maria kettle returned from leamington in mourning. mrs. page was dead, and had left maria two thousand pounds. "better than nothing of course," grumbled the vicar; "but she might just as well have made it three or four thousand while she was about it." he had always thought she would. maria was truly glad to get back home again, and she told nobody about her little fortune. she and ella met like sisters who had been long parted. what a number of things they had to say to each other, yet each shrank from speaking of that which lay closest to their hearts. maria said nothing about her semi-engagement to philip cleeve, while ella did not mention edward conroy. it seemed such a little while ago since they were mutually affirming that they would never marry--or at least not for many years to come; and yet, after all their grand resolutions, when put to the test, they had proved no stronger minded than the rest of their sex. each felt slightly ashamed to think of all this; yet, strange to say, neither of them would have exchanged her present bondage for that past freedom. but a great blow was about to fall on maria.

the more the reverend mr. kettle puzzled over the loss of his purse, the more inclined he was to connect philip cleeve with it in some way. he did not absolutely say to himself that philip had taken the purse, but it was strange how the young man's image always came into his mind in connection with the loss. it may be that he owed this feeling to dr. downes.

he and dr. downes, being fellow-sufferers, for the doctor had never heard more of his gold snuff-box, had got into the habit of talking with one another. talking begets talking, and perhaps the old doctor said more than he had meant to say. anyway, one day the vicar heard for the first time about philip's frequent visits to the billiard-room of the rose and crown, and about the high play with lord camberley and others that went on at the lilacs.

"what a young idiot he must be!" exclaimed the indignant vicar: and dr. downes nodded assent.

"and if there's anything between cleeve and your daughter, as i fancy there is," added the old man, "i should put my veto on it--at least for the present. master philip has fallen into bad ways, that's quite evident; and even if these ugly suspicions about him should turn out to have no foundation in fact, he ought to alter very much before he is fit to marry so nice a girl as maria."

the vicar ruffled his white hair with his fingers, and could not help admitting that the doctor's view was the right one. there had been a sort of tacit agreement between himself and lady cleeve that one day the two young people should marry, provided they cared sufficiently for each other: and--and he believed they did care. it grieved him to see his old friend's son going so far astray; but his duty to his daughter was paramount, and other considerations must give way to it.

after maria's return from leamington, the vicar spoke to her, entering upon the subject abruptly.

"maria, i hope there is no foolish engagement between you and philip cleeve?"

maria's heart began to beat. "there is no engagement, papa."

"but something has passed between you, has it not? he has said something to you, eh?"

"philip certainly spoke to me before i went to leamington; but, papa, there is not an engagement."

"should he speak to you again you must give him no encouragement; none whatever. understand that, maria."

her poor heart was throbbing fitfully. "but--but why, papa?"

the vicar told her why. of the billiards at the rose and crown, and the high play at the lilacs. "there were other things," he added, "which he should not speak of--meaning, of course, the doctor's gold snuff-box, and his own purse.

"it seems to me that he must be becoming a practised gambler, maria," wound up mr. kettle, "playing as he does with rich men like camberley and lennox. they can afford it; philip can't. putting all that aside, he is not progressing in his profession; so what likelihood is there of his making a home to take a wife to?"

"mr. tiplady has some intention of taking him into partnership; philip told me so."

"i take it that tiplady is far too shrewd a man to do anything of the kind."

maria sighed. "we may be misjudging him, papa."

"we are not misjudging him. don't i tell you there are other reasons why you should have nothing more to do with philip?--matters which i do not choose to speak of openly."

"it seems rather hard, papa, that i should be asked to condemn philip without knowing what he has done."

"good gracious, maria! have i not given you reasons enough? could he become your husband without a radical alteration in his mode of life? as for the other matters i hinted at, the less said about them, at present, the better. i hope with all my heart that things may not turn out so bad as they seem."

"then all philip's promises to me before i went away have proved of no avail," mourned maria to herself. "he still goes to the lilacs, he still frequents the billiard-room. why has he not more strength of mind? and what are those mysterious hints which papa threw out of something still worse? oh, philip, philip!"

that there must be some weighty cause, apart from what she knew, to make her easy and tolerant father speak so severely, maria felt assured of. she never thought to rebel at the mandate; but it seemed to her that philip grew all the dearer to her heart.

she had a speedy proof that the vicar was very much in earnest. he gave orders in the household that whenever mr. cleeve called he was not to be admitted. philip did call; again and again; and at last he understood that the door was closed to him. it made philip very angry, and he set himself to waylay maria out of doors.

one morning he met her suddenly in a pretty, green lane just outside the town, and had accosted her before maria well knew he was there.

"good-morning, maria," he said, stopping her and holding out his hand. what could she do but put out hers in return?

"good-morning," she rejoined.

"i was sorry to hear about mrs. page's death; it must have been a mournful time for you. you have been back a week, have you not?"

"about that."

"and i have called at the vicarage nearly every day, only to be denied to you. mr. kettle is not to be seen, and miss kettle is not to be seen, are the answers i get. of course i can only conclude that i am no longer welcome. now, maria, what is the meaning of it?"

maria was thoroughly distressed. she knew not what to say. how dear he was to her! how his very voice thrilled her as he spoke! if there was anger in his eyes there was love as well, and her own eyes fell before his ardent gaze.

"papa thought it best that you should not come to the vicarage for a little while," she murmured--and the words seemed nearly to choke her.

"but why? what have i done? why am i to be tabooed in this way?"

"papa has heard--has heard things," stammered maria. "he says you are frequently to be seen at the billiard-table; he has heard that you are addicted to high play with men like lord camberley and captain lennox. and--and he says they may be able to afford it, but you cannot--which, of course, is true. oh, philip! have you forgotten the promises you made to me before i went to leamington?"

philip changed colour, and bit his lip. he began tracing some hieroglyphic on the gravel with his cane.

"papa asked me whether there was any engagement between us," continued maria. "i told him that there was not, but that you had spoken to me before i went away. he then said that everything between us must be broken off, at least for the present; you best know why, yourself, philip."

"that i have been weak and foolish, maria, no one knows better than myself," he candidly answered. "but i don't think i have deserved to be treated quite so harshly."

it was on the tip of maria's tongue to say, "papa seems to have something against you more than i have mentioned, though he would not tell me what:" but after a moment's thought she stopped herself.

"papa is not in the habit of treating anyone with undue harshness," she remarked aloud.

"i think he is harsh to me. why, maria--but perhaps i had better see your father himself, and have this matter out with him," he broke off in his usual impulsive style.

maria shook her head: she knew that his seeing her father would bring forth nothing--except unpleasantness.

"it would be of no use, philip," she answered, sadly. "papa would only say to you what i have said--putting it perhaps in stronger terms."

philip went into a passion. "what right has mr. kettle to set himself up as a censor of my morals and conduct?" asked he, with a heightened colour.

"no right at all, i suppose, in one sense of the word, nor does he profess to do so," was maria's grave reply. "but one thing he has a right to do: to think of me and of my welfare. don't you see that, philip?"

philip fumed and frowned, and slashed at an unoffending nettle with his cane. they had been walking slowly onward in this unfrequented lane, where they were free to talk without observation.

"am i to consider our engagement at an end?" demanded philip, after a few moments' silence.

"there has been no engagement, as you are well aware," returned maria in a low voice.

"_you_ know quite well what i mean. am i to look upon it that all is at an end between us?"

"papa says so. he thinks it will be best so."

"and you, maria?"

a moment's pause; then in a very low voice: "i think as papa thinks. you know i _must_, philip."

again they walked slowly on, without speaking. presently philip resumed:

"that i have been thoughtless and foolish, i have already admitted to you, maria; but i verily believe that matters would never have gone so far with me had there been an engagement between us. i should then have had something definite to look forward to--some hopeful end to work for. as it was, what you said to me at our last interview seemed to take the heart out of me: it did, maria. you would not even let me write to you. i seemed to lose my anchorage altogether."

"but oh, philip--is not that a very weak confession to make?"

"it is. i grant it."

"and after all your promises."

"i have not forgotten them. the truth is, maria," he burst out passionately, "you are the only person in the world who can save me from myself. when i am with you i am strong; when i am away from you i am as unstable as water. were you my wife, you could mould me as you would: were you even my promised wife, i should be a very different man."

maria had no words at command, but she gave him a glance out of her tearful eyes which conveyed a world of love and tenderness.

"i will make no more promises," continued philip, with a bitter laugh. "in my case they only recoil on my own head. i will abide by your father's behest for the present, and keep at a distance. but only for the present, mind. i shall still look upon you as my future wife. nobody can deny me that much."

maria sighed. she felt that he was not meeting this trouble quite right, on the whole.

"wait a little while, maria, and you shall see what you shall see. i hope to be able to prove both to you and your father that--but, no, i said that i would make no more promises," he abruptly broke off again, "and i will not."

they were at the end of the lane. before them was a gate, with a stile, leading into some fields and high grounds that overlooked the town. maria stopped. "i must go back. i have come too far already," she said. philip took both her hands and gazed fondly into her eyes. then, before she was aware of his intention, or had time to offer any resistance, his arms were round her, she was pressed to his heart, and one burning kiss was left upon her lips. next moment, without a word, he was gone, vaulting lightly over the stile and away into the meadows beyond. with hot cheeks and a beating heart, maria retraced her steps to the town.

"what was it that she would see by waiting a little while?" she presently began to ask herself. philip had spoken with significant meaning.

the two hundred pounds won by philip cleeve on patchwork, at the newmarket spring meeting, had to a great extent recouped him for his gambling losses. but some months had passed away since then, and his capital had again been dipped into pretty deeply. for one thing, he was less frugal in his habits than of old. his mother's allowance no longer sufficed to find him in clothes and pocket-money. his tailor's and bootmaker's bills were twice as heavy as they used to be, and of late there was no more fashionably dressed young man in nullington than philip cleeve. at one time he had been content to play billiards for sixpence a game, but nothing less than half-a-crown a game would do for him now. he went to the lilacs once a week, sometimes oftener, and although he no longer joined the card-table so frequently as in those earlier days, preferring to talk with mrs. ducie or turn over her music, yet he could not keep aloof from play altogether, and it was no unfrequent thing for him to find himself minus ten or fifteen sovereigns when he reached home. in short, by the beginning of september his capital had again shown a very serious deficit. more than once captain lennox said to him: "what a pity it is that you did not lay every sovereign you could scrape together on patchwork. you will never have such a chance again." and philip agreed with the captain that it was a pity.

one day at the lilacs, a little while previously to this present time, philip found a printed paper on the table, which, for want of something better to do, he took up and glanced over. it proved to be a prospectus of the hermandad silver mining company, colorado. philip was surprised to see the name of his host, captain lennox, among the list of directors. "why, lennox," he said, "i was not aware that you went in for anything of this kind."

"it helps to kill time and gives me an excuse for running up to town now and then," answered lennox. "besides, these things bring one in contact with a lot of men who may prove useful some day or other."

"i presume that the hermandad mining company is a prosperous concern?"

"my dear fellow, as yet it is in its babyhood: it has only been launched a few weeks. that it will prove a very prosperous thing, i never for one moment doubted; otherwise i should not have allowed my name to appear to it, nor should i have invested in it so much of my spare capital."

"colorado seems a long way to send one's spare capital to," remarked philip.

"a long way in this era of telegraphy? pooh! there's no such thing as distance nowadays. besides, the board has its own expert out there--a very clever young mining engineer--and his reports may be thoroughly relied upon. we know pretty well what we are about."

philip was of opinion that the captain knew pretty well what he was about in most of the concerns of life. "i suppose that every now and then one of these silver mines really does turn out to be a gold mine in one sense of the phrase," he observed.

"now and then!" said lennox, with a lifting of his eyebrows, "all i know is that there are two mines within a little distance of ours which are paying their lucky proprietors between thirty and forty per cent., and i know of no reason why the hermandad should be poorer than its neighbours. all we want is more capital for its proper working; and that we are now about to raise. there will be no difficulty in doing _that!_"

mrs. ducie came in, and nothing more was said. but philip's dreams that night were all about the hermandad mine; and it ran far more in his thoughts next day at the office than did his duties.

two days later philip saw lennox again. "by-the-bye, about those hermandad shares?" he said. "what are they each? i don't see them quoted in the money article."

captain lennox smiled. "no, you don't see them in the market--at least so far as the general public is concerned; they are too choice a commodity to be there. we--i and my co-directors--intend to keep them for ourselves and our friends."

"what are they?" repeated philip.

"twenty pounds each. five pounds payable on allotment, and another five pounds in two months' time."

"leaving ten pounds to be called up later on."

"there will be no further calls: the first and second will amply suffice for all expenses. our profits will begin almost from the very day the machinery gets into working order."

metaphorically speaking, philip's mouth was watering. thirty per cent.! the words had rung like sweet music in his memory ever since he heard them. "i suppose that even if an outsider were desirous of investing a little spare cash in your precious shares, there would be no chance of his being able to do so?" he said.

"um--well--i dare say there are still a few left. are you speaking for yourself?"

"i've got that two hundred by me that i won on patchwork," answered philip. "i might venture to speculate with that."

"to be sure you might," nodded lennox. "i am going up to town the day after to-morrow: if you like, i will see what i can do for you. just as you please, you know, cleeve: i have no interest in your decision one way or the other."

"i am aware of that. it is very good of you. let me see: twenty shares at five pounds a share would be a hundred pounds. that would leave me the other hundred to pay the second call with."

the captain laughed--a little contemptuously, philip thought.

"you are indeed a timid speculator," he said. "in these matters my motto is, 'nothing venture, nothing win.' in your place i should invest the two hundred pounds right off. but of course you know your own business best."

philip coloured and stammered. "you are certain that there is no likelihood of a third call being made, lennox?"

"as certain as i am of anything in this uncertain world," was the answer. "and then, you have always the option of getting out of your bargain by selling."

"well, i will think of it," decided philip, "and see you again before you go."

he did think of it, and the thought dazzled him. the end of it was that he put a cheque for two hundred pounds in lennox's hands half an hour before that gentleman started for london.

an anxious and feverish time for philip was that which followed. his sunny, easy-going disposition led him to look on the bright side of most things, but there were times and seasons, generally during the lonely hours of darkness, when he thought with a dread sinking of the heart of what he had done. the second call would go a long way towards exhausting his remaining capital, and should the mine, after all, turn out a failure, he would be a ruined man.

but more often his thoughts flowed in a brighter channel. the hermandad shares would go up--up; as he had heard of other mining shares going up. at the proper moment he would sell out and realise his capital. then with a swelling heart he would go to the vicar and say to him: "i have come to ask your daughter's hand in marriage. i am about to become tiplady's partner, and i have a home to take my wife to, equal to the one she is leaving." what a sweet revenge it would be after all mr. kettle's harshness!