The Will and the Way ... Illustrated by Sir John Gilbert

Front matter

THE WILL AND THE WAY By J. F. SMITH, Author of "MINNIGREY," WOMAN AND HER MASTER," " STANFIELD HALL," " TEMPTATION," etc., etc. ■ILLUSTRATED BY SIR JOHN GILBERT, R.A «■ BRADLEY AND CO., 12 and 13, FETTER LANE, LONDON, E.C. 1888. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED U Ei\ TS. IV Page. Chapter. XXIV. XXV. XXVI. The Challenge ....... 50 Preparations foe the Duel ..... 53 A Cunning Old Fox. ...... 55 The Duel ....... 57 Congratulations ....... 60 True as Truth ....... 62 Future Prospects — Matthew Does His Duty ... 63 The Warrener Receives His Dismissal ... 66 The Khan Terrifies Wiil Sidei.er the Warrener . . 69 Old Fidelity ....... 72 The Schemers at Work — The Stolen Will ... 74 Set a Thief to Catch a Thief ..... 77 The Secret Hiding-Places ..... 79 Sad Partings . . . . ... .80 Plot and Counter-Plot ...... 83 The Warrener Receives Another Warning ... 85 Mammon Tempting Avarice — The Double Elopement . 86 The Shadow of Crime . . . . . .90 The Apparently False Alarm ..... 92 The Secret Marriages — Death of Captain Elton . . 94 Too Late ........ 97 The Murder of Sir William Mowbray ... 98 The Parting of Ellen and the Ayah — The Mystery Thickens . ... . . . . , 101 Ix Italy — Henry Ashton Begins His Labours . . . 104 The Parting of Meeran Hafaz and the Khan . . 106 Robert Martingale ...... 110 The Funeral of Sir William Mowbray . . . 112 Joe Beans and the Khan— A Solemn Conference . .114 Love Letters and Forebodings ..... 116 The Princess of Wales— The Conspiracy Begins . . 117 Tm: Warrener's Fatal Dream ..... 121 Colonfl Mowbkay's Wife. ..... 124 Hk.ni-t Ashton Embarks on the Sea of Politics and Diplomacy 127 XXVII.

XXVUI. XXIX. XXX. XXXI. XXXII. XXXIII. XXXIV. XXXV. XXXVI. XXXVII. XXXVIII. XXXIX. XL. XLI. XLII. XLIH. XLIV. XLV. XL VI. XL VII. XLVIII. XLIX, L LI LIT. LI.II. LIV LV. LVL CONTENTS. V Chapter. Pack. LVII. The Interview Between Meep.an Haiv,;: and Ellen. . 130 LVIII. The Khan and the Sexton ..... 133 LIX. The Storm — The Wizard's Grave — The Iotebrupt.os . 135 LX. The Assassins Foiled ...... 137 LXI. Sister Mary. ....... 139 LXH. The Wrong Victim. . . . . . .140 LXLQ. An Insidious Suitor Repulsed — Tempted, Tried, but Resolute ........ 142 LXIV. The Patient— The Solicitude fir Theresa Colonna— JÆy Own Ghost . . . . . . .144 LXV. Lawyer and Rustic — The Apparition and the Idiot— The Passage ........ 146 LXVI. Ellen and the Warrener — The Intruder — Zara . . 118 LXVII. The Fabricated Letter — Exalted Sympathisers — The Daughter of the Colonnas ..... 151 LXVIII.

Hafaz is Conscious-stricken— Dr. Guyot . . .153 LXIX. Joe Inquires About Susan — The Episode of the Silver Spoon ........ 155 LXX. Ellen Still an Invalid— The Fight Between Meeran and the Warrener . . . . . . .157 .LXXI. The Magisterial Inquiry— Joe's Honesty Proved . . 100 LXXII. Martingale's Anxiety — Artistic Friends . . .162 LXXIII. The Princess Borghese and Henry Ashton — The Attempted Assassination ....... 105 LXXIV. Joe Beans Finds a Treasure ..... 169 LXXV. The Presentation — The Murder of Walteb Mowbray . 171 LXXVI. The Sovereign Pontiff's Decision . . . .17(1 LXXVII. The Poisoner Meets His Master .... 179 LXXVIII. Joe Beans to the Rescue ...... 180 LXXIX. The Assassin's Request ...... 183 LXXX. Frustrated by Fate ...... 185 LXXXI. The Missing Letters ...... 189 LXXXII. Retributive Justice . .... 190 LXXXIII Safe with Friends. . ....

Chapter I

Everything around the place tore a respectable air of antiquity ; the oaks were very giants of their race, and the dark pines, and silver beech and larch, seemed at least coeval" with the bnildinp- ; even the rooks, whose progenitors for ages had built their nests in their lofty branches, had not the air of common birds, hut a sedate, aristocratic, respectable look, which unconsciously reminded one of the dignified clergy of sonje cathedral town. There was something unctions and mellow in their very caw. They seemed perfectly aware, as they flew lazily over the domain, that they were a privileged caste, safe from the guns of truant schoolboys and neighbouring farmers, who stood too much in awe of Sir William Mowbray, the owner of Carrow, to lire a shot upon his estate— a thing he had a decided objection to.

Not that the baronet was a sportsman himself — on the contrary, he never carried a gun, or wished to preserve the game for his visitors. With the excep tion of the clergyman of the parish — who had been at Oxford with him — he never received any ; his life was as solitary as the majision he inhabited ; books were his chief companions — he required no other. The world and h . had parted — not as friends, Who part to meet again ; but like two enemies, Spent with the strife of mutual hate, Scornful, but unsubdued. — " Heir of TnE Sept.': Cakrow Abbey was one of those fine old Elizabethan mansions which are still to be found in the cut-of-the-way nooks and corners of England — removed alike from the companionship of towns, the noise of trade, and the bustle of everyday life ; secluded, like some stately dowager from the society and fashions which are no longer those of her youth.

The house was built of brick and stone, something in the form of the letter H; it had quaint, lofty gables, and two turreted wings, adorned with escutcheons, containing the arms and cipher of the founder, somewhat effaced by the corroding tooth of time, or hidden by the thick ivy and parasitical plants which had been permitted to climb against the vrall<. The principal entrance, facing the south, consisted of a porch and lofty tower, the latter pierced with projecting windows, one to each story, and terminating in a platform and battlements, on which, during the civil wars, cannon had been planted for the defence of the place. ISeither the modern architect nor upholsterer had been permitted to interfere -with the internal arrangements and furniture of the mansion. The lofty, oakpannelled rooms were still hung with the portraits of vho had lived and died in them ; and could the originals have been permitted to step from the vault in the neighbouring church, where most of them slumbered, they would have found the same high-backed, cumbrous chairs, richly-carved cabinets, and massive tables ; the same velvet hangings and tapestries, only a little more faded, perhaps, from time and the rays of the sun, which penetrated la zily through the narrow, diamondshaped panes of glass in tlie windows ; the same ponderously canopied beds, aniprie-Dieu, they had left.

All was unchanged, save the possessor. The extensive park which surrounded the house was thickly wooded, and diversified by hill and dell, intersected with broad sunny slopes, on whose fat pasture the dappled deer loved to browse whilst it was yet fresh with the dew of the morning . then, like some epicure, retire to the shade to digest its meal at leisure. The consequence was that the whole domain— to the great annoyance of the tenants — was overrun with game. The farmers complained loudly, at the annual audit, of the depredations ; but Sir William was so easy a landlord, and made such liberal allowance for the injury done to the rising crops by the hares and pheasants — to say nothing of the rooks— that they were obliged to appear content. We say appear ; for it is as difficult to find a farmer without a grievance as a political charlatan without a follower — grumbling appears to be their natural key-note.

Although the largest landowner in the county, the baronet never interfered at elections, but permitted his tenants to vote just as they pleased. He seldom passed the gates of his park, unless on the Sabbath morning, when he walked to the parish church by a secluded path, and took his seal in the little cur tained gallery directly opposite the preacher's desk. He was generally the first to arrive and the last to leave the sacred edifice : consequently, the villagers had but few opportunities of catching a glimpse of their eccentric and retiring landlord. Still, he was known to them — known by his un bounded charities : the heart which was shut to all MiOC-a-ion with the world was open to the cry of its distress. The household of Carrow Abbey consisted of about. a dozen domestics, most of whom had grown grey in the service of the family.

When the baronet first shut himself from the world, it had been much more numerous : but when one died, married, ot left, he declined engaging another in his place — he could not endure the face of a stranger. And yet this man — whose life was so solitary that friendship seemed to have forgotten him, and human love to have blotted his name from memory — possessed talents which might have adorned the Senate, energies fit. to direct the impulse of a mighty nation, wealth sufficient, to satisfy the cravings of avarice, and a reputation as pure as his descent. Twelve years previous to the commencement of our tale, Sir William Mowbray — then in the pride of manhood — had received one of those wounds from which the coarse mind may recover — the sensitive one never. Although so nearly related, the brothers rarely communicated, and still more rarely met.

There was little sympathy either in taste or character betwei _i them. The only other relative whom Sir William possessed was a sister, whom he tenderly loved, but who had long been absent in India, where her husband, General Aubrey de Vere, held an important. command. Yet even ner letters he would sometimes suffer to remain for weeks upon the table with the seals unbroken, and when read, an equal space of time, perhaps, would elapse before they were an swered. At the close of a sultry evening in the beginning of August, 1817, the baronet was seated in the library of Carrow — a room such as Vandyke would have loved to paint in — in fact, several portraits of the Mowbray family by that unrivalled master adorned the oak-panelled walls, whose elaborate carvings Gibbons might have envied. The personal appearance of the occupant of that Gothic apartment was not out of keeping with the character of the place.

Although only in the prime of life, Sir William bore many of the traces of age : not that lusty age which shows like a sunbeam smiling lo winter, but premature age— the heart's decrepitude — wrinkles that have been channelled by tears — lines that have been ploughed upon the forehead by the hand of Grief — not Time. His countenance was highly intellectual, and had once been handsome ; but its expression, even in repose, was that of pain, subdued by mental eneigy ; his dark, wavy hair, which from time to time he would turn from off his fevered brow, was already mingled with streaks of silvery grey. His dress was equally neglected as his person. His thin but muscular form was enveloped in a loose dressing-gown of faded damask, and, as he reclined in the ponderous and quaintly-carved chair, he seemed more like some portrait of the past, set in a massive frame, than a being of life and feeling.

The volume which he had been reading — " Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy " — had fallen from his hand, and yet he seemed unconscious of the fact: probably he had met with some passage which had jarred one of those innumerable chords of feeling which all diverge from the heart : his gaze was fixed upon the portrait of one of his ancestors — a Holbein — whose unnatural placidity of countenance con trasted strangely with the storm of passions depicted in the features of his descendant. The baronet's mind was evidently filled with thick coming fancies, which troubled its quiet: perhaps he thought of the dead, and envied their repose— or his dreams might have been of the living ; for at times the muscles of his face contracted with a spasmodic affection, and the dull eye became ele^'^nt in its mute agony.

We are rather inclined to the latter opinion than the first. There had been three gentle raps at tbe room door, but so absorbed was the baronet m his meditations that he had not noticed them. The door at last slowly opened, and Mrs. Er I Jarmy, the aged housekeeper of Carrow A entered the room. The faithfully attached creature had been born in the house : her feelings, habia even her appearance partook of the old-fashi character of the plaoe. There was sometbiug stately in her carriage, so different from the servile bi of the domestics of the present day. In her youth she had been own maid to Sir William's grandmother, at whose death she had been advanced to her present pi .s.ition in the household. With the wardrobes of her deceased ladies she bad His wife, whom he passionately loved, fled from him with the man he deemed his truest, friend, and to add, if possible, to the outrage, had taken her infant child, the heir of his name and fortune, with her.

Great was the surprise in the fashionable world ; for the Honourable Captain Luoas, the seducer, was a man not less inferior to the baronet in the graces which win a woman's heart than in the manly virtues which retain it. Under a plausible exterior lie veiled a selfish nature — was a sensualist in the coarsest sense of the word — a gambler, and a coward. The indignant husband, as soon as he had re covered fruin the first fearful shock, traced the guilty pair to Florence, and from Florence to Rome, where he lost all further clue. For more than two y___rs he wandered over Europe like a spectre, burning with the wrong which sears both heart and brain ---<__Ba energies sustained by the agony which goaded tnem — but all in vain : no trace could he discover of his treacherous friend, his abandoned wife, and abducted child.

Broken-hearted and wearied with the pursuit, Sir William Mowbray returned at last to England, and secluded himself from the world in the deep solitude of Carrow. To the astonishment of his friends, he refused either to sanction or take the least step for a divorce. Many thought it weakness — they were mistaken: his resolution proceeded from a calculated system of retribution. He knew the temper, pride, and susceptibilities of the woman who had outraged him — knew that in time her crime would become her punishment. " Never shall she become his wife," he said ; " let her live a degraded and dependent thing — trembling at the slightest caprice of her seducer. When passion is extinct — when satiety has palled him — when she is made to feel that she is a burden upon him — when every hour of her life becomes an age of humiliation — I shall be avenged !

" For years the baronet continued to offer large re wards for the recovery of bis son — but all in vain : an impenetrable veil seemed drawn between the father and his child — the outraged husband and the guilty wife. The only person who appeared likely to profit by the event which had destroyed the domestic happi ness of the baronet was his brother, Colonel Mow bray, an ambitious, intriguing man of the world, who was his presumptive heir — we may say presumptive, for the estate of Carrow was not entailed with the title : its present possessor, who had inherited it from his uncle, could dispose of it as he pleased, failing the issue of his own body. inherited something of their dignity of manner ; and ridiculous as her long-drawn curtsey, as she entered the room, might have appeared to a parvenu of the present day, a peeress of the Court of George II. would have seen nothi_»g absurd or remarkable in it.

The housekeeper was dressed in a brocaded open gown, which displayed to advantage the old-fashioned quilted silk petticoat underneath ; her hair, white as snow, was turned over her wrinkled forehead in a small roll, and surmounted by a cap of Mechlin lace which a countess might have envied. Her ruffles and apron were of the same costly material. The baronet started at her presence, like a man suddenly awoke from a painful dream. " Ah 1 Jarmy," he said, " is that you ? " " It is, Sir William." "Did I ring?" "No, Sir William." " Well, what is it, then ? " demanded her master, in a tone which slightly intimated his dissatisfaction at being disturbed in his meditations. " I am compelled to intrude," continued the old lady ; " something has occurred — an arrival." " An arrival 1 " repeated the baronet, with a look cf astonishment.

When he recovered, a beautiful girl was kneeling at h-'s feet, kissing his hands and bathing them wito her tears. The dark masses of waving curls — her polished brow — her eyes — those windows of the soui through which her loving spirit glanced upon the world — all reminded him of his dead sister. How sweetly soothing is even the memory of _. sister's love. In boyhood it is the natural confidant of our hopes and pleasures — of the heart's first dream ; it lingers round us in manhood — falls like the shadow of youth upon our path in age ; and if there is no other being in the world to mourn us, a -sister's tears are sure to fall as blessings on our grave. "Uncle, dear uncle!" sobbed the orphan; "y >» will let me love you ? You will not drive _ne from you ? " " Drive you from me ! " repeated the baronet, pressing her to his breast.

" Poor, nestlesa bird I Where should thy home be but with me ? Where should thy young heart, in its sorrows, turn for sympathy, if not to mine ? It is broken, Ellen," he added — " broken by the nnlrirn.Tn.qii of the world ; but it stiH retains enough of love to shelter thee." The head of the agitated girl reclined gradually upon the shoulder of the baronet ; her heart was full — she had found some one once more to love her, and her tears fell gently as the drops which refresh the drooping flower. As Sir William Mowbray gazed upon the child ol' his dead sister— the orphan thus -unexpectedly com mitted to his oare — an angel's hand seemed to roll back the stone from the long-sealed fountain of hia tears, and they mingled with hers. "Th?nk you, my love," he said, in a tone of deep emotion, at the same time kisEing her on the forehead.

Ellen looked with an inquiring glance into hit face. " Thank me, dear uncle," she murmured ; " £_» what ? " " That my heart," replied the recluse, with a gi____. of feeling, " is once more human." " Yes, Sir WUliam." The housekeeper was evidently embarrassed how to proceed. The recluse observed her yet more atten tively, and discovered that her eyes were full of tears, that her voice trembled, and her whole appearance betrayed such evident marks of agitation, that he saw at once something serious must have occurred to ruffle the usual calm of her spirits. " Be seated, Jarmy," he said, kindly, at the same time pointing to a chair ; " and tell me what has happened." "Have you received any letters lately froin my dear young lady ? " she inquired. VV ith a nervous hand Sir William began hastily to examine the pile of letters and papers which had accumulated on the library table.

" No ! " he said ; " 1 do not see any. Stay ; here is one which bears the Indian post-mark I Yet it is not in the handwriting of my sister," he added, as he neld the address to the lamp. " Have you examined the seal, Sir William ? " in quired the old lady, in that familiar tone of affection which her long and faithful services] entitled her to use.

Chapter II

Tbe songs of old t The songs of old ! They cheat dull Time of half his reign ; They warm the heart to pleasure cold ; I hear them, and am youn* again. — BOBIi. GOODFELLO ELLEN DE VERE had not been many weeks an inmate of Carrow Abbey before a gradual change took place in the manners and habits of its owner. His meals were no longer solitary — for his niece shared them, much to the satisfaction of the excellent Mrs. Jarmy and the rest of the household ; for the baronet was more than respected — he was beloved by his dependents. Every morning when he descended to the library, he found his papers and letters neatly arranged, and fresh flowers in the vases. With & delicacy and tact beyond her years, his niece at first took care not to intrude upon his presence ; so that by degrees he not only became reconcUed to her society, but appeared to take a pleasure in it.

Once, to the increased astonishment of the household, Sir WUliam even invited her to be the com panion of his walk. " I do believe," observed^ Nieholls, the butler, in a confidential Lone, to Mrs. Jarmy, "that we shall see the old times come back again." "Of course we shall," replied Dick Martin, the head groom, a very hard-featured man, who had been stable-boy m the time of the baronet's grandfather, and gradually risen to his present sinecure office _n the famUy. '"' It was only yesterday that the governor met me in the park, and asked me if there were __oy young horses in the stable. I could not kavo her The baronet turned the letter, and discovered that it was sealed with black. " Leave me I " he said, in a broken voice ; " I will ring for you presently, but I had better peruse this letter alone."

With a countenance in which concern and interest were mingled, the attached domestic left the room ; her task was ended — the baronet's was about to begin. With a trembling hand he broke the seal. The letter was from the agent of his brother-in-law in India, and announced, with mercantile brevity, that Sir Aubrey de Vere and his lady had both been carried off by one of thoso contagious fevers so common in the East, leaving their only child — a girl of fifteen — to his protection. " Dead ! " he exclaimed, as the fatal missive dropped from his hand. " EUen and her husband both dead — the only beings who loved me! Why am I left the last to feel and suffer ? " Although he shed no tear, the baronet felt the bereavement bitterly. Tears would have been a reUef, but they were denied him. The fever of his heart and brain had long since sealed their fount.

Twice he pressed his hand to his forehead, like a man who had received a sudden blow, then sank back in his chair with a deep groan. Apart from the danger to the rider, who kept her seat with a firmness which, even amid his terror, excited the admiration of old Martin, it was a beautiful sight to see the graceful creature galloping madly over the common — leaping the furze — its delicate nostrils sniffing the keen air — its tail and mane streaming in the wind. " She must tire soon," thought the groom ; " and perhaps, after all, we shall be quits for the fright." But the adventure was not destined to end so easUy as he desired, for a peasant, who was cutting furze, suddenly started forward and attempted to catch the rein. The action only served to frighten the mare, which, turning to the left, continued its headlong career, snorting with rage.

" Heaven 1 " exclaimed the old man, il_ t voice of agony ; " they are going towards the jjr?.vel-pit. She is lost ! " more astonished," he added, with a grin of delight, '• if the statue of old Sir Rowland, which stands in the great hall, had hopped off its pedestal and spoken to me." " Young horses I " repeated several of the domestics. " More," continued the old man : " he bade me break one in for Miss Ellen. It was a happy day for our master, and aU of us, that saw her beautiful face at the old hall." " It brings light wherever it shines,". observed a tall, dark woman whose Oriental dress and heavy gold bangles indicated that she was a native of the East. " In India," she added, proudly, "she was the light of her father's house." The speaker was Ellen's ayah, or native nurse, who had accoirpanied het to England, and who, in her affection for her charge, felt jealous even of the love with which she was surrounded.

Between her and the worthy Mrs. Jarmy, the housekeeper, a species of sUent warfare had already commenced — each con sidered it her privUege to attend exclusively upon the young lady. Jarmy pleaded that she had dressed her mother and grandmother — in fact, all the ladies of the Mowbray family for three generations ; Zarah, the ayah, that from her birth her young mistress had been accustomed to be waited on by no one but herself. The bridle fell from his nerveless hand, and the horse he was riding stood stUl, as if to give him a more distinct view of the terrible scene he expected to follow. Just as Ellen and her steed reached the edge of the pit, when one plunge further must have proved the destruction of both, a youth of about seventeen sprang from behind a furze bush, and stood directly between the mare and the precipice.

The animal, startled by his sudden appearance, reared tUl she nearly fell back upon her haunches. The youth watched his opportunity, and as she descended, before her fore-feet touched the ground, he caught the rein with his left hand, whUst with his right he seized her by the nostrUs. In vain the animal plunged and reared — the grasp was of iron. " Slide off! " he exclaimed to the breathless girl : " slide off ! " At the end of a month, Dick Martin had, as he thought, sufficiently broken in one of the young horses for Ellen to mount ; the poor fellow was not aware that in India she had been accustomed to take the air in a palanquin, or in an open carriage, seldom on horseback. " What a beautiful creature ! " exclaimed the de lighted girl, as she' patted the sleek neck of the thorough-bred mare, which the old groom held with a k-ading-rein at the porch of the house.

"Dear uncle," she added, turning to the baronet, with one of her sunny smiles, " how shall I thank you for your generous gift?" " I am thanked already," replied Sir WUliam, " in the pleasure it affords you. Martin," he added, turning to the old domestic, " you are satisfied she is suffi ciently broken in ? " " AU right, Sir WUliam," said the groom, with an air of satisfaction ; " a child might ride her." Satisfied with the assurance, the baronet assisted his niece to the saddle, and, with repeated cautions to be careful, waved his hand as a signal for them to start. Ellen had sufficient strength and presence of mind left to disengage her foot, and spring from the saddle, when she fainted. AU this passed so rapidly before the eyes of Martin, that it appeared to him like a dream. At last the conviction that his charge was saved became im pressed upon his mind, and, with a hasty ejaculation, which sonnded like a prayer, he gave his horse the sp ur, and hastened to the spot.

His first care was to dismount and raise the stUl senseless Ellen in his arms. " She is kUled ! " he said. " Not so ! " said the young man, who was still struggling with the mare on the brink of the precipice ; " she has only fainted." Reassured in some degree by the observation, the experienced groom, after laying his burden once more gently on the ground, took from his pocket a thick handkerchief, and tied it over the eyes of the affrighted animal, which instantly became calm, and cease to struggle, although it trembled in every limb. " There," he said, " you may lead her away now — a child may manage her." The youth found that Martin was right : the mare suffered herself to be led quietly from the spit. Her captor gave her into the hands of the peasant who had been cutting furze, and who came running to see if he could render assistance.

By this time EUen began to unclose her eyes. " I am not hurt, Martin," she said, with a faint smile ; " I am not in the least hurt. Only to think I should have proved such a coward." " Coward ! " repeated the groom ; " there's not a steeple-chaser in thcounty who could have kept his seat so weU ! " The mare's performance, at first, did not belie old Martin's promise. Nothing could be more gentle than her pace : she cantered and trotted so quietly, that, at Ellen's solicitation, he ventured to let go the leading rein. By this time they had reached the entrance of the park. The old woman who kept the lodge naturally imagined, seeing them canter along the avenue, that they intended to ride through the vUlage, and threw open the gates. " Shut them ! " roared Martin ; for he remembered with affright that the horse his pupU was riding had never been beyond the walls of the park.