Bertha Shelley

By Aubrey Burnage

Bertha Shelley by Aubrey Burnage is about a young Hubert Clayton lurking in the back alleys and plotting with friends at the bars about his planned revenge against Sir John Greville for stealing his girl away. Excerpt: "IT was night. No moon nor stars shed their pale beams upon the silent streets of York; and that grand old city of a thousand memories lay in placid slumber, wrapped in a mantle of thick darkness,—save here and there in some of her narrow back alleys, where taverns of questionable respectability still drove a stealthy trade in the "cup that maddens" with the abandoned wretches at their gaming tables."

• Language: English
• Publisher: DigiCat
• Release date: Nov 22, 2022
• ISBN: 8596547405665

Book preview

CHAPTER I.

Table of Contents

"Lo! 'tis a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years!

An angel throng bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears

Sit in a theatre to see

A play of hopes and fears.

While the orchestra breathes fitfully

The music of the spheres!"

—EDGAR ALLAN POE.

IT was night. No moon nor stars shed their pale beams upon the silent streets of York; and that grand old city of a thousand memories lay in placid slumber, wrapped in a mantle of thick darkness,—save here and there in some of her narrow back alleys, where taverns of questionable respectability still drove a stealthy trade in the cup that maddens with the abandoned wretches at their gaming tables. A cold, drizzling rain was falling; and the rude gusts of a December wind howled and moaned by turns, as they swept boisterously along through the network of streets and lanes away to the broad Atlantic. It was a night to lead the homeless poor almost to doubt the Mercy that could leave them, weary and broken-hearted, exposed to the pitiless storm with scarce a rag to cover their shivering limbs.

Along one of the narrowest and dirtiest of the back streets, a man was hurrying with rapid strides. He was so closely muffled that, had it been daylight, it would have been impossible for anyone to have recognised him. His broad-brimmed felt hat was shoved low down over his face, and a thick comforter, rolled several turns around his throat, concealed the lower part of his features. A heavy great coat enveloped him to the heels, and fitting loosely, defied recognition by his figure. It was a dangerous part of the town to be out in at such an hour; but the heavily-loaded cane, ironically called a life-preserver, which he carried, would have warned any desperado lurking about to think twice before attacking him. Stopping before the most disreputable-looking tavern in this most disreputable street, he applied his eyes to the crevices of a shutter, through which light was streaming.

'All right,' he muttered; 'the knave and the fool are both there, waiting to be put to work. And now, my brave Sinclair, you'll rue the day, that you were mad enough to come between me and Anne Egerton.'

Shoving his hat still further down over his eyes, and burying his chin yet deeper in the folds of his woollen comforter, so as to avoid detection from any late stragglers in the bar, he knocked at the door. Being far after twelve, it was shut and locked; but giving a private watchword, he was admitted.

In the room that the traveller had taken the precaution to reconnoitre before entering the tavern, sat two men playing cards. The table was covered with a miscellaneous litter of greasy cards, brandy bottles, half-emptied glasses, and tobacco pipes; and a vacant chair at one side of the table showed that the party was not complete.

Throwing down a card, one of the players exclaimed, 'Twenty-seven and four—thirty-one, with a pair! Four holes! I'm out, Darby!'

'Yes, Bow, it's your game. But I'm hanged if I'll play another hand to-night. I wish Mr. Clayton 'ud come, It's past one now; and I want to get to roost. It's not often I crawl off to my bunk before morning; and I'd like to get to bed early to-night for a change.'

'It's deucedly wet and dark, Darby; but I 'spects he'll be here directly. I don't care about playing any more either,' he continued, throwing down the cards, 'it's slow work, playing for the honour of the thing.'

'You're about right, old man,' returned his companion, looking up. 'There's nothing like a heavy stake to give the game an interest. But it won't do 'twixt me and you, 'cause the winner 'ud only have to share it back! And if one on us got sharping, there'd likely be a row; and that's best avoided, as we've some ugly secrets to keep. Here, try these cigars—they're real Spanish. I knocked the fellow on the head as smuggled 'em; so I know they're right 'uns,' said Darby, handing Bow a cigar-case handsome and costly enough to have belonged to a peer of the realm.

'Holloa, mate! where'd you get that spicy case from?' asked Bow, helping himself to a couple.

After eyeing the cigar-cage for a few moments silently, as if weighing the propriety of answering the question, Darby suddenly burst out into a boisterous fit of laughter. Any person hearing it, and not seeing from whence it came, would have taken it for the chattering of an ape with a severe cold.

'What the devil's the matter with you, Darby! What's tickling your fancy now?' asked the other worthy, gruffly.

Disregarding the question, the facetious Darby laughed, in his peculiar way, till his whole face became as bright a crimson as his nose, and the tears fairly rolled down his unwashed cheeks in a grimy flood. After laughing till he had thoroughly exhausted himself, he gasped out, 'That cigar-case, Bow! By Jove, it was a jolly spree!' and then rolled away into another fit of merriment, by way of bringing himself round.

'What about the cigar-case, Darby?' asked the other, irritably.

'I can't see nothing to laugh at in it, 'cept you bought it. It's many a day I 'spects since you bought anything.'

As soon as the mirthful Darby had subsided into a normal condition, and his flaring nasal organ had again monopolised the crimson of his features, he began to enlighten Bow upon the secret cause of his recent ebullition of merriment.

'You remember, Bow, about two years ago, before you joined pals with me, that old Sir Humphrey Grey was found dead on the London road—shot through the head? Well, he lost this identical case that night, and he aren't likely to find it again, I reckon.'

'What, did you cook him, Darby?' asked Bow, with a shudder. 'I thought Black Jim did that job. He got lagged for it any how.'

'I never tell tales, Bow! I'm mum as a mouse when it pays! But he lost this cigar-case that night, and here it is.' Here he gave way to another paroxysm of laughter, which was soon cut short by the stranger gently opening the door, and entering the room.

Hubert Clayton took off his heavy greatcoat, hat, and comforter, and sat down to the table. He was a singularly handsome man, and a striking contrast to his two companions. He appeared to possess every trait of masculine beauty. But it was a beauty that had the unaccountable effect of causing all he came in contact with an undefined sensation of repulsion. Tall, of an elegant figure, with eyes dark and full of expression, and features almost faultless in contour; yet, withal, an indescribable something that neutralized the usual consequence of good looks—it was the beauty of the serpent—the comeliness of the beast of prey! None could look upon him without at once observing the unusual handsomeness of his person; yet few could entertain for him other sentiment than aversion. Perhaps it was his eyes that, bright as the dark orbs of woman, were nestless as the eyes of a wild cat! Perhaps it was the lips that, perfect in outline as a very 'Cupid's-Bow,' had a sinister habit of drawing tightly together, in a manner painfully suggestive of a cruel and remorseless disposition! Or, it may have been his teeth, which, when he smiled, gleamed in their glittering whiteness, like the incisors of a wolf or panther! And yet this man, from whose base and treacherous nature all recoiled by instinct, was loved, as few better men are ever loved, with a patient, changeless devotion. There was one gentle girl, whose whole soul was bound up in his existence, and who loved on in spite of every obstacle that reason could urge against him. But this lady possessed the rare quality of discretion; and though she would have cheerfully given her life's blood to turn him from his evil path, she would hold no communication with him. Under the guise of a gentleman (he was one by birth and education) he had won her heart; but, when she learnt the dreadful truth (it laid her on a sick bed for months) that he had long forfeited all claim to the name of gentleman, she steadily refused to see him again. But she loved him with even an intenser devotion than before, and still held the hope, dearer than life, of his yet reforming and becoming more worthy of her. Many offers of marriage had been made to her; but she declined them all, though some of her admirers had coronets to lay at her feet. She would marry Hubert or none. Poor Anne! It was the old old tale of misplaced affection! Pity the tyrant Cupid has such illimitable, such arbitrary power! Every effort of reason is vain, when he gives forth his mandate, as pert Titania found when she fell enamoured of Nick Bottom, the weaver, with the ass's head.

Darby Gregson, the hero of the cigar-case adventure, was a short, thick-set man, about forty years of age. There was nothing particular about him to distinguish him from the rest of his villainous species, but a pair of twinkling grey eyes, small, and deep-sunk, which, together with a very prominent and warm-coloured nose, gave him a striking resemblance to a dressed pig. He was quite a lion among the criminal class at York, having achieved more daring robberies (and, it was whispered—murders) than the greatest expert among the inhabitants of the country gaol, and without ever having been caught. He was clever enough to so arrange his plans, that if the police discovered a crime, some one else was implicated by circumstantial evidence, and often condemned; while he, the real perpetrator, sat among the crowd in court, not even suspected—unless, indeed, by some of his own class, and who, only having vague suspicions, did not dare to breathe them, fearful lest they should be the next victims of his consummate cunning.

Mister Bow, the winner at cribbage, was a young man about twenty years old, though, to judge from appearance, no one would have taken him for less than double that age. He was a tall, lank, awkward built youth, of a most comical figure. His little, spherical head was set low down between his shoulders, in a way that would be sure to occasion considerable difficulty to any but an adept in the art of adjusting the noose, should it ever be the pleasure of fate to promote himself to the top of the tree in his profession. His lower limbs, too, were decidedly excentric, and so wide apart at the knees, that, had he joined a troup of acrobats, he might have won immortal fame by leaping through them, after the manner of jumping through a hoop. What name was bestowed upon him at the baptismal font, neither he nor his friends had ever heard. Indeed, it was a question he had not yet decided whether he ever had been inside a real church. He had once, in the park, listened to a ranter, as he irreverently called the preacher; but that was so long ago, that he could recollect nothing but having picked a little girl's pocket of her handkerchief, and sold it for a penny to buy a bit of bread. He had always gone by the name of Bow, ever since he could remember. Where he got the name, or what it was given to him for, he knew not. Some of his companions held the opinion that he was called so from the shape of his legs, while others, as positively, declared that it was from Bow-street in London, whose levees he had been in the habit of visiting almost from infancy. He had no recollection of father or mother; and was not fully satisfied that he had ever had either. Anyway, the first that he remembered of himself was being taken to Bow-street on his tenth birthday, for stealing a sausage from a cook-shop for breakfast. From that day, poor Bow had been almost a constant pensioner at the old gaol. There are many like poor Bow—men with natural good qualities enough to become useful members of society, if society had only given them a fair chance at the start. On the particular occasion in which poor Bow first tried his hand at stealing, he did so at the bidding of a hard master. He had not eaten anything for two long days, and he stole this same sausage to appease the craving of hunger. Poor child; his little heart ached almost as much at the sin he felt he was committing, as it did at his empty stomach. From that day, driven by the same hard master (what honest employment could a homeless, friendless urchin, of ten years old, hope to find in busy London?) he had sunk from one stage of crime to another, till he was here the pal and accomplice of Darby Gregson, the most desperate villain in York.

Hubert Clayton sat for a few minutes gazing into the glowing embers in deep thought. There were depths of crime, which even Bow was incapable of; and it was this fact that held Mr. Clayton in reverie. Suddenly, looking up, he said, with his soft, insinuating voice, 'Bow, will you kindly oblige me by asking the landlady for a look at the morning's Guardian—that's a good fellow?'

Bow hurried away to the bar for the paper, and as soon as he was out of hearing, Clayton leaned across the table, and asked in a whisper, 'Do you think Bow is safe, Darby? I am afraid he is too chicken-hearted for the job.'

'Safe!' returned the other villain, under his breath; 'Yes, safe as a Newgate-street-bird always is—that's unless you're going in heavy. I wouldn't trust him with the knife; but if its only swearing a bit thick, he's right. Before I've finished his edecation, he'll use the knife like a butcher; or he'll not larn as smart as my last pal did.'

Hearing the returning steps of Mr. Bow, they turned the conversation to the weather.

'Yes; its an awful wet night, Mr. Clayton—bad enough to drown all the paupers in York,' said Darby Gregson.

'Sit down, Bow, and let us settle the business we arranged for to-night,' said Clayton, to Bow, as he received the Guardian. 'Just say before I open my plans whether you will go in for it,' he continued; 'It's not too late to back out yet, but remember, six inches of cold steel under the left shoulder-blade, if either of you try to back out after I let you into my secret.'

'I'm your man,' said Darby Gregson, with energy. 'You can't have too ugly a game for me; and you, Bow—,' he continued, turning to his companion in many an ugly game, 'You're not going to turn Methodist at this time o' day?'

'Me? I'd like to know what I'm to do fust!' replied Bow, with hesitation. Whatever little moral courage he had ever possessed, poor fellow, had been knocked out of him years and years ago, when, as a child, he had the bitter alternative of stealing or starving.

'Recollect two things, Bow. Fifty pounds hard cash, and that we're not going to use the knife; so make up your mind at once,' said Clayton, impatiently.

'All right, Mr. Clayton, I'll go in for it,' answered Bow, after a pause. His dearest wish was to get money enough to buy a donkey and cart and a small stock of the articles peddlers deal in, so that he might turn hawker, and 'live respectable-like.' He often had a twinge of conscience at his nefarious mode of existence, and had several times peeped through the door of a Methodist meeting-house—he had never dared to approach a church; it seemed far too grand for penniless sinners. But his vile companions had jeered and laughed him out of it. Pity that the Servants of 'the King do not go more out into the highways and hedges to bring in guests for the feast. And ye, Pharisees, who gather up your garments around you, as if fearful of touching even the hem of the contaminating garments of such as poor Bow, and exclaim, in your egotistical sell-righteousness, 'I thank thee, O Lord, that I am not as this man!' what have ye to show that, with his training, ye would even approached the door of a house of prayer? That ye would not have sank to the knees in moral pollution, where he is but over his boots? Or that, had he had your opportunities, he would not have far outstripped you in all but your hard-heartedness and hypocrisy? When the day of judgment comes, ye may find to your cost, that many such, judged by the law of their own hearts, fallen and corrupt though they be, shall stand in better plight than ye, who had the law and kept it not but in empty and and outward show.'

'I'll go in for it,' Bow reiterated, 'if there's no murder in it!'

'Its settled upon then,' said Clayton, taking some papers out of his breast pocket, 'and now to business. You, Darby, are a clever pensman, just copy this signature upon this cheque.'

'Yes, I'm pretty smart with the goose quill; and I need be, as its about all I ever learned at school!' said Gregson, taking the papers. 'John Greville?' he asked, looking at the signature. 'Who's he?'

'Sir John Greville, of Farleigh Hall, near Cambridge,' returned Clayton.

With the dexterity of an adept, Darby Gregson copied the name, and so perfect a copy was it, that Sir John himself would have hesitated before swearing that he did not write them both.

'Now, I want this forgery fastened upon Mr. Sinclair. You know, Percy Sinclair, of Elmsdale?'

'Yes,' answered Darby, nibbling his pen.

'This is my plan. He will be home from college in a few days, and I have learnt that he wants to buy a horse. Now, I will give you my brown cob—it will just suit him—and you must manage to sell it to him. Don't stick at a price, but let him have it at any reasonable figure. This cheque has not the amount filled in, so you must put down in it whatever you get for the horse, and then take it to the bank. Express a doubt as to the genuineness of the signature, and refuse to take the change unless they guarantee it to be no forgery. They will find out the forgery quick enough; and then you must swear that you received the cheque from Sinclair, in payment for the horse.'

'Capital!' cried Gregson, with enthusiasm, delighted at the depth of the villainous scheme. 'Really, Mr. Clayton, you lick me holler; I can't hold a candle to you after this!'

'The amount of the cheque tallying exactly with the price of the horse, and Sinclair's just coming from Cambridge, where Sir John Greville lives, will be evidence enough to transport a parson,' continued Clayton. 'You share whatever you get for the horse between you two.'

'I don't half like the job, Mr. Clayton,' said Bow, 'but——'

'There's no buts in it!' roared Darby. 'You're a chicken-hearted sneak if you want to back out now.'

'Its too late now to think of consequences,' said Clayton, with one of the repulsive smiles that most exhibited his glittering, pointed teeth; and drawing a cruel-looking glass dagger, he continued, 'This for anyone who breaks faith with me.'

'You must have a queer grudge against Mr. Sinclair,' said Darby, 'What's it for?'

'I hate him! that's enough for you,' answered Clayton, savagely.

'No, but it isn't enough,' replied Darby, decisively. 'We've agreed to do the job, and we'll do it; but we must know why. Mustn't we Bow?'

'Yes,' said Bow, in a more determined tone than he usually spoke in.

'I'm a bit curious, Mr. Clayton, but you needn't be afraid of me or Bow blabbing; we're as mum as moles when it pays.'

'Well, then, if you must know,' Clayton answered, in no very pleasant tone, 'he prevented me from marrying his cousin, Anne Egerton, by his cursed interference. He didn't want her himself, and he wouldn't let me have her.'

'How?' asked Darby, eagerly.

'I have told you all I will!' returned Clayton, with ill suppressed anger. 'I don't like talking about such matters.'

'If you wan't Bow and me to go in for the job, you must tell us all about it!' declared Darby.

'Curse you for a pair of inquisitive magpies!' he exclaimed, with an expletive or two it is best to leave out. 'He heard something about that affair at Ascott, and told her about it!'

'Didn't want a card-sharper, etc., etc., in the family. Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Darby.

'Come, a truce to this fooling, or we may quarrel; and that's hardly worth while under the circumstance!' said Clayton, rising. 'I made a good haul at Epsom last week; and I will give you another hundred between you, the day he is lagged!'

The plot laid to his satisfaction, the arch villain left the tavern, and returned through the drizzling rain to his lodgings; and Bow and Darby, after drinking success to the scheme in another glass of brandy, laid down upon the floor and were soon asleep.

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CHAPTER II.

Table of Contents

"What power is there like love! One gentle word

Or tender glance more potent is to soothe

The raffled brow, by anger overcast,

Than all the bitter might of stern reproof!"

—BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

A week after Clayton and his villainous companions had laid their plans to fasten the terrible crime of forgery upon Mr. Percy Sinclair, that gentleman and a friend were riding together, homeward bound from Cambridge. It was night, but far different from the dismal, rainy night that Clayton had repaired to his rendezvous with Darby Gregson and Bow. Through the clear frosty air the stars sparkled like living diamonds; and the broad bosom of the earth was shrouded in a robe of spotless white; while the bare limbs of the trees, and roofs of the farm-houses, were covered with the feathery snow flakes. They were trotting briskly; but, reaching a rough part of the road, they drew rein, and, as they walked their horses carefully over the ruts made by the late rains, resumed the conversation that had been interrupted by the rapid pace they had been travelling at.

'You were saying, Sinclair, that you thought of entering the church. Now, I think that a man with your powers should choose the legal profession. There are dolts enough for clergymen, without the pulpit monopolising all the talent of the country!' said George Darrell, a college friend of Mr. Sinclair's.

'I differ with you, Darrell. I think there is no-more honorable use to put the talent you are pleased to credit me with than to the service of heaven! You appear to me to hold strangely inconsistent views upon this subject. Now, if you admit the truth of eternal punishment and reward, you must concede the necessity of having those, whose privilege it is to preach salvation, men able as well as willing to fulfil their sacred office with success. And if you deny our theology, why have the clergy at all? No, Darrell, the cause of our church being so lukewarm and paralysed is the presence of so many incapable in our pulpits.'

'Hem! Be that as it may, I think the country needs clever statesmen quite as much as able preachers, and as I believe you possess, in a high degree, the powers necessary, you will see why I endeavour to dissuade you from entering holy orders. A good man needs little more than a mediocrity of brains to become a good clergyman, or even a bishop; but a great statesman—and our country is sorely in need of such just now—must possess mental endowments of a far higher order.'

'I will allow, Darrell, that a Pitt or a Fox requires to be a far cleverer man, as the world counts cleverness, than is indispensable to the clerical profession; but I am not vain enough to suppose that I possess the stupendous intellects of such men; and I think I cannot better employ the little tallent I do possess than in preaching the way of salvation to my fellow sinners.'

'You may be right, Sinclair, as you usually are, but I confess I fail to see the necessity of your burying yourself in a curacy, when there are so many as well adapted for the surplice as you are, and so few, as well fitted to shine at the bar, or in the senate.'

'Well, Darrell, we will have a further conversation upon this subject another time. Our roads diverge here. I turn aside to Elmsdale, and I suppose you ride on into York.'

'Yes; I want to get home as soon as possible. My father's health is very precarious; and I fear from my sister Ada's last letter, he is not long for this vale of tears—as you persons call it.'

'I trust your forebodings of evil lack foundation Darrell. You will come and spend a week with us if possible? We have splendid shooting at Elmsdale,' said Sinclair, as he turned his horse's head to a narrow path that left the high road.

'If I possibly can. But can't you take a ride out?' asked Darrell, reining up.

'I have to go to York to-morrow to buy a horse, as old Marlborough is broken down; and I will call on you; but I shall not be able to spare more than a couple of hours, as I am reading hard,' answered Sinclair.

'Don't read too hard, my friend! With all your preaching predilection, you seem to think enough of the things of this world to strive hard for the highest honors Alma Mater has to bestow.'

'Well, its cold sitting here; so, till next we meet, adieu,' returned Sinclair, laughing.

'Au revoir!' exclaimed Darrell; and, putting spurs to his fiery, blood horse, was soon out of sight.

Sinclair loosened his rein, and old Marlborough, needing no urging, was soon trotting briskly, despite his being broken down.

In Elmsdale House, on this same winter's night, the bright, scarlet curtains were drawn closely over the windows to keep out the hard, freezing air, and upon the hearth a huge fire of logs was roaring and crackling merrily, and shedding a warm, ruddy light around the room. The candles were not vet lighted, although it was nearly nine o'clock. Little did the family circle, sitting round the fire in this cosy room, know of the biting frost, or the keen cutting wind without; except, indeed, by the latter's ceaseless moaning and whistling, as it strove pertinaciously to enter through the crevices and keyholes.

The party round the fire was not a large one. Mr. Sinclair, a retired physician, sat in an armchair on one side of the fireplace. He was a white-haired, benevolent-looking, old gentleman, whose genial kindness, almost as much as his skill, had made him a universal favourite with his patients. Opposite to him sat his wife—her husband's equal in every good and genial quality of heart. She was busily engaged by the flickering light of the fire in knitting a pair of woollen socks for the boy, as she fondly called her only son. Percy had never worn a pair that she had not made, and never should while she had willing fingers, and a heart overflowing with maternal love. Before the fire sat the young lady of about eighteen summers. There is no need to speak of her gentleness and kindness of disposition. That was proved by the loving way the little people crowded around her; and the beauty of her character was reflected vividly upon her sweet and delicate features. Leaning upon the back of her chair, stood Florence, a bright little damsel of fourteen; and Maud, the pet and plaything of all, lay cosily nestled upon her lap; while Alice knelt at her feet.

'O, cousin Anne, do tell us a tale!' asked Alice, fixing her large blue eyes upon the young lady's face.

'O yes, yes, do!' exclaimed Florence, delightedly.

'Tell Maudie petty tale; do, tousin Anne.'

Cousin Anne answered the little pet by imprinting a kiss upon its fat, dimpled cheeks, and the affectionate little creature twined its tiny arms about her neck, and hid its laughing face among her flowing tresses.

It was a picture of calm, domestic happiness—that scene around the bright December fire—one could never grow tired of gazing upon; one that would tempt any bachelor to cast away the miserable misnomer, called 'single blessedness,' and embark upon the sea of matrimony.

'Well, Maudie dear, what shall it be?' asked the sweetest voice (save one) that I ever heard.

'O, puth in booths, tousin Anne!' cried the little thing, delighted at the idea of being allowed the honour of choosing.

'O, no, Maudie,' said Alice. 'We've heard that so often! Tell us a new one, cousin.'

'A new one, dear?' asked the young lady, smiling.

'Ess, tousin Anne, about 'Hey diddle diddle.''

The novelty of 'Hey diddle diddle' set the children laughing; and after their merriment had subsided, and they had wiped away the tears that trickled down their young cheeks, cousin Anne commenced the promised tale, in the orthodox fashion of—

'Once upon a time, a very long while age, there lived in a large forest an old deer and her two young fawns. Little deers are called fawns, you know.'

'Ittle dears like Allie and me, tousin Anne?' interrupted brighteyes, looking up.

'No, birdie. Little deer with four legs.'

'Like little lambs, aren't they?' asked Alice.

'Yes, dear. Well, the old doe and her two fawns lived in this beautiful forest. There were such large oak trees, with wide-spreading branches, and on the ground there were such soft, green grass and lovely flowers, all growing wild. Little violets, and bluebells, and yellow primroses and cowslips; and there were dear little white daisies, and large red poppies, and lots more, too many for me to tell, it would take so long.'

'All night, eh, tousin Anne?' asked bright eyes, again.

'Yes, darling—to tell you all of them.'

'O, don't tell all, tousin Annie. Maudie want to seep by-bye.'

'Don't talk, Maudie dear; you interrupt,' said Alice, gently stroking her baby sister's silky hair.

'And there was a clear, pebbly brook winding its way between the green, flowery banks. The brook used to sing all day and all night to the little fawns; and the dear little birds used to sing to—oh, so sweetly. There were thrushes, and blackbirds, and larks, and pretty little goldfinches.'

'And 'ittle dicky-birdies too, tousin Anne?'

'Yes, pet. And the busy bees used to hum so merrily; while they were gathering their honey; and the bright yellow butterflies used to fly about among the long grass in the warm sunshine. Sometime the little fawns would chase them; and then they would fly a little way to a pretty flower, and stand tiptoe on it, till the fawns would nearly catch them, and then away they would fly again!'

'Oh, what fun,' exclaimed Alice, clapping her hands excitedly.

'The little fawns like to live in this beautiful forest, where the grass was so green and soft; and they thought it was the most beautiful place in the world. But one day the mother deer saw a large, fierce wolf prowling about, and she was frightened that he wanted to kill her two dear little fawns; and so, while the little things would be scampering about, she would stand upon a big rock and watch for the wolf.'

'But, cousin, why would the wicked wolf want to kill the harmless little fawns!' asked Alice.

'To eat them, Alice,' replied Cousin Anne.

'Maudie, eat wolf!' exclaimed birdie, sitting up—her eyes glowing with sympathy for the poor fawns.

'Oh, don't talk, Maudie!' exclaimed Florence, impatiently. 'You keep interrupting.'

'Speak gently to little sister, Flo.,' said her mother, looking up from her knitting.

As answer, Flo. stooped over the talkative little puss, and, kissing her, whispered, 'Don't talk any more, that's a dear.'

'One day,' continued cousin Annie, 'when she was watching, she saw the wolf stealing along, and it came up close to the little fawns; but they didn't see it. Then the mother called them to run to her as fast as they could; but they wouldn't, and pretended they did hear.'

'What naughty 'ittle tings!' cried the irrepressible Maudie.

Flo. put her finger on birdie's lips reprovingly, 'Oh, don't talk any more, Maudie!'

'Then the mother deer——'

'O, if here isn't Percy!' cried Florence, rushing into her brother's arms, as he stood in the entrance of the half-open door.

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CHAPTER III.

Table of Contents

There's a divinity that shapes our ends,

Rough hew them as we will.

—SHAKSPEARE.

Directly after breakfast, next morning, Percy Sinclair saddled Marlborough and rode into York to look about for a successor to his old friend. It was upon Marlborough that he had received his first riding lessons, and the old horse had served him faithfully for so long, that he had now fairly earned his pension. A false step the night before, which nearly resulted in a fall, urged his master to superannuate him at once, though, with care, there was plenty of work in him yet. Percy Sinclair was so absorbed in 'reading up,' that he could not rest till he removed all excuse for leaving his studies, and so lost no time in setting forth on his horse dealing expedition. He had barely ridden half-way, when he met a rough-looking man, mounted upon a beautiful brown cob. He drew rein and gazed upon it with admiration. It was a deep-chested animal, with a magnificent barrel, and a splendid set of legs. It came along proudly champing its bit, and prancing (the rider was touching it with the further spur); and with its arched neck, and fiery, glancing eyes, was a grand looking horse. As the rider came abreast of Percy Sinclair, he reined in, and, wheeling the cob half round, said, 'There, Mr. Sinclair! Don't see a piece of horseflesh like this every day.'

'He is a splendid animal, certainly. Will you sell him?' Percy inquired, as he recognised in the speaker the notorious Darby Gregson.

'What do you think he's worth?' asked the cautious Darby, in reply. He intended wringing as much as he could from his victim, though he was not to 'stick at a price.'

'That is not for me to say!' returned Percy Sinclair. 'What is it you want for him? Name your figure, and if it is not too high, I may purchase him. I want another horse.'

'Yes; I know. I was bringing him out to Elmsdale to show him to you.'

'Indeed! Why, I only returned home last night.'

'I know; I saw Mr. George Darrell at the Royal Hotel this morning; and I heard him telling Mr. Werning about your old chestnut stumbling yesterday. He said you wanted a new one.'

'Yes. The old fellow is getting rather shaky now.'

'Well, what do you say to half a century?' said Darby, half inclined to ask for a whole one.

'Fifty pounds! Yes, I will give you that for him, if he is as sound as he looks!' Sinclair replied.

'Curse it! he'd have given the hundred, if I had only asked,' muttered Darby savagely. His avarice was whetted by the readiness with which Sinclair agreed to the price. 'Don't you think he's worth seventy-five?'

'To be candid with you; if he is as good as he looks, he ought to be worth a hundred guineas,' replied Sinclair; 'but with me, it is not so much what he is worth, as what I can afford to give. Will you take the fifty; I can give no more.'

'You are going into York? asked Darby, who could not sell without Bow being by to witness.

'Yes!'

'Well, he is not mine; he belongs to my mate. But he wants to sell him; and if you will go with me, I dare say he'll take fifty; though it really isn't enough.

Disregarding the last suggestion, Sinclair replied, 'Thank you, I will see your mate; and if you have no objection to changing horses, I will try his on the way.'

Darby raising none, they changed; and the cob acquitted himself so well that Sinclair felt half inclined to give the other twenty-five that Darby had asked for; but recollecting several expensive books he required, he decided to buy a commoner horse, if he could not get him for the fifty.

Bow was wailing for them at a livery stable in one of the back streets.

'Mr. Sinclair 'll give fifty for the cob, Bow, and I think you had better take it,' said Darby to his companion, as he dismounted from Marlborough.

'He can have him at that,' answered Bow, in a husky voice.

Darby Gregson looked at his mate with a frown, and said significantly, 'You'd better go over to Turner's and get a glass of brandy. This cold weather's too much for your nerves. Just go and warm 'em up a bit!'

Bow hurried off as if glad to be released. He looked more like a culprit going to his own funeral, or a lovelorn swain at a rival's wedding, than the thriving horse-dealer Darby had introduced him to Sinclair as. He had not been himself since the night of the conspiracy. He had undertaken work that his heart was not in; and conscience, that still small voice that will be heard, was making him very uncomfortable.

After the sale was effected, and Darby Gregson with his usual cunning had contrived to let all the idlers about the stables understand that Mr. Sinclair was the purchaser of the splendid brown cob at the door, they went across the street to Turner's Weaver's Arms, to settle and give a receipt. A couple of betting-men were at the door; one of them recognised Clayton's horse. 'Holloa, Gregson,' he exclaimed, 'What are you doing with the Captain?'

'O, Clayton sold him to my mate, Bow; and he has just sold him again to Mr. Sinclair, here, for fifty notes. Dirt cheap, isn't it?' answered Darby.

'Has the cob foundered, or what's wrong with him?' the betting man asked with a significant leer.

'Nothing. He's sound as a bell,' returned Darby, grinning.

The betting man shrugged his shoulders incredulously, and Darby Gregson followed Sinclair into the parlor. Bow was already there, and held in his hand the five ten-pound notes that Sinclair had just given him. Darby Gregson wrote out a receipt, as Sinclair was impatient to get away; and the pretended horse-dealer signed it with a cross. Wishing the villains good day, Percy Sinclair left the parlor; and, sending Marlborough back to Elmsdale by the ostler, he mounted 'Whirlwind,' as he called his new horse, and rode on to pay his promised flying visit to George Darrell, little dreaming of the terrible storm that was brewing. It must have been some strange presentiment of impending trouble, that led him to give his horse so ominous a name. An awful whirlwind was about to burst on his devoted head.

As soon as Mr. Sinclair left the room, Darby Gregson filled in the cheque with the amount received for the horse, and then rang for drinks. As the bar-maid entered, the cheque slipped from his fingers, and fluttered away under the table. He stooped down and searched for it with great diligence, but in an opposite direction, and the girl picked it up and handed it to him.

'Ah! thank you, Dora!' he said, with a grin, intended for a smile; and taking the paper from her, asked if she didn't think the signature a strange one.

'John Greville! Yes, it is a curious scrawl—the G's more like an E,' she said, carelessly. 'What shall I bring you?'

'Dark brandy! And you, Bow?'

Bow shook himself up from his brown study, and jerked out 'Gin,' and then relapsed again. Poor Bow, he would have given his life to undo the work of the last ten minutes; but had not the courage to inform against Clayton and Gregson.

After swallowing the spirits, the pair went into the bar; and Darby offered the cheque to the publican to take out the price of their drinks.

'Fifty pounds! No, I haven't it by me! John Greville, who's he? I don't know the name,' said Mr. Turner, as he drew a pint of half-and-half for a thirsty mason.

'I don't know the man; but the cheque's right enough. I got it from Mr. Percy Sinclair just now, for the horse I sold him,' Darby said.

'I dare say it's safe; but I haven't the change,' returned the publican.

Darby's infamous purpose being served, he pocketed the cheque, and paid in silver for the drinks, and then, followed by the miserable Bow, left the hotel.

As soon as they were in the street, Darby proposed taking the cheque to the bank at once to get it off their hands; so they repaired to the Bank of Yorkshire, and presented it for payment. As if fate was party to the atrocious conspiracy, Mr. Inspector Barlow, of the York detective force, stepped in just after them.

'I want this cheque cashed,' said Gregson to the cashier. He felt rather confused, despite his bombast, for he felt the Inspector's eyes to be upon him, as a cat's upon its anticipated prey. Many a time the Inspector had run him close; but hitherto, by his cunning stratagems, Darby had foiled him.

The cashier glanced at the cheque. John Greville! This is a Cambridge cheque, I see. There will be a discount to deduct; and you must endorse it,' he said, regarding Darby and his queer-looking companion with suspicion.

'Ah! that reminds me! I offered the cheque just now to one of my tradesmen to take a small account out; and the man (he comes from Cambridge) says the name is a forgery. Now, if it is, I am not going to endorse it. Am I?'

At the mention of forgery, Mr. Inspector Barlow pricked up his official ears, and listened attentively, though he was just then very busy searching the Wanteds in the mornings Guardian.

'If you have anything about with his signature on, you might compare them;' suggested Darby, who was anxious to get away out of the inspector's sight as soon as possible.

'A cheque of Sir John's was passed through this bank yesterday,' said the cashier, after a moment's reflection. 'We can soon see if this one is genuine,' saying which he went in search of it.

'Where did you get that cheque from?' asked Mr. Inspector Barlow, authoritatively, as he took out his memorandum book.

Bow hung down his head, self-condemned; but Darby replied with the lie he had new repeated at least a dozen times in the last hour, 'From young Mr. Sinclair, of Elmsdale.'

'What business transactions had you with Mr. Sinclair?' pursued the inspector, as he jotted the information down.

'I sold him a horse this morning,' returned Darby, quailing beneath the piercing eyes of his old enemy.

Here the cashier returned with a genuine cheque. After a careful study of the two signatures be called the inspector, and said, 'Mr. Barlow, just look here a moment; this is as clever a forgery as I ever saw!'

The inspector examined the cheques attentively for a few seconds. 'Yes, Mr. Ingram, it is a forgery; and a clever one!'

'Not so clever, but there is a blunder in it,' replied the cashier, looking at the names through a pocket microscope. 'See, Sir John's second initial is L—Lionel, I think—and in joining the last letter of John to the surname he makes a minute capital L in the hairline. There is only a curve in the forged signature.'

'You are right!' exclaimed Mr. Barlow, admiringly. 'Pity you never joined the force. You would have made a good detective.'

'Here, Mr. Barlow, this is more your business than mine; you will know best what to do with it,' said the cashier, handing the cheque to the inspector.

'Yes, I think I can work up a case!' the officer replied. 'And now what about these men?'

'Well, I think the best thing you can do, sir, is to go back to the Weaver's Arms with me and Bow, and old Joe Turner and the barmaid can prove who paid it to me,' said Darby.

Mr. Barlow scratched his head very deliberately for a couple of minutes, and then, saying, 'Just wait here for a moment,' darted out into the street, and across to the barracks, from whence he returned almost immediately with a brand-new policeman.

'Murphy, stay with these two gentlemen till I come back; I shall be back in half an hour!' said the Inspector, and then darted off again.

Mr. Murphy, alive to the great responsibility of his position, planted himself firmly by the wall close to the opening of the door, from which situation he eyed his prisoners, much as a cat would a mouse, always seeming to be looking somewhere else, yet ready to pounce upon them if the least attempt was made to escape. After a professional survey of his charge, out of the corners of his eyes, Mr. Murphy decided that Bow, whose face was pale as pipeclay, and whose whole appearance exhibited symptoms of remorse, was the one that would swing, Mr. Darby Gregson being only 'accomplish.' Mr. Murphy, having been in the force only about a fortnight, formed very decided opinions, and prided himself upon being able to see through a prisoner 'like a lamplighter.' In what particular way the simile of the lamplighter was used I am not in a position to say. Probably Mr. Murphy's meaning had reference to the traditionary expedition of that remarkable biped. With a withering glance at poor Bow, and a grave shake of his judicial head, Mr. Murphy muttered, 'Yer jist up for infanticide or bigamy, ye spalpeen, as sure as I'm one of his Majesty's officers of the pace! Ah! yer don't think it p'r'aps, but I can see through yer jist like a lamplighter.'

Altogether unconscious of being seen through like a lamplighter, poor Bow stood in the farthest corner of the room, diligently counting the flooring boards within view, while Darby