The Rev. Peter Sprott, the rector, pa.s.sing that way a few minutes later, and hearing what had befallen, went up to the bed-room, where the old gentleman lay in a four-poster, still unconscious.

"Here's a case," said the doctor to his clerical friend. "A nervous attack. He'd be all right in no time, but he's so low. I daresay he crossed the herring-pond to-day, and was ill; he's in such an exhausted state. I should not wonder if he sank; and here we are, without a clue to his name or people. No servant, no name on his trunk; and, certainly, it would be awkward if he died unrecognised, and without a word to apprise his relations."

"Is there no letter in his pockets?"

"Not one," Truelock says.

The rector happened to take up the great-coat of the old gentleman, in which he found a small breast pocket, that had been undiscovered till now, and in this a letter. The envelope was gone, but the letter, in a lady's hand began: "My dearest papa."

"We are all right, by Jove, we're in luck!"

"How does she sign herself?" said the doctor.

"'Alice Arden,' and she dates from 8, Chester Terrace," answered the clergyman.

"We'll telegraph forthwith," said the doctor. "It had best be in your name--the clergyman, you know--to a young lady."

So together they composed the telegram.

"Shall it be _ill_ simply, or _dangerously_ ill?" inquired the clergyman.

"Dangerously," said the doctor.

"But _dangerously_ may terrify her."

"And if we say only _ill_, she mayn't come at all," said the doctor.

So the telegram was placed in Truelock's hands, who went himself with it to the office; and we shall follow it to its destination.

CHAPTER X.

THE ROYAL OAK.

Three people were sitting in Lady May Penrose's drawing-room, in Chester Terrace, the windows of which, as all her ladyship's friends are aware, command one of the parks. They were looking westward, where the sky was all a-glow with the fantastic gold and crimson of sunset. It is quite a mistake to fancy that sunset, even in the heart of London--which this hardly could be termed--has no rural melancholy and poetic fascination in it. Should that hour by any accident overtake you, in the very centre of the city, looking, say, from an upper window, or any other elevation toward the western sky beyond stacks of chimneys, roofs, and steeples, even through the smoke of London, you will feel the melancholy and poetry of sunset, in spite of your surroundings.

A little silence had stolen over the party; and young Vivian Darnley, who stole a glance now and then at beautiful Alice Arden, whose large, dark, grey eyes were gazing listlessly towards the splendid mists, that were piled in the west, broke the silence by a remark that, without being very wise, or very new, was yet, he hoped, quite in accord with the looks of the girl, who seemed for a moment saddened.

"I wonder why it is that sunset, which is so beautiful, makes us all sad!"

"It never made me sad," said good Lady May Penrose, comfortably. "There is, I think, something very pleasant in a good sunset; there _must_ be, for all the little birds begin to sing in it--it must be cheerful. Don't you think so, Alice?"

Alice was, perhaps, thinking of something quite different, for rather listlessly, and without a change of features, she said, "Oh, yes, very."

"So, Mr. Darnley, you may sing, 'Oh, leave me to my sorrow!' for we won't mope with you about the sky. It is a very odd taste, that for being dolorous and miserable. I don't understand it--I never could."

Thus rebuked by Lady Penrose, and deserted by Alice, Darnley laughed and said--

"Well, I do seem rather to have put my foot in it--but I did not mean miserable, you know; I meant only that kind of thing that one feels when reading a bit of really good poetry--and most people do not think it a rather pleasant feeling."

"Don't mind that moping creature, Alice; let us talk about something we can all understand. I heard a bit of news to-day--perhaps, Mr. Darnley, you can throw a light upon it. You are a distant relation, I think, of Mr. David Arden."

"Some very remote cousinship, of which I am very proud," answered the young man gaily, with a glance at Alice.

"And what is that--what about uncle David?" inquired the young lady, with animation.

"I heard it from my banker to-day. Your uncle, you know, dear, despises us and our doings, and lives, I understand, very quietly; I mean, he has chosen to live quite out of the world, so we have no chance of hearing anything except by accident, from people we are likely to know. Do you see much of your uncle, my dear?"

"Not a great deal; but I am very fond of him--he is such a good man, or at least, what is better," she laughed, "he has always been so very kind to me."

"You know him, Mr. Darnley?" inquired Lady May.

"By Jove, I do!"

"And like him?"

"No one on earth has better reason to like him," answered the young man warmly--"he has been my best friend on earth."

"It is pleasant to know two people who are not ashamed to be grateful,"

said fat Lady May, with a smile.

The young lady returned her smile very kindly. I don't think you ever beheld a prettier creature than Alice Arden. Vivian Darnley had wasted many a secret hour in sketching that oval face. Those large, soft, grey eyes, and long dark lashes, how difficult they are to express! And the brilliant lips! Could art itself paint anything quite like her? Who could paint those beautiful dimples that made her smiles so soft, or express the little circlet of pearly teeth whose tips were just disclosed? Stealthily he was now, for the thousandth time, studying that bewitching smile again.

"And what is the story about Uncle David?" asked Alice again.

"Well, what will you say--and you, Mr. Darnley, if it should be a story about a young lady?"

"Do you mean that Uncle David is going to marry? I think it would be an awful pity!" exclaimed Alice.

"Well, dear, to put you out of pain, I'll tell you at once; I only know this--that he is going to provide for her somehow, but whether by adopting her as a child, or taking her for a wife, I can't tell. Only I never saw any one looking archer than Mr. Brounker did to-day when he told me; and I fancied from that it could not be so dull a business as merely making her his daughter."

"And who is the young lady?" asked Alice.

"Did you ever happen to meet anywhere a Miss Grace Maubray?"

"Oh, yes," answered Alice quickly. "She was staying, and her father, Colonel Maubray, at the Wymerings' last autumn. She's quite lovely, I think, and very clever--but I don't know--I think she's a little ill-natured, but very amusing. She seems to have a talent for cutting people up--and a little of that kind of thing, you know, is very well, but one does not care for it _always_. And is she really the young lady?"

"Yes, and---- Dear me! Mr. Darnley, I'm afraid my story has alarmed you."

"Why should it?" laughed Vivian Darnley, partly to cover, perhaps, a little confusion.

"I can't tell, I'm sure, but you blushed as much as a man can; and you know you did. I wonder, Alice, what this under-plot can be, where all is so romantic. Perhaps, after all, Mr. David Arden is to adopt the young lady, and some one else, to whom he is also kind, is to marry her. Don't you think that would be a very natural arrangement?"

Alice laughed, and Darnley laughed; but he was embarra.s.sed.

"And Colonel Maubray, is he still living?" asked Alice.