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m im\w .is ns.
One seized the home.
i did not much like the arrangement
of Jane’s new house when I came to stay
in it. The way the two bedrooms, hers
and mine, were shut off from the rest of
the house by a door, barred and locked
at night for fear of burglars, was, I
thought, unpleasant, especially as once
in my room for the night there was no
possibility of getting out of it, the bey
of the door of the passage not being even
allowed to remain in the lock, but retir
ing with Jane, the canary cage and
other valuables into her own apartment.
I remonstrated, but I soon found that
Jane had not remained unmarried for
nothing. She was decided on the point.
The outer door would Ire locked as usual,
aqd the key would be deposited under
the pincushion in her room as usual, and
ft was so.
The next morning, as Jane and I went
out for a stroll before luncheon, we had
to pass the house to which I had driven
by mistake the day before. To our as
tonishment there was a crowd before
the door, and a policeman with his back
to it was guarding the eu trance. The
blinds were all drawn down. The image
of the pale, lonely woman sitting by her
little fire, whom I had disturbed the day
Indore, came suddenly back to me with
a strange qualm.
“What is it?” I hurriedly asked a
baker’s boy who was standing at an
area railing rubbing his chin against the
loaf he was waiting to deliver. The boy
grinned.
‘‘lt’B murder!” he said, with relish.
“Burgilars in the night. I’ve supplied
her reg’lar these two months. One quaf-i
tern best white, ore-half quartern brown
evety morning, French rolls occasional;
but it’s all up now.” And he went off
whistling a time which all bakers’ boys
whistled about tliat time, called “My
Grandfather's Timepiece," or something
similar.
A second policeman came up the street
at this moment, and from him I learned
all the little there was to know. The
poor lady hail not been murdered, it
■eemed, but being subject to heart com
plaint had died in the night of an acuto
attack, evidently brought on by fright.
The maid, the only other person in the
house, sleeping us maids of all work only
can, had heard nothing, and awoke in
the morning to find her mistress dead In
her bed, with the window and door open.
Strangely enough, the policeman added,
although nothing in the house had been
touched, the lock of an nnused bedroom
had been forced and the room evidently
searched.
Poor Jane was quite overcome. She
seemed convinced that it was only by a
special intervention of Providence that
she had changed her house, and that her
successor had been sacrificed instead of
herself.
“It might have been me!” she said over
and over again that afternoon.
Wishing to give a turn to her thoughts
I began to talk about Sir John's legacy,
in which sue had evinced the greatest
interest the night before, and greatly to
her delight showed her the jewels. I had
not looked at them since Sir John had
given them to me. and I was myself
tonished at their magnificence as I spread
them out on the table under the gas
lamp.
Jane exhausted herself in admiration,
but as I was putting them away again,
saying it was time for me to be dressing
and going to meet Carr* who was to join
me at the Criterion, she begged me on
no account t*> talc-' them with me, affirm
ing that it would be much safer to leave
them at home. 1 was firm, but she was
firmer, and in the end I allowed her to
lock them up in the tea caddy, where
her small stock of ready money reposed.
I met Carr as we had arranged and
we had a very pleasant evening. Poor
Carr, who had seen the papers, had
hardly expected that I should turn up,
knowing the catastrophe of the previous
night had taken place at the house I was
going to, and was much relieved to hear
that my sister had moved and had thus
been spared all the horror of the event.
The dinner was good, the play better.
I should have come home feeling that I
had enjoyed myself thoroughly if it had
not been for a little adventure with our
cab driver that very nearly proved seri
ous. We got a hansom directly we came
out of the theatre, but instead of taking
us to the direction we gave him, after
we had driven for some distance I began
to make out that the cabman was going
wrong, and Carr shouted to him to stop;
but thereupon he lashed up his horse
and away he went, like tV- winds, up one
street and down another, till I bad lost
all idea where we were. Carr, who was
Joung and active, did all he could, but
he cabman, who I am afraid must
have been intoxicated, took not the
slightest notice, and continued driving
madly, heaven knows where.
At last, after getting into a very dingy
neighborhood, we turned up a crooked
dark street, unlit by auy lamp, a street
so narrow that I thought every moment
the cab would be overturned. In an
other moment I saw two men rush out
of a doorway. One seized the horse,
which was much blown by this time,
and_ brought it violently to a standstill.
VJT.e lue other Jew at the can, and
! catching Carr by the collar proceeded to
drag him eut by main force. I suppose
; Carr did his best, but being only an
i American he certainly made a very poor
; fight of it: and while I was laying into
! the man who had got hold of him I was
: suddenly caught by the legs myself from
| the other‘side of the cab. I turned on
my assailant, saw a heavy stick leveled
at me, caught at it, missed it, beheld a
series of fireworks and remembered noth
ing more.
The first thing I heard on beginning
to coine to myself was a series of sub
dued lmt evidently heartfelt oaths, and
I became sensible of an airy feeling, un
pleasant in the extreme, proceeding
from an open condition of coat and
waistcoat, quite nnsuited to the time of
year. A low chorus of inuflied whisper
ing was going on round me. As I
groaned involuntarily it stopped.
•‘He’s coming to!” I heard Carr say.
“Go and fetch some brandy." And I
felt myself turned right side uppermost,
and my hands were rubbed, while Carr,
in a voice of the greatest anxiety, tusked
me how I felt. I was soon able to sit
up and to become aware that I had a
splitting headache, and was staring at a
tallow candle stuck in a bottle. Having
got. so far I got a little farther, add on
looking round found myself reclining on
a sack in a corner of a disreputable look
ing room, dingy with dirt and faithful
to the memory of bad tobacco.
Then I suddenly remembered what
had occurred. Carr saw that I did so,
and instantly poured forth an account
of how we had been rescued from a con
dition of great peril by the man to whom
the hijr.se we were in belonged, to whom
he hardly knew how to express his grati
tude, and who was now gone for some
brandy for me. He told me a great deal
about it, hut I was so dizzy that I forgot
most of what he said, and it was not un
til our deliverer returned with the brandy
that I became thoroughly aware of what
was going forward.
I could not help thinking, as I thanked
the honest fellow who had come to our
assistance, how easily one may be de
ceived by appearances, for a more for
bidding looking face ilnder its fur cap I
never saw. Tffat of his son, who pres
ently returned with a four whoeler which
Carr had sent for, was not more prepos
sessing. In fact they were two as vil
lainous looking men as I had ever seen.
After recotnitensing both with all our
spare cash we got ourselves hoisted stiffly
into the cab, and Carr good naturedly
insisted on seeing me home, though he
owned to feeling, as he put it, “rather
knocked up by his knocking down.” We
were both far too exhausted to speak
much, until Carr gave a start and a gasp
and said, “By Jove!”
“What?” I inquired.
“They are gone!” he said tremulously
—“my sapphires. They are gone! Stolen!
I had them in a hag around my neck, as
you told me. They must have been
taken from me when I was knocked
down. I say, ’he added quickly, "how
about yours? Have you got them all
right?"
Involuntarily I raised my hand to my
throat. A horrid qualm passed over me.
“Thank heaven!” I replied with a sigh
of relief, “they are safe at home with
Jane. What a mercy! 1 might have
loet them.”
“Might!” said Carr. “You would have
lost them to a dead certainty; and mine
are gone!” And he stamped and clenched
his fists and looked positively furious.
Poor Carr! 1 felt for him. He took
the loss of his stones so to heart, and I
am sure it was only natural. I parted
from him at my own door, and was glad,
on going in, to find Jane had stayed up
for me. I soon figured in her eyes as
the hero of a thrilling adventure, while
her clever hands applied sticking plaster
ad libitum We were both so full of the
events of the evening and the letter
which 1 was to write to The Times about
it the next day that it never entered the
heads of either of us, on retiring to bed,
to remove Sir John's jewels from the tea
caddy into which they had been tempo
rarily popped in the afternoon.
CHAPTER IY.
i " •” ' '
I “1 am the black sheep of the family .”
I really think adventures, like misfor
| tunes, never come singly. Would you
| believe it? Our house was broken into
, that very night. Nothing serious came
of it, wonderful to relate, owing to
Jane’s extraordinary presence of mind,
i She had been unable to sleep after my
thrilling account of the cab accident,
and had consoled herself by reading
Baxter’s “Saint’s Rest” by her night
light, for the canary became restless and
, liable to sudden bursts of song if acandle
were lighted. While so engaged she be-
I came aware of a subdued grating sound,
which had continued for some time be-,
fore she began to sj>eculate upon it.
While she was speculating it ceased, and
after a short interval she distinctly
| heard a stealthy step upon the stair, and
the handle of the passage door before
mentioned was gently, very gently,
j turned.
J _ Jane has some of that quickness of
perception which has been of such use
to myself through life. In a moment
she had grasped the situation. Some
one was in the house. In another mo
ment she was hanging out of her bed-
room window, springing the policeman’s
rattle which she had had by her for
years with a view to an emergency of
this kind, and at the same time—for she
was a capable woman—blowing a pierc
ing strain on a cabman's whistle.
To make a long story short, her extra
ordinary presence of mind was the sav
ing of ns. With her own eyes she saw
two dark figures fly up our area steps
and disappear round the comer, and
when a policeman appeared on the scene
half an hour later he confirmed the fact
that the house had been broken into by
showing us how an entrance had been
effected through the kitchen window.
There was of course no more sleep for
us that night, and the remainder of it
was passed by Jane in examining the
house from top to bottom every half
hour or so, owing to a rooted conviction
on her part that a burglar might still be
lurking on the premises, concealed in
the cellarette, or the jam cupboard, or
behind the drawing room curtains.
By that morning’s post I heard, as I
expected I should do, from Sir George
Danvers, but the contents of the letter
surprised me. He wrote most cordially,
thanking me for my kindness in under
taking such a heavy responsibility (I am
sure I never felt it to be so) for an entire
stranger, and ended by sending me a
pressing invitation to come down to
Stoke Moreton that very day, that he and
his son, whose future wife was also stay
ing with them, might ave the pleasure
of making the acquaintance of one to
whom they were so much indebted. He
added that his eldest son Charles was also
going down from London by a certain
train that day, and that he had told him
to be on the lookout for me at the sta
tion in case I was able to come at such
short notice. I made up my mind to go,
sent Sir George a telegram to that effect
and proceeded to fish up the jewels out
of the tea caddy.
Jane, who had never ceased for one
instant to comment on the event ©f the
night, positively shrieked when she saw
me shaking the bag free from tea leaves.
“Good gracious! the burglars!” she ex
claimed. "Why, they might have taken
them if they had only known.”
Of course they had not known, as I
had been particularly secret about them;
but I wished all the same that I had not
left them there all night, as Jane would
insist, and continue insisting, that they
hail been exposed to great danger. I
argued the matter with her at first, hut
women, I find, are impervious, as a rule,
to masculine argument and it is a mis
take to reason with them. It is, in fact,
putting the sexes for the moment on an
equality to wrhich the weaker one is un
accustomed and consequently unsuited.
A few hours later I was rolling swiftly
I toward Stoke Moreton in a comfortable
\ (pnoking carriage, only occn <ied by my
4elf and Mr. Charles Danv >rs, a hand
some young fellow with a pale face, and
that peculiar tired mai ner which
(though, as 1 soon found, natural to him)
is so often affected by the y jung men of
bUO btrt).
1 “And so Ralph has come in for a
| legacy in diamonds,” he said, listlessly,
when we had exchanged the usual civili
ties and had become to a certain degree
acquainted. “Dear me! how these good,
steady young men prosper in the world.
When last I heard from him he had pre
vailed upon the one perfect woman in
the universe to consent to marry him,
and his aunt (by the way, you will meet
her there, too —Lady Mary Cunning
ham) had murmured something vague
but gratifying about testamentary in
tentions. A week later Providence tills
his brimming cup with a legacy of
jewels, estimated at?” — Charles opened
his light, sleepy eyes wide and looked
inquiringly at me. "What are they esti
mated at?” he asked, as I did not an
swer.
I really had no idea, but I shrugged
my shoulders and looked wise.
“Estimated at a fabulous sum,” he said,
closing his eyes again. “Ah! had they
been mine with what joyful alacrity
should I have ascertained their exact
money value. And mine they ought to
have been if the sacred law of primo
geniture (that special providence which
watches over the interests of eldest sons)
had been duly observed. Sir John had
not the pleasure of my acquaintance,
but I fear he must have heard some re
ports —no doubt entirely without founda
tion —respecting my career, which in
duced him to pass me over in this man
ner. What a moral! My father and my
Aunt Mary are always delicately point
ing out the difference between Ralph
and myself. I wish I were a good young
man, like Ralph. It seems to pay best
in the long run; but I may as well in
form you. Col. Middleton, of the painful
fact that I am the black sheep of the
family.”
“Oh, come, "come!” 1 remarked un
easily.
“I should not have alluded to the sub
ject if you were not likely to become
folly aware of it on your arrival, so I
will be beforehand with my relations. I
was brought up in the way I should go,”
he continued with the utmost uncon
cern, as if commenting on something
that did not affect him in the least, “but
I did not walk in it, partly owing to the
uncongenial companionship that it in
volved, especially that of my aunt Mary,
who took up so much room herself in
the narrow path that she effectually
kept me out of it. From my earliest
youth, also, I took extreme interest
in the parable of the prodigal, and
as soon as it became possible I
exemplified it myself. I may even
say that I acted the part in a manner
that did credit to a beginner; but the
wind up was ruined by the lamentable
inability of others, who shall be name
less, to throw themselves into the spirit
of the piece. At various intervals,” he
continued, always as if speaking of some
one else. “I have returned home, but I
regret to say that on each occasion my
reception was not in any way what I
could have wished. The flavor of a fatted
. calf is absolutely unknown to me; and
so far from meeting me half way, I
have, in extreme cases, when impelled
homeward by urgent pecuniary consid
erations, found myself obliged to walk
np from the station.”
“Deax me! I hone it is not fart l said.
“A mere matter of three miles or so
up hill,” he resumed; “nothing to a
healthy Christian, though trying to the
trembling legs of the ungodly after a
long course of husks. There, now I think
you are quite au fait as to our family
history. I always pity a stranger who
comes to a house ignorant of little do
mestic details of this kind; he is apt to
make mistakes. Oh, pray don’t mention
it" —as 1 murmured some words of
thanks "no trouble, I assure yon;
trouble is a thing I don’t take. By the
way, are you aware we are going
straight into a nest of private theatricals
at Stock Moreton? To-night is the last
rehearsal; perhaps I had better look
over my part. I took it once years ago,
but I don’t remember a word of it.”
And after much rummaging in a mag
nificent silver mounted traveling bag
the Prodigal pnlled out a paper book and
carelessly turned over the leaves.
I did not interrupt his studies, save by
a few passing comments on the weather,
the state uf the country and my own
health, which I am sorry to say is not
what it was; but as I only received
monosyllabic answers, we had no more
conversation worth mentioning till we
reached Stoke Moreton.
CHAPTER V.
Stoke Moreton is a fine old Elizabethan
house standing on rising ground. As we
drove up the straight, wide approach be
tween two rows of ancient, fantastical
ly clipped hollies, I was impressed by the
stately dignity of the place, which was
not lessened as we drew up before a great
arched doorway, and were ushered into
a long hall supported by massive pillars
of carved white stone. A roaring log fire
in the immense fireplace threw a ruddy
glow over the long array of armor and
gleaming weapons which lined the walls,
and made the pale winter twilight out
side look bleak indeed. Charles, emerg
ing, slim and graceful, out of an ex
quisite ulster, sauntered up to the fire
and asked where Sir George Danvers
was. As he stood inside the wide fire
place, leaning against one of the pillars
which supported the towering white
stone chimney piece covered with her
aldic designs and coats of arms, be looked
a worthier representative of an ancient
race than I fear he really was.
i “So they have put the stage at that
end, in front Of the pillars,” he remarked,
nodding at a wooden erection. * ‘Quite
right. I could not have placed it better
myself. What, Brown? Sir George is
in the drawing room, is he? and tea, as I
perceive, is going on at this moment.
Come, Col. Middleton.” And we fol
lowed the butler to the drawing 100 m.
I am not a person who easily becomes
confused, but I must own I did get con
fused with the large party into the
midst of which we were now ushered.
I soon made out Sir George Danvers, a
delicate but irascible looking old gentle
man, who received me with dignified
cordiality, but returned Charles’ greet
ing with 2. certain formality snd cold*
ness which I was pained to see, family
affection being in my opinion the chief
blessing of a truly happy home. Charles
I already knew, and with the second
son, Ralph, a ruddy, smiling young
man, with any amount of white teeth, I
had no difficulty; but after that I be
came hopelessly involved.
I I was introduced to an elderly lady
whom I addressed for the rest of the
evening as Lady Danvers, until Charles
casually mentioned that his mother was
dead, and that until the deceased wife’s
sister bill was passed he did jiot antici
pate that his Aunt Mary would take
upon herself the position of stepmother
to her orphaned nephews. The severe
elderly lady, then, who beamed so
sweetly upon Ralph and regarded Charles
with such manifest coldness was their
aunt, Lady Mary Cunningham. She
had known Sir John slightly in her
j youth, she said, as she graciously made
room for me on her sofa, and she ex
, pressed a very proper degree of regrdt at
his sudden death, considering that he
had hot been a personal friend in any
j way.
! “We all have our faults, Col. Middle
ton,” said Lady Mary, with a gentle
sigh, which dislodged a little colony of
crumbs from the front of her dress. “Sir
John, like the rest of us, was not ex
empt, though I have no doubt the soft
ening influence of age would have done
much, since I knew him, to smooth acer
bities of character which were unfortu
nately strongly marked in his early life.”
She had evidently not known Sir John
in his later years.
As she continued to talk in this strain
I endeavored to make out which of the
young ladies present was the one to whom
Ralph was engaged. I was undecided
i as to which it was of the two to whom I
; had already been introduced. Girls al
; ways seem to me so very much alike, es
| pecially pretty girls, and these were
j both of them pretty. I do not mean
that they resembled each other in the
least, for one was dark and one was fair;
i but which was Miss Aurelia Grant,
, Ralph’s fiancee, and which was Miss Ev
i elyn Derrick, a cousin of the family, I
could not make out until later in the
evening, when I distinctly saw Ralph
kiss the fair one in the picture gallery,
and I instantly came to the conclusion
that she was the one to whom he was
• engaged.
I asked Charles if I were not right, as
we stood in front of the hali fire before
the rest of the party had assembled for
dinner, and he told me that I had indeed
hit the nail on the head in this instance,
though for his own part he never laid
much stress himself on such an occur
rence, having found it prove misleading
in the extreme to draw any conclusion
from it. He further informed me that
Miss Derrick was the young lady with
dark hair who had poured out tea, and
whom he had favored with some of his
conversation afterward.
I admired Ralph's taste, as did Charles,
who had never seen his future sister-in
law before. Aurelia Grant was a charm
ing little creature, with a curly head
and a dimple and a pink and white com
plexion, and a suspicion of an Irish ac
cent when she became excited.
Charles said he admired her complex
' ion_most because it was so thoroughly
well done and the coloring was so true
to nature.
I did not quite catch his meaning, but
it certainly was a beautiful complexion;
and then she was so bright and lively,
and showed such pretty little teeth when
she smiled! She was quite delightful.
I did not wonder at Ralph’s being so
much in love with her. and Charles
agreed with me.
“There is nothing like a good com
plexion,” he remarked gravely. “One
may be led away to like a pale girl with
a mind for a time, but for permanent
domestic happiness give me a good com
plexion, and—a dimple,” he added, as if
it were an afterthought. “I feel I
could not bestow my best affections on
a woman without a dimple. Yes, in
deed! Ralph has chosen well.”
Now I do not agree with Charles there,
as I have always considered that a wo
man should have a certain amount of
mind; just enough, in fact, to enable her
to appreciate a superior one. I said as
much to Charles, but he only laughed,
and said it was a subject on which opin
ion had always varied.
“How did he meet her?” I inquired.
“On the Rigi, last summer,” said
JCharles. “I am thinking of going there
myself next year. Lovely orphan sat by
Lady Mary at table d’hote. Read tracts
presented by Lady Mary. Made ac
quaintance. Lovely orphan's traveling
companion or governess discovered to be
live sister of defunct traveling compan
ion or governess of Lady Mary. Result,
warm friendship. Ralph, like a dutiful
nephew, appears on the scene. Fort
night of fine weather. Interesting ex
peditions. Romantic attachment, ce
mented by diamond and pearl ring from
Hunt & Roskell’s. There is the whole
story for you.”
Evelyn Derrick joined ns as he finished
spe'king. She was a tall, graceful girl,
gentle and dignified in manner, with a
pale, refined face. She was pretty in a
way, but not to compare to Aurelia.
Evelyn had an anxious look about her,
too. Now I do not approve of a girl
looking grave; she ought to be bright
and happy, with a smile for every one.
It is all very well for us men, who have
the work of the world to do, to look
grave at times, but with women it is dif
ferent; and a woman always looks her
best when she smiles—at least I think so.
Then Aurelia came down, perfectly
dazzling in white satin; then Sir George,
then Ralph, giving an arm to Lady
Mary, who suffered from rheumatism in
her foot. Then came the gong, and
there was a rustle down of more people,
young and old, friends of the family
who had come to act or to see their sons
and daughters act. As I never could
get even their names right I shall not
attempt to give any account of them,
especially as they are not of importance
in any way.
I After dinner, on entering the drawing
room, I found that great excitement pre
vailed among the ladies respecting Sir
John’s jewels. About his sad fate and
jiostly .legacy ihey all seemed fully in
formed. 1 had myself almost ror gotten
the reason of my visit in my interest in
my new surroundings, not having even
as yet given up the jewels to Sir George
Danvers or Ralph; but at the urgent re
quest of all the ladies at once Ralph
j begged me to bring them down to be
seen and admired then and there before
the rehearsal began.
“They will all be yours, yon know,"
Ralph said to Aurelia. “You shall wear
them on your wedding day.”
“You are always talking about being
married,” said Aurelia, with a little
pout. “I wish yon would try and think
of something else to sav. I was quite
looking forward to it myself until I
came here, and now I am quite, quite
tired of it beforehand.”
I Ralph laughed delightedly, and Sir
George reminding me that everyone was
dying of anxiety, himself included, I ran
upstairs to take the brown bag from
around my neck, and in a few minutes
returned with it in my hand. They were
all waiting for me, Lady Mary drawn
, up in an arm chair beside an ebony table,
1 ou which a small space near her had been
cleared, Charles alone holding rather
aloof, sipping his coffee with his back to
the fire.
i “Don’t jostle,” he said, as they all
crowded round me. “Evelyn, let me
beg of you not to elbow forward in that
unbecoming manner. Observe how Aunt
Mary restrains herself. Take time, Mid
dleton! your coffee is getting cold,
j Won’t you drink it first?”
As he finished speaking I turned the
i contents of the bag upon the table. The
jewels in the bright lamplight seemed
to blaze and burn into the ebony of the
table. There was a general gasp, a
silence, and then a chorus of admiration.
Charles came up behind me and looked
| over my shoulder.
“Good gracious!” said Lady Mary
solemnly. “Ralph, you are a rich man.
i Why, mine are nothing to them!” and
she touched a diamond and emerald
necklace on her own neck. “I never
knew poor Sir John had so much good
in him.”
“Oh, Ralph, Ralph,” cried Aurelia,
clasping her little hands with a deep
i sigh. “And will they really be my very
own?”
Ralph assured her that they would,
as-! ; sire jft.juia act in them the fol
lowing nignt if she liked.
I think there was not a woman pres
ent who did not envy Aurelia as Ralph
took up a flashing diamond crescent and
held it against her fair hair. I saw Eve
lyn turn away and begin to tear up a
small piece of paper in her hand. Wo
men are very jealous of each other,- es
pecially the nice, by which I mean the
pretty ones. I was sorry to see jealousy
so plainly marked in such a charming
looking girl as Evelyn, but women are
all the same about jewels. Aurelia
; blushed and sparkled and pouted when
th<? clasp caught in her hair, and shook
her little head impatiently and was alto-
I gether enchanting.
After the first burst of admiration had
subsided Gen. Marston, an old Indian
1 officer who had been somewhat in the
; rear, came up and looked long at the
glittering mass upon the table.
1 “Are yon aware.” he said at last to
; Ralph. I'eintinz to the orescent, “that
those diamonds are of enormous'*., ' '
I have not seen such stones in 4 , -
in London. I dare not say what Vh' Shop
crescent alone is worth, or that °“ 6
bracelet. Jewels of such
are a grave responsibility " rr„ “ u *
shaking his head a little and tnninJT
crescent in his hand. "Wonderful* T
said, “wonderful! Do not tear ur)
piece of rice paper, Miss Derrick ” he J?
ed, taking it from her. “The
wrapped m it, and 1 will put it
it again. All these stones want poS*
mg, and many of them resetting Th
ought not to be tumbled together tfc?
way in a bag, with nothing to
them scratching each other. See, Bah*
here is a clasp broken, and here are
some loose stones, and this star has W
clasp at all. Yoq must take them up to
some trustworthy jeweler and have
them thoroughly looked over.”
“1 suppose the second son was spe
cially mentioned, Middleton?"
Charles, as I drew back to let th
handle and admire.
“Of course,” said Lady Mary sharply
“and a very fortunate thing, too.” w ’
“Very—for Ralph,” he replied, “it i,
really providential that I am what I am
Why, I might have ruined the dear
boy’s prospects if I had paid my tailor’s
bill, and lived in the country among the
buttercups and daisies. Ah, my dear
aunt, as I see you are about to remark
how all things here below work together
for good!”
“I was not going to remark anything
of the kind,” retorted Lady Mar} *draw
ing herself up; “but,” khe added spite
fully, “I do not feel thq less rejoiced at
Ralph’s good fortune and prosperity
when I see, as I often do, the ungodly
flourishing like a green bay tree.”
“Of course,” said Charles,
head, •‘if that is your own experience I
bow before it. But for my own part I
must confess I have not found it so.
Flourish like a green bay tree! No, Aunt
Mary, it is a fallacy. They don’t. lam
sure I only wish they did. But I see the
rehearsal is beginning. May I give }u
an arm to the hall?”
The offer was entirely disregarded,
and it was with the help of mine that
Lady Mary retired from an unequal
combat, which she never seemed able to
resist provoking anew, and in which she
was invariably worsted, causing her, as
I could see, to regard Charles with the
concentrated bitterness of which a se
verely good woman alone is capable.
I soon perceived that Charles was on
the same amicable terms with his fa
ther, that they rarely spoke, and that it
was evidently only with a view to keep
ing up appearances that he was ever in
vited to the paternal roof at all. Be
tween the brothers, however, in spite of
so much to estrange them, a certain
kindliness of feeling seemed to exist
which was hardly to have been expected
under the circumstances.
The rehearsal now began, and Sir
George Danvers, who had remained be
hind to put by the jewels, and lock them
up in his strong box among his papers,
came and sat down by me, again thank
ing me for taking charge of them, though
I assured him it had been very little
trouble.
“Not much trouble, perhaps, but a
great responsibility,” he said courte
ously.
“A soldier, Sir George,” I replied,with
a slight smile, “becomes early inured to
the gravest responsibility. It is the air
we breathe; it is taken as a matter of
course.”
He looked keenly at me, and was si
lent, as if considering something—per
haps what 1 had said.
I was delighted to find the play was
one of those which I had seen acted dar
ing our passage home. There is nothing 1
like so much as knowing a play before
hand, because then one can always
whisper to one’s companion what is
coming next. The stage, with all its
adjustments, had been carefully ar
ranged, the footlights were lighted, the
piece began. All went well till nearly
the end of the first act, when there was
a cry behind the scenes of, “Mr. Denis!”
Mr. Denis should have rushed on, but
Mr. Denis did not rush on. The play
stopped. Mr. Denis was not in the li
brary, the improvised greenroom; Mr.
Denis did not appear when his name
was called in sterttorian tones by Ralph,
or in pathetic falsetto by Charles. In
short, Mr. Denis was not forthcoming.
A rush upstairs on the part of most of
the young men brought to light the aw
ful fact that Mr. Denis had retired to
his chamber a prey to sudden and acute
indisposition.
“Dear me,” said Charles to Lady Mary,
with a dismal shake of his head, “how
precarious is life! Here today and in
bed to-morrow. Support your Aunt
Mary, my dear Evelyn. She wishes to
retire to rest. Indeed we may as well
all go to bed, for there will be no more
acting to-night without poor Denis. I
only trust he may be spared to us till t°*
morrow, and that he may be well enough
to die by my hand to-morrow evening.
We all dispersed for the night in some
anxiety. The play could not proceed
without Mr. Denis, who took an impor
tant part; and Sir George ruefully in
formed me that all the neighboring
houses had been filled for these theatri
cals, and that great numbers of people
were expected. There was to be danc
ing afterward, but the principal feature
of the entertainment was the play. We
all retired to rest, fervently hoping that
the health of Mr. Denis might be re
stored by the following morning.
* ~ [TO BE CONTESTED.]
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