Kitabı oku: «Mrs. Halliburton's Troubles», sayfa 16

CHAPTER II.
SHADOWS IN HONEY FAIR

August was hot in Honey Fair. The women sat at their open doors, or even outside them; the children tumbled in the gutters; the refuse in the road was none the better for the month's heat.

Charlotte East sat in her kitchen one Tuesday afternoon, busy as usual. Her door was shut, but her window was open. Suddenly the latch was lifted and Mrs. Cross came in: not with the bold, boisterous movements that were common to Honey Fair, but with creeping steps that seemed afraid of their own echoes, and a scared face.

Mrs. Cross was in trouble. Her two daughters, Amelia and Mary Ann, to whom you have had the honour of an introduction, had purchased those lovely cross-barred sarcenets, green, pink, and lilac, and worn them at the party at the Alhambra: which party went off satisfactorily, leaving nothing behind it but some headaches for the next day, and a trifle of pecuniary embarrassment to Honey Fair in general. What with the finery for the party, and other finery, and what with articles really useful, but which perhaps might have been done without, Honey Fair was pretty deeply in with the Messrs. Bankes. In Mrs. Cross's family alone, herself and her daughters owed, conjointly, so much to these accommodating tradesmen that it took eight shillings a week to keep them quiet. You can readily understand how this impoverished the weekly housekeeping; and the falsehoods that had to be concocted, by way of keeping the husband, Jacob Cross, in the dark, were something alarming. This was the state of things in many of the homes of Honey Fair.

Mrs. Cross came in with timid steps and a scared face. "Charlotte, lend me five shillings for the love of goodness!" cried she, speaking as if afraid of the sound of her own voice. "I don't know another soul to ask but you. There ain't another that would have it to lend, barring Dame Buffle, and she never lends."

"You owe me twelve shillings already," answered Charlotte, pausing for a moment in her sewing.

"I know that. I'll pay you off by degrees, if it's only a shilling a week. I am a'most drove mad. Bankes's folks was here yesterday, and me and the girls had only four shillings to give 'em. I'm getting in arrears frightful, and Bankes's is as cranky over it as can be. It's all smooth and fair so long as you're buying of Bankes's and paying 'em; but just get behind, and see what short answers and sour looks you'll have!"

"But Amelia and Mary Ann took in their work on Saturday and had their money?"

"My patience! I don't know what us should do if they hadn't! We have to pay up everywhere. We're in debt at Buffle's, in debt to the baker, in debt for shoes; we're in debt on all sides. And there's Cross spending three shilling good of his wages at the public-house! It takes what me and the girls earn to pay a bit up here and there, and stop things from coming to Cross's ears. Half the house is in the pawn-shop, and what'll become of us I don't know. I can't sleep o' nights, hardly, for thinking on't."

Charlotte felt sure that, were it her case, she should not sleep at all.

"The worst is, I have to keep the little 'uns away from school. Pay for 'em I can't. And a fine muck they get into, playing in the road all day. 'What does these children do to theirselves at school, to get into this dirty mess?' asks Cross, when he comes in. 'Oh, they plays a bit in the gutter coming home,' says I. 'We plays a bit, father,' cries they, when they hears me, a-winking at each other to think how we does their father."

Charlotte shook her head. "I should end it all."

"End it! I wish we could end it! The girls is going to slave theirselves night and day this week and next. But it's not for my good: it's for their'n. They want to get their grand silks out o' pawn! Nothing but outside finery goes down with them, though they've not an inside rag to their backs. They leave care to me. Fools to be sure, they was, to buy them silks! They have been in the pawn-shop ever since, and Bankes's a-tearing 'em to pieces for the money!"

"I should end it by confessing to Jacob," said Charlotte, when she could get in a word. "He is not a bad husband–"

"And look at his passionate temper!" broke in Mrs. Cross. "Let it get to his ears that we have gone on tick to Bankes's and elsewhere, and he'd rave the house out of winders."

"He would be angry at first, no doubt; but when he cooled down he would see the necessity of something being done, and help in it. If you all set on and put your shoulders to the wheel you might soon get clear. Live upon the very least that will satisfy hunger—the plainest food—dry bread and potatoes. No beer, no meat, no finery, no luxuries; and with the rest of the week's money begin to pay up. You'd be clear in no time."

Mrs. Cross stared in consternation. "You be a Job's comforter, Charlotte! Dry bread and taters! who could put up with that?"

"When poor people like us fall into trouble, it is the only way that I know of to get out of it. I'd rather mortify my appetite for a year than have my rest broken by care."

"Your advice is good enough for talking, Charlotte, but it don't answer for acting. Cross must have his bit o' meat and his beer, his butter and his cheese, his tea and his sugar—and so must the rest on us. But about this five shillings?—do lend it me, Charlotte! It is for the landlord: we're almost in a fix with him."

"For the landlord!" repeated Charlotte involuntarily. "You must keep him paid, or it would be the worst of all."

"I know we must. He was took bad yesterday—more's the blessing!—and couldn't get round; but he's here to-day as burly as beef. We haven't paid him for this three weeks," she added, dropping her voice to an ominous whisper; "and I declare to you, Charlotte East, that the sight of him at our door is as good to me as a dose of physic. Just now, round he comes, a-lifting the latch, and me turning sick the minute I sees him. 'Ready, Mrs. Cross?' asks he, in his short, surly way, putting his brown wig up. 'I'm sorry I ain't, Mr. Abbott, sir,' says I; 'but I'll have some next week for certain.' 'That won't do for me,' says he: 'I must have it this. If you can't give me some money, I shall apply to your husband.' The fright this put me into I've not got over yet, Charlotte; for Cross don't know but what the rent's paid up regular. 'I know what's going on,' old Abbott begins again, 'and I have knowed it for some time. You women in this Honey Fair, you pay your money to them Bankeses, which is the blight o' the place, and then you can't pay me.' Only fancy his calling Bankeses a blight!"

"That's just what they are," remarked Charlotte.

"For shame, Charlotte East! When one's way is a bit eased by being able to get a few things on trust, you must put in your word again it! Some of us would never get a new gown to our backs if it wasn't for Bankeses. Abbott's gone off to other houses, collecting; warning me as he'd call again in half an hour, and if some money wasn't ready for him then he'd go straight off to Jacob, to his shop o' work. If you can let me have one week for him, Charlotte—five shillings—I'll be ever grateful."

Charlotte rose, unlocked a drawer, and gave five shillings to Mrs. Cross, thinking in her own mind that the kindest course would be for the landlord to go to Cross, as he had threatened.

Mrs. Cross took the money. Her mind so far relieved, she could indulge in a little gossip; for Mr. Abbott's half-hour had not yet expired.

"I say, Charlotte, what d'ye think? I'm afraid Ben Tyrrett and our Mary Ann is a-going to take up together."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Charlotte. "That's new."

"Not over-new. They have been talking together on and off, but I never thought it was serious till last Sunday. I have set my face dead against it. He has a nasty temper of his own; and he's nothing but a jobber at fifteen shillings a week, and his profits of the egg-whites. Our Mary Ann might do better than that."

"I think she might," assented Charlotte. "And she is over-young to think of marrying."

"Young!" wrathfully repeated Mrs. Cross. "I should think she is young! Girls are as soft as apes. The minute a chap says a word to 'em about marrying, they're all agog to do it, whether it's fit, or whether it's unfit. Our Mary Ann might look inches over Ben Tyrrett's head, if she had any sense in her. Hark ye, Charlotte! When you see her, just put in a word against it; maybe it'll turn her. Tell her you'd not have Tyrrett at a gift."

"And that's true," replied Charlotte, with a laugh, as her guest departed.

A few minutes, and Charlotte received another visitor. This was the wife of Mark Mason—a tall, bony woman, with rough black hair and a loud voice. That voice and Mark did not get on very well together. She put her hands back upon her hips, and used it now, standing before Charlotte in a threatening attitude.

"What do you do, keeping our Carry out at night?"

Charlotte looked up in surprise. She was thinking of something else, or her answer might have been more cautious, for she was one of those who never willingly make mischief.

"I do not keep Caroline out. She is here of an evening now and then—not often."

Mrs. Mason laughed—a low derisive laugh of mockery. "I knew it was a falsehood when she told it me! There she goes out, night after night, night after night; so I set Mark on to her, for I couldn't keep her in, neither find out where she went to. Mark was in a passion—something had put him out, and Carry was frightened, for he had hold of her arm savage-like. 'I am at Charlotte East's of a night, Mark,' she said. 'I shall take no harm there.'"

Charlotte did not lift her eyes from her work. Mrs. Mason stood defiantly.

"Now, then! Where is it she gets to?"

"Why do you apply to me?" returned Charlotte. "I am not Caroline Mason's keeper."

"If you bain't her keeper, you be her adviser," retorted Mrs. Mason. "And that's worse."

"When I advise Caroline at all, I advise her for her good."

"My eyes are opened now, if they was blind before," continued Mrs. Mason, apostrophizing in no gentle terms the offending Caroline. "Who gave Carry that there shawl?—who gave, her that there fine gown?—who gave her that gold brooch, with a stone in it 'twixt red and yaller, and a naked Cupid in white aflying on it? 'A nice brooch you've got there, miss,' says I to her. 'Yes,' says she, 'they call 'em cameons.' 'And where did you get it, pray?' says I. 'And that's my business,' answers she. Next there was a neck-scarf, green and lavender, with yaller fringe at its ends, as deep as my forefinger. 'You're running up a tidy score at Bankes's, my lady,' says I. 'I shan't come to you to pay for it,' says she. 'No,' thinks I to myself, 'but you be living in our house, and you may bring Mark into trouble over it,' for he's a soft-hearted gander at times. So down I goes to Bankes's place last night. 'Just turn to the debt-book, young man,' says I to the gentleman behind the counter—it were the one with the dark hair—'and tell me how much is owed by Caroline Mason.' 'Come to settle it?' asks he. 'Maybe, and maybe not,' says I. 'I wants my question answered, whether or no.' Are you listening, Charlotte East?"

Charlotte lifted her eyes from her work. "Yes."

"He lays hold of a big book," continues Mrs. Mason, who was talking her face crimson, "and draws his finger down its pages. 'Caroline Mason—Caroline Mason,' says he. 'I don't think we have anything against her. No: it's crossed off. There was a trifle against her, but she paid it last week.' Well, I stood staring at the man, thinking he was deceiving me, saying she had paid. 'When did she pay for that shawl she had in the winter, and how much did it cost?' asks I. 'Shawl?' says he. 'Caroline Mason hasn't had no shawl of us.' 'Nor a gown at Easter—a fancy sort of thing, with stripes?' I goes on: 'nor a cameon brooch last week? nor a scarf with yaller fringe?' 'Nothing o' the sort,' says he, decisive. 'Caroline Mason hasn't bought any of those things from us. She had some bonnet ribbon, and that she paid for.' Now, what was I to think?" concluded Mrs. Mason.

Charlotte did not know.

"I comes home a-pondering, and at the corner of the lane I catches sight of a certain gentleman loitering about in the shade. The truth flashed into my mind. 'He's after our Caroline,' says I to myself; 'and it's him that has given her the things, and we shall just have her a world's spectacle!' I accused Eliza Tyrrett of being the confidant. 'It isn't me,' says she; 'it's Charlotte East.' So I bottled up my temper till now, and now I've come to learn the rights on't."

"I cannot tell you the rights," replied Charlotte. "I do not know them. I have striven to give Caroline some good advice lately, and that is all I have had to do with it. Mrs. Mason, you know that I should never advise Caroline, or any one else, but for her good."

Mrs. Mason would have acknowledged this in a cooler moment. "Why did that Tyrrett girl laugh at me, then? And why did Carry say she spent her evenings here?" cried she. "The gentleman I see was young Anthony Dare: and Carry had better bury herself alive than be drawn aside by his nonsense."

"Much better," acquiesced Charlotte. "Where is Caroline?"

"Under lock and key," said Mrs. Mason.

"Under lock and key!" echoed Charlotte.

"Yes; under lock and key; and there she shall stop. She was out all this blessed morning with Eliza Tyrrett, and never walked herself in till after Mark had had his dinner and was gone. So then I began upon her. My temper was up, and I didn't spare her. I vowed I'd tell Mark what I had seen and heard, and what sort of a wolf she allowed to make her presents of fine clothes. With that she turned wild and flung up to her room in the cock-loft, and I followed and locked her in."

"You have done very wrong," said Charlotte. "It is not by harshness that any good will be done with Caroline. You know her disposition: a child might lead her by kindness, but she rises up against harshness. My opinion is that she never would have given the least trouble at all had you made her a better home."

This bold avowal took away Mrs. Mason's breath. "A better home!" cried she, when she could speak. "A better home! Fed upon French rolls and lobster salad and apricot tarts, and give her a lady's maid to hook-and-eye her gown for her! My heart! that beats all."

"I don't speak of food, and that sort of thing," rejoined Charlotte. "If you had treated her with kind words instead of cross ones she would have been as good a girl as ever lived. Instead of that you have made your home unbearable; and so driven her out, with her dangerous good looks, to be told of them by the first idler who came across her: and that seems to have been Anthony Dare. Go home and let her out of where you have locked her in; do, Hetty Mason! Let her out, and speak kindly to her, and treat her as a sister; and you'll undo all the bad yet."

"I shan't then!" was the passionate reply. "I'll see you and her hung first, before I speak kind to her to encourage her in her loose ways!"

Mrs. Mason flung out of the house as she concluded, giving the door a bang which only had the effect of sending it open again. Charlotte sighed as she rose to close it: not only for any peril that Caroline Mason might be in, but for the general blindness, the distorted views of right and wrong, which seemed to obtain amidst the women of Honey Fair.

CHAPTER III.
THE DARES AT HOME

A profusion of glass and plate glittered on the dining-table of Mr. Dare. It was six o'clock, and they had just sat down. Mrs. Dare, in a light gauze dress and blonde head-dress, sat at the head of the table. There was a large family of them; four sons and four daughters; and all were present; also Miss Benyon, the governess. Anthony and Herbert sat on either side Mrs. Dare; Adelaide and Julia, the eldest daughters, near their father; the four other children, Cyril and George, Rosa and Minny, were between them.

Mr. Dare was helping the salmon. In due course, a plate, followed by the sauce, was carried to Anthony.

"What's this! Melted butter! Where's the lobster sauce?"

"There is no lobster sauce to-day," said Mrs. Dare. "We sent late, and the lobsters were all gone. There was a small supply. Joseph, take the anchovy to Mr. Anthony."

Mr. Anthony jerked the anchovy sauce off the salver, dashed some on to his plate, and jerked the bottle back again. Not with a very good grace: his palate was a dainty one. Indeed, it was a family complaint.

"I wouldn't give a fig for salmon without lobster sauce," he cried. "I hope you won't send late again."

"It was the cook's fault," said Mrs. Dare. "She did not fully understand my orders."

"Deaf old creature!" exclaimed Anthony.

"Anthony, there's cucumber," said Julia, looking down the table at her brother. "Ann, take the cucumber to Mr. Anthony."

"You know I never eat cucumber with salmon," grumbled Anthony, in reply. And it was not graciously spoken, for the offer had been dictated by good-nature.

A pause ensued. It was at length broken by Mrs. Dare.

"Herbert, are you growing more reconciled to office-work?"

"No; and never shall," returned Herbert. "From ten till five is an awful clog upon one's time; it's as bad as school."

Mr. Dare looked up from his plate. "You might have been put to a profession that would occupy a great deal more time than that, Herbert. What calls have you upon your time, pray, that it is so valuable? Will you take some more fish?"

"Well, I don't know. I think I will. It is good to-day; very good with the cucumber, that Anthony despises."

Ann took his plate up to Mr. Dare.

"Anthony," said that gentleman, as he helped the salmon, "where were you this afternoon? You were away from the office altogether, after two o'clock."

"Out with Hawkesley," shortly replied Anthony.

"Yes; it is all very well to say, 'Out with Hawkesley,' but the office suffers. I wish you young men were not quite so fond of taking your pleasure."

"A little more fish, sir?" asked Joseph of Anthony.

"Not if I know it."

The second course came in. A quarter of lamb, asparagus and other vegetables. Herbert looked cross. He had recently taken a dislike to lamb, or fancied he had done so.

"Of course there's something coming for me!" he said.

"Oh, of course," said Mrs. Dare. "Cook knows you don't like lamb."

Nothing, however, came in. Ann was sent to inquire the reason of the neglect. The cook had been unable to procure veal cutlet, and Master Herbert had said if she ever sent him up a mutton-chop again he should throw it at her head. Such was the message brought back.

"What an old story-teller she must be to say she could not get veal cutlet!" exclaimed Herbert. "I hate mutton and lamb, and I am not going to eat either one or the other."

"I heard the butcher say this morning that he had no veal, Master Herbert," interposed Ann. "This hot weather they don't kill much meat."

"Why have you taken this dislike to lamb, Herbert?" asked Mr. Dare. "You have eaten it all the season."

"That's just it," answered Herbert. "I have eaten so much of it that I am sick of it."

"Never mind, Herbert," said his mother. "There's a cherry tart coming and a delicious lemon pudding. I don't think you can be so very hungry; you went twice to salmon."

Herbert was not in a good humour. All the Dares had been culpably pampered, and of course it bore its fruits. He sat drumming with his silver fork upon the table, condescending to try a little asparagus, and a great deal of both pie and pudding. Cheese, salad, and dessert followed, of which Herbert partook plentifully. Still he thought he was terribly used in not having had different meat specially provided for him; and he could not recover his good humour. I tell you the Dares had been most culpably indulged. The house was one of luxury and profusion, and every little whim and fancy had been studied. It is one of the worst schools a child can be reared in.

The three younger daughters and the governess withdrew, after taking each a glass of wine. Cyril and George went off likewise, to their lessons or to play. It was their own affair, and Mr. Dare made it no concern of his. Presently Mrs. Dare and Adelaide rose.

"Hawkesley's coming in this evening," called out Anthony, as they were going through the door.

Adelaide turned. "What did you say, Anthony?"

"Lord Hawkesley's coming. At least he said he would look in for an hour. But there's no dependence to be placed on him."

"We must be in the large drawing-room, mamma, this evening," said Adelaide, as they crossed the hall. "Miss Benyon and the children can take tea in the school-room."

"Yes," assented Mrs. Dare. "It is bad form to have one's drawing-room cucumbered with children, and Lord Hawkesley understands all that. Let them be in the school-room."

"Julia also?"

Mrs. Dare shrugged her shoulders. "If you can persuade her into it. I don't think Julia will consent to take tea in the school-room. Why should she?"

Adelaide vouchsafed no reply. Dutiful children they were not—affectionate children they were not—they had not been brought up to be so. Mrs. Dare was of the world, worldly: very much so: and that leaves very little time upon the hands for earnest duties. She had taken no pains to train her children: she had given them very little love. This conversation had taken place in the hall. Mrs. Dare went upstairs to the large drawing-room, a really handsome room. She rang the bell and gave sundry orders, the moving motive for all being the doubtful visit of Viscount Hawkesley—ices from the pastrycook's, a tray of refreshments, the best china, the best silver. Then Mrs. Dare reclined in her chair for her after-dinner nap—an indulgence she much favoured.

Adelaide Dare entered the smaller drawing-room, an apartment more commonly used, and opening from the hall. Julia was reading a book just brought in from the library. Miss Benyon was softly playing, and the two little ones were quarrelling. Miss Benyon turned round from the piano when Adelaide entered.

"You must make tea in the school-room this evening, Miss Benyon, for the children. Julia, you are to take yours there."

Julia looked up from her book. "Who says so?"

"Mamma. Lord Hawkesley's coming, and we cannot have the drawing-room crowded."

"I am not going to keep out of the drawing-room for Lord Hawkesley," returned Julia, a quiet girl in appearance and manner. "Who is Lord Hawkesley, that he should disarrange the economy of the house? There's so much ceremony and parade observed when he comes that it upsets all comfort. Your lordship this, and your lordship that; and papa my-lording him to the skies. I don't like it. He looks down upon us—I know he does—although he condescends to make a sort of friend of Anthony."

Adelaide Dare's dark eyes flashed and her face crimsoned. She was a handsome girl. "Julia! I do think you are an idiot!"

"Perhaps I am," composedly returned Julia, who was of a careless, easy temper; "but I am not going to be kept out of the drawing-room for my Lord Hawkesley. Let me go on with my book in peace, Adelaide: it is a charming one."

Meanwhile Herbert Dare, seeing no prospect of more wine in store—for Mr. Dare, with wonderful prudence, told Herbert that two glasses of port were sufficient for him—left his seat, and bolted out at the dining-room window, which opened on to the ground. He ran into the hall for his hat, and then, speeding across the lawn, passed into the high-road. Anthony remained alone with his father; and Anthony was plucking up courage to speak upon a subject that was causing him some perplexity. He plunged into it at once.

"Father, I am in a mess. I have managed to outrun the constable."

Mr. Dare was at that moment holding his glass of wine between his eye and the light. The words quite scared him. He set his glass down and looked at Anthony.

"How's that? How have you managed that?"

"I don't know how it has come about," was Anthony's answer. "It is so, sir; and you must be so good as to help me out of it."

"Your allowance is sufficient—amply so. Do you forget that I set you clear of debt at the beginning of the year? What money do you want?"

Anthony Dare began pulling the fringe out of the dessert napkin, to the great detriment of the damask. "Two hundred pounds, sir."

"Two hundred pounds!" echoed Mr. Dare, a dark expression clouding his handsome face. "Do you want to ruin me, Anthony? Look at my expenses! Look at the claims upon me! I say that your allowance is a liberal one, and you ought to keep within it."

Anthony sat biting his lip. "I would not have applied to you, sir, if I could have helped it; but I am driven into a corner and must find money. I and Hawkesley drew some bills together. He has taken up two, and I–"

"Then you and Hawkesley were a couple of fools for your pains," intemperately interrupted Mr. Dare. "There's no game so dangerous, so delusive, as that of drawing bills. Have I not told you so, over and over again? Simple debt may be put off from month to month, and from year to year; but bills are nasty things. When I was a young man I lived for years upon promises to pay, but I took care not to put my name to a bill."

"Hawkesley–"

"Hawkesley may do what you must not," interrupted Mr. Dare, drowning his son's voice. "He has his father's long rent-roll to turn to. Recollect, Anthony, this must not occur again. It is impossible that I can be called upon periodically for these sums. Herbert is almost a man, and Cyril and George are growing up. A pretty thing, if you were all to come upon me in this manner. I have to exert my wits as it is, I can tell you. I'll give you a cheque to-morrow; and I should serve you right if I were to put you upon half allowance until I am repaid."

Mr. Dare finished his wine, rang for the table to be cleared, and left the room. Anthony remained standing against the side of the window, half in, half out, buried in a brown study, when Herbert came up, leaping over the grass. Herbert was nearly as tall as Anthony. He had been for some time articled to his father, but had only joined the office the previous Midsummer. He looked into the room and saw it was empty.

"Where's the governor?"

"Gone somewhere. Into the drawing-room, perhaps," replied Anthony.

"What a nuisance!" ejaculated Herbert. "One can't talk to him before the girls. I want twenty-five shillings from him. Markham has the primest fishing-rod to sell, and I must have it."

"Twenty-five shillings for a fishing-rod!" cried Anthony.

"And cheap at the price," answered Herbert. "You don't often see so complete a thing as this. Markham would not part with it—it's a relic of his better days, he says—only his old mother wants some comfort or other which he can't otherwise afford. The case–"

"You have half-a-dozen fishing-rods already."

"Half a dozen rubbish! That's what they are, compared with this one. It's no business of yours, Anthony."

"Not at all. But you'll oblige me, Herbert, by not bothering the governor for money to-night. I have been asking him for some, and it has put him out."

"Did you get it?"

Anthony nodded.

"Then you'll let me have the one-pound-five, Anthony?"

"I can't," returned Anthony. "I shall have a cheque to-morrow, and I must pay it away whole. That won't clear me. But I didn't dare to tell of more."

"If I don't get that fishing-rod to-night, Markham may sell it to some one else," grumbled Herbert.

"Go and get it," replied Anthony. "Promise him the money for to-morrow. You are not obliged to give it, you know. The governor has just said that he lived for years upon promises to pay."

"Markham wants the money down."

"He'll think that as good as down if you tell him he shall have it to-morrow. Bring the fishing-rod away; possession's nine points of the law, you know."

"He'll make such an awful row afterwards, if he finds he does not get the money."

"Let him. You can row again. It's the easiest thing on earth to fence off little paltry debts like that. People get tired of asking for them."

Away vaulted Herbert for the fishing-rod. Anthony yawned, stretched himself, and walked out just as twilight was fading. He was going out to keep an appointment.

Herbert Dare went back to Markham's. The man—though, indeed, so far as birth went he might be called a gentleman—lived a little way beyond Mr. Dare's. The cottage was situated in the midst of a large garden, in which Markham worked late and early. He had a very, very small patrimony upon which he lived and kept his mother. He was bending over one of the beds when Herbert returned. "He would take the fishing-rod then, and bring the money over at nine in the morning, before going to the office. Mr. Dare was gone out, or he would have brought it at once," was the substance of the words in which Herbert concluded the negotiation.

Could they have looked behind the hedge at that moment, Herbert Dare and Markham, they would have seen two young gentlemen suddenly duck down under its shelter, creep silently along, heedless of the ditch, which, however, was tolerably dry at that season, make a sudden bolt across the road, when they got opposite Mr. Dare's entrance, and whisk within its gates. They were Cyril and George. That they had been at some mischief and were trying to escape detection, was unmistakable. Under cover of the garden-wall, as they had previously done under cover of the hedge, crept they; sprang into the house by the dining-room window, tore up the stairs, and took refuge in the drawing-room, startlingly arousing Mrs. Dare from her after-dinner slumbers.

In point of fact, they had reckoned upon finding the room unoccupied.