MABEL'S PROGRESS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "AUNT MARGARET'S TROUBLE."

BOOK II.

CHAPTER VII. THE STORMY PETREL OF PRIVATE
LIFE.

A DAY or two subsequent to Mrs. Saxelby's
visit to her daughter at Eastfield, the family at
Bramley Manor was visited by a domestic storm,
which, though leading to no serious immediate
result, was the cause of a great deal of pain and
anger, and left behind it an amount of heart-burning
and soreness, which only a family quarrel
can produce.

The Honourable Arthur Skidley's regiment
being ordered away from Hammerham, and that
gentleman's consequent departure being imminent,
it became necessary for Walter Charlewood
to reveal to his father the amount of the
debt he had incurred, and to prefer a request
for a considerable sum of money. Mr. Charlewood
was a very wealthy man, and—as may
usually be observed of men whose business
renders their income more or less elastic—he spent
his wealth with a liberal hand. Among the
luxuries he desired for himself and his children,
was the society of persons superior by birth or
rank to themselves. And he had an unexpressed
but decided notion that this, like other
good things, was to be attained by a judicious
expenditure of cash. Still, the magnitude of
the sum he was now called on to advance, so
far exceeded his estimate of the value received,
that he began to discover that the acquaintance
of even so dashing and aristocratic a personage
as the younger son of Lord Higsworth might
be purchased too dearly.

"I won't pay it, sir," he had said in the first
moment of his anger and surprise. " I won't
advance a farthing."

"It's a debt of honour, father. I shall be
disgraced."

"Then be disgraced," Mr. Charlewood had
retorted; adding, in the heat of his wrath, a
recommendation to his son to be something else
also for his folly. But, of course, he knew very
well that he must and that he would pay
Walter's debts for him. He grumbled to his
wife, telling her that Watty's reckless and selfish
extravagance was all owing to her weak
indulgence. He scolded Augusta into a fit of
the sulks, when she ventured to ask some
question as to the offence her brother had
committed; he even snubbed his favourite Penelope,
in the extremity of his ill-humour and vexation.
In short, for more than a week, black looks and
sharp speeches were very rife in Bramley Manor;
and Walter—his jaunty self-confidence utterly
subdued for once—sneaked about the house like a
whipped schoolboy, avoiding his father's eye,
and creeping surreptitiously at unaccustomed
hours into his mother's boudoir to be petted
and consoled, and to have the ruffled plumes of
his self-love gently smoothed by caressing fingers.

It was a peculiarity of Miss Fluke that she
invariably appeared among her friends whenever
foul weather seemed to be imminent in the
domestic sky: scenting the approach of tempest
by some fine instinct, and hovering over the
angry billows like a stormy petrel.

Miss Fluke came to Bramley Manor, and
had not been closeted ten minutes with Mrs.
Charlewood before the latter had revealed
to her, with many lamentations and considerable
use of her pocket-handkerchief, the story
of Walter's troubles, and his father's stern
displeasure.

"Charlewood was 'arsh, I consider. Very
'arsh. Of course I know Watty ought to have
spoken sooner. But law, there! Who can wonder?
Young men will be young men; and Watty
has never been accustomed to think anything
about money. 'Owever, 'is father 'as paid the
debt, and I suppose he'll come round in time.
A 'undred or two. Nothing to Charlewood.
He'll never miss 'em."

Miss Fluke shook her head with much
severity.

"Dear Mrs. Charlewood," she said, " ought
we not to look upon this in the light of a judgment?"

"A judgment! Goodness me, Miss Fluke!"

"Yes; it shows what comes of worldliness,
and pleasure-seeking, and the society of the
ungodly. I have a very interesting little tract
here, which is full of precious experiences. Do
you think Walter would read it, if I left it for
him?"

"I—don't—know," said Mrs. Charlewood,
doubtfully.

"Well, there it is, at all events. I'll put it
on your table. The incidents relate to a little
boy of five years old (the child of a drunken
cobbler), who got conversion and became quite
a little saint on earth. It is called The Little