CXXVII. A CHANGE OF SCENE AND CIRCUMSTANCES.—AN EVENT IN LONDON…

CXXVII. A CHANGE OF SCENE AND CIRCUMSTANCES.—AN EVENT IN LONDON

The recent events which followed each other so rapidly, were strangely concluded by the sudden and mysterious disappearance of Sir Francis Varney. That he should thus have eluded all, was aggravating to a very large class of people, who seemed to insist that he should have come to some notable catastrophe.

“Had he only been killed,” they argued, “we should have known the last of him.”

Of the truth of this there could be no doubt. When a man is dead and buried, you do, as far as human nature serves, know the end of him; but this great fact does not always come within the knowledge of men, who sometimes, contrary to expectation, drop off themselves, and instead of knowing the end of somebody else, why, somebody else knows the end of them.

It is a well known fact, that as some die before others, that it does sometimes happen that those who wish to see another out, may be seen out themselves; besides, taking the question of longevity aside, it does not follow, because we so wish to come to the conclusion of an affair, that its author may but change the scene, and transport it elsewhere, and the good and curious lieges become defrauded of their self-satisfying knowledge, viz., the end of the affair.

Of course it was an aggravation, to know that there was an interesting and highly exciting affair gone off, and they were not allowed to peep into that mystery, the future; but so it was—they were not gratified.

Some were of the opinion that he had departed this life in a mysterious and unsatisfactory, because secret manner, and that was why nobody could tell anything about it.

But there were other opinions afloat, and among others, that of the admiral, which was pretty general, which was, that he had very likely disappeared from that part of the world, to seek in some other place the renovation his system required, by means that were natural to him, but hideous in others to contemplate or think of.

This was generally the received opinion, for it was universally admitted by the wise people thereabouts, that he must at certain times recruit himself.

The opinion thus entertained by all who lived thereabouts, became less and less absorbing; other matters began to be thought of, things began to flow into their usual channel, and a subsidence took place in the turmoil and excitement consequent upon the presence of the vampyre.

About this period, while these parts were regaining their original serenity and calmness, and while the vampyre was looked upon as an awful and fearful episode in the life of those who lived there, there happened in London a circumstance that it is necessary to relate to the reader, inasmuch as it is very important, and bears strongly on our story.

Not far from Bloomsbury-square, which, at the period of our story, was a very fashionable place, and in one of the first streets thereabout, was the house of a widow, whose name was Meredith. She had been the wife of a man in good circumstances, but at his death she was left with a house filled with furniture, some little loose cash, and several daughters, marriageable and unmarriageable, this being all Mr. Meredith had to leave.

There could be but one way of obtaining a living—at least, but one that suggested itself to her, which was to turn lodging-house keeper of the better sort. Her children had been well educated, that is, sufficiently so, to pass off in life, in decent society, without any particular remark.

As she was well calculated for the object she had in view, it was no wonder that she succeeded in her undertaking, and appeared to do very well.

About this time an arrival occurred at an hotel not very far from this spot, which caused a communication to pass to Mrs. Meredith, who had been recommended lodgers from the hotel, when any of the inmates desired to be accommodated, and wished for a place with all the comforts of a home, and domestic attention.

“Mrs. Meredith,” said the head waiter of the hotel, “I wish to have a word in private with you.”

“With greatest pleasure, Mr. Jones,” said Mrs. Meredith, who was extremely civil to the waiter; “will you be pleased to sit down.”

“I have not the time, I thank you—I have not time; but I have run over to you to inform you we have an old invalid colonel at our place, who seems as if he did not know what he wanted; he wants some kind of lodging—he don’t like the hotel—whether there is some genteel family, whose kind attentions would soothe his disorders, and, I suppose, his temper.”

“Oh, poor gentleman,” said Mrs. Meredith; “how unfortunate he should suffer—is he rich?”

“Yes, I believe so—very rich, he’s a colonel in the India service; he’s been a fine man, but he has had some hard knocks. I have seen more rickety matters than he before to-day, and he will do very well. I told him I knew where there was a lady who occasionally admitted an inmate to her house, which was a large one, but she must be satisfied that her lodger is a gentleman.

“‘Has she any family?’ he inquired; ‘because I hate to go where there’s nobody but the lady of the house, because she can’t always attend upon me, read to me, and the like of that.’”

“Goodness me, what an odd man!”

“Yes, but he pays well; a retired colonel—large fortune. You know that these East Indians expect I don’t know what; they are even fed by beautiful young black virgins.”

“The wretch!”

“Oh, dear, no; it’s the custom of the country; so, you see, he’s been humoured, and it will be necessary yet to humour him, if you mean to have him for your lodger. I expect he’ll only be troublesome; but, when they pay for trouble, why, it’s all profit.”

“Very true,” replied Mrs. Meredith; “is he a single man?”

“Yes, oh, yes; I believe he has never been married; has had so much to do in India, that he had nothing to do with marriages.”

“Where does he come from?”

“India. I believe he had a very fine palace of his own, at Puttytherapore, so I’m told. Lord, he seems to think nothing of these parts—but he’s an odd man; however, as he pays well, he’ll make a good lodger anywhere.”

“Well, you may tell him, Mr. Jones, that we have a fine suite of rooms for his accommodation on the first floor, and bed rooms—every attention he can wish. You know our terms, Mr. Jones, I think—but I may as well tell you—five guineas a-week.”

“Five guineas a-week, eh?”

“Yes; that is moderate, when you come to consider what a trouble and an expense it will be to get such things as will please the palate of an Indian.”

“It is a trouble, certainly.”

“And, besides that, he will have such a place and furniture as he seldom meets with in London; besides, from what you say, there will be little trouble in attending to him by myself and daughters, and you know I have several.”

“Exactly—exactly; that is the thing he seems to desire; you will, therefore, have a preference over any one else who may have anything that he wants—a kind of domestic hearth; he has none of his own, you see.”

“Has he no friends?”

“None living, I dare say; besides, he would hardly like to trust himself along with relations, who would poison him for the sake of his money; and, if he have any living, he may know nothing of them, where they are, or anything else, and they would be as strangers to him, for he would not be able to recognise them—but I must go now. Five guineas—that includes all?”

“Yes; all, except wines and liquors, you know.”

“Very well, I’ll let him know; and, perhaps, you’ll be in the way, in case he should come round this evening to examine the place.”

“Do you think there is any chance of his coming in to-night.”

“Really, I cannot tell; he may, or may not, just as he pleases—he is an odd fish; but, good Mrs. Meredith, I will talk to him.”

The waiter left; and Mrs. Meredith sat in her parlour, which was her own private apartment, which she and her daughters usually retired to and received their own friends. Here they remained, in some degree kept in continual expectation; nothing was said, for some time, by either mother or daughter, for there was but one at home at that time.

“Do you know, Margaret,” she said, “we are likely to have a new lodger?”

“Indeed, ma?”

“Yes, my dear; he is a fidgetty old man, a colonel from India; he is vastly rich, I am given to understand, and will require all the attentions of a relative. He will pay very handsomely; in fact, my dear, he will keep us all with a little care and management.”

“Well, ma, the men ought to do so, the creatures!—what are they for, if they don’t. I’m sure, if ever I come to marry, which I am sure I sha’n’t, and if I found that he didn’t find me in all I wanted, wouldn’t I lead him a life!—I rather think I would,” said the amiable child; “I’d never let him know peace night nor day. It would be useless for him to tell me misfortune had deprived him of means; that wouldn’t do for me. Oh, dear, no; a married man has no right to meet misfortunes; indeed, he deserves to be punished for having a wife at all under such circumstances.”

“A very proper spirit, my dear; but you must never let such a thing as that pass your lips, because it would be very likely to cause you to lose a chance; the men are so fastidious now a-days, and they think they win us, when we angle for, and catch them.”

“And this lodger, ma?”

“Oh, he’s, as I told you, a rich old East Indian.”

At this moment, a coach drove up to the door, and a tremendous double rap was played off upon the door, as if it had been committed by a steam-engine; so loud and so long was the application for the admittance, that both mother and daughter started.

“Dear me, that must be him,” said the mother; “yes, a coach and all—there—there, I declare.”

“What, ma?”

“Why, look at that girl next door out in the balcony; there’s Miss Smith—that girl is always trying to attract some person or other; and the men affect to believe that she is beautiful; for my part, I think a girl of seventeen ought to have more modesty.”

“The hussy!” said the young lady, contemptuously.

The servant now entered to inform her that a gentleman had called about the apartments.

“Ask him up stairs,” said Mrs. Meredith; and she prepared to follow the colonel so soon as she heard he was ascending the stairs, which was a slow job to him, as he walked lame, with a gold headed cane.

When Mrs. Meredith came to the room, she saw a tall gentleman; his height was lost, on account of him stooping; he wore a green shade over one eye, and he had one arm in a sling; besides which, as we have before related, he was rather lame.

“Not so bad as I thought for,” muttered Mrs. Meredith, to herself, as she curtseyed to his salute.

“I have been recommended to seek here a lodging, ma’am. I do not know if I am correct in believing you have such as I want.”

“This, sir, is the sitting-room; it is a very handsome one, and above what is usually offered at a lodging-house. The fact is, sir, the house was never furnished for letting, but for our own private occupation; therefore, it has all of the comforts of a private residence.”

“That is what I chiefly want. You see, I do not care to undertake the trouble of setting up an establishment myself. I am alone, I may say; therefore it is I seek such a lodging as comes nearest to what I should myself choose if I were to make a home of my own.”

“Precisely, sir. There is the back drawing-room, and a bed room up-stairs.”

“Oh, very good; I need, I presume, make no inquiry as to what kind of table you keep; the best, I dare say. I was informed of the price you asked.”

“Yes; we consider that quite moderate, sir.”

“I dare say,” said the Indian, looking about the place with an air of curiosity; “I dare say.”

“Yes, sir, you see the advantages we offer are much above the usual run. Besides, you are an invalid, and will require extra attention.”

“Yes; there is much truth in that; I have been used to it, and therefore you will see that I bargain for it; but, at the same time, you will not find me difficult to please, I flatter myself; but we shall know more of each other the longer we are together.”

“Certainly, sir. I can assure you, that should you take the apartments, nothing on my part, or my daughters’, will be wanting to make your stay agreeable.”

The stranger examined the appearance of the room, and the others, and then, after much conversation with them, he agreed to take the lodgings, and to come into them on the morrow, as he was extremely particular as to well-aired beds, and should require them all to be re-aired.

“And now, madam, before I finally agree to come in, will you show me the means of escape, if any, in case of fire. I am anxious about that; I have read so many calamities arising from that cause of late in London that I am somewhat nervous about it, though I am so much of an invalid that I should hardly be able to avail myself of it.”

“You shall see, sir,” said Mrs. Meredith; “we have ample and safe accommodation in that respect. You see, here is a pair of broad steps that lead up to that door—a trap-door; and here is another, that opens upon the leads at the top of the house.”

The colonel made shift to walk up, and to look over the house-tops; there was a sea of chimneys and pantiles, at the same time they were all easy of access on this side of the street; so there was no danger from fire, and each house there was similarly provided.

“Well, madam, I think I may say that this affair is concluded. I will leave you my card, and, if you think proper, you can obtain what information you desire of me at the hotel.”

“I am quite satisfied, sir,” said the landlady, as she took the card that was proffered her, and also a bank-note which he offered her, in token of his taking possession of the lodgings.

Mrs. Meredith curtseyed, and the colonel left the apartment, and descended the staircase with great deliberation, for he could not go very swiftly; he was lame, and one arm was up in a sling, and therefore he had not the free use of his limbs.

As he came down the stairs, and when near the mat, Margaret, the eldest daughter, came out and passed into the back parlour, for no other ostensible purpose than that of seeing the stranger, whose eye was instantly, but only momentarily, fixed upon her; but it was enough; they both saw each other, and had a glance at the features, and Margaret disappeared.

The stranger stepped into the coach, and, as the door was being shut, he looked up to the windows of the next house, where the young lady, nothing daunted, still sat at the window; and so little was she interested with her neighbour’s affairs, that she barely bestowed a momentary glance upon the coach or its occupant, whose solitary optic took notice of her, and then the Jehu drove away with his rumbling vehicle.

“Well, I never saw such impudence, in my life!” said Mrs. Meredith, as she came to the parlour-windows, which happened to bow outwards, and gave her a better opportunity of watching her neighbours to the right and left of her.

“What is the matter, ma’?” inquired her daughter.

“Why, there’s that minx still up yonder. I declare if she didn’t stare at the colonel; he saw her, and noticed her, too. Well, I wouldn’t have had her there to-day for a trifle; he will think he has got into a bad neighbourhood, seeing her so bold. Really, now, she lays herself open to all kinds of imputations. I do not mean to say any evil of her; but, really, if she will do that now, what will she not do by-and-bye? I am sorry she has no one to advise her better.”

“I am sure she is old enough to know better,” rejoined the daughter. “I am quite sure she’s no beauty, and, if she wants to catch any of the men, she won’t be successful in that manner; unless, indeed, she doesn’t care whom she picks up with.”

“Oh, that is, I fear, too often the case with young girls with weak intellects. But did you see our new lodger, my dear?”

“Yes, ma’.”

“And what did you think of him?” inquired Mrs. Meredith, with an amiable whine, and a gentle rubbing of hands.

“Think, ma’, think—what can I think of a man whom I have hardly seen, ma’? He only passed me; I could not recollect him again if I tried.”

“Ah, well, my dear, you know best. I can always recollect people whom I have once seen? He is a very fine man—at least, he has been; he has lost much of his height, for he is lame, and stoops much; but still he has been a handsome man.”

“One eye, only, ma’, I think.”

“Yes, my dear, one eye, as you say; but I think a remarkably keen one, too. He’s quite the gentleman, too; he’s been used to command, you can see that. These military men have an air about them that you cannot mistake; and even this gentleman, though, you see, wounded and lame, yet he has the air of an officer about him.”

“He may have, ma’; but, you know, if he have the air of a general, with nothing else, it would buy a very poor dinner.”

“So it would, my dear. You certainly are an extraordinary girl, Margaret, a very extraordinary girl, and will be the making of your family. Only suppose you should marry this rich colonel, what then, eh?—I only say, suppose you were to marry him?—because it isn’t certain, yet—well, wouldn’t that minx next door think you were lucky? She would bite her nails in anger.”

“Yes, she would, ma’; but it may never happen. But, if she thinks to get a beau that way, she’s much mistaken. I am sure she will get insulted.”

“No wonder. But, Margaret, my dear, you must do your best to please this gentleman; he wants to have people about him just as if he had his own home. He has no friends or relatives; who knows what may happen yet?”

“No, ma’; we don’t know what may happen, and I will do my best to please him; but I sha’n’t court him, you know, ma’; he must do that.”

“Yes, certainly, my child, he must. No; you mustn’t appear anxious about it; but merely say you are pleased to have his good opinion, and you must be a little coy of everything else; for there are times when such old gentlemen are easily entrapped. But I must set about having things aired and put into order for his arrival to-morrow.”

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CXXVIII. THE NEW LODGER.—A NIGHT ALARM.—A MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCE

It was not until late the next day that Mrs. Meredith heard anything of her new lodger. All she had heard was that he would be there during the day, but whether to breakfast, dinner, or tea, she could not tell which, and now she was waiting with expectation, if not anxiety; but, at the same time, she knew she was quite sure of her lodger, because she held his bank-note.

It had been a dull day; there are many such in London, and therefore that was no singular circumstance. It was one of those dull, leaden-coloured days of which you can predict nothing with certainty, or even a chance of being right; it was rather squally at times, and at others a west wind blew; not cold—at least, not particularly so; but, yet, notwithstanding the heavy appearance of the sky, there was a clear white light that made every object look more disagreeable than ordinary.

The landlady and her daughter were both on the qui vive, as it is called, looking out for their new lodger, whom they expected the more immediately as the evening drew on, for there was less likelihood of his coming in the middle of the day than towards the evening, and less after evening had set in than before, for he was an invalid.

It was, they thought, just about the time when he must arrive, when there could only be the uncertainty of a few minutes. The whole house was in order; nothing was left to chance; Mrs. Meredith herself had gone over the whole place, and took especial pains to find all sorts of fault with the unfortunate drudge who did the work, of course, aided by the mother and daughter; but such aid was distressing, because she had to wait upon both, and do her own work as well.

However, all was in readiness, and they were looking out at every coach from between the blinds. The sound of wheels was enough to cause them to start, when suddenly a coach drove up to the door, upon which had been carefully packed several leather boxes and portmanteaus.

“Here he is,” said the daughter; “here he is.”

“Yes; and, as I am alive,” said Mrs. Meredith, as she cast her eye upwards towards the next house, “as I am alive, there is that girl again. I do believe that she does it on purpose. It is done to aggravate me, and to attract attention from the men. The hussy!”

There was now no time to lose, the knocker at the door giving pretty clear indication that instant attention upon their part was requisite, and up jumped Mrs. Meredith and her daughter Margaret. Immediately the servant opened the door into the passage, the coach door was opened, the steps let clattering down, and Colonel Deverill entered the house.

“Will you walk into the parlour, colonel,” inquired Mrs. Meredith, “until your boxes are all in, and you see they are all correct? There is a good fire.”

“Thank you, madam,” said the colonel, with some difficulty walking along. “I am scarcely so well able to walk as I was yesterday.”

“Ah! colonel, you must have suffered much. But I am glad the parlour is so handy—it will save you the walk up stairs at present, until you are quite recovered from your fatigue. Pray be seated, colonel, by the fire. The man shall bring them in, and lay them before the door.”

“Thank you,” said the colonel, and he sat down in a large easy chair, having first dropped his cloak, which was a large blue military cloak, lined with white, with a fur collar, and looked extremely rich and handsome; beneath which he wore an officer’s undress frock, covered over with a profusion of braid.

The boxes and portmanteaus were brought in and laid down so that the colonel could see them; and, when that was done, the coachman made his demand, which excited an exclamation of horror from Mrs. Meredith, and a declaration that she thought hackney coachmen were the greatest impostors and extortioners under the sun. There never was such a set as hackney coachmen—never!

“Saving lodging house keepers, ma’am—axing your pardon for saying so. Not that I means any offence, only I lived in one once, and ought to know summat.”

The colonel, however, made no remark, but, pulling out an embroidered purse, which appeared to full of gold, he paid the man his demand.

“Thank yer honour; you are one of the right sort, and no mistake.” So saying, the coachman walked away, jinking the money as he walked along the passage, until he came to the door where the girl was standing, and then, giving her a knowing wink, and jerking his head backwards, he said,—

“They are a scaley lot here, ain’t they, Mary?”

“Mary!” screamed Margaret.

“Yes, miss.”

“Shut the door, and come away from that insolent fellow.”

Slam went the door, and then the servant went down stairs, and the parlour-door was immediately closed, and the colonel was given into the tender mercies of the lodging-house keeper; for, though she pretended that she merely offered a genteel and presentable home for such as desired it, and could afford to pay for it, she was, in every sense of the word, a lodging-house keeper.

The colonel, however, sat very composedly in his chair, and gazed at the fire in silence; and from time to time he gazed at the mother and daughter with his one eye; he had not lost the entire use of the other, but had a green silk shade over it. He watched what went on, and replied cautiously to what was said to him, but appeared inclined to silence, and occasionally abrupt in his conversation; but this they attributed to the habit he must have been in, when abroad, of commanding.

“Will you take tea at once, colonel, or at what hour do you choose to have it?”

“I will take it at once. I am tired.”

“What will you take, sir?” inquired Margaret, at one end of the table; and, placing herself in an enticing posture, she awaited the answer, expecting to be looked at.

“Coffee,” said the colonel, abruptly.

There was a pause; but Margaret said nothing more, and set about doing such little matters as appeared to be an employment. But it was a mere deception—it was all done; nothing had been left undone; they had taken care of that, as the servant knew full well.

However, there was little that passed of any peculiar character on that occasion, for the evening passed off very calmly and comfortable, the colonel giving his opinion somewhat dogmatically; but that, of course was submitted to, as he was a military man and had much experience, and, moreover, he was a rich man—quite a nabob.

It is astonishing, as a general rule, what people will submit to when it comes from those who have riches at command. That fact alone seems to stamp all that is foolish and absurd, coming from such a quarter, with sense and worth.

It is in vain for any one not blessed with property to talk; his talking is nothing in comparison with what falls from the lips of the man who has property. You are talked down, and if you are obstinate, and won’t be talked down, why, you are a disagreeable fellow, a dissatisfied man, and your neighbours ought to set their faces against you.

Thus, through life, he who does not submit to the wealthy, is always run down, and there is every disposition, if possible, of running him off the road altogether, no matter how great the injustice against him, and the enormity of the conduct of others; they are, as they think, justified, because he is not a genteel person; in fact, he is not evangelical.

The evening passed over, as we have said, in calmness and quiet, and Mrs. Meredith appeared to be well pleased with her lodger; and, at a moderately early hour, they separated and went to bed. The colonel retired, after taking leave of them, to his own room, complaining he was in great pain, and scarce able to walk, and so cold, he was nearly benumbed.

“This climate,” he said, “is so cold, so moist, and altogether so uncomfortable, that I cannot understand how it is people ever endure it. Indeed,” he continued to Mrs. Meredith, “there must be some great difference between rich and poor in their conformation, else they couldn’t stand it.”

Of course, Mrs. Meredith assented to the proposition, as she would have done to any other, no matter what proposition, that had been so urged by such a person.

Thus it was with the colonel, who appeared very well satisfied with his lodgings; and all parties, for so short a time, were well pleased with each other.

• • • • •

The night was dark, that is to say, it was one of those nights in which neither moon nor stars showed themselves; no sound was heard through the streets, save the heavy step of the guardian of the night, or the midnight reveller, who might be finding his way homeward boisterously, and with scarce enough sense to enable him to take the right path.

There were clouds enough to have intercepted the moon, but there was a kind of light that was spread through them that you saw when you looked up, but which aided not the traveller below; but, then, there were countless lamps that illumined the streets.

At that time there was a man creeping over the house-tops. He had gained the housetop of Mr. Smith, the house in which resided Miss Smith, who had given so much offence to Mrs. Meredith by sitting so much out in the balcony. He stooped in the gutter, and looked cautiously around; no human being was within sight; he was alone, and no soul saw him.

Cautiously he crept towards the trap-door—it was bolted; but that was soon obviated—no sound, however, could be heard. The soft, but rotten, wood gave way under the steady pressure exerted upon the door, which at length opened.

He paused a moment or two, and listened carefully for several minutes. Then he entered the loft slowly and noiselessly, keeping as low as possible, so that he might run no risk of being observed by any one who might be passing the house, or who might be up by accident in any of the opposite houses, in consequence of illness, or any other cause.

There was a lower trap-door through which the figure passed. There could be no difficulty in passing, because that was always kept open, as it was considered to assist in ventilating the house; and then the intruder stood within the house.

He then drew himself up to his full height, and paused for some moments, as if considering the next step he would take; but then he descended to the second floor, on which were placed what are called the best bedrooms. He paused at one, gently tried the handle, and finding it turn, and the door open, he gave one look towards the stairs that he had just descended, and then he entered the apartment.

All was yet still; no sound met his ear, save the breathing of the sleeper within, who lay in a sweet sleep, and was as calm and unconscious as the blessed; perfect rest and forgetfulness had steeped the senses of the young girl, who lay in ambrosial sleep. One arm was thrown outside the clothes, and revealed, in all its symmetry, a snow-white bosom, heaving gently to the throbbing of the heart.

The intruder gazed at the young girl for some moments, and clasped his hands with trembling eagerness, and a ghastly smile played upon his terrible features, while a fearful fire shot from the eyes of one who thus disturbed the slumbers of the living.

He approached the bed, and took the hand within his own, and then the sleeper awoke. It would be impossible to describe the look of terror and horror that sat on the young girl’s face.

She could not scream, she could not utter a sound; her whole faculties appeared to have been bound up for a short time. She could not even shrink from the horrible being who approached her, she was so perfectly horror-stricken with that truly horrible countenance, the glance of which seemed as if it would destroy the power of speech for ever. She shrank now, but could not move.

The creature crept closer. It seized her hand, and held it within its own; but even that could not awake her from the trance she was in. She felt a horrible sinking feeling, as though she must sink through the very flooring of the house, and yet she could not stir.

It appeared as though, so long as the hideous face was opposed to her’s, so long she was unable to move; it was a species of fascination; however great the horror felt, yet there was no help for it. She could not ever shut her eyes; that boon was denied her.

What she saw cannot be described. It is by far too horrible for pen to describe. The wild horrible insanity that appeared in the eyes of the creature, with their peculiar cast, was indescribable; the only light that entered the room, at that moment, came from a lamp below, and illumined only the upper part of the room above the window sills.

The creature then stood in relief against this light, a horrible dark object, whose glaring eyeballs were too terrible ever to be forgotten.

Then, again, while he with one hand held her’s, he passed his other hand up her arm, and then felt along the soft, white flesh with its cold, clammy fingers, as if it were feeling for something, or greedy of the velvet-like substance.

Still keeping the eyes fixed upon the hapless and helpless girl, he drew the arm towards him, and, leaning upon the bed, suddenly plunged his face on the arm, and held and seized it near the middle with its teeth, and then it made an attempt to suck the wound.

This, however, broke the charm, horrible and complete as it was; for the creature’s hideous countenance was lost to her sight, as he plunged his face to her arm.

Shriek followed shriek in quick and rapid succession. The whole house was alarmed by the terrible shrieks that came from the apartment. She struggled, and by a sudden effort, she disengaged herself from the grasp of the fiend, and rolled, wrapped up in the bed-clothes, to the other side of the floor.

The monster still pursued her with greedy thirst for blood, and had picked her up, and again placed her on the bed, with more than mere human strength, and again sought the arm he had been deprived of by the sudden effort of the young girl.

“Help! help! Mother! father! help! help!”

The shouts rang through the house, awaking the affrighted sleepers from their repose, in a manner that may be called distressing.

It is distressing in the midst of a large city to be awoke, in the dead of the night, by loud and urgent cries of distress. It is such a contrast to the dead stillness that reigns around, and when the first cries are heard, it creates a terror and surprise that takes away all power of action.

It was not till the cries had been heard a second time that the inmates aroused themselves; the fact was, they were fearful of fire. The moment that idea floated across their minds, then, indeed, they started up, and the father of the young girl, hearing the fall, at once rushed to the room of his daughter. He arrived but in time; the hideous monster, being affrighted by the footsteps approaching him, turned from his blood-stained feast, and hid himself beneath the drapery, as the father entered the room.

“Mary,” he said, “Mary! Mary! what means this—what can be the matter—are you hurt—how come you in this disorder?”

“Oh, God! that thing from the grave has been sucking my blood from my veins. See—see yonder—he moves! Watch him—note him, father!”

Believing she raved, her father paid no attention to what she did say, but continued to regard her with sorrow and regret, for he believed it to be a sudden attack of mania; but seeing the curtains move, he turned his head, and at once divined it to be the cause of his daughter’s alarm.

The glance was but momentary; but he saw the figure of a man who was escaping from the apartment by the door by which he had at that moment entered.

“Help!” he shouted—“help—thieves—murder!”

And as he shouted, he rushed after the figure that was flying towards the top of the house. By this time the house was filled with people, and the noise up stairs had caused the servants below to rise confused and thoroughly terrified by the sounds they heard, and the cries of their master.

At that moment, one of those watchful guardians of the night passed by the house, and was immediately hailed by the unfortunate people below, who were afraid to go up stairs to offer any assistance, lest they might be knocked back again, which fear stopped all aid from below.

“Hilloa! what’s the matter now?” inquired the worthy guardian of the night.

“Oh, I don’t know—goodness knows. You had better go up and see. I’ll come up after you. Don’t be afraid; I’ll come up after you, if you’ll go first.”

“Stop a moment while I spring my rattle,” said the worthy functionary; who thereupon gave an alarming peal upon his instrument, and then he entered the house, with instructions to the servant to run down stairs and let any of his party in that might come up.

Then the guardian of the night hastened up stairs with all the haste he could, and came up just in time to pick Mr. Smith up, who was lying stunned at the foot of the stairs.

The fact was, Mr. Smith had pursued his adversary too quickly, and finding he could not get off, he turned round and felled him to the earth, like an ox. It was just at this juncture when the charley came up stairs, and in another moment Mr. Smith recovered.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the watchman; “is the house on fire.”

“No, no; the vampyre—the vampyre!”

“Eh—what? Never heard on ’im afore—never seed him.”

“Quick—quick! he has gone up stairs. Quick—after him!” said Mr. Smith, as he ran up the stairs, and was quickly followed by the watchman and some others who now crowded about, having had time to dress themselves and come to Mr. Smith’s aid; and they now crowded to the house-top, for they saw the trap-door was unfastened, though it had been hastily pushed to. This they opened, and then looked on the house-top, first one way, and then another.

“He ain’t here,” said the watchman, “and we mustn’t expect to find him here; he wouldn’t wait for us, you may depend upon that. We had better search along the house-tops till we see him, or find some of the other traps open, and then you may guess where he has gone.”

“The difficulty is, which way did he go?” said Mr. Smith.

“Oh, I saw him go that way,” said another watchman, who came up stairs, having been first attracted by the sounds of the rattle, and then, looking up at the house, he saw the figure of a man stealing, with great rapidity of motion, across the house-tops.

“There I lost him, then,” he said. “I didn’t see him after that spot; but he may have gone further, for all I can say to the contrary. But we shall soon see.”

“This trap-door is open,” said the other watchman, as he pulled aside Mrs. Meredith’s trap-door, which had only been pushed to. “We had better go in here, and see if he isn’t gone somewhere into the house, and hiding himself until all is quiet, and then he will make off if left alone.”

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Chapter CXXIX

THE UNSUCCESSFUL PURSUIT.—MR. SMITH’S DISAPPOINTMENT, AND THE TESTIMONY OF MRS. MEREDITH.

Mrs. Meredith and her daughters had long sunk into deep sleep before the events just narrated took place in her neighbour’s house. There was a perfect stillness; the whole house appeared as though there were no living soul within it, all was so still and quiet.

Presently, however, there was a terrific sound; it was like that of a human being falling and bumping down stairs, and then there was a great deal of shouting and calling, and Mrs. Meredith opened her eyes and trembled in her bed, while her daughter Margaret, who upon the occasion slept with her, was likewise as frightened.

“What is th—that?” she stammered, with some difficulty.

“Oh, hear, I cannot think. Thieves—murderers, I dare say. Oh, merciful Heaven! what shall we do—where shall I go? We shall be murdered!”

Both females trembled in their beds, and were quite unable to move, breaking out in a profuse sweat from fear; and yet the noise came nearer and nearer, and there were many persons evidently in the house; their numbers were so numerous that they evidently didn’t care to conceal themselves.

The fact was this: when Mr. Smith and his party found the trap-door open, they descended into the house, the watchman leading the way; but in going down the ladder, his foot slipped, and he came with a dreadful thump on the landing, and fortunately he rolled up against the servant girl’s door, instead of down stairs. The door flew open, and the girl was too terrified to speak for some moments.

At length the watchman having got up, he made for the bed, upon which the girl jumped up, and began to scream out for help in piteous tones.

“Come, come—don’t be frightened,” said the watchman; “get up and show us over the house.”

“Well, I’m sure!” said the girl, who had recovered some of her assurance, for the coat, stick, and lantern of the watchman at once assured her that she was in no immediate danger whatever. “Well, I’m sure! to think of coming in a female’s room in this manner. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you old wretch, you ought!”

“No names. If you don’t get up and show us over, and call your master——”

“I ain’t got a master.”

“Well, your mistress, then—we will go ourselves, and we’ll soon make short work of it. Come, come, no nonsense. We will dress you ourselves.”

“You monster! Go out of the room, can’t you? Have you no decency left you? I’ll get up; but I’ll lay a complaint before the lord mayor, and he shall tell you a different tale to this. I’m ashamed of you, and so you ought to be of yourselves.”

However, during this energetic remonstrance, she contrived to shuffle on some things, and when she was ready, she came down to her mistress’s door, and then began to hammer and kick at it, saying,—

“Oh, Mrs. Meredith, here’s sich a lot of men in the house. Do come out, mem. I don’t know what’s the matter; but they’ll break into your room, as they broke into mine.”

“What do they want, Mary?”

“Don’t know, mem.”

“There is some one escaped into your house that has broken into the next house, and your trap-doors on the roof were open.”

“Gracious me!” said Mrs. Meredith—“gracious me! Show them over the place, Mary. We will get up in a few moments, and come to you. Margaret, my dear, get up; some housebreakers have got into the house, and we shall all be murdered in our sleep if we don’t find them. Oh, dear, dear! what will become of us? What will our new lodger say to this disturbance?”

Margaret made no reply, but began to dress herself, while the party began their search; and Mr. Smith hastened back to his daughter, to understand the nature of the attack that had been made upon her, and whether she were any better than she was when he left her.

However, when he came to hear what was the real cause of her terror, to find the marks on her arm, and the certainty that nothing had been lost or moved, he was perfectly staggered, and hastened back after the party he had left, to make some further attempt to follow the miscreant, and to discover, if possible, his retreat, and bring him to justice for the vile attack he had made.

When he returned, he met Mrs. Meredith coming out of her room, she having hastily dressed herself, followed by her daughter.

“Oh! Mr. Smith—Mr. Smith, what is the meaning of all this disturbance? Here are a number of strange men, who have forced themselves into my house, and whether their object is our property or our lives, we cannot tell. What can I do, Mr. Smith?”

“You have nothing to fear, ma’am.”

“Nothing to fear, sir! Why, is not such an occurrence something to be feared for its own sake alone?”

“Yes, ma’am, it is very disagreeable, I am willing to admit; but I presume you would not give refuge to a vampyre?”

“A what, sir?”

“A vampyre, madam. I know not how to explain it to you, but I have to assure you my daughter has been attacked in her sleep by the midnight blood-sucker from the graves. Oh! God, that such a thing should happen in my family. I would not have believed it, had the same been related to me from anybody else.”

“It must have been the night mare,” suggested Mrs. Meredith.

“Would to Heaven it had been so; but I came to her assistance, and saw him as he fled from my daughter’s bedside, and I followed him to the roof, and he was lost on your house, and your trap-door was open, and we presumed he went in here.”

“The door was bolted when we went to bed last night,” said Margaret.

“Yes,” responded her mother; “we always have that bolted every night, for it is our only protection from that side of the house; but no one can be here; we have no man in the house save our lodger, an invalid and quite a gentleman.”

“Can we see him?”

“I should think not, because he is an invalid; he’s a colonel in the East India service, and will, no doubt, be very angry at such a disturbance, and much more so when he finds he is wanted. I am really much shocked at this disturbance, which is the more unfortunate as it is the first night he has slept here.”

“I must see him.”

“Must, Mr. Smith—must! I cannot permit anything of the kind to be said in my house. I give you permission to look for him over the house, but I can’t give any such permission with what my lodgers possess—it is not in my power to do so if I had the inclination.”

While this was going on, the house had been rummaged over and over, and then a party of them, with Mr. Smith, came to the colonel’s bedroom; a close travelling cap and a dressing-gown were found on the mat before the door.

“Oh!” said Mr. Smith, as he picked it up, “this appears very much like what I saw the figure was dressed up in—something like robes, and this would serve the purpose.”

“Ah!” said the watchman, “we shall have him now.”

“But the gentleman is an invalid; he can hardly walk up stairs, much less can he be scrambling over house-tops,” said Mrs. Meredith. “You must surely all have been dreaming. Something has disagreed with you, and the result has been visions of which you can of course find no trace.”

“Not quite that, either,” said one of the watchmen, “for we saw him getting away, and he made for your trap-door, where I missed him. I could not see any more of him among the chimneys, or something of that sort, but I thought he came in here, and found your door open.”

“And you saw him come in?” said Mrs. Meredith.

“I can’t say I saw him come in,” said the man; “I couldn’t see through a brick-wall and a stack of chimneys which were in the way, but I felt certain he must have come in here.”

“Well, this is very strange—very singular.”

“The dressing-gown, too,” said Mr. Smith, “is dusty and dirty all over—at least in places where it appears to have come in contact with anything dirty—possibly the roof of the house; certainly something of that sort has happened. It looks very much like it.”

“And the cap sits close to the head; that is dirty.”

“But it is dry dirt,” said Mr. Smith, “and of the same character; we had better see this lodger of yours, Mrs. Meredith, and with your permission I will knock.”

As Mr. Smith spoke he gave two or three loud knocks at the door, which were not answered for some time. But they were speedily repeated, and then a peremptory voice exclaimed,—

“In the name of goodness, what is the meaning of all this disturbance? Is the house broken into, or is it a resort for thieves? Be it as it may, if I am disturbed in this way, and you don’t instantly get out of the way and make less noise, I’ll fire through the door. I have loaded pistols by my side, and I will not submit to this shameful disturbance.”

At the sound of these words, the two watchmen were much disturbed, and immediately stepped back so hastily as nearly to overthrow Mrs. Meredith and her daughter; but Mr. Smith, after a step or two backwards, resumed his place by the door, and exclaimed,—

“I have not come here, sir, to be frightened; some strange circumstances have just happened, and I must beg you’ll open your door to explain them.”

“And who the devil are you?”

“My name is Smith, sir. I live next door, and my daughter has been attacked by a vampyre. I know not what nature the creature must possess, but it has shocking propensities—there are evidences at your door which make it appear he has got into your room.”

“It would be very foolish in him to so anything of the sort,” said the colonel, “for, in the first place, I will not suffer annoyance in any shape; and besides, I have loaded pistols for his reception. Wait till I am dressed, and then I will come out to you.”

“I am sure the colonel will be very much offended by this conduct, which is very shameful; people’s houses broken open and entered in this manner, and people’s rest broken so. I am quite ashamed of my neighbours—quite.”

“Really we have strong suspicions—strong grounds of suspicion, too, against that lodger of yours; look at that dressing-gown and cap, the open trap-door, and all—really I can’t help thinking there is something very suspicious in all this.”

“Yes,” said the watchman; “I know there’s nobody else in the house. I’ve been all over it, and it’s very strange to me if he ain’t the man.”

“Well,” said Margaret Meredith, “it seems as if you are most willing to accuse those who are quite incapable of doing what you accuse them of. This gentleman was barely able to get up stairs without assistance; besides, he could not have gone up stairs without some one being awoke by the noise. It’s my opinion that it is a piece of impertinence altogether.”

“So I think, my dear,” said Mrs. Meredith.

“I am a father, Mrs. Meredith,” said Mr. Smith, “and I have my daughter’s safety and happiness at heart. I am sure there’s much, too, very suspicious. You wouldn’t like your daughter’s blood sucked out of her arms. I am sure I don’t, nor does she.”

“Oh, botheration!” said Margaret; “who ever heard of such stuff? I’m sure I never did, except in some book of improbabilities, and nothing more; but here is Colonel Deverill.”

At that moment Colonel Deverill opened the door, and then retired a little into his room, saying as he did so, in a very angry voice, but, at the same time, endeavouring to be courteous,—

“You can come in, now; but I am quite at a loss to understand the nature of this disturbance; the house don’t appear to be on fire; and that is the only contingency in my mind that will justify such a disturbance. What is the matter, Mrs. Meredith?”

“I can hardly tell you, sir. I have been disturbed by finding a party of people in my house; it is most amazing to me how they came in.”

“I will tell you, sir,” said Mr. Smith. “My daughter has been terrified by the appearance of some one in her bed-room, who attempted to suck her blood from the veins of her arm. I don’t know what to say about it.”

“I am sure I don’t,” said Colonel Deverill; “but I must say it’s a most unpleasant affair for those who have nothing to do with it. It is a pity your domestic afflictions should call you out in this manner; take my advice, sir; go home, else you’ll catch cold.”

“You may repent making a jest of this——”

“I never repent anything, sir. I regret I am so unnecessarily disturbed; and it appears to me, your intrusion here is most unwarrantable.”

“Is this your dressing-gown, sir?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, then, how did it come here, and in this state?” inquired Mr. Smith, triumphantly.

“I don’t know—I didn’t put it there; but I suppose it must have fallen accidentally; it would not have been thrown there willingly,” said the colonel, deliberately.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Mr. Smith, “but it strikes me you’ve been on the tiles this evening.”

“My good sir, if you don’t leave my apartment, it may happen I may forget my pains and lameness, and fling you out of the window. If this had happened in India instead of here, you would have had a particularly sharp knife inserted between your ribs, or have been thrown into a well. But I know nothing of this matter, which appears so strange, as to be beyond all reason; neither experience nor common sense at all throw any light upon the matter; be advised, sir, and retire, and allow honest people and invalids to sleep the night out.”

Mr. Smith looked very blank, and, unable to comprehend all that had passed, he could not tell what to think; he could not urge the matter further, for he was met by real contempt and perfect self-assurance on the part of the colonel, who moved about the room very lame, while his hand was in a sling, and a green shade was placed over his eyes.

“You see,” said Mrs. Meredith, “you must be very entirely mistaken. Colonel Deverill, we are sure, is quite unable to run about over house-tops, even had he the inclination to do so, which is really absurd. It must be at least a great mistake on your part.”

“Yes, I am sure, too, Colonel Deverill could not have left the house without our knowing it; indeed, it is a very silly affair, and has been a great nuisance, to say the least of it. I wonder Mr. Smith doesn’t know better than to break into peaceable people’s houses.”

“But I did not do so.”

“How came you here, then?”

“I followed some one else; the place was open; and yet you say it was shut at night, and you usually kept it so. How do you account for that?”

“I cannot do so, unless some neglect took place, or else you must have forced it open.”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” said the watchman; “I can swear Muster Smith didn’t do that; it was open, and I found it so, so there’s that to be accounted for; and then there’s the togs a lying outside here, that’s to be accounted for; so, you see, it’s a werry suspicious case.”

“You are a very stupid fellow,” said the colonel, “a very idiot, if you imagine people are to be held responsible because a dressing-gown happens to fall down. I do not know but I shall proceed with this matter myself; it seems to me you have committed a trespass, to say the least of it. I can pledge my word, as a man of honour and a soldier, I have not left my room; indeed, these ladies know I could not do so; and their testimony would be ample in a court of justice, and to a gentleman.”

“Yes, that is no more than the truth,” said Mrs. Meredith, who was by no means pleased with the disturbance; and because she had no sympathy for the young lady who sat in the balcony to the annoyance of herself and daughter.

“And I can bear witness to the same,” said Miss Meredith. “I think it is quite time Mr. Smith returned to his own place, and see what is the matter there; perhaps the person he saw may have passed him, and gone back again into his own house.”

Mr. Smith lingered, looked wistfully, as if his doubts were not cleared off; but yet the testimony was so clear and so strong, that he could not dispute it; and, however unwillingly he was compelled to acknowledge, there were some matters that he could not dispute, though he was unable to solve them; and he and those with him returned from their unsatisfactory search.

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CXXX. A BREAKFAST SCENE.—A MATCH-MAKING MOTHER

The next day there was some anxiety on the part of Mrs. Meredith, to ascertain how far her new lodger might have been disturbed by this event; and in what temper of mind he felt upon the occasion. It is usual in all lodgings, to have some little regard to the lodger’s comforts for some days, perhaps a week or two, and then things are allowed to take their chance; and if the lodger complains, he gets for an answer, that they take a vast deal of pains to oblige him, and intimate that he is a peculiarly lucky man for having become a lodger at that place; and you would have been worse off if you had gone elsewhere, which, of course, you don’t believe, though they tell you so.

It is an old and favourite saying, that a new broom sweeps clean; and, in time, an old one becomes very nearly useless. So it is with lodging-house keepers; the longer you remain, the more inattentive they become, until you get wearied, and are compelled to leave, and then you get some scurvy insolence, and your landlady eventually believes she is an ill-used woman.

But, in the present instance, Mrs. Meredith had other hopes and fears than those of a mere lodging-house keeper. Not that she had formed any plan in her own mind; but she had some floating idea that there was seldom such a chance turned up, because the colonel had evidently no relations; and who could tell what, in the chapter of accidents, might happen?

“I am quite grieved,” she said to her daughter, “it should have happened this night. What could be the meaning of the disturbance, I can’t think. Now, it’s very tiresome things will happen so cross as this, that I don’t know what to think of it.”

“It really appears as if it was done on purpose.”

“It does; but I am sorry for it, because it would seem as though we were liable to some kind of interruption at all times, for they generally expect attention at the first, if at no other time; and he may think this is a bad beginning, at all events.”

“But we shall convince him that we shall not treat him neglectfully, ma’.”

“No, my dear; but these Indians are strange-tempered people, and when they once take a fancy, there is no knowing what they may do; and there is no knowing what a dislike taken at such an occurrence might produce, and likes and dislikes are taken without rhyme or reason.”

“Yes, ma’, so they are; and that is the reason why you took such a dislike to young Willis, for he was as nice a young man as I have seen.”

“Nice, my dear—nice! I don’t see why he was nice, unless it was because he was presumptuous, and had no money,” said the amiable parent.

“He was not rich, ma’——”

“He was positively poor, Margaret,” interrupted the mother, “and therefore it was absolutely necessary to discourage such persons; for, if they do no good, they are sure to be productive of mischief; for their hanging about, you know, deters others from coming forward who have means.”

“He was very handsome.”

“‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ my dear. You’ll find that is a motto through life, that will carry weight at any time. All the good looks in the world would never put a gown on your back, or a sixpence in your purse, recollect; besides, he was not handsome.”

“You are prejudiced against the young man. Not that I care anything about him, though he was a very agreeable and nice young man; so it’s no use in saying that he wasn’t.”

“Well, my dear, it doesn’t much matter; this is a matter of opinion. What do you think of our colonel? He is a fine man, and a rich one besides.”

“He is tall, I admit, but stoops a great deal; is very lame; one eye much worse than the other, and one arm in a sling. Well, I can’t see much beauty in all that; much out of repair, you must admit, ma’.”

“Yes; Colonel Deverill has seen some service, and his misfortunes are so many points of honour; they are like so many medals which speak of his worth. Besides that, he is a most gentlemanly and pleasant man. I don’t know that I ever spoke to a more fascinating man.”

“That might be at times; but then that was evidently a constraint upon his natural temper, because he every now and then broke out abruptly about something or other, which proves that he has an abrupt and imperious temper, not to say savage and snappish.”

“There you are clearly unjustifiable, my dear Margaret. The colonel, you see, is a military man, and used to command, and therefore it is a very usual occurrence, and not a matter of disposition at all; but what can that matter when you come to consider his wealth?”

“There is certainly room for congratulation there,” said Margaret.

“Indeed, my child, there is room for congratulation; and I am convinced there is happiness where there is a fortune, for that will obtain all you want, and, when you obtain all you want, what can you be otherwise than entirely happy?—therefore, riches are happiness.”

“Yes; there is much truth in all that, ma’,” said Margaret; “and all I hope is, that I might obtain a fortune; then I would make you comfortable, ma’.”

“I am sure you would, Margaret. My whole life has been spent in shifts to maintain you and bring you up in a manner that would enable you to become a fortune; which, thanks to my care, example, and precept, you are fully equal to at any moment it may become your lot.”

“Yes, ma’; I feel that I was born to command, and the lady of a colonel would not be a bit too high in rank for my ambition or deserts.”

“Indeed, it would not, my dear; but now listen to me. You know, my dear, I never plan anything but what is for your benefit. Now, I am given to understand that Colonel Deverill has no relatives at all, and I think hardly any friends, and we can make ourselves quite necessary to him—in fact, perfect friends to him. He will look upon us as his nearest relatives, and he may take a fancy to you, as you may easily induce him. Old men like flattery, there is no doubt, and that kind of flattery which is called attention. Wait upon him most assiduously, and read to him, and all that kind of thing, my dear.”

“Yes; I know, ma’.”

“And then, dear, if you mind what you are about, the colonel and all his wealth may be yours before six months are over, or I am no witch.”

“Hush! I hear him stirring.”

“He’s coming down stairs; there he is in the drawing-room; I hear him over head. Go up stairs, my dear, and inquire when he will choose to have his breakfast.”

“Yes, ma’,” said the young lady, who betrayed an extraordinary desire to obey her parent, a matter not equally to be said of all young ladies, nor of this one upon many occasions; but, then, this was one that was quite agreeable to her own feelings, which explains the secret.

Colonel Deverill had, indeed, descended, and was seated in the drawing-room, with his feet on the fender and his head leaning on his hand, and his elbow on the table, when Margaret entered. He appeared to be thoughtful and unwell; he had, perhaps, passed a bad night, or the interruption had robbed him of his sleep, which to an invalid was the more severely felt.

“Good morning, colonel,” said Margaret, advancing. “I hope the disturbance that so inopportunely took place, did not have the effect of destroying your night’s rest.”

“Indeed, it did do so to a very great extent,” replied the colonel, “though not entirely; but still it makes one very poorly, gives one the headache, and causes a sense of lassitude and fatigue to oppress the body, which, added to the weariness incident to such cases, makes one very uncomfortable.”

“I am sorry you have been so discomposed, and so is my ma’. She really is grieved; but you see, sir, it was a matter so entirely beyond any control, that she cannot be blamed for it, though it happened, most unfortunately, at a time when it was least wanted, or most to be avoided.”

“True—very true. I can imagine all that. I am not unjust enough to blame you for it. I could no more help it than you could, and I dare say you were none the better for such a disagreeable disturbance; I am not, I am very certain.

“No, sir, I am not. When would you please to breakfast?”

“As soon as I can have it,” replied the colonel.

“You can have it at once.”

“Then be pleased to let me have it. I have the use of but one arm entirely; may I beg your aid in making tea for me?”

“With pleasure, sir.”

Margaret immediately left the room, and informed her mother of what had passed upon the occasion; and when the breakfast was laid, and all things ready, Margaret Meredith sat down with Colonel Deverill to breakfast. Before, however, they had gone far, he inquired if she had breakfasted.

“No, I have not.”

“And your mother—has she breakfasted?”

“No, sir, she has not.”

“Then give her my compliments, and I shall be glad to take breakfast in her company too; for I am very poorly this morning, and company is agreeable.”

This was soon effected, and in a few minutes more they all sat down, the colonel being duly waited upon by Margaret and her mother; the latter being employed in aiding the former to pay great attention to their host; for they breakfasted at his expense, as a matter of course.

“It was really a most unfortunate occurrence, that of last night,” said Mrs. Meredith; “very unfortunate; because some people have a difficulty in sleeping in a strange bed; and when once awake, they cannot easily, if at all, get asleep again, and that I had great fears might have been your case.”

“Not precisely,” said the colonel; “but the fact is, I have seen so much hard service, that I can sleep anywhere without any effort of mine; but when one has suffered from wounds, the heats of climate, and the terrors of imprisonments in Indian prisons, one’s health becomes so shattered, that one’s rest is not so good as it ought to be—but that is no one’s fault.”

“It is a grievous misfortune,” said Mrs. Meredith.

“Yes,” added Margaret; “and I think there is not enough gratitude in the country towards those who so nobly defend us in our homes; to do which they must not only brave danger and death in the field of battle, but all the evils that spring from climate, insidious diseases, brought on by the exposures and hardships of a soldier’s life; and then when they see them return to their own country, with wounds that ought to bring honour, glory, and sure profit, they are omitted and neglected.”

The colonel sighed deeply, but said nothing.

“My dear Miss Meredith, will you fetch me my keys?—I left them in the bureau.”

“Yes, sir,” said the amiable young lady, who arose, and left the room.

“Your daughter is an amiable girl, Mrs. Meredith,” said Colonel Deverill. “She reminds me of one who is now dead, and at whose decease I left England for India; the country became insupportable to me at that time, but she now recalls all the feelings and aspirations of youth.”

“Ah! she is an amiable and good girl—though I am her mother; yet I must not do her less than justice, because it is usual to consider it partial or silly of a parent praising her own child; but she does deserve all that can be said of her.”

“It is a blessing. There was the same class of beauty, and the same amiable and sensible deportment. Oh, dear! those days are gone by, indeed!”

“Who knows but they may return?”

“It is doubtful; more than doubtful—certain. I am an old man, now, Mrs. Meredith,—an old man. Yes; I have deserved some thanks at the hands of my country; and I am rich—yes, Mrs. Meredith, I am rich—very rich, I believe I may say.”

“That is some reward.”

“It is. But I cannot recall the past—I am no longer young—I have no young wife by my side—to soothe my pillow—to attend to my wants. No; I am an old man, as I said before, and cannot expect the attention of the young and beautiful.”

“But, Colonel Deverill, you are not an old man; and as for your wounds, they are honourable.”

“But my shattered constitution——”

“May be mended by care and attention, doubtless; and I am sure, while you are here, you shall want no attention we can possibly bestow.”

“I thank you, Mrs. Meredith—I thank you,” said the colonel.

“I only regret the disturbance you suffered last night,” said Mrs. Meredith. “I am afraid want of proper rest has made you melancholy. I knew not of such a thing, neither was I at all aware of the fact of the trap-door being open—indeed, I can’t understand it.”

“Nor I, ma’am. I do not clearly understand what they said; they talked of some young lady being strangled or assaulted in her sleep.”

“Yes, colonel. It was in her sleep, and I cannot help thinking it must have been a dream; however, if it were not, I do not know what to think of it.”

“Nor I,” said the colonel, thoughtfully.

“They talked about a vampyre, and said Miss Smith had been seized by the arm; and the creature had attempted to suck the blood from the veins.”

“Dear me, what a strange affair.”

“Very, sir; but I never heard of such things only in books; but, goodness help us from such strange unearthly beings—have you seen any in your travels, Colonel Deverill? You have travelled in hot countries, and have seen them, I should imagine.”

“Not I, Mrs. Meredith; I have seen strange things, but I never saw a vampyre, though I have heard of such things; indeed, there are many disgusting things in creation, and that is one of them. But what could be the reason they should come to that young lady above any other, I cannot conceive.”

“Nor I, sir.”

At this moment Margaret returned, having recovered the keys, which were not wanted; only the watchful mamma thought there was an opportunity for a little tender gag relative to the amiability of the young lady, and, therefore, it ought not to be omitted.

Moreover, she saw there was no necessity for leaving them alone yet; there would be plenty of time yet for that, and she felt assured there would be ample opportunity for the progress of the suit she now confidently anticipated must take place; for she saw, however prompt and ready the colonel might be from habit, yet there was a good deal of the willing mood about him.

“His health and weakness,” she thought, “causes that; and now, while his health lasts this way, he may be secured; or, at least, the foundation laid upon which we may build our hopes. He shall want no aid of mine to help him on that way.”

“Have you been long in England, colonel?” she inquired.

“Not very long.”

“The voyage homeward must have been very tedious.”

“It would have been, but I did not come that way. I crossed into Egypt, and came to the Mediterranean, and thence to Italy; so I varied the scene, and travelled at leisure, and got here a month before the vessel I was to have come by.”

“Oh, that was much more pleasant.”

“Decidedly so; and then I came to the hotel; not that I had not all proper attention paid me—but then there is no sociality there; men only surround you with whom you can hold no converse whatever.”

“Certainly not, they are menials.”

“And of the lowest class. However, I sought out such a place as this, where I wished to have some of the domestic comforts around me, that I might have had, had I a home of my own; some one to whom I could speak more seriously; for I am debarred the affectionate regard of near and dear female relatives.”

“You must look upon us in that light, Colonel Deverill; as persons who are anxious and desirous of causing you to forget these wants by our assiduity and attention. I can speak for my daughter as myself; she will do all in her power to render your stay comfortable.”

“She is young and beautiful.”

“Ahem!”

“And doubtless will change such occupations to those of a more endearing character. Well, it is as it should be, and I am selfish to feel jealous. I wish I was young myself—but, enough of this. I have to express my obligation to you for the ready manner in which you came forward to speak of my being in my room last night, when that man was here and the watchmen.”

“Mr. Smith?”

“Yes, that was the man; they would not have taken my word for it; however, I hope to be able to remain here until I find myself sinking to the grave; and those who act as you have began to act for me, I must and will remember at my death and afterwards.”

“I do not act with such a motive, Colonel Deverill.”

“No, no; I am well aware of that; but that renders it a duty in me. However, we will say no more now; I am even wearied out.”

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CXXXI. MRS. MEREDITH’S FRIEND.—EXCHANGE OF SERVICES, AND COMPACT

There could be no doubt in the minds of both mother and daughter that there was something much resembling a moral certainty concerning the fate of the retired colonel. That he must marry was evident—he was to all intents and purposes resolved to do so. He talked of a home and domestic comfort, and all that kind of thing; therefore it would be easy to entangle him in the meshes of love; the snares of passion might be successfully set, and they would be sure to be productive of some sport, and even a stray colonel might be caught, one who, having had enough of the wars of man, might now be considered to become a fair object of attack in those of Venus.

However, there appeared much in the colonel’s circumstances and disposition that laid him open to the attacks of designing matrons and maidens. He seemed to appreciate female company—was particularly well pleased with female attentions; perhaps his health required their aid more than that of any other; and he had evidently been in love, and lost the object of his earliest affections.

One great thing in Margaret Meredith’s favour was, the colonel had taken it into his head that she much resembled this lady, whoever she was; and this fact, no doubt, had opened his heart towards her; and he felt a kindly, and perhaps a warmer feeling, towards her. This, they calculated, would greatly assist them in their efforts to circumvent the colonel, and cause him to capitulate upon matrimonial conditions.

“There never was so good a chance,” said Mrs. Meredith, in the course of a day or two after the above scene; “there never was such a chance as the one you now have.”

“What, with the colonel, ma’?”

“Yes, my love, you may depend upon it, that is a very safe speculation. Why, he must be immensely rich. I am sure that some of the jewels I have seen on his fingers must be worth thousands of pounds. He is a very rich man, there can be no doubt.”

“Yes, ma’, he is very rich.”

“And you will have many fine things that you have never dreamed of. Why, you will have a carriage; I should think he would never refuse you that trifle.”

“He has not one now.”

“Yes, that is true; he would never use it himself; and that accounts for it. But when he has a wife it is quite another matter; and one which you can easily manage when you are a wife; you can do more then than you can now. Besides, you’ll see how the money is spent; and it must all go through your hands, you know; that can’t be helped.”

“No, I dare say not; but, ma’ don’t you think, when he dies, there will be a loss of the pension? and that would be a serious loss.”

“It would; but then you will have a pension as an officer’s widow, besides all his vast property, without any trouble whatever—with nobody to contradict you; that is, if he were to die; but I think he will not do that; he does not, at times, appear so old as one would think; and yet, he is very pale; but that, I suppose, is caused by his long residence abroad in hot climates, and being exposed to the weather of all kinds, attended by wounds and sickness.”

“No doubt he has suffered much; but he has obtained a handsome fortune, which pays for a great deal, you know,” said Margaret.

“Undoubtedly, my dear; by-the-bye, have you heard how that affair of Miss Smith was ended, and why they came in here in such a manner?”

“Oh, it was a very shocking affair; there were some marks in her arm, which I cannot understand; it does seem very extraordinary to me, but she says she was awoke in the night by some monster sucking her blood.”

“Dear me! who ever heard of such nonsense?”

“I cannot but think there must have been something in it; and, yet, what could have been the reason for them all to utter a falsehood, I don’t know. There was, you know, the father, then the watchmen, all of whom said they saw it; at all events, they appeared to have some idea that it must have been done by some one in our house; the dressing gown and that appeared to bewilder them.”

“Did they say they thought so still?”

“No; they did not do that, we spoke so positive; and I saw when I went in to see her, she was much terrified at what had occurred, and could not get up; she had a physician to attend her, who will not hear of anything that she says.”

“Well, I think he is right.”

“But the whole family appear to side with her, and insist that it was no robber who made the attempt; for nothing was gone, nothing was attempted in the shape of robbery; nothing was touched nor moved; therefore, there could be no common motive, they said. Well, at all events, they have made somebody very disagreeable in the family, and they had better have been quiet, but they are a disagreeable set, and I shall not go in again.”

“You are quite right, my dear; they would be glad to push that minx of theirs in here, and get an acquaintance with the colonel. No, it will be safest to keep them apart; we will have as few female visitors, my dear, as possible; not that I think you run any chance of rivalry, but, you know, men are such uncertain things.”

“To be sure they are, ma’,” replied Margaret.

“Well, then, if we have no female acquaintances, you see we cannot possibly run any risk, and the matter will not be so protracted, because everything depends upon things being smooth and uninterrupted; he will be the more ready to propose and push the matter to a point.”

“Do you think him a likely man, ma’, to marry?”

“Certain of it, my dear, quite certain of it. I know a marrying man as soon as I see him; the colonel is decidedly a marrying man, he talks of home, domestic comfort, and all that kind of thing; and when men do that, you may be sure, if you are cautious, to catch such an one.”

“Well, I will try.”

“Do, my dear; it will be worth your while, it will make all our fortunes. I wonder what his money is invested in.”

“I should like to know that,” said Margaret.

“And so should I. Do you know, I have been thinking of that myself more than once. It will be necessary to find it out, and yet it is so delicate a matter, that I think you had better make no attempt to work it out of him. Let the affair take its own course at present.”

“But I can hear all.”

“Then you will act wisely, my dear, very wisely, prudently; but do no more—hear and see all, and say nothing—of course, I mean upon that subject alone. Now, if we proceed cautiously, we shall be sure to gain our object; I will take some method of obtaining the information I want at some future time, because it will be well to have him caught before we begin to pull tight the line; or, at least, before we begin to make any inquiries respecting his means he must give us some cause to do so.”

“I dare say we shall know something by accident some of these days; perhaps, at the hotel where he comes from, something may be learned by inquiry.”

“Possibly there may, my dear; but I do not like to go there. At all events, they can know but little, for he has not been long in England, and would hold but little communication with such people. We must have some better plan than that to go upon, else we shall never be successful, except at the cost of some cross in our hopes we would rather have avoided.”

“Well, ma’, you shall do as you like in this affair. I am sure you will do what is right and best for the occasion; besides, one plan is better than two.”

“You are right, my dear. I am, however, resolved to have a visitor.”

“A visitor, ma’?”

“Yes, my dear; only Mr. Twissel, the attorney.”

“Oh, I know who you mean now; but why do you have him? He is a very funny sort of an acquaintance, especially if he is to meet the colonel.”

“I wish him to meet him, my dear, for that reason. He will be able to get out of him, by some means, what he has got his money locked up in. A hint will serve him, and he can make inquiries, and learn it all, and then he will, if we are successful, have a good thing of marriage settlements, and so forth. Besides, I will make an agreement with him that he shall have a sum of money for his trouble.”

“That will be a very good plan, certainly.”

“Exactly, and you needn’t be seen in it at all; so I think we shall be all very fairly put in the way of doing well. I shall go out this morning, and call upon Mr. Twissel, and have some conversation with him. He used to have some business of your father’s to do, and has had much of his money, as well as a good word now and then.”

“Dear me, who is that? There is a double knock at the door, ma’. How vexing it will be to have any one come here. I shall hate the sight of any one coming in now.”

“Can’t you see from the window who it is, my dear?”

“No, ma’.”

“Then we must wait until the servant comes in.”

The words had hardly been uttered, before the servant entered, and said that Mr. Twissel wanted to speak to Mrs. Meredith, if she was at home.

“God bless me!—send him in,” said Mrs. Meredith, after the first surprise was over; and then, turning to her daughter, she said, “Talk of what’s-his-name, and you are sure to see some of his friends. If I had wanted him to come, he would not have been here.”

“Very likely, ma’; and yet you do, and he is here.”

At this moment Mr. Twissel made his appearance, and entered the parlour. Having saluted the ladies, he proceeded to lay his hat and cane on the table, saying,—

“Mrs. Meredith, I dare say you are surprised to see me, after so long an absence.”

“My surprise is not greater than my pleasure, Mr. Twissel. I am very glad to see an old friend of my husband’s. Pray sit down, sir.”

“Thank you, I will. I am glad to see you look so well. I need not ask how you are, and your amiable daughter too; she appears charming.”

“Yes, Mr. Twissel, we are in tolerable good health; not often better.”

“Do not let me disturb you, Miss Margaret,” said Mr. Twissel, as she rose to leave the room.

“Oh, no, sir, not at all. I have something to attend to, if you will excuse me.”

“Certainly, certainly. I hope I shall not be any cause of putting you to any constraint and inconvenience; at the same time, I shall not detain Mrs. Meredith long.”

“Oh, we don’t intend to lose you suddenly,” said Mrs. Meredith. “Anything I can oblige you in I shall be very happy to do so, if you point out the how.”

“Then I will proceed to do so at once,” said Mr. Twissel; “I will do so at once. You see, when your late husband died, or before, he gave me several debts to collect.”

“So I understood,” said Mrs. Meredith.

“Exactly; I see you understand me. Now, those debts I was to collect myself for my own benefit, he having, when he died, owed me a considerable sum of money. He assigned them to me, and I accepted them as payment of his debt due to me.”

“I understood such to be the case, and at that point the matter was considered as settled; was it not, Mr. Twissel?” said Mrs. Meredith.

“It was so, and is so now, as far as I know now; but I want some few papers which it is possible may be somewhere in your possession, to enable me to secure the payment of them; and without those papers I shall not be able to enforce attention. Now, I want to know if you will oblige me with them if you have them by you?”

“I will certainly look and make any search I can for them, and if I find them you shall have them, certainly. But, now I have disposed of that, will you do me a favour?”

“Certainly, with pleasure.”

“Well, then, Mr. Twissel, you see, there is a certain rich lodger of mine who pays certain attentions to my daughter Margaret,” said Mrs. Meredith.

“I see,” said Mr. Twissel.

“Well, then, he had made no positive offer yet; but we have certain expectations, you see, and in case those expectations become realised, I want to be in such a situation as to know at once what I shall do in such a case—what ought to be done.”

“Very good, my dear madam; very good.”

“Now, we only know from report, and from appearances, that he is rich; we feel quite convinced of that—he could not well be otherwise,” said Mrs. Meredith; “but we are anxious to know in what kind of stock or property he is likely to have invested it.”

“Yes, I see. Well, then, all you have to do is to learn what you can from himself or his friends, and then make inquiries respecting the truth of what you hear. I should be very happy in assisting to make such inquiries, or in any way you may point out.”

“I am very much obliged to you; but, Mr. Twissel, it is a very delicate subject for females to touch upon, and, moreover, it is worse, considering how my daughter is likely to be in connection with him.”

“It is a delicate matter, certainly.”

“Well, now, what I wanted was this; if you would on some occasion—I would let you know beforehand,—call in and take some tea, or whatever meal happened to be at hand, and get into conversation with the colonel, and get this matter from him——”

“Oh, he is a colonel in the army, then?”

“Yes; but returned, in bad health, from the Indies. He has come only recently.”

“Aye, aye, I see; you have a nabob, I see. That will be a very handsome settlement for your daughter, my dear madam; a very handsome settlement.”

“Yes, it will.”

“Well, it is handsome; but there are drawbacks, you see.”

“Oh, age, and ill health.”

“Exactly; they are drawbacks, you see, that are not always to a young female’s taste.”

“No, no; but, then, my daughter is a reasonable young woman, Mr. Twissel, and would not object to a good fortune because there was a kind, though, perhaps, elderly, gentleman for a husband. Oh, dear, no, sir, I have no apprehensions of that character; she will be good and obedient, especially when she knows that it is all for her good; besides that, you see, the colonel, though an invalid, is not so very old, and is a most pleasant, and, I might say, fascinating gentleman to converse with; so that she can have no personal objection; and, besides, from what I can observe, I have reason to believe that the colonel is by no means disagreeable to her.”

“Then I am sure it is a very handsome prospect for her, and one that might have been long in happening to one who had a better fortune to aid her.”

“Yes, indeed, it might.”

“Well, then, if I can aid you, command my services.”

“In this respect you may do me much good, but I do not, as it will be some little loss of time to you, desire you should do so for nothing. If we succeed, and all is comfortable, you shall have a hundred pounds soon after the marriage—say three months.”

“Very well. I am quite willing to accept the terms, and should I be wanted at any time, perhaps you will let me know as long before as possible.”

“I will do so.”

“And then, when I next come, perhaps you’ll be able to hand me the papers, and be ready to sign some agreement which I will get ready for the purpose.”

“Very well, I will do it.”

“I am much obliged to you,” said Mr. Twissel; “however, I suppose, when I am introduced to the colonel, I am only to come in as an old friend of the family?”

“Exactly so; that will be by far the best character to assume, because you may be anything; besides which, when matters come to a point proper for interference, you can do so the more easily, and with more effect, and he also will be less inclined to quarrel; and at the same time he can have less objection to do so, which, you see, is a little better.”

“I see,” said the attorney, rising; “and now, as we have settled this business so far, I will bid you good afternoon, as I have some business elsewhere this evening, which I must get finished.”

After exchanging greetings, the attorney quitted the house of Mrs. Meredith without further remark.

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CXXXII. THE EXPLANATION, AND THE PROPOSAL.—A TETE-A-TETE

A week or more had passed away since the visit of the attorney to Mrs. Meredith, and yet the latter saw not a sufficient reason why she should send for her friend. Things were not ripe yet; the colonel had, it was true, been melting gradually; but then to progress ever so little, was a great point in anything—no matter what it is—something gained.

Mrs. Meredith, however, by no means lost sight of her object; she had that steadily in view, and worked for it every day; and her daughter was no less assiduous—she was attentive and humble, waited upon Colonel Deverill with the affectionate assiduity of a daughter; while, on his part, he sighed and said, what a happy man he must be, who should have her for a wife.

It was arranged one day, when he appeared to be more than usually tender, that the mother should be out that evening, and see some of her friends, and break the news a little to some of them; a pardonable vanity in the lady, for it was not in accordance with her position in society that her daughter could expect such an offer as the one she daily expected.

The lady did as she had agreed, and left the house, while Margaret went to the colonel’s sitting-room when his bell rang, and hoped he’d excuse the absence of her mother, as she had gone out to see some friends whom she had not seen for some time.

“I am happy having you attend to me, Miss Margaret. I cannot be attended to better. I am afraid, as it is, I am a terrible annoyance to you.”

“Annoyance, colonel! far from it—very far from it; and I do hope you do not mean what you say, else I shall fear I have unwillingly given you some cause for your opinion, which I shall the more regret, as you are yourself so kind. I assure you it gives me great pleasure when I know I can do aught to alleviate the misfortunes, or satisfy the wishes of any of my friends.”

“And do you reckon me one, Miss Margaret?”

“I hope Colonel Deverill will not consider me too presumptuous in looking upon him as something more than a mere casual friend or acquaintance.”

“Casual acquaintance, Miss Margaret—casual acquaintance!”

“Well, friendship, if you allow me to say so.”

“Friendship!” repeated the colonel, with a deep drawn sigh; “I would I could claim a yet warmer title than a friend. I could then hope for some of those pleasures which are denied a solitary man like me—I should then have those whom I loved to soothe my death-bed, and whom I could benefit by worldly wealth, could I, Margaret, think I could claim a feeling stronger than that of friendship.”

“Oh! Colonel Deverill, how can you talk in this strain? Indeed, you—you are too good—dear me, I do not know what I was about to say.”

“Miss Meredith,” said the colonel, taking her hand with gentleness, and tenderly pressing it, “I am seen to a great disadvantage; I have been many years fighting for my country, and I have not had time to cultivate those sweet and tender emotions such as I feel at this moment.”

“Yes, you must have suffered much,” said Margaret.

“And now, when I return again, I am somewhat the worse in appearance; but my heart is as warm as ever it was, and I am more than ever alive to the charm of female society. It is that unreserved interchange of thought and good offices which attaches me to life, and makes me live even with hope. Do not dispel this day-dream of mine, Margaret.”

The colonel paused and pressed her hand to his lips, while she appeared confused and irresolute, and was unable to withdraw her hand from his, but at length she sank trembling into a chair.

“My charming creature, may I suppose this emotion is caused by excess of feeling—that—that—in short, I am not wholly indifferent to you?”

“Oh, colonel! I’m really unable to speak!”

“My beloved girl, I am loved; yes, I see it—oh, happiness!”

Midst these broken sentences, the colonel contrived to slip his hand round the young lady’s waist, and he pressed her close to him. For a moment she forgot his proximity, and remained passive; but suddenly and quietly disengaging herself, she said,—

“Pardon, me, Colonel Deverill; I had forgotten—I was unconscious—a weakness came over me, and——”

“You love me!”

“If you have become acquainted with that which was a secret, sir, you must use it as such; but you must not talk in this strain to me; promise me, colonel, and—and—I will see about the tea immediately.”

“May I speak to your mother?”

“Colonel Deverill can do as he pleases. I have no secrets from my dear mamma.”

“I will—I will, and Heaven bless you for saying so much. I may say you are not averse to me, and that, with her consent, I shall not despair.”

“We will say no more, Colonel Deverill,” said the cautious maiden.

“You shall command me—you are the arbitress of my fate,” said the colonel, who had become warmer and eulogistic to a degree.

Much more, however, passed between them; the ice was broken, and they conversed more freely; for when they began the tea, much was said that did not partake of so warm a character as that which had already passed; but it, nevertheless, partook of the same purpose.

“When I am married,” said the colonel, “I should like a carriage. I have no use for one now, as I could but very seldom ride; but when I had a wife, then I should wish for her accommodation as well as my own; but which do you prefer, country or town life?”

“There is much of comfort and quiet in a country life,” said Margaret; “and yet I am not entirely wedded to country life—there is much of pleasure in London.”

“So there is; and where you have no resources of your own, or in your own house, it is preferable; but when such is the case, London loses all its charms, or a great part of them.”

“So it does,” said Margaret.

“However, I am partial to both. I should like a partial town and country life.”

“That, indeed, would be the very greatest delight one could experience; to live sometimes in one place, and sometimes in another.”

“So it would.”

“By the way, if we kept a carriage, which I would do,” said the colonel, after a pause, “it would be a very excellent thing to enable us to travel about in.”

“Perhaps you have been to some parts, and like them better than others.”

“Yes, I have been to a good many parts; but I cannot at this moment speak of them; but we would look out for some place that would be more agreeable than others.”

“Perhaps you have some place of your own you would like to live in?”

“No,—not exactly; these things are not of one’s own choice, and not empty; and, therefore, are useless as residences.”

“Certainly. Besides, you must be near enough to come to town for business purposes.”

“Yes, I must, but that needn’t be often,” replied the colonel; “but where there is plenty of means, there is no fear of not getting what we want.”

“No, indeed, there is not.”

“And one thing alone would repay me for the hardships I have endured, the misery I have suffered, and the misfortunes I have experienced in all my marchings and counter-marchings; my sleeping in the open air by night, and scorched by the sun by day.”

“And what may that be, colonel?”

“Why, the power it gives me of conferring happiness and wealth upon you; for, in the natural course of events, you will outlive me.”

“Oh, for mercy’s sake, don’t talk of that, sir.”

“But it is a matter that I can think of calmly enough; and, as a soldier, I have ample occasion, I can assure you.”

“Indeed! I dare say you must have.”

“I can remember, on one occasion, especially, which I will relate to you, if I do not weary,” said Colonel Deverill.

“Oh, no—no! I cannot be weary,” said Margaret.

“Then I will tell you. I was ordered to march some troops to attack the stockade of Puttythempoor, a very strong place.”

“Was it a town?”

“No, merely a place of strength, where the enemy had gathered together in great numbers; and here we were determined to attack them. The stockade was a very strong place; and there were strong and high timber fences, with large mounds of earth and bags of sand, all tending to make the place one of great strength,” said the colonel.

“What a place it must have been!”

“Yes; it was very strong. Well, my party did not amount to more than fifteen hundred men strong, while the enemy, with the advantages of the defence, were more than three thousand, giving them a vast superiority over us; but we were not to be daunted by that; we were determined to make a dash, and, from the character of the men I commanded, I had no fear of the result. We were sure to make our way among them, and then we were sure of the result.”

“How dreadful!”

“Well, the men were divided into three bodies—five hundred each—and these into divisions of one hundred each, the one to support the other. We had no guns, and were therefore compelled to depend entirely upon our luck in the assault.”

“Goodness me! I wonder how you could think of it with anything like ease or comfort. It would make me all of a freeze!”

“Oh, Margaret! when the soldier is in the field of battle, he must get the better of all feelings, save those of honour.”

“It is too true!” said Margaret, with a sigh.

“And then,” said Colonel Deverill, “we, having arranged our plans, and settled who was to take the command, if I had the mischance to fall——”

“Good Heavens!”

“Well, I say, having done all this, we were resolved to make a dash at the point, and take the place by assault. To do this the more effectually, we were resolved to make the attempt in three different places at once, so as to divert the enemy’s attention, and to place them in a cross fire, and thus take them the more easily.

“This plan was carried out to the letter, and we made the attack; but the enemy defended their stockade so vigorously, and what with the strength of the place, and the determination of the enemy, we were for some time repulsed—at least, held at bay.

“This would never do, I thought. I must mount the breach myself; for, if my division was held at bay, I had fears of the rest; they might meet repulses also, which would occasion the loss of our whole party, which would have been sure destruction; not defeat alone, but imprisonment, and possibly death from ill-usage, or from malignant disorders.”

“What fearful scenes!”

“I ordered my men to keep close and follow me. We made a dash at the stockade three abreast, and up we went. By Jove, it was fine work—a brave sight—a sight I can never forget while I have remembrance left me. We got up the stockade Heaven knows how, and were over it in the space of a minute; but the impetuosity of those who came first was not seconded by those who came after; it was easy enough to get down among the Indians, but it was very hard to get up; and while our friends were getting up, we were exposed to the strength of hundreds—only four men to as many hundreds for several minutes.”

“Goodness, how dreadful! Were you not all killed?”

“Except for myself, they were all killed. Each received a dozen wounds, and I should have met with the same fate, but for an Indian officer, who, seeing me surrounded and thrown down, saved my life from the fury of his men; but, in a minute after, I was free—my own men came down by dozens, and the blacks were swept off by the hundred.

“At that moment, too, there were our other parties just appearing over the other parts of the stockade, so we had now plenty of assistance.

“The blacks now on all sides fell in numbers before the fire, and the place was our own; and a hearty cheer was given that made the woods re-echo again.”

“Were you not glad the danger was over?”

“The danger was not over, though we thought it was; for suddenly the earth heaved up with a tremendous explosion, and many of our poor fellows were blown up into the air, and I myself was completely knocked over and smothered in dirt; however, it was dry, and we were soon put to rights again. I was picked up, and nothing more happened.”

“What was the cause of your disaster?”

“Oh, a mine the scamps had sprung as they were retiring, hoping to do us more mischief than they did; however, we beat them off, and they lost many men on that occasion, and did not show themselves again, but made the best of their way through the woods and jungle by some paths that we did not know, and hence we did not follow them further.”

“It must have been dreadfully dangerous.”

“Yes, life was the game we played for, and it was won and lost often enough, during that war; but we must expect it should be so.”

“But you are now safe.”

“Yes, I am now safe, and, I may say, happy. I have had some knocks, and am none the better for them bodily; but then I have had them well paid for, so I must not complain. I have now but one object to attain before I die.”

“And what may that be, colonel, if it be no secret?”

“It is not to you, Miss Meredith,” said the colonel; “it is an early day—a day on which I may claim you as my own; then, indeed, I shall have lived and accomplished something; an object worth living for, and, may I say so, worth dying for.”

“Ah, I hope you may live many years yet, colonel—many years of life and happiness, to enjoy the fortune you have so gallantly won. Indeed, I think no fortune ought to give so much joy as the soldier’s.”

“And why, Miss Meredith?”

“Because there is none so arduously won; won often with bloodshed, and even life; it ought, indeed, to give great and lasting happiness.”

“If I obtain my wishes, I shall be the happiest man in the universe; and I would go through all I have gone through over—aye, twice over, and that is no little—to have such a reward as the one I now seek—it is the crowning happiness of my life.”

“You are very kind to say all this——”

“Aye, but I mean it. It is no common compliment,” said the colonel; “I mean what I say, most earnestly. Do you believe what I say? I am not used to the pretty speeches of young men who make love—perhaps I ought; but I am an old soldier, and am but little used to these ways; however, I have spoken my mind, and I hope you will not allow any one else to injure my cause.”

“Anything you have said, Colonel Deverill, has been of too serious a nature for me to think of anything save the object itself. Your conduct has been that of a gentleman, and I should be wanting in respect to myself, and courtesy to you, to think otherwise than seriously of it,” was the wily reply of Margaret.

“You have my own thoughts,” said the colonel.

“There is my ma’,” said Margaret, as the knocker and bell sounded.

“You will do your utmost with Mrs. Meredith for me, and I will beseech her myself,” said the colonel; “I hope she will take things in a favourable light.”

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Chapter CXXXIII

MRS. MEREDITH’S CONSULTATION WITH MR. TWISSEL, AND HER RESOLVE.

Mrs. Meredith’s arrival was very opportune, for it broke off the interview; and Margaret descended to the parlour, where her mother she knew would repair the moment she had freed herself from her dress. Margaret was now left alone for a few moments. She felt all the exultation of success in a strategy, and all the exhilaration of spirits that such a prospect of wealth and riches floating before her eyes, and all the natural consequence upon such possessions would give rise to.

“I shall be rich,” she thought. “Aye, I shall not only be rich, but very rich—I know I shall. Well, he is old—no matter; better be an old man’s darling, than a young man’s slave. Yes; I shall know how to use wealth. I shall be able to spend a little of his countless hoards, and he will not thwart me, I am sure. He will be too fond—too doting, by far. I shall be indulged like a spoiled child, I am sure.”

Margaret smiled at the thought of what length the colonel might not be induced to carry his fondness for her.

“He will not set any value upon what will give me pleasure. I am sure he will give me all I ask. I have but to ask him for what I want, and he must comply. I am sure he is too easy—too quiet and generous to make a moment’s hesitation.”

The colonel, too, was left to his reflections, but as to what they were we know not. He sat long, silently gazing at the fire.

Mrs. Meredith now entered the apartment, and, looking at her daughter, she said,—

“Eh? something been said, Margaret? I can see by your eye that the colonel has said something to you. Am I not right, my dear?”

“Yes, ma’; you are right.”

“Well, my love, and what did he say? I am dying with curiosity.”

“It will be quite impossible to do that; but he has been quite explicit enough, without any hesitation at all, or any reserve—quite candid and open.”

“He has offered?”

“Yes; he wishes for your consent; for I told him I could not possibly decide without your consent and countenance. He did not disapprove of that, only he wished to propitiate you in his favour, and begged me to let him have the satisfaction of knowing that he had my good wishes, and that I could look upon him in a warmer light than a mere friend.”

“Which I hope you did?”

“Yes, ma’. I let him imagine that I was not indifferent to his good opinion; but, at the same time, I would not commit myself, but left him to infer a good deal. I think I know, ma’, how to manage such an affair well—I may say, very well.”

“Exactly, my love. I was sure you would.”

“Yes, ma’; I should think I did. For when I found he had proceeded a certain distance, I was resolved that he should speak out plump at once; and when I found he paused, I paused too, and he was compelled to explain; but he betrayed no unwillingness, or anything like hesitation at all, but he has fairly proposed himself to me.”

“And you have not committed yourself?”

“Not in the least.”

“Very well. I must be cautious, too not to do so; because I must have some conversation with Mr. Twissel, so that we may proceed in a safe manner, and not commit ourselves in any way as we shall repent of afterwards.”

“How do you mean?”

“Why, child, you would not marry the colonel if he was not a rich man.”

“Not exactly; though I must admit, ma’, he is a very nice man—a very nice man, and I should be entitled to a widow’s pension, if nothing more, and that I might not have under some circumstances; even you yourself have been left worse off, you see.”

“Yes, my child; but circumstances alter cases. I had a better prospect when I first married, else I would not have done so, you may depend upon it. However, we can always retrace our steps, and he cannot. But I will get Mr. Twissel to come and see into matters a bit for us.”

“Well, ma’, you shall do as you think fit—only, take care not to throw away a good chance because you have greater hopes.”

“Has he said anything about his property?”

“Not a word, except it was to intimate it was large, and he had won it very hardly, with great danger; but he did not say what it consisted of. Of course I could not ask.”

“Oh, dear, no.”

“But he intimated he would keep a carriage, and a country house, as well as a town house, besides several other matters, which makes it plain enough he has been used to plenty; besides, as he spoke to me in describing some scenes in India, he appeared so much animated that I am sure he must be what he appears to be, and what he says he is.”

“Ah, well, I think myself it is all quite right, and that we shall have nothing to repent there; but we will let all go on but the naming of the day—that must not be named, for, if we do, we shall not be able to retract.”

“Oh, no, we shall not have any occasion to do that, I think; but I dare say he will speak to you to-night, as there is time at supper especially.”

“No doubt. You may as well retire early, so that you may be absent, and that will give us greater liberty to talk than if you were present, my dear. I wish Mr. Twissel were here; but it can’t be helped; and when he does come, I must have some conversation with him, and I must, in the meantime, learn what I can for him to inquire about afterwards.”

Thus resolved, Margaret went to bed early, leaving her mother to attend upon the colonel, who sat looking at the fire without any change of posture since the last time he was seen by the girl; but Mrs. Meredith caused him to break the steady gaze and deep thought he was indulging in.

“I hope you have been quite well, colonel, since I left?”

“Yes, quite well, Mrs. Meredith.”

“What would you choose for supper?”

“Margaret——”

“Eh?” said Mrs. Meredith, amazed.

“I beg your pardon; I did not know you were near—at least, I did not know I spoke at the moment; but, pray, what did you desire to know?”

“What you would have for supper, sir?”

“Oh, whatever you have at hand; some of what we had for dinner—I think I should like it as soon as you feel disposed to have it. I am ready—quite ready.”

“Then it shall be had at once, sir,” said Mrs. Meredith; “I will order it up immediately, for it is later than I intended to have stopped out; but the hours so soon ran away, and there were so many motives to forget the time that was flying so fast.”

The supper was soon laid, and the colonel and Mrs. Meredith alone sat down to it, at his earnest request. Indeed, they used to have meals much in common; for the colonel professed to be very fond of female company, and was desirous of their company, which they translated into a desire for the presence of Margaret herself.

The supper was laid and over before the colonel said anything; but appeared to be absorbed in deep thought, from which it was difficult to arouse himself. But at length, after looking around once or twice, and not seeing Margaret at table, he said to Mrs. Meredith,—

“I hope I have not driven your daughter away.”

“Oh, no, sir; she complains of headache, and has gone to bed somewhat earlier than usual.”

“I fear I must lay the blame on myself.”

“She did not say you were the cause,” replied Mrs. Meredith, “of her ailment; and, therefore, I think you must be free from blame; for she would have said so, if it had so happened. She generally speaks the truth in such matters, at least, and, I believe, in every other.”

“No doubt; but I have been speaking upon a subject that concerns my own happiness to her, and perhaps the excitement may have caused her some evil of that sort. She would not, perhaps, name it to you, Mrs. Meredith; but I will. You have been a wife yourself, and know that a few candid words are better, and more to the purpose, than a long desultory courtship.”

“Yes, sir; it certainly is so.”

“There is some difference, too, in our ages,” said the colonel. “I have not overlooked that matter, at all events; but I hope that will be no cause of impediment or objection.”

“It cannot be, sir, in such a case as your own, for instance.”

“Well, then, I have proposed for her husband. I wish to make her my wife. I am yet hale and hearty, and have some few years yet which I could wish to pass in happiness, and which I will use to make her happy. And if I die early, I have ample means of providing for her—of leaving her a most handsome and ample fortune. Not more than she deserves; but possibly more than she might have thought of seeking.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Then I wish for your consent to our future happiness.”

“You may have my good wishes,” said Mrs. Meredith.

“You are very good,” said the colonel; “and I trust your daughter will live long to make you happy by making her own apparent to you.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Meredith, “this is rather a sudden affair; you will not think of hurrying it to a conclusion, but permit her to become acquainted with you, and to know her own mind.”

“Certainly, I do wish it pushed on to a conclusion; but not so much so as to cause any dissatisfaction. I am anxious to call her wife. My feelings are those of an ardent lover.”

“I do not dispute it.”

“Still you and she must be the best judges of all this. You will not, I hope, punish me by compelling me to a longer probation than you are compelled to put me to. I am not like a young man who has a fortune, or rather a living to earn; but I have one ready, a handsome one, and my wife will be a lady of fortune when I die.”

“Do not think of dying at such a moment, sir.”

“Why, it is not desirable,” said the colonel, who did not deem it necessary to carry the conversation on any further that night; thinking, possibly, enough had been said for the first occasion of revealing his passion, and he, no doubt, considered his success signal.

The supper then passed off in the usual style, and Mrs. Meredith left the colonel, and wished him good night, with feelings somewhat akin to triumph, and returned to her own daughter’s room, there to cogitate and sleep upon what had that evening taken place.

• • • • •

The next day she determined to send to Mr. Twissel, and arrange the meeting she desired; and, at the same time, she resolved that she would not push matters to the extremity, of making a point of knowing what his property were, for she might lose all; she was convinced that the colonel must be a man of large property; how could such a man live if he were not.

That was a speculation she could not help indulging in. She knew that a man in Colonel Deverill’s line of life was quite able to support himself; besides, the jewels he had about him were worth a large sum of money; putting all things together, she considered it was not worth while to lose so good, so excellent an opportunity as the present for making a brilliant, at least, an excellent settlement for her daughter, and a home for herself.

“There can be no fear,” she muttered; “there can be no fear; her widow’s pension will be a better support to her than the livelihood of some.”

Mr. Twissel was sent for; and, the papers she desired to find for him, she was fortunate enough to discover, and laid them by at once. The attorney came willingly enough, and was well pleased when he was informed of the success of the search after the papers, and produced the bond, by which she agreed to give him one hundred pounds for his assistance in the marriage affair.

However, he did not seem to agree with her, that she should not be over particular about the colonel’s property; he thought that there must be some inquiries made respecting it, to ascertain if there were any or none.

“But,” suggested Mrs. Meredith, “the colonel is a kind, but a proud man, and he would, probably, take great and deep offence at any inquiry being made into his pecuniary affairs.”

“Hardly, my dear madam; don’t you see, love would be strong enough to counterbalance that; he would make some allowance for paternal anxiety and love.”

“There is much reason in all that; yet I have heard so much of these nabobs, that one is afraid to lose a good chance by inadvertently touching their weak points; for, the kind of society and company they have, theirs is so different to what they find here.”

“Yes, that is very true; but we should like to know that it is true. What service has he been in—I think, though, you said in the East India Service?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I will make some inquiries at the house; they will answer my inquiries, and no one will even be the wiser for it; they will, at least, tell me if there is such a person in the service, and, perhaps, I can learn something more.”

“Very well, that may be done. Will you come round with me to tea this evening, as I will contrive to bring you in the presence of Colonel Deverill, whom you will then see and converse with? I am not sure of it, but I will try to do so.”

“I will be here,” said the attorney; “and, in the mean time, I will make the necessary inquiries.”

They parted upon this mutual good understanding; and the attorney, in high spirits, for the papers were of great value to him, and the promised reward was a stimulus to a greater exertion on behalf of Mrs. Meredith and her daughter, for he thought he could do business for the Colonel, after this affair was settled—such an opportunity of increasing his connection did not offer every day.

Mrs. Meredith redoubled her assiduity about the person of Colonel Deverill; and, at the same time, lost no opportunity of putting her daughter forward; nor was that daughter a bit disinclined to take such opportunity as was offered her, of making the most of herself on this occasion, to appear amiable, and in some new and languishing position, or to perform some new service for the colonel.

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CXXXIV. THE INTRODUCTION.—THE ATTORNEY’S FIRST FEELER

When the attorney had left the house he proceeded upon some business of his own, and then he proceeded to the India House for the purpose of making inquiries after the colonel, for his friend Mrs. Meredith. In the course of the day he did go to the India House, and, upon making some inquiries, he was sent to a particular department of the house where he saw two gentlemen.

“Pray, sir,” said one, “what do you want?”

“I wish to make some inquiries concerning a Colonel Deverill, who is employed, or was serving, in the Honourable East India service.”

“In what part was he serving?”

“In India,” said the attorney.

“But, to what presidency did he belong?”

“That I do not even know. He has been many years away from England, I understand, and some of his friends have not heard from him for many years, and they are desirous of finding out whether he is dead or alive; and if so, where he is.”

“There is a Colonel Deverill returned this year from India.”

“Indeed! Do you know anything of him?”

“Nothing more than he has retired from the service on his half pay, some time before he came home, on account of his wounds.”

“Is he rich?”

“I can answer no such question.”

“I am a solicitor, and do not ask the question from an improper motive.”

“You may not, sir, but we cannot answer such a question. We have no inquisitorial knowledge of the private circumstances of those gentlemen who have served in the company’s army; but, you put it to your won sagacity to consider how far it would be probable for a man so placed, as regards rank and opportunity, in India, without making money.”

“I see; certainly—he must.”

“And yet, you know, there are means of getting rid of money.”

“To be sure. I see.”

“Not that I have any idea that such can be the case; indeed, I should be disposed to believe the contrary, seeing the colonel must have been wounded long since, for the last engagement must have been some few years since.”

“Thank you. I will report what I have learned. You do not know where he can be found at this time?”

“No, indeed; we have no information.”

This being all he could learn, he left the India House, and as it was now about time to return to Mrs. Meredith, he at once went back, and having seen all his business transacted, he had now leisure to go there, and in a short time he arrived, and at once related to her all that he had heard respecting the colonel, from the first to the last word of it.

“Well,” said Mrs. Meredith, “that, at all events, is very satisfactory.”

“Yes, it is something,” said the attorney, “to know your man; but, as the clerk said, he might have spent it, that is to say, dissipated it.”

“Oh, it’s impossible; he’s been an invalid a long while now.”

“Ah! there’s no knowing what might be done in these cases. Who knows what he may have done—gambled and diced it away, and entered into extravagant speculations, which may have turned out ruinous bubbles.”

“Well, well, Mr. Twissel, we won’t say much about what might be,” said Mrs. Meredith; “we won’t care about them; but I am very much obliged to you for this trouble. It is, however, a very satisfactory thing to know he is what he represented himself to be.”

“Yes, that is a very great point gained.”

“His veracity having been found unimpeachable in one point, may be presumed to be so in another,” said Margaret. “It appeared to me to be extremely probable, if not quite certain, he is what he appears to be, I am glad that all is so far good.”

“Be that as it may, it will be more satisfactory to know what his property really consists of, and how much there is about it.”

“No doubt; but it would not be worth while to risk anything on that account; he might imagine we were mercenary, and that would disgust him altogether.”

“That’s what I am fearful of,” said the mother.

“We may not yet have occasion to ask him any question, or to make any inquiries of him at all, for we may be able to worm it all out of him.”

“That is true,” said Mrs. Meredith. “Dear me, there is the bell. Go, Margaret, and say we have an old friend come to tea; perhaps he will excuse you—he may give the invitation we desire.”

Margaret at once departed, and proceeded to the colonel’s room, and began to wait upon him as usual; but he saw there was but one cup placed.

“Are you not going to take tea with me, Margaret?” he said. “Am I to be a prisoner, and put in solitary confinement for the evening?”

“Why, colonel, Mr. Twissel has called to take tea with my mother, and as he was a very old and particular acquaintance of my father’s, I do not like to put a slight upon him.”

“He is a gentleman, I presume?”

“Oh, yes, colonel, he is a member of the profession of the law.”

“Oh! Well, will you ask him to tea with me? As we shall be both united, I hope your friends will soon be mine; there can be no great objection to our acquaintance beginning earlier. I am not fond of being entirely alone.”

“If we shall not be intruding upon you, sir,” said Margaret, “I dare say my mother will. I will tell her of your kindness immediately.”

In a few moments Margaret returned to her mother and the attorney, to whom she related the invitation she had received from the colonel, and instantly clutched at the idea of going to the colonel to tea, the thing, of all others, she most desired to do, and, at the same time, she had calculated upon it; for the colonel appeared to be wholly dependant upon them for society, which he appeared to be passionately fond of there, especially Margaret.

“That is just fortunate. Now, Mr. Twissel,” said Mrs. Meredith, “you will be cautious, and do not make any open attempt to discover what may be the peculiar species of property he holds; it may do much mischief, you know.”

“I am at your mercy,” said the lawyer; “if you say so, I will not make any attempt, though I must tell you, Mrs. Meredith, that you will be to blame if you allow your daughter to marry without some inquiry being made; and if he mean well, he will take no offence.”

“You may do what you can without broaching the subject to him. Still I think we have heard enough to set all doubts at rest;

“I’m a professional man, my dear madam, and know what the world is, and have had much experience in these matters; however, as I think there is much probability in all he says, why, you shall see I will not do anything that will offend the nicest delicacy.”

“That will be all we want, Mr. Twissel; and now come up stairs.”

“Mr. Twissel, Colonel Deverill—Colonel Deverill, Mr. Twissel, an old and dear friend of my late husband, sir, who has called to visit us.”

“I am very happy to see the gentleman,” said the colonel, but with the air of a man who is conscious of his own superiority, and that he is committing a condescending act. “Will you please to be seated. Excuse my rising, sir; I am an invalid, and am lame; but you are welcome.”

“I am much obliged,” returned the attorney, bowing. “My good friend Mrs. Meredith has made me intrude upon you, else I had not done so.”

“You are welcome, sir,” again repeated Colonel Deverill. “Pray be seated; I have seen but little company, and am glad now and then to converse with any one. Will you oblige me, Mrs. Meredith, with making tea for us? Your services are really invaluable.”

“Ah, Colonel! you are really too good.”

“Not at all. I’m afraid I’m too much in the rear of the march of courtesy since I left England, as our habits and manners in the East are very different to what they are here.”

“Ah! I dare say they live in a style of regal magnificence and splendour,” said the attorney.

“Yes; more so than you may at first imagine, and more so than in appearance; so much so that it is difficult for the law at all times to take its course. It becomes a mere dead letter, and the matter usually ends in some indignity being offered to its servants.”

“Indeed, sir! that was dangerous.”

“Not at all. It was an attorney, who having deputed some one to serve a process, and finding that he could not, imagined that it was the fault of the process server, and he determined to make the attempt himself, being well assured that he could succeed. However, he found himself mistaken, for, after several disasters, that he was led into purposely, he was well pumped upon by some slaves, and thought himself lucky in escaping with life.”

“That would never have been permitted here,” said the attorney.

“No, possibly not; but there are not the distinctions between classes here that there are there, and things are not on the same scale, either living or attendance.”

“And yet, people who have passed their lives there, come to this country at last, they do not like it well enough to remain there. They come back to the land of their birth, where none of these things exist to fascinate them.”

“Yes; they many live and die there—very many; but, at the same time, those who do return, do so because it is the land of their birth—because they love the country, and because they go there merely to make fortunes to come here and spend them.”

“They don’t like the kind of investments, perhaps?”

“They usually do so, and it fetches a high price—a very high price, and is considered equal to the stocks of the Bank of England.”

“That is first-rate stock, and on dividend days the place is usually surrounded with strangers, who come to town for the purpose of receiving their incomes; indeed, it is quite an interesting sight to strangers. Have you ever witnessed it? It is well worth the while to go and see it.”

“I never trouble myself anything about it,” said the colonel; “but I must be going there, by the way, to-morrow. I must have a coach.”

“Do you know the routine of the banking business? It is confusing to one not used to it.”

“I know enough for my own purpose.”

“Didn’t you find London much altered,” inquired Margaret, anxious to give a turn to the conversation, as she thought this attorney’s conversation would appear as if it were much too pointed—“when you first returned to England, and came to live here again?”

“I cannot say much about that,” said the colonel; “because I was not in a condition to twist about like many men; I am lame.”

“Exactly; that must have deprived you of much of the pleasure one feels in surveying old places and well remembered spots.”

“It was,” replied the colonel; “but in a place like London, alterations and additions are not so extensive as to cause any alteration in general features, so as to make it perceivable at once. It is only when you come to examine localities that you notice it. You improve and alter parts, but the town is the same, and there is no doubt this appears the work of steady growth, and not any one of sudden effort; indeed, the very additions to it have a character which stamp it as being London.”

“There is much truth about that,” said the attorney.

“It is the same all over the world, and only in those places where the extent is but small, than any great alteration makes a conspicuous and general change, and gives a new character to the place.”

As this conversation passed between them, the attorney making one or two delicate allusions to property, and asking his advice respecting some purchases he wished to make. To all which the colonel made but short and direct answers, and of such character, that it was difficult to carry on the conversation upon that topic, at least, and both mother and daughter looked beseechingly at him, so that he was compelled to resist, and found himself completely baffled by what appeared the colonel’s pride.

• • • • •

“Well, Mrs. Meredith,” said Mr. Twissel; “I have done my utmost with this Colonel Deverill, and I can make nothing of him—nothing at all, I assure you.”

“You cannot form a bad opinion of him?”

“No—no. He is at one moment one of the most agreeable men to converse with, and the next moment he is frigid and severe; perhaps pain, or perhaps contempt for any one else, may induce the alteration in his manner, and no allusion to himself does he make.”

“Don’t you think he is quite the gentleman, and a man used to good society?”

“Yes, I cannot doubt—he has the air of all that he says; but he is going to the bank to-morrow; now, I wonder if it is to receive dividends.”

“I dare say it is,” said Mrs. Meredith; “I have very little doubt of that, and yet I should very much like to know; it would settle one’s mind—not that I would run any risk about the matter. I would not have him offended for the world; it would be wilfully destroying a chance that is so good, that we never can expect it to again occur, therefore we must not lose it.”

“Certainly not; I will undertake the matter myself,” said the attorney, “so that there shall not be any risk in a miscarriage, whatever. I will take care that nothing shall be done that will be at all likely to reach his ears, or that will be displeasing to him.”

“We will trust to your prudence, Mr. Twissel.”

“You may do so safely, and depend upon my caution in this matter. Now I will be at hand in the morning. If I am not here before he goes out, send for me, and let me know the hour; if there is not time to reach here send me the number of the coach; I will post off to the bank and there await until I see him come there.”

“I will send to you, then,” said Mrs. Meredith; “I think that a very good plan.”

“But what will it do for you if you do see him enter the bank, that will tell you nothing, and I cannot see the utility of it,” said Margaret; “many people go into the Bank of England, who do not go there to receive any money for themselves; so that would be inconclusive.”

“It would,” said the attorney; “but you must remember, I can enter too, and ascertain to what portion of the building he goes, and I can learn how much he received, if any—but I must bid you good-by; for the present; do not forget to send to me at the first blush of the affair, and then much subsequent trouble may be saved.”

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Chapter CXXXV

MR. TWISSEL’S MISADVENTURES.—THE CONSEQUENCES OF BEING FOUND IN THE BANK WITHOUT GIVING A SATISFACTORY ACCOUNT OF YOUR BUSINESS THERE.—AN UNPLEASANT DILEMMA.

The peculiar position of Mrs. Meredith and her daughter Margaret, in some measure, and to a great degree, tied their hands, and caused a corresponding desire to know more than was told them; at the same time, they were fearful of giving any offence to their new and wealthy lodger. They were both avaricious and designing. To make a good settlement was the grand object of their lives, and to that object they would sacrifice themselves—at least, sacrifice Margaret, who, by-the-bye, would consider it no sacrifice at all, but a great stroke of good luck.

However, they could do nothing of themselves; they saw there was a great, and glorious chance for the future; they felt they had entangled the colonel; they felt he had become a victim to their snares, and they were unwilling that they should run any risk of a failure of their plans.

“If we offend him, he may consider us avaricious and designing,” they argued; “and that might prove too strong an antidote to even an old man’s love, and the prize might be snatched out of our hands, and we might not only lose a rich husband, but a good lodger also.”

These considerations induced them to act more warily and cautious than the attorney, Mr. Twissel, who was anxious at once to seize the bull by the horns, and come to an explanation, and thus save himself much labour and time, for the sooner there was an explanation the better; and he did not apprehend the result that they did; he believed it would only appear proper caution on the part of a mother.

They had different opinions; and, between the two, there was an indecisive policy adopted, which occasioned delay and uncertainty.

There was no doubt but the colonel meant matrimony; his infirmities were of no consequence. It was not the man, but the money, that was wanted, and which was sought with perseverance and constancy. They appeared negligent of money matters before the colonel; and, when he paid them, which he did regularly, he always appeared to have money about him, which, of course, increased their respect, and gave them increased confidence in him.

“It is all very well, ma,” said Margaret, “but Mr. Twissel must not offend Colonel Deverill; he is evidently a man much above him; his actions and manner are such, that at once stamp him immeasurably his superior; now, as regards this property, there can be no doubt but he must have enough.”

“I think so, too, my dear; but it would be a dreadful thing if it should turn out otherwise in the end; it would really be very dreadful; I should never survive it.”

“Nor I mother.”

“What is to be done?—I declare I am at my wits’ end.”

“There is no fear, ma; do you not remember that Mr. Twissel himself has found out that he is Colonel Deverill, and that he has retired from the army of the Company?”

“Indeed, my dear, that is correct; I had forgotten that—quite forgotten it; but it may so happen he has no money at all; he may have spent it.”

“He does not appear to be extravagant,” said Margaret; “he has retired upon his half-pay, which you know must be a very good living, and I am sure of a widow’s pension, if nothing more; and, besides, I am sure, from what he has said, there must be money.”

“Well, I think so, too, my dear,” said Mrs. Meredith; “and I think it will be better that things should go on as the colonel desires; to lose him would be horribly aggravating.”

“So it will, ma, because I am sure he will do justice. It is not like as if we had money, too, and were as willing to have our affairs investigated, as we are to investigate his.”

“That is very true, my dear, very true; and Mr. Twissel does not seem to know that; that I will tell him when I see him; by the way, I must send to him, to tell him the colonel is going out in about an hour. If he can find out anything, without compromising us in the affair, why, he may do so, and welcome; for, you must acknowledge, it will be all the more satisfactory.”

“Yes, yes, I admit that; but I would not wilfully lose a good opportunity.”

“I must now send off to him. Mary must go, and that, too, as quickly as she can; for I shall want her back again very soon, so she must run.”

“Then, the sooner she goes the better,” said Margaret.

Mary was sent to Mr. Twissel, who happened to be at home at the time, and judging that Mary had been a good time on the road, that there would be no time to go to Mrs. Meredith’s house, and then follow the coach, so he determined to go to the bank at once, so that he would be there in time to see the colonel descend and enter the bank, into which he would follow him.

He sent word back to Mrs. Meredith that he would go on, and see her as soon after as he could; and then he made the best of his way towards the bank, where he arrived in good time—indeed, half-an-hour before the colonel, who did not set out so soon as he intended.

“Now,” thought Twissel, “if he were to turn out all right, why, I shall be in good fortune; but if bad, it would be laid upon my shoulders. They shall not say that I have not given them attention enough for their money; and if I don’t do something, they will say I haven’t earned my money; and though I can enforce payment of the bond, yet it may hurt my future prospects with regard to my future connection with the family, which I hope to make a profitable one in the long run.”

Filled with these thoughts, he determined to watch with due caution for the arrival of the colonel, on the other side of the way.

It was some time before the coach drove up, which it did after a considerable lapse of time, and then Mr. Twissel crossed over, and placed himself in a position by the lamp-post where he could obtain a good view of any one passing in and out of the coach.

“’Tis he,” he muttered, as he saw the colonel step out of the carriage, and walk into the bank very leisurely and quietly, leaning upon his stick, and walking lame. He watched him into the bank—he saw him go some distance down the passage, and then he muttered,—

“Now, I will follow him up closely.”

And, after a moment’s pause to permit some one to pass him, he then darted down the passage into a kind of yard; but no, he could not see him; he was not there; and yet he was so lame, he could not have got out of sight so soon as all that.

“He’s gone to the dividend-office,” he muttered; “I shall find him there,” and away he posted to that department; but he could not find him, he was—he was not there. Then what could have become of him? That was a point he could not solve.

“Well, this is very odd,” he muttered; “very odd.”

He paused to think over the matter; but that did not aid him. He was in the dark, but thought it was no use in waiting in any one place, so wandered about from office to office, until he came to the body of the place, when he waited until some one came up to him, and touched him on the shoulder. He turned round, and at once perceived it was an officer.

“What do you want with me?” inquired Twissel.

“What is your business here?” returned the officer, by way of reply.

“I am here upon my own business. I am at a loss to understand what you mean by asking me such a question in a public place. What can you mean by it? I was never asked such a question before, and cannot see why you should do so now.”

“Excuse me, sir, I have ample warrant for what I am doing.”

“Have you? Then state it.”

“Easily. I have followed you about this last half-hour, and you have been wandering about the place for some time, and looking about you in a manner that has excited a good deal of suspicion, to say the least of it; and I must have some satisfactory explanation.”

“You can have that,” replied Mr. Twissel, very much annoyed; “you can have any explanation you can require. I am very sure I came here on my own affairs; what other explanation can you require?”

“Your affairs may be ours also, and the explanation you have given will be just enough to justify my taking you into custody—so if you have no more to say, I must request the favour of your company; that’s my card of invitation; do you hear, sir?”

“Yes, I do; I am an attorney-at-law, and you may depend upon it I will not be content without punishing you for this indignity—I came in here because I saw a friend call, to whom I wanted to speak.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” said Twissel; “I have missed him.”

“Very likely, and your friend will miss you for a short time; for you must come with me;—you have been found here without being able to give any account of yourself.”

“I tell you I came in here to see Colonel Deverill.”

“Well, what do we know of Colonel Deverill? We don’t know anything about him, nor you either; you must come with me. We are obligated to be very particular when we see strangers walking about with no object whatever in view—it is very suspicious.”

“But I tell you I am a respectable attorney—a professional man. I had no bad object in view.”

“That may be as you say; but you must come with me.”

Seeing there no help for it, Mr. Twissel resigned himself into the officer’s hands, and followed him to the station-house, where he was examined by the inspector, at the place where he was taken.

“Well, sir,” said the inspector, “this may be all very true, but we must have some proof of what you assert; then we can let you go.”

“I’ll have a complaint against you.”

“You may; but you must prove not only that what you say is true, but that there was no cause for suspicion, and that you were not loitering about the bank, as the officer asserts you were.”

The attorney thought that it would be quite unnecessary to get into the public prints, because it would not do for him to make use of Colonel Deverill’s name; and that he had already done. What was he to do? he had got into a very disagreeable scrape, out of which he must now get in the best manner possible, and which he could not see his way clear to do.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Give us some proof that you are the person whom you represent yourself to be,” he replied, “and then we can let you go at once.”

“Then I will give you my card,” said Twissel, producing his card-case.

“That is no proof,” said the constable. “A man might have robbed you of your card-case, and you would have some one passing himself off for yourself.”

“What shall I do, then?” inquired Twissel.

“Send for some one who knows you, or send for your own clerk—that will do.”

“That I can do at once,” replied Twissel; and he at once wrote a note to his clerk, and gave it unsealed into the hands of the constable, and asked if there was any one who would go with it.

“You can send a messenger; there are many who will do that if you pay them for it,” replied the constable; and in another minute, for the sum of half-a-crown, a messenger agreed to take the letter to his office, and deliver it to his clerk, and wait for him.

This was done, and until that time he was locked up in a cell, where he had a light certainly, but in which he had no other comfort at all; but in about an hour and a half there was the prospect of a relief; for he saw his clerk come into the station-house, and with him the messenger, who came to the constable and said that was Mr. Twissel’s clerk.

“Do you know Mr. Twissel?” inquired the constable.

“Yes, I do; he is my employer.”

“Then point him out,” said the constable.

At that moment, Mr. Twissel was brought in, and he at once pointed him out to the satisfaction of the constable, who, with an admonition, consented to the enlargement of Mr. Twissel, and in answer to his threat of future investigation, said to him,—

“You see, sir, the bank is such a place, that we are compelled to keep all persons out who have no business there, and it must not be a place where people meet who have no particular bank business to transact; do not wait about, then, for the future, sir, else you may run the same danger.”

Mr. Twissel left the station-house with a feeling very much akin to anger, and he walked home with a very disagreeable feeling. He felt that he had been baffled, and had been also much ill-used, and very much affronted.

“Where could he have got to?” he murmured. “He must have turned in some of the offices—confound him! I wish he had taken it into his head to tumble. I am sure he ain’t no good; if he were, I should not have been placed in such an unpleasant position.”

Suddenly he recollected that there was no necessity for his going home, unless there had been anything happened since his departure; and upon being informed that such was not the case, he determined to alter his course, and proceed to Mrs. Meredith, and relate the misfortunes that had befallen him.

“And if that don’t satisfy her I have her interest at heart, why, nothing will.”

And he left his clerk, after giving him some directions, and then turned off towards Bloomsbury-square, where he arrived just before tea time.

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Chapter CXXXVI

AN EVENING WITH COLONEL DEVERILL.—THE STRATAGEM OF MRS. MEREDITH.

Mr. Twissel seated himself by Mrs. Meredith’s fire, not at all pleased with what he had anticipated and expected on that day, and yet well pleased that there was an end to it; but, at the same time, he had conceived a dislike for the colonel, of which the reader can easily guess the reason. The colonel had received him rather haughtily, and he was annoyed at it, and he was resolved that he would do him no service; and now, the indignity he had received was so vexing, that he knew not on whom to wreak his anger—at all events, it gave him a great dislike to the colonel, which would require a considerable time to overcome.

He sat there, waiting for Mrs. Meredith, who was then engaged somewhere else; but it was not long before she entered the apartment in which Mr. Twissel sat meditating upon his misadventure, and considering in his own mind what would be the best course to pursue.

“Oh, Mr. Twissel!” she said, “I hope you have not been waiting long for me.”

“Not long, ma’am.”

“And how have you got on to-day, Mr. Twissel?”

“Rather indifferently indeed,” said Twissel, with a groan; “I may say very indifferently indeed. I have had plenty of incident—I may say of adventure—I ought to say misadventure, which appears to have dogged me step by step in this affair.”

“Indeed! I am amazed at that,” said Mrs. Meredith.

“You would be more so if you knew all.”

“Tell me what has happened, Mr. Twissel,” said Mrs. Meredith. “I am anxious to hear what can have happened to you of this character. I hope it did not happen in consequence of your doing anything in this affair of Colonel Deverill’s.”

“Indeed it did, Mrs. Meredith,” said the attorney, solemnly. “I have been sedulously engaged in this affair, and I have been seriously inconvenienced by it.”

“I regret it very much.”

“But you could not have helped it, Mrs. Meredith,” said Twissel. “You could not have helped it at all. I know that very well, therefore there is no blame attached to you. You are free; but I have suffered, nevertheless. I have suffered.”

“Dear me, how sorry I am, to be sure.”

“Yes, ma’am, but it can’t be helped. I was taken into custody as a suspicious person, and had some difficulty in getting my release from custody.”

Mrs. Meredith lifted her hands and her eyes to express the amount of astonishment she felt.

“Yes, Mrs. Meredith. I followed the colonel into the Bank of England, and there I saw him enter, but by some wonderful means he suddenly disappeared. I missed him, and could not again obtain the slightest clue to him. I did not again set eye upon him, and while endeavouring to regain the track, I was taken into custody for loitering about.”

“Indeed. Then you have learned nothing about the colonel?”

“Nothing at all. I missed him. I saw him going into the bank, and that was all.”

“Well, he has come back, and appears to have received money. I should think there could be doubt as to where he got it from.”

“It is a mystery.”

“Indeed. I should hardly think it possible, as you saw him go in. What would he go there for but for money matters? It seems clear enough to me. I have no doubt in my own mind—everything appears to be straightforward and plain.”

“Indeed,” muttered the attorney; “there is much truth in that. I have had a straightforward intimation that I have been considered a suspicious person.”

“I regret it very much; but here’s Margaret.”

At that moment Margaret entered the apartment in which her mother and Mr. Twissel were seated. There was an air of triumph in her eye when she entered, and her mother at once divined the cause; but she said nothing, and waited until Margaret spoke.

“Ma,” she said, “it is tea-time, and the colonel expects you up stairs; and if you had any friends, he hoped you would not deprive him of your company on that account, but bring them up stairs to tea. He is particularly good-humoured to night.”

“Curse him,” involuntarily exclaimed the attorney, as he heard of the good-humour the colonel was in, and he had so much cause to be vexed himself.

“Will you come with us, Mr. Twissel?”

“I will, thank you, ma’am. I am very tired,” said Twissel, as he thought it would afford him some opportunity of discovering something that would enable him to be revenged, and at the same time do a seeming service to the other party.

“At all events,” he muttered, “it will give me a chance of making a more intimate and useful acquaintance with him. I must do something or other, and I may as well make a good thing of it as well as a bad one. That wouldn’t be bad policy.”

“Then you had better come up at once,” said Margaret, “for the tea is waiting.”

Thus urged, Mrs. Meredith and Mr. Twissel followed Margaret, and walked up to the drawing-room, where the colonel was, as before, seated in an easy chair, with the green shade still over one eye, and his arm carried in a sling, though he did not appear to have lost the entire use of it, and by his side was his stick, a valuable Malacca cane, with which he walked, and his lame foot was supported by an ottoman.

“Well, sir,” said the colonel, “I have the extreme felicity of meeting you again; be seated. It is a very charming day, the most comfortable that I recollect since I have returned to England.”

“It is remarkably fine,” said the attorney, shrugging his shoulders, and giving a suspicious glance towards the colonel, as if he thought there was a latent smile lurking upon the colonel’s countenance; but he could not detect it, and yet he felt very much aggravated.

“There is, even in this climate,” continued the colonel, “some decent weather; but then, when matters go on happily and cheerfully, then the climate appears more genial and kind.”

“Strange that it should be so,” said Mr. Twissel; “but I can’t help thinking he looks more provoking than ever I saw in my life.”

As he muttered, the colonel said,—

“What did you say, sir?”

“I merely said that we, who are used to it, look upon it in some other light than that of a merely negative character; that is, we look upon some of it as positively good—nay, we are apt to call it beautiful, especially when it continues fine.”

“Continues fine!” said the colonel; “does it really continue fine in this climate?”

“Why, one would think, colonel, you have never been in this country before, to hear you talk; and yet you are a native of this country.”

“Yes, I am; that is, I believe so; but I have spent so many years in Asia, that I am more a native of India than this country. However, I believe what you say to be correct; but, you see, the slightest change of weather affects my wounds, when you could not believe any change that had taken place; or, at all events, the change would be so slight as to cause no difference to you, and yet, even before that comes, I feel the approaching change.”

“I day say you do, sir; but it must be unpleasant in the extreme.”

“It certainly is; and I have found it so. Mrs. Meredith, I hope you enjoyed your walk; did you go far?”

“No, Colonel, I did not; else I had not been back so soon. By the way, how do you feel after your walk, or, rather, ride? I had not time to ask you before.”

“Oh, I am very well; I enjoyed it much; but I must take another the day after to-morrow,” said the colonel. “That is, another ride; for I cannot walk far.”

“Do you intend going far?”

“To the South Sea House,” replied the colonel.

“To the South Sea house,” repeated the attorney to himself, as he sipped his tea; “he has some of the stock on his hands. Well, I dare say that is likely; people belonging to these companies generally prefer them to any other stock. However, I will follow him there, and see if I can’t do better. I will tread upon his heels but what I will find out something this time, at all events.”

“Are you acquainted with that stock?” he inquired, after a pause.

“What, the South Sea stock?” inquired the colonel.

“Yes.”

“Not much; but I believe it to be a good, steady stock—a very good investment; it will pay you a better interest than the funds.”

“But is it as secure?”

“Well, that is a very difficult thing to answer,” said the colonel; “but I think is safe enough. I have that opinion of it that I do not object to hold it.”

“That, of course, is the best answer one can have to its presumed security.”

“Yes, I have a good opinion of it, and do not object holding it, as I said before; and that is the best opinion that can well be offered. Have you any?”

“None, sir; but I have a friend, who wanted to purchase stock of some kind, or to place money out to advantage, and I wished to learn a little more concerning it.”

“I do not mean to say there is no better; but when you have once invested your money, you do not like to change the stock.”

“Certainly not; it is unadvisable,” said the attorney, “unless you have some specific reason for so doing at the best of times. You are the loser by the expenses.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Meredith, “I am very glad to see you are so well after your journey.”

“Journey, do you call it? Why ma’am, I cannot call anything less than some few hundred miles a journey; anything less is a mere bagatelle.”

“Dear me, colonel; what journeys you must have travelled.”

“Indeed I have, madam; some of them beautiful and romantic, and some of them dreary, and some terrible, from the obstacles that opposed us, and others, from the nature of the ground that we had to go over, and the dangers attendant from fatigue, climate, and the enemy.”

“It must be a terrible thing; females in those parts are out of the question.”

“Oh! dear, no; there are ladies, and English ladies, too, who live there for years, and who follow their husbands’ movements with the camp, and who undergo all the dangers and fatigues merrily and cheerfully, and even put some of the best of us to the blush for fortitude.”

“Well, I am glad we have a good character, even so far off as India.”

“It cannot but be expected but the mothers of such men can bear fatigue and hardship, else their sons could never be what they are. However, we have many examples of heroism in India, not of men only, but women also.”

“Then there are many interesting points for us to hear explanation about India,” said Margaret; “I love to hear such things, especially from those who have been there, and mixed up among the people who live here, and who have had much experience with them.”

“I hope we shall have ample time to talk over many such matters,” returned the colonel, “for to me it is pleasant to speak of the past, and relate all I have seen, known, and taken part in, in a place so distant from us all, as our Eastern empire.”

“Indeed, I love to hear them,” said Margaret.

“I am afraid she will keep you pretty constantly employed in relating all that you have ever seen, colonel,” said Mrs. Meredith; “she’s a strange girl, and has many fancies that way; she is fond of the wild, irregular life that you describe; she would have made an excellent soldier’s wife, I am sure; she’s so fond of that kind of thing.”

“I hope she will do so now, madam; and that she will have less of the fatigue and danger that fall to the lot of a good many, for I candidly tell you it is one thing to hear these things talked of, and another to bear with them. Plains of burning sand, and want of water, mountainous regions covered with snow, and no means to obtain warmth and shelter,—these are things exciting enough in a narrative, and yet heartbreaking to experience.”

“Oh!” said the attorney; “there can be no doubt it’s much better in perspective, than it is to experience. I can easily imagine when you hear of battles and sieges, how they wish they had been there; and how much would have been done by our individual exertions. But, dear me, that’s as different from being shot in the beginning, and so seeing none of the fun that was to follow. Lord bless my heart, being put out of the way in that manner, positively makes me nervous, I do believe. I could be hanged before I marched up to the breach.”

“Fortunately, all men are not of that opinion, else we might all of us be murdered in our beds, and no one to protect us,” said Margaret, contemptuously.

“It is necessary,” said the colonel, “that some men should be born for one purpose, and some another. Some are poltroons from their birth, and require better men to take care of them, while others win honour and profit on the field of death and danger, and snatch triumph from the hands of death.”

“Exactly,” said the attorney; “half a loaf is better than no bread; and half a man is better than no man at all; and I believe that many of them leave the field of battle, leave it in a very little better state. Now, I should not care for life upon such terms; it must be such as is worth living for, and such I do not consider life, when one is rendered a cripple all one’s life.”

“Well,” said the colonel, “we all have our different ideas upon that subject; but I rather think the state would be nothing without the profession of arms, and the lawyers would grace the lamp-posts, if I might judge from popular opinion.”

“Popular opinion is nothing in this country upon such matters,” said Twissel, contemptuously.

“It amounts to something,” retorted the colonel; “and you would say so, I imagine, if you felt it clinging to your throat in the shape of a halter, administered by the canaille.”

“Why,” said Mrs. Meredith, “I dare say it isn’t always expressed so forcibly, and Mr. Twissel does not hold it of any importance, so long as it is not expressed so loudly as that.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Meredith; that is my meaning; for an illegal act committed by a contemptible portion of the population becomes of importance.”

“So it does,” said the colonel; “that is easily verified.”

“But still we may be thankful to those who bravely fight and die, that we may be here in ease and quiet, and free from danger, and able to enjoy our lives and homes in peace.”

“That is true,” said the attorney; “the one part of a nation cannot do without another; all are necessary, and produce a powerful kingdom, and not only powerful, but rich and intelligent.”

“No doubt of that,” said the colonel.

Tea was now cleared away, and some wine was placed upon the table, and the colonel took a few glasses of some rare wine, of which he offered the attorney to drink, and the latter willingly accepted, and found it some of the best he had tasted; and he continued to taste it until he got quite talkative, and, to the pain and mortification of Mrs. Meredith, began to talk in a strain that would in a short time have done them much discredit and mischief.

Mrs. Meredith, however, always full of expedient, soon devised on that had the effect of putting an end to a scene she feared would come to an unpleasant act, if continued in; and therefore, left the room for a few minutes, and then when she returned, she said,—

“Mr. Twissel, you have been sent for; you are wanted immediately.”

“I—I sent for?”

“Yes, sir, you are wanted.”

“Nobody knew I was here. Oh, yes, I told my clerk as I came along, confound him! Just as I was so comfortable, too.”

“We can finish this another time,” said the colonel, pointing to the bottle.

“Yes, thank you. Good night, Colonel Deverill.”

“Good evening, Mr. Twissel.”

Mr. Twissel quitted the drawing-room, vowing vengeance to himself against the brute of a clerk of his, who should dare to come and interrupt such an agreeable evening. It was most horribly provoking. He could have called down the vengeance of the universe upon the head of the offending mortal who had come for him, and in this mood of mind he entered the parlour.

“Where is he—where is he?”

“Where is who?” inquired Mrs. Meredith.

“My clerk—the man who came for me.”

“Listen, Mr. Twissel,” said Mrs. Meredith; “I have called you out. No one has been for you; but I had no other means of calling you out, as I wanted to speak to you.”

“Well,” said Mr. Twissel, half surprised and half vexed, “what do you want to say to me now I am here.”

“I want to impress upon you the fact, that the habits of the colonel lead him to retire about this time, and I feared you, not knowing this, might stop beyond the proper moment, and so took this method of telling you what I am sure you would like to know.”

Mr. Twissel could not object; there was something reasonable in it, and yet he was at heart vexed, and could not help saying,—

“I should have thought the colonel would not have been so pleasant and so talkative; if he had not been comfortable, he would have said so.”

“Oh, dear, no, he would not have done that, even if you had remained till daylight; he has too much courtesy towards a stranger to do so.”

“Very well,” said Twissel, “I will be gone. However, I will take care and not forget the South Sea House the day after to-morrow. You must make the best of it you can, and let me know when he is likely to go, so that I may not lose any chance.”

“Certainly not. I’ll do as I did before,” said the lady.

“Do so.”

“And I hope you will meet with better luck than you met with before.”

“I hope so too,” said the attorney, gravely. “However, here I am, and I’ll do all that I can do for you. Good by, Mrs. Meredith—good day—good night.”

“Good night,” said Mrs. Meredith, and the attorney left the house, to their inexpressible relief, for he was growing very talkative and very troublesome too, for the misfortune was, he more than once touched upon forbidden topics.

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Chapter CXXXVII

THE DIFFICULTIES TO BE ENCOUNTERED IN THE CHOICE OF A BRIDESMAID.

“Well, Margaret,” said Mrs. Meredith, when they were alone in their own apartment—“well, and how have you got on with the colonel?”

“Oh, very well indeed, ma’.”

“I am glad of it. Has he proposed anything new to you, my dear, or has he said anything more to you of a particular character? Has he said anything respecting property? That is what we want to know pretty well, and that is the only point that can be more than usually interesting to us.”

“No, ma’, nothing about property. I could not expect he would say anything to me, and I hardly expect he would to any one at all. You see, he is no doubt a rich man.”

“Well, and he would not consider it at all necessary to say anything about it to any one; that it is so peculiarly private, and has nothing to do with any one; and he does not imagine that we require anything of the kind. I am sure if the thought entered his mind, he would at once satisfy us upon the subject. I cannot speak to him about it, because, having none, I am really not entitled to do so. That’s my opinion upon the subject, though Mr. Twissel, I dare say, has a different one to me; indeed, he generally has one of his own.”

“Yes, you may depend upon that; but I have been thinking the matter over, and I am sure he is what he says he is. But what did he say, my dear?”

“Why, he insists that I shall name an early day.”

“Insists! my child. What does he mean?”

“Merely in a goodnatured, though urgent manner. Indeed, he wishes me to make up my mind and have him at once. If I’ll consent to have him, he’ll obtain a special licence to solemnise the marriage here in this house, or at church, which I like best. Which shall I consent to, ma’?”

“Well, my dear, I think you may as well be married at home; it will be so much more fashionable than going to church.”

“It will be much more trouble, and will hardly seem like a marriage, I think, if it is not done at a church. What do you think?”

“It will make more noise,” said Mrs. Meredith, “if it is done at home; and yet nobody can say a word about it if it takes place at church.”

“So I think, now; so I think.”

“Well, what did you decide?”

“I did not decide upon anything,” said Margaret; “I declined to do so upon the moment, but said I would think about it, and after a few words, I promised I would let him know the next time he spoke to me about it, which should not be before to-morrow afternoon.”

“Very well, my dear. A becoming reluctance will never hurt your cause; you have done quite right, and I have no doubt but he will feel more pleased with you than if you had at once consented upon his first asking.”

“So I thought, ma,” sad Margaret.

“But you must not carry that too far, or it may defeat its own object, when next he asked you, you must affect a great deal of emotion—trembling and blushing, and all that kind of thing, which you can do very well; or if you should distrust yourself, you can practice it a bit before a glass. I did it when I was your age, and I did it well.”

“Yes, ma’, I can manage all that well enough; but what time shall I name?”

“Well, that must in some measure depend upon the humour you find him in. If he be very pressing, you may shorten the period; if he appear distant, lengthen it; but if there is any danger, take him at his word at once, and have no delay. It will not do to lose a chance; he must not be allowed to get off in that manner; and you must declare your confusion to be so great that you hardly know what you say, but, as he is so very pressing, you will give in to his wishes, and you may name any day you like best; and then he is caught, you see.”

“I understand that clearly; but what time would you, as a medium time, give, which I out to lengthen or shorten as occasion may seem to require?”

“Well, my dear, about a fortnight.”

“Ah, that was on my own tongue, too. Well, then, I should not have done wrong in naming three weeks or a month, which I felt disposed to say at first.”

“No, no, but you need not make it more than three weeks, unless you see any fitting occasion, or any necessity for so doing,” said Mrs. Meredith.

After an amiable council the mother and daughter held, having for its object the entanglement and speedy marrying of the unfortunate East Indian colonel, they both indulged in balmy sleep, and slept till morn. The colonel himself said no more about the object of the previous day’s conversation, when the amiable mother left the daughter alone with the colonel, who appeared as if actuated by clock-work; when the hour of his forbearance had passed, he again spoke of the matter.

“Miss Meredith,” he said, “my impatience will, I hope, be excused, on the score that my love is ardent; and I have already waited as long as I promised. You know to what I allude.”

“I am afraid I must say I do, Colonel Deverill,” said Margaret; “but will you not grant me more time to consider this matter over? Remember, it is a serious matter.”

“Of that there is no doubt,” said the colonel; “but I do not feel the same doubts you do, for I only feel how much I can do for your happiness, and how willingly I will do it.”

“Of that I can have no fear.”

“Then why not consent at once? Consent to have the man who loves you, who dotes upon you, and who will do all that an ample fortune can enable him to do for your welfare, and your future prosperity and comfort. Consider all that.”

“I have considered much; I don’t know that I need consider more than my present happiness; the future will take care of itself; at all events, we can do no more than to deserve to do well, and to succeed in all our undertakings—to deserve to be happy.”

“And do more you cannot; and who is there that can do as much?”

“We all endeavour to do so.”

“I hope we do so, though I am sure there are many who might do better; but, to return to my hopes, when will you consent to become mine—say the day on which I am to be made happy; and, if you really love me, make it as short as you can.”

Margaret appeared to hesitate, and hung her head, trembled, and the blushes mounted her cheek; the colonel caught her in his arms—and pressing her to his bosom, he said,—

“Come, come, my own Margaret say when shall I be made happy.”

“Oh! Deverill,” she sighed, as she hid her face; “what shall I say—you are so urgent; shall I say a—a fortnight; and yet that is,—too—too soon.”

“No—no, not at all—not at all; thank you, dear Margaret, thank you.”

“I—I—I fear I have said too much; forgive me—”

“Nay, nay, no more about it; I will be content; to-morrow I will go to the city, and then I will purchase the wedding-ring. I will obtain a licence, and then we shall be ready against any contingencies; and on our wedding morning, I will have some jewels ready for you. I have given them some orders, but they take a long while in getting ready.”

“Oh, you are too good.”

“Not a bit—only just,” said the colonel; and he appeared as though he were quite satisfied with his conquest, and looked very well pleased with the success he had met with in the prosecution of his suit. It was a settled thing now, and he was, or professed to be, in ecstacies.

• • • • •

“Mother,” said Margaret as she entered the room, “it is all settled at last; I have given my consent, and the day is named.”

“Indeed! I am glad of it. When will the day arrive—what day is it?”

“This day fortnight.”

“This day fortnight! well—well, that will be a very good time—very good time, indeed; we shall have a very busy time of it, for we must make the most of our arrangements between this and then; for we must get you in a fit-out; but if you have a dress to appear in, that is as much as I shall be able to afford you, for my means are so short.”

“I know all that; but he has promised me jewels, which he has ordered, but which will take some time in making; but he expects them to be ready by our wedding-day. Come, now, this seems to me to be a very handsome provision.”

“Very, my dear; very fortunate, too, because you see the furniture was becoming somewhat less new and fine that it was; that would have compelled me to lessen my terms; so we should have gone gradually back, and, perhaps, been obliged to seek some other mode of living.”

“But you have some money by you?”

“That was reserved in case of extreme misfortunes, and I cannot realise that immediately; however, it would only put off the evil day; but we are saved that, now—we have caught a rare good fish—we have only to land him, that is, get some little to be done before we pull him ashore. We must keep up the farce; but, I tell you, we must not be guided by Mr. Twissel, though he is of great use.”

“No, ma’, we must not; I have thought on that.”

“And yet I do not like to give up the idea of finding out first what he may have in the shape of property, though I am sure it would do no good; yet, to have one’s curiosity satisfied is something gained. Still, I am not so curious that I must be satisfied at the expense of our prospects.”

“No, ma’; I am sure I want badly enough to know all about it, but I will restrain my curiosity until I find out by means and at a time when no offence can be taken; or, if it be, why it’s of no consequence, and I don’t care anything about it, because I shall have a right to speak for myself.”

“Certainly, my dear, that is a very proper spirit—a very proper spirit, indeed; but then he won’t interfere with you much, except it is to want you to be always at his elbow.”

“Ah, I won’t mind that, because, you see, he may make a will; but I’ll take pretty good care that nobody comes in between him and me.”

“Exactly; you have no relatives on his side to tease you, or give you any trouble; therefore you have all plain sailing before you.”

“I have; and now, I suppose, it will not be too much to speak to one’s bridesmaids?”

“Ah! my dear,” said Mrs. Meredith, with a shake of the head.

“What’s the matter, ma’?”

“Ah! my dear, there is the difficulty; you know how easy the colonel has fallen in love with you; how sudden that has all come about, and how short a time the courtship has continued.”

“So much the better, ma’.”

“Certainly, my love; but it should make you cautious—very cautious, how you act with bridesmaids, because you don’t know what may happen with such old people as the colonel—they are dreadful sometimes, and you don’t know what they will do. They will fall in love with anybody; it is quite shocking to think of it; but it don’t so much matter, only you see he may take a violent fancy to some one, and then you may lose by the whole affair.”

“How so, ma?”

“Why, suppose he takes a fancy to one of the bridesmaids?—you don’t know what may pass between them.”

“Certainly not.”

“Very well; then he may make a will to reward her, as he would call it, and then you lose so much, which is a clear robbery, as I call it.”

“So it would be, ma’; and yet, after all’s said and done, I cannot tell what else we are to do; some female friends we must have; and the only precaution we can take will be to get some one as ugly as I can, and then keep her away as much as possible.”

“The latter is the only effectual method, for ugliness is not always a safeguard, for men have got such tastes, and what we think extremely plain, they, by a perversity of taste, will persist in believing to be interesting, at least, if not pretty. I have known so many instances; besides, I do know that even ugliness itself is no safeguard.”

“Indeed, ma’!”

“No; I had an instance of that—I may say two—even with your father, who took a fancy to two of the servants, one after the other. I am sure there was nothing in the hussies to attract any attention; but then men will be men, and you can’t help it.”

“We must get rid of them.”

“Yes, that is all you can do; but whom did you think of having?”

“There are the two Miss Stewards—”

“They are called pretty. I heard a gentleman say so at the last party we went to, so that I think decidedly bad policy. I know the men’s taste very well, my dear, but it is different to what we call taste; I don’t know why, but it is so.”

“Well, ma’, if the Misses Steward won’t do, what do you say to the Misses Brown? They are anything but even passable; besides, they are pitted with the small-pox, and very light hair, almost carroty—they are anything but fascinating.”

“That may be all very true, my dear, but you know the Misses Brown sing, they are called good figures, and dashing young women, and they are very bold, which might tempt many people, especially when they are looking about for sweethearts.”

“Yes, that is very true; then there are the Misses Smith—they are very young—much too young to be at all likely to cause men to have any fancy for them.”

“There, my dear innocent girl, you are entirely wrong—most entirely wrong.”

“Indeed, ma’?”

“Yes, my dear, you are innocence itself, because you have been brought up at home; but, look here, men are the nastiest creatures alive—why, some of them would fall in love with a girl sixteen or seventeen years old. Aye, more than that,—I have seen some of them married at that age.”

“Oh! I am shocked,” said Margaret, as she lifted up her hands in amazement at this description of the vices of men. “Ah! well they may say at church, ‘And there is no good in us.’”

“Indeed, my dear, you are quite right, and so is the Prayer-book—but it is as I tell you; beside, men never forget these things; they will remember faces they have seen for a year or two, and then they will begin their games.”

“Dear me, ma’, what shall I do?”

“That is the difficulty, my dear. I would not have unfolded this book of vice before you, had it not been necessary for your happiness.”

“Oh! fiddle de dee ma’—it’s the money that I care for; it ain’t the colonel, poor old cripple. He may do as he pleases, as long as I get the gold.”

“Well, my dear,” said the careful mother, who felt the sedative effects of this speech, “well, my dear, but you know they do waste their means in these affairs, and that most outrageously, sometimes, to cause a ruinous effect upon their home.”

“Oh! but he’s too much of an invalid.”

“Do you know, Margaret, I think the colonel is more of an invalid from habit than reality. Sometimes, when nobody’s looking, he can walk and use both feet alike, and even use his left hand without any trouble at all.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes, but I don’t mean to say it is all sham. Oh, dear, no, but long habit, and the laziness of these rich Indians is so great, that there is no knowing its extent. I don’t believe they would eat, if it wasn’t for their being hungry.”

“What is to be done?”

“I will tell you, my dear. Have Miss Twissel and her friend.”

“Miss Twissel and Martha Briggs,” exclaimed Miss Meredith with a giggle. “What a fright!”

“So much the better, my dear—so much the better. It is just what you want—the very thing above all others. Have a fool and a fright, and you can drop their acquaintance whenever you like, and I think there can be no danger of the colonels falling in love with them. At least,” added Mrs. Meredith, with emphasis,—“at least, upon such an occasion.”

“Very well, ma’. Let it be Miss Twissel and Martha Briggs. Goodness me, how I shall be attended upon this occasion—it will be quite laughable. I mustn’t let the colonel see them before the morning arrives, else he will be sure to laugh at them.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed both mother and daughter at the idea of the two frights, as they called them, being bridesmaids; and in high good humour they both retired to rest for the night, to dream of the forthcoming occasion.

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Chapter CXXXVIII

MR. TWISSEL’S MISFORTUNES, AND HIS RESOLUTION NEVER TO GIVE IN.

The next day after that on which the conversation respecting the choice of a bridesmaid took place, was the day on which the colonel was to visit the South Sea House.

Early that morning he ordered a coach to be in attendance, and left the house, saying that he would be back in time for tea; that he had to make several purchases, and transact some necessary business that would occupy him until that time. He kissed Margaret, and whispered in her ear that he should call and see about the jewels, and urge the jeweller to get them ready.

“These people are so dilatory,” he said, “that, unless I worry them, they will disappoint me of them; and I would not be without them on the occasion of our marriage for a trifle.”

“We must not set our happiness upon such things,” said Margaret.

“Ah, what self-denial you can exert!” said the colonel, playfully.

“No; my happiness is not fixed upon such objects as those, and, therefore, it is no trouble to renounce them when it is necessary to do so.”

“I hope there will be no need. I believe there will be none; but good bye till tea-time, and then we shall pass a pleasant evening together.”

The colonel left the house, and no sooner had he done so, than Mrs. Meredith wrote a short note to Mr. Twissel, informing him of the colonel’s departure at a much earlier hour than she had anticipated.

“Here, Mary,” she said to the drudge.

“Yes, ma’am,” replied the domestic.

“Just run as fast as you can to Mr. Twissel with this note, and don’t let the grass grow under your feet. Do you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Away went the drudge as fast as she could to the man of law, and arrived there out of breath; and having gone there fast, according to orders, she thought herself at liberty to take her own time in going back, which she performed to perfection.

Mr. Twissel cursed himself for this unexpected departure; but there was no time for deliberation. He crushed on his hat, took a coach, and drove as hard as the mysteriously-kept-up cattle could carry it, and was fortunate enough to see the colonel go by in another. He jumped out, paid the jarvey, and then made a rush after the colonel, whom he saw going up the steps.

Determined that he would not be outdone this time, he rushed through a crowd of men who were near at hand, and jostled them so, that they gave him more oaths than was consistent with courtesy, and one of them desired to know if he were running after himself or anybody else.

Heedless of this, he pushed on, and trod upon a bricklayer’s foot so hard, that the man gave a great shout, and, by way of retaliation, brought his heavy hand down so hard upon the attorney’s hat, that the article of wearing apparel was forced below his chin, much to the detriment of his vision, which was totally eclipsed.

In an instant he was struggling with his hat, and yet was unable to release himself from the durance in which his head was held; but he found this was not all he had to contend with, for he felt himself pushed and hustled about in a strange manner, till he was thrown on a door step, and then he was suddenly left to himself, with no soul near him.

“Upon my word, this must be done on purpose, I do verily believe,” said Mr. Twissel, as he at length succeeded in wrenching his hat off his head, after many violent efforts; but even then it was at the expense of the lining and skin off his nose, which was a very disagreeable affair, after all.

Mr. Twissel, for a moment or two, stared round him, and wondered where he was, until, at length, upon some examination, he found himself round the corner.

“Oh, I must have got hustled round the corner—yes, yes, I see how it is; it’s a downright conspiracy of theirs—there can’t be two minds.”

But then, again, he thought what conspiracy could there be necessary to marry a girl without money? If she had money, he could have understood it, but not as the matter stood—that was quite impossible. It was an impenetrable mystery.

As these thoughts passed through his mind, he was sitting on the step of a door, and, seeing the blood trickle off his nose in vermilion drops upon the pavement, he felt for his handkerchief to wipe the injured feature, and stop the bleeding.

But, alas! it was not in this pocket, nor in that; it was not in his hat—he never carried it there; if he had, his head would never have reached the crown of his hat—that was quite certain; it would have been better had he done so.

But, as it was not about him, where could it be? He knew that he had had it before he left home on this errand; the truth, however, was not long before it came across his mind like a flash of light. He had got among a gang of London thieves, who had hustled and robbed him of his handkerchief.

This was suggestive of other matters, and he, in consequence, put his hand to his watch-fob, but also that was gone, too. He gasped—felt his breeches pocket, and then he sank back, for he found his garments had been slit open by some sharp instrument, and his purse had fled.

“D——n!” said the attorney, in a fury; but this subsided in a moment. The loss he had felt, and the pushing about he had experienced, was too much; he felt weakened and disheartened, and paused to think upon what he should do, and which way he should go.

“It’s no use giving in,” he muttered; “no use at all. I must go on. And yet, I had better go and see if the coach is gone, for if it is still there—and it can’t have gone away yet—I’ll yet go in and see if I can find him.”

He walked round the corner, much shaken with what he had received in the way of knocks and kicks, but when he did get round, he saw the coach was gone. There was, however, a ticket-porter at hand, and he determined to go and ask him a few questions.

“My friend,” he said, feeling in his pocket; “do you know a Colonel Deverill?”

“No,” said the man; “never heard of him—where does he live?”

“He came in here just now.”

“Ah, did he?” replied the man, kicking a piece of orange peel off the pavement; “I don’t know him.”

“Do you recollect a hackney-coach coming up to the door just now, with a lame gentleman, who got out?”

“Yes; with a green shade over his eye.”

“Yes—that was the man.”

“Oh, well, I never seed him afore—I don’t know him—he didn’t stop a minute.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Twissel, and then he turned away, and walked towards his own house. However, he felt in his pocket for some money; a small sum in silver was loose in his pockets, and this he had saved, perhaps, because it it had not been looked for; and he determined to treat himself to some brandy-and-water, for he was really much knocked about, and terrified and nervous, so he went into the first public-house he came to.

This was a low house, the parlour of which was situated a long way back, and he walked in and threw himself into a seat.

“Well, well; here I am. This is disaster the second. Well, who would have believed I should have met with such misadventures as those I have just gone through? There’s a fate in it. I am sure this is an unlucky business altogether—of that I am certain. I got into the watchhouse on the first occasion, but now I am worse than that; I have been knocked about and robbed of money and goods—fifteen pounds in my purse—confound Colonel Deverill, I say.”

“What will you take, sir?”

“Eh?” inquired the bewildered attorney, who forgot that he had entered a public-house, and the waiter was desiring to know what he wished to have.

“What will you like to take, sir?” inquired the waiter, again.

“A glass of brandy-and-water, and a biscuit.”

The man left the room, and Twissel retired within himself to contemplate the evils he had suffered, and those he was likely to endure.

“Well, I never thought I was in such a thing as this. Who would ever have believed it? None, I am sure—no one could. Confound them! I’ll give it up as a bad job, and a bad job it has been for me, I am quite confident of that.”

“Brandy-and-water, and a biscuit,” said the waiter, laying down the articles enumerated, and Twissel gave the necessary cash, accompanied by the customary gratuity, which ranges from ten to twenty-five per cent upon the money paid for the articles purchased.

We have often thought this a most exorbitant tax upon those who require accommodation. If people cannot pay their own servants, they ought not to keep them; to be sure, you are told you need not pay anything—it is entirely voluntary, and that they do not wish it; but you only obtain a flippant answer, so as to attract every one’s eyes in the place, and the end of it is, if there is much business, you don’t get any attention at all.

“Well, I won’t give in,” said Mr. Twissel, with a thump on the table; but he had drank nearly two-thirds of the brandy-and-water.

“No, I won’t give in.”

He swallowed down the remainder, finished the biscuit, and leaned back in his seat, and then he began to talk to himself.

“I will not give in; after all that has passed, it would be a shame to be done, robbed, beaten, and kicked; and then give in—nonsense! I will go through the whole affair, and that shall repay me in the end. I’ll lay it on the thicker for this.”

This was a comfortable resolution on the part of Mr. Twissel, and which appeared to please him well, for he smiled quietly, and then rose much refreshed and left the house.

This last allusion of Twissel’s was consolatory, and had an intimate connection with certain imaginary charges he would make to the Deverill family when he got the business; but as that was a matter buried in the womb of futurity, we will not follow him in his speculations.

“I won’t give in,” he said, as he walked on, and thrust his hand into the slit that had been cut in his trousers to extract his purse; but this only confirmed him in his resolution, and he uttered again and again, “I won’t give in.”

“I won’t give in,” he murmured, as he sought the knocker of Mrs. Meredith’s door. “I won’t give in—I’m not a man whose resolution is easily shaken. Oh, dear, no; I’ll tell my good friend, Mrs. Meredith, all my troubles, and then ask her what she thinks of me—if I ain’t an indefatigable friend, one who will never sink under difficulties.”

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