CHAPTER V.

SIR PHILIP'S MISSION.

Major Raynor sat in his favourite seat on the lawn at Eagles' Nest, at drowsy peace with himself and with the world. Of late the major had always been drowsy: morning, noon, and night, no matter what company he was in, he might be seen nodding. Frank, as a medical man, did not like the signs. He spoke to his uncle of the necessity of rousing himself, of taking more exercise, of indulging somewhat less in good luncheons and dinners. The major made an effort to obey: for two days he actually walked about the lawn for twenty minutes, refused two rich entrées, took at each meal one glass less of wine. But the efforts ended there, and on the third day the major gave up reformation as a bad job.

"It's of no use, Frank, my boy. You young folk can be upon the run all day if you choose, and live upon bread-and-cheese and beer; but we old ones require ease; we can't be put about."

So the major sat at ease this day as usual, lazily thinking, and dropping into a doze. A letter had been received that morning from Edina, in answer to an invitation from Major and Mrs. Raynor to come and make her home with them now that she was alone in the world. Edina declined it for the present. She was staying at Trennach parsonage with Mr. and Mrs. Pine: her plans were not decided upon; but the clergyman and his wife would not yet spare her. She had many affairs to settle at Trennach. Mr. Hatman had taken to the practice, as had been arranged, and to the house; but Edina could not leave the place at present. She hoped to pay Eagles' Nest a visit in the course of the summer.

Thinking of this, and subsiding into dozing, sat the major. The hum of the insects sounded in his ears, the scent of the rich flowering hawthorn was heavy in the air. Though not yet summer by the calendar, for May was still reigning, the season was unusually premature, and the weather was, to all intents and purposes, that of summer. Bees were sipping at the honey-blossoms, butterflies fluttered from flower to flower. All nature seemed conducive to repose, and--the major was soon fast asleep, and choking as though he were being strangled.

"You are wanted, if you please, sir."

The words aroused him. Opening his eyes, and sitting upright in his chair, he saw his butler by his side.

"What do you say, Lamb? Wanted? Who is it?"

"Sir Philip Stane, sir. He is in the drawing-room."

The major took a draught of his champagne-cup, standing on the table by his side. Which cup, it must be confessed, was much more innocent than its name would imply. A quart or two of it would not have hurt any one: and the major was always thirsty. Crossing the lawn, he went into the drawing-room. Sir Philip Stane, a little man with a white shirt-frill, a cold face, and a remarkably composed manner, rose at his entrance. Major Raynor shook hands with him in his hearty way, and they sat down together.

For some few minutes the conversation turned on general topics; but soon the knight gave the major to understand that he had come to speak upon a particular subject: the attachment of his son to Miss Raynor.

"It has for some time been observable that they are thinking of one another," remarked he.

"Well, yes, I suppose it has," said the major. "We have noticed it here."

"William is getting on fairly well; he calculates that he will make at least seven-hundred pounds this year. Quite enough, he thinks, to begin housekeeping upon, with help. With help, major."

"I should have thought it unbounded riches in my marrying days," observed the major.

"William considers that he would be justified in setting up a home, provided he can be met," continued Sir Philip in his deliberate, sententious way, presenting a direct contrast to the major's heartiness. "Young people do not of course expect to begin as they may hope to end: riches must come by degrees."

"Quite right," said the major.

"And therefore, with a view to the consideration of the matter--to finally deciding whether my son may be justified, or not, in settling this year--I have come to ask you, Major Raynor, what portion you intend to bestow upon your daughter."

"Not any," replied the plain-speaking major. "I have none to bestow."

Sir Philip looked at him blankly. He did not appear to understand.

"My will is good, Sir Philip. I would give a portion to Alice heartily if I possessed it. Thousands, I'm sure, the young people should be welcome to, if they needed it."

"Do you mean to say that you--that you will not bestow any portion whatever upon your daughter when she marries?" asked Sir Philip, in a tone of cold astonishment.

"I'm sorry that I can't do it," said the major. "I wish I could. If that lost money of mine would only turn up----"

"Then, I am afraid, I--cannot say what I had come to say," returned Sir Philip, with the air of a man who deliberates aloud, and quite ignoring the major's interrupted sentence. "I could not advise my son to settle upon the few hundreds a-year that make up his present income."

"Why, it's abundance," cried the candid major. "You have just said yourself that young people cannot expect to begin as they will end. Your son's is a rising income: if he makes seven-hundred this year, he may expect to make ten next, and double the seven the year after. It is ample to begin upon, Sir Philip."

"No," dissented Sir Philip. "Neither he nor I would consider it so. Something should be put by for a rainy day. This communication has completely taken me by surprise, Major Raynor. We took it for granted that your daughter would at least add her quota to the income: had it been only three or four hundred a-year. Without money of her own, there could be no settlement on her, you see, my son's not being real property."

The major was growing a little heated. He did not at all like the turn the conversation was taking, or Sir Philip's dictatorial tone.

"Well, you hear, Sir Philip, that Alice has nothing. Those who wish to take her, must take her as she is--portionless--or not at all."

Sir Philip Stane rose. "I am sorry, then, major, that I cannot ask what I was about to ask for--herself. Your daughter----"

"You are not wanted to ask it, sir," hotly interrupted the major.

"The fact of your daughter's being portionless debars it," quietly went on the knight. "I am very sorry indeed to have troubled you, and subjected myself to pain. William must consider his pretensions at an end."

"They are at an end," fired the major. "If it is money he has been thinking of all this time, he ought to be ashamed of himself for a calculating, mercenary young rascal. Were he to come to me on his knees, after this, begging for my daughter, he should not have her. That's my answer, Sir Philip Stane, and you can take it away with you."

The major's tug at the bell-rope sent a peal echoing through the house. But Sir Philip Stane's hand was already on the door-handle, letting himself out with a short "good-morning."

Away went the major, hunting for Alice. He found her with her mother. Hotly and explosively he gave an account of the interview; of what he called the mercenary conduct of Sir Philip and William Stane. Poor Alice turned hot and cold: red and white by turns. She took the indignity--as she was pleased to think it--quite as resentfully as the major.

"I forbid you to have anything to do with him after this, Alice. I forbid you to see him again."

"You need not forbid me, papa," was the answer. "I should not think of it."

Major Raynor was one who could not keep in anything, good or bad, especially any grievance. He went about the house, looking for Charles and Frank, that he might impart the news, and so let off a little of his superfluous anger. But he could not find either of them.

Matters were going on much as usual. Daisy was progressing so far towards recovery that she could sit at the open window of her chamber and revel in the balmy air, while feasting her eyes upon the charming landscape. Charles was in a little extra trouble; for he had been written to twice upon the subject of the fifty-pound bill that was overdue. And Frank, outwardly gay as the flowers of May, was inwardly on thorns and nettles.

That that mysterious personage, the Tiger, was wasting his days and hours at Grassmere on Frank Raynor's account, Frank felt persuaded of. To him it seemed an indisputable fact. The man did not molest him: did not appear to take particular notice of him; he had not yet accosted him: but Frank knew that all the while he was craftily watching his movements, to see that he did not escape. It needed not a conjuror to tell him that the Tiger was the spy of Blase Pellet.

The espionage was growing intolerable to Frank. And on this very day, just about the time that Sir Philip Stane was at Eagles' Nest, he flung prudence to the winds, and questioned the enemy. The Tiger had wandered as near to the house as he could, without being guilty of a positive trespass: and Frank, chancing to turn out of what was called Beech Walk, came face to face with him. It was the first time they had thus closely met. For half-a-minute they gazed at each other. The Tiger stood his ground, and quietly took from his pocket a small note-case of brown morocco leather, with the initials "C.R." stamped upon it in gilt.

"Does this belong to you?" questioned the Tiger.

"Not to me," replied Frank. "But I believe it belongs to my cousin, Mr. Raynor.

"I picked it up a few minutes ago as I was strolling along. Perhaps you will be so good us to give it to its owner."

Frank took the case from the Tiger, and thanked him. Even to this man, suspecting him as he did for a despicable spy, he could only be courteous. And, indeed, but for this suspicion, Frank would rather have liked the man's face, now he saw it closely; the thought passed through his mind that, for a Tiger, he was a civilized one. There was a tone of pleasant freedom in the voice; the dark grey eyes, gazing steadily into Frank's, were earnest and good.

"You come from Trennach," said Frank suddenly, speaking upon impulse.

"From Trennach?" repeated the stranger, vaguely, and evincing no surprise.

"Or from some one there," continued Frank. "Employed by him to--to look after his villainous interests here."

"I am my own employer, young man."

"What is your name, pray?"

"If I thought it concerned you to know it, I might, perhaps, inform you," was the answer, civilly delivered.

"But suppose it does concern me?"

"It is my opinion that it does not."

"At any rate your business here does."

"Does it?"

"Will you deny that you have business here? Business of a private nature?"

"I cannot deny that, for it is true."

"And that your business consists in peeping, and watching, and spying?"

"You are partly right."

"And," continued Frank, growing warm, "don't you think that to peep and to spy is a despicable proceeding?"

"In some cases it may undoubtedly be so regarded," was the calm, cool answer. "In other cases it is perfectly justifiable. When some good end, for instance, has to be obtained: or, let us say, a problem worked out."

"The devil can quote Scripture, we are told, to serve his own purposes," muttered Frank to himself as he turned away, afraid of pursuing the subject, half afraid of what revelation the man might make, and of his fearless grey eyes and their steadfast gaze.

They strode apart one from another at right angles. The stranger with careless, easy steps, with profound composure: Frank less easy than usual.

"I wonder," soliloquized he, "whether Pellet has let him into that unhappy night's secret, or whether he has only given him general instructions to look after me, and has kept him in the dark? Any way, I wish Blase Pellet was----"

The wish, whatever it might have been, was left unspoken. For the Tiger had changed his course. Had turned to follow Frank at a fleet pace, and now came up with him.

"Will you tell me, sir, what induced you to assume that I had come here from Trennach? And for what purpose I am 'spying'?--and upon whom?"

"There's no need to tell you," rejoined Frank. "You know too well already."

"And if I tell you that I do not know?"

"I hope you don't. It's all the same," returned Frank, indifferently, believing he was being played with.

"Perhaps you have run up debts at Trennach, and are mistaking me for a sheriff's officer?" proceeded the Tiger, once more gazing steadfastly at Frank as he spoke. "Your cousin, the major's son, has been taking me for one."

"How on earth did he get to know that?" thought Frank. And it seemed to be so confirmatory of the Tiger's accomplishments in the prying line, that Frank felt as much exasperated as his sweet-tempered nature was capable of feeling.

"Your road lies that way, and mine this," spoke Frank, with a wave of the hand. "Good-morning."

The Tiger stood still, looking after his receding footsteps. A very peculiar expression sat on his face, not altogether complimentary to Frank.

"A curious lot, these Raynors," concluded he to himself, as he turned to pursue his own way.

It was perhaps rather remarkable that Charles Raynor should also, on this same day, be brought into contact with the Tiger for the first time. Charley's troubles were culminating to a point: at least, in so far that he was about to be pressed for one of his debts, though he knew it not. It would come upon Charley something like a shock. Since fear, on the score of the Tiger, had subsided, he had enjoyed a complete immunity from _personal_ annoyance; and this had lulled his apprehensions to rest; so that he went about here, there, and everywhere, feeling free as air.

He had been out in the dog-cart all the morning. Upon going indoors on his return, by the entrance that was nearest to the stables, in passing the butler's pantry he saw Lamb standing in it. The man made a sudden movement as though he would speak to him, and it arrested Charley.

"Do you want me, Lamb?" he asked, halting on his way.

Lamb dropped his voice to a mysterious whisper, and Charley instinctively moved inside, and shut the door. Lamb knew nearly as much about his young master's embarrassments as he himself knew.

"A party has been here this morning who wanted to see you, Mr. Charles. When I said you were out--gone up to London, I thought--he seemed as if he hardly believed me. I began to think I shouldn't get rid of him."

"Who was it?" asked Charles.

"It was a respectable-looking man, sir. Highly respectable, one might be tempted to call him, if his errand had not been to bother people for money. Being near the neighbourhood, he had turned aside to Grassmere to see you, he said, and his business with you was particular. Of course I knew what it all meant, Mr. Charles, and I declared you were gone out for the day and couldn't be seen though he waited till night."

"I wonder which of them it was?" mused Charley. "Did he give his name?"

"Yes, sir; Huddles. He----"

"Oh, Huddles, is it?" interrupted Charley, his mouth falling. "I'm glad I didn't see him. Is he gone for good, do you think, Lamb?"

"I should say so, sir. I fully impressed upon him that his waiting would be no earthly use. I even said, Mr. Charles, that there was no answering for your return when you went to London, and that you might be there a week, for all I could say. I told him he had better write to you, sir. 'Very well,' he said in answer, and went off with a quick step: no doubt to catch the next train."

"That's all right then," said Charley, completely reassured. "Any visitors been here, Lamb?"

"Sir Philip Stane called, sir. And some ladies are in the drawing-room now. Would you like some refreshment, Mr. Charles?"

"No, I'll wait till dinnertime."

But it still wanted some two or three hours to dinnertime. Presently Charles went strolling out on foot, digesting the unpleasant item of news that his father had just hastened to impart to him--the sneaking behaviour, as he called it, of William Stane. Charles felt greatly vexed and annoyed at it for Alice's sake. He was sure there was a mutual attachment, and had believed that they understood each other.

Lost in reflections on this subject, and never giving a thought to the matter imparted to him by Lamb, his eyes never raised, his footsteps wandering on almost as they would, Charley found himself passing along the common, on the side of the better houses. Words of salutation greeted him.

"Good-afternoon, sir. A hot day again, is it not?"

They came from Miss Jetty, the carpenter's sister. She was sitting at work at her open window. Charles lifted his eyes to nod to her; and that enabled him to see some one who was approaching at a short distance. _Huddles_. Charley recognized him; and on the spur of the moment darted into the carpenter's to hide.

"I hope and trust he did not see me!"

But Mr. Huddles had seen him. Mr. Huddles came up with a long stride, and was inside the house almost as soon as Charley was. Charley could not pretend to be blind then. He stood just within Esther Jetty's sitting-room; and the applicant stood in the passage facing him.

"I called at Eagles' Nest to-day, Mr. Charles Raynor, and could not see you. You know of course what it was I wanted?"

Charles was taken aback. What with the unpleasantness of the surprise, the consciousness of the helpless state of his finances, and the proximity of Miss Esther Jetty's eyes and ears, raised in curiosity, he was turning frightfully cross. A few sharp, haughty words greeted Huddles, apparently causing him astonishment. This application concerned one of the two "bills" given by Charley; the one on which no proceedings had as yet been taken.

"Can you meet that bill, Mr. Charles Raynor?"

"No, I can't," replied Charles. "I wrote you word that I would meet it as soon as I could; that bill and the other also; and so I will. You must wait."

"For how long, Mr. Raynor? It is inconvenient to wait."

Charles flew into a passion. But for Esther Jetty's presence, he would have managed much better; that of course behoved him to carry matters with a high hand, and he showered abuse on Mr. Huddles in haughty language, forgetful of diplomacy. Mr. Huddles, not at all the sort of man to be dealt with in this manner, repaid him in his own coin. Had Charles met him civilly, he would have been civil also; ay, and forbearing. The bills--he held them both--had only come into his hands in the course of business. He was really respectable, both as a man and a tradesman, not accustomed to be spoken to in such a fashion, and most certainly in this instance did not deserve it. His temper rose. A short, sharp storm ensued, and Mr. Huddles went out of the house in anger, leaving a promise behind him.

"I have been holding the two bills over for you, Mr. Charles Raynor, and staying proceedings out of consideration to you and at your request. And this is the gratitude I get in return! The affair is none of mine, as you know; and what I have done has been simply out of good-nature, for I was sorry to see so young a man in danger of exposure, perhaps of a debtor's prison. I will not delay proceedings another day. The bills shall pass out of my hands, and you must do the best you can for yourself."

Whilst Charles stood knitting his brow and looking very foolish, staring at the front-door, which still vibrated with the bang Mr. Huddles gave it, and not half liking to turn and face Esther Jetty, the parlour-door on the other side of the passage, which had been ajar all the time, opened, and the Tiger appeared at it. He must have been an ear-witness to the whole. It did not tend to decrease Charley's annoyance: and, in truth, the sudden appearance of this man upon the scene, in conjunction with the visit of Huddles, revived Charley's suspicions of him. The Tiger's face wore quite a benevolent aspect.

"Can I be of any use to you?" he asked. "I will be if I can. Step in here, Charles Raynor, and let us talk it over."

Charley lost his head. The words only added fuel to fire. Coming from this sneak of a sheriff's officer, or whatever other disreputable thing he might be, they sounded in his ears in the light of an insult--a bit of casuistry designed to entrap him. And he treated them accordingly.

"_You_ be of use to me!" he contemptuously retorted, with all the scorn he could call up. "Mind your own business, man, if you can. Don't presume to interfere with mine."

And out of the house strode Charley, banging the door in his turn, and sending a good-afternoon to Esther Jetty through the open window. The Tiger shrugged his shoulders with a disdainful gesture: as much as to say that the young man was not worth a thought and that he washed his hands of him and his concerns. Taking up his slouching hat, he put it well over his forehead, stood for a few minutes at the outer door, and then passed through the little gate.

"Wouldn't you like your tea, sir?" called Esther Jetty from the window. "I was just about to get it."

"Presently," replied the Tiger.

Meanwhile Charles Raynor was striding towards home, full of bitter repentance. All the folly of his recent conduct was presenting itself before him.

"I wish I had met the fellow differently!" he soliloquized, alluding to Huddles. "There can be no more putting-off now. A day or two and they will be down upon me. I think I was a fool! What a to-do there'll be at home! How on earth will the money be found?--and what will be the upshot of it all?"

Indeed, it seemed that, with one thing and another, Eagles' Nest was not altogether comfortable. Most of its inmates had some secret trouble upon them. And yet not twelve months ago they had entered upon it, all glee and joy, believing their days would henceforth be delightful as a second Paradise!

The next afternoon but one, Saturday, brought William Stane. Alice chanced to be in the shrubbery, and met him. His countenance proved that he felt vexed, doubtful, ill at ease. Instead of the tender glance and smile that had been wont to greet Alice, he had a grave eye and knitted brow. The look angered her, even more than had the reported words of Sir Philip on the Thursday before.

What precisely passed between them perhaps neither could afterwards clearly recall. He said something about how sorry he was that their happy intercourse should have been marred; Alice interrupted him with a sharp and haughty retort. William Stane retorted in his turn; and things were spoken between them, in the moment's ill-feeling, that could neither be unsaid nor qualified. Prejudiced by his father's account of the unsatisfactory interview with the major, he had come, naturally inclined to espouse his father's side; Alice on her part upheld their own cause. Very short indeed was the scene, but it was decisive.

"I am sorry to have been so mistaken in you, Miss Raynor," he said, turning to depart. "No great harm has, however, been done."

"None," returned Alice. "Fare you well."

He raised his hat without speaking, and the echoes of his retreating footsteps died away in the shrubbery.

Thus they parted. The fault being at least as much Alice's as his. Whether he had come to straighten matters, to repudiate the fiat Sir Philip had pronounced, Alice knew not, but she did not allow him the opportunity. If the possession of Eagles' Nest had taught nothing else to Major Raynor's children, it had certainly taught them to be arrogant. The world seemed made for them, and for them alone.

Alice went upstairs humming a gay song, and passed into Daisy's room. She halted at the glass, glancing at her pretty face, at the brightness of the blue eyes, at the unusual flush on her cheeks. Frank's wife turned round.

"You are gay this afternoon, Alice."

"Gay as a fairy," replied Alice. "It is lovely out-of-doors. The sun's shining and the birds are singing."

A few days went on. Charley was in a state of mental collapse. For, not one single minute of those days came and went but he was on the look-out for some dreadful shock, emanating from the enemy, Huddles. Each night, as darkness fell, he felt not at all thankful that the blow had kept off, concluding that the morrow would bring it. It seemed to him at times that its falling would bring relief, by ending his almost unbearable suspense.

Alice continued gay; gay as a lark. Was it assumed, this gaiety, or was it real? Perhaps she herself did not know.

"You could not have cared very much for William Stane, Alice, or he for you," one day remarked her mother, to whom the affair had given pain, interrupting Alice in the carolling of a song, sung to an impromptu dance.

"Cared for him, mamma!" she returned, in her spirit of bravado. "I am well rid of him."

Mrs. Raynor sighed. Alice had so changed: not, she feared, for the better. So had Charles. Good fortune had ruined them all.