Father Mackworth Brings Lord Saltire to Bay, and what came of it.

Old James was to be buried side by side with his old master in the vault under the altar. The funeral was to be on the grandest scale, and all the Catholic gently of the neighbourhood, and most of the Protestant, were coming. Father Mackworth, it may be conceived, was very busy, and seldom alone. All day he and the two Tiernays were arranging and ordering. When thoroughly tired out, late at night, he would retire to his room and take a frugal supper (Mackworth was no glutton) and sit before the fire musing.

One night, towards the middle of the week, he was sitting thus before the fire when the door opened, and some one came in; thinking it was the servant, he did not look round; but, when the supposed servant came up to the fireplace and stood still, he cast his eyes suddenly up, and they fell upon the cadaverous face of Outhbert.

He looked deadly pale and wan as he stood with his face turned to the nickering fire, and Mackworth felt deep pity for him. He held an open letter towards Mackworth, and said —

“This is from Lord Saltire. He proposes to come here the night before the funeral and go away in Lord Segur’s carriage with Mm after it is over. Will you kindly see after his rooms, and so on? Here is the letter.”

“I will,” said Mackworth. “My dear boy, you look deadly ill.”

“I wish I were dead.”

“So do all who hope for heaven,” said Mackworth.

“Who would not look worn and ill with such a scene hanging over their heads?”

“Go away and avoid it.”

“Not I. A Ravenshoe is not a coward. Besides, I want to see him again. How cruel you have been! Why did you let him gain my heart? I have little enough to love.”

There was a long pause — so long that a bright-eyed little mouse ran out from the wainscot and watched. Both their eyes were bent on the fire, and Father Mackworth listened with painful intentness for what was to come.

“He shall speak first,” he thought, “How I wonder ”

At last Cuthbert spoke slowly, without raising his eyes —

“Will nothing induce you to forego your purpose?”

“How can I forego it, Cuthbert, with common honesty? I have foregone it long enough.”

“Listen now,” said Cuthbert unheedingly; “I have een reckoning up what I can afford, and I find that I can give you five thousand pounds down for that paper, and five thousand more in bills of six, eight, and twelve months. Will that content you?”

Father Mackworth would have given a finger to have answered promptly “No,” but he could not. The offer was so astounding, so unexpected, that he hesitated long enough to make Cuthbert look round, and say —

“Ten thousand pounds is a large sum of money, Father.”

It was, indeed; and Lord Saltire coming next week! Let us do the man justice; he acted with a certain amount of honour. When you have read this book to the end you will see that ten thousand pounds was only part of what was offered to him. He gave up it all because he would not lower himself in the eyes of Cuthbert, who had believed in him so long.

“I paused,” said he, “from astonishment, that a gentleman could have insulted me by such a proposition.”

“Your pause,” said Cuthbert, “arose from hesitation, not from astonishment. I saw your eyes blaze when I made you the offer. Think of ten thousand pounds. You might appear in the world as an English Roman Catholic of fortune. Good heavens! with your talent, you might aspire to the cardinal’s chair!”

“No, no, no!” said Mackworth, fiercely. “I did hesitate, and I have lied to you; but I hesitate no onger. I won’t haye the subject mentioned to me again, sir. What sort of a gentleman are you to come to men’s rooms in the dead of night,, with your father lying dead in the house, and tempt men to felony? I will not.”

“God knows,” said Cuthbert, as he passed out, “whether I have lost heaven by trying to save him.”

Mackworth heard the door close behind him, and then looked eagerly towards it. He heard Cuthbert’s footsteps die along the corridor, and then, rising up, he opened it and looked out. The corridor was empty. He walked hurriedly back to the fireplace.

“Shall I call him back?” he said. “It is not too late. Ten thousand pounds! A greater stake than I played for; and now, when it is at my feet, I am throwing it away. And for what? For honour, after I have acted the “(he could not say the word). “After I have gone so far. I must be a gentleman. A common rogue would have jumped at the offer. By heaven! there are some things better than money. If I were to take his offer he would know me for a rogue. And I love the lad. No, no! let the fool go to his prayers. I will keep the respect of one man at least.

“What a curious jumble and puzzle it all is, to be sure. Am I any worse than my neighbours? I have made a desperate attempt at power, for a name, and an ambition; and then, because the ball comes suddenly at my feet, from a quarter I did not expect, I dare not strike it because I fear the contempt of one single pair of eyes from which I have been used to receive nothing but love and reverence.

“Yet, he cannot trust me, as I thought he did, or he would not have made the offer to me. And then he made it in such a confident way that he must have thought I was going to accept it. That is strange. He has never rebelled lately. Am I throwing away substance for shadow? I have been bound to the Church body and soul from my boyhood, and I must go on. I have refused a cardinal’s chair this night. But who will ever know it?

“I must go about with my lord Saltire. I could go at him with more confidence if I had ten thousand pounds in the bank though, in case of a failure. I am less afraid of that terrible old heretic than I am of those great eyes of Cuthbert’s turned on me in scom. I have lived so long among gentlemen that I believe myself to be one. He knows, and he shall tell.

“And, if all fails, I have served the Church, and the Church shall serve me. What fools the best of us are! Why did I ever allow that straightforward idiot Tiernay into the house? He hates me, I know. I rather like the fool. He will take the younger one’s part on Monday; but I don’t think my gentleman will dare to say too much.”

After this soliloquy, the key to which will appear very shortly, Father Mackworth took off his clothes and got into bed.

The day before the funeral, Cuthbert sent a nies-sage to Charles, to beg that he would be kind enough to receive Lord Saltire; and, as the old man was expected at a certain hour, Charles, about ten minutes before the time, went down to the bottom of the hall-steps on to the terrace, to be ready for him when he came.

Oh the glorious wild freshness of the sea and sky-after the darkened house! The two old capes right and left; the mile-long stretch of sand between them; and the short crisp waves rolling in before the westerly wind of spring! Life and useful action in the rolling water; budding promise in the darkening woods; young love in every bird’s note!

William stood beside him before he had observed him. Charles turned to him, and took Iris arm in his.

“Look at this,” he said.

“I am looking at it.”

“Does it make you glad and wild?” said Charles. “Does it make the last week in the dark house look like twenty years? Are the two good souls which are gone looking at it now, and rejoicing that earth should still have some pleasure left for us?”

“I hope not,” said William, turning to Charles.

“And why?” said Charles, wondering rather what William would say.

“I wouldn’t,” said William, “have neither of their hearts broke with seeing what is to come.”

“Their hearts broke!” said Charles, turning full round on his foster-brother. “Let them see how we ehave under it, William. That will never break their hearts, my boy.”

“Charles,” said William, earnestly, “do you know what is coming?”

“No; nor care.”

“It is something terrible for you, I fear,” said William.

“Have you any idea what it is?” said Charles.

“Not the least. But look here. Last night, near twelve, I went down to the chapel, thinking to say an ave before the coffin, and there lay Master Cuthbert on the stones. So I kept quiet and said my prayer. And of a sudden he burst out and said, ' I have risked my soul and my fortune to save him: Lord, remember it!’”

“Did he say that, William?”

“The very words.”

“Then he could not have been speaking of me,” said Charles. “It is possible that by some means I may not come into the property I have been led to expect; but that could not have referred to me. Suppose I was to leave the house, penniless, tomorrow morning, William, should I go alone? I am very strong, and very patient, and soon learn anything. Cuthbert would take care of me. Would you come with me, or let me go alone?”

“You know. Why should I answer?”

“We might go to Canada and settle. And then Adelaide would come over when the house was ready; and you would marry the girl of your choice; and our boys would grow up to be such friends as you and I re. And then my boy should many your girl, and ”

Poor, dreaming Charles, all unprepared for what was to come!

A carriage drove on to the terrace at this moment, with Lord Saltire’s solemn servant on ............