Slowly the time dragged on. The fourth week
came; and Magdalen had made no new discoveries.
The prospect was depressing in the last degree.
Even in the apparently hopeless event of her
devising a means of getting at the admiral's keys, she
could not count on retaining possession of them
unsuspected more than a few hours—hours which
might be utterly wasted through her not knowing
in what direction to begin the search. The Trust
might be locked up in any one of some twenty
receptacles for papers, situated in four different
rooms. And which room was the likeliest to look
in, which receptacle was the most promising to
begin with, which position among other heaps of
papers the one paper needful might be expected
to occupy, was more than she could say. Hemmed
in by immeasurable uncertainties on every side—
condemned, as it were, to wander blindfold on
the very brink of success—she waited for the
chance that never came, for the event that never
happened, with a patience which was sinking
already into the patience of despair.

Night after night, she looked back over the
vanished days—and not an event rose on her
memory to distinguish them one from the other.
The only interruptions to the weary uniformity
of the life at St. Crux, were caused by the
characteristic delinquencies of old Mazey and the
dogs.

At certain intervals, the original wildness broke
out in the natures of Brutus and Cassius. The
modest comforts of home, the savoury charms of
made-dishes, the decorous joy of digestions
accomplished on hearth-rugs, lost all their
attractions; and the dogs ungratefully left the house,
to seek dissipation and adventure in the outer
world. On these occasions, the established
after-dinner formula of question and answer
between old Mazey and his master, varied a little
in one particular. "God bless the Queen,
Mazey," and "How's the wind, Mazey?" were
followed by a new inquiry: " Where are the
dogs, Mazey?" "Out on the loose, your
honour, and be damned to 'em," was the veteran's
unvarying answer. The admiral always sighed,
and shook his head gravely at the news, as if
Brutus and Cassius had been sons of his own,
who treated him with a want of proper filial
respect. In two or three days' time, the dogs
always returned, lean, dirty, and heartily ashamed
of themselves. For the whole of the next day,
they were invariably tied up in disgrace. On
the day after, they were scrubbed clean, and
were formally readmitted to the dining-room.
There, Civilisation, acting through the subtle
medium of the Saucepan, recovered its hold on
them; and the admiral's two prodigal sons, when
they saw the covers removed, watered at the
mouth as copiously as ever.

Old Mazey, in his way, proved to be just as
disreputably inclined on certain occasions as the dogs.
At intervals, the original wildness in his nature
broke out: he, too, lost all relish for the comforts
of home, and ungratefully left the house. He
usually disappeared in the afternoon, and returned
at night as drunk as liquor could make him. He
was by many degrees too seasoned a vessel to
meet with any disasters, on these occasions. His
wicked old legs might take roundabout methods
of progression, but they never failed him; his
wicked old eyes might see double, but they
always showed him the way home. Try as hard
as they might, the servants could never succeed
in persuading him that he was drunk: he always
scorned the imputation. He even declined to
admit the idea privately into his mind, until he
had first tested his condition by an infallible
criterion of his own.

It was his habit in these cases of Bacchanalian
emergency, to stagger obstinately into his room
on the ground floor—to take the model ship
out of the cupboard—and to try if he could
proceed with the never-to-be-completed
employment of setting up the rigging. When
he had smashed the tiny spars, and snapped
asunder the delicate ropes—then, and not till
then, the veteran admitted facts as they were, on
the authority of practical evidence. "Ay! ay!"
he used to say confidentially to himself. " The
women are right. Drunk again, Mazey—drunk
again!" Having reached this discovery, it was
his habit to wait cunningly in the lower regions,
until the admiral was safe in his room; and then
to ascend, in discreet list slippers, to his post.
Too wary to attempt getting into the truckle-bed
(which would have been only inviting the
catastrophe of a fall against his master's door),
he always walked himself sober, up and down the
passage. More than once, Magdalen had peeped
round the screen, and had seen the old sailor
unsteadily keeping his watch, and fancying
himself once more at his duty on board ship. "This
is an uncommonly lively vessel in a sea-way,"
he used to mutter under his breath, when his
legs took him down the passage in zig-zag
directions, or left him, for the moment, studying the
"Pints of the Compass," on his own system,
with his back against the wall. "A nasty night,
mind you," he would maunder on, taking another
turn. "As dark as your pocket, and the wind
heading us again from the old quarter." On the
next day, old Mazey, like the dogs, was kept
down stairs in disgrace. On the day after, like
the dogs again, he was reinstated in his
privileges; and another change was introduced in
the after-dinner formula. On entering the room,
the old sailor stopped short, and made his
excuses, in this brief, yet comprehensive form
of words, with his back against the door:—
"Please your honour, I'm ashamed of myself."
So the apology began and ended. "This mustn't
happen again, Mazey," the admiral used to
answer. "It shan't happen again, your honour."
"Very good. Come here, and drink your glass
of wine. God bless the Queen, Mazey."—The
veteran tossed off his port, and the dialogue
ended as usual.

So the days passed, with no incidents more
important than these to relieve their