[Illustration] THE GREAT HOUSE BY THE SAME AUTHOR THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF THE NEW RECTOR THE STORY OF FRANCIS CLUDDE A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE THE MAN IN BLACK UNDER THE RED ROBE MY LADY ROTHA MEMOIRS OF A MINISTER OF FRANCE THE RED COCKADE SHREWSBURY THE CASTLE INN SOPHIA COUNT HANNIBAL IN KINGSâ BYWAYS THE LONG NIGHT THE ABBESS OF VLAYE STARVECROW FARM CHIPPINGE LAID UP IN LAVENDER THE WILD GEESE THE GREAT HOUSE BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN Author of âThe Castle Inn,â âChippinge,â âA Gentleman of France,â etc., etc. NEW YORK LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. FOURTH AVENUE AND 30th STREET 1919 Copyright, 1919 BY STANLEY J. WEYMAN Contents CHAPTER I. The HÃ´tel LambertâUpstairs. CHAPTER II. The HÃ´tel LambertâDownstairs. CHAPTER III. The Lawyer Abroad. CHAPTER IV. Homeward Bound. CHAPTER V. The London Packet. CHAPTER VI. Field and Forge. CHAPTER VII. Mr. John Audley. CHAPTER VIII. The Gatehouse. CHAPTER IX. Old Things. CHAPTER X. New Things. CHAPTER XI. Tact and Temper. CHAPTER XII. The Yew Walk. CHAPTER XIII. Peter Pauper. CHAPTER XIV. The Manchester Men. CHAPTER XV. Strange Bedfellows. CHAPTER XVI. The Great House at Beaudelays. CHAPTER XVII. To the Rescue. CHAPTER XVIII. Masks and Faces. CHAPTER XIX. The Corn Law Crisis. CHAPTER XX. Peterâs Return. CHAPTER XXI. Toft at the Butterflies. CHAPTER XXII. My Lord Speaks. CHAPTER XXIII. Blore Under Weaver. CHAPTER XXIV. An Agent of the Old School. CHAPTER XXV. Mary is Lonely. CHAPTER XXVI. Missing. CHAPTER XXVII. A Footstep in the Hall. CHAPTER XXVIII. The News from Riddsley. CHAPTER XXIX. The Audley Bible. CHAPTER XXX. A Friend in Need. CHAPTER XXXI. Ben Bosham. CHAPTER XXXII. Mary Makes a Discovery. CHAPTER XXXIII. The Meeting at the Maypole. CHAPTER XXXIV. By the Canal. CHAPTER XXXV. My Lord Speaks Out. CHAPTER XXXVI. The Riddsley Election. CHAPTER XXXVII. A Turn of the Wheel. CHAPTER XXXVIII. Toftâs Little Surprise. CHAPTER XXXIX. The Deed of Renunciation. CHAPTER XL. âLet Us Make Others Thankful.â THE GREAT HOUSE CHAPTER I THE HÃTEL LAMBERTâUPSTAIRS On an evening in March in the âforties of last century a girl looked down on the Seine from an attic window on the Ile St. Louis. The room behind herâor beside her, for she sat on the window-ledge, with her back against one side of the opening and her feet against the otherâwas long, whitewashed from floor to ceiling, lighted by five gaunt windows, and as cold to the eye as charity to the recipient. Along each side of the chamber ran ten pallet beds. A black door broke the wall at one end, and above the door hung a crucifix. A painting of a Station of the Cross adorned the wall at the other end. Beyond this picture the room had no ornament; it is almost true to say that beyond what has been named it had no furniture. One bedâthe bed beside the window at which the girl satâwas screened by a thin curtain which did not reach the floor. This was her bed. But in early spring no window in Paris looked on a scene more cheerful than this window; which as from an eyrie commanded a shining reach of the Seine bordered by the lawns and foliage of the Kingâs Garden, and closed by the graceful arches of the Bridge of Austerlitz. On the water boats shot to and fro. The quays were gay with the red trousers of soldiers and the coquettish caps of soubrettes, with students in strange cloaks, and the twinkling wheels of yellow cabriolets. The first swallows were hawking hither and thither above the water, and a pleasant hum rose from the Boulevard Bourdon. Yet the girl sighed. For it was her birthday, she was twenty this twenty-fifth of March, and there was not a soul in the world to know this and to wish her joy. A life of dependence, toned to the key of the whitewashed room and the thin pallets, lay before her; and though she had good reason to be thankful for the safety which dependence bought, still she was only twenty, and springtime, viewed from prison windows, beckons to its cousin, youth. She saw family groups walking the quays, and father, mother, children, all, seen from a distance, were happy. She saw lovers loitering in the garden or pacing to and fro, and romance walked with every one of them; none came late, or fell to words. She sighed more deeply; and on the sound the door opened. â_Hola!_â cried a shrill voice, speaking in French, fluent, but oddly accented. âWho is here? The Princess desires that the English Mademoiselle will descend this evening.â âVery good,â the girl in the window replied pleasantly. âAt the same hour, JosÃ©phine?â âWhy not, Mademoiselle?â A trim maid, with a plain face and the faultless figure of a Pole, came a few steps into the room. âBut you are alone?â âThe children are walking. I stayed at home.â âTo be alone? As if I did not understand that! To be aloneâit is the luxury of the rich.â The girl nodded. âNone but a Pole would have thought of that,â she said. âAh, the crafty English Miss!â the maid retorted. âHow she flatters! Perhaps she needs a touch of the tongs to-night? Or the loan of a pair of red-heeled shoes, worn no more than thrice by the Princessâand with the black which is convenable for Mademoiselle, oh, so neat! Of the _ancien rÃ©gime_, absolutely!â The other laughed. âThe _ancien rÃ©gime_, JosÃ©phineâand this!â she replied, with a gesture that embraced the room, the pallets, her own bed. âA curled headâand this! You are truly a cabbageâââ âBut Mademoiselle descends!â âA cabbage ofâfoolishness!â âAh, well, if I descended, you would see,â the maid retorted. âI am but the Princessâs second maid, and I know nothing! But if I descended it would not be to this dormitory I should return! Nor to the tartines! Nor to the daughters of Poland! Trust me for thatâand I know but my prayers. While Mademoiselle, she is an artistâs daughter.â âThere spoke the Pole again,â the girl struck in with a smile. âThe English Miss knows how to flatter,â JosÃ©phine laughed. âThat is one for the touch of the tongs,â she continued, ticking them off on her fingers. âAnd one for the red-heeled shoes. Andâbut no more! Let me begone before I am bankrupt!â She turned about with a flirt of her short petticoats, but paused and looked back, with her hand on the door. âNone the less, mark you well, Mademoiselle, from the whitewash to the ceiling of Lebrun, from the dortoir of the Jeunes Filles to the Gallery of Hercules, there are but twenty stairs, and easy, oh, so easy to descend! If Mademoiselle instead of flattering JosÃ©phine, the Cracovienne, flattered some pretty gentlemanâwho knows? Not I! I know but my prayers!â And with a light laugh the maid clapped to the door and was gone. The girl in the window had not throughout the parley changed her pose or moved more than her head, and this was characteristic of her. For even in her playfulness there was gravity, and a measure of stillness. Now, left alone, she dropped her feet to the floor, turned, and knelt on the sill with her brow pressed against the glass. The sun had set, mists were rising from the river, the quays were gray and cold. Here and there a lamp began to shine through the twilight. But the girlâs thoughts were no longer on the scene beneath her eyes. âThere goes the third who has been good to me,â she pondered. âFirst the Polish lodger who lived on the floor below, and saved me from that woman. Then the Princessâs daughter. Now JosÃ©phine. There are still kind people in the worldâGod grant that I may not forget it! But how much better to give than to take, to be strong than to be weak, to be the mistress and not the puppet of fortune! How much betterâand, were I a man, how easy!â But on that there came into her remembrance one to whom it had not been easy, one who had signally failed to master fortune, or to grapple with circumstances. âPoor father!â she whispered. CHAPTER II THE HÃTEL LAMBERTâDOWNSTAIRS When ladies were at home to their intimates in the Paris of the âforties, they seated their guests about large round tables with a view to that common exchange of wit and fancy which is the French ideal. The mode crossed to England, and in many houses these round tables, fallen to the uses of the dining-room or the nursery, may still be seen. But when the Princess Czartoriski entertained in the HÃ´tel Lambert, under the ceiling painted by Lebrun, which had looked down on the arm-chair of Madame de ChÃ¢telet and the tabouret of Voltaire, she was, as became a Pole, a law to herself. In that beautiful room, softly lit by wax candles, her guests were free to follow their bent, to fall into groups, or to admire at their ease the Watteaus and Bouchers which the Princessâs father-in-law, old Prince Adam, had restored to their native panels. Thanks to his taste and under her rule the gallery of Hercules presented on this evening a scene not unworthy of its past. The silks and satins of the old rÃ©gime were indeed replaced by the high-shouldered coats, the stocks, the pins and velvet vests of the dandies; and Thiers beaming through his glasses, or Lamartine, though beauty, melted by the woes of Poland, hung upon his lips, might have been thought by some unequal to the dead. But they were now what those had been; and the women peacocked it as of old. At any rate the effect was good, and a guest who came late, and paused a moment on the threshold to observe the scene, thought that he had never before done the room full justice. Presently the Princess saw him and he went forward. The man who was talking to her made his bow, and she pointed with her fan to the vacant place. âFelicitations, my lord,â she said. She held out her gloved hand. âA thousands thanks,â he said, as he bent over it. âBut on what, Princess?â âOn the success of a friend. On what we have all seen in the _Journal_. Is it not true that you have won your suit?â âI won, yes.â He shrugged his shoulders. âBut what, Madame? A bare title, an empty rent-roll.â âFor shame!â she answered. âBut I suppose that this is your English phlegm. Is it not a thing to be proud ofâan old title? That which money cannot buy and the wisest would fain wear? M. Guizot, what would he not give to be Chien de Race? Your Peel, also?â âAnd your Thiers?â he returned, with a sly glance at the little man in the shining glasses. âHe, too! But he has the passion of humanity, which is a title in itself. Whereas you English, turning in your unending circle, one out, one in, one in, one out, are but playing a gameâmarking time! You have not a desire to go forward!â âSurely, Princess, you forget our Reform Bill, scarce ten years old.â âWhich bought off your cotton lords and your fat bourgeois, and left the people without leaders and more helpless than before. No, my lord, if your RussellâLord John, do you call him?âhad one jot of M. Thiersâ enthusiasm! Or your Peelâbut I look for nothing there!â He shrugged his shoulders. âI admit,â he said, âthat M. Thiers has an enthusiasm beyond the ordinary.â âYou do? Wonderful!â âBut,â with a smile, âit is, I fancy, an enthusiasm of which the object isâM. Thiers!â âAh!â she cried, fanning herself more quickly. âNow there spoke not Mr. Audley, the attachÃ©âhe had not been so imprudent! Butâhow do you call yourself now?â âOn days of ceremony,â he replied, âLord Audley of Beaudelays.â âThere spoke my lord, unattached! Oh, you English, you have no enthusiasm. You have only traditions. Poor were Poland if her fate hung on you!â âThere are still bright spots,â he said slyly. And his glance returned to the little statesman in spectacles on whom the Princess rested the hopes of Poland. âNo!â she cried vividly. âDonât say it again or I shall be displeased. Turn your eyes elsewhere. There is one here about whom I wish to consult you. Do you see the tall girl in black who is engaged with the miniatures?â âI saw her some time ago.â âI suppose so. You are a man. I dare say you would call her handsome?â âI think it possible, were she not in this company. What of her, Princess?â âDo you notice anything beyond her looks?â âThe picture is plainâfor the frame in which I see her. Is she one of the staff of your school?â âYes, but with an airâââ âCertainlyâan air!â He nodded. âWell, she is a countrywoman of yours and has a history. Her father, a journalist, artist, no matter what, came to live in Paris years ago. He went down, down, always down; six months ago he died. There was enough to bury him, no more. She says, I donât knowââthe Princess indicated doubt with a movement of her fanââthat she wrote to friends in England. Perhaps she did not write; how do I know? She was at the last sou, the street before her, a hag of a concierge behind, and withalâas you see her.â âNot wearing that dress, I presume?â he said with a faint smile. âNo. She had passed everything to the Mont de PiÃ©tÃ©; she had what she stood up inâyet herself! Then a Polish family on the floor below, to whom my daughter carried alms, told CÃ©cile of her. They pitied her, spoke well of her, she had doneâno matter what for themâperhaps nothing. Probably nothing. But CÃ©cile ascended, saw her, became enamoured, _enragÃ©e!_ You know CÃ©cileâfor her all that wears feathers is of the angels! Nothing would do but she must bring her here and set her to teach English to the daughters during her own absence.â âThe Princess is away?â âFor four weeks. But in three days she returns, and you see where I am. How do I know who this is? She may be this, or that. If she were French, if she were Polish, I should know! But she is English and of a calm, a reticenceâah!â âAnd of a pride too,â he replied thoughtfully, âif I mistake not. Yet it is a good face, Princess.â She fluttered her fan. âIt is a handsome one. For a man that is the same.â âWith all this you permit her to appear?â âTo be of use. And a little that she may be seen by some English friend, who may tell me.â âShall I talk to her?â âIf you will be so good. Learn, if you please, what she is.â âYour wishes are law,â he rejoined. âWill you present me?â âIt is not necessary,â the Princess answered. She beckoned to a stout gentleman who wore whiskers trimmed Ã la mode du Roi, and had laurel leaves on his coat collar. âA thousand thanks.â He lingered a moment to take part in the Princessâs reception of the Academician. Then he joined a group about old Prince Adam Czartoriski, who was describing a recent visit to Cracow, that last morsel of free Poland, soon to pass into the maw of Austria. A little apart, the girl in black bent over the case of miniatures, comparing some with a list, and polishing others with a square of silk. Presently he found himself beside her. Their eyes met. âI am told,â he said, bowing, âthat you are my countrywoman. The Princess thought that I might be of use to you.â The girl had read his errand before he spoke and a shade flitted across her face. She knew, only too well, that her hold on this rock of safety to which chance had lifted herâout of a gulf of peril and misery of which she trembled to thinkâwas of the slightest. Early, almost from the first, she had discovered that the Princessâs benevolence found vent rather in schemes for the good of many than in tenderness for one. But hitherto she had relied on the daughterâs affection, and a little on her own usefulness. Then, too, she was young and hopeful, and the depths from which she had escaped were such that she could not believe that Providence would return her to them. But she was quick-witted, and his opening frightened her. She guessed at once that she was not to be allowed to await CÃ©cileâs return, that her fate hung on what this Englishman, so big and bland and forceful, reported of her. She braced herself to meet the danger. âI am obliged to the Princess,â she said. âBut my ties with England are slight. I came to France with my father when I was ten years old.â âI think you lost him recently?â He found his task less easy than it should have been. âHe died six months ago,â she replied, regarding him gravely. âHis illness left me without means. I was penniless, when the young Princess befriended me and gave me a respite here. I am no part of this,â with a glance at the salon and the groups about them. âI teach upstairs. I am thankful for the privilege of doing so.â âThe Princess told me as much,â he said frankly. âShe thought that, being English, I might advise you better than she could; that possibly I might put you in touch with your relations?â She shook her head. âOr your friends? You must have friends?â âDoubtless my father hadâonce,â she said in a low voice. âBut as his means diminished, he saw less and less of those who had known him. For the last two years I do not think that he saw an Englishman at home. Before that time I was in a convent school, and I do not know.â âYou are a Roman Catholic, then?â âNo. And for that reasonâand for another, that my account was not paidââher color rose painfully to her faceââI could not apply to the Sisters. I am very frank,â she added, her lip trembling. âAnd I encroach,â he answered, bowing. âForgive me! Your father was an artist, I believe?â âHe drew for an Atelier de Porcelaineâfor the journals when he could. But he was not very successful,â she continued reluctantly. âThe china factory which had employed him since he came to Paris, failed. When I returned from school he was alone and poor, living in the little street in the Quartier, where he died.â âBut forgive me, you must have some relations in England?â âOnly one of whom I know,â she replied. âMy fatherâs brother. My father had quarrelled with himâbitterly, I fear; but when he was dying he bade me write to my uncle and tell him how we were placed. I did so. No answer came. Then after my fatherâs death I wrote again. I told my uncle that I was alone, that I was without money, that in a short time I should be homeless, that if I could return to England I could live by teaching French. He did not reply. I could do no more.â âThat was outrageous,â he answered, flushing darkly. Though well under thirty he was a tall man and portly, with one of those large faces that easily become injected. âDo you knowâis your uncle also in narrow circumstances?â âI know no more than his name,â she said. âMy father never spoke of him. They had quarrelled. Indeed, my father spoke little of his past.â âBut when you did not hear from your uncle, did you not tell your father?â âIt could do no good,â she said. âAnd he was dying.â He was not sentimental, this big man, whose entrance into a room carried with it a sense of power. Nor was he one to be lightly moved, but her simplicity and the picture her words drew for him of the daughter and the dying man touched him. Already his mind was made up that the Czartoriski should not turn her adrift for lack of a word. Aloud, âThe Princess did not tell me your name,â he said. âMay I know it?â âAudley,â she said. âMary Audley.â He stared at her. She supposed that he had not caught the name. She repeated it. âAudley? Do you really mean that?â âWhy not?â she asked, surprised in her turn. âIs it so uncommon a name?â âNo,â he replied slowly. âNo, but it is a coincidence. The Princess did not tell me that your name was Audley.â The girl shook her head. âI doubt if she knows,â she said. âTo her I am only âthe English girl.ââ âAnd your father was an artist, resident in Paris? And his name?â âPeter Audley.â He nodded. âPeter Audley,â he repeated. His eyes looked through her at something far away. His lips were more firmly set. His face was grave. âPeter Audley,â he repeated softly. âAn artist resident in Paris!â âBut did you know him?â she cried. He brought his thoughts and his eyes back to her. âNo, I did not know him,â he said. âBut I have heard of him.â And again it was plain that his thoughts took wing. âJohn Audleyâs brother, the artist!â he muttered. In her impatience she could have taken him by the sleeve and shaken him. âThen you do know John Audley?â she said. âMy uncle?â Again he brought himself back with an effort. âA thousand pardons!â he said. âYou see the Princess did not tell me that you were an Audley. Yes, I know John Audleyâof the Gatehouse. I suppose it was to him you wrote?â âYes.â âAnd he did not reply?â She nodded. He laughed, as at something whimsical. It was not a kindly laugh, it jarred a little on his listener. But the next moment his face softened, he smiled at her, and the smile of such a man had its importance, for in repose his eyes were hard. It was clear to her that he was a man of position, that he belonged of right to this keen polished world at which she was stealing a glance. His air was distinguished, and his dress, though quiet, struck the last note of fashion. âBut I am keeping you in suspense,â he said. âI must tell you, Miss Audley, why it surprised me to learn your name. Because I, too, am an Audley.â âYou!â she cried. âYes, I,â he replied. âWhat is more, I am akin to you. The kinship is remote, but it happens that your fatherâs name, in its place in a pedigree, has been familiar to me of late, and I could set down the precise degree of cousinship in which you stand to me. I think your father was my fourth cousin.â She colored charmingly. âIs it possible?â she exclaimed. âIt is a fact, proved indeed, recently, in a court of law,â he answered lightly. âPerhaps it is as well that we have that warrant for a conversation which I can see that the Princess thinks long. After this she will expect to hear the whole of your history.â âI fear that she may be displeased,â the girl said, wincing a little. âYou have been very kindâââ âWho should be kind,â he replied, âif not the head of your family? But have no fear, I will deal with the Princess. I shall be able to satisfy her, I have no doubt.â âAnd youââshe looked at him with appeal in her eyesââwill you be good enough to tell me who you are?â âI am Lord Audley. To distinguish me from another of the same name, I am called Audley of Beaudelays.â âOf Beaudelays?â she repeated. He thought her face, her whole bearing, singularly composed in view of his announcement. âBeaudelays?â she repeated thoughtfully. âI have heard the name more than once. Perhaps from my father.â âIt were odd if you had not,â he said. âIt is the name of my house, and your uncle, John Audley, lives within a mile of it.â âOh,â she said. The name of the uncle who had ignored her appeals fell on her like a cold douche. âI will not say more now,â Lord Audley continued. âBut you shall hear from me. Toâmorrow I quit Paris for three or four days, but when I return have no fear. You may leave the matter in my hands in full confidence that I shall not failâmy cousin.â He held out his hand and she laid hers in it. She looked him frankly in the face. âThank you,â she said. âI little thought when I descended this evening that I should meet a kinsman.â âAnd a friend,â he answered, holding her hand a little longer than was needful. âAnd a friend,â she repeated. âBut thereâI must go now. I should have disappeared ten minutes ago. This is my way.â She inclined her head, and turning from him she pushed open a small door masked by a picture. She passed at once into a dark corridor, and threading its windings gained the great staircase. As she flitted upwards from floor to floor, skirting a long procession of shadowy forms, and now ogled by a Leda whose only veil was the dusk, now threatened by the tusks of the great boar at bay, she was not conscious of thought or surprise. It was not until she had lighted her taper outside the dormitory door, and, passing between the rows of sleeping children, had gained her screened corner, that she found it possible to think. Then she set the light in her tiny washing-basinâsuch was the ruleâand seated herself on her bed. For some minutes she stared before her, motionless and unwinking, her hands clasped about her knees, her mind at work. Was it true, or a dream? Had this really happened to her since she had viewed herself in the blurred mirror, had set a curl right and, satisfied, had turned to go down? The danger and the delivery from it, the fear and the friend in need? Or was it a Cinderellaâs treat, which no fairy godmother would recall to her, with which no lost slipper would connect her? She could almost believe this. For no Cinderella, in the ashes of the hearth, could have seemed more remote from the gay ball-room than she crouching on her thin mattress, with the breathing of the children in her ears, from the luxury of the famous salon. Or, if it was true, if it had happened, would anything come of it? Would Lord Audley remember her? Or would he think no more of her, ignoring to-morrow the poor relation whom it had been the whim of the moment to own? That would be cruel! That would be base! But if Mary had fallen in with some good people since her fatherâs death, she had also met many callous, and a few cruel people. He might be one. And then, how strange it was that her father had never named this great kinsman, never referred to him, never even, when dying, disclosed his name! The light wavered in the draught that stole through the bald, undraped window. A child whimpered in its sleep, awoke, began to sob. It was the youngest of the daughters of Poland. The girl rose, and going on tip-toe to the child, bent over it, kissed it, warmed it in her bosom, soothed it. Presently the little waif slept again, and Mary Audley began to make ready for bed. But so much turned for her on what had happened, so much hung in the balance, that it was not unnatural that as she let down her hair and plaited it in two long tails for the night, she should see her new kinsmanâs face in the mirror. Nor strange that as she lay sleepless and thought-ridden in her bed the same face should present itself anew relieved against the background of darkness. CHAPTER III THE LAWYER ABROAD Half an hour later Lord Audley paused in the hall at Meuriceâs, and having given his cloak and hat to a servant went thoughtfully up the wide staircase. He opened the door of a room on the first floor. A stout man with a bald head, who had been for some time yawning over the dying fire, rose to his feet and remained standing. Audley nodded. âHallo, Stubbs!â he said carelessly, ânot in bed yet?â âNo, my lord,â the other answered. âI waited to learn if your lordship had any orders for England.â âWell, sit down now. Iâve something to tell you.â My lord stooped as he spoke and warmed his hands at the embers; then rising, he stood with his back to the hearth. The stout man sat forward on his chair with an air of deference. His double chin rested on the ample folds of a soft white stock secured by a gold pin in the shape of a wheat-sheaf. He wore black knee-breeches and stockings, and his dress, though plain, bore the stamp of neatness and prosperity. For a minute or two Audley continued to look thoughtfully before him. At length, âMay I take it that this claim is really at an end now?â he said. âIs the decision final, I mean?â âUnless new evidence crops up,â Stubbs answeredâhe was a lawyerââthe decision is certainly final. With your lordshipâs signature to the papers I brought overâââ âBut the claimant might try again?â âMr. John Audley might do anything,â Stubbs returned. âI believe him to be mad upon the point, and therefore capable of much. But he could only move on new evidence of the most cogent nature. I do not believe that such evidence exists.â His employer weighed this for some time. At length, âThen if you were in my place,â he said, âyou would not be tempted to hedge?â âTo hedge?â the lawyer exclaimed, as if he had never heard the word before. âI am afraid I donât understand.â âI will explain. But first, tell me this. If anything happens to me before I have a child, John Audley succeeds to the peerage? That is clear?â âCertainly! Mr. John Audley, the claimant, is also your heir-at-law.â âTo title and estatesâsuch as they are?â âTo both, my lord.â âThen follow me another step, Stubbs. Failing John Audley, who is the next heir?â âMr. Peter Audley,â Stubbs replied, âhis only brother, would succeed, if he were alive. But it is common ground that he is dead. I knew Mr. Peter, and, if I may say it of an Audley, my lord, a more shiftless, weak, improvident gentleman never lived. And obstinate as the devil! He married into trade, and Mr. John never forgave itânever forgave it, my lord. Never spoke of his brother or to his brother from that time. It was before the Reform Bill,â the lawyer continued with a sigh. âThere were no railways then and things were different. Dear, dear, how the world changes! Mr. Peter must have gone abroad ten years ago, but until he was mentioned in the suit I donât think that I had heard his name ten times in as many years. And he an Audley!â âHe had a child?â âOnly one, a daughter.â âWould she come in after Mr. John?â âYes, my lord, she wouldâif living.â âIâve been talking to her this evening.â âAh!â The lawyer was not so simple as he seemed, and for a minute or two he had foreseen the _dÃ©nouement_. âAh!â he repeated, thoughtfully rubbing his plump calf. âI see, my lord. Mr. Peter Audleyâs daughter? Really! And if I may venture to ask, what is she like?â Audley paused before he answered. Then, âIf you have painted the father aright, Stubbs, I should say that she was his opposite in all but his obstinacy. A calm and self-reliant young woman, if I am any judge.â âAnd handsome?â âYes, with a look of breeding. At the same time she is penniless and dependent, teaching English in a kind of charity school, cheek by jowl with a princess!â âGod bless my soul!â cried the lawyer, astonished at last. âA princess!â âWho is a good creature as women go, but as likely as not to send her adrift to-morrow.â âTut-tut-tut!â muttered the other. âHowever, Iâll tell you the story,â Audley concluded. And he did so. When he had done, âWell,â Stubbs exclaimed, âfor a coincidenceâââ âAh, there,â the young man broke in, âI fancy, allâs not said. I take it the Princess noted the name, but was too polite to question me. Anyway, the girl is there. She is dependent, friendless; attractive, and well-bred. For a moment it did occur to meâshe is John Audleyâs heiressâthat I might make all safe byâââ His voice dropped. His last words were inaudible. âThe chance is so very remote,â said the lawyer, aware that he was on delicate ground, and that the other was rather following out his own thoughts than consulting him. âIt is. The idea crossed my mind only for a momentâof course itâs absurd for a man as poor as I am. There is hardly a poorer peer out of Irelandâyou know that. Fourteenth baron without a roof to my house or a pane of glass in my windows! And a rent-roll when all is told ofâââ âA little short of three thousand,â the lawyer muttered. âTwo thousand five hundred, by God, and not a penny more! If any man ought to marry money, I am that man, Stubbs!â Mr. Stubbs, staring at the fire with a hand on each knee, assented respectfully. âIâve always hoped that you would, my lord,â he said, âthough Iâve not ventured to say it.â âYes! Wellâputting that aside,â the other resumed, âwhat is to be done about her? Iâve been thinking it over, and I fancy that Iâve hit on the right line. John Audleyâs given me trouble enough. Iâll give him some. Iâll make him provide for her, dân him, or I donât know my man!â âIâd like to know, my lord,â Stubbs ventured thoughtfully, âwhy he didnât answer her letters. He hated her father, but it is not like Mr. John to let the young lady drift. Heâs crazy about the family, and she is his next heir. Heâs a lonely man, too, and there is room at the Gatehouse.â Audley paused, half-way across the room. âI wish we had never leased the Gatehouse to him!â âItâs not everybodyâs house, my lord. Itâs lonely andâââ âItâs too near Beaudelays!â âIf your lordship were living at the Great House, quite so,â the lawyer agreed. âBut, as it is, the rent is useful, and the lease was made before our time, so that we have no choice.â âI shall always believe that he had a reason for going there!â âHe had an idea that it strengthened his claim,â the lawyer said indulgently. âNothing beyond that, my lord.â âWell, Iâve made up my mind to increase his family by a niece!â the other replied. âHe shall have the girl whether he likes it or not. Take a pen, man, and sit down. Heâs spoiled my breakfast many a time with his confounded Writs of Error, or whatever you call them, and for once Iâll be even with him. Sayâyes, Stubbs, say this: ââI am directed by Lord Audley to inform you that a young lady, believed to be a daughter of the late Mr. Peter Audley, and recently living in poverty in an obscureââyes, Stubbs, say obscureââpart of Paris, has been rescued by the benevolence of a Polish lady. For the present she is in the ladyâs house in a menial capacity, and is dependent on her charity. Lord Audley is informed that the young lady made application to you without result, but this report his lordship discredits. Still, he feels himself concerned; and if those to whom she naturally looks decline to aid her, it is his lordshipâs intention to make such provision as may enable her to live respectably. I am to inform you that Miss Audleyâs address is the HÃ´tel Lambert, Ile St. Louis, Paris. Letters should be addressed âCare of the Housekeeper.âââ âHe wonât like the last touch!â the young man continued, with a quiet chuckle. âIf that does not touch him on the raw, Iâll yield up the title to-morrow. And now, Stubbs, good-night.â But Stubbs did not take the hint. âI want to say one word, my lord, about the boroughâabout Riddsley,â he said. âWe put in Mr. Mottisfont at the last election, your lordshipâs interest just tipping the scale. We think, therefore, that a word from you may set right what is going wrong.â âWhat is it?â âThereâs a strong feeling,â the lawyer answered, his face serious, âthat the party is not being led aright. And that Mr. Mottisfont, who is oldâââ âIs willing to go with the party, eh, Stubbs?â âNo, my lord, with the party leaders. Which is a different thing. Sir Robert Peelâthe land put him in, but, dân me, my lordââthe lawyerâs manner lost much of its deference and he spoke bluntly and stronglyââit looks as if he were going to put the land out! An income-tax in peace time, weâve taken that. And less protection for the farmer, very goodâif it must be. But all this taking off of duties, this letting in of Canadian cornâI tell you, my lord, thereâs an ugly feeling abroad! There are a good many in Riddsley say that he is going to repeal the Corn Laws altogether; that heâs sold us to the League, and wonât be long before he delivers us!â The big man sitting back in his chair smiled. âIt seems to me,â he said, âthat you are travelling rather fast and rather far, Stubbs!â âThatâs just what we fear Sir Robert is doing!â the lawyer retorted smartly, the otherâs rank forgotten. âAnd you may take it from me the borough wonât stand it, my lord, and the sooner Mr. Mottisfont has a hint the better. If he follows Peel too far, the bottom will fall out of his seat. Thereâs no Corn Law leaguer will ever sit for Riddsley!â âWith your help, anyway, Stubbs,â my lord said with a smile. The lawyerâs excitement amused him. âNo, my lord! Never with my help! I believe that on the landed interest rests the stability of the country! It was the landed interest that supported Pitt and beat Bony, and brought us through the long war. It was the landed interest that kept us from revolution in the dark days after the war. And now because the men that turn cotton and iron and clay into money by the help of the devilâs breathâbecause they want to pay lower wagesâââ âThe ark of the covenant is to be overthrown, eh?â the young man laughed. âWhy, to listen to you, Stubbs, one would think that you were the largest landowner in the county!â âNo, my lord,â the lawyer answered. âBut itâs the landowners have made me what I am. And itâs the landowners and the farmers that Riddsley lives by and is going to stand by! And the sooner Mr. Mottisfont knows that the better. He was elected as a Tory, and a Tory he must stop, whether Sir Robert turns his coat or not!â âYou want me to speak to Mottisfont?â âWe do, my lord. Just a word. I was at the Ordinary last fair day, and there was nothing else talked of. Free Canadian corn was too like free French corn and free Belgian corn for Stafford wits to see much difference. And Peel is too like repeal, my lord. We are beginning to see that.â Audley shrugged his shoulders. âThe party is satisfied,â he said. âAnd Mottisfont? I canât drive the man.â âNo, but a word from youâââ âWell, Iâll think about it. But I fancy youâre overrunning the scent.â âThen the line is not straight!â the lawyer retorted shrewdly. âHowever, if I have been too warm, I beg pardon, my lord.â âIâll bear it in mind,â Audley answered. âVery good. And now, good-night, Stubbs. Donât forget to send the letter to John Audley as soon as you reach London.â Stubbs replied that he would, and took his leave. He had said his say on the borough question, lord or no lord; which to a Britonâand he was a typical Britonâwas a satisfaction. But half an hour later, when he had drawn his nightcap down to his ears and stood, the extinguisher in his hand, he paused. âHeâs a sober hand for a young man,â he thought, âa very sober hand. I warrant he will never run his ship on the rocks for lack of a good look-out!â CHAPTER IV HOMEWARD BOUND In the corner of the light diligence, seating six inside, which had brought her from Montreuil, Mary Audley leant forward, looking out through the dingy panes for the windmills of Calais. JosÃ©phine slept in the corner facing her, as she had slept for two hours past. Their companions, a French shopkeeper and her child, and an English bagman, sighed and fidgeted, as travellers had cause to sigh and fidget in days when he was lucky who covered the distance from Paris to Calais in twenty-five hours. The coach rumbled on. The sun had set, a small rain was falling. The fading light tinged the plain of the Pas de Calais with a melancholy which little by little dyed the girlâs thoughts. She was on her way to her own country, to those on whom she might be dependent without shame. And common sense, of which she had a large share, told her that she had cause, great cause to be thankful. But the flush of relief, to which the opening prospect had given rise, was ebbing. The life before her was new, those amongst whom she must lead that life were strange; nor did the cold phrases of her uncleâs invitation, which ignored both her father and the letters that she had written, promise an over-warm welcome. Still, âCourage!â Mary murmured to herself, âCourage!â And she recalled a saying which she had learned from the maid, âAt the worst, ten fingers!â Then, seeing that at last they were entering the streets of the town and that the weary journey was overâshe had left Paris the day beforeâshe touched JosÃ©phine. âWe are there,â she said. The maid awoke with her eyes on the bagman, who was stout. âAh!â she muttered. âIn England they are like that! No wonder that they travel seeing that their bones are so padded! But, for me I am one ache.â They jolted over the uneven pavement, crossed a bridge, lumbered through streets scarcely wider than the swaying diligence, at last with a great cracking of whips they swerved to the left and drew up amid the babel of the quay. In a twinkling they were part of it. Porters dragged down, fought for, snatched up their baggage. English-speaking touts shook dirty cards in their faces. Tide-waiters bawled questions in their ears. The postilion, the conductor, all the world stretched greedy palms under their noses. Other travellers ran into them, and they ran into other travellers. All this, in the dusk, in the rain, while the bell on the deck overhead clanged above the roar of the escaping steam, and a man shouted without ceasing, âTower steamer! Tower steamer! Any more for England?â JosÃ©phine, after one bitter exchange of words with a lad who had seized her handbag, thrust her fingers into her ears and resigned herself. Even Mary for a moment was aghast. She was dragged this way and that, she lost one article and recovered it, lost another and recovered that, she lost her ticket and rescued it from a manâs hand. At last, her baggage on board, she found herself breathless at the foot of the ladder, with three passengers imploring her to ascend, and six touts clinging to her skirts and crying for drink-money. She had barely time to make her little gift to the kind-hearted maidâwho was returning to Paris by the night coachâand no time to thank her, before they were parted. Mary was pushed up the ladder. In a moment she was looking down from the deck on the wet, squalid quay, the pale up-turned faces, the bustling crowd. She picked out the one face which she knew, and which it pained her to lose. By gestures and smiles, with a tear in the eye, she tried to make amends to JosÃ©phine for the hasty parting, the half-spoken words. The maid on her side was in tears, and after the French fashion was proud of them. So the last minute came. The paddles were already turning, the ship was going slowly astern, when a man pushed his way through the crowd. He clutched the ladder as it was unhooked, and at some risk and much loss of dignity he was bundled on board. There was a lamp amidships, and, as he regained his balance, Mary, smiling in spite of herself, saw that he was an Englishman, a man about thirty, and plainly dressed. Then in her anxiety to see the last of JosÃ©phine she crossed the deck as the ship went about, and she lost sight of him. She continued to look back and to wave her handkerchief, until nothing remained but a light or two in a bank of shadow. That was the last she was to see of the land which had been her home for ten years; and chilled and lonely she turned about and did what, had she been an older traveller, she would have done before. She sought the after-cabin. Alas, a glance from the foot of the companion was enough! Every place was taken, every couch occupied, and the air, already close, repelled her. She climbed to the deck again, and was seeking some corner where she could sit, sheltered from the wind and rain, when the captain saw her and fell foul of her. âNow, young lady,â he said, âno womanâs allowed on deck at night!â âOh, but,â she protested, âthereâs no room downstairs!â âWonât do,â he answered roughly. âLost a woman overboard once, and as much trouble about her as about all the men, drunk or sober, Iâve ever carried. All women below, all women below, is the order! Besides,â more amicably, as he saw by a ray of lantern-light that she was young and comely, âitâs wet, my dear, and going to be dâd wet, and as dark as Wapping!â âBut Iâve a cloak,â she petitioned, âif I sit quite still, andâââ A tall form loomed up at the captainâs elbow. âThis is the lady I am looking for,â the new-comer said. âIt will be all right, Captain Jones.â The captain turned sharply. âOh, my lord,â he said, âI didnât know; but with petticoats and a dark night, blest if you know where you are! Iâm sure I beg the young ladyâs pardon. Quite right, my lord, quite right!â With a rough salute he went forward and the darkness swallowed him. âLord Audley?â Mary said. She spoke quietly, but to do so she had to steady her voice. âYes,â he replied. âI knew that you were crossing to-night, and as I had to go over this week I chose this evening. Iâve reserved a cabin for you.â âOh, but,â she remonstrated, âI donât think you should have done that! I donât know that I canâââ âAfford it?â he said coolly. âThenâas it is a matter of some shillingsâyour kinsman will presume to pay for it.â It was a small thing, and she let it pass. âBut who told you,â she asked, âthat I was crossing to-night?â âThe Princess. You donât feel, I suppose, that as you are crossing, it was my duty to stay in France?â âOh no!â she protested. âBut you are not sure whether you are more pleased or more vexed? Well, let me show you where your cabin isâit is the size of a millinerâs box, but by morning you will be glad of it, and that may turn the scale. Moreover,â as he led the way across the deck, âthe stewardâs boy, when he is not serving gin below, will serve tea above, and at sea tea is not to be scorned. Thatâs your numberâ7. And there is the boy. Boy!â he called in a voice that ensured obedience, âTea and bread and butter for this lady in number 7 in an hour. See it is there, my lad!â She smiled. âI think the tea and bread and butter may turn the scale,â she said. âRight,â he replied. âThen, as it is only eight oâclock, why should we not sit in the shelter of this tarpaulin? I see that there are two seats. They might have been put for us.â âIs it possible that they were?â she asked shrewdly. âWell, why not?â She
{'title': 'The Great House by Stanley John Weyman', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}