The Reverend Francis Kettle and his daughter Maria sat down to their breakfast-table somewhat later than usual: the dinner-party of the previous evening had made the servants busy. The thoughts of each were preoccupied: the Vicar's with the strange loss of Dr. Downes' gold snuff-box, of which he spoke from time to time; Maria's with the proposal of marriage made to her by Philip Cleeve: the most momentous proposal a young girl can receive. Presently Mr. Kettle found leisure to take up a letter, which had been lying by his plate unopened.

"Oh," said he, "it is from Mrs. Page."

Maria glanced up with a smile. "In trouble as usual, papa, with her servants?"

"Of course. And with herself, too," added the Vicar, as he read the short letter. "She wants you to go to her, Maria."

Mrs. Page was the one rich relation of the Kettle family: first cousin to the late Mrs. Kettle. She lived in Leamington, in a handsome house of her own, and with a good establishment; and she might have been as happy there as any wealthy and popular widow lady ever was yet. But, though good at heart, Mrs. Page was intensely capricious and exacting; she lived in almost perpetual hot water with her servants, and changed them every two or three months. This week, for instance, she would be rich in domestics, not lacking one in any capacity; the next week the whole lot would depart in a body, turned away, or turning themselves away, and Mrs. Page be reduced to a couple of charwomen. But her goodness of heart was undeniable; and many a Christmas Day had Mr. Kettle received from her a fifty-pound note, to be distributed by himself and Maria amongst their poor.

Every now and then she would send a peremptory summons for Maria; and the Vicar never allowed it to be disobeyed.

"She is getting old now, Maria, she is nearly the only relative left of your poor mother's, and I cannot permit you to neglect her," he would say. But he did not choose to append to this another reason, which, perhaps, weighed greatly with himself, and add, "She is rich, and will probably remember you in her will if you do not offend her."

"The servants all went off the day before yesterday, Maria; and she says that she is feeling very ill, and she wants you to go to her as soon as convenient," said Mr. Kettle, passing the letter to his daughter.

"But I cannot go, papa."

"Not go!"

"I do not see that I can. There is so much work at home just now."

"What work?"

"With the parish----"

"Oh, hang the parish!" put in the Vicar impulsively, and then coughed down his words. "The parish cannot expect to have you always, child."

"It is a hard winter, papa, as to work; many of the men are out of it entirely, as you know; and that entails poverty and sickness on the wives and children. I have not told you how very many are sick."

"Some of the ladies will see to them. You cannot be neglecting your own duties always for their sakes."

"Once I get to Leamington, papa, there is no knowing when I may be allowed to return. Mrs. Page kept me six months once; I well remember that."

"And if she wishes now to keep you for twelve months, twelve you must stay."

"Oh, papa!"

"You are taking a lesson from Ella Winter's book," said the Vicar. "She did not want to leave home in the autumn; but it was all the better for her that she should. Her case, however, was different from yours, and I do not say she was wrong in wishing to remain with her uncle, so old and sick. I am not old, and I am not sick."

But Maria thought her father was sick, though not of course with the mortal sickness of the Squire; ay, and that, if not old, he was yet ageing. His health certainly seemed breaking a little, his eyesight was failing him; now and then his memory misled him. He displayed less interest than ever he had done in parish work, leaving nearly everything to the curate, Mr. Plympton, and Maria. His liking for old port was growing upon him and he would sit all the evening with the bottle at his elbow, and was roused with difficulty when bedtime came. Altogether Maria would a vast deal rather not leave home; but she saw she should have to do it. Perhaps, in her heart, she shrank also from being away from Philip.

"I'm sure, papa, I can't think how things in the parish will get on without me," she said, as she laid down the letter. "Think what a state they were in when we returned in the summer."

The Vicar felt half offended.

"Get on?" said he. "Why, bless me, shan't I and Plympton be here? As to the state they fell into during our stay abroad, was not I away myself? One would think, Maria, you were parson and clerk and everything."

Maria smiled her sweet smile. She knew her father set little store by her work in the parish, not in fact seeing the half she did, and she was glad it should be so.

"And I should not, child, let you neglect Mrs. Page in her need--your mother's own cousin--for all the parishes in the diocese. So you can write to her this morning, or I will write if you are busy, and fix a day to go to her."

Barely had they finished breakfast when Dr. Downes came in. The loss of his snuff-box grieved and annoyed him. Not so much for its value, not so much that it was the gift of a long-esteemed friend and patron, but for the uncertainty and suspicion attending the loss. That the box must have been cleverly filched out of his pocket he felt entirely convinced of; it could not have got out of itself. All night long, between his snatches of sleep, had he been pondering the matter in his mind; and he had come to the uneasy conclusion that Philip Cleeve had taken it--either to play him a foolish trick, or to convert the box into money for his own use. But this latter doubt the Doctor would keep to himself and guard carefully. Mr. Kettle met the Doctor with open hand. It was not the Vicar's way to put himself out over things; but he was very considerably put out by this loss.

"I met that young blade, Philip Cleeve, in walking over here," observed the Doctor, as they were all three once more examining minutely every corner of the little hall--for, in a loss of this kind, we are apt to search a suspected spot over and over again. "I took the liberty of asking him whether he had purloined the box in joke when he was helping me on with my great-coat last night. It must have been then, as I take it, that it left my pocket."

Maria was rather struck with the Doctor's tone; unpleasantly so: it bore a resentful ring. "Philip would not play such a joke as that, Dr. Downes," she rejoined. "What did he say?"

"He said nothing at first; only stared at me, and asked me what I meant. So I told him what I meant: that my gold snuff-box had left my pocket last night in a mysterious and unaccountable manner, and I had been hoping that he had, perhaps, taken it, to play me a trick. He blushed red with that silly blush of his, assured me that he would not play so unjustifiable a trick on me, or on anyone else, and walked off, saying he had to catch a train. So there I was, as wise as before.--And the box is not here; and it seems not to be anywhere."

"Shall you have it cried?" asked Mr. Kettle, as they returned to the breakfast-room.

"Why, yes, I shall. Not that I expect any good will come of it. Rely upon it, that box has not been dropped in the road; it could not have been. It has been stolen; and the thief will send it up to London with speedy despatch, and make money of it. My only hope was, and that a slight one, that Philip Cleeve had got it for a lark."

"But why Philip Cleeve?" said the Vicar, hardly understanding. "Why not any other young fellow?"

"Because Philip Cleeve put my coat on for me, here, in your hall; that is, helped me to put it on. I am sure the box was in my pocket then; it must have been; and when I unbuttoned the coat at home, the box was gone."

"You did not leave it in the carriage?"

"I did not touch the box in the carriage: I never unbuttoned my overcoat, I tell you. Philip Cleeve knows that too: he went with me as far as Market Row."

"It really does look as though Philip Cleeve had taken it--for a jest," spoke the Vicar.

"No, no, papa," said Maria. "Philip is honourable."

"Not quite so honourable, perhaps, as folks think him," quickly rejoined Dr. Downes. "Not that I say he did or would do this. Philip Cleeve has his faults, I fear; he must take care they don't get ahead of him, or they may land him in shoals and quicksands. And a certain young lady of my acquaintance had better not listen to his whispering until he has proved himself worthy to be listened to," added he, as the Vicar passed temporarily into the next room, "and--and has got some better prospect of a home in view than he has at present. Take an old man's advice for once, my dear."

The stout old Doctor had turned to Maria, and was stroking her hair fondly. In his apparently jesting tone there ran an earnest warning; and Maria blushed deeply as she listened to it.

If the past night had been an uneasy one to Dr. Downes, it had also been one to Maria Kettle. Not from the same cause. Divest herself of a doubtful feeling with regard to Philip she could not. That he had not stability, that he was led away by any folly that crossed his path, and that--as Dr. Downes had but now put it--he had at present little prospect of making himself a home--a home to which he could take a wife--Maria was only too conscious of. _She_ had a vast amount of common, sober sense; and in that respect was a very contrast to Philip.

Maria herself would have waited for Philip for ever and a day, and never lost hope; but she, after this sleepless night was passed, had very nearly concluded that there ought to be no engagement between them; that it might be better for Philip's own sake he should not be hampered. It was rather singular that these words should have been spoken by Dr. Downes so soon afterwards as if to confirm her in her resolution.

In the afternoon, between three and four o'clock, when the Vicar had gone up to Heron Dyke, Philip made his appearance at the Vicarage. He had been sent away on business for the office early in the day, and had but now got back. Maria met him with a pretty blush, and held out her hand, as the servant closed the door; but Philip drew her to him and kissed her, sat down by her side on the sofa, and stole his arm round her waist. Maria gently put it away.

"Philip," she said, "we were both, I fear, thoughtlessly rash last night."

"In what way?" asked Philip, possessing himself of her hand, as it seemed he was not to have her waist.

"Oh--you know. In what you said and I--I listened to. I think we must wait a little, Philip: another year or so. It will be best."

"Wait for what? What is running in your head, Maria?"

"Until our prospects shall be a little more assured. Forgive me, Philip, but I mean it; I am quite serious. In a year's time from this, if you so will it, we can speak of it again."

"Do you mean to say there must be no engagement between us?" fired Philip.

"There had better not be. Neither of us at present has any chance of carrying it out."

"Oh," commented Philip, who was getting angry. "Perhaps you will point out what you do mean, Maria. I can see no meaning in it."

The tears rose to Maria's eyes. "Philip dear, don't be vexed with me: I speak for your sake more than for my own. At present you have no home to take a wife to, no expectation of making one----"

"But I have," interrupted Philip. "Old Tiplady intends to take me into partnership."

"Well--I hope he will: but still that lies in the future. Your mother, I feel sure, would not like to see you hamper yourself with a wife until you are quite justified in doing it. And then, on my side--how can I marry? It is scarcely possible for me to leave papa. And all the parish duties that I have made mine; the visiting and the schools----" Maria broke down with a sob.

"That young fop, Plympton, ought to take these duties," returned Philip, with a touch of petulance. "What's he good for? Garden-parties, and croquet, and flirting with the ladies. That's what he thinks of, rather than of looking after the poor wretches who live and die in the back lanes and alleys of the town."

"He is young," said Maria, gently. "Wisdom will come with years."

"One would think that you were _old_, to hear you talk, Maria."

"I think I am; old in experience. And so, Philip," sighed Maria, returning to the point, "let it be understood that there shall be no actual engagement between us. I shall be the same to you that I have been; the same always; and when things look brighter for you and for me----"

His ill-humour had passed away like mist in the sunshine, and he sealed the bargain with a kiss.

"Be assured of one thing, my darling," he whispered: "we shall not have to wait long if it depends on me. I will spare no pains, no exertion to get on, to offer you a home that all the world might approve, and to be in every respect what you would have me be."

Maria told him then of the probability that she should have to go to Leamington for an indefinite period, should have to depart in the course of a very few days. Philip did not receive the news graciously, and relieved his mind by calling Mrs. Page selfish.

"I can't stay longer," he said, getting up. "That precious office claims me; old Best does not know I am back yet.----Here's a visitor for you in my stead, Maria," he broke off, as they heard some one being admitted.

It was Captain Lennox: who was calling to inquire about the health of the Vicar and Maria after the previous evening's dissipation. Philip was going, and they all three stood together in the drawing-room for a minute or two.

"By the way, talking of last night, what is this tale about old Dr. Downes losing his gold snuff-box?" asked Captain Lennox. "The people at the library told me they had heard it cried, as I came by just now."

"So he has lost it," said Philip. "That is, he thinks he has. I dare say he has put it in some place or other himself, and will find it before the day's over."

"Did he miss it here?"

"No; not till he got home. And he had the impudence to ask me this morning whether I had _taken_ it, because I helped to button his coat," added Philip.

Captain Lennox looked at Philip, then at Maria, then at Philip again.

"He asked you whether you had taken it!" exclaimed the Captain.

"Taken it for a lark. As if I would do such a thing! It's true I buttoned his coat for him, but I never saw or felt the box."

"I do not quite understand yet," said Captain Lennox.

"It seems that old Downes, just before he left, had his box out, handing it about for people to take pinches out of it. The Vicar took a pinch."

"I saw that," interrupted Captain Lennox. "They were standing by the fire. Two or three of us were round them. Old Miss Parraway was, for one, I remember; I was talking with her."

"Well," rather ungraciously went on Philip, impatient at the interruption, "the Doctor took his leave close upon that. I took mine, and I found him in the hall here, awkwardly fumbling with his overcoat. I helped him to get it on, and he gave me a lift in his brougham as far as my way went."

"And when he got home he missed the box," added Maria, concluding the story, as Philip stopped. "It is a sad loss--and so very strange where the box can be, and how it can have gone."

"Yes, it is strange--but I did not thank him for asking me whether I had taken it; there was a tone in his voice which seemed to imply a suspicion that I had--and not as a joke."

"And did you?" said Captain Lennox.

Philip, who had been turning to the door after his last speech, wheeled round to face the Captain.

"Did I _what?_

"Take it for a joke?"

"No, of course I did not. Good-bye, Maria."

"Here, you need not be so hasty, old fellow," laughed Captain Lennox, following Philip out. "You are as cranky as can be to-day. Of course you did not steal the box, Cleeve; and of course I am not likely to think it. If I did, I should say so to your face," added the Captain, his light laugh deepening. "But--I say--do you know what this put me in mind of?"

"No. What?"

"Of Mrs. Carlyon's jewels. They disappeared in the same mysterious way."

Philip had the outer door open, when at this moment the Vicar turned in at the entrance-gate. He shook hands cordially with them both.

"I have been up to Heron Dyke," spoke he; "and have met with the usual luck--non-admittance to the Squire. I must say I think they might let him see me."

"It seems to me, sir, that they let him see nobody; for my part, I have grown tired of calling," said the Captain. "Still, in your favour, his spiritual adviser, an exception might well be made."

"I ventured to say as much to surly old Aaron this afternoon," returned Mr. Kettle "He refused at first point-blank, saying it was one of his master's bad days, and he was sure he would not see me. I persevered; bidding him take a message for me to the Squire; so he showed me into one of the dull old rooms--all the blinds down--while he took it in."

"And were you admitted, sir?" interposed impatient Philip, interested in the story, yet anxious to be gone.

"No, I was not, Philip. Aaron came back in a few minutes, bringing me the Squire's message of refusal. He would have liked to see me very much; very much; but he was in truth too poorly for it to-day; it was one of his weak days, and Jago had absolutely forbidden him to speak even to the attendants--and he sent his affectionate regards to me. So I came away: having made a fruitless errand, as usual."

"If Jago's grand curative treatment consists in shutting up the Squire from the sight of all his friends, the less he boasts of it the better," cried Philip, as he marched away. "Tiplady remarked to me the other day that he thought there must be something very queer going on up there," concluded he, turning round at the gate to say it.

Maria Kettle departed for Leamington, and the time passed on. Philip Cleeve attended well to his duties, seeming anxious to make up for past escapades. So far as The Lilacs went, no temptations assailed him, for the place was empty, Captain Lennox having joined his sister in London. No tidings could be heard of the gold snuff-box. Dr. Downes had had it cried and advertised: but without result. It might be that he had his own opinion about the loss; or it might be that he had not. During a little private conversation with Lady Cleeve, touching her state of health, she chanced to mention that she hoped Philip's future was pretty well assured. Mr. Tiplady meant to take him into partnership, and she had herself placed twelve hundred pounds to Philip's account at the bank.

"That's where the young scapegrace has drawn his money from, then, for his cards and his dice, and what not," quoth the Doctor to himself. "I hope with all my heart I was mistaken--but where the dickens can the box have gone to?"

The Doctor was fain to give the box up as a bad job. He told all his friends that he should never find it again, and the less said about it the better.

In February Philip had a pleasant change. Mr. Tiplady despatched him to Norwich, to superintend certain improvements in one of its public buildings. Philip, before starting, spoke a word to the architect of the anticipated partnership; but Mr. Tiplady cut him short with a single sentence. "Time enough to talk of that, young sir."

When Philip returned from Norwich, after his few weeks' stay there, during which he had done his best and had given unlimited satisfaction, he heard that Captain Lennox and Mrs. Ducie were at The Lilacs--and to Philip the town seemed to look all the brighter for their presence.

In spite of his former good resolution, he went over to call on Mrs. Ducie, went twice, neither of the times finding her at home. About this time Philip was surprised and gratified by receiving a note of invitation from Lord Camberley to attend a concert and ball at Camberley Park. Philip took the note to his mother. "My dear boy, you must go by all means," said Lady Cleeve. "This is an invitation which may lead to--to pleasant things. I am glad to find that they have not forgotten you are the son of Sir Gunton Cleeve. You have as good blood in your veins as anyone who will be there. What a pity, for your sake, dear, that we cannot live in the style we ought--to which you were born."

So Philip went to the concert and ball. Lord Camberley vouchsafed him a couple of fingers and "how d'ye do," and introduced him to his aunt, the Hon. Mrs. Featherstone. Philip sat through the concert without speaking to anybody. He was glad when it came to an end, and then he made his way to the ball-room. There he met several people with whom he was, more or less, acquainted. Presently his eye caught that of Mrs. Ducie, who was sitting somewhat apart from the general crush. She beckoned him to her side, and held out her hand with a frank smile.

"What a truant you are. What have you been doing with yourself all this long time?" as she made room for him to sit beside her.

Philip told her, his laughing eyes bending in admiration on her face, that he had been staying for some weeks at Norwich, and that he had twice called at The Lilacs since his return, but had not found her at home. She listened in her pretty, engaging, attentive manner.

"Do you dance?" she asked him, as another set was forming.

"I do not care to--unless you will stand up with me," he replied.

"I shall not dance to-night. Lord Camberley came up to ask me, but I said no: I told him I had sprained my foot. I do not much like Lord Camberley," she added, confidentially--and Philip felt wonderfully flattered at the confidence. "He often talks at random--and he is so fond of playing for high stakes at cards. I told Ferdinand the other day that I should object, were I in his place; but, as he said, it does not often happen. Ferdinand, with his income, can afford a loss occasionally; but everybody is not so fortunate."

It seemed to Philip that she looked at him with a kindly meaning as she spoke. Could it be that she felt an especial interest in him? A blush, bright and ingenuous as a schoolgirl's, rose to his face.

He sat by Mrs. Ducie a great part of the evening, and took her down to supper. Captain Lennox came up several times, and they both invited him for the following Friday evening.

When Friday evening came, and Philip found himself again at The Lilacs, and knocked at the well-remembered door, it seemed to him as if the intervening weeks and all that had happened to him since his last visit were nothing more substantial than a dream.

Two or three gentlemen were at the cottage this evening whom he had not met before, but to whom he was now introduced. After a light and elegantly served supper came cards and champagne. To-night, however, Philip did not play. He read poetry to Mrs. Ducie in a little boudoir that opened out of the drawing-room. So were woven again the bonds which at one time he believed were broken for ever. There was a strange, subtle fascination about this woman which held him almost as it were against his will. She was gracious and frank towards him, but that was all. She was gracious and frank to every gentleman who visited at the cottage. There was nothing in her manner towards Philip which would allow of his flattering himself that he was a greater favourite than anyone else whom he met there: though at moments it did seem as if she had a special interest in him. He certainly did not love her--his heart was given to Maria--but Margaret Ducie held him by an invisible chain which he was too weak to break.

That Friday evening was but the precursor of many other evenings at The Lilacs: for all the old glamour had come back over Philip. Maria was away, and the cottage was a very pleasant place. Sometimes he played cards, sometimes he did not; sometimes he won a little money, not unfrequently he lost what for him was a considerable sum. Now and then it almost seemed as if Mrs. Ducie, compassionating his youth and inexperience, drew him away of set purpose from the card-table. Be that as it may, when April came in, and Philip looked into the state of his banking account, he found to his dismay that in the course of the past few weeks he had lost upwards of a hundred pounds. How could he redeem it?

"Now's your time if you want to make a cool hundred or two," said Lennox to him a day or two later.

Philip pricked up his ears.

"Who does not want to make a cool hundred or two? Only show me how."

"The thing lies in a nutshell. Back Patchwork."

"Eh?" queried Philip, who knew little more about racing and sporting matters than he did of the mysteries of Eleusis.

"Back Patchwork," reiterated the Captain, with emphasis. "I am quite aware that he is not a general favourite: the odds were ten to one against him last night: there's Trumpeter and Clansman, and one or two other horses that stand before him in public estimation. But take no notice of that. Camberley and I have got the tip, no matter how, and you may rely upon it that we know pretty well what we are about. Both of us are going to lay heavily on the horse, and if you have a few spare sovereigns you can't do better than follow our example."

The Captain spoke of an early Spring Meeting at Newmarket; and this particular race in it was exciting some interest at Nullington, for reasons which need not be detailed here. Philip, desperately anxious to replenish his diminished coffers, took the bait, though in a cautious manner, and betted twenty pounds on Patchwork. If the horse won, and Philip gained the odds, he would pocket two hundred pounds.

He grew anxious. Everybody said that either Trumpeter or Clansman would win; Patchwork was scoffed at as an outsider. Philip began to think of his twenty pounds as so much good money thrown away.

At length the day of the race arrived, and Philip awaited the result with a feverish anxiety to which his young life had hitherto been a stranger. It is true, if he lost, twenty pounds would not ruin him; but, if he won, two hundred would set him up.

At length the looked-for news reached Nullington by telegram, and a slip of paper was pasted to the window of the Rose and Crown, on which was written in large characters:--Patchwork 1.--Clansman 2.--Trumpeter 3.

Philip Cleeve fell back out of the crowd gathered there, with a great gasp of relief.

Three days later Captain Lennox placed in his hands two hundred pounds in crisp Bank of England notes.

"If you had only taken my advice," he said, "and ventured fifty pounds instead of twenty, what a much richer man you would have been to-day!"