HOULSTON'S LIBRARY 
 
 (In connection with MUDIE'S) 
 
 BATH, CHIPPENHAM, 
 
 23, New Bond Street. High Street. 
 
 Bnnual Subscription: 
 
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 CflMJ^O 
 
 X^ 

 
 A PEEILOUS SECRET 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES READE 
 
 ADTHcni OF 
 
 'HARD (ASH' ' I'UT YOURSKt.F IN HIS I'LACR' ' IT'S NKVER TOO LATE TO MKMi 
 
 'GHIFFII'H OAUXT' ETC. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 VOL. L 
 
 LOr^DON 
 RTCTf ARD 15ENTLEY c^ SUN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET 
 
 publishrvs in (Orbinarn lo itjcr llVajcsti) the C^ucciv 
 
 1884 
 
 All tig/it.H re nerved
 
 I.OXl.OX : piuxtkh hy 
 
 'OTTISWOODE AND CO., XKW-STliKKI 
 AXD PAULIAMKXT STHP.KT
 
 Q -rs- v^ 
 
 V. 1 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE F I E ST V O L U M E. 
 
 ^ CHArTKfi I'AOE 
 
 (J) I. THE POOR MAN S f'HlIJ) I 
 
 CJ) 
 O 
 
 CO 
 
 C\J 
 
 II. THE RirH MANS CHILD 16 
 
 ITT. THE TWO FATHERS ...... 33 
 
 O IV. AN OLD SERVANT 73 
 
 o 
 
 V. MARYS PERIL 89 
 
 VI. SHARP PRACTICE . . . . . . 112 
 
 VII. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE . . . .130 
 
 VTII. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE — confiniifci . .148 
 
 IX. LOVERS PARTED 173 
 
 X. THE GORDIAN KNOT 202 
 
 XI. THE KNOT CUT — ANOTHER TIED . . .224 
 
 XII. THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE . . . . 233 
 
 XIII. THE SERPENT LET LOOSK .... 2.')9 
 
 4
 
 A PERILOUS SECEET. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE POOR man's CHILD. 
 
 Two worn travellers, a young man and a fair 
 girl about four years old, sat on the towing- 
 path by the side of the Trent. 
 
 The young man had his coat off, by which 
 you might infer it was very hot; but no, it 
 was a keen October day, and an east wind 
 sweeping down the river. The coat was 
 wrapped tightly round the little girl, so that 
 only her fair face with blue eyes and golden 
 hair peeped out ; and the young father sat in 
 his shirt-sleeves, looking down on lier with a 
 loving but anxious look. Her mother, his 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 wife, had died of consumption, and he was in 
 mortal terror lest biting winds and scanty 
 food should wither this sweet flower too, his 
 one remaining joy. 
 
 William Hope was a man full of talent ; 
 self-educated, and wonderfully quick at learn- 
 ing anything ; he was a linguist, a mechanic, 
 a mineralogist, a draughtsman, and inventor. 
 Item, a bit of a farrier, and half a surgeon ; 
 could play the fiddle and the guitar ; could 
 draw and paint and drive a four-in-hand. 
 Almost the only thing he could not do was to 
 make money and keep it. 
 
 Versatility seldom pays. But, to tell the 
 truth, luck was against him ; and although in 
 a long life every deserving man seems to 
 get a chance, yet Fortune does baffle some 
 meritorious men for a limited time. Generally, 
 we think, good fortune and ill fortune succeed 
 each other rapidly, like red cards and black ; 
 but to some ill luck comes in great, long slices ; 
 and if they don't drink or despair, by-and-by 
 good luck comes continuously, and everything
 
 THE POOR MAN S CHILD. 3 
 
 turns to gold witli him who has waited and 
 deserved. 
 
 Well, for years Fortune was liard on 
 William Hope. It never let him get his head 
 above water. If he got a good place, the 
 employer died or sold his business. If he 
 patented an invention, and exhausted his 
 savings to pay the fees, no capitalist would 
 work it, or some other inventor proved he had 
 invented something so like it that there was no 
 basis for a monopoly. 
 
 At last there fell on him the heaviest blow 
 of all. He had accumulated 50/. as a mer- 
 chant's clerk, and was in negotiation for a 
 small, independent business, when his wife, 
 whom he loved tenderly, sickened. 
 
 For eight months he was distracted with 
 hopes and fears. These gave way to dismal 
 certainty. She died, and left him broken- 
 hearted and poor, impoverished by the doctors, 
 and pauperized by the undertaker. Then his 
 crushed heart had but one desire — to fly from 
 the home that had lost its sunsliine, and the 
 
 b2
 
 4 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 very country which had been calamitous to 
 him. 
 
 He had one staunch friend, who had lately 
 returned rich from New Zealand, and had 
 offered to send him out as his agent, and to 
 lend him money in the colony. Hope had de- 
 clined, and his friend had taken the huff, and 
 had not written to him since. But Hope knew 
 he was settled in Hull, and too good-hearted 
 at bottom to go from his word in his friend's 
 present sad condition. So William Hope paid 
 every debt he owed in Liverpool, took his child 
 to her mother's tombstone, and prayed by it, 
 and started to cross the island, and then leave 
 it for many a long day. 
 
 He had a bundle with one brush, one comb, 
 a piece of yellow soap, and two changes of 
 linen, one for himself, and one for his httle 
 Grace — item, his fiddle and a reaping-hook ; 
 for it was a late harvest in the north, and he 
 foresaw he should have to work his way and 
 pay -his way, or else beg, and he was too much 
 of a man for that. His child's face won her
 
 THE POOR man's CHILD. 5 
 
 many a ride in a waggon, and many a cup of 
 milk from humble women standing at their 
 cottage doors. 
 
 Now and then he got a day's work in the 
 fields, and the farmer's wife took care of little 
 Grace, and washed her linen, and gave them 
 both clean straw in the barn to lie on, and a 
 blanket to cover them. Once he fell in with a 
 harvest-home, and his fiddle earned him ten 
 shillings, all in sixpences. But on unlucky 
 days he had to take his fiddle under his arm 
 and carry his girl on his back : these unlucky 
 days came so often that still, as he travelled, his 
 small pittance dwindled. Yet half-way on his 
 journey Fortune smiled on him suddenly. It 
 was in Derbyshire. He went a little out of his 
 way to visit his native place — he had left it at 
 ten years of age. Here an old maid, his first 
 cousin, received Grace with rapture, and Hope 
 pottered about all day, reviving his boyish re- 
 collections of people and places. He liad left 
 the village ignorant ; he returned full of various 
 knowledge ; and so it was that, in a certain
 
 b A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 despised field, all thistles and docks and every 
 known weed, which field the tenant had con- 
 demned as a sour clay unfit for cultivation, 
 Wilham Hope found certain strata and other 
 signs which, thanks to his miner alogicai studies 
 and practical knowledge, sent a sudden thrill 
 all through his frame. ' Here's luck at last ! ' 
 said he. ' My child I my child ! our fortune is 
 made/ 
 
 The proprietor of this land, and indeed of 
 the whole parish, was a retired w^arrior. Colonel 
 Clifford. Hope knew that very well, and 
 hurried to Clifford Hall, all on fire with his 
 discovery. 
 
 He obtained an interview without any diffi- 
 culty. Colonel Clifford, though proud as 
 Lucifer, was accessible and stiffly civil to 
 humble folk. He was gracious enough to 
 Hope ; but, when the poor fellow let him know^ 
 he had found signs of coal on his land, he froze 
 directly ; told him that two gentlemen in that 
 neighbourhood had wasted their money grop- 
 ins^ the bowels of the earth for coal, because
 
 of delusive indications on the surface of the soil, 
 and that, for his part, even if he was sure of suc- 
 cess, he would not dirty his fingers with coal. 
 
 ' I believe,' said he, ' the northern nobihty 
 descend to this sort of thing ; but then they 
 have not smelled powder, and seen glory, and 
 served Her Majesty. I have' 
 
 Hope tried to reason with him, tried to 
 get round him. But he was unassailable as 
 Gibraltar, and soon cut the whole thing short 
 by saying, ' There, that's enough. I am much 
 obliged to you, sir. for bringing me information 
 you think valuable. You are travelling — on 
 foot — sliort of funds perhaps. Please accept 
 this trifle, and — and — good morning. 'He 
 retreated at marching pace, and the hot blood 
 burned his visitor's face. An alms ! 
 
 But, on second tlioughts, he said, ' Well, 
 I have offered him a fortune, and he gives me 
 ten shillings. One good turn deserves another.' 
 So he pocketed the half-sovereign, and bought 
 his little Grace a neck-handkerchief, blue with 
 white spots ; and so this unlucky man and Ids
 
 8 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 cliild fought their way from west to east, till 
 they reached that place where we introduced 
 them to the reader. 
 
 That was an era in their painful journey, 
 because until then Hope's only anxiety was to 
 find food and some little comfort for his child. 
 But this morning little Grace had begun to 
 cough a little dry cough that struck on her 
 father's heart like a knell. Her mother had 
 died of consumption : were the seeds of that 
 fatal malady in her child? If so, hardship, 
 fatigue, cold, and privation would develop them 
 rapidly, and she would wither away into the 
 grave before his eyes. So he looked down on 
 her in an agony of foreboding, and shivered in 
 his shirt-sleeves, not at the cold, but at the 
 future. She, poor girl, was, hke the animals, 
 blessed with ignorance of everything beyond 
 the hour; and soon she woke her father from 
 his dire reverie with a cry of delight. 
 
 ' Oh, what's they ? ' said she, and beamed 
 with pleasure. Hope followed the direction of 
 her blue eyes, open to their full extent ; and, lo !
 
 THE POOK man's CHILD 9 
 
 there was a little fleet of swans coming round 
 a bend of the river. Hope told her all about 
 the royal birds, and that they belonged to 
 sovereigns in one district, to cities in another. 
 Meantime the fair birds sailed on, and passed 
 stately, arching their snowy necks. Grace 
 gloated on them, and for a day or two her 
 discoiu'se was of swans. 
 
 At last, when very near the goal, misfortunes 
 multiplied. They came into a town on a tidal 
 river, whence they could hope to drift down to 
 their destination for a shilling or two ; but here 
 Hope spent his last farthing on Grace's supper at 
 an eating-house, and had not wherewithal to pay 
 for bed or breakfast at the humble inn. Here, 
 too, he took up the local paper, praying Heaven 
 there might be some employment advertised, 
 however mean, that so he might feed his girl, 
 and not let the fiend Consumption take her at 
 a gift. 
 
 No, there was nothing in the advertising 
 column, but in the body of the paper he found 
 a paragraph to the effect that Mr. Samuel son,
 
 10 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 of Hull, had built a gigantic steam vessel in 
 that port, and was goiug out to Xew Zealand 
 in her on her trial trip, to sail that morning 
 at high tide, 6.45. a.m., and it was now 
 nine. 
 
 How a sentence in a newspaper can blast 
 a man ! Bereavement, Despair, Lost Love — 
 they come like lightning in a single line. 
 Hope turned sick at these few words, and 
 down went his head and his hands, and he sat 
 all of a heap, cold at heart. Then he began to 
 disbelieve in everything, especially in honesty. 
 For why ? If he had only left Liverpool in 
 debt and taken the rail, he would have reached 
 Hull in ample time, and would have gone out 
 to New Zealand in the new ship with money 
 in both pockets. 
 
 But it was no use fretting. Starvation and 
 disease impended over his child. He must 
 work, or steal, or something. Li truth, he was 
 getting desperate. He picked himself up and 
 offered his accomplishments to humble shop- 
 keepers. They all declined him, some civilly.
 
 THE POOR man's CHILD. 11 
 
 At last he came to a superior place of busi- 
 ness. There were large offices and a hand- 
 some house connected with it in the rear. At 
 the side of the offices were pulleys, cranes, and 
 all the appliances for loading vessels, and a 
 yard with horses and vans, so that the whole 
 frontage of the premises was very consider- 
 able. A brass plate said, * E. Bartley, ship- 
 broker and commission agent ' ; but the man 
 was evidently a ship-owner and a carrier 
 besides ; so this miscellaneous shop roused 
 hopes in our versatile hero. He rapidly sur- 
 veyed the outside, and then cast hungry 
 glances throngh the window of the man's 
 office. It was a bow- window of unusual size, 
 through which the proprietor or his emjjloyes 
 could see a long way up and down the river. 
 Through this window Hope peered. Eepulses 
 had made him timid. He wanted to see the 
 face he had to apply to before he ventured. 
 
 But Mr. Bartley was not there. The large 
 office was at present occupied by his clerks. 
 One of these was Leonard Monckton, a pale
 
 12 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 young man with dark hair, a nose hke a hawk, 
 and thin lips. The other was cpite a young 
 fellow, with brown hair, hazel eyes, and an 
 open countenance. ' Many a hard rub puts a 
 point on a man.' So Hope resolved at once to 
 say nothing to that pale clerk so like a kite, 
 but to interest the open countenance in him 
 and his hungry child. 
 
 There were two approaches to the large 
 office — one, to Hope's right, through a 
 door and a lobby. This was seldom used 
 except by the habitues of the place. The 
 other was to Hope's left, through a very 
 small office, generally occupied by an inferior 
 clerk who kept an eye upon the work outside. 
 However, this office had also a small window 
 looking inward ; this opened like a door when 
 the man had anything to say to Mr. Bartley 
 or the clerks in the large office. 
 
 Wilham Hope entered this outer office, 
 and found it empty. The clerk happened to 
 be - in the yard. Then he opened the inner 
 door and looked in on the two clerks, pale,
 
 THE POOR man's CHILD. 13 
 
 haggard, and apprehensive of a repulse. He 
 addressed himself to the one nearest him ; it 
 was the one whose face had attracted him : 
 
 ' Sir, can I see Mr. Bartley ? ' 
 
 The young fellow glanced over the visitor's 
 worn garments and dusty shoes, and said 
 drily, 'Hum! if it is for charity, this is the 
 wrong shop.' 
 
 ' I want no charity,' said Hope with a 
 sigh ; ' I want employment. But I do want 
 it very badly ; my poor little girl and I are 
 starving.' 
 
 ' Then that is a shame,' said the young 
 fellow warmly. ' Why, you are a gentleman, 
 aren't you ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know for that,' said Hope. ' But 
 I am an educated man, and I could do the 
 whole business of this place. But, you see, I 
 am down in the world.' 
 
 ' You look like it,' said the clerk bluntly. 
 ' But don't you be so green as to tell old 
 Bartley that, or you are done for. No, no ; I'll 
 show you how to get in here. Wait till half-
 
 14 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 past one. He lunclies at one, and lie isn't 
 such a brute after luncheon. Then you come 
 in like Julius Cassar, and brag like blazes, and 
 offer him twenty pounds' worth of industry and 
 ability, and above all arithmetic, and he will 
 say he has no opening (and that is a lie), and 
 offer you fifteen shillings, perhaps.' 
 
 'If he does I'll jump at it,' said Hope 
 eagerly. ' But whether I succeed or not, take 
 my child's blessing and my own.' 
 
 His voice faltered, and Bolton, with a 
 young man's uneasiness under sentiment, 
 stopped him. ' Oh, come, old fellow, bother 
 all that ! Why, we are all stumped in turn.' 
 Then he began to chase a solitary coin into a 
 corner of his waistcoat pocket. 'Look here, 
 I'll lend you a shilling — pay me next week — 
 it will buy the kid a breakfast. I wish I had 
 more, but I want the other for luncheon. I 
 haven't drawn my screw yet. It is due at 
 twelve.' 
 
 ' I'll take it for my girl,' said Hope, blush- 
 ing, ' and because it is offered me by a gentle- 
 man and like a gentleman.'
 
 THE POOE man's child. 15 
 
 ' Granted, for the sake of argument,' said 
 this sprightly youth ; and so they parted for 
 the time, httle dreaming, either of them, what 
 a chain they were weaving round their two 
 hearts, and this httle business the first link.
 
 16 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE RICH man's CHILD. 
 
 The world is very big, and contains hundreds 
 of millions who are strangers to each other. 
 Yet every now and then the big world seems 
 to turn small ; so many people whose acquaint- 
 ance we make turn out to be the acquaint- 
 ances of our acquaintances. This concatenation 
 of acquaintances is really one of the marvels 
 of social life, if one considers the chances 
 against it, owing to the size and population of 
 the country. As an example of this pheno- 
 menon, which we have all observed, William 
 Hope was born in Derbyshire, in a small 
 parish which belonged, nearly all of it, to 
 Colonel Clifford ; yet, in that battle for food, 
 which is, alas ! the prosaic but true history of 
 men and nations, he entered an office in York-
 
 THE RICH man's CHILD. 17 
 
 shire, and there made friends witli Colonel 
 Clifford's son, Walter, who was secretly dab- 
 bling in trade and matrimony under the name 
 of Bolton ; and this same Hope was to come 
 back, and to apply for a place to Mr. Bartley. 
 Mr. Bartley was brother-in-law to that same 
 Colonel Clifford, though they were at daggers 
 drawn, the pair. 
 
 Miss Clifford, aged thirty-two, had married 
 Bartley, aged thirty-seven. Each had got 
 fixed habits, and they soon disagreed. In 
 two years they parted, with plenty of bitter- 
 ness, but no scandal. Bartley stood on his 
 rights, and kept their one child, little Mary. 
 He was very fond of her, and as the mother 
 saw her whenever she liked, his love for his 
 child rather tended to propitiate Mrs. Bartley, 
 though nothing on earth would have induced 
 her to live with him again. 
 
 Little Mary was two months younger than 
 Grace Hope, and, like her, had blue eyes and 
 golden hair. But what a difference in her 
 condition ! She had two nurses and every 
 
 VOL. I. C 
 
 ^>
 
 18 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 luxury ; dressed like a princess, and even 
 ■when in bed smothered in lace ; some woman's 
 eye always upon her, a hand always ready to 
 keep her from the smallest accident. 
 
 Yet all this care could not keep out sick- 
 ness. The very day that Grace Hope began 
 to cough and alarm lier father, Mary Bartley 
 flushed and paled, and showed some signs of 
 feverishness. 
 
 The older nurse, a vigilant person, told 
 Mr. Bartley directly ; and the doctor was 
 sent for post-haste. He felt her pulse, and 
 said there was some little fever, but no cause 
 for anxiety. He administered syrup of 
 poppies, and little Mary passed a tranquil 
 night. 
 
 Next day, about one in the afternoon, she 
 became very restless, and was repeatedly sick. 
 The doctor was sent for, and combated the 
 symptoms, but did not inquire closely into 
 the cause. Sickness proceeds immediately 
 from the stomach ; so he soothed the stomach 
 with alkaline mucilages, and the sickness
 
 THE KICH man's CHILD. 19 
 
 abated. But next day alarming symptoms 
 accumulated — short breathing, inability to eat, 
 flushed face, wild eyes. Bartley telegraphed 
 to a first-rate London physician. He came, 
 and immediatel}^ examined the girl's tliroat, 
 and shook his head ; then lie uttered a fatal 
 word — ^Diphtheria. 
 
 They had wasted four days squirting petty 
 remedies at symptoms, instead of finding the 
 cause and attacking it, and now he told them 
 plainly he feared it was too late — the fatal 
 membrane was forming, and, indeed, had half 
 closed the air-passages. 
 
 Bartley in his rage and despair would have 
 driven the local doctor out of the house, but 
 this the London doctor would not allow. He 
 even consulted him on the situation, now it 
 was declared, and, as often happens, they went 
 in for heroic remedies since it was too late. 
 
 But neither powerful stimulants nor biting 
 draughts nor caustic applications could hinder 
 the deadly parchment from growing and grow- 
 
 ing- 
 
 c 2
 
 20 A PERILOUS SECEET. 
 
 The breath reduced to a thread, no nou- 
 rishment possible except by baths of beef-tea, 
 and similar enemas. Exhaustion inevitable. 
 Death certain. 
 
 Such was the hoj^eless condition of the 
 rich man's child, surrounded by nurses and 
 physicians, when the father of the poor man's 
 child applied to the clerk Bolton for that em- 
 ployment which meant bread for his child, and 
 perhaps life for her, 
 
 William Hope returned to his little Grace 
 with a loaf of bread he bought on the road 
 with Bolton's shilling, and fresh milk in a soda- 
 water bottle. 
 
 He found her crying. She had contrived, 
 after the manner of children, to have an acci- 
 dent. The room was almost bare of furniture, 
 but my lady had found a wooden stool that 
 could be mounted upon and tumbled off, and 
 she had done both, her parent being away. 
 She had bruised and sprained her little wrist, 
 and was in the depths of despair.
 
 THE RICH man's CHILD. 21 
 
 ' Ah,' said poor Hope, ' I was afraid some- 
 thing or other would happen if I left you.' 
 
 He took her to the window, and set her on 
 his knee, and comforted her. He cut a narrow 
 slip off his pocket-handkerchief, wetted it, and 
 bound it lightly and deftly round her wrist, 
 and poured consolation into her ear. But 
 soon she interrupted that, and flung sorrow 
 to the winds ; she uttered three screams of 
 delight, and pointed eagerly through the 
 window. 
 
 ' Here they be again, the white swans ! ' 
 
 Hope looked, and there were two vessels, 
 a brig and a barque, creeping down the river 
 toward the sea, with white sails bellying to a 
 gentle breeze astern. 
 
 It is experience that teaches proportion. 
 The eye of childhood is wonderfully misled in 
 that matter. Promise a little child the moon, 
 and show him the ladder to be used, he sees 
 nothing inadequate in the means ; so Grace 
 Hope was dehghted with lier swans. 
 
 But Hope, who made it liis business to
 
 22 A PEKILOUS SECRET. 
 
 instruct her, and not deceive her, as some 
 thoughtless parents do out of fun, the 
 wretches I told her, gently, they were not 
 swans, but ships. 
 
 She was a little disappointed at that, but 
 inquired what they were doing. 
 
 ' Darling,' said he, ' they are going to some 
 other land, where honest, hard-working people 
 cannot starve; and, mark m}^ words, darling,' 
 said he — she pricked her little ears at that — 
 ' you and I shall have to go with them, for we 
 are poor.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said little Grace, impressed by his 
 manner as well as by his words, and nodded her 
 pretty head with apparent wisdom, and seemed 
 greatly impressed. 
 
 Then her father fed her with bread and 
 milk, and afterwards laid her on the bed, and 
 asked her whether she loved him. 
 
 ' Dearly, dearly,' said she. 
 
 ' Then if you do,' said he, ' you will go to 
 sleep hke a good girl, and not stir off that bed 
 till I come back.'
 
 THE RICH man's CHILD. 23 
 
 ' No more I will,' said she. 
 
 However, he waited until she was in an 
 excellent condition for keeping her promise, 
 beino' fast as a church. 
 
 Then he looked long at her beautiful face, 
 wax-hke and even-tinted, but full of life after 
 her meal, and prayed to Him who loved little 
 children, and went with a beating heart to 
 Mr. Bartley's office. 
 
 But in the short time, little more than an 
 hour and a half, which elapsed between Hope's 
 first and second visit, some most unexpected 
 and remarkable events took place. 
 
 Bartley came in from his child's dying bed 
 distracted with grief; but business to him was 
 the air he breathed, and he went to work as 
 usual, only in a hurried and bitter way unusual 
 to him. He sent out his clerk Bolton with 
 some bills, and told him sharply not to return 
 without the money ; and whilst Bolton, so- 
 called, w^as making his toilette in the lobby, his 
 eye fell on iiis other clerk, Monckton. 
 
 Monckton was })oring over the ledger with
 
 24 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 his liead down, the veiy picture of a faithful 
 servant absorbed in his master's work. 
 
 But a})pearances are deceitfuL He had a 
 small book of his own nestled between the 
 ledger and his stomach. It was filled with 
 hieroglyphics, and was his own betting- book. 
 As for his brown study, that was caused by his 
 owing 100/. in the ring, and not knowing how 
 to get it. To be sure, he could rob Mr. Bartley. 
 He had done it again and again by false 
 accounts, and even by abstraction of coin, for 
 he had false keys to his employer's safe, cash- 
 box, drawers, and desk. But, in his opinion, 
 he had played this game often enough, and. 
 was afraid to venture it again so soon and on 
 so large a scale. 
 
 He was so absorbed in these thoughts that 
 he did not hear Mr. Bartley come to him ; to 
 be sure, he came softly, because of the other 
 clerk, who was washing his hands and brushing 
 his hair in the lobby. 
 
 So Bartley 's hand fell gently, but all in a 
 moment, on Monckton's shoulder, and they say
 
 25 
 
 the shoulder is a sensitive part in conscious 
 rogues. Any way, Monckton started vio- 
 lently, and turned from pale to white, and in- 
 stinctively clapped both hands over his betting- 
 book. 
 
 'Monckton,' said his employer gravely, 'T 
 have made a. veiy ugly discovery.' 
 
 Monckton began to shiver. 
 
 ' Periodical errors in the balances, and the 
 errors always against me.' 
 
 Monckton began to perspire. Not knowing 
 what to say, he faltered, and at last stammered 
 out, ' Are you sure, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Quite sure. I have long seen reason to 
 suspect it, so last night I went through all the 
 books, and now I am sure. Whoever the 
 villain is, I will send him to prison if I can 
 only catch him.' 
 
 Monckton winced and turned his head 
 away, debating in his mind whether he should 
 affect indignation and sympathy, and pretend 
 to court inquiry, or should wait till lunch-time, 
 and then empty the cash-box and bolt.
 
 26 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 Whilst thus debating, these words fell un- 
 expectedly on his ear : 
 
 ' And you must help me.' 
 
 Then Monckton's eyes turned this way and 
 that, in a manner that is common among 
 thieves, and a sardonic smile curled his pale, 
 thin lip. 
 
 ' It is my duty,' said the sly rogue demurely. 
 
 Then, after a pause, ' But how ? ' 
 
 Then Mr. Bartley glanced at Bolton in the 
 lobby, and not satisfied with speaking under 
 his breath, drew this ill-cliosen confidant to the 
 other end of the office : 
 
 'Why, suspect everybody, and watch them. 
 Now there's this clerk Bolton ; I know nothing 
 about him ; I was taken by his looks. Have 
 your eye on him' 
 
 ' I will, sir,' said Monckton eagerly. He 
 drew a long breath of relief. For all that, he 
 was glad when a voice in the little office an- 
 nounced a visitor. 
 
 It was a clear, peremptory voice, short, 
 sharp, incisive, and decisive. The clerk called
 
 THE RICH man's CHILD. 27 
 
 Bolton heard it in the lobby, and scuttled 
 into the street with a rapidity that contrasted 
 drolly enongh with the composure and slowness 
 with which he had been brushing his hair and 
 titivating his n^lscent whiskers. 
 
 A tall, stiff, military figure literally marched 
 into the middle of the office, and there stood 
 like a sentinel. 
 
 Mr. Bartley could hardly believe his senses. 
 
 ' Colonel Chffbrd ! ' said he roughly. 
 
 ' You are surprised to see me here ? ' 
 
 ' Of course 1 am. May I ask what brings 
 you?' 
 
 'That which composes all quarrels and 
 squares all accounts — Death.' 
 
 Colonel Clifford said this solemnly, and 
 with less asperity. He added, with a glance at 
 Monckton, ' This is a very private matter.' 
 
 Bartley took the hint, and asked Monckton 
 to retire into the inner office. 
 
 As soon as he and Colonel Clifford were 
 alone, that warrior, still standing straight as a 
 dart, delivered himself of certain short sen-
 
 28 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 tences, each of whicli seemed to be propelled, 
 or indeed jerked out of him, by some foreign 
 power seated in his breast : 
 
 ' My sister, yom- injured wife, is no 
 more.' 
 
 ' Dead ! This is very sudden. I am very, 
 very sorry. I ' 
 
 Colonel Clifford looked the word ' Humbug ! ' 
 and continued to expel short sentences : 
 
 ' On her death-bed she made me promise to 
 give you my hand. There it is.' 
 
 His hand was propelled out, caught flying 
 by Bartley, released, and drawn back again — 
 all by machinery, it seemed. 
 
 ' She leaves you 20,000/. in trust for the 
 benefit of her child and yours — ^Mary Bartley.' 
 
 ' Poor, dear Eliza ! ' 
 
 The colonel looked as less high-bred people 
 do when they sa^^ ' Gammon ! ' but proceeded 
 civilly though brusquely : 
 
 ' In dealing with the funds you have a 
 large discretion. Should the girl die before 
 you, or unmarried, the money lapses to your
 
 THE EICH man's CHILD. 29 
 
 nepliew, my son, Walter Clifford. He is a 
 scapegrace, and has run away from me ; but I 
 must protect his just interests. So, as a mere 
 matter of form, I will ask you whether Mary 
 Bartley is alive/ 
 
 Bartley bowed his head. 
 
 Colonel Clifford had not heard she was ill, 
 so he continued : ' In that case ' — and then, 
 interrupting himself for a moment, turned 
 away to Bartley 's private table, and there 
 emptied his pockets of certain documents, one 
 of which he wanted to select. 
 
 His back was not turned more than half a 
 minute, yet a most expressive pantomime took 
 place in that short interval. 
 
 The nurse opened a door of communica- 
 tion, and stood with a rush at the threshold ; 
 indeed, she would have rushed in but for the 
 stranger. She was very pale, and threw up 
 her hands to Bartley. Her face and her 
 gesture were more expressive tlian words. 
 
 Then Bartley, clinging by mere desperate 
 instinct to money he could not liope to keep.
 
 30 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 flew to lier, drove her out by a frenzied move- 
 ment of botli hands, though he did not touch 
 her, and spread-eagled himseh' before the door, 
 with his face and dilating eyes turned toward 
 Colonel CHfFord. 
 
 The Colonel turned and stepped toward 
 him with the document he had selected at the 
 table. Bartley went to meet him. 
 
 The Colonel gave it to him, and said it was 
 a copy of the will. 
 
 Bartley took it, and Colonel Clifford ex- 
 pelled his last sentences : 
 
 ' We have shaken hands. Let us forget 
 our past quarrels, and respect the wishes of the 
 dead.' 
 
 With that he turned sharply on both heels, 
 and faced the door of the little office before he 
 moved ; then marched out in about seven 
 steps, as he had marched in, and never looked 
 behind him for two hundred miles. 
 
 The moment he was out of sight, Bartley, 
 with his wife's will in his hand and ice at his 
 heart, went to his child's room. The nurse
 
 THE RICH man's CHILD. 31 
 
 met him, crying, and said, ' A change ' — mild 
 but fatal words that from a nurse's lips end 
 hope. 
 
 He came to the bedside just in time to see 
 the breath hovering on his child's lips, and 
 then move them as the summer air stirs a leaf. 
 
 Soon all was still, and the rich man's child 
 was clay. 
 
 The unhappy father burst into a passion of 
 grief, short but violent. Then he ordered the 
 nurse to watch there, and let no one enter the 
 room ; then he staggered back to his office, 
 and flung himself down at his table and buried 
 his head. To do him justice, he was all 
 parental grief at first, for his child was his 
 idol. 
 
 The arms were stretched out across the 
 table ; the head rested on it ; the man was 
 utterly crushed. 
 
 Whilst he was so, the little office door 
 opened softly, and a pale, worn, haggard face 
 looked m. It was the father of the })Oor man's 
 child in mortal danger from privation and
 
 32 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 hereditary consumption. That haggard face 
 was come to ask the favour of employment, 
 and bread for his girl, from the rich man 
 whose child was clay.
 
 33 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 
 
 Hope looked wistfully at that cruslied figure, 
 and hesitated ; it seemed neither kind nor 
 politic to intrude business npon grief. 
 
 But if the child was Bartley's idol, money 
 w^as his god, and soon in his strange mind 
 defeated avarice began to vie with nobler 
 sorrow. His child dead ! Ms poor httle flower 
 withered ! and her death robbed him of 
 20,000/., and indeed of ten times that sum; 
 for he had now bought experience in trade 
 and speculation, and had learned to make 
 money out of money, a heap out of a hand- 
 ful. Stung by this vulgar torment .in its 
 turn, he started suddenly up, and dashed his 
 wife's will down upon the floor in a fury, 
 and paced the room excitedly. Hope still 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 stood aghast, and hesitated to risk his appH- 
 cation. 
 
 But presently Bartley caught sight of him, 
 and stared at him, but said nothing. 
 
 Then the poor fellow saw it was no use 
 waiting for a better opportunity, so he came 
 forward and carried out Bolton's instructions ; 
 he put on a tolerably jaunty air, and said 
 cheerfully, ' I beg your pardon, sir ; can I 
 claim your attention for a moment ? ' 
 
 ' What do you want ? ' asked Bartley, but 
 like a man whose mind was elsewhere. 
 
 ' Only employment for my talent, sir. I 
 hear you have a vacancy for a manager.' 
 
 ' Nothing of the sort. / am manager.' 
 
 Hope drew back despondent, and liis 
 haggard countenance fell at such prompt re- 
 pulse. But he summoned courage, and, once 
 more acting genial confidence, returned to the 
 attack. 
 
 'But you don't know, sir, in how many 
 ways I can be useful to you. A grand and 
 complicated business like yours needs various
 
 THE TWO FATHEES. 35 
 
 acquirements in those who have the honour to 
 serve you. For instance, I saw a small 
 engine at work in your yard ; now, I am a 
 mechanic, and I can double the power of that 
 engine by merely introducing an extra band 
 and a couple of cogs.' 
 
 ' It will do as it is,' said Bartley languidly, 
 ' and I can do without a manager.' 
 
 Bartley's manner was not irritated but 
 absorbed. He seemed in all his repHes to 
 Hope to be brushing away a fly mechanically 
 and languidly. The poor fly felt sick at heart, 
 and crept away disconsolate. But at the very 
 door he turned, and for his child's sake made 
 another attempt : 
 
 ' Have you an opening for a clerk ? I can 
 write business letters in French, German, and 
 Dutch, and keep books by double entry.' 
 
 'No vacancy for a clerk,' was the weary 
 reply. 
 
 ' Well, then, a foreman in the yard. I 
 have studied the economy of industry, and 
 will undertake to get you the greatest amount 
 
 D 2
 
 36 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 of labour out of the smallest number of 
 men.' 
 
 ' I liave a foreman already,' said Bartley, 
 turning his back on him peevishly for the first 
 time, and pacing the room, absorbed in liis own 
 disappointment. 
 
 Hope was in despair, and put on his hat to 
 go. But he turned at the window and said, 
 ' You have vans and carts. I understand 
 horses thoroughly. I am a veterinary surgeon, 
 and I can drive four-in-hand. I offer myself 
 as carman, or even hostler.' 
 
 ' I do not want a hostler, and I have a car- 
 man.' 
 
 Bartley, when he had said this, sat down 
 like a man who had finally disposed of the 
 application. 
 
 Hope went to the very door, and leaned 
 against it. His jaw dropped. He looked ten 
 years older. Then, with a piteous attempt at 
 cheerfulness, he came nearer, and said, ' A 
 messenger, then. I'm young and very active, 
 and never waste my employer's time.'
 
 THE TWO FATHEES. 37 
 
 Even this humble proposal was declined, 
 though Hope's cheeks burned with shame as 
 he made it. He groaned aloud, and his head 
 dropped on his breast. 
 
 His eye fell on the will lying on the 
 ground ; he w^ent and picked it up, and handed 
 it respectfully to Bartley. 
 
 Bartley stared, took it, and bowed his head 
 an inch or two in acknowledgment of the 
 civility. This gave the poor daunted father 
 courage again. Now that Bartley 's face was 
 turned to him by this movement, he took 
 advantage of it, and said persuasively : 
 
 ' Give me some kind of employment, sir. 
 You will never repent it.' Then he began to 
 warm with conscious power. ' I've intelli- 
 gence, practicability, knowledge ; and in this 
 age of science knowledge is wealth. Example ; 
 I saw a swell march out of this place that owns 
 all the parish I was born in. I knew him in 
 a moment— Colonel CliiTord. Well, that old 
 soldier draws his rents when he can get them, 
 and never looks deeper than the roots of
 
 38 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 the grass his cattle crop. But I tell you 
 he never takes a walk about his grounds but 
 he marches upon millions — coal ! sir, coal ! 
 and near the surface. I know the signs. But 
 I am impotent : only fools possess the gold that 
 wise men can coin into miracles. Try me, sir ; 
 honour me with your sympathy. You are a 
 father — you have a sweet little girl, I hear ' — 
 Bartley winced at that — ' well, so have I, and 
 the hole my poverty makes me pig in, is not 
 good for her, sir. She needs the sea air, the 
 scent of flowers, and, bless her little heart, she 
 does enjoy them so ! Give them to her, and 
 I will give you zeal, energy, brains, and a 
 million of money.' 
 
 This, for the first time in the interview, 
 arrested Mr. Bartley 's attention : 
 
 'I see you are a superior man,' said he, 
 ' but I have no way to utilise your services.' 
 
 ' You can give me no hope, sir ? ' asked the 
 poor fellow, still lingering. 
 
 ' !N'one — and I am sorry for it.' 
 
 This one gracious speech affected poor
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 39 
 
 Hope so that he could not speak for a moment. 
 Then he fought for manly dignity, and said, 
 with a lamentable mixture of sham sprightli- 
 ness and real anguish, ' Thank you, sir ; I only 
 trust that you will always find servants as 
 devoted to your interest as my gratitude would 
 have made me. Good-morning, sir.' He 
 clapped his hat on with a sprightly, ghastly air, 
 and marched off resolutely. 
 
 But ere he reached the door, Nature over- 
 powered the father's heart ; away went Bolton's 
 instructions ; away went fictitious deportment 
 and feigned cheerfulness. The poor wretch 
 uttered a cry, indeed a scream, of anguish, that 
 would have thrilled ten thousand hearts had 
 they heard it ; he dashed his hat on the ground, 
 and rushed toward Bartley, with both hands 
 out — 'For God's sake don't send me away — 
 
 MY CHILD IS starving ! ' 
 
 Even Bartley was moved. ' Your child ! ' 
 said he with some little feeling. This shght 
 encouragement was enough for a father. His 
 love gushed forth : ' A little, golden-haired,
 
 40 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 blue-eyed angel, who is all the world to me. 
 We have walked here from Liverpool, where 
 I had just buried her mother. God help me ! 
 God help us both ! Many a weary mile, sir, 
 and never sure of supper or bed. The birds 
 of the air have nests, the beasts of the field a 
 shelter, the fox a hole, but my beautiful and 
 fragile girl, only four years old, sir, is house- 
 less and homeless. Her mother died of con- 
 sumption, sir, and I live in mortal fear ; for 
 now she is beginning to cough, and I cannot 
 give her proper nourishment. Often on this 
 fatal journey I have felt her shiver, and then 
 I have taken off my coat and wrapped it round 
 her, and her beautiful eyes have looked up in 
 mine, and seemed to plead for the warmth and 
 food I'd sell my soul to give her.' 
 
 'Poor fellow!' said Bartley ; 'I suppose 
 I ought to pity you. But how can I ? Man — 
 man — your child is alive, and while there is 
 hfe there is hope ; but mine is dead — dead ! ' 
 he almost shrieked. 
 
 ' Dead ! ' said Hope, horrified.
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 41 
 
 ' Dead ! ' cried Bartiey. ' Cut off at four 
 years old, the very age of yours. There — go 
 and judge for yourself You are a father. I 
 can't look upon my blasted hopes, and my 
 withered flower. Go and see 7ny blue-eyed, 
 fair-eyed darling — clay, hastening to the tomb ; 
 and you will trouble me no more with your 
 imaginary griefs.' He flung himself down with 
 his head on his desk. 
 
 Hope, following the direction of his hand, 
 opened the door of the house and went softly 
 forward till he met the nurse. He told her 
 Mr. Bartley wished him to see the deceased. 
 The nurse hesitated, but looked at him. His 
 sad face inspired confidence, and she ushered 
 him into the chamber of mourning. There, 
 laid out in state, was a little figure that, seen 
 in the dim fight, drew a cry of dismay from 
 Hope. He had left his own girl sleeping, and 
 looking like tinted wax. Here lay a little face 
 the very image of hers, only this was pale 
 wax. 
 
 Had he looked more closely, the cliin was
 
 42 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 unlike his own girl's, and there were other 
 differences. But the first glance revealed a 
 thrilhng resemblance. Hope hurried away 
 from the room, and entered the office pale and 
 disturbed : ' Oh, sir ! the very image of my 
 own. It fills me with forebodings. I pity 
 you, sir, with all my heart. That sad sight 
 reconciles me to my lot. God help you ! ' and 
 he was going away; for now he felt an un- 
 reasoning terror lest his own child should have 
 turned from coloured wax to pale. 
 
 Mr. Bartley stopped him. ' Are they so 
 very like ? ' said he. 
 
 ' Wonderfully like.' And again he was 
 going, but Bartley, who had received him so 
 coldly, seemed now unwilHng to part with him. 
 ' Stay,' said he, ' and let me think.' The 
 truth is, a daring idea had just flashed through 
 that brain of his ; and he wanted to think it 
 out. He walked to and fro in silent agitation, 
 ' and his face was as a book in which you may 
 read strange matter.' At last he made up his 
 mind, but the matter was one he did not dare
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 43 
 
 to approach too bluntly, so he went about a 
 little : 
 
 ' Stay — you don't know all my misfortunes. 
 I am ambitious — like you. I believe in science 
 and knowledge — like you. And, if my child 
 had lived, you should have been my adviser 
 and my right hand : I want such a man as 
 you.' 
 
 Hope threw up his hands. ' My usual 
 luck ! ' said he ; ' always a day too late.' 
 
 Bartley resumed : 
 
 ' But my child's death robs me of the money 
 to work with, and I can't help you nor help 
 myself.' 
 
 Hope groaned. 
 
 Bartley hesitated. But after a moment he 
 said timidly, ' Unless — ' and then stopped. 
 
 ' Unless what ? ' asked Hope eagerly. ' I 
 am not likely to raise objections ; my child's 
 life is at stake.' 
 
 ' Well, then, unless you are really the 
 superior man you seem to be : a man of ability 
 and — courage.'
 
 44 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' Courage ! ' thought Hope, and began to be 
 puzzled. However, he said, modestly, that he 
 thought he could find courage in a good cause. 
 
 ' Then you and I are made men,' said 
 hartley. These were stout words, but they 
 were not spoken firmly ; on the contrary, Mr. 
 Bartley's voice trembled, and his brow began 
 to perspire visibly. 
 
 His agitation communicated itself to Hope, 
 and the latter said, in a low, impressive voice, 
 ' This is something very grave, Mr. Bartley. 
 Sir, what is it ? ' 
 
 Mr. Bartley looked uneasity all round the 
 room, and came close to Hope. ' The very 
 walls must not hear what I now say to you.' 
 Then, in a thrilling whisper, 'My daughter 
 must not die.' 
 
 Hope looked puzzled. 
 
 ' Your daughter must take her place.' 
 
 Now, just before this, two quick ears began 
 to try and catch the conversation. Monckton 
 had heard all that Colonel Clifibrd said, that
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 45 
 
 warrior^s tones were so incisive ; but, as tlie 
 matter only concerned Mr. Bartley, he merely 
 grinned at the disappointment likely to fall on 
 his employer, for he knew Mary Bartley was at 
 death's door. He said as much to himself, and 
 went out for a sandwich, for it was his lunch- 
 time. But when he returned with stealthy 
 foot, for all his movements were cat-like, he 
 caught sight of Bartley and Hope in earnest 
 conversation, and felt very curious. 
 
 There was something so mysterious in 
 Bartley 's tones. Monckton drew up against 
 the little window, pushed it back an inch, 
 and listened hard. 
 
 But he could hear nothing at all until 
 Hope's answer came to Bartley 's proposal. 
 
 Then the indignant father burst out, so that 
 it was easy enough to hear every word : ' I 
 part with my girl ! Not for the world's wealth. 
 What ! You call yourself a father, and would 
 tempt me to sell my own flesh and blood ? 
 No ! Poverty, beggary, anything, sooner than 
 that. My darling, we will thrive together, or
 
 46 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 starve together ; we will live together, or die 
 together ! ' 
 
 He snatched up his hat to leave. But 
 Bartley found a word to make him hesitate. 
 He never moved, but folded his arms and said, 
 ' So, then, your love for your child is selfish.' 
 
 ' Selfish ! ' cried Hope ; ' so selfish that I 
 would die for her any hour of the day.' 
 
 For all th at, the taunt brought him down a step> 
 and Bartley, still standing like a rock, attacked 
 him^ again. ' If it is not selfish, it is bhnd.' 
 Then he took two strides, and attacked him 
 vdth sudden power. ' Who will sufier most if 
 you stand in her hght ? Yoiu- daughter : why, 
 she may die.' Hope groaned. 'Who will 
 profit most if you are wise, and really love her, 
 not like a jealous lover, but like a father ? 
 Why, your daughter : she will be taken out of 
 poverty and want, and carried to sea-breezes 
 and scented meadows ; her health and her 
 comfort will be my care ; she will fill the gap 
 in my house and in my heart, and will be my 
 heiress when T die.'
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 47 
 
 ' But she will be lost to me,' sighed poor 
 Hope. 
 
 ' Not so. You will be my right hand ; you 
 will be always about us ; you can see her, talk 
 to her, make her love you, do anything but tell 
 her you are her father. Do this one thing for 
 me, and I will do great things for you and her. 
 To refuse me will be to cut your own throat 
 and hers — as well as mine.' 
 
 Hope faltered a little. 'Am I selfish?' 
 said he. 
 
 ' Of course not,' was the soothing reply ; 
 ' no true father is. Give him time to think.' 
 
 Hope clinched his hands in agony, and 
 pressed them against his brow : ' It is selfish 
 to stand in her light ; but part with her — I 
 can't ; I can't.' 
 
 ' Of course not ; who asks you ? She will 
 never be out of your sight ; only, instead of 
 seeing her sicken, linger, and die, you will see 
 her surrounded by every comfort, nursed and 
 tended like a princess, and growing every day 
 in health, wealth, and happiness.'
 
 48 A PEKILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' Health, wealth, and happiness ? ' 
 
 ' Health, wealth, and happiness ! ' 
 
 These words made a great impression on 
 the still hesitating father ; he began to 
 make conditions. They were all granted 
 heartily. 
 
 ' If ever you are unkind to her, the compact 
 is broken, and I claim my own again.' 
 
 ' So be it. But why suppose anything so 
 monstrous ? men do not ill-treat children. It 
 is only women, who adore them, that kill them 
 and ill-use them accordingly. She will be my 
 little benefactress, God bless her ! I may love 
 her more than I ought, being yours, for my 
 home is desolate without her ; but that is the 
 only fault you shall ever find with me. There 
 is my hand on it.' 
 
 Hope at the last was taken off his guard, 
 and took the proffered hand. That is a bind- 
 ing action, and somehow he could no longer go 
 back. 
 
 Then Bartley told him he should Hve in the 
 house at first, to break the parting. 'And
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 49 
 
 from this hour,' said he, ' you are no clerk nor 
 manager, but my associate in business, and on 
 your own terms.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Hope, with a sigh. 
 
 ' Now lose no time ; get her into the house 
 at once while the clerks are away ; and mean- 
 time I must deal with the nurse, and overcome 
 the many difficulties. Stay, here is a five- 
 pound note. Buy yourself a new suit, and 
 give the child a good meal. But pray bring 
 her here in half an hour, if you can.' 
 
 Then Bartley took him to the lobby, and 
 let him out in the street, whilst he went into 
 the house to buy the nurse, and make her his 
 confidante. 
 
 He had a good deal of difficulty with her ; 
 she was shocked at the proposal, and, being a 
 woman, it was the details that horrified her. 
 She cried a good deal. She stipulated that her 
 darling should have Christian burial, and cried 
 again at the doubt. But as Bartley conceded 
 everything, and offered to settle a hundred 
 pounds a year on her, so long as she lived in 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 60 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 his house and kept his secret, he prevailed at 
 last, and found her an invaluable ally. 
 
 To dispose of this character for the present, 
 we must inform the reader that she proved a 
 woman can keep a secret, and that in a very- 
 short time she was as fond of Grace Hope as 
 she had been of Mary Bartley. 
 
 We have said that Colonel Clifford's talk 
 penetrated Monckton's ear, but produced no 
 great impression at the time. Not so, however, 
 when he had hstened to Bartley's proposal, 
 Hope's answer, and all that followed. Then 
 he put this and Colonel Clifford's communica- 
 tion together, and saw the terrible importance 
 of the two things combined. Thus, as a con- 
 genital worm grew with Jonah's gourd, and 
 was sure to destroy it, Bartley's bold and 
 elaborate scheme was furnished from the outset 
 Avith a most dangerous enemy. 
 
 Leonard Monckton was by nature a 
 schemer, and by habit a villain, and he was 
 sure to put this discovery to profit. He came 
 out of the little office and sat down at his desk, 
 and fell mto a brown study.
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 51 
 
 He was not a little puzzled, and here lay 
 his difficulty. Two attractive villainies pre- 
 sented themselves to his ingenious mind, and he 
 naturally hesitated between them. One was 
 to levy black-mail on Bartley ; the other, to sell 
 the secret to the Cliffords. 
 
 But there was a special reason why he 
 should incline toward the Chffbrds, and, whilst 
 he is in his brown study, we will let the reader 
 into his secret. 
 
 This artful person had immediately won 
 the confidence of young Clifford, calling himself 
 Bolton, and had prepared a very heartless trap 
 for him. He introduced to him a most beauti- 
 ful young woman — tall, dark, with oval face 
 and glorious black eyes and eyebrows, a slight 
 foreign accent, and ingratiating manners. He 
 called this beauty his sister, and instructed her 
 to win Walter Clifford in that character, and 
 to marry him. As she was twenty- two, and 
 Master Clifford nineteen, he had no chance 
 with her, and they were to be married this 
 very day at the Eegister Office. 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 IWiVERSITY OF ILiiNOli
 
 52 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 Manoeuvring Monckton then inclined to let 
 Bartley's fraud go on and ripen, but eventually 
 expose it for the benefit of young Walter and 
 his wife, who adored this Monckton, because, 
 when a beautiful woman loves an ugly black- 
 guard, she never does it by halves. 
 
 But he had no sooner thought out this con- 
 clusion than there came an obstacle. Lucy 
 Miiller's heart failed her at the last moment, 
 and she came into the office with a rush to tell 
 her master so. She uttered a cry of joy at 
 sight of him, and came at him panting and full 
 of love. ' Oh, Leonard, I am so glad you are 
 alone ! Leonard, dear Leonard, pray do not 
 insist on my marrying that young man. Now 
 it comes to the time, my heart fails me.' The 
 tears stood in her glorious eyes, and an honest 
 man would have pitied her, and even respected 
 her a little for her compunction, though some- 
 what tardy. 
 
 But her master just fixed his eyes coldly on 
 his slave, and said brutally, ' Never mind your 
 heart ; think of your interest.'
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 53 
 
 The weak woman allowed herself to be 
 diverted into this topic. ' Why, he is no such 
 great catch, I am sure.' 
 
 ' I tell you he is, more than ever. I have 
 just discovered another 20,000/. he is heir to, 
 and not got to wait for that any longer than I 
 choose.' 
 
 Lucy stamped her foot. ' I don't care for 
 his money. Till he came with his money you 
 loved me.' 
 
 ' I love you as much as ever,' said Monck- 
 ton coldly. 
 
 Lucy began to sob. 'No, you don't, or 
 you wouldn't give me up to that young fool.' 
 
 The villain made a cynical reply, that not 
 every Newgate thief could have matched. 
 'You fool,' said he, ' can't you marry him, and 
 go on loving me ? — you won't be the first. It 
 is done every day, to the satisfaction of all 
 parties.' 
 
 ' And to their unutterable shame ! ' said 
 a clear, stern voice at their back. Walter 
 Clifford, coming rapidly in, had heard but little,
 
 54 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 but heard enough ; and there he stood, grim 
 and pale, a boy no longer. These two skunks 
 had made a man of him in one moment. They 
 recoiled in dismay, and the woman hid her 
 face. 
 
 He turned upon the man first, you may be 
 sure. ' So you have palmed this lady off on 
 me as your sister, and trapped me, and would 
 have destroyed me.' His lip quivered ; for 
 they had passed the iron through his heart. 
 But he manned himself, and carried it off like 
 a soldier's son : 
 
 ' But if I was fool enough to leave my 
 father, I am not fool enough to present to the 
 world your cast-off mistress as my wife.' (Lucy 
 hid her face in her hands.) ' Here, Miss Lucy 
 Monckton — or whatever your name may be — 
 here is the marriage license. Take that and 
 my contempt, and do what you like with 
 them.' 
 
 With these words he dashed into Bartley's 
 private room, and there broke down. It was 
 a bitter cup, the first in his young life.
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 55 
 
 The baffled schemers drank wormwood too ; 
 but they bore it differently. The woman cried, 
 and took her punishment meekly ; the man 
 raged and threatened vengeance. 
 
 ' No, no,' said Lucy ; ,' it serves us right. I 
 wish I had never seen the fellow : then you 
 would have kept your word, and married me.' 
 
 ' I will marry you now, if you can obey 
 me.' 
 
 ' Obey you, Leonard ? You have been my 
 ruin ; but only marry me, and I will be your 
 slave in everything — your willing, devoted, 
 happy slave.' 
 
 ' That is a bargain,' said Monckton coolly. 
 ' I'll be even with him ; I will marry you in 
 his name and in his place.' 
 
 This puzzled Lucy. 
 
 ' Why in his name ? ' said she. 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 ' Well, never mind the name,' said she, 
 ' so that it is the right man — and that it 
 is you.' 
 
 Then Monckton 's fertile brain, teeming with
 
 56 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 villainies, fell to hatching a new plot more 
 felonious than the last. He would rob the safe, 
 and get Chfford convicted for the theft ; con- 
 victed as Bolton, Clifford would never tell his 
 real name, and Lucy should enter the Cliffords' 
 house with a certificate of his death and a cer- 
 tificate of his marriage, both obtained by substi- 
 tution, and so collar his share of the 20,000/., 
 and off with the real husband to fresh pastures. 
 
 Lucy looked puzzled. Hers was not a brain 
 to disentangle such a monstrous web. 
 
 Monckton reflected a moment. ' What is 
 the first thing ? Let me see. Humph ! I think 
 the first thing is to get married.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Lucy, with an eagerness that 
 contrasted strangely with his cynical composure, 
 • that is the first thing, and the most understand- 
 able.' And she went dancing off with him as 
 gay as a lark, and leaning on him at an angle 
 of about forty-five ; whilst he went erect and 
 cold, like a stone figure marching. 
 
 Walter Clifford came out in time to see them 
 pass the great window. He watched them
 
 THE TWO FATHEKS. 57 
 
 down the street and cursed them — not loud but 
 deep. 
 
 ' Mooning, as usual,' said a hostile voice be- 
 hind him. He turned round, and there was 
 Mr. Bartley seated at his own table. Young 
 Clifford walked smartly to the other side of the 
 table, determined this should be his last day in 
 that shop. 
 
 ' There are the payments,' said he cavalierly. 
 
 Bartley inspected them. 
 
 ' About one in five,' said he dryly. 
 
 ' Thereabouts,' was the reply. (Consum- 
 mate indifference.) 
 
 ' You can't have pressed them much.' 
 
 ' Well, I'm not good at dunning.' 
 
 ' What are you good at ? ' 
 
 ' Should be puzzled to say.' 
 
 ' You are not fit for trade.' 
 
 ' That is the highest compliment was ever 
 paid me.' 
 
 ' Oh, you are impertinent as well as incom- 
 petent, are you ? Then take a week's warning, 
 Mr. Bolton.'
 
 58 A PEEILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' Five minutes would suit me better, Mr. 
 Bartley.' 
 
 ' Oh, indeed ! Say one hour.' 
 
 'All right, sir ; just time for a city clerk's 
 luncheon — glass of bitter, sandwich, peep at 
 " Punch," cigarette, and a chat with the bar- 
 maid.' 
 
 Mr. Walter Clifford was a gentleman, but 
 we must do him the justice to say that in this 
 interview with his employer he was a very 
 impertinent one, not only in words, but in the 
 delivery thereof. Bartley, however, thought 
 this impertinence was put on, and that he had 
 grave reasons for being in a hurry. He took 
 down the numbers of the notes Clifford had 
 given him, and looked very grave and sus- 
 picious all the time. 
 
 Then he locked up the notes in the safe, 
 and just then Hope opened the door of the little 
 office and looked in. 
 
 ' At last,' said Bartley. 
 
 ' Well, sir,' said Hope, ' I have only been 
 half-an-hour, and I have changed my clothes
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 59 
 
 and stood witness to a marriage. She begged 
 me so hard : I was at the door. Such a beau- 
 tiful girl ! I could not take my eyes off 
 her.' 
 
 ' The child ? ' said Bartley with natural 
 impatience. 
 
 ' I have hidden her in the vard.' 
 
 ' Bring her this moment, while the clerks 
 are out.' 
 
 Hope hurried out and soon returned with 
 his child, wrapped up in a nice warm shawl he 
 had bought her with Bartley's money. 
 
 Bartley took the child from him, looked at 
 her face, and said, ' Little darling, I shall love 
 her as my own ; ' then he begged Hope to sit 
 down in the lobby till he should call him and 
 introduce him to his clerks. ' One of them is 
 a thief, I'm afraid.' 
 
 He took the child inside, and gave her to 
 his confederate, the nurse. 
 
 ' Dear me,' thought Hope, ' only two clerks, 
 and one of them dishonest. I hope it is not 
 that good-natured boy. Oh, no ! impossible.'
 
 60 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 And now Bartley returned, and at tlie same 
 time Monckton came briskly through the little 
 office. 
 
 At sight of him Bartley said, ' Oh, Monck- 
 ton, I gave that fellow Bolton a week's notice. 
 But he insists on going directly.' Monckton 
 replied, slyly, that he was sorry to hear 
 that. 
 
 ' Suspicious ? Eh ? ' said Bartley. 
 
 ' So suspicious that if I were you — in- 
 deed, Mr. Bartley, I think, in justice to me, 
 the matter ought to be cleared to the bottom.' 
 
 ' You are right,' said Bartley ; ' I'll* have 
 him searched before he goes. Fetch me a 
 detective at once.' 
 
 Bartley then wrote a line upon his card, 
 and handed it to Monckton, directing him to 
 lose no time. He then rushed out of the 
 house with an air of virtuous indignation, and 
 went to make some delicate arrangements to 
 carry out a fraud, which, begging his pardon, 
 was as felonious, though not so prosaic, as 
 the one he suspected his young clerk of.
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 61 
 
 Monckton was at first a little taken aback 
 by the suddenness of all this ; but he was too 
 clear-headed to be long at fault. The matter 
 was brought to a pomt. Well, he must shoot 
 flying. 
 
 In a moment he was at the safe, whipped 
 out a bunch of false keys, opened the safe, 
 took out the cash-box, and swept all the gold 
 it contained into his own pockets, and took 
 possession of the notes. Then he locked up 
 the cash-box again, restored it to the safe, 
 locked that, and sat down at Bartley's table. 
 He ran over the notes Avith feverish fino-ers, 
 and then took the precaution to examine 
 Bartley's day-book. His caution was re- 
 warded — he found that the notes Bolton had 
 brought in were numbered. He instantly 
 made two parcels — clapped the unnumbered 
 notes into his pocket. The numbered ones he 
 took in his hand into the lobby. Now this 
 lobby must be shortly described. First, there 
 was a door with a glass window, but the 
 window had dark blue gauze fixed to it, so
 
 62 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 that nobody could see into the lobby from the 
 office ; but a person in the lobby, by putting 
 his eye close to the gauze, could see into the 
 office in a filmy sort of way. This door 
 opened on a lavatory, and there were also 
 pegs on which the clerks hung their over- 
 coats. Then there was a swing-door lead- 
 ing direct to the street, and sideways into a 
 small room indispensable to every office. 
 
 Monckton entered this lobby, and inserted 
 the numbered notes into young CliiFord's coat, 
 and the false keys into his bag. Then he 
 whipped back hastily into the office, with liis 
 craven face full of fiendish triumph. 
 
 He started for the detective. But it was 
 bitter cold, and he returned to the lobby for 
 his own overcoat. As he opened the lobby 
 door the swing-door moved, or he thought so ; 
 he darted to it and opened it, but saw nobody, 
 Hope having whipped behind the open door of 
 the little room. Monckton then put on his 
 overcoat, and went for the detective. 
 
 He met Clifford at the door, and wore an
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 63 
 
 insolent grin of defiance, for which, if they had 
 not passed each other rapidly, he would very 
 likely have been knocked down. As it was, 
 Walter Clifford entered the office flushed with 
 wrath, and eager to leave behind him the 
 mortifications and humihations he had en- 
 dured. 
 
 He went to his own little desk and tore 
 up Lucy MuUer's letters, and his heart turned 
 toward home. He went into the lobby, and, 
 feeling hot, which was no wonder, bundled his 
 office overcoat and his brush and comb into 
 his bag. He returned to the office for his 
 penknife, and was going out all in a hurry 
 when Mr. Bartley met him. 
 
 Bartley looked rather stern, and said, 'A 
 word with you, sir.' 
 
 * Certainly, sir,' said the young man stiffly. 
 
 Mr. Bartley sat down at his table and fixed 
 his eyes upon the young man with a very 
 peculiar look. 
 
 ' You seem in a very great hurry to go.' 
 ' ' Well, I am:
 
 64 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' You have not even demanded your salary 
 up to date.' 
 
 'Excuse the oversight ; I was not made for 
 business, you know.' 
 
 ' There is something more to settle besides 
 your salary.' 
 
 ' Premium for good conduct ? ' 
 
 'No, sir. Mr. Bolton, you will find this 
 no jesting matter. There are defalcations in 
 the accounts, sir.' 
 
 The young man turned 'serious at once. ' I 
 am sorry to hear that, sir,' said he, with 
 proper feeling. , 
 
 Bartley eyed him still more severely. 
 ' And even cash abstracted.' 
 
 ' Good heavens ! ' said the young man, 
 answering his eyes rather., than his words. 
 ' Why, surely you can't suspect me ? ' 
 
 Bartley answered sternly, ' I know I have 
 been robbed, and so I suspect everybody whose 
 conduct is suspicious-.' 
 
 This was too much for a Clifford to bear. 
 He turned on him like a lion. ' Yoiu* sus-
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 65 
 
 picions disgrace the trader w]io entertains 
 them, not the gentleman they >vroiig. You 
 are too old for me to give you a thrasliing, 
 so I won't stay here any longer to be 
 insulted.' 
 
 He snatched up his bag and was marching 
 off, when the door opened and Monckton with 
 a detective confronted him. 
 
 ' No,' roared Bartley, furious in turn ; ' but 
 you will stay to be examined.' 
 
 ' Examined ! ' 
 
 'Searched, then, if you like it better.' 
 
 'No, don't do that,' said the, young fellow. 
 ' Spare me such a humiliation.' 
 
 Bartley, who was avaricious but not cruel,, 
 hesitated. 
 
 ' Well,' said he, ' I will examine tlie safe 
 before I go further.' 
 
 Mr. Bartley opened the safe and took out 
 the cash-box. It w^as empty, lie uttered a 
 loud exclamation. 'Why, it's a clean sAveep ! 
 A wholesale robbery! Notes and gold all 
 gone ! No wonder you were in sudi a luu'ry 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 to leave ! Luckily some of the notes were 
 numbered. Search him; 
 
 ' Xo, no! Don't treat me like a thief I' 
 cried the poor boy, almost sobbing. 
 
 ' If you are innocent, why object ? ' said 
 Monckton satirically. 
 
 '- You villain ! ' cried Clifford, ' this is your 
 doing ; I am sure of it ! ' 
 
 Monckton only grinned triumphantly, but 
 Bartley fired up. ' If there is a villain here, 
 it is you. He is a faithful servant, who 
 warned his employer.' He then pointed 
 sternly at young Bolton^ and the detective 
 stepped up to him and said curtly, ' Xow, sir, 
 if I must.' 
 
 He then proceeded to search his waistcoat 
 pockets. The young man hung his head, and 
 looked guilty. He had heard of money being 
 ])ut into an innocent man's pockets, and he 
 feared that game had been played with him. 
 
 The detective examined his waistcoat 
 pockets and found — nothing ; his other pockets 
 — nothinir.
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 67 
 
 Tlie detective patted his breast and ex- 
 amined his stockino;s — nothino-. 
 
 ' Try the bag,' said Monckton. 
 
 Then the poor fellow trembled again. 
 
 The detective searched the bao- — nothing^. 
 
 He took the overcoat and turned the 
 pockets out — nothing. 
 
 Bartley looked surprised ; Monckton still 
 more so. Meantime Hope had gone round from 
 the lobby, and now entered by the small office, 
 and stood watching a part of this business, viz., 
 the search of the bag and the overcoat, with a 
 bitter look of irony. 
 
 ' But my safe must have been opened with 
 false keys,' cried Bartley. ' Where are they ? ' 
 
 ' And the numbered notes,' said Monckton, 
 ' where are they ? ' 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' said Hope, ' may I oiSer my 
 advice ? ' 
 
 ' Who the devil are you ? ' said Monckton. 
 
 ' He is my new partner, my associate in 
 business,' said the politic Bartley. Then defe- 
 rentially to Hope, ' What do you advise ? '
 
 68 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' You have two clerks. I would examine 
 them both.' 
 
 'Examine me?' cvied Monckton. 'Mr. 
 Bartley, will you allow such an affront to be 
 put on your old and faithful servant ? ' 
 
 'If you are innocent, why object?' said 
 young Clifford spitefully, befoi'e Mr. Bartley 
 could answer. 
 
 The remark struck Bartley, and he acted 
 on it. 
 
 'Well, it's only lair to Mr. Bolton,' said 
 he. ' Come, come, Monckton, it is only a 
 form.' 
 
 Then he gave the detective a signal, and he 
 stepped up to Monckton, and emptied his waist- 
 coat pockets of eighty-five sovereigns. 
 
 ' There ! ' cried Walter Chfford. ' There, 
 there ! ' 
 
 ' My own money, won at the Derby,' said 
 Monckton coolly ; 'and only a part of it, I am 
 happy to say. You will fmd the remainder in 
 bank-notes.' 
 
 The detective found several notes.
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 69 
 
 Eartle}^ examined the book and the notes. 
 The Derby ! He was beginning to doubt tliis 
 clerk, who attended that meeting on the sl\\ 
 However, 1ie was inst. tliouo-h no lonoer con- 
 fiding. 
 
 ' I am bound to say that not one of the 
 numbered notes is here.' 
 
 The detective was now examining Monckton's 
 overcoat. He produced a small bunch of keys. 
 
 ' How did they come tliere ? ' cried Monck- 
 ton, in amazement. 
 
 It was an incautious remark. Bartley took 
 it up directly, and pounced on the keys. He 
 tried them on the safe. One opened the safe, 
 another opened the cash-box. 
 
 Meantime the detective found some notes in 
 the pocket of the overcoat, and produced them. 
 
 ' Great heavens ! ' cried Monckton, ' how 
 did they come there P ' 
 
 ' Oh, I dare say you knoAv,' said the detec- 
 tive. 
 
 Bartley examined tliem eagerly. They 
 were tlie numbered notes.
 
 70 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' You scoundrel ! ' he roared, ' these show 
 me where your gold and your other notes came 
 from. The whole contents of my safe — in that 
 villain's pockets ! ' 
 
 ' No, no ! ' cried Monckton in agony. ' It's 
 all a delusion. Some rogue has planted tliem 
 there to ruin me.' 
 
 ' Keep that for the beak,' said the ])olice- 
 man ; ' he is sure to believe it. Come, my 
 bloke. I knew who was my bird the moment 
 I clapped eyes on the two. ' Tain't his first 
 job, gents, you take my word. We shall find 
 his photo in some jail or other in time for the 
 assizes.' 
 
 ' Away with him ! ' cried Bartley furiously. 
 
 As the policeman took him off, the baffled 
 villain's eye fell on Hope, who stood with 
 folded arms, and looked down on him with 
 lowering brow and the deep indignation of the 
 just, and yet with haughty triumph. 
 
 That eloquent look was a revelation to 
 Monckton. 
 
 ' Ah,' he cried, ' it was you ! '
 
 THE TWO FATHERS. 71 
 
 Hope's only reply was this : ' Yon double 
 felon, false accuser and thief, you are caught 
 in your own trap.' 
 
 And this he thundered at him with such 
 sudden power that the thief went cringing out, 
 and even those who remained were awed. 
 But Hope never told anybody except Walter 
 Clifford that he had undone Monckton's work 
 in the lobby ; and then the poor boy fell upon 
 his neck, and kissed liis hand. 
 
 To run forward a little : ^lonckton was 
 tried, and made no defence. He dared not 
 call Hope as his witness, for it was clear Hope 
 must have seen him commit the tlieft and 
 attempt the other villainy. But tlie false accu- 
 sation leaked out as well as the tlieft. A pre- 
 vious conviction was proved, and the indignant 
 judge gave him fourteen years. 
 
 Tims was Bartley's fatal secret in mortal 
 peril on the day it first existed ; yet on that 
 very day it was saved from exposure, and 
 buried deep in a jailv 
 
 Bartley set Hope over his business, and was
 
 72 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 never heard of for montlis. Then he turned 
 up in Sussex with a httle girl, who had been 
 saved from diphtheria by tracheotomy, and 
 some unknown quack. 
 
 There was a scar to prove it. The tender 
 parent pointed it out triumphantly, and railed 
 at the regular practitioners of medicine.
 
 73 
 
 CILiPTER IV. 
 
 AX OLD S E R Y A X T . 
 
 Walter Clu-tord returned home pretty well 
 weaned from trade, and anxious to propitiate his 
 father, but well aware that on his way to recon- 
 ciliation he must pass through jobation. 
 
 He slipped into Clifford Hall at night, and 
 commenced his approaches by going to the 
 butler's pantry. Here he was safe, and knew 
 it ; a faithful old butler of the antique and 
 provincial breed is apt to be more unreason- 
 ably paternal than Pater himself 
 
 To this worthy, then, Walter OAved a good 
 bed, a good supper, and good advice: 'Better 
 not tackle him till I have liad a word witli him 
 first.' 
 
 Next morning this wortliy butler, who for
 
 <4 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 seven years had been a very good servant, and 
 for the next seven years rather a bad one, and 
 would now have been a hard master if the 
 Colonel had not been too great a Tartar to stand 
 it, appeared before his superior with an air 
 slightly respectful, slightly aggressive, and ^'ery 
 dogged : 
 
 ' There is a young gentleman woidd be 
 glad to speak to you, if you will let him.' 
 
 ' Who is he ? ' asked the Colonel, tliough 
 by old John's manner he divined. 
 
 ' Can't ye guess ? ' 
 
 * Don't know why I should. It is your 
 business to announce my visitors.' 
 
 ' Oh, I'll announce him, when I am made 
 safe that he will be welcome.' 
 
 ' What ! isn't he sure of a welcome ? — 
 2^ood, dutiful son like him ? ' 
 
 ' Well, sir, he deserves a welcome. Why, 
 he is the returning prodigal.' 
 
 ' We are not told that he deserved a wel- 
 
 come.' 
 
 'What signifies? — he got one, and Scrip-
 
 AX OLD SERVANT. 75 
 
 ture is the rule of life for men of our ao^e, noir 
 ive are out of the army.' 
 
 ' I tliink you had better let him plead his 
 own cause, John ; and if he takes the tone 
 you do, he will get turned out of the house 
 pretty quick ; as you will some of these days, 
 Mr. Baker.' 
 
 ' We sha'n't go, neither of us,' said Mr. 
 Baker, but with a sudden tone of affectionate 
 respect, which disarmed the words of their 
 true meanino^. He added, hano-iui? his head 
 for the first time, ' Poor young gentleman ! 
 afraid to face his own fatlier ! ' 
 
 'What's he afraid of?' asked the Colonel 
 roughly. 
 
 ' Of you cursing and swearing at him,' said 
 John. 
 
 ' Cursing and swearing ! ' cried the Colonel 
 — ' a thiuG^ I never do now. Cursino^ and 
 swearing, indeed ! You be ! ' 
 
 'There you go,' said old John. 'Come, 
 Colonel, be a father. What has the poor boy 
 done ? '
 
 76 A TERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 'He lias deserted — a tliino- I have seen a 
 fellow shot for, and he has left me a prey to 
 parental anxieties.' 
 
 'And so he has me, for that matter. But 
 I forgive him. Any way, I should like to hear 
 his story before I condemn him. Why, he's 
 only nineteen and four months, come Martin- 
 mas. Besides, how do we know ? — he may 
 have some very good reason for going.' 
 
 ' His age makes that probable, doesn't it ? ' 
 
 ' I dare say it was after some girl, sir.' 
 
 ' Call that a good reason ? ' 
 
 ' I call it a strong one. Haven't you never 
 found it ? ' ( The Colonel was betrayed into 
 winking.) 'From sixteen to sixt}' a woman 
 will draw a man where a horse can't.' 
 
 ' Since that is 6'6>,' said the Colonel dryly, 
 ' you can tell him to come to breakfast.' 
 
 ' Am I to say that from you ? ' 
 
 ' No ; you can take that much upon your- 
 self. I have known you presume a good deal 
 more than that, John.' 
 
 'Well, sir,' said John hanging his head,
 
 AX OLD SERVANT. 77 
 
 for a moment, ' old servants are like old friends 
 — they do presnme a bit ; but then ' (raising 
 his head proudly) ' they care foi' their masters, 
 young and old. Xew servants, sir — why, this 
 lot that we've got now, they would not shed a 
 tear for you if you was to be hanged.' 
 
 ' Why should they ? ' said the Colonel. 
 ' A man is not hanged for building churches. 
 Come, beat a retreat. I've had enough of you. 
 See there's a good breakfast.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said John, ' I've took care of that.' 
 When the Colonel came down he found his 
 son leaning against the mantelpiece ; but he 
 left it directly and stood erect, for the Colonel 
 had drilled him with his own hands. 
 
 ' Ugh ! ' said the Colonel, giving a snort 
 pecuhar to himself, but he thought, ' IIow 
 handsome the dog is ! ' and w^as proud of him 
 secretly, onl}' he would not show it. ' Good- 
 morning, sir,' said the young njan, with civil 
 respect. 
 
 ' Your most obedient, sir,' said the old 
 man stiffly.
 
 78 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 After that neither spoke for some time, and 
 the old butler glided about like a cat, helping 
 both of them, especially the young one, to 
 various delicacies from the side table. When 
 he had stuffed them pretty well, he retired 
 softly and listened at the door. Neitlier of 
 the gentlemen was in a hurry to break the 
 ice ; each waited for the other. 
 
 Walter made the first remark : ' What dili- 
 cious tea ! ' 
 
 ' As good as where you came from ? ' in- 
 quired Colonel Clifford insidiously. 
 
 ' A deal better,' said Walter. 
 
 ' By-the-bye,' said the Colonel, 'where do 
 you come from ? ' 
 
 Walter mentioned the town. 
 
 ' You astonish me,' said the Colonel. 'I 
 made sure you had been enjoying the pleasures 
 of the capital.' 
 
 ' My purse wouldn't have stood that, sir.' 
 
 ' Very few purses can,' said Colonel Chfford. 
 Then, in an off-hand Avay, ' Have you brought 
 her along with you ? '
 
 AX OLD SERVANT. ^ 79 
 
 ' Certainly not,' said Walter, off bis guard. 
 ' Her ? Who ? ' 
 
 ' Why, the girl that decoyed yon from yon 
 father's roof.' 
 
 ' No girl decoyed me from here, sir, npon 
 my honour.' 
 
 ' Whom are we talking about, then ? WJjo 
 is her ? ' 
 
 ' Her ? Why, Lncy Monckton.' 
 
 ' And who is Lncy Monckton ? ' 
 
 ' Why, the girl I fell in love with, and she 
 deceived me nicely ; but I found her out in 
 time.' 
 
 ' And so you came home to snivel ? ' 
 
 ' No, sir, I didn't ; I'm not such a muff. 
 I'm too much your son to love any woman long 
 when I have learned to despise her. I came 
 home to apologize, and to place myself imder 
 your orders, if you will forgive me, and find 
 something useful for me to do.' 
 
 ' So I will, my boy ; there's my hand. Now, 
 out with it. What did you go away for, since 
 it wasn't a petticoat? '
 
 80 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 'Well, sir, I am afraid I shall offend 
 you.' 
 
 'Xot a bit of it, after I've given you my 
 hand. Come, now, what was it? ' 
 
 Walter pondered and hesitated, but at last 
 hit upon a way to explain. 
 
 ' Sir,' said he, ' until I was six years old 
 they used to give me peaches from Oddington 
 House ; out one fine day the supply stopped, 
 and I uttered a small howl to my nurse. Old 
 John heard me, and told me Oddington was 
 sold — house, garden, estate, and all.' 
 
 Colonel Clifford snorted. 
 
 Walter resumed, modestly, but firmly : 
 
 ' I was thirteen ; I used to fish in a brook 
 that ran near Drayton Park. One day I was 
 fishing there, when a brown velveteen chap 
 stopped me, and told me I was trespassing. 
 " Trespassing ? " said I. " I have fished here all 
 my life ; I am Walter Clifford, and this belongs 
 to my father." " Well," said the man, " I've 
 heerd it did belong to Colonel Clifford oust, but 
 now it belongs to Muster Mills ; so you must
 
 AX OLD SEKYAXT. ' 81 
 
 fish in your own water, young gentleman, and 
 leave ourn to us as owns it." Till I was 
 €1,^1} teen I used to shoot snipes in a rushy 
 bottom near Calveiiey Church. One day a 
 fellow in black velveteen, and gaiters up to his 
 middle, warned me out of that in the name of 
 Muster Cannon.' 
 
 Colonel Clifford, who had been drumming 
 on the table all this time, looked uneasy, and 
 muttered, with some little air of compunction : 
 ' They have plucked my feathers deucedly, 
 that's a fact. Hang that fellow Stevens, per- 
 suading me to keep race-horses ; it's all his 
 fault. Well, sir, proceed with your observa- 
 tions.' 
 
 ' Well, I inquired who could afford to buy 
 what we were too poor to keep, and I found 
 these wealthy purcliasers were all in trade^ not 
 one of them a gentleman.' 
 
 ' You might have guessed that,' said Colonel 
 Chfford ; ' it is as much as a gentleman can do 
 to live out of jail nowadays.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' said Walter. ' Cotton had bouglit 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 one of these estates, tallow another, and hicifer- 
 matches the other.' 
 
 ' Plague take them all three ! ' roared the 
 Colonel. 
 
 ' Well, then, sir,' said Walter, ' I could not 
 help thinking there must be some magic in 
 trade, and I had better go into it. I didn't 
 think you would consent to that. I wasn't 
 game to defy you ; so I did a meanish thing, 
 and slipped away into a merchant's office.' 
 
 ^ And made your fortune in three months ? ' 
 inquired the Colonel. 
 
 ' No, I didn't ; and don't think trade is the 
 thing for me. I saw a deal of avarice and 
 meanness, and a thief of a clerk got his master 
 to suspect me of dishonesty ; so I snapped my 
 fingers at them all, and here I am. But,' said 
 the poor young fellow, ' I do wish, father, you 
 would put me into something where I can make 
 a little money, so that when this estate comes 
 to be sold, I may be the purchaser.' 
 ' Colonel Clifford started up in great emotion : 
 
 ' Sell Clifford Hall, where I was born, and
 
 AX OLD SERVANT. 83 
 
 you were born, and everybody was born ! 
 Those estates I sold were only outlying pro- 
 perties.' 
 
 ' They were beautiful ones,' said Walter. 
 ' I never see such peaches now.' 
 
 'As you did when you Avere six years old,' 
 suggested the Colonel. ' No, nor you never 
 will. I've been six myself. Lord knows when 
 it was, though ! ' 
 
 ' But, sir, I don't see any such trout, and no 
 such haunts for snipe.' 
 
 ' Do you mean to insult me ? ' cried the 
 Colonel, rather suddenly. 'This is Avhat we 
 are come to now\ Here's a brat of six begins 
 taking notes against his own father ; and he 
 improves on the Scotcli poet — he doesn't print 
 'em. No, he accumulates them cannily until 
 he is twenty, but never says a word. He loads 
 his gun up to the muzzle, and waits, as tlie 
 years roll on, with liis linstock in his hand, and 
 one fine day at breakfast he fires liis treble 
 charge of grape-shot at his own fatlier.' 
 
 This was delivered so loudly that Jolni 
 
 G 2
 
 S4 A rERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 feared a quarrel, and, to interrupt it, put in his 
 head and said, mighty innocently : 
 
 ' Did you call, sir ? Can I do anything for 
 you, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Yes : o'o to the devil ! ' 
 
 John went, but not downstairs, as suggested 
 — a mere lateral movement that ended at the 
 keyhole. 
 
 ' Well, but, sir,' said Walter, half reproach- 
 fully, 'it Avas you elicited my views.' 
 
 ' Confound your views, sir, and your 
 
 impudence ! You're in the right, and I am in 
 the wrong' (this admission with a more ill-used 
 tone than ever). ' It's the race-horses. Eing 
 the bell. What sawneys you young fellows 
 are I It used not to take six minutes to ring a 
 bell when I was your age.' 
 
 Walter, thus stimulated, sprang to the bell- 
 rope, and pulled it all down to the ground with 
 a single gesture. 
 
 The Colonel burst out laughing, and that 
 did him good; and Mr. Baker answered the 
 bell like lightning; he quite forgot that
 
 AX OLD SERVANT. 85 
 
 the bell must have rung fifty yards from 
 the spot where he was enjoying the dia- 
 logue. 
 
 ' Send me the steward, John ; I saw him 
 pass the window.' 
 
 Meantime the Colonel marched up and 
 down with considerable agitation. Walter, 
 Avho had a filial heart, felt very uneasy, and 
 said timidly, ' I am truly sorry, lather, that I 
 answered your questions so bluntly.' 
 
 ' I'm not, then,' said the Colonel. ' I hold 
 him to be less than a man who flies from the 
 truth, whether it comes from young lips or old. 
 I have faced cavalry, sir, and I can face the 
 truth.' 
 
 At this moment the steward entered. 
 
 ' Jackson,' said the Colonel in the very 
 same tone lie was speaking in, ' put up my 
 race-liorses to auction by public advertise- 
 ment.' 
 
 ' But, sir, Jenny has got to run at Derby, 
 and the l)rown colt at JSTottingliam, and tlie six- 
 year-old gelding at a handica}) at Cliester, and
 
 8G A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 the chestnut is entered for the SelKnger next 
 year.' 
 
 ' Sell them with their engagements.' 
 
 ' And the trainer, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Give him his warning.' 
 
 'And the jockey?' 
 
 ' Discharge him on the spot, and take him 
 by the ear out of the premises before he 
 poisons the lot. Keep one of the stable-boys, 
 and let my groom do the rest.' 
 
 ' But who is to take them to the place of 
 auction, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Nobody. I'll have the auction here, and 
 sell them where they stand. Submit all your 
 books of account to this young gentleman.' 
 
 The steward looked a little blue, and 
 Walter remonstrated gently : ' To me, father ? ' 
 
 ' Why, you can cipher, can't ye ? ' 
 
 ' Eather ; it is the best thing I do.' 
 
 ' And you have been in trade, haven't ye.^ ' 
 
 'Why, yes.' 
 
 ' Then you will detect plenty of swindles, 
 if you find out one in ten. Above all, cut
 
 AN OLD SERVANT. 87 
 
 down niy expenditure to my income. A 
 gentleman of the nineteenth century, sharp- 
 ened by trade, can easily do that. Sell Clifford 
 Hall? I'd rather live on the rabbits and 
 the pigeons and the blackbirds, and the carp in 
 the pond, and drive to church in the wheel- 
 barrow.' 
 
 So for a time Walter administered his 
 father's estate, and it was very instructive. 
 Oh ! the petty frauds — the swindles of agency, 
 a term which, to be sure, is derived from the 
 Latin word ' agere,' to do — the cobweb of petty 
 commissions — the flat bribes — the smooth hush- 
 money ! 
 
 Walter soon cut the expenses down to the 
 income, which was ample, and even paid off 
 the one mortgage that encumbered this noble 
 estate at five per cent., only four per cent, of 
 which was really fingered by the mortgagee. 
 The balance went to a go-between, though no 
 go-between was ever wanted, for any solicitor 
 in tlie country would have found the money in 
 a week at four per cent.
 
 88 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 The old gentleman was delighted, and en- 
 gaged his own son as steward at a liberal 
 salary; and so Walter Clifford found employ- 
 ment and a fair income without going away 
 from home again.
 
 S'J 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 Mary's peril. 
 
 Whilst Mr. Bartley's business was improv- 
 ing under Hope's management, Hope himself 
 Avas groaning under his entire separation from 
 his daughter. Bartley had promised him this 
 should not be ; but among Hope's good quaU- 
 ties was a singular lidelity to his employers, 
 and he was also a man who never broke his 
 word. So when Bartley showed him that the 
 true parentage of Grace Hope — now called 
 Mary Bartley — could never be disguised un- 
 less her memory of him was interrupted and 
 j)uzzled before she grew older, and that she, as 
 well as the world, must be made to beheve 
 Bartley was her father, he assented, and it was 
 two years before he ventured to come near his 
 own dauuliter.
 
 90 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 But he demanded to see her at a distance, 
 himself unseen, and this was arrano'ed. He 
 provided himself with a powerful binocular of 
 the kind that is now used at sea, instead of the 
 unwieldly old telescope, and the little girl was 
 paraded by the nurse, who was in the secret. 
 She played about in the sight of this strange 
 spy. She was plump, she was rosy, she was 
 full of life and spirit. Joy filled the father's 
 heart ; but then came a bitter pang to think 
 that he had faded out of her joyous life. By- 
 and-bye he could see her no longer, for a mist 
 came fi:om his heart to his eyes ; he bowed his 
 head and went back to his business, his pros- 
 perity, and his solitude. These experiments 
 were repeated at times. Moreover, Bartley 
 had the tact never to write to him on business 
 without telhng him something about his girl — 
 her clever sayings, her pretty ways, her quick- 
 ness at learning from all her teachers, and so 
 on. When she was eidit vears old a foreign 
 agent was required in Bartley's business, and 
 Hope agreed to start this agency, and keep it
 
 Mary's peril. 91 
 
 going till some more ordinary person could be 
 intrusted to work it. 
 
 But lie refused to leave England without 
 seeing his daughter with his own eyes and 
 hearing her voice. However, still faithful 
 to his pledge, he prepared a disguise ; he 
 actually grew a moustache and beard for this 
 tender motive only, and changed his whole 
 style of dress ; he wore a crimson necktie and 
 dark green gloves with a plaid suit, which com- 
 bination he abhorred as a painter, and our 
 respected readers abominate, for surely it was 
 some such perverse combination that made a 
 French dressmaker lift her hands to heaven and 
 say, ' Quelle immoralite! ' So then Bartley him- 
 self took his little girl for a walk, and met Mr. 
 Hope in an appointed spot not far from his own 
 house. Poor Hope saw them coming, and his 
 heart beat high. ' Ah ! ' said Bartley, feigning 
 surprise ; ' why, it's Mr. Hope. How do you 
 do, Hope ? This is my little girl. Mary, my 
 dear, tliis is an old friend of mine. Give liini 
 your hand.'
 
 92 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 The girl looked in Hope's face, and 
 gave him her hand, and did not recognise 
 him. 
 
 ' Fine girl for her years, isn't she ? ' said 
 Bartley ; ' healthy and strong, and quick at her 
 lessons ; and, what's better still, she is a good 
 girl, a very good girl.' 
 
 ' Papa ! ' said the child, blushing, and hid 
 her face behind Bartley's elbow, all but one eye, 
 with which she watched the effect of these 
 eulogies u])on the strange gentleman. 
 
 ' She is all a father could wish,' said Hope 
 tenderly. 
 
 Instantly the girl started from her position, 
 and stood wrapt in thought ; her beautiful eyes 
 wore a strange look of dreamy intelligence, and 
 both men could see she was searching the past 
 for that voice. 
 
 Bartley drew back, that the girl might not 
 see him, and held up his finger. Hope gave a 
 shght nod of acquiescence, and spoke no more. 
 Bartley invited him to take an early dinner, 
 and talk business. Before he left he saw his
 
 Mary's peril. 93 
 
 child more tlian once ; indeed, Bartley paraded 
 her accomplishments. She played the piano to 
 Hope ; she rode her httle Shetland pony for 
 Hope ; she danced a minuet with singular 
 grace for so young a girl ; she conversed with 
 her governess in French, or something very 
 like it ; and she worked a little sewing-machine 
 • — all to please the strange gentleman ; and what- 
 ever she was asked to do she did with a winning 
 smile, and without a particle of false modesty, 
 or the real egotism which is at the bottom of 
 false modesty. 
 
 Anybody who knew William Hope inti- 
 mately might almost recognise his daughter in 
 this versatile little mind, with its faculty of 
 learning so many dissimilar things. 
 
 Hope left for the Continent with a proud 
 heart, a joyful heart, and a sore heart. She 
 was lovely, she was healthy, she was happy, 
 she v:as accomplished, but she was his no 
 longer, not even in name ; her love was being 
 gained by a stranger, and there was a barrier 
 of iron, as well as tlie English Channel,
 
 94 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 between William Hope and his own Mary 
 Bartley . 
 
 It would weary the reader were we to detail 
 the small events bearing on the part of the 
 story which took place during the next five 
 years. They might be summed up thus : That 
 William Hope got a peep at his daughter now 
 and then ; and, making a series of subtle experi- 
 ments by varying his voice as much as possible, 
 confused and nidlified her memory of that voice 
 to all appearance. In due course, however, 
 father and daughter were brought into natural 
 contact by the last thing that seemed likely to 
 do it, viz., by Bartley 's avarice. Bartley 's 
 legitimate business at home and abroad could 
 now run alone. So he invited Hope to England 
 to guide him in what he loved better than 
 steady business, viz., speculation. The truth is, 
 Bartley could execute, but had few original 
 ideas. Hope had plenty, and sound ones, 
 though not common ones. Hope directed the 
 purcliase of convertible securities on this prin- 
 ciple : Select good ones ; avoid time bargains,
 
 mart's peril. 95 
 
 which introduce a distinct element of risk ; 
 and buy largely at every panic not founded on 
 a permanent reason or out of proportion. 
 Example : A great district bank broke. The 
 shares of a great district railway went down 
 thirty per cent. Hope bade his employer and 
 pupil observe that this was rank delusion ; the 
 dividends of the railway were not lowered one 
 per cent, by the failure of that bank, nor could 
 they be : the shareholders of the bank had 
 shares in the railway, and were com])elled to 
 force them on the market ; hence the fall in the 
 shares. ' But,' said Hope, ' those depreciated 
 shares are now in the hands of men who can 
 hold them, and will too, until they return from 
 this ridiculous 85 to their normal value, which 
 is from 105 to 115. Invest every shilling you 
 have got ; I shall.' Bartley invested 30,000/., 
 and cleared twenty per cent, in three months. 
 
 Example 2 : There was a terrible accident 
 on another railway, and part of the line broken 
 up. Vast repairs needed. SI i ares fell twenty 
 per cent.
 
 9G A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' Oat of proportion,' said Hope. ' The sum 
 for repairs will not deduct from the dividends 
 one-tenth of tlie annual sum represented by the 
 fall, and in three months fear of another such 
 disaster will not keep a single man, woman, 
 child, bullock, pig, or coal-truck off that line. 
 Put the pot on.' 
 
 Bartley put the pot on, and made fifteen 
 per cent. 
 
 Hope said to Bartley : 
 
 'V/hen an English speculator sends his 
 money abroad at all, he goes wild altogether. 
 He rushes at obscure transactions, and lends to 
 Peru, or Guatemala, or Tierra del Fuego, or 
 some shaky place he knows nothing about. 
 The insular maniac overlooks the continent of 
 Europe, instead of studying it, and seeking 
 what countries there are safe and others risk}-. 
 Now, Avhy overlook Prussia ? It is a country 
 much better governed than England, especially 
 as regards great public enterprises and mono- 
 polies. For instance, the directors of a Prussian 
 railway cannot swindle the shareholders by
 
 mart's peril. 97 
 
 false accounts, and passing off loans for divi- 
 dends. Against the frauds of directors the 
 English shareholder has only a sham security. 
 He is invited to leave his home, and come two 
 hundred miles to the directors' home, and vote 
 in person. He doesn't do it. Why should he ? 
 In Prussia the Government protects the share- 
 holder, and inspects the accounts severely. So 
 much for the superior system of that country. 
 Now, take a map. Here is Hamburg, the 
 great port of the Continent, and Berlin, the 
 great Continental centre ; and there is one 
 railway only between the two. A\niat English 
 railway can compare with this ? The shares 
 are at 150. But they must go to 300 in time, 
 unless the Prussian Government allows another 
 railway, and that is not likely ; and, if so, you 
 will have two years to back out. This is the 
 best permanent investment of its class that 
 offers on the face of the a-lobe.' 
 
 Bartley invested timidly, but held for years, 
 and the shares went up over 300 before he 
 sold. 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' Do not let your mind live in an island if 
 your body does,' was a favourite saying of 
 William Hope ; and we recommend it impar- 
 tially to Britons and Bornese. 
 
 On one of Hope's visits Bartley complained 
 he had nothing to do. 'I can sit here and 
 speculate. I want to be in something myself 
 I think I will take a farm, just to occupy me 
 and amuse me.' 
 
 ' It will not amuse you unless you make 
 money by it,' sugp^ested Hope. 
 
 ' And nobody can do that nowadays. 
 Farms don't pay.' 
 
 ' Ploughing and sowing don't pay, but 
 brains and money pay wherever found to- 
 gether.' 
 
 ' What, on a farm ? ' 
 
 ' Why not, sir ? You have only to go with 
 the times. Observe the condition of produce : 
 grain too cheap for a farmer because continents 
 can export grain with little loss ; fruit dear ; 
 meat dear, because cattle cannot be driven and 
 sailed without risk of life and loss of weight ;
 
 MARY'S PERIL. 99 
 
 agricultural labour rising, and in winter unpro- 
 ductive, because to farm means to plough and 
 sow, and reap and mow, and lose money. But 
 meet those conditions. Breed cattle, sheep, 
 and horses, and make the farm their feeding- 
 ground. Give fifty acres to fruit ; have a httle 
 factory on the land for winter use, and so 
 utilize all your farm hands and the village 
 women, who are cheaper labourers than town 
 brats ; and I think you will make a httle money 
 in the form of money, besides what you make 
 in gratuitous eggs, poultry, fruit, horses to ride 
 and cart things for the house — items which 
 seldom figure in a farmer's books as money, 
 but we stricter accountants know they are.' 
 
 ' I'll do it,' said Bartley, ' if you'll be my 
 neighbour, and work it with me, and watch tlie 
 share market at home and abroad.' 
 
 Hope acquiesced joyfully, to be near his 
 daughter ; and they found a farm in Sussex, 
 with hills for the sheep, short grass for colts, 
 plenty of water, enough arable land and arti- 
 ficial grasses for their purpose, and a grand, 
 
 n 2
 
 100 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 sunny slope for tlieir fruit trees, fruit bushes^ 
 and strawberries, witli which last alone they 
 paid the rent. 
 
 ' Then,' said Hope, ' farm labourers drink 
 an ocean of beer. Now look at the retail price 
 of beer : eighty per cent, over its cost, and yet 
 deleterious, which tells against your labour. 
 As an employer of labour, the main expense 
 of a farm, you want beer to be slightly nourish- 
 ing, and very inspiriting, not somniferous.' 
 
 So they set up a malt-house and a brew- 
 house, and supplied all their own hands with 
 genuine liquor on the truck system, at a mode- 
 rate but remunerative price, and the grains 
 helped to feed their pigs. Hope's principle 
 was this : Sell no produce in its primitive form ; 
 if you change its form you make two profits. 
 Do you grow barley ? Malt it, and infuse it^ 
 and sell the liquor for two small profits, one 
 on the grain, and one on the infusion. Da 
 you grow grass ? Turn it into flesh, and sell 
 for, two small profits, one on the herb, and one 
 on the animal.
 
 Mary's peril. iOl 
 
 And really, when backed by money, the 
 results seemed to justify his principle. 
 
 Hope lived by himself, but not far from his 
 child, and often, when she went abroad, his 
 loving eyes watched her every movement 
 through his binocular, which might be de- 
 scribed as an opera-glass ten inches long, with 
 a small field, but telescopic power. 
 
 Grace Hope, whom we will now call Mary 
 Bartley, since everybody but her father, who 
 generally avoided her name^ called her so, was 
 a well-grown girl of thirteen, healthy, happy, 
 beautiful, and accomplished She was the 
 germ of a woman, and could detect who loved 
 her. She saw in Hope an affection she thought 
 extraordinary, but instinct told her it was not 
 like a young man's love, and she accepted it 
 with complacency, and returned it quietly, with 
 now and then a gush, for she could gush, and 
 why not ? ' Far from us and from our friends 
 be the frigid philosophy ' — of a girl who can't 
 gush. 
 
 Hope himself was loyal and guarded, and
 
 102 A PEEILOUS SECRET. 
 
 kept his affection within bounds ; and a sore 
 struggle it was. He never allowed himself to 
 kiss her, though he was sore tempted one day, 
 when he bought her a cream-coloured pony, 
 and slie flung her arms round his neck before 
 Mr. Bartley and kissed him eagerly ; but he 
 was so bashful that tlie girl laughed at him, 
 and said, half pertly, ' Excuse the liberty, but 
 if you will be such a duck, why, you must take 
 the consequences.' 
 
 Said Bartley pompously, 'You must not 
 expect middle-aged men to be as demonstrative 
 as very young ladies ; but he has as much real 
 affection for you as you have for him.' 
 
 ' Then he has a good deal, papa,' said she 
 sweetly. Both the men were silent, and Mary 
 looked to one and the other, and seemed a 
 little puzzled. 
 
 The great analysts that have dealt micro- 
 scopically with commonplace situations would 
 re\'el in this one, and give you a curious volume 
 of small incidents like the above, and vivisect 
 the father's heart with patient skill. But we
 
 mart's peril. ' 103 
 
 poor dramatists, taught by impatient audiences 
 to move on. and taught by those great pro- 
 fessors of verbosity, our female novelists and 
 nine-tenths of our male, that it is just possible 
 for ' masterly inactivity,' alias sluggish narra- 
 tive, creeping through sorry flags and rushes 
 with one lily in ten pages, to become a bore, 
 are driven on to salient facts, and must trust a 
 little to our readers' intelligence to ponder on 
 the singular situation of Mary Bartley and her 
 two fathers. 
 
 One morning Mary Bartley and her gover- 
 ness walked to a neighbouring town and enjoyed 
 the sacred delight of shopping. They came 
 back by a short cut, which made it necessary 
 to cross a certain brook, or rivulet, called the 
 Lyn. This was a rapid stream, and in places 
 pretty deep; but in one particular part it was 
 shallow, and crossed by large stepping-stones, 
 two-thirds of which were generally above water. 
 The village girls, including Mary Bartley, used 
 all to trip over these stones, and think nothing 
 of it, though the brook went past at a fine rate,
 
 104 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 and gradually widened and deepened as it 
 flowed, till it reached a downright fall ; after 
 that, running no longer down a decline, it be- 
 came rather a languid stream. 
 
 Mary and her governess came to this ford, 
 and found it swollen by recent rains, and foam- 
 ing and curhng round the stepping-stones, and 
 their tops only were out of the water now. 
 
 The governess at once objected to pass this 
 current. 
 
 ' Well, but,' said Mary, ' the other way is a 
 mile round, and papa expects us to be punctual 
 at meals, and I am, oh, so hungry ! Dear Miss 
 Everett, I have crossed it a hundred times.' 
 
 ' But the water is so deep.' 
 
 ' It is deeper than usual ; but see, it is only 
 up to my knee. I could cross it without the 
 stones. You go round, dear, and I'll explain 
 against you come home.' 
 
 ' Not until I've seen you safe over.' 
 
 ' That you will soon see,' said the girl, and, 
 fearing a more authoritative interference, she 
 gathered up her skirts and planted one dainty
 
 maky's peeil. 105 
 
 foot on the first stepping-stone, anotlier on the 
 next, and so on to the fourth ; and if she had 
 been a boy she would have cleared them all. 
 But holding her skirts instead of keeping her 
 arms to balance herself, and wearing idiotic 
 shoes, her heels slipped on the fifth stone, which 
 was rather slimy, and she fell into the middle 
 of the current with a little scream. 
 
 To her amazement she found that the stream, 
 though shallow, carried her off her feet, and 
 though she recovered them, she could not keep 
 them, but was alternately up and down, and 
 driven along, all the time floundering. Oh ! 
 then she screamed with terror, and the poor 
 governess ran screaming too, and making idle 
 clutches from the bank, but powerless to aid. 
 
 Then, as the current deepened, the poor girl 
 lost her feet altogether, and was carried on to- 
 ward the deep water. Hinging, her arms high 
 and screaming, but powerless. At first she was 
 buoyed up by her clothes, and particularly by 
 a petticoat of some material that did not drink 
 water. But as her other clothes became soaked
 
 106 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 and heavy, she sank to her chin, and death 
 stared her in the face. 
 
 She lost hope, and, being no common spirit, 
 she gained resignation ; she left off screaming, 
 and said to Everett, ' Pray for me.' 
 
 But the next moment hope revived, and fear 
 with it — this is a law of nature — for a man, 
 bareheaded and his hair flying, came galloping 
 on a bare-backed pony, shouting and screaming 
 with terror louder than both the women. He 
 urged the pony furiously to the stream ; then 
 the beast planted his feet together, and with 
 the imjoulse thus given Hope threw himself over 
 the pony's head into the water, and had his arm 
 round his child in a moment. He lashed out 
 with the other hand across the stream. But it 
 was so powerful now, as it neared the lasher, 
 that they made far more way onward to de- 
 struction than they did across the stream ; still, 
 they did near the bank a little. But the lasher 
 roared nearer and nearer, and the stream pulled 
 them to it with iron force. They were close to 
 it now. Then a willow bough gave them one
 
 107 
 
 chance. Hope grasped it, and pulled with iron 
 strength. From the bough he got to a branch, 
 and finally clutched the stem of the tree, just 
 as his feet were hfted up by the rushing water, 
 and both lives hung upon that Avillow-tree. 
 The girl was on his left arm, and his right arm 
 round the willow. 
 
 ' Grace,' said he, feigning calmness. 'Put 
 your arm around my neck, Mary.' 
 
 ' Yes, dear,' said she firmly. 
 
 ' Now don't hurry yourself — there s no 
 danger ; move slowdy across me, and hold my 
 right, arm very tight.' 
 
 She did so. 
 
 ' Now take hold of the bank with your left 
 hand ; but don't let go of me.' 
 
 ' Yes, dear,' said the little heroine, Avhose 
 fear was gone now she had Hope to take care 
 of her. 
 
 Then Hope clutched the tree with his left 
 hand, pushed Mary on shore with his right, and 
 very soon had her in his arms on terra Jirma. 
 
 But now came a chani]^e that confounded
 
 108 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 Mary Bartley, to whom a man was a very 
 superior being — only not always intelligible. 
 
 The brave man fell to shaking like an aspen 
 leaf; the strong man to sobbing and gasping, 
 and kissing the girl wildly. ' Oh, my child ! 
 my child ! ' 
 
 Then Mary, of course, must gulp and cry a 
 little for sympathy ; but her quick-changing 
 spirit soon shook it off, and she patted his cheek 
 and kissed him, and then began to comfort him, 
 if you please. ' Good, dear, kind Mr. Hope,' 
 said she. ' La ! don't go on like that. You were 
 so brave in the water, and now the danger is 
 over. I've had a ducking, that is all. Ha ! ha ! 
 lia ! ' and the httle wretch began to laugh. 
 
 Hope looked amazed ; neither his heart nor 
 his sex would let him change his mood so 
 swiftly. 
 
 ' Oh, my child,' said he, ' how can you 
 laugh? You have been near eternity, and if 
 jou had been lost, what should I God ! ' 
 
 -Mary turned very grave. ' Yes,' said she, 
 ^ I have been near eternity. It would not have
 
 MARYS PERIL. 10^ 
 
 mattered to you — you are such a good man — 
 but I should have caught it for disobedience. 
 But, dear Mr. Hope, let me tell you that the 
 moment you put your arm round me I felt just 
 as safe in the water as on dry land ; so, you 
 see, I have had longer to get over it than you 
 have ; that accounts for my laughing. No, it 
 doesn't ; I'm a giddy, giggling girl, with nv 
 depth of character^ and not worthy of all this 
 aflection. Why does everybody love me? 
 They ought to be ashamed of themselves.' 
 
 Hope told her she was a little angel, and 
 everybody was right to love her ; indeed, 
 they deserved to be hanged if they did 
 not. 
 
 Mary fixed on the word ' angel.' ' Tf I was 
 an angel,' she said, ' I shouldn't be hungry, 
 and I am awfully. Oh, please come home ; 
 papa is so punctual. Mr. Hope, are you going 
 to tell papa ? Because, if you are, just you 
 take me and throw me in again. lYl rather 
 be drowned than scolded.' (This with a de- 
 fiant attitude and flashing eyes.)
 
 110 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' No, no,' said Hope ; ' I will not tell him, 
 to vex him, and get you scolded.' 
 
 ' Then let us run home.' 
 
 She took his hand, and he ran witli her 
 like a playmate, and oh! the father's heart 
 leaped and glowed at this sweet companionship 
 after danger and terror. 
 
 When they got near the house Mary 
 Bartley began to walk and think. She had a 
 very thinking countenance at times, and Hope 
 watched her, and wondered what were her 
 thoughts. She was very grave, so probably 
 she was thinking how very near she had been 
 to the other world. 
 
 Standing on the doorstep, whilst he stood 
 on the gravel, she let him know her thoughts. 
 All her life, and even at this tender age, she 
 had very searching eyes ; they were gray now, 
 though they had been blue. She put her 
 hands to her waist, and she bent those search- 
 ing eyes on William Hope. 
 
 , • Mr. Hope,' said she, in a resolute sort of 
 way.
 
 Mary's peril. ■ m 
 
 'My dear?' said lie eagerly. 
 
 ' You LOYE ME BETTER THAN PAPA DOES, 
 that's ALL.' 
 
 And having administered this information 
 as a dry fact, that might be worth looking into 
 at leisure, she passed thoughtfully into the 
 house.
 
 112 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 SHARP PRACTICE. 
 
 Hope paid a visit to his native place in Derby- 
 shire, and his poor relations shared his pros- 
 perity, and blessed him, and Mr. Bartley upon 
 his report ; for Hope was one of those choice 
 spirits who praise the bridge that carries them 
 safe over the stream of adversity. 
 
 He returned to Sussex with all the news, 
 and, amongst the rest, that Colonel Clifford had 
 a farm coming vacant. Walter Clifford had 
 insisted on a higher rent at the conclusion of 
 the term, but the tenant had demurred. . 
 
 Bartley paid little attention at the time; but 
 by-and-bye he said, ' Did you not see signs of 
 coal on Colonel Clifford's property ? ' 
 
 ' That I did, and on this very farm, and
 
 SHARP PRACTICE. • 113 
 
 told him so. But he is behind the age. I have 
 no patience with him. Take one of those old 
 iron ramrods that used to load the old musket, 
 and cover that ramrod with prejudices a foot 
 and a half deep, and there you have Colonel 
 CHfford.' 
 
 ' Well, but a tenant would not be bound by 
 his prejudices.' 
 
 ' A tenant ! A tenant takes no right to 
 mine under a farm lease ; he would have to 
 propose a special contract, or to ask leave, and 
 Colonel Clifford would never grant it.' 
 
 There the conversation dropped. But tlie 
 matter rankled in Bartley's mind. Without 
 saying any more to Hope, he consulted a sharp 
 attorney. 
 
 The result was that he took Mary Bartley 
 wdth him into Derbyshire. 
 
 He put up at a little inn, and called at 
 Clifford Hall. 
 
 He found Colonel Clifford at home, and 
 was received stiffly, but graciously. He gave 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 Colonel Clifford to understand that he had left 
 business. 
 
 'All the better,' said Colonel Clifford 
 sharply. 
 
 ' And taken to farming.' 
 
 ' Ugh ! ' said the other, with his favourite 
 snort. 
 
 At this moment, who should walk into the 
 room but Walter Clifford. 
 
 Bartley started and stared. Walter started 
 and stared. 
 
 ' Mr. Bolton ! ' said Bartley, scarcely above 
 a whisper. 
 
 But Colonel Clifford heard it, and said 
 brusquely : ' Bolton ! No. Why, this is Walter 
 Clifford, my son, and my man of business. 
 Walter, this is Mr. Bartley.' 
 
 ' Proud to make your acquaintance, sir,' 
 said the astute Bartley, ignoring the past. 
 
 Walter was glad he took this line before 
 Colonel Chfford : not that he forgave Mr. 
 Bartley that old affront the reader knows of 
 
 The judicious Bartley read his face, and, as
 
 SHARP PRACTICE. ' 115 
 
 a first step towards propitiation, introduced 
 him to his daughter. Walter was amazed at 
 her beauty and grace, coming from such a 
 stock. He welcomed her courteously, but 
 shyly. She replied with rare affability, and 
 that entire absence of mock-modesty which 
 was already a feature in her character. To be 
 sure, she was httle more than fifteen, though 
 she was full grown, and looked nearer twenty. 
 
 Bartley began to feel his way with Colonel 
 Clifford about the farm. He told him he was 
 pretty successful in agriculture, thanks to the 
 assistance of an experienced friend, and then he 
 said, half carelessly, ' By-the-bye, they tell me 
 you have one to let. Is that so ? ' 
 
 ' Walter,' said Colonel Clifford, ' have you 
 a farm to let ? ' 
 
 ' Not at present, sir ; but one will be 
 vacant in a month, unless the present tenant 
 consents to pay thirty per cent, more than he 
 has done.' 
 
 ' Might I see that farm, Mr. Walter ? ' asked 
 Bartley. 
 
 i2
 
 115 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' Certainly,' said Walter ; ' I sliall be happy 
 to show you over it.' Then he turned to Mary. 
 'I am afraid it would be no compliment to 
 you. Ladies are not interested in farms.' 
 
 ' Oh, but / am, since papa is, and Mr. 
 Hope ; and then on our farm there are so 
 many dear, httle, young things : little calves, 
 little lambs, and httle pigs. Little pigs are 
 ducks — very little ones, I mean ; and there is 
 nearly always a young colt about, that eats 
 out of my hand. Not like a farm? The 
 idea ! ' 
 
 ' Then I will show you all over ours, you 
 and your papa,' said Walter warmly. He then 
 asked Mr. Bartley where he was to be found ; 
 and when Bartley told him, at the ' Dun Cow,' 
 he looked at Mary, and said, ' Oh ! ' 
 
 Mary understood in a moment, and laughed 
 and said, ' We are very comfortable, I assure 
 you. We have the parlour all to ourselves, 
 and there are samplers hung up, and oh ! such 
 funny pictures, and the landlady is beginning 
 to spoil me already.'
 
 SHARP PRACTICE. " 117 
 
 'Nobody can spoil you, Mary,' said Mr. 
 Bartley. 
 
 ' You ought to know, papa, for you have 
 been trying a good many years.' 
 
 ' Not very many. Miss Bartley,' said Colonel 
 Clifford graciously. Then he gave half a start, 
 and said, ' Here am I calling her " miss " when 
 she is my own niece, and, now I tliink of it, 
 she can't be half as old as she looks. I remem- 
 ber the very day she was born. My dear, you 
 are an impostor.' 
 
 Bartley changed colour at this chance shaft. 
 But Colonel Clifford explained : 
 
 ' You pass for twenty, and you can't be 
 more than — Let me see ' 
 
 ' I am fifteen and four months,' said Mary, 
 ' and I do take people in — cruelly.'' 
 
 ' Well,' said Colonel Clifford, ' you see you 
 can't take me in. I know your date. So 
 come and give your old ruffian of an uncle a 
 kiss.' 
 
 ' That I will,' cried Mary, and flew at 
 Colonel Chfford, and flunf^ both arms round
 
 118 A PERILOUS SECRET, 
 
 his neck and kissed him. 'Oh! papa/ said 
 she, ' I have got an uncle now — a hero, too ; 
 and me that is so fond of heroes ! Only this is 
 my first — out of hooks.' 
 
 ' Mary, my dear,' said Bartley, ' you are 
 too impetuous. Please excuse her, Colonel 
 Clifford. Now, my dear, shake hands with 
 your cousin, for we must be going.' 
 
 Mary complied, but not at all impetuously. 
 She lowered her long lashes, and put out her 
 hand timidly, and said, ' Good-bye, Cousin 
 Walter.' 
 
 He held her hand a moment, and that 
 made her colour directly ? -' You will come 
 over the farm ? Can you ride ? Have you 
 your habit ? ' 
 
 ' Xo, cousin ; but never mind that. I can 
 put on a long skirt.' 
 
 ' A skirt ! But, after all, it does not matter 
 a straw what you wear.' 
 
 Mary was such a novice that she did not 
 catch the meaning of this on the spot ; but 
 half-way to the inn, and in the middle of a
 
 SHARP PEACTICE. ' 119 
 
 conversation, her cheeks were suddenly suffused 
 with blushes. A young man had admired her, 
 und said so. Very likely that was the way 
 with young men. No doubt they were bolder 
 than young women ; but somehow it was not 
 so very objectionable in them. 
 
 That short interview was a little era in 
 Mary's young life. Walter had fixed his eyes 
 on her with delight, had held her hand some 
 seconds, and admired her to her face. She 
 began to wonder a little, and flutter a httle, 
 and to put off childhood. 
 
 Next day, punctual to the minute, Walter 
 drove up to the door in an open carriage 
 drawn by two fast steppers. He found Mr. 
 Bartley alone, and wliy? Because, at sight of 
 Walter, Mary, for the first time in her life, had 
 flown upstairs to look at herself in the glass 
 before facing the visitor, and to smooth her 
 hair, and retouch a bow, &c., underrating, as 
 usual, the power of beauty, and overrating 
 nullities. Bartley took tliis opportunity, and 
 said to young Clifford :
 
 120 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' I owe you an apology, and a most earnest 
 one. Can you ever forgive me ? ' 
 
 Walter changed colour. Even this humble 
 allusion to so great an insult was wormwood to 
 Tiim. He bit his lip, and said : 
 
 ' Xo man can do more than say he is sorry. 
 I will try to forget it, sir.' 
 
 ' That is as much as I can expect,' said 
 Bartley humbly. ' But if you only knew the 
 art, the cunning, the apparent evidence with 
 which that villain Monckton deluded me ' 
 
 ' That I can believe.' 
 
 ' And permit me one observation before we 
 drop this unhappy subject for ever. If you. 
 had done me the honour to come to me as 
 Walter Chfford, why, then, strong and mislead- 
 ing as the evidence was, I should have said, 
 " Appearances are deceitful, but no Clifford was 
 ever disloyal." ' 
 
 This artful speech conquered Walter Clif- 
 ford. He blushed, and bowed a httle haughtily 
 at the compliment to the Cliffords, But his 
 sense of justice w^as aroused.
 
 SHAKP PRACTICE. * 3 21 
 
 ' You are right,' said he. ' I must try and 
 see both sides. If a man sails under false 
 colours, he mustn't howl if he is mistaken for 
 a pirate. Let us dismiss the subject for ever. 
 I am Walter Clifford now — at your service.' 
 
 At that moment Mary Bartley came in, 
 beaming with youth and beauty, and illumined 
 the room. The cousins shook hands, and 
 Walter's eyes glowed with admiration. 
 
 After a few words of greeting he handed 
 Mary into the drag. Her father followed, and 
 he was about to drive off, when Mary cried out, 
 ' Oh, I forgot my skirt, if I am to ride.' 
 
 The skirt was brought down, and the horses, 
 that were beginning to fret, dashed off. A 
 smart httle groom rode behind, and, on reach- 
 ing the farm, they found another with two 
 saddle-horses ; one of them, a small, gentle 
 Arab gelding, had a side-saddle. They rode 
 all over the farm, and inspected the buildings, 
 which were in excellent repair, thanks to 
 Walter's supervision. Bartley inquired the 
 number of acres and the rent demanded.
 
 122 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 Walter told him. Bartley said it seemed 
 to him a fair rent ; still, he should like to 
 know why the present tenant declined. 
 
 ' Perliaps you had better ask him,' said 
 Walter. 'I should wish you to hear both 
 sides.' 
 
 ' That is like you,' said Bartley ; ' but where 
 does the shoe pinch, in your opinion ? ' 
 
 ' Well, he tells me, in sober earnest, that he 
 loses money by it as it is ; but when he is drunk 
 he tells his boon companions he has made seven 
 thousand pounds here. He has one or two 
 grass fields that want draining, but I offer him 
 the pipes ; he has only got to lay them and cut 
 the drains. My opinion is that he is the slave 
 of habit ; he is so used to make an unfair profit 
 out of these acres, that he cannot break himself 
 of it and be content with a fair one.'. 
 
 ' I dare say you have hit it,' said Bartley. 
 ' Well, I'm fond of farming ; but I don't live by 
 it, and a moderate profit would content me.' 
 
 Walter said nothing. The truth is, he did 
 not want to let the farm to Bartley.
 
 SHARP PRACTICE. ' 123 
 
 Bartley saw this, and drew Mary aside : 
 
 ' Should not you hke to come here, my 
 child ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, papa, if you wish it ; and you know 
 it's dear Mr. Hope's birthplace.' 
 
 'Well, then, tell this young fellow so. I 
 will give you an opportunity.' 
 
 That was easily managed, and then Mary 
 said timidly, ' Cousin Walter, we should all 
 three be so glad if we might ha\-e the farm.' 
 
 ' Three ? ' said he. ' Who is the third ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, somebody that everybody hkes and I 
 love. It is Mr. Hope. Such a duck ! I am 
 sure you would like him,' 
 
 ' Hope ! Is his name William ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, it is. Do you know him ? ' asked 
 Mary eagerly. 
 
 'I have reason to know him : he did me a 
 good turn once, and I shall never forget it.' 
 
 ' Just like him,' cried Mary. ' He is always 
 doing people good turns. He is the best, the 
 truest, the cleverest, the dearest darling dear 
 that ever stepped, and a second father to me ;
 
 124 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 and, cousin, this village is his birthplace, and he 
 didn't say much, but it was he who told us of 
 this farm, and he would be so pleased if I could 
 write and say, " We are to have the farm — 
 Cousin Walter says so.'" 
 
 She turned her lovely eyes, brimming with 
 tenderness, toward her cousin Walter, and he 
 was done for. 
 
 ' Of course you shall have it,' he said 
 warmly. ' Only you will not be angry with me 
 if I insist on the increased rent. You know^ 
 cousin, I have a father, too, and I must be just 
 to him.' 
 
 ' To be sure you must, dear,' said Mary in- 
 cautiously ; and the word penetrated Walter's 
 heart, as if a woman of twenty-five had said it 
 all of a sudden and for the first time. 
 
 When they got home, Mary told Mr. 
 Bartley he was to have the farm if he would 
 pay the increased rent. 
 
 'That is all right,' said Bartley. 'Then 
 to-morrow we can go home.' 
 
 'So soon ! ' said Mary sorrowfully.
 
 SHARP PRACTICE. • 125 
 
 ' Yes,' said Bartley firmly ; ' the rest had 
 better be done in writing. Why. Mary, what is 
 the use of staying on now ? We are going to 
 live here in a month or two.' 
 
 ' I forgot that,' said Mary, with a little sigh. 
 It seemed so ungracious to get what they wanted, 
 and then turn their backs directly. She hinted 
 as much, very timidly. 
 
 But Bartley was inexorable, and they reached 
 home next day. 
 
 Mary would have liked to write to Walter, 
 and announce their safe arrival, but nature 
 withheld her. She was a child no longer. 
 
 Bartley went to the sharp solicitor, and had 
 a long interview with him. The result was that 
 in about ten days he sent Walter ChfTord a 
 letter and the draft of a lease, very favourable 
 to the landlord on the whole, but calmly in- 
 serting one unusual clause that looked inoffen- 
 sive. 
 
 It came by post, and Walter read the letter, 
 and told his father whom it was from. 
 
 ' What does tlie fellow say ? ' grunted Colonel 
 ChfTord.
 
 126 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' He says, " We are doing very well here, 
 but Hope says a bailiff can now carry out our 
 system ; and he is evidently sweet on his native 
 place, and thinks the proposed rent is fair, and 
 even moderate. As for me, my life used to be 
 so bustling that I require a change now and 
 then ; so I will be your tenant. Hope says I 
 am to pay the expense of the lease, so I have 
 requested Arrowsmith & Cox to draw it. I 
 have no experiences in leases. They have drawn 
 hundreds. I told them to make it fair. If 
 they have not, send it back with objections." ' 
 
 'Oh, oh ! ' said Colonel Clifford. ' He draws 
 the lease, does he? Then look at it with a 
 microscope.' 
 
 Walter laughed. 
 
 ' I should not like to encounter him on his 
 own ground. But here he is a fish out of 
 water ; he must be. However, I will pass my 
 eye over it. Where the farmer generally over- 
 reaches us, if he draws the lease, is in the 
 clauses that protect him on leaving. He gets 
 part possession for m.onths without paying rent.
 
 SHARP PRACTICE. ' 127 
 
 and he hampers and fleeces the incoming tenant, 
 so that you lose a year's rent or have to buy 
 him out. Now, let me see, that will be at the 
 
 end of the document No ; it is exceedingly 
 
 fair, this one.' 
 
 ' Show it to our man of business, and let him 
 study every line. Set an attorney to catch an 
 attorney.' 
 
 ' Of course I shall submit it to our solicitor,' 
 said Walter. 
 
 This was done, and the experienced prac- 
 titioner read it very carefully. He pronounced 
 it unusually equitable for a farmer's lease. 
 
 ' However,' said he, ' we might suggest that 
 he does all the repairs and draining, and that 
 you find the materials ; and also that he insures 
 all the farm buildings. But you can hardly 
 stand out for the insurance if he objects. 
 There's no harm trying. Stay! here is one 
 clause that is unusual : the tenant is to have 
 the right to bore for water, or to penetrate the 
 surface of the soil, and take out gravel or chalk 
 or minerals, if any. I don't like that clause.
 
 128 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 He might quarry, and cut the farm in pieces. 
 Ah, there's a proviso, that any damage to the 
 surface or the agricuUural value shall be fully 
 compensated, the amount of such injury to 
 be settled by the landlord's valuer or surveyor. 
 Oh, come, if you can charge your own price, 
 that can't kill you.' 
 
 In short, the draft was approved, subject 
 to certain corrections. These were accepted. 
 The lease was engrossed in duplicate, and 
 in due course signed and delivered. The 
 old tenant left, abusing the Cliffords, and 
 saying it was unfair to bring in a stranger, for 
 he would have given all the money. 
 
 Bartley took possession. 
 
 '\y alter welcomed Ho[)e very warmly, and 
 often came to see him. He took a great 
 interest in Hope's theories of farming, and often 
 came to the farm for lessons. But that in- 
 terest was very much increased by the oppor- 
 tunities it gave him of seeing and talking to 
 sweet Mary Bartley. Not that he was forward 
 or indiscreet. She was not yet sixteen, and he 
 tried to remember she was a child.
 
 SHAEP PRACTICE. • 129 
 
 Unfortunately for tliat theory she looked a 
 ripe woman, and this very Walter made her 
 more and more womanly. Whenever Walter 
 was near she had new timidity, new blushes, 
 fewer gushes, less impetuosity, more reserve. 
 Sweet innocent! She was set by Nature to 
 catch the man by the surest way, though she 
 had no such design. 
 
 Oh, it was a i:)retty, subtle piece of nature, 
 and each sex played its part. Bold advances 
 of the man, with internal fear to offend, mock 
 retreats of the girl, with internal throbs of 
 complacency, and life invested with a new and 
 growing charm to both. Leaving this pretty 
 little pastime to glide along the flowery path 
 that beautifies young lives to its inevitable 
 climax, we go to a matter more prosaic, yet 
 one that proved a source of strange and stormy 
 events. 
 
 Hope had hardly started the farm when 
 Bartley sent him off to Belgium — to study 
 
 COAL iMlNES. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 A PERILOUS SECRET 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 
 
 Mr. Hope left his powerful opera-glass with 
 Mary Bartley. One day that Walter called 
 she was looking through it at the landscape, 
 and handed it to him. He admired its power. 
 Mary told him it had saved her life once. 
 
 ' Oh,' said he, ' how could that be ? ' 
 
 Then she told him how Hope had seen her 
 drowning, a mile off, with it, and ridden a bare- 
 backed steed to her rescue. 
 
 ' God bless him ! ' cried Walter. ' He is 
 our best friend. Might I borrow this famous 
 glass ? ' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Mary, ' I am not going into any 
 more streams ; I am not so brave now as I 
 used to be.' 
 
 ' Please lend it me, for all that.'
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOYE. 131 
 
 ' Of course I will, if you wish it.' 
 
 Strange to say, after this, whether Mary 
 walked out or rode out, she very often met 
 Mr. Walter Clifford. He was always delighted 
 and surprised. She was surprised three times, 
 and said so, and after that she came to lower 
 her lashes and blush, but not to start. Each 
 meeting was a pure accident, no doubt, only 
 she foresaw the inevitable occurrence. 
 
 They talked about everything in the world 
 except what was most on their minds. Their 
 s^ft tones and expressive eyes supplied that 
 little deficiency. 
 
 One day he caught her riding on her little 
 Arab. The groom fell behind directly. After 
 they had ridden some distance in silence, Walter 
 broke out : 
 
 ' How beautifully you ride ! ' 
 
 ' Me ! ' cried Mary. ' Why, I never had a 
 lesson in my life.' 
 
 ' That accounts for it. Let a lady alone, 
 and she does everything more gracefully than 
 a man ; but let some cad undertake to teach 
 
 k2
 
 132 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 her, she distrusts herself and imitates the snob. 
 If you could only see the women in Hyde 
 Park, who have been taught to ride, and com- 
 pare them with yourself I ' 
 
 ' I should learn humility.' 
 
 ' No ; it would make you vain, if anything 
 could.' 
 
 'You seem inclined to do me that good 
 turn. Come, pray, what do these poor ladies 
 do to offend you so ? ' 
 
 ' I'll tell you. They square their shoulders 
 vulgarly ; they hold the reins in their hands as 
 if they were driving, and they draw the reins 
 to their waists in a coarse, absurd way. They 
 tighten both these reins equally, and saw the 
 poor devil's mouth with the curb and the snaffle 
 at one time. Now, you know, Mary, the snaffle 
 is a mild bit, and the curb is a sharp one ; so 
 where is the sense of pulling away at the snaffle 
 when you are tugging at the curb ? Why, it 
 is like the fellow that made two holes at the 
 bottom of the door — a big one for the cat to 
 come through and a httle one for the kitten.
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 133 
 
 But the worst of all is, they show the caddess 
 so plainly.' 
 
 ' Caddess ! What is that ? — goddess you 
 mean, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' No ; T mean a cad of the feminine gender. 
 They seem bursting with affectation and elated 
 consciousness that they are on horseback. That 
 shows they have only just made the acquaint- 
 ance of that animal, and in a London ridinor- 
 school. Now, you hold both reins lightly in 
 the left hand, the curb loose, since it is seldom 
 wanted, the snaffle just feeling the animal's 
 mouth ; and you look right and left at the 
 people you are talking to, and don't seem to 
 invite one to observe that j^ou are on a horse : 
 that is because you are a lady, and a horse is 
 a matter of course to you, just as the ground 
 is when you walk upon it.' 
 
 The sensible girl blushed at his praise, but 
 she said drily, ' How meritorious ! Cousin 
 Walter, I have heard that flattery is poison. 
 I won't stay here to be poisoned — so — ' She 
 finished the sentence in action ; and witli a move-
 
 3 34 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 merit of her body she started her Arab steed, and 
 turned her challenging eye back on Walter, and 
 gave him a hand-gallop of a mile on the turf by 
 the roadside. And when she drew bridle, her 
 cheeks glowed so and her eyes ghstened, that 
 Walter w^as dazzled by her bright beauty, and 
 could do nothing but gaze at her for ever so long. 
 
 If Hope had been at home, Mary would 
 have been looked after more sharply. But if 
 she was punctual at meals, that went a long 
 way with Eobert Bartley. 
 
 However, the accidental and frequent 
 meetings of Walter and Mary, and their de- 
 lightful rides and walks, were interfered with, 
 just as they began to grow into a habit. There 
 arrived at Clifford Hall a formidable person — 
 in female eyes, especially — a beautiful heiress, 
 Julia Clifford, great-niece and ward of Colonel 
 Clifford ; very tall, graceful, with dark gray 
 eyes, and black eyebrows the size of a leech, 
 that narrowed to a point and met in finer lines 
 upon the bridge of a nose that was gently 
 aquihne, but not too large, as such noses are
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 135 
 
 apt to be. A large, expressive mouth, with 
 wonderful rows of ivory, and the prettiest little 
 black down, fine as a hair, on her upper lip, and 
 a skin rather dark but clear, and glowing with 
 the warm blood beneath it, completed this 
 noble girl. She was nineteen years of age. 
 
 Colonel Chffbrd received her w^ith warm 
 affection and old-fasliioned coiu'tesy ; but as 
 he was disabled by a violent fit of gout, he 
 deputed Walter to attend to her on foot and 
 horseback. 
 
 Miss ChfFord, accustomed to homage, laid 
 Walter under contribution every day. She 
 was very active, and he had to take her a walk 
 in the morning, and a ride in the afternoon. 
 He winced a little under this at first ; it kept 
 him so much from Mary. But there was some 
 compensation. Julia Chfford was a lady-like 
 rider, and also a bold and skilful one. 
 
 The first time he rode with her he asked her 
 beforehand what sort of a horse siie would hke. 
 
 ' Oh, anything,' said she, ' that is not vicious 
 nor slow.'
 
 136 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' A hack or a hunter ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, a hunter, if I may.'' 
 
 ' Perhaps you will do me the honour to 
 look at them and select.' 
 
 ' You are very kind, and I will.' 
 
 He took her to the stables, and she selected 
 a beautiful black mar^, with a coat like satin. 
 
 ' There,' said Walter despondingly. ' I 
 was afraid you would fix on her. She is 
 impossible. I can't ride her myself.' 
 
 ' Vicious ? ' 
 
 ' JSTot in the least.' 
 
 ' Well, then—' 
 
 Here an old groom touched his hat, and . 
 said curtly, 'Too hot and fidgety, Miss. I'd 
 as lieve ride of a boiling kettle.' 
 
 Walter exj^lained : ' The poor thing is the 
 victim of nervousness.' 
 
 ' Which I call them as rides lier the 
 victims,' suggested the ancient groom. 
 
 ' Be quiet, George. She would go sweetly 
 in a steeple-chase, if she didn't break her heart 
 with impatience before the start. But on the
 
 THE COUKSE OF TRUE LOVE. 137 
 
 road she is impossible. If you make her walk 
 she is all over lather in five minutes, and she'd 
 spoil that sweet habit with flecks of foam. My 
 lady has a way of tossing her head, and cover- 
 ing you all over with white streaks.' 
 
 ' She wants soothing,' suggested Miss 
 Clifford. 
 
 ' Nay, Miss. She wants bleeding o' Sun- 
 days, and sweating over the fallows till she 
 drops o' week-days. But if slie was mine I'd 
 put her to work a coal-cart for six months ; 
 that w^ould larn her.' 
 
 ' I will ride her,' said Miss Clifford calmly 
 — 'her or none.' 
 
 'Saddle her, George,' said Walter resign- 
 edly. ' I'll ride Goliah. Black Bess sha'n't 
 plead a bad example. Goliah is as meek as 
 Moses. Miss Chfford. He is a o'io^antic mouse.' 
 
 ' I'd as lieve ride of a dead man,' said the 
 old groom. 
 
 ' Mr. George,' said the young lad}-, ' you 
 seem hard to please. May I ask what sort (^f 
 animal you do like to ride ? '
 
 138 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' Well, miss, siimmat between them two. 
 When I rides I hkes to be at peace. If I wants 
 work, there's plenty in the yard. If I wants 
 fretting and fuming, I can go home ; I'm a 
 married man, ye know. But when I crosses a 
 horse I looks for a smart trot and a short 
 stepper, or an easy canter on a bit of turf, and 
 not to be set to hard labour a-sticking my 
 heels into Goliah, nor getting a bloody nose 
 every now and then from Black Bess a- throw- 
 ing back her uneasy head when I do but lean 
 forward in the saddle. I be an old man, miss, 
 and I looks for peace on horseback, if I can't 
 get it nowhere else.' 
 
 All this was delivered Avhilst saddling Black 
 Bess. When she was ready. Miss Clifford 
 asked leave to hold the bridle and walk her 
 out of the premises. As she walked her she 
 patted and caressed her, and talked to her all 
 the time — told her they all misunderstood her 
 because she was a female ; but now she was 
 not to be tormented and teased, but to have 
 her own way.
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 139 
 
 Then she asked George to hold the mare's 
 head as gently as he could, and Walter to put 
 her up. She Avas in the saddle in a moment. 
 The mare fidgeted and pranced, but did not 
 rear. Julia slackened the reins, and patted 
 and praised her, and let her go. She made a 
 run, but was checked by degrees with the 
 snaffle. She had a beautiful mouth, and it was 
 in good hands at last. 
 
 When the}" had ridden a few miles they 
 came to a very open country, and Juha asked 
 demurely if she might be allowed to try her 
 off the road. ' All right,' said Walter ; and 
 Miss Julia, with a smart decision that con- 
 trasted greatly with the meekness of her pro- 
 posal, put her straight at the bank, and cleared 
 it like a bird. They had a famous gallop, but 
 this judicious rider neither urged the mare nor 
 greatly checked her. She moderated her. 
 Black Bess came home that day sweating 
 properly, but with a marked diminution of 
 lather and foam. Miss Chfibrd asked leave to 
 ride her into the stable-yard, and, after dis-
 
 140 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 mounting, talked to her, and patted her, and 
 praised her. An hour later the pertinacious 
 beauty asked for a carrot from the garden, and 
 fed Black Bess with it in the stable. 
 
 By these arts, a very light hand, and tact 
 in riding, she soothed Black Bess's nerves, so 
 that at last the very touch of her habit skirt 
 or her hand, or the sound of her voice, seemed 
 to soothe the poor, nervous creature ; and at 
 last, one day, in the stable, Bess protruded her 
 great lips and kissed her fair rider on the 
 shoulder after her manner. 
 
 All this interested and amused Walter 
 Clifford, but still he was beginning to chafe 
 at being kept from Miss Bartley, when one 
 morning her servant rode over with a note : 
 
 ' Dear Cousin Walter, — Will you kindly 
 send me back my opera glass ? I want to see 
 what is going on at ChfTord Hall. 
 
 ' Yours affectionately, 
 
 ' Mary Bartley.' 
 
 Walter wrote back directly that he would 
 bring it himself, and tell her what was going 
 on at Clifford Hall.
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 141 
 
 So he rode over and told her of Jiiha 
 ChfFord's arrival, and how his father had deputed 
 him to attend on her, and she took up all his 
 time. It was beginning to be a bore. 
 
 ' On the contrary,' said Mary, ' I dare say 
 she is very handsome.' 
 
 ' That she is,' said Walter. 
 
 ' Please describe her.' 
 
 ' A very tall, dark girl, with wonderful eye- 
 brows ; and she has broken in Black Bess, that 
 some of us men could not ride in comfort.' 
 
 Mary changed colour. She murmured, ' No 
 wonder the Hall is more attractive than the 
 farm ! ' and the tears shone in her eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, Mary,' said Walter reproachfully, 
 ' how can you say that ? What is Juha Chfibrd 
 to me ? ' 
 
 ' I can't tell,' said Mary drily. ' I never 
 saw you together through my glasses, you know.' 
 
 Walter laughed at this innuendo : 
 
 ' You shall see us together to-morrow, if 
 you will bless one of us with your company.' 
 
 ' I might be in the way.'
 
 142 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' That is not very likely. Will you ride to 
 Hammond Church to-morrow at about ten, and 
 finish your sketch of the tower P I will bring 
 Miss Clifford there, and introduce you to each 
 other.' 
 
 This was settled, and Mary was apparently 
 quite intent on her sketch when Walter and 
 Julia rode up, and Walter said : 
 
 ' That is my cousin, Mary Bartley. May I 
 introduce her to you ? ' 
 
 ' Of course. What a sweet face ! ' 
 
 So the ladies were introduced, and Julia 
 praised Mary's sketch, and Mary asked leave to 
 add her to it, hanging, with pensive figure, over 
 a tombstone. Julia took an admirable pose, 
 and Mary, with her quick and facile fingers, 
 had her on the paper in no time. Walter asked 
 her, in a whisper, what she thought of her 
 model. 
 
 'I like her,' said Mary. 'She is rather 
 pretty.' 
 
 ' Eather pretty ! Why, she is an acknow- 
 ledged beauty.'
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 143 
 
 ' A beauty ? The idea ! Long black 
 thing ! ' 
 
 Then they rode all together to the farm. 
 There Mary was all innocent hospitality, and 
 the obnoxious Julia kissed her at parting, and 
 begged her to come and see her at the Hall. 
 
 Mary did call, and found her with a young 
 gentleman of short stature, who was devouring 
 her with his eyes, but did not overflow in dis- 
 course, having a slight impediment in his speech. 
 This was Mr. Percy Fitzroy. Julia introduced 
 him. 
 
 ' And where are you staying, Percy ? ' in- 
 quired she. 
 
 ' At the " D— D— Dun Cow." ' 
 
 ' What is that ? ' 
 
 Walter explained that it was a small hostelry, 
 but one that was occasionally honoured by 
 distinguished visitors. Miss Bartley stayed 
 there three days. 
 
 ' I h — hope to St — ay more than that,' said 
 little Percy, with an amorous glance at Julia. 
 
 Miss Clifford took Mary to her room, and
 
 144 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 soon asked her what she thought of him ; then, 
 anticipating criticism, she said there was not 
 much of him, but he was such a duck. 
 
 ' He dresses beautifully,' was Mary's guarded 
 lemark. 
 
 However, when WaUer rode home with her, 
 being now reheved of his attendance on Juha, 
 she was more communicative. Said she : ' I 
 never knew before that a man could look like 
 fresh cambric. Dear me ! his head and his face 
 and his little whiskers, his white scarf, his white 
 waistcoat, and all his clothes, and himself, seem 
 just washed and ironed and starched. / looked 
 round for the bandbox.'' 
 
 ' Never mind,' said Walter. ' He is a great 
 addition. My duties devolve on him. And I 
 shall be free to — How her eyes shone and 
 her voice mellowed when she spoke to him ! 
 Confess, now, love is a beautiful thing.' 
 
 ' I cannot say — not experienced in beautiful 
 things.' And Mary looked mighty demure. 
 
 'Of course not. What am I thinking of? 
 You are only a child.'
 
 THE COUESE OF TRUE LOVE'. 145 
 
 ' A little more than that, please' 
 
 ' At all events, love beautified her.'' 
 
 ' 1 saw no difference. She was always a 
 
 lovely girl.' 
 
 ' Why, you said she was " a long black 
 
 thing." ' 
 
 ' Oh, that was before — she looked engaged.' 
 
 After this young Fitzroy was generally Miss 
 Clifford's companion in her many walks, and 
 Walter Clifford had a delightful time ^vith Mary 
 Bartley. 
 
 Her nurse discovered how matters were 
 going ; but she said nothing. From something 
 Bartley let fall years ago she divined that 
 Bartley was robbing Walter Clifford by substi- 
 tuting Hope's child for his own, and she thought 
 the mischief could be repaired and the sin 
 atoned for if he and Mary became man and 
 wife. So she held her tongue and w^atched. 
 
 The servants at the Hall watched the whole 
 game, and saw how tlie young people were 
 pairing, and talked tliem over very freely. 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 A PEEILOUS SECRET. 
 
 The only person in the dark was Colonel 
 Clifford. He was nearly always confined to his 
 room. However, one day he came down, and 
 found Julia and Percy together. She intro- 
 duced Percy to him. The Colonel was curt, 
 but grumpy, and Percy soon beat a retreat. 
 
 The Colonel sent for Walter to his room. 
 He did not come for some time, because he was 
 wooing Mary Bartley. 
 
 Colonel Clifford's first word was, ' Who was 
 that little stuttering dandy I caught spooning 
 your Julia ? ' 
 
 ' Only Percy Fitzroy.' 
 
 ' Only Percy Fitzroy ! Never despise your 
 rivals, sir. Always remember that young 
 women are full of vanity, and expect to be' 
 courted all day long. I will thank you not to 
 leave the field open a single day till you have 
 secured the prize.' 
 
 ' What prize, sir ? ' 
 
 'What prize, you ninny? Why, the 
 beautiful girl that can buy back Oddington 
 and Drayton, peaches and fruit and all. They
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 147 
 
 are both to be sold at this moment. What 
 prize ? Why, the wife I have secured for you, 
 if you don't go and play the fool and neglect 
 her.' 
 
 Walter Clifford looked aghast. 
 
 ' Julia Clifford ! ' said he. ' Pray don't ask 
 me to marry her' 
 
 ' Not ask you ? — but I do ask you ; and, 
 wdiat is more, I command you. Would you 
 revolt again against your father, who has for- 
 given you, and break my heart, now I am 
 enfeebled by disease.^ Juha Clifford is your 
 wife, or you are my son no more.'
 
 148 A PERILOUS SECEET. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 
 
 The next time Walter Clifford met Mary 
 Bartley he was gloomy at intervals. The 
 observant girl saw he had something on his 
 mind. She taxed him with it, and asked him 
 tenderly what it was. 
 
 ' Oh, nothing/ said he. 
 
 ' Don't tell me ! ' said she. ' Mind, nothing 
 escapes my eye. Come, tell me, or we are not 
 friends.' 
 
 ' Oh, come, Mary. That is hard.' 
 
 ' Not in the least. I take an interest in 
 you.' 
 
 ' Bless you for saying so ! ' 
 
 'And so, if you keep your troubles from 
 me, we are not friends, nor cousins.' 
 
 ' Mary ! '
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 149 
 
 ' Nor anything else.' 
 
 ' Well, dear Mary, sooner than not be 
 anything else to you I will tell you, and yet I 
 don't like. Well, then, if I must, it is that 
 dear, old, wrong-headed father of mine. He 
 wants me to marry Julia Clifford.' 
 
 Mary turned pale directly. ' I guessed as 
 much,' said she. 'Well, she is young and 
 beautiful and rich, and it is your duty to obey 
 your father.' 
 
 ' But I can't.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, you can, if you try.' 
 
 ' But I can't try.' 
 • ' Why not ? ' 
 
 '- Can't you guess ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Well, then, I love another girl — as 
 opposite to lier as light is to darkness.' 
 
 Mary blushed and looked down. ' Compli- 
 mentary to Julia,' she said. ' I pity her 
 opposite, for Julia is a fine, high-minded girl.' 
 
 ' Ah, Mary, you are too clever for me ; of 
 course I mean the opposite in appearance.'
 
 150 A PEKILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' As ugly as slie is pretty ? ' 
 
 ' No ; but she is a dark girl, and I don't 
 like dark girls. It was a dark girl that 
 deceived me so heartlessly years ago.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' 
 
 ' And made me hate the whole sex.' 
 
 ' Or only the brunettes r ' 
 
 ' The whole lot.' 
 
 ' Cousin Walter, I thank you in the name 
 of that small company.' 
 
 ' Until I saw you, and you converted me 
 in one day.' 
 
 ' Only to the blondes ? ' 
 
 ' Only to one of them. My sweet Mary, 
 the situation is serious. You, whose eye 
 nothing escapes — you must have seen long 
 ago how I love you.' 
 
 ' Never mind what I have seen, Walter,' 
 said Mary, whose bosom was beginning to 
 heave. 
 
 ' Very well,' said Walter ; ' then I will tell 
 you as if you didn't know it. I admired you 
 at first sight ; every time I was with you I
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 151 
 
 admired you, and loved you more and more. 
 It is my heaven to see you and to hear you 
 speak. Whether you are grave or gay, 
 saucy or tender, it is all one charm, one witch- 
 craft. I want you for my wife, and my child, 
 and my friend. Mary, my love, my darling, 
 how could I marry any woman but you ? and 
 you, could you marry any man but me, to 
 break the heart that beats only for you ? ' 
 
 This and the voice of love, now ardent, 
 now broken with emotion, were more than 
 sweet, saucy Mary could trifle with ; her head 
 drooped slowly upon his shoulder, and her 
 arm went slowly round his neck, and the 
 tremor of her yielding frame and the tears of 
 tenderness that flowed slowly from her fair 
 eyes told Walter Clifford without a word that 
 she was won. 
 
 He had the sense not to ask her for words. 
 W^hat words could be so eloquent as this ? He 
 just held her to his manly bosom, and trembled 
 with love and joy and triumph. 
 
 She knew, too, tliat she had re})Hed, and
 
 152 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 treated her own attitude like a sentence iu 
 rather a droll way. ' But for all tliat^ said 
 she, ' I don't mean to be a wicked girl if I can 
 help. This is an age of wicked young ladies. 
 I soon found that out in the newspapers ; that 
 and science are the two features. And I have 
 made a solemn vow not to be one of them ' — 
 (query, a science or a naughty girl) — ' making 
 mischief between father and son.' 
 
 'No more you shall, dear,' said Walter. 
 ' Leave it to me. We must be patient, and all 
 will come right.' 
 
 ' Oh, I'll be true to you, dear, if that is all,' 
 said Mary. 
 
 'And if you would not mind just tem- 
 porising a little, for my sake, who love you .^ ' 
 
 ' Temporise ! ' said Mary eagerly. ' With 
 all my heart. I'll temporise till we are all 
 dead and buried.' 
 
 ' Oh, that will be too long for me,' said 
 Waller. 
 
 ' Oh, never do things by halves,' said the 
 ready girl.
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 153 
 
 If his tongue had been as prompt as hers, 
 he might have said that ' temporising ' was 
 doing things by halves ; but he let her 
 have the last wprd. And perhaps he lost 
 nothing, for she would have had that, whether 
 or not. 
 
 So this day was another era in their love. 
 Girls are not content to see they are beloved ; 
 they must hear it too ; and now Walter had 
 spoken out like a man, and Mary had replied 
 like a woman. They were happy, and walked 
 hand in hand, purring to one another, instead of 
 sparring any more. 
 
 On his return home Walter found Julia 
 marching swiftly and haughtily up and down 
 "upon the terrace of Clifibrd Hall, and he coidd 
 not help admiring the haughty magnificence of 
 her walk. The reason soon appeared. She 
 was in a passion. She was always tall, but 
 now she seemed lofty, and to combine the 
 supple panther with the erect peacock in her 
 ireful march. Such a fine woman as Julia really 
 awes a man with lier carria^jje at sucli a time.
 
 154 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 The poor soul thinks lie sees before him the 
 indignation of the just ; when very likely it 
 is only what in a man would be called 
 Petulance. 
 
 ' Anything the matter, Miss Chfford ? ' said 
 he, obsequiously. 
 
 ' No, sir ' (very stiffly). 
 
 ' Can I be of any service ? ' 
 
 ' No, you cannot.' And then, swifter than 
 any weathercock ever turned : ' You are a 
 good creature : why should I be rude to you ? 
 I ought to be ashamed of myself. It is that 
 little wretch.' 
 
 ' Not our friend Fitzroy ? ' 
 
 ' Why, what other little wretch is there 
 about ? We are all Grenadiers and May-poles 
 in this house except him. W^ell, let him go. 
 I dare say somebody else — hum— and Uncle 
 Clifford has told me more than once I ought to 
 look higher. I couldn't well look lower than 
 five feet nothing. Ha ! ha ! ha I I told him 
 so.' 
 
 ' That was cruel.'
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 155 
 
 ' Don't scold me. I won't be lectured by 
 any of you. Of course it was, dear. Poor 
 little Percy. Oil ! oli ! oli ! ' 
 
 And after all this tliunder there was a little 
 rain, by a law that governs Atmosphere and 
 Woman impartially. 
 
 Seeing her softened, and having his own 
 reasons for wishing to keep Fitzroy to his duty, 
 Walter begged leave to mediate, if possible, 
 and asked if she would do him the honour to 
 confide the grievance to him. 
 
 ' Of course I will,' said Julia. ' He is 
 angry Avith Colonel Clifford for not wishing 
 him to stay here, and he is angry with me for 
 not making Uncle Chfford invite him. As if I 
 could ! I should be ashamed to propose such a 
 thing. The truth is, he is a luxurious little 
 fellow, and my society out-of-doors does not 
 compensate him for the cookery at the " Dun 
 Cow." There! let him go.' 
 
 ' But I want him to stay.' 
 
 * Then that is very kind of you.' 
 
 'Isn't it?' said Walter slily. 'And I
 
 156 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 must make liim stay somehow. Now tell me, 
 isn't he a little jealous ? ' 
 
 ' A little jealous ! Why, he is eaten up 
 with it ; he is petrie de jalousie.' 
 
 ' Then,' said Walter timidly, and hesitating 
 at every word, ' you can't be angry if I work 
 on him a little. Would tliere be any great 
 harm if I were to say that nobody can see you 
 without admiring you; that I have always 
 respected his rights, but that if he abandons 
 them ' 
 
 Julia caught it in a moment. She blushed, 
 and laughed heartily. ' Oh, you good, sly 
 thing ! ' said she ; ' and it is the truth, for I am 
 as proud as he is vain, and if he does leave me 
 I will turn round that moment and make you 
 in love with me.' 
 
 Walter looked queer. This was a turn he 
 had not counted on. 
 
 * Do you think I couldn't, sir ? ' said she 
 sharply. 
 
 ' It is not for me to limit the power of 
 beauty,' said Walter meekly.
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 157 
 
 ' Say, the power of flattery. I could cajole 
 any man in the world — if I chose.' 
 
 ' Then yon are a dangerous creature, and I 
 will make Fitzroy my shield. I'm oiF to the 
 " Dun Cow." ' 
 
 ' You are a duck,' said this impetuous 
 beauty. ' So there ! ' She took hhn round the 
 neck with both hands, and gave him a most 
 delicious kiss. 
 
 ' Why, he must be mad,' replied the re- 
 cipient bluntly. She laughed at that, and he 
 went straight to the " Dun Cow." He found 
 young Fitzroy sitting rather disconsolate, and 
 opened his errand at once by asking him if it 
 was true that they were to lose him. 
 
 Percy replied stiffly that it was true. 
 
 ' What a pity ! ' said Walter. 
 
 'I d — don't think I shall be m — much 
 m — missed,' said Percy, rather sullenly. 
 
 ' I know two people who will miss you.' 
 
 ' I d — don't know one.' 
 
 'Two, I assure you — Miss Clifford and my- 
 self. Come, Mr. Fitzroy, I will not beat about
 
 158 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 tlie bush, I am afraid you are mortified — and, 
 I must say, justly mortified — at the coolness my 
 father has shown to you. But I assure you 
 that it is not from any disrespect to you per- 
 sonally.' 
 
 ' Oh, indeed ! ' said Percy ironically. 
 
 ' jSTo ; quite the reverse. He is afraid of 
 you.' 
 
 ' That is a g — g — good joke.' 
 
 ' No ; let me explain. Fathers are curious 
 people. If they are ever so disinterested in 
 their general conduct, they are sure to be a 
 little mercenary for their children. Now, you 
 know, Miss Clifford is a beauty who would 
 adorn Clifford Hall, and an heiress whose money 
 would purchase certain properties that join 
 ours. You understand ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said the little man, starting up in 
 great wrath. ' I understand, and it's a — ^bom 
 — inable. I th — thought you were my friend, 
 and a m — man of h — honour.' 
 
 'So I am, and that is why I warn you in 
 time. If you quarrel with Miss Clifford, and
 
 THE COUESE OP TRUE LOVE., 159 
 
 leave this place in a pet, just see what risks we 
 both run, you and I. My father will be always 
 at me, and I shall not be able to insist on your 
 prior claim ; he will say you have abandoned 
 it. Julia will take the huff, and you know 
 beautiful women will do strange things — mad 
 things — when once pique enters their hearts. 
 She might turn round and marry me.' 
 
 ' You forget, sir, you are a man of honour.' 
 
 ' But not a man of stone. JN'ow, my dear 
 Fitzroy, be reasonable. Suppose that peerless 
 creature went in for female revenge ; why, the 
 first thing she would do would be to make me 
 love her, whether I chose or not. She wouldn't 
 give me a voice in the matter. She would 
 flatter me ; she would cajole me ; she would 
 transfix my too susceptible heart with glances 
 of fire and bewitching languor from those 
 glorious eyes.' 
 
 ' D — d ! Ahem ! ' cried Percy, turning 
 
 green. 
 
 Walter had no mercy. 'I heard her say 
 once she could make any man love her if she 
 chose.'
 
 160 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' So she could,' said Percy ruefully. ' She 
 made me. I had an awful p — p — prejudice 
 against her, but there was no resisting.' 
 
 *Then don't subject me to such a trial. 
 Stick to her like a man.' 
 
 ' So I will ; b — but it is a m — m — mortify- 
 ing position. I'm a man of family. We came 
 in with the C — Conquest, and are respected in 
 onr c — county ; and here I have to meet her 
 on the sly, and live at the " D — Dun Cow." ' 
 
 ' Where the cuisine is wretched.' 
 
 ' A — b — b — bominable ! ' 
 
 Having thus impregnated his mind with that 
 soothing sentiment, jealousy, Walter told him 
 he had a house to let on the estate — quite a 
 gentleman's house, only a httle dilapidated, with 
 a fine lawn and garden, only neglected into a 
 wilderness. *But all the better for you,' said 
 he. ' You have plenty of money, and no occu- 
 pation. Perhaps that is what leads to these 
 little quarrels. It will amuse you to repair the 
 crib and restore the lawn. Wliy, there is a 
 brook runs through it— it isn't every lawn has
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE-. 161 
 
 that — and there used to be water-hhes floating, 
 and peonies nodding doAvn at them from the 
 bank : a paradise. She adores flowers, you 
 know. Why not rent that house from me? 
 You will have constant occupation and amuse- 
 ment. You will become a rival potentate to 
 my governor. You will take the shine out of 
 him directly ; you have only to give a ball, and 
 then all the girls will worship you, Julia Clifford 
 especially, for she could dance the devil to a 
 stand-still.' 
 
 Percy's eyes flashed. 'When can I have 
 the place ? ' said he eagerly. 
 
 'In half an hour. I'll draw you a three 
 years' agreement. Got any paper P Of course 
 not. Julia is so near. What are those ? Play- 
 ing-cards. What do you play? "Patience," 
 all by yourself. Xo wonder you are quarrel- 
 some ! Nothing else to bestow your energy on.' 
 
 Percy denied this imputation. The cards 
 were for pistol practice. He shot daily at the 
 pips in the yard. 
 
 ' It is the fiend Ennui that loads your 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 A PEEILOUS SECRET. 
 
 pistols, and your temper too. Didn't I tell you 
 so?' 
 
 Walter then demanded the ace of diamonds, 
 and on its face let him the house and premises 
 on a repairing lease for three years, rent bl. a 
 year ; Avhich was a good bargain for both par- 
 ties, since Percy was sure to lay out a thousand 
 pounds or two on the property, and to bind 
 Julia more closely to him, who was worth her 
 weight in gold ten times over. 
 
 Walter had brought the keys with him, so 
 he drove Percy over at once and gave him pos- 
 session, and, to do the little fellow justice, the 
 moisture of gratitude stood in his eyes when 
 they parted. 
 
 Walter told Julia all about it that same 
 night, and her eyes were eloquent too. 
 
 The next day he had a walk with Mary 
 Bartley, and told her all about it. She hung 
 upon him, and gazed admiringly into his eyes 
 all the time, and they parted happy lovers. 
 
 Mr. Bartley met her at the gate. 'Mary,* 
 said he gravely, ' who was that I saw with you 
 just now? '
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 168 
 
 ' Cousin Walter.' 
 
 ' I feared so. You are too mucli with him.' 
 
 Mary turned red and white by turns, but 
 said nothing. 
 
 Bartley went on : ' You are a good child, 
 and I have always trusted you. I am sure you 
 mean no harm. But you must be more discreet. 
 I have just heard that you and that young man 
 are looked upon as engaged lovers. They say 
 it is all over the village. Of course a father is 
 the last to hear these things. Does Mrs. Easton 
 know of this ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, papa, and approves it.' 
 
 ' Stupid old woman ! She ought to be 
 ashamed of herself.' 
 
 ' Oh, papa ! ' said Mary, in deep distress ; 
 'why, what objection can there be to Cousin 
 Walter?' 
 
 'None whatever as a cousin, but every 
 objection to intimacy. Does he court you? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, papa. I suppose he does.' 
 
 ' Does he seek your love ? ' 
 
 ' He does not say so exactly.' 
 
 M 2
 
 164 A PEKILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' Come, Mary, you have never deceived nie. 
 Does he love you ? ' 
 
 ' I am afraid he does ; and if you reject him 
 lie will be very unhappy. And so shall I.' 
 
 ' I am truly sorry to hear it, Mary, for there 
 are reasons why I cannot consent to an engage- 
 ment between him and you.' 
 
 ' What reasons, papa ? ' 
 
 ' It would not be proper to disclose my rea- 
 sons ; but I hope, Mary, that it will be enough 
 to say that Colonel Clifford has other vie^vs for 
 his son, and I have otlier views for my daughter. 
 Do you think a blessing will attend you or him 
 if you defy both fathers ? ' 
 
 ' No, no,' said poor Marj^ ' We liave been 
 hasty and very foolish. But oh, papa, have you 
 not seen from the first ? Oh, why did you not 
 warn me in time? Then I could have obeyed 
 you easily. Now it will cost me the happiness 
 of my life. We are very unfortunate. Poor 
 Walter! He left me so full of hope. What 
 shall I do ? what shall I do ? ' 
 
 It was Mary Bartley's first grief. She
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 165 
 
 thought all chance of happiness was gone for 
 ever, and she wept bitterly for Walter and 
 herself. 
 
 Bartley was not unmoved, but he could not 
 change his nature. The sum he had obtained 
 by a crime was dearer to him than all his more 
 honest gains. He was kind on the surface, but 
 hard as marble. 
 
 'Go to your room, my diild,' said he, 
 ' and try and compose yourself. I am not 
 angry with you. I ought to have watched 
 you. But you are so young, and I trusted to 
 that woman.' 
 
 Mary retired, sobbing, and he sent for 
 Mrs. Easton. 
 
 ' Mrs. Easton,' said he, ' for the first time in 
 all these years I have a fault to find with you.' 
 
 ' What is that, sir, if you please ? ' 
 
 ' Young Clifford has been courting that 
 child, and you have encouraged it.' 
 
 ' Nay, sir,' said the woman, ' I have not 
 done that. She never spoke to me, nor I to 
 lier.'
 
 166 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' Well, then, you never interfered.' 
 ' No, sir ; no more than you did.' 
 ' Because I never observed it till to-day.' 
 ' How could I know that, sir ? Everybody 
 else observed it. Mr. Hope would have been 
 the first to see it, if he had been in your place.' 
 This sudden thrust made Bartley wince, and 
 showed him he had a tougher customer to deal 
 with than poor Mary. 
 
 ' You can't bear to be found fault with, 
 Easton,' said he craftily, ' and I don't wonder 
 at it, after fourteen years' fidehty to me.' 
 
 ' I take no credit for that,' said the woman 
 doggedly. ' I have been paid for it.' 
 
 ' No doubt. But I don't always get. the 
 thing I pay for. Then let b^^-gones be by- 
 gones ; but just assist me now to cure the girl 
 of this folly.' 
 
 ' Sir,' said the woman firmly, ' it is not 
 folly ; it is wisest and best for all, and I can't 
 make up my mind to lift a finger against it.' 
 ' Do you mean to defy me, then ? ' 
 ' No, sir. I don't want to go against you,
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. iG7 
 
 nor yet against my own conscience, what's left 
 on't. I have seen a pretty while it must come 
 to this, and I have written to my sister Sally. 
 She keeps a small hotel at the Lakes. She is 
 ready to have me, and I'm not too old to be 
 useful to her. I'm worth my board. I'll go 
 there this very day, if you please. I'm as true 
 to you as I can be, sir. For I see by Miss 
 Mary crying so you have spoken to her, and so 
 now she is safe to come to me for comfort ; 
 and if she does, I shall take her part, you may 
 be sure, for I love her like my own child.' 
 Here the dogged voice began to tremble ; but 
 she recovered herself, and told him slie would 
 go at once to her sister Gilbert, that lived only 
 ten miles off, and next day she would go to the 
 little hotel at the Lakes, and leave him to ])art 
 two true lovers if he could, and break both their 
 hearts ; she should wasli her hands of it. 
 Bartley asked a moment to consider : 
 ' Shall we be friends still, if you leave me 
 like tliat ? Sarely, after all these years, you will 
 not tell your sister? You Avill not betray me? '
 
 168 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' Xever, sir,' said she. ' What for ? To 
 bring those two together? Why, it would part 
 them for ever. I wonder at you, a gentleman, 
 and in business all your life ; yet you don't seem 
 to see through the muddy water as I do, that is 
 only a plain woman.' 
 
 She then told him her clothes were nearly 
 all packed, and she could start in an hour. 
 
 ' You shall have the break and the horses,' 
 said he, w^ith great alacrity. 
 
 Everything transpires quickly in a small 
 house, and just as she had finished packing, in 
 came Mary in violent distress. ' What, is it 
 true ? A]'e you going to leave me, now; my 
 heart is broken ? Oh, nurse ! nurse ! ' 
 
 This was too much even for stout-hearted 
 Nancy Easton. 
 
 ' Oh, my child ! m}' child ! ' she cried, and 
 sat down on her box sobbing violently, Mary 
 enfolded- in her arms ; and then they sat crying 
 and rockino" toc^ether. 
 
 'Papa does not love nie as I do him,' 
 sobbed Mary, turning bitter for the first time.
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 169 
 
 ' He breaks my heart, and sends you away 
 the same day, for fear you should comfort 
 me.' 
 
 ' No, my dear,' said Mrs. Easton ; ' you are 
 wrong. He does not send me away ; I go by 
 my own wish.' 
 
 ' Oh, nurse, you desert nie ! Then you don't 
 know what has happened.' 
 
 'Oh, yes, Ido ; I know all about it, and I'm 
 leavino' because I can't do what he wishes. 
 You see it is this way, Miss Mary. Your father 
 has been very good to me, and I am his debtor. 
 I must not stay here and help you to thwart 
 him — that would be ungrateful — and yet I 
 can't take his side against you. Master has got 
 reasons why you should not marry Walter 
 Clifford, and ' 
 
 ' He told me so himself,' said Mary. 
 
 ' Ah, but he didn't tell you his reasons.' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' No, more must I. But, Miss Mary, I'll 
 tell you this. I know his reasons well ; liis 
 reasons why you should not marry Walter
 
 170 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ClifForcl are my reasons wliy you should marry 
 no other man.' 
 
 ' Oh, nurse ! oh, you dear, good angel ! ' 
 
 ' So when friends differ like black and 
 white, 'tis best to part. I'm going to my sister 
 Gilbert this afternoon, and to-morrow to my 
 sister Sally, at her hotel.' 
 
 ' Oh, nin^se, must you? must you ? I shall 
 not have a friend to advise or console me till 
 Mr. Hope comes back. Oh, I hope that won't 
 be long now.' 
 
 Mrs. Easton dropped her hands upon lier 
 knees and looked at Mary Bartley : 
 
 ' What, Miss Mary ! would you go to Mr. 
 Hope in such a matter as this? Surely you' 
 would not have the face ? ' 
 
 ' Not take my breaking heart to Mr. Hope ! ' 
 cried Mary, with a sudden flood of tears. ' You 
 might as well tell me not to lay my trouble be- 
 fore my God. Dear, dear Mr. Hope, who saved 
 my life in those deep w^aters, and then cried 
 over me, darling dear ! I think more of that 
 thaji of his courage. Do you think I am blind ?
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 171 
 
 He loves me better than my own fattier does ; 
 and it is not a young man's love ; it is an 
 angel's. I^ot cry to him when I am in the 
 deep waters of affliction ? I could not write of 
 such a thing to him for blushing ; but the 
 moment he returns I shall find some way to let 
 him know how happy I have b^en, how broken- 
 hearted I am, and that papa has reasons against 
 him^ and they are your reasons for him, and 
 that you are both afraid to let me know these 
 curious reasons — me, the poor girl whose heart 
 is being made a football of in this house. 
 Oil ! oh ! oh ! ' 
 
 ' Don't cry, Miss Mary,' said Nurse Easton 
 tenderly ; ' and pray don't excite yourself so. 
 Why, I never saw you like this before.' 
 
 ' Had I ever the same reason ? You have 
 only known the happy, thoughtless child. Tiiey 
 have made a woman of me now, and my peace 
 is gone. I must not defy my father, and I will 
 not break poor Walter's heart — the truest heart 
 that ever beat. Not tell dear Mr. Hope ! I'll 
 tell hiin everything, if I'm cut in pieces for it.'
 
 172 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 And her beautiful eyes flashed lightning through 
 her tears. 
 
 ' Hum ! ' said Mrs. Easton, under her breath, 
 and looking down at her own feet. 
 
 ' And pray what does " hum " mean ? ' asked 
 Mary, fixing her eyes with prodigious keenness 
 on the woman's face. 
 
 ' Well, I don't suppose " hum " means any- 
 thing,' said Mrs. Easton, still looking down. 
 
 ' Doesn't it ? ' said Mary. ' With such a face 
 as that it means a volume. And I'll make it 
 my business to read that volume.' 
 
 ' Hum ! ' 
 
 ' And Mr. Hope shall help me.'
 
 LOVERS PARTED. 173 
 
 CHAPTEIl IX. 
 
 LOVERS PARTED. 
 
 Walter, little dreaming the blow his own love 
 had received, made Percy write to Julia aiL 
 apology, and an invitation to visit his new house 
 if he was foroiven. Julia said she could not 
 forgive him, and would not go. Walter said, 
 ^ Put on your bonnet, and take a little drive 
 with me.' 
 
 ' Oh, with pleasure,' said Julia slily. 
 
 So then Walter drove her to the new house, 
 without a word of remonstrance on her part, 
 and Fitzroy met her radiant, and Walter slipped 
 away round a corner, and when he came back 
 the quarrel had dissolved. He had brought a 
 hamper with all the necessaries of life — table- 
 cloth, napkins, knives, forks, spoons, cold pie, 
 salad, and champagne. They lunched beside
 
 174 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 the brook on the lawn. The lovers drank his 
 health, and Julia appointed him solemnly to 
 the post of ' peace-maker,' ' for,' said she, ' you 
 have shown great talent tliat way, and I foresee 
 we shall want one, for we shall be always 
 quarrelling ; sha'n't we, Percy ? ' 
 
 ' N — o ; n — never again.' 
 
 ' Then you mustn't be jealous.' 
 
 'I'm not. I d — despise j — jealousy. I'm 
 above it.' 
 
 ' Oh, indeed,' said Julia drily. 
 
 ' Come, don't begin again, you two,' said 
 Walter, ' or — no champagne.' 
 
 'Now, what a horrid threat!' said Julia. 
 I'll be good, for one.' 
 
 In short, they had a merry time, and Walter 
 drove Julia home. Both w^ere in high spirits. 
 
 In the hall Walter found a short note from 
 Mary Bartley : 
 
 ' Dear, dear Walter, — I write with a 
 bleeding heart to tell you that papa has only 
 just, discovered our attachment, and I am
 
 LOVERS PARTED. 175 
 
 grieved to say he disapproves of it, and has 
 forbidden me to encourage your love, that is 
 dearer to me than all the world. It is very 
 hard. It seems so cruel. But I must obey. 
 Do not make obedience too difficuk, dear 
 Walter. And pray, pray do not be as unhappy 
 as I am. He says he has reasons, but he has 
 not told me what they are, except that your 
 father has other views for you ; but, indeed, 
 with both parents against us what can we do ? 
 Forgive me the pain this will give you. Ask 
 yourself whether it gives me any less. You 
 were all the world to me. Now everything is 
 dull and distasteful. What a change in one 
 little day ! We are very unfortunate. But it 
 cannot be for ever. And if you will be con- 
 stant to me, you know I shall to you. I could 
 not change. Ah, Walter ! I little thought when 
 I said I would temporise, how soon I sliould be 
 called on to do it. I can't write any more for 
 crying. I do nothing but cry ever since papa 
 was so cruel ; but I must obey. 
 
 ' Your loving, sorrowful Mary.'
 
 176 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 This letter was a chilling blow to poor 
 Walter. He took it into his own room, and 
 read it again and again. It brought the tears 
 into his own eyes, and discouraged him deeply 
 for a time. But, of course, he was not so dis- 
 posed to succumb to authority as the weaker 
 vessel w^as. He wrote back : 
 
 'Mr OWN Love, — Don't grieve for me. I 
 don't care for anything so long as you love me. 
 I shall resist, of course. As for my father, I 
 am going to marry Julia to Percy Fitzroy, and 
 so end my governor's nonsense. As for your 
 father, I do not despair of softening him. It is 
 only a check ; it is not a defeat. Who on earth 
 can part us if we are true to each other? Gcd 
 bless you, dearest ! I did not think you loved 
 me so much. Your letter gives me comfort for 
 ever, and only disappointments for a time. Don't 
 fret, sweet love. It will be all right in the end. 
 
 ' Your grateful, hopeful love, till death, 
 
 ' Walter.' 
 
 ,Mary opened this letter with a beating heart
 
 LOVERS PA.RTED. 177 
 
 Slie read it with tears and smiles and utter 
 amazement. She knew so httle about the male 
 character that this way of receiving a knock- 
 dow^n blow astonished and charmed her. She 
 thought to herself, ' Xo wonder women look up 
 to men. They will have their ow^n w^ay ; they 
 resist, of course. How sensible ! We give in, 
 right or wrong. What a comfort I have got a 
 man to back me, and not a poor, sorrowing, 
 despairing, obeying thing like myself ! ' 
 
 So she wns comforted for the minute, and 
 settled in her own mind that she would be good 
 and obedient, and Walter should do all the 
 fighting. But letters soon cease to satisfy the 
 yearning hearts of lovers unnaturally separated. 
 Walter and Mary lived so near each other, yet 
 now^ they never met. Bartley took care of that. 
 He told Mary she must not w^alk out without a 
 maid or ride without a servant ; and he gave 
 them both special orders. He even obliged her 
 with his own company, though that rather 
 oored him. 
 
 Under this severe restraint Mary's health 
 vor.. I. N
 
 178 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 and spirits suffered, and she lost some of her 
 beautiful colour. 
 
 Walter's spirits were kept up only by anger. 
 Julia Clifford saw he was in trouble, and asked 
 him what was the matter. 
 
 ' Oh, nothing that would interest you,' said 
 he, rather sullenly. 
 
 ' Excuse me,' said she. 'I am always mter- 
 ested in the troubles of my friends, and you 
 have been a good friend to me.' 
 
 ' It is very good of you to think so. Well, 
 then, yes, I am unhappy. I am crossed in love.' 
 
 ' Is it that fair girl you introduced me to 
 when out riding ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' She is lovely.' 
 
 ' Miss Clifford ! she is an ansel.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ah ! We are all angels till we are 
 found out. Who is the man? ' 
 
 ' What man ? ' 
 
 ' That she prefers to my good Walter. She 
 deserves a good whipping, your angel.' 
 
 ' Much obhged to you, Miss Chfford ; but
 
 LOVERS PARTED. "^ 179 
 
 she prefers no man to your good Walter, tliough 
 I am not wortliy to tie her shoes. Why, ^ve 
 are devoted to each other.' 
 
 ' Well, you needn't fly out at me. I am 
 your friend, as you will see. Make me 
 your confidante. Explain, please. How can 
 you be crossed in love if there's no other 
 man ? ' 
 
 ' It's her father. He has discovered our 
 love, and forbids lier to speak to me.' 
 
 ' Her father ! ' said Julia contemptuously. 
 ' Is that all ? That for her father ! You shall 
 have her in spite of fift}- fathers. If it had 
 been a lover, now\' 
 
 ' I should have talked to him, not to you,' 
 said Walter, with his eyes flashing. 
 
 ' Be quiet, Walter ; as it is not a lover, nor 
 even a mother, you shall have the girl ; and a 
 very sweet girl she is. Will you accept me for 
 your ally ? Women are wiser tlian men in 
 these things, and understand one another.' 
 
 'Oh, Miss Clifford,' said Walter, 'this is 
 goo;l of you ! Of course it will be a great 
 
 N 2
 
 ISO A PEKILOUS SECRET. 
 
 blessing to us both to have your sympathy and 
 assistance.' 
 
 ' Well, then ,' said Julia, ' begin by telling 
 me — have you spoken to her father ? ' 
 
 ' No.' 
 
 ' Then that is the very first thing to be done. 
 Come, order our horses. We will ride over 
 directly. I will call on Miss Bartley, and you 
 on Mister. Xow, mind, you must ignore all that 
 has passed, and just ask his permission to court 
 his daughter. Whilst you are closeted with 
 him, the young lady and I will learn each 
 otter's minds with a celerity you poor slow 
 things have no idea of.' 
 
 ' I see one thing,' said Walter, ' that I am a 
 child in such matters compared with you. 
 What decision ! what promptitude ! ' 
 
 'Then imitate it, j-oung man. Order the 
 horses directly ; ' and she stamped her foot im- 
 patiently. 
 
 Walter turned to the stables without an- 
 other word, and Julia flew upstairs to put on 
 her ridinoj-habit.
 
 LOVERS PARTED. 181 
 
 Bartley was in his study with a map of the 
 farm before him, and two respectable, but ratlier 
 rough, men in close conference over it. These 
 were practical men from the county of Durham, 
 whom he had ferreted out by means of an 
 agent — men who knew a great deal about 
 coal. They had already surveyed the farm, 
 and confirmed Hope's opinion that coal lay 
 below the surface of certain barren fields, and 
 the question now was as to the exact spot 
 where it would be advisable to sink the first 
 shaft. 
 
 Bartley was heart and soul in this, and ele- 
 vated by love of gain far above such puny con- 
 siderations as the happiness of Mary Bartley 
 and her lover. She, poor girl, sat forlorn in 
 her little drawing-room, and tried to draw a bit, 
 and tried to read a bit, and tried to reconcile a 
 new German symphony to her ear as well as to 
 her judgment, which told her it was too learned 
 not to be harmonious, though it sounded very 
 discordant. But all these efforts ended in a 
 sigh of despondency, and in brooding on inno-
 
 1S2 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 cent deliglits forbidden, and a prospect whicli, 
 to her youth and inexperience, seemed a wilder- 
 ness robbed of the sun. 
 
 Whilst she sat thus pensive and sad there 
 came a sudden rush and clatter of hoofs, and 
 Miss Clifford and Walter Clifford reigned up 
 their horses under the very window. 
 
 Mary started up, delighted at the bare sight 
 of Walter, but amazed and puzzled. The next 
 moment her quick intelligence told her this was 
 some daring manoeuvre or other, and her heart 
 beat high. 
 
 Walter opened the door and stood beside it, 
 affecting a cold ceremony : 
 
 'Miss Bartley, I have brought Miss Clif- 
 ford to call on you at her request. My own 
 visit is to your father. Where shall I find 
 him?' 
 
 ' In his study,' murmured Miss Bartley. 
 
 Walter returned, and the two lailies looked 
 at each other steadil;^ for one moment, and 
 took stock of one another's dress, looks, cha- 
 racter, and souls with supernatural rapidity.
 
 LOVERS PARTED. 183 
 
 Then Mary smiled, and motioned her visitor to 
 a seat and waited. 
 
 Miss Clifford made her approaches obhquely 
 at first : 
 
 ' I ought to apologise to you for not return- 
 ing your call before this. At any rate, here I 
 am at last.' 
 
 ' You are most welcome, Miss Clifford,' said 
 Mary warmly. 
 
 ' Now the ice is broken, I want you to call 
 me Julia.' 
 
 'May I?' 
 
 ' YoLi may, and you must, if I call you 
 Mary. Why, you know we are cousins ; at 
 least, I suppose so. We - are both cousins of 
 Walter Clifford, so we must be cousins to eacli 
 other, Mary.' 
 
 And slie fixed her eyes on her fair hostess 
 in a very peculiar way. 
 
 Mary returned this fixed look with such 
 keen intelligence that ner gray eyes actually 
 scintillated. 
 
 ' Mary, I seldom waste nnich time before I
 
 184 A PERILOUS SECKET. 
 
 come to the point. Walter Clifford is a good 
 fellow ; he has behaved well to me. I had n 
 quarrel with mine, and Walter played the 
 peace-maker, and brought us together again 
 without wounding my pride. By-and-by, I found 
 out Walter himself was in grief about you. 
 It was my turn, wasn't it ? I made him tell me 
 all. He wasn't very willing, but I would know. 
 I see Ins love is making him miserable, and so 
 is yours, dear.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes.' 
 
 ' So I took it on me to advise him. I have 
 made him call on your father. Fathers some- 
 times pooh-pooh their daughter's affections ; but 
 when the son of Colonel Clifford comes w^ith a 
 formal proposal of marriage, Mr. Bartley cannot 
 pooh-pooh Itini.'' 
 
 Mary clasped her hands, but said nothing. 
 
 Julia flowed on : 
 
 ' And the next thing is to comfort you. 
 You seem to want a good cry, dear.' 
 
 ' Yes, I d— do.' 
 
 'Then come here and take it.'
 
 XOVERS PARTED. 185 
 
 Xo sooner said tlian done. Mary's head on 
 Julia's shoulder, and Juha's arm round Mary's 
 waist. 
 
 ' Are you better, dear ? ' 
 
 'Oh, so much.' 
 
 ' It is a comfort, isn't it ? Well, now, listen 
 to me. Fathers sometimes delay a girl's happi- 
 ness, but the}' don't often destroy it ; they 
 don't go and break her heart as some mothers 
 do. A mother that is resolved to have her 
 own way brings another man forward ; fathers 
 are too simple to see that is the only way. 
 And then a designing mother cajoles the poor 
 girl and deceives her, and does a number of 
 things a man would call villanies. Don't you 
 fret your heart out for so small a thing as a 
 father's opposition. You are sure to tire him 
 out if he loves you, and if he doesn't love you, 
 or loves money better, why, then, he is not a 
 worthy rival to my cousin Walter, for that man 
 really loves you, and woidd marry you if you 
 had not a penny. So would Percy Fitzroy 
 marry me. And that is why I prefer liim to
 
 186 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 the grenadiers and plungers, witli silky nious- 
 taclies, and half an eye on me and an eye and 
 a lialf on my money.' 
 
 Many other things passed between these 
 two, but what we have endeavoured to repeat 
 was the cream of Julia's discourse, and both 
 her advice and her sympathy were for the time 
 a wonderful comfort to the love-sick, solitary 
 girl. 
 
 But our business is with Walter Clifford. 
 As soon as he was announced, Mr. Bartley dis- 
 missed his rugged visitors, and received Walter 
 affably, though a little stiffly. 
 
 Walter opened his business at once, and 
 told him he had come to ask his permission to 
 court his daughter. He said he had admired 
 her from the first moment, and now his happi- 
 ness depended on her, and he felt sure he could 
 make her happy ; not, of course, by his money, 
 but by his devotion. Then, as to making a 
 proper provision for her 
 
 Here Bartley stopped liim. 
 
 ' My young friend,' said he, ' there can be
 
 LOVERS PARTED. 187 
 
 no objection either to your person or your 
 position. But there are difficulties, and at pre- 
 sent they are serious ones. Your flither has 
 other views.' 
 
 ' But, Mr. Bartley,' said Walter eagerly, ' he 
 must abandon them. The lady is engaged.' 
 
 ' Well, then,' said Bartley, ' it will be time to 
 come to me when he has abandoned those view^s, 
 and also overcome his prejudices against me 
 and mine. But there is another difficulty. My 
 daughter is not old enough to marry, and 
 I object to long engagements. Everything, 
 therefore, points to delay, and on this I must 
 insist.' 
 
 Bartley, having taken this moderate ground, 
 remained immovable. He promised to encou- 
 rage no other suitor ; but, in return, lie said he 
 had a right to demand that Walter would not 
 disturb his daughter's peace of mind until the 
 prospect was clearer. In short, instead of 
 being taken by surprise, the result showed 
 Bartley quite prepared for this interview, and 
 lie baffled the younc^ man without offendinc^
 
 188 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 him. He was cautious not to do that, because 
 he was going to mine for coal, and feared 
 remonstrances, and wanted WaUer to take his 
 part, or at least to be neutral, knowing his love 
 for Mary. So they parted good friends ; but 
 when he retailed the result to Julia Clifford, she 
 shook her head, and said the old fox had out- 
 witted him. Soon after, knitting her brows in 
 thought for some time, she said, ' She is ver}' 
 young, much younger than she looks. I am 
 afraid you will have to wait a little, and 
 watch ' 
 
 ' But,' said Walter in dismay, ' am I not to 
 see her or speak to her all the time I am 
 waiting ? ' 
 
 ' I'd see both fathers hanfTed first, if I was a 
 man,' said Juha. 
 
 In short, under the courageous advice of 
 Julia Clifford, Walter began to throw himself 
 in Mary's w^ay and look disconsolate ; that set 
 Mary pining directly, and Julia found her pale, 
 and grieving for Walter, and persuaded her to
 
 LOVERS PARTED. 189 
 
 write him two or three hues of comfort ; she 
 did, and that drew pages from him. Unfortu- 
 nately he did not restrain himself, but flung his 
 whole heart upon paper, and raised a tumult 
 in the innocent heart of her who read his 
 passionate longings. 
 
 She was so w^orked upon, that at last one 
 day she confided to Julia that her old nurse w^as 
 going to visit her sister, Mrs. Gilbert, who lived 
 only ten miles off, and she thought she should 
 ride and see lier. 
 
 ' When ? ' asked Julia carelessly. 
 
 ' Oh, any day next Aveek,' said Mary care- 
 lessly. ' Wednesday, if it is fine. She will not 
 be there till Monday.' 
 
 ' Does she know ? ' asked Julia. 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; and left because she could not 
 agree with papa about it ; and, dear, she said a 
 strange thing — a very strange thing ; she knew 
 papa's reasons against him, and they were her 
 reasons for him.' 
 
 ' Fancy that ! ' said Julia. ' Y^our father told 
 you what tlie reasons were ? '
 
 190 A TERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' No ; he wouldn't. They both treat me 
 hke a child.' 
 
 ' You mean they pretend to,' she added. 
 
 ' I see one thing ; there is some mystery 
 behind this. I wonder what it is ? ' 
 
 ' Ten to one it is money. I am only twenty, 
 but already I have found out that money 
 governs the world. Let me see — your mother 
 was a Clifford. She must have had money. 
 Did she settle any on you? ' 
 
 ' I'm sure I don't know.' 
 
 ' Ten to one she did, and your father is 
 your trustee ; and when you marry, he must 
 show his accounts and cash up. There, that is 
 where the shoe pinches.' 
 
 Mary was distressed : 
 
 ' Oh, don't say so, dear. I can't bear to think 
 that of papa. You make me very unhappy.' 
 
 ' Forgive me, dear,' said Juha. ' I am too 
 bitter and suspicious. Some day I will tell you 
 things in my own life that have soured me. 
 Money — I hate the very word,' she said, clincli- 
 ing her teeth.
 
 LOVERS PARTED. 191 
 
 She iirc^ed her view no more, but in her 
 own heart she felt sure that she had read 
 Mr. Bartley aright. Why, he was a trader, 
 into the bargain. 
 
 As for Mary, when she came to think over 
 this conversation, her own subtle instinct told 
 her that stronger pressure than ever would now 
 be brouoht on her. Her timiditv, her maiden 
 modesty, and her desire to do right set her on 
 her defence. She determined to have loving 
 but impartial advice, and so she overcame her 
 shyness, and wrote to Mr. Hope. Even then she 
 was in no huriy to enter on such a subject by 
 letter, so she must commence by telling him 
 that her father had set a great many people, 
 most of them strangers, to disj for coal. That 
 cross old thing. Colonel ChfFord, had been heard 
 to sneer at her dear father, and say unkind and 
 disrespectful things — that the love of money led 
 to loss of money, and that pa})a might just 
 as w^ell dig a well and throw his money into 
 that. She herself was sorry he had not waited 
 for ]\Ir. Hope's return before undertaking so
 
 192 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 serious a speculation. Warmed by this pre- 
 liminary, she ventured into the delicate subject, 
 and told him the substance of what we have 
 told the reader, only in a far more timid and 
 suggestive way, and implored him to advise her 
 by retinii of post if possible — or why not come 
 home ? Papa had said only yesterday, ' I wish 
 Hope was here.' She got an answer by return 
 of post. It disappointed her, on the whole. 
 Mr. Hope realised the whole situation, though 
 she had sketched it faintly instead of painting 
 it boldly. He was all sympathy, and he saw at 
 once that he could not himself imagine a better 
 match for her than Walter Clifford. But then 
 he observed that Mr. Bartley himself offered no 
 personal objection, but wished the matter to be 
 in abeyance until she was older, and Colonel 
 CHfford's objection to the connection should be 
 removed or softened. That might really be 
 hoped for should Miss Clifibrd marry Mr. 
 Fitzroy ; and really in the meantime he (Hope) 
 could hardly take on him to encourage her in 
 impatience and disobedience. He should prefer
 
 LOVERS PARTED. 193 
 
 to talk to Bartley first. With him he should 
 take a less hesitating line, and set her happiness 
 above everything. In short, he wrote cautiously. 
 He inwardly resolved to be on the spot very 
 soon, whether Bartley wanted him or not ; but 
 he did not tell Mary this. 
 
 Mary was disappointed. ' How kind and 
 wise he is ! ' she said to Julia — ' too wise.' 
 
 Next Wednesday morning Mary Bartley 
 rode to Mrs. Gilbert, and was received by her 
 with courtesy, but with a warm embrace by 
 Mrs. Easton. After a while the latter in- 
 vited her into the parlour, saying, ' There is 
 somebody there, but nobody knows.' This, 
 however, though hardly unexpected, set Mary's 
 heart beating, and when the parlour door 
 was opened, Mrs. Easton stepped back, and 
 Mary was alone with Walter Clifford. 
 
 Then might those who oppose an honest 
 and tender affection have learned a lesson. It 
 was no longer affection only. It was passion. 
 Walter was pale, agitated, eager ; he kissed her 
 hands impetuously, and drew her to his bosom. 
 
 VOL. 1.
 
 194 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 She sobbed there ; he poured inarticulate words 
 over her, and still held her, panting, to his 
 beating heart. Even when the first gush of 
 love subsided a little, he could not be so reason- 
 able as he used to be. He was wild against his 
 own father, hers, and^ every obstacle, and im- 
 plored her to marry him at once, by special 
 license, and leave the old people to untie the 
 knot if they could. 
 
 Then Mary was astonished and hurt. ' A 
 clandestine marriage, Mr. Clifford ! ' said she. 
 ' I thought you had more respect for me than 
 to mention such a thing.' 
 
 Then he had to beg her pardon, and say 
 the separation had driven him mad. 
 
 Then she forgave him. 
 
 Then he took advantage of her clemency, 
 and proceeded calmly to show her it was their 
 only chance. 
 
 Then Mary forgot how severely she had 
 checked him, and merely said that was tlie last 
 thing she would consent to, and bound him on 
 his honour never to mention to Julia Clifford
 
 LOVERS PARTED. 195 
 
 that he had proposed such a thing. Walter 
 promised that readily enough, but stuck to his 
 point ; and as Mary's pride was wounded, and 
 she was a girl of great spirit though love-sick, 
 she froze to him, and soon after said she was 
 very sorry, but she must not stay too long, or 
 papa would be angry. She then begged him 
 not to come out of the parlour, or the servant 
 would see him. 
 
 ' That is a trifle,' said Walter. ' I am going 
 to obey you in greater things than that. Ah ! 
 Mary, Mary, you don't love me as I love you ! ' 
 
 ' No, Walter,' said Mary, ' I do not love 
 you as you love me, for I respect you.' Then 
 her lip trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 Walter fell on his knees, and kissed her 
 skirt several times ; then ended with her hand. 
 ' Oh, don't harbour such a thought as that ! ' 
 said he. 
 
 She sobbed, but made no reply. 
 
 They parted good friends, but chilled. 
 
 Tliat made them botli unhappy to think of. 
 
 It was only two, or at the most three, days 
 
 2
 
 196 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 after this that, as Mary was walking in the 
 garden, a nosegay fell at her feet. She picked 
 it up, and immediately found a note half 
 secreted in it. The next moment it was entirely 
 secreted in her bosom. She sauntered in- 
 doors, and scudded upstairs to her room to 
 read it. 
 
 The writer told her in a few agitated words 
 that their fathers had met, and he must speak 
 to her directly. Would she meet him for a 
 moment at the garden gate at nine o'clock that 
 evening ? 
 
 ' No, no, no ! ' cried Mary, as if he was 
 there. She was frightened. Suppose they 
 should be caught. The shame — the disgrace. 
 But oh, the temptation ! Well, then, how 
 wrong of him to tempt her ! She must not go. 
 There was no time to write and refuse ; but 
 she must not go. She would not go. And in 
 this resolution she persisted. Nine o'clock 
 struck, and she never moved. Then she began 
 to picture Walter's face of disappointment and 
 his unhappmess. At ten minutes past nine
 
 LOVERS PARTED. 197 
 
 she tied a handkerchief round her head and 
 went. 
 
 There he was at the gate, pale and agitated. 
 He did not give her time to scold him. 
 
 ' Pray forgive me,' he said, ' but I saw no 
 other way. It is all over, Mary, unless you 
 love me as I love you.' 
 
 'Dcn't begin by doubting me,' she said. 
 ' Tell me, dear.' 
 
 ' It is soon told. Our fathers have met at 
 that wretched pit, and the foreman has told me 
 what passed between them. My father com- 
 plained that mining for coal was not hus- 
 bandry, and it was very unfair to do it, and to 
 smoke him out of house and home. (Unfortu- 
 nately the wind was west, and blew the smoke 
 of the steam-engine over his lawn.) Your 
 father said he took the farm under that express 
 stipulation. Colonel Chfford said, " No ; the 
 condition was smuggled in." " Then smuggle 
 it out," said Mr. Bartley.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' 
 
 ' If it had only ended there, Mary. But
 
 198 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 they were both in a passion, and must empty 
 their hearts. Colonel Clifford said he had 
 every respect for you, but had other views for 
 his son. Mr. Bartley said he was thankful to 
 hear it, for he looked higher for his daughter. 
 " Higher in trade, T suppose," said my father ; 
 '• the Lord Mayor's nephew ! " " Well," said 
 Mr. Bartley, "I would rather marry her to 
 money than to mortgages." And the end of 
 it was they parted enemies for life.' 
 
 ' No, no ; not for life ! ' 
 
 'For life, Mary. It is an old grudge re- 
 vived. Indeed, the first quarrel was only 
 skinned over. Don't deceive yourself. We 
 have nothing to do but disobey them or part.' 
 
 ' And you can say that, Walter ? Oh, have 
 a little patience ! ' 
 
 ' So I would,' said Walter, ' if there was 
 any hope. But there is none. There is no- 
 thing to wait for but the death of our parents, 
 and by that time I shall be an elderly man, 
 and you will have lost your bloom and wasted 
 your youth — for what ? No ; I feel sometimes
 
 LOVERS PARTED. 199 
 
 this will drive me mad, or make me a villain. 
 I am beginning to hate my own father and 
 everybody else that thwarts my love. How 
 can they earn my hate more sm'ely? No, 
 Mary ; I see the future as plainly as I see your 
 dear face, so pale and shocked. I can't help 
 it. If you will marry me, and so make sure, 
 I will keep it secret as long as you like ; I 
 shall have got you, whatever they may say or 
 do ; but if you won't, I'll leave the country at 
 once, and get peace if I can't get love.' 
 
 ' Leave the country ! ' said Mary faintly. 
 ' What good would that do ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know. Perhaps bring my father 
 to his senses, for one thing ; and — who knows ? 
 — perhaps you will listen to reason when you 
 see I can't wait for the consent of two egotists 
 — for that is what they both are — that have 
 no real love or pity for you or me.' 
 
 ' Ah,' said Mary, with a deep sigh, ' I see 
 even men have their faults, and I admired 
 them so. They are impatient, selfish.' 
 
 ' Yes, if it is selfish to defend one's self against
 
 200 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 brutal selfishness, I am selfish ; and that is 
 better than to be a slave to egotists, and lie 
 down to be trodden on, as you would do. 
 Come, Mary, for pity's sake, decide which you 
 love best — your father, who does not care 
 much for you, or me, who adore you, and will 
 give you a life of gratitude as well as love, if 
 you will only see things as they are, and 
 always will be, and trust yourself to me as my 
 dear, dear, blessed, adored wife ! ' 
 
 ' I love you best,' said Mary, ' and I hope 
 it is not wicked. But I love him too, though 
 he does say " wait." And I respect myself^ 
 and I dare not defy my parent, and I will not 
 marry secretly ; that is degrading. And, oh, 
 Walter ! think how young I am and inex- 
 perienced, and you that are so much older, and 
 I hoped would be my guide and make me 
 better ; is it you who tempt me to clandestine 
 meetings that I blush for, and a clandestine 
 marriage for which I should despise myself.^ ' 
 
 Walter turned suddenly calm, for these 
 words pricked his conscience.
 
 LOVERS PARTED. 201 
 
 ' You are right/ said he. 'I am a black- 
 guard, and you are an angel of purity and 
 goodness. Forgive me ; I will never tempt 
 nor torment you again. For pity's sake, for- 
 give me. You don't know what men's passions 
 are. Forgive me ! ' 
 
 'With all my heart, dear,' said Mary, 
 crying gently. 
 
 He put both arms suddenly round her neck, 
 and kissed her wet eyes with a sigh of despair. 
 Then he seemed to tear himself away by a 
 great effort, and she leaned hmp and powerless 
 on the gate, and heard his footsteps die away 
 into the night. They struck chill upon her 
 foreboding heart, for she felt that they were 
 parted.
 
 202 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 
 
 Walter, however, would not despair until he 
 had laid the alternative before his father. He 
 did so, firmly but coolly. 
 
 His father, irritated by the scene with 
 Bartley, treated Walter's proposal with indig- 
 nant scorn. 
 
 Walter continued to keep his temper, and 
 with some reluctance asked him whether he 
 owed nothing, not even a sacrifice of his pre- 
 judices, to a son who had never disobeyed him, 
 and had improved his circumstances. 
 
 ' Come, sir,' said he ; ' when the happiness 
 of my life is at stake I venture to lay aside 
 dehcacy, and ask you whether I have not been 
 a good son, and a serviceable one, to you ? '
 
 THE GOEDIAX KNOT. 203 
 
 ' Yes, Walter,' said the Colonel, ' with this 
 exception.' 
 
 ' Then now, or never, give me my reward.' 
 ' I'll try,' said the grim Colonel ; ' but I 
 see it will be hard work. However, I'll try 
 and save you from a mesalliance' 
 
 ' A mesalliance, sir? Why, she is a Clifford.' 
 
 ' The deuce she is ! ' 
 
 ' As much a Clifford as I am.' 
 
 ' That is news to me.' 
 
 'Why, one of her parents was a Clifford, 
 and your own sister. And one of mine was 
 an Irish woman.' 
 
 ' Yes, an O'Eyan ; not a trader — not a 
 small-coal man.' 
 
 *Like the Marquis of Londonderry, sir, 
 and the Earl of Durham. Come, father, don't 
 sacrifice your son, and his happiness and his 
 love for you, to notions the world has outlived. 
 Commerce does not lower a gentleman, nor 
 speculation either, in these days. The nobility 
 and the leading gentry of these islands are 
 most of them in business. They are all share-
 
 204 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 holders, and often directors, of railways, and 
 just as mucli traders as tlie old coach pro- 
 prietors were. They let their land, and so do 
 you, to the highest bidder, not for honour or 
 any romantic sentiment, but for money, and 
 that is trade. Mr. Bartley is his own farmer ; 
 well, so was Mr. Coke, of Norfolk, and the 
 Queen made him a peer for it — what a sensible 
 sovereign ! Are Eothschild and Montefiore 
 shunned for their speculations by the nobility ? 
 Whom do their daughters marry? Trade rules 
 the world, and keeps it from starvation. 
 Genius writes, or paints, or plays Hamlet — for 
 money; and is respected in exact proportion to 
 the amount of money it gets. Charity holds 
 bazaars and sells at one hundred per cent, 
 profit, and nearly every new church is a trade 
 speculation. Is my happiness and hers to be 
 sacrificed to the chimeras and crotchets that 
 everybody in England but you has outlived ? ' 
 
 ' All this,' rephed the unflinching sire, ' I 
 have read in the papers, and my son shall not 
 marry the daughter of a trader and cad who
 
 THE GORDIAIS^ KNOT. 205 
 
 has insulted me grossly; but that, I presume, 
 you don't object to.' 
 
 This stung Walter so that he feared to 
 continue the discussion. 
 
 ' I will not reply,' said he. ' You drive me 
 to despair. I leave you to reflect. Perhaps 
 you will prize me when you see me no 
 more.' 
 
 With tliis he left the room, packed up his 
 clothes, went to the nearest railway, off to 
 London, collected his funds, crossed the water, 
 and did not write one word to Clifford Hall, 
 except a hue to Juha : ' Left England heart- 
 broken, the victim of two egotists and my 
 sweet Mary's weak conscientiousness. God 
 forgive me ; I am angry even with her, but 
 I don't doubt her love.' 
 
 This missive and the general consternation 
 at Clifford Hall brought Juha full gallop to 
 Mary Bartley. 
 
 They read the letter together, and Juha 
 was furious against Colonel Clifford. But 
 Mary interposed.
 
 206 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' 1 am afraid,' said she, ' that I am the 
 person who was most to blame.' 
 
 ' Why, what have you done ? ' 
 
 ' He said our case was desperate, and wait- 
 ing would not alter it ; and he sliould leave 
 the country unless ' 
 
 ' Unless what ? How can I advise you if 
 you have any concealments from me ? ' 
 
 ' Well, then, it was unless I would consent 
 to a clandestine marriage.' 
 
 ' And you refused — very properly ? ' 
 
 ' And I refused — very properly, one would 
 think — and what is the consequence? I have 
 driven the man I love away from his friends, 
 as well as from me, and now I begin to be 
 very sorry for my properness.' 
 
 ' But you don't blush for it as you would 
 for the other. The idea ! To be married on 
 the sly, and to have to hide it from everybody, 
 and to be found out at last, or else be sus- 
 pected of worse things.' 
 
 ' What worse things ? ' 
 ' ' Never you mind, child ; your womanly
 
 THE GORDIAN KIS^OT. 207 
 
 instinct is better than knoAvledge or experience, 
 and it has guided you straight. If you had 
 consented, I should have lost my respect for 
 you.' 
 
 And then, as the small view of a thing is 
 apt to enter the female head along with the 
 big view, she went on, with great animation : 
 
 ' And then for a young lady to sneak into 
 a church without her friends, with no carriages, 
 no favours, no wedding cake, no bishop, no 
 proper dress, not even a bridal veil fit to be 
 seen ! Why, it ought to be the great show of 
 a girl's life, and she ought to be a public 
 queen, at all events for that one day, for ten 
 to one she will be a slave all the rest of her 
 life if she loves the fellow.' 
 
 She paused for breath one moment : 
 
 'And it isn't as if you were low people. 
 Why, it reminds me of a thing I read in some 
 novel : a city clerk, or some such person, took 
 a walk with his sweetheart into the country, 
 and all of a sudden he said, '' Why, there is 
 something hard in my pocket. What is it, I
 
 208 A PEEILOUS SECRET. 
 
 wonder ? A plain gold ring. Does it fit you ? 
 Try it on, Polly. Why, it fits you, I declare ; 
 then keep it till further orders." Then they 
 walked a httle further. " Why, what is this ? 
 Two pairs of white gloves. Try the little pair 
 on, and I will try the big ones. Stop ! I 
 declare, here's a church, and the bells beginning 
 to ring. Why, who told them that I've got a 
 special license in my pocket ? Hallo ! there 
 are two fellows hanging about ; best men, wit- 
 nesses, or some such persons, I should not 
 wonder. I think I know one of them ; and 
 here is a parson coming over a stile ! What 
 an opportunity for us now just to run in and 
 get married ! Come on, old girl, lend me that 
 wedding ring a minute ; I'll give it you back 
 again in the church." JSTo, thank you, 
 Mr. Walter ; we love you very dearly, but we 
 are ladies, and we respect ourselves.' 
 
 In short, Juha confirmed Mary Bartley in 
 her resolution, but she could not console her 
 under the consequences. Walter did not write 
 a line even to her ; she couldn't but fear that
 
 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 209 
 
 he was really in despair, and would cure him- 
 self of his affection if he could. She began to 
 pine ; the roses faded gradually out of her 
 cheeks ; and Mr. Bartley himself began at last 
 to pity her, for though he did not love her, he 
 hked her, and was proud of her affection. 
 Another thing, Hope might come home now 
 any day, and if he found the girl sick and 
 pining, he might say, ' This is a breach of 
 contract. ' 
 
 He asked Mary one day whether she 
 wouldn't like a change. ' I could take you 
 to the sea-side,' said he, but not very 
 cordially. 
 
 ' No, papa,' said Mary ; ' why should you 
 leave your mine when everything is going so 
 prosperously ? I think I should like to go to 
 the Lakes, and pay my old nurse a visit.' 
 
 'And she would talk to you of Walter 
 Clifford?' 
 
 ' Yes, papa,' said Mary firmly, ' she would, 
 and that's the only thing tliat can do me any 
 good.' 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' Well, Mary,' said Bartley, ' if slie could 
 be coDtent with praising him, and regretting 
 the insuperable obstacles, and if she would 
 
 encourage you to be patient There, let 
 
 me think of it.' 
 
 Things went hard with Colonel Clifford. 
 He felt his son's desertion very bitterly, though 
 he was too proud to show it ; he now found 
 out that, universally as he was res'pected^ it was 
 Walter who was the most beloved both in the 
 house and in the neighbourhood. 
 
 One day he heard a multitude shouting, 
 and soon learned tlie reason. Bartley had 
 struck a rich vein of coal, and tons were com- 
 ing up to the surface. Colonel Clifford would 
 not go near the place, but he sent old Baker 
 to inquire, and Baker from that day used to 
 bring him back a number of details, some of 
 them especially galhng to him. By degrees, 
 and rapid ones, Bartley was becoming a rival 
 magnate ; the poor came to him for the slack, 
 or very small coal, and took it away gratis ;
 
 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 211 
 
 they flattered him, and, to please hhn, spoke 
 shghtingiy of Colonel Clifford, which they had 
 never ventured to do before. But soon a cir- 
 cumstance occurred which mortified the old 
 soldier more than all. He was sole proprietor 
 of the village, and every house in it, with the 
 exception of a certain beerhouse, flanked by 
 an acre and a half of ground. This beerhouse 
 was a great eyesore to him ; he tried to buy 
 this small freeholder out ; but the man saw 
 his advantage, and demanded 1,500/. — nearly 
 treble the real value. Walter, however, by 
 negotiating in a more friendly spirit, had ob- 
 tained a reduction, and was about to complete 
 the purchase for 1,150/. But when Walter 
 left the country, the proprietor never dreamed 
 of going again to the haughty Colonel. He 
 went to Bartley, and Bartley bought the pro- 
 perty in five minutes for 1,200/., and paid a 
 deposit to clinch the contract. He completed 
 the purchase with unheard-of rapidity, and set 
 an army of workmen to raise a pit village, or 
 street of eighty houses. They were ten times
 
 212 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 better built than the Colonel's cottages ; not 
 one of them could ever be vacant, they were 
 too great a boon to the miners ; nor could the 
 rent be in arrears, with so sharp a hand as the 
 mine-owner. The beerhouse was to be per- 
 petuated, and a nucleus of custom secured from 
 the miners, partly by the truck system, and 
 partly by the superiority of the liquor, for 
 Bartley announced at once that he should brew 
 the beer. 
 
 All these things were too much for a man 
 with gout in his system. Colonel Clifford had 
 a worse attack of that complaint than ever ; it 
 rose from his feet to other parts of his frame, 
 and he took to his bed. 
 
 In that condition a physician and surgeon 
 visited him daily, and his lawyer also was sent 
 for, and was closeted with him for a long time 
 on more than one occasion. 
 
 All this caused a deal of speculation in the 
 village, and as a system of fetch and carry was 
 now established, by which the rival magnates 
 also received plenty of information, though not
 
 THE GOKDIAN KNOT. 213 
 
 always accurate, about each other, Mr. Bartley 
 heard what was going on, and put his own 
 construction upon it. 
 
 Just when Mr. Hope was expected to return 
 came a letter to Mary to say that he should be 
 detained a day or two longer, as he had a sore 
 throat and fever, but nothing alarming. Three 
 or four days later came a letter only signed by 
 him, to say he had a slight attack of typhoid 
 fever, and was under medical care. 
 
 Mary implored Mr. Bartley to let her go to 
 him. He refused, and gave his reasons, which 
 were really sufficient, and now he became more 
 unwilling than ever to let her visit Mrs. Easton. 
 
 This was the condition of affairs when one 
 day an old man with white hair, dressed in 
 black and looking almost a gentleman, was 
 driven up to the farm by Colonel Clifford's 
 groom, and asked, in an agitated voice, if he 
 might see Miss Mary Bartley. 
 
 Her visitors were so few that she was never 
 refused on speculation, so John Baker was shown
 
 214 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 at once into her drawing-room. He was too 
 much agitated to waste time. 
 
 ' Oh, Miss Bartley/ said he, ' we are in 
 great distress at the Hall. Mr. Walter has gone, 
 and not left his address, and my poor master is 
 dying ! ' 
 
 Mary uttered an unfeigned exclamation of 
 horror. 
 
 ' Ah, miss,' said the old man, ' God bless 
 you ; you feel for us. I'm not on the old man's 
 side, miss ; I'm on Mr. Walter's side on this, 
 as I was in the other business ; but now I see 
 my poor old master lying pale and still, not 
 long for this world, I do begin to blame myself. 
 I never thought that he would have taken it all 
 to heart like this. But, there, the only thing 
 now is to bring them together before he goes. 
 We don't know his address, miss ; we don't 
 know what country he is in. He sent a line to 
 Miss Clifford a month ago from Dover, but that 
 is all ; but, in course, he writes to you — that 
 stands to reason. You'll give me his address, 
 miss, won't you ? and we shall all bless you.'
 
 THE GORBIAN KNOT. 215 
 
 Mary turned pale, and the tears streamed 
 down lier eyes. ' Oh, sir,' said she, ' I'd give 
 the world if I could tell you. I know who you 
 are ; my poor Walter has often spoken of you 
 to me, Mr. Baker. One word from you would 
 have been enough ; I would have done any- 
 thing for you that I could. But he has never 
 written to me at all. I am as much deserted 
 as any of you, and T have felt it as deeply as 
 any father can, but never have I felt it as now. 
 What ! The father to die, and his son's hand 
 not in his ? no looks of love and forgiveness to 
 pass between them as the poor old man leaves 
 this world, its ambitions and its quarrels, and 
 perhaps sees for the first time how small they 
 all are compared with the love of those that love 
 us and the peace of God ? ' Then this ardent 
 girl stretched out both her hands : ' God, 
 if my frivolous life has been innocent, don't 
 let me be the cause of this horrible thing ; don't 
 let the father die without comfort, nor the son 
 without forgiveness, for a miserable girl who 
 has come between them and meant no harm.'
 
 216 A PEKILOUS SECRET. 
 
 This eloquent burst quite overpowered poor 
 old John Baker. He dropped into a chair, his 
 white head sunk upon his bosom, he sobbed 
 and trembled, and for the first time showed his 
 age. 
 
 ' What on earth is the matter ? ' said Mr. 
 Bartley's voice, as cold as an icicle, at the door. 
 Mary sprang toward him impetuously. ' Oh, 
 papa ! ' she cried, ' Colonel Clifford is dying, 
 and we don't know where Walter is ; we can't 
 know.' 
 
 ' Wait a httle,' said Bartley, in some agita- 
 tion. ' My letters have just come in, and I 
 thought I saw a foreign postmark.' He slipped 
 back into the hall, brought in several letters, 
 selected one, and gave it to Mary. ' This is for 
 you, from Marseilles.' 
 
 He then retired to his study, and without 
 the least agitation or the least loss of time re- 
 turned with a book of telegraph forms. 
 
 Meanwhile Mary tore the letter open, and 
 read it eagerly to John Baker :
 
 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 217 
 
 ' Grand Hotel Noailles, Marseilles : Mai/ 16. 
 
 ' My own dear Love, — I have vowed that 
 I will not write again to tempt you to anything 
 you think wrong ; but it looks like quarrelling 
 to hide my address from you. Only 1 do beg 
 of you, as the only kindness you can do me 
 now, never to let it be known by any living 
 creature at Clifiord Hall. 
 
 ' Yoiu-s till death, 
 
 ' Walter.' 
 
 Mr. Bartley entered with the telegraph 
 forms, and said to Mary sharply, ' Now, where 
 is he ? ' Mary told him. ' Well, write him a 
 telegram. It shall be at the railway in half an 
 hour, at Marseilles theoretically in one hour, 
 practically in four.' 
 
 Mary sat down and wrote her telegram : 
 ' Pray come to Clifford Hall. Your father is 
 dangerously ill.' 
 
 ' Show it to me,' said Bartley. And on 
 perusing it: 'A woman's telegram. Don't 
 frighten him too much ; leave him the option 
 to come or stay.'
 
 218 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 He tore it up, and said, ' Now, write a busi- 
 ness telegram, and make sure of the thing you 
 want.' 
 
 ' Come home directly — your father is dying.' 
 
 Old Baker started up. ' God bless you, sir,' 
 said he, 'and God bless you, miss, and make 
 you happy one day. I'll take it myself, as my 
 trap is at the door.' He bustled out, and his 
 carriage drove away at a great rate. 
 
 Mr. Bartley went quietly to his study to 
 business without another word, and Mary leaned 
 back a little exhausted by the scene ; but a smile, 
 almost of happiness, came and tarried on her 
 sweet face for the first time these many days. 
 As for old John Baker, he told his tale trium- 
 phantly at the Hall, and not without vanity, 
 for he was proud of his good judgment in 
 going to Mary Bartley. 
 
 To the old housekeeper, a most superior 
 woman of his own age, and almost a lady, he 
 said something rather remarkable, which he 
 was careful not to bestow on the young wags 
 in the servants' hall. 'Mrs. Milton,' says he,
 
 THE GORDIAN KNOT. 219 
 
 ' I am an old man, and have knocked about at 
 home and abroad, and seen a deal of life, but 
 I've seen somethmg to-day that I never saw 
 before.' 
 
 ' Ay, John, surely ; and what ever was 
 that ? ' 
 
 ' I've seen an angel pray to God, and I 
 have seen God answer her.' 
 
 From that day Mary had two stout partisans 
 in CHfford Hall. 
 
 Mr. Bartley's views about Mary now began 
 to waver. It occurred to him that, should 
 Colonel CHfford die and Walter inherit his 
 estates, he could easily come to terms with the 
 young man, so passionately devoted to his 
 daughter. He liad only to say : ' I can make 
 no allowance at present, but I'll settle my 
 whole fortune upon Mary and her children 
 after my death, if you'll make a moderate 
 settlement at present,' and Walter would cer- 
 tainly fall into this, and not demand accounts 
 from Mary's trustee. So now he would have 
 positively encouraged Mary in her attachment,
 
 220 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 but one thing held him back a httle : he had 
 learnt by accident that the last entail of Clifford 
 Hall and the dependent estates dated t;wo 
 generations back, so that the entail expired 
 with Colonel Clifford, and this had enabled the 
 Colonel to sell some of the estates, and clearly 
 gave him power now to leave Clifford Hall 
 away from his son. Now, the people who had 
 begun to fetch and carry tales between the two 
 magnates told him of the lawyer's recent visits 
 to Clifford Hall, and he had some misgivings 
 that the Colonel had sent for the lawyer to 
 alter his will and disinherit, in whole or in 
 part, his absent and rebelhous son. All this, 
 taken together, made Mr. Bartley resolve to be 
 kinder to Mary in her love affair than he 
 ever had been, but still to be guarded and 
 cautious. 
 
 ' Mary, my dear,' said he, ' I am sure you'll 
 be on thorns till this young man comes home; 
 perhaps now would be a good time to pay your 
 visit to Mrs. Easton.' 
 
 'Oh, papa, how good of you! but it's
 
 THE GORDIAN Kj!^OT. 221 
 
 twenty miles, I believe, to where she is staying 
 at the Lakes.' 
 
 ' No, no,' said Mr. Bartley ; ' she's staying 
 with her sister Gilbert — quite within a drive.' 
 
 ' Are you sure, papa ? ' 
 
 ' Quite sure, my dear ; she wrote to me 
 yesterday about her little pension ; the quarter 
 is just due.' 
 
 ' What ! do you allow her a pension ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly, my dear, or rather I pay her 
 little stipend as before. How surprised you 
 look, Mary! Why, I'm not hke that old 
 Colonel, intolerant of other people's views, 
 when they advance them civilly. That woman 
 helped me to save your life in a very great 
 danger, and for many years she has been as 
 careful as a mother, and we are not, so to say, 
 at daggers drawn about Walter CHfford. Why, 
 I only demand a little prudence and patience 
 both from you and from her. Now tell me. 
 Is there proper accommodation for you in 
 Mrs. Gilbert's house?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, papa ; it is a farmhouse now, but
 
 222 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 it was a grand place. There's a beautiful spare 
 room with an oriel- window.' 
 
 ' Well, then, you secure that, and write to- 
 day to have a blazing fire, and the bed properly 
 aired as well as the sheets, and you shall go 
 to-morrow in the four-wheel ; and you can take 
 her her little stipend in a letter.' 
 
 This sudden kindness and provision for her 
 health and happiness filled Mary's heart to 
 overflowing, and her gratitude gushed forth 
 upon Mr. Bartley's neck. The old fox blandly 
 absorbed it, and took the opportunity to say : 
 ' Of course it is understood that matters are to 
 go no further between you and Walter ChfFord. 
 Oh, I don't mean that you're to make him un- 
 happy, or drive him to despair; only insist upon 
 his being patient like yourself. Everything 
 comes sooner or later to those that can wait.' 
 
 ' Oh, papa,' cried Mary, ' you've said more 
 to comfort me than Mrs. Easton or anybody 
 can ; but I feel the change will do me good. 
 I am, oh, so grateful ! ' 
 
 So Mary wrote her letter, and went to Mrs.
 
 THE GOEDIAN KNOT. 223 
 
 Easton next day. After the usual embraces, 
 slie gave Mrs. Easton tlie letter, and was duly- 
 installed in the state bedroom. She wrote to 
 Julia Clifford to say where she was, and that 
 was her w^ay of letting Walter Clifford know. 
 
 Walter himself arrived at Clifford Hall next 
 day, worn, anxious, and remorseful, and was 
 shown at once to his father's bedside. The 
 Colonel gave him a wasted hand, and said : 
 
 ' Dear boy, I thought you'd come. We've 
 had our last quarrel, Walter.' 
 
 Walter burst into tears over his father's 
 hand, and nothing was said between them about 
 their temporary estrangement. 
 
 The first thing Walter did was to get two 
 professional nurses from Derby, and secure liis 
 father constant attention night and day, and, 
 above all, nourishment at all hours of the night, 
 when the patient would take it. On the after- 
 noon after his arrival the Colonel fell into a 
 sound sleep. Then Walter ordered his horse, 
 and in less than an hour was at Mrs. Gilbert's 
 place.
 
 224 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 THE KNOT CUT — ANOTHER TIED. 
 
 The farm-house the Gilberts occupied had been 
 a family mansion of great antiquity, with a moat 
 around it. It was held during the Civil War 
 by a stout Eoyalist, who armed and garrisoned 
 it after a fashion with his own servants. This 
 had a different effect to what he intended. It 
 drew the attention of one of Cromwell's gene- 
 rals, and he despatched a party with cannon 
 and petards to reduce the place, whilst he 
 marched on to join Cromwell in enterprises of 
 more importance. The detachment of Eound- 
 heads summoned the place. The Eoyalist, to 
 show his respect for their authority, made his 
 kitchen- wench squeak a defiance from an upper 
 window, from which she bolted with great 
 rapidity as soon as she had thus represented
 
 THE KXOT CUT — ANOTHER TIED. 225 
 
 the valour of the estabhshment, and when next 
 seen it was in the cellar, wedged in between 
 two barrels of beer. The men went at it ham- 
 mer and tongs, and in twenty -four hours a 
 good many cannon-balls traversed the building ; 
 a great many stuck in the walls hke plums in a 
 Christmas pudding ; the doors were blown in 
 with petards, and the principal defenders, with 
 a few wounded Eoundheads, were carried off 
 to Cromwell himself; whilst the house itself 
 was fired, and blazed away merrily. 
 
 Cromwell threatened the Eoyalist gentle- 
 man with death for defending an untenable 
 place. 
 
 ' I didn't know it was untenable,' said the 
 gentleman. ' How could I till I had tried ? ' 
 
 ' You had the fate of fortified places to 
 instruct you,' said Cromwell, and he promised 
 faithfully to hang him on his own ruins. 
 
 The gentleman turned pale and his lip 
 quivered, but he said, ' Wei 
 I've fought for my royal master according to 
 my lights, and I can die for him.' 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' You shall, sir,' said Mr. Cromwell. 
 
 About next morning Mr. Cromwell, who 
 had often a cool fit after a hot one, and was a 
 very big man, take him altogether, gave a 
 different order: 'The fool thought he was 
 doing his duty ; turn him loose.' 
 
 The fool in question was so proud of liis 
 battered house that he left it standing there, 
 bullets and all, and built him a house else- 
 where. 
 
 King Charles the Second had not landed 
 a month before he made him a baronet, and 
 one tenant after another occupied a portion 
 of the old mansion. Two state-rooms were 
 roofed and furnished with the relics of the 
 entire mansion, and these two rooms the 
 present baronet's surveyor occupied at rare 
 intervals, when he was inspecting the large 
 properties connected with the baronet's estate. 
 
 Mary Bartley now occupied these two 
 rooms, connected by folding-doors, and she sat 
 pensive in the oriel-window of her bedroom. 
 Young ladies cling to their bedrooms, especially
 
 THE KNOT CUT ANOTHER TIED. 227 
 
 when they are pretty and airy. Suddenly she 
 heard a scurry and patter of a horse's hoof, 
 reined up at the side of the house. She 
 darted from the window, and stood panting in 
 the middle of the room. The next minute 
 Mrs. Easton entered the sitting-room all in 
 a flutter, and beckoned her. Mary flew to 
 her. 
 
 ' He is here.' 
 
 ' I thought he would be.' 
 
 ' Will you meet him downstairs ? ' 
 
 ' No, here.' 
 
 Mrs. Easton acquiesced, rapidly closed the 
 folding-doors, and went out, saying, ' Try and 
 calm yourself, Miss Mary.' 
 
 Miss Mary tried to obey her, but Walter 
 rushed in impetuously, pale, worn, agitated, yet 
 enraptured at tlie first sight of her, and Mary 
 threw herself round his neck in a moment, and 
 he clasped her fluttering bosom to his beating 
 heart, and this was the natural result of the re- 
 straint they had put upon a passionate affec- 
 tion : for what says the dramatist Destouches, 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 improving upon Horace, so that in England his 
 immortal line is given to Moliere ? — ' Chassez 
 le naturel, il revient au galop.' 
 
 The next thing was, they held each other 
 at arm's-length, and mourned over each other. 
 
 ' Oh, my poor Mary, how ill you look ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, my poor Walter, how pale and worn ! ' 
 
 ' It's all my fault,' said Mary. 
 
 ' No ; it's all mine,' said Walter. 
 
 And so they blamed themselves, and grieved 
 over each other, and vowed that, come what 
 might, they would never part again. But, lo 
 and behold ! Walter went on from that to say : 
 
 ' And that we may never part again, let us 
 marry at once, and put our happiness out of the 
 reach of accidents.' 
 
 ' What ! ' said Mary ; ' defy your father 
 upon his dying bed ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, no,' said Walter ; ' that I could not do. 
 I mean marry secretly, and announce it after 
 his decease, if I am to lose him.' 
 
 * And why not wait till after his decease.^ ' 
 said Mary.
 
 THE KNOT CUT ANOTHER TIED. 229 
 
 ' Because, tlien, the laws of society would 
 compel us to wait six months, and in that six 
 months some infernal obstacle or other would 
 be sure to occur, and another would be sure to 
 follow. I am a great deal older than you, and 
 I see that whoever procrastinates happiness 
 risks it ; and whoever shilly-shalhes with it 
 deserves to lose it, and generally does.' 
 
 Where young ladies are concerned, logic 
 does not carry all before it, and so Mary opposed 
 -all manner of feminine sentiments, and ended 
 by saying she could not do such a thing. 
 
 Then Walter began to be mortified and 
 angry ; then she cunningly shifted the respon- 
 sibility, and said she would consult Mrs. Easton. 
 
 ' Then consult her in my presence,' said 
 Walter. 
 
 Mary had not bargained for that ; she had 
 intended to secure Mrs. Easton on her side, and 
 then take her opinion. However, as Walter's 
 proposal was fair, she called IMrs. Easton, and 
 they put the case to her, and asked her to give 
 her candid opinion.
 
 230 A PEETLOUS SECRET. 
 
 Mrs. Easton, however, took alarm at the 
 gravity of the proposal, and told them both 
 she knew things that were miknoAvn to both of 
 them, and it was not so easy for her to advise. 
 
 ' Well, but,' said Walter, ' if you know more 
 than we do, you are the very person that can 
 advise. All I know is that, if we are not 
 married now, I shall have to wait six months 
 at least, and if I stay here Mr. Bartley and I 
 shall quarrel, and he will refuse me Mary ; and 
 if I go abroad again I shall get knocked on the 
 head, or else Mary will pine away again, and 
 Bartley will send her to Madeira, and we shall 
 lose our happiness, as all shilly-shallying fools 
 do.' 
 
 Mrs. Easton made no reply to this, though 
 she listened attentively to it. She walked to 
 the window and thought quietly to herself; 
 then she came back again and sat down, and 
 after a pause she said very gravely : ' Knowing 
 all I know, and seeing all I see, I advise you 
 two to marry at once by special license, and 
 keep it secret from everyone who knows you
 
 THE KNOT CUT — AIS^OTHER TIED. 231 
 
 — but myself — till a proper time comes to re- 
 veal it ; and it's borne in upon me that that 
 time will come before long, even if Colonel 
 Clifford should not die this bout, which every- 
 body says he will.' 
 
 ' Oh, nurse ! ' said Mary faintly, ' I little 
 thought that you'd be against me.' 
 
 ' Against you. Miss Mary ! ' said Mrs. Easton, 
 with much feeling. ' I admire Mr. Walter very 
 much, as any woman must with eyes in her 
 head, and I love him for loving you so truly 
 and like a man, for it does not become a man 
 to shilly-shally, but I never saw him till he was 
 a man; but you are the child I nursed, and 
 prayed over, and trembled for in sickness, and 
 rejoiced over in health, and left a good master 
 because I saw he did not love you so well as I 
 did.' 
 
 These words went to Mary's heart, and she 
 flew to her nurse, and hung weeping round her 
 neck. Her tears made the manly but tender- 
 hearted Walter give a sort of gulp. Mary heard 
 it, and put her white hand out to him. He
 
 232 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 threw himself upon his knees, and kissed it 
 devotedly, and the coy girl was won. 
 
 From this hour Walter gave her no breath- 
 ing-time ; he easily talked over old Baker, and 
 got him to excuse his short absence ; he turned 
 his hunters into roadsters, and rode them very 
 hard ; he got the special Hcense ; he squared a 
 clergyman at the head of the lake, who was an 
 old friend of his and fond of fees ; and, in three 
 days after her consent, Mary and Mrs. Easton 
 drove a four-wheeled carriage Walter had lent 
 them to the httle hotel at the Lakes. Walter 
 had galloped over at eleven o'clock, and they 
 all three took a httle walk together. Walter 
 ClijSford and Mary Bartley returned from that 
 walk Man and Wife.
 
 233 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MAKEIAGE. 
 
 Walter Clifford and Mary sat at a late 
 breakfast in a little inn that looked upon a 
 lake, which appeared to them more lovely 
 than the lake of Thun or of Lucerne. He 
 beamed steadily at her with triumphant rap- 
 ture ; she stole looks at him of wonder, ad- 
 miration, and the deepest love. 
 
 As they had nothing now to argue about, 
 they only spoke a few words at a time, but 
 these were all musical with love. 
 
 To them, as we dramatists say, entered 
 Mrs. Easton, with signs of hurry. 
 
 ' Miss Mary ' said she. 
 
 ' Mrs. Mary,' suggested Walter meekly. 
 
 Mrs. Mary blew him a kiss. 
 
 ' Ay, ay,' said Mrs. Easton smiling. ' Of
 
 234 A PERILOUS SECEET. 
 
 course you will both Late me, but I have 
 come to take you home, Mistress Mary.' 
 
 • Home ! ' said Mary ; ' why this feels like 
 home.' 
 
 ' No doubt,' said Mrs. Easton, ' but for all 
 that in half an hour we must gtart.' 
 
 The married couple remonstrated with one 
 accord, but Mrs. Easton was firm. ' I 
 dreamed,' says she, 'that we were all found 
 out — and that's a warning. Mr. Walter, 
 you know that you'll be missed at Clifford 
 Hall, and didn't ought to leave your father 
 another day. And you, Miss Mary, do but 
 think what a weight I have taken upon my 
 shoulders, and don't put off coming home, for 
 I am almost shaking with anxiety, and for 
 sure and certain my dream it was a warning, 
 and there's something in the wind.' 
 
 They were both so much indebted to this 
 good woman that they looked at each other 
 piteously, but agreed. Walter rang the bell, 
 and ordered the four-wheeler and his own
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MAKRIAGE. 235 
 
 ' Mary, one little walk in that sweet 
 garden.' 
 
 'Yes, dear,' said Mary, and in another 
 moment they were walking in the garden, 
 intertwined like the ivy and the oak, and 
 pnrring over their present delights and glowing 
 prospects. 
 
 In the meantime Mrs. Easton packed up 
 their things. Walter's were enrolled in a light 
 rug with straps, which went under his saddle. 
 They left the little inn, Mary driving. When 
 they had gone about two miles they came to 
 cross-roads. 
 
 ' Please pull up,' said Mrs. Easton ; then, 
 turning to Walter, who was riding ridiculously 
 close to Mary's whip hand, ' Isn't that the way 
 to Clifford Hall?' 
 
 ' It's one way,' said he ; ' but I don't mean 
 to go that way. How can I ? It's only three 
 miles more round by your house.' 
 
 ' Nurse,' said Mary appeahngly. 
 
 ' Ay, ay, poor things,' said Mrs. Easton. 
 ' Well, w^ell, don't loiter, any way. I shall not
 
 236 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 be my own woman again till we're safe at the 
 farm.' 
 
 So they drove briskly on, and in about an 
 hour more they got to a long hill, whence they 
 could see the Gilberts' farm. 
 
 ' There, nurse,' said Mary, pouting a little, 
 ' now I hope you're content, for we have got 
 safe home, and he and I shall not have a 
 happy day together again.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, you will, and many happy years,' 
 said Mrs. Easton. ' Well, yes, I don't feel so 
 -fidgety now.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' cried Mary, all of a sudden. 'Why 
 there's our gray mare coming down the hill 
 with the dog-cart ! Who's that driving her ? 
 It's not papa. I declare it's Mr. Hope, come 
 home safe and sound. Dear Mr. Hope ! Oh, 
 now my happiness is perfect ! ' 
 
 ' Mr. Hope ! ' screamed Mrs. Easton. 
 ' Drive faster, for Heaven's sake ! Turn your 
 horse, sir, and gallop away from us as hard as 
 you can ! ' 
 
 ' ' Well, but, Mrs. Easton — ' objected Walter.
 
 THE CLAXDESTIXE MAKRIAGE. 237 
 
 Mrs. Easton stood up in the carriage. 
 ' Man alive ! ' slie screamed, ' you kaow no- 
 thing, and I know a deal ; begone, or you are 
 no friend of mine : you'll make me curse the 
 hour that I interfered.' 
 
 'Go, darling,' said Mary kindly, and so 
 decidedly that he turned his horse directly, 
 gave her one look of love and disappointment, 
 and galloped away. 
 
 Mary looked pale and angry, and drove on 
 in sullen silence. 
 
 Mrs. Easton was too agitated to mind her 
 angry looks. She kept wiping the perspira- 
 tion from her brow with her handkerchief, and 
 speaking in broken sentences : 'If we could 
 only get there first — fool, not to teach my 
 sister her lesson before we went — she's such a 
 simpleton ! Can't you drive faster ? ' 
 
 ' Why, nurse,' said Mary, ' don't be so 
 afraid of Mr. Hope. It's not him I'm afraid 
 of ; it's papa.' 
 
 'You don't know what you're talking 
 about, child. Mr. Bartley is easily blinded';
 
 238 A PERILOUS SECEET. 
 
 I won't tell you why. It isn't so with Mr. 
 Hope. Oh, if I could only get in to have one 
 word with my simple sister before he turns her 
 inside out ! ' 
 
 This question was soon decided. Hope 
 drove up to the door whilst Mary and Mrs, 
 Easton were still some distance off, and hidden 
 by a turn in the road. When they emerged 
 again into sight of the farm they just caught 
 sight of Hope's back, and Mrs. Gilbert 
 curtseying to him and ushering him into the 
 house. 
 
 'Drive into the stable-yard,' said Mrs. 
 Easton faintly. ' He mustn't see your travel- 
 ling basket, any way.' 
 
 She told the servant to put the liorse into 
 the stable immediately, and the basket into 
 the brew-house. Then she hurried Mary up 
 the back-stairs to her room, and went with a 
 beating heart to find Mr. Hope and her sister. 
 
 Mrs. Gilbert, though a simple and un- 
 guarded woman, could read faces like the rest, 
 iind she saw at once that her sister was very
 
 THE CLANDESTIXE MARRIAGE. 239 
 
 much put out by tliis visit of Mr. Hope, and 
 wanted to know what had passed between her 
 and him. This set the poor woman all in a 
 flutter, for fear she should have said sometliing 
 injudicious, and thereupon she prepared to find 
 out, if possible, what she ought to have said. 
 
 'What! Mr. Hope!' said Mrs. Easton. 
 ^ Well, Mary will be glad. And have you 
 been long home, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Came last night,' said Hope. ' She hasn't 
 been well, I hear. What is the matter ? ' And 
 he looked very anxious. 
 
 ' Well, sir,' said Mrs. Easton very guardedly, 
 ' she certainly gave me a fright when she came 
 here. She looked quite pale ; but whether it 
 was that she wanted a change — but, whatever 
 it was, it couldn't be very serious. You shall 
 judge for yourself. Sister, go to Miss Mary's 
 room, and tell her.' 
 
 Mrs. Easton, in giving this instruction, 
 frowned at her sister as much as to say, ' Now 
 <.lon't speak, but go.' 
 
 When she was gone, the next thing was to
 
 240 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 find out if the woman had made any foolish 
 admission to Mr. Hope ; so she Avaited for him. 
 
 She had not long to wait 
 
 Hope said, ' I hardly expected to see you ; 
 your sister said you were from home.' 
 
 ' Well, sir,' said Mrs. Easton, ' we were not 
 so far off, but we did come home a little sooner 
 than we intended, and I am rare glad we did, 
 for Miss Mary wouldn't have missed you for all 
 the views in the country.' 
 
 With that she made an excuse, and left 
 him. She found her sister in Mary's room : 
 they were comparing notes. 
 
 ' Now,' said she to Mrs. Gilbert, ' you tell 
 me every word you said to Mr. Hope about 
 Miss Mary and me.' 
 
 'Well, I said you were not at home, and 
 that is every word ; he didn't give me time to 
 say any more, for questioning of me about her 
 health.' 
 
 'That's lucky,' said Mrs. Easton diily. 
 ' Thank Heaven, there's no harm done ; he 
 sha'n't see the carriage.'
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 241 
 
 'Dear me, nurse,' said Mary, ' all this time 
 I'm longing to see him.' 
 
 ' Well, you shall see him, if you won't own 
 to having been a night fi'om home.' 
 
 Mary promised, and went eagerly to Mr. 
 Hope. It did not come natural to her to be 
 afraid of him, aod she was impatient for the 
 day to come when she might tell him the whole 
 story. The reception he gave her was not of 
 a nature to discourage this feeling ; his pale 
 face — for he had been very ill — flushed at sight 
 of her, his eyes poured affection upon her, and 
 he held out both hands to her. 'This the 
 pale girl they frightened me about ! ' said he. 
 * Why, you're like the roses in July.' 
 
 ' That's partly with seeing of you, sir,' said 
 Mrs. Easton, quietly following, ' but we do take 
 some credit to ourselves too ; for Miss Mary 
 was rather pale when she came here a week 
 ago ; but, la, young folks want a change now 
 and then.' 
 
 ' Nurse,' said Mary, "• I really was not well, 
 and you have done wonders for me. and I hope 
 
 VOL. 1. K
 
 242 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 you won't think me ungrateful, but I must go 
 home with Mr. Hope.' 
 
 Hope's countenance flushed with delight, 
 and Mrs. Easton saw in a moment that Mary's 
 affection was co-operathig with her prudence. 
 ' I thought that would be her first word, sir,*^ 
 said she. *Wliy, of course you will, miss. 
 There, don't you take any trouble ; we'll pack 
 your things and put them in the dog-cart ; but 
 you must eat a morsel, both of you, before you 
 go. There's a beautiful piece of beef in the 
 pot, not over-salted, and some mealy potatoes 
 and suet dumplings. You sit down and have 
 your chat, whilst Polly and I get everything 
 ready for you.' 
 
 Then Mary asked Mr. Hope so many ques- 
 tions with such eager affection that he had no 
 time to ask her any, and then she volunteered 
 the home news, especially of Colonel Chfford's 
 condition, and then she blushed and asked him 
 if he had said anything to her father about 
 Walter Clifford. 
 , 'Not much,' said Mr. Hope. 'You are
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 248 
 
 very young, Mary, and it's not for me to inter- 
 fere, and I won't interfere. But if you want 
 my opinion, why, I admire the young man ex- 
 tremely. I always liked him ; he is a straight- 
 forward, upright, manly, good-hearted chap, 
 and has lots of plain, good sense — Heaven 
 knows where he got it ! ' 
 
 This eulogy was interrupted by Mary 
 putting a white hand and a perfect nose 
 upon Hope's shoulder, and kissing the cloth 
 thereon. 
 
 ' What,' said Hope tenderly, and yet half 
 sadly — for he knew that all middle-aged men 
 must now be second — ' have I found the way 
 to your heart ? ' 
 
 ' You always knew that Mr. Hope,' said 
 Mary softly ; ' especially since my escapade in 
 that horrid brook.' 
 
 Their affectionate chat was interrupted, by 
 a stout servant laying a snowy cloth, and after 
 her sailed in Mrs. Gilbert, with a red face, and 
 pride unconcealed and justifiable, carrying a 
 
 R 2
 
 244 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 grand disli of smoking hot boiled beef, set in a 
 very flower-bed, so to speak, of carrots, turnips, 
 and suet dumplings ; the servant followed with 
 a brown bason, almost as big as a ewer, filled 
 with mealy potatoes, whose jackets hung by a 
 thread. Around this feast the whole party 
 soon collected, and none of them sighed for 
 Russian soups or French ragouts ; for the fact 
 is, that, under the title of boiled beef, there 
 exist two things, one of which, without any 
 impropriety, might be called junk ; but this 
 was the powdered beef of our ancestors — a 
 huge piece just slightly salted in the house 
 itself, so that the generous juice remained in it ; 
 but the piquant slices, with the mealy potatoes, 
 made a delightful combination. The glasses 
 were filled with home-brewed ale, sparkling 
 and clear and golden as the finest Madeira. 
 They all ate manfully, stimulated by the genial 
 hostess. Even Mary outshone all her former 
 efforts, and although she couldn't satisfy Mrs. 
 Oilbert, she declared she had never eaten so 
 much in all her life. This set good Mrs.
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 245 
 
 Gilbert's cheeks all aglow with simple, honest 
 satisfaction. 
 
 Hope drove Mary home in the dog-cart. 
 He was a happy man, but she could hardly be 
 called a happy woman. She was warm and 
 cold by turns. She had got her friend back, 
 and that was a comfort, but she was not treat- 
 ing him with confidence ; indeed, she was pas- 
 sively deceiving him, and that chilled her ; but 
 then it would not be for long, and that com- 
 forted her, and yet even when the day should 
 come for the great doors of Clifford Hall to fly 
 open to her, would not a sad, reproachful look 
 from dear Mr. Hope somewhat imbitter her 
 cup of happiness ? Deceit, and even reticence, 
 did not come so natural to her as they do to 
 many women : she was not weak, and she was 
 frank, though very modest. 
 
 Mr. Bartley met them at the door, and, 
 owing to Mr. Hope's presence, was more de- 
 monstrative than usual. He seemed much 
 pleased at Mary's return, and delighted at her 
 appearance.
 
 246 A PERILOUS SECEET. 
 
 ' Well,' said he, ' I am glad I sent you 
 away for a week. We have all missed you, 
 my dear, but the chauge has set you up again. 
 I never saw you look better. Now you are 
 well, we must try and keep you well.' 
 
 We must leave the reader to imagine the 
 mixed feelings with w^hich Mrs. Walter Clifford 
 laid her head upon the pillow that night, and 
 we undertake to say that the female readers, 
 at all events, will supply this blank in our 
 narrative much better than we could, though 
 we were to fill a chapter with that subject 
 alone. 
 
 Passion is a terrible enemy to mere affec- 
 tion. Walter Chfford loved his father dearly, 
 yet for twenty-four hours he had almost for- 
 gotten him. But the moment he turned his 
 •horse's head toward Chfford Hall, uneasiness 
 and something very like remorse began to seize 
 him. Suppose his father had asked for him, 
 and wondered where he was, and felt himself 
 deserted and abandoned in his dying moments.
 
 THE CLA^^DESTmE MARRIAGE. 247 
 
 He spurred his liorse to a gallop, and soon 
 reached Clifford Hall. As he was afraid to go 
 straight to his father's room, he went at once 
 to old Baker, and said, in an agitated voice : 
 
 ' One word, John — is he alive ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir, he is,' said John gravely, and 
 rather sternly. 
 
 ' Has he asked for me ? ' 
 
 ' More than once or twice, sir.' 
 
 Walter sank into a chair, and covered his 
 face with his hands. This softened the old 
 servant, whose manner till then had been 
 sullen and grim. 
 
 ' You need not fret, Mr. Walter,' said he ; 
 ' it's all right. In course I know where you 
 have been.' 
 
 Walter looked up alarmed. 
 
 ' I mean in a general way,' said tlie old 
 man. ' You have been a-courting of an angel. 
 I know her, sir, aad I hope to be her servant 
 some day ; and if you was to marry any but 
 her, I'd leave service altogether, and so would 
 Ehoda Milton ; but, Mr. Walter, sir, there's a
 
 248 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 time for everything ; I hope you'll forgive nie 
 for saying so. However, you are here now, 
 and I was wide-awake, and I have made it all 
 right, sir.' 
 
 ' That's impossible,' said Walter. ' How 
 could you make it right with my poor dear 
 father, if in his last moments he felt himself 
 neglected ? ' 
 
 ' But he cUdn't feel himself neglected.' 
 ' I don't understand you,' said Walter. 
 ' Well, sir,' said old Baker, ' I'm an old 
 servant, and I have done my duty to father 
 and son according to my lights : I told him a 
 lie.' 
 
 ' A lie, John ! ' said Walter. 
 ' A thundering lie ! ' said John, rather 
 aggressively. ' I don't know as ever I told a 
 greater lie in all my life. I told him you was 
 gone up to London to fetch a doctor.' 
 
 Walter grasped John Baker's hand. ' God 
 bless you, old man,' said he, ' for taking that 
 on your conscience ! Well, you sha'n't have 
 yourself to reproach for my fault. I know a
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MAKRIAGE. 249 
 
 first-class gout doctor in London ; lie has cured 
 it more than once. I'll wire him down this 
 minute ; you'll dispatch the message, and I'll 
 go to my father.' 
 
 The message was sent, and when the 
 Colonel awoke from an uneasy slumber he saw 
 his son at the foot of the bed, gazing piteously 
 at him. 
 
 ' My dear boy,' said he faintly, and held 
 out a wasted hand. Walter was pricked to 
 the heart at this greetiug : not a word of re- 
 monstrance at his absence. 
 
 ^ I fear you missed me, father,' said he 
 sadly. 
 
 ' That I have,' said the old man ; ' but I 
 dare say you didn't forget me, though you 
 weren't by my side.' 
 
 The high-minded old soldier said no more, 
 and put no questions, but confided in his son's 
 affection, and awaited the result of it. From 
 that hour Walter Chfford nursed his father day 
 and night. Dr. Garner arrived next day. He 
 examined the patient, and put a great many"
 
 250 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 questions as to the history and progress of the 
 disorder up to that date, and inquired in par- 
 ticular what was the length of time the fits 
 generally endured. Here he found them all 
 rather hazy. ' Ah,' said he, ' patients are 
 seldom able to assist their medical adviser with 
 precise information on this point, yet it's very 
 important. Well, can you tell me how long 
 this attack has lasted ? ' 
 
 They told him that within a day or two. 
 
 ' Then now,' said he, ' the most important 
 question of all : What day did the pain leave 
 his extremities ? ' 
 
 The patient and John Baker had to compare 
 notes to answer this question, and they made it 
 out to be about twenty days. 
 
 ' Then he ought to be as dead as a herring,' 
 whispered the doctor. 
 
 After this he began to walk the room and 
 meditate, with his hands behind him. 
 
 ' Open those top windows,' said he. ' Now 
 draw the screen and give his lungs a chance ; 
 no draughts must blow upon him, you know.'
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 251 
 
 Then lie drew Walter aside : ' Do yoii want to 
 know the truth ? Well, then, his life hangs on 
 a thread. The gout is creeping upward, and 
 will inevitably kill him if we can't get it down. 
 Nothing but heroic remedies will do that, and 
 it's three to five against them. What do you 
 say?' 
 
 'I dare not — I dare not. Pray put the 
 question to him! 
 
 ' I will,' said the doctor ; and accordingly 
 he did put it to him with a good deal of feeling 
 and gentleness, and the answer rather surprised 
 him. 
 
 Weak as he was. Colonel Chfford's dull eye 
 flashed, and he half raised himself on his elbow. 
 ' What a question to put to a soldier ! ' said he. 
 ' Why, let us fight, to be sure. I thought it 
 was twenty to one — five to three? 1 have 
 often won the rubber with five to three against 
 me.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Dr. Garner, ' these are the 
 patients that give the doctor a chance.' Tlien 
 he turned to Baker. ' Have you any good
 
 252 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 champagne in the house — not too sweet, not 
 too dry, and full of fire ? ' 
 
 ' Irroy's '' Carte d'Or,'" suggested the patient, 
 entering into the business with a certain feeble 
 alacrity, that showed his gout had not always 
 been unconnected with imprudence in diet. 
 
 Baker was sent for the champagne. It was 
 brought and opened, and the patient drank some 
 of it fizzing. When he had drunk what he 
 could, his eyes twinkled, and he said : 
 
 ' That's a hair of a dog that has often bitten 
 me.' 
 
 The wine soon got into his weakened head,, 
 and he dropped asleep. 
 
 ' Another draught when he wakes,' said the 
 doctor, ' but from a fresh bottle.' 
 
 ' We'll finish this one to your health in the 
 servants' hall,' said honest John Baker. 
 
 Dr. Garner stayed there all night, keeping 
 up the patient's strength with eggs and brandy, 
 and everything, in short, except medicine ; and 
 he also administered champagne, but at much 
 longer intervals.
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 253 
 
 At one o'clock next day the patient gave a 
 dismal groan ; Walter and the others started 
 up in alarm. 
 
 ' Good ! ' said the doctor calmly ; ' now I'll 
 go to bed. Call me if there's any fresh symptom . ' 
 
 At six o'clock old Baker burst in the room : 
 ' Sir, sir, he have swore at me twice. The Lord 
 be praised ! ' 
 
 ' Excellent ! ' said the doctor. ' Now, tell 
 me what disagrees with him most after cham- 
 pagne ? ' 
 
 ' Why, Green Chartreuse, to be sure,' said 
 old Baker. 
 
 ' Then give him a table-spoonful,' said the 
 doctor. ' Get me some hot water.' 
 
 ' Which j&rst ? ' inquired Baker. 
 
 ' The patient, to be sure,' said Dr. Garner. 
 
 Soon after this the doctor stood by his 
 patient's side, and found him writhing, and, to 
 tell the truth, he was using bad language occa- 
 sionally, though he evidently tried not to. 
 
 Dr. Garner looked at his watch. ' I think 
 there's time to catch the evening train.'
 
 254 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' Why,' said Walter, ' surely you would not 
 desert us ; this is the crisis, is it not ? ' 
 
 ' It's something more than that,' said the 
 doctor ; ' the disease knows its old place ; it 
 has gone back to the foot like a shot ; and if 
 you can keep it there, the patient will live ; 
 he's not the sort of patient that strikes his 
 colours while there's a bastion left to defend/ 
 
 These words pleased the old Colonel so that 
 he waved a feeble hand above his head, then 
 groaned most dismally, and ground his teeth to 
 avoid profanity. 
 
 The doctor, with exquisite gentleness, drew 
 the clothes off his feet, and sent for a lot of fleecy 
 cotton or wool, and warned them all not to 
 touch the bed, nor even to approach the lower 
 part of it, and then he once more proposed to 
 leave, and gave his reasons. 
 
 ' Now, look here, you know, I have done my 
 part, and if I give special instructions to the 
 nurses, they can do the rest. I'm rather dear, 
 and why should you waste your money ? ' 
 
 ' Dear ! ' said Walter warmly ; • you're as
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 255 
 
 cheap as dirt, and as good as gold, and the very 
 sight of you is a comfort to us. There's a fast 
 train at ten ; I'll drive you to the station after 
 breakfast myself. Your fees — they are nothing 
 to us. We love him, and we are the happiest 
 house in Christendom — we, that were the 
 saddest.' 
 
 ' Well,' said the doctor, ' you North -country- 
 men are hearty people. I'll stay till to-morrow 
 morning — indeed, I'll stay till the afternoon^ 
 for my London day will be lost any way.' 
 
 He stayed accordingly till three o'clock, left 
 his patient out of all present danger, and advised 
 Walter especially against allowing colchicum to 
 be administered to him until his strength had 
 recovered. 
 
 ' There is no nledicinal cure for gout,' said 
 he ; ' pain is a mere symptom, and colchicum 
 soothes that pain, not by affecting the disease, 
 but by stilling the action of the heart. Well, 
 if you still the action of the heart there, you kill 
 him as surely as if you stilled it with a pistol 
 bullet. Knock off his champagne in three or
 
 256 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 four days, aod wheel him into the sun as soon 
 as you can with safety ; fill his lungs with oxy- 
 gen, and keep all worry and disputes and mental 
 anxiety from him, if you can. Don't contradict 
 him for a month to come.' 
 
 The Colonel had a terrible bout of it so far 
 as pain was concerned, but after about a fort- 
 night the paroxysms intermitted, the appetite 
 increased. Everybody was his nurse ; every- 
 body, including Julia Clifford, humoured him ; 
 Percy Fitzroy was never mentioned, and the 
 name of Bartley religiously avoided. The 
 Colonel had got a fright, and was more pru- 
 dent in his diet, and always in the open air. 
 
 Walter left him only at odd times, when he 
 could hope to get a hasty word with Mary, and 
 tell her how things were going, and do all that 
 man could do to keep her heart up, and recon- 
 cile her to the present situation. 
 
 Eeturning from his wife one day, and leav- 
 ing her depressed by their galhng situation, 
 though she was never peevish, but very sad and 
 thoughtful, he found his father and Julia
 
 THE CLAA^DESTINE MARRIAGE. 257 
 
 Clifford in the library. Julia had been writing 
 letters for him ; she gave Walter a deprecatory 
 look, as much as to say, ' What I am doing is 
 by compulsion, and you won't hke it.' Colonel 
 Clifford didn't leave the young man in any 
 doubt about the matter. He said, ' Walter, 
 you heard me speak of Bell, the counsel who 
 leads this circuit. I was once so fortunate as 
 to do him a good turn, and he has not forgotten 
 it ; he will sleep here the day after to-morrow, 
 and he will go over that blackguard's lease : 
 he has been in plenty of mining cases. I have 
 got a sort of half opinion out of him already ; 
 he thinks it contrary to the equity of contracts 
 that minerals should pass under a farm lease 
 where the surface of the soil is a just equivalent 
 to the yearly payment ; but the old fox won't 
 speak positively till he has read every syllable 
 of the lease. However, it stands to reason 
 that it's a fraud ; it comes from a man who 
 is all fraud; but, thank God, I am myself 
 again.' 
 
 He started up erect as a dart. ' I'll have 
 \0L. 1. S
 
 258 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 him off my lauds ; I'll drag him out of the 
 bowels of the earth, him and all his clan ! ' 
 
 With this aud other threats of the same 
 character he marched out of the room, striking 
 the floor hard with his stick as he went, and left 
 Julia Clifford amazed, and Walter Chfford 
 aghast, at his vindictive fury.
 
 259 
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 
 
 Walter Clifford was so distressed at this out- 
 burst, and the prospect of actual htigation 
 between his father and his sweetheart's father, 
 that Juha CKfford pitied him, and, after think- 
 ing a httle, said she would stop it for the 
 present. She then sat down, and in five 
 minutes the docile pen of a female letter-writer 
 produced an ingratiating composition impos- 
 sible to resist. She apologized for her apparent 
 insincerity, but would be candid, and confide 
 the whole truth to Mr. Bell. Then she told 
 him that Colonel Clifford ' had only just been 
 saved from death by a miracle, and a relapse 
 was expected in case of any great excitement 
 or irritation, such as a doubtful lawsuit with 
 a gentleman he disliked would certainly cause.
 
 260 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 The proposed litigation was, for various rea- 
 sons^ most distressing to his son and successor, 
 Walter Clifford, and would Mr. Bell be so very 
 kind as to put the question off as long as pos- 
 sible by any means he thought proper ? ' 
 
 Walter was grateful, and said, ' What a 
 comfort to have a lady on one's side ! ' 
 
 ' I would rather have a gentleman on mine,' 
 said Julia, laughing. 
 
 Mr. Bell wrote a discreet reply. He would 
 wait till the assizes — six weeks' delay — and 
 then write to the Colonel, postponing his visit. 
 This he did, and promised to look up cases 
 meantime. 
 
 But these two allies not only baffled their 
 irascible chief ; they also humoured him to the 
 full. They never mentioned the name of 
 Bartley, and they kept Percy Fitzroy out of 
 sight in spite of his remonstrances ;. and, in a 
 word, they made the Colonels life so smooth, 
 that he thought he was going to have his own 
 way in everything, and he improved in health 
 and spirits ; for you know it is an old saying.
 
 THE SEEPENT LET LOOSE. 261 
 
 ' Always get your own way, and you'll never 
 die in a pet.' 
 
 And then, what was still a tottering situa- 
 tion Avas kept on its legs by the sweet character 
 and gentle temper of Mary Bartley. 
 
 We have already mentioned that she was 
 superior to most women in the habit of close 
 attention to whatever she undertook. This 
 was the real key to hei- faciht}^ in languages, 
 history, music, drawing, and calisthenics, as 
 her professor called female gymnastics. The 
 flexible creature's limbs were in secret steel. 
 She could go thirty feet up a slack rope hand 
 over hand with wonderful ease and grace, and 
 hang by one hand for ten minutes to kiss the 
 other to her friends. So the very day she was 
 surprised into consenting to marry Walter 
 secretly, she sat down to the marriage service 
 and learned it all b}^ heart directly, and under- 
 stood most of it. 
 
 By this means she realized that now she 
 had another man to obey as well as her father. 
 So now, wdien Walter pressed her for secret
 
 262 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 meetings, she said submissively, ' Oh, yes, if 
 you insist.' She even remarked that she con- 
 cluded clandestine meetings were the natural 
 consequence of a clandestine marriage. 
 
 She used to meet her husband in the day 
 when she could, and often for five minutes 
 under the moon. And she even promised to 
 spend two or three days with him at the Lakes 
 if a safe opportunity should occur. But for 
 that she stipulated that Mr. Hope must be 
 absent. 
 
 Walter asked why she was more afraid of 
 Mr. Hope than of her father. 
 
 Her eyes seemed to look inward dimly, and 
 at first she said she didn't know. But after 
 pondering the matter a little she said, ' Because 
 he watches me more closely than papa, and 
 
 that is because You won't tell anybody ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Not a soul, upon your honour ? ' 
 
 ' Not a soul, dearest, upon my honour.' 
 
 ' Well, then, because he loves me more.' 
 
 ' Oh, come ! ' said Walter incredulously.
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 263 
 
 But Mary would neither resign her opinion 
 nor pursue a subject which puzzled and grieved 
 her. 
 
 We have now indicated the peaceful tenor 
 of things in Derbyshire for a period of some 
 months. We shall have to show by-and-by 
 that elements of discord were accumulating 
 under the surface ; but at present we must 
 leave Derbyshire, and deal very briefly with 
 another tissue of events, beginning years ago, 
 and running to a date three months, at least, 
 ahead of Colonel Clifford's recovery. The 
 reader will have no reason to regret this ap- 
 parent interruption. Our tale hitherto has 
 been rather sluggish ; but it is in narrative as 
 it is in nature : when two streams unite their 
 forces the current becomes broader and 
 stronger. 
 
 Leonard Monckton was sent to Pentonville, 
 and after some years transferred to Portland. 
 In both places he played the game of an old 
 hand ; always kept his temper and carnied 
 everybody, especially the cliaplain and the
 
 264 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 turnkeys. These last he treated as his only 
 masters ; and if they gave him short weight in 
 bread or meat, catch him making matters 
 worse by appealing to the governor ! Towards 
 the end of his time at Pentonville he had some 
 thought of suicide, but his spirits revived at 
 Portland, where he was cheered by the con- 
 versation of other villains. Their name was 
 legion ; but as he never met one of them again, 
 except Ben Burnley, all those miscreants are 
 happily irrelevant. And the reader need not 
 fear an introduction to them, unless he should 
 find himself garrotted in some dark street or 
 suburb, or his home rifled some dark and 
 windy night. As for Ben Burnley, he was 
 from the North country, imprisoned for con- 
 spiracy and manslaughter in an attack upon 
 non-union miners. Toward the end of his 
 time he made an attack upon a warder, and 
 got five years more. Tlien Monckton showed 
 him he was a fool, and explained to him his 
 own plan of conduct, and bade him observe 
 how popular he was with the warders, and
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 265 
 
 reaped all the favour they dared to show 
 him. 
 
 ' He treated me like a dog,' said the man 
 sullenly. 
 
 ' I saw it,' said Leonard. ' And if I had 
 been you I would have said nothing, but 
 waited till my time was out, and then watched 
 for him till he got his day out, and settled his 
 hash. That is the way for your sort. As for 
 me, killing is a poor revenge ; it is too soon 
 over. Do you think I don't mean to be 
 revenged on that skunk Bartley, and above all 
 on that scoundrel Hope, who planted the swag 
 in my pockets, and let me into this hole for 
 fourteen years?' Then, Avith all his self- 
 command, he burst into a torrent of curses, 
 and his pale face was ghastly with hate, and 
 his eyes glared v/ith demoniac fire, for hell 
 raged in his heart. 
 
 Just then a warder approached, and, to 
 Burnley's surprise, who did not see him 
 coming, Monckton said gently, ' And there- 
 fore, my poor fellow, do just consider that
 
 266 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 you have broken the law, and the warders are 
 only doing their duty and earning their bread, 
 and if you were a w^arder to-morrow, you'd 
 have to do just what they do.' 
 
 ' A}^' said the warder in passing, ' you may 
 lecture the bloke, but vou will not make a silk 
 purse out of a sow's ear.' 
 
 This was true, but nevertheless the smooth 
 villain Monckton obtained a great ascendency 
 over this rough, shock-headed ruffian, Burnley, 
 and he got into no more scrapes. He finished 
 his two sentences, and left before Monckton. 
 This precious pair revealed to each other 
 certain passages in their beautiful lives. 
 Monckton's were only half-confidences, but 
 Burnle}^ told Monckton he had been concerned 
 with others in a burglary at Stockton, and also 
 in the death of an overseer in a mine in Wales, 
 and gave the particulars with a sort, of quaking 
 gusto, and washing his hands nervously in the 
 tainted air all the time. To be sure, the 
 overseer had earned his fate ; he had himself 
 been guilty of a crime — he had been true to 
 his employer.
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 267 
 
 Tlie grateful Burnley left Portland at last, 
 and promised faithfully to send word to a 
 certain friend of Monckton's, in London, where 
 he was, and what he was doing. Meantime, 
 he begged his way northward from Portland, 
 for the southern provinces \xeYe a dead letter 
 to him. 
 
 Monckton's wife wrote to him as often as 
 the rules of the jail permitted, and her letters 
 were full of affection, and of hope that their 
 separation would be shortened. She went 
 into all the details of her life, and it was now a 
 creditable one. Young women are educated 
 practically in Germany ; and Lucy was not 
 only a good scholar, and almost a linguist, 
 but excellent at all needlework, and, better 
 still, could cut dresses and other garments in 
 the best possible style. After one or two 
 inferior places, she got a situation with an 
 English countess; and from that time she 
 was passed as a treasure from one member of 
 the aristocracy to another, and received high 
 stipends, and presents of at least equal value. 
 Being a German, she put by money, and
 
 268 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 let her husband know it. But in the seventh 
 year of her enforced widowhood her letters 
 began to undergo subtle changes, one after 
 another. 
 
 First, there were httle exhibitions of im- 
 patience. Then there were signs of languor 
 and a diminution of gush. 
 
 Then there were stronger protestations of 
 affection than ever. 
 
 Then there were mixed with these pro- 
 testations queries whether the truest affection 
 was not that which provided for the interests 
 of the beloved person. 
 
 Then, in the eighth year of Monck ton's 
 imprisonment, she added to remarks of the 
 above kind certain confessions that she was 
 worn out with anxieties, and felt her lonely 
 condition ; that youth and beauty did not last 
 for ever ; that she had let slip opportunities of 
 doing herself substantial service, and him too, 
 if he could look at things as coolly now as he 
 used to ; and she began to think she had done 
 wrong.
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 269 
 
 This line, once adopted, was never given 
 up, though it was accompanied once or twice 
 with passionate expressions of regret at the 
 vanity of long-cherished hopes. Then came 
 a letter or two more, in which the fair writer 
 described herself as torn this way and that way, 
 and not knowing what to do for the best, and 
 inveighed against Fate. 
 
 Then came a long silence. 
 
 Then came a short letter, imploring him, 
 if he loved her as she loved him, to try and 
 forget her, except as one who would always 
 watch over his interests, and weep for him in 
 secret. 
 
 ' Crocodile ! ' said Monckton, with a cold 
 sneer. 
 
 All this showed him it was his interest not 
 to lose his hold on her. So he always wrote 
 to her in a beautiful strain of faith, affection, 
 and constancy. 
 
 But this part of the comedy was cut short 
 by the lady discontinuing the correspondence 
 and concealing her address for years.
 
 270 A PEEILOUS SECRET. 
 
 ' xili ! ' said Monckton, ' she wants to cure 
 me. That cock won't fight, my beauty.' 
 
 A month before he was let loose upon 
 society came a surprise — a letter from his wife, 
 directing him to call at the office of a certain 
 solicitor in Serjeants' Inn, Fleet Street, when 
 he would receive 50/. upon his personal receipt, 
 and a similar sum from time to time, provided 
 he made no attempt to discover her, or in 
 any way disturb her life. ' Oh, Leonard ! ' 
 said she, ' you ruined me once. Pray do not 
 destroy me again. You may be sure I am 
 not happy ; but I am in. peace and comfort, 
 and I am old enough to know their value. 
 Dear Leonard, I offer them both to you. 
 Pray, pray do not despise them, and, whatever 
 you do, do not offend against the law again. 
 You see how strong it is.' 
 
 Monckton read this with calm mdifference. 
 He did not expect a woman to give him a 
 pension unconditionally, or without some little 
 twaddle by way of drawback. He called on 
 the lawyer, and sent in his name. He was
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 271 
 
 received by the lawyer in person, and eyed 
 very keenly. ' I am directed to call here for 
 50/., sir,' said he. 
 
 'Yes, Mr. Monckton. I believe the pay- 
 ment is conditional.' 
 
 ' No, sir ; not the first 50/. It is the future 
 payments that are to depend upon my con- 
 niving at my wife's infidelity ; ' and with that 
 he handed him the letter. 
 
 The lawyer perused it, and said, ' You are 
 right, sir. The 50/. shall be paid to you imme- 
 diately ; but we must request you to consider 
 that our client is your friend, and acts by our 
 advice, and that it will not be either graceful 
 or delicate to interpret her conduct to her dis- 
 credit.' 
 
 ' My good sir,' said Monckton, with one of 
 his cynical sneers, ' every time your client pays 
 me 50/., put on the receipt that black is white 
 in matters of conjugal moraUty, and I'll sign 
 the whole acknowledgment.' 
 
 Finding he had such a serpent to deal with, 
 the lawyer cut the dialogue short, and paid the
 
 272 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 money. However, as Monckton was leaving, 
 he said, ' You can write to us when you want 
 any more, and would it be discreet of me to 
 ask where we can address you ? ' 
 
 • Why not ? ' said Monckton. ' I have 
 nothing to conceal. However, all I can tell 
 you at present is that I am going to Hull to 
 try to find a couple of rogues.' 
 
 To Hull he went, breathing avarice and 
 vengeance. This dangerous villain w^as quite 
 master of ,Bartley's secret, and Hope's. To 
 be sure, when Hope first discovered him in 
 Bartley's ofiice, he was puzzled at the sudden 
 interference of that stranger. He had only 
 seen Hope's back until this, and, moreover, 
 Hope had been shabbily dressed in black cloth, 
 hard worn, whereas he was in a new suit of 
 tweed when he exposed Monckton's villany. 
 But this was explained at the trial, and 
 Monckton instructed his own attorney to cross- 
 examine Hope about his own great fraud ; but 
 counsel refused to do so, either because he 
 disbelieved his chent, or thought such a cross-
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 273 
 
 examination would be stoppec', or set the court 
 still more against his client. 
 
 Monckton raged at this, and, of course, said 
 he had been bought by the other side. But 
 now he was delighted that his enemies' secret 
 had never been inquired into, and that he 
 could fall on them both like a thunder-bolt. 
 
 He was at Hull next day, and rambled 
 about the old shop, and looked in at the win- 
 dows. All new faces, and on the door-plate» 
 ' Atkinson & Co.' 
 
 Then he went in, and asked for Mr. 
 Bartley. 
 
 Name not known. 
 
 ' Why, he used to be here. I was in his 
 employ.' 
 
 No ; nobody knew Mr. Bartley. 
 
 Gould he see Mr. Atkinson ? 
 
 Certainly. Mr. Atkinson would be there 
 at two o'clock. 
 
 Monckton, after some preamble, asked 
 whether he had not succeeded in this business 
 to Mr. Eobert Bartley. 
 
 VOL. L T
 
 274 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 No. He had bought the business from 
 Mrs. Duplex, a widow residing in this town, 
 and he happened to know that her husband 
 had taken it from Whitaker, a merchant at 
 Boston. 
 
 ' Is he ahve, sir ? ' 
 
 ' I beheve so, and very well known.' 
 
 Monckton went off to Whitaker, and 
 learned from him that he had bought the 
 business from Bartley, but it was many years 
 ago, and he had never heard of the purchaser 
 since that day. 
 
 Monckton returned to London baffled. 
 What was he to do ? Go to a secret-inquiry 
 office ? Advertise that if Mr. Eobert Bartley, 
 late of Hull, would write to a certain agent, 
 he would hear of something to his advantage ? 
 He did not much fancy either of these plans. 
 He wanted to pounce on Bartley, or Hope, 
 or both. 
 
 Then he argued thus : ' Bartley has got lots 
 of money now, or he would not have given 
 up business. Ten to one he lives in London, 
 or visits it. I will try the Park.'
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 275 
 
 Well, he did try the Park, both at the 
 riding hour and the driving hour. He saw 
 no Bartley at either time. 
 
 But one day, in the Ladies' Mile, as he list- 
 lessly watched the carriages defile slowly past 
 him, with every now and then a jam, there 
 crawled past him a smart victoria, and in it 
 a beautiful woman with glorious dark eyes, 
 and a lovely little boy, the very image of her. 
 It was his wife and her son. 
 
 Monckton started, but the lady gave no 
 sign of recognition. She bowed, but it w^as 
 to a gentleman at Monckton's side, who had 
 raised his hat to her with marked respect. 
 
 ' What a beautiful crechaar ! ' said a little 
 swell to the gentleman in question. 'You 
 know her ? ' 
 
 ' Very slightly.' 
 
 ' Who is she ? A duchess ? ' 
 
 ' No ; a stock-broker's wife, Mrs. Braham. 
 Why, she is a known beauty.' 
 
 That was enough for Monckton. He hung 
 back a little, and followed the carriaore. He 
 
 T 2
 
 276 A PEEILOUS SECRET. 
 
 calculated that if it left the Park at Hyde 
 Park Corner or the Marble Arch, he could 
 take a hansom and follow it. 
 
 When the victoria got clear of the crowd 
 at the corner, Mrs. Braham leaned forward 
 a moment and whispered a word to her coach- 
 man. Instantly the carriage dashed at the 
 Chesterfield Gate and into Mayfair at such 
 a swift trot that there was no time to ofet a 
 cab and keep it in sight. 
 
 Monckton lighted a cigarette. 'Clever 
 girl ! ' said he satirically. ' She knew me, 
 and never winked.' 
 
 The next day he went to the lawyer and 
 said, ' I have a little favour to ask you, sir.' 
 
 The lawyer was on his guard directly, but 
 said nothing. 
 
 'An interview — in this office— with Mrs. 
 Braham.' 
 
 The lawyer winced, but went on his guard 
 again directly. 
 
 ' Client of ours ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir.'
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 277 
 
 ' Bralio,m ? Braliam ? ' said the lawyer, 
 affecting to search the deep caverns of pro^ 
 fessional memory. 
 
 ' Stock-broker's mfe.' 
 
 ' Where do they hve ? ' 
 
 'What! don't you know? Place of busi- 
 ness — Threadneedle Street. Place of bigamy 
 — Portman Square.' 
 
 ' I have no authority to grant a personal 
 interview with any such person.' 
 
 ' But you have no power to hinder one, 
 and it is her interest the meeting should take 
 place here, and the stock-broker be out 
 
 of it; 
 
 The lawyer reflected. 
 
 ' Will you promise me it shall be a friendly 
 interview ? You will never o'o to her hus- 
 band ? ' 
 
 ' Her stock-broker, you mean. Not I — if 
 she comes to me here when I want her.' 
 
 ' Will that be often ? ' 
 
 ' I think not. I have a better card to play 
 than Mrs. Braham. I only want her to help
 
 278 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 me to find certain people. Shall we say twelve 
 o'clock to-morrow^ ? ' 
 
 The lawyer called on Mrs. Braham, and 
 after an agitated and tearful interview, per- 
 suaded her to keep the appointment. 
 
 ' Consider,' said he, ' what you gain by 
 making our office the place of meeting. Estab- 
 lish that at once. It's a point of defence.' 
 
 The meeting took place in the lawyer's 
 private room, and Mrs. Braham was so over- 
 come that she nearly fainted. Then she was 
 hysterical, and finally tears relieved her. 
 
 When she came to this point, Monckton, 
 who had looked upon the whole exhibition 
 as a mere preliminary form observed by 
 females, said: 
 
 ' Come, Lucy, don't be silly. I am not 
 here to spoil your little game, but to play my 
 own. The question is, will you help me to 
 make my fortune ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, that I will, if you will not break up 
 my home.' 
 
 ' Not such a fool, my dear. Catch me kill-
 
 THE SEKPENT LET LOOSE. 279 
 
 ing a milcli-cow ! You give me a percentage 
 on your profits, and I'm dumb.' 
 
 ' Then all you want is more money ? ' 
 
 ' That is all ; and I shall not want that in 
 a month's time.' 
 
 'I have brought 100/., Leonard,' she said 
 timidly. 
 
 ' Sensible girl ! Hand it over.' 
 
 Two white hands trembled at the strings 
 of a little bag, and took out ten crisp notes. 
 
 Leonard took them with satisfaction. 
 
 ' There,' said he. ' This will last me till I 
 have found Bartley and Hope, and made my 
 fortune.' 
 
 ' Hope ! ' said Mrs. Braham. ' Oh, pray 
 keep clear of him ! Pray don't attack Jiim 
 again. He is such an able man ! ' 
 
 ' I will not attack him again to be defeated. 
 Forewarned, forearmed. Indeed, if I am to 
 bleed Bartley, I don't know how I can be re- 
 venged on Hope. That is the crud thing. But 
 don't you trouble about my business, Lucy, 
 unless,' said he, with a sneer, ' you can tell me
 
 2'^0 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 where to find them, and so save me a lot of 
 money.' 
 
 ' Well, Leonard,' said Lucy, ' it can't be so 
 very hard to find Hope. You know where 
 that young man lives that you — that I ' 
 
 'Oh, Walter Clifford! Yes, of course I 
 know where he lives. At CHfford Hall, in 
 Derbyshire.' 
 
 ' Well, Leonard, Hope saved him from 
 prison, and ruined you. That young man had 
 a good heart. He would not forget such a 
 kindness. He may not know where Mr. 
 Bartley lives, but surely he will know where 
 Hope is.' 
 
 ' Lucy,' said Leonard, ' you are not such, a 
 fool as you were. It is a chance, at all events. 
 I'll go down to that neighbourhood directly. 
 I'll have a first-rate disguise, and spy about, 
 and pick up aU I can.' 
 
 ' And you will never say anything or do 
 
 anything to Oh, Leonard, I'm a bad wife. 
 
 I never can be a good one now to anybody. 
 But I'm a good mother ; and I thought God
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 281 
 
 had forgiven me, wlien He sent me my little 
 angel. You will never ruin his poor mother, 
 and niake her darling blush for her ? ' 
 
 ' Curse me if I do ! ' said Leonard, be- 
 trayed into a moment's warmth. But he was 
 soon himself again. ' There,' said he, ' I'll 
 leave the little bloke my inheritance. Perhaps 
 you don't know I'm heir to a large estate in 
 Westmoreland ; no end of land and half a 
 lake, and only eleven lives between the estate and 
 me, I will leave my " great expectations '' to 
 that young bloke. What's his christian name ? ' 
 
 ' Augustus.' 
 
 ' And what's his father's name ? ' 
 
 ' Jonathan.' 
 
 Leonard then left all his property, real 
 and personal, and all that should ever accrue 
 to him, to Augustus Braham, son of Jonathan 
 Braham, and left Lucy Braham sole executrix 
 and trustee. 
 
 Then he hurried into the outer office, 
 signed this document, and got it witnessed. 
 The clerks proposed to engross it.
 
 282 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 'What for?' said he. ' This is the 
 strongest form. All in the same handwriting 
 as the signature ; " forgery made easy " are 
 your engrossed wills.' 
 
 He took it into Mrs. Braham, and read it 
 to her, and gave it to her. He meant it all as 
 a joke ; he read it with a sneer. But the 
 mother's heart overfiow^ed. She put it in her 
 bosom, and kissed his hand . 
 
 ' Oh, Leonard,' said she, ' God bless you ! 
 Now I see you mean no ill to me and mine. 
 You don't love me enough to he angry with me. 
 But it all comes back to me . A woman can't 
 forget her first. Now promise me one thing ; 
 don't give w^ay to revenge or avarice. You 
 are so wise when you are cool, but no man 
 can give way to his passions and be wise. 
 Why run any more risks ? He is liberal to me, 
 and I'm not extravagant. I can allow you 
 more than I said, and wrong nobody.' 
 
 Monckton interrupted her thus : ' There, 
 old girl, you are a good sort ; you ahvays were. 
 But not bleed that skunk Bartley, and not be
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 283 
 
 revenged on that villain Hope ? I'd rather die 
 where I stand, for they have turned my blood 
 to gall, and lighted hell in my heart this many 
 a year of misery.' 
 
 He held out his hand to her ; it was cold. 
 She grasped it in her warm, soft palm, and 
 gave him one strange, searching look with her 
 glorious eyes ; and so they parted. 
 
 Next day, at dusk, there arrived at the 
 ' Dun Cow ' an elderly man with a large carpet- 
 bag and a strapped bundle of patterns — tweed, 
 kersey, velveteen, and corduroys. He had a 
 short grey moustache and beard, very neat ; 
 and appeared to be a commercial traveller. 
 
 In the evening he asked for brandy, old 
 rum, lemons, powdered sugar, a kettle, and a 
 punch- bowl. A huge one, relic of a past age, 
 was produced. He mixed dehcious punch, and 
 begged the landlady to sit doAvn and taste it. 
 She complied, and pronounced it first-rate. 
 He enticed her into conversation. 
 
 She A\as a rattling gossip, and told him first 
 her own grievances. Here was the village
 
 284 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 enlarging, and yet no more custom coming to 
 her because of tlie beer-house. The very men- 
 tion of this obnoxious institution moved her 
 bile directly. ' A pretty gentleman,' said she, 
 ' to brew his own beer and undersell a poor 
 widow that have been here all her days, and 
 her father before her I But the Colonel won't 
 let me be driven out altogether, no more will 
 Mr. Walter : he do manage for the old gentle- 
 man now.' 
 
 Monckton sipped and waited for the name 
 of Hope, but it did not come. The good lady 
 deluged him with the things that interested her. 
 She was to have a bit of a farm added on to 
 the ' Dun Cow.' It was t(3 be grass land, and 
 not much labour wanted. She couldn't under- 
 take that ; was it likely ? But for milking of 
 cows and making butter or cheese, that she 
 was as good at as here and there one ; and if 
 she could have the custom of the miners for 
 her milk — ' But, la, sir,' said she, ' I'll go bail 
 as that there Bartley will take and set up a 
 dairy against me, as he have a beershop.'
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 285 
 
 ' Bartley ? ' said Monckton inquiringly. 
 
 ' Ay, sir ; him as owns the mine, and the 
 beersliop, and all, Avorse luck for me.' 
 
 ' Bartley ? Who is he ? ' 
 
 'Oh, one of those chaps tliat ]^ise from 
 nothing nowadays. Came here to farm ; but 
 that Avas a blind, the Colonel says. Sunk a 
 mine, he did, and built a pit village, and turns 
 everything into brass [money]. But there, you 
 are a stranger, sir ; what is all this to 
 you ? ' 
 
 'Why, it is very interesting,' said Monckton. 
 ' Mistress, I always like to hear the whole his- 
 tory of every place T stop at, especially from 
 a sensible woman like you, that sees to the 
 bottom of thino-s. Do have another oflass. 
 Why, I should be as dull as ditch-water now, 
 if I had not your company.' 
 
 ' La, sir, I'm sure you are welcome to my 
 company in a civil way ; and, for the matter of 
 that, you are right ; life is life, and there's 
 plenty to be learned in a pubhc — do but open 
 your eyes and ears.'
 
 286 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 'Have another glass witli me. I am 
 praised for my punch.' 
 
 ' You deserve it, sir. Better was never 
 brewed.' 
 
 Slie sipped and sipped, and smacked her 
 hps, till it was all gone. 
 
 This glass coloured her cheeks, brightened 
 her eyes, and even loosened her tongue, though 
 that was pretty well oiled b}^ nature. 
 
 ' Well, sir,' said she, ' you are a bird of 
 passage, here to-day and gone to-morrow, and 
 it don't matter much what I tell you, so long 
 as I don't tell no lies. There will be a roiv in 
 this village.' 
 
 Having delivered this formidable prophecy, 
 the coy dame pushed her glass to her com- 
 panion for more, and leaning back cozily in 
 the old-fashioned high-backed chair, observed 
 the effect of her thunder- bolt. 
 
 Monckton rubbed his hands. ' I'm glad of 
 it,' said he genially ; ' that is to say, provided 
 my good hostess does not suffer by it.' 
 
 ' I'm much beholden to you, sir,' said the
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 287 
 
 lady. ' You are the c: vilest-spoken gentleman 
 I have entertained this many a day. Here's 
 your health, and wishing you luck in your 
 business, and many liappy days well spent. 
 My service to you, su\' 
 
 ' The same to you, ma'am.' 
 
 ' Well, sir, in regard to a row between the 
 gentlefolks — not that I call that there Bartley 
 one — judge for yourself. You are a man of 
 the world and a man of business, and an 
 elderly man apparently.' 
 
 ' At all events, I am older than you, 
 madam.' 
 
 ' That is as may be,' said Mrs. Dawson 
 drily. ' We hain't got the parish register here, 
 and all the better for me. So once more I say, 
 judge for yourself.' 
 
 ' Well, madam, said Monckton, ' I will try, 
 if you will oblige me with the facts.' 
 
 ' That is reasonable,' said Mrs. Dawson 
 loftily, but after some little consideration. 
 ' The facts I will declare, and not a lie among 
 'em.'
 
 288 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 'That will be a novelty,' thought her 
 cynical hearer, but he held his tongue, and 
 looked respectfully attentive. 
 
 ' Colonel Clifford,' said Mrs. Dawson, 'hates 
 Bartley like poison, and Bartley him. The 
 Colonel vows he will have him off the land and 
 out of the bowels of the earth, and he have 
 sent him a lawyer's letter ; for everything leaks 
 out in this village, along of the servants' chat- 
 tering. Bartley, he don't value a lawyer's letter 
 no more than that. He defies the Colonel, and 
 they'll go it hammer and tongs at the 'Sizes, 
 and spend a mint of money in law. That's 
 one side of the question. But there's another. 
 Master Walter is deep in love with Miss Mary.' 
 
 ' Who is she ? ' 
 
 ' Who is she ? Why, Bartley 's daughter, to 
 be sure ; not as I'd beheve it if I hadn't known 
 her mother, for she is no more like him in her 
 looks or her ways than a tulip is to a dande- 
 lion. She is the loveliest girl in the county, 
 and better than she's bonny. You don't catch 
 her drawing bridle at her papa's beerhouse.
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 289 
 
 and she never passes my picture. It's "Oh, 
 Mrs. Dawson, I am so thirsty ; a glass of your 
 good cider, please, and a little hay and water 
 for Deersfoot." That's her way, bless your silly 
 heart ! She ain't dry ; and Deersfoot, he's full 
 of beans, and his coat's like satin ; but that's 
 Miss Mary's way of letting me know that she's 
 my customer, and nobody else's in the town. 
 God bless her. and send her many happy days 
 with the man of her heart, and that is Walter 
 Clifford, for she is just as fond of him as he is 
 of her. I seen it all from the first day. 'Twas 
 love at first sight, and still a growing to this 
 day. Them old fogies may tear each other to 
 pieces, but they won't part such lovers as those. 
 There's not a girl in the village that doesn't run 
 to look at them, and admire them, and wish 
 them joy. Ay, and you mark my words, they 
 are joung, but they have got a spirit, both 
 of them. Miss Mary, she looks you in the face 
 like a lion and a dove, all in one. They may 
 lead her, but they won't drive her. And 
 VOL. L U
 
 290 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 Walter, he's a Clifford from top to toe. Nothing 
 but death will part them two. Them's the 
 facts, sir, without a lie, which now I'm 
 a-waiting for judgment.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Dawson,' said Monckton solemnly, 
 ' since you do me the honour to ask my opinion, 
 I say that out of these facts a row will certainly 
 arise, and a deadly one. 
 
 ' It must, sir : and Will Hope will have to 
 take a side. 'Tis no use his trying to be every- 
 body's friend this time, though that's his natural 
 character, poor chap.' 
 
 Monckton's eyes flashed fire, but he sup- 
 pressed all appearance of excitement, and asked 
 who Mr. Hope was. 
 
 Mrs. Dawson brightened at the very name 
 of her favourite, and said, ' Who is Will Hope ? 
 Why, the cleverest man in Derbyshire, for one 
 thing ; but he is that Bartley's right-hand man, 
 worse luck. He is inspector of the mine and 
 factotum. He is the handiest man in England. 
 He invents machines, and makes fiddles and 
 plays 'em, and mends all their clocks and
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 291 
 
 watches and wheelbarrows, and charges 'em 
 naught. He makes hisself too common. I 
 often tell him so. Says I, " Why dost let 'em 
 all put on thee so ? Serve thee right if I was to 
 send thee my pots and cans to mend." " And 
 so do," says he directly. " There's no art in it 
 if you can make the sawder, and I can do that, 
 by the Dick and Harry ! " And one day I said 
 to liira, " Do take a look at this fine new cow 
 of mine, as cost me twenty-five good shillings 
 and a quart of ale. Whatever is the matter with 
 her ? She looks like the skin of a cow flattened 
 against the board." So says he, "Nay, she's 
 better drawn than nine in ten ; but she wants 
 light and shade. Send her to my workshop." 
 " Ay, ay," says I ; "• thy workshop is like the 
 chiurchyard ; we be all bound to go there one 
 day or t'other." Well, sir, if you believe me, 
 when they brought her home and hung her 
 again, she almost knocked my eye out. There 
 was three or four more women looking on, and 
 I mind all on us skreeked a bit, and our hands 
 
 u 2
 
 292 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 went up in the air as if one string had pulled 
 the lot ; and says Bet Morgan, the carter's wife, 
 " Lord sake, gie me a bucket, somebody, and let 
 me milk her ! " " Nay, but thou shalt milk me," 
 said I, and a pint of fourpenny I gave her, then 
 and there, for complimenting of my, cow. Will 
 Hope, he's everybody's friend. Ke made the 
 Colonel a crutch with his own hands, which 
 the Colonel can use no other now. Walter 
 swears by him. Miss Mary dotes on him : he 
 saved her life in the river when she was a o'irl. 
 The very miners give him a good word, though 
 he is very strict with them ; and as for Bartley, 
 it's m}^ belief he owes all his good luck to Will 
 Hope. And to think he was born in the village, 
 and left it a poor lad ; ay, and he came back 
 here one day as poor as Job, seems but t'other 
 day, with his bundle on his back and his poor 
 little girl in his hand. I dare say I fed them 
 both with whatever was going, poor bodies.' 
 
 ' What was she like ? ' 
 
 ' A poor, httle, wizened thing. Slie had 
 beautiful golden hair, though.'
 
 THE SERPENT LET LOOSE. 293 
 
 ' Like Miss Bartley's ? ' 
 
 ' Something, but lighter.' 
 
 ' Have you ever seen her since ? ' 
 
 ' No ; and I never shall.' 
 
 'Who knows.?' 
 
 ' ISTay, sir. I asked him after her one day 
 when he came home for good. He never 
 answered me, and he turned away as if I had 
 stung him. She has followed her mother, no 
 doubt. And so now she is gone he's well- 
 to-do ; and that is the way of it, sir. God 
 sends mouths where there is no meat, and 
 meat where there's no months. But He knows 
 best, and sees both worlds at once. We can 
 only see this one — that's full of trouble.' 
 
 Monckton now began to yawn, for he 
 wanted to be alone and think over the schemes 
 that floated before him now. 
 
 ' You are sleepy, sir,' said Mrs. Dawson. 
 ' I'll go and see your bed is all right.' 
 
 He thanked her and filled her glass. She 
 tossed it off like a man this time, and left him 
 to doze in his chair.
 
 294 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 Doze, indeed ! Never did a man's eyes 
 move to and fro more restlessly. Every 
 faculty was strung to the utmost. 
 
 At first, as all the dramatis j^ersonw he was 
 in search of came out one after another from 
 that gossip's tongue, he was amazed and 
 delighted to iind that, instead of having to 
 search for one of them in one part of England 
 and another in another, he had got them all 
 ready to his hand. But soon he began to see 
 that they were too near each other, and some 
 of them interwoven, and all the more dangerous 
 to attack. 
 
 He saw one thing at a glance : tliat it 
 would be quite a mistake to settle a plan of 
 action. That is sometimes a great advantage 
 in dealing with the unguarded. But it creates 
 a stiffness. Here all must be supple and fitted 
 with watchful tact to the situation as it rose. 
 Everything would have to be shot flying. 
 
 Then, as to the immediate situation. 
 Eeader, did you ever see a careful setter run
 
 THE SERPEXT LET LOOSE. 295 
 
 suddenly into the middle of a covey which 
 were not on their feet nor close together, but 
 a httle dispersed and reposing in high cover 
 in the middle of the day ? No human face is 
 ever so intense or human form more rioid. 
 He knows that one bird is three yards from 
 his nose, another the same distance from either 
 ear, and, in short, that they are all about him, 
 and to frighten one is to frighten all. 
 
 His tail quivers, and then turns to steel, 
 like his limbs. His eyes glare ; his tongue 
 fears to pant ; it shps out at one side of his 
 teeth, and they close on it. Then slowly, 
 slowly, he goes down, noiseless as a cat, and 
 crouches on the long covert, whether turnips, 
 rape, or clover. 
 
 Even so did this designing cur crouch in 
 the 'Dun Cow.' 
 
 The loyal quadruped is waiting for his 
 master, and his anxiety is disinterested. The 
 biped cur was waiting for the first streak 
 of dawn, to slip away to some more distant
 
 296 A PERILOUS SECRET. 
 
 and safe hiding-place and sally-port than the 
 *Dun Cow,' kept by a woman who was devoted 
 to Hope, to Walter, and to Mary, and had all 
 her wits about her — mother- wit included. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 G.&C. 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 gPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STIIEET SQUARE 
 
 XSU PARLIAMENT STREET
 
 
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