The sun, shining brightly over the trim lawns which stretched before Chater Hall, seemed to declare, deceitfully enough, the next morning, that winter was dead and buried, and spring come in full force to take its place. Philip Crowdy—or Philip Chater, as we must now call him—waking in the unaccustomed softnesses of a great bed, and gradually opening his eyes upon the luxuries about him, awoke as gradually to a remembrance of his new position; looked at it lazily and comfortably, as a man will who wakes from deep sleep; and then came to a full realisation of all it meant, and sat up quickly in bed.

“Yes,” he muttered softly to himself, nodding his head as he looked about him—“I am bound to admit that when one has slept—or tried to sleep—for a few weeks, in a narrow berth aboard an evil-smelling sailing vessel, with a scarcity of blankets, and no pillows worth mentioning, this”—he looked round the big bed, and smiled—“this is a very decent apology for Heaven. And—such being the case—I want to stop in Paradise as long as possible.”

He stretched out his hand, and pulled the bell-rope. In a moment or two, the young servant Harry made his appearance—coming softly into the room, and regarding his master with some surprise. Philip Chater, quick to take his cue from the other’s expression, glanced carelessly at Dandy Chater’s watch, which hung near his head.

“Rather early, Harry? Yes—I know it is; but I’m restless this morning. I shall get dressed at once. Put me out some things—you know what I want; I don’t want to be bothered about it—and get my bath ready. Oh—by the way”—he called out, as the young man was moving away—“I shall go to church.”

The servant stopped, as though he had been shot—even came back a pace or two towards the bed. The expression of his face was such an astonished one, that Philip knew that the day, from a point of view of good luck, had begun very badly.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Harry, with something very like the flicker of a smile about his mouth.

“I said,” repeated Philip Chater, slowly and emphatically, being determined to brave the matter out—“that I should go to church.”

“Very good, sir.” The young man had recovered his composure, and walked through into the adjoining bath-room, after another quick glance at his master.

“Ah—Dandy Chater was evidently not a professing Christian,” muttered Philip. “I’m half sorry now that I suggested going; but I suppose it’s best to take the bull by the horns, and plunge among the people I shall have to meet as rapidly as possible. Well, if they single me out as a lost sheep, and call me publicly to repentance, I can’t help it. But I shouldn’t be surprised if the living were in my gift; in which case, they may be disposed to forgive me, and treat me leniently.”

Finding, to his satisfaction, that the clothes belonging to the late Dandy Chater fitted his successor as accurately as though made for him, Philip went down to breakfast in an improved frame of mind. After breakfast, when he lounged out into the grounds, there came another of those little trials to his nerves, which he was destined thereafter often to experience.

Coming near to the stables, a dog—a fine animal of the spaniel breed—leapt out suddenly, with joyous barks, to meet him; came within a foot or two—sniffed at him suspiciously—and then fled, barking furiously. Turning, in some discomfiture, he came almost face to face with the servant Harry, who was looking at him, he thought, curiously.

“Something the matter with that beast,” said Philip, as carelessly as he could. “Have it chained up.” Turning away, and reËntering the house, he said softly to himself—“The moral of which is: keep away from the animals. They are wiser than the more superior beings.”

It was with very uncomfortable sensations in his breast that Philip Chater—after discovering, in his wanderings, a small gate and path leading direct from the grounds to the churchyard—strolled carelessly across, and entered the church. He had been careful to wait until the last moment, when the slow bell had actually ceased, before venturing inside; and it was perhaps as well that he did so. Fortunately for himself, he came face to face, just inside the porch, with an ancient man, who appeared to act as a sort of verger or beadle; and who was so much astonished at his appearance, and stepped so hurriedly backwards, that he almost tripped himself up in the folds of his rusty black gown. But he recovered sufficiently to be able to shuffle along the church, towards the pulpit, and to pull open the door of a huge old-fashioned pew, like a small parlour, with a fireplace in it. Philip was glad to hide himself within the high walls of this pew, and to find himself shut in by the ancient one.

But his coming had created no little stir. Although, having seated himself, he could see nothing except the windows above him, and a few cracked old monuments high up on the walls, he was nevertheless aware of a rustling of garments, and sharp whisperings near him. When, presently, he rose from his seat with the rest of the congregation, he discovered that his eyes, passing over the top of the pew were on a level with certain other eyes—gentle and simple—which were hurriedly withdrawn on meeting his own. Moreover, immediately on the opposite side of the aisle in which his parlour-like pew was situated, was another pew, in which stood a young girl—very neatly, but very beautifully dressed; and, to his utter embarrassment, the eyes of this young girl met his, with a gaze so frank and kindly, and lingered in their glance for a moment so tenderly and sweetly over the top of that high pew, that he wondered who in the world the young girl was, and what interest she had in Dandy Chater.

Again—another disquieting circumstance arose; for, when he got to his feet a second time, and almost instinctively looked again in the direction of those eyes which had met his so frankly, his glance fell on another pair, near at hand—a black pair, looking at him, he thought with something of sullenness—something of pleading. This second pair of eyes were mischievous—daring—wilful—kittenish—what you will; and they were lower than the other eyes, showing that their wearer was not so tall. And the strange thing about them was, that they flashed a glance, every now and then, at the other eyes—a glance which was one wholly of defiance.

“The devil’s i’ the kirk to-day,” thought Philip Chater—“and I wish I knew what it was all about. Dandy—my poor brother—you’re at the bottom of the river; but you didn’t clear up things before you went.”

The clergyman was a dear old white-haired man, who also gave a glance, of kindly sympathy and encouragement, towards the big square pew and its single occupant; and who preached, in a queer quavering old voice, on love, and charity, and all the sweeter things which men so stubbornly contrive to miss. And he tottered down the steps from the pulpit, with yet another glance at the big pew.

The service ended, Philip Chater sat still—and, to his infinite astonishment, every one else sat still too. Worse than all, the whispering, and the faint stirring of dresses and feet, began again.

“I wonder what on earth they’re waiting for,” thought Philip, craning his neck, in an endeavour to peer over the top of the pew. The next moment, the door of the pew was softly opened, and the ancient man who had ushered him into it, stood bowing, and obviously waiting for him to come out. In an instant, Philip recognised that the congregation waited, in conformity with an old custom, until the Squire should have passed out of church.

Rising, with his heart in his mouth, the supposed Dandy Chater faced that small sea of eyes, every one of which seemed to be turned in his direction; and every face, instead of being, as it should have been, familiar to him from his childhood, was the face of an utter stranger.

He thought hard, while he gathered up Dandy Chater’s hat and gloves—harder, probably, than he had ever thought before, within the same short space of time. And then, to crown it all, as he stepped from the pew came the most astounding event of all.

The young girl with the kindly eyes looked full at him, as he stepped into the aisle; hesitated a moment; and then, with a quick blush sweeping up over her face, rose to her full height—(and she was taller than the average of women)—and stepped out into the aisle beside him. Quite mechanically, and scarcely knowing what he did, he offered her his arm; and they passed slowly out of the church together, with the silent congregation, still seated, watching them.

Not a word was spoken by either of them, until they had almost crossed the churchyard; glancing back over his shoulder, Philip could see the people emerging from the porch, and breaking up into groups, and evidently talking eagerly. And still no word had been said between the two chief actors in this amazing scene.

At last, the girl turned her face towards his, (she had seemed quite content to walk on beside him, in silence, until this moment) and spoke. Her voice, the man thought, was as beautiful as her face.

“Well, Dandy dear—have you nothing to say to me?”

In a flash, light broke in upon Philip Chater. From the girl’s appearance, style of dress, and easy assurance with him, in the presence of a church-full of people he felt that this must be the Margaret Barnshaw whose letter he had read—the letter in which she promised to marry Dandy Chater. But, not being sure even of that, or of anything indeed, he decided to grope his way carefully; looking at her with a smile, he asked lightly—“What would you have me say to you?”

She clasped her other hand on his arm, and her face suddenly grew grave, and, as he thought, more tender even than before; her voice, too, when she spoke again, had sunk to a whisper.

“Nothing—not a word, dear boy,” she said. “You’ve said it all so many times—haven’t you? And I’ve sent you back, with a heartache—oh—ever so many times. But—from to-day, we’ll change all that; from to-day, we’ll begin afresh. That’s why I took your arm, before them all, to-day—to show them my right to walk beside you. Did you understand that?”

There was no reasonable doubt now that this was the Madge of the letter; unless the late Dandy Chater had made proposals, of a like nature, in other quarters. He answered diplomatically.

“Yes—I think I understood that,” he said. “I—I am very grateful.”

“Do you remember,” she went on, “what you said to me when last we met—when I told you you should have your answer definitely? Do you remember that; or have you forgotten it, like so many other things?”

“I said so many things, that perhaps I may have forgotten which one you refer to.” Philip Chater felt rather proud of himself, after this speech.

“You said—‘I’m going to be a stronger, better fellow than I have ever been before; you shall find me changed from to-night; you shall find I’ll be a new man.’ Do you remember that?”

It was a trying moment; and, for the life of him, Philip Chater found it difficult to keep his voice quite steady, when he answered, after a pause—“Yes—I remember.” For this girl, with her hands locked on his arm, and with her eyes looking so trustfully and confidingly into his, had heard those words, of repentance, and hope, and well-meaning, however lightly said, from the lips of a man she would see no more, and who was now washing about horribly, a disfigured thing, with the life beaten out of it. And the man who stood beside her, in his place—in his very clothes—was a fraud and an impostor.

“Did you mean it, Dandy dear? Was it true?”

He answered from his heart, and spoke the truth, in that instance at least. “Yes—God knows it was true,” he said.

They had left the road, and had turned through a gate into a little wood, which belonged, he supposed, to his own estates. Here, quite suddenly, she stopped, and held out both her hands to him. Very gravely—and, it must be said, with a growing anxiety which matched an expression in her own eyes—he took the hands in his, and looked, as steadily as he might, into her face.

“Dandy—my dear boy—as friends—as man and woman—we have said some bitter things to each other—have parted in anger, more than once. You have been wild, I know—have made some blunders, as we all must make them, in our poor journey here on earth. But you have sworn to me that those old tales, about you—you and Patience Miller—forgive me; I promised never to mention the subject again; but I must—I must—you have told me that all that story was mere malicious gossip. As Heaven is my witness, I believed you then; but tell me once again. Tell me,” she pleaded—“that no woman need hide her face to-day, because of you; tell me that—reckless and foolish as you may have been—no living creature weeps to-day, because of you.”

He paused for a moment; a dozen new thoughts and ideas seemed to dart through his mind. The name she had mentioned had brought again to his memory the scene with the girl, on the road outside the village, on the night of his first visit to Bamberton—the girl whom Dandy Chater was to have married, and who failed, after all, to accompany him to London. But, for all that, he had a double reason for setting her doubts at rest, and for speaking clearly and without fear. In the first place, the man to whom the question referred was dead, and beyond the reach of any earthly judgment; in the second place, Philip Chater was, of course, blameless in the matter. Therefore he said, after that momentary pause—

“Indeed—no living creature weeps to-day on my account, Madge”—he felt that he must attempt the name, and was relieved to observe no start of surprise on her part. “I have had your letter; I—I wanted to thank you for it. I wish I could think that I deserved——”

“Hush, dear,” she broke in, hurriedly. “All that is past and done with; haven’t I said that we start from to-day afresh. Perhaps—who knows?”—she laughed happily, and came a little nearer to him—“perhaps I’ve helped to change you—to make a new man of you. And I won’t believe a word that any one says against you—never any more!”

With a gesture that was all womanly, and all beautiful, she leaned suddenly forward, and kissed him on the lips. Then, as if half ashamed of what she had done, she released her hands, and, with a quick half-whispered—“Good-bye!”—sped away from him through the wood.

Philip Chater stood looking after her, for a few moments, in a bewildered fashion; then, presently, sat down on a bank, and let his head drop into his hands.

“Oh—it’s horrible!” he groaned. “Here’s a woman—one of the best in the world, I’ll be sworn—holding my hands, and kissing my lying lips, and swearing that she loves me, and will make a new man of me; and the man she loves lies at the bottom of the river. I thought this was to be a mere question of money; a matter of ‘the king is dead—long live the king!’ but when it comes to lying steadily to a woman, it’s another business altogether. Yet, what am I to do?” He sat up, and stared hopelessly before him. “If I tell her that her lover is dead, I break her heart, and endanger my own neck; on the other hand, to keep up this mad game requires more subtlety than I possess, and the Devil’s own cheek. What a mighty uncomfortable pair of shoes I’ve stepped into!”

He heard a sudden rustling among the leaves near at hand, and the next moment a girlish figure sprang out, and confronted him. Raising his head slowly, from the ground upwards, he saw, first of all, a very trim little pair of shoes—a gay little Sunday frock—a remarkably neat waist—and so up to a mischievous face, shaded by a wide hat; and in that face were set the pair of black eyes which had looked at him in so audacious a manner in church, and which were regarding him roguishly enough now.

“Mr. Dandy Chater”—the voice of this girl of about eighteen was imperious, and she was evidently not a person to be trifled with—“I want to know what you mean by it?”

The situation was becoming something more than merely humorous. Philip Chater pushed back his hat, and gazed at her in perplexity; and, indeed, it must be admitted that, to be accosted in this fashion by a young lady, of whose name he was entirely ignorant, was enough to try the stoutest nerves. However, remembering all that was at stake, and seeing in this girl one of a very different stamp to the woman from whom he had just parted, he asked, with what carelessness he might—

“And what’s the matter with you?”

The girl stamped her foot, and began to twist the lace scarf she wore petulantly in her hands. “As if you didn’t know!” she exclaimed, passionately. “I’ve watched you, since you walked out of church—and I know why you went there—for the first time since you were christened, I should think. Surely, you remember all you said to me last week—when”—the little hands were very busy with the lace scarf at this point—“when you kissed me.”

Philip Chater rose hurriedly to his feet; advanced to the girl, and took her by the shoulders. “Look here, my dear,” he said—and his voice was really very plaintive—“if I kissed you, I’m very sorry—I mean—I ought not to have done it. In fact, there are a lot of things I’ve done in the past—and I’ve left them behind. You’re a very pretty girl—and I’m quite sure you’re a good girl; but you’d better not have anything more to do with me. It’s only too evident that I’m a bad lot. I think—in fact I’m quite sure—you’d better go home.”

He turned away, and walked further into the wood. Looking back, after going a little way, he saw her crouched down upon the ground, weeping as if her heart would break. Hastily consigning the late Dandy Chater’s love-affairs to a region where cynics assert they have their birth, he retraced his steps, and raised the girl from the ground. She was very pretty, and seemed so much a child that the man tenderly patted her shoulder, in an endeavour to comfort her.

“There—don’t cry, little one. I know I’ve been a brute—or, at least, I suppose I have; and I——”

“No—you haven’t,” sobbed the girl. “And please don’t mind me; you’d better go away; you’d better not be seen with me. He’ll kill you, if he finds us together—he said he would.”

“Who’ll kill me?” asked Philip, glancing round involuntarily.

“Harry.” She was still sobbing, but he caught the name distinctly.

“And who the deuce is Harry?”

“As if you didn’t know! Why, Harry, of course—your servant. And he’ll keep his word, too.”