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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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it too eagerly, you have not got the hook in your jaws. There is such
a thing, Sir, as striking fraudulent attorneys off the roll, and, at all
events be sure, that however pleasant it might be to possess this
estate, you will never have it."

"I do not want it, Sir," cried Mr. Wharton, half mad with rage and
vexation, "I would not have it if you would give it to me."

Beauchamp laughed, and Sir John Slingsby shouted; while all the
other persons in the room, not excepting bailiffs, tittered, without
disguise, to the lawyer's sad discomfort.

"Ah! here comes Miles," exclaimed Sir John, "and Mr. Undersheriff
too, by Jove. That is lucky; the matter will soon be settled now.--
How are you doctor, how are you Mr. Sheriff? you are the very man
we wanted."

"I am very sorry for all this business, Sir John," said a tall
gentlemanlike person, whom he had addressed; "but having
business at Tarningham, and hearing of the unfortunate occurrence
by the way, I thought it better to come up myself, as I felt sure the
action could be bailed."

"And so it can," cried Sir John Slingsby, "here stands bail ready in
the person of my friend, Lord Lenham; but that pitiful little snivelling
rogue, Wharton, objects."

"Ah! good day, Wharton," said the sheriff, drily, "why do you
object?"

"No, I do not object," replied the attorney, "the men here,

Bulstrode and the rest, thought there might be detainers, and the
process having--"

"No, no!" cried the officer, "we thought nothing about it, till you
told us to refuse the bail till we had searched the office. I've a
shrewd guess, Mr. Wharton, that you have got up all the creditors
here who could lodge detainers and his lordship offers to pay all
honest debts at once, and to put in bail against yours."

"What do you mean by that?" exclaimed Wharton, furiously; but

the sheriff interfered, and at the same time Doctor Miles and
Beauchamp, who had been speaking together, turned round, and the
clergyman introduced his young friend to the officer of the county by
the title of Viscount Lenham.

"This matter, I think, can be settled with you, Sir, in a few words,"
said Beauchamp, "I do not choose to see my friend, Sir John
Slingsby, wronged. It so happens, that intending to buy an estate in
this neighbourhood, I have had a considerable sum paid lately into
Tarningham Bank. I am ready to give a bail bond for any sum you
may think necessary to your own security, that Sir John appears to
the action of Mr. Wharton, or anyone else; or to pay into your hands
any sum claimed, under protest. I think, in these circumstances,
there can be no need of removing Sir John from his own house."

"Not in the least," said the sheriff, "bail will be quite sufficient,
and can be given here quite as well as ten miles hence."

"But, my dear Sir," exclaimed Mr. Wharton, "there may be

detainers for aught you know, and to a large amount."

"I will take my chance of that, Wharton," replied the undersheriff,

"there were none when I came away, for I had occasion to examine
the books. It is not usual to lodge detainers till caption has been
actually effected, I think, my good friend."

"I think your proceeding very rash and irregular, Sir," replied the
lawyer, nettled, "and I should certainly object, if--"

"Pooh, pooh!" cried the sheriff, "I am the best judge of my own
affairs; and you are meddling with what does not concern you, Mr.
Wharton. If I take a sufficient bail for Sir John's appearance to your
action, that is all yon have to do with, and perhaps more; so let us
have no more of this; for I will not be meddled with in the discharge
of my duties. You tried this once before, Sir, and did not find it
succeed."

"Well, Sir, take your own way, take your own way!" cried Mr.
Wharton, in a sharp tone; "the sum is large; if the bail be not good,
you are responsible. A gentleman who goes about the country under
one false name, may very well take another. I do not mean to say
that it is so; but this gentleman who calls himself Lord Lenham now,
and called himself Mr. Beauchamp a few days ago, may be the
greatest swindler in England for aught any of us know."

"Swindlers do not usually have large sums at the bankers," said

Dr. Miles, drily; "that is to say, Mr. Wharton, not those swindlers
whom the law is willing to take hold of, though I have known many
rich men who swindled a good deal within the law, especially in your
profession. But to set all that at rest, I will join in the bond, if
necessary, and I possess means, I trust, sufficient to insure Mr.
Under-Sheriff against all risk.--There comes Bacon, trotting up on his
little fat horse. Bacon is a very excellent man, considering the
temptations of profession and example."

"Well, as my opinion is of no value, my presence can be of no

use," said Mr. Wharton; "and I shall therefore go. Good morning,
gentlemen--Sir John Slingsby, good morning."

The baronet took a step forward, looking at the lawyer somewhat

ominously, while the good stout calf of his leg might be seen to
tremble a little, as if agitated by the simultaneous action of
antagonist muscles--but then he stopped, saying aloud,

"No, I won't kick him--no, I won't kick any body any more."

"A very prudent resolution, Sir John," said Dr. Miles, "pray adhere
to it; and if you include the horsewhip in your renunciations, you will
do well."
 Mr. Wharton was suffered to retreat, unkicked; the matter of the
bail-bond was easily arranged; all the rest of the business passed
quietly; the bailiffs and their satellites were withdrawn from the
house; the creditors who remained, paid; and the under-sheriff took
his leave. Somewhat more time had been expended, indeed, than
Beauchamp had expected that the affair would occupy, ere he, Sir
John Slingsby, and Doctor Miles, were once more left alone in the
library; but then the baronet seized his friend's hand, with an
unwonted dew in his eyes, saying,

"How can I ever thank you for your noble conduct. I cannot show
my gratitude--but you must be secured. You shall have a mortgage
for the whole sum: the estate can well bear it, I am sure,
notwithstanding all that fellow Wharton says."

"I am quite convinced it can, Sir John," answered Beauchamp,

"and I will accept your offer, because, for reasons of my own, I am
exceedingly anxious that you should be under no possible obligation
to me; and now let us join the ladies, for they will think we are
never coming."

Dr. Miles smiled; for though he had never played at the games of
love and matrimony, he had been a looker-on all his life, and
understood them well. Sir John Slingsby was totally unconscious,
and led the way to the drawing-room, marvelling a little, perhaps--
for he was not a vain man--at the fact of his having so completely
won Beauchamp's regard, and created such an interest in his bosom,
but never attributing to his daughter any share therein. With parents
it is ever the story of the philosopher and his cat; and though they
can solve very difficult problems regarding things at a distance, yet
they do not always readily see that a kitten can go through the same
hole in a door which its mother can pass.

"Here, Isabel," cried the old gentleman, as they entered the room
where the three ladies were seated, watching the door as if their
fate hung upon its hinges, "shake this gentleman by the hand, as
the best friend your father ever had."

"I do thank him, from my heart," said Isabella, giving Beauchamp

her hand, with tears in her eyes; "but yet, my dear father," she
added, frankly, "Mr. Beauchamp would think me ungenerous, if I did
not tell you that you have another friend, who has acted in as kind
and noble a manner as himself. I mean Captain--no, I will call him by
his old name, Ned Hayward; for to him we owed the means of
discharging the debt to that man Wittingham."

"The obligation is infinitely greater to him than to me, my dear

Miss Slingsby," said Beauchamp; "for I know that Hayward's income
is not very large, while, in my case, there is really no obligation at
all. This money was lying idle, and it might just as well be invested
in one way as another."

"But every one is not so ready to invest money in a friend's relief,"

said Sir John, "and I shall never forget it. Hang me, my dear girl, if I
can tell what he found out in me to like or respect; I never could
discover anything of the kind myself."

Isabella coloured to the eyes, but answered at once,

"Mr. Beauchamp consulted only his own noble heart."

"Mr. Beauchamp!" cried Sir John Slingsby, with one of his merry
laughs; "Mr. Beauchamp had nothing to do with it, Bella. I am not in
the least indebted to Mr. Beauchamp."

Isabella, Mrs. Clifford, and Mary, were all alarmed; for they might
well fear that the events of that morning had somewhat affected Sir
John Slingsby's brain. But he soon relieved them.

"No, Isabella," he continued, "it is to this gentleman I am

indebted--let me introduce him to you. Isabella, Lord Lenham! Lord
Lenham, my daughter."
 Isabella cast her eyes to the ground, and a shade of deep, and, it
seemed to Beauchamp, anxious thought, came over her face; but
the next moment she looked up, all bright and sparkling again, and
exclaimed,

"So, Lord Lenham has thought fit to come upon us in

masquerade! That was hardly fair, my lord."

"Some day when Miss Slingsby will let me tell a long story she
shall hear the reasons why," answered Beauchamp, "and may then
judge whether it was fair or not. If she decides the cause in my
favour, she may tell the pleadings to the whole party, if she thinks I
have greatly erred she shall forgive the offender and conceal his
crime under the seal of confession."

Again Isabella blushed deeply; and Sir John Slingsby made the
matter worse by exclaiming, "Ho, ho! it is to be a private conference,
is it? We are all to be kept in the dark, as indeed I have been lately;
for all I know is that I have been placed in a very unpleasant and
unexpected situation this morning, and as suddenly relieved from it
by the affection of two dear girls, and the generosity of our noble
friend. I have not thanked you yet, my dear Mary; but pray let me
hear how all this has been brought about that I may do so
discreetly."

"In the meantime," said Beauchamp, "I, who know the whole, will
walk back again to my poor friend Hayward, and tell him how all
things have gone."

"You promised to dine, you promised to dine!" cried Sir John

Slingsby, "no breach of promise or I will have my action against
you."

"I will keep mine to the letter," replied Beauchamp, "and be back
in a couple of hours."

"And bring Ned Hayward with you," said the baronet.

 Beauchamp explained that such a thing was impossible, saying
that his friend had become somewhat worse in health since the
preceding night, but without giving any cause for alarm. His eyes
turned towards Mary Clifford as he spoke with a momentary glance,
which sufficed, by the paleness that spread over her face, to confirm
suspicions which he had entertained since the night before. He was
too much a gentleman in heart to keep his eyes there more than
that one moment for he felt that it would not only be a rudeness but
an unkindness.

"I will walk with you, my good lord," said Doctor Miles, "I long to
see Captain Hayward. He has particularly interested me."

"And you will walk back with Lord Lenham to dinner, doctor," said
Sir John as gaily as ever, "we will have one jolly evening after all this
fracas at all events."

"I will come to dinner," replied Dr. Miles, "expressly to keep it from
being too jolly, you incorrigible old gentleman."

But Sir John only laughed, and the peer and the priest walked
away together.
 CHAPTER XXXII.

"You said just now, doctor," observed Beauchamp as they strolled

through the park, "that Ned Hayward particularly interested you. I
am glad of it, for he did so with me from the first, without my well
knowing why; and we are always glad to find a prepossession which
savours perhaps a little of weakness, kept in countenance by others
for whom we have a respect."

"You mistake altogether, young gentleman," replied the doctor,

with the dry spirit upon him. "In my case it is no prepossession;
neither did he interest me from the first. I generally can give a
reason for what I feel. I am no being of impulses. Indeed," he
continued, more discursively, "I was any thing but prepossessed in
Captain Hayward's favour. I knew he had been brought up in the
army, under the judicious auspices of Sir John Slingsby. That dear
girl, Isabella, told me that, from what she could remember of him,
he was a gay, lively, rattling fellow. Sir John called him the best
fellow that ever lived, and I know tolerably well what that means.
The reason, then, why he interested me very soon, was because he
disappointed me. For half an hour after I first saw him, I thought he
was just what I expected--a man constitutionally lively, gay from
want of thought, good-humoured from want of feeling; having some
talents, but no judgment; acting right occasionally by impulse, but
not by principle."

"You did him great injustice," said Beauchamp, warmly.

 "I know I did," replied the clergyman, "but not long. A thousand
little traits showed me that, under the shining and rippling surface of
the lake, there were deep, still waters. The singular delicacy and
judgment with which he treated that business of the scandalous
attack upon Mrs. Clifford's carriage; the kindly skill with which he led
Sir John away from the subject, when he found that it distressed
poor Mary; his conduct towards the poacher and his boy; his
moderation and his gentleness in some cases, and his vigour and
resolution in others, soon set all preconceived opinions to rights. He
has one fault, however, which is both a very great and a very
common one--he conceals his good qualities from the eyes of
others. This is a great wrong to society. If all good and honest men
would but show themselves as they really are, they would stare vice
out of countenance; and if even those who are not altogether what
we wish, would show the good that is in them, and conceal the bad,
they would put vice and folly out of fashion; for I do believe that
there are far more good men, and even a greater amount of good
qualities amongst those who are partly bad, than the world knows
any thing about. So you see I am not a misanthrope."

"I never suspected you of being so, my dear doctor," said

Beauchamp; "if I had I should not have attempted to create an
interest for myself in you."

"Ay! then, you had an interested motive in coming up every other

day to my little rectory, just at the time that Isabella Slingsby visited
her poor and her schools!" cried Dr. Miles, laughing; "but I
understand it--I understand it all, my noble lord--there is not such a
thing as a purely disinterested man upon earth: the difference is
simply the sort of interest men seek to serve--some are filthy
interests, such as avarice, ambition, ostentation, even gluttony--how
I have seen men fawn upon the givers of good dinners! Then there
are maudlin interests, such as love and its et ceteras; and then,
again, there are the generous interests; but I am afraid I must class
those you sought to serve in such friendly visitations amongst the
maudlin ones--is it not so?"
 "Not exactly," answered Beauchamp; "for if you remember, my
good friend, you will find that I came up to your house at the same
hour, and as often, before I saw Miss Slingsby there, as afterwards.
Moreover, during the whole time I did so come before I was
introduced to her father, I never had a thought of offering her my
hand, how much soever I might admire and esteem her."

Dr. Miles turned round, and looked at his companion, steadily, for
a moment or two.

"I do not know what to make of you," he said, at length.

"I will tell you," replied Beauchamp, with a sad smile, "for I do not
believe any one could divine the causes which have led me to act a
somewhat unusual, if not eccentric, part, without knowing events
which took place many years ago. I told you once that I wished to
make you my father confessor. I had not time then to finish all I had
to say; but my intention has been still the same, and it is now
necessary, for Miss Slingsby's sake, that I should execute it: we shall
have time in going over, and I will make my story short. You are
probably aware that I was an only son, my father having never
married after my mother's death, my mother having survived my
birth only a few hours. My father was a man of very keen
sensibilities, proud of his name, his station, and his family--proud of
their having been all honourable, and not one spot of reproach
having ever rested on his lineage. He was too partially fond of me,
too, as the only pledge of love left him by one for whom he
sorrowed with a grief that unnerved his mind, and impaired his
corporeal health. I was brought up at home, under a careful tutor,
for my father had great objections, partly just, partly I believe
unjust, towards schools. At home I was a good deal spoiled, and had
too frequently my own way, till I was sent to college, where I first
learned something of the world, but, alas! not much, and I have had
harder lessons since. The first of these was the most severe. My
cousin, Captain Moreton, was ten years older than myself; but he
had not yet shown his character fully. My father and myself knew
nothing of it; for though he paid us an annual visit for a week or
two, the greater part of his time was spent either here or in
Scotland, where he had a grand-aunt who doted upon him. One
year, when I was just twenty, while he was on a shooting-party at
our house in October, he asked me to go down with him in the
following summer, to shoot grouse at old Miss Moreton's. I acceded
readily; and my father as willingly gave his consent. We set out on
the twenty-fifth of July, and I was received with all sorts of Scotch
hospitality at Miss Moreton's house. There were many persons there
at dinner, and amongst the rest a Miss Charlotte Hay--"

"Why do you stop?" asked Dr. Miles.

"A Miss Charlotte Hay," continued Beauchamp, with an evident

effort, "a very beautiful person, and highly accomplished. She was
some four or five years older than myself, I believe, affecting a
romantic style of thought, feeling, and language. She was beautiful,
I have said; but hers was not the style of beauty I admired, and at
first I took but little notice of her. She sang well, however, and
before the first evening was over, we had talked a good deal--the
more, perhaps, as I found that most of the ladies present, though of
no very high station, nor particularly refined manners, did not seem
to love her conversation. It appeared to me that she was superior to
them; and when I found that, though of good family, her fortune
was extremely limited, and that she had resided with old Miss
Moreton for some time, as something between a friend and a
companion, I fancied I understood the coldness I observed on the
part of more wealthy people. Many days passed over, during which
she certainly endeavoured to attract and captivate me. I was in
general somewhat on my guard; but I was then young,
inexperienced, vain, romantic; and though I never dreamed of
making her my wife, yet I trifled away many an hour by her side,
feeling passion growing upon me--mark, I say passion, not love; for
there was much that prevented me from respecting her enough to
love her--a display of her person, a carelessness of proprieties, an
occasional gleam of perverted principle, that no art could hide. Once
or twice, too, I caught a smile passing between her and my cousin
Moreton, which I did not like, and whenever that occurred it recalled
me to myself; but, with weak facility, I fell back again till the day of
my departure approached. Two or three days before the time
appointed--on the eleventh of August, which was my twenty-first
birth-day--Miss Moreton declared she would have a party of her
neighbours to celebrate the event. None of the higher and more
respectable gentry were invited, or, if they were, they did not come.
There were a good many deep-drinking lairds, and some of their
wives and daughters, somewhat stiff in their graver, and hoydenish
in their merrier, moments. It is one of those days that the heart
longs for years to blot out for ever. I gave way to the high spirits
which were then habitual to me. I drank deep--deeper than I had
ever before done. I suffered my brain to be troubled--I know not
that there were not unfair means used to effect it--but at all events,
I was not myself. I recollect personally little that passed; but I have
since heard that I was called upon to choose a wife for the
afternoon. I was told it was the custom of the country, on such
occasions, so to do in sport; and that I fixed, at once, upon this
artful girl--in the presence of many witnesses, I called her wife and
she called me husband. The evening passed over; I drank more wine
at supper, and the next morning I found myself married--for the
infamous fraud they called a marriage. In horror and dismay, I burst
away from the wretched woman who had lent herself to such a base
transaction. I sent off my servant at once for horses to my carriage--
I cast Moreton from me, who attempted to stop and reason with me,
as he called it, representing that what had taken place was a full and
sufficient marriage, according to the code of Scotland, for that public
consent was all that was required by their law."

"Or by the law of God either," replied Dr. Miles, "but it must be
free and intelligent consent."

"I travelled night and day," continued Beauchamp, rapidly, "till I

had reached my father's house and thrown myself at his feet. I told
him all--I extenuated, concealed nothing; and I shall never forget
either his kindness or his distress of mind. Instant steps were taken
to ascertain the exact position in which I stood; and the result was
fatal to my hopes of happiness and peace; for not only did he find
that I was entangled past recall, but that the character of the
woman herself was such as might be expected from her having been
a party to so disgraceful a scheme. She had been blighted by
scandal before she took up her residence in the house where I found
her. Miss Moreton in her dotage, yielded herself blindly to my
cousin's guidance; and there was more than a suspicion that he had
made his aunt's protection a veil to screen his own paramour."

"What did you do? what did you do?" asked Dr. Miles, with more
eagerness than he usually displayed; "it was a hard case, indeed."

"I went abroad immediately," replied Beauchamp, "for my father

exacted from me a solemn promise, never to live with or to see if it
could be avoided, the woman who had thus become my wife. He
used strong and bitter, but just terms in speaking of her. 'He could
not survive the thought,' he said, 'that the children of a prostitute
should succeed to the title of a family without stain.' My promise was
given willingly, for I will confess that hate and indignation and
disgust rendered her very idea odious to me. My father remained in
England for some months, promising to make such arrangements
regarding money--the base object of the whole conspiracy--that I
should never be troubled any more. He added tenderly, and sadly,
though gravely and firmly, that farther he could do nothing; for that
I must bear the consequences of one great error in a solitary and
companionless life. In consideration of a promise on the woman's
part never to molest me, nor to take my name, he settled upon her
the sum of a thousand per annum. During my father's life I heard no
more of her; but when he himself joined me in Italy, I could see but
too plainly how grief and bitter disappointment had undermined a
constitution already shaken. He did not long survive, and all that I
have myself undergone has been little, compared with the thought,
that the consequences of my own folly served to shorten the days of
my kind good parent."
 "But what became of the woman?" demanded Dr. Miles. "You
surely have had tidings of her since."

"Within a month after my father's death," replied Beauchamp, "I

received from her one of the most artful letters that woman ever
wrote, claiming to be received as my wife. But I will not trouble you
with the details. Threats succeeded to blandishments, and I treated
these with contempt as I had the others with coldness. Then
commenced a new system of persecution; she followed me,
attempted to fix herself upon me. Once she arrived at an inn in the
Tyrol as I was getting into my carriage, and declared before the
people round that she was my abandoned wife. I answered not a
word, but ordered the door to be closed, and the postillions to drive
on. Then came applications for an increased annuity, but I would not
yield one step, knowing that it would but lead to others, and in the
end to free myself from every day annoyance I took the name of
Beauchamp, hurried on to the East, directed my agent to conceal my
address from every one, and for several years wandered far and
wide. At length the tidings reached me that the annuity which had at
first been punctually demanded, had not been applied for. A report,
too, reached my lawyer's ears that she had died in Paris. Still I would
not return to claim my rank lest there should be some deep scheme
at work, and I continued in India and Syria for two years longer. The
annuity remained unclaimed. I knew that she had expensive habits
and no means, and I ventured back. I passed a few months in
London without resuming my own name; but the noise and bustle of
the great city wearied me, and I came hither. Inquiries in the mean
time had been made, somewhat languidly, perhaps, to ascertain the
fate of this unhappy woman; but here I saw Isabella Slingsby, and
those inquiries have been since pursued rapidly and strictly. Every
answer tended to one result, and four days ago I received a letter
from my solicitor, informing me that there can be no doubt of her
demise. I will show it to you hereafter, but therein he says that her
effects in Paris had been publicly sold, as those of a person
deceased, to pay the claims of her maid, who had brought forward
sufficient proofs to satisfy the police that her mistress had died in
Italy. The girl herself could not be found, but the lawyers consider
this fact, coupled with the total cessation of claims for the annuity,
as proving the death of Charlotte Hay, and removing all doubt that
this bitter bond is cancelled for ever."

"That is clear, that is clear," said Dr. Miles, who at this moment
was pausing with his companion at a stile, "and now, I suppose, it is
hand and heart for Isabella Slingsby."

"Assuredly," said Beauchamp, "but she must be informed of all

this; and it is not a tale for me to tell."

"Will you have the kindness, Sir," said a voice from the other side
of the hedge, as Beauchamp put his foot upon the first step of the
stile, "to keep on that side and go out by the gate at the corner."

"Oh, is that you in the ditch, Stephen?" said Beauchamp, "very

well, my good man; one way is as good as the other."

"I am watching something here, Sir," said the gamekeeper, In a

low voice, "and if you come over, you'll disturb the thing."

Beauchamp nodded, and went on in the way he directed; and

Doctor Miles, who had been meditating, replied to what he had said
just before the interruption of the gamekeeper.

"But who else can do it? Sir John is unfit. Me, you would have?
Humph! It is not a pleasant story for even an old gentleman to tell
to a young lady."

"Yet she must know it," answered Beauchamp; "I will--I can have
no concealment from her."

"Assuredly, there you are right," replied Doctor Miles, "and I am

sure the dear girl will value your sincerity properly."
 "She can but say that I committed a great error," answered
Beauchamp, "and for that error I have been punished by long years
of bitterness."

"Well, well, I will do my best," answered the rector; "but make

your proposal first, and refer her to me for the story of your life. I
will deal in generals--I will not go into details. That you can do
hereafter if you like."

Thus conversing they walked on, and soon after reached the
cottage of Stephen Gimlet, where they found Ned Hayward
beginning to feel relief from the operation which the surgeon had
performed in the morning. Beauchamp returned to him the sum
which he had received from Miss Slingsby in the morning, saying,
that he had found no necessity for using it, and Doctor Miles sat
down by him, and talked with cheerful kindness for about a quarter
of an hour. Was it tact and a clear perception of people's hearts that
led the worthy clergyman to select Mary Clifford for one of the
subjects of his discourse, and to enlarge upon her high qualities? At
all events he succeeded in raising Captain Hayward's spirits ere he
set out again upon his way homeward.

When he descended he found Gimlet, the gamekeeper, seated

with Widow Lamb, and the man, as he opened the door, apologised
for having stopped the rector and Mr. Beauchamp at the stile, but
did not state in what he had been so busily engaged. As soon,
however, as Doctor Miles was gone, Ste Gimlet resumed his
conversation with Mrs. Lamb, and it was a low-toned and eager one.
From time to time the old lady bowed her head, saying, "Yes;" but
she added nothing to the monosyllable for some time. At length,
however, in answer to something that her son-in-law said, she
exclaimed,

"No, Stephen, do not speak with him about it. I tried it this
morning, and it had a terrible effect upon him. It seemed to change
him altogether, and made him, so kind and gentle as he is, quite
fierce and sharp. Speak with his friend, Captain Hayward; for neither
you nor I can know what all this may mean. But above all, watch
well, for it is clear they are about no good, and tell me always what
you hear and see, for I cannot help thinking that I know more of
these matters than the young lord does himself--a bitter bond, did
he call it? Well, it may be a bond for the annuity you heard him talk
of; but then why does she not claim it? There must be some object,
Stephen."

The good old lady's consideration of the subject was prevented at

that moment from proceeding further by the entrance of her son
Billy Lamb, who came up and kissed her affectionately. The lad was
somewhat pale, and there was an air of fatigue in his small pinched,
but intelligent countenance, which made his mother hold him to her
heart with a feeling of painful anxiety. Oh! how the affections of a
parent twine themselves round a suffering child! Every care, every
labour, every painful apprehension that he causes us seems but a
new bond to bind our love the more strongly to him. The attachment
that is dewed with tears and hardened with the cold air of sorrow
and fear, is ever the more hardy plant.

"Sit down, Bill," said Stephen Gimlet, kindly, "you look tired, my
lad. I will get you a draught of beer."

"I cannot wait, Ste," answered the pot-boy, "for I must be back as
quick as I can; but I can look in to see mother for a minute every
day now. The gentleman who has got the little lone cottage on the
edge of Chandliegh Heath, gives me half-a-crown a week to bring up
his letters and newspapers, and I take the time when all the folks
are at dinner in our house."

"And get no dinner yourself, poor Bill," said Stephen Gimlet; "cut
him a slice of the cold bacon, mother, and a hunch of bread. He can
eat it as he goes. I'll run and draw him a draught of beer. It won't
keep you a minute, Bill, and help you on too."
 He waited for no reply, but ran with a jug in his hand to the
outhouse where his beer-barrel stood. When he came back the boy
drank eagerly, kissed the old lady again, and then set out with the
bread and bacon in his hand; but Stephen Gimlet walked out with
him, and after they had taken a few steps, he asked,

"Who is it, Bill, has got the cottage?"

"I don't know," answered the lad. "A tall, strong man he is, with
large whiskers all the way under his chin, a little grayish. He met me
last night when I took up a parcel from Mr. ---- to Burton's inn, and
asked if I came that way every day. I said I did not, but could come
if he wanted any thing."

"But you must know his name if you get his letters, Bill?" said
Gimlet.

"No, I do not, but I soon can," answered the deformed youth. "He
took me into the cottage, and made the lady give him some paper
and a pen and ink, and wrote a note to the postmaster, and gave me
a half-crown, and said I should have the same every week. The
postmaster wrapped up the letters and things in a bit of paper, and I
did not think to look in; but I can soon find out if you want to know."

"No," answered Stephen Gimlet, drily, "I know already. Well, Bill,
good bye, I must go about my work," and so they parted.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
 I beg Captain Moreton's pardon, I left him running across a field
in not the brightest possible night that ever shone. I should, at least,
have taken him safely home before now wherever that home might
be, which would be indeed difficult to say, for the home of Captain
Moreton was what people who pore over long lines of figures call a
variable quantity. However, there was once, at least there is reported
to have been once, for I do not take upon myself to answer for the
fact, a certain young person called Galanthis. She was a maid of-all-
work in a very reputable Greek family, and was called as a witness in
the famous crim. con. case of Amphitryon versus Jupiter. She proved
herself very skilful in puzzling an examining counsel, and there is an
old nonsensical story of her having been changed into a weasel to
commemorate the various turnings and windings of her
prevarications. Nevertheless, not this convenient Abigail, nor any of
her pliant race, ever took more turnings and windings than did
Captain Moreton on the night after his escape from his prison in the
vestry. Every step of the country round he knew well, and up one
narrow lane, through this small field, along that wood path, by
another short cut, he went, sometimes walking and sometimes
running, till at length he came to a common of no very great extent,
lying half-way, or nearly so, between the town of Tarningham and
the house called Burton's Inn. The common was called Chandleigh
Heath; and on the side next to the inn was the village of Chandleigh,
while between the heath and Tarningham lay about two miles of
well-cultivated but not very populous fields and meadows. At an
angle of the common a retired hosier of Chandleigh had built himself
a cottage--a cottage suited to himself and his state--consisting of six
rooms, all of minute size, and he had, moreover, planted himself a
garden, in which roses strove with apple-trees and cherries. The
hosier--as retired hosiers will very often do--died one day, and left
the cottage to his nephew, a minor. The guardians strove to let the
cottage furnished, but for upwards of a year they strove in vain; its
extremely retired situation was against it, till one day it was
suddenly tenanted, and right glad were they to get a guinea a week
and ask no questions. It was to this retired cottage, then of the
retired hosier, that Captain Moreton's steps were ultimately bent,
and as it had windows down to the ground on the garden side, he
chose that side, and went in at the window, where, I forgot to
remark, there were lights shining.

At a table in the room, with her foot upon a footstool, and a

pillow behind her back, sat a lady whom we have before described;
and certainly, to look at her face, handsome as it was, no one would
have fancied there was a fierce and fiery spirit beneath, so weak
and, I mar venture to call it, lackadaisical was the expression.

"Heaven, Moreton, how you startled me!" cried the lady: "where
have you been such a long time? You know I want society at night.
It is only at night I am half alive."

"Well," said Captain Moreton, with a laugh, "I have been half dead
and half buried; for I have been down into a vault and shut up in a
vestry as a close prisoner. I only got out by wrenching off the bars.
Nobody could see my face, however, so that is lucky; for they can
but say I was looking at a register by candlelight, and the old sexton
will not peach for his own sake."

"Still at those rash tricks, Moreton," said the lady, "it will end in
your getting hanged, depend upon it. I have been writing a poem
called 'The Rash Man,' and I was just hanging him when you came
in and startled me."

"My rash tricks, as you call them, got you a thousand a year
once," answered Moreton, sharply, "so, in pity, leave your stupid
poetry, Charlotte, and listen to what I have to say."

"Stupid poetry!" exclaimed the lady, angrily. "There was a time

when you did not call it so; and as for the thousand a year, it was
more to save yourself than to serve me that you fancied that
scheme. You know that I hated the pedantic boy, as virtuous as a
young kid, and as pious as his grandmother's prayer-book. Nothing
would have induced me to marry him if you had not represented--"
 "Well, never mind all that," answered Captain Moreton,
interrupting her. "We have something else to think of now, Charlotte.
I don't know that it would not be better for me to be off, after all."

"Well, I am ready to go whenever you like," replied the lady. "I

am sure it is not very pleasant to stay in this place, seeing nobody
and hearing nothing; without opera, or concert, or coffee-house, or
any thing. I shall be very glad to go."

"Aye, aye, but that is a different matter," said Captain Moreton,

considerately. "I said it would be perhaps better for me to be off; but
I am quite sure it would be better for you to stay."

The lady looked at him for a moment or two with the eyes of a
tiger. If she had had a striped or spotted skin upon her back one
would have expected her to spring at his throat the next minute, but
she had acquired a habit of commanding her passions to a certain
point, beyond which, they indeed became totally ungovernable, but
which was not yet attained; and she contented herself with giving
Captain Moreton one of those coups de patte with which she
sometimes treated him. "So, Moreton," she said, "you think that you
can go away and leave me to take care of myself, as you did some
time ago; but you are mistaken, my good friend. I have become
wiser now, and I certainly shall not suffer you."

"How will you stop me?" asked her companion, turning sharply
upon her.

"As to stopping you," she replied, with a sneer, "I do not know
that I can. You are a strong man and I am a weak woman, and in a
tussle you would get the better; but I could bring you back,
Moreton, you know, if I did not stop you."

"How?" demanded he again, looking fiercely at her.

"By a magistrate's warrant, and half a dozen constables,"

answered the lady. "You do not think I have had so much experience
of your amiable ways for nothing, or that I have not taken care to
have proofs of a good many little things that would make you very
secure in any country but America--that dear land of liberty, where
fraud and felony find refuge and protection."

"Do you mean to say that you would destroy me, woman?"
exclaimed Captain Moreton.

"Not exactly destroy you," replied his fair companion, "though you
would make a fine criminal under the beam. I have not seen an
execution for I do not know how long, and it is a fine sight, after all-
-better than all the tragedies that ever were written. It is no fun
seeing men kill each other in jest: one knows that they come to life
again as soon as the curtain falls; but once hanging over the drop,
or lying on the guillotine, there's no coming to life any more. I
should like to see you hanged, Moreton, when you are hanged. You
would hang very well, I dare say."

She spoke in the quietest, most sugary tone possible, with a slight
smile upon her lip, and amused herself while she did so in sketching
with the pen and ink a man under a beam with a noose round his
neck. Captain Moreton gazed at her meanwhile with his teeth hard
shut, and not the most placable countenance in the world, as she
brought vividly up before his imagination all those things which
crime is too much accustomed and too willing to forget.

"And you, Charlotte, you would do this!" he exclaimed, at length:

"but it is all nonsense; and how you ever can talk of such things I
cannot imagine, when I merely spoke of going myself and leaving
you for a short time, for your own good."

"For my own good! Oh, yes; I have heard all that before, more
than twelve years ago," replied the lady. "I yielded to your notions of
my own good, then, and much good has come of it, to me, at least.
So do not talk of ever separating your fate from mine again,
Moreton; for were you to attempt it, I would do as I have said,
depend upon it."

"It was your own good I thought about," replied Captain Moreton,
bitterly, "and that you will soon see when you hear the whole. Do
you not think if Lenham were to find out that you are living here
with me, there would soon be suits in the ecclesiastical courts for
divorce and all the rest?"

"Oh, you know, we talked about all that before," replied the lady,
"and took our precautions. You are here as my earliest friend,
assisting me to regain my rights, nothing more. All that was settled
long ago, and I see no reason for beginning it all over again."

"But there is a reason," answered Captain Moreton, "as you would

have heard before now if you would have let me speak; but you are
so diabolically hasty and violent. I brought you the best news you
could have, if you would but listen."

"Indeed!" said the lady, looking up from the pleasant sketch she
was finishing with an expression of greater interest, "what may that
be?"

"Why, simply, that Lenham has proposed to Miss Slingsby," replied

Captain Moreton, "and they are to be married directly--as soon as
that fellow, Wittingham, is out of all danger."

Her eyes flashed at the intelligence, and her lip curled with a
triumphant smile as she inquired, "Where did you hear it? Who told
you? Are you sure?"

"Quite," answered Moreton, "I had it from old Slattery, the

apothecary, who knows the secrets of all the houses round. He told
it to me as a thing quite certain."

"Then I have him! Then I have him!" exclaimed his companion,

joyfully; "Oh, I will make him drink the very dregs of a bitterer cup
than ever he has held to my lips."

"But you must be very careful," said Captain Moreton, "not the
slightest indiscretion--not the slightest hint, remember, or all is lost."

"I will be careful," she replied, "but yet all cannot be lost even if
he were to discover that I am alive. He has made the proposal to
one woman when he is already married. That would be disgrace
enough to blast and wither him like a leaf in the winter. I know him
well enough for that. For the first time he has given me the power of
torturing him, and I will work that engine till his cold heart cracks,
let him do what he will."

"Well, this was the reason I thought it would be better for me to

be off for a short time," said Captain Moreton, "though you must
remain here."

"I don't see that," cried the lady, "I won't have it."

Her companion had fallen into a fit of thought, however, as soon

as she had uttered the last words, and he did not seem to attend to
her. His thoughts, indeed, were busy with a former part of their
conversation. He felt that he was, as she said, in her power, and he
saw very well how sweetly and delicately she was inclined to use
power when she did possess it. He therefore asked himself if it
might not be as well to put some check upon her violence before it
hurried her into any thing that could not be repaired; for although
Captain Moreton was fond of a little vengeance himself, yet he loved
security better, and thought it would be poor consolation for being
hanged that he had spoiled all her fine schemes. He was still
debating this point in his own mind, when finding that he did not
answer, she said,

"Do you hear? I say I will not have it, and you had better not talk
of it any more, for if I take it into my head that you are trying to get
off and leave me here, I will take very good care that your first walk
shall be into gaol."
 "In which case," said Captain Moreton, coldly, "I would, by one
word, break the bond between you and Lenham, and send you to
prison too. You think that I am totally in your power, Madam; but let
me tell you that you are in mine also. Our confidence, it is true, has
not been mutual, but our secrets are so."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed the lady, turning deadly pale.

"I will tell you," replied her companion, "what I mean may be
soon hinted so that you can understand. When I first became
acquainted with you, my fair friend, you were twenty years of age.
There were events which happened when you were eighteen that
you have always thought comfortably hidden in your own bosom and
that of one other. Let me now tell you that they have never been
concealed from me. You understand me I see by your face, so no
more of this. I shall not go because you do not wish it, and I
proposed it only for your good; but now let us have some brandy-
and-water, for the night is wonderfully cold for the season."

The lady made no reply, but sat looking down at the table with
her cheek still white, and Moreton got up and rang the bell. A
woman-servant appeared, received his orders, and then went away,
and then turning to his companion, he pulled her cheek familiarly,
saying,

"Come, Charlotte, let us have no more of all this; we had better

get on well together. Have any of the servants been into the room
to-night since I left you?"

The lady looked up with a sort of bewildered and absent air,

saying,

"No, I think not--let me see. No, no. I have been sitting writing
and sleeping. I fell asleep for an hour, and then I wrote till you came
back. No one has been in, I am sure."

"While you were asleep they might," said Moreton, thoughtfully.

 "No, no," she answered, "I should have heard them instantly; I
wake in a moment, you know, with the least sound. Nobody has
been in the room I will swear."

"Then you can swear, too, that I never left it," answered Moreton,
laughing, "I mean that I have been here or hereabouts all night, in
case it should be needed."

The lady did not seem at all shocked at the proposal, for she had
no great opinion of the sanctity of oaths, and when the servant
returned with all that Captain Moreton had demanded, he asked her
sharply,

"Where were you, Kitty, when I rang about an hour ago?"

"Lord, Sir," replied the woman, "I had only run across to ask why
they had not sent my beer."

"Well, I wish you would take some other time for going on such
errands," replied Captain Moreton, and there the subject dropped.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

Beauchamp took care to be back at Tarningham Park a full hour

and a half before dinner-time; but schemes and purposes of making
love or a declaration at a certain place and time are never
successful. Continually they are put off, and very often they are
forced on by circumstances, and although there is no event of life
perhaps in which the happy moment is more important, it is seldom
met with or chosen. Such was the case in the present instance: Sir
John Slingsby played third on one occasion, Mrs. Clifford on another,
and when Mary, dear considerate girl, after breaking in for a
moment, made a very reasonable excuse to retire, the dressing-bell
rang as she closed the door, and Beauchamp, knowing that he could
not detain Miss Slingsby more than five minutes, would not attempt
to crowd all he had to say into so short a space. He was resolved to
say something, however, and as Isabella was about to leave him he
stopped her, asking if she knew that her father had invited him to
pass the night there.

"Oh, of course," answered his fair companion in a gay tone, "you

do not think he would let you go to pass the hours of darkness
amongst the Goths and Vandals of Tarningham. He would be afraid
of your life being attempted. You do not think of going?"

"I have accepted his invitation," answered her lover, "because I

have several things to talk over with Sir John, and on one subject
also with you, dear lady. Will you give me some time in the course of
to-morrow--a few minutes--nay, perhaps, an hour, alone?"

Isabella coloured and looked away; but she was thankful for a
reprieve from immediate agitation, and she replied in a low tone,
"Certainly--but I must go and dress or my maid will be impatient."

But Beauchamp still detained her for a moment, "You are an early
riser, I think," he said, "will you take a walk before breakfast--down
towards the stream?--Nay, Isabella, why should you hesitate?
Remember, I have a history to give."

"I hope not a sad one," answered Isabella, gaily, "for I think I
should be easily moved to tears just now, and I must not return with
my eyes red--nay, Beauchamp, let me go or I shall cry now."

He released the hand he had taken instantly, and Miss Slingsby

took a step away, but looked round, and returning at once, gave it
back again, saying more gravely, "What is the use of any long
history?--and yet it had better be too. I will take a walk with you
when you like, for I must speak with you too--but not now: there's
no time. So farewell for the present," and she left him.

The dinner passed more quietly than Sir John Slingsby's dinners
usually did. The baronet's spirits, which had risen immensely after
the first pressure was taken off, fell again during the course of the
day; and for the first time in his life, perhaps, he was grave and
thoughtful throughout the evening. Isabella had her store of
meditations, and so had Mary Clifford. The mother of the latter was
calm and sedate as usual; and Doctor Miles dry and sententious; so
that Beauchamp, happy in what he had done, and happy in the
confidence of love, was now the gayest of the party. Thus the
evening passed away, though not sadly, any thing but very merrily;
and the whole party retired early to rest.

The next morning early Beauchamp rose and went down to the
drawing-room, but there was nobody there. One of the housemaids
just passed out as he entered, and he waited for about a quarter of
an hour with some impatience, gazing forth from the windows over
the dewy slopes of the park, and thinking in his heart that Isabella
was somewhat long. Now, to say the truth, she was longer than she
might have been, for Isabella had been up and dressed some time;
but there was a sort of hesitation, a timidity, a weak feeling of alarm,
perhaps, which she had never known before. She shrank from the
idea of going down to meet him, knowing that he was waiting for
her. It would seem like a secret arrangement between them, she
thought, and she took fright at the very idea. Then again, on the
other hand, she fancied he might imagine she was treating him ill
not to go, after the sort of promise she had made; then he had been
so kind, so generous, so noble, that she could not treat him ill, nay
not even by the appearance of a caprice. That settled the matter;
and, after about a quarter of an hour's debating with herself, down
she went. Her heart beat terribly; but Isabella was a girl, who, with
all her gaiety and apparent lightness, had great command over
herself; and that command in her short life had been often tried.
She paused then for a moment or two at the door of the drawing-
room, struggled with and overcame her agitation, and then went in
with a face cleared, a light step, and a cheerful air. Her hand was in
Beauchamp's in a moment, and after a few of the ordinary words of
a first morning meeting, he asked, "Will you take a walk, dear
Isabella, or shall we remain here?"

"Do you not see bonnet on my head and shawl over my arm?"
she said in a gay tone; "who would stay in the house on such a
bright morning as this when they have a free hour before them?"

"Come, then," he answered, and in two minutes more they were

walking away together towards the wooded hill through which they
had passed with Mary Clifford and Hayward about three weeks
before.

It is strange how silent people are when they have much to say to
each other. For the first quarter of a mile neither Beauchamp nor
Isabella said a word; but at length, when the boughs began to wave
over their heads, he laid his hand gently upon hers, and said,

"I think there can be no misunderstanding, Isabella, as to the

words I spoke the night before last. Nor must you think me
possessed of a very eager vanity if I have construed your reply as
favourable to myself. I know you too well not to feel assured that
you would not have so answered me had you been inclined to
decide against my hopes. But yet, Isabella, I will not and do not
consider you as plighted to me by the words then spoken till--"

"That is just what I was going to say," replied Isabella, much to

Beauchamp's consternation; "I wished much to speak with you for
the very purpose of assuring you that I do not consider you in the
least bound by what you then said."

She spoke with a great effort for calmness, but there was an
anxious trembling of the voice which betrayed her agitation, and in
the end she paused for breath.
 "Hear me, hear me," she said, as she saw Beauchamp about to
reply; "since that night every thing has changed. I then thought my
father embarrassed, but I did not know him to be ruined. I looked
upon you as Mr. Beauchamp; I now find you of a rank superior to
our own, one who may well look to rank and fortune in his bride.
You, too, were ignorant of the sad state of my poor father's affairs.
It is but fair, then, it is but right that I should set you entirely free
from any implied engagement made in a moment of generous
thoughtlessness; and I do so entirely, nor will ever for a moment
think you do aught amiss if you consider better, more wisely, I will
say, of this matter; and let all feelings between us subside into kind
friendship on your part, and gratitude and esteem upon mine."

"You set me free!" said Beauchamp, repeating her words with a

smile, "how can you do so? My dear Isabella, this is treacherous of
you, to talk of setting me free even while you are binding me heart
and spirit to you more strongly than ever. Not one word more upon
that subject, my beloved girl. You must not teach me that you think
I am so sordid, so pitiful a being to let a consideration of mere
fortune, where I have more than plenty weigh with me, for one
moment--I am yours, Isabella, if you will take me--yours for ever,
loving you deeply, truly, aye, and understanding you fully, too, which
so many do not: but it is I who must set you free, dear girl; and I
will not ask, I will not receive any promise till you have heard the
story of my past life."

"But you must have it," said Isabella, raising her dewy eyes with a
smile, "these things must ever be mutual, my lord. I am yours or
you are not mine. But Beauchamp, we are coquetting with each
other; you tell me you love me; I, like all foolish girls, believe. Surely
there is no need of any other story but that. Do you suppose,
Beauchamp, that after all I have seen of you, after all you have
done, I can imagine for one moment, that there is any thing in the
past which could make me change my opinion or withhold my hand?
No, no, a woman's confidence, when it is given, is unbounded--at
least, mine is so in you, and I need not hear any tale of past days
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