The Hazard of the Die

Chapter I

" Can the ruling thought Be with some lover far away, or one Crossed by misfortune, or of doubted faith ?" Wordsworth. " Thou wouldst not think how ill all's here about my heart : but it is no matter." — Hamlet. (\N one of the last days of October, Alice " Lethbridge was sitting in her own favour ite room at the Hall, occupied, as it seemed, with a piece of embroidery. It made, however, little progress, and the fingers which were so nimble when poverty urged them on, were idle now. In those busy days, how sweet had been the moments stolen from hard work to give to some book, and how short the supply of books VOL. III. B always seemed ! Now she had a whole library of her own, and she never so much as entered it. She could not read or work, and when alone generally spent her time in looking sadly out of the window as she was doing now.

The garden was just at that stage when the flowers are all at their tallest and strongest ; Summer heats were past and gone, and the orange, and purple, and crimson flowers, which are Autumn's own, were in full splendour and luxuriance, but this very luxuriance foreshadowed their decay. The trees were still clad in ample and abundant green, but each leaf had a russet tip and a faded edge, and all gave the same unwelcome hint — Winter was coming! Summer sunshine and Summer brightness were all but gone. Those whose hearts are light and happy, need not care for skyey influences, but Alice was not happy. She made no complaint, but she looked pale and thin. " It's her black gown makes her face show so white," said Faith, who was sometimes anxious about her. Alice, however, always seemed gay and bright when anyone was with her, though her spirits fell the moment she was left alone, and either by choice or necessity she was much alone.

She had now been more than two months at the Hall, and so far her composite household had turned out a success. Faith, as a housekeeper, was admirable. She had picked out one or two of the best of the old servants to help her to train the new ones. Susie Gar thorne was under-housemaid, Willie page, Joshua head-gardener, with his boys to work under him out of school hours, and every one of them was happy as the day was long. The change in the circumstances of the Gar thorne family had served to draw out the good in the nature of each member of it, and there was not one of them who would not have almost laid down his life for Alice. She was served with absolute fidelity and respect. Faith insisted on the respect. They might love her as much as they liked, they might accept any mark of affection she chose to bestow on them, but they must remember that she was a lady, "and a great lady, too," Faith always added.

The reader, of course, can guess that Alice B was fretting about what had befallen the school master, and also, in her secret heart, lamenting the shock which her faith in him had received. She did not think it quite heroic of him to evade service in war-time. So with this double trouble on her mind, she sat wondering in what distant country his dreary and painful lot was now cast — how he had borne the heavy punishment which he had, no doubt, been condemned to receive, how he bore his hard fate now. Did he ever think of her ? How ashamed he must be when he remembered that at last she knew the truth about him ! All was over between them, of course. She, a Lethbridge, would have to hold her head high and bring no disgrace on her station. That was Faith's phrase, but there was a great deal in it.

Philip Mounsey had disappeared from the scene. He had hung about the Hall for some time after she first came to it, but hereupon the inestimable benefit of having all her faithful body-guard of Garthornes about her, at once showed itself. He never could approach the house without being seen by some of them. He had at first called openly. Alice had refused to see him. Then he wrote a note requesting an interview. She wrote another to beg him to excuse her if she declined this. She kept en tirely to the house and garden for some time, and for some time he haunted the grounds, and even ventured into the garden, but it was of no use ; she was not there, and innumerable Gar thornes were. Faith's eye raked a certain amount of territory from windows of kitchen or larder, and Joshua and his spade were ubiquitous, and those gardening boys of his the same.

Whenever they were not weeding a path, they were up a tree, and even Ruth pervaded the whole place, and Ruth was a personage who, since her trip to London, asserted herself most largely. Philip Mounsey might lurk behind a clump of massive evergreens, or pace up and down some retired walk, but that did not help him to see Alice, for he was certain to be espied, and it was mad dening to be circumvented by an imp like Ruth, whose chief occupation in the garden was to run after " papishers,"* and invite them to * The common white butterfly. These are all called papishers in the north, perhaps because their appearance is a little like that of a priest in his surplice. descend from their airy heights to a spot con venient for their capture. The invitation was couched in the rhyme which is so familiar to every north-country child : " Flee low, let !* My bonnie pet !"

The children have implicit faith in this, but as a spell it is usually singularly inefficacious. These words, screamed at the top of Ruth's voice, were not very beguiling to the Ainderby butterflies, but she was always using them, and always scampering about the garden. On this particular morning, she had gone out to forbid her small brothers to dig up the daisies on the lawn. Joshua had said that it was to be done, in order to improve the appear ance of the grass. Ruth did not see that the absence of their white stars would improve the appearance of the grass, and was peremptorily forbidding the boys to dig up any more, when she thought she caught sight of a black figure coming towards herself and brothers, by a path behind a bank of laurels. She had, however, no * Fly low, alight ! time then to attend to anything but the daisies, and said, "Be done, boys!

I'll not have the pretty daisies dug up in that way ! Be done at once!" " You are not the mistress of all the daisies !" cried one of the boys, indignantly. " Yes, I am. They are my flowers. You are spoiling the garden. I'll go and fetch our Ailie, and she'll soon stop you, if you don't mind me." " You are not to say Ailie, you are to say Miss Alice. Mother's tell't you so hundreds of times." " Ailie says I am to say Ailie, and I will," replied Ruth. " Dear me, doesn't she say Ruth to me?" The boys laughed loudly, and some one be hind the laurels laughed too. The boys looked round, but saw no one, and Ruth continued, " I'll say Miss Alice when she gets wed." " That's just the very time when you oughtn't to say it," replied Dickie. " You'll have to say Mrs. Alice, then." " I'll have a new Sunday frock when Ailie gets wed — a real bonnie one !"

Since Ruth's visit to London, her whole mind DsE. had been given to pomps and vanities. Philip Mounsey now came out from his shelter, and said, " Children, is my Cousin Alice at home ?" "Yes, sir, she is in the house," answered Dickie. " Go away, bad man !" cried Ruth. " You are not to see her !" " Who says so ?" inquired Philip, sternly. " I say so," answered Ruth, not one whit abashed. " Everybody says so. Ailie says so her own self." " I'll see for myself what she says," he mut tered angrily; and so saying, he made a few steps towards the dooi\ " There she is," cried Ruth, pointing to the window. "You needn't take the trouble to go all the way round to the front door, when she's there, sitting close beside you." He turned in great haste, and saw Alice, who had by this time risen to her feet, with a look in her face which showed him only too plainly how much she objected to seeing him.

For some minutes she had been aware that he was out side talking to the children, though she had not heard anything said, now she seemed on the very point of flying away to hide herself. Philip took off his hat, and went across the lawn towards the window where she was. "Alice," said he, " let me say a few words to you. You can speak to me from the window, if you like. I here, and you up there — that can't hurt you much, I should say ! I cannot climb up to you, and you can shut your window when you like." That was true, and Alice hesitated, though he saw she wished to escape this interview. " I am speaking somewhat bitterly," said he. "It is not my fault 1 do so. Tell me, will you grant me a few minutes' private. conversation ?" He looked pale and taller, and as if he had been ill ; and the sight of the deep mourning he was wearing for his father, and the thought of how much he had suffered of loss and dis appointment, and the comparative injustice that there was in the fact that she, who was inside the house while he was without, occupied the position which had so long been destined to be his — all these things touched her profoundly, and she said, "I will speak with you if you wish it, Mr. Mounsey, but please to come inside. 1 do not feel it right to keep you standing in the garden while you talk.

Ruth, bring the gentleman into the house ; bring him here to me." " I thought you said he was a very wicked, nasty, bad man !" cried Ruth, decidedly. "If I am bad, Alice," said he, "it is you who have made me so. I am and always shall be exactly what you choose to make me \" " What a great story !" cried Ruth. " You haven't seen our Ailie for ever so long; so how can she have made you naughty ? It's your self does that." " I thought you had left Ainderby, Mr. Moun sey," said Alice, as he entered her room. He bowed low, as he came iu, and even Alice could not help observing that he, who formerly had always said that it would be impossible for any human being to reverence another more than he reverenced her, put a deeper shade of respect into his manner now that she was owner of the Hall. " I did leave, not Ainderby, but Barnard Castle (that's where I am staying) six weeks DEE. 11 ago, but you can't wonder that 1 return !

Alice, will nothing make you understand how much I love you ?" " Do not let us talk on that subject, if you please, Mr. Mounsey," said she. " Not talk on that subject ! What a heart less girl you are !" cried he. " Think what my life was a few months ago, and what it is now, and show some pity. I have lost my father — please to remember how ! I've lost Sir Alger non, who was always kind to me, and Lady Lethbridge is no more good either to herself or anyone else. The last six months have taken away from me everyone I care for ; no one and nothiug is left me ; even this very house we are in now, which I was brought up to look on as my own, is closed to me ! I make no reproach about that, though — let it be ever such a loss to me, I am glad you have got the property ; but I do think it hard you should close your doors against me, and that you should refuse even to speak to a man who loves you with all his heart !

Alice, there is no one left iu the world for me to love but you, and you don't care for me enough to say one kind word to me, though you know the trouble I must be in!" " You have made me so afraid of you," said Alice. " You do such terrible things — you always did ! I lived in terror when I used to see you. Think how you tyrannized over me, and how you behaved to the people who were friends with me." " I know the people you mean," cried he, contemptuously, " but I did nothing to hurt either of them, not I !" " You know you did !" returned Alice. " How can you be so shamefully untruthful ?" " 1 did not !" he replied, angrily. " I did nothing to either. You may be very glad, though, that they both took themselves out of your way when they did. I suppose you would scarcely like to choose either the one or the other of them for a husband now you are a great lady."

" I am not a great lady !" said Alice, " I am exactly the same I always was." " Not to me ! Your manner was very dif ferent to me six or eight months ago — you did not refuse to see me then, when I asked you to do so. Will you maintain to me that wealth has not changed you V " Wealth has not changed me ! I came out to see you then because you threatened to do such things if I did not. You said you would betray Mr. Bowes the schoolmaster to the press-gang if I refused to see you ; and now you have done it, and ruined him for life, there is nothing bad left for you to do — nothing you can threaten me with." Alice's tears were streaming down her face as she said this, and her pale cheeks flushed with strong feeling. " Alice, you were fond of that man !" said he, very earnestly and kindly. For the moment he was sincerely sorry for her and could not help speaking kindly, though a perfect plague of jealousy was raging in his head and heart.

" I did like him very much," said she, anxious even at this the eleventh hour to keep some part of her secret to herself — " I own I liked him ; I was not what you call fond of him, but I liked him far too much to let him be seized and punished as you threatened he should be ; that is, if anything I could do to please you would stop it. Mind you, though, Mr. Mounsey, I should have felt just as much, or very nearly so, at any rate, if Willie Winship or Dickie Clasper, or any of the other young men in the village had had the same fate hanging over them. How could you do such a cruel, cruel, treacherous thing'? Just because you were angry, you did what will make him miserable for years. He may be dead now, aud if he is, it is your fault ! God forgive you ! I don't fancy you yourself can be very happy when you think about it ; I am sure I can't. I some times sit here and can't get it out of my head for hours !

It is no use, though ; the thing is done, and you have ruined every chance of happiness he had ! If he had committed the worst crime possible against you, you could not have done more to revenge yourself. I would not have such a deed as this of yours on my conscience for anything in the whole world!" All the time Alice was making this long speech, Philip Mounsey was staring fixedly at her, and, as it seemed, in wonder. " Are you acting, Alice 1" he said, at last, and said it quite simply. " Acting !'* replied she, " I do not understand you. " Well, are you pretending to be shocked with me for having betrayed this schoolmaster friend of yours, to cover the part you took in his escape ?." " What escape ?" cried Alice, eagerly. " Did he escape after you had taken him ? Tell me about it, please."

" Now really, Alice," he said, " you must know that I am perfectly aware you warned him. What is the use of pretending so much innocence and ignorance?" Alice shrugged her shoulders, and said haughtily, " Be so kind as to explain what you mean, for it completely exceeds my powers of compre hension. If he escaped from you, I sincerely rejoice that he did so, but I never heard of it before." " Are you the one person in Ainderby who does not know that Mr. Bowes made a moonlight flitting? Perhaps you will assert next that he is here still ?" "No, indeed, I make no such assertion ; 1 know the piteous tale perfectly. I know what all know— that you, breathing out vengeance against this poor young man, rode off to betray him, and though on your way you met with a messenger sent to summon you to your father's death-bed, even that did not prevent you send ing your press-gang people here !

You did that, and then you went to your dying father." " How ridiculous ! How idiotic village gossip is ! That's what they say here, is it ? But now you are a great lady, Alice, you should not believe every silly story people of that kind come and tell you — or do you believe it ? I can hardly fancy you do ; I still think you must be acting." Alice drew herself proudly up, but spoke no word. " Now let me give you the true story. I set out, as I said I would, to inform the authorities where this cowardly runagate was hiding. On my way, I met the man sent to tell me the hopeless condition my father was in. I thought THE HAKAJtD OS THE DIE. 17 no more of your friend when once T hwirrl that, Imf rofle at. once -with the messenger to Darling ton, orden.-d a poet-chaise, and travelled iu his company to Lyndon, Jily father died two days ;ifter I gut there — Sir Algernon was dead.

All this put your Mr. Bowes, and. indued, most thinga, out of my raind, and even when tuy t la > 'lights did turn to Aiudci by, i(. \v:.is to you they came, not to him, and when I myself re turned here, the strongest wish of my bBRjt was to m.-<: you. I do not soy that I should not have reverted to my intention to d'.-uounce Lancelot Bowes to the GoveriiiuL-iit, (or I am certain I should, but it was not to du thnt. I carae, Tnit to sen you. You werti everything to me thfn, as you are now, and I give yon my word of houonr that, wheu I heard the schoolmaster had run awaj', I was heartily glad ho had relieved me of au unpleasant Inisiuesfi ; he was goue, ami that >A'as all I wanted. But, Alice, you know all this as ■well ns I do ; you kn..\v you gave him a hint to Qy, probably you lenow where he is." • 1 do not know where he is ; I know that an oificer belonging to the presa-gang came tkit 0 VOL. HI. very night and seized him.

He was taken away at once." " Not by the press-gang ; I give you my word of honour that he was not. You gave him some warning which led him to expect to be taken, and he ran away. That's what he did, and you ought to be very proud of him ! It looks tho roughly well for a brave man to run away once because he doesn't like to fight, and a second time because he thinks he is going to be forced to do it !" Alice shook her head. " I don't believe one word of all this," she said. " You caused him to be seized." " Answer me one question," he continued. " Did you warn him, or did you not ? I dis tinctly remember that you said you intended to do so." " I tried to keep my word about that," replied Alice. " I sent a note by Joshua Garthorne, but the schoolmaster never got it. The people where he was staying brought it back to me some time after unopened.

They said they had forgotten to give it to him the night I sent it." " Are you sure of that ?" " I am quite sure. Do you doubt me ? But what a mockery it is to talk in this way when you so well know what you did!" " Let me try to get at the truth ; you your self will own it is the truth when all facts are laid before you. Did your messenger not see him, and give him a hint by word of mouth of what was coming ?" " Joshua was my messenger — you know he does not waste words. He told us at the time that he had not given the least hint." " But he must have done so, and that is why the schoolmaster ran away. Most solemnly I assure you I did not cause him to be seized. 1 did nothing. I was stopped by the news I got. He ran away because Joshua said something which alarmed him, and I sincerely hope you admire your hero."

" My hero !" cried Alice. " Mr. Mounsey, you allow yourself great freedom of speech !" "Never mind what I allow myself, dear Alice," cried he, vehemently, "forgive me that, and forgive me for calling you dear Alice, and forgive me everything — I hardly know what I am doing or saying— I know nothing except C2 THE HAZARD OF THE DEE. that I love you. Love me in return, and you will soon see how different I shall be, for I will do my very best to make myself all you wish. You are often angry with me, and I daresay rightly so, but remember I have had very little instruction in the ways of women — very little instruction of any kind. My mother died when I was a baby — that spoilt my father's home for him, and he was never there. I was left to servants ; you are the only human being I ever really loved — the only woman I ever cared to be with — I shall never love anyone but you ; to please you I will, if I can, change my very nature."

" I must not listen to this," said Alice, " for indeed — indeed, I never can return your feeling." " Don't say that," he pleaded ; " give me a chance. Have a little generosity aud pity! Alice, I haven't been bad to you. I loved you when you were quite a poor girl- — I asked you just as much to marry me then as I do now — I told you then I thought it a shame you should not have Ainderby. I have proved my sincerity by showing no disappointment now you have got it !" THE HAZARD OF THE DEE. That was true, and so far he had been chival rous. She looked in his face while choosing the words in which she should express her gratitude for this, and again she was struck by the painful expression of illness she saw in it. " You have been kind about it, and that though it must have been hard to you to lose what you had been taught to consider as your own.

I took no step to gain it away from you, and yet I am sorry ; you look very ill — are you ill?— I hope not." " Yes, I am ill. It would be a strange thing, wouldn't it, if the 24th of November, the day I hoped would be our wedding-day, should be the day on which another ceremony took place?" " What ceremony ?" said Alice, in some alarm. " My funeral, of course," replied he. " I saw the doctor when I was in London, and he told me that, jf I didn't take care what I was about, I should very soon find myself with a mortal complaint on my hands ; and I am not going to take care — why should I, when you don't love me ?" This was not quite a fair weapon to use against her, and Alice felt so, but she could not help looking at him with pity. He saw her changed expression, and said, " Tell me you are a little sorry for me."

" I am very sorry for you, but I should think it your duty to take care of your health, even if no one was sorry." " Perhaps, but I can't. What they tell me I am threatened with is a complaint of the lungs — the same sort of thing my mother died of. I am not to get wet, I am not to go out in east winds, and all the kind of nonsense doctors talk when you are ill." " But do you obey ?" "Obey! no! — how can I obey? If I come all the way here from Barnard Castle to see you, and I happen to get wet, I just stay wet, for I can't go back there for a trifle like that." "Mr. Mounsey," said Alice, very firmly, " now you are attempting to establish anotker kind of tyranny over me ; you want to work on my feelings, and make me feel guilty because I do not admit you as a visitor. 1 do believe you are ill, and I am indeed sorry for you in every way, but I must say as decidedly as it is possible to say it, that I never can love you, and that for the future I must decline to receive your visits.

I am certain it would be wrong for us to meet when we feel towards each other as we do." Once more, Philip made an earnest appeal. Alice repelled it, but kindly. " Then you refuse me — you tell me that you never will marry me, and that I am to leave Ainderby ?" " I do — I entreat you to believe me.1 "And go?" he asked. "And go," she answered " And when ?" " To-day — to-morrow — no, at once." " At once ! Nay, even a highwayman is treated better than that. If he is sentenced on a Monday, he is not executed till Wednesday. I can't go at once — I tell you I had far rather die. I do think you might try to love me." " It is ungenerous to press me so," said she. " You press me !" cried he. Philip Mounsey was always relapsing into the petulant ways of a spoiled child. "You tell me to go. It is nothing to you to drive me out, but think what it is to me to go.

I dare not look my future in the face. I am going," he added, seeing that she wished to put an end to so painful an inter view — " I will go, as you wish." " And you will leave Ainderby," she urged. " Only get me out of your sight," cried he, " and you don't care what becomes of me ! I will think about leaving Ainderby. Whatever I do, I promisenot to force myself on you again. I won't come near the Hall without your permission — that is, I will not do so for one year. In one year's time I'll come again. May I ?" " Yes," replied Alice, " as a friend, you may, but not with any idea of finding my mind changed." " Then that is a bargain," said he. " You allow me to visit you in a year's time ?" " On condition you do not try to see me in the meantime." " I accept. I will not try to see you. Good- DEE. 25 bye. I don't believe I shall ever be able to leave Ainderby, though," and reluctantly he tore himself away.

Chapter II

Herm. — " "Why, get you gone : who is't that hinders you ?" Hel. — "A foolish heart that I leave here behind." Midsummer Night's Dream. " Now fitted the halter, now traversed tbe cart, And often took leave, but seemed loath to depart." Prior. " T WONDER whether there is a word of -*- truth iu what Mr. Mounsey said about the schoolmaster?" thought Alice, after she had time to arrange her ideas a little. " How could he run away ? Where could he get a gig so quickly? There was no time. Let me see, I was about half an hour writing my letter to him, and waiting till Mr. Mounsey himself got out of the way; then Joshua took the letter. The schoolmaster was out when Joshua reached the Cleasbys' house, but went in almost directly after. How by any chance could he have or- THE HAZAUD OK THE DIE. 21 tiered a gig duringtLe sliort time which elapsed between his leaving Philip Mounseyaud myself, and his returu to the Cleasliys ?— and -why should he want to go away? flu kue.w nothing Of Philip's suspicions or intentions, and hli3 therefore no reason to fear.