Taken at the Flood.

Otago Witness, Issue 1179, 4 July 1874, Page 23

Taken at the Flood.

[BY THE AUTHOR OP "LADY AUDLEY'3 SEOBET."]

A NEW NOVEL.

Chapter LIX. SECRET SERVICE. Shadrach Bain, having issued his advertisement, waited, like the spider, for that unwary fly which he deemed must, sooner or, later — even if the fly should haply be still a wanderer in foreign lands ■ — be enmeshed in his net. No spider in the last stage of attenuation for lack of flies was ever more anxious or impatient than Mr. Bain. The advertisement had appeared three times, and he was beginning to think that his return to England had been altogether a mistake, and the absolute surrender of all his chances, when triumph and hope came to him in the shape of a letter from Mrs. Tringfold ; a letter addressed from Willoughby Crescent, Hyde Park. Now, Mrs. Tringfold was not likely to be residing in so fashionable and expensive a district as Tyburnia if she had been living at her own charge. It was clear that she was still with Lady Perriam, and Willoughby Crescent was Lady Perriam's abode ; whereby Mr. Bain felt that the fly was almost in his web. Mrs. Tringfold'a missive was one of those composite documents, fluctuating between a note and a letter, in which her class delights. It ran thus :—: — Mrs. Mary Tringf old's compliments to Mr.V. Esqre., witch advurtised in The times papper, and I ham the Mary tringfold menshunod, witch my late husband was a Phanner at ildrope pharm. i shall be glad to here off anvthink to my hadventeg, and she will caul biff Mr. Y. will saye wear. Your oboediunt survent, Mks. Tjunofold. P. Hess. — i am in surras with a Lady & can honely cum out hafter thee babey is gone too bed. V., or Shadrach Bain, by his willing agent, John Sadgrove, the landlady's eldest hope, made haste to answer tin's letter, by telegram, appointing that evening at nine o'clock for an interview, at the Quayside Hotel, Embankment Street, Strand. That postscript about the baby gave Mr. Bain the delightful assurance that Lady Perriam was to be found, in Willoughby Crescent. Weak as were her maternal instincts, she was hardly likely to separate herself from a son upon whom her future position in some measure depended. "Go where sho will, she'll stick to the boy," mused Mr. Bain. " The only question is, whether by this time she may not be the wife of Edmund Standen. I shall know that before ten o'clock tonight, if Mrs. Tringfold keeps her ap-j pointment !" The private sitting-room which Mr. Bain had the privilege of using at the Quayside Hotel was a little bit of a threecornered apartment on the first floor, cut off a, landing, and opening into a larger | room in which the landlady and her family- took their meals. In this larger room Mr. Bain was to plant himself, close to the door of communication, which was to be left artfully ajar, so as to give him the opportunity of hearing Mr. Sadgrove's interrogation of the visitor, and even of giving that young man a whispered hint if he found him wandering from his brief, or not master of the situation. Mr. Sadgrove, to whose budding genius any little business of a secret nature, was peculiarly interesting, flung himself heart and soul into the case. He had ever admired Shadrach Bain— had sat at his feet, as it were, from time to time, during the west country solicitor's brief visits to the Quayside Hotel ; and he felt proud to serve him, even without j consideration of that modest pecuniary reward which Mr. Bain had promised him. The business of the legacy was speedily despatched. There was a certain Miss Harper, of Mosstree, twenty miles from Monkhampton, with whom Mrs. Tringfold had lived ten years ago, as confidential maid and housekeeper, and whom she had nursed in her last illness. "She didn't leave you anything, did she ?" asked John Sadgrove, with a busi-ness-like air. "Not a sixpence, sir, though it was expected by most folks as she would leave me well pervided for. The fambly gave me some portion of her wardrobe — she had a handsome wardrobe, had old Miss Harper, not having the heart to wear her things for fear of spoiling them, but hoarding of 'em like in her drawers and chests. The fall I have on this evening was Harper's— real Spanish blonde, and everlasting wear." "Well, I am happy to tell you that one of the late Miss Harper's relatives happened the other day to come across a packet of papers, and amongst them there was a memorandum in which Miss Harper stated her intention to leave you ten pounds." ."Well, sir, it isn't much, considering

how faithfully I served her ; but anythink comes welcome after so long." ' ' The memorandum is not a legal docul ment, remember. Miss Harper's relatives were under no obligation to act upon it ; b\xt, with generosity that does them i credit, they decided to let you have the whole benefit of Miss Harper's unfulfilled intention. lam commissioned by them to pay you ten pounds." "I'm sure, sir, I'm much beholden. Shall I write and thank the gentleman — or lady?" "No, they require no acknowledgment." "They're very good, sir ; and I'm bound to say Miss Harper's fambly always treated me liberal. The fambly gave me my mourning, everythink of the best, though not so good as the black I'm wearing now for Sir Aubrey Perriam." "Sir Aubrey Perriam — the gentleman who married a pretty young woman shortly before his death," said Mr. Sadgrove carelessly, as if he had known all about it ever so long ago. " I suppose the widow is married again by this time 1" "No, sir, not married," answered Mrs. | Tringfold significantly. " But thinking about it, eh ?" " Thinking about it a good deal more ! than becomes a lady whose poor dear husband hasn't been six months in his grave ! It's all very well to put up a marbial table, and shut yourself up in your own room, and see no company, and call that grief !" said Mrs. Tringfold sententiously ; " but if you go and marry a young man you was keeping company with beforehand not six months after your husband's funeral, them as looks deep into things will think your marbial tablet and your doleful ways nothink more than a blind. Blinds is mado of a good many more things than calico at sixpence ha'penny a yard, sir," added Mrs. Tringfold, winding up with an aphorism. j " You can't expect grief to last for ever in young widows," rejoined Mr. Sadgrove, jauntily, " but I suppose Lady Perriam is hardly thinking of marrying just yet a while. Six months hence or so she might make up her mind. She'll show some respect for the 'conveniences,' as our French neighbours have it." " What would you say, sir, if I was to tell you that Lady Perriam is going to be married to her first sweetheart — which all Hedingham knows there was carrying on between them before Sir Aubrey took a fancy to her — to-morrow morning V "Nonsense, Mrs. Tringfold! I can't believe such a thing !" "It's gospel truth, sir, whether you believe it, or whether you d"o not." "Where are they to be married 1" " At St. Francis of Sissy, sir, just at the back of the Crescent ; a new church, and very high, they say ; though to my eye the steeple isn't as tall as the spire of our new church at Monkhampton. " "What time is the ceremony to take place 1" ''At half-past ten, and it's to be strickly private, as it had need be. They're to go to the Lakes for their honeymoon, and then back to Perriam — to brazen it out, as I say — which Mr. Standen, being in the Monkhampton Bank, can't stay long away. Such a low match for a baronet's widow, and to give that precious boy a step-father before he's j cut his double teeth !" | "They are to meet at the church, I suppose now," said Mr. Sadgrove in a conversational tone, after he had helped j Mrs. Tringfold to a glass of sherry and a biscuit. I " Yes. Lady Perriam and him is to meet in the vestry at twenty minutes past ten, and it'll be all over by eleven. Celine, her maid, is to be the only person with her, and me and my blessed boy are to start off to Brighton directly after the wedding, and stay there in lodgings that has been took for us in Rock Gardens till we get our orders to go back to Perriam. It'B to be the dismallest wedding as ever I heard of." " How long has Lady Perriam been in Willoughby Crescent f " Close upon three weeks. We came here straight from Brussels." "Oh, jou were at Brussels previously, were you ? Pray take another glass of that sherry ; it won't do you any harm." "Yes, sir — wishing you your health — we was three days in Brussels after we left Antwerps — where I didn't see nothink worth looking at but the poll parrots in the Zoological Gardens. My lady was three days at Brussels, seeing all the sights — pictures and churches — and the Battle of Waterloo. And then we left as abrumtly as we'd, left Antwerps, and came back to London, where we stopped one night at the hotel, and the next morning Mr. Standen came to say as he had found a furnished house to suit in Willoughby Crescent, and before Sir St. John's dinner time we was all comfortably settled, and glad I was to find myself among my rational fellow-creatures once more, instead of those jabbering I Belgees." 1 "Do you know Why Lady Perriam

came back to London so suddenly 1" asked j Mr.^ Sadgrove, prompted by a whisper behind the door. "No, sir — not any more than that I heard my lady tell Mr. Standen one day at Brussels, when I went to her room to fetch the baby — one can't help having ears — that there was no place like London ; and that people were free to do what they liked there without anyone notioing them. ' London's like a forest,' she said, * we shall be lost in it, Edmund.' It used to give me the cold shivers down my back to hear her call him by his Christian name, and Sir Aubrey not cold in his coffin, as you may say." The door behind Mr. Sadgrove now gave a gentle creak, or groan, which, in the language of the spirits, meant that Mr. Bain had heard enough, so Mr. Sadgrove forthwith paid Mrs. Tringfold her legacy, ten glistening new sovereigns, which made the young man's mouth water, and dismissed her, very well satisI fled with what she had heard to her advantage. " Well, Mr. Bain, did I manage it all right ?" asked John Sadgrove, with conscious merit, as Shadr.ich Bain emerged from the adjoining chamber. " You couldn't have done it better, John, and here's the sovereign I promised you. But you must beg a few hours' liberty to-morrow morning and go with me to the church where Lady Perriam thinks she is going to be married. I may find you useful as a witness." " I'll run round to the office to-morrow morning to ask leave of absence, and be back here at half-past nine," answered John Sadgrove, blithely. "Are you going to put a stop to the marriage ?" he asked. " I think it's more than likely I shall," replied Mr. Bain, with a grim smile.

Chapter LX. " JUST CAUSE OR IMPEDIMENT." It was the morning of Sylvia's second marriage — that nnion which was to be the blessed fulfilment of all her girlish dreams, which was to bring her nothing but happiness. Restless had been her slumbers through the night that was gone, and haunted byawful dreams. Not once, but several times, in vague and various shapes the event of the coming day had been enacted, j Sometimes the scene had been lifelike enough, the circumstances possible — some element of reason in the fabric of her vision ; at other times all had been dense darkness and wildest confusion. She had been drifting with her lover over stormdriven waves. They had stood together on the bare and empty deck of a wrecked vessel, while a priest in splendid vest- | ments, such as she had seen at St. Gudule, in Brussels, had recited the marriage service ; and, behold ! just as he had joined their hands, a gigantic wave rose, whitecrested, and broke over the ship, sweeping away priest and bridegroom, and leaving her alone, whirling madly onward over that hideous ocean. In another dream they had been together on some tropical waste of level sand, under a copper-coloured sky and sultry air thick with hot white vapour, and every now and then a cloud of burning sand was blown over them by the sudden blast of a hot wind. Here, too, they knelt side by side, and a voice that came, the dreamer knew not whence, repeated the words of the marriage service j but before it was ended, the bride looked at her companion, and saw that he had fallen dead at her side, and saw a flock of vultures swooping down upon him through that awful sky. It was broad day when she awoke from this last vision. She started up in her ! bed, her forehead damp with the cold dew of fear, and looked at the summer light shining in upon her through the uncurtained windows. " Thank God, it was only a dream ! " She sprang up, rang for Celine, and began the operations of the toilet, though it was only six o'clock. Celine remonstrated politely, urged upon her mistress the duty of looking her loveliest in her wedding bonnet, the most delicious chapeau of white chip, ostrich feathers, and palest mauve, the faintest suggestion of half -mourning as a delicate compliment • to the departed Sir Aubrey. I " It's no use talking, Celine ! " replied Lady Perriam impatiently, "I shan't i attempt to sleep any more ! I have had such horrible dreams. " "Horrible dreams, on the eve of so happy a union ; mais, Madame, e'est incroyable ! " "It is true, nevertheless. I suppose I have had too much anxiety lately." U A cause dcs dents du pauvre petit," said Celine naively. There had been trouble lately about Sir St. John's dental development, and the maid imagined that maternal solicitude might have disturbed her lady's slumbers. Sylvia felt considerably refreshed after a cold bath, a cup of strong tea, and an elaborate toilet. She looked lovely in her wedding dress of palost gray satin, i

trimmed with heavy Spanish point lace— a matronly costume, which rendered tho youthfulness of her beauty all the more striking. And now run down stairs and get my letters," she said to Celine, as the clock on the chimney piece struck nine, "the post must have come by this time." The only letter she thought of was a possible greeting from Edmund — one loving line perhaps to welcome the day. She had communicated with the housekeeper at Perriam Place, and ordered that letters should be sent to her, but of any such letters she had no thought this morning. Celine came back with a bulky little packet, wrapped in the thickest and creamiest paper, sealed with several seals — a jeweller's parcel, evidently. This was Edmund's greeting. She also brought a letter — a foreign letter — addressed to Perriam Place, in a delicate, nervous hand, a hand Sylvia knew very well, and re-addressed to Willoughby Crescent, in the housekeeper's clumsier characters. This letter was from Mr. Carew. Hia epistles were not frequent! and their pur- . port was generally either to ask or to acknowledge money. He had continued his easy life in the South of France — only varying it by an occasional fortnight in Paris, and Sylvia had every reason to suppose that he would spend the rest of his days in that agreeable exile. She had been sufficiently liberal to him, and they corresponded in the most affectionate terms ; but Sylvia did not sigh for reunion with the father in whose companionship she had spent so many years of her life. Sho opened Edmund's packet first. It contained a ruby velvet case with her monogram — her new monogram, S. S,, in gold, and inside the case, on a bed of white satin, reposed a diamond eross — the gems of large size and of purest colour. Upon a slip of paper in the case- Edmund had written these lines :—: — ' ' Wear this to-morrow, dearest, for my sake, instead of the jewels you showed me last night. I should like to think that you wore my gift rather than Sir Aubrey's on that solemn clay which is to unite us for ever." "My own genorous Edmund !" murmured Sylvia, and unwonted tears clouded her eyes as she kissed the letter and the cross. She had shown him her diamond necklace, Sir Aubrey's gift, the day before, and had asked him, half in sport, if she should wear it on her wedding day. She clasped the cross on her neck before she even thought of her father's letter. The diamond flashed out between folds of rich lace, which veiled the narrow opening of her Raphael-shaped bodice. When her lover's offering had been adjusted to her satisfaction, with much enthusiasm and ejaculation on the part of Celine, Lady Perriam seated herself at the breakfast table to sip a second cup of tea and to read her father's letter. " You can go now, Celine," she said, ' ' but come to me at a quarter to ten, to arrange my bonnet and veil." Mr. Carew's letter was briefer than usual, for in the calm retirement of his unoccupied life he had found time to write to his daughter with considerable amplitude. He prided himßelf upon being able to write a good letter, and his epistles had been for the most part as elaborate as those of travellers who have an eye to publishing their effusions later in a per* manent form " at the request of friends," To-day the letter was brief, and the tidings it conveyed were not agreeable. Sylvia's brow darkened as she read it. ." My deai; Sylvia,— After two years' residence in this genial climate, I find my health established, and that nature has, in some measure, compensated herself by profound rest for the wear and tear of these years of toil which had made me an old man before my time. With renewed strength I find reawakening within me those yearnings for home and country which are, I suppose, innate in every breast. You are now your own mistress, rich, and secure in the noble position which your attractions won for you. If I come now to sit before your hearth — or perchance to dwell at a short distance from your house in some modest retreat of my own— l shall not feel myself an intruder. I am coming, therefore, my dear child, to claim your affectionate welcome, to taste the sweets of your bounty. You have been most generous to me during my exile, but I crave something more than pecuniary aid. I languish for your society, your ever dutiful regard. I shall be with you, perhaps, in a day or two after you receive this letter. For the first time, therefore, I may venture to elo3e my sheet, with au revoir, instead of adieu. Your ever attached Father, James Cabew." "One would imagine my evil genius had put it into his head to come back, and at such a time ! " thought Sylvia. " I wonder whether I have an evil genius. Most people would say so, for I have been so lucky. But then the devils we read of gave their slaves all their desires at the outset." She tried to calculate the time that must elapse before her father could, arrive in England, but his letter was too vaguely written. It was dated nearly a week ago. If he had followed it quickly he might be in England already. He would go straight to Perriam Place, no doubt, find her absent, obtain her

address from the housekeeper, who would be awed by his paternal authority, and come to Willoughby Crescent in quest of her. Hope whispered that he would come too late. A bell rang loudly while she was still standing with the letter in her hand, a bell that sent a thrill of fear through her heart, though it might be a commonplace summons enough. She had been breakfasting in a boudoir that hafl been extemporised for her, a bright little apartment adjoining her dressing-room. This room was held sacred to her privacy, and when a masculine step sounded presently on the landing, she told herself it must be Edmund. No one else would venture to intrude at such an hour. Celine opened the door, and screamed "Madame, it is Monsieur your Father !" Another moment, and Sylvia, shedding tears of vexation, was clasped to her father's breast. Not so fondly -would he have clasped her in the old days when he was the parish schoolmaster, and she his unrecompensed handmaiden. It may be that severance had taught him the value of this only daughter. "My love," he exclaimed, with emotion; "this is rapture. I knew not the feelings of a father's heart till this moment." For half-a-minute or so he indulged in those feelings, and shed, or seemed to be shedding, paternal tears upon Sylvia's soft brown hair. After that gush of emotion he put her suddenly away from him. "Let me look at you, my love," he exclaimed, " let me see how those two years have ripened your young beauty. Yes, the bud is expanding into a blossom, but it has not lost the freshness of its early bloom. But, my sweet Sylvia, what in heaven's name is the meaning of this dress at this early hour ? Has fashion invented some morning assembly ? What is the meaning of this almost bridal attire V Sylvia looked him straight in the face, nerving herself for a battle. "It simply means that I am going to be married, " she answered in her coldest, hardest tones — tones that meant "no surrender." " You — are — going — to be married !" ejaculated Mr. Carew, "six months after your husband's death — such a husband as Sir Aubrey Perriam ?" "I know that it may seem strange to you —to the world," answered Sylvia, " but I do not hold myself accountable to the world, or to you. I consult my own feeling this time. I sacrificed myself once to win comfort and ease for you. It would be a poor return if you were to reward that sacrifice by opposition now that I seek happiness for myself." " The world will say hard things of you for this marriage, Sylvia. " ' ' Let the world say what it will. The world is always hard — hard to the rich — harder to the poor — hard to virtue. Let the world hate me. It can never trample on me again, for I ask nothing from it. lam my own mistress. I am tired of a lonely, unprotected life, and I am going to marry the lover of my youth, the only man I ever loved. Is that such a wicked act?" "It is an improper act to marry six months after your husband's death." "I suppose if widow-burning were the ' fashion in this country, you would come and ask me to perform suttee rather than outrage society," said Sylvia, with a bitter laugh. "You sold me to the highest bidder — and you have profited by the j bargain, and are likely to profit by it for the rest of your life. What more do you want ? Did you intend to make a second barter — to find another rich man to pay j you the price of my broken heart !" " This is unkind, Sylvia. If I profited in a small degree by your union with Sir Aubrey, you profited largely. And I think you were as much gratified to become Lady Perriam as I was to see you raised to that proud position. Let us not dispute, my love. For your own sake I would entreat you to postpone your marriage. There is no reason you should not marry Mr. Standen, when a decent interval has elapsed. But if I have any influence with you I will exert it to the utmost to hinder your taking a step which will be the ruin of your name." " You have no influence with me. You exhausted all your stock of influence when you persuaded me to marry Sir Aubrey Perriam. You shall not come a second time between me and the man I love." " Sylvia !" cried her father desperately, " cannot you understand that I have no objection to your ultimate union with Mr. Standen ? I only ask you to respect the laws of society — and to delay this marriage— if only for six months." "Delays are dangerous," answered Sylvia. " Who knows what might happen in six months ?" " What have you to fear? You, who have youth, wealth, and beauty? Edmund Standen has everything to gain by marrying you." ' ' He might not always think so. Come,

my dear father," said Sylvia, in a lighter tone, ' ' don't let us spoil this reunion by a needless dispute. You have always taken your way in life —let me take mine — unassailed by advice or interference. Do this, and we shall always be good friends. Oppose me — and — " She finished the sentence with a shrug of her shoulders, which was easy of interpretation. " What then V asked Mr. Carew. " In that case I should try to forget I have a father." ' ' "Very well, Sylvia. Take your own way. After all, it is yoxir reputation and not mine that is at stake. Why should I trouble myself about the matter ? I have never been in the habit of making myself unhappy about other people's business. Let us say no more about it. Perhaps you will be good enough to give me some breakfast. I went down to Perriam yesterday — found that you were living in London — got your address from the housekeeper — and came back to town by the evening mail. I slept at the Great Western Hotel, and in my impatience to see you would not even wait to breakfast before coming here." "You shall not suffer for that sacrifice," said Sylvia, gaily. She was eager to conciliate this unwelcome parent, now that he showed himself amenable to reason. She rang the bell, ordered the best breakfast the house could produce at five minutes' notice, and presently Mr. Carew found himself seated at a well-furnished table, with his daughter opposite to him, the aroma of choicest Media ascending to his nostrils, and a rush-bound flask of Maraschino at his elbow. " After all, papa, if you will only take things pleasantly, your unexpected arrival is not inopportune," said Sylvia, ministering to her parent's wants with daintiest care. " You can go to church with me. I shall feel a less desolate creature if I have your arm to lean on." " My love, no one is desolate with five thousand a year," said Mr. Carew, sententiously. "For people with such an income the world teems with friends." " Yes, friends who are enemies in disguise — wolves in sheepskin," answered Sylvia, bitterly. " I shall not waste my money in paying for such friendship. My only hope of happiness is with the man who loved me for my own sake when I was your penniless daughter." Mr. Carew eat his breakfast — wound up with a couple of glasses of Maraschino — tiny Venetian goblets, emblazoned with gold — and discreetly held his peace. After all — as he had remarked just now — his daughter's speedy marriage would make no difference to him. It was she who must suffer the world's scorn. They drove to the church — the new Gothic temple, with its painted windows, which made patches of luminous colour in the half-light of the narrow vaulted aisles. Edmund was waiting for them in the vesky — looking as happy as a bridegroom should look. No remorseful thought troubled him to-day. Mind and heart were alike filled with one subject, and that was Sylvia. He was surprised to see Mr. Carew, but welcomed him cordially, ready to forgive and forget the schoolmaster's insolent reception of his proposal two years ago. To-day was no day for the remembrance of old injuries. Marriage would be but a sorry business if every man were not a Christian on his wedding day. "My Sylvia," said the bridegroom proudly, as he drew her a little aside from the clergyman and Mr. Carew, and looked at her with fond admiring eyes, " how lovely you have made yourself, as if satin and pearl were needed to enhance your beauty. If you had come to me in rags, if you had come to me a beggar-girl out of yonder street, I should love you every bit as well. My Sylvia ! mine at last ! mine for ever from to-day ! " " Are you ready ? " asked the clergyman, who had remained politely unconscious of this sentimental episode. "Quite ready," answered Edmund, putting Sylvia's arm through his and moving towards the door. " Not quite, I think, when you have heard what I have to tell you," said a strong voice from the threshold. The half-opened door was pushed aside, and Mr. Bain entered the vestry. Sylvia gave a cry of despair, a shriek that echoed loud in the vaulted aisles on the other side of the door, and flung herself upon her lover's breast. "He shall not part us!" she said, "Edmund, Edmund, be true tome, let him say what he will." (To be continued.) Scientific men will be glad to hear that the Earl of Eosse is about to remodel the smaller of the two celebrated telescopes erected by the late Earl, by substitution of a clock apparatus, which is intended to move the telescope within a new observatoiy, which His Lordship has already commenced to build. The undertaking will be watched with much interest by astronomers, as it is one long contemplated, but never before attempted.