The Squire's Wager

THE SQUIRE'S WAGER

HE assembly at Brooks's was large and noisy. The hour was not late for Brooks's, but stress of weather had detained in that magnetic house of attractions many of the habitués who were used to leave earlier. Age taught wisdom sometimes even in the eighteenth century, and even to those who gambled at faro and macao; but the snow was driving in the streets, and Pall Mall lay under a magnificent white pall, even to the colonnade of Carlton House. The group of men who were playing at macao in the corner of the card-room had drawn the attention of the general company, partly by reason of their laughter, and partly from the high stakes that were passing. One of the players was a slight, fair man of eight-and-twenty, with somewhat thin lips and a quiet expression of eye which, whatever it signified, revealed nothing to the observer. He had obviously taken a good deal of wine, for his hand was not very steady; but his face was as a mask as he staked his guineas. Opposite to him was a tall, broad-faced, red-complexioned man of five and-forty, with the health and air of the country about him, and the shadow of a smile upon strong, capable features.

"Mine again, my lord," said he, and made a movement of his hand towards his winnings.

His lordship gave one imperturbable glance at the stakes which were being swept away, and said in a slow voice, "My revenge, Mr. Hilton."

The older man looked at him dubiously. "If you will," he said at last; "but I would rather it were another night."

"Mr. Hilton," said his lordship, gravely, "you have won £15,000 from me since two this afternoon. By God, I will have my shot at it."

Hilton flushed with annoyance and anger. "It is precisely because of that that I would rather it were another day," he said sharply, and his eyes rested with meaning on the other.

There was a point of colour in his lordship's cheeks as he met his opponent's significant gaze, but his quiet eyes said nothing. He only called deliberately to a waiter, and as deliberately gave his order.

"A pint of champagne for Mr. Hilton, and a flask of eau-de-vie."

He looked defiantly at his adversary now, as if he would have said: "So far from being in what state you think me, see what I am capable of doing."

Hilton shrugged his shoulders and took up the cards. They were old acquaintances, and disliked one another. The younger man, Lord Marazion, was regarded as effeminate by the rubicund squire, who, on his side, was little to the taste of a fastidious and elegant buck of the Town. The coarseness of Hilton's fibre, his hard and practical English character, repelled one who lived largely for his whims, was indifferent and amiable, and had no aim in life. To the squire the lord was a puppy; to the lord the squire was a bumpkin. Yet neither of these estimates was correct. Squire Hilton was vastly more than a mere rural gentleman. He had capability written in his broad features, and tenacity appeared in his strong teeth. He managed his affairs with skill, so that he throve where others remained lean, or even failed. He gambled like a gentleman, but he never went beyond his means, and saw each yard of the way as he moved. His contempt for Marazion was increased by the knowledge of that reckless peer's dwindling fortunes. The Squire dealt the cards.

Lord Marazion lost, and, without showing any excitement, gulped down a glass of brandy and water and said: "Another, Hilton."

This time the Squire did not offer any objection, but pushed over the pack. It was some one else who intervened—Sir John Main, a good-natured buck of an age with his lordship. "Damme, Dick, no more," he whispered loudly.

Lord Marazion paid no heed, but took up the cards and coolly began to shuffle them.

"Dick, be not a fool," said Sir John. "You have lost near £20,000, and, gad, I believe there's nothing left."

"You lie, Jack," said his lordship, gravely. "There's Houghton Roy."

"You cannot gamble away your estate, Dick," urged his friend. "Here, let us be quit and go home. The snow is over."

There was a somewhat sardonic smile on Hilton's face, as he looked from the one to the other, waiting patiently until some decision should be come to; and his attitude suggested to Lord Marazion the amusement and contempt of a superior being who looks on at the squabbles of two schoolboys. He pushed his friend away with his elbow, and began to deal. Sir John rose angrily.

"You are not fit to play, my lord," he said, and fixed his indignant eyes on the Squire.

"He is right," said a voice from among the group of interested spectators. "You had better postpone your revenge, my lord."

As it was Charles James Fox who spoke, the opinion had its effect. Indeed, the young lord had clearly taken too much to warrant him in playing with a soberer man. He flushed and scowled and it was the Squire who spoke, very coolly.

"'Tis precisely what I pointed out to Lord Marazion half an hour ago," he said. "But he was unwilling. But now, my lord, as my verdict is endorsed by Mr. Fox, maybe you will agree," and he rose on the words. His large figure, very plainly but becomingly dressed, loomed over the slim person of the peer, who had not risen with him, and now, his eyes concentrated but expressionless, spoke deliberately.

"It seems a gentleman must not play at Brooks's after eleven," he said, choosing his words quite comfortably, if slowly. "It is news to me; but if I may not play, none can stop me from a wager. I challenge you on that, Squire."

The Squire, pausing as he would have turned away, looked at him, but with no interrogation in his glance. The two adversaries were equally reticent of feeling and self-contained, for all the disparity between their temperaments.

"You have long wanted Houghton Roy, Mr. Hilton," went on his lordship, deliberately. "Well, here's your chance: wager against it what you will."

The Squire's eyes flashed, but he said nothing.

"Come," pursued his lordship, "I am not particular to a point. Anything will serve. And if you have not the spirit to pick out a hazard, why, I will do it for you. I will wager you Houghton Roy against twenty thousand guineas," he said, speaking with slow emphasis, "that I will marry the first woman eligible that I encounter, going from these doors."

"Dick, you fool!" cried Sir John; but the Squire's large face gleamed red, and his teeth showed in his sardonic grin. Mr. Fox took snuff and considered the pair.

"Eligible!" said the Squire. "Egad, my lord, that would, no doubt, take on an elastic meaning."

"I mean, spinster or widow, sir," said his lordship, sharply.

"You mean you will ask her to wife?" inquired Mr. Fox.

"No, sir, I will marry her within a fortnight," declared Lord Marazion. "I will marry her by New Year. There's the wager, for Mr. Hilton to take or leave. I am not to be browbeat by Brooks's," he added, gravely, and stood up on his feet, whistling gently.

"A fair wager," said Mr. Fox, critically; "but one all against poor Marazion, I fear. What say you, Hilton?"

The Squire lifted his champagne glass, which was half full yet, and drained it. "I will take him," said he, as he put it down; and his voice was without emotion or colour.

"Gad, it's done; gad, he's booked it!" cried a voice, and upon that a murmur of voices broke out like the sea upon an empty beach. Lord Marazion adjusted his ruffles equably, and stood, looking as if he heard nothing, while his antagonist was equally unperturbed. It was not until a voice from the throng called out that either moved. But that invitation it was impossible to neglect. So wayward and so hazardous a wager had not been made at Brooks's in the memory of any one present, and it was with reason that the voice called them to practical considerations.

"Gad, now we have to find the lady," it said.

His lordship looked at the Squire with a gleam of mockery in his eye. "If Mr. Hilton does not object," he said.

"I?" said the Squire, elevating his shoulders. "The sooner the better. As you have been damned enough fool to force the wager on me, you may get back the bulk of your money at what cost you will. 'Tis no affair of mine."

"Damme, he has no right to say that," said Mr. Fox, critically. "'Tis a Wager, and there's an end."

"To be sure, Mr. Fox," said his lordship; "and I might be refused. Mr. Hilton seems to me to have the chances equal, and a fair prospect of Houghton Roy."

"As near as two lobsters are alike," assented Mr. Fox. "What think you, George?" he asked, turning to another, for in those times gambling was reduced to a science, at least to a game of exact and formal calculations.

George Selwyn was scribbling in a notebook, and cocked his eye at what he had written. "Marazion may reveal himself, I suppose. His title is for and his pockets against. But a title's a title. If he is refused he loses all; if he wins he has twenty thousand guineas, plus an elderly virgin or a fat light o' love. The odds are with Hilton."

"Alea jacta," said Mr. Fox. "It will keep us warm till Christmas, George."

Young Lord Marazion, with his precise step, all the more deliberate because he was somewhat uncertain of his legs, having adjusted his dress very neatly, moved indifferently to the door. After him poured a stream of Brooks's men, including Mr. Fox and Mr. Selwyn, while the Squire brought up the rear with a cynical smile. The snow had ceased by now, and St James's Street was still and white. A watchman flashed a lantern over by the "Thatched House," but otherwise no one was visible.

"We shall have to wait until morning, Dick," said Sir John Main, laughingly; but even as he spoke the heads of the group in the doorway were turned down the street, in the direction from which a sound of soft footsteps issued. It was dark, and nothing could be made out

"A Charley, for a guinea," said one.

"I'll take you," said another. "'Tis one of his Royal Highness's guests trying to find his way home."

"'Tis Sherry coming up—drunk—for a wager," said a third.

"Damme, 'tis a light foot. A guinea it's a woman," cried Sir John Main.

"Two guineas to five 'tis a Poll-Moll," called out a gesticulating member from the back of the porch.

The darkness divided slowly, and showed a form dimly visible. Main was right It was a woman's figure that emerged, and it moved swiftly, as if in anxiety to reach a goal. The noises of the group before the Club spread out in the silent night, and the figure hesitated, and then stole from the pavement and across the road, as though it would avoid so dangerous a gauntlet.

"There's no common Charlotte—gad, no," said Main; but ere he had finished Lord Marazion had stepped forth from the light into the darkness, and was walking fast in the direction taken by the feminine figure. There was a momentary silence, and then some one ejaculated an oath.

"'Sdeath, there must be witnesses. We must identify her," he said; and at once an instinctive movement was made towards the street. Half a dozen ran out into the night and crossed after Marazion, leaving Fox, Selwyn, and Hilton at the door with others.

"Will you not follow, Hilton?" suggested Selwyn.

The Squire smiled, showing his capable teeth. "Not I," he said: "there are witnesses enough. If Marazion tells me he has done it, he shall have his money," and with that he walked back into the Club and played whist coolly for some two hours.

Meanwhile, his lordship had crossed St. James's Street slantwise in the direction of Piccadilly, and was walking on the opposite pavement; the crowd from Brooks's was in the road; and the woman they all were following was quickening her steps in front, as if aware of the noise and excitement behind her. Marazion strode more rapidly now, and managed to come level with her, but he could make nothing of her face or even of her dress in the darkness. She looked slight, but whether she were young or old, gentle or plebeian, of fair fame or ill, he had not a notion. The two walked abreast, but separated by a distance, for some paces, and Marazion was wondering when a ray of light would come to his aid out of some neighbouring window, when suddenly there was a rush of feet, a scuffle, as it seemed, and they were surrounded by the party from the rear. Sir John Main was in the van, and the young bucks with him were by now intoxicated with the new interest.

"We will see who it is," cried one. "Gad, we must establish identity. We must have her under the light, damme."

Now, this was exactly what Lord Marazion himself was anxious to do, but not in the way proposed by this hot-blood. Very quietly and very soberly (in one sense, at least) he stepped towards the woman's figure, which had come to a pause against the wall of a house, evidently in alarm and amazement.

"Back! back!" he cried; "you shall not insult a lady."

"Lady!" cried one of the roysterers. "Well, that is precisely what we are all anxious to know. Come, a light! a light!"

Lord Marazion drew his sword with a flourish, for he was not wanting in wits at any time, and drove it perilously near his friend Main. "I will pink you, if you do not withdraw," he declared. "What the devil! can a lady not walk London streets without being molested by a pack of wolves or satyrs?"

But here Sir John, taking his cue, broke in roughly: "Now, by heaven, I will not budge a step till I have seen her. Come, let us carry 'em along with us."

"Then have it," said his lordship, and struck out with his point.

The party called out, partly in alarm and partly in excitement, imagining this to be a matter of gravity between the two men. But the first few minutes of the sword-play discovered to them that there was something else in the wind, and it was not long before they had an inkling of the make-belief which had been designed by the quickness of the peer and the good-nature of his friend. Finally, Marazion's blade went, or appeared to go, clean through his antagonist, who staggered and caught hold of one of his companions.

"Maybe 'twill teach you manners," said his lordship, with stern dignity, and, sheathing his weapon, turned to the woman whom he had thus befriended. She still stood where she had retreated, with her back against the wall. "Madam," said he, "these fellows will not harm you now. May I beg to be allowed to escort you out of this mellay?"

She was trembling as she put her hand within his arm, and clearly could make no audible rejoinder. It was at that instant that Marazion could have sworn that she was young, and by her trembling he believed her to be virtuous. Yet, to be out alone so late! They moved away from the scene of the adventure, his lordship all the clearer of head for the excitement of the encounter, and crossing the road again went under the instinctive direction of his companion towards Jermyn Street.

"She crossed the road to avoid us, then. By gad, she is honest," commented his lordship internally.

He was cudgelling his brains as to how far he might go, or what he had better do ere he had acquired a more intimate knowledge of her, when she surprised him by stopping in front of a large house and pealing at the bell.

"'Tis a maidservant out for an airing, or to see her sweetheart," thought Lord Marazion; but then he heard her voice for the first time, deeply shaken as it was, and it was not the voice of a serving-wench.

"Sir," said she, "I thank you deeply. You have saved me from I will be ever grateful to you," and she put her hand upon her beating heart, as if to still its tremors.

"Why," said his lordship, somewhat awkwardly, "there is no need of gratitude. A parcel of tipsy fellows that have taken too much and got beyond themselves "

But here the door opened and interrupted him. A shaft of light streamed out upon the white pavement, and struck his companion's hair—for she had turned from him on the opening of the door. Her hair gleamed richly, and Marazion got a vague impression of fine apparel from the glimpse. In another moment she had stepped within, and stood hesitating in the twilight of the hall. "If you would come in, sir, my mother. … Those men may lie in wait for you. … My mother would, I am sure, desire to offer you her thanks," she said, in confusion.

"It is an honour to have helped you," said he, and bowing, passed over the threshold, so that presently they were face to face.

Of a sudden Lord Marazion's heart leaped. What he saw before him was a girl of eighteen or nineteen, clad under her heavy cloak in fine and delicate brocades and silk, as for a ball or other entertainment; slim, fair, and straight, and of a beautiful oval face, in which grave animation was for ever present. She had the air of fashion and sobriety, despite her eager eyes, which dwelt on him with admiration and timidity at once. But, meeting his gaze, hers dropped, and she moved swiftly down the hall and entered a large handsome room, into which he followed her, much exercised in his mind, and now wholly master of himself.

"Mamma," said the girl, addressing a comfortable middle-aged lady who sat by the fire, "this gentleman has saved me from insult and assault by a drunken crew. The chaise broke down, and cousin Anne had hysterics, and a fit of choler, and so said I to her that I could find my way home, it being so short a distance. But I did not know London. Indeed, mamma, you are right: I will never think it again. And 'tis owing to this gentleman, who so bravely assisted me with his sword, and fought, mamma, that furious pack, that I am here alive and safe. I want you to thank him, dear mamma."

The elder lady, who had begun by rubbing her eyes as if to recall her wandering wits, sat bolt upright and stared at her daughter. Then her glance wandered to the stranger, and as the meaning of the recital went home to her she rose and graciously extended her hand.

"Oh, Betty, how dared you? Sir, I thank you greatly for your kindness. La, child, you might be dead. I will never forgive your cousin Anne. If it were not for you, sir I shudder to think. How these streets are dangerous! I have always told your papa I wished we were back in Worcestershire. There's no such scoundrels there, such villains, such cut-throats! I am very deeply obliged to you, sir."

It must be said that Lord Marazion did not wince in the face of this gratitude; but that, on the contrary, he had the appearance of enjoying it. The mask had dropped from his face, and he was full of animation.

"Madam," said he, "I beg you will not consider it. The service was trifling, and such as any gentleman must render any lady, whatever her station or her age," and here he cast a look at the girl which expressed modest admiration and profound respect.

"The times is very unmannerly," said the elder woman, sententiously. "I protest we are growing worse every year. There is no respect paid to the gentry," and she sighed.

"But, mamma," said Miss Betty, eagerly, "these were gentlemen, as I could see. Were they not, sir? They were dressed like gentlemen, and had the air of it; but they were abominably wicked. I declare I believe there's as much wickedness in gentlemen as in poor people. Do you think so, sir?" she shyly appealed to Marazion.

"I am persuaded of it," said he, promptly. "After a considerable experience of the world, I am convinced of it. Unhappily, to breed a gentleman is not necessarily to breed a man of taste or refinement."

"Or courtesy," put in Miss Betty, nodding with emphasis and satisfaction at his agreement.

"Or, as you say, courtesy, madam," he assented.

"Indeed," said the mother, with another sigh from her comfortable bosom, "things are changed from my girlhood. We are being vulgarised. But I see, sir, you are wetted with the snow. Let me offer you refreshment. I have a particularly soothing ."

"Nay, madam, I thank you," he returned, quickly; "yet, if it were not too greatly vexing you, a glass of spirit would serve to keep out the cold."

"Why, there is your father's eau-de-vie," said the lady to her daughter, and forthwith rang the bell for a servant

Heavy hanging curtains of a rich plum-colour parted the huge chamber in two, and the man, entering between the folds of these, thus discovered to Marazion's eyes the glimpse of a table beyond, set with white and silver. The sight seemed to awaken ideas in the comfortable mind of the lady also.

"Why, will you not sup, sir?" she asked. "There is all laid and ready, and your eau-de-vie shall be fetched. You must need supper after your perilous fight."

"I would break a piece of bread with my spirit," said his lordship, smiling, for he was delighted to find how they were progressing. At the same time he was anxious to discover the name of his hostess, yet did not wish to press her with undue curiosity. He noted with disappointment that she seemed to have forgotten wholly to inquire for his.

In a little, then, he was seated at table, an obvious and elegant gentleman to the most critical eye. He talked very sensibly and modestly, and with a wit that drew a tribute of laughter from both the ladies; so that he sat and sipped and ate delicately for a longer time than he or they were aware,

"Why," cried the elder lady at last, in surprise, "your papa should have been here by now. I wonder what keeps him,"—and at that moment, a bell pealing through the house, she rose in some excitement. "There he is, I'll warrant. He will thank you sincerely, sir," and with more speed than Marazion would have given her credit for, she left the room.

No sooner was she gone than the girl bent forward to Marazion. "There is one thing my mother has omitted," she said, timidly, and with a little pleasing confusion, "and that is to inquire who 'tis to whom I am so indebted."

"Why," said his lordship with relief, "and that, while of no consequence in the world, madam, at least gives me the liberty to regret that I know not whom I have had the privilege to assist ever so little, and to whom I am indebted for this hospitable entertainment."

"Oh, we are but recently come to London—my mamma and I," said she, simply; "and my father is"

But the door opened ere she could complete her sentence, and his lordship looked up.

"Lord Marazion!" burst from the startled new-comer, and "Mr. Hilton!" from the no less amazed peer.

"Why, you are acquainted!" cried the lady, with every sign of pleasure; while Miss Betty said nothing, but stood with her lips parted and her handsome eyes sparkling.

His lordship recovered himself first. "Yes, madam, we are quite old acquaintances," he said, pleasantly, "though never near enough, I fear, to have, become friends. And if I had known that 'twas Mr. Hilton's daughter that I was privileged to give some slight assistance to, it would have even added, if possible, to the satisfaction and to the privilege."

He bowed with a smile towards the girl, and turned his eyes warily on the Squire. The coincidence had been amazing, and the situation required the most diligent care. What would the Squire do? Marazion, who was resolved in those few minutes to cling tenaciously to his advantage, surveyed his enemy with the gaze of a hawk. It was Mrs. Hilton who broke in, in her amiable, babbling way,

"I was relating to the Squire how you had saved Betty, and from what wicked men. It frightened me, Squire, to hear her tell it: was it not so, Betty? And you are greatly in the debt of this gentleman, Mr. Hilton—of his lordship, that is. Heavens, how foolish not to have inquired who our benefactor was!"

The Squire advanced into the room. "I am greatly obliged to Lord Marazion," said he in a dry voice, "for his services. But as I am somewhat tired, Julia, I would ask you and Betty to leave us alone, as I have something to discuss with his lordship, which I think we can do very well over a glass of wine."

"I am always at your service, Squire," said his lordship, pleasantly, and opened the door with a ceremonious bow for the ladies. Then he came back to the table. "Well, Squire," said he, "this is an odd turn of the wheel."

"You give me your word of honour this is so?" asked Hilton, after a pause.

"You have it, sir," said his lordship; and once more the Squire was silent, apparently deliberating, as he looked into the fire.

Presently he spoke: "I beg you will help yourself to wine, my lord," he said; and, perceiving that Marazion was drinking brandy, smiled his sardonic smile. "Well, sir, this disposes of your chance, and I confess I am sorry for you. You have lost."

"Pardon me, Squire, not until New Year's Day," said Marazion softly.

The Squire shrugged his shoulders. "The wager's lost already," he declared: "I have only to forbid you the house, and shut off all communication with my daughter, even if I believed there was the faintest chance that she would be so immodest or so foolish as to consent to marry you,"—and he glanced with his veiled contempt at the young nobleman, whom he despised for several reasons, not the least of which was his prodigality and supposed effeminacy.

"You will not do that!" said Marazion, firmly.

"Why not?" asked the Squire, harshly.

"Because," said the nobleman, "you would in a nice sense of honour be stepping outside the bounds of our wager. I grant you that the letter is the letter, and you have the right to take what course you like to win. Nothing was said of any silence on your part, and you are free to intervene, sir. But if I know you, you will not do that. You will let the play go on, and let me have a fair field."

"That is," said the Squire, drily, "I am to bring my daughter into a wager, and stand by. It is a pretty position in which I see myself."

"Pardon me, Squire," said his lordship, suavely, "your daughter is brought in neither by you nor me, but by accident. Neither you nor I can cry off. Fate has decided for us, and Fate must decide to the end."

"You will remember, my lord," said the Squire sharply, "that you forced the wager upon me. I had no desire for it. I do not see why I should spare you. You have brought this fate upon yourself."

"I am not likely to murmur or to whine," said the young man cheerfully. "I am only asking you—nay, taking it for granted—that you will stand aside, and let matters take their course."

There was silence for a few minutes, in which the Squire pondered. His broad, high-coloured face took the flame of the fire, and stood out like a strong piece of furniture in the room.

"What is it you want me to do?" he asked at length. "How far are you presuming on my complaisance?"

"I want freedom to come and go, if I can make the chances," said his lordship. "I want nothing but silence—nothing but holding your hand."

"Since you have rescued my daughter," said the Squire, with a sarcastic smile, "it is obvious that we cannot deny you the house. Heroes are not so treated. Well, you shall have your fling, but I will promise nothing. You pressed me, and"—he hesitated, and then said deliberately—"I want Houghton Roy."

"You will not get it, sir," said Marazion, eyeing him quietly.

The Squire shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. Here was a popinjay who thought himself irresistible. The thought added to his contempt, yet he felt angered that this young man should rate his daughter so low as the price of a wager.

"You may start tomorrow, if you will," he said contemptuously.

"I thank you, sir: I have started to-night," replied Marazion, as with a bow he took his leave.

Yet he made haste to take advantage of the Squire's concession, and presented himself in Jermyn Street on the following afternoon. The ladies were in, and received him most amiably. To Mrs. Hilton it never ceased to be wonderful that he should have turned out to be an acquaintance of her husband's, while she was also frankly pleased to discover his rank. Miss Betty Hilton was more reticent, but Marazion believed that his attentions were received with pleasure, and congratulated himself that he would be missed on his departure and welcomed on his return. This conclusion was corroborated for him by the manner of his subsequent reception. The Squire was, as before, absent, but his wife met the visitor as an old friend, and as such he was introduced to her friends.

"An old friend of the Squire's," she repeated again and again. "And by the goodness of Heaven his lordship was able to rescue Betty from a street riot. We owe him a deep debt of gratitude."

If Miss Hilton herself did not re-echo these sentiments, and if she abstained from references to the adventure in St. James's Street, Marazion had yet a consciousness that she entertained them delicately in her bosom. Her colour changed like that of any country miss, but in a rare surprising way that was very ravishing. She was prettily fluttered and confused on his coming, but engaged in conversation with spirit and briskness.

"Gad," said Marazion to himself, "she's a girl of taste. She would make a woman of the mode. I believe she would have me—if papa would let her," he added more soberly.

It was precisely her father's attitude that was troubling him, for he never saw the Squire at the house, nor had he any communication with him. It might be that Mr. Hilton was leaving him a fair field, but then, of course, it might be quite otherwise. All he could say was that both mother and daughter made him welcome, and that while the former was very friendly, the latter was not too distant. As a modest girl she naturally kept herself somewhat aloof, but showed (as he thought) a clear appreciation of him and his company. At the end of a week it was that he encountered the Squire again. On entering the house, at his customary hour, to pay his respects to Mrs. Hilton, he found the three together, fresh from what had evidently been an interesting talk. The Squire civilly but coolly made him his bow, but took no part in the conversation, being to all seeming deeply engrossed with his book of accounts. It was Mrs. Hilton who began, opening with the state of the roads and the weather somewhat querulously.

"The roads are full of mud," agreed Lord Marazion, "and I doubt but there will be snow before night."

"There it is, Mr. Hilton," called out the lady. "Do you hear what his lordship says: there will be snow before night?"

"It is very likely," returned the Squire, without looking up.

"Mr. Hilton will have us depart from London," pursued the lady, helplessly. "He has just acquainted us we must go this afternoon."

"This afternoon! But," cried out Marazion in surprise, "'tis Christmas Eve. You cannot reach Worcestershire to-night."

"'Tis not Worcestershire. We go to Kingston Hill, to my cousin Anne's," said Betty simply.

His eyes encountered hers, expressing in their gaze the shock and disappointment of this news; and the girl's demurely dropped. From the daughter his glance went on to the father, who was still reading in his book, but in whose face he could detect the hard grin which had always provoked him, even in their early acquaintance.

"That will be charming," said he, quickly: "you will doubtless spend a pleasant Christmas there."

"Yes, my lord," said Mrs. Hilton, "we do not return until after New Year's Day. I will confess, sir, I would have rather gone to Worcestershire, where I am at home, than to cousin Anne's, who is so prim and particular. But 'tis Mr. Hilton's arrangement," and she sighed.

"What hour do you leave?" asked Marazion.

"We shall leave before supper," said the lady, discontentedly; "'twill be two hours' drive, and we shall arrive cold. If the snow falls, Betty, we shall be perished. We go by Putney."

The Squire shut his book, and rose, carefully locking the brass clasps. "As we shall lose you, my lord, so soon, and are not likely to see you again this winter, 'twill give me pleasure if you will dine with us."

"Why," said Marazion, "I am your humble servant, Squire, and will willingly give myself the pleasure." And as he spoke he rose, and made his adieux, being unwilling to peril what he had already achieved by overstaying his welcome.

It had fallen dark when he arrived at Jermyn Street, according to the appointment, with a mind very much determined. He saw clearly enough what his opponent aimed at, but was anxious to know how he would conduct himself that evening. Miss Hilton had been dangled before him, so to speak, for a week. He had been given free access, so that he might flatter himself that he was progressing favourably; and now the whole thing was to come to an end. It was like the Squire's brutality, it was like his ungenerous character, so to torture and to tantalise. If he had at the beginning refused, and claimed his rights to the last farthing, it would have been kinder. Marazion felt indignant, and his indignation fostered his resolution. He would play his last card.

The dinner was a pleasant one, for not only were the courses choice and well-cooked, but Marazion laid himself out to amuse the table. The Squire, too, seemed in better humour than usual, and made some heavy jokes, which his lordship met with hearty laughter. You would certainly have thought that the two were excellent friends, as indeed did poor Mrs. Hilton and her daughter. Warmed by wine and good food, and with his brain afire from the excitement of his own talk, his lordship found himself alone with his host. He wondered if the latter would refer to the wager. He himself would not have done so, but Hilton was of another temperament, of a blunter, coarser fibre. He was right in his conjecture.

"Well, my lord," said the Squire, with his grin, "we bid you good-bye from to-night."

"I know not that," said Marazion, rising, a full tide of blood in his veins: "you shall learn shortly," and without further ceremony he opened the door and went out into the hall, leaving the Squire with his sardonic smile. He found Miss Hilton alone, for her mother had retired to consult the housekeeper upon the packing.

"The coach will be here at seven," he said. Betty looked up and nodded. She was engrossed in fine silk-work. "You are glad to go?" he pursued.

"Faith," said she, indifferently, "'tis all one—London or the country—to me. I am a country bird, but I love shops."

"You go to Worcestershire afterwards. We must say goodbye, then," he continued.

"I suppose it is goodbye, my lord," she answered, bending over her work.

"And I shall only see you again if I come to Worcestershire?" he went on.

She laughed gently and confusedly. "Oh, I cannot tell. Maybe we should be gone thence if you came."

He sat down near her, moved by the tide within him. She was more handsome than ever, and a little soft colour played in her face.

"I cannot bear that you should go, Miss Hilton," he said.

"La, we must," she said, tremulously, picking at her silk.

"I cannot lose you, Betty: I love you," he broke forth impetuously.

The girl started, coloured, and dropped her silk. "You must not say so," she said, in agitation.

"I will not only say so, child—I will prove so to you," he said, carried away by his feelings, and suddenly drew her to him.

She struggled faintly against so great a violation of her maidenly propriety, but ceased at last.

"Do you love me, child?" he whispered; and suddenly saw her eyes, big with tears and emotion and he knew not what, before his face.

"You saved my life, my lord," she murmured. "I love you. You are brave and true and noble."

Something in Marazion's heart cracked and failed in that moment. In a flash there returned upon him the memory of what he had done, of the wager, and of the false pretences under which he was there. His eyes left her face and fell; she drooped from his lax arms even as she had surrendered herself to them. Impetuous and passionate as he was by nature, those innocent, trusting eyes had driven home to him his treachery. Betty looked up at him, blushing still, yet with surprise growing distantly in her gaze.

"Miss Hilton," said he, "I love you. I would to God you could be my wife. There is no dearer wish at my heart. Nay, child, forget not that. But, look you, dear: I am a traitor. I am here falsely. I have dragged you into a common wager."

"What is this, my lord?" she asked, tremulously.

"Why," said he, speaking low and fast, "there was no savage band from which I saved you! 'Twas but a merry pack out of Brooks's, where I had wagered to wed the first woman I met." The girl shrank away from his touch. "Nay," said he, quickly, "do not leave me yet, Betty. Let be till all is said; 'twill be time enough. I had staked my estate at Houghton Roy against twenty thousand guineas. That was why I pursued you, who was the first to come by. The assault was but a trick to gain your acquaintance."

He came to a stop, and the girl, who had now withdrawn to a distance, stared at him with a white face.

"That was generous, sir," she said, in a low, uncertain voice. "That was chivalrous. 'Tis such usage, I suppose, as men are wont to give to women. Yet why do you tell me this? Sure, you might, maybe, have held your tongue and saved your money."

Her voice was bitter, and her body, slight and tall, was shaken by her emotions.

"I have told you because I love you," said Marazion, slowly.

"'Tis an odd love," said the girl; "'tis a love that goes with twenty thousand guineas."

"'Tis a love I have thrown away," said he simply, and moved silently towards the door.

Her voice arrested him. "I am but one of thousands," she said. "It might have been any of thousands that you had met first."

"Had it been any other than you, I would not have told her," said Marazion quietly.

She laughed faintly. "You would have carried out the compact," she said, harshly. "You would have wedded."

"I would have wedded any had I not met you," he said, "and meeting you I can wed none," and with that he was gone.

Lord Marazion passed into the large dining-room which was divided by drawn hangings into two parts, and, without any display of emotion went up to the table, where sat his host still, a glass of port to his hand.

"I am come to say, sir," he said quietly, "that I retire from the wager. You have won. Houghton Roy is yours, and I will have the deeds made out, if your attorney will communicate with mine."

The Squire regarded him before replying, but neither was aware of the curtains that swayed in the partition. "Very well, my lord," he said at last. "I warned you how it would be. I will not say I am not sorry for you, but you pressed me into it, and I want Houghton Roy."

Lord Marazion lifted his shoulders in a gesticulation which forbade any further conversation on the subject; but he was not to be obeyed, for from between the hangings a lithe figure sprang out, white of face but liquid of eye.

"It is false, father. There is some mistake," said Betty. "Lord Marazion has asked me to be his wife, and I have consented."

Marazion fell back in amazement, and something more than amazement was in his face; whereas the Squire's brows were drawn deep in a frown of anger.

"What the devil's this?" he demanded. "Are you mad?"

"I am to be my lord's wife," she repeated.

"'Sdeath," said the Squire, in a fit of passion: "do you know that he played for your hand for a wager—that he put you up for sale, and that you are the price of twenty thousand guineas?"

"I know," said Betty, quaveringly firm, "that my father, who knew me, gambled on me, and my lord, who gambled, did not know me. And I know, sir, that I am not the price of twenty thousand guineas, but that twenty thousand guineas is my dowry," and her eyes fell, and for the first time her pallor was flooded with colour.

"Sir," said Marazion, speaking eagerly, as the Squire was silent, biting his lip, "if I may have Miss Hilton, I want her with no dowry."

Still the Squire was silent, and then he turned away. "You have not won till you're wed, my lord," said he.

"We could be wed to-morrow," said Betty, demurely.

The Squire laughed and showed his great teeth. "'Twould be a good day for so good a deed, being Christmas Day," he said. "Will you wait until after New Year's Day, my lord?" he asked.

"I will wait till Lady Day, if 'tis necessary," said Marazion. "I will wait till my lady's day, if she will deign to name it."

"Then you lose your wager?" said the other.

"You may have Houghton Roy," said his lordship, "if I may have" He cast a tender glance at Betty, who, her cheeks now aflame, was standing by her father, the picture of maiden modesty. It may have been that she was conscious of the glance, for she cast up at him a shy glance in return.

"You may have Betty," said the Squire at last, grimly.

"And papa, papa, Betty may have her dowry?" said his daughter, clinging to his arm.

The Squire smiled more grimly than ever. "It seems I must barter away my daughter," said he; and added, "What is the night like, child?"

Betty went to the window and looked out, giving a cry. "'Tis snowing fast," she said. Marazion followed her, and they stood peering out together into the night from the dim-lighted room. The snow was whirling in the streets.

The squire rang the bell and addressed the servant who entered: "Tell your mistress that the weather is too foul for Kingston. We will spend Christmas here."

Betty, who had turned at the entrance of the servant, parted her lips and turned back into the hangings of the window. The two figures were lost in the twilight of the embrasure. The Squire drank his port meditatively, his ruddy face shining under the candle-light.