CHAPTER XI.

ROGER BENBOW.

Roger saved him and has retained

The Forester is in his lodge, but not alone. That shaggy fellow in the corner is the whipper in. from the county jail when he was a lad, him since as care keeper of the hounds. He knows but three things well, when a dog is ailing, when poachers are after the deer, and how to obey his master. He is a human hound, half fox, with all an animal's instinct, and the same blind, unreasoning fidelity to the hand that feeds it. He hates where Roger hates, loves where Roger loves, and executes the Forester's bidding, through thick and thin, without a questioning, "Why is it?"

This shaggy fellow is deep in the contents of a meat pie. A horn of old ale hums at his elbow; it is mighty ale, such as Cromwell's Ironsides used to drink before they smote down the men of Belial with their basket hilted swords; such ale as was served round in black jacks upon the hall tables of the old cavaliers. It is from a butt that was brewed the October that Robert Devereux was born. It is started now by Roger and his man, that each may have a mighty stirrup cup, before they go forth upon the track of the missing heiress, Robert Devereux's child.

The Forester, no less cool in deliberation than quick and resolute in action, has gathered up, one by one, a number of particulars which almost convince him of the identity of Charity Green with the grand-child of the Earl. John Chivers, skulking from ale-house to ale-house, and wear

ing the appearance of an Italian, has been stealthily prowling about, and is now, or was but a few hours since, harbored in the neighborhood of Richmanstown. It is altogether probable that Sally, the discarded mistress of Lord Robert, was the wandering gipsy who died suddenly by the road side, and was buried in the churchyard at St. Winifreds. It is certain that the other sister, Martha, though traveling under another name, sickened of the small pox, and was interred near Coddlington Green within the twelvemonth. The Forester has also a shrewd suspicion of Dr. Bushwig's purpose to identify Martha's deceased daughter with Rosa, and to claim the earldom on producing evidences of her death. But one link is missing in his own chain of evidence, and this he soon hopes to rivet in its place. First determining to secure it by the arrest of Chivers on the old charge of abduction, he then designs boldly to assert that the heiress is found.

We leave the Forester and his man mounting in haste, and armed with a warrant for the arrest of Chivers. The night is chosen for the enterprise, because then the gipsy, it is hoped, will be found in his retreat. It is his expectation that by to-morrow the missing evidence will be in his possession; but that to-morrow is far away; if it ever dawns, redly its light will shine beyond the seas. Yet the night is not without interest in these annals; before its gray dawning Charity Green will be abducted from Marian's protecting home. They find that the man of whom they are in search has disappeared from his quarters, leaving nothing and affording no clue by which his discovery may be effected.

As these slow hours wear away, heavily drugged, and in a stupor which is nearer death than sleep, the orphan is being whirled toward a sea port by a rapid train. The foreigner, of Italian aspect, by whom she is accompanied, mutters, in broken patois, to those who, with friendly words, take notice of his charge, that his daughter has been ill, very

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ill, indeed. This is the age of speed in traveling; hurried into busy, bustling Liverpool, the Rector of Richmanstown, true to his promise, sees them safely on board the steamer, receives from Chivers a certificate to the effect that Rosa Devereux was stolen by himself and sister, placed in charge of Martha, contracted an infectious malady, is dead and buried at Coddlington Green. A thousand pounds, in bright gold, are counted, and stowed away in the gipsy's luggage, and a secret pocket contains the precious bond which secures to him the legacy of the Earl. So far the dark plot has thriven well. Returning to the lodge, after his ineffectual search, the Forester is silent as ever, nor can a shade of disappointment be discovered on his weatherbeaten visage. Only he mutters to the fox's head upon his walking stick, that faithful confidant and counsellor, "Never mind, my boy, he carries his brush a little longer, but we will have it yet." Meanwhile, new evidences, of at least a circumstantial value, accumulate. The Rector's gentleman avails himself of the opportunity afforded by his master's absence to visit Riverside. The valet is fascinated by the charms of the Forester's niece, and Roger hums an old distich,

"He a wise man was I trow,

With the heifer who did plough."

Benbow is reported to have a snug little fortune stored away, and wifeless and childless himself, this pretty niece, a prime favorite, turns up her nose at the Rector's gentleman. But the Forester is up by times, and whispers in her ear, "Harkee, lass! thee be civil to that ass of the parson's. Ask him to sup with thee at the lodge and butter him well."

In his cups that evening, with Roger's old October humming in his brain and Roger's young niece blushing and

bridling at his compliments, the eaves-dropper and the spy ventures on a little love making, and, to enhance himself in the sight of his fair mistress, drops mysterious hints of a secret which is going to bring him golden guineas. Benbow casually opens the door and walks into the apartment, gives one glance from beneath his shaggy eye-brows at the flustered swain, affects for the first time to notice his presence, bestows upon him a cordial grip, fills up the glasses and bids him take a hearty pull and make himself comfortable, then mutters something about a dog that he must look after and walks quietly into the next room, leaving the door a-jar. Susy continues the buttering process, and the secret begins to ooze out, drop by drop. Dr. Bushwig had a gipsy with him in the study and sent John off for the parish books. The valet, returning to his post within ear-shot, heard something about certificates and a thousand guineas, and the Earl's legacy; something too about a child, Liverpool and a vessel to America. In the morning the Rector's man discovered himself still in the Forester's lodge, and indistinctly remembered that Benbow having come in with his man, and finding him overcome with ale, had lifted him on a settle, bidding him rest there till his head should be clear again. Gentle Susy was not visible at that early hour, so the gentleman's gentleman sauntered back to the neighboring cottage occupied by his kin.

Early in the morning the Forester is seen departing on a short journey, as he says, "To see about some of the Earl's horses, as was in training and must now be brought home." Arriving in Liverpool a day too late, he has his labor for his pains, but quietly returns and is busy with horses and dogs, preserves and poachers, as if they were his only care. Valet John, again at his duties in the Rectory, is unaware that secrets have oozed from his lips, for Susy, when he meets her, affects entire unconsciousness, Benbow having given her a charge.

Out on the wild waters, kept as long as is needful under the effect of opiates, is the foreign gentleman's sick child. He has taken passage for himself and her in the second cabin. She is his daughter and they are in mourning for her mother. Chivers has a weeper on his hat. He shuns the rest of the passengers. The ship's physician is of opinion that Charity has a fever. When they are on blue ocean the child still remains, and now sea sick, in her berth, with one watching beside her, wishing that he were well rid of his burden, and almost determined to aid on the wearing ailment that preys upon the poor girl's frame.

Thus far shalt thou go, Jack Chivers and no farther. Between that little life and the ruthless hand that would extinguish its wavering flame, moves to and fro unceasingly an angel's keen but viewless blade.

The Rector has returned and is in deep mourning. The glossy sables become him well. He preaches the next Sunday in St. Winifred's and afterward administers the holy communion, this being a part of the church service, doing this, as he explains to Bumblefuz, professionally. Oh! casuistry of conscience, by which a man juggles himself into a careless dealing with sacred things. By this time too he has half reasoned his mind into a belief that his motives are those of pure philanthropy in providing a comfortable home beyond the waters for the Chivers' family. But the cookery is not right; a change must be made in the household. Even the haunch is less savory; it does not digest well; he has bad dreams at night; it must come of that careless cook; or that last port, which he selected himself, with Brandy Topaz the great wine-taster and connoisseur to assist his judgment,—that must have been kept back and an article of inferior quality smuggled in its place. Peter Styles is a poor man but he sleeps well. Bushwig is Earl of Riverside in expectancy with fifteen thousand a year, but he wakes in the morning with hollow eyes and a wild look.