Chapter the 1st

To the modern city dweller, eyes and ears accustomed to the everyday clangour of gas-lights and railway-stations, advertising-hoardings and omnibuses, there are few sights more pleasant than the English country house. The house with which we are concerned, a modest, airy, modern gentleman's residence set amongst rustic scenery and soft hills, was just such a one. Its honey-coloured stone, blushing gently in the slanting rays of the sinking sun, which glances its ruddy light from the casemented windows, conveys the very image of peace and prosperity.

The house is surrounded by a pretty sort of garden-ground, which though not extensive, is laid out with a pretty rusticity. The abundance of all the sweetest and simplest cottage flowers which lend charm to an English country garden, the taste with which they are arranged, seems to proclaim that the garden's planning was the work of at least one of the two young ladies we now see strolling on the wide gravel walk beside the house, their arms entwined around one another's waists.

Some seventeen years previously, the widower William Trent, a prosperous merchant, now retired from business, had loved and married a penniless widow, Mrs Evelyn Wade, This lady's two-year old daughter Adeline had become sister and companion to Mr Trent's 6-year-old olive branch, Lydia.

Adeline and Lydia were now fine-grown young women, but there still remained between them the same sisterly feeling - the elder to comfort and advise, the younger to lean and confide - as there had been when little Lydia had shared her sweets and playthings, and kissed bruised knees when her Adele's toddling steps went astray, and when little Adeline had picked flowers and nestled up to 'my Widdy, for a 'tory, and a tiss'. Let us meet them now, as they round the corner of the house.

If we notice Miss Adeline first, we shall be no different to ninety-nine of a hundred other persons. Though none of her features was, in and of itself, worthy of exceptional comment, there was something in their symmetry and arrangement which seemed to tap into some primal aesthetic sense, the same which finds beauty in a landscape or a flower. It was of a flower that Lydia most reminded one, with a clear, almost transparent complexion, of the same creamy white and blush pink as the old-fashioned roses she loved. Her eyes were large, fringed with thick black lashes which drooped captivatingly upon her blush-rose cheek, the eyes themselves being of a peculiar hazel hue, which seemed to change colour with her mood, from dazzling green to cat-like yellow, to limpid and fascinating brown. Her hair was as changeable as her eyes and her cheeks, the chestnut locks which curled softly from low on her brow, and seemed always on the verge of escaping those feminine confinements, in the form of pin and comb, with which she daily tried to tame her tresses, glinted with golden lights by day, rich auburn by candlelight.

Now, at nineteen years of age, Adeline's figure was fully developed to a blooming womanliness, but was yet slender and girlishly graceful as she clung to her sister-in-law like a climbing rose.

Lydia, at twenty-three the elder of the two, was less arresting, though far from utterly unlovely. Her brownish complexion and mass of dead-gold hair (of a shade called sandy by the uncharitable) were relieved by a pair of sparkling grey eyes, expressive of much intelligence and good humour (except when she was angry, which was not often, when they hardened to chips of slate), and a wide, mobile mouth which, while unremarkable in repose, was as expressive as her eyes, and just now was rendered lovely by the tenderest of smiles as she bent her head lovingly over her sister's.

Lydia's stature was greater than Adeline's, her figure less formed and less graceful, but there was nevertheless an elasticity in her step, a spring in her movements, and a firmness in the set of her shoulders which suggested energy, spirit and resolution.

Forgive me if I have lingered too long on the image of these two girls, the younger leaning on the elder, the fading sun dyeing their simple white summer gowns the shades of a peace-rose. I saw them so once, and it is a sweet and tender picture that will remain forever in my memory.

On this particular soft June evening, the girls were taking a stroll before retiring to dress for dinner, to examine the progress of sundry tender seedlings that Adeline had recently had planted out, and to talk over the day's small events (oh, whenever are they large events, that young ladies - cabin'd, cribbed, confined – can ever find to talk about?).

“How kind it was of Alfred to bring me the new song from London,” murmured Adeline, then in a tone of more enthusiasm, “I shall learn it directly – he was obliging enough to express a wish to hear me play it.”

“Yes, Mr Denham is obliging indeed.” dryly observed Lydia, with a hint of amusement.

“Oh Lyddy, you are always so cold, with your 'Mr Denham this' and 'Mr Denham that'. Anyone would think you held dear Alfred in aversion!”

“I should be monstrous indeed to dislike one who is so pleasant to all, and so very kind to my dearest Adele – but still you are a grown woman now and there are proprieties to be thought of.”

“But to call him Mr Denham now, when he has been Alfred since I was 6 years old, and you went to school, and he took pity on me and made me a whistle and took me birds-nesting, after he found me crying for very loneliness in the lane one day, and he has been my friend ever since – why, how heartless he would think me, he would wonder what on Earth he had done to offend me!” exclaimed Adeline, spirited in the defence of her childish champion.

“When you left school last year was the time that the change in your relations should have taken place – however I accept it is probably now too late to change the habit now. I only beg that you try to curb yourself of speaking of him as 'Dear Alfred', which you know you are sadly wont to do. I do not wish to be stuffy, but it does sound very particular, almost as if he was your accepted lover.”

Though this matronly speech was made in a good-humoured tone, Adeline started imperceptibly, and was silent, as if a new and surprising thought had just arisen in her head, and she remained thoughtful until the girls went inside to dress for dinner.

Chapter the 2nd

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, and the girls retired to dream of... who knows. Whatever wild fancies whispered themselves in the fair sleepers' ears that night did not, however, disturb their rest, and they met at breakfast the next morning composed and refreshed.

After this meal, Adeline decamped to the instrument, to make what headway she could against the vagaries of the fashionable song, while Lydia busied herself writing letters for her father, before taking up a piece of knitting to sit with her stepmother.

Mr Trent was a fine and hearty gentleman of two and fifty summers. The one great sorrow of his life was the loss of his first wife shortly after Lydia was born, and the great consolation of his life was his two daughters – for Adeline also filled a daughter's place in his heart. He was a kind and indulgent father, who genuinely enjoyed the company of his girls. He was never too weary or too bowed down with care to talk to them, listen to their little concerns, share their joys and sorrows, advise, inform and guide them. And truth be told, amongst the treasures hid deep in the recesses of his desk, sharing a lavender-and-rose-leaf fragranced drawer with the precious packet of letters and lock of hair from his beloved Sylvia, lay a somewhat larger packet of letters, all more or less blotted and misspelled, in the large round hand of a couple of unruly schoolgirls. These letters had been his solace and refuge when weighed down with business cares - for prosperity had come and gone and come again for old William Trent, and he had supped at their contents as other men sup brandy-and-water – and he could no more bear to part with them now than he could bear to part with the writers. If he had been disappointed in his second wife, if she was not the all-in-all to him he had found in Lydia's mother, then he at least had the tact and gentlemanly feeling not to show the world, or his daughters, his disillusionment. Though loving words and tender gestures had long since been laid aside, he showed the second Mrs Trent every consideration. Though he could not love or respect her, he could still treat her with the gentle courtesy he felt was due to his wife. No harsh word was spoken, no request refused, no expressed wish unfulfilled if it was in his power.

What of Evelyn Trent? Perhaps the greatest cause of the fading of her husband's love was not a lack of affection for himself after their marriage – that he had hoped for but never expected in a second attachment. It was rather the lack of tenderness she displayed toward his beloved Lydia. To give the lady her due, she did not play favourites, nor attempt to advance her own daughter's claims at the expense of her stepdaughter's – she showed the same want of motherly regard to both girls. Although in their early years William had devoted what time he could spare to their education, Evelyn had argued strongly for their being sent to school, and though to be parted from his two bright comforters gave him many a pang, to Hastings House, a smart gynaeceum on the outskirts of London, some fifty miles distant, they went. Mr Trent would visit them often when he was in town, wining a reputation as a 'perfect love of a papa' amongst the Hastings House girls by the judicious distribution of ices and drives in the park. During vacation times, Mrs Trent on the other hand had been all in favour of them accepting this or that invitation, or else visiting friends herself. Now they had both returned, she seemed to regard them in the same light, somewhat, as one would regard a paid companion. It was necessary to have them around, to dress and feed and guard them. It was not necessary to love them.

Mrs Trent and Lydia sat together now in the morning-room, Lydia ensconced in the window-seat, knitting industriously at a scarlet worsted comforter destined for the throat of one of the poor children of the village, Mrs Trent picking at an endless piece of fancy embroidery, and complaining of the poor light – though she habitually seated herself in the shadiest corner, conscious of the signs of age advancing across her visage despite cold veal and patent wrinkle removers. That is not to say that Evelyn Trent was not a handsome woman – at six-and-forty she still had a fine, imposing figure and a mass of dark auburn hair. Her complexion, though showing a trace of the crow's-foot about the eyes, was still relatively smooth and unblemished. Her eyes were of a steely blue which could either freeze or melt the object of her gaze, depending on which effect she wished to accomplish. She affected a simple style of dress, choosing to display her wealth and taste in the choice of luxurious fabrics and modish cut rather than abundance of trimming and gaudy baubles. By candle-light, she could have passed easily for eight-and-thirty.

The complexity of her embroidery was in truth more an excuse to retire into her own private thoughts than a way to occupy herself. By affecting to be deep in the mysteries of counting stitches or matching colours, she could avoid being obliged to make conversation. On this occasion, however, she felt disposed to talk, or at least to vent the ill-humour she seemed afflicted with this morning. At breakfast time, amongst the various letters and invitations the servant had laid on her plate, was one in a hand that was familiar to her, but which she had not seen in many a long year. She had turned a little pale as she noticed the direction, but had put it casually in her pocket with the rest to read in private after breakfast. The letter's contents had troubled her greatly, and now she sought to dispel some of her anxiety.

“Dear me, Lydia, what a ridiculous choice of colour for poor-box work. Scarlet, indeed! Why, before long you'll be tricking the pauper brats out in muslin and spangles. And I do wish you would find a more genteel occupation than knitting – poking away like an old farmer's wife. I'm sure it isn't quite ladylike.”

“Why, it was my particular friend at Hastings House, Lady Sarah Clarendon, who taught me how, Mama.” returned Lydia mildly, for she had had long practice in the soft answer that turneth away wrath. “And scarlet does have the advantage of being such a warming colour.”

Before Evelyn could think of a suitable reply to this, a smart double rap was heard at the door.

“I expect that will be that infernal puppy of a Denham boy yet again. Really, it is quite provoking the way he hangs about this house. I beg that if you do plan to receive him you will take him into the garden or the parlour – I have a sad headache this morning and cannot bear company, least of all his.”

Lydia merely bowed her head in acknowledgement, and a moment later the maid appeared, close followed by Mr Alfred Denham himself, bringing a breath of the fine summer morning with him.

“Good morning ladies, begging your pardon for the intrusion, Mrs Trent, your devoted servant, Miss Trent. I came to see if anyone would care to join me in a drive up to the Abbey – it's such a glorious day for a drive.”

“I must beg to be excused, young man,” was Evelyn's acerbic reply, “but I'm sure both the girls would be most happy to join you.”

“Thank you Mama” returned Lydia. “Yes, Mr Denham, a drive on this fine morning sounds lovely. I'll just fetch my bonnet – and Adeline of course. Is there nothing I can fetch you for your headache, Mama?”

“Nothing at all – rest and quiet is all I need” - with an emphasis on the second of those requirements and a pointed glare at Alfred.

At that, Lydia politely took her leave of her stepmother and went in search of Adeline. Alfred was to wait for them in the carriage, where, as it was an open carriage, he took the liberty of lighting a cigar, reasoning that young ladies who say they are just going to fetch their bonnets have a tendency to take an unreasonably long time in this simple operation, so he may as well be comfortable while he waited. He was surprised, then, by the reappearance of Lydia, close followed by Adeline, in something less than five minutes. Lydia had in fact found her sister just emerging from her bedroom, already dressed for walking.

“I heard the door, and surmised it would be Alfred asking us out on such a lovely day” she explained, with an uncharacteristic air of shyness.

Indeed, Adeline's whole bearing was subtly different that day, as Alfred soon discovered. She talked with less vivacity and more restraint than usual, yet often he would turn to find her looking at him with an unfathomable expression in her eyes. When surprised in these scrutinies, she would blush charmingly and turn away with a stilted remark on some feature of the landscape. Not being a vain man, however, Alfred put this change down to a bad dinner or a sleepless night on Adeline's part.

Chapter the 3rd

The Abbey - more properly Tenwood Abbey – was a picturesque ruin some six or seven miles from Allenham. Little remained of the ancient fabric of the monastery, it having been heavily looted for stone in the years succeeding the Dissolution, but a couple of walls still stood, their niches and window-ledges now home to birds rather than saints, and some fragments of the crumbling foundations could yet be traced. Moreover, the peaceful solitude of the Abbey's situation, and the charm of the road leading to it, winding through a pleasant green valley as yet unspoiled by rushing railway or noisome factory, made it a natural destination for the young people's summer drives.

The conversation in the carriage was carried on chiefly between Lydia and Alfred, although when the talk touched on books, poetry, or music, subjects that were close to the sensitive, beauty-loving girl's heart, Adeline was moved to make an occasional, and unusually shy, contribution.

Seeing Adeline's discomfiture, Lydia became concerned, and took advantage of a pause in the conversation, whilst Alfred was distracted by the undertaking of the manoeuvres necessary to pass a bulky farm-cart, to make low-voiced enquiries about Adeline's health. Was anything amiss? Was she in any way indisposed? Ought they to turn back?

“Oh! No – how could I possibly feel indisposed on such a heavenly day? Pray put your mind at rest, Lyddy dear, I am quite well.” Then she continued in a different, musing tone of voice, “Only – your remarks yesterday afternoon did set me thinking so.”

It was, in truth, a lovely day. Though it was late in June, the sun was warm without being oppressive, and a fresh breeze brought the soft scents of grass and flowers. Bees drowsed among the hedgerows, and cattle cropped lazily in verdant fields which resembled green skies spangled with innumerable white and yellow stars. High above, a skylark dropped in and out of sight, though it's song betrayed it's presence even when the height of it's ascent had made it invisible against the clear blue expanse.

“You ought not take my prosing so much to heart.” smiled Lydia, surmising that today's change in manner was a result of yesterday's warning against undue familiarity with the young man – and that Adeline was trying to prove a point by coldness to him who had been numbered amongst her dearest friends for so long.

The refractory farm-cart was passed, the Abbey reached, and Alfred jumped out of the carriage with the intention of handing out the girls, but independent Lydia sprang down without waiting for his assistance. Adeline hesitated a moment before placing her hand in his and descending with a maidenly blush and murmured thanks. Few men could be proof against such a manner, and Alfred unconsciously held on to that fair hand for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, causing yet a deeper blush and a moment's confusion on the part of the damsel.

Lydia came to the unwitting rescue by suggesting they walk to the furthest part of the walls. On previous sorties to the Abbey, the little party had amused themselves by attempting to trace out the ancient foundations as far as they could, and settling amongst themselves how the abbots, long since crumbled to dust, had lived there. She now proposed they continue their researches, but Alfred instead advanced the notion they refresh themselves with a light luncheon.

“Why, to tell the truth, driving in this delightful weather does make one a little hungry,” exclaimed Lydia, “but how on Earth do you propose to obtain supplies out here in the wilderness? I spy a farm over yonder, but it is a stiffish walk across the fields, unless you propose to go round two miles by road.”

“My dear Miss Trent,” returned Alfred with an air of mock pomposity, “how typically feminine of you to assume that a gentleman, a mere male of the species, could not possibly have thought of and prepared for just such a contingency beforehand. Miss Trent, Miss Wade, behold!” and sweeping a low, flourishing bow he produced a neat basket from the carriage. Within a very few moments he had, by the means of carriage rugs, prepared pleasant seats for the party on the remains of a low, broad stone wall, shaded by an immense oak which must have been a seedling long before the Abbey's first stones were laid, and set out a delicate luncheon of cold chicken, cake and fruit.

“How kind you are, Alf... Mr Denham.” said Adeline with one of her most captivating shy smiles.

“It is my pleasure,” Alfred replied, “but I do not believe any man living was ever christened by such an oddity of a name as Alfmister.”

At this, Adeline lapsed once more into that unwonted confusion, which Lydia swiftly covered by pressing her to try a peach, and asking Alfred to kindly fetch her fan, which she believed had left behind in the carriage.

The three ate with the relish of the young, and then Lydia renewed her scheme of investigating the foundations of the old building. Adeline gently demurred – she would much rather sit here quietly and enjoy the sunshine, she had provided herself with a book for this very purpose, she did not believe they would ever settle the question to their mutual satisfaction, and of all things a mystery, particularly an insoluble mystery, was something to which she was indifferent. At this, Alfred spoke warmly in defence of mysteries -

“for where would mankind be if, say, had not Sir Isaac solved the mysteries of motion, Harvey the mysteries of the circulation of the blood, or Stevenson and Trevithick the mysteries of steam locomotion?”

“And even should a mystery prove insoluble,” added Lydia, “then one may still be the gainer by the exercise of one's faculties of reasoning and deduction.”

Being unable to advance any argument that could sway these two true believers, she begged that they would feel free to dig and delve away, as she was perfectly happy here with her book.

Alfred and Lydia spent a happy two hours poking amongst the ruins, enjoying a lively debate about the significance of the square building whose foundations they believed they had traced. Lydia was convinced of it's having once been the chapter house, whilst Alfred stood out equally strongly for it's having been one of the offices – in all likelihood, he declared, the brewery. The dispute was backed up by authorities from the pair's miscellaneous reading, but even as they became conscious of the lateness of the afternoon they still could not agree on the long-fallen building's original use, whether sacred or profane. At the end of all they shook hands and agreed to differ,

“For, it may just as well have been a stable.” remarked Lydia good-humouredly.

Adeline, in the meantime, had been ostensibly occupied with her novel, but in truth the open volume on her lap had today failed to engage her attention. What did it matter to her if Lucilla Finch regained her sight, while Adeline Wade was gaining a deeper insight into her own heart? And so she drowsed the afternoon away, lost in her own thoughts, and her eyes frequently wandering from the page to the two figures over yonder. It must have been coincidence, surely, that the upright, manly figure of Alfred should so often fall within her line of sight.

Alfred was, if no Adonis, well worth looking at. At twenty-five, he still retained some of the air of a schoolboy. He was a little over the average height, and somewhat slightly built – in the days when Adeline had first made his acquaintance he might even have been accused of lankiness. However, he had outgrown the hobbledehoy phase, and his enthusiasm for the more athletic side of University life had filled out his form, which was now manly and well-proportioned. An open, pleasant countenance, intelligent eyes, a schoolboy smile and a good deal of light brown hair completed the picture. In character he was a similar mixture of manly virtues and old-fashioned courtesy, and boyish mischief. He was intelligent, though somewhat inclined to self-gratulation – he had not spent all his time at Oxford rowing and boxing, and had in fact graduated creditably, though not at the head of his class. He had inherited a modest fortune from his mother, which rendered him, though not positively wealthy, to afford all the necessities, and some few of the elegancies, of life. He had some thought of studying the law, or of taking to the pen, but for now his income was ample to the wants of a single gentleman, and so the day when he would 'make something of himself' was - always and always – tomorrow.

Though Lydia and Alfred could not be brought into agreement on the subject of the ruins, they were unanimous in their surprise at the lateness of the hour, and the necessity of departing at once if they were to be home in time for tea.

“For you know how much Mama dislikes waiting.” observed Lydia.

Accordingly, they packed their lunch-things and themselves into the carriage and set off post-haste.

The drive home was even less eventful than the drive out – Adeline remained somewhat silent and absorbed, Lydia and Alfred discussed the Abbey in particular, and ruins in general, and then ancient architecture in all its forms. No slower vehicle impeded their progress now, and before they knew it Alfred was springing from the carriage to open the gate of the house at Allenham.

Just at that moment, Adeline's attention was drawn by a strange man of about 50, rough in appearance and manner, deeply tanned and dressed in workman's clothes.

“Excuse me Miss,” inquired the stranger, in gruff tones, “but would I be speaking to Miss Wade and Mrs Parrish?”

“Why, I am Miss Wade!” involuntarily exclaimed Adeline, “But I know nobody of the name of Parrish.”

Lydia cried out and Alfred turned to see the uncouth man seize Adeline's wrist and half-drag her from the carriage. He sprang forward as the man clasped the resisting girl in a feverish embrace, whispering hoarsely

“Adeline, my little Addy, I'm so sorry. See, I found you at last!”

With a cry of horror, Alfred tore the man's hands from Adeline's now drooping form.

“Get away from her, you brute!” he cried, “What have you to do with Miss Wade? Go, or it shall be the worse for you!” and he raised his carriage whip threateningly. The man sprang away with unexpected agility, and Alfred made to follow him, but was arrested by a gasp from Lydia.

“Oh, Mr Denham, Adeline! Let us get her inside quickly.”

He turned to see Lydia struggling to support Adeline's inert body, as the younger girl swooned in the roadway.

Chapter the 4th

The bustle and confusion that followed Alfred's carrying the swooning girl into the house may be imagined. Every servant in the house was Adeline's staunch ally, her sweetness of manner, her kindness and consideration for all, winning love from all right down to the little scullery maid, whose burned fingers had been dressed many a time by the gentle young mistress. All pressed forward, eager with this or that remedy, all concern and distress. Lydia and the housekeeper agreed, that Adeline ought to be put to bed immediately, for she had sustained a severe shock.

Once Adeline had been comfortably settled, Lydia felt it her duty to tell Mrs Trent all that had occurred.

“Yes,” said Adeline, who was now conscious but weak, “you had better tell Mama And... is Alfred still here? Please give him my grateful thanks. I will never forget how bravely he rushed to my aid.”

Lydia engaged to pass on this message, and descended to the entrance-hall, where Alfred was pacing back and forth.

“She has regained consciousness, and, though somewhat shaken, I am sure she will be better after a little rest. She begged me to thank you for your help – as do I thank you.”

“What else could I do? I swear if that brute has harmed a hair of her head he shall be hunted down!”

“Pray calm yourself, Alfred.” - in her depth of feeling, unconsciously using the christian name that she had forbidden to her sister - “Adeline will be quite well, rest and quiet for a day or two will effect a full cure, I am sure of it. And now I must go and tell Mama what has happened, so I will bid you goodbye.”

And shaking Alfred's hand with a warm, grateful pressure, she passed on.

Mrs Trent took the news of her only daughter's sudden indisposition with admirable calmness, at least until Lydia narrated the distressing encounter with the stranger at the gate. At this she turned quite white, causing Lydia to give her credit for far more motherly feeling than she actually possessed, and became full of questions.

“A strange man? Who? What kind of man? Describe him to me.” Evelyn demanded.

“Well, it happened so quickly I cannot be absolutely sure of details, but I know he had dark brown hair with streaks of grey, he wore a beard and was very tanned, as if he had been at sea or used to outdoor life in some hot climate. His dress was not that of a sailor though – more like a working man, and very worn and dirty. Let me see – he was maybe a little shorter than Mr Denham, but heavier set. I would not like to hazard a guess as to his age – he looked to be fifty or more, but if he had indeed been used to much exposure to the sun he may be younger. He seemed absolutely wild – there was something of the hungry animal in the way he spoke, and, of course, in his actions. Oh, and he spoke with an accent that was not quite English.”

“An accent? What kind of accent? Could it have been an Australian accent?”

“Why, yes, that may have been it – but what makes you think of such a thing?”

“I don't exactly know – something in your description brought to mind the image of a returned convict. This is very worrying. I shall pass on your excellent description to the constable. And of course, I trust that neither you nor Adeline shall set foot outside the grounds without an escort until we are quite certain this ruffian has been apprehended or has quite left the neighbourhood. Now, if you will excuse me, this worry has brought on the return of my headache. And, of course, I must write a note to the constable.”

Lydia bowed and returned to watch by the couch of her sister, who was now sleeping, having been coaxed to drink some chamomile tea.

What of Alfred, while Lydia was undergoing this explanation? His blood was up and his mind racing as he walked back to the modest residence he shared with his father, for in the stir he had quite forgotten about his carriage, and by the time he bethought himself, the horse, tired with his twelve-mile jaunt, had very sensibly taken himself off in the direction of his own comfortable stable. He cast his eyes about him as he walked, eager to catch a glimpse of the ruffianly blackguard who had dared lay a hand on his Adeline, though to what end, for explanation or revenge, he knew not. And yes, he now thought of her as his Adeline – as if that one moment of horror and distress, superadded to her manner toward him in the earlier part of the day, had awakened all his chivalrous instincts, and bound him to his liege-lady for ever. How could he ever forget the surge of anger in his breast at the sight of that tender creature roughly used, or the pity and indignation he had felt when he looked down on that pathetic white face as he bore her in his arms? It seems natural that the distressed one should feel grateful affection toward her deliverer, but is it not full as natural – if not more so – that the rescuer should be inspired thereafter with a feeling of tender responsibility toward the creature he has saved? Affection he had always felt for the girl, but until today he had felt only the warm interest of an elder brother. The events of today were in a fair way to fan the glowing coals of that affection into the bright flames of a lover's passion.

The next morning, Alfred betook himself early to the Trent's house, appearing on the doorstep at an hour when the household would have usually barely finished breakfast. Today, however, he found all in alarm and confusion.

“Lydia, for God's sake tell me, what is the matter? Is it Adeline? Is she worse? Has the doctor been sent for?” were the first words out of Alfred's mouth when Lydia was able to step downstairs to receive him, after a very uncomfortable interval, which in reality was no more than ten minutes, but in Alfred's worried state seemed like an hour. Lydia's face was troubled and pale, and, in the first accession of his passion, his first and only thought was for his beloved.

“No, thank goodness, Adeline is quite well, though we have been forced to keep the news from her. It is - “ and here Lydia's voice shook a little with suppressed emotion - “It is my father. Though he has hidden it from us for fear of causing undue concern, of late it seems he has been subject to spells of dizziness and languor, and this morning he has found himself too weak to rise from his bed. Oh dear, he is very ill, and all my courage seems to desert me.” And with this the brave bright woman, usually so calm and level-headed, burst into a storm of passionate sobs. The shower was a brief one, however, and before Alfred could make the slightest move to comfort her she had regained her composure.

“Forgive me,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a clean handkerchief, “the doctor is expected very soon and I must see him. It will not do for me to break down in front of Papa or Adeline – she must not be worried just now, and Papa would be so grieved to see me upset. Would you do me the great kindness of keeping Lydia occupied while the doctor is expected? I do not wish her to know he has been here. It would be a very great service if you could contrive to distract her somehow.”

And so Alfred was thus requested to do the one thing he most desired, and this was to be his very great service!

“I do hope the doctor is able to give you encouraging news.” he said, with genuine compassion in his tones.

“Thank-you, and again thank-you for your kindness to us. Now, I must go and bathe my face before anyone sees me. Lydia is in the drawing room, practising.”

Alfred bid her a kind farewell and went in search of his old friend and new lady-love.

Chapter the 5th

Sadly, the doctor from Allenham was unable to give any encouraging news, and nor was the London physician later called in to be his coadjutor. Though neither could find any distinct traces of organic disease, it was obvious that William Trent was fading daily. At first he could sit up in bed, to read and talk as brightly as ever, though he was easily tired. In the early days of his illness there were days when he would feel better entirely, and defy his doctors by insisting on getting dressed, when he would return to his usual pursuits – for a few hours, at least, until a fresh dizzy spell sent him back to bed. As the weary weeks wore on, however, he slowly lost more and more ground. First the intervals in which he could sit up grew shorter, and he required more rest. Then he could no longer read – his eyes grew blurred if he tried to focus on print, then he could no longer sit up in bed. His once-hale form began to become weak and wasted, his appetite dwindled, his mind began to wander at times. A hired nurse was brought in to aid Lydia – for Adeline could not and Evelyn would not perform the work – Evelyn pleaded ill-health herself, and Adeline was too delicate for much watching and anxiety. She had begged to be allowed to help care for her dear Papa, but Lydia felt that such a task would destroy her health entirely. Therefore, Adeline was only allowed to come in once a day to read to the old gentleman, talk to him and comfort him. She only saw him in his best light, and he was visibly cheered by her presence, and so for a considerable time she remained in ignorance of the true state of the case, but there came a sad day when nothing could hide the stamp of death in his face from her loving eyes. Her grief was too deep for tears. she only clung silently to her sister as Lydia softly admitted the truth.

Remedy after remedy was tried without success, test after test was applied to try and ascertain the cause of his sickness, but without avail. William Trent was dying.

During this time Alfred came every day to beguile Adeline's lonely hours, for, excepting that one sad sweet daily pilgrimage to the sickroom, she was either solitary, or left to the uncongenial society of her mother. Bitter-sweet were these hours to Adeline – bitter because of the great sadness that hung over her, sweet because they were spent in the company of the old friend she had long admired and was now swiftly coming to love. At first Alfred tried to soothe and interest her with books and music, but she could play nothing now except the sweet old songs her father loved, and could read nothing now except what she read to him. Instead, she talked of happier days with her dear Papa, the only father she had ever known. Alfred took her out walking or driving every day, and attempted in vain to convince Lydia to join these excursions, lest she sacrifice her own health by constant attendance on the sick man. Adeline did derive some solace in these outings, in the shape of every cottager or villager they passed, who, with concerned face and anxious voice, paused to enquire after the health of the invalid. The desolate girl was in some wise comforted by the daily reminders of how much her step-father was respected and loved in the neighbourhood.

Indeed, everyone was very kind, sending not only polite inquiries, but all manner of miscellaneous items to relieve the poor sufferer – from old Mrs Hopwood's gift of a lavender-pillow, 'in 'opes as it would 'elp the gentilman to sleep more natural, like', to fruit and other delicacies, more or less refined, depending on the donor, to try and tempt the failing appetite, and the Rector's bottles of very fine old port, the reverend gentleman having heard that the doctor recommended a glass of that superior wine daily, and his having picked up a few bottles, the remnants of a bankrupt Earl's cellar, at a considerable bargain the previous summer. This last, however, Evelyn declined to accept. They had a goodly supply of a particularly fine vintage, which was reserved entirely for Mr Trent's own use. The key of the bin, which was allowed to pass into no other hand, and from whence she poured her husband's daily dose with her own hand, was held by Evelyn herself, much to the discomfiture of the butler, who held that women had no business in a wine cellar. This was perhaps the only service the selfish and worldly woman performed for her ailing husband.

And so the weary days and weeks rolled on, until weeks turned to months, and the summer, which seemed to have ended in June for the younger members of the household at Allenham, slipped inexorably into autumn. Mr Trent's tenure on Earth was slowly becoming fainter and fainter. There was a worrying time in September when he became quite wild and frenzied, and though he was too weak to rise, he would exhaust himself by his restless and desperate movements – on some occasions it had taken all the strength of both Lydia and the hired nurse to prevent him hurling himself out of bed entirely. During these frenzies he would shriek and moan incoherently, showing no recognition of Lydia, the dear daughter he loved so well. Lydia began to think they may have to have him committed, and at this she thought her heart would well-nigh break.

But now the fits and frenzies had abated, and the poor old gentleman slept for a great deal of the time, if sleep it was, and not just another species of fit. Lydia had by this time established a routine, whereby she would watch in the sickroom until the clock struck three, to allow the nurse, who had the hard physical parts of nursing to do, to get some rest. At three of the clock, she would retire to snatch a few hours sleep, then rise at eight to prepare the invalid's breakfast – though more often than not it would remain uneaten. Then she would relieve the nurse for an hour or two, after which time they watched together until dinner time, and the patient's evening dose – after this the nurse would retire for some well-earned rest, though always within call, and the whole dreary round began again.

One night, during this quiet period, Lydia was sitting by the fire in the sickroom, knitting to keep herself awake. It was almost two of the clock, and there was barely a sound except the soft breathing of the patient, and the rather more stentorian exhalations of the nurse, who lay within call on a couch in the next room. There was little to do until her father's next dose, at three, and Lydia began to find herself drifting into a reverie.

Her thoughts were carried forward into the dreary future, and she began to bethink herself of what might become of her. Without her father, all that made home a bright and happy place would perish. To be sure, there was still her sister, but she had begun to see how the land lay between Alfred and Adeline, and she was sure that before very long Adeline would depart to a home of her own. What then? The thought of living in solitude with her stepmother was not to be borne, and though she might be assured of a home with her sister and brother-in-law, playing the gooseberry may soon pall. The idea that she may marry herself had never crossed her mind – simple duties, simple pleasures, were all she had looked to as her happiness in life, she had never yet been disturbed by longings for romantic passion. Good books, good work, and lively and intelligent conversation with a congenial mind, such as she had enjoyed with her father, were her ideal of a happy life. Not for the first time, she wished she had been born a man, or at least a poor woman – for though not an heiress she would yet inherit a couple of thousands which would ensure her a comfortable, if not extravagant, income. She longed to have some work to go to, where she might be of the world and in the world – to be a lawyer, a doctor, a writer, even to go out as a governess or a nurse, to bring her able mind into contact with other intelligent souls. To spend her life mewed up here with her knitting, and her stepmother's bitter complaints and monotonous converse, was a doom the most awful to her, though she would face it cheerfully enough, and none should ever know how she longed to break out.

Lydia was awoken from this dismal train of thought by a slight sound, as of a door closing. Had she not known that it was her stepmother's nightly habit to lock and bar every door and window in the house, before retiring, she would have sworn to it having been the 'snick' of the latch of the garden door.

She had just made sure of the sound that disturbed her having been a loose coal in the fireplace, and taken up her knitting, which had fallen unregarded in her lap, with renewed energy, when she became conscious of a stealthy tread on the stair outside the room, and a faint rustle, like the whispering of a silk dress, in the passageway beyond the closed door.

On a bold impulse, she sprang to the door, candle in hand, and opened it to confront her stepmother, cloaked and carrying a pair of walking shoes which were damp with dew, passing to her bedroom a few doors beyond that of the sick man.

“Why, Mama!” said Lydia in surprise, gently pulling the sickroom door to behind her, lest she disturb the sleepers within, “Whatever is the matter? What keeps you abroad so late?”

“I cannot see,” said Evelyn, with some asperity, “what concern my movements can possibly have for you.”

“None at all, Mama, only you surprised me so. I had been sure you had retired to bed hours ago.”

“If an explanation will give you any satisfaction, then perhaps I should beg to inform you that I found myself stuffy and unable to sleep, so I took a couple of turns on the terrace (for so she designated the broad gravel walk behind the house) in the hopes that a breath of fresh air would refresh and tire me. Finding that it has had the desired effect, I wish you would allow me to retire. And I might remark, young lady, that in my younger days, it was not thought proper for a young person to question the comings and goings of her elders.”

“Of course Mama, I did not mean to be impertinent. I bid you goodnight.”

Evelyn passed into her bedroom, and Lydia went to wake the nurse, it being close upon three o clock, and time for Mr Trent's medicine.

Chapter the 6th

In the distress of Mr Trent's illness, Adeline's alarm had been all but forgotten. The subject was renewed, however, by a report from one of the stable boys that his brother, who was ostler at the Crown, the village's principal – indeed, only – inn, had reported seeing “a foreign-talking gent – not so rough-looking as 'im who was so rough to our dear young leddy”, but, excepting his apparel, answering fairly to Lydia's description, using the coffee-room at the inn, though by all accounts he was not and had not been staying there. It was thought best not to apprise Adeline of this worrying rumour – other concerns had wiped all trace of that one moment of horror from her daily thoughts, but Lydia did bethink herself to warn one of the housemaids, Bessie, who had been absent from the house at the time due to illness in her family.

“Stop a moment, Bessie, I want to talk to you.” said Lydia, the next time she saw the girl about her work.

“Yes, Miss?”

“I merely wished to ask you to keep your eyes open for any stranger hanging about the gates, as Miss Adeline was troubled by a strange man while you were absent. Pray take care when you are out and about, as we have reason to believe he is still in the neighbourhood.”

“A stranger you say, Miss? Well, to be sure, I do believe as I've seen more than one of that sort about here lately, and what's more I seed the Mistress a-talking to 'em.”

“Why Bessie, whatever can you mean? How could you have seen Mrs Trent talking to strangers?”

“Well Miss, it's like this. The fust time was mebbe a month or so back – you recall I have my evening out once a month, and last month I went into the village to 'ave tea with my sister what is lately married. Anyway tea led to dancing, and dancing led to supper, and supper led to talking and telling stories, til before I knew it twas arter one in the morning and there was me expected back afore eleven. Well as soon as I seed what time it was, I bid my friends goodnight and set off walking as fast as my legs could carry me. When I got to the quietish bit of road just beyond the oak at the turning of the lane, I swear I seed the Mistress standing talking to some ill-looking fellow just before the gate, only off to one side a bit. I didn't have time to hang about, so I cut in through the side gate where I was fortunate as Maisy the scullery maid was still awake to let me in – you know she's been waiting up o nights since the Master was took bad, in case he should want anything, though she's half-asleep on her feet most of the time in consequence.”

“I did not know that Maisy waited up – I must make sure the poor girl gets some rest, for her work is hard enough without her keeping awake half the night. But tell me, are you sure you recognised Mrs Trent? And what of the man?”

“Well I didn't see her face, like, as she was cloaked and hooded, but I'd swear to it being the mistress's dark blue cloak, and her very way of standing and walking. As to the man, it were moonlight so I got a fair enough look at him. He were dark-skinned, with a beard, and sort of desperate-looking, if you call to mind what I mean. What the mistress could possibly have to say to the likes of him I don't pretend to understand. They was talking too low for me to hear, but they both seemed agitated, like.”

“If you say you did not see her face, then it is possible you may have been mistaken – however bright the moonlight, it was still night, and things do look very different by night. But stop, you say you have seen my stepmother out more than once?”

“Yes – the other time was a week or two since. I'd been on an errand or two in the village, to fetch a trifle of ribbon or some such for Estelle (Mrs Trent's French ladies-maid) and a few bits and bobs for Cook, and I took a short cut through that bit of copse. To be sure I wouldn't go such a lonely way of a night, but it was broad daylight so I thought it no harm. Anyway, this time I seed her a-walking and talking to a different man. This one was sort of cockney-looking, with a purple neckerchief and a swagger, like those folks at the races or the fair who tries to ape the gentry. He had black hair and a scar on his face – a broken nose too, if I'm any judge, for I have a brother as used to be a boxer, and has just such a nose. Anyway, this time I heard them too. 'Something must be done,' she said, 'You will not fail me?'

“Then he says, 'not if the money's all square – whisht, there's someone coming' – that were me, like, and the pair of them whisks off behind the trees.”

“Are you sure it was my stepmother? Could you not be mistaken?”

“Well again I didn't see her face, her being cloaked as before, and having her back to me all the while, but I seed a corner of her hair as she was walking – there's none other hereabouts as have that dark reddish-like hair, and I'd swear to her voice at the assizes, if I were hung for it, so I would.”

“I do not disbelieve what you thought you saw, Bessie, but I find it hard to reconcile what I know of my stepmother's tastes and habits with the idea of her creeping around talking to strangers. On neither occasion did you see her face, so it is possible you were mistaken. In any event, I am sure you see the importance of not mentioning this to anyone else – whether true or not such a rumour could do much harm to my stepmother's reputation. Remember she is Miss Adeline's mother.”

Bessie was fiercely indignant at the imputation that she might be, in kitchen parlance, a 'tattle tale'.

“Of course Miss – I would not dream of saying a word that could harm the poor young lady, angel as she is. Whatever my feelings for my mistress, I wish I could call down all the blessings of heaven on my poor master and you two young ladies.”

“Thank-you Bessie. Your loyalty is greatly appreciated by us all. You may go about your work now.”

Though Lydia was somewhat troubled and very much mystified by this account, she settled the matter by setting it all down as a case of mistaken identities.

“After all,” she said to herself, “Whatever would take Mama out into the woods, or creeping around in the dead of night, let alone having secret interviews with ruffians? The idea is laughable.”

She briefly bethought herself of the occasion when she had indeed found her stepmother 'creeping around in the dead of night', but quickly dismissed the recollection with a shrug, and went in search of her faithful scullery-maid.

This youthful person, Millicent Stubbs by name, known to all as 'Maisy', was a girl of fourteen years of age, though she looked about twelve, and made one of a family of numerous children, for the provision of whose wants their mother took in washing and sewing, and went charing and nursing at all hours, and a father who, being unable to work due to an unfortunate accident several years ago, could barely provide. As soon as her brothers and sisters were old enough to contribute to the family's inadequate income, off they went to work. Maisy spent not a penny of her small wages on herself, her quarterly stipend going instead to bring comfort to the babes still at home. Lydia found the dutiful girl wearily engaged in scrubbing a floor.

“Leave that for the time being, Maisy dear.” she said gently. “Come and sit down for a moment while I speak to you.” and she pulled forward a chair invitingly.

Maisy gratefully took the chair, and looked expectantly at her young mistress. Lydia was grieved to see the great dark circles around those still-childish eyes, and the weary droop of those small limbs.

“Maisy, I have been greatly troubled to find you have been endangering your health and well-being by sitting up half the night, in hope of being of some service to your master. Dear girl, it is not in the least necessary, for Nurse and I are in constant attendance, and can provide anything needful.

“At your age, a time when you are still growing and laying up health for the future, such habitual exhaustion could do great damage.”

Lydia found the young woman most obstinate upon this point.

“For you see, what if you needed something from the kitchen? you might not be able to lay your hang upon the precise thing, while I know where everything is kept and you wouldn't need to disturb Cook. Or if you needed someone to run for the doctor? If you woke one of the men, it would take him some minutes to get dressed and ready to go, while I can run fast – I won races in the village when I were younger, and I'm already dressed and at hand, as it were, to set off without loss of time. I heard that sometimes a delay of a minute can mean the difference between life and...” here she broke off, with an unwillingness to shape even the very word of what all in that house feared and expected daily, as if to name the thing were to bring it sooner.

Finding herself unable to shake the girl's resolution, she merely kissed her and decreed that in that case she must have two hours in each afternoon, in which to rest and recruit her strength, and excused her from morning service on Sundays, that she might sleep a little longer,

“for you can still go to afternoon service, and health of body is paramount if you are to do God's work here on Earth.”

She also ordered that the kitchen fire was left to burn instead of being banked by Cook when that formidable person retired – Maisy would do that herself, and Lydia or Nurse would check that it had been done correctly when they collected the master's beef tea (this last in answer to Cook's stolid declaration that they'd all be burnt in their beds).

And so the number of watchers was increased to four. Lydia and Nurse, counting the dreary hours in the sickroom by doses of medicine and draughts of port-wine and beef tea, though these days it was as much as the combined efforts of the two could do to coax the sick man to swallow more than a spoonful of either strengthening beverage. Adeline, ostensibly asleep in her bed, in reality softly pacing her room in the darkness, unable to sleep, her face wan and miserable in the moonlight. And Maisy, nodding over some piece of plain sewing by the kitchen fire, but jerking into life and attention at the faintest sound.

If patient watching could have availed anything, if devoted nursing and daily visits from the doctors would have done aught, then William Trent would be a living man. But doctors' remedy after doctors' remedy had failed, and all the baffled physicians could hope for now was to keep the poor sufferer comfortable in his last Earthly days. He slept almost constantly now, but late one night Lydia was disturbed by her father calling her.

“Lydia, Lydia dear! Where are you?” and he groped before him blindly.

“Here I am, Papa.” She sprang to the bed-side and grasped his questing hand.

“Lydia dear, take care of your sister, won't you. And your stepmother too – she has not been the kindest of mothers, I know, but...”

“Yes Papa, I will do everything in my power, if she will let me.”

“You are a good girl, Lydia. God bless you.” Here he lapsed into silence.

He was silent for some minutes, and Lydia began to think he had fallen back to sleep, when he spoke again. He seemed to take her for her mother.

“Sylvia! Sylvia, my darling!” Lydia had begun to withdraw her hand, but he clasped it with fierce energy.

“No, dearest, don't let go, don't let go. I need you to guide me, I can't see you, but I'm coming my love. Don't let go.”

Lydia suffered her hand to remain, but he did not speak again. He never spoke again on Earth. All that long night Lydia sat clasping his hand, as he slipped deeper into sleep, and then from sleep to unconsciousness, and from thence to that bourn from which no traveller returns.

As the sun rose on that winter morning, it's first rays fell on a pathetic scene. On that pillow lay two heads. One was that of an exhausted young woman in dark brown cashmere, her sandy hair fallen from its pins and tumbled about her, her face turned toward the occupant of the bed, fast asleep. The other was the thin and wasted face of a man still in the prime of life, and six short months ago so hearty and full of vitality. Now he too slept, the sleep from which none shall awake until the Last Trump sounds. And on the air floated the sound of gaily pealing church bells – it was Christmas.

Chapter the 7th

How sorrowfully dawned that New Year for Lydia and Adeline. They sat together on the morning of New Years Day, reading the funeral service from the prayer book. Their new black dresses were stiff and uncomfortable, but the greater pain within their hearts caused them to forget mere bodily discomfort. Both were pale and wan from the long months of care, their white faces looked the paler against the ground of black caps and black gowns. Outside the window, the bright, pale January sun glittered off a hard frost, and the doleful tolling of the church bell sounded clearly through the cold, still air.

“Do you think they will be long now?” asked Adeline, speaking of the funeral party, expected back from the church shortly.

“No, perhaps a half-hour more. I do hope we have enough cold meat to give them – I have asked James to tap a barrel of beer for the villagers, and there is sherry for the gentlemen, though I know not if there will be glasses enough. I did not quite realise how much respected Papa was in the village, nor quite how well attended his funeral would be.”

“And so when we should be left in peace with our sorrow, we are expected to work and entertain those who did not love him half so well.” This was a bitter speech indeed from the gentle Adeline.

“Nay, dearest, I am glad of it. I need work and bustle, and to think of others. I do believe that if I were left alone with my thoughts for more than an hour together I should go melancholy mad, dwelling on how bleak the future seems just now. Ah, will we ever see bright days again?”

At this, Adeline coloured slightly, for her own bright days that were to come seemed a little closer than Lydia's.

On that joyless Christmas morn, Alfred had found her, walking alone in the garden. Lydia was busy attending to all the dreadful arrangements necessary at such a time, so Alfred had sought out Adeline in the hope he could comfort her a little.

“Oh Alfred, he is gone. Papa... my Papa...” and in a paroxysm of grief she flung herself on his breast, her slender body wracked by great, dry, convulsive sobs. There was no help for it, and Alfred's strong arms stole around her back, until she was nestled in his protecting embrace. Gradually, Adeline's sobs grew less, until she was still, but she did not move to put him away.

“Adeline,” whispered Alfred tenderly, and she looked up at him. Her changeful eyes looked navy blue and bottomless as the sea at that moment, and in those wide, troubled, wild eyes, Alfred suddenly read the whole secret of her heart. How could he help but kiss that sweet pale face, that leaned on his shoulder, clinging to him as protector and friend? Nothing was said – Adeline withdrew, but gently, with no sign of anger or distress at this liberty. No words were necessary – an unspoken understanding now lay between them, a tie as binding as a royal betrothal-contract.

Adeline was awakened from this bitter-sweet recollection by a bustle in the entrance-hall, and by the rustle of silk as Evelyn swept into the morning-room. This lady had kept her chambers the past few days, it being her pleasure to maintain the fiction that she was prostrated by grief, but now thought it best to bestir herself, and so she appeared in magnificent mourning. She veritably glittered with lustrous black silk and jet beads, voluminous flounces of black lace, and fringed shawl. Her auburn hair, which yet showed no hint of grey, was surmounted by a complicated widow's cap, trimmed with yet more black lace, velvet ribbon and jet beadwork.

Contrast this picture of elegant grief with the simple round gowns of black merino her daughters wore, with no ornament save a simple jet cross tied round each slender throat by a narrow black velvet ribbon – these last being Alfred's first gift to his lady, and her sister, as an accepted lover. They were exactly suited to the tastes of both girls, and had been received with affectionate tears.

The magnificent widow had just time enough to arrange herself in an attitude of patient suffering upon a straight-backed chair, and open the tiny morocco-bound prayer-book she carried in her black silk mittened hand, before the entrance of the first of the funeral party.

The first to enter was Mr John Trent, the London stockbroker, brother of William and his junior by three years. He was taller and somewhat stouter than his brother had been, even in his prime. His hair was darker and his face somewhat more angular, with a heavy brow and a decided chin, but he had the same honest eye as his brother, and the same air of intelligence and good humour. This gentleman made his obeisance to the widow, with a polite murmur, then approached his niece and step-niece with an air of kindly solicitude.

“Well now, my dears, and how are you bearing up? As well as can be expected, I hope. You have had a hard time of it, poor girls - poor girls.”

“Thank-you, Uncle, we are as well as we can be. Your part in the arrangements has certainly made this hard time easier.” said Lydia – Adeline was too touched by his sympathy, which was expressed in his tone and manner more, even, than by his kindly words, to make any reply beyond a graceful bow and a brief, wan smile.

“Alas, I never looked to lose my poor brother – only three years my senior, and still in his prime. It is sobering indeed, a very sad business. And Mrs Trent? How does she bear it?”

“She is as well as can be expected,” said Lydia tactfully, painfully aware that in truth her stepmother was little affected by her loss. “You know this sad event has been expected for some weeks now, and no doubt she has grieved much in private.”

“Aye, no doubt – no doubt.”

Alfred now came forward, having followed John Trent into the room, and spent a few moments exchanging commonplace condolences with Mrs Trent, who sighed dolefully and often raised a lace handkerchief to her dry eyes. He pressed each girl's hand with a warm, sympathetic grasp, and then offered Adeline his arm. John Trent likewise escorted Lydia, and the small party, after receiving the condolences of the gentlemen there assembled – friends, neighbours, the rector, both the unhappy physicians who had fought in vain for William Trent's life – moved out into the hallway, where mourners of a humbler class had gathered. The family had never been reluctant to share their wealth with those in need, and, worth more than money, had spread kindness and good cheer wherever they went. William Trent, though elevated by wealth into a fine gentleman, had not forgotten that he had once been in trade, and was not above sharing a pipe, a tankard of ale, and a comfortable chat with some farmer or yeoman. There were some intelligent, well-read men in that village, though they had never set foot near a University, and it was with these that Mr Trent loved to talk, arguing out some thorny problem of politics or trade, lending books, advising, guiding and learning as much from their converse as they did from his.

Lydia and Adeline were now to find just how greatly respected and loved their father had been, and how much good he had done in that little neighbourhood. Each man had some fond recollection to share with the girls, of kindness and good fellowship, of some problem or trouble relieved by the good gentleman's capacious purse or more capacious mind. Each woman – for these humbler orders did not share in the popular prejudice which forbad women a place at the funerary rites – had some kind word to say of the true gentleman whose old-fashioned courtesy had treated even the lowest of these 'like as if I was a duchess at St James', Miss.' The girls were consoled in some measure by the discovery that their Papa, though his life had been cut cruelly short, had not lived in vain, that he had died a richer man, in the true treasures of life, than one whose balance at the bankers stood at ten - nay, a hundred - times as many thousands. They might well cry with Venus – 'Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost'.

The servants, in mourning, now advanced amongst the crowd with trays of ale and cold meats, and the girls left the throng there assembled to toast the virtues of the dear deceased and drink the health of the survivors. They retired to the parlour, where the more genteel mourners were being regaled with sherry, port, and ham.

Being disengaged for a moment, Mrs Trent pulled the butler to one side.

“What wine is this?” she sharply enquired, indicating that functionary's tray of glasses.

“Why, Ma'am,” stammered the butler in some confusion, “There were almost a full bottle left in the decanter, and such a fine old port, that it seemed a shame to waste it, being as you ladies don't drink it...” and he trailed off under the force of the lady's glare. She opened her mouth briefly as if to say something, then, as if deciding against it, she pressed her lips tightly together.

“Very well.” she snapped, adding to herself, 'They cannot drink more than a glass or two apiece – it can't do much harm.'

After these polite ceremonials, those mourners who lived locally made their departure, leaving the principal persons concerned – Mrs Trent, Adeline, Lydia, John Trent, and Mr Elwood, Mr Trent's solicitor, to assemble in the pleasant book-lined room that had been Mr Trent's study.

The will was a simple one, Mr Elwood explained, and had been drawn up at the time of Mr Trent's second marriage. No later will was believed to have been made.

There were some sundry small bequests to the servants, and to old friends for the purchase of mourning rings, amounting to some few hundreds altogether. Lydia had inherited from her mother the sum of two-and-a-half thousand pounds, and William had settled a like amount on Adeline, 'for I do not wish any difference to be made between my two daughters'. Adeline could barely repress a sob as this sentiment was read out in the lawyer's calm, quiet voice. These fortunes were left in the trust of his brother, John Trent, who was also appointed guardian to the two girls, should they not be of age.

The remainder of William Trent's fortune, amounting to some twenty-thousand pounds, as well as the lease on the house - a long lease, for it still had some seventy years left to run - was left absolutely to his wife, to use as she saw fit. This was a matter of some surprise to Mr John Trent, who was quietly perturbed, not having the same faith in that lady, as his brother evidently did, that she would consider his children in the slightest. He kept his thoughts to himself on this occasion, however, only noting with disgust the look of evident satisfaction that lady barely troubled herself to conceal.

Mr Elwood went back to London by that evening's train, but Mr John Trent remained some few days longer, in hopes he could be of service to the young ladies. In truth, the old bachelor felt an unexpected happiness in the company of his two nieces, finding that their father's best bequest to them was an uncommon amount of sense and goodness, which he was not used to find in the generality of young ladies, those representatives of the species which he had encountered in fashionable life being set down by him as invariably silly, shallow and selfish. Not so his nieces.

Lydia, in particular, was capable forming sound opinions and conversing sensibly and intelligently on any number of topics. Under her good father's guidance she had read deeply as well as widely, and formed enquiring habits of thought that made her as interesting a companion as the best-educated young gentleman. She could not be accused of being a bluestocking, however. She had not neglected the softer arts in the pursuit of dry knowledge, nor lost her femininity through contact with the harder truths of life.

Adeline, though less lively and less thoughtful, was the sweetest and gentlest of girls. Though mourning deeply herself, she did not forget that those around her had also suffered loss, and her sympathetic smile as she drew up a chair for him, supplied him with tea and the choicest dainties from the tea-table, and sat down to play her softest and sweetest old songs, was like some little taste of heaven in this weary world.

So it was with heavy heart that the venerable stockbroker betook him self to his elegant but lonely town house at the heart of the great metropolis, wishing he had such daughters to cheer the solitude of that bachelor hearth.

The days that followed their uncle's departure were uneventful. Winter snows had set in, making outdoor exercise impossible, and of course they accepted no invitations, though Evelyn sometimes went out to the quieter sort of tea party, always providing, of course, that there were no such frivolities as dancing or cards involved. The widow kept to her own chambers, except for at mealtimes, and so the girls were left to cheer each other as best they might, occupying the short dark days with reading and needlework, answering the letters of condolence which came from far afield, and teaching young Maisy to read and write, as the income of the poor girl's extensive family had not stretched sufficiently to send any of the numerous brood to school. They looked forward each morning to the near-daily visits of Alfred, who always brought some offering of books or fruit or village gossip, and formed the one bright spot in their day.

There was one small, odd occurrence toward the end of that dreary month, which puzzled Lydia exceedingly. It was the custom of the house for the butler to collect the post-bag, and distribute the family's letters at breakfast. This morning there were several for Evelyn, who, running her eye quickly over the directions, and believing them to be all letters of condolence from her husband's many friends, commenced opening them and carelessly glancing over the contents.

One of them caused her to start, however, and then her hard mouth curved in a grim and triumphant smile. The letter was an unusual one, comprising in it's entirety but a single short sentence of three words, without date, direction, or signature. It merely read:

'It is done.'

Unnoticed by Mrs Trent at first, a small slip of newspaper had fluttered out of the envelope, and landed before Lydia's plate. Now the widow espied this fragment of paper, and held her hand out toward her stepdaughter peremptorily.

“I believe that is mine. Give it to me, if you please.”

Lydia readily complied, but the item was so short that it had taken her but a moment's glance to master the contents. It treated briefly of an unfortunate accident in a London street, where a nameless gentleman, 'of address and origin unknown', had apparently fallen from the window of an hotel, of which establishment it was averred he was not a guest, and had been taken up lifeless.

Why this should be of any interest to her stepmother she could form no conjecture, and she satisfied herself that there must have been an advertisement or story on the other side of the paper, which was the true object of interest.

Chapter the 8th

Though Alfred and Adeline had understood one another a full month, as yet no positive word of love had passed between them. They had been thus far content to speak in looks rather than words, and to read the sweet story in one another's eyes, not in billets-doux. Adeline felt that hers was too great a love to be spoken in words, and Alfred was all too conscious of how recently his beloved had been bereaved. There could not decently be any talk of love and marriage just yet.

The subject of the girl's future however, was painfully obtruded on them one morning, when Evelyn enquired blandly of Lydia what that young lady's intentions were.

“Mama, I do not quite understand you.”

“My dear Miss Trent, I do feel that, as that sad event at Christmas has in some way dissolved all relationship between us, you may now dispense with the useless form of calling me 'Mama'. It was only done to please your father, you know. 'Mrs Trent' will be sufficient, I think.”

Lydia was too shocked by this to reply.

“As to my remark, I merely wished to ascertain your intention in regards to remaining in this house. My daughter will, of course, remain with me, certainly until she is of age.”

“But Mama!” interjected Adeline, “of course Lydia will remain here, this is her home, her father's house!”

“Which is now my house.” said Evelyn flatly. “Of course it does not suit me to have Adeline thrown entirely on my hands, at this time, so if you wish to remain as her companion, you will be most useful to me. Of course I can not offer you any salary, but as you have your own fortune that would be unnecessary in any case.”

Lydia made no reply. Her surprise and dismay were too great to allow the formation of any coherent answer. To be offered a place as hired companion, to be given a place on sufferance, in the home that was hers by all natural right and custom! Adeline, too, looked on with eyes round with dismay. Silence prevailed for some minutes, during which time Mrs Trent, unperturbed, finished her cup of coffee, and the last genteel fragments of thin, crust-less, buttered toast.

“I beg you will think on it, and let me know at your earliest convenience.” she said smoothly, and passed out of the room.

Great was the consternation that remained in her wake, and the girls were still talking the matter over, without reaching any useful conclusion, when Alfred entered, shaking the last few flakes of February snow from his hat, which he placed on the mantelpiece to dry.

“Here, ladies, look what treasure I have found you!” he cried, proferring two small nosegays of snowdrops.

“Oh Alfred, how perfectly lovely,” dimpled Adeline, “But what do you think?” and in indignant tones she poured the whole into her lover's ear, while Lydia blushed redder every minute with offended embarrassment. Alfred was surprised as they.

“I did not think a lady could be so insolent to one so nearly connected with her.” (And here Alfred betrayed how limited his acquaintance with ladies really was.) “What will you do, Lydia?”

“I am so surprised, I do not know myself. Of course it would be hard, very hard, to be parted from my sister, yet my heart rebels at submitting to such an insult.”

“I shall not remain in any house in which my sister is not full as welcome as I.” proclaimed Adeline stoutly. “But where we are to go, and what we are to do, I know not.”

At this Alfred was moved to speak the thought that had been in his mind these three months or more.

“Adeline, my dearest, you have a home with me that will receive you at a word. And of course your home will be your sister's home, for her own sake as well as yours, for she is the kindest and the best of women, save one, and I love her second best in all the world. Do say you will come, darling, and be my wife.”

Adeline's eyes filled with bitter-sweet tears.

“Oh Alfred, I don't know what to say”

“Say yes, my sweetest girl, and make me the happiest man on Earth. I know - “ thinking of that dear departed gentleman, “I know we cannot be married very soon, but in a few months, surely we can become man and wife without upsetting any proprieties, and then you both can come home.” and so saying he put out his hands and drew both girls to him. Lydia merely placed a hand on his shoulder, saying

“I could not wish for a kinder brother.”

Adeline somehow ended up with her face hidden on his breast, unable to give him any answer but to caress and kiss his hand, which she now held captive between both of hers.

“I had better speak to your mother. I shall be back soon, dear, and then we can settle how it is all to be.”

The settling had to wait some time longer, however, as Mrs Trent merely referred Alfred to her brother-in-law.

“Adeline is my daughter, but I am not her legal guardian, it seems. Of course you seem a good kind of young man, and I have no objection to her marrying you, in due course, if her guardian does not object. Of course she has no expectations beyond the two-and-a-half thousand pounds settled on her by her stepfather.”

“That surprises, but does not deter me, Madam. I have an income – not great, but sufficient to maintain a wife.”

“I do not see why you should be surprised. My husband wished no difference made between the girls, and I do wish the world to say I favoured one above the other. Of course, should I predecease her, she may inherit a very pretty fortune, but that is not to be counted on. For instance, I am not yet fifty, older women than I have married again, and in that case my money would belong to my husband.”

Alfred was filled with disgust at the way this woman, so recently widowed, spoke of marrying again, coupled with the coldly casual way she spoke of her daughter.

“I do not believe the woman has an ounce of natural feeling in her.” he said to himself. However, he merely begged the use of paper and pen, and to be furnished with the direction of Mr John Trent.

That good uncle did not leave the young people long in suspense.

'My dearest Niece,' he wrote

'I have received this day a letter from Mr Alfred Denham, who begs your hand in marriage.

Far be it from me to stand in the way of your happiness, my dear, and I give my full and hearty consent to your marrying whomsoever makes you happiest, on the day you come of age. Yes my dear, I counsel you to wait until you are twenty-one. I understand that the acquaintance between yourself and Mr Denham has been of long standing, and that although not positively wealthy he has sufficient income to maintain a wife in comfort. I give him credit for disinterestedness, for he tells me he is full aware that you would bring nothing to the marriage but that small fortune settled on you by my brother, which he intends to secure entirely to you, and that you have no expectations in the future (an arrant lie, by the way my love, for how two girls with a wealthy bachelor uncle, who is affectionately aware of their merits, and has no other soul on Earth to leave his money to, can be said to have no expectations, I do not know)

In any case, fortune or the lack thereof on either side is no objection. Your ages, however, give me some concern. Mr Denham seems to me to have powers of intellect that require some vent for him to be truly settled and happy. I advise waiting, not only so that you can be quite sure this is the right step to ensure your future happiness - for matrimony is a great step, Adeline, and nineteen very young to fully comprehend your own feelings – but also to enable the young man to take steps to establish himself in some profession that will contribute greatly to the happiness, as well as the comfort, of both.

Fourteen months is not so great a time to wait for a lifetime's joy, my dear – in any event you would have to wait 6 months or so until you are out of full mourning, so I am only asking you to add another eight months to that time.

I am sorry if this verdict gives you disappointment, my dear, but hope you will take it in the spirit it was intended, and give credit to the kindly feelings of your affectionate uncle,

John Trent.'

The letter was their uncle all over - so very like their Papa, his brother - all frank kindness and good, solid sense. His arguments were disappointing to the young people, but his judgement was so sensible, and so frankly and kindly expressed, that they could not find a single objection which would hasten the day when Adeline Wade would become Mrs Alfred Denham.

And so it was determined that the young couple should put off that happy day until the first day following Adeline's twenty-first birthday, and that until then Lydia would swallow her pride, and submit to being regarded as a hired dependent in her father's house.

Chapter the 9th

Lydia was not the only member of the household to be offended by Mrs Trent. One afternoon Lydia was surprised to see Bessie the housemaid lugging a battered portmanteau down the stairs, her face much streaked with tears, her eyes red and puffy.

“Why Bessie, whatever is the matter?” cried Lydia, “No trouble at home, I hope.”

“Trouble there is, but not at home. I've been give warning, Miss.” moaned the distressed housemaid.

“Warning? But why? It would be very unlike you to be remiss in your duties.”

“Well it seems Mistress lost some trinket or other, and it's not the first time things has gone a-walking, by her account, and she demanded the key to my box, just like that, Miss Lydia, and me a respectable woman as has always been used to be spoken to kindly in this house.

“Anyway I fired up at that, like, for to have the finger pointed at me is more than I could bear, as has always been honest. And I told her I weren't no thief and if she wanted to find her things maybe she should look in that Frenchy Estelle's box first. For the sneaky sly thing is always creeping round, and seems to have more money than any of us can account for, she's always dressed up that smart, and sneaks around telling tales of folks, for it was her that told Mistress of Maisy being late back from her evening out last week, when the poor girl had to stay and watch her babby brother as had the croup, til her mother got back from the doctors, and Maisy got such a scolding as reduced her to tears, and her next months evening out cancelled.

“Well Mistress just drew herself up and said summat about how she 'didn't choose to keep dishonest and insolent servants', and I might take my months warning, and I said I wouldn't stay another day in a house where I was supspected and insulted, let alone another month, so here I am, and off I go, bag and baggage, this very afternoon. And this the house where I've lived since I was but sixteen, and was my very first place, and I've watched you young ladies grow up from babbies, and served you faithful, and always been treated respectful...” and here the loquacious woman's narrative broke off in a fresh flood of tears. She was genuinely distressed, and not just at being 'out of place'. The good creature had served the family faithfully for twenty years, and this her reward! Lydia was incensed. She bade the housemaid to go and have a cup of tea in the kitchen, and calm herself, while she attempted to intercede with the lady of the house.

She found her stepmother idling over that same long piece of embroidery, though the chair-back in berlin-wool and beads seemed to have made very little progress since the first time we saw it.

“Mama... Mrs Trent, I am distressed to learn you have dismissed poor Bessie.” said Lydia, in as gentle a tone as she could manage. “She is this moment preparing to leave the house!”

“Really, how tiresome.” drawled the widow, “These rustic servants are so unreasonable, they take one up so. I only asked her for her key, having missed a bracelet from my dressing-table, only a trumpery thing, but I have missed things before. However, the bracelet is found, so it is of no moment.”

“Then may I tell Bessie she is no longer suspected, and that she may stay?”

“Oh, tell her anything you like. I suppose it would be tiresome to find a new housemaid – only you had better tell her to curb her tongue in my presence. I am mistress in this house, and I will not tolerate insolence.”

Lydia softened this message down for Bessie's consumption, and begged her to remain. The housemaid at first stuck fast to her determination of leaving the house at once, but when Lydia dwelt on how sad Adeline and herself would be to part with her, she tearfully consented to have the manservant take her box upstairs, and resume her duties, with many blessings on the two young ladies, and direful imprecations against those who 'were a mite too quick to judge'.

Lydia found herself quite exhausted by this drama, and shortly rang for tea. To her surprise, the tray was brought by Maisy.

“Mistress is having tea in her room this evening, Miss, and there was something I wanted to show you.”

The girl proffered a grubby, creased piece of paper, somewhat singed at the edges.

“I know I didn't ought to have took it, but I found it in the grate in the parlour a few weeks back, and I thought I made out Miss Adeline's name, so I picked it up, curious like. I didn't think anyone would mind, it being rubbish, as someone meant to burn. Only I didn't read it, for I can't read handwriting very well just yet, and it preyed on my mind, like, that if it was something concerning Miss Adeline, I ought to give it to her. And so I'm giving it to you.”

“Thank-you Maisy, it is probably just a note from one of the neighbours or something. But you did the right thing, I'm sure, though if it was meant to be thrown away, perhaps you should have poked it in the kitchen fire. But nevertheless, I'll see what it is before we decide!” and she good-humouredly held out her hand for the paper.

She waited until Maisy had set down the tea things and curtsied herself out of the room, before looking over the paper in her hand, fully expecting it to be an invitation or a laundry-list.

It proved to be a letter, in a strange hand, and Lydia was completely unprepared for the astonishment it's contents gave her.

It was dated simply 'London, May 17th, 18--' and had neither signature nor direction, save for initials.

'E,' it read,

'Well I expect you never thought I'd turn up again like a bad penny, but here I am, just returned from Australia. Don't be alarmed, I went there of my own free will, not her Majesty's, having heard great things of that continent with regard to seeking one's fortune.

It's a hard life out there, and a lonesome one, and by and by I got to thinking of a few things I did as I oughtn't to have, and a few things I ought to have done different, and a few things I ought to have done that I didn't. In short, my dear, I fell to thinking of you and the girls.

I know things have gone too far wrong between us for us to be reconciled, that was obvious when you left me all them years ago. I don't say you ought to have stayed, I was never what you might call a good husband. But I would like to see my girls, and perhaps make some amends for my neglect all these years. I hear Adeline is still with you, and I wonder if you know anything of Catherine. I can't seem to trace her or her husband – I hope he made a better one than I. It is Catherine I most want to see, feeling it is to her I have most amends to make, poor girl. I have been down to the place where they lived when I left ten years ago, but nobody seems to have seen hide nor hair of them for many a year. If you know anything of her, I beg you will tell me where I might find her. Perhaps I might come down and see you, if the appearance of an rough customer like me won't lose you your place.

I don't know if you ever speak to little Addy of her father, perhaps you can find it in you to give her a kind word regarding her repentant

M.'

As Lydia was perusing this letter, with widening eyes and racing heart, Adeline came in, accompanied as ever by Alfred, her cheeks dyed pink by the brisk winds of early March.

“Why Lyddy, you look as pale as a ghost. Whatever is the matter!”

“Adele, perhaps you had better read it yourself, I can't understand it. There is some mystery or misunderstanding here. It is a letter. It is dated last May, and I think it is from – your father.”

Chapter the 10th

Who can describe the consternation, the clamour of tongues, in that little parlour that evening.

“My father? But that is impossible. My father died before I was a year old, Mama says.”

“But yet here we have a letter from a man called only 'M', who has been abroad the last ten years, who addresses the recipient 'E' as her husband, and who speaks of his daughter Adeline. Evelyn begins with an E, you see. And it was found in this house.”

“But wait, he speaks of losing this 'E' her place. Perhaps it is one of the servants he writes to. Estelle begins with an E, as does Bessie, for that matter – Elizabeth, you see. I would not blame either of them for leaving a husband and concealing it, if he were cruel to her, as this man seems to admit he was.”

“But that still leaves the coincidence of 'Adeline' – your name is not a common one, you know.”

“Yes Lyddy, but though uncommon it may not be unique. Oh, if only we had the envelope, then we might be sure who it was addressed to.”

“We need not multiply possibilities, Adele, the name and initial do fit you and your mother. And the writer may have assumed she was living here as a servant – perhaps a housekeeper or governess, rather than as the lady of the house.”

“But stop a moment, Lyddy, and think what a terrible light this would put Mama in. It would mean she knowingly married Papa while she had a husband still living. She would have been living with him seventeen years as his mistress. I know Mama is not the kindest of women, but I cannot imagine she would stoop so low. Or perhaps she thought my father really had died, after she fled from him. Perhaps some cruel rumour reached her that led her to believe she was free. Oh, what anguish she must have suffered when she learned the truth!” and here the compassionate girl shed a tear. It was evident from her talk that she was becoming more convinced that the letter was addressed to her mother, and the Adeline there named was herself, though the honest girl could not believe anyone, let alone her nearest relative, base enough to live as one man's wife, while knowing she was married, in the sight of God and the Law, to another.

“You have overlooked something,” pointed out Alfred. “The letter speaks of two girls. Who is Catherine?”

“Why, she must be Adeline's sister” gasped Lydia, “and an elder one, if she was old enough to be married ten years ago.”

“A sister!” cried Adeline, “I have another sister? Oh Alfred, we must solve this mystery. I have been so fortunate in my one sister, is it possible I could have another? O, where is she, where is she?”

Lydia and Alfred both attempted to soothe Adeline's agitation.

“You had better ask 'Who is she?' - After all, we cannot be sure it is not just a coincidence. This latter may refer to a completely different Adeline. We must try and ascertain to whom the letter was addressed before we jump to conclusions.”

“Yes, yes, but how?”

The little group was silent for few moments, deep in thought, until suddenly Lydia spoke.

“If this letter was delivered through the post in the usual way, then it will have been removed from the postbag and sorted by the butler. Let us put a few discreet questions to Mr Scott, and ascertain whether he remembers any unusual letter around that time.”

“A capital idea.” put in Alfred. “Ring the bell and lets have him in directly.”

Silence once again reigned in the parlour, each mind racing with his or her own thoughts, until Mr Scott entered.

“Yes, Miss Lydia?” he enquired, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Oh, Mr Scott,” began Lydia, not altogether sure how to begin the topic, but then deciding to jump in feet first. “Mr Scott, we have found a letter, which due to it's sensitive nature really ought to be returned to the person to whom it is addressed. The trouble is, there is no envelope, and it is directed simply to 'E', and the contents leave us no wiser as to whom it was intended for. We were wondering if you recalled any unusual letter to Estelle, or Bessie, or Mrs Trent, about the end of May last.”

“Hmm, I couldn't rightly say, so many letters pass through my hands in this house, and that was a good ten months ago. If I could get a look at the hand, perhaps, for that seems to stick more in my mind, as they say, more than the directions themselves.”

After a moment's hesitation, Lydia showed him the top of the sheet, with the date and the great sprawling 'E'.

“Stop a moment, I do recall to have seen that style of an 'E' before. I recollect now, it did seem a little odd at the time, but I assumed it might be from some old school friend or such-like, that might not know the lady's married name, like, though they put Mrs so they must have known she had married, at any rate. There was a letter come in this handwriting, addressed to 'Mrs Evelyn Wade'.”

Chapter the 11th

“It is true!” gasped Adeline, falling back in her chair. “Oh, poor Mama!”

“Hush dear,” said Lydia. “Thank-you Mr Scott, you have been most helpful. We need not trespass on your time any longer.”

“Thank-you Miss, glad to be of service” said that worthy functionary, withdrawing, much mystified by the excitement this revelation seemed to have caused.

“Oh, Alfred, Lydia, we must find my father, we must find my sister!” cried Adeline.

Alfred, who had been silent for some time, now spoke.

“I think I may know the very person who can help you, my dear, and I will bring him to you as soon as possible.”

This person turned out to be a disreputable looking gentleman in late middle age, in a greasy waistcoat and dilapidated boots, which respectable personage Alfred introduced to the ladies as one Mr Richard Dodd.

“Detective Dick to you, my dears, and I hope you good ladies will pardon my appearance, being obliged to pass as a cockney type just now. At your service, ladies, at your service. Now, tell me all about it.”

“Mr Dodd is a private detective,” explained Alfred, “and a good one at that. He has very kindly agreed to help us get to the bottom of this matter. Let us answer any question he cares to put to us, I can vouch for his confidence.”

“Silent as the grave, my dears, where need be.” asserted Mr Dodd. “Now then, just start at the beginning in your own words.”

“I think this letter can tell you better than we can.” said Lydia, proferring the singed and crumpled paper.

Having mastered the contents of the letter, and made a copy of it in a greasy memorandum-book, he at once began to put questions to the young ladies.

“Adeline I assume is one of you young ladies – oh, you, is it miss – but who is 'E', I mean what is her proper name, and how was the letter addressed, if you know. I don't suppose you have the envelope, that would be very helpful, very helpful indeed.”

“The lady addressed as 'E' is, we believe, Adeline's mother and my stepmother, known now as Mrs Evelyn Trent. We do not have the envelope, but are informed the letter was addressed to Mrs Evelyn Wade.”

“Your informant didn't happen to have a good look at the postmark, did he? No, shame, shame, it may have been useful to find out what part of London it was posted in. Still, it seems to me that if the unknown gentleman is addressing her as 'Mrs Wade, then that is like to be her proper name – and his too. So, the letter brings us one step closer, we now know we are looking for a Mr M Wade.

“Stay, he writes of coming down to see her – does anyone know if he ever did? It might be worth me asking round to see what strangers were about the village last June or July.”

At this, Adeline turned white.

“Lyddy, the stranger at the gate! The man who alarmed me so! Could it be...”

“What's this?” said Mr Dodd, “This sounds promising indeed! Tell me all about him.”

And so Adeline and Lydia, between them, recounted all they could recollect of that alarming encounter.

“Hmm, you got a pretty good description of him, Miss, very useful. And you say he called you 'my Adeline', and said he was sorry – that seems a strong hint he's the man we want. And an Australian accent, you say. Hmm, clearer and clearer. How did you know it was an Australian accent?”

“Oh, I didn't. It was...” and Lydia hesitated as the realisation of what she was saying dawned on her, “It was my stepmother that suggested it might be Australian, when I told her of the incident, and that he spoke in an accent not quite English.”

“Well now, well now, you just leave it with me a short while, and we'll see what we can't find out.”

And thus saying, the queer gentleman took his leave.

“Oh Lyddy, to think, I have seen my father, that I thought died when I was a baby, and I didn't know him.” and she lapsed into quiet tears.

Lydia sat quietly thinking of the father she had known, and had loved her for most of her short life. She felt bitterly that this business was turning Adeline a traitor to his memory, and taking her dear sister further and further away from her. And yet, and yet... Something about the affair excited her. She had always longed for some work in which to test and challenge her mental powers. Even if it should cost her her dearest love, she felt she could not rest until she had got to the bottom of this mystery.

Chapter the 12th

It was fortunate, perhaps, that Evelyn now seemed to want as little to do with the rest of the household as possible, for Adeline knew not how she could meet her mother with equanimity, let alone sit opposite her for a long hour at breakfast or dinner. However, this necessity did not arise, as Evelyn now kept almost entirely to her own rooms, occupied with her own concerns, whatever those might be, and so Adeline was spared the sad task of keeping her countenance before a mother who she now knew to be a sinner – if not for 17 years, at least for the last ten months. How could she consent to live in a man's house, eat his bread, accept his legacy as her right, knowing herself to have no legal or moral right to these benefits, that her union was unrecognised by God or the Law?

In such a case, Adeline determined, with all the idealism of nineteen, that she would run away and beg her bread in the street before she would be guilty of such an enormity.

Adeline was troubled enough, even believing her mother had committed her sin in ignorance, in the mistaken belief that she had been free to marry seventeen years ago, only to be disabused of her error by the arrival of that fatal letter. Lydia had harder doubts, for the treacherous thought had crept into her mind that perhaps her father had known, had been complicit in this grievous error. Of Evelyn's guilt she had no doubt, for even if a mistaken report, through malice or accident, of her husband's death had reached her before her marriage to Mr Trent, how that gentleman could have lived in the same country for a further seven or eight years, and she have heard no further tidings of him to correct the error, passed her understanding. And, knowing, to keep such a secret for seventeen years, to constantly keep a watch on one's tongue and one's actions, to live in daily fear of the discovery – impossible! Perhaps this was the source and secret of the coldness that had long since arisen between her father and her stepmother. It was like him, his kindness and consideration, to forbear from exposing the woman he had chosen as his wife, to spare her the pain of public shame – but still, to compound the sin by continuing to live with her as her husband! The idea that her father, the man, of all others, whom she idolised, could have been guilty of sinfulness and deception pierced her heart. The thought crept like a dark, chill shadow between her and the sacred memory of him she loved so well, and seemed to poison all her recollections.

Happily, perhaps, the hours in which Lydia was free to dwell on these direful thoughts were limited. Having asserted her claim to the house and household, Evelyn seemed content to leave the daily fatigues of management to Lydia. It was the younger lady to whom the servants brought their troubles and questions, to her they came for orders. Evelyn troubled herself very little about the house, exerting herself only so far as to order her own meals, to look over the household accounts in a desultory manner once in a while, and to assert her power by countermanding the occasional order – usually at such a time and in such a manner as to cause Lydia the most vexation and inconvenience.

This round of household cares, with leisure hours darkened by grim imaginings, would soon have destroyed both health and character, were it not for the society of Adeline and Alfred, and a new interest, which raised itself in the person of one Captain James Woods.

This gentleman was a half-pay naval officer who, having been woefully injured in action on the Indian Ocean, and then spent much of the passage home in a raging fever, had been invalided out of the service, and was now trying the restorative effects of English country air and rustic retirement.

Alfred, happening to fall in with the gentleman on one of the long lonely rambles which constituted his daily dose of physic, soon made his acquaintance, being a friendly and gregarious young man. He had a stern battle of it at first, having much to conquer in the convalescent captain's goodly fund of natural reserve, but he persevered, and few could stand out long against Alfred's genuine and frank good-nature.

The friendship, having once been established, flourished, and it seemed but natural that Alfred introduce the Captain to his other friends, having a strong suspicion that the kind attentions of two gentle young ladies could do more to restore Captain Woods to health and spirits than could be achieved by his own unaided exertions. Accordingly, then, Captain Woods was invited to accompany Alfred on one of his visits to the young ladies at the first opportunity.

The young ladies were surprised and a little perturbed at first to see Alfred bringing a stranger to the house, but when Alfred had introduced him and told part of his story in a few simple words, and after they had looked on the still-young face so clearly marked by long suffering, they opened their hearts to him.

The Captain was a slim, pale young man of around five-and-twenty, quite small in stature – indeed, he stood only an inch or two higher than Lydia, who was not markedly tall. His cheeks were clean-shaven, and somewhat hollow, attesting to his long illness. His voice was soft and pleasant. His hair was brown, touched with gold, and curling slightly from a low forehead – he affected neither beard nor moustache. His hazel eyes, though shaded with great dark circles, were mild and intelligent. He had something of the look of a sick child, seeming very little more than a boy, for all that he was older than the two girls, and had seen action and hardship, and those two gentle hearts compassionated him at once, and were highly likely to make a pet of him.

They insisted on him taking the seat nearest the fire, for the early spring days were still cold, and plied him with good things from the tea-table, and valiantly set to work to draw him out. They made polite enquiries about his health, his opinions of the village, about his life in the Navy and his ship, and made but little headway. However, it was evident that this reserve was the result of diffidence, not of ill-nature, and eventually Adeline struck upon the happy chance of playing for the gentlemen. Adeline was that rarity among young ladies – she played for the love of music, not for the love of display, and though many young women were superior musicians, there was something about the girl's sweet, untrained voice and light touch upon the keys which went straight to the heart of the listeners. She tried one or two of those fashionable exercises in the mathematics of harmony, which were politely applauded, and then lit by chance on some sweet old song of her father's time. To the surprise of all, at the second verse the Captain moved to the piano and began to sing the second part, in a fine, clear, alto voice. The voice cracked by the end of the song, but the ice was broken, and now they could all talk of music, and the Captain spoke of fine concerts he had heard in foreign ports, and was led on by degrees to forget he was amongst strangers.

How surprised they all were to hear the hall clock strike, and realise that two hours had slipped by! The captain was now issued with the same open invitation as Alfred enjoyed, and retired to his lodgings feeling in better spirits than he had for many a weary month. The girls, too, felt their troubles a little lightened from being forgot for a while, and were anxious to renew the acquaintance

Chapter the 13th

Whilst the young ladies have been making a new friend, the patient and perspicacious 'Detective Dick' Dodd has not been idle.

On leaving his interview with the two girls, he repaired to the public bar of the Crown, having learned, by long experience in his trade, that the presence of beer and rum have a tendency to make men wax loquacious. The worthy detective had a useful talent in this line, of being able to unobtrusively nurse his own single glass of brandy-and-water an entire evening, thus keeping a clear head and a steady tongue whilst all around him heads grew fuddled and tongues grew looser.

In the bar, he found it advantageous to assume the character of a man who has just made a very good bargain, and thus inclined to be sociable and hospitable. In this guise, he struck up and acquaintance with a group of venerable elderly villagers, who were not averse to being bought a bowl of punch. These gentlemen, by name George Handy, Abel Metcalf, and Stephen Carter, I shall not go to the trouble of describing, as their like can be seen in any public bar. Look for the three aged gents, usually sitting in the snuggest corner by the fire, nursing their pints of ale or glasses of rum-and-hot-water, eyes scanning the assembled company, on the alert for any passing acquaintance who might be persuaded to stand them a drink, ears on the alert for any scrap of gossip, which meat they strip from the bone and chew over far more exhaustively than their elderly wives do at their genteel little tea-drinkings.

It was this last propensity which made Mr Dodds heartily inclined to buy these gentlemen, in whatever public house, in whatever corner of the British Isles, a drink. For the modest outlay of half a bottle of rum, hot water, lemons and sugar in proportion, he was sure to receive a great deal of information. Much of it would be dross, to be sure, but he was prepared to listen to a goodly amount of spoil in order to get at the one golden nugget of useful information.

The other consideration of course, was that striking up and acquaintance was the simplest thing in the world – a bowl of punch and an expansive manner were as good to these old fellows as a letter of introduction from a duke. These ceremonies of introduction having duly been completed, Dick Dodds made himself comfortable, and after a suitable lapse, in which the strong punch began to make its effects known, began skilfully to lead the conversation toward the subject closest to his heart.

“Tell me, I saw a pleasantish kind of box out on the East road into the village. Just the sort of place I've a mind to buy myself one of these days. Who owns it? Do you think they'd be of a mind to sell?”

“You must m-mean the Grove. Grey stone house, fronts onto the r-road, biggish garden at the b-back?” (the unfortunate Abel having developed something of a stammer)

“Nay, Abel, the Grove is out North of here, not East. He's talking of the Trent place, I'll be bound.”

“It was built of a yellowish stone, I believe, and had a few fine old trees round it.”

“Aye, that's the Trent place sure enough. As to selling, well, they've had a heap of trouble there of late, the old gent died at Christmas after a long illness. The widder might be inclined, if you approach her canny, but I'd wager she'd get the best of the bargain.” and old Stephen chuckled, displaying a couple of brown and lonely teeth and a good deal of red gum.

“Aye, she's a sharp one, though she certainly has no friends hereabout.”

“Why, whatever do you mean?”

“Well I don't like to talk ill of folks,” (this was as arrant a lie as ever crossed the lips of man, by the by – the disreputable old soul loved nothing better) “but there's been dark muttering abroad as to how exackly the old gent met his end, so to say. The doctors all said there weren't nothing really wrong with him, as they could find, and yet he faded away and faded away and finally died.”

“Aye, and young Sam, the carriers boy, swears as he w-was coming home one night last autumn, for he lives out Abbey Farm way, he seed her – the widder, that is – a w-walking and a-talking with some low feller in the woods. And what business a dacent woman has w-walking with that manner of man, let alone by moonlight and not a creature by, I don't know.”

“How very odd. Was he a local man?”

“Nay, that's the mystery of it. It seems nobody ever seen him before or seen him again.”

“Now then, that ain't strictly true,” chipped in George, who had hitherto held his tongue. “Some say as how it must have been that feller as made all the ruckus with Miss Adeline, as used this very inn once or twice.”

“A ruckus with a lady? that sounds very particular. And was the man actually staying here? I am shocked!”

“Miss Adeline is the widder's daughter – there's two girls up at the Trent place, and a sad life they've had of it this last year. Some ruffian tried to drag her from out of a carriage – last June or so, if I recall. And about that time there was a stranger seen about the place once or twice, but he weren't staying hereabouts – at least not in the village. He just used the coffee room to write a letter or two, the barman sez, and nobody could say for sartin if it were him, so he were let alone. He never come back after about November, to my knowledge at least.”

Dick Dodds expressed an appropriate amount of concern and surprise at this, and the conversation passed on to less interesting (to him) subjects. After another half hour or so of unedifying gossip, the detective passed out into the moonlight, to clear his head of the fug of brandy-fumes and tobacco-smoke, and arrange his thoughts.

So, this M Wade had been seen several times in the village, which seemed to suggest that for at least some time between June and November last he had been staying somewhere close enough to Allenham to make regular visits. Richard Dodd decided that his next move would to be to ask around the surrounding farms and villages, in the hopes that Mr Wade had taken lodging in that locality. With this determination, he returned to the inn, this time using the saloon bar entrance to avoid his three aged informants, and so to bed.

He arose early on the following morning, and made an indifferent breakfast of overcooked ham and undercooked eggs. He also made enquiry of his landlady as to the names and locations of the farms that surrounded the village, as he had an interest in agriculture and wished to explore the local habits and customs in that earthy science. His landlady was happy to furnish him with a long list, adding a running commentary concerning the habits, peccadilloes, feuds and relationships of the inhabitants. Looking alarmed at the sheer number of agricultural enterprises in the locale of Allenham, he begged to enquire where he could hire a horse, and was given the choice of the inn's stables.

A meagre choice it was, and the detective rode forth a half hour later on a skinny, jaded mare, who seemed inclined to make up for the deficiencies of the stable diet by stooping and cropping dandelions at every opportunity. And this was the best mount the inn had to offer!

It was late that evening when the detective returned to the inn, thoroughly disgusted with his recalcitrant steed, and ordered his chop and pint of porter. He had obtained little useful information at the farms immediately surrounding the village, having wound around and about the muddy lanes at the mare's sweet will. He was fairly confident, however, that he had visited all the farms within an hours ride of Allenham, and he determined to spread his net wider tomorrow.

After his solitary dinner, who should happen to drop in on him in the hope of news, but Alfred. The elder man was happier than he showed at the prospect of a little intelligent society, and though his countenance and manner were schooled to calm indifference, he moved with some alacrity to mix two hospitable glasses of brandy-and-water, hot, opened his cigar-case invitingly, and pulled the two easiest chairs in the room up to the fire.

“So, sir, how have your researches fared thus far?” opened Alfred, once the two men had made themselves comfortable.

“Well, I have pretty much established in my own mind that the gentleman we are in search of was staying hereabouts between June and November last. As to where he was lodging, or what became of him, I am as yet no wiser. Such a lot of bucolic ignorance and stupidity I have never encountered. The farms hereabouts either do not keep lodgers; or they don't know if they do or they don't; or they do but take no heed of their names, appearances or habits; or else they do but don't have the records to hand, or I need to speak to some dairymaid who is 'gone to market, sir, and not due back til early tomorrow morning'.

“The upshot being, therefore, that I have had a day's uncomfortable ride for nothing. But I am not yet at a loss, Mr Denham, and plan to repeat the process in the neighbouring villages tomorrow.”

“Well, that is a disappointment,” said Alfred, “but no doubt some clue to the man must surface sooner or later. I have every confidence in you.”

A pause succeeded this, during which Alfred smoked a cigar, and Mr Dodds sipped his brandy-and-water, with his feet propped on the fender, for he had walked through more than one muddy puddle today, and the day was cold, for all that it was April.

“By the by,” said Mr Dodds, as Alfred rose to take his leave, “I am almost ashamed to ask it, but is it at all possible you could mount me? I do believe another day on one of the beasts this place can provide would be the death of me – most likely of apoplexy.”

Alfred was ready to oblige, and it was arranged that he would have his hack saddled and sent round to the inn door by nine the next day.

The horse was returned by the inn servant a few days later, and very little was heard of the detective for two or three weeks.

His silence was broken by a scrawled note, asking leave to call upon Alfred and the young ladies to discuss the case. Accordingly, they arranged to meet, as if by accident, in the woods near the house – Lydia having become more and more suspicious of her mother-in-law and deeming such discussion in the house to be unsafe.

It was a fine morning in late April, and the weather was very pleasant for walking. The trees were bright with new leaves and fragrant with blossom, and nesting birds filled the little copse with song. It was a pity and a waste, really, that the young ladies, Adeline in particular, had neither eyes nor ears fro nature's beauty that day. To Adeline, the most welcome sight of all the sweet prospects to be seen in that little patch of woodland just then springing into life, was a dilapidated gentleman in a greasy waistcoat.

“Oh, Mr Dodds, you have found him?” cried Adeline breathlessly, for to wish is to hope, and to hope is to expect, in such ardent natures.

“No, Miss.” the detective said, bluntly but kindly.

“But you have some clue to him, have you not?” queried Lydia.

“No, not that either. I'll tell you how it is. I spent some time asking about the farms and villages, last I was here, trusting that he had lodged somewhere nearby, last year, and weary work enough it was, by the by. Anyhow, I had been at it four days, with as much of a trace of him as if he had been a ghost, then on my way home on the fourth day, I found I had missed my way, it being dark, and somewhat cloudy. However, I spied the light of a cottage, and stopped there in hopes that I could get a clue to the right road. I don't know why I had not thought to ask at cottages before, but it occurred to me, once inside – for the hospitable old body that inhabited the place would not hear of my setting out again without a little something inside to warm me, though I don't much care for tea and such slop as that – where was I? Oh yes, I began to make a few polite enquiries on the account of our missing friend.

'This is a very pretty place, it almost makes me loath to leave this fireside' says I. 'Do you ever let lodging at all?'

'Oh no, sir, not since my William died,' says she, 'being a woman alone and all.'

I commiserated her on her unhappy loss, and enquired when that dismal event had taken place, to which she informed me it had been but 4 months ago – to wit, January – when her earthly friend and helpmeet had departed this mortal coil.

'Ah, well, I expect you are quite right. I suppose you meet some queer types.' was my next remark.

'Well, no sir, I can't say as we have had any trouble of that sort. My last lodger, for instance – if I had been alone I would not have let him in the door, for he was terrible rough-looking, for all he was so free with his money. But Mr Wade – Malcolm, as he bid us call him – was as friendly a gent as you could hope to meet, though oft-times he would brood and brood, then spring up and go out to walk off his ill humour.'

Here was my clue, dropped into my lap by a mis-step!

'Malcolm Wade?' I enquired incredulously, 'Why, I wonder if it could be the same Malcolm Wade as I went to school with – last that I heard of him he had emigrated – Australia or California or one of those places. Well, if he has come back he must have failed, poor chap.'

'Oh yes, Mr Wade had just returned from Australia. He used to talk to us sometimes of the queer things he had seen there – creatures like giant jumping rats, with pockets in their fronts, and beetles as big as your hand, and all manner of things, though half the time I suspect he was jesting, for the good Lord never did give a creature pockets, I'm sure on it. But to be sure he hadn't failed – he did not boast or anything, but he never quibbled about a halfpenny and always seemed to have enough to spare and more.'

'Really? Well, I'll be blessed. Did he leave you his address at all, or give any hint as to where he was going? I would dearly love to see the old chap again and talk over old times.'

'No, sir. He got a letter that s