"You are right. I have no coach at hand—or any servants. I have only the bag in the ditch yonder. You are very kind! I don't like to intrude."

"Nonsense, my dear sir! 'Tis I who have intruded on your slumbers here. You'll be company for me on the journey. 'Fore gad, I was dead of ennui, for some one to talk to, when we came upon you! Get the gentleman's bag, Wilkins. I must say, sir, your own servant must be a rascal, to have dropped your things and ridden off as he did, when you were attacked."

Dick saw no reason to correct the impression produced, by his clothes and other circumstances, on the cordial young gentleman, and he silently let himself be helped into the chaise, which, his bag having been stowed away and his rescuers having got in, at once started off towards Bath.

Dick gave no more account of himself, beyond announcing his name and the fact that he had recently come from travels abroad, than to say that he had been attacked by the servants of a gentleman whose motive was personal revenge, and left as the Good Samaritan had found him. The Good Samaritan turned out to be Lord George Winston, who was given to letting his private coaches and horses lie idle, and to travelling in his present modest fashion, in order that he might encounter the more amusing people and incidents. He was now hastening, in quest of society, back from his Devonshire estate, whither he had recently hastened in quest of solitude. He was an exceedingly good-natured, self-satisfied, talkative youth, one of those happily constituted persons who are not even their own enemies. Yet he was a man of exceeding animation and wit, as he showed by countless little jests with which he enlivened the talk he rattled off to Dick on the journey.

Dick allowed most of the conversation to his lordship, which circumstance made so agreeable an impression on the latter, that, on learning Dick had no engagements, he gave an imperative invitation to be his guest in Bath for a few days, and afterward to bear him company to London. Dick, philosophically accepting, thus saw his immediate future paved with roses in advance, ere the increasing bustle of converging roads, the sound of the Avon flowing beneath its bridge, and the sight of many roofs and towers told him he was entering the most populous and fashionable pleasure resort in England.

It was late in the afternoon, when they drove into Bath. The chaise rattled through the fine streets of splendid stone houses, its own noise mingling with that of grand coaches and other conveyances. On every side were finely dressed people, strutting with an air of consequence, while Dick got a glimpse of a fair face, more or less genuine in color, in many a carriage and chair. The chaise let out its passengers at the Three Tuns, where Lord George engaged rooms for the night, and where Dick carefully repaired all damage to his person and attire, donned fresh linen, had his hair powdered by a man whom Lord George had caused to be summoned, dined with his gay companion, and sauntered forth afoot with him at evening, glowing with the newly stimulated love of pleasure.

At the door of the Pelican Inn, Lord George introduced Dick to a pompous but good-natured little gentleman named Boswell, who greeted my lord obsequiously but tarried only so long as to mention that he was on his way to meet Doctor Johnson at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Thrale.

"Does he mean the great Doctor Johnson, the author?" asked Dick, looking back after him with curiosity.

"Yes," said Lord George; "he is a harmless, conceited Scotchman that comes to town a few weeks every year and follows at the heels of Johnson, who treats him as if he were the spaniel he is. 'Tis amusing to consort now and then with those writing fellows, if you can endure their vanity. As for Johnson, he says a good thing sometimes, and might be good company but for his sweating and grunting, his dirty linen and his beastly way of eating, and his desire of doing all the talking himself."

They went to the Assembly Rooms, where his lordship introduced Dick to numerous people of both sexes and then sat down to cards; while Dick looked on, or walked about among the promenaders, the gay talkers, and the chatting tea-drinkers, and thought he was in a kind of paradise.

The next day Lord George moved with his guest to a floor in a fine house on the South Parade, where there was comparative quiet from the noise of wheels. There established, Dick, as he listened to the bells of the Abbey church,—which sound carried to him a mental vision of the venerable Cathedral itself, with its fine western front and its countless windows,—resolved that he would ever after wear the clothes of a gentleman, as his birth and mind entitled him to do; that his future way should lie amidst fine surroundings; that he should thereafter contrive to sip only of the honey of this world.

The two young gentlemen went early to the pump-room; took the hot water bath in a great tank overlooked by the pump-room windows, in company with other perspiring folk, who did not look at their best,—particularly the ladies in their brown linen jackets and petticoats and their chip hats with handkerchiefs affixed. Then, having dressed and partaken of the water served by the pumper in the bar, Lord George and Dick—or rather Mr. Wetheral, for he had now determined to complete the transformation that his change of clothes had begun—strolled on the North Parade; after which his lordship played a game of billiards with an acquaintance he met, while Dick stole away in quest of a certain kind of shop. This excursion was fruitful, and when Mr. Wetheral rejoined his friend at the Coffee House his shoes had silver buckles instead of gold ones, and a small quantity of coin rattled in his previously silent pocket. For Dick, having watched the cards awhile on the preceding night, had made up his mind to try a fling at fortune, himself.

Accordingly, when they went to the Rooms that night, it was Mr. Wetheral that played, and Lord George that sought diversion otherwise, joining the dancers, for this was one of the two weekly ball-nights. Wetheral had beginner's luck, of course, and when he retired to bed at twelve his pockets jingled with an effect almost as pleasant to his ears as that of the Abbey bells, and he saw himself prospectively the possessor of some splendid house in the Circus or in Prince's Row.

He imagined, of course, a lovely sharer of the contemplated splendor, but this fancy did not take a permanent shape in his mind's eye; sometimes it wore the face of Catherine de St. Valier; then this image gave way to a kind of collective impression of the many pretty faces he had already seen in Bath. For so great a change had come in his surroundings and desires, that Catherine and her snowy Quebec had faded into a far past and seemed at an immeasurable distance. Reproach him not too severely! He was nineteen, in England, in spring, as if freshly born into a new world that appeared all pleasure and beauty; moreover, the past five months had been so crowded with events and changes that they trailed out behind him like years instead of months.

His luck at cards continuing, and with it his determination to move thereafter in polite life, Mr. Wetheral set about acquiring certain accomplishments necessary to his purpose. There was a fop among Lord George's acquaintance, given to telling laughable stories, partly in French. Of this gentleman's Coffee House audience, Dick was the only one who could not laugh uproariously at these Gallic passages. He thereupon resolved to learn French, as well as to acquire the more fashionable styles of dancing, and to improve what rudiments of fencing had been imparted to him by old Tom MacAlister. Thus he invested a good part of his nightly winnings in clandestine lessons, taken while Lord George was making visits, or off with some pleasure-seeking party to Spring Gardens, or elsewhere engaged.

Wetheral supplemented his French and fencing lessons with private practice in his rooms, or in some solitary part of the grove by the Avon, or of King's Mead Fields, or elsewhere. His natural readiness and his fierce application soon enabled him to read and write easy French passably well; but when he came to speak in that language to the foppish little master of ceremonies at the Rooms, he brought confusion on himself. He made a better show at dancing, though; and a few trials of the foils with Lord George, on a rainy day, displayed a promise of early ability to handle a sword in the approved fashion.

One evening in the second week of May, Lord George announced his wish of starting for London on the morrow, as the fashionable season at Bath would soon be over. Dick had no sorrow at this, for he had resolved to continue in London his present way of life, by means of the cards and by whatever other resources he might find at hand. He was quite ready for fresh fields, as long as they were of the flowery kind. Desiring, though, a last survey of the field he was about to leave, Dick sallied forth alone that night for the Rooms, Lord George having to remain at his lodgings to write some letters he had postponed to the last moment.

Just as Mr. Wetheral was entering the ballroom, during a cessation of dancing, and was felicitating himself on the flattering salutations he got from acquaintances obtained through Lord George,—and several of these greetings came with melting smiles from fair faces,—he heard a voice at his side cry out:

"Why, by God, 'tis the rascal gamekeeper masquerading as a gentleman!"

Dick recognized the voice, now bellow and now whimper, ere even he turned, like a man shot, and saw the face. At sight of the gross, insolent visage of Squire Bullcott, the memory of the horse-whipping drove away every other consideration, and Dick, thinking only of revenge, not of his own possible discomfiture, replied, hotly:

"So 'tis you, Bully Bullcott! I intended to return and pay off my score, but kind Providence has saved me the trouble by sending you to Bath. Wait until I meet you in the street, sir!"

"What, you dog!" cried the Squire, whose corpulent body was dressed as if it were the elegant figure of a beau of twenty-five. "Why, hear the cur talk, will you that! The low, dirty, mongrel cur, that came starving along the road, with tongue hanging out and ne'er a kennel to sleep in; and that I took in and made a gamekeeper of! How in the name of God he ever came by those clothes he has on, I know not. But you sha'n't play any of your tricks here, you impostor! I denounce this rascal, gentlemen! He's not what he pretends to be!"

"Gentlemen," said Dick, to the crowd that had quickly assembled, "there are many of you here who know me—"

"If there be," said Bullcott, cutting Dick's speech short, "how long have you known him? Hey? And is there any gentleman here that doesn't know me?" From the manner in which the Squire glared around, and that of the gentlemen who amiably nodded in confirmation, it was plain that Squire Bullcott was a very well-known person at Bath; and from other tokens it was equally plain that Dick's acquaintances were mentally recalling that the time since they had first met him was indeed short. "The fellow is a gamekeeper, I say! A common servant, that I paid wages to, a month ago, and that my footmen drove off my place, as they shall drive him out of these Rooms now!" Whereat he strode through the crowd, which opened for him with the deference due to wealth, and at the door he called out to his servants, who were waiting with his coach.

Before Mr. Wetheral, who looked in perplexity from one acquaintance to another, and saw each man fall slightly back or look aside, could arrive at any course of action, he found himself face to face with the two low-browed fellows who had obeyed the Squire's behest on a former memorable occasion. Ere he was fully sensible of their intention, he was grasped at neck and arm, and the next instant he was being hustled swiftly to the street. Resisting blindly, and as the nether part of his person came considerably in the rear in this rapid exit, he made a ludicrous appearance, as he knew from the shout of laughter that followed him,—laughter in which, to his unutterable chagrin, the voices of the ladies mingled, for they had pushed forward among the gentlemen who had first hastened to the scene.

Once outside, Dick's two burly captors flung him forward into the street, where he landed on all fours in mire and refuse.

A crowd of servants and rabble quickly gathered around, shouting with glee. Dick's mood, when he rose, bruised and soiled, was to return and do battle with the whole assembly in the Rooms. But he knew the futility of such heroic measures, and that the present was no time in which to seek retaliation. He contented himself, therefore, with what effective lunges were necessary in order to break through the street crowd. Having achieved a passage in one fierce dash, he ran on, at a pace that soon ended pursuit, until he reached his lodgings. There he made himself presentable before joining Lord George, to whom he said nothing of the night's occurrence.

Their early departure, the next morning, alone prevented his lordship from hearing the news that was now all over Bath; and Dick felt a decided relief when he saw the city receding in the morning sunshine while the post-chaise they had taken was bowling merrily towards Wiltshire. An uneventful day, diversified by many stops for refreshment, brought them late in the afternoon to Marlboro, where Dick had time, before nightfall, to ascend by the winding path the famous mount, and to meditate in the grotto where Thomson had composed "The Seasons," as well as to stroll through the charming grounds stretching at the rear of the inn to the Kennet.

As the Bath stage-coach for London drove up, Dick looked furtively from the inn window to see if it should let out any of those who had witnessed his humiliation the previous night. Lord George, glancing from the same window, suddenly exclaimed, "Egad, there's a fine woman!"

Following his lordship's gaze, Dick beheld a slender and graceful lady emerging from a private coach. Her face, round, soft, childlike, with clear and gentle blue eyes, instantly captivated Dick. He watched her while she gave hasty directions to her coachman, and while she stepped quickly and with downcast look, as if wishing to avoid observation, to the inn. She was accompanied by another lady, also quite handsome, but of a somewhat severe and defiant countenance.

Having entered the inn, the two ladies were seen no more while Dick and Lord George remained at Marlboro, although these candid admirers of beauty delayed their departure thence till the next day was far advanced. With sighs of disappointment, they then resumed their journey, and passed through the forest and on to Hungerford, where they dined and tarried awhile in the vain hope that yet the lady of the private coach might overtake them.

Continuing in disappointment, they proceeded into Berkshire and along the pleasant Kennet to Speenhamland, which, as all the world knows, is but the northern part of Newbury, the Kennet flowing between under a stone bridge. They had no sooner made themselves comfortable in the last two available rooms at the Pelican Inn, than Wetheral happened to look out into the corridor and see, accidentally glancing from the opposite chamber at the same moment, the beautiful lady of the private coach.

CHAPTER XII.

THE DEVIL TO PAY AT THE PELICAN INN.

"Why, I know Sir Hilary," cried Lord George. "Wilkins, you will take this message to Miss Englefield at once. Say to her that I have learned she is here, and that, supposing she must have heard her brother speak of me, though I have never had the honor and pleasure of meeting her, I send my most respectful compliments and will do myself the happiness of waiting upon her in the public parlor. Make haste, Wilkins! Come, Wetheral,—damn it, your hair is all right! We shall probably have the joy of supping with these ladies."

Dick hastened down to the parlor with his lordship and waited in a very pleasant trepidation. Wilkins soon came with the answer that Miss Englefield would give herself the honor, etc. "She seemed at first quite took by surprise, my lord," added Wilkins, "and repeated the name Englefield after me, as if to make me think there was a mistake and she wasn't that lady. But she whispered awhile with the other lady, and then gave me the answer."

"If she is really running away from some obnoxious suitor, she would quite naturally wish to hide her name," commented Lord George to Dick; and then a rustle of skirts heralded the entrance of the lady and her companion themselves.

While introductions were being made, the four people became so grouped that Wetheral found himself near Miss Englefield, an advantage he was quite ready to keep when it had come through circumstance, although he would not with premeditation have competed for it with Lord George. His lordship, noting the circumstance with a smile partly of reproach and partly of resignation, accepted with good grace the place of partner to the other lady, Miss Thorpe, whom Miss Englefield addressed as Celestine. Thus coupled, the new acquaintances talked of the crowded state of the inns, the excellence of the weather and roads, the season at Bath (Dick learned with ineffable relief that Miss Englefield's departure had occurred before his ejection from the Rooms), and such matters.

It was agreed presently, on Lord George's proposal, that the four should sup together in a corner of their own in the dining-room; and Dick there contrived to retain his post as cavalier to Miss Englefield, with whom he became more entranced at every commonplace utterance from her dainty lips, every meaningless glance from her soft eyes, every change of expression of her girlish face, every insignificant sigh, every occasionless laugh.

Her manner was generally that of a woman under some kind of anxiety or suspense, from which she found relief in a half timid, half reckless abandonment to gaiety; she was like a schoolgirl on some feminine lark, entirely novel to her, to which some severity had driven her for relief, yet of which she was constantly in terror.

In the parlor, after supper, Wetheral's supposed travels being mentioned, he led up to the highly original remark, spoken with a most meaning look, "But of all women, I'll swear the finest I have seen are in England,—nay, I must say, is in England!" The charming blush with which she received this extremely subtle compliment encouraged Dick to further efforts in the same strain, for the conversation of the two had now fallen to a tone inaudible to Lord George and Miss Thorpe. These, on their side, sat at some distance, deep in a masked contest arising from the haughty Celestine's declared invulnerability to any man's attack, and from Lord George's complacent conviction that he could make a swift conquest of any woman without even seriously exerting himself.

This game, between the irresistible and the immovable, enabled Wetheral and Miss Englefield to proceed unwatched through a flirtation's first stages, so delicious to the participants, so insipid to third persons. Silly as their talk was, it derived unutterable charm from the low tones in which it was spoken, the ardent looks and suppressed agitation of Dick, the furtive glances and demure blushes of Miss Englefield. At last the silence of the inn, and the shortened state of the candles, broke up the reluctant quartette, and the ladies said good night, leaving Dick on the outer threshold of his paradise, and Lord George at the first man[oe]uvre in his campaign against the composure of Celestine.

"By the lord," cried Wetheral in ecstasy, when he and Lord George were alone together, "did you ever see a more heavenly creature? She's divine, she's perfect, and her name is Amabel, as lovely as herself! She told me it, and she told me, too, almost in as many words, that her affections were not engaged—previously. Amabel! Could any name fit any woman better?"

"Come, come," said Lord George, "it's bedtime. I must sleep well to-night, and look my best to-morrow, for I've a conquest to make."

"'Fore gad, I sha'n't sleep at all!" cried Dick. "I've been made a conquest of!"

But he followed his friend up-stairs, where he found the latter slightly meditative and absent, a circumstance that would have held his attention had not his mind been full of other thoughts. Dick looked out of the window, at the inn garden. It was a perfect night, with a glorious moonlight. Dick could never go to bed in his present mood. He longed to walk, to revel in the moonlight, which was all his own, now that the rest of the world was asleep. If he could but pace beneath her window! That window also, being in line with his own, looked out on the garden. Between the two windows was that of the corridor, and beneath this there was a rear door leading to the garden, which door was flanked by a vine-clad trellis.

"I'm going for a stroll in the garden," said Dick, suddenly, to Lord George, who was already in bed. "I sha'n't want a candle to go to bed by."

He thereupon stepped from his window to the trellis, and descended thereby to the ground, heedless of the impeding vines. Amabel's window was already dark, as his own became a moment later. The garden sloped gently, between a wall and a hedge, to the Kennet, which reflected the moon between shadows of over-arching boughs. With its small trees, its bushes and flowers, its solitary bench, and its clear spaces of short grass, all made beautiful and mysterious by the moonlight, its spring odors, and the murmur of the stream, the place seemed to Dick like some Italian garden, and he imagined himself Romeo gazing up at Juliet's balcony.

In the midst of this fancy, he was rudely brought back to England by the sound of wheels and horse, and of voices speaking guardedly in very un-Italian accents, in the inn coach-yard beyond the wall that bounded one side of the garden. The sounds came to a stop, and the gate of the wall opened cautiously, whereupon Dick stepped into the shadow of the trellis flanking the rear doorway. Through the gateway he could see a rickety coach, of which the door was open and from about which there now stepped stealthily into the garden four ill-clad, desperate-looking fellows, one wearing a cloak about his lank body and stifling a cough as he walked, another carrying a large handkerchief in his hand, two others awkwardly bearing a ladder.

"'Tis all clear," said the cloaked individual. "Quick work, captain, now! That's the room." And he pointed to the window of Amabel.

Dick gave a violent start. What could be the purpose, concerning her chamber, of these birds of ill omen, who, doubtless through the collusion of some inn servant, had driven so secretly into the coach-yard at this hour? He decided to wait, that he might, before interfering, discover their plans.

The two ladder-bearers, at a whisper from the man with the handkerchief, placed the ladder to the window. The captain—a title which Dick guessed in this case to indicate a highwayman rather than a gentleman of war or sea—mounted with agility, and disappeared through the window, followed by one of the men. The cloaked fellow stood holding the ladder, and the other went to the gate to keep watch.

Dick, thinking it high time to take a hand, looked about for a weapon, and, seeing nothing else, finally pulled a stout cross-piece from the trellis. By this time the expeditious captain had reappeared at the top of the ladder, bearing the swooning form of Amabel, whose possible screams he had provided against with the handkerchief. His assistant followed him down the ladder, to give aid should the nimble captain's burden prove too heavy.

Dick ran forward with a threatening shout, and brought his extemporized cudgel down on the skull of the man in the cloak; at the same time there rose, in the chamber above, loud cries of "Help!" from Celestine, who had just awakened to what was goingon. The sudden rush and noise took the enemy by surprise. The man attacked by Dick made for the gate, leaving his cloak in the hands of his assailant, who had mechanically clutched it. The captain's principal assistant leaped from the ladder, and followed with all speed to the gate, while the man on watch scrambled to the seat on the coach and whipped the horses to a gallop. The captain, seeing himself deserted, dropped Amabel as soon as he reached the bottom of the ladder, drew a pistol, and made ready for a fight over her body. But Dick clubbed the pistol from his hand, whereupon the captain, with merely an ejaculation of annoyance, turned and fled after his retreating forces.

Dick picked up the fainting Amabel, and carried her to the garden bench, whereon he placed her in a sitting attitude, and put the captured cloak about her, lest in her fragile night-dress she might be chilled. Meanwhile Celestine's cries had not abated, and suddenly Dick, while trying to fan Miss Englefield back to recovery with his hat, beheld Lord George emerge from the gentlemen's window, in night-gown and coat, drop to the ground, rush up the ladder, and plunge into the chamber whence the shouts for aid continued to issue. Lord George, in his haste to the rescue, had not noticed Dick and Amabel in the garden.

At last the tender creature on the bench gently stirred, feebly opened her eyes, and faintly asked where she was. Dick immediately enlightened her. She appeared astonished at what had befallen, and murmured, reflectively, "I shouldn't have thought he would take that way of doing it," then checked herself as if she had said too much. Dick supposed she alluded to the rich suitor, and that the attempted abduction was the work of that person. He could not enough thank heaven for having enabled him to be her preserver, and he sat by her side, on the bench, while she remained wrapped in the cloak, apparently too prostrated by the recent occurrence to return immediately to her chamber.

And now was the time for a romantic love scene, suitable to the youth and beauty of the two participants, to the charm of the surroundings, to the May night, the moonlight, the odor of flowers, the ripple of the stream, and the preceding circumstances of the interview; and doubtless the conversation was poetic enough to the two who engaged in it, thanks to all these matters and to the glances, low tones of agitation, suppressed fervor, tremblings, etc.; but the talk in itself was no more original or impassioned than this:

"I'm glad you aren't hurt," said she.

"It would be a happiness to carry forever a wound received in such a cause,—'pon honor, it would!" said he.

"Will they come back, do you think? I sha'n't be able to sleep, the rest of the night, for fear of them!"

"You have nothing to fear. I shall keep guard under your window all night."

"Oh, no, sir! You will take cold."

"I cannot. I shall be on fire. My heart will glow with your image, which has occupied it ever since I saw you before the inn at Marlboro yesterday."

"Why, did you notice me then? I saw you looking out of the window, and I said to Celestine, 'What a frank and generous face! If my—if some person were but like that!'"

"You said that, really,—and meant it,—and mean it still?"

"Why, to be sure, how could I mean it less, after all that has happened to-night?"

He now plunged deep into ardent love-making, at which she seemed to be both frightened and, in spite of herself, pleased. Not making any direct response, she began to sound him as to his character and opinions, his views on matters pertaining to love and propriety and honorable conduct, and finally as to whether he would deem a love between a married and a single person, under any possible circumstances, justifiable. He declared that, for his part, he would never make love to a married woman, that he would rob no man, nor injure any in a matter so sacred,—excepting possibly one man, to whom he owed the keenest of revenges, Mr. Bullcott, of Bullcott Hall, Somersetshire. At this declaration, an unaccountable strange look—astonishment mingled with secret elation—overspread her face. "Why do you look so?" inquired Dick.

Before she could answer, there came from the ladies' chamber, whence the cries had for some time ceased to issue, the sound of several slaps and cuffs in close succession. An instant later the figure of Lord George, in coat and night-gown, came swiftly through the window and dropped to the ground.

"Damn all affected prudery!" muttered his lordship, holding his hand to his cheek, and then clambered up the trellis to his own window.

At the same time, Celestine appeared at the other window, and the landlord, having first gone to her door and been informed by her that the garden was full of house-breakers and kidnappers, came from the inn door, followed by two servants, while a detachment of the town watch, summoned by another servant, entered by the wall gate from the coach-yard.

Thus interrupted, Dick had to make explanations, and to hasten Amabel's return to her chamber by way of the inn door. He then returned to the garden to carry out his purpose of guarding her window the rest of the night, and there found one of the watchmen charged with the same duty, two others having captured the ladder and very carefully carried it off to preserve as evidence.

Despite what blissful thoughts Dick had to entertain himself with, he now found it harder to remain awake than it had been when he was on sentry duty in freezing Canada. Relying at last on the watchman who sat in the inn doorway, Dick at last succumbed to sleep, on the bench, where he did not awake till dawn. The watchman also slumbered through the night, and, had the abductors so elected, they might, with due skill and caution, have carried off not only the lovely Amabel, but Dick and the watchman as well.

The watchman was the first to awake; hence Dick, assuming that all was well, returned to his chamber, refreshed himself with a bath, and put his clothes in order. By the time this was accomplished, Wilkins having come to attend the gentlemen, Lord George was up, and in his usual good humor as to everything but Celestine. Her resistance to his attractions he pronounced an odious affectation, which he should certainly take out of the woman, if only for her own sake, for he admitted she had some good points.

Lord George and Dick had scarcely finished dressing, when there came a violent knock on the door of their parlor, heralding the boisterous entrance of a stout, ruddy-faced young gentleman with a decided fox-hunting look, who thrust out his hand to Lord George, and blurted out:

"Why, damme, my lord, don't you know me? By gad, you ought to, for many's the finish we've been in at together, us two!"

"Why, certainly, Sir Hilary! Welcome! Sir Hilary Englefield, Mr. Wetheral."

Dick bowed, and surveyed critically the brother of Miss Englefield.

"There's the devil to pay somewhere, or else I'm on a wild goose chase," went on Sir Hilary, beating his riding-boot with his whip. "A rascal ensign, as he calls himself, wakes up my house in the middle of the night, and gives me a letter that he says, being on the way to London, he agreed to carry from a ragged wench he met at the Pelican here. The letter turns out to be from a girl that once served in our house but fell into bad ways and ran off with a damned drunken lawyer. It tells of a plot of some scoundrel, whom she doesn't name, to have my sister carried off from this inn last night by the gang of rogues the wench is travelling with. Well, I up and ride from t'other side of Reading to Newbury, twenty miles, like the very devil, and when I get here, the inn people say my sister left the inn yesterday. They tell me another lady was nearly kidnapped from the room Sis had occupied, but you and another gentleman prevented. So I said, 'I'll run up and pay my respects to his lordship,' and, now I've done that, I must be off and look in the other inns for Sister. I didn't know she was coming back from Bath so soon."

"But," said Lord George, detaining Sir Hilary, "your sister is here. It was she that Wetheral protected. There must have been some mistake between you and the inn people. What I say is true, I assure you. Learning Miss Englefield was here, I made myself known to her, and she and her friend passed the evening with Wetheral and me."

"Oh, then, the fool of a landlord was fuddled, I dare say. Egad, since Sis is here, we'll all crack a bottle together. We'll have breakfast together. My belly aches with emptiness."

"Excellent!" said Lord George. They were now in that one of their two rooms which served as parlor; it adjoined the bedchamber, which was the room whose window overlooked the garden. Besides the door between the two, each room had a door opening to the corridor. "We can have the table set here in this room, now that you are with us," continued Lord George, "and be as merry as we please."

"So we shall," cried Sir Hilary; "and, meanwhile, I'll have my horse put away. I always see with my own eyes how my beasts are cared for." The baronet then, evidently satisfied at hearing from others of his sister's safety, ran down-stairs; while Lord George, having sent Wilkins to order the breakfast, went out to walk for an appetite, Dick remaining to add some finishing touches to his toilet.

Presently hearing light footfalls and the swish of skirts in the corridor, and recalling that the ladies had not yet been notified of Sir Hilary's arrival and of the plan for the breakfast party, Dick hastened out from his bedchamber, greeted them both, and said, "I have pleasant news for you, Miss Englefield; your brother, Sir Hilary, has arrived, and—ah, that is he at the foot of the stairs! He will be up in a moment."

This announcement had the most astonishing effect on Amabel. She cast a panic-stricken look around, and then sought refuge through the first open doorway, which she closed after her, and could be heard turning the key inside. The door happened to be that of Wetheral and Lord George's bedchamber.

Sir Hilary, who had not seen this flight, now arrived in the corridor, and looked first at Celestine, then inquiringly at Wetheral. Surprised at Sir Hilary's not recognizing his sister's friend, Dick was for a moment silent; then he proceeded, in some embarrassment, to make the two acquainted.

"Sir Hilary must often have heard his sister speak of her friend, Celestine Thorpe," said that lady, who also seemed not entirely at ease.

"Thorpe? Celestine?" repeated Sir Hilary, making the, to him, unusual effort of searching his memory. "No, I can't say—unless you were the girl that went to school with Sis, that she got me to write letters to. I forget that girl's name."

"Why, 'twas Celestine Thorpe," said the lady.

"So 'twas, now I think on't. Well, well, how Sis used to plague me, to make me answer your letters, to be sure! It seems the girls at your school had read some novel or such book, Palemia, or Pamelia, or some name or other, that got you to pestering all your own relations and one another's with letters. I never used to read yours through, but Sister would make me answer 'em, ne'ertheless."

At this point Lord George returned, and, on his invitation, the four went into the parlor of the two gentlemen, Dick hastily closing the door between parlor and bedchamber, and Miss Thorpe telling the others, with a look half pleading and half threatening at Dick, that Miss Englefield would join them soon. Servants now came and laid a table for breakfast, under Wilkins's direction. Wine being brought, Sir Hilary fell upon it immediately, pleading his long ride in excuse. Meanwhile Dick, mystified at the conduct of Amabel, supposed she would now use the opportunity to go from the bedchamber to the corridor; and wondered how long she would defer meeting her brother.

Those in the parlor, while the table was being made ready, were grouped about the window, which looked out from the side of the inn; Miss Thorpe seated, Lord George at her one elbow, Sir Hilary at the other. The fox-hunter, repeating frequently his glass of wine, from a bottle on a near-by side-table, became rapidly more gay and familiar, especially towards Celestine, whose former characteristics he now proceeded to recall. At this, Lord George began to show irritation, while the lady's own composure was far from increased.

"Lord," said the baronet, looking mirthful at the recollection, "what soft stuff it was, in the letters you used to plague me with! I said to Sis one day, 'I've heard as how girls at boarding-schools pine for gentlemen's society and go crazy to be made love to,' I said, 'but I never fancied one of 'em to have such a coming-on disposition as Celestine has.' Lord, Lord, 'twas a tender soul!"

This was going beyond the endurance alike of Celestine, whose present character was so different from that ascribed to the baronet's former correspondent, and of Lord George, who felt doubly chafed to think that tenderness denied him had been heaped upon another. Miss Thorpe turned crimson under his look. Having to vent his anger on some one, his lordship naturally chose the reminiscent fox-hunter.

"Is it a Berkshire custom, sir," queried Lord George, heatedly, "to treat the confidence of ladies in this manner?"

Sir Hilary, after a moment of bewilderment, disavowed the least intention to offend, but his own tone showed a decided resentment of Lord George's. This fact did not make his lordship's reply any sweeter, and the upshot of their brief but swift verbal passage was that Sir Hilary departed in high dudgeon, saying he would find his sister and start for home at once. Dick slipped quietly into the bedchamber, and, to his surprise, found Amabel still there.

"Why didn't you go out that way," he whispered, pointing to the corridor door, "while we were in the parlor?"

"I was afraid of being seen," she answered; "the servants have been passing to and fro outside the door; so I locked it," and she handed him the key, which he took thoughtlessly, his own confusion being like that which had made her take the key from the door after locking it.

"Would it not be best to go out now, while the way is clear," said he, "and meet your brother, who has gone down-stairs to inquire for you?"

"No, no!" she exclaimed; "I cannot—I dare not! Oh, sir, that gentleman is not my brother!"

This, then, explained her former flight from Sir Hilary's sight; explained also why Sir Hilary's description of the letter-writer was so at variance with the character of Miss Thorpe, who had been forced into the rôle of his sister's friend by a desire to support Amabel. Little wonder that Celestine was enraged, or that now, left alone in the parlor with Lord George, she sought refuge from his sarcastic silence in an unceremonious retreat to her own chamber! Lord George, with no appetite for the breakfast, which Wilkins at this moment announced to be ready, took up his hat, and flung out for another walk. As he passed the tap-room door, he heard Sir Hilary vociferously declaiming to the landlord within.

It thus fell out that Dick, looking cautiously in from the other chamber, saw the parlor deserted, Wilkins having rushed after his master. Dick instantly beckoned Amabel into the parlor, where it was not likely Sir Hilary would return. He offered her a chair; but she preferred to stand, resting one hand on the table, while she explained:

"When we arrived at the inn, we were shown to the room another lady had vacated a few minutes earlier. As Celestine took pains to learn this morning, on account of things that have happened since we came here, that lady was Miss Englefield. When we received Lord George's message, and found he thought one of us was Miss Englefield, and that he had never seen her, I thought it would be amusing to keep up the mistake. Miss Thorpe opposed it, but I longed so to imagine for a time I was somebody else, I wouldn't listen to her. Of course, after the deception was begun, she wouldn't betray me. Well, I couldn't endure to be exposed by others, so I ran from Miss Englefield's brother. You will think me terribly wicked, won't you, sir?"

"Why, 'twas a most innocent, harmless jest," protested Mr. Wetheral, gallantly. "If there were any blame, it would belong to Lord George and me, for our impertinence in having Wilkins inquire who the beautiful lady was. His informant, it seems, didn't know Miss Englefield had left and another taken her place. We have now but to send for Miss Thorpe—if she is Miss Thorpe—"

"Oh, yes, there was no deception as to Celestine's name."

"And as to your own first name?" Dick was slightly apprehensive.

"That was given truly. It is Amabel." Dick was rejoiced.

"Amabel!" he repeated. "Then that is the only name by which at this moment I know you. 'Tis the loveliest name, and the most fitting one, I swear! If you would but make it needless, as far as concerns my calling you by name, that I should ever know any other! If you would but give me the right to call you by that name alone!"

"Give you the right?" said she in a low voice, and with downcast eyes. "As how?"

"As by your mere permission."

"After what you know?" Her voice was barely audible, her manner agitated.

"What do you mean?" asked Dick.

"That I am not the person I pretended to be."

"What difference does that make? Are you any less charming? 'Fore George, what's in a name,—unless it be Amabel?"

"'Tis not a mere matter of names. You remember what you said last night—"

"Yes—whatever it was, it all meant that you were adorable, and I mean that now a thousand times over!" He took her hand, which she did not withdraw from him.

"But you said something," she went on, in a voice yet lower and more unsteady, "of married persons and single,—of not injuring a man in a matter so sacred,—you remember?"

"Why, yes,—I—"

"But you said there might be one exception—"

"Yes, I remember. Squire Bullcott, a Somerset gentleman. I owe him a very bitter revenge."

"Well, then,—if revenge and—love—both pointed to the same thing,—what then?"

He looked at her a moment; while she stood crimson, motionless, scarcely breathing, her eyes averted. Then he let go her hand.

"My God, madam, does it mean that you are—Mr. Bullcott's wife?"

"Yes," and now she spoke with rapidity and more force, "and that I have endured such treatment from him as I could bear no longer. Insolence, blows, neglect, imprisonment even, for he is as jealous as he is faithless, and has tried to hide me from all society, having me guarded by brutal servants of his own choosing, making me a captive in my own apartments, and keeping me under lock and key while he pursued his amours elsewhere. What could I do? I was an only child, without near relations: my parents died soon after arranging my marriage, which was against my own wishes. At last I learned, through some careless talk of my husband's, that Celestine was at Bath. She was my only friend. I contrived to get a letter to her, and she planned my escape. She waited at night in a private coach, near Bullcott Hall, while I got out of the house in the clothes of a chambermaid who was asleep. I ran to a place she had appointed, and there I found her footman on the park wall, with a ladder; he helped me across, and to her coach. We took a roundabout way to the London road, so as to avoid Bath; and when you met us we were on our way to Celestine's house in Oxfordshire, intending I should keep concealed there, for I am determined to die rather than go back to my husband!"

She now stood silent, as if she had placed the situation and herself in Wetheral's hands, to dispose of as he might choose. Manifestly she had met very few men, seen nothing of the world; she was still a child, ready to entrust her whole destiny to the first flatterer whose tender speeches had won her heart.

Dick was not slow in making up his mind.

"You spoke of love and revenge, madam," said he, gently. "They are strong passions, and I have been strongly urged by them the last few moments. But we will resist them,—not for his sake, but for yours—and mine. Before you start for Oxfordshire, I shall have started for London. I wish you a pleasant and safe journey, and a long and happy life. Good-by!"

Before she could answer, there came from the corridor the noise of heavy feet rushing up the stairs, and the words loudly bellowed:

"I'll find the room, never fear, that will I!"

"My husband!" whispered Amabel, the picture of sudden fright. "If he finds me here, he will kill me!"

"He'll not do that, I promise you!" said Dick. "But, ne'ertheless, he mustn't see you!"

For it was indeed this very parlor that the footfalls were approaching. Dick led the terrified wife back into the bedchamber, and returned instantly to the parlor, in time to see Squire Bullcott burst in from the corridor. Dick had not yet closed the bedchamber door, and he now left it slightly ajar, remembering his experience in the St. Valier house in Quebec, and thinking by this negligence to disarm suspicion. The Squire was followed by the two faithful henchmen who had used Dick violently twice in the past.

At sight of Wetheral, the Squire stood aghast. Dick was near the bedchamber door. On the floor beside him was an open portmanteau, very long, in which lay, among clothes, a dress sword of Lord George's. Dick stooped and took up this pretty weapon, as if merely to examine its jewelled hilt.

"What, you cur!" cried Bullcott, as soon as he had got breath. "So 'tis you she ran away with! So you thought to revenge yourself on me by seducing my wife!"

"Mr. Bullcott is too hasty to vilify that angelic but mistreated lady," said Dick, quietly, but with scorn as fine as the edge of the sword he was feeling.

"Hear the mongrel! He'd come over me with talk like a fine gentleman's in a play! The base-born impostor! He's got the woman hid somewhere about!"

"You can see for yourself that you lie!" said Dick, with a swift look around the parlor.

"She's in that other room," cried Bullcott, truly. "She ain't in her own chamber, and she is with you. I paid a chambermaid a guinea to tell me so, and what you pay a guinea for can't be false. Look ye, Curry!" The Squire whispered a few words to one of his followers, and that one at once left the room. "Now, Pike, go ahead and knock that rascal down, and then I'll go in and catch her. I'll show—zounds and blood! Sir Hilary Englefield!"

It was indeed the voice of the fox-hunting baronet, and as it approached the parlor door, making a great hullabaloo, it seemed to throw the formidable Bullcott into a panic.

"Did the knaves that bungled last night's business sell me out to him, I wonder?" queried Squire Bullcott of his remaining adherent. Dick had a sudden illumination. 'Twas Squire Bullcott that had persecuted Miss Englefield at Bath, planned her abduction while his own wife was availing herself of his absence to run away from him, and nearly succeeded in kidnapping his own wife by mistake! His present terror of Sir Hilary, then, arose from the possibility that Sir Hilary had learned of the Squire's design against that baronet's sister.

But that terror proved ill-grounded. When Sir Hilary bounced into the parlor, he greeted the now quaking Bullcott with a single friendly word and bow, showing he knew not yet who had instigated the kidnapping; and then turned his wrath on Wetheral. The landlord, who had tried to prevent his entrance, had followed him in, and now made futile efforts to avoid a scandalous scene.

"What the devil do you mean," cried Sir Hilary to Dick, "by sending me off on a wild goose chase after my sister, when you have her in that room? Don't deny it, you scoundrel! Put down that sword, I say! What, you'd try to run me through, would you? You'd save my sister from being carried off by some damned hound" (Squire Bullcott, now utterly astounded, winced at this) "and then reward yourself by trying to ruin the girl yourself?"

"So it is your sister in that room?" said Dick, standing with his back to the bedchamber door, and holding his sword in a way that accounted for the wordy hesitation of his would-be assailants. "The Squire insists it is his wife. Sure, it can't be both!"

"Damn the Squire!" cried Sir Hilary. "'Tis my sister. She's nowhere else, and I paid a chambermaid half a guinea, who told me she was here!"

"Don't be so fast about damning the Squire!" put in that worthy, taking heart and bristling up. "I paid a whole guinea to find out my wife was there. So it must be she! Besides, didn't the coachman that drove her send word back to me, from this inn, that she was running away? Didn't the messenger meet me at Hungerford, where I was—ah—on business? I tell you what, Sir Hilary, you and my man take that fellow's sword away, and I'll go in and see my wife!"

"Devil take your wife!" said Sir Hilary. "'Tis my sister. I see her gown at this moment through the door-crack. I know that gown. There,—she's moved backed out of sight. Sis, come out!"

"'Pon my word, gentlemen," said Dick, pretending to make light of the accusations of both, "'tis a very curious honor you are contesting for! And one of you sees a lady's gown where none exists! I don't know what to make of you!"

But Bullcott seemed struck by Sir Hilary's asserted recognition of the dress. "Oh, well," said he, "maybe I'm wrong. Sir Hilary doubtless knows what inn his sister lodged at last night. Egad, if it turns out to be her, mayhap some folk won't be so prudish after this!" The Squire grinned to think the lady who had repulsed him, and whom he had failed to carry off, might be compromised after all.

"What's that? What d'ye say?" cried Sir Hilary. "So my sister has been prudish to you, you old goat! Well she might! I know your ways; everybody does! Well, if it comes to that, I don't say it is my sister in that room! I don't say the landlord wasn't right, and that my sister didn't leave this inn yesterday. But I do say this, and to you, sir." Sir Hilary spoke now to Dick. "You see how my sister's good name is at stake. If the lady in that room isn't she, then my sister is an honest girl, and doesn't deserve the least doubt against her reputation. Whoever the lady is, 'tis evident as much can't be said for her. Therefore, to exonerate an innocent lady, 'tis your duty the guilty one shall be made to show herself, before all in this room. That's only fair, sir! Better than two ladies suffer reproach, let the one that merits it appear and clear the other! Then we shall know whether 'tis my right or Bullcott's to fight you. For there is one lady in that room, I'll swear!" Sir Hilary had become quite sober and dignified.

That Sir Hilary's sister should suffer for a moment in her reputation was, of course, a thought intolerable to Dick. Yet he must save Amabel at any cost. The actual truth, if he told it, would be taken as a lame excuse for her presence in the bedchamber. By the pig-headed Squire, the mere fact that his wife had fled to Dick's room to avoid exposure would be regarded as evidence of criminality. Yet how could such a plea as Sir Hilary's be refused?

"Come, sir!" said the baronet.

At that moment a new face appeared in the doorway, that of a young lady of graceful figure, piquant visage, and very fine gray eyes. These eyes rested on Sir Hilary alone, thus missing Squire Bullcott, who, at first sight of the lady, flopped down on all fours behind the breakfast-table, a movement unnoticed while the general attention was on the newcomer.

"Why, Brother, so you are really here? Wilson saw you ride past the inn at Thatcham this morning, and we supposed you were coming to the Pelican to meet me; so I drove back after you."

"Give me a buss, Sis!" cried Sir Hilary, who had already grasped both her hands and shown every sign of joy. "'Fore gad, you came in good time! So 'tisn't you in the next room! A thousand pardons, Mr. Wetheral! But what were you doing at Thatcham, Sis?"

"Why," replied Miss Englefield, "'tis a long story. At this inn, yesterday afternoon, a maid brought me a letter scrawled by Jenny Mullen, who used to serve at the Hall. It seems she is now attached to a gang of rogues that were hired to make trouble for me at this inn last night. So she warned me in secret to leave quietly. She begged me to say nothing to the landlord or the watch, lest her companions might be caught. So I went on and lay at Thatcham, and that is how Wilson happened to see you galloping hither this morning. Poor Jenny promised to keep the rascals drinking in the tap-room, so they should not learn of my departure, and she must have kept her promise."

"Thank the Lord, she must have!" said Sir Hilary. "But how the devil did they know you were going to lodge here last night?"

"Why, my girl, Sukey, confessed this morning that in Bath she made the acquaintance of a so-called captain, to whom she told the plan we had arranged for our journey. It seems from Jenny's letter that the rogues were to carry me off to a country-seat near Whitchurch in Hampshire; their employer—odious beast—was to lie last night at Hungerford, and follow to-day to Whitchurch."

"Zounds! You shall tell me all about it, Sis, on the way home, and we'll see what's to be done. Come away from this inn! It seems there's been the devil to pay here, in more matters than one. Good day, sir!" Sir Hilary thereupon led his sister quickly out, with barely a thought of the apparent absence of Squire Bullcott, who indeed might have slipped off while the baronet was engrossed with his sister.

The Squire now rose into view, very red and very much perturbed. He glanced first at his man and the landlord, who both had been keeping in the background during Miss Englefield's presence, then at Dick, who still guarded the bedchamber door.

"Then, since it ain't his sister, by God, it must be my wife!" whined Bullcott, who, like many another person capable of doing any wrong, was quick to whimper on supposing himself injured. "I'll expose her, I'll kill her, that will I! Landlord, send for constables! Oh, the faithless woman, and the vile seducer! To think a gentleman can't go off to attend to—a little business, but his wife must take a dirty, low advantage of his absence, to run off with a base-born rascal! Send for constables, landlord, to force a way into that room!"

"The landlord well knows," put in Dick, thinking of another ruse of Catherine de St. Valier's in Quebec, "that there is no lady in this room. Why, if a lady had been there, don't you suppose she'd have gone out long ago by the other door" (Dick remembered here that the other door was locked and the key in his own hand), "or by the window, from which even a woman could easily descend by the trellis to the garden?"

But the Squire continued to cry for constables, and Dick continued to detain the landlord by one remark and another. Keeping his ear on the alert, he presently heard the window in the bedchamber softly open, and he inferred that Amabel had taken his loud-spoken hint as he himself had once vainly accepted that of Catherine de St. Valier. By keeping his sword-point constantly in evidence, he deterred the Squire and the latter's man from a rush. The landlord, considering this guest was the friend of a lord, would take no step whatever, and Bullcott chose to keep his own man with him for protection, so there was none to summon the minions of the law.

At last Dick, fearing that Miss Thorpe might at any moment enter, and her presence certify to that of Amabel, said he had played with the Squire long enough, and would now let the latter scan the bedchamber from the threshold. Dick, confident that Amabel would have acted promptly at so important a crisis, supposed she had some time ago reached the garden, whence she might have gone to her own chamber. He therefore flung wide the door, and disclosed—Amabel in the centre of the chamber, and the squire's man, Curry, perched on the window-ledge, to which he had climbed by the trellis from the garden, whither Bullcott had sent him to watch the chamber window.

The Squire, almost black with rage, started towards the bedroom. Dick interposed in time to stay the burly figure's rush. The Squire stepped back and gathered strength for another effort, growling inarticulately.

"Well, sir," said Dick, with assumed resignation, "I see the jig is up. The lady has refused to save me by flight. She remains, I see, as evidence against me. So, it seems, your wife was running away from you, Squire Bullcott? Well, I can't blame her, though I didn't know that when I took her into my room by force."

"By force?" gasped the Squire.

"How can I deny it, when the lady herself is here to accuse me?" said Dick. "You'll admit the temptation was strong,—my door open, the lady passing in the corridor, no one in sight, a devil of a noise in the tap-room to drown her screams,—not to mention that I threatened to kill her if she cried out."

"But why the deuce didn't she cry out when she heard me in this room?" queried Bullcott, partly addressing the silent Amabel.

"For the rather poor reason," answered Dick, "that in such a case, as I promised her when I heard you coming, I should have killed, not her, but you! And now, Squire, you see your wife's reputation remains untarnished; she is safe out of my hands, and if she can but make good her escape from yours, she ought to be happy."

"Escape from me? That won't she! She'd run away, would she? Well, now she'll run back, and stay back! D'ye hear, woman? Oh, some one shall pay for all this, that shall she! I'll show—"

But the Squire showed only a sudden pallor and shakiness, for again was heard in the corridor the wrathful voice of Sir Hilary Englefield, this time coupled with the excited tones of his sister, who was screaming out dissuasions.

"So 'twas you, Bullcott, hired the rogues to carry off my sister!" roared the baronet, as he entered, whip in one hand, in the other a pistol. "I thank God she told me the name before I or you was out of the town! So you'd go to Whitchurch after her, would you? Well, you'll go, not after her, but alone; and not to Whitchurch, but to hell; you filthy old chaser of women! And you shall go with a sore skin, moreover!"

Whereat the furious fox-hunter began to belabor the squire with the whip, all the witnesses giving him plenty of room. Bullcott bellowed, whimpered, and cowered, leading the agile baronet a chase around furniture and over it, deterred from a bolt by the presence of Miss Englefield's stout man-servant in the corridor doorway. Driven at last to bay, his face and hands covered with welts, the Squire made a desperate bound and grasped the whip, wrenched it from the baronet's hand, and raised it to strike. As the blow was falling, Sir Hilary fired the pistol. Bullcott fell, an inert mass.

Sir Hilary conferred hastily with Dick, then led away his sister, saw her and her servants started homeward, and took horse by the Winchester road for the seaport of Portsmouth. Dick silently led the dazed Amabel to her own chamber, whence she and Miss Thorpe departed quietly on their way to Oxfordshire while Bullcott's servants were busy with preparations for the care of the Squire's body. Dick then immediately packed up his and Lord George's portmanteaus, and took post-chaise for London as soon as Lord George and Wilkins returned to the inn, a large gratuity from Dick to the landlord enabling these four hasty departures to be made before the town authorities were notified of the killing. The post-chaise left Speenhamland in the track of Miss Englefield's coach and Miss Thorpe's, but did not overtake either, all three parties making the utmost speed. Their three ways diverged at Reading, where Dick and Lord George made a brief stop in the afternoon, to break their long fast.

"Egad," quoth Lord George, to whom Dick had recounted all the morning's incidents, "'twas a merry breakfast party we had at the Pelican in honor of Sir Hilary's arrival!"

Dick heaved a sigh, eloquent of more than one regret, and was silent.