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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
"In any case, I'll take pity on you and tell you. Know, then, dearest,
that the first aim and object which I have set before me is to hunt
up that estimable but unaccountable person, Mr. Hodgson."

"To hunt up Mr. Hodgson?" gasped Hermia. "But for what purpose?
What will you gain by doing that?"

"Whether I shall gain anything or nothing time alone can tell. In any
case, when I have found him, I intend--metaphorically speaking--to
grip him by the throat, and bid him stand and deliver. In other
words, I mean to see what a personal interview will do towards
wresting from him that secret--or, if not the secret itself, some clue
to it, however faint--which I know you, my dear one, are so
anxiously longing to fathom."

Hermia did not speak, but her eyes flushed with tears.

"It is quite possible that the old boy, when I tell him who I am, may
refuse point-blank to discuss the matter with me. In that event I
can't say what I shall do, or what course may seem best for me to
follow. But the first thing to do is to find Mr. H. and tackle him."

"My poor boy!" replied Hermia, with a pitying smile. "You seem to
have forgotten one important fact, which is, that none of us, not
even Uncle John himself, is acquainted with Mr. Hodgson's address,
or has the remotest notion where to find him. Uncle's letter in reply
to his was simply addressed to the care of a certain firm of solicitors
in London. Of course, it is open to you to go to the firm in question,
and ask them to oblige you with Mr. Hodgson's address; but is it not
rather doubtful whether they would comply with your request?"

"Very doubtful, indeed," responded Clem, dryly. "So much so, that I
don't think I shall trouble myself to go near them. I've a better plan
than that for arriving at what I want to know."

Speaking thus he unbuttoned his coat, and from the breast-pocket

drew forth an unsealed envelope, from which he proceeded to
extract a small square of drawing-board, and then handed it to
Hermia. On it was a pen-and-ink sketch of a man's head in profile.

An exclamation of surprise broke from Hermia the moment she set

eyes on it.

"Why, it is Mr. Hodgson to the life!" she cried. "Aquiline nose, high
stock, pointed collar and spectacles--the very man himself! How did
this come into your possession, dear?"

"There's a pretty question to ask! I did think you would have

recognized my handiwork."

"Yours? You clever darling! Of course, I have known for a long time--
which means for a few months--that you can draw and paint--a little;
but I did not know that you could hit anyone off in this sort of way."

"In the case of old Hodgson, you have only to draw his nose and
chin in outline, and you have the man himself."

"But I had not the least idea that you had ever seen Mr. Hodgson."

"Neither had I, till the occasion of his last visit. You told me when he
was expected, and I made it my business to look out for him and
have a good stare at him. The moment I got back home I sat down
and made the sketch I have just shown you."

"The likeness is unmistakable; but I fail to see of what use it will be

in enabling you to trace the original."

"As soon as I had finished my sketch I hurried off to the railway

station and sought out the station-master, to whom I am well
known, through having attended his wife last winter when she was
ill. Handing him the sketch I said, 'The original of this will leave here
by train in the course of a few hours from now. I want you to
ascertain for me to what station he books himself.' In the course of
the evening I made a point of seeing the station-master again. 'The
old gentleman with the remarkable nose,' he told me, 'had in his
possession the second half of a return ticket between Stavering and
Ashdown, of which one of my men had collected the first half earlier
in the day.' Inquiry on my part, my geographical knowledge being at
fault, elicited the information that Stavering is a small country town
on the borders of Derbyshire and Yorkshire. Having thus got firm
hold of what I may call link number one, I need scarcely inform so
perspicacious a young person as yourself that the first step in the
voyage of discovery I purpose taking will be to book myself to
Stavering, and, once there--as they say in boys' story-books--set to
work to track the miscreant to his lair."

"It seems to me that you are a dreadfully artful creature, far more
so, in fact, than I had any idea of," said Hermia, with a little toss of
her head; "but I daresay if you were to fail as a doctor, you might
perhaps find a situation on the detective force." But even while her
tongue was thus gently flouting him, her eyes were speaking a
different language, and one which by this time--so assiduous had
been his studies--Clem had learned to read like a book.

A few more days sufficed to complete Clem's preparations. Titus

Vallance came down from London, and was duly installed as his
locum tenens. Neither to his brother nor to John Brancker did he
afford the faintest hint that any object other than the need for
change and rest was taking him from home.

Next morning he set out for the North. By the last post of the
following day a letter from him reached Hermia. She was surprised
and delighted, not having expected one till next morning. She
hurried to her room, broke the seal, and kissed the enclosure again
and again before reading a single word.

After a few lines devoted to those sweet nothings which lovers

delight in when they write to each other, the letter went on as
follows:
"And now, dear, prepare yourself for what will be to you both a
surprise and a disappointment. Mr. Hodgson is dead!

"It was late yesterday afternoon when I reached Stavering. It is a

town of but a few thousand inhabitants, and on inquiry I was told
that the one good hotel in the place is the 'King's Arms.' As you will
see by the heading of this letter, it is from there that I am now
writing to you.

"By the time I had done dinner it was nearly dark, and it would
evidently have been useless to set about anything till the morrow.
While turning matters over in my mind, with no company but my
cigar, it struck me that it might not be a bad plan to put a few
questions to the landlord of the hotel. If Mr. Hodgson were at all
known in the town he would be pretty sure to be in a position to
supply me with his address and perhaps, also, to give me some
further information about him, which might or might not prove of
service to me.

"Accordingly, after breakfast this morning, I sought an interview with

mine host--a chatty, communicative middle-aged man, who has lived
in Stavering nearly all his life. It was from him I learned the fact of
Mr. Hodgson's demise; but, in order to make sure that his Mr.
Hodgson was the same as ours, I showed him my pen-and-ink
sketch, which I had taken care to bring with me. He recognized the
likeness in a moment.

"It would appear that Mr. Hodgson was a man of high standing in his
profession, and the legal adviser to a number of the first families in
Stavering and its neighborhood. Further inquiry elicited the
information that he died within a week of the date of his last visit to
Ashdown, which may possibly serve to account for the fact that Mr.
Brancker's letter to him has remained unanswered. Mr. Hodgson had
no partner in his business, nor, so far as is known to my landlord,
has anyone been appointed as his successor.

"I must confess that I am taken very considerably aback by what

has just been told me, and that for the present I am altogether
nonplussed as to what my next step ought to be. However, I do not
despair. Difficulties are made to be encountered and, if possible,
overcome. In any case, I will write you again in the course of to-
morrow."

CHAPTER XXXII.

CORRESPONDENCE.

From Clement Hazeldine to Hermia Rivers.

"In the course of our many talks together, you have more than once
confided to me certain details of your earliest impressions and
recollections. What I now want you to do is, to shut your eyes and
go back in memory to those early days, and then to write down in
detail, and with careful minuteness, everything you can call to mind
about your childhood previously to your adoption by Uncle John and
Aunt Charlotte. I am afraid that all you can tell me will amount to
very little, but I want the information in question for a certain
purpose, about which I may have more to tell you by-and-bye.
Meanwhile, I shall await your reply with as much patience--or as
little--as Providence has seen fit to endow me with."
 From Hermia Rivers to Clement Hazeldine.

"You are quite right in your assumption that anything I may be able
to tell you of my earliest recollections will amount to very little. Until
I heard from Uncle John the story of his adoption of me, I had no
absolute knowledge of any existence apart from, or prior to, my life
with him and Aunt Charlotte. It is true that I seemed to remember
certain people and certain incidents with whom or which uncle and
aunt seemed to be in no way mixed up, although there was nothing
to prove to me that I was not living under uncle's roof at the time to
which they referred. Indeed, so shadowy were they that at times
there came over me a doubt as to whether they had any basis of
fact whatever; and in any case they lived in my recollections as so
many faded pictures, which each year that passed tended to render
dimmer and more indistinct; and there is little question that had it
not been for what Uncle John told me they would by-and-bye have
vanished utterly from my memory.

"Uncle John, as you are aware, had no information to give me

beyond the fact that, after he had arranged to adopt me, I was
taken to his house one evening after dark by a respectable-looking,
middle-aged woman, who, judging from her appearance, might be
the wife of a well-to-do mechanic. Uncle asked no questions and the
woman proffered no statement. She was not more than five minutes
in the house, and he never saw her again.

"Well, Uncle John's statement threw me back upon myself, so to

speak. Again and again I went over my confused and half-forgotten
recollections, striving to piece them together, and bring them into
clearer relief, but to very little purpose, I'm afraid. However, I will
now proceed to sketch for you in outline the three incidents, if I may
term them such, which stand out most definitely in my memory as
evidently pertaining to a time which I now know must have been
anterior to that of my adoption.
"Incident the first. I see myself, as a very little girl, seated in a shut-
up carriage in company with a man and a woman, neither of whose
faces I can bring to mind. I am hugging to my breast a gaily-dressed
doll as my dearest earthly treasure. It is a gloomy evening, and the
rain is falling fast. I seem to have been in the carriage a long time,
jolting over the dreary country roads, but as to where I came from
and how I happened to be there at all, I can remember nothing
whatever. Then I seem to wake up from sleep, roused by the sudden
stoppage of the carriage, and, looking out, I see someone open two
large iron gates, which swing slowly back on their hinges. But what
takes my childish attention more than anything else is the fact that
on the top of one of the supporting pillars--I can only see one from
where I sit--there is fixed a strange-looking animal carved in stone,
as it might be a griffin, or a dragon, holding a shield between its
paws. But one half of the shield and one of the creature's paws are
broken away and missing, and I remember thinking how strangely
forlorn it looked in its maimed condition, and how the rain-drops,
trickling from the end of its nose, seemed like tears, so that I felt
quite to pity the poor thing.

"After that comes a blank.

"In the next scene of which I retain anything like a clear recollection-
-although how long a time elapsed between it and the preceding one
I am unable to say--I am in a gloomy panelled room, the two high,
narrow windows of which look out upon a small, semi-circular lawn
shut in by a tall hedge. A case-clock in one corner ticks slowly and
solemnly. Against the wall on one side of the room stands a tall
bureau of black oak carved with fruit and quaint figures. There is a
large open fireplace, in which a few embers glow faintly red. On two
high, straight-backed chairs sit two angular, straight-backed ladies;
both elderly, both with long, thin faces, both having the same cold,
unsympathetic eyes and the same frozen expression, and so much
alike generally, that I can only now conclude they must have been
sisters. As I stand before them in my white frock and bronze shoes,
with my hands behind my back, I glance timidly from one to the
other. They are talking about me in a language I don't understand;
but all the same, I am quite aware that I am the subject of their
conversation. It is growing dusk, and presently a man--the same, I
fancy, that was with me in the carriage--brings in two lighted
candles in silver candlesticks on a silver tray, and sets them down on
the table between the two ladies. Then one of the ladies takes up
the snuffers--also of silver--and solemnly extinguishes one of the
candles. Somehow, I have an impression, how or whence derived I
am quite at a loss to know, that it is a nightly custom for the
manservant to bring in two lighted candles, and for one of them to
be at once put out.

"The manservant, having raked together the dying embers in the

grate, is on the point of leaving the room, when the same lady who
had put out the candle holds up her hand, covered with a black lace
mitten, to arrest him. 'You may take her away,' she says, evidently
alluding to me. 'I have no wish ever to see her again.' With that, the
man leads me by the hand from the room, and with the shutting of
the door everything becomes a blank again.

"Next I am in bed, where I am awakened by a kiss on my forehead.

I open two sleepy eyes, to see for a moment a tall figure in white
stealing from the room with a night-light in her hand. I do not see
her face, but something tells me it is one of the two ladies whom I
saw in the panelled room, but not the one who ordered me to be
taken away.

"Such, dear Clement, are the particulars of three scenes which live
more vividly in my memory than any others of a date prior to my
passing into the charge of Uncle John and Aunt Charlotte. I fail to
see how they can prove of the slightest service to you in the quest
you have undertaken for the sake of one who can but wish herself
more worthy of so much love and devotion."
 Clement Hazeldine to Hermia Rivers.

"You were altogether wrong, dearest, in assuming that the

particulars which I received from you three days ago would prove of
no service to me, as shall now be demonstrated to you.

"All along--that is to say, from the time I became aware that Mr.
Hodgson had been practising in Stavering for considerably more
than a quarter of a century--the probability has seemed to me that
the person or persons who employed him as their agent in your case
would be found, if found at all, no great distance away from this
place. In any case, and more especially after the receipt of your
letter, I determined to make Stavering the centre of a systematic
process of search and inquiry, which I at once proceeded to put in
execution. 'But a search for what?' I seem to hear you asking. You
shall now be told.

"The first thing I did was to hire a dog-cart, and in addition secure
the services of a driver who knew every road and lane for a dozen
miles round Stavering. Thus equipped, I began my quest. The object
I set before me first of all was to find a pair of old-fashioned lodge
gates, one of the pillars of which was surmounted by a griffin
rampant, or other heraldic monstrosity, supporting a broken shield,
but minus one of its paws. For two days I scoured the country roads
and byeways, but to no purpose. Plenty of lodge gates I saw,
surmounted, some of them, by one or another design in stone or
stucco, but nowhere the particular one I was in search of. This
morning, however, I was more fortunate.

"My driver had taken a road which we had not explored before. We
had not gone more than three miles when we came to a pair of
lodge gates of wrought iron, which drew my attention by their
ruinous and neglected condition. The driver stopped at my request
and I alighted in order to examine them more closely. The gates
themselves, which were of an intricate and finely-wrought pattern,
and must at one time have been very beautiful, were now thickly
rusted and filthy with the grime of years, and having fallen forward a
little, hung loosely together as though they were trying to support
each other in their hour of misfortune. The padlock and chain which
fastened them seemed to indicate that they were rarely, if ever,
opened. Close by, however, there was an arched entrance in the
wall, evidently intended for pedestrians, with a rude, unpainted door
which formed a fitting complement to the rusted gates. No figure of
any kind crowned the square freestone pillars on which the gates
were hung, yet they seemed to me to have a bare and unfinished
aspect, as though they lacked some crowning adornment.

"Pushing open the rude door, which yielded to my hand, I entered

the park. Inside were the remains of what had at one time been a
two-storied lodge, which was now little more than the skeleton of a
house, with huge gaps in its roof and a great part of its flooring
gone, and scarcely a whole pane in its window-frames. Unsightly
weeds and great prickly brambles grew all about, and, in short, the
whole scene was one of melancholy neglect and decay. Stepping
backward a pace or two, while wondering whether it would be worth
my while to sketch the ruined lodge and its surroundings, I caught
my foot against some hard substance in the rank grass, and with
difficulty saved myself from falling. On looking down to ascertain the
nature of the obstruction, my eyes caught sight of something which,
as the saying goes, brought my heart into my mouth. There, half-
buried among the docks and weeds, lay the identical object I had
been at such pains to find--your mutilated griffin to wit, with its
broken shield. How it had come there mattered nothing, but only
that it was there. I drew a long breath, feeling little doubt that I had
now in my hands the second link of the chain of which the first had
been the tracing of Mr. Hodgson. Where shall I find the third?

"The poor griffin, or whatever it may have been intended to

represent, was lying on its side and looking very forlorn and dirty
indeed. The first thing I did was to raise it into an upright position,
then, with my pocket-knife, I partially cleared a small space around
it of weeds and grass, and then I proceeded to make a sketch of it.
That sketch I now send you for the purpose of verification. It seems
to me most unlikely that there should have been two mutilated
griffins and two broken shields; still, that such may have been the
case is by no means impossible. But be that as it may, do not fail to
drop me a line by return post and let me know whether you
recognize the creature as being anything like the one seen by you
that day out of the carriage window while waiting for the opening of
the park gates.

"As soon as I got back to the dog-cart I began to question the driver,
but all I could elicit from him was that the name of the mansion
inside the park, of which, however, nothing could be seen from the
lodge, is Broome, and that its sole inmate, with the exception of a
few domestics, is a certain Miss Pengarvon, a lady well advanced in
years, whom the fellow described in terse but caustic terms, as
being 'a reg'lar old varmint, and no mistake.'

"To-morrow I shall prosecute my inquiries with regard to the

aforesaid Miss Pengarvon."

Hermia Rivers to Clement Hazeldine.

"The sketch you have sent me is an exact counterpart of the

sculptured creature seen by me so many years ago. The sight of it
has brought back the whole scene to my memory as freshly as if it
belonged to yesterday."

CHAPTER XXXIII.
 THE QUEST CONTINUED.

From Clement Hazeldine to Hermia Rivers.

"Having written and posted my last letter to you, I lost no time in

asking Mr. Gruding, the landlord of the hotel where I am staying, to
again favor me with his company for a short time. It was from him I
had obtained my information about Mr. Hodgson, and it seemed not
unlikely that he might be able to supply me with some particulars
anent Miss Pengarvon, of Broome.

"Nor was I mistaken. Gruding had much that was interesting to tell
me in answer to the questions I put to him; all of which shall be re-
told you fully when next we meet.

"The interview with my landlord took place on Saturday. Having

decided upon seeing Miss Pengarvon for myself, I made my way
yesterday morning to the church she is in the habit of attending,
which is situated on the outskirts of the village of Dritton, and within
half-a-mile of the Hall; and there, in a square, old-fashioned pew,
shut up by herself in isolated dignity, sat the last living
representative of the old family.

"I was fortunate enough to be so placed as to have a good view of

Miss Pengarvon during the progress of the service, and I took care
to be standing close to the porch when she emerged from the
church. She was followed by an old serving man, who limped
somewhat, and who carried his mistress's capacious umbrella and
large-print prayer-book.

"Enclosed is a sketch-likeness of Miss Pengarvon, elaborated from a

rougher sketch which I made seated on a tombstone, as soon as the
congregation had dispersed and I was left alone.
"Now I want you, dearest, to tell me whether you can detect in the
sketch any resemblance to either of the two ladies whom you saw
that evening in the oak-panelled room, as described by you in your
last letter but one."

Hermia Rivers to Clement Hazeldine.

"Without committing myself to a positive statement, I can safely say

that the sketch of Miss Pengarvon, which I received from you this
morning, bears a marked resemblance to the face of the elder of the
two sisters--if sisters they were--as stored up in my memory all
these years. More than that it would not be safe for me to say."

If Clem had been troubled by any faint doubts before as to whether

he was on the right track, the receipt of Hermia's last note would
have served to finally dissipate them. Being satisfied so far, he was
at once faced by the question, what ought his next step to be? It
was a question hard to answer, because it seemed to him that
beyond the point at which he had now arrived he had no sure
ground to go upon.

As far as he had gone each step he had taken had pointed the way
to the next; but he now found himself, as it were, confronted by a
dead wall. Despite all he had discovered so far, he felt that he had
no sufficient basis of facts to warrant him in going to Miss
Pengarvon. What, indeed, could he say to her if he sought and
obtained an interview? He would simply be showing his hand
prematurely, with the result, in all likelihood, of defeating the very
object he had in view.

But although he could not see his way to call upon the mistress of
Broome, Clement was by no means minded to give up his quest at
the point to which he had now brought it, and admit his inability to
push it to a further issue. Somewhere in the dark must be hidden
another link of the chain, if only he knew in which direction to put
forth his hands and grope for it.

Two or three days passed without bringing him any suggestion that
seemed worth following up. Then, on the third forenoon, as he stood
leaning over a gate in a country lane, staring at nothing in particular
in a somewhat disconsolate mood, he said to himself: "Perhaps if I
could obtain access to the old Hall, and were allowed to go over it, I
might chance to light on something which would furnish me with a
hint or a clue to that which I am so anxious to find out." The course
in question seemed such an obvious one that he was surprised it
had failed to suggest itself to him before.

As soon as he got back to the hotel he sought another interview

with his landlord, who opened his eyes to their fullest extent when
told his guest's object in sending for him. He, Gruding, had never
heard of anybody who wanted to go over Broome. It wasn't a show
place, and, as far as he knew, there was nothing in it worth seeing.
But granting that anyone should want to go over it, he didn't for a
moment suppose that Miss Pengarvon would allow them to do so.
Still, he might be wrong. He had reason to believe that his barmaid's
brother was engaged to a young woman who was in service at
Broome, and there was no doubt the young fellow in question could
easily get to know through his sweetheart whether there was any
likelihood of a stranger being allowed to explore the interior of the
Hall.

At Clement's request a message was sent to Mark Finch--that being

the young fellow's name--asking him to call upon Doctor Hazeldine
at the "King's Arms" as soon as his day's work was over. In due
course he made his appearance, and great was his astonishment
when told what he was wanted for. Like the landlord, he had never
heard of anybody who was anxious to explore the old mansion; nor
did he believe they would be allowed to do so. However he would
ask his sweetheart, Lucy Grice, whom he was going to meet that
evening, and would let the gentleman know her opinion in the
matter by breakfast-time next morning.

Lucy's opinion proved to be merely a confirmation of those already

enunciated by Gruding and Mark Finch, except that it was expressed
in still more emphatic terms. Anybody, she said, who was acquainted
with Miss Pengarvon would know quite well that on no account
whatever would that lady allow a stranger, who could allege the
gratification of an idle curiosity as his only motive for wanting to do
so, to set foot across the threshold of Broome. Many people in
Clem's place would have given up the point as hopeless; but he was
composed of more stubborn stuff. Mark Finch was told to come
again in the evening, when he would have time for a long talk with
Dr. Hazeldine.

Into the details of the conversation that passed between the two it is
not needful that we should enter. Mark and Lucy, it seemed, were
desirous of getting married, and were saving up towards
housekeeping with that end in view. Towards the fund thus being
accumulated Clem offered to contribute five pounds, on condition
that Lucy, unknown to the other inmates, should admit him to the
Hall, and show him over that part of it which was shut up and
unoccupied. The girl would be at his heels the whole time he was
inside the house, and would be able to watch his every movement;
while, finally, he engaged that an hour and a half at most should
elapse between the time of his entering the house and leaving it.

The temptation proved too strong for the lovers to resist. Lucy
foresaw no difficulty in carrying out her part of the scheme. Once a
month her uncle, Barney Dale, went to Marrowfield, as he had done
for the last quarter of a century, to dispose of the work of his
mistress's needle. Three days hence was his time for going, and Dr.
Hazeldine's exploration must take place while he was away.
Breakfast would be over, and Miss Pengarvon, intent on her work in
the Green Parlor, would hear nothing. As a further safeguard,
however, it might be as well if the young doctor were to wear a pair
of list slippers over his boots.

As it was arranged so it was carried out. Clement was surreptitiously

admitted at the side entrance about half-an-hour after Barney had
taken his departure. Under the guidance of the girl he tramped
upstairs and down in his list slippers, passing from one unused room
to another, having here a shutter opened for him, so as to let in a
modified daylight, and there a blind partly drawn up. Many of the
rooms were entirely denuded of furniture, while in others what there
was of it was sheeted up in brown holland. Everywhere the dust lay
thick and heavy; the clouded mirrors could but reflect the ghosts, as
it were, of the young man and the girl as they passed in front of
them. Nearly every corner was festooned with huge cobwebs;
behind the wainscoting the mice squeaked and scampered;
everything was touched by the mouldering finger of decay. When
Clement and his guide spoke to each other it was as people speak in
the chamber of death.

Last of all they came to the picture-gallery, where hung some score
or more portraits of dead and gone Pengarvons. A lozenge-paned
oriel window at one end, the upper half of which was filled with
painted glass, suffused the gallery with a faintly-tinted half-light,
which seemed fitly to accord with the place and the throng of
dumbly-staring effigies on its walls. Clem walked up to the oriel and
gazed out into the grounds, while Lucy proceeded to open the
shutters of two of the long windows which fronted the portraits.
Presently Clem's eyes came back to the window, and to a
recognition of the fact that sundry names and initials had been
scratched with a diamond here and there on its panes. Among them
he found one which sent a sudden rush of blood to his heart the
moment his eyes lighted on it. Surmounted by a true lover's knot,
and with the date 1649 below, were the two names "Hermia Moray"
and "Rupert Pengarvon." Here was proof positive of one thing--that
"Hermia" was a name not unknown in the Pengarvon annals
upwards of two centuries ago. Clem felt that this discovery alone
amply rewarded him for his exploration of the Hall. Presently he
turned to examine the portraits. One after another his gaze took
them in till the series was exhausted. They comprised both sexes,
and some of the oldest of them, judging from their costumes,
seemed to date back to the time of the First or Second Charles, but
apparently none were more modern than the first decade of the
present century. Then Clement went back to one of the portraits,
and stood gazing at it in silence for a long time. It was the likeness
of a girl of nineteen or twenty, wearing a short-waisted white robe, a
broad blue sash, and a wide-brimmed hat with sweeping plumes
over an elaborate arrangement of curls and loosely-coiled tresses.
Taken simply as a work of art, it was the gem of the gallery, and
Clem at once set it down as being from the brush of either Lawrence
or Sir Joshua. But what struck him more than aught else was the
strange, haunting likeness it bore to Hermia. Not merely was it that
the eyes and hair of one and the other approximated closely in color,
and that the features of both might almost have been cast in the
same mould, there was an indescribable something, a sort of
spiritual likeness, so to call it, which brought them into closer affinity
than any mere similarity of physical attributes would have served to
do. Long and earnestly did Clement gaze at the beautiful face with
its hovering smile, and its fathomless violet eyes which seemed as if
they were reading his inmost thoughts. Lucy, when questioned,
could tell him nothing about the original. She had only been in the
gallery once before, and felt anything but comfortable with all those
staring eyes following her every movement. But it would not do to
linger there forever. Clem had brought sketching materials with him
in readiness for any emergency that might arise, and he now
proceeded, with a few bold, swift touches, to secure the salient
points of the likeness which had for him an interest far exceeding
that of all the other portraits put together.

He left Stavering by the afternoon train that same day, and a few
hours later was back at home.
 CHAPTER XXXIV.

ANOTHER LINK.

But Clement Hazeldine's business at Stavering was by no means at

an end. A certain purpose, the outcome of his visit to Broome, had
taken him back to Ashdown; but that accomplished to his
satisfaction, which it was in the course of a few days, he lost no time
in returning to the scene of his further operations.

Among other information for which he was indebted to Lucy Grice,

he had learned that her uncle, Barney Dale, was in the habit of
spending a couple of hours, two or three evenings a week, in the
bar-parlor of the "Chequers" Inn at Dritton, where he smoked his
pipe and imbibed his tankard of ale in the company of sundry
cronies whose tastes in that respect were similar to his own. On
inquiry, Clem found that they had one spare bed at the "Chequers,"
which he at once engaged, and there he proceeded to take up his
quarters, leaving his portmanteau, however, in his old lodging at
Stavering. Dritton was a tiny hamlet of some three or four hundred
inhabitants, and as there were more than one good trout stream in
the neighborhood, Clem, who had brought his rod and tackle with
him, passed for a disciple of the gentle craft, and was welcomed as
such among the frequenters of the bar-parlor. The advent of a
stranger who was in no way "stuck-up," and not above hobnobbing
with one or another of them, made a pleasant break in the
monotony of their meetings, and freshened up their provincial wits
for the time in a way which surprised no one more than themselves.
But it was to Barney Dale that Clem paid the most assiduous court,
so contriving matters as to occupy the seat next his, and to engage
him in talk about such subjects as the old man was likely to take an
interest in. He soon found that under a somewhat crabbed and
forbidding exterior, Barney hid a personality at once quaint and
kindly, and, in some respects, of an almost childlike simplicity. On
more than one occasion, as they sat side by side, Clem tried to bring
the conversation round to Broome and its mistress; but Barney
became at once so stolidly dull, and was so evidently disinclined to
touch on the subject in any way, that, for fear of rendering him
suspicious as to his ulterior motives, he felt it best to lead back the
talk into other and less personal channels.

It was Clem's object to take the old man unawares, in the hope that,
in the first moment of surprise, he might unwittingly let fall some
exclamation or remark which would help to indicate the direction in
which his next step should be taken.

On a certain evening, after he had been about a week at the

"Chequers," Clem was lounging purposely at the door when Barney,
with the help of his stout blackthorn, came limping slowly up. After
greetings had passed, Clem said:

"Just come into this room for a moment, Mr. Dale. I have something
I want to show you."

With that he opened the door of a side room, and, Barney followed
him in. Having shut the door and turned up the gas, Clem took from
the table a "tinted" cabinet-size photograph, and placed it in the old
man's hands. It was Hermia's portrait, which he had that morning
received from an Ashdown photographer. In it she was represented
in a short-waisted white robe, a blue sash, and a grey, broad-
brimmed hat with a feather of the same color; while, under her
lover's directions, her chestnut locks had been arranged after a
fashion to which they had never had to submit before, and in all
probability never would again.
"Put on your glasses, Mr. Dale," said Clem, "and look at this, and tell
me whether you recognize it as the likeness of anyone you have
ever seen or known."

Putting down the photograph for a moment till he had got his
spectacles astride his nose, Barney took it up again, and moving
closer under the gaslight, brought his eyes to bear upon it. After
staring at it for a full half-minute, his hands began to tremble, and
he turned on Clem a face that was working with suppressed
emotion.

"Whose likeness is this?" he demanded, hoarsely.

"Do you not recognize it as a photograph of a certain picture in the

gallery at Broome, with which you are doubtless well acquainted?"

Again the old man turned his gaze on the portrait. "Aye, aye, to be
sure, I know it now," he said; and yet there was an echo of doubt in
his tone. "It's a likeness of Miss Elinor Pengarvon, who lived eighty
or ninety years syne, and was engaged to Lord Doverley, but died a
week afore her wedding-day. I mind me of the picture well. But--but
how did you come by it?" he added glowering at the other with eyes
which had suddenly become charged with a sort of fierce suspicion.

"It is time to undeceive you," said Clement. "The likeness in your

hands is not that of the Elinor Pengarvon of ninety years ago, but of
another young lady who is alive and well at this moment. It is the
portrait of Miss Hermia Rivers."

Clement had nothing to go upon as to whether the mention of the

name would wake any dormant echo in Barney's memory. He could
only trust to chance that it might do so. As it proved, his hit was a
fortunate one.

"Of Miss Hermia Rivers!" repeated the old man, in a sort of awed
whisper. "Can the dead come back to life?" Then his eyes went again
to the portrait. "But you say that she isn't dead--that she is alive and
well; is it the truth you are telling me?"

"I was in the company of Miss Rivers less than a fortnight ago."

"Thank goodness that she still lives! M'appen, then, it may not be
too late."

"Too late! What do you mean?" asked Clem.

But the old man sank into a chair and took no heed of the question.

"And I to have got it into my doited old head that the darling died
long years ago!" he said presently, with the air of one who is talking
to himself. "To be sure it was the mistress herself that led me to
think so, and how was I to guess that she wanted to hide the truth?"

Presently he roused himself, and after staring at Clem for a few

moments like one collecting his faculties, he said, laying a finger on
the photograph:

"And you say, sir, that you know her, and that she is alive and well?"

"I do say so," answered Clement, in his most impressive tones.

"Tell me about her--tell me all you know," exclaimed Barney, with

trembling eagerness.

Accordingly, without going into any superfluous details, Clement

proceeded to give his hearer an outline of Hermia's history from the
date of her adoption by John Brancker onward. He was careful to
speak slowly and distinctly, and as Barney's intelligence took in one
point of the narrative after another, he nodded his head and
muttered a word or two under his breath, but otherwise he kept
silent till Clem had come to an end.
"And now that I have told you so much, Mr. Dale," continued Clem,
after a pause, "I trust that you, in your turn, will be able to answer
me one or two questions. In the first place, will you be good enough
to inform me what relation Miss Hermia Rivers is to Miss
Pengarvon?"

Barney blinked at his questioner and sucked in his under-lip for a

moment or two, then he said:

"I darena tell you aught, and you mustna ask me. Years and years
ago my mistress bound me down by oath, never without her leave to
open my lips about certain things to man, woman, or child. It was a
very solemn oath, and I darena break it."

Clement was nonplussed. "At least, you can tell me this," he said
presently. "Is either of Miss Rivers's parents still living?"

"I darena answer, and you mustna ask me," was the old man's
dogged reply.

Clem made a gesture of annoyance. "Come, then, Mr. Dale," he said,

"you can hardly refuse to tell me what you meant by your remark
just now, that, perhaps, it 'may not be too late.'"

Barney was sitting with rounded shoulders, resting his chin on his
hands, which were crossed over his stick. For a little while he did not
answer.

"Bring her down to Stavering," he said, at last, bending a slow look

on the young surgeon, "and I'll contrive for the mistress to see her.
Who can tell what may come of it?" Then for the second time he
said: "And I to have got it into my doited old head that the darling
died ever so many years ago!"

He rose with a little difficulty, and possessed himself of his hat which
he had taken off on entering the room. Then, laying a hand on
Clem's shoulder, he said, impressively,
"Eh, but there's a great change come over the mistress! She had a
sort of fit in the night about a week ago, and now the doctor comes
to see her every day. But she's getting round again--oh, yes, she's
getting round; and m'appen, by-and-bye, she'll be just the same as
she allus was. And now, sir, do you listen to this: Don't say a word to
a soul about Miss Hermia, or what brings her to Stavering. The Lord
only knows what'll come of it all, but I'll try my best--I'll try my
best."

In the course of the next day, Clement returned to Ashdown, where

a great surprise awaited him. He reached Nairn Cottage soon after
five o'clock, but found no Hermia there to greet him. Instead, a note
was put into his hand by Aunt Charlotte.

"Dear Clement"--it ran.

"I have had to set off, all in a hurry, for London, where I purpose
staying for the next few days with my friend, Mrs. Wingate, who was
a schoolfellow of mine. I have what seem to me amply sufficient
reasons for taking this step, but I do not feel at liberty to enter into
any particulars until after my return, when I may have much to tell
you, or, on the other hand, very little. Anyway, I hope you won't
worry the least bit about me, because there is really no occasion to
do so. I received your telegram this morning announcing your
return, but, under the circumstances, have thought it better not to
wait and see you. I will explain everything when we meet, which I
hope will not be later than two or three days hence.

"Yours now and always,

"Hermia Rivers."
Clement, when he had read the note, stared at Aunt Charlotte with
an air of stupefaction. "What does it mean?" he asked.

"I can tell you very little more than the note tells you," was the
reply. "Yesterday was Hermia's afternoon for visiting among the poor
widows and others whom she is in the habit of calling upon once a
week, and oftener in cases of sickness or necessity. On reaching
home last evening rather later than usual, she told us that Mrs.
Varrel, a widow whom both of us have known for some years, was
dead. She was very quiet during the rest of the evening, and
seemed to be deep in thought. This morning, at breakfast, she
announced her intention of starting for London by the eleven o'clock
train. In answer to the questions John and I naturally put to her, she
simply said that we must forgive her for not telling us anything at
present, but that all should be explained the moment she returned.
She assured us that nothing but a matter of extreme importance
would have induced her to take such a step, but that we might be
quite satisfied as to her safety under the roof of Mrs. Wingate. So
you see, my dear Mr. Clement, that we shall just have to stifle our
curiosity as best we can, till it pleases her ladyship to return and lift
us off the tenterhooks of suspense."

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE WIDOW VARREL.

Miss Brancker, so far as her means allowed, was one of the most
charitable of women. She had always a number of pensioners on
hand, chiefly elderly spinsters, with whom life was a continual
struggle, and widows left forlorn without son or daughter to help
them in their declining years.

Miss Brancker had a small--a very small--private income, the whole

of which of late years, since her brother's salary had more than
sufficed for the needs of the little household, she had given away in
charity, not by any means always in the form of money, but in a
score of other ways in which help, judiciously administered, may be
made still more precious to its recipients. As Hermia grew up, she
got into the way of accompanying her aunt on her weekly visits
among those whom Miss Brancker held it to be a part of her duty to
call upon at their own homes. During the last year and a half,
however, in consequence of an affection of the knee-joint, which
made much walking painful to Aunt Charlotte, Hermia had, in the
majority of cases, been compelled to do the visiting alone.

Among others whom Hermia made a point of calling upon at least

once a week was a' certain poor widow, Mrs. Varrel by name, who
was slowly dying of an incurable malady. She had lost her husband,
a retired sergeant-major with a small service pension, several years
before, and latterly her sole means of livelihood had been a few
shillings a week allowed her by a daughter of her former mistress,
for at one time Mrs. Varrel had been maid to a lady of quality; a fact
she was careful to impress upon all who were brought into contact
with her. There had been a time after her husband's death, a period
extending over several years, when her only son was in a position to
help her, and when, in point of fact, he did help her liberally in
accordance with his means. Then something dreadful had come to
pass, and Richard Varrel had been able to help his mother no more.

It was this same Richard Varrel who, as the reader may or may not
remember, had been one of the first on the day of the trial to
congratulate John Brancker on his acquittal. He it was who, when
John and those who were with him had settled themselves in the fly
in which they were to be driven home, had pushed his way through
the little crowd of onlookers and laid a detaining hand on the
vehicle. "Mr. Brancker, sir," he said, in a voice coarsened with drink,
"if such a wretch as I maybe allowed to thank heaven for anything,
then I thank it that you are once more a free man. From the first I
swore that whoever else might be guilty of Mr. Hazeldine's death,
you were innocent. As for him--curse him! he hounded me to my
ruin, and he deserved his fate. For him no pity is needed."

Up to a certain point the fortunes of Richard Varrel and Ephraim

Judd had moved upon almost parallel lines. The mother of each was
a widow in poor circumstances; they had both been educated at the
same school, where they had both been show scholars; the elder Mr.
Avison had taken a fancy to both of them, and had found humble
berths for them in the Bank, where, in the course of time, they had
worked themselves up to positions of trust and responsibility. But
there the likeness between the two had ended, for while Ephraim
Judd was a painstaking plodder, slow but sure, handsome Dick Varrel
carried everything with a dash and a laughing quick-wittedness
which made light of every obstacle that stood in the way of his
upward career. There had been a time when he was one of the most
popular young fellows in the town; but it was his social success and
his fondness for company that proved his ruin. In a moment of
weakness, when hard pressed by petty monetary difficulties, he did
a certain thing which rendered him liable to a prosecution for felony.
Detection followed. By this time the elder Mr. Avison had retired from
business, and the younger one was abroad. To the latter the details
of the case were reported by Mr. Hazeldine in due course, who went
as far as he durst venture in his endeavors to induce the banker to
take a lenient view of the affair. But Mr. Avison, while being a strictly
just man, was also an inflexible one, and he sent positive orders, by
return, that Varrel should be proceeded against. Mr. Hazeldine had
no option but to carry out his employer's instructions, the
consequence being that the handsome and popular Dick Varrel was
tried and sentenced to a short term of penal servitude.

That term had expired about a year before he accosted John

Brancker on the day of the latter's acquittal. How long Varrel had
been in the town prior to that date, and how long he stayed there
after it, John had no means of knowing. In any case, he saw him no
more.

Mrs. Varrel rented a couple of rooms in one of the humblest parts of

the town. Even on her bed of sickness, which she was quite aware
that she should never leave till she had drawn her last breath, she
held herself somewhat proudly aloof from the class of persons
around her. "It is my misfortune to be compelled to live among
them," she would sometimes remark to Hermia, "but I never allow
them to consider that they are in any way my equals." Even with the
hand of death upon her, she could not forget that for five years she
had been confidential maid to Lady Warlingham. How near to
breaking her heart her son's crime and its punishment had gone no
one ever knew but herself. At the time she had in a measure set the
world at defiance, by her protestations that Dick had been convicted
on false evidence; and the world, or that infinitesimal section of it to
which she had appealed, compassionating her as a mother, had
made believe (while in her sight and hearing) to indorse her view of
the case. For some time past, however, no one had heard her
mention her son's name. He seemed as one lost to her for ever.

Mrs. Varrel always seemed especially glad to see Hermia. "You never
preach at me as nearly all my other lady visitors do, and that's what
I like you for," she would say. "As for them, they can't leave me an
ounce of tea without reminding me that I'm not long for this world--
as if I didn't know it already--and exhorting me to seek forgiveness
of my sins. By the way some of them talk I might be one of the
vilest of sinners. Yet, I suppose, if I were to reply that, so far as I
am aware, I have led just as good a life as they, and stand no more
in need of forgiveness than they do, they would be highly indignant.
I only wish some of them could be made to change places with me
for a single week. It would teach them a lesson they wouldn't forget
to their dying day."
Hermia was in the habit of taking wine and grapes and whatever
else Aunt Charlotte thought might tempt the sick woman's appetite,
or help to keep up her strength; for during the last few weeks her
illness had made great strides, and day by day it became more
evident that the end could not much longer be delayed. Sometimes
Hermia read to her; sometimes she simply chatted with her, telling
her such items of local gossip as she thought would interest her.
Sometimes Mrs. Varrel, when she felt a little stronger, would talk to
the girl about her early life and things that had happened years
before; but never once, till the end was drawing very near, did she
make any mention of her son.

At length, however, there came a day when, after lying for a little
space with closed eyes, she said:

"Do you know, Miss Hermy, what the one wish is I have now left in
this world?"

Hermia smiled and shook her head.

"I might guess a dozen times without guessing aright. But tell me
what it is you wish, Mrs. Varrel."

"It is to see my son Richard for the last time--him, you know, that
was said to have gone wrong years ago."

"Surely that is a wish which ought to be very easily gratified," said

Hermia. "I am, of course, assuming that you know where he may be
found."

"Where he himself is I cannot say, but when I saw him last he gave
me a certain address in London where he said a letter would always
find him."

"Then let me write to him in your name," said Hermia, eagerly. "He
cannot be aware how ill you are, or he would have been to see you
before now."
But it was not till the following day that the widow could be induced
to let Hermia write, and not then till she had given her promise not
to reveal to any one Richard Varrel's address.

It was just a week before the end came that Hermia wrote, but day
passed after day without bringing a response of any kind. The dying
woman listened with an eagerness painful to witness, for her son's
footfall on the stairs, but listened in vain.

"Who knows but that he's in trouble again and can't come," she
moaned wearily to herself more than once.

During those last few days Hermia was a great deal with her. The
person in whose house Mrs. Varrel lodged happened also to be ill at
the time, and could not wait upon her as she had been in the habit
of doing. As the dying woman's weakness increased she began to
wander in her mind, but in all her wanderings her son seemed
somehow to be mixed up. As far as Hermia could make out, he
appeared to be always in some dire trouble from which his mother
was vainly trying to extricate him; but there was nothing coherent
about her utterances--they were merely a jumble of disconnected
sentences, the gaps between which her listener lacked the
knowledge needful to enable her to fill up. But, indeed, Hermia took
very little heed of anything that fell from the widow's lips at such
times, but waited patiently till the light of reason came back to her
poor bewildered brain, for such wanderings were only occasional;
the greater part of the time she was as mentally clear as ever she
had been.

One day, however--it was the third day before she died--while one of
her wandering fits was on her, she gave utterance to a remark which
startled Hermia not a little. "There's blood on the notes!" she
exclaimed. "Why should you want me to have charge of them? Take
them back! I won't touch them!" Then her voice died away in an
inarticulate murmur. After that it was impossible for Hermia to do
otherwise than listen.
About an hour later, after a long silence, the dying woman cried out
in a voice which sent a shiver through the girl, "No, no, I won't
believe it! What! My boy--my Richard! Anyone but him--anyone but
him!" Then later still, as before, "There's blood on the notes! I won't
touch them!"

Hermia went home that night in a maze of perplexity and wonder.

She felt as if she were standing on the verge of some dark mystery
which might or might not be presently illumined for her by some
unexpected. flash. She knew not what to think, what to do. What,
indeed, could she do? She told herself nothing.

Next day Mrs. Varrel was perceptibly weaker, and although her mind
wandered at times, her voice was so faint that it was only now and
then it rose above a whisper. One connected sentence and no more,
but one full of significance, reached the ears of the wondering girl.
"Thirty--forty--fifty bright new sovereigns. Not one of them will I
touch till you have told me where you got them from--not one!"

Did she fancy she was addressing her son? If not, whom?

It was an hour or two later. Mrs. Varrel had been asleep. Suddenly
she awoke, and sat up in bed without help, a thing she had not been
able to do for several weeks. The clear light of sanity had come back
to her eyes. Laying a hand on Hermia's wrist, she said in a quavering
voice. "He won't come now. I feel it--I know it. Before it is too late--
and very soon it will be--I have something to give into your charge,
Miss Hermy--something which I want you to promise to send to my
boy after I'm gone, with just a line to say how his mother longed to
see him before she died, but that she loved him to the last in spite
of all." Then, after glancing round, although there was no one but
themselves in the room, she drew Hermia closer to her and
whispered, "It's money--money, my dear Miss Hermy, that I want to
give into your charge."
"Whatever I can do in the way of helping you to carry out your
wishes, Mrs. Varrel, you may rely upon my doing," replied the girl, in
her most earnest tones.

Thereupon, by the widow's direction, she searched for and found

two small packets which had been hidden away between the
mattress and the bed. One of them was a stout envelope sealed with
red wax, containing some soft substance, the nature of which
Hermia was at a loss to make out. The other was a small canvas bag
full of money. Then, still by the dying woman's request, she
procured paper, and string and made the two up into one parcel,
which she addressed to Richard Varrel, at the same place to which
the letter had been addressed.

"You will send it to him by post, dear Miss Hermy, after I'm gone,
won't you, with just a line, as you promised?" gasped Mrs. Varrel.

"But seeing that your son has failed to respond to the note I wrote
him," replied Hermia, "is it not possible that he may have gone away
without informing you; and should that be the case what will
become of the money?"

"I never thought of that," gasped Mrs. Varrel, with a sudden scared
look. "And yet he must have the money--he must! Tell me--tell me,
Miss Hermy, what is to be done?"

For a few moments Hermia did not answer--she could not. Her
nerves had just undergone a shock which had left her as white and
trembling as if she had seen a ghost. Drawing a deep breath, and
speaking as steadily as she could force herself to do, she presently
said:

"I will myself take the parcel to London, and if it be anyhow

possible, I will find your son and deliver it into his hands and into
those of no one else."
The dying woman thanked her and blessed her. It was evident that a
great weight had been lifted off her mind.

Next day when Hermia went to see her she was unconscious, and a
few hours later she breathed her last.

What was it that had so strangely affected Hermia; that had sent the
blood surging round her heart, and had caused the room and its
contents to rock before her eyes as though shaken by an
earthquake?

On the envelope which she had made up into a parcel with the bag
of gold her eye had been caught by these words, written in pencil,
"Given into my charge by my son Richard on the 6th of October."

The 6th of October was the day on which Mr. Hazeldine had been
found on the floor of his office, stabbed to the heart!

CHAPTER XXXVI.

A JOURNEY OF DISCOVERY.

When Hermia, in response to Mrs. Varrel's appeal, had said: "I will
myself take the parcel to London," the answer had sprung to her lips
of its own accord, so to speak, and as if her will had had no part in
the framing of it.
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