his L40 in advance,
by applying at the offices of Messrs. Grist, Gray's Inn Square, Gray's
Inn. Let him say he is tailor No. 1, and show this letter, signed Agreed,
with your name in full at bottom. This will do--money will be paid--no
questions one side or other. So on--the whole nine. The end of the year
they can give a dinner to their acquaintance. Send in bill to Messrs.
Grist.

'The advice to you to take the cash according to terms mentioned is
advice of
'A FRIEND.

'P.S. You shall have your wine. Consult among yourselves, and carry it by
majority what wine it's to be. Five carries it. Dozen and half per
tailor, per annum--that's the limit.'

It was certainly a very hot day. The pores of his skin were prickling,
and his face was fiery; and yet he increased his pace, and broke into a
wild gallop for a mile or so; then suddenly turned his horse's head back
for Beckley. The secret of which evolution was, that he had caught the
idea of a plotted insult of Laxley's in the letter, for when the blood is
up we are drawn the way the tide sets strongest, and Evan was prepared to
swear that Laxley had written the letter, because he was burning to
chastise the man who had injured him with Rose.

Sure that he was about to confirm his suspicion, he read it again, gazed
upon Beckley Court in the sultry light, and turned for Fallow field once
more, devising to consult Mr. John Raikes on the subject.

The letter had a smack of crabbed age hardly counterfeit. The savour of
an old eccentric's sour generosity was there. Evan fell into bitter
laughter at the idea of Rose glancing over his shoulder and asking him
what nine of him to a man meant. He heard her clear voice pursuing him.
He could not get away from the mocking sound of Rose beseeching him to
instruct her on that point. How if the letter were genuine? He began to
abhor the sight and touch of the paper, for it struck division cold as
death between him and his darling. He saw now the immeasurable hopes his
residence at Beckley had lured him to. Rose had slightly awakened him:
this letter was blank day to his soul. He saw the squalid shop, the good,
stern, barren-spirited mother, the changeless drudgery, the existence
which seemed indeed no better than what the ninth of a man was fit for.
The influence of his mother came on him once more. Dared he reject the
gift if true? No spark of gratitude could he feel, but chained, dragged
at the heels of his fate, he submitted to t