THE
TALLANTS OF BARTON.

A Tale of Fortune and Finance.

BY

JOSEPH HATTON,

Author of “Bitter Sweets: a Love Story;” “Against the Stream,” etc., etc.

“The wheel of Fortune turns incessantly round, and who can say within himself
I shall to-day be uppermost?”—Confucius.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1867.

[The Right of Translation is reserved.]

LONDON:
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.
WEDDING BELLS.

As the sail which we first discern, like a speck against the sky, comes into port at last, so the wedding-day of Miss Amy Tallant arrived in due course of time; and in order that we may present the event to our readers in the most familiar manner, we have compiled from the newspapers the following account of it, discarding on the one hand the rhapsodies of a Severntown reporter who introduced the whole of the marriage service into his version of the ceremony, and omitting on the other hand certain Swivellerish flights of fancy in which the redoubtable Mr. Jenkins himself indulged after he had dined with Richard Tallant, Esq., at his “palatial residence” in Kensington Palace Gardens.

The marriage took place at St. George’s, Hanover Square. The bride was accompanied to church by her brother, Mr. Richard Tallant, her aunt, Lady Amelia Petherington, Miss Somerton, and Lady Georgina Evelyn. The Earl of Verner, accompanied by his “best man” Lord Tufton, went to the church from the Gordon Hotel, Pall Mall East; and the bride from her brother’s princely residence, Kensington Palace Gardens. The bridesmaids were Lady Georgina Evelyn, Lady Maria Fotherington, Miss Fredrika Lionel, Miss Alicia Lionel, Lady de Witz, and Miss Somerton. The bridegroom was first at the church, speedily followed by the bridesmaids, who came from their respective residences. The bride arrived at eleven o’clock, and was conducted to the altar by her brother, a voluntary on the organ being played meanwhile.

Long before this, a distinguished party of friends and spectators had taken their places in the church, and amongst them we noticed Lady Duval, the Countess of Wharton, Major Darfield and Mrs. Darfield, the Hon. J. Delafield and Mrs. Delafield, the Hon. Mrs. Dawkins, Miss Elizabeth Dawkins, Miss Amelia Dawkins, and Miss Felicia Henrietta Dawkins, the Misses Constantine, and the Marquis of Questfield, Sir John and Lady Bewdley, Lady Elizabeth Himley, the Hon. Captain Evesham, Mrs. Evesham, and Miss Evesham, Lady Worcester, the Marquis of Forth, Mr. De Lawtworth and the Countess Dawnforth, His Excellency the French Ambassador, His Excellency the Prince Calignousky, accompanied by the Baron Dionsky and General Dronkoni, Mr. Dest, Lieut. Somerton, Captain MacSchauser, &c., &c.

The bridesmaids awaited the arrival of the bride in the central aisle, and their appearance was as charming as the loveliest bride could desire. Their dresses were of white grenadine trimmed with cerise satin and sashes of the same colour. The wreaths were of lilies of the valley and violets.

The beauty of the bride was the theme of general admiration. She was said to be much like the Petherington family, of which her noble mother was reckoned the greatest beauty. Her bridal dress was of the costliest and most becoming character,—a robe of white satin with a veil of exquisite point-lace, which fell in gorgeous folds upon her heavy sweeping train. She wore a necklace of pearls and diamonds, and bracelets to match.

The ceremony was performed by the Rev. Francis Clifton, vicar of Brazencrook, assisted by the Hon. and Rev. James Fitzpatrick. The responses were given in clear and distinct tones, and the ceremony was altogether most imposing and impressive.

Amidst the magnificent strains of the “Wedding March” the bridegroom led the newly-created Countess to the vestry. The register having been signed and attested, the bridal party left the church for the Gordon Hotel, where a sumptuous déjeûner was prepared for the bridal party and friends. The bill of fare was quite a curiosity in the way of luxurious indications of the feast, and the tables were adorned with the most exquisite ornaments and rare flowers. The bride-cake was designed by an artist of high repute, and was surmounted by a design of the noble Earl’s magnificent castle of Montem.

Before the company retired from the dining-room, Lord Tufton rose, and in a few appropriate sentences proposed “Health and happiness to the Bride and Bridegroom.” The toast was received with rapturous applause. In reply, Lord Verner said that a year ago he had not even dreamed of such a day as this; but the time would never be effaced from his memory as one of the greatest happiness he could possibly experience: it not only was a day never to be forgotten by him, and always to be remembered with gratitude and delight as that upon which his dear wife had given herself up to his keeping; but it was to be remembered also with unfeigned pleasure on account of the many friends it had brought around him, and from whose society his former bachelor habits had, to a great extent, excluded him. It was indeed the happiest, the most important, the one red-letter day of his existence. Loud cheers greeted his lordship’s earnest speech, and then the bride retired to prepare for her departure for Horton Hall, Essex, the seat of Lord Tufton, where they would spend the honeymoon. The Marquis of Questfield then proposed “the Bridesmaids,” and Mr. Tallant acknowledged the deserved compliment in eloquent terms.

At three o’clock the bride and bridegroom took their departure, proceeding by special train to Corfield. The lady’s travelling dress was pronounced to be in the best possible taste.

The journals then gave a list of the presents to the bride, which we need not republish; the gifts were from great people mostly, and were of the costliest character. They included necklets, with pendants of diamonds and pearls; bracelets set in brilliants, diamonds, brooches, workboxes inlaid with gold, dressing cases, Sévres vases, antique china, crosses set with diamonds, writing tablets, watches, fans, and a hundred other things of gold and silver and precious stones, and woods and china, and leather work.

The monitors of the Press, who gave to the world this interesting account of the marriage, may almost be said to have been everywhere on that eventful day. They had been to Mr. Tallant’s residence and seen all the wedding presents; they had talked with the fashionable dressmaker and milliner who had had the making of the trousseau. They had seen the déjeûner laid out in that fine room of the Gordon Hotel; but it was only the privilege of the writer of this history to follow the lady into her chamber.

How handsome she looked! Those observant newspaper gentlemen might well speak of her charms and graceful carriage. When her maid had removed the long lace veil, and the bride’s hair had fallen loosely upon her shoulders, she presented a picture of débonnaire gracefulness and beauty. And what a contrast they were,—the Countess, and Phœbe, with the Miranda-like simplicity and sweetness!

“You may leave me now,” said the bride to her maid.

“Yes, your ladyship,” said the woman.

The title sounded strange and harsh somehow to the newly-made countess. It seemed to cut her off from the people whom she had known from childhood; and yet her heart beat with pride when she felt that she had reached the highest point of her ambition—that all her wild dream had come true.

“How charming you look, my pet!” she said to Phœbe.

“Reflected beauty,” said Phœbe, putting her arm round the bride. “Only reflected beauty, for I never saw you look so pretty, so lovely as you look this morning.”

The Countess smiled a little sadly, but this might only be a woman’s tribute to the importance of the occasion.

“How kind his lordship is! how very kind,” said the bride, as she discovered some new gift on the dressing table.

“It made me cry to hear him speak so earnestly and nobly to-day when your health was proposed,” said Phœbe.

“You are very tender-hearted,” said the Countess, “I did not see any one else look like crying; but the words touched me too. He is a truly generous, warm-hearted man, I am sure.”

Phœbe looked at her friend, as much as to ask her if she had ever doubted it. The Countess read the thought in an instant.

“You think me a strange woman. I have never thought much about his feelings or his heart until lately, Phœbe, and never so much as I have done this morning. It has been all ambition and revenge until to-day, Phœbe; what is it to be in the future?”

She sat down as this thought presented itself to her, and looked at herself in the great mirrors that repeated her supple figure over and over again. She sat and looked at herself, and Phœbe, knowing her secret, crept near her and laid her head upon her shoulders.

“Duty in the future,” said Phœbe softly; “your noble husband’s love and generosity will make you love him in the end I am sure, as he deserves to be loved; the path of duty lies before you and cannot be mistaken.”

“He has long since won my respect, Phœbe, and my gratitude; he loves me with a good man’s truthfulness and sincerity, and I will love him; you know how I have struggled, you know what I have suffered: let us both blot all that part out now and for ever, Phœbe, and as you love me pray that I may be sustained in the wifely path of duty and obedience.”

The Countess spoke like her former self in those past days before that cloud of sorrow fell upon Barton Hall; in those past days when she was the bailiff’s daughter and the sisterly companion of her whom she had since supplanted in fortune and position.

The tears came into Phœbe’s eyes again, and the two women embraced each other tenderly.

“Bless you, my own dear friend,” said the Countess, “believe me, I will make reparation for all my unkindness to you. There dear, do not reply—kiss me again and leave me—it is better I should be alone a little while.”

Alone, the Countess fell upon her knees, and prayed with passionate fervency—prayed as she had not prayed since that change came over her on that never-to-be-forgotten day when she learnt of his departure—prayed as she had not prayed since that scheme of ambition leaped into her mind at the appearance of that carriage with the coronet on the panel.

She rose with a calm expression upon her face, refreshed by the outpouring of her supplications, and determined to do her duty in the high station to which she had risen, and towards her husband.

Unlocking a small dressing-case which stood near his lordship’s latest present, she took out an inner drawer which was curiously concealed. Her hand trembled slightly as she withdrew the contents—a letter. It was his letter (if it might be called a letter)—the only memento of him which she possessed except in memory. There were only three lines upon it, and these were written on the day following that day when they had walked together in Barton Hall gardens.

“Dearest—I shall be at Barton Hall at four o’clock to-morrow. Do not let me go away without seeing you. L. H.” This was all the note contained. For long days and weeks and months afterwards she had treasured up that poor little scrap of paper—worn it in her bosom, wept over it, kissed it, and cherished the memory of that hour of happiness which followed it.

For a moment she held it in her hand hesitatingly. She felt that it was the only link between the present and the past. Lighting a vesta, she held the paper in the flame until it was consumed, and then she stamped her little satin-slippered foot upon the embers. The flame burnt her fingers before it went out, as if there were venom in the perjured words that the fire was consuming. But this was nothing to the fire which had seared her heart long since, burning into it those serpent words that had looked so fair only to sting the deeper. But it was over at last, and now she was Countess of Verner.

“My lady” rang for her maid, and prepared to dress for the bridal journey. Whilst her robes were being removed she glanced round the room which had been furnished with so much magnificence for her reception, and then she thought, with a grateful smile, of the homage which her husband had paid her in all things.

The maid being asked some simple question, told her how the health of the bridesmaids had been proposed, and how her ladyship’s handsome brother had made a beautiful speech in reply. This she thought would please her ladyship very much indeed; but it only excited uncomfortable thoughts in her ladyship’s mind—a vague kind of danger seemed to threaten her through Richard Tallant.

Her ladyship asked no more questions, but went through the elaborate process of her toilette in silence, and by-and-by left the room robed in purple moire, and lace, and looking every inch a countess, to the everlasting envy of Lady Petherington and her youngest sister, and to the delight of her husband and the rest.

All this time the bells at Severntown, Avonworth, and Brazencrook rung out over town and field and river. The summer air was full of their glorious old music. The ringers in their shirt sleeves pulled with a will, until the churches fairly shook again. Mighty jugs of ale passed from hand to hand, from lip to lip, in the intervals of this labour of love, and majors and triple bob-majors and all kinds of curious changes were performed on the swinging bells. Avonworth caught the faint echoes from Severntown, and Brazencrook, picking up the trembling tones from Avonworth, took them up into its own ringing measure, and carried the grand old-fashioned harmonies away down the river to distant villages, where women stood at cottage doors and listened, and men rested on their scythes to wonder why Brazencrook bells were ringing.

Glorious bells, merry bells, wedding bells! Arthur Phillips sat in his studio with the windows wide open listening to the joyous music, and thinking of the peal that would soon ring out the news of another marriage. He looked away beyond the Linktown hills in the direction of London, thought of his darling Phœbe in her bridesmaid’s dress, and pictured her, in a wreath of orange blossoms at a country church, by a time-sanctified altar in Avonworth Valley.

Happy bells, tuneful bells, olden bells, wedding bells! Luke Somerton heard them as he sat with his wife at the Hall Farm, and puzzled his brain with all sorts of vague happy fancies that seemed to soar upwards in the smoke of his early after-dinner pipe. His wife spoke cheerily of the music, but it was a great struggle for her. Something would whisper in her ear that the Countess might perhaps have been her daughter, but the next moment she remembered that Phœbe was there as her ladyship’s friend, and that Lieutenant Somerton was amongst the distinguished visitors. That strange dream of ambition, you see, had not all passed away from the proud Lincolnshire woman’s heart.

Joyful bells, brazen bells, jubilant bells, wedding bells! Travel your happy strains adown that glimmering river; no whisper of your tender music can reach that home-bound ship that rides on the Indian sea.

CHAPTER II.
“YET OFT O’ER CREDULOUS YOUTH SUCH SIRENS TRIUMPH, AND LEAD THEIR CAPTIVE SENSE IN CHAINS AS STRONG AS ADAMANT.”

The day after the marriage of Miss Tallant, Lieutenant Somerton sat in Mrs. Dibble’s front parlour, discussing, with her interesting lodger, the details of his scheme for the future.

Embellished with several pictures and vases, a lady’s easy chair, and other little things which the Lieutenant had purchased from time to time, the room looked quite neat and attractive.

They would be content, Paul was telling her, with something a little better than this in their distant home, where they would begin the world all afresh, and remember nothing but their own true love for each other. “What an infatuated fool he must be, most renowned Asmodeo,” Don Cleofas would say. “Why, the young woman is vulgar too. Do you not notice how ignorant she is? And what shambling efforts she is making to hide it?” “You forget that my business,” says Asmodeo, “is to make ridiculous matches, marry maids to their masters, greybeards to raw girls; and see here, you forget the cloak!” Refreshing his memory upon these points, Don Cleofas would be satisfied of course; and so must we; for Paul Somerton sees only charms in “Chrissy’s” defects. We need hardly say that she had improved considerably in her manners since that conversation with Dibble at Severntown; she had long since ceased to call things “stunning” and “fizzing.”

That gentleman, who was enamoured of her dexterity at cards, had done much to prune her exuberance of expression in this respect, and it was wonderful how quickly she further improved during her stay with Mrs. Dibble, not under the tuition of that elegant lady, but with the inspiration of Paul’s books and her own cunning instinct.

She had often thought of that night when first she heard the name of Paul Somerton. “I know a young gentleman as would make such a sweetheart for you—such a sweetheart!” old Dibble had said. And her own remark—what if she should conjure into the basket that handsome Paul Somerton, who talked so fine! How strange that she had conjured him to her side! She wished she had seen him before she saw Crawley. Why did he not come into the Temple of Magic first? It was not her fault that he didn’t. She would have had him for her husband sooner than she would have had that mean sneak, Crawley, who cared nothing at all about her, and who never admired her at all after they were married. And what a funny thing that she should be living with Dibble’s wife! There were lots of murders and robberies, and other awful things in that tale in the Weekly Sensation, but her own story was certainly as strange as that of the young lady who was stolen by gipsies. She had not been confined in a castle, and left for dead in a cellar to be eaten by rats, been rescued by her father, and afterwards stabbed the villain who had run away with her at first: none of these things had come to pass yet in her history; but there was no knowing how soon they might.

She was prepared at any moment, she felt, to enter the next phase of her career, whatever it might be, and had gone so far in her imitative insane fashion, as to sleep with a dagger beneath her pillow; but she secretly hoped that nothing would occur to prevent her flying with Paul. In her own fashion, she loved this mad-headed soldier, and she dreaded the discovery of her wickedness and deception. If she had been brought up in a respectable home, with moral influences about her and a mother at her elbow, she might perchance still have done justice to her home education, as she did now; but it is not necessary that we should enter into speculations upon this point. Her story is before us, and it is the duty of the writer to tell it fairly, and leave the reader to form his own opinion about what education and good moral home influences might have done for this woman of the booth and the fair, the race-course and the gaming-room, who, with the brightness of youth still about her, managed, with siren-like skill, to look so innocent and attractive in the eyes of Paul Somerton.

The day after that grand wedding at St. George’s, Hanover Square, Mrs. Dibble told Chrissy that her husband would be coming to pay her a visit in a week or two, and Chrissy knew that it was necessary she should leave Mrs. Dibble before that period: so she had talked of change of air, and Paul, given over to the reckless passion of his first love!—(Heaven save the mark!)—had resolved upon a quiet private wedding at Brighton that day week. The Lieutenant was just explaining his views when there came a loud knocking at the front door, and after considerable bustle and confusion in the little narrow passage, Mrs. Dibble burst into the room with her husband.

“Lor, Mithter Thomerton, Leftennant, thir, Thomath thaith he mutht shake hands with you, and he hath come before hith time, becauth it wath more convenient, and I’m sure you will excuthe him, when you think of old times and——”

“Of course, of course,” said Paul, wishing old Dibble at Hanover; “and how are you, Thomas? how do you do?”

Dibble made no reply, but allowed his hand to be shaken in the most condescending fashion, whilst he fixed his eyes upon the young lady.

“Why, deary me!” he exclaimed, all of a sudden, “Miss Christabel, how do you do? Well, who would ha’ thought as I should find you at Mrs. Dibble’s?”

The lady addressed looked at Mr. Dibble with the greatest possible astonishment, and then turned to Lieutenant Somerton, as if she sought some explanation of this extraordinary conduct.

“Daughter of the Northern magician, you know,” said Dibble, addressing the Lieutenant; “the cleverest young lady as ever I see. Lor’ bless you, I——”

“What the devil do you mean!” exclaimed the Lieutenant.

“Surely the man is not sober,” said the young lady in her finest style, and with just a faint smile at Dibble’s bewildered look.

“It hain’t the voice quite,” said Dibble; “but it be Chrissy, you know; she was the mysterious lady and——”

“And what?” exclaimed the Lieutenant.

Before Dibble had time to answer he caught “Chrissy’s” eye and its sudden expression of warning, such as that which he remembered coupled with her threats about the pistol; so he only stammered out something about being mistaken, and begging pardon——

“You’re alwayth making thome mithtake or other,” said Mrs. Dibble; “there, come along in the next room. I’m thorry I allowed him to come in, Mithter Thomerton, but hith headth bewildered, no doubt, with having been away from home tho much and having previouthly had my eye on him: and what he would do without ith a mythtery to me.”

The Lieutenant said, “All right, Mrs. Dibble, don’t apologise,” and poor Dibble slunk away into the kitchen and sat down, Mrs. D. following.

“There, Thomath, never mind,” said Mrs. Dibble in her blandest tones; “come and tell me all about it.”

But Dibble remembered how clever that mysterious lady of the show was; how fierce she was, and he trembled at the bare idea of her exercising any of her black arts upon him, in case he should betray her secret. It was quite clear that she did not wish him to know her; but he had made no mistake at all, he was sure of that; and Mrs. Dibble was sharp enough to see that there was some mystery here which she would assuredly have cleared up before Dibble went to sleep that night.

An unfortunate night altogether was this for the “mysterious lady.” Mr. Williamson had sent a messenger to the house for Lieutenant Somerton soon after Dibble’s strange arrival, and Paul had taken a cab, as requested, to the Temple, where he found the barrister in company with an unknown gentleman.

“This is Mr. Bales, the detective officer, of whom you have heard me speak,” said the barrister.

Paul bowed.

“My friend, Lieutenant Somerton,” said the barrister, introducing Paul.

The detective nodded in deliberate professional fashion.

“Mr. Bales has executed that old warrant to-day, and Shuffleton Gibbs, alias Mr. Jefferson Crawley, of Carr Court, Regent Street West, is now in custody. (Paul looked a little bewildered, and sat down.) Mr. Bales is a great friend of mine, and I tell him that it might not be advisable after all this time to reopen the case. Mr. Bales fears that we shall be compelled to proceed with it. But there is, it appears, some other case against him, though not quite so clear as that of the pocket-book. Mr. Bales will call here again in an hour before anything further is done: meanwhile you and I will talk affairs over. Good-bye for the present, Bales.”

The detective officer nodded in reply and left the room, and then Mr. Williamson, alluding to that first gleam of suspicion in connection with Paul’s attempt to borrow money, went on to tell his friend that this woman whom Paul had made up his mind to marry was the wife of Shuffleton Gibbs. He believed he should be able to produce the marriage certificate. Gibbs knew where she was, and had told this to the detective. He had found her out within a week of her disappearance, through Macschawser, and he talked boldly of an action for abduction and other tremendous things.

Paul would not believe a word of it. His friend had surely entered into a plot against him. Then he remembered the strange conduct of Dibble, and hesitated.

“I have only one duty to perform in this matter,” said the barrister, “and that is to show you the character of the precipice upon which you stand, and then leave you to your fate. Have you obtained the sanction for your change of regiment?”

“Yes,” said Paul; “and the vessel sails next month.”

“For the Cape of Good Hope?”

“Yes.”

“Now, my dear boy, I know you believe in my friendship; will you permit me to investigate this affair for you, and undertake to give the facts proper consideration before you take further action?”

“I will,” said Paul, “provided that in all you do you respect her feelings, and remember that I love this woman better than all the world.”

Mr. Williamson shrugged his shoulders.

“I love her better than all the world, and I only consent to this active interference because I know she will come out of the inquiry clear. The idea of her being Gibbs’s wife is absurd,” Paul went on.

“But supposing it is true?” said the barrister.

“I will suppose nothing. Why do you try to bring unhappiness between us? In less than a month we should have been on the sea to begin a new life in a new country—turning our backs upon the past.”

“And upon your friends,” said the barrister. “You would be leaving father and mother and sister and friends in the society of an abandoned woman.”

“Mr. Williamson,” exclaimed Paul, “I will not stand this!”

“In the society of an abandoned woman,” repeated the barrister, “not like those poor people in the picture ‘Seeking New Homes,’ with the association of pure affection and honest noble aims of independence. Your whole life would have been blighted, your family disgraced, and yourself a miserable man.”

“I will not get into a passion with you,” said Paul, “but I cannot stand this, so good-night;” and before the barrister had time to intercept him, Paul rushed out of the room and hurried away into the street.

Meanwhile Mr. Bales returned. The barrister informed him that he thought it would be impossible to proceed with the case of conspiracy. The officer said he had another charge against the prisoner upon which he could secure a conviction, and so the two parted; the detective to complete his entry in the police charge-sheet and arrange for the appearance on the next day of certain witnessess, and Mr. Williamson to the residence of Mrs. Dibble, where he at once introduced himself to her interesting lodger as Lieut. Somerton’s friend.

He did not hesitate at all about the part he should play. Assuming the position of Lieut. Somerton’s legal adviser, he told the lady that Paul knew everything, and when she assumed an injured and indignant air, he showed her a copy of that very marriage certificate which she had burnt. Nay, more; he said that he knew where her father the showman was to be found, and that her husband, who was in custody, had explained everything to the policeman who had apprehended him.

And yet whilst the barrister was utterly crushing the girl, and even threatening her with a police cell, he felt a strange interest in her. The remembrance of a well-known face which had fascinated him when a boy came so vividly into his mind as he stood before the showman’s daughter, that he grew strangely embarrassed in his manner. Shortly, his assumed austerity gave way, and he found himself speaking very gently and tenderly.

The girl was quick enough to observe this, and she proceeded at once to make capital out of it, appealing to his kindness and sympathy, assuring him that she loved his friend with all her heart, acknowledging to the full how she had deceived him, and then humbly soliciting the barrister’s advice.

Old memories came back to the barrister as the woman continued to talk, and her tears did not fail to soften the hues of that picture of old which would rise up between himself and the humiliated woman before him. Leading her on from one topic to another he induced her to narrate her history, and by slow degrees she repeated to him the heads of the story which she had told Dibble on the Severntown race-course. Feeling sure that this would excite the barrister’s sympathy, she hoped that it might in some way make him her friend.

Watching the effect of all she was saying, the girl perceived that her listener was peculiarly touched; and when at the proper moment she produced that little miniature which she had shown to Dibble, Mr. Arundel Williamson, exclaiming “Good heavens, can it be possible!” threw himself back in his chair and nearly fainted.

Fixing her eyes upon him as he grasped the locket, the woman, with the cunning of the race-course and the lodging-house, the precocity of poverty, and her fixed faith in Carkey’s prophecy about her parentage, felt at once that the hour of discovery had come.

“You are my father!” she said, with an air of pride and triumph. “That lady was your wife.”

“God help us!” said the barrister solemnly. “He visits the sins of the fathers upon the children indeed!”

“You won’t drive me away now,” said the girl quickly; “you won’t try to make him hate me, and put me in prison now. If you don’t like me to be your daughter, let me go away with him; tell him all that about Gibbs is a lie,—he will believe you—he will believe anything—don’t separate us—I will never tell anybody you are my father.”

The barrister made no reply; he rocked himself to and fro in his chair, and looked vacantly at the girl, as if he were in a dream.

“I am your father,” said the barrister presently; “there is no doubt about that. The sin and the punishment are so equal, and the parentage is so fearfully verified in your own career and conduct: there is no cheating heaven, no tricking the law of punishment in this world. God knows I have suffered too, without this additional pain and degradation.”

“You’re ashamed of me, then?” said the woman. “Lieutenant Somerton is not; let me go away with him.”

“Never!” exclaimed the barrister: “never!”

“Well, it thertainly ith the motht exthraordinary thing I ever heard of,” whispered Mrs. Dibble to herself and Thomas in the passage after she had been listening at the keyhole for nearly half an hour: “motht wonderful. Now come here, thir, and juth tell me all you know about that woman. It’s bad enough to have one’s money lotht and brought to poverty, without secrets of this sort being kept away from the lawful wife of your bootham, Mithter Dibble. You thall tell me every word before you go to bed.”

Dibble struggled a little against this decree, but without avail. Whilst he was telling his wife all that he knew about Christabel, Mr. Williamson was endeavouring to bring that remarkable young woman to a sense of her position. To what extent he succeeded we may hope to learn hereafter.

CHAPTER III.
COMING HOME.

Yes, they were coming home; the Earl and Countess of Verner were coming home. The “Severntown Mercury” said so, and mentioned the exact day on which they would return. Nay, more, the accomplished journalist announced that during that very week his lordship had accepted the colonelship of the Severnshire Yeomanry, and that the local troop would receive the distinguished couple at the Severntown Station, and escort them to the Junction, from whence they would continue their journey to Avonworth. A member of the oldest county family, and the most distinguished of the local aristocracy, the “Mercury” suggested that the civic authorities should show his lordship some mark of their respect as he passed through the ancient city on his way to the historic home of his fathers.

The Right Honourable the Earl Verner was descended from that famous Verner who figured so magnificently in the early days of the reign of Henry IV. In the tournaments of that time, Henry, Earl Verner, was the bravest and most formidable of all the gallants of the period. He fought like a lion at the battle of Shrewsbury, and served the king in various parts of the country with unequalled bravery and success. The Verners had always been splendid men. There was another of the race who distinguished himself as highly in the senate as the Verner of Henry IV.’s time had in the field. It was to this senator that England owed so much in those critical times when the doctrines of the French Revolution were making progress in our own country. The Earl’s speech in parliament upon this grand question was one of the most powerful orations in history. He filled several high offices of state, and his fine administrative ability could be traced throughout the important epoch in which he lived. The present earl, though he had hitherto taken no lead in public affairs, was an accomplished scholar, and had contributed several important pamphlets to the literature of art and antiquity; and he would, no doubt, now take that position in the county to which his family distinction, his accomplishments, and his great wealth entitled him.

The Countess of Verner had also sprung of a stock not by any means of small celebrity. Her parentage might be said to have represented the aristocracy of birth and commercial enterprise. Her father, the late Christopher Tallant, Esq., had ranked high amongst the merchant princes of Great Britain, and had come of an old Yorkshire family. Her mother, a lady of the noble house of Petherington, was a descendant of the Petheringtons of Fife. The Lord Petherington of that ilk it was who distinguished himself in Egypt in 1800, and who fell fighting the battles of his country in Spain. Celebrated for their beauty, the daughters of the house of Petherington would be familiar to those admirers of “female loveliness” who had studied “Garton’s Beauties of the Court.”

The “Mercury” grew quite eloquent in its historical revelations, and Severntown resolved, in accordance with the editorial hint, that the Earl and Countess should be “received” at the station, and escorted to the junction in right royal fashion. So, when the day came, there was quite a crowd of people at the station. A troop of the Yeomanry Cavalry were there, and their horses pranced and curvetted, and stood upon two legs, in the most approved military fashion; a number of ladies who had seats upon the platform, presented the Countess with a handsome bracelet and a charming bouquet of flowers; the mayor came forward, and made a pretty little speech to the newly-married pair; and the Earl replied in a hearty address. Then his lordship conducted his wife to a carriage, and drove off to the junction, amidst great cheering, in company with the gallant Yeomanry on their prancing steeds.

But it was at Brazencrook where the greatest demonstration was made. Severntown was somewhat proud and dignified; but Brazencrook was full of rejoicing. Nearly the whole of the longest street in Brazencrook belonged to Earl Verner, and the people had always been warmly attached to the noble proprietors of the Castle of Montem. Brazencrook was the nearest station to the castle, and Brazencrook determined to make the return home something not to be forgotten. The Town-clerk had been instructed to prepare an address for the occasion. The cordwainers of the place had made the Countess a pair of dainty slippers; the glass-cutters had manufactured and made wonderful toilet-bottles for her; the ladies of the town had subscribed for a gold casket; and the civic authorities had ordered the town to be decorated, and the bells to be rung in honour of their distinguished friends and neighbours.

The old Guildhall was carpeted, and a daïs erected in the ancient assembly-room. The earl had consented to bring his wife here to receive the civic congratulations and the big town’s presents. Brazencrook had always been celebrated for doing things well; it was one of the leading mottoes of the local newspaper, that “if it was worth while to do anything it was worth while to do it well.” Thus the welcoming home of the earl and countess grew and grew out of the first proposals into a demonstration worthy of royalty. If our friend Asmodeus had taken you there on the morning of the celebration of this return-home, you might have fancied that you had been transported back to the “good old times” of provincial display. The visit of a queen, the close of a three weeks’ election, the termination of a great war, the inauguration of some old-world revels, or something on an ancient scale of grandeur, would have seemed to be manifested in those fluttering flags and banners; those half-military men in the streets; that ox roasting in the market-place; those great casks of ale ready tapped under the ancient piazzas of the market-house. Bands playing, bells ringing, shops closed, triumphal arches receiving the last-finishing touches, old gabled houses with devices painted up between the windows, Odd-Fellows in sashes and aprons, gentlemen with white rosettes on their breasts, women with babies in their arms, boys climbing lamp-posts, and again Yeomanry Cavalry with brass helmets and unmanageable horses, Brazencrook had never presented such a scene of jubilation and bustle. The fine old town seemed to rub its jolly big hands, and say, “How do you do, everybody—glad to see you. Have a drink—we are going to enjoy ourself to-day. It is a little foolish to make such a tremendous fuss, we know; but never mind;—better to do a thing well, if you do it at all, you know.”

Somebody had drawn an allegorical figure of the town, and it had been sculptured by a famous artist. It was a brawny athletic man, with a hammer in his hand, leaning upon a rock from which water was supposed to be bursting forth—the source of the river upon which the town was built. If the figure could have spoken it would have said something like what we have just written, and it might have laid down its hammer and smiled pleasantly at the Brazencrookians as they bustled about on that memorable morning.

There was a glow of pride and delight upon the rosy cheeks of the Countess as she sat by her lord in that pretty open brougham which conveyed them to the Guildhall. It was like the reception of a prince and princess. Lord Verner bowed like a king to his bending subjects, and the Countess smiled and bowed with a gracious condescension that was quite charming to see. The people cheered and shouted and threw up their hats, and “Welcome Home,” “Long Life and Happiness,” and good wishes of all kinds greeted them from nearly every banner and triumphal arch.

Meanwhile a dense crowd congregated at the Guildhall, and a fashionable throng was congregated within. There had been many local feuds about places. The town-councillors had to be accommodated first, and their wives next, and we regret to say that quarrels which time will never heal arose out of the preference shown to some ladies over others in the selection of the committee to represent the ladies who had subscribed for the casket. It was quite grand to see the aldermen in their blue cloaks and chains, the councillors in their gowns, the mayor in his cocked hat, the sword-bearers with their fur helmets on and their beavers up. Then there were the mayor’s officers in their new liveries, and his Worship’s own footman with a bouquet in his waistcoat as big and as round as his own rubicund face. The military pensioners with their shining accoutrements were drawn up in line ready to present arms. Even Earl Verner was struck with surprise and amazement as his coachman pulled up opposite the hall. What a scene it was, to be sure! “Eyes front—fix bayonets—present a-r-r-r-rms!” could be heard half way down the street, as a fierce old officer, on a plunging horse and half pay, thundered out these commands to the pensioners; and then, oh, how his stentorian voice was drowned with drums and fifes and “hip-hip-hip-hurrahs!”

The Countess began to feel terribly nervous as his lordship handed her out and introduced her to the mayor, who offered his arm and marched magnificently into the Guildhall along the crowded corridor and into the great assembly-room, where a thousand well-dressed persons rose to receive the noble visitors. Onward through the smiling throng, with his head in the air and the Countess by his side, went the Mayor of Brazencrook, up to the daïs of crimson cloth, where the Countess sat down in a gilded chair of state, and the Earl stood beside her, his lordship looking almost as proud as his Worship the Mayor himself.

Suddenly the Countess recognised Phœbe, Arthur Phillips and the bailiff sitting close by. She rose instantly, advanced towards them, and the next moment had kissed her friend with a heartiness that made the tears come into Phœbe’s eyes, and quite electrified everybody. Who was the lady whom she had kissed? Everybody asked everybody else, and nobody knew. Who was that strange looking little man with long black hair? And who was that fine-looking country gentleman? Nobody knew, and everybody made a guess in reply, so that there was quite a buzz of conversation. Then the Mayor introduced the aldermen, who had all promised to introduce their wives and didn’t; then the Mayoress was introduced, and the Countess shook hands with her, and so did the Earl; whereupon several friends of the chief magistrate’s wife said the Mayoress was “stuck up,” and a score of other ladies said the whole affair was a perfect farce, and they certainly would not have sanctioned it if they had known there was going to be so much nonsense. Who was the Countess, they would like to know? Nobody but a merchant’s daughter, and her husband old enough to be her father. And who was the Mayoress?—a seedsman’s wife,—and what a bonnet! It was a pity people should make themselves so ridiculous! And the Countess too; there were women in the room quite as handsome and quite as graceful. Fine feathers made fine birds!

The Countess might fairly have disputed the prize for beauty with all Severnshire, nevertheless; her chiefest competitor, to our mind, would have been the artist’s fiancée, but the two styles of beauty were entirely different, as our readers know.

It was not long ere the Town-clerk had read the civic address, and the various presents were made. The Earl replied in a manner that promised all the old borough hoped for with regard to the future; whilst the Countess said a few words of thankfulness, which were so gracious, so sweet, so becoming, so perfectly modest, that even the ladies who had been excluded from the committee aforesaid could not resist joining in the general expressions of approval.

How sincerely the Countess vowed in her own heart to be an obedient and faithful wife to this man who had raised her to such a height of distinction! He had never seen her look so affectionately upon him as when they were once more moving on their way to his magnificent house at Montem. The welcome which they had received at Brazencrook was of such a right royal kind, that it kindled not only sensations of pride in the woman’s heart, but feelings of the deepest gratitude. The sublime and the ridiculous are often to be seen in very close proximity. The Countess could not fail to notice some of the laughable incidents of the Brazencrook display, but she felt to the full the earnestness of the scene, the manliness of the civic address, the outspoken, independent allegiance of the great body of her husband’s tenants, represented by a fine old man, who talked of the ancient days of Brazencrook, and how the retainers of the House of Verner had fought, under previous earls, the battles of their king and country. But it was the arrival at Montem Castle itself which most impressed the Countess. That long drive through the luxurious park, that long line of citizen soldiers, that body of local tenants at the castle gates, those loud cheers, that other address of welcome, the bending servants in the grand old hall, and the gracious words of the Earl introducing her as the mistress of Montem Castle. She wept tears of joy and gratitude. There was no acting in this. When she saw Earl Verner first she had commenced to act a part which she hoped might lead up to some such scene as this; but she had never imagined that the actress would weep real tears, and feel a deep and fervent gratitude to the nobleman who had taken her hand and placed her by his side.

CHAPTER IV.
TRAVELLERS BY LAND AND SEA.

In the morning after Mr. Williamson’s discovery of his daughter, Lieutenant Somerton sought the woman whom he had loved so wildly—he sought her with a troubled heart, and a half resolve to see her no more, if she had deceived him so grossly as the barrister had intimated. He had thought long and seriously over all the circumstances which his friend had laid before him, and he resolved to search out the truth.

When he reached the house, however, he was spared the scene of anger, mutual explanation, and final triumph of love and frenzy which he had imagined. The bird had flown; there was no Chrissy in the little house with the trees at the back. The rooms were deserted, and Mrs. Dibble sat weeping over the débris of a hasty packing-up.

“She’th gone, thir: gone for ever,” said Mrs. Dibble.

“Yes,” said Thomas, who stood by, looking more frightened than sympathetic.

“Gone—what do you mean?” asked the Lieutenant.

“She wath a wicked creature, thir, and she hath fled,” said Mrs. Dibble; “if my poor dear papa could only rise from his grave and see the path to which hith daughter Maria hath come.”

“Hang your papa!” exclaimed Paul; “tell me what all this means.”

“How dare you, thir,” said Mrs. Dibble, starting up; “how dare you hang my papa! Ah, I forgot, of courthe poverty mutht be insulted, and I am a wretched dependent, though I have had a boarding-school education, and been brought up to——”

“Confound it, Mrs. Dibble: will you talk common sense for a moment. I don’t wish to insult you, nor to be unkind in any way. Will you tell me how it is that this lady has left your house?”

“Here is a note,” said Mr. Dibble, timidly taking a small billet from the mantel-piece.

Mrs. Dibble scowled at her husband, and began to weep afresh over her fallen fortunes.

Paul hastily opened the note, which Dibble gave to him, and read as follows:—

“My dear Paul,—I have saved you from a great sin and from terrible misery. This wretched girl is my daughter. I have taken her away; do not seek to follow us. You shall know all in the course of a day or two. ‘He visits the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate him, and shows mercy unto thousands in them that love Him and keep His commandments.’

“Believe me to be ever yours in truth and affection,

“A. Williamson.”

Paul read the note twice and in the greatest astonishment. His mind was in a chaos of wonder and amazement. He sat down upon a chair, and read the strange words over and over again, until Dibble interrupted him.

“It was all true, sir,” said Dibble, “what I said yesterday; she was the show-girl, Chrissy, who conjured, you know, sir, at Severntown.”

Paul made no reply.

Mrs. Dibble only nodded her head to signify that she had had a boarding-school education, and had been brought to this wretched plight, nevertheless.

“She be main clever, surely,” said Dibble, “and improved wonderful.”

“When did she leave here?” asked Paul, looking to Mrs. Dibble for a reply.

“Before daylight, by the mail,” she said; “and what with packing and Mr. Williamson’s fidgeting and going on, and his wild ways, I hope I shall never see such a night again.”

“They left together,” said Paul, staring vacantly at the barrister’s note.

“Yeth, and Dibble fetched the cab.”

“Did she seem willing to go; did she leave any message for me?”

“Nothing,” said Mrs. Dibble. “She wath willing enough to go; but anybody would have been willing to do whatever he thaid, he theemed to order about so.”

“Order! in what way?” asked the Lieutenant.

“Why, ath if he were her father, which he thaid he wath, though that wath never to be repeated to anybody but you, and he went home and brought some money, and wath motht liberal for all we had done, though I thertainly would have returned it if Mithter Dibble had not lotht money in the panic, and that bank had not broke, which left uth almost in poverty.”

The Lieutenant took little or no notice of Mrs. Dibble’s long speeches, but they were full of daggers to Thomas Dibble, who would have laid down his life if he could have obtained money enough to put an end to his wife’s taunts about their losses.

Paul was altogether at a loss to know how to act. His first impulse was to make an effort to follow the fugitives; his first impression was that his friend had behaved treacherously; but when Dibble told him all he knew about “Chrissy,” and her belief that her father was a gentleman, and when he thought again of all that Williamson had said, and of the dark shadows upon his early life, he resolved that he would try to be patient, and wait for the next chapter in this extraordinary story of his first love.

Meanwhile the fugitives were speeding on their way to Dover, their destination being Paris. Whilst they were leaving England, a traveller was journeying to London in whom the reader has a still greater interest. Lionel Hammerton was coming home. He had only been a few months at his post ere he left it. Nobody knew why he did so, or upon what plea he had obtained permission. He had not been well, his comrades knew; but a general depression of spirits rather than any physical complaint seemed to be the secret of his reticence and retirement. On board the vessel in which he went out his conduct was set down to the motion of the vessel, and a few harmless jests were made at his expense. He was advised to drink plenty of brandy and water, which would soon bring his sea legs all right; but Lionel Hammerton did not recover, except when he drank more brandy than was good for him. Now and then this occurred, and at such times he was pronounced to be a splendid fellow, a dashing, daring, high-souled fellow.

Lionel himself hardly knew why he wished to return home. He felt impelled by an unseen influence. Like the hero of some ghost story who at Christmas had seen by his bedside the face of a loved one at home, and a beckoning finger which haunted him day and night until he set foot on board a home-bound ship, Lionel Hammerton could think of nothing but returning home. There was something wrong, he could not rest, he must go home and see the old country once more ere he settled down in India. For days and weeks he struggled against this instinctive longing to re-cross the ocean. That vignette which Arthur Phillips had painted hung by his bed, inside those mosquito curtains! Had this aught to do with his desire to return home? Did he repent of his neglect towards Amy? Did he love her after all? Did the memory of those happy days at Barton torture him with remorse? Or had that idea of Amy’s mercenary motives evaporated in presence of that honest and noble face, about which he had talked so rapturously in the artist’s studio? If so, why did he not write to her and say so, or send some message to her by Arthur Phillips? This would have been easy enough, and sufficient too for Amy, who would have caught at the merest straw that offered a prospect of regaining his love.

They passed each other on the sea, the two Indian ships—one homeward-bound with Hammerton on board, the other on its way to Calcutta with letters for him, and full particulars of his brother’s marriage. What a world of trouble might have been spared to him and others, had he yielded at once to those home-promptings, or waited until those letters and papers had reached their destination!

As the vessel bounded along through the waters, Lionel shaped his course. He was fain to confess that he wanted to see Amy, to see her once more, and judge for himself by her own words and conduct whether she truly loved him, or whether it was a mere mercenary passion. It was a long time before he confessed even to himself that it was she who drew him back to England—he could not rest without her. If she were really true, true as the artist had painted her, true as he once believed her, he would confess all to his brother, and ask Amy to return with him to India as his wife. What a fool he had been, he thought, to doubt her, and to come away without seeing her. What a miserable lonely life it was out there in India without a soul you cared for. How happy to have a wife there! No fellow ought to go out to India without one. And what did it matter about a woman’s origin in India, so that she was a lady in manners, and the wife of an officer of rank in his own right? Why had he not thought of all this before? It was only by degrees that he had permitted his thoughts to run wild like this. The sea seemed to help him out of his troubles; it was so boundless, so full of life and beauty. His thoughts appeared to mount the white-crested waves and travel away upon them to some quiet sandy beach where Amy was walking. Now that he had confessed to himself why he was returning to England, he gave his imagination the freest rein, and pictured the future as something almost preternaturally happy. He never doubted for a moment that when he came back to Barton Hall and threw his handkerchief at the feet of Amy she would pick it up and be his slave. That pride which had had so large a share in his leaving England and neglecting the woman whose love he had taken the trouble to win, did not desert him on his return.

When he set foot in London he hesitated whether he should go straight to Montem, run down to Arthur Phillips’ at Severntown, or take the train to Avonworth. It had occurred to him more than once to visit Amy secretly; but his better sense prompted him to write a note to his brother telling him that he should visit him the next day, hoping to return again to India by an early mail.

“He will be surprised,” Lionel thought, “to receive this; but he is a dear old boy after all, and I will soon put him all right. I wish I had had nothing to do with that infernal Stock Exchange business. I should then have had no qualms at all about meeting him again so suddenly.”

The Hon. officer of her Majesty spent the evening of his return to England at Drury Lane, and his magnanimous intentions with regard to Amy were stimulated by the action of a drama, the chief lesson of which was the levelling power of love, and the exaltation of beauty and virtue above rank and fortune. Lionel went home to his hotel in quite a sentimental mood, longing to confess his unchanging love and receive Amy’s grateful acknowledgments of the sacrifice which he was willing to make for her, raising the bailiff’s daughter to his own rank and making her his wife and companion.

CHAPTER V.
LORD AND LADY VERNER.

A delightful September morning inaugurated the second day of the return home to Montem Castle. The sun shone upon the grand old towers which stood out in clear outline against the sky; and upon the old ruin with its moss-grown walls and whispering ivy, a grey old token of the past, with a long line of green turf stretching forth to the more modern castle which had been built in presence of the ancient ruin. The modern establishment had been built as closely as possible after the old model, and furnished too in antique style, but with all modern comforts.

As far as the eye could see, stretched the noble park with grand old trees sheltering groups of deer. From the terrace in front of the castle half a mile of turf, interspersed with beds of flowers and shrubs and winding walks and natural glints of rock terminated in a broad expanse of lake, ornamented with sundry islands that looked in the distance like floating gardens. Far away against the sky the Berne Hills melted as it were into the Linktowns, whose topmost point was hung with a misty mantle which the sunbeams fringed with gold.

The Earl and Countess of Verner sat at breakfast two mornings after their return home in presence of this glorious scene. The windows were wide open, letting in the perfume of autumn flowers, the song of birds, the sound of plashing water flowing from an adjacent fountain. What a paradise it was! Would Amy make it a desert? We shall see.

When her husband said they might expect his brother during the day, Amy’s cheeks lost their colour for a moment, and her hand trembled; but the change was not noticed, and a strong effort of will at once restored the wife’s self-control. The announcement was so unexpected; all her speculations had not prepared her for so sudden an appearance. She had expected to meet this man some day, and had thought about her manner of receiving him; but she had never dreamed that the trial would come so soon.

“Shut the window, Morris,” said his lordship, “the air is rather chilly, her ladyship will take cold.”

“Thank you,” said the Countess, gently.

“You have met my brother, I think,” said the Earl.

“Yes, at Barton,” said Amy, promptly, but with a cold chill at her heart.

“Rather a strange fellow. Why he should return home so soon, I cannot understand. You may leave the room, Morris.”

Morris and his second in command bowed and retired.

“There was a time when I could not bear Morris to be away from my elbow for a moment,” said his lordship, “and now I would rather the fellow were a mile off when you are here, my darling; there is no chatting freely to one’s wife with that booby swallowing every word.”

His lordship looked across the table at the Countess in her white morning-robe, and smiled. “I positively envy those Darby-and-Joan people of the middle class, who are not bothered with a regiment of servants.”

The Countess looked up and said there were Darbys and Joans, she hoped, in halls and castles.

“I know of one couple,” said his lordship, cheerily. “George and Amy are their names, and they will be candidates for the Dunmow Flitch. Lionel Hammerton can hardly have heard of our marriage.”

“Not heard of it?” said the Countess. This was a new feature of the case which had not presented itself to her mind.

“Unless the outward mail made a very quick passage indeed, he has not heard of it; I question whether he can be acquainted with any of the changes that have taken place in our fortunes during the past year.”

“What a surprise it will be for him,” said the Countess.

“Indeed, it will,” said his lordship.

“Was not his departure a very sudden affair?” asked the Countess.

“Not particularly so, my love,” said the Earl. “We had not contemplated his entering the army—that was his freak. He indulged in the luxury of speculation rather extensively, and I think I was a little emphatic in condemning his large and useless expenditure. I feared he was making ties of friendship which were not beneficial to him. Perhaps I said so. In an excitable moment he said it would be better for him to join the army, and go abroad for a few years. I dislike discussing these personal questions; it rather bored me at the time, I remember; and I said I thought it would be best. And so he made his own arrangements.”

“Then he knew that he was about to leave the country some time before he went away,” said the Countess.

“Yes, he was Gazetted soon after our serious conversation, as he called it, and sailed a month or two afterwards I think. I knew he would soon be tired of it, but I had no idea that his return would be so sudden. He will hardly know the place. I never saw so great and complete an improvement as there appears in the grounds, and the general re-arrangement of the house. The whole place is changed, and with a mistress at the head of affairs, I seem to be quite in a new world, quite. And what a delightful world it is, Amy!”

His lordship was charmed with his wife, and with everything around him. The servants did not see a greater change in Montem Castle than they saw in the noble master thereof. From a quiet, retiring, luxurious student, who buried himself in his books, and lost himself in continual admiration of his pottery or pictures, he had become a lively, chatty, merry gentleman. Formerly, with a continual fear that he was going to be bored, he had guarded himself as carefully as though he were a confirmed invalid. No noises, no open windows, as few visitors as possible; he had appeared to mope away existence, and Brazencrook looked forward to a speedy successor in Lionel Hammerton; but old Morris and the butler both said cracked jugs often lasted the longest, and that ailing men mostly made old bones. Even they, however, were surprised beyond expression at his lordship. It was marvel enough that he should marry, but that he should have a really grand wedding, and make public speeches, and come home “livelier than a cricket, sir,” as Morris said, was something which they could never cease to wonder at.

He loved his wife with all that fervency which often marks the love of an old bachelor, who is fascinated out of his former course of life by a beautiful woman bent on winning him. There was nothing that he would not have done to add to her comfort and happiness. All his bachelor ways, his fogeyism, his books, his pictures, his china, none of them could weigh in attractiveness against the delight of giving her the smallest pleasure. Her ladyship knew this, and resolved to interfere as little as possible with his habits and general course of life; she would join him in his studies and in his pleasures she vowed, and be his companion indeed.

She would also govern his household, and perform her wifely duties to the letter. Were she twenty times a countess she would take her place as the responsible head of the domestic government. She would give her commands for the day, and do all things in order, as a wife should.

“You shall do whatever you please, my dear,” said his lordship, upon the mention of this item in her wifely programme. “You are mistress here, but do not rob me too much of your society; and one thing I must insist upon.”

The Countess, who had risen and was standing with her hand in his, smiled archly at the idea of his insisting upon anything.

“Yes, I must insist; you are to remember that my name is George here, just as it was when we were in Kent, and that I am to have a kiss always when we part, you as you say on your morning duties, I to wait your pleasure in the library.”

The Countess promised faithful compliance with this command, and went on her way to the housekeeper’s room to signify her pleasure with regard to the arrangements of the day. Amy (for we are privileged to call her Amy still, and shall insist upon an occasional exercise of that privilege) entered upon her domestic reign so mildly, and with such unaffected modesty, that the old housekeeper gladly obeyed her behests, though this extraordinary interference, on the part of a lady and a countess, with household affairs was the subject of some slight mutinous discussion that day in the housekeeper’s room and in the butler’s pantry too.

Having discharged these morning duties to her own satisfaction by an inauguration of her system, the Countess ascended the grand old staircase and sought her boudoir, where she sat down to discuss with herself and consider the situation which Lionel Hammerton’s letter had created. She had refrained from asking many questions which her heart had prompted her to ask at breakfast, fearing that she was not altogether fulfilling her part of the solemn contract she had entered into, by learning from her husband the motives which had actuated her lover without confessing how much she knew of his brother. All she had sought to learn was in the way of justification of her own conduct, and she had been strengthened in this by his lordship’s replies. How should she meet Mr. Hammerton? How much did he know of recent events to prepare him for the change at Montem Castle? How far might surprise betray him or her?

Whilst she was thinking of these things the sound of wheels attracted her attention, and the next moment she saw one of the Earl’s close carriages, with luggage on the roof, approaching the main entrance. The conveyance had been to Brazencrook Station to meet Mr. Hammerton. She had no doubt he had arrived. She watched the brougham roll along the great drive, through the autumn-tinted trees—watched it, as she had on another memorable autumn day watched Earl Verner’s carriage whirl along, through the dying leaves, to Barton Hall. It was a coincidence which struck her forcibly these two autumn days, and seemed to bode evil to her. Did she love this man who had won her heart in those past days, and whose neglect had urged her into a scheme of revenge? She asked herself the question fearlessly, and her heart said No; but still there was fear in the answer—a momentary fear that it were better Lionel Hammerton were in India than here. Contrasting his conduct with that of the Earl, remembering how niggardly he had been, in those early days, of tender words, and how he had rather seemed to revel in her own silent admiration than delight in her love; and how devoted the Earl was; how noble, how generous; how he had raised her up not thinking he had done so, but thanking her for his own happiness—thanking her that she had consented to be the mistress of these grand old halls, and the successor of a long line of countesses who lived in the history of titles and beauty. Contrasting the two thus, Lionel Hammerton took but an abject place, and Amy’s heart overflowed with gratitude to the man whom she had sworn to love, honour, and obey.

Ringing for her maid, the Countess took a fancy to have her hair dressed afresh, and then she put on a plainer dress, and in a little time there came a message from his lordship that Mr. Hammerton had arrived, and would lunch with them.

The Countess expected this, and was preparing for it. When she had dismissed her maid, she surveyed herself fixedly in a mirror, as if she were practising some peculiar expression. She was nervous, and wished the day at an end. Why had he come here? If he knew of his brother’s marriage, it would have been far nobler to have remained away from the place? Did he know of it?

Let us answer that question to the reader. Lionel Hammerton heard of his brother’s marriage for the first time from the servants at the Brazencrook Station. He heard it, and with no pleasure; for although he loved his brother with a generous affection, he had come to expect that some day, in the ordinary course of nature, he would be called upon to succeed him. Not only did the disparity of years lead to this supposition (they were the offspring of two different mothers, the former Earl having married twice), but the general opinion was that the younger brother was so much stronger than the eldest, that he must live out the other. This marriage, therefore, seemed to set up an obstacle to his hopes. But the news did not affect him half so much as might have been expected. The strongest feeling about it, we are bound to say, was one of surprise, which was not a little increased when he learnt that Christopher Tallant’s daughter was his brother’s wife.

All the way to the Castle he pondered over this extraordinary fact, and wondered how it was with his poor friend, Arthur Phillips. There was one thing which gave him comfort: if his brother could descend to marrying a commoner’s daughter, surely he, a mere officer in the army, might marry Amy, the daughter of the commoner’s bailiff.

This thought in some measure revived his spirits, which had been dashed on the first blush of the matrimonial news. He could hardly believe but what there was some mistake, but when he saw the trim flower beds, the new gravel walks, the trim sunblinds, the cheerful brightness of the windows, he felt that the bachelor days of Montem were certainly at an end. “How odd,” he thought, “to take sweet counsel with my brother’s wife about Amy Somerton; I will confide all to her ladyship before I say anything to George—fancy Miss Tallant, Countess of Verner, my sister-in-law. No wonder I was prompted to come back to England!”

CHAPTER VI.
IN WHICH DAME FORTUNE PLAYS OFF HER GRIM JOKE UPON LIONEL HAMMERTON.

“Let me congratulate you, George,” were the first words which Lionel addressed to his brother; “let me congratulate you upon your marriage with the prettiest of charming women.”

“Thank you, thank you,” said the Earl, taking Lionel’s hand; “rather unexpected, eh?—never thought I should marry, eh, Lionel?”

“No, I certainly did not,” said Lionel.

“The confirmed old bachelor, who could not be bored with a wife, eh?—the lazy old fellow, too selfish to marry, eh?” said his lordship, laughing aloud and rubbing his hands. “Did the wonderful news bring you home?”

“No; I heard for the first time of your marriage, at Brazencrook. When I left India I hardly knew why I left; but I think I shall be able to tell you all about it in due time.”

“Well, no matter; you know you are always welcome, Lionel—always; my home is yours, dear boy.”

“I know that, my dear George,” said Lionel, who again took his brother’s proffered hand, and shook it heartily.

“You will find your old room in the old place,” said the Earl. “No change there, except perhaps a little extra decoration. When you are ready, come to me in the library, and you shall have an introduction to your sister-in-law.”

“Delighted to renew the lady’s acquaintance in her new and distinguished position,” said Lionel, leaving his brother smiling and nodding at the foot of the principal staircase.

The old room was in the old place, at the end of the picture gallery, and Lionel found no change there for the worse. He found Morris there unpacking his portmanteaus; and he joked with the old fellow, and asked him when he would be married. Morris thought the jest rather grim, and said it was certainly time for him to think about it, now that his lordship had taken a wife.

“Her ladyship is pretty, Morris, is she not?” said Lionel, taking off his coat and throwing the window up.

“Very pretty, and as amiable as can be, too,” said Morris.

“That’s a good thing; what time do we lunch, Morris?”

“Two o’clock, sir,” said the servant.

“Ah, it is one now,” said Lionel, looking at his watch. “I shall have time to dress and have ten minutes’ walk to collect my faculties for an introduction to her ladyship, your mistress.”

“Yes, sir,” said Morris, depositing waistcoats and trousers, and hanging up coats and caps and swords in the ample wardrobe; “shall I ring for hot water, sir?”

“No, thank you, Morris; the news has made me hot. Never mind undoing that leather case.”

“All right, sir,” said Morris. “You are looking a good deal bronzed with the sun, but glad to see you so well. Anything else I can do, sir?”

“No, thank you, Morris,” said Lionel, taking no notice of the servitor’s remark about his brown face, but wondering how Arthur Phillips had taken his disappointment. “Somehow I never thought the poor fellow had the slightest chance of marrying Phœbe. Poor Arthur! Such a sentimental fellow, too, he was; it would almost break his heart I should think; I will hunt him up to-morrow. Fancy George, Earl Verner, my whimsical, apathetic, luxurious, moping brother, falling in love with that pretty face at Barton, and marrying it! Wonders will never cease! I suppose he must have seen her on one of his calls on Tallant about those humbugging shares. Some people believe in the exercise of a sort of electrical sympathy influencing friends at the longest distances. Did that worry me in India? A stroke of fate, I suspect, in the whole thing. Well, we shall see.”

Thus rambled on the current of Lionel’s thoughts as he washed and dressed and gave his toilette sundry extra touches in view of the new society which now graced the castle. What a terrible shock of disappointment and surprise awaited him! It seemed as though fortune were playing off some grim joke upon him.

As she passed through the principal drawing-room on her way to the library, the Countess saw her brother-in-law walking towards the lake. It was a fine manly figure, in a loose morning costume that set off the broad shoulders and the stalwart limbs to perfection. How she had loved that man! How she had listened for his footsteps and trembled at his voice! She dared not think of the past; she would not think of it, she would crush it out of memory. She clenched her fair white hand as she made the vow, clenched it in an agony of resolve until her fingers pained her; and she went in unto her husband crushing out that forbidden, that cruel memory!

“Well, my darling, have you seen the Indian?” said his lordship, when, the Countess entered the library. “I declare the fellow is as brown as a gipsy.”

“I saw him from the window going towards the lake. There he is,” she said, looking in that direction, “returning now.”

As she said so, Morris knocked at the door and entered with Lord Cornington’s card. He was walking in the picture gallery, and wished to see Lord Verner on particular business.

“I will come to him at once,” said his lordship. “Excuse me for ten minutes, my dear; Cornington has called about the Darfield property; I have put him off too long already; I will return as quickly as possible.”

In the hall Lord Verner met his brother, and the Countess could hear him say, “You will find my wife in the library, Lionel; your own introduction will be sufficient: amuse her with an account of your voyage until I return.”

The next moment Lionel entered the room. Amy pressed her hand upon her heart and summoned up all her courage and fortitude. He looked at her for a moment, and then with a sudden gleam of joy upon his face he rushed towards her. Amy stepped back a few paces and coldly extended her hand.

“Why, what is this, Amy?” said the Indian officer. “Surely some joke, some jest to increase my present happiness at sight of you.”

“I do not understand you,” said the Countess, in real astonishment; for she had dismissed from her mind the possibility of Lionel’s ignorance of Mr. Tallant’s death and the discovery of Mrs. Somerton’s fraud.

“You are here to surprise me, to punish me for my neglect by a gracious condescension; you have forgiven me, but I am to suffer for leaving you so strangely. I see it all, dear, dear Amy.”

“Sir, is this the language which you address to your brother’s wife,” said Amy, with a glow of indignation and alarm in her face.

“What do you mean? What is this? Pray be candid with me and forgive me. Surely the jest has gone far enough; your looks alarm me,” said Lionel, in a passion of appeal.

“There is no jest in this business,” said Amy. “I fear you do not know all. Before Mr. Tallant died it was discovered that I, whom you knew as Amy Somerton, was his daughter, and that the lady you knew as Miss Tallant was, in truth, the bailiff’s daughter. I was Christopher Tallant’s heiress, and I am now your brother’s wife, the Countess of Verner.”

Lionel sunk into a chair and covered his face with his hands as Amy, in a clear, firm voice, spoke these words. And this was what he had come from India to learn. Was he in some hideous dream? He looked up only to be the more convinced that he was a victim to cruel fate.

“And now, Mr. Hammerton, if you ever loved Amy Somerton, respect her as your brother’s wife; and if you value his happiness or mine, guard as a sacred secret the memory of that love which you once professed for her. Now is the time to prove the sincerity of a passion which you once professed, and which was the joy of that poor girl, until neglect and indifference stepped between her and hope, and gave her hand to another. For my sake, for your own, for your brother’s, leave this house as soon as possible; whilst you do remain, blot out that memory of the past—crush it out as I have crushed it—and never let Earl Verner’s peace be disturbed even by a suspicion of anything more than a mere acquaintanceship between yourself and his wife. As you fulfil these my wishes, so shall I gauge your love.”

She left him as she said this, and when he raised his head he looked for her in vain. The twin brothers in the “Comedy” were not in a greater maze of bewilderment than was Lionel Hammerton. Though the light broke in upon his mind during that cold resolute explanation, it seemed like an ugly dream. He was like a man paralysed by a sudden blow of misfortune, against which he struggled ineffectually. To fall from the sunniest height of anticipated bliss into a Stygian gulf of misery like this, was enough to unnerve a stronger man than Lionel Hammerton. Pride, self-love, hope, fortune, happiness—all were struck down when most they should have flourished. It had flashed upon him, at first sight of Amy, that her friend, the Countess, had confessed all with regard to his (Lionel’s) love, and that his generous brother had concocted a delightful plot to surprise him. But for Amy’s fixed, cold look, he would have been at her feet imploring her forgiveness, and blessing her for coming there, that he might not lose a moment in asking her to be his wife. And now she had slipped from him for ever, and Fate mocked him with her as his sister-in-law! Was it true? Was there hope yet? He would go out and walk; there was virtue in fresh air. He took up his hat, and went forth into the old ruin; he clambered up the rotten stone steps, and stood upon the moss-grown battlements, where men-at-arms had defended the garrison hundreds of years before; he looked round upon the glorious scene, mellowed with a thousand tints of autumn; he watched the blue wreaths of smoke, mounting up in tall ethereal columns from the old hall chimneys; he saw those purple hills in the distance, beyond which he first met Amy Somerton. Then he remembered the enumeration of her wishes so recently expressed—wishes that were a command to him—a command by the observance of which she would gauge his love.

“She shall have no reason to complain,” he thought, as he came back again to the hall. “There may be some cruel plot of punishment for my neglect at the bottom of all this; it is a slight hope, a weak plank in the ocean of my disappointment, but I will cling to it for this day at least.”

“Why did you run away?” said his lordship, when Lionel returned. “Did the Countess frighten you? We are waiting for luncheon. Cornington dines with us; he has just taken her ladyship in—come along, come along!”

And the brothers, arm-in-arm, entered the luncheon-room, where Lord Cornington was just handing Lady Verner to her seat.

The Countess never looked better than she did this morning, and she led the conversation in her best manner; her racy, humorous repartee reminded the Earl of his first introduction to her at Barton Hall. Lord Cornington thought her one of the most brilliant women he had ever met. Lionel Hammerton watched her, and replied to her sallies now and then with undisguised astonishment. Lord Verner was delighted with his wife, proud of her wit, proud of her beauty, proud of himself that she was his wife.

None of them saw that weary, haggard look which Amy saw an hour afterwards in the glass, when she had retired to her room. She was a fine actress, and she knew it; but the effort now was a severe strain upon her nervous system. She had hoped until yesterday that she would not be called upon to act again for a long time to come. Gratitude and respect had been ripening into love for her husband; but she would never be herself so long as Lionel Hammerton remained. She was beset with fear and alarm; fear lest her husband should discover the love that had once existed between herself and his brother; fear arising from her own conscience, burthened with the knowledge of the revenge she had sought and obtained; alarm lest she should fall in the estimation of her husband. This was the greatest fear of all; the idea of losing one jot of that love and admiration which he had lavished upon her, was torture. Her own fidelity and truth were safe; she never for a moment doubted her strength to maintain her own self-respect as Earl Verner’s wife; but there was a wretched spell upon her, with Hammerton in the house, which made his presence a torment far greater than she could have dreamed of. All those first passionate feelings of triumph and revenge which had supported her during that time of Lord Verner’s courtship, had vanished long since, and now she only prayed for peace.

When the soft mellow gong, which announced dinner, resounded through the halls and corridors of Montem Castle, Lord Verner, who had been sitting with his wife in her own room, brought an excuse for her absence. She was not at all well this evening, he said, and so Lord Cornington and Lionel Hammerton and the Earl dined together, and Lord Cornington re-echoed Earl Verner’s hope that her ladyship might come down to tea. Meanwhile Lady Verner wrote to her dear friend Phœbe, begging of her to come and stay a few days with her at Montem, and telling her that Arthur Phillips should have an invitation to dinner as long as her stay lasted.

CHAPTER VII.
CONTAINS A LETTER FROM A DEAR FRIEND, AND TAKES THE READER ONCE MORE TO SEVERNTOWN.

“My dear Amy,” wrote Phœbe in reply to her friend’s invitation, “your letter was indeed welcome, though the news it contained startled me not a little, and made me regret ever so much more my inability to respond to your kind and sisterly invitation. My poor mother is so unwell that I cannot possibly leave her at present. She is suffering from an attack of the same kind as that which prostrated her at Barton Hall. I hope she will be quite recovered in a day or two, and then I hope to come to you.

“Dearest Amy, I am sure you will not give way in the slightest with regard to that respect and love which is your noble husband’s. The trial has come earlier than you expected, but so much the better; it will be the sooner at an end; trials in anticipation are more grievous often than when they come upon us suddenly. The memory of your noble and religious vow in that London hotel when you and I were alone will support you, and God will help you to keep in the path of duty! I know what your only fear is; but you may rely upon his respecting your position and considering the happiness of his brother too much even to utter an incautious word that shall compel you to confess all. Should the worst come to the worst, my dear sister—and this is the worst—there will be no shame in an honest avowal of the past. Don’t fear, my dear, dear Amy, he must have too acute a sense of his own neglect to make him otherwise than your true friend, and you will find him returning to India sooner than you expect.

“When mother has recovered I am to make arrangements for my marriage to my own dear Arthur. Of course you have seen how famous he has become; he is taking the highest position in art that is attainable. Ere long he will stand at the highest point of success. He comes to us from Severntown every week.

“You will be surprised to receive this letter from Lincolnshire. That Oldhall farm of which my father used to talk so much is his, and we have removed thither now a month past—during the month of your honeymoon. We have left old Dorothy at Barton, and father is going to write to you about the tenancy. We are not far from the birthplace of Tennyson, your favourite poet. I don’t think I like the country quite so well as Avonworth Valley; but it is a pleasure to see my father ‘at home,’ as it were, in his native county.

“I shall write again in a day or two. Meanwhile accept my most affectionate regards, and believe me to be

“Ever yours devotedly,
“Phœbe.”

“Oldhall, Lincolnshire.”

Amy was disappointed with this letter, but she had grown calmer since she had written to Phœbe; she had become more accustomed to the situation, and Lionel Hammerton’s conduct had allayed her fears. He observed a studious courtesy towards her, and had not in the slightest alluded to the past by word or deed. It is true she gave him no opportunity, although he had certainly once made an effort to be alone with her in the grounds.

A succession of callers and visitors was of great assistance to the Earl’s wife, and she encouraged his lordship to invite his country neighbours to dinner. On several days she had to receive presents from local manufacturers at Brazencrook—specimens of their wares specially manufactured for her. This gave her occupation, and her gracious manners speedily won for her a reputation of which she might well be proud. She was pronounced in Brazencrook to be the most beautiful and the least proud of any lady in the land, and the country people were enchanted with her amiability and her sparkling conversational powers. The old vicar and his wife, who had never agreed about anything in their lives before, agreed that she was a charming woman, and all the district was singing her praises in less than a week.

Mrs. Somerton’s health did not improve, and so Phœbe did not come to Amy’s side, and Lionel Hammerton still remained at Barton Hall. A hundred times he had resolved to go, but he had resolved, as many times, to stay. By degrees Amy became more accustomed to his presence, though she had taken an opportunity, after a fortnight had elapsed, to hint that she was unhappy in his continued stay at Montem.

After this he went away to London for a month, preparatory to making final arrangements for his return to India; so he said. During this month Amy’s life flowed on again smoothly amidst these new scenes; she received visits and returned visits; she had given a grand ball to the county families surrounding Montem Castle, and his lordship had given an al fresco fête to his tenantry. Never had there been such gaiety at Montem Castle; never had the old place rejoiced in so gracious a mistress.

Meanwhile Lionel Hammerton led a life of excitement in London. Proud and weak, as the reader has seen, Earl Verner’s brother could not overcome his terrible disappointment. He was mad with vexation, and he hated himself for losing the prize which had fallen so strangely to his brother’s lot. That this woman had loved him with all her heart he now believed, and that she had married his brother out of pique or revenge he believed also. Why had he doubted her? That miserable thought about mercenary motives; he despised himself for harbouring it, and yet it was a plausible doubt, he confessed to himself. What should he do? Go to India again and for good, without returning to Montem. He would. There could be no good purpose served in seeing her again. It would be manly to depart now. He would do so. Thus he would resolve at night only to break his resolution in the morning, and the end was a cab to Paddington and a ticket for Brazencrook. When Lionel had arrived at Severntown, however, he changed his mind again, got out, and drove to the College Green, where he found Arthur Phillips at work in his familiar studio.

“At last,” said Arthur, reciprocating Lionel’s hearty greeting, “at last; I feared you had forgotten your friend.”

“No chance of that,” said Lionel; “your name is in everybody’s mouth, and I have seen your great picture ‘now on view.’”

“In England all this time, and not even a letter from you!” said Arthur.

“I meant to have looked you up the first day after my arrival,—I did indeed, but at the time I thought you miserable.”

“Miserable!” said the artist with some astonishment.

“Yes; but it was I all the time who had reason for sympathy.”

“Let me ring the bell,” said Arthur. “There! Now go on.”

A man-servant answering the bell, the artist said, “Take Captain Hammerton’s portmanteau into the blue room.”

“Yes, sir,” said the man.

“Of course you will make a short stay here,” said Arthur, once more addressing his friend.

“I will not leave you to-day at any rate,” said Lionel. “May I smoke?”

“Of course you may,” said Arthur, opening the old cupboard by the fireplace and producing cigars and lights.

“How familiar the old room looks,” said Lionel. “You have made no change here.”

“No,” said Arthur; “none was required.”

“You are changed, Arthur—changed for the better. You seem to have lost some of your quiet dreamy nature. There is more animation in your step and in your voice. How well you look!”

“Yes, thank God, I am well,” said Arthur.

“Success in all things—success in your profession—success in love,” said Lionel; “you should look well and happy. By heavens, Arthur, I envy you!”

Arthur shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly, and said no man could judge another’s happiness sufficiently to justify envy.

“A sop to Cerberus that,” said Lionel. “You wish to discount your own happiness that my misery may appear the less. It won’t do, Arthur. But never mind, I have not come here to croak. I have heard of your success, of your happy prospects, even in London, and I congratulate you. You have deserved success; you deserve happiness. If I had listened to you before I left England, I too might have been a happy man. As it is, I am the sport of cruel Fortune, a broken-spirited, weak fool, only fit for the society of idiots.”

“Tush, tush! talk rationally, my friend; we have all our troubles and disappointments,” said Arthur. “You will soon get over this. Change of scene, the performance of duty, will stand you in good stead, and help you to look upon the past indifferently.”

“I fear me not, Arthur; I am dead beat. I came over to England for nothing in the world else but to marry that girl; to throw myself at her feet, and ask her to have mercy on me. In the meantime, as if the devil himself had plotted against me, everything is changed—even the woman herself. Fortune has been playing a game of ‘swop,’ and the woman whom I could have married meets me as my brother’s wife.”

“The changes have been very remarkable—very,” said Arthur, altogether at a loss how to say anything in the way of consolation.

“Remarkable! Good Lord! why, the world is turned topsy-turvy. You have come right, Arthur, that’s one comfort, and it is my own fault that I stand where I do. Does she love my brother? How came it all about? Was it revenge? Tell me all you know, Arthur: it is some relief to talk about one’s misfortunes.”

Arthur complied so far as he could with this request, telling Lionel the story of the eventful period between his departure and return. They sat talking together until evening approached, and then went in to dinner, Lionel finding comfort in his friend’s kindly considerate words and advice.

At night they walked forth together by the river. Lionel grew calm in presence of the great swollen torrent, and listened to Arthur’s story of his own life and its troubles, and of his plans for the future. They talked of Phœbe too, and of Arthur’s years of patient hope. Lionel laughed aloud with joy at the story of Richard Tallant’s discomfiture.

“I always hated that fellow,” said Lionel, in his loud emphatic way; “he was a thief.”

“He had not too high a sense of honour, I fear,” said Arthur.

“He was a thief when I knew him,” said Lionel still more emphatically, “and the confederate of that ruffian Gibbs. What a fine old fellow, that father of his, to disinherit the vagabond!”

“It was a great blow to him, though he prospers still,” said Arthur.

“And I might have had some of the beggar’s money,” said Lionel, “had I married his sister. By heavens! I would have pitched it into the river!”

“He does not want money, they say,” Arthur went on. “His losses have been great lately, but he talks of going into parliament. In fact he has selected my native town for the honour of his candidature.”

“Happy coincidence! Severntown was to have supplied me with a seat in the house, if I had not been fool enough to run my head into that Ashford Club den, and consented to soil my fingers with their filthy Stock Exchange ventures. Upon my soul it is time I disappeared from the land altogether.”

Lionel strode on as if he were keeping pace with his thoughts, and intended to stride out of the land at once, and then he broke out into a loud ironical laugh as he said,—

“Fancy anybody contesting a seat with a scoundrel like that fellow Tallant; and yet Amy is his sister, and my sister-in-law. We must all have been eating of the insane root, Arthur.”

“Fact is stranger than fiction,” said the artist.

“Fiction! Fiction halts miles behind the ordinary facts of daily life. What is this fellow then?”

“A great financier, I suppose they would call him: his chief position is that of managing director of the Meter Iron Works Company, which his father founded,—one of the richest corporations in the land, I believe.”