is it?” said Mrs. Verner, as Lionel folded the letters.
“No. They had evidently not received the tidings of my uncle’s death. Or we should have heard that they were already coming back again.”
“I don’t know that,” replied Mrs. Verner. “Fred worships money, and he would not suffer what was left by poor John to slip through his fingers. He will stay till he has realised it. I hope they will think to bring me back some memento of my lost boy! If it was only the handkerchief he used last, I should value it.”
The tears filled her eyes. Lionel respected her grief, and remained silent. Presently she resumed, in a musing tone:
“I knew Sibylla would only prove an encumbrance to Fred, out there; and I told him so. If Fred thought he was taking out a wife who would make shift, and put up pleasantly with annoyances, he was mistaken. Sibylla in Canvas Town! Poor girl! I wonder she married him. Don’t you?”
“Rather so,” answered Lionel, his scarlet blush deepening.
“I do: especially to go to that place. Sibylla’s a pretty flower to sport in the sunshine; but she never was constituted for a rough life, or to get pricked by thorns.”
Lionel’s heart beat. It echoed to every word. Would that she could have been sheltered from the thorns, the rough usages of life, as he would have sheltered her!
Lionel dined with Mrs. Verner, but quitted her soon afterwards. When he got back to Deerham Court, the stars were peeping out in the clear summer sky. Lucy Tempest was lingering in the court-yard, no doubt waiting for him, and she ran to meet him as soon as he appeared at the gate.
“How long you have been!” was her greeting, her glad eyes shining forth hopefully. “And is it all yours?”
Lionel drew her arm within his own in silence, and walked with her in silence till they reached the pillared entrance of the house. Then he spoke:
“You have not mentioned it, Lucy?”
“Of course I have not.”
“Thank you. Let us both forget it. It was not the codicil. And Verner’s Pride is not mine.”
AN ADVENTURE IN SPAIN.
Having spent some time in Cadiz, I made up my mind to pay Gibraltar a visit, intending to return and take one more peep at the ancient city before coming back to England. Unfortunately I had put off my journey until the rainy season, so could not anticipate much comfort en route. Though since the establishment of the Civil Guard (a sort of organised police) travellers not only find greater attention paid to their wants and wishes, but, as is proved by the incident I am going to relate, that their property is perfectly safe, even (as an Irishman might say) when lost.
Leaving Cadiz in the last week of December, we went by rail to Chiclano, situated a few miles from Cadiz, like the generality of Spanish towns consisting of narrow, badly-paved streets, flat-roofed houses, and an almeda, which latter is every Sunday thronged with the fashionables of Cadiz, who, finding attractions that escaped my penetration, seem to make it the height of their happiness to have a country house in Chiclano. After engaging horses and guides, we started again for Gibraltar, and for the first ten miles all went so well with us that we were beginning to make light of our anticipated difficulties, when we were forcibly reminded that it was imprudent to holloa until “out of the wood” by reaching the bank of a deep river, the waters of which were swollen to a perfect torrent.
We waited some hours with what patience we might, until, seeing no visible change, we gave up all hope of crossing that night, and turned our horse’s heads back towards Chiclano. At this juncture a shepherd volunteered, for a consideration, to show us another ford, which, however, proved almost as formidable as the first, though from the nature of the stream, and character of the banks, swimming across was barely possible.
After a great deal of persuasion, backed by the promise of a dollar, the man mounted one of the horses, swam him across and back again, thus proving the possibility of the feat, and gaining his reward, which, judging by the demonstrations of delight he evinced, was a rare coin in his possession. All of our party, saving a couple of Spanish officers who preferred going back to Chiclano, crossed in safety. But, alas! our troubles were only beginning. As the rain increased, so did our annoyances; and we had ample opportunity to grumble, and feel rheumatic twinges as we jogged slowly through a wild dreary waste, where neither houses nor trees broke the monotony. At last, after toiling up the steep and difficult approach to Vejen, we found as little consolation, having scarcely a roof to keep out the rain.
At Vejen we fell in with the mail bags, in charge of two men on horseback, who had attempted the road that day, but had been obliged to return, and wait until the change of tide at midnight, all the streams at this point being tidal.
Thinking there was safety in numbers, we joined the escort, proposing to accompany it to Tarbilla, and accordingly started at twelve o’clock, in a perfect deluge of rain, and a pitch dark night—so dark, indeed, that we could only follow by the sound of the bells upon the post-horses. Here, of course, we saw nothing of the scenery, which is however grand, but gloomy, and uninhabited.
At five o’clock we reached Tarbilla, which proved a mere stable, for the sole accommodation of changing the post-horses; not a mouthful of food or even a fire was to be had for love or money; so, wet and miserable as we were, we sat and smoked until nine o’clock, when we got under way for Ojen. Here, again, the floods barred our speedy progress, and the road being naturally of a muddy character, by no means improved our locomotive powers; at one place my poor horse floundered into a deep hole, and in struggling to extricate himself fell, giving me one of the most unpleasant baths I ever remember—one, too, out of which I came off considerably the loser, as I found, on reaching what by comparison may be called terra firma, that I had lost my watch. I was particularly disgusted, as I valued it very