 
Transcriber's Notes:
COLLECTIONOFBRITISH AUTHORSTAUCHNITZ EDITION.VOL. 1271.WITHIN THE MAZE BY MRS. HENRY WOODIN TWO VOLUMES. | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTSOF VOLUME II. | |
| CHAPTER | |
| I. | The Maze invaded. |
| II. | Recognised. |
| III. | A new Lodger in Paradise Row. |
| IV. | Nurse Chaffen on Duty. |
| V. | Watching the House. |
| VI. | At Afternoon Service. |
| VII. | At Lawyer St. Henry's. |
| VIII. | Another Kettledrum. |
| IX. | Only a Night Owl. |
| X. | One Day in her Life. |
| XI. | Mrs. Chaffen disturbed. |
| XII. | Baffled. |
| XIII. | At Scotland Yard. |
| XIV. | Ill-omened Chances. |
| XV. | Ann Hopley startled. |
| XVI. | Up the Spouts and down the Drains. |
| XVII. | Taken from the Evil to come. |
| XVIII. | News for Mr. Tatton. |
| XIX. | Mrs. Cleeve at Fault. |
| XX. | At the Red Dawn. |
| XXI. | Laid to his Rest. |
| XXII. | Repentance. |
| XXIII. | Only a Man like other Men. |
| Conclusion. | |
WITHIN THE MAZE.
CHAPTER I.
The Maze invaded.
The previous night's black cloud had culminated in a thunder-storm, and the morning air felt fresh and cool; but the blue sky was clear, the sun as bright as ever.
Lucy came down with sad eyes and a pale face. Her night had been one of mental pain. She was wondering how much longer she could keep up this mask of cheerfulness--which she would especially have to wear that day; and she knew that she could not have done it at all, then or at any other time, but for the very present help of God. Karl, waiting in the breakfast-room, turned to shake hands with her. But for their being alone, he would not have ventured on this eminently suggestive action.
"How are you to-day, Lucy?"
"Oh, quite well, thank you. Did you hear the storm?"
"Yes. It has cleared away some of the sultry heat. We shall have a lovely day."
The Lloyds were expected from Basham. When at the flower-show the previous day, Lucy had remarked that some of the hot-house plants were not as fine as those at Foxwood: upon that, the General and one of his daughters had simultaneously expressed a wish to see those at Foxwood. Lucy at once gave the invitation; and it was arranged that they should spend the next day at the Court. She had told her husband of this while Captain Lamprey was present; but it had not been alluded to afterwards. She spoke again now, while she and Karl were waiting breakfast for Miss Blake, who was at Matins at St. Jerome's.
"I could not do less than ask them," she observed. "I hope you are not vexed."
"You did quite right, Lucy," he cheerfully answered. "I shall be glad to see them."
"I don't know how many will come. Perhaps all; except Mrs. Lloyd, who never goes out anywhere. I hope Theresa will give up St. Jerome's for the rest of the day, and stay at home to help me entertain them."
Karl smiled. "To make sure of that you should invite Mr. Cattacomb."
"But you would not like that, would you?"
"No. I was only joking, Lucy. Here she is."
The Lloyds had said they would come early, and Karl strolled out to meet the eleven o'clock train, leaving his wife decorating her drawing-room with flowers. Unhappy though Lucy was, she was proud of her home, and pleased that it should find admiration in the eyes of the world.
As Karl was passing Clematis Cottage, he saw Mr. Smith seated at the open window, leisurely enjoying the freshened air, and smoking a cigar. Karl had been wanting to take a close, observant view of him; and he turned in on the spur of the moment. The asking for something which he really required afforded an excuse. Mr. Smith rose up to receive him graciously, and threw his half-smoked cigar out at the window.
"I think you have the plan of the out-lying lands of the estate, Mr. Smith, where the new cottages are to be built? Will you spare it to me in the course of the day? I will send Hewitt for it."
"Certainly, Sir Karl; it is at your service. Won't you take a seat? The bit of a breeze at this open window is quite refreshing."
Karl sat down. Mr. Smith's green glasses lay on the table, and he could enjoy as clear a view of him as he pleased. The agent talked away, all unconscious no doubt that notes were being taken of his face and form.
"It is his own hair," mentally spoke Karl. "'Very dark brown,' they said; 'nearly black.' Just so. At the time of the escape Salter had neither whiskers nor beard nor moustache: the probability being, they thought, that he had now a full crop of all. Just so, again. Eyebrows: thick and arched, Grimley said: these are not thick; nor, what I should call, arched: perhaps there may be some way of manipulating eyebrows, and these have undergone the process. Eyes brown: yes. Face fresh and pleasant: yes. Voice and manners free and genial: yes. Age?--there I can't make the two ends meet. I am sure this man's forty. Is it Salter, or is it not?" finally summed up Karl. "I don't know, I think it is: but I don't know."
"Truefit the farmer spoke to me yesterday, Sir Karl," broke in Mr. Smith on his musings. "He was asking whether you and Lady Andinnian viewed this new farce on his grounds with approbation. That's what he called it--farce. Meaning St. Jerome's."
"I suppose he does not like it," observed Karl.
"I fancy he does not really care about it himself, one way or the other, Sir Karl; in fact, he signified as much. But it seems his better-half, Mrs. Truefit, has taken a prejudice against it: calling the ceremonies 'goings-on,' and 'rubbish,' and 'scandal,' and all sorts of depreciating things. It is a pity Mr. Cattacomb can't confine himself to tolerable common-sense. The idea of their hanging that bell outside over the door, and pulling it perpetually!"
"Yes," said Karl. "So much nonsense takes all solemnity away."
"They are going to dress Tom Pepp in a white garment now, while he rings it, with a red cross down the back. It's that, I fancy, that has put up Mrs. Truefit. I told the farmer that I believed Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian did not favour the place: at least, that I had never seen them attend it."
"And you never will," returned Karl, as he rose.
There was nothing to stay for; his observations were taken, and he departed, having to walk quickly to be in time at the station. Had he been free in mind the matters connected with St. Jerome's might have vexed him more than they did: but all annoyances were lost sight of in his one great care.
The train came in, and the party arrived by it; six of them. Captain Lloyd, who was at home on leave; two Miss Lloyds; a married sister and her husband, Mr. and Mrs. Panton, at present staying on a visit; and the General.
Karl had expressed pleasure at his wife's invitation; perhaps had felt it; but he could not foresee the unlucky contretemps that the visit was to bring forth. To his unbounded astonishment, his inward confusion, no sooner had his guests entered Foxwood Court, than they expressed a wish to see the place called the Maze, and requested Sir Karl to conduct them to it.
"I was telling Panton about the Maze last night--talking of the Court and its surroundings," observed the General. "Panton does not believe it possible that one could lose oneself in any maze whatever: so I promised him he should have a try at it. You will afford us the opportunity of seeing it, Sir Karl."
"I--I am not sure," stammered Karl, utterly taken aback, while his wife's face flushed a burning red. "I hardly think it is in my power, General. The lady who inhabits it desires to keep herself so very quiet, that I should not feel justified in intruding upon her. She is not in strong health, I believe."
"But we would not think of disturbing the lady," called out all the voices together. "We only wish to see the maze of trees, Sir Karl: not the dwelling-house. What's her name?"
"Grey."
"Well, we shall not hurt her. Does she live by herself?"
"While her husband is abroad. I am sure she will not choose to be intruded upon."
Sir Karl might as well have talked to the winds. All opposed him. Of course there was no suspicion that he had any personal objection; only that he wished to respect the scruples of his lady-tenant. At length, the General declared he would go over to Mrs. Grey, ask to see her, and personally prefer the request. Poor Karl was at his wits' end. He saw that he should not be able to stem the storm--for he dared not be resolute in the denial, so fearful was he always of arousing any suspicion of there being a mystery in the place--and he was fain to yield. He would take them over, he said; but not before he had sent a note to say that they were coming. This he insisted on; it would be but common politeness, he urged; and they all agreed with him.
Hastily writing a few words to Mrs. Grey in his own room, he called Hewitt to take the note over, and gave him at the same time a private message to deliver to Ann Hopley. Of course Karl's object was to warn his brother to keep out of sight--and Mrs. Grey too. Hewitt looked more scared than his master.
"To think of their wanting to go over there!" he exclaimed in a low tone of covert fear.
"It can't be helped, Hewitt. Go."
A few minutes, and Hewitt came back with a message: which he delivered to his master in public. Mrs. Grey's compliments to Sir Karl Andinnian, and he was at liberty to bring his friends within her gates if he pleased. So they all started; Lucy with them.
Lucy with them!
The ladies had assumed it to be so much a matter of course that their hostess should accompany them, that Lucy, timid in her self-consciousness, saw not her way clear to any plea of excuse. And it might be that, down deep in her woman's frail heart, there was a hankering longing to see the inside of that place which contained her rival. In the midst of her indecision she glanced at Karl and hesitated. But he saw not the look or the hesitation: for all the sign he gave out, she was as welcome to go to the place as these guests were. It is true that Miss Blake fixed her eyes upon her, and Lucy coloured under it; but perhaps the very fact only served to speed her on the way.
The party started, passing out at the grand gates of Foxwood. Between that spot and the Maze, short though it was, they encountered Mr. Cattacomb. Miss Blake took upon herself to introduce him, and to ask him to accompany them, saying they were going to see that renowned show-place, the Maze.
"I did not know we had a show-place in the neighbourhood," drawled Mr. Cattacomb in his affectation.
"Neither have we," curtly rejoined Sir Karl, who would willingly have pitched Mr. Cattacomb over a mile elsewhere, but did not see an excuse for doing it. "The Maze was never constituted a show-place yet, Miss Blake. I feel anything but comfortable at intruding there to-day, I assure you. Between my wish to gratify my friends, and my fear that it may be objectionable to the occupant of the Maze, I am in a blissful state of uncertainty," he added in a laughing kind of way, for the general benefit, fearing he might have spoken too pointedly and shown that he was really ill at ease.
"Sir Karl is ultra-sensitive," remarked Miss Blake--and a keen observer might have fancied there was some sarcasm in her tone.
Karl rang the clanging bell--which might be heard far and wide; and Ann Hopley appeared, the key of the gate in her hand. She curtsied to the company as she admitted them.
"My mistress desires me to say, Sir Karl, that she hopes the gentle-people will see all they wish to see," cried the woman aloud, addressing the rest as much as she did Sir Karl. "Mrs. Grey begs they will pardon her not appearing to welcome them, but she is not well to-day, and has to keep her room."
"Mrs. Grey is very kind," returned Sir Karl. "We shall be cautious not to disturb her."
They filed of their own accord into the maze. The old trees had not been so beset with gay tongues and laughter for many a day. One ran here, another there; they were like school boys and girls out for a holiday. Ann Hopley was about to follow them in when the clanging bell at the gate once more sounded, and she turned back to open it. Karl, never at rest--as who could be, knowing what he knew--looked after her while he talked with the rest; and he saw that the visitor was a policeman.
His heart leaped into his mouth. Careless, in the moment's terror, of what might be thought of him, he broke off in the middle of a sentence to the General, and returned to the gate. His face was never very rosy, but every vestige of colour had forsaken it now. At a collected moment, he would have remembered that it was not in that way his brother would have been sought out--in the person of one solitary unarmed policeman--but fear scares probability away: as Rose had observed to him only the previous evening. Worse than all, the rest came flocking to the gate after him.
"Grey, ain't it?" the policeman was saying to Ann Hopley. He had a paper in his hand and a pencil.
"Mrs. Grey," replied the servant.
"Mrs. Grey. There ain't no husband, I think?"
"No."
"What's her Chris'en name?"
A warning glance shot from Sir Karl's eyes, cautioning Ann Hopley to be on her guard. In truth it was not needed: the woman was caution itself, and had her ready wits at hand always. Karl saw what it was--some parish paper about to be left--and was recovering his inward equanimity.
"My mistress's Christian name? Mary."
"Mrs. Mary Grey," repeated the policeman, writing down the name on the paper. "You'll please to give it her," he added, handing the paper in. "It have got to be attended to."
"All tax-papers for Mrs. Grey must come to Foxwood Court," interposed, Sir Karl. "Mrs. Grey takes the house furnished, and has nothing to do with the taxes."
"Beg pardon, Sir Karl, but that there's a voting-paper for a poor-law guardian," said the man, touching his hat.
"Oh, a voting-paper. Let it go in then," concluded Sir Karl. Mrs. Grey had no more to do with voting than she had with taxes; but Sir Karl let it pass.
They were in the maze again; Ann Hopley having wound herself out of sight with the paper. Mr. Panton, the disbeliever, wound himself in and out of the trees and about the paths; but the voices always guided him back again.
"What a delightful place, Sir Karl!" cried Mrs. Panton. "Quite like a Fair Rosamond's Bower."
Sir Karl laughed in reply. And--as Miss Blake noticed--there was not a trace of shame in his face. Lucy's colour, though, rose painfully.
"Let me see! it was a silken thread, was it not, that guided Queen Eleanor to her rival?" continued Mrs. Panton. "A cruel woman! I wonder whether she carried the bowl of poison in her hand?"
"I wonder if the woman who destroyed the Queen's happiness, had any forewarning in her dreams of the fate in store for her?" retorted Miss Blake, sharply--for she was thinking of another case, very near to her, that she judged to be analogous. "For her punishment, it is to be hoped she had."
"Oh, but you know she was so lovely, poor thing! One can but pity her; can we, Lady Andinnian?"
"I know nothing of it," spoke Lucy, in so chafed a tone that Karl turned to look at her.
"My opinion is, that the King should have taken half the bowl," said Miss Blake. "That would have been even justice, Mrs. Panton."
"Well, well, judge it as you will, Fair Rosamond was very beautiful; and her fate was shocking. Of course the Queen was incensed; naturally: and the crime of poisoning in those days was, I suppose, looked upon as no crime at all. I have always wished the Queen had been lost in the maze and the poison spilt."
"Suppose we get lost in this one!"
It was Miss Lloyd who spoke, hurriedly and somewhat anxiously. It brought most of them around her.
"There is no danger here, is there? Sir Karl, you know the way out, I suppose?"
Karl evaded the question. "If the worst come to the worst, we can set on and shout," he observed.
"But don't you know the clue? Is there not a clue? There must be!"
"I see nothing of the kind," returned Karl. "You forget that I am almost a stranger in the neighbourhood. We shall be all right. Don't fear."
How Lucy despised him for his deceit! She felt that he must have the clue: why else need he let himself within the gate with his key--at least, with any purpose of finding his way further in after it? Miss Blake caught her eye; and Lucy turned away, sick at heart, from the compassion Miss Blake's glance wore.
Sir Karl's "Don't fear" had been reassuring, and they dispersed about the Maze and lost themselves in it, very much as Miss Blake had once done. Mr. Cattacomb kept asking questions about the mistress of the Maze: why she lived there alone, where her husband was: for all of which Sir Karl could have struck him. He, Karl, would have contrived to keep them from the boundaries near the house: but they were as nine to one, and went whither they would: and, as had been Miss Blake's case, they got within view of it at last.
"What a pretty place!" was the involuntary exclamation from more than one.
It did look pretty: pretty and very cheerful. The windows of the house were open; the door of the porch was fastened back, as if to invite entrance. Not a sign or symptom existed of there being any cause for concealment.
So far good, and Karl felt satisfied. But, as his eyes went ranging far and wide in their longed-for security, there was no doubt that he somewhere or other caught sight of his imprudent brother; for his face changed to an ashy paleness, and he groaned in spirit.
"Adam is surely mad," was his mental cry.
Ann Hopley, who had probably been waiting about, stepped up at this moment, and asked with much civility if they would like to walk indoors and rest. Sir Karl, looking at his friends, as if for acquiescence in his denial, declined. "We have no right to intrude," he whispered: and the General said so too.
"This might really do for a Rosamond's Bower!" cried Mrs. Panton. "It is a sweetly pretty place."
The lawn was level as a bowling-green; the flowers and shrubs surrounding it were well-kept, fragrant, and blooming. Mounted on a ladder, nailing some branches against a wall that probably belonged to a tool-house, was the toothless old gardener, his knees swollen and bent, his white smock frock rolled up around him.
"That's the gardener at his work, I suppose?" observed the General, whose eyes were dim.
"Yes, that's Hopley," said Karl.
"What d'ye call his name; Sir Karl?"
"Hopley. He is the woman's husband."
"I had a servant once of that name when I was quartered at Malta. A good servant he was, too."
"That man yonder looks ill," remarked Mrs. Panton.
"I fancy he is subject to rheumatism," said Sir Karl. "How is your husband?" he enquired of Ann Hopley.
"Pretty middling, sir, thank you," she answered. "He is getting in years you see, gentlefolks, and is not as strong as he was."
"Will you be so good as precede us through the Maze and let us out," said Karl to her. "I think it is time we went," he added to the others: "we have seen all there is to see."
Ann Hopley, key in hand, went winding through the Maze, in and out of the numberless paths. It seemed to those following, her that they only went round and round--just as it had seemed to Miss Blake that former day; and it took some time to get through it. The Reverend Mr. Cattacomb called it "a pilgrimage."
She was crafty, that faithful woman. Just as she had led Miss Blake a needlessly roundabout way, so she led them now. Had she taken them direct through, who knew but they might have caught some inkling of the clue? While opening the gate, General Lloyd would have put half-a-crown into her hand. She would not take it.
"I'd rather not, sir; I've done nothing to merit it. Our mistress pays us both well. Thank you, sir, all the same."
"A good, respectable, honest servant, that," remarked the General, slipping the money into his pocket again.
Crossing the road from the Maze, the party came right in view of Clematis Cottage and Mr. Smith, who was leaning over the gate of it and staring with all his might. He raised his hat to the ladies generally, and then accosted Sir Karl, saying he had taken the plan, asked for, to the Court.
"Thank you," replied Karl.
"Who is that man?" cried Captain Lloyd with some energy as they went on. "I am sure I know him."
"His name's Smith," replied Karl. "He is a sort of agent on my estate."
"Smith--Smith! I don't recollect the name. His face is quite familiar to me, though. Where can I have seen it?"
Karl longed in his heart to ask whether the face had ever belonged to the name of Salter; but he did not dare. There had been a peculiar expression in Mr. Smith's eyes as he spoke to him just now, which Karl had read rightly--he was sure Smith wanted to speak to him privately. So, after the rest had entered the home gates, he turned back. The agent had not stirred from his place.
"What have those people been doing there, Sir Karl?" he asked, with a peremptory action of his hand towards the Maze.
Karl explained. He did not dare do otherwise. Explained in full.
"Curious fools!" cried the man angrily. "Well, no harm seems to have been done, sir. Seeing you all come out of the gate, I could not believe my eyes, or imagine what was up."
"I fancied you wished to speak to me, Mr. Smith."
"And so I do, Sir Karl. The letters were late this morning--did you know it? They've only just been delivered. Some accident, I suppose."
"I only know that none came to Foxwood Court this morning."
"Just so. Well, Sir Karl, I've had one; ten minutes ago. I wrote to make inquiries about that paragraph, in the newspaper, and this letter was the answer to mine. It is as I thought. There's nothing known or suspected at all at headquarters; neither at Scotland Yard nor Portland Island. It was the work of the penny-a-liner, hang him!----just an invention, and nothing else."
"To whom did you write?"
"Well, that's my business, and I cannot tell you. But you may rely upon what I say, Sir Karl, and set your mind at rest. I thought you'd like to know this, sir, as, soon as possible."
"Thank you," replied Karl.
He went back to his guests, his brain busy. Was this true, that Smith said? Who then was Smith that he could get this information? Or, was it that Smith was saying it for a purpose?
CHAPTER II.
Recognised.
The buff-coloured blinds were down before Mr. Burtenshaw's windows in the Euston Road, shutting out the glare of the afternoon sun, and throwing an unwholesome kind of tint over the rooms. In one of them, the front room on the first floor, sat the detective himself. It was indeed a kind of office as well as a sitting-room: papers strewed the table; pigeon holes and shelves, all filled, were ranged along the walls.
Mr. Burtenshaw had a complicated case in hand at that period. Some fresh information had just come in by a private letter, and he was giving the best attention of his clear mind to it: his head bent over the table; his hands resting on the papers immediately before him. Apparently he arrived at some conclusion: for he nodded twice and then began to fold the papers together.
The servant-maid, with the flaunty cap tilted on her head, entered the room, and said to her master that a gentleman had called and was requesting to see him.
"Who is it?" asked Mr. Burtenshaw.
"He gave no name, sir. It's the same gentleman who called twice or thrice in one day about a fortnight ago: the last time late at night. He's very nice-looking, sir; might be known for a gentleman a mile off." The detective carried his thoughts back, and remembered. "You can show him up," he said. "Or----stay, Harriet," he suddenly added, as the girl was leaving the room. "Go down first of all and ask the gentleman his name."
She went as desired; and came up again fixing her absurd cap on its tottering pinnacle.
"The gentleman says, sir, that you don't know him by name, but his solicitors are Messrs. Plunkett and Plunkett."
"Ay. Show him up," said Mr. Burtenshaw. "He has a motive for withholding his name," mentally added the detective.
The reader need not be told that it was Karl Andinnian who entered. The object of his visit was to get, it possible, some more information respecting Philip Salter.
Day by day and week by week, as the days and weeks went on, had served to show Karl Andinnian that his brother's stay at the Maze was growing more full of risk. Karl and Mrs. Grey, conversing on the matter as opportunity occurred, had nearly set it down as a certainty that Smith was no other than Salter. She felt sure of it. Karl nearly so. And he was persuaded that, once Smith's influence could be removed, Adam might get safely away.
The question ever agitating Karl's brain, in the midnight watches, in the garish day, was--what could he do in the matter?--how proceed in it at all with perfect security? The first thing of course was to ascertain that the man was Salter; the next to make a bargain with him: "You leave my brother free, and I will leave you free." For it was by no means his intention to deliver Salter up to justice. Karl had realized too keenly the distress and horror that must be the portion of a poor fugitive, hiding from the law, to denounce the worst criminal living.
The difficulty lay entirely in the first step--the identification of Smith with Salter. How could he ascertain it? He did not know. He could not see any means by which it might be accomplished with safety. Grimley knew Salter--as in fact did several of Grimley's brotherhood--but, if he once brought Grimley within a bird's-eye view of Smith (Smith being Salter) Grimley would at once lay his grasping hands upon him. All would probably be over then: for the chances were that Salter in revenge would point his finger to the Maze, and say "There lives a greater criminal than I; your supposed dead convict, Adam Andinnian."
The reader must see the difficulty and the danger. Karl dared not bring Grimley or any other of the police in contact with Smith; he dared not give them a clue to where he might be found: and he had to fall back upon the uncertain and unsatisfactory step of endeavouring to track out the identity himself.
"If I could but get to know Burtenshaw's reason for thinking Salter was in England," he exclaimed to himself over and over again, "perhaps it might help me. Suppose I were to ask Burtenshaw again--and press it on him? Something might come of it. After all, he could but refuse to tell me."
Just as Karl, after much painful deliberation, had determined to do this, there arrived at Foxwood a summons for his wife. Colonel Cleeve was attacked with sudden illness. In the first shock of it, Mrs. Cleeve feared it might prove fatal, and she sent for Lucy. Karl took her to Winchester and left her, and at once took up his own abode for a few days in London. The Court had none too much attraction for him as matters stood, and he did not care to be left to entertain Miss Blake. So long as his wife stayed away, he meant to stay.
The following afternoon saw him at the detective's. Mr. Burtenshaw had thought his unknown visitor looking ill before: he looked worse now. "A delicate man with some great care upon him," summed up the officer to himself.
Karl, opening his business, led up to the question he had come to ask. Would Mr. Burtenshaw confide to him the reason for his supposing Philip Salter to be still in England? At first Mr. Burtenshaw said No; that it could not, he imagined, concern him or anyone else to hear it. Karl pleaded, and pleaded earnestly.
"Whatever you say shall be kept strictly sacred," he urged. "It cannot do harm to any one. I have a powerful motive for asking it."
"And a painful one, too," thought the detective. Karl was leaning forward in his chair, his pale face slightly flushed with inward emotion, his beautiful grey eyes full of eager entreaty, and a strange sadness in their depths.
"Will you impart to me, sir, your motive for wishing to know this?"
"No, I cannot," said Karl. "I wish I could, but I cannot."
"I fancy that you must know Salter's retreat, sir--or think you know it: and you want to be assured it is he before you denounce him," spoke the detective, hazarding a shrewd guess.
Karl raised his hand to enforce what he said, speaking solemnly. "Were I able to put my finger this moment upon Salter, I would not denounce him. Nothing would induce me. You may believe me when I say that, in asking for this information, I intend no harm to him."
The detective saw how true were the words. There was something in Karl Andinnian strangely attractive, and he began to waver.
"It is not of much consequence whether I give you the information or whether I withhold it," he acknowledged, giving way. "The fact is this: one of our men who knew Salter, thought he saw him some three or four months ago. He, our man, was on the Great Western line, going to Bath; in passing a station where they did not stop, he saw (or thought he saw) Salter standing there. He is a cool-judging, keen-sighted officer, and I do not myself think he could have been mistaken. We followed up the scent at once, but nothing has come of it."
Karl made no answer: he was considering. Three or four months ago? That was about the time, he fancied, that Smith took up his abode at Foxwood. Previous to that, he might have been all over England, for aught Karl could tell.
"Just before that," resumed the detective, "another of the men struck up a cock-and-bull story that Salter was living in Aberdeen. I forget the precise reason he had for asserting it. We instituted inquiries: but, like the later tale, they resulted in nothing. As yet, we have no sure clue to Salter."
"That is all you know!" asked Karl.
"Every word. Has the information helped you?"
"Not in the least degree."
There was nothing else for Karl to wait for. His visit had been a fruitless one. "I should have liked to see Grimley once again," he said as he rose. "Is he in town?"
"Grimley is in the house now. At least, he ought to be. He is engaged in a case under me, and was to be here at three o'clock for instructions. Will you see him?"
"If you please."
It had occurred to Karl more than once that he should like to describe Smith accurately to Grimley, and ask whether the description tallied with Salter's. He could do it without affording any clue to Smith or his locality.
Mr. Burtenshaw rang, and told the maid to send up Grimley, if he had come. In obedience to this, Grimley, in his official clothes, appeared, and another officer with him.
"Oh, I don't want you just yet, Watts," said Mr. Burtenshaw. "Wait down stairs."
"Very well, sir," replied the man. "I may as well give you this, though," he added, crossing the room and placing a small box the size of a five-shilling-piece on the table. Mr. Burtenshaw looked at it curiously, and then slipped it into the drawer at his left hand.
"From Jacob, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir."
The man left the room. Karl, after a few preliminary words with Grimley, gave an elaborate and close description of Smith's figure and features. "Is it like Salter?" he asked.
"If it isn't him, sir, it's his twin brother," was Grimley's emphatic answer. "As to his looking forty, it is only to be expected. Nothing ages a man like living a life of fear."
Karl remembered how Adam had aged and was ageing, and silently acquiesced. He began to think he saw his way somewhat more clearly; that the man at Foxwood was certainly Salter. Handing over a gratuity to Grimley, and taking leave of Mr. Burtenshaw, he departed, leaving the other two talking of him.
"He has dropped upon Salter," remarked Grimley.
"Yes," said Mr. Burtenshaw. "But he does not intend to deliver him up."
"No!" cried the other in amazement. "Why not, sir?"
"I don't know," said Mr. Burtenshaw. "He said he had no intention of the kind--and I am sure he has not. It seemed to me to be rather the contrary--that he wants to screen him."
"Then he told you, sir, that he had found Salter?"
"No, he did not. We were speaking on supposition."
"Who is this gentleman, sir?"
"I don't know who he is. He keeps his name from me."
Mr. Grimley felt anything but satisfied with the present aspect of the affair. What right had this stranger, who wanted to know all about Salter, to refuse to denounce him? Once more he asked Mr. Burtenshaw if he did not know who he was, but the latter repeated his denial. During the discussion, the man Watts entered the room again, and heard what passed. He looked at Mr. Burtenshaw.
"Are you speaking of the gentleman just gone out, sir? I know him."
"Why, who is he?" asked Mr. Burtenshaw, who had taken out the little box again, and was opening it.
"Sir Karl Andinnian."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the detective, aroused to interest. For Sir Karl Andinnian, brother to the criminal who had made so much stir in the world, was a noted name amongst the force.
"It is," said Watts. "I knew him the minute I came in. I was present at the trial in Northampton, sir, when his brother was condemned to death; this gentleman sat all day at the solicitors' table. I had gone down there on that business of Patteson's."
"No wonder he has a sad look," thought the detective. "Adam Andinnian's was a mournful case, and his death was mournful. But what interest can Sir Karl have in Salter?"
There was one, at least, who determined to ascertain, if possible, what that interest was--and that was Mr. Policeman Grimley. A shrewd man by nature, a very shrewd one by experience, he drew his own deductions--and they were anything but favourable to the future security of some of the inhabitants of Foxwood. Could Karl Andinnian have seen what his morning's work had done for him, he would have been ready to sit in sackcloth and ashes, after the manner of the mourners of old.
"Sir Karl's living at Foxwood Court with his young wife," ran Mr. Grimley's thoughts: "I know that much. Wherever this Salter is, it's not far from him, I'll lay. Hid in Foxwood, and no mistake! I'll get him unearthed if it costs me my place. Let's see; how shall I set about it?"
As a preliminary step, he gently sounded Mr. Burtenshaw; but found he could get no help from him: it was not the detective's custom to stir in any matter without orders. Mr. Grimley then slept a night upon it, and in the morning had resolved to strike a bold stroke. Obtaining a private interview with one who was high in the force at Scotland Yard, he denounced Salter, telling of Sir Karl Andinnian's visits to Burtenshaw, and their purport.
"Salter is in hiding at Foxwood, or somewhere in its neighbourhood, sir, as sure as that my name's Dick Grimley," he said. "I want him took. I don't care about the reward--and perhaps it would not be given to me in any case, seeing it was me that let the fellow go--but I want him took. He's a crafty fox, sir, mark you, though; and it will have to be gone about cautiously."
"If Salter be retaken through this declaration of yours, Grimley, I daresay you'll get some of the reward," was the consoling answer. "Who knows the man? It will not do for you to go down."
"No, it wouldn't," acquiesced Grimley. "He knows me; and, once he caught sight of me, he'd make off like a rat sneaking out of a sinking ship. Besides, sir, I couldn't leave that other thing Mr. Burtenshaw has in hand."
"Well, Who knows Salter, I ask?"
"Tatton does, sir; knows him as well as I do; but Salter does not know Tatton. Tatton would be the best man for it, too. Burtenshaw himself can't manage a case as Tatton does when it comes to personal acting."
There was a little more conversation, and then Grimley withdrew, and Tatton was sent for. The grass could not be let grow under their feet in the attempt to retake that coveted prize, Philip Salter.
This Tatton had begun life as an ordinary policeman: but his talents raised him. He was smart in appearance and manner, had received a fairly good education, conversed well on the topics of the day, could adapt himself to any society he might happen to be in, from that of a gentleman to a shoeblack, and was found to possess the rare prudence, the certain tact, necessary to undertake the conduct of delicate cases, and bring them to a successful conclusion. Grimley was correct, in judging that Tatton would be the right man to put on the track of Philip Salter.
CHAPTER III.
A New Lodger in Paradise Row.
The sun was drawing towards the west, and the summer's afternoon was waning, for the days were not so long as they had been a month or two ago, when a gentleman, slight and rather short, with light eyes, fair curly hair, and about thirty years of age, alighted from the London train at Foxwood station. He had a black bag in his hand and a portmanteau in the van, and enquired of the porter the way to Foxwood.
"Do you mean Foxwood proper, sir; or Foxwood, Sir Karl Andinnian's place?" returned the porter.
"Foxwood proper, I suppose. It is a village, is it not?"
"Yes, sir. Go down the road to the left, sir, then take the first turning on your right, and it will bring you into Foxwood."
"Thank you," said the gentleman, and slipped a small silver coin into the porter's hand. He knew, nobody better, the value of a silver key: and the chances were that he might shortly get gossiping with this station porter about the neighbourhood and its politics.
Bag in hand, and leaving his portmanteau at the station, he speedily found himself in the heart of Foxwood. Casting about his eyes on this side and that, they settled on Paradise Row, on which the sun was shining, and on a white embossed card hanging in the first-floor window of the middle house, which card had on it, in large letters, "Apartments furnished."
At the open entrance-door of the same house stood a widow woman in a clean cap and smart black silk apron. Mrs. Jinks was en grande toilette that afternoon.
"It looks likely," said the stranger to himself. "Madame there will talk her tongue sore, I see, once prompted." And going up to the door, he politely took off his hat as he might to a duchess.
"You have apartments to let, I think, madam?"
"Good gracious!" cried the Widow Jinks, taken by surprise--for she was only looking out for the muffin-boy, and the slanting rays of the sun were dazzling her eyes, so that she had not observed the traveller. "I beg pardon, sir; apartments, did you say? Yes, sir, I've got my drawing-room just emptied."
It happened that an elderly lady from Basham and her grand-daughters had been lodging there for a month, the young ladies being ardent disciples of Mr. Cattacomb; but they had now left, and the drawing-room was ready to be let again. Mrs. Jinks went on to explain this, rather volubly.
"I will go up and look at it, if you please," said the stranger.
The widow ushered him along the passage towards the stairs, treading softly as she passed the parlour door.
"I've got a Reverend Gent lodging in there," she said, "minister of the new church, St. Jerome's. He has a meeting every Thursday evening, for Scripture reading, or something of that--exercises, I think they call it. This is Thursday, and they be all expected. But he wants his tea first, and that there dratted muffin-boy's not round yet. The Reverend Gent have dropped asleep on three chairs in his shirt sleeves, while he waits for it.----This is the drawing-room, sir."
The stranger liked the drawing-room very much; the sun made it cheerful, he said; and he liked the bedroom behind it. Mrs. Jinks rather hesitated at letting the two rooms alone. She generally let the bedrooms at the top of the house with them.
"How long shall you be likely to stay, sir?" questioned she.
"I do not know. It may be a week, it may be a month, it may be more. I am seeking country air and rest to re-establish my health, ma'am, and want a quiet place to read in. I shall not give you much trouble."
Mrs. Jinks agreed to let him have the rooms at last, demanding a few shillings over the usual terms for the two: a bird in the hand, she thought, was worth two in the bush. Next she asked for references.
"I cannot refer you to any one here," he said, "for I don't know a soul in the place, and not a soul in it knows me. I will pay you every week in advance; and that I presume will do as well as references."
He laid down the sum agreed upon and a sovereign beside it. "You will be so good as to get in for me a few things to eat and drink, Mrs. Jinks. I should like to have some tea first of all, if convenient, and one of those muffins you spoke of. Well buttered, if you please."
"Yes, sir; certainly, sir. We get muffins at Foxwood all the year round, sir, on account of there being company in the place at summer time: in other towns, Basham, for instance, they are only made in winter. Buttered muffins and cress, sir, is uncommonly good together."
"Are they? I'll have some cress too."
Telling her, as well as he could remember, what articles he should want besides butter and muffins, and bidding her to add anything else that she thought he might require, he picked up his black bag to take it into the bedroom. Mrs. Jinks in her politeness begged him to let her take it, but he said certainly not.
"Is it all the luggage you've got, sir, this?"
"My portmanteau is at the station. I could not order it on until I knew where I should be or, in fact, whether I should stay at Foxwood at all. Had I not found lodgings to my mind, ma'am, I might have gone on somewhere else."
"Foxwood's the loveliest, healthiest spot you can find, sir," cried the widow, eagerly. "Sweet walks about it, there is."
"So I was told by my medical man. One wants nice rural walks, Mrs. Jinks, after reading hard."
"So one does, sir. You are reading up for college, I suppose? I had a young gent here once from Oxford. He got plucked, too, afterwards. There's the muffin-boy!" added Mrs. Jinks, in delight, as the fierce ring of a bell and the muffin-call was heard beneath. "Oh, I beg pardon, sir, what name?"
The gentleman, who had his head and hands just then in his bag, merely responded that he was a stranger. Mrs. Jinks, in the hurry to be gone, and confused with the ringing and the calling below, caught up the answer as "Strange."
"A Mr. Strange," she said to herself, going down with the money in her hand. "And one of the nicest gents I've ever come across. 'Put plenty o' butter,' says he. He ain't one as'll look sharp after every crumb and odd and end, as too many of 'em does, and say where's the rest of this, that it don't come up, and where's the remainder of that."
Mrs. Jinks had a young help-mate when she was what she considered in "full let;" a young damsel of fourteen, who wore her hair in a pink net. Sending the girl flying to the general shop for various things, she set on to toast the muffins; and tea was speedily served in both rooms. She took in the clergyman's first. Mr. Cattacomb was asleep on the three chairs, in his shirt sleeves. He was beginning to find his work somewhat hard. What with the duties in the church, the services, and sermons, and confessions, and the duties out of church connected with little boys and girls, and with those anxious Christians who never left him alone, the young ladies, Mr. Cattacomb was often considerably fatigued; and it was under consideration whether his former coadjutor, the Reverend Damon Puff, should not be summoned to assist him.
"Here's your tea, sir," said Mrs. Jinks, "and a beautiful hot muffin. I couldn't get it up afore, for the muffin-boy was late."
"My tea, is it, Mrs. Jinks?" replied Mr. Cattacomb, slowly rising. "Thank you, I am dead tired."
And, perhaps in consequence of the fatigue, or that Mrs. Jinks was not worth any display, it might have been observed that the affectation, so characteristic of the reverend gentleman when in society, had entirely disappeared now. Indeed, it seemed at this undress moment that Mr. Cattacomb was a simple-mannered, pleasant man.
"I've been in luck this afternoon, sir, and have let my drawing-room floor," continued the widow, as she settled the tea-tray before him. "It's a Mr. Strange, sir, that's took it; a gent reading for Oxford, and out of health. His doctor have ordered him into the country for change, and told him he'd find quiet air and nice walks at Foxwood. You may hear his boots walking about overhead, sir. He seems to be as nice and liberal a gent as ever I had to do with."
"Glad to hear it," said Mr. Cattacomb, beginning upon his muffin vigorously. "We shall want more chairs here presently, you know, Mrs. Jinks."
The tea-tray had scarcely disappeared, and Mr. Cattacomb put on his coat and his fascinating company manners, before the company began to arrive. On these Thursday evenings Mr. Cattacomb gave at his own home a private lecture, descriptive of some of the places mentioned in holy Scripture. The lectures were attended by all his flock at St. Jerome's and by several young ladies from Basham. Of course it necessitated a great many seats; and the new lodger above was yet at his tea, when Mrs. Jinks appeared, her face redder than usual with running about, and begged the loan of "Mr. Strange's" chairs, explaining what they were wanted for.
"Oh, certainly: take them all, Mrs. Jinks," replied he, in the most accommodating manner possible. "I can sit upon the table."
Mrs. Jinks considerately left him one, however, and went down with the rest. He found out she had taken up the notion that his name was "Strange," and laughed a little.
"Some misunderstanding, I suppose, on her part when I said I was a stranger," thought he. "All right; I'll not contradict it."
While the bumping and thumping went on, caused by the progress of chairs down from the chambers and up from the kitchen, and the knocker and the bell kept up a perpetual duet, Mr. Strange (we will call him so at present ourselves) put on his hat to go round and order his portmanteau to be sent from the station. As he passed the parlour door it stood open; no one was looking his way; he had a good view of the interior, and took in the scene and the details with his observant eyes. A comfortable room, containing a dozen or two charming and chattering ladies, surrounded by a perfect epitome of tasty and luxurious objects that had been worked by fair fingers. Cushions, anti-macassars, slippers, scrolls, drawings enshrined in leather frames, ornamental mats by the dozen, cosies for tea-pots, lamp tops and stands, flowers in wax under shades, sweet flowers from hothouses in water, and other things too numerous to mention.
"A man beset, that clergyman," thought Mr. Strange, with a silent laugh, as he bent his steps towards the railway. "He should get married and stop it. Perhaps he likes it, though: some of them do who have more vanity than brains."
So he ordered his portmanteau to No. 5, Paradise Row, contriving to leave the same impression at the station that he had given Mrs. Jinks--a reading man in search of quiet and health.
Mrs. Jinks presided at the arrival of the portmanteau, and saw some books taken out of it in the drawing-room. While her lodger's back was turned, she took the liberty of peeping into one or two of them; and finding their language was what she could not read, supposed it to be Greek or Latin. Before the night was over, all Paradise Row, upwards and downwards, had been regaled with the news of her new lodger, and the particulars concerning his affairs.
"A scholar-gent, by name of Strange, who had come down to read and get up his health, and had brought his Greek and Latin books with him."
CHAPTER IV.
Nurse Chaffen on Duty.
How short a period of time may serve to bring forth vital chances and changes! Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian were absent only a week, yet before they returned a stranger had taken up his abode at Foxwood, indirectly brought to it by Karl himself; and something had happened at the Maze.
Lucy was out amidst her plants and shrubs and flowers the evening of her return, when the shadows were lengthening on the grass. Karl was writing letters indoors; Miss Blake had hurried up from dinner to attend vespers. In spite of the estrangement and misery that pervaded the home atmosphere, Lucy felt glad to be there again. The meeting with her husband, after the week's entire separation, had caused her pulses to quicken and her heart to bound with something that was very like joy. Colonel Cleeve was out of all danger; was nearly well again. It had been a sharp but temporary attack of sickness. The Colonel and his wife had pressed Lucy to prolong her stay, had asked Sir Karl to come and join her; and they both considered it somewhat unaccountable that Lucy should have persisted in declining. Theresa was alone at Foxwood, was the chief plea of excuse she urged: the real impediment being that she and Karl could not stay at her mother's home together without risk of the terms on which they lived becoming known. So Karl, on the day appointed, went from London to Winchester, and brought Lucy home.
For the forbearance she had exercised, the patient silence she had maintained, Lucy had in a degree received the reward during this sojourn with her father and mother. More than ever was it brought home to her conviction then, that she would almost rather have died than betray it. It would have inflicted on them so much pain and shame. It would have lowered herself so in their sight, and in the sight of those old and young friends who had known her in her girlhood, and who whispered their sense of what her happiness must now be, and their admiration of her attractive husband. "Martyrdom rather than that!" said Lucy, clasping her hands with fixed resolution, as she paced the grass, thinking over her visit, on this, the evening of her return.
Karl came up to her with two letters in his hand. She was then sitting under the acacia tree. The sun had set, but in the west shone a flood of golden light. The weather in the daytime was still hot as in the middle of that hot summer, but the evenings and nights were cool. Lucy's shawl lay beside her.
"It is time to put it on," said Karl--and he wrapped it round her himself carefully. It caused her to see the address of the two letters in his hand. One was to Plunkett and Plunkett; the other to Mrs. Cleeve.
"You have been writing to mamma!" she exclaimed.
"She asked me to be sure and let her have one line to say you got home safely. I have given your love, Lucy."
"Thank you, Karl. And now you axe going to the post."
"And now I am going to the post. And I must make haste, or I shall find the box shut."
He took his hand from her shoulder, where it had momentarily rested, and crossed the grass, Lucy looking after him.
"How thoughtful and kind he is!" she soliloquised. "It is just as though he loved me." And her imagination went off wandering at random, as imagination will. Once more she reverted to that former possibility---of condoning the past and becoming reconciled again. It was very good of him, and she felt it so, to have stayed that week in London. She fancied he had done it that she might know he did not spend his time at the Maze in her absence. And so, the evening shadows came on, and still Lucy sat there, lost in her dreams.
Miss Blake, it has been said, had hurried from dinner, to go to vespers. As she turned into the road from the Court, she saw a boy a little in advance of her on the other side, his basket on his arm. It was the doctor's boy, Cris Lumley, against whom Miss Blake had a grievance. She crossed over and caught him up just as he rang at the Maze gate.
"Now, Cris Lumley, what have you to say for yourself! For three days you have not appeared at class."
"'Tain't my fault," said Cris Lumley, who was just as impudent as he looked; a very different boy indeed from civil-natured Tom Pepp. "It be master's."
"How is it your master's?"
"What master says is this here: 'I be to attend to him and my place; or I be to give it up, if I wants to kick up my heels all day at school.'"
"I don't believe you," said Miss Blake. "I shall speak to Mr. Moore."
"Just do then," said the independent boy.
"The fact of the case is no doubt this, Cris Lumley--that you play truant for half the day sometimes, on the plea of being all that while at school."
"Master said another thing, he did," resumed the young gentleman, ignoring the last accusation. "He said as if Parson Sumnor warn't no longer good enough for me to learn religion from, he'd get another boy in my place, that he was good enough for. There! you may ask him whether he said it or not."
Declining to bandy further words with him until she should have seen the surgeon, Miss Blake was hastening on, when the fringe of her mantle caught against his medicine basket. It reminded her that some one must be ill. Battling for a moment with her curiosity, but not for long, she condescended to inquire who was ill at the Maze.
"It be the missis," replied Cris.
"The mistress! Do you mean Mrs. Grey?"
Mr. Lumley nodded.
"What is the matter with her?"
"Got a baby," said the boy shortly.
For the instant Miss Blake felt struck into herself, and was dumb. She did not believe it.
"He were born yesterday," added the boy. "This be some physic for him: and this be the missis's."
Throwing back the lid of one end of his basket, Miss Blake saw two bottles, done up in white paper. The larger one was addressed "Mrs. Grey," the small one "Mrs. Grey's infant."
She turned away without another word, feeling ready to sink with the weight of the world's iniquity. It pressed upon her most unpleasantly throughout the evening service at St. Jerome's, and for once Miss Blake was inattentive to the exhortations of the Rev. Guy. Looking at the matter as Miss Blake looked at it, it must be confessed that she had just cause for condemnation.
To return to Lucy. It grew dusk and more dusk; and she at length went indoors. Karl came in, bringing Mr. Moore, whom he had overtaken near the gate: and almost close upon that, Miss Blake returned. The sight of the doctor, sitting there with Karl and Lucy, brought back all Miss Blake's vexation. It had been at boiling-point for the last hour, and now it bubbled over. The wisest course no doubt would have been to hold her tongue: but her indignation--a perfectly righteous and proper indignation, as she deemed it--forbade that. The ill-doing of the boy, respecting which she had been about to appeal to Mr. Moore, was quite lost sight of in this ill-doing. There could be no fear of risking Jane Shore's sheet of penance in repeating what she had heard. It was her duty to speak: she fully believed that: her duty to open Lucy's obtuse eyes--and who knew but Sir Karl might be brought to his senses through the speaking? The surgeon and Lucy were sitting near the window in the sweet still twilight: Karl stood back by the mantel-piece: and they were deep in some discussion about flowers. Miss Blake sat in silence, gathering her mental forces for the combat, when the present topic should have died away.
"I--I have heard some curious news," she began then in a low, reluctant tone: and in good truth she was reluctant to enter on it. "I heard it from that boy of yours, Mr. Moore. He says there's a baby at the Maze."
"Yes," readily acquiesced Mr. Moore. "A baby boy, born yesterday."
And Miss Blake, rising and standing at angles between the two, saw a motion of startled surprise on the part of Karl Andinnian. Lucy looked up; simply not understanding. After a pause, during which no one spoke, Miss Blake, in language softened to ambiguousness, took upon herself to intimate that, in her opinion, the Maze had no business with a baby.
Mr. Moore laughed pleasantly. "That, I imagine, is Mrs. Grey's concern," he said.
Lucy understood now; she felt startled almost to sickness. "Is it Mrs. Grey who has the baby?" was on the point of her tongue: but she did not speak it.
"Where is Mrs. Grey's husband?" demanded Miss Blake, in her most uncompromising tone.
"In London, I fancy, just now," said the doctor. "Has she one at all, Mr. Moore?"
"Good gracious, yes," cried the hearty-natured surgeon, utterly unconscious that it could be of particular moment to anybody present whether she had or not. "I'd answer for it with my life, nearly. She's as nice a young lady as I'd ever wish to attend; and good too."
"For Lucy's sake, I'll go on; for his sake, standing there in his shame," thought Miss Blake, in her rectitude. "Better things may come of it: otherwise I'd drop the hateful subject for ever."
"Mr. Moore," she continued aloud, "Why do you say the husband is in London?"
"Because Mrs. Grey said something to that effect," he answered. "At least, I understood her words to imply as much; but she was very ill at the moment, and I did not question further. It was when I was first called in."
"It has hitherto been represented that Mr. Grey was travelling abroad," pursued Miss Blake, with a tone and a stress on the "Mr. Grey."
"I know it has. But he may have returned. I am sure she said she had been up to London two or three weeks ago--and I thought she meant to imply that she went to meet her husband. It may have been a false conclusion I drew; but I certainly thought it."
Sir Karl took a step forward. "I can answer for it that Mrs. Grey did go up," he said, "for I chanced to travel in the same carriage with her. Getting into the up-train at the station one day, I found Mrs. Grey seated there."
Lucy glanced towards him as he spoke. There was no embarrassment in his countenance; his voice was easy and open as though he had spoken of a stranger. Her own face looked white as death.
"You did!" cried the doctor. "Did she tell you she was going up to meet Mr. Grey?"
"No, she did not. I put her into a cab at the terminus, and that's all I know about it. It was broiling hot, I remember."
"Well," resumed the doctor, "whether it was to meet her husband or whether not, to London she went for a day or two in the broiling heat--as Sir Karl aptly terms it--and she managed to fatigue herself so much that she has not been able to recover it, and has been very unwell ever since. This young gentleman, who chose to take upon himself to make his appearance in the world yesterday, was not due for a good couple of months to come."
Lucy rose and left the room, she and her white face. Karl followed her with his eyes: he had seen the whiteness.
"Is it a healthy child?" he asked.
"Quite so," replied the surgeon; "but very small. The worst of these little monkeys is, you can't send them back again with a whipping, when they make too much haste, and tell them to come again at proper time. Mrs. Grey's very ill."