Читать книгу: «By Birth a Lady», страница 18

“Tell Mr Whittrick he need take no farther steps,” said Charley in a voice that he hardly knew for his own; and touching his hat, without another word, the man glided off, disappearing round the corner of the next street so rapidly, that when, upon second thoughts, Charley would have set him another task, and hurried after him with that intention, he was out of sight.

Five minutes after, Charley was in a cab and on his way to Crescent Villas; where, after a little parley, he was now admitted to the presence of Mrs Marter, red-eyed, furious, and ready, apparently, to make an onslaught upon the first person who offended her.

Before he had been there long, the rapid flow of the angry woman’s words told of how, by cunning, flattering, and attention, Max Bray had gained a footing in the house; the weak vain woman believing that his visits were all upon her account, and willingly accepting the presence of Ella as a blind. Her only sin was a love of flattery, attention, and Max Bray’s escorts to the various places of amusement; but now the veil had dropped from her eyes, and she spoke.

“It has all been planned for long enough,” she exclaimed passionately, “and they have gone off together.” And then she burst forth into a furious tirade against deceit, forgetful entirely of how she was hoist with her own petard.

Charley could hear no more, but hurried away, confused, doubting, heart-sick. What faith could he place in any one again? He had gone to Crescent Villas in the hope that he was, after all, wrong; that there was some mistake which might be cleared up; and according to this woman the idol of his heart had been a monster of treachery and deceit.

He was ready to make any allowance for the mad passion of a woman who found that she had been made the tool of the designing; but, after all, what could he say to his wounded heart after the scenes he had witnessed? What right had he now to trouble himself, though – what was it to him? There was nothing to palliate what he had seen; and now he must begin life afresh. What he had to do was to draw a line across the mental diary of his life – a thick black mark between the present and the bygone – and at that line he told himself his thoughts must always stay; for upon that past he could not bear to dwell.

Forgive her? He had nothing to forgive. She had always told him, from the first, that it could not be; while he had blindly and impetuously rushed on to his heart’s destruction.

Volume Three – Chapter Three.
Beginning Again

And how about Laura? Well, she loved him, and it was his father’s wish. He had committed himself to it now, too; and if he were to marry, why not her as well as any other woman?

So mused Charley Vining, weakly enough; but he is here held up as no model – simply as a weak erring man, whose passions had been deeply moved. He had been, as it were, in a fearful life-storm, to be left tossing, dismasted, and helpless, now that a calm had come. Here, too, was the friendly consort offering her aid to lead him into port – the port that he had hoped to enter gallantly, with ensign flowing. But now, as this was impossible, he would let matters take their course.

He met Sir Philip Vining at dinner; and though the old gentleman studiously avoided all allusion thereto, yet he marked the change in his son, and was inwardly delighted thereby.

“Father,” said Charley, as they sat over their wine, “I’m about tired of town. When shall we go back home – home – home?” he said, repeating the word. “How pleasant that seems to sound!”

“My dear boy, when you like; to-morrow, Charley, if you wish.” And the old gentleman spoke earnestly, for of late his heart had pricked him sorely; and had his son now brought Ella to his side and said, “Father, I shall never love another; this must be my wife,” he would have struggled with himself, and then given up and blessed them. But now it seemed that there was a change; the attentions to Laura had been marked; and, hushing his conscience, the old man told himself that matters would soon come right after all, and he spoke cheerfully.

“Well, let’s go back to-morrow, then,” said Charley. “I want to see the old place again.”

“You are not ill, Charley – you don’t feel in need of advice?”

“Ill?” said Charley, “not at all! I want a change, and to see the old place.”

“By the way, Charley, Bray called here to-day; he wanted me to dine there again, but I declined, as you said you would be back. I said, though, that I would go up in the evening. We are discussing the drainage question of Holt Moors. You will not mind my leaving you. I thought, too, that perhaps – ”

“I would go too,” said Charley smilingly. “Well, yes, I’ve no objection; little Nell is come back. Do you know, dad,” he said cheerfully, “I should like to give that girl a nice little well-broken mare? She would ride splendidly. Couldn’t we pick up something before we go down, and let it be for a surprise? A nice little thing that would hunt well, without pulling the child’s arms off.”

“My dear Charley, you give me great pleasure, you do indeed. We’ll see about it first thing in the morning. My dear boy,” exclaimed the old man, rising, and crossing to his son’s chair to rest his hands upon his broad shoulder, “Heaven bless you, my dear boy! Are the old times coming back?”

“I hope so, father,” said Charley, smiling; but there was something very sad in his tone.

“Not in that way, my dear boy,” said the old man tenderly. “Indeed, indeed, Charley, my every act and desire has been for your good.”

“Father,” said Charley sternly, “do you see that?” And he made a mark on the white cloth.

“My dear boy, yes.”

“That must divide the past from the present. All on that side is to be forgotten. Let it be as if dead. Now for the clean blank page of the future.”

He held out his hand, which was eagerly taken by Sir Philip, and then they were silent for some time; when, in quite changed tones, Charley said, looking at his watch, “Eight o’clock, dad! Shall I ring for a cab?”

Sir Philip did not speak; he only bowed his head, and then wringing his son’s hand, he left the room.

Volume Three – Chapter Four.
Of What are Men’s hearts Composed?

“Hooray, here’s Charley Vining!” cried Nelly, as Sir Philip and his son entered the Brays’ drawing-room; and bounding over the carpet, she ran up, and caught the latter by the hand; but as Charley shook both her thin hands warmly, he glanced across the room to where Laura was standing, flushed and happy.

“Are you better?” he said, as he crossed over.

“Better? yes,” she said softly; “and so happy!”

There was such a look of intensified joy in Laura’s face, that as he took his seat beside her, Charley Vining smiled pleasantly. He was accepting his fate.

And why not, he asked himself, when, with all their eccentricities, the family seemed ready to worship him? Sir Philip and Mr Bray had no sooner taken their places in a corner of the lesser drawing-room, and commenced their discussion upon the projected improvements, than Mrs Bray crossed over to where Charley was seated, and probably for the first time in her life forbore to shriek, and, leaning over him, actually whispered, as she stooped and kissed him on the forehead.

“Bless you, Vining! you have made us all so happy! But I have not said a word to him.”

Charley felt disposed to frown; but there was a genuine mother’s tear left upon his forehead, and he pressed Mrs Bray’s hand as she left him, carrying off Nelly at the same time.

It was all settled, then; it was to be. And why not? Let it be so, then. Some people said there was no fate in these things; what, then, was this, if it were not fate?

But he accepted it all, asking himself the while, could the gentle tremulous woman at his side be the Laura of old? How she drank in his every glance, eagerly listening for each word! Could he, as he had said he would, thoroughly dismiss the past, life might, after all, be endurable.

So he reasoned, as the evening passed away.

They had had tea, and Nelly had been sent to the piano to play piece after piece, not one of which was listened to, for those present were intent upon their own affairs. Charley talked in a low voice to Laura, Mrs Bray dozed in an easy-chair, and Nelly kept to her music.

Meanwhile the question of draining Holt Moors had been discussed and rediscussed. Farming matters had been talked over, and the state of Blandfield Park; Mr Bray strongly advising a particular breed of sheep for keeping the grass short and lawnlike, giving his opinions freely, and at the same time listening with deference to those of his old friend.

At last, during a pause, Sir Philip caught Mr Bray’s eye, and nodded towards the other room.

“That’s a picture, Bray!” he said. “Ah,” said Mr Bray, as he gazed for a few moments at where – a noble-looking couple – Charley and Laura sat together in the soft light shed by the lamps, “I wish, Vining, I had had such a son. It seems hard to speak against one’s own flesh and blood, but my Max – ”

He did not finish his sentence, but shrugged his shoulders, laughing pleasantly, as tall thin Nelly came and rested her weak loose body against his shoulder, before laying her cheek against his bald head, afterwards polishing the shiny white hemisphere with her little hand, rubbing it round and round, round and round; while, apparently approving thereof, Papa Bray drew his child upon his knee, and went on talking.

But suddenly he ceased; for, rising, and with her hand in his, and one arm round her waist, Charley Vining walked with Laura towards where the old men sat, and Nelly, with the tears in her eyes, glided away to the seat just vacated.

“Mr Bray – father,” said Charley quietly, as he stopped in front of them, “Laura has promised to be my wife: have you any objection?”

The next moment Sir Philip Vining had folded Laura in his arms, kissing her lovingly, as Mr Bray caught Charley’s hands in his, shaking them warmly.

“My dear boy,” he exclaimed, “you make me very proud – happiest day of my life!”

“Charley, my son,” said Sir Philip, stretching out one hand to take his son’s, and speaking in a voice that showed how he was moved, “thank you, thank you; you have made me very happy.”

Half an hour after, they were leave-taking; and as Charley kissed Nelly and bade her warmly “good-night,” there was a tear left upon his lips.

“What, little one!” he said gaily, “in trouble? What is it? You don’t think I’ve jilted you, do you?”

“Don’t talk stuff, Charley!” she said gravely. “I’m very happy; but I feel like marble – just as if there were dark veins running all through me.”

“Marble? veins?” said Charley in a puzzled tone.

“Yes; dark veins, like sorrowful thoughts; for though I’m very glad that you are going to be my own dear brother – and something like a brother too! – I can’t help feeling sorry about my poor Miss Bedford.”

Charley started from her as if he had been stung; but no one but Nelly noticed it. Five minutes after, Sir Philip and he were in the Brays’ carriage, and on their way home, for Mr Bray had insisted upon their having it in place of a cab.

There was no farther talk of going back to Blandfield Court till the Brays left town next week, and to all intents and purposes the Vinings lived in Harley-street. But Charley found time for a visit to Mr Whittrick, to see if there was any payment due.

“Happy to attend upon you, if you require my services again, Mr Vining,” he said, as he pocketed a cheque; and then he bowed his client out.

It was that same morning that, returning to lunch in Harley-street, Charley found Laura seated frowningly over a note, which she made as if to conceal upon his entrance; but directly after, as if blushing for her weakness, she stood up, holding the letter in her hand.

“Am I to be jealous?” he said laughingly, as he saluted her.

“I was afraid it might hurt your feelings, Charley,” she said, as her arms were resting on his shoulder. “Can you bear to hear its contents? It is from Max.”

“Yes,” said Charley moodily, and with the veins in his forehead swelling.

“He asks me to try and mediate – to try and make you think less angrily of him.”

“Where is he?” said Charley abruptly.

“I do not know,” said Laura. “Somewhere in the west of England. The postmark is Plymouth.”

“Laura,” said Charley sternly, “I cannot forgive him. Max and I must never meet! Don’t look so serious – I cannot help it. I am, I know, hard and unrelenting – But there, no tears! Why, you are trembling. I am not angry.”

“No, no; I know you are not,” she whispered, nestling closer to him. “You must not be. I shall be so glad to get down to the old place again.”

“And I as well,” said Charley.

And, probably in deference to their wishes, both families started on the following day for their country seats.

Volume Three – Chapter Five.
Preparing the Rivets

“Con-gratulate you, my dear Vining! do, indeed,” said Hugh Lingon, coming up to Charley in the hunting-field, when he had been home about a fortnight.

“What about?” said Charley, who had attended every meet, and tried his best to break his neck as he rode straight, taking everything that came in his way.

“What about?” said Lingon. “Why, about your coming marriage, to be sure. Haven’t seen you before, or I should have given you a word or two. Rather too bad of Laura Bray, though.”

“What was?” said Charley very impatiently.

“Why, making such a pair of tongs of me, with which to fish for her hot roast chestnut – meaning you, of course, Charley,” said Lingon, with a laugh.

“Don’t be a fool!” said Charley gruffly.

“Not if I can help it,” said Lingon good-humouredly. “But you know how I was made a fool of, and then pitched over at any time, when your sultanship thought proper to be attentive.”

“Long time finding a fox this morning,” said Charley impatiently, as he turned his horse along by the side of a spinney. But Hugh Lingon was not to be shaken off, and trotting up to his side, fat and good-tempered, he talked on.

“I should have expected that you’d have given up all this sort of thing now, old fellow,” said Lingon; “but I suppose you are having your run out before the knot is tied. I say, though, how well Laura looks!”

“Does she?” said Charley absently; and it was very evident from his quiet abstracted manner, that he was thinking upon other matters.

“Does she! Ah, I think so. But mind you, I’ve an idea that Nelly will grow into a handsomer woman altogether. I like Nelly,” he added simply.

“So do I,” said Charley, starting from his reverie. “She’s a lovable girl.”

“I say, young man,” exclaimed Lingon, “that won’t do; you can’t have them both.”

“Pish!” exclaimed Charley, putting the spurs to his mare. “There, I’m going on. Good-morning, Lingon.”

“But I’m going your way, Charley,” cried the other, spurring up alongside. “Don’t be in such a hurry, man! It isn’t often one sees you now. I want to know when it’s to be. Our girls are sure to ask me, for they’re all red-hot about it.”

“When what’s to be?” said Charley, with a wondering gaze.

“O, come, I say, now, that’s a good un!” laughed Hugh Lingon, till his fat face was full of creases and rolls, some of which threatened to close his little twinkling eyes. “Going to be married, and got it all settled, and not know the day! Ha, ha, ha! Charley Vining, that is a good one! I do like that!” And he gave his friend a hearty slap on the back. “Come, I say, tell us, old fellow!”

“This day month, I believe – there!” said Charley viciously; and again he essayed to leave his friend behind.

“By the way, Charley,” said Hugh, continuing alongside, “I want you to do me a favour.”

He spoke so earnestly, that the other drew rein and turned to him.

“What is it?” he said.

“Well, I hardly like to ask you, but just now I’m in a fix.”

“Well, but what is it? How do you mean?” said Charley.

“Well, you see, I’m short of money, and I’m a good deal bothered; for I’d promised to pay my tailor, and now I can’t do it.”

“How much do you want?” said Charley quietly. “I’ve none here; but I’ll draw you a cheque when I get home.”

“O! I’m much obliged – I am, ’pon my word!” said Lingon. “Don’t I wish, though, that I could draw cheques, and come that sort of thing! I’m quite ashamed to ask you. But it isn’t my fault; for you see I had the money, and was going to send it, when who should pop down but Max Bray, and ask me to lend it to him – five-and-twenty pounds, you know. He wanted fifty; but of course that was out of my reach altogether. I lent him all I had, though; for he said that he should only want it for two days, when he’d be sure and send it back. Nelly’s brother, too, you see, so that I couldn’t well refuse him.”

Hugh Lingon did not see the black angry look upon Charley’s face, and he went on.

“He went to the governor after he left me, and got fifty pounds out of him; so I found out this morning when I went into the study to see if I could raise the wind myself, for I had an awful dunning letter from my tailor for breakfast, and there was the governor in no end of a rage – put on that grand magisterial air of his, and begins to talk to me like he does to the clodhoppers who have been having a drunk and a fight. And, lo and behold, it comes out that Mr Max promised to send his back the next day without fail; and the governor swears he’ll make old Bray pay up, if Max doesn’t answer his last letter, for he has written three, and had no reply. The last one he read me the copy of – all about ungentlemanly dishonourable behaviour, and so on. I believe the old chap would like to commit him for obtaining money under false pretences. But, I say, don’t run away, Charley. I may come and have the cheque, mayn’t I? for it’s of no use to try the governor again till Max Bray has paid up.”

“Yes, yes; come when you like!” cried Charley, turning and breasting his mare at a high hedge on the left, which the gallant beast cleared, but with hardly an inch to spare; and then they went crashing through the copse, and were out of sight in a minute.

“Well, that’s one way of giving a fellow the go-by!” muttered Hugh Lingon. “Why? I wouldn’t try that leap for five hundred pounds! nor would any one else who had the least regard for his neck. What did he fire-up about as soon as I mentioned Max Bray’s name? By Jove, though, as Max says, he don’t seem highly delighted about his good fortune!”

Other people made the same remark about Charley Vining, and also noticed how hard he hunted, riding in the most reckless way imaginable, but always seeming to escape free of harm, when more cautious riders met with the customary croppers, bruises, contusions, and broken limbs.

Volume Three – Chapter Six.
Had She Won?

It was one of the things generally known in the neighbourhood of Blandfield, that Sir Philip Vining gave up the Court to his son, who, in a very short time, was to confer upon it a new mistress in the shape of Laura Bray.

Every one said that it was an admirable match; and old ladies, who had set themselves up for prophets, laughed and nodded together, and reminded one another of how they had always said so. That croquet-party at the Court was not for nothing, they knew!

Then came a round of congratulatory calls, and a general disposition amongst the callers to declare that they had never heard of anything that had given them more pleasure.

“Really,” they said, “it was exquisite, and just the thing that was wanted to make the Lexville circle complete. For, you see, Sir Philip was indeed most charming, but he gave so few dinner-parties!”

“But what Charles Vining could see in that great, tall, coarse woman, when there were my nice quiet gentle girls, I don’t know. But there, every eye forms its own beauty!”

So said Mrs Lingon; and, in fact, allowing for a little variety, so said every mother of marriageable daughters; but all the same, at the end of a fortnight Laura Bray was to be Mrs Charles, and in future Lady Vining, always allowing, of course, that nothing occurred to put off the wedding, that every one declared to be, on the whole, rather hurried.

There was certainly, too, a little disappointment felt by some of the marriageable young ladies; but that was soon mastered: for there was to be the wedding, after all, if they were not to be the principals in the thrilling ceremony; and also, after all, there was not one of them who might not be asked to act as bridesmaid.

It was the theme of discussion throughout the district. Even gentlemen had their say, as they hoped that Vining wouldn’t be so shabby as to cut off his subs. to the hounds, even if he had no more idea of hunting. While, as for the ladies, they knew to an inch how many yards of white gros-de-Naples there would be in Laura’s wedding-dress; how many breadths there would be in the skirt; and that Miss Bray had decided not to have it gored.

“And quite right too,” said some with a titter, “with such a figure as she has!”

“Don’t you think Laura Bray looks quite yellow and thin?” said the elder Miss Lingon, who was certainly neither yellow nor thin, but very plump, fair, and dumplingy.

“O, decidedly!” said her sister. “She looks anxious and worried, too.”

“Well, no wonder,” said the elder Miss Lingon, with a sigh. “Any stupid would know that it is a most anxious and trying time for her. She is about to take a step which – ”

“There’s not much fear of your taking, Miss Fan,” said her sister spitefully. “And how you should know anything about its being an anxious time, I’m sure I don’t know, without you read it in a book.”

The elder Miss Lingon tossed her head.

“But I know why she’s anxious,” said the second Miss Lingon. “Hugh told me. It’s because he will hunt so recklessly now.”

“I don’t believe that’s it. All gentlemen hunt,” said the other.

“You can believe what you like,” was the snappish answer. And there the matter dropped, as each lady waited anxiously for the request that should make her a bridesmaid.

But, all the same, Laura did look thin and anxious. Not that Charley Vining was wanting in attention, for he was constantly at the Elms; but there was a great dread always oppressing her, that the wedding would not take place. Each day that passed without adventure, she reckoned as so much gained; and though Miss l’Aiguille was engaged with her staff especially on Miss Bray’s account, and dresses for bride and bridesmaids were in rapid progress, yet would Laura start at the slightest sound, and tremble as every letter came to the house.

She counted the days and the hours that must intervene, and mentally checked them off as they passed away. She clung nervously to Charley as he left her at night, and seemed loth to let him leave her, though he smiled at her anxiety and tried to seem happy, but all the while there was an aching void in his heart, as he told himself that he was about to be guilty of a wrongful act.

And still the time glided on. A few more days, and Laura told herself that she could be at rest.

“At rest?” She shivered as she repeated the words, and then tried to look pleased at the rich presents sent by Sir Philip Vining, or brought to her by Charley himself to swell the bridal trousseau.

But she could not conceal the agitation she felt; for ever, by night and day, thrown athwart the light of her understanding was the dark shadow of a peril to come – a peril coming as surely as day would succeed unto night.

Costly preparations at Blandfield Court; painters and decorators busy; fresh carpets here, and fresh carpets there; Laura fetched over by Sir Philip to give her opinion upon this, her consent to that, or to choose something else. The old gentleman seemed never happy save when he was superintending some fresh arrangement that should add to the pleasure and comfort of his fixture daughter-in-law. He was almost angry at times on seeing how little interest was taken in such matters by his son; but ever ready with an excuse, he set it down to Charley’s renewed pleasure in the sports of the field.

Laura did not complain, although Nelly, but for her youth, might have been taken for the favoured one, since she was constantly Charley’s companion, to the great astonishment of Hugh Lingon. For the little well-broken mare had been purchased, and had come down to Blandfield, where, one day when Nelly was over with her sister, Charley proposed a ride, the horses were brought round, and Nelly’s rough black pony sent back, to her utter astonishment; while, when informed that the graceful little creature that stood arching its neck, and softly pawing at the gravel, was her own, Nelly’s joy knew no bounds, as, in turns, she literally smothered Sir Philip and Charley with kisses.

It was not from mortification at being so unceremoniously left that Laura turned pale; but, in her nervous state, it seemed that the danger she apprehended – the peril that should stay the wedding – might come from any direction, and that a delay of a month, a fortnight, or even of a week, might be fatal to her prospects; for might not Charley alter his mind? or – no, there was no fear of that now. But might not this prove a danger that should delay that which she so ardently prayed for? Nelly might meet with an accident, and be brought back half-killed.

There was certainly some foundation for Laura’s fears; for had Miss Nelly been left to herself, in her wild exhilaration she would most probably have come to grief; in fact she tried her best to get thrown; but there was ever a strong hand ready to be laid upon her rein, so that, in spite of Laura’s forebodings, she was brought back in safety.

Laura counted: six days – five days – four days – three days before – two days before – one day before the wedding; and all this time Max Bray might have been forgotten, for his name was never once mentioned at the Elms. Hugh Lingon, though, on making an excuse for not having repaid Charley’s loan, mentioned having felt sure that he had seen Max in London, but that he had been unable to overtake him before he disappeared, but that, after all, he was not sure.

That news slightly disturbed Charley, and he winced as he thought upon the probable future fate of Ella Bedford; his brow contracted too, as he seemed to see a pale face appealing to him for help, and he shuddered slightly as he drove away the thoughts.

He spent the evening with Sir Philip at the Elms, and all seemed to be working to the one end.

Nelly was in a tremendous state of excitement, and displayed it as she darted about with brightened eye and flushed cheek; but now that the time was so near, Laura had so nerved herself that she was calm and composed in appearance, though her heart was agitated by varied emotions.

But what cause could there be for fear? Had not the woman who had been her rival fled, in, apparently, a most discreditable manner, with her own brother? Was not Charles Vining, if not a warm and passionate, at all events a most respectable lover as to his attentions? Surely she could wish for nothing more, if the proverb be true, that the hottest love the soonest cools.

And, besides, how gleefully were all the preparations being made! Gunters were providing the breakfast, and even then the men were in the house. The wedding garments were waiting, and Miss l’Aiguille was coming herself in the morning to superintend the dressing, to the great disgust of Laura’s maid. The wedding was expected to be one of the grandest that had been in the neighbourhood for some years; and the weather had been for many days past so settled and bright, that there was every prospect of the bride being bathed in the sunshine of good fortune.

“Good-night, for the last parting!” said Charley, as he held Laura in his arms, previous to taking his departure; and she clung to him, for he was more tender and gentle to her.

He must love her, she felt, or he could not have spoken as he had.

Only a few more hours, then, and the suspense would be at an end. The wedding-breakfast over, dresses changed, the carriage would be in waiting to convey them to the station. They were to pass the first night in London, and depart by tidal boat the next morning for Paris, Marseilles, Hyères, Genoa, Rome – a month of pleasant touring in Southern Europe; and in that period old sorrows would be forgotten, and her husband’s heart would have warmed to her.

But still Laura trembled, for she had been gambling for a great stake.

Had she won?

It seemed so; for once more he repeated those words, “Good-night, for the last parting!” as they stood in the hall.

“But you’ll have to put up with me, my dear!” said Sir Philip, kissing Laura in his turn; “but I won’t bother you – I won’t interfere in any way – only let me have my study fire in the cold weather; and don’t stop away from home too long. I say so now, because I shall have no chance to-morrow. There, good-bye!”

They were gone; and, proud and elate, Laura returned to the drawing-room. The victory was nearly won, and the happy congratulatory looks of friends and those who were to act as her bridesmaids seemed to be mirrored in her face, as they clustered laughingly round her – Mrs Bray forbearing to shriek, and little pudgy Mr Bray disregarding her evening dress as he caught her in his arms, to give her a sounding kiss on either cheek.

Meanwhile Sir Philip and Charley were returning in their carriage to Blandfield: the former light-hearted and chatty, the latter quiet, but apparently content. He had weighed all well, and pondered the matter again and again, and still his heart told him that it was his duty. The faint spark of his old passion, as he called it, that would still keep showing, in spite of his efforts to crush it out, he told himself would soon be extinct – hiding the fact that that spark was a consuming fire that was not even smouldering, but though concealed, eating its way fiercely to the light.

“Good-night; heaven bless you, my dear boy!” said Sir Philip, as he stood, candle in hand, in the hall. “It will be hard work sparing you, Charley; for I’m an old man now, and growing feeble, and in want of humouring. You may have your month, but don’t exceed it.”

Charley did not answer; but shook his father’s hand warmly, and they parted.