"By tumbling on _me_--very simply," replied Captain Shrapnell with a spirited laugh. "You may set your mind at rest, Shrapnell," said the Doctor, walking up to him, with a congratulatory air. "He's all right, this time; but you had better mind giving the old fellow any more rolls of that sort--the pitcher to the well, you know--and the next time might smash him." "I'm more concerned about smashing myself, thank you. The next time he may roll to the devil--and through whoever he pleases for me--knocked down with that blackguard old chair, and that great hulking fellow on top of me--all for trying to be of use, egad! when everyone of you funked it--and not a soul asks about _my_ bones, egad! or my neck either." "Oh! come, Shrapnell, you're not setting up for an old dog yet. There's a difference between you and Etherage," said the Doctor. "I hope so," answered the Captain, sarcastically, "but civility is civility all the world over; and I can tell you, another fellow would make fuss enough about the pain I'm suffering." It was found, further, that one wheel of the bath-chair was disorganised, and the smith must come from the town to get it to rights, and that Vane Etherage, who could as soon have walked up a rainbow as up the acclivity to Hazelden, must bivouac for a while where he sat. So there the visit was paid, and the exciting gala of that day closed, and the Viscount and his party marched down, with many friends attendant, to the jetty, and embarked in the yacht for Ware. CHAPTER XX. REBECCA MERVYN READS HER LETTER. THE evenings being short, the shops alight, and the good people of Cardyllian in their houses, Tom Sedley found the hour before dinner hang heavily on his hands. So he walked slowly up Castle Street, and saw Mr. Robson, the worthy post-master, standing, with his hands in his pockets, at the open door. "No letter for me, I dare say?" asked Sedley. "No, sir--nothing." "I don't know how to kill the time. I wish my dinner was ready. You dined, like a wise man, at one o'clock, I dare say?" "We do--we dine early here, sir." "I know it; a capital plan. I do it myself, whenever I make any stay here." "And you can eat a bit o' something hearty at tea then." "To be sure; that's the good of it. I don't know what to do with myself. I'll take a walk round by Malory. Can I leave the Malory letters for you?" "You're only joking, sir." "I was not, upon my honour. I'd be glad to bolt your shutters, or to twig your steps--anything to do. I literally don't know what to do with myself." "There's no family at Malory, you know, now, sir." "Oh! I did not know. I knew the other family had gone. No letters to be delivered then?" "Well, sir, there _is_--but you're only joking." "What is it?" "A letter to Mrs. Rebecca Mervyn--but I would not think of troubling a gentleman with it."