Gives us an insight into Charles’s domestic relations, and shows how the Great Conspirator soliloquized to the Grand Chandelier.

It may be readily conceived that a considerable amount of familiarity existed between Charles and his servant and foster-brother William. But, to the honour of both of them be it said, there was more than this — a most sincere and hearty affection; a feeling for one another which, we shall see, lasted through everything. Till Charles went to Shrewsbury he had never had another playfellow. He and William had been allowed to paddle about on the sand, or ride together on the moor, as they would, till a boy’s friendship had arisen, sufficiently strong to obliterate all considerations of rank between them. This had grown with age, till William had become his confidential agent at home during his absence, and Charles had come to depend very much on his account of the state of things at headquarters. He had also another confidential agent, to whom we shall be immediately introduced. She, however, was of another sex and rank.

William’s office was barely a pleasant one. His affection for his master led him most faithfully to attend to his interests; and, as a Catholic, he was often rought into collision with Father Mackworth, who took a laudable interest in Charles’s affairs, and considered himself injured on two or three occasions by the docked refusal of “William to communicate the substance and result of a message forwarded through William, from Shrewsbury, to Densil, which seemed to cause the old gentleman some thought and anxiety. William’s religious opinions, however, had got to be somewhat loose, and to sit somewhat easily upon him, more particularly since his sojourn at Oxford. He had not very long ago confided to Charles, in a private sitting, that the conviction which was strong on his mind was that Father Mackworth was not to be trusted, God forgive him for saying so; and, on being pressed by Charles to state why, he point-blank refused to give any reason whatever, but repeated his opinion with redoubled emphasis. Charles had a great confidence in William’s shrewdness, and forbore to press him, but saw that something had occurred which had impressed the above conviction on William’s mind most strongly.

He had been sent from Oxford to see how the land lay at home, and had met Charles at the Rose and Crown, at Stonnington, with saddle horses. No sooner were they clear of the town than William, without waiting for Charles’s leave, put spurs to his horse and rode up alongside of him.

“What is your news, William?”

“Nothing very great. Master looks bothered and worn.”

“About this business of mine.”

“The priest goes on talking about it, and plaguing him with it, when he wants to forget it.”

“The deuce take him! He talks about me a goo deal.”

“Yes; he has begun about you again. Master wouldn’t stand it the other day. and told him to hold his tongue, just like his own self. Tom heard him. They made it up afterwards, though.”

“What did Cuthbert say?”

“Master Cuthbert spoke up for you, and said he hoped there wasn’t going to be a scene, and that you weren’t coming to — live in disgrace, for that would be punishing every one in the house for you.”

“How’s Mary?”

“She’s well. Master don’t trust her out of his sight much. They will never set him against you while she is there. I wish you would marry her, “Master Charles, if you can give up the other one.”

Charles laughed and told him he wasn’t going to do anything of the sort. Then he asked, “Any visitors?”

“Ay; one. Father Tiernay, a stranger.”

“What sort of man?”

“A real good one. I don’t think our man likes him, though.”

They had now come to the moor’s edge, and were looking down on the amphitheatre which formed the domain of Ravenshoe. Far and wide the tranquil sea, vast, dim, and grey, flooded bay and headland, cave and slet. Beneath their feet slept the winter woodlands; from whose brown bosom rose the old house, many-gabled, throwing aloft from its chimneys hospitable columns of smoke, which hung in the still autumn air, and made a hazy cloud on the hill-side. Everything was so quiet that they could hear the gentle whisper of the ground-swell, and the voices of the children at play upon the beach, and the dogs barking in the kennels.

“How calm and quiet old home looks, William,” said Charles; “I like to get back here after Oxford.”

“No wine parties here. No steeple-chases. No bloomer balls,” said William.

“No! and no chapels and lectures, and being sent for by the Dean,” said Charles.

“And none of they dratted bones, neither,” said William, with emphasis.

“Ahem! why, no! Suppose we ride on.”

So they rode down the road through the woodland to the lodge, and so through the park — sloping steeply up on their left, with many a clump of oak and holly, and many a broad patch of crimson fern. The deer stood about in graceful groups, while the bucks belled and rattled noisily, making the thorn-thickets echo with the clatter of their horns. The rabbits scudded rapidly across the road; and the blackbird fled screaming from the mountain ash tree, now all afire with golden fruit. So they passed on until a sudden sweep brought them upon the terrace between the old grey house and the murmuring sea.

Charles jumped off, and William led the horses round to the stable. A young lady in a straw hat and brown gloves, with a pair of scissors and a basket, standing half-way up the steps, came down to meet him, dropping the basket, and holding out the brown gloves before her. This young lady he took in his arms, and kissed; and she, so far from resenting the liberty, after she was set on her feet again, held him by both hands, and put up a sweet dark face towards his, as if she wouldn’t care if he kissed her again. Which he immediately did.

It was not a very pretty face, but oh! such a calm, quiet, pleasant one. There was scarcely a good feature in it, and yet the whole was so gentle and pleasing, and withal so shrewd and espiègle, that to look at it once was to think about it till you looked again; and to look again was to look as often as you had a chance, and to like the face the more each time you looked. I said there was not a good feature in the face. Well, I misled you; there was a pair of calm, honest, black eyes, a very good feature indeed, and which, once seen, you were not likely to forget. And also, when I tell you that this face and eyes belonged to the neatest, trimmest little figure imaginable, I hope I have done my work sufficiently well to make you envy that lucky rogue Charles, who, as we know, cares for no woman in the world but Adelaide, and who, between you and me, seems to be much too partial to this sort of thing.

“A thousand welcomes home, Charley,” said the pleasant little voice which belonged to this pleasant little personage. “Oh! I am so glad you’re come.”

“You’ll soon wish me away again. I’ll plague you.”

“I like to be plagued by you, Charley. How is Adelaide?”

“Adelaide is all that the fondest lover could desire ” (for they had no secrets, these two), “and either sent her love, or meant to do so.”

“Charles, dearest,” she said eagerly, “come and see him now! come and see him with me!”

“Where is he?”

“In the shrubbery, with Flying Guilders.”

“Is he alone?”

“All alone, except the dog.”

“Where are they?”

“They are gone out coursing. Come on; they will be back in an hour, and the Book never leaves him. Come, come.”

It will be seen that these young folks had a tolerably good understanding with one another, and could carry on a conversation about “third parties ” without even mentioning their names. We shall see how this came about presently; but, for the present, let us follow these wicked conspirators, and see in what deep plot they are engaged.

They passed rapidly along the terrace, and turned the corner of the house to the left, where the west front overhung the river glen, and the broad terraced garden went down step by step towards the brawling stream.

This they passed, and, opening an iron gate, came suddenly into a gloomy maze of shrubbery that stretched its long vistas up the valley.

Down one dark alley after another they hurried. The yellow leaves rustled beneath their feet, and all nature was pervaded with the smell of decay. It was hard to believe that these bare damp woods were the same as those they had passed through but four months ago, decked out with their summer bravery — an orchestra to a myriad birds. Here and there a bright berry shone out among the dull-coloured twigs, and a solitary robin quavered his soft melancholy song alone. The flowers were dead, the birds were flown or mute, and brave, green leaves were stamped under foot; everywhere decay, decay.

In the dampest, darkest walk of them all, in a far-off path, hedged with holly and yew, they found a bent and grey old man walking with a toothless, grey, old hound for his silent companion. And, as Charles moved forward with rapid elastic step, the old man looked up, and tottered to meet him, showing as he did so, the face of Densil Ravenshoe.

“Now, the Virgin be praised,” he said, “for putting it in your head to come so quick, my darling. Whenever you go away now, I am in terror lest I should die and never see you again. I might be struck with paralysis, ami not know you, my boy. Don’t go away from me again.”

“I like never to leave you any more, father ear. See how well you get on with my arm. Let us come out into the sun; why do you walk in this dismal wood?”

“Why?” said the old man, with sudden animation, his grey eye kindling as he stopped. “Why? I come here because I can catch sight of a woodcock, lad! I sprang one by that holly just before you came up. Flip flap, and away through the hollies like a ghost! Cuthbert and the priest are away coursing. Now you are come, surely I can get on the grey pony, and go up to see a hare killed. You’ll lead him for me, won’t you? I don’t like to trouble them”

“We can go tomorrow, dad, after lunch, you and I, and William. We’ll have Leopard and Blue-ruin — by George, it will be like old times again.”

“And we’ll take our little quiet bird on her pony, won’t we?” said Densil, turning to Mary. “She’s such a good little bird, Charley. We sit and talk of you many an hour. Charley, can’t you get me down on the shore, and let me sit there? I got Cuthbert to take me down once; but Father Mackworth came and talked about the Immaculate Conception through his nose all the time. I didn’t want to hear him talk; I wanted to hear the surf on the shore. Good man! he thought he interested me, I dare say.”

“I hope he is very kind to you, father i r

“Kind! I assure you, my dear boy, he is the kindest creature; he never lets me out of his sight; and so attentive !”

“He’ll have to be a little less attentive in future, confound him!” muttered Charles. “There he is; talk of the devil! Mary, my dear,” he added aloud, “go and amuse the Rooks for a little, and let us have Cuthbert to ourselves.”

The old man looked curious at the idea of Mary talking to the rooks; but his mind was drawn off by Charles having led him into a warm, southern corner, and set him down in the sun.

Mary did her errand well; for, in a few moments, Cuthbert advanced rapidly towards them. Coming up, he took Charles’s hand, and shook it with a faint, kindly smile.

He had grown to be a tall and somewhat handsome young man — certainly handsomer than Charles. His face, even now he was warmed by exercise, was very pale, though the complexion was clear and healthy. His hair was slightly gone from his forehead, and he looked much older than he really was. The moment that the smile was gone his face resumed the expression of passionless calm that it had borne before; and, sitting down by his brother, he asked him how he did.

“I am as well, Cuthbert,” said Charles, “as youth, health, a conscience of brass, and a whole world full of friends can make me. Fm all right, bless you. But you look very peaking and pale. Do you take exercise enough?”

“I? Oh, dear, yes. But 1 am very glad to see you, Charles. Our father misses you. Don’t you, father?”

“Very much, Cuthbert.”

“Yes. I bore him. I do, indeed. I don’t take interest in the............