Mr Castonel

An unusual sensation was created one day in the village of Ebury, by a report that somebody had taken the long-uninhabited house, with the stone balcony and green verandah, which was situated in the centre of the street.

Who could have hired it? The whole village was asking the question one of another. Those cousins of the Smiths, or the people who had come on a visit to the Hall, and professed to like Ebury so well? No, none of these. It was a stranger from London, quite unknown to every one, for there soon appeared a shining zinc plate on the newly-varnished oak-door, bearing in large, very prominent letters, "Mr. Gervase Castonel. Consulting Surgeon."

Ebury was in ecstasies. A fashionable doctor was what the place wanted above all things; as to Winnington, he was nothing but an apothecary, old now and stupid. Only three days before, so the tale went round the whist-tables, when he was called in to Mrs. Major Acre, an elderly dowager, he had the insolence to tell her he could do her little good; that if she would eat less and walk more, she would not want a doctor. They had put up with Winnington, especially when he had his young and agreeable partner, a gentleman of fortune and position, who had joined him some time before. But this gentleman's wife had fallen into ill-health, which had caused him to quit Ebury and seek a warmer climate.

Mr. Gervase Castonel arrived, and took possession of his residence. You all know how fond we are apt to be of fresh faces, but you cannot know how rapturously fond Ebury at once grew of his. And yet to a dispassionate observer it was not a prepossessing face: it was silent, pale and unfathomable, with a grey impenetrable eye that disliked to look at you; and dark hair. They tried to guess his age: some said five-and-twenty, some thirty: it is most probably near the latter; a small-made man of middle height.

Poor Mr. Winnington! He had attended Ebury and the county round for forty years, walking unostentatiously on his two legs, and never, unless the distance was really beyond them, using a horse or carriage, and then it was borrowed or hired. But he had to witness the debut of Mr. Castonel in a stylish cab with a tiger behind it; both of the newest London importation; Mr. Castonel's arms being emblazoned on the cab, and Mr. Castonel's taste on the boy's dress. He never stirred a professional yard without this cab. If a patient at the next door called him in, the cab took him there. Generally the boy would be hoisted up, holding on by the straps, after the approved manner of tigers; sometimes, when it was Mr. Castonel's pleasure not to drive himself, he sat by his master's side and took the reins. Mr. Castonel had a habit of sitting very back in his cab, and the lad also, so that when its head was up they were invisible; and in this way the cab would go dashing at a fierce rate up and down the street. Until Ebury became familiar with this peculiarity it was the cause of no end of terror, pedestrians believing that the spirited horse, without a guide, was making for their unfortunate bodies. Two of these horses were possessed by Mr. Castonel--fine, valuable animals, and one or other was always to be seen with the cab behind it. Surely never did a stranger fall into so extensive a practice, to judge by appearances, as did Mr. Gervase Castonel.

The first patient he was summoned to was Mrs. Major Acre. It may be observed that a family in Ebury once wrote a note of invitation to Mrs. Major Acre, and omitted the "Major." She at once returned the letter, with an intimation that Mrs. Major Acre declined acquaintance with them: so we will take care not to fall under a similar calamity. Mr. Castonel was called in to Mrs. Major Acre, and she was charmed with him. He sympathized so feelingly with her ailments; but assured her that in a little time, under his treatment, she would not have a symptom left. That horrid Winnington, she confided to him, had told her she wanted nothing but walking and fasting. Oh, as to Winnington, Mr. Castonel rejoined, with a contemptuous curl of his wire-drawn, impenetrable lips, what could be expected of an apothecary? He (Mr. Castonel) hoped soon to leave no patients to his mercy. And this was repeated by Mrs. Major Acre wherever she went: and she took care to go everywhere to laud the praises of the consulting surgeon: so that people almost longed for a tender fit of illness, that they might put themselves under the bland and fostering care of Mr. Castonel.

Time goes on with us all, and it did with Ebury. In six months not a single patient remained with Mr. Winnington, all had flown to Mr. Gervase Castonel: for that gentleman, in spite of his flaring zinc plate, proved to be a general practitioner. We must except one or two intimate friends of Mr. Winnington's; and we must except the poor, those who could not pay. Mr. Castonel had made an ostentatious announcement that he should give advice gratis from nine to ten o'clock on Tuesdays and Fridays, but the few poor who accepted the invitation found him so repellent and unsympathizing that they were thankful to return to kind old Mr. Winnington, who had not only attended them without charge at their own homes, but had done much towards supplying their bodily wants also. Mr. Winnington had been neglectful of gain: perhaps his having no family had rendered him so. He had never married, he and his sister having always lived together: but just before her death, a niece, Caroline Hall, then left an orphan, came home to them. To describe his affection for this girl would be impossible: it may be questioned if Caroline returned it as it deserved--but when is the love of the aged for the young ever repaid in kind? The pleasure and delights of visiting filled her heart, and her uncle's home and society were only regarded as things to be escaped from. Was he yet awake to this? There was something worse for him to awake to, by-and-by, something that as yet he suspected not. He was much changed: had been changing ever since the establishment in Ebury of Mr. Castonel: his face had acquired a grey tinge like his hair, his merry tongue was hushed, and people said he looked as if his heart were breaking. It is hard to bear ingratitude: ingratitude from those with whom we have lived for sixty years. It was not for the value of the practice: no, no: he had that which would last him his life, and leave something behind him: but it was the unkindness that was telling upon Mr. Winnington, the desertion for a stranger, one in reality less skilled than he was.

Frances Chavasse stood in her mother's drawing-room, and, with her, the daughter of the Rector of Ebury, the Reverend Christopher Leicester. Ellen Leicester had come in after dinner to spend the afternoon with Frances; for Ebury, though it called itself an aristocratic place, usually dined in the middle of the day. They were both lovely girls, about nineteen, though unlike in feature as in disposition. They were called the beauties of Ebury. Caroline Hall got classed with them also, but it arose from her constantly associating with them, not from her good looks. She was two or three years older, had a sallow face with dark hair, and lively, pleasant dark eyes. An absurd story had gone abroad, but died away again: that Mr. Castonel, upon being asked which of the three was most to his taste, replied that only two of them were, but he'd marry the three for all that.

The two young ladies were talking eagerly, for Mrs. Major Acre had just paid them a visit, and disclosed a piece of intelligence which completely astounded her hearers--that Miss Hall was about to be married to Mr. Castonel.

"It is impossible that it can be true," Mrs. Chavasse and her daughter had exclaimed in the same quick, positive, eager tones, for they were the counterpart of each other in manner. "Old Winnington hates Mr. Castonel like poison!"

"I know he does. And I was told it was for that very reason Mr. Castonel is bent upon having her," said Mrs. Major; "that he may mortify the old apothecary, and take from him the only treasure he has left--Caroline."

"Oh, that's all Ebury gossip," decided Mrs. Chavasse. "A well-established man like Mr. Castonel will take care to marry according to his fancy, not to gratify pique. Mr. Winnington will never give his consent."

"He has given it," answered the major's widow. "Caroline's will is law, there. I wish she may find it so in her new home."

"Well," added Mrs. Chavasse, dubiously, "I don't know that Mr. Castonel is altogether the man I should choose to give a daughter to. Such curious things are said of him--about that mysterious person, you know."

"Grapes are sour," thought Mrs. Major Acre to herself. "And now I have told you the news, I must go," she said, rising. "Good-bye to you all. My compliments at the parsonage, my dear Miss Ellen."

Mrs. Chavasse went out with the lady, and it happened that immediately afterwards Caroline Hall entered. Ellen and Frances regarded her with a curiosity they had never yet manifested, and Frances spoke impulsively.

"How sly you were over it, Caroline!--Now, don't pretend to deny it, or you'll put me in a temper. We know all about it, just as much as yourself. If you chose to keep it from others, you might have told Ellen and me."

"How could I tell you what I did not know myself?"

"Nay, Caroline, you must have known it," interposed the sweet, gentle voice of Ellen Leicester.

"I did not know I was going to be married. You might have seen there was"--she hesitated, and blushed--"an attachment between myself and Mr. Castonel, if your eyes had been open."

"I declare I never saw anything that could cause me to think he was attached to you," abruptly uttered Miss Chavasse, looking at her.

"Nor I," repeated Ellen Leicester. And the young ladies spoke truly.

"I may have seen you talking together in evening society, perhaps even gone the length of a little dash of flirtation," said Miss Chavasse. "But what has that to do with marriage? Everybody flirts. I shall have a dozen flirtations before I settle down to marry."

"That all depends upon the disposition," returned Miss Hall. "You may; but Ellen Leicester never will."

"Ellen dare not," laughed Frances. "She would draw down the old walls of the parsonage about her ears if she committed so heinous a sin. But I must return to what I said, Caroline, that it was unfriendly not to let us know it."

"The puzzle is, how you know it now," observed Caroline. "The interview, when Mr. Castonel asked my uncle for me, only took place last night, and I have not spoken of it to any one."

"Oh, news travels fast enough in Ebury," answered Frances, carelessly. "If I were to cut my finger now with this penknife, every house would know it before to-night. Mr. Winnington may have mentioned it."

"I am quite sure that it has not passed his lips."

"Then the report must have come from Mr. Castonel!" exclaimed Frances. "How very strange!"

"My uncle is not well to-day," added Miss Hall, "and has seen no one. He has a great fire made up in the drawing-room, and is stewing himself close to it. The room's as hot as an oven."

"A fire this weather!" repeated Frances. "What is the matter with him?"

"Nothing particular that I know of. He sits and sighs and never speaks. He only spoke once between breakfast and dinner: and that was to ask me if I felt Mr. Castonel was a man calculated to make me happy. Of course he is."

"Caroline," whispered Miss Leicester, "do you not fear it is your marriage that is preying on his spirits?"

"I know it is. He would not consent for, a long while. The interview was anything but agreeable. He and Mr. Castonel were together at first, and then I was called in. At last he gave it. But he does not like Mr. Castonel, I suppose from his having taken his practice from him."

"A very good reason too," said Miss Chavasse, bluntly.

"Oh, I don't know," carelessly returned Caroline. "It is all luck in this world. If people persist in sending for Gervase, he can't refuse to go. My uncle is old now."

Ellen Leicester looked up, reproach seated in her deep blue eyes. But Caroline Hall resumed: "It is more than dislike that he has taken to Mr. Castonel; it is prejudice. He cried like a child after Gervase had gone, saying he would rather I had chosen any one else in the world, he had rather I kept single for life, than marry Mr. Castonel. And Muff says she heard him sighing and groaning on his pillow all night long."

"And oh, Caroline," exclaimed Ellen Leicester, in shocked, hushed tones, "can you think of marrying him now?"

"My uncle has consented," said Caroline, evasively.

"Yes; but in what way? If you have any spark of dutiful feeling, you will now prove your gratitude to your uncle for all his love and care of you."

"Prove it how?"

"By giving up Mr. Castonel."

Caroline Hall turned and looked at her, then spoke impressively. "It is easy to talk, Ellen, but when the time comes for you to love, and should he be unacceptable to your parents, you will then understand how impossible is what you ask of me. That calamity may come."

"Never," was the almost scornful reply of Miss Leicester. "My father and mother's wishes will ever be first with me."

"I tell you you know nothing about it," repeated Caroline. "Remember my words hereafter."

"Do not cavil about what you will never agree upon," interrupted Miss Chavasse. "When is the wedding to be, Caroline?"

"I suppose almost immediately. So Mr. Castonel wishes."

"He is not so great a favourite in the place as he was when he first came. People also say that he is a general admirer. So take care, Caroline."

"I know few people with whom he is not a favourite," retorted Caroline, warmly. "My uncle is one: Mr. Leicester, I believe, is another. Are there any more?"

"You need not take me up so sharply," laughed Frances. "I only repeated what I have heard. Take your things off, Caroline, and remain to tea."

Caroline Hall hesitated. "My uncle is so lonely. Still," she added, after a pause, "I can do him no good, and as to trying to raise his spirits, it's a hopeless task. Yes, I will stay, Frances."

She was glad to accept any excuse to get away from the home she had so little inclination for, utterly regardless of the lonely hours of the poor old man. Frances, careless and pleased, hastened to help her off with her things. But Ellen Leicester, more considerate, painfully reproached her in her heart of hearts.

Mr. Castonel found his way that evening to the house of Mr. Chavasse. Soon after he came, Mrs. Chavasse, who was in her garden, saw the rector pass. She went to the gate and leaned over it to shake hands with him.

"Have you heard the news?" she asked, being one who was ever ready to retail gossip. "Caroline Hall is going to be married."

"Indeed!" he answered, in an accent of surprise. "I have been much at Mr. Winnington's lately, and have heard nothing of it."

"She marries Mr. Castonel."

There was a pause. The clergyman seemed as though unable to comprehend the words. "Mrs. Chavasse, I hope you are under a mistake," he said at last. "I think you are."

"No; it was all settled yesterday with old Winnington. Caroline told me so herself: she and Mr. Castonel are both here now."

"I am grieved to hear it! Mr. Castonel is not the man I would give a child to."

"That's just what I said. Will you walk in?"

"Not now. I will call for Ellen by-and-by."

"Not before nine," said Mrs. Chavasse.

There were those in Ebury who had called Mr. Castonel an attractive man, but I think it would have puzzled them to tell in what his attractions lay. He was by no means good-looking; though perhaps not what could be called plain: one peculiarity of his, was, that he hated music; and in society he was silent rather than otherwise. Yet he generally found favour with the ladies: they are pretty certain to like one who has the reputation of being a general admirer. Had a stranger, that evening, been present in the drawing-room of Mrs. Chavasse, he would not have suspected Mr. Castonel was on the point of marriage with Miss Hall, for his gallant attentions to Frances Chavasse and Ellen Leicester, his evident admiration for both, were inconsistently apparent--especially considering the presence of Caroline. What she thought, it is impossible to say. She left early, and Mr. Castonel attended her as far as her home.

Mr. Leicester had taken his way to the house of Mr. Winnington. The surgeon was cowering over the fire, as Caroline had described. He shook hands with Mr. Leicester without rising, and pointed in silence to a chair. He looked very ill; scarcely able to speak.

"I have heard some tidings about Caroline," began the rector.

Mr. Winnington groaned. "Oh, my friend, my friend," he said, "I have need of strong consolation under this affliction."

"You disapprove, no doubt, of Mr. Castonel?"

"Disapprove!" he repeated, roused to energy; "believe me, I would rather Caroline went before me, than leave her the wife of Gervase Castonel."

"Then why have you consented?"

"I had no help for it," he sadly uttered. "They were before me, in this room, both of them, and they told me they only cared for each other. Mr. Castonel informed me that if I refused my consent it was of little consequence, for he should take her without it. She is infatuated with him: and how and where they can have met so frequently, as it appears they have done, is a wonder to me. Oh, he is of a mean, dishonourable spirit! And I have my doubts about his liking her--liking her, even."

"Then why should he seek to marry her?" cried the rector in surprise.

"I know not. I have been thinking about it all night and all day, and can come to no conclusion. Save one," he added, dropping his voice, "which is firm upon me, and will not leave me the conviction that he will not treat her well. Would you," he asked, suddenly looking up, "would you give him Ellen?"

"No," most emphatically replied Mr. Leicester. "I believe him to be a bad, immoral man. My calling takes me continually amongst the poor, and I can tell you Mr. Castonel is much more warmly welcomed by the daughters than the parents. But nothing tangible has hitherto been brought against him. He is a deep man."

"His covert behaviour as to Caroline proves his depth. What about that strange person who followed him to Ebury, and took the little lodge? You know what I mean."

"I can learn nothing of her," answered Mr. Leicester. "She lives on, there, with that female attendant. I called once, but she told me she must beg to decline my visits, as she wished to live in strict retirement. I suppose I should not have seen her at all, but the other person was out, and she came to the door."

"I met her once," said Mr. Winnington. "She is very handsome."

"Too handsome and too young to be living in so mysterious a way," remarked the rector, significantly. "She has evidently been reared as a gentlewoman: her accent and manner are perfectly ladylike and refined. Did you mention her to Mr. Castonel?"

"I did. And he answered in an indifferent, haughty manner that the lady was a connexion of his own family, who chose, for reasons of her own, good and upright, though they were kept secret, to pass her days just now in retirement. He added that her character was unimpeachable, and no one, to him, should dare impugn it. What could I answer?"

"Very true. And it may be as he says: though the circumstances wear so suspicious an appearance."

"Oh that he had never come to Ebury!" exclaimed the surgeon, clasping his hands with emotion. "Not for the injury he has done to me professionally: and I believe strives to do, for there was room for us both: I have forgiven him this with all my heart, as it becomes a Christian, near the grave, to do. But my conviction tells me he is a bad man, a mysterious man--yes, my friend, I repeat it, a mysterious man--I feel him to be so, though it is an assertion I cannot explain; and I feel that he will assure Caroline's misery instead of happiness."

"Still, unless he is attached to her, I do not see why he should wed her," repeated the rector. "She has no fortune to tempt his cupidity."

"Nor do I see it," replied Mr. Winnington. "But it is so."

Mr Leicester sat there an hour, and then proceeded to visit some cottages. On his return, he cut across the fields, a near way, for he found it was getting dark, and close upon the time he intended to call for Ellen. As he passed the corner of Beech Wood, a retired spot just there, near to the pretty, but very small lodge originally built for a gamekeeper, who should he suddenly encounter but its present inmate, the lady he and Mr. Winnington had been speaking of. Her arm was within Mr. Castonel's, and she was talking rapidly, in tones, as it seemed, of remonstrance. The gentlemen bowed as they passed each other; both coldly; and had Mr. Leicester turned to scan the doctor's face, he would have seen on it a sneer of malignant triumph.

"I never saw a case more open to suspicion in my life," muttered the clergyman to himself. "And he just come from the presence of his future wife."

"Come, Hannah, look alive," cried Mrs. Muff, some two months subsequent to the above details; "wash those decanters first: there's one short, but I'll see to that. Now you need not touch the knives: Jem will clean them all in the morning. Do as I bid you, and then get out and dust the best china."

"There's the door bell," said Hannah.

"Go and answer it, and don't be an hour over it. I dare say it's the man with the potted meats. Tell him the rolls must be here in the morning by ten o'clock."

A most valuable person was Mrs. Muff in her vocation, and highly respected throughout Ebury. An upright, portly, kindly-looking woman, of four or five and fifty, with an auburn "front," whose curls were always scrupulously smooth. She had for many years held the important situation of housekeeper at the Hall: but changes had occurred there, as they do in many places. On the death of Mr. Winnington's sister, she had accepted the post of housekeeper to him, and had been there ever since. Hannah, a damsel of twenty, being under her.

"Well, was it the baker?" she demanded, as Hannah returned to the kitchen.

"No, ma'am. It was another wedding present for Miss Caroline, with Mrs. Major Acre's compliments. I took it up to her: she's in the drawing-room with Mr. Castonel."

"Ah!" groaned the housekeeper.--"Look at the dust on those glasses, Hannah. I thought you said you had wiped them."

"And what harm, ma'am, either?" returned Hannah, who very well understood the nature of the groan. "She'll be his wife to-morrow."

"Who said there was harm?" sharply retorted Mrs. Muff. "Only--my poor master!--he is so lonely, and it is the last evening she'll be here. Where are you running off to now? I told you to finish the decanters."

"Master called out for some coal as I passed the parlour," answered Hannah. "The puzzle to me is, how he can bear a fire, this sultry August weather."

"Ah, child, you'll come to the end of many puzzles before you arrive at my years. Master's old and chilly, and breaking up as fast as he can break. I'll take the coal in myself."

Mr. Winnington did not look up, as the housekeeper put the coal on. But afterwards, when she was busy at the sideboard, he called out in sudden, quick tones--"Mrs. Muff."

"Sir!" she answered.

"What are you doing there?"

"I am changing the sherry wine, sir, into the odd decanter. We want this one to put ready with the others."

"For the show to-morrow?" he went on.

"To be sure, sir. For nothing else."

"Ay, Muff, put everything in order," he continued. "Don't let it be said that I opposed any of their wishes, an old man such as I am, whom they will be glad to see out of the world. And you need not trouble yourself to put things up afterwards: they will be wanted again."

"For what purpose, sir?" she inquired.

"For the funeral."

Mrs. Muff, as she said afterwards, was struck all of a heap. And Mr. Winnington resumed:

"After a wedding comes a burying. She is beginning the cares of life, and I am giving them up for ever. And something tells me she will have her share of them. I shall not be here to stand by her, Muff, so you must."

The housekeeper trembled as she heard. He had a queer look on his face that she did not like.

"I'll do what I can, sir," she said. "But when Miss Caroline has left here, that will be but little."

"You can go where she goes, Muff."

"Perhaps not, sir."

"Perhaps yes. Will you promise to do so, if you can--if any possible way is opened? Promise me," he added, eagerly and feverishly.

"Well, sir," she answered, to humour him, "if it shall be agreeable to all parties, yes, I will promise."

"And you will shield her from him, as far as you can?"

"Yes," repeated the housekeeper, most imperfectly understanding what Caroline was to be shielded from.

"Now, Mrs. Muff," he concluded, in a solemn tone, "that's a death bargain. Remember it."

"You don't seem well, sir," was Mrs. Muff's rejoinder. "Shall I call Miss Caroline to you?"

"No," he sadly answered. "Let her be."

She was in the drawing-room with Mr. Castonel, as has been stated, laughing, talking, joking, unmindful of her fond uncle, who was dying in the room beneath. Her dress was a cool summer muslin, very pretty, with its open sleeves, her dark hair was worn in bands, and her dark eyes were animated. She began showing him some of the presents she had received that day, and slipped a bracelet on her arm to display it.

"That is an elegant trinket," observed Mr. Castonel. "Who is it from?"

"Ellen Leicester."

"Oh," he hastily rejoined, "I heard it said to-day that she is not going to church with you--that the parson's starch will not let her do so."

"It is true," said Caroline. "I did not tell you of it, Gervase, because I thought it might annoy you, as it had done me."

"Annoy me! Oh dear, no. Let me hear what his objections were: what he said."

"I only gathered the substance of them from Mrs. Leicester. You know my uncle does not approve our union, though he did give his consent. So on that score, I believe, Mr. Leicester declined to allow Ellen to be one of my bridesmaids--he would not directly sanction what he was pleased to call an undutiful measure."

"I wonder he condescends to marry us," remarked Mr. Castonel, with that peculiar sneer, cunning and malignant, on his face, which even Caroline disliked to see.

"That he could not refuse. It is in his line of duty. Ellen is so vexed. We three had always promised each other that the two left would be bridesmaids to whichever was married first, I, Ellen, and Frances Chavasse."

Mr. Castonel laughed, a strange, ringing laugh, as if something amused him much; and Caroline looked at him in surprise.

The wedding-day dawned; not too promisingly. In the first place, the brilliant weather had suddenly changed, and the day rose pouring wet. In the second, Mr. Winnington, who, however, had never intended to go to church with them, was too ill to rise. Miss Chavasse was bridesmaid, and by half-past ten Gervase Castonel and Caroline Hall had been united for better for worse, until death did part them. Next came the breakfast, the Reverend Mr. Leicester, who had officiated, declining to go and partake of it, and then the bride and bridegroom started off in a carriage-and-four to spend a short honeymoon. Before they returned, Mr. Winnington was dead.

Again, reader, six months have elapsed, for time, as I told you, slipped on at Ebury as fast as it does at other places. No medical opponent had started, so Mr. Castonel had the professional swing of the whole place, and was getting on in it at railway speed. We are now in the cold drizzly month of February, and it is a drizzling wretched day. In the bright kitchen, however, of Mr. Castonel, little signs are seen of the outside weather. The fire burns clear, and the kettle sings, the square of carpet, never put down until all cooking is over, extends itself before the hearth, and good Mrs. Muff is presiding over all, her feet on a warm footstool, and her spectacles on nose, for she has drawn the stand before her on which rests her Bible. Presently a visitor came in, a figure clothed in travelling attire, limp and moist, introduced by the tiger John, who had encountered it at the door as he was going out on an errand for his master.

"My goodness me, Hannah! it's never you?"

"Yes, ma'am, it is," was Hannah's reply, with a low obeisance to Mrs. Muff.

"And why did you not come yesterday as was agreed upon?"

"It rained so hard with us, mother said I had better wait; but as to-day turned out little better, I came through it. She'd have paid for an inside place, but the coach was full, so I came outside."

"Well, get off your wet things, and we'll have a cup of tea," said Mrs. Muff, rising and setting the tea-things.

"Mother sends her duty to you, ma'am," said Hannah, as she sat down to the tea-table, after obeying directions, "and bade me say she was obliged to you for kindly thinking of me, and getting me a place under you again."

"Ah! we little thought, some months back, that we should ever be serving Mr. Castonel."

"Nothing was ever further from my thoughts, ma'am."

"I wished to come and live with Miss Caroline; I had my own reasons for it," resumed Mrs. Muff; "and, as luck had it, she had a breeze with the maids here, after she came home, and gave them both warning. I fancy they had done as they liked too long, under Mr. Castonel, to put up with the control of a mistress, and Miss Caroline, if put out, can be pretty sharp and hasty. However, they were leaving, and I heard of it, and came after the place. Miss Caroline---dear! I mean Mrs. Castonel--thought I ought to look out for a superior one to hers, but she said she should be too glad to take me if I did not think so. So here I came, and here I have been; and when, a week ago the girl under me misbehaved herself, I thought of you and spoke to mistress, so we sent for you. Now you know how it has all happened, Hannah."

"Yes, ma'am, and thank you. Is Miss Caroline well?"

"Mrs. Castonel," interrupted the housekeeper. "Did you not hear me correct myself? She is getting better."

"Has she been ill?" returned Hannah.

"Ill! I believe you. It was a near touch, Hannah, whether she lived or died."

"What has been the matter, Mrs. Muff?"

"Never you mind what," said the old lady, somewhat sharply. "She has been ill, but is getting better, and that's enough for you. I'll step up, and ask if she wants anything."

Hannah cast her eyes round the kitchen; it looked a very comfortable one, and she thought she should be happy enough in her new abode. Everything was bright and clean to a fault, betokening two plain facts, the presiding genius of Mrs. Muff, and plenty of work for Hannah, who knew she should have to keep things as she found them.

"Mrs. Castonel will have some tea presently, not just yet," said Mrs. Muff, returning. "How ill she does look. Her face has no more colour in it than a corpse. It put me in mind of my dream."

"Have you had a bad dream lately, ma'am?" inquired Hannah. For there was not a more inveterate dreamer, or interpreter of dreams, than Mrs. Muff, and nothing loth was she to find a listener for them.

"Indeed I have," she answered, "and a dream that I don't like. It was just three nights ago. I had gone to bed, dead asleep, having been up part of several back nights with my mistress, and I undressed in no time, and was asleep as quick. All on a sudden, for I remembered no event that seemed to lead to it, I thought I saw my old master--"

"The squire?" interrupted Hannah.

"Not the squire: what put him in your head? Mr. Winnington. I thought I saw him standing at the foot of the bed, and after looking at me fixedly, as if to draw my attention, he turned his head slowly towards the door. I heard the stairs creaking, as if somebody was coming up step by step, and we both kept our eyes on the door, waiting in expectation. It began to move on its hinges, very slowly, and I was struck with horror, for who should appear at it but--"

"Ah-a-a-a-h!" shrieked Hannah, whose feelings, being previously wrought up to shrieking pitch, received their climax, for at that very moment a loud noise was heard outside the kitchen door, which was only pushed to, not closed.

"What a simpleton you be!" wrathfully exclaimed Mrs. Muff, who, however, had edged her own chair into closer contact with Hannah's. "I dare say it is only master in his laboratory."

After the lapse of a few reassuring seconds, Mrs. Muff moved towards the door, looked out, and then went towards a small room adjoining it.

"It is as I thought," she said, coming back and closing the door, "it is master in his laboratory. But now that's an odd thing," she added, musingly.

"What is odd, ma'am?"

"Why, how master could have come down and gone in there without my hearing him. I left him sitting with mistress. Perhaps she has dozed off; she does sometimes at dusk; and he crept down softly for fear of disturbing her."

"But what was the noise?" asked Hannah, breathlessly.

"Law, child! d'ye fear it was a ghost? It was only Mr. Castonel let fall one of the little drawers, and it went down with a clatter. And that's another odd thing, now I come to think of it, for I always believed that top drawer to be a dummy drawer. It has no lock and no knob, like the others."

"What is a dummy drawer?" repeated Hannah.

"A false drawer, child, one that won't open. John thinks so too, for last Saturday, when he was cleaning the laboratory, I went in for some string to tie up the beef olives I was making for dinner. He was on the steps, stretching up his duster to that very drawer, and he called out, 'This here drawer is just like your head, Madam Muff.'

"'How so?' asked I.

"'Cause he has got nothing in the inside of him,' said he, in his impudent way, and rushed off the steps into the garden, fearing I should box his ears. But it is this very drawer master has now let fall, and there were two or three little papers and phials, I saw, scattered on the floor. I was stepping in, asking if I could help him to pick them up, but he looked at me as black as thunder, and roared out, 'No. Go away and mind your own business.' Didn't you hear him?"

"I heard a man's voice," replied Hannah; "I did not know it was Mr. Castonel's. But about the dream, ma'am: you did not finish it."

"True, and it's worth finishing," answered the housekeeper, settling herself in her chair. "Where was I? Oh!--I thought at the foot of the bed stood Mr. Winnington, and when the footsteps came close, and the door opened--so slowly, Hannah, and we watching in suspense all the time--who should it be but Mr. and Mrs. Castonel. She was in her grave-clothes, a flannel dress and cap, edged with white quilled ribbon, and she looked for all the world as she looks this night. He had got hold of her hand, and he handed her in, remaining himself at the door, and my old master bent forward and took her by the other hand. Mr. Winnington looked at me, as much as to say, Do you see this? and then they both turned and gazed after Mr. Castonel. I heard his footsteps descending the stairs, and upon looking again at the foot of the bed, they were both gone. I woke up in a dreadful fright, and could not get to sleep again for two hours."

"It's a mercy it wasn't me that dreamt it," observed Hannah. "I should have rose the house, screeching."

"It was a nasty dream," added Mrs. Muff, "and if mistress had not been out of all danger, and getting better as fast as she can get, I should say it betokened--something not over-pleasant."

She was interrupted by Mrs. Castonel's bell. It was for a cup of tea, and Mrs. Muff took it up. As she passed the laboratory, she saw that Mr. Castonel was in it still. Mrs. Castonel was seated in an arm-chair by her bedroom fire.

"Then you have not been asleep, ma'am?" observed Mrs. Muff, perceiving that her mistress had the candles lighted and was reading.

"No, I have not felt sleepy this evening. Let Hannah come up when I ring next. I should like to see her."

Scarcely had Mrs. Muff regained the kitchen, when the bell rang again, so she sent up Hannah.

"Ah, Hannah, how d'ye do?" said Mrs. Castonel.

"I am nicely, thank you, miss--ma'am," answered Hannah, who did not stand in half the awe of "Miss Caroline" that she did of the formidable Mrs. Muff. "I am sorry to find you are not well, ma'am."

"I have been ill, but I am much better. So much better that I should have gone downstairs to-day, had it not been so damp and chilly."

Hannah never took her eyes off Mrs. Castonel as she spoke; she was thinking how very much she was changed; apart from her paleness and aspect of ill health. Her eyes appeared darker, and there was a look of care in them. She wore a cap, and her dark hair was nearly hidden beneath it.

"Now, Hannah," she said, "I hope you have made up your mind to do your work well, and help Mrs. Muff all that you can. There is a great deal more work to do here than there was at my uncle's."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Hannah.

"Especially in running up and downstairs you must save Mrs. Muff; your legs are younger than hers. Let me see that you do, and then I shall be pleased with you."

"I'll try," repeated Hannah. "Shall I take your cup for some more tea, ma'am?"

"I should like some," was Mrs. Castonel's reply, "but I don't know that I may have it. This morning Mr. Castonel said it was bad for me, and made me nervous, and he would not let me drink a second cup."

Hannah stood waiting, not knowing whether to take the cup or not.

"Is Mr. Castonel in his study?"

"If you please, ma'am, which place is that?"

"The front room on the left-hand side, opening opposite to the dining-room," said Mrs. Castonel.

"I don't think it is there then," replied Hannah. "he is in the little room where the bottles are, next the kitchen. I forget, ma'am, what Mrs. Muff called it."

"Oh, is he? Open the door, Hannah."

The girl obeyed, and Mrs. Castonel called to him. "Gervase!"

He heard her, and came immediately to the foot of the stairs. "What is it?" he asked.

"May I have another cup of tea?"

He ran upstairs and entered the room. "Have you taken your tea already?" he said, in accents of surprise and displeasure. "I told you to wait until seven o'clock."

"I was so thirsty. Do say I may have another cup, Gervase. I am sure it will not hurt me."

"Bring up half a cup," he said to the servant, "and some more bread-and-butter. If you drink, Caroline, you must eat."

Hannah went downstairs. She procured what was wanted and was carrying it from the kitchen again, when Mr. Castonel came out of the laboratory, to which it appeared he had returned.

"Give it me," he said to Hannah. "I will take it myself to your mistress."

So he proceeded upstairs with the little waiter, and Hannah returned to the kitchen. "How much she's altered!" was her exclamation, as she closed the door.

"What did she say to you?" questioned Mrs. Muff.

"Well, ma'am, she chiefly told me to be attentive, and to save your legs," returned Hannah. "I never knew Miss Caroline so thoughtful before. I thought it was not in her."

"And that has surprised me, that she should evince so much lately," assented Mrs. Muff. "Thoughtfulness does not come to the young suddenly. It's a thing that only comes with years--or sorrow."

"Sorrow!" echoed Hannah. "Miss Caroline can't have any sorrow."

"Not--not that I know of," somewhat dubiously responded the housekeeper.

"Is Mr. Castonel fond of her? Does he make her a good husband?" asked Hannah, full of woman's curiosity on such points.

"What should hinder him?" testily retorted Mrs. Muff.

"Has that--that strange lady left the place?" was Hannah's next question. "She that, people said, had something to do with Mr. Castonel."

"What to do with him?" was the sharp demand.

"Was his cousin, ma'am, or sister-in-law, or some relation of that sort," explained Hannah, with a face demure enough to disarm the anger of the fastidious Mrs. Muff.

"I believe she has not left," was the stiff response; "I know nothing about her."

"Do you suppose Miss Caroline does?" added Hannah.

"Of course she does, all particulars," returned Mrs. Muff, with a peculiar sniff, which she invariably gave when forcing her lips to an untruth. "But it's not your business so you may just put it out of your head, and never say any more about it. And you may begin and wash up the tea things. John don't deserve any tea for not coming in, and I have a great mind to make him go without. He is always stopping in the street to play."

Hannah was rising to obey, when the bedroom bell rang most violently, and Mr. Castonel was heard bursting out of the room, and calling loudly for assistance.

"Whatever can be the matter?" was the terrified exclamation of Mrs. Muff. "Mistress has never dropped asleep, and fallen off her chair into the fire! Follow me upstairs, girl. And that lazy tiger a playing truant!"

Not for many a year had the housekeeper flown upstairs so quickly. Hannah followed more slowly, from a vague consciousness of dread--of what she might see; the dream she had shuddered at, being before her mind in vivid colours. Mrs. Castonel was in convulsions.

About the same hour, or a little later, Mr. Leicester returned to his home, having been absent since morning. "Well," he cheerily said, as he took his seat by the fire, "have you any news? A whole day from the parish seems a long absence to me."

"I think not," answered Mrs. Leicester. "Except that I went to see Caroline Castonel to-day, and she is getting on well."

"I am glad to hear it. Is she quite out of danger?"

"Completely so."

"She told mamma that she should be at church on Sunday," added Ellen.

"Yes, but I told her that would be imprudent," returned Mrs. Leicester. "However, she will soon be well now."

At that moment the church bell rang out with its three times two, denoting the recent departure of a soul. The church, situated at the end of the village street, was immediately opposite the parsonage, the main road dividing them. The sound struck upon their ears loud and full; very solemnly in the stillness of the winter's night.

Consternation fell upon all. No one was ill in the village--at least, ill enough for death. Could a sister--for they knew, by the strokes, it was not a male--have been called away suddenly?

"The passing-bell!" uttered the rector, rising from his seat in agitation. "And I to have been absent! Have I been summoned out?" he hurriedly asked of Mrs. Leicester.

"No; I assure you, no. Not any one has been for you. Neither have we heard of any illness."

Mr. Leicester touched the bell-rope at his elbow. A maid-servant answered it. Benjamin was attending to his horse. "Step over," said the rector, "and inquire who is dead."

She departed. A couple of minutes at the most would see her back again. They had all risen from their seats, and stood in an expecting, almost a reverent attitude. The bell was striking out quickly now. The girl returned, looking terrified.

"It is the passing-bell, sir, for Mrs. Castonel!"

The morning was cold and misty, and the Reverend Christopher Leicester felt a strange chill and depression of spirits, for which he could not account, when he stepped into the chariot that was to convey him to Mr. Castonel's.

Mrs. Chavasse and Frances came into the parsonage. Ostensibly for the purpose of inviting Ellen to spend the following day with them: in reality to see the funeral. They had not long to wait.

The undertaker came first in hatband and scarf, and then the black chariot containing the Reverend Mr. Leicester. Before the hearse walked six carriers, and the mourning coach came last. It was a plain, quiet funeral.

It drew up at the churchyard-gate, in full view of the parsonage windows, all of which had their blinds closely drawn. But they managed to peep behind the blinds.

The rector stepped out first, and stood waiting at the church door in his officiating dress, his book open in his hands. There was some little delay in getting the burden from the hearse, but at length the carriers had it on their shoulders, and bore it up the path with measured, even steps, themselves nearly hidden by the pall. Mr. Castonel followed, his handkerchief to his face. He betrayed at that moment no outward sign of emotion, but his face could not have been exceeded in whiteness by that of his dead wife.

"Oh!" said Ellen, shivering, and turning from the light, as she burst into tears, "what a dreadful sequel it is to the day when he last got out of a carriage at the churchyard gate, and she was with him, in her gay happiness! Poor Mr. Castonel, how he must need consolation!"

"It is nothing of a funeral, after all," said Mrs. Chavasse, discontentedly; "no pall-bearers, no mutes, no anything. I wonder he did not have a little more fuss and ceremony!"

The hot day had nearly passed, and the sun, approaching its setting, threw the lengthening shade of the trees across the garden of Mrs. Chavasse. The large window of a pleasant room opened on to it; and in this room stood a fair, graceful girl, with one of the loveliest faces ever seen in Ebury. Her dark blue eyes were bent on the ground: as well they might be; the rose of her cheek had deepened to crimson: as well it might do; for a gentleman's arm had fondly encircled her waist, and his lips had pushed aside the cluster of soft hair, and were rendering that damask still deeper. Alas that her whole attitude, as she stood there, should tell of such rapturous happiness!

Neither was an inhabitant of that house; both had come in to pay an evening visit, and the young lady had thrown off her bonnet and mantle. It may be that these visits were accidental; but, if so, they took place nearly every evening. It happened that Mrs. and Miss Chavasse on this occasion were out, but were expected to enter every minute; so, being alone, they were improving the time.

And this from Miss Leicester, the carefully brought-up daughter of the Rector of Ebury! That she should repose quietly in the embrace of that man without attempting to withdraw from it! Yes; and love has caused many to do as much. But oh, that the deep, ardent affection, of which Ellen Leicester was so eminently capable, had been directed into any other channel than the one it had irrevocably entered upon!

For he who stood beside her was Gervase Castonel. It was not that he had once been married, but it was that there were some who deemed him a bad man, a mysterious man, with his sinister expression of face, when he did not care to check it, and his covert ways. Why should he have cast his coils round Ellen Leicester? why have striven to gain her love, when there were so many others whose welcome to him would have carried with it no alloy? It would almost seem that Mr. Castonel went by the rules of contrary, as the children say in their play. The only persons into whose houses he had not been received, and who had both taken so strange and unconquerable a dislike to him, were the late Mr. Winnington and the Reverend Christopher Leicester. Yet he had chosen his first wife in the niece of the first, and it seemed likely (to us who are in the secret) that he was seeking a second in the daughter of the latter. Strange that he should have been able to do his work so effectually; that Ellen Leicester, so good and dutiful, should have been won over to a passion for him little short of infatuation, and that it should have been kept so secret from the whole world! Never was there a man who could go more mysteriously to work than Gervase Castonel.

"You speak of a second marriage, Ellen, my love," he was saying, "but how often have I told you that this scarcely applies to me. Were it that I had lived with her years of happiness, or that I had loved her, then your objections might have reason. I repeat to you, however much you may despise me for it, that I married her, caring only for you. Before I was awake to my own sensations, I had gone too far to retract; I had asked for her of old Winnington, and in honour I was obliged to keep to my hasty engagement. Even in our early marriage days, I knew that I loved but you; sleeping or waking, it was you who were present to me. Oh, Ellen! you may disbelieve and refuse to love me, but in mercy say it not."

There was honey in the words of Mr. Castonel, there was greater honey in his tones, and Ellen Leicester's heart beat more rapidly within her. She disbelieve aught asserted by him!

"Ellen, you judge wrongly," was his reply, as she whispered something in his ear. "It is a duty sometimes to leave father and mother."

"But not disobediently, not wilfully. And I know that they would never consent. You know it also, Gervase.'

"My darling Ellen, this is nonsense. Suppose I were to yield to your scruples, and marry another in my anger? What then, Ellen?"

"I think it would kill me!" she murmured.

"And because Mr. and Mrs. Leicester have taken an unjust prejudice against me, both our lives are to be rendered miserable! Would that be justice? Suppose you were my wife; do suppose it, only for a moment, Ellen; suppose that we were irrevocably united, we should then not have consent to ask, but forgiveness."

She looked earnestly at him, and as his true meaning came across her, the mild expression of her deep blue eyes gave place to terror.

"Oh, Gervase," she implored, clasping his arm in agitation, "never say that again! As you value my peace here and hereafter, do not tempt me to disobedience. I mistook your meaning, did I not?" she continued, in rapid tones of terror. "Gervase, I say, did I not mistake you?"

He felt that he had been too hasty: the right time had not come. But it would come: for never did Gervase Castonel set his will upon a thing that he left unfulfilled.

Miss Chavasse entered. Ellen Leicester was in the garden then: she had glided out on hearing her approach. And Mr. Castonel was seated back in an armchair, intent upon a newspaper.

"Oh," exclaimed Frances, "I am sorry we should have been out. I am sure we are obliged to you for waiting for us, Mr. Castonel."

"I have not waited long; but if I had waited the whole evening I should be amply repaid now." He spoke softly and impressively, as he detained her hand in his: and from his manner, then, it might well have been thought that he intended Frances Chavasse for his wife; at least, it never could have been believed that he was so ardently pursuing another.

"And Ellen Leicester is here!" added Frances; "for that's her bonnet. Have you seen her?"

"Who? Miss Leicester? Yes, I believe I did see her. But I was so engaged with this paper. Here is some interesting medical evidence in it."

"Is there?" But at that moment Ellen Leicester came to the window. "How long have you been here?" asked Frances.

"About an hour," was Miss Leicester's answer.

"What an awful girl for truth that is!" was the angry mental comment of Mr. Castonel.

"I must say you have proved yourselves sociable companions," remarked Frances. "You mope in the garden, Ellen, and Mr. Castonel bores over an old newspaper! Let us have a song."

Now Mr. Castonel hated singing, but Frances sat down to the piano, and he was pleased to stand behind her and clasp the hand of Ellen Leicester. Yet Frances, had she been asked, would have said Mr. Castonel's attention was given to herself; ay, and gloried in saying it, for she liked the man, and would have had no objection to becoming his second wife. It may be that she was scheming for it. Thus they remained until the night came on, and the moon was up. Frances, never tired of displaying her rich voice, and Ellen Leicester content to stand by his side, had the standing lasted for ever. Moonlight music and meetings are dangerous things.

A servant came for Ellen Leicester, and Mr. Castonel walked home with her. They went not the front way, but through the lane, which brought them to the back-door of the rectory. Was it that Ellen shrank from going openly lest her parents might see from the windows that Mr. Castonel was her companion? He lingered with her for a few moments at the gate, and when she entered she found her mother alone: the rector was out. To her it had been a delicious walk, and she felt that life would be indeed a blank, if not shared with Gervase Castonel.

Ellen had been invited to spend the next evening with Miss Chavasse, as was a frequent occurrence, and it was chiefly in these evening meetings that her love had grown up and ripened. Mr. Castonel was ever a welcome visitor to Mrs. Chavasse, and Frances had laughed, and talked, and flirted with him, until a warmer feeling had arisen in her heart. He had all the practice of Ebury, being its only resident medical man, so in a pecuniary point of view he was a desirable match for Frances. Little deemed they that Ellen Leicester was his attraction. A tacit sort of rivalry with Ellen existed in the mind of Frances: she thought of her as a rival in beauty, a rival in position, a rival in the favour of Ebury. But she was really fond of Ellen, always anxious to have her by her side, and it never once entered into her brain that Mr. Castonel, who was under cold displeasure at the rectory, should seek the favour of Ellen.

Again went Ellen that evening to the house of Mrs. Chavasse, and again went Mr. Castonel. They, the three, passed it in the garden, a large rambling place, nearly as full of weeds as of flowers. They roamed about the different walks, they sat on the benches; Mr. Castonel's attention being given chiefly to Frances, not to Ellen, his custom when with both. Frances possessed her mother's old talent for flirtation, and Mr. Castonel was nothing loth to exercise it. And so the evening passed, and the summer moon rose in its course.

"Oh!" suddenly cried Frances, as they were returning to the house, "I have forgotten the bay-leaves mamma told me to gather. Now I must go back all down to the end of the garden."

She probably thought Mr. Castonel would follow her. He did not do so. He turned to Ellen Leicester, and drawing her amongst the sheltering trees, clasped her to him.

"I shall wish you good night now, my darling," he murmured, "this moment is too precious to be lost. Oh, Ellen! are things to go on like this for ever ? It is true these evening meetings are a consolation to us, for they are spent in the presence of each other, but the hours which ought to be yours, and yours only, are thrown away in idle nonsense with Frances Chavasse. Oh, that we had indeed a right to be together and alone! When is that time to come?--for come it must, Ellen. When two people love, as we do, and no justifiable impediment exists to its being legally ratified, that ratification will take place sooner or later. Think of this," he murmured, reluctantly releasing her as the steps of Miss Chavasse were heard drawing near.

"I expected you were in the house by this time," she exclaimed breathlessly, "and you are only where I left you."

"We waited for you," said Mr. Castonel.

"Very considerate of you!" was the reply of Frances, spoken in a tone of pique. She had expected Mr. Castonel to follow her.

They walked on towards the house, Mr. Castonel giving his arm to Frances. Talking was heard in the the drawing-room, and they recognized the voice of Mr. Leicester.

"I will go round here," said Mr. Castonel, indicating a path which led to a side gate. "If I enter, they will keep me talking; and I have a patient to see."

He extended a hand to each, as he spoke, by way of farewell, but Frances turned along the path with him. Ellen sat down on a garden-chair and waited. The voices from the house came distinctly to her ear in the quiet night.

"They will be in directly," Mrs. Chavasse was saying. "Mr. Castonel is with them. He and Frances grow greater friends than ever."

"Beware of that friendship," interrupted Mr. Leicester. "It may lead to something more."

"What if it should?" asked Mrs. Chavasse.

The rector paused, as if in surprise. "Do I understand you rightly, Mrs. Chavasse--that you would suffer Frances to become his wife?"

"Who is going to marry Frances?" inquired Mr. Chavasse, entering, and hearing the last words.

"Nobody," answered his wife. "We were speculating on Mr. Castonel's attention to her becoming more pointed. I'm sure any one might be proud to have him: he must be making a large income."

"My objection to Mr. Castonel is to his character,' returned the clergyman. "He is a bad man, living an irregular life. The world may call it gallantry: I call it sin."

"You allude to that mysterious girl who followed him down here," said Mrs. Chavasse. "You know what he told Mr. Winnington--that it was a relation, a lady of family and character. Of course it is singular, her living on here in the way she does, but it may be quite right, for all that."

"I saw him stealing off there last night, as I came home," observed the rector. "But I do not allude only to that, There are other things I could tell you of: some that happened during the lifetime of his wife."

"Then I tell you what," interrupted Mr. Chavasse, in his bluff, hearty manner, "a man of that sort should never have a daughter of mine. So mind what you and Frances are about, Mrs. Chavasse."

"That's just like papa," whispered Frances, who had returned to Ellen Leicester. "Speaking fiercely one minute, eating his words the next. Mamma always turns him round her little finger."

"As you value your daughter's happiness, keep her from Mr. Castonel," resumed the clergyman. "I doubt him in more ways than one."

"Do listen to your papa, Ellen," again whispered Frances. "How prejudiced he is against Mr. Castonel."

"My dear father is prejudiced against him," was Ellen's thought. "He says he met him stealing off to her house last night--if he only knew that he was stealing back from taking me home!"

Ellen was mistaken. It was later in the evening that the rector had met Mr. Castonel.

"Must I give him up!" she went on, in mental anguish. "It will cost me the greatest of all earthly misery: perhaps even my life. But I cannot have the curse of disobedience on my soul. I must, I will give him up."

Ah, Ellen Leicester! you little know how such good resolutions fail when one is present with you to combat them! However, cherish your intention for the present, if you will. It will come to the same in the end.

"Ellen," Frances continued to whisper, "what is it that prejudices your papa against Mr. Castonel? Caroline told me herself, after her marriage, that that person was a relative of his, one almost like a sister. You heard her say so."

Ellen Leicester did not answer, and Frances turned towards her. It may have been the effect of the moonlight, but her face looked cold and white as the snow in winter.

It was a fine evening in October. Mr. Castonel had dined, and the tiger lighted the lamp and placed it, with the port wine, on the table before him. Mr. Castonel was particularly fond of a glass of good port; but he let it remain untouched on this day, for he was buried in thought. He was a slight-made man, neither handsome nor plain, and his unfathomable grey eyes never looked you in the face. He rang the bell, and the tiger answered it.

"Send Mrs. Muff to me. And, John, don't leave the house. I shall want you."

The housekeeper came in, closed the door, and came towards him. He was then pouring out his first glass of wine.

"Muff," he began, "there's a small, black portmanteau somewhere about the house. A hand-portmanteau."

"Yes, sir. It is in the closet by John's room."

"Get it out, and put a week's change of linen into it. Did the tailor send home some new clothes to-day?"

"He did, sir, and I ordered Hannah to take them upstairs."

"They must be put in. And my shaving-tackle, and such things. I am going out for a few days."

Mrs. Muff was thunderstruck. She had never known Mr. Castonel to leave Ebury since he had settled in it, excepting on the occasion of his marriage.

"You have given me a surprise, sir," she said, "but I'll see to the things. Do you want them for to-morrow?"

"For this evening."

Mrs. Muff thought her ears must have deceived her. The last coach for the distant railway station had left. Besides, she had heard Mr. Castonel make an appointment in Ebury for the following day at twelve. "This evening, sir!" she repeated. "The coaches have all gone. The last drove by as John was bringing out the dinner-tray."

"For this evening," repeated Mr. Castonel, without further comment. "In half an hour's time. And, Muff, you must get the house cleaned and put thoroughly in order whilst I am away. Let the dressing-room adjoining my bed-chamber be made ready for use, the scent-bottles and trumpery put on the dressing-table, as it was in--in the time of Mrs. Castonel."

This was the climax. Mrs. Muff's speech failed her.

"This is Tuesday. I intend to be home on Monday next. I shall probably bring a--a person--a companion home with me."

"A what, Sir?" demanded Mrs. Muff.

"A friend will accompany me, I say."

"Very well, sir. Which room shall I get ready?"

"Room! What for?"

Mrs. Muff was growing bewildered. "I thought you said a gentleman was returning with you, sir. I asked which bed-chamber I should prepare for him."

"My own."

"Certainly, sir," answered the housekeeper, hesitatingly. "And in that case, which room shall I prepare for you?"

Mr. Castonel laughed; such a strange laugh. "I will tell you then," he replied. "You must also send for the gardener, and get the garden done up. Send to-morrow morning, and let him begin. John can help him: he will not have much to do whilst I am away."

"Except mischief," added the housekeeper. "I'll keep him to it, sir."

"And, Muff, if any one comes after me to-night, no matter who, or how late, say I have gone to an urgent case in the country, and send them to Mr. Rice. You remember, now, no matter who. You may tell the whole town to-morrow, and the deuce besides, for all it can signify then."

"Tell what, sir?"

"That I have gone out for a week's holiday."

Mrs. Muff withdrew, utterly stupefied. She thought that she was beside herself, or that Mr. Castonel was.

That same evening, not very long after the above interview, Ellen Leicester, attended by a maid, left her home, for she had promised to take tea with Mrs. Chavasse. In passing a lonely part of the road, where the way branched off to the railroad, they came upon Mr. Castonel. He shook hands with Miss Leicester, and gave her his arm, saying that he was also bound for Mrs. Chavasse's. "I will take charge of you now," he added; "you need not trouble your maid to come any further."

"Very true," murmured Ellen.--"Martha," she said, turning to the servant, "if you would like two or three hours to yourself to-night, you may have them. Perhaps you would like to go home and see your mother."

The girl thanked her, and departed cheerfully towards the village. Could she have peered beyond a turning in the way, she might have seen a post-carriage drawn up, evidently waiting for travellers.

The time went on to nine. The rector and his wife sat over the fire, the former shivering, for he had caught a violent cold. "I suppose you have some nitre in the house?" he suddenly observed.

"Really--I fear not," answered Mrs. Leicester. "But I can send for some. Will you touch the bell?"

"Is Benjamin in?" demanded Mrs. Leicester of the maid who answered it.

"No, ma'am. Master said he was to go and see how Thomas Shipley was, and he is gone."

"Then tell Martha to put her bonnet on. She must fetch some nitre."

"Martha is not come in, ma'am, since she went out to take Miss Leicester."

"No!" uttered Mrs. Leicester, in surprise. "Why, that was at six o'clock. I wonder what is detaining her?"

Benjamin came in, and was sent for the nitre, and soon Martha's voice was heard in the kitchen. Mrs. Leicester ordered her in.

"Martha, what do you mean by staying out without leave?"

"Betsy has been on at me about it in the kitchen," was the girl's reply. "But it is Miss Ellen's fault, ma'am. She told me I might have a few hours for myself."

"When did she tell you that?" demanded Mrs. Leicester, doubting if Ellen had said it.

"When we came to Piebald-corner, ma'am. Mr. Castonel was standing there, and he said he would see Miss Ellen safe to Mrs. Chavasse's, and it was then she told me."

The rector looked up, anger on his face.

"Did you leave her with Mr. Castonel?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

"Then understand, Martha, for the future. If you go out to attend Miss Leicester, you are to attend her. You have done wrong. It is not seemly for Miss Leicester to be abroad in the evening without one of her own attendants."

"Now this has finished it," he continued, to his wife, as the girl withdrew. "Ellen shall not go there again unless you are with her. Mr. Castonel! How dared he? I would rather Ellen made a companion of the poorest and lowest person in the village. And should there be any engagement growing up between him and Frances, I will not have Ellen there to countenance it with her presence."

"Poor Mr. Winnington prejudiced you against Mr. Castonel," observed Mrs. Leicester. "I do not admire or like him, but I think less ill of him than you do. Perhaps Frances might do worse."

The clergyman turned his head and looked at her. "I will ask you a home question, Susan. Would you care to see him marry Ellen?"

"Oh no, no!" and Mrs. Leicester almost shuddered as she spoke. "Not for worlds!"

"Yet you would see him the husband of Frances Chavasse; your early friend's child!"

Mrs. Leicester hesitated before she spoke. "It is that I hope to see Ellen the wife of a religious man, a good man, and I fear Mrs. Chavasse does not consider that for Frances. She thinks of social fitness, of position, of Mr. Castonel's being in favour with the world. But Ellen--no, no, I trust never to see her the wife of such a man as Mr. Castonel."

The minister covered his face with his hands. "I would rather read the burial service over her."

When Benjamin returned, he was despatched for Miss Leicester, and told to hasten. But he came back and said Miss Leicester was not there.

"Not there!" exclaimed the rector. "Why, where have you been for her? I told you to go to Mrs. Chavasse's."

"That's where I have been, sir."

"Then you have made some stupid blunder. She must be there."

"I don't think I made any blunder, sir," returned Benjamin, who was a simple-speaking man of forty. "When I told 'em I had come for Miss Ellen, one of their maids joked and said then I had come to the wrong house, but she took in the message, and Mrs. Chavasse came out to me. She said as they had expected Miss Ellen to tea, and waited for her, but she did not come."

Nothing could exceed the indignation of the rector. Where was Ellen? Where could she be gone? Was it possible that Mr. Castonel had persuaded her to go visiting anywhere else? In spite of his wife's remonstrances, who assured him he was too ill to venture forth, and would catch his death, he turned out in search of her; and Mrs. Leicester, worried and angry, laid all the blame upon Martha, who immediately began to cry her eyes out.

Before noon the next day, Ebury was ringing with the elopement of Mr. Castonel and Ellen Leicester.

Mr. and Mrs. Castonel returned to Ebury, and the whole place flocked to pay them the wedding visit. The disobedience of Ellen Leicester was no business of theirs, that they should mark their sense of it. And Ellen--had it not been for the recollection of her offended parents and the unjustifiable part she had acted--how supreme, how intense would have been her happiness. Her whole existence lay in her husband; she could see no fault in him; and could they then have tasted of the Tree of Life, so that the present might be for ever, she might have given up all wish of a hereafter. Amongst the visitors went Mrs. and Miss Chavasse; and, whatever mortification might have been in their hearth, it was not suffered to appear; that would never have done. So Mrs. Chavasse contented herself with abusing, elsewhere, the somewhat faded furniture, and thanking fate that her daughter had not been taken to a home so carelessly appointed.

Months went by, and how felt Ellen Castonel? Why, the fruits of her conduct were beginning to come home to her. She had received the forgiveness of her parents, for when she went to them in prayer and penitence, and knelt at her father's feet, the minister, though he strove hard to spurn her away, according to his resolution, yet he was enfeebled in health, enfeebled by sorrow, and it ended in his falling on her neck with sobs of agony, and forgiving her. It had been well could he as easily have forgotten. In these few months he had become a bowed, broken man. His hair had changed from brown to grey, and it was rumoured that he had never since enjoyed a whole night's rest. Could this fail to tell on Ellen? who, excepting that one strange and unaccountable act, had always been a gentle, loving, obedient daughter. She watched it all, and knew that it had been her work. Moreover, there were arising, within her, doubts of Mr. Castonel--whether he was the idol she had taken him to be. She was also in bad health, and suffered much. She looked worn, haggard, wretched; curious comments on which went about Ebury; and the people all agreed that Mrs. Castonel did not seem to repose on a bed of roses.

"There's a row upstairs," exclaimed the tiger to Hannah, one day in April. "Missis is sobbing and crying buckets full, and master has been a blowing of her up."

"How do you know? Where are they?" said Hannah. "In the drawing-room. I went up to ask what medicine was to go out, but they were too busy to see me. I heard master a roaring as I went up the stairs, like he roared at me one day, and nearly frightened my skin off me. It was something about missis going so much to the parsonage; she said it was her duty, and he said it wasn't. She was lying on the sofa, a sobbing and moaning awful."

"I think you must have peeped in," cried Hannah. "For shame of you!"

"In course I did. Wouldn't you? Oh dear no, I dare say not! Master was kneeling down then, a kissing of her, and asking her to forget what he'd said in his passion, and to get herself calm, for that it would do her unknown harm. And he vowed, if she'd only stop crying, that he'd take her hisself to the parsonage this evening, and stop the whole of it with her--"

"What is that you are saying?" sharply demanded Mrs. Muff, putting her head into the kitchen.

"I was a telling Hannah she'd best sew that there button on my best livery trousers, what came off 'em last Sunday, or she'd get her neck wrung," answered the lad, vaulting away.

Whether the tiger's information was correct, and that excitement was likely to have an injurious effect upon Mrs. Castonel, certain it is, that the following day she was seized with illness. The nature of it was such as to destroy the hope that had sprung up in her heart, and precisely similar to that which had preceded the death of the first Mrs. Castonel.

"What an extraordinary thing!" cried Mrs. Chavasse, when the news reached her; "it looks like fatality. Caroline had been six months married when she fell ill; and now, in like manner, Ellen falls ill! I hope she will not follow her fate out to the last, and die of it."

"For the matter of that, we never knew what the first Mrs. Castonel did die of," returned Mrs. Major Acre, who was sitting there. "She was recovering from her sickness; indeed, it may be said that she had recovered from it; and she went off suddenly one evening, nobody knew with what."

"Mr. Castonel said it was perfectly satisfactory to medical men," said Mrs. Chavasse. There are so many dangerous tricks and turns of maladies, you know, only clear to themselves."

For several days Ellen Castonel was very ill. Not, perhaps, in absolute danger, but sufficiently near it to excite apprehension. Then she began to get better. During this time nothing could exceed the affection and kindness of Mr. Castonel; his attention was a marvel of admiration, allowed to be so, even by Mrs. Leicester.

One afternoon, when she was dressed and in the drawing-room, Mrs. and Miss Chavasse called. They were the first visitors who had been admitted. Frances offered to remain the rest of the day, but Mrs. Chavasse overruled it: Ellen was not strong enough, she said, to bear so many hours' incessant gossiping.

Mr. Castonel came in whilst they sat there. He was in high spirits, laughed and talked, almost flirted with Frances, as in former days, when she had erroneously deemed he had a motive in it. When they left, he attended them to the door, gay and attractive as ever in the eyes of Frances; and she pondered how Ellen could ever appear sad with such a husband. Mr. Castonel then went into his laboratory, where he buried himself for half an hour. When he returned upstairs, Ellen was in tears.

"Don't be angry with me, Gervase. This depression of spirits will come on, and I cannot help it. I fear it is a bad omen."

Mr. Castonel turned away his head and coughed.

"An omen of what, Ellen?"

"That I shall never recover."

"You have recovered. Come, come, Ellen, cheer up. I thought Mrs. Chavasse's visit had done you good."

"Last evening, when I sat alone for so many hours, I could not help thinking of poor Caroline. I wondered what it could be she died of, and--"

"Ellen!" burst forth Mr. Castonel, "it is wrong and wicked to encourage such absurd thoughts. You asked me the other day, when you were lying ill, what it was she died of, and I explained it. It is not going to occur to you."

"No, no," she answered, "I am not really afraid. It is only in the quiet evening hours, when I am alone, that I get these foolish fancies. If you could be always with me, they would not come. Try and stay with me to-night, Gervase."

"My darling, I have not left you one evening since you were ill until the last, and then it was not by choice. I know of nothing to call me forth to-night. Should anything arise unexpectedly, I must go, as Rice is away. In that case, I should tell Muff to remain with you."

She still wept silently. It seemed that her spirits had sunk into a terribly depressed state, and nothing, just then, could arouse them. Mr. Castonel stood and looked down at her, his elbow leaning on the mantelpiece.

"Would you like Mr. and Mrs. Leicester to come this evening?" he asked.

"Oh!" she cried, clasping her hands and half rising from her chair, the pallid hue giving place to crimson on her lovely face, and the light of excitement rising in her sweet blue eyes--"oh, Gervase, if you would only ask them? Papa has never been here to remain an evening with me: he would come now. It would do me more good than everything else. Indeed, I should not have these fears then."

He went to a table and wrote a brief note, putting it into Ellen's hands to read. It was to the effect that his wife was in low spirits, and much wished them both to come to tea and spend the evening with her.

"Thank you, thank you, dearest Gervase," she exclaimed, "you have made me so happy. Oh, papa!"

"Ellen," he said, gazing into her eyes, "confess. You love your father better than you do me."

"You know the contrary, Gervase. I love him with a different love. I left him for you," she added, in low, almost reproachful tones, as she leaned forward and hid her face upon her husband's arm, "and people say that it is killing him."

The tiger was despatched with the note to the parsonage, and brought back a verbal answer that Mr. and Mrs. Leicester would soon follow him.

They both came. They sat with Ellen and her husband.

Mrs. Leicester made tea; and for once Ellen was happy. There appeared to be more sociable feeling between her husband and father than she had ever hoped for, and a joyous vision flitted across her of time bringing about a thorough reconciliation, and of their all being happy together. She laughed, she talked, she almost sang; and Mr. and Mrs. Leicester inquired what had become of the depression spoken of in Mr. Castonel's note. He answered pleasantly that their presence had scared it away, and that if they did not mind the trouble of coming out, it might be well to try the experiment again on the following evening; he could see it was the best medicine for his dearest Ellen. They promised to do so, even Mr. Leicester. Especially, he added, as he must leave almost directly.

The glow on Ellen's face faded. "Why leave, papa?"

"My dear, there is a vestry meeting to-night, and I must attend it. Your mamma can remain."

"Will you not return when it is over?" resumed Ellen, anxiously.

"No. It will not be over until late. It is likely to be a stormy one."

"But you will come to-morrow? And remain longer?" she feverishly added.

"Child, I have said so."

"Upon one condition--that she does not excite herself over it," interposed Mr. Castonel, affectionately laying his hand upon his wife's. "Add that proviso, sir."

"Oh, if Ellen is to excite herself, of course that would stop it," returned the rector, with a smile. The first smile his countenance had worn since her disobedience.

Ellen saw it, and her heart rose up in thankfulness within her. "Dearest papa," she whispered, leaning towards him, "I will be quite calm. It will be right in time between us all: I see it will. I am so happy!"

At. seven o'clock they heard the little bell tinkle out, calling together the members of the select vestry, and Mr. Leicester took his departure. His wife remained with Ellen, Mr. Castonel also; nothing called him out; and they spent a happy, cordial evening together. When she rose to leave, Mr. Castonel rang the bell for Mrs. Muff to attend her. He would not leave Ellen.

"What nonsense!" said Mrs. Leicester. "As if any one would run away with me! I shall be at home in five minutes. I need not trouble Mrs. Muff."

"It will do Muff good," said Ellen. "She has never stirred out since my illness. And then, mamma, she can bring back the receipt you spoke of."

"Good night, my dear," said Mrs. Leicester, stooping to kiss her. "Do you feel better for our visit?"

"I feel quite welt, mamma," was Ellen's joyful answer. "Nothing whatever is the matter with me now. Only," she added, laughing, "that I am a little thirsty."

"That is soon remedied," said Mr. Castonel. "I will bring you some wine and water, Ellen."

"How thankful I am to see your mistress so much better," exclaimed Mrs. Leicester, as she and Mrs. Muff walked along.

"Ma'am, you cannot be more thankful than I am. I have been upon thorns ever since she was taken ill. Poor Mrs. Castonel--I mean Miss Caroline--having been cut off suddenly by the same illness, was enough to make me fearful."

"Poor Caroline!" sighed Mrs. Leicester, with more truth than caution. "I wish she had lived."

"She is better off," was the reply of the housekeeper. "There is nothing but crosses and cares for us who are left. I hope, ma'am, you and Mr. Leicester will come in often now. You can have no conception of the effect it has had upon my mistress to-night: she is a thousand pounds nearer being well."

Mrs. Leicester turned to her. "Do you think Mr. Castonel makes her a good husband? You and I, Mrs. Muff," she added, in tones which seemed to bespeak apology for herself, "knew each other years before this stranger ever came near the place, and I speak to you as I would not to others. He seems affectionate, kind, but--what do you think?"

"I cannot answer you, ma'am," replied Mrs. Muff, "I wish I could. Before us he is all kindness to her; and yet--I don't know why it should be, but I have my doubts of its being sincere. I force the feeling down, and say to myself that I was set against Mr. Castonel at the first, through the injury he did my old master. I had my doubts in the same way of his sincerity to his first wife. And yet, I don't notice it in his manners to other people."

"Does he go to see that--person now?" asked Mrs. Leicester, lowering her voice.

"Well, ma'am, I can't say. All I know is, that the other--servant or whatever she may be--who lives with her, was at our house lately."

"Indeed!"

"It was a night or two before my mistress was taken ill. There came a quiet knock at the door. John was out, and Hannah was upstairs, turning down the beds, so I answered it myself. She asked for Mr. Castonel. I did not know her in the dusk, and was about to show her into the study, where master sees his patients, but it flashed over me who it was; and I said Mr. Castonel was not at liberty, and shut the door in her face."

"Was Mr. Castonel at home?"

"He was in the drawing-room with my mistress. And I believe must have seen her from the windows, for he came downstairs almost directly, and went out."

"Did Ellen--did Mrs. Castonel see her?" breathlessly inquired Mrs. Leicester.

"Ma'am, I have my doubts she did. No sooner was Mr. Castonel gone, than the drawing-room bell rang, and I went up. It. was for the lamp. While I was lighting it, my mistress said, 'Muff, who was that at the door?'

"That put me in a flutter, but I gathered my wits together, and answered that it was a person from the new shop--for of course I would not tell her the truth."

"'What did they want?' asked my mistress. "'Brought the bill, ma'am,' said I. For luckily the new people had sent in their bill that day. And I took it out of my pocket, and laid it on the table by her.

"'What could the person want, walking before the house afterwards, and looking up at the windows?' then questioned my mistress.

"'Quite impossible for me to tell, ma'am,' I said; and I won't deny that the question took me aback. 'Perhaps they wanted a little fresh air, as it's a warmish night, and the street is open just here?'"

"Was that all that passed?" demanded Mrs. Leicester.

"That was all. Mr. Castonel was not in for two hours afterwards, and I heard him tell my mistress he had been out to a most difficult case. I'll be whipped if I believed him."

"Is he out much in an evening?"

"Very often, he used to be, before my mistress was taken ill. He is always ready with an excuse--it's this patient, or it's that patient, that wants him and keeps him. But I never remember Mr. Winnington to have had these evening calls upon his time."

They reached the parsonage, and entered it. The house-keeper was to take back the receipt for some particularly nourishing jelly, which Mrs. Leicester had been recommending for Ellen. It was not immediately found, and Mrs. Muff sat with her in the parlour, talking still. The rector came in from the vestry meeting, and she rose to leave.

Conscious that she had remained longer than was absolutely needful, Mrs. Muff walked briskly homeward. She had gained the door, and was feeling in her pocket for the latch-key--she possessing one, and Mr. Castonel the other--when the door was flung violently open, and the tiger sprang out, for all the world like a real tiger, very nearly upsetting Mrs. Muff, and sending her backwards down the steps.

"You audacious, good-for-nothing monkey!" she exclaimed, giving him a smart box on the ears. "You saw me standing there, I suppose, and did it for the purpose."

"Did I do it for the purpose?" retorted John. "You just go in and see whether I did it for the purpose. I'm a-going to get the horse, and tear off without saddle or briddle for the first doctor I can fetch. It's like as if Mr. Rice had took his two days' holiday just now, a purpose not to be in the town!"

He rushed round towards the stables, and Mrs. Muff entered. Hannah met her with a shriek and a face as white as ashes. "Mrs. Castonel--oh, Mrs. Castonel!" was all she cried.

"What is it?" asked the terrified Mrs. Muff.

"It is spasms, or convulsions, or something of the sort," sobbed Hannah; "but I'm sure she's dying! She's taken just as Miss Caroline was. I am sure she is dying!"

Once more, as connected with this history, rang out the passing-bell of Ebury. And when the startled inhabitants--those who were late sitters-up--opened their doors and strove to learn who had gone to their reckoning, they shrank from the answer with horror and dismay.

The young, the beautiful, the second Mrs. Castonel! And again a funeral started from the house of the surgeon to take its way to the church. But this time it was a stranger who occupied the clergyman's chariot. Mr. Leicester's task was a more painful one; he followed as second mourner. Many people were in the churchyard, and their curiosity was intensely gratified at witnessing the violent grief of Mr. Castonel. The rector's emotion was less conspicuous, but his feeble form was bowed, his steps tottered, and his grey hair streamed in the wind. On the conclusion of the ceremony Mr. Castonel stepped into the mourning coach, solemnly to be conveyed home again at a mourning pace; but the rector passed aside and entered the parsonage. The sexton, a spare man in a brown wig, was shovelling in the earth upon the coffin, and shedding tears. He had carried Ellen many a time over the same spot when she was a little child.

A young and somewhat shy-looking man was making his way down the street of a country village. He appeared to be a stranger, and his clerical coat and white neckcloth betokened his calling. It would seem that he was in search of some house he could not readily find, for he peered curiously at several through his spectacles as he passed them. As he neared one, a handsome house with a green verandah, a cab, painted black, came dashing up, stopped, and there descended from it a gentleman and his servant in the deepest mourning. The stranger approached the master and courteously raised his hat.

"I beg your pardon," he said; "can you obligingly point out to me the Rectory? I understood it to be somewhere here."

"At the end of the street, five minutes lower down. Opposite the church."

"This end of the street?" resumed the stranger, pointing to the way he had been journeying.

"I'll show you which it is with pleasure," cried a fine boy of fourteen, who appeared to be growing out of his jacket.

"What, is it you, Arthur?" said the owner of the cab. "Where did you spring from?"

The young gentleman had sprung from behind the cab, but he did not choose to say so. "I say, sir," he exclaimed, passing the question, "you have not seen mamma anywhere, have you?"

"No."

"Oh, well, it's not my fault. She told me to meet her somewhere here as I came home from school, and she'd take me to have my hair cut. Old Brooks did not do it to please her last time, so she said she'd go and see it done. Now, sir," he added to the stranger, "I'll show you Mr. Leicester's."

They walked along together. "Do you know," said the boy, suddenly looking at his companion, "I can guess who you are? You are the new curate."

The stranger smiled. "How do you guess that?"

"Because you look like it. And we know Mr. Leicester had engaged one: the other did not suit. He is too ill now to do it all himself. Mamma says she is sure he won't live long. Do you know Mr. Castonel?"

"No. Who is Mr. Castonel?"

"Why, that was Mr. Castonel, and that was his cab. Did you see how black they were?"

"Yes. He appeared to be in deep mourning."

"It is for his wife. She was so pretty, and we all liked her so. She was Ellen Leicester, and Mr. Castonel ran away with her, and she died. That was last spring, and it's since then that Mr. Leicester has got so ill. His first wife died too."

"Who's first wife?" returned the stranger, scarcely making sense of the boy's tale.

"Mr. Castonel's."

"Are you speaking of the gentleman of whom I inquired my way? He looks young to have had two wives."

"He has, though. He is a doctor, and has all the practice. He keeps two assistants now. Do you know Mr. Tuck?"

"I do not know any one in Ebury."

"Oh, don't you? There's Mr. Leicester's," added the lad, pointing to a house, lower down, as they came to a turning in the street. "And now I have shown it you, I must go back, for if mamma comes and I don't meet her, she'll blow me up."

"Thank you for bringing me," said Mr. Hurst. "I hope we shall soon be better acquainted. Tell me your name."

"Arthur Chavasse. I am to be what you are. A parson."

"Indeed? I hope you will make a good one."

"I don't know. Last week when I sent the ball through the window and gave Lucy a black eye, papa and mamma were in a passion with me, and they said I had too much devil in me for a parson."

"I am sorry to hear that," was the grave answer.

"I have not got half the devil that some chaps have," continued Master Arthur. "I only leap hedges, and climb trees, and wade streams, and all that. I don't see what harm that can do a fellow, even if he is to be a parson."

"I fear it would seem to point that he might be more fitted for other callings in life."

"Then I just wish you'd tell them so at home. I don't want to be a parson, it's too tame a life for me. Good-bye, sir."

He flew away, a high-spirited, generous lad; and the curate--for such he was--looked after him. Then he turned in at the rectory gate.

He was shown into the room where the Reverend Christopher Leicester and his wife were sitting. Two sad, grey-haired people, the former very feeble, but not with age. Arthur Chavasse had given a pretty accurate account of matters. From the time that their only child had run away with Mr. Castonel, they had been breaking in health; but since her death, which had occurred six months subsequently, the rector may be said to have been a dying man.

There was certainly a fatality attending the wives of Mr. Castonel, and he appeared to mourn them with sincerity, especially the last. His attire was as black as mourning could be: he had put his cab into black, the crape on his hat extended from the brim to the crown, and he wore a mourning pin, and a mourning ring with Ellen's hair in it. He abstained from all gaiety, took a friendly cup of tea occasionally with Mr. and Mrs. Chavasse, and paid a formal visit to the Rector and Mrs. Leicester once a month.

The new curate, Mr. Hurst, was approved of by Ebury. He was possessed of an amazing stock of dry, book erudition, but was retiring and shy to a fault. He took up his abode at the parish beadle's, who let furnished lodgings, very comfortable and quiet. One day he received a visit from Mr. Chavasse, a bluff, hearty, good-tempered man, who was steward to the estate of the Earl of Eastbury, a neighbouring nobleman.

"I was talking to Mr. Leicester yesterday," began Mr. Chavasse, shaking hands, "and he told me he thought you were open to a reading engagement for an hour or so in the afternoons."

"Certainly," answered the curate, coughing in the nervous manner habitual to him when taken by surprise, "I should have no objection to employing my time in that way, when my duties for the day are over."

"That rascal of a boy of mine, Arthur--the lad has good abilities, I know, for in that respect he takes after his mother and Frances, yet there are nothing but complaints from school about his not getting on."

"Do you not fancy that his abilities may lie in a different direction--that he may be formed by nature for a more bustling life than a clerical one?" the curate ventured to suggest.

"Why, of course, if he has not got it in him, it would be of no use to force him to be a parson; but there's such an opening. Lord Eastbury has promised me a living for him. Now it has struck me that if you would come, say at four o'clock, which is the hour he leaves school, and hammer something into him until half-past five, or six, we might see what stuff he is really made of. What do you say?"

"I could accept the engagement for every evening excepting Saturday," answered Mr. Hurst.

"All right," cried Mr. Chavasse. "One day lost out of the six won't matter. And now, sir, what shall you charge?"

The curate hesitated and blushed, and then named a very low sum.

"If it were not that I have so many children pulling at me, I should say it was too little by half," observed the straightforward Mr. Chavasse; "but I can't stand a high figure. My eldest son has turned out wild, and is a shocking expense to me. Shall we begin on Monday?"

"If you please. I shall be ready."

"And mind," he added, "that you always stop and take tea with us, when you have no better engagement. I shall tell Mrs. Chavasse to insist on that part of the bargain."

Thus it came to pass that the Reverend William Hurst became very intimate at the house of Mrs. Chavasse.

Autumn, winter, spring passed; and, with summer, things seemed to be brightening again. We speak of Mr. Castonel; he discarded his gloomy attire, his cab was repainted a claret colour, and he went again into general society. His practice flourished; if he had lost his own wives, he seemed lucky in saving those of other men. His assistants, like himself, had plenty to do. The gossips began to speculate whether he would marry again. "Surely not!" cried the timid ones, shaking their heads with a shudder; "who would venture to have him?"

One hot afternoon Mr. Rice, one of the qualified assistant-surgeons of Mr. Castonel, was walking along a field path. The growing corn, rising on either side of him, was ripening, and the gay insects hummed pleasantly. He had just quitted a cottage, one of an humble row called Beech Cottages, close by. "Ah, how d'ye do?" cried he. "A lovely afternoon."

"Very." It was the curate who had met him. "Have you been far?"

"Only to Gaffer Shipley's. Mr. Castonel received some message this morning about the child: he did not choose to go himself, but sent me."

"Is it ill?" cried the curate, in tones of alarm. "It is not baptized. I never can get to see the mother about it."

"Ill? no. A trifle feverish. The poor do cram their children with such unwholesome food."

"I am on my way to Thomas Shipley's myself," observed Mr. Hurst. "Mr. Leicester asked me if I had seen him this week, so I thought I'd take a walk this way and call upon a few of them. Mr. Leicester seems to have a great regard for that old man."

"A decent man, I believe, he has been all his life," returned Mr. Rice. "And since his daughter forgot herself, people have wished to show him more respect than before."

"By the way," said the curate, "whose is the child?"

Mr. Rice laughed. "You had better ask that question of Mr. Castonel. I don't know."

They shook hands and parted; the surgeon proceeding to the residence of Mr. Castonel, where he busied himself for some little time, making up medicine. He had just concluded his task when Mr. Castonel entered.

"Well," said he, "what was the matter down at Shipley's?"

"Oh, nothing. Child somewhat feverish and stomach out of order. I have made up these powders for it. They will set it to rights."

"And that?" added Mr. Castonel, glancing from the powders to a bottle of mixture.

"For Mrs. Acre. I am off now to old Flockaway's."

As Mr. Rice quitted the laboratory, he met the tiger, "Some medicine to go out, John."

"Where to, sir? "

"Mr. Castonel will tell you. He is there."

John went into the laboratory. "Mr. Rice says there's some medicine to go out, sir."

Mr. Castonel did not reply immediately. He was writing something on a slip of paper.

"Go to the library," he said, handing it to John, "and inquire whether this book has arrived. If so, bring it."

"Can't I take the medicine at the same time, sir?"

"Do as you are bid, and nothing more," rejoined Mr. Castonel. "Bring me the book, if it is there, and then go with the medicine. You see where it is for; the mixture to Mrs. Acre's, the powders to Thomas Shipley's."

The tiger went off whistling, and his master remained in the laboratory. But when the boy returned, he was no longer there.

"Hannah!" sang out the lad.

"What do you want with Hannah?" demanded the housekeeper, putting her head outside the kitchen-door.

"Bid her tell master as the library says he never ordered the book at all, as they heered on; but if he wants it they can get it from London. Perhaps you'll condescend to tell him yourself, Madam Muff." He took up the medicine as he spoke, and went out again.

Meanwhile the Reverend William Hurst had left the cornfield, and proceeded to Gaffer Shipley's. The Gaffer--as he was styled in the village--lay in his bed in the back room. A fall from a ladder had laid him on it, and he would never rise again. Dame Vaughan was in the front room, sewing. She had been hired to attend the house during a recent illness of Mary Shipley's. "He is asleep, sir," she whispered, when she saw the curate about to enter: "he dropped off just now, and I think it will do him good." Mr. Hurst nodded and drew away. He was bound to several cottages in the neighbourhood, so went to them first, and returned afterwards to Shipley's. The Gaffer was awake then.

"I'm ailing much, sir," he said. "Give my humble duty to Mr. Leicester, and thank him for asking. I'm as hot as I can be to-day. My skin feels burning."

"Did you tell this to Mr. Rice? He might have given you something."

"No, sir, I didn't. I had dropped off asleep when he was here, and Dame Vaughan never thought of it. I may be better to-morrow, and then I sha'n't want physic."

As the Gaffer spoke, Mr. Hurst saw the entrance of Mr. Castonel's tiger, the door being open between the two rooms. "Powders for somebody, Dame Vaughan," said he. "Who's ill?"

"This little one," replied Dame Vaughan, pointing to the infant on her lap.

"That young scaramouch! I thought, perhaps, the Gaffer might be a going to walk it."

"The Gaffer, poor man, ain't at all well," said Dame Vaughan.

"I say," resumed the lad, "where's Mary? What's she gone into hiding for? Nobody have set eyes on her this age. Give her my compliments, and--"

At this moment the boy caught sight of Mr. Hurst. It was quite enough. He touched his hat, backed out, and set off home.

When the curate passed through the front room to leave, he stopped and looked down at the baby. "It does not appear to be very ill, Mrs. Vaughan."

"No, sir, it's as live and peart as can be, this afternoon. I did not see much the matter with it this morning, for my own part, only Mary"--she hesitated--"Mary would send to tell Mr. Castonel."

"Where is Mary?"

"She's upstairs," whispered the woman. "She made off there, sir, when she saw you a coming. Poor thing, she don't like yet to face the gentlefolks."

As Dame Vaughan spoke, she was opening the packet left by the tiger. It contained six small neat white papers, which her curiosity led her to examine. They disclosed an insignificant portion of grey-coloured powder.

"I know what that is," she observed; "the very best physic you can give to a child. Will you please to read the direction for me, sir?"

"'One of these powders to be taken night and morning. Mary Shipley's infant.'"

"Ah, that's just what Mr. Rice said. Thank you, sir. Good day. I'll tell Mary what you say about bringing the baby to church."

It was then nearly four o'clock, and the curate, after calling in at home to wash his hands and brush his hair, made the best of his way to the house of Mr. Chavasse, scarcely knowing whether he was progressing thither on his head or his heels. That house contained all he could imagine of beauty, and goodness, and love. It was his world. Had he not been a clergyman, he might have said his paradise.

Arthur was already in the study. And when the lessons were over, the curate entered the drawing-room, he and his fluttering heart. There she was, with her graceful form, her fine features, and her dark, brilliant eye. For him there was but one lovely face on earth, and it was that of Frances Chavasse.

To him she was a perfect contrast. Open in manner, ready and pleasant in speech, the Reverend William Hurst, when he first knew her, could only gaze at her through his spectacles with amazed admiration. She detected his homage; she soon detected his love; and, true to her vain nature, she gave it encouragement. Vanity was Frances Chavasse's ruling passion. She was this evening attired in a pink muslin dress, very pretty and showy, and when Mr. Hurst entered she was standing before the glass, putting some fresh-gathered roses into her dark hair. That poor beating heart of his leaped into his month at the sight.

"See what I am doing?" she said, perceiving his approach in the glass. "For fun."

He took the hand she carelessly extended behind, took it, and clasped it, and retained it: for it had come, now, that he no longer strove so arduously to conceal his love.

"Are they not pretty roses, Mr. Hurst? I plucked them off that tree by the lower garden. You know it. Here's just one left. I will give it to you."

"And I," he whispered, taking it from her hand, "will keep it for ever."

"Oh," cried Frances, laughing, "what a collection you must have, if you have kept all I have given you! You might set up a museum of dried flowers."

Arthur ran in, and looked at the table with a blank face. "Why is tea not ready? It has struck six."

"Mamma has gone out: we shall not have tea till she comes home," answered Frances. "Papa has not come in either."

"Then I can't wait," cried Arthur, ruefully. "I sha'n't wait."

"I would faint if I were you," retorted Frances. "I know you must be famished: though you did take enough dinner for six, at one o'clock."

"I want to be off to cricket," returned the lad. "I shall get my tea in the kitchen. What have you been sticking those things in your head for?"

"For you to admire."

"Ah! I expect it is for somebody else to admire. Take care, sir," added the boy, significantly; "she will flirt your heart out, and then turn round and say she didn't mean it."

A glimpse of angry passion flashed into the face of Frances. But Arthur escaped from the room.

"Don't mind him," whispered the curate. "All boys are the same."

"All are not the same," said Frances, crossly. "Were you the same when you were young?"

"I never had a sister," sighed the curate. He drew her hand within his arm, and they rambled into the garden. He had long been screwing up his courage to speak more seriously to her, and he thought he would do it now.

"I hope I shall not always remain a curate," he began, by way of introduction.

"I hope not," assented Frances.

"If I were to--here he was stopped by his nervous cough--"to go into housekeeping, how much do you think it would take?"

"Housekeeping? I suppose you mean, set up a house and keep servants?"

"Yes," coughed the curate. "Were I lucky enough to obtain a preferment of two hundred a year, would it do?"

"You would have hard work to spend it all, by yourself. Look at that lime-tree: pretty, is it not?"

"Not by myself," returned the curate, a rosy hue on his thin cheek. "If I had--one to share it with me?"

"That's another thing," said Frances, with a laugh. "She might be fond of dress and nonsense, as I am, and then she would spend you out of house and home."

"Oh, Frances!" he murmured, his nervous tone giving place to an impassioned one, as he clasped her hands in his, and turned his spectacles lovingly upon her face, "I know I ought not yet to speak of it; but give me a hope--that, should the time come when I am justified in asking for you, I shall not ask in vain."

Frances drew her hands away, and speeded towards the house. "It will be soon enough to talk of that when the time does come," was her light answer. To the simple mind of Mr. Hurst it conveyed all he wished for.

Mrs. Chavasse came in. And scarcely had they sat down to tea, when one of the servants appeared and said that a boy wanted Mr. Hurst.

"Don't disturb yourself!" cried Mr. Chavasse, as the curate was rising. "Let Nancy ask what he wants."

"It is Ned Long, the mason's boy from Beech Cottages," said the servant.

"What can he want?" wondered the curate. "I gave them relief to-day."

"Send him round to the window, Nancy," said Mr. Chavasse.

A young ragamuffin, in a very dilapidated state of clothes, was soon discerned approaching the large window, which was open to the ground. He took off an old blue cap, and displayed a shock head of light hair.

"What is it, Ned?" cried the curate.

"Please, sir," answered the lad, lifting his sunburnt, freckled countenance, "I have been to Mr. Leicester's, and he telled me to come and ask whether Mr. Hurst was here."

"Well, you see I am," replied Mr. Hurst, with a half-smile.

"He said, please, as I was to tell you what I had telled him, and would you go on quick, and he'd get a fly and come after, but he was too bad to walk."

"Go where?" cried the curate. "To Mr. Leicester's?"

"No, sir, to Gaffer Shipley's. He's took awful."

"How? Is he worse?"

"He's a dying, sir; Dame Vaughan said I was to say so He can't hold hisself still on his bed for screeching. And the babby's a dying and a screeching; it's on Dame Vaughan's lap, it is, and she says they won't be alive many minutes, and it's the physic as she give 'em."

They had risen, all of them, and gathered round the window, looking at the boy. Mrs. Chavasse spoke, in her sharp, hasty way.

"What is it you are saying, Ned Long? Tell your tale properly. Who is it that is dying down at Shipley's?"

"The Gaffer, ma'am, and the babby."

"Both?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I never heard of such a thing. You must have brought your tale wrong, boy."

"Dame Vaughan says as it's the physic."

"What physic?"

"I doesn't know."

"I never saw such a stupid boy! who is to make out what he means!" irritably repeated Mrs. Chavasse, her curiosity forcibly excited. "Mr. Hurst--Why, where is Mr. Hurst? He has never gone without taking his tea!"

He had, and was striding over the ground towards Thomas Shipley's cottage. A strange scene presented itself there. The baby was lying dead, and the old man on his bed seemed in danger of dissolution. "What is the cause of this?" questioned the curate.

"I don't know what's the cause," sobbed Dame Vaughan. "I hope no blame won't be laid to me."

It appeared that the Gaffer had had his tea at four o'clock, and seemed refreshed and better after it. At six, when Dame Vaughan undressed the infant, she remarked that it appeared so well as scarcely to need the powder.

"Suppose we give father one of the powders?" suggested Mary, a modest-looking, gentle girl, who, until recent events, had been in high favour in the village. "If they are fever powders, it might do him good; and it couldn't do him harm, any way."

"Ay, sure; it's a good thought," assented Dame Vaughan. "We'll give him one to-night and another in the morning. This child won't want 'em all."

So they mixed up two powders, giving old Shipley his, first, lest he should fall asleep; and the other to the child. Soon after the latter had swallowed it, it began to scream, and writhe, and toss convulsively. Its legs were drawn up, and then stretched out stiff, whilst its face, to use Dame Vaughan's words, was not then the face of a baby. The neighbours came flocking in, and, suddenly, sounds were heard from Gaffer Shipley's bed: he was screaming and writhing like the child. Widow Thorpe's boy was despatched for Mr. Castonel, and another, as we have seen, to Mr. Leicester's.

The boy, Thorpe, was flying along, proud to be of service and full of excitement when, by a piece of good fortune, which Dame Vaughan declared she should ever be thankful for, he espied Mr. Castonel. "He was a standing outside the lodge, where the strange lady lives," said the boy, afterwards, "and, if he had been a waiting for me, he couldn't have been a standing out better." The boy made up to him, panting. "Please, sir, will you run down to Gaffer Shipley's?"

"What for?" asked Mr. Castonel.

"They are both howling horrid, sir. Dame Vaughan says it must have been the powders as they took."

"Both who?" quickly demanded Mr. Castonel.

"Mary Shipley's little 'un and the Gaffer, sir. They give 'em a powder apiece, and mother says--"

"What the--!" burst forth Mr. Castonel, glaring at the boy. "Who gave one to old Shipley?"

Master Thorpe shrank aside. He did not, just then, like the face of Mr. Castonel. "Here," added the surgeon. writing a line on the leaf of his pocket-book, and tearing it out, "take that to my house. Mr. Rice will give you something to bring down. Run all the way."

The boy ran one way, Mr. Castonel ran the other. He flew over the ground at his utmost speed, and was soon at the cottage. The baby was dead: Mary was stretched over it, sobbing and crying, and the gossips were crying over her.

"Now, the first thing, a clearance," exclaimed the surgeon "and then I may come to the bottom of this. Leave the cottage, every one of you."

He held the door open and the women filed out. Then he turned to Dame Vaughan. "Have you any warm water?"

"Not a drop, sir," she sobbed, "and the fire's out. It was the powders, and it couldn't have been nothing else. Mr. Rice must have sent poison in mistake for wholesome physic."

"I should think not," remarked Mr. Castonel. "Let me see those that are left. Mary," he irritably added, "don't sob and moan in that way; that will do no good. One, two, three, four. Are these all?"

"All, sir," replied Dame Vaughan. "Six come, and them's the four what's left."

Mr. Castonel carried them in his hand through the room where Thomas Shipley was lying, and went out to the back door, which he closed after him, and examined them, alone, in the yard. Possibly for greater light.

"There's nothing wrong with these powders," he said, when he returned. "However, Dame Vaughan, you had best take charge of them, in case they should be asked for."

"I'll lock 'em up in Mary's drawer," she sobbed. "I know it was the powders, and I'll stick to it till I drops."

"Do so at once. Here, take them. And then go amongst the neighbours and see if you can borrow some warm water. If we can get a quart of it down the Gaffer's throat, till what I have sent for comes, so much the better. Halloa! where are you off to?"

"I thought you told me to fetch some warm water," answered Dame Vaughan, arresting her footsteps.

"But I did not tell you to leave the key in the drawer. The powders are perfectly harmless, but it may be as well, in justice to Mr. Rice, to let other people think so."

Mr. Rice and young Thorpe came together, full pelt, and it was soon after their entrance that Mr. Hurst appeared. When the Gaffer had been attended to, Dame Vaughan returned to the powders.

"The powders were all right," said Mr. Rice. "I'll stake my life upon it. Where are they? They were only hydrargyrus cum creta," he added to Mr. Castonel.

"I know they were. I have examined them."

Dame Vaughan unlocked the drawer, and put the powders on the table before Mr. Rice. He opened all four of the papers. The curate, Mr. Castonel, and Dame Vaughan stood and watched him. "These are the powders I sent," he observed. "They are quite right. They are only the common grey-powder, Dame Vaughan."

Dame Vaughan still looked unconvinced.

"Let her take charge of them," said Mr. Castonel. "It may be more satisfactory."

"Is it possible," interposed the curate, "that the powders can in any way have been changed?--wrong ones administered?"

Mr. Castonel turned his eye upon him, an eye that looked as if it would have liked to strike him dead as a child. "No, sir," he coldly said, "I should think it is not possible. Did you wish to cast a suspicion on Mrs. Vaughan?"

"Nay," cried the curate, "certainly not. I would not cast a suspicion upon any one. It was but an idea that occurred to me, and I spoke it out."

Gaffer Shipley recovered, the baby was buried, and the affair remained a mystery. A mystery that has never been positively solved. Other medical men, upon being pressed into the inquiry, pronounced the powders to be an innocent and proper medicine, frequently given to children.

That same night, at an early starlight hour, Frances Chavasse was lingering still in their garden. She looked frequently towards a side-gate, by which visitors who were familiar with the house sometimes entered. It seemed that she was restless; anxious; impatient. Whoever she was expecting, kept her waiting long. Was it Mr. Hurst?

It was not Mr. Hurst who entered; it was Mr. Castonel. What! were they lovers? Surely yes; for he strained her to his heart, and held her to him, and covered her face with his impassioned kisses; as he had, in other days, ay, even in that same garden, strained to him Caroline Hall and Ellen Leicester. Was his love for her genuine? Had it been so for his former wives? No matter: theirs had been for him: and neither had loved him more fervently than did Frances Chavasse. Verily Mr. Castonel must have possessed powers of fascination unknown to other men! Frances had played herself off upon the unhappy curate, partly to gratify her vanity, partly as a blind, for she and Mr. Castonel had long had an understanding in secret.

"The Reverend William Hurst has been explicit to-night," whispered Frances in mocking tones.

"The fool!" interrupted Mr. Castonel; and the glare of his eye was such as it had been twice before, that evening. Frances did not see it; she was leaning on his breast.

"He asked me how much it would take to keep two," she went on, laughing. "And would I have him if he were given a rich living of two hundred a year. Gervase, I think, I do think, he will nearly die when--when--he knows."

"I hope he will," fiercely uttered Mr. Castonel. "Frances, the time is drawing near that I shall speak to your father."

"Yet a little longer," she sighed. "He happened to say, only last night, that it seemed but yesterday since Ellen died. Mamma must break it to him, whenever it is spoken of. She can turn him round her little finger."

One Saturday afternoon, in September, the Reverend Christopher Leicester sent for his curate. It was to inform him that he found himself unable to preach on the morrow, as had been his intention.

"Are you worse?" inquired Mr. Hurst.

"A little thing upsets me now, and I have heard some news to-day, which, whether true or not, will take me days to get over, for it has brought back to me too forcibly one who is gone. Who is that?" quickly added the rector, as a shout was heard outside the window.

"It is only Arthur Chavasse. I met him at the gate, and he ran in with me."

"Let him come in, let him come in," cried Mr. Leicester, eagerly. "He can tell me if it be true."

Mr. Hurst called to him.

"How are you, sir?" said Arthur, holding out his hand. "And how is Mrs. Leicester?"

The rector shook his head. "As well, my boy, as we can expect to be on this side the grave. Arthur, when you shall be as I am, health and strength gone, there is only one thing that will give you comfort."

"And what's that, sir?" asked Arthur, fearlessly.

"The remembrance of a well-spent life; a conscience that says you have done good in it, not evil. Good to your fellow-creatures, for Christ's sake, Who did so much good for you."

"But are we to have no play?" inquired Arthur, whose ideas of "doing good," like those of too many others, savoured only of gloom.

"Ah, play; play, my boy, while you may; youth is the season for it. But, in the midst of it, love your fellow-creatures: be ever ready to do them a kindness: should any fancied injury rise up in your heart whispering you to return evil for evil, oh! yield not to the impulse. You will be thankful for it when your days are numbered."

"Yes, sir. There's a boy outside has gone off with my cricket-bat. It's Tom Chewton. I was going after him to give him a drubbing. Perhaps I had better make him hand over the bat, and leave the drubbing out?"

"Certainly," replied Mr. Leicester, whilst the curate turned away his head to hide a smile. "Arthur, I have heard to-day that you are going to lose your sister Frances."

"To lose her!" echoed the boy. "Oh yes, I know what you mean. And I am sure it's true, although Mrs. Frances is so sly over it, else why should she be having such heaps of new clothes? I said to her the other day, 'I reckon I shall get some rides inside the cab now, instead of behind it,' and she turned scarlet and threw a cushion at me."

"It is really so, then! that she marries Mr. Castonel!"

"He has been making love to her this past year, only they did it on the sly," continued Arthur. "I saw. She's always interfering with us boys: we shall have twice the fun when she's gone. Where's Mr. Hurst?"

"Take this, Arthur," cried the rector, handing him a fine pear which was on the table. "Good-bye, my lad."

"Thank you, sir. Good-bye. I'll leave out Tom Chewton's drubbing."

Arthur ran out. Mr. Hurst stood at the end of the path, against the iron railings. "Isn't this a stunning pear? I--Why, what's the matter, sir?"

"A spasm," gasped the curate. "Run off to your play-fellows, Arthur."

"Will you eat this pear, sir?" said the boy, gazing with concern at his white face. "It may do you good. I have only taken one bite out of it."

"No, no my lad. Eat it yourself, and run away."

Arthur did as he was bid, and the miserable clergyman, feeling himself what he was, a dupe, dragged his footsteps towards his home. The sun shone brilliantly, but the heart's sunshine had gone out from him for ever.

The news took Ebury by surprise. What! marry Frances Chavasse, the early friend of his two first wives! Some of them remembered the nonsensical declaration attributed to Mr. Castonel when he first came to Ebury--that only one of the three young ladies was to his taste, but he would marry them all. The "one" being generally supposed to indicate Ellen Leicester.

The preparations, commenced for the marriage, were on an extensive scale. The tiger flew one day into the kitchen at his master's with the news that there was a new chariot in the course of construction, and that he was no longer to be a despised tiger in buttons, but a footman in a splendid livery.

"A pretty footman you will make!" was the slighting response of the housekeeper, whilst Hannah suspended her ironing in admiration.

"And the new coachman's to be under me," he continued, dancing round in a circle three feet wide. "Of course I shall have the upper hand of him. So don't you go for to disparage me before him, Madam Muff, if you please."

"Did master say he was to be under you?" inquired Hannah.

"It's to be such a gorgeous livery," the tiger went on, avoiding the question, "lavender and gold, or pink and amber, one o' them two, with spangled vests to match. And there's going to be a new lady's maid, Mrs. Muff, over you."

"John!" uttered the housekeeper, in a tone of warning. "She's hired o' purpose," persisted the tiger, dodging out of Mrs. Muff's way, and improving upon his invention. "And the house is to be gutted of this precious shabby old furniture, and bran-new put in, from cellar to garret. The beds is to be of silk, and the tables of ivory, and the walls is to be gilded and one o' the rooms is to have a glass floor, that Miss Chavasse may see her feet in it. I know what--if master is determined to have her, he's paying for her."

He dodged away, for Mrs. Muff's countenance was growing ominous. But, setting aside a few inaccuracies, inventions, and embellishments of his own, the tiger's information was on the whole correct; and Mrs. Chavasse and her daughter were lifted out of their ordinary realm into one that savoured not of sober reality. They revelled in fine clothes making for Frances, in the luxurious establishment preparing to receive her, in the wondering admiration of Ebury; and they revelled in the triumph over Mrs. Leicester. If her daughter had once been preferred to Frances, their turn had come now; there had been no costly furniture, or painted carriages, or superfluity of servants prepared for Ellen.

These preparations, in all their magnitude, burst without warning upon the astonished senses of Mr. Chavasse. He turned all over in a cold perspiration, and went storming into the presence of his wife and daughter. Mrs. Chavasse always, as she expressed it, "managed" her husband, consequently she had taken her own time for telling him; but it happened that he heard the news from another quarter. We allude more particularly now to the pomp and show contemplated for the wedding-day: it was that raised the ire of Mr. Chavasse.

"What a couple of born idiots you must be! I have been told Frances is going to have four bridesmaids."

"Well?"

"And a heap of noise and parade: horses and carriages, and servants and favours--"

"Now don't put yourself out," equably interposed Mrs. Chavasse.

"And not satisfied with all that, you are going to have flowers strewed up the churchyard path for her to walk upon!" And his voice almost rose to a shout. "Hadn't you better have a carpet laid down through the street?"

"I did think of that," was Mrs. Chavasse's cool reply.

"Goodness be gracious to me! The place will think I have turned fool, to suffer it."

"Let them," said Mrs. Chavasse. "Her wedding does not come every day."

"I had a misgiving that something was going on, I declare I had, when you badgered me into asking Lord Eastbury to give her away," continued Mr. Chavasse, rubbing his heated face. "I wish I hadn't. What a fool he'll think me! A land-steward's daughter marrying a country surgeon, and coming out in this style! It's disgusting."

"My dear, you'll make yourself ill. Speak lower. Frances, this is the wrong pattern."

"And that's not the worst of it. Mrs. Chavasse, listen, for I will be heard. It is perfectly barbarous to enact all this in the eyes of the Rector and Mrs. Leicester. I shall never be able to look them in the face again."

"You'll get over that."

"Any one but you would have a woman's feelings on the matter. I tell you it is nothing less than a direct insult to them--a wicked triumph over their dead child. You ought to shrink from it, Frances, if your mother does not."

But poor Mr. Chavasse could gain no satisfaction from either, though he nearly talked himself into a fever. Mrs. Chavasse always had been mistress, and always would be. Everybody, save Mrs. Chavasse herself, thought and knew that what she was doing was ridiculous and absurd. Even Mr. Castonel dreaded the display. But nothing stopped Mrs. Chavasse, and the wedding-day rose in triumph. It was a sunny day in December, less cold than is usual: but Ebury was in too much excitement to think of cold. Never had such a wedding been seen there. You might have walked on the people's heads all round the church, and inside the church you could not have walked at all. When the crowd saw the flowers on the narrow path between the graves--lovely flowers from the gardens of Eastbury--they asked each other what could possess Mrs. Chavasse.

The bridal procession started. The quiet carriage of the dean of a neighbouring cathedral city led the way. He was an easy, good-natured dean, loving good cheer even when it came in the shape of a wedding-breakfast, and Mrs. Chavasse had manœuvred to get him to officiate, "to meet the Earl of Eastbury," so his carriage headed the van. But, ah, reader! whose equipage is this which follows? It is new and handsome, the harness of its fine horses glitters with ornaments, the purple-and-drab liveries of its servants look wonderful in the sun. Mr. Castonel's arms are on its panels, and Mr. Castonel himself, impervious as ever to the general eye, sits within it. Behind--can it be?--yes, it is our old friend the tiger, a really good-looking youth in his new appurtenances; his dignity, however, is somewhat marred by the familiar nods and winks he bestows upon his friends in the crowd. Now comes the fashionable carriage of the Earl of Eastbury, with its showy emblazonments and its prancing steeds. The bride sits in it, with her vanity, and her beauty, and her rich attire; Lord Eastbury (as good-natured a man as the dean) is opposite to her, lounging carelessly; Mrs. Chavasse, puffed up with pride, looks out on all sides, demanding the admiration of the spectators; and Mr. Chavasse sits with a red face, and does not dare to look at all, for he is thoroughly ashamed of the whole affair, and of the string of carriages yet to come.

The intention of Mr. and Mrs. Leicester to leave home for the day had been frustrated, for the rector had slipped down some stairs the previous night and injured his ankle. They sat at home in all their misery, listening to the gay show outside, and to the wedding-bells. The remembrance of their lost child was wringing their hearts: her loving childhood, her endearing manners, her extreme beauty, her disobedience, and her melancholy death. Verily this pomp and pageantry was to them an insult, as Mr. Chavasse had said; an inexcusable and bitter mockery. It was Ellen's husband that was being made happy with another, it was Ellen's early friend who was now to usurp her place. Oh, Mrs. Chavasse! did it never once occur to you that day, to read a lesson from the past? You sat by your child's side, swelling with folly and exultation, but did no warning, no shadow fall upon you? Already had Mr. Castonel wedded two flowers as fair as she, and where were they? No, no, the imagination of Mrs. Chavasse, at its widest range, never extended to so dreadful a fate as that for Frances.

"What with wedding and buryings, he has played a tolerable part at this church," observed one of the mob, gazing after Mr. Castonel.

Yes, he had: but he made the marriage responses as clearly and firmly as though he had never made them to others, then lying within a few yards of him. He knelt there, and vowed to love and cherish her, and when the links were irrevocably fastened he led her out through the admiring crowd, over the crushed flowers, to the new carriage. John, not a whit less vain, just then, than his new mistress, held the door open, and Frances entered it. She could not have told whether her pride was greater at taking her seat, for the first time, in a chariot of her own, or during the few minutes that she had occupied the coroneted carriage of Lord Eastbury.

More pomp, more display, more vanity at the breakfast, where Frances sat on Lord Eastbury's right hand, and Mrs. Chavasse on that of the dean, and then the new carriage drew up again, with four horses and two postboys, and Hannah, instead of John, seated behind it. A little delay, to the intense gratification of the assembled mob, and Mr. and Mrs. Castonel came out and entered it, to be conveyed on the first stage of their honeymoon. A singular circumstance occurred as they were whirled along. Leaning over a roadside gate, and looking openly at the chariot, watching for it, with a scornful triumph on her handsome face, stood the strange lady who inhabited the lodge. She waved her hand at Mr. Castonel, and the latter, with a sudden rush of red to his impassive countenance, leaned back in his carriage. Frances did not speak: she saw it: but the time had scarcely come for her to inquire particulars about his mysterious relation. Ere Mr. Castonel had well recovered his equanimity, they flew past another gate, and there, peeping only, and concealing herself as much as possible, rose the pale, sad face of Mary Shipley. Mr. Castonel drew back again. Frances spoke now.

"Gervase! Mary Shipley was hiding behind that gate; peeping at us. How strange! Did you see her?"

"My dearest, no. I see but you. You are mine now, Frances, for ever."

A genial Christmas-eve, bright and frosty, and merrily blazed the fire in a comfortable kitchen of one of the best houses in a country village. It was the residence of the surgeon, and he was out on his wedding-tour, having just espoused his third wife.

They were expected home that night, and preparations for the following day's feast were being actively presided over by the housekeeper, Mrs. Muff, a staid, respectable personage, much above the grade of a common servant. She was very busy, standing at the table, when the surgeon's tiger (we must still call him so, though he had recently assumed the garb of a footman) came into the kitchen, drew a chair right in front of the great fire, and sat down, as though he meant to roast himself.

"John," said Mrs. Muff, "I'll trouble you to move from there."

John sat on, without stirring.

"Do you hear?" repeated the housekeeper. "I want to come to the fire every minute, and how can I do so with you planted there?"

"What a shame it is!" grumbled John, drawing himself and his chair away, for he was completely under the dominion of Mrs. Muff. "Whoever heerd of cooking a dinner the night afore you want to eat it?--except the pudding."

"I must put things forward, and do what can be done: there will be too much left for to-morrow, even then, with all the Chavasses dining here. For I don't stop away from service on Christmas-day for any one. I never did yet, and I'm not going to begin now."

The tiger screwed up his mouth, as if giving vent to a long whistle: taking care that no sound of it reached the ears of Mrs. Muff.

"You can take the holly and dress the rooms. Saving enough, mind, for the kitchen. And then, John, you can lay the cloth in the dining-room, and carry in the tea-things."

"There's lots of time for that," returned John.

"It has struck eight, and Mr. Castonel's letter said nine. Do as I bid you."

She was interrupted by the sound of young voices, rising in song, outside.

"There's another set!" cried John, indignantly. "That makes the third lot we have had here to-night."

"When they have finished, you may look out and bring me word how many there are." said Mrs. Muff.

John left the kitchen, his arms full of holly and evergreen. Presently he came back.

"There's no less than five of them little devils."

Mrs. Muff, with a stern reprimand, dived into her pockets, and brought forth five halfpence. "Give them one apiece, John."

"If it was me, now, as was missis, instead of you, I should favour 'em with a bucket of water from a upstair window," was John's response, as he ungraciously took the halfpence. "They'll only go and send others. Suppose master and missis and the new carriage should just drive up, and find them rascallions a squeaking round the door!"

"Christmas would not be Christmas without its carols," returned Mrs. Muff. "I remember, the first winter you were down here, you came on the same errand to old Mr. Winnington's, and got a mince-pie and a penny out of me."

"Ah," replied John, "but I was a young donkey then."

It was past ten when the carriage rolled up to the door. John flew to open it, and Mrs. Muff, in her black silk gown and white apron, stood in the hall, drawing on her leather mittens. Frances, Mrs. Castonel, happy and blooming, sprang from the carriage and entered her new home. Mrs. Muff led the way to the dining-room. It looked bright and cheering, with its large fire, its blazing lamps, and well-spread table, half supper, half tea. "I will go upstairs first," said the young bride, "and take these wraps off."

Mr. Castonel came in, a slight man of middle height, scarcely yet five-and-thirty, and the tiger followed him. "Well, John," said he, "how has Mr. Rice got on with the patients?"

"Pretty well, sir. None of 'em be dead, and some be well. But they have been a grumbling."

"Grumbling! What about?"

"They say if a doctor gets married, he has no right to go away like other folks, and that this is the third time you have served 'em so. It was gouty old Flockaway said the most. He have had another attack; and he was so cranky Mr. Rice wouldn't go anigh him, and he can't abear Mr. Tuck."

The surgeon laughed. "What's coming in for tea, John?"

"Some muffins, sir. And Mrs. Muff says she knows as that will be one of the best tongues you have cut into."

"Bring tea in at once. It is late."

As the tiger withdrew, Mrs. Castonel entered. Her husband's arms were open to receive her. "Oh, Gervase," she exclaimed, "how kind of you to have everything in such beautiful order for me!"

"Welcome, a thousand times welcome to your home, my love!" he whispered. "May it ever appear to you as bright as it does now!"

Loving words; loving manner! But, alas! they had been proffered before, with the same apparently earnest sincerity: once to Caroline Hall, and again to sweet Ellen Leicester.

"If you don't send in them muffins, ma'am, without further delay, master says he'll know the reason why," was the tiger's salutation to Mrs. Muff.

She was buttering them, and listening to Hannah's account of the journey, for she had attended Mrs. Castonel. She turned to give him the plate, but stopped and started, for the church bells had rung out a joyous peal.

"It cannot be midnight!" she exclaimed.

"Midnight!" sarcastically echoed the tiger. "It wants a good hour and a half o' that. There's the clock afore you."

"Then what possesses the bells?"

"Well, you be rightly named," returned the tiger, "for you be a muff, a out-and-outer. Them bells is for master and missis; not for Christmas, I know. The ringers is sitting up, and heerd the carriage rattle up the street. Hark, how they are clapping the steam on! They'll think to get a double Christmas-box from master."

Just before Mr. Castonel went to his room that night the bells again struck out. They were ringing-in Christmas. He stood and listened to them, a peculiar expression in his unfathomable eyes, his passionless face, whose emotions were so completely under control. Was he speculating upon what the next year should bring forth ere those Christmas bells should again sound? The next year! The clock struck out: he counted its strokes Twelve! Then be took his candle and went upstairs. And the bells began again.

"A merry Christmas to you, Frances," he said, as he entered the chamber; "a merry Christmas, and many of them."

"Thank you," she laughed. "I think it must be a good omen to receive these wishes the moment it comes in."

Whilst she was speaking, a loud summons was heard at the house-door. It was a messenger for Mr. Castonel, from one of his best patients. He hurried out, and Mrs. Castonel composed herself to sleep.

A singular dream visited Mrs. Castonel. She thought she was sporting in her girlhood's days, in her father's large old garden, with her companions, Caroline Hall and Ellen Leicester. How gay they were, how happy: for the sense of present happiness was greater than ever Frances had experienced in reality; ay, although she had married where she passionately loved. They were dressed as if for a rejoicing, all in white, but the materials of her own attire appeared to be of surpassing richness. A table, laid out for feasting, was lighted by a lamp; but a lamp that gave a most brilliant and unearthly light, overpowering the glare of day. The table and lamp in her own dining-room that night had probably given the colouring to this part of her dream. The garden was not exactly like her father's, either; in form alone it bore a resemblance to it; it was more what Frances had sometimes imagined of Eden: flowers, birds, light, and the sensation of joyous gladness, all were too beautiful for earth. The banquet appeared to be waiting for them, whilst they waited the presence of another. He came; it was Gervase Castonel. He advanced with a smile for all, and beckoned them to take their places at table. A fierce jealousy arose in Frances's heart: what business had he to smile upon the others? But, imperceptibly, the others were gone, without Frances having noticed the manner of their departure. The old happiness came back again; the ecstatic sense of bliss in the present; and she put her arm within his, to walk round that lovely garden. Then she remembered her companions, and asked Mr. Castonel where they had gone to. He said he would show her; and, approaching a door in the hedge, pushed it open. Frances looked out, and the fearful contrast to the lovely spot she had quitted, struck the most terrifying agony to her breast; for, beyond, all was utter darkness. She shrank back with a shudder, but Mr. Castonel with a fiendish laugh pushed her through, and a voice called out, "To your doom! to your doom!" If his voice, it was much altered. Frances awoke with the horror, but the most heavenly music was sounding in her ears; so heavenly, that it chased away her terror, and she thought herself again in that happy garden.

She half opened her eyes; she was but half awake, and still were heard the strains of that sweet music. Had she gone to sleep, and awakened in heaven? for surely such music was never heard on earth. The thought occurred to her in her half-conscious state. The music died away in the air, and Frances sat up in bed, and rubbed her eyes, and wondered; and just then Mr. Castonel returned. "What is it?" she cried, bewildered; "what is it?"

"The Waits," replied Mr. Castonel. "What did you think it was, Frances?"

"Only the Waits!" And then, with a rushing fear, came back the dreadful part of her ominous dream; and she broke into sobs and strove to tell it him.

But these night-terrors pass away with the light of day; sometimes pass and leave no sign, even in remembrance.

The heads and eyes of Ebury were turned towards a gay and handsome chariot that went careering down the street, attended by its coachman and footman. A lady and gentleman were in it, she in brilliant attire: Mr. and Mrs. Castonel were returning their wedding visits. It stopped at the gate of the rectory.

"Don't stay long, Frances," he whispered to her. "I always feel frozen into stone when I am in the presence of those two old people."

Mrs. Castonel smiled, and sailed into the rectory drawing-room in all her finery; but she really did, for a moment, forget her triumph, when she saw the saddened look of poor Mrs. Leicester, and the mourning robes still worn for Ellen. Mrs. Leicester had not paid, as it was called, the wedding visit; she had felt unequal to it; her card and an apology of illness had been her substitutes. Frances sat five minutes, and from thence the carriage was ordered to her old home. It encountered Mr. Hurst: he took off his hat, and the red colour flushed his cheek. Frances alone returned his bow.

Mrs. Chavasse was in no pleasant temper. She was grumbling at her husband, because he had kept dinner waiting. He was standing before the fire in his velveteen coat and leather gaiters, warming his frostbitten hands.

"I can't help it," said he. "If I were to neglect Lord Eastbury's business he would soon get another steward, and where would you all be then? You have been making calls, I suppose, Frances?"

"Only at the rectory, papa."

Mr. Chavasse turned sharply round from the fire, and faced his daughter.

"The rectory! In that trim!"

Frances felt annoyed. "What trim? What do you mean, papa?"

"I should have gone in a quiet way, to call there," returned Mr. Chavasse. "Gone on foot, and left some of those gewgaws and bracelets at home. You might have stepped in and taken a quiet cup of tea with them: anything of that sort."

"In the name of wonder, what for?" sharply spoke up Mrs. Chavasse. "Frances has gone just as I should have gone."

Mr. Chavasse did not continue the subject. "Will you stay and take some dinner, Frances?"

"And find it half cold," interposed Mrs. Chavasse.

"I would not stay for the world, papa. I have other calls to make and Emily Lomax is coming to dine with me afterwards, that we may lay down the plans for my ball. It will be such a beautiful ball, papa: the best ever given in Ebury."

"Mind you have plenty of wax-lights, Frances," advised her mother.

"Oh, I shall have everything; lights, and hot-house plants, and champagne in abundance. Gervase lets me have it all my own way."

"Do not begin that too soon," said Mr. Chavasse, nodding at his son-in-law.

"Where's the use of contradiction?" laughed the surgeon, as they rose to leave:

"For when a woman will, she will, you may depend on't,
And when she won't, she won't; and there's an end on't."

Frances Castonel was just then the envy of Ebury, at least of all who considered ease and gaiety the only happiness of life. Parties at home, parties abroad; dress, jewels, equipage, show; not a care clouded her countenance, not a doubt of the future fell on her mind; and the shadows of those who were gone haunted her not.

One wet day, at an early hour, when she was not likely to meet other visitors, Mrs. Leicester called. She had thought by delay to gain composure; but it failed her; and, after greeting Frances, she hid her face in her hands and burst into bitter tears.

"You must forgive me, Frances," she sobbed. "The last time I entered this house it was for the purpose of seeing my child in her coffin."

Frances felt dreadfully uncomfortable, wondering what she could say, and wishing the visit were over. As ill-luck would have it, she had been hunting in a lumber closet that morning, and had come upon a painting and two drawings, done by the late Mrs. Castonel. One of them bore her name in the corner, "Ellen Castonel." Frances had carried them down in her hand and put them on the table, wishing, now, she had put them in the fire instead.

"These are poor Ellen's," exclaimed Mrs. Leicester, as her eye fell on them. "She did them just before her death. I have wondered what became of them, but did not like to ask. Would you mind giving me one, Frances? This with her name on it: it is her own writing."

"All--take them all, dear Mrs. Leicester."

"I would thankfully do so, but perhaps Mr. Castonel values them."

"Indeed, no," answered Frances, with inexcusable want of consideration; "you may be sure he has never looked at them since they were done. I rummaged them out of an old lumber closet this morning."

Mrs. Leicester took the drawings in silence, and then took the hand of Frances. "I am but a poor hand at compliments now," she murmured, "but I entreat you to believe, Frances, that you have my best wishes for your welfare, as sincerely as I wished it for my own child. May you and Mr. Castonel be ever happy."

About this time rumours began to be circulated in Ebury that a medical gentleman, who was formerly in practice in it, was about to return.

"You had better take care of your p's and q's," cried old Flockaway one day to Mr. Rice. "If it's true that Ailsa is coming back, I wouldn't give a hundred a year for the practice that will be left for Mr. Castonel."

"How so?" demanded the assistant-surgeon, who had been a stranger to the place when Mr. Ailsa was in it. "Mr. Castonel is liked here."

"Liked in other folks' absence," groaned old Flockaway, who was a martyr to gout. "He has had nobody to oppose him, so has had full swing. But just let Ailsa come, and you'll see. All Ebury will tell you that Castonel is not fit to tie his shoe-strings."

"I suppose there is room for both of them."

"There'll be more room for one than the other," persisted the martyr. "If a royal duke came and set up doctoring here he'd get no custom against Ailsa."

The news proved true; and Mr. Ailsa and his family arrived at his house, which had been let during his absence. An unassuming, gentlemanlike man, with a placid countenance. "Little Tuck," his usual appellation, an undersized little fellow with a squeaking voice, who had once been an apprentice under Mr. Ailsa, was the first to run in to see him.

"We are all so glad to see you back, sir," he said, insensibly falling into his old, respectful mode of speech. "Mrs. Ailsa is looking well too."

"I am well," she answered. "No more need of foreign climates for me. But you must have plenty of news to tell us about Ebury."

"Oh, law!" echoed little Tuck. "I shan't know where to begin. First of all, I am living here. Second assistant to Mr. Castonel."

"You had set up for yourself in Brenton when I left," observed the surgeon.

"Yes, but it didn't answer," replied Mr. Tuck, with a doleful look. "I'm afraid I kept too many horses. So I thought the shortest way would be to cut it, before any smash came; and I sold off and came over here, and hired myself out to Mr. Castonel."

"He has played a conspicuous part in Ebury, has he not, this Mr. Castonel?"

"Yes, he has. He came dashing down here from London, with a cab and a tiger and two splendid horses; and got all the practice away from poor old Winnington, and married his niece against his will. When Mr. Winnington died, folks said it was of a broken heart."

"And then she died, did she not?" said Mrs. Ailsa.

"She did. Mr. Castonel's next move was to run away with Ellen Leicester. And she died."

"What did they die of?" asked the doctor.

"I can't tell you," replied Mr. Tuck. "I asked Rice one day, and he said he never knew; he could not make it out. They had both been ill but were recovering, and went off suddenly in convulsions. And now he has married Frances Chavasse."

"I should have felt afraid to risk him," laughed Mrs. Ailsa.

"Oh, was she, though!" responded the little man. "She and her mother were all cock-a-hoop over it, and have looked down on Ebury ever since. They'll hardly speak to me in the street. Frances served out poor Hurst, I'm afraid. 1 know he was wild after her."

"Who is Hurst?"

"The curate. Poor Mr. Leicester is no longer able to take duty. Ellen's running away with Mr. Castonel nearly did him up, and her death finished it. I fear he is on his last legs."

"What sort of a man is this Mr. Castonel? Do you like him?"

"I don't. I don't understand him."

"Not understand him?"

"I don't," repeated Mr. Tuck, with a very decided shake of the head. "I don't understand him, he has a look of the eye that's queer. I wish you would take me on as assistant, Mr. Ailsa. I'd come to you for the half he gives me. You'll get plenty of practice back. People will be glad to return to you; for, somehow, Mr. Castonel has gone down in favour. They talk more about that strange woman."

Mr. Ailsa looked up. "What are you speaking of?"

"Well, when Mr. Castonel first came down here she followed him, and brought a maid with her, and she has lived ever since in Beech Lodge, Squire Hardwick's game-keeper's, formerly."

"Who is she?"

"There's the puzzle. She is young, and very handsome, and quite a lady. Mr. Castonel gives out that it's a relation. He goes to see her, but nobody else does."

"Curious!" remarked Mr. Ailsa.

"By the way, you remember Mary Shipley, ma'am?"

"Yes, indeed," returned Mrs. Ailsa. "Mary was a good girl. I would have taken her abroad with me, if she could have left her father."

"Lucky for her if you had, ma'am," was the blunt rejoinder of Mr. Tuck, "for she has gone all wrong."

"Gone wrong! Mary?"

"And Mr. Castonel gets the blame. But he is a sly fellow, and some people think him a lamb. Mary tells nothing, but she appears to be sinking into a decline."

"I am grieved to hear this," returned Mrs. Ailsa. "Her mother was nurse at the Hall when we were children, and she named Mary after me."

"It appears to me," observed Mr. Ailsa, arousing himself from a reverie, "that your friend Mr. Castonel has not brought happiness to Ebury, take it all in all."

"He has brought plenty of unhappiness and plenty of death," replied Mr. Tuck. "I don't say it is his fault," added the little man, "but it's certainly his misfortune."

"What a row there is over this Ailsa!" exclaimed Mr. Castonel as he sat down that same night with his wife. "Tuck looked in just now, dancing mad with excitement, because 'Mr. Ailsa was come, and he had been in to see him.' Who is Ailsa, pray?"

"You know, Gervase; you have often heard of him lately," replied Mrs. Castonel, answering the letter rather than the spirit of the words. "Every one is saying he will take your practice from you; even mamma thinks he will prove a formidable rival."

"What is there in him to be formidable?" slightingly returned Mr. Castonel. "I'll sew him up, Frances, as I did old Winnington."

"If you mean to imply ruin by 'sewing-up,' I think not," laughed Mrs. Castonel. "He has a large fortune, and his wife is connected with half the great people of the county. She was Miss Hardwick, of the Hall, and the nicest girl in the world."

The popular opinion as to Mr. Ailsa's success was not groundless: for of eighteen patients who fell ill in the next three weeks, counting rich and poor, seventeen of them went to Mr. Ailsa, though he never solicited a single case.

How the world would get on without gossip few people can tell. One day Mrs. Major Acre, who was by no means a taciturn or a cautious woman, paid a visit to Mrs. Castonel. "Now, my dear," she said to Frances, "I should recommend Mr. Castonel to call Ailsa out."

Frances glanced at her with an amused look. "Oh, the patients will come back to my husband. They will not all remain with James Ailsa."

"I don't mean that," returned Mrs. Major Acre. "Some stupid people have gone over to him, but you can't call a man out for the caprices of others. No, my dear. But James Ailsa has made very free remarks upon your husband."

"Indeed!"

"It seems Mrs. Ailsa has wormed out of Mary Shipley who it was that led her into mischief--you know the Hardwicks always took an interest in those Shipleys--and Mary has confessed to Mrs. Ailsa what she never would to any one else."

"And who was it?" asked Frances.

"Mr. Castonel."

A vivid fire rushed into the cheeks of Frances.

"And I hear Ailsa declares that, had he been in Ebury at the time, he should have taken upon himself to bring Mr. Castonel before the justices for it. They have forbidden her to let him go there any more."

"He does not go there," cried Frances, vehemently.

"I wouldn't take an oath one way or the other, but if he does, child, he wouldn't be likely to tell you," observed the senseless old lady. "There's no answering for men. My dead husband had a saying of his own, that he was fond of treating his brother officers to, 'Do anything you like, boys, but never let the women know it.' Meaning us wives, my dear."

Frances sat as one stupefied.

"And now I am going on to your mamma's, and--"

"Oh, pray do not say anything of this to mamma," interrupted Frances, rising in excitement. "She would write word to papa, and--Pray do not, Mrs. Acre!"

"As you please, child. If I don't, other people will. It's known all over Ebury."

When Mr. Castonel entered, Frances met him with passion. "You have deceived me throughout!" she cried--"you have deceived papa! And rather than be a dupe, I would leave you and go home to live again. Papa would not let me remain here. I know his sentiments. He spoke to me about this very subject, and begged me not to marry you till it was cleared up. I will not remain here."

Mr. Castonel looked, as the saying is, taken by storm. "What on earth is the matter, Frances? I am guilty of no deceit."

"Equivocation will only make matters worse. Oh, I shall go mad! I shall go mad! To think that people should be able to say the same of me that they did of Caroline Hall and Ellen Leicester!"

Mr. Castonel's countenance flushed red, and then became deadly pale. He faltered forth, rather than spoke--"And what did they say of Caroline and Ellen?"

"That you neglected them for others."

"Oh!" The perfectly negligent tone of the ejaculation, and the relieved and half-mocking face, did not tend to calm the anger of Mrs. Castonel.

"I know the truth now about Mary Shipley. It has been disclosed to me to-day. Papa questioned you on that report himself, and you denied that there was any truth in it."

"There was no truth in it," was the calm reply of Mr. Castonel. "Why did you not tell me what you meant before exciting yourself thus, Frances? I could have reassured you."

We will leave Mr. Castonel to his reassuring, merely observing that he did succeed in his task; and so fully, that his wife was ready to go down on her knees for having doubted him. Verily he possessed some subtle power, did Mr. Castonel.

June came in, and strange, strange to say, news went out to Ebury of the illness of Mrs. Castonel. Strange, because her symptoms were the same as those which had attacked Mr. Castonel's first and second wives, destroying prospects of an heir.

Mrs. Chavasse arrived in hot haste. Frances laughed at her perturbation. "You have sent for Mr. Ailsa, of course," said Mrs. Chavasse.

"Mr. Ailsa shall attend no wife of mine," was the determined rejoinder of the surgeon. "I'll see him in his coffin first."

"Listen, Mr. Castonel. You have lost two wives; it may have been through negligence in not having good advice; I know not. You shall not lose my daughter if I can prevent it. Not an hour shall go over without further advice."

"Call in any medical man you please, except Ailsa," said Mr. Castonel. "I should wish it done."

"You have taken a prejudice against him," retorted Mrs. Chavasse. "None are so desirable, because he is on the spot."

"Ailsa shall never darken my doors. I will send an express to the county town for one or other of the physicians. Which will you have?"

"Dr. Wilson," answered Mrs. Chavasse. "And meanwhile let Mr. Rice come in."

So it was done. Mr. Rice paid a visit to Mrs. Castonel, and declared she was in no danger whatever.

"I hope not," said Mrs. Chavasse. "I think not. But past events are enough to terrify me."

"True," assented Mr. Rice.

Dr. Wilson came in the course of the day. "No danger," he said; just as Mr. Rice had done.

The following day, however, Mrs. Castonel was worse; and the day after that her life was despaired of. Her own state of excitement contributed to the danger. She woke up that morning from a doze, and whether she had dreamt anything to terrify her was uncertain, but she started up in bed, her eyes glaring wildly. Mr. Castonel was then alone with her.

"Oh, Gervase, I am in danger I know I am in danger!"

"My dear, no." For of course it was his duty to soothe her. "Calm yourself, Frances."

"Oh!" she cried, clasping him in deep distress, "can I be going to die? Must I indeed follow Ellen Leicester? I who have thought nothing of death--who deemed it so far off!"

"Be quiet, Frances; I insist upon it," he angrily exclaimed. "You will do yourself incalculable mischief."

"What will my doom be? Gervase, do you remember my dream? What have I done that I should be cut off in the midst of my happiness? But not without warning. That dream was my warning, and I neglected it!"

"Frances--"

"Yet what had they done, Caroline and Ellen? Oh, Gervase, save me! what will you do without me? Save me, save me! Let not this terrible fate be mine."

Mr. Castonel strove to hold her still, but she shook terribly; and as to stopping her words, he might as well have tried to stem a torrent in its course.

"The grave! the grave! the grave for me! I who have lived but in pleasure!"

"My dear Frances, what are you raving about? If you have lived in pleasure, it has been innocent pleasure."

"Oh yes, innocent in itself. If I had but thought of God with it, and striven to please Him; and I never did! There lay the sin; not in the pleasure Oh, save me! Fetch Dr. Wilson. I must not die."

They calmed her after awhile, and for a day or two her life hung upon a thread. Then she began to get slowly better. But they were anxious faces still, those around her bedside, her husband's, her mother's, good old Mrs. Muff's; for they remembered it was when they were apparently recovering that the first and the second Mrs. Castonel had died. A few more days, and Frances sat up in her dressing-room, gay as ever. All danger was really over, and Mrs. Chavasse returned home.

"Gervase," she said, taking her husband's hand, "how foolish I was to frighten myself!"

"Ay, you were, Frances. But you would not listen to me then, when I told you so."

"I may go into the drawing-room to-morrow, and see visitors, may I not?"

"To be sure you may."

"Then ring the bell, please. I must send Hannah to order me a very pretty cap."

It was Mrs. Muff who answered it, not Hannah. Mr. Castonel left the room as she came in.

"I am to go into the drawing-room to-morrow," said Mrs. Castonel. "Do you know it?"

"Yes, ma'am. I heard Mr. Rice say you might."

"And admit visitors."

"I did not hear him say that, but I should think there's no reason against it," replied the housekeeper.

"So I'll tell you what I want done," added Mrs. Castonel. "Hannah must go to the milliners' and desire them to send me some afternoon caps, to choose one from. If they have none ready they must make me one. Something simple and elegant. Shall I have it trimmed with white or pink?"

Mrs. Muff thought pink, as her mistress was just now so pale.

"Yes, pink; nothing suits my complexion so well as pink," cried Frances, all her old vanity in full force. "Send Hannah immediately. I am impatient to try it on."

The cap came, but not until night, and Frances had a glass brought to her, and sat figuring off before it, declaring she had never looked so well: if she were but a little older, she would take to caps for good. Mr. Castonel looked on, and laughed at her.

"It is getting time for you to be in bed, Frances," he said. "You must not presume too much upon your recovery."

"I am not tired in the least," she replied. "I will not go until I have had my supper. I never felt better."

"Do you know who they say is dying?" he resumed.

"No."

"Mr. Leicester."

"Mr. Leicester!"

"It is thought to be his last night. So, I hear, is the opinion of his friend and chum, Ailsa."

Mrs. Castonel did not like the tone. "Poor man! poor Mr. Leicester!" she sighed. "Well, they have had their share of sorrow. How papa and mamma would have grieved for me: I have thought of it since my illness: and we are many of us, whilst Ellen was their only child. I wonder who will have the living? I hope it will be some nice sociable young person."

"I hope it will be anybody rather than Mr. Hurst," said the surgeon, spitefully.

"What happy days we shall have together again, Gervase!" she went on. "What should you have done if I had died!"

"The best I could," answered Mr. Castonel.

At that moment Mrs. Muff came in with a light supper for her mistress, and remained with her whilst she took it, Mr. Castonel descending to his laboratory. As she was carrying down the waiter again, a ring came to the doorbell, and John brushed past to answer it.

"Mr. Castonel at home?"

"Safe and sound," was the tiger's rejoinder, for the applicant was a page in buttons of his acquaintance.

"Then he must come as fast as he can pelt to missis. She's in a fit."

"You are wanted at Mrs. Major Acre's directly, sir," said John, hastily entering the laboratory. "She's took in a fit."

Mr. Castonel had taken out one of the little drawers--to John's amazement. For the lad had always believed that particular drawer to be a sham drawer. There appeared to be a paper or two in it, and a phial. The latter the surgeon held in his hand, and in reply to the message he muttered something, which, to John's ears, sounded very like strong language.

"I never knew, sir, as that drawer opened. I--"

"Begone!" thundered Mr. Castonel, turning on his servant a look so full of evil, that the young man bounded backwards some yards.

"Am I to go anywhere?" he stammered, not understanding.

"Go out and find Mr. Rice," raved his master. "Send him to Mrs. Acre's."

Scarcely had John departed, when there came a second messenger for Mr. Castonel. "If he did not go at once Mrs. Major Acre would be dead." Thus pressed, he took his hat and hurried out, after waiting a minute to put things straight in the laboratory. Mr. Rice, however, had arrived at Mrs. Major Acre's, and Mr. Castonel returned home.

On the following morning, Mrs. Leicester and Mr. Ailsa stood around the rector's dying bed. He lay partially insensible: had so lain ever since daylight. "Do you not think Dr. Wilson late?" whispered Mrs. Leicester. "It half-past seven."

"I expected him before this," replied Mr. Ailsa. "But, dear Mrs. Leicester, he can do no good."

"I know it," she answered, through her tears.

At that moment there rang out the deep tones of the passing-bell, denoting that an immortal soul had been called away. One of the chamber windows was open, to admit air, and the sound came booming in from the opposite church. It aroused the rector.

"Have my people mistaken the moment of my departure?" he murmured. "Or is that one of my fellow-brethren is called with me?"

Mrs. Leicester leaned over him, and gently spoke, her ear having noted the strokes more accurately than that of the dying man. "It must be, I fear, for Mrs. Acre. It is for a woman."

"I fancy not for Mrs. Acre," observed Mr. Ailsa. "Mr. Rice left her, last night, out of danger."

It was striking out now, fast and loud. Mrs. Leicester noticed her husband's anxious eye. "Who goes with me?" he panted--"Who goes with me?" and, just then, little Tuck stole into the room, with a whitened face.

"Who is the bell tolling for? " asked Mrs. Leicester.

"For Mrs. Castonel. She died in the night."

With a sharp cry, the rector struggled up in bed. What fear, what horror was it that distorted his countenance, as he grasped Mr. Ailsa's arm and strove to speak? They never knew, for he fell back speechless.

"Oh, where can Dr. Wilson be?" sobbed Mrs. Leicester. "Why is he not here?"

"He will not be long," whispered Mr. Tuck. "He was met outside the village, and taken to Mrs. Chavasse. The shock has brought on an attack of paralysis. Poor Castonel, Rice says, is in a lamentable state."

"What did she die of?" marvelled Mr. Ailsa.

"What did the others die of?" retorted Mr. Tuck. "Convulsions of some sort. Nobody knows. I never heard of such an unlucky man."

He was interrupted by a movement from Mrs. Leicester. The minister's spirit had passed away.

It was the brightest day possible, and the sun shone on Ebury churchyard gaily and hotly. The two funerals had been arranged for the same day: but not intentionally. The bell had tolled from an early hour in the morning, out of respect to its regretted minister. Mr. Leicester's interment was fixed for ten o'clock, Mrs. Castonel's for eleven; consequently, no sooner had the clock struck nine, than stragglers began to move towards the churchyard, and soon they increased to groups, and soon to a crowd. All Ebury went there, and more than Ebury. They talked to one another (as though seeking an excuse) of paying the last tribute of respect to their many-years rector, but there was a more powerful inducement in their hearts--that of witnessing the funeral of Mr. Castonel's wife, and of staring at him.

All the well-dressed people, and all who possessed pews, entered the church, until it was crammed in every nook, scarcely leaving room for the coffins to pass up the aisle. The mob held possession of the churchyard, and there was not an inch of land, no, nor of a grave, on which people were not standing.

They saw it file out of the rectory and cross the road, a simple funeral, Mr. Hurst officiating. The coffin was borne by eight labourers, old parishioners, and the mourners followed with many friends, Squire Hardwick, of the Hall, and Mr. Ailsa walking next the relatives. And so the body was consigned to the ground, and the traces of the first funeral passed away.

But what was that, compared with the show which followed? With its mutes, its feathers, its black chariots, its hearse, its mourning coaches, its velvet trappings, its pall-bearers, its trailing-scarfs and hatbands, its white hand-kerchiefs! The mutes alone, with their solemn faces and staffs of office, struck dumb the fry of infantry who had congregated amongst their elders.

"Look at him! look at him!" whispered the mob as Mr. Castonel moved up the path by slow degrees after the body, beadle and sexton clearing the way with difficulty. "Don't he look white? The handkercher he's a covering his face with ain't whiter."

"Enough to make him. He--"

"Hush-sh-sh! See who's a following of him! It's Mr. Chavasse. Sobbing like a child, for all he be such a great stout gentleman!"

"But Mr. Chavasse were still in foreign parts, and knowed nothing o' the death!"

"They sent him word, I heerd. And he come over the sea in a carriage and six, to be in time for it, and got here at half-after nine this morning. How he's a-crying!"

"And his eldest son walking with him, and Master Arthur and the other behind, all crying too. Poor things!"

"It seems but yesterday that Miss Chavasse come here in Lord Eastbury's carriage, like a queen. Who so proud as she, in her veils and her feathers?"

"Queens die as well as other folks. It's said Mrs. Chavasse won't be long after her. She have had a shocking seizure."

"Well, it's a fearsome thing for the poor young lady to have been cut off so sudden."

"It were as fearsome a thing for the other two. And worse. For Miss Chavasse might have took warning by them, and not have had him."

"I know what I know," interrupted Dame Vaughan, who made one of the spectators. "That I should like to clear up what it was as did cut 'em off."

Murmurs were arising amongst the crowd. "Ay, what was it? what took 'em?"

"What took that baby of Mary Shipley's, as was lying safe and well on my knee two minutes afore it went into the agony?" persisted Dame Vaughan. "I have not forgot that, if others has. The physic I give to it was supplied from Mr. Castonel's stock."

"I heerd," broke in a young girl, "as this Mrs. Castonel died of convulsions."

"So they all did, so they all did. The wretch! the mur--"

"Come, come, you women," interrupted a man, "this ain't law nor gospel. Keep civil tongues in your heads."

But the cue had been given, the popular feeling arose, and hisses, groans, and ill words were poured upon Mr. Castonel. He could not look whiter or more impenetrable than he had done before, but he doubtless wished the beadle put to the torture for not forcing a passage more quickly that he might get inside the church. As soon as that object was attained, the beadle rushed back amongst the crowd, and used his tongue and his stick vigorously; and what with that, and his formidable cocked-hat, he succeeded in enforcing silence.

So Frances, Mrs. Castonel, was laid in her grave, like unto the two fair flowers who had gone before her, and the procession returned, in its course, and disappeared. And the mob disappeared in its wake after winding up with three groans for Mr. Castonel.

The churchyard was gradually emptying itself of a mass of human beings, for two funerals had taken place there; two bodies had been consigned to their parent earth till the grave should yield up its dead. One was that of the rector of the place, a man of years and sorrow; the other that of a young and lovely woman; and it was in the last that the attraction lay.

A gentleman who had attended the funeral of the rector made his way, as the mob dispersed, towards the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Chavasse, the parents of the ill-fated young lady just interred. It was Mr. Ailsa. He had been called in to Mrs. Chavasse; for the fearful shock of her daughter's death had brought on an attack of paralysis. The medical men had no fears for her life, but they knew she would remain a paralyzed cripple; that she had suddenly passed from a gay, middle-aged matron, to a miserable, decrepit old woman.

As Mr. Ailsa was passing down the stairs from her chamber, a door was pushed open, his hand was grasped, and he was pulled into the darkened parlour. It was by Mr. Chavasse, who tried to speak, but failed, and, sitting down, sobbed like a child. It was the first time they had met for years; for, since Ailsa's return, Mr. Chavasse had been away in Scotland, examining into some agricultural improvements, with the Earl of Eastbury, to whom he was land-steward. The news of his daughter's death had brought him home.

"Oh, Ailsa, my dear friend, could you not have saved her?"

"I was not her attendant," was Mr. Ailsa's reply. "Mr. Rice and Dr. Wilson no doubt did all they could; not to speak of her husband."

"Is it true that she was recovering? I know nothing. I only reached here in time for the funeral, and my wife is not in a state to give particulars, even if she knows them."

"I hear that she was getting well. She had been ill, as you are probably aware, but had recovered so far as to be out of danger."

"Entirely so?"

"As Mr. Rice tells me."

"And then she was taken suddenly with convulsions."

Mr. Ailsa nodded.

"And died. As the other wives had died."

Mr. Ailsa sat silent.

"Did you ever hear of three wives, the wives of one man, having been thus attacked? Did you ever hear of so strange a coincidence?"

"Not to my recollection."

"And that when they were recovering, as they all were, that they should suddenly die of convulsions?"

Mr. Ailsa looked distressed.

"Do you know," added Mr. Chavasse, lowering his voice, "the thought crossed my mind this morning to stop the funeral. But somehow I shrank from the hubbub it would have caused: and my grief had such full hold upon me. I said to myself, 'If I do cause an inquiry, it will not bring my child back to life.'"

"Very true," murmured Mr. Ailsa.

"Had I arrived yesterday, perhaps I should have entered upon it; I am sure I should, had I been here when she died. Speak your thoughts, Ailsa, between ourselves; see you no cause for suspicion?"

"I do not like to answer your question," replied Mr. Ailsa. "Castonel is no personal friend of mine; I have never spoken to him: but we professional men are not fond of encouraging reflections upon each other."

"Have you heard of that business at Thomas Shipley's, about the child dying in the strange manner it did?"

"Mrs. Ailsa has heard the particulars from Mary; and Dame Vaughan seized upon me the other day, and spoke of them."

"Well, was not that a suspicious thing?"

"I think it was a very extraordinary one. But the medicine was made up and sent by Mr. Rice, not by Mr. Castonel."

"The fact is this, Ailsa. Each event, each death, taken by itself, would give rise to no suspicion; but when you come to add them together, and look upon them collectively, it is then the mind is staggered. I wish," added Mr. Chavasse, musingly, "I knew the full particulars of my child's death: the details, as they took place."

"You surely can learn them from Mr. Castonel."

"Would he tell them?"

"Yes. If he be an innocent man."

"If! Do you know," whispered Mr. Chavasse, "that they groaned at and hissed him in the churchyard today, calling him prisoner?"

"No!"

"They did. What a fool I was," he continued, wringing his hands, "ever to let her have Castonel! It was my wife worried me into it. Ailsa, I must get at the particulars of her death-bed. I shall not rest until I do. If Castonel will not furnish them, I'll ask them of Mrs. Muff."

Mr. Chavasse remained irresolute all the day. At sunset he stole through the twilight to the house of his son-in-law. But Mr. Castonel had also stolen out somewhere, under cover of the night. The faithful upper servant and housekeeper of all the Mrs. Castonels came to him in the dining-room, and the two sat down and sobbed together.

"What did she die of?" groaned Mr. Chavasse.

"Sir," said Mrs. Muff, "I know no more than you. When she went to bed she was as well as I was, and ten times merrier, talking about a new cap she had ordered, and the visitors she would see on the morrow. That was about half-past nine, and by eleven we were all in bed in the house. In the middle of the night--if you killed me, I couldn't tell you the time, for in my flurry I never looked, but it may have been about two--their bedroom bell, the one which is hung by John's door on the top landing, in case Mr. Castonel is called out and wants him in the night, rang out such a dreadful peal, loud and long, as brought us all out of our rooms; and master was shouting from his chamber. The others stopped to put a few things on, but I ran down in my night-clothes. Sir, in ten minutes Mrs. Castonel was dead."

"How did she seem when you got to her? How did she look?"

"She was writhing on the bed in awful agony, screaming and flinging her arms about. Mr. Castonel called it convulsions. I suppose it was. It was just as the other two poor young ladies went off. He was in a terrible state, and threw himself on the body afterwards, and sobbed as if his heart would break."

"Did she take anything in the night?"

"Nothing, except some barley-water. She had drunk that, for the glass was empty."

"Mrs. Muff," he whispered, taking her hand with a beseeching look, "do you feel that there has always been fair play?"

"The merciful goodness knows, sir. I can't help asking myself all sorts of ugly questions, and then I am vexed at doing it. I know one thing; that it's an unlucky house, and as soon as to-morrow comes I take myself out of it. I could not stay. Mr. Castonel owes me three months' wages, and if he says I have no right to them, for leaving without warning, why, he must keep them. Hannah, neither, won't stay. I had hard work to make her remain for the funeral."

"You saw them all after death. How did they look?"

"I saw them all, and noticed nothing extraordinary. But Mr. Castonel had the coffins screwed down quickly."

"Has anything ever happened to excite your suspicions?"

"I cannot say it has. Though one circumstance has been much in my mind the last few days. The evening of the death of the first Mrs. Castonel, I and Hannah were seated in the kitchen when we heard a noise in the laboratory. I went to see, and there was Mr. Castonel, who must have stolen downstairs and gone in without noise. He had let fall one of the little drawers, and I saw a phial and a paper or two on the floor. He was in a fierce rage with me for looking in. But the curious part is, that he had always passed off that drawer for a dummy drawer."

Mr. Chavasse did not speak. He listened eagerly.

"And on the night of your poor daughter's death, sir, he had got that same drawer out again. John went in, and saw him with it, and Mr. Castonel--to use the lad's words--howled at him and chivvied him back again. 'What an odd thing it is, Mrs. Muff,' said he to me, that same evening, 'that I should always have took that drawer for a sham!'"

"Did you notice him at the drawer when his second wife died, poor Ellen Leicester?"

"No. But he may have gone to it every day of his life without my seeing him. The curious point is, that he should have been seen at it on these two particular nights, and by neither of us at any other time. Oh, sir, whether it has been bad luck, or whether it has been anything worse, what a mercy if this man had never come near Ebury!"

"It would have been a mercy indeed," echoed poor Mr. Chavasse.

On the following afternoon John was in the laboratory, when Mr. Rice and Mr. Tuck came in.

"Here's a pretty state of things," exclaimed the tiger. "Mother Muff's gone off, and Hannah's gone off, leaving me, and master, and Ralph in the house, to do the work for ourselves."

"Gone off!" echoed Mr. Rice. "What for?"

"You must ask 'em that," returned the tiger. "Hannah said the house smelt of poison."

"Psha!" exclaimed Mr. Rice. "Go with this mixture to Mrs. Major Acre's."

"I tell you what," cried little Tuck, as John went out, "Mr. Castonel will find it no pleasant matter. It must be a dreadful cut-up to the feelings to have an inquiry pending whether you have not carried on a wholesale system of poisoning."

"What do you mean?" cried Mr. Rice, staring at him.

"Chavasse is bent on an inquiry. He has taken some suspicion in his head, about foul play. So the body is to come up, and an inquest to be held."

"Mrs. Castonel's body?" cried Mr. Rice, quickly. "Nonsense!"

"Mrs. Castonel the third. And if they find anything queer, Mrs. Castonel the second and Mrs. Castonel the first will follow. While they are about it, too, they may disinter that child of Mary Shipley's."

"Where did you hear all this?" demanded Mr. Rice, incredulously.

"Oh, I heard it. Mr. Chavasse was wavering over it yesterday, but he has been at the Hall today, and laid his suspicions and information before Squire Hardwick. I say, you see this set of drawers?"

"Well?" resumed Mr. Rice, casting up his eye.

"There's something up, about that top one being a secret drawer and not a dummy; and they say it has got something inside it that won't do to be looked at."

"I do not believe it is a drawer," observed Mr. Rice. "I never knew it was."

"Nor I," rejoined little Tuck. "Hand me the steps, will you. I'll have a look."

"Let the steps alone, and the drawer too," said Mr. Rice. "Whether it's wrong or right, we need not draw ourselves into the affair. Better keep out of it."

"Well, perhaps you are right. What do you think Mr. Francis Hardwick said?"

"I had rather not hear. How was old Flockaway?"

"My!" ejaculated little Tuck. "I never went. I forgot it."

"Then I'll go now, I suppose this gossip put it out of your head."

"It did. I say, though, Rice, isn't it a horrid go for Castonel?"

It must have been a "horrid go" for Mr. Castonel to hear this; and hear it he did, for he was seated outside the open window. Had he placed himself there to listen? No one had ever known him to sit down on the bench before.

Mr. Rice left the house, and Mr. Tuck cast his eyes on the drawers. He was a good-natured, harmless little fellow, but liked to indulge his curiosity. "Shall I look, or shall I not?" soliloquized he. "There's an old proverb that says 'Discretion is the better part of valour.' Oh, bother discretion! Here goes. There's nobody at home to see me."

He set the steps against the case of drawers, and mounted up, his eager hand outstretched. But at that moment a head and shoulders slowly rose before the window, and Mr. Tuck, in his fright, and the steps, nearly came down together. For it was Mr. Castonel.

"Are you searching for anything?" equably demanded Mr. Castonel.

"Nothing, sir," stammered Mr. Tuck, putting up the steps very humbly.

"Come out here," said Mr. Castonel.

Mr. Tuck went out. Had he been detected poisoning Mr. Castonel, he could hardly have felt more ashamed, more unjustifiably prying. Mr. Castonel made room for him on the bench beside him.

"I thought you were out, sir," he awkwardly began.

"No," answered Mr. Castonel. "I sat down here an hour ago, and"--he coughed --"dropped asleep. Your voice, talking with Mr. Rice, awoke me."

"Oh, my heart!" groaned Mr. Tuck to himself, becoming very hot. "He must have heard all we said. Did you, sir?" he asked aloud, following out his thoughts.

"Did I what?" demanded Mr. Castonel, turning upon him his sinister eye. He knew he had got him safe--that simple little Tuck was no match for him.

"Hear the--the--stuff--that I and Rice were saying?"

"I heard the stuff you were saying," curtly rejoined Mr. Castonel.

"Of course I ought not to have repeated it, sir; but it will be all over the village to-morrow, without me. I am very sorry for it."

"So am I," responded Mr. Castonel. "Sorry that people should be such fools."

"And I hope it will be cleared up," added Mr. Tuck.

"You do not believe there is anything to clear up, do you?" almost savagely retorted Mr. Castonel.

"I meant the reports," deprecated little Tuck.

"But I asked you if you believe there can be anything to clear up?" repeated Mr. Castonel.

"No, sir, not now that I am talking with you. I don't know whether I believed it or not, up at the Hall. I was struck all in a maze there."

"What brought you at the Hall?"

"They sent for me."

"Who?"

"Squire Hardwick. No; stop; I think it was Mr. Chavasse. Or the two together: I don't know."

"What for?"

Mr. Tuck hesitated.

"I am a wrongfully accused man," burst forth Mr. Castonel. "Even you were ready enough, but now, to accuse me to Rice. Who is it that is asking for a coroner's inquest?"

"Mr. Chavasse."

"Upon what grounds? Speak up. Don't equivocate."

"I am not equivocating, sir," cried little Tuck. "And as you heard what I said to Mr. Rice, you know the chief facts. But I don't like to repeat these things to your face."

"I wish you to repeat them. I must know what they charge me with. An innocent man can listen to slander unmoved."

"And you are innocent!" cried Mr. Tuck, brightening up.

"Innocent! Innocent of the death of my dear wives! I would have died to save them."

"Then I'll tell you all I did hear, sir," answered simple, credulous little Tuck. "Mr. Chavasse has got something in his head about Mrs.--your late wife."

"Got what? Speak out."

"He says he wants to prove whether she came fairly by her death. Perhaps," added Mr. Tuck, in a conciliating tone, for he did shrink from his present task--"perhaps he fears something may have been given to her by mistake."

"No innuendoes," was the rough answer. "I shan't wince. He fears I may have poisoned her, that's what it is."

"Well," warmly cried little Tuck, "I don't fear it now."

"Who went to Francis Hardwick's?"

"Mr. Chavasse was there, and they had me up, and Mrs. Muff; and the Squire asked Mr. Ailsa to be present, that he might judge whether there were medical grounds to go upon. And Dame Vaughan came up--"

"Why did not Francis Hardwick have the whole parish up?" angrily interrupted the surgeon.

"Dame Vaughan was not sent for. She went of her own accord. Mr. Chavasse had met her in the morning, and asked her something, and she went up. It was about those powders that she complained, when Mary Shipley's child died. She had nothing to say about Mrs. Castonel. She vowed those powders were poison."

"Mr. Rice made them up and sent them, whatever they were."

"But Dame Vaughan said Mr. Castonel might have changed what Mr. Rice made up. She said, in fact, she'd almost be upon her oath he did, and that she had asked John, who said it was Mr. Castonel gave the powders into his hand, and that Mr. Rice was not present. Mr. Ailsa said he never heard a woman go on so, and the Squire threatened to turn her out of the justice-room unless she could be calm."

"Did you hear her?"

"Of course not. They had us in, one at a time, to the justice-room--as the poor call it. The Squire and Mr. Ailsa sat together at the table, and Mr. Chavasse sat on that low bench under the window, with his head bent on to his knees. Dame Vaughan has an awful tongue. She said she was an old fool; and, if she had not been one, the wickedness would have been brought to light at the time."

Mr. Castonel looked up sharply. "She is a fool. What did she mean?"

"Why, she said she gave the remaining four powders into your hands, after the baby died; and let you take them into the yard, by yourself, at Shipley's cottage, so that you had plenty of time to--to--"

"To what? Speak out, I say again."

"To walk off with the poison, and leave wholesome powders in its stead. She said, also--"

"Go on," laughed Mr. Castonel, apparently quite at his ease. Much more so than his assistant, who spoke with frequent hesitation.

"That you must have planted yourself purposely in the boy's way, who went after you, so as to run down to Thomas Shipley's and secure the poison, before Mr. Rice or anybody could come."

"She's a lady!" ironically uttered Mr. Castonel.

"She is that," responded little Tuck. "She protested she would dig the baby up with her own hands, without any spade, if the magistrates would but go into the matter. Squire Hardwick told her it was quite an after consideration whether they went into it at all, and that it had nothing to do with the subject under notice."

"I'll 'dig' her!" uttered Mr. Castonel. "What did they ask Mrs. Muff?"

"I don't know what they asked her, but I believe she was cautious, and couldn't or wouldn't say one way or the other whether she suspected or not. Oh--and who else do you think came to the Hall?"

"All Ebury, probably."

"Mrs. Leicester."

"Mrs. Leicester! Who next? What did she want?"

"Mrs. Leicester, in her widow's weeds. She was in there, ever so long, with Mr. Chavasse, and the Squire, and Ailsa. Mr. Chavasse had been to the rectory and had an interview with her in the morning, and she came up. We gathered that she objected to Ellen--to Mrs. Cas--to the remains of her daughter being disturbed, and that Squire Hardwick promised that they should not be, unless the ends of justice peremptorily demanded it."

"What questions did they ask you?"

"They asked me very few, because I had nothing to tell," replied little Tuck. "When Mr. Chavasse found that I had not interfered with his daughter's illness, in fact had not seen her, he said he was sorry to have troubled me; that they ought to have had Mr. Rice up instead."

"Have they written to the coroner?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. Squire Hardwick said the affair looked gravely suspicious, and that an inquest was indispensable. He said--shall I tell you what else he said, sir?"

"Tell! Of course."

"His opinion was, that the fact of three young wives dying in so sudden and mysterious a manner afforded uncommon scope for doubt, even without the attendance of other suspicious circumstances."

"What 'other?'"

"That's more than I can say. Unless he meant what that beldame, Dame Vaughan, set afloat."

"Tush!" scornfully retorted Mr. Castonel. And then he sat for some minutes in a reverie. Little Mr. Tuck rose.

"Do you want me any longer, sir? I have not had my tea."

"No," said the surgeon. "Have you told all?"

"Every word, sir."

"What were you saying to Mr. Rice about that case of drawers?" returned Mr. Castonel, half turning his head towards the spot where they stood.

"Oh, I forgot that; I did indeed. Some of them say that topmost drawer is not a--"

"Don't speak so vaguely. Who?"

"I'm blest if I know who," said Mr. Tuck, after considering. "They asked me, and I said I always took that topmost drawer to be a dummy, but they say it is not; that there's something inside it, and that you had it out the evenings that your wives died. Of course they meant to insinuate that--that--"

"That I keep a subtle poison in it," sneered Mr. Castonel, "and have been dealing it out in doses. Any more?"

"That is all, sir."

"Good. You need not say, outside, that you have told me this. I am glad to know who my enemies are."

"I will not say a word to any one, sir," earnestly replied the little man. "You may rely upon me. Good evening."

Mr. Tuck departed. Mr. Castonel remained on the bench. As the former hastened up the street, thinking what an aspersed man the surgeon was, he encountered Mr. Ailsa.

"Now I'll just ask the question," thought he. "I'm sure if I can let Castonel know anything certain, it is what I ought to do, with so many against him. I say, sir," quoth he aloud, "have they written to the coroner yet?"

"Not yet. Mr. Francis Hardwick wished to confer with a brother magistrate first. Mr. Chavasse did not consult him in his magisterial capacity, but as a friend. He--"

"Are you sure?" interrupted Mr. Tuck.

"Quite sure. If any magistrate has to interfere, it will not be my brother-in-law: he is acting solely as Mr. Chavasse's private friend."

"Perhaps it is not decided that there will be any inquest," said Mr. Tuck, briskly.

"Oh yes, that is decided; Mr. Chavasse demands it. The coroner will be written to to-morrow."

"Do you know, Mr. Ailsa, I do believe Castonel is as innocent as you or I."

"I hope he is. It will be a most horrible blow to all parties interested, should the contrary be proved."

"He says he would have died to save his wives. Oh, he must be innocent."

"I heartily wish he may be. Good evening. I am on my way to see Mrs. Chavasse."

"Will she get better?"

"Better. But never well."

James Ailsa continued his way, and Mr. Tuck continued his. But suddenly he stopped and ruminated.

"Suppose I go back, and tell Castonel at once! That would be one grain of comfort. I know I should want a good many grains if I were in his shoes."

So he turned back to the house of Mr. Castonel. But instead of ringing at the front door, and bringing Mr. Castonel to open it, he walked round to the side of the house and tried the back garden door, which, as he knew, was occasionally left unlocked, though against orders. It was open, and Mr. Tuck went in. Mr. Castonel was not on the bench then, and Mr. Tuck entered the house by the little door next the surgery.

The first object he saw was Mr. Castonel, mounted on the very steps, as he had been, and in the very same place. And he held the "dummy" drawer in one hand, and grasped some papers and a phial with the other.

"Hallo!" cried Mr. Castonel, dashing the papers and phial into it, and the drawer back into its place, as he rapidly descended, "how did you get in? I heard you go away."

"I came in by the garden door."

"Who has done that? Who has dared to leave it unfastened?" raved Mr. Castonel, with his awful glare.

That glare had never yet been turned upon Mr. Tuck. He did not like it, and he confessed afterwards that he felt as if he would prefer to be safe outside the house, rather than alone in it with Mr. Castonel. He had the presence of mind (he called it so) to speak in a careless tone.

"One of the servants, no doubt. Very stupid of them, for boys may get in and steal the gooseberries, little odds to them whether they are green or ripe. I came back to tell you, sir, that they have not written to the coroner. I met Mr. Ailsa as I left here, and put the question to him point-blank, and he said they had not; so I thought you might like to know it. He told me something else too, that Mr. Chavasse did not formally lay a charge before Mr. Francis Hardwick, he only consulted him as a friend."

"Oh!" cried Mr. Castonel

"Mr. Ailsa supposes they will write to the Coroner tomorrow," added Mr. Tuck. "But to-day is one day, and to-morrow is another; and before to-morrow comes they may change their mind, sir, and let the matter drop."

"They may write if they choose," said Mr Castonel, "I want no favour from them. I have been forcing that drawer out, Tuck," he continued with a cough, "and find there's a paper of magnesia in it, and some hartshorn in a phial. They must have been there for ages. Ever since the drawers were appropriated when I first came into the house."

"Then you never did have it out, as they say?" eagerly cried Mr. Tuck.

"Not that I have any recollection of. I suppose its not being used must have caused the impression to get abroad that it was a dummy drawer. Had any curious person applied to me upon the point, I could have told them it was not a dummy."

"It looks like a dummy," rejoined Mr. Tuck. "It has no knob and no lock to it, like the others. Why has it not?"

"How should I know why?" retorted Mr. Castonel. "I did not make the drawers."

"Well, Sir; good evening once more," concluded little Tuck. "I thought you might like to hear that there's nothing yet but smoke in the matter."

A small, but pretty cottage, built in the form of a lodge and so called, stood alone amidst trees, which nearly surrounded it, a whole grove of them, thick and lofty. Had the trees possessed human ears, they might have detected sounds, late that night, inside the cottage: unusual sounds of dispute, and then commotion, and then distress; and afterwards the outer door was flung open, and a woman-servant sprang out of it with a smothered shriek, took her way at utmost speed towards the village, and rang a loud peal at the lodgings of Mr. Rice. That gentleman was just on the point of stepping into bed. He turned to the window, opened it, and looked out in his night-shirt.

"It's here, isn't it, that Mr. Castonel's partner lives?" a woman breathlessly tittered.

"That's near enough. Yes. What's wanted?"

"Oh--I did not know you in the flurry, sir. Please to come this instant to Mr. Castonel. There's not a moment to lose."

"To Mr. Castonel! Where?"

"He is down at Beech Lodge. Make haste, sir, or he 'may be dead before you come."

"He dead! Mr. Castonel! What in the world is the matter with him?"

"Poison, I believe. Please to bring your remedies for it."

"Here"--for she was striding away--"what description of poison?"

"I can't tell. You had better come and see, sir, instead of wasting time."

Full of consternation and alarm, Mr. Rice hurried on a few clothes carelessly, and rushed out only half dressed. He rang at Mr. Castonel's.

"Law bless us!" cried John, in his surprise, as he flung open the door, "I didn't expect you, sir; I thought it was master. I'm a sitting up for him."

Mr. Rice vouchsafed no answer, he was too hurried. He collected what he wanted from the surgery, and turned to the door again.

"Do you know anything of master, sir, whether he ain't a coming home?" demanded the tiger, looking with curiosity at the signs of Mr. Rice's hasty toilet and his equally hasty movements.

"Your master is ill. He has been taken ill at Beech Lodge. Where's Ralph?"

"He's gone to bed, sir."

"Call him up to mind the house, and you come after me down there. You may be useful."

Away sped Mr. Rice again. Just before he turned off to the fields, he met Mr. and Mrs. Ailsa, near to the gate of their own house. They were walking home from the Hall.

"What's the matter?" cried Mrs. Ailsa.

"I can't stay to tell you," was Mr. Rice's hurried answer, without arresting his steps. "I fear Castonel has destroyed himself. One of those women has been up to me from Beech Lodge. He is there."

"I will go with you; I may be of service," eagerly cried Mr. Ailsa. "How many more tragedies are we to have? Mary, my dear, can you run in alone?"

"Oh yes, yes, James; lose no time."

The two women--the young and handsome lady, about whom so much mystery had existed, and the woman-servant--were standing outside the Lodge, looking out for Mr. Rice, when the surgeons approached.

"You are too late."

They did not know which spoke, they pressed on indoors. Mr. Rice half turned his head at a noise behind him. It was the tiger, galloping down. In the small sitting-room, stretched on the floor, between the table and the fireplace, was Mr. Castonel. Dead.

The servant followed them into the room. Not so her mistress.

"Too true!" uttered Mr. Rice; "he has committed suicide. What's this?"

He was looking on the table. A decanter of wine and two glasses were there. One of the glasses was full, the other had been emptied. The woman was sobbing violently, and seemed to have lost all idea of caution or self-control.

"I can't say I ever liked him," she said, "but it is horrible to see a man well one minute, and the next die before our eyes."

"What has led to this?" inquired Mr. Rice.

"He came here about eight o'clock, and had a violent quarrel with my mistress. I heard bits of it, here and there."

"Well?"

"It grew very bitter, and my mistress at length flew into a state of frensy, and came to the door and called me in, that I might be a witness to her words, she said. I had never seen her in such a state before, nor anybody else, and she knelt down and swore a solemn oath that things should go on, in the way they had been going on, no longer, and that she would declare the truth to the world, and force him to acknowledge it, be the consequences what they might. That calmed Mr. Castonel; though, for the matter of that, he had not been so violent, but I think his cold sneers provoked her. He looked at her with a curious expression, and sat down on the sofa and seemed to be thinking. Then he told me to get the wine and some wine-glasses, and--"

"What are you saying?" interrupted a calm voice, and the mistress of the Lodge appeared. "Any information necessary for these gentlemen I can give myself."

The servant shrank from the room and began talking to John in the kitchen. The lady confronted the surgeons, keeping the table between herself and the body.

"Can you do nothing for him?"

"Nothing, I grieve to say," replied Mr. Ailsa, speaking with involuntary respect, in spite of his prejudices. Whatever may have been that lady's history, she had the bearing and manners of a refined gentlewoman.

"He must have been dead a quarter of an hour," added Mr. Rice. "Did he wilfully poison himself?"

"No," was the lady's calm answer.

Mr. Rice paused, probably in surprise. "Then could it have been taken in mistake?"

"Neither that. I gave it him."

They both stood staring at her. Was she to be believed?--so quiet, so collected, so lovely-looking! How were they to act? An indistinct idea of having her secured ran through Mr. Rice's mind. But he did not know how to set about it, or whether he would be justified in doing so.

"I will give you an outline of the circumstances," she proceeded. "He--"

"Madam," interrupted James Ailsa, "it--I beg your pardon--but it may be my duty to caution you not to incriminate yourself."

A proud smile of self-possession, one full of meaning, arose to her lips. "I wish to tell you," she answered.

"May it not be well to reserve it for the coroner's inquest?"

"No. I should be an ineligible witness for him, in any court of law."

"Why ineligible for him?" involuntarily inquired Mr. Rice.

"Either for or against him. My testimony would not be taken."

Her words to them were as riddles: and they waited in silence.

"He came down here to-night, and we quarrelled. No matter what the quarrel was about: it was such as we had never had before. He calmed down: apparently. I knew that the more smiling he was without, the more tempestuous he was within. I stood here. Here," she added, advancing to the mantelpiece, but still not looking at what lay beneath her, and placing her elbow on the shelf and her hand before her eyes, "I stood in this way. He was pouring out some wine he had asked for, and I watched his movements in the glass, through my fingers. I did not intentionally watch him: my thoughts were far away, and I suspected nothing. Suddenly I saw him slip something from a paper into one of the glasses; I felt sure I saw him; but I had my senses about me, and I took no notice whatever, only drew away and sat down in this chair. He handed me the glass, the glass, mind, saying the wisest plan would be to forget our dispute for to-night, for he must be going, and we could discuss the matter at issue another time. I took the glass from him, raised it to my lips, as if to drink, and then, as though by a sudden impulse, put it on the table without tasting it. 'If I am to drink this wine,' I said, 'I must eat a biscuit first. Reach them.'"

The lady paused for a moment, and her hearers waited with breathless interest.

"He knew where they were kept--in that closet," she added, pointing with her finger to a closet opposite the fireplace, and the two medical men glanced at it. "He opened the door and stepped inside, it is rather deep, and came forth with the biscuits. But in that moment I had changed the glasses. I took a biscuit, began slowly to eat it, and he drank up his wine. In a few minutes he shrieked out convulsively. I sent for aid, ran out, and hid myself amidst the trees, for I was afraid of him. When my servant came back, we went in together, but I think the poison had then done its work. It must have been subtle and deadly."

Mr. Ailsa took up the empty glass, and with Mr. Rice examined the few drops left at the bottom. Not at first did they detect the nature of the poison; it was indeed rare and subtle, leaving, where it should be imbibed, but little trace after death.

"She says master's dead," sobbed John, as the gentlemen went out. "It can't be true."

"Too true, John," answered Mr. Rice.

"Sir, did he poison hisself, as she says? Did he do it on purpose?"

"No. He drank a glass of wine, and there was poison in it. He did not know it."

"Oh, my poor master!"

Full of excitement as Ebury had been--and had reason to be--on several previous occasions, it was nothing compared with what rose with the following morning. Mr. Castonel dead! Mr. Castonel poisoned! John ostentatiously closed all the windows of the house, and sat himself outside on the door-step, forgetting dignity in grief, to answer the mass of inquirers. It was Mr. Ailsa who carried the news to Mr. Chavasse.

"Is not this a confirmation of our fears?" exclaimed the latter.

"I fear it looks very like it."

"Oh, it is horrible!" groaned Mr. Chavasse. "Three young and happy girls to have been foully--"

"Nay, nay," interrupted James Ailsa. "Nothing is proved." "And never will be now," replied poor Mr. Chavasse. "It is a mercy for the rector that he went beforehand."

Before the day was over, fresh news had gone to Ebury--that Mr. Chavasse meant not to pursue the investigation he had contemplated. Where was the use? he argued, since the guilty man--if he were guilty--was gone. Where indeed? echoed a few judicious friends. But Ebury in general considered itself very shabbily used, and has hardly got over the disappointment to this day.

An inquest, however, there was to be, over Mr., if not Mrs. Castonel, and Ebury's curiosity concentrated itself upon that event. Some gossip, told by the parish beadle, fanned the flame. When he had gone down to serve the two summonses at the Lodge, and required the name of the lady, she had replied "Castonel."

"Then it is a relative of his, after all!" quoth the village. "And we have been judging so harshly of her and of him!"

"I think I shall call and leave a card, when it's all over, and I am about again," said Mrs. Major Acre. "That is, if she stops here."

The "dummy drawer" was examined previously to the inquest, and found to contain exactly what Mr. Castonel had said, a phial of hartshorn, and some magnesia. "Which of course he was putting there," was Dame Vaughan's cornment, "when little Tuck caught him on the steps." The drawer had evidently possessed a secret spring, which had been recently wrenched away and was gone.

The day appointed for the inquest dawned, and those who were connected with it, and those who were not, flocked up to the Hardwick Arms. The strange lady was called in her turn, and the coroner demanded her name.

"Lavinia Castonel. I presume my evidence will be dispensed with, when I state who I am. A wife cannot give evidence in matters that touch upon her husband."

The room stared. "A coroner's court is an exception!" called out a voice, which was drowned by the coroner's "Hush."

"Lavinia Castonel," said he. "Any relation to the late Mr. Castonel?"

"His wife."

A rising hum--a shock--almost a shriek. Squire Hardwick interrupted it, surprised out of his magisterial etiquette of silence in another's court.

"It is impossible you can be his wife. You are stating what is not true."

"Mr. Castonel's wife," she calmly repeated. "His widow now."

Great confusion arose, and the coroner was powerless at first to repress it. Possibly he had his curiosity like the rest. Everybody was asking questions: one rose high.

"Had she married him since the death of the last Mrs. Castonel?"

"No, she had not," she replied. "She had married him before he first came to Ebury."

Higher rose the confusion, "Then if she was his wife, what was the position of the unhappy young ladies to whom he had given his name?"

"The inquirers might settle that as they pleased," she carelessly answered. "It was no business of hers. She was his lawful wife."

Nothing more, touching this, could be got out of her. She would afford no further explanation, no confirmation of her assertion, or any details. But her calm, equable manner carried a conviction of its truth to half the court. The coroner took her evidence relating to the death of Mr. Castonel: it was exactly what she had told the two medical men, and the maid-servant, so far as she was able, confirmed it. That, at any rate, was truth. The jury believed it, and their verdict was to the effect that Gervase Castonel had met his death at her hands, but that she was justified in what she had done, having acted in self-defence.

So that was the ending of Mr. Castonel and his doings in Ebury: and a very unsatisfactory ending it was, in every sense of the word. The lady and the maid left the place the day subsequent to the inquest, and that was the ending of them. Numerous tales and rumours went abroad, as rumours always do. One said the money to establish Mr. Castonel had been hers, not his, and that she dared not publicly avow herself to be a wife, or it would be lost to her. Another that he had forced her to submit to his apparent marriages under threats, for that he held some dreadful secret of hers in his power, and she feared to gainsay him. Another--But why pursue these reports? No one could tell whence they originated, or whether they were true or false. The whole affair remains a miserable mystery to Ebury, and probably ever will do so, and its exasperated curiosity has never been able to ascertain whether the three ill-fated young ladies did, or did not, die an unnatural death.

Mr. Castonel was buried in the churchyard by their side, and it took the beadle and four subordinates an hour and a half to clear it of the mob afterwards. And Mr. Ailsa quietly dropped into his old practice, and took on Mr. Rice and Mr. Tuck and John, for he found there would be work for all. And to the latter's extreme discomposure, he found Mrs. Muff was to be taken on too, and would rule him as of old. And since Ebury subsided into tranquillity, it has become a matter of "good taste" there never to breathe the name of Gervase Castonel.