Waverley Library (Quarto Edition) (no. 225) (1884 03 08)
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a PP 8 oy Pie ‘2 _____ Copyright, 1864, by BEADLE AND ADA wm eat ua. March 4, 1964. | PRICE 5 CENTS THE DOO THE FIRST FIGURE. Ix WHICH A HUNGRY WOLF SEEKERS WHOM ME SHALL DEVOUR. Srep [.—THE COMING OF THE WOLF. * TL—THE LAMBS. “ YIL—rTHE WOLF FEEDING, * TV.—FURY OF LAMBS, STEP I. Onz glorious summer’s day a certain careworn, hatchet-faced, ragged rascal climbed half over a stile, leading suddenly from a flowery meadow into a picturesque village street; and, taking his seat | there, gazed complacently down upon what was be- fore very long to deat 1 and cruel death; and he smoked his pipe as he did 80. You could hardly have wished for a better place to look at. There was an old gray Norman Church, | overhung with ivy and embowered in rich foliage. its windows glazed with thick green bubbled glass, its graves covered with myriads of daisies, its grave- stones all awry and toppling over. y There was an inn, with a horse-trough outside, and a wide-spreading oak throwing a pleasant shadow upon it, and a couple of benches placed there for the accommodation of thirsty souls —beast and man; and if was an inn, seemingly altogether made up of able-ends botched together any- ow, with huge stacks of chimneys on the roof. There was a curiously clumsy stoue bridge crossing a very small! river, for which it was several sizes too hig, very old and moss-grown; and the lulling murmur of mill-water might be heard not far off, some- where behind the trees, There was a row of odd little shops, and a dozen or so of cottages, with portals. half-smothered in honey- suckles and creeping jeanies, and a row of huge trees enshadowed the “causeway,” the crookedest litde bit of pavement you could well have found within three hundred miles of the sound of Bow Bells. It was about fivein the afternoon. The heat of the sun had subsided. The village street was at that mo- ment quite deserted, except by a articularly noisy and demonstra- ively busy bee, who came buzzing puriusly past the ragged rascal’s ead, Everything around seemed to speak to the weary wanderer of rest, and comfort, and prt poy t Here anyone might seek shelter trom the cares and anxieties of the feverish, struggling London life. Most cer- tainly East Haggleford must be a little heaven upon earth. It was nothing of the kind. It was the hardest, meanest, most pitifully narrow-minded little p ace any lover of his species, philanthropically dis- posed, ever had the misfortune to wander into, Among the thousand and one errors of a misspent life, the most fatal that this ragged rascal ever committed was coming here and trying to settle down, _ This person was, however, no phil- anthropist, and was mostly con- cerned in looking after the interests of number one with assiduity. As to number two, three, and so on, they were only interesting to him as persons who were to fleeced when there was a chance. Our dusty, travel-stained friend was, in truth, nothing but a common thief, I feel ashamed of introduc- | toned up; and there could hardly have been any the scene of hisdeath—a violent | ing you, gentle reader, to such company; but, as you see, I have already intimated that he eventually (before very long, too) will come to a bad end. This | Ought to allay unnecessary hostile criticism, and, | besides, dear ladies, be formed a not altogether unpicturesque figure in this pretty rustic scene. is boots were very queer; his coat—a tail-coat— was out at elbows; the knees of his trousers were worn threadbare. He was desperately tightly but- doubt in the mind of even the most credulous but that this was because he wore no shirt beneath, But he had a rollicking way of wearing his bat- tered hat on one side that suited him immensely; and he wore a ragged red silk handkerchief round his neck, which was altogether wrong, yet remarkably becoming. But he wore a shirt collar, tolerably clean, and showed a good deal of shirt cuff with studs of much brilliancy, and he had a flower in his button-hole. And he wore one dirty lavender kid glove! | He had long silky hair, tossed wildly about, He | had bright, flashing eyes, with perhaps a gleam of | madness in them at times. He had handsome fea- | tures, with a fearless, honest look, He had been sev- eral times in jail, and was an incorrigible vagabond, uy RUN i Mire IM DR TRUMAN PROFFERS ASSISTANCE TO JACEY, You would have stared this fellow hard in the face. and he would have returned your inspection withouf flinching. Then 'you would have trusted him, an he would have cheated you to a dead certainty, When he had drawn a whiff or two from his pipe, | he found that the tobacco in its bowl was exhausted, and he knocked out the ashes upon the stile by hia side, as he sat there swinging his leg, There!” he said, aloud: **I’ve had my breakfast, ae away the breakfast things.” He put away the pipe as he spoke, way, evidently a humorist. When he bad put his pipe away, he gazed again anxiously arcu him, ant still spoke aloud. “After all,” said he, ‘‘a good strong pipe is as satisfactory as a real meal—almost—and cheaper. What a quiet place this is!" It was, in truth, very quiet. Even the boisterous busy bee had now taken her departure. The music * of the mill-stream and the chirping of the birds among the trees were the only sounds he heard, save the tones of his own voice. He seemed to be rather partial to these tones, and went on talking. “What a wonderfully quiet little place! Sonie simple little spot this is, that the wicked peo- ple haven’t found out yet. It might be the end of the world; but I shouldn't think it was the sharp end. The sort of place, now, where a poor, hunted-down wretch, like me, might spend a holi- day in. A rare place for a rogue’s holiday—out of reach of the tele- graph, unknown to the police. I wight settle down in a spot like this, and turn over a new leaf,and become honest. These three years past I’ve been starving all over the rest of the United Kingdom, and Iam sure I’ve given it a fair chance. I'd have set+ tled anywhere if they would have let me,” . ; It was certainly rather an odd proulantes about our rogue that he should take the trouble to tell lies about himself to himself. He had, several other peculiarities, though, as we shall see when we come to know him better. ‘Upon my word," said he, after a pause, “I have a good mind to give this place atrial! The only question is, how to commence, and shall1 be- gin hungry? There must be some-, thing good to eat at the inn, if I have only money or credit, But I've. neither—that is to say, neither to spare.” He, nevertheless, rummaged over his ragged pockets, hoping that he might find, by some miracle, an overlooked shilling in’an out-of-the- vey corner. No such luck! The net contentg of his pocket amouted to fourpence - halfpenny, and the balfpenny was one mora valuable for tossing purposes than for general circulation.” It was a coin with two heads! However, he really was dreadfully hungry. *His breakfast, half ak, ounce of tobacco, had lasted all day, painfully eked out, He must g something to eat now—honestly, possible, but he must get it. One wonders at the courage and audacity—foolhardiness is, perhaps, the better --ord—of some desperate wretches like this, With his hat auntily cocked on one side of his ead and his hands thrust into the pockets in his coat+tais, he swag gered down the village street, bum ming (if you have no objection) am air from ‘'Trovatore.” Thardly know how to bring the ap» ce of this fellow clearly be your view. He wag not as He was, in his COMI ELM
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as Robert Macaire, and he had no black patch over his eyo; but yot he was a little like the Macaire that Fechter gavo us. Henry Irving's wonderful performance in a play called “ Hugted Down" would give you some idea of him; but either Henry Irving or Henry Neville would easily realize the character. What had he been? Not all his life a jail bird, that was very certain, Had he over been a gentleman? That was doubtful. Ho might have been well-born; but he had been a @camp, and the companion of scamps, his life through nearly. It was difficult to think otherwise. Unless, indeed, he had had some great sorrow some time and that had suddenly changed the whole nature of the man, A sudden sorrow. ynan’s love—a woman's hate—anything to do witn it? Why, what sorrows in the world are there worth calling rrows in which there are not woman's love or oman's hate mixed up? Had he been @ soldier? He bore himself well, in spite of his burst boots, trodden down dismally at the hools, and turned up ridiculously at the toes. Yet, gomohow, ho hardly waiked like a soldier, Heturned out his toes too much. Could it have been possible that he had ever been a dancing-master? Well, there are more impossible things in the world than that. For instance, the chance of hia ever being rich enough to sell that little village up stick and stone—the chance of his ever being powerful enough for those living there to cringe to him and cry for mercy. Yet such things came to pass. He little wotted of it, though, just now. One object fn life hadhe. He was desperately hungry, and wanted @ good dinner. “Twill dine,” he said to himself—* yes, I will dine. Ell have one more right down geod dinner on the ohoeap, and then I'll start an honest life fair and square on 4 full waistooat.” Lot us soo how he did it. ' STEP I. You would have made a very great mistake indeed if you had supposed that Ea t Haggleford was a deserted village. Had our rogue but made ac uaintance with it éen hours earlior in the day, he would have been not a Little annoyed by the bustle and aotivity there prevail- fing. Koro had been but one idea in the heads of the com- morcial portion of East Hag gleford ten hours ago, and 6hat was that an uncommonly fine stroke of business eras going to be made that day. And if you had asked ¢ho East Hagglefordians why it had not been made, éhoy would probably have told you that there had been @ ourse over the place, and that it had always been so, There was a very considerable amount of grumbling oing on all day long, and half through the night, in Fast Haggleford. There was Miss Em Pember, the buxom hostess of the village inn (the sign represented a aad and solemn green dragon, seemingly breaking its heart at not baing able to pick up a difficult step in the sailor's hornpipe)—there was Em Pember, as happy and woll-looking @ spinster a3 you would wish to see, who was ono of the chief grumblers. Thore was Mrs. Pegg, the groceress, a cosy, comforta- ble-looking widow (without incumbrances), who be- wailed the day she was born, or that her mother was born befere hor. Thero was Mr. Pidgeon, the village barber, a prey to the profoundest melancholy, who sighed as he whetted jhia razor, and fixed you with hollow eyes, full of dis- gnal forebodings, as he felt the razor’s edge. That day there had been some steeple-chases just be- ond West Haggleford, distant about two miles from 6 bay ed village where my story opens. Bo- €@weon West Haggloford and East Haggleford the most bitter enmity existed. That is to say, the East was itefully envious of the West; but the West, being wioe as big, and six timos as populous, did not trouble its head very much about the envy in question, Dut ‘wont comfortably on its own way, and made plenty of money. : The West Hagglofordians always had all the luck. In 6 matter of the races it was just the same, § It was at West Haggleford that Lady Challice lived in ® great, grand house, with a great park, all brand new- built, and laid out and planted with young trees the before her son, Charles Challice, came of age, At + Haggleford was the old country-soat of the Chal- lices which they had abandoned; a wonderful old, rambling houag, full of pleasant associations of times pong pee , the wooden panel on the staircase still show- ing the hole the Cromwells’ gun-shot tore in it when a forty-eight hour siege was maintained, and bravely re- sisted by a Royalist Challice over two hundred years ayo. ‘et every room in that old house, and every ons of the rine trees clustering round it, had its story. ugh's father had been born, and had diel there. The sie + eet are shook their heads, and threw up oir hands, whep they heard that John Challice’s wid- ‘ was going to move away from it, and build a new uso at West Haggleford. ‘As far as she was concerned, her removal was né great loas, the villagers agreed, and the coming there of her sigies no marked gain. One was proud and overbearing, but rich; the other poor and proud—a wretchedly un- Rat Cy Tia were sash which had What kind of sorrow? Had a wo: | THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER, nD However, there seemed just a ghost of a chaace that the races, two miles distant, would bring custom to East Haggleford that day; because, unless a new road that had been a long while in a half-finished state were | completed in time, East Haggleford would be on the | high road. | Need it be said that, of course, the road was finished | in 4 villainously slip-slop kind of style, and that every- | body went by it, giving the poor old, doomed village the cold shoulder, i Had not things turned out thus, really good times were in store for the race-course company. Em Pember's brain had hatched s gigantic dinner scheme, and she | had cooked some immense jcints, drawing public notice to the important fact by a placard of her own penman- ship, in which she spelt dinner with one n, in fine, bold, Roman characters. _ The groceress had also pasted up a paper, half obscur- ing a legend set forth upon a small square or wood be- neath, to this effect’: PROVISION STOREJEM i em 2VE By GG wherein it will be seen the artist miscalculated the apace at his command, and tacking the first syllable of! Jemima’s namo on to the description of her place of buefhess, enshrouded the whole in mystery, so that per- | sons who saw it for the first time took it to be * someut | foreign.” On her bit of paper Mrs. Pegg inscribed a promise of | tea and cresses, which really ought to have had 4} pleasant sound to weary way-farers. But perhaps, Mr. | Pidgeon, the barber, had soared highest, to fall farthest, | and get the biggest bump. He it was who had conceived the grand notion of an Oriental Saloon, for the sale of ginger beer—(after all, | it wants a noble mind to grasp greatness); and he went | in wildly for a whole gross, making and corking it him- self—a labor which took close upon a fortnight, during which he cut down the tours for his regular business, and dismissed customers in the shaving and hair-cut- ting lines if they turned up mal a propos. The only drawback to all this, as I have before stated, was, that the traffic went the other way (the new road), and missed East Haggleford altogether. Thus it came to pass that just one hour before the ragged rogue arrived upon the scene, the heart of com- mercial East Haggleford was sad and heavy, and bitter discontent prevailed. Perhaps the general sense of injury attained its cli- max, when a far-off burst of cheering reached the ears of the poor barber, languishing on a bench in the in- most recess of his Oriental Saloon; and he, rushing madly forth, clambered on the stile, and found that the voices were those of the van-loads of holiday-makers, going home down the new road, hooraying vociferously. And eyery one of these he could not help reflecting, might have partaken of a bottle of his ginger beer. In the bitterness of his heart, therefore, Mr. Pidgeon burst out with all the strength of his lungs into—* Hoo- rav! hooray! hooray!” The voice brought out Miss Pember and Mrs. Pegg, both much astonished. Then Mr. Pidgeon descended from his perch, and gave one more feeble hooray in a most dismal tone of voice. “Hooray, by all, means,”’ said Miss Pember snap- pishly; “ but, for my part, I don’t happen to see any- thing to hooray about. I’m glad Mr. Pidgeon does, though; ain’t you, Mrs. Pogg 2 “Very!” answered Mrs. Pegg, shortly. “P'r'aps Mr. Pidgeon is like some other folks—he’s very easily amused.” . “That's true,” rejoined MissePember; “and that's them that don’t suffer for it, may be I've not been able, as yet, tosee what particular good the steeple-chases have done to East Haggleford. hey’ve brought down a lot of nasty, low riff-raff, that I'll allow; but*they won’t put . penee piece into any honest, hard-working body's pocket.” “There was nevera truer word ae than that, Miss Pember. It’s precious little good anything got up by them Challices doegus. Oh, dear, no! We're not the néw town, we're not. It was Mr. Pidgeon’s idea, if I’m not very wrong, that we should do something, wasn't it? I hope you will find your ginger beer go off, Mr. Pidgeon, according to your expectations.” et hg “Thank you, Mrs. Pegg,” said the barber, much hurt, “TI dare say they will go off pretty well.” At that instant, two bottles did go off all by them- selves—a feat several other badly-corked bottles had erformed before then, during the day; and while dgeon ran away to look after his damaged stock, the two ladies laughed loudly at his misfortune. They, however, had not quite had out their grumble yet, but returned to the inn bar-parlor to continue it. “There's too much steeple-chasing and horse-racing about that you oo Challicé, in my opinion, Miss Pember,” said . Pegg, sitting down, the better to enjoy a glass of something comforting. “ He'll go to the dogs if my lady doesnot watch him closely. Yet his father had all the virtues, if you are to believe his tombstone in the churchyard.” ‘ “It’s very well, Mrs. Pegg, to talk about t child in the way it should go. Fine ladies time. You must hold the reins yourself, me, if the cart is to keep out of the ruts.” “My fine madam’s nephew did not keep out of the ruts, if report speaks truly, did he? They say it was nothing but his wildness and extravagance that has made Mrs. Challice’s sister-in-law as poor as she is.” “A golfish, cruel young wretch! I believe it’s too true; and see them now. The daughter is just home from’ board-school, if you please, where she’s been brought up a fine lady, learnt music and French, and such like useless faldirala! And what's her prospects, I should like to know?” “Perhaps she will go out for a governess or upper ing up & haven't the it seems to servant, after all. Ishould be surprised at nothing in our county gontry—no, not if they were to come down at last on us other poor folks with a subscription to keep them from going into the House! Something respectable, perhaps,—a one and three naughts, eh?” “Tf they do, then, they’ll have to put me down for one of the naughts, That’s all I'll help them with.” As may be judged by the foregoing dialogue, the county gentry were not held in high esteem by the East Hagylefordians at any time; but just now the two ladies talking were both very tired, and hot, and angry. It was surely the worst possible time for our ragged rogue to choose for the perpetration- of the little rob- bery he meditated. Yet just now, at this critical mo- ment, he came strolling down the roa‘|, scanning the preparations for his entertainment with much com- placency. Misguided rogue! STEP II. Mr. Pipcron was the first to notice the advent of ‘the shabby stranger. and he contemplated him critically. It seemed to Mr. Pidgeon that he might posaibly be equal, in apecuniary sense, to a penny bottle of the famous ginger beer, but that if he stopped a lomg while lounging about all over the Oriental Saloon: whilst drinking it, his custom would bring no credit upon the | establishment in the opinion of problematical passers- by some time hence. One thing was very certain. A person of his dissi- pated appearance was not at all Jike to care for wishy- washy tea; and as to dinner, the thing was very clearly quite out of the question. How often the cleverest of us are outin our cal- culations ! The ragged rogue passed the tea and cressea b temptuously, itis true; but he neyer even Took the Oriental Saloon. On the contrary, he walked straight towards the inn, and flung himself carelessly down in a chair set in frent of a table, on which a white cloth had been very carefully spread since ten o’clock in the morning. Miss Pember and Mrs. Pegg coming forth from the hostel just at that moment, tho ladies eyed the stranger with some suspicion ; and, whilst the latter retreated to her grocery store, the former approached him with a little toss of the head, and, pointing to some benches at a little distance, said, ** Will you please to sit there? This table is for dinner.’’ “I should like to dine,” remarked tho shabby man, “if you have no objection.” “The charge for dinner,” said Miss Pember, curbing her impatience, “is half a crown ; and for that you can have a choice of joints, and eat as much as you like, Dine for to-morrow and next day, too, if you choose.” “TI shall have to make up for yesterday and to-day before I begin,” the rogue reflected; but he only signi- fied his approval of the proposed arrangements by a bland smile and a bow of the head. Miss Pember was puzzled. Her customer was not | at all the kind of person she had expected, yet it would not do to offend him if be really had the money in his pocket—and it most likely would disgust him if she asked him to pay in advance. “¥ don’t at all like the man,” she thought, to her- self. ‘‘But then, surely, no one with such a hat would would ever have the impudence to order s dinner he could not payfor! Perhaps his shabbiness is eccen- tricity. One never knows. These sporting men are 50 peculiar.” Satisfying herself with this conclusion, Misa Pember bustled about; for, with the exception of an old woman- servant, she was alone in the house—the pot-boy ostler having quarreled with her early in the morning, and left for the races. She therefore brought out the din- nér herself ; and her customer’s eyes wandered alter- nately, with ovident 7 ig from her neat figure to the noble sirloin of cold roast beef, and back again to her cap and ribbons, and pretty pink and white face. “ Who keeps this tavern ?” he asked, ag he cut him- self ahuge slice. “ You've an easy time of it, my dear, Ishould think, if it’s often as quiet as this ?’’ . “I keep it myself,” she answered, tossing the ribbons slightly. pose? Been lucky to-day ?” “¥’m lucky to have so charming a hostess, and such uncommonly good beef,’ he answered, with his mouth full. “ Will you give me apint of your best ale?” She brought it, and poured out a glass. con- “ How it sparkies !’’ he said enthusiastically; “ you’yo” left the light of your eyes in it, for certain.’ p “After all, he has the manners and the language of a gentleman,” thought Miss Pember, whilst she blushed, “ Will you take some sweets, sir—some cherry-pie ?”” “A little cherry-pie will just suit me,” he re “and a taste of cheese, pérhaps; and then I shall Ren § nicely. By the way, now, have you a bo’ port wine in the house that you can recommend ?” “Port wine!” thought Miss Pember. “He is a gen- tleman, that’s quite certain!” And she hastened to execute the order, whilst the shabpy cpa rnt the pastry out of sight with the same celerity with which he had ee of the roast beef. When she returned, he was lolling back in his chair, with a countenance indicative of extreme satisfaction. “This seems to be a sleepy sort of village you've here. Not much of it, and I should say uncomm select.” » “Tt’s large enough to starve in, sir,” replied ae . “That's what moat of the folks do.” “Do they, now?” retorted her customer, mouth full ot bread and cheese. “I caught to self rs then,so far. Trade bad,eh?” “About as bad as it can be, I ass ‘ou. | ‘ou’re the first dinor I'ye had to-day, | eve that?” : Pie att ed at 7 oss ak! “You've been to the races, 1 sup- - Pp: — ‘ot Bt
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The rogue suspended his hand, in the act of cutting another slice ef cheese, and suffered momentarily from a twinge of conscience. “Tf she only knew,” he thought. ‘I wonder how far my little capital would go towards the expenses? An uncommonly good glass of wine,”’ he observed, aloud. “There's no one to drink wine down in these parts !"’ ‘said Miss Pember, with a sneer. “A pack of ginger- bread gentry, with long pedigroes, and twopence-half- peter their pockets |” “Thats worse than me by twopence,” he thought. “You're quite right, ma'am,” he said, “I can’tstand paupers with long pedigrees, myself. They're like po- tato plants, I've heard it said; the only good belonging tothem’s underground." “You may well say that,” observed Miss Pember, with an approving smile. ‘You'd think very little of our gentry if you knew them, You're a stranger down here, From London, perhaps ?’”’ “Yes ; from London, and other places. Traveling, to see lite and character, without any fuss about appear- ances.”’ The landlady went on, without pausing to criticlae this statement. ‘There's our lord ef the manor, Mr. Charles Challice. He never spends a shilling in East Haggleford. Indeed, if half what is said is true, he’s squandering most of his fortune away on the race-courses, while his mother spends the other half keeping up a fine house and a pack of idle, over-fed servants. Then there's the poor Mrs, Challice, as we call her, who lives, or starves down there at The Grange, keeping up a kind of state and appearance, according to what I'm told, that would make you well-nigh die of laughing if, ~you could only see it. Wax candles set upon the table, and can’t afford to light them! Silver dishes, and sprats for supper; and her daughter, Miss Harriet, if ou please, brought up tothe same silly sham, educa- ed at a fashionable Chiswick boarding-school, taught French, and music, and dancing! Ar’n’t you well, sir? It's the pie, p'r'aps ?”” “All right! It’s nothing! You said Miss Harriet Challice, did not you ?”’ “I did not say any more than Miss Harriet; but her “name's Challice, of course, like her mother’s. ‘There's Challices and Challices down hero; the country’s full of them, and the church-yard, too! You don’t know these parts ?”’ “No. Ihad no idea that she—I mean that they lived here. I heard the name on the race-course, I fancied, but was not sure. It is not avery common name in other parts of the country.” “It’s common enough here, though,”’ said Miss Pem- ber. “‘That’sthe old Grange, where she and her mother live—that tumble-down old red brick house you see half-way down the hill-side, peeping through the trees. The young lady only came back from school yesterday. She’s pretty enough, for those who like that pale, pasty-taced kind of woman! Is that your taste, sir?” “Yes—no.” He was no longer listening to what she said. He had risen from his seat, and, mounted on a bench, was star- _ing hard in the direction in which she had pointed. Pember had thus a better opportunity of getting asight of her customer's personal appearance; and if she had at first doubted him on account of his hat, she ought to have doubted him much more now the whole of his miserable wardrobe, and more especially his de- plorable boots, were fully exposed to view. It was not a wise thing of him tostand up there exhibiting his pia and tatters in the broad light of day. ut he was thinking no longer of the small trickery and cunning of arogue’s life. A chance-spoken word had brought back to him the memory of a time he had almost deceived himself into believing that he had for ever forgotten. “What brought me here?’ he murmured, between his set teeth. ‘What curse was on me when I set my face this way? I must go at. once.” But that was far easier said than done, whilst Miss Em Pember, brimful of uneasiness and distrust, stood looking at him. He passed his hand across his forehead, on which large beads of gereniedon had burst forth, and, with a mighty effort, dropping back into something of his old : and-easy atyle, asked for one of Miss Pember's choicest cigars. “Agood one, please; and when I've finished my wine, and hada smoke, I'd like to pay, for I must be getting off.” Had Miss Pember thought of it, sho might have sug- “gente that smoking would spoil the taste of the fine ts port she had just served him with, and thus, if her eccentric customer were already a bankrupt, she might at least have saved one sixpence. However, she went _ silently to execute his order. Ty or never—then was the time to escape. Mr. y We, y: oon was deep in the recesses of his Oriental Saloon; ‘Mrs. Poa was drinking her own tea and eating her own - eresses, in desperation, in her own ee ey the coast’ was ingly quite clear, and Miss would be al for another minute or two. Ho was active and swift of foot. Half a dozen strides would bring him to the stile. He would be down the field and through the thicket beyond in two minutes. me This project was no sooner conceived than he began Pember _ to put itintoexecution. Hecast a hasty glance towards fe inn door, and made astride in the direction of the pow sien he came to a sudden pee gi at the ya of two ladies, who, having noiselessly emerge om the short | A leading to The Grange, were how » within a tof: the spot whero he stood, © As though’a pistol-shot-had struck bim, he staggered d rather falling into than Fe ar epemi rte a short distance from the‘table whereon he Shit * she were & ghost. THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER, And, in truth, no apparition from the other world thus suddenly appearing could have frightened him more. STEP IV. Mxanwarue, the two ladies, all unconscious of the sensation which the sight of one of them had created, walked towards the stile, on which the youngest leant —a slim, pale, graceful girl, dressed in mourning, with largo eyes, that fixed themselves upon the far distance, dreamily—rather an unhappy tace for one 80 young, but without the discontented, half peevish look that the elder lady almost #lways wore. There was evidently more of pain than pleasure in the daily life of Mrs, and Miss Challice at The Grange. The younger lady, coming fresh from school, at which she had passed all her holidays for the last three years, had perhaps been shocked to find her mother so changed, her home so altered. Perhaps she had ex- pressed her thoughts in words, for the elder lady now spoke querulously, as though in answer to something that hat been said. “Things are not as they used to be, Harriet,’ she said; ‘‘andI have partly told you why. I may tell you all, some day, if the trouble cannot be got over, and the worst Comes. But there’s plenty of time for that.’ “But, mother,” said the girl, anxiously, “why not do so now? Can I be of no help to you?” : mie 7 help, perhaps, if you are not an obstinate ‘ool {’" “‘Mamma,whata thing tosay! Have I ever disobeyed you in anything?’—and the tears rose tothe young girl’s eyes. “Oh, how unlike all this is to what I ex- pected to find !’’ “ All what ?” retorted the old lady, poevishly ; and then, adopting a coaxing tone, as she saw that her daughter was crying—‘There, there!’’ she* said ; “you are a good girl, ofcourse. Yes, yes, my dear !|— yes, yes! Don’t make a scene, for heaven's sake! Some of these village people may see us. Who is that man who is staring so, I wonder?” The young lady dried her tears hastily, and looked at the ragged stranger wistfully. “He is very poor, perhaps, ani also hungry, and too proud to beg—like us, mamma. Shall I give him the few pence I have here?” ‘We have no pence to waste, Harriet. Do nothing of the kind. He is an idle, worthless fellow, I am sure, Come, now, let us goon. We shall be too late to meet your cousin coming back. from the race, Come along ; and, pray, do not cry any more, and make a fright of yourself—the very first time you meet him, too!” The elder lady moved forward, saying this, and the younger followed her a short distance, then turned, came quickly back, and approached the rogue, holding sixpence between her Sere She looked at him quickly and nervously. in want?” shoe said. A i he answered, in a low tone, gazing intently at her. “Have we not met before? *N-no,”” “Take this, please ; Lam sure you’’— She dtd not finish hersentence ; but thrust the money upon him, and retreated hastily in some confusion. He stood silent and motionless, his eyes resting on the little silver coin—a worn sixpence it was—a “lucky” one, with a hole in it—for full a minute, and then his breast began to heave, and hia eyes filled with un- wonted tears ; and all in a tremble, and weak as 6 child, he sank back into the seat he had risen from to meet her a# she approached. ‘ae She had forgotten me!" he said. “I am glad of at!" Miss Em Pember came out now with the cigar and the bill, an elaborate combination of illegible hiero- glyphies and incorrect arithmetic. “Thank you,’ he ssid— that’s right; I'll pay you in a minute.” He did not notice that Miss Em Pember’s face wore avything but acomplacent expression, but rather dis- trustfully ran over the various dilapidations in his poor, worn-out wardrobe; nor did he see that, instead of returning to the inn, she kept close at hand, also beckoning to Mr. Pidgeon, whose head at that noment appeared at the shop door, to come and speak to her, Neither did he see that 4 party of heavy-looking, half- tipsy rustics, evidently returning from the races, were slouching up the village street, and others, a little further off in the meadows, approaching the stile, on which he had, a while ago, sat and rested himself. “ Are you IT seem to know you.” © No; he had no thought for anything that was passing around him. Listlessly he crumbled up the unpaid bill, puffed unconsciously the unlit cigar between his teeth, and peered into vacancy. He was far enough away from East Haggleford and its petty cares and strifes. He was two yeara younger— only two years younger—but what a change there was in him since then! He was not then rich, but he had no occasion to turn cheat. to geta good meal. Only two years ago, but what an alteration! Had he spoken his thoughts aloud, he might have said something like this: “Iam rejoiced she has for- gotten mo—quite forgotten me—but, oh, how well I know her! tt is the same sweet face, but looking sad- der now, that turned my head then—two years ago; and it was just now+when she stood here—as it was then, 80 close to me, and yet so far away! She could not now read the heart of the poor, ragged outcast, ‘whose hungry eyes were following her so longingly ; so, in the old time, she never wasted a thought upon the presumptuous fool who sacrificed his life for the ORRYA, tuk, hee Bihan tokgottn-ghe) Lem gidd’ of : mrin . an forgo me; am. ce , he sat staring’ at) the - youngest ‘lady as | that! Kw Pat times & : ye “But why have I not forgotten her? How the — , sae | master | old days come back tome! I can see now quite plainly the old sohool-room looking out upon the garden. There are the young girls sitting under the shadows of the trees. There I, a poor penniless nobody, with my pitiful, my disgracetul, ape-like trade of dancing- Thero, too, is the lynx-eyed governess who found my secret out! Is she alive now, I wonder, still carrying on her old trade ef toady and sneak? How L loathe her memory ! “ And there, there, the center of the group, with her young, beautiful countenance turned away—so beauti- ful, I thought it, and think it still; so musical a voice Ithought it, and think it still)! I am a worse fool now than then! “Tt seems like yesterday, and yet an age ago, that doar old, unhappy life—the hopes, and fears, and fool- ish longings for what could never be! Then the half- spoken word, the intercepted letter, the scorn, the ex- pulsion, the disgrace! The hard, honest work of years shattered at a blow, and all the world against me, and me a rogue and a vagabond! A pretty end to an illu- sive dream! Yet lam dreaming still! “Oh, what curse was on me when I came here? Bat the world is wide enough! I will go away again! I shall forget her eaaily enough, as Ihave done! I will not stay another instant in this hateful place! I~ How about this dinner?” “ Did you call, sir?’ asked Miss Pember. looking for something, were you not ?”” The rogué hung his head. He had no courage left. He faltered, but could find no words. “T gave you the bill just now. Shall I take for what you’vo had?” Oh, miserable, shame and degradation! Was there any hole or corner the conscience-stricken wretch could creep into? He at that moment felt the deepest con- tempt for himself, and the paltry fraud he had perpe- trated, that ever living creature was capable of feeling. And why was that? A while ago he would have laughed at the bare ides of any ore entertaining such a sentiment. He would have felt no fear of the danger of his situation should things have turned out awkwardly. But all his courage was clean gone now—all his powers of knavery at an end. He would willingly, at that moment, have signed away a year of Nis life, if any ne would, in exchange, have discharged the din- ner bill. “Now, if you please,’’ said Miss Pember; “ I’m waiting.’ “Tam very sorry, but ’—— Miss Pember flushed, crimson, and she ralsed her voice to a shrill pitch, “I don’t know whether you're sorry or whether you're not, but I want to see the color of your money. You've eaten and you've drank of the best, Please to pay—that’s all ask!" ~- Several of the inhabitants of the village returned from tan races, had reached the spot now, and gathered round. **Can I speak to you privately ?”’ the rogue said, "Nol", Misa Pember retorted. “We've no secrets between us, that 1 know of! I want payment for what you've had, that’s all!’ *T have no money,” he gasped, “No money!” screamed the landlady, ‘ You awin- dling vagabond! But I'll show you there’s ways, of treating such as you in these parts, that you mayn’t know of in the place you come from,’’» “My good lady, pray don't be violent! I will pay ouallrightif youlet me owe it you for an hour. ow are, of course, aware that legally, it is only 8 com- mon debt!" « We don’t want any splitting of straws here—do we, Mrs. Pomber?!’ put in Pidgeon, ‘If he don’t pay up at once, we'd best seo if we can’t learn him a lesson !"’ “Thou’t reet there, Master Barber!” chimed in a bystander; ‘‘and send him to school in the horse- pond to learn it !’" An approving shout greeted this proposition, and another man joined in with, “Duck him, lads! Ho's one of them welshing chaps from Lon’on, he is! See him with the thimble-riggers mysen at t’ races—him as Master Goodman lost a pound to. Let's duck him, Tsay 1” The rogue sprang to his feet and cleared a space round him with a sweep of his right arm. He did not look much like a coward now, or one easily to be ill-treated. : But the country folks were no cowards either ; and what was mofe, several of them had drank copious po- tations of atrong ale. Two rughed on him, and his fists flew out like Ug tning, rolling them over in the duat. “Take care!’’ he cried, fiercely. ‘I'll make short work of some of you, if youlay ahandonme!” — But the blood of the others was up, and heeding not the warning, they rushed upon him again in a Fs He Paha. is true, with the fury ofa mad bull; but what could he do against: so many? In three minutes they laid him low; they dragged him, torn and bleed- ing, and coyered with dirt, towards the stagnant pond in The Grange road; some of his tormentors roaring” with langhter, some gasping for breath, and swe ; with rage. Alike to his cries for mercy, mixed with savage cw and vows of vengeance, they paid no attention. now quite powerless in their hands—his strength s —an almost indistinguishable mass of rags and ta! writhing foebly. What curse had been on him when he camo there; and what miserable shame and degradation to suffer before her ! ‘ ; : “You wore _ For she was there, sure enough. In all the a con- os ips ee 3 Hi ’ . 16.¥ t . a, * w Ws napionydhoyGrgaet im ovay taupe
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ip ’ [AR RS EERIE = NRE SARE A OR ET SRE EET THE SECOND FIGURE. IN WHICH ANOTHER WOLF COMES PROWLING,. Breer 1.—xxIT FIRST WOLF. » IL.—ENTER SECOND WOLF. » ILl,—THE SECOND WOLF AT WORK. » IV.—EXIT SECOND WOLF. STEP I, Miss Harner CHatuice had not stood by a silent spectator of this violent scene, She was no poor, flimay, e-paper heroine, as we shall presently see, She saw the poor wretch, powerless and bleeding, in the hands of a score of strong men; and hersympathies, like those ofevery true woman, went without a mo- ment’s reflection, on the side of the weak, She recognized, in the glimpse she got of him, dis- figured though he was by the struggle, that he was the man on whom she had bestowed her charity a short time before, and, frecing herself from her mother's upon her arm, she ran swiftly towards Em Pem- , and asked what was the matter—what the man had fone ? “T hope they won't be too rough to the fellow,”” Em said, with an uneasy consciousness that she was speak- ing rather late in the day. “No, no—they must not do it !’’ Mise Harriet exclaim- ed. ‘ How dare they ?—are there no police?” “ Well, as to the police,’’ said the landlady, hesitating in her merciful intentions as the recollection of her wrongs returned to her,—‘‘ eighteen shillings clean gone, and with such cool impudence, too! If the con- stable had been anywhere where he could have been got at, which he never is’’—— “ Did the man steal the money ?” “He'stolé the money’s worth. With all the effront- ery in the world, he ordered a dinner fit for the Lord Mayor, and then had no money to pay !"” « And it was only for that! You must stop them! Call—call as loud as you can! You shall not lose a pen- ny, I promise you that. I would pay you now, but [ have not the money inmy pocket! But I will pay you, I promise you! My name isChallice! That is my ma- ‘ma coming this way! You know her |" “Harriet, Harriet! What is all this?’ the old lady asked, in an injured tone. **Don't tell!’”’ Miss Harriet said, hastily, to the land- lady; “butdowhatI say! Quick, quick! They will kill him, Iam sure they will! Those cruel wretches!” she exclaimed to her mother. ‘Do you see? The cow- rine mead ecowards—I would have them all whipped to ath |’ “Harriet! for goodness sake,” her mother expostu- lated, “do not speak so loud. We are unpopular enough here as it is, and I’m sureI do all in my power to conciliatethem. Let them do what they like. What ‘does it matter? We have surely troubles enough of our own, without concerning ourselves with those of every ragged vagabond!” ¢ But Harriet was not listening to these remarks. She was eagerly following with her eyes the movements of Em Pember, who was now most energetically entreating the mob to abstain from further violence—assuringthem at the same time, vehemently assuring them, that it was alla mistake, and her bill had been paid. “Whether you're paid or not,”’ one man cried, with a savage laugh, ‘he must be ducked for his welshing at the races, if he’s not for green else. Here, lads, bring him on this way! We'llswim him in the mill- stream ; there’s more room there, and we'll have better Some one had fetched a rope, which was passed with a slip-knot over his head, and pulled tightly under his chest, holding down hisarms. Then, half lifeless, he etry raised upon the parapet, and pitched into the water. The case of this luckless rogue seemed desperate in- deed, unless help were straightway sent to save him. But just as the waters closed over the victim’s head, a party of horsemen rounded the corner of the village street, coming up the road that led to the race-course ; and seeing that something of an exciting nature was taking place at the bridge, came forward at a more rapid pace. : “ Harriet, Harriet!" exclaimed Mrs. Challice; “ that is your cousin, the one infront. For goodness sake, put your hat straight; and how you've burst your glove, and how hot and red you are!” Strange to say, without pausing to attend to any of these matters, Miss Harriet signed to the foremost horseman to stop, and, in a few breathless words, entreated him to rescue the culprit from his tor- mentors. “You are my cousin Charles! I am Harriet Challice ! I have no time to speak to you now! Those wretches are killing that man! You must stop them! They will listen to you! If not, beat them with your whip —trample them under foot!" ~ The person addressed wasa tall, powerful young man, with broad shoulders, flaxen hair, and a sun- “ burnt face—not too wise-looking, perhaps, but cer- tainly handsome, according to the ordinary acceptation of the term. _ He seemed not a little s and puzzled by the “ Yen y gs = oy somewhat startling speech him, and he smiled and opened his eyes ; but he wasted no time in : Ri to consider, spurred on his horse, and gallo g@into the crowd, shouted to the ringleaders to sist from their sport. : ry oth Challice been un- les t failed 3 F sane, aneates pea aml bd na the sight of his fhce, obe in the crowd called fe Ben THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER, “ Here’s the young Squire! Drop it now, lads ; there’s been enough ot, this {” But one or two, however, were for questioning the young Squire's right to interfere. “He's got to do with them that’s brought before him in the Court-house—not here.” “We're justices here! Who's to stop us?” “Well,” said Mr. Challice, “I mean to stop you, either by fair words or otherwise ; and there are some here that’ll be on my side. Come, let the man go; and split this crown-piece among you, over there, at the ‘Green Dragon.’ ’”’ The five shillings settled the matter, and paid the rogue’s ransom. Released from his perilous position— for, during the parley, he had been suspended about a foot from the surface of the water, twirling ignobly round and round, like a trussed fowl roasting at the end of a string—the poor man’s “‘ Jack’’—he now stood in the midst, a deplorable object, his clothes torn from his back, and such sad rags as yet covered him, soaked through, and ,clinging to his body. One of the old burst boots he had lost altogether, and one of his white cuffs, with a trashy brass stud in it still, hung upon the wrist of an arm from which the sleeve had been torn from the elbow, disclosing the fact that the cuff and collar composed the whole stock of linen that the shabby stranger had worn. “I don’t know what you have been guilty of, man,” said the bey ere “but if you will accept a well-meant piece of advice, you will get out of this as quickly as tmay be, and don’t show yourself again for some time to | come.”’ The half-drowned rat made as though he would speak, but his voice failed him; and without saying a word, he slank away, leaving a thin trail of water on the dusty road, which showed for some thirty or forty yards what direction he had taken, and then was lost in the grass on the road side, STEP II. Havine played his part of gallant defender, Mr. Charles Challice now returned to the place where the ladies were waiting, and, alighting from ‘his horse, gave it to his groom. The elderly Toay was profuse in her apologies. “IT don't know whatever you can think of Harriet! She is so impetuous, so self-willed!’ Although you are first cousins, a little more ceremony surely was necessary }’" “JY don’t know, aunt!” he answered, laughing. “I think not. There was hardly time.” a “We should have let the man be drowned while we were making pretty speeches,” the girl said, half laugh- ing; “and we can make them now instead, if neces- “Yes; oh, yes, to be sure!’’ Charles Challice an- swered, blushing as he spoke. He was slow and sure, and did not exactly follow some of this. His cousin was quite a novelty in the girl way, according to his experience—a novelty, though, which he thought he rather liked, but had not quite made up his mind yet upon the point. Presently he would be able to think it over; and,in the meanwhile, to hide some small amount offconfusion he suffered from, he hadtened to introduce his friend. He, ge Everest, was some eight years Challice’s senior. They were both in the same regiment, but Challice was yet quite fresh at his soldiering ; his uni- form was hardly creased, and there were no scratches on his sword. The other had been on active service, and had smelt powder. Hot suns had bronzed his features, which wore a somewhat weary air. Most ladies felt from the first a great interest in Captain Everest, which was, however, a sentiment he only half returned. It was most unusual for him to manifest any desire to make new acquaintances, Chal- lice said afterwards, ‘‘I never knew you talk so much, Jack! What on earth were you saying ?”’ “{ don’t remember saying anything worth repeat- ing,” Everest replied. Challice would himself have liked to talk to his new- found cousin, but the elder lady had prevented this by a masterly stroke of generalship, and possessed herself of the young Squire’s arm. She was, in truth, fearful lest some outspoken word from the girl might mar his first impression of her. As it was, she thought to herself, “What could he think of Harriet’s strange, excited manner? So unlike what he must be used to in girls! But she is so unlike girls! Itis very hard that it should be so! I don’t know what I have done to deserve it! One child has well-nigh broken my heart, and now the other !—now the other!’’ But she let little of this secret misery be seen in her manner, save that she was, perhaps, rather nervous and excited. Her life had, for some years past, been a weary struggle against heavy; Cats. There was in her look, one might have fancied, a kind of dread expecta- tion of something coming, which was visible when she was first introduced tostrangers. Therich Mrs. Chal- lice, at the Hall, thought that her late brother-in-law’s widow was a little mad, or very eccentric. The death of a much-loved son had probably affected her brain. She was now making a score of excuses for the non- appearance of herselfand her daughter at the races. * Harriet was so tired after a journey home yesterday, and had a bad headache. Besides, she had nothing prepared to goin. Dear Charles, you know what girls are at her Te. mountains they make out of mole- hills in such matters! Poor thing, too! I know sheis bas (epee ‘‘My mother wished me to ride round this way, and ‘it My dear Charles, how kind of you!” T thought > , how of you ought you ht comes but Iam so sorry! It will be too late, won't it? It will be im ¢}, Tam so sorry |" “Why impossible ? Challice asked, much surprised. “It will not take half an hour to get there, and we do not dine till half-past eight. You must come.” “I should be eo glad to do so, for my dear child's sake—she has seen solittlé, shut up at school all these years—but, you see, my coachman is not at home.” a My groom can drive you; he is the steadiest fellow ive.”’ “No, no; I'm afraid not. Everything isso unfortun- ate! Edwards has taken the horse away with him.” “But, my dear aunt, here is the groom’s horse. She will run in harness, and take you as quietasalamb. I believe you do not want to come!” “ What an idea, Charles !” the old lady said, evidently racking her brains in ch of some fresh obstacle. “But lam so sorry; and, the fact is, lam engaged !’’ ‘Engaged !"’ he repeated, rather incredulously; for this excuse seemed to come oddly after the others, She did not notice it, and rambled on. “T have all day been expecting my man of business from London; and I must be in to see him,for he is sure tocome. Ah ! that is he!’ There, sure enough, at the turn of the road, was the man of business in question—or, at any rate, a person who had the appearance of being a man of business—an elderly individual, short-necked, and rather over-stout and over-rosy, with nothing of at all an alarming Jook about aim; yet, most certainly, the old lady, at the sight of him in the distance, turned deadly pale beneath her rouge, and the hand resting on Challice’s arm shook as with palsy. But Charles Challice was not very quick at seei: in his h some things; and just now he had an i which was quite large enough to fill it. ‘See here, aunt,” he said, “If you have really busi- ness to attend to, let me take back my cousin with me, I will take the greatest possible care of her, and my mother will drive her over here = ee in the morning. We have adance. I think she will enjoy herself.” Had the proposition been made a few minutes earlier, most likely it would have been met with a score of ex- }cuses. Asit was, she seemed, somehow, scarcely to understand the words that were being spoken, and briefly gave her consent; then hastily disengaging. her- — from hernephew, bade him and the others good- ye. Harriet, who had not heard what was taking place, looked at her mother in astonishment, until Challice explained. “Oh, you dear mamma, how kind of you!” shecried, ‘May I really go?” “Yes, dear—yes; and make haste. keep your cousin waiting.” They were now in front of The Grange, and the young lady ran forward, in a flutter of delight. “You know your way to the stables, Charles,” the old lady said, in a tone which seemed to imply that he and his friend might go there, and leave her alone. When they had done so, she raised her hand, and beckoned to the man of business, whe had stood silent where she had at first seen him, afew yards dis- tant, and who now readily followed her into the house, andinto a dark, dreary-looking, oak-paneled parlor, the door of which she closed behind them. But Captain Everest had not followed his friend to the stable without casting a curious look towards the rosy-faced man, and the rosy-faced man’s eyes followed him with seeming interest. Perhaps they were wondering where they had met before; or perhaps they knew each other very well, but did not care to keep up the acquaintance out ot busi- ness hours. The Captain dropped his eyes, and the rosy man, whose name was Benson, stroked his chin with his gray Lisle-thread glove, and very faintly smiled. You must not STEP III. Wirn the same anxious, excited manner on her, the old lady bade her man of business take a seat, and, going to a cupboard in the corner of the room, brought out a decanter, about a quarter full of sherry, and a very small wine-glass, which she filled with a tremb- ling hand, By the side of this she placed a green des- sert-dish, containing halt a dozen mixed biscuits of un- tempting appearance, having evidently been long cup- boarded, Mr. Benson, pressed to pertake of these luxuries, took a sip of the wine, and made a wryish face at it, but rejected the biscuits altogether. “ What a lovely day we have had!” she said. “T have been waiting an hour for you nearly,” he're- plied, “out in that dusty road.’”’ “Why did you not come in and sit down? The servant should have asked you.” “ “She didn't anyhow! ’”’ / . An awkward pause followed this, which was b: mn by a tap at the door. Miss Harriet, in an incre short time, had dressed herself, and was ready to — start. \ The mother, with a confused apology to hen visitor, came out into the paanege, The girl looked very pretty just at that moment. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure ; her ordinarily pale cheeks were slightly fo eee To tell the truth, half the dispatch shown in her toilet arrangements was due to the scantiness of her ward- robe, and she now wore the same dress in ee had been walking, with some additions hastily added. oabe looked and pretty in it, h 6 looked very ow: and only women would have policed it wouia have ‘adiood er figure phar ; mother hardly looked at her. ; ly man, should go away, , It was a well-worn black elegantly fash- etal r -
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ko oe Pret | / ‘ _ “ Monstrous! tolénd his name to a fifteen hundred pound ~ nover tr ** That's ‘right !—that’s right !'' she said, Are they bringing the carriage round? Yes, I hear them. You must be very careful, mind—very careful! Don't chatter about anything here! Don't let that wonian— your aunt—draw you out; you understand? What 4 while they are! My poor head is splitting! Ah! here they come! tain! You'll take great of her! Heaven bless you!” Curiously enough, they noticed little or nothing of her excitement, and she wayed her handkerchief until tiey had rounded the turn in the road. Then of a Good-bye, dear! sudden she became curiously changed—grim and gray, | She entered the house, with a sigh, walking heayily. At the door of the room whgre entered with a smile. ~*' Now, sir,” she said, “I am at your service.” “T am quite at yours, madam,” replielthe other, dryly. ‘I have been so some time.” *“T cannot tell you how very surry Lam to have kept you; the more so as’ -— “Well, time is money with 106, Mrs. Challice. I sup- jo. you get into the way of not being particular to an hour or two when you live in these world-end kind of Places. I have sometimes felt half inclined myself to rive up my line, and go in for the buttercup business, Just as yet L can't affordit. I’m even very short—very ‘hort indeed, I should not have waited for you so long to-day if I had not been.” ‘Lbore was a tremor in her voice as she replied, ‘Oh, Tam so sorry! I don’t know what to say to you, Mr. Benson! I am not quite ready with the interest. I oaly want the delay of a few hours—an hour or two.” Mr. Benson, at the moment about to help himself to a pinch of snuff, shut the box-lid without taking the pinch, and looked aghast, “Not ready with the interest?” saidhe, ‘‘Why,I clearly understood that I was to have the principal be- fore now! You won't deny that you promised it to me?’ “Yes, yes; I promised it, I know,’’ she replied, in reat distress. ‘ But I have beon bittorly disappointe.l. { should have realized a large sum before now, but— Dut I have been deceived.” “Upon my word,” said Mr. Benson, smiling blandly, “you ladies have 4 straightforward, off-hand way with you that there’s no keeping time with! expected your fifteen hundred pounds to-day, and I want it? Do you understand 2?” She tried a playful tone—not very playful, though— it was so painfully artificial. “‘Tonly understand that it is wholly impossible,” she said. “ You cannot get blood trom a stoné. You won't be too hard on me, Mr. Benson 7’ “T’'m never hard on anyone unless I positively can't help it,” he replied; ‘‘ and I hate unpleasantness. I'm “not that sort, and youknow me. But I must look after my interests. I can't rob my children.” “Come, come |" the old lady said, gaining heart a “fittle. “You have no children; you told ime so your- “self! You told me you had not a relative in the world! Ab! if you had a child, you would not be so hard!" “That's an unfair way of putting it, ma'am. [I can’t have my féclings worked upon when it’s a matter of pounds, shillings, and pence. Why did your son borrow my money when he had no means of repaying me? What did an ensign in a line regiment want with @ thousand pounds? Who did he suppose was goin to pay it back for him if he didn’t do so himself, an how could he pay? Do you call that honorable?’ “Who did you suppose was going to pay ?”” “ The gentleman who lent him his name was security enough for me. I did not “gre much reliance in your son's paper. I'd touched it before, and burnt my fingers.” “Would that you had kept your money!” she cried, bitterly. “T wish I had,” said he, tossing off the remainder of the sherry withgut reflection, and shaking his head after itj/as thongli it had.been the vilest tasted physic. “I wish I had, all things considered. I was too good- matured, and this is all the sympathy I get!" “Sympathy !’’ she pomeenen ” hy not? You t hg clap-trap view of the question, Poor young man !—led away |—fatal facility ! * scoundrel usurer!—tempting innocenoe!—and all » that sort of thing. But you know very well our Ensign was no innocent lambkin, any more than three arts of the young profligates who haunt the money- lenders’ offices.’” “Perhaps so,” the mother, answored, angrily, the color rushing to her face. “In & word, what are your ~ terms for a renewal ?’”’ “ Just double what you have been paying.” It cannot be done |" _ “Oh, very well, then !"’ said Mr. Benson, rising, and cipal, ma’am. You can't expect that Ishall go on like this. Besides, why not ask the gentleman himself— Mr. Challice, who lent his name to help you?” ' “No, no; [cannot do that! Ihave told you again and ‘ Tet buttoning his cont across his chest ; give me my prin- » gain I cannot do that!” “Yes, [know. You have told me that the reason you don’task him is because he sup the bill has been paid. Well, tell him it hasn’t. He must be a very easy- “going Sort of young fellow, this Mr. Charles peice, . oa himself any more aboutit. I should have thought he would have wanted to have & sight of the old bili wren it was paid.” _ She made no reply. © " «Come, Dow, ma’ani, take my advice, and putit to him - 4 ; a once. He'll settle for you, and let you owe it him hout interest, or such smal} interest as I can’t afford to take.” r oath! wid ait sdk If the man was possessed of heart, he must have for her, w0 evident were tar. sufferings. to oa Good-bye, Charles! good-bye, Cap- | Mr. Benson awaited hor | return, her manner changed again, however, and she | In‘a word, I} THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER. “ Well, there, now,"’ he said, “‘ I will leave it to you, and won't hurry for a—little bit. But we must not talk about months, or weeks, but days. I must have my money—the fifteen hundred, mind, not the interest— and I'll give you three days—three clear days! I have | got some business that will keep me in the neighborhood till Saturday—Saturday, then let it be! I'll make no | Sugzgestions—a woman's wit in these matters is better than a man’s. Good evening, ma’am.”’ With these words he lett her, and she sank back in her chair, and covered her worn face with her thin | hands. When, an hour later, the servant came to look for cheeks, and that they had made tiny water-courses among the rouge and powder. * You want rest, my dear,’’ the old woman said to her mistress. She had been in her service sinc the very first year of Mrs. Challice’s married life, and knew most, perhaps quite, all her mistress’s secrets. As she spoke, she laid her hand gently on the lady’s arm, and bent her head towards hers. ‘‘ Come, come, my dear—don't cry’ It breaks my heart to see you j so!” The lady looked up, and kissed the servant's cheek. “Thank you, Martha,” she said. “If you will lend me your arm, I think I should like to go out for a little while upon the terrace. Thé air in the house stifles me” Martha lent her arm without a word, and the two old woman passed slowly out into the still night. The moon bad risen, and in its light, two broken statues—once ornamenting, now disfiguring, the old stone terrace overlooking the neglected garden below stood out ghostlike. Struggling through the thickly interlaced branches of the huge elms, the moonlight fell there ht ae the ruined fountain, now half choked up with dead Jeaves and rubbish of former winters, the basin carpeted with moss and rank green weeds. What had once been a flower-garden was now 4 wild and rugged waste, where rotting branches of trees lay, half-strangled by creep- ers, across what had once been firm gravel paths. It was a (dreary, sorrowful scene at any time—drearier | than ever now; speaking of happy times gone never to | return, ot wasted lives and blighted hopes ; and speak- ing almost audibly, as it seemed to the feeble old lady clinging to her old friend's arm, and tottering almost paintully at her side. Each, as a girl, knew that place years ago, when the garden-paths were well kept, before the weeds had overrun A crushed the flowers. And, as they stood there, the vision of a bright summer morning, and the mistress wearing a short-waisted white frock, a broad blue sash, and looking monstrously pretty, came by some strange coincidence—perhaps, not very strange, though, after all—to the minds of both. “Do you remember, Martha, when I saw my poor, dear boy’s father for the first time—here, on this ter- race—you were with me?” “TI remember it quite well. I was this moment | her, she found the traces of tears still wet upon her | { Everyone felt it his duty to be as polite as possible te Mr. Benson, without letting anyone else see it. Every- one must have been very much ashamed of knowing Mr. Benson, and yet most particularly anxious to keep up his acquaintance. Benson ought to have felt awkward under such cir- cumstances, perhaps. He did not, Undisturbed by the solemn silence that greeted him (Barber Pidgeon broke off in the middle of a story, the moment he saw the new comer, and neither he nor any- body else afterwards noticed. that the story had not been concluded), quite undisturbed, Mr. Benson stood at the bar, and calied for some brandy. At the sound of his voice, Faun Pember, who had her back turned towards the door, gave a start, Jet a pipe fall she was taking from the drawer to send to a cus- tomer in the parlor beyond. She served Mr. Benson herself, and as he gulped down the raw spirits, she said, in a low voice, ‘I thought you would have been earlier. Ihave the interest ready.” * What interest ?” asked Mr. Benson, in aloud voice. “What do you mean? I said last time 1 would not renew "'— “Hush, hush!” said Em Pember, in an agony, “Come tothe corner, where they can’t hear, and pray don't speak so loud !" ; A tomb-like silence prevailed in the parlor, Pi rested motionless within an inch of their smokers’ and half-raised glasses were suspended in mid-air, cheeks flushed, jaws fell, and eyes rolled uneasily, Mr. Pidgeon placed his hand over the third and fourth but- tons of his waistcoat, in the immediate neighborhood of which he felt a kind of “ sinking.” * * * * * * © An hour later you would hardly have reco ed the same company. Mr. Benson was no longer there, and harmony prevailed in the place of silence and gloom ; but was it only the hectic flush of gin and water that illuminated Mr. Picdgeon’s cheek, and was old Josh Goodenough, the miller, only pot-valiant when he de- clared, with one ofthe roundest oaths a square-headed man ever swore, that he did not care a rap for all the dashed bill discounters in the dashed county, only there was less dash and more dreadiulness about the sentence as he spoke it ? * * * * ~ * * Two hours later. Surely this could not have been the sume village? Could that have been Pidgeon lead- ing the roaring chorus, in which even Miss Em Pember joined approyingly in alow key from the distance? It would have done any worn, wayfarer’s heart good, sure- ly, to hear that cheery music, and see the warm, red. light pouring through the drawn cufttains onto the road ove In truth, it cheered the heart of at least one shivering, houseless wretch, until he recognized whence it came, and crept away again in terror, as we shall see, But let them be jolly a moment or two, for goodness sake, now worthy Mr, Benson has turned his back ou them. Yes, Mr. Benson had been ; had interviewed his | thinking of it !’* “Were you ?” the other answered, and gently pressed her fingers upon the servant's arm. She could say no | more for a while. “T often think of it,” she added, after a pause; “and | of the time I saw my poor boy for the last time—that was here also.” “That was here also,” the servant said. “So the happiest and most wretched events in my life are associated with this place! Iam glad to live here! T hoped to die here, too, in peace !"" “Why not? You are not yourself to-night, and you have lee that man frighten you. You're very silly; I've told you so again and again! It is only to frighten you he does it! Bosides, we shall pay him off, like all the rest, before long, never fear !" “No, no, Martha! You do not know what you are saying! Itis impossible to pay him! I have raised all the money I can—I haye reached the end—and yet he presses me! Tcan dono more ; and theshame and disgrace must fall on me at last !" “Oh, it was a cruél—cruel thing! How could ason, who had been so loved by her, bring such misery.on his mother? He deserved "—— The preasure of the hand tightened upon the ser- vaut's arm. “You must not say that; it hurta me, for Llove him still! We will g° in tosupper now, and afterwards walk alittle again, ifyouare not tired. I shall perhaps be able to sleep then, It is such weary work to be awake, and count the hours till day comes mn! Pray heaven, I sleep to-night!—pray heaven I sleep |" STEP Iv. Tue rosy-faced cause of 60 much misery walked slowly along the lane leading to the little village; and though it was not by any means a long walk, he sat down upon the stile where our rogue sat before, to rest himself. It was not by any means a hot night, for there was a soft, pleasant breeze which stirred the foliage overhead with a rippling murmur; but the rosy-faced man must have {1 -hot, for he thrust his fingers inside his blue satin stock, to ease its tight- ness, «Tt’s that messy wine, confound it,’’ he said, “‘ that’s made me feel bad! I'll have anip of brandy, and then get to business! It’s growing lete.” ’ Mr. Benson’s business, whatever it might have been, seemed to impart a certain amount of dolefulneas tothe countenances of his customers, sev of whom, includ- ‘ - r aS : Sie hs Pr apy hae —— — several customers ; had threatened dire vengeance ; had refused to listen to reason ; had partaken of stimulants at the general expense, as it had been his wont todo on former visits ; and at last with a pocket full of gold and notes, and a pocket-book full of renewed bills, | gone away, vowing next time to sell everybody up, as : aid his it had also been his wont to do eyer since he pi first visit to East Haggleford and discounted the first piece of Haggleford paper. As usual, Mr, Benson had drunk hard, and, as roe sworn harder, and driven a harder bargain ; but he’ gone. That was one goodthing. The evil day had been tided over once more, and there was not a soul awake in East Haggleford who did not feel much jollier now it was all over for another three months. J Coming upon the scene of revelry, and knowing noth- ing of the little Benson episode, you would have said; « Ehis surely is the happiest place in the world, and these the happiest men aliye!” They had not even drunk too much yet, and quarreling had not begun, — Turning from the warm, welcom' glow of the red curtains, it wonld have been, however, a disa- eeable surprise to rest he eyes upon the pinched, haggard face and shive’ form already alluded to, which belonged, it must owned, toa mn One would have thought {t about thé most unlikely thing in the world to find there. It was indeed that shabby rascal who had been ducked from the bridge. He had lost his way; he had wandered hours in the dark, up and down country lanes, and he had come back to the doleful village. More dead than alive was he; and yet, when ‘he got over his first disgust on finding ott where he was, he grinned dismally, and muttered to himself, as he shiv- ered and shook with cold, “ What will they think I’ve come. to steal now, I wonder? The hotse-pond, per- haps.” . Hie slunk away from the light, yet could not help casting a longing look towards it. t “I'm dying for a drop of drink,” he murmured; “ but it’s more than my life wonld be worth to call for it. Here, I've my fourpence yet, and my double-headed half- penny, besides the sixpence she gave me ; but I won't break into that; I'll keep that as long as I liv: E 4 live out the night!” The exercise he had taken had hitherto kept some small amount of warmth in his body, in spite ofthe saturated state of his garments; but now he was well- nigh wearied to death, and the night air seemed to cut him to the bone. “It's bitter cold!’ he murmured, hugging himself. “I shall die over this job! I dare ry! they'll find me bee Au tse hove ni i sa rbueseaens in the morning i: ditch arn or outhouse, pened, in the “Green on” parlor, A gen y- m nsome ,or.a barn or out ness and uneasiness the little company there | if I've only the luck to bf in one when mo = hog Seutaas dc alles vod pode vide frosted nies mae Baa aeeen ene! eye ee sp ic smiles and nods which greeted him were fol- | a ] ft ! cr a ; lowed suddenly by downcast looks and covert glances | A burst of laughter here smote Jarring wpon fila : at next door neighbors, ear, : oe de. a pri a ’ t cit a r =
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A “They're merry enough over there!” he cried aloud, “They've a fiddler in there, and he's beginning a ji tune! Go on,my fine fellow! You're out of time, an tune, too; but it’s good enough music for s poor shiv- ering outcast to chatter his teeth by !’”’ “ It's lucky, monen. they don’t know they’ve got me for an audience !"" he added, presently, “They'd set the dogs at me, perhaps, or duck me again! Ah, yes, or may laugh, you empty-headed fools! I could ugh once, before—before I threw away my good name —my future—all—all, for—I wonder whether sie is laughing! There’s a light in a window of the house down there. I wonder whether that is hers !" He mounted on the stile, and peered through the trees at it for a moment, then stepped down again, sighing heavily. “I don’t expect I shall last out this night,’’ he said. “TI feel mortal bad!" Then he made up his mind to creep down the lane leading to The Grange, and find the warmest and most out-of-the-way corner, there to rest his bones till day- break, or till they found him,if he should sleep on soundly—which was, perhaps, the best thing he could do—torever. “If I only knew whether my darling slept,” he thought, “that I might lie down, like other faithful hounds have done before now, and dic with my eyes fixed upon the window panes! Mayshe be forgiven! she trod cruelly hard upon my heart; but the love's not all crushed out of it yet!'" Aloud burst of laughter from the inn here again aroused him, “Qurse you all!” he ;rowled between his teeth. “You'd shake without a joke to tickle you if you wore these wet rags !'’ He had entered the lane, and got some yards down it, walking under the shadews of the trees, when, sud- denly, the sound of a woman's yoice brought him to a standstill. It was Harriet’s mother speaking. “You have given me till Saturday. What would you have now? I will be ready for you on Saturday, if—if I possibly can.” “There must be no ‘ifs,’” a thick voice answered, roughly. ‘ We've had enough of ifs and buts. I want to bring this business to acrisis. Do you hear? I want the money Lwas swindled out of by your scoundrel aon’s forgery, and’’—— “Silence !"’ cried another woman's voice. ‘Silence, fellow! Don’t talk like that to my mistress, or—or old as Lam, I'll drub the life out of you! Poor dear! poor dear! don't attend to a word he says! Come back to the house |” She listened, and heard the sound of the woman’s re- treating footsteps, and then Benson’s voice raised loudly as he worked himself up into a boiling passion. “You proud pauper, I'll make you suffer for this! Let me tell you, the bill is out of my hands, and if the money is not forthcoming, will be presented to Charles Challice himself. I’ll show you what it is to quarrel with me! I’llsell you up, and him up, too, if he doesn't pay! I'dsell the whole beggarly village for that mat- ter ; it’s all mine, and I only let the beggarsin it stay on till itsuitsme! Doyou hear? I'll let them know! I'll let you know.” But there came a sudden pause here, then a strange, gurgling sound, and a heavy fall. After a time, all being 4 iit the ragged rogue crept forward, under the shadow of the trees, and,*twenty yards‘further on, came to some- thing lying motionless in the moonlight, with a black, awollen face upturned to the sky. “Gracious me!” cried the rogue, hastily bending over , to press his hand upon his heart, and more hastily drawing back again after a brief and anxious in- terval. “He's diod in a fit! What should I do? Help!’ But in a moment afterwards the thief repented of his hnees, and was down upon his knees rifling the dead man’s pockets. He found directly a bulky pocket-book in his breast ket, and some loose halfpence in his waistcoat. But, before he could continue in his search any further, he heard steps approaching rapidly, and, keep! in the shadow of the trees, stooped low and ran swiftly along, then paused and waited. A minute or so later, Pidgeon, the barber, Good- enough, the miller, and one or two more, were on the spot. “ Bless me!’’ Pidgeon cried. ‘Here's a man down! Why, it’s the money-lender, Benson |” “ He's been robbed! See—his waistcoat is undone |!” “He is dead! He has been robbed and killed !’”” “No, no!” cried Pidgeon, eagerly, “See here! Hia pocket is crammed with banknotes and gold. He has mot been robbed |” The ragged rogue in the shade heard these words with a groan. “ That's like my luck!” he thought. “Why could not I have found that pocket full ef gold, instead of this pocket-book full of waste paper?” THE THIRD FIGURE. IN WHICH IT IS A QUESTION WHETHER A THIRD WOLF EVER ; EXISTED. Sree 1,—THE MAN WHO HAD KILLED A MAN, “ TI.—SHE DOCTOR a®D HIS STORY. - “ Til.—rHe HAUNTED HOUSE IN WESTMINSTER. STEP I, Tue rich Mrs. Challice was a very different kind of ‘ to the poor hl What was he saying about truffies? She did not like toask. Those little black in the 0 things, were 3 r white sauce? She tasted one m : and ‘thought that, may be, you only get > ciate trufiles after you had killed some men, , voking you are! interest, passed over the edge ag h
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tag amount over and over again in the shape of interest. The remainder of the dinner they talked of other things—books, pictures, music, flowers, almost all matters thatshe knew something about, but he some- how had a way of speaking of them which might have been art, but seemed to have no art in it—and managed to give each subject he touched upon a new shape and interest she had never attached to it before; and she listened, by turns pleased and puzzled. When she leit the table, she found a quiet corner in the drawing-room, where, half hidden by a window- curtain, she could think over what she had heard, and ask herself, with respect to this Captain Everest, whether she admired or feared him most. “My dear child, whatever are you doing here all by yourself?” asked Mrs, Challice, coming upon her sud- denly, “And so you hayereully come away from school atlast! What ashame of your manima to shut you up there so long, and neyer let any of us see you! You must visit us often now, and I shall grow very fond of you. Inever thought I had got such a pretty niece hid- den away all these years. You must hide yourself no longer.” STEP II. Tux gentlemen were still down stairs in the dining- room, the windows of which were now thrown wide open; the moonlight streaming in through one fell upon the oak carying and upon the white face and horns of a stay’s head, giving them a grim and ghostly look, and glittering in its glass eyes. Most of the men yet sat round the table, having only drawn closer together at the end, where Charles Chal- lice sat, and one or two were smoking at the windows, Weaning against the window-frame, some lounging on the velvety sward below. The talk, now that the ladies had gone, subsided, after afew odd sentences upon things generally, into the unadulterated horsey. The steeple chase just over was discussed ata length which I would be very sorry to make my readers sit and suffer by repetition. Some of the men present were sporting men, pur" ef simiple—only that doesn’t exactly mean pureness and simplicity. Yet they were honorable men, all, and gen- tlemen, collected together that night round Charles Challice’s hospitable board. They were men who loved field sports, bred horses, and ran them fairly, squandering a good lot of money on that kind of fun, it may be here observed, but not losing other people’s money, or more than they could pay. Challice had been a loser himself that day, but he was in no way down-hearted, He had never yet had any oc- casion;to feel any worry about money since the time he was at school, and got in debt a pound or so with the tart-woman. ‘There was no one more easy in his mind, with regard tomoney matters, present, with the excep- zion, perhaps, of the Captain Everest, “‘ who killed the man,” smoking just now, outside there, upon the lawn. When men after dinner get upona topicin which they all feela general interest, they are apt to talk loud- ly. Charles Challice had expressed indiff rence as to the non-success of acertain bay mare, Titania, of his, which had that day come in a bad third; but he loudly extolled the merits of his Flash o’ Lightning, entered for next year’s Derby, and offered to back it to a reason- able amount, with aa, one present, “ He's a right good horse, Charley,” said a red-faced squire, coming from behind a huge regalia, that had enshadowed his face for the last quarter of an hour, and breaking a silence which had endured full thirty min- utes ; “ but I would not pick him out to win. No; 1 wouldn't place him, even. See, here’s the doctor; he knows the horse. What does he say now?” “About what?” asked a jovial-looking gentleman, who just thenentered at the door. “IfIam to give a prescription, I must doit at once; Iam in a hurry.” “A hurry, when you haye only just come, Dector,” said Challice. ‘‘ Why were you not here to dinner, by the way ?” bg “ With the very best intentions, I have been unable to come any earlier,” the Doctor replied. ‘“‘ There has been @ most unusual demand upon my time. Two patients sent for me suddenly—one of them your aunt, Mr. Challice; but nothing to cause any alarm—a little over- excited from some cause or other. She will be quite well again, I hope, after a good night's rest, The other, old West, the maltster—thrown from his horse, coming home from the races—dislocation of the wrist. ‘Then, just as I was starting, making sure to get here before dessert, astrange gentleman took it into his head to die; and as I was passing in my gig at the time, I could not well do less than get out, and eee whether he had properly carried out his intention.” “ And he had ?” “Oh, yes; he waa dead sure enough—died in an apo- lectic fit.” “ome one come from town for the races, I suppose, and lost all his money, perhaps ?” “No; not quite that. I thought at first he had won, He = loaded with notes and gold—about a thoueand pounds |" “That's a good deal to walk about with in one’s coat- tail pocket. Did anyone know anything about him?” ~ Well, that’sthe odd part of the business. Every- body care ed to know too much of him, and yet not enough.” “Explain, doctor." “Well, Benson—his name was Benson—appears to At cee in the habit of peng pues A the woe peopte at East Haggleford, and charging them a g stiff rate ofinterest. For the last ten or fifteen years this has been going on; and as well as I can learn, there ia scarcely asoul capable of offering anything like a tang- ible security who has not got on to Benson's books. The only thing nobody seems to have been able to do is to pay off the amount of the original loan; though, if} fs may believe the stories the victims, as they call ves, have to tell, they have most of them repaid THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER, Periodically, at the end of every third month, as cer- tain as quarter day, Mr. Benson has put in an ap- pearance among our happy villagers, and asked them to take their little bifls up—in some cases using threats and extorting a larger amount; in others making increasing the the payment easier, or generously amount of the debtor’s obligation ; on all occasions, however, retiring in theend with a good, bulky pocket | you?” full of money ; for it would appear, though I never | heard of anyone else doing so there, Mr. Benson has found East Hagyleford to be a kind of little gold mine |" “ Rather a new view of East Haggleford,”’ said Charles Challice. “IT thought so, too—very! But here comes the curi ous part. Although, seemingly, Benson knew every. thing gbout our happy villagers, and had all their little seerets und private attfairs off by heart, they knew ab. solutely nothing whatever about him. He came an¢ went—that was all, hour approached. When he arrived, they handed him over a new Dill, and so many bright sovereigns for in- terest ; and he abused them and threatened them, ate an@ drank at their expense, and went on his way, none knew whither. The best informant said London, bu that is a wideish address. known. I tried to find out who it was who firs brought Mr. Benson to this impecunious little commu nity ; but I could get no satisiactoy information. Ap parently, if anyone introduced him at all, that person had died long oa “But surelyithere wero some papers in his pocke which would thtow a light upon this mysterious party's Within half place of residente.”’ “None! That is the singular part of it. an hour of the time he was found dead in the Grang Road he had béen drinking at Pember’s, and there had received several bills of exchange and promissory notes. These he had put into a certain brown leathe: pocket-book—well known to all Mr. Benson's custo- mers as being the strong-box, as it were, in which thei precious signatures were safely guarded ; and, when h was found, the pocket-book was not on him.” “ That points to the fact that he was robbed—does it not ?”” “No; Ithink not! It seems to prove that he had friend—a partner—or something of that sort ; because, when he was found, you must remember he had pocket full of gold and notes.” “The person who took the book might, have been in- terrupted in his search, and not had time to secure all | where. the booty.”’ They knew to a dead certainty that he would be there, and shook in their shoes as the However, that is all that is “We're getting nearer to the solution of the myate’ then,” bis | Ghallice. ee “No,” replied his friend, thonghtfally; “I think +} not. We are getting further off perhaps, Challice,”’ he added, hastily. ‘It will take me only an hour to go to this inn and back. I shall return then in time tor the | first waltz. You will have some singing firet, won't’ And with these words, he went away, without listen. ; ing to what his friewu repiied. | * * * * * * * | Ahastily scrawled note came by messengér an hour later, in which Everest told his friend that strange things had taken place, and that it was positively nee- essary he should start at once tor London; but there was not & werd of excuse for his breaking bis. enpage- ment to wale tus Mist waltz with Harriet. She waited for him anxiously, rerusing all other offers, and first pouted, and then tossed her head, and , | felt indignant, and then made her mind up to think no more of the matter, and danced, and laughed, and flirted with several other partners; and then, when bedtime arived, lay awake full a couple of houra, t| Wondering what on carth could haye happend to cause Captain Everest to behave so rudely. it t STEP IIT, PropaBiy very few out of the many thousands wh® every day pass over Westminster Bridge and by West minster Abbey have ever strayed from their path ou® of mere curiosity to explore the strange neighborhood lying close by under the shadow of the Abbey, as it were. One of the sights of London, as it seems to mc, are the old cloisters beneath the Abbey itself, of which y | Harrison Ainsworth has graphically written in his romance of “ The Miser’s Daughter ;"’ and wav it notin r| the Broad Sanctuary in old Westminster that Mr, e ee himself and his beautiful daughter Hilda re sided ? Well worthy of a visit are these romantic ol@ cloisters. But few sight-seers at the Abbey visit them &| oreven know of their existence. There are crumbling tombs almost as old as the fabric, and the oddest im @| scriptions. There are mysterious openings leading te dark cellars or vaults below, and mysterious doors leading goodness and the Dean and Chapter only know Even on noon-day at midsummer, it is cool ard shady, and wonderfully lonely; but I best prefer t 6 “At any rate, when the inquest takes place, there will | to visit it on a still, moonlight night, and then ite be, if possible, an investigation into Mr. Benson's his- silent passages, dark, deserted corridors, and prasa tory ; and, I suppose, some one or other will be found | plots and tombs, to be peeped at only through rusty to come forwar and claim the thousand pounds; and, by the way, a letter without an address, which I forgot iron bars, are among the strangest, grimmest sivhts imaginable, Ifthere are any ghosts wandering rest- to say was discovered in one of the dead man’s | lessly in Westruinster, this surely must be one of the pockets ""—— most popular of their resorts. I have never seen one “A letter which might probably explain all the | myself, but there are solemn men who live kere in mystery ''—— holes and corners, who wear dark clothes, and have “Perhaps gso,’’ said the Doctor, “if the person it is | thoughtful, melancholy faces, who know much wore addressed to can be found and will explain. Captain | about it thanI do, and perhaps could tell us some something it was. Let me see,now, Captain Everard —no"—— “Everest ?”” “Captain Everest; that was it! Captain Everest ?” Do you know “Who wants me ?” alanguid voice from the window inquired, and Captain Everest stepped into the room and gazed unmoved upon the curious faces turned towards him, “Everest,”’ said Challice, “you are the ve wanted now—the only person alive who can clear up In one word, do you one of the darkest mysteries. aves a party of the name of Benson?” ‘Yes, " “Doctor, describe this Benson.” “He was a stout, red-faced man, with small gray whiskers, carried a heavy, gold, double eye-glasa, and wore pepper and salt trousers, a high black waistcoat, a cutaway coat, and drab gaiters.” ? | creepy stories did they choose to do so. Round about the Abbey is a collection of what are really the deadly-liveliest streets you will find any- 4! where throughout the whole of London—streets where there is never any bustle or excitement at any period, except, perhaps, on Sunday, at church-time, and even then the excitement is of the mildest, There are streets by the river-side which are, from man | time to time flooded by the high spring tides, and cel lars full of families washed up into the road; and at all other seasons, as it seems to me, the place wears a damp, dismal, unwholesome aspect. Ashabby, smoua dering, decayed neighborhood this, where low, gloomy beer-houses and taverns, and mean general shops jostle what must, once upon a time, have been brave man- sions, for they show, still, antique porches, and massive carved lintels; and on either side ot the doors of soma of them are yet the rusty wrecks of the extinguishers, “Inever saw Benson in my Jife,so cannot tell which served the running footmen in good Queen whether your description is accurate.” “But you know him, you say ?’” Anne’s days to put out their torches when my lord and lady had reached home safely in their sedan chairs, Par- “Well, I kuiow his handwriting better than I know liamentary had and civil engineers have their offices him, I have received letters from him for years.” “ There is a letter waiting for you now, sir, at th ‘Groen Dragon,’ said the Doctor, “which was found on the body of this Mr. Benson I have described, and who died about two hours ago ina fit of apo Grange Road, East Haggleford. may be able to throw some light upon the business.” “J will send my servant tor it,”’ said Everest. “ exy in th hear music up-stairs, I think. We are to have a dance, are we not?” If you apply for it, you in many of these mansions, but one or two are fallen e| very low indeed, and are let out now in tenements, been devoted wholly to unsavory trades, and some others are in a ruinous condition, ang ne locked up e| and deserted ; the worst among these latter, perhapa, being that in front of which, early on the day following the event related, Captain Everest’s Hansom cab drew I} Up, and Captain Everest alighted, The dead man known as Benson had lived here, It was a dreary-looking residence, even in that dreary The room was nearly empty by this time, The gen- | street, standing out conspicuously on account of ite tlemen having gone up-stairs to join the ladies, only | mournful and neglected aspect. Some time or other the Challice, the Doctor, an Everest remained. The latter | knocker had been feloniously appropriated, and the said, after a momentary silence, “ Did you say that the | door badly damaged in the process. Street boys had man you were describing was found dead to-night?” “Ten. é “ And that he was known by the name of Benson ?” “T went as far as to say that his name twas Benson but the way you put it is more accurate. It was as known ; but I have no doubt there exists as little information respecting his real name as there does about his place of residence.” “T saw such a man as you describe to-night in the man of business of whom your aunt spoke? That was the Benson he was Grange Road, Challice. Do you remember same man, and I recognized him at once’’—— “Ags Benson?” found intense excitement and little risk in the smash- ing of its windows by the aid of catapults. The parlor shutters were closed, but time-stained + | blinds, as brown as though they had been soaked in cot fee, hung awry across the first floor windows, the inte« rior being veiled in impenetrable obscurity,
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—— } Captain Everest jumped ont of his cab, and laying hold of the rusty bell-handle, gave a long, strong pull, gnd waited patiently—waited very patiently for three minutes at least; then rang again, and again waited ; fang a third time, and walked out into the road. . Whilst he stood there, the ancient female alluded to came out of a tallow-chandler’s shop opposite, hobbled across the road, and laid her skinny hand upon his arm. “ Do you want Mr. Benson, sir?” *Yos.” ** He’s not been home for two days, sir.” ** Does no one else live in the house ?” “ Nothing’s in there now, sir, except the cat. You may hear the cat mowing inside now, if you listen at the door. There's rats enough, though, that’s one good thing. She won't starve yet awhile.” “T would make some inquiries about him,” said Everest. “Whom should l apply to, can you tell me ?”’ “J don't think anyone knows more about him than I ao myself,” the woman replied, “and that is very little. Mr. Benson is a very close gentleman, and keeps his own counsel. Idon’t suppose there's anybody knows much about him, unless it’s what he wants ‘em to know, and he hates any one poking and prying into his affairs. If you’ve any message to leave, sir, I'll take charge of it; but you're wasting your time if you want to ask questions, ‘cause I know nothing when they're asked.” Everest, however, was of a different opinion, it would have seomed, for he did not abandon the case as hopo- less upon receiving this assurance; on the contrary, he asked the charwoman very politely whether she lived any where thereabouts, as he wished-very much to say afew words to her, pressing half-a-crown into her hand | as hespoke. Upon this, she proposed that, as she lived at jeast half a mile away, and the “ Rising Sun,”’ a most uiet and réspectable house, the landlady of which she known for fifteen years and more, was close and handy—not twenty doors off—that they should go there, where, in the private bar, she could listen to what Captain Evorest had to say. . Provided then with liquor which best suited her taste, the charwoman seemed more inclined to listen than toimpartinformation, In the first place, Everest informed her that the stout red man, who had died at East Haggleford, was known there by the name of Ben- gon. Upon this the woman asked various questions re- lating to his personal appearance, the clothes he wore, and other particulars, concluding, upon receiving Everest’s answer, by gulping down her gin and water, as she exclaimed, “ That poor cat! what'li become of it if they don’t break the door open? There’s not a drop of anything in the house it can get at to drink!" This way of receiving the intelligence of Mr. Benson's demise was a little startling, perhaps, but, at the same time, showed that the woman’s mouth had not been closed on account of any love which she bore towards her late employer. The real fact of the case was that she knew nothing, or next to nothing, about Mr. Ben- son's affairs. “You see, sir, he was 80 uncommon close about most things, Ireally, if I was put in the box, and had to swear to it, couldn’t say positive what was bis right Rame.” “Why not Benson ?”” “Well, if you was to ask me on my oath, sir,” said the charwoman, “I couldn't say truly that I ever heard him called by that name and answer to it.” *“ How do you mean ?” ‘ “I went to the house every day, sir, for an hour in the fied ¢ to clear up a bit; he'd never let any. regu- lor servant live there; and I've heard, perhaps, three score times or more during the many years I’ve worked for him—over ten it is—people ask him if his name was enson, and he always said it wasn’t and never said it was.” »™ Had he a partner or clerk, or anyone associated ‘with him in business ?”’ ~ “T never saw a soul except the persons who came to to them, when I’ve oyver- wie when letters came, were they directed to Ben- fon?” ““Yoa; and he has opened some that were directed so fore me.”” + “ And the tax-papers—when they have come?’ “ “Were made out to Mr. Benson,” * You have no othér reasons for supposing that your late employer's name was not Benson other than those you have given?” enny over- THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER, THE FOURTH FIGURE, IN WHICH THE THIRD WOLF BREAKS LOOBE. Sree L—THE BLACK CAT AND THE CONVICT. bn IL—IN THE GIPsy CAMP. *“ Til.—HUNTING DOWN THE RUNAWAY. “ IV.—THE FOOTMAN PUZZLED. STEP I, Frye that the charwoman could give no more in- formation, Captain Everest turned to the landlady, and | ascertained that there was another tavern near at hand where there was a parlor that Mr. Benson was in the | habit of “using.” Here Everest mado further inqniries, but could learn nothing of any moment respecting the dead man. Of | his doings, he heard that Mr. Benson came there fre- | quently; thet he almost invariably sat in the same cor- ner, and drank hot Irish whisky, and smoked a church- warden pipe. Of his sayings, however, very little was to be record- ed, The waiter said Mr. Benson was what he would call ‘a keep-to-yourself sort of man,” but a periect gentleman, from which it may be inferred that he did not forget the waiter's fees. And Everest could learn neon else, and presently took his departure, on the whole greater perplexity than when he first started on this voyage of discovery. But it may be asked at this pvint, mot unnaturally, what interest Everest had in makingithese inquiries; and if he were in any way entitled 40 share in the money the man known as Benson had behin], why he did not place the matter in his lawyer's hands, and allow the proper legal steps to be.taken in the usual | way? We shall see how this was direcily. * * * * * * * The money-lender’s sudden death and the large amount of money he was supposed to have left behind him—for, of course, the thousand pounds in notes and | gold represented only a very small portion of his wealth—formed the topic of general conversation in the neighborhood in which he had lived; and groups of gossips lay their heads together at the street corners, and stared wistfully up at the silent house, now darker, more dreary and mysterious, than ever; and through- out the night the unfortunate cat locked up within was heard at intervals mewing dismally. It was suggested by the most tender-hearted among the lady gossips that steps should be taken to release the captive thus being done to death, with only a two-inch plank separating it from succor and sympathy; but the learned authorities of the sterner sex, among whom the policeman on that beat was numbered, said that to effect a forcible entrance upon the premises, in the position in which matters stood at present, would be a crime little short of high treason, and punishable by unlimited im- prisonment. The poor cat, therefore, was left to ]in- guish ; and the recollection ofits pitiful cries, may be, haunted the dreams, and disturbed the slumbers of one or more of those who had advocated its rescue. Certainly of one—the wife of the tallow-chandler living opposite; for she hearing, as she on manysubsequent occasions solemnly asserted, just half ah hour before daybreak, the cat give one loud, piercing cry, which was distinctly audible right across the street, in the second-floor front room where the tallow-chandler and his spouse slept, she i out of bed, and went, in her nightcap, to the window to look out. In the first floor of the house opposite she then saw a faint light moving to and fro in an awfully mysterious and ghost-like way; and calling the tallow-chandler to come and look also, they both saw a shadowy form cross and recross the light, and approaching the window, stand looking into the street, where it remained for several minutes, and then, returning to the back of the room, disappeared with the light. All which ‘terrified Mr. and Mrs. Tallow-chandler dreadfully, and they scrambled back into bed and covy- ered their heads over with the bed-clothes, making sure they had seen Benson's ghost. * * * * * * * Next morning the person living in the house next to that of the money-lender’s found a large black cat sitting upon the step of his back door, which, as it came mewing up to him, rubbing its head against his legs, he recognized as the money-lender’s cat. Putting one thing with another, he easily came to the conclusion that somebody must have opened a door before the cat could have made its escape; and this proyed to be the case. Mr. Benson's house had been broken into, and its contents thoroughly rified, with the exception of an iron safe, which contained, it twards was found, a large sum of money, and several valuable bonds and deeds 5 ' * * = * * * * * Charlie,” said Captain Everest, when he reached Haggleford Hall, “ supposing you had only three hun- dred pounds in the world, and no possible chance of ever getting any more, what would you do with it?” “Put every farthing on Flash 0’ Lightning for noxt year’s Derby.” “ That’s not a bad idea, and I feel half inclined to take your advice.” “You take my advice? What do you mean!” “I was quoting my own case.” “What nonsense! Why I remember your telling me .| you had twelve hundred a year; and I recollect your : bagran | te had his fit points. Hi 8 saying it was not enough to live on!” “Most likely. And it was the truth. I used to have. senior that man they called Benson dying in “To be sure I do. T have heard and read enough shot him.” “es “Ican tell you just one thing you have not heard, though. Every three months, for the last seventeen years, I have, at a certain date, regularly received a check for three hundred pounds, which has been honored by the banker and squandered by myself with the most praiseworthy punctuality, Those checks were signed ‘ Joseph Benson ;’ but why Joseph Benson should have supplied me with this liberal income after educat- ing me and purchasing my commission, without ever himself appearing to me in the flesh, is more than I can say. The man who died, and who was known as Ben- son, deposited money in the bank by Benson's orders, The same man lent Benson’s money, acting as his agent ; the same man denied himself to me when I called on him upon several occasions, wishing to see my invisible benefactor. The question is, tlien,is there a Benson, or is there not, and was it or was it not some | strange treak of the dead man’s to systematically dis- guise his identity ?” “And how on earth is that to be found out?” “Only by waiting patiently until my next three hun- dred would, in the regular course of things, come due. But, in the meanwhile, what am I to do with my three hundred pounds, which, up to now, I have resolutely abstained from breaking into. It is not half enough to pay my debts. And, as you say, it seems to me, I could not do better than put it on your horse, ‘Flash o’ Lightning.’ What are the odds?’ * * * * * * * On the night when the man called Benson died, lights glimmered in the windows of the happy vil- lagers’ honeysuckle-entwined cottages until an un- wonted hour ; not a few of these favored rustics stop- ping up to give their sleepy wives a long, rambling account of the tragic event, one or two, whose speech was too defective to venture on such a proceeding, per- haps, went to bed with their boots on,and forgot to put out the candle. In Mrs. Challice’s bedroom, at The Grange, a faint glimmer lasted until day broke, and faithful, loving Martha left her mistress’s bedside, and crept wearily down stairs to light the kitchen fire and make a cup of strong tea. An anxious night was this to the o]d ser- vant,a night of prayers and tears, and day came at length almost like the tidings of a reprieve to one con- demned to death. But all through the night, upon the outskirts of the straggling he skirting the meadow land where the races had been run, a fire burnt luridly, and its reflec- tion spread across the country far away to the low- lying, desolate marsh ground, and the pebbly waste beyond, which was covered at high tide by the sea. The sentry, passing to and fro upon the walls of the grim convict prison by the sea-side, saw the light well, and now and then halted in his monotonous walk to gaze upon it enviously, forit spoke to him of warmth and jolly companionship, of a gipsy encampment, of a good supper, and a mug of the right sort to wash it down; of swarthy, bright-eyed, white-teethed Ro- manies, among whom might also chance to be some dusky beauties, too. Bofore that sentry had gone soldiering, he had been something of a vagabond him- self, and had tasted of the pleasures of tent life. “T'd rather be there than here just now,” he muttered; and then, as a recollection of some ° in his past life forced itself upon his memory, he added, with quiet gratitude in his tone, “I'd rather be here, though, than lodged like many of the others.” By which he meant the numbered. lodgers in the hideous woolen livery, sately stowed away for the night, whom it was his duty in the daytime to watch and shoot down, when necessary, be they worked together in gangs in the quarries; or out upon the roads. Buti‘ was not a wise remark of the soldier's, nevertheless, for scarcely had the the words his lips, when something crept, catlike, out upon him from the deep shadow of the wall, and bore him to the earth with irresistible forces tightly grasping his throat with an iron grip, which only released its hold on him when he was motionless, with black, swollen features, Then the noiseless figure, barefooted and bare! crept back into the darkness, and had stolen sway, as it had come, like some ominous shadow, silently. STEP II. Our ex-dancing master, with his pocket full of waste paper, also saw the ruddy light from the gipsy camp; or this time, leaving the village in a different direction to that he had taken after his ducking, he came out upon the hill-side, overlooking the race-course and the wood behind it. “I'll go down there and beg of them to let me dry my clothes and sleep by the fire,” he thought to him- f; and without loss of time carried out his resolution. Near the race-course there were two refreshment booths, through the canvas sides of which glimmered faintly the light of tallow candles, carried about within by two persons employed in packing up what was left of the stock of liquors and provisi a yellow “living van," in w some adventurous showman had cee ow down an Albanian lady and a fat boy, showed that the fire lighted there to cook the scanty supper had not yet exvired; but the race-course itself was a dreary scene of desolation, be which the ruddy blaze shone out with added brightness from | the gloominess of its surroundings, ‘ A strange sight was this gipsy encampment, even to the ex master, who before bow bed sle} f a fire-side beneath green trees. A party of about a men and women, young and old, were standin or lying about, and the red i weird faces and motley garb, theatrical look, which brought : revelries of Esineralda’s kinsfolk in old As the wanderer rh ngs sii i a half-drunken, half-idiot BE: the s gg, an old Romany song, halt ge it The smoke from ;
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ee melancholy, low, passionate voice, qariteniating, wildly | time to time, and writhing like some one pos- sessed. Near to hirn sat 4 girl of abou nineteen, who looked, however, several yoars oldur, and might have been THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER. The sound of the tolling bell still resounded omin- | ously across the meadows and marsh land. } . “That's well-nigh scaring hia life out, whoever it is | that’s ranning for it, I'll swear!" said one of the gip- gics. called very pretty, except that a weary, pained look | “You're right,” another replied; “and he'll have had spoilt her features, In a jaded, lifeless, mechanical fashion, she beat @ tambourine, and rattled ite bells dolefully to the tune , of the idiots sony. Round these two te rest of the Bohemians were gathered; a rmusculargiant, with uncovered brown arms, and a bare breust, was sprawling on the grass, where the light fell full upon his blac’ teeth. Anold woman, with a red handkerchiol knotted; Little enough it proved for, within a quarter of an | under ber chin, mouthed and mumbled, nodding her | hour, « party of warders und mounted police, naturally head. Two awarthy, bold-eyed gipsy girls, one smok- | attracted by the reflection of the bonfire, rode up tomake ing a pipe, listened with all their ears, nudging one | inquiries. Had anything been seen of & runaway con- another now and then assome special pointin the noug | vict, the leader of the party asked; and, without wait- | elicited their approval. The background was filled up with more eager swarthy faces and bright eyes, all following the per. | formance with profound attention, as though, which wes not the case, they had never seen or heard it before. From a tripod over the fire hung the iron kettle the supper was cooking in, and from it a very savory and sppetizing smell was waited on the breeze towarda the outcast, who stood still, and made his mind up to wait until the ditty had come to an end. In this intention, however, he was thwarted; for the quick ears of one of the young men of the tribe had caught the sound of the crackling brushwood on which he trod, and he, giv- ing a low whistle, the music instantly stopped, and the whole party, motionless and silent, awaited the stranger's approach, Parenning up the courage necessary under the cir- | he cumstances, stepped boldly forward, and said, ** lam stranger in this part of the country, and I've been set upon by the people in the village over yonder. Will ae let me Me in a corner by your fire, and go to sleep; “m a poor man, but I’ve enough to pay for my night's lodging if Bi will give it me. and aa tired aa a dog.” There was no direct reply, when, hea toa thie point pee appeal, he took breath, and waited for their de- cision. I'm wet to the ekin, “We want none of you sort of fellows here,” the | Gipsy giant sprawling on the ground grumbled; and added some sort of words in gipsy cant, to the effect that the n. w-comer’s room was worth more than his company, and that they could get on without any epies and eaves-droppers. Here the ex-dancing-master, taking up the speech again, declaring in good Romany that he was neither | spy nor eaves-dropper, and begged again that they would extend their hospitality to him, a poor, hous:- less, friendless wanderer ; and spoke with such earnest- ness, and so much to the point, that he created an evident curiosity and sympathy in the breasts of some of his female listeners. The Zingara girl with the tam- bourine was the first to speak. “Why should he not rest here, Ishmael?” she said. “ Will he do us any harm?” “He'll do us no good,” the gipsy man replied, sul- lenly. ‘I saw the sort he was with upon the course— thieves all ofthem, If he’s seen here among us it will a us a bad name, and that’s not wanted. Everyone's art is raised against us as it is.” “That's a true word,” observed one of the old men. “Who is he, and what tribe does he belong to, and why is he not with them now? Where did he pick up our tongue?” “It was years ago,”’ the ex-dancing master answered; “when Iwasa boy. Ilearntitamong the Zingari in ain. “What of in?’ the girl asked, with in- terest. = o ¥ “In Seville,” he replied; “in the Macerena. It was there I learnt to dance the Bolero, the Malagena, the Rondena, the Malaga—the Bull-fight dance.” Atthe sound of this last name, the idiot boy caught tho‘tambourine from the girl’s hand, and springing to his ‘feet, capered fantastically, screeching some halt- savageair atthe top of his voice,and banging and ding! ng the musical instrument like one possessed. ‘his sudden outbreak diverted the attention of the company from the shivering gry who, taking a'vantage of their attention being withdrawn from him, crept timidly near to the fire, and stooped down aud warmed his hands. At a motion from the gipsy = he then sat down upon some dry straw, the gipsies tly giving their consent to this proceediny, and taking no more notice of him. In about a &n hour or so a woman who had been superintending the cookery announced that supper was ready, His long walk had made our rogue panier again, in s)ite of the grand dinner he had eaten at Pember’s € pense, and he looked wistfully at the savory dish. When they had eaten for afew moments, however, one of the women passed him some meat, and he fel) to, without waiting to be asked twice. The meal over, some of the women retired into the tants, while the men lay about, ocr together, round tie five; and the rogue, overcome by fa‘ igue, after nodding many times, and catching himself up in the act of falling head first into the flames, rolled over on his back, and fell fast asleep. A rapid succession of shots, and the ringing of a ri oe bell from the convict prison, aroused hius nly, He found several of tlie gipsies already on their feet, eagerly peering out into the darkness Something ts wrong at the jail,” Ishmael paid, «4 volt of the Prisoners, perhaps. ‘There's be v threatening slong while, Pam told, ‘They treat them vorv ne ae oT locks and gleaming | ! to get w long way, too, before he finds himself clear of the sound of that clanging.”’ “The hue and cry will be out all over the country- side before morning, and the police and jailers down on us a8 wel) as the rest, turning everything inside eat!” © We had best set things straivht, then. there's little time to luse.”’ Vli warrant ing for a reply, dismounted, aud strode towards the first tent, dragging the rageed covering on one side to} inspect the interior, Only the shrinking forme and frightened faces of two gipsy women there met his gaze, but he passed on to the next tent, and the next, followed by scowling looks and low-muttered curses. But half-satisfied with the result of his inspection, the head warder of the prison—who was in command of the expedition—imperatively bade everyone one to come out from under canvas, and tolda couple of the policemen to make a thorough search. “Who is this fellow?’ he said, laying his hand heavily upon the ex-dancing master’s shoulder, and twisting him half-round, so that the light reached him more effectively. ‘I should know your features; and Ido. You're a man called Deverel, and came out from Portland on a ticket-of-leave eighteen months ago. ag you reported yourself regularly ?”” “Yous” “ What are you doing for a livelihood ?”” “What I can,” “That's the truth, I suppose. What are you ents in this part of the country? Ofcourse you know w enough your old comrade has broken out to-night ?” “Spicer ?” “Yes.” The ex-dancing master’s countenance, on which there was a look of wonder ani dread curiously mixed, proved clearly enough to the warder's practised eyes that he spoke the truth. The other let go of him, and walked away; but half a dozen yards off came to a standstill, and turned round. “Don't miss a foot of this place in your search, men,” he said, “You'll find something else worth looking for, I'll be bound, though Spicer may not be hidden in the camp. Be quick about it, too—we must get on.” ‘The scrutiny, though rapidly made, was tolerably ex- haustive, and brought to light the bodies of some stolen poultry, which the gipsies had not had time to stow away more cleverly. There was more important business on hand, so these discoveries eli ited but little remark. The head warder, however, was heard to say he Would presently send back one of the officers to watch the camp, and the gip- sies, and Deverel, the ex-dancing master, whose future moyements might prove interesting. The warders and police then retired, and the ticket-of-leave man crouched down again in front of the fire. But he was much. mistaken if he expected to be al- lowed to remain there any longer in peace. The burly Ishmael advanced towards him with an oath, and rough- ly shaking him, bade him inetantly depart. “ Olear out of this,” he said. ‘*We want no branded thieves among us to cause the police to look over our little stores. Go back where you came from, or any- | where else, but go, and lose no time about it.” There was no answer to be made to this argument, if argument it could be called, nor did Deverel attempt to doso. He simply rose and went quietly away, the gip- sies, men and women following him with their eyes, unti] he turned a corner in the wood and was lost to view; andas he looked back he saw the gipsy girl's eyes followed him with the rest, pityingly, though, and kindly. * * * * * * It was not a very comfortable prospect that our luck- less rogue had got to look torward to piptir | the re- mainder of that long, wearisome night. He could hardly make his mind ue whether the temporary warmth and sucoor afforded him had proved a benefit to him in the end or not, It was a somewhatsevere change from the hot fireside to the bleak, open country, across which a cold wind; that had risen within the hour, blew in fit- uarter of | ful gusts, rustling his rags and tatters. He made up his mind to keop under the trees, and take up his quarters till daybreak in the most sheltered spot he could find among the brushwood, and, there- fore, plunged into the thigkest part of the forest. A strange, ghostly aspect had the scene before him at this moment. The moonlight struggled through th branches overhead, and danced upon the gnarled an misshapen trunks of venerable trees to which the hoary lichen clung thickly, or the moss-covered, dis- torted shape of others that looked like crouching giants the flickering light gave life to, while the faint moaning of the wind had the effect of human voices sighing as in gtief or pain. Before he had gone very far he came upon what seemed to be the entrance to acaye, the mouth of which was half choked up by the briars, but from what he could see of the interior, into which, now and then, as the air stirred the leaves overhead, a ray of moon- light penetrated, it seemed dry and sheltered. It was at any rate, he thought, as good a shelter as he could hope to find, and without troubling his head to won- der whether any stray adders, lizards or toads might reviously have come to a similar conclusion and gone P re likely, or attempt at one, | to bed there firat, he t d back “ wot be P ne. | rat, he turned bis on the atooped his head, and crept in, But eurely, s man does not often meet with such a @ and disconcerting reception as that our met with now, for the moment he got inside a violew blow upon the shoulder Sune him backwards upon th! 8 ground, and something (in his firet fright he could immediately decide whether it wae a man or beast) fell heavily upon him, and clutched viciously at bis throat, The situation was serious enough, but there was no time for consideration. He saw plainly he must fight for his lite. Closing with his unknown asesilan he, in hie turn, did his best to strangle Lim, and, lock | inatight embrace, they came crushing through the } brushwood, and rolled over and over down a hillock in front of the cave, lying, at last, panting for breath, in ab open space where the moonlight fell upon them. This time Deverel hed got the upper band in the | brie. but severe contest, and the ovber Jay passively in ; his power, Only for moment, though, for he had move, which was to draw from his breast, and etealth- ” ily unclesp, a formidable-looking knite, Happily for the ex-dancing master's future prospects, he caught eight of the glittering steel, and he was just in time to seize on and pin down the hand that held it, Then, with a violent wrench, he tore it away, and brate dished it on high. Now his assuilant seemed to Jose all courage, and writhing and twisting teebly in the iron grip that was upon him, began to whine pitifully for mercy, and to shake in every limb with atlect terror. “Let me go!” he cried, incoherently, I can’t go back—I can’t bear it! They'll hang mewor wat I’ve done! Let mego! What have I done to you?” “Not much, as it happens,"’ Deverel replied, “ But you would have settled me if youcould. You fool! I don't want to give youup; I’m nota policeman, You began firet; I didn’t wish to molest you,” “Let me get up then. What made you come creep Ing into that hole if it wae not to take me? Give me back my knife, and let meg up.” One might have fancied that Deyerel would have received this proposition with suspicion, but such was not the case, Without hesitation, he flung the knife towards the other man, and stood silently wateb- ing him as he picked it up and replaced it in his pocket. When he had done so, Deyerel’s late assailant, scowling darkly, began to shuffle away. But at hig first step Deverel called to him by name. “ Bpicer |" This brought him to a sudden standstill. “It is you, then?” he said. “I thought I knew your voice, Dick, but I couldn't yet a fair look at you,’”® “You'd have found me a yood deal changed, maybe, if you had,” Deverel said, sullenly; “but notso much so but that the warder knew my visage again, to-night, at the first glance.” * You saw him to-night, then ?” “Imet him in the wood, when I was camping out with the gipsics. He came there to look for you.” “Yes; curse him! Heand the rest have besn scoure ing the whole country over. I know that. 1 lay there, just now, groveling in the mud in that rat‘s hole, and listened to their footsteps, just before you came. 1 bay Ane ay of them, returned,” “He has sharp éyes for a likeness, it seems, and I daresay the other warders take after him. How do you hope to get away—with the convict dress, too?” ' The other came quickly towards him, and said, ean nestly, “You can help me to this. As an old conypan- earn won't refuse. You won't leave me here, to be “Letme got “Come, come,” responded Deverel, with « slight sneer; * you alter your cry every ten minutes. First you want me to let you go, and then you tell nie uot to go. ae von ee you have 7?” “This cursed livery cripples me, and keeps me here chained to this hateful spot, Ican't myself buy other clothes; but I have money to purchase them with if I had the chance. The only way I can get that is’ b cunning or force, and either way may take time and prove too dangerous; but Ton can do it easily. You seem as hard up as you well can be, Your clothesare no more than rags; but I can pay down their weight in gold. What say you? Go to the gipsies, and buy some new clothes for yourself; give me the old TAgR; that’s enough! I'll be able to get away so without loss A eee eee daybreak.” ~ Veverel listened to this without any show of ent! jasm, and listlessly conbdayved > or three Defin old pieces, which the convict held forth in his hand, etting the moonlight “What do you say, | thinking of?” “What am I thinking of?’ the ex-dancing master replied, with a short, jarring laugh. “Of our strange | Nceting, @ ter all this long time. It’s natural enough T should have thut in my head, isn’t it? I was think. ing how odd it was to hear you asking a favor of me, after ull this time, and after what had passed between us.” “If I have ever done you an injury, Dick ”"—— ¥ per eh! but we woo’t gointo that. What I did I did with a knowledge of the consequences. I have no one to blame but myself"”’—— “You got out many a long month before me, Dick, and I should have Jain there months and months yet if I had not contrived to escape. lt was a struggle, though, and I can’t make out myself how it is I'm here now to tell the tale, instead of lying smashed up and stone dead beneath the prison wall there. But now T've done so much, and got so far, you won't dhelve me—say you won't?” ape Deverel hesitated, and seemed to make up his mina at first, but presently he said, “There! yee, give me our money. Got back into the hole, and keep a abery look-out. I won't be long.” on litter on them temptingly. ick? Come, now, what are‘you ® a * And neat minute he was gone upom bis errand. © TORIC SD,. iit ys | es 4 been feigning utter exhaustion asa cover for his next y ~—-_ ae ‘vt
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- “Nothing. Give it me. eee of » They descended eventuall: He was not absent a long while, not more than half an hour, but each moment seemed like an age to the trembling convict, waiting, watching, and taking _ every tiny sound of rustling leaves and crackling boughs . to indicate the close proximity of his pursuers. “ He’il never come back !"’ Spicer muttered to him- * welf. “He'll never come back! I was a tool to trust him! He'll sell me—I know he will! I won’t wait! T’'ll run for it while I can.” But he did not do so, for the recollection of Dick Deverel’s companionship in former times returned to him. As far as this sneaking, treacherous convict was eapable of belief in anything or anybody, he had faith in his old jail companion, Dick. With a sigh of relief, then, he heard at last Dick's whistle afar off, and Doyerel appeared in view on the brow of the hill. He had been successful in his negotiation, thongh he had to use a groat deal of persuasion, alleging that the things he wore were still soaking wet, and that if he lay about in them all night, he would surely die of cold. "This story, however, would probably not have melted tho heart of Ishmael, the gipsy, to whom he told it, | had it not been accompanied by the exhibition of one “of the gold pieces (half a sovereign), which was, in truth, ® good round sum to pay for the bundle of rags ita Magic presence conjured forth jrom the depths of an old gipsy woman's sleeping apartment, where the tribe's surplus stock of wearing apparel was stowed away. “Here you are, Dick!’ whispered the convict, eagerly. “I knew you'd come back.” “Of course I would,” the other said, with an angry | glance, ‘‘What do you mean?” “Nothing—nothing! One does not know whom to trust, but I felt I could trust you |” “We need not rely on each other for long, in that or any other respect. We have our separate roads to travel, Isuppose. The world’s wide enough for both of us to get along without rubbing shoulders.” “There's no occasion to part company this instant, “fs there? Which way are you going ?”’ “To London.” “Soam I. as quickly as possible. mtr of this, and I'll do the liberal. You know me lal” Yea, yes—well enough ; but I do not care to work with you again! I’ve other views. We'd best part company as soon as may be.” “As you like, Dick—as you like. You’ve done mea ood turn, and I sha’n't forget it. Is this your coat? ré are so many holes I can't find the sleeve. What's this ?” i That's the only safe place. I’ll get there I picked it up on the race- course, and may get a crown from the owner, if I can find him.” It was the dead money-lender’s pocket-book. STEP IV. TuE oncapad convict passed it to him slowly, eyeing it with curiosity as he did so. *« That's very strange, too!” he said, “What is strange?’ td I should have met you.” “Yes. Well?” “And more singular still that I should next meet » ‘with that, or with something like that, for it can’t be _ the same. That's too unlikely!” Arustling of the brushwood close by them brought the conversation to an end. Fortunately, however, thore was no cause for alarm. It was only a fox creep- out of his hole to sniff the earliest breath of morn, t the interruption served to hurry their movements, aad within s few moments they had quitted the wood. They did not part company immediately, as Deverel had proposed, Indeed, the risk he ran himself by being fin the convict’s company was very small in comparison €o the great advantage the convict derived by the asso- cdation—for obviously the leas the latter showed him- wolf, the better. Their first act was to sink the oie dress in a pond, heavily weighted with’stones, and then to make their way vicross country to a railway station— mot the nearest—and take tickets for some p! t the way to London, there to change again, us puzzling the police as much as possible, should be upon the watch. Deverol was glad enough to get his fare paid up to town, and a moderately substantial feed upon the road, However, immediately they reached their destination ~he determined to say good-bye to his old friend at once nd forever. There was no love lost between them, and they had mo sympathies incommon. They, therefore, held but little conversation upon the way, each silently brood- eng OMne his own thoughts. moe only Spicer reverted to the question of the pocket-book, and asked whether the owner’s name was Trside it, and whereabouts he lived; to both of which the other rogue, with a rogue’s instinct, hich leads Lim on every occasion to tell a lie, how- er useless, gave untrue answers; and there the mat- dropped. Owing to certain delays which they thought it politic fo make, it was late in the afternoon when they at last at to town, although the distance was not over fifty ea. at a station about two mailes from the terminus, and situated in a north-oast suburb of London; and here they bade each other good- yo. 7. we not to be partners any longer, then?’ Spicer uired, “TT think not. if one.” a4; As you will Ia for you tosays Bub Tahould hava -! aught otherwise. And the lit fa whteh bi got ‘ ¢ ? ng on in which his gold wes lod up, “ might have started us” | THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER, “You'll have enough to do to take care of yourself,” said Deverel. “Tl work more cautious in future, and lie dark for | a bit till the police have settled down again. Besides, I | had a scheme two of us might have worked together.” “You will find some one elseeasily enough. I have plans of my own.” “Good-bye, then, to you, and good luck ["’ *“ Good-bye, and good luck |” They parted thus, and a dozen yards or so away Spicer turned round to look after his old friend. But the latter went straight on without looking back, and presently was lost to view. | “Dick's a deal changed,” said the convict to himself. “What's his game now, I wonder? I'd give the world to know [” * * * * * * * What, indeed, was the gamo of this ex-dancing-master, 1 ex-thief, and ex-jail-bird? Perhaps, at this moment, he ; could not very well have answered the question him- | self. He even might have had no object in view at all, and only the vaguest and most contused ideas respect- ing the prize now resting comfortably in his breast | pocket, terside tavern in Westminster, the contents of the | pocket-book were spread out betore him, and ho sat | with knitted brows, biting his nails and pondering. Still deep in thought was he when the potman came | in, two hours later, and fidgeted with the gas, as a hint that he had better give another order or go. |} “Do you know anything of a Mr. Benson residing hereabouts ?” asked Deverel. “I know 4 little about a Mr. Benson who used to live here; but he don’t live anywhere just now—he’s dead |” “Dead, is he? Long ago?’ “Last night.” “ He was well off, wasn’t ho? Isuppose hia relations will come into a good thing ?” “I’m not sure there are any to come into it. I'm told none can be found. It’s an ill wind that blows no- Keep along with me till we're | body any good, though; that’s whatI say,” * Certainly; though I don’t catch your exact meaning.” “Well, you see, Benson lent money, it seems, and charged a lot of interest. Now, what I say is this—ifno next of kin turns up, all the poor beggars he held bills of will wipe out their debts nice and comfortable and start fair.” “To be sure!" said Deverel. “I never thought of that. Give me another four of hot brandy.” When tho potman, having executed this order, re- turned to the room, he found his questioner smiling and talking to himself, andrubbing his hands, as though with exceasive glee. This puzzled the potman very much. “THE FIFTH FIGURE. IN WHIOH YET ANOTHER WOLF SHOWS HIS TEETH. Strep I.—BROKEN SENTENCES. “ JI.—rHE Kiss BY THE ROADSIDE, “ TTl.—riasH 0' LIGHTNING. « IV.—rTHE FOURTH WOLF AT WORK, STEP I. Ann those among my readers who are’ puzzled also, and yet discern no glimpse of the venturesome game that Dick Deverel may some day play, I must leave to puzzle themselves a little longer, and see what is doing elsewhere, by people whose thoughts are not run- ning on the capes absorbing theme of the dead money-lender’s nearest relations, Not at all extraordinary was it that she whose youn, life and love was presently to be blighted by a de man’s agency, was as yet equally unconscious that he had ever lived. It seomed in those first happy days at the Hall impossible to Harriet Challice to imagine this would not always goon just the same. There would, surely, never be any change. There would always bo rand banquets and fine company, lights and music. ter all, the world was really as she had pictured it to herself whilst yet an inmate of the Chiswick school. Through her life the young girl had seen little or nothing of her mother, whose affections, indeed, seemed locked up in the son she had lost. Mother and daughter met when the long sechool- days at length came toaclose almost like strangers, and the girl's timid advances were received in a cold, repellant manner, that chilled her heart and filled her eyes with tears, Not that the mother felt any dislike towards her younger child, but the crushing weight of the one dreadful secrot ever hanging over her, paralyzed, as it were, all other feeling. She hada fever- | ish yearning for her danghter's love—the strongest ossible motive for obtaining a hold on her affections, But she could not play her part, One idea alone haunted her day and night. She thought that the danger so long threatened wag draw- ing nearer and nearer. Presently it would come with & crash upon her, and then followed the inovitable ruin and disgrace. Could nothing avert it? Yes, one thing might make all right, and there seemed a chance of this one thing happening. The news of it was like the sight of water Sia sinking camel on the desert. On the morning of the day following the money- lender's death, Charles Challice rode over atan early hour to inquire after his aunt’s health, and was asked upintoherroom. Theold lady looked gray and ghastly in the morning light, although some small attempts at toilet had been hastily performed for hia benefit, not tting asuspicion of rouge, which was Cerin evident in the center of the yellow skin, beneath the dull. sunken or 4 1 a ee ‘ Yh ate Se ie I Ole Nay a a But an hour later, in the screened box of a quiet wa- | | ‘Nothing, Shocked by hor appearance—ehe seemed very ill in- deod to him—Challice began to ask her questions eagerly; whether she had seen the doctor that morn- ing ? what he had said last night? and so on, endi by inquiring whether she would not wish to see her daughter ¢’” “Oh, no—no |" the old woman responded eagerly. “There is no occasion forthat. Iam very much better | Alittle time—that is all, Harriet heard nothing of my illness, did she, last night 7’ The doctor told me it was your particular desire she should not be told,” “Phat was right | Ididsay so, It was very kind of you to call only on purpose to see me. It was no other reason, was it?’ She gazed tee) at himas she said this, raising herself upon her elbow, afid leaning forward towards him as though in suspense. But he did not notice the peculiarity of her manner, and responded with a amile. Ho was slow at noticing some things. “Certainly I had no other motive, Is not that good Yes, yea! And how enough.’’ “Bless you, my dear Charles! do you like Harriet? Not a great deal,eh? You must have discovered her lack of accomplishments, perhapa, by the side of the young ladies you know, who have seen so much of society.” “TI find her nothing of the kind,’ said Charles, bluntly. “Wo are all of us delighted with her, and hope you will let her stay a little longer.” ‘As long as—that is, yea, for a day or two; but if your mother finds her at all in the way, she must send her back at once. You will promise me this, will you not? And you will come and see me sgain—not to morrow—#ome day when you can spare the time, This is a dull pluce to ask you to; but it is very kind of you to come.’ * * * * * * He returned in three days’ time, and she met him with thesame eager look of dread, but he had only leasant news for her- news, indeed, which brought hope and joy to her heart. He came under the pretense ot seeing how she was getting on; but there was really no occasion to make the journey, as he had seen her doctor only an hour before. His other motive was to talk about Harriet. He did not say very much, and part of what he said was not exactly to the point; but the shrewder listener made this out of it—the heavy dragoon had fallen in love with his pretty, pale-faced cousin, What the old lady said to him matters but lit tle; she said it cleverly enough. There must be no hurry. He must not speak to Harriet until she had seen her, Would he drive her over next day? The good news had such an effect on the old lady that she insisted upon getting up and coming downstairs. Mar- tha, her servant, coming to find her, found her sitting on the side of the bed, half laughing, half crying. “Martha,” she said, “it has come about as you said it would. Why did we not think of it before—long ago? But it seemed to me at first such a forlorn hope —yet it was by far the easiest and simplest way of pg off the exposure. Now, if the worst comes they will hush it up.” “But perhaps it can be warded off altogether, my dear, can it not?” the servant asked, “He will listen toreason. He didn’t mean to be so hard on us as he said he would. If he had lived, we should have had no trouble, I feel sure of that.”” “Yos—yes; if he had lived. But the other, who holds the bill? Wil he be lenient too? Does he know its history? Will he hold it over till we can pay, or will he present it ?’’ “ There, there, dear | the old servant said, g>a-uing- ly; ‘‘set your mind at rest for the present. Do not let us forever be looking upon the gloomy side of Gre Thief pimine of sunshine, surely. Let us make t* most of it.” * * * * * are When Challice reached the hall, having made the journey at the highest speed of which his thorough- bred was capable, he found his mother waiting)to pe ic come him. She knew where he had and with what object the visit had been undertaken; and look- ing upon her sister-in-law as a strange, eccentric and unaccountable kind of woman, thought that it was quite possible she might have thrown some obstacle in the way of this match, on which she knew her son's heart wasset. It waa a question whether she herself was 60 eager upon the subject, and whether she did not think that her darling boy, s0 handsome and go rich, might not have done better; but she had taken a great fanec peek have given way to him in everything, however great the sacrifice might have been to her own feel: “T see it is all right, Charles,” she said, with a gen’ smile, and took his hand in hers. “Where is Harriet ?"’ he asked. “T have not seen her for some Little time ;” and she turned to a servant and inquired where Miss Challice was. , “J saw Misa Challice walking down by the side of the lnke about an hour ago, ma'am, with Captain Ever est,”’ the girl answered. “ Everest!" exclaimed Challice. “Is he here? That is famous! I thought he would not have been back for ever go lony.” ‘ * * * * * * * to Harriet herself, and she loved her son, and © True to his promise, Challice did not speak of his | love that day, and the next, at noon, drove his cousin over to Kast Haggleford. She was unusually thought ful on the road. He fancied she was ill, per! forbore from bothering her. He thought it noying, though, on this day, of all oth he eae mn She rare have b Laie ll, or why should she have een 80 long u e strode impatiently to | fro from aiat below, yt Meh wees o aD- the ‘room ’ weary of walling, rambled out Upen ths terruae, yey
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eFax & FesrR FR 3 S- eé&R Be aey SE EEBS gctee &F a ze : : —————— Wearied of waiting there, he came back to the room, and, on his way through the passage, heard’ the old woman's voice, shrilly-pitched and angry. “And this is the end of all! You would let me be ruined . . « Iesy youmuat .... Do you hear ?” The unwilling listener below heard these broken sen- tences distinctly, and, staggering rather than walking into the dining-room, sank speechless with amazement into the nearest chair, You know all now STEP Il. Wuat was the meaning of the words he had imper- fectly heard? To whom were they addreased—to what did they refer? It. seemed scarcely credible that they should be spoken seriously. What dreadful mystery was there hidden here? What part was he destined to play in this strange drama, to the plot of which as yet he could got no clue? He might probably, had he stayed to listen a few mo- ments longer, have heard enough to set his mind at rest upon the several points that now perplexed him, but Charles Challice was a man of the Dicest honor. He had been forced, against his will, to ovehesr a few disconnected sentences spoken, for something stronger than his will had held him spell-bound, Indeed, it would be difficult to describe the exact state of his feelings, and whether he was most shocked by what he had heard, or by the reflection that it had been ob- tained, as it were, in an underhand and unfair manner; and he asked himself how he could possibly explain the way in which he had come by the knowledge. All at once, when the suspense he was SOF SEAR had reached a point when it was no longer endurable, he heard steps upon the stairs. The room door opened, and Mrs. Challice, radiant @aughter Harriet. At the latter he looked inquiringly. She was pale, but, seemingly, no paler than usual. and fora foolish schoolgirl fancy ! | vith smiles, led in her, | Perhaps her eyes might have faintly borne the traces | of tears recently shed—but vory faintly, though. His | Challice was highly esteemed by all mon of honor con- cient to enable ; nected with the turf. experience of such matters was not su him to come to any positive conclusion. “My dear Charles,” the old lady exclaimed, in her most impulsive manner, “you must aero me for | win; and his supporters knew that on the horse's own i I | merits, and its master’s good faith, they might, with keeping yon so long. I haye been so very ill to-day. get so worried and excitable about nothing—absolutely Nothing ! I wish it were not so, but I cannot help | THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER. head and kissed her. Perhaps, after all, things were } 08 satistactory as could have been desired, He had | made a good deal too much out of a few incoherent sen- tences, which probably meant nothing. They presently drove beck together, very happy, to } the Hall. They did not talk very much about love, | and perhaps Harriet found the drive home none the | less agreeable upon that account. The topic of con- versation upon which Charles could be moat fluent—he was not very fluent upon any subject—was hia horse, Flash o’ Lightning. He talked about Flash o' Light- hing all the way—about what it had done, and what he | hoped it would do. “ Ishall have put half my fortune on it before the year is out,” he said; “and I’m backing it now as hard as I can while the prices are long. It's a.strange thing, but the | bookmakers, who think themselves so clever, cannog see what @ horse he is. Wait till the St. Leger week, theugh, and then I'm much mistaken if they don’t change their tune. I mean fo get a good lump of money on before that. The blackguards perhaps don’t think I mean to run him to win, Well, they'll see!” | It was quite true that Challice was backing his horse heavily—much too heavily, if the opinion of Mr. Mid- wintor, the family solicitor, went for anything ; and surely it onght to have been worth while listening to, for he and his father and his grandfather before him had kept the Challice estates under their protecting wings, and had in their time done much to increase their prosperity. The Challices, from time immemorial, had been ns sporting family, and had hunted and bred horses, and occasionally ridden at stoeplechases. Indeed, two Challices had thua broken their necks, but Charles Challice’s father was the first to seriously take up with horse-racing. But although he had been | the owner of some half-score of lucky cracks, he had managed to squander several thousands more than he made,in a not very lengthened career, and the son | proniised also to resemble his father in this respect. As aman of honor, above any of the petty rogueries | which disgrace the generality of racing men, Charles It could be ¢orn! said of him that he had nevor scratched a horse in his life, and that ; when he entered one for a race, he entered to run it to equal certainty, place reliance. te was not lucky, though. There are so many slips it, and = 4 poor head aches as though it would split. between the cup and the lip, particularly if it be a 1; th Well, we child. Take her and be that, I know.” at is enough of that | ind to her; but you will be There is my dear | silver cup that is run for on a race-course. { Mr. Midwinter was most decidedly of that opinion, | and not a few times shook his head solemnly, when he | The mother placed the daughter's hand in his, as | glanced over the sporting news in his daily paper, and she spoke ; and it lay there passively, whilst she bent read how Snapdragon, her eyes upon the ground. He said nothing. The scene enacting before him seemed like a dream. He could scarcely believe that he himself was awake, and one of the most interested actors. heard was all s delusion. Surely it must have been 80. The old lady kept on talking—he did not know what about; something concerning the sacrifice she was making in parting with a child that had always been so dear to her—something respecting the mistake of long engagements. He nodded his head, and said ” Yos’ and No" mechanically, at the places where it saniaas necessary to do #0, but he did not understand & word, At last, after an interminable time, it appeared to him, she said she must leave them alone for awhile, and, to his unutterable relief, went away. When he found himself alone, placing his arm around her, he drew Harriet gently towards him, and began to speak in @ low, earnest voice, and in tones which were slightly Ape at aw and then, at others unnaturally de- » for he was struggli hard t c and collected. De ae “Mgnt, “My darling,” he said, “I don’t know what you will think of the question Tam going to put to you, but I must ask it, for both our sakes—for the sake of your future happiness and mine. I think you must have | | : the owner's name was asked. rly Worm, Flyin, whatever the crack’s name might be, which had likely enough been first favorite the day before, was not even laced. A part of Challice’s frequent ill-luck may have ad something to do with the long odds now being laid Seud, or Unless, after all, what he had fancied he by the book-makers against his Flash o’ Lightning. Sporting men are 8 superstitions race, and they said, “ Challice will win it if he can,but.we'll lay you long odds that he doesn’t.” Sometimes, too, when a horse's name was mentioned, “He's one ot Challice’s, isn’the? Ah! [thought so! He’s out of it, then!’ Harriet Challice, however, was not competent to form an opinion upon Flash o' Lightning’s chances of suc- cess. She had seen the horse himself, and patted the satin-like skin of bis ape | neck. He seemed to her one of the most beautiful of living creatures. She de- voutly believed her cousin to bea great and reliable authority upon all such matters,s0 when he spoke of Flash o’ Lightning as the certain winner of next year’s Derby, she looked upon the ay as good as settled. “I wish it had been a mare !" Challice said, somewhat clumsily. “ I'd have called it by your name. But you won't be jealous of him, will you? Next to you—you and my mother—I love nothing on earth so much as that horse. How quickly we've come along! It's talking, Isuppose. In another moment we sliall be at the park gates, and then we'll have to go in, I sup- u =~ a than it was the bov's turn to pluck at the girl’s sleeve and point to him with an angry. gesture; and the girl's gaze followed them with a curious expression, as the three, Challice, Everest, and Harriet, moyed on to- gether, Challice laughing and talking loudly, the other two silent. STEP UL. ‘ THER: ts a certain week in autumn-time when every year brings together such a mighty gathering of knayes end fools within the walls of a town called Doncaster, in the south-eastern part of the Wost, Riding of York- shire, that those who are there to see Inight reasonably be excused for supposing that there can be no knaves or tools remaining anywhere elae. “Doncaster,” says my Guzetteer—which is, I. ought, perhaps, to mention, just thirty years behind the pros- ent dute—*‘‘ Doncaster,” it says, ‘is a corporate town, with considerable funds, poverned by 4 mayor, recorder, and commen council, ne principal street is about a mile in length. The Mansion House, in which the mayor and justices hold their sittings, ig a spacious and elegant Leary There is also a town hall, theater, dispensary, hospital, and two or three other public buildings; and the church, dedicated to St. George, ia a noble edifice. Doncaster has five tan-yards, several flax-dressers, and some manufactories of sacking, car- pets, sails, &c., and its trade in corn is considerable.” It will be observed with some astonishment, perhaps, by seme of Doncaster’s Annual autumnal visitors, that there is, in the above, no allusion to the betting-rooms, ‘The name of St. George's Church may come upon them as rather a surprise, and some will wonder whether it yet stands. The mayor is a dignitary whose existence they | have been conscious of ; some of the justices they have, may be, seen in the flesh, and listened to uneasily, over the top of a kind of pew, or pen, in close prox- imity to a watchful policeman; but that notion of trade being done in such things aa sacking, carpet, nails, and corn is enough to make anyone laugh wlio always looked upon Doncaster as 4 place to book bets in, and eat and drink in after the day’s races, and to sleep off drink in before going to next day's races. Ay though there could be any other trade possible excep/ that all-engrossing one of making bets! We have nothing to do with the humdrum, every- day Doncaster, pottering over its ordinary commercial undertakings. It is now the Doncaster of the great race-week, and a mighty strange place it is. The races are yet two days distant, butno end of people have come down. It is Sunday, but nobody particularly notices that, 4nd would not notice it at alt if it were not for the jangling of church bells now and then, for there is no inconvenient closing of taverns everybody being a traveler and at liberty to indulg» hard and fast. A good deal of drinking is done, but not as much a shall be presently, when the races begin. A circus and a wild beast show arrive, and the lion ix heard to grumble to himself aa he jolta along in hia yellow traveling carriage. A company of burlesque ladies, with bronze-colored heads of hair, arrive by rail; and their wardrobe hampers, labeled boldly attract some notice from the curious, as do also the burlesque ladies, looking rather sallow and tumbled after their long journey, third class. The gentlemen accompany- ing this party are, for the most part, sallow and tumbled too, except.one, who wears an Ulster, profusely be- furred. + ~nonatrosity, as yet carefully hidden from public view comes also—a living skeléton, or a spotted boy; then two Punch and Judy men, two troupes of itiner- ant Ethiopians, a photographer, a stone-breaker, and & knife-ewallower, who also does dreadful things to his eyes with a bit of tobacco-pipe; a number of gip- sies, with Aunt Sallies, knock-'em-downs, &c.; and s half-drunken, half-crazy wretch, in a ragged hunts- man’s coat and one top-boot, who comes down for ne particular reason, aemingly, but to scream discord- antly about the streets night and day, and to be lecked up, in the end, as a rogue and a vagabond, The day before the race come a great crowd of arriv- He said this in s tone which seemed to imply that he would willingly have prolonged the drive, and ata word from her would have done 80. But she did not spéak the word. Perhaps she did not understand him. He whipped up the horses he was driving, and s rather discontented look passed over his courtenance; but his expreasion changed again as he drew in the reins. They were close to the lodge now: but sheltered from it by s thick hedge, over which the branches of some great elms spread outward, and cast a shadow up- on the roadway. «No one can see us here,” he said, with an awkward abruptness, and a blush like a boy; and he held the reins and whip in his right hand, and, leaning over to the left, encircled her with his strong arm, and kissed her wan cheek, which colored very faintly after the operation—principally, it would have seemed, because his closely-shaven beard had slightly rasped it, Next moment, the sound of a horse's hoofs upon the gravelin the carriage drive was audible, and Captain Everest rode out and met them. The cheek that had not been kissed then flushed deeply, and turned deadly white again s moment aiterwards. Did Everest soe What had happened? It was hardly possible, for he had turned the corner slowly, and, when they saw him, his eyes were fixed upon the ground. Did any one see this little love episode under the shadow of the elm’s broad branches? Noone in the world save 8 gipsy girl and an idiot gipsy boy; and the former pulled the latter by the sleeve, bidding him hold his seen that Iloved you. I—I don’t think I have a ve oor way of eying things and of making myself on rstood, a8 #ome fellows have; but if you can care for me, I'm sureI'll do everything in the world to make you happy—I'm sure I shall.” He paused here, without really having asked any question at all; but perhaps she thought it indicated sufficiently, and she said, ‘Ihave known you such s short time—have not I?—and your proposal was 80 sudden |’ “I was wrong in asking you 80 soon. I see that ; and—and perhaps you have been influenced” —— “Infinenced ?”’ she repeated, still looking on the ground. "TI thought that your mother, for some reason, T can- not say what, might havé urged you to give your con- sent, and that a prior attachment— But if this were the case, darling, you would tell me—if you had over given a promise to any other man '’—— “A promise to any other man |” she cried, looking up at him with a wondering smile. “Oh, no! Why, I have been all my life at school! I have nover loved anyone ; Ihave not met ‘with anyone; and you hava i 80 kind to me, how can I help being fond of He thought this overa moment. He was not very quick in coming to conclusions, as we have seen already ; Rive somehow this answer seemed scarcely satisfac- ry. “Fond!” he said. “ Yes! but do you think you are fond enough—do you think you could get fond enough to marry mMe—gome time? Ihave been in too great s hurry ; but at your own timo ?” i peace, and not stira muscle, but stare, if he thought fit, ~ You,” she said. - as hard as eyes could stare. She,raised her face towards him, and he bowed his| These two also saw Captain Everest come out, and als, and the lodgings are anapped up vverywhore at fabulous prices, twenty guineas ng thought te be not too particularly dear for the hire of s first floor over a shop for the race week. Myriads of tight-legged, straddly men, a good many perpetually chewing bits of straw, come from all parts of the country, and stow themselves away at time in an inscrutable fashion, Then, next day other myriads arrive, and are stowed away, too, so that the whole town must surely be packed with seething human life, as ts the foul Chinese quarter at San Francisco. Thénext day, the grand day, all kinds of poople make their appearance in the streets. Thore are heavy swells and brilliantly-attired ladies (the bronze burlesque ladies are brilliant by this time, ! and wondrously white and pink) and there is a goodly show of champagne and hampers packed with eatables to be eaten on the race-course. | © There is a lot of drinking goingon now. Neat brandy ia drunk at breakfast-time, and at the chemists’ shops, between ten and noon, quite a trade is being done in “pick me ups.” Already a strange complaint makes ita appearance after nightfall, afflicted with which men groan dismally, and dash their heads against walls, and try to fling themselves from the windows, or cut their throats, if not looked after carefully ; and learned folks call this malady the horrors. The largest part of the visitors, somehow or other, possess a curious kind of family likeness. Not in their dress—they are dressed in all kinds of fashions—but in their faces, in their cold, calculating faces, their square cut, bull-dog jaws, and, in many instances, in their thin-lipped, cruel mouths. These are the men whose only trade is betting, from year's end to year's end. They have come here for the betting alone, and hay done 90 year after year, They know nothing of, and, 4 ———————
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hs wo re 92 THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER. care nothing for, the Doncaster of any other week but | middling well off, and he put up his book, and bade the that when the races are run ; the same as they know | nothing of Epsom or Newmarket, except when the | races are on at either place. In town they frequent certain quarters with persist- ent regularity, beginning the day with a “clean shave ” at @ sporting barber's, preceded, or followed, as fancy alirects, by a “ drop of rum and milk at a sporting pub,” followed by drops of other liquors throughout the day, at the bars, or in the bar-parlors of innumerable houses of call, where they may be heard of by their clienta, and where all manner of people, from seemingly sober- rided, middle-aged tradesmen to flashy fledglings, scarce- Vy emerging from the shop-boy grub into the counter- akipper butterfly, seck them eagerly, and deposit in their safe keeping respectfully, diffidently, even, cer- tain small sums which they are more or leas capable of parting with if they lose. Tn the middle of the day they lunch at sporting ordi- Maries, or stand at the bar of a sporting house, and pursue the same routine until dinner-time, and in the evening, perhaps, hang about the bars at the Victoria Station, or behind a long clay in a sporting pub parlor, solemnly sit the hours out until bed-time. And throughout the whole day and night they talk of horses and 6dds, and dream of horses and odds ; and then another day comes round, and, if it be not a race day, when they must go down to the course, their life will be the same—a dreadfully monotonous and weari- some life, as it seeme to me, which ought to be very profitable to be endurable. * *” * * * * * They are not, however, necessarily all thin-lipped, hard-faced, cold-eyed men these I have been describ- ing. Many seem good-natured, and look fresh and rosy. Some have fat, flushed cheeks and sensual mouths, in- dicative of a love of good things of all sorts; but there ig the same selfish, unfeeling look about them all, aignuly veiled sometimes, occasionally almost entirely hidden, but always there—al ways existing. But surely no possible resemblance exists between these distinct classes of racing men and Mr. Trueman, the East Haggleford surgeon, who had come to Doncas- ter in the same train with Charles Challice, and who sat amoking his cigar in the parlor of the ‘‘Angel Inn,” on the Tuesday of the race-week, as bright and beaming a doctor with sporting proclivities as ever the sun set pon, He was a sporting doctor, who pretty regularly at- tended évery race of importance, leaving his patients meanwhile to get on as best they could, which they did, asa ruléejwithout very much grumbling, perhaps be- cause his paying patients were few in numbers, and the country round about East Haggleford starvingly healthy from a resident doctor's point of view. The talk in the “Angel” parlor that evening was sporting talk, of course,and much drinking having gone on for some time past, the talk was loud and con- fident, but a little wild, perhaps. " “What is this horse of Challice’s he has brought down here?’ someone asked, “ Has he done anything, doesany one know ?” “He was a bad second the only time I saw him run,” said some one else. “And a pretty good first for the Criterion Handicap,” said the doctor, quietly. “It was by the greatest fluke in all the world he won it,” a youthful authority hiccupped out. ‘It’s always by a fluke Challice pulls anything off.” “I don't quite follow you there,” said a hard-headed. weather-beaten man, sitting aloof, and puffing hard at his “yard of clay.” “‘Challice rung to win; and there’s never no plant, nor kid, nor fakement about his doings; and some of these days, mark moe, he will win a big thing, too, and then—oh, my !—there’ll be gnashing of teeth somewheres round the corner, where the book- makere are” “Tf he'd only his wits about him, couldn’t he make a mint o’ money ?” said the young man, after a pause. “After he'd pulled off the good thing you speak of— that would be the time!” “Ah, but that time won’t never come, young sir— mark my words if it does ; so don't you risk no more of your blessed ha’pence on the event nor you can well afford to part with. Take my straight tip, so far.” With these words, the hard-headed one rose slowly, and with great deliberation knocked the ashes out of his Pigs into the little ash tray, picking upastray pinch that fell beyond the edge very carefully. He then nodded in a cee a: Bay to the general company, and amiled knowingly, but almost imperceptibly, at the were doctor, and strode out of the room. “By Jove!” cried the young fellow, whose remark had called forth the hard-headed one’s prophetic ut- terances ; “that’s Challice’s trainer, old Joe Barkinas, and none other!” “Tedon't think you're very far ont thero, sir,”’ said the sporting doctor; “and I don't think Iam far out when I say that it would be a bad spec for anyone who tried to play any larks with one of Charley Challice’s cracks, is horse of his he has got down here is the be grad sort, every inch of him; and as certain as ever I sit in this chair, he'll come in first for the Champagne Stakes, to-morrow, unless there’s some foul play. And aa to that, why the place is too carefully looked after; there isn't a chance for it!"’ “Chance orno chance," cried thé young man, who before had aired his superior sagacity, “I'll lay you fifty to one in sovs against him !’”’ “I'll take you!” said the doctor, producing his bet- ting book with great alacrity; “ though the market price would have done quite well enough.” : There was # general laugh at the young sportin; man’s but it was followed scon wren by mite on all to lay reasonable odds against Challice’s horse; and the doctor, booking several of these, ~ aa .. tested that he was only ina small way himself, an "Bt was, stood to lose # good etiff sum for man only com y good-night. When «What nonsense! I'm @ doctor, ain’t I? J ought -to know what to prescribe. Look there, there’s 4 place he paased through the door ofthe “Angel "| open at the corner. A nip of brandy will do you po into the street, the doctor, with a slight shudder, turned up his coat collar and buttoned hia coat across his breast. A sharp, biting wind was just now raking the corporate town of Doncaster fore and aft, which some of its visitors found to be refreshing, and took their hats off to; but the others did not care for it at all, and crept away round every possible angle, in fruitless en- deavors to avoid. It could not have been an extra shrill blast of the wind, though, which brought the doctor to a sudden standstill within a dozen yards of the hotel-door, and caused him to glance cautiously to the right and left. From the shadow of a wall a thick-set figure emerged, and coughed to draw the doctor's attention. “ Well,”’ Dr. Trueman said, “ are you ready to try it?” Yes.” “Who have you with you?” “Noone. Iam game to risk it.” “ Alone ?”” “ Yes.’”’ “ All the more swag for your share, then, my friend, eh? Well, you’rea pluck’t ’un, there’s no doubt of that 1!” “You'd better say I’m down on my luck now, and can’t afford to be over particular.” “TI take it you're not among the timidest at any time. Well, you know where to find me when it’s done?” “T’'ll be there.” “Good-night, for the present.” “ For the present, good-night.” The wind sighed mournfully as it swept past through the street, momentarily dark and deserted. Then the door of a tavern hard by was flung suddenly and vio- lently open, and the drunken Innatic with the ragged huntsman’s coat and the one top boot waa hurled head- long forth, wildly stretching out his arms to save him- self, and came crashing down in the middle of the road, to writhe and wriggle like an over-gorged leech, and flop back hopelessly, after impotent efforts to get into an be pe te position once again, and return to the tav- ern, clamoring for more drink. With the opening of the door a burst of discordant harmony and brutal laughter came forth with the help- Jess, besotted creature the landlord had caused to be ex- pelled; and as the door closed again, it died away as suddenly. Then the strect was once more dark and quiet, STEP IV. On leaying the hotel, old Joe Barkins betook himself to the stable where the vaunted horse Flash o’ Light- ning was safely stowed away. It stood at some distance from any other habitation, and was an old erection, built of atone, with massive walls and stout oaken doors. It hada thatched roof, and above the three stalls, one at present occupied by the horse, and amother by a large, savage dog, was an awkwardly-shaped loft, in which Jack Jacks, the jockey, and old Barkins slept by turns—always one of the two, however, keeping strict watch over Challice’s favorite, As he approached the building across the paddock, almost in the center of which it stood, he saw the door open, and a bright light pouring forth, and he got up in time to see Challice himself coming out, ‘* Ah, there you are, Barkins |’ saidthe young aquire. “I just came over to have a last look at you before go- ing to bed,” “ We're in first class condition, sir, ain’t we ?’ “ Nothing could be better. How are the odds?” “ Well, it’s about the same old tale, sir, Drat me ifI can christen it! You could get pretty near what you chose to ask.” “ That's it, is it ?”” “Yes; but we'll surprise them, I fancy.” “Not adoubt of it, if we try; but ‘pon my word, sir, said the trainer,’ sinking his voice, ‘ ms Grd place, I'd not let little Jacke give him all his h to-morrow—I wouldn't, indeed. If heis torun for the Derby, see the price he’d be at afterit! How's your book, sir? Can't it be done somehow, and let you down easy?” “ Barkins,’’ said Challice, with a passionate burst, ‘if any other man alive had yentured to say half as much, I'd have knocked him down! But you mean well, I know. It would serve those vagabonds right, there’s no doubt of that; but I'll leave it to others to play the cheat, I never yet heard of a Challice who was called a knave, and I won't be the first. I'd rather’be ruined ten times over. Do you mark that!’’ th “Mr. Challice, sir,” broke in the trainer, in great trouble, “ poe my word, I was more than half in jest whenI spoke. It was the senseless cackle I heard up town yonder by the Abanges into my head. It was enough to make any man beside himself. But you'll think no more of it, sir, I hope?” “No, no. Good night.” Challice moopen over his horse's side, and shook the trainer by the hand, and rode briskly on. Old Joe Barkins had accompanied his companion to the gate of the paddock, and stood in the road beyond when Challice had ridden away, looking after him. , “ Joe!” said a voice, He looked up, and saw Dr. Trueman. * Doctor, is that you?” sede “ Yes; I tried to overtake you. I just prosped to book a few more bets on the horse.» He’s all t for to-morrow, I hope. If he doesn’t pull it off I don’t quite know where I’ll-be.” 2 “Oh, he’s aa right as the mail! But’’—— a t’s amiss, You seem out of.sorta,” * Oh, it’s not) . word or two with the mas' BR et pet ing, too. He misunderstood me.” % Take alfa turn back with me, Joe, and let’s have a glass.”’ “ No, thank’ee, sir; no more to-night.” THE SIXTH FIGURE. TX WHICH THE WORLD COMES TO AN EKD. I.—A CLOCK STRIEES TWHLVE, “ TI.—AGORY OF PIDGEON. “ JIl.—ag@ory OF MRs. PEG, “ TV.--TRE HATCHET-PACED MAN, STEP I. Tear Doctor Trueman was one of the most amusing men, when he thought fit to exert his social talents. No wonder the two minutes Old Joe meant to pass over his glass of grog extended to fifteen, and swelled im- perceptibly into twenty-five. It was a good half-hour before, looking up at the clock he suddenly exclaimed, " Little Jacky will be out ot pa- tience.”” Little Jacky was out of patienco—there waa no doubt about that; but the doctor laughed at the notion of there being any hurry, and so two’ more glasses were ordered, and sipped leisurely, and then—— And then two more glasses after that. “Just one more, Old Joe; and then I really must be off to bed!" the doctor then exclaimed, in a tone of voice that seemed to imply that Jos had been keeping him, not heJoe. “ Just one more glass—a small glass —to drink success to the Squire's crack. There—you can’t refuse that, if you mean fair |’ “Mean fair!” replied Old Joe, shaking his head—for he only vaguely caught at the other's meaning. “I'd rather like to come across anyone who did not mean the Squire fair. It would go hard with him, even if he were double my fighting weight.” “I’m certain sure of that, Old Joe,” said the doctor, slapping himon the back. “You'll take care of the Squire's interests, if anyone will!’’ But just at that moment, surely Old Joe would have been better taking care of them had he been keep- ing watch with Jacky in the stable. + * * * * * * “Joe's a longish while gone,” muttered Jacky Jacks, reflectively. ‘It’s not the straight thing hardly to keep a fellow up so late when he’s got to be inthe sad- dle next day. I’m awfully sleepy !’”’ Alow grow] from the dog caught his ear. “That's Joe come back, I suppose. Lie down, you brute! Haven't you learnt the sound of Joe’s boots by this time ?’” But seemingly the dog had not acquired this knowl- edge properly,or the boots he heard might not, after all, have belonged to old Joe. Anyhow, when the jockey went to the door and look- ed out, no signs of the trainer were visible. The night was very dark upon the country side, but there was a faint redness in the sky over the town, and @ dull murmur in the air, The gullant sportamen, then, had not yet gone to bed. Achurch clock struck twelve. All about the stable was very dismal. The creaking of the branches ofa lightning-struck tree overhangin the stable had a dismal sound, Jacky Jacks pee about him, and returned to the stable, hastily closing the door after him. The dog atill growled. * There's nqone lurking about, surely!" the jockey said, ‘I wish old Joe would come back. Whew! how cold it ia!” It was cold enough without, but inside it was very warm ; and he had not taken his seat more than five minutes when he began to grow desperately drowsy, But the dog, with a succession of loud, fierce barks, made him open his eyes wide, Looking, then, in the direction in which the out- atretched muzzle of the dog was turned—in the direc- tion of the stable window—he saw an ugly visage peep- ing in at him a an the bleared glass. “Hallo, there! Who are you?” cried the jockey, springing to his feet in a great fright, ‘‘Who are you ?—what do you want ?’”’ The owner of the ugly visage did not stop to answer the question, but instantly disappeared. Jacky felt awfully uncomfortable. He fetched a a pistol from a distant corner of the stable, where it hung on a nail, and, with trembling fingers, cocked it. Then he stood irresolute, staring at the window through which the face had appeared. Perhaps, had it come back again, he might have instantly fired at it, without a shengns of the possible consequences of such an act, But it did not appear. The window remained black as pitch, and he was so terribly frightened by this soavenss, he felt the face’s return would have been a relief. bo But as it did not show itself again, his breath began to come back instead, and with it his courage, which had all oozed away in the first moment of terror; and he then made up his mind to light the legttern. and, with the pistol in his hand, to sally forth upon a tour of inspection round the building. All was dark and silent without, as upon the first occasion; and Jacky, holding the lantern on high, sd- vanced cautiously and slowly round the angle of the wall. . But scarcely had he Sapet the corner when the tern was hand, and the light ex- Hinguished, whilst he ‘imeelf recolved = blow on the shoulder—a blow which was | ig | tended to have caught him under the ear. ‘A pistol is not always the deadliest wesbon in « : 4
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htened man’s hand, and Jacky dropped his directly, It fell, somehow, sottly on the grass, snd thouyli at full e@ock, did not explode. He turned, then, and grappled with his assailunt, and shouted, “ Help! help!” with all his might. : To his unutterable relief, another.shout was heard in answer, and old Joe came hurrying up. Though, however, they both contended with the tanwelcome stranger, and struggled desperately to hold him, it was impossible, With woll-directed blows right and left, he hurled his assailants from him, and though they closed with | him again, he once more beat them off, and, taking to his heels, fled like the wind. They wont in pursuit as far as the hedge of the pad- dock, over which thea man vaulted as easily as a deer would have done, and then they drew up for want of breath, and, aftera brief consultation, determined to return again to the stable. They struck a match first, however, and relit the lantern, The pistol lay peacefully where it had fallen, without a cap, at which old Joe smiled ; but near to it was something that neither smiled at, and Jacky raised from the ground with an exclamation of terror. “See here, now!” “The atrocious scoundrel |" “That's what he meant, then, if he could have got joside, and got us both out of the way!" The thing that excited the two was a little packet of sharp pieces of steel, much like needles, only stronger, and without any eyes. The two went back into the stable; carefully ex- amined the interior, to see that no one had concealed himself there during the struggle; and they then not only bolted and locked the door very carefully, but strongly barricaded the window with two stout planks nailed across. “He'd all & nerve, that fellow!” said Jacky, seating himself when these precautions had been ‘taken, ‘He meant to have got in somehow, and lamed the horse's foot. But how about the dog?” “ Perhaps he had some physic for that,” said old Joe, awning, ‘to make it quiet. Butit would have taken im all hia time. He might as easily have tied to—to drug me.” “Hold up, old man!” cried Jacky, in alarm, for tho trainer was butting headlongatthelantern. * What do you think you're doing on?” Be The trainer sat up and pressed his hand to his fore- eal. “I don’t know, Jacky,” he said in a dreamy tone; “I feel very queer!” “ Have you been drinking ?”’ “Nothing to speak of. I'd pint of ale at the ‘Angel,’ and two fours of hot rum just now with Dootor True- man. That's not enough to floor a man of my kind, is it?” “Not likely! Are you sure you did not have any more?” ~ Quite sure, Jacky. I feel deuced bad!” "Hore, lis down on the straw. You'ra no good at all. I'll keep awake and watch. Lean on me, will you? There! Holdup! That's right! Keep quiet there.” Old Joe having tottered to the corner indicated, sub- sided upon the straw moro like a bundle ot old clothes than a man, and almost instantly was snoring loudly. Jacky Jacks sat bolt upright, and desperately wide awake, and scratched his head. “There's no mistake about it!” said he, aloud. “Some one’s gota spite against the guv'nor! Well, I'm game for oné, come what may! I ain't a pluckt ‘un as luckt ‘uns go, but I'm in for it, and I don't mean to urn sail! Afore any harm comes to the horse, they'll have to yot rid ot me! Let ’em look out!” Hoe eneead the pistol again, this time taking care to see that it had acap onit. Then he sat himself down again, bolt upright as before, and made up his mind to watch through the night, and do deadly things to all invaders. The day breaking gray and grim found him afill at hia poet, watchful and resolute. Jacky Jacks was not, perhaps, a worse coward than some others amongst ua who crow loudly. By daybreak there wers signa of life- near at hand, and Jack, the atable door, called loudly to a are and with his aid sent » message to Mr, Chal- * * * s ” * ° Like quicksilver, though, the tidings that there had been an attaok upon Flash o’ Lightning's stable ran over the town, with all kinds of wild exaggerations. It was currently reported that the horse heabeee actually Jamed, and the odds against him multiplied rapidly. The sporting doctor was one of the first to avail bimself of this circumstance, and backe! Flash o' Lightning fuat and furiously. He stood to win alargish sum be- fore midday. » * * * * * * Some blank faces were to be found among the crowd, as Challice’s crack passed slowly over the course, pre- paratory to the race. There was intense blacknoss, and the longest possible long faces, later on, when the race was rw, and Flash o’ Lightning, far shead of all competitors, came with a rush past the winning post, and the cheers of the winners did not anything like drow the groayp and curses of those who had been wally betting. * * * ° . . * An ugly rumor went over the course. “ It’s all been a plot,” someone said. ” be ! An pepecnble mee like Challice would never atoop to anyt! 80 black |" * He’a not done adie by it,” chuckled an unbelievee. ee dootor, standing by, was silent, and amiled know- THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER. s You ought to have backed Flash o” Lightning,” he said, and turned on his heel, * « * * * a * Everest was tho first to tell Challice what was being baid. “ Great heaven !’’ the latterexclaimed. “It cannot be true that they think this?” “Tt is too true. They are saying it everywhere.” Challice ground hia teeth in bitter rage. “ Charley, you must take things quietly. ’ ‘Good graciuus, man, how you talk! Itis impos- sible to me—do you understand ?—to live under such a suspicion |" * Nonsense—nonsense! Do calm yourself! What need you care for what a lot of blackleys and thieves luay say or think ?”’ “But they do both—not openly, I suppose. They dare not do that ?” “ You must take aonotice of it yet. We must think over what ia the beat thing to do.’” Challice then drew up short. “What am I to do ?” he suid, Everest was chewing the end of a cigar that had gone out some time ago. He gave along, long whistle. “T’'m not quite clear as to that yet,” said he. “ What should I do?” repeated Challice. “The low blackguards! How dare they?” : Everest pressed him back. “ Keep quiet, Charlie,” he said; “ your friends do not believe a word of it; rest assured ofthat. We must land the rascal who did this bit of villainy. Can you yive us noclue?” “None in the world.” “The scoundrel must have owed you some grudge." “One would think a0, but I don’t remember injuring anyone enough for that.” “Well, never mind; we'll find ont, somehow, before long.” - “I must not rest till we have done so. And now don't let us talk any more about it. By the way, did you win?” “No; I did not bet.” “What! you put nothing on my horse?” asked Chal- lice, rather surprised. “Well, I put nothing on any horse. You know, old fellow, I have not much cash to bet with—none to lose —and [''— “How do you mean ?"" “You remember the story I told you about my in- come arriving mysteriously every three months, do you not?” “Yeo,* “And that it always came to the very day?” “IL remember well.” “ This time it is two days behind thetime. I take it my income from that source is at an end, I must work for my living now, like other people, or live by my wits,”* ° —aey STEP Il, Tus world was at an ond. There could be no doubt about that, for the point had long ago been satisfactorily decided by Mrs. Patience Clark, the oldest inhabitant of East Haggloford, Yes;"the world was at an end, and the way of its com- ing to an end was this: From what small beginnings aro many stupendous achievements brought about! One day, just such day as to-day might be, or yesterday,a day with really nothing remarkable about it, two strange men came down to Kast Haggloford with a black leather bag, and a throe-legged instrument of mysterious import, and began to walk about in the fields, and take, what some- one said afterwards, with more or less truth, were “sights and ‘‘surveys.”” The impression getting in- to the head of asmall farmer, who found the two strange men and the three-legged instrument in the center of one of hia flolds, that they were taking liberties, if not turnips, he yelled at them furiously from his side of the hedge, and threatened them with his horsewhip. The strange mon, however, did not seom to be much frightoned ; they were used to angry small farmers, perhaps, 60 they did not hurry themselves very much finishing what they were doing ; and afterwards de- iberately pected up their apparatus, the small farmer on ne other side of the hedge toaming away all the while. A few days after this, a troupe of mud-stained giants, carrying picka and»apades, came tramping up the vil- lage high street, under the guidance of another strange man, not s0 roughly dressed, and began to cut down hedges, and fell trees, in a manner that took people's breath away. Ina week's time, a row of posts, begin- ning in the high stroet itself, and stretching over the meadows far away, indicated the route whith the rail- way waa to come through East Haggleford, and tho exact spot where there was to be a red and yellow brick station, wonderfully like sweetatuff, if the design ex- hibited at Em Pembor’s were properly carried out. And the railway was to pass by the other Haggloford altogether. It took some time for the East Hagglefordians to fully realize this wondrous event, and it completely stunned poor old Mra, Patience Clark. When, however, the full truth pierced through the outward thicknessea of the thickeat-headed Esst Hagglofordian, he broke into & broad grin, and smote hia thigh with a sounding thwack. . ‘Heart alive!” said he. . “It's Kast Haggleford's turn this time! They’ve had it most any way they liked over yonder up to now.” That the future of Kast Haggleford was to be quite another thing from ita past, soon became evident. Another troupe of laborers arrived, and then another, and another. ‘0 or three rows of hideoualy ugly yel- ushrooms, ia which low brick cottages sprang up like m the new arrivals took up their abode, almoat before the mortar had set, and the plaster hardened; aud then # little population of women and children put in an ap- pearance, © . It was also evident that now or never was the time— that, whilst the iron was hot, the blow should’ be struck—that, Whilst the sun shone, the hay should bo made—and, indeed, the only question was how. Te tell the truth, the East Hagglefordians had sqgmehow thoroughly settled down os this time into a steady- going, comfortable kind of grumble at the hardness of their lot, and being bettered all at once with 40 much violence rather annoyed them than otherwise, It put Miss Em Pember out a good deal, because, although @ bold nayigator would often pend more mouey in a night than one of her regular customers did in a week, he was loud and noisy, sometimes violent, and generally objectionable, Miss Pember's whole stock of brown earthenware mugs wero’ smashed to pieces belors a fortnight had passed over her head. Not feeling quite equal to the management of these burly savages, single-handed, and objecting, upon principle, to male assistance inside the house, Miss Pember hit upon the geiginal idea of refusing to allow the new-comers to drink upon the premises at all; and so, very naturally, some one from a neighboring town came down, and opened an alehouse by the name of the “box under the Hill," where a roaring trade was done, whilst Miss Pember kept herself to her- self, and went on starving genteelly, Again, as to Mrs. Pegg, who kept the provision store, Mrs. Pegy was not happy. The uew arrivals had ways of dealing which did not enter into her philosophy. They wanted to pay for goods on Saturday which they consumed on the previous Monday; and Mrs, Pegg re- narded them as birds of passage, and birds of more than doubtful plumage—had no faith in them, and refused trust, Was it to be wondered at, then, if a friend of the vile interloper who opened the “ ¥ox under the H.1l,” should have come and started a rival provision store, ens the first of a row of brand-new shops to do it in Mrs, Pogg, who, through her life, had always given credit to Kast Hagglefordians, most of whom were deep in her debt, and never likely to get out of it, then some- how began to think she had missed a chance, but would not own it. Worst of all things went with poor Pidgeon the East Haggleford barber. The sudden rush of beards that flooded Pidgeon’s premises shook him to the foundation, ag it were, and carried him clean off his legs. The first day the place was so crowded he had no room to wield his razor, and, jolted and jostled on all sides, did some pretty chipping and chopping among his new custom- ers. He was never & very quick shaver, ind the navi- gators’ beards were of a porcupine nature ho had no previous experience of. A willing but weakly youth, pressed into the service hurriedly, lathered with profusion a row of expectants, but the soap dried and caked upon their jaws before he yot round to them ; and some rubbed the soap off, and went, their way cursing ; and others (the worse for liquor) went away with the soap on, swearing loudly and with the same fluency as the sober ones. Some borrowed Pidgeon’s razors and notched them. Under these circumstances, it really surprised nobody very much (except Pidgeon) thitatriend of the friend of the miscreants who opened the ‘Fox under the Hill’’ should have come down and opened No. 2 shop in that wretched row already alluded to, bringing with him two muscular assistants, and, though a native of Whitechapel, calling himself s “coifeur de Paris,” and advertising that he dreased ladies’ hair in the “latest fashion.” It was in his window that the very first chignon that ever was seen in Kast Haggloford was exposed for sale | anything were wanting in poor Pidgeon’s cup of bitterness after he had seen this rival barber open his shop, and stand straddle-legged and triumphant on the threshold thereof, it was the knowledge that he had actually had that man under hia razor a week previ- ously, and had not severed his head frum hia body | Such was, however, the caso—I mean, he had shaved the new-comer, and had found him tobe a pleasant-spo- ken, glib personage, with no affectation for h's about him ; and meaeniry faa conversation concerning things enerally, pumped poor Pidgeon quite dry with regard o the extent of his business and the nature of his cus- tomers, the unhappy barber telling him everything ho wanted to know, and more, When later on, he learnt that this man was no better than a spy, who, under false colors, had sneaked into the camp, his iury was immense, Everything about the rival barber ctfended him—even his name, which was Rook—a ridiculously exasperating thing when hia own hame happened to be Pidgeon! The rustic mind found evergreen fun in this little circumstance, and made clumsy jokes about it many times a day. But perhaps what hurt poor Pidgeon wore if all was that the new barber came between him and km Pember, with whom he (Pidgeon) had kept company in 8 kind of simmering heat, never quite ready to boil over, for some years at least, But one day, when he found out that Em Pomber had had her hair cut at the opposition shop, he bubbled up suddenly, threw aside his apron, put his Sunday go-to- meeting high hat on, and crossed the road. Miss Pomber was behind the bar, doing needlework te the time away, nd leaving off now and then to ‘gaze upward thoughtfully at halfs salted pig han; between the beams, and serving a8 & monster rf ground for the flies, “Good day, Miss Pomber !”’ he said. , “Good duy, Mr, Pidgeon,” she answered, without rape ure, Then a pause enaued. ‘ us euiber I’ paid he. * Well—what ?"'—{this not a bit rapturous), { a
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“I don’t think love's a thing to be hurried, Misa Pember,” said Pidgeon, going blindfold and head first into the subject nearest his heart. “ Oertainly not,’ she replied. “ Who said it was?” “Twas thinking, Miss Pember,” he went on, “ that, though what you've Just observed is perfectly true, and sught to be fixed—in due course, of course, and at your jeisure.”” “Do you mean, Mr. Pidgeon, a time when we two should get married’y” | “We-ell, Miss Pember, as you have the ” word "—— “Now, Mr Pidgeon, I should like, once for all—that there may be no silly misunderstanding afterwards, don't you see ?—lor you to be quite aware, now, that it > is generally thought to be necessary, before one mar- Ties a person, to try and love that person a little, some- how; andl can’t say at the present moment, that Ilove sald you anyhow!” IP “Oh, Miss Pember !"’ gasped poor Pidgoon; there's ww enly one way of loving, is there ?"” “There are soveral ways of nd®loving !"" “Eh?’ exclaimed Pidgeon. “For instance, you might only be indifferent to me.” i “Ah!” cried Pidgeon. 4 “Or you might only be unbearably hateful |’ “Ohl” cried Pidgeon. ‘a aa? you are simply wearisome, which is worse than “I wearisome!" Pidgeon gasped. ‘I—I, who would shave my head, almost, to please you ’’—— “If you would please me most,” retorted the cruel- foes Em Pember, ‘don’t stop bothering here any er |"” “TI didn’t think thia of you, Miss P—P—Pember!” eried the blighted barber, dropping 4 tear into his mild . ale. “Things haven't gone well with me lately. I've * had a deal to bother the, but I've looked across the road to you, as it were, as to my guiding star! I've often A thought of you when, perhaps, I was milos away from your thoughts. There’s other hairdressers in the world besides me, and some, perhaps, that uses finer words, and don’t moan as much | ell, there are other places in the world besides East Haggleford. There's New * Zealand or Jamaica. Do you think you would ever come to think of me any kinder, Miss Pember, if I was far, far away ?”” ii “T think I should like you better far away !’’ she an- i swered provokingly. : ' . “And suppose I never came back?" said poor Pidgeon in piteous accents. . “I think 1 should like that moat!" retorted Miss Pember, and broke into the most musical laugh you ever heard in your life, which had, at the same time, 2 the most jarring, jungling sound to the wretched bar- ‘iy Der’s ears he ever remembered ; and he retreated in a molten rage, leaving his glass threo-parts full. - STEP IIL 7. Mus. Prac found him some time later sitting deapond- ently in his empty shop, and he appeared to have been weeping. a * hire, Pega,” ho said, como in, ma’m. I should like A to ask you a question. You have noticed for some time is . haven't you, that there has been something be- } me and Miss Pember ?" 1 “TI have noticed a something, I fancy.” : : “It’s all off now!” . : . “You have my heartiest commiseration, Mr. Pidgeon; though she's a false-hearted woman, if-ever there was be , one; and you'll not catch me aski favors of the - og of her for some time to come, or I'm much mis- a a “Oh, she’s behaved bad to you then, has she ?’’ ’ “Well, I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Pidgeon, bein, wach nesr neighbors, as it were. You see, I had a bil with that Mr. who died here sudden, in a fit, aa three months ago; and what with the state of trade, ‘ and one thing and another, am not quite prepared to ey meet it; so tancying she might have a little put by I a askod her’’— ‘3% And she hadn’t ?’” ; rr. . “If she had, she would not part with it; and unless I te find some kind friend’’—— 4 : “I'm very glad you spoke to me, indeed, Mra. Pegg,” Ny waid eon; “and I take tt as neighborly.” . “Oh . Pidgeon, it’s too good of you; but I never could have dreamt of asking”’— 25. “T think neighbors ought to be neighborly,” pur- "7 wned Mr. Pi ; wing this last interruption; ‘and b as far ae lies in their power to help one another’ —— q ~ Just what I say,” put in Mrs. Pe “And if I had the money to lend,” pursued Mr, Pid- ygoon, ** you wouldn’t have to ask me twice for it, my ma’am, you may rely on that. Unfortunately, though, Lhaven't, and am, instead, just in the same position as Fp Ihave a bill with Mr. Benson too, and it la due this very day.” Mrs. Pogg looked rather blue on receipt of this intel- e ence, >. nde you think, now, as Mr, Benson is dead, we may a! never be asked for the money at all?” “ie a “Not achanoe of such good luck,” Pidgeon replied. 4 ~ Hig heirs will be down on us, of course; they hold the bills.” 2 , “But he haan’t got any. It came out at the inqueat, : Ike hadn’t relation in the world.” i ™ # Ah! rejoined Mr. Pidgeon, wagging his head wisaly; . “we shall have to pay, that’s certuin. Think, now, if ~ I'd only had the luck to a Hg my bill by accident, : as 1 did on the pockot-fal of go and notes! I'd have made short work of it, ma’ am, fair or un‘air; but, of course, ho’d posted it up to town, to that friend in the vat _ rightstraight ayainst moral contradiction, that a time | THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER, ip he was always talking of—him that used to stick on 80."" “ Mr. Benson never mentioned his name, did he ?”’ “T never heard it; but we shall see the man bimeelf, mark my words, before very long.’ “We can’t dispute hisclaim, I suppose? As we gave the bills, it was clear we owed the money, and we owe it still to the holder of the bills.” “You couldn't say a truer word than that, Mrs. Pegg. The holder of the bill has it all his own way. There are Any number stolen every day of the year, I am told, and the thief passes it on fo another, and another to another, and the last one's the innocent holder, and he swears he gave value for it; and you have to pay all the same, just as if you really ow a4 the money.” “It’s a dreadful thing is the law, ain’tit, Mr. Pid- geon? If Mr. Benson’s friend won't renew, goodness only knows what'll ever become of me !”” “We're not the only ones in the town in the same fix—that'’s one comfort, any way!" said Mr. Pidgeon. “It’s a silly thing to put one’s hand to paper, ain't it? Has it ever occurred to you, ma’a’m, how @ money- lender conjugates the verb to lend? Ho serves you in the present tense, don't he? Then he does your bill in the conditional mood. When he has done it, he keeps you in the subjunctive, and sogner or later he sells you up in the future.” STEP IV. Sure enough, that friend of Mr. Benapn's was not far off ; and, even as they spoke, he was coming across the meadow from the direction of the other Haggleford, swinging a small cane jauntily, and puffing at a cigar. Among the few things which had not in some shape been altered by the arrival of the railway people was that old stile on which, at the beginning of this story, a certain care-worn, hatchet-faced man took his seat, and gazed complacently down upon the happy village. Mr. Benson's city friend was, curiously enough, a careworn, hatchet-fuced man also, but he was not so ragged, and did not look nearly so hungry. He was strikingly like the other hatchet-faced man, though. His hat was cocked on one side; he had a flower in his button-hole, and wore a soiled, light kid glove, and he thought aloud like the other man. Bah! Why bother you longer? He.iras the other man, come’ back with all the effrontery in the world to the place where he had met with such a warm reception, “Here we are again !” said he to himself, as he sat there pufling hia cigar and swinging his leg. “ But how the place seems to have changed! The ‘Blue Dragon’ looks something like the same, and so does the baeben's shop and the everything shop next door; but where’s the old bridgé and the mill-stream they ducked me ip? By Jove, it’s dried up! That's retri- bution |" 2 He laughed at this, and haying finished his cigar, lit another. “If my memory serves me, I began the world three months ago with the beat intentions and fourpence- halfpenny. [have that double-headed halfpenny still. By steadily adhering to the path of rectitude, I find myself mtich happier, and I am also the possessor of a little capital.” He took his money out, and counted it as he spoke; it amounted to nineteen shillings, inclusive of a doubt- ful fourpenny-bit and the famous double-headed cop- per coin; and he put it back again into his pocket, with & amile. _ “IfI go on at thé same rate,” said he, “and still con- tinue in the right path, I sha’n’t take much over forty years to save up a hundred pounds. The question is, shall I pursue my virtuous career or not? I think not. Let me see, now |’ He produced a pocket-book containing a number of pers, and turned them over careiully. “Flutter, little innocents!’ he said, as the wind ently rustled them. ‘‘The worthy soul you rightly Seloseat to set half the town in a tremble when he shook you in the folks’ faces. Why shouldn’t I?” He spoke no more aloud; but, with knitted brows, sat thinking out for the thousandth time to plan of ac- tion tohim, Why should he not himself present the bills? Who saw him take them? No one. Could not they have come into his hande in the ordinary course of business? Why not? Who knew jeg ties | of Benson's transactions? Was anyone likely to ris the expense of disputing Deverel’s glaim to them? It wae not feasible. - The old man appeared to have had no relations in the world. That was the great point. The ex-dancing master paper his leg, and sprang to his feet. “I'll do it 1" he cried. With these words, he walked straight into the “ Blue Dragon” parlor, and rang the bell. Miss Em Pémber answered the ring, and stared at him wonderingly, then wistfully, aa a faint recollection of his features dawned on her. “What do you please to want, rir?’ she asked, “To dine, if you have no objection.” “ We do not usually serve dinners, and—yes, it is— and certainly not to you! Come, now, my fine fellow, sup’ you give them a turn at some other house 7?” “You haven't forgotten me, then,” be said, coolly. “T’'m glad of that. Sve here; here is the amount of your little bill. ;Circumstances impressed it upon my memory. “Ate you busy? If not, perhaps you will fa- yor me with afew moments’ conversation. _ “What do you want?’ she asked, little mollified, but still doubtful. “A hundred and sixty-eight pounds. This is Sl promissory note, I believe, given to the late Mr. Ben- son, and apr Byrne by him 7?” . *“ Yores, it ia; and you are ”—— “As you see, the holder. Shall I wast bere while 709 fetch money? I wish you would send me ina g of your best ale.” ee | they were more im Benson’s way than mine. nd Em Pember stood irresolute, nervously twitching the hem of her apron. “I never supposed, sir, that ’’—— “ Of course bot. How could you ?” “ With respect to this little matter, sir, I'm very sorry to say—very sorry indeed, but I have hada very bad season, and been put to some expense repairing the roof and drains, and the fact is—— But I understood from Mr. Benson that I might renew it again on the old terms.” And as she spoke, she put down ten bright guineas, Deverel's eyes sparkled, but ne showed no other signs of excitement. On the contrary, Le pushed the money towards her, “No, no,” said he; “I'm very sorry, but I can’t do it. The fact is, I don't care much for these kind of: bills; I prefer regular trade transactions, you know—everything straightforward and bona fide,” “ But if you could only give me a little time, sir—if I paid some extra ’’—— And she placed another pound upon the table. “ After what happened last time we met, sir, perhaps you would not care to serve me ?”” “ Ah, you allude to the mill-stream,” said he, care- lessly. “ Well, I don’t bear malice, I don't like these bills, as I said; but there, make me out another for three months. Put ‘Richard Deverel '—D-c-y-e-r-o-l— in the place of ‘Benson,’ That's all the difference.” She fetched the pen andink from the side table, and wrote out the new bill at bis dictation; then he gave her the old one and took the money. “You said you would dine here, sir, What can I get “you 7—a nice duck ’’—— But she caught herself up suddenly whilat uttering the ominous word, He laughed. “No,” he said ; “1 don't seem to care about the ducks in these parta. I've alittle business to transact down the town, and would like a steak and oysters, or mush- roome, if you can manage it, about six. And now I will take the ale.” Ashe was drinking it, he smiled to himself, aod jingled his gold. “I seem to have dropped into a nice little income, if things goon in this way!" said he. “What's this? Pidgeon, fifty pounds! Pidgeon ia the next one Pll pluck. I'll give Pidgeon no mercy |’ He turned over one bill after the other, but stopped at one, and read it. very carefully once or twice. It was an older document than any of the others, and the ink it was ie with had paled with age. *One thousand five hundred sere drawn by Hugh Challice, and accepted by Charles Challice, of The Grange, Haggleford. Yea; there it is, safe enough. Ah, I’m not quite the pauper I was when I met her laat! We shall meet again, now,1n & few hours’ time—we shall meet again, and then ‘’—— He sat thinking a long while, till a clock striking three aroused him, . rede work |" he said, rising to his feet. “Now foe — THE SEVENTH FIGURS. IH WHICH A SHADOW COMES CREMPING, Srxe I.—A TROUBLESOME 608. ~ IL—a TROUBLESOME DAUGHTER. ~ TIl—a TROUBLESOME LOVE. “ TV.—a TROUBLESOME SHADOW STEP I. Ir was an undisputed fact—therefore, shall we say,@ fact indisputable—that Mr. Charles Challice was an 6x- cellent partt, and any far lady in the country ough¢ to have felt very proud and happy to have been chosen by him. Xn this case, then, bis dear cousin, Miss Has- riet Challice, ought to have felt very proud and happy. Why, then, were her cheeka 80 often pale and her eyes so often red? Rich Mrs. Challice thought she was @ strange, inanimate girl—'a curious choice of Charles’s, when he could have done so much better.” But she only thought this, and breathed no word to living soul. Through life, this mother had been devotedly at- tached to her son—as devotedly as the other mother who had married her lato husband's brother ; only the other mother’s son had gone rather how far wrong only she knew, for he had well-nigh her hi eart. Charles and this other brother had been achoolfellows at Sandburst, and later on had entered the same regi- ment, but did not associate very much. At first, they wore thrown together by their tastes and occupation, for both had a passion for field sporta and the turf; but for the latter one must have algt of money m the ab- sence of luck, Young Jack Challice had neither, and came to grief, a8 a of course. i He got into debt, got into worse debt, got over head and exra in debt, and’ most of his debts wete*‘debta of | honor,” where much credit is not allowed. At ® mo- ment when didgrace seemed inevitable, his cousin Charles came to one night in his foom—they were quartered then in Ireland—and said, “ Drop this, Jack. You're going on too fast. Your governor's not got the money mine has, acd you haven't a chanoe. jack's dead — you. Can’t you see it yourself? You mast lose. How are you to pay ?’*’ Jack started up on thisina " was a little , ® not unust thing with him. “What business is it of yours,” he cried. aak you to pay?” aw we ie “No,” his cousin ; “bat I hawa” “You have”
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THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER, a “Don't be s fool. Bit down again. Yes; I heard! something said, and wouldn't stand it being said twice. Asit is, I knocked the fellow down, and took his re- eeipt. There itis; and there’s another, and anotier. Look here, Jack, drop this. Pay me back how and when you can, only leave off this betting. You've no luck, I say, and it isn't good enough for you.” 8 Charles Challioce, tlie ‘poe gs man of the two, had a blunt, straightforward way with him, which meant honesty to the backbone, but was nevertheless on many occasions highly offensive, when he had no in- tention of offending. His cousin Jack swallowed the bitter pill just admtin- | ijatared, thanked bim clumsily, and never forgave him. | He did not leave off betting, of course. Very few poople who catch the betting fever do, any more than | people who have smelt the footligtits, from the wrong | side of them, can shake off tlie complaint they catch from them, or gamblers can give up cards and dice. Of course he was not going to take such an absurd opinion as the truth, that he had no luck, Why should not he have it some time or other? With tlris idea, he plunged deeper into the mire, and fioundered wolully. A good Samaritan, known by the) name of Benson, crossed nis path, found him bruised and sore, bound up his wounds in bank-notes, and set him going again—under a dismal misapprehension, for the good Samaritan weakly pons that he had to do | with the son of the rich Mr. brother. On his ide, Mr. Jack Challice did anything but re- eoup himself for his former losses by the aid of Ben- son's loan. Luck was against him once more. He lost every farthing by backing the wrong horse, When, after this, he went back to Siensat for another supply, he found that worthy creature not quite so open-handed as before. wanted better security. What security ?” “Your oousin Charles’s name. His father is just dead, I hear. Bring me his name. You're great friends, are not you? “No ; not very.” “But he won’t refuse o relation, and you want the money 80 much.” eh ro's doubt about my wanting the money, but he won t lend me his name." “Try him. He will, I am _ sure, if you manage mat- ters properly. There! I don’t want to sce him, or have any trouble in the matter. Bring me his name across a bit of paper—mind the stamp’s all right—and the money's ready for you,” He wanted the money badly enough—so much so, that he screwed up his courage to go and ask Charles Challice to help him in the way Benson had suggested. Challice listened attentively, and, without any great show of feeling, refused. The whole interview gs | lasted a few minutes, and the rich man looking bac atita few weeks afterwards, when the news reached him of his cousin's ruin, flight, and death, he said, in explanation of his conduct, “I saw he was going the wrong road entirely. He was scraping together every farthing he could lay his hands on to back a horso w ho came in, as you know, absolutely nowhere. It wasn’t nallice, not the poorer even placed. But that was the worst of poor Jack—his | only fault, os far as I know; he had no judgment—no 1 ye This was true enough. Jack had backed the wrong horse once again—the wrong horse which was to have been the right horse, and, with that perversity that stten:ls many things in this world, came in last instead of first. a large sum of money was squandered in this last “gpurt” of * poor” Jack Challioo’s, inclusive of fifteen bundred pounds lent by Mr. Behson upon Charles Challice’s name: » J ke * Poor Jack Challice’s father died very shortly after the nows reached him that the runaway had been picked upon the coast of Spain, drowned, some bad weather, which also terminated the career of a few strictly honest fisherman and other insignificant per- sons. The shock had a bad effect upon the elder man's mind, never of the strongest, and he expired within but a month ortwo, leaving his affairs in a confused From that time it became the widowed mother’s only aim and object in life to off the debts of the father and son, and to stand clear with the world. n her knees at her son’s grave, dug by strangers in aforeign land, sho vowed to keep her loved child's namo among men. , As yet, no living soul had ever justly breathed a word against the honor of the house, and never should they. But the task she had set herself wae a bitterly hard 0} fe s "The. etnies made ¢- some disastrous speculations of the futher’s upon his estates nocessitated heavy mortgages ;and then came the son's debts, crushing in penne, pad and each one demanding immediate Valiantly the lady struggled and fought, suffer ing cruel privations in her, perliaps, exaggerated zeal ; bat medeety she got things into some kind of roason- able shape. “With what little she had left, after the most clamor- ous claims were satisfied, she made up her mind to set- tle down and drown away her life in the old Grange ; and she could do this happily, knowing all was settled, and no onsalivehad any right to say that her dead son was anything but the most honorable of gentle- men. Who among us shall laugh at this poor, martyred mother. because her shrunken checks aro bespatted with the unhealthy roses she buys at the chemists shops, and she grins dismally with false teeth, thinking she is smiling naturally and mirthfully, as people can who carry their own end have no secret sorrows gnawing of their hoarts t On the contrary, Mr. Benson | The ronge she wore to hide the grim signs and tokens on the surface by which the existence of such sorrows down below may be guessed at, as the whereabouts art. . Had anyone lifted for you a corner of the curtain, and you could have peeped in at the dismal interior, where all was scheming, mean contrivances, and petty shifts and shuffies, you could have wept more easily than have laughed. The scene was sad and dreary enough, in all conscience. Yet most people laughed, knowing no better, one among ‘them being the rich Mrs. Challice, ut the Halt. Wonderful stories were current in the village. We have heard something of them in the gossip of good Mrs. Pegg and tlre buxom hostess of the “Blue Dra- gon.” It was known fora fact by everybody that the old woman was “ awfully mean,” and it was supposed | that she was also a miser. What else could she be, in- deed? What could she do with her money ? She kept up some outward appearance ina gaunt, heen kind of fashion, and this gave the idea. They ined off silver plate when, upon rare occasions, sho entertained company; but the food was put upon the table so scant in quantity that people went away hungrier than they came. We have seen how Mrs. Challice's wine made Benson wince, but she also brewed a small ale which was ter- | ror and destruction to the unwary. It was said that old Martha had been found fish- ing in a pond at the end of the garden, which a few carp had the misfortune to inhabit—misfortune, I say, as they contributed to form some of the most unsavory fish dinners, when Martha had cooked them, that ever unhappy mortal pulled wry faces at. Also, it was reported, rabbits in any number were snared by this same Martha in the plantation beyond ; and that all the year round, in season or not in season, rabbits were jugged and eaten trom economic motives | by the two poor old women in The Grange. | Ah! it was, in truth, a weary lite; as, for that mat- ! ter, is the life of many other women among us, whose every day is full of patient suffering, and who live and | die making no sign. | * * * * oa * * | When the time came when she had done her utmost, and with tearful «yes thanked heaven that now all was | paid, and her poor thoughtless boy's memory might at rest, a gentle, unassuming jnock came at the outer door, and a plump, rosy-faced man, giving his name as Benson, respectfully requested an interview. He had brought with him the fifteen hundred pound bill for which Charles Challice had lent his name ; and his (Mr. Benson’s) reason for coming there with it, in- stead of going straight to the Hall, was because it was payable at the Grange, at which place Mr. Charles | Challice, at the time the bill was drawn, resided, the building of the Hall not being complete. Curiously enough, he never went on to the Hall for ten long, weary years, in each of which he had received a hundred and fifty pounds to hold over. The day the rosy-faced man paid Mrs. Challice his first yisit, Martha, after waiting a long while, went up to see her mistress, and was not a little scared by the look of her. She sat there, rigid and motionless, with a deadty allor which the rouge fought against helplessly. Her Phin fingers tightly clutched the arms of her chair; her eyes wers fixed upon vacancy with a look from which the intellect seemed wholly gone. For along while prayers and entreaties could wring nothing from her, Her misery was too deep for utter- | ance; and when, at length, the secret was told, the two women bowed their heads together, and sobbed in con- cert. But they took this new and worst sorrow of all in silence. In future, without any verbal arrangement | between them, it ged ga somehow tacitly agreed that the dead son's filly crime should not be spoken of ; and this blot upon the hitherto unsnilied honor of the house of Challice should be hidden—hidden at any price | —hidden deep! oe STEP II, Arrz., wil, surely fifteen hundred pounds was out a try sum of money to make such a furs about, Charles Challice could easily enough have paid it twice over out of his winnings at Doncaster; and when he and Harriet were married, it would not be a difficult matter, with such an easy husband as he would be, to obtain the money without having to answer many questions, and 86 quietly settle the matter. What did the future wife of Challice herself say to this notable schemé? What could she a ? Coming from school with her head well stocked with romantic notions, as you may be sure, she fell readil into the trap laid woe beri and felt that the sacrifice—if sucrifice it wero—was a dread necessity which must be —which could not ibly be avoided, The mother could not quite look upon the rich mar- riage of the cousins as any sacrifice on her child's part, even if it were done adlely for her sake. It seemed, from all points of view, so desirable a thing; and what but some foolish fancy had she to urge against it? Yet, with growing uneasiness, the mother could not help noticing that there was something—that the daughter was not happy—that for the man che was going to marry she had no love. R The best part of real Mfe love-making among you young ladies and gentlemen is such precious bumdrnm, commonplace stuff to the rest of us who are not in love, and only look on, that passion seems to form no part of it. In these cases one does not expect to seo a very demonstrative affection. Things are, as it were, taken easily. Interviews occur which appear to us ouisiders of a somewhat tame and insipid character. a . \ > ff Jet BANE $55 si — Vows aro interchanged somewhat flabbily. A cortain length of time is set apart as necessary for the suke of appearances to the engagement, and then & mild mar in many instances, more awkwardness than ccstasy bout it, separates the humdrum of courtship from the settled bickerings of wedlock, in whioh so miny fret their lives away, In Harriet Challice’s case, the lookers-on, for the most of precious metals is discovered by those learned in the ee takes place; and aninterval of honeymoon, with | part, suw no reason why they should entertain any | doubt that she was just as happy and contented ag other young ladies. She was rather ’a strange girl, that was all, with peculiar ways. Yor many of these we Charles Challice liked her above any other woman he hadevermet. A good wiany men (out of books) do not want to be always making love, because it is not (out of books) a wholly enjross- ing business with men as itis with many woren, and there are plenty of men married, as well as unmarried, who have never made love at all. Challice liked to talk for hours about hia horses, and Harriet would enter into the spirit of the conversation with a real or woll-feigned interest in that engrossing topic. As a duty, perhaps. she opened a mystic volume called “ Ruff's Guide,” and studied its pages ag diligently as she had in her time studied other educa- tional works at school, and made considerable progress, Though hitherto she had but little experience in such things, she possessed, seemingly, a natural gift fo riding and driving, and was soon, with all the carriag and horses at the Hall at her disposal, vastly proficiont,, Charles Challice wus very happy talking of horses t@ her, or riding by her side, or being driven by her even, sometimes, in his dog-cart, just to see how she could do it, and what her pluck was like, She danced well, and he also liked dancing. She had a tolerably pretty face, as already stated, as faces go; and what was bettcr—os Charles Challico, and about ninety-nine out of a hundred other men in good society would have agrecd—a graceful figure, on which her clothes “went well.” Your romancijsts ignore the female form from the chin downwards, I have observed during my progress throngh polite fiction ; so, por haps, even as little as T have said may not be thougut to be in the best taste. But really, now, we liave heard so much about lovely fuces—haye not wo?—and, seen so little of them ? Charles Challice, to Harriet’s relief, made very little’ love. If it was to be always thus, she got to think, it would be somehow endurable. ~ She was a great deal at the Mall, where much come pany was kept, and it was, on the whole, amusing—not quite so amusing as it had at first seemed to her when all was new and strange; but she did not ask herself why this was—only cried when she thought of it now and then, and when she thought no one was lookin ». In ignorance of the real cause, the mother sou ht about for some other, and could find none, She know no more of that romantic episode in her danghter’s life connected with the dancing-master than Harrict did herself, for the intercepted letter had brought mattera quickly to a crisis, and the mad fool, who had mistaken condescension for encouragement, was turned adrift without the particulars relating to his rash act even ° being known to the pupils in the school, What was the real cause, then? We shall sec, At times—pretty frequently—Charles Challice was somewhat dull and pompous in his discourse, even with Harriet. He was a atickler for the roprieties—from his point of view—and talked nota ittle of the past greatness of the House of Challice © and its unsullied honor—themes which were not pleas- ant for the girl to listen to, knowing what she did. The necessity for a speedy marriage became when he thus spoke, painfully apparent to her; and, at the’ same time, she could not help asking herself how com-' a fmt 4 with him was to be everlastingly endured,! is manners, even now, were cold and indifferent, What would it be, then, when the cliain was riveted’ the heavy chain there would be no shaking off? When, then, he spoke of the spproaching Inarriage,)’ and intimated that something like a definite period should be fixed for the termination of this odd kind of caurtship, that had now been going on for about three - months, she made many excuses and delays, Perhaps,! after all, she thought the dreadful thing would pasa away, and she could marry whom she liked, r In her young experience of life it did not seem ag though it were possible that dreadful things could 89, on forever, and her mother must ny oe Somes times the mother herself thought she magnified the danger a little bit. Benson in their last interview had threatened exposure did she not settle his claim within afew days; but then he bad died, Would not the threat, after all, die with him, and the extortion she had suffered from #0 long be at an end? | day she woke up expecting some letter would arrive by the post announcing the commencement of hostilities, but none came, For a long while she trom-' bled at every knock, thinking that surely now the time and the man had arrived. But gradually, as time rolled on, she got easier in her mind, and almost fancied ‘her- © self sate. : Sho had no exact period fixed in her mind as that on which Benson's executor might return, aa it was fixed 6n the minds of some of his other debtors, whose debta’ had been renewed for three months. c o much difficulty had she had sometimes in scra - ther the money to pay the interest he deman i and so many deluys had occurred, that she wae no quite certain now which was the exact day when, in the ordinary course of things, more interest. might be expected. = a ' bas < ee ere ~
Page 16
a STEP Il. + 'THat day was 3 momentous one in the life of Harriet Challice, She had been for a drive with her cousin, and the sub- ject of her marriage with him had come up again, and been discussed not altogether pleusantly in certain pha- ses of its progress, They had begun y ene well enough with the town talk, and Harriet had been lively and animated, When, however, reaching wuat he thought to be a suitable place in the road, he essayed a tender passage, she pushed him away a liitle impatiently. “Don't!” said she. Charles Challice drew back sulkily, and looked straizht between his horse's ears, and very hard indeed at the country ahead. “No stranger, to look at us,” said he, “ would even imagine we were an engaged couple.” “Tshould hope not,” she said, “The melancholy fact is sufficiently well known and talked of as it is.” He thought this answer over, and did not much care about it. “Tfit isso melancholy, why not put an end to it ?” “How?” “How ?"' he repeated. “How do you mean ?” “By getting married of course. What else could I mean ?”’ ane course,” saidshe. ‘I did not think of at.’” They wention"a long way in silence after this, Chal- lice was very much vexed, and, at the same time, ashamed of himself for being put out, and he hoped he had not shown it too plainly. He thought he ought to say something else, and wondered what, He felt altogether decidedly uncom- fortable. After a lengthy and awkward pauso, he summed up courage, and broke out with : “You don’t really mean what you say, Harriet, do you? Iwas speaking to your mother yesterday. She Says sho is anxious our wedding should take place soon, and that she thought long engagements unnecessary. Your mother would like us to get married, Iam sure,” She said nothing. “You know me well enough by this time,” Harriot, don't you? I’m not one of your talking fellows, with # lot of fine words made up to turn women's heads— stupid women’s heads, you know! I—TI love you, of course, and all that, very much; and we ssem to be of the same taste; and I must have a wife some time or other to sit at the other end of the table, you know, and do the honors, and all that, don't you?” But still she said nothing. “T don’t want to hurry you, of course,” he want on, - “or force you to say 4 sooner time than you like; omy in the tall of the year, when the racing’s oyor, and then we might go abroad, a tour to some of those foreign places. I don’t care agreat deal myself for foreigners and foreign places, but, perhaps, Pi wouldif you haven't seen much of them. What do you say now ?” “T think I should like to see them.” “But Idon’t mean that. You, know what I mean! Abont the day, you know?" “Fix your own time.” “Really now, That's jolly!” He stopped the horse, - ror n't mind kissing mo, do you ?” “ Yo.” , “Buppose we fix this day month ; that will not be too ®oon for you?” * * * * * * * [ He told his mother, after howeached.the house, the determination that had been come to; and she, turning % little sigh into a slight cough, went—sho thought it her duty—to talk to Harriet upon the subject. + Then an odd kind of interview took place between the two women, each one pretending, and each with a vague uneasiness about the heart. But they kissed one an- other, and heither knew the other's secret, * * * * o * id With an unutterable senso of relief, Harriet. prosent- ‘ly finding herself free, ran out into the garden, hasten- ed down a sidle-path leading through the eae vate? with its artificial lake and recently-constructed shrub- berries, to a real, nature-planted dell, dim with over- hanging branches—a eat of that wood where the gip- sies pitched their tents, and the escaped convict had crept into to hide. Hore alone and unobserved,she could cry to her heart’a content, and covering her face with her hands, burst into.a torrent of angry tears. Here, with none to hear, she could call aloud on heaven to help her, and feel some kind of solace in the fact that her griefa were outspoken loudly, not cramped and stified, as at all other times they perforce must be, within her breast. “Oh, my dear love!” she cried; “how I love yon! Oh why isit wicked that I should love you, and not him? Why should I have to tie myself to him? Oh, I eannot—i cannot! What shall Ido?” She fell upoh her knees, and sank down lower and lower, laying her tearful face upon the soft mosa at the roots of a great tree, and roughly her hair fell over her features, half hiding them. As she remained in this attitude for a long while, cry- ing very softly, a little green lizard, feeling curious about her, came out of his dwelling-house and timidly approached and sniffed at the too of her little kid shoe, then quietly retired, satisfied in hia mind; and perhaps as if he were a lizard whose young life had been blighted also by some perversity, in love, he sympathized with her, but he said nothing, A dog, however, who followed the lizard, and also smelt at the toe of the pretty shoe—an object which would haye attracted two-legged animals of the malo es, had they been there to seo it, to say nothing of THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER. a woo vlimpse of a blue silk stocking, with a pretty clock upon the side—a dog,I say, who came out on Harriet's prostrate form suddenly from a thicket hard by, stopped and barked one short bark, which roused the girl from her half-stupor: and scrambling to her feet, and hastily pushing the tangled hair away from her flushed features, she saw Captain Everest standing behind the dog, looking on half in wonder, and, as it seemed to her, half in pity. It was tho latter expression—perhaps a fanciful ono, after all, existing only in her own imagination—which brought the deep crimson flush to her cheek, and drove it aa suddenly away again. “What are you doing hero ?’’ sho cried. Isaying ?"' Ho approached silently, and took her hand. “My dear little girl, what isthe matter? What has aapenee ? Anything wrong between you and Char- ey?" “Between him and me? How could anything be right? Why do vyou—how can you ask me this? Oh, there, there, take no notice of what Isaid{ Iam mad, Ithink! Let me go, please! I will go!" And, in a passionate flood of tears, she tore herself from him, and ran back towards the housa. “What was STEP Iv. Wrrarn halfa dozen yards Everest had overtaken her, was striving to detain her, to reason with her. He would have been dull, indeed, had he not quickly and clearly understood what part he himself was play- ing in this strange aceno, but he, as it were, ignored his identity. Ho, Everest, Challice's friend, would have ad- vised Challice’s betrothed to waste no more thought upon that other Everest, who, in the early days of their acquaintance, might have spoken first, but was too slow about it. “Charley is the best fellow in the world,” he said, and meant what he was saying. “Yos,” she answered, briefly, making a little face at a daisy she was just that moment treading on. “He said when you were married you were going a tour through Europe. That is adelightful thing to do when one isrich, I shall have to travel again myself, soon,” * Wo shall moet you, perhaps.” “No; Ishan’t go to the usual show-places—that is an amusement better suited to rich men, Ishall look up some savage parts. Nothing tamer than the Rocky Mountains will suit me. I have an idea of selling out, and going away to shoot buffaloes or Red Indians (”’ “Selling out! You are joking.” “Indeed, no. I find myself suddenly in a most pecu- liar position. A mysterious unknown, with whose name, even, Iam wholly unacquainted, has been in the habit, 90 long ay I canremember, of supplying me with a handsome income, It has been my custom, I am ashamed to say, of taking it for granted that I had every right to the income in question, and of living on it quite naturally, and I have never taken any very great amount of troublo to ascertain from what source it came, Sud- denly, however, the supply ceases. Three months and one day ago, exactly, I received my last installment. I had always, every three months to'the day, done so with the most astonishing regu- larity. Three months and one day since the person from whom I derived my income, or hia agent, died sud- denly. I mado all kinds of inquiries about him, and I aacertained that he left a large sum of money in his bank, which lies there still, unclaimed, and which most certainly cannot be claimed by moe, as there is not one iota of evidence forthcoming to entitle me to s share in his property. Yesterday, at Doncaster, I should have received my quarterly allowance. It did not reach me, and neither was it sent to my roomsin town. By some vague chance I thoughtit would have been forwarded here to the hall, as I might be supposed to return with Challice from Doncaster, but it was not waiting for me. Indeed, I did not really expect it.” ' “But it is only a day overdue,” remarked his com- panion, “ Nearly two days now; and during the whole time the allowance has been made to me, to the best of my belief it has never beon an hour behind. When I have been traveling about in half savage places, and my ad- dress has been necessarily rather uncertain, these mys- terious quarterly payments have followed me with the greatest regularity, and have always been lying waiting for me at the recognized address punctual to the hour.” “How strange! But may bo it will come yet.” “I do not believe there is the least chance of it; and I have quite made up my mind to sell out, as I said at first, and go in for buffaloes and Red Indians.” “Tcannot help thinking you are joking. Anyhow, you will not sell out now. Besides, you have still your pay to live on.” Everest laughed. ‘I should not be able toliveon my pay, I am afraid. My mysterious unknown, probably with the very t intentions, managed to supply me with expensive tastes as well as a liberal allowance. I had got into a way of living at the rate of almost double the amount, though it was liberal enough, in all con- science, And, do you know, it is the most difficult thing in all the world t» begin being economical upon the scene of your former extrayagances. People who break down, and break up, go away—why should not I follow their example? Thore is no reason in the world why I should stay.” 4 During tuis somewhat long story of the Captain's, his companion had had plenty of leisure to compose herself whilat she listened tohim. She did listen most atten- tively, and burst out with a strange enough expression when he thus reached an end. “Oh, what a cruel thing it is to be poor! What does it not. make le do? It is dreadil |" He slightly stared, as he turned towards her, and smiled faintly, as be said: ‘It makes one very often do many mean, petty things. It frequently requires more courage to face little unpleasantnesses than real troubles and dangers.” “It may force you to a great sacrifice sometimes; ra- der certain circumstances, may blight your whole life.” ‘Happily, Miss Challice, you are not likely to know anything of the poverty you sapoak of.’’ “Why not ?” “Why not? Well, Challice has a splendid income, not derivable from mysterious unknowns ; and if he” only kept within limits in his racing transactions, and is once or twice as lucky as he was yesterday at Don- caster, there is not much likelihood of your ever being in any want of money.” “No; that is true.” She said these lsst words in a scarcely audible tone, and more as though she wore thinking to herself, than speaking to him. They had by this time reached the Hall, and she leit him, and went hastily up-wiairs to her room, for the dinner-bell was ringing. He, also, went away to dress, with as much haste as possible, making his mind up to come in some time atter the fish. But though he had no timé to lose, even if he were to do that much, he more than once fellinto an attitude of thought, and pondered pro- foundly—much, be it said, to the annoyance of the gen- tleman who was good enough to engage himaelf as the Captain's valet, and who was ex ingly anxious to go out,andkeep & most particular appointment. about which, this history having nothing to do, no more need be said, and no breach of confidence committed. More than once during dinner, and afterwards, in the evening, Gaptain Everest, when he could doso unob- served, watched Harriett closely, and pondered more than ever. Her last words had thrown s sudden light upon what hitherto he had been very wrongly misinterpreting. When he had told the story of his pecuniary difficulties, he had done so with the intention of hinting that he himself, as a match for a young lady with Harriet’s chances, was certainly not to be thought of, and he in- nocently supposed that his observations were having s morally salutary effect. He knew that the girl loved, or thought she loved him, and did not at present love Charles Challice, to whom she was, nevertheless, engaged to be married, Thia affection for him he thought he had sufficient Sound sense to see at once must be crushed out, at any cost. Men can often reason thia way when passion blinds the woman entirely. Sheis urged on to almost any folly without reflection; but, as the'crisis comes, the ‘man holds back, and asks himself calmly, “Shall not [ be a fool if I go on with this further?” On their first meeting, it is true, Harriet had owak- ened an interest in the somewhat worn, blase heart of this traveler, who had lived, perhaps, at too high a prea~ sure to retain much power for sentiment, and he had hardly been able to account to himself for his feelings in tho matter. Indeed, lite some thousands have done before him, he did not know how much it hurt him to lose a thing till it was gone te pee When Charles Challice came blundering to him, and told him in a broken, trembling voice, and blushing like a girl, that he was‘ going to be married, Everest, for the first timo, learnt that his dearest friend was go- ing to marry the only woman in the world’ he had ever felt any love for, and the pill was the very hardest he had ever had to take, He swallowed it though, bravely, without a moment's hesitation, and shook hands with Challice and con ulated him. ‘She's the only woman I would have cared to marry, myself,” said he, ‘if I had been a mar- rying man, which is not at all likely, pow.” the then he gave Challice a light for his cigar, and his essing. About two days later, a chance word from Harriet's lips made him start and tremble. He was not the only one who had loved silently, and he felt that, somehow his life had been accidentally spoilt. per, ke curious kind of person, whom some people might have thought indifferent by nature, and incapa- ble of feeling much, because he put an almost constant constraint’ Pee outward utterances, he came to the conclusion that two or three lives need not also be spoilt because he himeelf had been unlucky; and that tho best thing for him to do was to keep pave from the Hall and Harriet’s presence as much as possible. ‘She'll very soon get over it,’ he said to himself, “It can only be aschool-girl fancy of hers, and she does not know her own mind; and Challice ia my deareat friend. It is confoundedly awkward; but there ’—— The whole thing might have been set straight, very probably, had Everest gone away; and nothing but an intole: indolence, which he rarely summoned up strength enough to break through, kept bim hoy. about the scene, which was anything but apleasant one to him now. In the same way that he had been ae ever since Benson’s death, when he drew what he had a presentiment was the last installment of his income he would ever receive, to regulate hia affairs and start life afresh. But here ho was, three months older, three months deeper in debt, and at last without a y of ready money, unless he sold his commission, his horses, his phaeton, or his furniture, to pay his creditors. Just at this moment he made as 8 discovery. Hore was a woman who undoubtedly was deeply in love with him, and who was marrying &man whom she, perhaps, actually hated, and who, in doing so, was mak- ing a sacrifice the necessity for which was s puzzle to him that excited his strongest curiosity; and he watched her eyery look, hoping to got some clue to the secret which he was reluctant to question herabout. _ : Other eyes watched her, too, that night. Many and many 8 times shadow flitted past the open windows, and mingled with the darker shadows cast by th»
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~ a ee SS cares ne araeae test Bushes upon the lawn, as tho form that gave it birth cowered down at the sound ol some approaching foot- atep, and crept away. THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER. uM “You acted like s fool, and may thank your stars it; filled up upon it by the doctor; and then Dick, care- did not cost you your life! Good night to you.” “Don't send me away like that, doctor. Come; I've lessly pocketing a bank-note, put the long strip of paper into his pocket, gave another one to the doctor, and This shadow, at no distant period, waa to croaa Harriet | no right to ask what you promised, I know, ‘cause I took his departure. Qhallice’s path in lio, as it had done twice before, to what ond we shall seo. THE THIRD FIGURE. IM WHICH THE WOLVES ABZ GROWLING. Sree 1.—BLACK-MArL. “ TL.—PLAYING BPX. “ TIl,—MADNESS. * IV.—ar vast! STEP I. Doorozn TaveMan’s house stood in a hollow, about a quarter of a mile distant from the new railway station at Mast Haggleford, and it was just a chance that the line did not take it in its course. Luck waa ore the doctor in this respect, as it had 6ften enough been in others. He had been partioularly unfortunate with regard to family bereavements, andif he had not iveured the lives of his relatives he would have had nothing to console himself with when death robbed him of their companionship. In the case of one of his latest relatives, a kind of eousin three or four times removed, who occupied the not very elevated position of hanger-on and odd manin atrainor’s stable, and whose life he had insured for fourteen thousand pounds (an almost exaggerated valuo | to pnt on it), the directors of the insurance offico— though directors rarely or nover dispute payment in any caso—without giving any very decided reasons for their conduct, simply declined to pay. Naturally enough, the doctor was surprised and an- noyed by this strange course, and felt the refusal none ! the less because, just at that moment, it 80 happened that he was rather particularly pressed by claims upon | hia purse. Dr. Trueman, indeed, was remarkably unfortunate. He had scarcely any practice to speak of, for most of the people who would havé cared to call in his services were too pie to be worth his while going to, and the} few families within ensy distance of his abode did not take kindly to the sporting doctor. Ho was all right, though, atthe Hall, he frequently remarked ; and the Hall was worth all the rest put to- gothor. This was true enough, as far as it went, but it | was only on account of Charles Challice’s sporting | tastes, and tho fact that his medical adviser could doc- | tor horses as well, if not better, than he could men, be- | sides having an agroeable manner, and being a decent fellow to talk to, that had got him his footing at the big house. Perhaps, if the truth must be told, he was only tolerated there, not treated as an eqaal. Rather in the neighboring towns, where sporting men moet BY he ep did the doctorshine. He was a kind of small king there, and held in a sort of doubtful honor—an odd kind of undefined awe—by tho set in which he moved. A“ good fellow, well met’’—a bois- terous, over-cordial person, whom everybody nodded to, and called familiarly “ Doctor,” but about whom, after all, really very little wag known. His house stood in a damp hollow, shaded by agreat w-troe, boneath the outatretched branches of which 6 earth lay black and naked, and gave a dismal, church- yard look tothe garden in the front of the house. On to this en looked the surgery window, and the light from it lay on tho ill-kept grass-plot in dia mond-shaped patterns. It was the same night on which the incidents just described took place, and Dr. True- man was making up his physic all alone by himself in the house. The yollow light of acandle placed before him fell with a Rombrandt-like effect upon his heavy features, just now wrinkled into an expression of concentrated attention, as he drop; something from a phial into a lass, very slowly and surely, s drop at atime; and so ttle movement was visible in the face and figure, that he might have been taken for 4 painting instead of a ro- ality, # picture-frame filled the place of the win- dow-frame enclosing him. At least, a roughly-dressed, sailor-looking man was of this opinion, ay he stopped outside the garden-gate, leant on it, and stared at the doctor hard. * Blest if he ain't a cool hand!" said tho sailor-man, below hia breath, “ and as steady asa rock. I auppose doctors ought to be that. Thero’s life and death in that bottle, may be; anda drop one way or the other would make all the difference.” The doctor, meanwhile, having let fall so many drops from the phial ho held in one hand into a glaas held in the other, carefully corked the former, and put itintoa cupboard, then toased the contents of the glass down his own throat. “He's taking his own physic |" said tho sailor, with an oath; and he grinned at the oddness of the incident, then gently raised the latch of the gate. The sound he made in $0 doing was very taint, but it caused the doctor to turn his head quickly, and shad- ps beet eyes, he watched the figure approaching. mingly, it was known to him, for he rose trom his seat, came and opened the door,and stood upon the threshold, barring the co “Now, then ?” he said. - “I came here, doctor, to find you!” “T seo tnat, en at * 2 unlucky Job the day before yesterday |" “Was it? “Well, you know what I moan. I did my best, but it eouldn't be worked, yp ble If you could have kept the old fool away s little longer, [should havo managed very ; snd as to the horse, I'll swear m eek wouldn't have talled one didn’t carry out my half of the bargain. But we may | do business again; don’t be hard upon me.” ‘*I don't think [should care to be mixed upin any | more business with you," said the doctor, with a smile. | “But [know where to find youiflalter my mind. Now, | then, what else do you want? Ishould like toshut the | door.” “Truth is, doctor, I haven't a teather to fly with, | things have turned out so dreadful crooked! I'm des- pefate—that'’s what I arm |" | **So I should think, to come rambling round the wall | of the prison you broke out oi! Youu must be mad, I should think.” “Whiat! not so loud! I'm safe enough, though, Close to is safer thana long way off. But I'dlike to get | a distance away, ifI could. You'll help ma, won't you, | doctor?” a “I!—why on earth should I?” “There's no reason, of course. black mail.” “T should think not!” “Let me come in a moment and cit down, Some one might pass in the road and see us talking, and ’”’—— “ What is that tome? I've nothing to be afraid of." “No, no! Of course I know that. I thought you! might not like to have a rough chap like me seen hang- | ing about your place, that was all!”’ “ If [ wished to avoid it I should not allow it.” There was a moment's silence, and the man on the wrong side of the door glauced under his eyelids very , evilly at the other. “Well then, not to make a long tale of it,” he said, “will you help me with a pound ortwo? I know you} didn't do badly, even as things turned out. You've too) much wit for that. Help me on the rowd, and I'll be | your servant whensoever you think fit to raise your little finger.”’ “T’ll not turn my back on you altogether, as you are in want, but I've vory little to spare, Here areacouple of half-crowna, Take tiem, or leavethom. I'm going to shut the door.” Muttering, in a whining tone, that the doctor was | very hard on him, the sailor pocketed the money, and | shuffied away. On the other hand, Dr. Trueman closed | the dvor, and bolted it, amiling to himself as he did so. - I'm not trying for STEP II. Tre sailor had not gono more than a hundred yards | up the road, when he heard steps coming towards him, and a voice singing that he know, for he started and | stepped back into tue shadow of a high hedge, to let | tho singer pass, j “That's Dick again,” thought he; ‘and how merry | heis! I'd givo something it I knew what he’s about | down here! It’s nothing on the square, I'll take my oath of that. Where's he going now, I wonder? Why | shouldn’t I follow him?” | There soemed no reason why he should not do so if he thought fit, for Dick Devorel was absorbed in his own | musical performances, and carolling so loudly as to | quite drown any noise the other's footateps might mako. | Spicer, the escaped convict—for such, surely was the | seafaring person, wonderfully confusing as was his make-up of sandy beard and whiskers—turned about, and followed cautiously, and without getting into an dangerous proximity, kept the ex-dancing-master well in view. The first houae he stopped at was the doctor's, and marching boldly through the gate, which he leit to bang to noisily behind him, he knocked boldly at the | outer door. . After a few moments’ delay, the doctor came to open it, and stood as he had stood when spesking to Spicer, upon the threshold, “Dr. Trueman, I presume ?” the convict heard Dick gay. “That is my name.” “T have a bill of yours hore, sir; drawn on you by Samuel Benson, and endorsed to me.” “Will you step inside ?’ The door closed on Dick Deverel; and Spicer, in tho road outside, took off his waterproof hat, carefully pf) hia forehead with s colored pocket-handkerchief, and gave one long, low whistle. The road without was almost perfectly quiet, and he had, doubtless, heard clearly every word that had been uttered—every word, in fact, except the surname of the | person who according to Deverel's account, had passed | the bill to him. | Hoe could not quite imagine it possible that he had caught the name of Benson; and yet he could make no other out of the sound that had reached his ears. However, having heard so much, he hoped to hear | more, and, therefore, waited patiently. Happily, too, his endurance was not put to any severe test. He sheltered himself in the shadow of the yew tree before the doctors house, and saw something of the interview going on in thé doctor's parlor the ad- joining apartment. Hero he saw the doctor courteously motioning his old l friend to the soft arm-chair; and afterwards saw fim amilingly produce a bottle of wine, talking the while in what must have been, ho felt sure, if he could haye heard him, a conciliatory tone. | In response, Dick Deverel seemed to be smiling grim- | ly, and shaking his head, as if he would say, “You can’t ' get over me! You won't get over me, mind you, with ! any soft speeches or old port! I want my , and no- ng but my bill will satisfy met" The doctor, however, seemed to reason with him, and ut a cortain case plausibly; then Dick softened a ttle, and at Inst and ink and a long slip of paper were produced ( latter by Dick), and arkadei words «That's rather a different style of interview to that I had with him just now,” muttered Spicer, between his set teeth. ‘I'll have a finger in Dick's pie, though, or I'll die for it! Where's he going to now, 1 won- der?’ The next house Dick called at was about a quarter of a mile further on; and, from the sound o/ niusic within, and the lighted-up windows, it was evident that the persons in the house were giving a little party. Such proved to be the case. Spicer once more took up his positiou ina place where he could sately see what passed without being himself observed, and saw Dick knock and make an inquiry of a servant-girl who opened the door. After a short delay, the master ot the house, Good- enough, the miller, came to the door with a very per- turbed countenance, and pulling Dick on one side, said, in an audible whisper, ‘ Don’t speak loud, sir, if you please. I have some friends inside. Would you excuse me? Would you mind stepping this way?” They came toa standstill within a few feet of ee ambush, and this time he could overhear that passed, ‘‘As Mr. Benson was dead, I—I did not quite expect ” ——thwe miller stammered. “Did not quite expect what? You must have known you would have to pay the money !" “Yes, my dear sir ; certainly—of course! Only not hearing yesterday, when I had the sum ready prepared and waiting—but to-morrow, the first thing, by eleven o’clock, when I have had time to ride over and draw it out from the bank "’—— “Very well; Idon’t wish to put you to any inconve- nience, if it can be avoided. Eleven will suit me, here. A hundred and ten pounds, I think?” “Yes, At eleven, then,.’” “ Punctually.” “To the minute.” . They bade each other good night, and Deverel walked away, Spicer creeping out again to follow him, “A hundred and ten pounds!” he thought to him- self, rubbing bis hands with delight; “a—hundred— and—ten—pounds! Why, it’a coining money! It's like the goldfields of Australia when they wore first found out! How's he doit? It's like magic! It'a os if he'd got something about him like dog-stealere have! I must be in this, if I die for itt” Deverel was walking now at a brisk pace, and he had to hurry on to keep him insight. It had gotinto some thing like a chase, and was even more exciting than the generality of chases are. “He must have his pockets pretty well full as it is 1’ Spicer thought, Would it be worth while to go for it now, in this dark lane! I wonder whether he’s got any iron on him ?” But before the convict could quite screw his cour- age up to the sticking-place, Deverel had passed through the lane, and wad°outin the open felds beyond, once more in safety. It was a more difficult matter now to follow without being observed, and Spicer was compelled to increase the distance between himself and the man whose ae tions he was pluyingthe spy upon. Presently, though, he os pe enter another shaded road, leading to the . “ He's surely never going to work them there too?’ said Spicor, with a gasp. “ Why, this beats —— I ever read or heard ofout of a fairy book |” and he came on quickly, to see what would happen. The large trees growing by the roadside made the road itself almost pitch dark ; and when Spicerreached the corner he paused to Heten. He could hear nothing. Was the other waiting for him? This would be awkward. But no. Suddenly he caught sight of Deverel’s figure perched upon tie top of o high wall, which separated the grounds of the Challices’ house from the public high- way. He seemed to be listening ; but, after a brief pause, was apparently satisfied that he waa unobserved. Thea he let himself down gently on the other side. Spicer found an easy place for mounting, and STEP Ill. To say that the apy was completely bewildered by Deverel’s proceedings thus far would not be the least exaggeration ; but whatever there had been astonish- ing in his acta hitherto, his conduct from this got to besoutterly incomprehensible that there was no hope of a person who onl spew nt on unlikely prob- abilities keeping pace with . : Supposing he had also a claim on the owner of the Hall, as be had shown himself to upon the dwellers in other less pretentious dences, he would surely have approached in the ordinary way, by the front door. But, for some reason, best known to himself, he pre- ferred to creep into the po like a thief. “He can’t mean to 8 ed with himself. “If that wore so, I'd run , and share half of the profits, by following him. However, here goes! I'll risk it.” This amateur Red Indian business he had embarked in was rather more difficult to carry out now than it had been hitherto, for he had not only to hide himseltt from Deverel’s observation, but to take care he waa not seen by anyone prea 4 the house, as, in the <0 the more fact of , might get him into a world of troubl en S ‘ortune favored him, however, and he was able to » AD A le : creep slong in the shadows of the trees an al anything, surely ?”’ Ste being there, a trespasser,
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i 28 and do dge his old jail companion’s footsteps in por- fect safety. bi ite It would have seemed aa though this were not Dev- erel's first visit, 80 readily did he thread the intrica- cies of the garden, artfully laid out and studded with clumps of thick foliage, so jas to make it look much larger than it was ; though it was, in reality, by no means & sinull place. In a very short time, therefore, he had reached that part of the house to which he was directing hia steps, and which proved to be the exterior of a well-stoeked conservatory, rez, Radel of a brightly-lighted room, from which the sounds of dance music, and quick-mov- i feet reached them both. ut here the watcher of Deverel’s actions began to experience a new sensation. Hitherto he had found the chase a sh: one, and at‘timaoa rather trying for the breath ; and it had been exviting enough, but from this point it got to be not a little tedious. For one mortal hour, Deverel, having planted himself in a cor- ner where he was shaded from observation both within and without, remained, as iteoomed to the other per- fectly motionloss, Now and thon the rustle of dresses approached nearer to the end of the conservatory where he was hidden, and the sound of subdued voices with love-tones in them ; and once a couple opened the door and passing out, stood upon the gravel path in the moonlight, with- in half a dozen yards of the place where Spicer erouched among the bushesaud within thirty feet of the corner whore Deverel was hiding. But they did not remain long, rather to Spicer’s dis- intment, to whom thoir talk waaa pleasing variety, ter a monotonous three quarters of an hour's watel- . More than once he wished he had contented himself with what he had found out already of his old friend's mysterious movements. and given up the spy business for the night. Yet would that have been satisfactory? Up to now Deverel’s conduct had been puzzling enough, and yet he ooukl make something of it. But what on earth was he doing here. Another half-hour passed, and so motionless was the attitude that the ex-danoing-master maintained, that Spicer was half doubtful whethor ho was yet there, or had crept noiselesely away. At last ho begun to think that i; was perfectly impossible that he could enduro this purgatory any longer. But just at that identical moment a deep-drawn sighing breath from the object of his curiosity caused him to prick up his ears. Raising himself on his handsand knons that he might seo better, the spy craned his neck and strained his , and saw that Deverel in his turn was so eager to rve what was going on within the conservatory, that he had come half out of the shadow which had hid- den him. From this place of observation, Spicer could see also pag it was that had attracted the other's atten- on. A young pretty woman, but very pale, and somewhat over-languid in her movements, had entered the conser- yatory, and, passing through it, approached the door. Bhe paused, though, on her way, and placed upon a table her fan and gloves, anda small set of ivory tablets, on which, perhaps, she had been registering her dance engagements. a6 stood at the door quite motionless, and on hor upraised face tlle moonlight fell with a cold, gray tint, which made her statue-like, and truly beautiful to look upon. But scarcely had she been there more than a minute, when a tiny ripplo, as it were, passed over her features, then another and another, and the tears welled up into her eyes, and eenened like silver, then rolled slowly down her cheeka. As the tears fell, hor lips moved, and some words, not = to the most distant of the listenors, escaped em. But Juet then a voice within was hoard calling, “ Har- s that she dropped one of the articles she had put upou the table, on the floor. A moment siterwards, to hia intense amazement, lie saw Deverel dart through the open door into the cons” + | handed, THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER straight road's the best, after all, in ninetean cases out of twenty. I'll go the straight road, I'll strike while the fron’s hot.” STEP IV, Em Pemper had, meanwhilo, taken Deverel's supper in to him; and he was eating at leisure, intending, then to have a pipe and a glass of grog before going to the soft feather bed up-stairs, which had occupied the previous night, and had engaged for that night also. The ex-dancing-master partook of the meat before him with an evident relish, and as he held his glass of claret up to the light, that he might see its color was to his liking, he smiled gool-humoredly, Things were going well with him. The swindle he had engayed in was progressing more favorably than he had ever hoped, and it seemed so safe. There was no one in the world to claim a share in his riches, and he slapped hie pocket with an exulting air, and tossed off a glass of wine. Just then Em Pember came in to say that a person wanted to see him. Deverel paused in the act of filling his glass. He had made no secret of the fact that he had put up at the “ Blue Dragon” whilst conducting his business, which had taken him rather longer than he had at first ex- pected. On the contrary he had wished to appear as open and above-board as possible, lest any whisper of a suspicion might arise respecting his right to the docu- moeuts he was turning to such profitable account. Only, up to now, noone had sought him; and in- stinctively he felt that the person who asked for an interyiew was some one he did not care to ses. “Who is it, Miss Pember? Do you know him?’ “Inever saw him before, sir. He's a sailor, by his drous.”” “ Did he ask for me by name?" “No. He sald he would like to speak to the gentle- man in the parlor. He was coming in of his own accord, but I told him it wae private, anda gentleman was in here at supper.” “Tell him to come in.” ’ The sailor could scarcely have been said to wait for the invitation, for he had been standing on the mat while this conversation took place; and now he passed silently in, and remained silent till the door had closed behind the hostess’s back; then lifting his hat, stared into Deverel’s face. “Do you know me?’ asked Spicer. “T hardly should haye done if Ihad met you in the street. No; I shouldn't have recognized you, I think, with that beard.” “If you wouldn’t, Dick, I may feel pretty safe, then, for you've sharp eyes.” “You run great risks, don’t you, coming down to these parts, within a mile or two of the prison? You might meet some of tho warders. What brought you here?” “ Business! I wanted some money badly, and I fan- | cied I should got it here.” “ When we parted I thought you said you had some scheme on, and were going to make a lot of money? Hasn't it turned up trumps?” “Not exactly. I've ftried my hand at severa: things —it doesn’t matter what. I haven’t been in favor, somehow, and they’ve all fallen through. I’ve been afraid of showing about, too, till I got this rig. Once or twice I’ve boen meee landed. It’s a weary life skulking in the dark and hiding round corners, shak- ing at every sound, and thinking every foot‘all behind you means that you're run down,and next moment will be laid by the heels! I want to get out of it—yo abroad. Do you see?” “Why haven’t you pw ?” “Why? Betause I haven't bad the means, of course.” “But you had money ?”” " “That's all gone. You should have worked with ma, and we would have done well. Icould not work single- You're doing well 7’ “ Tolerably,” said Deverel, unmoved. Spicer grinned knowingly, and thrust his tongne into his cheek. “It was a bold stroke of yours, Dick. I | can hardly make out how you dared do it.” “I don’t understand,” “Don’t you? Come, come; between old pals there's no good in playing at cross purposes. Do you suppose vatory, make a scrambling rush at the thing the girl bu | | [ don’t know how —- working the place. here with dropped. which he could make out, as Deverel raised | old Benson’s bills it, was a Sos yee running out with it, kiss it in a kind of ecatasy again and again, Papparenl dlsregard of who might be obeccying nim eat apparen ‘ogard of who t observ: him he pushed his way btrriedly through the patie J, an. over the flower-beds, in the direction which he had come, Wondering more and moro, Spicer followed him as yas he could. He almost fancied at first that it waa to obtain ession ef some piece of Jowelry that had aye a verel to commit this wild act, although &man m ing the sums of money he appeared to make, would scarcely find it worth his while to risk his lib- erty for a trifling trinket. However, it was cloar enough now that no such motive had prompted him. The real object of Deverel’s visit was re ed by his act, and cer was stunned with amazement. He kept Deverel well in sight, aa they retraced their steps in the direction of East Haggleford, and at last reached the “‘ Blue Dragon.” It only wanted a few minutes of Em Pember’s nanal hour for closing ; and Spicer having, through the glass top of the door, watched his old friond y landed in the ‘lor, entered the bar, and ordered a glass of brandy to steady himself. i mgh,” he reflected, n 68 quite good eno “even a8 eae it goes : 1 it'll grow better, oe ough : have is that itl how ali By Boges out it $00 10 play round about it too long. The “With my bills, yon mean. Well, what of i?” “Your bills, since you’ve got’em. Do you suppose I don’t know how you got them ?’” “ How ?”" “You stole them !"* . Deverel was Just then drinking anotber glass of wine, and he sipped the contents deliberately, eyeing Spicer as he did so over the rim of the glass. nm he had finished he put it down, and said, “I thought you would come to that conclusion; but you are wrong.” And he rose to fill his pipe. r § ae J98 know why I know?” said Spicer, leaning ‘orward. “No,” returned Deverel, unconcernedly, and turning his back a little. “Shall I tell you ?” “Tf you like.” Deverel's back was quite turned now. “Let's look at pat face then,” said Spiwer, “and I will, That's it! know, because I saw Benson's he, in your hands the last time we were gether.” Deverel made no answer, and there was no change in his countenance, This pair ot 08, when they played the same 7 6, were a pretty match for other. For sonenhy pees Dick Deverel was the superior. Ps ‘ superiority now by the next move, and won game, “IT am not to answer you,” he said, * be cause Ido not know what you mean; but it seems to me more extraordinary that you should think I came by Benson’s bills dishonestly, and continue to trade on them under those circumstances, than that they should have come into the hands of my employers in a per fectly legitimate manner. You appear to have formed some idea that, because I, like yourself, have been im- prisoned for felony,and that I, unlike yourself, have been discharged from prison, you may use your knowl- edge of the discreditable portion of my past Ife as a threat to extort money fromine. In this, let me tell you, you are wholly mfstiken. You know nothing of the creditable portion of my past lite, and so can know nething of the way in which Benson's bills happen to be temporarily in my possession. Ti you have nothing more to Buy, I will wish you good night!” Whilst he spoke, Spicer stared; and, when he ceased speaking, his jaws lenythened considerably, Rascal as he was,and used to rascals’ lies, he could form no opinion as to the truth or falsehood of the bold assertion his old friend had just made, It was very strange if it were true; but it miyht be true, and, if so, he had played a false card. To repair the past, the best way, a8 it seemed to him, was to drop the matter for the present where it was. The good old proverb which telis us that “The least said is soonest mended,” com- mended itself to him as pecuiiarly applicable to hig case, and he rose from the chair he had ken uninvited, to go. * You mistake me altogether, Deverel,” hesaid, “I thought we could have worked together still, and might have been of mutual aid to each other. I didn't come here to get black-mail of yon. I'll go now.” 5 “That will be best, as I said when last we mot. Our pathes in life lie widely apart now, and we shall done good by keeping company longer, Good night!'’ Without making any further remark, Spicer passed out through the bar into the village street. But, arrived here, and in the shadow of the trees, he stumped his feet, and ground his teeth, and swore many oathe. “The world will get on well without me, that is clear enough, This is the second time to-night I've come begging, and gone away empty-handed, or nearly as bad, when my share was fairly half the plunder! Never mind, Mr. Dick Deverel? 1'll be quits with you yet! You'll live to repent you made such a fool of yourself ou have t» night !”’ ‘he last of Miss Pember's customers was leaving the house at that minute—no other, indeed, than Mr. Rook, the popular London hair-dresser ; and gone ap- proximating to a love-passage occurred upon the door “Pp between, this intruder upon poor Pidgeon’s righte and privileges and the fair hostess of the “Blue Dragon."’ Not wishing to be in the way, Spicer drew back more into the shade, supposing that the tender leave-taking would only occupy a minute or so, For nearly ten minutes, however, did it endure; and Spicer had, per- force, to remain a captive, or betray the fact that he had been watching them from tho first. When, at length, Mr. Rook had really said good night, and gone his wey Spicer breathed asigh of relict, and was about to go his way also—thatis to say, goin search of a bed at the navvy’s beer-house, which was still open; but, looking up at the “ Blue Dragon,’ a light in one of the upper rooms attracted his curiosity and arrested his progress. This waa probably the room in which Deverel slept, Almost close to it spread out one of the thick branches of the elm against the trunk of which he had beon lean- ing, and the trunk wus easy enough to climb, he blind of the window was botdrtwn down. Ho could see into the room. In a moment he had scrambled up, and, safe concealed by the thick foliage around him, was able to see what was passing within, with little fear of being detected, What he witnessed brought his night's spy work toe /| satisfactory conclusion, He saw Deverel o; his eeciigegeyes upon the table, and produce from it a small roll of notes, He saw him also draw forth and count over some twenty gold pieces, and then, having made a packet of the money, raise @ plank in the floor near to the fire-place, 4 stow it carefully away, replacing the plank again, and leaving the hearth-rug over it as it was before. He saw Deverel smile when he had done this, and that his ips moved as thou he were talking to himeelf, Of course the could hear no words, bui this did pot rex Lim much, He was content with what he had seen, and slowly descended from his perch to the ground, * * * * * * e\ The words which Deverel had uttered in bis sollloquy were these; ‘To-morrow I must bring wil t fo an end. With the reault of to-morrow's work I will rest satisfied, and run no more rixks. If T stop where I shall be then thera cannot be much danger, for Spicer can do nothing, a8 he dare not show his face. To-morrow, then, I make my last ventures. In the morning I will go for the miller’s money, In the atternoon I will present the fifteen hun- dred pound bill.” STEP y. Mane, CHALICE, some herd gsm sho showed herself at the front of the ho’ ire fully from the window, saw her daughter and her future son-in-law approaching, and began to smile and nod, The object of the visit was to apprise mamma of the that the wedding-day had been decided on forthwi should she not bide forward some weighty reason nemen: t yhioh ekeans “reason to urge, an the conversation w' ) ex! eect 2 ginemn an! Harriet wag of aextremy to upon the terrace, and & grave ‘
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‘Mr, Benson.” passed over Charles Challice’s features, and his manner grew anxious, The old lady noticed this directly. During the time be waa in her company her eyes were rarely off him. “You have something to say to we, Clarles?” she waid ; s ~Yos, aunt. I have a matter I rather wished to speak bo you about—it concerns your sun.” “My pour boy who—is dead {’’ “Yes.” Perfect silence for a moment or two followed this: Bhe fixed her eyes upon him, aa she mizkt have done npon some dreaded apectra. breathless and trembling. The disgraceful secret she had so long striven so hard to keep to herself wus then kuown at lust, and he was going— What was he going to do? Had he not awhile ago been speakiny of his marriage with her daughter as an She waited for the words, event certain to oceur within a brief period ? What was | whe to understand ? Whilst she thus waited in a painful suspense inde- scribable, Chullice was slowly unfolding a newspaper he | had taken from his pocket, und he now proceeded to read an extract from it. * This is a aporting paper,” he said—* not of the high” est claas, a4 you will see. The other day, at Doncaster, ag you know, some villain male an abortive attempt to wound, or drug, my horse, and some other miscroant put about 4 false report that I had: been privy to this scheme. The extract lam going to read you refers to the matter. It says — “We feel quite certain, if proper inquiries are made into the recent attwupted ontrage in Mr, Challice’s stables, it will at once be proved that he was not in the slightest degree to blame for what took place, and that every precaution which could be adopted by him in reserving the safety of Flash o’ Lightning had been en. A report which has been maliciously circulated to the effect that Mr. Challice is in ombarrassed cir- camstances, we are in a position to state is perfectly false. Mr. Churles Challice must not be confounded with Mr. John Challice, iate of a cavalry regiment, and well, if, perhaps, not very favorably, known upon the tarf. Mr. John Challice, it was said at the time when his horse, Kite, came in a bad third for the Chester Cup, knew more about flying kites than running them. We believe we should not be far wrong in saying that not a tew of the kites in question are to be found still dang- ling disconsolately upon the hands of the misguided, hook-nosed gentlemen who fancied them at the time they were first flown. @ suppose they would will- pa part with them, now considerably under oost price, if anyone wanted to buy.” When he ceased reading, Challice folded up the paper, and sat 5s moment, silently looking at his aunt. “What do you say to that? Isitnotinfamous? But! I will make the fellow eat hia words!” “What would you do?”’ “Make him publish an apology, and state publicly | that every word he said about Jack is false!’ “That every word is false?’ she replied, in a trem- ulous voice. “Yes!” he cried, springing to his feet, and stridin wrathfully to and tro. “He shall eat his words! 1 have a good mind to horsewhip him for that matter! Perhape I shall! eur family in that way ?”’ * He—he says that a lot of my boy’s bills are still un- paid, does he not?” “Tf he said only ono, it would be enough—it would be equally a lie! y, you know yourseli—or, at least, [ tail think you know—that be never drew bills in his life! He was going a little fast at one time, and he eame to me to ask me, indeed, to lend him my name, aod he swore tome then most solemnly that he had never set his hand to paper. I refused to help him in that way. I have always since felt gladI did so. He ht have died in debt, and plunged youinto diffi- which it would have crippled your income to y. No; I knew that Jack was a man of honor. Be ypot a Challice ? There never yet has been a breath oqeleat & Challice’s good name, and never shall be while L strength to stay itl I'll give that scribbling y-liner fellow the awfullest thrashing he ever in his life, and make him apologize as well!” He buttoned his coat across his breast with determ- fnation as he spoke ; and the old lady, fixing a shrink- ing gaze upon ebrank within herself, as it wero, Presently, ahe summoned up conrage to beg of him #0 moderate hia wrath ; to do nothing rashly ; to take Jegal advice before acting in the matter, “Rah!” he cried, passiunately; “ do you auppose, for al our sakes, for my sake, for poor Jack's, for hia sister's, for yours, Ican wit down quietly when this wrong has been done? Lnpossible!” He left shortly afterwards; and the. unhappy mother, sick with fear, watched him depart, then tottered up to her room, She had not been here yery long when Martha found |° her. On the old servant's features were signs of some- thing new to be frightaned at. She was very palo also, and with gut diffeulty controlled her feelings. What is it?’ Mrs, Challice gasped. “There is a «Not"— : . * Be calm, my dear—be calm, whatever you do, and your wits about you.” “Tt ig someone about the bill?” “He anid he ealled en business relating to the late How dare he speak of any member of | Was | his flushed fuce and knitted brows, | ?HE DOOM OF THR DANCTNG-MASTER, ] THE NINTH FIGURE. EE ey ere | TX WHICH THE WOLF CRIES ‘‘ WOL?.” Whilst the two women had, in turns, been thus ap- ! pealing to him, Deverel had stood silently by, a prey © a score of conflicting emotions. At length, however, one seemed to get the mastery | BSruer l.—THE MAN WHO WAS SENT AWAY. and he spoke—his eyes, when be did #o, being fixed | ~ TI.—THE MAN WHO SHOWED FIGHT. upon the ground. al “Thadno “ TI.—THE MAN WHO RAN AWAY. | “You altogether mistake mo,” he said. | idea that your mother was in such straitened circum- | etanoes, I had heard of your marriage, and I under « stand now the sacrifioee you are making. Ihave fol- 4 lowed you, and watched you these three days past. I was in the wood yesterday, and on the lawn lest night when you came to the window.” She started, and her cheeks flushed suddenly crim. “ IV.—THS MAN WHO HUNG ON BEHIND. STEP I. Tue oki laiy found Deverel standing at the open | window, looking ont upon the heroes | garden, down | son. | an avenue of which a width of the skirt of Harriet’s| «Why have you done this? What is your motive? | drese was visible, She had taken out a book, and was! I do not understand.” But as she spoke, she laid her | sitting there reading under the trees, 3 | hand upon his arm, and looked full into his face. His foot was across the window, which opened; For a moment he shook like « leaf, and his features down to the ground, and he was gazing eagerly in the | quivered painfully. She was astonished, and waited | direction the girl had taken, buc, hearing the room for him to break the silence, door close, he turned quickly round. The old lady| May I speak to you for a moment?” heseid, with an | silently motioned to him to be seated, and sank into a | effort. | chair herself, trembling visibly. The old lady was half-eitting, half-lying upon the After a moment's pause, he opened the conversation. | sofa, and did not seem conscious of what was asKsing “In the course of business,”’ he said, “I took anum-| around her. It was notatime to consider abstruse ~ | ber of bills of exchanye and promissory notes from the questions of propriety. She felt thet she must hear | late Samuel Benson, and among others, one drawn by | what he lad to suy, and followed him to the window. | your son, and acceyited by Mr. Charles Challice, of The “Have you ever seen me before ?’’ he asked, abruptly, | Grange, Haggleford. Ifind that Mr, Charles Challice * You,” sho said, aiter fixing a steady gaze upon him, does not now live here, and Ihave learnt, with regret, | “I know you pertectly now; but the last time we met that your son is dead.” I did not at the moment recognize you. You were the He paused for a moment, and she mechanically said, | dancing-master at the school at Chiswick,’ “Yos, my son is dead.” “Yes. Do you understand me now ?” “T should have —_ this billin the usual way “No, How can 1?’ to Mr Challice,’’ he continued, ** had not Mr. Benson in- “Did you never hear why I left the achool ft” formed me that hitherto you had renewed it, and paid “ Never ?” | the interest yourself. JI, therefore, before presenting it ** Did you hear nothing of it ?—ask nothing?’ to Mr Challice, thought I would call upon you about “Twos exceedingly sorry. We were all very sorry, the matter.” We liked you much, One of the governesses said you “Yon—you are going to present the bill 7” ~you—that is” “Tpropose doing so thia afternoon. I should say “ Baid that I had been turned away ?” | first, however, that of course 1 cannot hold over this “Yes; that was what she said. I did not like te | matter, as Mr. Benson seems to have done. The only | repeat it.” | transactions I care to entertain are strictly commercial “Itis quite true. But did she not say why ?”’ ones.” “ She did not.” “Ye-os,” she gasped. His looks dropped again to the ground, and he seem- | “And, to tell the truth, there is something about | ed to be wrestling with himself. At this minute the | this that I do not at all care for. | with me at once, Mre. Challice ? {prepared ?”” . It was painfal to nee the poor lady's distress whilst | he was speaking. Her lips quivered, but she could | inake no reply. “In that case,” he went on, “I will bring the bill here—I have it now at the inn where I have put up— | instead of taking it on to the Hall.” With an almost superhuman effort she got back her Can you settle old lady's voice was heard within, asking in querulous I presume you are tones for Harriet and the gentleman, Devyerel now spoke rapidly. “It is as well, perhaps, you should not learn now, ss you did not know then. I owe you my life—that is enough reason for my doing what I am about to do. I owe you my life, for you saved me when we met last from the hands of the mob, who would, like enough, have drowned me, else, like a rat, In return I will destroy this miserable piece of paper, which is now speech, happily in my possession ; or, better still, I will bring ee You—you must not do that,sir, For heaven's sake, | it here to you. There will be an end then to your spare me! mother 8 sufferings on that account: there will be no / “Spare yon, madam! I do not understand.” “* Yes—yes, you do |—you must! Benson must have | will be free then. and—I ll go and fetch it. | told you the secret I have struggled so long tokeep—| He entered the room quickly, and caught up his hat, You—you must not reveal it now! What do you waut?/} and without heeding a renewed prayer {rom the old further occasion for the sacrifice you would make. You {how much? I will give all I have in the world |!” lady that he would give more time, pussed on to the | She spoke in a wildly excited, breathless way, and | passage door. wrung her hands and sobbed. Here he paused, however. ‘You will explain what I have said ;—that I will right this cruel wrong that has 80 long gre ou—that henceforth the persecution will cease, In half an hour, at the latest, I will return.” Ho passed out then, and next moment was wal es away. Harriet watched him until he turned the corner of the road, and then ran to her mother’s side, and flung her arms round her, and burst into tears. “ What is it all?’ the old lady asked, “Why are you pining: | t—what dreadful thing is going to happen now | “Wothing! nothing! Cheer up,mammal!l Iam cry- ing because I am so happy !"” \ « Happy ti paid the mother, with a bewildered look, “ a py y ° * Did you not hear what the man said ?’" * Yes ; I hoard,” ; ' “In half an hour's time he is to bring the bill and we are to destroy it. In half an hour he return.” The old lady shook her head. Py “ He will never retarn |" she said. She spoke the truth there. He never did, ee The spectacle of her misery was a dreadful one, and, rogue 48 he was, he was both shocked and amazed. “ Pray calm yourself,” he said; “I’m not unreason- able. What do you mean oF all you have in the | world? The amount of the bill is only fifteen hun- | dred pounds, You are well off ; you might raise the me possible! I have tried everywhere— “No, no! it isim C) ve Ww) heavily in debt, mortgaged everything! My son di and Tpaia the money! I had: reached my last resources when the existence of this bill first came to my knowl- edge. It has been with the utmost difficulty—you can- \not think with what echeming, and contriving, and et snd screwing sometimes, I have managed to eep up the payment of the interest that man demand- ed. But I can do that still. I—I will promise to do so, but you must not ex: me. You must hold over. | You will —say you = | She came tottering towards him, and sank upon | her knees, catching at his hands. She was, in truth, | halfcrazy. The violent agitation was too much for her | weak frame and overworked brain to bear. | It was, in truth, a pitiable sight—this grovelling m 4 | Just then a shadow fell between the two and the light, and Harriet stood upon the threshold of the open window. In another moment she had run for- ward, and raised her mother from the ground. “Mammai—mamma!" she cried; “what are you doing? Who is this man? What does all this mean ?” Ls Hush, dear |—hush !"" the mother cried, in an agony of fear, ‘ Do not offend this bhp opens He represents Mr. Benson. Hoe has brought that bill; he wanted it paid at once, but be will hold over. Beg of him to do so—not to ruin and disgrace us |" ‘ Harrict turned on Deverel with flashing eyes, “Why do you persecute us in this way? You know what power you have. Can you not bs merciful? You are killing her, Cannot you see that?” “No, nol” the old lady brokein. “ This gentleman took the bill from Mr. Benson, and he will be reasona ble, he says. He will let me go on paying the interest for a Mttle while—only a little while, till your marriage with Mr. Challice, and then I am sure this can be ar- . You will have money et your command, You oan help me.” ‘ “What do you say, sir? Harriet aaked, turning again on ge tree “You may, perhaps, understand easily the kind of sontract that fs to be entered into. If you STEP UO. Bur Harriet could not believe there would be ee slip between the cup and the lip in this case; and u she knew for a positive fact that there was no cause for rapture, her younger heart would joo. She had lately been sad enough. There might be no farther necessity for giving upsomuch. Things might happen P very differently now to what threatened only a short hour ago, Halt-an-Lour was not a long while to wait. Before a quarter of an hour had passed away, how- ever, her brief dream of happiness received a sudden shock, Captain Everest’s servant brought a letter for her, to which there was no answer. The man wos in & , “ hurry, he told Martha, for he had to catch the train, sone Poy. + give the letter into her young mistress’s own Harriet was on the terrace in the garden when Martha came to her. She came out and took the letter from vot Rao age a ten pane ton a ae. Bhe ro og hoy 4 ‘seen it before in pened | nN firet letter she had ever . It me thac; it, won- — 4s Pa Os ar) he iB a oP DF et. WT
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8 RS ~My dearest,—for you are my deareat, and you must | let me cail chance ot doing 80 again ""—— She gave o gasp, and pressed her hand upon her | heart. Vora moment the words upon the paper seemed | to swim confusedly before her eyes. Shecould make Botuing of their meaning. H “T havo been thinking over what passed between us,” the letter went om, “when I met you the other day in , the shrubbery, and of several things you then said, and | atother timea. You are making—or you think you are, Making—a sacrifice in marrying Challico, and if would | be mean of me to pretend I do not know ono reason | why you would not have carried out that arrangement Were there not other reasons why it should be carried out. ‘ “T should think it very rarely happens that a man is Placed in so awkward a position as that I find myselfin ust now, when I have to search for as many reasons as cau possibly find to prove to yon that you would be — in breaking with Charles, and thinking any moro ine. “I described to you briefly when I saw you last that my circumstances wore in a very unsatisfactory state. I have since then gone more seriously into the ques- tion, and, I am sorry to say, find my situation to bo even worse than I fancied. “I have, therefore, determined to sell out at once, and pay my debts as far asI can, and set to work to make money enough to satisfy the remainder ay soon aa possible. What Iam to set to work at I am not at the present moment quite sure of, for mine, as you may suppose, has been, at best, but an idlé, useless Hife, and real work has formed no part of it. However, this is a mere detail, and not worth bothering you about. I only wish to show you, my dear little girl, what an utterly ineligible man I am, and one whom no oung lady im your position ought for a moment to ean of. “On the other hand, I know Charles Challice loves you as muchas amancan love &® woman—not in my way, perhaps, but in an upright, honest fashion of his own; und I believe, if you were to jilt him now, it would be so heavy a blow forthe poor fellow that he would be completely crushed byit. But then I am a@ure you are good and reasonable. “For my part, 1 must clear out of this with as little delay as may be. Iam here in a falao position—a bog- gar on horseback—nothing elae—who could not very easily pay his valet's wages, if asked for them too sud- denly. Ihave made an excuse, and leave here to-day, very shortly after you yet this letter, Ishould dearly have liked to say good-bye to you, but I am too great a coward, and dared not do s0 by word of mouth. I don't think I could have kept my wise resolutions hat Tdone so. “Tsay good-bye this way, then—and you must for- give me. We will meet again & year or two hence, haps ; and then I believe you will think that what Pao to-day was beat done. Bless you, dearest, once again—dearest / “Auyngp Everest.” The half-hour appointed for Deveral’s return passed into an hour, and yet there were no signs of him. The time had passed somewhat quicker to the daughter, her mind being occupied with her sorrow ; but the mother had waited silently, likes statue, look- ing at the face of the clock, monotonously ticking off the leaden moments. All at once, Harriet waa aroused by old Martha call- ing to her in a frightened voice. * Miss Harriet, come—come quickly! —I can’t make her speak |’ The girl sprang from the ground, where sho had been sitting on the grass, and followed, with a scared face, | into the room where she had left her mother awhile 0. 2 e Will you stay with her, miss, while I run for tho doctor? Isn't it dreadful? What shall we do?” No efforta that they could make to arouse her had any effect. The old woman, suddenly becoming o shapeless kind of wreck of what she had been only a little while ago, sat huddled up, nodding her head, und mouthing dreadfully. { No worda containing any gleam of sense or meaning | escaped her lips. Her pale gray eyes stared blankly | into spate. Her brain had been too severely tried for | some time past. t * * * * * * “Something had given way," Martha said the doctor hhad told her. Your mother STEP UI. Ma, Sprcen passed a sleeplesa night after hia inter- view with Deverel at the beer-shop near the railway- atation, at which, with some trouble, he was able to procure a bed ™ THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER.Y However, as he plodded in gloomy silence along a] opening a clasp-knife, knelt down, snd slipped the Grange, where he was going to seek the interview with Mrs. Challice, which has already been described. Deverel would, perhaps, have passed him by, but he blocked the path. “Dick,” he said, “I’ve been waiting for you a yood- ish long while.” “ Indeed {"" “Well, yes. You didn't suppose that you had put me off that way, did you ?” “I didn’t think anything more about it, Spicer,’’ the other replied. “I said plainly enough that we couldn't work toyethber—I couldn't get om with you. What more do you want?” “ Well, now I'll speak to you falr,"’ said Spicer, in a low voice, but with his eyes fixed upon Deverel’s with 8 curious expression ; *‘ 1 want my share.” “Your share ?’”’ “+ Yea.” “ What's that ?” “Half what your making—not a penny less. I'd have gone much cheaper lust night, if you'd thought it worth your while to make abargain; but you didu’t, you know. You drove me off then. Now my terms are higher.”’ “ But suppose I refuse?” “You won't act wisely if you do that,"’ said Spicer, with a meaning smile. ‘ You'll regret it.” “Well, that’s to be seen. I do retuse, anyhow |” “You do?" “ Yos,”” As he spoke, Deverel fixed his eyes sternly upon the other, and held them so a full minute without flinchiny. Spicer shufiied uneasily. ’ “ Let me pasa,” said Deverel; and he raised his hand to wave him onone side. As though he had been adog, spoken to by its master, Spicer slank out of the puath- way, and silently let his old friend move forward. But when Deverel’s back was turned towards him he made a sudden spring, and caught him round the throat in the fashion that the gurroter seizes upon his victim. Unluckily for himself, however, and luckily tor Dick Deverel, he had not well calculated hia distance in making the spring, and had not made good his hold, so that they fell together heavily to the ground, A short, flerce struggleensued. Spicer was the heay- jest and strongest man, but Dick the most wiry and active. Inless than two minutes Dick was the upper- most. Then, panting for breath, he said, as he wrenched with both hands at the other's handkerchief, so that his face grew more purple and swollen: ‘Look here; I’ve a good mind to choke the li:e clean out of you, and I would now if it were worth while. Let the thing end hero, will you, and let me go my way? I tell you I will not be partuers with you, and you haveno right to ask for a share of my earnings; and I owe you no debt of gratitude, for it was your cowardice and treachery that got me into a cell in the same jail as yourself. Now [spare your life thistime. Get up and go; only understand, once for all, don’t cross my path or inter- fore with mie again, or it will be the worse for you!" Spicer got up and shook himself, and looked crest- fallen and sheepish enough. “Very woll,” he said; * you'll regret this, that’s all! You'll regret it when it’s too late! The game you're playing, Dick, is quite a poor one to the one you might play if you'd got the cue I could give you, Never mind! You threw me over. You'll live to repent it.” “Very probably. Will you go, I say ?” “Oh, yes; I'm going.” And so, without any furthers effort at conciliation, Spicer took himself off, turned his head when he had reached the brow of the hill, and seeing that Dick still stood whera he had left him, and gazing atter 1, he turned again, and walked quietly away. When he was out ot sight, Dick turned quietly towards The Grange, and, as he walked along, pondered upon the probable meaning of some of the words the other had spoken. “The game I'm playingis a poor one, compared to that which I might play if I had got the cue he could ive me! What does he mean by that? Bah !—nothing. What could he mean? It’s all empty talk!” He walked along for some time, muttering to himself end did not pause until he was within hulfa dozen yards of The Grange gates; but here he stupped to breathe and to compose himeelf. “This ia the end of my gaine,” he muttered, “ Poor asit has been, according to Spicer’s way of looking st it, it haa been good enough for me. Here I play my last card, and then I have done with it for good. Let those who like to do so, go and take it from whore L leave off |’ j With these words, he approached the door, and knocked. : * * 6 . * +. * Wo are familiar with the result of the interview. We know how the love he bore for Harriet Challice came between him and whatever schemes he might have Had anyone ‘boon there to see ay would have found | been hatching. We have seen, cold, calculating scamp him, by the hour at a stretch, lying on his back, as he was, how his deep passion for her overcame all staring fixedly at a chequered pattern the moonlight | other feclings within his breast, and that under its in- threw upon the ceiling over his head, Mr, Spicer was plotting and planning. He saw his way dimly to a very good thing, but only dimly as yet. Partly next day he set off tor the miller’s house, and hung about in the neighborhood, waiting for his old jail | ecorapanion toappear. But he waited in vain, ior Dey- rel had accidentally met with the miller by the way, and their business had been satisfactorily transacted at « roadside public-house. Therefore, after hanging about, and fretting and fuming for more than a aetpe of hours, Spicer the mortification of seeing the miller return alone, and concluded that either the had been paid or was not going to be paid that aay, amy longer. 4 + fluence, he was as weak and will-less as a baby. Within an hour of the time whwn he crossed th threshold of Mrs, Challice’s house, he was hurrying with all the speed of which he was capable to Miss Em Pember's inn, where, in a place of aalety, beneath the floor of his bedroom, he had concealed the bills and money, including the forged bill which had been the cause of so much misery so far—which was destined to cause ter m: still. P g bythe bar without any question, Deverel hurried up stairs, entered his bedroom, turning the key in the lock when he had done so. It waa twilight without, and in the room it waa dark, but he knew in either caso, it was no good eelng peeks eee hand upon the place of. 008 had chosen to hide his ou so this once, as I shall never have & | pathway in the wood, which led back to the high street | blade within the cracks to turn up the loose piece of | of East Haggleford, he met Deverel on hia way to The | plank. When this was done, he thrust his hand into the hole, and felt for the pocket-book. Noxt moment his face would have formed a study some painters would have given u good round sum ta get a glimpse of. His eyes dilated widely, his jaw fell. Lurge drops of | perspiration burst out upon his forehead, ‘Then he gave « kind of cry, which was moro like that an overtaxed and suffering dumb beast might have made, and he threw his hands up to his head. In an instant he was wildly searching his pockets This done, he tell again upon his knees, and plunged his hand into the hole, widely spreading out bis fingers, but finding nothing. Again he got up, and witu the aid ofa box of matches on the mantelpiece, struck a light, and made s closer examinution o; the plaice. Nothing was there. The hiding-place was empty. He had been robbed, With features white and ghastly, his Lair tumbled wildly about, panting anit breat.less, he rushed down stairs to the bar, where Em Pember gave a cry of ter- ror at the sight of him. ; “What in the name cf goodness has happened ?” she exclaimed. He pressed his hanlupon his heart, but for a mo- ment he could not speak. “Give him a drop of brandy,” s man said, who was sitting at the bar; and when it was handed to him, Deverel gulped down the raw spirits. “Some one has been up-stairs !’’ he said. “My money has been stolen! More than four hundre! pounds—all gone |"’ 1 “ Four hundred pounds!” echoed the man, in aston- ishment. “Yes, yes !’’ continued Deverel. “Over four hundred in notes and gold, besides billa—moust valuable bills— worth several times thatamount. But I will have it back! I will hold you responsible. I—1’’—— “Calm yourself a little,” said the man, approaching nearer, and staring hard at Deverel. “T can’t sea how ever you could have been robbed in my house,” cried Miss Pember, ‘“ We don’t harbor rob- bers here—at least, when we know ’em, Mind what you are talking about, sir, if you please. Whore did you leave your money ?”” x “T left it up-stairs. I put it im a hole under the hearth-rug. It was all safe there a couple of hours or -r ago. I left it there, you know, betore I went out ast.’” “Tf you left it there, it must be there now. There's not been a soul in the place except this gentleman and the sailor, who had a glasa of rum, and wanted change tor asovereign. Besides, you know him ”—— core mean the man who called here for me Last night ?” be es he aaked for you again.” “ {" “He said you had appointed to meet him hero, and he would wait for you; but afterwards he went away, and I think he said he knew where you were, and would meet you on the road.” Deverel gave a groan. He saw it all now, and wanted no further explanation. It was Spicer who had robbed him; and by this time had, no doubt, made good his retreat with four hundred pounds, a pocket full of bills of exchange and promissory notes ; and, above all, the forged note, of which, happily, he did not know the value, But he knew enough, however. All would be turned to profitable account; and who was to prevent him working the sie gid mine, as Deverel had done? Deverel, perhaps. Well, that was not feasible. It was a ticklish business, even when he had undis- puted possession of the paper. But how could he dare to dispute another's right to it? No; the game was up. He had played it boldly, but towhat end? All that remained of bis ill-gotten gains was something less than five pounds, now jingling in his trousers’ pockets. He could have cried with beh Mounwhile, the man in the bur had been staring at him very hard, indeed. “That was a queer thing for you to do, to hide your money under the floor,” he said. ‘It don’t sound quite commercial, you know. Why didn’t you give it to the landlady, here, to lock up for you ?” * Because I chose to do what 1 did do!” replied Dew erel, fiercely. “ That has been my loss, hasn't it—not yours? What has it got todo with you?” “I'm not so sure it hasn’t something to do with me, Richard Deverel |’ the other said, “I’ma little sur prised to hear yon have the handling of such large sums of money, and I hope you came by them in an honest manner, that’s all, Pray, have you reported yourself lately ?’ For the first time, the ex-dancing master and ex-jail bird had a good look at his questioner, for until now he was naturally so excited by the loss he had sustained, that all other snbjects for alarm had clean gone out of his head. He now daw that he had got todo with no leas a person than the head warder, whom he had ea- countered at the gipsy’a camp that night when Spicer broke loose from prison. Like a flash of lightning the thought came to Deverel that the place where he just then found himself, might, before many minutes had passed over his head, turn out a good deal too hot to hold him, and he made a step towards the door. “Yea, I have reported myself,” said he. “No one has aright to interfere with me; I'm doing no harm.” “All the better for you, then,” retorted the warder, sullenly. “ It’s not, rightly speaking, my office to mix myself up in the business, 80 you've nothing to fear from me, but I shouldn’ + fom up a hue and cry if I waa you. Ishouldn’t cry wolf, you know!” ; : au he —— hp y ~ aoe § outside the house that tn'it-entd, iadldod thas Weamp a)
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on Teason why he should stay any longer; indeed, it waa | THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER. On they ran, therefore, silently, side by side for the now 4 question whether he had money enough to pay | next two hundred yards, his bill—certainly not money tea ‘dye spare, When he was outside the house, Em Pember turned eagerly to the warder, and asked what was the mean- ing of the words he had just used. “He's a ticket-of-leave man,” briefly. “Good gracious ! mercy me !”’ exclaimed Em Pember. “I might have been murdered ih my bed! But, sir, you don't know what he has been doing! He has swindled the whole town! Why, he—he’’—— «“ What?" “ He has even awindled me!” “Out of your bill, do you mean?’ “Out of @ bill.” And then she told the warder what she knew of Mr. Deverel’s recent transactions, and how he had been said the warder, . going about with the late Mr. Benson's bills, “And me to trust and believe him, like a greenhorn that I was! From what Iknew of him, I might have seen that he was really nothing but an imposter. I wish they had drowned him when they had him in the mill-stream last time--that I do!” “Oh, he was ducked, was he? I think I recollect hearing something of that. Wasn't it when the steeple- ehases were run?’ Se ad “ Wasn't that when Benson was here last?” “Yes; when Mr. Benson was here last. He diced here, you know.” okt and this fellow were here at the same e?” “Yes ; I did not know there was any connection be- tween them, though.” **No more there was. This fellow must have stolen Benson's pocket-book, somehow.” “Tobesure! And to think that never entered mine or anyene else’s head! Do you believe it true he has really been robbed?” “TI don’tknow. It’s justlikely. But what were you saying about aseafaring man? I want to know every particular ; that’s why I came here,in fact. I rather think I know something of a party of that kind who has been skulking round about the neightorhcod for the last three or four days.”’ STEP IV. Ir would be difficult to describe our luckless rogue's feelings as he walked quickly down the village High Btreet, on his way to the railway station. It was his intention to make inquiries there about Spicer, and to follow in pursuit if he could see any kind of chance of catching the thiet. Besides, without that, what could he now do better than run away himself, whilst he was quite safe? Had he not lost all? What good could there possibly be in hanging about round the scene of his disaster? He entered the railway station, and mado inquiries of the clerk, Yes, there had been a seafaring man who had gone by the third-class train to London, which had started about half an hour ago. y When was the next train? In half an hour's time there was the express, Would that reach London much after the other? It would overtake it on the way. Deverel at once resolved to go. He could not havea ticket just yet. He must wait another ten minutes. To pass the time away, therefore, he strolled out into the High Street audlounged about round the door, busily occupied with his own gloomy thoughts. From the jivedeny') n= tags of the blank future in store for him, he was su ly aroused by the loud talking of some men approaching, and he heard his name men- tioned. The lamps were lighted outside the station, and their light fell upon the face of the head warder, and upon the regulation uniform of two local Policemen. He did not Li, oy any broader hint of what might be instore for him, but turned tail and ran for it. He dived through the station, crossed the line, and clambered up the embankment on the other side. Here his pursuers—for they had come after him, sure enough—saw him, and gave chase. The embankment was some fifteen feet high, and very steep; but our rogue was as nimble as a cat. With as- sonishing activity, therefore, he began to scramble up- wards, Here and there the slender stem of a bush or shrub f4ve him something to catch at rather than catch hold of; and holes, which the martins had made in building eir nests, served as stepping-stones; but when the others would haye followed, everything seemed to crumble and give way under their weight, and a kind of overhanging cornice surmounting the whole came crashing down with the warder and five others, bruising them badly. This incident gave the fugitive a fresh start, and he ed his way violently through the thicket growing Up above, tearing himself loose from the tough brambles of the blackberries, which seemed almost as though they were in league with his pursuers, and Were striving, too, to take him prisoner. And now he;was in the open country, and out in the moonlight, eanwhile, three out of the party giving three iad mastered the steep clime, broken, re way ie a vigor- ous view bath icket, and now sighted him w: g' 00. The sound lent him fresh strength. He was at all times an excellent runner, and had more than once be- “fore been compelled to take leg-bail, so he dashed on with all his. might across a turnip-field, then over @ a) f the thet o e mangotd mies Tein it ihe J hedge, and cried of “Thntsccumi, who had cleared the sSNA nt cae oe ridge with, and odnié oan as i ad Thor Then one said, “I wonder if he can jump at all.” “Why ?’ asked the other. “Well, there’s a stiffish brook on ahead.” “ Where ?” “ Right in front. Can't you see the moonlight on the water ?” | a Deuce take it, yes! and I'm not half surel can clear that !’’ Deverel was not, seemingly, frightened by the ob- stacle. He summoned all his strength, aod went at it | like the shot trom a gun, landing safe and sound on the | other side, His pursuers weren't quite so lucky. One cleared it all right, with just a trifling stumble; but the other flopped in about halfa yard short of the opposite bank, and the successful jumper turned to help his friend ; out of the difficulty. Deverel here rashly pulled up and looked round, thinking he had beaten them both, but a moment after- wards they were on theirlegs again. Was he never go- ing to distance them? They were two raw-boned, bull- necked fellows, with a tremendous lot of stay in them yet; and, what was worse, the others were also gaining on him from aside direction. He began to quake, in spite of all his pluck. Just at that instant, though far away, a sight ted him which gave him fresh heart. Far away in the dis- tance he could see a bright red light, and heard the rat- tle of the express coming towards him. What if he doubled on the course he had taken, and run for the station? After all, he might get away by the train. Resolved to try thie, he collected all his energy, and put on a final spurt. The train came shrieking on, and he flew once more across the water with the speed of a deer. “Oh, hang it all!” cried the two late pursuers, in the same breath. ‘It can’t be done! fiend |" The bell was ringing now at the station. It would be a near trick at He did not pause to think of this, but dashed on. One more flying leap cleared the palings by the platform, but the train was on the move. Not very fast as yet, but gliding steadily on. He did | not hesitate a moment, but rushed after it, and grasped at a piece of ironwork on the last carriage. eaven only could tell how he managed to keep his hold, and clamber and clutch; but at length he had contrived to fix himself on some rickety kind of perch, and was | borne away into the darkness, The officials at the station shouted loudly, but he took no heed; and the warder and one ortwo othera looked on aghast. Thus, then, for the second time, the ex-dancing-mas- ter lett East Haggleford. What fatality could possibly bring him there again? What power urged the unfor- tunate wretch to come back once more, and meet the cruel death in store for him ? . What pewer but that one which has brought about so much mischief since the world began—the power of love! It was this man’s love for a woman who had never loved him, and never would, that led to the cruol death I have to tell you of in a coming chapter of this story, The man's a perfect ee for it, even if Dick managed todo the , THE TENTH FIGURE. IN WHICH BLAIR’S MAN TURNS UP, Srer I.—PIDGEON IN GRIEF. * TI.—PIDGEON IN EXTREEMB. IT].—THE CAPTAIX LAUGHS. « IV.—THE CAPTAIN BREAKS UP, STEP I. Sometimes little people as well as great people may have their troubles, particularly love troubles. Mr. ie. a among others, had his,and found them very h to bear, Barber's business in East Haggleford was juet about as bad as it could be—at least, according to Mr. Pidgeon’s experience of it. There had actually been a third barber's ei started, the proprietor of which did things in a bly slap-dash style, and was much prone by the lowest class of operatives, whom the readful railway had brought down ,to the place in swarms. Rook, at the first opposition shop, strange to say, did not seem at all put out by the new-comer's eae though he charged only a half-penny, whilst Rook charged a penny for a shave. And presently it leaked out somehow that Rook had putthe man in as aspec., and that he meant to buy up poor Pidgeon, or beat him out of the field altogether. When Pidgeon, heard this, he swore a big oath. Among several bad habits Pidgeon had contracted lately, swearing must be numbered as one, Hippling in the morning another, and betting on races a third There was a time when the idea of a professional bet- ting man settling down to live in East Haggleford would have created a small panic, but the new line, had connected the once happy village with a sporting town, round which were innumerable trainers’ stables; and sporting gentry, more or less respectable, were Dow continually to be found on tlie line, at the station, and hanging about the taverns in East Haggleford, makin; rivate inquiries about the four-legged inmates 0: harles Chaltice’s stables, of which his now famous Derby crack was one concerni which they were particularly anxious to obtain a little information. At a new red brick tavern, with great windows which were for some time the wo! be- holders, and which rejoiced in the name of the * Rall eT "+ > Oooo ee SN NS SO a mr way Arms,"many tight-legged tlemen were ini the habit of meeting toyether; ak hort Mr. Pidgeo got into the practice of taking a nip or two in the moning, and another nip or two latem on, and a jot of nips et night, and of occasionally venturing a shilling or two on some “ event.” Meanwhile, a willing-minded but lucklese led wae left in charge of the shop, and maimed and mangled ivan A uniortunates who trusted themselves into his aDas. This bright specimen, locally famous as Foxey, by reason of his sillinéss and his sandy hair, soon ac- quired for Pidgeon s shop the nickname of * the sham- bles,” about which the East Haggleford wags made very merry. “Td rather not try it,” one #aid; “I haven't insured my nose.” And another said, * That was his case too ; and, besides, he had bought halt a dozen new pockot- handkerchiefs, and didn't like the idea of wasetin, them.” Both good pest jokes in their way, bu extremely hurtful to our Pidgeon’s commercial pros- pecta. Trade, therefore, got slowly, but surely, slacker and slacker ; and Foxey not having any customers to huck about,and finding time hang heavy on his hands, would yo out for halt an hour or 80, and have # game with he other boys, during which diversion the shop took care of itsel!, and at last rome one came in, made up a neat little packet of razors, fancy soaps, and other things, and walked off with them. One day, about noon, Mr. Pidgeon got out of bed with a splitting headache (he had had many nips over night), and found ruin staring him in the face. Not literally, it is true; for what was staring him in the face from the looking-glass was, in reality,a wild and haggard Pidgeon, with a tumbled head of hair and bloodshot eyes. But, financially, Pidgeon was in an awtul bad way, and he could not see how he was to get out of his diffi- culties, unless he got a heap of luck somehow, and how was that to be? There was only way in the world —the right horse must come in first, and that was all. Mr. Pidgeon felt in his pocket and found a suspicious halfpenny and an unlikely-looking hali-crown, which was all he had in the world,and he was a week behind with his rent, Putting on hia clothes with no little he deacended slowly to the shop, clutc head with one hand, With a disial sigh, he looked into the till, thinking it just possible, but not at all probable, that there might be something there ; but, with tbe exception of a few old bread crumbs, it was quite empty. Foxey —, kept the bread and cheese he brought from ome in it till dinner-time came, “A till ought to be a save place, it’s true,” said Mr. Pidgeon, making the most doletul of jokes ; * but, han, it all, not that kind of safe, Where's that young rasc. ‘ot to, I wonder?’ he continued, aiter a while. “ 1 won- er what he has taken this morning? Whatever he has taken, he has taken it with him in his pocket, Perhaps he’s done a fine stroke of business, and he's bolted with six beards and half a dozen heads of hair in his pecket. I wouldn't anewer for him! How ill and bad I feel, to be sure! I wish he wouldn't carry the money in his pocket! Ido so hate hot coppers |’ A knock on the counter just behind him made him turn his head, It was the postman with a letter, and n and trouble, @ bie aching twopence to pay. “What!"’ said Pidgeon; “ what's that for? Is it some new kind of regulation ” ‘ “ Not that I know of,” said the postman. ‘ Can’t you seo that there’s no stamp. I say, though, I can’t take this half crown |" “Isn't ita good’un? It looks allright!” “T can’t take it, anyhow |" “I muet owe you the twopence till to-morrow, then,” said Pidgeon, seating himself, with a sigh ; and, when ne postman had gone, he listlessly turned over the ¥ . “Dash it!" he exclaimed, ‘ Why, here's the stamp on the other side; he’s used it as a wafer! Hallo, I say { Stop! I've been cheated, By the way, though, 1 did not mr forgot. Now, let’s seo what Tommy Potte has got to say tor himself |’ | Tommy Potts was a es ent, who betted, on commission, and who had been intrusted with some gold coins belonging to our barber, with elaborate in- structions ax to the way they were to be laid out. This letter, doubtless, contained information respect- ing the way that these orders had been executed ; and Mr. Pidgeon eagerly cpenes it, taking care, though, not to injure the stamp; but just as he was going to read, another knock came on the counter. “Hallo, Pidgeon !” cried the familiar voice. “How goes it this morning?” . “Not very bright,” the barber answered. “I went it a little last night, didn't 1?” “You went it a goodish bit, it seems to me!” the other replied ; “stood treat all round! There's a rare score against you this morning |” vi it remember anything. I must have been goin, “g “You remember giving me the odds against Grase- hopper, Ihope? Anyhow, if you didn’t book it, I did; ap mO% took care to take my pound, and spend it like aman!” “ Did I take your money ?” “ Rather!” “And spent it 7” « oe & perfect gentleman! You stood glasses “It ie me, Chouser,” said Pidgeon, with a half groan, ‘I really must have been going it last night!” “Well, you , 1 won’t deceive you. It ain’tevery beginner would have the pluck to give forty toone in sOvS & hose like the AYRES: a to one in sove! 1 if be ware to win |” ao ‘4 ort ; "eter eg Xa te uf 5 ; wy 4 \ Py oe oe = sig aaa ata to
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“ Well, I hope he will.” < “Do you? Oh,ab! to be sure—yes—I see—because, then, I shall pay you.” And he fella reckoning the number of shaves it would take to realize that amount. “ Well, there’s nothing like going it!" said Chouser, P with an approving smile; “ that’s what I be myself, f Have you got to-duy’s paper by any chance? I want to I see what's the betting about Daddy Long-legs. That's pe your tip for the Shuttle-and-Cut Handicap, isn’t it?’ , “Well, yes, it is,’’ replied the barber, cautiously, for his head was aching so badly, hia worda could not * follow his ideas with the rapidity he would have de- aired, ‘There ought to be a paper, certainly; and it’s ® most extraordinary thing that a person can’t lie abed three or four hours later than usual without injuring | his business. Where the deuce has that boy put the pers? Where has he got to himself?" ‘ “The last [ see of hii,’ said Mr. Chouser, “he was | playing hi-«py-hi with some other boys round the corner.’ ; “Oh, he was, was he?" cried Pidgeon, with consider- .Sble indignation. “I'll hi-spy his eye for him when I lay my hand on him, so I don’t deceive youl” t was not, however, by any méans an easy matter to eatch hold of Foxey under such circumstances; 80, secing him — in the distance, Mr. Pidgeon artfully concealed himself behind the door, armed with an umbrella; but as itso happened that Mrs. Pegg, from next door, chanced, by some fatality, to enter Piageon’s shop @ moment in advance of the boy, who politely stepped back to give way to her, the result was scarcely What could have been desired. STEP I. Tuu just indignation of Mrs. Pegg having been some- what allaye only by the most profuse and abject apologies on Pidgeon’s part, she retired, without, how- ever, making the purchase (a pair of side-combs) she had intended to make, and Pidgeon, bctengs from his — saw her enter the opposition shop of the hated This almost finished poor Pidgeon, and, in a fit of impotent rage, he struck out right and le:t among his fancy soaps and scent-bottles, and danced upon the Pee, fragments scattered on the floor. »4 But his cup of bitterness was not oven then quite a filled to the brim, for while he was yet panting trom his exertions, and ben | his aching head in his hands, Mr. Rook himself walked into the shop. The bold effrontery, as it seemed to Pidgeon, of this Pproceediny quite took his breath away. He gasped, but eould not speak. “You've got a boy called Foxey, I think?’ } “Well ?* said Pidgeon, with a supreme éffort. q “Well | it is not well,” retorted Rook. ** He’s been ‘wy f ee Ea Ss =_ 2 2 . . kk ee — 4 SESS Ih 2 eut tiore, in the street, throwiug stones, and he's broke my window. Ishall have to bind him over to keep the psace, and you tvo, sir; for I daresay it was Me t | soaateslacde livid with rage, but st li f “Mel” echoe 4 wi ut strugg’ tobecalm. “Keep the peace yourself, if it's any Sod he to you, and don’t come bull here! I'm not well to-day. I’ve no change now. I'll send over to you.” “I've no doubt of that,” replied Mr. Rook, blandly; % “and, talking of payments, I believe you have not paid 4 your rent |” i “What the deuce has that to do with you? I think your remark is very impertinent!” fi “ Pertinent, my dear sir! if Imay venture on a cor- ,' rection.” Bd ““Impertinent, I ssid! You're not my landlord's agent |” ¢ “ Well, not exactly 1” : 7 ) “ Very well, then ; what businoss is it of yours ?” our landlord’s agené, for the very simple reason that ‘m your landlord. I’ if you care hence, “ae eyes over them. “On!’’ said Mr. Pidgeon, with a faoe as long asa Vi * Yea ; I'll trouble you either to stump up or stump ie out!” replied Rook ; “ otherwiss to cut your stick. f And the fact is, Mr. Pidgeon, I sliould prefer the latter; for, you see, there is really no room for so many » barbers’ shops in this town ; aud as, of course, I am b going to stop, you’re, consequently, going to go.” bs Mr. Pidgeon’s long pent-up rage boiled over, and he at stamped up and down theshop. He would, pometay, = have flown at Rook and tried to take his life, but Rook . was a big, strong man, and Pidgeon was not, so he only mr | hie threatened. “I'm going to go, am I?’ said he, “ Thisis a sort of Gunpowder Plot, is it? and you're a sort of Guy Fawkes ? But look here, Mr. what’s your name”—— “You'll find my name on this paper, if you look at it. Everything is Mute right and proper. I take we imiuediate oe } “I don't care for your name, sir, nor for you : either |” retorted Pidgeon, somewhat vaguely. ‘“Do you think I don’t see through you, though, and un- derstand all your re I'll tell you what it is, too! It’s Em Pember t I'll tell you why you want me gone— because Istand between you and Ein Pember ED a iene \ I'm sorry for you! ae 3 you ~ ha! Ex- _ ouse my . It’s &matter bale ndifference 4 to me, but she really don’t admire you hn | os Rang af Sours amt hdphe THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER, “Oh, certainly,” replied Mr. Rook; “have your laugh out, by all means. Never mind about Ming Pember, though, just now. You pay me my rent— that’s what you've gut todo! I told you to out your stick, but perlaps you won't very long have any sticks | to cut, for { shail send a broker in in the course of an hour or so, | with respect to Miss Pember’s love for you—ho, ho! | Excuse me, Good morning |” | Mr, Pidgeon sank back into the shaving-chair, and | groaned. “He'll sell me up to a dead certainty, and marry Em Pember, unless Daddy Long-legs wins the Shutile-and-Out Handicap to-day, but tuat’s acer- | tainty also. Where's Tom Potts’ letter got to, I won- | der ?’’ But while he was yot searching for it, the brokers ar- rived. STEP II, Cartarx Atrrep Everest rode up to town in » arst- class smoking carriage, and read the newspaper assidu- ously. What he was reading about he had not the romotest notion, but he still read on mechanically, his thoughts being far away from the subject immediately before his eyes. At last, with a weary sigh, he let the paper fall, and stared out of window upon the flat, marshy country through which the train was passing. Here, at rare intervals, were dotted about solitary cottages of a poor, mean kind; and at the door of ona of them, near the line, a gaunt, raw-boned woman stood, staring blankly at the passing train. Down a long, dismal road, which ran straight into the horizon, and stopped short there, a boy was patiently waiting until | a pig he had to drive home would make its mind up which way he would go; and he appeured to have any amount of time upon his hands, and to be quite at the pig's service—a happy state of things, not unusual in pig-driving, as pig-drivers will tell you. little farther on, a man with a basket on his arm sat on the top of a five-barred gate, and awang his leg. Perhaps he had been sent out marketing, and some- body, a long way off, was getting violently impatient for his return, but he was in no hurry himself; and | past, he! long after the express had sped schreechin, probably still sat there, gazing stolidly at nothing, and swinging his leg in the same methodical manner he | was doing it then. Everest laughed a short, abrupt laugh, and leant out of the window to have a good look at the man on the gate, and kept his eyes fixed upon him until he dwin- , led down to a tiny speck in the far distance. “How odd that I should be flying along in this mighty hurry!” he said, aloud. “What on earth have I got to hurry about ?” he prospect before the captain was certainly a very unpromising one. A man does not generally begin lite | agiin very hopefully at the age of thirty. Before that, he is supposed to have shaken down into some kind of position. He ought even to be getting on a little. As Captain Everest leant back once more on bis soft- cushioned seat, he laughed again. “That fellow on the gate was denced funny,” said Everest. He had the carriage all to himself, and could talk aloud if it pleased him so todo. “ That boy with the Pig, too; and the woman at the cottage door. How do such people exist? What a life! — yet, after all, one that can be endured, and it is better than mine, Some of these fossils attain a great age and pass away gently, andall is forgotten about them but the one fact of their great age, which is set forth proudly on a tombstone, if their relations oan afford one. + I have no relations, and probably shall not have atombstone. I have nobody to love me, except one who must not; and no one to cry about me when Iam dead, except one, who will moat likely, forget me by then, and not cry very much, if at all. y life has been a very great mistake, like lots of other people's lives, I dare say. I my oe bave done something once. I don’t quite see what Ican do now—but smoke |” He drew his cigar-case from his pocket—a very costly kind of luxury, richly ornament with a gold crest, and he amiled bitterly as he gazed upon it. “A man must be acontemptible fool to buy any- thing of this kind, and carry it about with him,” he said. ‘And this crest, too, is surely the most contemp- tible part of the whole business! What earthly right have I toacrest of any kind? Noneatall! What am I? WhoamtI? An officer anda gentleman! That's an empty kind of phrase, sumetimes. There are s0 many shady gentlemen, and one can’t live and foed oneself upon the mere fact of being a gentleman, with- out extrancous help. Halloa! Confound it!” This exclamation was made to himself and under his breath, and was called forth by the entrance of another man into the carriage. There were two reasons why this circumstance put our captain out. One being, that he would have traveled alone; the other that the intruder was about the last person in the world he would have chosen to trayel lte-a-tele with. The intruder was a red-faced, rather dissipated look- ing man, carefully dressed, and wearing a showy ring upon the little finger of either hand, anda showy pin in his scarf. He wore lavender kid gloves, which fitted him tightly and were perfectly clean; he carried a alim cane with a silver top, and tapped his polished leather boot with it. He was about forty, perhaps, and appeared older, even, wher you looked at him very closely; otherwise, his clean-shaven cheeks and carefully cut hair gave him & somewhat juvenile appearance. He was an inch or two over the regulation measurement round the waist, per- haps; but to remedy this he wore a bat, which could almost be called Ys of stays, for it was stiffened by numerous whale! , and artistically papas. - The title of this person was Sir Roland Wagstaffe, but he was familiarly known as Sir Roly, or Roly Wag. He was the eighth baronet of that and the seven pre- Andas to Miss Pember—ha, ha |—I say, | See Sans peice eas innientimamipeasiceaomiaciene apearon cena coypoaam ong ee aonaeaeeenereaes punsaenapsooweesenpoanpsnoeenaneprepesne aereeerreneqersooeemeape-oceantroaOan REED ceding baronets had all, more or leas, distinguished themselves in some way. ; Sir Roland had not shone in any , however— rather the contrary—and that was why Captain Ever est drew back involuntarily as he entered, and dropped | his eyes. To avoid looking at Sir tet b Everest then busied | himself im very carefully cutting off the end of his | cigar and moistening the outer leaf with his lips, and, | whilst so occupied, thought to himself, “ Confound the | fellow, why could not he have got into some other car- | riage? He must have seen me here, and knew thut 1 would not speak to him.” There were a good many men about town who did | not particularly care to speak to Bir Roland, in spite of | his fine old title and his careful get up. There was not | exactly anything known against Sir Roly, but he was generally put down as a bad lot, and it must be owned that he looked liké a bad lot. Mr. Dod’s volume was judiciously silent reapecti Sir Koly's private address, and he was equally reticen upon the subject himself, On his card was the name of 4 second-rate club, and he told people to address let- ters to him at a hotel in Covent Garden, where, at long intervals, he stayed for a night. y It was not distinctly known whether or not he was | married, but a report to that effect was current, and that he had run away from his wife, or she from him— people are very careless in stating which way it isin these cases, and don’t soem to think it much matters. And some had circulated a report that she was employ- edas a ballet-girl in one of the large theaters. Sir | Roly never mentioned the subject, and Mr. Dod’s vol- ume was silent upon that point also, As to the means by which the eighth baronet earned | his living—for he had not a farthing’s-worth of landed property, save in that sense where “landed” means stolen—it was said that he hung about the clubs, and | pioked up green bg gentlemen with expectations, whom the West End money-lenders wished to deal with, and the money-lenders paid Sir Roly a handsome | commission for these little services. Once he was pointed out as “ Blair's man.” | Blair was a tremendous scoundrel, who had been the ruin, it was said, of scores upon seores of young men, but he was an extremely pleasant person to speak to. He was of no particular profession, and called himself a private gentleman. He owned cne or two horses that ran with varying success for small races, and he thus made acquaintance .with many gentlemen upon the racé-course, Whom, otherwise, he could neyer have got to speak to in his life. | Men like Everest, belonging to a good set, looked with | @shudder on such men as Blair aud Blair's man, and, as a rule, would not speak to them for the world. Just now, though, our Captain iound himself forced, by circumstances over which he had no control, to speak to Sir Roly, aud to thank him for his proffered | kindness. The fact was, he had cut off the end of his | cigar, and prepared it for li, hting 5 but, on opening his little silver match-box, he found it to be empty. This was extremely awkward. He could not very well put his cigar Bway again, because he knew Sir | Roly was smokiug himself, and had his eyes fixed upon him. Whilst he was ee geieyn Makara he should do, Sir Roly helped him out of that difficulty, and plunged him into another, by addressing him by name, and saying : « Allow me, Captain Everest, to give you a light.” Everest took the proffered fusee, and bowed stiffly. He was in a great rage with himself to think he had ;done an act which thus placed him in a position in | which he could be spoken to. He thought, too, that the way he had been addressed was a t piece of im- pertinence, and would have liked to ‘ecw t Roly out of the carriage window. As this, however, would certainly have been going to con he lit his cigar in silence, and puffed at it yi- cioualy. “It’s awkward to be without matches,” said Sir tues © * Yes,” replied the Captain. “T always carry some,” said Sir Roly, The other mate no remark, “Tgaw you at Doncaster, I think,” persisted Sir Roly, “Splendid horeo that of Challioe' “Splendid horse that o: joe's, I suppose you backed it heavily 7?” “TI did not bet at all.” “Indeed ! I should have thought, as a friend of Cap- tain Challice’s, you would have becked it through thiok “IL. don’t bet.” This was said in a tone of voice which was clearly meant to imply that Sir Roly’s conversation was net dé sired; and,as he spoke, to make the thing plainer, ad took up his newspaper again, and began to read. The Baronet smiled slightly, and looked out of the window. He did not appear to be any way abashed by this shut up. He certainly did not seem ‘at all orannoyed. Most likely he had been extingu. in this way tolerably often before. 4 But at the end of ten minute's silence, Everest was much annoyed with himself, thinking, perhaps, with some reason, that his own behavior was not a little snobbish, and wondering what on eirth he, a beggared man, had got to be so proud and particular about. He ‘wap fast making up his mind to open the conver sation afresh on his own part, when the train at a station on the outskirts of London, and Sir } got out without come towards him again. back in his seat, and went on Se Everest flung himsel: “The fellow’s a oad, that’s true enough,” he thought; | “and most likely a‘ leg’ too; but, good graci why should I be so precious squeamish ? I can’ x in company I have k Taha: b ve able to my 00) "take Tight have on civil tothe fellow. He’ w otvil to mae, und be could Bot if % i | | : at i. zt ih ° af 4 ¥
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THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER. —— ——————$—— pare robbed m>—I've nothing worth taking to. be rob- “Del of." This was not literally the truth, it may here be ob- _perved; for, a3 @ good many people ia the worldmight “have thought, the captain's gold watch, and his cigar- case, and ten golden soversisns in his walstcoat pocket, would have been very well worth. haying—would, in- deed, have been avery good haul. They would, for instance, have been quite enough to haye tempted the late Mr. Muller, who, with a lesser temptation, perhaps, thought it worth while to kill a man, and risk bein, hanyved; but, as we have seen, our Captain had been ac- custome: to despise trifles. He could not as yet wholly realize what it waa to be without ashilling in his pocket. He made up his mind he was ruined, of course, and a beggar; but meanwhile he was smoking a fourpenny cigar, and it did not oc- cur to him that there was anything at all extravagant ‘in this proceeding STEP IV. Tua Captain dined at his club when he arrived in town, and hal a bottle of good wine with his dinner, Then he sauntered into the smoking-room, ard threw himself into an arm-chair. A friend of his was lolling in another arm-chair at some little distance. No ono else was In the room. The two men nodded, but did not speak. After, however, the Captain had passed @ short time in silence, he said, “Is it true,Courtney, you were hit rather hard over the cup the other day.” “ Sightly 1’ replied his friend. “ Dropped five thou.!"" and he went on smoking, Everest doing the same. “That won't ruin youl” he seid, presently. ‘ You'll get it all back on tho next event.” “ Daresay.” “T say, old fellow,” the Captain continued, “sup- posing you were really ruined—lost every ativerin the world—what would you do now ?”* “ Blow my brains out |” * Nonsense |’” “Why #0? What would be the good of living with- out movey? You see, I'vo been used to havin, large sums sll my life, and to spend alot of monoy, and I could notlive without it. Yes, I should blow my brains out—lI’ve settled that long ago!” “Ah!” said Everest, “that never occurred tome! I dare say you're right, though. Good-night I’ And he got up and went away. “ Good-night 1!" said his friend, languidly, and closed his eyes and fell asleop. Everest went home to his chambers in Jormyn street, sent Mr. Johnson, his trusty valet, to bed, and went to bed himself, dreaming that he had gone to the diggings, and found an enormous nugget, which he had under his pillow. When ‘he woke up, he instantly felt under his pillow for the nugget, and found it was not there, then he yawned and rang for his bath. He dress- ed yery leisurely, and drank a split soda and brandy, and smoked a cigarette, and walked round his rooms thoughtfully, with his handa plunged deep into the pockets of his dreasing-gown. Both rooms were furnished with excellent taste, and there were some pictures, bronzes, and bits of old shina, which would have made any amateur enthusi- astic; but thero was no crowding and jumbling up of costly odds and ends. There were flowers in the win- dows, there was a piano, and there were plenty of books. There was a tale, toa, of some sort attached to almost every article the room contained; and as Everest slowly made the round, the things seemed dumbly to ap’ tohim. He sighed, and sat down to breakfast. t was not the breakfast of a ruined man, nor did he eat ag if his mind were ill at ease. : “ Give me & glass of curacos, Johnson, if you please,” he said, when he had done, and sipped the liqueur leisurely. “Johnson,” he said, presently, ‘do I owe much money ?”’ , “Pretty good lot, sir, I think,” said Mr. Johnson, im- perturbably. “How much would you say, now?” bu Far ag I know, sir,” replied Mr. Johnson, after seem- ing to calculate for a moment, “about: five thousand . five hundred.” s ' er As much as that?” “Quite as much as that—as far as I know.” | Everest lit a cigar. “Far as you know is probably the full extent, John- gon. By the way, how much do I owe you?” ' “That's a trifle, sir; and there’s not tho least hurry for that, I’m sure.” , “How much is it, though ?”" ) “Well, fifty pound, sir—fifty pound and a few shil- :: ad “T ought not to have got into arrears like that. I'll “let you have a check for it to-day.” “Thank you, sir!’’ Mr. Johnson still lingered in the room, and played swith the knives and forks at a side-table, evinently . hoping to be spoken to again. “Haye he got any other place in your eye, Johnson, if I have to give you up ?” Everest asked, aiter a pause. “Bog pardon, sir!” “If we have to part company, I mean. I don’t think ® Ishall be able to keep you any longer. . .**I'm sorry to hear that, sir, I’m sure. I havealways * done iny best to afford you satisfaction, sir, I trust,’” * Certainly, you have. It is not because I complain ~ of you—I have nothing to complain of. Only I can’t afford to keep a valet at all. Iam going to sell my com- mission, and sell my furniture, and probably go ~ abroad.” © Mr. Johnson went on playing with the knives and \ forks at the aibeca turning something over in his, Beet pohiphiéd:' and’ advanced a'atep oF two. ; ge oa aoa ie ie iret pats : ‘ howr price on it, I'd like to doadeal with you, if wecan agree. The things is nico enough, but wouldn't fetch much scattered. l'vea bit of money put by I've no | immediate use for.” | Captain Everest took his cigar out of hia mouth, and stared harder at Mr. Johnson than that gentloman had : often been stared at before his life through. “Go to the deuce, you impertinent vagabond!’ said Iiverest; and Mr. Jonson discreetly leit the room—by the door, The OCuptain had received that morning a letter from his agont, saying that, according to his instructions, his comrission had been sold, and the amount paid in to the Captain's credit at Glyn’s, The net sum world, of course, by no means reach the figure at which Mr, Johnson had estimated the Captain’s debts; and the sale of the furniture, pictures, &c., unless they fetched fancy prices, was not likely to make up the deficiency. However, Everest, not being a broker ora broker's man, did not quite know this aa yet, but was in any case resolyed, somehow or other—the how he was rather vague about—to meet his difficulties, and pay | everybody off at twenty shillings in the pound, | Duriny the day he went round to the tradesmen he owed money to, and asked them to send in their bills | immediately. Most of these bills arrived by the first | post next morning. Some were delivered by hand that very day. ape the next three days the Captain sent his brougham and horses to Tattersall’s, and called in | & broker to value his goods. The broker's aeprgmetoent of these differed so greatly | from the value the Captain himself placed on them, | that the latter was at first inclined tosend him about his business, and put them into an suctioncer’s hands, He hesitated about this, however, thinking every- body in all the world would kuow about him and his affairs. Upon reflection, though, he thought he would send for another broker, and hear his valuation. But the second broker was worse than the first, and he fancied he saw Mr. Johnson chuckling covertly. He, therefore, paid Mr. Johnson his arrears of wages, and gave him a certain equivalent instead of the usual notice; and the valet retired from the scene, wishing his late master better luck. “Thank you, Johnson.” replied Captain Everest, In about a fortnight everything was sold off at a much lower price than the Captain could at first have believed possible, but it was most plausibly explained that the particular time of the year when the sale was effected was really and truly the very worst time that could have been chosen to gell such property. With what he got, however, he paid, was able to clear out, and that, a‘ter all, was all he wanted to do. He paid everybody the money he owed them, the lsst amount being his tailor, as it happened. This worthy person—his name was Gosling, and his place of business *n Old Bond Street—seemed very much surprised at the receipt of the Captain’s check, and turned it over and over in his hand. “Is not that all right ?’’ Everest asked, uneasily. He was afraid he had made some mistake, and left out a unit, which would have been very awkward indeed in the present state of his finances. « Oh, its all right enough, Captain,” Mr. Gosling said ; “but—but—you’re going to leave off dealing with me ; I'm deuced sorry for that.” “The fact is,” said the Captain, “I’m hard up and A must ”"—— “You are hard up, and you pay me!” gasped Gosling. “T never heard of such a thing in my life before |" Everest laughed. “I'm cleaned out,” he said. “I was thinking of going abroad, and starting fair. “Don’t talk like that, sir; you take my breath away. Would you mind stepping into the little back room there 7” The captain followed him. “You won't be offended at what I'm going to say, Captain, will you ?” “Not atall. Say on.” Mr. Sone fidgetted uneasily for a moment or two, snd scratohed the back of his head, as rustica are wont to do when some one in broadcloth, with a tall hat on, talks tothem. Thon going at it with a kind of rush he said, “ Well, look here, sir? There's not the least oc- easion to settle up this little account for the next six months, it it will be any convenience to you to let it stand over ; or suppose you'd like it settled, if anything in the shape of a little bill, or say your I. O. U for a hundred ?” “No, no, Gosling, thank you!’ replied the Captain, shaking his hand warmly. “ You're a deuced good fel- low, Gosling, upon my soul you are; but I won't do it. I don’t want that.” “Well, you know best, sir. Some other time, per- haps. You'll have your clothes of me, sir, won t you? It's always been a ploasure to me to dress you. me of my customers ain't worth dressing—they’re not, sir, really. I don’t mean that their money isn’t good enough, but they're no credit to one, You'd fit a walking-stick with as much pleemuses “I don’t want any new clothes just at present, thank you, Gosling,’’ said the Captain, smiling. “But you'll come to me when you do, pay or no pay. Do you promise ?” " “Yes, [promise!" And with this Everest took his departure, and walked very slowly down Bond Street into Piccadilly, with a serious face, All this was rather harder to bear, it seemed to him, than the real, actual poverty would be when he came to experience it some- where a long way off, where no one knew him. “Yes,” said Everest to himself, “I must get away—I muss got out of this. Iwantto be moved right off directly. “I can't stand this slow process—it's too pain- full T's to-morrow morning! I have five pounds will take me—out of the country, any- a a Se ee eee ok yu of the Bir Roly eS Fa nbs Sane Involuntarily, on reach: Piccadilly, he had crossed the road, and began to at down St. James's street, towards his club, and it was not until he reached it, and looking up at the bow-window, saw three or four men there whom he knew well, and who nodded to him, that he suddenly remembered he ought not to continue his club life any longer, and that every shilling of his last Ave pounds might be very. necessary to him pres- ently. He therefore nodded hastily, and passed on. Making his way along Pall Mall, towards the Strand, where, in Northumberland street, a week previously, he had hired a modest lodging to accommodate him whilst he remained in London, he was almost knocked down and run over by a hansom dashing round the cor- ner of Waterloo Place unexpectedly upon him. Starting back justin time to save himeelf from the wheels, he struck the back of bis head against the lamp- post, knocking hia hat off, and he stood ball bewildere«l, to find himself a moment afterwards supported by the Wagstafle whom he had anub so decisively in the train about a fortnight be- fore, on his way home from Haggleford. However much the Baronet might have felt Byerest'’s uncourteonus treatment of him at the time, he showed not the slighteat trace of vexation now. “My dear sir, I trust you’re not hurt? Then, ad- dressing the careless driver, who was making off as {net ashe could: ‘ You scoundrel! you ought to be pulled down off your seat, and thrashed within an inch of your life! I'd have those fellows hanged, if I'd my way," be continued to Everest. ‘Leanon me, Never mind the fools staring. You'll be all right in amoment. Ire joice Lcame up, or the neat moment you'd have boas under the wheels.” ——— THE ELEVENTH FIGURE. IN WHICH 4 WILD BEAST ITE, Srer I.—stam. “ T1.—sLAm’s DAUGHTER, “ TII.—prasr. « TV.—»srre. STEP I. Feewia still somewhat confused from the shock he had received, Everest could not decide right off whether this were or were not the truth, but took Roly’s state- ment for granted, and thanked kim, The recollection that he had bean rude towards the man, and rather re pented ofit afterwards, inclined him also to a show of gratitude, which was, perhaps, more than the occasion warranted. No man in the world better knew how to take advan- tage of such # circumstance than the Baronet; and, di- rectly afterwards, he had locked hisarm more seourely in that of his companion, and was leading him along, A cab was close at hand, which Sir Roly hailed, and hali-helped half-thrust him into it. “You must have a glass of brandy; that will set yeu right. Thero’s my club close at hand; or, if you like it better, a quiet tavern round the next street.” With some recollection of his old aversion to bei: in Sir Roly’s pe tony he now elected to go to the qui tavern, instead of the club, by which latter foie ose he would, aa it were, be openly acknowledging to be Sir Roly’s friend. It only took a minute or two to get to the tavern, and here the Baronet insivted on alighting himeelf, and leaving Evereat in the cab, whilst he wentin to fetch the liquor. Everest felt a little better when he had drained the glass handed to him, and then, Sir Roly tak- ing hie seat again by his side, said, “ Where shallI drive you? Have you any engagement for to-night, by the way? I wish you would let me take you to Go: ‘e lace at Clapham. You know Colonel Cordery, I think? Bne or two men dine with him to-night in aquiet way. No dressing necessary, and any friend of mine would be very welcome.” Everest only slightly knew the person mentioned; had met him once or twice, and heard of him as a fum- ons traveler, who, it was rumored,was starting upon an expedition to thé interior of Africa. It all at once oo- curred to the Captain that here might be had just what he wanted, perhaps, with only the asking, Oolond Cordery was & man of great wealth, a capital fellow. He might be in want of some one who had beeu to Africa to join the party, It was, therefore, an extremely lucky thing that he had thus met with Sir Roly, and Sir Rol was a friend of Cordery’s. He could not then, iter all be such an outsider as he, Everest, had thought at first. When Sir Roly had asked where they should drive to, Everest did not like the notion of giving his address in Northumberland Street, and, for a moment, thought of naming the Charing Cross Station, where he might have pretended he had an appointment. But now he answer ed without hesitation. “TL have no engagement at all, Ishall be happy to go with you.” £ Sir Roiy’s face beamed with a broad smile, “I’m awfully pleased at that,” he said. “This cab can take us on, Over Westminster Bridgo,” he said to the cabman, “ and up the Clapham Road.” As they traveled along, Everest soon got over the tem- porary uneasiness the accident had occasioned him, and fell into an easy chat about things generally, but more particularly the expedition upen which was about to start. In reference to the subject of their conversat Sir Roly’s information seemed to be boundless, , in some respects, varied from what Everest had bees from other quarters; but then Sir Roly, who, according to his Ay account, had ee cant 46 in ving atter the very commen oug! © known fine case and Everest was 110 2 as more and had a te of the case, plage ha bs 4 tan before this b =
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ua . THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER. ees ly prejudiced against his new friend, who, by his style of conversation and the sentiments he expressed, seemed to be a perfect gentleman, and Everest made | up hie mind that in future he would not rush rashly | to aconclusion. More than once, too, he said to him- | The greater part of this was nonsense, of course; but there was no doubt aboutone thing—Blair was rolling in money; and according to the popular belief, he made it all by the clever tricking of young men of property, brought into his web by various a,ents and — mother, I don’t know which now; never shall new.” “ How can you be sure of that?” “ What do you mean ?” asked Everest, turning on him quickly; but the other was unmoved, and imperturb- relf, “Why should I have been afraid? I had little to/ touts in his employ—our friend the baronet being | ably puffed at his cigar. Jose then—less now.” | They pulled up, after half an hour's ride, iu front of | the carriage gates of a large house in the high road, and, after some delay, the summons brought a servant out to anawer them. “Colonel Cordery ?” said Bir Roly. ** He's not at home, sir.” “He won't be long, I suppose ?”” **He’s not in town, sir. He went to Dover last night.” | “ Went to Dover last night !’’ echoed Sir Roly, appe- | rently much astonished. “Why, he asked me here to | dinner to-night! You know me, Here’s my card.” If anyone was inclined to doubt the baronet’s good faith, the servant's face would, perhaps, to some extent have strengthened the suspicion he might have had. However, when he had read the visitor's title upon the tard he softened somewhat, and though, if the truth must be told, he had never seen Sir Roly before in his life, he made some kind of token of half-recognition. “It must have been a mistake, sir,” he said. “Rather an awkward mistake, I call it;” and Sir Roly Yaughed boiaterously, and with that he returned to Everest. : “Captain Everest,” he said, taking the other’s hand, and speaking with some emotion in his voice, ‘‘ upon my word I don’t know how to apologize to you for bringing you here on this wild goose chase! I don’t know what Cordery will have to say for himself, but it really—yes, it does, really, at this moment, seem quite unpardonable.” Here he pulled a letter out of his ket and mumbled the words to himself. ‘Yes; ere’s no mistake about it; 1 never blunder in these matters, forI do think such mistakes unpardonable. Captain Everest, a thought strikes me. We will dine together, after all, if you will domethe honor. A dear old friend of mine lives close at hand, within a stoue’s throw. You must let me introduce you.” Everest was, as it were, in a lasso, and did not quite see how he could extricate himself. He by no means desired the promised introduction, and would have given something to get out of it, but he was not at the moment able to think of a good excuse. He hesitated, and he was lost. At Sir Roly’s directions, the cab turned to the right off the common, and drew up before a very pretty villa, in front of which there was a garden all aglow with maasos of scarlet geraniums. The French windows of the dining-room were open, and a glimpse was thus obtainable of a sumptuously furnished apartment, and, beyond that, a back garden full of old trees was visible through the windows of the other eni of the room. Sir Roly jumped nimbly out of the cab, and, followed by Everest, entered the house, where it was evident he was very much at home, and quite at his ease. “Tell your master,” said he, pointing to a man-ser- vant in blue and silver livery, plush, and hair powder, —akind of creature one would not have expected to find vogetating anywhere meaner than a ducal mansion— “ tell your master that Captain Everest and I have come to dine with him.” Everost, startled somewhat by this free and easy style, said, as soon as the servant had gone out of the room, “That's rather taking your friend by storm, isn’t it? Will he like it?” “Ho's the oldest friend I have in the world. He won’t be offended a bit. He'll do anything for me—let ~ anything tohim There are not many like that, eh?” “No,” replied Everest, shortly. Somehow, the words, and the way they were said, seemed to him very vulgar. Hoe began again to wish he had not en- tered. “By the way,” he said, “you did not mention your friend’s name, I think.” “Oh, Blair,” said Sir Roly, carelessly. “I dare say you know him by sight. Everybody knows him by sight—few intimately. You will like him very much when you do.” Everest knit his brows, to think. The name seemed very familiar to him, and associated with something by no means pleasant. “You don’t mean Blair, the’””"—— What Blair it was that Everest would have alluded to there is no saying, for the sentence was broken off sud- denly by the entrance of the person about whom they were talking. This was a man about fifty, with gray hair and pierc- ing eyes, so dark, they seemed at first sight black. He had the blandest smile you can conceive, and the whitest and most regular teeth. Hie eyes first impressed you with a kind of dread, but if you got over that, his smile charmed you. He wasa very agreeable talker, and wondrously smooth-tongued. Most young men went away delighted with him after their first interview; and older men, who ought) to have known better, and had been warned that Blair was the worst of bad form, excused them- selves for having been found in his company, after being remonstrated with, by saying something like this: “My dear boy, he’s the biggest scoundrel living! I’m sure of that, but he’s the best company I | ever met; and as to his cook, there is not another cook after you've mentioned him! I know half a} score of fellows who would give him three or four hun- dred a year, right off to-morrow. Where do you think | itis Blair keeps him? Why, he keeps him in a cellar in irons, with a chain riveted to him! He has him carefally out for a second to breathe bias « thousand a year!” guarded day and night, and will never let him fresh air, and he gives counted among the number. Why he maintained a kind of position among men of } honor, and was, to some extent, countenanced by them, was that nothing positive had ever been brought home | tohim. He was one of the best suspected men alive ; but after a score of charges of “robberies’’ on the turf, of “ nobbling " horses, squaring" jockeys, “‘ making matches safe,” he had come off at last with uot precise- | ly flying colors, and with not exactly “no atain upon | his character,” but the evidence had gone to pieces, and | the verdict was “ Not proven.” | There was another reason, too, why Blair not only kept | his head above water, but held it high when he walked on dry land. Jie knew such alot! People said if Blair chose to “let out half, what he knew,” Tattersalls’ would close next day! He could chop dewn a score of the proudest titles, and roll them inthemud! Many men met him with a cold shudder, and nodded with a kind of galvanized corpse-like grin. But they were compelled to notice. He would have that. He exacted it; and it was not well to quarrel with him! As he entered, Everest saw that the man in whose house he thus found himself aself-invited guest, or | something very much like it, was, indeed, the notori- ous Blair he had heard so much of and seen oocasion- ally. He certainly would very much have liked to beat aretreat; but how could he doso? He ought notto have allowed himself to be brought there in that way. Now he was there he could only stop—to do anything else would have looked very foolish. ‘“‘I am please to make your acquaintance,” said Blair, extending his hand, showing his teeth, and smil- ing his very sweetest. Everest took his proffered hand. “I need never do this sort of thing again,” he thought ; “and I shall be out of it all in a few days, After all, it does not much matter.” “Itis quite a chance we are here, Blair,” said Sir Roly ; “but you know you told me to drop in when- ever Iam near this end of the world; and don’t let me deceive you, your cuisine is enough to tempt a man a | good long way out of his road to tasteit. Everets will say so, I'm sure!” “T hardly think our intrusion, unasked, is very fair,” said Everest, hoping he had found an opportunity to attempt an escape, “Some other day I shall be happy to”"—— “No, no,”’ said Blair; ‘you must stop to-day. I must insist upon it. It will really be an act of charity. I invited two men, and they have disappointed me; and worse than that, disgusted my chef, who, having lay- ished the experience of a lifetime in the preparation of a choice little meal, which will be ready to be served in two minutes’ time, is simply furious. IfI cannot find somebody at once to taste and approve of the results of his efforts, I shall—well, I shall lease him. I think the man will be mortally offended, and leave me for good {”” Everest, with a kind of suppressed groan, gave him- self up to his fate, and determined to enjoy himself as much us possible. To tell the truth, the prospect did | not seem to be the very worst in the world; and, after all, he said to himself once more, for his private satis- faction, what did it matter, and why need he be wo won- derfully particular? -° There certainly was nu exaggeration about Mr. Blair's description of the promised meal, though whether or not his story of the empocies guests had a single word of truth in itis very doubtful. indeed. The chef this time most surely had surpassed himself, unless he were # very magician in the culinary art. The choice of dishes was perfect, and each in its turn exquisitely cooked. Sir Roly was loud in his praise, and Everest did not sit dumbly by, and let these master-pieces pass unnoticed. As for the host himself, he found time not only to eat and drink, and to talk as well very amusingly upon ahundred and one subjectsa—he neyer mentioned a word about sporting—but he also contrived to see that his guests’ glasses never stood many moments empty. As the twilight gathered around them, a crowd of wax candles were . pond lit about the room by the watch- ful, soft-footed servants. The curtains were closed over the windows looking out upon the high road, but the other windows, from which were seen the garden at the bak, remained open, and the perfume of the fresh watered flowers was watted towards the three men as they leant back in their chairs, indolently sipping Blair’s incomparable old port. Everest was quite astonished when, at last consulting his watch, he found it was past ten o’clock. Then he rose, and said he must go. Blair placed his hand upon his guest’s arm. “You must stay for coffee,” he said. “It will be ready in a moment, and I havesome of the best cura- coa in all the world. Will you come out into my gar- den? The moon looks pretty through the trees there, does she not, shining down upon the flowers ?”” Everest walked through the open window, and stood upon the lawn. Blair offered him a cigar, and struck a wax match for him. As he raised the light to the cigar end, the sound of a woman's voice singing struck upon his ear. At the first bar, he paused, and, with half averted head, listened attentively. Blair was by his side, watching him. He had his hand once more upon his arm. “A very pretty air that,’ hesaid. “Unusual,eh? I don’t remember ever hearing it before.” **Heard it a great many times when I was a child,” said Everest, “but never since. My nurse sang it, I think, Some ono who wight have been my nurse, or “I mean nothing particular,” he said. “We never know, though, do we, what the next day—the nex¢ | hour may bring forth? That’sagood old phrase. Look here.” He took Everest’s arm, and led him half a dozen yarde away from the dining-room window to another window belonging to a richly-furnished drawing-room, and made a motion with his head towarde the interior, Everest looked. There, at the piano, satthe woman he had heard sing- ing—a beautiful woman she seemed to hiro—her figure graceful, her features refined. She wore a dress thet seemed to trail in rich profusion upon the carpet round her feet. It was cut low, and on her white bosem heavy necklace of diamonds blazed like sunlight. On her arme were jewels also, and on her fingers which languidly swept the keys. She was still singing, and apparently thinking her- self alone and unobserved, was throwing her whole heart into the song, so that in ite last lines there was @ tearful tremble in her voice. : “What a lovely woman!” said Everest, involuntar- y. “Shall I introduce you?” asked Blair; “she’s my daughter.” STEP I. Aw hour and « half Jater on in the evening Captain Everest again looked at his watch, then rose hastily, and, with ap apology for staying so long, rose to go. Blair, who had been absent froin the room the greater part of the last hour—all of it, perhaps; Everest had not noticed it—returned at the moment. “Where is Sir Roland?” said the Captain, suddenly | recollecting he had forgotten all about his late com- panion. ‘“He has gone away," replied Blair, with a quiet smile. “ He felt rather ill, he said, and begged me ex- cuse him to you.” Everest, on bearing this, was in a still greater hurry to get away, thinking that he had probably outstayed his welcome; but, when he eaid something to this ef- fect, the host hastened to assure him that such wae not the case, and, following him out of the hall, shook hands with him with great cordiality. “You are not going away from England yet?” Blair said. ‘You must come and see me again before you go. I fancy Cordery’s party is made up, and if so, I could do something with him. Where canI see you the day after to-morrow ?” Everest hesitated, “ At your club, shall we say?” Everest did not quite approve of this arrangement, for two reasons—one being that he did not want to visit his club any more ; and the second that he was not de- sirous of being seen there in Blair’s company. “Or will my club do ?—or, better still, why not come here, and we'll be alone ; that is, my daughter, myself and you. We can talkit over then.” Involuntarily, Everest glanced back towards the drawing-room, The door was open, and he could ses Miss Blair standing by the piano, in much same place that he had left her on making hie adieux. She was patting the ground with the tip of a black satin shoe, her dress gathered back withonehand. The light fell upon her face, and upon the jewele sparkling on her white neck and arms. y Everest hastily gave hisconsent to the proposed ar- rangement, and hurried away. . ~ * ” + >. _ As he walked along, he had a good deal to think of, To begin with, his new friend, Sir Roly, was a very dif- ferent person indeed from what he had pictured to him- self that he would be, and Blair was altogether the re- verse. The question was, was Blair really such « mis- creant as he had been. represented ? “ He never speaks to a man without thinking how he can pick his pocket!’ Everest had heard these very words used in connection with him. Was there an truth in this damaging statement? Blair was a ric and highly successful man. No wonder ifhehad plenty of enemies ! * * + +. * * J Mr. Blair might have meant very well. His motive, for instance, in saying that Sir Roland had gone away might have been perfectly innocent, but, nevertheless, he teld a falsehood! As soon as the street door had closed on the Captain, Sir Roly came forth from the dining-room. “It’s all right, eh ?’’ said he. “Pretty well!’ replied the other, closing the dining- room door upon his daughter as he spoke. ‘“Yon’ve done your part well enough. You've brought him here. That's all I wanted of you. Ican manage the rest.” “You won’t forget your promise ?” “Thave not. There are four twenty-fiyes! Give me your I.0.U.1!” Blair drew the money from his pocket, and handed it to his “man,” who pocketed it greedily, his eyos glistening; and shortly afterwards he took his de parture. Then Blair went back to the drawing-room. The girl was standing thoughtfully by the piano. She turned suddenly as he entered, and her features wore an expression of mingled grief and anger strongly marked upon them. . * Pa . pene cued, wane 8 Shia man t Why Preset t rou, ere not he the coun Brerest beard you say the other day was ruined?” “ Yoo, he is,”
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“ What do you want with him, then?” “That's my affair,dear. I don't want to hurt him ; don’t be afraid! Is not it time for you to go to bed?” STEP Il. MeanwHixe the object of this little conversation was making the best of his way homewards. Everest somehow felt a certain amount of interest in knowing whether Mr. Barlow's new employe had ar- yived, and, learning that there were yet several trains to Victoria, and, being in no hurry to get home, he waited, too. But they both watched in vain, The down { train, the last that night from the place where the ex- | pected lion-tamer resided, did not bring him among its | passengers. No one alighted at York Road. The men- agerie proprietor’s face wore a woful expression. Everest was more interested still. He could not pos- sibly have said why. Such odd things had, however, occurred to him that day, and he had mixed in such stranye company, why not mix in stranger still ? “ Mr. Barlow,” said he, “ I’m very sorry you are dis- \ appointed, and I should very much like to be of some : service to youif Icould. I can’t lay any claim to lion- taming: but I’ve killed a tiger or two in my time, and T’ve had one as apet. It's in the Zoo now. I made them a present of it when it got too big for the drawing- room, Let's have 8 glass together over at the house opposite, and a talk.” Mr. Barlow seemed pleased to have met the Captain, and graciously accepting his invitation, they partook of some liquor together in the bar of the public-house al- luded to, and smoked a cigar. There were only a bench and a table in the place, and on the former they seated themselves, whilst Mr. Barlow entered into rather a x lengthy memoir of the late Bill Jenkins, interspersed with other matters of an autobiographical character, and wound up by emphatically striking the table with his fist, and exclaiming, he would give a hundred ounds of hard money, that minute, if he conld bring to life again. “Unfortunately,” said Everest, “that could not be done at the price. You must get some plucky fellow to take his place.” “JT wish I knew one,” said Mr. Barlow; “I'd pay him well.” At the other end of the table, whilst they had been talking, a man sat sleeping or dozing, with his head resting on his arms; bat when Mr, Barlow struck the 4 table, it aroysed him, and he atared at the speaker sleepily. He pricked up his ears at the last words. ~ “T'ye pluck enough ; but no money. I've had to do with wild beasts before now, I'd like to try my hand, if you're willing to let me.” Mr. Barlow looked rather doubtfully at the stranger, but his face assumed a more satisfied expression after a few moments’ scrutiny. The man, a hatchet-faced, piercingly bright-eyed fellow, thottgh not heavy, was powerfully built, and probably, very wiry and active, He appeared to be in good condition, and well fed, His clothes were shabby, but not ragged. He wore a faded flower in his button-hole, and a ring on s finger of his left hand, “You've had to do with wild beasts, eh ?” said’ Mr, Barlow. “Handled any tigers? Where do you hail from? Wombwell’s—Jamrach’s ?” “JT dancedin a pantomime at a place outside one of the barriers of Paris—one of the little theaters, you know. The Dompteur at the Cirque was laid up with a bad bite. I took his place for ten days or a fortnight. LT almost forget his name just at the moment—it's some years ago ; ‘Bel.—something. He was an Englishman.” “Delamonte!" shouted Mr. Barlow. delighted. “Hoe was ut the Cirque five years ago ; I remember well ; and he was bitten, it’s true. Ho's told me of it, and the man who took his place; a proper daring fellow. I forget what he called himself.’ “ Deverel is my name.” “Come on to the tent,” said Mr. Barlow, delighted, and let’ssee what you can do. Will you have auother glass first ; and you, Mr. ""—— “ Deverel.” They all three rose, and stood at the bar, Mr. Barlow being the center of the rey . At his suggestion, they ¢linked their glasses “ ally Piunsey "as he called it, he clinking first right and left, and the other two leaning forwi afterwards to touch their glasses together. As they did so, Mr. Barlow stared at them both with a ood broad stare, and broke into a broader grin. “This is as queer a startas ever come across,” said ho, “and I’ve seen a few queer ones in my time, too! It was #0 odd Ishould meet this gent,”’ Jorking his hand towards Everest ; “and that heshould feel an interest in wild beasts; and that we should get talking, and come in jhere ; and that you should overhear us, and turn out to " have known poor Bill, and worked for him ; and that I : should just at this blessed moment be regular gaspin to get hold of some one of your sort ! Something ought. | +tocome of this,” 5 j Something did come of it, too, but hardly wuat Mr, | Barlow expected. aT STEP Ivy. ‘THEY went now, witnout little delay, back to open space where the show stood, and on which such exhibitions may be not unfrequently met with, no op- rem being offered by the authorities Led sheke, serec. yn on an otherwise unoccupied, barren piece of land. new neta back the bar de door, Pe oe iste 6 SLOW, terior of w was ends guttering down into spe ccaress hanging from the ceiling, was plunged into a however, after a unding objects. Some men were THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER. hard at work fixing one of them in a distant corner, and the hammering they made while thus occupied disturb- ed some of the animals already caged, and they growled, or squeaked, according to their nature. There were also some large packing cases, five or six feet high, scattered about, and one of these was already underneath the hoop filled with the candle ends. “Here she is !"’ safad Mr. Barlow, tapping the case with his walking-stick; whereupon such a terrific roar burst from the interior, that every other beast in the place took up the cue, and added its mite to the gene- ral discord. The men in the corner left off the hammering very suddenly, and faced round to see what was the matter, and who was going to be eaten up first. “ That’s pretty music!’’ said Deverel, with a smile, and showing no fear; and as he spoke, he undid a clasp and opened the front of the box, thus discovering to view the caged tigeress behind a row of strong iron bars. It was an angry-looking creature, with gleaming teeth, and crouched 8 moment, catlike, then flew, snarl- ing, forward, and fastened fiercely on one of the bars, as though it would have bitten it through. Deverel looked at the tigress attentively. “That's one Jenkins had in Paris, isn't it? I swear to its head.” “You're right,” replied Mr. Barlow, with a grin of approval, That's she, sure enough,’’ “Ican manage her, then, I think.” “ Good luck to you if you can!” Deverel took up an iron bar, which had been employ- ed for one of the other cages, and walked round to the back of the tigress’s cage. Barlow had his head turned away at the moment, but when he saw that Dick was opening the door he shouted out, in considerable ex- citement, for him to.take care, The apectators held their breath and were silent— transfixed, as it were—astounded, Not more so than the tigress, however. She seemed to be paralyzed by the audacity of her visitor, for, for some time past, since the death of Jenkins, her late keeper, everybody had kept at a very respectful distance, and let her have pretty well her own way. She was, therefore, too much astonished at first to make any kind of resistance, or remonstrance, Very little while, however, did this state endure. She then collected herself for a spring. Deverel’s eyes, from the very moment he had entered the cage, were riveted upon hers, and presently, as she came rushing at him with a furious roar, he struck her on tne side of the head with the bar, and hurled her over against the side of the cage with a thundering crash that made Mr. Barlow jump back a yard, think- ing, not unreasonably, that the cage on that side had given way. After a moment's hesitation, the tigress came rush- ing on him again, and this time he met her witha | blow botween the eyes, that brought her down upon her knees with a hollow groan of pain. Then, fairly stunned and subdued, she lay in acorner of the cage, and allowed them to walk slowly out, and | fasten the door behind them. , When things were thus satisfactorily brought to s conclusion, Deverel wiped the perspiration trom his face, and drew a long breath. “ By Jove | anear squeak |" he said. “ If you had not beon here to help me, it would have been a case this time! May Ishake hands with you? “Willingly ! Iam very pleased to have been of some help. She’s given you an_ugly nip, though, hasn’t she? He's Sadly hurt, Barlow. Have you any brandy ?” He was very badly hurt, it turned out, upon close in- spection, The blood was trickling down his sleeve,and he was sick and faint with the pain. = “I know a little bit about doctoring,”’ said Everest ; Mi let me bind it up for pe. oe aed 8 best thing; et me have some, please, will you?” They made the wounded man up astolerably comforta- ble couch ina very short time with some straw and blankets, and Everest quickly and skilfully did what was necessary. Mr. Barlow looked on with considerable interest. “ Dashed if you're not good at everything!” said he, “I wish to goodness we could somehow do business together. You'd manage that beast in a week's time, I'll swear it, the same agit she was a baa-lamb!”’ Everest‘smiled and shook his head. “1’'m in want of a situation just now, it’s true,”’ said he; ‘ but I hardly think I'm up to this business. Be- you see to him, I'll come and havea look at him my- self in a day or two, if Ican possibly manage it ; but I’m thinking of going away soon,” “* Not far away, I hope,” said Mr, Barlow, “ or fory long? I'd ne de bg again, sir; ‘pon my word, I would! No offence. Now you know my name, would you tell me yours?” “ Oring mean Alfred Everest,” replied the other, “Tsold out of the Dragoons a few days ago. Iam bard up, and am going abroad.” verel had been leaning back motionless for some seconds in the attitude in which Everest had placed him—one that afforded him the best rest obtainable un- der the circumstances. He half-struggled into an up- right posture at the sound of the name, and looked eagerly towards the man who had been of such signal service to him. * Did you say Everest ?” “Yes. Why?” > “Nothing now. I thought I had seen you that was.all. I owe you a big debt of gratitude I'll be able to pay you some 4 : ia. ne 6 Te om if it one another a good i when we rg ext este, od Givo me a light, Barlow, will you, cigar?" before, Thope sides, here’s your man. He'll be all right in a week, if hair-pins. 26 Mr. Barlow preceded him to the door of the tent, and ushered him out with great politeness. “ You won't join us then, Captain ?’’ “No; I'm afraid that’s impossible.” * Tam very sorry for it, that’s all Ican say,” “Soam I. Good-night.” “ Good-night.” * * * * * * * Everest walked forth, and stopped a dozen yards off to laugh to himself as he gazed up at the moonswimming tranquilly through broad blue space above. . “This has been @ strange night, indeed,” said he, “*Pon my word, I've halt a mind to go in for taming savage beasts! It's deuced exciting !”’ Then he took the train, and went quietly home to bed. THE TWELFTH FIGURE. IM WHICH THE CLOCK STOPS, Il.—nvum. STEP I. We left Mr. Pidgeon with the brokersin. We find ‘ him still in a bad way. { The broker had gone, it is true; but a man had been left in possession. He had taken his seat, and taken 4 root in it, seemingly—a wooden-faced, phlegmatic man nothing seemed tomove. Indeed, it was pretty certain he would not stir until the payment of that ten pounds and costs; and how could that be accomplished ? There was no way in the world of doing it, as it ap- peared to poor Pidyeon, unless Daddy Longlegs won the Shuffle and Cut Handicap, to be run for in two days’ time. The first day passed slowly away, and poor Pidgeon nursed his aching head and cursed his cruel fate. The broker's man took short naps, and smoked his pipe, and read the papers during his brief wakeful interv: There was scarcely & customer, and no visitors called, “I have not a friend in the wide world, and nobody to care for me!” cried Pidgeon, bitterly; and he strop- ped a razor with such savage recklessness that he took the edge off all its length, Whilst so occupled, however, a flutter of ribbons and a rustle of skirts were audible at the door; and Miss Em Pember, in festival attire, and rosier even than it was her wont to be, came bustling through the doorway into the dismal little shop. She very seldom came to see him now, for it must be éwned Mr. Rook was forever bringing her little parcels ofscents and soaps, and other toilette requisites. What had brought her? Had she heard of his appslens Pidgeon came forward, all in a wild flutter of oxcite- ment, Y “Mr. Pidgeon !"’ she said. “That voice!’ he murmured, ecstatically. “My own!" “I’m sureit’s not!’ retorted Miss Pember, with much glibness. “It's my own property yet awhile, at ] any rate!” “Oh, Em!” gushed Pidgeon, ignoring the presence of the broker's man, who was eyes and ears; ‘my. heart's idol |” “ Why do you keep it idle, then ?"’ said Miss Pember, still facetious. “1 wish you'd try not to talk non- sense, sir, but attend to yourcustomers. I want three pennyworth of glycerine, if you please.” Pidgeon served her liberally, wrapped the bottle up carefully, lingered fondly over it to protract the inter- view a3 much as possible, and just squeezed Miss Pem- ber’s fingers the least bit in the won as he handed it i to her. “You'll break the “Oh, don’t!” said she. ttle. ea Besides, I'm in a great hurry. Let me see, this peed a gave pence.” These three words, “ This is threepence,” Pidgeon a kind of mental jerk, and he jumped as tho a pin bad pricked him., In the old tim y y y a@ month or two distant, she would not have dreamt of offering him money—vile coppers, even. , It is true, he paid for all the refreshments he took at ios her house; but that was different, of course. “Don't hurt my feelings more tian you can help, Miss Pember,” he said, iu tones which were fullofemo- tion. “And seo here—here’s a bottle of delicious hair oil. You'll wear this, too, for my sake, won't you?’ “I'm sure you're very kind, but I'm in a great hurry, so I'll say good-morning.” : “Not in such a hurry as that, ina jot pleaded Mr. ' Pidgeon. “Haye you ever tried my old brown Wind- hee sor? Do take this cake with you.” i “Oh, Mr. Pidgeon! 1 shall never be able to carry La them all, and I really must be going.” . “Half a moment. It’s 80 seldom I see you, and it’s \ so good of you tocome. Accept this etot hairpins” — at wera really toa, wind of Ot; exotic! ‘Bs ‘you; “It’s of you, I’m sure! ve you, — indeed?” 4 mes Mr. Pi “Oh, don’ ek me “ You're going over ope 1 mh al ‘ “ There, I beg your pardon, humbly,” said the wretch-
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panei a ee ae n 5 ~ om 26 ed barber. “I only asy so because you know I love you.” ‘What nonsense! I don't believe you care half as much for me as you do for the stupid race-horses,” “Em Pemper, why do you think I want to make money if it isnot to share it withyou? Have a pair of | side-combs.” “ Are these for me? How pretty ! but I’mafraid you'll only be cheated if you go on with this betting. There are some poople who are always taking advantage of others. Besides, unless youare up to every move on the board '’"—— “ Don't be so disparaging Miss Pember. It’s true I never rode a horse in my life, and ain’t quite too sure I'd know which was agood’un when I saw it; but you don’t want to know anything about horses to bet. Look at Challice there. He knows everythiug—breeds horses—is inthe stable from morning to night—and what comes of it ?—he loses his money by the bucket- fal. His horses never win.” “Flash o’ Lightning will win the Derby, though ; everybody says so.” “Who's everybody ? You see the knowing ones are dead against him. I'd lay every farthing I had in the world against him myself.” “Don't berash, Mr. Pidgeon, and don’t allow your- self to be led away, When you have lost everything, people will laugh at you, that’s all: And now I must go. Good-morning |” And she moved towards the door with her lap full of Pidgeon's presents, but here the broker’s man put in his word. “Tsay!” said the broker’s man ; ‘‘who’s a going to pay forthem things? I can’t allow the stock to be carted away in wholesale, in that fashion |" Miss Pember opened her eyes to their widest, and Mr. Pidgeon blushed crimson. “Oh!” said she, laying the things down on the coun- ter; “I didn’t know, I’m sure. Shall 1’—— “No, certainly not ! cried the unhappy Pidgeon in an agony of shame. “I—I— will pay for them myself! It’s all right! Good morning!’ And instead of pres- ne her to stay this time, he pushed her towards the oor, But the man did not seem to think things were going on very satisfactorily, and he got in front, and blocked the passage. “It’s only my duty I’m doing,” said he. “Mr. Pidgeon ought to know they ain't his goods he’s Lie away. They're Mr. Rook's.” “Mr. Rook's!’ said Miss Pember. “Oh Mr. Pid- geon! how could you? Is this true?’ “Quite true,” replied Pidgeon, sullenly, and looking very livid. “Perhaps you'd better not take them. Now Icome to think of it, Ihaven’t money enough in my pocket to pay. It did not occur to me when I was making you a few trifling presents. You'll despise me after this, I have no doubt, and very properly. I sup- ae Lought to be forsaken, and oughtn’t to mind it. | d morning |" “Good morning |" said Miss Pember, and went away minus the little ‘trifles, and without saying another word. Then Mr. Pidgeon sat down, and took his head in his hands, and tugged violently at the hair on either side of it. “I’m very sorry, indeed, governor,’’ said the broker's man. “It was rather awkward before the young lady, too, I must admit, but I was forced to it, you know. It was only my duty.” “ Pray don’t apologize,” said Pidgeon, bitterly. “I’m getting used toshame and humiliation. I dare say I shall rather like it than otherwise, in due time.” “ Well, sir, if Daddy Longlegs pulls off the Shuffle and Cut to-day, you'll be all right, I take it, and able to pay Rook out.” “Ab!” said Pidgeon ; “sha’n’t I, and won't 1?’" STEP I. Bur at that very moment, Mr. Pidgeon’s sportin, friend, Mr. Chouser, appeared upon the threshold, with evil tidings. *“ Pidgeon, old fellow,’ said he, “ here’s a pretty ket- tle of fish! I’m sosorry for you!” “Wha—t's the matter?” gasped Pidgeon. more of it?” “T’ve just come from the station, and I’ve heard that Daddy glegs’’—— + won, eh? Hooray! I don’t care now!” “Don’t make an error. He's done nothing of the kind, He’s scratched!” eater? 1 Who's been scratching him? Is ita “Ajolly bad place. He won't be placed at all. Don't you understand? His name's struck out of the race |” “His name’s out! Then J’—— _ Yes, exactly. You've done it!” ‘net, lost the ten pounds I told Tom Potts to put on “To be sure! But look here! There’s just time now for F hina to back Grasshopper, and hedge your money. Grasshopper’s a certainty; and you've laid me 40 to lagainst him. What do you say,now? Give the your pound. Ican put it on for you, there, over e way.” “T haven't a farthing,” said Pidgeon, savagely ; ‘“‘and I’ve done with races forever!” . “ After sottling-day, you mean, I suppose?” said the other. with aslightsneer. “However, doas you like, my good sir; I want todo you a kindness, that’s all, See you again, when Grashopper has won.” Mr. Pidgeon did not f equal to replying. He sat down again, and once more took his head in his hands. Presently, looking up, he found the broker's ' man staring at him with an t look in his eyes, and a il anda t-book in his hands. wither said Pidgeon; “ you're not putting me “A little coerce ral A nr tii RE Tater ~ — . aye oe = THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER. oh How much I'd lost by Daddy Longlegs, that’s “Oh, you've lost by Daddy Longlegs, too, have you? Well, that’s some sort of comfort. I don’t mean to be spiteful to you, butyou don’t know how consoling it is to know that some one else has dropped hie money, How my poor headdoes ache! I shouldn't at all won- der presently if I went clean crazy.’’ Thencame a rush of milliner’s girls from the new milliner’s establishment which had been opened down the High Street. “What can I do for you, young ladies?’ asked Mr Pidgeon. “ Have you this week's number of ‘ Matilda Mildew ?’ ”’ asked the foremost young lady. “No,” replied Pidgeon, bitterly. ‘She hasn’t been mildewed this week. Is that all you require ?” “ Yes, thank you,” said the young lady. “Well,” said Pidgeon, ‘bring a few more of your kind, will you, when next you come here tospend a penny? Ishall take it as a favor.” It seemed to Pidgeon that his cup of bitterness was well-nigh full to overflowing. It would not bear much | more, that was certain. Yet there was a little more in store for him, nevertheless. He fell back in his old attitude, pondering gloomily on his future prospects. “If Thadn’t been such a fool as to have lost all my money on that swindling horse, this would never have happened,” he said, very sagely; ‘‘and I could have defied Rook, and stuck to my shop in spite of him!” “Mr. Pidgeon !’’ said Rook's voice in his ear. “How dare you come here?’ cried the other, start- ing np. “There, there!’ said Rook; “don’t let’s quarrel. You may step outside, Mr. Stickler,” he said to the broker’s man. “ You've not paid out my man yet, 1 see, Mr. Pidgeon.” “No, not yet. haps.” “We really ought not to quarrel, you and me, Mr, Pidgeon,” the other continued, persuasively. ‘“ We ought to be friends.” “Oh! ought we?” “Yes; the fact is, I've had my eye on you a long while.” “ Have you ?” “Yes; and I’ve thought it such a pity that you should, as it were, be throwing away your talents where there was no market for them.” “Like me to go and throw ’em away round the corner, perhaps, in some other parish ?"” “T’ve known you haven't been getting on well, and I've not been surprised.”’ “No 2 “So now let us talk the matter over, and see if we can’t come to some amicable arrangement. There’s no good in our cutting oneanother’s throats, is there ?”’ “ Well, no,” said Pidgeon; but he thought to himself he would very much have liked to make a one-sided operation of the throat-cutting. “ Now,” continued Rook, ‘ there’s that little matter of rent, for instance. I don’t want to press you. Lord!” said he, slapping Pidgeon on the back, “I’m not at all that sort of man when you know me, old fellow! Ha! hat” “Ha! hal” echoed Pidgeon; “what a jolly old bird you must be when one finds you out |” “Well,” said Rook, ‘Iam, you know.” “ And still you keep it so quiet y! “Yes, Well, as I was saying about this rent, I don’t want to press you,” “No? % “No; I've heard you've had a heavy loss on the turf, and so I don’t mind looking over the debt alto- ether.” | x6 Pidgeon gasped again; then clutched the other by {the hand. “This is too generous of.you !”’ “Not at all. There's only one little condition.” “Oh! there is one ?” “Yes, just one—about Miss Pember. As you very truly remarked a little while ago, she has a preference for you.” “Oh 1" : “Yes; and so, as I want to marry her, and, indeed, am determined I will do so, the best way is for you to write her a letter and say you give her up.” “Is that really the best way ?’’ “Yes, [fancy so. It ought to be rather an off-hand | kind of letter, youkknow—one that will hurt her feel- ! age and wound her pride |” “AhY” “She will give you UP, then, and I shall be all right.” “Well, you are a jolly old bird, and no mistake |” cried Pidgeon, ‘I should never have believed you was half so jolly ! And those are the terms on which you forgive me my rent?’ “Yes, these are the terms.” “Rook, old boy, you’re too good. It’s letting me off too easy. You're too considerate for my feelings Rook. t look here; let’s say a word in your ear. Things have gone rather crooked with me lately. I’m down in the mud, and Miss Fortune's got her foot on |me, and she’s rather heavy in the heel. But you’ye made a mistake, Rook, old boy, for all that. You may sell me up and empty me out—you may shove me out !of house and home; but you won't get me to strop your razor, Mr. Rook! I adore Miss Pember; but I don’t intend to trouble anybody much more in this world. I hope soon to be dust and ashes!” And here the poor fellow’s feelings overcame him, and he let fall his head upon the counter with a thump, and burst into tears ! A hand was laid upon his shoulder, at the first touch I shall pay you all out presently, per- —— “Yos, it’s me,”’ said Miss Pember. ‘I have heard all —at least, a good deal of what you have been saying, I was standing there behind you at the door, but you were 80 busy talking you did not noticeme, Astothat man,” she said, turning with a look full of the most withering contempt upon the opposition barber, “ha is beneath my contempt !”” “ Or anybody’s,’’ said Pidgeon. “He has deceived me cruelly,” continued Em. “ Ha has told me a lot of wicked falsehoods, whilst he has been pretending to talk only in your interests, He said that if I would marry him he would do you a good turn.” “He meant a good turn-out |” “That's just exactly what I did mean,” cried Rook, savagely. ‘ You'll find you can’t trifle with me. You may bill and coo now, but you'll be sold up at the very lowest market value, depend on that.” “Em,” said Pidgeon, in a trembling voice, “the wretch is right. Weare in his power. Reflect, then, before you sacrifice yourself! Don’t think of me; it will be only momentary if I do it with determination,’" Miss Pember clung to him. The scene was assuming high melodramatic proportions. “Oh, Mr. Pidgeon!” she said, “do you think when you were no more I could wed another? Does not the proverb say, what isn't enough for one is plenty for two? If we are to come to the grave, let us have one between us. I will not desert you!” Rook stamped his feet and ground his teeth. “I'll have my rent; do you understand that? I'll have my' rent without any more foolery !’’ “That can be managed, I think,” said Miss Pember, with quiet determination, and produced a couple of crumpled bank-notes frym a little black leather bag she was carrying on her arm. But Pidgeon stayed herhand, “I cannot allow that, Iwill be sold up. It is my fault for being such a fool as to back that wretched horse |” He plunged his hand into his pocket in search of hia pocket handkerchief, as he said this, and withdrawing it again, jerked a paper on to the floor without noticing it. Miss Pember stooped and picked it 2 { “Ugh!” said Pidgeon, with infinite disgust. “It's Pott's letter. I never read it;” and he made as though he were going to fling it into the fire. “Do read it first,” said Em, “What's the good?” “Let me, then.” She opened it, and saw a post-office order. “Oh, look here!’ she cried. “Here's ten pounds; and what’s this?’ Then she read alofd, “‘I hear thero’s something wrong with Daddy, and so I haven’t touched him. I send you back the ten, as thero’s nothing I fancy myself among the lot.’” Pidgeon almost screamed, “Good heavens? I’m not ruined then, atter all! Mr, Rook, here’s your dirty rent?” “ There’s some dirty costs, too,”’ said Rook. “You shall have them, too,’ said Miss Pember, producing some money. “Well,” said Rook, ‘don’t be exalted, either of you. I think, on the whole, I prefer the money to the lady; not that I want to say anything uncivil,”” “You'd better not, my friend,” rejoined Pidgeon; “and, if you'll take a fool’s advice, you'll go before you're kicked.” Mr, Rook took the advice, and retired. In the door- xz ig was jostled by Mr. Chowser, Pidgeon’s sporting end, “Em,” said Pidgeon, without noticing him, “I’ve been a fool, but I give you my word I'll never bet again. T have been a fool, haven't I?” : “IT don’t know that, Pidgeon, my friend,” cried Chow- ser,” breakingin. ‘I’m not that way of thinking. Horray, old boy? you acted rather unkind tome the last time we met, but no matter. I've news for you— glorious news! It was a false alarm about Daddy abel lega being scratched. He's not scratched. He's won, and as you put ten pounds on him, you've a pocketed two hundred! I congratulate you, old boy ?’* Pidgeon fell backwards into the shaving-chair and gagped. STEP II, Arrer the world came to an end at East Haggleford, the world seemed to go on anyhow ; and, on the show- ing of the oldest inhabitant, there was no keeping pace with it. “Folks seom to have gone clean crazy,” the oldest in- habitant remarked, upon the occasion of meeting the miller’s female servant in a hat and feather, “This beats everything I ever came across in all my born days !’’ ut there were more astonishing Wiz'y ie going on than even the hat and feather. The grand doings at the Hall, for instauce, caused general surprise and some consternation. There seemed to be ed on there one long continuous revel, and the house was full of visi- tors and servants—quite a little village population by itself. The money must have flowed like water. Looking on at all this wild extravagance, those among the East Hagglefordians who were best informed u their neighbors’ affairs shook their heads, and said they hoped it would last. Whether or not their wishes were very sincere it is difficult to say, for there is a kind of consolation to some people to see affairs going wrong with other people, when things have not gone particu- pce, BS cm with themselves. “He has made a good thing by his race-horses during ; “that ought to have them than he who breed past season,” some one said him along.” “Bah! he ds more money on | | sf of which he flew up into a fighting attitude ; then as makes by them. There areas few 3 q Spas ee RSET oP Ree WOE 68, oa CONE: Handdenty wabeiied, indi it’ was not Mir. Rook | race-horses, and make anything byit.” = : he WPT es cata tating” who had ventured nen this liberty, but Km Pember| “If he's ae, when he wins the Derby bell throw = — *Galeulating what t* apertem 1” he exled, } won't do that if he does win, you may be ware, is ‘ . a , ee ie ee ote hs oe ‘- ; “se; j ed a 3 ah ie
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‘ On the contrary, he'll go on at it, hotter than ever. Besides, he may not win,” **Tt’ll be a case with him, then, I reckon, if half what is said about the money he has put on comes true.” The speakers were in the company of a crisp, clean- shaven little gentleman, who might have said a good deal upon good authority had he chosen todo so; but maintained a cautious silence, and pretended to be deeply absorbed in the leading articles of the newspa- he held in tront of him. He was, in fact, the Chal- ices’ legal adviser. Next day business called him to the Hall, and he felt it his duty to give atew words of friendly advice and counsel—giving them very gently, indeed, by the way, for he was atimid little man, and always felt bashful and.ill at ease in the presence of the Jair, handsome woman who retained his legal services—a woman, who, by the way, at 4 fur distance, he had ventured to be in love with any time for the last twenty years, and had never said a word upon the subject to a living soul. “Good gracious!’ exclaimed the rich Mrs. Challice; “how can you come here, frightening me out of my life? Now, really, is there any cause for uneasiness?” “No, no! certainly not,” the small gentleman stam- mered. “No immodiate cause; butif Imay venture to say so—you'll excuseme, Iamsure, for you know how I have your interests at heart—if I may venture to say 80, I would suggest that Mr. Charles be asked—be recommended to be alittle more careful—less venture- some. One never knows what may happen. Race- horses are such unreliable property. You'll excuse me, I’m sure.” “T have heard that Charles is betting heavily, but not rashly, I hope. Ll speak to him. Besides, I think when he is married he will give up the turf toa great extent ; and as to our household expenses, I don’t quite see how I can reduce them just at present. When Obarles is married, perhaps, ifthey go abroad. How- ever, with her income added to his—I am not quite sure what my brother-in-law left his wife—I don’t think I ever hesrd—but in the extraordinary way she has lived—so mean, almost miserly—she must really have accumulated a large sum. Is not that the case ?”’ ane lawyer rubbed his chin with his hand, and was ent. “Why don't you speak? Don't you know?” “Tm not quite sure.” ¢ bare you try and find out, and let me know ?” “¢E wiki’ “ Marcha! Marthal tell him it is allright. I know where I can get the money quite easily, How foolish of mo to have forgotten that! Haven't I estates in Shropshire? And then there’s Harriet’s dowry; but we must not touch that—must we, Martha?’ She halno estates in Shropshire or anywhere else, poor soul! Her mind was wandering. “ Hush—hush, dear !—lie down and go to sleep. The man has gone away. Ho will never come again to bother you,” said old Martha; and she tenderly smoothed the sick lady's pillow as she spoke, STEP IV. Now and then she appeared to recover something of her old energy, and would turn to 4 confused mass of illegible figures scribbled over scraps of paper, and ina ragged, dog-eared account-book, which she kept always by her side upon a table, on which were also some phy- aic bottles, a hand-glass, a rouge-pot, and a Bible. With trembling bn ble then she would turn over and over these scraps, and, pencil in hand, dot up and total w ering rows of figures, until, overcome with fatigue, oe fee sight growing dim, she sank back with a weary sigh “Tecan't make out what's paid and what is owing,” she said, more than once. “It's that which troubles me. If I could only make ‘¢ out [ would not care.” Then, as bofore, the faithful old servant would softly smooth her pillow, and ina gentle voice murmur some words of comfort; to which ve me ae reply per- haps with aslight pressure of the hand. we estentaad each other, don't we?” the lady asked one day. y “ We ought to do, dear, after so long. “After so long. Yos, such & long—long while, is it not, when you come. to look back yy * * One day, when Martha—who slept in her mistress’s room, oad was, therefore, the first to see her in the rning—came to the bedside, she thought a great lee the better had occurred. It was one of those chanyes dying people have sometimes, in which the ex- pizing embers, as it woro, are p-ufdd up into a sudden , and then as suddenly go out. “1 feel as though I could doa bit of work this morn- bn she said; “ draw my table a little nearer, tha, ve me my papers."’ “Won’s you tire yourself out?’ Murtha asked. “ There's plenty of time, too, is not theres” , “No, no; there is no time to waste—ther) is never time to waste in this world! Besides, I hay» let things into arrear. Thorsare some matters I shall foryet al- Koyother if L don't put them down myself while I think ofi Martha argued the question no longer, but handed her mistress the articles she desirod. ‘or some two hours she fidgeted with the books and papers, propped up by pillows, to en her to do so more comfor.ubly. Then Martha, coming to her, found another cliange had taken place. Sho lay in a half-dreamy state, and, arousing herself with difficulty, stared yacantly at the woman, The page of the book upon which she had been last occupied was covered with an Indescribable confusion of half-formed figures, iaroe pips and gibberish, had something horribly’ me about it. shut the book up y an it on one side. id take a little now. I'm goin _ to look she said; “ you must no worry about “ sums any more, ad THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER, “No,” the old lady said; “I have done enough, Now all is settled.” Martha went away; but an hour later, the bed-room bell rang, and she hurried up stairs. Her mistress was sitting up in her bed, her eyes staring wildly, her limbs trembling. She caught at Martha’s hand eagerly. “Oh, Martha, Martha! All our lives we have been mad! All our troubles have been for nothing! It has been a mistuke !" “ Yes, dear—yes ! Lie down. Do not excite yourself.” “How you talk! But you do not know. When you hear all, you will see what Isaid was true. Did you meet him on tle stairs?’ “Meet whom? Benson's man? No. I told you he had gone for good—was not coming back again at all.’’ “Tam alniost sorry for that now.” “Why? What do you mean?” “ Because he has come back, you know.” “Whom do you mean ?” “Why, you know. He passed out of the door a mo- ment before you camein. He entered by the window, and passed out by the door.” “Oh, my poor dear, lie down—lie down! Try to compose yourself, You are talking so strangely 1” “An, that’s true! It must seem odd to you, if you have not seen him ; but he is here, I tell you! Do you think I cannot believe my own eyes and ears? My son is here. He was not drowned. He has returned. Five minutes ago he sat there by the bedside on that chair, He held my hand in his and said, ‘Mother, I am so sorry you are ill. I have been away a long while; but I could not help it. I was ashamed to return, because I could not pay the money, I did not know my stop- ping away so long would make you suffer so much ; but it will be all right now. I never forged that bill. It is not in my handwriting. You will see all will come right.’”” he old servant listened to this wild story with a strange, indescribable fear upon her. Of course no one had been in the room, least of all the dead son who had been the cause of those weary years of misery the sick lady had passed through ; but what could haye caused her to have this fancy all at once ? Two entirely new theories had been started by her simultaneously. The forged bill had not been forged by the son, The son was still alive. Whilst Martha was yet pondering over this, her mistress sank wearily back upon the pillow, and seemed to doze olf to sleep. Harriet came to the door, and gently turned the handle. “She is very excited to-day, miss," said Martha. “We must keep her quite quiet. If you would take a walk—you look so pale and ill—we may have to sit up with her all night—a walk will do you good. You will feel stronger then.” The day passed slowly, and twilight began to gather once again in the corners of the room. “Martha!” the old woman called to her, “Yes, dear!’’ “That is only the clock ticking on the stairs, ia it?’’ “That is all. Does itannoy you? Shall I stop it?” “No, no! not now I know itis only that! Do you know, I was afraid of it once? How silly; but we are like that! I was afraid about that bill, too. But, then, how could we know? It is so extraordinary he should be alive when we thought him to be dead—ian't it?” Her mind was still running on this mad fancy, A few minutes later she spoke again. “Ts that the clock still ticking?” “Yes.” “Let it go on as long as I do,” she said, and closed her eyes again. The darkness seemed to speaking. Without, the sun was setting redly behind the trees. Harriet, at the bottom of the garden, stood gazing at it sadly, and watching its crimson turn to purple, then to brown, then to a dull, dead slate color. At last nothing was left of the setting sun. It might never have been. She turned with a heavy sigh towards the house, standing cold and dark against the leaden sky. The leaves crept shuddering past, and huddled to- gether beneath the bare trunks of the trees. She opened the back door cautiously, she hardly knew why, and stepped noiselesaly across the threshold, then paused to listen. Within was perfect silence, save for the loud, clear, regular ticking of the clock. She heard this distinctly, and counted as she did so. Then, of a ye — was a dead silence, The clock had stoppe Almost at the same moment she heard a long, low, wailing cry in the room above, Her mother was dead ! There on the bed i¢ lay, where she had been! Martha, on her knees by the bed, groveled in an agony of grief and despair. “Oh, my mistress, my poor, dear dar- ling! You were no mistress to me—you were my friend, the only friend Thad! Oh, you are not dead! You shali not. die! What have T left?” Harriet anpero her side, and, sinking down on her Lr roe enna er, timidly caught at her hand, sobbing y- thicken as she ceased FIGURE THE THIRTEENTH. IN WHICH A GIPSY GIRL MAKES A MISTAKE, Srer 1.—THE MAN WHO HESITATED AND WAS LOST. STEP I. Rvearer hed quite made up his mind that he would | should : not stop another week in town. If some arrangement “I wonder it has never occurred to you that there ia — could not be entered into with Sir Roly’s friend, the Colonel, he would go away by himself anywhere. He had no choice, as long as it was a good way off. He was quite determined, though, about one thing. As I have already said, he would not stop another week in town. A fortnight passed, and he was still indo- lently strolling along Pall Mall, and, as usual, smoking acigar. It was only an eightpenny one, however. You soe, he was beginning to be economical. He was obliged to be so. Sir Roly’s friend, Colonel Cordery, had returned to town and lett again hurriedly, Sir Roly missed him by a moment, Everest thought he himself would write, and he gave Sir Roly the letter, with the address blank ; Sir Roly saying that was the best and quickest plan, as he would ascertain where the Colonel was, and forward it direct. To this letter Everest received no reply, and felt rather annoyed at what he thought to be extreme rudeness on the Colonel's part. Ho, therefore, deter- mined to let the matter go, and look out for something else. Blair, too, had promised to help him, as we have seen. In their next interview hetrankly owned that he could do nothing with the Colonel. “Wagstaffe can do it, if anyone can, if we are to be- lieve him,” said he. ‘He's as good a hearted fellow as ever lived, but perhaps a trifle unreliable. Talke loosely—does not a, close enough to the meaning of words—promises too hastily. I can’t forgive that to him. I've told him so over and over again, But I think he’s all right this time, and he'll do it for you if itis in his power. One thing Ican promise. If he does not manage this, I will manage something as good, or better. There is no hurry for a few hours, is there ?’’ “No; it’s not quite a question of hours yet.” This conversation took place over the dessert at Blair's dinner-table, where they were sitting alone, Mise Blair having leit them to go into the drawing-room. Sir Roly was not Blair's guest upon this occasion, por had Everest encountered him again at Blair's house since the first occasion. When they had met,it had been Everest who had sought out the baronet; and, indeed, he had taken some trouble to do so, for Bir Roly was eminently un-get-at-able. Everest had now been to Blair’s to dinneron four or five occasious within a couple of weeks, and had made several morning calls, which had been of more than ordinary length. He had also been one of a party to Richmond; and, on the fourteenth day of the ac- quaintance, he found himself standing on the platform at the Charing Cross Station bidding the young lady good-bye, for she was going to Paris for amonth. Her tather accompanied her, but would return, “Iam very sorry I am not one of the party,” hesaid. She laid her hand upon his arm, and looked into his eyes from her seat in the carriage. “I am very sorry, too,” she answered; “but why don’t you come?” “‘I—I don’t know. I'm afraid I can’t,’ he stammered, “Have you _ important engagements ?” “No; none. Nothing of the kind.” “You are too fond of town to leave it?” “T hate London. There's nothing I should like bet- ter than to go away and never see it again.” “Then why do you not come? Do!" The pressure of the delicately-gloved hand was more decided now, and there was something pleading in the dark gray eyes fixed on him, Blair had been away a minute or two seeing after the “He will “Of course. I have luggage. He returned at this juncture. come!” Blair said, decisively. taken his ticket |’ “Taken my ticket ?'’ stammered Everest, end with a sudden flush that had some anger init. “What made you do that?” “ Because I thought it was the only way to persuade — I know I could not haye done it any other way. here! see, it’s areturn. You can get back to-morrow if you like, only come over with us! Youcan telegraph when you get to Dover to say you will be away for a few hours; it need not be longer than that, if you don’t like, you know!” Throughout bis life, indecision hal been one of Everest’s worse failings. He was fora moment unde- cided, and then he took his seat in the , and the train started and bore the three travelers s' iy away. The lady reader of this eter My say, He was love with Blair's daughter.” reader will be wrong. He was not a bit in love with her. * * * * * * Everest and his companions went to the Hotel Bristol, where rooms had been _—— Aiter dinner, Blair and he took a walk, and sat and smoked their cigars at a little marble table outside a cafe; for the night, al-" though it was late in the autumn, was as wari “4 s summer's evening, and only a soit zephyr rustled the gold-tinted leaves upon the trees in front ie It was a atrange sight, and rather a sad one. Blair looked at it unmoved, and leaning back, puffed rings of smoke into the air that floated upwards, then lengthened, and broke, and burst their shape, mingling with the darkness over-head, Everest’s cigar lay idly between his lips; it had gone out, and he had forgotten it. Suddenly Blair's voice aroused him from a reverie into which he had fallen. “Don't yeu think it would be s mistake on your part to — ee in savage countries, buffaloes “No; why ?” “Wh ill buffaloes? Iunderstand it’s overdone as it is, the wholesale slaughter of buffaloce goes on much longer asit has been going on, there will be none ot the poor brutes left.” 723 Evereat laughed. — af “I'm not eer pledged to ne Men will do, if there’s nothing more exciting! I wish erenenony, would o) up # new gold-diggings somewhere, itke to ~ pold-digging !" BEES hey ‘
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~s ee y os re “ , geld to be dug up over there in England much easier.” “I dare say some people could make a great deal more money than ever any one man dug up by sitting quiet- ly at a desk with a penin his hand, But I know J couldn't.” “I think you would not have to work very much harder than that to make a good thumping sum.” “What trade can I take up? Write a book ?’’ “Certainly not!” * Make a book?” “You might do worse than that ; but you don’t care for betting. Ido.” “No; I don’t think that I should do very much with betting. What else is there? I should preter some- thing exciting—not quite so exciting, perhaps, as the berth I was offered at the wild beast show I told you of. Something stirring, though, with some risks in it.” “T think I can, perhaps, help you to something of that kind ; but you know my little weakness ; I won't ‘oe myself exactly just yet, Iwill promise nothing. ‘ou must be patient. In a day or two I shall know. Stop here for that time with us. It’s amusing, isn’t it? Always something fresh here—something tosee. That's a good-looking gipsy , isn’t she? What a brute the boy is {—an id‘ot, I think. They're going to sing.”’ ‘he gipsies alluded to had taken up a position. al- most opposite to the table where Biair and Everest were sitting, and, as Blair spoke, the girl began, ina low, clear voice, to sing, or rather to chaunt, a strange, wild melody, which presently the boy took part in, accompanying the words with uncouth gestures and distortions of countenance which were by turns gro- | Besides a pack of rubbish ! ue and horrible. The exhibition appeared to suit the taste of the by- THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER, may be well imagined, this curions incident was sur- prising enough even to startle him. After a moment, however, he decided that it was a thing to laugh at, not to trouble his head about seek- ing for an explanation of its meaning; and he turned towards the spot where Blair had been sitting a min- ute or two ago, which was a little behind his own chair; but his friend had gone. He look after him to the right and to the left; but Biair was nowhere visible. ‘“‘What has become of him, I wonder?” he said to himself, “He has not gone after the gipsies, 1 sup- pose. Couldn't have done that. Why should he? It's no business of his, and he has no earthly reason, that I know of, to interest himself so much in my affairs.” Whilst he was still pondering thus, Blair returued. “1 was afraid you would think I was lost,”’ he said. “You did not go utter those gipsies, did you?” “Me? No. Isawa man I knew, and went to speak tohim, Have they been back *" “No.” “It was rather an odd thing, was it not? Cases of mistaken identity turn out rather awkwardly some- times.’” “ What do you mean by that?” “ Oh, nothing. This gentleman in the rags and tatters was down at Haggleford the time you were there, it seems,” “It seems so,”" “Did you remember what she said his name was ?”’ “No; I'm not very good at remembering names. What's the good our talk- ing about it any more ?” “No good at all, except for talks sake. I have it, stan lers, and a shower of sous fell into the girl's tam-| though. It was Deverel !—Dick Deverell! A striking bourine when, at the end of the song, she went the | kindof name! round of the crowd. She worked her way along by the many tables stand- ing out upon the pavement under the cafe awning, and came in due course to that where Everest and his new friend sat, and she held out the tambourine. But at the sight of Everest’s face she drew it back again suddenly, and her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled. Then she muttered some dozen or so of words in great anger, but they were in # language with which neither of the listeners were familiar. “ What does she say ?”’ asked Blair, 7 “I don't know. It’s gipsy talk, That's Romany, you now.” “Yes, Romany,” the girl answered quickly, this time speaking broken English. ‘‘ We'llnot take your money. We don’t wantit. It would bring us ill luck, as you did yourself when last we met.” Everest looked towards his new friend in unfeigned astonishment. “What does she mean?” he said. “Is she talking to you? [never saw her before.” “You hear what the gentleman says,” said Blair. “You're laboring under a delusion, my dear girl. ‘The gentleman has not the honor of your acquaintance.” The girl fixed her eyes steadily upon Everest’s face, then tossed her head, with a short, harsh laugh. “I know him very well. I never forget any one I have once well looked at. I'll tell you when Il saw you the last time. You were dressed then like a fine gen- tleman, as you are now,and you met Squire Challice and the young lady he’s going to be married to—they were driving—at the gates leading into the new Hall park. Do you remember ?” Everest started, and colored slightly. “1 remember very well meeting Mr. Challice and the dady as you say, but I did not see you. After rll, what ofit, though ?”’ “T'll tell you where I saw you, then, the last time but one.” “ Do so, by all means, Was I dressed like & gentle- man then ?’ “No, You were in rags and tatters. Your clothes ‘were soaked with the water of the mill stream they had se you in, You eame up to our camp-fire one night, and begged our people to let youdry yourself by it. You were shivering with cold tnd haif starved, I found you a place by the fire, and gave you something to eat. you remember that?” : “No, upon my life, I don’t!’’ cried Everest, evidently much astonished, ‘ Goon.” Blair listened silently. “ Your coming there brought us all ill luck, as Ish- mael saidit would. It cau the police to be down on us} and they found two or three bits of ribbish our ; le had gathered off the hedges by the way. Next y the camp had to be broken up,and we were scat- tered right and left. My brother and I were strangers in that country. We wanted to come south—get over here, to work our way back to Spain, which is our home. We had no money to get on with, and tried to makes some by our singing; but they are all savages in the country you belong to. They hissed us and threw tonex it us. Then the Sp came, aud we were taken befor» tie Squire, and he called us rogues and vaga- \ bonds, and sent us to jail.” “TI am sorry you haye been so unfortunate,” said Everest; “and I hope you are doing better now. They like you here, it seems. Let me give you something to help vou on your way.’” t * “Not a farthing. You pretend still you do not know me.” Pte a= tall ba ag t Dick Deverel ” Pe your name is not Dic ‘erel 2" _ “Dick Deverel | No.” ‘ ig Styl ‘The fir took a long breath, and stood motionless before them. ‘Then, hastily approaching her brother, ‘whe plucked at his sleeve, and ted to Pcie nsigreae The idiot 7 his mr “eee his ‘a, gave a start, t alked quickly. en very hey went away, the boy shaking his head as 4 unconvinced by what his sister was saying. erest watched them with no little interest, for, as “v > Aa» : i a + - "by the mid-day train,’’ * * * Have you ever heard of it before, your- self ?”’ Something suddenly dawned upon Everest’s mind. «* By Jove, yes !—I heard it once, or something very like it, but I forget where.” “ Don’t you remember tolling me about your strug- gle with the tiger in the wild beast show ?” “To besure! It was a name like that the man who was bitten gave me. Did I tell you again?” “No; you said his name was Dick Darrel |” “Jt was something of that kind—I can't swear to it; but I fancy now it was most likely Deverel. I’m nearly sure it was. How came you to remember so well?” “T can’t tell you; only, I generally bear these things in mind. Something else struck me as rather singular at the time; and when that girl mentioned the name, it brought it back to my recollection.” “I know nothing particular about the affair, except that the brute of a tiger took a deal of strangling before he would leave go.” “Don’t you remember something else, though—that the showman noticed a striking likeness between Deverel and yourself ?”’ “To be sure, he did, now you mention it; but I had forgotten.” “Don t you see, then, that the Deverel the girl spoke of must have been the one you met?” “If that were the case, then the man who was soaked through by being chucked into the mill-stream was very probably a poor fellow Challice and Lrescued from the mob. He was a ‘welcher,’ pickpocket, or some- thing, who had been robbing the folks on the race- course. Rather nice to be mistaken fora vagabond of that kind, isn’t it ?”” “ What was the showman’s name—do you recollect?” “Not in the least! But, good gracious me! let’s change the subject.” “Shall we go back to the hotel ?” “IT think so; I’m rather tired.” Arriving at the hotel, Everest bade his friend good night, and went to his room, taking up the Times with him to read, as was his habit, in bed, Haying undressed himself, and lain down, he took the paper up, folded as it was, and glanced down the list of births, maeciagees and deaths. The first name in the latter was ¢ , and the paragraph recorded the death of Harriet’s mother. “Tought to write,” he said. “It is only commonly polite to do 60.” ‘Then he turned the paper over to another part, and looked at it very hard for half an hour, thinking he was reading. “I'll go back to town to-morrow,” he said to himself, When Everest rang the bell next morning for his bath, the waiter bough with ita note, which he said Mr, Blair had left for him over night. Left for me?” repeated Everest, in astonishment. “Where is he?” “He went away by the night train.” “ Where to?" “JI don’t know, sir. Perhaps he says in the letter.” “To be sure,” said Everest, tearing it open—‘ and Miss Blair?’ “She is in her room.” “Oh!” said Everest; and he felt, if possible, rather more eager than before to learn further particulars, The note, however was rather brief : “My pear Everest: We have known one another but a very short time, yet I trust I can call you my friend. It ia only of a real friend I would ask the favor Iam compelled to ask now. I have just received news of an alarming accident in my stable. I must start this yery minute. You are asleep. Ihave not time to ex- plain more. Will you pay. the hotel bill with enclosed, and take my daughter on to Marseilles? Iwill meet you there, at the Hotel du Louvre; that is the newest and best. May I rely on you to do me this great favor? “ Yours sincerely, «J, Bua.” “ { wnt Everest gave a long whistle. + *Confounded like impertinence if seems fo me!” gc* at P w] a said ho, “Asking mo to drag his daughter over five hundred miles by the railway! What are these ?’’ He looked over the notes enclosed in the envelope as he spoke, “A hundred pounds! He does not spoil his ship for a half-pennyworth of tar, anyhow. An alarming acci- dent! What is it, I wonder? Well, I don’t see my way out of the thing very clearly. I must take care of Miss Blair, I suppose, «ud do what I am told.’ STEP II. Everest found that Miss Blair had received an even shorter note trom her tather than that addressed to him. In one line he said, “ Obliged to go to England, Coming back, Everest will explain.” Everest, therefore, explained as well as he could. Fortunately, Miss Blair, being a very self-restrained, matter-of-fact young lady, the shock was not a very hard one, and the situation less awkward than at first he expected it would turn out. She and her maid left Paris that afternoon, under Evcrest’s care, and Miss Blair and Everest traveled first- class, the maid second. There are a good many men like Everest. Miss Blair herself was not nearly so well satisfied by the existing state of affairs. Blair arrived in the middle of the day, and coming on foot to the hotel, quietly inquired if his daughter was within, “No; the English mademoiselle had gone out for a walk with the English monsieur.”” Blair ascertained the direction they had taken, and followed, looking cautiously about as he did so, that they might not come upon him unawares. He had not proceeded very far down a long prom- enade, lined on either side by trees, when he saw them coming towards him, and he stepped behind a tree to watch them. She was talking earnestly. He was listening attentively, and looking down into her face. They did not pass near enough ior Blair to catch any of the words she uttered. When he reached the hotel, he asked for Miss Blair, and was shown up to her room. “Well, father, you have come at last!"’ was her greeting, with a weary sigh, as she seated herself, ‘There was no accompanying embrace, and he did not seem to look forit. He quietly seated himself also, and did not smile. He saw at once there was something wrong, and that things were not going on satis- factorily. “ T have hada good deal to do,” he said. “ Could not get here sooner. That ought not to have been any drawback. Well?” “Well, what?” “Oh, that’s it? Nothing come of it ?” “Nothing. It is waste of time. We had better go back again.” “That is owning to an ignominious defeat. You've had plenty of time, I’m sure, to twist a dozen such round your finger, Well, lsuppose we must have pa- tience.”’ “We must give the thing up, I say, I will have no more to do with it,” “ You're not 4 tool, are you ?” “No, I am not.”’ “ Have you taken a dislike to the man ?” “On the contrary,” 5 What is it, then? Oh, I see; another woman “ Bah! in the case !'’ “Yes.” / “You've found out all about her, \of course. Who is she? What's her name?” . ‘Her name is Challice. She is engaged to be married to Charles Challice, of Haggleford.”” Blair gave a long, low whistle; then st with his hands plunged into his pockets, perfectly still and mo- tionless. Aiter a pause, he chuckled. “That will do quite as well,’ he said. ‘They are to be married ina month, I heard. Charles Chalice, eh? This may turn out very lucky.” ‘ " He moved towards the door, but she called him ack. “ What is it you want with this man ?” she asked. “My dear, that is my affair,” he answered, quietly. “One thing I should have liked with him was for bim to have been your husband. You won't find a richer one very easily.” “He says he has not got B penny,” “He may say whet he likes. He does not know. How- ever, I won't press you in the matter.” And he went away. After dinner, when they were alone ether, Blair thanked Everest for his great kindness to daughter, a service which, he said, he could never repay. “TI think I can do you 4 kind of service now, however, I'm happy to tell you,” said Blair; ‘but I hardly like to speak too positively. I fancy I may be able to help you to your own property.” : “My property! What do you mean ?” “You recollect our talking at Paris, outside that cafe where we saw the Spry et. about gold-digging ; and I said Kory was gold to be dug up in {ingland tee “ es.”” “Well, by some extraordinary chance, I heard something that led me to believe there was a large sum of money lying unclaimed which should properly have been yours. | . chless at what | Everest was for a moment struck E he heard. When he recovered himself he said, “The ne of my allowance, Soe ‘was caused by Benson death ; it is the same money ir 4 't was Benson's mo! “Benson was Kantor 3 Snare Seketens Teco} ; he had a name may let him rest at peace now * 8 *.)) weer? ; 7
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ha cy i eo newl hased horse re _# We'll som them what we cand “That's true. It was a shock, though, to find that | the money I had beon, living on all these years—playing | the fine gentleman—came to me through such an agency. y } 9 got to do with it. Wasit a kind of conscience-money ?” | “No ; it was not that.” | “You know, then, who my relations were—who my | father was?” F | “T knew your father at one time. The lawyer will tell you all about him.” j « But who was he, ina word ?” | “ Benson.” STEP IV. “T'Lu go out and smoke a cigar,” said Everest. want a breath of fresh air.’’ It was past ten o'clock, and Marseilles on a chilly | autumn night, when there is a drizzling rain falling, is | not generally very gay at ten. He found the stroet without quite deserted. Not a soul was to be seen. — Yes, one, That was the sound of a footfall behind him. “ Whist |” Everest turned quickly, and found aman, muffled up ina comforter, and with his coat-collar pulled up round his ears, making mysterious a, poy cs “Don't Bay & word. Where is he? he coming ? “ Whom?’ a; “ That infernal—you know whom I mean—Blair.” “Blair!” repeated Everest, in astonishment, No. has happened ?” wae oe acon this street. There's a wine-shop open there. I want a drink—I'm choking. What has happened? Nothing fresh. Wants to throw me off now he’s got all he can out of me; but I’m not to be chucked off so easy. I said, ‘See here Blair—I brought him to you, and you think he’s your property; but I'll let him know who and what youare.’ I sworo I would, and I will, though I don’t make a brass farthing by the ob.” . : “Of whom are you speaking ?’”” “Ofyou. Who else shouldit be? You’re in s trap. Blair is the biggest scoundrel unhung |” “J FIGURE THE FOURTEENTH, IX WHICH COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE. Strep I.—LIrrhe JACKY’s TROUBLE. “ IL—AN UGLY DISCOVERY, STEP I. Ox the door of a genteel house near Poet’s Corner, at this exact period of history, a highly burnished brass plate bore the name of Mouser, who wa-, the plate fur- ther informed those interested in the information, an accountant, We have, however, little to do with Mouser, who might, or might not, have been able, if called upon, to satisfactorily account for himself and his accounting on behalf of others. Mouser had a personality, it is true, but behind him was a greater power. Mouser was the proscenium, as it were, and Blair, the leviathan book- maker, worked the machinery at the back, and raised or lowered the curtain, as events required. One day, Dr. Trueman, with a troubled face and sink- ing heart, walked past the brass plate and tapped at the office door, Mouser called out “ Come in !” and popped up his head to see who it was. “Oh, it’s you, doctor!” said he. “Mr, Blair's inside. He wante to see you, I think,” Then Mr. Mouser wrote something on a scrap of paper, and passed into an inner room. A minute or two afterwards the doctor was admitted. “ Well,” said Blair, ‘‘ you’ye brought the money, of course ?”” t «Well, no, I haven't,”’ said Trueman. “T thought not. What have you come for, then?” “Well, as tho money is due,I thought I'd better ” Sv arteatt seo what point there is in that. However, as you are here, you might tell me—is that horse of Chal- lice any good—-the ‘Flash’ Imean? I did not see it run the otiier day. Has it any chance for the Derby, do ht hye a I know, there’s nothing in the race to ” sabes nee the only thing he’s got in his stable worth a button.” orth a b ray cP denthough,”’ said Blair ; ‘and I think it's a pity. ’ n the winner of the Cesarewitch, you Beohow that ‘would send the other up.” “ “ Why, the likely winner is your own horse | ; “Yes;'I'm a yood-natured kind of fellow, and I’ve made quite money enough—more than I want. You shall buy it of me for Challice, if pie like ; and the other I’ve entered for Criterion. 1 don’t want along Pe What do you want?” said the doctor, with a mean- ing smile. # We'll talk of that some other day, Do you want your bill renewed? Let’s see—seven hundred, isn ‘¢ it? _ Buppose we put the interest on--make the new one a thoussnd,and hand you the difference." 2 had won the Cesare- beyond measure de- was, as I have said, lighted. ** He’s worth double the money we gave !" he cried. et |” second race was run, Pre pre an ane Dees faa ty ‘Tihave not the honor of khowing yo ave not the THE DANCING-MASTER. DOOM OF THE a 2 er - - - a SS but we ought to shake hands over the horse's victory. Task your pardon if I'm a little out of order,” — At any other'time Challice might have declined the Challice waesmoking acigar. They neither of then: were talking. “ It’s not over jolly up here,” he thought to himself. t always puzzled me to know what he had | handshaking, or not relished it at all; but he was | ‘ This old tottering, tumble-down place gives one the elated by his success, and just at that moment would | horrors,’’ have shaken hands with anybody. “We ought to drink on it!’ said he; anda bottle of champagne was opened. * * * * * Little Jacky Jacks rode Challice’s horse on both these occasions, and his master tipped him very handsomely, After the second success, Jacky, questioned concerning @ rumor which had lately got about, replied, “* Why not? There's no harm. in it. I don’t see why I shouldn't get married, the same as other folks, ifI think fit.” The rumor was true enough. Little Jack was about to enter the bonds of matrimony. Poor little fool of a Jack, but he did not think it at the time; indeed, it would have been scarcely politic to tell him so, unless you meant fighting. Within amonth, though, of Jack's marriage, and shattering all his blissful dreams at one blow, came news that his father-in-law, whom he had always supposed to be well off, was on the evo of bank- ruptcy. ittle Jack’s newly-married wife went into lvsterics, and passionctely implored him to save her unhappy father. The miserable man said he hardly knew pany 54 could do so, and wentinto the stable, reversed a buckut, sat down upon the top of it, and took his head in his hands. Presently some one tapped him on the shoulder. “* What's amiss, lad?” It was Challico’s amateur trainer speaking to him in akind voice. Jacky, yearning for some sympathizing soul to whom he could pour out all his sorrows, vory quickly told his story. “ About how much would set the old man straight ?” asked Dr. Trueman, “Oh, it would take all of three hundred pound |" “Only that?’ “Only !’’ repeated Little Jacky, opening his eyes very wide. “T might put you on to get it.” “You, sir? It would be awfully good of you! how—by backing a horse ?” “No; by backing a bill—that’s all! I think I know some one who would lend you the money, I've ano- tion IT can get at him; but we ought to be sure of something first.” “That can pay him back if my wife's father can’t?” ‘No, no; we must not entertain the thing at all un- less we are quite sure it will set him straigh’. -morrow. I'll tell you what I'll do, Jacky: I'll look the whole thing up, and if it’s all square—well, tho money’s forthcom- ing at once!” ittle Jack, fit to cry with joy, clutched at his bene- factor’s hand. “How can I thank you” said he. “You haven't got to,” the other answered, with a laugh, slapping little Jacky upon the shoulder as he spoke, “You're an honest fellow; that’s enough for me! There’s no obligation at all. You do your duty tothe governor and the governor's horses; that’s a good bit, if you doit well.” ; ‘+1 always have, sir, I hope?” “Yes, you have.” And he patted little Jacky once more upon the back before taking his departure. - “By jingo! he’s the right sort!” cried little Jacky, smiting his leg emphatically when the doctor had got right out of sight. “ What should I have done without him?” Poor little Jacky! As for the doctor, he very quietly traveled up to town, and bent his steps towards Poets’ Corner. He found Blair there, as he had an appointment for some other business. “fT can square the jock,” said Trueman,when the door was closed behind him, “ What is it worth ?” eda * * * * * In the afternoon ef the following day Dr. Trueman returned to East Haggleford with three hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, took Jacky’s accept- ance, and handed him the money as unconcernedly, Jacky afterwards said, as though he had been handing him a simple pinch of snuff. iomaee. fon tacks packs Jigs and sorrows... For the » they have no great weight upon the s in and, Presently, much may eonve of Son oe * * * * * * * It was quite true that the hed was going to be married shortly. It was settled that it should tak place in the early part of May. On the last Wednesday * * But inthe same month the Derby was ti eventful month this was to be.” j i bee a STEP II. Fg were oe fsb oar ey were at Venice just then—tottering, crumbli: old Venice—that soft, dreamy city on the sea, that flippant tourists have striven in vain to vulg: . They were lodged at a hotel, which had been a ace that had fallen into difficulties, and it stood upon banks of the Grand Canal. a It was night. They had dined, and then gone out the to look di win coloned am, pug and repusuny nate . 80! fio, came floating towards them over the waters, _ The gov’nor’s going to. } There happened to be aman with whom he was on | speaking terms in the room below, seated at the win- | dow, and/he went over and took his place by his side, jand they began to talk about the Cambridgeshire, whilst they stared idly out at the curious scene upon the water before them. They had not been there very | long, and Challice had his head turned away at the time, when his friend uttered an exclamation of sur- prise. | “Look here Challice. You know that man, don’t you, in the gondola there, staring up at the window above. He is bowing to some one. Do you see ?” Challice stepped out quickly upon the balcony, and recognized Everest, passing by in a gondola. He was leaning forward, and still gazing eagerly up at the bal- }cony. As he passed away intothe darknoss, Challice jookad up, and saw a portion of the skirt of Harriet’s dress. It occurring to him that he ought not to leave his wife alone much longer, and having now finished his cigar, he bade his friend good-night, and went up stairs, Harriet was still sitting where he had left her. At the sound of his voice she started, and, hastily pusing her handkerchicf across her face, came towards him. He could not help noticing that she was agitated, and that her eyes were red and swollen. “Come, my dear,” he said; ‘you have been long enough out there; you wil. be catching cold. By the way,” he added, presently, “ were not you surprised to 8e0 Everest hore?” “What do you mean?” “ Why, he passed in a gondola, and bowed to you |” “ Did you see him ?” “ Yes, to be sure; I was just undorneath.” She had her back turned towards him, and was jean- ing with her chin upon her hand, looking into the glass over the mantel-piece. . “Yes,” she said, after a pause; “I was surprised.” “ By the way,”’ Challice observed, after another pause rss long one—‘“‘I don’t know that there ia anything very surprising in his being here. He must be some- where. I suppose we ought to look him up? Iwonder where he is, and what he has been doing all this while ?” s * oo * She did not answer. Next day Challice made some inquiries respecting his old friend, but could learn nothing about him. one of the name of Everest was known at any of the principal hotels. The day aiter, the newly-married eiein ane Venice, and within a week were back at the 5 Mrs. Challice was waiting to welcome them, and took | aetna in her arms and kissed her ten- erly. “ You have traveled too far, my dear, I'm afraid,” she said. ‘ You look a little pale and thin, I fancy.” Harriet saw another well-known face beyond, waiting anxiously, as it seemed, for her turn, It was Martha, She went forward, and kissed her mother's old servant. “ Martha does not live here,” Mrs. Challice said. “ We have given her a nice little cottage all by herself down the hill-side there, just outside the ‘k, where she can be cosy and comfortable, and not be bothered by anyone. But she would come up to welcome you. e had been most anxious, You are late, you know.” Evidently there was some anxiety visible on Martha's face, though she strove to hide it trom observation. desi tly she whispered low to Harriet, “I must speak you.” Harriet’s heart beat violently. “Is it about that?” “ Yes.” * * ° * * * * “ Whore on earth has Harriet gone to?’ Mrs. Challice asked, about two hours later. “Have you seen hor, Charles? She isn’t in her room,” “She must be walking in the park. She will be here directly.” “But she will be late for dinner.” . ‘ St mayy with old Martha, I think, Ill go and look for . i Challice rose, and went through the French window on to the lawn. It was nearly dark, but he had not gone far when he saw Harriet’s figure come out from among the trees, and walk rapidly towards him. He saw, too, when she caught sight of him, that she came to a momentary standstill, and seemed as though she hesitated, uncer- tain whether to advance or retire, just as though sho were asking herself if he had seen her. He advanced, and said, calmly, “ We have been won- dering where you were, you have been absent so long.” “I walked over to Martha's cottage. We were ta ing. Idid not notice how the time was slipping away.” “We were very anxious.” : “Tam very sorry.” They walked on to the house without exchanging another word. : Dinner bell rang just then, and Challice hurried — down stairs. Young Mrs. Challice had not come down — to the room, and when it was time to Charles's mother sent after her. : t F She was not in her room. ‘The maid sald she hed not aroused for dinner, She had put on her hat and. cloak, “Gone out I” cried Challic, in awudden No =
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FIGURE THE FIFTEENTH. IN WHICH THE RACE 18 RUM, Sree I1.—A WHITE, SCARED Fa0m, % IL—a BAD NIGHT. © IIl.—THE STABLE. « IV.—THE RACE. STEP I. Scanorty knowing whether he were asleep or awake, Challice went out into the grounds by a side door. Upon the very threshold of it he was mot face to face by his wife. She was evidently much agitated. Her breath came short and fast. She clung to the door-post for sup- rt. we Harriet, tell me what has happened?” he ex- claimed, But as she made no reply, he asked the question again. There was a curious blending of impatience and pain in the tone of her voice. “Tam tired to death! I want to lis down—to reat! “But tell me, where have you been?—what has oc- ourred ?”’ “How you bother! I lost that bracelet you gave me. I dropped it somewhere in the park, and went back to find it.” “But why didyou not say so? IT would have sent some one, or gone myself.” “1 waa afraid to tell you, that was why. I thought u would be so angry. It is the diamond bracelet— 6 one you said was so valuable.” “Yes, it is worth a good deal. Whatever made you ooutinit? It was a most extraordinary thing to do, But we must find it. I will send servants out with lanterns at once. Dinner is ready now, and my mother is ina dreadful state!” “Lcannot goin. You must make some excuse for me,” **Excuse! What can I say?” “Anything; but I cannot go in—I cannot bear it. Bosides, I am not dressed.’’ “That won’t matter. Let me take offyourhat. Why, your earrings are gone! and — Harriet, what is the meaning of all this?” “T tell you, nothing. I—I am very ill!” And she burst into a violent fit of sobbing. “Hush, hush!” he said; “or you will be heard. All this sends memad! Why, youresris bleeding! Have you been robbed? The earring must have been snatched out {” “Yes,” she cried, suddenly facing round on him. “That is it. I was stoppedin the plantation and rob- bed. Now let me go.” But, Harriet, for mercy’s sake, stay one moment! Can you give me any description of the man who did it? I'll send for the constables |” ** That is quite useless |” ** Useless?” he repeated. a “Yea ; Lean give you no description of him. It was so dark,"’ “So dark! But you said just now that you went out to find the bracelet. Whatdoesit all mean? Harriet, Tinsist on knowing !"” “Don't speak so loud! These people will hoar you. Go back to them—make some excuse, and leave me to ae for one hour. If you don’t, I think I shall et” Ho let go of her arm, which a moment before he had beon holding tightly, and she flew past him up a back staircase towards her room. Challice passed his hand across his forehead, and seomed for a moment wholly incapable of thought or Charles, let me go up stairs. action. What did everything mean? His brainseemed ina whirl. When he turned to walk, he fairly stag- gered. The rustle of a silk dress startled him, and, looking up, he saw his mother approaching, “ We—we must make some excuse for Harviect. 4g taken suddenly ill. She is up in her room.” **I will go to her at once.” “ Yes—no—presently, perhaps. Go back to the ple. I can’t face them just now.” “ What will every one think?” “I don't know, and don't care,” he answered, sul- lenly. “I wish they were all at the bottom of the ses.” She pressed his hand, and with one tender, anxious look into his averted face, hurried back to the drawing- room, where, sure enough, the company assembled were beginning to feel not alittle astonished and un- easy by the unusual delay, for dinner had been an- nounced to be ready a good twenty minutes ago. Challice, glad of & moment’s reprieve, walked out into the open air, and looking up into the sky, spoke his thoughts aloud. “T cannot send any one after this robber—if a robber exists. But was it true that she had been robbed? She contradicted herself twice. It was quite clear that there was not a single word of truth in the atory she was telling me, for the second was as false as the first! But what is this mystery? Merciful powers! what shame and disgrace is at the bottom of this?’ He heard footsteps approach upon the gravel path at a@ quick pace, and a moment after the voice of the little lawyer called to him. “Is that you, Captain? Bless me! What are you Aoing out here all by yourself? However, I am glad I found you alene, ut that letter you wrote me from Bonlogne ?’”” “‘A letter 2?” “Don't you remember? You ought. A letter asking a to get you a couple of thousspa pounce a ‘es; to he sure! I had forgotten it! headache |"’ She THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER, “Well, you'll excuse me if Isay your letter gave me & splitting headache too! Why, my dear sir, the thing's an absolute impossibility! We are dipped, sir, asit ist We're confoundedly deeply dipped! I don’t quite see how all the claims against us are to be paid off ’’—— “What an extraordinary thing it is there's invariably this absura difficulty about ready money!” cried Chal- lice, impatiently. ‘It is always just the same story.” * Captain Challice, it is quite out of the question. You couldn’t raise it in any way I know of, unless you gave a bill ofsale upon the house and furniture.” “ A bill of sale. We're not bankrupt, are we?” “ You're not entirely solvent, so I don’t deceive you, | sir. But there, we'll get over it all right if—if you win the race {"” * Does it depend on that?” “ Captain Challice, I would not for the world have your mother know it, but that is the solemn truth.” “‘ Whist!” said Challice; and he preceded his legal friend at a slow pace up the steps, and along the pas- sage, to the dining-room. Just above the place whore they had been speaking was Harriet’s bedroom. Neither of them looked up during the conversation, or they might have been frightened almost at the sight of a white, scared face | peering out eagerly, the moonlight resting on it. It was a beautiful moonlight night; scarcely a breath ofair was stirring. Every word uttered down below was distinctly audible to the listener above. STEP H, Tue company had at last sat down to dinner. The intelligence of young Mrs. Challice’s sudden indisposi- tion had been quite sufficient to account for the long delay, and for the temporary absence of Challice him- self; but a damper had fallen upon those seated round this ordinarily joyous table, which the well-meant efforts of the most ready-witted entirely failed to dis- sipate. Mumbling something about going to see how Harriet was, Challice got away from his friends, and passed up the passage where he and Harriet had had their last in- terview, really with the intention of getting out into the garden, where he could be alone, unmolested, un- seen, and at liberty to think. But this was not to be. His wife’s maid met him, holding a notein her hand, He took it from her. It was in his wife's handwriting. and ran thus: “My dear, I have something toask you. I must ask you. [am afraid. Do not think me mad—mad. For- give me; it willall be explained—explained. I know | fteen hundred pounds is a large sum, and without questions; but you will not mistrust without any uestions, and all can be explained very soon. isis the truth. I feel very ill, and can hardly see what I am writing. “Your affectionate wife, “* Hannrer.”’ Challica read through this extraordinary jumble | twice, and stood there, with the paperin his hand, his lips moving faintly, but no sound issuing from them. ; The maid, he presently remembered, was still wait- ng. “Did your mistress want an answer to—this?’’ “Yes; sir; she saidso; but, poor thing, she is very ill, and I—I don’t think she knows exactly what she wants.” “She is very ill, do you ssy? Has the doctor been sent for?” “ Doctor Henshaw, whom Mrs. Challice, senior, gen- erally employs—the new doctor, we call him—has been | and I did not know | | risky as this.’’ sent for, but he was not at home; what to do hardly.” “There is Trueman. He iscleverer than any of them. Hoe’s in the house now. He was not at dinner, but I saw him go into the billiard-room as we came away from table. Let him go up-stairs, and—and I'll see what he says presently.” The girl went away, and Challice darted throu) the door into the open air. “What is going to happen? he cried. “I cannot bear this much foager! Everything at once—every- thing at once !’’ STEP III. Nor very often did a horse go up snd down in the betting:as did Captain Challice’s Flash o' Lightning. The amount of hedging that was done by her off and on backers was something wonderful. As for the owner himself, he was so thoroughly upset by the events of that dreadful day Ihave described, that he almost wished he had never seen a race-horse in his hfe. “ TI swear I'd scratch him!” he cried, wildly, one day; “but I can’t. If he does not win, there’s an end of me.” Harriet was now lying in a most dangerous state Trueman said that she was suffering from brain fever. She did not know him when he spoke to her, and her | The lady’s-maid said it fright- | talk was of the wildest: ened her, and she wished a substitute would take her place. Charles’ mother then sent for old Martha, who heard all and said nothing. * * * * * * * Doctor Trueman had hardly time to attend to a sick lady; a sick horse was, just now, ever 86 Much more important to him and thousands of other people, who would not have cared a snap of the finger whether Har- riet had lived or died. The other doctor, therefore, was sent for, and took | Truemian’s place. Challice, quite distracted, was no good | og at the stables, and Trueman’s presence there was abso- ( # bowl of indignation in certain smiall sporting circles. | } | t T have a)! lutely necessiry. Two days before the Derby there was | o eens mee remap ncunsmttenpen ann =steeeenero>-n eS SS A NR Greyhound, another horse of Challice's, entered for the race, and by many of the “knowing ones’’ thonght to be a better horse even than the Flash, was scratched.” The intelligence astounded the owner himself. Ha suddenly awoke from a kind of lethargy, into which he had fallen, and sent a telegram to Trueman, who, with Jucks had accompanied the horse to Epsom, “ By whose authority did you do what you have done about G, ?” The answer came very quickly, “Leave it al) to me ; I will explain to your thorough satisfaction. Letter in the post.” When it came, the reasons given were good enough ; but another letter from another person arrived by tha same post containing a very ugly story indeed. STEP Iv. Tue night before the race Dr. Trueman and Jacky Jacks sat, smoking their pipes, in asnug little room. A heavy rain was falling without, and the wind flung it against the window panes. Jacky drew nearer tothe fire, and rubbed his hands and shuddered. “What's the matter, Jack ?”’ asked his companion. “J don’t know,” the jockey answered in a thoughtful tone. “Nothing that I know on. Some one passing over my grave, maybe.” “You're low-spirited, old chap; that’s what it is,’”’ the other said. ‘Is it something wrong again at home?” “You see, the wife’s fond of dress and jewelry, and | all that, and, I think, we're a good bit in debt besides.” “ And—you can speak freely to me, Jack—she takes a —just a little too much wine, and don’t know quite what she’s doing with the money—eh?’ Haye another pipe. What was that bother about the ring alittle while ago?” Jack turned white, and shook. “ How did you know that? Is it all over the place ?” “No; I stopped it going any further. I heard it from the man in the shop she took it from.” “She must have been tipsy, or mad. They made me pay heavy to hush it up. But she'll never do that kind of thing again. She’s as square as square could be when she’s—when she’s herself. I won't smoke any more, I want to get to bed, and have a good night's reat.” Jacky, bidding him good night, opened the stable door, pulling his coat high up over his ears. “Tf this weather keeps on, it will make the ground heavy,” said Jacky. “It won't, though, or Iam much mistaken. If it did, however, tho “Mash is quite strong enough to hold his own. Good night.” The doctor carcfully closed the door, and, with his hands in his pockets, stood thoughtfully contemplatin | the horse, who pricked his ears, and leered round a him somewhat mistrustfully, as it seemed. “Ah,” said tho doctor, nodding hia head, “you're all right, so far. I’m not going to poison you, you know! Only @ little eooling medicine, my boy, that’s all! What's the time now, I wonder? It’s rather too early.” He went upstairs to the little snuggery, poked the fire, and, sitting down ata table in front of it, pulled the lamp to him, and made a careful examination of the “That’s the sort |” muttered the doctor. “ Nothing violent. That’s a tool's work. How long will Blair be now, I wonder?” At that moment there came a sharp knock on the sta- | contents of a small bottle. | ble door below, whic), before he had time to get down the stairs, was repeated still louder. “What & noise he makes !” thought Trueman. ‘‘One wouldn’t think he was one of the assassins. The owner himself wouldn’t make himself more at home. It’s 80 deucedly unlike Blair, too. He's one of the most cau- tious men alive, particularly when he’s on a job as Stooping his head to the keyhole, Trueman, as agentle hint to his friend that he might be more cautious in future, whispered, ‘ Blair, is that you |” “It is I!” replied the voice of the last person in the world the doctor expected to fina upon the threshold of his stable; and, with a throbbing heart, he pulled back the bolts, and admitted Captain Challice. “Is it you, sir?’ said the doctor. “Ididn’t think you were coming down to-night.” “No,” replied the other, nary, “T did not intend to do 80. changed my mind. You’veno objection, I suppose |” “T?—no; of course not! “T’ve had enough to make me. you?” He spoke in a peremptory tone, which the doctor felt half inclined to resent; but, upon reflection, hesullenly did what ho was bidden,then returned to Challice’s side. Challice during this time entered the horse's stall and was carefully examining the horse’s eyes, whilst he spoke to it in coaxing tones. Apparently satisfied with the result of his scrutiny, Challice passed the doctor, and stood lighting a cigar at a jet of gas, with his back half-turned. The doctoreyed him uneasily. “The rain’s leaying off a bit,” he said. “Yes,” Challice replied, shortly. “ Wet or dry, we'll win, sir. He's all right, isn’t he? I've never left him for the last twenty-four hours more than five minutes at atime. Isleep heré to-night, in the room above.” “That'll do. I'll keep watch down here below.” ~ You’'ll—keep—watch ?” “Yes. Why, there’s nothing extraordinary about that, is there? You see I'm very anxious about the horse.”’ **Over-anxious, I might almost say.”” “No. Look htre!—do you know this handwrit- r. Troeman stared hard at an address upon an enyel- the other placed before him, and he ‘noticeably anged color, “a3 How strange you seem ?"” Fasten the door, will
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{ a ie e THE DOOM OF THE DANCING-MASTER. “That letter’s full of a pack of lies !— Ill swear it | races to come. The business he had _ to # The writer's 4 sneaking thief, who onght to be ”—— transact just now was 80 extensive he could “All right, I've mo doubt,” said Challico, coolly;| not possibly go back to the Hall until after “but I'm glad, he wrote to me. Look here what he | settling-day at Tattersall’s. Challice, as has been pays: hinted at once or twice, was very unbusiness-like him- self; and, until he had engaged the services of Dr. True- “+ §re,—You are in the power of unacrupnious schem- | mun, all his racing affairs had been conducted in a care- ‘ ers. Trueman is only a tool in Blair's hands and has | less, slovenly style; and, more than once, he now had / charge of your stable. Blair is laying large amounss | occasion to regret that he had been so hasty—for, he against the Flash privately, but laying small sums on him in public. Trueman is atthe samegame. Youcan prove tue truth of all this easily if you try, “ *Your sincere well-wisher, “*RoLAND WaGsTarry.’ ”’ Dr, Truomén read the letter, and for a moment ro- mained silent. Then, clearing his throat, he said, "Hayo you tried to prove the truth ?” “No,” replied Challice. “Then your coming here insults mo, It implies a suspicion of untair play.” “T think it very probable I have been deceived—as far Se as you yourself are concerned.” “I know you have. Time will prove that. night.” “Are you going ?” i “Tt can't want two of us. Good night.” b And with these words, Trueman opened tho stable- floor and slammed it to behind him. He waited and Nistened a few foet off, and heard the bars boing shot , into their sockets, “Curse him!’ growled the doctor between his elenched teeth, and walked quickly towards the town. At the inn where Blair was staying he found that gen- tleman alone in a private room, standing very comfort- ably before the fire, with his coat-tails tucked up, ono under each arm, “Well,” said he, as Trueman entered ; “it’s all up, it i seoms. Rather protty, el?” “ You know all about it, then ?” “ Yes," guid Blair; “he came in here on his waz. Thatis why I did not go up there. Ho did not see me. I saw him out of the window.” * We're not going to be beaten this way, and quictly put up with it, are we?” “We will do the trick. You know what I told you ae that fool of a woman, Jack’s wifo—shoplifting ?” es," “Well, she has beon at it again; at least, that poor little boggar of a Jack must be told she has, to-morrow morning, half an hour before the race, and he will rope the Flash to save the woman, Do yousea? I've sent her & message in your name,and she will be here pre- sently, Sho'll drink if you ask her; then the rest is easy enough. Gether taken care of somewhere till to- morrow evening. Jacks must think she’s gone up to town—in custody.” Trueman fairly gasped. “This is a desperate game! What will be the ond of it?” A fortuno, if it answers.” e * * * * * * * Derby Day at last, and a fine morning. Flash o' “apa is once more at the head of the betting. Nemesis is next favorite; St. George next. Three o’clock’s come. The course is cleared, The in- evitablo lost m3 gets tarough the ropes at tho last moment, and is hooted out of his small wits. ‘‘ They're off!" No; a false start. Nemesis jibbing. A long wait; everybody within sight craning their necks. Now! No; Nemesis again. Now! This timo really. Bravo, St. George! An outsider in front, making splendid play, much too 5 to last! Then St. George ; now St, George leading |! ‘lash o’ Lightning still in the ruck! Now Flash o’ Lightning works himself forward as he rounds the cor- ner! He is close behind St. George, and settling down into his stride, A yell of te hails the sight ; and then, as if frightened by it, he drops back. ‘ What’s 2 Jack holding him back for? The scoundrel—he’s ro: ing him! No! he can’t doit—the Flash has got his : ain! die is neck and neck with St. George! The ee white-faced, trembling rascal o. his back is, seemingly, Box powerless to hold him! Thud, thud! The earth trem- | bles beneath the horses’ feet. A kind of spasm seems to raed like & wave across @ sea of anxious eager faces, iwhys following something like a fiying rainbow ny flashes _ Ry. Then a wild yell goes up, and men toss their hats J high, and laugh and cry, and clutch one another by the hand ; and some drop silently back, deudly sick, Blair _ and Trueman among the number, for Flash o’ Lightning Good argued with himself, he had been hasty—in quarreling with the doctor. ‘‘It was all very clumsily done,” he said to himsolf. ‘‘I might have watched him closely, and made sure that there was some truth in the accusa- tion before I accused him."’ Nevertheless, after giving utterance to these sentiments, Challice was averse to anything like a reconciliation—there had been sus- picion, and, after that, further confidence seemed to him impossible, When Trueman came himself, very shortly afterwards, making overtures towards a friendly understanding, Challice told him this, not unkindly. “If we are to part, lot’s part friends. Have a glass of wine with me. I don’t know how you stand on the race, but if you backed the winning horse, I take it you've done well. Back him all through his engage- ments. Hoero’s his health.’’ The doctor drank the toast, thinking, as he did so, that the wine would choke him, hoping that it would choke Challice. “ Of course, ’ said tho latter, “T am prepared to re- cognize the existence of an engagement between us, and you must have the proper amount of compensa- tion. I want to deal fairly by you. I will give you three months’ salary in lieu of notice. Just scribble me an acknowledgment. Thank you; that will do. Haye you s receipt stamp? I've got one, I think, if you haven't.’” He went to the other ond of the room to fetch it from a side-table, and Jeft Trueman in front of the wine- | glasses and decarter. When he came back, in about 4 couple of minutes, the doctor was much paler than usual, and he put away the check Challice had given him with trembling fingers, “You did not look at it,” said Challice. “Yos; thank you! It’s very liberal of you, butI'vo my doubts whether I ought to take it without doing sone forit. This is settling day. Have you got all in ?” “Pretty nearly. There’s a good many thousand pounds in that desk, and, let me see, I'm too late to bank to-night.” “Imust go. We'll drink one moro glass together, if you have no objection ?” “None in the world. Hero's luck to you!” They drank, and then Trueman went down stairs to the bar, where ho said he had to wait to see someone. This scene took place at the hotel Challice usually putup at when he came to town. Presently, in about half-an-hour’s timo, the waiter came down, saying that the “ Captain ’”’ was taken very bad, all of a sudden—a kind of cramp, and very sick; and he (the Captain) had suggested that he should see adoctor. It was fortu- “ae ane Trueman had not yet gone, he being a doctor mself. * * * * * * * A telegram reached tho Hall two days later from Dr. Trueman, saying that Challice was dangerously ill, and that if his wife or mother wished tosee him again | alive, they must lose no time in coming up. Mra. Chal- lice, senior, had gone to visit some neighbors at a little distance, and some delay must necessarily ocour before she could obey the summons. Harriet hol left her room two or three days previously, but she was still very weak and ill, She, however, did not hositate about what waa to be dune. A train would start for London in a few minutes’ time, and she hastily drossed herself, and went up to town by it, sending a message to the mother to say what she had done. Dr. Trueman had not sent a moment too soon. For some hours Challice’s condition had been most danger- ous. Hearing that he had a visitor he rallied a little, “Mother!” he cried, faintly ; but, seeing that it was his wife, an expression of bitter disappointment over- 8 ed his face, and with a similar feeling in her own heart, Harriet drew back from the bee, But, after @ momentary struggle with himself, seemingly, the dying man stretched out his hand. “You're better, I see,” said he. “I’ve been very éli—awfully ill. Idon’t know what the matter is. I get better, then worse again. Supposing I should be carried off in one of the bad fits, I should never know whether or not you had played me false. Yor. never like | papers in that book which are a perfect annuity prop- erly handled—a forged bill, for instance. I knew how the old woman, the wi shortish of money, account—a bracelet, worth rather more than double the servants camo up, he told them that Challice had had another bad attack, and that he was dead. Dead, within only a few days of his victory, and with all the hard-gotten money lying idle in his desk! Not all of it, surely! A couple of hundred pounds was all that presently was found, when a search was made. STEP I, Tue day following Charles Challice’s death was a bright and beautiful one in the country, and there was plenty of excuse for a certain travel-stained, ragged, hatchet-faced fellow’s sitting down in a pleasant, sheltered spot, at the end of a lane leading into Rast Haggleford High Street, to rest himself and smoke his pipe, He took his seat on an old-fashioned stile, which —goodness only knows why—had been left standing there amongst the houses most incongruously, The hatchet-faced man looked around him curiously, and shook his head, “ How the place has changed!” he said. “I should hardly have known it, _What’s become of the old inn, where I was robbed? And,let me see, there was a barber over there—I forget his name, though—and 4 Mrs. Legg, or Wegg, or Kegg, who had a provision . store. All gone! How awfully sharp everyone looks, too! It's not the place it was! It would take anyone all his time to pick up a living here now!” Apparently disgusted with the result of his yer pde the hatchet-faced man got off the stile, and slowly descended the hill, in the direction of Haggleford Hall, He knew the way quite well, and where there was a weak place in the hedge, dividing the shrubbery from the high road; and, syueezing his way through this, he climbed up a bank which he found upon the other side; but when he reached the top ot the bank he found directly facing him an object, the presence of which he was very far from beri pe J or desiring. I¢ was a fur-cap, surmounting a bullet head, round the bull-dog throat below which a gaudy silk handkerchie was twisted, The owner of these articles of clothing was also smoking a pipe and gazing heavenwards in the direction from which the first man appeared suddenly, and so his eyes fell upon him directly. As they did, he started and ceased smoking. The other was similarly taken aback. “Spicer 1” “Dick Deverel !”’ Deverel advanced slowly, and drew up in front of his old comrade. Spicer spoke. “This is a queer meeting. I did not expect to find you here; but it is as well.” “You stole my money,” said Deverel, flercely ; “ and you shall pay me for it !’’ “Come, come, Dick!’ the other cried, with a laugh, pretending not to notice his angry expression, but, for all that, keeping a very steady and watchful lookout, lest any sudden surprise might be intended. ‘‘Comef don't let us talk about stealing! And as to your money—well, that’s not bad for you, you know! IfI did steal it then, as you callit. I haven't spent ft, if that’s any consolation to you. At least I haven't apent nearly all, Isaved some for you—I did, Dick, really and truly |” Dick impatiently kicked over a pebble, “T don’t understand you,” he said, “T daresay not,” replied Spicer, “ You've never tried to. You wouldn't join me when I wanted, and it was a wicked way you were wasting good material. I couldn’t stand by and see it done, and so I took it away. Can you blame me?” “No,” replied Deverel, suppressing his momentarily incweasing rage with an effort ; “* you were quite right, I daresay. I ought to have joined you, and we ht have succeeded much better in company.” “Far better!" said the other; “and can now, if you Why, you only flew at small game! T are I've done well by that as it is, and shall do better!” “A bill, drawn by Jobn Challice, and accepted by Charles Challice ?” “That’s it! You know of it, then ?” “You've presented it ?” “ Well, not to the acceptor! Not so o 1 You see, e's mother, had been well-nigh flayed alive, But I've managed the wife with it pretty well. She paid freely—got a bit dea- perate,” he said, with a coarse laugh; “for she was ut I took some of her jewelry on what I asked, but J didn't mind ; and—and—as she was ee Le won! : going, I saw the moonlight on her ear-ring, ‘That's pretty, ma’a’m,’ says I; ‘I'll take care of that, too.’ ‘She sorter screamed out, and held out her hand to Y cover them ; but I was too quick for her, and made as ¥ snatch,” “A snatch ?” 4 “Yes. What's the matter? I meant having them. Well, Dick, to-day I'm to see her again, and I'm to have 7) a good round sum on account. She's been very ill, or a I should have seen her before, but she'll xT fail me ua dpwed me; that J a sure a Why did you marry me? 4 suppose you would marry Everest if I died?” a HE AST SGU Es jcNo, no, Charlost” Let! me, tell you all, You will 1X WHIOK THIS MAD DANCE COMES TO A SUDDEN END, | Pity mo then, o not know how I have been ~ ¥, \ with psy petal MASTER'S DEATH. persecuted ; and I see now plainly that Ishould never “2, " have kept the secret from you, but my mother told me ay I muat keep the secret from the world”—— ‘ gif ‘ | STEP aw DEATH-BED SCENE. She would have further pursued her confession, : AN URLS JOURNEY. ‘a but at that moment a ge aa of agony took pos- TIL.—Aa BARBER’s TA Ps session of him, in which his sufferings appeared “ IV.—TWo YOUNG LADIES PRATTLING. to be terrible, and his hooked fingers ere A gripped | to-day. I've kept the screw on Prgperly, can tell ‘ - a 4 * © | the crumpled ba 9g 2 Tm She was ay ek band you i vs } , : t , BD ht Dr. Trueman, who} “ oe cata siood take ound for meiniantes’ “Yes, Dick. You ought to have joined in with me. — “en Why, how do you think I came to know the worth Vr" Tee of that precious serap of paper, and many other a things worth knowing besides? I never told you edi Pe omar after the race, Challice telegraphed the| “He will be better after that,” said the doctor, feel- C) § result to his mother, and the news, be | ing the prostrate man’s pulse, , fly nt.’ Even the Challive, itwas true, revived somewhat in about an imagined, filled her with delight. Even the [4 7 q ' sty little lawyer felt half inclined, for the future, hour’s time; but his wits were then wandering, andin | I was old Benson's clerk at one time, and he got mo i % , 7 up all his prejudice against horse-racing. oat t a broken voice, hoarse and passionate, ho called her his | fourteen years, If I oA found him pire if mg he eee mae 34 Ss o hopo the Captain won’t plunge any deeper,” he | destroyer, and bade her leave him. out of jail, I’d have mado short wor! ae , m. we 4 hastened toadd. “ This ought to set us ll eign. Or| “Go to him!” he cried—go! He might have | I would as Tleft the dock. bE sacl le Byes cr y , z, S it may_be the ruin of us—there’s no saying.” waited, though, a little longer!’ the same night, and I ransacke My oe x? he Af 24 a ust have been @ very sanguine person who could} Scarcely yt what she was eng half | there, getting very little of any value to mysolf 7 a a P : cogeliwoulde quietly frightened to de th, Harriet left the room, and Dr.| pains. No value to myself, you ae ait , LS! ; Trueman closed the door after her carefully. Half an | you, my boy. However—you know ¥, eet ee 3 Pind de in! vi on i eo mr , DO Ww “ns Seaflag Flesh 0° “Tightaing heavily for a possible hour later he was was ringing the bell loudly. When! “Show me this famous a ; th ; . , . em, ee es ert * ; but to , ee tae * thet yu “ve ? ae! Petia adic ae 2 AS a . ih rZ er Mi Pa a. = F ‘aaa aan ~ abeilinaentae iat gi 3S al A
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sound so valuable,” said Deverel, seating himself with assumed carelessness, by his companion’s side. Spicer smiled. “T haven’t got it with me, Dick, or I would in a moment. Doyouknow, I've got into a way of not ba 8 all my luggage about with me. It’s too risky. ‘ou see, for one thing, this is rather a danger- ous neighborhood for me, and so I don’t like to run two risks—being caught myself, and losing my little livelihood at the same time.” ‘*So you keep it in some place of safety?’ “Exactly: in the Haggleford bank, I’ve an account there. Like to see my check-book?”’ Deverel did not echo the other's laugh, but rose to | his feet. “Can I see you presently? Are you sleeping at one of the inns?”’ ‘*No—yes: but we'll meet up at the top of the hill. Do you know a lane there is coming outs just opposite where the old inn stood? Well, there’s a stile at the end of it nearest the inn; will that do at five this evening?” “Very well,” Ashe spoke, Deverel turned upon his heel, and walked back up the embankment he hada while ago conie down. Spicer looked after him with a half-smile. “Strange kind of fool, that Dick!” said he, and velit his pipe, that had gone out whilst he had been talking. Deverel walked straight until he was fairly out of the sight and hearing of his late companion, and then came to an abrupt halt, and dropping down up- on his hands and knees crawled bac orushwood. After a time, he came once more in sight of the spot where he had left Spicer sitting upon the trunk of a felled tree. He was there now, smoking, and Sa ber Deverel, lying flat upon the earth, watched him narrowly. For nearly two hours he remained thus, his eyes hardly for a moment. quit- ting the figures before him. He saw that Spicer waited very patiently for some considerable length of time, then began to grow impatient, and looked out afar, evidently expecting some one who was be- hind the appointed time. Whenever Spicer looked out afar, Deverel, in his turn, eraned his neck, but ae one came, and so the time passed very slowly for th. At last, when full two hours had elapsed, Spicer sprung to his feet, swearing savagely and trampled fiercely through the bushes, passing but a few yards from the spot where Deverel lay hiddén, He walked uietly onwards, and never turned his head, so that evérel was able to follow without much trouble, and yet not be seen. The old mill-stream, it may be remembered, no longer passed under the bridge ending the High Street. The oon had been abolished altogether, and the course of the stream diverted, after some delay. Unfortunately, the delay had been longer than the miller could battle with, and so the mill was closed and fell into.a ruined condition in a wonderfully short space of time; the sails now and then revolving, itis true, when there was a strong wind on, cone ae 2 no corn, To this mill, which was left deserted to rot and fall if it thought fit so to do, Spicer now bent his steps, and when he got within a dozen yards or soof it, turned round to see whether any one was about. Deverel had only just time to conceal himself hastily. Spicer gag ly feeling satisfied that he was unobserved, walked round the back of the mill, and disappeared. Deverel waited for soine time, and not seeing anything more of him, felt certain that he had entered. In another moment he had reached the spot. There was, sure enough, as he had thought there would be, adoor at the back of the , and it was only pulled to, not fastened. Opening it with all the care he was capable of, he allpped , and crept up a creaky flight of stairs. t the stair-head, in a second stood motionless, waiting for him. “Tt’s you, is it?’ he asked. ‘‘Why didn't you give some sign? Come in.” The words were carelessly spoken, but it was suffi- ciently evident to the other that Spicer would much have preferred that his hiding-place would have re- mained secret. He gave way, and Deverel stepped across, the threshold, and entered resolutely, Within, all was plunged in a dense obscurity. There was the end of a candle pty abroken bottle. Deverel lighted it with a match he took from his pocket, “We can see one another better like this,”’ said he. * Outside, it is too light for it to attract any notice.” “There's no fear,” replied Spicer. “If any one sees it, he will sa; it’s a ghost, that’s all.” oi Spicer,” said his ag ee nga in a strangely calm voice, ‘‘ you know why Ihave come?” “To talk over business, I suppose.:” “No; to ask you to give me up that pocketbook and its contents.” “That’s unreasonable,” Spicer retorted. “‘ You had it once and lost it. You ought to have taken better care of it,” “Tf there is yet money left in it, as you say, Idonot waut to take it all. A small sum will content me. aa are other bills than the one I want, you can e them.” ‘For the matter of that, two-thirds of the renewed bills are valueless now. ere has been a kind of commercial panic at this place; pretty well all the old townspeople have gone tothe bad. There’s only one Dill I set any storeby. I won't give that one Q) Ri Which one is that?" “ John Challice’s forgery." “That is the one I must have, Sidden?" oorway, Spicer W Where ig the book among the | “Thaven’t got them here, if that’s what y mean?” he said. ' “That's a lie!” retorted the other, bluntly. ‘ Give | them up.” “Not with my life!” Deverel, without another word, strode across the | | floor towards the corner where, sure enough, the pocket-book was hidden. But, the moment his back was turned, Spicer drew a loaded revolver from his breast, and placing the muzzle against Deverel’s ear, fired. A quick movement of the head, as he felt the” contact of the iron, prevented Dick from being killed | on the spot; and, the ball glancing from. the skull, passed, The wound was a fearful one; but, for the moment, its effects were not such as to wholly cripple the sufferer; and, turning, he clutched at the weapon Spicer still held in his hand, fli self, with all his strength, upon the would-be assassin. Deverel fell undermost. At the another barrel of the revolver was discharged, an same moment, | lead. The contents of the barrel had ente Spicer’s brain. { STEP II. other day, and stopped in front of a very showy shop ina rising suburb, the exterior of which was of*| enkering One t over the door, which ran thus:—‘ Pidgeon, Coiffeur de Paris—late Rook; the name of “Rook” being partly obliterated by a kind of flourish, somehow seemed to me to have something fiendishly tri- | umphant about it, like the erowing of a game cock after a victory. It was Mr. Pidgeon, from East Haggleford, sure enough, with more plumpness than of yore, and e/7 bland, fatuous smile enveloping his foolish’ face. “Shave, sir? Yes; we don't cultivate that branc of the business, sir, sincé the late proprietor—retired. | Ha, ha! . Beg pardon, sir. .Of course, yes. I shall be only too happy. Vill you take a seat? “Yes, sir; Rook was his name. I can't rightly say where he has gone to for certain. I don’t thin he’s doing as well. Dabbied in building specs, sir, and burnt. his fingers, . Does this razor go easy? “Ah! you may well say that, sir—Haggleford is changed. The old Hall that so much money was wasted on gone into other hands—family quite broken up. Dreadful thing that about ptain Challice’s poisoning, wasn’t it?” “The trial, and all that, killed his mother. TI sa Trueman hanged. Nearly got off, though, through the bungling of the other doctors at the trial. Ah! he was a cute one! I’ve shaved him often, Never would have thought that he could do a thing o! that kind, to look at him. “Do I do anything in betting? Well, no; I can’ aor Ido very much. _ Mrs. P. don’t like it; and what little I do’s quite on the quiet, like. Got asafe things for St. Leger, I've a notion; had it straight from | Blair, the leviathan book-maker, What aman that is, sir!—what a head! “Well, yes; he lost the action against Captain Everest—that’s true. There was an odd thing—old Benson's will turning up, after all, in the possession of the legitimate son, and leaving all the money to” the illegitimate! . im Perhaps he meant to do so; but some say he all. It was found on his dead ly. That's what they call the ‘ Irony of Fate,’ ain’t it, sir? Know Mrs. Pidgeon, do you! You seem to know all the East Haggleford folks. She's down-stairs now, sir, nursing the baby. Shall I call her?” j STEP IV. A PALE, pretty: lady, with something of a faded loveliness upon her face, sat, early last autumn, upon the pier at Ramsgate, talking to a grave, gray- haired gentleman, of military appearance; and he stooped his head and talked to her earnestly, but in a low, trembling tone. ° **Some da: } perhaps, Harriet,” he said. “Perhaps?”—she answered, and laid her hand gently in his. Just at that moment two girls passed by, talking and laughing. : “A dancing-master in love!’ said one. ‘‘ How awfully ridiculous!” The band was playing one of Godfrey’s waltzes, and the rest of their was drowned by the music. Perhaps, after all, it #s ridiculous for a dancing- master to be in love. THE END. _ Waverley Library. L. Farjeon. 122 Love. Tur Wipowrer. By M. Thackeray. 123 An Istanp Peary. By B, L. Farjeon. 124 Cousin PHILLIS. '125 Leia; or, THE SIEGE OF GRENADA. By Edward | Bulwer, (Lord Lytton.) 126 Waex tHE SuHip Comes Home. By Walter mn Besant and James Rice. y ONE OF THE FAMILY. ‘ames Payn. 128 Tue Brerariest. By Mee Gore, !421 ‘THe Kine or No-LAnp. WEP Ais settled in the shoulder, tearing the muscles as it 140 | 141 iss nging him-+ Thus they fell heavily to the ground; and, turning,7 148 Dick lay crushed beneath an inert mass, heavy as |,151 red" I, rue teller of this tale, wanted to be shaved the* 7 ld? so imposing acharacter that I hesitated about 4159 hing, however, decided me—the inscription [161 68 ris “169 What a fool he was not to destroy Al98 Wruma WILDE. no idea he was related to the old money-lender at |x00 lll MorTHERLEsS: or, The Farm: r’s Sweetheart. Py Colonel Prentiss Ingraham. 180 Homrurss; or, The Two Orphan Girls in New York. By Albert W. Aiken. 131 SisTeR AGAINST Sister: or, The Rivalry of Hearts. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. Sotp For Gop. By Mrs. M. V. Victor. Lorp Rorn’s Sin; or, Betrothed at. the Cradle, By Mrs. Georgiana Dickens. Dip He Love Her? By Bartley T. Campbell. Stynep Against; or, Almost in His Power, By Lillian hatcgey Was Sue His Wire? By Mary Reed Crowell, THe VILLAGE ON THE CLIFF. Br Miss Thackeray. Poor VaLerta. By Margaret Blount, MARGARET GRAHAM. By G.'P. R. James. WirHovr Mercy. By Bartley T. Campbell, Howor Bounp. By Lillian Lovejoy. FLerine From Love. Mrs, Harriet Irving. Aspuctrep, By Rett Winwood. A Srrance Marriace, By Lillian Lovejoy. Two Grats’ Lives. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. A Desperate VenturE. By Arabella Southworth Tar War or Hearts. By Corinne Cushman, Waicn Was THe Woman? By Sara Claxton. An Awarrrous Girt, By Frances H. Davenport. Love Lorp or Aut. By Alice May Fleming. A Wivp Girt, By Corinne Cushman, A Man’s Sacririce. By Harriet Irving. 53 Drm Sue Six? By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 154 He Loves Me Nor. By Lillian Lovejoy. 155 Winninc Ways. By Margaret Blount. Waar Sure Cost Him. By Arabella Southworth, A Grirv’s Heart, By Rett Winwood. A Brrrer Mistake. By Agnes Mary Shelton. Lapy Heren’s Vow. By the late Mrs. E. F. Ellet, Buyinc 4 Heart. By Lillian Lovejoy. PEARL oF Pearts. By A. P. Morris, Jr. A Farervut Gaur, By Sara Claxton; Tur Creoie Covsins. By Philip 8. Warne. AS a HING O: DEAL, beh geo Dickens, A StranaE Giri. By 4 lbert W. Aiken. A Man's Sin. By Rett Winwood. THe Hanp or Farr. By Arabella Southworth, Two Farr Women. By Wm. Mason Turner. TremMprep THROUGH Love. By Lillian Lovejoy. Burp BARBARA’s SECRET. By Mary G. Halpine. A Woman's Wircuery. By Sara Claxton, Buack Eyes aNp Bivg, By Corinne Cushman. 3 THe Cost or A Fouity. By Georgiana Dickens, ‘4 Tue Prerry Porrran. » By A Parson’s Daughter. % Is Love A Mockery? By Arabella Southworth } ADRIA, THE ADOPTED, Jennie Davis Burton, For THe Woman He Lovep. By Agnes Mary Shelton, Tue Locked Hrarr., By Corinne Cushman 9 Parteo By Treachery. By Harriet Irving. Was SHE A Wire? By Rett Winwood, Unper A Croup, By Sara Claxton. AN. AMERICAN QUEEN. By Grace Mortimer, A Porst oF Honor: Py Lillian Lovejoy. Pursvurd To THE ALTAR. By Corinne Cushman, Pur to 4 Test. By Georgiana Dickens. Tar TeRnIBLE TRUTH. . By Jennie Davis Burton, OvrwrrrED BY HeRsELF. By _A Southworth, FLorerte. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham, Her GuARDIAN’S SACRIFIce. By Sara Claxton. PreTry aNpD PRovup. By Corinne Cushman. A Wowan’s MAanetver. By Lillian Lovejoy. Q2 Tae Brrrer Fevp. By Jennie Davis Burton. 193 PREAKING THE FeTrer§. By Georgiana Dickens, 94 Toe Mysterious Guarvran, By Corinne Cush- man. 195 IN THE BALANCE. By Arabella Southworth. 196. Jute, tHE Jewrss. By Dr. Noel Dunbar. 197 A Sister's Criwe. By pl Mary Shelton. By Jennie Davis Burton. 199 Tue Beautirc. Denon. By Francis H. Davenpot JhouLeEY Beecnes. By Corinne Cushman, 201 A Youre Grrw’s OrpeaL. By Sara Claxton. 2 Her Ev. Genius. By Harriet Irving. 203 Passion’s REPRISAL. By Lillian Lovejoy. 04 ELEGANT Ecpert. By Philip 8. Warne. 205 A MINISTERING ANGEL. by Georgiana Dickens, 206 Ovurma’s Love. By Henriette BE. De Conde. 207 A Hasty MarriuaGe. By Mrs. M. L. Fordham. 28 Bowie, THE KxicHt or Crivatky. By P. 8. Warne 209 Caerry. By Arabella Southworth. 210 Cartyon’s Year.» Ry James Payn. 211 AN Ino. or Cray, By Harriet Irving. 912 Tae Lapper or Lirz. By Amelia k, Edwards. 213 A Writrut Wire. By Lillian Lovejoy. 214 Tae Two Destinies. By Wilkie Collins. 215 A‘THorNY Paro. By Sara Claxton. 216 Vauerre. By Captain Marryat. 217 A Pertiovs Purves. By Georgiana Dickens, 218 Founp Drap. By James Payn. 219 In His Power. By Mrs. M, L, Fordham, 220 Goma To THE Bap. By Edmund Yates. 221 ALMosr Won: By Harriet Irving. 222 Tue GotpeN Lion OF GRANPERE, Trollope. 223 A Lirr’s Sroret. By Arabella Southworth. 24 Tue Best oy Huspanps. by James Payn. 225 Tae Doom or THE DancING-MasTER, By Charles H. Ross. 2% Tae Foarrrves, By Mrs. Oliphant. 227 GLoups AND SUNSHINE, AND CHRISTIE JOHNSTONE. 134 136 137 138 139 42 144 145 146 147 149 150 158 160 362 165 166 167 168 By Anthony < 4 Bulwer. ’ A new issue every Tuesday. 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