NEVER FORGOTTEN.

PART THE SECOND.
CHAPTER XXVII. " OLD FOLEY."

SIR JOHN WESTENDE, though a squire, was
crafty enough in his generation. He thought Miss
Manuel's counsel good as to the secresy, and
did not show his hand too soon. He was even
friendly with his nephew, and said to him in his
rough way, "Well, if you will make a born ass
of yourself, you must." But at home he
indemnified himself by swearing and railing at his
daughters, telling them they were " a hopeless,
helpless pack," and that he was "sick of the
whole lot;" ending generally with a violent
question as to " what were they staring at him
in that way for?" and finally bidding them "get
out of his sight, for he couldn't stand them!"
And the poor frightened motherless girls, who had
this paternal food served to them every day, with
the regularity of meals, fled away from his presence
like a flock of sheep from the shepherd's dog.

Lady Laura, too, had a consciousness of a
danger. For the first time in her life she began
to give way to a sense of hopelessness, and to
give entrance to the grim and gloomy visitors
called forebodings. As she turned round to north,
south, east, and west successively, and saw the
passage growing blocked in each direction, she
began to feel sudden sinkings of the heart for the
first time during her fifty or sixty years' struggle.
These, however, might have been the
natural weakness of coming age. She had
fought, suffered, and received such cruel scars,
that it was no wonder she should feel pains.

From the first she had divined the opposition
from Sir John Westende, and had tried to
bring him over. But she well knew he had
never forgiven her— not so much for the mortification,
as for the years of tyranny which she had
indirectly brought on him. For he was one of
those ferocious wild animals who roar, and tear,
and even devour the spectators, but who are
surprisingly tame and docile under the eye of the
keeper. She even tried to stir the cold ashes of
the old romance, with her fan, and let a few of
the white particles float in the air, but this she
saw was only a further stimulant. She then wisely
gave up all attempts at conciliation, and determined
for fighting in the open field.

He went to consult Miss Manuel again. He
burst into his old complaints. " Is it not shameful?"
he said. " There should be an act of
parliament to protect boys against these women.
I'll show the whole system up, if I die for it.
On my soul, I believe she will fuddle him some
night, put him in a coach, and marry him before
the child knows what he is doing. The worst is, I
don't see my way. Can you think of something?"

Miss Manuel thought a moment. " You know
Sir Hopkins Pocock?" she said. " Very well.
A wretched restless agitating creature, who
would sell his soul for place. Go to him, and
talk of your influence. That private family
skeleton we spoke of the other day," she said,
smiling, "is in some museum in the country
somewhere. It has been smuggled away, but
can be recovered."

Sir John, a country gentleman, did not quite
follow. " What about skeletons?" he said.

"I mean," said Miss Manuel, " the little secret
story you hinted at the other day. It may be
worth nothing: but still, where the interest of
a child, your ward, is concerned, everything is
fair. You might use this as a lever."

"A lever! yes," said Sir John, still doubtful;
"but where did you get about the skeleton?"

"A mere figure of speech," said she; " a way
they have of talking. Or stay," she said; " there
is Major Carter, who knows all the world, and is
flattered by attention. Ask him to dine, and he
may help you."

Sir John Westende took both courses. From
Sir Hopkins, who cringed to him with senile
homage, he heard of an old Peninsular colonel
whom he himself had known, and Major Carter,
who knew all the world, was likely enough to
have fallen in with him.

"If I could only light on that old Foley now,"
he thought. " He knows and knew everything,
and every story. But he is dead long ago; had
to live at some of those wretched half-pay French
foreigneering places." (Sir John took the true
squire's view of Boulogne and other foreign ports,
as being solely created for English gentlemen of
limited means.) He asked Major Carter about it.

"The old colonel dead?" said the major. " Not
he! Lives at Dunkirk, of all places in the
world! But he says he gets his rubber there.
He was here last week, but has gone back, I am
afraid. The colonel's purse is not very deep,