In the grand old dining-room of Dalradern Castle, Sir Within was seated with his guest, Mr. Grenfell. The ample wood-fire on the hearth, the costly pictures on the walls, the table covered with decanters and flasks of various forms, the ample old chairs in which they lounged, suggested luxurious ease and enjoyment; and perhaps Grenfell, as he smoked his cigar, in accordance with the gracious permission of his host, did feel that it was a supreme moment of life; while certainly he, to whom all the precious appliances belonged, was ill at ease and uncomfortable, answering occasionally at random, and showing in many ways that his mind was deeply and far from pleasantly preoccupied.

Grenfell had been some days at the Castle, and liked his quarters. There were, it is true, many things he wished changed; some of them, he fancied, could be altered by a little adroit diplomacy with the butler and the housekeeper, and other heads of departments; others, of a more serious kind, he reserved to be dealt with when the time should come that he would be regarded in that house as little less than a master. He had weighed the matter carefully with himself, and determined that it was better to stand by Sir Within, old as he was, than to depend on the friendship of young Ladarelle, whose innate vulgarity would have made all companionship irksome, and whose inveterate obstinacy would have made guidance impossible.

The house had, indeed, great capabilities, and, with Sir Within’s means, might be made all that one could wish for. With the smallest imaginable addition to the household, thirty, ay, forty guests could be easily accommodated, and he, Grenfell, knew of such delightful people—such charming people—who would be in ecstasies to stop at a house where there was no mistress, where no return civilities were wanted, where each guest might be a law to himself as to his mode of life, and where the cellar was immaculate, and the cook better than at the Travellers’.

“If I could only get him out of this stupid isolation—if I could persuade him that all England is not like a Welsh county, and that this demure neighbourhood, with its antiquated prudery, has no resemblance to the charming world of seductive sinners I could bring around him, what a victory it would be!” To this end the first grand requisite was, that the old man should not marry. “If he marry,” argued Grenfell, “he will be so deplorably in love, that what between his passion and his jealousy, he’ll shut up the house, and nothing younger than the old French abbÉ will ever cross the threshold.”

Now Grenfell had not of late kept up any relations of intercourse with Ladarelle; indeed, in his life in town, he had avoided intimacy with one all whose associates were evidently taken from the lowest ranks of the turf, and the slang set of second-rate theatres. Grenfell could not, consequently, know what plan of campaign this promising young gentleman was following out; but when he learned that it was quite suddenly he had quitted the Castle, and that his servant, Mr. Fisk, had been left behind, he very soon established such a watch on the accomplished valet’s movements as satisfied him that he was there on duty as a spy, and that his daily visits to the post-office signified how industriously he despatched his intelligence. At first, Grenfell was disposed to make advances to Fisk, and win his confidence—a task not difficult to one whose whole life had been a series of such seductions; but he subsequently thought it might be better to hold himself quite aloof from all intercourse with the younger branch, and stand firmly by the head of the dynasty. “If Ladarelle be really gone after, this girl, to marry her, or to run off with her, it matters not which, he is playing my game. All I ask is, that Sir Within be not the bridegroom. If the shock of the disaster should not overwhelm him, there is nothing else to be dreaded.” There, indeed, lay the great peril; nor was Grenfell a man to undervalue it. In his contempt for all emotions, he naturally ascribed their strongest influences to those whose age had weakened their faculties and impaired their judgments. Love was a folly with the young; but with the old, it was the stupidest of all infatuations, and the reckless way in which an old man would resign fortune, station, and the whole world’s opinion on such an issue, was, to his thinking, the strongest possible evidence of second childhood.

“If I could make him feel the ridiculous part of the calamity, he would gain courage to brave the disaster,” thought he. And while he thus thought he smoked on in silence, neither uttering a word.

“Nine o’clock!” said Sir Within, as he counted the strokes of the timepiece. “Nine, and the post not in!”

“How easily one takes the delay of the mail when ‘the House’ is up,” said Grenfell, purposely saying what might possibly suggest some sort of dissent or opinion; but the old diplomatist had been too well schooled to fall into such indiscretion, and simply said, “It is true, we all hibernate when the autumn begins.”

Grenfell saw that his shell had not exploded, and began to talk at random about how much pleasanter it was to have one’s post of a morning—that letters should always come in with the eggs at breakfast—that people exchanged their gossip more genially then than at any other time; and, at last, arrived at what he sought to portray, the tableau of a charming party in a delightful country-house, “The best thing we have in England; and, indeed, the best thing the world has anywhere.”

“I quite agree with you,” said Sir Within, blandly. And he wiped the beautiful miniature of Marie Antoinette that adorned the lid of his snuff-box, and gazed with admiration at the lovely features.

“I fancy they know very little abroad of what we call country-house life?” half asked Grenfell.

“They have their gatherings at ‘the chateau’ in France; and in Italy they have their villÉgiatura———Ah, there he comes; I hear the clank of the post-bag!” He caught himself quickly, and resumed: “I rather like the villÉgiatura; there is not much trouble taken to entertain you, but you are free to dispose of yourself how you like. What has kept him so late, Fry?” said he, as the butler entered with the bag; “take it up to my room.”

“Oh, let us hear who has won the Cantelupe!” said Grenfell. “I have backed Grimsby’s horse, Black Ruin, at three to eight against the field.”

“Here’s the key, then,” said Sir Within, with well feigned indifference.

As Grenfell emptied the contents of the bag on the table, a square-shaped, somewhat-heavy packet fell to the floor, at Sir Within’s feet. The old man lifted it up and laid it on the table, but, on doing so, his hand trembled, and his colour changed.

“What about your race—has your horse won?” asked he, as Grenfell turned over the paper to find the sporting intelligence. “Oh, here it is—a dead heat between Black Ruin and Attila. Why, he’s Grimsby’s also. ‘Second heat, Attila walked over.’ What a sell! I see there’s a long letter about it from the correspondent; shall I read it for you?”

“By all means,” said Sir Within, not sorry to give him any occupation at the moment that might screen himself from all scrutiny.

“‘The long-expected match between Lord St. Dunstan’s well-known Carib Chief and Mr. Grimsby’s Black Ruin—for, in reality, the large field of outsiders, fourteen in number, might as well have been cantering over an American savannah—took place yesterday.’” He read on and on—the fluent common-places—about the course crowded with rank and fashion, amongst whom were noticed the usual celebrities of the turf, and was getting to the description of the scene at the weighing stand, when a dull, heavy sound startled him. He looked down, and saw that Sir Within had fallen from his chair to the floor, and lay stretched and motionless, with one arm across the fender.

Lifting him up, Grenfell carried him to a sofa. His face and forehead were crimson, and a strange sound came from the half-open lips, like a faint whistle. “This is apoplexy,” muttered Grenfell; and he turned to ring the bell and summon aid, but, as he did so, he perceived that several papers lay on the floor, and the envelope of a recently-opened packet amongst them. “Ha, here is what has done it!” muttered he to himself; and he held a square-shaped piece of coarse paper to the light and read the following, written in a bold, irregular hand:

“‘I, Paul O’Rafferty, P.P. of Drumcahill and Ardmorran, hereby certify that I have this day united in the bonds of holy matrimony, Adolphus Ladarelle, Esq., of Upper Portland-street, London, and the “Downs,” in Herefordshire, to Kate Luttrell, niece and sole heiress of John Hamilton Luttrell, Esq., of Arran; and that the ceremony was duly performed according to the rights and usages of the Holy Catholic Church, and witnessed by those whose names are attached to this document.

“‘Jane M’Cafferty, her mark X.

“‘Timothy O’Rorke, of Cush-ma-Creena.

“‘Given on this eighteenth of November, 18—.’”

Grenfell had not time to look at the other papers, for he heard a step in the corridor, and, thrusting them hastily into his pocket, he rang the bell violently, nor desisted till the door opened, and Mr. Fisk appeared.

“Call the people here—send for a doctor!” cried Grenfell. “Sir Within has been taken with a fit.”

“A fit, Sir! Indeed, how very dreadful,” said Fisk; but who, instead of hurrying off to obey the order, walked deliberately over and stared at the sick man. “He’ll not come round, Sir, take my word for it, Mr. Grenfell. It’s no use doing anything—it’s all up.”

“Go, send for a doctor at once,” said Grenfell, angrily.

“I assure you, Sir, it’s too late,” said the impassive valet, as he left the room in the same slow and measured pace he had entered.

Several servants, however, rushed now to answer the bell, which Grenfell rang unceasingly, and by them Sir Within was carried to his room, while messengers were despatched in all directions for medical aid. Once alone in his own room, and with the door locked, Grenfell re-read the document which had caused the disaster. He was not one of those men who suffer from the pangs of conscience on ordinary occasions, but he had his misgivings here that a certain piece of counsel he had once given might just as well have been withheld. If the shock should kill the old man, it would defeat all that policy to which he had been of late devoting himself. Young Ladarelle would have learned from Fisk enough about his, Grenfell’s, influence with Sir Within to shut the doors against him when he had succeeded to the estate. These were painful reflections, and made him think that very probably he had “been backing the wrong stable.”

“Is the fellow really married?” muttered he, as he sat examining the paper. “This document does not seem to me very formal. It is not like the copy of a registry, and, if the marriage were duly solemnised, why is it not stated where it took place?”

He turned to the long letter which accompanied the certificate. It was from Ladarelle, half apologetically, announcing his marriage, and stating that the intelligence could doubtless only prove gratifying to Sir Within, since the object of his choice had so long been the recipient of so many favours from Sir Within himself, and one whose gratitude had already cemented the ties of relationship which bound her to the family. It was long and common-place throughout, and bore to the keen eyes of him who read it the evidence of being written to sustain a fraud.

“There has been no marriage,” said Grenfell, as he closed the letter. “She has been duped and tricked, but how, and to what extent, I know not. If I were to send for Fisk, and tell him that I had just received this letter from his master, the fellow might accord me his confidence, and tell me everything.”

He rang the bell at once, but, when the servant answered the summons, he said that Mr. Fisk had left the Castle with post-horses half an hour before, it was supposed for town.

Ladarelle’s letter finished by saying, “We are off to Paris, where we remain, HÔtel Grammont, Rue Royale, till the 30th; thence we shall probably go south—not quite certain where.”

“No, no, there has been no marriage—not even a mock one. All these details are far too minute and circumstantial, and these messages of ‘my dear wife’ are all unreal. But what can it matter? If the old man should only rally, it is all for the best.”

A knock came to the door. It was Doctor Price. “All is going on favourably. It was shock—only shock of the nervous system—nothing paralytic,” said he; “and he is more concerned to know that his face was not bruised, nor his hands scratched, than anything else. He wishes to see you immediately.”

“Is it quite prudent to go and talk to him just yet?”

“Better than render him irritable by refusing to see him. You will, of course, use your discretion on the topic you discuss with him.”

Grenfell was soon at the sick man’s bedside, none but themselves in the room.

“We are alone, are we?” asked Sir Within, faintly.

“Quite alone.”

“Yates says there were no letters or papers to be found when he entered the room——”

“I placed them all in my pocket,” interrupted Grenfell. “There were so many people about, and that fellow of young Ladarelle’s too, that I thought it best not to leave anything at their mercy.”

“It was very kind and very thoughtful. Where are they?”

“Here. I sealed them up in their own envelope.”

The old man took the paper with a trembling hand, and placed it under his pillow. He had little doubt but that they had been read—his old experiences in diplomacy gave no credit to any sense of honour on this head—but he said not a word of this.

“Adolphus has married the girl you saw here—my ward, he used to call her,” said he, in a low whisper.

“Indeed! Is it a good match? Has she fortune?”

“Not a shilling. Neither fortune nor family.”

“Then you are not pleased with the connexion?”

Sir Within drew a long sigh, and said: “It is no affair of mine. His father will, perhaps, not like it.”

“How did it come about? Where did it take place?”

“Nothing—nothing but misery before her!” muttered the old man, unheeding his question.

“Do you think he will treat her ill?”

“A life of sorrow—of sorrow and shame!” murmured he, still lower. “Poor girl!—poor unhappy girl!”

Grenfell was silent, and the other, after a pause, went on:

“His father is sure to be displeased; he is a violent man, too, and one can’t say to what lengths temper may carry him. And all this will fall upon her!”

“Do you think so?”

“I know him well!” He mused for several minutes, and then said to himself: “I could not—I could not—not for worlds!” And then aloud: “But I could leave this—leave the Castle, and let them come here. How she loved it once! Oh, if you knew how happy she was here!” He covered his face with his hands, and lay thus a considerable time.

“And do you mean to invite them here?” asked Grenfell at last.

“You can write it for me,” said he, still pursuing his own train of thought. “You can tell him that, not being well—having some difficulty in holding a pen—I have begged of you to say that the Castle is at their disposal—that I mean to leave this—where shall I say for?—to leave this for the south of France, or Italy.”

“Are you equal to such a journey? Have you strength for it?”

“Far more than to stay here and meet her—them—meet them,” added he, almost peevishly. “I have not health nor spirits for seeing company, and of course people will call, and there will be dinners and receptions—all things I am unfit for. Say this for me, dear Mr. Grenfell, and tell Yates that I mean to go up to town to-morrow.”

Grenfell shook his head to imply dissent, but the other resumed:

“If you knew me better, Sir, you would know that my energy never failed me when I called upon it. I have been tried pretty sorely once or twice in life, and yet no disaster has found me faint-hearted!” As he spoke, a gleam of pride lighted up his features, and he looked all that he thought himself. “Will you take this key of the gem-room,” said he, after a pause; “and in the second drawer of the large ebony cabinet you will find a green morocco-case; it has my mother’s name on it, Olivia Trevor. Do me the favour to bring it to me. This was a wedding present some eighty years ago, Mr. Grenfell,” said he, as he unclasped the casket that the other placed in his hands. “It was the fashion of those days to set gems on either side, and here you have emeralds, and here are opals. Ladies were wont to turn their necklaces in the course of an entertainment; they are content with less costly changes now: they merely change their affections.” He tried to smile, but his lips trembled, and his voice all but failed him.

“It is very magnificent!” exclaimed Grenfell, who was truly surprised at the splendour of the jewels.

“The Margravine of Anhalt’s present to my mother, Sir!” As the glow of pride the recollection imparted to his face faded away, a sickly pallor succeeded, and, in a tone of broken and difficult utterance, he said: “Be kind enough to place this in an envelope, seal it with my arms, and address it, ‘Mrs. A. Ladarelle, de la part de W. W.’ That will be quite sufficient.”

“They are splendid stones!” said Grenfell, who seemed never to weary of his admiration.

“They will become her, Sir, and she will become them!” said the old man, with an immense effort to seem calm and collected. “I believe,” said he at last, with a faint smile, “I am overtaxing this poor strength of mine. Price warned me to be careful. Will you forgive me if I ask you to leave me to my own sorry company? You’ll come back in the evening, won’t you? Thanks—my best thanks!” And he smiled his most gracious smile, and made a little familiar gesture with his hand; and then as the door closed, and he felt that none saw him, he turned his face to the pillow and sobbed—sobbed convulsively.

Although Grenfell had acceded to Sir Within’s request to write the invitation to Ladarelle, he secretly determined that he would not commit himself to the step without previously ascertaining if the marriage had really taken place, because, as he said to himself, this young fellow must never get it into his head that he has deceived such a man as me. He therefore wrote a short, half jocular note, addressed to Ladarelle at his club in town, saying that he had read his letter to Sir Within, and was not one-half so much overcome by the tidings as his respected relative. “‘In fact,’ said he, ‘I have arrived at that time of life in which men believe very little of what they hear, and attach even less of importance to that little. At all events, Sir Within will not remain here; he means to go abroad at once, and Dalradern will soon be at your disposal, either to pass your honeymoon, or rejoice over your bachelor freedom in, and I offer myself as your guest under either casualty.’ The answer will show me,” muttered he, “what are to be our future relations towards each other. And now for a good sleep, as befits a man with an easy conscience.”