed, a 
 young man, shrunken by sickness, and crippled 
 with wounds, but speaking as cheerfully as if 
 it was all a matter of course. "Pray don't 
 trouble yourself about me." 
 
 " Will you not honour us, then, by accepting 
 our services, sir? My nephew and I have 
 not met since he was in petticoats, but I can 
 tell, without asking him, that we are feeling 
 alike at this moment." 
 
 The invalid smiled as he looked from one 
 to the other; the sights that moved every* 
 body's heart in England had been so common 
 in the East, he could hardly understand the 
 amount of sympathy displayed, but he re- 
 ceived it with good humour, as kindly meant. 
 " Since it must be, well and good," he said, 
 " but it is rather like handling a superannuated 
 doll, I can tell you. Everything about me is 
 in the place of something else. I don't know 
 the least where my own bones are, so I do not 
 see how you should." 
 
 It was a trying task to lift him out, poor 
 fellow, and the perspiration rolled off his
 
 40 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 haggard face as they did so, though he joked 
 all the time. Uncle Rupert carried him him- 
 self into the waiting-room, and Edward fetched 
 him what he whispered he had been longing 
 for — a bottle of porter. 
 
 " I dare say it is the worst thing I could 
 touch," he said, as he drained the tumbler; 
 " but I have been touching worst things so 
 long, I do not believe in them now. By 
 George, what prime stuff ! Now, do look after 
 your luggage, Mr. Clavering, or I can tell you 
 you won't get it." 
 
 " My servant is attending to that ; I shall 
 not leave you till I see you safe in the hands 
 of your friends. Whom do you expect ?" 
 
 '•' I don't expect anybody. Who could ex- 
 pect a dear old woman to come all the way 
 
 By George, there she is, though !" He invo- 
 luntarily tried to spring up. " No, that will 
 not do — oh, what a baby I am!" The tears were 
 running down his face, partly from excite- 
 ment, partly from pain. Wilton was starting 
 oif, but was called back. " Stop a bit, sir — 
 one minute. Don't let her be startled; she 
 has no more nerve than a rabbit, I know. 
 Look here ; would you mind going up to her 
 as if you had known her all your life, and had 
 got some very pleasant news — you see her.
 
 WHAT UNCLE RUPERT FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 41 
 
 don't you ? — and just ask if she is looking for 
 Captain Sydney? and if, by great good luck, 
 she doesn't fall into your arms in a fit, ask her 
 to excuse my not coming after her, as I am still 
 a little lame ? Thank you ; upon my honour, 
 you are too good to take so much trouble." 
 Then, as Wilton ran ofi*, "A little lame still 
 — rather a mild way of putting it, when one's 
 legs are dissected maps in boxes that don't fit. 
 Thank you, sir," as Uncle Rupert gave him 
 another tumbler of porter; "there is one 
 advantage in being like Baron Munchausen's 
 horse — I can take any quantity without incon- 
 venience." 
 
 Any one who recollects the choking sensa- 
 tion with which the wounded of that great 
 struggle — our own heroic age — were looked 
 upon for the first time in England, will under- 
 stand how^ ill-disposed Uncle Rupert felt to 
 respond with equal cheerfulness. He had seen 
 wounds and casualties in plenty in Australia, 
 and had no nervous susceptibilities on that 
 score ; but he had never before seen a young 
 man shattered from one of England's battle- 
 fields, and it made him feel like a child. When, 
 after a short interval, Edward returned, with 
 an elderly lady on his arm, thin, flushed, 
 trembling, ;^all one flutter of body and soul, who
 
 42 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 came with arms extended, as if she hardly 
 knew what she was doing, and covered her 
 grandson with her embraces, as if to shelter 
 him from all eyes but her own, both uncle and 
 nephew, by a simultaneous impulse, made a 
 rush for the passage, where they stood, the 
 elder blowing his nose fiercely, the younger 
 more quietly passing the back of his hand 
 across his eyes. 
 
 " How can you be such a fool, Edward ?" 
 said Uncle Rupert, as soon as he could speak. 
 "You are no better than a girl, and a silly 
 girl, too. Your Cousin Anne would be worth 
 a dozen of you, I'll be bound." 
 
 " Very true, sir ; so she is." 
 
 " I tell you what, Edward ; that fellow Ni- 
 cholas is gone to his account, so I will not 
 curse the dead; but if there are any living 
 who are accountable for this " 
 
 "Don't, sir, don't. He did his duty, and 
 there are hundreds more in the same condi- 
 tion, or worse." 
 
 " I know there are. Does that comfort me, 
 do you think ? That I should have seen such 
 a sight as this the first day of my return to 
 England! He has been talking on the way, 
 telling me things he thought nothing of, but 
 that made me there, this won't do ; hang
 
 WHAT UNCLE RUPERT FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 4S 
 
 your dust, it makes one's eyes and nose tingle 
 like snufF. We will just see if they want our 
 services, Edward, and then we will be off." 
 
 They found Mrs. Sydney and her grandson 
 sitting hand in hand, both too much spent 
 with the meeting to attempt much more exer- 
 tion ; so Wilton, having ascertained she had a 
 maid-servant and a fly waiting, lost no time 
 in finding them ; and with the help of some 
 sturdy porters, whose zeal and tenderness 
 brought another of those half sad, half 
 amused smiles to the lips of the invalid, he 
 was carried into the vehicle, his small kit de- 
 posited on the top, and his grandmother and 
 her attendant supporting him inside. 
 
 " You will come and see us, Mr. Clavering, 
 will you not ? What's the name of the place, 
 granny? Southernwood Cottage, St. John's 
 Wood. You'll recollect that. ' In a cottage 
 near a wood' sounds rural, doesn't it? We 
 shall have to stay there a bit before we go 
 north. You'll try and call if you are in 
 town?" 
 
 "That I mil," said Uncle Rupert, as he 
 pressed the hand the old lady silently held 
 out, and stood with his hat off till the fly 
 rolled out of sight. "That I will," he re- 
 peated, as if thinking aloud, " and would, if
 
 44 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 half a dozen Russian regiments stood in the 
 way — ah !" 
 
 There was a vindictiveness about that last 
 interjection that was anything but Christian ; 
 but it was a temper in which British Chris- 
 tians indulged rather freely just at that 
 period, and not against Russian regiments 
 alone. 
 
 " Where is your luggage, uncle?" 
 
 "Do you see a long-legged fellow in a straw 
 hat anywhere about?" 
 
 " In a straw hat — yes, there is one at the 
 other end of the station." 
 
 " Very well ; then there is my luggage. 
 Adam knows it is as much as his head is worth 
 not to have everything correct. Come and 
 see. You do not suppose I keep a fellow to 
 loaf about with his hands in his pockets, do 
 
 you?" 
 
 " But are you sure that he, a stranger, can 
 manage it all alone?" 
 
 " My dear young man, if I had not good 
 reasons for knowing that he could, should I let 
 him do it?" 
 
 " Well, uncle, it would not be like the cha- 
 racter I have always heard of you, certainly. 
 Have you had him long?" 
 
 " Some ^ye years. He came to me on 
 ticket-of-leave."
 
 WHAT UNCLE RUPERT FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 45 
 
 " Oh !" said Edward. 
 
 ^' Yes, and turned out the best servant a 
 man ever had. I got his pardon, and he has 
 come home to redeem his good name." 
 
 Wilton said nothing ; humanity and discre- 
 tion told him he had no right to interfere : 
 nevertheless, he secretly resolved to keep a 
 private watch over this reformed character, if 
 he was to be in attendance on Anne. He 
 could not but confess his powers had not been 
 over-estimated, when he saw a cab waiting 
 with Mr. Clavering's luggage piled on it, and 
 the tall dark servitor in the straw hat holding 
 the door open. 
 
 " Everything correct, of course, Adam." 
 
 " Of course, sir. One — two — three — an*d 
 four. Where to, if you please, sir?" 
 
 " Where, Edward ?" 
 
 " Great College Street, Westminster." 
 
 " Any one waiting for us there ?" asked 
 Uncle Rupert, hurriedly, pausing with his foot 
 on the step. 
 
 " Anne and her nurse. You do not know, 
 perhaps " 
 
 His uncle looked quickly round — met his 
 eyes, and glanced from them to his crape hat- 
 band." 
 
 " I was afraid to ask which it was," he said, 
 " and yet I was sure — ^my brother?"
 
 46 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 '-' Yes, uncle, two months ago." 
 
 " I knew it — I felt it," was the reply, as the 
 traveller entered the cab, and turning away 
 from his companion, kept his face concealed 
 for the greater part of the drive. The rattle 
 of wheels and stones would have prevented 
 conversation had he been ever so disposed to- 
 wards it, and by the time they had entered 
 one of the quieter streets in Lambeth, he had 
 regained composure and voice. 
 
 " I was prepared for this, Edward ; I was 
 sure, from the last accounts, that he was going, 
 and I had scarcely a hope of seeing him again. 
 If I only could have arranged to come sooner 
 — but T tried to do all for the best. His will 
 be done. How is Anne, poor girl?" 
 
 " She has been out of health lately, and 
 since this last grief, lost her strength entirely. 
 She was ordered complete change, and pre- 
 ferred London to any other." 
 
 " Is she the better for it?" 
 
 " I hope she will be, now you are come. 
 We have wanted you badly enough. Uncle, I 
 must just observe that in your absence I have 
 been obliged to assume a certain amoimt of 
 responsibility in aU the affairs: I hope you 
 will be satisfied — but if not, that you will 
 forgive."
 
 WHAT UNCLE RUPEET FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 47 
 
 " My boy, with only three of us left, what 
 shall we do if we cannot rely on each other ? 
 Wait till we are out of this racketing whirli- 
 gig, and then we will talk. What on earth 
 have you been doing here ?" as the cab crept 
 over Westminster Bridge behind a string of 
 vehicles. 
 
 ^' Only building a few decent offices for the 
 hindrance of public business. A neat little 
 thing, is it not?" 
 
 " Upon my word, I had no idea it would be 
 like this. Why, it beats Trafalgar Square out 
 and out !" 
 
 . ^' Well, we rather think it does. We have 
 tal^en a step or two in our national buildings 
 since you went, uncle." 
 
 " Then I hope you have improved the stuff 
 you keep, or make there, in proportion." 
 
 " Humph — that is quite another matter. 
 HuUoa ! turn up to your right ! Here we 
 are, uncle," as they drove up to a small 
 house in a narrow quiet street, of which a 
 wall formed the greater part of one side. As 
 the door opened. Nurse Moyle appeared in 
 the background, curtseying and smiling, and 
 crying her welcome ; and a figure in deep 
 mourning, standing on the stairs, was lean- 
 ing on the balusters, as if longing, yet power-
 
 48 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 less to advance. Straight to that bending 
 figure went Uncle Rupert, with his hat off, 
 and his arms extended, and Anne was in a 
 moment on his breast, clinging silently, and 
 drawing her breath almost in sobs, but shed- 
 ding no tears. He kept his arm round her as 
 they ascended the stairs, and till he had placed 
 her on a sofa by his side ; then he gently raised 
 her drooping head, and looked wistfully into 
 her face. 
 
 It was one of those so evidently made for 
 gladness, as to touch the heart painfully when 
 marked by sorrow. The once laughing eyes 
 were dimmed with want of sleep, and the lids 
 heavy with weeping ; her black hair had lost 
 its gloss, and her active steps its spring : her 
 lips were parched with low fever, and her 
 voice was husky and uncertain. A tender and 
 a loving heart, thought Rupert Clavering, 
 must hers indeed be, that grief for the old 
 man should have crushed it like this ! 
 
 He soothed her with caresses, with praises, 
 with affectionate promises and expressions of 
 regard, till she recovered voice and breath ; 
 and then came the rapid succession of 
 question and answer, in which anxiety was 
 to receive its first instalment of satisfaction ; 
 and Anne and Edward told him what he could
 
 WHAT UNCLE RUPERT FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 49 
 
 hardly find courage to ask — of the quiet, pain- 
 less end of his brother, and his burial in the 
 tomb of the Claverings. It was not the time 
 to go into other details ; he heard nothing of 
 the struggle there had been to meet all the 
 expenses ; the difficulties of arranging any- 
 thing in the absence of the heir ; the sacrifices 
 uncomplainingly made in order that all might 
 be done as became a Clavering of Lawleigh ; 
 this would all come out later, when he was 
 able to bear it. They only told him now what 
 would make sorrow gentle, and soften the trial 
 of this desolate return. 
 
 It was a desolate feeling for the worn and 
 grey -haired man, that the link with his 
 cherished past was broken, and he must knft: 
 new ties with the younger generation, who 
 knew nothing of those bygone days ; but his 
 courageous simplicity of heart never hesitated 
 to take up a burden put before him, and he 
 accepted his brother's loss as manfully as he 
 had done many others in life. He was the 
 first to change the conversation, deeply inte- 
 resting as it was, lest the subject should be too 
 much for the over-taxed spirits of his niece. 
 
 " How often I have wondered," he said, after 
 a pause, during which he had been looking 
 silently at the two, now standing side by side, 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " what you could be like. I have not a first- 
 rate memory for faces, except for those I have 
 grown up with, and I never could get beyond 
 imagining a compound of Ellen and Charles ; 
 but I do not think I am so far beside the mark. 
 You have something of both, each of you. 
 Edward has his mother's profile, I knew that 
 at once ; and now I begin to remember the rest 
 of his likeness, his father's eyes and mouth — 
 eyes that never flinched from seeing the truth, 
 and lips that never flinched from telling it. 
 What says my niece Anne ? Is the copy a fair 
 transcript of the original?" 
 
 Anne had not once met her cousin's eye 
 since his arrival, nor did she meet it now; 
 but she laid her hand on his, and the pressure 
 of her burning fingers thrilled through his 
 frame. 
 
 " Uncle Rupert," she said, ''if you wish to 
 know what my cousin Edward is, you must 
 not inquire when he is by, for you will not 
 get at the truth ; you must not judge by his 
 face, for it will often mislead you ; you must 
 not take the opinion of the world in general, 
 for the world in general knows very little 
 about the matter. You must wait till a time 
 comes when you are tired, and want rest — 
 irritated, and want patience — desperate, and
 
 WHAT UNCLE RUPERT FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 51 
 
 want comfort and liope, and it is to be had — 
 Edward Wilton will give it, even at the cost 
 of his own !" 
 
 Wilton laid his right hand on the fingers 
 that still pressed his left ; but he said nothing, 
 and did not even look up. Uncle Rupert's 
 eyes glanced from the one to the other, radiant 
 with joy and satisfaction. 
 
 " After such a character as that, my boy, 
 you need send me no farther. Now, I sup- 
 pose, I must appeal to you in return for one 
 of my niece Anne, though I doubt if you are 
 not too highly bribed beforehand." 
 
 " Yes, yes. Uncle Rupert," said Anne ; 
 " there is no dependence to be placed on the 
 civil speeches he must make in my presence. 
 Besides, I can tell you more in five words than 
 he could do in fifty. Your niece Anne is 
 spoiled, discontented, and ill-tempered, as you 
 will not be long in finding out; and yet, 
 with all that, she has not succeeded in tiring 
 out the patience of her friends, himself in- 
 cluded." 
 
 " Is that all, Edward?" asked Uncle Rupert. 
 
 " Nbt quite, sir," said he, looking up. '' I 
 
 have nothing to say about the spoiling, or the 
 
 discontent ; they may or may not be true : 
 
 but the temper, if hasty, is always generous. 
 
 E 2 
 
 ymvEBsnt Of ^
 
 52 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 She may keenly resent a deception, bitterly 
 feel an insult or a wrong — but tbey pass over 
 her nature as the water over the rock, which 
 it may wear away, but cannot defile." 
 
 The feverish pressure on his hand increased 
 while he was speaking, with force enough to 
 give him real pain ; he gave one glance at her 
 face — she was smiling in return for Uncle 
 Rupert's smile. 
 
 " You are both in a league, I see," said the 
 latter; "there is no believing either of you, 
 except on oath, and under private cross-exa- 
 mination. I tell you what, my dear children ; 
 I did not mean to talk of business to-night, 
 but I must say one word to you both, just to 
 put us all on a comfortable footing. I am not 
 come back a rich man — that you know already 
 — ^but I have enough for us three, and the 
 enough may grow into abundance, and pro- 
 bably will. We leave that to the wisdom that 
 can bless our honest endeavours if it be good 
 for us. Meanwhile, as I said before, I have 
 enough for all, and if I have a wish, a dream 
 of happiness, it is built upon you two. Any- 
 thing that will make you both happy, will 
 make me so. Think of me in that light ; 
 I have worked and struggled for no other 
 end. Confide in me whatever you think fit.
 
 WHAT UNCLE RUPERT FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 53 
 
 and do not be afraid of my thwarting your 
 wishes. I have not grown too old for sym- 
 pathy with young ones ; only old enough to 
 be their safe friend. There," shaking hands 
 with both, "that will do about all that ; now 
 I will just go and shake the dust off my jacket 
 — my room is below, isn't it ? — and then I shall 
 be ready to show Anne and her cook what an 
 Australian appetite is like. Don't stir, Ed- 
 ward ; Adam will do all I want." 
 
 There was a short silence when he left the 
 room, broken by Wilton, who observed wdth 
 an unconscious sigh, "It is a great comfort 
 he is come, Anne, is it not ?" 
 
 " Yes," said she, languidly. 
 
 " Is he at all what you expected ?" 
 
 "I don't know; yes, I think so He is 
 mery kind." 
 
 She turned to the table, and busied herself 
 with some drooping flowers in a glass. The 
 young man watched her silently, with a heavy 
 heart, as she trimmed, and clipped, and re- 
 arranged nervously, shunning his eye the 
 while, until, as she was restoring the glass to 
 its former place, a large rose in the centre fell 
 to pieces over her hands. Then she looked at 
 him, and shook her head, with a smile. 
 
 " It is of no^ use, Edward, is it ? All the
 
 54 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 tenderness in the world will not freshen a dead 
 flower." 
 
 '^ No," said lie, kindly ; ^' but there are more 
 w^here that came from." 
 
 " Ay, Edward ; but if root and stem are 
 withered too, what shall freshen them ?" She 
 came round the table as she spoke, and sat 
 dow^n by his side. " Is not that a poetical 
 image after your own heart?" 
 
 " It is a simile, dear Anne, I should be sorry 
 to see carried out in the case of any one I cared 
 for. I have faith, great faith, in the reviving 
 power of hope and affection." 
 
 " Hope, affection — yes, they are strong while 
 they last — but they too can die, Edward." 
 
 " Not in an innocent heart — not in one who 
 both deserves regard and wins it. Wronged, 
 bitterly wronged it may be — robbed of much • 
 that is sweet, but not of its inner life, its power 
 to rise again stronger than ever." 
 
 " You think not?" she said, with the same 
 dejected languor. "I once thought so, tooj 
 but I have changed my opinion, lately, 
 Edward, in that, as in some other things. 
 Why don't you tell me where you have been 
 to-day?" 
 
 " Did I not give you a promise, against my 
 own judgment?"
 
 WHAT UNCLE RUPERT FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 55 
 
 " You executed my commission?" said she, 
 hastily. 
 
 " Yes, to the letter. I watched him out of 
 his club, followed him to her residence, allowed 
 him time enough to go in, and then left your 
 parcel as you desired. What became of it, I 
 cannot say, for I went oiF to meet Uncle 
 Rupert." 
 
 '' You saw him, then?" 
 
 ^' As plainly as I see you. I was close to him 
 once; so close, Anne, that it required some 
 self-control, I can tell you, to keep my hand 
 from his vile throat." 
 
 " Edward, if I hear such a w^ord again " 
 
 ^'You shall not; I beg your pardon — it 
 slipped out unawares. You want to know ho'W 
 he was looking, I dare say. Very handsome, 
 as usual, and rather sulky. He certainly does 
 not flaunt his happiness before the world, if 
 that is any comfort to us." 
 
 '^Happiness? Do you ever imagine for a 
 moment that he is, that he will be, happy ? Is 
 a man likely to be happy who loves one woman, 
 and marries another ? I tell you, Edward, it 
 is so : and the whole universe may say other- 
 wise — I Jcnotv it ; as certainly as we sit together 
 here, does Frederick Atterbury love me still, 
 better than any other being on earth !"
 
 56 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " Except- 
 
 " No, I do not except her ; I except no one." 
 " I was not thinking of her, but of himself.'''' 
 " That is not love, Edward." 
 " Then it is detestable selfishness, which is 
 
 worse." 
 
 " That is not for you to say : I won't bear it." 
 " You won't bear anything / say, Anne ; but 
 
 you do not seem to consider how I am to stand 
 
 what you do." 
 
 "Poor Edward ! I believe I am very cross 
 
 sometimes. I will try and be more amiable. 
 
 I ought to be, considering how good you are 
 
 to take all this trouble." 
 
 " Very good sounds very cold, dear Anne." 
 " Does it ? How am I to please you, then ?" 
 " By taking it for granted, once for all, 
 
 that whatever concerns you, concerns me as a 
 
 matter of course; and, therefore, you need 
 
 never trouble yourself to apologise, or think 
 
 it necessary to thank me. That is all I ask." 
 She did thank him, nevertheless, by a gentle 
 
 pressure of his hand ; and both were silent for 
 
 a little while. 
 
 "What are you thinking of, Anne?" he 
 
 asked, presently. 
 
 " I was wondering whether Miss Ormonde 
 
 had opened her parcel yet."
 
 WHAT UNCLE RUPERT FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 57 
 
 " The servant promised she should have it 
 at once, so most probably she has. Do you 
 know, it rather went against my conscience, 
 when it came to the point." 
 
 " You said you had seen her?" 
 
 " Yes, several times, in the Park." 
 
 " And she really is as handsome as they 
 say?". 
 
 " Tastes may diifer as to that ; but she is fair, 
 and elegant, with a remarkably sweet counte- 
 nance — worthy, I am sure, of a happier fate." 
 
 The dimmed eyes of Anne Clavering lighted 
 up with a fierce and sudden fire. 
 
 " Edward," she said, in a hoarse voice, " if 
 he breaks her heart, and withers her beauty, 
 and turns her fair hair white before its timB, 
 do you think /shall pity her?" 
 
 He made no answer, and she went on, after 
 a short pause, in a lower tone, that sent a chill 
 through his veins as he listened. 
 
 "You gave me a high character to Uncle 
 Rupert just now, and I did not contradict you. 
 I knew he would find out what I am in time. 
 You felt compunction, you say, in leaving that 
 present, which may have caused pain already, 
 or may cause it hereafter. What will you 
 think of me, then, when I tell you it was 
 with that very intention I gave it up — robbing
 
 58 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 myself of my last treasure, that I might win 
 one moment of revenge ?" 
 
 " I can only think indulgently of anything 
 you do, or say, or feel under this trial : your 
 nobler self will return when it is over." 
 
 " Never — ^never. I can never be again what 
 I was. I can never forget that I have felt as 
 I do now — felt what I know to be wicked, 
 unchristian, unholy — enough to bring down 
 a curse upon me, if it were not punishment 
 enough already in itself You do not under- 
 stand it — ^how should you? Did you ever, 
 in your life, know what it was to hate — ^to 
 thirst for the sorrow and humiliation of an- 
 other — to long to look upon her in trouble 
 and disgrace — to see her pointed at in scorn, 
 and mock her in her misery ? Such a state of 
 mind would make a hell of heaven — and it is 
 mine towards Eleanor Ormonde !" 
 
 His pitying eyes rested on her convulsed 
 and working face, like moonlight on the foam- 
 ing waters. To argue against the madness of 
 her grief at that moment would have been use- 
 less : he knew her real nature better than she 
 knew it herself 
 
 "What had I ever done to her," she went 
 on, after another pause, during which she had
 
 WHAT UNCLE KUPEET FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 59 
 
 been walking up and down the small apart- 
 ment with quick, restless steps — "what had I 
 ever done to her that she should rob me of 
 my all? She has everything the world can 
 give her ; she is rich, fashionable, and beauti- 
 ful; she might choose among hundreds, and 
 be happy ; why must she take from me, who 
 am poor and insignificant, and helpless, the 
 one thing that could have made my life worth 
 having ? I never did her any injury ; I would 
 not deprive her of anything she has ; but for 
 what she has done, and is doing, I hate her — 
 yes, Edward, look at me as you may, hate her 
 so intensely, that if I thought a day would 
 
 ever come Oh, God forgive me ! how wicked 
 
 I am !" 
 
 She threw herself on the sofa, and hid her 
 face in her arms, as if ashamed that any eye 
 should look on her despair. The young man 
 started up, and stood bending over her, with a 
 face in which passion, for the first time, began 
 to contend with sympathy. 
 
 " Anne, my own dear Anne ! — dearer than I 
 can ever express, even to myself — in mercy to 
 me try and bear up, or flesh and blood will 
 not hold out : it is as much as they can do* 
 already !"
 
 60 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 The tone of his voice roused her more than 
 his words ; she lifted her head with a sudden 
 thrill of fear. 
 
 " Edward, if you dare !" 
 
 " Do not talk about daring ; I have stood a 
 great deal, enough to make me doubt my o^vn 
 identity ; but to see you like this, and he^ the 
 cause, within my reach and do nothing " 
 
 " What is there for you to do ? Who gave 
 you leave to make this your quarrel? Do 
 you think I would ever speak to you again if 
 you lifted your hand against him ?" 
 
 " I dare say not," said he, dejectedly. 
 
 " Then why do you try and make me more 
 miserable than I am, when you know you are 
 the only friend I have to whom I can give 
 vent, before whom I may give way ?" 
 
 " Come," said Wilton, " there is some com- 
 fort in hearing that. It is the most encourag- 
 ing thing you have said for a long time." 
 
 She could not help smiling. " Poor fellow ! 
 it is very hard to make your life wretched, 
 and scold you into the bargain. Some day it 
 will be your turn, and then you will come to 
 me, if I live to listen to you. But how selfish 
 tind inconsiderate I have been all this time ! 
 Call nurse, and let us get ready for Uncle 
 Rupert. He will be back upon us before we
 
 WHAT UNCLE RUPERT FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 61 
 
 know where we are, and I would not have 
 him see me like this for the world." 
 
 The room looked bright and cheerful when 
 Rupert Clavering again appeared in it ; a 
 plain but excellent meal was on the t^ble, 
 which Nurse Moyle had prepared herself, not 
 trusting even the cutting of the bread to the 
 tender mercies of the little maid- of-all- work, 
 who supplied the " attendance" stipulated for 
 with the lodgings. Neither would she let 
 Adam wait upon the party ; but kept him in 
 a humiliated condition outside the door, to 
 receive plates and bring dishes at her bidding, 
 while she, in a snowy cap and apron, per- 
 formed the butler's part. 
 
 Uncle Rupert's chair faced the window, 
 whence he h^d a view over the wall before 
 mentioned, into a garden, if garden it could 
 be called, composed of gravel walks and turf, 
 and a border of trees. Beyond this, his eyes 
 could rest with delight on the grey low tow^ers 
 and lofty nave of the Abbey, well remembered, 
 though unseen so long. The delight, indeed, 
 was so great, he felt obliged to make some ex- 
 cuse. You learned to appreciate those old 
 things, he observed, when you had to make 
 new ones for yourselves. The new Houses 
 were all very well, and very handsome, but
 
 62 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 tliey could do that sort of thing in Sydney, or 
 anywhere, with money and space. It would 
 take them a few centuries to build up a past 
 like that. "We are but parvenus, after all," 
 added Uncle Rupert. 
 
 " Do not say ' we,' uncle," interposed Anne. 
 " You have nothing more to do with them ; 
 you have been away too long already. We 
 can never spare you now." 
 
 " Well, well, my dear, depend upon it, I 
 will stay with you if I can, and if you make 
 me comfortable ; a great deal depends on that ! 
 I am not quite sure yet whether nurse will 
 like to undertake the charge of an old bush 
 farmer. I don't believe she knew me to-day, 
 let her say what she pleases." 
 
 " As to that, Mr. Rupert, directly you open 
 your mouth, I defy a baby in arms not to 
 know you, leastways if it had seen you before ; 
 which it would be strange indeed if I didn't, 
 who remember you and my poor dear master, 
 as young-looking as Mr. Ed'ard, and a deal 
 more saucy — yes, indeed, sir. But, Mr. Ru- 
 pert, it would be a blind day ^ with me, old as 
 I am, when I didn't know ^^ very shadow of 
 a Clavering; I have seen none like 'em in 
 Lunnon yet, for all it is so big; and I'll be 
 bound you didn't meet none among them
 
 WHAT UNCLE RUPERT FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 63 
 
 pickpockets and blackamoors you've been 
 living among, begging your pardon, Mr. Ru- 
 pert, sir, and hoping you'll stay at home 
 now, sir, which I wish you had done long 
 before." 
 
 " I wish I had, nurse," said he, mournfully ; 
 '' but I acted for the best. Twice I thought I 
 should be able to come home, and twice was 
 I thrown back by roguery. Never mind ; here 
 I am at last, and by-and-bye we shall all be 
 together at Lawleigh — as soon as ever I can 
 get my affairs settled. These lodgings will do 
 for us, I suppose, for the present ? That view 
 is worth anything." 
 
 " Well, sir, indeed, they isn't such rooms as 
 I should wish to put you in ; but Mr. Ed'ard, 
 he chose them, and he did his best, sir, I make 
 no manner of doubt, and I make him an al- 
 lowance of course. And the house is kept by 
 a decent, respectable, helpless sort of a body, 
 who can't get a servant-girl to stay with her. 
 They are all such impudent, dirty, know- 
 nothing little stuck-ups as I never see. Can't 
 sweep a floor, ov dust a chair, or boil a 
 potato fit for a Ciifistian, but dizen themselves 
 out in smart imitation things they can't pay 
 for, and if you send 'em for an errand, stay 
 for an hour, chattering rubbish with every
 
 64 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 idle hussy like themselves that they meet. I 
 haven't no patience with their mothers, that 
 I haven't, or with their teachers either, for 
 the matter of that, if they ever had any, 
 which perhaps they didn't ; so we must make 
 'em an allowance, as I said before, Mr. Ru- 
 pert," concluded Nurse Moyle, in a tone more 
 inclining to lenity. 
 
 "Stop, stop," remonstrated Wilton; "you 
 promised the allowance to me^ and I cannot 
 aiFord to share it with Mrs. Brown, or Sally 
 either, since I get no praise. I can tell you, 
 nurse, I expected some; such cheerful lodg- 
 ings as these are not to be picked up in a 
 minute." 
 
 "Very well, sir; if you think so, enjoy 
 your own opinion; I dare say I am wrong, 
 and that it is very cheerful to have to pay for 
 the cream off your own milk in a separate jug, 
 and find water in both, and to give as much 
 for a cabbage or an onion as a basketful is 
 worth ; and mighty lively, too, no doubt, to 
 have a saucy brat of a girl always under your 
 feet, that will mind nothing you tell her, and 
 give you sauce into the bargain — very much 
 so indeed ! But, if you was in my place, Mr. 
 Ed'ard, with the credit of the family in 
 Lunnon all depending on your own pair of
 
 WHAT UNCLE RUPERT FOUND WHEN HE CAME. 65 
 
 hands, I'm thinking you'd sing a very different 
 song." 
 
 " That he would, nurse," said Mr. Rupert 
 Clavering; "and it's ^vell for us we don't 
 depend on him. And for the rest, it would be 
 a blind day for the Claverings, few as there 
 are left, if they ever overlooked the affection 
 and kindness of an old friend like yourself. I 
 know what our obligations to you are, my 
 dear woman, and one of the duties I am come 
 to fulfil for those who are gone, will be to show 
 our sense of them." 
 
 ^" God bless ye, Mr. Rupert, don't ye now!" 
 she whimpered, as he wrung her hand; " it's 
 just like you to be so kind, and my dear 
 master knew you ^vould. And, if you please, 
 sir, I have a duty to perform that I promised 
 should be done the first day I see you — 
 only I thought you should eat your dinner 
 first." 
 
 The young people looked at each other and 
 at her in some surprise, not unmixed with 
 anxiety, as she took out of her pocket (among 
 an extraordinary collection of miscellaneous 
 articles) a parcel, carefully sealed up in several 
 wrappers in paper, from which she extracted 
 a letter, and handed it to Mr. Clavering. 
 Wilton, as it passed him, recognised his Uncle 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 6Q DEEP WATERS. 
 
 Henry's hand. "Was that meant to be a 
 secret, nurse?" he asked, hastily. 
 
 " Indeed, Mr. Ed'ard, I don't know." 
 " Then, why didn't you tell me you had it?" 
 " Just because I didn't know, sir. My duty 
 was to give it to Mr. Rupert, as I said I 
 would, and he can do as he pleases." 
 
 " You ought to have known better," mut- 
 tered Wilton, as he rose, and leaned upon the 
 back of Anne's chair, while she, with eyes 
 dilating wildly, sat watching her uncle's move- 
 ments. Uncle Rupert, meanwhile, was holding 
 the letter unopened, and trying to see through 
 glasses that would grow dim. 
 
 " Dear Harry — dear old fellow — ^how his 
 hand must have shaken. I can hardly make 
 out a word." He turned away to the Avindow, 
 rubbed his glasses vigorously, and began to 
 read. Not a word was spoken ; Nurse Moyle, 
 her cloth, and her tray, had all withdrawn, 
 and neither of the cousins moved so much as 
 a fin O'er, thouo^h it seemed as if he never would 
 look round. 
 
 When, at last, he did, the agitation in his 
 face was even greater than their own. He 
 could not speak at first; his lips, his whole 
 frame, were trembling as much as those of his 
 unhappy niece.
 
 WHAT UNCLE RUPERT FOUND WHEN HE CMIE. 67 
 
 " He tells me," lie began, after one or two 
 vain eiforts, "that tliere is something in 
 which he has been too remiss and careless, 
 and leaves (asking me, God bless him ! to for- 
 give him) for me to do. And the first thing 
 
 Anne, my child, come here !" 
 
 Anne rose, she hardly knew how; and 
 though her eyes were downcast, put her hand 
 unhesitatingly in his. 
 
 " He says you will tell me everything ; he 
 conjures me to see that you are made happy. 
 Need I make you a solemn promise ? I am 
 ready to do it — only be open and honest with 
 me, stranger as I have been obliged to be, and 
 I promise you I will try — yes, even if \f 
 should be what I do not quite like at first — I 
 promise. Oh, my girl ! my girl ! what is all 
 this?" 
 
 She had flung her arms around his neck, 
 and her choking tears were pouring forth in 
 torrents. " Oh, Uncle Rupert ! oh. Uncle 
 Rupert ! can you do anything — before it is too 
 late?" 
 
 f2
 
 6S 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE WEDDING PRESENT. 
 
 In a liandsome drawing-room in Place, 
 
 well known and much frequented by the 
 members of an extensive and lively society, a 
 select party of friends had that day assembled, 
 first, to partake of one of the excellent 
 luncheons for which Sir John Pierpoint's 
 house was noted; and, secondly, to examine 
 and criticise the goodly display of wedding 
 presents that had been made to his ward. Miss 
 Ormonde. Conversation, which had been gay 
 and animated for some time, was beginning to 
 flag ; gentlemen were secretly looking at their 
 watches, and murmuring to each other about 
 engagements elsewhere; but as yet no one 
 ventured to be the first to depart. There was 
 evidently something or somebody still to be
 
 *rHE WEDDING PRESENT. 69 
 
 waited for, though a whisper began to cir- 
 culate that they might have to wait some 
 time. 
 
 " Queer proceeding this," observed one gen- 
 tleman to his neighbour, as they stood toge- 
 ther at the window, where their remarks could 
 be safely made. "It is to be hoped we shall 
 not be served like this to-morrow." 
 
 " What can have become of him ?" returned 
 the other, by many years the younger of the 
 two. " There was nothing in the morning 
 papers — funds, and stocks, and that sort of 
 thing — to keep him all day, was there ? I'd 
 send all my clerks and fellows to the right- 
 about, I know, in his place, sooner than fail in 
 an appointment herey 
 
 " I'll be bound you would, or even sooner 
 than not have a pair of boots to your liking. 
 A first-rate man of business you would make, 
 certainly. I will bank with you when you 
 begin, for a consideration. I make it a prin- 
 ciple to encourage deserving young men." 
 
 " Upon my life, I am not so sure you would 
 encourage me long : I could never stand sho- 
 velling sovereigns about without putting some 
 in my pocket." 
 
 " That is your idea of a banker's work, and 
 a banker's temptation, is it ? Well, you are
 
 70 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 not SO far wrong. Ask Fred Atterbury, when 
 he comes." 
 
 " Ah, when ! Do you know, Despard, it is 
 not like him to fail his bride elect the day 
 before his wedding, and I know Sir John is 
 uncomfortable about it." 
 
 " Sir John— ah, indeed !" said Mr. Des- 
 pard, looking across the room at a portly, 
 elderly gentleman, with a good-natured, but 
 rather anxious expression of face, who was 
 talking to one of the ladies. " Sir John is 
 uncomfortable, is he ? Poor Sir John — he is 
 often uncomfortable." 
 
 " I have never seen him so before, then." 
 
 " Fortunate youth. Well, I have. By the 
 way, did he buy that trotting pon^^ of 
 yours t 
 
 " Yes, at my own price — and that was a 
 good long one." 
 
 " Of course ; and paid for it ?" 
 
 " No, not yet." 
 
 " Ah ! well, confess the truth, Compton — 
 he has lent you a ten -pound note before 
 now?" 
 
 " Nonsense ; what should I borrow of him 
 for ? I have lent him one more than once, 
 on the contrary." 
 
 " And have been punctually repaid?"
 
 THE WEDDING PRESENT. 71 
 
 " Why, I can't say that — ^but of course I 
 shaU." 
 
 " My dear boy, I beg your pardon, but you 
 have a great deal to learn before you set out 
 for a man of business. You have been over- 
 paid already." 
 
 ^' No, I declare I have not ! I have never 
 had a sixpence." 
 
 " You are here, Compton ; that is your 
 money. We all paid our footing to share the 
 privilege. We all raffled for the great prize, 
 only Fred had most luck, or most tickets, and 
 he has drawn it." 
 
 " Much he seems to care for it," returned 
 young Compton, glancing enviously at the 
 distant group of ladies. " A prize ! I shoulS 
 think she was : he gets all the prizes. I would 
 give any money for that terrier of his— he 
 rides the best horses in London ; and now 
 with such a charming pretty girl, always good 
 tempered, and with no end of money — he 
 ought to be the happiest fellow in the world !" 
 
 '' Very true," said Mr. Despard, placidly, 
 " and no doubt he is, or will be to-morrow — if 
 he is not too busy. I say. Sir John," as their 
 host, with an attempt at easy gaiety which sat 
 on his troubled features but ill, strolled up to 
 the window, '' if Fred is missing to-morrow in
 
 72 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 this way, I mean to offer myself as a sub- 
 stitute — ^warranted to be punctual, and safe 
 never to be detained by having too much to 
 do!" 
 
 " Thank you. Jack : it is well to be pro- 
 vided in case of need," said Sir John Pier- 
 point. He gave one anxious look from the 
 window before asking, " Did you see Atterbury 
 to-day, by chance?" 
 
 '' No. I called, but he was out." 
 
 " How have you thought him lately? We 
 fancied he was not well." 
 
 " I fancied the same, if it is a fancy. He 
 is overworked, I suppose. He has hardly a 
 w^ord for a dog, as the saying is. His people 
 make the same complaint. I hope Miss Or- 
 monde fares better." 
 
 " Well, to say the truth," said Sir John, 
 drawing him aside, and speaking low, " he has 
 not been in spirits, even with her; and we 
 have not seen him as often as we could wish. 
 She has, you know, a remarkably sweet temper, 
 and knows how to deal with his; or else, 
 really, I do not know what would have come 
 of it, for I have seen him very provoking. To- 
 day, now, we have been expecting him ever 
 since breakfast. Everybody is remarking his 
 absence."
 
 THE WEDDING PRESENT. 73 
 
 ^' Everybody, that is, who does not con- 
 sider how much he has to do," said Despard, 
 coolly. " The head of a bank like that, can- 
 not leave business, I suppose, for a month or 
 so, without finding plenty to arrange before 
 starting. As Tommy Compton says, Fred 
 draws all the prizes ; and you can't do that by 
 keeping your hands in your pockets." 
 
 " None can accuse him of that^'' said Sir 
 John. " He is a liberal fellow enough — quite 
 the gentleman in money matters — and that re- 
 minds me — do you think ?" An anxious 
 
 whisper followed. Despard listened gravely, 
 and seemed to ponder. "I'll see what I can 
 do," he said, presently ; " it will depend on the 
 mood we find him in. Being in the wrong, ' 
 he will probably be remarkably unamiable 
 when he comes, if he comes at all, which 
 seems to be doubtful. I am inclined to a 
 small bet on the subject." 
 
 " Name your terms," said Compton, turning 
 his head quickly from the window. 
 
 " Oh ! then he is come, is he ? Much obliged, 
 Master Tommy. Yes, there he is, on that 
 hot chesnut of his, that he bought of Lord 
 Kayland. Upon my word, they are a fine 
 couple, man and horse, ' and I envy nobody 
 the managing of either."
 
 74 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 The entrance of Frederick Atterbury at once 
 revived the flagging spirits of the assembly. A 
 volley of pleasantries and questions greeted 
 him, of course, but he received them mth 
 good humour; apologising to the ladies in 
 general, with fewer words than they quite ap- 
 proved, but wdth the ease of one who felt 
 a few from him were worth a hundred from 
 another ; spoke a sentence or two to Sir John, 
 too technical and business-like to be univer- 
 sally interesting, and then quietly made his 
 way to Miss Ormonde. 
 
 " You had not given me up, had you ?" he 
 asked, as he took a seat by her side. 
 
 " It would take a great many offences to 
 make me do that," was the reply, in a voice 
 whose sweetness went further to clear his brow 
 than all the sallies of the whole room. He 
 took but little part in the conversation that 
 arose around them, but sat with elbow on his 
 knee, and his head on his hand, as if resting 
 his tired eyes and spirits by tranquil contem- 
 plation of her face. 
 
 It would have been difS.cult for any eye to 
 look without pleasure into a face like hers. 
 She was just five-and-twenty, an age when if 
 romance is not yet quiescent, good sense is in 
 command, and when what is to make the life
 
 THE WEDDING PRESENT. 75 
 
 valuable is generally begun. She was slender, 
 tall, and very fair; her eyes were grey, soft, 
 and earnest; her mouth like the voice that 
 spoke by it, peculiarly sweet ; her hair a deli- 
 cate brown. As the heiress of a considerable 
 fortune, she was sure to be admired had she 
 possessed fewer attractions ; but it would have 
 been difficult not to love the gentle, winning 
 expression of Eleanor Ormonde's countenance, 
 if she had been your poor relation, come to 
 stay with you for an indefinite time. With 
 every facility for being inconsiderate and ego- 
 tistical, she had the happiness of being as little 
 of either as a woman could well be in such 
 circumstances ; and the kindness of her heart 
 spoke in every line of her features, in every' 
 inflexion of her voice. 
 
 And the face so earnestly turned towards 
 her, with its deep shadows and careworn lines, 
 and weary look of anxiety and unrest — ^was 
 it indeed the same as that whose joyous light 
 had played like sunshine through the oak- 
 panelled hall at Lawleigh — the face whose 
 brightness haunted Anne Clavering's pillow, 
 making hateful the return of day? Ah! 
 could those loving eyes that studied every 
 line and furrow with such tender sympathy, 
 as honourable wounds she longed to heal,
 
 76 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 have known what they could have told her — 
 would she have loved him still? He had 
 asked himself the question many times ; per- 
 haps he was asking it then. 
 
 His reverie, for such it had gradually be- 
 come, was broken by the approach of the 
 butler, who, threading his way through the 
 ladies, handed to Miss Ormonde a salver, on 
 which lay a small white parcel of unmis- 
 takeable shape. So many parcels of this, and 
 of every possible size and form, had Sir John's 
 servants conveyed to the young lady already, 
 that it required all the composure of a London 
 butler to prevent his showing he knew what it 
 meant as well as she did, and was to the full 
 as curious as any of the company. Miss 
 Ormonde, though pretty well inured to these 
 surprises, appeared rather curious herself; for 
 the handwriting of the address, clear, bold, and 
 full of character, was unfamiliar ; and yet she 
 could think of no one from whom it was likely 
 to have come, unless from her lover. 
 
 ^'Was this the secret of your delay?" she 
 asked, smiling ; "for if so, you were forgiven 
 too soon." . 
 
 He coloured slightly, with a half-conscious 
 glance at Mr. Despard, who had drawn near 
 the group, and was observing them attentively.
 
 THE WEDDING PRESENT. 77 
 
 " You will have so many real faults to 
 pardon," he replied, '' I would advise you not 
 to trouble yourself with imaginary ones." 
 
 " Then why are you and Mr. Despard ex- 
 changing such mysterious signs and nods? 
 Do you suppose I cannot read them ? I give 
 due notice that your secret is guessed, so now 
 let us see." 
 
 She broke the seals, and held the envelope 
 to the light. '^ I can make nothing out of the 
 handwriting, except that it is very pretty. 
 Perhaps you may know it better, Frederick ?" 
 
 Know it ? Did he not, as well as he knew 
 his own ? He turned so white, that Despard 
 came up behind him, and put his hand on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "What is it, Fred?" he whispered. 
 
 There was no answer; Atterbury's eyes 
 wxre fixed on the packet, following the light 
 fingers of his mistress, as they removed one 
 wrapper after another, till, from a case of 
 maroon leather, she lifted a plain gold bracelet 
 with a curious massive clasp. 
 
 " Now, sir," she said, turning to him again, 
 " do you own to this or not ?" 
 
 His ghastly face, as he involuntarily recoiled, 
 startled her so much, that the bracelet dropped 
 heavily on the floor; but Atterbury, instead
 
 78 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 of picking it up, rose hastily to his feet, and 
 forcing his way through the ladies, almost 
 staggered to the door. Several voices asking 
 if he felt ill, he hurriedly assented. Could he 
 have a glass of wine ? 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Despard, seizing his arm ; 
 "the luncheon is still in the dining-room; 
 come with me. It is nothing but the heat, 
 he will be all right presently." And he dragged 
 his friend away, leaving general consternation 
 behind them. 
 
 A servant was just beginning to clear the 
 table, but on their entrance would have with- 
 drawn. Atterbury called him back. " Is my 
 boy down stairs ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir; he has been here some time." 
 
 "Send him up, will you? By the way, 
 who left that parcel for Miss Ormonde, do you 
 know?" 
 
 "A gentleman, sir; he did not leave his 
 name, only desired it should be given to Miss 
 Ormonde directly, sir." 
 
 " Ah! send up the boy at once, if you please." 
 
 He turned to the sideboard as the man left 
 the room, and, rejecting his friend's offered 
 sherry, seized a decanter of brandy, and drank 
 oiF nearly half a tumblerful. Despard watched 
 him with some uneasiness.
 
 THE WEDDING PRESENT. 79 
 
 ^^ I tell you what, Fred, if you get up tlie 
 steam in that style, it will be no joke sitting 
 on the boiler." 
 
 " I must do this, or sink : perhaps that 
 would be the best," said Atterbury. " It will 
 end in that, sooner or later. Come in, Joe !" 
 as a diminutive figure in a tight groom's livery 
 appeared at the door, " come in, and shut the 
 door after you. Did you see the gentleman 
 who brought a parcel here just now?" 
 
 " Oh yes, sir." 
 
 " Were you near enough to observe him 
 closely ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, sir, I was just at the door, asking 
 if you had left any orders for me, sir, and I 
 see a young gentleman give in the parcel, ancT 
 he said it was to be took to Miss Ormonde 
 directly." 
 
 " Should you know him again, Joe?" 
 
 ^' I did know him, sir; I've seen him after 
 us once or twice before now." 
 
 " I declare I thought so too," observed Des- 
 pard. " I was watching your arrival, Fred, 
 and noticed a fellow with fair hair, whom I had 
 seen before, and could not recollect till this 
 minute where." 
 
 " Did you see which way he went?" asked 
 Atterbury.
 
 80 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " Oh yes, sir." 
 
 ^' You did ? Then you must go after 
 him." 
 
 The boy, a quick-witted little fellow, with a 
 fresh Devonshire complexion, and eyes brim- 
 ming with mischief, pricked up his ears at this 
 announcement, as a dog does when his master 
 takes up a stone. 
 
 " Here," said Atterbury, putting a sovereign 
 in his hand, " mind now what I tell you. 
 Follow him as fast as you can — take a Hansom 
 if you like, only do not let yourself be observed 
 — see where he goes, and into what house, 
 and find out who lives there. No chattering, 
 mind — and no stupidity. You understand? 
 There, be off with you." 
 
 The boy was gone in a moment. It was not 
 the first strange errand he had been sent on, 
 and he liked nothing better. 
 
 " A knowing infant that," said Mr. Despard. 
 " Where did you pick him up?" 
 
 " He is a protege of Eleanor's — an orphan 
 from her aunt's school— she persuaded me to 
 take him, and he is sharp enough." 
 
 "He had need be, if this is the kind of work 
 you give him. Poor innocent Miss Ormonde ! 
 her best Sunday scholar, no doubt — and she 
 thinks she has provided for his being so well
 
 THE WEDDING PRESENT. 81 
 
 looked after. But how about this affair ? Is 
 it a rival?" 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder," was the languid reply, 
 as Atterbury lounged back in an arm-chair. 
 
 " You seem disposed to be cool about it, I 
 must say." 
 
 " Cool, am I ? Feel my hand." 
 
 ^^Well, my dear fellow, there is a little 
 cognac there, certainly. Try and eat a 
 mouthful; come — think of la cJiere reine in 
 the next room." 
 
 ^^ Don't mention her, Despard, if you would 
 not drive me mad. Would to Heaven I had 
 never seen her." 
 
 " Wheugh ! not quite so loud, old fellow — 
 it might be awkward." 
 
 " Jack, it was all your doing. You per- 
 suaded me — you set my poor father on — be- 
 tween you, you made a fool and a villain of 
 me : I cannot forgive him in his grave — what 
 must I feel to you f" 
 
 "Take it coolly, Fred; I can allow for a 
 little excitement, but there is no use in wasting 
 stuff. Are we going to quarrel?" 
 
 " Something very like it, sir." 
 
 " All in good time, then, if it must be so ; 
 only let us understand each other. No — upon 
 my life you shall not kill yourself with any 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 more brandy ! Have some bitter ale — it will 
 do you more good." 
 
 Atterbury put the tumbler to his lips, but 
 set it down untasted, and laid bis head on the 
 table. Despard stood over him, with his hand 
 on his shoulder. 
 
 " You say it was my doing, Fred, do you? 
 Be just, if you cannot be complimentary. 
 Was it my doing that you were brought up as 
 you were — an idle, pleasant, good-looking dog, 
 with nothing on earth to do but spend money 
 while you had it, and when you hadn't, to get 
 into debt? Come now." 
 
 " True enough," said Atterbury, dejectedly. 
 
 " Was it my doing that when you were head 
 and ears in this agreeable state of liabihties, 
 you fell in love with a girl without a six- 
 pence?" 
 
 "Despard, if you dare breathe a syllable 
 about her " 
 
 " Not a word, my dear fellow, if you dis- 
 like it : I am only on my defence. Was it I 
 who convinced you it was out of the question, 
 or was it your father?" 
 
 Atterbury groaned in bitterness of spirit: 
 it was his only answer. 
 
 " Well, and then when you ivere convinced, 
 and told me yourself your only hope was, that
 
 THE WEDDING PRESENT. 83 
 
 she would forget you, then indeed I did intro- 
 duce you to my friend Sir John; and your 
 father, like a sensible man, saw the advantage 
 this match would be, and so did you. It was 
 treating you much better than you deserved. 
 You were in a scrape that your father would 
 not get you out of on any other terms, and if 
 the heiress had been humpbacked, crabbed, and 
 ugly, you would have been glad to put up 
 with it : instead of which, you have drawn the 
 prize of the season — an amiable, pretty, and 
 good-hearted girl, whom you can turn round 
 your finger, and who believes you to be the 
 best, as well as the handsomest fellow in the 
 world. Is not this true?" 
 
 " I cannot deny it, Jack ; I wish I could. I 
 wish I were dead. If I were not a coward 
 as well as rascal, I should have died before 
 now." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh ! this is only nervousness ; it 
 will all pass off by to-morrow. You are not 
 the first bridegroom whose heart has failed him 
 from excess of happiness." 
 
 "Don't sneer," said Atterbury, fiercely; "it 
 is bad enough to be turned sick with your 
 reasonings, but if you begin to insult me " 
 
 " The chances are, your courage may return 
 at my expense ; I cannot afford that, Fred : to- 
 g2
 
 84 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 morrow concerns more honest folks besides 
 yourself. I work hard for my wages, and it 
 would be a shame if I were cheated out of 
 them at last. Did you call at Hancock's for 
 the locket 1 chose for you ? No, I knew you 
 wouldn't. Well, I did, and here it is. It will 
 make your peace with the lady, and I must 
 say, your courtship wants a little gilding. I 
 never saw a wooer so sparing of his attentions 
 and sweet words. It is well they know you 
 are so rich, is it not?" 
 
 " Will you hold your tongue, and not drive 
 me mad ? I tell you. Jack," lowering his voice, 
 ^' it has very nearly come to this, that I must 
 tell her everything before it is too late. It is 
 too base, too mean. There was a rumour to- 
 day about that Hamburgh house that made 
 my blood run cold. What would become of 
 us if that went just now?" 
 
 " Why, it would be ticklish work, I dare 
 say ; but we have heard these canards before, 
 and survived them. Did you see old Mar- 
 tock?" 
 
 " Yes, and that was the worst of it ; he 
 thought it looked ugly." 
 
 " He always does ; it is his metier to look 
 after ugly things. He has a pocketful that /
 
 THE WEDDING PRESENT. 85 
 
 know of, that will be very pretty dishes to set 
 before la cliere reine while you are about it. I 
 hope you will call me in as a witness of your 
 shrift." 
 
 Atterbury sighed heavily, and strode up 
 and down the room. 
 
 " Too late, too late !" he muttered, more to 
 himself than his companion ; " all the confes- 
 sions I could make would not rub out the past 
 wrong, or bring back the past hope. I cannot 
 give her back what I have taken from her. 1 
 rob every one who loves or trusts me, and can 
 make no restitution — none ! Whatever comes 
 into my hands passes into that gulf of ruin 
 where I must sink at last — soul and body, 
 honour and substance. By Heavens, Jack, I 
 must have some more to drink. Well, sherry 
 if you will, it does not much matter." 
 
 He poured out nearly a tumbler of wine, 
 and was draining it, when Sir John cautiously 
 opened the door. 
 
 '^ Ah, Atterbury, my dear fellow, that is 
 right ; I thought you only wanted your lun- 
 cheon ; I told Eleanor so, but girls are easily 
 frightened. She is really unhappy about you, 
 and to tell you the truth, cannot help fancy- 
 ing you are angry with her. The young
 
 86 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 people are all going, and I tliouglit you would 
 like just to show yourself before the party 
 breaks up " 
 
 " YeSj" said Despard, gently pushing his 
 friend to the door, ^' you may go in now, poor 
 fellow. It was all I could do. Sir John, to 
 prevent his going in sooner ; but he was so 
 unwell, I forced him to sit quiet a minute. 
 HuUoa, Fred 1 what is this you have left be- 
 hind you ? It looks uncommonly like a cadeau 
 de noce ; may we not have a sight of it before 
 the ladies ?" 
 
 ^' Don't be a fool; give it to me!" said At- 
 terbury, taking it roughly from his hand ; 
 and passing Sir John without ceremony, he 
 walked quickly out of the room. Sir John 
 stood looking after him, stroking his chin 
 dubiously. 
 
 " He is in a strange mood to-day, Despard ; 
 I cannot make him out. He has been very 
 odd lately, in many ways, and really at times I 
 have not known what to think." 
 
 " Love and money, my dear Pierpoint, are 
 enough to account for anything." 
 
 ^' I suppose so; but I don't know. There 
 can be no more doubt, of course, of his being 
 really attached, than of his being rich ?" 
 
 " Of course," echoed Despard, gravely.
 
 THE WEDDING PRESENT. 87 
 
 " Then what do you suppose upset him just 
 now? Had that present anything to do 
 with it?" 
 
 " Wellj in strictest confidence, I think he is 
 a little jealous ; and he fancied, and fancies 
 still, it came from some admirer of Miss Or- 
 monde's. This only shows how much he 
 loves her." 
 
 ^' Perhaps so, but it is horridly unpleasant, 
 and has given those good people enough to 
 talk about for the next week. I say, Despard, 
 did you say a word about my little affair?" 
 
 " No ; he was not in a mood for that sort 
 of fun. We must try him by-and-bye, when 
 he has recovered his spirits. Make Miss Or- 
 monde bring him round, and then we will se&. 
 She is not offended with him, I hope." 
 
 " Oh, I hope not. She is very fond of him, 
 and very good tempered, as you know. She 
 is always ready to forgive." 
 
 " That is lucky, for she will have enough of 
 it before she has done. But as it is as well to 
 be on the safe side, you had better go and 
 keep an eye on them — I have an appointment, 
 and must run away — but remember, he may 
 try her too far, and too soon."
 
 88 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. 
 
 The misgivings with which Miss Ormonde's 
 guardian returned to the drawing-room, seemed 
 to have been all thrown away. No one would 
 have imagined for a moment that a cloud could 
 have ever arisen to shade the happiness of her 
 betrothed, who saw him, as Sir John did, the 
 centre of a group of admiring ladies, parrying 
 their attacks, charming them by his gay salhes, 
 promising them all they could demand, and 
 defying all they could prognosticate. His face 
 might be a little flushed, and his manner al- 
 most too eager, but the excitement of his situa- 
 tion accounted for that; and no one could 
 be hypercritical on a lover who could make 
 himself so agreeable, and atone for his un- 
 punctuality by such lovely diamonds. The
 
 THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. ' 89 
 
 two Miss Pierpoints were among the most ve- 
 hement of his fair assailants, laying down a 
 complete campaign of festivities for the en- 
 suing winter, which they wanted him to pro- 
 mise should be carried out. 
 
 " And what is to become of business, Miss 
 Pierpoint," he said, laughing, " if steady, prac- 
 tical men like myself are to set up for leaders 
 of fashion, getting only quizzed for our pains ? 
 How am I to work all day, if I dance, and 
 act charades, and listen to concerts, and hand 
 ladies down to supper all night ?" 
 
 " Only hear him ! Only hear the over- 
 worked operative ! Will no one bring in a 
 Two-Hours Bill to save his fine energies from 
 wearing out, and give him time to improve* 
 his mind ? Come, Mr. Atterbury, we will be 
 merciful ; every time you give us tickets for 
 the opera shall count in your favour, and we 
 will allow you to spend a quiet evening at 
 home ; and very quiet it will be !" 
 
 ''• Meaning ?" said he, interrogatively. 
 
 " Meaning whatever your conscience tells 
 you. You have a great talent for silence some- 
 times." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it ; it is a man's privi- 
 lege. Miss Pierpoint." 
 
 " And, like many other privileges, very much
 
 90 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 abused, Mr. Atterbury. I have no notion of 
 men monopolising all the peace and quietness. 
 Conversation is a part of social labour, and it 
 is a mark of low civilisation, you know, when 
 the hardest work is left to the women." 
 
 " Very true; but you see, Miss Pierpoint, 
 there are some kinds of delicate fancy-work, 
 for which women are so much better adapted 
 than men : all that nice handling of character, 
 that minute analysis of motives, that skilful 
 transposition of facts, which make ladies' society 
 so instructive, are as peculiarly theirs as watch- 
 making or satin-stitch. Not but what they 
 may be over-worked. I will advocate a Two- 
 Hours Small-Talk Bill with all my heart." 
 
 " Small talk ! and that is all you can say 
 for our piquant remarks and flow of anecdote 
 and conversation ? Really, Mr. Atterbury, I 
 begin to have strong doubts of you — very 
 strong doubts indeed. You are as heretical 
 in your views, as unpunctual in your appoint- 
 ments. In the beaten way of friendship, now, 
 though you scarcely deserve its continuance, 
 what made you so late to-day ?" 
 
 " That question has been answered once al- 
 ready, Clara," interposed Miss Ormonde, who 
 had been listening with a quiet expression of 
 amusement.
 
 THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. 91 
 
 " And are you so innocent, my dear Eleanor, 
 as to believe all that fine story about pressure 
 of business, and delay at the jeweller's, that 
 sounds so very plausible, and so very unlike 
 the fact ! Just as if anybody could detain him 
 if he did not choose to be detained ; and as if 
 Hancock did not know better than to keep his 
 best customer waiting on an occasion like this !" 
 
 Eleanor's fair cheek reddened, as she replied 
 with some spirit, that, strange as it might 
 appear, she had been always accustomed to 
 believe what her friends told her, until she 
 found them to be untrue. Sir John patted 
 her approvingly on the shoulder ; and Atter- 
 bury, without meeting her eyes, thanked her 
 by a bow; Avhile Miss Pierpoint, seeing sh^ 
 had gone too near the mark to be quite plea- 
 sant, hastened to turn it all oif. 
 
 "Nobody ever yet persuaded Hero to doubt 
 Claudio, and all Beatrice got by her superior 
 wisdom was to be tricked into the scrape her- 
 self; so, for fear of such a destiny, I suggest 
 that Mr. Atterbury clears himself of contempt 
 by submitting to the sentence of the court 
 without demur, and that we carry him off in 
 the carriage to Madame Alen9on's. She has 
 never sent home those lovely handkerchiefs 
 that were to be embroidered for you, Eleanor,
 
 92 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 and it is the first time I ever knew her fail. Un- 
 punctuality is becoming so fashionable" (this 
 last speech was to Frederick aside), "that I 
 would almost bet a pair of gloves that we shall 
 have to wait at the church to-morrow. Where 
 are we to look for you in such a case?" 
 
 " In the churchyard, of course," said he, in 
 the same tone, yet with something in his smile 
 which made her rather glad than otherwise that 
 the breaking up of the party ended the conver- 
 sation. Really, if he had not been so rich, she 
 did not think she should have envied Eleanor 
 so much after all. 
 
 It was agreed that Atterbury should accom- 
 pany the ladies, and Miss Ormonde, having dis- 
 creetly made good speed in her toilette, found 
 him, as she intended, alone when she came 
 down. She had not expected, however, to find 
 him sitting in his moodiest attitude ; still less, 
 to be accosted with the stern question, "Why 
 do you leave that lying about ?" as he pointed 
 to her mysterious present, which had been left 
 on the table. It required a temper like hers 
 to make the gentle reply, which she did with 
 perfect truth, that she had quite forgotten it. 
 His own gift had put the other out of her 
 head. 
 
 " Frederick," she said, after an interval of
 
 THE EYE OF THE WEDDING. 93 
 
 gloomy silence on his part, during which she 
 had observed him attentively, "you are not 
 satisfied about this bracelet, and not exactly 
 pleased with me. Will you not hear me in my 
 own defence?" 
 
 "You, Eleanor?" 
 
 " Yes. If you are not pleased, there must 
 be a cause, and it is my duty to clear myself. 
 Do you believe my word?" 
 
 " Sooner than another's oath. If I could 
 not trust you, Eleanor, I should be poor in- 
 deed!" 
 
 " Then listen. I know nothing of this fool- 
 ish mystery, nor of any one who can have 
 either the right or the inclination to take any 
 part in it. Is that sufficient for you ?" 
 
 " More than sufficient to humble me in the 
 dust for behaving to you as I do. Can you 
 forgive me ?" 
 
 " Forgive you — ^for what? If you doubted 
 me, certainly, on one condition : that you take 
 this unfortunate present of mine into your own 
 keeping, till we find out who sent it." 
 
 He gave her one of those sad dark looks, 
 whose meaning aU. her penetration could not 
 fathom. 
 
 " No, Eleanor, you are too generous to 
 make conditions : you must pardon freely, if
 
 94 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 at all. Keep that bracelet, keep it carefully. 
 I ask it as a favour, a proof of your love. 
 Keep it till, as you say, we find out the sender. 
 Then, if you choose, you may give it back. It 
 will not matter much, one way or another, by 
 that time. Eleanor, was it true what you said 
 just now, that you believed every one till you 
 found them false ?" 
 
 " It was true," she said, gently. 
 
 " And when you do find them false, what 
 then ?" 
 
 " I hardly know, love : I have never been 
 tried. I hope I never shall." 
 
 ''Dare you hope that in a world like this? 
 Would it be a terrible blow to find I was a 
 poor man ?" 
 
 She smiled gravely. " It would, now that 
 I realise more what that would imply j but I 
 was foolish enough once to wish that you had 
 nothing." 
 
 " Youmshedit? Why?" 
 
 " That I might give you everything." 
 
 Again he looked at her steadfastly, and this 
 time with a mournful compassion that haunted 
 her long afterwards. 
 
 " Eleanor, you are too good for me, and 
 come what may, I trust you. It seems a small 
 compliment just now, does it not ? But some
 
 THE EVE OF THE WEDDINQ. 95 
 
 day you will appreciate its full meaning. I 
 trust you as a friend on whom I could fall 
 back in my worst extremity; and trust you 
 all the more that you have not the least idea 
 what it is that you are about to undertake !" 
 
 " You think so ?" she returned, bending 
 over him with a sweetness even his gloom 
 could not resist. " You really think I am 
 going blindly to work, engaging for I know 
 not what, with I know not whom ? You may 
 well say it is a slight compliment to trust me ! 
 Come, I will tell you what I have discovered 
 by careful observation. You are not perfect, 
 by any means ; you have your faults, like 
 other men ; and one is, that you give your 
 mind too much to your profession ; you can- 
 not, or will not, shake off its cares when it is 
 necessary for your^^est. Now, I know nothing 
 of business, as you and '/^*^r lawyer, Mr. 
 Martock, have told- me often enough ; but I am 
 quite sure it must be better don^ when mind 
 and body are kept in a healthy state by re- 
 creation ; and therefore," her blush grew rosy 
 as she spoke, " it will be my part to do this 
 — to make home your refuge from money- 
 making, your holiday-ground, where you may 
 renew your strength for your daily work — 
 work in which your wife will sympathise all
 
 96 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 the more for helping you sometimes to forget 
 it !" 
 
 " Oh, if you could but teach me to forget 
 it altogether, Eleanor — to forget I had ever 
 lived or felt at all before I followed you ! If 
 to-morrow could but be the opening of a new 
 life, in which the past was as if it had never 
 been!" 
 
 ^' Why should it? You are not the first who 
 has felt, as perhaps you do, that some of your 
 best years have been wasted. Dearest, I am not 
 reproaching you for thoughtlessness and high 
 spirits, as if they were crimes. No, do not hide 
 your face, or I shall think I have offended 
 you, and I would not do so for the world. 
 Are not your happiness, your peace of mind, 
 your honour, bound up with mine ? and can 
 you have a trouble, from within or without 
 henceforth, in which I do not share, even if I 
 do not know why?" 
 
 " Ah, Eleanor !" he murmured, his face still 
 bowed and hidden, " but if you did know !" 
 
 Yes, if she had known, even in part, the 
 cause of this depression, her courage would 
 have sunk; but believing it to arise mainly 
 from physical causes, she persisted in her en- 
 deavour to cheer his spirits, and thus uncon- 
 sciously cheered her own.
 
 THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. 97 
 
 " When I wished you to be a poor man," 
 she said, "I was a foolish woman, and an 
 egotistical one. I have changed my mind 
 since then ; I have grown first ambitious of 
 doing good, and then fearful of doing it in 
 the Avrong way. We hear so much of the 
 style we are to live in, and the display we are 
 to make ; and I know all that must be at- 
 tended to; but there are better things still 
 which we cannot talk about — as the affection 
 that selected that diamond locket outweighs 
 the diamonds themselves. Those are what I 
 dream of, when I think of to-morrow. I love 
 to think that you who know, as men some- 
 times know, but women never, will teach me 
 how good can best be done with large means ; 
 that wherever we find struggling honesty, we 
 shall gain a friend ; that there will not be an 
 hospital or a charity, with* which your house 
 is connected, in which the poor and suffering 
 will not learn to love our names, for the love 
 we have shown, the sacrifices we have made 
 for them." 
 
 Her own eyes had grown so dim with the 
 moisture her unwonted earnestness had called 
 up, she did not see the expression in his. He 
 had had time, while she was speaking, to com- 
 
 VOL. I. • H
 
 98 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 mand his voice,' and his answer was firmer 
 than before. 
 
 ^' You, at least, Eleanor, will deserve respect 
 and gratitude ; if you do not receive them, it 
 is because the earth is not worthy of such 
 angels as you !" 
 
 Madame Alen9on's shop, one of the charm- 
 ing combinations of French elegance and 
 English business habits, only to be seen in 
 London, was a favourite resort of the Miss 
 Pierpoints, who, but for the limited dimen- 
 sions of their purses, would have been among 
 the most liberal of her customers. As it was, 
 they had longer bills there than anywhere 
 else, and would have lengthened them cheer- 
 fully, had she seen fit to allow it : Madame 
 was, however, too good a woman of business 
 to allow any lady to be oppressed by her lia- 
 bilities ; and she must have been a bold and 
 skilful diplomatist, who passed the line laid 
 down by fixed, though unpromulgated, laws, 
 in the mind of the head of the house. Always 
 courteous, often insinuating, Madame Alen^on 
 ruled her fair customers with a sway despotic 
 as fashion, and her velvet hold was not the 
 less firm, because she rarely found it necessary 
 to reveal the iron. The Miss Pierpoints were
 
 THE EYE OF THE WEDDING. 99 
 
 always welcomed, for they dressed well, and 
 tlieir taste was commendable, and they had a 
 large circle of acquaintance, and so were a 
 good connexion ; but they knew as well as she 
 did how far they might go, and ever since one 
 unpleasantly polite application to Sir John, 
 they had all been on the most friendly under- 
 standing imaginable. At this present time, 
 they were on terms that might be called affec- 
 tionate; for they had introduced Miss Or- 
 monde, and Miss Ormonde, among many 
 other primitive, country-bred habits — excellent, 
 no doubt, but decidedly old fashioned — had a 
 way of paying ready money, to which Madame 
 Alen9on took very kindly. It was not hard 
 to persuade the young lady into expensive 
 purchases ; she was too diffident of her own 
 taste and judgment not to be talked down by 
 her 'friends, when they assured her such and 
 such things were absolutely necessary, and 
 could only be obtained at the best shops ; but 
 no arguments could make her believe that it 
 was better not to pay for things when you 
 had them. Not to pay, was, to her innocent 
 notions, to be in debt ; and of debt her horror 
 was so great as to be a constant fund of en- 
 tertainment and raillery, especially when Mr. 
 Atterbury was by. Nevertheless, as we said 
 . h2
 
 100 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 before, Madame Alen9on's gracious smiles at- 
 tested her approval of the habit ; and under 
 cover of Miss Ormonde's punctuality, her fair 
 bridesmaids obtained a degree of licence as 
 gratifying as convenient. They were quite in 
 their element directly they entered this en- 
 chanted region ; fluttering about the fascinat- 
 ing counters, examining, criticising, and ad- 
 miring the various novelties and revivals of 
 taste with a discriminating appreciation, in 
 marked contrast with the indifference of the 
 bride elect, whose attention was constantly 
 distracted by the listless, weary looks of her 
 lover. One subject, however, interesting her 
 nearly, roused her to attend in earnest. Madame 
 Alen^on was in sad trouble — quite desolated ; 
 such a disgrace had never occurred before — 
 she was overwhelmed, annihilated, when she 
 heard it — but, in short ! The beautiful French 
 handkerchiefs of Mademoiselle, that had been 
 entrusted to their best embroideress — a young 
 woman well known to Miss Luke, the fore- 
 woman, and whom they had employed for 
 years — she had just been there to say, were 
 stolen from her — stolen in the omnibus as 
 she was bringing them home ! Figure to your- 
 selves, Mesdemoiselles, a young woman being 
 so careless with valuable goods ! For the rest,
 
 THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. 101 
 
 it was not likely to be true : she had imposed 
 on Miss Luke, Avho was good as an angel, and 
 Madame had just discovered that she had a 
 husband, a worth-nothing, who had been 
 transported for robbery ; and after that, what 
 would you have ? The young woman might 
 be honest — it was just possible — but she could 
 not be trusted again ; it was an aifair ended. 
 If Miss Ormonde was good enough to pardon 
 the delay, the handkerchiefs could be replaced, 
 no doubt, but not by to-morrow — and Ma- 
 dame was desolated again. 
 
 So, judging by her face, was Miss Ormonde. 
 Clara Pierpoint had no idea, as she said, that 
 Eleanor would have shown so much concern 
 about an article of dress. To be sure, she 
 supposed some arrangement must be come to 
 — it would not do for the house to bear all 
 the loss ; but, after all, it was not enough to 
 make her look so horrified. She appealed to 
 Mr. Atterbury; he listened to the story, re- 
 tailed by both French and English narrators, 
 with great philosophy; agreed with Madame 
 that it looked awkward — the woman's tale was 
 a lame one, but there would not be much 
 gained by prosecuting. Better put up with 
 one loss than risk two. He must have the 
 gratification of replacing the handkerchiefs,
 
 102 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 and nothing more need be said about the 
 matter. 
 
 Nothing more? Eleanor Ormonde's eyes 
 told a very different tale. What was to be- 
 come of the poor woman, if her work was 
 taken from her ? Why was she to be treated 
 as guilty because her husband had done 
 wrong ? Who could prove that she had told 
 an untruth ? Robberies were often committed 
 in public conveyances, and this might be one 
 of them. She was sure Madame Alen^on 
 would not willingly commit an injustice, but 
 she should never rest till the case had been 
 made clear. Madame was fervent in her pro- 
 testations that justice should be done; the 
 poorest had their right to justice, she knew, 
 and in England, the poor man's house was his 
 castle. It was like Miss Ormonde's goodness 
 ■ — the goodness of which all the world spoke — 
 to think so charitably of that unfortunate. 
 Her address ? Certainly, if Mademoiselle 
 wished it. Miss Luke would give it her — the 
 orders lay in her department : and Miss Luke 
 having written it down, Eleanor for once ex- 
 erted her bridal prerogative, and hurried them 
 all away. 
 
 " Millbank Street, Westminster," was her 
 reply to the footman's inquiry for orders; a
 
 THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. 103 
 
 reply that nearly took away the breath of Miss 
 Pierpoint, who had not had the remotest idea 
 of her intention. 
 
 " My dear Eleanor ! you have no conception 
 what that locality is — you can do no good by 
 going yourself, and are sure to be imposed 
 upon ! Mr. Atterbury, do use the authority 
 you are to assume to-morrow, and put a stop 
 to this, or we shall never get through half we 
 have to do." 
 
 No, Atterbury would not thwart his fair be- 
 trothed ; if she chose to explore Jacob's Island, 
 he would go with her. So, after a little dis- 
 cussion, it was agreed that the Miss Pierpoints 
 should be set down at the Water Colour Exhi- 
 bition, and that the others should pick thejn 
 up on their way back. 
 
 " Good-bye, my dear," said Clara, as she left 
 them; "when you have lived a little longer 
 in London, you will learn to think like other 
 people." 
 
 " I hope she will do no such thing," retorted 
 Atterbury, as they drove away. 
 
 There was some little difficulty in finding 
 the right house in Millbank Street, and while 
 the footman was inquiring at one door after 
 another, Atterbury's attention was suddenly 
 arrested by the sight of his youthful emissary
 
 104 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 in the act of jumping into a Hansom. A 
 quick sign with his hand catching the boy's 
 eye, he was by the carriage in a moment. 
 His master knew by his face he had something 
 to tell. 
 
 ^' The poor woman lives here, Frederick," 
 said Miss Ormonde, preparing to alight, as they 
 drew up to a small shop ; " it is not very dis- 
 agreeable to you, is it?" 
 
 " Disagreeable ? Not at all; take care where 
 you go — I will wait here as long as you like — 
 don't think about me." 
 
 " You are not coming with me, then?" said 
 she, in a tone of much disappointment. 
 
 "I? Why should I? You will manage 
 much better without me. I should only 
 frighten her — I should be sure to let out I 
 thought her no good. I am the worst hand 
 in the world at a benevolent visit — always 
 say rude things, and get into trouble. You 
 had better not ask me to attempt it." 
 
 She said no more, though an expression of 
 pain crossed her face. He handed her out of 
 the carriage, saw her enter the dingy passage, 
 and the door closed behind her. Then, with 
 well-assumed carelessness, strolled up the pave- 
 ment towards Abingdon Street, with Joe at his
 
 THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. 105 
 
 heels, watcliing him with that terrier -like vigi- 
 lance mentioned before. 
 
 "Well, Joe?" as soon as they were safely 
 out of reach of the footman's long ears, " what 
 have you done ?" 
 
 " Caught him up, sir, three streets off — fol- 
 lowed him in the cab as he got into a 'bus, 
 right down to the Waterloo station. There he 
 waited, and I waited, till he met an old gentle- 
 man from Australia, with a servant and a lot 
 of luggage, and they got into a cab, and I fol- 
 lowed 'em in the Hansom, till I see them go 
 into a house in that street opposite, sir. You 
 can't see it without you go up a little way. 
 It's a Mrs. Brown as keeps the house, sir, and 
 lets lodgings, and there's a young lady ifi 
 mourning, and an old woman, staying there. 
 From the country, they said she was." 
 
 ''They? Who told you?" 
 
 " The servant girl, sir ; I see her run out 
 with a jug, so I met her at the public-house, 
 and got her to talk. The young gentleman 
 don't lodge there hisself, sir, but he's going to 
 stop dinner." 
 
 "Very interesting news," said Atterbury, 
 aifecting to yawn ; "at any rate, I have won 
 my bet, and that will be five shillings in your
 
 106 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 .pocket, Joe, so long as you don't chatter. 
 That street, did you say ?" 
 
 ''Yes, sir — thank ye, sir — Great College 
 Street, they call it. You can see the house if 
 you walk up a little way." 
 
 " Well, just to make sure," said his master, 
 negligently; and, with a beating heart, he 
 crossed the street, and was turning the corner, 
 when a tall man in a straw hat, lounging 
 leisurely along with his eyes on the Victoria 
 Tower, knocked up against him and nearly 
 pushed him down. Atterbury's angry excla- 
 mation bringing his eyes to the ordinary level, 
 they stared at each other, at first in mutual 
 resentment, but soon with surprised recogni- 
 tion. Frederick's lips curled in disdain, while 
 the other, with a cowed look of deprecation, 
 slowly touched his hat. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Mr. Frederick, I'm 
 sure — if I had seen who it was — I humbly 
 hope you have your health, sir, and my ho- 
 houred master that was " 
 
 Atterbury made a slight sign ; the man's 
 featm^es expressed deep concern. 
 
 " Indeed, sir 1 Dear, dear, so good, so ho- 
 nourable a gentleman " 
 
 Atterbury shrugged his shoulders, as if 
 rejecting praise from such a source, and
 
 THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. 107 
 
 was moving on, but the man detained liim 
 anxiously. 
 
 " I am sure, Mr. Frederick, you are too good 
 yourself to bring up anything against a poor 
 fellow who has seen the error of his ways, and 
 only wants to make a new character. I did 
 hope I should meet with no one that knew me, 
 but I feel, sir, you are much too good " 
 
 " I thought you were transported long ago," 
 said Atterbury. " What are you doing here ?" 
 
 " I am in service, sir. A gentleman brought 
 me back with him from Australia. I have my 
 pardon all correct, sir — he got it for me for 
 my good conduct, and I hope to deserve his 
 trust, sir, indeed." 
 
 " I dare say you will : if he is fool enough 
 to trust you, he deserves all he will get. / 
 wouldn't ; but it is no alFair of mine. Now, 
 what are you following me for? Do you 
 really think I have nothing else to do but to 
 trouble myself about a fellow like you ?" 
 
 " Oh no, sir; you are much too good, and 
 too great, I know : but if you should by chance 
 meet my master, Mr. Clavering " 
 
 Atterbury turned upon him with a look that 
 made him start; thrust him from his path 
 with an ejaculation of bitter contempt, and 
 strode back to the carriage. He did not see
 
 108 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 the scowl that followed him, or hear the mut- 
 tered vow of revenge — but the boy did, and 
 they haunted him long after. 
 
 It was nothing new to Eleanor Ormonde to 
 visit the poor — in her Devonshire village she 
 was as well known as the church-steeple — but 
 it was the first time she had penetrated a 
 London lodging-house of this description ; and 
 though the present specimen was by no means 
 one of the worst, she was almost daunted at 
 the onset by the dirty walls and close smell. 
 However, she persevered, and hearing Mrs. 
 Mackay lived on the second floor, mounted 
 the staircase heroically. A sharp-looking 
 child on the landing, not the least shy or put 
 out by being spoken to, with a face which Miss 
 Ormonde longed to have washed on the spot, 
 showed her Mrs. Mackay's door ; and her gentle 
 tap, after a short delay, brought Mrs. Mackay 
 herself to open it. Her surprise at the sight 
 of the well-dressed visitor changed into terror 
 when she heard her name. She stammered 
 something, no one could have guessed what, 
 but which Eleanor took for granted was a 
 welcome ; and a very uninviting chair was ac- 
 cepted from politeness, Avith an inward self-con- 
 gratulation that Frederick had been left below.
 
 THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. 109 
 
 '' I heard from Madame Alen9on, just now," 
 she began, catching the infection of her lis- 
 tener's nervousness, " that you are in great 
 trouble about some work of mine, Mrs. Mackay 
 — and I thought I would call and see if — if 
 I could" — (she began to hesitate here, and 
 to blush) — " if there was anything I could do 
 
 — or advise — or " She came to a full stop 
 
 there. Mrs. Mackay sighed heavily, and curt- 
 sied : she looked too sick and exhausted to 
 speak. 
 
 " I wanted to see you myself," Miss Or- 
 monde went on, growing more and more ner- 
 vous every minute, ^' as I shall be — leaving 
 town to-morrow, and — and — I know you are 
 a first-rate worker, and I thought, if you had 
 nothing else to do, you would undertake some 
 embroidery I am very particular about — some 
 frocks that I wish to send as a present into ihe 
 country. If you will call this evening at Sir 
 John Pierpoint's — here is my card — my maid 
 will give you the pattern, and all necessary 
 instructions. No, now pray, don't cry like 
 that — I cannot bear to see it !" 
 
 She spoke the literal truth, for the sight 
 of tears unmanned her as no danger ever 
 could ; and when she rose to soothe the weep- 
 ing woman, she was trembling from head to
 
 110 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 foot. The gush of emotion, however, relieved 
 that poor heart and brain, and now the tale of 
 her misery could be told, secure of the sym- 
 pathy radiating from the kind, honest eyes of 
 her hearer. 
 
 '' I've worked for Madame Alen^on, ma'am, 
 near upon five year, and Miss Luke, the head 
 lady there, knows nie well, and has been a 
 kind friend to me, ma'am ; oh yes, very kind. 
 I've had work regular there, for I learnt of a 
 Frenchwoman, and ladies has often said they 
 thought my embroidery was done in Paris. 
 And two year ago, ma'am, I was in much 
 better lodgings, and had things respectable 
 about me ; but I've been in heavy trouble, 
 ma'am, very heavy trouble, I have, and now 
 it's brought up against me, and I wish I was 
 in my grave, only for my poor little children, 
 and my husband's father — he is in the next 
 room to this, ma'am, helpless as a child, and 
 depending on me. The parish give him a 
 small allowance, but me and my girls has to 
 wait on him like a baby — yes, ma'am — and I 
 can't do the quantity of work as I used, and I 
 was afraid those beautiful handkerchiefs would 
 never be ready. Miss Luke, she was very kind, 
 and gave them to me in good time, for she said 
 the young lady had particularly begged none
 
 THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. Ill 
 
 of the workwomen should be hurried : it was 
 very good of you, ma'am, to think of that. But 
 I had to hurry at last ; there was a deal of fine 
 stitches in that pattern, and I was so tired and 
 felt so ill, ma'am — my side and my breathing 
 is that bad sometimes, I can hardly walk — and 
 I took the omnibus part of the way. Oh, 
 ma'am, I wish I had walked, even if I had'^died 
 when I got there ! There was a smart person 
 got in soon afterwards, as if she had watched 
 me, and she stumbled over my feet getting in, 
 and I gave her a hand, leaving my parcel in 
 my lap, and she had hardly sat down before 
 she called out as she was in the wrong 'bus, for 
 she wanted to go to Camber well : that's just 
 the other way, ma'am, you know, over the 
 bridge. The man let her out, and soon after, 
 I felt for my parcel, and it was gone! I 
 jumped out, and run — I can't tell you, ma'am, 
 how I run — ^but nothing could I see of her. I 
 went to the police-station — I don't care how 
 many police knows of it — and I've offered a 
 reward. I've clothes enough left to pay for it, 
 and I told Miss Luke so, but she didn't believe 
 me, I know. She said Madame would never 
 employ me again." 
 
 " But she will when she finds out you have 
 spoken the truth?"
 
 112 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " No, ma'am ; she says they can't trust a 
 
 woman ao^ain whose husband is " Here her 
 
 tears broke out afresh, and it was only by 
 soothing words that the rest could be extracted. 
 Her husband had been clerk in a tradesman's 
 counting-house, had been in a position of trust, 
 had been tempted, and had fallen. There was 
 no palliating the fact ; she did not attempt it ; 
 he was undergoing his penalty, and all she 
 could do was to try and keep things decent, 
 and their name respectable, so that he might 
 have something to fall back upon when he 
 came home. 
 
 "He promised me faithfully, ma'am, that 
 when he came back, he would be another man ; 
 but he'll find it hard work to start afresh, I 
 know that. Oh, ma'am, he was sadly tempted, 
 and I must say his masters were very hard 
 upon him, for if it hadn't been for the dis- 
 honest things he had seen them do, he might 
 have been saved from all this. But they knew 
 he had found them out, and they was glad to 
 be rid of him — I know they was. I showed all 
 the papers — I have 'em all here — to a good 
 gentleman once, and he said it was quite a 
 case to bring before the Home Secretary, but 
 I don't know how to set about it, you see, 
 ma'am."
 
 THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. 113 
 
 " I will inquire for you. I will ask Mr. 
 Atterbury," said Eleanor, " only I am afraid 
 you must wait till we come back to town." 
 
 " Thank you, ma am, I'm sure. I can 
 never be thankful enough for your good- 
 ness. Oh, ma'am !" as Miss Ormonde slid gold 
 into herhands, ^^ I didn't want to beg of you, 
 indeed !" 
 
 " I am quite aware of that, but as I may 
 not see you for some time, it may be conve- 
 nient to have something on account. No, do 
 not deprive me of the pleasure of helping 
 you. A wife who is trying to do what you 
 are doing, deserves the help and sympathy of 
 every woman." 
 
 " God bless you, ma'am; and I hope it is not 
 too great a liberty to wish you your health and 
 happiness, as I do, I'm sure." And in the 
 fulness of her gratitude, she would have de- 
 tained the young lady much longer, if Eleanor's 
 fears of overstraining the complaisance of her 
 betrothed had not made her take rather a 
 hasty leave, promising to call again on her 
 return to town. 
 
 Absorbed in her benevolent purposes, she 
 went into the whole detail without delay, hap- 
 pily unaware that he did not hear a word, 
 until, in reply to a repeated question, he an- 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 swered as in differently as possible, ''Those 
 people are always rogues, more or less." 
 
 "Frederick! no one could see that poor 
 woman, and think anything so cruel !" 
 
 " Ah, well — yes, I dare say. I know no- 
 thing about it. Only I have always found 
 them so." 
 
 " But is it not hard that she should suffer 
 for her husband's disgrace, when she is trying 
 to redeem his good name ?" 
 
 " A woman who marries a rogue must expect 
 disgrace," was the curt reply, in such a tone as 
 effectually silenced her till they had been re- 
 joined by their friends. 
 
 The evening passed tranquilly without in- 
 cident, Atterbury being the only guest at Sir 
 John's table, and all parties, by tacit consent, 
 avoiding every topic on which any emotion 
 could be excited. It was not till she was safe 
 in the solitude of her own apartment, that the 
 oppression which had gradually gathered upon 
 Eleanor's spirits, found relief in tears. 
 
 Favoured as she seemed by nature and for- 
 tune, it was at an hour like this that the lone- 
 liness of her position made itself felt. She had 
 no relations within reach, no intimate friends : 
 her guardian and his daughters showed her all 
 the good win and kindness in their power, but
 
 THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. 115 
 
 beyond a certain point their minds had never 
 amalgamated ; she could not have breathed to 
 either of them the vague fear and sadness that 
 made her prospect so dark just now. Her 
 parents had died in India, and with the aunt 
 who supplied their place, she had spent a quiet, 
 happy, useful country life, in a lovely part of 
 Devonshire, enjoying the advantages of a liberal 
 education, with those of a refined social circle — 
 advantages painfully missed, since the death of 
 Mrs. Mornay had compelled her to accept the 
 protection of her other guardian. All the ad- 
 miration she received among Sir John Pier- 
 point's acquaintance, had failed to compensate 
 for the su^rior tone of that to which she had 
 been accustomed ; and though too gentle and 
 too well bred to betray fastidiousness, she had 
 early learned to do without intimacy, and, 
 when needful, to stand alone. Yielding, some- 
 times diffident, on unimportant matters, wher- 
 ever she thought a principle was concerned 
 she could be very decided, and her straight- 
 forward simplicity always carried her point, 
 without even exposing her to ridicule. On 
 the contrary, her reputation for goodness only 
 added to her popularity, and won her quite as 
 much flattering praise as her beauty ; rather 
 more, it may be presumed, than was exactly 
 I 2
 
 116 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 wholesome for anybody. The Pierpoints in- 
 dulged her, even where they thought her a 
 little too scrupulous, secure that any conces- 
 sion made to her conscience would be more 
 than repaid by her good-natured complaisance 
 to their wishes. There was nothing she might 
 not have had for the asking, but that which 
 no one now could give. Since her engage- 
 ment, one care had superseded all others, the 
 desire of making Frederick Atterbury happy. 
 And now that a secret doubt of her own power 
 had begun to take a visible form, words can- 
 not describe how sorely she longed for the 
 dear friend she had lost, in whom she mio;ht 
 have confided her anxiety, and from whom 
 received comfort and advice. She sat by the 
 window long after the house was hushed and 
 still, looking up at the summer sky, at that 
 hour as clear as in her own dear Devonshire, 
 asking herself what it was possible for her to 
 do, more than she had done, to show her fide- 
 lity, her devotion to the man she loved. He 
 was not happy, that she knew too well ; but 
 he had solemnly assured her of his trust, and to 
 that assurance she clung for comfort in the 
 harassing doubt which his manner had thrown 
 on his afi'ection. This, at least, she would de- 
 serve; come what might, however his cares
 
 THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. 117 
 
 and occupations might irritate his nerves, and 
 give him the appearance of unkindness — it 
 could only be appearance — he should find her 
 love always the same, " bearing all things, be- 
 lieving all things, hoping all things, enduring 
 all things." And, yielding to the thoughts 
 linked with those noble words, her tears fell 
 more softly, her heart grew more calm, and 
 she laid her burden where so many have been 
 laid — where none were ever laid in vain. 
 
 Thus, at the entrance of the terrible arena, 
 in which she was to face a martyr's struggle, 
 we leave her for the present, to gain the 
 martyr's strength. 
 
 The stars of that calm night looked down 
 on many sorrows in the vast city stretched out 
 beneath their ray — some borne from one gay 
 scene to another, disguised in smiles, and 
 crowned with flowers — some keeping watch 
 by dying beds — some tossing restlessly on 
 their own. Anne Clavering was among these 
 last : she had retired early at her uncle's 
 urgent entreaty, leaving Edward to tell what 
 she had not strength for ; and at first, ex- 
 haustion had brought her repose. But it was 
 short and feverish, and by the time Edward 
 was gone, and the household at rest, she was
 
 118 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 too excited to bear any longer tlie vain strug- 
 gle after sleep. She rose, partly dressed her- 
 self, sponged her head copiously with cold 
 water, and resolved to try what an hour's 
 study would do towards tiring her into tran- 
 quillity. It was all in vain — the book lay open, 
 but the mind was elsewhere; and she gra- 
 dually relinquished the attempt, sitting with 
 her head thrown back, and her hands pressed 
 on her brow, as wave after wave of bitterness, 
 resentment, disappointed hopes, and unsatisfied 
 yearnings, came rolling over her spirit, threat- 
 ening to make shipivreck alike of judgment 
 and reason. 
 
 " Oh, if I could but see him again — only 
 for one minute before I lose him for ever, I 
 could bear it more quietly — I could almost be 
 satisfied !" had been her inward ejaculation so 
 often, she at last uttered it aloud, and startled 
 herself from her reverie. This would never 
 do — she should never sleep if she sat thinking 
 of liim ; she must try and work a little, if her 
 burning eyes would allow her ; and with wary 
 steps she moved into the deserted sitting-room 
 in quest of her materials. The half-draAvn 
 curtain giving a glimpse of the beauty of the 
 night, she was tempted to linger, and drawing 
 her large shawl about her throat, with her
 
 THE EVE OF THE WEDDING. 119 
 
 black hair flung back from her temples, she 
 approached the window. 
 
 What was it she saw in the street below ? 
 The face of a man looking up at the house — 
 looking up with those glowing eyes which she 
 saw whenever she closed her own. Paralysed, 
 scarcely breathing, she looked down in return, 
 as we gaze in a dream on one that we know is 
 dead. The eyes met hers, and they once more 
 beheld each other across that unfathomable 
 gulf, which nothing could close again. One 
 moment, and no more, that wild despairing 
 gaze endured, for at the sound of an approach- 
 ing footstep, Atterbury disappeared in the 
 darkness, and Anne crept back to her bed on 
 which she sank, almost insensible. 
 
 The morning that saw Eleanor Ormonde a 
 wife, found Anne Clavering prostrate with 
 fever.
 
 120 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 SIX WEEKS AFTER. 
 
 It was the close of July, and the hotels 
 and lodging-houses of every breezy watering- 
 place were filling rapidly with town-bred 
 visitors, panting to exchange smoke and close- 
 ness for the smell and taste of the sea. Every 
 train brought fresh arrivals to take the place 
 of those who had either b.een induced to 
 "tempt the wave," in quest of continental 
 novelties, or had come to the bottom of that 
 holiday purse on which landladies and hotel- 
 keepers never have any mercy. By one of the 
 earliest of those from London, there arrived 
 at Wardenstone one morning a rather shabby- 
 looking elderly gentleman with a very small 
 carpet-bag, who, having previously made a 
 close bargain with a fly-driver, was set down 
 at the door of the crowded hotel.
 
 SIX WEEKS AFTER. 121 
 
 " Quite full, sir," was his first greeting ; the 
 worn coat and small bag not being exactly in 
 his favour. 
 
 " So much the better," was his dry answer, 
 as he turned into the coiFee-room, and put his 
 bag and hat under a chair. " Some break- 
 fast, directly." 
 
 "Breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. 'Am and eggs, 
 sir?" 
 
 " No — a chop, well done ; and look sharp 
 about it." 
 
 The tone was not without effect, and the 
 breakfast was brought, and the chop, well 
 done, was leisurely discussed, before the new 
 comer stirred, or spoke to anybody. When* 
 he had quite done, and the waiter had 
 brought him the Times, he asked, in a careless 
 manner, if Mr. Atterbury was staying there 
 still? 
 
 " Oh yes, sir, Mr. Atterbury and Mrs. At- 
 terbury, sir, and their servants. There is 
 Mr. Atterbury 's groom crossing the hall now, 
 sir." 
 
 " Ah ! so he is," said the gentleman, lean- 
 ing back in his chair, and opening the paper ; 
 " send him in." 
 
 The waiter, who had begun to opine there 
 was more in that shabby coat than appeared
 
 122 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 at first sight, hastened to convey to Joe the 
 stranger's desire for his presence; a message 
 that aiFronted that young gentleman beyond 
 measure. If it had not been for some latent 
 curiosity, he would have flatly refused, but 
 that passion prevailing, he went into the coflfee- 
 room, under protest, with as much dignity as 
 his position seemed to require. It was rather 
 thrown away; the gentleman just looked up 
 from his newspaper to toss him a card, saying, 
 " Take that to your master, Joe, and tell him 
 I am here." 
 
 Joe looked at it, and at him, but showed 
 no enthusiasm. 
 
 ^' My master and mistress are at breakfast 
 just now, sir," said he, with marked emphasis. 
 
 '' I have had mine, so I can wait," was the 
 reply, as the gentleman turned the sheet of 
 his paper, and went on with the sentence he 
 had left unfinished. Joe eyed him with in- 
 creasing dislike, and as if he would have quar- 
 relled with him on the spot with the greatest 
 pleasure ; but as no further notice was taken of 
 him, he had only the satisfaction of making 
 his exit as imposing as his entrance. 
 
 " Who is he ? What is he ?" whispered one 
 or two waiters, who had watched the proceed- 
 ings with great interest. 
 
 i
 
 SIX WEEKS AFTER. 123 
 
 " Only our man of business," was the an- 
 swer, in a tone that would have been perfect 
 in its revenge, could the party alluded to but 
 have heard it ; and, much refreshed by the ob- 
 servation, he went up with the card to his 
 master. 
 
 The handsomest apartments in the hotel 
 were those assigned to Frederick Atterbury 
 and his bride, which, after a tour in Wales, 
 they had now occupied for a fortnight. The 
 breakfast-table was covered with every delicacy 
 of the season, and Eleanor, presiding over the 
 tea equipage, looked all the fresher and lovelier 
 for the pure air she had been inhaling the last 
 six weeks. Still there was a pensiveness in . 
 her eyes, and an unconscious timidity in the 
 tone of her voice, that betrayed the existence 
 of that undefined care, which had "cast its 
 shadow before" on the eve of the bridal ; and 
 the worn, restless, irritable expression of her 
 husband's face would have accounted for it, 
 had it been ten times more. Tasting every- 
 thing in turn, and finding fault with all, his 
 fevered appetite rejecting the most successful 
 efforts of the chefs ingenuity as if they had 
 been gravel and ashes, he had contrived to 
 make his gentle partner's breakfast a feast of 
 bitter herbs — not so much from the failure of
 
 124 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 her attempts to please him, as from the dread 
 of his being really unwell, and refusing to own 
 it. She had just been rebuked for looking at 
 him in that anxious way — didn't she know he 
 could never bear to be watched? — and was won- 
 dering whether it would be a breach of duty 
 
 to contrive a visit from the clever Dr. Z , 
 
 who had come down yesterday, and might 
 check the mischief in time — when Joe entered 
 with the card. Her heart beat fast as she de- 
 tected Atterbury's change of colour. " What 
 is it?" she asked, seeing him with his eyes 
 fixed on the card as if in thought. He looked 
 up with a start and a laugh, and threw it 
 across the table. " Only old Martock come 
 boring down about some of your affairs, I 
 suppose : unless it is on his own. I believe 
 half this hotel belongs to him. Where is he, 
 Joe?" 
 
 " In the coffee-room, sir." 
 
 " Is he in a hurry ?" 
 
 "Oh no, sir, not at all. He said he could 
 wait, as he had^ had his breakfast," said Joe, 
 literally. 
 
 This seemed some relief. " As he has taken 
 the trouble of coming, we must have him up, 
 Eleanor, I suppose. You monopolise all his
 
 SIX WEEKS AFTER. 125 
 
 attention now you have promoted him to be 
 your chief counsellor ; he never minds a word 
 I say to him now." 
 
 Mrs. Atterbury could have said he never 
 minded her either, for since Mr. Martock, on 
 the death of her aunt's old friend and lawyer, 
 Mr. Groves, had undertaken the management 
 of her aiFairs, she had not been allowed to have 
 an opinion about them, and had assented no- 
 minally to more changes and new arrange- 
 ments in the last few months, than had taken 
 place under Mrs. Mornay's regency in as many 
 years. It had been to please Frederick and 
 Sir John that she had accepted this new mi- 
 nister, and the respect they all paid to Mr. 
 Martock's extreme sagacity and cleverness, 
 made her ashamed to acknowledge the in- 
 stinctive aversion she felt for his presence — still 
 more the doubts of the soundness of his advice, 
 that she could not avoid, when she found all 
 her old friend's opinions treated as unworthy 
 discussion. It was the more difficult, that he 
 never paid her more attentions than he could 
 help ; indeed, he sometimes appeared to think 
 she had not even common sense ; and, there- 
 fore, rebellion against his authority would look 
 very like personal pique and mortified vanity.
 
 126 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 Something of this might have been expressed 
 in her face, for Frederick rather eagerly went 
 on : " You don't mind his coming up here, do 
 you? I would not have him think himself 
 neglected, you see. He is old, and might take 
 it into his head that you were high, or some- 
 thing. I am sure you would not wish that." 
 
 " No, indeed ; far from it," she replied, with * 
 sincerity, preparing the more cheerfully for the 
 interview, that she hoped the change of a little 
 business would give a turn to his spirits. She 
 would not even risk a word of objection when 
 he turned to a liqueur-case, of which she had 
 begun to stand in dread, and swallowed some 
 brandy in haste, before meeting his legal ad- 
 viser at the door, with both hands extended. 
 
 "Well, Martock, how are you? Come 
 down for a sea-breeze, eh ? or have you some- 
 thing for my wife to do ? We are rather late 
 at breakfast, so you are just in time. Come 
 in and try what the Wardenstone cuisine is 
 like." 
 
 Mr. Martock did not seem to respond much 
 to this cordial greeting, but bowed formally to 
 Eleanor, as he replied he had some papers for 
 Mrs. Atterbury to sign; there was no imme- 
 diate hurry ; he could wait her leisure. He 
 had already breakfasted, he thanked her. And
 
 SIX WEEKS AFTER. 127 
 
 down he sat, with his hat under his chair, 
 crossed his legs, and began carefully and 
 deliberately to fold his large thread gloves 
 one in the other, as if he had come down 
 for no other purpose. Atterbury fidgetted 
 about the room — rang the bell in rapid suc- 
 cession three times to have the breakfast things 
 removed — opened and shut the window, 
 lighted and flung away two cigars, and at last 
 threw himself full length on the sofa, asking, 
 with an affected yawn of indifference, " Any- 
 thing new? the world grown honest yet?" 
 
 " I hope not," said the visitor. 
 
 " Ay, it will be an ugly day for you lawyers, 
 when it is." 
 
 " Very ugly ; we shall have no more clever 
 people to watch, so our work will be nearly 
 over. How do you like Wardenstone, Mrs. 
 Atterbury?" 
 
 " Very much, for a short stay." 
 
 " Ah ! you probably intend running over to 
 France ?" 
 
 " We had talked of it, but nothing" is de- 
 cided." 
 
 " Nothing is decided : no, I suppose not — 
 I suppose not; and all things considered, I 
 should be inclined to recommend its remain- 
 ing so. Can you spare me a few minutes now,
 
 128 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 or shall I wait ? I have a couple of hours to 
 spare." 
 
 "Have you?" cried Atterbury, springing 
 up, " then wait by all means, and come out 
 with me. It will be all the same to my wife, 
 I know. Come out and have a weed on the 
 beach — I am dying for one." 
 
 " With you, if you please, but without the 
 weed. Mrs. Atterbury will not favour us with 
 her company?" 
 
 Eleanor saw her husband's impatient ges- 
 ture, and hastened to excuse herself, on the 
 plea of morning avocations ; a reasonable plea 
 enough, but hardly borne out by the result; 
 for Avhen left alone she could fix her mind upon 
 nothing. Work, letter-writing, and books, 
 were all tried in vain ; she could not sit still, 
 she could think of nothing but Frederick's 
 nervous state, and the probability of Mr. Mar- 
 tock having brought him bad news. Ignorant 
 as she was supposed to be of all business mat- 
 ters, she knew well enough that bankers, like 
 other mercantile men, were exposed to risks 
 and difficulties, and it was just possible " that 
 Atterbury's house, with all its wealth, might 
 have had losses of late, of which she had not 
 heard. If he only would confide in her, and 
 let her sympathise with him ! Surely, if it
 
 SIX WEEKS AFTER. 129 
 
 were so, it would be as well to avoid unne- 
 cessary expense ; and without exciting atten- 
 tion, or causing remark, quietly make all their 
 arrangements accordingly. The Pierpoints 
 had appeared to expect them to adopt a style 
 of living which she had all along felt to be 
 unsuitable, though she was silenced at the 
 time. Their station in society was not one to 
 justify it, even as a matter of taste — to say no- 
 thing of principle. She was glad to think she 
 had persuaded him to take a house of reason- 
 able size, instead of the ostentatious mansion 
 on which her friends had set their hearts ; and 
 Frederick should see, if he would only trust 
 her, that comfort and elegance were to be en- 
 joyed on much less costly terms than he sup- 
 posed. 
 
 She sighed as she once more took up the 
 book she had brought from London to study 
 so carefully, and of which she had not yet read 
 six pages. How many of her hopeful plans 
 had already proved abortive! How far she 
 was from possessing that intimate knowledge 
 of her husband's thoughts, that she had longed 
 for — how difficult it was to confide hers to 
 him — ^how utterly vain to dream she alone 
 could make him happy ! She thought over this 
 till she grew so sad at heart, it roused her to 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 the necessity of exertion ; and with a strenuous 
 eiFort to shake off what looked like faithless dis- 
 contentj she resolutely took out her drawing, 
 and began to copy one of Frederick's spirited 
 sketches. Her skill was so inferior to his, she 
 found sufficient difficulty to make the occupa- 
 tion interesting, and the time slipped away 
 unawares, till her husband's laugh in the pas- 
 sage made her heart leap with unexpected de- 
 light. In he came, with a glowing face, and 
 evidently in much improved spirits^. 
 
 " Here she is, Martock, as busy as ever. 
 Come in, and get your business done whije 
 you can, for I give you notice, we are not 
 going to stay broiling in here this glorious 
 day, for you or anybody. What has she been 
 doing ? Actually trying to draw ! Well done, 
 Eleanor! and if, like Pat's stocking, it had 
 only a new toe, and a new heel, and a new leg, 
 there would be nothing left to be desired. 
 Lend me hold of your brush, and I'll darn the 
 holes while you and Martock are at your ac- 
 counts. You do not want me there." 
 
 " I wish we did," said Eleanor, as she gave 
 him up her seat. " It is by no choice of mine 
 that the trouble is not all on your shoulders, I 
 assure you, sir. Mr. Martock smiles, but if he
 
 SIX WEEKS AFTER. 131 
 
 confessed the truth, he would own he wishes 
 it was." 
 
 " Humph !" said Mr. Martock, as he took 
 some papers from his ample pockets. " I 
 rather think, Mrs. Atterbury, I prefer things 
 being as they are." 
 
 " I am sure, Mr. Martock, it would be more 
 agreeable to deal with some one more capable 
 of appreciating your good advice." 
 
 " Perhaps ; but no, I am disposed to think 
 otherwise. People may be too clever and ca- 
 pable for the peace of their legal advisers. 
 Please to put your name there, and there, and 
 there. You understand what that means, at 
 any rate, and I should not recommend your 
 troubling yourself further." 
 
 " I cannot always follow your recommenda- 
 tion," she said, in a low voice, under cover of 
 the loud whistling with which Atterbury ac- 
 companied the rapid demolition of her morn- 
 ing's work. " I was foolish enough to fancy 
 you might have brought him bad news." 
 
 " Ladies' fancies about business generally are 
 foolish," was his reply, as he took up the paper 
 she had signed. 
 
 ^^Then you have not, on your honour?" 
 persisted she, as if she could not help it. 
 k2
 
 132 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " On my honour," said he, smiling, " I have 
 brought him no news at all." 
 
 She gave a sigh of relief. " Then you have 
 come all this way on my account ? I am sorry 
 you took so much trouble; you might have 
 sent your clerk." 
 
 ^' I might, certainly; but in your service, 
 Mrs. Atterbury, nothing is a trouble." 
 
 ^' The politest thing I ever heard you say, 
 Mr. Martock, and it encourages me to trouble 
 you a little more. I wanted to ask you (as 
 you know everything that anybody wishes to 
 know, and many things that they do not), is 
 there any chance of obtaining a pardon for a 
 man who has embezzled money entrusted to 
 him?" 
 
 Atterbury's brush stopped — he looked up, 
 listening breathlessly. Mr. Martock, who was 
 sealing up his papers, went on slowly dropping 
 the melted wax on his envelope, as if his life 
 depended upon the accuracy of the impression. 
 The silence surprising Eleanor, she repeated the 
 question. 
 
 " Well," he replied, looking intently at his 
 seal, before pressing it down, ^' I would not 
 advise any friend of yours to run the risk on 
 the chance." 
 
 " Is it, then, so very difficult in the case of
 
 SIX WEEKS AFTER. 133 
 
 a poor clerk, exposed to temptation, not only 
 from poverty, but from seeing his employers 
 dishonest themselves ? I would not say a word 
 if it were one of them — men comparatively 
 rich, with respectable characters, and yet all 
 the while guilty of fraud — but this is such a 
 pitiable case. Can anything be done ?" 
 
 Mr. Martock could give no opinion on a case 
 whereof he knew nothing. The usual way, he 
 believed, was to memorialise the Home Secre- 
 tary. Had Mrs. Atterbury any personal in- 
 terest in the matter ? 
 
 " None," Eleanor replied, " beyond that of 
 compassion for the wife." 
 
 " Oh, he has a wife, has he? Poor woman. 
 It is very good of you to take an interest iij 
 her. Wives in that unfortunate position are 
 apt to lose all their friends." 
 
 " I do not believe it, Mr. Martock. I thiftk 
 better of human nature than you do." '" 
 
 "Because you know less; but you hkve 
 time and opportunities before you. You will 
 be able to teach me by-and-bye." 
 
 " What are you two arguing about?" inter- 
 rupted Atterbury, rising. "Is it that West- 
 minster case, Eleanor ? I tell you frankly, I 
 won't have you meddle with it. Cosset the 
 woman if you choose, but let the man alone.
 
 134 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 It is not an affair for you ; you will have 
 enough to do if you listen to all these tales." 
 He came up to her, and stroked her hair, as if 
 to soften the prohibition. " Your heart is too 
 good for your head, Eleanor, or you would see 
 the absurdity yourself." 
 
 " Nevertheless," said Mr. Martock, slowly 
 brushing his hat with his sleeve, " since Mrs. 
 Atterbury has done me the honour of consult- 
 ing me, I shall certainly give the subject my 
 serious consideration. There can be no harm 
 in her knowing to whom to apply, should she 
 ever, by any unforeseen accident, find it ne- 
 cessary." And with a patronising smile that 
 annihilated her much more effectually than 
 any argument, he wrote Mrs. Mackay's address 
 in his pocket-book, shook hands, and took leave. 
 
 ''Sneering old hound!" was Atterbury's 
 muttered comment, through his grinding teeth. 
 
 " Frederick ! your own particular friend !" 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know he is my friend, and 
 that is the worst of it. He pesters and wor- 
 ries one with his opinion and advice ; and be- 
 cause he is, as you say, one's own particular 
 friend, one must not pitch him down stairs. 
 He is gone now, and we will not think of him 
 any more. Oh, by-the-bye, I did a bold thing 
 just now, when I was out. A steamer was
 
 SIX WEEKS AETER. 135 
 
 just starting from the pier, on an excursion trip 
 of some hours, and our trusty adherents, 
 Jones and Benson, were looking on with long- 
 ing eyes that I could not resist, so I gave them 
 both a holiday. Mrs. Benson had sundry 
 scruples about her mistress, but I promised 
 you should not miss her. Did I presume too 
 much? Can you exist without your tire- 
 woman ?" 
 
 " Indeed I hope so : I was only surprised 
 and rather amused at your thinking of it. 
 Poor things, they like a change as well as we 
 do, I dare say ; and if a steamer is a pleasure 
 to anybody, I am not the one to grudge it !" 
 
 " But now I want you to come on an ex-. 
 cursion with me : I long to get away from all 
 this bustle, and hide ourselves somewhere for 
 a night. Will you come ? Can you pack up ? 
 I will help you : I am a first-rate packer, on 
 an entirely new principle. I had an eye to 
 this fun, in getting rid of Benson." 
 
 She agreed to all he proposed, except to 
 letting him pack. He set his heart on her 
 taking a portmanteau that had belonged to 
 her aunt, and still bore the name of " Mrs. 
 Mornay" on a brass plate outside, and in this 
 he made her put a great many things she would 
 have left behind, answering all her remon-
 
 136 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 strances by the argument that there was no 
 saying where they might go, and they could 
 do no harm. Above all, he insisted on her 
 taking all her jewels. 
 
 ^' You have not many with you, but more 
 than you would Hke to lose, and Benson is out 
 of the Avay, and these places are full of light- 
 fingered folk. Besides, I may take you visit- 
 ing a friend of mine for all I know, and I must 
 have you in your ornaments." 
 
 Whatever pleased him pleased her, so she 
 let him have his own way, and having settled 
 her arrangements to his satisfaction, he hurried 
 oif to make his own. He told the hotel- 
 keeper and head- waiter that he was going on 
 an excursion, which would keep him away one 
 night, perhaps two. His letters and papers 
 were to be taken care of, and his servants 
 would wait till his return. As it was possible 
 some boxes might arrive from abroad, for 
 which there might be a heavy charge, he left 
 a ten-pound note with the landlord, notwith- 
 standing the polite assurances of its being un- 
 necessary. He then looked into the coiFee- 
 room, exchanged greetings with his acquaint- 
 ance, and casually mentioned his intention. The 
 weather was so tempting, he might be away 
 some days — they should not tie themselves
 
 SIX WEEKS AFTER. 137 
 
 down to any fixed plan, but just follow the 
 inclination of the hour. Public opinion, 
 though Hberal in suggestions, decided he was 
 right on the whole, and very much to be 
 envied ; and when shortly after, he was seen 
 departing with his wife, his face all eager ani- 
 mation, and hers bright with sunny smiles, 
 there was not an eye that did not follow them 
 with interest, as the happiest young couple in 
 the world.
 
 138 
 
 CHAPTER YIL 
 
 THE MERRY ANGLER. 
 
 Eleanor had not been, for many a long 
 month, so happy as she was that day. Her 
 husband had never seemed so free from care, 
 or so determined on enjoyment, as when they 
 were seated alone together in the railway car- 
 riage that was to take them to Stonesbury. 
 All his gloom and irritability had departed 
 with Mr. Martock ; and after all her fears and 
 anxiety, to see him sketching ridiculous like- 
 nesses of everybody at the stations, was the 
 most delicious relief imaginable. His manner 
 had lost its impatient roughness; it was full 
 of kindness and solicitude for her comfort 
 and enjoyment; and more than once, when 
 he thought himself unobserved, she found his 
 eyes fastened upon her, with a steadfast admi- 
 ration, that gave her more pleasure than she
 
 THE MERRY ANGLER. 15 9 
 
 mio-lit have liked to avow. Slie could not 
 resist, at last, the impulse to meet his eyes, and 
 let him see he was detected. He laughed as 
 he answered the look. 
 
 " It is very true ; I do not know what your 
 designs may be, but I never saw you look so 
 weU." 
 
 "You never saw me to better advantage, 
 perhaps : I am so happy." 
 
 " You ought always to be happy then ; it is 
 evidently your native element. And why you 
 should not, I cannot imagine ; you have no- 
 thing on your mind, no care or trouble, except 
 myself and Mrs. Benson : we contrive, between 
 us, to plague you a little. I wonder what you 
 would really do," he continued a little whil^ 
 after, when they were drawing slowly up to 
 the small station of Twalmley, " if some great 
 smashing misfortune came down upon you ; if 
 you would go on looking as provokingly good- 
 tempered and patient as when I bother your 
 life out about nothing at all, and Benson 
 bullies you out of wearing what you like best 
 — or whether you would grow sour and crabbed 
 and selfish like other people ?" 
 
 " I would rather not be tried ; I feel as if I 
 could bear a great deal just now, with you at 
 hand to praise my fortitude. , I think I have
 
 140 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 shown that already, by submitting so quietly 
 to your treatment of my drawing. I did not 
 see, till just now, what you had been doing. It 
 really gave me a great deal of trouble, and you 
 have blurred it all over." 
 
 ^'Ah!" he said, colouring hastily as he 
 looked at it, " you will find me out in time. 
 What costs you pains to do well I can undo and 
 mar only too easily. ' Cette leqon vaut hien un 
 fromage^ sans chute.'' What place are we stop- 
 ping at? Twalmley! I tell you what, I'm 
 tired of this fun — let us get out here." 
 
 He beckoned to the guard to open the door, 
 loaded himself with her goods and his own, 
 and hurried her across the platform before 
 she had time to remonstrate. The official 
 who received the tickets observed with sur- 
 prise that they were taken for Stonesbury. 
 " All right ; we do not go on till to-morrow," 
 was the answer, and still hurrying on, he in- 
 quired where he could get a vehicle. A very 
 crazy open fly Avas the only one forthcoming, 
 and in this they were fain to seat themselves ; 
 Eleanor secretly wondering what would come 
 next. 
 
 ^' Where are we, Frederick — and where are 
 we to go ?" 
 
 " Where are ^e ? In the Arcadian town of
 
 THE MERRY ANGLER. 141 
 
 Twalmley, where I have not been since I was a 
 boy at school: and we are going to an inn 
 where I used to stay in the holidays, for some 
 of the best fishing I ever had. Is the Merry 
 Angler still in existence, driver ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 " It has changed landlords since my time, 
 of course ?" 
 
 " A many times, sir. A Mrs. Parsons keeps 
 it now." 
 
 " Quite a new name : well, if it is the old 
 clean snug place, that does not matter. Drive 
 there as fast as you can." 
 
 Fast was not exactly the epithet to be be- 
 stowed on the movements of that primeval 
 car, whose first evolutions must have been 
 coeval with Boadicea. The creaking and rat- 
 tling of the carriage harmonised but too well 
 with the asthmatic wheezing of the old white 
 horse, an interesting study in himself for any 
 one curious in anatomy. But it was all part 
 of the day's adventures, and Eleanor found 
 fault with nothing but the whip — the only 
 thing about her equipage that could boast of 
 liveliness; and this made up for all the rest. 
 She had been nursed in the love of horses, 
 and to see one starved and then deliberately 
 beaten, made her almost fierce. Atterbury
 
 142 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 langlied at her indignation, but was moved by 
 it to observe, when paying the fare, " This 
 lady thinks that poor brute of yours would be 
 just as well pleased, my man, if you gave him 
 more corn and less leather." 
 
 The man looked a little astonished, but he 
 pulled the horse's tangled mane, not unkindly, 
 with an apologetic remark that he had been a 
 very good 'oss, a very good one, he had — he 
 was getting old now, and everything was so 
 dear. 
 
 " If you fed him a little better " Mrs. 
 
 Atterbury mildly began. 
 
 " I'd feed him better, ma'am, if I could feed 
 myself; but with this here war, everything is 
 riz, and 'osses are double w^hat they was. I 
 did very well a few years ago," he went on, in 
 an injured tone, as he tied a new lash to his 
 whip, " but the master as I used to drive for 
 came to a smash, and run away in debt to every- 
 body, and with all my savings, he did — and me 
 with eight children !" 
 
 The growl that accompanied the words was 
 savage in its bitterness. Atterbury turned into 
 the inn without reply ; but the mention of the 
 eight children touching Eleanor on her weak 
 point, she hung back to feel for her purse, and 
 ask if his wife were living ? Oh yes, and much
 
 THE MERRY ANGLER. 143 
 
 good she did them — ^hadn't been out of her bed 
 this four year — nothing but a trouble and ex- 
 pense, she was. Hard for her to feel she was 
 a burden? Well, it didn't seem to trouble 
 her overmuch, and if he didn't complain no- 
 body needn't. He never found as grumbling 
 did much good, and he never listened to none. 
 " Thank ye kindly, ma'am, thank ye kindly, 
 I'm sure. Be kind to old Billy to oblige you ? 
 I should be ashamed if I weren't !" And thrust- 
 ing her gratuity into his pocket, he joyfully 
 scrambled up to his seat, whipping up the 
 horse so energetically that he actually broke 
 into a stumbling canter, that soon carried him 
 out of sight. 
 
 A little doubtful of the success of her me- 
 diation, as well as of the comments Frederick 
 would make on the result, Eleanor turned into 
 the inn, and was considerably relieved to find 
 he was too full of his arrangements for their 
 accommodation with the stout smiling hostess, 
 to have time just then for teasing. A small, 
 clean bedroom, and tolerable sitting-room, 
 were at their disposal, and fresh fish from the 
 river and a roast chicken were promised for 
 their dinner, a dinner at which the gentleman 
 would have stormed in London or at Warden- 
 stone, but which he now pronounced would do
 
 144 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 capitally. As soon as their goods had been 
 conveyed to their apartment, he made Eleanor 
 come out to see his old favourite haunts. The 
 afternoon was hot, but there was a breeze by 
 the river, and his boyish recollections served 
 him in sufficient stead to guide them to a 
 pretty shaded spot, where turf, and trees, and 
 solitude seemed to invite them to repose. Here 
 they sat down, at his suggestion, and Atterbury, 
 taking off his hat, stretched himself full-length 
 on the grass, with his head on Eleanor's knees. 
 
 " This is rest !" he said, with a sigh of plea- 
 sure. " Let us be perfectly quiet for a little 
 while, and fancy we are alone in the world. I 
 wish we were !" 
 
 She made no answer, but silently looked 
 down on him as he lay, with a loving, yearning 
 tenderness, such as she had never yet been 
 bold enough to express, and for which a heart 
 like hers had no safe outlet but in blessing and 
 prayer. These were her rest during that quiet 
 hour, and unuttered as they were in words, 
 their influence was not unfelt ; though Atter- 
 bury lay as if asleep — ^in reality, dreading by a 
 movement to break the spell. It was not till 
 the distant clock had struck the hour for the 
 second time that he roused himself with a sigh, 
 looked at his watch, and rose.
 
 THE MERRY ANGLER. 145 
 
 " We must back to our inn, my Eleanor ; 
 the world claims her own, and we must obey- 
 perforce, or go without our dinner. I have 
 been pleasant company, have I not?" 
 
 " You have rested yourself, and that was 
 pleasure enough for me." 
 
 " I quite believe you, and with you I could 
 
 rest, if it were not for Eleanor," he went 
 
 on abruptly, after a pause, during which they 
 had begun to move homewards, " did you ever 
 read Southey's ' All for Love ?' " 
 
 ^' No ; I am better read in Wordsworth than 
 in Southey. Is it a drama ?" 
 
 "It is a lyrical version of an old Latin 
 legend. A young freedman sells himself to 
 the Evil One to obtain the hand of his master's 
 daughter. The marriage takes place, and the 
 fortunate youth appears at the summit of pros- 
 perity, with that pleasant little bill on his mind 
 that may fall due any minute — repenting of 
 his bargain, but hopeless of escaping the pe- 
 nalty. How do you suppose it ends?" 
 
 " By his giving up his wife and retiring to 
 a monastery, I conclude." 
 
 " Not a bit of it. The Tempter has over- 
 reached himself, and by giving him to a good 
 Christian wife, loses him altogether. You 
 shall read the ballad yourself some day, and 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 tell me what you think of it. Ay," he went 
 on, half to himself, for Eleanor was too much 
 struck by his manner to reply, " there are 
 more bondsmen than Eleemon, there are more 
 guardian angels than Cyra! But will the 
 court decide in their favour again ?" 
 
 " What are you thinking of, Frederick ?" 
 for he stopped short, looking across the river 
 to the landscape beyond. 
 
 " Thinking ?" said he, with a start, " was I 
 thinking? It must have been, then, of the 
 pranks I played here as a youngster, getting 
 up in the middle of the night to fish, and 
 being within an ace of being taken before the 
 magistrates as a poacher. I was uncommonly 
 proud of that afterwards, but scared out of 
 my senses at the time. Come, let us step on ; 
 the mention of the fish gives me an appetite, 
 and I am curious to see if they taste as good 
 as I have ever since believed they do. Age 
 and experience dispel so many charming illu- 
 sions, it will be a luxury to find one remain." 
 
 It might have been that the cherished illu- 
 sion failed, but certainly the appetite he had 
 boasted of did not display itself at table. 
 Though he praised everything set before him, 
 and pressed his bride to do it justice, she 
 noticed his own attempts were complete
 
 THE MERRY ANGLER. 147 
 
 failures, and tliat it was almost a relief to 
 him when the cloth was removed. He drank 
 nearly a bottle of mne, and then took out his 
 sketch-book, and began rapidly throwing off 
 a series of outlines, illustrating the legend he 
 had spoken of. Eleanor stood behind him, 
 looking over his shoulder, and grew painfully 
 interested in the vigorous strokes and touches 
 that set the story before her mth such fearful 
 distinctness; the artist himself becoming ex- 
 cited as he went on, and working the groups 
 with more and more dramatic power, till it 
 came to the climax — the deliverance. There 
 his hand seemed to fail ; perhaps his imagina- 
 tion was tired; he made one two abortive, 
 attempts, and then threw the pencil on the 
 table. 
 
 " I leave that for you, Eleanor. Order up 
 some tea, will you, while I go and see if there 
 are any evening papers." 
 
 The tea was ordered, and ready some time 
 before he returned. Directly he came in, his 
 wife saw something was the matter. She 
 started up. ^'You have had some bad 
 news ? " 
 
 " Some news that makes me anxious, cer- 
 tainly — yery anxious. I don't know what to 
 do. I ought to go up to town — I must." 
 l2
 
 148 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 ^* Do not let that trouble you ; I can be 
 ready in five minutes." 
 
 "You, love? You see, that is just the 
 thing. It would never do for you to be seen 
 hurrying back in that sort of way. It would 
 set everybody talking." 
 
 She stood looking at him, the bright colour 
 fading from her cheeks. " How did you hear? 
 Is it anything in the paper ? Do show it me." 
 
 " No, no, not in the paper; it came to me 
 by — by telegraph. I burnt the message, of 
 course. The fact is, Eleanor — don't look so 
 pale and frightened, or I shall not be able to 
 do it — and I was going to test your unselfish 
 courage. Can you bear to wait here by your- 
 self?" 
 
 " Of course I can if you wish it," said she, 
 struggling to keep from any outward agita- 
 tion. 
 
 " No, but shall you be comfortable — without 
 your maid, too ?" 
 
 " Yes, quite. Do not think about me for a 
 moment. Only decide as you feel to be right. 
 It is right, I suppose, that you should go 
 directly ?" 
 
 " It is absolutely necessary. I have ascer- 
 tained that a train wiU. stop here in twenty 
 minutes; I can walk down to the station. *
 
 THE MERRY ANGLER. 149 
 
 But it goes to my heart to leave you like 
 this." And his face was agitated enough to 
 confirm his words. Her loving unselfishness 
 came to the rescue, making her more cou- 
 rageous in reality than in appearance. 
 
 " What harm can it do me, dear Frederick, 
 to spend a quiet day here alone ? I suppose 
 you will be back to dinner, and I promise you 
 I shall not be dull. I have a dozen letters to 
 write." 
 
 " Yes, but I was going to tell you — ^there 
 is one thing you do not yet understand. Sit 
 down, and let me make sure you do." He sat 
 down by her side, and took her hand with a 
 seriousness that rivetted her attention. 
 
 " In business like mine, you know well, we 
 are liable to seasons of difficulty. I tell you 
 this much, not to make you uneasy, but cau- 
 tious. It may be of the greatest consequence 
 — I may say it is — that nobody should know 
 anything of my movements just at this mo- 
 ment.^ No one is aware of our being here, and 
 the longer it is concealed the better. Write 
 no letters — show yourself as little as possible, 
 and on no account venture near the station. 
 One thing more — I hardly like to mention it, 
 but it happens that the people here, seeing on 
 your portmanteau the name of Mrs. Mornay,
 
 150 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 have taken it for granted that it is yours— and 
 — I have allowed them to think so." 
 
 " Dearest Frederick — how could you? It 
 is an untruth," faltered Eleanor, her bravery 
 beginning to give way. 
 
 " Come, come, you cannot deny you were 
 christened Eleanor Mornay, so even your dear 
 little scrupulous conscience need not be dis- 
 tressed at being called so. To do me a real 
 service you may for once make your Christian 
 name do a little extra duty. It will only be 
 till — tiU I come back. You will not refuse me 
 one last favour, will you ?" 
 
 " To do you a service — till you come back 
 to me — I will do anything you ask, and you 
 know it ; but oh ! if you love me, come back 
 soon, or let me folio w" you. Frederick !" she 
 said, clinging to him, " you are not deceiving 
 me ? You are not keeping from me anything 
 I ought to know?" 
 
 " Rest assured," he replied, slowly and 
 earnestly, " I have told you all I can — ajU but 
 one thing." He took her hands in his, and 
 wrung them with a force that left them throb- 
 bing long after. " Deserve your love I never 
 shall ; but the day I lose it, my last hope will 
 be gone !" 
 
 He pressed his lips on her brow as he spoke
 
 . THE MERRY ANGLER. 151 
 
 the last words, and left lier before she could 
 answer them. 
 
 " Mrs. Parsons," he said, as he was leaving 
 the inn, " I entrust Mrs. Mornay to your par- 
 ticular care. I am obliged to go up to to^'VTi 
 to-night, and I know she will be taken care of 
 till I return." Mrs. Parsons promised heartily. 
 *' And one thing I must ask you to be careful 
 about ; do not let her see any newspapers." 
 
 " Ah, really, sir ! she has some one at the 
 war then, poor dear ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes — in the Crimea — a brother. I 
 am going up to inquire about him, and I 
 dread any bad news reaching her suddenly. 
 Pray be very careful ; I know you will." 
 
 "You may rely on me, Mr. Mornay, that 
 you may. I'll watch over the dear lady as if 
 she was my sister ; but we shall be very glad 
 to see you back again, sir — the sooner the 
 better. Dear, dear," as he strode rapidly 
 away, slinging his bag over his shoulder, " only 
 to think of that sweet young creature left to 
 fret herself all alone, so happy as she looked 
 when she came in ! Martha, listen for her 
 bell, whatever you do, and I'll go up and see 
 after her myself."
 
 152 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 CITY NEWS. 
 
 It was some time before Mrs. Atterbury 
 gave any opportunity for her hostess's well- 
 meant attention. 
 
 The change had been so sudden from the 
 glad serenity of the last few hours, it was only 
 by degrees she could realise it. She sat down 
 by her solitary tea-table, and the twilight 
 deepened and darkened around her without 
 her being able to rouse herself, so much as to 
 move. The more she thought, the more un- 
 easy she grew ; but the uneasiness was too 
 strange at first, to make her restless. That 
 did not begin, until, in recalling everything 
 that had passed, it suddenly flashed across her 
 mind — how could a telegraphic message have 
 been sent to him, if nobody knew where he
 
 CITY NEWS. 153 
 
 was? The bare possibility of his telling her 
 an untruth was so revolting, she shrank from 
 it as a breach of loyalty, and yet the only 
 other solution of the mystery she could find, 
 was, that his coming to Twalmley had been ar- 
 ranged with Mr. Martock. She could imagine 
 the pleasure that gentleman had taken in send- 
 ing him disagreeable news. He always seemed 
 to grudge everybody a holiday from business ; 
 and in the stimulus of a little womanly detes- 
 tation she was beginning to find some comfort, 
 when another question presented itself. What 
 if the bad news came in the morning, and all 
 that Frederick had been doing since had only 
 been a blind? What, indeed? She could 
 not face the idea for a moment. She was in- 
 dignant with herself for its having occurred ; 
 and rose with a stern resolve to indulge such 
 weakness no longer. Frederick trusted her, 
 and deserved to be trusted in return. It was 
 for him to decide what was fit for her to know 
 of his afi'airs ; it was for her to carry out his 
 wishes, and keep the vow she had prayed over 
 so earnestly, of being his support whenever he 
 needed one. She would sit no longer brood- 
 ing over imaginary evils, no, nor over evils 
 that might be real. Strange, perplexing as it 
 all was, she would wait patiently till he liked
 
 154 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 to explain it ; lie should not find her ill from 
 low spirits wlien he came back ; he was testing 
 her courage — she would show him it could 
 stand the test. 
 
 She prayed heartily that it might, keeping 
 back the tears that would have put her reso- 
 lutions to the blush, and wisely shortened her 
 solitary evening by retiring early to rest. It 
 was, perhaps, the first time in her life that she 
 had done so without the assistance of a maid ; 
 but though Mrs. Parsons and Martha were 
 both solicitous in offers of service, she pre- 
 ferred doing everything for herself as best she 
 could, to the mortification of being called 
 " Mrs. Mornay," with the possible contingency 
 of being found out. ^Thoroughly tired out 
 in body and mind, she slept in consequence 
 much sounder than she could have expected. 
 Mrs. Parsons herself waited upon her at break- 
 fast, to see that she had everything she re- 
 quired, and to hope she had passed a good 
 night. Mr. Mornay would be sure to come 
 back to dinner, if possible ; or, if not, he 
 would send, and she must keep up a good heart, 
 and not go fancying mischief before it came. 
 What this meant, Mrs. Atterbury did not 
 know, and had not spirits to inquire. Though 
 she tried not to own it to herself, she had
 
 CITY NEWS. 155 
 
 taken a chill the day before, when sitting by 
 the river ; and warm as it was in her little 
 apartment when the windows were shut, she 
 shivered when they were open. Headache pre- 
 vented her employing herself, and her only 
 comfort was in thinking it was perhaps just 
 as well that Frederick was not there to be 
 made uneasy. She lounged in the easiest 
 chair she could find (which is not saying 
 much for it), and dozed part of the day, 
 ashamed of her own idleness, but too op- 
 pressed for exertion, when there was no im- 
 mediate call for it. As the evening approached, 
 however, the hope of her husband's arrival 
 gave her stimulus enough to make her believe 
 she was quite recovered ; and the dinner she 
 had so carefully ordered was delayed, and 
 postponed, and kept hot, and sent up at last 
 by Mrs. Parsons in desperation, to be sent 
 down again almost untouched. Night came 
 on, it grew late, and he neither came nor sent ; 
 and too weary to sit up any longer, she 
 yielded at last to the coaxing of her hostess, 
 and went to bed ; this time to pass long fever- 
 ish hours of restlessness, only soothed by the 
 repeated consolation, " I shall have a letter to- 
 morrow." 
 
 To-morrow came, a dull, close, rainy mor-
 
 156 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 row, and Mrs. Parsons shook her head when 
 she looked at her guest's heavy eyes, and 
 heard her oppressed breathing. She preached 
 with much unction on the duty of cheerful- 
 ness and treacle-posset; and detailed several 
 cases in which, to her certain knowledge, 
 ladies in the most robust health, had, from 
 the neglect of both remedies, " gone out like 
 the snuff of a candle." To these very inspirit- 
 ing anecdotes, Mrs. Atterbury listened with 
 her usual amiability, but failed in the appli- 
 cation of the moral. She had a slight cold, 
 certainly, but of no consequence whatever ; 
 when the weather cleared up she would try 
 the effect of a little air and exercise, and mean- 
 while, if Mrs. Parsons would get her a news- 
 paper, that was all she wanted. A newspaper ? 
 Oh, certainly. And away went the hostess to 
 give strict orders that no newspaper should be 
 forthcoming on pain of death. Eleanor waited 
 some time, and then rang to renew the re- 
 quest. She was told unblushingly by Martha 
 that it was expected every minute. An hour 
 or two passed before she asked again. Dear 
 me, Mrs. Parsons was so sorry, but in airing 
 it at the kitchen fire, it had caught, and was 
 all in a blaze in a minute. Here was the 
 " Lady's Handbook of Fashion, and Polite In-
 
 CITY NEWS. 157 
 
 telligencer" (how Martha pronounced this title 
 is beyond our skill to describe), which missis 
 hoped would do as well. 
 
 It was a daring hope, considering that this 
 exciting periodical was an odd number, fiY^ 
 or six years old, illustrated by coloured en- 
 gravings from " Le Petit Courrier des Dames," 
 of ladies in those impossibly minute boots and 
 gloves, with a perpetual sickly smile on their 
 faces, as if they were trying to make them- 
 selves and you believe that those boots were 
 comfortable, and those gloves did not stop 
 circulation ; the letter-press consisting of mild 
 jocularities — fragments of sentimental stories, 
 ^'to be continued," as they might be to the 
 end of time, without anybody being much the 
 wiser — a receipt or two for dyeing grey hair, 
 and taking spots out of silk ; and a few valu- 
 able hints on dress and deportment the first 
 time you dined in company. Interesting as 
 all this might be, it was not exactly what Mrs. 
 Atterbury wanted, and she resolved, as soon 
 as it ceased raining, to venture out and forage 
 for herself; a feat she accomplished unob- 
 served in the course of the afternoon. 
 
 Twalmley did not seem to be a place in 
 which literature was in much demand, but in 
 answer to her inquiries for a library, she was
 
 158 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 at last directed to a modest little sliop, where 
 fiction, embroidery patterns, and Berlin wool 
 were dispensed in about equal proportions, 
 and of antiquity also equal. How life could 
 be supported on sucb a business would have 
 been a marvel to any one not cognisant of the 
 grand principle on which it was conducted — 
 that of persuading people always to take what 
 they didn't want instead of what they did. 
 When Eleanor entered, the master of the shop 
 was engaged with customers, and she had to 
 wait ; not sorry for a seat, as her lassitude and 
 indisposition were creeping over her more and 
 more. 
 
 " Paper, ma'am ? Yes, ma'am, directly," 
 was the civil answer she received on applica- 
 tion, but that was all, as the paper in question 
 was already in the hands of a stout individual 
 in a voluminous plaid waistcoat, who was 
 studying it with a frowning brow — a short, 
 meek-looking neighbour trying, with some dif- 
 ficulty, to get glimpses of it over his shoulder 
 or under his arm. 
 
 " Well !" ejaculated the stout man, presently, 
 taking oiF his glasses to add solemnity to the 
 observation — "well! If this is not the most 
 rascally case I ever read of in all my days, I
 
 CITY NEWS. 159 
 
 never heard of one, Wilkinson, that's all I 
 can say !" 
 
 " It does look bad, as far as one can see," 
 remarked Wilkinson, who certainly could not 
 see much. 
 
 " As far as one can see ! Why, what would 
 you see ?" retorted the other, who had a way 
 peculiar to some gifted speakers, of always re- 
 peating the last thing you said, in a contemp- 
 tuous and injured tone, as a personal aifront 
 to themselves. " Bad, do you call it ? It is 
 infamous, that's what it is. Infamous. Such 
 fellows ought to be pilloried, flogged, and hung. 
 Men have been for much less before now. 
 Have you read this article, Mr. Scales ?" 
 
 " That article, sir ? I did just glance at it 
 for a moment. Several gentlemen were talk- 
 ing about it just now — shocking indeed. Sky- 
 blue like the pattern, did you say, miss?" to a 
 dubious-looking maid-of-all-work from a school, 
 who had just obtained a hearing. " I am ex- 
 ceedingly sorry we are out of that particular 
 shade, but here is a green that is very much 
 admired, and I can strongly recommend, if 
 that will do. Crochet needles, my dear?" 
 to a child whose nose just reached the top of 
 the counter. " Yes, plenty of crochet needles
 
 160 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 — 110, not bone — steel — steel crochet needles 
 are the only ones ever used now. There is 
 one for you — thank you, my little dear. Your 
 green wool, miss — thank you. Ah ! yes, Mr. 
 Stubbs, as you say, it will be the ruin of some 
 people, it will." 
 
 " Some people ? It will ruin hundreds. It 
 will break more hearts than that rascal has 
 hairs on his head ; and they say he is a young 
 fellow, too, and extravagant as a prince. 
 That's how it is, you see! Easy enough to 
 live like princes on other people's money. 
 Why, even you could do as much as that, 
 Wilkinson, hey?" 
 
 ^^ I dare say," assented Wilkinson, mecha- 
 nically, who had gradually got hold of the 
 paper, and was reading for dear life. 
 
 " You dare say ! Of course you could ; 
 anybody could without a conscience, who had 
 crowds of people only too happy to let him 
 dip his hands into their pockets ! I only wish, 
 as I said before, they pilloried 'em ; I'd go up 
 to London just to see it. I say," pulling out 
 a huge Avatch with some difficulty, " it is time 
 Ave were jogging. Come along, Wilkinson, 
 you can finish that by-and-bye. I'll take the 
 paper with me, Scales." 
 
 " Certainly, Mr. Stubbs, certainly. Perhaps
 
 CITY NEWS. 161 
 
 you would not object — I am sure you will 
 not — ^to let this lady look at it first, sir ? She 
 has been waiting some time, and I am sorry to 
 say, it is the only one we have in just now. 
 Thank you," as he dexterously drew the 
 paper from Wilkinson's tenacious fingers, and 
 laid it before Eleanor. " Thank you very 
 much. Here is the Farmer^ Friend^ gentle- 
 men ; perhaps you have not seen it. A long 
 article, I understand, on some new animal 
 they want to introduce as butcher's meat ; 
 just as a little change from beef and mutton, 
 you know. Quite a new idea." 
 
 ''A new idea, is it? I should think so," 
 growled Mr. Stubbs, not at all pleased at 
 being kept waiting, even by a lady. " If 
 folks like new ideas about butcher's meat, I 
 can only say they may eat 'em. I suppose it 
 was a new idea in the Crimea, feeding the 
 Guards on starved baggage-horses. Just ask 
 tliem how they liked the change from beef and 
 mutton. New ideas, indeed !" 
 
 " Well, sir, they are doing better out there 
 now," began Mr. Scales, with apologetic 
 meekness. 
 
 " Doing better? It is time they were, and 
 that we were too, if you come to that; but 
 with such a precious government as ours, 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
 /
 
 162 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 what can you expect ? I only know, if I had 
 the management of public aiFairs for a day — 
 and I know few men better fitted for it — I 
 would have such a clearance made of all 
 
 those What's the matter?" for Wilkinson 
 
 was shaking his elbow ; " you never will let 
 a soul open his lips but yourself. What is it 
 now ?" 
 
 " Just look there," said Wilkinson. 
 
 Stubbs followed his friend's eyes, and 
 started, as did the bookseller. Eleanor was 
 sitting in a rigid attitude, her eyes fixed on 
 the paper, her face as white as death. 
 
 " She has money in that vile bank, and the 
 news is too much for her. A glass of water, 
 Scales, quick ! Poor thing, poor thing ! Stick 
 the door open, Wilkinson, can't you, instead 
 of standing staring there. I say, ma'am, don't 
 now, pray don't. Be alive with that water, 
 Scales, do. I should say the least taste of 
 brandy wouldn't hurt; but I suppose that won't 
 quite do. Here, ma'am, just you drink a drop, 
 and you'll be better, and then, perhaps, you'll 
 take a more cheerful view of things." 
 
 How much of all this she heard was 
 doubtful; she drank eagerly of the water, 
 and then looked up, with a bewildered ex- 
 pression, as if just recovering from a stunning
 
 CITY NEWS. 163 
 
 blow, but without the fixed stare that had 
 Sfiven them such alarm. She tried to thank 
 them, but her lips were unable to form a 
 syllable. Mr. Stubbs, confirmed in his first 
 surmise, thought it as well to administer 
 advice and consolation. 
 
 " You are not to run away with the fancy, 
 ma'am, that all is gone for ever. There may 
 be something in the pound when they come to 
 wind up accounts. I beg your pardon for 
 seeming curious, but I hope you have not 
 much to lose ?" 
 
 She looked at him almost wildly, rose with 
 an eiFort, and stood supporting herself against 
 the counter. 
 
 " You know, ma'am, it will do you no good 
 to be told what isn't true. My private opi- 
 nion is that it is a bad business ; but still 
 there may be something for the creditors, and 
 if there's a spark of honour among 'em, they'll 
 do their best to lessen the misery they've 
 brought on so many. Take you this comfort, 
 ma'am : it is bad to lose your money, but it is 
 worse to lose your character, and have the 
 wretchedness of innocent people at your door. 
 I do believe," he muttered, in a lower voice, 
 " she has had a turn too much this time ; she 
 does not hear a word one says. And to let 
 M 2
 
 164 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 her go away by herself seems almost inhuman. 
 I say, ma'am, will you see a doctor? Or, 
 have you any friends you could send to ? 
 Here is Mr. Wilkinson will be most happy, I 
 am sure — hold your tongue, Wilkinson, you 
 know you would. I'd go myself, but you are 
 younger and nimbler than I am. Just say, 
 ma'am, where he is to run, and he'll be there 
 in less than no time." 
 
 " Thank you — thank you," she said, roused 
 by the emergency, and speaking in a hurried, 
 almost terrified manner, " I am quite well now, 
 I am much obliged to you. I require no as- 
 sistance. May I take this paper ?" 
 
 " Take that paper ? Well, madam, I can't 
 say no to a lady ; I wanted it rather, I may 
 say, very particular, but if you must have it, 
 you must, I suppose. The more you look at 
 it, the less you'll like it, I fancy ; but that's 
 your affair, not mine." 
 
 Before this speech was finished, Eleanor had 
 paid for the newspaper, and left the shop, she 
 hardly knew how, but she found herself pre- 
 sently so breathless, she must have been walk- 
 ing unusually fast. The rattle of wheels was 
 close behind, and the carriage that had con- 
 veyed her the day of her arrival, drew up by 
 her side — ^the horse, if possible, rather leaner
 
 CITY NEWS. 165 
 
 and dirtier than before — the driver touching 
 his hat insinuatingly, as if asserting a special 
 claim to her patronage. " The gentlemen at 
 Mr. Scales's told me as you wanted a fly, 
 ma'am. My 'oss in fust-rate condition, ma'am, 
 thanks to you — treat him like a child of my 
 own, ma'am, now." 
 
 She was still so faint and sick, that she was 
 glad to accept the offered conveyance, and 
 ostentatiously sticking his whip in its rest, as 
 a banner of universal humanity, he awaited 
 her orders. 
 
 " To the inn — The Merry Angler — as fast 
 as possible." 
 
 " Fast? did you say fast, ma'am?" stretch- 
 ing out his hand for the whip. 
 
 '' Yes, yes — go on, or I must walk. As fast 
 as you possibly can." 
 
 " Very good, ma'am, then here goes !" 
 Crack went his lash. "And another time," 
 he muttered to himself, " I shall know that 
 when ladies is hextra tender about the 'osses, 
 it's just because they isn't in a hurry — when 
 they 25, good luck to man and beast !" 
 
 With all his thumps and slashes, however, 
 it seemed to Eleanor as if she should never 
 reach her destination. Too stunned to think, 
 she was, as yet, only conscious of suffering.
 
 166 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 and of longing to be quiet and alone ; but this 
 small relief was not to be hers just yet. There 
 were several people standing about the door 
 as she alighted ; one man, who was struggling 
 with a rebellious cigar, eyed her rather cu- 
 riously, and seemed to listen with interest to 
 the eloquent reasons poured forth by the 
 driver, for charging three times as much as he 
 was entitled to. 
 
 " It strikes me, cabby, your beast has done 
 his work," he remarked, moving nearer to the 
 vehicle, and, in spite of her veil, getting a 
 view of Mrs. Atterbury's delicate profile as he 
 did so. 
 
 " Done his work?" repeated the other, pat- 
 ting his Rosin ante's sides, with as much enthu- 
 siasm as if he had really intended to give him 
 something to eat some day, " he knows better 
 than that, don't you, Billy? He has ladies 
 to take his part, he has, and is never to be 
 hit or over-driven, he isn't, unless they hap- 
 pen to be in a hurry ; and then it don't hurt, 
 because they pays." 
 
 "In a hurry, was she?" observed the 
 stranger, still puffing at his cigar with a per- 
 severance worthy of a better cause. 
 
 " I never druv a lady yet as wasn't," was
 
 CITY NEWS. 167 
 
 the answer, " unless somebody else was with 
 'em, in a hurry too, and then they'll take their 
 time, just out of contrariness. We knows 
 them, don't we, Billy?" 
 
 " I dare say you do, and so do I. I say, 
 friend, if your horse is as fresh as you say, 
 you won't be above another job, I suppose?" 
 
 " No, sir, certainly not." 
 
 " Then don't be out of hail, in case you're 
 wanted. A word to the wise." And with a 
 significant nod, he turned back to the bar. 
 
 Eleanor had noticed nothing of all this, in 
 her haste to reach the shelter of her own 
 apartment, which she had hardly entered, 
 when Mrs. Parsons followed her in great ex- 
 citement. 
 
 " Dear heart, ma'am, how poorly you look! 
 You really ought not to have gone out with 
 that cold, indeed you ought not. And you 
 have been and got a paper yourself! Well, 
 now, if that wasn't too bad, after I had been 
 so particular; but it don't matter now — I 
 have good news for you — yes," for Eleanor 
 started and trembled, " he is come, he is come, 
 safe and sound, and now your poor dear heart 
 will be easy. I declare I am as glad as if it 
 was a brother of my own !"
 
 168 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " He is here ? Why does he not come to 
 me ? Where is he ?" asked Eleanor, trying to 
 pass. 
 
 " No, now, don't you excite yourself, my 
 dear, dear lady ; it will do you so much harm. 
 He is just behind me, only I came to prepare 
 you for the surprise. Come in, sir, do, and 
 set her mind at ease." And drawing back as 
 she spoke, with a beaming face of sympathy 
 and congratulation, she admitted Mr. Des- 
 pard.
 
 169 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CITY LODGINGS. 
 
 The cry that rose to Eleanor's lips died 
 there unuttered, before the quick, warning 
 glance of her visitor. He closed the door on 
 Mrs. Parsons, slipped the bolt, and stood listen- 
 ing a few moments to make sure she was out 
 of hearing, before a word was spoken. When 
 satisfied that all was safe, he turned to Mrs. 
 Atterbury, who stood watching him in mo- 
 tionless terror, and approaching her with the 
 deepest respect, took her hand in his. 
 
 " Forgive my presuming to intrude like this, 
 dear Mrs. Atterbury; and still more for em- 
 ploying a little artifice to account for my visit 
 without causing suspicion : I did so by your 
 husband's desire." 
 
 "Is he ill?" she asked abruptly, the diffi-
 
 170 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 culty of articulation bringing out tlie words 
 with a gasp. 
 
 " No ; not at all. His health has not suf- 
 fered as yet — his mental sufferings you may 
 perhaps imagine. I see you know already 
 what I came to tell." 
 
 " That paper " she began, but could not 
 
 continue. He led her to a chair, and with 
 gentle solicitude relieved her of her bonnet 
 and shawl. He almost longed to see her weep ; 
 anything would be better than that ghastly 
 quietness. 
 
 " I am afraid you are ill ; it was wrong to 
 leave you here alone, but he meant it for the 
 best. It would have been worse at Warden- 
 stone." 
 
 Eleanor shuddered. ^' I am all in a dream 
 still," she murmured, faintly. " I do not yet 
 understand, and am almost afraid to ask. Tell 
 me the worst at once — what has happened ?" 
 
 " What you already know — Atterbury's 
 bank has stopped." 
 
 " But only for a time, is it not?" Her ex- 
 istence seemed to depend upon the answer. 
 
 " That I dare not say. I am afraid it is a 
 bad business." 
 
 ^'' But, Mr. Despard, if he is ruined, what 
 will become of all those who trusted him?"
 
 CITY LODGINGS. 171 
 
 " Hush — ^well, they must take what there is, 
 of course. Such things will happen, and have 
 happened before." 
 
 ''' His private fortune — all his property — 
 will that cover the loss?" 
 
 Despard shook his head. " Do not ask me 
 more than you are sure you can bear, Mrs. 
 Atterbury." 
 
 " I can bear anything that I ought to know, 
 sir ; anything that concerns my husband's ho- 
 nour. I entreat you to tell me the truth? 
 Are we ruined ?" 
 
 *' No — I am happy to think your fortune is 
 safe, being entirely settled on yourself." 
 
 " Then the law has no claim on that >?" 
 
 " None whatever. This is poor Frederick's 
 only comfort." 
 
 " I must see Mr. Martock without delay. 
 You came to fetch me, did you not ?" 
 
 "I did, if you should be equal to it; if 
 not, to take your commands, and escort you 
 wherever you pleased." 
 
 ^' Thank you. Will you arrange for the 
 next train?" 
 
 " Well, if you will excuse me — I think we 
 should go by a later one. We are less likely 
 to be observed." 
 
 " What does it matter if we are?"
 
 172 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " It matters more than you are the least 
 aware of. Dear Mrs. Atterbury, it is terrible 
 to have to name such things to you at this 
 moment, but for your own and your hus- 
 band's sake it is right you should be aware of 
 the truth." 
 
 She leant forward, her hands clenching the 
 elbows of her chair. "What is it?" was all 
 she could say. He bent over her with grave 
 commiseration, and whispered a few words 
 that seemed literally "to freeze her young 
 blood." Her head dropped on her hands, and 
 her whole: frame appeared to collapse and shiver 
 beneath the blow. Despard was obliged to 
 draw back and wait till the first agony was 
 past; every time he attempted to speak, a 
 gesture implored his silence. He flung the 
 window^s open, as much for his own comfort 
 as hers, and stood wiping his brow, and watch- 
 ing her with a degree of alarm, that made his 
 relief indescribable, when she again looked up. 
 
 " Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Des- 
 pard," she said, in a voice that seemed to have 
 grown many years older ; " it is right I should 
 know everything, that I may see my duty. It 
 is plain to me now. The more his enemies ca- 
 lumniate and wrong him, the closer his friends 
 must cling. You are one of his oldest and
 
 CITY LODGINGS. 173 
 
 dearest; I am sure you will be true, now, to 
 him and to me." 
 
 She had risen and held out her halid. He 
 bent his head as he returned its pressure. 
 Perhaps he was glad not to meet her eye, for 
 she felt his hand tremble, and he seemed to 
 find it difficult to frame an answer. 
 
 " Thank you," she said again, accepting it 
 as expressed, though unsaid ; " then now you 
 must guide me as you think best. I am ready 
 to do whatever is right, only do not keep me 
 longer from him than is absolutely necessary. 
 When shall we go ?" 
 
 " There is a train at eight," said Despard, 
 clearing his throat with an effort; " I should 
 recommend our taking that." 
 
 "Not sooner? Well," with a weary sigh, 
 " I trust to you ; and, meanwhile, I must 
 order you something. You have had no din- 
 ner, I am sure." 
 
 " Pray do not think of that," said he, with 
 unaffected eagerness. " If you will allow me, 
 I will take a chop in the travellers' room, while 
 you try and get a little rest. Do, to oblige 
 me, if I may presume to ask for an obligation. 
 Remember, you have a great deal before you, 
 and will need all your strength." 
 
 " I shall, and more than my own — but it wiU
 
 174 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 be given me. I have no fear about myself: 
 it is only for him — with his high spirit, his 
 noble, generous heart — ^liow will he ever bear 
 it?" 
 
 It was more than she herself could bear any 
 longer ; she hurried into her little bedroom, 
 locking the door behind her. Despard lingered 
 a few moments, till he heard her weeping, 
 and then, with a sigh of relief, went slowly 
 down stairs. " She will do now," he thought, 
 *^ and will be all the quieter by-and-bye. I 
 must take care these folks suspect nothing." 
 
 To quiet all suspicions at once, he fell into 
 lively chat with Mrs. Parsons (still under the 
 belief that he was Mrs. Mornay's brother from 
 the Crimea), told her stories and adventures 
 enough to have supplied Mr. Russell with a 
 second volume — very much to the satisfaction 
 of the stranger before mentioned, who had 
 quietly drawn near to listen — and wound up 
 by explaining that his sister being rather over- 
 come, they should not start till the evening. 
 She would have a cup of tea presently, and 
 meanwhile was lying down. She had left it 
 to him to settle the bill, though he was well 
 aware no money could make sufficient return 
 for the kindness of Mrs. Parsons. 
 
 Nothing could sound more reasonable, and
 
 CITY LODGINGS. 175 
 
 their plan was carried out without hindrance. 
 Eleanor, closely veiled, had just taken her 
 place in the railway carriage, and her com- 
 panion was arranging her goods under the 
 seat, when the stranger from the Merry Angler 
 stepped in, and placed himself opposite. Des- 
 pard gave such a start on perceiving him, 
 that Eleanor, whose nerves were all on the 
 stretch, had some difficulty in stifling a 
 scream. It was too late to change ; the guard 
 closed the door the next minute, and in 
 another they were in motion. Despard, after 
 the first gesture of chagrin, had subsided* into 
 moody silence, and nothing occurring to re- 
 new her alarm, Mrs. Atterbury had almost 
 forgotten it in her sorrowful thoughts, when 
 she found a slip of paper ghding into her 
 hand. With instinctive caution she watched 
 her opportunity, and read unobserved : 
 
 " He followed me from town. We are 
 watched. Take care." 
 
 The feelings of one who has gone from the 
 warm daylight into a dark underground la- 
 byrinth, and there, with only a fast-wasting 
 candle in his hand, suddenly discovers he has 
 lost his way, might in some degree resemble 
 those of Eleanor Atterbury, thus unexpectedly 
 removed from her own clear world of open-
 
 176 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 ness and security, into a region where all 
 seemed stratagem, concealment, and dangers 
 unknown. Happily, her affectionate unsel- 
 fishness stood her in good stead; she felt 
 everything, more for her husband than for 
 herself, and commanded her nerves and kept 
 her senses on the alert for his sake, as she 
 could not have done for her own. 
 
 Danger, obloquy, if such were to be his 
 portion, only made her loyal love the more 
 ardent ; and every moment appeared an hour, 
 that delayed that in which by look, word, and 
 deed, she could prove her entire devotion and 
 trust. But disappointment was in store for 
 her still. They could not shake ofi* their spy. 
 Despard tried once to change carriages, but 
 finding him about to follow, abandoned the 
 idea. On reaching London he hurried his 
 fair companion into a cab, whispered the ad- 
 dress, and was just flattering himself that they 
 were safe, when the driver put his head in to 
 say, " We're followed." Despard looked out 
 — a Hansom was in the rear, and every turn 
 they took, it took also, with the steadiness of 
 an old hound on the scent. He threw himself 
 back on the seat with a muttered ejaculation 
 of rage. " It won't do," he said ; " Atterbury 
 must not run the risk. I must leave you at
 
 CITY LODGINGS. ■ 177 
 
 the lodgings taken for you, and let him know 
 we are dogged." 
 
 "Is not Frederick there, then?" asked 
 Eleanor, feeling as if her last comfort was 
 gone. 
 
 " I sincerely trust not," was the reply. " If 
 we are watched like this, we shall have to be 
 uncommonly careful what we are about. I 
 don't like the look of that fellow at all." 
 
 They were driving now through the deserted 
 City streets — themselves an unaccustomed 
 sight to the young bride, which under other cir- 
 cumstances would have interested her strongly. 
 Now, the unwonted shapes of the houses, the 
 ghostly outlines of churches, the glimpses 
 down silent dimly-lighted courts, were all but 
 as fragments of a dreary dream, from which 
 she could not wake. They stopped at last at 
 an archway, the entrance to a small flagged 
 quadrangle. Here Despard jumped out, paid 
 the driver, and was conducting Eleanor in 
 just as the Hansom appeared at the end of the 
 street. " Close work," he muttered, as he strode 
 across the flags to the door of a dingy house, 
 which, in answer to sundry raps, was opened 
 by an elderly woman, her dress fluctuating 
 between slovenliness and finery. On being 
 requested to show Mrs. Mornay her apart- 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 ments, tliis attractive hostess eyed her from 
 head to foot, stroked her chin thoughtfully, 
 and then taking up a tallow-candle, ushered 
 her up two pair of stairs to a sitting-room 
 opening into a bedroom, far from clean, and 
 stiflingly close with summer heat and smells. 
 
 " We had very short notice, ma'am," she 
 said, in a high, sharp voice, seeing, or fancying 
 she saw, that Mrs. Atterbury was not enthusi- 
 astic in her admiration of her new quarters ; 
 " it was quite as an accommodation to oblige 
 Mr. Martock I contrived to get them ready at 
 all for you. But Mr. Martock said they were 
 just the thing, and I've never had any com- 
 plaints from any of my lodgers, never." 
 
 "Thank you — I have no doubt — it will 
 do very well," returned poor Eleanor, hardly 
 knowing what she said. 
 
 " I am afraid Mrs. Mornay is too tired to- 
 night to have an opinion on anything," put in 
 Despard, as he set down her modest supply of 
 luggage, and began very coolly to light a small 
 lamp that stood on the table. " Should you 
 object, Miss Craggs, to removing your candle ? 
 It rather affects my breathing. Thanks," as 
 Miss Craggs stepped into the passage ; "we 
 won't detain you, as I know how valuable your
 
 CITY LODGINGS. 179 
 
 time is. This is tlie best we could get under 
 the circumstances," lie went on, when they 
 were alone, " and Miss Craggs, though not 
 lovely, is to be trusted — at least, so Martock 
 says. Still, I feel it is a dreary place to leave 
 you in, alone." 
 
 " Never mind that," said Eleanor, trying 
 not to shudder as she glanced round j " there 
 will be time enough to think about personal 
 comfort by-and-bye. I did hope I should see 
 Frederick to-night. Would it really be un- 
 safe?" 
 
 " With that fellow hanging about, it cer- 
 tainly would. I am going now to announce 
 your arrival, and I shall have to look out 
 joretty sharp to make sure I am not followed 
 again. What shall I say to him from you, 
 by way of comfort?" 
 
 The tears almost choked her. " Tell him, 
 that I only wait for his wishes to fulfil them — 
 that all I have is his — that to save his honour 
 I will give up every farthing ; and he is not 
 to think for a moment I am afraid of being 
 poor. I am afraid of nothing — nothing — so 
 that his good name be saved. Oh, Mr. Des- 
 pard ! you do not believe that those calumnies 
 can really injure him ? Surely, if all we have 
 n2
 
 180 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 is given up to the creditors, it must prove 
 that, unfortunate as he is, he is at least an 
 honest man !" 
 
 " Quite as honest as most of them, at any 
 rate : but, indeed, your generosity is carrying 
 you too far. You are not called upon to 
 make such a sacrifice; and Martock, I am 
 sure, will not hear of it." 
 
 "If Mr. Martock declines to. serve me in 
 this matter," said Eleanor, firmly, " I shall 
 find some other friend who will. No one 
 living has, or can have, a right to interfere. 
 My husband's honour is my own. I have 
 very little notion how to set about it, but I 
 have quite made up my mind what to do, and 
 to do it at once." 
 
 " Remember one thing, my dear Mrs. Atter- 
 bury — it is all you have to live upon. I tell 
 you frankly, the house will never right itself; 
 it is a complete smash — bankruptcy, ruin, 
 everything most distressing. There will be 
 no prospect of his regaining his position ; you 
 will have to leave the country, and without 
 means, what will you do ?" 
 
 "What will they do whom we have beg- 
 gared ?" said Eleanor, in a hollow voice. 
 " Pray do not argue the point with me : I 
 have not strength to reason jet. I can only
 
 CITY LODGINGS. 181 
 
 just see wliat is right. It cannot be just to 
 keep back anything, and Frederick will be the 
 first to say so." 
 
 Despard twisted and pulled his long whiskers 
 till they stood out almost on end ; turned to 
 the door, stopped short, as if something held 
 him back against his will ; and growled at last, 
 in a tone quite unlike his usual manner, " It 
 is an abominable business from first to last, 
 and I wish I had never meddled with it." 
 
 " Sir?" said Mrs. Atterbury, looking at him 
 in astonishment. 
 
 ^'Well, well — I mean, you ought not, at 
 any rate, to have been kept in ignorance. 
 You ought to have been across the water, and 
 not exposed to all this. It is a disgraceful w^y 
 of doing things, and if I had had the arranging 
 of it, you would both have been safe by this 
 time. It is all that old Martock's obstinacy, 
 and he has such a grip on poor Fred " 
 
 " Frederick has confidence in him, has he 
 not?" asked Eleanor, becoming more and more 
 bewildered. 
 
 " Confidence of course he must have in a 
 fellow who knows more of his affkirs than he 
 does himself : cela va sans dire — but that does 
 
 not prevent his thinking him What is it ?" 
 
 for Eleanor's face had changed suddenly, and
 
 182 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 she made a start forwards. Even as lie asked 
 tlie question, he turned to see, and found Mr. 
 Martock at liis elbow ; but how long he had 
 been there, or by what means he had entered 
 unobserved, it w^as impossible to divine. The 
 first start of annoyance and confusion sup- 
 pressed, Despard looked keenly into the law- 
 yer's face, who, even while shaking hands 
 with Eleanor, returned the look with interest. 
 She, poor woman, too full of her grief and 
 anxiety to have room for personal feeling, was 
 really glad he was come, and showed it by her 
 greeting, unconscious of the glances that were 
 crossing each other like sword-blades between 
 her rival counsellors. 
 
 " It was very good of you to come to me at 
 once, Mr. Martock. Now I can tell you every- 
 thing before I sleep : this is such a comfort ! 
 Have you just left him?" 
 
 " No, I have not seen him for some hours ; 
 I have been too much engaged. I am glad to 
 find I do not intrude by this late visit. Mr. 
 Despard looks rather surprised to see me." 
 
 " Surprised ? Of course I was, to find you 
 creeping into the room like a cat, my dear 
 fellow; but now I think of it, the surprise 
 would have been if you had stayed away. I 
 am much obliged to you, for my part ; you
 
 CITY LODGINGS. 183 
 
 have saved me a world of trouble, and, per- 
 haps, a great many mistakes. I will leave you 
 and Mrs. Atterbury to your consultations, while 
 I go to set my friend's mind at ease." 
 
 Eleanor followed him to the door, not only 
 to express her sense of his friendly services, 
 but to remind him that she was in his 
 debt. He promised to settle accounts with her 
 the next day, and took his leave — whistling, 
 as he went down stairs, in a manner that was 
 his wont when his mind was made up to some- 
 thing dangerous. 
 
 " Dog me J do you ? Send a spy to watch 
 my movements, and report them? That's 
 your little game, is it, my worthy friend? 
 Then if I don't know a trick worth two o' that, 
 I'll give you leave to do it again !"
 
 184 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 DIVIDED COUNSELS. 
 
 " Now, my dear madam," said Mr. Martock, 
 when lie was left alone mth his client, " did I 
 understand that you wished to tell me some- 
 thing immediately ?" 
 
 " I should have said I wished you to tell 
 m^," she replied, " what I ought to do. Should 
 I write to Sir John Pierpoint ? Is there any 
 one I ought to see, or anywhere I ought to go, 
 to reassure people's minds, that they are going 
 to be fairly dealt with ?" 
 
 " Suppose we sit down, Mrs. Atterbury, 
 and discuss the matter quietly." He took a 
 seat at the table, opposite to hers ; laid some 
 papers down before him, on which he rested 
 his elbow, and looked her intently in the 
 face.
 
 DIVIDED COUNSELS. 185 
 
 " You ask my .advice, Mrs. Atterbuiy, in 
 this painful turn of circumstances. You Avill, 
 therefore, permit me to use openness in giving 
 it." 
 
 " If you only will," said Eleanor, innocently. 
 He made a slight inclination of the head, the 
 irony whereof she could not see. 
 
 " Two courses are open to you, Mrs. Atter- 
 bury, as I pointed out to your husband this 
 morning. It is for me to lay them before 
 you ; but you only can decide which you 
 ought to take. One is, to put yourself at once 
 under the protection of your own friends — of 
 Sir John Pierpoint, if you think proper, or 
 any other in whom you have confidence. They 
 will take care that your rights are guarded, 
 and that you are spared all unnecessary 
 pain and annoyance. In all probability, you 
 would be advised to go abroad for a time, till 
 affairs were more settled, and the whole thing 
 blown over. This would, I am sure, meet 
 with your husband's approval, as relieving him 
 of all anxiety about your comfort under the 
 circumstances." 
 
 " And the other?" asked Eleanor, with dif- 
 ficulty repressing her impatience. 
 
 " The other is more than any one could 
 presume to recommend. It is simply to set
 
 186 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 aside every consideration but tliat of assisting 
 Mr. Atterbury." 
 
 " In which case what should I do ?" 
 
 " When I know which you mean to adopt, 
 I can explain ; but not before." 
 
 " Can I have any object on earth now but 
 that of assisting him ?" 
 
 " I can imagine your feeling so at this mo- 
 ment ; but, Mrs. Atterbury, it will require a 
 good deal of self-denial and perseverance — a 
 good deal of magnanimity and courage, to 
 carry out what you will have to undertake. 
 More, I may venture to say, than you have 
 any idea of." 
 
 She pressed her hands together, and sat 
 silently looking on the floor before answering. 
 
 "I have thought it all over — I have, in- 
 deed. I am not afraid of failing ; I trust 
 strength will be given me to do what I ought. 
 My only wish — no, not wish, it is no time for 
 -wishes — my fixed determination is to stand by 
 Frederick against the world, and to give up 
 everything I have for his sake : and when I 
 say this, Mr. Martock," she continued, with 
 mournful earnestness, " I am not talking as 
 if I did not realise what it means. I know 
 well how hard my father and grandfather 
 worked all their lives, for the fortune they left
 
 DIVIDED COUNSELS. 187 
 
 to me, and it is no small matter to sacrifice it 
 all at one blow : but I know, too, what they 
 would bave expected from me — wbat tliey 
 would have done themselves, where honour 
 and integrity were at stake. So now, if my 
 simple Avord has any weight with you, you 
 may advise me without scruple, as having no 
 interest on earth but Frederick's safety and 
 happiness." 
 
 " That is sufficient, Mrs. Atterbury ; I can 
 now speak plainly. If you really are so re- 
 solved, you must put yourself and your affairs 
 for the present unreservedly into my hands." 
 
 " We are in them already," said she, with a 
 gentle smile. 
 
 " Yes — but you must understand this, for at 
 is most important. No other adviser, what- 
 ever, must be consulted; no one must even 
 know where you are. You must put up with 
 your present concealment till I give you no- 
 tice." 
 
 "I shall see Frederick?" said she, trem- 
 bling. 
 
 " If safe for you both, certainly ; but re- 
 member, you are surrounded by enemies, and 
 if either of you were recognised, I would not 
 answer for the consequences." 
 
 " Could they do anything to me V
 
 188 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 ^' Not personally — ^but if it were once dis- 
 covered that you were in town, they would 
 never lose sight of you again till they had, 
 through you, found Azm, and if, in the present 
 state of things, he were found, and exposed to 
 public shame and execration " 
 
 Her gesture of agony stopped him. It was 
 not till after a short interval had elapsed, that 
 she could reply, almost in a whisper, " It would 
 kill us both." 
 
 " I think it would." There was another 
 silence ; Eleanor's face was hidden in her 
 hands. 
 
 "We were watched to this very door," she 
 said, at last, with a sudden start of recollec- 
 tion, " by a person Mr. Despard called a 
 spy. What will be the consequences, do you 
 think?" 
 
 " Nothing serious, I hope; nothing serious. 
 It shall be looked to, however; and shows 
 how cautious we ought to be. You see, ma- 
 dam," he went on, after a little consideration, 
 " your whole fortune, thrown into the gulf of 
 the bank's failure, might as weU be throAvn 
 into the sea, for the good it would do. It 
 would sound very devoted and generous on 
 your part, but would not buy his safety for an
 
 DIVIDED COUNSELS. 189 
 
 hour. There are two classes of persons whom 
 he has great cause to dread : his private 
 creditors, to whom he is largely indebted— and 
 those of the bank, who have, unfortunately, 
 too strong grounds for threatening a criminal 
 prosecution. Yes, Mrs. Atterbury, I know all 
 you are going to say, and it is a very distress- 
 ing thing, but we have no time to regret or be 
 indignant about it now — such is the fact. By 
 a large timely pecuniary sacrifice, judiciously 
 managed, I think you might secure your hus- 
 band from both these pressing dangers, and 
 then he might retire with you abroad, where 
 the remnant of your property would be suf- 
 ficient for respectability and comfort : display 
 you would not wish for. But to be successful, 
 such a negotiation must be begun at once, and 
 conducted in secresy. The bitterness of the 
 public feeling increases every hour ; the report 
 has been spread that you are both abroad ; this 
 we have helped to circulate, as it assists our 
 designs, but to one or two, interested in Atter- 
 bury's detention, it is privately known that 
 he is in town ; and these parties, if not satisfied, 
 may betray him to others. There is a vague 
 hope that you will do something, and these 
 hopes, properly encouraged, will keep people
 
 190 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 quiet for a little while, and give us time for 
 further arrangements. Do I make myself in- 
 telligible?" 
 
 Eleanor made a sign of assent. 
 
 '^And you decide to place these arrange- 
 ments in my hands ?" 
 
 " I have no alternative, sir : I can only 
 leave it to you who understand how they 
 should be carried out. All I have to say is, 
 what I said before: I am ready to give up 
 everything — to pay as far as my utmost means 
 extend, though the rest of my life be spent in 
 hard work. I can do no more, and I would 
 do no less. Only save his nanle, and give 
 him a hope for the future. I suppose there is 
 nothing I can do to-night?" 
 
 "Nothing," he said, rising, "unless it be to 
 take the rest you evidently require. I shall 
 wait upon you to-morrow as early as possible. 
 Remember, your health is of great importance 
 just now ; it is your duty to take care of it 
 for the sake of others, if not for your own." 
 
 " Thank you," she replied, with a weary 
 siofh, " I will do mv best." 
 
 my 
 
 ' What that "best" would have been had she 
 been left to herself it would be difficult to say. 
 Happily, perhaps, she was not allowed much 
 choice in the matter. The door had scarcely
 
 DIVIDED COUNSELS. 191 
 
 closed on Mr. Martock before Miss Craggs's 
 heavy foot v^as on the stairs, and entering, 
 brass candlestick in hand, she stood erect be- 
 fore her lodger. 
 
 " If you please, ma'am, do you expect any 
 more gentlemen to-night?" 
 
 "No — I believe not," said Mrs. Atterbury, 
 rousing herself from the dejected attitude into 
 which she had sunk. 
 
 " Then, I suppose, ma'am, you don't wish 
 to keep people up any longer, and I may take 
 away the lamp. We are not accustomed to 
 such hours as these. Your bed is made, and 
 here is your candle." 
 
 There was no resisting so imperious a man- 
 date, and Eleanor yielded, with a gentleness 
 that so far mollified her landlady as to make 
 her mutter something apologetic, and even 
 propose assisting her to unpack. This being 
 civilly declined, she withdrew, wishing her 
 good night in a softened tone, and hoping she 
 would sleep comfortably, she was sure. It 
 was more than the unhappy young lady dared 
 to hope, but she remembered her promise. 
 Powerful as the temptation was to give way 
 to a paroxysm of grief and despair, she 
 resisted it steadfastly, and prayed till she fell 
 asleep — too absorbed, too sad, and perhaps too
 
 192 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 tired and ill, to feel the discomforts of her 
 lodging, or criticise the domestic cleanliness 
 of Miss Craggs. She rose early, oppressed 
 with stifling heat, and longing for the fresh 
 air no open window could give her ; vexed to 
 find herself coughing, and aching in every 
 limb, but resolved that no bodily infirmity 
 should disable her from her necessary work. 
 The breakfast sent up, with a protocol from 
 Miss Craggs, to the effect that it was usual for 
 her lodgers to provide themselves with all they 
 required — ^that she didn't keep a boarding- 
 house, and wouldn't to please anybody — but 
 that, as Mr. Martock's friend, she had accom- 
 modated her for once — had little to tempt her 
 appetite ; but parching thirst made hay tea and 
 London milk taste like nectar, and her return 
 message was so courteously grateful. Miss 
 Craggs began to wonder, involuntarily, what 
 she would like for dinner. She had almost 
 begun to ascend the stairs to ask the question 
 in person, when her mood was changed by 
 the arrival of Mr. Despard, to whom, from the 
 first, she had taken a strong dislike, and, re- 
 turning very short answers to his inquiries 
 after her lodger, she left him to announce 
 himself, slamming the door of her sitting-room 
 in his face without ceremony.
 
 DIVIDED COUNSELS. 193 
 
 Fortunately for him, his reception on the 
 second floor was of a gentler nature, for his 
 errand required a little encouragement. It 
 was no less than, after Mrs. Atterbury had 
 settled with him for the expenses of her 
 journey, to ask her for three hundred pounds. 
 It took her by surprise, especially as he de- 
 clined to explain further than that it was to 
 be employed on her husband's service. Did 
 Frederick know of it? No, he had found it 
 too late overnight to visit him, and had been 
 too busy about his affairs that morning. He 
 did not in the least wonder at Mrs. Atterbury's 
 hesitation ; he had no guarantee to oifer but 
 his honour, and if she thought that worth 
 trusting to, he would do his best to justify the 
 trust : if not, he had no more to say, but this — 
 that the opportunity of doing the service was 
 theirs now, was slipping away every moment, 
 and might never return. And having said so 
 much, he waited patiently for her decision, 
 confident from the first what that decision 
 would be. 
 
 " Listen," said Eleanor, after a short and 
 evidently painful interval of reflection, "it is 
 not that I would not trust you, my husband's 
 intimate friend, with twice the amount, if you 
 required it, under other circumstances ; but it 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 is right you should know, and he also, that I 
 have already taken upon myself liabihties to 
 so large an amount, I hardly know what to 
 call my own, and what I am entitled to dis- 
 pose of." 
 
 " I knew you would be doing this," was his 
 answer ; " and therefore I urge the request. 
 It will be of inestimable service to him to-day ; 
 to-morrow it may, I think it ivilh be too late. 
 Nay, unless given now, it may be scarcely 
 worth giving at all." 
 
 ^^ I must believe you," she said, after another 
 pause ; " I dare not refuse. I hope I am doing 
 right. I am so helpless and ignorant in these 
 matters. There, sir" — she had taken her 
 cheque-book out of her dressing-case, and 
 filled it up to the amount required. "If he 
 disapproves what I have done, he must come 
 and tell me his wishes himself. Oh, if he only 
 would !" 
 
 " I promise you this," said Despard, as he 
 folded up the cheque, " if he does not approve 
 what I propose to do, I will bring you this 
 back again. And Avhat is more, if you are 
 really so distressed at not seeing him, he shall 
 run the risk ; we won't stop for Martock's opi- 
 nion ; he shall come to you, and there's an end 
 of it."
 
 DIVIDED COUNSELS. 195 
 
 ^' Not for the world !" said she, eagerly, 
 " while there is any risk. It was weak of me 
 to mention it. I am content to wait. Go, do 
 what you have to do, and bring me word how 
 he is. Everything else is of comparatively 
 little consequence." 
 
 ^' You forgive me, Mrs. Atterbury ?" 
 
 ^' For what?" 
 
 " For more than I can explain — for taking 
 this — perhaps for doing with it what you might 
 not have wished. I shall be easier mth your 
 pardon." 
 
 She held out her hand with a sad smile, but 
 said nothing ; her heart was too heavy. He 
 pressed the hand to his lips with unusual 
 warmth, and hurried away. • 
 
 When Mr. Martock came with his papers an 
 hour or two later, she told him what she had 
 done. He looked very serious, and almost 
 angry. Of course, Mrs. Atterbury had a right 
 to do as she pleased, but this sort of thing 
 was out of the question, if she really meant 
 to serve her husband. He was sorry to say it, 
 but it was a painful fact, that Mr. Despard had 
 led Mr. Atterbury into a thousand foolish ex- 
 travagances, and he feared they had both en- 
 tangled themselves in certain racing and gam- 
 bling transactions, which would soon swallow 
 2
 
 196 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 up her fortune, if she meddled with them. 
 Let her once be supposed willing to defray 
 debts of honour, and she would be drained in 
 no time. He should let Mr. Despard into a 
 piece of his mind on the first opportunity. 
 
 The opportunity was not long withheld : the 
 two met in Eleanor's apartment that evening. 
 Mr. Martock, who was first to arrive, was 
 giving his fair client an account of the scenes 
 he had been going through, the exertions he 
 had been making during the day, when her 
 other counsellor came in. His face was rather 
 flushed, and his manner, usually so full of 
 courteous respect for Mrs. Atterbury, had a 
 degree of freedom and jocularity in it, that 
 made her very thankful for Mr. Martock's pre- 
 sence. She could not help thinking he was 
 rather excited by wine ; as perhaps he was, for 
 he talked of the bank, and the " smash," and 
 the consternation and rage of the public, as if 
 it was all an excellent joke — carried a little too 
 far, perhaps, but irresistibly comical. The 
 graver and more annoyed his hearers looked, 
 the more he roared with laughter ; every men- 
 tion of Frederick's name seemed to tickle him 
 with a facetiousness he could not conceal, and 
 he had, at last, to walk to the window, and 
 there give w^ay to the mirth that made the tears
 
 DIVIDED COUNSELS. 197 
 
 run down his cheeks, protesting all the while 
 that old Martock would be the death of him. 
 
 " Is this a man to be trusted, do you think?" 
 asked Mr. Martock in a low voice ; not so low, 
 however, but that Despard caught the words. 
 
 " Trusted? I think so, indeed, my old boy ! 
 and if you like, we'll let Mrs. Atterbury be- 
 hind the scenes, and she shall decide for her- 
 self which of us will be her safest friend — or 
 her sharpest, which comes to the same thing. 
 Shall we, old fellow ?" 
 
 "When you are in a fit state to discuss 
 these matters, it will be time enough to go into 
 them. Meanwhile, I believe Mrs. Atterbury's 
 own good sense will be her safeguard against 
 such applications as you made to her this 
 morning. We see the result, and are satis- 
 fied." 
 
 " That is very clever of you, and must be 
 a great ease to your minds. You see the re- 
 sult, do you ? Well, perhaps you do. I am 
 a little cheerful, perhaps, and so would you be, 
 my esteemed and venerable friend, if you had 
 done the good day's work I have. I have only 
 one little hint to give you — sharp hand as you 
 are, you have lost the trick !" 
 
 Mr. Martock's impassive features changed a 
 little, and his hand stopped for a minute, in
 
 198 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 the act of folding up liis papers. He glanced 
 at Eleanor, whose deep blush betrayed her 
 resentment at such behaviour, and stepped 
 promptly between her and Despard. " Come," 
 he said, touching his arm in a conciliatory 
 manner, "we need not trouble Mrs. Atterbury 
 any longer. If you are going my way, we can 
 walk to2:ether." 
 
 " Westward, ho ? with all my heart, most 
 worshipful sir ; I am at your service, whenever 
 you please. He won't trust us, Mrs. Atter- 
 bury ; not for a moment. He thinks once is 
 enough, and no one is to have the managing 
 of your affairs but himself henceforth. He 
 will think differently by this time to-morrow 
 — ^you may take my word for thaty 
 
 " There, that will do ; come," persisted Mr. 
 Martock, coaxing him to the door, with an- 
 other furtive glance at Eleanor's face, as she 
 stood with her hand on the table, regarding 
 them both in indignant silence. It seemed as 
 if her look and attitude had some effect on 
 Pespard himself, for he checked a laugh that 
 was bursting from his lips, and with a bow, 
 half apologetic, and not devoid of respect, suf- 
 fered himself to be drawn out of the room*. 
 Nothing, however, would induce him to go 
 out of the house. His throat was as dry as 
 sand, and his legs were tired ; no wonder, con-
 
 DIVIDED COUNSELS. 199 
 
 sidering all he had done. No, he wouldn't 
 go to a tavern — he would stay and see what 
 Miss Craggs, amiable creature ! would give 
 them there. She had a snug little parlour, 
 he knew, and to please Mr. Martock, would 
 lend it them for an hour. He was so doggedly 
 obstinate on the matter that his friend, raging 
 inwardly, had to yield : Miss Craggs was sum- 
 moned, and after some demur, her reluctance 
 by no means diminished by Mr. Despard's 
 manner, consented to lend her parlour, and 
 accommodate them with brandy-and-Avater. 
 Whether anything had previously excited her 
 sus]3icions, or whether Mr. Martock's unusual 
 anxiety put her on the alert, we cannot ex- 
 actly say, but the consent was given with an 
 inward reservation, that she should hear all 
 that passed ; and having her OAvn private ways 
 and means of so doing, her promise was faith- 
 fully kept. 
 
 An hour later, they left the house, and she 
 watched them as they crossed the court-yard, 
 and disappeared through the archway, before 
 she went up-stairs to visit her lodger. She 
 found her lying on her bed, exhausted with 
 coughing, and half-blind with tears. Miss 
 Craggs's stern face grew sterner as she looked, 
 and her voice sounded more rasping than ever. 
 
 " Shall I send you up some tea, ma'am? I
 
 200 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 suppose you wish me to provide for you, as 
 you are not equal to do it for yourself" 
 
 " Thank you ; I am sorry to give you the 
 trouble," said Eleanor, rousing herself to 
 answer civilly. 
 
 " No trouble that I mind, ma'am, if you are 
 not well. Now look here — haven't you a 
 medical man of your own that you could 
 send to?" 
 
 " No, thank you. It is not necessary." 
 
 " Humph ! That's as people think. But you 
 would like to see some of your friends, per- 
 haps. I could find you a messenger if you 
 want to send to Sir John — I forget what name 
 you said, ma'am." 
 
 " Pierpoint — thank you — not at present," 
 returned Eleanor. 
 
 *' Humph !" ejaculated Miss Craggs again, 
 with more satisfaction than before, for she had 
 ascertained one thing at least that she wanted 
 to know. '' Did I understand you to say, 
 ma'am," raising her voice, as Eleanor's heavy 
 eyelids closed, '' that you should require these 
 lodgings very long ?" 
 
 Mrs. Atterbury half-raised herself with a 
 convulsive start. " I hope not — it depends 
 on — on business — and on my husband's ar- 
 rangements "
 
 DIVIDED COUNSELS. 201 
 
 "Ah! I see," and Miss Craggs glanced at 
 Eleanor's left hand, and cleared her throat sig- 
 nificantly. " Then, if Mr. Mornay comes to 
 join you here, you will want a dressing-room, 
 I suppose?" 
 
 There was no answer ; the young wife sank 
 back, and turned away her face. Miss Craggs 
 moved to the door, but stopped to observe, 
 "Wouldn't a little fresh air do you good, 
 ma'am, this warm evening ? I could put my 
 bonnet on, if you pleased, and take care of 
 you, if you are afraid to go alone." 
 
 " I wish to be alone, thank you," was all 
 the reply given, as if the speaker scarcely un- 
 derstood the question. Miss Craggs stood one 
 moment looking at her as she lay, and then 
 withdrew without further comment. Her first 
 step was to hasten to her room, and examine an 
 old book in red binding that lay in a corner 
 by her tea-caddy. The result proving unsatis- 
 factory, she called to her maid to run over to 
 Mr. White's the bookseller's, and ask for the 
 loan of Boyle's Court Guide for a few mi- 
 nutes. It was brought and studied, a direction 
 copied, and the book sent back with thanks. 
 
 " Sir John Pierpoint, Place. That is 
 
 one point ascertained ; and now, gentlemen, 
 you had better mind what you are about."
 
 202: 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 
 
 The strength of a good constitution, aided 
 by the tenderest care and nursing, enabled 
 Anne Clavering to shake oif her malady sooner 
 than had at first been expected. All that love 
 and watchfulness could do to ease and soothe 
 her hours of suffering, she received from those 
 about her, and was sensible of and grateful for 
 it before she had power to tell them so. The 
 illness in itself was salutary ; it gave her the 
 rest she needed, and in the attendant weak- 
 ness, the first poignancy of regret grew weaker 
 too ; gentler thoughts of those to whom she 
 was so dear, brought hopes for the future with 
 them, and when health began to return, she 
 could bear to think of life and its duties, not 
 as offering the possibility of happiness for her-
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 203 
 
 self, but with the prospect of giving some to 
 them. That she could ever be what she had 
 been — ever hope, enjoy, or love again as she 
 had before, was out of the question — but Avhile 
 she had Uncle Rupert and Edward, those two 
 faces she had found hovering over her at all 
 hours, looking as if they only lived in the light 
 of hers, it was equally out of the question that 
 she should die of a broken heart. For them 
 she could, she Avould exert herself, would try 
 to forget, to take an interest in every-day 
 matters; to be cheerful, patient, and strong- 
 minded; and when her hour of rest really 
 came, it would be all the sweeter that she had 
 not forfeited her right to sympathy by selfish 
 neglect of others. ♦ 
 
 These were wholesome resolutions, and 
 helped much to accelerate her recovery. In 
 carrying them out, she had one great assist- 
 ance, and this was the society of IJncle Rupert's 
 new acquaintance, old Mrs. Sydney; who, di- 
 rectly she heard Mr. Clavering's niece was 
 seriousl}^ ill, without any female friend but 
 her nurse, at her grandson's urgent entreaty, 
 removed with him into Westminster, and spent 
 all the time she could spare from Arthur, by 
 the bedside of Anne. To the motherless girl, 
 in her weakened and depressed state, these
 
 204 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 visits became exceedingly precious. Not that 
 Mrs. Sydney was remarkably clever — quite 
 the contrary — or that she was a model old 
 lady, such as no eye beholds without re- 
 verence; she was as simple, homely, matter- 
 of-fact, as ever a quiet woman could be ; but 
 she had one of those loving natures under 
 whose wing a bruised spirit can nestle, secure 
 of sympathy and tenderness, even if not of full 
 appreciation. Her kind old heart yearned 
 over Anne as if she had been a granddaughter 
 of her own ; and her good-tempered simplicity 
 making it impossible for Nurse Moyle's jealous 
 aiFection to be wounded, she became free of 
 the sick chamber, and one of the invalid's 
 greatest comforts. 
 
 Of the principal cause of Anne's illness she 
 knew nothing ; neither did Anne, after she had 
 once asked Edward whether the marriage had 
 taken place, allude to the subject again. The 
 wound was apparently healed; she tried to 
 appear as if it really was so, and all but Ed- 
 ward were easy about her. He, who knew 
 her best, was the one whom it was hardest to sa- 
 tisfy, but at the same time, who was least obtru- 
 sive in his anxiety ; and if Anne's cheerfulness 
 deceived all but Wilton, Wilton's private opi- 
 nion was discovered by none but Anne.
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 205 
 
 Arthur Sydney's friendship was, in its way, 
 as great a resource to uncle and nephew at 
 this time as his grandmother's. All his suffer- 
 ings and helplessness were insufficient to de- 
 press his joyous temper ; he bore the tortures 
 of daily martyrdom as if they were part of his 
 drill, and had a joke on his lips when tears of 
 anguish were in his eyes. They were often 
 together, and every day felt so unwilling to 
 part, that it became at last a serious matter 
 of discussion whether it would be possible for 
 the Sydneys to take a house near Lawleigh, 
 instead of returning to the north. Mrs. 
 Sydney feared the cold of her OAvn home for 
 Arthur's delicate frame, and like many persons 
 who have lived long without any change at 
 all, now that she had once broken her routine, 
 did not greatly care how much she broke it 
 further. Anne was now so far advanced in 
 convalescence, that her uncle could leave her 
 without anxiety ; and as it was urgently impe- 
 rative that he should go and arrange matters 
 at home as soon as possible, it was agreed that 
 he should make all necessary inquiries. 
 
 The close summer heat was trying them all, 
 and the feeling was general, that the sooner 
 the two patients were in the country the better : 
 Edward, who would be the greatest loser by
 
 206 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 the move, being the most earnest in recom- 
 mending it. Uncle Rupert, therefore, went 
 down to Lawleigh, and was very busy there 
 for a fortnight or more— too busy, happily for 
 him, to have much time for regret ; and finding 
 his best consolation for the sight of his brother's 
 vacant chair in doing everything that they had 
 once planned should be done, when the fortune 
 was made for which he had toiled so long. He 
 was so occupied from morning till night with 
 the various matters he had set on foot, that it 
 was only at intervals he had leisure to look at 
 the papers, and then only at the news of the 
 war. And thus it happened that he returned 
 to toAvn a few days after Atterbury's failure, 
 without having seen or noticed it at all. 
 
 All London that was sufficiently unfashion- 
 able or parhamentary to be still in town, was 
 talking of it when he arrived. Such a blow 
 on men's belief in respectability had not fallen 
 for years. The high character borne by the 
 late Mr. Atterbury, and the popular attrac- 
 tions of his son, made it at first appear too 
 monstrous to be true, that the one had died, 
 and the other been living all this time in the 
 depths of insolvency and ruin. The first solu- 
 tion of the failure was that a sudden pressure 
 had come on the house, froip which it would
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 207 
 
 recover with honour : but rumours of a very 
 sinister nature followed so thickly, the panic 
 among creditors and depositors became fear- 
 ful and threatening. Rupert Clavering heard 
 enough, while calling at his own banker's on 
 his way home, to make him shrink from facing 
 Anne, until he had ascertained from other 
 quarters whether she knew it already. Find- 
 ing Edward too busy to be disturbed, he called 
 at Mrs. Sydney's lodging, and found Arthur 
 on the sofa, talking eagerly mth a young man 
 of about his own age. 
 
 " Mr. Clavering, I am so glad you are come 
 back ! Come in. This is an old schoolfellow 
 and chum, whom you may have heard me 
 speak of — Tommy Compton. Tommy, I toM 
 you how good Mr. Clavering was to me when 
 I landed. I never shall forget the taste of 
 that porter. I had been longing for it ever 
 since I left Scutari, and the unfeeling wretches 
 always told me it would be my death, and 
 drank it themselves. Don't run away, Tom ; 
 I want you to know each other." 
 
 Compton, though privately considering the 
 introduction a bore, responded civilly, criti- 
 cising Uncle Rupert's dress the while. '' From 
 India, sir, I suppose, or the Crimea ?" 
 
 "Overland ffom Australia — magnificent
 
 208 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 journey !" said Uncle Rupert. " You young 
 men do not know what you lose by staying at 
 home in your clubs." 
 
 " Nor what they gain by going abroad, 
 eh ?" put in Arthur, writhing while he smiled. 
 " Well, sir, how have you been getting on at 
 Lawleigh ?" 
 
 Mr. Clavering answered rather absently; 
 his head was too full of the news he had heard 
 to dwell on anything else, and he had only to 
 name it to set the others talking. Compton 
 was the most excited of the three. He knew 
 the parties — ^had known Fred Atterbury for 
 ages — ten months at least; the most extra- 
 vagant fellow, but with such taste ! Rather 
 too conceited and bumptious— thought nobody 
 had a right to an opinion but himself — but 
 he had such a terrier ! "I was at his wedding 
 only the other day, when everybody thought 
 him one of the richest and the luckiest — no, I 
 can't say the happiest, exactly, for he had a 
 way of not seeming to care much, even for his 
 pretty wife. And of all good-natured, plea- 
 sant girls to ride or dance with, Miss Ormonde 
 was the pleasantest. Ah ! but Fred was wide 
 awake, and he cared more than we supposed, 
 for she has a nice little fortune of her own, 
 which will be very convenient just now."
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 209 
 
 " It seems no one knows where they are," 
 said Mr. Clavering. 
 
 "No; they were last seen at Wardenstone, 
 but they went away the day before the smash, 
 leavmg their servants and luggage at the 
 hotel, and saying they should be back in 
 a day or two. Where they vfent nobody 
 knows, but it is generally believed they 
 are abroad. Jack Despard thinks they are, 
 and he is as likely to be right as most people ; 
 in which case, the creditors may whistle. Poor 
 old Pierpoint takes it very much to heart." 
 
 " Who is he ?" asked Sydney. 
 
 " He was Mrs. Atterbury's guardian. She 
 married from his house, and he thought he 
 had done a very clever job in making up the 
 match, for, of all things, he likes a fellow to 
 have lots of money handy." 
 
 " Then you are a special favourite, Tom, I 
 presume ?" 
 
 " Well, you see, it is only good natured to 
 look after him a bit, now he has come up to 
 town all by himself, and has the gout into the 
 bargain ; so I go and listen to his stories, and 
 give him a little advice occasionally, which he 
 is very glad of He is in a way with Mrs. 
 Atterbury for not writing. Poor soul ! she 
 cannot have much that is pleasant to tell. 
 
 VOL. 'I. p
 
 210 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 Their newly-furnislied house, and the car- 
 riage just built for her, and his horses — every- 
 thing has, been seized. He was over head and 
 ears in debt to everybody. Things are coming 
 out every day that nobody dreamed of. I 
 heard an ugly story yesterday, but I shut up 
 the fellow who told it, so I must not tell it 
 myself I can't believe he is so bad as they 
 make him out." 
 
 ^' I can," said Uncle Rupert. 
 
 Arthur looked round anxiously. " Oh, I 
 hope you have not lost by this business ?" 
 
 " Lost ? No, my dear boy ; on the contrary, 
 I rather hope we shall be the better for it in 
 the end." 
 
 "Then you are uncommonly lucky," said 
 Compton ; "I am afraid there are few besides 
 the lawyers who will say as much. It really 
 is a horrid shame, when one comes to think of 
 it; but why you should be so prejudiced 
 against him, Mr. Clavering " 
 
 " I am not prejudiced, sir ; I am too old to 
 judge from prejudice." 
 
 " Then what makes you think so ill of Fred 
 Atterbury ?" 
 
 " I know he acted like a heartless scoundrel 
 in one instance, so I can believe he would do 
 it in another."
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 211 
 
 " Hard words, sir, when a felloAV is down." 
 
 " Very. And if lie were down from mis- 
 fortune only, I might keep them back: but 
 he was bankrupt in honour before he was in 
 purse ; and I can only heartily pity the unfor- 
 tunate young woman who has the misery of 
 being his wife." 
 
 " She might have done better, certainly," 
 said Compton, with a gentle sigh ; " but no 
 one had a chance in anything against Fred 
 Atterbury. Well, Arthur, I must be off. 
 You are sure that horse would not suit you ?" 
 
 " Quite, thank you, old fellow," was the 
 cheerful answer, and the young man took his 
 leave. " That is a good-natured fellow, Mr. 
 Clavering," when Rupert was beginning to* 
 regret having driven away his friend, " very 
 good natured, but he is not the one to whom 
 I would tell what I am going to tell you. 
 This is a disastrous business for us • my poor 
 granny's little fortune is gone." 
 
 "You don't mean that, Sydney? Oh, my 
 dear boy !" 
 
 " Ay, but I do ; it was all there, and had 
 been for years ; she and my dear mother used 
 to think nothing equal to Atterbury's, since 
 they dined once with the old gentleman. We 
 hear there is very little chance of a dividend. 
 p2
 
 212 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 A nice thing to think of, isn't it, when one 
 can do nothing to help a dear old soul like 
 that, so generous, she only just kept out of 
 debt, and yet never laid out a farthing that 
 she could help upon herself. I say, Mr. 
 Clavering, you talk of the Russians — I never 
 felt downright mad Avith them but once or 
 twice, when they were savage, and never any- 
 thing like what I feel now, when I see her 
 crying her old eyes out, and can do nothing 
 but lie here and rage. Thank you, Mr. Cla- 
 vering, thank you. I know how good you 
 are" — as Uncle Rupert, half choked, began 
 murmuring his sympathy — " and you will give 
 us your best advice; you wiU help her to 
 settle things a bit, as I can't. She is gone 
 now to her lawyer, and between them we shall 
 soon know how many straws a day she will 
 have to live on. There is my pay, and I 
 suppose I shall get something for my broken 
 bones, and she has about forty pounds a year 
 in railway shares, and I believe that is all. 
 No pleasant country-house near Lawleigh this 
 time." 
 
 Mr. Clavering made but little reply ; he 
 pressed the young man's hand kindly, and re- 
 peated his expressions of sympathy, but seemed 
 unusually anxious ' to be gone, and Arthur
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 213 
 
 Sydney could not but observe how carefully 
 be had refrained from the slightest offer of 
 service. " It is just as well," he thought ; "we 
 do not want to be beholden to anybody, and 
 he knows it. I am glad he said nothing about 
 it — very glad. And yet he was just the kind 
 of generous old fellow, who, one would have 
 supposed, would have rushed into the other 
 extreme. I am very glad he didn't !" 
 
 He was scarcely just in this self-gratulation : 
 his friend's silence arose from anything but in- 
 difference, or slackness of good will : had he 
 stood alone in the world, he would have 
 yielded to the impulse that urged him, at the 
 first moment, to liberal offers of aid. But one 
 thought outweighed all others now, and that 
 was his niece Anne. How was she bearing 
 this ? What would she have him do ? Till 
 his mind was satisfied on this point, he could 
 speak on no other ; and yet his hand faltered 
 on the lock of his own door, as if he would, 
 even then, have delayed the meeting. As he 
 entered, she came out of the inner room, and 
 the flush of pleasure that shot into her face 
 gave it a brighter look than he had seen there 
 yet. With a quick gesture of warning, she 
 closed the bedroom door behind her, and then 
 hurried to receive his greeting.
 
 214 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " Oh, uncle, I have been longing for you to 
 come back ! What a blessing that you are in 
 England!" 
 
 " That means, that you want me to do some- 
 thing, does it not, my dear ?" said he, putting 
 his hat on the table, and wiping his forehead. 
 
 " It means that I have something to say, 
 which I could not have told you by letters. 
 Speak low ; Mrs. Sydney is lying down in the 
 next room." 
 
 " Ah ! then you know " 
 
 " Yes, and so do you. Uncle ! do not look as 
 if you pitied me. Rather feel with me that 
 we owe him a debt of gratitude. He spared 
 me tliis^ at least — the name of Clavering is not 
 coupled with dishonour !" 
 
 Uncle Rupert looked anxiously into those 
 indignant eyes, and fearing the risk of excite- 
 ment, would have spoken of something else, 
 but for this she was too impatient. 
 
 " No," she said, answering the thought his 
 face expressed too plainly, " you are mistaken, 
 Uncle Rupert ; this is not hurting me ; on the 
 contrary, it has given me new strength. I have 
 something now to live for besides your in- 
 dulgent love. Uncle, when I heard it first, I 
 could have died with grief, that he was suffer- 
 ing, and I could do nothing to comfort him :
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 215 
 
 but since I have learned the truth — seen her 
 tears — read of all the wrong, the misery, the 
 
 disOTace " She hid her face on his shoulder 
 
 for a moment before she could go on. " Oh ! 
 what must his wife be, to bear it, and live !" 
 
 " She will probably never know quite the 
 worst, my dear ; at least, if he can keep it 
 from her. They have escaped abroad, and on 
 her fortune they can still enjoy every comfort 
 — if enjoyment be possible with such a con- 
 science. At any rate, Ave need not waste pity 
 on them. We have to think of the innocent 
 people he has plundered. That fine lad Ar- 
 thur — I have just left him — he is sadly cut 
 up about his poor grandmother. I was going 
 to ask you " « 
 
 " What I was burning to say to you^ uncle ! 
 I am sure of it ; I knew you would. You will 
 do it — you will make them consent — you will 
 give me this small consolation, that I may 
 help, by love and tenderness, to make up to 
 them what he took away. Oh, uncle, was I 
 wrong in feeling glad you were in England ? 
 No one else would read my heart so well !" 
 
 Rupert Clavering put his arm round her 
 waist, and drew her down by his side on the 
 sofa. '' Let us be quite sure what we are 
 about, my dear. It won't do to strike into a
 
 216 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 new country mthout taking the bearings. Do 
 you clearly see what you are undertaking, sup- 
 posing we prevail on them to join their little 
 means with ours, and let you keep house for 
 all? Can you stand the fatigue of attending 
 on an old lady, and a young man suffering all 
 that poor Arthur does ? Remember, we have 
 known them but a short time, and they may 
 have relations you will not like, and ways that 
 may put you out and little tempers — the best 
 have such things, you know. And it will be 
 shabby work to turn back when we have once 
 begun, Anne, my dear." 
 
 " Very shabby : we'll none of it, uncle ! If 
 their relations are odious, we will put up with 
 them ; if their ways are troublesome, we will ac- 
 commodate ourselves to them ; if their tempers 
 are bad, we ^vill improve them by the example 
 of our own ! Anything, so that I may at least 
 be able to feel I have done something to roll 
 away that shame !" 
 
 " You are my own brave girl," said he, 
 kissing her glowing cheek ; and the matter, as 
 far as they were concerned, was settled then 
 and there. The next step was to convert their 
 friends to their way of thinking, and Anne, 
 hearing Mrs. Sydney moving, went and coaxed 
 her in, notwithstanding her red eyes, and as
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 217 
 
 she sat between the uncle and niece, the sub- 
 ject was tenderly broached, with a general 
 offer of service. She was thankful for their 
 sympathy, but she did not see what any one 
 could do for her. She had written to her 
 married niece, who was a good manager, and 
 understood business, and she would advise 
 her, no doubt. If it were not for Arthur, she 
 would not so much mind, as she couldn't well 
 expect to be very long a trouble to anybody 
 
 — but to be a burden on Arthur Ah, it was 
 
 just of Arthur Uncle Rupert wanted to speak. 
 It was of the greatest consequence that for the 
 next year or two he had every care and com- 
 fort — ^indeed, what would be luxuries to other 
 people, might be necessaries of life to him — • 
 and then there would be a chance of his being 
 comparatively strong again by-and-bye. He 
 had set his heart on having him at Lawleigh 
 at once : never was such air for bracins^ a 
 shattered constitution ! and if it suited him, 
 why should they not hit out some plan by 
 which they might all live together — at any 
 rate, till they grew tired of each other ? Anne 
 was quite beyond any man's government, and 
 the Captain would not be the worse for having 
 an old comrade to smoke with — and perhaps 
 he could put him in the way of making a
 
 218 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 little money — old Australians were apt to 
 think themselves rather knowing in those 
 matters. However, she was not to hurry her- 
 self, or be nervous, but think it over quietly, 
 and hear what Arthur would say, and then it 
 would go hard with them all if they did not 
 contrive to turn all this robbery into a great 
 gain to themselves. 
 
 The Sydneys felt the kindness as deeply as 
 the wrong. It took them a little time to de- 
 cide ; they shrank from the idea of incurring 
 obligations they could not repay ; but Anne's 
 influence over the old lady was growing sufli- 
 ciently despotic to make it pretty clear what 
 the extent of her control would be ; and her 
 arguments and persuasions were very hard to 
 resist — indeed, never were resisted till Mrs. 
 Sydney had got out of her reach. The real truth 
 was, both grandmother and grandson felt so 
 strongly inclined towards the proposal, it made 
 them the more scrupulous in yielding ; and 
 the matter was still undecided, when Arthur 
 received the following letter from one of his 
 relatives, the married niece to whom Mrs. 
 Sydney had written : 
 
 July, 1855. 
 
 " My deae Aethue, — 
 " I have been so dreadfully unnerved by 
 this cruel event, that I am not equal to writing
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 219 
 
 at present to my poor dear aunt. Every ex- 
 pression of kindest love and sympathy (in 
 whicli my dear girls join) I must leave you to 
 convey to her ; and I feel convinced, her own 
 sense of what is right will teach her to bear 
 the trial with patience and resignation. I wish 
 it were in my power to help her ; you know 
 the warmth of my heart, and were I but 
 rich, it would be the sweetest satisfaction I 
 could enjoy, to open my doors to you both, 
 and share my last crust with you ! But I have 
 been robbed too, shamefully robbed, by these 
 villains — robbed of a sum which I had only 
 been induced to deposit in that vile bank be- 
 cause my poor aunt thought so highly of it, 
 and the interest was good. It was the fruit of 
 much self-denial^ dear Arthur, for a mother in 
 my place must deny herself often for the sake 
 of her children ; and I had hoped to bring my 
 two eldest girls up to London next year, to 
 enjoy a few of those advantages which others 
 enjoy v)]io have not half their claims to notice. 
 Every farthing is gone, and I must contrive, 
 and save, and pare down our expenses, to keep 
 the youngest at school, and live as it is necessary 
 we should. It is perfectly atrocious that such 
 people are allowed to escape I I am told this Mr. 
 Atterbury's wife has a large fortune, and that 
 they have gone oif to revel in their ill-gotten gains
 
 220 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 abroad. If there was any justice in the world, 
 they would be brought back, and made to pay 
 their debts, if they swept the streets after- 
 wards. It is shameful ! However, I, for one, 
 forgive them, and hope they may live to repent. 
 " Now about my poor dear aunt's future pro- 
 spects. I do not mind telling you^ that she 
 has been very much imposed upon in her 
 household and village, by a parcel of lazy, 
 designing people, who throve on her easy 
 good nature. I have warned her of it over 
 and over again. There is nothing hurts people 
 like giving them money. I make a principle 
 of never doing it, though it costs me a pang. 
 She has always lived up to her income, and 
 has nothing to show for it ; therefore she must 
 now practise a rigid economy, which it is dif- 
 ficult to do in England. There are many quiet 
 places abroad, where boarders are taken in on 
 very moderate terms; and her tastes being 
 simple, she would, I know, be easily satisfied. 
 The society, too, would be a little recreation, 
 mthout additional expense. I leave it to you 
 to persuade her into making up her mind to 
 what really appears the very best thing she 
 could do. For yourself, my dear Arthur, you 
 know how proud we are of your gallantry, 
 and we should count it a privilege to bind up
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 221 
 
 your glorious wounds ; but under our peculiar 
 circumstances, it would be impossible to bestow 
 the care and attention upon you tbat you 
 require, and I must reserve tbe pleasure — I 
 may say, honour — of a visit from my hero 
 cousin till you are a little stronger. Mean- 
 while, accept our united kindest love, and 
 believe me ever yours, most aiFectionately, 
 
 ^'MlLLICENT CUMMINGS. 
 
 " P.S. — I enclose the addresses of three ^^n- 
 sions which I heard highly recommended, as 
 respectable, and very cliea])!' 
 
 " Heyday, my dear fellow !" exclaimed Uncle 
 Rupert, not unnaturally, when he saw his 
 young friend, with whom he was sitting at the. 
 time, draw himself up on his sofa, crunch the 
 letter up into a ball, and hurl it to the other 
 end of the room, and his slipper after it. 
 " May I ask if you are gone crazy this hot 
 morning?" 
 
 " Yes, I believe I am. Oh, really, though, 
 I beg your pardon, Mr. Clavering," as Rupert 
 gravely picked up the missiles, restoring the 
 one to his hand, and the other to his foot, " it 
 is too bad to make you do that, but I could 
 not help it. Do read that letter — it is my best 
 excuse."
 
 222 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 Uncle Rupert felt a little curious, so lie put 
 on his spectacles, and began — shaking liis head 
 over Mrs. Cummin gs's running hand, and nu- 
 merous dashes, which puzzled him consider- 
 ably. Arthur lay back the while, grinning 
 with wrath at an invisible enemy, and mutter- 
 ing between his teeth, '' Foreign boarding- 
 houses, indeed ! I think I see my dear granny 
 perched up a hundred dirty stairs, with her feet 
 on a charcoal box, and a pie-dish to wash her 
 face in, and Avater-gruel soup and cat's-meat for 
 her dinner ! Bind up my wounds — how can 
 the woman be such a goose ? Does she sup- 
 pose I go about depending on ladies tearing 
 up their pocket-handkerchiefs to stop my 
 bleeding to death ? Such rubbish ! Save and 
 pare, forsooth! Yes, she will do that vnth 
 anybody — boil down her old goloshes for soup, 
 to save a farthing for a bit of show. And she 
 forgets who used to give her dresses, and 
 trinkets, and take her everywhere, when she 
 was young ; and who spent more on her plea- 
 sure than she has done all her life long on her 
 own ! What would my dear mother have said 
 if she had been here to read that ? Oh, what 
 a diiFerence if she were ! Well, Mr. Clavering 
 — ^what do you think of that specimen of corre- 
 spondence ?"
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 223 
 
 " I wish ladies would learn to cross tlieir t's, 
 and not their letters," said Uncle Rupert, rub- 
 bing his eyes, and then his glasses. 
 
 " Thrift, thrift, Horatio : the saving of half 
 a sheet of note-paper is not to be despised 
 now-a-days. Can you fancy my granny at a 
 beggarly French or German pension^ sir — with 
 a lot of old hags round her, taking snuff, and 
 quarrelling over loto and dominoes ?" 
 
 " Not exactly." 
 
 " We didn't want Cousin Milly's help, but if 
 she had made a real sacrifice to offer her aunt 
 a home, it would have been no more than her 
 due. But no — she makes a principle of not 
 doing it, though it costs her a pang. I say, 
 Mr. Clavering, shall you be very angry if I 
 have a shy with the other slipper ?" 
 
 " Yes, very angry indeed. My back is too 
 stiff to be picking up your shot and shell all the 
 morning. It just serves you right. Master 
 Captain, for not making up your mind at once 
 to take the advice of your elders; and so, if 
 you don't decide as we wish you to do, with- 
 out another hour's delay, I'll ^vrite to Mrs. 
 Millicent Cummings, and beg her to inter- 
 fere." 
 
 " Don't mention anything so awful," said 
 Arthur. " I must give you fair notice, and
 
 224 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 Miss Clavering too, of wliat had never occurred 
 to me before. My Cousin Milly has a decided 
 weakness for visiting her relations, no matter 
 how inconvenient it may be; and if we are 
 discovered to be in clover at Lawleigh, we shall 
 never be able to prevent her coming after us. 
 She never waits for an invitation, for fear of 
 not getting it — it is one of her principles." 
 
 Uncle Rupert could not help shrugging his 
 shoulders as he thought of his own suggestion 
 to Anne, now likely to be more accurate than 
 he supposed. 
 
 "Well, what if she does?" he said, good 
 humouredly, " we can stand a siege, if neces- 
 sary. You have not studied under Todleben 
 for nothing ; and I know a thing or two about 
 stockade defences. And if she carries the 
 place after all, I would back my niece Anne 
 to hold her own against any woman in Eng- 
 land, or Australia either, to say nothing of 
 Nurse Moyle in reserve. Let her come ! we'll 
 find a way of dealing with her, even if we put 
 her on French boarding-house rations, as she 
 would put Mrs. Sydney. Ha! ha! ha! it 
 wouldn't be a bad idea !" 
 
 So having exploded resentment in a good 
 laugh, they began to discuss in serious earnest 
 the arrangement of their future plans.
 
 225 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HESTER. 
 
 When Mrs. Atterbury saw her advisers 
 again, all traces of the previous day's misun- 
 derstanding, as well of Despard's excited beha- 
 viour, had disappeared. A brief apology was 
 made to her, on the plea of mental and bodily 
 fatigue, and he and Mr. Martock appeared on 
 a much more friendly footing than before. 
 They seemed rather in haste to leave her pre- 
 sence, and her anxious inquiries for her hus- 
 band were silenced by the reply that as her 
 hiding-place had certainly been discovered, it 
 would be hazarding too much, at present, 
 either for him to come to her lodging, or for 
 her to be traced to his. Why, then, did he not 
 write, if only a line? He had not courage, 
 and they did not like to press him to exertion. 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " Patience, patience a little longer !" said 
 Mr. Martock, seeing tliat Eleanor could hardly 
 bear this last trial ; " when he finds what you 
 are doing for him, he will more readily believe 
 you can forgive." 
 
 " Does he require such a proof? I only 
 wish it could be given him to-night !" 
 
 " That is not possible ; but to-morrow, if you 
 will, when I see you again, something may be 
 accomplished in earnest, the sooner the better 
 for all of us." 
 
 They left her accordingly to her solitary im- 
 prisonment, which was telling on her strength 
 and courage to an extent of which they were 
 not aware. This was the Friday of this fearful 
 week, which now seemed like a lifetime ; but 
 Eleanor Atterbury took no count of the hours. 
 She could not think clearly — her powers of 
 reasoning obeyed her will no longer ; she found 
 herself dwelling on the same idea over and over 
 again without apprehending its meaning, and 
 was oppressed by a constant sense of a burden 
 of responsibility, which she had not strength 
 either to carry or to shake off. Miss Craggs, 
 who watched her closely, began at last to 
 speak so decidedly about medical advice, that 
 Eleanor was frightened into making an angry 
 answer; whereat her hostess withdrew, not a 
 little affronted.
 
 HESTER. 227 
 
 " If people choose to kill themselves, let 
 them," she said; and she sent up the tea by 
 her maid, instead of carrying it herself. She 
 thought she heard a scream soon after, but 
 took little heed, until she was startled by see- 
 ing Mrs. Atterbury, white and breathless with 
 haste, rush into her kitchen, seize a plate of 
 flour from the dresser, and with the hurried 
 explanation that " the poor girl had scalded 
 herself," run up-stairs again as if she did not 
 know what illness meant. Following more deli- 
 berately, she found her maid Hester, a heavy, 
 coarse, broad-faced girl, with the muscles of a 
 grenadier, sitting sobbing on the floor, a gi^eat 
 steam and slop all over the carpet, and Mrs. 
 Atterbury tying up her left arm in one of her 
 own cambric handkerchiefs. 
 
 " She tripped with the kettle in a hole of 
 the carpet. Miss Craggs," she said, apologeti- 
 cally, seeing the stern surprise with which the 
 mistress contemplated the scene of disaster, 
 ^'but I hope she is not much hurt. There, 
 my poor girl, keep it well covered with the* 
 flour, and do not cry any more, if you can 
 help it, for tears are more wearing than pain." 
 " She ought to be much obliged to you, 
 ma'am, I'm sure, great careless thing that she 
 is," said Miss Craggs, in whom Hester's howls 
 q2
 
 228 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 excited no compassion at all; " and it serves 
 her right for not mending the carpet, as I told 
 her to do a week ago. There, hold your 
 noise, do, and go down stairs, and look where 
 you put your feet another time. Such a mess 
 as the place is in, not fit for a Christian to sit 
 down, with your clumsiness ! I must fill your 
 teapot from my own kettle, I suppose, Mrs. 
 Mbrnay, or you'll get no tea to-night." 
 
 " There is no hurry," said Eleanor, with a 
 kind smile at Hester, which completed the 
 fascination of that not very susceptible young 
 person. 
 
 It was, most likely, the first time in her life 
 that she had been soothed so gently, or had 
 felt so soft a touch, and she seemed unable to 
 resist the longing for a repetition of the plea- 
 sure. Several times that evening was Mrs. 
 Atterbury startled from her lonely musings by 
 the heavy foot stumbling against her door, and 
 the apparition of the broad, not over-clean face, 
 peering round with a grin and nod of intense 
 satisfaction, and vanishing instantaneously on 
 being recognised. Once the vision was accom- 
 panied by the voluntary information, ^' I'm a 
 deal better ;" and another time, the damaged 
 arm was thrust forward, to display its present 
 envelope of doubtful-looking calico, with the
 
 HESTER. 229 
 
 indignant comment, "She's took away the 
 'andkercher !" Probably this was detected by 
 the ruling power, for it was the last appearance 
 that night, to Eleanor's great relief. 
 
 She certainly owed Mrs. Atterbury some- 
 thing, for the exertion Eleanor made, cost her 
 a worse night than usual, and even Mr. Mar- 
 tock was rather dismayed when he saw her 
 next. 
 
 He came prepared to explain what had been 
 done, and what was now to do, for the carry- 
 ing out of her sacrifice ; but found her inca- 
 pable of understanding him, and as her sig- 
 nature was of the first importance, this was a 
 serious matter. Eleanor felt that it was so, 
 and that he meant her to feel it ; and tried to 
 command her attention in vain. Before she 
 was aware, her head had sunk back, and an 
 interval elapsed, during which she just knew 
 that people came in and out, but was unable 
 to open her eyes. By-and-bye, she found her- 
 self lying on her bed, where she fell into a 
 heavy sleep of some hours' duration. 
 
 It was broken at last, by the slamming of 
 her door, and when her dim eyes were able to 
 discern objects clearly, she discovered that 
 Hester had come into the room, and was look- 
 ing at her as complacently as if startling a
 
 230 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 patient out of lier sleep were the very perfec- 
 tion of good nursing and care. 
 
 ^^What are you doing here? What has 
 been the matter with me ?" asked Mrs. Atter- 
 bury, trying to rouse herself, and wondering 
 why her head felt so strange. 
 
 Hester nodded gravely, without stirring 
 from where she stood. ^' You're not to get 
 off your bed. I'm to see that you don't." 
 
 " Who told you to come to me?" 
 
 " She told me ; and you wasn't to talk, 
 neither." 
 
 " My good girl, your mistress is very kind, 
 but I am quite well. I must have been a 
 little over-tired, that is all. You need not 
 wait." 
 
 " I'd rather." 
 
 '■'' But I would rather you did not." 
 
 ^' Can't help that. I'm to see to you till she 
 comes back. She won't be long." 
 
 Eleanor, annoyed by this pertinacity, made 
 an attempt to leave her bed, but Hester was 
 upon her in a minute, and laid her down as 
 if she had been a refractory child. "You 
 mustn't do that," she said, shaking her head, 
 " or she'll be as cross as two sticks. She's 
 awful when she's put out, I can tell you ; and 
 there's been such a row down stairs between
 
 HESTER. 231 
 
 her and the gentlemen all along of you — I 
 heard them from the scullery, and run up, 
 thinking they was a fighting. My ! how she 
 did give it them to be sure, for cheating you 
 — now, do'ee be still, for the doctors will be 
 here in a minute, I dare say." 
 
 " What doctors ? Not for me, I hope?" 
 
 " Yes, for you. There, don't ye stir, and 
 ril tell you all about it," sitting down on 
 the bed, to make sure of her charge while en- 
 joying the delight of telling her story. " She's 
 gone one way, and the gentlemen another, to 
 see who'll get a doctor first ; but they had a 
 grand quarrel about it, and says she at last, for 
 I heard her, ^ It's a sin and a shame,' she says, 
 * to deceive a poor young creature first, and 
 then kill her by inches, and it shan't be on 
 my conscience any longer,' she says ; ' she 
 ought to know the worst, and be told the real 
 truth,' she says, ^ and if you won't tell it her, 
 I'll find those as wiU.' " 
 
 " She said that f said Eleanor, trembling 
 violently. 
 
 " Oh yes ; she don't mind what she says 
 when she's in one of her tempers ; and she 
 frightened them both, for they went off look- 
 ing as if they didn't like it, and one says to 
 the other, 'That's a dangerous woman — we
 
 232 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 must manage better than this.' My! how 
 you do shiver — you quite shake the bed. I'll 
 run down and make a blanket hot at the 
 kitchen fire, and you'll be as warm as a toast 
 in five minutes." 
 
 She was gone, and Eleanor was the next 
 minute sitting on the side of the bed, with 
 wide eyes, and throbbing pulse, holding her 
 temples tightly, that she might command her 
 reason for a moment. There could be no 
 doubt ; she was being deceived — something 
 terrible had happened, and they would not 
 tell her. Frederick — oh, merciful Heaven ! 
 one hour of strength — but one, to find him, 
 and indeed know the worst ! She would go 
 to him now — this moment, before any one 
 came up again to prevent her. They said he 
 was near at hand ; she would find him, no 
 fear of that — if only she could get down stairs, 
 and out of the house. And her hands were 
 making tremulous efibrts to tie her bonnet, 
 and put on her shawl, when Hester and the 
 blanket returned. 
 
 " Oh, I say, this won't do !" she began, but 
 Mrs. Atterbury stopped her imperatively. 
 
 "Do you wish to earn half a sovereign, 
 Hester?" 
 
 " I'd like to have it," was the signij.cant, 
 though evasive reply.
 
 HESTER. 233 
 
 " I will give you one if you will help me. I 
 am not ill — I do not want a doctor — I only 
 want to go out, and they will not let me." 
 *' What's to hinder you? There's the door." 
 ^' You are sure no one is there ?" 
 " There's no one in the house but me and 
 the first floor, and he's lame with one leg, and 
 as deaf as a post. I tell you what, though, 
 you'd best have a cab — you'll never be able to 
 walk — I'll fetch you one in a minute." 
 
 " Yes, do," said Eleanor, who was mechani- 
 cally filling her travelling-bag with necessaries, 
 without much perception of what they were, 
 "only be quick, be quick, or it will be too 
 late. Too late !" she went on repeating to her- 
 self, when alone, " too late ! If it is so, and 
 they have kept it from me — oh, my beloved, 
 we wiU die together ! Better so, and all this 
 turmoil over — die and be forgotten, and hide 
 our shame in the grave. No one will scorn 
 us there — no one will come there to tell us we 
 ruined them. Oh, Frederick, Frederick ! why 
 did I ever let you go away alone ? If I had 
 been with you, I might have saved you. Yes, 
 and I may yet, if I only can reach you in 
 time!" And here, unable to bear it longer, 
 she took up her bag, and made her way to the 
 top oiilhe stairs, where Hester presently found 
 her sitting, leaning against the balusters.
 
 234 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " What ever are you a doing of there ? IVe 
 got you a cab at the archway, so come along, 
 if you will come. She'll be back directly, and 
 won't she scold me nicely ? But I don't care. 
 You'll give me the half-sovereign, won't you ? 
 Now then, hold up, or you'll go down stairs 
 quicker than you'll quite like." 
 
 It was only by her support, indeed, that 
 Mrs. Atterbury reached the cab ; and when 
 asked where she wished to be driven, her look 
 of bewilderment was piteous enough to cause 
 Hester strong misgivings ; while the cabman 
 seemed a little doubtful of her sanity. Some- 
 thing in their manner made her sensible of 
 this, for she was roused to speak more de- 
 cidedly; gave Hester a whole sovereign instead 
 of the promised half, at which she uttered a 
 very war-whoop of ecstasy, and desired the 
 driver to go straight on, and take the check- 
 string. The sight of her purse seemed .to satisfy 
 his conscience, for he made no objection, and 
 had just put his vehicle in motion, when a man, 
 whom Hester had not observed before, darted 
 from a neighbouring doorway, and ran nimbly 
 in pursuit.
 
 235 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MISS CEAGGS KEEPS HER RESOLUTION. 
 
 ^' I TELL you frankly, Compton — fill your 
 glass, my boy, you are drinking nothing — tliis 
 dreadful business has taken me so completely 
 by surprise, I hardly know where I am, or. 
 which way to turn myself I came up to town 
 directly, of course, and as you see, the house 
 is all in confusion. My daughters are staying 
 with friends — they are sadly cut up, as you 
 may suppose ; and I am sure I have been so 
 worried and harassed all day long, I am just 
 fit for nothing. But as I was saying — you 
 like that claret, I think ? it is the last of the 
 batch Fred Atterbury got me in the winter — 
 do fill your glass — what was I talking about ? 
 Oh ! I was going to say, that if you can quite 
 conveniently accommodate me as you sug-
 
 236 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 gested, for a week or two, it will certainly 
 save me a good deal of trouble. I have not 
 much to lose, as all the world knows, but this 
 blow has hit me hard, I confess ; it is very in- 
 convenient, and people are so savage about it, 
 they turn round upon me, as if it were my 
 doing." 
 
 "No news of Mrs. Atterbury yet, I suppose ?" 
 
 " No, poor thing ; but she will write when 
 she can, I know. She is aware how I am cir- 
 cumstanced, and that in point of fact I have as 
 serious claims on her as anybody. I was led 
 to expect such a very different state of things, 
 that in one way and another — I do not mind 
 telling such a good fellow as you, Tom — I was 
 let in for a good deal ; and Eleanor will not 
 allow me to suffer. I am quite easy on that 
 score." 
 
 " Had you no idea, then, what was in the 
 wind?" 
 
 " No more than you had, Compton. I as 
 much believed Frederick Atterbury was what 
 he seemed, as that I am sitting here, and you 
 are opposite me. Why, his father was the 
 most respected man — had such a character for 
 charity and all that sort of thing — took the 
 chair at meetings, and made speeches for the 
 missionaries — ^was quite a card on all those
 
 MISS CRAGGS KEEPS HER RESOLUTION. 237 
 
 occasions — who was to suppose what was 
 the real state of things ? Why, they were 
 bankrupts when Fred was made a partner, 
 and he must have known it then, or soon 
 after." 
 
 " Did Jack Despard suspect anything?" 
 
 " Who ever knows what Despard suspects? 
 I should not wonder if he did, for it is not 
 easy to hide anything that he chooses to find 
 out. I have not seen him since, but when I 
 do, I shall let him understand what I think. 
 You are not taking your wine." 
 
 " Indeed I am ; I am only unhappy to think 
 it is the last of the batch. Whatever Fred 
 Atterbury chose, was sure to be good. It is 
 glorious." 
 
 " So it is, and if it were not for this threaten- 
 ing gout, I should enjoy it too — as much as I 
 can enjoy anything just now — heigho ! Then 
 it wiU not put you out of your way, my dear 
 boy, to do me that little service ?" 
 
 '' Oh, not in the least. You shall have it 
 on Monday. It is lucky Mrs. Atterbury's for- 
 tune was secured." 
 
 " Her father's will took care of that ; every- 
 thing was to be entirely in her own power. I 
 suppose they will settle in Italy ; they can live 
 like princes there, and we shall run over and 
 
 ^''
 
 238 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 see them. What say you to making one, 
 
 Tom?" 
 
 . "To see Mrs Atterbury I do not care how 
 
 far I go, but I would not cross the street to 
 
 meet her husband. I only hope he will treat 
 
 her well — I wouldn't trust him." 
 
 " Oh, my dear fellow, that is going too 
 far. I am as sure of his attachment for her, 
 as " 
 
 "As you were that he had plenty of 
 money ; and the one may be as true as the 
 other." 
 
 " You are a shrewd boy — uncommonly so 
 for your time of life. Where did you pick up 
 that knowledge of the world ? But you are 
 wrong for once : it is all right in that quarter, 
 I promise you. They would not have gone 
 off together so quietly, if she were not in his 
 confidence. They will do very well when all 
 this has blown over — many people do. It is 
 very dreadful, and very abominable, we all 
 know that — ^but it is no use making it worse 
 than one is obliged, and with poor Eleanor's 
 
 income What is it, Parkes ?" as the butler 
 
 appeared ^t his elbow with a face foreboding 
 business. " I can't see any one when I am at 
 dinner — you know that." 
 
 " Certainly, Sir John. If you please, Sir
 
 MISS CRAGGS KEEPS HER RESOLUTION. 239 
 
 Jolin, there is a person here who says she has 
 something very particular indeed to say to 
 you, Sir John." 
 
 Parkes and his master were on sufficiently 
 confidential terms for this introduction to 
 carry more weight than if it had come from 
 an inferior counsellor. Sir John looked up 
 inquiringly. " Eh ? hui:nph ! what then, I 
 suppose — what a nuisance ! Can't you see her 
 for me, Parkes, eh ?" 
 
 " Why not have her in here?" suggested 
 Compton, who had drank just wine enough to 
 make him ripe for a frolic ; "is she young or 
 old, Parkes ?" 
 
 " Not particularly young, sir, I should 
 say." 
 
 " Oh, bother ! But never mind — send her 
 in, and if there is an3rthing too private for a 
 third party, I'll vanish." 
 
 The butler glanced at his master, but 
 whether from a desire to humour his young 
 ally, or from a secret dread of facing the un- 
 known visitor alone, Sir John only nodded 
 assent, and in a few minutes Parkes introduced 
 — Miss Craggs. 
 
 She came in with no appearance of timidity 
 or nervousness, and stood erect, and, as it 
 were, defiant, midway between the door and
 
 240 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 the table ; returning a brief salute in answer 
 to Sir John's slight bow, and showing plainly, 
 that till the butler had withdrawn, she would 
 not open her lips. " Set a chair, Parkes, and 
 you may go," said his master. The chair was 
 set, but Miss Craggs took no notice of it. She 
 waited till the door closed on the servant, and 
 then remarked, somewhat sharply for an in- 
 troductory speech, that if Sir John Pierpoint 
 preferred speaking to her alone, he had better 
 be quick about it. 
 
 ^' If you prefer it, madam," said Sir John, 
 blandly, without moving from his seat, '' or if 
 you think it necessary." 
 
 " Not at all ; it does not matter to me in 
 the least. Do you know a young married 
 lady of the name of Mornay ?" 
 
 "Eh? what? Mornay? No — stay — what 
 is she like ?" 
 
 " What is who like, sir?" 
 
 " Mrs. Mornay, ma'am." 
 
 " How should I know, sir?'' 
 
 " Well, you know, I suppose, as you men- 
 tion her." 
 
 " Then you don't, sir ? I understood she 
 had been a ward of yours." 
 
 Sir John's red face grew several shades 
 paler : Compton leaned half across the table.
 
 MISS CRAGGS KEEPS HER RESOLUTION. 241 
 
 " A ward of mine ? I never had but one — . 
 Mrs. Atterbury. If you come from her, pray 
 say so at once." 
 
 " Perhaps you will tell me if those are her 
 initials, sir ; and then I shall know." 
 
 She threw a pocket-handkerchief on the 
 table. Sir John put up his glasses, and as 
 quickly put them down again. 
 
 " E.M.A. Eleanor Mornay Atterbury. Not 
 a doubt of it, and I believe I could swear to 
 the handkerchief." 
 
 " Very good, sir : then the long and the 
 short of the matter is this — a gentleman took 
 rooms at my house in the City, a few days 
 ago, for a Mrs. Mornay, and she arrived late 
 at night, and has been there ever since." 
 
 " And she sent you to teU me ? Why did 
 not you come sooner ?" 
 
 " Why did I come at all, sir, you had 
 better ask. If I had waited till I was sent, I 
 might have waited a long time ; and as to 
 sending, I don't know any one who has the 
 right to send me anywhere. But I wasn't 
 going to see a young creature die in my house, 
 unbeknown to her friends, and cheated into 
 the bargain ; so, as nobody else would let you 
 know, I am just come to tell you. She is that 
 iU, with cough, and bad nights, and worry, 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 that it will be do^vnriglit murder if something 
 is not done for lier — and now you know the 
 truth." 
 
 ^' You will go directly, Sir John," said 
 Compton, who had started up, and was stand- 
 ing restlessly on the hearth-rug. 
 
 " Certainly I shall — I must. Poor dear girl ! 
 I can't understand it. Where is her husband ? 
 
 Is no one with her, Mrs. , ahem ! I did 
 
 not quite catch your name. I beg your 
 pardon." 
 
 " Craggs, Sir John. Miss Craggs, if you 
 please. No, I have seen no Mr. Mornay, or 
 Mr. Anybody, but those Avho brought her 
 there, and make her do and believe what they 
 please. I dare say they could tell you what 
 you want to know." 
 
 " What gentlemen do you mean?" 
 
 "What gentlemen. Sir John? Two that 
 seem to know you very Avell — Mr. Martock and 
 Mr. Despard." 
 
 Compton whistled significantly, and looking 
 at his host, was struck with the blank perplexity 
 in his face. 
 
 " Come, sir," he said, with the freedom he 
 had lately assumed, from a half-conscious 
 sense of power, " we have no time to lose. If 
 I might suggest such a thing, I should pro-
 
 MISS CRAGGS KEEPS HER RESOLUTION. 243 
 
 pose ringing to order a room to be got ready 
 for Mrs. Atterbury, and a Hansom for you and 
 me. This good lady, I suppose, will go home 
 in a cab, and we could follow her." 
 
 ^' We, my dear boy ?" 
 
 "Yes; you must let me come. Hear me 
 out ; I do not want to show myself, or intrude 
 on Mrs. Atterbury, but I can sit in the cab, 
 and if you want a doctor, or a carriage or- 
 dered, or any one telegraphed for, I can run 
 and do it, don't you see? Your horses, I sup- 
 pose, are not in town, and it would take too 
 long to send for mine. A Hansom will be the 
 quickest." 
 
 " Very true. I am really much obliged to 
 you, Tom; and to Miss — Miss Snaggs, too-^ 
 very much obliged. I wish you would sit 
 down, ma'am, and take a glass of wine." 
 
 " Much obliged to you, Sir John, but I am 
 teetotal, and my name is Craggs." 
 
 " Craggs ! I beg your pardon — jou must 
 excuse me. Then, if you will pull the bell, 
 Tom " 
 
 Parkes answered the summons with suspi- 
 cious alacrity, and they were soon rolling in 
 Miss Craggs's wake towards the City. 
 
 " This is really very good of you, Tom," 
 said Sir John, after they had proceeded some 
 e2
 
 244 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 way in silence. " There was no occasion for 
 your giving yourself this trouble." 
 
 Compton took the cigar out of his mouth to 
 reply, with great sincerity, that it was no 
 trouble at all, but a pleasure, as he fully ex- 
 pected they were in for a row. 
 
 " I sincerely hope not," said the Baronet, 
 who by no means shared his enthusiasm. 
 
 ^' Well, if Fred Atterbury has hid his wife 
 from you, for reasons of his own, he will not 
 be particularly charmed to see you turn up." 
 
 " Her illness will be a sufficient reason for 
 my interference." 
 
 '' 1 don t think so : depend upon it, they are 
 shutting her up, and bullying her out of her 
 money ; and if so, they will not let you see her 
 without a battle." 
 
 " I am not afraid of that^ Tom ; we are not 
 living in the days of Montoni ; but I am quite 
 aware that I may give oiFence, and I own I am 
 not sorry to have a kind-hearted lad like your- 
 self to back me." 
 
 "I'll stand by you, never fear!" cried the 
 young man, slapping the elder one's knee with 
 a vehemence that made him wince. " And 
 remember, if money is wanted to help Mrs. 
 Atterbury, you may draw on me to my last 
 shilling. Only, whatever you do, don't let 
 her find it out."
 
 MISS CRAGGS KEEPS HER RESOLUTION. 245 
 
 "It is like yourself, Compton ; all that is 
 generous and considerate. I frankly confess I 
 am running a risk, and it may be a great com- 
 fort to fall back on you. If Martock sent this 
 good woman, which is not impossible, it is all 
 right ; but he is a terrible fellow to deal with 
 when his plans are crossed." 
 
 " Who cares for his plans when Mrs. Atter- 
 bury's health and happiness are at stake ?" 
 
 " Very true ; she is our first consideration, 
 of course; and therefore, my dear boy, we 
 cannot be too careful and prudent. You must 
 promise me to be on your guard." 
 
 '' Trust me — I know what I am about. I 
 am very glad I came." 
 
 It was more than Sir John could have 
 echoed with truth, for he had misgivings 
 enough to make him wish himself anywhere 
 else. Nothing further was said till they drew 
 up at the archway, through which their guide 
 had just passed. In spite of his resolutions, 
 Compton's curiosity so far prevailed over dis- 
 cretion, that he jumped out after Sir John, 
 and followed him at a few paces' distance. He 
 saw Miss Craggs go in, and presently heard her 
 calling, " Sir John ! Sir John !" He ran for- 
 ward instantly, and was at the Baronet's heels 
 as he entered the house. 
 
 There stood Mr. Martock, stern and me-
 
 246 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 nacing ; Miss Craggs, holding up her hands in 
 wrath and dismay; and Hester whimpering, 
 with her apron at her eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Mornay was gone, and no one could 
 say where. Compton pressed Sir John's arm. 
 "I told you they would not let you see her 
 without a fight." 
 
 " Hush, my dear fellow, hush," said Sir 
 John, wiping his forehead, with a hand that 
 shook visibly, " pray be quiet. Mr. Martock, 
 I; am sure, will give us all the information in 
 his power. I do not quite understand — how 
 did she go, and when? I thought she was 
 seriously ill, or I might have hesitated, perhaps, 
 about coming." 
 
 " You came to see your ward. Sir John, 
 did you?" said Mr. Martock. 
 
 " Well, yes — I certainly was made anxious 
 — you know how deservedly dear " 
 
 " Miss Craggs has evidently sources of in- 
 formation peculiar to herself, then," said Mr. 
 Martock, with a look at that lady which might 
 have appalled a less intrepid spirit, " but we 
 will talk of that another time. The present 
 question is more important — where is this lady 
 gone ?" 
 
 " Where is her husband ?" asked Compton, 
 quickly.
 
 MISS CRAGGS KEEPS HER RESOLUTION. 247 
 
 "Ah, wee you there, Mr. Compton? I did 
 not happen to observe you. Sir John is very 
 happy in his selection of friends." 
 
 " He has got one, sir, at any rate, who will 
 stand by him in this matter through thick and 
 thin. Mrs. Atterbury shall not be wronged 
 with impunity." 
 
 " I was not aware, Mr. Compton, that the 
 lady you mention had given you any autho- 
 rity to interfere in her affairs. If she has, that 
 alters the case." 
 
 " Pray, my dear Tom " began Sir John. 
 
 " I have asked a question, Sir John, to 
 which I have had no answer. Perhaps you 
 may be more successful." 
 
 "Ay, just try. Sir John," put in Miss 
 Craggs, on whom Mr. Martock's dark looks 
 seemed quite thrown away, " and see what 
 answer you will get. Where is the lady's hus- 
 band, that they go on telling her is close at 
 hand, waiting till she has done all they want ? 
 Where is he? Can they show him? Here 
 comes the man who knows," as Despard ap- 
 peared, and stood looking at the group, with 
 eyebrows elevated, and lips strongly inclined 
 to whistle, " and unless he happens to be too 
 sober, there is a chance of his telling you the 
 truth."
 
 248 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " Thank you, Miss Craggs," said Despard, 
 raising his hat ; " your good opinion is be- 
 coming something to be proud of. Really, 
 gentlemen, this is a most agreeable surprise, 
 and a pleasant way of spending the evening, 
 but do not you think if we were to adjourn 
 out of this passage into a sitting-room, it would 
 be nearly as convenient ?" 
 
 The proposal was silently agreed to, by Miss 
 Craggs opening the door of the room she had 
 lent them once before. They all entered, 
 except Hester, who stood outside, making a 
 very little penitence go a long way. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Despard," said Mr. Martock, 
 " we have to inform you, if you do not know 
 it already, that Mrs. Atterbury has disap- 
 peared, and Sir John Pierpoint wishes to know 
 where she is gone ?" 
 
 Despard's face showed concern, not unmixed 
 with alarm. He knew nothing of the matter, 
 not having seen Mrs. Atterbury all day. 
 
 "It was not by your recommendation, then, 
 that she took this step ?" 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 " Very good ; but Sir John, and Mr. Comp- 
 ton too, Mr. Despard, are very anxious ta 
 know where your friend Mr. Atterbury is. 
 Perhaps you can tell them?"
 
 MISS CRAGGS KEEPS HER RESOLUTION. 249 
 
 " I can tell them this^ at any rate," said Des- 
 pard, whose colour had risen during these ques- 
 tions, " as far as I know, Frederick Atterbury 
 is safe. I wish I could say as much for his 
 poor young wife, but she shall be found, or 
 I'll know why." 
 
 " Then Atterbury has escaped?" said Comp- 
 ton, eagerly. 
 
 " Escaped — there is no other word. And it 
 was high time he did, for some who pretended 
 to be serving him were playing him false for 
 their own ends, and another day it might have 
 been too late." 
 
 " And why was not his wife told that he was 
 gone ?" 
 
 Despard shrugged his shoulders, with a 
 slight motion of his head towards his col- 
 league. 
 
 ''Why, indeed?" exclaimed Miss Craggs, 
 " but for the reason I told you, to get out of 
 her all they could. Now, gentlemen, I wash 
 my hands of this business entirely, and shall 
 be glad to wash my house too. If that poor 
 young lady comes back, I shall just tell her 
 she must go to those as can take care of her, 
 for I can't, and^won't, and the sooner you all 
 make me free of you, the better. And you, 
 you troublesome, meddling, disobedient crea-
 
 250 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 ture, what are you doing there, blacking the 
 paint with your dirty fingers, and the scullery 
 not cleaned yet ? Go along down stairs with 
 you." 
 
 And away she went, sweeping Hester before 
 her. 
 
 " There are some deliverances," observed 
 Mr. Despard, as he shut the door, " for which 
 it is impossible not to be grateful. May I 
 ask, gentlemen, how this curious conjunction 
 of planets took place ?" 
 
 Sir John hurriedly explained ; he had un- 
 derstood Eleanor was ill — he supposed the 
 woman of the house had picked up his name, 
 as those people always did; he had no idea 
 but that his friends meant all for the best ; he 
 only wished he had been consulted, and much 
 of this might have been avoided. 
 
 " We wished to spare you, Sir John, as well 
 as your ward," said Mr. Martock, slowly ; 
 " but as you have both put that out of our 
 power, you shall henceforth know and share 
 everything." 
 
 " And all this time," interrupted Compton, 
 impatiently, "who is going to look for Mrs. 
 Atterbury?" 
 
 " I think, with your permission, Mr. Comp- 
 ton, that Sir John Pierpoint and myself will
 
 MISS CRAGGS KEEPS HER RESOLUTION. 251 
 
 'be fitter persons for the search than so very 
 energetic a young gentleman, however great 
 his merit and other qualifications. There is one 
 thing, which Mrs. Atterbury's friends cannot 
 be too soon aware of — that there are some 
 designing individuals about, sharers of poor 
 Frederick's follies, who are only waiting their 
 opportunity to make her sensitive feelings 
 their prey, and plunder her of her property, 
 under the pretence of redeeming his honour." 
 
 Despard eyed him Avhile he was saying this 
 with a sinister expression, impossible to de- 
 scribe. When he stopped, he turned gravely 
 to Sir John. 
 
 ^' On my honour as a gentleman, I know 
 nothing of this step of Mrs. Atterbury's ; but 
 I can readily imagine that her mind could 
 bear the suspense no longer, and it was against 
 my wish that she was kept in it. If I had 
 had my own way, she should have known all 
 I knew, and henceforth, she shall. Tom," lay- 
 ing his hand suddenly on Compton's arm, " if 
 our elders go one way in this quest, suppose 
 you and I go another, and I'll be bound we 
 young fellows hit ofi* the scent first." 
 
 Neither of the new comers could reasonably 
 oppose this arrangement, though both were 
 manifestly dissatisfied. Sir John seemed to
 
 252 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 acquiesce as if lie had no choice, and Compton 
 swallowed his indignation in the hopes of 
 learning more. Despard walked leisurely on 
 with him till the others had passed them in 
 the cab ; then he stopped short. " Wait for 
 me, Tom, one minute ; I have a question to 
 ask." He darted back, and Compton had 
 leisure to wonder whether, after all, some 
 trick had not been played, before he returned 
 out of breath. 
 
 " Just as I thought, Tommy," he said, taking 
 his young companion's arm. " She was fol- 
 lowed by a spy of Martock's."
 
 253 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MK. MARTOCK AT HOME. 
 
 It was one of Mr. Martock's peculiarities to 
 have no regular home, unless his office might 
 be so considered. Like the famous Elwes and 
 others, he owned several tenements in diiFerent 
 parts of London, and whenever one happened 
 to be vacant, took up his abode in it, with 
 most philosophical indifference as to comfort 
 or locality. His present residence was on 
 the Surrey side — an old-fashioned house and 
 garden, one of the few relics left of the times 
 when the neighbourhood was a rural one, and 
 which the march of improvement has, no 
 doubt, since then swept away. Dilapidated 
 and damp as was the building, the shrubs, 
 when their first green was still unblackened, 
 gave it a cheerful aspect in summer, and it
 
 254 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 had seldom been long without a tenant. The 
 absolute necessity for repairs, however, kept 
 it uninhabited except by its proprietor and 
 one servant — accustomed to live anywhere, 
 and to dispense with the amenities of civilised 
 existence. 
 
 The inquiries after Mrs. Atterbury having 
 led them in this direction — they had believed 
 themselves once on her track, but nothing had 
 resulted from it — and everything having been 
 done that could be done that night. Sir John 
 had courteously insisted on setting his compa- 
 nion down at his own door. In his secret 
 
 soul, he hoped to find Eleanor at Place, 
 
 and his great dread now was that Mr. Mar- 
 tock would offer to go home with him. Greatly 
 relieved by his acceptance of his offer, he was 
 beginning to wish him a hearty good night, 
 when he discovered that Mr. Martock had set 
 his heart on his going in, and when Mr. Mar- 
 tock's heart was set on anything, great or 
 small, it required a very determined nature to 
 prevent his getting it. Sir John alighted, and 
 limping along the rough gravel walk, tried 
 to admire and praise, while thinking it in 
 private the most detestable cockney hole he 
 had ever seen. Certainly, whatever the "de- 
 sirable summer residence" might have been,
 
 MR. I^IARTOCK AT HOME. 255 
 
 when the paint was fresh outside, and there 
 was plenty of good furniture within, and 
 cheerful faces looked out of every window, it 
 was a very " moated grange" for dreariness in 
 its present state, when its master opened the 
 hall door with his latch-key, and rang a hand- 
 bell that stood on the table, not to summon 
 his servant on hospitable cares intent, but, as 
 he significantly explained, to tell him to keep 
 away. A small moderator lamp was burning 
 in readiness, with which he ushered his visitor 
 into a little sitting-room, with windows open- 
 ing down to the floor: a huge writing-table, 
 with drawers and shelves, and a bookcase 
 crammed with packages, being the principal 
 furniture. 
 
 ^' These are my household gods, Pierpoint ; 
 they go with me wherever I move," he said, 
 observing Sir John's uneasy glance at both. 
 " Not quite your Belgravian notion of ele- 
 gance, but use is second nature, and I should 
 not be comfortable without them." 
 
 " Very convenient, I dare say, very much 
 so," said Sir John, trying to rub his hands 
 pleasantly, but failing ; '4s this your only 
 room f 
 
 '' This, and the next, opening into the 
 garden, and a bedroom above. Quite enough
 
 256 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 for a plain man like myself. I cannot afford 
 your style of living, Pierpoint ; and to tell 
 you the truth " 
 
 " Don't begin with that word, my dear 
 fellow. I have a particular objection to it." 
 
 " To truth, have you?" 
 
 " As some people tell it." 
 
 " That is unfortunate, for hear it you must, 
 sooner or later — and why not now ?" 
 
 " You have been throwing out these dis- 
 agreeable hints all the evening. What do you 
 mean by them? Is it my fault that Atter- 
 bury has run away? He has taken me in as 
 well as you." 
 
 " I believe you. He did take you in. You 
 thought that in your ward's rich husband, you 
 had secured an inexhaustible fount of supply. 
 I can feel for your disappointment ; but as it 
 is so, you must act accordingly. I did not 
 mean to trouble you just yet; you have 
 brought it upon yourself by interfering, and 
 your ward has done you no good by her treat- 
 ment of me. You know that I could sell you 
 up to-morrow, if I chose." 
 
 " A pleasant thing to tell a man in your 
 own house." 
 
 " If it keeps you from ruin, you may be 
 grateful for the reminder. Frederick Atter-
 
 MR. MARTOCK AT HOME. 257 
 
 bury had no secrets from me, before he mar- 
 ried : this escape of his, managed by Despard, 
 was his first, and if he is wise, it will be his 
 last. I know how you courted, and invited, 
 and endured him, for the sake of his money ; 
 and he knew it too — no one better. And you 
 both know, that it was part of the compact 
 between us, that his wife's affairs should be 
 entrusted unreservedly to my management." 
 
 " Well, and so they have been, I am sure." 
 
 " They have, because I have taken care 
 they should. To tell you the truth (I beg 
 your pardon for the obnoxious expression), I 
 do not trust one of you more than I can 
 help." 
 
 " It rather strikes me that the feeling is. 
 becoming reciprocal," said Sir John, sarcas- 
 tically. 
 
 " True ; Atterbury has played me false, and 
 now his wife has been set on to try the same 
 experiment. It is a dangerous game, and they 
 will find it so." 
 
 " You don't think that poor girl can be 
 gone after him ?" 
 
 " If Despard has told her where he is gone, 
 and is in the secret of her movements, it is 
 not impossible; but I rather think you will 
 find her in Place when you arrive. 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 In either case, I shall know by to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 ^' Of course, my dear fellow, I would send." 
 
 " Thank you : I am equally obliged, but I 
 believe I should be informed, whether you 
 thought proper to tell me or not." 
 
 Sir John moved uneasily in his chair, and 
 coughed to conceal his rage. 
 
 " The fact is, Pierpoint, you are none 
 of you aware of what you are doing when 
 you begin to shuffle with me. This young 
 man's father tried it once — but the lesson 
 he received warned him against a second 
 attempt. Frederick has now had his turn ; 
 he is supposed to be out of my reach — time 
 will show whether he is or not. He knows 
 when I held up his house from ruin, a year 
 ago, on what terms 1 did so. Those terms he 
 has tried to break ; let him see if he can abide 
 the consequences." 
 
 " Well, my dear Martock, I am sorry you 
 are vexed, but it really is not my fault. I 
 never advised " 
 
 " No, no ; you have too much sense, I am 
 convinced, to think of putting me off by smooth 
 words and clever artifices. On the contrary, 
 if you do find that misguided young lady in 
 Place, or if she comes to you in the
 
 MR. IVIARTOCK AT HOME. 259 
 
 course of to-morrow, you will counsel her, if 
 she is wise, to accept terms while they are 
 offered. By-and-bye it will be too late." 
 
 " What terms do you offer ?" 
 
 " The best she could expect : by the sacrifice 
 of part of her fortune to secure herself and her 
 husband safe enjoyment of the rest." 
 
 " But her fortune is safe already — no one 
 can touch that." 
 
 " You are right, and she is a lady with very 
 enthusiastic notions, and if not prevented, will 
 throw it all into the quagmire of the bank's 
 liabilities." 
 
 '' Oh !" 
 
 " That would not suit your views. Sir 
 John, would it ? Now attend to what I say, • 
 and make her understand it thoroughly, if you 
 can. My claims are of years' standing, and 
 must be satisfied first, without question ; then 
 the claims of those for whom I am acting, and 
 who will be guided by my advice. When we are 
 satisfied, there will still be enough of her for- 
 tune to live on comfortably abroad ; and I wiU 
 spare her and him the degradation of a public 
 exposure." 
 
 " Things are public enough as it is ; I do 
 not know what more you would spare him." 
 
 " No, it is not likely you should ; you do 
 •s2
 
 260 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 not know what I have kept back, but in a few 
 days there will be more stringent inquiry- 
 made, and if I am not satisfied then — look 
 here !" He took a thick packet out of a 
 drawer, and flung it on the table. "There 
 are witnesses in that packet, Pierpoint, to stifle 
 which his father would have given me any 
 money — that belonged to other people. Let 
 those seals once be opened before the world, 
 and the very name of Atterbury will become 
 a shame to those that bear it !" 
 
 " Oh, this is too horrible — I cannot be- 
 lieve " 
 
 " Believe or not, as you please. I have 
 only given you this small insight into the real 
 state of the case, as a warning : do not drive 
 me into the necessity of being more explicit in 
 my revelations. I am unwilling to proceed to 
 extremities with you or her. I do not wish to 
 break an innocent woman's heart, or to lower 
 an elderly man like yourself in the eyes of 
 your friends and the world. I do not wish to 
 do so, I say. If you compel me, the fault will 
 be your own." 
 
 " Then I am to understand that either I or 
 poor Eleanor, or both, are to be your victims, 
 vice Frederick Atterbury, absent without leave? 
 Upon my word, Martock, you are monstrous
 
 MR. MARTOCK AT HOME. 261 
 
 hard to deal with. Well, I promise you I wiU 
 do my best — only give me time." 
 
 " Look here, Pierpoint, I am not quite so 
 hard as you suppose. Only convince your 
 ward of what I have told you, and we wiU 
 make a new arrangement of your own aifairs, 
 which win put everything on an easier foot- 
 ing." 
 
 " You promise me that, on your honour?" 
 
 " On my word — which / never break, allow 
 me to observe." 
 
 " Then on mine, I will do all you want. I 
 cannot help myself. I only wish Atterbury 
 had been at the bottom of the sea before he saw 
 Eleanor's face." 
 
 " So did he, many a time — perhaps at the 
 very moment that he married her." 
 
 " How dare you say such a thing, sir — and 
 to me ?" 
 
 " It can be nothing new to you, who saw 
 the irritable state he was in up to the last 
 moment — you, who would have turned him 
 out of your house if you had not believed him 
 rich. Ask your friend Despard — he was behind 
 the scenes aU the time ; he knows how you 
 shut your eyes, your ears, your senses — every- 
 thing but your door, and your hand. Or, if 
 you like it better, there are letters up-stairs
 
 262 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 in my room whicli will tell you more than 
 even Despard could. Atterbury had some 
 conscience left, and he knew that though that 
 poor young lady was ready to give him all she 
 had in the world, he had nothing to give her 
 in return — not even a heart !" 
 
 ^' It is a lie — it must be," gasped Sir John. 
 " I will not believe it, unless I see it with my 
 own eyes. Where are those letters ?" 
 
 " They are among his father's papers in 
 my possession. I have no objection to let you 
 examine them, if you wiU step up-stairs with 
 me. The better acquainted you are now 
 with all the circumstances, the better quali- 
 fied you will be to give advice when called 
 upon." 
 
 He took the lamp off the table as he spoke, 
 and making his guest precede him out of the 
 room, locked the door behind them. 
 
 It was full half an hour before they came 
 do^vn again, and then Sir John, with a hasty 
 adieu, hurried out of the house into the cab 
 he had kept waiting so long. Mr. Martock 
 stood a little while looking out after him, 
 with his hands in his pockets, and a smile on 
 his lips, that made them harder in their ex- 
 pression than before. The lightning playing 
 in his face made him step back and close the 
 door. " An ugly night for her cough," he
 
 MR. MARTOCK AT HOME. 263 
 
 thought. " I hope she is there, and safe in bed 
 by this time." He rang the hand-bell twice ; 
 his servant appeared instantly. 
 
 " Has Gayinan been here this evening?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; he has been waiting some time, 
 sir." 
 
 " Send him up." He had taken up a half 
 sitting position against the table, and was 
 looking over some circulars that had been 
 left during the day, when the person he had 
 sent for stood bowing before him : only vouch- 
 safing him a careless nod as he asked, " Well, 
 what news?" 
 
 The spy, for such he was, and the same who 
 had followed Despard to and from Twalmley, 
 hesitated a moment, and looked at the sitting- 
 room door. 
 
 "What are you grimacing for? It is all 
 right, or I should not have sent for you." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir ; I didn't know. I 
 hope I did right, sir ?" 
 
 " If you did as I desired you. Where were 
 you this evening ?" 
 
 " At my post, sir, of course ; and if I hadn't 
 been looking out sharp, she would have given 
 me the slip after aU. I had to be as quick as 
 thought — but to serve you^ sir, who are always 
 so generous and so good to me " 
 
 " Gayman !"
 
 264 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir — I didn't know. I 
 was going to mention, I had only time to run 
 after the cab, and get the driver to let me 
 mount the box. I gave him a hint," coming 
 nearer, and putting his hand to his mouth, 
 
 " that the poor lady's head was a little " 
 
 he tapped his forehead significantly, " and that 
 I knew her friends, and where to take her." 
 
 " Well ?" said Mr. Martock, signing to him 
 to keep his distance, "it strikes me, Gayman, 
 that your own head will not be much better, 
 if you go on drinking as you have been doing 
 to-night." 
 
 "Drinking? Me, sir? Only the merest, 
 weakest drop in the world, to wash the dust 
 out of my throat this hot night — nothing 
 more, I do assure you, sir. How is she now, 
 poor dear lady ?" 
 
 " What do you mean by speaking to me 
 like that?" 
 
 " Dear sir, I beg your pardon — I didn't 
 know. She was taken so faint directly she saw 
 me, that I was almost frightened, and I thought 
 it was the best thing to do." 
 
 " To do what ? Answer sensibly and soberly, 
 or I can tell you, my man, this is your last 
 day's work for me. Where did you leave the 
 lady — and who is with her ?"
 
 MR. MARTOCK AT HOME. 265 
 
 " No one is with her, sir : she begged to be 
 left alone." 
 
 " Left— where T 
 
 " Where ? Why, in the drawing-room, sir — 
 on the sofa." 
 
 Mr. Martock stood upright, looking at him. 
 '' You brought her here^ did you ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir : you told me never to let her out 
 of my sight if she got outside that door, and 
 when she fainted in the cab, what else could I 
 do ? I beg your pardon — I didn't know." 
 
 His employer put him aside with a look 
 that curdled his blood, and unlocked the 
 sitting-room door, holding up the lamp as he 
 advanced. Except a faint, smoky smell, as of 
 burnt paper, all seemed as he left it ; he 
 stepped cautiously to the half-closed door of 
 the other apartment, and standing still a mo- 
 ment, called her gently by name. There was 
 no answer ; a gush of moist air made his lamp 
 flare as he held it up — the curtains were 
 waving in the breeze, and whefn he walked to 
 the window, the rain drove into his face. He 
 looked round the room — a decanter with water 
 in it on the table — a low chair overturned — a 
 bow of ribbon on the sofa cushion — were the 
 only traces of its having been occupied. He 
 gave one glance from the window — it looked
 
 266 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 into the garden, the door of which was swing- 
 ing to and fro. There could be no doubt how 
 she had escaped ; the question only remained, 
 where had she gone — and what had she over- 
 heard ? 
 
 " Idiot ! to bring her here, and leave her 
 unwatched ! Idiot ! to expose me to a false 
 move like this. The next time he drinks when 
 on my business, I will give him leave to do it at 
 my expense. What is to be done now ? She 
 
 will hardly go to Place to-night, and this 
 
 fool is not to be trusted. I must go myself — 
 but where ?" 
 
 He turned back into the other room, set the 
 lamp on the table, and began mechanically 
 locking up the papers he had left lying 
 about. Suddenly he bounded as if he had 
 been struck by a bullet ; seized the lamp, 
 and held it in every direction with one 
 hand, the other, meanwhile, feeling wildly 
 about the table, on the chairs, on the floor — 
 all in vain. Ha ! the smell of the burnt paper 
 — how could he have overlooked it? Yes, 
 and here were light fragments of tinder blown 
 by the wind all over the room ; and here was 
 a spot on the fender where the melted wax 
 had run. There could be no doubt — the 
 packet had been destroyed.
 
 267 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 FAMILY FEIENDS. 
 
 The terror that seized Eleanor Atterbury 
 when she recognised the face of the spy against 
 whom she had been so strongly warned, was 
 by no means lessened by the discovery that he 
 was in the service of Mr. Martock; and she 
 suffered herself to be taken into his house 
 from real physical inability to remonstrate or 
 resist. All her old instinctive dread of her 
 adviser returned with treble force at this un- 
 mistakeable proof of his treachery ; and when 
 her officious attendants yielded to her request, 
 and left her alone, she sank on the sofa in a 
 state of prostration, almost akin to despair. 
 How long she remained there she did not 
 know ; the rest and quiet in some degree re- 
 stored her powers, and she probably slept part
 
 268 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 of the time, as she was first roused by the 
 voices in the next room, speaking of her hus- 
 band and of her. She would have called to 
 them, but she could not; like one oppressed 
 with nightmare, she lay, unable to move hand 
 or foot, or to utter a sound, until the closing 
 of the door as they left the room, gave her the 
 momentary stimulus she required, and she 
 sprang from the sofa, with a half-stifled shriek 
 to Sir John for help. He heard her not, and 
 she did not repeat the call. What could he 
 do for her — he who had just pledged himself 
 to give her over, defenceless, into the hands of 
 her enemy ? What could or would any friend 
 do for her now ? Frederick was gone — gone 
 without a word or sign — nay, more, if what that 
 man hinted were true — but that way madness 
 lay — she durst not allow herself to dwell upon 
 it. Every one on whom she had relied had 
 more or less deceived her, and was trying to de- 
 ceive her still. She would trust none of them 
 — not for a moment. Escape she must — she 
 would, before she was discovered ; and once out 
 of this man's power, she would act and judge 
 for herself. Not that she understood half of 
 what she had heard, or had more than a glim- 
 mering of the import of Mr. Martock's threats : 
 — what woman ever yet understood the in-
 
 FAMILY FRIENDS. 269 
 
 tricate mysteries involved in the word " affairs?" 
 — but two or three facts that had been stated 
 she did understand only too well ; they were 
 burning in her brain as she stood there, press- 
 ing it with her hands ; and the fire they poured 
 into her veins gave her momentary energy to 
 think and act. The half-stupor of the pre- 
 vious hours had given place to a feverish 
 acuteness of the senses ; and in less time than 
 it could be written, her plan was formed, her 
 resolution taken. She had a friend within 
 reach, who could not deceive her ; the spire of 
 his church was visible from the window ; an 
 old family friend of the Atterburys, who had, 
 on that account, been invited to assist at the 
 ceremony of her marriage. He had always 
 treated her with marked kindness; at first, 
 on Frederick's account, whose father he had 
 dearly loved, and afterwards on her own. Too 
 much occupied with his parish work to have 
 much leisure to bestow on young ladies, he 
 had yet been sufficiently sensible of the high 
 value she set on his advice, to take every op- 
 portunity that offered of dropping her such 
 words of warning, of encouragement, and of 
 sympathy, as only an elder can give, and which, 
 to her, were acceptable beyond measure. From 
 his wife and daughters, on the few occasions
 
 270 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 that they had been able to meet, she had re- 
 ceived the most gratifying expressions of 
 regard and good will : they came to church to 
 see her married, and had taken leave of her 
 with a mutual promise, that should she ever 
 require the services of old friends, she would 
 not look upon them as new ones. And when 
 could she ever need them as she did now? 
 She would fly to them at once ; she would tell 
 Mr. Tresham everything, and he would tell 
 her what to do ; he would show her her duty, 
 would think for her, act for her, and help her 
 to bear up without sinking — as sink she must, 
 if no one gave her help. She would go at 
 once, and so resolving, she took up her bag, 
 and moved to the door. It was locked ; and 
 while she was hesitating what to do, her eye 
 was caught by the sealed packet, just visible 
 in the faint, glimmering light cast into the 
 room by the gas-lamp without. It was the 
 impulse of a moment to seize and rush with it 
 to the window of the next room ; the window 
 opened into the garden — there was a side-door 
 which was swinging on its hinges — by that 
 door she could escape unseen. Would it be a sin 
 to take away this terrible witness, and so rescue 
 Frederick's name from a disgrace she durst 
 not think of ? Even if it were a sin, should
 
 FAMILY FRIENDS. 271. 
 
 she commit it for his sake ? For one dreadful 
 moment of doubt she stood there, holding it 
 before her; the next she had flung it upon 
 the sofa she had just left, and, springing from 
 the window, hurried across the garden without 
 looking behind. Once, as her dress swept 
 against a dark clump of evergreens, she fancied 
 something moved behind it ; this only gave 
 wings to her speed, and made her hurry more 
 wildly on. 
 
 Fortunately, she had not far to go, and the 
 way was not hard to find, though how she 
 found it, she never knew : but she stood at 
 Mr. Tresham's door, breathless and heated 
 with haste, just as a thunder shower, which had 
 been some time gathering, broke over her head^. 
 
 Perhaps it was a good thing for her that it 
 did come just at that moment : she had begun 
 to ask herself what they would think of her 
 arriving at that hour, on foot, and alone ; but 
 the terrors of the storm overpowered smaller 
 fears, and seeing the lights still burning in 
 the parlour Avindows, she took heart of grace, 
 and rang. She had to repeat the summons 
 before it was answered by an old woman in a 
 large bonnet, whom she did not know, and 
 who evidently did not know her, or care to 
 do so.
 
 272 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " Want who ? Mr. Tresham ? Can't see 
 anybody. He's very ill." 
 
 " Oh, I am so sorry; it must have been 
 very sudden ?" 
 
 " Very sudden." The door would have 
 closed, but for Mrs. Atterbury's hand. 
 
 " Could I see Mrs. Tresham— only for a 
 moment ?" 
 
 ^' Can't see nobody — she's a nussing of him." 
 
 " Miss Tresham, then, or Miss Ellen— they 
 would speak to me, if they knew I was here. 
 Pray do not shut me out in the rain till you 
 are sure." 
 
 " They don't want no company — they said 
 so ; but I'll tell 'em, and they can do as they 
 like." She opened the door wider, and allowed 
 the fugitive to come in, under protest : wiped 
 her hands on her coarse apron, and then put 
 her head into the nearest room to say, " Miss 
 Tresham, ma'am, you're wanted." 
 
 Eleanor heard some observation made, but 
 its import could only be guessed by the re- 
 joinder, '' It's a lady. I telled her you was 
 engaged, but she would come in." 
 
 " So inconsiderate !" she heard, in accents of 
 unmistakeable vexation, while the old woman 
 turned to her, pointing to the parlour door 
 with her thumb, and hobbled off into her own
 
 FAMILY FRIENDS. 273 
 
 peculiar region, leaving her to avail herself of 
 the permission or not, as she thought proper. 
 
 Miss Tresham saved her from the difficulty 
 of choice, by appearing at the door with a 
 candle. She stopped short, however, when 
 she recognised her visitor, and seemed too 
 astonished to speak or move. Eleanor made a 
 step forward, holding out her hand entreat- 
 ingly. '' I am sorry to intrude like this ; I did 
 not know Mr. Tresham was ill ; I hope you will 
 excuse my asking to see you." 
 
 " Pray come in, Mrs. Atterbury," was all the 
 reply, in a voice whose very coldness betrayed 
 the effort it cost the speaker ; and Miss Tre- 
 sham, without noticing the offered hand, 
 ushered her into the parlour, where a youn» 
 man was writing. 
 
 '' Charles— Mrs. Atterbury." 
 
 The young man started up, with a face all 
 one fierce scarlet glow ; upsetting his ink-bottle 
 in so doing, which gave him an excuse for 
 turning from the visitor after a slight hasty 
 bow, to remedy the mischief with blotting- 
 paper. Eleanor recollected to have met him 
 before, and to have heard (how long ago she 
 could not tell) that he was Mr. Tresham's 
 curate, and Clara's betrothed. 
 
 Her reception had, so far, been so repul- 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 sively cold, she hardly knew how to proceed, 
 and found herself dreamily wondering whe- 
 ther this would be the case, in future, wherever 
 she went. Clara Tresham seemed as embar- 
 rassed as herself, but her embarrassment was 
 decidedly mixed with anger, and it was as 
 much as she could do to ask in civil terms, to 
 what they were indebted for the honour of this 
 visit ? ,. 
 
 " Is Mr. Tresham very ill?" asked Eleanor, 
 instead of replying. 
 
 " Very ill." The daughter's voice was almost 
 choked. 
 
 " Too ill for me to speak to Mrs. Tresham — 
 for one moment?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, Mrs. Atterbury; I could not 
 expose my mother to — I am very sorry — ^if 
 there is any message you would like to leave 
 with me, I shall be happy to give it." 
 
 " Would you let me stay with you to-night ?" 
 
 There was a dead silence : Miss Tresham 
 looked first at her, and then at Mr. Lyle, but 
 seemed unable to find a word of reply. This 
 was in itself a reply so painful, the blood rushed 
 again to Eleanor's brow, and she made a feeble 
 effort to regain the door. " I beg your pardon 
 
 — I have been very presuming — I hope " 
 
 She had only reached the wall, but it Avas a 
 support, and she felt, if she attempted to move
 
 FAMILY FRIENDS. 275 
 
 farther, she might fall on the floor; so she 
 stood leaning against it, till a strong arm 
 quietly drew her forwards, and placed her in a 
 chair. Then she looked up, and found her- 
 self alone with the young curate. Miss Tre- 
 sham, he explained, was gone to speak to her 
 mother; but the explanation conveyed no 
 trace, either by look or word, of apology for 
 inhospitable treatment, and she began to be 
 seriously frightened. Was Mr. Tresham in 
 such very imminent danger ? He did not think 
 immediate danger was apprehended, but they 
 were warned when he had an attack of this 
 kind once before, that a second would be very 
 serious. 
 
 ^' When did this attack come on ?" « 
 
 " When, madam ? Two days ago." 
 
 " Had he been unwell before ?" 
 
 " Rather — and so he felt the shock the more." 
 
 " He had a shock, then ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Atterbury !" 
 
 The stem significance of the tone, and the 
 look that accompanied it, were not to be mis- 
 taken, though she did not yet take in their full 
 meaning. " Oh, Mr. Lyle — ^N2i^ it that?'' He 
 bowed his head, pressing his lips tightly to- 
 gether, as if afraid of letting them speak. 
 
 " Ah !" she murmured, " I had no idea he 
 T 2
 
 276 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 would feel it so deeply — ^but then he was such 
 an old and intimate friend." 
 
 ^'- Friend V No language can express the 
 amount of scornful meaning compressed in 
 that one word, as Charles Lyle, thrusting his 
 hands into his pockets, strode fiercely to the 
 fireplace. She sat looking at him a moment 
 as if the word had stunned her ; then the real 
 truth flashed across her, and she understood 
 it all. 
 
 " Mr. Lyle ! Mr. Lyle !" — she was standing 
 by him now, grasping his arm with both 
 hands — " only tell me — tell me the truth — has 
 he lost anything ?" 
 
 "Lost anything, Mrs. Atterbury?" — ^the 
 young man literally gnashed his teeth over 
 the words — " I should think he had — every 
 farthing he had to lose — every farthing he had 
 saved, and if that is not enough to kill a man 
 at his time of life, I don't know what is." 
 
 His manner, as he pulled his arm away 
 from her hold, was harsh and almost rude; 
 he was, in truth, too nearly beside himself 
 with grief and exasperation, to consider, as he 
 might, the effect of his words. Indeed, he 
 had been so enraged at her apparent want of 
 feeling, that perhaps he rather hoped to shame 
 her than otherwise. It was not till the door 
 was opened by Mrs. Tresham, and he looked
 
 FAMILY FRIENDS. 277 
 
 round to see how they would meet, that he 
 was aware how cruel he had been. 
 
 Mrs. Tresham, one of the kindest, most 
 amiable women in the world, had been en- 
 during a trial severe enough to make her 
 heart hard and her temper bitter: she came 
 from her husband's sick-bed, with all the 
 weight of his and of her children's wrongs 
 crushing the womanly charity out of her soul : 
 and therefore it is not to be wondered at, if 
 her worn, furrowed face wore an unforgiving 
 aspect, as she entered to tell the intrusive 
 wife of her enemy, that from henceforth all 
 intercourse between them must cease. But 
 the sight of that wife as she stood there, mute 
 and motionless, beneath a burden heavier thau 
 her own, well-nigh disarmed her at the onset. 
 She had to recollect the sufferer up-stairs 
 before she could begin with the firm severity 
 she had intended. " I am very sorry, Mrs. 
 Atterbury, but it is quite impossible, under 
 the circumstances — oh no, no, my poor girl — 
 no, no ! don't kneel to me — don't cry like that 
 — pray don't ! Poor thing — poor thing ! I did 
 not mean to be hard to you — it is not your 
 doing. I beg and beseech you to rise; it 
 goes to my heart to see you in such a po- 
 sition !" 
 
 It must have been a harder heart than hers
 
 278 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 that could have seen unmoved one so young, 
 and but lately so happy, bowed down to the 
 dust in an agony of shame and sorrow. All 
 Mrs. Tresham's sternness of purpose melted 
 away in the tears with which she stooped over 
 the suppliant figure crouching at her feet, 
 endeavouring, by every soothing word in her 
 power, to persuade her to stand up, but in 
 vain. She desisted at last, signing to Mr. 
 Lyle to bring her a chair; then gently, with 
 a degree of tender force that could not be 
 resisted, she removed Eleanor's bonnet, raised 
 her head, and sitting down, laid it against her 
 knees. 
 
 " Go up to Mr. Tresham, Charles, will you? 
 And tell the girls not to come in just yet. 
 No, keep still, my dear," as Eleanor made a 
 faint movement, " you will be the better pre- 
 sently for keeping quiet, and I am in no 
 hurry." 
 
 It was no slight effort of unselfishness to 
 say this, at such a time, but it was quite sin- 
 cere : not to have won back all they had lost 
 would she have broken that bruised reed, so 
 unexpectedly thrown upon her mercy. The 
 mercy was not wasted ; Eleanor felt it to her 
 heart's core, and it gave her resolution to 
 refrain from speaking a word till she could do 
 so without sobbing. She remained perfectly
 
 FAMILY FRIENDS. 279 
 
 still, except for those gasping sobs, endeavour- 
 ing to stop the tears that came so fast, and 
 clinging the while to Mrs. Tresham's knees, as 
 if she feared her patience or her clemency 
 would fail before she had been heard. As 
 soon as she could command herself, she raised 
 her head, and looked fearfully into her face. 
 
 " Is there any hope ?" 
 
 " Of what, my dear?" 
 
 '' Of Mr. Tresham— of his p-ettinp; better ?" 
 
 " AVe all hope," said Mrs. Tresham, " but I 
 dare not deceive you or myself He is very 
 ill." 
 
 " And I am keeping you from him?" 
 
 '' Yes. Never mind for a few minutes, my 
 dear. He would Avish it, if he knew." 
 
 ''You are not angry with me for coming? 
 I heard nothing of this till just now." 
 
 " I quite believe it, my dear." Mrs. Tresham 
 was relenting fast about her staying, but she 
 hardly knew how to say so. 
 
 '' I do not think," Eleanor went on, "that 
 I could ever have dared to speak to you, if I 
 had known it ; but now — oh, Mrs. Tresham !" 
 she was kneeling now with her hands clasped 
 on her listener's lap, " if you really do pity 
 me " 
 
 "I do, from my heart, from my soul, my 
 poor girl."
 
 280 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " Then tell me that you will forgive." 
 
 Mrs. Tresham put her hands before her face. 
 " Pray don't, pray don't, Mrs. Atterbury " 
 
 " Oh !" said Eleanor, in a low, hollow 
 whisper, " I know I am asking a hard thing : 
 it must seem almost impossible — and yet what 
 shall I do if you refuse me ? I have lost more 
 than you — my heart is almost broken — and I 
 came to you for comfort. Will you send me 
 away quite hopeless — despairing of myself — of 
 him — of God's mercy and yours ? What would 
 you have me do to win your pardon ? What 
 will satisfy you? Call in your daughters — 
 your servants — whoever you will — before them 
 all I will kneel here as I do now — as I ouo:ht 
 to kneel, to obtain such a request— before 
 them all implore you, as I do now, by all your 
 own hopes of mercy, forgive him for the love 
 of God ! Forgive him, that God may pardon 
 too!" 
 
 Her voice had gradually risen to a tone of 
 almost passionate earnestness, but here it failed 
 suddenly, and her head sank once more as 
 low as Mrs. Tresham's feet. It was not 
 allowed, however, to remain there; Mrs. 
 Tresham could bear it no longer, and was so 
 determined she should rise, she was forced to 
 obey, and allow herself to be placed on a sofa
 
 FAMILY FRIENDS. 281 
 
 by her side, with her head supported on her 
 shoulder. 
 
 " There, my dear, now you are in an atti- 
 tude in which I can talk to you quietly, if you 
 can bear to hear me. Poor thing, how ill and 
 worn-out you look ; you ought to be in bed, I 
 am sure. Did Clara understand you rightly, 
 that you would like to stay here to-night ?" 
 
 " I did wish it, before I knew ; but not 
 now — oh, not now." 
 
 " Why not, my dear ? I will tell you the 
 honest truth, that you may believe*^^e. I 
 came down to send you away. I thought I 
 could never bear to speak to you again ; and 
 now I could not bear that you should leave 
 me. Will you stay ?" 
 
 "To add to your trouble and anxiety? 
 Oh no !" 
 
 " You are too proud to accept the poor 
 accommodation I can give you ? Is that it ?" 
 
 " I will thankfully accept it, if " 
 
 " Listen, my dear ; I know what you would 
 imply ; and if I could honestly relieve your 
 poor heart by a word, I would. But I am no 
 angel, only a sinful creature, full of bad 
 passions; and were I to say I thoroughly 
 forgave, I should be adding sin to sin. Ask 
 yourself, if your Frederick were lying before
 
 282 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 your eyes — but I will not speak of that. I 
 know I ought to do as you ask me — I knew it 
 before you asked — but I could not, and I cannot 
 yet — God forgive me ! I hope I shall be able 
 to do it soon : you must have patience mth 
 mCj and give me time. As for you, my poor 
 child," she drew Eleanor nearer, and kissed 
 her on the forehead, "if it is any consolation 
 to you to know, I pity and feel for you so 
 much, that for your sake I could almost bring 
 myself to do that, which I could not do for the 
 sake of my Master." 
 
 It ivas a consolation, as kindness and sym- 
 pathy always are, and Eleanor's manner showed 
 she felt it. She was able now to give the ex- 
 planation she thought due* of her unexpected 
 appearance, briefly stating that her husband 
 had been obliged to leave the country without 
 giving her any instructions, and that she had 
 reason to distrust the fidelity of the advisers 
 in whose hands she was left. What she wanted 
 now was to be sheltered from pursuit, while 
 she considered what was her duty in such an 
 extremity. This, at least, her friend could 
 promise, and gladly would she have held out 
 hopes for the future, but suspecting that her 
 fortune was gone in the general wreck, this 
 was beyond hftr power. She only advised her
 
 FA^IILY FRIENDS. 283 
 
 to lose no time in obtaining the advice of some 
 able lawyer, and implicitly following it. "I 
 am quite sure women only get into trouble 
 when tliey attempt to manage these things for 
 themselves, my dear, and that is about as much 
 as I am sure of in business matters. Depend 
 upon it, your husband would wish it. Have 
 you no one to whom you could send among 
 your own friends?" 
 
 " I have no friends," murmured Eleanor, 
 putting her hand wearily to her brow. She 
 was becoming too exhausted to think or under- 
 stand, and Mrs. Tresham saw it was time she 
 was at rest. She laid her down on the sofa, 
 and went quietly up-stairs to arrange for her 
 accommodation, almost wondering at herself, 
 that her own burden should feel so much less 
 overwhelming, since she had put her hand 
 under that of another. 
 
 ' She might be pardoned for believing that 
 a blessing had followed the deed, as Mr. 
 Tresham was better that night, better the next 
 morning; and with the renewed hope, the 
 courage of his family revived. If he were 
 spared, the loss of their money would sit com- 
 paratively lightly on their souls — at least, they 
 felt so then; and Clara herself carried the 
 good news to Mrs. Atterbury, whom she knew
 
 284 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 to be in sore need of such a cordial. Her night- 
 had been one of suffering, whether asleep or 
 awake, and she was so crushed and broken 
 with all she had gone through, that though 
 she contrived in the middle of the day to rise 
 and dress, she could do no more. A sofa was 
 placed for her use in Mrs. Tresham's dressing- 
 room — a small apartment dignihed by that 
 well-sounding title, but, in reality, the one 
 private corner she reserved for herself apart 
 from the countless claims of husband and 
 children, household and parish. It was the 
 only shelter she could give Eleanor from the 
 eyes of her friends, relations, and neighbours, 
 who were constantly in and out, to inquire, 
 and condole, and offer advice and help ; and 
 whom it would have been terrible to her to 
 meet. Indeed, she shrank from being seen, 
 even by the servants ; and Clara, as tender of 
 her feelings now, as she had been reckless the 
 night before, waited on her herself, trying in 
 every way to lessen the painfulness of her posi- 
 tion. She helped her to dress, coaxed her to 
 eat, read to her when she could listen, listened 
 to her when she seemed to crave the relief of 
 utterance — and contrived to make this first 
 strange Sunday of her adversity in some degree 
 a day of rest to mind and body.
 
 FAMILY FRIENDS. 285 
 
 And now Eleanor Atterbury began to see 
 more clearly the road that lfe,y before her, 
 stretching away into the distance. Hitherto, 
 the distress of her spirits had more or less con- 
 fused her judgment, and though she had been 
 full of vague plans and conjectures about the 
 future, she had unconsciously relied on Fre- 
 derick's being at hand to arrange it all. Now, 
 as her nerves grew calmer, she realised a little 
 of the true state of the case, that she was, for a 
 time at least, deserted, and must think and 
 act alone. Many years seemed to have passed 
 over her head since that bright afternoon at 
 Twalmley ; her youth was gone for ever — her 
 health had received a shock which made her 
 tremble lest she should be prostrated suddenly 
 before her work was done — her trust in hunian 
 love, friendship, honour, was taken from her, 
 as it were in a moment. She must learn now 
 to suffer calmly, to suppress emotion, to endure 
 day by day, or she would not be able to per- 
 severe to the end. Her path seemed plain ; 
 she was thankful it did ; and she would tread 
 it submissively, leaning on the unseen Arm 
 that had guided her through her past life. 
 The place she had held in society she could 
 hold no longer ; the shame of the husband's 
 dishonour must rest on the head of the wife ;
 
 286 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 and with it, slie neither could nor would mix 
 again with thofe she had known before. All 
 that was past ; what remained now was to do 
 justice, as far as possible, and then hide her- 
 self in some obscure corner, where by industry 
 in some honest occupation, she could support 
 herself without burdening any one, or having 
 any eye to look upon her fall. 
 
 It crossed her mind several times, whether 
 she should not follow Frederick, and insist, 
 when she found him, on sharing his fate : but 
 as often did the dreadful question return 
 — what if Mr. Martock spoke truth ? She 
 had told herself, over and over again, that 
 he who had been so careless about falsehood 
 to her, would be equally so, when it suited 
 him, to others : but there had been an emphasis 
 in his voice when he uttered those cruel words, 
 that made her feel they were true, in spite 
 of herself. She tried now to face this reahty 
 too. He had married her, not out of love, but 
 under the emergency of impending difficulties. 
 He had been wretched in so doing, because he 
 was generous, and knew he was drawing her 
 down with him into misery. And yet, his last 
 words, his last embrace — if he had not, at any 
 rate, begun to love her, could they have been 
 so tender, so trustful? Had he not, on the
 
 FAMILY FRIENDS. 287 
 
 contrary, shown her more love that day than 
 he ever had before ? It seemed wonderful to 
 herself, that she could sit and think, and weigh 
 the matter so quietly. She could now under- 
 stand how people had slept in the intervals of 
 torture, and on the eve of a cruel death. After 
 a certain amount of agony, the perception of it 
 became dulled, and a strange familiarity with 
 pain came on, in itself so dreadful, that it took 
 off the terror of each separate phase of suffer- 
 ing. And she who, a week ago, had thought 
 it a trial to see her bridegroom unequal in 
 spirits, when it was the one drawback in her 
 brilliant lot, could now calmly consider what 
 she w^as to do, if, while losing everything on 
 earth for his sake, she had failed to win his 
 heart in return. 
 
 Calm as she thought herself, there was a 
 burning patch on either cheek when Mrs. 
 Tresham visited her the next morning, at 
 which that lady looked distrustfully, especially 
 when Eleanor requested a carriage might be 
 sent for, as she had ousiness to transact that 
 admitted of no delay. She did not think her 
 fit for it, and told her so ; but was too 
 harassed with her own cares to contest the 
 point long. Mr. Tresham kept them in griev- 
 ous anxiety ; his speech was clearer, and he
 
 288 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 had certainly made progress, but he was in 
 an irritable state of mind that nothing could 
 soothe; insisted on having pencil and paper 
 by the bedside, and wearied himself with going 
 over accounts and calculations in his head, 
 that only confused and distressed him. It was 
 very difficult for his poor wife to speak cheer- 
 fully to her guest under these circumstances, 
 but she made the attempt when she saw how 
 shocked she looked at this intelligence ; assur- 
 ing her that he really was better, and that 
 they expected his brother to arrive, who was 
 a good man of business, and would take a 
 great deal off his mind, and be a help to them 
 all. So Mrs. Atterbury, having enough to 
 think of in her ov/n private troubles, was not 
 to burden her young shoulders by carrying 
 theirs into the bargain. 
 
 It would have been as easy to bid her return 
 to the serene existence of Eleanor Ormonde — 
 that favoured being on whom she looked back 
 now with a kind of dreamy admiration, as 
 something quite distinct from lierseK; but 
 still she felt the considerate kindness, and 
 thought more than once, as she drove along 
 the streets, how many more kind hearts there 
 were in the world than people generally sup- 
 posed.
 
 FAMILY FRIENDS. 289 
 
 In compliance with her request, Clara had 
 procured for her, though with a gentle hint 
 about the expense, the respectable slow one- 
 horse fly, which was their nearest approach to 
 aristocratic splendour, and only employed on 
 solemn occasions. The driver, whose infirmities 
 were veiled by the elaborate respectability of 
 his great-coat, " looking almost like your own 
 coachman," was rather scandalised, and not a 
 little affronted, by the injunction unexpectedly 
 laid upon him, not to allow any one to get on 
 the box. Suppressing his feelings, however,, 
 he only touched his hat in reply ; and in obe- 
 dience to her directions, drove her to her 
 husband's bank. 
 
 She had been there twice before; the first 
 time with old Mr. Atterbury, the second with 
 Sir John, to meet Frederick; and she could 
 not help remembering how she had then been 
 received, as she now made her way with dif- 
 ficulty through people pushing in and out — 
 almost forbidden to enter by a strange ofiicial, 
 keeping guard over the door, and thankful at 
 last to recognise a familiar face in one of the 
 clerks — an elderly man, who had been in the 
 house all his life, and was now helping the 
 assignees with the accounts. On explaining 
 she wished to speak to Mr. Jebb, she was 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 allowed to go in, and Mr. Jebb, hearing a lady- 
 asking for him, came forward directly. He 
 started, as well lie might, when she put up her 
 veil. 
 
 ^' Good Heavens, Mrs. Atterbury!" 
 
 " Mr. Jebb, I am come on urgent business. 
 Who is the principal person here, and can I 
 see him?" 
 
 She spoke low, but without hesitation ; her 
 thoughts were too absorbed for her to notice 
 that the mention of her name had drawn all 
 eyes upon her, and that whispers were going 
 rapidly round the room. But Mr. Jebb saw 
 and heard, and looked anxiously round, ex- 
 pecting Mr. Martock or Sir John Pierpoint to 
 appear. " No," she added, on his muttering 
 something to that effect, " I am quite alone, 
 and there is no time to lose. Will you be 
 good enough to help me ?" 
 
 " I would do anything on earth for you, 
 Mrs. Atterbury — anything on earth ; but, ex- 
 cuse my asking — had you better do anything 
 here without advice ?" 
 
 She had knit her nerves to go through the 
 ordeal, but not to argue about it. "I know— 
 I know — but it must be. Pray do not hinder 
 me ; only tell me whom I am to ask for ?" 
 
 " I will see who is within, if you will sit
 
 FAIVIILY FRIENDS. 291 
 
 down a minute." And he gave her a chair, as 
 much under the shelter of his high desk as he 
 could, and hurried through the swing doors. 
 Meanwhile, the report of her presence had 
 spread, and a good deal of curiosity had been 
 excited thereby ; more than one interesting 
 but contradictory story having been set afloat 
 and believed, touching her fabulous wealth, 
 and still more fabulous extravagance. Of this 
 she was happily unconscious, for she was 
 thinking of Frederick, not of herself, and 
 when Mr, Jebb returned to conduct her to 
 the inner parlour, where her father-in-law's 
 portrait hung over the fireplace, and where 
 her husband had stood supreme on the hearth 
 when she entered it last — she was not discon-^ 
 certed, even by the presence of three grave, 
 business-like gentlemen, who received her with 
 polite, but distant formality. Had she paid 
 this visit a week ago, she would have felt 
 shy and embarrassed, and have done anything 
 rather than be the first to speak ; but now all 
 she thought of was what she had to do, and 
 for whom. She did not seem to notice the 
 chair that was ofi'ered her, but stood with her 
 hands resting on the table, as her eyes invo- 
 luntarily turned on the eldest of the three 
 strangers. 
 
 u2
 
 292 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " I do not know, gentlemen, if I am doing 
 anything out of rule in coming here ; I am 
 very ignorant in these things, and I hope you 
 will excuse me. I came just to make one 
 plain statement, that may be of service " 
 
 She did not know her breath was so short ; 
 she had to stop a moment, and be quite certain 
 she was not going to sob. The three grave 
 faces were turned attentively towards her, and 
 some one again suggested that she should sit 
 down. But she remained in her former position, 
 and went on, her voice trembling, and her 
 lips growing white. 
 
 ^' You may perhaps be aware, that I have 
 an independent fortune, which was so secured 
 by my father as to be entirely at my own dis- 
 posal. I do not yet know exactly what my 
 own personal liabilities may be, but they must 
 be inconsiderable, and the whole of what is left 
 I wish to place at the disposal of Mr. Atter- 
 bury's creditors. I came myself to mention 
 this at once, in hopes it might help to calm 
 the public anxiety, and that if you thought 
 it requisite, I might make the statement in 
 writing. I do not know what is usual, but I 
 am ready to do whatever you will be good 
 enough to point out." 
 
 The gentlemen had exchanged glances more
 
 FAMILY FRIENDS. 293 
 
 than once during this speech, and when she 
 stopped, wondering again why she had such 
 difficulty in breathing, the eldest cleared his 
 throat, and coughed several times before he 
 made any reply. It was a very high-minded, 
 liberal proceeding on the part of Mrs. Atter- 
 bury; he could assure her he was deeply 
 touched by it, and he believed he was express- 
 ing the sentiments of his colleagues when he 
 observed that her conduct, at any rate, was be- 
 yond praise. The public would be sensible 
 of it, he was convinced. Still, before taking 
 advantage of her generosity, he must, in fair- 
 ness to herself, ask if she had consulted her 
 friends, or her legal advisers, or had the ap- 
 proval of her husband in this important step ? 
 Mrs. Atterbury would pardon his reminding 
 her that she was young and inexperienced, 
 and might regret, later in life, having yielded 
 to the enthusiasm of the moment. 
 
 She felt, as she had done with Mr. Jebb, 
 that she could do anything better than argue ; 
 so she only replied, " Thank you — ^you are very 
 good," and wished she was safely back in her 
 fly. Somebody mentioned Mr. Martock's name, 
 and the youngest of the three authorities asked 
 if he were not her solicitor ? 
 
 He had been, but her confidence in him was
 
 294 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 gone : she was going to consult another that 
 morning. 
 
 Pity she had not done so before she came. 
 Might they ask her in what way Mr. Martock 
 had forfeited her confidence ? 
 
 She declined entering into an explanation, 
 beyond the remark that she preferred an ad- 
 viser who was not a creditor as well. 
 
 There was some serious consultation in 
 whispers after this, and a good deal of private 
 discussion with Mr. Jebb. The senior autho- 
 rity then addressed Eleanor again, with many 
 civil words of praise and encouragement ; and 
 was inclined, on the whole, to think that a 
 written declaration of her liberal intentions 
 might be of value in quieting the resentful 
 passions of the public: after that, he would 
 recommend her losing no time in securing the 
 services of a good solicitor, and acting through 
 him. She agreed, wrote at his dictation the 
 proposal she had verbally made, and then 
 wished them good morning. Mr. Jebb offered 
 his arm, the three gentlemen bowed low, and 
 she was safely out of the room. It had not 
 taken long to do, but it was done — thank God ! 
 
 The outer office seemed full of people ; men 
 and women were standing about, some in eager 
 conversation with the clerks, pouring out their
 
 FAMILY FRIENDS. 295 
 
 wrongs, or trying to extract consolation from 
 their replies; some with vehement gestures 
 and angry faces giving vent to their feelings to 
 each other. All eyes, however, turned on Mrs. 
 Atterbury as she came through, and this time, 
 she was fully conscious of it. She drew her 
 veil closely over her face, and with bent head 
 and beating heart tried to hurry past, mutter- 
 ings rising on either side that nearly took from 
 her the power of exertion. 
 
 " Silk dresses ! Yes, / could wear silk, if I 
 bought it with other people's money !" 
 
 " All very fine to have handsome houses 
 and carriages, and rob people of their all !" 
 
 '' Hush, hush ! — it's not her fault, it is her 
 husband's, and, like a cowardly thief as he is, 
 he sends her where he daren't come himself!"* 
 
 " Shame ! shame ! Poor thing !" 
 
 This last was from one of those who had 
 lost most, but whose English blood revolted 
 against the idea of insulting an unhappy lady. 
 
 '' Ah !" was the quick retort of a sharp, lean 
 woman, who, after thirty years' parsimony, had 
 found herself by this failure rather poorer than 
 when she began to save, " you may say poor 
 thing — and shame to^ — ^for shame it is, and 
 she'll find it so, go where she may !" 
 
 " There, there, that will do — I can't think
 
 296 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 why you have all been allowed to come in like 
 this," said Mr. Jebb, angrily, as he pushed on 
 with his charge. " Do not mind them, Mrs. 
 Atterbury — but pray do not think of coming 
 here again. It is not a place for you." 
 
 She would have assented could she have 
 spoken. 
 
 " If there is anything I can do to serve you 
 or Mr. Frederick in any way, you have only 
 to command me. I should take it as an ho- 
 nour, I should, indeed. Ah ! what a nuisance ! 
 Where are the police, that they let these fel- 
 lows crowd up the pavement like this ? Never 
 mind; you will be out of their reach in a 
 minute." 
 
 But Eleanor recoiled, her heart failing as 
 she perceived an eager, pushing, gaping mob 
 clustered round the entrance, to see her get 
 into her carriage. Encouraged by her com- 
 panion, the delay was only momentary, but 
 long enough to give them what they wanted — 
 a sight of her face. What their idea was of 
 her share in the bank's failure, it would be 
 hard to define ; the cheap papers had been 
 very eloquent on the subject, expatiating on 
 fashionable ladies ruining their husbands by 
 their milliner's bills, and working dressmakers 
 to death without pay ; and there was a strong
 
 FAMILY FRIENDS. 297 
 
 notion among the public outside, that some- 
 how or other she had been helping to spend 
 the money. The public outside, not being de- 
 positors or creditors, were not angry about it, 
 but their sense of humour was tickled, and she 
 had to cross the pavement under a brisk fire 
 of sarcasms, chiefly emanating from small boys, 
 but seconded by the laughter of the rest. 
 
 " Don't mind them, Mrs. Atterbury, pray 
 don't," repeated Mr. Jebb, when he had placed 
 her in the fly, " a parcel of idle scamps, not 
 worth your notice! Where shall I tell the 
 coachman to drive ?" 
 
 " Messrs. Groves and Shannon, Street. 
 
 Thank you for your great kindness. I shall 
 not come here again." 
 
 She shrank into the corner of the carriage 
 as if every eye in the crowd had been a hostile 
 gun, and covered her face with her hands, 
 though she was alone.
 
 298 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 
 
 Mr. Shannon was tlie surviving partner of 
 Mrs. Atterbury's old friend^ Mr. Groves, and 
 slie had known him, more or less, the greater 
 part of her life ; chiefly, as an odd-tempered, 
 rough-mannered gentleman, who used to come 
 down into Devonshire when his partner was 
 unwell, and was always a trial to her aunt's 
 politeness, and her own amiability. He in- 
 variably dragged Mrs. Mornay into political 
 discussions, in which his vehemence soon left 
 her without a chance ; and aiFronted the young 
 heiress, his client, as much as her sweet temper 
 could be affronted, by as invariably patting 
 her on the head, and asking when she Avould 
 learn to make a shirt and a pudding ? Still, 
 they knew him to be upright, and able in his 
 profession ; and it had been against her own
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 299 
 
 will that Eleanor, on his partner's death, had 
 accepted the services of Mr. Martock ; a mea- 
 sure which offended Mr. Shannon so deeply, 
 he had never seen her since, or taken the least 
 notice of several courteous attempts she had 
 made to soothe his feelings. 
 
 He was just coming out of his office as she 
 alighted at the door, and stood, at first, staring 
 at her in blank consternation ; then, seizing 
 her arm in his, without saying a word, hurried 
 her into his private room, locked the door, 
 pushed her into an arm-chair, and had a glass 
 of fiery port at her lips before she had time to 
 breathe. In fact, he was very nearly forcing 
 it down her throat, but she put it back with a 
 shudder. 
 
 " A glass of water, if you will be so very 
 kind." 
 
 "Water? We don't know what it means 
 here; this is the nearest approach to it," pour- 
 ing out of a dim decanter a tumblerful of 
 fiat, lukewarm fluid, which Eleanor drank as 
 if it had been nectar. " Why, child, what 
 have you been doing to yourself? You look 
 half dead." 
 
 " I feel so." 
 
 " Where have you dropped from? You are 
 supposed to be abroad."
 
 300 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " I was supposed to be so — it was thought 
 safer. Mr. Shannon, you were my friend 
 once." 
 
 " Once ! Yes, and a pretty return I got for 
 my friendship, Mrs. Frederick Atterbury — re- 
 member that !" 
 
 " I am afraid you had reason to be dis- 
 pleased ; but, indeed, I never meant any dis- 
 respect. I could not, for I felt none." 
 
 " Well, well, that is all past and gone, so we 
 will say no more about it. You found wiser 
 advisers, and you were right, I have no doubt. 
 I hope you find them useful now. You want 
 them, I fancy." 
 
 "I do, indeed — so I came to you." 
 
 " Humph ! And pray, what says your great 
 man, Mr. Martock, to that?" 
 
 " I have not asked his opinion ; I shall 
 never ask it again. Tell me at once, will you 
 undertake my affairs, for I have some urgent 
 business that must be done directly." 
 
 " If I do, I am a perjured man, for I swore 
 nothing on earth should ever induce me to 
 do it." 
 
 " I am very sorry — and sorry, too, that I 
 intruded upon you." She rose as she spoke, 
 and was moving to the door, but he stood full 
 in her way.
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 301 
 
 " What in the world is the matter? What 
 are you taking huiF about ?" 
 
 " You told me, sir, you had sworn " 
 
 " I did ; but I didn't tell you I wouldn't 
 break my oath. If I must be perjured, I must. 
 There, sit down again, and be as reasonable as 
 you can. Never let your temper run away 
 with you, especially in business. Keep your 
 head cool and your tongue quiet, as I said to 
 your husband last week, when he was sitting 
 where you sit now. There ! now I have 
 startled you. I ought not to have let it out 
 in such a hurry. My dear little girl, you 
 are not hurt, surely, that the poor young 
 man should run to your old friend in his 
 trouble?" 
 
 " Oh no, no ! But I know so little of what 
 he did last week — you have seen him since I 
 did. Tell me everything. What did he say ? 
 How did he look?" 
 
 " How did he look ? Well, wretched enough 
 to make me almost forgive him. What he 
 said chiefly was, that I was to see after his 
 angel of a wife. Now, if I find you begin- 
 ning to cry because your name is mentioned, 
 I shall just shut up, and not tell you another 
 word." 
 
 She held him with both hands; she pro-
 
 302 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 mised to be perfectly still, perfectly passive, if 
 only lie would go on. It was a matter of life 
 and death to her now, to know what Fre- 
 derick had said and done, and he, she was 
 sure, would tell her the truth, and the whole 
 truth, which had been so cruelly kept from 
 her by others. She hurriedly explained how 
 she had been deceived and misled, and by 
 what strange accident she had found it out ; 
 and owned, that even while convinced Mr. 
 Shannon would be her best counsellor, she 
 had had misgivings as to whether her husband 
 would be annoyed, so that to find he had 
 actually chosen him himself, was taking a 
 weight off her mind it sorely needed. But 
 know all she must. So then he told her how 
 he had been called out of his bed at four 
 o'clock in the morning — "I live here, you 
 know — sitting-room here — bedroom above — 
 quite enough for an old bachelor — more 
 rooms if I wanted them, but I don't" — and 
 had found young Atterbury waiting to see 
 him, in such a state of agitation and distress, 
 that though he had come down intending to 
 tell him he was — never mind what — he had 
 not the heart to do anything but shake hands. 
 " He told me he found he must run for it, 
 he hardly knew where ; he was tied hand and
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 303 
 
 foot in Martock's power, as to his affairs, and 
 could only escape by bribing his spies, who 
 watched him night and day. And, as when 
 once he was out of reach you would be less in 
 Martock's clutches too, he came to entreat me, 
 as your old friend (much good that title had 
 done me, thinks I !), to keep my eyes open, 
 and be ready to help you whenever I saw an 
 opportunity. Perhaps you would come to me, 
 and if you did, would I promise to give you 
 my best support, and keep you from being 
 dragged into his ruin? I told him, pretty 
 plainly, that I should not stir in the matter 
 unless asked by you, and that whatever I did 
 would be for your sake, not his. So then he went 
 on to praise you, bridegroom-like — (he had no 
 business to marry you, for all that) : but I 
 forget the speeches he made, and I am not 
 going to be at the trouble of inventing any. 
 It does not matter, as he said he should write 
 you a line by his friend Despard." 
 
 "He never did; at least, I never had it. 
 They kept his departure from me, and I would 
 have given anything for a word from himself. 
 Where did he go after all ?" 
 
 " He hardly knew where he was going, but 
 he thought it would be to California. He had 
 left everything in Martock's hands — his ere-
 
 304 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 ditors must seize what there was — you were 
 safe, unless your feelings were played upon; 
 and if his strength of sinew earned him daily 
 bread, it was all he should want. I do not 
 myself think he will find it so, but I have 
 often heard young men speak like that, and 
 they believe it at the time. My private opi- 
 nion is, since you ask me (which she had not 
 done, by the way), that it was the wisest thing 
 he could do; for if he had staid to be bad- 
 gered in court, and pilloried in the papers, we 
 should have had him in St. Luke's, or with 
 the coroner sitting upon him. Now then, 
 what's the matter ? You promised you would 
 keep your head cool, and your tongue quiet — 
 why don't you do it ?" 
 
 " I will — I will, indeed. Did he say a word 
 about my following him ?" 
 
 "Following him? No, he was not so mad 
 as that. To tell you the truth, he owned he 
 did not deserve ever to look you in the face 
 again, and I quite agreed with him. What ? 
 what ? you are off again ? Don't, my dear — 
 don't" — she had started up, and walked rapidly 
 to the window, as if she did not know what 
 she was about. " Come and sit down again, 
 and tell me what you want me to do. You 
 say you have urgent business in hand, and
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 305 
 
 marching about in that distracted way won't 
 get it done." 
 
 She suffered him to lead her to her seat, 
 and he drew his own chair close to hers. 
 '' Come, think you are telling everything to a 
 cross old uncle, who, after all, cares as much for 
 you as for anybody in the world, and who will 
 do more for you than he would for anybody 
 else ; provided, as I said before, you keep your 
 head cool, and your tongue quiet." 
 
 Thus encouraged, Eleanor told him all — all 
 but the doubt thrown on Frederick's love. Not 
 a word escaped Mr. Shannon during her nar- 
 rative. He took snuff several times, or seemed 
 to do so, though his finger and thumb still 
 held a quantity, that a less experienced person 
 would have considered a handful ; and when 
 she paused, he took out his large pocket-hand- 
 kerchief, and performed a solo with that in- 
 strument, as if blowing defiance to a regiment 
 of Martocks, with the Court of Bankruptcy to 
 back them. 
 
 " And so you have not come for advice at 
 all, that I can see ; but only to give me your 
 instructions ?" 
 
 "Not quite that; I want your advice in 
 doing this; I am only resolved, and have 
 pledged myself that it shall be done. You 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 will do it for me, I know, without giving me 
 tlie pain of discussion. I cannot argue just 
 now." 
 
 " My dear, no one in his senses ever wished 
 a woman to argue yet. I know your obstinacy 
 of old in these things (poor Eleanor had never 
 in her life done anything in business on her 
 own responsibility before), and your good re- 
 spected aunt was just such another — always 
 would have her own way. And as I know 
 you will only be doing it yourself, and getting 
 into a peck of troubles if I don't, I must just 
 take the job, and make the best of it. Pray, 
 what do you intend to do meanwhile ? You 
 cannot stay sponging on that poor parson, and 
 you shall not get into Sir John's smooth paws 
 again. I tell you what — suppose you come 
 here ? I will have a room got ready, and a little 
 maid to wait upon you — or my sisters would 
 come, if you liked it — good creatures both of 
 them, if you are not particular about polish. 
 Not a soul shall touch or come near you with- 
 out your leave. You don't fancy it ? Well, 
 well, just turn it fver in your mind, that's all. 
 I'll see and get your things from that house in 
 the City." 
 
 " And will you settle with the person who 
 keeps it ? She was very civil to me, and she 
 must think I am out of my mind."
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 307 
 
 " Well, she may not be far wrong. Mad- 
 ness shows itself in various ways. Some have 
 a mania for robbing others, and some for pil- 
 laging themselves. Of course you are doing 
 an insane thing ; but I tell you what" — he 
 struck the palm of his hand upon hers with a 
 vehemence that almost numbed her arm — " I 
 would cut my own leg off sooner than take one 
 step to hinder you. I shall be abused by your 
 friends, and perhaps by his, and I shall have a 
 tough round or two with old Martock, but I 
 don't care. I'll stand by you, and we'll do our 
 best for your Frederick's name. So now let 
 us go into it in a business-hke way." 
 
 A long discussion of affairs then took place, 
 with which we need not trouble the readei*; 
 and after another fruitless attempt to persuade 
 her to accept a shelter in his house, they parted 
 good friends. " Good-bye, my dear," he said, 
 as he put her into her carriage. " You are not 
 much of a woman of business, but you are an 
 excellent creature, and I'll do anything in the 
 world for you ; but remember my words — 
 keep your tongue quiet, and your head cool, 
 and you'll never repent it." 
 
 " A gentleman is waiting to see you, ma'am," 
 was the greeting Mrs. Atterbury received when 
 X 2
 
 308 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 she entered the parsonage. And before she 
 could decide whether she would be seen or not, 
 the gentleman, prepared, perhaps, for a little 
 doubt on the subject, came out of the parlour 
 where he had been maddening Charles Lyle 
 with his easy conversation, and respectfully 
 but decidedly claimed the privilege of a friend. 
 
 " You gave us such terrible anxiety on 
 Saturday, Mrs. Atterbury, you must pardon 
 our trying to find out where you were. I am 
 charmed to see you in such good quarters." 
 
 " Mrs. Atterbury," said Charles Lyle, ap- 
 proaching her with a respect quite equal to that 
 of Mr. Despard, "this gentleman claimed the 
 right of asking in person your permission for 
 an interview. If you are not equal to grant- 
 ing it, of course you know that in this house 
 you are exempted from all unwarranted in- 
 trusion." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Lyle. I will so far en- 
 croach on Mrs. Tresham's kindness as to ask 
 leave to occupy this room for a few minutes ; 
 Mr. Despard will excuse my detaining him 
 longer. Perhaps you would not mind waiting 
 in the house till then ; I may have to ask your 
 advice on something important." 
 
 There was a sense of protection in the sturdy 
 curate's broad shoulders and sinewy arms, that
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 309 
 
 made her nervously anxious he should not go 
 out of reach. He bowed as he professed him- 
 self always at her service, and went up-stairs to 
 relieve the guard on his incumbent. 
 
 Despard stood with a calm smile on his lips, 
 as Eleanor closed the door, and advanced to- 
 wards him. The change in her manner, and 
 the tone of her address to young Lyle, were 
 not lost on so keen an observer. 
 
 " You are very angry with me, Mrs. Atter- 
 bury, and, I must say, with reason." 
 
 " I do not wish to show anger," she replied, 
 without sitting down, or requesting him to 
 do so. " You best know how far I have 
 cause." 
 
 " True ; no one can know it so well, nor 
 how far your anger might be mollified, if 
 you knew all. But an old friend, Mrs. At- 
 terbury, is not to be thrown away in times 
 like these, because he may have made a mis- 
 take." 
 
 " Where is my husband's letter, sir ?" 
 
 " Letter ? what letter ? Who said he gave 
 me a letter ?" 
 
 " Have you destroyed it?" 
 
 " I — I don't know what you mean, Mrs. 
 Atterbury." 
 
 " You know, Mr. Despard, that you are
 
 310 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 telling me an untruth. You would not dare, 
 if I were a man I" 
 
 He could not have believed those gentle 
 eyes could flash so indignantly, and his own 
 sunk beneath them. 
 
 "You are more terrible than ten men, Mrs. 
 Atterbury, when you look at me like that." 
 
 " And why am I ?" she returned, with the 
 eloquence of deep feeling ; " because I trusted 
 you in my distress as my husband's friend ; I 
 relied on your honour — I gave myself up 
 frankly to your guidance — I believed your 
 word — and you have deceived me. I can 
 neither trust nor believe you now, and you 
 know it." 
 
 He did know it, and, though stung by her 
 words, had that still left in his heart that 
 owned they were just. 
 
 " These are not times to be hard in our 
 judgments," he said, in a low voice, in which 
 there was an unusual tone of humility ; " as in 
 a shipwreck, many things are done which the 
 general hazard makes allowable, so, under 
 pressure like the present, we find ourselves 
 committed, more or less, to proceedings we 
 cannot justify, but which may yet hope for 
 pardon. Atterbury has not fallen so low with- 
 out pulling his friends part of the way with 
 him."
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 311 
 
 "I feared as much, sir; but'^I can only 
 say, what there is, all Avill share. You must 
 put in your claim, if you have one, with the 
 rest." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, with a look that 
 implied a great deal. She seemed resolved 
 against any discussion, for she turned away, 
 only repeating her former question, " Where 
 is my husband's letter?" 
 
 " When I know Avhat you mean, I may be 
 able to answer you." 
 
 She looked him again in the face, and this 
 time the tears started to her eyes. " I did not 
 think you had the heart to treat me so !" 
 
 "Nor did I !" returned he, impetuously, as 
 he dashed his hand into his coat-pocket, and 
 pulled out a Russia leather case. " And What 
 is more, I can keep it up no longer. There 
 is the letter he gave me for you, just as it 
 came into my hands. No one ever heard from 
 me that I had it, so how you knew I cannot 
 tell. There, Mrs. Atterbury — and if I might 
 once be allowed to shake hands, I should hope 
 you were trying to forgive me." 
 
 She grasped the letter in one hand, while 
 she allowed him to touch the other, but he 
 could feel no trusting fingers return the pres- 
 sure of his. It was more as a dismissal than 
 as a token of friendship, and she looked as if
 
 312 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 she fully expected him to go directly. A 
 sinister expression gathered slowly over his 
 features, relaxed as they had been by mo- 
 mentary remorse; and he stood before her 
 now, resolved that no weakness of his own, 
 no feeble opposition of hers, should again 
 divert him from the object he had in view. 
 
 " I must ask you, Mrs. Atterbury, to defer 
 reading your letter for a few moments, and to 
 allow me to say a very few words — not ex- 
 actly in defence, but in explanation of my con- 
 duct. It is necessary you should know 
 some things which no one can tell you so well 
 as I can; and the time is past when you 
 could safely be kept in ignorance of painful 
 facts." 
 
 " I am ready to hear you, sir," she replied, 
 declining, by a slight gesture, his mute proposal 
 of a seat. He bit his lip with secret mortifi- 
 cation, and there was very little of his or- 
 dinary nonchalant ease in his manner as he 
 went on. 
 
 "Your husband and I have been friends 
 for some years, and he could tell you, that I 
 have done him many a good turn when he 
 wanted it. I have helped him out of many a 
 scrape with his father, in his idle days, and he 
 was fully sensible of the value of such a friend
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 313 
 
 as I was to him — always ready at a call, and 
 sticking at nothinoc to do him a service. Now, 
 I am not ashamed to own, I am, compara- 
 tively, a poor man ; I never could keep money 
 when I had it, or help spending it long after 
 it was gone ; and Frederick knew the state of 
 my exchequer even better than I knew his. 
 We were on those terms that it was as natural 
 for me to accept an offer of help from him 
 when he had it in his power, as for him to 
 make it. We entered into some little horse- 
 dealing speculations, and incurred liabilities 
 together, on the understanding, that though 
 chiefly carried on, for his credit's sake, in my 
 name, he would bear me harmless : affairs that 
 could not be laid before the Commissioners of 
 Bankruptcy, for reasons you might not thank 
 me for explaining. I will go further — you set 
 me the example of plain speaking, even where 
 the plainness amounts to severity — the rehef 
 he anticipated from your generous affection" — 
 he had his revenge, if he wished it, for she 
 shrank and shivered as if he had cut her with 
 a whip — " he promised I should share. He 
 knew how much I wanted it, and that it was, 
 in fact, my right; and if, in that letter, he 
 has said nothing to recommend that right to 
 your attention, he is not the man I have be-
 
 314 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 lieved him to be, and his promise is as worth- 
 less as his cheque !" 
 
 " Take care, sir. Say all that you have to 
 say, but if you wish me to hear you, let his 
 honour alone. It has been in your keeping 
 too much already. I begin to understand 
 more clearly than you think." 
 
 " You understand some part, but not all, 
 Mrs. Atterbury. Allow me to continue. When 
 I had the honour to escort you to town, I had 
 no purpose but to place you under your hus- 
 band's care. He was not trusted to fetch you 
 himself, and that fellow, who dogged us, was 
 sent by Martock to make sure of me^ who, as it 
 appeared, was not trusted either. This opened 
 my eyes; I had doubted before, but now I 
 was certain that Martock's object was to hold 
 him as a hostage, till he had wrung from your 
 fears and tenderness the concessions he re- 
 quired. This was such a dangerous game for 
 Atterbury, that I persuaded him to escape; 
 and your liberality provided the means. Un- 
 luckily, when thoroughly knocked-up with my 
 exertions, I took a glass of wine too much — ■ 
 strange as it may seem at my time of life, and 
 with my habits, I am very easily upset in that 
 way — and I not only exposed myself before 
 you, but let out enough to put Martock on the
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 315 
 
 right scent. He knew my predicament, and 
 traded upon it ; in saving my friend, I had 
 cut away the planks under my own feet ; and 
 he promised, if I would keep it a secret, that 
 I should be relieved from my most urgent 
 liabilities; those, in fact, in which Atterbury 
 was concerned. In order to keep the secret, 
 I was obliged to keep your letter. I hope I 
 have spoken plainly enough now ?" 
 
 " Only too plainly, sir. Mr. Martock pro- 
 posed, of course, to relieve you from the funds 
 he was to obtain from me ?" 
 
 " As part of your husband's debts, certainly: 
 but I have good reason to believe now he never 
 meant to keep his word. He has had but one 
 object for many years — to amass wealth by 
 every possible means, at everybody's expense. 
 From the time he first obtained an influence, 
 no matter how, over Frederick's father, the 
 downfal of his house was as certain as the fate 
 of a bullock in the coils of a boa-constrictor. 
 That it must go sooner or later, we knew some 
 time ago ; but not that it would go so sud- 
 denly. That was his doing ; he had held it up 
 for his own ends, and when he thought fit, he 
 gave the signal, and all was over." 
 
 " And knowing this, you left me in his 
 hands ?"
 
 316 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 " I did — how could I help it ? But I watched 
 him, and I shall watch him still. No one 
 knows what I do — no one can be of the service 
 to you that I can. If you will take me for 
 what I am — not a paragon of virtue and up- 
 rightness, but a man who means well to you 
 and Atterbury at bottom — you may find me a 
 useful ally yet ; and if you are wise, you will 
 ask yourself, whether it is the moment to be 
 hard on old friends, whom it may be uncom- 
 monly difficult to replace." 
 
 " One moment, sir, before I answer that : 
 let me understand you distinctly. To obtain 
 your services, what must I do ?" 
 
 ^^ Do, Mrs. Atterbury ? Be your own ge- 
 nerous self — be what your husband would 
 wish— what he would be himself if he could. 
 A stroke of your pen — I know Martock has 
 taken care you have a large balance at your 
 banker's — a stroke of your pen will relieve me 
 from such a load as I cannot describe ; for 
 between debts of honour, and speculations, 
 and a rascally lot of tradesmen whose fortunes 
 I have made, I am pretty well run to the wall ; 
 and unless you do help me, there is a dreadful 
 temptation in my way, which may bring on 
 consequences for which you are not prepared." 
 
 " And what sum do you ask?"
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 317 
 
 He whispered an amount that made her 
 recoil. There was a slight sound in the room 
 above : by a sudden, uncontrollable impulse, 
 she caught him by the arm, and pointed to 
 the ceiling. 
 
 " Do you know who lies up-stairs, and why 
 he lies there now ? Do you know that in this 
 house a good man is on the brink of the grave, 
 brought there by distress of mind at his losses 
 from this bank; and yet that his wife and 
 daughters have taken me in, and comforted 
 me when they most wanted comfort them- 
 selves ? And if I had a right to give thou- 
 sands to one individual, would it not be to 
 him ? But I have not ; the money is mine no 
 longer; I give it up to his creditors, that aH 
 may have a just share ; if my heart's blood 
 could be coined for them, they should have 
 that too — but debts of honour, debts incurred 
 in a manner you are ashamed to explain, are 
 nothing to me — I will not hear of them — let 
 the consequences be what they may, let public 
 disgrace and ignominy come upon us — we must 
 bear it, or fly from it, or die under it, as God 
 pleases — we cannot buy it off; we would not, 
 if we could, when by so doing we must deepen 
 the injury to others. Now go, Mr. Despard. 
 Our last confidence is at an end. I dare not
 
 318 DEEP WATEES. 
 
 wisli my husband had never known you, but I 
 may breathe the hope you may never be on 
 confidential terms again. For one service you 
 have done him — and that I own with thanks 
 — you have helped to bring evils upon him 
 and me that your whole lifetime cannot take 
 away." 
 
 He heard her to the end, but he ground his 
 teeth as he did so ; and the sinister look grew 
 deeper and darker as he took up his hat, and 
 moved to the door. He had really a respect 
 for her, and a general desire for her good 
 opinion; he admired her more than any woman 
 he knew, as much for her character as for 
 her person ; and it was gall and wormwood to 
 see in what a light she regarded him now. 
 Mingled with a secret desire to bring down 
 her high spirit, came a keen perception of her 
 superiority, that kept him silent, when he 
 might have cut her to the heart. She should 
 rue this, and be thankful when he forgave her 
 — but still, he would have given a great deal 
 for one of those trusting looks vouchsafed him 
 before — perhaps, would even have made a sa- 
 crifice to deserve it. 
 
 " You are resolved, then," he said, as he 
 laid his hand on the lock of the door, "to 
 make me your enemy, whether I will or not ?"
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 319 
 
 '^ No, indeed. I am too unhappy, too help- 
 less, to wish for the enmity of- any one. I 
 have quite enough to shake the courage of a 
 braver heart than mine. But this I will say, 
 Mr. Despard — I fear you less as an open enemy 
 than as a false friend ; for as the one, you 
 could only injure me yourself — as the other, 
 you would lead me to injure others." 
 
 He pulled his hat over his brows, and 
 walked away, slamming the door behind him 
 in utter oblivion of the invalid ; and not till 
 he was gone did it occur to her to wonder how 
 it was he had discovered she was there ? 
 
 Even that Avonder was soon forgotten in the 
 absorbing perusal of her letter, which she hur- 
 ried to her own room to open. 
 
 " Eleanor," it ran, " my own injured, angel 
 wife ! by this time you know me better, and if 
 you have not learned to hate me yet, you 
 soon will. I leave you in difficulty and dis- 
 tress, because I iind it is the only way of not 
 increasing it tenfold. When I am out of reach, 
 they Avill have less hold on you. Trust neither 
 Martock nor Pierpoint — go to your old lawyer 
 Shannon, and let him act for you. I cannot 
 see you ruined, and I will not. It is enough 
 that I have destroyed all your happiness. If
 
 320 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 you knew what I have gone through, you 
 would own I have had my reward. God 
 guard and bless you ! I still say as I did 
 when we parted — my last, my only hope, in 
 this world or the next, is in your loving me — 
 in spite of all. '' F. A." 
 
 " In spite of all !" How much those words 
 implied ! How little he knew when he wrote 
 them, the amount of meaning they would 
 convey ! 
 
 Poor Eleanor ! She was a mere woman, and 
 full of inconsistencies; and all his faults 
 and all her wrongs had not altered the fact 
 that on this fallen, ruined, dishonoured man 
 she had poured the whole treasury of her 
 heart's best love ; and how could she help 
 pressing his letter to her lips, to her bosom, — 
 revelling in every touch of tenderness — and 
 finding in every sentence something on which 
 to build a hope — something to make him 
 dearer than ever ? The cruelty that had kept 
 this precious thing from her so long, was 
 overlooked in the joy of possession ; and she 
 was still gazing on the handwriting, and 
 weighing it word by word, when Mrs. Tresham 
 came into her room, more than usually agi- 
 tated. Charles Lyle, good fellow as he was,
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 321 
 
 had been off his guard ; and on the invalid 
 observing he heard a strange voice, and the 
 loud shutting of a door, and insisting on 
 knowing who was come — they were in per- 
 petual fear of their eldest boy rushing in upon 
 them as soon as he received the bad news — • 
 had replied, it was only a visitor to Mrs. 
 Atterbury. He saw in a minute the mischief 
 he had done, but it was then too late ; for 
 nothing they could say or do would satisfy 
 Mr. Tresham, but he must see and speak to 
 her himself. 
 
 Eleanor looked at her in speechless terror : 
 she would rather have faced that jeering 
 crowd again, than appear before her husband's 
 injured friend. Her brain began to swim, and 
 her temples to beat wildly. Mrs. Tresham put 
 her hand encouragingly on hers. 
 
 " I am afraid it will be a great trial to you 
 — but what can I do ? He is in that state in 
 which the smallest irritation may be fatal, and 
 I dare not oppose, for fear of exciting him. 
 You will see him altered, my dear ; you are 
 prepared for that." 
 
 "Altered?" said Eleanor, as she slowly 
 rose from her seat, " which of us is not 
 altered ? — and yet it is not so very long ago, 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 wlien one thinks of it. We did not expect all 
 this in May, did we?" 
 
 " No, indeed, my poor girl. God comfort 
 us all ! Come, take my arm. I am tlie stronger 
 of the two ; but then I have seen more sorrow 
 than you have." 
 
 " Have you? Yes, I suppose you have. I 
 was happy last Monday — at least, I think so. 
 A week is not much, and yet one may lose 
 a great deal in it. Do you know all I have 
 lost?" 
 
 " No ; but I know what you have still — the 
 regard and sympathy of your friends. Come, 
 come — be brave for five minutes. I must not 
 keep him waiting." 
 
 She spoke more bravely than she felt, for 
 the manner of her guest gave her not a little 
 uneasiness. " You can command yourself, my 
 dear, can you not ?" she added, after a pause. 
 " He is very ill, remember." 
 
 '' Yes, so they told me when I came to the 
 door, and it is our doing. He looked so 
 kindly at me when I saw him last — will he 
 ever do so again ?" 
 
 '' Have you received so much unkindness 
 from us, that you need fear it now ?" 
 
 " No, no," she replied, convulsively locking 
 her fingers together, and pressing them to her
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 323 
 
 head, "it is not your unkindness I am afraid 
 of. Oh, Mrs. Tresham, I cannot see him — I 
 cannot !" 
 
 Mrs. Tresham saw it was time to take a 
 decided tone. " You must, my dear. Should 
 I ask you if I durst refuse him anything? 
 Think a minute : I would do, I have done, all 
 I could for your comfort — will you do nothing 
 for mine?" 
 
 The mild reproach had the desired effect. 
 Eleanor put her hand into her friend's arm, 
 and without further resistance accompanied 
 her to the sick man's chamber. 
 
 She was prepared for an altered face, but 
 all her resolution did not prevent her starting 
 at the first sight of the drawn, contracted 
 features, and dim, haggard eyes that turned 
 on her as she approached, with an eifort to 
 smile, more painful to witness than a frown. 
 A strong exertion of self-control kept her 
 from rushing out of the room, but that was all 
 she could do; and she stood leaning on Mrs. 
 Tresham's arm, trembling from head to foot. 
 
 " Here she is, dear William : you may just 
 shake hands with her, and make her welcome, 
 and then I must take her away again, for she is 
 not very well. Sit down by him, my dear, and 
 then he need not move his head."
 
 324 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 Eleanor obeyed, and silently took the nerve- 
 less fingers in hers. He lay looking at her for 
 a few minutes, before murmuring in pitying 
 accents, " No wonder ! no wonder ! Poor 
 young thing !" 
 
 His voice was so altered, and so indistinct, 
 Eleanor hardly recognised it ; but conscious of 
 Mrs. Tresham's anxious eye, she exerted her- 
 self to ask if he was better ? 
 
 "Better? Well, I suppose so. I can use 
 one hand, you see, to welcome you. A poor 
 reception for a bride. Miss Ormonde; but it 
 was very good of you to come to us." 
 
 "Yes, was it not?" put in his wife. "I 
 knew you would say so, and now she will be- 
 lieve me. Shall she go now, and come in again 
 another time ?" 
 
 " No — I must speak to her alone." 
 
 Eleanor looked up in consternation. Mrs. 
 Tresham seemed in grievous perplexity and 
 distress. 
 
 " I wish to speak to Miss Ormonde — to Fre- 
 derick's wife, alone, Maria. Don't make me 
 argue about it, love ; only shut the door Avhen 
 you go out." 
 
 " Yes, dearest, if you wish it ; but, for all 
 our sakes, be calm, and do not talk to agitate 
 yourself. There, I am going directly— she
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 325 
 
 will stay with you. Only remember, William, 
 she is far from strong" — she knew this appeal 
 would have more effect than the other — '' and 
 so I can only allow you a very few minutes." 
 
 She passed her hand over Eleanor's hair; 
 by a gentle pressure of her fingers reminded 
 her of the necessity of caution, and then, with 
 a heavy sigh, withdrew. 
 
 He groaned as the door closed upon her, and 
 turning wearily on his pillow, muttered the 
 question that had been maddening his shattered 
 nerves ever since the fatal stroke — " What will 
 become of them when I am gone?" 
 
 "But you are better, dear sir — I am sure 
 you are. God is too merciful — you will live 
 many years, I hope and trust." 
 
 He shook his head with a faint, bitter smile. 
 " A man generally knows when he gets his 
 death-blow. I have had mine, but that would 
 not trouble me, were it not for them. My 
 income dies with me — I am insured for a very 
 small amount — my boy at Cambridge is a great 
 expense, poor fellow ; Clara was to be married 
 next year — they will not have seventy pounds 
 a year among them. What will they do ?" 
 
 She could say nothing to comfort him ; her 
 head, drooped on her bosom. 
 
 " I grow confused," he went on ; "I say
 
 326 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 things indistinctly, and talk nonsense some- 
 times — you must bear with me. I want to ask 
 if you will be a friend to the girls when I am 
 gone. They must work, I know ; but a friend 
 like yourself can help them in the world in 
 many ways — recommending them and so 
 forth. I am sure you will do what you can, 
 will you not ?" 
 
 She felt as if he was mocking her misery. 
 She, who believed herself degraded from her 
 own position, to be asked to assist others! 
 Her silence seemed to perplex him ; he turned 
 his eyes again upon her face, and looked at 
 her with a long, wistful earnestness, as if to 
 penetrate her heart. Desperation from suifer- 
 ing gave her nerve to meet the look, and return 
 it steadfastly ; but still she did not speak. 
 
 " Is it asking too much?" he said, at last. 
 
 " It is asking what is impossible." The bit- 
 terness of the words was disguised by the sad 
 humility with which they were spoken. 
 
 " They have not hurt your feelings, I hope, 
 have they ? Girls are thoughtless, you know ; 
 but they mean kindly, I am sure of that." 
 
 " They behave kindly, very kindly. You 
 are all too good to me." 
 
 ^^ Then why will you not be their friend, 
 when they will want one so much ?"
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 327 
 
 " I shall love them all my life, and never 
 forget their conduct, never: but, dear sir, I 
 am poorer than they will be, and I have a 
 shame to bear that they will never have. I am 
 not -fit to be their friend." 
 
 There was a sudden gleam in his sunken 
 eyes. "It is so then — he robbed you first, 
 and then deserted you ? Oh, shame on him — 
 shame on him ! that is past pardon !" 
 
 " Oh no, sir — do not say such things — do 
 not think them. He has not touched a far- 
 thing of mine — he fled sooner than touch it ; 
 it is all my own doing, of my own free will. 
 I have given up all I have ; it was honestly 
 mine no longer, so there is no merit in that, 
 and it will help to lessen the loss to others." 
 
 " And you have stripped yourself of every- 
 thing?" 
 
 " No — I have enough to keep me till I can 
 get employment, somewhere out of everybody's 
 sight. Do not think about me — I shall do 
 very well." 
 
 Again he looked wistfully at her, but this 
 time with deep compassion. 
 
 " I knew I could not be mistaken in that 
 face ; I saw the heart in the eyes ; but, my 
 child, this must not be — you must be pro- 
 tected — you must have advice — I wish I could
 
 328 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 see about it for you, but I am helpless — I can 
 do nothing. I must speak to my wife. What 
 is to become of you if you give up your all ?" 
 
 " What would become of others if I did 
 not? And what good would any money do 
 me now ? You say you have had your death- 
 blow — what do you suppose is mine?" 
 
 "Ay, poor girl, I see it; but take comfort 
 — you are young enough to live over this trial, 
 and it may all be made up to you, even here ; 
 only do not flinch in your duty — whoever else 
 forsakes your husband, do not you^ 
 
 She clasped her hands with a thrill of gra- 
 titude. 
 
 " God bless you for saying that — I should 
 not have dared to hope you would speak for 
 him !" 
 
 His face grew agitated with sudden emotion. 
 " I loved him from a boy ; his father was my 
 oldest friend — I Avould as soon have doubted 
 my o^vn brother as either of them, and they 
 have broken my heart : but still I say to you 
 — when you were made Frederick's wife, it was 
 that he might be saved. Never let go that 
 hope, even though you see no means now of 
 doing it : hold it fast as if it were your life, and 
 pray— pray— pray " 
 
 His voice grew almost inaudible, and a weary
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 329 
 
 look passed over his features ; lie stretched out 
 his hand feebly towards her, and, as she sank 
 on her knees, laid it on her head with a mur- 
 mured benediction. She could restrain her- 
 self no longer; the tears streamed down her 
 cheeks as she lifted her folded hands in en- 
 treaty. " Not me only — not me only ! Have 
 you but one blessing, dear Mr. Tresham? 
 You blessed us last together — do not divide us 
 now. One word, one look, of blessing — of 
 pardon for him!'' 
 
 His hand again pressed her head — pressed 
 it with an energy she never forgot — and his 
 lips moved slowly; but Avhat he would have 
 said, she could not tell. She only knew that 
 a sensation of peace and comfort, thaf had 
 seemed lost for ever, was stealing into her 
 heart, and gladly would she have knelt there 
 longer, as in a sanctuary ; but Mrs. Tresham, 
 who had been in a fever of anxiety all this 
 time, came in to summon her away. Her first 
 glance was at the invalid, and she was alarmed 
 at his exhausted appearance. 
 
 " He is sadly tired, my dear. Can you help 
 me raise him while I arrange his pillows ? and 
 then he must rest all day." 
 
 They were just in the act of supporting 
 him, when a bustle in the passage, a hasty 
 
 VOL. I. z
 
 330 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 step at the door, and a voice in passionate re- 
 monstrance, made him bound in his bed, and 
 raise himself almost upright. His wife, know- 
 ing the danger, iiew to arrest the new comer, 
 but it was too late. A young man, flushed, 
 heated, half mad with excitement, rushed 
 into the room, and flung himself half across 
 the bed. 
 
 " Oh, father, dear, dear father! — if I had 
 only kno^vn — such an idiot as I have been ! — 
 can you ever forgive me ? I shall never for- 
 give myself!" 
 
 " Herbert, dearest — pray don't," implored 
 his mother; " he must not be excited. Come 
 away till you are more composed." 
 
 '^ I cannot be composed till I have told him 
 everything. He must not forgive me till he 
 knows what I have done. I have been almost 
 mad ever since I heard of all this. Father, I 
 have broken my word to you — I did not dare 
 tell you before, and that was one reason why 
 I could not bear to be at home this vacation 
 — I have been mcked enough to get into debt 
 again, and now, instead of being able to help 
 you all, I am more miserable than any of you ! 
 Oh, if I had only known !" 
 
 Yes, if we could always know Avhat would 
 be the result of self-indulgence, and egotism,
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 331 
 
 and neglect of duty, liow different they would 
 appear ! Idle expenses, of which he had 
 thought so little when he believed his father 
 had the means of covering them, now wore 
 the semblance of deliberate robbery of his 
 family ; and the confessions that, notwithstand- 
 ing all his mother's endeavours, he poured out 
 in his agony of remorse, were mingled with 
 fierce imprecations on that unlooked-for villany 
 that had made a villain of him ! 
 
 His father's working countenance must have 
 warned him of the risk he ran, had he been 
 calm enough to observe it ; but it was not till 
 his passion had spent itself, that he could 
 either see or hear. At last, however, his voice 
 became choked with his sobs, and as he fell 
 on his knees by the bedside, the stiffening lips 
 that had warned, and persuaded, and entreated 
 so often, but had never given him one severe 
 word, made an effort on his behalf that they 
 could hardly have made for another. 
 
 " Herbert — I have pardoned all — all. Help 
 your mother and sisters — and forgive, as I 
 do " 
 
 His head fell back on the pillow Eleanor was 
 still sustaining, and his eyes gave her one kind 
 look. It was the last in which the gentle 
 spirit found utterance on earth ; for the next
 
 332 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 moment he was seized with a return of his 
 attack, more severe than the first ; and though 
 he lived some hours after, he was never con- 
 scious again. 
 
 Such scenes are sacred ; Ave will not attempt 
 to describe them. 
 
 As soon as the widow was able to think the 
 next morning, she thought of her unhappy 
 guest. She had a dim recollection of her 
 presence with them to the last, and of having 
 seen her rush from the room when all was 
 over ; and she reproached herself with having 
 forgotten her, even for a time. As kind a 
 message as she could frame, she sent her by 
 Clara ; and Clara carried it willingly, for she 
 too had seen that retreat from the death-bed, 
 and had shuddered, even in her own grief, at 
 the expression of her face. But when she 
 entered her room, she found it vacant. The 
 bed had not been slept in ; her few possessions 
 were gone ; and a note lay on the table, blurred 
 and blotted mth tears. 
 
 It implored their merciful forbearance, 
 thanked them for all they had done, and en- 
 treated no one to inquire after her, as she 
 could not ' face them now. A beautiful tur- 
 quoise ring was enclosed, with an entreaty, 
 almost humbly worded, that Clara would ac-
 
 ONE CREDITOR PARDONS. 333 
 
 cept it, for tlie sake of one whom she had 
 comforted, and whom she would see no more. 
 
 They did inquire, however, as soon as they 
 were able ; and anxiously endeavoured to trace 
 her retreat, but in vain. Others, as anxious 
 as they, though for very different reasons, la- 
 boured zealously in the same cause, with no 
 better success. It was certain that Mr. Shan- 
 non knew where she was, for he carried on her 
 affairs, and was engaged in a deadly warfare 
 with Mr. Martock in consequence ; but it was 
 to no purpose that he was watched, cross- ques- 
 tioned, and bullied. No clue was afforded by 
 which she could be traced; and when, soon 
 after, an advertisement appeared in the papers, 
 announcing that Frederick Attefbury had ab- 
 sconded, and offering a large sum for his ap- 
 prehension, it was no matter of surprise that 
 his unfortunate mfe should have fled into ob- 
 scurity. Still the uncertainty of her fate, and 
 the surrender of her fortune, which was largely 
 commented upon in the papers, caused no 
 small excitement and uneasiness among her 
 friends, and gave her acquaintance a great 
 deal to talk and conjecture about. To the 
 credit of human nature, it may be safely said, 
 there were fcAv among them who would not 
 have been willing, at least for a time, to shelter 
 
 VOL. I. 2 a
 
 334 DEEP WATERS. 
 
 and assist tlie innocent woman, of whom, even 
 in the height of her prosperity, no one had 
 been able to speak an evil word. But months 
 slipped away, affairs went on in their melan- 
 choly course— their house and all their pro- 
 perty were disposed of— their servants were 
 paid off, and by degrees she began to be for- 
 gotten. Nothing was heard of Atterbury's fate, 
 and, but for the occasional report of meetings 
 and investigations that appeared in the papers, 
 he would have been forgotten also by such of 
 the public as had not too much cause to keep 
 him in mind. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 ^, -WHITING, BEATjFORT HOUSE, STEA.ND.